+4 Ere mv youth 2od:! tvust pair. ¢

 

 

 

BEST STORIES BY THE BEST AUTHORS.

 

 

 

Entered According to Act of Congress, in the Year 1900, by Street & Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington. D.C.

 

 

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

 

 

 

 

“Wol. 55,

 

OFFICE:
238 William St.. New York

New York, July 14,190,

 

 

DAYS OF YORE,

BY ANNIE HETHERINGTON COXON.
In the golden days of yore, love
When Youth’s sunshine shone so gay
With a radiance purely beaming
That has vanished far away,
When my heart knew naught but laugh-
ter,
And no sadness checked my mirth,
There was ne’er a thought of sorrow,
Ne’er a tear upon the earth.
rd
In the golden days of yore, love,
Days that number with the past,
Every eye was bright and hopeful—
Would such joy for aye might last!
Every heart was light and gladsome
In the happy days gone by;
Naught to mar a life of sunshine,
Ne’er.a sorrow, ne’er a sigh!
as
In the golden days of yore, love,
Dear old friends were by my side,
They have left me lone and cheerless,
Left me sad at life’s ebb-tide;
Merry voices round me echoed,
Some are hushed and still for aye,
Others in bright lands far distant,
Are they changed, or yet are gay?
J
In the golden days of yore, love,
Sweet songs lingered in my heart,
Songs that voices dear had murmured

Echoes Samay” sigh sweetly
Of an air ng hushed’ and flown

As I dream of vanished gladness,

Brightest that my heart could own:

vt
In the golden days of yore, love,

All the year wore garb of May,
Fresh and sweet! a breath of blossoms!
. Nor too long one single day;

But those sunny hours gone by, love,

May return to us no more;

 

i”

Sar.
* SSS
dM) ~
~S WW.
MAING
WW

\\

WS

Wy
———

QE

=
=>

 

 

 

Oh! that I may live in heaven
Once again my days of yore!

INKED TO CRIME

He felt her fingers close on his own in a pressure as unusual as it

was warm.

hand, bent over it, and kissed it.

Under the impress of that pressure he lifted her

 

>

,

OR,

A DEGRADING

INNERITANCE.

By BARCLAY NORTH,

Author of ‘The Diamond Buiton,’’ “Jack Gordon, Knight-Errant,” “ Vivier,”
“The Man With a Thumb,” ‘On the Rack,” “‘The Dugdale Millions,”
Should She Have Left Him?” ‘‘An. American Cavalier,”

520 Per Cent.; or, The Great Franklin Syndicate.”

(“LINKED TO CRIME” was commenced last weet.)

CHAPTER Iv.
DECLARATION BY INDIRECTION.

The object of Tieboute’s journey to Cleve-
land was to satisfy himself that Morris had
told the truth as to his relationship and of his
father’s participation in the bank burglary.

As a matter of fact, he had little doubt be-
fore he left New York, but before he took
the steps he had decided on and which would
so greatly influence his life, he thought jus-
tice to himself demanded that he should verify
the statements of Morris.

Mr. Westover, on whom he called soon after
his arrival, assured him that there was no
doubt about his relationship to the Morris
family, and that that family was about as
bad as it could be, nearly every male member
of it having been at war with society and in
conflict with its laws

As to John Tibbitts’ participation in the rob-
bery of the bank in Buffalo, Mr. Westover had
no information.

“T would not be likely to know anything from
your father,’’ he said, “though I did do legal
business for him. He would not tell me, for he
well knew I would have nothing to do with a
man so engaged. That he was a gambler and
the keeper of a fashionable club house I knew,
as every one in Cleveland knew, and I knew
that he bore the reputation of being honest,
as such men are honest—paid his debts scru-
pulously, was trusted to hold great stakes of
money, and, in fact, could borrow more money
on less security at the banks when many a
merchant could not. He first came to see me
about you shortly after the death of his wife
—your mother—saying he had promised his
wife that you should be brought up apart from
the life he and her family were leading. This
he interpreted to be a complete renunciation
of you save as to your support. I became his
agent and your guardian, and when he made
his will, which I drew, trustee and executor
of his estate. Some things have occurred since
his death, together with some papers that have
drifted into my hands, taken in connection
with what you tell me now, convinces me that
his participation in that affair ‘is only too
true.”’

Jack examined his father’s papers, but found
nothing that threw light on the matter. But

 

 

he took a single paper in his father’s writing
to serve the purpose of comparison.

He returned to New York and devoted him-
self to arranging for a sale of his horses and
carriages and other personal effects. This ac-
complished, he sat down to think of his fu-
ture. The trend of his thoughts was revealed
in his summing up aloud:

“What I ought to do,’’ he said, “is to drop
out without a word. It will serve no purpose
to see her again, and yet—well, it will do no
harm to tell her that I am going away for a
long time. When she hears of my retirement
she will know the meaning of my eall. Yes,
I will go to see Miss Elverson for the last
time.”’

Laura Elverson’s home was with her sister,
Mrs. Muriel, a young widow who made her
house attractive to young people.

On the evening of the day following that on
which Jack had returned from the West, a
number were gathered about Mrs. Muriel. One
of the circle turned the conversation to Tie-
boute by announcing, abruptly, that he had
learned that afternoon that ‘‘Jack Tieboute
was selling his horses.’’

“Oh, what a shame!’ cried Netta Muriel,
niece to the lady of the house. ‘‘I’ve been
pining for a drive behind that lovely bay pair
of his, and if he sells them my hopes are
dashed.”’

“Tt is ever thus,’’
Cornish by name. ‘I never save up a
for a special purpose that circumstance
not step in and compel me to spend it.’’

“What has your saving or spending to do
en Mr. Tieboute’s horses?’ asked Netta,
pertly.

“Everything. If you must drive behind them,
I must buy them, I suppose.’’

“You are too hasty, Mr. Cornish,’’ said Miss
Ormsby, known as the special intimate of Miss
Elverson, ‘‘Netta’s desire is to ride behind
Mr. Tieboute’s horses. If you were to buy
them, they would no lohger be Mr. Tieboute’s
horses.’’

“You are both mistaken,” retorted Miss Mu-
riel, with an impertinent toss of the head.
“The horses, whether driven by one man or
another, are the attraction. I consider the
pair of horses vastly superior to the pair of
men.”’

sighed the young man,
doliar

does

 

 

the
re-

“Oh? Oh!” cried another young man of
name of Demorest. ‘I know that your
mark applies with justice to Cornish and
rest of us, but to the immaculate Jack
boute! Why, I supposed it was the

Tie-

the |

sacred |

creed of the most devout young lady that Tie-|

boute was superior to all created things.”’
“Who is Mr, Tieboute?’’ inquired a
lady whose home was in Boston.
“What shocks we are receiving,’’
Mr. Cornish.
in Boston, too?’’
The young woman, ignoring the young man,
continued:
“This afternoon I different

called at four

young |

!
murmured
“Can such ignorance exist, and

houses with Netta, and at each one they dis- |

cussed Mr. Tieboute. Therefore I
Mr. Tieboute.”’

“A mystery! A vast and solemn mystery!”’
said the young man Demorest.

ask who is |}
; the

Miss

Mr.

“And if it were Russell?’ asked
E.lverson, pointedly.

“Pardon me, IL was rushing
I should not. Jack Tieboute
ing, and it is a surprise.’’

“You call him ‘Jack,’’’ said
rather superciliously. ‘‘I presume
very intimate terms with him.”’

Mr. Cornish blushed, but rallied instantly,
and in so manly a fashion that Miss Eiverson
regretted her snub,

“No, Miss Eilverson, I am not. He is called
Jack very generally behind his back and by
people who have not even the slight acquaint-
ance with him I have, and I have fallen in the
way. But I always address him as——’’

“Mr. Tieboute,’’ announced a servant from

door.
There was a slight sensation Jack

to say what
no plung-

on
does

Miss Elverson,
you are on

en-

as

| tered, plainly evident to him, and he was not

“T have not heard that said of Mr. Tieboute |
a aoe ot Si we | had hoped for a tete-a-tete.

in years,’’ interposed Mrs. Muriel, laughing.

*“You must be older than you admit, Mr. Dem- |

orest. When Mr. Tieboute first appeared in
society with Fordham Russell, there was much
inquiry as to who he was, and all that Rus-
sell, who was his sponsor, would say was that
he was a vast and solemn mystery. At first
there was a disposition to snub Mr. Tieboute,
but when Mrs. Cariston took him up and be-
came his social godmother, as it were, he be-
came the vogue.”’

“But_that does not tell what he
sisted Miss Boston.

“Oh, we all settled down to the belief, for
what reason I don’t know, that he was the
last of the Tieboutes, an old family—so old
that I never heard of anybody who knew any-
thing about it. For eight years he has been
an ornament to our set.”

Miss Everson was distinctly displeased.

“What nonsense all this chatter about
is!’ she exclaimed.

“But 1 thirst for knowledge unsatisiied,’’
still persisted Miss Boston. ‘‘What does he do
that he should be the vogue?’’

“Spends a large fortune right royally,’”’ said
Miss Ormsby.

**Runs horses to lose,’’ put in Demorest.

“Graces ladies’ bowers,’”’ added Cornish.

“But all that is nothing,’’ said Miss Boston,
still persisting. ‘‘Does he write? or paint?
Ts he musical? Does he sing, or play?’’

“In short,’’ interposed Cornish, striving to
assist the young lady, “is he constructed on
Boston lines of architecture?’

“He sings like an Italian, dances like a
Frenchman, and dresses like an Englishman,”’
explained Netta Muriel.

‘*“Wields a cue like a pirate,’
Demorest.

“And,’’ interjected Cornish, ‘rides like the

“Stop! oh, stop!’’ interrupted Laura Elver-
son. ‘‘He is a quiet, reserved gentleman, who,
having an independence, lives a refined life as
suits himself.”

is,’’ per-

him

’

contributed Mr. |

| with

 

|} ing than in the possession,

“T have no objection to his mode of life, nor |

euriosity. as to it. t am curious
know why he is the vogue.

‘He is not,’’ replied Miss Elverson. ‘“[hese
young people are only spiteful because he is
popular. All this discussion because he has
announced the sale of a pair of his horses is
absurd,’’

“But he sells more than a _-pair,’’ insisted
Cornish. “‘It becomes an event because he sells
not only his private horses, some seven
eight, with all his traps, drags, harness
other appurtenances thereunto belonging,
his string of running horses as well,’’

‘Why does he do that?’ asked Mrs. Muriel.

‘Ah! That is what makes it interesting. We
don’t know. Now if it were Fordham Russell

merely

”

and
but

He brought himself up with a sudden stop,
leoking directly at Miss Elverson.

to |

| Ormsby had assumed it.
| merely

or |

well pleased to find So many present when he

The lady who had been the sole object of his
call welcomed him ito the circle, receiving him
unusual graciousness, as a protest, as
it would seem, against the manner in which
he had been discussed previous to his entrance.

The others, influenced by the consciousness
that they had not talked respectfully of the
newcomer, awkwardly retired into themselves,
leaving the burden of the conversation to Miss
Exlverson and Jack, sometimes helped out by
Mrs. Muriel. But the talk was neither bright
nor spirited. In a lull Jack said:

‘Miss Elverson, my call to-night is one of
adieu. I am going away for a long time.’’

The young lady’s surprise was manifested by
a quickly suppressed start in which she was
aded by Mr. Cornish, who exciaimed:

“Oh! Then that accounts for the
your horses.’’

Jack favored the
well bred stare before he answered:

“T did not know that important pfece of in
formation was public property, since the order
for sale was given only this afternoon. How-
ever, it is true. I am breaking up—pulling up
stakes, as it were.’’

Miss Elverson regarded him earnestly, while
Netta Muriel, having lively recollections of a
delightful afternoon spent in Jack’s bachelor
apartments, where, under irreproachable ma-
tronage, he had given a tea, asked if he meant
to sell all his charming old furniture and other
beautiful things.

Jack bowed in acquiescence,

There was a silence, indicative of the curi-
osity that was rife, but which none seemed
to dare to satisfy by questions, in the face of
his manner.

Miss Elverson broke it with the remark:

“T should think, after the pains and time you
have taken in the gathering, you would dislike
te part with them.”

Jack smiled, as he replied:

“There was greater pleasure in the gather-
The same pleasure

sale of

young gentleman with a

awaits me on my return.’’

*‘And while you are abroad?”’ suggested Miss
Ormsby.

Jack had not said he was going abroad. Miss
He did not deny it;
bowed and smiled. So it was settled
without a word on his part that he was going
to Hurope.

There was an awkward silence, due to his
peculiar manner and uncommunicativeness.
Mr. Cornish relieved it this time by abruptly
announcing the rupture of the engagement of
two of their acquaintances, explaining it was
due to the discovery that the man had only a
tithe of the money he was supposed to pos-
sess. :

Miss Elverson surprised them with the scorn-
ful comment:

“She had all
How could she
grounds?”’

the
permit

money either could wish.
the rupture on such

Three Dollars Per Year.
Two Copies Five Dollars.

 

No, 39.

“‘Perhaps.”’ said Jack, “he represented his
fortune to be larger than it was that he might
gain hers.”’

“‘¥ do not think so,” stoutly maintained Miss
EXlverson, “‘because a long time ago, before the
engagement- was made, in a casual conversa-
tion, he told me that the amount of his wealth
was greatly exaggerated; that he had inherited
but a moderate competence, and had lost a
good part of that through unwise investment.
tie was entirely frank.”

““He should not have entered into the engage-
ment,” said Jack, thoughtfully.

Miss Elverson cast on him a searching glance
as she asked:

“Do you, then, believe that money determines
everything—that no man must seek a wife who
has more money than himself?’’

*“*"No; hardly that, perhaps.
everything. But how is it with
man who wastes-“his money in
living and then seeks to repair
marrying a rich wife?’’

Hesitating a moment, Miss Elverson replied,
in a low voice:

“IT do not see that your supposition resem-
bles the case of our friends.”’

“It does not, I admit,’’ replied Jack, with
more animation than he had hitherto shown,
and with heightened color. ‘I was speaking
to the general proposition of a man of little
money or none at all marrying a rich wife. I
shall not put myself in a position of strained
honor and say he should never do so. But I
do think there are instances where it is most
dishonorable. I have a case in mind which
is a case in point. A young man found his
affections deeply engaged by a young lady of
beauty, character and intellect. She had great
wealth. He had inherited a fair competence—
in fact, a fortune. Early in its possession he
had set out on a course of life which, in the
nature of things, must sooner or later bring
that fortune to an end. Even after he had
found himself deeply interested in the lady,
and had hopes, more or less justified, that by
proper suit he could win a return of those af-
fections, he had not the courage to abandon
that course of life. He was well educated, had
acquired the habits of good breeding, and lived
wholly in a polite and refined circle, having no
associations Without it. He had no family; he
believed himself to stand wholly alone in the
world, without a blood relation. He knew that
his forebears were entitled to no réspect, but
he believed that he could conceal that fact ina
way never to be discovered, unless he were to
reveal it himself. He lived as a gentleman,
conducted himself as @ gentleman, and was be-
lieved te be} a gentlemsiy, He went on loving
the lady, yet speaking not, and not without
hope.. Suddenly, without warning, came the
realization that his secret was not hiS own:
that a person, if not persons, not only knew
it, but Knew more about his antecedents than
he did himself, and was disposed to make
merchandise of the knowledge. Though he
determined at once not to yield to extortion,
he realized that it meant financial ruin.~ In
fact, he would have saved some money to
himself by yielding to extortion. The demand
on him was based (and this was the crushing
realization) on knowledge which, if common
property, would disgrace him in the circie he
had moved in. What, Miss Elverson, had you
been. this man, would you have done?’

“What did this man do?’’ she asked
turn, looking clear-eyed into his eyes.

“He withheld the words of declaration that
were trembling on his lips, informed the lady
indirectly that he was unworthy to mate with
her—that a union with him was likely to bring
her into disgraceful connections, and then—
then he dropped out of her. life.’’

Miss HBilverson looked -up at Jack with a
strange smile, a pained expression in her eyes.
She turned from him to take from a table
nearby a fan, as she replied:

“From his point of view he could
done less, but—not from the point of
the woman.”’

Jack had risen
and turned as if preparing to take his leave.
As she finished her enigmatical sentence so
unexpectedly, he turned quickly to her, with a
shrap scrutiny.

She met him with a calm
fast look into his eyes—a
fathom.

‘*A very interesting tale, Mr. Tieboute,”’ she
said. ‘It is very disappointing to discover
that you are so charming a raconteur just as
you are departing for a long time. We shall
all regret your absence and welcome your re-
turn.”’

She extended her hand, and as he took it,
slim, and white, and cool, into his own broad
palm, he felt its fingers close on his own in a
pressure as unusual as it was warm,

Under the impress of that pressure he lifted
her hand, bent over it, kissed it, bowed to her,
dropped her hand and, bowing generally to the
circle, passed out.

As the door closed on him, young Miss Bos-
ton said:

“Mr. Tieboute’s manners are perfect, at all
events.”’

The next morning when he awoke his man
handed him a note, the address of which was
in a female hand.

Opening it, a sprig of rosemary fell from it.
On the sheet inclosed and unsigned was writ-
ten this sentiment:

‘‘A knight’s spurs are won by his own deeds
of honor—not by those of his forebears.’’

Money is not
the young
extravagant
his life by

in re-

not have
view of
his recital

as he concluded

smile and a stead-
look he could not

CHAPTER V.
VICARIOUS EXPIATION,

Jack was under no delusions as to the mean-
ing of the missive.

Ninety-nine might have accepted it en-
couragement to a pressure of his suit. Jack
was the one man: he knew that she had taken
the inner meaning of his tale and felt a pity
for him only. It was as if she had said:

“You are right to go away. The conventions
of our life and training are too strong for a
closer relationship, but your revelation shall
not end our friendship. When you have mas-
tered your passion and you return my door
shall be open to you, my hand held out in
friendship to welcome you, especially if you
rise superior to the ordeal you are to pass
through. I shall always bear you in remem-
brance,’’

In all this he saw she did not consider her-
self, her emotions or her passions; she had put
herself out of the question because that is what
he had done. A woman could neither yield nor
deny until she was sought. He not only
not sought her, but had distinctly told her
he should not because he was unworthy. After
such a declaration she was under no restraint
such as she would have been were he a possi-
ble suitor, so she could send such a missive,

Thus he reasoned, and he wanted to maké a4
return to show her that he appreciated her act
at its real value. The best he could conceive
was to enclose his card, writing on it pour
prendre conge. It was commonplace contrast-
ea with her daintiness and subtlety, but his in-
ventiveness was not equal to anything better
conveying the idea of complete severance.

That it did do all he had hoped was made
manifest when the card was handed to Laura.
She was at luneh with her sister, Mrs. Muriel,
when the card was brought in

‘Merely Mr. Tieboute’s leave-taking,’’
said, showing the card.

“And he did not favor

as

shé

me with oOne,’’ ex-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
“vate

 

 

 

 

 

 

claimed Mrs. Muriel, rather jealously. ‘Mr.
Tieboute has disposed of his politeness as- well
as his horses.”’

Laura made no reply. She understood that
it was in answer to her own missive, which
pase accepted by Jack as she had de-
sired,

“Speaking of Mr. Tieboute,’’? continued Mrs,
Muriel, “reminds one of Fordham Russell.
James Muriel ran in this morning about that
tiresome Beekman street property, and in the
course of conversation told me that the rumor
is current that Mr. Russell will make a smash
of it, having lost very heavily on the turf,”

“Ah!” replied Laura, indifferently. ‘“‘Perhaps
that is why he did me the honor to ask me to
be his wife—to repair his losses by my bank
account.”’

“Taura! And you refused him?’

Evidently embarrassed, Miss Elverson found
refuge in an assumption of high spirits,

‘of Sard. ‘Thanks, awfully, but really I
eouldn’t think of it. I hope you have no
lecture for me.”’

“No; Iam only

29

’

y concerned for you because
of the snubbing you will receive from Mrs.
Cariston.”’

“I'll try to survive it.’’

“Could it have been of him that Mr. Tie-
boute told that story yesterday?’’

“Why, Sue! You forget. The hero of Mr.
“"Tieboute’s story was one who stood in fear of
disgrace following the revelation of his pa-
rentage. Mr. Russell’s parentage is known and
unexceptionable.’’

“True; 1 had forgotten,
hero, do you suppose?’’
“Sue,
PA 1

all?”

“Well, then, it was himself.’’

“Himself? And the heroine?’’

‘““Myself.’’

“Laura Elverson! And this romance has
peen going on under my very eyes! Yet they
the compensation of widowhood is su-
perior shrewdness in the affairs of the heart.’’

“Do yourself no injustice; there has been no
romance. I only suspected, sometimes doubt-
ing, until last night when he told his tale that
I might know what he had hoped and why it
could never be.”

“So,” replied Mrs, Muriel, ‘Mr.
Tieboute has smashed, too?’’

“And if Fordham Russell has, Mr. Tieboute’s
conduct toward me is in singular contrast to
that of his friend.’’

“Yes. Why, Laura, Mr.
honorable.”’

“T have never met a man TI respect more.”’

Mrs. Muriel looked up quickly at her younger
sister; but that sister was absorbed.

‘Ah!’

The ejaculatian was so prolonged and spoke

volumes that Laura was recalled to her-
She met Mrs. Muriel’s eyes bent earnest-

y on her.

eB. w

She answered the unspoken question in her
sister’s eyes.

“And you
himself ?’’

“Knowing his story, I should have lost re-
spect for him if he had. Knowing his hon-
orable abnegation, I could throw myself at his
feet.”’

“And you will send for him?’’

“Should I do so, and he came, I should de-
spise him.’’

“And why, for goodness

“Ror then I should believe that
a part to entrap me.”’

With these contradictions Miss Elverson
went out on a shopping tour. Both she and
Jack sincerely believed that a chapter in their
lives had been definitely closed.

During his trip to Cleveland and after he had
satisfied himself that the truth had been told
him by Morris, Tieboute had decided on a
plan of action which, when revealed to Mr.
Westover, had excited the admiration of the
old lawyer. At the moment Laura Elverson
and Mrs. Muriel were discussing him he was
engaging on the first step to the consumma-
tion of that plan.

From the West, rolling in on barrels of gold,
had come a youth to take his place in the
whirl of metropolitan life.

Immediately on his return from Cleveland,
Jack had asked his attorney tovtake charge of
the sale of his belongings. This person hav-
ing come in contact with the golden youth
of the West, and learning that he wished to
establish himself as an elegant man of fash-
ion, had sent him to Jack with a letter of
introduction, rightly supposing that his client
would prefer to dispose of his articles by pri-

sale than by auétion. ;

The matter was speedily accomplished. The
golden youth, quivering with delight in the
anticipation of the possession of such ex-
quisitely appointed. chambers, had offered a
larger sum than Jack had hoped to realize.
So, reserving to himself some personal arti-
cles, he transferred the contents of the apart-
ments, the lease thereof, and even his vaiet.
The young man from the West had but to
hang up his hat and be at home.

The departure of the young man of the West
was followed by the coming of Morris. He

offered the same request he had made when

saw Jack as he came from Delmonico’s
Russell on the night of the memorabie
confessing dinner.

[. made you the promise when I saw you
that I would meet your people,’* said Jack,
‘“‘because I was not entirely satisfied that you
told me the truth. Since then I have investi-
gated and am satisfied that you did. The rea-
son for meeting your people no longer exists
so far as 1 am interested, but, as I gave you
my promise, I will keep it. I have been to
Cleveland to investigate your statements.”

“To Cleveland?’ repeated Morris, quickly,
his eyes gliStening. ‘‘Did you hear anything
of that money—where John had put it?’

“No; I made no effort to find out.
where can I see your friends?’’

“TI suppose they couldn’t come here?”
Morris, inquiringly.

“No: this place is no longer
sold it.”’

“You’re going
suspiciously.

“Out of these apartments, yes;

Then who was the
will you keep confidence with me?’
not your sister—your -mother—your

say

musingly,

Tieboute is very

regret that he did not declare

sake?’’
he had acted

Now,
said

mine. I have

to get out?’ asked Morris,

out of town,
no.’

“Well, then, perhaps you'd go ta a place to
meet them.’’

“Tt would be better,”

‘Would you come to this joint?’

He handed a card to Jack, who, glancing at
it, saw that it was the address of a drinking
place in Crosby street.

‘ “T know of no reason why I

replied Jack,

“Yes,” he said.
shouldn’t.”’

“When ?’’

“To-night at nine.”’

Morris went away and Jack prepared him-
if for a visit to the commercial part of the
a second step in his plan of action.

business first led him to the attorney,
ion of whom has been made. To him
ack said:

asking your counsel in a matter I shall
give you only partial confidence.”’
~ “A “poor beginning,” said the lawyer.

‘Perhaps; that which I shall conceal so en-
tirely belongs to the division of the case be-
fore I enter, that I believe that it has no bear-
ing on the point I desire to have advice. These
are the facts I propose to lay before you: On
the first day of the week I learned that one
hundred and fifty thousand dollars in my pos-
session did not belong to me. I propose to re-
store that sum to the proper owners.”

“Why, man,’ exelaimed the lawyer, inti-
mately informed on Jack’s affairs, ‘‘that will
strip you of every dollar.”

Jack bowed, adding:

“xcept what may
my personal effects.’

“Oh! That accounts for the wish to sell your
furniture and things. Well, Tieboute, there’s
nothing to prevent you, if-you are satisfied
you are right. It is something unusual, I must
say. I suppose the rightful owners are press-
ing. for it.”

“They know nothing of it—do not know that

money is, or has been, in my hands, or
I eontemplate this act.”
jum!” said. the er, meditatively.
st people would say that your notion was
astic.

“They wouldn’t if they knew the means by
which it was acquired, and if they did, their
fingers would burn, as mine do, to get rid of

i

on

result from the sale of

The lawyer looked up at Jack searchingly,

acquiesced Jack.

“Well, what is the point on which you want
advice?’’

“This money in my possession, I learn, is
only a part the whole amount wrongfully
taken from those to whom it belongs.”’

“Do you know where it is?’’

‘No; nobody does.’’

‘‘Nissipated, I suppose?”

‘‘No: there is a well founded belief that it is
intact, but where but one man knew, the man
who hid it, and he is dead—died without re-
vealing.’’

‘A strange story.” — j

“Not so strange, if I could tell you all. Now
my point iS this: Yielding up this money to
the proper owners, am I justified in condi-
tioning entire secrecy as to the matter.”

“No; the money you admit is not yours, but
theirs.

of

you make that admission but to hand it over
without conditions. You can exact none; they
may be granted in recognition of your honor-
able act.’’

“Must I account for
came into my hands?’’

“You say the money in your hands is only a
part. What part?”

“Exactly a quarter; there are four hundred
and fifty thousand dollars to be accounted
for,”

The lawyer looked up in astonishment over
the enormous sum:

‘““Phew!’’ he whistled. his is assuming im-
portant proportions. When did this wrongfui
transaction take place?’ as

“Nearly sixteen years ago?”

‘You were but a boy then?’

‘But thirteen,”’

“An unlueky number.

“In Buffalo.”’

“Ah! the lawyer exclaimed, as light broke
in on him. ‘I begin to see. And no one knows
where it e

“No; the knowledge that I was in wrongful
possession came to me through the efforts of
certain interested people to trace it.’’
see. And that was last Monday. With
such a large remainder unaccounted for, the
natural desire of those wrongfully dispossessed
will be to recover it. When you come forward
with a part you will not onlybe ealled to ac-
count for your possession of it but as to your
knowledge of the remainder, That is inevita-
ble.”’

“Now my last question. Must I tell how
this knowledge of wrongful possession reached
me—why I was informed, and by whom,?’’

“Tt is all involved in accounting for your
own possession of a part.’’

“The work of restitution is more difficult
and embarrassing than I supposed,’’ said Jack.

They were both silent for a time, when the
lawyer said:

“See here, Tieboute, as I see the case—as
you have given it to me—it is this: You
have for a number of years been in the enjoy-
ment of a sum of money which you supposed
was yours. Suddenly you learn that it is not,
and you immediately determine to give it. up.
That is strietly upright and honorable. But
you must look the matter squarely in the face.
The world is suspicious. The first thought of
these people will be that you are making res-
titution at a late day; that you have not been
in ignorance of the facts so long; that you
were yourself connected with the wrongdoing.
and that back of your act of restitution lies a
purpose by which you will gain more than in
retaining this sum: You may not meet with
its expression, but the suspicion will be there.
If you go with only partial confidence, as you
have come to me, those suspicions will be in-
tensified, and you may find yourself the subject
of legal inquisition. Now I take it that your
desire to withhold a part of these facts is
due to a fear you will be disgraced through
those who have been closely connected with
you.”’

“That is true.’’

“You won't escape it the way you are go-
ing about it, Tieboute,’’ said the lawyer, ear-
nestly. ‘‘Better make a clear, full statement,
leaving nothing uncovered, and your own hon-
orable act will stand out in such refreshing
contrast that, if these people are not blocks
of marble rather than men, they will be anx-
ious to protect you.’’

‘Perhaps so,’’ said Jack, as he got up, walk-
ing to a window and looking out on the roofs
of adjoining houses. He came back again to

his chair.

“T suppose you are right,’ he said.” ‘‘In
truth, you are no doubt wholly right; but
what an ordeal for a man performing merely
an honest act!’’

“You must do one of two.things. Wither ig-
nore the information you have received, and
continue in possession——’’

Jack interrupted with a vigorous gesture of
dissent. :

“Or you must yield the money up.”

“That is what I shall do.”

“Then, how are you going about it?’

“T have United States securities
amount of one hundred and, fifty
dollars in the safety deposit vaults.
them over.”’

“No, no. Then you'll be turning over more
than a hundred and fifty thousand.”’

“How ?”’

“There is a premium on -those bonds. No;
take your securities, sell them, and, obtaining
a certificate of deposit for exactly one hun-
dred and fifty thousand, carry that with you.
The sum of the premium you will have left for
yourself. They may demand the interest, it is
true, but they will be tough pedple if they do.”

Jack laughed.

“Interest!’? he exclaimed. ‘‘At six per cent.
for sixteen years the interest would-amount
to over a hundred and forty thousand dollars
—nearly as much more. I couldn’t pay it if
they did demand it.’’

‘Well, don’t admit their right to demand
more by giving them more than the exact or-
iginal sum.”’

Jack saw the wisdom of the advice, and act-
ed on it immediately. Then he went home and
dressed for dinner at his club for the last time.

(To be continued.)

>@e~<« —--__-- -—-

For Gold or Soul?

A STORY OF A GREAT DEPARTMENT STORE

By LURANA W. SHELDON.

the way the money

sary

In this city?’ °

?

is?

to the
thousand
Vu turn

(“For GoLp or SOUL?” was commenced in No. 29. Back
numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers. )

CHAPTER XXXII.
MAG BRADY’S ARREST.

There was no mistaking young Denton’s
words or looks. Faith could not have been a
woman and not understood their meaning.

For a second her lids fell in a tell-tale man-
ner, and her cheeks paled and reddened with
each alternating emotion.

She knew she must resent the young man’s
words at once, but the confusion of the mo-
ment rendered her powerless to do so.

Suddenly a thought of Maggie Brady flitted
across her brain. It gave her strength and
courage to resist the spell that was upon her.

“Your words are not sincere, I am afraid,
Mr. Denton,’”’ shé managed to say. ‘‘You only
think to flatter me as you have numbers of
others.’’

The young, man leaned back quickly, and a
flush of shame mounted to his brow.

“God forbid!” he said sharply. ‘‘No, you
wrong me, Miss Marvin! As wicked as I am, lL
would not insult you.’’

“But you did once!” said Faith bravely.
“The first day I was at the store! You bowed
and smiled at me as brazenly as—as though
you did not respect me!”

It was out at last, and
relieved. She had never quite
forget that occurrence.

“That was because I did not know you,’
explained young Denton lamely. “I thought
you might be willing to flirt a little—no one

had ever refused me.’’

s it possible?”

i asked the question in out and out
amazement. She could see by the young man’s
face that he was not lying.

“The other girls were always glad enough
to flirt a little,’ he went on. ‘‘You see, they
knew I had money, and was-willing to spend
it—you can’t blame them, Miss Marvin; they
were a poverty-stricken lot! It’s no wonder
that the prospect of a square meal and a iit-
le recreation tempted them.”’

“No, I do not blame them,” said Faith
very decidedly; “but I do blame you, Mr. Den-
ton; it was wicked of you to tempt them.”

The young man’s face fell, and he shifted
his position uneasily.

“We can’t all be
irritably, ‘‘and what seems
seems wrong to another.
I admit, and, perhaps, a
don’t condemn me utterly,
not try to reform me?”

Faith glanced at him sharply. There was
not a trace of mirth in his face. It was evi-
dent that he had asked the question in ear-
nest.

“TJ wish I could,’’ she answered, smiling a
litthe: “but if you really wish to reform, you
can do it yourself, Mr. Denton. You have only
to pray, and your God will aid you.”

‘But I lack faith,’ he said quickly. “I don’t
see things as you do, and, besides, ‘the pray-
ers of the wicked are an abomination unto the
Lord;’ you see, I know that much about the
Bible, Miss Marvin!’’

“But you will. be wicked no longer when
you go to Him in the right spirit,” said Faith
brightly. “Oh, go to Him, Mr. Denton. It
will give such pleasure to your father!’

“T’'m afraid I can’t,” said young Denton,

Faith’s mind was
been able to

;

.

simeere,’’ he said, rather
right to one often
I’ve been careless,
little wicked, but
Miss Marvin. Why

 

There is nothing for you to do when!

rising. ‘‘I have one of those natures that can-

too great a sinner to reform, I guess; but
please don’t forget me because of that, Miss
Marvin. I would give more than I can tell to
have you think well of me.’’

Again the admiring glance rested upon the
fair girl’s face, and it took all Faith’s com-
posure to reply sedately.

“YT shall be glad to think well of you,’’ she
said a little shyly, “but you have much to
undo, I’m afraid, before that can be accom-
plished,”’

“You are thinking now of what you have
heard of me,’’ said the young man quickly.

“T am thinking of what I haye seen,’’ was
Faith’s decided answer, ‘‘and I°cannot think
oe of you when I look at poor Maggie

sraay.

“Don’t mention. her name!”’
almost angrily. “It is bad enough for you to
have to work with her, but it is worse to
pie that you are wasting your thoughts on
ner!

“Mr. Denton, I am ashamed of you!’’ Faith’s
voice rose instinctively. ‘‘How dare you speak
disrespectfully of one of your own victims?’’

t A half sneer passed over the young man’s
ace,

“T thought she’d been telling a lot of tales,’’
he said fiercely. ‘‘No doubt she has black-
ened my character through and through! I
can never hope to overcome your impression
of me, Miss Marvin!’’

