e

ei

 

le.

 

JULIA EDWARDS,

 

 

 

GEORGIE SHELDON and BERTHA M.

LAY, write exclusively for the

 

 

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

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

 

Office

Vol. 47.

THE NICHE IN THE WALL.

BY ETTIE VAN VLACK ANGEL,

 

The cottage was tidy and little,
And full to the niche in the wall,
For babies kept growing to toddlers,
And toddlers to children small.

“How many ?’ you ask; I will tell you;
Just count on your fingers and guess;

There were Dollie and Janie and Katie,
And Johnnie and Jimmie and Bess.

Do you think the father could love them,
So many to clothe and to feed?

And the mother that, weary with toiling,
Sits thinking of something they need—

And day after day she is turning
And seaming some garments too slim
To draw on the shoulders of Johnnie,
So over it’s made to fit Jim.

And oft when the night-lamp was burning,
And lit the low seats, strong and small,

There would not be room for the turning
If ’twere not for the niche in the wall.

Yes, love held them safe in this shelter,
There never was one they could spare;

They trustingly called on their Master,
And made this their burden of prayer.

“Leave us the children, dear Father,
They are better than silver or gold,
Give us the strength to protect them,

Keeping them safe in love’s fold.”

So ever the morn brought a blessing,
And ever the eye brought a prayer,
for the stx Tittie children that gathered
In the home-nest so sacred and fair.

“But what shall we do with the baby,
This bundle of dimples and lace?
For I’m sure in this snug little cottage
There is not a twelve inch of space.”

The children looked one to another,
And wondered what answer to make,
Determined to hold fast the baby,
And stand closer for love and her sake.

But Jimmie had settled the question,
In his wee brain so tender and small,
So he slipped to his father and whispered;

P.O. Box 2734 N.Y.

31 Rose St.

 

“T’ll stand in the niche in the wall!”

 

PA@r<

THIS STORY WILL NOT BE

New York, July’30, 1892. _

 

AN ICY HAND WAS SUDDENLY LAID UPON HIS, SENDING A CHILL QUIVERING THROUGH HIS VEINS!

PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.

 

arguerite’s Heritage;

LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE.

Author of ** Wild Oats,” ‘‘ Brownie’s Triumph,’ ‘‘ The Forsaken Bride,” ‘‘ Sibyl’s
Influence,” ** Stella Rosevelt,” Etc.

 

 

~

[‘‘ MARGUERITE’S HERITAGE” was commenced last weelc.]

 

CHAPTER III.
TWO FIGURES UPON THE LAWN.

As Constance and her lover returned to the
house she tried to throw off her sadness, for
she saw that it troubled Noel; but she could
not derive much consolation from his assur-
ance that Laurence would “get over” his dis-
appointment and find some “fine girl” to com-
fort him for his loss of her.

 

 

 

and parcels arrived daily, each containing
some new creation for the bridal outfit, which
must be examined and tried on. Presents

came pouring in from every quarter, and these |

had to be unpacked, admired, and acknowl-
edged, so, with all these duties to demand her
attention, she was too busy to think of much
else. much less to grieve, had she been so
inclined.

' She was lively and happy—at least she ap-
peared so—and no one, save her lover, imag-
|ined that anything of an unpleasant nature

A cloud hung over her spirits all day, but had occurred to disturb her.

the subject was not referred to again, for a far

more important matter—to Noel Southworth,
at least—occupied their attention.

The groom-elect had come from the city a
few days previous to hasten his marriage, for i
some friends of his were going to sail for |

Europe the last of the month, and were very
anxious that he and his bride should join their
party.

The wedding had originally been set for the
first of September, but it was now his wish
that it should occur on the twenty-fifth of the
current month, in order to allow them to sail
on the twenty-eighth with the party re-
ferred to. .

Constance had demurred to this arrangement
at first, but Noel was persistent, and after
submitting the matter to Mr. and Mrs. Alex-
ander, and obtaining their sanction to the
arrangement, she finally yielded the point,
whereupon invitations were immediately
issued for the twenty-fifth. ;

lowed this change of programme, Constance
did not have much time to brood over her
recent interview with Laurence.

She did not once see him in the
between that day and her marriage, for he
had been too sorely wounded and unnerved to
meet her with any degree of composure, and
Constance did not go out much, except now
and then for a drive with her fiancee.

Callers and friends were constantly coming
and going, and had to be entertained. Boxes

| Everybody about her was gay—the brides-
maids were all animated with delight in antici-
‘pation of the important event for which the)
were preparing; Noel was. all smiles and de-
votion, and seemed so supremely happy that
the fair bride-elect could not fail to partici-
pate in the prevailing spirit.

Thus the days flew by, and the evening
before the wedding arrived.

The ceremony had been set for twelve o’clock
;on the next day, and at an early hour Mrs.
| Alexander insisted that Constance should bid
_ their friends and guests good-night and retire,
so that she might be fresh and fair for the
| most important event of her life.
| She accompanied her to her room and assisted
| her in her preparations for the night, feeling
| Strangely unnerved in view of the fact that to-
'morrow Constance would no longer belong ex-
‘clusively to her, as heretofore.
As she was about to leave her she folded her
tenderly in her arms and kissed her fondly
upon both cheeks and lips,

“My dear one,” she murmured, with a sus-

. ' picious tremble iu her tones, “this is your last
During the hurry and excitement which fol-

night in your home as ours alone, but I can
willingly give you up, knowing that you are
happy. You are going to be the wife of a

kind, good man, whom you both love and
interval |

respect—is it not so, Constance?”

“Yes, mamma,” the young girl responded, a
thoughtful look superseding the merry expres-
sion which had illumined her face after the
gay good-nights which she had exchanged
with her friends below.

“You are perfectly happy, Constance?” wist-
fully queried the fond mother, whose heart

 

was very tender on the eve of this trying sepa-
ration.

Constance turned and threw her arms about
her mother’s neck and laid her cheek against

ers.

“T should be very ungrateful and unappre-
ciative if I were not,” she said, affectionately,
| “for I am sure no girl everhada more devoted
| lover or kinder friends than I have.
| you, mother, dear, my only regret is that I
cannot take you all with me to-morrow,” and

| tears gathered in her eyes over the thought of |

| parting.

|

Phage

|more upon such dangerous topics,” said Mrs.
| Alexander, trying to speak lightly. “There
| must be no tears to dim these dear eyes—there
|
|

must not be evenashadow in them to-morrow. |

| You will soon return to us—at least to your
| Shall see each other very often. My dear, I
| feel that. a very bright future is before you.
| Now good-night, love; try to get all the sleep
| you can, for I want no pale cheeks nor heavy
| eyes to-morrow.”

coverlid over the graceful form upon the bed,

lingering over the act with loving hands; put |

| the various tojlet articles upon the dressing-
| case in order for use in the morning, turned
the lovely face upon the pillow, touched it
lightJy with her lips and stole softly out of
| the room.
|

But for some reason sleep did not come
|readily to Constance that night. She was
| strangely wakeful and restless, but she forced
| herself to lie quietly in bed until the sound of
voices and laughter ceased below, and she

| knew the guests had all retired.

ting down beside it, looked out upon the wide
sweep of lawn beneath her.

The night was perfect.

The moon, in its first quarter, hung low in
the western sky, just light enough to distin-
guish objects that were not too distant.

The stars glittered brilliantly in the dusky

window and Jightly swayed the soft draperies
that fell around the slender form sitting
there, touching ‘her with its refreshing cool-
ness, while the perfume of many flowers was
wafted to her upon its wings.

Many grave, strange thoughts came to Con-
stance as she folded her arms upon the win-
dow-sill and leaned forth to inhale the deli-
cious air—thoughts regarding the great change
about to come to her, and the many duties
awaiting her in the future—of the friends she
was about to leave, and the solemn vows she
would take upon herself to-morrow.

Her glances wandered wistfully to a stately
mansion just distinguishable beyond the line
of beautiful maples which separated her
father’s estate from that of Mr. Everet, and a
feeling of sadness oppressed her as she thought

Bless |

| own delightful home in New York, and we)

She tenderly smoothed the silken and lace |

| out the lights, then, bending once more over |

Then, softly stealing from her couch, she}
threw on a warm flannel wrapper, parted the
silken draperies at an open window, and sit- |

vault above; a delicious breeze stole in at the |

| her regarding the new relations she was about
to assume.

| Mr. and Mrs. Everet had sent her their
most hearty congratulations in response to the
cards inviting them to her marriage, together
with an elegant wedding gift; but from Lau-

| rence there had come no. word—no token. She

knew that he was still at home, for she had

heard it from various sources, though she had

| not once seen him since his avowal.

| He had told her that his life would be

allow himself to treasure ill-will against her
for what had been no fault of hers.

She wondered if he would be present at her |

wedding to-morrow.

Cards had been sent to him as a matter of
course, and she had addressed them with her
own hands, although she had shrunk from the
act, knowing that the sight of them would be
| but another stab to his already sorely wounded

heart. But she could not neglect the form
without explaining her reasons, and this she
| could not do to any one.

She was thinking of all this as she sat there
in the dim moonlight, her gaze fixed absently
upon the lawn~—a feeling of sadness stealing

the shadow of the line of maples attracted her
attention.

| She leaned farther forward for a better view,
and saw that it was the figure of a man.

| himself, and with
cheek she continued to watch him with in-
creasing interest.

Slowly the figure came out from !beneath the

shadows and traversed the lawn, and finally |—he did

| stopped about midway and just opposite tke
| window where Constance was sitting.

not see her, for the draperies falling about her

Three Dollars Per Year,
Two Covies Five Dollars.

 

ruined in losing her, but he was thoroughly |
|noble, and she did not believe that he would |
“There, my darling, we must not talk any |

over her, whensuddenly a moving object under |

He stood there for a few moments, abso- | the Alexander mansion. (
lutely motionless, as if gazing at-the very spot | ery simply drove him hither without any plan
where she sat; but she knew that he could | or reason on his part.

| concealed her, and there was no light in the |

| room.

| All at once he threw out his arms toward her
| with a wildly appealing gesture, and Con-
' stance was sure that she caught the sound of
|a despairing groan.

Then his attitude changed; the extended
|hands were drawn back with a convulsive
| movement and beaten against his breast as if
| he was in mortal agony, then he turned and
| staggered back toward the heavy shadows of
| the maples and so disappeared from her sight.
The fair bride-elect was deeply shocked—
| smitten to her very soul by this evidence of his
wretchedness.

“Oh, Laurie! Laurie!” she cried, ina pained,
|remorseful tone, “I never dreamed that you
| loved me like this! I wish you had never told
|me. [ cannot bear that your life should be
|ruined because of me,” and dropping her face
; upon her folded arms, she burst into a torrent
lof tears which would surely have made her
| mother fear dim, heavy eyes and faded cheeks
could she have been there to witness them.
| She was very much depressed by what she

 

of him who had hitherto been her choicest | had seen; a heavy weight lay upon her heart,
friend, but who, of late, had avoided her and|and all at once she experienced a_ strange
given no sign of interest or sympathy with | shrinking from the untried duties which the

coming day would bring to her. But
one, however sad, cannot weep for-
ever, and after a time her tears
ceased to flow, her sobs grew less
frequent, and finally, feeling that she
ought to be sleeping, she lifted her
head and turned her eyes for one last
look upon the spot where, a few mo-
ments previous, she had seen Laurence
standing.

Imagine her astonishment when, in
the very place, she saw, outlined
against the sky, the tall, slender figure
of—a woman!

She was standing as motionless as a
statue, while by the faint light of the
moon, Constance could just discern a
face which seemed ghastly as marble,
and a pair of fair white hands clasped
upon her bosom.

“What can it mean?’—who can she
be?” she breathed, a slight shiver
running over her frame. “I am sure
it was Laurie whom I saw standing
there a few moments ago—I know his
figure, and I am confident ‘that I was
not mistaken. At alleventsthat other
figure was that of a man and this a
woman. It cannot be possible that I
fell asleep, and am dreaming,” she con-
tinued, rubbing her hands together to
make sure that she was awake. “No,
for there the figure still stands like
some dusky medallion chiseled out of
the sky. Whatcan it mean?—it al-
most seems like an omen of some
kind—whether for good or ill, I cannot
tell,” she concluded, beginning to
tremble with nervous excitement.

Then, while she still looked, the figure
turned and walked away in the same
direction that Laurence had taken, ber
dark garments sweeping out behind
her and fluttering in the breeze.

A sense of fear and impending evil
oppressed the wondering girl as she
crept away to bed, but not to sleep,
for with throbbing temples and fright-
ened heart-pulsations she lay far into
the small hours of the morning, trying
to solve the mystery of the appear-
ance of the second figure upon the
lawn.

Yes, the first figure which Constance
had seen was no other than Laurence
himself.

He had passed the most wretched
three weeks of his life since his inter-
view with the girl whom he so madly
loved.

She had told him that she was to be
married just three weeks from that
day; but though the news had almost
erushed him, hope had not died within
him.

Strange as it may seem, a vague be-
lief that scmething would yet occur to
prevent the marriage, and Constance
would yet be his, took possession of
him.

“She belonged by right to him,” he
told himself; “for had he not loved
her and lived only for her all his life?”

He had called her “little wife” a
thousand times, and she had laughingly in-
dulged him in the use of the term until he
had grown to feel that she must become so,
eventually, in reality.

But upon receiving her wedding cards,
addressed in her own hand, this insane hope
had been extinguished, and then he was
reduced to the most abject despair.

But he strove to keep his trouble to himself
—he never mentioned to any one that he was
| suffering mentally, or complained that he was
ill in body.

But his friends saw that he was rapidly
losing flesh and color, and knew that some-
thing was very wrong.

Becoming alarmed lest he should break
down, his mother begged him to see their
physician; but this Laurence decidedly refused
to do, for he feared that the man would sus-
pect his secret; then he buried himself in his
bwn room and would see noone save the mem-
oers of the family, and here he tried to fight
out alonethe battle which threatened to wreck
both health and reason.

Thus the days dragged wearily by until’ the
evening of the twenty-fourth arrived.

All day long Laurence had remained within
deors, lying half-stupid upon his bed,’ too
weak and spent to battle longer against the
| inevitable.
|. But as daylight waned and darkness began
| to envelope the earth, he grew very restless. He
| was weary of lying—the room seemed hot and

Something told her that it was Laurence | close, and, rising, he slipped quietly out of
bated breath and paling |the house and involuntarily turned his steps

toward the home of her who continually filled
| his mind and heart.

| He had no thought of seeing her or any one
not desire to be seen, nor did he
|imagine he would be; for the hour was late
'and the lights had all been extinguished in
The foree of his mis-

He wandered slowly along beneath the
shadow of the trees, then crossed the lawn to

|a spot where he could see a window which had

| been a favorite seat with Constance, and there
he had stood with his eyes fastened on it, but
never suspecting that any one was observing

|him, until, unable longer to endure the tender

 

| memories which came thronging upon him, he

threw out his arms as if he would gather the
object of his love to his heart; then, realizing
the folly of his act, he wildly beat upon his
breast and staggered from the spot, as we have

| already described.

He could not go home—it seemed as if he
would stifle in the house, so he turned his
steps toward the old familiar path leading to
the brook, where, throwing himself upon the
rustic seat, he once more yielded himself to
the sorrow that was consuming him.

“Oh! if I had but told her before I went
abroad, I might have won her,” he groaned,
“but I was so sure that she loved me, and so,
by my procrastination, I have lost her. Lost
—lost!—what a word it is—like an inextin-
guishable brand of fire burning deeper and
deeper into my brain. Will it ever become so
seared and calloused—so benumbed that I
shall feel no pain?”

He lost himself in troubled musings for a

-P
-

NEW YORK WEEKLY,

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

&

 

 

2

«<4 THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #8 usa

 

 

 

few moments, and then resumed; it seemed to
be a relief to him to give verbal expression to
his feelings:

“To-morrow wili be the twenty-fifth! Can I
bear it and live? Shall I go to witness the
sacrifice? Never! never! never!” he cried,
vehemently. “And yet it almost seems as if
some evil spirit will drive me there in spite of
myself. Oh! Noel Southworth, while | know
nothing against you, there is yet something
within me that tells me you are not worthy
of the pure and priceless gem that you have
won; there are certain lines of selfishness and
weakness written on your face which do not
promise well for you if temptation and adver-
sity should overtake you and—— Ah! what is
this?”

This startled exclamation was forced from
him by the touch of an icy hand suddenly laid
upon his, as it rest2d upon the arm of the rus-
tic seat, and looking up, Laurence Everet saw
a woman’s figure bending over him.

“Who are you?” he demanded, trying to peer
into her face.

“Who are you who thus sit in judgment
upon Noel Southworth’s character?” sternly
questioned a hollow voice, which sent a chill
quivering through his veins.

 

CHAPTER IV.

THE UNEXPECTED WEDDING GUEST.

Laurence sprung to his feet, a thrill of repul-
sion quivering through his nerves at that
clammy touch.

“Who are you?” he demanded again of the
figure who had intruded upon his seclusion.

* 4 broken-hearted woman, who does not
care whether she lives or dies,” was the de-
spairing response, in a voice rendered sharp
by suffering.

“What do you mean?” and Laurence bent
forward, trying to get a view of her face.
“What has brought you here at this hour of
the night?”

“A spirit of unrest and misery, and in my
wandering I came here upon you unawares.
It is said in the village that there is to bea
grand wedding to-morrow. Is it true that Miss
Alexander is to be married?” the woman re-
turned, in a low, musical voice.

“Yes,” said Laurence, briefly, but somewhat
sharply.

“To whom?”

“To a gentleman from New York city—Mr.
Noel Southworth.”

There came a quick gasp from the lips of
the woman at this.

“It is said that she—Miss Alexander—is
very beautiful,” she breathed, in a scarcely
audible tone.

“Yes—-very beautiful.”

“Is—is she worthy of the man whom she
will marry?’

“Worthy!” Laurence repeated, sharply; then
added, in a tender tone: “She is an angel—
nay, better than that, she is a pure and noble
TOUInP and worthy the grandest man that

ives.”

“Aha!” was the somewhat scornful retort,
“vou speak in high praise of the fair bride-
per You should know her well to laud her
thus.”

Laurence had to clench his hands fiercely in
the effort to control the bitter pain which
seemed to tear his heart asunderas his wounds
were thus opened afresh.

But after a moment he answered, in a re-
pressed tone:

“T have known her all my life.”

“Ah! Then, tell me—does*she love him?”
and his companion bent nearer to him, wait-
ing his reply in breathless suspense.

t was a terrible ordeal to be questioned
thus regarding the woman whom he idolized,
and whom he had lost. But pride restrained
him from making any sign which would betray
his agony to an utter stranger.

“Constance Alexander is truth and honor
itself; she could not marry any man without
believing that she loved him,” he returned, in
a noble defense of her character, but feeling
as if he were turniug to stone in giving utter-
ance to the loyal tribute.

“And he?” demanded the woman, in a voice
so strained and unnatural that it did not seem
like a human voice at all, but more like the
wail of some hunted animal that had been
wounded unto death,

“He—Mr. Southworth, is entirely devoted to
her,” Laurence forced himself to say, deter-
mined that no word of his should cast a doubt
upon the future happiness of her whom he
loved better than life.

Then, unable longer to bear the agony of this
inquisition, he cried:

“But, madam, who are you, and why do you,

an entire stranger, question me thus regarding
the private affairs of people who are nothing
to you?” ;
“Nothing to me!” repeated his companion,
in a voice choked with excessive emotion.
“Great Heaven! he says they are nothing to
me! And who am I? The most wretched creat-
ure who walks the earth. Why do I question
you, an utter stranger? Because I am desper-
ate—so desperate that I care not from whom I
seek to learn the truth regarding the treachery
of one who has ruined my life and driven me
to the verge of despair. Let Noel Southworth
beware—let the fair-faced woman who has
won him beware!”

With a moan of anguish the strange being |
turned abruptly and darted away, vanishing |
in the gloom as suddenly as she had come, and
leaving Laurence Everet both startled and
amazed at her wild words.

“Who can the wretched creature be!” he
muttered, as he bent to listen to her retreat-
ing footsteps. “Is she some girl whom Noel
Southworth has wronged?” he muttered,
sternly. “It certainly looks like it! Oh! if I
but knew the truth—if I could prove that he
is unworthy of Constance, I sania iene every-
thing to save her, even at this late hour. After
all that I have suffered in giving her up, it
would be enduring my agony twice over if she
should not be happy in her future life. I wish
I knew where to find this woman. I would go
to her and force her to tell me the truth.”

He knew, however, that it would be useless
to follow her, for he could not tell what direc-
tion she had taken.

It was not probable that he would ever meet
her again, and if he did it was doubtful
whether he would be able to recognize her.

She had seemed to be very graceful in all
her movements; the sound of her voice—rich,
sweet, and smooth—indicated a person of cul-
ture; her language had been refined and well
chosen.

It had been a strange, weird experience, and
troubled him deeply, but his own grief over
the coming events of the morrow outweighed
every other emotion, and he was scon lost to
all else.

He spent most of the night in that spot hal-
lowed by so many tender associations of the
past, and the gray dawn was just beginning
to break in the east when he finally struggled
to his feet and turned his face homeward.
Here in the seclusion of his own room he tried
to face the fact that in a few hours Constance
would be lost to him forever.

* % * * * *

Constance Alexander’s wedding day proved
to be one of unclouded beauty, and if the old
adage “Blessed is the bride the sun shines on,”
were only an infallible one she was surely
destined to enjoy an ideal future, free from
clouds or shadows of any kind.

The pretty town of —— was all alert on this
fair morning, for the lovely girl had ever been
a favorite in the community, and everybody
vied with each other in doing honor to her on
this occasion.

Invitations to the ceremony in the church
had been sent far and near, and at an early
hour crowds began to pour into the spacious
edifice, eager to witness this, the most im-
portant event their quiet village had known
for years.

Friendly hands had turned the church into a
bower of floral loveliness—a most fitting place
for so fair a bride to plight her vows. iver.
greens, palms, and ferns, together with a
profusion of rare flowers, had been tastefully

arranged about the altar. The great chande-
liers and side lamps had been draped with
trailing vines and roses, while upon every pew
down the central aisle there was fastened an
Sevens bouquet tied with gleaming satin rib-

ons.

Just midway of this aisle there were gates,
fashioned of evergreens and roses, and sur-
mounted by an arch bearing the initials “S.”
Jand “A,”

Surely if beauty and fragrance were omens,
the married life of the young couple was to be
literally a pathway strewn with roses.

Before twelve o’clock the great church was
crowded to overflowing—there was not even
sfanding-room save in the central aisle about
the altar.

The last stroke of the clock in the steeple
had not ceased to reverberate when the main
doors were throwag open and two lovely chil-
dren, in spotless white, passed down the aisle
to the floral gates, which they threw wide
open, and held thus for those who should come
after them to pass through.

Then, with stately tread, followed the four
ushers, and close upon thes2 came the four
bridesmaids in pale pink, blue, lavender, and
yellow crepe de chine.

