i a aaa ar ae

 

 

Siege ses

ns maha irae.

 

 

A ROMANCE OF DEEP INTEREST,

By FLORENCE WARDEN,

 

 

FOR LOVE OF JACK.’

Ww

ILL BE COMMENCED
WEEK AFTER NEXT.

 

 

 

Entered According to Act of Congress, in the Year 1902, by Street & Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. C.

 

OFFICE.
William St.. New York

238

Entered at the Post Office, New York, ae Second Claas Matter.

 

 

New York, March 29, 1902.

Three Dollars Per Year.
Two Copies Five Dollars.

No. 24.

 

BY WM. WOODWARD.

Go en!
Try

Another failure? Never mind!
Thy work has not been wasted.
again!
Fhe solid base the lighthouse stands
upon
Supports it hidden by the chafing
mahi.

&

Success is just the lantern of the tower.
The flag upon the flagstaff, or the
shine
That comes of burnishing pure gold, the
power
Evolved when work and patience inter-
twine.

ead

To raise the tower, the flagstaff to up-
rear,
Refine the gold—this is thy present
need ;
And, working upward, nearer and more
near,
Thy soul shall to the height it craves
proceed.
wt

Success! This is the top of all, the crest,
The stone that locks the slowly-builded
bridge,

The colored
breast,

ribbon on the vet’ran’s

“71. . << i, é os” =
THe PCa alr TOT et. sUYaiers

ridge.
ws

on! Don’t little
stop!

Go on, and, if alone, go on alone,

Till effort find a foothold at the top,

And worth, proved worthy, make suc-

Go run a Way and

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

i i:
it!
ect al
y Ae Ht
uit At

oa

 

 

 

cess its own!

 

Meg glanced at the great physician

 

SO LIKE A MAN.

By EFFIE ADELAIDE ROWLANDS,

Author
““A Kinsman’s Sin,’’ ‘‘A

(‘So LIKE a Man”

of ‘Brave Barbara,’ ‘*A Girl’s Kingdom,’ ‘‘A Splendid Man,’

Woman Scorned,’’ etc., ete.

was commenced lest week.)

CHAPTER If.

“The generosity of a disposition
bounds .but his last guinea.’’
—Sir Walter Seott, on Oliver Goldsmith

which knew no}

| Torre

Margaret was compelled to be out of the/|
house each morning by eight o'clock.

It was One of the girl’s early sacrifices, this
early departure—not a sacrifice in the sense of
personal comfort, but of feeling. It cost
se much to go away and leave her
without even much as a kiss, for Mrs. |
Chessingham was never awakened early, and |
it cost her even more to relinquish her office |
of maid and nurse combined, to another per- |
son, even though that other was the faithful |
and careful Janet. Meg’s love for and anxiety |
about her mother had reached a point higher
than ordinary devotion.

It would have been a joy to her to have been |
able to spend every hour of her day in minis-
tering to the poor, weak, delicate creature who |
Was so near and so dependent upon her, and
this denied happiness made her daily work |}
terribly difficult and distasteful at times. ;

She was dressed and downstairs long before |
eight o’clock, and found Janet ready for her
with a substantial breakfast, and a fine blaz-
ing fire in the kitchen grate. But Meg had
several little tasks to do before eating.

She arranged the dainty little tray (that was |
to carry breakfast to her mother later on)
with loving fingers, and on it placed a dish
of ham and tongue in the most inviting way
possible. There was a tiny little jar of honey
and a pat of the best fresh butter to be put
on the tray, while from a drawer in an old
cupboard Meg produced the few pretty pieces
of silver left to their possession.

When all was done she gave a little sigh.

“You will be sure to send me a telegram if
she should not be so well this morning? Per-
haps it was only my fancy, but she seemed
very weak last night, Janet.’’

“Now, if you'll eat your breakfast, I’ll be
obliged to you,”’ was Janet’s reply. ‘‘You can
leave the mistress to me, I suppose.’’

“You'll maybe have written.a few words to
that old grump?’’ she added a moment or two
later. ‘‘Am I to say to the mistress as there's
news from General Cobbe?’’

Meg paused.

“T think it will be better not,’’ her
reply. ‘I will tell her to-night.’’

“And what if he calls and insists upon see-
ing the mistress?’’

“Oh, I feel sure he will not do that. He will
wait to hear from us.”

Janet sighed to herself more than once as
she stood on-.the doorstep of the house this
morning and watched Margaret pass swiftly
out of sight.

The day had scarcely commenced with most
of the inhabitants of this small street; only
the postman, the milkman and some stray per-
sons were to be seen. Meg would walk the
whole way when the weather was fine; when

so

was

her |}
mother |

| man took them up in a mechanical way.
; ;
queried. |

 

it rained she had perforce to take the first |

omnibus on
to walk.
As Janet

the route. To-day she was going

was standing there, grim-looking,

 

tT.

with an expression of hope and entreaty, her hands clasped in thankfulness

weeks past, and whose miserable
had been brought’to his notice by chance.
It was only one of those sordid,

the teeming life of a huge-city, and but for
Roger Torre’s charity the victim of a drunken
and brutal scoundrel would have perished un-
aided and alone.

It was of this world that Dr. Torre’s patients |

were mostly called.

Janet kept much to herself in her shrewd
way, but she thought much more; and long
ago she had come to one conClusion about the
man who livéd in the first-floor rooms of the
house she tended, and that conclusion was
that he was a man. in a thousand, and that
it would be an ill day fo? the sick and poor
of this populous neighborhood when Dr. Torre
should show a disposition to change his abode.

That he was clever as well as
Janet also had long ago opined, for occasions
were not rare when telegrams came
Torre to meet other physicians

in con-

| Sultation; but, for all his cleverness, he never

with arms wrapped about in her apron to pro-|

tect them from
appeared

the sting of the cold
in the street.

He came along at a swinging pace in the
opposite direction to that in which Meg had
gone. He looked tired, but he gave Janet a
ae smile as he wished her ‘‘good-morn-
ng.

He was in a sense an ungainly man.

His height was unusual, and his limbs were
loosely put together. And yet he was a man
who had some subtle attraction of his
for few people could dismiss him with
difference.

Perhaps they were won by the mellow charm
of his voice, as much as by the wonderful

air,

| kindness and sympathy of his manner.
Janet lost her sour look as she greeted him; ;

he was one of her few favorites,

“You've had another busy night, I see, sir,’
she said, as* he followed her into the house.
“I heard your bell go about midnight, and I
feared you were out on a long job.”

Dr. Torre took off his coat and hung it in
the hall,

Early as it was, Janet
had prepared his room,
things cozy,

A few letters were lying on the table.

and her handmaiden
lit his fire, and made

‘““‘Miss Chessingham has gone?’
‘It is a nasty, raw morning.”’
“The kind of morning hasn’t much to
with staying Miss Meg, sir,’’ Janet said, dryly.
She poked the fire pugilistically. Roger Torre
understood the vigorous action of that poker
quite as well as words. Janet had a way
giving expression to

he

Dr. |
| marvelous;

| curiosity—which she
|; ago have discovered that this man

own, |
in- |

seemed to save money.
his thriftlessness and extravagance.

The way his clothes disapppeared was simply
and the people who came and
waited on the doorstep for just one word—and
a gift—from Dr. Torre were not to be num-
bered.

If Janet, had
was not—she

good soul,
would
was
thing very different from what most
any such
letters, or

weakness as reading other
prying into other people’s

was hidden from her.

After he had kept her chatting with him

| a while, Dr. Torre let Janet go.

The |
do |

of |
her feelings with him. |

She knew he understood and sympathized with |

all that lay on her heart, though the subject
words.
said, when the fire

“Was it a bad case you've been called to?’
“It was that poor wife of Brownlow’s. I

tried ‘to save her, but she slipped through my | eat back in hie chair And emoked: his cigar to
Sé é a s i S cige

hands.”’

“Dead, is she? Poor soul! she’s earned her
rest if any one has. It must have been a
great comfort to have you near her, sir,’
Janet said gently, after a little pause.

“fT hope it. was,’’ Dr. Torre said,
sighed. “I would have given much to have
pulled her through, Mrs. Janet,’’ he said, al-
most involuntarily. ‘“‘You see, after all, we
doctors are but feeble things.’’

but he

CY! side, the third he kept
had never once been broached between them in ¢

He had eaten his breakfast solely to give her |
pleasure, for indeed his night’s vigil beside the}

deathbed of that poor, broken-down and much-
ooo woman had taken his appetite from
nim,

Life had such a serious aspect for this man;
his own hunger and thirst seemed: to go from
him as he remembered the hunger, the hope-
less poverty of the people among whom he
worked, and, look whichever way he might,
he saw nothing but heartache and darkest
trouble.

He drew his chair up to the fire, and threw}

himself into it with a weary ‘sigh.

of his share of sleep by urgent calls, and even
a strong man such as he began to feel the
strain of this night work, taken in conjunction
with his multitude of self-imposed duties in
the day.

He lit a cigar and took. up his letters. Two
of these he opened, and put carefully on one
unopened a long time.
It had been forwarded to him from a cer-
Dr. Torre.

“Tt is not difficult to guess the contents of

this,’ he mused, with a faint smile.

| portance.

“And we'd be in a feeble way, I’m thinking, |

She
few

without you!” was the retort.
away, and was back in a very
with the breakfast tray.

bustled |
minutes |

He was in no haste to open this letter, but

the end. He had fallen into a kind of day-
dream, from which the chiming of the clock
roused him,

Then he remembered the letter.

He took it up and opened it. The paper was
delicately scented, the handwriting undistin-
guished. There was on the top of the paper
a stamped address that had an air of im-
‘“‘Wester Park, Westershire,’’ was
the address.

Dr. Torre was not long in running his eye
over the closely-written pages. The opening

; part of the letter kept that faint smile linger-

“And that fine gentleman, Brownlow, what |

of him? He’s kept well out of the way,
be bound! A niece, black-hearted hound!”
Dr. Torre only smiled faintly at Janet’s

violence.

rll}

|b

ing on his lips, but toward the end the smile
faded and he grew thoughiful.

He left the letter on the table and paced to
and fro for a little while, his brows meeting
y degrees into something like a frown; then

 

 

They were discussing the case, of a poor |
woman whom he had been attending for some |
condition |

domestic
dramas that can be counted by thousands in}

| the sum you need.

| tutor

| day that he was a little boy.

charitable |

asking |

Occasionally Janet would descant to him on |
| position

been tortured with}

long |
some- |
people |
imagined; but happily she was not cursed with |
people's |
affairs, |
and therefore the true history of Roger Torre |
| action

| Westershire,”’

For the last three nights he had been robbed | other fainting fit.

 

; 7 ; | kindness,
an vr | tain bank; many letters came in this way for |
“You'll be glad of your breakfast, sir,’’ Janet | & ireakicad. ; )

had endured her wrath, |

| these

 

as the clock on the mantel chimed another
half-hour, he came to a decision.

“This must be met with a firm hand,”’
said to himself; and, drawing up
his writing-desk, he set to wor
the letter.

He wrote very

“My DEAR SUSIB:

he
to answer
swiftly:

Inclosed find a check for
to arrange for any renovations that are neces-
sary. I
_has left, and that he
growing up. It seems to me only

appears to be

the

indeed to find that he is drifting into such a
bad set. I have the very strongest antipathy
for this class of man you tell me he wishes to
invite for the hunting.
that your oft-repeated suggestions as to my
having neglected my rightful duties is correct.
I must see to it. In the meantime
Tony know that I would prefer he
fill the house with men of the
Mariston and Lord Redcliffe. The lad, after
all, is quite young, and therefore he cannot be

did not

| expected to discriminate very clearly just yet,

but this kind of companions are perhaps the
worst that a boy of his temperament
could cultivate. Undoubtedly
must have gathered a false idea of Anthony’s
real position at Wester, and for this reason,
if for no other, I imagine it would be
wisest thing for me to return and
in their proper light,
“T am glad that you are all well,
‘*Your affectionate brother,
“RoGeR TORRE WENHASTON,”’

He ran his eye through this letter,
when he had done so he hesitated a
and his hand moved as though to the

tear

paper in pieces; then he paused, and his next}
envelope, |
to ‘Lady Hudson, Wester. Park,

was the letter in an

direct it

to put
and

This done, he rose and put on his hat
work that awaited him out of doors.

Before going, however, he rang the bell to
make his usual inquiries after Mrs. Chessing-
ham, and to give Janet his usual vague orders,

The time of his return was uncertain; and
he should want something to eat, he did
know what, and cared a good deal less. That
was about the substance of his daily order.

Janet gave him news of her mistress.

“She seems better again this morning, sir.
Miss Margaret, poor lamb, made me promise
I’d send her a telegram should there be an-
My mistress would be glad
to see you, I’m sure, Dr. Torre, if you’d be
free any time to-day,” Janet added, insinuat-
ingly.

“T shall
And he and
with a smile.

‘“‘Now there,’ said Janet to herself, emphat-
ically—‘‘there goes what I call a man—a real,
strong, good man, with a heart full of human
Why, for the Lord’s sake, can’t the
mistress have a brother like him, I’d ask,
instead of a bit of withered, dried-up stuff
like General Cobbe? But, there—life’s full.of
uneven things. And if I don’t make
haste to the kitchen I shall find that careless
thing setting fire to the house, as sure as I’m
a living woman!”’

’

was Torre’s reply.
as they greeted—

make time,’
Janet parted

CHAPTER

“The moving Finger writes, and having writ

Moves on; nor all your Piety nor Wit

Shall lure it back to cancel half a line,

Nor all your tears wash out a word of it.’’
—From the ‘‘Rubaiyat,’’ Omar Khayyam.

LV

-%

The momént the door was opened to her that
night, Margaret knew that something had
happened.

*You’re home a bit before your time, but
I’m glad you’ve come, my bairn,”’ said Janet,
“No, the mistress’ not exactly ill, but she
needs you. She’s got one of her restless fits,
and you’re the only one as can deal with that

a chair to}

As usual, I leave it to you;
am surprised to find that Anthony’s |

other |
And I am sorry |

I am rather of opinion |

please let}

calibre of Peter |

and |
they |

the |
put matters |

and |
moment, |

and |}
coat again, and turned to the thought of the}

not |

sort. of thing.- She’s been just upset-like to-
af

lay.
Janet held up a card.

“She’s had a visitor this afternoon. I’d just
run out to get a few scones for her tea, and
when I came back if that fool of a girl hadn’t
calmly walked him up the. stairs. Oh! but I
gave her a piece of my mind, I promise you!
And I gave him a few straight words, too,
when I got him away. He’s none changed, as
handsome and as empty as ever,’

Margaret was silent some time before she
spoke. When she did so her voice sounded far
away in her own ears.

“Did Mr. Mariston stay Jong?” she asked.

Janet sniffed.

““He’d a-been sitting there now if I hadn’t
told him, as plain as I could, that he’d best
be off. Oh, ’’m not for denying as he was
amusing the mistress, but he was exciting
her, too! She’s all flushed and nervous, and
I can’t get her to rest, specially since his
fruit and flowers came in. Some folk is won-
derful remembering all at once. You’re tired
out to-night, honeybird,’’ Janet added, with
tenderness, as she saw how white the girl’s
cheeks were. ‘Come and have a cup of tea
before you_go upstairs. There’s to be feasting
for you. We've had more than one present
to-day. Dr. Torre had some game sent him
to-day, and there’s a brace of partridges,
which you’re to eat, with his compliments.
I’ve got one cooking now.”’’

“We are rich,’’ Meg said, unsteadily.

She refused to take anything, averring that
she did not wish to spoil her dinner, and that
she must hasten to her mother; but she stood
a long time on the -stairease, hesitating after
Janet had dived below.

For the first. time in her existence she
shrank from going to her mother—shrank
from noting the difference that this visit
would have wrought.

If her resentment had not been so strong
her heart could have cried aloud the anguish
that this man’s coming brought to her,

It was no longér a personal pain. Tong,
long ago she had buried that unrealized dream
in the grave that hid her father; she had con-
quered the incredulity, the yearning, and she
had said good-by to faith, to love, to happi-
ness—at least to that kind of happiness that
for a brief while had seemed absolutely within
her touch. In place of all these she had put
her heart, her life, her very soul, into her
love for her mother. And she knew that
mother so welt! From to-night there would
be no more tranquillity of mind. The fret for
unattainable things would spoil all the good
that unceasing care, untiring thought had
brought to ti suattersd system. Worse shan
this—Meg knew she would not suffice!

Though she might do a thousand = times
more than-she had done, the spell of her love
and devotion would not be enough

She leaned her head against the
closed her eyes.

Why had he come?

There was humiliation and bitterness in this
tardy remembrance!

Once she could have Knelt and entreated for
such remembrance; now it came too late by a
whole lifetime.

It must have been Sybil Cochrane who had
given their address. Margaret had not thought
it necessary to impress secrecy on Sybil, al-
though she had written frankly and regret-
fully that her work precluded all chance of
seeing such old friends as might desire to
see her.

She knew so well that already a delicate
|} but insiduous poison would be working in that
feeble brain. There would be the old scene
to go through, the reproaches, the sneers at
the dead, and restless craving for what was
gone; then illness, suffering, weakness, and
the end brought a little nearer.

Janet waited a long time for her young mis-
tress to come

The partridge was done to a turn,
potatoes lay in a crisp heap
hour for the girl’s supper,
come.

All at once Mrs. Chessingham’s bedroom bell
clanged wildly from the passage, outside the
| kitchen, There was menace and despair in its
note

eanet reached Mrs,
half-a-dozen strides.

Margaret had undressed her
was bending over the bed.

As she crept forward into the
heart went with a leap into her
put her trembling work-stained fingers about
| that too-slender wrist. If there had been fever
it was burned out. The throb of life was so
feeble as to be almost imperceptible.

The eyes of the woman and the girl met.

*T’ll call Dr, Torre,’’ said Janet, in a whis-
per, and she turned and went below again,
and her feet stumbled as she went, for her
eyes were blinded with tears.

She Knocked and entered. the room,
i her usual briskness gone from her
| ‘It’s the mistress, sir, and I fear me it’s a
| bad call this time. She seems sunk into ex-
| haustion. Oh! dearie, dearie, what'll come to
my bairn if she passes away?’’

Dr, Torre hurriedly took up
and two or three phials.

He had a shock as he stole softly
room and caught sight of that
motionless on the pillow

He put Margafet aside very gently.

In a low voice he asked her to bring certain
things that took a few minutes in getting to-
gether, and of which he had no need at all,
but which served as a good excuse for giving
the girl something to do.

For himself he was more than anxious.

Mrs. Chessingham’s case had always pre-
sented complications—had always threatened
to end in a summary fashion; yet he had
always determined, since he had _ profession-
ally attended her, to fight his hardest on her
behalf should the worst occur when he was
at hand.

And the worst was now impending. He saw
this in one glance. And his heart sank, too,
for he knew that all the fighting in the world
could not stand leng between this frail human
body and its mortal end. Nevertheless, he left
nothing untried,

As the hours passed—such leaden-weighted,
awful hours!—and the wintry morning crept
into light, a scribbled note was dispatched to
one of the greatest of the London physicians,
and Roger Torre sat beside the almost inani-
mate body till an answer came to his note,

And Margaret sat with him,

It was not long, counting the actual time,
before the cab bearing the other doctor rattled
up to the door, but to Roger Torre it seemed
an eternity.

At last the long-expected practitioner ar-
rived, and Janet conducted him upstairs. As
he entered the room, Meg glanced at the great
physician with an expression of hope and en-
treaty, her hands clasped in thankfulness.

She clung to the faint hope that the eminent
doctor’s extraordinary skill and vast experi-
ence would enable him to suggest some treat-
ment that would save her mother.

Dr, Torre led the yisitor to the invalid’s
| bedside, and for séveral minutes they remained
1 in vrivate consultation. t

With a heart throbbing with anxiety, Mee
impatiently awaited the result of the confer-
ence.

“Janet, will you send two telegrams?’ she
said, in an @éven voice, as she went into the
room that had been her mother’s home for
so long. But the girl’s brain and heart seemed

wall and

the chip
It was past the
but Meg did not

Chessingham’s room in

mother, and

room Janet’s
throat. She

with all

his stethescope

into the
face lying so

=|)

 

 

 

 

 
        

 
 
   
  
  
 
   
 
  
     
   
 
 
 
  
   
  
  
   
    
  
    
  
   
     
  
    
  
 
  
   
   
  
  
 
 
  
   
 
  
   
    
    
   
     
     
 
  
    
 
  
   
  
  
      
     
   
    
  
 
   
    
  
    
 
  
    
    
  
   
      
  
   
      
  
  
  
  
    
   
   
     
 
  
  
 
 
   
    
        
   
 
  
   
 
  
  
  
  
   
  
   
   
   
     

 

 

 

git

 

 

 

 

 

 

ene ner ome prere aes eee Bee hate eer

to fail her suddenly as she sat down to the
dainty writing-table.

This silent room, with its fragrance of flow-

ers, its delicate prettiness, and its many
familiar features, brought to her the signifi-

cance of what was close at hand,

She drew her breath sharply.

“She shall not go! She must not go! Oh,
God! have some pity! She is all I have!’

She sat,. pen in hand, staring about her
wildly fora moment; then, strong in the les-
son of self-repression, Meg conquered the pas-
sion, and wrote out her telegrams, one to her
place of business, announcing that she could
not arrive as usual, and the other to the ad-
dress old General Cobbe had given her, briefly
stating that her mother was seriously ill.

This done, she waited for the verdict.

Not that she needed other words’to put into
form that voiceless agony of her mind. She
knew that if human hands could have saved
her poor, precious mother, Roger Torre’s skill
would have done it.

He came to seek her alone.

She was standing by the window, watching

in a numb sort of way the celebrated doctor
get into the cab and drive out of sight. The
day was now fully started; the streets were

beginning to show life at each turn. In the
distance the postman’s brisk knock sounded
out a kind of greeting on the sharp, cold air.
By this time, ordinarily, Margaret was well
started on her morning’s walk. It was a long
time since she had been in the house at this
hour, save on Sundays, her only happy days,
for then she had been able to tend her mother,
to act as maid, and to lavish all the denied
oe of the week on her cherished in-
valid.

She turned and looked into the man’s eyes.

“Will—will she go—from me—soon—to-night?”’
she asked. Her voice was hoarse.

He answered her honestly.

Though he would have given his life to have
stood between her life and this desolation,
it was not the moment for prevarication, nor
te hers the nature to suffer such prevarica-

on.

Margaret’s cold hand brushed her brow me-
chanically. Then the strain ended, and the
misery snapped the bonds of self-control. Cov-
ering her face with her hands, she broke
into tears.

Torre did not try to check the weeping, nor
did he attempt a consolation that was futile.
He was too gentle and too wise; he left-her
absolutely alone and stole softly back to the
room of death. .

* * * * * %

There were sundry callers to that house
this long, sad day. They were for the most
part people in the neighborhood to whom Mrs.
Chessingham and her daughter had long been
objects of curiosity; but there were others.

ok

One of these others was a tail young man,
i dressed, yet evidently not of the gentle
class.

He inquired for Miss Chessingham half shyly,
and Janet snapped out what she had to say,
for she scented this inquirer as some one from
the ‘‘hateful shop,’ and resented his visit ac-
cordingly, as she resented all connection
with it.

But she was infinitely more snappish with
Mr. Mariston when he came.
She gave him the news of her mistress’

condition in the bluntest way, adding roughly:

“And if you hadn’t a-come this wouldn’t
have happened. You’ve killed her, sir—that’s
what you've done.’’

, aera Mariston was both startled and resent-
ul,

“But I was most careful in all I said, I as-
sure you, We talked of trivial things. I re-
gret very much that I saw Mrs, Chessingham,
if, as you say, this sad termination is the
result of my visit. I came now to see if she
would have cared about a drive; but as it
is r

‘“‘She’ll have no drive now, until she’s car-
ried away from here,’ said Janet, grimly—
so grimly, in fact, that one could have guessed
there were tears in her eyes, and a big ache
in her heart.. ‘‘No doubt you think you're
very good, sir, but you see your kindness
comes a bit too late. And there’s much might
have been done for my poor mistress if folk
had only remembered her in her sorrow. The
world comes quick enough to any feastings,
but it’s mighty carefu] to keep away when
there’s mourning and sorrow in the house.”’
Janet had her eyes steadily fixed on ‘the
handsome face before her as she spoke these
very straightforward remarks, and Peter Mar-
iston felt himself coloring under her gaze.
“What an abominable woman!” he said,
angrily, to himself.
- He kept all wrath out of hgs manner, ue.
an

ever, as he said some charming things, <
left a most sympathetic message for Mar-
garet. But as he turned from the house his

irritation was fully developed.

This illness was most annoying. Life had
assumed quite a different aspect to Peter these
last few days; he had had that pleasant sensa-
tion about him that comes when warm sun-
shine takes the place of a cutting east wind,
and gently insinuates comfort into the chilled
system. .

Not that he had found General Cobbe-in the
least an agreeable companion.

It was all very well for Mrs. Cochrane to

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

He walked moodily* to the only club that
was now available to him, It was neither
fashionabie nor particularly desirable, yet in
a little while even this haven would be closed
to him, for his subscription was long overdue,
and Peter had no clear point in his mind at
this moment as to how he was going to pay it.

He found several letters waiting, and the
porter told him that there had been the usual
inquiries for him,

Peter smiled mirthlessly at this.

He threw himself into a chair and glanced
through the letters.

Some of these were tossed unopened
the fire, but one was read eagerly.

It was from a man to whom Peter had been
wont to turn occasionally when in a very tight
corner, and who was usually good for at
least a small loan. This time there was no
check inclosed. The writer apologiazeéd for its
absence by the fact that he himself was in a
very bad way.

‘‘Never had such luck! Have gone on drop-
ping money like water lately. Things must
pull up soon. Can’t you strike a something
out of Lord Battleborough? About this young
Hudson you have met lately! If he is the
young chap I mean, he hangs out at a place
called Wester Park, and has no end of tin.
He’s a bit of a bounder, but then he’s very
young, and hasn’t had the corners rubbed off
yet. Some one told me that he would be
worth a cool twenty-five thousand a year or
thereabouts; even if it’s only half this he can’t
do badly, eh? I wish to God I had a quarter
as much!” ;

He sat and mused a little, and then he rose
and went to one of the writing tables.

Letters were things he hated, but he wrote
ee this morning with evident relish for the
task,

One of these epistles was to Margaret Ches-
singham, expressed in the most charming
words the writer’s real regret for her mother’s
illness, and begging to be permitted. to serve
her as ‘‘an ola friend’’ in any way.

The other was addressed to ‘‘Lady Hudson,”’
and was a courteous acceptance of an invita-
tion to go on a visit to Wester Park.

This done, Mr. Mariston sat and pondered as
to whom or where he could turn for the loan
of some money for his immediate require-
ments. It ended by his borrowing again from
Bates, his valet, a most’ accommodating man,
with distinct qualifications for being a usurer
rather than a domestic servant,

TO BE CONTINUED.

into

 

rt

THE YOUNG WIFE'S REWARD.

He was a scoundrel now, but he had once
been a gentleman. He had taught her to love
him, and, unfortunately as it turned out, in
his own way he had grown to love her, too.

She lived ‘with Jan Henderson, her husband,
in a lone hut miles away in the Australian
bush, Jan was a man rough and uncultivated,
of slow thought and slower words; but silently
and unselfishly he worshiped his young wite.
He would no more have thought of doubting
her truth than of doubting his own.

And she knew it andthe knowledge saved
her. .

The other, the scoundrel, was on the tramp.
He was making his way to a distant station
when his strength gave out, and he sank ex-
hhausted by the side of the little creek, where
he had stooped for a drink. And there Keren
Henderson found him, insensible, scarce
breathing. H'ad he been left alone he would
have been dead before the sun went down. He
was slight and frail, worn to skin and bones;
she, tall, strong and straight as a young pine.
She carried him in her arms as if he were a
child. True, her feet stumbled as she crossed
the threshold; had she known of the old su-
perstition she might have taken it for an
omen. But she lifted him over undoubting,
placed- him in her own bed, and nursed and
tended him back to life.

Then for weeks he lay helpléss.
him in its grip and would not readily lose its
prey; but nioxious weeds are deeply rooted,
and George Adeney lived to repay after his
own kind.

When he thad recovered he still stayed on,
though he was not of much use, for he was
not fond of work. But he hovered about, oc-
cupying himself with light tasks when Jan
was in the way, lying smoking beneath the
the shade of a tree when he was absent, That
is, when he was not talking to Keren Hen-
derson.

“Soft? Yes, you’re about right!’’ said Keren
Henderson’s husband té one of the rare chance
guests who happened to make some remark
concerning the new hand. “But Kery takes to
him kindly; she saved his life, you see, and his
gift o’ gab is amazing. If she gets lonesome
when I’m away, he cheers her up a bit.’”’ This
was quite a long speech for Jan, consequently
he puffed at his pipe, and did not open his
mouth again for the rest of the evening.

_ Keren was young, scarce twenty, and fresh
and sweet to look upon as the mountain rose.
Her solitary life had made her as laconic al-

 

 

urge him to take no notice of the old man’s}

acid manner; there were some things that

were too unpalatable to be glossed over.

Summed up briefly, Peter decided that Meg’s |
uncle was about the most hateful old creature

he had come across as yet. But he did not
trouble himself about the old fool; fortunately,
a man with that sort of complexion could not
possibly be long for this earth. Peter looked
beyond,

He saw new things shaping themselves in
the future, and that deliciously warm current
of hope seemed to rejuvenate him. He forgot

|
;

most as her husband, and save for the few

| necessary words of domestic intercourse, she
| scarcely

But her soul was full
of unuttered poetry, and she worshiped all
things beautiful and bright. The ~wild flowers
that grew about her path were to her almost
as living beings; and she would sit and gaze
at the dying sunset until its glory seemed to
strike into her brain. Then he came and put
all these beautiful thoughts into words. He
was well educated, well read; more, he was
thoroughly sympathetic.

Just a sly, stammered half-sentence, and he
caught her meaning, entered into her feelings;
never in all her life had she met his equal.
Keren had never been unhappy; she would

ever spoke.

to curse Lord Battleborough, and remembered |thave smiled in scorn had you ever suggested

only that Meg had loved him once, and that
Meg ‘would be, must be, very rich.

Mrs; Cochrane and he had sat taiking as
they had planned after dinner, and he had
drawn out of the kindly woman all the in-
formation he wanted.

It was so easy to impress Mrs. Cochrane
with a sense of unfading devotion—to deceive
her with lies. Naturally, Peter had worn him-
self to-a shadow trying to find some trace of
Margaret and her mother.

“And now that I know where they are, I
hesitate to go.’’ : : : ‘
“T should not hesitate,’ said Mrs. Cochrane,

softly.

She felt with a thrill at her heart that she
was doing the right thing, In the old days
she had watched the dawning of Meg’s love-
dream. She thought she understood now why
Peter Mariston had remained a bachelor.

She was a rich, childless woman, and to
weave romance out of the most impossible
threads constituted one of her few recreations.

After Peter had gone. that night, she said
something of what was in her mind to her
husband; but Cochrane ‘was singularly un-
sympathetic.

“Mv dear,’ he said, impressively, ‘‘don’t

L of that sort in your brain, Mar-

put anything ur. Mar
iston is not a marrying man; it is one of his

few good points, for some poor woman is
saved a lifetime of misery.”’

Mrs. Cochrane flushed.

“T thought you liked Peter; you have
always professed to be his friend.’’

“Oh, I used to like Peter well enough,’’ said
her husband; then he frowned. “‘But he

doesn’t bear close inspection. He is the sort

chance and a ready fiver. Battleborough .is
another sort of man.’ She
“Tord Battleborough is a detestable prig,’

said Mrs. Cochrane, quite hotly.

But here the discussion ended, for Mr. Coch- |}

rane picked up a newspaper, and went to
smoke a final cigar.

“Men do not understand this sort of thing,”’
mused Sybil Cochrane, as she toiled wearily up
the stairs.

Peter together. It is all nonsense refusing to

  

meet any of the old friends. She could lunch
here quite easily on Sunday. She cannot go
to her work then. Besides, she won’t be al-
lowed to work much longer. That old man
does not iy what he thinks, but his face hbe-
trays him, and I am convinced he will put
an end to Meg’s shop days as soon as possi
ble.”’

* * + * * * “a

And now Peter could not hope to see Mar-

garet Chessingham immediately, as he cer-

tainly hoped to have seen her, and who could
tell what the girl might or might not do when

“T mus E ge to bring Meg and} eg
I must manage to bring = and |through a rift in the

 

|

death had left her alone in the world, and her |

motive for work and ambition was ended?

Poor little Mrs. Chessingham had talked to
him incessantly of her girl.

When he called back the memory of Meg
as he had last seen her, it seemed to him little
short of a miracle that she should have
achieved all she had done since the tragedy
of her father’s death. But then such a nature
as Margaret’s was naturally a sealed book to
aman of Mariston’s calibre.

He felt, nevertheless, as he recalled all he
had heard, that there might be more difficulty
in dealing with a character developed as hers
was by the stress of sorrow and necessity
than he had supposed at first; an@ this suppo-
sition, coupled with Janet’s very outspoken
words just now, left him with the uncomfort-
able feeling that perhaps, after all, this last
wonderful and ,unexpected chance would slip
away from him also.