“On the contrary,” said Faith,
has. never spoken of you to me!
ever said of you was said on those two oc-
ecasions in your presence. But she doesn’t
have to speak, for I can see it in her face.
That girl’s soul is on your conscience. You
are responsible for her, Mr. Denton!”

Young-Denton turned and looked at
searchingly.

‘So long as you believe
hope for me,’’ he muttered.

The next moment he bowed silently and left
the apartment. When he had gone Faith
stood a moment almost trembling with excite-
ment. She did not even try to explain her
many conflicting emotions. This much she
knew—she pitied him exceedingly, he was so
young, so weak—she could reason no further,

When her mother came in she was crying
softly. The events of the day had completely
unnerved her.

Mrs. Marvin finally succeeded in comfort-
ing her a little, and then followed plans for
the future, both for themselves and others.

They decided to move as soon as possible,
so that they could accommodate little Dick
in a more satisfactory manner, and also have
a room for a servant and one for visitors.

It was a pleasant programme, and its ar-
rangement cheered Mrs. Marvin wonderfully.
She was one of those women who droop un-
der adversity, but who spring up like a flower
at the first gleam of sunshine.

Contrary to her wishes, Faith insisted on
going to the store the next morning. She was
so decided about the matter that Mrs. Marvin
dared not argue.

“T shall say nothing about our fortune,”’
she said as she started, ‘‘until-I see exactly
how it will affect my position as a helper.”’

The new cloak-room was swarming with
girls when she arrived, and as soon as Lou
Willis saw her she shouted to her:

“Hello! Miss Marvin! have you heard the
news? Lightning has struck downstairs and
it is raining surprises!”’

“It’s a pity lightning didn’t strike the jew-
elry counter,’’ called another voice; ‘‘but if it
did I suppose it would find Lou insulated!
You’d go on talking just the same, ain’t that
so, Willis?”

“T talk when I have anything to say,” was
the girl’s curt answer, ‘‘but at present, if you
please, I am addressing Miss Marvin!”

“Dear me, how respectful we are to some
folks!’’ was the mocking reply. ‘‘How did you
manage, Lou, to get that handle before the
Marvin ?’’

“Oh, do shut up!’’ was Lou’s emphatic re-
ply. “I want to tell my news and you are
not giving me the chance! They say that old
Forbes has gone home sick! He can’t stand
the racket!”’

“What do you mean?” asked Faith
hung up her hat.

“Why, the boss’s religious attack has upset
him completely—knocked him out in one round
—and*I don’t much wonder. How on earth
could you expect any sane man to look on
at the changes in this store and not shake
in his shoes if he has money invested in the
business ?”’

“What has Mr. Denton done now?’ asked
Faith, with great interme  -

“Hired a lot of new hands for one thing,”
vas Lou’s prompt answer, “‘and raised the
salaries of more than half the clerks in the
building!”’

“Ts that so, really?’’ asked a dozen voices.

“Well, as this happens to be my truthful
day, you can depend upon it,’’ said. Miss Wil-
lis, laughing. ‘Oh, I tell you, -girts, the
millennium is coming! { expect he'll provide
us soon with private carriages to ride to busi-
ness!’’

“Well, he has one of his own remarked
Miss Jones’ from the distance. ‘“‘He might at
least hire a stage for us in stormy weather.”

“An excellent idea!’’ exclaimed Faith, im-
pulsively; ‘only as we liVe so far apart and
there are so many of us, I’m afraid the sug-
gestion is a little impracticable.”’

“Then let him provide a dozen,’’ cried an-
other girl, laughing. ‘‘What is the cost of a
dozen stages to a concern worth millions?”

“Oh, girls!’’ cried cash girl No. 83, as she
came bounding in, ‘‘what do you think -has
happened? Mag Brady has been arrested!
They say she’s been trying to poison Miss
Marvin!”’

Faith sank down in a heap on one of the new
sofas which Mr. Denton had lately provided
for their comfort.

It was out at last, in spite of their caution.
For a moment she was stunned by the sud-
denness of it,

The clerks all clustered around her and be-
gan asking questions, but she was too dazed
to even think of answering any of them.

“J knew she’d do-it!’ cried Lou Willis, ex-
ultantly. ‘I’ve warned you against her a
dozen times, Miss Marvin, but that’s what you
get for riling a jealous woman!”

“She’ll have a chance to get over her jeal-
ousy now,’’ said Miss Jones. “If they can
prove that on her they’ll send her to prison!”

Faith staggered to her feet and faced them
resolutely.

“They shall never prove it if I can help it,’’
she said finally, ‘‘for I ‘am sorry for Miss
Brady, and I’m going to try to save her!”

cried her caller

hotly, ‘‘she
All that she

her

that there is no

as she

29

CHAPTER XXXII.
ANOTHER TALK WITH THE INSPECTOR.

As Faith rushed from the cloak-room she
came suddenly upon Ben ‘Tyler, who was
standing at the head of the stairs leading
down to the private offices.

“Oh, Mr. Tyler, do please
poor Miss Brady!’’ she cried eagerly. .“‘Il have
only just heard that she has been arrested!”’

The detective smiled grimly at the eager-
ness in her manner, but he was nething loath
to relate his prowess.

“She’s arrested all right! I nabbed her last
night,’’ he said promptly, “but she had cov-
ered her tracks pretty well. I had a deuce cf
a time to prove it!’’

Faith was still staring at him speechlessly,
but with questioning eyes. She could not help
feeling some curiosity about the details of the
story.

“First, I had to find the boy that brought
the candy to the store,’’ went on the detective,
‘“‘then I traced it step by step until I reached
Mag Brady. Her brother is in a drug store;
it was through him she got the poison.”’

‘And where is she now?’ asked Faith, be-
ginning to tremble.

“In jail, where’she belongs!”’ was the heart-
less answer. “Mr. Denton and I went to court
this morning and had, her locked up for safe
keeping.”’

“Oh, I didn’t think he would do it!’ said
Faith, almost ready to cry. “It is cruel, Mr.
Tyler! Oh, I am so sorry for Miss Brady!”

“Well, I wouldn’t be sorry for a person who
tried to kill me,’’ said the detective, sneering-
ly, ‘‘but then, I’m no saint like you, Miss Mar-
vin.”’

Faith looked at him quickly and could see
the sneer on his face. It was plain that he
had no special respect for saintliness.

When she reached her department she found
every one talking excitedly, and, of course,
Miss Brady’s arrest was the topic of conver-
sation.

“Frere she comes!—here comes Mag’s rival!”
cried Miss Jones, when she saw Faith coming.

The ‘head of stock’ had got down before
her and was beginning to arrange her goods
upon the counter.

“So she tried to kill you, did she?’ asked
Miss Fairbanks, coming up. ‘“‘Well, all I’ve
got to say is, the Lord deliver. me from any
dealings with a jealous woman!”

Faith set her lips firmly and -did not: speak.
She was determined to-shield Maggie in every
way possible.

“T thought your habits would lead you into
trouble, Miss Marvin,’ said Mr. Gunning, in-
solently. He was leaning over _the counter,
which was as near as he could get to her.
Still Faith did not answer, but went on with

tell me about

 

not’ accept the marvelous, and, further, I’m} her work.

 

 

There were no customers in yet,
so she had no haven of refuge to fly to.

‘“‘How’s the mash with the nigger servant?’
asked Miss Jones, suddenly. ‘‘Has he got a
wife, Miss Marvin? You’d better look out if
he has! You know Mag Brady isn’t the only
jealous woman in creation!’’

Faith looked at her steadily before she an-
swered, and for a second the treacherous eyes
wavered and Miss Jones felt decidedly un-
comfortable.

“Neither Miss Brady nor any other woman
has cause to be jealous of me,” said Faith,
plainly, ‘“‘I have never wronged any human
being, and If cannot understand, Miss Jones,
why you insist upon taunting me!”’

“Oh, don’t mind her, Miss Marvin, she can’t
help it,’’ cried Miss Fairbanks. ‘‘She’s been
crossed in love, and it makes her spiteful!’’

There was a shout from every girl that had
heard the buyer’s words, and for once. the
tables were turned upon Faith’s tormentor.

At about ten o’clock several new clerks en-
tered the department, Miss Fairbanks assign-
ing them places and giving them their in-
structions.

“Now, one of you girls can go to the cloak-
room and-rest for twenty minutes,’’ she said
to Miss Jones and Faith. “It’s Mr. Denton’s
orders that yow are not to be on your feet so
steadily.’’ ’

“You go first,’’ said Faith, turning
Jones, pleasantly. ;

The woman blushed
counter sullenly.

“Miss Fairbanks!’’ called Faith, as soon as
she had disposed of several custoniers, ‘‘please
come, over here a minute; I want to speak to
you!

Miss Fairbanks came over and stood close
by the counter. She felt sure that Faith was
about to confide about Miss Brady.

“Miss Fairbanks, I want you to help me,”
the young girl whispered. ‘I want you to
help me to get better acquainted with Miss
Brady, and, if possible, show me a way to
win her confidence.”’

“For mercy’s sake, asked the
buyer, in amazement.

“Simply to give me a chance to prove my in-
nocence, for one thing; I want her to know
that fF never even had the desire to see Mr.
James Denton, much less to flirt with him!’’

“Is that true?’ asked the buyer, gazing at
Faith very seriously.

The color mounted swiftly to the cheeks and
brow of the young girl, but without turning
her eyes she answered:

“Tt is quite true, Miss Fairbanks.

“That would’ mean that we’d have to go to
jail to see her,’’ said the buyer slowly; ‘‘and
I confess I’m not in love with that sort of
visiting.”’

“But surely it won’t harm us,’’ urged Faith,
very eagerly. ‘‘You go first, Miss Fairbanks,
and tell her that I wish to see her; if I should
go first, I am afraid she wouldn’t see me.”’

“Very well, I’ll do it,’’ said Miss Fairbanks
after a minute. ‘‘I’m sorry for the girl, and
I’m not ashamed to admit it.”

“Oh, thank you, Miss Fairbanks, and do try
to make her see me!” cried Faith. ‘‘I’m sure
we can do some good, even if it is only by
showing her that we love her.”’

“My goodness! You don’t love her, do you,
Miss Marvin? Why, from all accounts the girl
intended to kill you!”’

‘““Nevertheless,-I love her—in a way,’’ said
Faith. “I can’t forget entirely that she is
only an, erring sister.’’

“Well, you are a good girl, if ever there
lived one,’’ said Miss Fairbanks. ‘‘You are
teaching me a whole lot about practical
Christianity.”

“Goodness, that is not practical—is poor
stuff,’’ said Faith, bitterly. ‘I wouldn’t be a
hypocrite for all the world, and that is exactly
what sham goodness amounts to, still, I don’t
mean to say, Miss Fairbanks, that I’ve al-
ways lived up to what I knew was my duty!
I’ve made lots of mistakes, but I was always
sorry!’

She sighed a little as she turned away, but
her sadness soon changed to smiles as she
saw Miss Dean standing beside her ‘counter,

“How do you do, Miss Marvin?’ asked the
lady inspector cordially. ‘‘I am delighted to
see you again, for I was afraid I was never
going to! Business is so very brisk,’’ she said
laughingly, as she saw Faith’s questioning ex-.-
pression. ‘‘Why, I’m up to my ears in modern
improvements! I’m a Carpenter, an engineer,
and a full-fledged plumber!”’

‘Do you have to know a lot about all such
things?’ asked Faith.

“Well, not a lot, exactly, but just enough.
We have to know when stores are ‘lacking in
either of the things mentioned.”’

“There have been many changes-since you
were here,’ said Faith slyly. ‘“‘We have a
new cloak-room now; you just ought to see
Tr:

“Oh, I have seen it, you can be sure!’’ said
the lady, dryly. I’ve been up there sniffing
around and inspecting every corner, and Im
glad to say that I quite approve of it.”

They both laughed heartily, but Faith was

not quite satisfied.

‘Can you see any changes that you did
not suggest, Miss Dean?’’ she asked, a little
timidly.. ‘‘Are there no improvements that
look to you like radical reforms, suggested by
the divine spirit of love for humanity?’

“Not one!’ said Miss Dean, promptly. ‘“‘I
see nothing of the sort! There are no changes
here that could not have been effected by the
law of common decency! I should feel sorry
to think that a man could not do what was
right without a divine suggestion. It would
speak ill of his sense of honor or justice to-
ward humanity.’’

She paused a moment and then began speak-
ing more slowly. There was no resentment in
her tones; she was merely reasoning the situa-
tion.

“J can see that the firm of Denton, Day &
Co. has come to a crisis in its business career,
owing to the illogical stand recently taken by
one of its members. From a paying invest-
ment it has turned into a philanthropical in-
stitution, and so long as it can live as such it
will be a great benefit to hundreds. Further
than this, I hear that one man has made an
unjust fortune by withdrawing from the firm
and that another partner is watching like an
eagle for an opportunity to swoop down and
settle his talons. Then, again, I understand
from a reliable source that Mr. Denton’s wife
is fast going insane from worry, and that his
scapegraee son is growing gray-headed over
the outlook for his fortune. Again, Mr, Den-
ton himself, who has wrought all these
changes, is being looked upon by wise men as
a driveling idiot, or, what.is about as bad, a
religious fanatic, whose sudden determination
to ‘be good’ has sealed the doom of his for-

tune.’’

As Miss Dean was. speaking she looked
steadily at Faith. She was watching to see if
her words had any effect, or if the girl was
really incapable of understanding the situa-
tion.

There was not a cloud of apprehension upon
the fair girl’s brow, yet her eye was clear;
shé had comprehended every syllable.

“You approve of all this?’ asked Miss Dean
in. despair. ,

Faith’s answer was merely a verse of Scrip-
ture, which she repeated so firmly and with
such intense eagerness that the low voice fair-
ly vibrated with repressed emotion.

“And be ye not conformed to this world;
but be ye transformed by the renewing of your
souls, that ye may prove what is that good
and acceptable and perfect will of -God.’’

“T am answered, as I fully expected to be,”
said Miss Dean quietly. ‘‘It is positively won-
derful, that faith of yours. Why, it amounts
to actual exultation of spirit!’’

She shook hands with Faith and said good-
by. They were the extremes of goodness, ac-
complishing the same ends, but each working
on a theory incomprehensible to the other.

to Miss

a little and left the

what for?’

”

”

CHAPTER XXXITI.
FAITH VISITS MAGGIE.

The -next few days were busy ones for Faith,
for, besides her work at the store, she helped
pack every evening and tried in every way.
possible to enter into the spirit of the new ar-
rangements for living, which her mother was
planning so enthusiastically.

At last they were settled in a handsome flat
in a neighborhood where Faith was not afraid
to let either little Dick or her mother go out
alone, and this one fact made her very happy.

Not a word had escaped her at the store
about her altered conditions, neither had she
spoken again to her mother regarding her
uncle.

Mrs. Marvin told her sadly that he had gone
abroad immediately after arranging the trans-
fer of the $50,000 and settling all the details of
her newly acquired fortune, Faith breathed a
sigh of relief, although she felt sorry for her
mother. It was evident that his humiliation
was deep and genuine.

She frequently caught herself ‘wondering
about his changed ndme. He was born a
Courtleigh, yet he had signed himself ‘‘Deer-
ing.’’

She decided at last that it was a purely: per-
sonal matter. Doubtless it was for some rea-
son which she in her innocence would neither
understand nor approve.

 

Other things which she could understand

were claiming her attention, so that there was
little time to spend in idle conjectures.

She waited eagerly as the days passed by
for a word from Maggie Brady that she was
willing to see her.

At last it came, and Faith hurried down to
the jail. She had no difficulty whatever in se-
curing Mr. Denton’s permission.

At the first glimpse of Maggie behind prison
bars she nearly burst into a fit of crying, The
girl was so haggard and pale that she hardly
knew. her.

“T suppose you've come to gloat over me,”
were the prisoner’s first words, ‘‘but it don’t
matter to me, You can come if you. want to.’’

“Oh, Miss; Brady, don’t say .that,’’ cried
Faith, with the tears springing to her eyes.
“T have come to see you—to try and cheer you.
Do, please, believe me!’’ :

“How do you expect to cheer me?’ asked
Maggie sullenly, as the keeper opened the door
of her cell and let her out into the corridor.

“T don’t know that I ecan,’’ said Faith, very
sadly, “‘but you will let me try at least, won't
you, Maggie?”

There was a yearning in her voice that
the woman could not miss. She stared at Faith
steadily, as though trying to read her soui, and
in a moment her face softened and she spoke
more gently. get,

“Oh, I have no doubt you are sorry for me,
and all that,’’ she said slowly. ‘‘That’s nat-
a, but, see here; I don’t want any sympa-
thy.

“But you do want my friendship, don’t you,
Maggie?’ said Faith; ‘‘and-.that is what. I
ae ore to offer you—just my honest friend-
ship.

In an instant the fiend
again.

“Do you expect me to believe that?” she
hissed in a whisper, ‘‘after doing your best to
cut me out with Jim Denton?’’ :

She glanced at the girl with a perfect stor
of fury in her eyes, but Faith’s glance did not
waver; she only shook het head sadly.

ie am sorry you will not believe me, Mag-
gie,’’ she said softly, “but it is the truth that
I have never flirted with Mr. Denton, and the
only times I ever saw him in my life before
this trouble arose were twice, when you saw
us together.”

“IT don’t believe you!’ said her listener
sharply. “If you had never flirted with him
why did he send you.candy?’’

“{T don’t know, 1 am sure,’”’ said Faith hope-
lessly. “‘Perhaps he thought I was young and
silly, and would not know that he was insult-
ing me.”

_ Miss Brady looked at her with some surprise
in her eyes.

“Did you consider it an insult?” she asked

slowly.
“Certainly,” said Faith. ‘‘He had no right
He forced it upon me; I did not

in the girl woke

to do so.
want it.”’

“And he has never made love to you?” asked
the woman eagerly.

She was bending forward, staring at Faith
with a strained expression upon her features.
To save her life, Faith could not help blush-
ing. Hers was a tell-tale face—it portrayed
every emotion. .

“IT knew it! I knew it!” cried Miss Brady
sharply. ‘‘You would not blush as you are do-
ing if he hadn’t done it!’’

“But he hasn’t, I assure you,’’ said Faith,
as soon as she could speak. ‘‘Mr. Denton has
flattered me a little, of course, but I can hon-
estly say that he hasn’t made love to me.”’

She was firm enough now and her voice was
very convincing. Miss Brady .gazed at her
steadily and seemed impressed with her can-

or. .

“Well, he hadn’t better,’’ she muttered sul-
lenly. “Jim Denton had better take care——”
She stopped suddenly. ‘I had forgotten,’’ she
said bitterly; ‘I am helpless and in prison.”

“But I am sure you will soon be free, Miss
Brady,’ said Faith, “for I have utterly re-
fused to appear against you, and——”

“What! exclaimed the woman, in a startled
whisper. ‘‘You have refused to appear against
me—and you think me guilty?’

“Tf I Knew you were guilty I would still re-
fuse,’’ said Faith stoutly, ‘“‘for if you sent that
candy you must have been crazy!’’

Slowly the frown lifted from the poor girl’s
brow. She kept: gazing at Faith as though
she could hardly credit her senses.

“You will not accuse me,’’ she stammered
again. ‘‘Well, that’s more mercy than I ever
expected on earth or in heaven.”

‘What is more, Maggie,’’ continued Faith,
“J want you to be my friend. As soon as you
are out of this place we can see mbre of each
other.”’ SR ee ps $

This was a little too mv&h fozx_even Mage
Brady’s nature. Her lips tremb i¢jious-
ly before she answered.

“Oh, I won’t get out; you mark my words.
Old Denton will send me up, or, if he don’t,
the District Attorney will do it.’’

“T don’t think so,’’ said Faith. ‘‘They won't
if I can prevent it, and as I am. the person
most interested, I think I should have some
voice in the matter.’’ .

“You understand, I don’t admit that I did
it, yet,’’ said Miss Brady, sullenly. ‘I have
never admitted a thing, not even to the law-
yer.”’

“Would you not be happier if you did admit
it?’’ asked Faith, softly. “‘I am sure it would
relieve you to get it off of your conscience.’’

“Oh, it ain’t troubling me much!” said the
girl indifferently, ‘‘but I will say that I’m glad
the stuff didn’t kill you!”

“But it might have killed Sam Watkins if
the dog had not happened to be there. Why,
Miss Brady, just think; you might have killed
a dozen people!’’

é The woman shuddered and turned away her
ace.

“Well, as it didn’t kill any one there’s some
hope for me,’’ she said, ‘and I want to live
long “enough to get square with Jim Denton!”

“What has he done to you?’ cried Faith im-
pulsively. ‘I can’t think what he could do to
make you hate him so bitterly.’’

“Hate him!’’-cried the girl. ‘“‘Me hate Jim
Denton! Why, you don’t know- what you are
talking about! Would I be jealous if I hated
him?’”’

“But you certainly can’t love him,’ said
Faith, with another blush. “If you- did you
could not harm him so much as in your
thoughts. You would be glad to suffer any-
thing to be able to protect him.”

“Oh, I’ve protected him, all right,’’ said the
girl, with a sneer; then she straightened up
suddenly and said:

“JT want to ask you a favor. I want you to
bring old Denton down here,” She said eager-
ly. “Bring him yourself and let Fairbanks
come with you. Come any day you like. I’m
not particular.” :

“J will ask Mr. Denton to come if you wish,”
said Faith, a little wonderingly, “and I am
sure he will come. He is very sorry for you,
Maggie.”’

“He'll be sorrier, I’m thinking,’’ was the an-
swer. ‘But my time is up. Good-by, Miss

Marvin.” %

“Good-by,” said Faith, sweetly, ‘and you
believe me, Miss Brady. You know now that
I am, innocent: in regard to young Mr. Den-
ton?’’

“Bring the old man down and I'll believe it,”
was her-answer. ‘If you will do that for me.
I shall have some faith in your friendship.”’

When Faith got back to the store she went
straight to Mr.- Denton, and repeated in as
few words as possible her conversation with
Maggie.
- Mr. Dentton had found out himself many
things about his son, so Faith did not hesitate
to tell the entire story.

“J can’t think that.my son -has really
wronged the woman,’-he said, sadly, “but he
has been very reckless, I fear, and it is my
fault in great measure.”’

“And you will go to see her, will you not?”
asked Faith, eagerly,

“With pleasure,’’ said Mr. Denton, “and I
trust that with our words and our prayers,
Miss Marvin, that we shall be able to bring
the poor sinner to repentance.”

Faith left the private office feeling very hope-
ful and happy. She was more so when she
met Mr. Watkins just entering the building.

There was a hearty hand clasp and an ear-
nest ereeting; then Mr. Watkins told her
briefly of his recovery and his prospects for
the future.

“T am to have the same position; only a
much larger salary,’’ he said, brightly, “‘which
will enable us to live in comfort without Sam’s
working. He can go to day school for at least
another year.”’

“Everything is shining with hope down
here,’”’ was Faith’s answer. ‘‘Really, Mr. Wat-
kins, you will be astonished at the changes.”’

As briefly as possible she told him of her own
good fortune, and giving him her new address,

GOOD APPETITE

Ts essential to goodshealth. Strength, vigor and endurance
are imparted to the body by the nourishment derived from
plenty ofivell digested food. Hood’s Sarsaparilla is a won-
derful medicine to create an appetite and give strength. It
gently tones the stomach and cures dyspepsia. ss.

Hood’s Sarsaparilla

Is the bést medicine money can buy. Price $i. All druggists.

 

 

 

 

HOOD’S PILLS cure indigestion, biliouSness. 25 cents,

 

 

oo

 

 

 
 

 

VOL. 55-No, 39.

 

she cautioned him to keep it secret for the.

present.

“And now I have some news that will aston-
ish you,” said Mr. Watkins. ‘A rich old
lady, whom I once met, wrote me a letter the
other day—she knew my poor sweetheart, and
wants to adopt her brother.”

“Adopt little Dick!’ cried Faith, in distress.
“I can hardly think of it, Mr. Watkins; yet
we must look into it, of course. I. must not
let my love for him stand in the way of his
welfare.”’

“That is what I thought,” said Mr. Wat-
kins, soberly; “but do you chance to know
a Miss Marvin? Her name is Mrs. Gra-

am.”’ :

“Yes, indeed; she’s the sweetest old lady in
the world,’’ cried Faith. ‘‘She used to come in
So ee shop, and Mary -and I both loved

er.

“Well, I’m to see her to-night, and hear
what she has to say. I will tell you all about
it later,” he said as they parted.

“It will be a better home than we can give
him,’’ murmured Faith, thoughtfully: “for

while we have a few thousands, Mrs. Graham
has millions.”’
(To be centinued.)

ee or

Halburton Lancaster’s
Temptation.

By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon

Author of “The Lily of Mordaunt,”’ “ Winifred’s Sacrijice,””
“The Magic Cumeo,” ‘“Brownie’s Triumph,”
“Stella Rosevelt,” ‘Queen Bess,” Etc.

(“HaLteukTON LANCASTER’S TEMPTATION” was com-
menced in No. 20. Back numbers can be obtained of all
ne wsdealers.)

CHAPTER XXXIX.

HELEN UNEXPECTEDLY HAS» QUITB AN
HONOR CONFERRED UPON HER.

And she was glad to sée her,

if Mrs. Elisworth had done her mother an ir-
reparable injury in the past and was still de-
termined to persecute her, Marjorie could not
be held responsible for the wrong-doing of her
mother, and so Helen had never treasured any
ill feeling against her on account of it.

She had never had any reason to suspect the
girl of having done her a willful injury. She
knew that she had learned to love Rob and she
had believed that she had won him from her;
but, supposing that had come around only in a
natural way from their constant companion-
ship, she had told herself that was no reason
why she should withdraw her friendship from
the girl. She had never confided to Marjorie
that Rob was more to her than .the ‘school
friend’’ which she had represented him, and
she did not dream that she had fathomed her
secret and yet had delibérately set herself to
win him away from her. After her confession
of love for him, there had seemed to come a
barrier between them and their correspondence
had fallen off; nevertheless she had continued
to be fond of her, not even allowing a spirit
of jealousy to creep into her consciousness and
sour her. Rob, she thought,-was the recreant,
not Marjorie,

She had wondered, after learning that Mrs.
Elisworth and her daughter were in Colorado
Springs and reduced to the necessity of keep-
ing a boarding-house, where they had left Mrs.
Sturdyvant and the rest of the party with
whom they were traveling. If Marjorie had
been engaged to Rob, where now was the
young man that he didnot rescue his fiancee
from the disagreeable life she was now lead-
ing.

Perhaps, however, she reasoned with scorn-
fully curling lips. Mr. Lancaster, who had
once been so fond of the girl and who had been
her ideal of an ‘‘old-time knight,’’ had inter-
fered when misfortune overtook her—as was
evidently the case—and had refused to allow
his nephew to marry out of the charmed
sphere in which he moved,

Thus, out of the sweetness of her pure and
loving nature, she tried to excuse and think

 

 

 

well of the friend in whom she had so implic-
Seg ste ig ors previous; thus, when
she et her at™'they Casino and put out her
hand to greet her and observed “I am glad to
see you,’’ she meant every word of it and her
earnest face corroborated her statement.

“Are you really, Helen?’ Marjorie questioned
eagerly, while she searched the lovely eyes
looking so kindly into hers, though she blushed
crimson from mingied guilt and shame. ‘‘I—I
was afraid you would never want to speak to
me again, especially after—after we came here
and—what has been said. I wanted to come to
see you, but M—I—I could not,” she faltered
in conclusion while her eyes drooped beneath
the clear, steadfast look which Helen bent
upon her.

“T understand you, Marjorie,’’ our gentle
heroine gravely returned, “‘and of course I
could.not expect you to come, under the cir-
cumstances. Nevertheless, if the conditions
had been favorable, I should have been glad
to have you do so, and I know of no reason
why I should not want to speak to you; it cer-
tainly would not be kind or right to blame you
for what others may have done. Mamma is
here—inside the dance hall; would you like to
see her?’’ she queried as she glanced beyond
the glass partition that separated the veranda
from the brilliantly lighted room.

“Oh, yes—but perhaps she would not care to
meet me;’’ said Marjorie, with evident embar-
rassment.

“Mamma is not vindictive,” responded Helen
with a friendly smile, ‘‘and she certainly
would not impute to you what you are in no
way responsible for.”

“She is very good,’’ said the girl, but with
evident shrinking.

Then glancing down the veranda she saw Dr.
Black approaching and followed by a waiter
who was bearing a tray.

She heaved a sigh of relief at the prospect of
having-the uncomfortable—at least to her—in-
terview interrupted.

“Ah!’’ she said hurriedly,—‘‘I see my friend
returning, and I shall have to wait until later.”’
Then she added, with something of her old-

_ time frankness and confiding manner: “But it
is was lovely of you, Helen, to come to speak
to me. Give my love to Mrs. Seymour, and I
hope we shall meet again soon.’’

She turned back to the table where she had
been sitting, the doctor rejoining her at that
moment, while Helen went back to her com-
panion, but with a shadow of disappointment
and perplexity resting on her fair face.

Later, when talking the incident over with
her mother, Mrs, Seymour did not express her-
self either for or against Marjorie. She did not
like to influence Helen against any one, but she
had -been impressed, at the time she had
broken with Rob, that the girl was not true—
she had not quite liked the tone of her letters,
und now, under existing circumstances, she
preferred that the two should not renew their
friendShip, although she did not say so.

She knew that Mrs. EllSworth must still be
working against her, for she was continually
encountering people with whom she had been
upon very friendly terms, during her sojourn
with Mrs. Allen, who now were decidedly
frigid in their greetings when they met, if
indeed they saw her at all.

They continued to go to the Casino, for they
thoroughly enjoyed the fine music, and Helen
loved to dance; but they never encountered
Marjorie there again.

The summer flitted swiftly by until August
eame. in, when everybody began to manifeSt
enthusiasm in view of the approaching Flower
Carnival,

A whole week was usually devoted to the
festivities, and nothing else was talked of for a
whole month preceding; but the two most im-
portant events of the carnival were the soci-
ety circus and flower days, the latter taking
the precedence of all else. Ladies, young and
old, spared no time, labor or expense in per-
fecting their designs for carriages and cos-
tumes, many of them making thousands of
paper flowers with which to decorate their
traps. Gentlemen arranged their various
committees and talked of horses, vehicles and
liveries; the prizes to be awarded, colots of the
banners, route of procession, etc., etc. in
fact, the entire city was given up generally to
preparations for the long looked for event.

One morning during the first week of Au-
gust a couple of .cards were handed into Mrs.
Seymour’s room, where she and Helen were
having a quiet chat over their sewing.

“For Mrs. and Miss Seymour,’’ said the serv-
ant who presented them, ‘‘and the lady is
waiting in the parlor.’’

“Why, mamma! it is Miss Wallace,’’ Helen
exclaimed, flushing slightly, as she glanced at
the inscription upon the bits of pasteboard.

Mrs. Seymour glanced. up from her work in
surprise, the color deepening upon her own
cheeks and a spark of fire in her usually mild
eyes. A

‘What can she want after all these weeks,
I wonder?’’ she observed in a constrained tone,

 

The Wallaces were a wealthy and influential
family who had long resided in the city and
were regarded as one of the ‘‘first families’ in
the place.

Mr. Wallace had been’a United States Sena-
tor some years previous, then had spent a long
time in Europe, traveling and educating some
of his children, after which he had come to
Colorado Springs.and erected a palatial resi-
dence on Cascade avenue, with the intention
of making the city a permanent home.

He had a very interesting family, consisting
of one son and three daughters, Miss’ Hetty
Wallace being the eldest of these. The family
had met Mrs,-Seymour and her daughter ata
church reception during the winter, and had
been charmed with them. Calls were. ex-
changed, then an intimacy between Helen and
Miss Hetty had sprung up and for a long time
the most friendly relations had existed be-
tween the two families, Mrs. Wallace often
sending her carriage for Mrs. Seymour to
either drive or spend the day with her.

But of late they had seen nothing of any of
them, and Mrs. Seymour, being extremely
sensitive, had naturally inferred that the Wal-
laces must have heard the reports that had
been so persistently circulated and, like others,
had seen fit to drop their acquaintance; hence
this call from Miss Wallace was a genuine
surprise.

*“Of course we must go down, mamma,” said
Helen, who had not failed to observe her
mother’s constraint.

“Yes. I suppose we must,’’ she replied, as
she laid aside her work and arose with some
reluctance, and the two went down together.

The moment they appeared in sight, how-
ever, there was the sound of a glad little cry,
the rush of silken skirts as a tall, slim, lovely
girl flew to Helen’s side, encircled her in her
arms and gave her a hearty kiss.

“What an age it seems since I saw you last,’’
she said) breezily, ‘‘and dear Mrs. Seymour,
how well you are looking! I suppose you re-
ceived my note telling you of our sudden fiit-
ting?’’ she added, turning again to Helen, who
had been somewhat taken aback by her ef-
fusive greeting.

“No. I have heard nothing from you,’’ she
replied.

“Why! how strange!” cried the girl, flush-
ing to her brows. ‘I dashed off a few lines to
you and sent it by the coachman, the morning
we went away. Why! you surely must have
felt as if you had been unceremoniously de-
serted!’’ she concluded in a remorseful tone,

“Ah! then you have been away!’ smilingly
returned Mrs. Seymour, as she cordially
clasped the hand extended to her, for the bur-
den of doubt all roiled from her heart at Miss
Wallace’s unmistakable friendliness.

“Yes. Mamma was suddenly sent for to go
to Glenwood Springs to her favorite sister,
who had been sent there for her health and
was taken very much worse after being there
for a-—week or two. As it was evident she
would have to remain with her for some
time, papa said he would take us girls
to Salt Lake and some other places that
we have long been wanting to visit. Tom
went East to spend the month of July with a
friend, and we have had a most delightful six
weeks’ trip, although we did not dream of be-
ing gone half that time; but mamma could not
leave her sister, and papa said we might as
well make the most of her enforced absence.
We only returned last evening and I came
right away this morning to see how you are.
I cannot understand, though, why Dave should
have neglected to deliver my note. I shall take
him to task as soon as I go home.

“Never mind, dear, it is ali right, now that
we know about it; but we have wondered a
little what had become of you all,’’ Mrs. Sey-
mour kindly returned. ‘‘I trust your mother’s
sister has recovered.”’ ‘

Miss Hetty shot a quick glance at her and
fiushed again,

“Yes, Aunt Mattie is well again, though, for
a while, her life was despaired of,’ she re-
plied. ‘“‘Mamma sent her ilove -to you and is
coming to take you for a drive this afternoon,
if you have~no other engagement.’’