The maid of honor, in cream white, was fol-
lowed by the bride, leaning upon the arm of
her noble-looking father—a man a little past
the prime of life, but one whom one needed to
see but once to know that he was one of
nature's noblemen.

But who can do justice to the beautiful
bride, in her shimmering robes of dead white
satin, crowned with a dainty wreath of lilies-
of-the-valley, from which the long tulle vail
fell in fleecy clouds around her graceful form,
softening while it did not conceal her beauty.

Her glossy brown hair was arranged simply,
as she was accustomed to wear it; her face,
while it wore a grave, earnest expression, was
delicately tinted like the petals of a blush-
rose before it has fully opened to the sun; her
eyes were downcast, and her whole manner
and bearing indicated that she fully realized,
and was absorbed in contemplating the solem-
nity of the great step she was about to take.

Of course every eye was upon her—every one
in that vast audience watched her with breath-
less interest, with a kind of awed fascination,
for they had never seen her so lovely as she
was at that moment; she seemed as pure as
the spotless bridal roses which she carried in
her white-gloved hands.

As she passed between the gates of ever-
green toward the new life that awaited her
beyond, there was not one who knew her in
that great company but breathed a wish that
they might bé symbolic of her future.

Mr. Southworth, accompanied by his best
man, approaching from a side entrance, met
the party at the altar, where the benign, gray-
haired. pastor, who had known the gentle
maiden ever since her birth, who, indeed, had

ronounced the marriage benediction upon her

ather and mother, impressively went through
the ceremony which made the young couple
| one while life should last.

He seemed strangely affected during the
|}service, and when he came to that solemn
| charge—“If any present know aught why these
| two should not be united in the holy bonds of
matrimony, let him now speak, or forever
hold his peace”’—he had paused longer, it
seemed to his waiting congregation, than he
had ever done before—so long, in fact, that the
father of the bride regarded him with sur-
prise, and Noel Southworth turned as white
as the spotless dress of his bride; then sud-
denly lifting his glance to the clergyman’s
face, he had broken the spell, the service pro-
ceeded without interruption, and a feeling
blessing was pronounced upon the happy pair.

It was over. Constance Alexander was the
wife of Noel Southworth, and as the first tri-
umphant strains of the wedding march arose
among the arches of the stately church, the
husband and wife turned from the altar and
‘retraced their steps through the central aisle
| toward the vestibule.
| They had almost reached the door when,
suddenly, from among the gayly dressed com-
pany on the right there arose the figure of a
woman, who leaned forward, apparently oblivi-
ous of the astonished faces about her, as if to
obtain a better view of the bride and groom
as they passed out.

She was tall and slender, very
beautiful in form, with a dark,
of rare refinement and beauty.

Great brown eyes, burning now with a
| strange, intense fire, looked out from beneath
finely penciled brows, while waves of rich
dark-brown hair fell away from a forehead
somewhat low, but broad and intelligent.

Her nose was classic, with delicately chis-
eled nostrils, her mouth a vivid scarlet and
very beautiful, although just now firmly com-
pressed in a tense line of pain.

Her complexion was pure as alabaster, and
almost as colorless, and to those sitting near
her, watching her standing there so motion-
less, her whole soul apparently concentrated
in that gaze upon the newly wedded pair, she
seemed more like some fair spirit from another
sphere than like a happy human guest bidden
to a gay wedding.

She was tastefully and elegantly clad in a
soft pearl-gray silk, elaborately trimmed; a
dainty hat to match the dress, and garnished
with clusters of trailing arbutus, crowned her
shapely head, and_ richly embroidered pearl-
gray gloves encased her small hands, in which
she carried an exquisitely carved fan of point
lace.

Pale pink coral ornaments of foreign design
were in her small ears, and fastened the rare

 

raceful and
elicate face

 

has taken hold of#me a little, perhaps; then,
this morning, while assisting John to strap
the trunks, I strained my sidea trifle, anda
pain seized me just as we were coming out of
the church.”

“Oh, I hope you have not injured yourself!”
Constance exclaimed, as she searched his face
anxiously.

' “No, dear, it is nothing; I shall soon be well
of it. Think no more about it, for we must
not allow anything to mar this red-letter day.
You are all my own now, my love—my wife!
I hope, darling, that you Pay never know a
sorrow; at any rate, it shall be my care to
meld you in every possible way from the ills of

And so, with a secret in his heart and a lie
on his lips, Noel Southworth turned from the
altar with the pure, true, and trusting woman
whom he had won, and who believed him to
be all that her fond fancy had painted him.

Would he shield her from every care?
Would he interpose himself between her and
the ills of life, bravely bearing the brunt and
burden, that no sorrow need touch her?

When Time shall turn the pages of his book,
a little farther on, the sequel will show.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

Carrico BY STORM,

~~ 3 , %

By MRS. MAF AGNES FLEMING,
Author of ‘‘Norine’s Revenge,” ‘‘Shaddeck Light,”
‘Wedded, Yet No Wife.” “A Little
Queen,” Etc.

 

 

 

(“CARRIED BY STORM” was commenced in No. 20. Back
numbers can be obtained of all News Ageuts.)

 

CHAPTER X.—(CONTINUED.)

And the days go on, and the weeks pass,
and the end of September is here. They have
heard from Joanna. Mrs. Abbott has had a
brief letter, very brief. She has reached her
journey’s end in safety; she has found her
mother, has taken her from the asylum, and,
after a week or two of rest, will return. She
sends her love to all. There is no more. It is
singularly short, and business-like, and to the
point. She writes to no oneelse. Livingston
hardly knows whether he is sorry or relieved.
He has asked her to write, but she has made
no promise. In a fortnight she will be back,
and then——

They will bear the announcement of his
engagement better now than they would have
done a month ago. After all, it is as well he
waited. All sing peans in Joanna’s praise
now. He grows a trifle weary, sometimes, !is-
tening. It is all true, no doubt; she is a noble
woman; he will never be half worthy of her, at
his best, but—— He looks across at Leo, sitting,
listlessly enough, in a garden chair, her hate
lying idly on her lap, her mignonne face pale
and spiritless; the soft, black eyes heavy-
lidded and tiredaae The sweet, childish
mouth has a pathetic little ee she looks
sorry, or lonely, or something. e starts u
impatiently, and goes off, angry with himself
—his fate—all the world.

And now the Lamars begin to talk of going
—Geoffrey, indeed, has been impatiently talk-
ing of it, and thinking of it, for some time,
but has been met by such a storm of reproach
for his unssemly haste that he had been forced
to desist. But against his better judgment
always, and now he will go. His work awaits
him. Dr. Morgan writes sarcastically to inquire
if he has fallen into a Rip Van Winkle slum-
ber up there in hisgglvan Sleepy Hollow. He
is perfectly well ; no plea of invalidism
can be put forth to detain him, and his reso-
lution is taken. To-morrow he goes. His
mother and sister can remain another week,
if they choose, while he has the cottage put
in order. They do choose, overwhelmed by the
hospitable pressing of the Ventnors, and so
it is decided.

The last evening has come. Leo is away on
one of her long rambles, and, fora wonder,
Livingston is with her. It is the hour of sun-
set. Colonel Ventnor, his daughter, and Dr.
Lamar linger on the lawn. The lovely after-
glow, the exquisite rose-light of a perfect Sep-

tember day, yet lingers in the sky; a ae

salt breeze comes fresh from the ocean, an

stirs the sleeping flowers. On the piazza, at
the other side of the house, the elder ladies
sit, and after a little the colonel feels called
upon to jointhem. Then Geoffrey throws him-
self on the dry, crisp grass, rather tired after
a long day’s rambling, and Olga, with a
smile, seats herself on a grassy knoll close by.

“I know you are used up, if you would but
own it,” she is saying. “Iam, and do not
mind confessing it in the least. Ten miles is
as much as I ever want to do at once. I fear it
was hardly wise of you, not yet fully strong,
to go as far as you did.”

“You will insist on Raping me on the sick
list,” he answers. “I believe | am as strong as
I ever was in my life. I might have gonea
week ago, with perfect safety. My walk will
do me no harm. And it is for the last time.”

There is a pause. His voice is regretful—it
is hard to go. A little frown deepens between

 

 

lace that encircled her Bure white neck.

Her strange and sudden act of rising, just |
as she did, attracted the attention of the}
groom as he drew near the door, his handsome |
face beaming with pride and joy over the con- |

| summation of his hopes.

A look of horror leaped into his eyes as he
encountered those other orbs of living fire
which were fixed so steadfastly upon him;
the glad smile died upon his lips, every atom
of color faded from his cheeks, and a mighty
shock went quivering through him from head
to foot.

For an instant his step faltered, and it
almost seemed as if he was going to stop;
then, by a powerful effort, he withdrew his
gaze from the face of that peerlessly beautiful
woman and passed out of the church.

The stranger then sank back into her seat,
unmindful of the wondering looks upon the
faces around her, and did not once raise her
eyes nor move until the throng had passed out
of the building.

The fair bride, absorbed in her own solemn
thoughts, and with her eyes downcast, had
observed nothing of this strange scene; but
she had felt the sudden thrill and inward start
which had agitated her husband, and the mo-
ment they were alone in their carriage she
turned to look into his face, and could not
fail to notice his extreme pallor.

“What is it, Noel?” she asked, in a tone of
alarm. “Why did you start so just as we
were leaving the church? Why are you so pale?
_Are you ill?”

A brilliant smile dispelled the gloom which
had settled over the young husband’s face.

The voice of his bride seemed to unlock the
uncanny spell that had enthralled him ever
since he had met the fiery gleam of those won-
drous brown eyes in the church.

“No, my darling, not ill,” he answered, as
he folded her close in his embrace and pressed
a fervent kiss upon her lips. “I am well, and
the happiest man in the world at this mo-
ment.”

“But you are so pale,” Constance returned,
studying his face, which had not regained its
usual color even yet. “And you did give a
fearful start—I felt it with my hand upon
yourarm. What caused it, Noel?”

He wished she had not been so observant.
He wished she would not be so persistent.

What was he to tell her?—how should he
explain it?

A slight shade of annoyance clouded his
eyes for an instant. Then he said, as he
lightly touched her lips again:

“Do not be troubled, love; there is nothing

 

 

 

, serious the matter. The excitement of the day

Miss Ventnor’s eyebrows.

“TI hate last time,” she says, petulantly. “I
hate saying good-by. Every year I live, every
friend I part with, I uate it more and more.
They are the two hardest, hatefulest words in
the language. You must like it, though, you
appear so desperately anxious to say it, and
get rid of us.”

He locks up at her. She is very lovely, but
she is always that. Her hat lies on her lap,
her delicate face is ever so little flushed, ever
so little petulant. her blue eyes have an almost
irate sparkle. She is dressed in pale blue,
crisp, silky, cool, a cluster of pink roses in her
breast, another in her hair. She looks all
azure and roses, golden hair, and flower face.
He turns away his eyes, slightly dazzled.

“Do you believe that,” he asks, quietly,
“that I am glad to go?”

“Tt looks Tike it, I confess. You have talked
of nothing else but going ever since you came.
And now you will leave us to-morrow, though
the heavens fall.”

“It would have been wiser if I had never
come,” he says, still very seen “it would
have been wiser for me if I had gone the
moment I was able. I did not mean to say
this, but, Olga, cannot you see—do you not
know the reason?”

“No, I do not,” she answers, still petulant,
although the deepening flush on her cheek
tells another story. “I only know you are very
perverse, and are longing to be off among
your fever patients, and to catch it, if possi-

le, over again yourself.”

“Would you care if I did—would you care if
I did?” he says, then quickly checks himself,
“No,” he says, “do not answer that question.
I had no right to ask it—I recall it, and beg
your pardon. I did not mean to say this much,
Olga, to say anything; but having said it in
spite of myself, let me say yet more. I love
you, Olga, I love you with my whole heart.”

There is astartling pause. Miss Ventnor
catches her breath, but makes no other sign.

“Once I might have said this with some-
thing of a good grace,” Geoffrey goes on; “that
day has gone by. I loved you even then, Olga.
I can recall no time when I did not. But the
deluge came—the whole world changed for me;
we parted, and I never thought to see you
again. I did not forget you; I never could.
You were the one fair woman in all the world
for me, but I never wished to meet you more.
That way madness lay. But who is stronger
than his fate? You came—we have met, I am
here, I. am at your feet, I am saying this. My
whole heart is yours—peérhaps it is written in
the book of fate that I am to tell you this. It
is presumption, I know, but I know, too, you

will not look on it in that light. We have

been such old friends, Olga, that you will
listen, and pity, and forgive.” :

wrt and forgive! And he asks nothing but
that.

“I meant to go and say nothing”—all this
time he has hardly stirred from his recumbent
position, hardly let a touch of the excitement
that thrills him creep into his voice—it is the
most passive-looking of love-making, and yet
is full of repressed passion and fire. “I meant
to depart and make no sign. But my love is
stronger than my judgment. And after all, it
can do no harm, You will forget, and I will
take my dreams with me, and be the less mis-
erable for knowing that you have heard and
understood, If I were a richer man I would
plead very differently. It is that I am so
absolutely poor that gives me courage to speak
at all. pair, you know, is a free man—
Hope is a coward. hen we have nothing to
hope for, we have nothing to fear. Say you
forgive me, Olga, and are still my friend in
spite of this.”

“T will say it,” she answers, with a great
effort, “and if you wish—more.”

He turns and looks at her, surprise in his
face, little else. Certainly there is no gleam
of hope. He has settled it so completely with
himself that it is impossible she can care for
him, that it is not for one faltering reply to
upset his theory.

“Olga!” he says.

Her head is averted, her cheek is crimson,
her eyes are downcast, her fingers pluck ner-
vously at the tufts of grass and wild flowers,

“Olga,” he says, again, and this time there is
a PAN cece flash of delight in his
5 “ a ~~
“On,” one breaks out, brokenly, “cannot you

 

see? Why will you force me to speak? I will
not speak!” with a flash from the great blue |
eyes.

"She rises suddenly to her feet, and scatters a
shower of pink petals over ber jover, and over
the grass.

“Olga,” is all he can say, in his whirl of
amazement, incredulity, of mad, new joy.

There is a struggle. Then all at once she
stoops, and, lightly as the touch of thistle-
down, her lips rest on his forehead.

“Tf you can leave me—now,” she says, flushed,
frightened at her own temerity, breathless,
laughing, “go!”

And, as she speaks, she turns, and swiftly
as a fawn flies, is gone.

 

CHAPTER XI.

 

HOW JOANNA SAID GOOD-BY.

“T think it is odd,” says Mrs. Abbott, lan-
guidly, “and unlike Joanna. She never has
whims. Why should she wish us to remain
here, instead of going home, as we ought, to
receive her?”

Another week has gone by—nine days,
indeed—and Leo and her mother are still the
guests of the Ventnors. Geoffrey has gone back
to his.cottage home, as per previous arrange-
ment, to have it set in order for them, and

 

 

nnn

“Not one, I shall give my fair cousin my
blessing on her wedding-day, with the sound-
est of hearts—where she is concerned. And
your mother?” he says, shifting skillfully from
what he feels to be dangerous ground. “You
have brought her back safe and well?”

“Safe and well, thank Heaven—almost as
well in mind as in body. e might have left
years ago, poor darling, if ¢ ad been any
one to take her. Ab! Frank, I feel that my
whole life wil{ not suttice to repay her for
what she has suffered. And do you Spa she
accepted me in a moment as her child, seemed
to know me, if such a thing could be possible,
and came with me so gladly. She can hardly
bear me a moment out of her sight.”

“You should have brought her down with
you. It is unfair to leave her even fora few
days now.”

“A few days! My dear Frank, I return by
to-night’s train, Meantime, she is with the
Professor and Madam Ericson. I have not
come to stay. I have come’—her face ares
grave—“on very important business, and part
of it is with you. must see Leo first.”

He is stricken dumb. Their names in this
conjunction! He grows quite white as he leans
forward ,to.look at her.

“Joanna, what do you mean?”

She lays her hand on his, kindly, gently,
but very pecagy!

“Not now, Frank—later. I must first see
Leo. I want her to go with me to Abbott
Wood this morning. I have a fancy for sayin
what I have to say in the dear, Beautiful of
house that she loves so well, and where she—
they all—were so good to Joanna. Mrs. Hill
will give us lunch there. I shall not return to
Ventnor Villa: and if, when Leo goes back,
you will come in her stead, I will say good-by
to you as well.”

She is smiling, but her eyes look dark and
sad. He sets his lips—even they are pale.

“Good-by! Joanna, what are you saying?
There is to be no good-by between us any
more. You are mine; I claim you. I am going
to announce our engagement. It is useless for
you to object. I am.”

“Ah, well!” she says, wearily, “wait—wait
until this afternoon, at least. Iam a little
tired now, and—dispirited, I think. I do not
want to talk of it. Do you know,” brighten-
ing suddenly, and smiling, “I met an old
friend, by purest chance, in the streets of San
Francisco. It was so good tosee him, although
I had every reason to be ashamed. I was
ashamed, too,” she laughs, and colors a little.

“Who?” Frank asks.

“George Blake—poor George! So improved,
so brown, so manly-looking, and so prosper-
ous. He is editor and proprietor of a daily out
there, and doing well. J recognized him in a
moment, but he did not know me. I stopped
him, however, and made myself known—made
my peace with him, too, I am happy to say.
hat a wretch I was in those days! J look
back now and wonder if ‘I be I?’ You never
saw any one so glad as he was to meet me,
and as for all the good-natured things he said
about my changed appearance, and so on—but

 

 

resume his labors. One day longer than he

had intended he has staid, and both families |
haye been electrified by the wonderful news, |
And yet not, perhaps, so very greatly. Colonel |
Ventnor glances at his daughter, and slowly |
smiles. In all his life he has never contradicted |
his darling—he is hardly likely to begin now. |
And he is not ambitious of adding wealth to

wealth—she is, and will be always, sufficiently

rich. As the heir of John Abbott, he certainly

never would have dreamed of objecting to

young Lamar, with the best blood of the

South in his veins, As a struggling young

doctor he is not less worthy of her. e is no

fortz.ne-hunter, of that the colonel is well

assured. And Olga loves him; his proud and

delicate darling, whose heart hitherto no man

has been able to touch. He grasps Geoffrey's

hand with frank, soldierly warmth.

“There is no man living to whom I would
sooner give her,” he says, cordially. “For-

 

 

 

tune? Ah, well, fortune is not everything, and
fortune is to be won by the willing. Vie are
of that number, Iam sure. If I fancied her
fortune had to do with it, do you think I
would listen like this? It is because I could
stake my life on the truth of the lad I have
known all his life, that I say yes so readily.
Make her happy Geoffrey—all is said in that.”

Could anything be more delightful? Geoffrey
finds the whole English rorennae inadequate
to his wants, in the way of thanks. Mrs.
Ventnor is charmed--the son of her dearest
friend is the one, above all others, she would
have chosen for her son as well.

One thing only is adrawback—the story that
must be told: the one bar sinister on the spot-
less Lamar shield. But that cannot be told
now; not until Joanna returns and gives per-
mission. Some hint of it he drops, necessarily
obscure, before he goes. No plens are formed |
for the present—it is understood that Colonel
and Mrs. Ventnor will not agree to any long
engagement.

“Tf you and Olga make up your mind to
wait while you win your way,” he says, de-
cisively, “it must be without an engagement.
I will not have hey fettered while you plod
slowly upward.”

It is not likely, under these circumstances,
they will make up their minds to wait.
Geoffrey goes, and Olga is petted to her
heart’s content. For Leo, she is in a seventh
heaven of rapture, and for a day or two posi-
tively forgets Frank. Another sister, and that
one her darling Olga! Surely, she is the most
fortunate girl in the world.

And now here is Joanna coming back, has
come indeed, and is with Geoffrey already.

“Wait until I join you,” is what she writes.
“T have something to say to you, my Leo,
that I prefer to say there.”

It is now late on Monday evening—to-mor-
row morning will bring her.

To-morrow comes. Frank is at the station to
meet her, looking worn and anxious, as he
has grown of late. eer his misanthropy,
as far as Leo is concerned, has grown upon
him; he ee avoids her. He is trying to
be true, with all his might. If he could fly
from danger, he would fly, but that is impos-
sible. So he stays on, and does the best he
can, trying to think a great deal of Joanna
and her perfections. Whether she agrees or
not, he means to end this as soon as she
returns, and let the world know of their rela-
tions to each other. He will not ask her leave,
he will assert himself, he will simply tell.
Then Leo will understand.

They will be quietly married, and go away
at once. And little Leo will forget—she is
such a child—and be happy with some happier
man.

The train stops, and a tall young lady, ina
gray traveling suit, and pretty gray hat,
alights. It is Joanna, looking well and bright,
and almost handsome. She smiles and holds
out her hand frankly at sight of him, but her
manner is more that of a cordial friend than
of the woman he is going to marry.

“How well you are looking,” he says. “Your
long journey seems to have given you added
bloom, Joanna. You are as fresh as any rose.”

“It must be a yellow rose, then,” says
Joanna, laughing, “and pale saffron bloom. I
am ae I cannot return the compliment. You
are looking anything but well, Frank. You
mets not had a sun-stroke, I hope, this sum-
mer?”

She speaks lightly, but her glance is keen,
and there is an under-current of meaning in
her tone. He flushes slightly, and flecks the
wheeler lightly with his whip.

“Something rather like it, I believe. But I
shall rapidly grow convalescent now that you
are back. I have—we all have missed you,
Joanna.”

“Thank you,” she says, gently. “Thatis a
good hearing. I like my friends to miss me.
How are they all?—well?”

“Quite well. No doubt you have heard the
wonderful news. You saw Geoffrey?”

“Yes, I saw him,” smiling, “and really it
was not such wonderful news. I did not faint
with surprise when I heard it. But of course I
am delighted, more than delighted. She will
have the noblest husband in the world, and
she is worthy of him. You are sure you feel

 

 

 

 

 

 

no jealous pang, Frank?” laughing.

you would think me frightfully conceited if I
repeated the half. What is tothe point is,
that he has forgiven me, and forgotten mie, so
far as his old fancy is concerned. He is en-
gaged to be married, and to quite a rich young
lady. Is not all that pleasant news?”

But Livingston is not very deeply inter-
ested in George Blake, or his successes, edit-
orial or matrimonial. He is filled with dis-
quiet by Joanna’s manner; he fears he knows
not what. She laughs and talks lightly enough,
but underneath it all he sees a resolute pur-
pos@, and he has learned to fear her inflexible
resolution. Why should she so connect his
name with Leo’s? What does she suspect? He
has striven hard to be loyal and true, but
those oe dark eyes are eyes not venue de-
ceived. The drive is not a long one, but silence
has fallen long before they reach the house.

Joanna is met, is welcomed by the Veninors
with flattering warmth, is embraced by Leo
and ber mother with effusion, and finaily has
a private interview with the latter lady. It is
not a long one, but Mrs. Abbott is very pale
and grave when it is over, and there are
traces of recent tears.