;

 
 
  
 

 

her lot might have been more fortunate;

| smiled in such a fashion that you would have

repeated your words for the chance of seeing
again the slow wide-opening of those won-
drous eyes, the marvelous irradiation of that
beautiful face.

Still, sometimes the days had passed but
slowly; now they flew like winged hours. She
thought of no past, no future; life was one
long, sweet dream from morn to eve. It grew
at last to be happiness only to be near him,
only to see him; yet she never guessed, for
Adeney had recognized quickly this was no or-
dinary nature.

He had. been careful not to alarm her by
look or word. He waited until he was quite
sure—oh, Heaven! how sure he felt, how first
he tested again and again his own power—
then he spoke, and she knew. It did not take
many words, just a few broken syllables, one
look—then one jong meeting of the lips. Para-
dise for the moment; afterward the awaken-
ing—the remembrance of Jan.

The young wife was. essentially upright.
When she once_realized that she loved George
Adeney, that he had grown a part of her life—
nay, as it seemed to her, her life itself—then
the iron entered hér soul, and as she loved so
she suffered.

She avoided Adeney’s presence, and never
spoke when sometimes drawing near he would
look at her intreatingly. Each night she re-
solved to dismiss him in the morning, and
when morning came she would wait again
until night; for it seemed like tearing out her

 

 

heartstrings to let him go. It might have
lasted longer—perhaps, though, that is. doubt-

|ful~even have ended differently; but he, feel-

of chap who has always an eye to the main | ing so

sure, grew impatient.
He missed her one afternoon from the hut,
and with that rare intuition of her thoughts
which had gained him half his power, he
ressed at once where she had gone,

first found ‘him. She was there» living over
again the time when she had carried him in
her arms.

The branches met above her bare head, but
background streamed the
full rays of the setting sun.

She sat, as it were, encircled and framed

Perey with Hight. He stole upon her noise-

she was unconscious of his presence
after watching her for a few seconds,
glamour of her beauty maddenéd him. He

   

 

   
  
 
 

   

 

and stood before him white and trem-

 

t
f ‘ot his past cauwtion—forgot his fear of
f itening her—and clasping her in his arms,
co ed her face with hot kisses. Taken by
su she submitted; then suddenly freed
+

bh

elf,
“J eould not help it, you kKnow!’’ he said,
half-carelessly, half-triumphantly. ‘tl am not
a stock or a stone that should always hold
off when I know that you love me.’

She answered not a ‘word, but stood looking
at him with so strange a glance that for once
he was puzzled.

“T never meant to vex you,’* he went on
again, a little anxiously, as he noted the quiv-
ering of her form and her ghastly paleness
“You ware not angry with me?”’ Eee

“Angry with you?’ she replied, slowly. ‘No,
not with you; it is my punishment.’’

“Punishment! Good Heaven, what do you
mean?’’

“My punishment for keeping you here—for
not letting you go before. Good-by!’’ and,
with a choking catch in ther breath, she held
out her hand.

He read her meaning, and laughed to him-
self. Hie had ‘touched, he thought, every chord
in her heart, and all had played responsively

, to his fingers.

Fever had |

| scrub,

4

“And when am I to come back?’ the said,
softly.

*‘Never, never again.”’

“That is treating me badly. You forget I
have taught you to live. You merely existed
before—you are ungrateful.’’

“Ungrateful—I! I would die for you. But I
a, not Iny own. I am not free. I belong to

an!”

It matters little what else he said, witat
arguments, what persuasions he used; he grew
furiously angry at last, uttering threats and
reproaches by turns. But all was to no pur-
pose.

Hitherto pliant as a reed; she was now in-
flexible; only she could not speak much. She
bowed her head before the storm, she gave
him not one unkind word; but ‘Jan trusts me,
Jan trusts me,’ was ever the burden of her
ery.

It is doubtful whether he would have ac-
eepted his dismissal as final after all, only on
his threatening to return and claim her in
epite of everything, she said, quietly:

‘Tf ever you come back, Jan will kill you.”

‘Jan is a fool! Jan suspects nothing.”

“To-night, when you are safe and far away,
I shall tell him.”

“Tell him—tell your husband?’ Even Adeney
had not anticipated that. But he saw that she
meant it, and quickly resolved to take himself
out of harm’s way without further loss of
time, lest any worse thing should happen.

He followed her suikily to the hut, where
she gave him money, gave him food, and what
he valued even more, a plentiful supply of
whisky. Then, mounted on Jan’s spare horse,
which he was to leave at the next station, he
rode sullenly away, like the ill-conditioned
hound he was, without a word of thanks, with-
out one sign of farewell.

A short distance from the hut, but well be-
yond sight or hearing, was a steep gully with
stony sides that had to be crossed before
reaching the main track. As the horse was old
and not very supre-footed, Pe, dismounted
to lead him down, swearing audibly the while,
until the words died away in his throat as he
came face to face with Jan. It was impossible
to avoid him, he came upon him so suddenly,
and, besides, Jan was evidently awaiting him.
He meant business, too, for he had a stout sap-
ling in his hand, and before the other could
remount, he laid his hand on his collar, say-

ing:

“Wait a bit, I’ve a word to say before you
go. I was yonder’—and he waved his hand in
the direction of the creek; “I come up toward
the end. I didn’t interfere then, ’cause I reck-
oned Kery’d rather settle it herself; I thought
Vd come down and wait for you here instead;
’Taint the least usé trying to get free, but
you needn’t look so skeert; I’m not going to
kill you, lest Kery should be vexed, and your
whole carcass ain’t worth a pain to her little
finger. I ain’t going. to touch you with my
hands, lest I should choke the life out of you
by mistake, but ’

And lifting up Shiis stick he thrashed the
scoundrel until his coat hung in strips from
the fellow’s shoulders, It was impossible for
pete resist; he was like @ reed in Jan's
1anas.

When Jan left off at last, not because he
was tired, but because he was afraid to go on
any longer, he did not waste another word,
but turned on his heel and strode away home.
And all the way he was thinking in his old,
slow fashion how he could let his wife know
he had surprised her secret, how he could
spare her the pain of the confession she medi-
tated. To say the discovery was not a great
blow to him would not be true, but he had
not time to think of himself yet; his faculties
were exercised to the uttermost in planning
how to make things better for Kery.

After Jan was gone Adeney remained mo-
tionless for a little time where his adversary
had thrown him. Then, slowly rising, with
mingled groans and words, he painfully limped
his way to where the horse was feeding on the
grass among the stones. He extracted the

 

whisky bottle from the saddle-bags, and swal-
lowed a draught long and deep.

George Adeney had undergone many degra-
dations in the course of his eventful life, but
he had never been thrashed before; never be-
fore, either, had he been foiled by a woman.

He mounted his horse with difficulty, then,
mad with rage, galloped on blindly for, hours.
He took no heed of the track, only whipped
and spurred mercilessly whenever the poor old
beast showed any signs of flagging.

The moon rose, rode high in the heavens,
then paled again, and still he kept on. But
just before dawn Ak@ horse stopped suddenly
as if it=had been*sk tinging its unprepared
rider. into a patch of thick scrub. Then it
pawed the ground with its fore feet as if strug-
gling to keep upright, swayed sideways once,
twice, and fell over dead.

Adeney was worse off than ever now, but
after relieving his feelings in his usual foul-
mouthed fashion—an enjoyment of which he
had been deprived while near Keren Henderson
—he set to work to make the best of it. He
took out his provisions, made a good meal, then
lit his pipe, and, sitting with his back against
the dead horse, waited until it should be light
enough to see where he was. While waiting
he fell asleep, until—as life in the wilderness
is productive of a sort of sixth sense—he was
presently aroused by feeling that somé person
or thing was prowling around. He was un-
armed; he had sold his revolver shortly before
Keren found’ him by the creek, and she had
omitted to provide him with another. Maybe
her omission was intentional; she might have
thought it safer for Jan.

Adeney was wide awake in a moment; but
he did not rise, only imperceptibly shifted his
position so as to get a wider range of vision.
It was broad daylight, so he must have slept
for some time; but all was quite still; appar-
ently there was not the slightest cause for ap-
prehension. But after he had remained mo-
tionless for a while, a slight movement was
perceptible among the bushes,

It was repeated again presently, nearer, and
soon, the long grass parting, revealed a low-
browed, -villainous-looking countenance cau-
tiously peering through within a few feet of
the seeming sleeper. Something bearing a!
faint resemblance to a smile passed over
George Adeney’s discolored features.

“Tt is all right, Dicky,” he said, aloud. “You
never were any good at it, never will be. I’ve
been watching your tracks the last five min-
utes. I might have guessed it was you. Who
is with you?”

“Gentleman George, by all that’s wonder-
ful!’’ exclaimed the man, standing erect, a
figure to match the face. ‘Down on your luck, |
too; been in the wars, by the look of you.” ;

“Old horse fell dead, and pitched me in the}
if you call that being in the wars. I
am so stiff I can hardly move, either; it’s
bruised me more than a bit. Where’s Captain
Bill—isn’t he with you?’

‘Way yonder,’ and he waved his hand be-
hind him. “Bill and Cook, too. We reckoned
you’d come to grief when you didn’t turn up
as you promised.”’

“Couldn't. Played away all my traps at old
Sal’s, and had to tramp it. Then I fell ill and

took a rest.’’
‘‘That’s shepherd Jan’s horse; I know it by

the white star on its face.
“What does it matter to you whose horse it
is? Take off the saddle and lead the way.”’
Dicky’s companions were camped round a
fire in a little hollow, their horses tethered |
in a thicket near. There were three of them,
three rough-looking desperadoes, who had a
black mark against their names in every town-

 

ana|2 rough welcome, tl
de for the spot by the creck where she had | Kettle put on, and Gentleman George gave an

| And presently a very pretty little plan of re-

|your share afterward. That’s your usual line,

ship in the colony. Adeney was greeted with
the fire was made up, the
aceount of his adventures, with reservations.
venge entered his head, and he hastened to
put it into execution.
e * t ; BS * * *

“Keeps his money in a hele under the bed,
does he?’’ said Captain Bill. .‘“‘To think of that
chap having money at all! “And we. should |
never have guessed it if it hadn’t been for you.
He'll fight for it, too, and you’re not good at}
rough work; you’ll leave that to us, and claim

 

Gentieman George.’’ :

“Tf I did it would be only my right for put-
tinge you up to it,’’ Adeney retorted, indig-
nantly; “as it is, I don’t want a red cent.”

“What's up? What may be your little game
now ?”’

“That's my business. Make sure Jan Hen-
derson can tell no tales, but don’t touch the
woman: I’ll answer for her afterward... That’s
the bargain, mind, and I have your word to
act square.”’

“That's the bargain, here’s my hand ion it,’’
replied Captain Bill, and the two worthies
shook hands,

They kept quiet all day, Adeney not sorry
for a rest, as his body was aching from top
to toe. But after sunset they set out, avoid-
ing the principal track lest they should meet
travelers on the way. One of the horses car-
ried double for a time, until Adeney was
dropped near the station he had first started
for.

Gentkeman George had devised what ‘hé
thought was a very clever plan. He would
remain at the station until morning, when he
would borrow a horse and ride over alone.
He knew what Keren Henderson would want

 

 

to do; he would offer his help, he would ride

with her on the track of her huSband’s mur-
derers, until they were lost in the bush to-
gether.

And all might have gone off as planned, for
Adeney had trusted Captain Bill more than
once, and he had never failed him. Only he
had forgotten one thing, forgotten that Jan
had lately bought a fresh supply of whisky,
that the keg was nearly full.

All’ the rest went smoothly enough. The
bushrangers reached the hut about midnight,
and, while one kept guard by the window, the
others entered by the door. Jan fought
bravely, but he was overcome and, tdgether
with his wife, was tightly bound.

They soon unearthed the money hidden be-
neath the bed, Jan’s little earnings. Unfor-
tunately, it fell far short of what Adeney had
led them to expect, and. they lost their tempers
accordingly, ‘

Then they discovered the whisky keg, and
drank till they slept. Jan freed himself after
an hour’s hard work, and with bleeding hands
bound the unconscious brutes, He and his wife
mounted their horses and galloped toward the
nearest station—from which Adeney had just
started. When he came upén them suddenly
round a cluster of bushes, he screamed with
terror, and feli from his horse—dead.

THE WINNING OF ISOLDE

A ROMANCE OF THE RUSSIAN BORDER.
By ST. GEORGE RATHBORNE,

Author of “Dr. Jack,” “Dr. Jack's Widow,” “ Miss Caprice,”
“4 Warrior Bold,” “Little Miss Millions,” ete.

 

 

(“THE WINNING OF IsOLDE” was commenced in No. 22.
Back numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers.)

 

CHAPTER VII.
A PRETTY FATHER CONFESSOR.

As Dugdale and his companion passed out-
side, they perceived that the humor of the
night had taken a turn, for it was no longer
dark and shadowy; over the rugged hills had
climbed a moon that shone blood-red through
the vapor, and colored all things with a mel-
low flood of light.

To one who loved Nature the scene was
particularly beautiful,-but for once in his life
Dugdale paid 'very little attention to the pic-
ture; he had other and more weighty things
on his mind.

Those in the taproom dared not follow now,
no matter how strenuous their curiosity might
be. The rumor had gone forth, borne by many
a wagging tongue, that this being of tran-
scendental loveliness was under the particular
charge of the autocrat who ruled the southern
camps, and whose frown was feared by man,
woman and child even more than the devil,
for one could be visibly experienced while the
other was but a possibility after demise.

Still Dugdale felt that he would be better
pleased could they saunter away from the
tavern.

It was a bold thing for him to propose, and
he so nearly a stranger; but conventionalities
must occasionally give way before nevtessity,
and he was rendered daring by his own hon-
esty of purpose,

They need not go far—the little river gurgled
over stones but a biscuit toss from the house,
and a white path ran along its side to the
bridge over which they had crossed when
they descended from ‘the meuntain.

‘Would it be presumptuous in me to ask you
to walk as far as the bridge? It is only a
stone’s throw—hardly more—-from here,’’ he
asked.

She looked at him, then out in the direction
where the bridge spanned high over the brawl-
ing stream.

There was fortunately a din of voices from
the taproom, not unlike the buzz and roar of
a council chamber on-an election night; doubt-
less every man-jack among those assembled
had his individual opinion with regard to the
divinity in petticoats who had dropped among
them unheralded, like a flashing meteor from
the skies during dog days; and now that the
paralyzing charm of her presence had been
removed, they one artd*all opened hot. argu-
ment in defense of his pet theory.

The lady heard, perhaps she also understood,
since their mongrel border language could not
be wholly unfamiliar to Russian ears.

“Well, it would be impossible, monsieur, for
me to hear your confession so near that rabble.
If you will promise to take very good care of
me, I might be tempted by the moonlight to
stroll a little, though it would doubtless shock
my friends to know that I had become so
bold,’ she said, earnestly.

“T promise you, on my honor, ma’mselle.”’

“See, I trust you—I know Englishmen,.’’

And she put her hand within his arm.

She was as safe with that man as in the
midst of a court drawing-room—perhaps much
more so. _

To Dugdale the pleasure was intense; -he
had never gone through this experience be-
fore, though past the age of thirty—indeed, he
had occasionally been known to scoff at the
holy spark, in his ignorance of its power.

His hour had come, and few there be who
escape it.

He was in no hurry to confess.

She might be offended—might even ask him
to take her back to the inn, looking upon
his action as entirely unwarranted.

Much of the time they were silent, but it was
ae because the beauty of the night enthralled
them.

She was pensive, he thoughtful; but it was
not concern over any possible dangers loom-
ing up in his path as the result of his agree-
ment with General Gratscheff that brought
about this condition of affairs.

Finally she demanded to hear what he
wished to say that could not be Spoken at
the table, and Dugdale had to plunge in.

“First promise me you will not be angry.”’

“Angry—I? Wherefore, monsieur?’’

‘Because I have in a small, a very small
measure, I assure you, -_ma’mselle, become
mixed up in your concerns. Indeed, I did not
mean to presume, but cenditions forced me
to decide one way or the other—conditions
placed before me with such a show of un-
necessary and unealled-for harshness that
from natural resentment, if nothing more, I
felt bound to do exactly the opposite of what
was expected.”

‘In my concerns—you mixed up? it is im-
possible, monsieur—incredible! Why, I have
only known you—let me see—not quite two
hours.”’

It was true! Dugdale felt stunned, for to
him it had seemed as though the time was far
distant when he had not known this charming
creature. She was his artist’s ideal, and really
he had not lived, merely existed, all these
years while their life threads failed to cross.

“Do not speak of that, I beg—it mortifies
me. I can’t believe it is only so small a space
of time, for somehow I seem to have known
you always.’’

“You have not seen me in St. Petersburg?”
she asked, with a sudden note of alarm in her
voice. ;

‘‘Never with mortal eyes, it is.true; but have
you never experienced the conviction, upon
meeting some one for the first time in the
flesh, that he has been familiar to you in the
spirit ?’’

“Monsieur, the confession!’ with some con-
fusion in her voice. ‘‘How have you been
forced—I think that was what you said—to be-
come mixed up in my affairs?’

Thus quickly did she turn him from what
bordered upon the sentimental, and bring him
around directly to the business proposition
upon the strength of which he had drawn
her into this ramble by the river. _

“The general sent for me,’’ he said, dryly.

She uttered an exclamation, whether of
alarm or annoyance he could not be quite
sure,

“General Gratscheff?”’

“Yes; the hero of a hundred battles.’”

“You admire him, then—this soldier?’
quickly. é

‘What man would not respect such dashing
bravery as he has shown? The profession~of
a soldier has taken on new lustre through the
hero of Plevna. Never lived a bolder fighter
than he. But admire him? Well, no; he is a
little too much of a machine to suit mé. My
heart goes out to a man of heart and courage
like our dear old Bobs.”’ :

“T -am glad, monsieur. When did he, this
general—my general—send for you?”

“Shortly after we arrived. I stood outside
by the post watching the night fall, when his
messenger touched me on the arm.”

“You went then? No one refuses when he
gives a command,” with a shudder; “that is,
no one but a poor little woman like myself,
who dares defy him.” os ;

Dugdale smiled to himself complacently.
Perhaps she would not chide him, after all,
for what he had presumed to.dv; it might
“be she would Show no signs of anger.

“Yes, I went, knowing I was in a military

 

    

Vol. 57—No. 24

 

 

= =

post, and that in a measure made me subject
to General Graischeff’s whims.” ;

“You saw him? What did he say first?’
with an eager tremor in her voice.

one should carry a lighted cigar in his pres-
ence, even though he had one at the moment
between his teeth.”

“You threw it away, of course?”

“Of course I did not—then. I put it in my
mouth and sent out a puff of smoke.” i

She stopped short and looked at him, evi-
dently holding her breath in very wonder.

“Oh, but you are an Englishman! You would
not dare do that had you been a Russian,”

“Perhaps not. Finally I:told him that if the
law proscribed smoking in the presence of a
general, I had no wish to break the statutes,
so I flung my weed out of the window.”’

“And General Gratscheff?’’

“Like a gentleman, did the same.”’

“Ah, splendid!.Then for once you cut his
claws, this grim Russian bear! It is some-
thing that has never Happened before. What
next did he say, Monsieur Dugdale?’

‘* ‘Sit down!’ ”

“Well, did you obey?’

“J said I preferred to stand, whereupon he
begged me-to be seated.’’

“Ah, how strange! What would I not have
given to have seen it? But, monsieur, did it
not occur te you that you played with fire?’

‘Yes, I knew it, but relied upon the love of
a soldier for fair play. It seems that I made
no mistake in the matter.’”’

“Then he spoke of me?”

‘‘He warned me that I was meddling with
what did not concern me, and that discretion
should have made me hurry by the wreck
without stopping to offer my aid to the lady
in distress.”

“Brute! Oh, how T hate that man!’’

“We talked the matter. over, and I told him
that, being an Englishnian, I would do it
again if ever the opportunity arose.”

*“‘Monsieur!.monsieur! I did. not think you
were so bold—so gallant!’’ with a look up at
his face:

“T do not profess to be so, more than the
average of my countrymen. But his tactics
were so bullying that any man of spirit would
have been compelled to rebel. Then he de-
manded that I should not see you again.”

“Well?” eoldly.

Supe him I intended taking supper with
you.

“Monsieur, I pray that may not be a costly
supper for you.”’

“T need not enter into details. He warned
me again, but I made light of it. Finally he
gave in, as much as to say my blood be upen
my own head.”’

“He gave in—to you?’ breathlessly.

“Well, you see we have supper together,
and now saunter here in the moonlight, yet no
one interferes—only that infernal guard fol-
lows like a shadow over yonder, General
Gratscheff was kind—he let me have my own
way. If perchance our journey lies over. the
Same road, 1 may not be debarred frem seeing
your eceasionally.”’

“Monsieur, you—surprise me!
that man, I fear he means
there no conditions attached?’

“Oh, nothing of any great conséquence.”’

“You make light of it—there is more. I am
not General Gratscheff, only-a woman; but I
demand to know on what terms he agreed to
peat c pee ees you have done something very
Tash!’’

‘““A mere matter of opinion. He may think
so, and perhaps you also; hut I am very well
content.”’

‘*Tell me the conditions.”

He could refuse no longer.

“IT agreed to share the exile or other condi-
tions he was empowered te force upon you.”

It is so unlike
you ill, Were

 

CHAPTER VIII.
A WARD OF THE CZAR.

Dugdale spoke lightly, as though it were the
merest bagatelle he referred to, and he de-
eee to make as little boasting of it as pos-
sible.

His companion appeared greatly agitated.
She stood. back and looked at him in a man-
ner he could not wholly understand. Why,
what did it amount to? In three days they
would be over the border; what eared he if
his sentence of exile prevented him from ever
entering Russia again, save at his peril? She
would be in the same hoat, and yet Russia
was her native country. :

“Sir, what possessed you to do such a bold

thing? How dared you, unasked, propose to
h- mine?’-<=

cast your—teretresssat ~aske

“H’m! told me it was not allowed that any~—

    
   
     
   
      
        
   
  
   
   
   
   
     
    
   
  
      
  
    
     
     
     
       
  
    
   
   
    
   
  
 
  
   
   
 
  
  
  
    
  
  
   
 
  
   
  
   
   
  
 
  
   
   
  
 
 
   
  
    
    
   
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
    
  
  
     
   
  
   
   
 
  
   
 
  
   
  
  
 
   
   
  
  
    
    
 
 
  
    
   
   
   
   
 
 
 
  

%
a

 

 

 

slowly, with something
in her voice. ,

“T can hardly say. First of all, he aroused
my animosity by his overbearing ways. It
was as much as a dare. Then I did not see
why I should be denied the privilege of speak-

like a shock of anger

object. Last of all, it riled me to think of the
mailed power of Russia’s military arm being
raised against a defenseless woman, even re-
fusing to come to her. assi$tance when her
vehicle broke down. Yes, perhaps it was bold
in me; but I assure you had only the
most gentlemanly motives in the world. If you
were going across the border, I would be glad
to serve you until you reached friends. Come,
you'll forgive me?’

“Friends! Alas, I am beginning to believe
they have all played me false—that they are
all leagued with those who persecute me, even
that one whose simple word would save me,”’
she said, with some emotion which affected
him strangely. :

“But you haven’t said I am pardoned,
ma’mselle.’’

“Yes—oh, yes! But I wish you had not done
it. I do not like to think of bringing trouble
rae others, least of all one so chivalrous and

ind.’’

“But-it will soon be over. Perhaps in two
days we shall be across the border, where the
authority of this man ceases.’’

She caught his sleeve.

“Did he say that? Oh, sir, you gave a feol-
ish promise! He, Gratscheff, deceived you!’’

Dugdale was not overwhelmed.

Truth to tell, he did not feel any great
surprise, for more than once during the time
that had elapsed since his interview with the
general he had come to some such conclusion
himself, although, of course, utterly unable te
decide upon what might be the truth, as he
had no facts upon which to build the frame-
work of theory.

All the same, it was not necessary that he
should tell this to her.

‘“Well I would not put it past him; in fact,
I know he lied to me in one particular case;”’
he returned, coolly. : ‘

“Would it be proper to tell me what that
was, Monsieur Dugdale?”

“That you were Vera Orloff.”

She could not repress her astonishment:

we told you that—he, Gratseheff?’’

es yes.””

“That I was—a Nihilist!”

“The very queen of them.”

“And you doubted his assertion—you,
knew me but one hour!”

“More than doubted it—I knew he lied! I
would not, could not, believe you guilty of the
bold things Vera Orloff has done in her mad-
ness to secure more liberty in Russia; and,
besides, you did not resemble the woman at
all. A friend of mine drew. several faithful
pictures of her..{i have them among my
traps. By Jove! Vera has dark-brown hair,
and she is tall. It is ridiculous, his attempt
to gorge me on that bait.”

“And he said I was a Nihilist—he, General
Gratscheff, the soul of honor, who was’ never
known to deceive? It simply shows how much
in earnest he is. and how. desperate my case
must be. Ah, monsieur,” with a little pathetic
sob in her voice that went straight to Dug-
dale’s heart, ‘I told you it. was all wrong.
He deceived you, and now.you will have vis-
ited upon your head the results of my-
indiscretion, ny rebellion. It is.sad, and If
deeply regret your foliy!’”*

“You seem to agree with him in giving my
gallantry so opprobrious a name,” ruefully, as
a man might feel who receives a slap in the
face when he had reason to expect at least
gratitude.

“Listen to me.~ He said I was a Nihilist, and
that, being exiled, he was seeing me across
the frontier. Am JI correct, monsieur?”’

“To the letter—and I’m also an exile. Never
again may I tread the holy soil of Russia.
Yet I‘ laugh, and life. has lest none of its
charms. Indeed,»I swear it has gained an
extra glow since—well, I would not‘offend you.
The border is only two days away, ma’mselle.”’
Tt might as well be a -thousand versts,
Since I shall not.be allowed to reach it, much
less cross.’’

‘What!’ =

“T-am positively forbidden to leave Russia,
being under the Emperor's ban and displeas-
ure; and although General Gratscheff is “a
great man, I believe even he would be dis-
graced should I manage to escape,” she said,
bitterly. eg :

And Owen whistled softly to himself ashe

who

 

 

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Grove’s signature is on each box. 26¢.

 

 

 

 

 

ing to a pretty woman, provided she did not~

 

 

 

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of a friend, and a
just" in) a

im there
Ba oer

~~

‘brought him
ownage 3 blood
ee; nticipation of the
ci of

rd that awaite

m, was in the arena. x
ance, there might be a gleam of
this very crass ignorance, since his
efforts were not handicapped at the
oni, matieelle But T think you mien
>, Ma Ms but t- you mene
d the word escape?” he said. : ES
oS poe dream; I have been a little fool
ee eo. 1 See his come
on re |, Gejectedly.
Pesan Vou: Said J00 3. ;
“In an unguarded moment—yes.”
you meant it?”
She turned and looked up at him. In the
00 ht he could see that her face was
-eoncern, as though anxiety
Ri ad been aroused.

Monsieur, I pray you be careful; do not
arouse the anger of that terrible man against
yourself, I implore you.’ —

: “Tell me; you would rejoice to-be able to
| cross the border—to leave ussia? I insist on
oe ROW OEE ee Bh ee
_. His influence was strong, and she could not
keep from replying. —s_* - 7
- “Oh, it would be a blessed day! I should be
free from the man-I hate, in whose hands
the czar has given-the power to control my
ate. Yes, monsieur, I would.escape; but I
ell you it is an idle dream, We are in Rus-
gia, and it is General Gratscheff who stands
pefore us.” : fs
~ *At Jeast I can try to aid you,” said Dug-
ale, calmly. a SSS
No heroics, no vaunting of his prowess or
he ability of Englishmen to conquer when
ed to the Russian bear—only those
“words, spoken so modestly; and yet
distracted girl they were freighted with
. for they told of an inborn resolution to
il that a true man could in her behalf..

simpl
to.

DUGDALE MAKES PROGRESS.

4

the presence of
for ours, with

you for the interest
unfortunate condition; but
of. me to allow you to un-
ndeayor. You do not know
face. I cannot permit. the

you

orevent it?’’ triumphantly.
to give my consent.”-" *
on without ‘that, even at the
, ou prt

Wout: 3: es
new how. ‘to reply, for he
away hef only weapon.

F ghed, he thought in a forced
‘there was a tremor of emotion in

when she spoke agait. =. |

“5 that would be an adventure entirely

vithout precedent, monsieur. You are deter-
mined to effect my eScape, either with or

ithout my consent? =< ss es

“TJ am at least determined to try,” soberly.

mpulsively held out a little hand, which,
e, he eagerly clasped... Be er
! Heaven, if-I but met true.men like
you, monsieur, in the circle where I have been
‘accustomed to take my little flights how differ-
ant things would apnea, But there all is
rtificial, and you cannot tell how basely you
ived until it is, alas, too late.
‘ant to thank you for your disin-

ndship. It ¥
» gloom of my existence,” — :
F onger forbid me to try?” 5
‘I did not say that.. The temptation is great,
it seems as eas might open its
tals to me once I left Russia behind, for
e ezar’s commands cannot follow me
er, But this means danger for
not consent to have you make
scheff; it would be too terri-

en I’m going to do it on my
. When you see.-my mind is set,
refuse to accept of the chance?”’
HW not refuse,” she said, faintly,
1 overborne by his stronger one; be-
-gides it was very pleasant to know that a
pnene had been aroused in her interest; here
in this b sat om fe rial ie ce ene Bad never
reamed of meeting aught but enemies, or
least those rho obeyed th least beck and nod
of the irc eneral.. we Chess

ce ae put ene
"Then consider that part settled. You said
was determined now that you should go
‘no nearer the border than Rustchuk?’’
; a ed a note that was
ossack while you, were out,
dquarters interviéwing the}

i

factor in determining |

t is, J T-shail be given
uu will be required to

whistling again; appar-

on general was not enough,

‘against a baron also. _

keeping aristocratic com-

thing like a pang darted through his
rho was the baron, and what claim could
ve upon the pretty fugitive? Sa

) coming to escort you back

spite of your protests. /
a eS Fi cea a

under a_ spur. Then
heff and his emis-
‘slipped from his

unes had been

arrive?” ne]
_ probie: Ley eae? with Lord Durward, they would

atever is ac-

ac?

success on his,

will always be a bright]

{soul m

You}

ae

*Why,. monsieur?”

‘Because, once we.

t be so- to head
oe know
irae. **<.

‘our Cossack?
cheff is the idol of the
But even as such he m have enemies,
n who have reason to hate him. I do not
t the strange look Vladimir cast upon

: ful, for Grat-
Cossacks—their gen-

k of the Don. I must interview Vlad-

“Perhaps we had better return to the inn.”
Presently, The night is long. Tell me, do

feel equal to an effort to gain the border?
tee ee EE be too much for your

Ah! monsieur, fear may enable a woman
accomplish wonders. I could do almost
Set eeceprre. Cee the terrible net I feel
ame."*: eds <=
‘re you a good-rider?” —
““It has always been said so.” —
“Because we may have to go on_horse-
hough that depends on w at Viadimir

‘onsieur, it will take much money.” |
Pooh! that does not matter.”

“But I insist. It is for me, and Ihave much
| with me. Sir, you must
‘little I can do, and you risk so much—your
liberty;. perhaps your life!’ —

_ He was compelled to accept what she thrust
into his hand. After all, as she said, much
would be needed to win their way; more n
he might have had upon his person, for, know-
ing the wees of these lonely places he vis-
ited, “he seldom carried a large amount of
money for fear of presenting. too attractive a
‘bait. unscrupulous mountaineers or tribes-

men. = 5 :
Men frequently. disappear in these fastnesses,
“never to be heard from again.

‘How will I communicate with you when I
have arranged ways and means, providing
there is any hope?” he asked.

“My apartments are at the corner of the
ae ee the road, but toward the cita-

e

/- “Yes, too bad; it might have been better.
‘But_never mind; ae proceed.””

~- “When you wish to communicate with me,
if you were to toss a pebble against the win-
dow, I will know.”

“But how will you come down without
ing through the house and arousing all?
_ “Monsieur,” turning with a smile, “surely
I can leave that to you. I give you my word
I have descended a ladder ere now.’’

“Dugdale was charmed with her candor, and

made sure he would be able to accomplish
what was of such vital importance, granting
that all other matters had been properly ar-
ranged. ’ 5

“And you will, of course, make a small par-
cel of what you need most; not too large to
prevent its being-carried on a ‘horse if we are
compelled to travel in the saddle.” =. =

"Yes, yes. Monsieur, you do not neglect the
details, "I. fear the general may have more
trouble to detain you_than he expected, At
the same time I am uneasy, conscious of the
fact that we are almost strangers and——’"’

“J am aman of honor, I assure you.”

“Merci, it was not that. I was about to
say that since we have only recently met, I
have no claim upon you, and still you insist
on forcing me to accept favors that may cost
you Gear.” 3 See
“All that was:settled some time ago. I am
also a man very much like Gratscheff in some
respects, and it pleases me to do this for you.
Now, kindly say no more about it. If we win
you will be free, and Il—why, I shall have the
pleasure of knowing I have beaten a dipio-
mat and a soldier at his own game. That
should be glory enough.”’ ; 5

“And if we fail, 1 am no worse off than just
now, for they dare not injure me, while you,
monsieur, subject yourself to torture and im-

risonment—perhaps worse. Ah! do not think
tT am unable to see and appreciate your noble-
ness of spirit. And were not my case so des-
perate 1 would refuse to take advantage of
your generosity, but the-temptation is great,
and I would to Heaven I might escape this
gloomy fate. shall not forget, Monsieur
Dugdale—L could not even if I would.”