Mrs. Seymour thanked her with shining eyes,
and said she should be very happy to accept
the invitation.

She was greatly cheered by the girl’s ex-
planations regarding what had seemed like
studied neglect, and also by the evidence of
the continued friendship of the family.

“And now for my errand,” continued Miss
Hetty, with sparkling eyes, ‘‘for I have a very
important -one—guess it, you brown-eyed
beauty!” she interposed as she gave Helen an
impulsive little hug.

“Tt am sure I haven’t the slightest suspicion
of its nature,’ she returned with a bright
laugh, for she also,was very happy to have
her friend back again,

“Well, then, I will not Keep you in suspense,”’
pursued Miss Hetty. ‘Papa has consented to
allow me to drive a trap in the Flower Car-
nival this year, and of course I am all on the
qui vive over it. I want it to be very, very
swell, you know. I am to have the span of
blacks and carte blanche, and, knowing what
exquisite taste you have, Mrs. Seymour, I
have ventured to come to ask if you will
kindly help me design thé decorations for the
trap?’’

“TJ shall-be delighted to do so, Miss Hetty,”
said Mrs. Seymour with animation; ‘it will
give me great pleasure. Have you anything in
mind as yet?”

“T haven't an idea,’ said the girl, helplessly,
‘‘and papa insists that I must not on any ac-
count annoy mamma—she has so many other
cares just now—so’’—with a sly glance at
Helen—‘“‘I have audaciously come to bother
somebody else’s mamma.”’

“T have nothing else to do and I should en-
joy it immensely,’ said Mrs. Seymour eagerly,
adding, ‘‘only you must give me a day or two
to think about it, before I propose any de-
sign.’’

“Oh, certainly; take more time if you wish,
for we have nearly three weeks before us, you
know. I mention it now because I felt that I
must set the ball rolling. And now I have an-
other favor to ask,’’ she went on, the color
flushing her cheeks again; ‘“‘would you object
to have Helen ride with me in the procession?
I should feel awfully stiff and forlorn to go
alone in the trap with the eyes of all those
thousands upon me.”’

Mrs. Seymour had been quick to note the
flush, and she felt a lump swelling in her
throat at this proposal.

She knew, as well as if she had been told,
that there was a doubl purpose in the _ invi-
tation.

There had not been the slightest hint that
the Wallaces knew aught of the invidious re-
perts that had been circulated, but she felt
impressed that they had reached their ears
and that they had taken this way—which was
true—to -show to them and to the whole city
their loyalty to them. and their contempt for
the miserable scandal. It certainly was a
beautiful and delicate way of proving their
friendship, and Mrs. Seymour was quick to
appreciate it.

“Indeed, no. I could not have the slightest
objection—if H’elen, herself, would like it,’’ she
said, turning to her with a smile that had a
suspicion of tears in it.

‘‘“Ah, Helen, say yes, there’s a dear,’’ pleaded
Miss Wallace eagerly. ‘‘I have set my heart
upon having you go with me.”

“Of course I shall like it; I think it will be
great fun, only you must allow me also to help
you get ready for the great event,’’ Helen re-
sponded with a very bright face.

“Thank you, but 1 intended to draft you into
the service as well as your mother,’ said
Hetty, laughing: ‘‘Then, you know, I. shall
have to drive the blacks every day, between
now and then, to get used to them and have
them get used to me, and I shall want you to
ride with me. Of course the coachman will
fo with us, to drill me in handling the ribbons
and give me points in general, so there will
be no fear of our getting into any trouble.”

And Helen, seeing a great deal of enjoy-
ment before her, cordially assented to her
proposition,

Then they all fell to chatting of things in
general, in the most friendly and social way,
until the clock on the mantel struck twelve,
when Miss. Hetty, with a cry of dismay at
having stayed so long, arese to go.

“My dear,’’ said Mrs. Seymour when she and
Helen were again in their own room after the
departure of their guests, ‘‘nothing could be
more lovely of the Wallaces, or have been
more delicately planned and suggested; I had
wronged them in my thought, believing since
we neither saw nor heard anything of them,
that. they had fallen away from us like so
many others. But it is evident that they be-
lieve in us and intend to do everything in their
power to make it apparent. Mrs. Wallace will
take me out this afternoon—you will ride with
Miss Hetty every day until the carnival, and
I imagine that public opinion will eventually
veer around in our favor.’’

Helen turned and laid her arms around her
mother’s neck, and there were tears in her
beautiful eyes.

“*T am very, very glad for your sake, mamma,
dear,’’ she said tremulously, ‘‘for it has broken
my heart to have you so cruelly traduced,
Why is it-that the world is so ungenerous?
Why are people so eager to believe the worst
of others—roll gossip, like a sweet morsel, under
their tongues and ignore. that which is good
and noble and.pure in characters like yours?”

23

 

“It does seem unaccountable,’? Mrs. Sey-
mour gravely responded, ‘‘but it is a habit that
is very easily acquired, and that is why
would never allow you to repeat things that
you heard against your mates at school; if you
had that which was pleasant and praiseworthy
to say of any one I was always ready to hear
it, as you know.”’

“Yes, and I can now see how wise you were,’’
said Helen. Then she went on thoughtfully:
“What possible good can it do any one to
carry malicious reports from one to another ?—
and what advantage does any one gain by
Siving people, of whom they hear something
evil, the cold shoulder? They hear only one
side of the story—they take no pains to ascer-
tain whether it is true or false, and yet they
form their opinions and judge the victim from
the disparaging rumors.”’

“TI know, dear, that seems to have been our
experience this summer, but it is a long lane
that has no turning, you know, and as we are
beginning to find out,’ replied Mrs. Seymour
smiling. ‘‘There are some just and high
minded people in the world and it is a com-
fort to know that you can number some of
them among your friends. It is a great pity
that those who love gossip cannot realize that
they only demoralize themselves by trading in
it, and that they by no means establish their
own virtue and morality by trying to trample
others down and assuming a ‘holier than thow’
attitude toward them.’’

CHAPTER XL.
A SYMPHONY IN GREEN AND WHITE.

The following two-or three weeks were very
busy ones with our friends; but they were
also very enjoyable.

Mrs. Seymour, with her genius for designing
and her exquisite taste, presented Miss Wal-
lace, after a few days of thought, with an ar-
tistic conception for her trap which delighted
that young lady’s heart and won highest en-
comiums from her friends; and then, as they
could not do anything about the decoratiens
—which were to comprise only natural flowers
—until two or three days before the carnival,
they turned their. attention to the all-impor-
tant costumes for the two young ladies, and
which were also to be supervised by Mrs, Sey-
mour.

There was,
and forth, to
of shopping
plates.

The Seymours were often at the Wallaces,
where two dainty dresses were in process of
construction, and thus, with the driving evefy
day to coach the fair aspirant for carnivai
honors, Helen always accompanying her; with
Mrs. Seymour’s frequent appearance in Mrs.
Wallace’s handsome Victoria, there began to
appear upon many faces whom they met looks
of wonder and perplexity, not to mention curi-
ous comments regarding the meaning of it all.

Our busy spinster was especially exercised
on account of it. “I just don’t understand it,’’
she observed with considerable asperity to a
knot of her fellow boarders, who were discuss-
ing the matter. “‘Why the Wallaces are on
the. topmost wave here. I really think that
Mrs. Wallace ought to be informed of the
truth, and warned that her daughter will be
seriously compromised if she continues to go
about so with that Seymour girl; everybody is
commenting upon the intimacy.”’

A few days later she met Mrs. Walildce in
one of the stores down :town, at the ribbon
eounter, where that lady was. purchasing
numerous bolts of wide white satin ribbon.

“Ah!”’ blandly observed Miss Sampson. ‘“‘I
perceive that you are preparing for the carni-
val. I saw by this morning’s paper that Miss
Wallace is entered for the procession.’’

“Yes; Hetty was anxious to participate last
year; but her father, who had then but just
purchased the horses she wished to drive, did
not think it would-be safe to gratify her. This
year, however, he felt that it would be all
right to grant her desire,’’. Mrs. Wallace ex-
plained.

“T expect she will come out with something
pretty fine,’’ said the spinster, curiously.

‘Well,’ returned hér companion, smiling,
for she well Knew the woman’s propensity,
“we are going to let her do pretty much as she
wants to, and, as some friends are kindly as-
sisting her, I hope she will be satisfied with
the results.” »

*‘Oh-o!”? was Miss Sampson’s mental ejacula-
tion, as light began to dawn upon her. “Pll
bet the Seymours are helping her get up the
rig. Well, a dressmaktr
how to make pretty bows and knots;’’ but a
contemptuous sniff was the only outward sigu
of these cogitations. Then aloud she re-
marked:

“T see Helen Seymour riding with Miss Wal-
lace a great deal—they appear to be exceed-
ingly friendly.’’

“Yes; wie are all very fond of Helen as well
as of het mother,’ replied Mrs, Walace, with
a slight uplifting of her proud head.

“Are you?’’ queried the spinster, with sig-
nificant emphasis. ‘“‘Really, I feel sorry to
hear you say so, for—of course, I do not mean
to be officious, Mrs. Wallace, and I have all
the charity and sympathy in the world for
those unfortunate ladies—for I wonder if you
know what the whole city has been saying
about them during the last three or four
months! It—it would be a great pity to have
Miss Wallace compromised.”

“I beg your pardon, Miss Sampson,’ Mrs.
Wallace here interposed, and she looked very
tall, and straight and imposing, as she said
it, ‘but my daughter can never be compro-
mised by her association with Miss Seymour,
who is one of the loveliest girls I have ever
known, and her mother is a rare, sweet wom-
an. Yes, I have Known: what the ‘whole city’—
though I think that is rather a sweeping state-
ment—have been saying about these people,
whom I am proud to claim as friends, and I
am free to declare that I am almost ashamed
to be numbered among such a gossiping and
uncharitable community. Ah, here comes my
package. Good-morning, Miss Sampson,’’

And the lady of ‘‘the topmost wave” sailed
away with a superior air, leaving her recent
companion in a decidedly wilted condition.

“Humph! she carried it off with a high
head, but I reckon they will find out, to their
sorrow, that they cannot show contempt for
public opinion to any such extent with im-
punity,’’ she muttered with a very red face.

And this poor, poverty-stricken woman—
poverty stricken from a moral point of view,
although she possessed an abundance of this
world’s goods—went her way with her fresh
morsels to regale the itching ears of her as-
sociates in a gossiping boarding house.

Marien Ellsworth’s jealousy was newly
aroused upon learning of the Seymours’ in-
timacy with the Wallaces, and she became
more bitter than ever in her insinuations and
malicious thrusts.

So ‘‘Carnival week’? drew on apace, and on
Monday morning preceding “Flower Day,”’
which had been set for Wednesday, the party
from abroad arrived in Colorado Springs.

Mrs. Sturdyvant went directly to Mrs.
Elisworth, but the others of the company re-
paired to “‘The Antlers,’’ where they had
rooms engaged, having telegraphed ahead for
them. some weeks previous.

The whole week, as previously stated, was
given up to festivity. On Monday evening the
Carnival was formally opened by a grand ball
at the Casino, at Broadmore, and was said
to be the most brilliant affair of the kind in
the history of the city.

Tuesday was devoted to the great carnival
circus, which was said to be the ‘funniest
thing that ever happened,’ as the. parade was
“a burlesque from start to finish,” and origi-
nated with and was carried out by the society
young men of the city. It was well done in
every detail, and was a huge success.

Then came Wednesday, as fair a day as ever
broke or gladdened expectant hearts in this
land of perpetual sunshine, and which was re-
oo as the most important day of the fes-
tival.

Two huge grandstands had been erected—
one on either side of Cascade avenue, not far
from ‘‘The Antlers’’—and these were covered
by an immense canvas to protect the people
from the blazing sun. Midway of these was
the judges’ stand, behind which was located
the band which discoursed inspiriting music,
and by two o'clock every seat was occupied,
while many hundreds of people stood outside
and along the route of the parade.

Mr. Lancaster and Rob, with the other mem-
bers of their party from ‘‘The Antlers,’’ had
taken one of the boxes, a tier of which. had
been arranged on both sides of the grand-
stand, and raised only a little above the ave-
nue through which the procession was to pass.

As it happened, it was directly opposite the
Governor’s box and about midway of the
stand, and thus it commanded a fine view of
everything, while, too, their conspicuous po-
sitiom made it easy to .single them out.

30th gentlemen were looking unusually well,
and appeared to be in good spirits.

It had been a great relief to them—though
neither had given expression to it—when Mrs.
Ellsworth and Marjorie left the party, and,
throughout the remainder of their trip, they
had experienced a sense of freedom which
neither had enjoyed previous to their depart-
ure,

of course, much running back
say nothing of the excitement
and the studying of fashion

’

is supposed to know-

 

Mr. Lancaster was, at times, oppressed by a
feeling of obligation to Mrs.» Elisworth, and
this was increased after learning from Mrs.
Sturdyvant of the ill tidings that had greeted
her upon her arrival.at Colorado Springs, and
which had necessitated her remaining there
and opening a boarding house to supply her
daily needs. >

Upon hearing what exorbitant rent she was
obliged to pay for her house, he had conceived
the project of purchasing and presenting her
with a house when he should arrive upon the
scene, and in this scheme—upon being con-
sulted—Rob most heartily concurred.

A little incident showing how small the
world really is, and which also has its bear-
ing upon other points in our story, occurred
soon after our travelers had taken their seats
in the grandstand.

In the box adjoining theirs there sat a richly
dressed woman, whose face instantly attracted
Mr. Lancaster, although she evidently had
not as yet observed him.

“She looks for all the worla as if she might
be Althea Sampson of thirty years ago, even
though she has grown stout and old and
gray,’ he said to himself, ds he covertly
watched her out of the corner of his eye.

He could have reached out his hand and
touched her, and yet she was wholly uncon-
scious that a ghost from out her past was in
such close proximity to her, for she was ab-
sorbed in watching the people who were pass-
ing and repassing, and the notables who were
occupying the boxes on the opposite stand, and
commenting upon them to her companions.

Mr. Lancaster could easily overhear what
she was saying, and a smile of amusement
curled his fine lips from time to time.

“She is Althea, sure enough,” he said, ‘‘and,
if I am not mistaken, she is still just as deep-
ly interested in the affairs of her neighbors
as she used to be in the old days. I wonder
how she happens to be way out here, and
what has become of—— Well, I’m afraid I
am getting curious myself,’’ he concluded, cut-
ting*short his soliloquy with a shrug of his
broad shoulders,

They had to wait a long time for the parade,
for the time set for it to start was two thirty,
while it was to form upon the college reserva-
tion, more than a mile from the stand; mean-
time, however, the band “did itself proud’’
for the entertainment of the waiting thou-
sands.

During one of the pauses, while the music-
ians were taking a rest, Mr. Lancaster leaned
forward, and, with a courteous bow, observed:

“I beg pardon, but am I not addressing Miss
Sampson, formerly of Richmond, Virginia?’

The woman looked around suddenly at the
question, and her lips contracted spasmodi-
cally as she lifted a startled, wondering glance
to the gentieman.

“Yes,’’ she faltered, reluctantly. Then, after
studying his face intently for a moment, she
exclaimed: ‘‘Why! can it be possible? Yes, I
am sure you are Halburton Lancaster!” and
she extended her hand to him, although not
without manifest constraint in her manner.

**You are right,’’ Mr, Lancaster smilingly re-
turned, “but I littw® thought that I should
meet any one whom I had known in my
youth, away out here among the mines and
mountains of Colorado. But, surely, you are
not out here for your health, Miss Sampson,”’
he concluded, as his eye rested inquiringly
upon her ruddy face and portly figure.

“Oh, no; I am in perfect health, but I—I
like the climate here,’’ she responded, fiushing,
and her glance wavering beneath his. I have
been here for a good many years, with now
and then a trip to New York, Boston and San
Francisco, to vary the monotony.’’

“It truly is a delightful place; although I
have not seen very much of it as yet, though
I have had interests here for some time. It
is a wonderful country, and I would not
mind remaining here myself for a few years,’’
her companion appreciatively responded,

“Then this is your first visit to Colorado?
When did you arrive?’ Miss Sampson _ in-
quired, while her keen eyes were quick to ob-
serve. the richness of his attire, the rare
white stone upon his shirt front and his dis-
tinguished appearance in general.

“On Monday. morning. My nephew’’—with a
glance at Rob—‘‘and I have been traveling
abroad for a couple of years; in fact, have
made a tour of the world, and are now on
our way home.’’

“Your nephew!’’ repeated the _ spinster,
while she shot a curious glance at the young
man. “I imagined he might be your son—I
saw you when you came in together, but did
not once dream that you xyere any one whom
I had ever known.”’

“No; I have no son,’’ replied the gentleman,
with an involuntary sigh. ‘I am alone in the
world but for Rob.”

“Ah! is that so?’’
tone of surprise. She seemed
something more, but at that instant the
strains of another band were borne to them
from up the avenue, and she exclaimed in-
stead:

“Ah! the procession is coming at last! but’—
as a fierce gust of wind swept through the
place bringing a heavy cloud of dust with it—
“lm awfully afraid we’re going to have a
sand storm; how annoying!”’

Every eye was now turned expectantly up
the avenue, and, presently, the long-looked-for
parade came into view, headed by the
chief marshal, mounted on a fine charger.
He was followed by a platoon of police in par-
ade dress. Then came Company A of ‘‘Na-
tional Reserves;’’ after them novelties in bi-
cycles—unique designs of every description.
Then the ‘‘cowboy division,’’ followed by a
band of Indians, chiefs, squaws and children.
After them came the children’s division, and
a beautiful sight it was. A tiny sprite in white,
seated in a huge shell, composed of gorgeous
pink roses, and drawn by two plump white
ponies that were led by a couple of pages in
white and silver, attracted the delighted ap-
plause of the multitude, as did also many
other designs. Following the juveniles, the
flower parade proper came into view, and this
comprised vehicles of every description, deco-
rated in the most gorgeous and beautiful man-
ner, with flowers of innumerable varieties,
both natural and artificial.

It would be impossible to give a detailed
description of the magnificent display which
occupied a long time in passing the grand-
stand, all aspirants receiving their share of
praise and appreciation, and showers of flow-
ers strewn in their pathway. About half of
the procession had entered and passed the
grand-stand, when the spectators went sudden-
ly wild with enthusiasm, which clearly evinced
that something more than ordinarily attrac-
tive had come into sight. This was caused
by the appearance of an equipage which cer-
tainly would have been a dream of beauty
for the brush of an artist.

The trap was a one-seated affair, very natty
and stylish in shape. It was completely cov-
ered—not a particle of woodwork being visible
—with immense natural white chrysanthe-
mums, among which quantities of delicate
feathery asparagus vine had been entwined,
and which contributed an airy effect to the
tout ensemble that was indescribably beauti-
ful. The spokes of the wheels had been
wound with white satin ribbon; a row of per-
fect chrysanthemums encircled thé rims,
while around the hubs the same flowers had
been massed to form a huge star, and over
all the feathery veil of green. On the back
and the dasher, which were also a mass of
white, a great letter W had been wrought
in solid green. On each corner of the trap,
and on either side of the seat, there’ was a
huge bouquet of the same exquisite blossoms
tied with broad, white satin ribbons. The
thills also had been covered with ribbon.

The horses, splendid specimens, were black
as Erebus, and, having been groomed until
they shone like satin, were handsome enough
of themselves, to have taken a prize. Their
harness had been covered with white, also the
lines. They wore collars of chrysanthemums
and one huge snowy blossom-just back of each
ear.

The floor and seat of the trap were a mass
of asparagus vine, and upon this emerald
throne there were seated two beautiful girls,
clad in elegant costumes of spotless white—
all save their hats, which were of dead black,
with great, graceful, nodding black plumes,
just the color of the horses.

These young ladies were Miss Hetty Wallace
and Helen Seymour, and the former handled
the ribbons, to guide her prancing steeds, with
a grace and skill that drew forth round after
round of applause and an avalanche of blos-
soms from delighted beholders, and which
plainly indicated that of all the vehicles which
had as yet appeared this symphony in green
and white had won the palm.

As it drew near the box where Rob was sit-
ting he touched his uncle on the arm and ex-
claimed:

“Look! This is the finest thing I have seen
yet. Ah!-——’’

His glance had first rested upon the mag-
nificent horses, then swept on the beautiful
trap, its chaste and unique decorations arous-
ing his enthusiastic admiration. Next he had
noted the handsome and self-possessed girl
who held the lines, with such an air of as-
surance in her white-gloved hands, and then—
his eye rested upon Helen, just as he spoke to
Mr, Lancaster.

He recognized her instantly, and the shoc

’

observed the woman, in a

about to add

 

that quivered through him, nearly depriving
him of his senses, wrenched that agonized ex-
clamation from him and deprived him of his
eolor, leaving him almost as white as the
flowers among which the girl whom he adored
sat embowered.

Mr. Lancaster also saw and recognized her,
and was scarcely less moved than his nephew,
while he was amazed, in view of the strange
coincidence which had ordained that she
should be in Colorado Springs at the same
time with themselves.

Helen, fortunately for her  self-possession, '
had not seen either of the gentlemen amid the
sea of faces around her, and the trap passed
on.

The parade, after passing the grand-stand,
moved on past ‘‘The Antlers’’ to another
street, where it turned and countermarched,
then passed through, the grand-stand again,
each vehicle pausing before the judges to re-
ceive their verdict and awards.

It ig needless to say that both Rob and Mr.
Lancaster watched most eagerly for the re-
appearance of the symphony in green and
white.

It came into view at last, the faces of the
two girls within it all aglow with delight, in
view of the enthusiasm which their turnout
had aroused.

When they paused before the judges a white
satin banner, bearing upon it in golden let-
ters the words ‘‘First Prize,” was passed up to
Helen, who received it with smiling thanks
and amid deafening applause.

But, as the trap moved on, and the fair girl
glanced right and left as if in search of some
one, her eyes suddenly fell upon Rob, who
was leaning forward and gazing at her with
all his heart in his. own.

Their glances met and held each other for
one brief moment: then she was gone, and
without a sign of recognition on the part of
either.

(To be continued.)

———at>-¢

PLEASANT PARAGRAPHS.

BY CHARLES W. FOSTER.

MARRIED MEN PREFERRED.

Old Editor—‘‘Where is Scribbler?’

Assistant—“‘Gone off to get married.”

Old Editor—‘‘Well, I’m glad of that. He
won’t kick so about staying here nights now.”
HIS FIRST LOVE.

Young Downie—‘‘I would propose to Miss
Haughtie, but I’m afraid she’d only promise

to be a sister to me.”’

Miss Haughtie’s Little Brother—‘I
she'd! promise to be something nearer
that.”’

“Do you,

“Yep.
to you.”

think
than

really ?’’
I guess she’a promise to be a mother

A SUMMER PLAY.

Playwright—‘‘Talk about realism, I’ve
it now. You can re-open your theatre n¢
week.”’

Manager—‘‘Such weather as this?
atre is like an oven.”’

Playwright—‘‘That’s all right. I’ve laid the
scene in South Africa, and there are several
hot scenes descriptive of the Boer war.’’

EVERY-DAY LIFE.

Mrs. D’Avnoo (at front window)—‘‘Officer!’’

Policeman—‘‘Yes, ma’am. What’s wrong
ma’am ?’’

Mrs. D’Avnoo—‘‘Nothing’s wrong; but
you’d step into the kit@hen and tell the
not to burn the meat, as she did last
I’m afraid to.’’

BECOMING UNPOPULAR.

Miss Forundred—*This fashion of haying
hired singers is just horrid, and I’m going to
Stop it. .Mr. Nicefello has gone now.”’

Mrs. F—‘‘Gone where?’’

Miss F—‘*‘Gone and married one of the sing-
ers, Same as the rest of ’em.”’ :

hit
xt

The the-

tI wish
cook
night

EIVVASIVE.
George—“‘Did you sell your horse for
much as you paid when you bought him?’
John—*Well—er—I sold him for as much
he was worth when I bought him.’’
WORSE THAN NOVELS.
{impatiently) — ‘‘Where is

as

as

Father
mother?’

Little Pet—‘‘Upstairs, reading.’’

“Huh! Reading novels, I suppose, when she
ought to be “

"No. She’s readin” a perfumed
found in your inside vest pocket.’

“Hem! Tell her I’ve gone out to
some new novels.’’

THINS THEM OUT.
Appleton—‘“‘I think the Spanish
much preferable to our prize-fights.”’

Plumpton—‘‘Goodness! Why?’’
woo the bull-fighters get
illed.’’

your.

she

letter

’

buy her

bull-fights

WORTH MONEY.

Mrs. Binks—‘‘The paper says Albert Bier-
stadt got $50,000 for his painting, ‘The Last of
the Buffaloes.’ ’”’

Mr. Binks—‘‘Yes. Buffaloes is becomin’ so
scarce that even a pictur’ of one is worth
money.”

ONE FOR THE ‘“‘L.’’

Country Cousin—‘‘I think these elevated rail-
roads are just lovely?”

City Hostess—‘‘Do you, really.”’

Country Cousin—‘‘Yes, indeed.
off the sun.’’

EXPENSE NOT CONSIDERED.

Wife—‘Now, if you intend to give me a
birthday present, you needn’t go to one of
those cheap John ninety-nine-cent stores for
ots.

Husband—‘‘No,
expense!

They keep

indeed, my love. Hang the

I’ll go to a dollar store.’’

SELECTED PLEASANTRIES,.

THE MAN WITH THE WHITEWASH
BRUSH.

Upon Z ee stretched from two chairs he
stands

Beside his pail and gazes all around,

With streaks of white criss-crossed
face,

And on his back a spattered old blue blouse!

Who put those spots upon the antique rug?

reel ee the parlor chairs with chunks of
ime

And dripped tobacco juice upon the floor?

Who loosely swung his sopping brush around

And spattered all the frames upon the walis?

Not he—no, no!—because he gave his word

He’d do the job and never spill a drop!

—Chicago Times-Herald.

DEADLY BUTTER.—“‘Which proves,’’ said
the landlady, concluding her discourse, ‘‘that
there are other ways to kill a dog besides
choking it with butter.”

“Yes,” the rash boarder agreed; “iin some
cases it might be just as effective to make the
poor brute smell the  butter.’’—Philadelphia
Record.

INJURY IN A FRENCH DUEL.—‘While I
was. abroad I witnessed a duel in France.’’

“Anybody hurt?’

**Yes; one of the principals had a rib broken
embracing the other after the combat was
over.’’—Philadelphia North American,

THE SAME TROUBLE FOR TWO.—‘‘The
trouble with that-singer,’’ Mr. Lettgoe said,
grabbing his hat as the first act of the opera
came to an end, “is her loud gasping. She
doesn’t Know how to manage her breath.’’

“You don’t know how to manage yours,
either,’ his wife remarked after he had come
back and taken his’ seat again.—Chicago Tri-
bune.

FOR HYGIENIC REASONS.—“It’s an up-to-
date play, you will notice,’’ said the modern
playwright. ‘‘The lines are sufficiently racy.’’

“T should say!’’ replied the manager, laying
down the manuscript, and carefully wiping his
hands.

“Perhaps it’s too long,’’ continued the play-
wright. ‘I could boil it down.’’

“Ah! Yes. If you expect the public to use
it, by all means boil it.’-—Philadelphia Press.

ENCOURAGING.—Whyte—"‘They tell
your daughter is learning to sing.”

Browne—‘‘I am glad to hear you say so.
is trying hard enough, I know, but I must say
that so far I haven’t seen any evidences of
success myself.’’—Somerville Journal.

GERNERAL INFORMATION SOUGHT.—
Mrs. Wickwire—‘‘Tell me how they make
these trusts, dear.”’

Mr. Wickwire—‘‘Well, first
stock, anc then comes
process et

*Oh, yes, I know that is the way the-ice
trust is made, but I want to know about all
ef them.’’—Indianapolis Press.

upon his

”

29

me

~1
She

water the
freezing-out

they
the

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

LLLP LOPLI Ot PO OO

NEW YORK, JULY 14, 1900.

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The New York Weekly has a larger cir-
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cations combined.

 

 

    
 
  
 

PRINCIPAL

   
   

H
ON fy

~
Nee

Linked to Crime (Serial) -............. Barclay North
Every Inch a Queen (Serial)......... Bertha M. Clay
For Gold or Soul (Serial)......... Lurana W. Sheldon
A Syndicate of Sinners (Serial)...-Gertrude Warden
The Girl of His Heart (Serial)...... Adelaide Stirling

My Lady of Dreadwood (Serial) .-..-.....-.--
Effie Adelaide Rowlands

Halburton Lancaster’s Temptation (Serial)..
Mrs. Georgie Sheldon

26, She and f BiGvole, 234... 3.60 t tac sae
The OLHBr POOR 2 oo, tA ob os Son deed bone aaa dy
The A bandonndMInG.o ie -2k seen 6 cess

COG RUGS. a th cheek Sige whe as Ls E. J.C,
NGHDG YS 0 F  - sess os oe - Seesueueee Harkley Harker
Bhall Wemen Macey... ... dos: Sate e seeks Kate Thorn
Josh Billings’ Philosophy............-------..

Pleasant Paragraphs-........2.... Charles W. Foster
WVQIE BOR oy sory ode acal esc cakone Mrs. Helen Wood

Items of Interest, Correspondence, Htc.

 

POEMS
“Memory.”
“A Lover’s Prayer.”
“Among the Flowers.”
“Shipmates,” by Wm. Woodward.
“Days of Yore,” by Annie Hetherington Coxon.

 

 

A.LOVER’S PRAYER. |

 

O, rock, bonnie boat, on the foaming white
crest, ‘

And lull my fair lady to slumber and rest,

As sweetly and calmly as if on my breast.

Deus vobiscum!

Hush thee, my sweetheart, hush thee to
sleep;

Hush thee, Almighty, the waves of the deep!

O,

The planets are shining as bright as thine
eyes,

When sleep is not veiling the light of my skies,

And thy lily soul in unconsciousness lies.

Deus vobiscum!

Hush thee, my sweetheart,
sleep;

Hush thee, Almighty, the waves of the deep!

O, hush thee to

We may not deny that grim dangers abide—

That Death with his terrors lurks under the
tide,

While over the billows our bonnie boats ride.

Deus vobiscum!

Hush thee, my sweetheart,
sleep;

Hush thee, Almighty, the waves of the deep!

O, hush thee to

Let Cherubim, Seraphim—Angels of light—
Keep guard as the gallant ship speeds through
the night:

In storm and in sunshine, O, take not thy
flight.
Deus vobiscum!
Hush thee, my sweetheart, O, hush thee to

sleep;
Hush thee, Almighty, the waves of the deep!

 

AMONG THE FLOWERS,

 

The garden gate swung to and fro,
Then came a whisper soft and low;
And said the lily to the rose:

“That is her lover, I suppose.”

Says rose: ‘‘He comes here every day,
I wonder what they have to say?’’
“They don’t see us!’’ the jasmine sighs,
‘“‘Bach looks into the other’s eyes!”
‘‘H¥e loves her so!’’ the rose replied.
“Oh!—here they come!’’ the violet cried,
“Fe holds her hand,’ the pansy said,
“And, like the rose, she blushes red.”

And rose remarked: “It is not right

For us to listen—nor polite—

To all their vows—and tender sighs—

Oh, dear!—he kissed her!—shut your eyes!”

 

WEEK AFTER NEXT

will be begun a most exciting

 

serial, with a plot so daringly sen-
sational as to defy solution until
the very end. The-author,

Effie Adelaide Rowlands

herself declares that

A KINSMAN’S SIN

is the best story she has ever
written. We assure you that it

will hold you spell-bound.

 

 

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

MEMORY.

The kitchen fire gleamed red and bright,
Bright was the yellow floor,

And there by the window the waning light,

Glimmered and shone on a pleasant sight,
Dear mother, whose work was o’er.

Her hands were folded in quiet rest,

And the last red rays of the sun
Lighted her face and in splendor dress’d
The silvery hair, then away in the west

It faded; the day was done:

Down the long road from the distant hill,
Where the little red school-house stands;

With merry chatter and laugh so shrill,

Children’s happy young voices reach and thrill
Dear mother, with folded hands.

Away to the past, over many a day,

And many a year, to the time ;
When her own bright Nellie and winsome May,
And Jack, with his honest eyes of gray,

Came home at the scheol bell’s chime,

Nobody’s Boy.

By Harkley Harker.

“Whose boy are you?”

‘“‘Nobody’s!”’

The answer came quick and clear, even
cheery. The small chap in front of me at the
railway station, that sultry New York nighi—
and no words tell better the discomfort of a
hot summer’s twilight than to say a New
York night—looked up surprised that { should
have said more than ‘‘no’” or ‘‘yes’”’ to his prof-
fer of a newspaper.

“We was eight years old, somewhere along
last winter,’ as nearly as he knew. Being
asked if he ever had a-father or mother, he
said: ‘I s’pose must have had.’”’ He had no
recollections of them whatever, but made an
effort to remember as far back as he could, to
please me and earn his quarter of a dollar. He
could think of playing in a hallway of a big
house, with a lot of other little chaps, on Sec-
ond avenue; and one day he ‘“‘jest left there,
that’s all—walked off, an’ never went back
there any more. No one there he cared for,
no one ever came after him.’ He said once
in a great while he ‘“‘met a man who worked in
a furniture factory on the east side who would
sing out, ‘How are ye, Volie?. To which he re-
plied, generally, ‘‘My name ain’t Volie. What’s
Volie?? And the man said my name was Vol-
taire. But, bless ye, I am Johnnie. Told him
so, half a dozen times. Then I got tired of it,
Hain’t seen nothin’ of him now for more’n a
year.”’

Put these fragments together reader and
you can make out a biographical beginning
like this. A child of a neglected home, in a
crowded tenement-house, allowed to play un-
watched with the crowd of little creatures in
the hallway slips off one day _is not. missed
nor reclaimed, becomes a nobody’s child. He
is of French extraction; a grown person in the
great city knows who he is, and occasionally
sets eyes on him from a distance—is it his own
father?—but on the whole declines to pick him
out of the dust-heaps, this bright diamond,
for such he surely is.

Will he starve? Not a bit of it. Want for
clothing and shelter? No. He will live, thrive,
and become—ah, there’s the rub! For do you
not see that he is utterly a stranger to any-
thing like love? He neither loves nor is be-
loved. He is naturally amiable, and not vi-
cious; he is sunny and happy. But all that
rich development of the affectionate nature of
which he surely is most capable—all that
which is cultivated so fondly in the charac-
ter of your child, reader—is wholly untouched,
unawakened, indeed, in this nobody’s boy be-
fore me here.