“Tt is like you, Joanna!” is what she says;
“I can say nothing more than that. You are
generosity itself. I can only echo Geofirey’s
words, and leave the decision to Leo, unbiased.
She is a child in most things, but in this she
must judge for herself. You are her sister, and

our wishes should have weight. Tell her, and
it shall be as she says.” i

“T have no fear, then,” Joanna says, gayly.
“Teo has common sense, if she is a child, and
is free from fine-drawn notions and wicked

ride. Leo, dear, run and put on your hat,

will drive you over to Abbott Wood, if Miss
Ventnor will trust her ponies to my care. I
am quite a skilled charioteer, I assure you.”

“To Abbott Wood?” Leo says, opening wide
the velvet black eyes.

“Yes, dear; and we will lunch there
together. Quite like old times—will it not be?
Do not be a minute. I will say good-by to
the others while you are gone.” ;

“Good-by?” cries Leo, with dismay: but
Joanna has left her, and is already explain-
ing the necessity for her return that very
night. She cannot leave her mother, who pines
and frets in her absence. So she says farewell
there and then, to Mrs. Abbott as well as the
rest.

“We go south very shortly,” Joanna says,
“and will pass the winter in Florida. Next
spring, when we return, of course my first visit
will be here.”

Frank is there as well as the rest, but to
him she does not hold out her hand.

“Come and fetch Leo back this afternoun,”
she says. “I can make my adieus to you then.”

She and Leo depart, and Livingston quits
the family group, and is seen no more by any
member of the household. It is a day he will
not easily forget; the suspense, the dread, the
pain he feels, grave themselves on his memory,
making this a day apart from all other days
in his life.

Meantime the ponies prance along, and speed-
ily do the five miles between Ventnor Villa
and Abbott Wood. It is a perfect day—sunny,
cloudless, breezy, with the odor of the sea in

the crisp air, and Abbott Wood looking more —

like an ancestral park and baronial hall than
ever. They aera up.the noble drive and
alight in front of the house. Great urns glow,
filled with tropical plants; the flower-beds
blaze in their autumn glory; the deer louk at
them with wild, shy eyes; fountains tinkle
and plash—all is in pee order. So is the
house in as exquisite keening as when its mis-
tress reigned there. Leo’s eyes light as they
drink in all this beauty. She laughs a little,
then sighs.

“It’s so lovely,” she says—“the dear, dear
old home! Go where I will I see nothing
like it!”

“You love it, then?” Joanna quietly asks.

“Love it!” Leo repeats. Her eyes flash, her
lips part, then she stops. She must not seem
too fond of it now, she remembers, lest Joanna
thinks her envious. “Of course I am fond of
it,” she says. “I was born here, and every
tree, and every flower, and bird, seem like old
friends. But it will always seem like home to
me, now that it is yours. If it had gone toa
stranger, I think it would almost have broken
my heart.” ;

“Dear little loving heart!” Joanna inter-

es with a smile.

“But it is yours, and you are my own pre-
cious sister,” goes on Leo, gayly, “and I shall
expect you to invite me here often. You are
not to forget your poor relations, you know,
Mlle. Fifty Millions!”

Joanna pauses, and looks down upon her.

H ood’s
Sarsaparilla
Cures

 

 

 

 

.

 

 

 

*
;
4

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

VOL. 47—No. 40.

 

 

 

ecasa THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3=—

 

 

 

She lays both hands on her shoulders and
smiles down into her eyes, Very sweet, and
youthful, and fair is little Leo, with her pretty
upturned face, and large, luminous Southern
eyes.

“It must be the other way,” she says. “You
must invite me here, little Leo—for Abbott
Wood is yours.”

“Mine !”
7 The dark eyes open wide, and stare.

es, my darling--yours and yours only.
From this day you are the little chatelaine of
Abbott Wood. Do you think I would keep
your birthright—the house where you were
orn? the place you love so dearly, where you
were so good—so good—to me? Ah, no! I
never thought of that. I meant to restore it
to you from the firsc. You are my sister, my
father’s daughter. It was for you he intended
it, and yours it shall be. Do not look at me
with such wonder-stricken eyes. Could you
think so badly of meas to dream I would keep
it? J would not live here if I could. There
are reasons——” she stops for a moment. “No,
little Leo, it is yours; all the processes of law
have been duly fulfilled. It is yours by free
deed of gift, and with it half the fortune our
father left. What should I do with so much
money? Even half is the embarrassment of
riches. I can never spend my income. It was
for this I stopped on my way here, to speak
to Geoffrey. f kriew you would do nothing
without his consent. He would have no voice
in the matter, he left it entirely to you. It
was to tell your mother; I saw her alone this
morning—she, too, leaves it altogether to you.
But I do not—you must accept. There is no
compulsion, you know, Leo, dear,” says
Joanna, laughing and kissing her, “only you
must! And although you cannot live here
alone, and though neither your mother nor
brother will ever live here with you, I foresee
Abbott Wood will not be long without a mis-
tress. I foresee,” goes on Joanna, her hands
still on Leo’s shoulders, her smiling eyes still
on Leo’s face, “that you will soon reign here,
and not alone, and I hope—oh, my little Leo,
with all my heart I hope you may be very,
very happy!”

Her voice breaks. Leo flings her arms about
her and hides her face on her breast. She is
sobbing, whether with joy, with love, with
gratitude, or with pain, she hardly knows.

Happy! Ah, if Joanna only knew how un-
happy ske is!

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

This Story Will Not be Published in Book-Forn,

La Pastora the Actress.

By BURKE BRENTFORD,

Author of ‘‘ Florence Falkland,” ‘‘ Torn from
Home,” ‘* Lest in New York,” ‘A
Sister’s Sacrifice,’ Etc.

 

 

(‘LA PASTORA THE ACTRESS” was commenced in No.
30. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Ageuts.]

 

CHAPTER XIV.
A FRIEND IN NEED—THE RECONCILIATION.

Though very weary and sick at heart on
account of the mental sufferings he had
endured, Vicenzo pressed on through the for-
est, which grew wilder and denser as he pro-
ceeded.

It was just at the first streak of dawn,
when the barking of dogs and the lowing of
herds apprised him that he was approaching
a village, which he rightly supposed to be Sor-
rento itself. He was worn-out, and yet dared
not enter the village, since his disguise of the
domino was gone; and he therefore looked
about him warily, in order to find some spot
where he could safely recuperate himself with
the repose and rest he stood in so much
need of.

At length he found a little mow of. hay,
standing in a secluded field cluse to the edge
of the forest: and, after refreshing himself
from a brook that ran near by, he improvised
for himself a bed of the clean hay, upon which
he was shortly buried in deep sleep.

Upon awaking, it was late into the after-
noon, But he had not been molested, and felt
entirely recovered from his fatigue, though
terribly rep

Soldier that he was, and used as he had been
to a life of hardship and adventure, a strange,
lost feeling of loneliness and misery pos-
sessed our hero, as he arose and looked around
him. He knew thatit would be fool-hardy for
him to pass through Naples for many days,
in any disguise, and the thought of Beatrice’s
feelings toward him,and his many misfortunes,
recurred to him with redoubled force,

He dared not even seek a peasant’s cottage
for the purchase of food, for the small penin-
sula, upon which Castellammare and Sorrento
were situated, was so small that each of the
inhabitants had most likely already been
placed under strict surveillance by the Amalfi;
and, with plenty of money in his pocket,
famine stared him in the face almost as cer-
tainly as if he had been in a desert, instead of
in a land abounding with the grains and

tiful and popular as she is,” said he, moodily,
“should it transpire among our ‘companions’
that, in thus furthering her private ends
respecting thyself, signor count, she hath
entered in league with the Amalfi. It looks
very like it,” he added, speaking very deliber-
ately. “Beldiavolo would never forgive her
for it! There is not a brigand or brigandess,
old or young, who would forgive her!”

He reflected for a moment, and then asked
Vicenzo what his future movements were to be.

“I hardly know myself,” replied the young
soldier. “I dare not go to Naples until this
affair shall, in a measure, have blown over.
The city itself would be too hot to hold me;
the Count of Sorrente, in yonder castle, is my
most upmecable foe; and probably every peas-
ant and every shepherd between me and
Naples is in the Amalfi’s interest.”

“No, there is one who is not against thee,”
said Benedetto. “I have been lodging at his
cottage during my stay in this neighborhood,
and he will only be too happy to shelter and
nourish a friend of Beldiavolo, such as he
knows thee, signor count! Come; an’ it please
you, we will make our way thither at once.”

Vicenzo was willing enough to avail himself
of this timely offer, and his spirits arose as
his fortunes appeared to show, here and there,
a gleam of sunshine through the clouds.

“How hast thou succeeded with respect to
thy captive comrades, Benedetto?” he asked,
as they made their way through the dense
underbrush toward the bay.

The brigand shook his head.

“But poorly,” he replied. “I havea friend at
the castle in the person of a little maid who
doth wait upon the Donna Beatrice, and,
through her, I have obtained direct commu-
nication from my poor ‘companions,’ though

 

I have small chance of seeing them. In a few
‘weeks they will probably be taken to Naples,
and be broken alive upon the wheel.”
Benedetto was so much affected at this that
he shed tears, and-his companion was cautious |
not to broach the subject anew.
The cottage of Benedetto’s friend, which
they now approached, was singularly lonely
and secluded. They had left the castle behind,
and were now entering the wildest and rough-

 

castle—though Heaven know
and annoying enough, ina#much as my gar-
dener’s guise was looked upon with such sus-
picion that I-couldscarcely persuade the stew-
ard not to set his hounds upon me. At length the
noble lady sent word that I should await her
coming in the ruined chapel. I waited patiently
a long time, but was well rewarded when she
came, for her beauty made the whole ruin
radiant, though she seemed pale. When she
learned that I came directly from thee, she
flew into a passion, refused to hear a word,
and was about to leave the ruin very dark
once more; but I fell upon my knees and
rayed her to hear me so earnestly, that at
ast she consented, signor count. I shall never
forget the expression of the lovely donna’s
face when I related minutely all of the actions
of Doniella. At first, she would not believe it,
but I mentioned facts and incidents that
served to convince her of my truth. Then
she fell to weeping and sobbing so piteously
that it almost broke my heart to look at her.”
_“And she said she would see me?” cried
Vv icenzo, scarcely able to contain himself.
“Yes; she will meet thee at the same place
to-night, when the moonrises. She bade me
to warn thee that thou shouldst be exceed-
ingly cautious and discreet; since the Amalfi,
having ransacked Naples in quest of thee, sus-
pected of thy harboring in this neighborhood,
and were doubly watchful on that account.”
“Oh, bless her! bless her, all the saints of
heaven!” cried the young soldier, fervently.
“Said she naught else?”
_ “She merely asked me if thou hadst ever had
in thy service a page, of singular beauty,
named Guiseppe, to which I replied that I
knew nothing of thy private affairs.”
“Guiseppe, Guiseppe,” muttered Vicenzo to
himself. “Why, that,” he cried, aloud, a sud-
cen light breaking in upon him—“that is the
name Doniella assumes when she plays the
ei Oh, miserable, wicked Doniella, what
ast thou not done to render me wretched
and unhappy?”
He grasped the brigand lieutenant’s hand,
and expressed his heartiest thanks for the
great service he had done him.

 

est glen of the forest. In the midst of this
glen the cottage stood, and quite close to the
sea, though separated therefrom by a shallow
grove of wild olive trees. It struck Vicenzo as
exceedingly strange that such a rude and
lonely place should exist in such close prox-
imity to the soft groves and fallow fields sur-
rounding the Castle of Sorrento; but as his
guide volunteered no explanation, he asked
for none.

The man who opened the cottage door for

Roeeety, and suffering. -He welcomed Bene- |
detto like an old acquaintance, and bowed |
with the deepest respect to our hero, when he |

 

 

learned that Beldiavolo regarded him with |
affectionate friendship.

“Pray sit thee down, signor count,” said he,
in a very sweet and gentle voice. “I have had
sons—ay, and grandsons, too—who were bold
‘companions’ in the mountains; and every-
thing I have is at the disposal of a friend of
Beldiavolo.”

Vicenzo thanked the old man heartily, and
took a seat most willingly. The interior uf the
cottage, though rude and homely enough, pre-
sented an appearance of comfort which would
scarcely have been expected from the bowed
and care-worn aspect of its proprietor.

A little wood-fire sparkled brightly upon the
hearth, which added to the general cheerful-
ness of the apartment, though the night was
by no means cool; and the old man also hegan
to cover the single deal table, which occupied
the center of the room, with a plentie) supply
of broken meat, cheese, and bread, to which
both Vicenzo and Benedetto did not fail to do
ample justice—washing down their food with
copious draughts of weak but refreshing wine.

They then retired to pallets of clean straw,
in another apartment of the cottage, and soon
forgot the trials and fatigues of the day in
pleasant and invigorating repose.

Vicenzo spent several days in and around the
cottage of Giotto, as the old man was called,
without knowing what he should do, and every
day becoming more heartily tired of his en-
forced seclusion. This was rendered more
unbearable from the fact that there was no
means by which he could obtain any intelli-
gence from his friends, or, indeed, of any.
thing that had transpired in Naples in his
absence, on account of the imminent danger
of approaching, or even communicating with,
the peasants of the vicinity.

One day, however, Benedetto came to him
in high spirits. He had learned, through the
agency of his friend, the little maiden of the
castle, that the two captives had obtained
tools, which he had smuggled in to them, and
were even then drilling their way through the
walls of their dungeon, with a fair prospect of
making their escape before the arrival of the

 

 

 

 

fruits of the earth.

So, with a heart that was most unusual to
his naturaliy light and buoyant disposition,
he made a wide circuit of the village, and then
pushed on through the forest, with the castle
of Sorrento for his objective point, though he
would probably have been at a loss to assign a
reason for his course, if he had been ques-
tioned.

However, he manayed to pilfer an orchard
of a number of ripe oranges and cherries,
or served to appease his hunger consider-
ably.

He had neared the castle, and yet dared not

ass from the forest into the lighter groves.
The sun was setting—another night was about
to fall, and he was slowly revolving in his
mind the cheerless problem as to what dispo-
sition he should make of himself, when, as he
turned toward the bay, whose waters he

thought he could see glistening through the!

trees, he was surprised by a man leaping up
from the leavesand underbrush directly before
him, and grasping his dagger.

They recognized each other at the same
time.

“Benedetto!” exclaimed Vicenzo.

“Signor count !”

The presence of this man—whom he knew to
be his friend—served to revive Vicenzo’s
spirits wonderfully.

“And how hast thou fared since I assisted
thee to put Marzio and his comrade to flight
at the foot of Vesuvius,” he cried.

“Thou, signor count!” said the brigand, in
a bewildered way.

Vicenzo smiled, and now, since it was no
longer necessary that he should keep the brig-
and in the dark—but, indeed, quite the reverse
—he related the particulars of the combat, in
which the seeming friar had afforded him such
timely assistance.

Benedetto was overjoyed to know that. he
was indebted to Vicenzo for such signal ser-
vice, instead of to an unknown friar, whom
he might never have met again; and begged
to know the reason of his benefactor’s pres-
ent forlorn and wandering condition. There-
upon Vicenzo gave him a full history of his
adventures from the time of their last meet-
ing, searcely omitting the slightest particular,
especially with respect to the part that Don-
iella had borne in them.

The young brigand’s brow knitted and his
eyes flashed when he heard this.

“It will go hard with even Donielia, beau-

a
; shall o for the friendship in which

 

executioner’s guard, to convey them to Naples.

Vicenzo sympathized with the brigand’s re-
joicing, and, as the latter intimated that his
leave-of-absence had nearly expired, and he
must shortly set out on his return to Monte-
corvino, he made a proposition to him which
had been gathering shape in his mind for
some time. This was that Benedetto, through
his convenient little friend, should seek and
obtain, if possible, an interview with the
Donna Beatrice, explain to her Doniella’s
treachery, and try and induce herto grant
him (Vicenzo) an interview, that he might
offer further explanations,

The brigand hesitated before replying to
this proposition, inasmuch as, should he
pees it, and then fail of accomplishment, ii
would not only ieee him in a perilous posi-
tion, but ruin his companions’ chance of
breaking from their prison. But he only hesi-
tated for an instant, and then seized Vicen-
zo’s hand impulsively.

“Forgive me for are signor count,” he
exclaimed ; “when the recollection of the great
service thou didst once render mnie, at the risk
of thy life, should have caused me to fling
every selfish thought to the winds. I will
undertake this mission for thee to-morrow
morning, come weal or woe!”

“Nay, Benedetto,” said thesoldier, proudly;
“T want not thy assistance in a spirit of can-
celing adebt. Ido not assist the weak against
the strong to incur an obligation, but to sat-
isfy a principle of manhood.”

“Nay, then,” cried the brigand, gayly, “it
eldia-
volo holds thee; or, if that will not do, for the
love which even I, poor Benedetto Alanca,
bear thee, signor count !”

“Let it be for the latter, then, good Bene-
detto!” said Vicenzo, grasping his hand.

The next morning, after the departure of the
brigand lieutenant for the castle, duly dis-
guised as a gardener insearch of employment,
was a most trying one for our hero. He
would not quit the vicinity of Giotto’s cot-
tage, since he desired to catch the first glimpse
of his messenger’s return, but paced moodily
i and down in the wild glen; and, as hour
after hour wore away, with still no sign of
his return, he grew almost frenzied with im-
patience.

At last, however, he heard the brigand’s
footsteps rustling through the underbrush,
and he sprang forward with an exclamation of
joy, for he read hope and success in the new-
comer's face.

“Yes, signor count,” said Benedetto, reply-
ing to the other’s anxious look; “Signorina
Beatrice hath condescended to grant me an
interview. I had the honor to speak with her
an hour, or more, in the ruined chapel by the
sea,”
“Well, well, Benedetto!” cried the youn
soldier, feverishly. “Does she forgive—wil
she see me.”

“Yes, yes, let thy mind be quiet on that
score, signor count; and I will have a chance
to tell my story,” said Benedetto, taking a
seat upon the trunk of a fallen tree. “I will
not increase thy impatience, signor count, by
telling thee of the many difficulties I had to
encounter in order to send a message to the

their admittance was bent with years, and his
haggard, wrinkled face, and thin, silvered |

“Nay, it was no more than thy due, signor
count,” replied Benedetto. “I shall soon, I
trust, have the pleasure of recounting thy
adventures to Beldiavolo himself; for, nothing
ee ae I shall start for Montecorvino as
soon as I learn the results of thy interview.”

The remainder of the day was a long, long
period to our hero, and, despite the dangers
that surrounded him, he was at the ruined
oreo! by he sea long before the appointed

our.

It was a night of many stars, but an omi-
inous gloom and stillness invested the ruin

 

locks were indicative of a long life of trouble, | and the neighboring groves, as he paced the

weed-grown pavement with impatient strides,
and with, ever and anon, a longing glance
toward the east. ;

At length the rising moon showed her white
face glistening, through the almond trees, and
he hailed her coming with a lover’s rapture.

| Yet still Beatrice: was absent. An hour
| passed, and still she did not come.

He was growing sick at heart, when there
was heard a light step rustling through the
grove—he saw the glimmering of a snowy
gown, and the next instant she was panting
and weeping upon his breast.

There are moments when silence is far more
eloquent than any words; and for some mo-
ments neither could speak. But at length
Vicenzo said, falteringly:

“Sweet Beatrice, my heart is almost too full
for utterance; but thou knowest all—and thou
hast forgiven me?”

“Nay, what have I to forgive, dearest one?”
replied the countess, with a trembling lip.
“Oh, that wicked, wicked actress! Whata
terrible creature she must be !”

“Yes; but hereafter, I trust, no stratagem
of hers can separate us!”

“But Vicenzo, dear,” said the lady; “thy
whilom page, Guiseppe, hath told me many
naughty things respecting thee.”

The young soldier listened, with unqualified
amazement, to the string. of falsehoods, con-
cerning himself, which Bdérice recounted to
him as having been related to her by Doniella,
Of course the countess’ astonishment was no
less great when her lover declared the actress
and the page to be one and the same person.

“ As thou didst say, amoment ago, Vicenzo,”
said she, taking his hand, and pressing it ten-
derly, “no stratagem of this wicked woman
can heiuattor divide us!”

She started, for fleet footsteps were heard
approaching from the w e

“Vicenzo, fly for thy life! we are betrayed !”
she shrieked.

Vicenzo grasped the hilt of his rapier, but
before he could bare its blade, he was sur-
rounded.

A stunning blow on the temple staggered
him—the world whirled and heaved around
him—and he sank senseless upon the ground.

 

CHAPTER XV.

VICENZO IN CHAINS—HE FINDS COMPANIONS
IN MISERY—A TERRIBLE FATE.

When our hero returned to consciousness,
his body was stiff and sore, and a horrible
agony racked his head.

He was lying upon the hard stones. Damp,
dripping walls surrounded him, an awful
gloom and silence prevailed, and away, far up
overhead, some scanty beams of light were
broken and crippled in their passage through
a small iron-grated casement, a

He covered his face with his hands, and
recollection returned to him, piece by piece,
thread "t thread, with a dull, bewiidering
agony. e was in a dungeon—its poison
damps had already penetrated to his bones,
its gloom was upon his soul,:and there were
the rattle and clank of heavy manacles as he
moved his chilled and aching limbs.

He remained thus for hours, pressing his
hands upon his eyes, and yielding entirely to
the wild and mournful thoughts that took
pero of his brain. He at length mastered

is despair in some degree, however, and
gained his feet. The movement caused him to
groan with agony, but he found that by pacing
the floor of his prison, and dragging his chains
«fter him, the pain in his limbs was considera-
bly mitigated, though the horrible aching of
his head continued unabated.

He felt that he had been badly wounded,
by some blunt instrument, on the temple, and
experienced a slight relief by drenching his
head in the cold water thattrickled constantly
from one vf the walls.

Then, as his eyes became somewha® accus-
tomed to the dim half-light, he began to
inspect his dungeon with curiosity. Any hope
that he might have entertained of effecting
his escape was speedily dissipated by such an
examination.

The dungeon was not very narrow, but the
walls appeared as strong and solid as the globe
itself; and, indeed, the greater portion of the
cell was far below the surface of the earth,
as he afterward learned. The oaken door was
studded thickly with brazen knobs, and
appeared almost as solid and firm as the
masonry in which it was securely set. The
narrow casement, which admitted the few rays
that so tantalizingly lighted the gloom, was
fully thirty feet above his head; and, even if
he could have reached it, escape would appar-
ently have been impossible, for the iron bars
of its grating were almost as thick as a
woman's wrist. There was a pallet of clean
straw in one corner—though his captors had
not taken the trouble to cast his senseles form
upon it—and a loaf of hard bread (or rather,
what the rats had left of it) with a jug of
water, stood beside the pallet.