She gave him her hand again, and was not

pass-

| displeased when he raised it gallantly to ‘his:

mustached lips. :
“Phen leok for the signal; in some way I
shall manage, 1 give you my word. Let us
hope for the success such daring often
brings.”’ ws 4

“Good-nieht, my friend. I shall pray that,
‘above all, harm may not come to you, because
of me. Good-night, and—God bless you!

TO BE CONTINUED.

The Forsaken Bride.

 

_ By Mrs. GEORGIE SHELDON,
Author of “Brownie’s Friumph,” “The Lily of Mordaunt,”
“That Dowdy,” “Queen Bess,” “Audrey's Recompense,’’

; “Wild Oats,’ etc., ete.

x

(“Ture FoRSAKEN BRIDE” was commenced in No. 5.
Back numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers.)

CHAPTER XLIV.
_KENNETH’S PERPLEXITY. ~

No one can describe the gloom and wretched-
ness which hung over Leamington Towers dur-
ing the next few weeks. ‘
All action regarding the reinstating of the
rightful heirs in their proper position was con-
siderately abandoned until the family there
should recover somewhat from the effects of
their fearful shock and_bereavement.
Kenneth now proved himself the noble man
that he was, and was unremitting and. untiring
in his attentions to the stricken ones, minis-
tering to them with almost womanly tender-
ness and sympathy. He relieved them of all

‘care and anxiety, attending to all necessary

business, and relieving. Lady Durward, who
was very much broken by ‘her troubles, in
every possible er sas <

Now it was in his power to return some of
the kindness which they had shown him when
he returned, so weary and worn, from his wan-
derings, He soothed their grief, allayed their
fears, and spoke hopefullyof their future.

\ Om his own part, it was an infinite relief to
‘him to know _that Nina had been true to him
through it all. :

The knowledge that she was pure and inno-
cent, instead of the false-hearted. woman he
had hitherto believed her, was like balm to
his wounded heart.

‘which had caused him so much _ sorrow and
bitterness—his idol had not fallen, and he
could still worship from afar, although his
ight be bowed down with shame and re-
proach for the blight which he had brought
upon her young, bright life. |

He felt now like a man who had lived years
upon years—who had loved, wedded, and
buried a true and beautiful wife, and who
cherished her memory as the most sacred thing
in life; he could livé on and love her still, al-
though lost to him forever, and dream of her
until, perhaps, ony might be reunited in a
‘fairer world beyond. ne

‘He felt that his own rashness had separated
them, and that now he must bear the conse-
quences as patiently as he could, through a
long and lonely life. He had sinned cs the
hope of forgiveness, and was unworthy now
ever to approach her or to look upon her face

in. : Sie ; a ty
“As for Lady Durward, her haughty spirit
was at last bowed to the very dust. She knew

|that the eee, of her house thad forever de-
parted.

e knew that Louis Durward, here-

after Harl Durward, whenever he should see
o claim the title, must henceforth have his
own, which would take everything from them.
" Nina, she knew, would have the splendid por-
‘tion that they had so fondly hoped would be
roline’s, and, excepting the settlements
had been made upon her at the time of
ggars. : f . ;
a bitter and crushing humiliation,

ixury and splendor of their previous
‘e, but the facts were too obvious and well

me, | life, | )
ee to be contested.

ph was more broken and distressed over
ather’s sudden death than over either the
“his fortune or the blight which rested
is birth: but Caroline was inconsolable,

r turbulent disposition, so long held in
ecount, now burst forth

iS Sess until he was

 

‘take it. Surely, it is

He was now at rest upon the one _ point;

{oan

— — —
communication from Farnum & Forrest,’ de-
siring their presence at their office upon the
day following. ERs : :

Too well they knew why they had been sum-
moned, and with sad hearts obeyed the call.

They found Sir Horace Vere and Louis Dur-
ward awaiting them. Louis greeted them both
with the utmost kindness, although Lord Mal-
eolm was concious of-a little restraint in his
manner toward him; but he knew that he de-
‘served even worse at ‘his hands, and could
not find it in his heart to blame him.

Louis immediately drew Ralph one side, and

‘entered into earnest conversation with him.
- “I pray that you will.not deem me unkind
or unduly inquisitive,” he said, the color rush-
‘ing over his face, ‘but would you mind telling
}me what your plans are for the future?”

“T have formed none as yet,’’ Ralph an-
<— with downecast eyes, and in reserved

nes. ae

“Forgive me if I pain you,’’ Louis returned,
feelingly, ‘‘but I asked because my own will
depend something upon yours.”’ : :

“How so?’- asked Ralph, much surprised.

“Because I must return to my regiment soon.
I have a year more of service, and there is a
possibility, you know, that I may never re-
turn, consequently there are some arrange-
ments which I deem it necessary to make be-
fore I go.’’ ease? ;

“Why must you go? Cannot you buy a sub-
stitute?’ asked Ralph, —

“JT suppose I might; but no—a true soldier
will serve his time; besides, I feel that I need
the lesson for having so persistently set up my
will in opposition to_my mother’s wishes,”
Louis said, gravely and thoughtfully.
| “Do you intend to finish your course at Ox-
ford?’ he asked, after a few moments’ silence.
_“{ should be glad to do so,” Ralph returned,
a shadow of regret creeping over his fine face,
“but I do not think it will be possible now.”’
He knew he had _ no resources, he could not
take from his mother’s portion, and he could
see no prospect but that of toil in the future
for him, es
“T do not see why it should not be possible,
and it would be my advice to you to do so by
all means,’’ Louis returned,

Ralph sighed heavily, but made no reply.
ae bent a look of kindly sympathy upon
*¥ hope,’’ he resumed, “‘that you do not think
I could be so covetous or dishonorable as to
appropriate to myself all that has so strangely
and unexpectedly fallen to my possession. It
may be mine in a legal point of view, but, mor-
ally speaking, a goodly share belongs to you.
I know that Lord Durward expected that you
and your siSter alone would reap the benefit
of his large possessions. For you he toiled; for
you he planned, and it would be very wrong to
deprive you of what ought to be yours. At
least, so I regard the matter, and with this
view I have to-day made my will: it is now in
the hands of Farnum & Forrest awaiting the
signatures of myelf, Sir Horace Vere, and Lord
Malcolm, whom I have invited to witness it.
In case of my death during service, I have be-
queathed you all right and title to the posi-
tion which you would have occupied had I not
come forward to mar your prospects when
everything was so bright and promising for
you. To your mother I have_ given thirty
thousand pounds, to be invested in any way
she may Choose, and this, with her marriage
settlements, will insure her comfort during the
remainder of her life. Zo your sister and her
heirs forever I have given fifty thousand

ounds, and thus I hope she will not feel the
change in her fortunes so very much,

“Please let me finish,” he said, with a faint
smile, as Ralph would have interrupted him.
“T have now a favor to ask of you; it is that
you will return to school, finish your course
at Oxford, as you had planned to do, just as if
nothing had happened, and say nothing to any
one about any change in your prospects, for—
perhanvs there will never be any. My mother,
sister, and I have consulted upon these mat-
ters, and have decided.to say as little about
them as possible. When I return, if I do,
there will be time enough for all developments,
and we will quietly take possession of our own,
and share as becometh brothers, I have also
arranged for you to have an income of a
thousand pounds.” t

‘J cannot have it so—it must not be—you are
too generous,” exclaimed» Ralph, too deeply
moved to say more. Helwas utterly amazed
at the noble spirit which the young man mani-
fested, after ali the cruel wrongs which his
dear ones had suffered at the hands of. his

father.

His munificent gifts to Sis mother and sister
displayed a spirit of foreiveness and charity
at which he marveled, while his fraternal in-
terest in and kindness toward himself drew
him irresistibly to him.

He had been so unutterably lonely and op-
pressed since his father’s death, so entirely at
loss as to what he should do in the future, that
this unexpected relief seremed like a heaven-
sent boon, and Louis its almost divine mes-
senger. ¥

He knew that all he had said regarding the
moral view of this division of the property was
perfectly true and right. — ;

He felt that it was but proper that his
mother, sister, and he should reap some ben-
efit from his father’s life of ambitious toil;
but how few would have regarded it thus—how
many would have eagerly grasped at all, and
turned the unfortunate ones Out into-the coid
to grapple with stern fate as best they could!
“Surely Louis Durward would honor the high
pesition to which he had been called.

‘Nay,’ Louis replied to Ralph’s deprecatory
words, “I may do with my own as I will. The
same blood fiows in our veins, and I feel the
kindred bond uniting us, and,
moral worth, I am proud to claim you brother.
You do not hate me, I trust, for the sad cir-
cumstances of the past, and over which I
could have no control?’ and he cast an anx-
ious, searching glance into the other’s face.

“Indeed I do not—my heart went out to you
at,onece when you came to me so kindly on that
day, and strove to make peace with my
father,” Ralph. returned, earnestly, while
manly tears gathered in his fine eyes. “But,”
he went on, “I feel as if I had been a usurper
during my whole life, while you have been de-
prived of the rights and privileges which were
really your own.”

‘Let the past res
Louis said, gently,_‘‘and we will try to make
the future brighter and better for all around
us. I regret that it seems necessary for me to
return to service, for there is much that I
would do.” ! ;

“{ wish you did not ‘have to go,” Ralph said,
regretfully. :

“Tt feel it to be my duty; but you have not
yet promised to do as I ask.”
Ralph thought a few moments before

reply-

ing.

Siow about your mother and sister? Do
they favor this exceeding generosity on your
part?” the then asked. ;

“Most heartily; and now there is one other
point before I forget it again. Mother and
Nina desire to travel for a while; they think
that the change would be beneficial to them,
and that it would serve to pass away the time
that would elapse before my return. It is my
wish, therefore, that your mother and sister
remain at Leamington Towers during the com-
ing year if they choose, as otherwise it would
have to be closed. It might also be pleasant
for you to return there during your vaca tions,
and I should feel much better_to know that
you were at home. Now tell me if it may all
be as I have suggested?” ;

“T do not see as it can be otherwise, since
you have everything arranged. I have no
words to express to you my appreciation of
your unexampled kindness and generosity; but
jet me tell you that henceforth I shall honor
you above all men, and you have won a
brother’s place in my heart.”

“Thank you, Ralph; that is just what I
hoved to do,” responded Louis, with emotion,
as he warmly clasped the hand held out to

m.

“J will do as you desire; I will return to
school—I will improve every moment and op-
portunity, and make for wees a name and
position, at which no one shall dare to point
the finger of scorn,’ Ralph said, proudly,
though his sensitive face flushed to deepest
crimson at this allusion to his birth. ee

In those ‘heroic words the indomitable spirit
of Lord Durward asserted itself; but back of
it, and actuating it, there was a far nobler
nature, higher principles, and purer sentiments
than be had ever possessed.

‘The tears started to Louis’ eyes at the words.

Too well he knew how the proud young heart
rebelled against the shadow hanging over him;
but he honored him for thus determining to
rise above it, while he admired him for his
courage and resolution. ~

“You will write to me of your success?” he

asked, ;
“Gladly; and thank you for the request.”’
“The year will soon pass, and then, if I am
ermitted to return, I may join you at Oxford;
‘or { was rather a naughty boy, you know, and
ran away before my education was com-
pleted,” Louis said, smiling. ‘ ;
“That I should like exceedingly,’’ Ralph re-
plied; but he wondered why Louis would per-
expressing that doubt about his return.
e have a presentiment that he should
|not come back to assume his title and position
Fas dear) Of DUP Ware fr Se i
ey now joined Sir Horace and Kenneth.

z ae
(Rite RE LD AE

 

knowing your |

t; Ralph, now and forever,” |.

7

 

 

The will was then signed, witnessed, sealed,
and delivered into the hands of Farnum & For-
rest, to be kept until his year of service should
expire; and after that, for a while before sep-
arating, the conversation became somewhat
general. us eres,
_ Just before leaving, Louis sought Kenneth,
ait grasping him..warmly by the hand, he
said: : 3 ; é

“Lord Malcolm, I was more grievously disap-
pointed than I can tell you when, on waking
one morning on the island of Malta, I found
that my Kind nurse was gone. I was still more
surprised, however, when I discovered who he
was; and now I wish to teH you how grateful
I am for your kindness to me at that time.”’

Kenneth returned his clasp, but he was too
excited and too deeply moved to reply. —

“Did you know whom you were nursing
Louis asked,

“I Knew you simply as Louis, of—of whom I
had heard something before,’ Kenneth re-
turned, with trembling lip, ;

Louis understood him, and said impulsively:

“Then greater honor is due you if, believing
what you must have believed of me at that
time, you could so far forget self as to deal so
faithfully with me.” :

Ah! could he have but known of that fearful
struggle over him as he lay unconscious, and
of the terrible temptation so bravely fought
and conquered, his admiration would have in-
ereased tenfold. But Kenneth simply said:

“I am glad to see you looking so well and
strong again. You were very low at one time.”

“Yes; and you, too, I hear,’’ and he gave
him a curious look.

“JT believe so; but I also had the best of
ecare,’’ and he sighed wearily, as if it would
have been better if he had not been so well
tended. :

“Lord Durward,” he added, a moment later,
with sudden energy, and addressing him by
his title, “you, of course, Know all the bitter
facts of the past year. -I have nothing to say
in extenuation of my own part in it, and I
realize all my folly now that it is too late; but
—but—what shall I do about—about—that
case ?’’ : 5 :

The effort he made to put this trying ques-
tion excited him so fearfully that his face be-
came all spotted red and white, while the veins
on his white forehead swelled out hard and
ull.

It seemed as if it must kill him to speak of
it, but he did not know what to do. :

He felt very sure, however, that if it should
come up again, Nina would remain as passive
as before; while, on his own part, he. could
not feel that he had any right to allow the
case to be presented again, and he was nearly
wild as to what it was best and right to do.

“T suppose your lordship will do whatever
may apppear to you to be best,’’ Louis replied,
somewhat haughtily.

He had always been indignant, in spite of his
gratitude, that Kenneth should have been so
rash and unreasonable.

*“But—but—I have no grounds now to go on
with it. I do not wish—my only desire is to
release your sister, if she should wish, from
bonds which must have become irksome to
her,’ he stammered, searcely knowing what
he was saying.

‘‘Perhaps the better way would be for you
to converse with her yourself upon the mat-
ter,’’ Louis answered, with the least sparkle
of mischief in his handsome eye, which unfor-
tunately Kenneth did not see,

“No, no—lI could not do that; I would not in-
trude—I——”’

He turned away and left the room abruptly,
feeling as if he should suffocate if he re-
mained a moment longer, and thus again. miss-
ing the joy which would have been his had
he stayed ever so little a while.

For Louis had been all ready to whisper a
word of hope in his ear, which would have sent
him bounding eagerly to the side of his for-
saken bride, who was waiting with open arms
to receive him, but who could not bend her
proud spirit to again bid him come.

9?

CHAPTER XLY.
FAITHFULNESS REWARDED.

Louis returned to his regiment, Ralph to his
school, whither Lady Durward and Caroline
accompanied him, refusing to remain at Leam-
ington Towers, which, they felt, must be given
up sometime, and where, while knowing that
it belonged to another, so many unpleasant
memories would continually haunt them.

Accordingly, feeling somewhat comforted and
more hopeful regarding their future’ upon
learning of Louis’ very handsome settlements
upon them, they took, for the present, a. fine
residence at Oxford, where they could be near
Ralph during the remainder of his course.

Madam and Nina were preparing for their
change of scene, for they could not. make up
their mind to remain longer in Leamington, at
least until Louis should return, and they could
settle there altogether.

Nina had been exceedingly surprised uppn
learning that the divorce case had not béen
concluded. :

She had, indeed, gone to Westminster, as
Kenneth had reasoned, though with some-
what different feelings from what he supposed,
in order to learn the decision of the court at
once, feeling too nervous and impatient to wait
until it could be sent to her; and she had gath-
ered much of hope in her sorely-tried heart
from the result.

It had seemed to her as she stood in that
window at the hotel, looking down upon Ken-
neth’s upturned face, that they. must be recon-
ciled, though she had been too startled and

; spellbound at then unexpectedly seeing him to

betray any sign of the deep and tender love yet
lingering in her heart for him; but a _ wild
prayer had gone up to Heaven that they might
be given back to each other, and be at peace
once more. : =

When the news came that Kenneth had hbe-
come insensible when juSt upon the point of
giving his evidence, it seemed, indeed, as if
Heaven was graciously inclined to answer that
prayer, and she Lad grown more cheerful at
once. :

She had fully expected that when the revela-
tions regarding her birth and relationship to
Louis were made, he would eagerly seek her,
and all would be well.

Her loyal heart never once dreamed that he
would think that she would shut him out from
it forever for his wrong and injustice to her.
She had bidden him to come once, and she
supposed he would know that she was ready
and waiting to forgive and receive h'n, even
now.

But as the days and weeks went by, after
Lord Durward’s burial, and he did not come,
she grew heartsick, and her proud, sensitive.
soul was deeply wounded by his seeming in-
difference,

She began to think that he had become, even
as Caroline had intimated, entirely alienated
from her, and reconciled to the thought of
their separation. :

In vain Louis and his mother argued with
her, telling her that Kenneth felt himself un-
worthy to seek her after bringing so much
sorrow.upon her, and they proposed that she
should make the first advances.

The usually mild and gentle girl astonished
them by indignantly refusing to adopt any
such course, : :

“JT have begged him to come once, and his
own heart, if he is still true, ought to tell him
that I am unchanged,” she said, with flaming
cheeks and flashing eyes, though a deep and
bitter pain looked forth from them.

She resolutely refused to allow either Louis
or Sir Horace to seek an interview with him,
ees to effect a reconciliation as they de-
sired.

Louis, however, had secretly determined and
fully intended to give him a hint as to how
matters stood, when they met at Farnum &
Forrest’s, and he would have done so but for
Kenneth’s leaving him so abruptly.

He knew just what was keeping these proud,
sensitive, but still loving, ones apart, and he
felt that he would be justified in explaining
things a little, notwithstanding Nina’s opposi-
tion and positive commands to the contrary.

He hoped to be able to see him again before
leaving, but he received word that the vessel
in which ‘he was to sail would leave two days
earlier than he had. expected, therefore he
missed the opportunity he desired, and so
those two faithful hearts were doomed to suf-
fer on. ;

Madam Leicester—she would not consent to
resume her old name until Louis should return
to take possession of his inheritance—suddenly
seemed to fail in health and spirits, after re-
vealing her identity and ‘the subsequent death
of Lord Durward.

Tt was not on account of grief for him, since
every atom of affection had died out of her
heart more than twenty years ago, but her
conscience smote her continually for the sor-
row which she had been the partial cause at
least of bringing un his family.

At times, too, it seemed almost as if she had
been his murderer, for she morbidly reasoned
that but for the excitement. which her dis-
closure had caused, he would not have had
that feariul stroke which resulted in his death.

Her eacty prophecy had been fulfilled.

He had never been free from the stings of
a guilty conscience; in the midst of his great-
est glory the ghost of a _ blighted life had
haunted him like an avenging angel; and there

“had come a day when he had been hurled from

 

 

 

 

s

the pinnacle which he had reached to the very
depths of degradation. Her tyrant and foe
had been everthrown, and had gone to settle
his long account; but the knowledge gave her
no satisfaction, and she was filled with contin-
ual remorse regarding the fearful results, while
at the same time Louis’ departure was a great
trial to her.

Therefore, on her mother’s aecount, Nina
hastened their departure, feeling that change
of scene might put to flight these morbid
fancies, though it seemed like crushing out
forever the newly-awakened hopes in her own
heart to leave England while Kenneth re-
mained there, ‘

A few days before they were to leave, Sir
Horace Vere was announced.

e had not been quite so frequent a visitor
at the little vineclad cottage of late, and he,
too, had appeared somewhat thoughtful-and
depressed ever since the sad events which had
occurred at Leamington Towers.

Louis’ departure preceded his mother’s and
sister’s only a few days, but before he went
Sir Horace had sought him, and the two had
spent a long time in earnest conversation, and
when they had parted, it was upon the best
possible terms. :

Madam was alone in her cozy little parlor
when he entered to-day, Nina having gone to
her oWh room to superintend the packing of
their trunks and the putting away of what was
to be left behind.

Madam was feeling unusually sad, a fact
which Sir Horace at once observed as she
arose to welcome him.

He took the hand she offered him, then, with
a look of resolve gleaming in his fine eyes, he
reached down and claped the other also.

““Madeline,”’ he said, a tremulous earnesit-
ness in his tones, “‘you and I are too old to
waste any time in quirks and quibbies regard-
ing points of etiquette or conventional dis-
course. I came here to-day to ask you if I
might go abroad with you—to ask if you will
become my wife and let me ghield your life
from all future sorrow? You know that I have
loved you for more than thirty years; no other
woman has had power to supplant your piace
in. my heart even while you were the wife of
another, or during all those years that I be-
lieved you dead. Will you give yourself to me
at this late day? I will strive to smooth your
path and make it brighter during the remain-
der of life’s journey.”

“Your faithfulness deserves a better reward
than I could ever bestow, Sir Horace. I am
not worthy to be anybody’s wife after nourish-
ing in my heart for so many years the feel-
ings and plans of vengeance which I have,
articularly after the sad results which have
Ollowed from them,’’ madam returned, in
tones of deepest self-reproach, while her fair
face flushed to the roots of the snewy hair
which crowned her head.

“Yet she did not withdraw. ther hands’ from

‘tnis clasp, and there was a tender gleam in her

downecast eyes.

“Such feelings were but the natural out-
growth of circumstances over which you had
no control, and for which you are in no way
blamable. You could not have prevented the
sad results which followed, and yet have been
just to your children. Good Dr. Crawford
told me at the time of the earl’s death that he

-had been on the eve of an apoplectic stroke for

more than a year.”’ :

“Did he?’ breathed madam, with a sigh of
relief. .

“Yes, and his only wonder was that he had
escaped it so long. Any little over-excitement
was liable to bring it upon him; he could not,
of course, have been enlightened as ¢o the fact
of his having other children living without be-
coming more or less excited; and I think you
are inflicting upon yourself useless suffering
by deeming yourself responsible for what has
occurred.”’

‘But I might have made the communication
in writing, or through some other person; I
should not have. been so severe, I—~’
_ “These are all vain regrets, Madeline; an in-
terview at some time or other was inevitable.
God has allowed these things to occur in just
this way, and you are questioning the wisdom
of Providence by being thus unreconciled,”’
Sir Horace returned, very gravely, and trou-
bled to see how deeply distressed she was.

“But,” he added, “‘we are digressing from
the subject under consideration. Are you go-
ing to allow me to take a little comfort in the
future, by giving me the right to love you as
my own? Rest, Madeline, for the short time
that remains to us, in my strong, protecting
care, and see if you cannot glean a little
brightness yet out of this world,. which has
been so dreary fer you,’ he pleaded.

“T thought my heart was dead—burned to
ashes. as I told him,’ madam said, looking up
with tearful eyes, though the beautiful flush
still remained in her cheeks.

Sir Horace’s face brightened
smile.

Her words were an indirect acknowledgment
that she did entertain something of affection
for him.

**¥ do not ask you to give me love like the
first fresh love of maidenhood. I know it could
never be; but I ask you to trust me, to let me
have the satisfaction of taking care of you for
the remainder of my life. I desire no greater
joy,’ he persisted, with infinite tenderness. §

“T can trust you—I do trust you, and I be-
lieve you to be one of the noblest men under
the sun,’ she answered, warmly, and he was
satisfied that he had won his suit.

‘Then it shall be as I desire?’’ he asked.

Madam hesitated.

“Louis is gone; I fear

Sir Horace laughed outright.

“Since you had no stern parent for me to
encounter and plead my cause, I adopted the
next best course, and before his departure
dutifully presented my plea to your son Louis,
who very graciously consented to receive me
as his sire, providing that ‘Barkis was willin’.’
Now, are there any more objections to be over-
come?’ he demanded, in amusement.

“No; it shall be as you will, providing, of
course, Nina does not object,’ madam replied,
smiling, as the door opened and that young
lady entered just at that moment.

She took in the situation at a glance. She
did not object, but gave her most cordial as-
sent, much relieved and gratified at the pros-
pect of having such a trustworthy and pleas-
ant escort during their travels abroad.

So, three days later, there was a quiet little
wedding in that sunny parlor, where madam,
though sorrowing for Nina’s trials, and deeply
regretting Louis’ absence, began to hope, as
she went down the western slope of life, that
there might be much of quiet happiness for
her: and though the morning of her life had
been wild and tempestuous, the evening gave
promise of a calm and peaceful sunset,

Nina hoped until the last moment that Ken-
neth would relent and come to her; then, bit-
terly disappointed, she reluctantly turned her
face from old Engiland’s shores, and strove
to hide her pain, and forget if she could, in
the excitement of travel and the new scenes
and events which lay before her.

Bessie and her husband remained behind to
take charge of the cottage, ever faithful to
the interests of their beloved lady, whom they
had served for so many years.

Kenneth went down to Melrose Park, and
strove for a while to interest himself in his
duties there; but the quiet life became tame
and unendurable, and after a few months in
the ineffectual attempt to patiently bear his
sorrow, he suddenly gave up in despair, and
sought relief once more in restless roaming.

He, too, like Nina, had hoped for one word
from her bespeaking forgiveness and kindly
remembrance, if not the restoration to her
favor. But the welcome missive never came,

TO BE CONTINUED.
ii ei bine eal apie bbe

FEMALE OCCUPATION.

into a glad

>

Women among the middle class are brought
up with the idea that if they engage in some
occupations they shall lose “their position in
society.” Suppose it to be so; surely it is
wiser to quit a position we cannot honestly
maintain than to live dependent upon the
bounty and caprice of others; better to labor
with our hands than eat the bread of idleness;
or submit to feel that we must not give utter-
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honest indignation at being required to act a
base or unworthy part. And in all cages,
however situated, every female ought to learn
how all household affairs are managed, were
it only for the purpose of being able to direct
others. There cannot be any disgrace in
learning how to make the bread we eat, to

cook our dinners, to mend our clothes, or even
to clean the house. Better to be found busily
engaged in removing the dust from the furni-
ture than to let it accumulate there until a
visitor leaves palpable traces where his hat
or his arm has been laid upon a table.

 

Stops the Cough
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Laxative Bromo-Quinine Tablets cure a cold in one day.
No Qure, No Pay. Price 25 cents.

 

 

 

 
  
 
 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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she has absolute control of her feelings, there
will be some time in her eareer as hostess that
she will display annoyance or flurry, and the
contagion, spreading to her guests, will cause
an otherwise successful entertainment to re-
sult in undisguised failure. A model hostess
must to all appearances be made of stone, so
far as disagreeable happenings are concerned.
Even though a guest or careless waiter in-
adventently breaks a-bit of china which can
never be replaced, she must smile as though
the loss of the entire set would but emphasize
the pleasure of the evening. Her well-bred
calm inspires her guests with a feeling of con-
fidence, and though in her heart she may be
very dubious about certain important details
of her dinner or dance, if she does not show
her anxiety everything will pass off to a
happy conclusion.- A flurried hostess or ner-
vous host, whose countenances but badly con-
ceal the worry they feel, can do more toward
making the guests uncomfortable than if the
soup were served. stone cold. An imperturb-
able calm and a ready tact are the two im-
portant factors in the making of a model hos-
tess. Secure these and you need never fear
for the success of any of your entertainments.

ep 0 ee

BEGINNING HER CAREER.

 

When a girl begins her social career, after
completing her education, she finds the world
far different from what she expected. The
schoolroom is one thing, the world another.
She may have been popular with her teachers
because she was a diligent scholar, and car-
ried off the honors of the school. But she
finds that book knowledge does not make her
popular or successful socially. Some of the
most intellectual people we have known have
been among the most disagreeable. A woman
whose nature is aggressive, who parades her
knowledge before those of inferior education,
is an object to be dreaded. Mere learning in a
woman is never attractive. It is, on the con-
trary, offensive, unless coupled with feminine

races. School learning should sink into the
character and deportment, and enly exhibit
itself as the perfume of a flower is exhibited—
in a subtle, nameless, and unobtrusive man-
ner, A woman’s intellectual acquirements
should not make her talk like an orator in
daily life~they should simply make her con-
versation gracious and agreeable. Mathe-
matics should render her mind clear and her
judgments true; her geographical studies

They say that worldly goods and gauds
Are all that’s ‘‘worth the while;”’
They say romance is out of date,
And love is out of style;
They say a bright tiara’s gems
Will solace any throe;
But Philip, blue-eyed Philip,
He does not tell me so,”

They say that lovers’ strongest vows
Have proved but brittle things;

That Love must fly, since Art portrays
The little god with wings;

That youth’s fond fancies quickly fade,
That men inconstant grow;

But Philip, faithful Philip,
He does not tell me so.

Don’t

You are a young physician. You have waited
three or four months for your first well-paying
patient. You are on the point of pulling down
your sign and moving.

Don’t. What will you gain? The time you
have put in will be all thrown away. You
will have it all to do over again. If you have
chosen your location with any degree of good
judgment, unless circumstances in the loca-
tion have radically changed since you came, or
you are certain they will change adversely, do
not stir an inch. Stick! The sign may as well
be pulled down here by the sheriff as in an-
other town, and you run three months’ better
chance of its never coming down. You are
chasing the wolf into a corner. It is the last
few weeks of waiting that tell. You do not
want to let the creature eseape. March right
on, and into the dark hole, and cudgel your
poverty to death. If you move away, the wolf
will escape and dog you as you go, grinning
and showing his fangs.

You are a young lawyer. An acquaintance
of the writer’s moved away with his wife and
two children to the great city of C— He
was thoroughly educated, he had enjoyed a
growing practice in the courts of his native
city, but he was ambitious, and moved as
noted above.

Day after day he waited in his new office.
No clients came. He had good pluck, and read

as faithfully as if it were to prepare well-
paid-for briefs in the courts. He acted as if
he were as busy as any lawyer in those cham-
bers, and the building was full of lawyers.
He wore a smile and kept his poverty to him-
self. He mingled with other attorney friends,
and modestly revealed how wise he really was
in law. But the weary months dragged on
without a client. He was a believer in God,
and kept his trust. His» wife had some money;
this leaked away for rent and clothing, for
grocers’ and other bills, till he was forced to
sell some of his law books. He thought of
moving back to the country town, but could
not afford moving bills and car fares. It was
suggested that he take cheaper offices, ‘but he
thought it unwise. -Finally, because he had
not, literally, enough-money left to pay the
agent; he gave notice that he would surren-
der his office. The day came; his boxed books
were quietly taken to the auction room.

“T then went back and stood in the corridor,
leaning up by the window just beyond my
door. My name was still on the door. I knew
it would be left there, that sign, for some
day¥® So impressed was I with this thought
that I should meet my fate right there, that 1
came the second day. I left a coat and hat
in a friend’s office. I got my brother, who
was a clerk in a downtown store, to come
and stand with me. We were engaged in con-
sultation. I held papers in my hand. I was
ready to perish, and thought of throwing my-
self out of that back window, down ‘on the
telegraph wires and roofs below me. ‘Then,
at 1.30 p. m., of that last day, a neighboring
attorney sent out his head clerk into the hall,

straight for my door. It was a sudden com-
plication in a big case. I was known to be

ness ov this world iz the result ov weakness
more than it iz a genius for deviltry.

If thare iz a man who thinks that it iz an

it once.

The grate art of conversashun iz to kno when
to listen, and when to talk.

wasn’t for the dear fools that are in it.

Kan govern.

I hav known men to argy hot for a religion
who never kept a single precept ov it.

same time so very detestable, az ingratitude.

be too true.

_ Thare iz nothing so weak az the cunning
in a man, and yet he iz apt to be more vain
ov it than he iz ov hiz judgement.

Maids marry to change their
widows marry to improve it.

»

Short dresses are becoming more. popular
every day. Those who first frowned on them
now admire them, and say that they are not
only sensible, but becoming, as well as eco-
nomical.

A long dress in the house, on a well-swept
earpet, is all very well—we do not deny its
gracefulness—but a long dress on the street
is an abomination. It is in our own way; it
is in the way of everybody else. If we hold
it up, we look like a washerwoman turned fore
part behind, and it draws all our clothes for-
ward in a way which would destroy the grace
of a Ninon de l’Enclos. Everybody behind us
can see the lining of the skirt) and notice the
frayed braid, for braid-is always frayed ion a
long dress, and take observations on our petti-
eoat, and stockings, and the tops of our boots.

We have-no hands to help ourselves with—
one has to hold the muff or parasol, as the

 

should teach her that the world is too small
for faiseness to find a hiding-placé; and his-
tory should impress her that life is too short}
for unworthy ambitions. The time between |
the schoolroom and the aitar should not be
a mére harvest-time of pleasure, but a sowing-
time for all the seeds of kindness and self-
sacrifice for others, and of unselfishness and
benevolence, which alone can make her a
happy wife and mother.

season may be, and the other is employed with
the trail.