He had no favorite among the boys, but
‘liked ’em all well ’nough.’’ He could not un-
derstand me when [ tried to explain how my
own boy loved his sister, but thought ‘‘girls
ain’t no good anyhow.” He had no pets, not
even a dog, nor any living creature that he
held dear. By love I do not mean one distinct
affection. This boy is learning nothing of
mercy, pity, gentle sympathy, or interest in
any other being but himself. He has no home,
and therefore no city, nor State, nor native
land. He is being sharpened like fine steel to
self-protection. All other people are.to his in-
nocent mind divided into exactly two classes—
namely, those who might hurt him and those
whom he can use. The idea of obligation to
another he only has to the extent of making
exact change in a newspaper sale.

But there is another side. Heaven help us,
what would the country do if there were not

 

 

another side? For this nobody’s boy is only
one of thousands in all great cities, and in the
alms-houses of rural regions. The boy has a
heart. God gave it to him. I touched it with
kind speech. I drew him up beside me, while
waiting for the sleeper there, and told the
bright-eyed little waif a story of my own
mother, a good woman’s kindness to me. I
spoke of my own little girls at home, and of
the toys I was taking to them, because I loved
them. I spoke of a poor sick child whom I had
visited that day, and how patient, sweet, and
beautiful she was, and of how she was ap-
pointed soon to die. As I tried in simple lan-
guage to portray the Better Land to which I
believed the frail angel was going, pointing off
upward to the great stars so feeble over the
city’s lights, the large eyes grew moist, I am
sure; at all events, the ragged elbows rested
on my knee as he bent his gaze to drink in
every word. I was sorry to dismiss him again
into the roaring black stream of city life.

Be sure the nobody’s boy has his good an-
gel. Be sure his loving Heavenly Father holds
a key to the door of that soul. If “‘not a spar-
row falieth without Our Father,’ surely this
precious child, with his great and unusual
promise of good or evil, is being watched from
the great White Throne. Around him are in-
visible teachers and preceptors, sent from be-
yond the sun in heaven, who thread their
pathway through the starry vault to bring
ministry of good to nobody’s boy. Ten thou-
sand forces of safety are possible for his pre-
serving. At some future hour, unknown to us,
some better man than I will encounter him,
will be charmed by. him,’ will guide him into
noble paths. Ranks on ranks of blessed cir-
cumstances stand linked in the hollow square
about him, bearing blessings for bayonets. He
will not be allowed to go to the bad un-
checked. He is more priceless in the Creator’s
great business,.than gold mines or harvest
fields. Over him is ever shining the love of
God. If it had not been so in the past, some
of the noblest spirits among men had shown
themselves scourges of the race.

Explain Marcus Aurelius, the good “‘heath-
en’’ emperor. Explain the good man who had
a bad mother—or the man who had no mother
or father, or pure instructor of his childhood.
History sparkles with such names all along the
page. It is not true that a good home always
breeds .good sons. It is not invariably true
that parents can spoil a child; nor that they
can form a fine character.

If this line falls under the eye of somé un-
friended boy or girl in the great city, let it
bring cheer. You are not alone. Does not the
sun shine for you? Have you not lived so far,
while many a coddled darling has perished?
Have you not rugged health? Has not some
unseen Power more than once led you on the
other side of the street just before the brick
fell from a staging? For what are you pre-
served except to make a noble manhood, or
true womanhood? You may hope all things,
and obtain many. Begin to look up. In your
own plain language address the Great One
who rules the clouds and stars. ‘Think of Him.
Depend on Him. Try always to act as you,
even you, in your own simple thoughts, can
judge would please Him. And, above all, fol-
low the instinets of your own heart when they
warn you against any man or woman as evil-
minded. If you have a destiny for good, if you
are of that kind, you will be guided, if you
are willing to follcow.  <gars from now no-

y’s boy will astonish the world!

Josh Billings’ Philosophy. :

Yung man, if yu want to make a philanthro-
pisst ov yurself, don’t studdy human natur too
cluss, but pitch right in.

If it wuz not for our vanity and self luv,
we should never be enny better satisfied with
ourselfs than we are with our nabors,

I haven’t much faith in mankind, and I hav
less in miself,

Broken hearts are often the eazyest kind ov
krockery to mend.

A reputashun for being poor iz a grate deal
wuss for a man to kontend aginst than pov-
erty itself.

Good luk iz a good thing to grease a suck-
cess with, but to sustane it thare haz got to
be sum kind ov a bakbone to it.

If I couldn’t hav only just so mutch virtew,
I would take it all in thankfuliness, and trust
to Providence to see me through.

Thare iz none so safe on the top round ov
the ladder az thoze who hav reached it from
the very bottom.

 

_In mi writings I hav allways had two ob-
jekts in view—one waz to do sum good, and
the other to git mi pay for it.

I hav seen folks who were too rekless even
for fortune to help.

Mi dear nephew, if yu expect to pass thru
this life with suckcess, yu hav to Keep both
eyes open, both ears open, and both hands
open reddy to grab.

Did yu ever see a man who had the gout
bad from drinking whisky and eating tarra-
pins but what waz allwuss grunting about
hiz rumatiz and the kussid east winds?

Thare iz nothing that will reduse most men
to their fighting weight mutch quicker than
to call them ‘‘a liar.”’ ;

Advice iz a drug in the market; the supply
haz killed the demand.

Begging iz very unprofitable until it bekums
a trade, then it bekums infamous.

Fortune never cheats a wize man; he enjoys
her smiles and laffs at her frowns.

Shall Women Marry?

By Kate Thorn.

Once nobody ever thought of asking the
question.

It went without saying that every woman
should marry, and marry just as quick as
anybody of the ‘‘male persuasion’ asked her.
It was taken for granted that she would be
only too glad of a chance.

It was considered a positive misfortune to
have an old maid in the family, and our ten-
der-hearted grandmothers always called a sin-
gle woman ‘‘a girl’ to the end of the chapter.
We distinctly remember a family which num-
bered four old maids in its ranks, and they
all died at upward of eighty, and it was an-
nounced from the pulpit of the village church,
when the last one died, “‘that the funeral of
the last surviving Carson girl- would take place
on Tuesday afternoon next.’

To-day all that is changed. Our bright pub-
lie women, whose names are in the papers, and
whose voices are a power in the world, are
more often single women than otherwise. And
nobody but a newspaper reporter, hard up for
an item, thinks of mentioning that fact.

But continually we hear the question asked,
Shall Women Marry?

There are two sides to the question, of
course. And there are many points of view.

A single woman does not haye the many
cares of a married woman. Without doubt,
her life is freer of sorrow and trials, She does
not have to perplex her mind with the awful
problem, what to get for dinner and what to
have for supper every day for three hundred
and sixty-five days in the year. She does not
have to lie awake nights planning how to cut
that old blue skirt of hers into a dress for little
Mamie and still leave enough of the material to
make a waist for Sadie. She is not harassed by
the thought that Jimmie’s trousers are seedy on
the knees, and Tommy’s toes are protruding
through his boots, and there is no apprecia-
tion in the family exchequer to provide for
such a contingency. She does not have to get
up in the dark hours of the winter morning to
get her husband’s breakfast, so that he can
take the seven o’clock car and get to the shop
or store by the time proceedings begin there.

She does not have to ask a man for money.
And she does not have to account to anybody
for every half and quarter she expends for
chocolates or face powder. If she buys any-
thing: at the ninety-nine-cent store—marked
down from one dollar—and so cheap, she does
not have to listen to a lecture on the lack of
female brains, or on wasteful extravagance.

She does not have to get down on her knees
and grope under the bed after the elusive col-
lar-button which her husband placed in the
match-safe last night for safe keeping, and
which he insists upon it she has spirited away
somewhere, just to bother him. The smell of
tobaeco is not mingled with the odor of violet
and new-mown hay on her toilet table. She
can belong to as many clubs as she chooses,

 

and can find money for dues; and there is no-
body to tell her that it would look well for her
to stay at home long enough to darn a pair of
stockings,

Oh, there are a great many trials and per-
plexities which a single woman escapes. No
one disputes it. The single woman can board,
and the complicated drudgeries of housekeep-
ing may never oppress her.

But there are compensations in married life.
We are not going into the sentimental side of
it. We leave that to the romance writers.
They'll tell you all about it.

The married woman has the satisfaction of
feeling that there is a man in the house, And
at night, when the festive mice are racing
along the golf links beneath the attic floor, and
playing tag up and down the partitions, and
scampering through the openings between the
lathing and the chimnies, and making a noise
just for all the world like a stealthy burglar
who is coming to steal one’s diamonds, and
murder one in cold blood—it is comforting to
have a man in the house—a man who wouldn’t
faint at the sight of a revolver.

There is somebody to pay the bills; and to
get up in the night and bring the camphor
bottle when one has the toothache. There is
somebody to lean upon, and to do the “oak
and the ivy’’ business with, and it is so ro-
mantic and comforting.

And, by the way, the brain which originated
that idea about the oak and the ivy was a
great one, and its possessor deserves the im-
mortality he has achieved, especially when we
take into consideration the fact that the ivy
in due time will lay out the oak and reign
mistress of the situation. And, just so, the
woman who clings too much, and does not de-
pend on the common sense which we suppose
is given in greater or less degree to every hu-
man being, will do the average man up quicker
than dyspepsia, or ‘‘that tired feeling,’ for
which every patent medicine under the sun is
a panacea.

Shall Women Marry?

Why, of course they shall, if they want to,
and anybody invites them. Marrying has al-
ways been in order, and it will doubtless. con-
tinue to the end of time, if, indeed, time ever
comes to a period. Who is trying to hinder
them?

The woman who is willing to do her duty in
life—to sacrifice herself, if need be, to the ser-
vice of those she loves—who can be faithful to
one man, and loyal to the sacred duties de-
volving upon a wife and mother, should marry,
and may God bless her right along!

But the woman who marries for. ease, for
money, and to be supported, is beneath an
honest man’s notice, and we.most heartily
hope she will be forced to remain. single till
the day of her déath.

But if she does marry, then Heaven help the
man who gets her, is our prayer!

 

 
    
     
    

 

ie Me Diet
| ¢ HELPFUL TALKS WITH
OUR READERS,

   

    

 

 

Correspondents must sign name and address, not for pubs
lication, but because we refuse to answer anonymous
communications. All letters are presumed to be conj-
dential, and are so treated,

 

SPECIAL NOTICE.

We are obliged to ask the indulgence of
those of our readers who have sent us requests
for the words of songs. The number of such
letters that we have received is enormous, and,
in justice to all, we cannot print more than
three or four a week. But if our kind friends
will have a little patience we will do our ut-
most to satisfy them.

Young Charlotte.—Although this poem is
a rather long one, we have received such a
1st ES number of requests for it that we insert
i ere,

YOUNG CHARLOTTE,

Young Charlotte lived on the mountain side,
In a wild and lonely spot—
No dwelling for three miles around,
Except her father’s cot,
And yet on many a wintry night
Young swains would gather there,
For her father kept a social board,
And she was very fair.

Her father loved to see her dressed
Gay as a city belle,
For she was all the child he had,
And he loved his daughter well.
It was New Year’s eve, as the sun went down,
And restless were her eyes,
As along the window forth
The merry Sleighs passed by.

At a village, fifteen miles away,
There’s a merry ball to-nighi;
The air without is freezing cold,
But the hearts within are light.
So restless was her longing eye
When a well-known voice she heard;
And, dashing up to the cottage door,
Young Charlotte’s sleigh appeared.

“Oh, daughter dear!’ her mother cried,
“These blankets round you fold,
For it is a dreadful night without
And you’ll catch your death of coid.’’
“Oh, no!-oh, no!” young Charlotte cried,
And she laughed like a happy queen;
“To ride in blankets muffied up
I never could be seen.’’

“My silken cloak is quite enough—
You know ’tis lined throughout;
Besides, I have my silken scarf
To tie my face about.”’
Her gloves and bennet being put on
She jumped into the sleigh,
And away they rode by the mountain side
And o’er the hills away.

There’s music in the sound of the bells
As o’er the hills they g0;

What a screaking noise the runners make
As they fight the frozen snow!

Their faces muffled in silence rode
Till five long miles had passed,

Then Charles, with these few frozen words,
The silence broke at last:

“Such a night as this I have never seen,
My reins I scarée can hold.”’

Young Charlotte said in a feeble voice
“T am exceeding cold.”’

He cracked his whip and urged his steed
Much faster than before,

Until another five long miles
In silence they passed o’er.

Says Charles, ‘‘How fast the frozen ice
Is gathering on my brow?’’

Young Charlotte said in a feeble voice,
“Ym growing warmer now.”

Away o’er the hills in the frosty air,
And in the cold stars’ light,

Until at last the village inn
And the ball-room came in sight.

They reached the inn and Charles jumped out
And gave his hand to her.

“Why sit you there like a monument
Without a pause to stir?”

He called her once, he called her twice,
But yet she never stirred;-

He called her for her hand again,
But she answered not a word.

He took her marble hand in his—
“Oh, God, it’s cold as stone!”

He took the mantle from her brow
And the cold stars on it shone.

Then quick into the lighted hall
Her lifeless form he bore—

Young Charlotte was a frozen corpse,
And words spoke never more.

He sat himself down by her side,
And bitter tears did flow; -
He said ‘“My dear and promised bride
I never more shall know.”
He wound his arms around her waist
And kissed her marble brow,
And his thoughts ran back to where she said,
“[’m growing warmer now.”

He took her back into the sleigh,
And homeward they did go;
Her parents met them at the gate
To help them through the snow.
They mourned the loss of their daughter dear,
And Charles wept o’er her doom,
Until at length his heart was broke,
And he slumbers in his tomb.

Mazie L.—A preveritive against moths which
is also a very pleasant perfume may be made
of the following ingredients: Take of cloves,
caraway seeds, nutmeg, mace, cinnamon and
Tonquin beans, of each one ounce; then add
as much Florentine orris-root as will equal the
other ingredients put together. Grind the
whole well to powder, and then put it in little
bags among your clothes, For the oiliness of
your face, procure some compound spirits of
ammonia and place about two tablespoonfuls
in a basin of water. This wash is perfectly
harmless.

_ P. P. W.—The time required for a journey
around the earth by a man walking day and
night, without resting, would be 428 days; an
express train, forty days; sound, at a medium
temperature, thirty-two and one-half hours;
a cannon ball, twenty-one and three-quarter
hours; light, a little over one-tenth of a sec-
ond, and electricity, passing over a copper
wire, a little over one-tenth of a second.

Alice R.—Why not let the young man know
through a mutual friend that you are going
away? This will give him a chance to call if
he Cares to do so, We think you were a little
hasty in greeting him coldly. So far as we can
see, you gave him no chance to explain.

Fanny N.—To make cold cream, take of
white wax and spermaceti, 1% oz. each; oil of
almonds, 12 ozs.; distilled water, 6 ozs.; liquid
potassa, 12 drops; otto of roses, 30 drops. Melt
the wax and spermaceti by gentle heat, add
the other ingredients, and stir until cold.

F. D. B.—One of the best remedies for dan-
druff is to beat up an egg and rub it well over
the scalp, washing it afterward with warm
water, the latter operation carrying awav the
egg and scurf, and leaving the head clean.

J. D.—An excellent marking ink for rubber
stamps may be made by dissolving crystallized
aniline black, half an ounce, in pure alcohol
fifteen ounces. This liquid-may be poured on
the cushion and rubbed with a brush.

L. P. C.—When an engagement of marriage
is broken off, it is customary for each party
to return to the other all letters which have
passed between them, also photographs and
rings which they have exchanged.

A. L. C.—St. Vitus, whose name appears
against the 15th of June in the Roman calen-
dar, was a Sicilian martyr. Why his name
has been connected with the dancing malady
nobody knows.

Blanche A.—You can revive your drooping
plants by adding a small quantity of ammonia
to the water with which you sprinkle them.
Every other day is often enough to add the
ammonia.

Unhappy Jenny.—You have no cause for
unhappiness. White hair is really very becom-
ing to a young face,-and generally gives it
rather a distinguished appearance.

©._S. M.—Napoleon III. was born April 20,
1808: elected President, December 10, 1848;
elected Emperor of the French, November 21,
1852; died at Chiselhurst, January 9, 1873.

George 4«M.—Yes, there are some creatures
that can make no noise at all. The giraffe,
the armadillo and the porcupine are noiseless.

 

VOL. 55—No. 39

 

a nn onnetn

 

Mrs. Nellie R. P. and BE. 0. R.—Thank you
for the words of “Nellie Gray.’ There seems
to be two songs of that name, both of which
we print,

NELLIE GRAY.
| Down in a pleasant valley a gentle streamlet

Ows,

Beside a cottage lonely a weeping willow
grows;

' Within that dwelling a mother blessed the

ay :
That gave to her an angel in the form of
‘Nelly Gray.

Chorus.

Merrily the birds are singing, at the dawning
of each day,

Joyfully they greet the coming of charming
Nellie Gray.

She grew in form and beauty, her counsel was

the guide

Of all who were in sorrow, and many tears
she dried;

She scattered smiles and gladness about her
day by day,

And many loved and cherished our charming

Nellie Gray.
But
And
But
For

sickness came and gathered the roses
from her cheek,

planted. pale, white lilies that made us
softly speak;

she, as she grew weaker, was happy,
blithe and gay,

death came not with terror to charming
Nellie Gray.

Beneath the bending willow the gentle stream-
lets wave,

Now daily moistens flowers that bloom o’er
Nellie’s grave;

One morn she said,
passed away—

A mother mourns, and all around now mourn
for Nellie. Gray.

“I’m going,’ and gently

Chorus for last verse.

Merrily the birds are singing at the dawning
of each day,

Never more they’ll greet the coming of charm-
ing Nellie Gray. .

NELLIE GRAY.

There is a lone, green valley by the old Ken-
tucky shore,
Where I have whiled many a happy hour
away,
Sitting and singing by the little cabin door
Where dwelt my darling Nellie Gray.

Chorus.

O my darling, Nellie Gray,
her away,
And I never will see my darling any more;
They have taken her to Georgia to wear her
life away, :
And she has gone from the old Kentucky
shore.

they have taken

One night I went to see her, but she had
gone, the neighbors say,

The white man had bound her with his chain,

He had taken her to Georgia to wear her life

away, é
And she toils in the cotton and the cane.

My canoe is in the water and my banjo is un-
strung,
And I am tired of living any more;
I ss the angels calling, and I see my Nellie
ray—
Farewell to the old Kentucky shore.

Chorus to last verse.

O my poor Nellie Gray, up in heaven there,
they say,
They will never take you from me any more;
I am coming, coming, cOming, as the angels
clear the way—
Farewell to the old Kentucky shore.

Madge V.—In this matter-of-fact, disap-
pointing, beautiful old world a ‘“‘first love’’ is
too often a ‘‘first sorrow.’’ Of course, there
are thousands of young people of both sexes
who take their love affairs as healthy children
take the measles—lightly; but out of those
thousands one meets a few of those deep-
feeling folks to whom the words ‘‘Loved once,
loved always,’ may with truth be applied.
They build their aerial castles, live in a dream
of an impossible bright future, fix their every

 

hope of happiness on one person. And when, .
as is generally the case—for, as,Rulwer Lyt-_.
ton tells us,-‘“Whom first 3 you KiPwy

we seldom wed’’—their hvpes are blichted,
they are too apt to think that fate has been
especially and needlessly cruel to them, that
there cannot be anything to lessen the bitter-
ness of their loss. Really, it is “‘better to
have loved and lost than never to have loved
at all.”” Don’t let your disappointment make
you bitter; it will not do that if your love is
the right kind. Bitter remarks and cheap
cynicism have their rise in wounded vanity,
not disappointed affection. If your love is real,
even. while you are thinking it wasted, it is
making you a greater man or woman, as the
case may be. “Affection never is wasted!’
Your sympathies will be wider, your feelings
more refined; even in your life-work your lost
love will influence you. 7

Sophie.—The placing the wedding-ring upon
the fourth finger of the woman’s left hand
(counting the thumb as one) is attributed to
the ancient belief that a small artery ran from
this finger to the heart. This has, of course,
been contradicted by scientific experience.
The left hand was doubtless found most con-
venient for such an ornament, or badge, be-
eause it is less used than the right, and the
fourth finger has been selected, as that is also
less used than any of the others, and more
calculated to preserve a ring from bruises or
injury. It has likewise a peculiarity unat-
tached to its fellows, and cannot, as a rule,
be extended except in company with one of
the adjoining fingers, whilst any of the rest
ean be straightened. separately.

A. B. C.—Fata Morgana is a remarkable
phenomenon of mirage or atmospheric reflec-
tion mentioned by different authors and
travellers as seen in the Straits of Messina,
especially in the vicinity of Reggio. It exhibits
in the air, over a surface of sea, multiplied
images, of the objects on the surrounding
coasts. The spectacle is called Fata Morgana,
from the superstition that it is under the in-
fluence of the queen of the fairies, La Fee
Morgana, of popular legends.

Charlotte.—We would advise you to forget
your former lover, who was unmistakably un-
worthy of you, and accept the attentions of
the young man who appears to truly love. you.
Your belief that your old lover will return to
you is an idle dream, and were it realized,
the probability is that you would be none the
happier for it.

Adela.—We think you would be very foolish
to let the objection of your friend weigh with
you in the least. There is no “‘disgrace’’ in
filling such position; why should there be? You
would be -far more comfortable and inde-
pendent in that capacity than in either of the
others suggested by her.

J. L. A.—Our earth has but. one satellite,
the moon, which is two hundred and thirty-
eight thousand miles distant from us. Its di-
ameter is two thousand one hundred and
sixty miles. It circles round the earth once in
twenty-seven days> seven hours, forty-three
minutes and eleven seconds.

Mamie.—Persons who are constantly mind-
ful of signs and omens simply and foolishly
render their lives a burden. Such superstitious
notions as those you mention are not only
against reason, but against religion itself;
hence, if you value your peace of mind, you
wil give no heed to such fancies in the future.”

R, C.—Soak blotting-paper in a mixture of
equal parts of oil of camphor and spirits of
turpentine, and lay the paper under the car-
pet and underneath the various pieces of fur-
niture. This is said to be an infallible remedy
for the destruction of moths.

S. T.—There are numerous remedies recom-
mended for the removal of freckles. The fol-
lowing is an efficacious way: Powdered alum
and fresh lemon-juice, one ounce each, in one
pint of rose-water. It should be applied at
least three times a day.

Mrs. Bell O0.—This lady would like the words
of “The Flower of Kildare’ and “Kathleen.”
The latter begins:

“T’]l take you home again, Kathleen,

To where your heart shall know no pain.”

Regina.—As to when a widow should marry
again, is a matter of taste and circum-
stances; but the general opinion of society is
that a whole year should elapse before a sec-
ond marriage is contracted, *

B. B.—To remove marking-ink from linen,
paint the mark with a solution of eyanide of
potassium, applied with a camel’s hair brush,
As soon as the ink disappears the linen shoulé
be rinsed in cold water.

W. H, B.—The story of ‘‘The Magic Cameo”’
has not been issued in book form. ;

 

 

 

 

 

 
   

 

 

  
  
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
  
 
 
  
  
 
  
 
  
 
  
 
  
 
  
 
   
  
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
  
 
  
   
 
  
 
 
   
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
  
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
 

| Every Inc

 

 

 

VOL. 55—No. 39.

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

 

h a Queen;

OR,

A DAUGHTER’S MISSION. -

CHAPTER XXII.
THE WHITE CAMELIAS.

Sir Max went away with Lady Polruan, and
Sybil knew that she had time and leisure to
play with Maud’s fate.

She returned to the spot where she had left
Maud, but she was no longer there; Mrs.
Leighton would have given much to have
known the exact place of her whereabouts.
She went into the picture-gallery. There—un-
fortunately, as she thought—Lord Ducie, one
of Lady Polruan’s lions, met her, and detained
her for more than twenty minutes,

While she was talking to him her eyes wan-
dered restlessly from group to group, but
never once rested on Maud. ‘Perhaps, all this
time,’*’ she thought, ‘‘she may be with Walter
Maynard, and I may fail.”

$Sme grew feverish with impatience; still
Lord Ducie talked on, fascinated by the beau-
tiful woman at his side. At length she mur-
mured s@me few words of apology, saying she
left Miss Edgely, who might be alone, and
then was free.

She went rapidly to the ball-room, and
reached it just in time to see Maud enter the
ee cool conservatory, by Walter Maynard’s
side, 3

Her face flushed with triumph—her heart
beat so loudly she could scarcely breathe.

“4 am the cleverest detective in England,’
she said; then, with rapid, noiseless steps, she
entered the conservatory after them. Per-
haps it was because the ball-room was
crowded, and so many of the guests had con-
gregated in the drawing-room, that the con-
servatory was empty. She saw one or two of
the guests at the farthest. end, but Maud and
Walter -were quite alone.

Seemingly they never dreamed of spies or
listeners, for they went down the middle of
the conservatory, and then stopped before a
large and beautiful white camelia:. There
was a pretty iron seat behind it, and Sybil
heard the young actor say: ‘“‘Come here,
Maud; here is a nice, quiet seat, where we can
talk for half an hour.’’

And the Queen of Edgemount went there
willingly enough,

Walter Maynard clasped her little hand and
held it tightly in his own.

“They are lovers!’’ Sybil hissed to herself.

“She has met him and loved him before, and
she is going to marry Max for his title—that
‘shall never be!’’
Yet Maud’s face had in it little of the
passion people call love. It was slightly raised
to her companion, and wore an expression of
earnest, patient gravity that every now and
then deepened into tenderness.-

“One-half hour,” continued Walter, ‘‘and I

“have so much to say to you—the plans of a

lifetime to lay before you. I wish I could tell
you now I have longed for this momeat.”’
Sybil drew back with noiseless footstep.
‘“‘Now is the time,’’ she thought. “If I can
but send Max here, her fall and my rise would
be certain. I will risk a great deal.”’
She had some little trouble in avoiding Lord
Ducie; her task was rewarded when she saw
Sir Max Darrell coming toward her.

“Where is Maud, Mrs: Leighton?’ he asked,
“There is such a crowd here, it is next.to im-

 

_- “Tt am. perplexed,”

 

 

 

 

  

poessivie to find gny of you want.”

she said, looking at him.
“Tf we were all children, I would think my
cousin is playing hide and seek. She must be
hiding, for I cannot find her.”’

She saw a shade of annoyance pass quickly
over his face.

“Some one told me that they had seen Miss
Edgely in the conservatory with a gentleman;
4f so, she must have changed herself into a
flower, for I cannot see her there.”’

“Perhaps I may be more fortunate,’’ he re-

ed.

She watched him go there, and smiled until
her face became all light, to think how weil
her plot was'succeeding.

Sir Max, like Sybil, was amazed to find the
place so empty.
“He looked around; there was no trace of
Maud. He walked slowly down the centre,
where the green leaves seemed to greet him,
and then he heard the murmur of voices.

The sound would not have struck him so
much, but that he was at a loss to discover
whence it proceeded.

Suddenly, through the glossy, green leaves
of the white camelias, he caught the shining
ee of diamonds, and the sunshine of golden

air.

Sir Max was no spy; he would not have been
guilty of a mean action to save his life; but
for one moment he did stand, rooted, as it
were, to the ground—literally unable to move
or to stir, he was so overwhelmed with sur-
prise, for behind the flowers, sitting side by
side, talking confidentially, as though they
had been intimate friends all their lives, were

Maud Edgely and Walter Maynard.

In that one moment Max felt sure that he
saw a little parcel pass from her hands to his;
then he plainly heard Mr. Maynard say:

“TI do it quite against my own will, Maud.
Pee eee persuaded me—no one else living
could.”’ 2

Then Sir Max stepped before them. 2

“Miss Edgely,’’ he said, ‘I have come in
search of you. I think you expressed a wish
to leave early.”

She looked up at him with a startled glance
on her fair, pure face—a tender, beseeching
glance that he never forgot. ;

“Tam quite ready. Good-evening, Mr.
Maynard,” she replied.

She looked at Sir Max, half hesitated, then
held out her hand, and the young actor
clasped it in his.

“Good-evening,”’ he replied, and Max read a
hundred unspoken words in his face; he saw,
too, that the young man’s eyes followed Maud
with a wistful glance, as though he were part-
ine with something very precious to him.

They walked on for some minutes in pro-
found silence, but Matud’s clear, sweet eyes
were raised with the same appealing ex-
pression to her lover’s face.

Max was utterly bewildered; he would not
doubt her; yet he could not understand. this
intimacy with a stranger. He spoke at length,
and tried to make his words sound lightly.

“No true knight can call into. question the
actions of his liege lady; but, Maud, do tell
me the meaning of that Nore kind farewell.
You are, as a rule, reserved in your manner;
why did you shake hands with that young
actor as though you were losing a dear
friend ?”’

“TI was pleased with what he had been say-
ing,” she replied, ‘‘and I felt kindly toward

im.”’

“You appeared to be on wonderfully con-
fidential terms. Did you come here purposely
to talk to him?” *

“Yes,” she replied, so simply and_ so. inno-
cently that Max began to think she had been
led away by the pleasure of talking to one
whom she considered a genius, and that there
was nothing in it.

Yet, he remembered, she had most certainly
placed a little parcel in his hands. What
could it have been? That act alone implied a
previous acquaintance.

“Ma he said, suddenly, “I hardly like
asking you, but have you ever met Walter
Maynard before the evening we went to the
King’s Theatre?”

He looked earnestly at her as he‘asked the
question. There was no sudden flush, no
guilty start, no confusion; for one moment the
white eyelids quivered; then she looked with
clear, true eyes into his face.

‘““A question like that, Max, implies a doubt,
and I will not believe you can ever dream of

doubting me—I, whose love and whole heart.

are all your own.”
He was charmed out of his wiser sense; he

forgot ali he had heard, all he had seen—
“everything except that he loved her, and she

returned his love.
Sybil, watching them in the ball-room, hop-
ing to see darkened faces and averted eyes,

was angered and bewildered to see Maud look-

ing brighter than ever, and Max quite happy.
“He is mad,’ she thought, ‘infatuated,

 

By BERTHA M. CLAY, |

Author of ‘‘ Lady Elaine’s Martyrdom,’ ‘‘ A Tragedy of Love and Hate,”’
““ The Broken Trust,’’ ‘‘A Wife's Peril,’ ‘** Lady Ona’s Sin,’ ete.

(‘Eyery Inco 4 QUEEN” was commenced in No, 32. Back numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers,)

mad! He had plain proofs of what she was,
and she has cajoled him, flattered him, made
him believe she cares for him. I say she loves
that handsome young actor, and no one else,
Max is biind, and I hate blindness.”

She was almost too angry to smile when
Max went up to her and said they were going
home, if she were ready.

“IT am foiled this time,’’ she cried, angrily,
“and I have failed; the next time I set a trap
ane shall fall into it, and he shall see for him-
self.

If during that evening any whisper of doubt
came to Max he banished it, trying only to re-
member the words that he thought the sweet-
est he had ever heard.

Then, again, came a lull in the tempest; for
two days they were on the happiest terms.

Sybil, humbled by her defeat, forgot to be
anything but agreeable.

London was taken by storm. In the midst
of a career that promised greater success than
had been attained lately, the great actor,
Walter Maynard, announced his intention of
retiring from the stage. He had resolved upon
going abroad. ;

Old _theatregoers deplored the resolution; he
would not easily be replaced, they said. Many
people "wondered that he should have aban-
doned a career that promised him fame and
fortune.

Sybil was bewildered. Going abroad! Going
to leave England and London, where Maud
was. What could it mean? What would hap-
pen? The chances were fifty to one, if he went
away now he would not return before Maud
was married, and whatever happened then
would be too late to benefit her. Her deep,
silent, baffled rage knew no bounds.

She had been so secure in her hope, so cer-
tain of success, so confident she must triumph
in Maud’s disgrace. Could it be possible that
she had been mistaken? A thousand times no!
If Walter Maynard were the stranger he pre-
tended to be, why Gid he call Sir Vivian's
daughter, the heiress of Edgemount, ‘‘Maud?”’
If they had never met before what need of
that long interview? Who was he that he
should lay the plan of a lifetime before Maud
Edgely ?

_ There was a secret, if she could but discover
ce Sybil renewed her oath: to find it out
or die,

 

CHAPTER XXIIT.
THREE FIVE-POUND NOTES.

Walter Maynard’s resolution was not a nine
days’ wonder. Had he been a prince suddenly
resolve% upon retiring into private life, the
world might have given nine days to him; as it
wee it gave him nine minutes, then forgot

im,

Sybil Leighton had begun to grow desperate.

‘““What was the use,’’ she asked herself, ‘‘of
ig reas to scheme if her scheme was always
o fail?”

Maud and Max were fast friends. The young
actor was leaving London. Sir Vivian had
been talking that very morning about the wed-
ding settlements. How was she to keep her
cath? What could she do to prevent the mar-
xiene rue she had resolved would never take
place?

She thought afterward that evil spirits must
have helped her, It was a delirious morning in
the beginning of June; the sun was shining,
the birds singing, and the clear, soft June air
was full of the perfume of lilacs and roses.
The green blinds in the drawing-room were
drawn down, and the windows opened wide.
The mignonette on the balcony sent in gusts
of perfume. Tennyson’s last new poem lay on
the table unread. The morning was warm, the
room so deliciously cool and fragrant that
Maud refused to leave it.

“TI do not care either to ride or @rive,’ she
said. ‘‘When Max comes, we will ask him to
read to us; it is too warm for anything else.”’

So when Sir Max paid his usual morning
visit, he was shown into the drawing-room,
and saw there what he thought the prettiest
picture in all the world. Sybil, in a_ plain,
pretty morning dress of some shining silk ma-
terial, her dark hair plainly dressed, her mag-
nificent Southern face looking its best in honor
of him. Maud, in one of the clear, flowing,
white muslins that suited her as they suited
no one else; the fairest picture of. youth,
beauty and innocence ever seen.

: Maud held out her little white hand to her
over:

“T am glad you have come, Max,” she said.
“T want you to read to us. I am enjoying this
soft, luxurious light like a child. The glare of
the sun outside is distressing; sit down by me
here and read.”’

“A perfect nest of lotus eaters,’ said Gir
Max, as he took the book that Sybil offered to
him, and read one of the most exquisite ‘‘Idyls
of the King.’’ y

He had chosen ‘‘Guinevere,” the sweetest
saddest strain poet had ever sung. The pres-
ent faded from him; he was in-the quiet con-
vent where the nuns prayed. He was in the
little room where the most lovely, most lonely
and unhappy of queens sat with the young
maiden whose innocent questions pierced her
heart with such keen pain. He could realize
the half guilty longing with which she turned
in thought to Lancelot. He looked up sud-
denly, and saw Maude’s eyes filled with tears.