As the bread was neariy all gone, he judged
that he must have lain senseless for many
hours. Huge and loathsome rats, almosz as
big as marmots, ran across the stone floor,
eying him with an evil glitter in their bead-
like eyes, and the small green lizards peculiar
to the country glided with deathlike stillness
along the slimy walls.

“Oh, wretched, wretched me!” moaned

 

countess by means of my liPle friend at the Vicenzo, and casting himself prone upon the
they were many | straw, he again gave himself up to despair.

But night was gathering upon the outer
world, and into no cavern of the earth did it
descend with blacker horror than in the dun-
geon of our hero. The gloom became so oppres-
sive that he groaned and cried aloud. Then,
remembering his manhood, he clenched his
teeth and crushed back his cries, while yet
the awe and horror of the intense darkness
enveloped his very soul. He endured this
agony for many hours, until at length a little
white streak shot through the high grating,
nak hy etch, like a dagger upon the opposite
wall.

It was a little moornbeam that came to bless
him with its smile, and his worn and tortured
spirit arose in gratitude to Heaven. The beam
enlarged, and soon the whole upper part of
the dungeon was flickeringly lighted by the
pitying effulgence of the queen of night. His
worn-out nature could bear no more, and
finally he sank into deep slumber, which was
more like a heavy swoon than genuine and
invigorating sleep.

When he awoke, it was again day, and
some one was drawing the bolts of his dun-
geon. This caused him to spring to his feet
with an agility that was surprising, consider-
ing the weight of his rattling manacles: but,
as the door swung wide, he saw that it was
only his jailer, coming to bring him his daily
allowance of bread and water. The jailer was
a man of powerful frame, but his face was
completely concealed by a mask, and his head
and form were enveloped in a black-hooded
robe commonly worn by friars doing penance.

Upon the prisoner speaking to this man, the
only answer he received wasa kick cruelly
bestowed with a heavy boot, and the next
moment the heavy door clanged to, and the
great bolts were heard rattling into their
places.

Vicenzo sank down, pale and quivering like
a leaf. He was a soldier—had been inured
almost from the cradle to the desperate for-
tunes of camp and field, but he had never
before received a kick.

“Now have mine enemies indeed triumphed,
that I am ground under the hoofs of their
basest hirelings!” he moaned, while the
= desperation took possession of his
soul.

But he did not fail to possess himself of the
loaf and eat it at once, for a small army of
rats were already making a flank movement
to capture it. As he munched the dry crusts
—not without some satisfaction, for his hun-
ger was great—he could not refrain from re-
|garding these vermin with infinite disgust.
He thought that perchance one day, when
captivity should have rendered him helpless
to make any resistance, they would attack
him, instead of his bread, and make him their
loathsome prey. The thought was so horrible
that he dashed his manacles at them, and
strove to turn his thoughts upon other themes.

Four days and nights passed away, without
a change, and without a glimpse of a human
being, save when the brutal jailer made his
daily appearance, and the poor captive was
careful not to address him again.

Vicenzo had now grown so weak and des-
perate that he resigned all hope of ever
obtaining his liberty, and even prayed for
death to relieve his sufferings. But at the
close of the fourth day, his attention was
aroused by a strange grating noise within one
of the walls at the side of his dungeon. He
did not notice it especially at first, but it
continued persistently at intervals for two
days and two nights, and hourly grew louder
and more pronounced.

It was a noise as of some one picking and
boring into the masonry, and Vicenzo noted
that it always ceased for several hours about
the time of the jailer’s visit to his cell. His
faculties were so blunted and impaired by his
long suffering that he merely regarded this
with idle curiosity for a long time; but one
day 1t flashed upon him that the noise might
be occasioned by some other unhappy captive
endeavoring to force a communication through
the solid wall.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

 

 

JOHN PERRY'S CONFESSION.

BY LAWRENCE LESLIE,

 

 

One of the most singular cases in the whole
range of criminal jurisprudence is that of the |
arrest, confession, and execution of John |
Perry, his mother, and brother, several years |
ago, for the murder of a man, who, it after-
ward appeared, was not murdered at all; or |

even assaulted. The circumstances of the|

remarkable case are as follows:

At the time of which we speak, a man |
named William Harrison, was in the employ |
of Lady Campden, of Gloucestershire, Eng- |
land, in the capacity of steward. He was
nearly seventy years of age, had long been in|
her employ, and was esteemed a most compe-
tent and faithful servant. On Thursday, the
16th day of August, he started from home,
intending to walk to Charringford, a distance
of only two miles, for the purpose of collecting
some rents due his mistress. He did not return
at the usual hour in the evening, and his fam-
ily became alarmed. At eight o’clock he was

still absent, and a servant, named John Perry,
was sent in search of him. The family spent
the night in great anxiety, as no tidings were
received of either Mr. Harrison or the man
Perry, and with the first dawn of day, Ed-
ward, the steward’s son, started for Charring-
ford for some tidings of his parent.

On the way he met Perry, who was return-
ing with the report of his failure to gain any
tidings of the missing man. Now thoroughly
alarmed, the two hastened tothe village of
Ebrington, where they learned that Mr. Har-
rison had been there on the previous after-
noon, but had left there for home. Inquiries
were made at several other places, but with-
out discovering anything, and they finally
started to return.

On the way they met a gentleman who
informed them that a hat, head-band, and
comb had been picked ‘up on the highway by a
woman who was then at work in his fields.

Mr. H. and the servant started immediately

to investigate it, and the articles were recog-
nized as having belonged to the elder Mr.
Harrison. On one of the articles were unmis-
takable evidences of blood, and on going to
the spot where they were picked up, they dis-
covered evidences of a scuffle, and a trail lead-
ing into the fields, as if a body had _ been
drawn along the ground. At the first hedge
ee was lost and was not again discoy-
ered.
With such evidence as they had collected,
they returned to Campden and reported the
ovomety There was, of course, great excite-
ment, for Mr. Harrison was widely known and
respected, and a large number of people soon
assembled to devise means for discovering the
assassin. The servant, John Perry, who, it
will be remembered, was first sent in search
of the missing man, was closely questioned,
and his replies were by no means satisfactory.
He had been dispatched in search of Mr. Har-
rison at eight o’clock on the previous evening,
and was not seen again until the next morn-
ing, when he was met by young Mr. Harrison,
who was looking for them both.

At length sp a became 60 strong that
Perry was brought before a magistrate and
closely interrogated as to his whereabouts on
that fatal night.

The account he gave was that when his mis-
tress sent him out in the evening he went
down Campden Field toward Charringford.
On his way he met aman named William
Reed, spoke to him, and told him his errand.

It was then quite late, and he dissuaded
Perry from going any farther, and being some-
what afraid, he returned. Being ashamed to

 

 

| strangled.

 

go into the house and tell his mistress or the
servants of his faithlessness, he crawled into
a hen-house, and slept until near morning.
With the dawn of day he arose, and proceeded
to search for his missing master. On the way
he met a man, named Plasterer, from whom
he learned that Mr. H. had called on him the
previous day, and collected twenty-three
pounds, since which time he had not been
seen. He also called upon William Curtis,
and found that Mr. Harrison had collected the
rent of Mr. Curtis. With this information he
started to return, when he met his young mas-
ter, as previously related.

Reed, Plasterer, and Curtis were each exam-
ined, and fully corroborated Perry’s statement.
The justice then asked him why, after having
wasted the night, he should go out to search
for his missing master, without knowing
whether he had returned in the meantime. He
answered that he knew he had not returned,
for there was a light burning in his room,
which was never to be seen there at so late an
hour when he was in.

Although his answers were plausible, they
were not satisfactory, and the accused was
still kept in custody, and occasionally cross-
examined by the officers of justice. The gossips
were busy, meanwhile, and rumors flew thick
and fast. Among other reports was one that
Perry said that he knew his master was mur-
dered by a tinker, and another that he had
confessed that he saw him killed and robbed
by a gentleman's servant, and described where
his body was secreted, but a careful search
failed to discover it.

The clergy, the officers of justice, and many
of his.relatives then waited upon Perry, and
earnestly exhorted him to make a full confes-
sion, suggesting a freer forgiveness of Heaven
for a confessed fault, and likewise holding out
the hope of more lenient treatment from the
officers of the law. These exhortations were
not without their effect, and he sent word to
the magistrate that he had concluded to make
a full confession, and desired to be again ex-
amined. He was accordingly again interro-
gated, and confessed that he knew that his
master had been murdered, but denied having
had any hand in it himself, nor could he tell
who had committed the deed, This was not
satisfactory, the magistrate insisting that if
he knew his master was qiidetered: he must
know, also, who committed the crime,

At last Perry confessed that he did know,
and, on being further urged, said the murder
had been committed by his own mother and
brother. On hearing this, the magistrate cau-
tioned him to consider well what he said, as
the words might cost his relatives their lives.

The prisoner responded that he had fully con-
stabbed everything, and again asserted that he
spoke the truth, and the truth only. He then
gave a long and circumstantial relation of the
whole plot.

He said that ever since he had been in Mr,
Harrison’s service his mother and brother had
been tempting him to steal for them, and
finally desired him to inform them when his
master went tocollect the rents, for they could
then waylay and rob him. He said that when
his mistress sent him to seek his master he
met his brother at the gate. They talked for
some time, when a man _ passed by a few rods
from them and entered his master’s grounds.
Supposing it to be his master, and that he
had collected a large amount in rents, he
advised his brother to follow and waylay him
in the shadow of the thick foliage, while he him-
self would give him an opportunity by walk-
ing about in theadjacent fields while the deed
was being committed. After waiting a con-
siderable time, he followed his brother into
the grounds, and soon found his master lyin
on the sward, his brother being on him, an
his mother standing by.

On being asked by the magistrate if his
master was then dead, he replied that he was
not, that after he reached him he heard him

Gry:

2 An, rogues, will you kill me?”

He further said that when he saw his dear,
good master struggling in their grasp his
heart relented, and he began to beg for his
life, when his brother said, “Hush, you fool!”
and proceeded to strangle him.

bag of money was then taken from his
person and given to his mother, and she
secreted it. He and his brother, he said, car-
ried the body into an adjoining field, and
finally to the river, over half a mile distant.

His mother and brother then went home,
while he lingered about the gate, and finally
met William Reed, as before mentioned.
With the dawn of day he started to make in-
quiries concerning his master, carrying the
hat, head-band, and comb, which he cut. with
his knife, and finally left on the highway,
where they were found.

This confession was made with such appar-
ent candor and profusion of detail, that it was
at once senepeed as the true history of the foul
crime. Of course the brother and the mother
were instantly arrested, and charged with the
deed. They stoutly denied all knowledge of it,
and when confronted by their accuser, he coolly
reiterated his statement, and whena small

|piece of cord was taken from his br ther’s

pocket he instantly exclaimed that it was the
cord with which this late master had been
To all assertions of innocence on
their part, he responded with asolemn oath
that all he had spoken was the truth.

In a tew months they were all brought to
trial, and all pleaded not guilty. When his
former confession was read to bim Perry stated
that he was mad then, and knew not what he
said. Of course he was Qdisbelieved, and all
were convicted and hung, all protesting their
innocence to the last.

And now comes the curious part of this
strange history. About five years after the
execution of Perry and his supposed accom-
plices, William Harrison, for whose murder
they had suffered, unexpectedly made his ap-
pearance in the village of Campden.

The sensation created by his advent was
profound. At first he was shunned by his late
acquaintances, and even by members of his
own family, as a terrible specter from the
grave; but he finally persuaded them that he
was a_ body of veritable flesh and blood, and
Bere the following extraordinary account of
iis disappearance.

He said that when he was on his return from
his collecting tour he was met just at dusk by
three men, whom he had never seen before,
who, without a word of explanation, stopped
him, threw a cloak over his head, piitemed his
arms, and then carried him to Deal, a seaport
some twenty miles distant, where he was kept
imprisoned in a lonely house for three days,
and finally sold to an Italian captain for seven
pounds, kept six weeks at sea, and finally
transferred to a Turkish ship, from which he
was landed at Smyrna, and sold to an aged
physician residing at that port. He attempted
several times to explain his position and cir-
cumstances to his several masters, but they
either would not hear, or his ignorance of the
language rendered it impossible to make them
understand. At length his old master died,
and Mr. Harrison, taking advantage of the
excitement of his burial, concealed himself on
board a Portuguese vessel, and was landed at
Lisbon, from which point he made his way
slowly to England and to Campden.

Such was the story related by the returned
steward concerning his absence. It is hardly
necessary to say that a tale so marvelous did
not receive universal credence.

Not a few people believed that for some rea-
son unknown, he desired to leave England for
atime, and to avoid scandal had deliberately
left the impression that he had been murdered.
What secret complications. what threats of
exposure, or what combination of causes forced
the necessity upon him, will never be known.
Some believe that he was suddenly astacked
with insanity, wandered abroad in delirious
ignorance, and perhaps imagined the horrors
of kidnapping and slavery. Others again cred-
ited the story to its fullest extent, and sus-
pected the son, who succeeded to the steward-
ship, of a desire to secure the position at once,
without waiting for ‘his hale parent to vacate
it by disease or death.

No further information was ever obtained,
and the case now ranks as one of the most
curious in criminal history.

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

7 i "i
a O ?

 

 

VOL. 47—No, 40,

 

 

   

yas OF ae we
UsePss °

NEW YORK, JULY 30, 1892.

wee

 

DRE eee SP Ma Dien dha AOS
Terms to Mail Subscribers:
(POSTAGK FREER.)

3months +--+. - - 75e.|2 copies -'. - - - $5.00
4d months -. « «) « + $1.00) 4 copies ... - - - 19,00
1 VORP) spa! e hue els CODES OCIMOR 4 a £45. % 20,00
GOOD NEWS and NRW YORK WEEKLY, both, one year, $4.50

HOW TO SEND MONEY.—By post-office or express money

order, registered letter, bank check or draft, at our rsk.
At your own risk, if sent by postal note, currency, coin,
or postage stamps in ordinary letter,

RENEWALS.—'The volume and number indicated on your
address lavsl denote when your subscription expires. If
you wish your subscription stopped at expiration you
must notify us promptly, or else be held responsible for
payment, as otherwise the paper will still be sent.

RECKIP'TS.— Receipt of your remittance is acknowledged
by proper change of volume and number on your label.
It not correct you have not been properly credited, and
should let us know at once.

ERRORS—Are promptly corrected by us as soon as our
attention is called to them.

core LOST IN ''RANSIT—Are duplicated without extra
charge.

‘LO CLUB RAISERS.—Upon request we will send sample
copies to aid you in obtaining subscribers.

AGENTS.—Our responsibility for remittances applies
only to such as are sent to us direct, and we will not guar
re the reliability of any subscription agency or post-
master.

Subscriptions may begin at any time, and any issues
later thai 1882 can be supplied at regular rates. Carefully
state what number and volume you wish your subscrip-
tion to begin with.

All letters should be addressed to ®

STREET & SMITH,
P.O. Box 2734. 29 & 31 Rose St., N. Y.

A VIVID AND PICTURESQUE ROMANCE,

TEEMING WITH

 

 

Captivating Incidents.

 

Fresh and varied are the exciting scenes portraye®
in the new story we are to begin next week, under
the title of

MISS PAULINE,
NEW YORK.

By ST. GEORGE RATHBORNE,

Author of ‘* Doctor Jack,” ‘‘ Captain Tom,”
** Baron Sam,” Etc.

 

The reader is certain to find a rare treat in follow.
ing the thread of this spirited and unaffected story,
as he accompanies the cleverly-drawn characters in
their eventful tour through various lands and places
of historic interest.

The scene opens in the French metropolis, where a
little surprise awaits a bright

TYPE OF WESTERN CHARACTER,
Colonel BOB HARLAN, a sheriff from New Mexico,
who has business of deep interest in gay Paris. He
is in quest of

A MUCH NEEDED MAN,
the owner of some important sharesin a Mexican
mine, whose stock forms the main-spring of

A CLEVER STRATAGEM,
contrived to curb the power and influence of a quick-
witted and
VIVACIOUS AMERICAN GIRL,
KNOWN AS
MISS WAULINE, OF NEW YORK.

She has reason to know that her interests are im-
periled, and that even her life will not be permitted
to stand in the way of the

IMPLACABLE FOE,
who is doing his utmost to secure control of the El
Dorado Mine. This scheme is brought to the atten-
tion of Colonel Bob's friend, an easy going young
American,
DICK DENVER,
who possesses muscles of steel and a lion’s heart un-
der a calm and graceful exterior, andis always ready
for action, especially in
A WOMAN’S CAUSE.

The plot is simple, yet ingenious, and is evolved
with dramatic skill and power; while the scenes are
80 vigorously delineated that every chapter excites
renewed interest.

The first installment of ‘Miss PAULINE, OF NEW
YORK,” will be given next week.

FLIES.

BY KATE THORN.

 

 

 

 

Is there anybody living who does not abomi-
nate them?

If there be, let him come to the front. at
once, and define his position.

At this season of the year flies are every.
where. Nothing is safe and secure from their
inquisitive noses.

You put screens in your windows and doors
and fancy yourself free from intrusion, and
the first thing you know you will hear a buzz,
and looking up you will see a squad of half a
dozen of them walking over your ceiling,
heads downward, and just as much at home
as if they had been invited.

If you are a good housewife, and of course
you are, you arm yourself with a folded news-
paper and go for those flies with a will. All of
them will disappear in some miraculous man-
ner except one—a big, green-bodied, inde-
pendent-looking fellow, who will sit on a cor-
nice and gaze at you with all the stoicism of
a philosopher.

He isso still that you flatter yourself he is
indulging in a fit of absent-mindédness, and
that he will fall an easy victim to your just
wrath. You creep along toward him stealth-
ily, your paper engine of destruction raised
above your head, and when you get into the
right position you lay yourself out and strike
with a will.

Down comes a Sevres vase from a neighbor-
ing bracket, and shivers into a thousand
pieces! the cat darts under the sofa in terror
of her life, the canary tries to hide his head
in the darkest corner of his cage, but your fly,
all unaffected by the grand crash, has flitted
upon the frame of your favorite picture, and
sits serenely there, grooming himself with his
legs, and happy in the consciousness of duties
well performed.

Then you chase him from one place in the
room to another, growing more reckless at
each successive failure to dispatch him, and
he becomes so indifferent over it that he dis-
dains to move at all until the wind of your
newspaper falls on his impertinent tittle body.

By the time he has traveled all over your
wall-piiper and pictures, investigated and
lingered over your little particles of virtu,
looked over your photograph album, and
formed the acquaintance of all your friends
whose faces find a place there, your temper is
up and you determine to kill him, or spend
the forenvon in the attempt. You call in

just hidden by the car.

at him till your breath is gone, and the per-
spiration has taken all the curl out of these
little wisps of hair on your forehead, and you
feel like a limp dish-rag, you give it up, and
your fly goes and sits on the French clock and
wipes his wings with his legs, and scratches
his ears with his toes, and tells: those other
flies, who one by one creep out of their hiding-
places, how nicely he fooled you.

In fly-time, flies come to you in scores of
unexpected ways. You find them in your
soup, floundering among shreds of onion and
blades of mace; and they commit suicide in
your tea, and confront your vision with their
legs in the air, and all the sauciness scalded
out of their countenances; and they insinuate
themselves into your closets, and leave polka
spots on your immaculate muslins, and they
fraternize with you in church, and tickle your
nose just when that delightful young Parson
Jones is looking at you for appreciation of
some eloquent thing he has said: and how can
a woman look sweet, and dignified, and sym-
pathetic with a fly crawling over her nose?

And if you happen, to be a man with a bald
head, your case is a thousand times more
lamentable, for if flies have a special liking
for any pleasure ground above another, it is
the shining surface presented by a hopelessly
bald head.

Flies are no respecters of persons. One of
them would be just as self-possessed and non-
chalant perched on the crown of England on
the royal brow of Victoria, as he would be on
the tattered turban of the dirtiest fisherman
in the world.

In fly-time how varied are the expedients
which we adopt to rid ourselves of the pests.
We buy fly-papers innumerable, and exer-
cise our ent ue to its utmost in contriving fly
traps and exterminators—we dose these house-
hold pests with boiled quassia, and milk and
black pepper; and yet, when we see one of
them struggling for life in the cream-jug, we
take him out carefully, and spread him on the
window to dry, for verily, human nature is
made up of contradictions.

And in the winter, when the snow and frost
lie thickly everywhere—how welcome is the
sound of the buzzing of the fly on the window-
pane, trying to force the season! And when
the kitten springs from her cushion, and gob-
bles him, we all feel in our hearts that cats are
full of cruelty.

Philosophers tell us that flies are scavengers,
and that the health of the community is pre-
served by them; but few of us are deeply
enough scientific to keep this fact in mind
when flies afflict us with their noise, dirt,
bite, and general abominableness.

°

MIND YOUR BUSINESS.

BY HARKLEY HARKER,

 

 

 

 

“Come! come! Look out!”

Thus spoke a surly voice; and the accom-
panying sound was a metallic thwack, thwack!
Then the sharp ringing of a bell.

“Tt is a horse-car!” excitedly exclaimed my
wife, looking out at the back of the carriage.
“And they are right on us!” she continued,
in tones of alarm, “Do hurry, Harkley. The
car will crush us!”

Bué I concluded not to hurry any more. For
a good many vears I have been hurrying out
of the horse-car’s way, as if my life depended
on clearing the track for it; as if: the horse-
car was a duke, “mi lud, the prince,” or some
other despot, and I only a passing slave in the
street. Yes, a good many years have I whipped
up my horse to get across the city railroad
company’s track; often breaking harness and
vehicle. by the sudden whip-up, and once
breaking my horse’s leg. I once got across the
track and ran down a child. OnceI plunged
“out of the way,” and into two baby carriages,
This time I decided to
make an issue, I had a good excuse; for the
street was cumbered beyond, and I was doing
the best I could when impudently assailed by
the whack, whack, above noted.

I stopped still.

“You fool, you!” yelled the polite driver of
the city railroad’s Juggernaut. “Why the
devil do you dare stop us?”

I simply remarked:
“You have a brake; use it, man, It is easier

for you to stop you vehicle than for me to
hurry.”

Then you should have heard the torrent of
choice language which rained on me. But I
only laughed and dropped my reins on the
dash, with elbows on knees, looking at him,
The passengers on the front platform looked
on me with perfect amazement.. Each gentle-
man there had repeatedly nearly broken his
neck to get out of the way for a horse-car. It
seemed never to have occurred to one of them
that a horse-car had a mechanism purposely
contrived for bringing that tyrannical vehicle
to a sudden stop; nor that a man was em-
ployed to handle it. These smokers on front
gazed at me asif I was a superior being, failen
down out of the sky, that I dared to stop in
front of a horse-car in the public (?) highway.
People on the sidewalk paused to look at me!
Still I sat; and still the wonder grew how I
dared! Why I did not go scrambled (like eggs),
doubled up (like an umbrella), over into a
furniture van which stood in my front—go
to the moon, or Timbuctoo, go anywhere,
rather than dare stop in front of a horse-car,
compelling the driver to use a brake? My
wife, meanwhile, kept saying to me:

“Mind your own business, Harkley,
drive on!”