Tf we iet it drag, either it is trodden off in
the course of half an hour’s promenade, or else
six feet of the sidewalk behind us is not
utilized, for the pedestrians must fall back,
or plant their feet on that moving mass of
ruffles, and fluting, and cigar stumps, and silk
fringe, and street car straw, and thus win for

| themselves the unconquerable hatred of the

 

s : 4 . i
and read new laws, working .in solitude just

 

 

eazy job to be strikly honest, just let. him try |

A woman never really luvs the man she |

}
Thare iz no crime so common, and at the | must keep all the time on the jump

 

THE BEST AUTHORITY,

 

BY BEATRICE HANSCOM,

They say that one should only think
Of lofty birth and place;

They say it makes one thrill with pride
To set the social pace;

They say a cottage on the green
Must be forlorn and slow;

But Philip, ardent Philip,
He does not tell me so,

I let them prate of pride and pelf—
I care not what they say;

© heart of mine; tosmorrow’s sun
Shall light our wedding day.

Within our cottage Love, content,
Shall ever bide, I know—

For Philip, dearest Philip,
He says it shall be so.

Move.

By Harkiey Harker.

 

familiar with that phase of the matter in liti-
gation. Would I step right in?

““*T was busy just now,’ I answered, ‘but in
a@ moment would be there.’ ~Deliberately, with
dignity, I went to the succesful lawyer’s cham-
bers. It ended in my having the whole case in
my hands before a month had elapsed. The fee
was $10,000. Had I moved I had lost it.’’

When a man finds trade dull, his temptation
is to think it is the fault of his location. Trade
is going uptown, or downtown, or somewhere
else. He remembers the old times in contrast.
He thinks he ought to move. Don’t, till you
have tried the old stand one season more. It
may be that you should move. But it is a con-
clusion that ought only to be reached after
you have made the most critical examination
of all the other possible disturbing causes. An
old stand is a host in itself. Citizens associate
their wants with the place where they have
been supplied in the past. “I got that in
Chauncey street.’’ “This teapot is wearing
out. I must go to Chauncey street.’’ When a
housekeeper forcasts her spring trading, she
thinks of the old stand. As she matches her
pennies she ends up the matching by imagin-
ing herself at the counter of the old stand.
All her arrangements are centered at the old
stand and the old counter.

It doesn’t pay to-change clerks if you can
avoid it. It is alarming to people who econo-
mize closely to enter a brand-new, shining
Store. They think they must pay for the im-
provements and added rent. Look over any
city and you will find that the big concerns
keep the original stand, even if they establish
branches. And there is a grim satisfaction in
conquering obstacles. “I don’t move. The
rushing world can't drive me out. Here I be-
gan, and here I am going to stay.’}

There is a certain eredit that grows on an
old stand. It is like smoss on an aged wall.
Nobody ean tell who planted it or watered it.
It grew itself. People learn to trust a man
whose sign has becoume as familiar as the
name of a street. And rightly, too. A man
does not outlive the years in a location unless
he has some solid worth. Display cannot rival
years of time. We all know that time is the
greatest prover, the hardest foe, the sharpest
detective. Therefore; give a man time and he
wins credit. °

If you move you are at the mercy of old
settlers. You are a novice, and all the dead-
beats go for you. You must make new friends
by a long process of proving. Your faults will
come following you from the other town, and
they will have grown, as shadows grow, larger,
the farther one gets from the light: Better

face the music where you are. Settle up old
errors the best you can, and in the midst of
enemies, redeem yourself. You have some
friends left. Stay where they can reach you.
If a man repents, he will find forgiveness far
quicker in the old home, where somebody loves
him, than amid strangers. If you are bound
by bad associates you had better face a Square
break with them, telling them to look at the
well known reasons why. If you move, one or
two of these associates will follow you sooner
or later with a bill in. blackmail. Stick and be
true. There’s no place like home!

 

Josh Billings’ Philosophy.

I sumtimes think that most of the wicked-|

Yung phools are comparatiff harmless; it
iz the old phools that make most oy the trub-
ble in this world.

it doesn’t require enny more thought to
digest the average literature ov the day than

tit requires taste to relish molassiss and water,

Oh, the vanity ov man! If he can’t excel
the elephant in strength, he iz willing to out-

This world would be dredfull stupid if it general the ant.

Thare are only a fu men in this world who
hav been able to kreate an ockashun, and
then seize the advantages ov it.

Fashion makes phools ov sum, sinners ov

others, and slaves ov all.

Truth never need be in a hurry, but a lie
A lazy

| lie soon tires itself out, and ends in confusion.
Obituary notisses, to be very fine, should not |

I hav seen menny an ugly face gro butiful

| just az soon az it opened its mouth and began

to talk.

The worldly value ov most things doesn’t

| ‘
ne | seem to konsist in what they are acktuall
condishun— | worth, or what they hav kost, but in the mes

other people put on them.

 

Short Dresses.

 

By Kate Thorn.

 

wearer; for although we all know. that long
dresses on the street-are a nuisance, and that
people cannot avoid stepping on them, we are
always indignant when they are stepped on.
With a short dress a woman has some lib-
erty. She has her hands for free use. She may
look round about her without the fear that
while she is doing it somebody will put a foot
through her two-dollar-a-yard lace, and tramp
off with a couple of yards of it. She may get
out of a street car without looking back to
see if she is clear behind, and safe from be-
ips . (raesed along, and perhaps maimed for

She can defy rain and mud. She doesn’t
have to go round a wisp of straw lest she take
it up on her fringes. She can cross a street
without stepping on her dress and falling down
in the mud for the nearest policeman to pick
her up, and all the boys to laugh at and
watch to see hér do it next time.

If she has a pretty foot, she can show it;
and if she has a homely foot, everybody knew
it before, so there will be nothing lost there.

For economy, comfort, health and neatness,
give us short dresses on the street. Let every-
body put them on, and be happy. Fashion,
for once, has shown herself sensible.

Long may she continue in the good way!

   

   
  

Cag
‘:? CORRESPONDENCE/ *
\ Yeni! \

@ HELPFUL TALES WITH

  
 

 

 

    

      
     

 

Correspondents must sign name and address, not for pubs
lication, no gery a resuse to answer anonymous
communications. All letters are presumed to be conf-
dential, and are so treated, ;

 

W. T. Callender, Cincinnati, Ohio.—Daniel
Webster’s great speech in the United States
Senate, in reply to Robert Y. Hayne, of South
Carolina, was delivered on January 26 and 27,
1830. We append the closing paragraph;

““‘When my eyes shall be turned to behold for
the last time the sun in heaven, may I not see
the broken and dishonored fragments of a
once glorious Union; on States dissevered, dis-
cordant, belligerent; on-a land rent with civil
feuds, or drenched, it may be, in fraternal
blood! Let their last feeble and lingering
glance rather behold the gorgeous ensign of
the republic, now known and honored through-
out the earth, still full high advanced, its
arms and trophies streaming in their original
lustre, not a stripe erased or polluted, not a
single star obscured, bearing for its motto no
such miserable interrogatory as ‘What is all
this worth?’ nor those other words of delusion
and folly. ‘Liberty first and Union afterward;’
but everywhere, spread all over in characters
of living light, blazing on all its ample folds,
as they float over the sea and over the land,-
and in every wind under the whole heavens,
that other sentiment,
American heart—Liberty AND Union, now and
forever, one and inseparable,”’

T. M. Caxton, Philadelphia, Pa.—Junius
Brutus Booth, the tragedian, ‘and father of Ed-
win Booth, was born in London, May 1, 1796.
His father was a solicitor, his mother a de-
scendant of a relative of John Wilkes. He en-
tered the navy at an early age, but left it to
learn the printing business, and afterward be-
gan studying law. He made some creditable
attempts as a painter and sculptor, and finally
went upon the stage, making “his first ap-
pearance December 13, 1813. After playing at
minor theatres he made his debut at Covent
Garden in October, 1815. He afterward made
a great hit in the provinces as Sir Giles Over-
reach, and was re-engaged at Covent Garden,
where he appeared February 12, 1817, as Rich-
ard III. In July, 1821, he came to the United
States, which was thereafter his residence. He
was a gréat favorite, and played at different
times in almost every prominent theatre in the
country. His greatest characters were Rich-
ard Iil., Iago, and Sir Giles Overreach, al-
though he excelled in Othello, Lear, Shylock,
Hamlet and Sir Mortimer. He died while on
the passage from New Orleans to. Cincinnati,
December 1, 1852,

B. W. M., West Poland, Me.—The phrase
“Not worth a continental’ came into usé dur-
ing the Revolutionary War, and referred to the
depreciated value of the continental currency,
which at the close of 1779 had become almost
worthless. On June 22, 1775, the Continental
Congress, soon after the receipt of the news
of the battle of Bunker Hill, authorized the is-
sue of continental currency for current war ex-
penses, not to exceed $2,000,000; and: the twelve
colonies, Georgia not then being represented,
pledged themselves for its redemption. From
time to time new issues were made. until the
close of 1779, when the total issues amounted
to $242,000,000, and the bills had so depreciated
in value that $100 in specie would purchase
about $2,600 in paper money. In 1781 they still
further depreciated. Congress tried in vain to
build up its waning credit, but without suc-
cess. Continental money at last became a
synonym for anything valueless, and the
phrase ‘‘Not worth a continental’? soon became
current for any other worthless article.

W. M. Whitman, Wellsboro, Ind.—Up to the
present time, including Saint Peter and Leo
XIII., there have been 258 popes. Only one of
them was anEnglishman—Nicholas Breakspear,
who assumed the papal title as Adrian IV. He
became pontiff in 1154, and died in 1159. He
left his native land a beggar, became a monk,
and afterward abbot of St. Rufus, in Rome,
and was made cardinal bishop of Albano by
Eugenius III., who sent him as legate to Nor-
way and Denmark. On the death of Anasta-
sius IV. he was élected pope, although he did
not desire the position. He crowned Frederick
I., Emperor of Germany, but afterward became
involved in numerous quarrels with that mon-
arch. Six of the popes were Germans, but
nearly all the others were Italians.

A. W..R., Schenectady, N. Y.—Ocean travel-
ers who are prudent do not carry large sums
of money with them, but purchase letters of
eredit from long-established bankers. These
letters enable them to draw such sums as they
require from the bankers’ agents in most of
the large cities or towns in Hurope. This plan
relieves them of the care of guarding their
money, as experienced travelers only draw
when they neéd cash. Even on shipboard it is
customary for travelers to intrust to the
purser most of their cash, save what they
will need for daily expenses, such as wine,
cigars, tips, etc. This official is responsible for
all sums given in his charge, and frequently
has hundreds of thousands of dollars in his
steel-lined locker.

Ww. T. Woodfall, Tintah, Minn.—To become
a citizen of the United States, a foreigner
must declare his intentions and take out his
first papers at least two years before his ad-:
mission. He can obtain his first papers at any
time within the first three years of his resi-
dence in the United States; but if he does not
take them out until he has been a resident
five years, he will have to wait two years
longer to be admitted to citizenship. A rest-
dence of five years is required in all cases to
entitle a foreigner to citizenship.

Robert, Andover, Mass.—Orange blossoms
were first used for bridal wreaths by the
Arabs. The orange branch ‘ears fruit and
flowers at the same time, and is therefore
considered an emblem of fecundity.

Mrs. C. A. Williams, Hickory, N. C.—To
secure tidings of your grandparents, your best
plan would be to advertise for them in a New
York daily paper—say the Herald, which circu-
lates all over the country,

Flossie Ferris, Norwalk, Conn.—We are
unable to furnish the information you desire
regarding Elizabeth, N. J. Write to the mayor
of that city, and inclose a stamped and ad-
dressed envelope. ;

Mrs. W. A. N., Chicago.—The silver dollar of

1854 is catalogued as worth $3. There is no
premium on the half-dollar of 1854,

 

dear to every true)

Vol, 57—No. 24

W. P. Norton, Seymour, Ill.—There are now
living four widows of husbands who have oc-
cupied the Presidential chair of the United
States. They are Mrs, Grant, Mrs. Garfield,
, Mrs, Harrison and Mrs. McKinley. <All except
| the last-named receive a pension of $5,000 a
year, voted by Congress. Mrs. Julia Dent
Grant lives in Washington; Mrs. Lucretia Ru-
dolph Garfield lives in the suburbs of Cleve-
land, Ohio; Mrs. Mary Scott Lord married ex-
President Harrison April 6, 1896, and her home
is in Indianapolis. Mrs. McKinley, the fourth
and last widow of a President of the United
States, was Miss Ida Saxton, and her home is
in Canton, Ohio. 4

 

 

WOMAN'S WORTH AND INFLUENCE.

The place of woman is the index of civili-
zation. To the savage she is a slave, to the
barbarian a toy. To the Greeks she was
searcely a companion, and to the modern and
enlightened French and English she is little
else or more than an ornament. In the Hast-
ern harems she is still a prisoner of state,
-while in Western Europe, though enfranchised
sociaHy, she is still legally in bondage. Yet
despite these disabilities and vicious: disadvan-
tages, she is everywhere a power for good—
alas, too,.for evil! .No man and no communh-
ity escape her subtle and all-pervasive influ-
ence. As mother, sister, ladylove, and wife,
she has molded the generations to her will and
way and been in turn molded by them. She
has nursed the genius, and stimulated the
talent, and evoked the heroism of mankind,

In all discussions of woman's ‘“‘rights’’ or
mission, it must be admitted that she is an
integral part of humanity, which does not
consist, as some “lords of creation’? would
seem to suppose and assert, only of men, but
|also of women and children! =

The great probiem in the social, and, we
may add, the political, crucible of to-day, is
woman; the place of her ‘‘rights’ on the one
hand, and her “‘duties’’ on the other. Sihe can-
}not be ignored. And while it would be pre-
|mature and presumptuous to define her equal-
ity with man and her rightful future, there
are, nevertheless, a few principles, based on
the experience of the past, which may guide
us in forming a judgment as to her probable
destinies and destination in the future.

It has been well “said that all beauty is
spiritually discerned—is seen with the eye of
the mind. Pre-eminently does this apply to
the beauty of woman, not only the beauty of
the person, but also of the soul; for the per-
sonal beauty of the body springs from the
| feminine beauty of the soul. Nor is it till both
}are seen and appreciated in combination that
; the full force of hér mystic and resistiess
magnetism is felt and acknowledged by the
entranced observer—or shall we say, lover?
We do not use this much-abused and hack-
neyed term lightly. It should be, as it has
been in the past, and will be again, held some-
thing very sacred as well as eminently delight-
ful. The lover, worthy of the name, is a de-
vout and reverend worshiper of woman; a
woman is the glorious object of his soul’s
idolatry. He is the high priest of a virgin
heart. This is, strictly speaking, the theory
of love and loving. In actual life things occa-
sionally gravitate to a somewhat lower level—
the more’s the pity!

It is no doubt a supreme Providence and a
beautiful necessity, not only of the material,
but also of the spiritual order of life, that the
child’s first friend should be his mother. Upon
that loved and loving breast he wakes up out
of the slumber of infantile unconsciousness to
the slow recognition of his temporal environ-
ment. Her beaming glance and ‘her sweet
smile are his first revelation of mortal beauty,
Her gentle tones are the first notes of that
earthly music which he obtains in exchange
for those pre-existent anthems whose faintly
reverberating echoes still linger in the stiller
depths of ais recently imprisoned, his_ lately
incarned soul! She is his earliest guide, his
first adviser. From her lips he learns to pray.
Through her he rises from nature to nature's

 

 

 

 

1 God, and ve “that Excelsior maren,— whic
|leads him, if he be true to himself and her,
ito that sublime altitude, where as brother,

‘son, and father, he stands in his own genera- —

‘tion. a representative. of -wisdom, strength,
courage, and goodness. ae

And how shatl we characterize the worth of
the sister?—that angel dweller in a holy
household, with her pure, beautiful, devoted
affection, loving as they leve in the. “land
above!’’ What brother pee to know and
share here gentle care has ever in after life
forgotten her? HEiven the worst men, while
they retain the stamp of humanity at all, have’
an undying regard for her memory, and man-
ifest a chivalrous courage in the defense of
her purity. It would almost seem that the
peautiful relationship of brother and sister has
been permitted on earth as a foretaste of that
intense interaction of love which is pietured in
prophecy and breathed in the — poetry
of immortality, and which builds the heavenly
qualities into supreme and increasing oneness.
In the soul of many a wrecked and ruined.
wretch on the stormy seas of life—wrecked,
alas! on the rocks of his own ungovernable
passions, ingulfed in the whirlpool of his own
insatiable desires—the image of his sister, with
her beaming eyes, sunny smile, and silvery
tones, rises like some angel messenger, sent
specially on an errand of mercy, if possible, to
win back the lost and desperate prodigal from
the dark, laprous host of wrongdoers. And
who shall say what battles of mental
grandeur have been won and victories over
viciousness, lust, heartlessness, and ignioble-
ness have been achieved through the memory
of lovely, tearful, benignant_ sisters, “whose
vigils in prayers, and tears, and strong cry-
ing over the.erring and sinning have been
er as starfires, and constant as stellar
ight? yee

The world owes more to these women than
to all heroes; their silent and serene _ life
among men has triumphed over ‘the stormier
elements of guilt which have mingled in the
sad and checkered career of men. The pres-
ence Of sisterhood in the world has been, and
still is, God’s balm and soothing. The world”
has learned the lesson of sacrifice in the re-
membrance or the presence of her sweet and
self-sacrificing ministrations. :

 

 

A WITTY LAWYER.

In a town in Western New York there is a
member of the bar who is an excellent lawyer
and a genial man. .One of his attributes is a
voice which rivals thunder in its~ sonorous
sound when he is heated in argument. Never-
theless, he is very ‘persuasive and convincing,
and a dangerous opponent. 2

The other day he was making an address to
a jury. His case was fairly strong, he was
himself much in earnest, and his trumpet
tones made ێverything ring. Finally, in @
perfect hurricane of sound, ‘he closed his ar-
gument and sat down. :

The jury looked serious and thoughtful, and
were evidently much impressed. Unless the
effect of the harangue could be dispelled, the
other side was in danger. The opposing law-
yer had a sad, watery eye, and a face like a
hatchet. He was. a very quiet man, and quite
another sort of orator. He sat patiently and -
in silence through the tumultuous gusts of his
friend, and after the reverberations of the elos-
ing crash had ceased he arose. : i

“As I listened to the rather thunderous ap-
peals of my learned friend,’’ he said, address-
ing the jury in a drawling tone, “I recalled a
fable which I heard in my youth. “You. will
remember, gentlemen, how once the lion and
the ass entered into a compact to slay the
beasts of the field and share the spoil. They
divided the work; the ass was to go into the
thicket and bray and frighten the animals. out,
while the lion was to lie in wait and kill the
fugitives as fast as they appeared. Well, the
ass sought the darkest part of the jungle, and
lifting up his awful voice, brayed and prayed
and brayed. There never was heard such a
fearful din. The ass was quite intoxicated
with his own uproar, and thought he’d return
and see what the lion thought of it. With a
Jight heart he went back, and found the lion
looking doubtfully about him, pale in the face
and trembling in every limb. ey =
~ ** What do you think of that for braying?
said the exultant ass. ‘Don’t you think I
scared ’em?’ : : :

“ Scared ’em?’ repeated the tion, in an agi-
tated tone. ‘Why, you'd’ a-scared me if I

 

 

Mamie E. J... Providence, R. I1.—Communi-
cate with the J. W. Seott Company, 40 John
street, New York City.

 

didn’t know you were a jac i a

The jury began to laugh, and the effect of
the eloquence of: the sonorous lawyer was vis-
ibly weakened. He lost the case.

  

 

 

 

 

 

a

Be PION TER, my ecth

  

 

 

  

     

 

 
 

 

 

     
     
       
 

   
 

 
  

 
 

 

 

 
 
  

 

 

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
    

    
  

   
 
 
  

ee
th e Gat

=. .
lca 50

<

 
    
   

 
 
 
   
   
  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

« a

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(“Tae SeckEer oF THE GoLp Cup” was commenced in No, 15. Back numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers. )

 

CHAPTER XXVIII.
A HEAVEN-BORN IMPULSE.

Violet St. John sat in the cozy arbor in the
Sardens at the rear of Madame Devot’s estab-
lishment.

Her head was buried in her hands and she
Was thinking deeply.

So many things had happened in the last few
days that she was quite bewiidered. She tried
to understand how it was she felt so drawn
toward Lady Douglas. She told herself that it
was a mere fancy, and that her affection for
the beautiful stranger was but as a summer
zephyr, and would pass away as quickly. But
her heart rejected the thought, and she knew
that the love would be a lasting one.

“She would make me-her own daughter?”
she repeated happily to herself. ‘‘That would
be heaven, surely. But then, uncle! Poor,
en old uncle! {I could never bear to leave

im.”’

_ With an effort of will she dismissed the sub-
ject, but, try as she would, her thoughts would
ever revert to the fortunate accident that had
brought Laty Douglas into her life.

There was something else about that acci-
dent that secretly pleased her, though she
dared not put her feelings into words. But
many times she pictured the face of the hand-
some young hero who had twice risked his life
to save her:

Lord Erne was all unconscious of the inter-
est he had aroused. He had called at Madame
Devot’s, but merely contented himself with
sending up -to Miss St. John a magnificent
bouguet, “‘with his regards.’’

Violet at-that moment was bending her lips
to a iovely white rose that she had detached
from the bouquet, and had carried out to the
garden with her.

And who will say that the kiss was given not
simply because of the beauty of the flower,
but also on account of the giver?

So engrossed was- she. in her thoughts that
she did not realize that some one had passed
down the garden path and was watching her
wistfuly from the door of her arbor.

‘The newcomer was a. splendid specimen. of
his race; a man evidently in the prime of life,
with massive shoulders and a splendidly-built
frame. His face, tanned by long exposure to
tropical suns, was as finely chiseled as a piece
of sculpture. His handsome head and mous-
tache were tinged with gray, and there was a
piteous droop about the corners of the mouth
that told its own sorrowful tale; but, despite

tro.

ouble that had evidemly-boon bis lot, his

 

 

 

  
  
 

 
 

 

 

ms

 

 

grand eyes fiashed with all the glory of youth.

Just now those eyes were turned upon Violet
with @ look of love and pride that would have
made the girls heart beat quicker had she
looked up.

He waited for some time before speaking,
then his voice rose in deep, musical accents.

“Dreaming of me, dear?’ he said.

The golden head was upraised, and with a
glad cry Violet. was in uthbert St. John’s
arms:

“Oh, you dear, delightful, old uncle!’ she ex-
claimed, pulling him down beside her on the
rustic bench, and climbing playfully onto his
lap. “‘How could you stay away from me so
long? You deserve to be punished. Well, lis-
ten, my tardy uncle, I was not thinking of you
at all! Oh, dear, no! My thoughts were in an-
other direction,’’ and a soft blush mounted to
her temple. ‘“‘You couldn’t guess if you tried
till doomsday. Oh, I have so much to tell you,
I don’t know where to begin. Why, have you
not heard that your ‘vivacious little niece,’ as
you term her, was within an ace of ending her
days under the wheels of a grain wagon?”

The smile that was on Cuthbert St. John’s
face changed to an expression of dread.

“Not that. Violet, not that!’’-he cried, and his
grip tightened about her.

“It’s too true,” she nodded; ‘‘but you need
not squeeze me to death, you know,” she
added, severely.

“Vialet, for God’s sake, do not torment me!
You are all I have in the world, little girl; and
if you had been taken away from me—”
.He felt her warm lips pressed against his,
and he was silent.

“Dearest old uncle, I am going away from
you in any case; so you must not take it so
much to heart.”

“Ah, I know, I know,” he’ broke out, impetu-
ously. ‘You do this to punish me for being
two days behind time.’’

“Tt is al] true, sir,’? she returned, with a sage
shake of her pretty head; ‘‘and if you will now
let me sit here beside you, and will promise to
conduct yourself as a Christian and not as a
barbarian, I will tell_- you how your willful
niece met with an -accident, and how her life
was saved for the second time by the handsom-
est man conceivable—not even excepting youre
self, though I must confess mine own uncle
has a.charm that is hard to surpass.”

Then she told him all, but in the telling she
had many times to stop his eager queries with
her kisses.

‘‘You might have been Killed!’ he exclaimed,
when she had finished. ‘And, Violet, what
would life have been to me then? My darling,
you must not rush so impetuously about the
streets of Paris.

“But it was all to give you the pleasure of
Seeing te at-the station,’ she uted.

“T know—I know,’ he said, fondling her
small hands. “But do you think what it would
have been if on my return to Paris I had
found you in a hospital or’—he faltered, then
added faintly—‘‘or sleeping the sleep that
knows no waking?’

“Now, uncle. you must not talk like that.
It is all over; let us dismiss it from our
thoughts. I am still very much alive, thanks
to my gallant young rescuer.”’ Oia:

“Have you told Lord Erne to call?’ he
asked. ‘I had no opportunity to thank him
on. the first occasion,”’

“T think he-~is-a very bashful man,’ she
responded, with a happy laugh, “When he
comes to inquire how I am progressing he is
content with sending me up a bouquet of flow-
ers or a basket of fruit. But we will see him,
I am sure; and I warn you not to overwhelm
him with praise--or you will frighten him

a

“T wish I knew how I could reward him as
he deserves,’’ he murmured, thoughtfully.

“Now, uncle mine, you must not grow senti-
mental. But you have not told me what you
think of my new-found friend’s proposal.”

“Ah! I had forgotten that. She cannot be
serious. It is a passing whim. These rich
tourists have odd fancies, and think they can
buy whatever pleases them, whether it be ani-
mate or inanimate.’’ ;

“But indeed you are wrong, uncle! She does
not propose to buy me! How ridiculous!’ Her
light laugh rang out merrily.

“Then,” he returned, ‘let us think no more
about it. When you lost your father and
mother——’”’ .

“T found both in you,’”’ she finished, patting
his bearded cheeks.

His arm tightened about her.

*“Both!’’ he echoed, in a voice full of emo-
tion. ‘““‘Then why should this woman come to
drag you from your place in my heart?”

He spdéke with intense passion, and Violet
trémbled as she smoothed the blue veins that
stood out on his strong, white hands.

“She does not wish to do that, dear uncle,”
she pleaded. ‘She could not be cruel to any
one, and it would certainly be cruel to part

 

you and me. No, no! she does not mean that.
If you only saw her you would understand
how good and truly lovable she is. And uncle,”
she added, in a tremulous whisper, “I seem as
if E must love her even as she says she loves
me. Is not that strange? You open your eyes
in wonder! Well, it is true. Not that I love
my dear, good uncle less;.but—ah! if I could
only have you both!”

It was a plaintive ending to her sentence,
and it pained the faithful heart of the strong
man who sat beside. her.

Cuthbert St. John released his hold upon
his niece. Her words had been a little wild;
but he-saw only too clearly that something in
this beautiful stranger had struck a responsive
chord in the girl’s soul, and she had been
stirred to the depths.

His hand-passed slowly across his brow as
if he would brush away the wrinkled lines
there and the disquieting thoughts that lurked
in the brain behind.

“Well, uncle, have I hurt you, dear?’

Violet, unable to endure the silence, tenderly
whispered the words,

He did not speak; he was buried in thought.

She clasped her hands on his shoulder and
gazed on him anxiously.

At last he raised his head.

“Do as your heart dictates,’ he said, pain-
fully. “Love is a Heaven-born impulse, and I
would not have you resist it. Perhaps when I
see this lady I shall understand how you can
love her after. only a few hours’ acquaint-
ance.”

“You will indeed, uncle; no one could help
loving her,’’ she rapturously responded. ‘‘She
is so good and so sweet; and then there is also
@ sadness about her that makes me cry when
I am with her. She has had more than her
share of trouble, I think; and, oh! I wish it
were possible for me to help her forget the
past and to make life happier for her!”

“My darling,’’ said Cuthbert St. John, pas-
Sionately, “if you go to live with her you will
take the sunshine with you. But tell me some-
thing of your new-found friend’s personal ap-
pearance,’’

So they talked on, Violet full of her sub-
ject, her uncle dreading the moment of sep-
aration.

_ Presently she jumped up merrily, and tak-
ing his hand, led him from the arbor.

“We must hurry,” she explained. ‘My lovely
friend promised to eall this morning; and I
must make myself as nice as possible.”

He cast a swift, proud glance at her, feeling
that she needed no tricks of the costumer to
make her beautiful. :

He wanted to tell her that the flowers
around them were. no more lovely than she
at that moment; but somehow the words
stuck in his throat: His heart was heavy and
he could not.speak.

Blithely she prattled on till she reached the

ouse.

As they climbed the steps they heard voices.

“Listen!’? motioned Violet, with her fingers
on her lips.

“She has come?’ he queried.

“Yes, yes, yes!’’ panted Violet, after a pause.
“Let us go round to the reception-room, and
you can peep at her before I formally intro-
duce you.’’ ‘

She ran down a branching side path, her
uncle following clase behind,

A large French window opened on to the
lawn, and here Violet paused.

‘See! see! is she not beauitful?’”’ she cried,

delightedly, pointing into the room.
_ Cuthbert St. John drew nearer, and, brushing
aside the vines, he gazed entranced on the
form of the most charming woman he had
ever seen,

She was bending over an album, listlessly
turning over the photographs.

Suddenly as he gazed, spellbound, she lifted
her head and looked toward the garden.

As the splendid eyes fell full upon him he
felt a thrill pass through his entire being;
and, uttering a little startled cry, he tore him-
self from that magnetie glance and drew back
out of sight.

 

CHAPTER XXIX.
BETWEEN TWO LOVES.

“We are revealed!’ Violet cried, laughing;
and, flinging open the long windows, she
tripped into the room and pillowed her head
on Lady Douglas’ lap.

‘How. good you are to come again so soon,”
she murmured.

“I had to come, Violet.’’

“Oh! Has something happened?’

**No; you do not understand. I could not
rest with the thought that perhaps your uncle
had returned and carried you away from me.”

Violet smiled.

“You were only right in part. Uncle_has re-
turned, but you see I am still here. Did you
then think could have ae away without
seeing you? That would be impossible now.
But I am forgetting. This self-same uncle that
you seem to dread so much is even now in
the garden, only he is too shy to come in.
Uncle! uncle!’’ she cried, running toward the
window; ‘‘come in and iet me introduce you.
Her name? Why, have I not told you? It ts
Lady Douglas, daughter of—but I will. tell
you ali about her later. Come in now. She
won't Honize you. You see,’’ she added, turn-
ing back. to Lady Douglas, ‘the sees so few
people, and is quite as bashful as a schoolboy.
He just hates strangers. But here he comes.”’

Cuthbert St. John entered the room and ad-
vanced somewhat shamefacedly.

“T must apologize, my lady,’’ he stammered;
“my little niece is wayward, and we—”

He stopped, embarrassed; but fortunately.
at that moment Madam Devot entered and
looked around surprised.

“Why, Miss St. John!’ she exclaimed.
‘““When and how did you come in? If went to
look for you to tell you Lady Douglas had
called, and, not finding you, I was afraid you
were in some mischief.’’

“You were right, Madam Devot. She was in
some mischief, in which I joined her,” laughed
Mr. St. John, recovering his equanimity, but
steadfastly keeping his head turned away from
the beautiful visitor. ‘‘We have been tasting
the delights of entering a room py another
way than that of the door.’’ He pointed smil-
ingly toward the open window.

» Madam understood, and after expressing her
relief that Violet had not come to any harm
she retired:

‘Now let me. formally present you,’’ cried
Violet, turning to her uncle.

“It seems to me we have met before, Mr.
St. John,” said Lady Douglas, slowly.

“That-may be, my lady.’

“Your face seems strangely familiar,’’ she
persisted. ;

“f I know why that is,” broke in Violet.
“Much as uncie hated it, some enterprising
people -photographed him; and the picture of
Cuthbert St. John, the famous American
writer, is now as well known as that of any
other celebrity, in spite of his stupid shy-
ness,”’

*And ate you Cuthbert St. John?’ asked
Lady Douglas, turning to him with eager
countenance. “This is a rare pleasure, I as-
sure you. I had no idea that the noted Ameri-
ean novelist and the uncle of my little friend
here were one and the same. es, of course,
T have seen your photograph a hundred times.
Strange I did not at once identify you.”’

mans

mured, bowing low over the hand she extended
to him. “I assure you my poor efforts have
been appreciated far beyond their desserts. I
had the greatest objection to my portrait be-
ing given to the world; but my publishers had
an eye to the business end of the proposition,
and were only too glad to respond to the de-
mands for portraits.”

«you are an American, are you not?’

“Yes and no,’’ he said, with a smile. ‘I was
not born in the United States, though my
literary reputation was gained there. The
truth is that Violet and-I have journeyed
about the world so much that’ we dare hardly
claim to be anything more than mere cosmo-
politans,”’ eS

“Will you tell me something of Violet’s
father?”

“There is little to tell, my lady. I met him.
Perhaps I admired him. I have not stopped
to find out my sentiments. He was a strange
mixture of cowardice and affection. An opti-
mist with a fierce clutch on life, for to him
the days were full of gladness. But the clouds
were gathering above him while he sang. His
wife was taken from him. For a little while
he groped in the darkness of despair. Then
he—he died. There was nothing to live for,
you see. Yes, there was—there was Violet!’’