“My darling,’ he cried, ‘‘I will not read if it
distresses you.”’

But she would not let him stop.

‘ “It touched her,’ she said, ‘‘because she was
so sorry for Guinevere.”

He read those most beautiful and sorrowful
of all lines, where the king comes and par-
dons her. Was ever pardon so gracious, so full
of sorrowful dignity as that?

“To see thee lying there; thy golden head,

‘My pride, in happier summers, at my feet.”

Then she laid her hands on the page.

“No more, Max, just now,” she said; ‘it is
too sorrowful. Though he was the stainless
king, he should have taken her in his arms and
kissed her when her golden head lay at his
ace You would have done so, Max, in his

ace.”’

PeThank God, I have never been tried, and
never shall be,”’ he replied. ‘“‘It is hard to say
what one would do.’’

Yet even as he spoke, vaguely as one sees
things in a dream, unconsciously as it were—
with the eyes of the soul rather than those of
the body—he saw Maud kneeling before him,
her fair face wet with tears. He turned hastily
to reassure himself by looking at her.

It was at that very moment Sir Vivian en-
tered the room.

“How delightfully happy you all look,’ he
said. ‘Let me join you, Maud. No one man-
ages the light of a room as you do.”’

She smiled at the eee thinking to
herself the soft, mellowed, beautiful light de-
served it.

“You look Moore Peri in that white dress,”
he said, ‘‘and I—”’

But he did not finish the sentence, for a foot-
man entered the room.

“There are two gentlemen from the Bank of
aes waiting to: See you, Sir Vivian,’’ he
said.

“From the Bank of England!’’ cried Sir Viv-
ian. ‘‘What can that mean?’

‘Perhaps they are come to announce a larger
dividend,’’ said Sir Max, with a smile.

“T dislike money matters,’’ said Sir Vivian.
“Just-.as I was hoping to enjoy a happy hour,
I pice go and listen to—goodness only knows
what.’’ :

He left his fair young daughter and her lover
in the soft, golden light of the summer morn-
ing, and went to the library, where the gentle-
men from the Bank of England awaited him.

He was there for some time. He rang for
some sherry, and seemed much interested in
all they had to say, while Maud talked to Max
of the golden, glorous poem they had read, and
Sybil Leighton listened to them, ostensibly
busy in the manufacture of an elaborate silken
purse, really engrossed in her own plans.

They all looked up, surprised at the sudden
entrance of Sir Vivian; he did not. look dis-
tressed or disturbed, and went up to Maud
with a quick step. -

‘My darling,” he said, ‘Shave you paid any
bills lately, anywhere?’ he said.

She looked at him with a bright smile.

“Not one, papa,” she said. ‘‘1 do not remem-
ber that I have any owing.”’

“That is right,” he replied, and his face
cleared. “I am so glad, Maud.”’

Max looked at him in surprise, and Sybil
drew nearer to listen.

‘Will you go and fetch me the little roll of
notes I gave you two days since? I want sonic
of them back again.’’

Maud glanced at him with the expression of
one lost or dazed. He laid his hand caress-
ingly on her golden head.

“No need to look so puzzled, darling,’ he
said. ‘‘I can easily explain. It is a very un-
pleasant business, but it does ‘not concern us.
There has been a very grand and successful
forgery of the Bank of England notes. It is
supposed that there are, at least, a hundred
in circulation now, and, as a matter of course,
it is a_ serious business for the bank. The
forgery is so well managed that it is almost
impossible to tell the true notes from the false
ones.”’

No one noticed the deep sigh that was al-
most a sob as it died away on Maud’s lips.

“Several of the notes have been traced and
destroyed,’ said Sir Vivian. ‘‘The bank has
employed Sergeant Scott, one of the cleverest
men in England, and he has discovered that
three more of them were paid last week to
Child: & Stevens, the celebrated jewelers. I
paid a small amount there last week, and gave
in payment a bank note for fifty pounds; they
gave me one ten and three five-pound notes in
exchange. Those three notes bore the initials
of the firm, and were numbered respectively
3,568, 3,569 and 3,570. Now, it appears these
notes are forged, and I must return them.”

There was no answer, and Sir Vivian turned
to Max.

“The police are on the track,’’ he said. **The
man who gave the notes to Child & Stevens
was a foreigner, small and dark, and it-ap-
pears that he is the guilty man. They require
these notes as links in the chain of evidence.
He is supposed to be a Frenchman. He com-
mitted precisely the same forgery in France,
and eluded pursuit. Fetch the notes, my dar-
ling. I am so glad you have not paid any bills
with them.’’

But the girl never moved or stirred; she
seemed smitten with the coldness, the silence,
the whiteness of death.

“There is no need for fear, Maud,” said Sir
Vivian, bending over her, believing that one so
gentle and innocent was _unfitted for the con-
tact, however distant, with guilt. “It is un-
pleasant, but, as I said before, the matter does
not concern us. I shall have to appear, I sup-
pose, as a witness against the forger, to swear
that I received the notes from Child & Stevens
~—that will be all. Fetch the notes, darling. We
are keeping the gentlemen waiting.”’

She spoke, and he bent down to listen, but
the words died away, quite inarticulate, on the
white, quivering lips.

“What is it?’? asked Sir Vivian wonderingly.
“T did not hear you, my. child.”

She spoke again; she rose from her seat with
the desperation of despair; she stood before
him, her hands clasped, and a fear beyond all
words in her face.

“T have not forgot them, papa,’’ she said, and
he never forgot the tone in her voice. ‘I have
not got them. I have given them away.’’

They .weie all three looking at her in won-
der too great for words.

“Given them away!” cried Sir Vivian. ‘“Well,
never mind, darling; we can soon get them
back. We must have them, you know; they
are the chief links in the chain. To whom
have you given them? [ will write or send at
once.”’ ;

There was no answer; in the dead silence
that followed they could hear the ticking of
the ormolu clock and the singing of the birds.

‘“Wou need not be so frightened, darling,’
said Sir Vivian gently. ‘“‘You surely do not
think I am angry because you have given
away fifteen petty pounds? You, my Queen of
Edgemount, you shall give away all I have if
it pleases you. Only tell me to whom they are
given, and I will change them for others with-
out troubling you again.” .

A voice, unlike his daughter’s, unlike any-
“thing he had ever heard, said:

_ “I-I gave them, not in payment, but as a
present, papa.’’

“Quite right, my darling,” he replied cheer-
fully. ‘‘You are a true Edgely; you give-with
a liberal hand. You’shall have twice as much
to give, but you must tell.me' who had them.”

She looked at him, and her clear eyes: never
drooped. : te ;
“Papa,” she said, “I eannot tell you. TI
would rather die than tell you to whom I gave
those notes.

 

CHAPTER XXIV.
‘IT IS MY OWN SECRET.”

Sir Vivian looked at his daughter in utter
amaze; her death-like pallor, her attitude
erect, yet so full of despair; her eyes, so clear,
so true, yet so defiant, puzzled -him.

“Die! My dearest Maud. We do not talk
‘about dying in connection with such trifles.
I, myself, respect your silence, and if the issue
depended on myself, I would even ask you to
break it, but the law, I am afraid, will force
you.”’ :

Sir Max Darrell came up to her. He stood by
her side, as though he would say that was his
place, and he had come to help her. He whis-
pered some loving words to her that seemed
to unlock her heart, for she flung her arms
around him, crying:

“Oh, Max! Max! help me! I cannot tell!”

‘“‘You shall not,’? he replied, forgetting in his
wish to soothe her all that was mysterious in
her conduct. A

“I think I understand,’ said Sir Vivian.
“Leave my daughter with me, Max. I begin
to understand it.’’

Slowly and reluctantly Sir Max Darrell un-
clasped the tender arms that clung to him,
and left the room. Sybil followed him.

Mauda stood silent before Sir Vivian, with the
firmness of despair in her face.

“T know what you have done, my dear, noble
child,” he said. ‘“‘Why keep such a secret from
me?’

He saw a perfect glaze of fear come over her
violet eyes.

“You know, papa,’’ she gasped, ‘‘you know!”’

“Yes,” he said, taking her in his arms, as he
would have done a little child.’ You might
have trusted me; you have sent the notes to
your mother, Maud.”’

“No,” she cried. “I have not, papa. Mamma
would never pardon such an insult. Oh! how
little you know her!”’ .

He looked then, as he felt, perfectly per-
plexed.

“TJ thought you had sent them to her,” he
said, ‘‘and did not like to tell me before Sybil
and Max. Maud, my dearest child, I hate to
pain you, but I am afraid, I fear, I must in-
sist upon knowing in whose possession those
notes are now.”’

“Tt cannot tell you,’”’ she said. “Oh, papa,
you are always so kind to me. Do not ask.”

“Ts the secret your own?” he inquired.

“Yes,” she replied, eagerly, “my own, papa,
I gave them. No one asked me, no one knew;
even the person I gave them to did not know

how much money there was, or of what it
consisted.’’ ; :
“Maud,” said Sir Vivian gravely, ‘I have

been the kindest and most indulgent of fathers
to you. I live but for your happiness and love.
{ would trust you with all I have in the world.
{ would trust you with every secret of my
heart. Will you not trust me in such a trifling
matter as this?’

“T cannot,’’ she said desperately; “I may not.
Oh, papa, forget it; ask of me my life if you
will; prove me in any way to see how I love
you, but not this.”

“T will waive my share in the matter alto-
gether,” said Sir Vivian, coldly. ‘The daugh-
ter whose heart I thought I could read, like
an open book, refuses me her confidence. I
ought not to feel surprised. Your mother, my
wife, did so before you; but something must
be done. What answer am, I to give to those
gentlemen whom I assured should leave the
house with the notes in their possession?”’

“Say what you will,” she replied. ‘‘Tell them,
if you like, papa, that I should refuse to tell
it the refusal cost me my life; but screen me,
help me, if you can.”’

She looked so fair, so fragile, so dauntless,
that Sir Vivian was bewildered.

‘Have you been paying any debts of Sybil’s,
or Lady Edgely’s?” he asked, suddenly.

“No,” she replied; ‘I gave the money from
an impulse of my own, believing good could be
done with it.’’

“Have you given it to man or woman?’ he
asked again.

A burning flush covered her face.

“T am answered,” he said sorrowfully. “T
go to screen you, Maud. My God! that I must
ever use such words to my own child.”

“Papa,” she cried, ‘‘you mistake—stay!”’

But Sir Vivian never heard even the words;
he had quitted the room, his heart heavy and
eoid within him,

Maud flung herself on her knees; she buried
her face in her fair, white arms, and wept
as one who has no hope.

Tt was new to him to deceive, this loyal, hon-
orable English gentleman, whose lips had
never been stained with a false word. He had

 

 

 

Icathed the subterfuge as he entered the room,
but he knew he must use one.. He could not
forget the pleading voice that said:

“Screen me, help me, if you can!”

‘ He went in with a smile on his face; his vis-
itors had found the sherry too good to have
given much heed to the length of time the
barenet was absent.

“T am sorry to have kept you so long, gen-
tlemen,’’ he said, ‘‘but I have been trying to
trace the notes. I can swear that they were
paid to me, and I, in my turn, paid them away.
Il remember the notes; I fancied at the time
they were rather queer—the water mark was
not perfect. I wish I had kept them.”

“T understood you, Sir Vivian,’’ said Sergeant
ot “to say that yeu had given them to Miss

ge rae

‘So I believed,’’ he replied carelessly; ‘‘but
as they are not in my daughter’s possession,
there must be some mistake. Both Miss Edge-
ly and myself have given and paid away a
great deal of money during the last few days,
and those three notes are lost sight of.’’

He was quick enough to see the slight ex-
pression of dissatisfaction on the face of Ser-
geant Scott.

“Tt is very unfortunate,” said the detective.

“These three notes must be found; we shall
want to convict the man, upon them.’’

“J will do my best,’’ said Sir Vivian; ‘‘I can
do no more. I will make every effort to dis-
cover them—I will trace them if possible.
Should I succeed, I will let you know at once.”

*‘‘We shall be sure to discover them,’ said
the detective; “they are advertised every-
where; but, of course, it would have saved
time if you could have given us some. informa-
tion.”’

“That is all I can give you at present,” he
said, somewhat impatiently. ‘‘They were paid
to me by Child & Stevens, and I have paid
them away to some one else.”

And with that his visitors were obliged to be
content. It was a Keen, sharp trouble to him—
a deep humiliation that he should have to de-
ceive—to refrain from telling the truth when
he knew it.

Yet, come what would, the honor of the
house of Edgely must be preserved—no one
must know that the slightest cloud hung over
its queen. When they were gone, Sir Vivian
returned, not to Maud—it was. useless, he
thought, at present to say more to her; but he
shut himself up in the library to think.

What secrets could his daughter hold in
keeping, either for herself or for another? He
had felt so pleased, so proud, so hopeful that
she would have nothing ever to come between
herself and her husband, He loathed all se-
ecrets and mysteries—he did not believe in
them; if people acted honestly and straight-
forwardly there would be no need of them.
Secrets were all very well in novels—they
ought to have no place in real life, and with
people who love and trust each other.

How like her mother shé was, with that
fair, pleading, yet defiant face! Ah, could it—
could it be that Honor’s child had mysteries
and secrets like Honor herself? Was the old
proverb, ‘‘Like mother, like daughter,’ a true
one? He was puzzled, angry, indignant and
sorrowful. :

Sir Max was puzzled. One of the chief
things he had loved in Maud was her beautiful
candor and love of truth. Falsehood all seemed
to die in her presence; false words fell away
from her; and now—what was he to think
now?

He had gone, when he left her, into the
pretty little morning-room, and Sybil had fol-
lowed them. He stood for some minutes at
the window, watching the waving branches of
the tall trees; then, turning, he found Sybil
looking at him, with profound sorrow in her
dark eyes. All his instincts of love and loyalty
were aroused in-one moment.

“Maud is so innocent,’ he said; ‘‘she knows
so little of the world. Some one has imposed
on her—dio you not think so, Mrs. Leighton?’

“JT cannot tell,’’ was the guarded reply.

“But you are thinking of her,’ he said

eagerly. “Il can see it in your face. You are
thinking of her. What are your thoughts,
Sy bil?’’

He was too excited to remember that he
was calling her by her Christian name. Her
face flushed slightly as she heard it.

She went to him, and placing one hand on
each shoulder, said:

“Do not ask me, Max. I could not tell you.
I distrust my own thoughts.’’

“You have some idea of what the child has
done with the money?’ he asked.

“God help you and her,’ she replied slowly,
“J Have.’’ ; Be
. “And -will-not tel mé?’.: eg :

“Say dare not,’’ she interrupted; ‘‘for I dare
not. Mine is but a suspicion, barely formed,
perhaps unjust, and I would not shape it in
words. I will only say if she could wrong you,
‘she is heartless, indeed.”’

‘Jt is no question of her wronging me,’ he
replied haughtily. ‘My poor, troubled darling
—what she has done with her money cannot
affect me.” ‘ es ce

“Tf my. thoughts are just ones, it affects
you greatly,” rejoined Sybil. “Try to help me,
Max, no matter what she has done. She is
so young, and has been so strangely placed.
My heart ached to see her so white and sad.
Do help her; in experience she is but a child.”

And he thought how generous Sybil was;
how true a friend she was to his fair, young
love. In a sudden impulse of gratitude, he
kissed the white hand that rested on his shoul-

der. ’
“Tt wish she would trust you, Sybil,’’ he said.
“You would be a true, kind friend to her.”
While Maud, with her face buried in her
hands, tried to check her passionate weeping
by repeating to herself the motto of her house
—Die, but never fail.”
(To be continued.)

The Girl of His Heart

OR,

LEVALLION’S HEIR.

By ADELAIDE STIRLING,
Author of ‘Lover or Husband?,” “The Wolf’s Mouth,”
“Nerine’s Second Choice,” “The Purple Mask,”
“Saved from Herself,” ete., etc.

 

 

(“Tum GIRL oF His HART” was commenced in No, 27.
Back numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers.)

 

CHAPTER XXXI.
A BAD MOVE.

Two days afterward the great gates of Le-
vallion Castle were opened wide to let out the
funeral of the man who had been poisoned in
his own house. Behind the hearse, before the
long rows of country neighbors who came¢ be-
cause they must and the flocking poor who
came because the dead man had been good to
them, walked the new Lord Levallion as chief
mourner—and people stared as_ they saw Sir
Thomas Annesley walking at his side. Sir
Thomas,.whose sister was a murderess, and
lying in jail awaiting her committal for trial
at the assizes. Bz

“T wonder the boy can hold up,’ said Lord
Chayter to his companion. ‘I honestly believe
she didn’t do it, though!’ But when asked
who did, he was silent.

Long and speechiessly the new Lord Leval-
lion stood by his cousin’s grave. If there were
men who would have spoken to him they dared
not do it, so hard and hostile-was his face,
He turned without seeming to see his neigh-
bors or the parson at his elbow; and to the
surprise of every one drove off in the oppo-
site direction from Levallion Castle.

He was not needed there, Levallion’s law-
yer was in charge, and would remain so till it
pleased Adrian Gordon to come back. There
was no will to read, nothing to keep the heir
from taking up his immediate residence, Hx-
cept that his wife’s settlements and jointure
were secured to her. Lord Levallion had ar-
ranged nothing. That consolation legacy to
Adrian had never been made—or needed.

But all that was the last thing in Adrian’s
head as he drove te the station from that
ghastliest. thing on earth, the funeral of a
murdered man.

In the last two days he had ransacked the
village, but of a Mrs. Murray no one had ever
heard. The landlord of the raw new bunga-
lows had gone away; the caretaker gave a de-
seription of Miss Brown, the defaulting ten-
ant, which did not tally in any respect with
Hester Murray, except that Miss Brown had
yellow hair.

Bad as Hester might be, he had never known
her to drink; and the village girl who had
waited on the tenant of the bungalow swore
that two days out of three her mistress would
drink herself into a heavy sleep. She said also
that Miss Brown never left the house ex-
cept to go into the garden; that at night, from
her cottage near by (for she had never slept
in the house), she had always seen the draw-
ing-room lit up till all hours. And it was
clear her story. was true, for none of the vil-
lage people had ever laid eyes on the levant-

 

ing tenant during all the three months she had
lived in the bungalow.

that disposes of Hester,’’ Adrian said to
himself. “‘She could never have lived cooped
up like that. She’d have scoured the country
for exercise.”’

Levallion’s lawyer, too. poohpoohed the idea,
as he furnished Mrs. Murray’s present address
in London.

“She could not have been here, or his lord-
ship would have mentioned it in his instruc-
tions to me. I was to pay quarterly to her ac-
ceunt in the Starr street branch of Lioyd’s
Bank, five hundred a year, so long as she ob-
served his lordship’s conditions of never going
within a hundred miles of any of his country
houses, or approaching him or his wife in any
way, personally or by letters. I received those
instructions one morning, and the next had a
letter from Mrs. Murray herself, from a London
address and posted in London. I think you
may set aside all thought of her having been
down here. Lord Levallion would have made
no terms with her in that case, I am convinced.
Three days afterward she drew her money and
I made it my business to ascertain her where-
abouts. She and her boy were at the address
coe jae written from—Starr street, Padding-

on.”’

And to Starr street Adrian, was going, in
hopes that if Hester Murray and the woman
Tommy had seen were one and the same, he
could terrify it out of her. For he owed her a
long score.

It was pouring rain and pitch dark when he
found her number in the shabby street, a
strange dwelling for a woman who had had
the best house in Eaton Place. If he had any
thought that she would not see him, he was
mistaken; for he had barely entered the sor-
did lodging-house sitting-room when she came
in, small, pretty, dainty as usual, but with
something so unaccustomed in her dress that
he started.

“Adrian!” she said prettily. ‘‘This is kind of
you,’”” and she pretended not to see that he
made no motion to take her outstretched hand.
She sat down, not sure what had brought
him, his own business or another’s, In spite of
herself her heart thumped.

“I didn’t come to be kind,’’ he said; coolly.
“But what’s the matter with you? Is Murray
dead ?”’ For she was dressed in new widow’s
mourning, incongruously expensive for 15 Starr
street,

*“No,”’? she answered quietly. ‘‘Levallion! And
I—loved him.’’

Some emotion she could not control con-
vulsed her face.
“Your truthfulness with him showed it!’

brutally. “But I fail to
widow’s weeds.”’

‘‘Because in my own eyes I am his widow,”’
she said. ‘‘You know that! Have you come
here to insult me when I am heartbroken—or
why ?’’

And to his astounding eyes there were the
ravages of fearful grief in her face. But he
was in no mood for pity.

“How dared you teli Lady Levallion, before
her marriage,’ he said—and it was not what
she had expected—‘“‘that ‘Mrs. Gordon’ was my
wife?’’

‘*Because Sylvia Annesley made me, threat-
ened me. And I did it in ignorance. If I had
known what I was doing do you think I would
have stirred a finger to help Levallion to marry
—to marry!”’’ bitterly.

“T suppose not. Well, it’s some small com-
fort to think you ruined yourself! Were you
trying to undo your work by passing yourself
off as Miss Brown, at Levallion?’’

But the sudden question never jarred her;
she had been ready for it, since for all she
knew Levallion might have told him. Her
wide eyes opened innocently as she stared at
him, and all the while it was sweeping over
her acute brain that he was speaking by guess-
work.

_ “I don’t know what you mean!’
in her clear, high voice. “I know
about any Miss Brown.”

“Will you come down there and tell the
caretaker you don’t?’ quietly.

“Yes,’? said Hester Murray, just as quietly;
‘if you can make me understand what you
mean. Caretaker of what? and what has he
to do with me? I have not been at Levallion
Castle for three years, and you know it.’’

*You’ve been living within a mile of it all
summer!’’

Pale as a sheet she stood up in front of him.

““Are you mad?’’ she said. ‘*‘Would I—I that
he discarded, shamed, ruined, go near him and
his new—wife? Whoever your Miss Brown
was, She was not I! I?ve been ill, poor, starv-

see why you wear

she cried
nothing

sent me money.’’

‘“‘Have you been here all summer then?’ un-
convinced.

He terrified her till she could scarcely an-
swer him, and if she did not satisfy him she
was ruined. She shook her head. :

“T’ve been in France, Boulogne,’’ she said.
‘In a pension; you can write and ask them.”
And thanked Heaven she dared to play the
desperate card, though only yesterday she had
loathed the means that put it into her hand,

“Day before -yesterday—the last few days?”
doggedly.

“Tve been here. Oh, Adrian! Why are you
asking me such questions? If I had been at
Pere es could I have stayed away from—

im.?’’

Her low, broken voice, her puzzled misery,
were perfect; and yet the man disbelieved in
her because he knew her to be a liar.

“Do you expect me to believe it was not you
who lived at Levallion, in that bungalow be-
hind the village, all summer?’ he said. ‘‘Be-
cause I think it was.’’

“It was not I. And if it had been, it is none
of your affair.’’

Her change of tone startled him. He did not
realize he had made a mistake when he said
“think,” in stead of ‘‘know.’’

‘“‘Here,’’ she said, and she wrote an address
on a bit of paper. ‘‘Write to Boulogne and
ask. And now tell me what your Miss Brown
ok Sie doing that you should think I was
she?’’

Her face was haggard as she waited for the
answer, yet something in it warned Gordon
that to answer her would be sheer madness.

“Hester,” he said quietly, ‘‘has it occurred
to you that it is I now who am Lord Leval-
lion? What do you expect me to do about your
allowance?’’

Something cunning flashed into her eyes, and
was gone.

“T have not asked you for money,” she re-
turned. ‘‘And—I don’t think I will.”

“Tf you want it, you had better stay here till
you hear from me. Do you understand?”

“Unless you hear from me—first,’’ she said
slowly. And he could not understand the mix-
ae of triumph and fright that was in her
ace.

“What do you mean? You’re powerless,’’ he
eried sharply.

“Yes.” And for his life he did not know
whether it was an assent or a question. He
caught back the threat that was on his lips
and went out.

In the street he called himself every sort of
fool. As if it had been written .on the black,
rainy sky he saw that he had betrayed his sus-
picion of her and she had cleared herself and
then defied him. He had accomplished abso-
lutely nothing of what he meant to do.

“She means mischief,’’ he said to the depths
of his umbrella. ‘“‘She’s going to do some-
thing.’’

But just what Mrs. Murray had in her power
never entered his brain.

 

CHAPTER XXXII.
A TRIVIAL INCIDENT.

Lady Levallion had been committed for trial
at the Assizes, and, as Houghton had fore-
seen, was refused bail.

In the county jail at Valehampton she must
stay alone, comfortless—a girl of nineteen;
must be a month away from liberty and free
air before her trial. Of after that Houghton
dared not think. H’e worked wonders for her
comfort, though, and instead of a cell she had
a room, plain and bare, but still a room.
Yet it seemed prison-like enough to Sir
Thomas Anmesley, when at last he had leave
to go and see her.

Door after door was unlocked and locked
behind him; corrider after corrider sickened
him with its cold smell of carbolic acid, till
at hast he stood in the small room that was
properly part of the jail infirmary, and heard
its iron door click behind his heels,

“Tommy!” she cried, incredulous, rapturous,
though she had known he was coming.

But the boy could not answer; could only
cling to her, trying to choke back his pitiful
sobbing against her shoulder, For he had
seen her face, and knew a little, just a lit-
tle, of what her days and nights must have

been. ; ‘
“Don’t ery, darling!” she whispered, as
though it had been he not she that was in

peril of life. ‘‘Oh, Tommy, I thought I would
die for want of you!”’

“They wouldn’t let me come.” He lifted his
head. ‘‘Who’s that?’’ he cried, sharply. For
a woman was sewing by the window.

‘The matron,”’ softly. ‘Did you think they’d
let you see me alone?’’

The woman looked up.

 

 

 

 

ing, ‘nearly dying, till Levalhon heard of it and™

 

 

 

 
 

nis

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

VOL. &5—No. 39.

 

hard
you

“Don’t
face very
say.’

For Houghton,
doctor, and she
Gospels.

“She's been
gratefully, and

mind me,
gentle.

sir!’’ she cried, her
“T’ll not heed anything

by good luck, was the prison
believed in him as in the four
very good to me,” Ravenel said
the matron smiled, but her
eyes were wet. For, if Lady Levallion were
innocent ten times over, she could not. prove
it. And the matron’s only daughter who died
would have been just the age now of this
girl, who presently would be tried for mur-
der. She moved to the farthest limit of the
room as the brother and sister sat down on
the bed.

‘Are you well, Tommy ?” Ravenel whispered.
“You look so thin!”’
““‘Never mind me, I’m all right.’’ He grabbed
her hand. ‘I can only stay half an hour.
| me, can’t you think of anything don’t

”

othing,”’ deliberately,
perjured herself because she had seen a flying
glimpse of a man she thought was Adrian,
there was nothing to do but. stick bY itis if
she had been certain he was in London she
have told the truth; but yet it would
helped her very little in face of those
bottles.
‘ou’ve seem your
nodded.
1at clever
on'’t fret,’’

For once having

lawyer?
There had been little enough
man’s face to re-assure her
she said slowly. ‘‘There
three weeks before I—my trial.’’
“And so far we ‘haven’t found
hing,’’ he said, and hid his face agz
“T’ve thought of something,
] me, she began,
hair. ‘‘The Umbrella, Tommy!
send for me to tell me about that
f Sylvia. She sent for me to warn
Levallion. I feel it, and he did,
why did he say, before he died:
have gone?’ ”’
the Umbrella’s We'll
know.

“No! But

are
out
Lin.
though it
smoothing the

one

can’t
Boe s
She
old
me
too;
‘We

of
about
else
1

hould

“But dead. never

if she knew something,
else may. It’s sure to come out.’’
“But if it doesn’t?’ he gasped.
A dreadful shudder took her. To die,
a rope around her neck, in a prison yard!
“Pray it will!’’ she cried. “Oh, Tommy, I
know you’d help me if you could! But if you
can’t, pretend it’s all right. It’s the only
thing you can do for me. I—I’ve got to be

brave!’”’
The boy sat up, did not look at her.
‘“‘what do you think

some one

Ww ith

but he
“Look here,’’ he said;
about Gordon ?’’

“He didn’t do it!’’
joyfully.

‘No! I don’t
to help you,
Levallion Castle
He’s vanished,
the day of the
wh ere he is.’’

‘““He couldn’t help me,” loyally.
vants know no more than they said.’ But
her heart sank in her. Was it possible that
he did not care? And yet it had not been so
much for Adrian’s sake as for lLevallion’s
that she had lied at the inquest. No one
should be able to say that one of the dead
man’s own blood had murdered him because
he had loved his wife.

“Perhaps not! But
there,’’ gruffly.

“Are you there?’’

“Where can I go?
money. If I had I

“Adrian will look
for she had a dim
her the crown would

‘IT wouldn’t take
him!’’ bitterly.

“Tt was all Sylvia.’ For the first time
had color in her face. “Oh, don’t hark
to it, Tommy! Levallion was kind to us;
some one killed him for it.

The door swung back heavily.

“Time’s up, sir,’’ said the warden.

It did not seem five minutes, but
nearer forty than thirty.

“T’'ll eome,” said Sir Thomas Annesley, and
he looked ten years older: ‘‘Ravenel, I nearly
forgot. The Duchess wrote to me. She’s com
ing here, tc Valehampton, to be near you.
She’ll come here as often as they’ll let her.’’

“I’m glad,’ simply. ‘‘But I think I only
want you.’’ (And one other whose hand she
would never touch again-in life!)

She sat down, tearless. One_ breath,
the world she could have hidden her face
abainsti. one strofig shoulder would have
known her tears. 3ut between Adrian Gor-
don and her was a deep gulf set; a gulf of
biood that cried aloud.

But Tommy Annesley
as he drove the long ten miles between Vale-
hampton and Levallion Castle. It was bitter
work to stay there eating Adrian’s bread; but
he could not go away

“Perhaps the Duc hess will take me with
her,’ he thought, ‘‘till ,’ but even. to him-
self he could not finish. When the trial was
over it was not likely that Tommy Annesley
would have overmuch care for what happened,
He would get away, he and Jacobs, from
every soul who had known him—would work
somehow for his living. A lump rose in his
throat as he walked into the broad hall of
Levallion Castle, all soft firelight and wel-
come, and thought of its mistress sitting on
rs pallet bed in Valehampton Jail.

was waiting, but he could not swallow
i “He flew out into the desolate, twilit gar-
den, and rambled aimlessly, he hardly saw
where. Jacobs, for once, was not with him;
all alone, his hands in his pockets, his slow
feet silent on the frozen grass, Sir Thomas
walked mechanically, racking his brain to no
purpose over that mysterious man and wom-
an the detectives had been unable to trace.

He might have racked his brain - still
harder if he had known the reason of the
silence that reigned concerning them. In
Adrian’s theory about the absconding tenant
of the Bungelow, no one believed at all. Ar-
lington’s man had been almost openly un-
believing about dragging a strange woman
into the case, and the prosecution merely
smiled at the idea of there being any mystery
whatever, thanks to that hasty evidence of
Sir Thomas Annesley’s. It was all very well
for him to believe he had made a mistake;
no one else did. In the eves of the world those
two people who drank champagne in a wood
had been See Gordon and Lady Levallion,
since the only man who could have sworn
to her whereabouts was dead!

“Tf I only could think of something!” the
boy mused, desperately, and stopped short at
a queer sound.

He had wandered
A 1 hehind a row

quickly; for all her pains,
mean that. But
why doesn’t he
and watch
clean gone.
funeral,

if he wants
come back to
those servants?
Went to London
and nobody knows

“Those ser-

Gordon ought toe be
asked.

miserably. “I've
couldn’t leave you,”
after you.’’ She hesitated,
idea that if they hanged
take her jointure.
his money. It was

she

no

all

she
back
and

it was

of all

was blind with tears

into the dark kitchen
of deserted potting
and from them came a sound exactly
l beating of carpets. It was no con-
cern of Tommy’s, though the hour was a queer
and he was moving on when a pitiful
ning like a dog being beaten to death,
made him jump. His thoughts flew to the ab-
Jacobs, and the cook who had a grudge
inst him.
Silent, with flying feet, Tommy ran
back of the shed, full of fury. But as he
paused by the lattic ed, glassless window at the
ack of it, he knew it was no dog which was
concerned in the carpet beating; but a boy.
“Don’t! don’t!” he was crying. ‘I won't
go away. I’ stay with you. I'll do whatever
you say!”’
The sound of blows
Phat 1S-2. sensible, aimable boy!’ said a
voice, and it was the chef’s. ‘And you will
say to the world that you love me—that there
was never any one like me, eh?’
The boy groaned.
¢?

one,
moa

to. the

ceased.

Thomas heard the whistle of a stick up-
yes! Don’t hit me.’’
“it is for your good that I break the bones
your skin,’ returned Carrousel. ‘‘We shall
hear no more of this running away?’
“No,” in exhausted sobs. ‘I'll stay. VU
do whatever you tell me, I-——’”

Sir Thomas bounced round the corner of the
shed.

‘What the devil’s this?’ he said, fiercely,
and a lighted match flickered in his hand.
There was Carrousel, his face like a devil’s
erasping a heavy stick, and on the mud floor
the boot boy, quivering with pain. The
match went out.
“How dare you

in

beat the boy like that?’’
cried Tommy. ‘Tll have you up for assault.”
He disobeyed me, refused to do his work.”’
In the dark Carrousel’s boot grazed the boy’s
ribs. ‘‘Did you not, eh?”
‘Yes.’ The answer was
a moan.e
vd don't

little better than
has to do with
“And if he dis-
you’ve no right

what a cook

boots!” angrily.

ved you a dozen times,

beat him like this.’

“He runs my errands,’ said Carrousel,
“He would not do his work; he

this and let him
if I catch you

see

sul-
played,
get out of
¢ wtherite: ively. ‘‘And
again Tll have you arrested. Go now,
My dog’ll be here in a minute,’’
ay ou threaten me—intimidate?”
Carrousel’s face was not pretty.
lightning he changed his tone.

alone,”’
at this
sharp!
significantly.
In the dark

But Jike

 

“T regret if you think the punishment too
severe. The boy—earned it!’’ He spoke like
oil, and in the dark stooped and whispered two
words in the boot-boy’s ear.

“Clear out!’ Tommy stamped his foot, un-
conscious of that whisper. ‘‘Get back to your
pots and pans, or I’ll have you driven there.
Jacobs! Hi, Jacobs!” he yelled.

But M. Carrousel was gone.

Tommy stooped over the boot boy.

“Why did you let him beat you like that?’’
he said. ‘‘Why didn’t you yell?”