“My dear,” I softly responded, “that’s just
what lam doing. This is my business. Fellow-
citizens,” I continued, smilingly addressing
the collected citizenship about me, “this is a
struggle for liberty. One last throe for freedom !
Are we base slaves?”

Nobcdy seemed to assent to that.

“Are we the vassals of a horde of petty
tyrants called the city railroads?”

A newsboy said “he guessed not much !”

Thus encouraged—though I must confess not
a little hurt that Mrs. Harker was not on my
side, or rather kept punching me in my side--
I resolved to go on with a speech. I rose to
my feet, the furniture van still being in the
way. I asked that car-driver if he was aware
that fingers were made before knives and
forks, and that people went about on foot
before they used horses; went about in horses
and carriages b2fore the invention of railroads
and horse-cars? Was he not aware, then, that
the highways were first made for everything
else, and only last for a car? Did he know
that we, the sovereign people, owned the
streets? That we granted the city railroad
company their charter out of sheer good-
nature? That the company was glad at first
to take an inch, but now they claimed an ell—
yes. league, of rights?

Very soon the horse-cars would own the city
at this rate, and grant the people the privilege
of living in it.

This was as bad as Turkey, where out-riders
clear the way for the pasha when he comes
forth. This is my business. Drive over me if

ou wish. Your corporation is rich, and can

e sued, I have means to bring the suit, which
is more than many a poor, tired truckman has,
whom you hurry with your bell, and yell, and
thump on the dash. Now the road is clear.
I’ll drive on.

and

 

 

Why, the people cheered! But Mrs. Harker,
all blushes, insisted that I had made a fool of
myself. Now, reader, had I? Is it not some-

Mary, the hired girl, to help you head him| body s business to stand up for the rights of

off. She comes with the long-handled feather | the people?

There isa grocer down on the

duster, and between you things are made lively | avenue who stables his teams in the public

for that fly, who rather seems to enjoy the
sensation he is creating.

|

street. You can never pass that store without
turning out. He lunches his horses—oat-bag

And after you have chased him, and struck |

on nose—in from of the door. I would not
are with that§pig if I could buy cheapest
there.

I once sat fiff¥en minutes in front of his
store in my carriage, till a lazy officer came
along and compelled the grocer to turn his
idle team. Tobe sure, I had a good excuse;
the sewer was open across the rest of the
street. But Mrs. Harker says “if she had been
with me, she would have compelled me to
drive round the block.” But I was minding my
business, I insist. Surely, it is sorne one’s
business. Are we slaves, ete. ?

The truckman and the butcher’s boy, with
his crazy cart, have often threatened to run
me down as I’sat in my light buggy. I will
always respect a workingman’s burden, and
oie the right of way, for the burden’s sake.

ut when he attempts to bully me, I will
stand up for my rights. If he takes a wheel
off, then I’l1l sue him, or his employer, for
damages. Somebody must make a stand. Not
all the tyrants are rich men nor great corpora-
tions.

A builder just opposite where I lived till
May Ist insisted on taking about all the ave-
nue for the litter of his new houses. I kindly
exp stulated with him, pointed to the dust
whirled to my door, the difficulty of passing,
ete. He coolly responded, “Mind your own
business !”

“J will, sir,” lreplied, and, walking straight
to the police station, I reported him as a law-
breaker. He is allowed, by city ordinance, but
“one-third of the distance from curb to curb,”
We kept him to it.

Five times I reported that man. It cost me
not much trouble to drive past the station and
nod to thecaptain or sergeant; he understood.
Let the reader try this on his block. Are we
slaves, etc. ?

I will not see a lame horse driven to a car or
load. A postal card, signed by any citizen’s
real name, is sufficient, if sent to the Society
for Prevention cf Cruelty to Animals. I will
not see a rude porter or conductor on a draw-
ing-room car perform his insulting antics with
impunity. All that is necessary is to walk up
a flight of stairsat the Grand Central Depot
and report the case. The officials will thank
you, if you seem to be. a gentleman and nota
mere testy fault-finder.

A een enn kind-hearted man, who
treats others with respect, and only claims the
same as he gives; who regards the rights of
others and only wants his own; who is quite
willing to make any sacrifice for pity, but no
sacrifice to selfishness, can do a great deal of
good by insisting on his rights.

The hints here thrown out are only hints.
Life is full of issues which call for a little
backbone from some one; in things too small
for war, but not too small to greatly irritate
and vex common life. The meanest man is he
who says, “Iam too busy: it is none of my
business,”

The next meanest man is he who encroaches
and encroaches, because no one rebukes him.

CHEERFUL RELIGION.

BY REV. GEO. H. HEPWORTH.

 

 

 

Religion is the science of happiness. It does
for an ordinary enjoyment just what the sun
does for a green apple—it colors, ripens, and
sweetens it. It teaches the secret of finding
the beautiful nooks and corners of life. When
sorrows come—and to whose heart do they not
come?—it enables you to do what the bee does
to the nettle—get honey outof it. Therude
boy grasps the nettle in his reckless hand, and
a thousand thorns, each one sharper than the
finest needle, resent the insult. The tiny bee
works its way among the delicately tinted
petals, and, diving down to the root of things,
comes back laden with sweetness,

Well, if you ask some people what sorrow
means, they shudder, shake their heads, and

et at once into the attitude of rebeliion.

very tear they hag& shed has helped to petrify
the heart. Every piece of hard work they have
‘been compelled to do has simply laid up in
their. souls a sort of grudge against the
Almighty. Every misfortune they have had,
every disappointment,-has put them farther
away from God, They can be very grateful, as
long as they have theirown way in everything.
If their neighbors get on and they do not, then
God is partial; if they get on finely, and their
neighbors do not, then they can see wey peo-
ple should be philosophic about these things,
and they are surprised that Mr. Nextdoor does
not recognize the ways of Providence. Indeed,
I have found that most people discover provi-
dences in the lives of others with che greatest
ease, and recognize those in their own lives
with the utmost difficulty.

Now, to my mind, one of the magic influ-
ences of religion is its ability to throw a ray of
sunlight into the very darkest corner, and to
extract from the bitterest experience just a
wee drop of sweetness, The cheerful endurance
of the true Christian proves conclusively that
he is serving a good master, one who, though
he sometimes demands great sacrifices, and
many tears, does it through no caprice, and
especially through no ignorance or misjudg-
ment of the case, but who sometimes drives
you through the mires of the bog, where your
clothes get soiled, and where your hands and
face are scarred with the wounds of the briers,
because in that way only can you reach the
higher ground, and get the more extended
view.

I have seen a mother bury a child, and then,
as by a physical effort, push heaven away from
her. She reproached Christ with such bitter-
ness of heart, and such skeptical accusations,

 

that He has apparetitly melted away from her
sight alrome ter, and left her alone with a
grief, the larger share of which He would
willingly have borne; and I have seen another
use a sorrow like two long, strong arms, with
which she has seemed to get hold of heaven,
and draw it down toearth. The good Christ
has come to her, has appeared to herin a
vision, and brought the holy angels with Him,
and taught her to Jook through her tears into
the very streets of the celestial city.

Some people, when they repeat the Lord’s
Prayer, change one of the important personal

ronouns, and say, if not with their lips, at
east with their hearts, my will be done.

There is no cause for hanging your harp on
the willow because you cannot have your own
way. Play on, play on, my friend. You cannot
always touch the strings with happy fingers.
It is sometimes impossible tomake any music,
except that of the minor kev: but to throw
your harp away because God asks you for a
sad song once in a while is neither kind nor
grateful.

I believe that nothing ever happens to a man
from which he cannot get some comfort. Peo-
ple seldom look for it, but God certainly hides
a spark of joy in every sorrow. Don’t brood
over your misery as though you were the most
ill-used man in the world, but stir yourself,
look on all sides of. your wretchedness, and,
my word for it, you will find somewhere a
crack or cranny where joy or hope is hidden.

I often think of that soldier who was struck
down on the field of battle. Gentle hands of
comrades carried him to the rear. The attend-
ant surgeon probed the wound. The poor fel-
low looked at the ragged door which the bullet
had left open, and then said: :

“Well, that’s a nice hole in my leg, isn’t it?
Now, that will get me a furlough of a few
weeks, and that is just what my wife wants.
I guess that was a lucky bullet, after all.”

hy can't we all look at things in that
way? If there were any good resulting froma
grumbling spirit, that would be another thing.
But one only succeeds in making himself un-
happy, and in setting other people’s teeth on

ge.
I like the answer which the boy gave when
he was asked why he was so cheerful, and
never fretted at disappointments.
“T think that God,” he said, “when He made

 

me of the dust, must have put a little sugarin.”

 

people who grumble. They do not know any
of the secrets of religion. They have not been
taught that God would no sooner put burdens
on them too hard to bear than they would
strap such burdens on the backs of their chil-
dren, and then take delight in the struggles,
and pains, and death that might follow. They
are like sailors who, starting with a fair wind
and a level sea, are surprised and disappointed
when the angry billows rise, fringed with omi-
nous white caps, and their little bark is tossed
like a straw. They fondly hoped to have fair
weather all the voyage. They made no prepa-
rations for anything else. They have no com-
pass or chart aboard, and fall a prey to the
freaks and whims of the giant winds and
waves. ‘That they, surprised and confounded,
should give vent to a rebellious spirit, when
‘all that they have prized most, their costly
vessel and its rich cargo, are dashed on the
sharp edges of the indignant rocks, and all is
irretrievably lost, is not surprising.

But that sailors who have been carefully
trained intheart of navigation, who have been
supplied with chart and compass, who have
been taught the use of quadrant, sextant, and
the stars. and who ought to know that the
storms and wintry waves only test the strength
of the craft and the seamanship of the man
who walks the quarter-deck; that such men
should do anything except feel the grandeur
and awful solemnity of a stormy ocean, which
they can master if they will, is something
which rouses not only a feeling of surprise,
but also one of pity.

Stand firm, brother. Look the gale in the
face. Cast the lead frequently if you are ona
lee shore. Keep a good lookout ahead. Never
lose heart. Luff when it blows too hard, and
though every timber shivers and creaks, stick
to the laws of good seamanship, and you will
live out the gale and come into smooth water
again,

You say to me, “It is hard to trust God at
all times.”

You are right, brother. I have found in my
own experience that it is sometimes very
hard. That, however, is not the question. Is
it the best way, the truest way? That is the
only thing for us to settle. My own opinion is
that life is a hard matter, looked at.in any
light. Ihave never yet found work that was
easy todo. It is hard to break up old habits
that are a constant injury to body and soul.
It is hard to break away from temptations. It
is hard to be thoroughly honest in our dealings
all the time, and never to take an undue ad-
vantage, especially where there is money or
place in it. Indeed, I find it hard to do any-
thing and do it well.

 

What of it? Shall we then sit down by the
wayside and = up the journey? Shall] we
make it a rule to do only what is easy? Then
our lives will be of little worth, and when we
have finished we shall have little te approve
and much to regret. Let us push on, getting
all the happiness we can by the way; and if
we do this, believing that God is above us, we
shall find joy where we least expect. it, and in
quantities that will surprise us into constant
gratitude.

There is an old poem which I wish the whole
world would read. It has done me more good
than I can tell you. When I have lost heart,
and I have done so many atime, it has brought
back my old faith again, and I have gone to
work with fresh vigor.

I will give you a part of it:

“Oh, itis hard to work for God,
To rise and take His part

Upon this battle-field of earth,
And not sometimes lose heart.

“He hides Himself so wondrously,
As though there were no God;

The least is seen, when all the powers
Of ill are most abroad,

“Or He deserts us at the hour
The fight is almost lost,

And seems to leave us to ourselves
Just when we need Him most.

“Til masters good; good seems to change
To ill with greatest ease;
And, worst of all, the good with good

 

Is at cross-purposes.

‘Tt is not so, but so it looks;
And we lose courage then;

And doubts will come if God hath kept
His promises to men.

“For right is right, since God is God,
And right the day must win;

To doubt would be disloyalty,
To falter would be sin.”

THE ADVENT OF NO. 2.

 

 

BY JOSH BILLINGS.

 

The seckund adventists, and adventisses,
are a people ovslo growth, but remarkabel
vigor and grate endurance. They have been to
work, with both hands, for about forty-five
years,'to mi knowledge, in bringing this world
tew her milk; and tho often outfigured in the
arithmetick ov events, they rub out the slate,
and begin agin.

Like all other moral enthusiasts for right or

wrong, they tap the Bible for their nourish-
ment, and several times, so they say, hav only
missed in their kalculations by about two
inches, which iz mighty cluss for so big a
thing.

The time haz bin sot at least a dozen times
since i hav bin an inhabitant in this country,
and when i waz a boy, az tender, and az green
az celery, i kan rekolekt with mi memory, ov
having awful palpitations in the naberhood ov
the knee-pans, upon one oy the eventful days,
and crawled under the barn, not to be in the
way.

But az i grew older—if ididn’t gro enny
wizer—i had the satisfackshun ov growing
bigger, and more less afrade ov advents,

cum tew the konklusion, sum time since,
that Divine Providence kreated the world,
without enny ov the succor or scientifick
attainments ov man, and He probably would
be able to destroy it in the same way.

I hay alwus thought, jedging from what lit-
tle i hav bin able tew pick up, that waz lieing
around loose, ov man’s internal natur, thet if
the world hadn’t bin bilt, before man waz,
he eae. wouldn’t av bin satizfied if he
couldn’t hav put in hiz lip.

Man iz an uneasy kritter, and luvs tew tell
how things ought tew be bilt, and haz got jist
impudence enuff tew offer his valuable services
tew the Lord, SR, in the way ov advice.

Now i am confidently ov the opinyun that
the world will sumtime be knocked out ov
time; it hain’t got the least partickle ov im-
mortality about it, that i hav bin able tew
diskover; it iz az certain tew di az man iz,
and i think ennyboddy who will take slate
and pencil, and straddle a chair calmly, and
cypher out the earth’s death to-day, iz no
wizer, nor less tient and wicked, than
if he figgured on hiz nabor’s phuneral, and
then blabbed it all around town.

The Bible that i was brought up on, sez:
“that the Son of Man cometh like a thief in
the night,” and evryboddy knows that the
fust intimashun we hav ov a thief’s visit iz
that he haz been here, and left.

There iz a large share ov the students, in
the secund advent dokter stuff, that are pupils
ov pitty; they cum into this world, not only
naked, but without enny brains, nor enny
place suitable tew putenny. The fust bizz-
ness ov enny consequence they do, iz to begin
to wonder, and it ain’t long before the phool
a picks them up, and givs them a stiddy

ob,

This iz the way the common adventer iz
made; and if he aint a stool pidgeon for life
in the second advent speckulashun, he iz inn
sam other cuming thing, with a hole in the
bottom ov it; for enny man who iz eazy to
phool, loves to be phooled.

The fust originators ov phalse doktrines are
most alwus dupes tew their own ignorance;
but if the doktrine seems tew be a hit, then

yu will see men of brains, who ought tew be

ashamed oy sich wickedness, take the masheen

 

bi the crank, and run it.

Ican have some sort of patience with worldly

I dont know whether Mr. Miller waz the in-
ventor ov this seckond advent abortion or not;
but if he waz, i will bet a haft-pint ov peenuts,
and pay whetheri win or lose, that he waz
a phatt, lazy old simpleton, who lived on a
back road, az ignorant ov the Bible az a kun-
ey hoss doktor iz ov medicin.

am alwus reddy tew pitty and forgiva
oy espeshily when he dont step on enny
oddy but himself,

Thare iz one thing about theze enthusiasts
that iz phair, and rather remarkable for hum-
buggers—they destroy themselfs, az well az
the rest ov us, at the same pop.

Mi opinyun iz, if the world should consent
tew cum tew an end, to suit their reckoning,
they would be az skared a_ sett ov carpet-bag-
gers az yu could find, and be the fust ones to
“y that the figgures had lied.

am willing tew dubble mi haff-pint bet ov
resumen and make it a pint, that there aint a

illerite now living, nor ever agoing tew liv,
whom yu could git tew take ar Le cents in
change for a dollar greenback, or who would
giv a dubble price for a breakfast, on the
morning ov the day that izsott forthe world’s
destrukshun,

Enthusiasm and seckond adventism iz cheap;
but a dollar iz wuth the face ov it.

Oh! impudence, whare iz thy sting! Oh!
pholly, whare iz thy viktory!

eons

Correspondence.

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS.

 

te” Communications addressed to this department will
not be noticed unless the names of responsible parties are
signed to them as evidence of the good faith of the writers.

 

Ted, Albany, N. Y.—1st. The belief that however a cat
may be thrown it will fallon its legsis because of the
facility with which it balances itself when springing

from aheight; which power of balancing isin some de-
gree produced by the flexibility of the heel, the bones of
which have no fewer than four joints. Another reason
why it usually alights woe, | on its feet is because in the
middle of the foot there isa large ball, or pad, in five
parts, formed of an elastic substance, and at the base of
each toe there is a similar pad. 2d. The well-known story
of the eeaee seizing hold of the patvs of the cat, to get
the roasted chestnuts from the hot embers, gave rise to
the proverb, ‘‘to make acat’s-paw of one.” 3d. The cat is
said by some writers to have been originally brought
from Persia; by others from Egypt, where it was
worshiped.

0. W. M., Brooklyn, N. Y.—To make lobster patties,
make some puff paste, and spread it on very deep patty-

pans. Bakeitempty. Having boiled well two or three
fine lobsters, extract all their meat, and mince it very
small, mixing it with the coral smoothly mashed, and
some yolk ofa hard-boiled egg, grated. Season it witha
little salt, some cayenne, and some powdered mace or
nutmeg, adding a little yellow lemon rind, grated.

 

 

 

Moisten the mixture well'with cream, or fresh butter, or
salad soil. Put itinto a stew pan, add a very little water,
and letit stew until it just comes be a boil. Take it off
the fire, and the patties being ed, remove them from
the tin pans, place them ona large dish, and fill them up
to the top with the mixture. Similar patties may be made
of prawns or crabs.

Cordelia, Lime Springs, Ilowa—Disinfecting and deodor-
izing tooth powders and washes which destroy the un-

pleasant odorof the breath, and tend to whiten stained
teeth, owe their efficacy to clloride of lime. Such a prep-
aration may be made by mixing one part of the lime
with twenty or thirty of chalk. A disinfecting mouth
wash is made by digesting three drams of chloride of lime
in two ounces of distilled water, and to the filtered solu.
tion adaing two ounces of spirit, and scenting, as with
attar of roses.

Frankie, Albany, N. Y.—To make rice muffins, take a
pint of rice and boil it until it becomes an undistinguish-

able mass, the grains being no longer perceptible. Set it
it out to cool. Thin it by mixing with it two quarts of
milk. Beat in ashallow pan foureggs until very thick
and light, and then stir them gradually into the rice and
milk. Then give the whole a hard stirring. Butter some
muffin rings. Fill them with the mixture and bake it.
Split and butter the muffins while warm,

A. P., Stonington, Conn.—Dock root is astringent and
gently tonic, and is said to have proved usefulin scrof-

ula. The powdered root is recommended as a dentifrice,
especially when the gums are spongy. As a medicine it
is given in powder or decoction. Two ounces of the fresh
root bruised, or one ounce of the dried, may be boiled in a
pint of water, of which two fluid ounces may be given as
a dose, and repeated as the stomach will bear it.

B. L. C., Raleigh, N. C.—ist. In North Carolina a will
entirely in the handwriting of the testator does not re-

quire witnesses, but a will written by the testator’s law-
yer must have two subscribing witnesses. In the same
State anuncupative or verbal will cannot dispose of more
than $200, unless made by the testator in his Iast sickness
in his home, or on a journey ; but even in North Carolina
a verbal will cannot dispose of real estate.

N. M., Burlington, N. J.—The Pacific Ocean is the
largest on the globe. The first European discoverer of it
was Vasco Nunez de Balboa, who, on September 26, 1513,
saw it from one of the mountains near the Isthmus of
Darien. It received its name of Pacific on account of the
eonstant fair weather which accompanied Magalhaens,
who first traversed it in 1520-21. It has also been called
the Great Ocean.

Cc. D. E., Jamaica, N. Y.—Strawberry ice is made of
ripe strawberries put into a linen bag, and the juice

squeezed out. Then measure it, and to each pint of juice
allow half a pound of powdered sugar. Mix thoroughly
the juice and sugar, put into a freezer, and freeze it. In
this way ices, without cream, may be made of currant and
raspberry juice, mixed raw. with sugar. :

L. C. W., Newark, N. J.—Adam’s apple is the name
given to the protuberance in the fore part of the throat,
occasioned by the projection of the thyroid cartilage of
the larynx, This name originated from a superstitious
tradition, that.a piece of the forbidden fruit, which
ars ate, stuck in his throat, and produced the swel-

ing.

A. L. C., Columbus, Ohio—When a bequest is made, as
is often the case, by the testator to his wife “in lieu of
cower,” no act of the husband can ever deprive his widow
of dower without her consent. She is not obliged to take
the bequest. Shecan choose either the bequest or the
dower; but she cannot take both.

A.S., Brooklyn.—The New York Kindergarten As-
sceciation has two schools; one at 351 East 53d street, the
other at 63d street and Ist avenue, the latter founded

 

with funds supplied by the Associated JAlumnz of the
Normal College. Richard W. Gilder is President and
Daniel S. Remsen Secretary.

L. C. A., Louisville, Ky.—Sir William Herschel, the
English astronomer, married in 1788 Mrs. Mary Pitt, a

widow of considerable fortune. He had by her one son,
John Frederick William, who was distinguished for his
mathematical genius and his fondness for physical
science. He died 1n 1871.

A Constant Reader.—We do not take outside work. The
stories named if put into book-form would make from 250
to 300 pages, the average cost being $1 per page for the
plates, independently of the paper, press work, etc. None
of the stories published in the NEW YORK WEEKLY will
appear in book-ferm.

Verbena, Providence, R. 1,—Though largely consumed
asan article of food, honey is seldom applied medicin.
ally except as the vehicle of more active substances. It
is a very useful as well asavery palatavle addition to
gargles. The finest honey is that which is allowed to
drain from the comb.

A. L. W., Groton, S. D.—1st. We cannot name any par-
ticular one. The acceptance or declination depends upon
the demand and supply. Any newsdealer will give you
the address of the most prominent houses, 2d. ‘The front
of an envelope is where the address is written; the back
is where it is sealed.

London brewer, commenced brewing the liquor which he
called ‘‘entire” or entire butt,” implying that it was
drawn from one cask or butt. It subsequently obtained
— name of porter from its consumption by porters and
aborers. .

D. C. L., Camden, N. J.—The height of Electric Peak,
Montana, is 11,155 feet; Wheeler Peak, Nevada, 13,036;
Mt. Hood, Oregon, 11,225; Mt. Emmons, Utah, 13,694; Mt.