The young girl was weeping silently beside
Lady Douglas.

As he stopped speaking she sprang up and
rushed into the arms that he unconsciously
stretched out toward her.

For a moment she was folded close to his
breast; then, addressing Lady Douglas, he said,
apologetically:

“You | know, I am not really her uncle,

but——

is far more,” broke in Violet's
sweet voice. “‘He is uncle and father and
mother to me—and shall always be!’’

“How hard it will be, then, to fulfill the
dearest wish of my heart!” sighed Lady
Douglas.

“Ah! Violet has told me something of your
peeheret I’m afraid it is impossible,’ he said,
coldly.

“‘Now, uncle,’’ protested the girl, gently re-
leasing herself from his embrace and seating
herself primly on the highest chair in the
room, “‘we must discuss this matter without
any heat. I have an idea which I wish you
to listen to without any outburst. Lady Doug-
las has a big enough house to hold me for
six months, Now for the other six months*I
could be the guest.of Mr. Cuthbert St. John—
that is, if he would be so gracious as to take
a house in England! Now, how do you like
my proposal?’’

“T don’t like it at all, Violet, and it shan’t
be carried into effect!’ cried her uncle. ‘To
England? No, no; you would wither and Gie
under its sodden skies.’’

“Believe me, sir,” interposed Lady Douglas,
“there are spots in England where the sun
seems always to shine. You must not judge
England from a hasty glance at London. Let
Violet come to me for a few weeks, and I
know she will be so charmed that——”’

“That she will pass out of my life forever!’
he finished, bitterly.

“What! You mean you will forget me so
easily as that?’ inquired Violet, with a pout
of her pretty lips. ;

“No; but you—what of you, my child?’

“We women do not forget,” she said, slowly
and with peculiar emphasis. ‘“‘But now.” she
added, _ brightly, “I insist that my scheme
must be carried through—that is, if Lady
Douglas will have me——” ;

“Violet!”

“And uncle will let me go.’’

“T cannot.’’

**“You must.”

Violet’s ‘‘must’? did not at first have the

desired effect. It needed considerable coaxing
and pleading, but at last a ‘reluctant consent
was wrung from her unele, and when Lady
Douglas left Madam Devot’s home she had
Cuthbert St. John’s promise to bring his niece
to England within the next two weeks, and
leave her at Southwark Hall for a lengthened
stay. .

CHAPTER XXX.
A WOMAN’S SECRET.

Cuthbert St. John sat musing in the tiny
room which Madam Devot had converted into
a smoking-room for the accommodation of her
guests.

A book lay open on the table before him,
but he had not read:s line.

He was vainly ende<voring to ascertain what
would be the outcome of the advent of Lady
Douglas and her fondness for Violet. :

It was late, but he sat on, regardless of the
flying hours. 1

He was brought back to the present by.a
muffled rap, and the door of the room was
pushed open, ;

He looked up with a start. Bessie Collins
stood on the threshold,

“What is it?’ he asked.

““May—may I come in, sir?’’ she faltered. “I
have something to tell you.’

“Certainly; come in,’’ he replied, somewhat
puzzied.

She closed the door softly and moved into
the room. As the light fell upon her it re-
vealed a face hardly less white than the mass
of hair that fell in wavy ringlets about it.
Her eyes were strangely bright, and her hands
locked and interlocked nervously.

“Sit down, girl!’’ He motioned her to a seat.
“Now, what is this you have to say?”

He waited in silence while she endeavored
+a se the excitement under which she la-

ored.

‘Miss Violet—has she—has she gone to bed?’”’
she questioned.

mS she retired long since. Why do you

“Tt is about her I wish to speak.” F

“What!” The exclamation came from him
like a pistol-shot. ‘‘About Violet!”? he echoed.
“What have you to say about her? Speak
quickly, girl!’ i

“Oh, sir, do not let her go away from you!
she pleaded.

“Ts that all you came to say?’ he asked,
somewhat relieved.

“Tt is for her sake I ask it,”’ she retorted.

‘What do you mean?”

“T mean that there are people in BEngland
who would kill her!’’

“You speak strongly,” he said, regarding her
with astonishment. “Your words are wild, but
I attribute them to your own attachment to
my niece, for even I, with all my work, have
not been unobservant of your thoughtful de-
votion while you have been in our service.

“But you will not let her go, sir?’

“T confess I see no great objection to the
scheme,’’ he replied. “it is too late now to
alter the plan. Late Douglas has_ already
gone to arrange for the reception of Violet at
her home in England. But how did you know
we intended to go there? Or was it only a
guess on your part?’’

“Listen!” she said, “When Lady Douglas
first came here, -I saw how fond she was of
Miss Violet and I vowed I would prevent her
from taking my mistress away. hid in
closets, and heard all she had to say. Now,
do you wonder how I_ know so much? Why
did I do this? Because I love Miss Violet. And
this I tell you, that so surely as she goes to
England, she will méet certain people that I
eould name who would kill her—kill her, I tell
you, if they met her!” 2

Cuthbert St. John started from his chair and
gazed in horror at the girl. :

There was no mistaking her passionate ear-
nestness. Her thin cheeks were flushed and
her eyes seemed burning. ;

‘‘Hear me to the end!’’ she went on, holding
up her thin hand for silence. ‘‘Keep Miss Vio-
let here with you—or do not let her go to Eng-
land. She is safe anywhere else; but if you
value her life, let her never, never, set foot
in Great Britain!’

He stared at her, speechless, for a few mo-
ments; then, recovering himself, said in a
quiet tone: s

“Let us consider the matter calmly. I judge
that your heated words are inspired by your
affection for =r niece—an affection which we
value very highly. But it need not lead you
into such extravagant language as you used
just now. If there is any question lingering
in your mind as to the possibility of your being
obliged to seek a situation elsewhere, you may
dismiss it; for, if I may speak for Violet, I
know she would wish you to go with her; and
why should you not continue in her service,
whether in Southwark Hall or in an even
humbler dwelling ?’’

“Oh, believe me, sir, it is not that. I have
had no thought of myself—only her whom you
eall Violet.’’

She half-whispered the words, but he caught
them up with a startled ejaculation:

“What mean you?’ he cried. “You shrink
from uttering her name as though it would
poison your lips. There is something behind
all this. What is it, girl? Speak!”

‘Violet is not her name,” she said, timidly.
“No! What then? You know or have heard
her real name?’’ ;
“Yes.’’ The answer came in a faint whisper.
‘What?’ he shouted. ‘*You can tell me—
no, no, it 1s impossible!. Some horrible story

 

has come to your ears and you have been
She shook her head sadly. ;

ready to believe it. Is that it?

“T am honored by~your notice,” he mur-[

“I wish that was so,” she sighed; “but I
speak of what I know.”

“Who, then, is Violet St. John?” he de-
manded, sternly.

His eyes were bent upon her with a fierce-
en nae mee her eens. oy ‘iemned

“She is—she is——’’ she began, en $ ped.

“Who?” he thundered. o

“The Lady Nina, Countess of Carnby!”

The astonishment depicted on the face of
Cuthbert St. John was awful to witness,

Jf a thunderbolt from heaven had fallen at
= ae he could not have looked more sur-
prised.

There was something almost terrible in his
COurtehence, and Bessie shrank back in abject
ear.

“It was not my fault that I did not tell you
sooner,”’ she murmured, hesitatingly.

“T don’t understand you,’”’ he said, blankly.

“Ah, no, you do not; but there has been a
horrible threat hanging over me, and I have
been afraid to speak; but now that you intend
to take my baby into the very danger that I
dreaded, I could no longer hold-my peace.”

“If you are not mad or dreaming,’ he in-
terrupted, sternly, “tell me what your words
mean. How came you to know that Violet is
Countess of Carnby?’”

“Do I not know every line of her beautiful
face? Many years ago I was one of the serv.
ants at Carnby Castle. When Lady Douglas
came to visit there, I grew fond of her sweet
little, daughter. Her eyes were deep blue as
the sea, and oh! so wonderfully bright. If you
look at Miss Violet you will see the same
splendid eyes,”

‘gue’ are many such eyes,” he said, hesi-
ingly.

“No, no; none so lovely. They are the same
eyes used to admire s® when I was her
nurse.”? : s

“Her nurse?” he repeated, in surprise.

“Yes, sir; after that—that——”

_ She stopped and clutched her throat fever-

ishly. :

Cuthbert St. John’s face was a shade paler
as he waited anxiously to hear what this
woman had to reveal,

“After what?” he prompted,

“After the—the—murder!”’

“Ah! I remember now. Go on, girl: tell me
what you have to tell. It is something con-
nected with that murder? Speak, in God’s
name, and end this agony of suspense!”

‘Well,’ continued Bessie, painfully, after a
long pause, “after that awful crime I went
with Lady Douglas to Southwark Hall, the

seat of the Duke of Southwark, her father,
and I was put in charge of the little Lady Nina,
I attended her faithfully and well, but one day
I took her down by the beach—you must have
heard the story?”

“Yes,’’ he said, sadly; “I have read how the
child was drowned, like her father.”

“But we were wrong, sir; some one must
have saved her; and oh! to think that when
I replied to your advertisement, I was coming
back to my iamb again. She is Countess of
Carnby to-day, sir; unless—unless her father
still lives.”

“What!” cried St. John, harshly. “Her father
alive! How could that be? The world knows
well the story of his escape from the prison
and the awful fate that befell him.”’

“Ah, sir, that’s as we have heard. But he
may not be dead at the bottom of the sea. I
have a feeling that maybe it was he who car-
ried off the child, so that he might save it
from the hands of that murderer who——~”

Stop!’ shouted St. John, his eyes aflame,
and his whole frame shaking with excitement.
“You rave, woman!”’ ;

“No, no; I only speak the truth,” she said,
with a sob. .

“T will hear no more. This is some distorted
fancy that has gotten hold of you because of
the likeness between Violet’s eyes and those
of the Lady Nina.’’

He half turned, as though ‘to leave the
smoking-room; but Bessie clutched his arm in
a frenzy.

“Must f tell you all? Oh, how can 1?’

She was crying now; and in her excitement
her hair had become unbound and fell in long
white strands over her narrow shoulders. The
spot of color that burned on her thin cheeks
had fled, leaving her face deathly white.
ae St, John shuddered as he looked at
er

“Speak on,” he said, hoarsely; “if there is
any Uins else that must be told, I charge you
oO speak.’

“There is—there is!’ she sobbed. . “But I can-
not tell it.’

She was torn by conflicting emotions, and
twice she opened her lips to speak, but no
words came. :

As St. John waited his eyes fell on a goblet
of wine on the sideboard. He made a step to-
ward it, intending to pour out a glass for the
trembling girl; but she stayed him with a mo-
tion of her hand,

“No, not that,’’ she cried. “My brain must
be clear while speak of the fearful crime.
Too long I have kept .this secret. But, come
what may, I must and will reveal it now. I
know the murderer of the Earl of Carnby and
I know the would-be murderer of Lady Nina.”

He staggered backward and would have
spoken, but the haggard woman continued im-
petuously, as if fearful that something would
re happen to prevent her making her reve-
ation,

“Do not stop me!” she cried, thrillingly. “I
must speak now! The murderer was the earl’s
own body servant—Marcel Cellarin!”

TO BE CONTINUED.

MISS EGMONT'S INVENTION.

By NICHOLAS CARTER.

 

CHAPTER I,
A BOX AND ITS BEARER.

“May I intrude upon you, colonel, for just
one moment?’

Colonel Tom. Marshall, a bachelor, aged
about fifty, worth half a million, honorary of-
ficer on the Governor’s staff, president of the
Empire Trust Company of the City of New
York, possessed of character, culture and at-
tractions to have won nearly any belle in
Gotham—this was the gentleman addressed.

It was approaching three o’clock on Friday,
the third day of July.

Colonei Marshall was seated at his desk, in
his private office of the Empire Trust Com-
peor one of the Al banking institutions of the

tate,

Yhe colonel need not have looked up to have
told who had spoken; if there was one voice
in the world that was becoming dearer to him
daily, it was that of the speaker.

But Colonel Tom did even more than look
up. With an eager smile lighting his attractive
face, he arose and held out his hand to greet
the speaker.

“TI never feel that your presence is an in-
trusion, Miss Egmont,’ he said, with unmis-
takable fondness. ‘Please come in.’’

And Miss Felice Egmont, who had spoken
from over the threshold of his office door,
bowed and smiled, blushed a little deeper, and
accepted. the invitation.

The door swung and closed behind her.

This Felice was Colonel Tom’s mystery; the
one mystery of his serene and successful fifty
years.

She had been his mystery ever since she en-

 

 

o oeery we

 

 

 

an, Willing?’ cried Colonel Tom, heartily.
‘More than willing, I assure you.”
“Ah, you are so kind.”’

an ,, Will place the box in the bank safe for

“Tt will not be in, the way, colonel?’

“Not in the least. I will lock it in my own
private compartment, and you may get it of
me on Monday morning, after the bank

opens.

ak Shall feel greatly obliged,’ smiled Felice.

Don’t mention it, Miss Egmont,” bowed
Colonel Tom, glancing at his watch. “It is
close upon three, and the vault will presently
be closed. Step this way with me for a mo-
ment, please. I will deposit it at once, and
inform one of my clerks that it is your prop-
erty. Then you will have no trouble to re-
cover it, in case I should suddenly die.”

“Oh, dear, don’t anticipate anything of that
kind, I beg.”

“I don’t,” laughed the colonel, takin
box.
ever.

up the
“It is well to be on the safe side, how-
Hello, is there something alive in it?’

“Alive?” inquired Miss Egmont, with a look
of surprise,

“T hear a noise from within,’ laughed the
colonel. ‘It sounds like something ticking.”

Felice quickly joined in his laugh, yet the
least bit nervously, and the color in her lovely
cheeks deepened perceptibly.

“Oh, that’s only a watch, colonel,” she
hastened to explain. “I put it in there with
some documents, thinking it best not to leave
anything of value in my office over the holi-
day. The Fourth is such an uncertain day,
you know.” .

“So it is,” nodded the colonel, without the
slightest suspicion. “I think you are wise.
Command me in this way at any time. Wait
a moment, Parsons, before you close that
vault. I wish to place this box in my private
compartment, It belongs to Miss Egmont. Re-
member the circumstance, please, so that she
may easily reclaim her property in case any-
thing befalls me.”

They had repaired to the main inclosure,
and stood before the massive steel vault of
the Empire Trust.

The clerk who had been addressed bowed
respectfully, both to the bank president and
the lady.

. “Have you changed the time lock, Parsons?”
inquired Colonel Tom, as he emerged from the
vault after depositing the box, :

“Yes, sir,” was the reply. ‘It is set for nine
o’clock next Monday morning, sir.’’

“Very good, You may now lock it.’

The impregnable steel doors swung together.
The bolts shot into their sockets. The clerk
drew back and turned to clear up the odds and
ends on his desk before departing for home.

‘There, Miss Egmont,” laughed Colonel Mar-
shall, as he led her back to his private office;
“your box is certainly secure until nine o’clock
next Monday morning. If you happen to want
it before that time, you will be utterly unable
to get it.” :

“Because of the time
quired Felice, smiling, s

‘Precisely. There are no combinations on
those doors for dishonest officials or bank
burglars to tamper with. The vault cannot be
opened until the time lock says so, and that
will be at precisely nine o’clock next Monday
morning. Your watch need not be lonesome
during the interval,’’ added the colonel, laugh-
ing, ‘‘for it ean tick away the hours in come
pany with the time lock on the vault door.”

lock, colonel?’ in-

“Ah, but the watch will soon run down, cole

onel, and the time lock then will have to go
it alone,’ laughed Felice, with a fascinating
glance, as she drew on her glove. ‘I shall
not want the box before Monday morning,
however, and I will be here when the bank
opens, I must now hasten to Fordham.” |

“To Fordham?’ observed Colonel Tom, in-
quiringly, and a keen eye might have dis-
cerned the least bit of jealous apprehension in
his.

*“Yes,’? nodded Felice, pausing briefly to ex-
plain. “I have a very important engagement
in Fordham at four o'clock. I cannot possibly
neglect it. A great deal depends upon it. It
is purely a matter of business, however.” —-

**You will return in time to go to the opera
with me?’ 3

“Surely, surely! I wouldn’t miss that for the
world. You cannot imagine how eagerly Ii
anticipate it.’”’ :

“Ah, I am very glad,” said Colonel Marshall,
eo “J will call for you just before
eight.”’

“You will find me ready, colonel.”

**J trust so.”

*“Never fear.” 5

“You are quite sure your business in Ford-
ham wili not detain you?” F

“Perfectly, colonel; it will require less than
half an hour,’ replied Miss Hgemont, laying
her hand on the knob of the door,

Then she added, laughing quite playfully:

“How grave you look, colonel!. One would
think you really feared I might disappoint you.
I give you my word, colonel, if you don’t find
me at my rooms when you call this evening,
something very serious indeed will have be-
fallen me.”

“God forbid that!” cried Colonel Marshall,

fervently.
*“Amen!”? answered Felice, laughing and
nodding. ‘But, colonel, should it really hap-

pen, I hope you will set the best detectives
of a York e eaten en me at once It
will a ease to require it.’’

“J will—indeed, I will!’ cried Colonel Tom;
and he meant it. s
pn aoe a and smiled again, and

elice departed.

Halt an eye could have seen that Colonel
Tom Marshall, aster pre yoate “gsr icles
bliss, was over head and ears in lov

He ane ane Shes his desk, but his mind
was still upon e woman.

The thee t0ek, faithful guardian of the
ae massive portal, ticked on, and on,
and on,

And the ticking in Miss Egmont’s tin box
inside the vault still kept the time leck come
pany.

cree nnn met

CHAPTER II,
THR “‘SQUEAL’’ OF “SILVER FLINT.”

The foregoing occurred on Friday, July 3.

About nine o’clock the next morning, a very
violent ringing of Nick Carter’s doorbell pre-
ceded the entrance of Colonel Tom Marshall
into the presence of the famous New York
detective. ,

Nick received him alone, and, knowing Mare
shall very well, he instantly read in his ghastly
face the signs of some extraordinary trouble,

“Thank God, I find you, Carter!’’ were the
colonel’s first words. “I’m in a horrible situa-
tion!’’

“Your face shows it, Tom,” quickly answered
Nick, with no uncertain interest. ‘Sit down
there, and be caim. What’s the nature of it?”

“First. of all, can you give me your immedi-
ate services?’’

et if the case demands it,’’ cried Nick,

romptly. 5
F “You shall judge for yourself. It is horrible,
horrible! I'll confide even my personal senti-
ments to you. I’m suffering untold agony.”

“You amaze me, colonel. This is not at all
like you. State the case briefly. If it is all
that your words imply, I’ll go at it like a bull
at a gate. What has happened?’’ - ‘

“God only knows!” cried Marshall. ‘‘Listen.’

In ‘hurried phrases, and with feelings he at.

times scarce could command, he then told
Nick almost precisely what had transpired the

 

gaged the large double chambers directly over
those of the Empire Trust. She now had oc-|
cupied this commodious office for nearly four |
months, and, to the best of Colonel Tom’s |
knowledge and belief, she had never yet re- |
ceived a visitor.

Though not of a dashing type, Miss Egmont
was exceedingly handsome—a pronounced
brunette, with luxurious dark eyes, a warm
olive complexion, an abundance of wavy hair,
the fascinating smile of a siren, and the figure
of a Diana.

She might have been twenty-five, not older
than that, and she was clad in a street suit of
steel-gray, with a hat and jacket to match.

“T have stepped in to ask a little favor of
you, if I may,’’ she said, with an air of busi-
ness.

At the same time, declining with a smile the
chair he tendered, she placed upon his table
a strong tin box, about a foot square, having
a combination lock. It might, from its appear-
ance, have been a box of bonds or securities.
The colonel’s interest, however, was entirely

previous afternoon between himself and Miss
Egmont. He stated even the very words they
had spoken, for they were now indelibly im-~-
pressed upon his mind.

By the time Marshall had arrived at this
point of his story, the expression in Nick Car-
ter’s earnest eyes indicated increased interest.

*“Colonel,’’ he said, shortly, “I rather suspect
that you did not go to the opera with Miss Hg-
mont last evening.’”’

“The colonel’s face had grown terribly pale
during his recital,

“No, I did not,” he replied. “She did not re-
turn from Fordham.”

“And you?”

“T waited at her rooms until nearly midnight,
After what she had said, I felt extremely anx-
fous. Despite her own words, however, I could
not really believe that anything serious had
befallen her. [ tried to assure myself that her
important business in Fordham had detained
her, and I therefore deemed it necessary to
take her at her word, and at once set detect-
ives in search of her.’’

 

in the lady.

“T hope you have not called to cancel our)
plans for this evening, Miss Egmont,” he said, |
quickly.

“Oh, by no means, colonel. I am too fond of |
the opera to even think of canceling our en-
gagement;”’ laughed Felice, archly. _

“Ah, you relieve me,’’ said Colonel Marshall,
drawing up his fine figure. ‘‘The greater the
favor, then, the better I shall like it. What
can I do for you?’

Miss Egmont laid her hand on the tin box.

“Merely care for this box until Monday,”’
She explained, with her smiling eyes never
leaving his. ‘“‘To-morrow is the Fourth, you
know, and the next day is Sunday. The box
eontains only a few little things of value,
which I dislike leaving in my office over the
two days, nor do I wish to remove them to
my hotel. Would you be willing to favor me

| riedly.

“You thought she might have been joking
when she made that remark?’

‘Yes, yes, of course!’’ cried Marshall, hur-
“Tust before midnight I left her rooms
and went home, thinking I would call there
again early this morning, to learn if she had
safely returned.”’

“Have you done so?” ;

“T have-telephoned and she is not there.”’

‘Where does she live?’

“She has a suite at the Murray Hill.”

“Why did you not go in person?’

“71] tell you why, Nick,’’ cried Marshall. “T
was deterred from going by a most extraordi-
nary incident. I scarce had finished my break-
fast, when my servant informed me that a
man at my door wished to see me. I had the
servant show him in.”

‘Well?”’

“He was a man of forty, with a smooth face

 

in this way?’ ob

 

and a decidedly evil cast of countenance, f

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

pons

 

 

eles

 

  

   
 

 

 

 

eee pere permed eatin er oe cat eet cern a a * : a ———— ee ——

Was amazed when I saw him, and doubly | realized that the case was utterly either of your Re ECROES has eam the shop |

ae mean you want to ge ‘way throu he”
amazed when he stated ‘his business. His story jo wn ability.

beyond 1 his
That’s just what mean,’’ said ick,

since we came throu

 

 

 

 

 

corresponded with his looks.’

“What. was his business?”

“He began by coolly stating that he was a
discharged convict, and a bank burglar by
profession. He said, to use his own words,
that he had soured on two confederates who
are now engaged with him in a job, and that
he had called upon me to squeal, and to blow
the whole job on which they are working.’’

“Go on, colonel,’ said Nick, quickly.

‘fy asked: him whi ut he expected to make by
this move,’’ continued Marshall. ‘‘He replied
that I might reward him as liberally as I
liked, and that he should require only one
thing in return for the services he was about
to do me. [ told him that, if the services war-
ranted it, he should have what he asked. He
pent ed that my promise was good enough for
and he then made his disclosure.’
it to me, colonel.’

“Tt is extraordinary. He stated that plans
are in operation for robbing the vault-of the
Hmpire Trust Company, of which I am-the
president. He said that he and two other men
had for some weeks occupied a building back
of ours, and fronting on the street below.
While pretending to do a commission business
in liquors, a subterranean passage had been
dug through their cellar to that in the Trust
building, through w hich he is ready to conduct

me ae I require it.’
i you,’”’ said Nick,

am following
look attentive eyes.
,

with a
in his “Go on.

“The man further stated,’’ continued Mar-
shall, ‘‘that a woman occupying rooms in our
build ling is a party to the job.”
“Did he give you her name?”
Yes,’ cried Marshall, hoarsely.
that it w as Felice EB gsmont.’’

“Go. on."? +

“He stated that the job baa been perfected,
and was to be executed this very night. He
informed me that a box, which Miss Egmont
had asked me to deposit in the vault, contained
a machine which, at precisely twelve o’clock
to-night, would cause a dynamite explosion in-
side of the vault. The force of this terrible
explosive, he added, is chiefly in a downward
direction, and he declares that the effect will
be to completely rupture the floor of the vault,
thus giving these burglars ingress to it from
the cellar. The job had been planned: for to-
night, the Fourth of July, in order that the
dull report of the explosion, in case it should
be heard from outside, would naturally be at-
tributed to the usual disturbances of our na-
tional holiday. That, Nick, was this scoun-
drel’s story.”’

“Did he say what he required in return for
the disclosure?’ asked Nick, quietly.

“He said that I could pay him what I
thought the information was worth; and that,
if we shouid force the vault during the day,
he wanted the box containing the explosive
and the machine. He stated, in explanation of
this, that he had reasons for w: anting to learn
just how the machine is constructed, it having
been designed and made by Miss Egmont,
their accomplice. és

‘What reply did you make to his demand?”

“T said that, if we decided to force the vault,
he could take the infernal box and welcome,
and the sooner he removed it from the bank
building the better I would like it.’’

“Quite a natural reply,’’ laughed Nick. “Ii
don’t much blame you. Where is this fellow
now, colonel?’

“Tl left him at my house to awiit my return.
I told him I would at once consult one or two
of the bank directors, and we woud decide
what steps to take. Instead of seeing a di-
rector, however, I took a cab and came
straig ht to you, Nick Carter.”’

“Why so, Tom?

‘Because,’ cried Marshall, bringing his
clinched hand forcibly down upon his knee, ‘‘I
am not willing to believe that Felice Hgmont
is a party to any such crime as this. It is not
like the woman, as I have observed her. Car-
ter, I am a man of fifty years, and I have
seen much of the world, and know considera-
ble regarding women. I-tell you, man, that
I’ve faith in this woman, and I believe there
is some infernal knavery afoot that doesn’t
show upon the surface.’

The declaration was made with.a vehemence
that brought a faint smile to the great de-
tective’s face.

“Colonel,’’ he said, quietly, ‘fy ou
dently in love with Miss Egmont,’

“T admit it!’ cried Marshall, impressively.

“Well, well, that’s not bad,” laughed Nick;
then he quickly added, ‘‘I told you I would go
at this case like a bull at a gat&, and so lI
will. Now answer my questions.

“Ask them,” eried Marshall,
ing Nick’s change of manner.

‘What do you really know cf Miss Egmont?”

“Next to nothing, Nick, as a matter of fact.
Four months ago she hired a double office over
eur bank Our building is a narrow one, as
you may know, and the rooms mentioned are
the only ones we have to rent. She stated at
the time that they were peculiarly well
adapted to her needs, and she has always paid
her rent promptly.

“ 1at is her business ?’’

iow,’ groaned the colonel. ‘‘She
office each day, and rem: ains until
but I have never known her to re-
Nor has she any card out that

”

es

“He said

are evi-

instantly not-

afte rnoon;
ceive a visitor.
i tes her business.
ve you ever visited her rooms?”

janitor ?’’
goes there only to wash the
perform other like duties.”
ave you ever asked ‘him what her
contain?
“On one occasion, Nick,
me to do so.’
“What did he say?’’

‘We said the rooms contained, aside from
the usual furnishings, only a lot of. drawings
and models, together with some articles which
led him to believe that she was an electrician,
or a student of some kind. I inferred that she
had some sort of a laboratory up there.’’

“Have you ever questioned her about it?’

“Only once, indirectly, and she seemed
clined to ev ade me. I did not press the in-
quiry.

“This becomes interesting,’ said Nick. ‘Did
you learn the name of your caller this morn-
as Flint.”’

ing?’

“He said it.w

“Flint, eh?’ exclaimed Nick, quickly turn-
ing to a drawer of his desk.

From this he produced his voluminous
“Rogues’ Gallery,” comprising photographs of
nearly all of the noted criminals of the day.
Quickly locating one he had in mind, he
turned it to his companion. ;

“Take a look at that, colonel,”’
“Does it resemble your caller?’’

Marshall bent forward and examined
photograph.

“Tt’s the very Nick!”’
cried.

Nick closed and replaced the volume.

“The man’s statement about himself is true,
colonel,’ said he. ‘“‘His name is James Flint,
and he has been twice convicted of bank bur-
glary. He is known as ‘Silver Flint,’ and he’s
a dangerous and desperate fellow. He was

ischarged from Sing*’Sing prison eight months
ago ,

The increased anxiety and dread of Colonel
Marshall was betrayed in his hueless face.

“My God!’’ he groaned, under his breath.
“Can it be that this scoundrel’s story is true,
and that Felice is, indeed, what he declares?”

Nick did not directly express his opinion. He
merely asked, in a rather pointed way:

“Aren’t there a few facts, colonel,
strongly sustain the story?”

“What facts?’ sharply demanded Marshall.

“The mystery surrounding Miss Egmont, for
instance.’’

“She may be able to explain that.”

“Has she ever before asked you to deposit
her box in the vault?’’

‘‘No, never.’’

‘Isn't it a little curious that the singular in-
cident should ‘have occurred at just this time?”
inquired Nick, significantly.

“JT admit that it is,’ hoarsely answered Mar-
shall, scarcely able to subdue his agitation.

‘Might not the ticking, which you say you
heard in the box,’ continued Nick, ‘Shave been
that of some machine, or clocklike mechanism,
by which the alleged explosion is to be effected
at a certain hour?’

“Perhaps!” groaned Marshall. ~‘‘Yet—oh, my
God, it doesn’t seem possible! Such a crime—
by such a woman!”’

Nick with his brows knit in thought, made
no answer.

Marshall became frightfully impatient.

*“Good God!’ he cried, ‘‘what’s to be done?
I cannot sit here idle. You said you’d go at
this case at once. We are wasting moments
that may be of inestimable value.”

“T never waste my time,’’ said Nick, dryly.
“Don’t be in a hurry.. The explosion. will not
occur until midnight.’’ 3

“But——” :

“There are no buts, Tom, that I care to con-
sider,” Nick quickly interrupted. “Do you

aoe, wish me to handle this case?’’

Yes, I do.’

“Are you ready to follow my instructions?”

“Tf you advise it, yes.’

“I. do, by all means. But I must be obeyed
to the very letter.’

Marshall hesitated for an instant, and then

¥ our
windows,

rooms

curiosity prompted

in-

he said.
the
he

man, instantly

which

“The truth must
cost,”’.- he cried, abruptly. ‘You are the one
man able to get at it, I believe. Command |
me, Nick. I will obey you, event
own hopes are irrevocably blasted.”’

“Very good,’ said Nick, Tising. “You
that ‘Silver Flint’ is still at your house.

“Yes. He promised to wait there until [ re-
tur ned. ae

‘Return at once,” said Nick, quickly.
that you have seen one of the directors, who is |
coming to investigate the case with you. W ait |
at your house until I arrive. I shall come in
disguise, lest Flint should recognize me,

“Ts that all?’’

“That is all for the present.
at your house, you will take
me, Pretend that you are so
you ‘hardly know what action
leave me to handle the ribbons.
It is now ten o'clock.
ring at your door.
the name of Veazie.’

“Then leave the rest to you?

‘Yes. Leave all the rest to me!” ;

Colonel Marshall rushed from the house of
the great detective, and sprang into his cab.

Nick quickly summoned Chick Carter and
Patsy, two of his cleverest aids; and, while
changing ‘his attire, he gave them an outline
of the case, and imparted his instructions,

Ten minutes later, disguised as a middle-
aged banker, Nick also left the house and pro-
ceeded to the residence of the colonel.

‘Who the dickens would have imagined that
Tom Marshall, after fifty long years, would
have.lost ‘his heart to a woman?’ was the
thought in Nick’s mind as he-~descended his
front steps. :

“Well, well, I’ll see what his
fair conqueror!”’

On my arrival
your cue from
disturbed that
to take, and
Go at once.

In half an hour I shall
Introduce me to Flint by

I can do for
CHAPTER III.

AND THE CRACKSMAN.

one of our chief direc-

NICK

“This is Mr. Veazie,
tors.’

Nick nodded coldly, and surveyed with an
ominous frown the professional criminal to
whom Colonel Marshall had introduced him in
the quiet elegance of his fine residence.

The fellow, known to his own iik and to the
police as “Silver Flint,” was a slender, pale-
faced man, with as evil and crafty a pair of
eyes as ever lighted a human countenance.
He was clad in a gray suit, and held in his
long, slender white hand a brown woolen cap.

‘So you are the scoundrel who told Marshal
this. cock-and-bull story, are you?’ Nick
sternly demanded, while still regarding him.

Flint met his frown with a half- sullen leer.

“I’m the party as told him, boss,”’ he replied,
in wheezy, resentful tones; “and it’s no cock-

and-bull story, either.’

“Repeat it’ to me, you dog!’ commanded

Nick, curtly. “I want all of the particulars.
Marshall here is so nervously upset that I am
not sure he has given me- all. Repeat the
story to me, you rascal!”’

The detective’s blunt censure did not disturb
“Silver Flint’’ in the least. With his lowering
eyes steadily meeting Nick’s, the criminal
agair told his story, which in no respect dif-
fered from that imparted by the colonel.