But he got no answer. Another match flick-
ered in the shed. Towers, the boot boy, was
lying on his face, shaking with sobs.

‘See here,’ said Tommy, ‘don’t! Here’s
half a crown for youe—’’ (his last coin.) “‘If
you couldn’t fight that beast why didn’t you
complain | if he ill-treated you? Has he done
it before

No answer.

“Well,” disgustedly,
shall! Tl have

‘if you won't tell, I
Carrousel hauled up.’’
Towers said something; caught at Tommy
in the dark, as if to stop him.
“Don’t!” he gasped. ‘‘Don’t,
me,”’
“Rot! He couldn’t. What’s the matter with
anything against you—why
him ?’’

him? Has he got
are you afraid of

“T am not afraid. He is kind to me.
go with him if he leaves this place.’’

Tommy drew.a long. breath. The short
sentences had come out in the sing-song whine
of the village school, exactly as if they had
been learned by rote,

‘Then you must be a fool!’’ he observed,
candidly. ‘‘Do you mean you don’t want me
to complain of the beast?’’

Towers said no, still
voice.

“Go back to the house and wash your
the other boy, who was but four years
advised. ‘‘And if he beats you again,
to me, and Ill settle him.”’

Towers’s teeth chattered.

“T made him angry,’ he
won't dio it again. Don’t
oh, please!’’

“All right,”’
pounded, it’s
cold, he as
departed.

“Carrousel did
“But the boy seems

He stopped short

Cooky looked as
gasped. ‘“‘I wonder
But if I could
swing.’’

He ran to the
go. For the first
something.”’

“Mr. Arling
lawyer where

sir! He’d kill

I will

in that unnatural

face!”’
older,
you come

+e

sir;

shivering.
anything,

said,
say

disgustedly. “If you like being
no concern of mine!’ and, being
sisted the boot boy to his feet and

look a devil!”’
half-witted.
in the dark.

if he would kill him!’ he
if—but it couldn’t be.
think it, I—I’d make him

he thought.
Yet——”’

as he could
‘thought of

hard
had

house
time

as
he

‘ton,’’ he cried, bursting in on the
he sat toiling over bundles of
Levallion’s neglected and unopened letters in
the hope of finding some clue to some one
who had a Senne against him. ‘‘Do you
know Captain Gordon’s address?’ For rea-
sons of his own he said nothing about that
trivial incident in the garden.
“No!” slowly. ‘‘Lord Levallion’s,
I’ve never heard one word
The boy’s flushed face

] you mean?
from him.’’
pated.

XXXIT.
ALLION’S HEI R

Adrian Gordon had ample reason foRgsiv ing
no address. He had wanted to sink*™ like a
stone in London, and he had done it.

Moving slowly away in the rain and dark-
from. that. worse than useless visit to
Hester Murray (which, now that his blood was
cool, he saw had only served to warn her of
his thoughts, and had not intimidated her in
the least), a sudden thought came over him
also. A mad one, perhaps, but irresistible.
If Hester had not been able to profit by the
live Levallion, it seemed out of question she
should by the dead one. Yet, perfect actress
as she was, he felt that the woman was tri-
umphant, in spite of the marks of deadly grief

on her face.

“*T believe it was she, in spite of that pen-
sion at Boulogne!”’ he said to himself. ‘‘As for
the man Tommy saw with her, if it were Hes-
ter he saw, I don’t think he counts. Good-
ness Knows what her little amusements may
have been at night, if she were cooped up all
day, as that girl said Miss Brown was!

He looked round the wet street. It was
not- two hundred yards from Paddington
station. He could get'’a train at any hour
needed to.

for Levallion Castile if he

“T’ll try it, anyhow!’’ he thought, and, not
being as shrewd as Levalilion, it never oc-
curred to him that the very nearness of Pad-
dington station, where it was so easy to come
and go from Levallion, had brought Hester
Murray to Starr street.

In the dull, rainy gaslight the new Lord
Levallion (who had winced when some one
called him by his title) retraced his steps,
crossed the street. There, in number fourteen,
diagonally opposite fifteen, was a transparent
red glass sign—‘‘Lodgings.’’ And lodging
letting was Starr street’s means of existence,
as a stroll down it showed him.

He rang at number fourteen, and, when he
came away after a short colloquy with a
frowsy woman, he went no further than the
great thoroughfare round the corner, where a
ready-made clothing shop swallowed him up.
Ten minutes later a man with a new port-
manteau, containing the toilet things he had
not thought necessary to bring for a half
hour’s visit to Lendion, and a cheap suit of
dittoes, returned to fourteen Starr street. The
neglected door opened, closed on him. The
red sign of lodgings still hung in the ground
floor. window, because there was still a spare
room in the house, and Hester Murray saw it
as she went to bed, saw it without thinking of
it, as she had seen it every night since she
came.

“FBool!’’ she thought.
Yet her lips were pute,
bered she had had the best of her discomfitted
visitor. For five minutes that she would never
forget till her dying day, she had thought he
knew something, and was come to tell her so.
But as she looked at him she knew he was
talking by guess work. And she was able to
combat more than guess work.

“Well, he’s gone, thank goodness!’
aloud—and if Hester Murray thanked goodness
there was no one to the awful insolence
of it. ‘‘I don’t suppose he’s been reading the
papers lately! And even if he had he might
not have thought anyth ae

She shaded her candle
went into the next room. on boy lay there in
bed, a handsome child of ten, with something
in his sleeping face that made her quiver and
turn ghastly in the candle light.

“God, how like he is!’ she muttered.
“Tt didn’t—I didn’t do it. If the worst came to
the worst I could swear that.” She swallowed
something in her throat. ‘‘I was treated like
a dog,’’ she gasped. ‘I was driven, But I can
swear I never did it. Oh, I mustn’t think of it!
I’d break down. I’ve got to fight—for Adrian.”’

For that sleeping child's name was Adrian,
too. But the very thought of what she was
going to fight seemed to paralyze her, the dan-
ger of it, the— She put down’ the candle,
knelt with passion beside the child.

“Tll do it for you!’’ she said, deliberately.
And put away from her the thought ‘that if
she had been a driven, desperate woman a
week ago, she was more so now by a hundred-
fold, and with a harder task master behind
her. When she got up her face was steady.

“It’s lucky I’d got back -when he came!
she thought, harking back to Adrian Gordon.
“Otherwise there might have been questions to
the landlady. But all she knew was that for
two or three nights I dined out, and came
home in a hansom at half-past twelve. Even
that she might not Know, because of my latch
key. I'd better go to bed. I must look decent
to-morrow. I wish I hadn’t had to let him
write to Boulogne—but there—I’m safe through
it.’~ And it was odd she did not remember
that five minutes before she had assured her-
self that she was guiltless, and safe in any
case.

The neighbor she knew
tainly not. been reading
he had, might very well have overlooked the
small print, unimportant paragraph about a
man named Murray having been run over in
the street, while the worse for drinking, and
taken to Guy’s Hospital. But from Guy’s Hos-
pital Mrs. Murray had-.not long returned when
ta paid his foolish visit to her. It was long
after visiting hours, but Hester was a pretty
woman still. The house surgeon had seen her,
and told her that there was small chance
for the man she asked for.

‘“‘He may linger one day, perhaps two,” he
said. ‘‘But in all probability he'll never be
conscious, and he can’t recover. -Was he,’’
marveling, ‘‘a relation?’’

“Oh, no!’ said the woman in the
widow’s weeds, prettily. ‘‘Only a—a
protege. He had come down in the world.’

The surgeon thought that was a mild way
of describing the sodden, dying wreck upstairs,

The woman who had lived with poor Bob
Murray for years drove away with a light-
ened spirit. That which she had to do was
robbed of half it’s peril since he was dying,
was practically dead. If he had been alive and
well, it would have had-to be done just the

CHAPTHR
LEV

ness

“But he always was.’
even as she remem-

she said

see

with her hand, and

pr

nothing of had cer-
the papers, and if

faultless
sort of

same, if she cared to live in this world at all;
but the doing of it might have been all but
impossible. Now her safety lay almost in her
hand. She slept that night.

(To be continued.)

ge

A Syndicate of Sinners.

By GERTRUDE WARDEN,

Author of ‘In the Face of Proof,” ‘A Stage Heroine,’ ‘Her
Haithful Knight,’ “The Haunted House at Kew,”
“An Angel of Love,” elc., etc.

’ was commenced in No,
Back nunibers can be obtained of all newsdealers.)

(‘A SYNDICATE OF SINNERS”
28.

CHAPTER XXXI
HONOR AMONG THIEVES.

‘Suicide whilst of unsound mind.’

That was the verdict on the death ‘os Henry
Hillingford. John Van Hemelryck and his
head ‘clerk, Daryl Mordaunt, were both pre-
pared to swear that Hillingford’s mind had
been unhinged by business troubles, but Hill-
ingford’s widow flatly contradicted their evi-
dence.

Her

husband -was terribly

serted, but not in

worried, she as-
the least mad. And his
worry was brought about almost entirely by
his connection with the Helping Hand Syndi-
cate, of which he was an unwilling member.

She had quarreled with her husband, the
widow admitted; that was in despair because
he had been turned out of the firm in which
he had worked for years, and where-he had
risen to be partner, solely through the perse-
cution- and blackmail he had been subjected
to by Mr. John Van Hemelryck.

“At home, where we had a telephone, and
in his office, for at least six months past, at
all hours of the day and night, my husband
was rung upon the telephone and ordered to
immediately pay. the sum of-fifty pounds. l
have his cheek books to show ‘that this. Help-
ing Hand Syndicate got two hundred and
seventy-five pounds out of him altogether
earlier in the year; and it was because he re-
sisted their extortions that they ‘harried him
to death,” the little, pale, black-robed, and
rather vixenish-looking widow protested.

Mark Arlington, in his capacity as solicitor,
wished: to silence her with threats o€ libel;
but her evidence tallied so curiously with
Noel’s account of the dead man’s conduct in
the Helping Hand Office that the attention of
every one present was attracted, and the cor-
oner felt constrained to make certain inquiries
in the cause of justice.

“What is this Helping
asked of Noel.

Before he had time to answer Hillingford’s
widow broke in. She had nothing to lose,
and the prickings of conscience prompted her
to fasten her husband’s misfortunes on to
others.

“They are a set of blackmailers and black-
mailed!’’ she cried. ‘And the three chief
rogues pretend to do good as a cloak for their
villainy. They found out something wrong
my husband had been Jed into in the past.
and they traded upon it.

“We are very sorry for
whose grief has doubtless
son,’’ Van Hemelryck put in, “but we cannot
allow these wild accusations to be made
against us without a shadow of proof.’’

“This is not the place to go into that,’’ the
coroner asserted, While a buzz of excited
whispering went round the court. “Our duty
is to discover the state of the prisoner’s mind
at the time of his death. Two witnesses are
here to declare he was mad, while the third
admits he was wildly excited, and that he
made an unprovoked assault upon a gentle-
man who was present. We have every sym-
pathy with his widow and children; but there
is little doubt that the unfortunate man was
not at the time responsible for his actions.’’

The usual verdict on suicides followed; but
Arlington and Van Hemelryck left the cor-
oner’s court with a-full conviction of the harm
that would accrue-to them when the evidence
of Hillingford’s widow and ‘Mr. Dauncey”’
was given in the ev enit gs papers. To prove the
truth of the ada it “misfortunes never
come alone,’ a mesene er Sa cnaan a letter in
Van Hemelryck’s hands, marked ‘immedi-
ate’ and “‘important,’’ as he was making his
way back to Nathaniel House. The writing
was familiar to him; it was that of the Jew-
ish stockbroker, Mr. Macgregor Levy, whose
name was included by Van Hemeiryck in
those of his Syndicate.

“T was in court, though you didn’t see me’’
(Mr. Levy had hurriedly scrawled in pencil).
“That evidence was very bad for you. But
if you stay in town until Sir Walter Dewey’s
will is read, and the contents published, as
they will be, it will be all up with you. I will
gladly help the lot of you to get out of the
country, in order to be rid of you. Dewey
often told me he would be revenged upon you
after death for what you made him suffer.
The disposition of his property will tell his
widow all you knew against him, and I know
for certain that he has. left papers, to be pub-
lished after his death, explaining your- exact
transactions with him for the past two years.
These are to be read With the will, in which
he leaves you his curse, and he advised me to
do the same. I have seen Dewey’s solicitor
this morning, and he tells me the body will be
coniveyed to London and buried on Monday
at Highgate. Monday afternoon, in all proba-
bility, the will will be read at Dewey’s town
house.

““T give you these tips out of pure good na-
ture, as I have no cause to feel friendly to-
ward you. And my advice is, pack up and £0
while there is yet time. M

“Who’s your letter from?’
quired.

“From my tailor,” Van Hemelryck replied,
promptly, as he thrust the note into his pocket,
“T’ll leave you now, Arlington. This is a bad
business for us, Of course. But-I’ll see Wrex-
ford and Morden and Levy and the Hon. Ce-
cil Wyverley, and a few others of our very
good friends, and get some testimony as to
character in case we should be attacked. Then
there is Denbigh Wray, the journalist. He
hasn’t much money, but I could get him
turned off the London Post if I made public
his association with that turf swindle. He
must be made to do some work for us; I wiil
eall upon him in his office immediately. Trust
to me and to my luck, Arlington. It has
pulled us throug sh before, and will do so again,
you will see.’

““And this fellow,

Hand Syndicate?’’ he

this poor
affected her rea-

woman,

Arlington ‘in-

who thwarts us at every
turn, and who has brought us ill-luck, this
chap who said all he could against us to-day
in court, what are you going to do with him?
Do you know that William Wilcox called at
the office at half-past ten this morning, be-
fore you turned up, and told us the man had
a long interview in the garden of Kavanagh
House yesterday afternoon with that infernal-
ly tiresome daughter of yours, who spends her
time spying on us? He was spooning her, no
doubt, and that is why the little minx has
turned round and refuses to marry Sir George
Trevanion. And they both of them saw Sir
George, for he told Robins he had met your
daughter and a young man in the garden
What do you think of that, eh? A nice, dutifui
daughter you’ve got, and no mistake. I
should look at home, Van, if I were you. I
can’t run down all your private and personal
enemies while you are fooling your time away
at Vale Towers.’

Arlington’s tone was rough and menacing.
He was furiously angry at the turn the evi-
dence had taken, and Van Hemelryck’s cool-
ness exasperated him still more.

The latter patted his- arm soothingly.

“You take a day off to-day,’’ he said. ‘‘Go
and amuse yourself, and I will work for both.
Then come round and dine with me to-night
at Kavanagh House at seven thirty. I have
a rod in pickle for that fellow who gave evi-
dence against us. When you know what it is,
even you will be satisfied, and you are a blood-
thirsty old chap, I know. Ta, ta, till dinner
time.’

As Van Hemelryck was parting thus from
Arlington at the door of Nathaniel House, the
pair were joined by Sullivan, the Irish lodge-
keeper at Vale Towers, who had in former
times been one of the applicants for a situa-
tion at the Helping Hand Registry, and whose
face was well known to all three of the part-
ners,

“Bee pardon, sir,”’ he

said, taking Van Hem-
elryck aside,

“but I followed your instructiens,
and came up to town with the lady. She is
Lady Olive Carlingford, only child of “Lord
E:venborough, and I traced her to her father’s
residence in Whitehall.’’

“Lady Olivet By Jove!’

Van Hemelryek murmured the words below
his breath, while an absent look flashed into
his bright eyes behind his pince-nez.

He might have done better, he was telling
himself, had he stuck to Olive. But her father
in years gone by had been only an. ‘‘honor-

 

able,’’ keeping up a position on a limited in-

come. From one point of view, however, Sul-
livan’s was the best of good news. The daugh-
ier of Lord Evenborough would never dare dis-
close the secrets of her past life and claim a
bigamist as her lawful husband.

‘Well done, Sullivan,’’ he exclaimed, show-
ing his handsome teeth in an encouraging
smile. “‘That is very good news, indeed.
Here’s half a sovereign for a tip. Now, go
back to Orringwood, and ‘don’t be tricked into
letting any more strangers into the grounds of
Vale Towers.”’

“No, sir; thank you,
you.”’

Van Hemelryck strolled thoughtfully down
the street, and presently hailed a hansom, But
Sullivan caught sight of a beckoning finger
just within the entrance to Nathaniel House,
and, stepping into the hall, found Mr. Arling-
ton waiting for him.

“Sullivan, my good fellow,’ that genial old

English gentleman whispered, “do you want
earn five pounds ?’’

“Och! your honor,
such a sum.?’’

“Follow Van. Don’t let him go out of your
sight for the next four hours. I shall be in
my office till seven, when I dress and go and
dine at Kavanagh House. See me before then,
and if you can report all Van’s movements,
without letting him once. catch sight of you,
you shall have the money. I have employed
you before, and I know I can trust you.”’

“You can, sir, bedad.”’

At a quarter to seven that evening Mr.
Mrs. Arlington and Dr. Robins were waiting
in Mr. Arlington’s inner office. Work was
over for the day; Mr..Mordaunt had gone to
his home and wife and five children at Notting
Hill, and William and Ludiwig had been like-
wise discharged at the moment when the
square face, long upper lip, small, gray eyes
retreating forehead and heavy jaw of the
lodgekeeper Sullivan appeared im the doorway.

“Blessings on your honors,” he began, “and
it’s me that’s had a weary afternoon’s work.
First Mr. Van Hemelryck drove to the rectory
of St, Joseph’s Church in Cornfield street.
Out he comes in half an hour with his river-
ence. ‘At ten o’clock on Saturday, then,’ he
says, and shakes hands wid him. Then he
goes to the office of Mr. Macgregor Levy, and
stays there twenty minutes. After that it’s
the bank, and a talk with ‘old Mr. Morden;
and-thin he drives . the house of Lord Wrex-
ford in Cumberland Square, and finds that his
lordship is abroad, ‘and goes to a telegraph
office, where he stays some time. Then it’s
chambers in the Albany he visits, belonging,
as I heard, to a Mr. Wyverley, and after that
it’s the office of the London Post, in Meet
street. And at half-past five, to finish up be-
fore going home to Kavanagh House, he
drives up, as bold as brass, to Scotland Yard!”’
' “To Scotland Yard!’

The words produced an electrical effect upon
Sullivan's, hearers. They sprang from their
seats, pale and trembling with astonishment
and consternation.

Then Mark Arlington brought his fist down
with a bang upon the desk before him.

“T knew it, by Heaven!’’ he shouted. ‘*The
infernal scoundrel is going to split on us to
save his skin!’’

sir, and blessings on

what wouldn’t I do for

and

HAPTER XXXII.
NOEL AND ANN.

Noel Trevanion walked out of the coroner’s
court that afternoon with a feeling of satis-
faction.

At last he had been able to make a counter-
move in the game, and to strike the first small
blow at that-syndicate of sinners he meant to
ruin.

Ever since that terribly painful interview
with his father on the preceding day, he had
been filled with a sentiment of the most in-
tense and passionate hatred against the man
who, for his vile and mercenary ends, had de-
stroyed that noble and beautiful nature which
had once been George Trevanion’s.

The personal injury inflicted on his old friend’

Jim Dauncey by Van Hemelryck’s
was not wanted to strengthen Noel’s righteous
indignation against the blackmailing gang; yet
the sight of Dauncey, whom. he had just left
pale with suffering in St. George’s Hospital,
added fuel to the flame of his wrath, and he
hardly dared to glance in the direction of the
plump and smiling head partner of the firm
lest he should be ‘tempted out of his self-con-
trol to physically attack him.

The well-modulated ~tones of Van Hemel-
ryck’s head clerk, Daryl Mordaunt, striking on
his ear as he walked away from the inquest,
made Noel start and turn impatiently to stare
at that limp and well-bred person.

“My dear sir,’’ Mordaunt protested, ‘‘pardon
me for saying so, but you are entirely mis-
taken, and unintentionally, Iam sure, you con-
veyed by your evidence just now a very wrong
impression against that excellent man, Mr.
Van Hemelryck. Hes

“Mr. Mordaunt,’? Noel struck in abruptly,
“either you are deceived, or you are trying to
deceive yourself. I have no more doubt that
you are an honest-man and a gentleman than
I have doubt that you serve one of the great-
est blackguards breathing. Good afternoon.”

He was well aware that his words would be
reported. But already, by his evidence, he had
thrown down the gauntiet, and the attack last
night showed clearly that his footsteps were
dogged by a vindictive enemy.

If only that poor girl could be got safely
away before she, too, fell a victim to Van
Hemelryck’s cruelty and greed!

Involuntarily his thoughts flew to Ann, and
remained with her, Ann, with her sensitive,
changeful face, and slender hands, clasped ap-
pealing as she asked him to be her friend; in-
voluntarily, also, his footsteps led him from
the city in: the direction of Bloomsbury and
Kavanagh Square.

The weather had altered for the better as
the afternoon wore on; the mist and rain of
the morning had given place to the mellow
sunshine of early autumn, and even the
smoke-begrimed plane-trees of Kavanagh
Square glowed in reflected amber light.

Noel paused by the square railings to gaze
curiously at the frowning facade of his
father’s house.

How sombre and prison-like it looked. How
inappropriate a lodging for a lovely and sensi-
tive young girl.

Could those grim walls speak what secret
would they whisper, he wondered. What ugly
hidden thing would they disclose, to make clear
the mystery of Sir George’s ruin and of John
Van Hemelryck’s power?

If Ann was to be believed, her father had
intended to pass the night away from home,
in which case, as Noel surmised, no event of
moment would have taken place since he last
saw her. He wanted to believe in-Ann, he did
beHeve in her; he pitied her with all his heart,
and against his will he loved her with the un”
reasoning love at first sight which sometimes
flashes into the lives of the coolest and most
skeptical of men.

Right down in the depths of his being Noel
was not skeptical; the nature of the hot-blood-
ed, impulsive Trevanions lay beneath a coat-
ing of .acquired caution and self-control; and
this last of the Trevanions, did he choose to
give instinct the rein, could prove as sudden,
as fierce, and as ungovernable in his loves
and hates as any of his forefathers.

He was steeling himself now against the girl
his heart had chosen by recalling Dulcie’s
words of the preceding evening.

His cousin had said, and Jim Dauncey had
heartily concurred therein, that Van Hemel-
ryck’s daughter was only off with the old love
to be on with the new; that she cared but for
money and position, and only wished to break
her engagement with the father because she
knew Noel to be the son, and considered him
the better match of the two.

“Tt is not true,’’ Noel muttered half aloud
in refutation of the insidious suggestion. ‘“‘She
knows me as Dauncey, and has noe suspicion
who I really am.

Even while soliloquizing thus, he had
crossed the road and, almost unconsciously,
was making his way along the garden wall of
Kavanagh House te the door to which he
possessed a duplicate key. In front of this he
hesitated.

What right had he, he asked himself, to pose
as the friend of this girl, whose father he
meant to bring to justice? Whether she was
the adventuress Mrs. Spencer suspected her
to be; or the soul. of truth and loyalty he him-
self wished to believe her, it would be equally
ill-advised on his part to trouble her with his
presence.

As he stood debating thus in the late after-
noon sunshine, a light touch was laid upon his
arm, and, turning sharply, he found himself
face to face with the mysterious black-robed
lady he had met on the previous:-day. This
time her veil -was thrown back, and in her
large, gray eyes, he discerned something of
the pleading beauty which had charmed him
in the eyes of Ann.

‘Are you going
voice.

“T think not,’ he observed coldly. “I am
doing all I.can against Miss Van Hemelryck’ s
father, and it is not fair, under the circum-
stances, to force my presence upon her.’

partner

in?” she asked in» a low

 

“Is it fair,’”’ she whispered fiercely, ‘‘to let

 

her be sold against her will to a morphia
maniac?’

Noel fell back a step and stared at her -in-
tently, his features quivering with emotion.

“A morphia maniac!’ he murmured. “Do
you mean Sir George Trevanion?. How do you
knowg Can you be sure?’ -

“T have a Spy in his household, and what I
say is true.’

Completely. unnerved for the moment, Noel
turned away from her, and buried his face
in his hands.

“‘My poor father! God help him!”

The prayer was unspoken, but Lady Olive
saw and marveled at his agitation.

“What can it matter to you?’ she asked
coldly.

“It matters to me, madam,” he answered,
dropping his hands from his agitated face,

“because I am that poor martyred man’s only
son.

“His son? His sons are dead.’’

“It was wrongly thought so. Twelve years
ago I was reported drowned—but what is the
use of wasting time over these discussions? [
am beginning to understand everything now.
And no punishment is bad enough for that
fiend Van Hemelryck.”’

“And his daughter?’

“What can ene do for the daughter of such
a man?”’

She gazed fixedly upon his face for a few
moments in silenee.

Then, on a sudden,
clear, but infinitely
as it sounded, with
the air, chanting in
lines of the Lorelei:

‘Ich weiss nicht wass soll es bedeuten
Dass Ich so traurig bin.’’

A flush started to Noel's
brows contracted.

“It is Ann’s signal,’ he. muttered.

“And you will let her give it in vain?’’

He turned upon the speaker in angry sus
picion.

‘**You asked me just now,” he said, ‘‘what Sir
George Tervanion was to me. I can as well
ask you in what way Miss Van Hemelryck’s
affairs concern you?’’

Lady Olive hesitated.

“T knew her as a baby,” she said at last:
‘‘Her mother was related to me. I must see
her. If you will not heip her, I will.” ®

He was_ silent for a moment, and in the
pause the refrain of the song, growing fainter
in the distance, reached their ears again.

“Yes, I will see her,’ Noel exclaimed; com-
ing suddenly to a resolution. ‘‘And, if you
wish to befriend her you shall see her, too.
Heaven knows the poor child has need of
friends. Follow me in.’

He turned the key in the door as he spoke,
But Lady Olive hung back, trembling in every
limb, and pressing her hands upon her throb-
bing heart.

‘““‘Wait,’’ she murmured with white lips. ‘“I—
I am not very strong. If I saw her suddenly
like this I might distress her. Leave the key.
Go and talk to her under the trees, and F
will steal in unperceived and join you when
Iam calmer. Do this, I beg of you.’’

Wondering at her agitation, but.too much
moved by a longing to see Ann to he greatly
interested’ in any other person, Noel complied

a girl's voice, sweet and
sorrowful, and charged,
unshed tears, rose upon
trembling notes the first

cheek and his

}with her request and entered the garden alone,

At first he did not see the girl he sought.
But presently he beheld her, in a white serge
gown, with a face as colorless as her dress,
leaning against one of the trees at a little
distance, with her wistful blue eyes fixed full
upon him,

“T began to think you would not come,’’ she
breathed rather than said, as he eagerly ap-
proached and drew her hand through his arm,

“Why, child, your fingers are ice-cold, and
you are pale as a ghost,”’ he exclaimed, with
a tenderness he could not repress. ‘‘What fresh
misfortune can have happened to you since
I saw you last?”

She pushed toward him a telegram she held
in her hand.

‘Read that,”
aloud.

she said, and Noel read it

“To Miss Van Hemelryck, Kavanagh House”
(sent from the city an hour ago): ‘‘Be pre-
pared to marry Sir George Trevanion the day
after to-morrow at ten o’ clock

“VAN HEMELRYCK.”

“And he is mad,’’ she whispered.  ‘‘Sir
George is the madman who tried to murder me
the first night I was. here.”’

“Sir George the madman!”

 

“That was-why his-<sea was laa swe,
she went on rapidly, trembling ¥with ever-ris-
ing excitement. “He had injured if in break-
ing into the ball-room. They had painted him
up when I saw him asleep—I ought to have
guessed, for I saw the madman’s clothes in
his dressing-room, and curls of his white hair
and beard on the floor. But I was stupid, and
I could not guess they would all deceive me,
and want me to marry a madman because he
was rich. Last night Dr. Robins warned .me
that my life would not be safe if I disobeyed
my father. You will ask why I don’t run
away? I am being watched at this moment.
William is in the square, and must have seen
you come, and my maid Caroline is creeping
about the shrubbery, though I cannot. see
her. I am surrounded with spies and enemies.
Tell me, tell me what I am to do!”’

On the third finger of the sktender hand that
clung to his arm Noel caught the glitter of a
ring.- A sudden anger filled him at the sight.

“You talk like this,’’ he said, “but you are
still wearing your engagement ring, and round
your neck the locket containing Sir George’s
portrait.’

She looked -up, flushing hotly.

“JT have kept the ring,” she said, ‘‘because it
is almost my only trinket, and if I can con-
trive to run away, I shall sell it. It means
nothing, for I feel sure Sir George has never
seen it. As to the locket-——”

*“‘You cherish it in memory of a lost illusion,
I suppose?”’

“It is not Sir George’s portrait,’’
simply, “but that of my only friend.
yourself.”’

Noel looked at the miniature and started.

“Then you do Know who I am?” he ex-
claimed, his old suspicions coming back in
force. ‘‘For that is my portrait as a boy.”’

“T found out last night. I saw a likeness I
could not understand, and I studied the fam-
ily portraits. Then-I felt sure, and more sure
when I recalled everything you had said. Oh,
how you must despise and hate us, inter-
lopers and adventurers, installed here in your
father’s house. How you must despise me for
my silliness in believing your father cared for

me.

‘All night I thought these things over. I
cannot eat. I cannot sleep. I am wretched,
wretched: I am afraid that you were right,
and that I have not understood my father—it
makes me hot and ashamed to think he is my
father. -But please believe me; please try toe
forgive me if I have unintentionally dene you
the least wrong. For I am so unhappy.”

Tears choked her speech. but as for Noel,
his distrust, his suspicions, were forgotten at
sight of her grief. He forgot that he was
being watched, forgot the spy Caroline lurking
amid the trees and the stranger he had ad-
mitted, and moved out of himself by a genuine
outburst of feeling, he caught the weeping

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VOL. 55-—-No 39,

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fa} = his arms and held her close against his
eart.

“My poor child,’’ he whispered. ‘‘I have noth-
ing to forgive. And I love you!’

(To be continued.)

My Lady of Dreadwood.

By Effie Adelaide Rowlands,

Author of “A Woman Scorned,” “A King and a
Coward,” etc.

 

(“My Lapby or Drea DWOONM was commenced in No. 25.
Back numbers can be obtained =® all newsdeailers.)

3

CHAPTER XXVIII.

The vicar had spoken
Curtis, but Sir Derrick felt no gentleness in
his heart. He could not conceive how any
man could have chosen to inflict such pain
upon another, for Curtis must have been ab-
solutely certain that his disappearance would
eost Anthony perhaps as great an amount of
anxiety as any human heart could bear.

“It’s all very well for the vicar to talk about
Some very strong motive!’’ Derrick said to
himself hotly; “‘but, by gad, it would have to
be a very, very strong reason indeed to ex-
plain to me at least the meaning of such ex-
traordinary conduct!’’ All at once the thought
flashed across him that he would go himself
to this little cottage where Valentine Curtis
had lain hidden for two days, and see for him-
self the proofs which the vicar had spoken
about.

it was hot walking in the afternoon sun,
and to turn aside and pass into the shadow
of the trees was a welcome relief; and yet,
even as he did this, Derrick was conscious of
a. deep pain at his heart.

What was this change that had come upon
him? he asked himself in a numb sort of way.
Where was the wild ecstacy of joy that oniy
a few weeks ago had been wont to fill his
heart when he returned to the house to the
presence of that one so beloved?

He had not seen his wife now for*“over a
week, and yet, as he paused and took refiec-
tion of his feelings, he grasped the strange
fact that he was not eager to see her,

He shook himself restiessly.

He hated the mere suggestion that he should
be disloyal.

He had always scorned those men who had
changed their loves as easily as they changed
their coats. A little while back he would
have looked aghast at himself as he was to-
day, and yet he knew it was no mere fickle-
ness, no change in his temperament. The root
of this lay deeper than that.

He sighed as he plunged on and advanced
toward the lower end of the Beech avenue, and
the sigh was like a pain,

“If Crace had not said that to me!”*-he mut-
tered once. And then followed the next most
natural thought. “If only there had been no
truth in what Crace imagined!’’

For now that he was back in his own
domain once again, well in mind and body,
Derrick Forrester stood and took stock, as it
were, of the situation.

That he had been subjected to some sirange
influence was now quite certain—that, in fact,
he had been drugged for some reason or other
was absolutely clear. But why should Monica
have done this? For what purpose could she
have desired to injure his health, to stultify
his brain?

There was no answer to these questions, and
so Derrick walked on, feeling his heart lie
heavy in his breast, wondering vaguely and
sadly what the future was to be.

This week of close contact with Thora had
done him good, and done him harm.

It hurt him to remember that this child
(who, though she called herself nameless and
Without kin, was so dear to so many) should
have been driven forth, as it were, from the
old house that had been her home for so 4ong.

He almost felt as if his grandmother’s voice
sounded in his ears, asking him how it fared
with her dear little girl,

“I must bring her back here,’? he said to
himself restlessly. But he knew as -he said it
that this was not possible, that Thora and
Moni¢ga could never be in the house together.

Deep in thought, Derrick Forrester walked
slowly un the avenye toward the .Knight’s

almost gently about

 

 

 

 

 

Tomb.

Here the shadow was exquisitely cool.

It was hard to believe that a brilliant sun
was shining above this canopy of thickly-inter-
laced boughs and leaves.

To reach the place he wished to investigate
Sir Derrick would have to take the path that
led from Dreadwood toward the Hatch
grounds, and to do this hé had to pass close
to the Knight’s Tomb.

Just as he approached it, he heard a strange
sound break the silence, like some one moan-
ing in pain.

Sharply roused-from his thoughts, he stood
and looked about him.

Once again the sound came, and this time
his €ar caught the direction.

He took a few steps to the right, and then
he paused, for some one was sitting crouched

.on the ground quite close to the moss-covered
door of the tomb—a woman’s figure, that
might have been young or might have been
old. Certainly it bore no likeness to the trim,
comely Hepsie he had known so well in the
past.

As he paused and looked at her almost in-
credulously, the girl lifted her head.

Sir Derrick had a great shock as he looked
upon Hepsie’s changed face. He remembered
that he had heard Bailey speak about Hepsie
to him; but all had been so misty, so confused
in those days before he went to London, that
it was not until now that Derrick Forrester
oe what*had been said about this
girl.

He spoke to her most gently.

“What are you doing here, Hepsie? Is any-
thing the matter with you? You look’’—he
was about to say “‘ill,’”’ but he added—‘‘tired,”’
instead.

_ Hepsie did not answer him. at once. She
fixed her burning eyes upon him in a strange
manner. :

“So you’ve come back!” she said, and there
Was a mocking tone in her voice. ‘I thought
perhaps you had learned wisdom, and that
you were gone for good!”’