Rainier, Washington, 14,444; Fremont Peak, Wyoming,
13,790; Mt. St. Elias, Alaska, 18, 250.

P. J. S., New London, Conn.—ise. Grneida Lake, in the
central part of New York, is twentv-three miles long and
four toseven wide. Its elevation above tide water is 369
feet. 2d. Oneida River, after a course of sixteen miles,
falls into the Oswego River.

A.C. D., San Francisco.—‘*The Grand Canon of the Yel.
lowstone” and “The Chasm of the Ww.orado,” by Thomas
Moran, were the first aan ak ever purchased by the
Enon States Government. v:an received for them

Dora, Washington, D. C.—The large historical picture
of “Webster’s Reply to Hayne,” in Faneuil Hall, ton,
was painted by George Peter Alexander Healy, a native
3 vee city. It contains 130 portraits. It was completed

n ;

Phil O. S., Auburn, Neb.—Write to any newspaper
office in the locality preferred. A correspondence on the
subject may lead to some desirable place.

M. N. L., Staten Tsland—A vessel coming into port is
obliged to take the first pilot that offers, or else pay him
half the regular pilotage fees. e

A.M. M., Brooklyn, N. Y¥.—The number of Reformed
Episcopal Churches in the United States iss3; members,
8,455. °

 

T. E. W., Shawneetown, Mo.—No,

 

 

 

 

 

H. L. J., Canton, Ohio.—It was in 1722 that Harwood, a ©

    

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

ae

.

 

 

 
 

 

 

a

 

ine — i

 

KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN.

BY JAMES WHITWORTH RILEY.

Kathleen Mavourneen !—The song is still ringing
As fresh and as clear as the thrill of the birds;

In world-weary hearts it is sobbing and singing

~ In pathos too sweet for the tenderest words.

O, have we forgotten the one who first breathed it—
O, have we forgotten his rapturous art—

Our meed to the master whose genius bequeathed it?
O, why art thou silent, thou voice of the heart!

Kathleen Mavourneen!—Thy lover still lingers ;
The long night is waning—the stars pale and few;
Thy sad serenader, with tremulous fingers,
Is bowed with his tears as the lily with dew;
The old harpstrings quaver—the old voice is shaking—
In sighs and in sobs moans the yearning refrain—
The old vision dims, and the old heart is breaking—
Kathleen Mavourneen, inspire us again !

a>>i@>+<>
<~@>

THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.

 

BEAUTIFUL VIOLA,
a Cloak-Maker's Model;

DID SHE MARRY FOR LOVE?

 

By JULIA EDWARDS,

. Author of ‘‘ Tempted

to Leave Her Loyer,” ‘‘He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not,” ‘* The
Little Widow,” ‘* Beautiful, But Poor,’ Ete.

 

[(‘‘ BEAUTIFUL VIOLA” was commenced in No. 25.

Back. pumbers can be obtained of all News Agents.)

 

“ ‘CHAPTER XXXVI.

SHE LEANED SHUDDERINGLY OVER AND GAZED
FEARFULLY AT THE INSTRUMENTS THIS
MAN, IN HIS MAD LOVE FOR HER, WOULD
HAVE USED. | . ‘

Viola shuddered when. she witnessed the
joy of Sidney Gorman over her words of will-
ingness to go with him and _ become his wife,
rather than submit to be drugged, as he
threatened.

“All is ready,” he cried, as soon as he re-
covered from his first transport. “I had already
spoken to aclergyman, and I have a license
in my pocket. ‘You see I was terribly in
earnest,” he added.

“There need be no delay on my account,”
she murmured, shrinking away from him.
“But tell me,” she faltered, “would you in
truth have drugged me?”

“My. darling,” he said, a burning glow in
his eyes, “I had sworn to have you for my
bride, and I wduld haye done as | told you.”

“But if I had resisted,” she queried.

“It would not have mattered,” he replied.
“See! I have everything here to effect my pur-
pose. Here is a vial of chloroform, here a
sponge to be saturated, and here the drug that
would make you pliable in my hands.”

She leaned shudderingly over and gazed fear-
fully at the instruments this man, in his mad

- love for her, would have used.

“Heaven will forgive me,” she murmured.
“TI could not have lived through such an
ordeal.”

“Then you will go with me, my darling?” he
said, studying her face with lynx eyes.

“T will go with you,” she replied, in a low
tone.

But there was ce in her face that
made him suspect her, for he immediately

aid:
“It is better so, but I must warn you that I

shall go prepared to administer the drug at} \

the least sign of resistance.”
Viola turned pale, as if he had read her
secret thoughts. He noted the fact and went

on:

“Tt will be wiser to give up all hope before
you leave here. I have already informed the
clergyman that you are subject to aStacks

which require instant treatment, so that at |.
the first word from you which is suspicious I |

will stupefy you with chloroform and give you
the drug. he clergyman has been tutored so
that he will assist me instead of you.”

“Why do you suspect me?” asked Viola, bit-
terly. “I have told you I would go with you,
and it did not need your words to let me know
pts you had fortified yourself in your wicked

ans.”

y “I hope you will soon learn to love me,” he
replied, ardently. “It must be so, since I love
you so devotedly; but [ dare not risk losing
you, and so I warn you of the hopelessness of
attempting to escape. Now I will prepare the
chloroform before you so that you may know
that I am in deadly earnest.”

Accordingly he saturated the sponge with
the stupefying liquid, ang then inclosed it in
atin box which would retain the fumes and
so preserve it ready for instant use.

Viola watched him like one fascinated, and

a terrible smile flitted over the face of Sidney

Gorman when he looked up and saw how
intently her eyes were fixed on him.

“Now,” he said, “all is ready. Come!”

She followed him without making any resist-
ance, and he led her toacarriage that stood in
the street in front of the house. If she had
had any hope of escaping at that moment, she
quickly discovered that it was futile, for Sid-
ney hurried her, almost carrying her, into the

that of placing as much space as possible be-
tween herself and her enemy.

She darted down the first side street, and sped
along with frantic haste, causing more than
one passer-by to wonder what was the matter.

But fortunately New York is a great city,
and few have the leisure or desire to inquire
curiously into the affairs of others, and, there-
fore, she was neither stopped nor followed by
any one.

She had not been aware of the fact, but the
place where she had alighted from the car-
riage was almost in front of the Metropolitan
Opera House, and consequently it was not sur-
prising that she should eee find herself,
after a long flight, in front of the only build-
ing in the city that she was familiar with—
the Grand Central Depot.

Her first thought was to turn and fly in
some other direction, but she was ready to
drop with fatigue and terror, and her second
thought was to get out of the dreadful city as
soon as possible.

It did not matter to her where she went, so
that it carried her far away from New York;
so she let chance guide her. She went into
the waiting-room, and looked at the bulletin
to see which would be the next train out.

 

 

VIOLA HAD FORCED HERSELF TO READ THE DREAD RECITAL, BUT AT THE CONFIRMATION OF HER WORST FEARS HER VOICE
FAILED HER, AND SHE SANK LIKE A BLIGHTED FLOWER.

—— aaa eR Renee
at the depot, but she walked to the nearest,
and was stepping in, when a rival driver said,
warningly:

“Better not go to his hotel.
small-pox there.”

Viola, with instinctive alarm, looked at her
driver, and saw that his face was red with
suppressed anger.

“You needn’t goif you don’t want to, miss,”
he said, surlily.

“Tt is true, then?” she inquired.

“Yes,” he answered, gruflly, “a gentleman
was taken down with it last week, but he’s
quarantined in the upper part of the hotel, so
that it doesn’t hurt anybody else.”

“Everybody has left the hotel, all the same,”
said the other driver, on the lookout for a fare.
“You know you can’t even get a nurse to help
— wite nurse him. Better come with me,

a y” :

“Ts it true,” asked Viola of the first driver,
“that the lady can get no nurse to assist her?”

“Yes,” was the curt response, for he expected
to see Viola step out of his hack at. once.

“Then drive me to the hotel,” said Viola.
“T will offer my services.”

The driver stared in astonishment, and even
hesitated a moment, urged by compunction,
not to permit such a beautiful gir] to sacrifice
herself to the hideous, disfiguring disease.

“Have you had the small-pox?” he inquired.
_ “No, but_I wish to go to the hotel,” she
replied. “Please drive me there at once.”

He shrugged his shoulders and slammed the
door shut. Viola, her face quite white, fell
back in her seat, murmuring: -

“T will at least destroy this fatal beauty of
mine, and perhaps welcome death will meet
me ”

They have

It was a terrible design, but she was stead-
fast in her determination, and when the hotel
was reached, she was not frightened from it
by its lonely appearance.

All the guests had indeed fied from it in
their terror of the fell destroyer, but this
wonderfully beautiful girl walked calmly,
though with beating heart, in:o the parlor and
asked to see the lady who was nursing her
husband.

The landlord, troubled as he was by tbe loss
of all his guests, could not contemplate the
spectacle of such a self-sacrifice without a
protest.

“You cannot see her unless you also are
ready to go into quarantine, for you will be in
danger from that moment,” he said.

“T wish to assist her in nursing her hus-
band,” said Viola, quietly.

“No, no! that must not be,” said the land-
lord, vehemently. “You are too beautiful to
be sacrificed in that way. Have you no parents
to watch over you, that you are permitted to
expose yourself to such danger?”

“Alas!” said Viola, “my parents would be
peshihpag to have me dead. Do not try to dis-
suade me.” she said, “but tell the lady that I
wish to assist her.”

The landlord, seeing that she was deter-

 

 

The lady smiled and stroked the brown,
curly head.

“You are too young to be forever unhappy.
It is about some lover, of course,” she said.
“Most of the unhappiness that comes to us of
the weaker sex comes because of man’s love.
But, then, so does most of our happiness. You
are too beautiful to mourn long, and when we
are away from here, we will try to make you

appy.

Viola did not reply, and from that time
nothing passed between them about the cause
of her sadness. Indeed there was little time
for any such conversation; for the illness of
Mr. Rossiter—that was the gentleman’s name
—increased, and it was many days ere his de-
voted nurses could feel that he was out of
danger.

But during those days Mr. and Mrs. Rossiter
grew to love the beautiful girl who had come
into their lives like a sunbeam into a dark
dungeon, and more than once they said to
each ‘other that if it might be they would
never part from her.

It was a strange thing, but boldly as Viola
courted the dread disease, it did not come to
her; but a new peace of mind did come in her
isolation and security from her old foes, and
the day the physiciansaid they might all leave
the hotel her glass told her that if there had
been any change in her it was that she was
more than ever beautiful.

“Where will you go, my dear?” asked Mrs.
Rossiter, as they all sat together on the
veranda of the hotel, looking at the grand
rush of water over the falls,

“T think I shall go to a hospital and study
to be a nurse,” she answered, a little sadly,
for somehow, now that her mind was not full
of the danger of their patient, her thoughts
would dwell continually on Douglas and the
dream of happiness she once had had.

“Shall I tell you what I think?” asked Mr.
Rossiter. “a

“Please do,” replied Viola, thinking he was
about to offer some suggestion,

“Well,” said he, slowly, “I think you will
not go toa hospital. I know exactly where
you are going.”

“Where?” demanded Viola, wonderingly.

“You are going home with us,” he said.
“We have no daughter, no child, and we are
lonely in our great house on the Hudson. You
need not think of saying no. You have told
us that your parents are dead to you, and that
you have no other ties, so there is no reason
for refusing. You shall change your name to
ours, and from this day you shall be Viola
Rossiter.”

Viola turned her tear-dimmed eyes on Mrs.
Rossiter, and was immediately folded in that
lady’s arms.

“You shall be our daughter,” she said, softly.
“T have loved you from the moment you came
to us, sent by Heaven, I have always believed,
and preserved by Heaven from the terrible

 

blight of the disease you braved. You are
more beautiful than ever, thank Heaven!”

 

 

i
— i

 

 

 

She found that it would be the midnight ex-
press going through to Niagara Falis, and

the first time of how the hours had sped away

 

 

carriage.

“Ts it far?” she asked him, in a faint voice.

“About fifteen minutes’ ride,” he answered.

“I feel very faint,” she said, weakly. “Can
Zz. give me nothing to sustain me until this
$ over?”

“How fortunate!” he cried. “TI had the fore-
thought to provide myself with a restorative.
I will give it to you.”

He picked up the satchel, opened it, and
drew from it a small glass bottle, which he
handed to Viola.

“Just moisten the tip of your tongue with
the contents,” he said to her.

“Ah!” she cried, as she fumbled with it, “I
have lost it. It has dropped on the floor of the
carriage.”

“T will recover it,” he said, and stooped to
search for it.

“Heaven be with me!” murmured Viola, and
then, nery2d to a desperate act, she snatched
the tin box from the open satchel, took the
sponge from it, and with the courage and
strength of despair, threw herself on the
unprepared man, and tightly held the satura-
ted sponge over his mouth and nostrils.

He struggled fearfully after the first mo-
ment of surprise, but Viola was fighting for
something dearer ti an life, and she would not
loosen her hold on the sponge.

And then the drug began to have its effect,
and she could feel that he was growing weaker
in resistance, until he struggled no more..

But she did not cease to make him inhale
the stupefying fumes until she felt that she
had no more time to lose.

She had not. noticed before, so troubled had
her spirits been by the desperate project in her
mind, where She carriage was, but now she
looked out of the window and saw that it was
going through Broadway, where there were a
number of other carriages, apparently waitin
for the theaters to let out their throngs o
pleasure-seekers,

The carriage she was in was going slowly
and was obliged to keep very near the curb,
and in an instant Viola saw her opportunity
to escape from the carriage without being
noticed.

She quietly turned the handle of the door
until the door opened, when she put a foot on
the step, and in another momént was out of
the carriage and on the sidewalk,

She had the presence of mind to softly close
the door after her, before she slipped away,
but as soon as she found herself free once
more, she seemed to lose every thought but

 

the words that united Douglas to Stella.

It seemed to her that nothing could be better
than to buy a ticket to Niagara, because she
could get off at any point, and thus elude all
efforts to follow her.

Accordingly she purchased ~@_ ticket to
Niagara, bought a sleeping-car berth, and
er into the car, and threw herself on her

ed.

 

CHAPTER XXXVII.

‘*MosT OF THE UNHAPPINESS THAT COMES TO
US OF THE WEAKER SEX COMES BECARSE
OF MAN’S LOVE.”

Tired and worn-out as she was, Viola did
not open her eyes again after falling asleep,
until Albany was reached, and the stopping
of the car aroused her.

She was told that she would have time to
make her toilet and eat breakfast before the
train started again, and she took advantage
of the time; so that when the cars rolled out
of the depot she was more like herself than
she had been for a long while.

But there was no happiness to her in the
contemplation of her wonderful beauty, for to
her it was only the cause of all her woe. And
the brown eyes, red lips, and rounded cheeks
that made every eye in the car kindle with
admiration, gave her nothing but anguished
memories.

If she could have given her beauty into the
keeping of the man she loved, it would have
been well, but since it could never be his, she
wished in her heart that she was not pos-
sessed of it.

Several of the gentlemen in the car, attract-
ed by her beauty, endeavored to obtain her

ermission to perform little services for her,
out she repulsed them all, and the wonder

rew how so sweet and lovely a face could
ide so cold a heart.

At last she was left unmolested, and she sat
by her window, gazing sorrowfully out at the
flitting landscape, all day long. Many times,
as the train stopped at some village or city,
she half-rose as if to leave the train; but
always something seemed to stop her, and it
appeared as if the hand of fate was in it.

Not until Niagara was reached did she leave
the train. There were many carriages waiting

Children Cry for Pitcher’s Castoria.

 

mined, and knowing that the lady would be
rejoiced to have help, said no more on that

“She will surely take you, then,” he said;

since she had heard the clergyman pronounce | “for you would not be permitted to leave the

hotel until all danger was over, after you have
once been in her presence.”

Viola said no more, but left him and climbed
up the wearisome steps until she was on the
top floor.

.It was not difficult to find the sick-room,
and it touched her heart to think of those two
pears up there in their loneliness and soli-

ude.

She knocked at the door, feeling as_ if she
were taking the step that would: surely lead
her to her grave. J

The door was opened by a lady of middle
age, who had once been beautiful, and who
now was remarkable for the sweetness of her
expression. She started back at the sight of
the wondrously fair face before her, and cried
out, with a troubled expression:

“My poor girl! what evil chance has brought
you here? Do you not know that there is pesti-
lence here?” /

Viola smiled, with a sad lookin her great
brown eyes, and answered, gently:

“Yes, I knew yoar husband had the small-
pox, and I was told that you could not find a
nurse to help you. That is whyIam here, I
wish to help you.”

“Oh! this is wicked!” cried the lady. “You
should not have been permitted to do this.
So strangely beautiful, too!”

“T insisted,” said Viola, smiling sadly at
the vehemence of the other, “and it is too late
to help it now. Please do not send me away!
I know very little of nursing, but I shall be
very attentive, and I can move softly, and I
am on sorry for you. I am sure you will find
me useful.”

Her eyes filled with tears as she spoke, and
the lady felt as she looked at her as if she
were standing face to face with a messenger
from heaven.

“Come, then, if you will,” she said, grate-
fully, “and if money can pay you for your
goodness, you shall be well recompensed, for
we are very rich.”

“Please do rtot speak of money; I do not
come for that,” said Viola.

The lady led the way into a sort of parlor,
but she turned at these words and looked
more carefully at the beautiful young girl.

“You are unhappy,” she said.

“Yes,” said Viola, “I am very unhappy, and
I would be glad if I could pass out of this
weary world. You see, you owe me nothing

 

for coming to you.”

 

“Yes, yes,” said Mr Rossiter, “she is indeed
beautiful, and we will find a husband worthy

then she discovered that it would not be long subject, but bade her go up to the top floor | of her.”
before it would start, thus apprising her for, and announce herself.

At that suggestion the color faded from
Viola’s: face, and she sobbed out:

“T beg of you do not talk to me of marrying!
I shall never marry. My-heart is dead.” |

“Nonsense!” he cried. “But there! we won’t
talk of it if you don’t wish... Now read me
that New York paper, like a good girl.”

She took the paper and patiently read through
the long column of political news, and then
the other less important items, and came at
last to an account headed:

“IDENTIFIED AT LAST—THE BODY OF
THE MAN FOUND ON THE SHORES OF
STATEN ISLAND IS NOW_ FULLY
IDENTIFIED—ONE OF  SOCIETY’S
FAVORITES FINDS A WATERY GRAVE
—DROWNED ON HIS BRIDAL EVE.”

“That sounds romantic,” said Mis. Rossiter.
“Read it.”

So Viola began:

“When it was announced in the papers, a
few days ago, that the body of a drowned man
had been found on the shores of Staten Island,
nothing was said of the papers and jewels by
which Tite identity was then established.

“This reticence was due to the fact that the
ae indicated by the papers and jewels was

elieved by his friends to be on his way across
the ocean with his new-made bride. And,
moreover, the face was so disfigured by expo-
sure that it was not possible to identify the
features.

“But now there have come cablegrams from
Queenstown which confirm the sad _intelli-
gence, and which plunge his many friends,
and above all his sorrowing mother, into the
deepest grief.

“Tt is now certain that the handsomest and
one of the richest of society’s young men
—Douglas Wainwright——”

“Wife! wife! look at Viola!”

It was Mr. Rossiter who cried out. Viola
had forced herself, through all the gathering
dread of the recital, to read aloud, but at the
confirmation of her worst fears her voice failed
her, and she wilted like a blighted flower, her
beautiful head drooping, and consciousness
leaving her.

Mrs. Rossiter caught her in her arms and
did what she could to restore her, but it
seemed for a moment as if her spirit had
yielded to the strain and had gone t6 its last
home.

But at last she opened her eyes again and
looked up into the face of her new friend.

Children Cry for Pitcher’s Castoria,

 

| boat,. but
| with horror,

 

 

‘clothes.

 

 

 

“Did I dream it?” she murmured, faintly.
“Did it say Douglas Wainwright?”

The husband and wife exchanged pitiful
glances,

“It is the sad story of her own life that she
has revealed to us,” murmured Mr. Rossiter
to his wife.

“Yes,” said Viola, a piteous sob breaking
from her, “he was my love. Oh, Heaven! why
cannot I, too, die?”

“Be sure that Heaven reserves you for hap-
piness yet,” said Mrs. Rossiter.

But that was a thing Viola could not com-
prehend ; perhaps because the shadow of many
sorrows yet to come was falling upon her,

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

‘‘CHANGE PLACES WITH HIM!” SOMEHOW THAT
IDEA DID NOT LEAVE HIS MIND, AND AS
HE PULLED THE BOAT HIGHER UP, HE CON.
*TINUED TO USE THE PHRASE,

Douglas was a good swimmer, and under
ordinary circumstances he would have had no
difficulty in swimming to the shore; but, as
had been told Stella, at certain stages of the
tide, the waters of New York bay are exceed-
ingly dangerous.

It was at one of these times that Douglas
had thrown himself from the steamer, and it
was not long ere he realized that his life was
in jeopardy.

He felt the treacherous undercurrent drag-
ging at his feet, and but for a fortunate acci-
dent, he must have succumbed to a force far
beyond his own strength.

This accident was the sudden discovery of
an overturned row-boat. It came up under his
hand at a moment when he was resigning him-
self to his fate, fixing his last thoughts on the
beautiful creature to whom he had given his
heart.

It was an unusual occurrence to find a stray
boat in the bay, and Douglas was sure that it
meant that some poor fellow had been upset,
and had perhaps lost his life.

He clung to the side of the boat until he
ha@ recovered his strength, and then climbed
up and sat astride of the keel, intending to
remain there until morning came, or some
passing boat picked him up.

It happened, however, that the tide carried
him first out toward the Narrows, and then,
when it changed, carried him back into the
bay, and gradually sent him toward the shore
of Staten Island.

It was midnight, perhaps, when he felt the
boat grate on the beach, and he was quick to
spring off the boat into the shallow water.

He started at once for shore, intending to
leave the boat to its fate, but it occurred to
him that the boat must be of value to some-
body, and that it would require very little
exertion to turn it over and haul it up where
it would be safe; so he turned back and righted
the boat, though not as easily as he had sup-
posed he could do it.

Up to this time the moon had been hidden
behind storm-clouds, and the night had been
dark as Erebus; but now, as if to illumine the

_| scene for Douglas. the clouds rolled away and

the moon shed its silvery light on the lonely
spot where Douglas stood by the side of the
little boat.

He turned his eyes instinctively on the
in the same instant started back
The unfortunate occupant of the
boat had become entangled in the boat in
some way, and lay in it now, drowned.

Doulgas shuddered and drew the boat far-
ther up with that instinctive feeling of respect
which the living always have fcr the dead.

“Poor wretch!” thought Douglas. “No doubt
he valued his life, while I, who rode in safety
over him through the turbulent waters, would
almost have changed places with him.”

Change places with him! Somehow that idea
did not leave his mind, and as he pulled the
boat still higher up, he continued to repeat

| the phrase—*Change places with him.”