“And that’s the size of it, boss,’’ the knave
concluded. “If the box isn’t out afore twelve
to-night, it’s as how there’ll be no floor left
in your vault, my word for ’t.”’

“Your word, eh?’ growled Nick. ‘‘What in
thunder is that worth in the ears of honest
men? Why did you sour on your confed-
erates?’’

“fT heard ’em scheme to do
part o’ the swag, that’s why,”’
with a vicious snarl.

“Oh, you.did?’’

“That’s what I did. And I am
to stand for a game o’ that-sort.”’

‘““‘Where are they now?’’

“TJ dunno,’’ said Flint, promptly.
to ’em that I was wise to their
swore I’d peach this whole job. For
they’ve jumped the State,

“When did you discover
you?”’

“Only this morning,’’
were up early, it being
thought I was sleeping. Curse ‘em! my ears
were open if my eyes were shut?’ 4

Nick, still grim and frowning, swung around
and addressed Marshall, who was nervously
pacing the room, :

“The -devil take

me out o’ my
answered Flint,

not a covey

“I gave it
game, and
all I know,
woman and all.’’
their design upon

growled Flint. ‘‘They
the Fourth, and they

this business, colonel!’’ he
cried, impatiently. ‘This scoundrel’s story has
the ring of truth. Something must be done.
You spoke of calling in the police, but that
will not do at all, If this man’s confedérates
happen to be keeping an eye on us, to see
if he has made-good his threat, they will be
alarmed to flight if we call in the police. That
will not do at all. We must act quietly.
First of all, I must know if this dog is telling
the truth.”

“You'll find I am,’’ snarled Flint,
watching every move of the detective.
“T’ll soon see for myself,’’ cried Nick.
do you say your liquor shop blind is?
“Tt’s back of the Trust building.”

‘Get your hat, Marshall. We'll go there and
Stew Lt want to see this underground pas-
sage. That'll be evidence enough.’

“Be you one of the bank bosses?’ asked
Flint, grimly. “i thought his jags was the big
finger.’

Ww ell, I’m the biggest stockholder, and you’ll
find that what I say goes,’’ cried Nick, with
threatening severity.

“That’s good enough for me,’’ nodded Fiint,
“so long as I get the box what the other gent
promised.”’

“You'll get all

craftily

“Where

that’s coming to you, my
man, if your story is true,’’ said Nick, curtly.
“As for that infernal box, the sooner you
make off with that the better we shall like it.
All we want is to be rid of it."

oop hat’ s good enough for me.

“We'll wink at your eseape, mind you,’’ added
Nick; “but if I can but nail your two con-
federates and that woman, God help themt?’”

“In case I vamoose, then, I hopes you'll
nail ’em,” rejoined Flint, with a suppressed
growl. ‘'They’d have used me dirty.’’

“Come, now! I want to visit that under-
ground passage,’ commanded Nick, sharply.

Followed by Marshall and the criminal, the
detective strode heavily through the hall and
led the way to the street. His grim and de-
termined manner was one that invited no op-
position.

Half-an-hour sicher they stood before the
liquor shop which Flint claimed had been used
for a blind. It occupied the street floor and
basement of a lofty brick building, and the
shop door stood open E

“Come in,’ growled Flint.
you the passage.

Ni
into the shop.

Along one side was a plain wooden counter,
with shelves back of it, well filed with bottles.
Along the opposite side of the room was about
a dozen liquor barrels, standing on end.

“T'l] goon show

of whom Nick instantly recognized to be an
old offender, and one of ‘Silver Flint’s’’ own
stamp. He was a very large, powerful man,
with pock-marked features, and the wore a
woolen shirt.

‘“Humph! Big Bill Darcie!’ Nick mentally
exclaimed, without the slightest sign of recog-
nition. ‘‘The other is a stranger.’

This other was a fairly well-dressed man of
about forty, with a black mustache, and a
Jewish cast of coffntenance.

Neither appeared surprised when
Flint’’ entered with his companions.

“Who are those men, Flint?” demanded the
disguised detective ;

“One of ’ em works here for me—him in the
jumper,’’ replied Flint. “‘The other makes a
bluff at selling on the road. They’re all right,
boss, and not wise to the-lay I was telling

you of. -
said Nick, “Now,

‘Silver

“All right,’
let’s see Be ;

“Close your trap,’’ muttered Flint, quickly;
then he added, aloud, ‘‘Right this way, gents.
Tll show you the back passage I wants re-
paired. We can go along out that way, too,
if we likes.’’

He had given Nick to understand that the
two men were not informed of their errand,
and Nick nodded and followed to the rear
door and stairway leading to the basement.

As he passed along, he carelessly tapped the
tops of the several barrels with his knuckles.
By the sound, every one of them was empty,

indifferently.

which was quite a commodious cellar.

“Here it is, gents,’’ he said, presently.

He had halted before an opening in the rear
foundation of the wall, beyond which extended
a dark. passage about two feet wide, and five
feet high.

‘Tt runs uhder the flagging of the back }

growled Flint.

ing less’n thirty feet See.
e dirt when dig-

‘Yonder’ s where we piled
ging it.’
Nick glanced at the huge pile of soil and
gravel filling the opposite end of the cellar.
‘Have you broken through the siete wall
of the Trust building?” asked Nic
“Ay, we have,’”’ nodded Flint.

 

ugh so’s we can get in.” oe
“Sead the way through there, you dog!”

be known at whatever! sharply.

|

“T want to see precisely what’s been
done here. Lead the way
plunged

Without any objection, “s ‘Silver Flint”
Nick made a quick sign to Colonel Marshall,

hough my | ~~ the passage.

|
say | and both followed the criminal.
eee passage was as dark as midnight, and.
| the

cold earth walls could be felt on either

| side.

“State |

 

On two of these were seated two men, one.

“Silver Flint” led the way to the basement,.

area, and meets the wall of the Trust build-

ck and the colonel followed the scoundrel |.

“Fast stones | i

 

_ [to one of

After walking in a stooping posture about
| thirty feet, Flint cried, softly:

“Wait a bit, gents. ‘I've reached the wall,
Wi 5 ft until I slip out the stones. Stand back
a Dl .

The next moment the Bash of a match in
the criminal’s hand briefly lighted the grim
foundation wall at which he had halted.

Then the match expired, and the scoundrel
worked away in the intense darkness for three
or four minutes. At the end of that time he
had an opening sufficiently large for them to
pass through,

In a moment more, all three men stood in
the cellar, under the floors and vault of the
Empire Trust building.

“Here you are, gents,’ said Flint, grimly,
and with a sort of villainous pride.

“It is our cellar, and no “mistake,” sald Colo-
nel Marshall, with dismal anguish when he
thought of the woman he loved.

“Oh, we meant to crack your crib, all right,’’
nodded Flint. “Don’t ze u make any mistake
about that, gents. If the box isn’t out of your
vault by midnight, the end’ll be just what I
say.”’

“T guess there’s no doubt about it, you dog!”
growled Nick, censoriously. “Come along up-
Sree, with us, We'll take a look at the
vault,’ Ls

“Can you open it up?”

‘None of your business!” said Nick, rudely.
“Come with me, both of you.’

With a decidedly ugly look in his vicious
little eyes, “‘Silver Flint’? followed Nick and
Marshall up the cellar stairs and into the main
inclosure of the banking room,

It was the same in» which Colonel Marshall
had thought he was befriending beautiful Felice
Egmont only the previous afternoon.

a that cellar door, colonel,” commanded

c

“Ain’t we going back that way?” demanded
Flint, with a suspicious gleam from under his
drooping lids.

“If we decide to do so, we can unlock it,’’
returned Nick, bluntly. ‘Or we can go out of
the bank door, if we prefer. Colonel, draw
the curtains at those windows through which
eee inclosure and vault can be seen from the
street.’

“All right, Mr. Veazie.’’
‘“‘What’s that for?’
drawing of his lips until the edges of his sharp

teeth were visible.

“Because I don’t care ‘to have the public
know of any trouble here,’’ said Nick, curtly.
“Tf we decide to force this vault, i don’t in-
tend to have all of the New York press re-
es incident. What do you care, _any-
way ”

“Oh, I don’t care,” growled Flint, with a
shrug of his narrow shoulders,

“‘Colonel,’’ cried Nick, “have you a key
Miss Eg mont’s office?”

“No; I haven't.”

Tw here are her roome?’}

‘On the floor above. Directly over these.”’

aes your janitor a key?

“Ye
" Nick: pie ss to the telephone closet near by,
and rang up.the nearest Western Union tele-
graph station.

‘Send a messenger boy to the Empire Trust
Company at once,” he commanded,

“What's the boy for?” snarled Flint.

‘None of your “business,’’ said Nick. ‘Are
you running this. case, or am I? You did your
part,.my man, when you exposed this knavish
job. I'll do the rest, You sit down there and
w ait my pleasure.’’

‘But what d’ye want me to stay here for?’
demanded F lint, with a quick flash of temper.

Nick laughed * grimly. 'Z

“T want you here when that vault is forced,’
he replied. ‘“‘I want you to lug that box out
of the building, if it’s in there. I’m blessed if
I will lay my hands on the infernal machine.”’

The response seemed to satisfy ‘Silver
Flint,’’ and dispel any misgivings he may have
had. He, too, smiled -grimly, and dropped into
a chair hear the massive steel vault.

“Do you think those doors ean be forced,
Veazie?’ asked Marshall, who was utterly in

to

‘the fog as to Nick’s moxements and intention.

Yet he scarcely dared dpen his mouth, lest
he should betray something, and ‘pervert: the
detective’s intended design.

“Possibly,’’ replied Nick, ‘“‘If ‘not, that in-
fernal machine will force a hole through the
floor,’

“Tt will take hours to open those doors,”
said Marshall, glancing suggestively at the
clock. ;

“JT know it,’”’

eae now is ome o ‘elock.””

“Well,” returned Nick; Gonmplacéntly: “we
have eleven nours before the explosion. Dont
hurry me, colonel, Ah! here is my messeng

There was a loud knocking on the outer “door
of the bank. ak

“Got the key of that door with you, colonel’
asked the detective, ~

‘Yes; I have the key.’’

“Go and admit the mess enger.’

Colonel Tom Marshall, never more at sea in
all his life, hastened to obey.

A minute later he returned, followed by
lad clad in the uniform of the District © Pele.
graph service.

The messenger was Nick Carter’s own assist-
ant—Patsy.

oe

CHAPTER IV.
NICK SHOWS HIS HAND.

“Colonel,
to report ‘here at once,’’ commanded Nick, as
Marshall entered with Patsy. ‘Add, also, that
he must bring the key 'to Miss Egmont’ $s rooms
upstairs.”’

In a moment the note was written.

“Boy, take this to the party addressed, and
return here with him,’ ’ directed Nick. “I may
have further orders for fe

“All right, sir,” said Pats ‘.

“Lock the outside a atter him, colonel,
commanded the detectiv

Again “‘Silver Fuint’’ looked vaguely suspic-
ious, but he did not speak.

At the end of half an jour Patsy returned,
with the janitor, and was admitted as before.

“Come upstairs with me, Flint,’’ said Nick.
“Well take a look at the office of your female
accomplice. I want to make sure that you are
telling, the truth, and that I am on the right
tra
You'll find I’m on the. level, ” snarled Flint,
evidently a little disturbed by Nick's peremp-
tory proceedings.

Taking the desired key from the janitor,
whose® amazement was pictured in his face,
Nick led the way to the main corridor and up
the broad stairway.

Then he opened the door of Felice Egmont’s
rooms, and the entire party entered,

They found about what the janitor had pre-
viously described to Colonel Marshall.

Besides the ustial office furniture, the room
contained -numerous electrical machines, a
number ‘of batteries, and no end of wire, thin

metal plates, and sectional pants of machinery,

the use of which only the owner could have
determined. On: a large table were many
sheets of mechanical drawings, a number -of
partly-constructed models, and several copies
of recent daily papers.

In the fireplace were the charred remains of

at least a hundred sheets of drawing-paper, |

half-filliing the open grate. ~

Nick glanced at this and smiled wait, <

“Tt is very evident, colonel,’ he said, dryly,
“that Flint has been giving us a Square deal.
The woman doubtless perfected her machine in
this room, over the very heads of you bank
officials, and then got you to place it in the
vault for her. Yonder is -where she lately
burned the drawings of her machine, in order
to destroy any possibility of our securing that

evidence against her.’

‘Tt appears so. My God, it appears so!”
groaned Marshall, wiping from his ghastly face
‘the perspiration which wag gathering there in
cold drops.

The: Crear of the man was nigh unto break-
ing. Yet, man that he wi even in such an
hour of trial, he followed | ick Carter's ‘com-
mands to the very letter

The face of ‘‘Silver Flint? had lighted won-
drously.

If.at any time he had feared this man Veazie,
he now appeared to set him down for a fool.

Nick led the way back to the bank inclosure.

It was two by the marble clock ‘on the wall
on the directors’ room,

As they entered this room, Nick turned to}.

‘Flint and said, carelessly:

“Are those two fellows who work for you |

still in your shop
“Yes, most Holy, What d’ye want of vem?”
webs ean know anything ‘about this parais,
do the
**No, sure they don’ t”

srrled Flint, with a

write a note ordering your janitor.

eluding

va
| first,” said_he, ae best t
ceal that, lest the colone uld juasvertentty

BR og 8 that for?’ ‘aaaried Mint, again sus-
clo

“T merely wish to learn whether o or Rot your
two confederates are about here, ick higihtly
explained, “If they are, | mean to ae some
attempt to corner them. You need not fear
for yourself, Flint, You are safe enough.”

“T can go round to the oe and see, ee pas

“T don't’ want you to do that. Your confed-
erates then might see you inane! from the bank,
Write the note, and I'll send it by, this boy.”

-“Pll do it, if that’s all What el

“That is all, of course. hat else do you |
TiMiat didnot hat h a.

int did-not say what he “imagine A r-"

ently satisfied, he sat down and wrote ne
aver hich Nick eaposs, he eald,

“Mhere you be, boss, e tossin the
sheet to the detective. s

Nick g¥anced at the writing, ‘then laid the
sheet of paper on the table

There was now in his keen,
that terribleexpression of char aubeniven: which
criminals have learned so bitterly to fear. —

He drew outa aioe on oe pocket, a and

from another a. of cu

“Very. good, ‘Bilver Piet? ne e said, with
ominous quietude. “Now hold up both your
hands, like a nice little man,- oh let me slip
these bracelets on you! I told you” that you
were safe enou

With the snarl of a wolf, which he then
looked very like, the notorious criminal leaped
to his feet.

“Stop!”’ thundered Nick, toot, stles
him. “If you move Hand or foot, ‘
Ill drop you as I would a mad dog!
any game with Nick Carter, m:

‘What—you’re not—Nick Car ret

The fellow shrank as if he had been stung by
a rattlesnake.

Nick instantly stepped forward, snapped the
manacles about the man’s wrists, and thrust
him forcibly down into a chair

“You sit there, ‘Silver,’ until I tell you to
move,” he said, with a severity not wisely to
be disregarded.

- “Good heavens, Carter!’ cried Colonel Mar-

shall, aghast. ‘What does this mean?” —
“Wait!” said Nick, curtly,~

you: will see. -

—sRut——""

bie decline te answer questions, or to ce in-
terrupted,’’ cried Nick, sternly. ‘‘This case Is
not ended, and it’s ending i de pene upon
your obedience. Sit down and wait. Let no

reat detective, ignoring the others,
urtive eye upon them all, and. with
his we n still on the table before ‘him, drew
‘Silver Flint’s’’ letter nearer.

With a glance at the writing, which he ‘saw
he could easily imitate, Nick quickly wrote the
following missive on a blank sheet: —

“DaRcIB: See if the pigeon has by any means
got out of her cage. For some reason these
guys ain’t in any hurry to open up the big
box, and I fears -the fairy may have broken
cover and given ’em some tip. See if we still
thas her safe, and send me word by the kid.
I’m waiting here with these guys, to nai the
box when they open up the big one. Your old
pal, SILVER.”’

Having written the above, Nick sealed it in
an envelope.

‘“Patsy!’’ he called, sharply.
- **Here, sir!” was the prompt response.

Nick gave the boy the note, and a few whis-
Renee ger hatars to which Patsy quickly
no eda,

“Let this boy out, colonel,” commanded Nick,
‘and then loc the outer door again.’

When Colonel Marshall returned from having
done so, Nick sat toying with his revolver, his
brows drawn in thought, and his. gaze bent
a the silent, sullen figure in the chair oppo-

covering
r Flint,’
Don't try

“Be eee and

‘man beave this room till I command.”

Then the
yet with a

Sw il you explain, Nick, what——”’ began the
colonel,

“Peace!”’
his eyes.
and wait.”’

The colonel had no alternative but to obey.

The janitor took a chair near by.

An entire hour passed, and not a wore was
spoken,

The clock on the wall said four.

The slow minutes apasged more and more
wearily.

Colonel Marshall arose and paced ner vously
to and fro, then resumed his seat, pale and

distressed.

Nick scarcely stirred. Another. half-hour
passed.

Then the heavy. silence was again broken by

a loud knocking at the street door, |
© Gol onel Marshall leaped to his. feet,

“Stop!’’ cried Nick, sternly. “Hand your key
to the janitor, colonel.’’

Marshall obeyed, with a frown. The last ves-
teen of color was gone from his handsome
ace.

“Janitor,”’ , cried Nick.

oy es, sir.’

“Go open he street door.’’
“The janitor strode from the inclosure.
Colonel Marshall stood staring wildly ‘toward

the corridor.

save he heard the heavy
op

Trhen there sounded the heavy tread of many
feet up the marble stairs.

Then, striding into the bank, came three po-
licemen, with two men in irons—the two whom
Colonel Marshall had seen in the shop of ‘‘Sil-
ver Fiint.’

And just behind them, both grinning elee-
fully, came Chick Carter and Patsy, conduct-
ing Miss Felice Egmont.

But the woman was not in irons.

The instant she behild the colonel she rushed
forward, with her hands extended, and cried in
accents of indescribable gratitude ‘and joy:

“Oh, colonel! my dear colonel! I knew. you
would rescue me!”

A hoarse ery, almost like a sob, broke from
Marshall’s quivering
“Felice! Felice!’’
in. his arms.

h,.my dear colonel!’

There were tears in her eyes: but Colonel
Tom Marshall had swung round to look at the
great detective, who had not so much as risen
from his chair.

“Oh, my God, Nick!” he cried, huskily, “tell
me what this means!”

Nick now arose, een oes

“T told you, colonel,” he said, quietly, “that
I would go at this case like a bull at @ gate
I have done so. cers, remove these men to |
the Tombs. Colonel, it is my pleasure to state
that Miss Egmont is at liberty to enjoy the
opera with you this evening, if she so desires.”

Marshall, with tearful a turned again to
the blushing woman, and he aid not even hear |
the heavy tread of feet, as” “Silver Flint’? and
his confederates were marched from the room.

It was after five o’clock before the case a
so cleared that Colonel Marshall und
ree fully. appreciated the keen work of the ‘de:

ective.

it appeared that Felice, by ther own story,
was an English girl. Some months before she
and one Gormley had been in the employ of an.
English inventor, who had partly perfected an
invention for wireless te eee es aauperior
even to that of Marconi. — ddenly ill
and about to die, the inventor, nave no heirs,
had confided to Felice the details of his valu-
able discovery, giving to her the knowledge vy
which she might be able to perfect the ‘great

invention.

Knowing of this, Gormley ‘had schemed to
rob her of it. Her lodgings in London having
been twice entered, Felice, Se this man
had fled to New York, whither Gormley had
quickly followed. She had taken rooms in the
bank building, as being the most secure, and
there had perfected her invention,

“T completed my model, and burned > the
drafts of it, only yesterday,” said she, in con-
her ‘story. “Though I had not. a
him in E taw York, I feared hat Gormley
have followed me, and would attempt tos 1
the model as soon as completed.  Heaue:t
asked Colonel Marshall to keep it for me until
next Monday, when I am to exhibit it to a
party of capitalists. My visit to Fordham was
ing: see one of these, to arrange for the OES,

commanded Nick, without raising
“T can explain nothing. Sit down

outer door thrown

g lips,
he- exclaimed, clasping her

Fvnen leaving Fordham last evening, I was
seized by two men, forced _ a carriage, and
brought to the city, where I have since “been:
kept in confinement. One of these men- was
Gormley; the other I did not know. |
infer that Gormley has been watching me, that

he saw me leave my box here Samer aeet by
in’ t

that he suspected what it contains Lt
know just what——”

“Just what his plans may have ee ia inter:
posed Nick, smiling. ‘Well, ss Egmo I
will very quickly tell youl” 2

‘Pray do so, Nick,’’ ‘observed the colon
“Tm blessed if I can see from what you made
your extraordinary deductions.”

“Tt is ‘a part of. Seeks business” to make dedu
tions,’ laughed N

Then he ee with — colonel’s requ

“The case wag =r to.

y

Flin

“Who do they think your mae confederates | som

are?” ,
“My

course 5°. iz ’
“Sit

scenes in the shop,
wn there ay soothe

them,” oe “Ask @

d oT

 

 

bie ‘and write. a 8

penetrating eyes” bee

r Pde returnin

I can only |

Ne}

Mar:
feel hurt..
“Hay {ne inter
Nick t Ww:
re ee be
that was e
the one, an tha
sional burgla
of robbing Mi
“The fact tha

“Knowing
oa
eh

credited a an
ie pass must aes
with the intendon of robbing s:
of the building, Miss EB
course.. There, ag:
get the box.
“My next con
Parcnens and w:

_ bor - figured, on the
probenataae they - have advanced, that w
should force th ult, and ret _ th
‘could make off with t ;
apparent as three times two. ;
~ “The moment I ' Darcie lint’s chop
I knew that I was on ‘the Tight ck, and that
both of the men ehere were his onfederates Se
“But one moye was necesary, then, in 0!
to locate Miss Egmont. I merely kept Flint
-to his confederates, ee.
ecimen of his writing, averted any misgi
gs on the part of Darcie by Le prion a
eke to him his own name, Yeed a ore by
Flint... I wrote see a note that eT daily
started him off to make sure t
mont was still in safe keeping. wf y
“Tt started both of them, Nick,”’ laughed
Chick. ‘They had the lady in a’ house on
Mott street, and we easily. pulled them.”
“You see, colonel,” smiled Nick, “with my
able assistants ready at hand, it was a very
simple matter to locate the lady and arrest the
I did not like to awaken your hopes,
however, until I was dead sure e was right.
And there you have it, colonel.’ i=
“But, Nick,” cried Colonel Marshall, ‘beam- ©
ing with gratitude, ‘‘who the dickens was
assis tant? You have not left the. Danke vi z
“he telegraph messenger iy my sae
or was one of them,”’ laughed. Nick.
ready and meee. for my Summons, when
telephoned to the central
enough for now, colonel, for io mace my ho
for dinner. Give Miss Egmont your arm,
onel, and walk as far as the corner with us”
The gallant colonel sprang up to comply.
Just one week later Miss Egmont went him
one bettér-and gave the colonel her hand!
THE END.
See ct rrr eter

SCOUNDREL OR SAINT?

By GERTRUDE WARDEN, |

sauder of “The Wooing of a Fairy,” “Aa Bold Deception,”
“The Crime of Monte Carlo,’ “Her Faithful Enight,”
~— “The Haunted House. at Kaw; p we,

(“ScoUNDREL OR SAINT ”” was commenced in No.
Back numbers can be obtained Of ali pewedesiers) <

g CHAPTER XVII. .
MISS MINTING » aT BAY.

- Into” Adela. Mintin a ae: there
su se lo: : a:
, r 1 ae

from the ‘round. she amen her. “nerves ce
a strong effort, and took the at- Dr. _May-
hew had pointed out for her. :
With her thin hands rigidly ¢ ped and her —~
head Inwered, she waited for her accuser to be- ~
‘gin. And she had not to wait long. *
“Miss Minting,’”” Dr. Mayhew began, in tones.
of rasping seorn, ‘I have made am-importan
| eee about you. i know your real pro-
ession. ;
Syddenty she looked up, her face flushed and |
eag oa
oT tany nothing, and admit nothing, a’ paces
ent,’’ she said, quickly. “I ‘only ask’ She ’
you will speak to me alone.’

torted; “nor is it usual to discuss con
with a wipes before crushing it. Mr. Ventriss
will remain
“Wilfrid,” Stuart broke in, amazed; “what
| posesses you? I cannot have this lady ‘insulted
in my presence.’
“This lady,’ Dr. Mayhew retorted, “entered
your employ and wormed herself into your
confidence in order to destroy Aas by
trade that lowest. of created thi ngs—a “female
detective.” = Ss
Stuart started violently and turned to his
secretary, expecting to Lo (Se isiemant |
nial. But Miss eet
silent, her thin lips tigh yok
lowered under their pale lashes. 2
“J have suspected her for some time,’ wil
frid proceeded, ‘‘and I have been sure of her
ever since I caught her rummaging among my
papers, and listened to her cross-questioning
} my housekeeper when she imagined .
away from home. I have followed her in han-
soms and OD RUSS ene tra her to V
triss house and also to ae ard.
watched her lodgings the h
and recognized her in her ‘disguise
drunken, old woman.” :
“Can all this be oa ar Srue Stu:
tin But

r
“Why she should mbt
her to spy on so harmless a persc
“cannot 1 Dr. Mayhew ede

this woman’s standing
+for several weeks spy’
however, she fetches and |
little fairy tales for the ‘benefi
vindictive old maid, her emp! y n
Harmston.’ : : a
- Even Adela Minting’s self-co: trol Wwe
proof against this last sneer.
nging to her feet, she

defi nt and at bay

you think = have wasted n
exclaimed, ‘‘you are wrong. i h
even more than I expected
knew that the man you put
ant to the af gt Nig oe
heir the first day I met him. J
until much later thats < found ou
Cuthbert Ventriss, but —Cuthbe
Ren _ Stuart, whom -the
ead!” Se

a

snuscie of Dr
Had already cu
Se spy and wa

_ Not
Stuart

o one int ted Miss Minting.
hard re “voice, ‘proseetes ‘to

he evening” ‘of ‘Derby Day, after.
ne Seetrat Cas cabman ¢

 

 

 

 

“Detected spies do not dictate terms,” he re- 1.

 

 

 
     

  

 

 

Wole 57-Nog 44

}
te

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

ea =

It was Stuart who spoke, turning as he did,
eurious, |
She flushed as she.

so to face Miss .Minting,- with a
pained wonder in his face.
met his gaze, and her eyes, which had stared
so defiantly at Wilfrid Mayhew, fell-.before
those of Stuart,

: IT am a detective,’ she said. “I have tried.
to earn my’ living in many ways, in order to
support myself, my mother, and my sister’s
children. I have struggled and pinched and
starved since Ef was. seventeen. Until I re-
solved to deliberately make myself hard and
plain and unwomanly, I found in men only
dangerous, treacherous enemies. -I was pretty
and soft-hearted once; Wut all that has been
trodden out of me. My sister, who was pret-
tier and softer-hearted, died heartbroken and
half-starved,-deserted by the man she adored.
That might have been my fate, too, if I had
not resolved to steel my heart against what is
ealled natural feeling, and to become, mot the
hunted, but the hunter. Men can no longer in-
jure me, but I can injure them!’’ 2

“IT am sorry for you,’’ Stuart said, gently. “It
must have needed very bitter experiences in-
deed to lead a woman so naturally kind as you
are to such a trade.’’

She looked at him, and her lip quivered. The

man’s chivalrous gentleness at this point un-
nerved her, and sent her hard words to the
winds. Fortunately for her self-control, Wil-
frid took up the tale.
- *"Phe details of your life are doubtless inter-
esting,”’ he said, icily. “‘But we are even more
interested in your wild and hysterical accusa-
tions Against us. Please continue them.”

“J will,” she said, turning upon him with a
“gleam of anger in her eyes. ‘‘Your house-
Keeper, in course of talk, made the damaging
admission that on Derby Day a fair-bearded
gentleman came here for treatment for a skin
disease and remained here, his place being
mysteriousty taken some weeks later by a
younger and darker man, who left, after a
time, and returned in September as Mr. Cuth-
bert Ventriss.”’

*“Well ?””

“You found me rummaging among your
papers. It was not the first time, and I rum
maged to some purpose. For I understand
French, and I read the pamphlet on the Du-
ehesne precess of altering identities. That
made the whole thing clear to me.”’

“As a doctor,’’ Wilfrid said, slowly, pointing
‘a lean forefinger at her, “I have no hesitation
in stating that you are suffering from hyster-
ical delusions. And If have not: the slightest

intention of letting you go away from my
house free.” .

“What do you mean to do?’’

“I mean, for your health’s sake,’’ he re-

turned, coolly, “to subject you to a course of
electrical treatment which will speedily cure
you of your mischievous delusions. I don’t
deny that your memory and your hearing may
be somewhat impaired thereby; but a strong
remedy is the only one in so bad a case.
Stuart, tie her hands with this while I get my
apparatus ready.”

He threw a silk scarf to Stuart, and then,
going to a cabinet against the wall, he un-
locked it, and proceeded to choose the instru-
ment he required. But Stuart flung the scarf
away, and, stepping up to his friend, touched
him on his shoulder.

“Give me the key,’ he said, ‘and let Miss
Minting go. I ean’t war upon women.’’

“What sentimental nonsense is this? She is
mad, and she means to ruin you!’’

“She is only earning her living, after all.

if her story were true and [I were an
impostor, it would be her duty to hunt me
down. I am-sorry, for we had seemed such
good friends and comrades. But you must let
her go and do her worst. We have no right
to stop her. Give me the key, Will.’’

“It is you who are mad now!” protested
Dr. Mayhew. ‘‘This woman will go straight to
Scotland Yard——”

“She will do nothing of the kind!”’

The words came from Adela Minting. She
stood before them, all woman now, her eyes
filled with tears, her lips quivering.

“Tt is true I have found out everything about
you,’ she ‘said, addressing Stuart. “But I
have kept my knowledge to myself since the
first day of my arrival. Day by day I have
been learning and storing up facts against
you; but I have never made use of them.
Sentiment in a detective is ridiculous—it is
even dishonorable. I am so convinced of that
and so ashamed of my own weakness, that i
mean to give up my profession, which, after
all, is interesting and exciting, and take to
some other form of wage-earning. For I can-
not harm you.’

Wilfrid Mayhew shrugged his shoulders and

 

i

 
     
 

 

  
     

 

ae ee frome ine - to-this point
he had half-respected Miss Minting as an acute
antagonist;-but now he really despised her.

“Tt was your treatment of me which made
me change my mind,’ Miss Minting went on
to Stuart. “It was not employer and em-
ployed; you became instantly a kind and con-
siderate friend. No very young man could ever
have shown the unselfish thoughtfulness, the
chivalrous delicacy with which from the first
Se treated me. J’ am sorry I ever met you,

ecause it proves I am unsuited for my pro-
fession; yet I am glad to have known ~one
really good man. Good-by, Mr. Ventriss; your
seeret is perfectly safe with me. Enjoy your
fortune and marry the young girl you are so
fond of. It will be her fault if she is not very
happy. Will you shake hands?” ;

“With all my. heart!” Stuart returned,
grasping her hand warmly. ‘“‘Good-by, Miss
Minting, and God bless you!’

He turned the key in the lock, and Adela
Minting, taking her hat and cloak in the hall,
passed out of the Hermitage, never to return.

 

CHAPTER XVIII.
AN OLD MEMORY.

That same evening, as Mr. Herbert Groves
was sitting disconsolately over his after-dinner
coffee in the dining-room at the Colonial Hotel,
a card was brought to him by an attendant.
Upon it was inscribed the name:

“Mr. Cuthbert Ventriss.”’

The young Australian turned the card over
in his hand refiectively. Then, as though he
had suddenly arrived at a resolution, he. said
to the servant:

‘“All right! Show him in here.’’

A party of men dining at an adjoining table
glanced with interest from Mr. Groves to Mr.
Ventriss as the latter entered the dining-room.
Both were in evening dress, and now that Her-
bert Groves had shaved his mustache (at Miss
Harmston’s suggestion), and wore his curly
black hair cut short in West End fashion, the
resemblance between them was very evident.

‘“FHiow much alike those brothers are!’’ com;
ménted one of the diners.

Stuart shook hands cordially with his rival.

“J hardty know you withour your mustache,”
he said, as he took the seat offered to him at
Mr. Groves’ table.

“Oh, L was advised to have it off, so that
an old nurse, Molly Watson, should see me
without it and recognize me. But it appeared
that she had seen and recognized you first,
and she teld me to my face 1 was an impostor.
So, you see, I didn’t get much by losing my
mustache,’ the young Australian concluded,
with a laugh. ‘Take a cigar; and won’t you
have a whisky and soda?’

“Thanks, I -will.”’

Across the cigar-smoke Stuart looked at the
young man intently.- The top joint of his first
finger on the right hand was certainly broken
—that was no pretense; at any rate—and some-
thing about the shape of. his face and jaw and
the curve of the chin was strangely familiar
to Stuart. Not until he had studied these de-
tails for some seconds in silence, puzzling his
brains as to where he had seen those lines
before, did it flash across him that it was in
the looking-glass each morning as he shaved
that he beheld exactly the same formation of
the jaw, the same placing of the teeth, and
the identical curve of chin, as those he now
studied in Herbert Groves.