The color rose to Derrick Forrester's face,
but he controlled himself. It was evident that
this poor creature, if not actually mad, was
very near it.

“Why do you speak to me so strangély, Hep-
sie?’’ he said gently. ‘‘Come, open your heart
to me. Why, I have known you ever since you
were a little girl. I am not so very much older
than you myself, still I am your master. I
want everybody that belongs to this place to
bring their troubles to me, as they used to do
to that dear old creature whom we buried the
other day.”’

Something in his voice or his words must
have touched a chord in Hepsie’s heart. She
burst suddenly into a passion of fiercest weep-
ing. ;

Flinging out her arms with a gesture of
despair, she buried her face in her hands and
rocked herself to and fro.

“Oh, Master Derrick—Master Derrick!” she
said, falling unconsciously into the old term
that had been used when Derrick had been
a lad, “this is an evil place! There’s nothing
but sorrow. I cannot tell you what’s in my
heart, sir; I only know I wish I was dead!”

Derrick felt his own heart beat more quickly,

He went toward her, and put his hand on
her shoulder,

“Come, come, Hepsie,’’ he said, ‘‘there is no
sorrow that is not a little better for being told,
Won’t you trust me?”

She flung back her disheveled locks of hair,
and looked up at him with her tear-stained,
wan face, quivering with emotion.

“Ay,’’ she said fiercely, ‘I’d trust you or any
Forrester; but there’s some as bears the name
I wouldn’t trust, not if they’d the face of an
angel!’’

Derrick’s hand fell to his side. He felt sud-
denly very cold.

‘Silence!’ he said, most sternly.
pretend to misunderstand you.
insult my wife!’’

Hepsie’s answer was a laugh—a hard, mirth-
ful laugh.

“She'll bear all the insults I give her!’ she
said, in.a reckless way. And then, as if a
sudden resolution had come to her, Hepsie
paused and looked at the young man in a curi-
ously fixed way,

“She’s an angel to you.. We all know that.
You—can’t see beyond her face!’’

Words of further rebuke trembled on. Der-
rick Forrester’s lips, then he controlled him-
self. It was an impossibility to descend to a
discussion with this girl. She was undoubtedly
mad, So he turned on his heel; but Hepsie
was too quick for him. She sprang to her feet
and barred his passage.

“No, no; you shall not go! I must speak
out! [ve suffered too long in silence. Look
at me, Master Derrick. I’m changed, ain’t I?
I'm mad, they say! Well, all this is her work!

“T do not
You wish to

‘second time.

 

Oh, but she’s a cunning one! She’s got some
devil in her that helps her! When she puts
her hand on my shoulder, and speaks so soft
in my ear, she makes me almost believe I’ve
been wrong; but when she’s away I wake,
and» I know better. Master Derrick, send
her away from you. She'll do you harm.
I know it!~I can hear voices whispering in
my.ear, telling me that this must all end bad
for you, for me, for everybody!”

Derrick tried to remove-the hand Hepsie had
put on his arm. Never did mortal man pass
through depths of greater misery than he did
ee moment. But he had to control him-
self.

Though he shrank with sudden repugnance
from this wild-looking, wild-worded creature,
he still spoke to her gently, and tried to urge
her to go back to the house.

But Hepsie’s lips were unsealed at last.

“You don’t believe me—well, then, believe
your own eyes! Watch hér—watch her! Ask
her the meaning of many things. There’s been
a strange woman coming after her this last
day or two—a big, yellow-haired woman. She
means mischief, and my lady knows it. That’s
why she can’t rest in her bed at night. She
never thinks my eyes are on her; but I follow
her, and I hear her moan out at times, and
then I am glad, for she has made me suffer.
She took him from me! Some day I'll catch
her by the throat, and make her tell me what
she did with him!’* And then Hepsie broke
off. with a sigh that was a kind of ery, and
sank back exhausted against the wall of the
tomb. And Derrick Forrester stood and
looked at her, telling over and over again to
himself the hideous words she had spoken, and
then he turned with a shudder and left her.
He abandoned his intentions of going to the
cottage where Curtis had hidden; he went in-
stead toward the house.

“T must see Monica!’’ he said to himself rest-
lessly. ‘“‘I—I must protect her from this girl.
Hepsie may do her an injury. What can have
brought the poor creature to such a condition?
Why should she show such fearful animus
against one who cannot possibly have harmed
her?’ Derrick paused an instant and looked
backward. Somehow, the fact of seeing Hep-
sie alone in the neighborhood of the haunted
spot so feared by her formerly, struck him in
@& way as significant of the change in her. ‘‘I—
I cannot breathe here!’’ he muttered, and he
passed a hand over his damp brow. ‘‘We must
leave here for a while. I will take Monica to
other countries. We will try to forget all, save
that we love, and we are together!’’

His steps hastened as he reached the house,
and he entered, calling his wife’s name.

Bailey came forward to greet~-his master.

‘Her ladyship is out, sir. She’s driving to
Kidstone, and will not be home till Iate. We
did not expect you; but it’s good, indeed, to
see you back again, sir, looking so well
again!’’

Sir Derrick Forrester did not speak at once;
then something in the old servant's face forced
words from him. ‘Get me some tea. I will sit
on the lawn and wait for her ladyship to re-
turn; and, Bailey, later on, I want to speak
with you about Hepsie. I have just seen the
girl—she is positively dangerous. To-mOrrow
she must be sent away from Dreadwood. I am
sorry for her mother, but she must go!’’

* * * * = * =

The train Thora traveled by was a very slow
one. It is impossible to adequately describe
the anguish of the girl’s heart as she sat in a
carriage alone and counted the precious min-
utes as they fled away. Each time the train
stopped it seemed to her as if she must scream
aloud with pain, so great was the pressure on
her nerves. It was not till she was half way
on her -road back to Dreadwood that Thora
realized the enormity of the task Anthony
Spencer had given her to perform.

She shivered and trembled in every limb as
she whispered over and over again to herself
the strange, miserable truth. She was glad in
one sense to do this work, glad to be per-
mitted te attempt and avert danger and suf-
fering from the man she loved so passionately,
and yet the hopelessness of her task crushed
her. She felt as if Fate must stand in her
path and strike aside her puny efforts to spare
Derrick.

At»last the small station of Dunstone was
reached.

Thora alighted hurriedly.

It was. a relief to her to find a large number
of people on the platform, for she could pass
unnoticed, and she did not wish to delay an
instant more than was necessary in reaching
Dreadwood.

It had been a market-day at Kidstone, and
a number of the farmer-folk were returning to
their homes by Dunstone. The evening was
a dim one, and so Thora’s slight figure flitting
fleetly through the twilight escaped attention.

Never had the walk to the Castle seemed so
long before!

As she sped past the vicarage Thora paused
for an instant. She had an impulse upon her
to summon. Rachel’s brother, and ask him to
go with her on the errand she had to perform.
But it was only for a moment that she paused.
The next she was hurrying on; for if she
would. do the work Anthony had set her, she
must not lose even the few minutes it would
have taken her to speak with the vicar.

When Dreadwood grounds came in sight
Thora quickened her steps into a run.

Her brain was a chaos of troubled and agi-
tated thoughts.

Yielding to some instinct, the girl went past
the big gates, and turned to find the small
door that led from the high road to the Castle
by way of the Beech avenue. Once she was in-
side the grounds she leaned against the door,
and paused to take breath.

It was very, very dark and sombre in this
spot. Since she had been in London, Thora
seemed to have grown out of touch with the
influences of her old home.

She actually found herself advancing toward
the avenue with a sensation of personal dread.

Yet it was while she was walking. thither
that she remembered all at once how strange
her sudden arrival would seem to Derrick, to
his household; and she felt glad that she had
taken this route, though it had its share of
terror for her, for it would give her time to
devise some explanation.

And then all at once Thora came to a stand-
still, for she heard a step brushing through
the underwood, and a voice hailing her, and
asking for an explanation of her presence,

It was Derrick himself who called her.

CHAPTER XXIX,

And as Thora paused uncertainly he came
quite close to her.

Thora’s heart had a suffocated feeling. What
—what words should she speak to him?

“Who is there?’ demanded Sir Derrick a
His tone was so harsh that it
jarred on Thora. ‘‘Answer me!’’ he cried.
“‘No*one has the right to wander about these
grounds withowt my permission.’’

Then Thora stretched out her hands.

‘Derrick, it is I!’’

Her voice was so faint it scarcely reached
his ears, yet as she spoke again a strange and
overwhelming sensation of joy flashed for an
instant through the man’s perturbed heart.

“Thora!’’ he said, as he grasped her hands,
held them for an instant in his, and then,
bending his head, kissed them half wildly—
“Thorat You! Can I believe it is you? I left
you in London. What brings you - here?’
Then, as she stood trembling, thrilling from
head to foot at the touch of his lips, Derrick
spoke on: “You sent me from-.you this morn-
ing; now you are here. But I will not ques-
tion,” the man cried the next moment; ‘“‘let it
be sufficient that you are with me, for, Thora,
I need help, comfort, counsel.”

“That is why. I came, dear Derrick;’’ the
girl answered, trying to be calm. In a sense
she prevaricated, but she could only advance
step by step. “I know there: is trouble, and
I--I felt I must help you if I eould. For the
sake of the old days you will not refuse me,
my—my brother!”’

She spoke the last word faintly, yet with de-
liberation. There must be no misunderstand-
ing, no building up of new difficulties.

Derrick responded to that word.

He released her hand and drew back. When
he spoke his voice had a dull, tired sound.

“It is good of you, Thora. I shall be able to
thank you better some other time, when much
that is strange, mystifying, and troublous has
been settled. Come, let me take you to the
house. You will find your old room waiting
for you. I gave orders that it should always
be ready. Will y6éu have my arm?”

Thora thanked him with a very faint laugh.

“Dear Derrick,’’ she said, ‘I know every inch
of this beloved place,’

“T am not sure that it is so beloved!” broke
fiercely from Derrick’s lips, then words fol-
lowed in the same fierce, rough way. ‘I never
thought the day would come when TI should
turn against my home! But, Thora, I cannot
fight against the conviction that the village
folk have been right to fear this place—to call
it evil. I myself have an oppressive feeling of
fear upon me now as I pass up this old avenue.
It issan awful sensation—a presentiment——”’

Derrick Forrester broke off hurriedly in his
speech. His hand grippéd Thora’s arm.

“Hark!” he said, in a muffled way. ‘‘What
was that?’

Thora called tip all her courage.

 

“It was only one of the owls, Derrick dear.
They often.cry to one another when the night
is dark as-this is.\°J——” :

And then Thora’s words froze on her lips,
for a low, sobbing sound floated to their ears a
second time.

It was not an owl’s cry, It was the moan of
a human creature in anguish, a creature who
was drawing near to them. ;

Before either she or Derrick could move they
heard this cry again, and then a voice speak-
ee woman’s voice—the voice of a tortured
soul!

“Why do you haunt me? Why not rest?
What do you want of me? Do you not know
that I would give my life to undo what I did—
to know that you still live?”

It was the voice of a demented creature.
There was a wildness, a strangeness, in the
words that marked madness. :

Derrick Forrester gasped out his wife’s name,
and Thora, hardly realizing what she did. yet
conscious that the very task she had been set
was to be snatched from her unfulfilled, put
her two hands on his arm, and tried to lead
him away. e

But Derrick seemed rooted to the spot. Bend-
ing forward, he saw before him a woman’s
gray robed figure, and close behind it the form
of a man—a form that followed, yet spoke
never a word.

A curious air of grimness seemed to cling
about this man’s figure. Both to Thora and
himself there seemed an air of unreality about
it. Those wild, tortured words that had fallen
from Monica’s lips brotght this feeling to
them, for she spoke to one she regarded as a
Spirit—a restless spirit that haunted her.

Unconscious that her husband stood so near.
she moaned out her wild words, and Thora
felt her heart stand still with horror.

whispered faintly.

But Derrick forgot his old nature in this
supreme moment. He shook off her hold al-
most roughly.

“The truth at last!” he muttered, ‘The
truth that I have prayed for! She shall fool
me no more! She—’”’

But even as he pressed forward he halted
and reeled back, for another voice had spoken
—the voice of a man. who suffered: the voice
of one who had passed through a grief darker
than death,

“I am no spirit, Monica Forrester. I am a
living man. You have seen me here these last
three nights, and your black and sin-laden
conscience has sent you from me, imagining
that 1 am the spirit of him who lies dead in
that old tomb yonder. Stay!’’—the man’s voice
was stern and strong; he put out his hand and
caught Monica’s cloak, drawing her toward
him—‘‘stay, arch-hypocrite that you are! Stay
and hear the words I have to say to you!”

Derrick was now crouching against a tree,
his cold hands clinging to Thora’s with a force
that would have been pain to the girl had she
been able te realize anything but that the end
had come—that this man whom she loved so
dearly could be spared no longer.

And even amid this overwhelming sorrow
she had a woman's horror for that other
woman who had fallen on the ground at Val-
entine Curtis’ feet, moaning out fear that was
pitiful and terrible.

From her broken words it was apparent that
she still took the man to be some spirit. She
could not believe in his existence. The mean-
ing of this would have come to their senses
by comtes if Val had not put it into definite
words.

There was_a terrible load of scorn and suf-
fering in his voice. .
“IT am still human,” he said; ‘‘but this is by
a miracle. But for a chance you would have
ended my life, as you ended your “brother’s!
Nay, you shall not escape me! I have come
back here for the one purpose of showing you
what you are, and of protecting that good
man whose name you bear! Rise, woman;
rise and listen to my commands! I am the
man whose life’ was linked to yours, whose
every thought and deed belonged to you. I
am that poor fool whom you married for some
reason of your own, whom you deceived by
your cunning tales. Heaven! when I look back
and realize what havoc you have done in your
life, I could almost strangle you with my
hands!”’ :

He had to pause for breath, and Monica
took her opportunity. Kneeling still, she clung
to him, pouring out words that might have
eonveyed an agony of contrition from any
other, but which from her lips were but a
mockery. Yet each word carried its measure
of hideous meaning to those two who stood
witnesses to this scene.

Vaientine Curtis did not*Bive heéd to what
she said.

‘Lies, liesall lies!”’ he cried, bitterly. ‘‘Ah!
we may speak the truth at last, Beatrice
Ellerslie, or Monica Forrester, which you will.
The world has many evils in it, but nothing
blacker or baser than an evil woman! When
I learned the awful truth that night—when, by
accident, I struggled from the Hatch. here,
and realized that the fair young wife whose
untimelysdeath had stricken, me to. the heart
was none other than the adored wife of Der-
rick Forrester—I passed through such tortures
as hell alone can know! You remember that I
did not spare you then. Your vengeance was
quickly made. I can hear you saying to your-
self: ‘This man will be my ruin. I must dis-
patch him—this hateful man who will come to
elaim me.’ Ah, you were ever a woman of
talent! I did not Know to what extent your
depths of infamy could go, else I would never
have agreed to meet you at a later hour that
night to see some way out-of the terrible
business. It was chance that saved me—
chance that sent your brother’s poor soul to
suffer in my place!’’

Monica gave a cry. It pierced Thora to the
heart. There was such wildness in it.

““Ah,’’ she said, ‘‘spare me! I—I can bear no
more!”’

‘‘Have you spared others?’’ demanded the
man fiercely. “‘What of Derrick Forrester?
What of myself? See what your cruelty has
done to us. See what it has done to that poor
mad child who gave her love to your brother
Esmond,.-and who mourns him ceaselessly.
Spare you? Only that you are not worth sin-
ning for, I would crush the life out-of you
now as you stand, so that your loveliness
should not work more hideous sorrow!’’

Thora’s heart rose in her throat like a sob.
Yet was she conscious of a touch of something
like joy in this moment, for Derrick had
gradually sunk from her hold, and now lay
huddled on-the ground, unconscious at her
feet.

She bent over him, touching his cold face
tenderly. At least he was spared further an-
guish for the moment.

Then, acting on an impulse, she left the
prostrate man, and stepped forward. 3

“Mr. Curtis,” she said, in a clear, distinct
voice, “say no more, 1 ‘beg. You—you are
not alone. I—I came to try to spare this. An-
thony Spencer sent me in his place, in an-
swer to your letter. I have heard already too
much.” x

Valentine Curtis uncovered his head, and as
he did so Monica rose from the ground and
stood looking at Thora.

“So now you are satisfied,’’
voice that was but an echo of her former
sweet tones... ‘““‘You have always hated me. I
leave you with this gentleman. He will tell
you enough evil of me to satisfy even your
hate!”’

With a wild laugh, she turned and-slid away,
and Val gave a groan and covered his face
with his hands.

“Heaven knows I would have spared you
this!’”’ he said. to Thora when he could speak.
“Ror weeks I have lived a tortured life. I let
Anthony imagine I was dead, for the awful
knowledge I possessed was more than I could
pass on to him; but little by little I have been
led to see I had a duty to perform, Tony’s
iliness,’’ Curtis went on hoarsely, “‘showed me
this.. Then the news that Sir Derrick was ill
also came to urge me to try to stand in her
path. I have spoken terrible words to her to-
night—to her who was my..angel, my more
than life! And now’’—he conquered himself
with an effort—‘‘I would have spared Derrick
Forrester, but it would be a dishonor to me
were I to do this. He must know——’’

‘We knows all!’’ Thora said brokenly. ‘‘He
lies just beyond there, mercifully lost to the
full truth for the moment. We—we will leave
him, Mr. Curtis. Later, I will get help, and
have him carried to the house.”’

“My hands must not help you,’’ Curtis said
mournfully. “Though I am innocent, I feel
as if I had done him a terrible wrong.”

But Thora caught him by the hand
would have turned away.

“You will go to Tony,’’ she pleaded... ‘‘Re-
member what he has suffered thinking you
dead!’’

“Perhaps better. if I
had died!’ cried Curtis passionately. ‘‘What
have I to live for? What good can I do?
Will my life give back to Forrester the joy he
once had? Will my life atone for the sins she
has upon her soul? Almost I could wish that
I had been in the place of Esmond, and have
been sent swiftly, unexpectedly, treacherously
to a sudden death in the Knight’s Tomb!

“It is not every man who looks on and sees
himself sent out of the world. I have that
memory to carry about with me.’’ There was
a terrible bitterness in these words. Then
Val went on: “I have sought out the history
tof this brother and sister during these past

.

a

she said, in

as he

it would have been

 

“Derrick! dear Derrick! come with me!” she

 

weeks; it is a sorry story. Perhaps there was
some excuse for her as a girl, for her sur-
roundings were set in crime and sordid pov-
erty. This brother, who bore such a strange
resemblance to myself (you passed me one
night in the streets of London, Miss Forrester,
and took me for Esmond), was but recently a
convict. In truth, there is a mystery some-
times in Fate’s dealings with us human pup-
pets. Look at my life! Look at Forrester’s!
What lies before us both?’’

Thora had tears in her eyes.

“We must leave this to-a higher power,”
she said, And then a cry broke from her lips,
for the peace of the summer night was rent by
the sound of violent screaming.

Curtis caught the girl as she swayed toward
him in her fright; but the words of comfort
he spoke were unheeded by Thora. She knew
instinctively that the chapter of horrors was
not finished.

(To be continued.)

e

Items of Interest.

Only six per cent. of the criminals of the
United States are women.

Moths seldom attack green fabrics. Instinct
seems to warn them against the arsenic whieh
is used in making the green tint.

To facilitate the return of lost children, every
child in Japan wears suspended from its neck
a card bearing the names and address of its
parents.

Up to the age of twenty years a youth needs
nine hours’ sleep daily, and after that period
every person should have eight hours’
every day.

On a recent trip of the steamer Oceanie from
New York to Queenstown a part of her carg
consisted of 700,000 shad eggs.
used in stocking the River
land,

Salt is heavily taxed in Italy, and no one
can draw a bucket of water from the sea
without permission, lest he should evade the
tax by extracting the salt contained in the
water.

Fractional currency to the amount of $368,-
724,079 was issued during the Civil War. Near-
ly $7,000,000 of this currency are still out, havy-
ing never been presented for redemption. Some
of it is kept as souvenirs by collectors,

The water carts used in Drogheda, Ireland,
have medical advertisements displayed on
them. A visitor, noticing these advertise-
ments, thoughtfully said: “Shure it’s no won-

dher Drogheda is healthy, whin they wather |

the sthreets with Jones’s Sarsaparilla!”

Edinburgh is a very quiet city on the Sab-
bath. On that day the street cars cease run-
ning, all the stores are closed, and
restaurants do no business.
and night previous the inhabitants who tipple

get so thoroughly fuddled that they continue

half drunk all day Sunday.

An unusyally prolonged whistle came from |

an engine on the Chicago Northwestern Rail-
road on a recent Sunday morning. As
train left Highland Park, Ill.. the engineer
blew the whistle. The valve broke, and he was
unable to shut off the noise. The whistle
therefore continued incessantly for a distance
of sixty-five miles, until the train reached Mil-
waukee.

Slot machines are put to a peculiar use in
Algiers. A devout Mussulman may drop.in a
coin, and a written prayer, with the assur-
ance that the prayer will be urgently advo-
cated at the celestial throne by the prophet.
Sometimes the wily devotee works in a spuri-
ous coin of lead or brass, and then merriiy
goes his way, rejoicing that he has fooled Ma-
homet.

A yvoung man in a Kansas town was eager
to pose as a hero. He set fire to the house in
which his sweetheart resided, and then val-
iantly rescued her in theatrical style. But she
turned contemptuously from him when he was
arrested and convicted of arson. He has been
sentenced to eighteen years’ imprisonment.
Now he knows that he has been a fool instead
of a hero.

The study of English in some of the schools
of France is occasionally attended with droll

sleep |

They are to be}
Shannon, in Ire- |

the |

i results, In one of these schools a little girl
| was asked to conjugate the sentence: ‘I have
|}a gold mine.” The bright girl instantly re-
pEpouded: “I have a gold mine. Thou hast a
| gold thine... He has a gold hisen. We have a
| fold ourn. You have a gold yourn. They have
| a gold theirn.”’

Pe

 

A SUMMER HOLIDAY.

Do not plan your Summer trip before seeing some
of the handsome literature issued by the Grand
Trunk Railway System, descriptive of the magnifi-
cent play-grounds and Summer resorts situated in
the Highlands-of Ontario, including the ‘‘Muskoka
Lakes,” “Lake of Bays,” ‘The 30,000 Islands of the
Georgiana Bay,” ‘“The Magnetawan River,’ and the
“Kawartha Lakes.” Health and pleasure can be
found in all of these unexcelled regions; good hotels,
fine steamers on the lakes, good fishing and hunting,
a region where perfect immunity from hay fever is
assured, are some of the features which attract the
| tourist and pleasure seeker to these districts.

A postal card to F. P. Dwyer, Eastern Passenger
Agent, 290 Broadway, New York City, will secure
free, descriptive matter, giving full information,
Maps, etc.

The natural beauty and diversity of the scenery

| of the North is unequaled on the continent. $

 

SAE

By ALPHONSE DAUDET.
(Special Olga Nethersole Edition).

Over half a million copies of this popular book sold
| in less than sixty days. For sale by all newsdealers,
or sent, postpaid, on receipt of price, 10 cents.
| Iilustrated Edition 25 cents. UNDINE LIBRARY,
| Post-office Box 1173, New York City

CHICHESTER‘S ENGLISH

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~ >> Original and Only Genuine. SAFE. Always reliable,
ce LADIES, ask Druggist for CHICHESTER’'S
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of your Druggist, or send 4e, in stamps for Particu-
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in letter, by return Mail, 10,000 Testimonials,
Sold by all Druggists. Chichester Chemical Co.,
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~ plain, common sense book on health, disease, love, marriage
and parentage, by a popular medical authority of N.Y. It has
4,0 well illustrated pages about what all men and women need
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M. HILL PUB. CO., 129 E. 28th St., New York.

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9
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particulars 4e. Dr. S, ‘I’. Egan, Revere, Boston, Mass,

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and Liquor Habit cured in 10
to 20 days. Nopay till cured.

 

even the |
But on the day |

 

TEST PELVIC PINE CONES for ail cases of
BOX |rectal, prostatic or bladder d“3-

FREE |ease and COMPLAINTS OF WOMEN
Dr. Foote, 129 East 28th St., N. Y.

Mention New York Weekly.
Write DR. J.L. STEPHENS CO.,

OPIUM: 3. Lebanon, Ohio.

Mention New York Weekly.

; WILL SEND FREE TH

receipt and method that will cure the Liquor and
Morphine Habit. Can be given secretly.
Mrs. Alice Romeyn, Box s49 M, GRAND RAPIDS, MICH,
Mention New York Weekly.
TO LADIES A Monthly Regulator that is
harmless and CANNOT FAIL,

—Mrs. B. Rowan, Milwaukee, Wis.
Mention New York Weekly.

 

 

 

 

 

Millions of Mothers Know That
MRs. WINSLOW’S SvoTHING SyRuP should always be
used for children teething.’ It soothes the child, softens the
gums, allays all.pain, cures wind colic, and is the best
remedy for diarrhcea, Twenty-five cents a bottle.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE ARROW LIBRARY.

The best novels in the world ar
published in this Library.
manufacture
price

and the correct moder
oe Ff *

 

 

1—The Light That Failed.:.Rudyard Kipling
2—She’s All the World to Me...... Hall Caine
3—A. Study in Scarlet.......... A. Conan Doyle
4—Germinie Lacerteux...E,.& J. de Goncourt
5—Master of Ballantrae,

Robert Louis Stevenson
6—Beyond the City......:...... A. Conan Doyle
(—Kine or Knave............. R. E. Francillon
8—A. Living Lie...... ee GEE ak ux-</b dite Paul Bourget
9—The Rogue......... Matnbnt es kudos W. E. Norris
10—The House of the Wolf,

Stanley J. Weyman
li—A Marriage at Sea...:... W. Clark Russell
12—The Phantom ’Rickshaw..Rudyard Kipling
13—As in a Looking Glass........ EF, C. Phillips
14—Jack and Three Jills........... EF. C. Phillips
15—Kidnapped ......... Robert Louis Stevenson
TOS PIM 54 ce eeta sas oe Poniee Alphonse Daudet
1i—The Sign of the Four...... A. Conan Doyle
18—A Romance of ‘Two Worlds...Marie Corelli
19—Han of Iceland................ -. Victor Hugo
20—A Dangerous Catspaw,

David Christie Murray
2i—Around the World in Highty Days,

Jules Verne
22—In All Shades...... Wi bass voNG ook Grant. Allen
23—His Fatal Vow............. Leon De Tinseau
24—Treasure Island....Robert Louis Stevenson
25—Ingomar .......... Sires s he Nathan D. Urner
26—Ardath, RS Leeuw: shewis «a Peit Marie Corelli
Me BLOAtH, VAS TT eta cc ees Marie Corelli

SPOR eh ches cits (From the Celebrated Play)
28—The Stranglers of Paris; or, The Grip of
POLIO Cae sk ees Fa ERS oR Ok W. E. Norris
80—The Toilers of the Sea......... Victor Hugo
81—The Great Hesper............. Frank Barrett
32—The Tragedy in the Rue de la Paix,

Adolphe Belot
38—Allan Quartermain.......H. Rider Haggard
84—The Duchess ...cisiis eee “The Duchess’
PP ae S POM city ai ke 6. Se obs Albert Delpit
36—Vendetta; or, Fabio Romani..Marie Corelli
DA REE GUS OS oa vis RAW CN Ks ee eS OESR Victor Hugo
38—The  Maddoxes............. Jean «Middlemass
39—Hector Servadac.......ccccseceees Jules Verne
40—Mildred Trevanion .......... “The Duchess”
41—Beautiful Jim.......... John Strange Winter
42—Cyrano de Bergerac....... Edmond Rostand
48—The Prince of the House of David,
: Rev. Prof. J. H. Ingraham
44—-Miss Milne and I,

By the author of ‘‘A Yellow Aster’’
45—Won by Waiting....3.....0...005% Edna Lyall
46—The Romance of a Poor Young Man,

Octave Feuillet

47—W ormwood etberarvectvcar aria Corelli

48—The Iron Pirate........-..:. Max Pemberton |

49—Ballads and Other Verses,

Rudyard Kipling
50—Donovan.......... iieeasies »
51—Errie Brighteyes..........
52—Worth Winning,

Mrs. Emily Lovett Cameron |
iry J. Holmes }

53—Tempest and Sunshine..... Mz
54—The House of Seven Gables,
Nathaniel
55—Thelma .......- pikdneds sas iekees DORTIO
56—Lena Rivers........6.. Mrs. Mary J. Holmes
57—English Orphans...... Mrs. Mary J. Holmes
58—My Lady’s Money............. Wilkie Collins
59—Jack ...... PONS bess Me eaiheRT Alphonse Daudet
60—The Homestead on the Hillside,
Mrs. Mary J. Holmes
King’s Stratagem, and Other
PROG is 2x 2 dhlevel Soak Stanley J. Weyman
62—The Honorable Mrs. Vereker,
“The Duchess”
63—Plain Tales from the Hills,
Rudyard Kipling

Hawthorne

Superior: in

a

Edna Lyall |
-H. Rider Haggard |

Corelli |

 

 

€

« TEN CENTS. ex

n

 

Uniform in size, styleand price with the
Eagle and Magnet Libraries. This list has
been especially selected and is uniformly
of higher excellence than any similar line.

64—F'rivolous. Cupid. iv....c22. Anthony Hope
65—Soldiers Three.............. Rudyard Kipling
66-—A. Hardy Norseman.............. Edna Lyall
Gi—The Partners 2. Alphonse Daudet
68—The Bab Ballads. .ii00%....5.. W. S. Gilbert
69—The Firm of Girdlestone...A. Conan Doyle
70—Under the Deodars and Story of the

ESRABDYS 00 Feces Pais ces Rudyard Kipling
7i—In the Golden Days Edna Lyall
ta DeCad -Man 8 POGH ak. es ec So aa “yr?
oP ne -“Bondman 2s cick. cs ike Hall Caine
74—An Egyptian Princess.........George Ebers
t—The New Arabian Knights,

Robert Louis Stevenson
7é—The Cruise of the Cachalot,

Frank T. Bullen, First Mate
7i—The Three Musketeers...Alexandre Dumas
78—The Phantom Future,

Henry Seton Merriman
79—Meadowbrook ......... Mrs. Mary J. Holmes
81i—The White Company......./ A, Conan Doyle
ae MEON 2) bo SAN 8 55 Cl Pe Augusta J. Evans
$83—Jess; A Tale of the Transvaal,

H, Rider Hageard
84—The Shadow of a Crime.......... Hall Caine
8—Prisoners and Captives,

Henry Seton Merriman
86—Ishmael; or, In the Depths,

Mrs. Emma D. BE. N. Southworth
8i—Self-Raised; or, From the Depths,

Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth
$8—Suspense............, Henry Seton Merriman
$9—Carmen and Colomba....Prosper Merrimee
9—The Hunchback of Notre Dame,

Victor Hugo
91—The Story of an African Farm,
Olive Schreiner
92—Edmond ‘Dantes—Vol. I., Count of Monte
CPIBDG rasa ieee ke bee: Alexandre Dumas
98—A. Bride from the Bush.....] EK. W. Hornung
94—Lady Audley’s Secret..Miss M. E. Braddon
95—Young Mistley...... Henry Seton Merriman
96—The Count of Monte Cristo—Part II.,

Alexandre Dumas
97—The Courting of Dinah Shadd,

Rudyard Kipling
98—A. Man Of Mark....c....6..... Anthony Hope
99—Twenty Years After......Alexandre Dumas
100—The First Violin........ ....Jdessie Fothergill
10i—The Typewriter Girl............. Grant Allen
102—The Vicomte de Bragelonne,

Alexandre Dumas
1083—Black Beauty ...................Anna Sewall
1046 BSTERY oY ace oak Octave Feuillet
105—Concerning Isabel Carnaby,

Ellen Thorneycroft Fowler
106—Camille. so... 0ace.c.2 Alexandre Dumas, Fiis
| 107—A Change of Air.....60..0....4 Anthony Hope
| 108—The Mayor of Casterbridge.Thomas Hardy
109—The Scarlet Letter..Nathaniel Hawthorne
110—Proved Unworthy,

Mrs. Emily Lovett Cameron
i—The Queen of Hearts......... Wilkie Collins
eV ITS On DOG. oe hi ras Hugh Conway
38—Aurora Floyd........... Miss M. E. Braddon
114—Colonel Quaritch, V. C..H. Rider Haggard
115—For Maimie’s Sake.............. Grant Allen
|16--The Master Passion...,... Florence Marryat
| 117-—-Good-By, Sweetheart....Rhoda Broughton
;} 118—The Master of the Mine..Robert Buchanan
|119John Halifax, Gentleman......Miss Mulock
120—The Frozen Pirate......... W. Clark Russeil
ABE NEILSEN OG. Chie casero cea bs SHite |.
122—Far from the Madding Crowd,

Thomas Hardy
“The Duchess’!

 

11
11
11

| 123—Phyllis i ‘
PPE EIS ORM a Sh Tees H. Rider Haggard
12—Weavers and Weft....Miss M. E. Braddon
126—Vice Versa....... Bede pat eer te tes 154 ku KF, Anstey

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

e~

 

 

:

 

 

 

 

ae

 

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

SHIPMA TES.

 

BY WM. WOODWARD.

 

In the fresh glad days of yore we met—
Ere youth must put to sea,

When boy and maid are sporting yet

With the pleasing question life has set,
“Oh, who will my shipmate be?’

And we looked and smiled, and felt the glow
Of a sudden sweet surprise,

And the stirring answer youth would know,

We read it plain in the long ago,
By the shine of lovelit eyes.

And oh, my love, now the port is near
And we think of the days gone by,

In shade or shine, with smile or tear,

It was always you and I, my dear—
It was always you and I!

 

HE, SHE AND A BICYCLE.

They had quarreled again. They were al-
ways quarreling, but this last affair was a
battle royal.

She declared that he was arrogant, arbi-
trary, abusive and abominable. And she
looked so adorably impertinent when she said
these appalling things that he felt like shak-
ing her soundly and kissing her full on her
red, rebellious mouth.

But he didn’t. He only took up his hat, and
with the laziest air and most mocking smile
said he had the extreme honor of wishing her
good afternoon.

Then he took himself to his club and or-
dered brandy and soda and sat over it an
hour, looking haughty and cold and bored,
while inwardly he was raging furiously.

She waited until the door shut behind him,
and then announced to the furniture that she
would teach him a lesson that he wouldn’t
forget in a hurry. Then she stamped a, small
foot, and shook a small fist at his picture on
the mantelpiece.