“Well,” he muttered, at last. “Why not?
Who will mourn for me? My mother? Yes,
but I have caused her so much worry that she
might welt be better for my death. Viola?
But I will find her and tell her that I live
for her. Stella? Well, she may mourn if she
choose. I will give this man my name and my
His face is so disfigured that no one
will ever know. Yes, I will do it. Ah! what
a ghastly task to perform at this time!”

Ghastly it was, but Douglas was more deter-
mined to do it as he thought of it. It would
deceive Stella, and perhaps keep her from vis-
iting her venomous wrath on Viola.

So Douglas exchanged clothing with the
dead man, giving him such papers as were
necessary to establish his identity, and for
greater security leaving his watch and some
jewelry with his clothes.

He drew the body far upon the beach, so
that it would look as if it had been washed
there during high tide, and then searched
along the beach until he found a pair of oars.

These he took back to the boat and then
launched the little craft again and began to
row across the bay to the city.

It was a long and weary journey, but he was
strong, and accomplished it at last. He threw
the oars in the bottom of the boat, gave it a
push with his foot, and then quietly climbed
up on one of the piers and made his way into
the silent city.

He would have liked to change his clothing;
for it was not only still wet and heavy, but
its associations were horrible to him. But
there was no way of accomplishing such a
change except by going to his own house, and
that he would not do.

He even did not know where to go to sleep,
for of course no respectable hotel would admit
him without an explanation, and that he did
not wish to give.

The only thing he could think of to do, was
to try to find the cab that had taken Viola
from the wharf. He had brought with him
the slip containing the name and number, and
he knew there was just a possibility that he
might find the man still on duty.

With this in mind he hastened up Broad-
way and sought the Astor House. Two or
three cabs were certainly standing there, and
it only remained to aiscover if either of them
was the one he was in search of.

He walked along close beside them, reading
the numbers as he went. The last one was the
number he sought. He could hardly believe
his eyes.

“Driver,” he said, rousing the sleeping man,
“I want to ask you a question. Oh, don’t be
cross about it; I will pay for the trouble.
Here is a dollar, and you shall have another if
you ahswer my questions.”

“Who are you?” demanded the driver, look-
ing suspiciously at the strangely attirred
man, who spoke and acted like a gentleman.

“Tt doesn't matter whol am. You will know
by my questions. that I am not dangerous to
anybody. I wish to know where you took the
young lady who employed you at the Cunard
pier this evening.”

“Oh,” growled the driver, “there doesn’t
seem any harm in that. Well, I took her to
the Twenty-third street and Fifth avenue cor-
ner of Madison square. And much good it
may do you,” he muttered, as he pocketed the
other bill Douglas had given him.

“That's all you know about her?” queried
Douglas.

“Except that she walked across as if she
was going to the Madison Square Garden.” |

Deuglas turned away and started off, with
the determination to take the Third avenue
elevated road to Twenty-third street. He
crossed City Hall ‘Park, and had reached its
lightest part, when a hand was laid on his
shoulder and a voice said, peremptorily:

“T want a word with you.”

He turned quickly, not knowing with whom
he had to deal, and then started back, crying
out involuntarily:

“Herbert Morrow!”

At the same instant the latter had started
and cried, with equal amazement:

“You, Douglas! And in such a rig? Well,
you are an odd-looking bridegroom f

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

 

 

5 |

2

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE BABY.

BY CHARLES GORDON ROGERS.

 

When morning broke, and baby came,
The house did scarcely seem the same
As just before. The very air

Grew fragrant with the essence rare
Of a celestial garden, where

The angels, breathless, leaned to hear
The youthful mother’s fervid prayer
To God, to guard her first-born care,
And with what diligence each ear
Did listen, as,her lips did frame

The helpless little stranger’s name,
When baby came!

When darkness came and baby died,
The misty grief that fell belied

The transient joy that filled the room
But just before; where brooding gloom
Now dumbly spoke the baby’s doom.
We hide away the little things

Woven by Nature’s matchless loom—
A woman’shands ‘The amber bloom
Waxed dimmer ou the fineh’s wings;
The flowers, too, in sorrow vied,

As if kind Nature drooped and cried—
When baby died!

ati,
~~ ete

This Story Will Not be Published in Book-Form.

Fhe Mysterious Maul obery;

,

NICK CARTER'S U. 8. GOVERNMENT CASE.

By the Author of “NICK CARTER.”

 

 

aol THE MYSTERIOUS MAIL ROBBERY” was commenced in
No. 34. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents]

 

CHAPTER XIX.
MISLEADING JUSTICE,

For the first time in his life Nick Carter
felt something like dismay as he viewed the
body of his friend Tuttle, who, but a few short
hours before, was so full of life and animation.

It was the fatality which seemed to walk
hand in hand with the case he was pursuing,
which made the impression upon the detec-
tive.

His quick glance took’in every detail of the
room almost as soon as he entered it, and
almost the first thing that he saw was the
protruding end of the silver bodkin.

Instantly came the memory of Patsy’s report.

He remembered that Ida Thorne had, on the
preceding afternoon, purchased just such an
article at Tiffany’s store in Union square.

Could it be possible that the implement by
which Clarence Tuttle had been slain was the
same that Ida Thorne had purchased? Had
she procured the little article with the delib-

. erate intention of using it in that way?

In such moments a thousand conjectures and
fancies will crowd upon one’s mind.

The detective paused only an instant in the
room where Clarence Tuttle lay.

Then, with a bound, he was back again
beside the valet, who remained where Nick
had left him, paralyzed with horror.

_It needed only a glance to assure the detec-
tive that the valet was innocent of any con-
nection with the crime; his horror was too
genuine; acting could not have covered every
point in his conduct so thoroughly.

Nevertheless Nick seized him’ roughly by
the arm and demanded, fiercely :

“Did you do this thing?”

“No! oh, no! As God is my judge, I did not.
I thought he was only sleeping late, and I
dared not disturb him! Oh, it is awful!
awful!”

“Sit down there!” ordered the detective,
pointing to a chair, and the valet obeyed.

“Now collect your thoughts and answer my
questions with great care. First, tell me your
name, where you were born, and how long
you have lived with Mr. Tuttle; the telling
will serve to settle your mind.”

“My name is Martin Green; I was born in
England, and I have lived with Mr. Tuttle
twelve years—ever since he was of age.”

“Good! When did you last see him alive?”

“Last night.”

“At what time?”

“Just midnight.”

“Was he alone then?”

“He had a friend with him from half-past
ten until twelve. They were in the parlor,
which is there,” pointing to a door opposite
the one which led to the bedroom where the
body was found.

“And at twelve?”

“He came to the hall door with his friend. I
was sitting in this chair—the one I am now
in. When his friend had gone, Mr. Tuttle
turned toward his bedroom.”

“Did he say anything to you?”

“Yes; as he was about to close his door, he
said: ‘You need not disturb me in the morn-
ing, Martin.’”

“And then?”

“Then he went inside, and I think, smoked
a_ cigar, for I smelled tobacco-smoke; but I
did not see him again until you sent me to his
room just now.”

“Are you acquainted with the friend who
called?”

“NGse Sit.

“Can you describe him?”

“It was not a man, sir; but a woman.”

“Eh? What?”

“His friend was a woman, sir.”

Nick took a turn across the room before he
asked another question. Then he returned and
coolly asked Martin if there was a telephone
in the apartment.

The valet pointed to a little cabinet close
by, and the detective at once called up Police
Headquarters and notified them of the crime.
Then he turned to Martin again.

“Martin,” he said, “were you fond of your
master?”
ie could not have loved an own son better,
sir.

“You have seen me before, have you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You know that I was his friend?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Would you like to see your master’s mur-
derer brought to justice?”

“I would give my life to avenge him, sir,”
replied the valet, with tears in his eyes,

“Iam going to find out who killed Mr. Tut-
tle; will you aid me, Martin?”

“Oh, sir! If I only can!”

“You said you would give your life; will
you risk your reputation and your liberty?”

“Yes, sir, willingly.”

_“ Will you permit the world to think, fora
time, that you are Clarence Tuttle's mur-
derer?”

The valet started.

“That is rather hard,” he said, “but if it is
necessary, yes.”

“Do you know where I live?”

SY es; Sir.”

“Take your hat and go there at once. Give
this card to whoever opens the door, and wait
there till I come. Now go; you have no time
to lose, for in ten minutes more, this house
will be full of officers. Obey me in every par-
ticular, and we will find the murderer of
Clarence Tuttle.”

“T am to go at once?”

“Yes, now.”

“But my things?”

 

 

eee TT SSS

“Leave them. Go.”

Nick pointed authoritatively toward the
door, and the valet, without another word,
obeyed him,

Then the detective seated himself, buried
his face in his hands, and thought. So intently
was his mind bent upon the puzzle which now
confronted him, that the officers sent from
the nearest police station were almost in the
room before he was aware of their coming.

The story which Nick told was true in every
particular, and yet it entirely misled the men
who questioned him.

He said that he had called upon his friend,
and finding the door ajar, had entered; that
seeing nothing of Mr. Tuttle, he finally entered
the sleeping-room, and found him upon the
bed with a silver bodkin piercing his heart;
he had then telegraphed to headquarters and
awaited the arrival of the officers.

“Did Mr. Tuttle live alone?” was asked.

“No; he kept a valet.”

“Ah! where is he?”

“He is not in the apartment; he has evi-
dently disappeared.”

“Oho! Do you know his name?”

“Yes; Martin Green.”

At that point the captain of the precinct
entered, and he soon drew Nick aside and
questioned him for his own satisfaction; but
he only got the same story, and the result was
that when Nick at last left the place, every
officer there was convinced that to find Martin
Green would be to find the murderer of Clar-
ence Tuttle.

Nick did not go directly home; instead, he
took his way at once to Police Headquarters
in Mulberry street, and sent his card to
Inspector Byrnes.

He was at once admitted.

“Hello, Nick! Glad you’ve come!” exclaimed
the inspector. “Now tell me all about the
murder.”

“Inspector,” replied Nick, “I know a good
deal more about that murder than I care to
tell.”

“Kh? What the dev——”

“T am, as you know, employed upon a Goy-
ernment case just now, and this murder comes
directly under my hand in following that. I
have managed to throw suspicion upon an
innocent man, who will be hunted far and
near by your blood-hounds; but they won’t
find him, simply because I have hidden him
away.”

“T see; go on.”

“T would like to have all the noise possible
made in the search for Martin Green, for it
will put the real criminal at ease, and enable
me to work my quarry comfortably.

“Listen, and I will tell you what I already
know.”

“T’m all attention, Nick.”

“Yesterday morning Clarence Tuttle came to
me to secure my services in investigating a
case regarding the theft of a diamond neck-
lace. I refused the case, because of my previ-
ous engagement, but asked the name of the
party from whom the necklace was stolen. In
replying, Tuttle mentioned the name of a per-
son whom I was on the point of starting out
to find.

“Of course, out of my friendship for Tuttle,
I changed my mind and went with him to the
house, where I found that the necklace had
been mysteriously returned. ,

“TI examined it, however, and being a good
judge of diamonds, I found that the returned
necklace was composed of excellent imitations
of the real gems——”

“And said so?”

“Not by any means. I suggested the idea,
however, and advised the owner to have an
expert examine them.

“She pooh-poohed the idea, but consented
to have it done, nevertheless, and to let me
know the result.

“I then placed a watch upon her, and dur-
ing the afternoon she went to Tiffany’s, but
instead of submitting the necklace to an ex-
amination, she purchased a silver bodkin;
Clarence Tuttle was murdered with a silver
bodkin.”

“Ah! This gets interesting.”

“This morning I received a note from the
owner of the necklace which says that she
took it to Tiffany’s, had it thoroughly exam-
ined, and found it to be intact; and I know
that she lied.”

“But why should she steal her own jewels
and replace them with paste?”

“Perhaps she did not. Perhaps somebody
whom she desires to shield, stole them. Per-
haps she needs money, and wishes to deceive
her father. Perhaps—but there are a thousand
ways of explaining it.

“Tuttle agreed to breakfast with me this
morning. He did not come, and wishing to
question him I went to his rooms.

“The valet admitted me and said that his
master had not yet risen. I sent him in to
call Tuttle, and it was he who discovered the
body, not I.

“T saw enough to know that the valet is
innocent. From him I learned that Tuttle
received a call last evening, and that the caller
was a woman. ‘They talked together in the
parlor, for an hour anda half, and at mid-
night she left, he conducting her to the door.
I have not yet questioned Martin about the
woman, for I did not have time, but I am
going to do so when I leave you.

“The woman who owns the necklace is mixed
up in some way with the gang lam after;
how, I do not yet know. She is the same who
purchased the silver bodkin yesterday, at
Tiffany’s, and is, I believe, the same who
called upon Tuttle between ten and twelve
last night. Fortunately, I have a means of
ascertaining that to a certainty, for if she
went out last night, Patsy went with her.”

 

CHAPTER XX.
THE MYSTERIOUS WOMAN.

“Well, Nick,” said Inspector Byrnes, “you
seem to have made out quite a case.”

“No, there is no case yet, but I think I will
find one. I know that Martin Green is not
guilty, and I believe that I can find the per-
son who is.”

“And you believe that person to be a
woman?”

“T am onthe point of believing that if she
did not commit the crime, she instigated it.”
cae only one objection to your method,

ick.”

“What is that?”

“Why, you make the department out to be
a pack of fools, and then you deliberately
come here and tell me what you are doing.”

“Not so bad as that, inspector,” replied
Nick, laughing; “I only throw the rabble off
the scent while I secure the co-operation of
the chief in running down the game. The
case, in a nut-shell, stands thus: If you will
approve of my course and aid me, I will bag
the real criminal, and the department shall
have the credit of it; if not, I believe the
murderer wil] escape.” :

“Why?”

“Because if I am any judge of character

“And you know you are.”
“We will find acumen pitted against shrewd-
ness in this matter. We are the anglers and
the criminal is the trout in the pool. Unless
we approach the bank without being seen,
our prey will become alarmed and hide where
we cannot find it. If, on the contrary, we keep
out of sight, I will select a bait which our
fish will take, before I lay down the rod.”

“Good !”

“Will you help me out?”

* You.”

one not known in the matter at all?”

“Net,

“Will you have that bodkin taken to Tif-
fany’s?”

ee rT go’

“On the quiet. The newspapers must not
get hold of that part of it.” i

“Certainly not.”

“Find out all you can about the bodkin, and
let me know. I will see you from time to
time, and when the moment is ripe——”

 

“You press the button and we do the rest.”
“Exactly.”

“Don’t waste time, Nick. This murder will
attract a good deal of attention.”

“Certainly. That is why the idea came to
me of making the world think that Martin
Green is guilty.”

“Good! Where have you hidden him?”

“At my house.”

“Good again! It will never occur to me to
look there.”

“Of course not. ‘You must not expect me to
close this case up within a few days, how-
ever, for I’ve got an expert lot to contend
with, I tell you.”

“All right, Nick, I leave it entirely to you.”

“Thanks. I’ll go now. The valet is waiting
for me, and I am anxious to get at him.”
“Naturally.”

“Then we understand each other.”
“Perfectly.”

Nick left the inspector and hurried home,
where he found Martin Green awaiting him.

“Martin,” said Nick, as soon as they were
where they could talk uninterruptedly, “I
have found it necessary to place you in a very
unpleasant position, and one from which you
will not be extricated for some time. In the
meantime, I will alter your appearance, change
your name, and employ you as my valet at
the same salary that you have been receiving.
Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your name is now Jamés Martin; you have
been in my service several months, and as you
will not at all resemble your old self, the
deception will be easy.”

“Yes, sits

“Martin Green is suspected of being the mur-
derer of his master, Clarence Tuttle, and the
police are searching everywhere for him. If
he should be found just now, his chances
would be very slim, so it behooves him to be
exceedingly discreet.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know what a bodkin is, Martin?”

Ves, sip,”

“Did you ever see onein Mr. Tuttle’s pos-
session?”

Do, sir.”

“Did you ever see one made of silver?”

“No, Sits: :

“Do you know in what manner Mr. Tuttle
was killed?”

“He was stabbed.”

“With what?”

“A dagger, was it not?”

“No, with a bodkin.”

“Vea, Sinn”

“Do you know the name of the person who
called upon Mr. Tuttle last night?”

“No, sir.”

“Has she been there before?”

“Often.”

“And you never heard her name?”

“Never, sir.”

“Did you ever see her face?”

“Once, sir.”

“When?”

“About a month ago.”

“Where?”

“At the rooms, sir.”

“How did it happen, since, as I understand
you, she usually concealed it?” : ;

“She seemed to forget herself that time, sir.
Mr. Tuttle was out when she called, and——”

“Wait; was he ever away at the time of her
calling, before that?”

“No, sir; nor since.”

“Then he did not expect her on the occasion
of which you speak?”

“Evidently not.” ‘

“Well, go on.”

“TI showed her into the parlor, and she re-
moved her vail, but, as though suddenly
remembering what she had done, she at once
replaced it. I left her there and went to the
club for Mr. Tuttle.”

“Did you have a good look at her face?”

Ves) ar.”

“Describe it.”

“She was very beautiful, sir; the most beau-
tiful woman I ever saw, I think.”

“Light or dark?” '

“Dark—very @rk. That is, her hair was
very black, and so were her eyes. Her com-
plexion was like an Italian girl. that I once
saw, dark enough when you studied it, but so
rich and warm that—that——”

“Yes, I understand. Did you never hear Mr.
Tuttle address her by any name?”

“Never, sir.”

“Did she come often?”

“About once a week, sir.”

“Since when?”

“More than a year, sir.”

“Usually at the same hour?”

“Yes, sir; at ten or half-past.”

“Did she never stay later than twelve?”

“Never, sir.” : .

“Did she always remain in the parlor during
those calls?”

“ Always, sir.”

“Didshe always leave the apartments alone?”

“Never until last night. Mr. Tuttle always
went out with her, but he invariably returned
within fifteen or twenty minutes.”

“He was gone just about long enough to
conduct her to a carriage, then.”

“Wes, sir,”

“Did you ever hear any conversation that
passed beween them?”

“Never, sir.”

“J wish you had; it might aid me very
much.” ,

“T never did.”

“You have doubtless formed a conjecture of
some kind regarding her, Martin; what do
you suppose—at a guess, mind you—her busi-
ness was with Mr, Tuttle.”

“T haven’t an idea, sir.” :

“Do you think she was a relative?”

“No, sir.”

“Humph! What was she?”

“She may have been a friend for whom he
was doing some service. Whoever she was, or
is, sir, I believe that she was a perfect lady,
and above reproach in every way, except for
the indiscretion of visiting Mr. Tuttle, un-
attended, at such hours.”

“I think she is the one who stabbed him,
Martin.” :

The old valet shook his head gravely.

“T will never believe it until it is proven,
sir,” he said. “She was too good for that. If
there had been anything wrong about her, I,
the valet, would have discovered evidences of
it—and I never did, not the slightest. I am
sixty years old, sir; Ihave been a valet all
my life, and I am not afool. I can honestly
say that Clarence Tuttle was the truest gen-
tleman 1 ever knew, and that whatever may
have been the reason for those strange meet-
ings between him and the lady of whom we
are speaking, I shall always believe that the
conduct of both was above reproach, and that
either business or pure friendship brought
them together.”

“Humph! Do you know whether she came
in a carriage, or on foot?”

ORT Ss

“Did you ever hear any word which bespoke
affection pass between them?”

“Never, sir.”

“Or anger?”

“Never, sir.”

“Did you ever hear any words at all pass
between them?”

“Never more than
‘good-night.’”

“Do you know how she notified him of her
intention to call?”

“NO, Sit,”

“Did she always come the same night in the
week?”

“No; but never later inthe week than Wed-
nesday night.”

“Did you ever hear her voice?”

“Only when she said good-night, and at the
time she called when Mr. Tuttle was not at
home.”

“Was it peculiar in any way?”

“No, sir; only soft and gentle; the sort of
voice that suggests that its owner can sing.”

“TI wish you had had less principle and
more curiosity, Martin. If you were one of the
kind who listen at doors and read other peo-

*good-evening,’ and

 

ple’s letters you would be——”

- J

 

<ae THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3 meno

“A scoundrel, sir.”
“Exactly.”

en

CHAPTER XXI.
A STRANGE LETTER,

Nick Carter’s United States Government
case suddenly began to assume alarming pro-
portions.

Not that he believed the murder of Clarence
Tuttle to have grown direttly out of the mail-
robbery affair; but that it was connected with
it in some mysterious manner, he had not a
doubt.

I'he case had begun with a robbery on the
highway, had jumped to the murder of a sup-
posed bootblack, and then to the abduction
of a youny girl; the use of a yacht which be-
longed to a lady in the highest circle of
society had become involved in the matter,
after whicn followed the affair of the necklace
and the assassination of Clarence Tuttle.

It was a remarkable chain of events, and
the detective felt that he was confronted by
the greatest puzzle of his life.

But the greater the puzzle and the deeper
the mystery in which a case was shrouded,
the better Nick Carter liked it. He was in his
element, and his active brain grasped each
complex situation with the same intelligence
that a skillful engineer seizes the throttle of
his engine.

The laws of cause and effect comprise the
opea-sesame of all mysteries, if-only one pos-
sesses sufficient intelligence to weigh them in
the proper scale.

“Martin,” said the detective, after a lengthy
pause, “where did Mr. Tuttle keep his letters
and papers?”

“In a desk which stands in the parlor, sir.”

“Did he receive many letters?”

“Not many at his rooms; nearly all of them
went to his club.”

“Now think deeply and thoroughly, and try
to remember if you know of any incident in
his life, no matter how trivial it may have
appeared at the time, which could have led
to this crime. A quarrel with any person, man
or woman; a threat, uttered or written; a
remark——”

”

“Three or four weeks ago I was out attend-
ing to some errands, and returning, I reached
— * full hour sooner than I had expected.”

“Yes?”

“As I approached the door of Mr. Tuttle’s
rooms, a—a—er—man was just leaving it.”

“Your hesitation means that you did not
consider him to be a gentleman?”

“Exactly, sir.”

“Go on.”

“Mr. Tuttle stood in the door-way. His face
was very stern and set, and I knew he was
very angrv, though he only looked cold and
scornful.”

“Continue, please.

“T heard him say, ‘I want nothing more to
do with you, and if you come here again, you
will not admitted.’”

“Did the stranger reply?”

“He said, ‘Bah!’ shrugged his shoulders and
laughed, and Mr. Tuttle closed his door,

“As soon as I entered the room he said:

“*Martin, did you see that fellow?’

“*Ves,’ I replied.

_ “*¥You are never to admit him, under any
pretext.’

“T then asked his name, and Mr. Tuttle
replied:

“*He has several, I believe, but Matthew
Prime is likely to be the one he will use.’

“The following morning, when I handed
the mail to my master, he suddenly seized one
of the letters and threw it across the room,
Then, evidently changing his mind, he said:

“*Martin, take that letter and burn it un-
opened. It is from the fellow who called
yesterday.’ 1 took the letter, and——”

Lee burned it?”