With the realization of this there flashed
into Stuart’s mind that a dentist had once
told him of the extraordinary resemblances to
be found between the jaws of parents and
ehildren.

Stuart’s heart beat fast, and a sudden dizzi-
ness came-over him.

It was not possible—it could not be possible!

This lad remembered nothing, and was even
ready to withdraw his claim and own himself
an impostor.

And yet, why did he look now across the
tabie with the eyes of Stella Grey?

‘Do you know, I really am awfully glad to

see you again!’’ Mr. Groves assured Stuart,
earnestly. ‘I was advised not to meet you
while ali this business was on, and no doubt
it would have been in better taste not to.
It’s awfully nice of you, by the way, to take
ee of me under the circumstances.’’
' “Why, because, of course, you must believe
T am just ‘a common fraud—a sort of Tich-
borne Claimant, after Mr. Bertram Ventriss’
fortune.’’

‘Indeed, I have never believed anything of
the sort.’’

“Then, again,’ Herbert Groves continued,
flushing and playing nervously with his coffee
spoon, “you must know—she told me you knew
—that I—well, in short, that I was fool enough
to bother Miss Dean with my letters, and

G0 ON as *
“She did not put it in that way at all. She

 

took a great interest in you, and she was glad

that I did the same.’’

“And so you are going to marry her?’ Her-
bert Groves said, looking full at Stuart -with
honest blue eyes clouded by regret. ‘‘You are
a lucky fellow!’’

“T am, indeed!”’

‘*You see, you have got the lot. There wasn’t
ever any competition, as far as [I can see.
Now that I think of it, my guardian had next
to nothing to go upon. Just the fact that
Cuthbert Ventriss fell overboard on the same
date and in about the same part of the world
as I;°that he was about the same age as I,
and that my clothes were marked ‘C. and V.,’
and my penknife was marked ‘Bertie.’ For
what I remember counts for next to nothing.
At the same time, I came to England hon-
estly believing I was Cuthbert Ventriss, and I
should believe it still but for you.”

“Why do-you say but for me?”

“TIsn’t it clear?’’ exclaimed the young man
in surprise. “If you were not Cuthbert Ven-
triss, who could you be? No one could speak
to you for five minates and suppose that you
were an impostor. And then you remember
everything—all the things that I have for-
gotten.” .

“Ts there nothing that you remember?’
Stuart asked, with a strange, suppressed eager-
ness. ‘“Try to think.’’

The young Australian shook his head.

“Tt’s no good,” he said, wearily. “When I
try to recall the things that happened to me
before I came to: my senseS in my bedroom,
after my rescue from the sea, a thick veil
seems to blot them out. Just stupid little
things here and there come back to me, but
nothing definite.”’ ‘

“Try to tell me about these stupid little
things, as you call them.”

The young man laughed.

“Tt sounds absurd to say so,’ he declared,
‘but the object I remember most clearly of
all the things I saw in my childhood was an
organ—an expensive French toy, I expect it
must have been. Anyhow, there was a mon-
key doll on it in a red coat, and when I turned
the handle, as I seem to remember doing all
day long, the thing moved.”’ :

“Moved? How did it move?’

“Blinked its eyes and turned its head; and,
oh, yes! it played a violin or banjo, or some-
thing. I remember being taken away from this
toy by somebody dark and easily angry, of
whom I was very much afraid, and I remem-
ber erying for it and dreaming of it. And
that’s about all I do remember. Wait a min-
ute, though! I remember being taken to see
fireworks.”’

“Ag the Crystal Palace?”

“T suppose so. Anyhow, there was an encr-
mous crowd, and we stood on steps; and I sat
on the shoulders of a man. I think it must
have been my father, for I have an impression
that. it was some one I was very fond of.
And I remember that in my excitement I
knocked his hat off. I suppose it was trampled
underfoot by the crowd, for he went home
with me in the train without one.”’

“Do you remember nothing more that night?
Try to think. What happened when you got
out of the train? The man without a hat car-
ried you, did he not? You had fallen asleep——”

‘‘How in the world do you know?”

“What is more natural? You were & very
little boy; you had been to. see the ‘fireworks
at the Crystal Palace. It was late, and you
were tired. What did you do at the station?
Is there nothing more you remember of that
night’s doings?’

For a few seconds Herbert Groves remained
silent, with drawn brows and troubled ex-
pression. Then suddenly his face cleared, and
he slapped his leg in great excitement.

“By Jove! I have it!’’ he exclaimed. “We
got into a cab with a white horse. The horse
A sates and we were shot out imto the
road.”’

, Stuart rose abruptly from the table.

His face was colorless, and he was trembling
from head to foot.

“This room is awfully hot,’ he said. ‘“‘Don’t
you find it so? Shall we have a stroll along
the Embankment?’’

‘In this fog?’’

“Tt’s not so thick now. And it is less oppres-
sive-than indoors. Will you come?’

“Of course I will. I know nobody, and I’ve
got nothing to do. To-morrow I take my pas-
sage back to Melbourne.” :

“Already ?’’

‘What can I do by staying? I only got her
letter this evening; and that decided me.”

“May I ask why?’ :

“She told me she was engaged to you,”’’ the
young man returned, in constrained tones.
“You have beaten me all around, Mr. Ventriss.
There’s nothing left for me but to retire as
gracefully as 1 can.”

He was slipping on
as he spoke. Stuart laid his hand upon
right arm.

“By the way,’ he said, “did those lawyer
fellows, Messrs. Crossley & Keber, ask you by
any chance whether you were marked on your
right shoulder?”’ i 3

“They did,’’ the young man replied, in con-
siderable excitement, ‘‘and the odd part of it
is that I am, and with the Ventmriss crest—a
mailed hand carrying a scimitar above the let-
ter V. You should have seen those two chaps’
faces when I showed it to them!”

“Will you let me see it, tao?”

“Certainly. Come in here to the
room.”

Divesting himself of his coat, the young man
rolled up his shirt-sleeve, and there, clearly
traced in blue tattoo marks on his right shoul-
der, was a capital V and the Ventriss crest,
a counterpart of the mark upon the arm of
Stuart himself.

TO BE CONTINUED.

BEHIND A MASK.

By NICHOLAS CARTER,

Author of “Man Against Man,” “The Old Detectives Pupil,”
“Run to Earth,” “Gideon Drexel's Miitions,”’ etc.

his overcoat in the hall
his

dressing-

 

 

(“BEHIND A Mask’? was commenced in No. 18. Back

numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers.)

 

CHAPTER XVII.
A DASH FOR LIBERTY.

Meantime Nick and Chick had not been idle.

Both fully realized the extent of the danger
which threatened them. ‘

The moment Vincent and Daly left the cabin
Nick decided upon the only course open to
them.~— .

“Ready, Chick!’ he whispered.

“T’m with you, Nick.’’ : ,

Silently, yet without an instant’s hesitation,
Nick opened the door leading to the cabin.

The first object to. meet his gaze was Nellie
Riley.

She was standing with her back toward
them, listening apprehensively to the tumult
on deck, and with her gaze turned up the
companion-way.
~@he neither had seen-nor heard them.

Nick gave Chick a quick, expressive glance,
and the latter nodded, understandingly. :

Then the great detective crossed the eabin
with a single bound, seized the girl by the
arm, and thrust the gleaming. barrel of his
revolver directly under her. eyes. |

“Not a sound!’ he said, with terrible stern-
ness. “If you utter a sound, I’M shoot you

where you stand!”’

Despite the’ threat, Nellie Riley could not
repress a startled ery; but it fairly died in her
throat, and was unheard beyond the cabin,

With cheeks turned deathly pale, with fear
and dismay bright in her startled eyes, the
girl shrank instinctively from the threatening
weapon, and sank nearly to her knees on the
eabin floor. .
-“Not a sound!’’ repeated Nick with a voice
and countenance which. alone would have
served to insure her silence. ‘You'll not be
harmed if you'll obey me.”’

“T’]} obey!’’ she faintly gasped. ‘

“Tf you don’t, your life’s not’ worth a pin’s
fee!” ;

The fear in her eyes assured him, yet Nick
did not for a moment loose his grip upon her
arm.

Turning quickly to Chick, he
riedly:

“Ajl the men are forward. We've a moment
to spare. How does the vessel lay?’ :

“North and south,” Chick answered, rapidly.

“Stern to the shore?”

‘What's the distance?’

“Less than a hundred yards.”’

“How many boats?’

“One only.”

**‘Where is she?’’ {

“Made fast to the taffrail.’’

“Then she’s in the water.’’

“Yes,”’

“Oars aboard?”

SFY eg,’’

“We must use her to escape!” cried Nick,
instantly.

“The men are armed.’’

“So are we, and must chance their bullets.”

eried, hur-

 

“T’m ready.”

“Wait!” cried Nick, coolly; yet this inter-
onan ee of talk had been with the utmost ra-
pidity.

He had now caught sight of his own re-
volvers, still lying upen the shelf where Jim
Daly had placed them the night before. ‘

“Give me my own guns,”’ he added, eagerly.

Chick ran to get them, and in a moment
both men were armed with their own trusty

weapons, :

‘Say when!’’ cried Chick.

_‘First. note me,’ replied Nick, still grip-
ping Nellie Riley by the wrist. “This move
must be made with precision and dispatch.’’

“Surely !’’

“On reaching the deck, Chick, first secure
the companion-way, so as to prevent an at-
tack from the cabin.

“T’m on!’’ nodded Chick.

“Then take my instructiens, and follow them
to the letter.’’

**¥ou bet!’

“lll keep these infernal knaves at bay
while you loose the boat, and this girl must
be used to prevent their firing on us.”’

“Tilt not go up there——”

“Silence!” hissed Nick, with a ferocity
Which instantly quelled her. ‘“‘You’ll do what
I command. Are you ready, Chick?’

“Ready and willing,” was the cheery reply,
despite the great danger. :

“Then come on! If you utter a word, girl,
Pu 28 surely end you as I have strength to

“T’ll be silent!’? gasped the girl, shaken from
head to foot by her fears.

Without longer delay, and with face more
sternly determined than could be depicted,
Nick now mounted the companion-way stairs,
leading Nellie Riley by the wrist.

Chick followed close after- them.

As his head rose above the companion-slide,
aire flashed a quick glance over the vessel's

eck.

Less than five minutes had elapsed sihce
Tim Dowd was ordered below, and the men
were still actively making a search forward,
without having thought that the two detect-
ives could possibly have reached the cabin in
so brief a time.

Captain Rattlin, aS mad as a bull when he
sees a girl in red, was at that moment emerg-
ing from the hold.- ;

“Come on, Chick!”

‘Fm. here.”

“Secure the slide first of all.”

“Trust me.”

With a quick movement, Nick now sprang
out upon the deck, and drew the girl after

im.

Chick was not a second behind.

He at once turned and secured the compan-
ion-way doors, drew the slide, and closed the
entrance so that it could not be opened from
within.

Their movements had been so rapid, and the
attention of the men so engaged forward,
that the above had been accomplished before
the presence of the two detectives was ob-
served.

But a yell from one of. the men informed
them that they were discovered.

“There he is! he shrieked, meaning Nick.
‘‘They’re on the after deck.”’

The entire crew, Rattlin, Vincent, Daly and
all, turned like a single man.

Instantly the situation was plain to one
and all, and their simultaneous cries of min-
gled amazement and rage were fairly drowned
by the roar that broke from the lips of Cap-
tain. Rattlin.

“Aft, every man of you!’’ he thundered,
leading the way revolver in hand. ‘“They’re
after the ship’s boat! ‘“‘Shoot them down
like dogs!’’

“Cast off that line, Chick,’’ Nick coolly com-
manded.

The afternoon sun was already running low,
and the stillness of nature was broken only
by io 3 fearful tumult aboard the motionless
vessel. nd

At her stern the tender floated on a sea as
calm as a millpond.

The painter had been loosely knotted over
the taffrail, and to “that Nick had referred in
his command to Chick.

As the gang of counterfeiters came rush-
ing aft, Chick sprang to obey.

Nick at the same time drew Nellie Riley into
a position to shield Chick’s movements, and
preclude a pistol shot without it endangered
the girl’s life.

“Stand here!’’ cried Nick, fiercely, clasping
her about the waist, and throwing her in
front of him. ‘Your life depends upon obe-
dience!’’

Such scenes, the deMtis of which occur sim-
ultaneously, can only be pictured piecemeal,

Nick had accomplished the move described,
and Chick had loosed the boat’s painter, be-
fore Rattlin, with the entire gang of des-
perate scoundrels at his heels, reached the
break of the after-deck.

Their mingled cries would almost beggar de-
scription, yet they were fairly topped by the
sudden command which thundered from the
lips of Nick Carter.

Still holding fasi to Nellie Riley, he met the
oncoming men with his revolver leveled, and
roared above ail the tumult:

“Fall back, there! Fall back, you knaves!
T’li drop the first man who sets foot on the
after-deck!”’

Even Rattlin shrank from the weapon, the
look on the face of Nick, and the resistless
import of ‘his attitude and words.

The situation was one which caught them
unprepared, and for a moment or two it
quelled them.

To have fired upon either detective without
taking an extremely risky chance of hitting

the girl was absolutely impossible.

“Got the line clear,. Chick?” Nick cried,
eo

‘*Yes

“Swing off the tender’s bow, and head her
for the shore.”

“T’ll have her ready. in a moment, Nick.”

“By Heaven, they'll escape us!’ thundered
Rattlin, with impotent fury. ‘‘Go through the
hold and to the cabin, some of you, and get a
range on them through the companion!”’

Half-a-dozen rushed away to obey.

“Lively, Chick!’ cried Nick, with his blazing
eyes never leaving the infuriated crowd of men
at the break of the after deck.

“She’s ready, Nick!”’

“Jump aboard and get out the oars. Make
sure the line is clear, and that all is in readi-
ness,’’ Nick coolly directed. ‘Then hold her
for me to jump aboard.”’

Chick instantly vanished over the taffrail,
and boarded the tender.

This episode, and the extraordinary cool-
ness with which it had been executed, seemed
to loose that desperate spirit in Rattlin which
briefly had been held at bay.

“Follow me, lads!’’ he roared, hauling up one
sleeve and fiercely gripping his revolver.
‘‘We’re done for if they escape! We must
down ’em in a body! Follow me!”’

With the last, he sprang furiously from the
waist and gained the after deck.

Bang!

Instantly Nick’s revolver had rung like thun-
der over the Vessel.

Rattlin threw up both hands, reeled for the
fraction of a second, then pitched headlong
backward into the arms of the men who
would have followed him.

It threw them into dismay and consternation
for the moment, and Nick at the same time
heard a cry from: Chick,

‘All ready, old man!”’

It came at a fortunate moment.

Before the report of Nick’s revolver had died
away, Nellie Riley fainted dead in his arms,
and he found he could not both support her
and cover with certainty the gang of men.

Instantly dropping her on hearing Chick’s
ery, he sprang back to the taffrail.

At the same moment Martin Riley, with face
turned livid on seeing his sister fall, bounded
to the deck.

Nick paused for an instant at the rail, and
fired point-blank at the young ruffian, shoot-
ing him through the breast and sending him
backward, ghastly and bleeding, among the
men in the waist.

In the consternation which followed, Nick
also sprang over the rail and into the tender,

“Tet her go, Chick!’ he coolly cried. ‘Pull
for your life!”

Chick bent to the oars, and sent the boat
spinning away from under the vessel’s stern.

Then Nick displayed again that heroic spirit
which invariably him at
such times. :

Crouching in’the boat in such a position that
Chick could not be possibly have been shot
while he rowed, the great detective whipped
out both revolvers and turned to face any
demonstration from the vessel’s deck.

It came quickly enough.

Vincent and Daly, with half-a-dozen others,
all with weapons drawn, came pouring to the
taffrail. , :

‘Mire on them!’ shrieked Vincent, like a man
appalled by the _increasing liability of their
escape. ‘Fire! Fire every man! A thousand
dollars to him who will fire and kill Nick Car-
ter.”’

Half-a-dozen weapons spoke in response to
Vincent’s furious command, and as many bul-
lets sang close about Nick’s head and body,
one even passing through his coat sleeve.

But not a ball reached the desired mark.

Then shot followed shot, Nick dropping two
of the men, in the meantime receiving a ball
through the crown of his hat.

characterized

 

he rowed, destroying the

But.the range momentarily became greater, |
and Chick now began rocking the boat while |
, i possibility of any-
thing like an accurate aim. }

Only a random shot then could reach them, |
nor did this occur; and within a short half-|

 

 

minute after boarding the tender, the boat |}
grounded harshly on the rocky shore. :
j

CHAPTER XVIII.
A NEW MOVE. .
As the tender ran her nose among the rocks |
there sounded from the sehooner’s deck a re- |

port louder than any before, and a bullet sang
by Nick’s ear and, with a dull thud, flattened |
itself against a bowlder on the shore.

It was rapidly followed by another and an-j;
other, none of which had more serious effect
yet they warned the detectives that their peril
was not wholly past.

Nick glanced back toward the vessel.

Jim Daly was standing on the after deck |}
with a repeating rifle, and from him the shots |
had come. ;
cnt ake to cover, Chick,’ cried Nick, coolly. |

They mean to drop us if they can.”

Evidently!’ exclaimed Chick, springing out
and hastening up the shore,

Nick followed closely, and in a moment they
had gained the upland and dashed into. the
shrubbery and scrub oaks skirting the wood-
land, and disappeared from view from the
schooner’s deck. .

From. their concealment, however, they
could easily watch the vessel and the move-
ments of those aboard her.

“There are times,’ Nick grimly laughed, as
he seated himself on a stump to observe what
followed, ‘‘when discretion is the better part
of valor.”’

“Decidedly so;’’ exclaimed Chick, wiping the
perspiration from his face. “‘They wouldn't
have done a thing to us, had they been able.’’

“They’d not have left us a foot to stand on.”

“They meant business, for a fact.”

“I should say so, Nick. It was a close call,
taking all the cireumstances together. We
were dead lucky to escape without a scratch.’’

“Yet I am sorry to have been forced to leave
them so abruptly, for it now compelis us to
do some of our work over again. But I left
my mark on more*than one of them.”’

“So I observed. Did you kill Rattlin?’’

‘I think not. I aimed only to-wing him, for
I have in store for him the pleasanter pros-
pect of about fifteen years at hard labor. I’m
not so sure about Riley and the others. It
was a case of hit ’em where I ‘could.”’

“They deserve all they received, whatever it
may have been.”

“That’s true,’’ said Nick, briefly. . ‘‘Hello,
they are getting a move on!’’

Chick parted the mask of shrubbery behind
which they had concealed themselves, and
gazed out toward. the vessel.

A renewed activity was apparent on her
decks.

Men were hurrying to and fro; stays were
being cast off;/the anchor was being heaved
short, the click-clack of the windlass reach-
ing the ears of the watching detectives; and
lively preparations were evidently being made
to get the schooner under way.

Amid those on the after deck they could
now see the towering figure of Captain Jack
Rattlin, issuing commands with about his}
customary amount of noise and bluster, which
went to show that the aim of Nick Carter had
been precisely what he had intended.

The boisterous skipper, however, now wore
about his head and brow a thick white ban-|
dage, which threw into sharp contrast his |
black hair and grim, dark countenance, and |
indicated that the ball from Nick’s revolver |
had come-within a hair of cracking his flinty
skull.

“They’re about to get under way,’’ observed
Nick, grimly watching the movements of the
crew.

“That's what they are doing.’’

‘Afraid, no doubt, that we may have
for assistance, with a view to securing
and their vessel.’’

‘“Probably.’’

‘“Humph! They need have no fear of that.’
“What are your plans?” :
“To run them down in a more crafty way.”
“How so?”

“By shaping my own conduct by that_which
most naturally will be theirs,’’ replied Nick.

“Can you anticipate that?’

“‘Easily.”’

“What's your idea?”

“To begin with,’’ repHed the detective, ‘‘they
will most likely assume that you followed me
to Cassidy’s place that night..and took advan-
tage of the talk they had about Dowd, to as-
sume that man’s name and character for the
purpose of going. aboard the vessel.”

“That's true, Nick.’’ : :

“They will naturally infer,’ continued Nick,
“that Dowd did not show up at Cassidy's
until after they had embarked. They will not
for a moment imagine that you had any in-
terview with him, and posted him off to Bos-
ton.”’

“Surely not.’’

“As a result, they will wonder what became
of Dowd, and will soon make some effort to
locate him, probably by applying to the same
parties or at the same place where he re-
ceived his instructions from Vincent, and
where he naturally would have returned after
missing thé vessel.” -

“By Jove, Nick, that’s right!” . ee

“Hence, the thing for us to do is to nail Tim
Dowd in Boston, find out. where Vincent, or
Rattlin, or Daly, may go in search of him,
and be there to meet them when they arrive.

“Wuarthermore,”’ added Nick, ‘‘they’ll not feel
easy while in doubt of Dowd, who is now in-
formed of their criminal business, and they
certainly will attempt-to look him up.

“Phere’s no doubt about that. .

“And we must be ready for them,’ said
Nick, grimly. “‘As far as we are concerned,
they will know that we have no further in-
formation than we had before, except what
little we acquired aboard the vessel. They'll
know we have discovered their game, but not
their true names; and, in fact, will think that
we are but little better off than we were be-
fore.”’ ‘ .

“True again, Nick °

“Hence, their perfectly-natural course will
be to dispose of this vessel and get another,
or so alter this one by such changes as would
prevent our identifying her from the exte-
rior or securing her through a general de-
scription. A coat of white paint, instead of

 

 

gone
them

s

 

”

} just

 

| York.

—

make a hunt for the railroad, and start for
New York City.”’

“The sooner the better, Nick.’’

“Come on, then.’’

A half-hour’s tramp through the woods
brought them to the line of the Long Island
Railroad, and within a half-mile of a station.
_ There a wait of an hour was necessary, but
it yet was daylight when they set foot in the
city, and returned to Nick’s home.

Under the plan arranged by the detective,
Chick that same night started for Boston, just
twenty-four hours after the departure of Tim
Dowd, and in pursuit of the latter.

It was decided not to arrest Dowd, nor to
needle@sly alarm him, but rather to secure
what information was possible before he
should have any appreciation of his precise
situation,

Nick feared that, should the fellow learn
how matters stood, he might refuse to
make any disclosures whatever.

_ Early the following morning Chick arrived
in Boston, and went at once to the sailors’
hotel in Hanover street.

it was then about seven o’clock.

Consulting the register in the office on the
second floor, one of the first names to meet
the detective’s gaze was that of the man he
was seeking.

And at the end of the signature on the
register, precisely as Chick had instructed,
Tim Dowd had rudely made the cross and

circle, which he had been told were the secret
signs of the gang of scoundrels with which he
had become identified.

Chick laughed when he saw them, and now
felt perfectly sure of securing his man.

It was eight o’clock, however, before Dowd
came down from his room and went in to
breakfast.

Chick had another laugh on beholding his
own hat and garments on the head and back
of the scamp, and for such a purpose as they
had been loaned; and, viewed by daylight,
Tim Dowd was not.a very brilliant specimen
of the genus homo.

Chick -waited until Tim had finished his
breakfast and came out into the office, when
he at once accosted him.

Tim Dowd bestowed a quick, suspicious
glance at the detective’s face, but Chick saw
at once that he was not recognized.

‘Well, Tim,’’ he softly remarked, drawing
the fellow to a seat in one corner of the room,

“T see you’ve made the cross and circle, as
instructed.”’

“Ay, sir, L did!’ exclaimed Dowd, at once
reassured, yet still regarding Chick most cu-
riously.

‘‘*Kelley hasn’t showed up, has he?’’

This was the fictitious name by which Chick
had told him one of their confederates might
approach him.

“No, sir, he hasn’t,’’ was the ready reply.
“TJ thought mebbe you was Kelley.’ :

“Kelley!’’ laughed Chick. ‘‘Where are your
eyes, man? You’d hardly do in some lines of
our business. [Tm Jim Daly, the man who
sent you on here night hefore last.’’

Dowd’s face underwent a great. change, and
he now burst out laughing.

“Sure, sir, I see you are now,’’ he cried,
eagerly. “‘But ’twas so dark down there by
| Cassidy’s I couldn’t see you over plain. But
I know the voice, sir, now.’

“Tt’s all right, you'll find.’’

“Sure, I’ve no doubt 0’ that, sir,’ said
Dowd, heartily. “But I thought you said
you’d not be here for a week, when the vessel
was to be brought round.’’

“That was my intention,’ rejeined Chick,

“but Vineent ordered a change of plan after
I saw you.”’
“Ts that so, sir?’

 

 

“Yes. The vessel will not come to Boston,
but is going to Norfolk.’

CAVE BIL PO

“Phat’s the how of it,” nodded Chick, in a
‘very friendly and confidential way. “So I
| was sent on to get you, and bring you to New

You see, Tim, we did not feel dead sure
that you’d get a letter if we sent one, so we
thought it best to take no chances.”

‘‘Ay, sir, that’s right. Yet I'd ha’ come on
at once, sir, had I got the letter.”

“Well, we wanted to make sure,” Chick
further explained. ‘“‘A handy man aboard ship,
and at the same time a man of the right
kind,’’ he added, significantly, “‘is not always
easily to be procured.”’

“You’re right, Mr. Daly.”

“So I came on- here after you. We don’t
mind the expense, you know, since money

comes easy.’’

“Sure enough!’ laughed Dowd, quite void of
any suspicion. ‘“‘And when do we go back?”

“By train this morning,’’ replied Chick. ‘‘I
have another man to meet in New York at six
this afternoon, and we can just make it. To-
morrow we go to Norfolk.”’

“Fiow long afore the train starts, sir?’

‘‘Nearly an hour. If you’ve got anything to
make ready, you’d better set about it, and also
settle your bill here.”

“Ay, sir, I'll do so at once.

It took Tim Dowd a quarter of an hour to
tie up his parcel and pay his score, and. then

9

he accompanied Chick from the house, and
they started for the station,

They. hit the nine o’clock train, and soon
after three that -afternoon arrived at the

Grand Central.

By pre-arrangement Chick was to meet Nick
in an east side saloon at six, and there they
were to work their game with the unsuspect-
ing seaman.

Chick devoted the leisure time to put a
good dinner and several glasses of beer into
Tim Dowd’s stomach, as being the surest
means of reaching his heart and head.

Then they ‘started for the saloon to meet

Nick.
At precisely six o’clock they entered the
place, and Chick, with a significant nod to

his companion, led the way into a back room.
At the single table the place afforded, a
rough-looking fellow in a blue shirt and seedy
garments was seated, apparently in moody
contemplation of a half-emptied glass of beer.
‘This was Nick Carter. ;
TO BE CONTINUED.

RIEPANS

 

 

 

black, and a few other alterations, would ef-
fect that, for there are hundreds of schooners
about resembling her.”
‘*All of that.”’ f
“As a matter of probability, furthermore,
they will not be nearly as mueh alarmed as
they have been, wee sar come to size up
‘he situation more calmly.”’ ;
; “There is no getting around that reasoning,
Nick,” Chick rejoined, approvingly. You
have hit the nail on the head.

“Then, again, the very fact that I took such |

long chances to discover the truth about them

will indicate to them that i am not nearly as}

well Ip Oe they have feared.”

“Sure it will.’’

“So that’s the way the case stands at pres-
ent, and we still have a bad mess to clean up.
That's why I am sorry we have to leave them

abruptly.” ee j
8°. .There ka no alternative, Nick, Z Chick re-
plied, with a grave head shake. They cer-
tainly would have done up both of us.” :

“Oh, there’s no doubt about that,’ Nick
readily admitted. ‘‘A gentlemanly retreat was
our only course. Hello! there goes the fore-

HY?
eMingled with his words there sounded the
ereaking of the schooner’s blocks, as the hal-
yards rove through them, ,
of foresail spread its folds above the vessel’s
deck.

The mainsail followed a moment later,
close upon this the jib and topsails.

Before the last were fairly set the anchor
had been broken away and tripped; and the
trim vessel, the scene of so many possibilities
and perils, wore off like a eraft suddenly en-
dowed with life, and caught the light breeze

port.
“Beaded sharply up, with sheets close-hauled,
a southerly course was at once shaped, and
the schooner stood straight out over the broad
Atlantic, much as if the Antartic regions were
her destination, and as if Long Island and its
ghores held not the slightest interest for her
or any soul aboard of her,

“One might think from that move that she
was off on a South Polar expedition,” Nick
grimly observed. “But I guess she’ll not en-
tirely desert these waters.”

Chick laughed lightly, but made no answer.

The two detectives sat down upon the shore
and watched her until she was nearly hull-
down below the horizon, also enjoying the
rest and reaction from the late perilous ex-
citement, and not a whit discouraged by the
outlook of the case.

“Well,” said Nick, finally, “‘we may as

[ a $ through me, no matter where located,

Send acre and price and learn’my successful
method for finding Bares. W. M. OSTRANDER,
North American Building, Philadelphia, Pa.

and

well

 

 

Buyers for Farms

or other real estate may be fouud

 

Mention Mew York Weekly.

and the broad sweep.)

I was troubled with pains in
my back, dizziness and burning |
‘in my stomach. I had no ap-
| petite, could not sleep. A sister
|| of mine advised me to try Rip-
|jans Tabules. They have en-
tirely cured me. I take one
levery night and morning and
they just keep me right and
regular. :

 

At druggists.
The Five-Cent packet is enough for an ordinary
occasion. ‘The family bottle, 60 cents, contains
a supply for a year.

 

 

 

 

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Y Sold by all Druggists. Ohieheater Chemical Oca.,
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Mention New York Weekly.

OPIU AA WHISKY ong Gther drug

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re mie Se

SING A SONG.

BY R, M’CLAIN FIBLDS.

If you'll and refuse the
tears,

If you'll sing a song as you go along,

In the face of the real or the fancied wrong,

In spite of the doubt if you’ll fight it out,

And show a heart that is brave and stout;

If you'll force the ever-reluctant cheers _

That the world denies when a coward cties,

To give to the man who bravely tries.

And you'll win success with a little song—

If you'll sing the song as you go along!

laugh at the jeers

If you'll sing a song as you plod along,

You’ll find that the busy, rushing throng

Will catch the strain of the glad refrain;

That the sun will follow the blinding rain;

That the clouds will fly from the blackened
sky;

That the stars will come out by and by.

And you’ll make new friends, till hope de-
scends

From where the pacid rainbow bends.

And all because of a little song—

{f you'll sing the song as you plod along!

If you'll sing a song as you trudge along,

You’ll see that the singing will make
strone.

And the heavy load and the rugged road

And the sting and the stripe of the tortuous
goad

Will soar with the note that you set afloat;

That the beam will change to a trifling mote;

That the world is bad when you are sad,

And bright and beautiful when glad.

That all you need is a little song—

If you'll sing the song as you trudge along!

you

THE MORTGAGED

BY EMMA GARRISON

HOME.

JONES.

‘More money? Why, you think it grows on
trees, don’t you, Bess? It was only last week
that I gave you fifty dollars.’

“So you did, John, but it is all gone, and this
is market morning.”’

“All gone, of course! You women are always
preaching to us of extravagance, if we happen
to indulge in a fifteen-cent drink,.or a ten-
cent cigar, but you can get away with fifty
dollars in a week’s time and have nothing to
show for it.’’

““That’s true, especially when one has a fam-
ily like ours to provide for—four growing chil-
dren, besides ourselves and the servant, and
provisions all quite high. The money slips
away, and, aS you say, there’s little to show
for it: but I certainly do not waste a cent.
You see, dear,’’ and the little woman counted
on her fingers, ‘‘fifteen dollars went for cloth
for your suit, to begin with; five more for
cloth for the boys; then the material for your
shirts was five more, and Letty’s wages made
six, making thirty-one; and that left me only
reaver for the table, and out of that I bought
coal——’”’

“Oh, my dear, hush! I. don't want you to
give an account of what you spend—nothing of
the sort; I assure you. ‘Tis as much yours as
mine. Spend it as you like.” Mrs.- Braxton
smiled.

“TI always try to spend it to. the*best advan-
tage, John, and for such things as will make
my family comfortable. Suppose for the com-
ing week we both take the same amount, and
on Saturday night compare notes.’’

“Oh, pshaw! what’s the use?’

“To see who spends’ the most.’’

“Why you do, Bess, of course. I spend little
or nothing on myself. There isn’t a more eco-
nomical man in town.”

“Very well, let's do as I say.
you let me have to-day?’’

“Here's fifty more, Bess.”

“Thank you, and how muchshave you?”

“T've thirty-five—the sum total of my posses-
sions till payday comes roand, and that’s a
fortnight off. You must make the money go
as far as you can; Bess. I wouldn’t be hard
on you for the worid, but I’m afraid you are a
bit extravagant, and times are awfully hard.’’

Mr. Braxton went downtown to his office,
and his wife went to market with a quiet smile
on her face.

The week went by, bringing the usual family
casualties. Two of the children required new
schoolbooks, one a pair of shoes, Neddy’s boots
had to be half-soled, and baby took the croup,
and incurred a doctor’s bill, and all these sun-
dries were paid out of mamma’s pocket. In
addition Mr. Braxton had company to dine,
which involved some extra expense.

The week ended, and Saturday night camé.
At supper the father’s brow was clouded. He
had no smile for his wife, no pleasant word for
his children.