Next she went upstairs and made a most
careful, toilet, ‘with deliberate intent to go
forth and walk where she would be sure to
ees the some one over whom they had quar-
reled

Then she threw herself, frills, laces, feathers
and all on her bed, and cried until her dear
little eyes were very red indeed.

And these imbeciles were neither married,
affianced, nor yet “‘lovers.’’ They were simply
very good friends. They did’ not believe in
love—that nonsense!

As if any one of taste and judgment and
worldly knowledge does in these days.

“Why, love has gone out of date,’’ she was
wont to say, with that charming, cynical air
she was pleased to affect at times. ‘‘You and
I are chums, bons camarades, good fellows
together. Love? Rubbish!”’

He, being a cunning dog,
sented to this theory.

He knew that the new woman blight had
struck her, and that he must give her time to
get over it. After she had fully recovered he
hoped for great events, which were to include
a wedding, a home and a happy domestic life.

She delighted in her role of ‘‘bachelor girl.’’
She wore stand-up collars and cutaway coats,
and thrust her hands in the pocket of her
tweed walking gowns with a gentlemanly air
which, being so absolutely at variance with
her personality, was simply ludicrous. For if
ever there was a soft, dainty, lovable bit of
femininity it was this girl who turned up her
Saucy nose at love, and demanded: scope for
herself, scope, too, with an unusually large 8.

“Marriage? What is marriage?’’ she would
say. ‘‘Marriage is a mistake. A woman who
is married is a slave to the whims, caprices
and insolence of her master. Women have
borne this burden of matrimony long enough.
Let them now develop themselves; let them
grow and expand and show to thé world the
heights to which they may attain.’’

And so she rode a bicycle, and was a sec-
retary of a ladies’ debating society and be-
lieved: herself a progressive woman indeed.

All this was very hard for him to bear
There were times when he gnashed his teeth
in the impotence of despair, and longed to pick
her up bodily—this small, caressable, defiant

 

apparently con-

—thing—-and carry her away from debating so-

cieties, stand-up collars, knickerbockers and
kindred horrors, and teach her the sublimity
of love.

But as the methods of the Middle Ages are
not good form. in these days, he was forced
to content himself with an occasional out-
break of remonstrance, entreaty, and, to-day,

command.

And herein was the cause of this fierce con-
test, the smoke of which yet lingered in the

air. He had demanded that she should not
sg in knickerbockers with a contemptible
cad.

She had replied that she would bike when,
where and with whom she pleased, and that
she really could not see what business it was
of his, whereupon he had stalked off to brandy
and soda, and she had taken to her bed.

Now, as I have said, he was a cunning dog.

He pondered over the situation, and at last
evolved a Scheme of revenge and ultimate
conquest.

There was in her circle of acquaintances one
young woman of whom she always spoke with
a lofty and disdainful air. To this particular
young woman he now addressed a note asking
if he might have the honor of riding with her
the next afternoon in the Park. When he re-
ceived a gracious note in the affirmative a grin
of unholy joy lighted up his stern, dark face.

Accordingly, the next afternoon, when she,
in a tan Eton jacket, and the snuggest,
smartest knickerbockers possible, was bowling
along.through the Park with the Contemptible
Cad, she suddenly saw approaching on the tan
the man she had flouted, tormented and an-
noyed in every possible way, and whom she
had come to look upon as her special property,
devotedly bending over That Girl, faultlessly
attired, and looking very dainty and feminine
indeed.

Somehow her knickerbockers suddenly ap-
peared vulgar, and she wished she had a skirt
to hide them. She saw That Girl give them a
covert glance of quiet scorn as she rode by.

Matters were immediately made worse by
the remark of the Contemptible Cad:

“Bah Jove, how stunning she looked! Aw—
after all, you know, a pretty woman never
looks so well as in an irreproachable habit,
don’t you think?”

And then she snapped out ‘No!’ to the
great surprise of the Contemptible Cad, and
said she had a headache, and would go home
at once. In vain her escort told her that a
spin would be the best medicine for her head.
She paid no attention to his maunderings.
Home she would go—home she went.

The rest of the afternoon she spent in com-
posing and arranging the chilling, scathing
speech with which she proposed to annihilate
her bon camarade that evening when he ealled.

But he did not come.

Then it was that she began to have a funny
little sensation in the neighborhood of her
heart, and a funny little choking lump in her
throat. She had been so sure of him. He had
always been so devoted. He had never failed
pin before. What did it mean? Could That

irl——

Ahd she saw him again on horseback, bend-
ing over the graceful, pretty girl at his side.
Ah! a new, a tormenting, a cruel emotion
seized this self-poised, independient,- progres-
sive young woman. For the first time in her
life she knew what it was to be jealous.

““Could he have suffered so when he asked
her not to bicycle with the Contemptible
Cad?” This was not an agreeable question, but
it kept thrusting its face in hers, despite her
efforts to laugh it away.

She passed a very miserable evening alone.
She tried to read an instructive article on
“The Advancement of Woman,’’ but its dreary
platitudes bored her. A dark, strong, tender
face would come between her and the pages of
the magazine she held.

She glanced at the illustrations of bicycling
women in certain comic papers, and shudider-
ingly wondered if she looked like them.

At last she could endure it no longer, and,
sitting down at her desk, wrote a curt little
note with just a tinge of friendliness, enough,
she thought, to bring him to her feet the next
evening.

But she reckoned without her host.

Next day came a courteously worded reply,
stating that until she showed some disposition
to cease certain customs which she knew per-
fectly well made him unhappy, he would beg
her to excuse him from seeing her,

This was a blow.

He had so long submitted to her dictatorial
little ways, so long had fetched and carried
and waited, that his sudden revolt was actually
stupefying. :

When she recovered a trifle from her amaze-
, She tossed her head and said that set-
tled it,

But it didn’t.

 

As the days went by she missed him, missed
his devotion, kindness and loyalty; missed his
companionship, the pleasant confidences, the
talk, the laughter—yes, even the quarrels.

It became intolerable at last, and so one day
she let the woman come to the surface, and
sent him a sweet, cordial note asking him to
come and be reconciled.

‘*Now,’’ she said, as she arrayed herself in
the gown he liked best, ‘‘I must not concede
too much, Man is an overbearing animal. He
takes all he can get. I must remember that I
have a cause to maintain.’’

But when she went toward him with out-
stretched hands, blushing divinely, she looked
so sweet, so radiant, so womanly, he suddenly
snatched her to his heart and kissed her rap-
turously.

“This is not a strictly friendly proceeding,”
she began, endeavoring to escape from the
arms which held her as if they would never
grant release.

“Darling,’’ he said,
friendship—let that go.

‘never mind about the
We are no longer com-

rades and good fellows. It is useless to try to-

cheat me by those terms. I love you—love you,
de you hear? And you love me, or you would
never have sent for me. But I shall go away
forever unless you accede to my terms. ’

“And what are they?” she murmured, hiding
her face on his heart to escape the storm of
kisses.

“Unconditional surrender. No debating so-
cieties, no knickerbockers, no progression. A
wedding next month.”

She hesitated a moment, as she saw her
freedom and the cause for which she had been
ready to lay down her life slipping away from
her. Then, lifting her face, she looked at him
with her heart in her eyes.

“Do you know,” she murmured, ‘I think I
must have loved you all along, or I would not
have fought so with you.,’’

they were reconciled and lived happily
ever afterward.

THE OTHER DOOR.

“TJ wish to see the editor,’? the man said
shortly.

‘““Have you an appointment, sir? Otherwise
I’m afraid you can’t see him at present.”

“TI have no appointment, and I must sée
him,” the other answered, with decision; and
i Was that about him that impressed the

 

 

ad.

Tall, handsome men, of aristocratic and sol-
dierly appearance, are infrequent visitors at
the office of Gay Life.

“TI will ascertain if he can see you, sir.”’

Captain Severn looked round the dingy office
disdainfully. ‘‘It befits the rag of a paper is-
sued from it,’’ he thought, contemptuously.

The lad presently reappeared, saying that the
editor would see him now, and he was ushered
into an inner room just a shade less dingy than
the outer one.

A stout, heavy-faced man looked up from a
writing table in the centre of the room.

‘Morning, sit down,’’ he remarked, rather
inarticulately, owing to a pen being held be-
tween his teeth.

“Good-morning!’”’ and without further pre-
liminaries Captain Severn produced a_ pink-
covered paper from his pocket, and opening it
ee particular page, placed it in front of the
editor.

*“T want you to tell me the name and address
of the person who supplied you with that
thing, ‘Rosemary for Remembrance.’ ”’

The stout man glanced at the printed page,
then at his interrogator, but there was noth-
ing to be gathered from his impassive face.

“It’s against the rule to give names and ad-
dresses of our contributors; you can address
the writer, at this office, and letter will be for-
warded.’’

“T must have the address, immediately. I
have urgent reasons for asking it, and shall
esteem it a favor if you will kindly break
through your rule for once,’’ the other per-
sisted.

Hugh Severn was @ proud man, and only
“urgent reasons,’’ as he had termed them, had
driven him to the unpleasant necessity of ask-
ing a favor from the editor of Gay Life, of all
men,

“Oh! well, in that case,’ responded that gen-
tleman. He began to fumble among a quantity
of letters and books, without finishing his sen-
tence.

“Tt was a woman, I remember now, who
brought that story,’ he said presently. ‘‘Not
one of our regular contributors at all. She
has brought MSS. often of iate, but néver any-
thing of use to us; I was struck with that
thing, however—she begged me to read it at
once. Natural and true to life, don’t you
think?’’

“Very true to life.’ There was bitter irony
in Severn’s tone, but the other went on with-
out noticing.

“Those letters of the man’s are good. Ah!
here it is—Mrs. Carew, 57 Dalton street.’’

Captain Severn rapidly penciled the address
on the margin of his copy of Gay Life, and,
thanking the editor, passed out of the office.
The stout gentleman was left wondering what
on earth a swell like. that could want with
any one who lived in such an impossible place
as Dalton street.

There was some mystery—it might have been
turned into copy; it was too late now, however,
although he wished he had not parted with
the address quite so readily.

Severn had hailed a hansom and was even
now being-driven rapidly toward the address
he had procured.

It was a long drive, and at every turning the
streets seemed to -get narrower and more
squalid, but the man did not notice;, his eyes
were fixed on the pink paper, which he still
kept in his hand, open at the page headed
“Our Short Story—‘Rosemary for Remem-
brance.’ ”’

It was a simply told little story of how a
misunderstanding parted a man and woman
who loved each other passionately; and the
best part of it was a couple of letters written
by the man to the woman. It was the reading
of these letters in Gay Life which had stirred
long-slumbering feelings in Hugh Severn’s
breast.

‘“‘How dare she?” he said to himself passion-
ately for the hundredth time. ‘‘How could she
have the heart:to use these letters as copy—to
sell them? Bah!’’

The cab drew up sharply in front of some
high, prison-like buildings, and presently he
found himself knocking at a door which a
slatternly woman had pointed out to him as
Mrs. Carew’s. .There was no response to his
first knock, and he repeated it loudly; there
was a sound of some one stirring within, and
his heart beat faster. The door opened and a
woman stood before him, a woman tall and
seemingly young—her face was in the shadow.
He stood without speaking, but she stretched
out her hands involuntarily.

‘Hugh!’ she murmured. -

“Yes, Christine, it is Hugh,’ he said, and
the woman drew back stiffly at the coldness of
his tone and the sternness in his face.

She led the way into a poorly furnished but
spotlessly clean room. She. was dressed in a
shabby, black gown, against which her face
showed white and haggard; she had been very
beautiful, but only traces of that beauty now
remained. She pyshed a chair forward, but
Captain Severn did not seek to take it. Neither
the bareness of her surroundings nor the wom-
an’s white, drawn face appealed to him in the
least; he opened the pink paper and thrust it
in front of her, and then the fury of his anger
found vent in words.

*““You wrote that; what did you mean, Chris-
tine? How could you? To a rag of paper like
that, too, you sold these letters! These letters
that broke the heart of me to write, and
now——”’

The passionate words struck like lashes upon
the woman’s ears; she put forth her hand sud-
denly to steady herself, and rested it on the
back of a chair. But Severn went on relent-
lessly:

‘““You could never have cared for me, never—
when you could do that, Christine;’’ his voice
was hard and bitter. ‘‘To think that 4ll who
pay a penny may read what was meant for
your eyes only, what came straight from my
inmost heart. Did it not strike you as sacri-
lege, Christine?”’

He stopped abruptly.

Christine opened her mouth, but the words
seemed to stick in her throat.

“Why did you do it?’ the man _ reneated
sternly. She made another effort, and her
voice sounded strange, even to herself.

“T wanted the money,’’ she said in a low
tone. ‘‘Since my husband died I. have been
writing, but latterly I have not been able to
write; Llost the power somehow, and my child
was ill. I wanted money badly for medicines
and things;’’ she said it all as one who re-
peats something she has learned by rote. “TI
was trying to write something and about to
give up in despair, when these letters—I had
them by heart—came into my head, and I used
them.’’

“But. why send the thing to that, of all pa-
pers?”

“They read it at once, and paid me for it,”’
she answered slowly and wearily. The man’s
heart was touched, but the remembrance of
his injury still lay heavy upon him. Pride (and
the treachery of the man who became Chris-
tine’s husband) had been Hugh Severn’s un-

 

doing years ago, and even to this day it dom-

inated him, as Ciristine recognized.

“I was sorry to have to do it,” she began.

“There was no need for you to do it,’’ he
broke in impatiently. ‘‘You knew my address;
although I was unsuccessful in my quest for
you. You had only to come to me, Christine,
and now——’’

“And now—I am not in want for money.’’
For the first time she was Christine of old
days, whose pride had matched his own. ‘‘And
I would act as I have done again,’’ her voice
changed suddenly, ‘‘were it—were circuni-
stances the same.”

Severn bit his lips. ‘‘And the child?” he said,
presently, remorseful that in his selfish irri-
tation he had lost sight of Christine’s troubies.

“My child is better—is well now,’’ Christine
replied.

She moved her position as she spoke. ‘‘You
will excuse me? I must go to him now,” and
Severn felt himself dismissed.

“You are sure I cannot do anything to—make
things easier for you,’’ he was going to say,
but Christine did not wait for him -to finish.
“Nothing,” she answered, decisively, and in
another minute he found himself outside.

The woman passed immediately into an inner
room, where, on a cot bed lay a little, still,
white figure. She stood for a minute or two,
bending over it, gazing on the peaceful, wasted
face. ‘‘You are better? You are well, my dar-
ling?’ she questioned softly. Then, dropping
on her knees by the bed, she put her thin arms
round the little form.

“Bone of my bone; flesh of my flesh,’’ she
repeated, and the agony in her voice was aw-

ful.

A loud knock came at the door, and she rose
to her feet, and pressed passionate, lingering
kisses on the child’s cold face. ‘‘Good-by, my
own,’ she murmured softly; but her eyes were
quite dry. She opened the door, and admitted
aman, bearing a small box; Severn had run
against him as he entered his cab, and shiv-

ered, thinking of Christine’s child, who had
been. ill,
* ca * * * * a

A week passed, during which Hugh Severn
was tossed about by a very tempest of warring
passions. Pride, his mad pride, struggled with
pity, and the old fond love for Christine strove
for mastery over both, and conquered at last;
and this afternoon he found himself again on
his way to her. He would be very humble this
time, he told himself; before, he had been harsh
and implacable; in the week that had passed
he had time to realize that his intolerable
pride had blinded his better judgment, and
that only bitter necessity could have caused
Christine to act as she did. Now, in his calmer
moments, he began to understand something
of her position, and was bitterly ashamed.

He stood at her door and knocked, once,
again, and again; but there was no answer, A
step came heavily up the stairs, but_it was not
Christine’s. A stout, poorly-dressed but re-
spectable-looking elderly woman stopped to
take a breath ere commencing the ascent of
another stair, and started slightly when she
discerned him. :

“Do you know if Mrs. Carew is at home?”
he queried, and as the woman came nearer to
him, her eyes, he noticed absently, were red
as with weeping. a :

“Mrs. Carew will never come back again.
I’ve just been seeing her taken away to her

leng home.’’
‘What, do you mean?” the man gasped
hoarsely. “You can’t mean that she—”’

“Mrs. Carew died in the hospital, on Sunday,
and was buried not an hour ago.”’

The woman spoke simply, without any at-
tempt to break it, but the sight of Severn’s
face frightened her: ‘‘You are ill?’ she ex-
claimed; but he shook his head impatiently.

“Tell me all.’’ And the woman told him all
there was to tell. :

“After her baby died——”

“Died!”” he muttered blankly.
only a week ago to-day.’’

“Tt was well a week to-day,’ the woman
said, solemnly; “it was at rest then, poor lami,
and even she, I think, was glad to see it so,
for it suffered cruelly—worse than I can tell.”

She drew the back of a not over-clean hand
across her eyes.

“She didn’t take on as most women do, when
their bairns are taken; I think it was ‘causes
she’d no strength and her heart -was broken.
She never shed a tear, not even when the little
eoffin was. taken away; and next day, I
thought it would kind of rouse her, and I went
to her door, One of the children in the house
next to mine was taken ill, and I wondered if
she would come ahd See it; and she did;.and
would stay and-nurse it herself. There were
seven of them, all’ young things, and she~had
the feeling heart ‘if ever woman had. When
the doctor came, he said it was fever, and we
saw that she was sickening for it, too; he said
afterward she was so worn out with loss of
sleep, and trouble, and want of good food, that
she could not escape it. They were both taken
to the hospital—that was on Friday+and the
boy oor the turn; but on Sunday she died, poor
angel,”’

The woman was sobbing softly, but no sound
came from the man’s white lips.

“T got an order from the doctor to go to see
her on Sunday, as she’d no one who took any
interest, and I was there when she died.”’

“Did she say anything—leave any message?’’
Severn looked up with a painful eagerness.
Could it be possible that Christine had gone
beyond his recall, out of reach of his loving
penitence? Had he lost her again? Some
words rang persistently in his ears; he remem-
bered so perfectly ‘where he had heard them
last—the scene rose before his eyes, the the-
atre, the gay throng, the dazzling: brilliance ail
around, and on the stage, alone, a beautiful
woman haunted by her lonely remorse: ‘The
future is only the past entering in by another
door.”’ ;

“Tt was well

“She was unconscious for hours before she]

died, but at first in her raving she called con-
stantly for her child and Hugh, the nurse said.
Just at the last she opened her eyes and smiled
so sweetly, but I don’t think she saw any one
there. ‘Hugh,’ she said, in a such soft and
gentle voice, ‘don’t you understand now how
loth we are to part ‘with our own.’ ”

“God bless you for thinking of her, for go-
ing to her, for loving her.’’ The man put out
a shapely, well-cared-for hand, and clasped a
grimy, toil-worn one in his, and, as its owner
looked at him with tearful, surprised eyes, “I—
I—was Hugh,’’ he said slowly. and dropped it.
In another moment he had gone, bearing with
him a load of remorse, which the years might
lighten, but would never entirely lift.

THE ABANDONED MINE.

> 99

“Boys, I’ve been thinkin’.

Bill Williams’ three companions, who were
lounging with him.in front of a little log cabin
in the Sierra Nevada mountains, sat suddenly
erect, and, assuming an air of the most com-
plete astonishment, stared at him curiously
for almost .a full minute.

‘Bill,’ one of them said, finally, ‘‘did you
speak jest now, or was I sorter dreamin’.’’

“T reckon I spoke, Mr, Brown,” Bill Williams
replied, carelessly. .

“What was that remark you made, Bill?’

*“Nothin’, only I said I’d been. thinkin’.”’

Brown looked at the other two men and
nodded his head;, then they all turned their
eyes on Bill and scrutinized him wonderingly.
After a while old Brown said:

“Bill, are you in earnest?’’

“Of course, I am,’’ Bill answered. ‘*What
makes you ask that?’

*“‘And sure you’re thinkin’ ?”’’

*“Certainly.”’

There was a long pause, during which Bill
Williams’ companions looked at him incredu-
lously, but at last Brown spoke again.

“Boys,” he said, ‘‘it’s strange what curious
things will happen sometimes. We ain’t got
no call to doubt Bill’s words, but it seems hard
to believe that he’d do anythin’ so unnatural
to him _as thinkin’.’’

Bill was lying on the ground, with his arms
folded’ under his head, and pretended that he
did not hear.

‘Wonder if this is the first attack of the
kind Bill ever had?’ George Gray questioned
earnestly and: with evident alarm.

“J guess it is,’’ Brown replied, shaking his
head seriously. ‘I’ve known Bill a long time,
and I never saw him have a spell like this
before.”’

“Tt came on mighty sudden, didn’t it?’”? Luke
Jones observed, availing himself of the privi-
lege of having his say.

“Must have,’’ Brown replied. ‘At supper
Bill seemed as well as ever he was.’’

‘‘Wonder if we oughn’t to git a doctor,’’ from
Gray, ‘I’m fearful Bill’s in a pretty bad fix.”’

“He ought to have some kind of a stimu-
lant to brace him up, at least,’’ Jones re-
marked. ‘He must be terribly exhausted
after such a violent ‘strain om his constitution,
and such a desperate exercisin’ of his mind.”

‘Let me feel your pulse, Bill,’’ Brown said,
solicitously, approaching his victim.

“Do you feel much weak?’ Jones asked, also
looking at Bill with mock sympathy.

Bill sat up and looked at his tormentors in
well-feigned. surprise.

“What in the nation are you blame crazy
loots talkin’ about?’ he asked.

“We were afraid that spell of thinkin’ you

 

 

4

 

had on might prove fatal,’ Brown answered. _

“Oh, you were, eh? Well, you needn’t be
uneasy, Just because fools like you mever
think ain’t no sign smart men like me never
do such things.”

There was no reply to this, neither Brown
nor his companions seeming to have anything
to say. After a short pause, Bill went on,
speaking seriously.

“What I was thinkin’ about,’’ he said, ‘is
that abandoned mine up the gulch. If it turns
out to be as rich as it looks, I'll get a good
stake out of it in a short time.”

“Then what will you do?’’ Brown asked.

“TI guess I'll go back EHast.”’

“And marry and settle down—eh?”’

A shadow passed over Bill Williams’ face,
and he became grave in a moment.

““‘No,”’ he said; “I'll not do that. At least
I'll not marry, unless——’’

Bill stopped suddenly and’ sat gazing longing-
ly out across the valley that stretched before
him. He drew a deep sigh of resignation, and
an air of sadness seemed to settle down over
i Presently Brown touched his arm and
said:

‘Unless what, Bill?’

Bill hesitated a moment, then replied:

“Uniess the woman I love becomes free.”’

“T don’t understand,” Brown said,

“Why should you?’: Bill answered. “It is
nothing to you. It is nothing to you that
the woman. I loved and love yet, was driven
into a marriage with another man back there
at home, while I was out here in California
trying to get a little start in the world so that
I could go back and make her my wife, It
wouldn’t be of any interest to you to know
how her father stopped all my letters to her,
and told her I was married out here, and by
all such lies worked on her till he got her to
marry the man of his choice, though she
didn’t love the man, never has loved him, and
never will.’”’

Bill became much too agitated to say more,
so he rose and walked away down the gulch.
Brown watched him for a little while, then
turned: to his companions, and said:

*Poor Bill! Blame rough on him to be swin-
died out of his sweetheart that way.”

“Mighty rough,’ Gray agreed... ‘‘Reckon he
ain’t never goin’ to marry unless she becomes
a widow.”

“Guess not,” Jones said, “I take it that that
was what he meant ’while ago when he spoke
about her becomin’ free.’’

Brown took his pipe from his pocket, filled
and lighted it, and proceeded to smoke in
silence. Two or three minutes passed before he
spoke,

“Bill was right worked up,’’ he said, ‘‘and
I feel kinder sorry for him. I don’t want to
wish that other man dead, but I can’t help
wishin’ Bill could have his sweetheart an’ be
happy.” ,

‘*‘Maybe he will some day,’? Gray replied.
“Seems like it would be natural, now that he’s
got a fortune in sight, for him to go back
home, git married and settle down.”’

“‘He’s fixed so far as the fortune is con-
cerned,” Jones remarked. “That abandoned
mine up thar is as rich as cream, or else I
don’t know gold when I see it.’’

“It’s rich all right,’’ Brown agreed, ‘fan’ I
doubt if thar is a more promisin’ mine in this
whole range. But thar is oneething about that
mine that I can’t make out.”’

‘“‘What is that?’ Gray asked.

“Just this,’’ Brown replied. ‘‘Why was that
mine ever abandoned?’

Gray and Jones shook their heads, but said
nothing, intimating thereby that the question
was too deep for them.

“People abandon mines that don’t pay to
work, and don’t give any promise of ever
payin’,’’ Brown continued. ‘‘But I never before
knew a rich-payin’ mine bein’ abandoned. It’s
somethin’ queer, an’ I can’t understand it.’’

Brown was not alone in thinking thus re-
garding the mine. The same thought had oc-
curred to Bill Williams. To him it appeared
remarkably strange that a mine like that
should be abandoned. It was a thing entirely
beyond his comprehension.

He wasted no time, however, in useless sur-
mising. The mine was his. He had re-located it.
He proposed to get the wealth of mineral from
it.

Brown and his companions lapsed into
silence. They still lounged in front of the
cabin, and, though an hour had passed, Bill
had not returned.

Presently-a horseman came riding along the
trail which wound up the side of the mountain,
He-was a stranger and. well dressed, and his
horse showed that he had traveled over many
miles of road. He came on till he reached
the cabin, and then stopped.

“TJ am. looking for Mr: Williams,’ he said, ‘‘Is
he here?’’

At that moment Bill came up and he heard
the inquiry.

“Williams is my name,” he said.

“Are you the gentleman who recently located
an abandoned mine in this section?’’ the
atneer asked.

sé a ”

“Them it is with you whom I have business,
Iam a lawyer, and I represent the widow ot
the man who first opened that mine.”’

‘‘Well, what have I got to do with that?’

**You may have a great deal to do with it
and you may have nothing. It all depends
on you.”’

“Tt does, eh? In that case I guess I have
nothing to do with it.’’

“Not even to recognizing the widow’s right
to the nfine?”’

“Certainly not. She has no right to it since
her husband abandoned it.’’

“No legal right, you mean?”

Tes.

“But how about her moral right?’’

*“T-don’t know anything about that. The
business of minin’ for gold ain’t run on moral
principles.”’

me propose, then, to hold the mine?’’

‘ Oo ”

**Well, you can hold it, of course. I am not
going to dispute the legality of your title. But
since I am here I want to tell you why I came.
Shall I proceed?”

“Tf you choose.’’

*In the first place, then, a man left his wife
and his home in Connecticut and came out
here in search of a fortune in the gold fields,
After a long struggle and many disappoint-
ments he located a rich mine and developed
it slightly. Then he went to the nearest town
to get supplies and to make other preparations
for working his claim, and while he was there
he became ill, and, after several weeks’ illness,
died. Im the meantime, however, he had writ-
ten to his wife, telling her of his rich strike
and urging her to come to him. ~She came,
but only to find him dead. She is here now, a
stranger in a strange land, homeless, friend-
less, destitute.”’

Bill Williams began to shift about uneasily,
but he remained silent.

“The woman came to me,” the lawyer went
on, ‘‘fand told me her condition with tears in
her eyes. She also spoke of the mine her hus-
band had located, and asked me to help her
find it. I made inquiries, and found that the
mine was somewhere in this section; so I rode
this way, and back at the next camp I learned
that you had re-located an abandoned mine
that was very rich. I soon satisfied myself
that your mine is the one for which I was
searching. Hence I am here.”’

Bill Williams became quite restless, and he
fidgeted painfully. After awhile he said:

“And you are here to see if 1 won’t give up
the mine?’

*Well, not exactly,’’ the lawyer repled. ‘‘I
am only here to put the situation to you in its
true light. Legally the mine is yours. Morally
it is the woman’s. She lost it through no
fault of hers. She lost it through the sickness
and death of her husband. Its loss is a crush-
ing blow to her. It was all she had left, and
she is now a helpless widow.”

Williams turned away, and for two or three
minutes pacedi-slowly back and forth in front
of the cabin. He was quite serious and very
thoughtful.

‘Well,’ he said at last, stopping in front
of the lawyer, ‘‘What do you think I ought
to. dio ?”’

“T don’t like to say,’’ the lawyer replied.
have stated the situation to you, and I prefer
to let your generosity suggest what you should
do. If you feel that you ought to give the poor
woman a few dollars——’’

“T don’t feel any such thing as that,’ Will-
iams interrupted.

‘“T am sorry. I hoped you would be willing
to do that much for her.’’

‘What right have I to offer her a few dol-
lars, when, if your story is true, the whole
mine is hers?”’

“What do you propose then?’’

“T propose to let her have the mine. What
else can I do as an honest man? I have my
faults, but E hope I ain’t low-down sneakin’-
mean enough to rob a poor, helpless widow be-
cause the law gives me the power. I'll go
with you and see the woman, and if your story
is correct I’ll give up the mine to her.”

The lawyer was surprised, and he did not
hesitate to say that he thought Bill would be
doing quite enough if he gave up half of the
mine, Bill only shook his head.

“Bill,” said Brown, ‘‘don’t give it up. Re-
member that if you do you ean’t go back

oer
a

 

     

VOL, 55—Nog 39.

home, and that woman may be free an’ waitin’
for you*”’ ;

“I can’t help that,’’ Bill replied. “I ain't -
goin’ to swindle no widder woman.”

The next morning Bill and the lawyer set out
for town. Brown and the other two miners
shook their heads and said Bill was ‘‘acting
foolish,’’ but when he put it to them seriously
whether they would do differently under the
same circumstances they made no reply, but
looked a little sheepish-

In the afternoon of the third day Bill re- —
turned, but he was not alone. There was a
woman with him, and to the astonishment of
the miners he introduced her to them as Mrs.
Williams,

“‘Was she the widder that-owned the mine?’’
Brown asked afterward

“She was,’’ Bill replied. ‘Likewise she was
the woman I knowed and loved before I came

out.”’
CHENILLE RUGS.

Home-made chenille rugs combine beauty and
durability, and are so economical that they
commend themselves to every thrifty house-
wife. Select soft woolen material, either dress
goods or knit underwear from the pile of cast-
off garments, and cut in bias strips one inch
wide. Gather the strips lengthwise through
the middle, using a coarse needle and No. 8
thread. It will not be necessary to sew the
strips together, simply lap the ends and gather
through them, twisting the roll as you go.
When one thread is full, tie on another and

 

 

proceed until you have all you need. Much
of the beauty of the rug depends upon the
colors used, and if the goods is faded, as it
is likely to be, dye it the colors you
wish with diamond dye. Roll these
gathered strings into balls and send
to a carpet weaver, whose charges

for weaving and chain will be very little,
It does not resemble ordinary carpet weaving,
as the chain sinks into the rags and does not
show. Use’some dull color for the middle and
bright colors for the border. If you prefer a
hit-or-miss centre, collect all the small pieces
you have cut into strips and lay in a pile by
themselves. The small rolls of pieces that
have cumbered the bag or boxes for a long
time can be utilized to advantage. When you
have plenty mix them well and sew them. The
shorter the strips and the greater the variety
of. colors the prettier it will be. Have the
ends finished with a plain border and a heavy
crocheted fringe placed across the ends.

t

 

EDITED BY MRS. HELEN WOOD.

 

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 and illustrated in this column at T
CENTS each. When ordering patterns, please be
particular to mention the number of the pattern and
size wanted. Address Fashion Department, ‘The
New York Weekly,’’ Box 1,173, New York City.

 

I shall be very glad to answer to the best of
my ability any questions that my lady readers
may care to put to me as to questions of toilet.
So, if you are puzzled in any way, don’t hesi-
tate to appeal to me for such advice as I am

capable of giving you. HELEN WOOD.

 

THE PERFECT WOMAN.

If any woman wishes to know whether she
is a perfect specimen of her sex, she has only
to apply the rules laid down for ascertaining ~
the fact, and work out the results. S

First, as_to height, tastes differ, but the ~}
Medicean Venus is five feet five inches in

 

height, and this-is held hy many sculptors and
artists to be the most admirable stature for a
woman. For a woman of five feet five inches,
nine stone twelve pounds is the proper weight,
and if she be well formed she can stand an-
other ten pounds without greatly showing it.

When the arms are extended she should
measure from tip of. middle finger to tip of
middle finger just five feet five inches, exactly
her own height.

The length of her hand should be just a
tenth of that, of her foot just a seventh, and
the diameter of her chest a fifth. The knee
should come exactly midway between the
thigh and heel. ere

The distance from the elbow to the middle
finger should be the same as the distance from
the elbow to the middle of the chest. From
the top of the head to the chin should be just
the length of the foot, and there should be the
oars distance between the chin and the arm-
pits,

A woman of this height should measure
twenty-four inches about the waist, and
thirty-four inches round the bust, if measured
eats the arms, and forty-three inches if over

em, .

The upper arm should be thirteen inches
round, and the wrist six inches. *

There is another system of measurements
which says that the distance’ twice round the
thumb should go once round the wrist; twice
round the wrist once round the throat; twice
round the throat once round the waist, and so
on; but the first are the standards used by.
sculptors, who- have gained them by measure-
ments of the Greek statues.

 

[=n ordering patterns be sure to give size and number,

NO. 2,211. MISSES’ BOX-PLEATED SHIRT
WAIST.

pleats, an inch in
width, are  ex-
tremely pretty,
made of the new
lawns. The front
of this waist ex- —
tends only to the

Shirt waists, with both front and back box-

 
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
 

the
Draw-strings reg-
ulate the fullness
at the back. The
waist is equally
stylish in taffeta
or summer serge,
and is, of course,
appropriate for all
thin goods. The
pattern is cut in
14 years requires
34% yards of 21-inch, 2 yards of 32-inch or 1%
yards of 42-inch material.

NO, 2219. LADIES’ RUFFLED SHIRT-
WAIST.

 
 

White and black lawn is a pretty materi
for the model. It is without lining, and has
shoulder and as: nce
under.-arm = ” &
seams only. The
collar has em-
broidered points
turned over the
top, a2nd.ts
fastened at the
back over the
neckband. The
shirt sleeve is
shaped with one
seam, and has
a straight cuff,
with a point
turned back
from the» lower
edge to. corre-
spond with the
collar. The pat-

    

tern is cut in
sizes 32 to 40
inches bust. \“%
measure. Size f

 

36 requires .3%4
yards of 21-inch,
2% yards of 32+
inch -<ore1% ‘ ;
yards of 42- ae 3 Rs
inch material, with 1 yard of narrow and 2 {|

yards of wide edging.

(All patterns published in ‘The New York Week.
ly’? will be sent to our readers for 10 cents each. —
Address FASHION DEFARTMENT, .“‘New York ~~
Weekly.’’) " oe