“What is it, dear?’ his wife asked, when the
table was cleared away, and the little ones
were in bed. ‘‘What troubles you?”

“Oh, Bess, it’s that confounded mortgage;
it'll be the ruin of us yet. It gives me the
blues every time I think of it.”

“Tt’s a great pity, John, we ever incumbered
ourselves with it.”

‘That's a fact. "Twill leave the children
without a roof to shelter ’em one of these days.
But how the deuce could we help it? We were
compelled to have money.’’

“Yes, after the debts were incurred. Some
of them might have been avoided.” Ase

“Some of them? What do you mean? Why
in thunder don’t you avoid them, then? You
preach, but you don’t practice, Bess. How_am
i to Save money when you're always spending

+4 OF

How much can

“JT don’t spend a cent more than is needful
John, as you'll see presently. This is our night
for comparing notes, you remember. Here’s
my week’s account all down in black and
white, and I’ve just twenty dollars. Now for
yours, John.” :

Mr. Braxton dréw forth his pocketbook with
alacrity.

“Dear me!

assure you.

Thirty-five

I’ve spent little or nothing, Bess,
Let’s see—how much had I?”
dollars, John.”
“So I had. Well, here’s ten,
teen dollars. ‘Where's the rest?
IT ean’t have lost it.’’

“Tt isn’t Hkely, John.’’

“Well, what’s become of it; Bess?
let you have it?”

‘No; you’ve spent it, John.’

“Nio, I haven’t spent it. I tell you I’ve spent

nothing this week.”’

‘Well, count up your expenses, John. Pll
put down the items. What did you spend on
Monday ?’’

“On Monday? Well, I had—let’s see—three
drinks. I usually have three drinks a day.”’

“How much was that?. Forty-five cents?”

“No. Barnes and Packard were with me in
the morning.”’

‘And you paid for all? That was one dolla1
and thirty-five cents, then; and how much for
cigars?”’

“Well, we had half a dozen.”

“Ten cents apiece?’

“No, Bess. What do you take me for? I
can’t smoke a common cigar—twenty cents.”

“Very well, a dollar and twenty more. Well,
what else?” S

“Nothing of any account—only lunch, that’s
seventy-five. And, by George, I forgotthe sup-
per at Frizbie’s; that cost us three dollars a
head.”’

“Yes, and you've been to the theatre, haven't
you? One dollar and a half more——’"’

“ “More than that, Bess. We dropped into Vi-

”

fifteen,
By

seven-
George!

t haven't

>

vant’s for a drink

“Which cost you-——’’

“Well, there were some six or seven clerks
along, and a fellow hates to be mean. I got
rid of over five dollars that night, Bess.”’

Bess laughed, and threw aside her pencil.

‘No need to take down any more items, John
—you see how it goes. You haven't lost your
money; you’ve spent it.”’

“T believe Ihave, Bess. I’m done. I’ll never
say another word to you about extravagance
while I live.’’

“But I’ve something to say to you,. John.
“You're anxious to be rid of this mortgage,
you say. Suppose you let me pay it off?”

‘You, Bess? Why it’s nine hundred dollars,
little woman.”’

“JT know, and you’ve spent eighteen dollars
this week; you spend as much, and more some-
times, every week, John.”’

“Oh, no, Bess.”’

“Well, hear. me out! Promise to give up the
cigars and the drinks, and the wine suppers,
John, for two years, and let me manage the
money. I don’t want to deprive you of any
comfort, but I’m ‘sure you'll feel all the better
for the sacrifice, and we ‘ought ‘to think of the
children, John, and be willing to deny our-
selves for their: sakes. You'll promise, won’t
you, dear?”

John looked at her with her great pile of

 

mending on her lap, her pretty face growing

wan and worn with household care, and his
heart smote him.

“Yes, I'll promise, Bess. I’ve been a selfish
fellow, but I never thought of it till now. Poor,
pale little wife, will you forgive me?’’

Bess answered him with a kiss, and on the
morrow the new life began.

No more waiting dinners, no more late hours
at night, no more unpaid pills. The house-
hold matters went on like clockwork; and the
old girlish bloom and brightness came back to
the wife's face.

The table was never stinted. It was abun-
dantly and neatly spread, and they had
their wonted pleasure, too, in the way of books
and amusements, and all the members of the
family were genteelly clad.

“How nicely we get on, Bess, and how fresh
and bright you look. If it wasn’t for that
confounded mortgage now!”’

“Never mind the mortgage, John; only stick
to your promise,”

“J will, Bess. It goes hard sometimes, but
Eide i."

The two years ended.

“John, here’s some spare money. You were
wishing for some yesterday to invest in that
new association.”’

“Good gracious, Bess! Four hundred dollars!
How have you managed to save it? But the
association is not to be thought of; we must
let it go toward the mortgage.”’

“The mortgage is paid, John—our home is
our own, again.”

He looked at the papers she laid before him.

“Where did you get the money, Bess? Have
you borrowed?”

“No, saved it. Fifteen dollars a week counts
up, John, in two years. You see now, dear,
what it costs a man to drink and smoke.”’

“Yes, Bess, I see; I see something else, too,
what it does for a man to have a forbearing
and faithful wife. I’m done, little woman;
you've cured me. I sha’n’t mortgage your
home again.”’

PLEASANT PARAGRAPHS.

BY CHARLES W, FOSTER.

A SAVING EXTRAVAGANCE.

Mr. Brickrow—‘“‘I don’t see how you can af-
ford to pay such an awful price for a country-
house every summer,”

Mr. Sharpchap—‘‘Simple enough, old boy. We
can’t get servants out there, and my wife has
to do her own work.”

FAIR BNOUGH.

Customer—‘‘How is this? You have charged
me twice the usual price for shaving.’’

Barber—‘‘My razor was dull, and it took me
twice as long.”

EVERYBODY BUSY.
Mr. Gotham (at the Charleston Fair)—‘‘Mag-
nificent exposition, isn’t it?’’
Mr. Lakeside—‘*‘Don’t know, had
time to see it yet.’’
“But you live here?” :
“Yes, that’s the trouble. I-seN sandwiches.”

ONE OF SEVERAL.
Young Caller—‘“‘I’d like to get a job as news-
paper correspondent at the Charleston fair.’’
Great Editor (name of city omitted out of
consideration for some of the more patriotic
inhabitants)—‘‘Ever have any experience in
journalism?”

Haven't

“Ever been to Charleston?”

**Nope.”’ aps

“Know anything about the United States
outside of this town?’ ,

*“Nopy.

“Care anything about it?”

“Nixy.”’

“You'll do.”

ARE WE BARBARIANS?

Missionary—‘Why did you not bring your
wife with you to this country?”

Chinese Heathen—“‘I flaidee I die, then some
Melican man mally her, and he balbarian, and
makee her do man’s work—washee and scrub-
bee and cookee.”’

ONE ON HUBBY.

Plusband (anxiously)—‘‘You should not carry
your pocketbook in your hands,”
Wife (reassuringly)—“Ou, it

heavy.”

isn’ at ail
SHE READ THE PAPERS.

Housekeeper—‘‘Twist the necks of
chickens until they are dead,’

New Girl—‘‘Please, mum, I’d rather
their heads off, and have it over quick.’

Housekeeper—“‘Horrors, no! Suppose some
one should be murdered and the detectives
should find our hatchet with blood on it. We'd
all be hanged. I guess you haven’t been very
long in this free country.”

those

: chop

THEY WERE NOT VOTING.

Foreign Visitor—‘Ah, you have a beautiful
country and a noble system of government—
every man a freeman and all equal. What is
that great crowd about that hotel? Are they
voting for and against Some new law?”

American Citizen—‘*N-o—ahem—a _ prince
stopping there.”

LIKELY TO WIN.
Jinks—“Got a case in court, eh?’
Winks—“‘Yes; and I’ll win, too.’’
“Both law and justice on your side, I sup-
pose?”
“Um!
the highest priced lawyers.

LOOSE ENGLISH.
Editor—““What do you mean by using such
an expression as ‘A Murder Mystery?’ ”’
Reporter—“‘What’s wrong with it?’
Editor—‘‘It’s tautological. All murders
mysteries nowadays,”’

LONGING FOR ROYALTY.

First Freeman (laying down a newspaper)—
“It has been said that every American is a
king by birthright; but, after all, there’s noth-
ing like being born to a genuine throne.”’

Second Freeman—‘What have you discov-
ered?’’

First Freeman—“‘The paper says that Em-
peror William has ordered the court chaplains
to cut down their sermons to fifteen minutes
each.’’

is

I don’t know as to that, but I’ve got

”

are

SELECTED PLEASANTRIES.

THE Kitrre.—‘‘What’s that fellow doing out
there in mid-ocean with a kite?’

“He’s trying to tap the wireless
Cleveland Plain Dealer,

QuITE WELL Known.—Lawson—‘Biackson
tells me that he is pretty well known out in
your town.”’

Dawson—“I should say he was. Why, there
isn’t a man in the place that would lend him
five dollars.’’—Somerville Journal,

line.”’—

How SHE ENJOYED. It.—Patience—“Did you
enjoy the drama last night?’

Patrice—‘‘Enjoy it! I should just say I did!
Why, I cried nearly the whole time!’’—Yonkers
Statesman.

THERE ARE EXcCEPTIONS.—Mrs,
“Do you know I hate a liar?’

Aunt Hannah—‘‘And yet, Mary, how sweetly
you smiled when Mr. Soper declared you didn’t
look a day older than thirty-five.’’—Boston
Transcript.

A CoRRECTION.—Neighbor—“‘The
fers from sleeplessness, does it?’’

Mr. Jeroloman (haggard and hollow eyed)—
‘I didn’t say it suffered. It seems to enjoy it.
I’m the-one that suffers.*’—Chicago Tribune.

THE VOICE OF EXPERIENCE.—‘‘Papa,” said
the small boy, looking up from his book;
“what is a curio?’

“A curio,’”’ replied the father thoughtfully,
‘fs something that costs ten times what it’s
worth.’’—Chicago Post.

Manning—

baby suf-

No Data.—Mrs. Whyte—‘'‘Do you know any-
thing about the people who have moved in
next door?’’

Mrs. Browne—‘‘No, it was dark when the
furniture .wagons brought their goods, and
they haven’t hung out a washing yet.”’—
Somerville Journal, :

CLUB EXPERIENCHS.—‘‘Rounder has written
. rather .clever little book, ‘Don’ts for Club
Men.’ ”’

“Huh! The don'ts don’t worry me half as
much as the dues.’’—Philadelphia Press,

CRUSHING AN ActToR.—The Tragedian—‘My
parents tried hard to keep me from becoming
an actor.”

The Villain—‘‘I congratulate them on their
success.’’—Tidbits.

THE ORATOR’S TRICK.—‘'Why do you put so
many Latin quotations

 

into your speeches?” :

ei

asked the friend. “I’m sure most of us don’t
understand them.”

“That’s just the point. Misery loves com-
pany. I want to be sure there is some one be-
sides myself who doesn’t know precisely what
I am talking about.’’—Washington Star.

THE GaM® oF FamE.—Scribbs—"“Do you think
your new novel will sell?”

Stubbs—‘“‘Sell? yes, siree; I’ve hired a Chi-
cago man to come forward and claim the
plot.’’—Detroit Free Press,

THE COLONEL’S SON-IN-LAW.

BY HARRY.

ee

Colonel Mansfield was not only, a martinet
in his regiment, but was also a Tartar in the
privacy of his family. By his strict devotion
to the rules of propriety he had earned for
himself the sobriquet of “Old Btiquette.”
Obedience to his least whim he demanded
from the latest recruit, and he also claimed
it from his only daughter, Gwendoline, a pretty
girl of nineteen. The fierce expression of his
eyes beneath the contracted bushy gray eye-
brows was sufficient to quell any mutiny
either in his regiment or in his family.

One afternoon in July, however, as the
colonel journeyed down to Westvale with the
object of giving his august presence to Mrs.
Seymour’s fancy fair and floral féte, his
thoughts were busy with a case of insubordi-
nation which had recently occurred and had
considerably annoyed him. Before him rose
the image of his daughter, Gwendoline, mutely
defying him to break off the acquaintance be-
tween herself and a certain Mr. Harold Arm-
strong, the only son of the woman who, in her
younger days, had dared to jilt the colonel.

“Insolent puppy!’’ the enraged father had
exclaimed on receipt of Mr. Armstrong’s let-
ter asking the colonel’s consent to a marriage
between himself and Miss Mansfield. ‘‘Had I
known you were to meet that fellow in Larch-
mont I would not have allowed you to visit the
Osbornes.”

“But you have never seen Harold,’ said
Gwendoline. “If you only knew him——

“Know him!’ thundered. the colonel, “I
wouldn’t condesecend to touch the fellow with
a pair of tongs! When you marry, Gwendo-
line, you will marry a man in my own pro-
fession, not a fellow who hasn’t brains enough
to get a commission!”

At this sneering allusion referred to the
young man’s failure to explain a ree
ous problem to the satisfaction of his exam-
iners, Gwendoline Mansfield could only close
her mouth tightly and look blankly through
the parlor. window. ;

But all these disagreeable reminiscences dis-
appeared from the colonel’s mind when he
found himself on the velvety lawn amiably
chatting to his hostess, a pretty woman at-
tired as a Watteau shepherdess.

“Where is Gwendoline?’ inquired Mrs. Sey-
mour, looking anxiously round, “She dis-
tinctly promised to come, colonel!”

“Her grandmother arrived unexpectedly to-
day and detained her,” said the colonel, care-
lessly. He remembered his daughter’s undis-
guised annoyance at thé appearance of her
visitor. ‘“‘I was to tell you that she was bit-
terly disappointed at not being able to come,
and, in fact,’’ added the old soldier with a
slight frown, “had I not insisted upon Gwen-
doline doing her duty, she would have accom-
panied me here despite her grandmother!”’

“How tiresome—I mean, how very, very dis.
appointed I am!*’ said Mrs. Seymour, biting
her pretty lips in vexation. ‘I so particularly
wanted Gwendoline this afternoon!”

“Why? asked the colonel. He was rather
annoyed that his hostess should express more
disappointment at the loss of his daughter's
society than pleasure at his oWn appearance.
“Gwendoline can come tO see you some other
day, while I—”

“My dear colonel, I am only too charmed
that you at least were able to get away!” in-
terrupted the Watteau shepherdess. “It was
only that—— However, we must contrive to
amuse you this afternoon. I want you to en-
joy yourself.”’

As the colonel’s one unsuspected weakness
in life was a flirtation with a pretty woman,
he fully appreciated the bewitching smile and
glance which accompanied Mrs, Seymour’s re-
mark. >

“In your society I
myself,” he said, gallantiy,
his superior height. “Ati
seems very pleasani.* —*

With a wave of this hand he indicated the
gayly-decked tents which dotted the lawn and
the throng of masqueraders in fancy dress
passing to and fro. :

“So glad you like it!” said his hostess, smil-
ingly. “‘But I shall have to run away, colonel,
Now let me think how you can amuse your-
self best during my absence.”

She paused a moment with her eyes fixed
upon her buckled shoe.

“Ah, have it!’ she went on, laughingly.
‘“‘When you have spoken to Mrs. Farthingham,
who is very jealously eying me fer detaining
you so long, you must go and have your for-
tune told.» I have specially engaged a famous
gypsy. Then you must come to me and tell
me all she says!”’ 3

With a merry laugh the Watteau shepherd-
ess tripped away, leaving the gratified colonel
to propitiate the imaginary wrath of Mrs.
Farthingham. As the afternoon was remark-
ably sultry, the gallant cavalier easily induced
his companion to linger over the iced cham-
pagne beneath the shade of the chestnut tree,
and it was not.wntil the shadows. began to
lengthen that the colonel found himself once
more alone, and somewhat hazy as to the
exact. promise he had made to the pretty
widow.

At that moment the few drops of rain from
the ‘rapidly-clouding sky betokened a heavy
shower, and the colonel, anxious to avoid a
wetting, looked round for the nearest shelter.
A little further on stood a Small tent upon
whose summit floated a flag bearing, among
sundry mystical hieroglyphics, the words,
“The Gypsy Carmenia.”’

“Any port in a storm!’* muttered the colonel,
raising the flap and entering the somewhat
dark interior. “I can spend the time in hav-
ing my fortune told, and it will please Mrs.
Seymour.” ,

At this instant his foot tripped over a stool
which was invisible in the semi-darkness, and
he only saved himself from a fall by catching
convulsively at the nearest object.

An audible anathema from the visitor, a
muffled cry from the unseen Object, and two
people were locked for a moment in a tight
embrace,

“T beg your pardon,’ growled the colonel,
extricating himself from the arms which en-
folded him, “but it was this confounded—I
mean the tent was too dark for me to see
where I was going!”’

By this time his eyes had grown more used
to the darkness, and the colonel now dimly saw
the person he had so hastily clutched.

From the flashing gray eyes beneath the
perfect eyebrows and the play of the: muscles
round the well-shaped mouth, the gypsy Car-
menia appeared to resent what she apparently
considered the colonel’s clumsiness... Draped in
a long scarlet. robe, knotted fantastically at
the waist, with long black tressés sweeping
over her Shoulders, she looked imposing and
picturesque. ;

“Come, come, don’t he angry!” said the
colonel, turning. round s0 that the light fell
on his rubicund visage. . “Sit down and tell
me my fortune, there’s a good girl!”’

His equanimity had been somewhat restored
by the appearance of this handsome gypsy of
three or four and twenty, and the. colonel
could now afford to. smile “affably. As he
spoke he pointed to a kind of dais covered
with a leopard skin which stood at the far end
of the tent in semi-darkness.

An unintelligible: murmur, which the colonel
assumed to be gypsy gibberish, fell from the
lady’s lips. The next moment a smile appeared
on the olive-hued face, revealing a set of
white even teeth: :

“Come!” she said, with something of the pro-
fessional whine in her rich tones. ‘‘The poor
gypsy is honored... The senor shall hear his
fate from Carmenia!”

She held out an inviting hand and ascended
the steps to the dais...As the colonel seated
himself by her side, Carmenia’s gaze was fixed
on an ancient silver coin which hung from
her visitor's watch chain.

“Want your hand crossing, of course?’ said
the colonel, diving into his. pocket. ‘‘Here’’—
handing his. companion half-a-dollar—‘‘you
should give me a good fortune for this!”’

Carmenia shook her héad. -*Nwo,” she said,
waving away the proffered ~money, ‘the
-gypsy’s hand must “be crossed with luck-
money. That is thescoin for fortune’’—point-
ing to the bent, ancient .coin.

“All right,” said. the colonel, beginning to
detach the coin from his chain. ° ‘But I.must
have it back again—I couldh’t part with it on
any account.’’. ... ST ees :
. The gypsy’s gray eyes surveyed the colonel
Rae something of a bold coqueétry in their

ep + Sd ‘ : ngs

“Carmenia’s secrets are not won by gold,”
she said, edging nearer her companion. ‘This
jucky coin alone. will revéal’ the: future.”’

“*Pon my word, she’s a remarkably hand-

”
73

should always enjoy
looking down from
this kind of thing

 

; scoundrel!’’

 

ae

some girl,’’ thought the colonel, as the for-
tune-teller held out her hand for the ancient
coin and smiled bewitchingly at him. “And
she has an eminently kissable mouth!”

By this time the coin was detached from its
pec, Soe the gypsy held her palm to re-
ceive it,

yt Sepesrier vas is no robbery,’"’ said the gal-.
lant colonel, with a sly twinkle of his eye.
“I lend you the coin, and you-——’

He paused expressively, bent suddenly for-
ward, and, as he placed the coin in her hand,
he kissed Carmenia full on the mouth.

For an instant the gypsy recoiled, but the
next moment her head sank gently on the
colonel’s shoulder, and her raven hair streamed
across his breast.

“You’re a jolly good-looking girl!’ said the
colonel, tightening his hold round the gypsy’s
waist. ‘“‘I’d bet those eyes of yours have done
some damage among your own tribe! Come,
tell me how many lovers you have!”

Carmenia gave him a coquettish look, and
then lowered her head demurely.

“The sehor knows how t@ flatter,’’ she said,
hha a, low voice. “But Carmenia has no
overs!

The colonel twirled his mustache with his
disengaged hand, and smiled complacently at
his companion.

“You don’t expect me to believe that story?”
he said with an insinuating glance. ‘Were I
pe of your tribe you shouldn’t be minus a
over!”’

‘“‘What! Could the sefior love a gypsy girl?’
asked Carmenia, as she allowed her head to
sink again on the colonel’s shoulder. “Am I
indeed so handsome in his eyes?”’ ;

the colonel’s motto was thoroughness
and as Carmenia’s good looks really please
him, by way of answer -he had no hesitation
ia implanting another kiss on the gypsy’s

“What was that!’ exclaimed the colonel,
suddenly, ‘I certainly heard a laugh. Is there
any one else in the tent?’

“No, sefior. You must have made a little
mistake. It was the rain. -Hark!”

And outside the rain still poured down in
torrents,

“Now tell me my fortune!” said the colonel,
his fears of an eavesdroppeér being allayed.
“Is it the fair or the dark women who is to
wreck wd happiness ?’’

Solemnly the gypsy took his hand and
scrutinized the lines on the palm.

“T see a disagreement about @ love affair
with a fair woman,’’ she said, slowly. ‘But
she is not your wife—you have a daughter,
perhaps?’”’ : :

“By Jove, yes!’ said the colonel, sharply,
as though he suddenly recalled the fact. ‘She
wants to marry a man I detest!’’

“Hal” exclaimed Carmenia, quickly. “But
it is written that you will give your consent.
Fate has decreed it.’’

‘““Never!’’ roared the colonel. ‘Before I gave
my consent to Gwendoline’s marriage I would
sooner marry—you!”’

Carried away by his anger, the colonel
Scarcely realized the sense of his words. But
as Carmenia, with a tender look, folded her
arms round his neck and whispered—‘‘Ah, so
the sefior loves Carmenia!” the unfortunate
man suddenly grasped the situation.

“And will you marry me, the poor gypsy?”
said Carnzenia, stroking his cheek. “In our
tribe we love at first sight. And your heart
Peet Foren to me at once. Was it not so, my
ove?

The colonel’s terror increased.

“Great heavens, she imagines I have pro-
posed to her!’’ he thought in fearful agitation.
“What a confounded scrape! Will she be
oe off? Oh, if any of the regiment knew

is!’?

“And when will you make me your wife?
To-morrow ?’”’

“My good girl,” cried the colonel,
have entirely misunderstood me! never
asked you to marry me. I—I—’’ He stopped
short, As “his words fell on the gypsy’s ear
she jumped down from the dais.

*‘What!’’ she cried, with flashing eyes, “the
sefior takes back his word? But I will tell
my patroness of this insult, and she shall
avenge me!”

As though to carry out her intention, Car-
menia strode toward the door.

“Great heavens, she’s going to tell Mrs.
Seymour!. Look here!’ said the agitated war-
rior, clutching Carmenia’s shoulder while she
confronted him with a haughty stare. ‘‘Be @
sensible girl and listen to me for a moment.
You know it was all a joke’’—his voice quiv-
ered—‘‘but of course’—with a nervous smile—
“Tam willing to pay you handsomely for keep-
ing your tongue still. What is your price?’

“Do you think Carmenia is to be bought?”
asked the gypsy, in a lofty tone: “And
yet——” She looked down at the floor for a
moment, ‘I will Keep silence upon one con-
dition!’’

The- colonel breathed more freely and
laxed his hold.

“What is it?” he asked, unconsciously
thrusting his hand into his pocket and jingling
some loose coin.

“That you give an unqualified consent to
your daughter’s marriage with Harold Anm-
strong. Stay, colonel Mansfield!’ continued
the gypsy, in sharp tones, as the old soldier
was about to give vent to his anger. ‘‘Further
concealment is useless, and this masquerade
may end. Harold Armstrong, step forth!’’

With a sudden gesture Carmenia had re-
moved a raven wig, had relieved herself of
the red robe, and stood revealed to the as-
tcnished colonel as a singularly handsome girl.
By her side stood a broad-shouldered, stalwart
young fellow, whose blue eyes twinkled with
merriment.

“What am I to understand by this con-
founded mummery?” gasped the colonel,

“You are to understand this, my dear future
father-in-law. All well-laid schemes do not
gang a-gley, and ours is one that has suc-
ceeded. This is my sister, Camilla Armstrong,
Colonel Mansfield, and.you have been the vic-
tim of a little conspiracy devised by Mrs. Sey-
mour, Camilla and your very humble and
henceforth dutiful servant, H'arold Armstrong.
At first my sister did not relish the rdle for
which she had been cast, but, reflecting that
she would soon be connected with you by
marriage, and that I should be secreted in the
tent, an unseen witness of your loverlike at-
titude, she consented, and, as you will admit,
she has played the part admirably. All that
is required to finish the little comedy is your
consent to accept me as Gwendoline’s us-
band. She is not here to fill in the picture, so
that we could ring down the curtain on your
paternal blessing, but. we'll waive that little
point. What do you Say, colonel?”

“That you are a cheat, a trickster, a

“you

re-

“Gently, gently, sir!” said Harold, calmly.
“Strategy is not alone for you sons of Mars.
Cupid claims a right to look in when -that
game is being played. What is fair in war is
fair in love. Remember—I do not care to
threaten, but what would the regiment say
when they learned that their colonel had
capitulated to the charms of a gypsy maiden,
and had given her a lucky Coin as a love
token?”’

One brief moment of hesitation, and-the un-
happy colonel, quivering with rage and morti-
fication, said—‘‘I accept the condition—give me
back the coin!”’

“Old Etiquette’ is now completely recon-
ciled to his son-in-law, but he is always seized
with a sudden and violent fit of coughing when
the slightest allusion is made to fortune-tell-
ing, and will not even tolerate a “gypsy”
table in the rooms he may occupy.

—_—__—_—__ ><

Items of Interest.

A submarine telephone cable connects Brus-
sels with London, :

A first-class ocean steamer requires the
services of about 120 firemen.

In Rotomahona, New Zealand, there is an
immense geyser, which covers an area an
acre in extent, and constantly throws columns
of water to vast heights, some of them
ascending 300 feet, with clouds of steam which
go much higher.

Miss Versa Hollenbeck, at the age of sixteen,
is an enthusiastic evangelist of the Holiness
Christian Church, and is the pastor of a con-
gregation at Sullivan, Ind. Her extraordinary
elequence and zeal have been the means of
converting many persons.

Bugs are eating the First Presbyterian
Church, of Middletown, Ohio.. The insects are
of the beetle species, and bore holes in the
stones of which the edifice is composed. The
stones are crumbling, and many of the holes
are large enough to admit a lead pencil.

An inquisitive young gentleman in Odessa,
Mo., met this advertisement in a local paper:
“Young man, some woman dearly loves you.
Would you know who she is? Send ten cents
to Occult Diviner. Address as below, and learn
her name.’ He sent the money, and received
this answer: ‘‘Your mother.”

Lady Sophia Cecil, the last survivor of the
historic ball given at Brussels on the eve of
the. battle of Waterloo, by the Duchess ~-of

_—

 

 

 

Richmond, has just died, in London.

She was,

Vol. &57-No. 24

2 ee
the daughter of the duchess, and at the time
of the ball was six years of age. She had
been banished to bed as the festivities were
beastie. but managed to slyly peep at the
stately dances from time to time.

The carrying of firearms in Russia is only
permitted after an official investigation of tke
character of the person who requests the
privilege. His name and the number of the
Weapon are recorded. Sheuld he afterward
desire to dispose of the weapon he must notify
the authorities and cause the transfer to be
entered on the public records,

The yakamik or trumpeter of Venezuela, a .
fowl of the crane species, is a bird of extraor-
dinary intelligence. The natives use it instead
of sheep dogs for guarding and herding their
flocks. It is said that however far the yaka-
mik may wander with the flocks, it never
fails to find its way home at night, driving
before it all the creatures intrusted to its care:

A pet monkey is owned by Dr. James Nev-
ins Hyde, of Chicago. A short time ago the
animal discovered a bottle of brandy in the
doctor’s laboratory and drank considerable of
it. In a Httle while he felt so jolly and mis- .
thievous that he resolved to paint the town
red. In his efforts to get out of the house, he
stumbled upon a box of carmine wder, and
with this he
nose to his ta

The keepers of restaurants in Portland, Me.,
make a pretense of respecting the liquor law
of that prohibition town, but their patrons
seem to know how to order just what they
want, especially when they see cards dis-
played bearing hints like these: ‘“‘Have you
tried our birch beer in steins?’ “After the
theatre have a Welsh rarebit, with root beer
drawn from the wood.” “Order a toby of
lemon soda with the lobster.”

A phonographic marriage was lately per-
formed in Oswego, N. Y. The bride was liv-
ing in a house quarantined because of small-
pox, and in the presence of witnesses she
spoke into the phonograph these words: “‘I,

ellie Stone, do take this man, James F. Dun-
ean, to be my lawfully wedded husband,” ete.
The register was then fumigated, and taken
to the groom’s residence, where the latter and
a clergyman performed their part of the cere-
mony.

> @ <+-—------

Briabes ul |

ba VK
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Me } q
EDITED BY MRS. HELEN WOOD.

prntes himself red, from his

By special arrangements with the manufacturers
we are enabled to supply the readers of “The New
York Weekly’’ with the patterns of all garments
described or illustrated in this column at TEN
CENTS each. When ordering patterns, please be
particular to mention the number of the pattern and
size wanted. Address Fashion Department, ‘‘The
New York Weekiy,’’ Box 1,173, New York City.

FASHION NOTES.

Turquoise blue has lost none of its prestige
by being in vogue so long, and spring promises
to see an increase in its popularity. The up-
to-date girl will, when wearing a waist of
turquoise blue taffeta or louisine, lifts her
dress skirt to display a petticoat of similarly
colored taffetas, and both will be elaborately
finished with stitching of black and white, fine
tuckings or hemstitching. Narrow black and
white silk braid or cord trims some of these
waists very effectively, also tiny gold or steel
buttons. A new model in turquoise taffeta has
a short tucked yoke and stock of Persian silk
in pastel shades; a long tie of the same is car-
ried down the front of the waist under blue
silk straps caught with clusters of tiny gilt
buttons,

Flowered panne appears in some of the new
shirt-waist models made with narrow box
plaits covering: back.and front. The colorings
are varied and, hesamful. The stocks are of

 

the same material, having little turn-over col-
lars, and four short pointed ends in front, of
woe ene panne bordered with stitched bands
of silk.

Antique lace and embroidery: form the trim-
mings of the up-to-date woman’s costume.
This fashion comes from Paris, where repro-
ductions of old designs and colors are worn
by those who do not possess choice pieces as
heirlooms. Antique embroideries, even if dam-
aged by time, are muck coveted.

It is predicted that the spring dress shoe is
to be the colonial toe, modeled on the shoe
worn by women in Revolutionary days. The
chief feature is the high flaring leather tongue,
ornamented with a buckle, which may be as
simple or ornate as the wearer desires.

The old crystalline silk has come back to us,
and some wonderfully beautiful examples,
with a glittering surface in two tones, recall-
ing iridescent glass, the reverse side of one
solid shade, are to be found among the new
silks,

By.a process known only in Paris, light,
tawny sable can now be transformed into an
exact imitation of dark Russian sable, the
transformation being accomplished by an in-
delible stain which is a secret of the dyer.

Large windmill bows of black velvet, with
diamonds in the center, figure on the front of
bodices, and sometimes on the points of the
shoulders. i

CH In ordering patterns be sure to give size and number,

No. 2,747.—FRENCH DRESS FOR A GIRL.

The long-waisted French models for little
girls are again coming into popularity. As
here shown, the ;
little frock has a
fitted lining, cov-
ered with lace to
simulate a yoke.

Narrow box

plaits in the

front give a

slight fullness at

the waist line,

where the cloth ~

blouses over the @

belt. At the back ~

the box plaits

are stitched the

entire length,

and the closing

is made invisibly

on the under fold

of the center

plait. The. ber-

tha is slashed

in squares and

trimmed with a

ruffie of lace.

The puffed elbow-sleeves also finish with lace,
and the neck with a plain standing collar.
The abbreviated skirt is gathered all around,
and is attached to the bodice under a narrow
band of velvet. The pattern is cut from 4 to
10 years. Size 6 requires 2 yards of 42-inch
material, % yard of all-over, 4% yard of velvet,
and 5 yards of lace.

No. 2,742.—LADY’S DRESSING SACQUE.

Canary-colored Louisine silk is the material

selected for this charming little dressing sacque.

The sleeves may

be cut off at the

elbow, along the

lines of perfora-

tion given in the

pattern, and fin-

ished with a frill

of Valenciennes

lace, which edges

the bolero.

bolero is included

in the shoulder

and under - arm

seams. The back

of the jacket is

. full-and straight,

“ and is hung from

a short yoke. The

pattern is cut

from 32 to 4

inches bust meas-

ure. Size 36. re-

quires 2% yards

of 42-inch mate-

rial, with 54 yard

of tucking, or any selected material for bo-

lero, 344 yards of lace, 2% yards of. insertion,
and 5 yards of ribbon. 5 ‘

- (All patterns published in “'The New. York
Weekly” will be sent to Our readers for 10 cents
each. Adfress FASHION DEPARTMENT, ‘‘New
York Weekly.’’) ;

 

 

 

The .