“ Yo “3

“Good re

4

 

“T kept it, believing that the y might
come when he would wish that he had not
destroyed it. I never broke the seal, and I
have no more idea of the contents now, than I
had then; but I have the letter.”

i doen is ae a

“In my pocket- ees

“Here? With you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let me have it.” -

“Do you think I ought?”

“Certainly. Hand it over.”

The valet produced his pocks: Doms and ab-
stracted the letter, which he handed to Nick.

The detective lost no time in opening the
envelope and unfolding the following commu-
nication, there being no superscription and no

 

“She came out and was driven home.”

“Ts that all?” ;

“Not quite. The other one——”

Patsy was interrupted by the entrance of
Marie who silently handed the detective a

etter.

“ By messenger, sir,” he said, “No answer.”

Nick recognized the well-known writing of
Inspector Byrnes upon the envelope, and
hastily opened it.

“Dear Nick,” it read, “the silver bodkin is. beyond
doubt, the same that was purchased yesterday, as
you supposed. Ithas heen identified. I inclosea
etter found among ©, 'T.’s effects, which will explain
itself, I hope. I have other correspondence to show
you, derived from the same source.”

The letter which , the inspector had inclosed
was tightly sealed with wax, and upon the
envelope, in Clarence Tuttle’s handwriting,
was inscribed:

“NICK CARTER, DETECTIVE,”
and underneath was written:

“To be delivered unopened, by the finder, in case of
accident to me. Ce.”

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

This Story Will Not be Published in Boo-orm,

The Sins ofthe Father

AN UNLOVED BRIDE.

By BERTHA M. CLAY,

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

 

 

(“THE SINS OF THE FATHER” was commenced in No, 21.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.)

 

(This is an original story, the property of Street &
Smith, and is entirely different from *“ The Sinsof the
Fathers” published by Hurst & Lo.)

 

CHAPTER XLVIUII.
MABEL AND HER FORMER MAID.
Mabel had been brought face to face with

 

the most terrible disaster, and her courage
had been remarkable; but she knew that
although the danger had been averted, it
might return to threaten her in some new
form at any moment. ,

She had measured her antagonist just as
Mrs. Caine had measured her, and she knew
that she must not hope to remain idle in the
belief that she could check the advance of
danger when it appeared. Chance had assisted
her this time, when her own ingenuity had
been powerless to suggest any remedy. She
must trust to chance no more.

It could not be said that she regretted any-
thing in the past, although there were times
when she found herself shuddering and cower-
ing in the solitude of self-communion. What
was more to her than any fear of what the
past might yield up to betray her, was the

 

dread of losing the little love she yet retained
of him for whom she had striven. ¥

The sight of all the familiar objects in her
apartments caused her to shrink within her-
self for a moment; for it seemed as if her
memory of them all dated from that last even-
ing she occupied them. And for an instant she
held her twu hands to her brow, as if to check

 

 

signature:

you will change your mind. Believe me, your safety
depends largely upon yourreply. I do not care to
express myself more strongly here. Youknow where
and to whom te address your answer. I shall not
seek you again; you must seekme. Ifyou treat this
with the scorn with which you have treated me, you
will be made to suffer-through your affections (and
you kn@w what that means), as well as in other
ways. You will be givena reasonable time to con-
sider this.” :

Nick read the letter two or three times, and
then placed it in his pocket.

“Tt gives me very little aid,” he muttered,
“but it may prove of value, later on.

““Your safety depends upon your reply.’
Humph! That is a threat, and argues that
Matthew Prime may know something of the
murder. ‘You know where and to whom to
address your answer;’ that argues that mes-
sages of some kind had passed between Tuttle
and Prime before the receipt of this letter.
‘You will be made to suffer through your

 

affections.’ That’s a puzzler. I know that
Tuttle had not a near relative alive; and so,
to whom does that passage refer? To the mys-
terious caller? Perhaps, although such a
hypothesis would be likely to destroy my first
theory. ‘As well as in other ways,’ that
returns to the original threat. Martin!”

oY Oe, HAT.

“Was Mr. Tuttle in love?”

“T think he was, sir.”

“With whom?”

“With a Miss Thorne, who lives on Fifty-
fifth street.”

Nick started.

“Did you ever see Miss Thorne, Martin?”

“Yes, sir; often.”

“Ah! was it not Miss Thorne who called
upon him at his rooms? Was it not her face
you saw and her voice you heard?”

“No, sir.”

“ Are you positive.”

“ Absolutely so, sir.”

“Confound it!”

“Eh, sir?”

“You have exploded a theory of mine, that’s
all. I’m not so sure, though, but that you
have made part of it stronger than ever.
Leave me alone, now, fora while; I want to
think.”

Martin withdrew, but ten minutes later he
rapped upon the door and entered with a tele-

ram,

“Will be with you to-morrow morning,” was
all it said. There was no signature, but the
detective knew that it was from Chick, who
had doubtless pursued his researches far enough
to know that he must continue the chase in
New York.

While Nick still sat with the message in his
hand, Patsy entered.

“Well?” demanded the detective, abruptly.

“She went out.”

“Which one?”

“The one who owns the necklace.”

“At what time?”

“About ten.”

“Where did she go—and how?”

“In her own carriage, to No. —— West
Forty-seventh street.”

“Did the carriage wait for her?”

“ce Yes.”

“How long?”

“Half-past twelve.”

“And then——”

 

“You have positively refused to treat with me, or |
to see me again, but for your own sakeI beg that |

 

the turmoil within. Then, with a defiant toss
of the head, she foreed herself to glance slowly
about the room she stood in.

“I am unnerved by the scene at the pool,”
she murmured to herself. “But I must be
strong, for this is only the beginning.”

A sort of spasm conyulsed her face, and
then faded away into a fixed rigidity which
proved how hard the struggle had been for
self-possession. But she knew she had yet an
ordeal before her, and she did not dare to
relax. She passed into the dressing-room.

The memory of the wedding-eve, with the
stolen visit to the black pool, and the subse-
quent scene with Carlotte, rose up with start-
ling distinctness before her, and she staggered
against the side of the door. But that was for
a moment only, and her face did not change.
She recovered eens and walked steadily over
to where the stiletto still did duty as a sort of
nail to hang anything upon. There was a
moment of hesitation, perhaps, and then she
took the weapon by the handle and pulled it
out of the panel.

“Ah!” she muttered, “it has been taken out
recently. But of cdurse I must have known
that if I had thought of it. Why is Carlotte
here with that woman, but to betray me?”

She turned the thing over with studied care-
lessness, and thrust it back in its place. Then
she walked over to the wash-stand and looked
into the waste jar, as if after all the days of
disuse there might still be in it that colored
water, which she had once ascribed to rouge.

After that she opened the closet and looked
at the shoes and garments that were still
there, hunting them all over as if in search
for a particular one.

“It is not here,” she murmured. “Carlotte
took it. She was to have cleaned it. I wonder
if she did so, or if that will rise up against me
some day. Could she have meant to betray me
from the beginning? But, no. How could she
have known, then, of this woman?”

Doing these things had not occupied much
time, and Mabel turned from the closet, and
began taking off her wraps in the languid
manner of one who is tired, but whois at
peace with ail the world.

She assumed this manner in the expectation
of the speedy coming of Carlotte, but the maid
did not put in an appearance until the out-
door wrap had been discarded, and Mabel had
seated herself in her favorite seat near the
window overlooking the approach to the castle,

Somehow the very fact of sitting there made
her think of the day when, seated in the same
place, she had seen the earl coming up the
drive with Edna Leslie by his side. She had
never liked the governess, but she had hated
her from that moment, even without knowing
how much cause she had to fear her. She won-
dered, as she sat there waiting for Carlotte,
if the pretty governess would ever go out of
her life.

Alas for her! there were many things more
sinister for her than Edna Leslie that had
come into her life, not to go out of it without
leaving a deep scar onit. One of them was
she who announced herself at that moment by
saying, in a tone which was strangely mingled
of insolence and humility:

“Did you send for me, my lady?”

“Ah! is it you, Carlotte?” said Mabel, with
a perfect assumption of her old haughty lan-
guor. “Yes, I sent for you. I left my new
maid in London. I saw you out there while
that demented creature was making a scene,
and I supposed you would be pleased to wait
on me. My father will have no further need of

?

you.

" Carlotte hesitated before answering. She
had intended to be governed by the reception
she received from her old mistress, and
in doing so had the license of her new mis-
tress, Mrs. Caine. She would have liked to

 

show her old mistress that she had her in her
power, but the failure to find the sought-for
body in the pool, together with Mabel’s
assured manner, robbed her of the ability to
act and speak as she would have liked.

“Yes, my lady,” she answered, “I suppose
there will be no objection to my waiting on
you now. I had not intended to be lady's

 

maid again, but when your poor father was

 

  

ee

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

.

ix

TH TH tattoo!

ae eed 2 ece'bcd a eed ee ek “te ee ee eke Se - ee ee

be, TD ne jah -— ~wt OU hh at Ge Os

THO ~} me hp ~*~

nn wee oe ee... eee

ot 01. ee ieee ee a

_

et eke
 

ce na tee reenter Ri Sets

 

 

 

 

 
 
   

 

VOL, 47—No. 40.

. aaa

was THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3

 

 

 

taken ill, I came down here, and was here

 

° ”

when her ladyshi ;

“Who?” demanded Mabel, with a languid
lifting of her well-arched brows.

Carlotte flushed and bit her lip. She under-
stood perfectly that all Lady Westmarch was
trying to do was to make her comprehend that
she was only a maid, and not the possessor of
a valuable secret. :

If the body had been found! ah, then it
would have been different.

“TI mean her who claimed to be the duchess,”
said Carlotte.

“Oh,” murmured Mabel, who saw that she
was yzaining her point. “Well, you may pre-
pare a bath for me, Carlotte. You were saying
you had not intended to be a lady’s maid
again. You may talk as you go about your
work. I suppose you invested your five hun-
dred pounds well, then, eh?”

“Five hundred pounds!” exclaimed Carlotte,
staring, as she eee to comprehend more of
the drift of vga J estmarch’s words.

“Yes,” said Mabel, steadily. “I mean the
five hundred pounds I gave you when you pre-
ferred to remain in England instead of travel-
ing with me.”

“Five thousand, your ladyship,” said Car-
lotte, her lips shutting and her eyes snapping.

Mabel laughed.

“Your imagination has done wonders with
my little gift,” she said. “I intended to give

 

you five hundred pounds, and it is not likely
I have forgotten. I suppose you have told that
aoe to the servants until you believe it your-
se en

“T have told it to nobody, my lady,” cried
Carlotte, with repressed anger. “ButI have
the money securely laid away. I have not for-
gotten why you gave it to me, either.”

Mabel looked at the maid with a cold and
haughty stare. She had brought the conversa-
tion to precisely the point she had wished,
and moreover had learned an important fact—
Carlotte might have revealed her secret to Mrs,
Caine, but she evidently had not gossiped
with the servants about receiving such a sin-
gularly large gift from her mistress.

“Carlotte,” she said, sharply, “do you know
that you have a strange manner in addressing
me? You were once a respectful and efficient
maid. If you have forgotten how to continue
to be one, you may leave the castle imme-
diately. And pray what do you mean when
you speak in so meaning a tone of why I gave
you that five hundred pounds?”

Carlotte was staggered, as well she might
be, by the assured and. domineering tone of
one whom she believed she had in her power.

“It was five thousand pounds,” she said,
sullenly.

Mabel lifted her brows, as if such foolish per-
sistence in error were beyond her comprehen-
sion.

“You annoy me, Carlotte,” she said, wearil Y:
“T suppose it is Ose that I may have ma
a mistake, but I do not believe it. It is only
a few days ago that I was_ showing the earl
the check for five hundred pounds which I
had given you.”

Carlotte flashed a quick glance at Lady
Westmarch. She comprehended now, and
began to see that her old mistress might be a
better match for Mrs. Caine than she had at
first thought.

“Yes,” she said, slowly, and with a far more
respectful manner, which Mabel was quick to
see, and to smile at, “you gave me a check for
only five hundred pounds, but you gave me
forty-five hundred in notes.”

Mabel did not reply at once. She had entered
on a combat which she felt was mortal, and
she wished to avoid making a mistake. Chance
had certainly favored her when it seemed as
if the end was near, and now she was anxious
to move cautiously and not lose any advantage
she had gained. ;

“Carlotte,” she said, at last, “I did not
understand you at first, but I think I do now.
You are very foolish, however; and as you

2

 

 

assist me with my toilet, I think I can con-
vince you of it. You have some reason for per-
sisting in saying I gave you five thousand
pounds. What is the reason?”

“Tt is the truth,” said Carlotte, but with |
less assurance.

Mabel laughed.

“No, no,” she said. “You say that because ;
you have had some understanding with that}
dreadful woman who, after making a dreadful |
accusation against me, which was easily seen |
to be without foundation, confessed herself
an impostor. Of course you can see how a
judge would treat a woman who would make
such admissions.”

Carlotte was visibly shaken, but, not seeing
whither she was being led, would not admit
anything.

“T don’t know anything about her, but I do
know about myself,” she said.

“Confess,” said Mabel, suavely, “that she
hates me for some reason.”

“Oh, yes, I will confess that,” said Carlotte.

“T thought so,” said Mabel, in a tone of one
who has gained all she sought. “Now admit
that she paid you well to say some things
about me. I don’t ask what things, and I
don’t care. But she has paid you to say cer-
tain things about me, has she not?”

“Yes,” answered Carlotte, defiantly.

“T was sure of it,” cheerfully. ‘Now listen
to me for a few moments, Carlotte. It doesn’t
make a particle of difference to me what you
may say, excepting that I dislike to see any

 

| other room,

 

one I once cared for make trouble for herself;
but I think I can show you how much better
off you will be, even now, if you will be faith- |
ful to me, instead of inventing stories to)
amuse that virago.” |

“Yes, my lady,” mumbled Carlotte, willing |
to hear, even if she did not accept, the propo-
sition she understood Mabel was about to}
make to her.

“Ts the bath ready?” said Mabel, seeing that

it was. “Then assist me in removing my gar-
ments. That woman accused me of—of mur-
dering her son.”

Carlotte cast a glance upward and caught
the stead lance of her mistress. Mabel’s
voice had broken for an instant, but her eyes
were cold and steady.

“Of course,” she went on, contemptuously,
“the thing is too absurd to speak of, and I
would not, were it not that I Know the creat-
ure hates me for the wrong my father once
did her. She has shown that by her efforts to

 

shame me in the eyes of the world. She would
make you her accomplice by bribing you
heavily, and thus inducing you to be a party
to her accusation,”

_ “T would never tell anything but the truth,”
said Carlotte, in a low, rather uncertain tone.

Mabel looked CL at the maid, and if
Carlotte had been looking then, she would
have seen that her mistress was controlling a
sudden emotion that had for the moment
gained the mastery. When Mabel spoke, how-
ever, her voice was steady, and there was in
it even a slight tone of mockery.

“Perhaps you would not mind telling me,”
she said, “what you consider the truth.”

‘ “JT will tell youif you wish,” replied Car-
otte. .

“I certainly do wish,” said Mabel. “It will
amuse me while I am dressing. Go on!”

“T should say,”.said Carlotte, “that on the
night of your marriage you shut yourself up
in your apartments, after you were in your
wedding garments, on the plea of wishing to
rest; but that in fact you took a stiletto and
stole out to the black pool, where you stabbed
ue Caine, and then pushed him into the

ool,”

Mabel’s face was ghsntly white, but she
knew it must be, and kept it concealed from
the maid. She laughed ina hard, metallic
way as she said:

“JT think I could make up a better story than
that, Carlotte. Why, see the discrepancies! I,
a weak woman, dressed for my wedding, shut
myself in my room, then go a distance of two
hundred yards, murder a strong man, throw
him into a pool, come back two hundred yards,
and then present myself spotless for my wed-
aiee How long a time was occupied in doing
this?”

“Fifteen minutes, perhaps,” said Carlotte.
“But are forgetting how your gown was

You are forgetting that your shoes, which had
been put on over your second pair of stockings,
were covered with mud, still wet, when I saw
them; you are forgetting that your cloak, put
on over your wedding-gown, was so spotted
with blood that I took it and destroyed it for
you.”

Mabel laughed in a horrible way, but there
was a flash of triumph in her eyes as she cried
out:

“It is a pity you did not keep a bit of evi-
dence which might have given the color of
truth to what you say. Where are those muddy
shoes now? Where is the spotted wedding-
gown? Where, finally, is the body of Arthur
Caine? Why, Carlotte, cannot you see that

our story is a foolish one? Fancy a woman
ike Lady Mabel doing such things! The thing
is too absurd! And no proofs! not one! Then
add that you received five thousand pounds to
say nothing about it, and you will have
reached the end of your absurdities. Really,
Carlotte, what do you think of your own
story?”

“Ff can only tell what I know,” said Carlotte,
but there was no more assurance in her tone.

“You saw me stab Arthur Caine?” queried
Mabel.

“No, I only went to the
down to be married, and
of the struggle.”

“Struggle!” cried Mabel, a little shrilly.
“Will you say next that I, a weak woman,
conquered a strong man in a struggle? Come,
come! ‘The story is foolish, and would not be
listened to aemoment. Let us not talk of that.
Iam not afraid of anything you can say, Car- }

ool after you went
saw the evidences

lotte, and I would be severe with you were it j

not that I can see that you have been over-
persuaded by that woman. I can see that she
is very ingenious, and, if I do nothing to pre-
vent her, she will cause me some annoyance.
Here is what I will do. If you will serve me

instead of her, you shall receive from me ten}
I do this |

pounds for every five she gives you.
only because I wish to show her up at last in
her true colors. What do you say, Carlotte?"

If the result of dragging the pond had been
different, Carlotte’s answer would probably
have been different. As it was, she answered:

“What must I do?”

“Merely pretend to serve her, and keep me
informed of all she tells you, and of al! you
eae she is doing. You will grow rich, Car-
otte.”

“TI will do it,” said Carlotte.

Lady Westmarch breathed more freely than
she had done in some time.

 

CHAPTER XLIX.
WHO MURDERED ARTHUR CAINE?

When Mabel’s toilet was finished she sought
her father’s apartments. ‘She felt that her first

effort in the new plan of campaign had been |

successful, and she was full of a fierce sort of
hope that all else would go equally well. The
trained London nurse, very much subdued by
some plain things said tu her by the earl on
the subject of deserting her patient to witness
the sensational dragging of a pond, met Mabel
in the anteroom.

“Tell the duke,” said Mabel to her, “that
Lady Westmarch wishes to see him, if he is
well enough.”

“He said to beg you to come without wait-
ing.” replied the nurse.

“He said!” repeated Mabel, in surprise, and
with a gleam of joy in her eyes. “He can com-
municate his wishes, then?”

“Oh, it is very simple, my lady,” said the
nurse. “He shuts his eyes twice for ‘yes,’ and
three times for ‘no.’ And if you wish to learn
anything from him, he will spell it out if
you will go over the alphabet.”

“Then he is quite sensible?” queried Mabel,
anxious on that point.

“Perfectly.”

“And what does the physician say of his}
chances of recovery?” demanded Mabel. /

“He says he may recover suddenly, particu- |
larly if subjected to some great shock which
will stimulate the nerve centers.”

“You may remain here while I goin the

* said Mabel.

The duke lay in the bed, when she entered
the room, his eyes fixed on the door in a way
that proved he had recognized her voice and
was anxiously expecting her entrance.

Mabei met his eyes, and was puzzled by their
expression, so that with knit brows she ap-
proached nearer to him and asked:

“Is there something you wish to say? I
understand your methods of communication.”

He closed his eyes twice, and she immedi-
ately began to run over the alphabet, To her
extreme surprise he spelled out:

“Bend over me,”

“You wish me to bend over you?” she de-
manded.

He indicated “yes.”

A half-puzzled, half-startled expression crept
into her face as she did as he asked. His eyes
flashed a quick glance at the door leading to
the anteroom, and then a faint whisper issued
from the lips that had not uttered a sound for
many days.

“Get rid of the nurse somehow without ex- |
citing suspicion. I must say afew words to|

 

you.” ‘

i Perhaps if Mabel had not heen keyed up to
the pitch of receiving any sudden surprise |
without sign of emotion, she mirht have been |
startled into some tell-tale exclamation at this |
unexpected revelation of speech where she had |
expected to find none. Asit was, she drew |
back and exchanged a meaning glance with |
her father. Twenty questions seemed to leap
to her lips in a moment, but she checked them
all, and went out to where the nurse sat in the
anteroom.

“The patient,” she said, coldly, “wishes a
cooling drink of some sort. You will probably .
know what will be best for him. Please to get
it youself. The household is hardly in a con-
dition to do anything correctly now. Do not
be too long gone.”

At another time the nurse, conscious of her
importance, would have refused to go herself,
and would have rung for a footman; but after
her recent dereliction, she was ready to do
almost anything, and therefore went without
demur. Mabel saw the door close after her,
and then hastened back to her father.

“The nurse is gone,” she said.

“Oh, Heaven!” he murmured, “how I have
longed for this moment!”

He spoke a little thickly, yet distinctly
enough for perfect comprehension.

“You have pretended to be dumb when you
could speak?” she demanded.

“Yes, I knew that woman would never let
me alone after her suspicions were aroused,
and I knew of no better defense than to feign
a dumbness which, for a day, was real enough.
The body was not found?” he half-asserted,
half-queried.

“No. What has become of it?” she sharply
demanded.

“Do you not know?” he cried, looking at her
eagerly.

“No,” she retorted. “How should I know
where it is if not there? What can have be-
come of it?”

“Was the pool thoroughly dragged?” he
asked. '

“Twice. But perhaps the body may be buried
inthe mud. Ah!” she cried, as if stung, “if
it be it will be discovered; for George has said
he will have the pool drained, and I shall not
dare oppose him. ‘That woman accused me of
murder !”

“Oh, Heaven!” murmured the duke, his dis-
torted face hideous in its agony. “But it is
not true, and you shall never suffer forit. I
did it, and I alone will suffer.”

A strange glance passed between the two,
and Mabel turned her eyes away as she said:

“No one must suffer. He was a wretch, and
deserved his fate. Do you think his body can
be hidden in the mud at the bottom of the
pool?”

“T am sure it cannot.
up by the drag?”

“A great stone at first,” she answered, shud-
dering in spite of all her seif-control, as she

Was nothing brought

| dreadful hours he had passed.

heavily laden out of the pool. “After that
nothing was found.”

“Tf a heavy stone could be brought up,” he
said, “it is plain that a body cannot be in
hiding there. It would be too light even yet.”

A spasm of horror shook them both, ard
they talked in low tones and with averted
eyes. A moment of silence followed, but was
nee broken by a cry from Mabel.

“Can he be alive, perhaps?” she exclaimed.

“How is it possible?” he asked, in a low
tone.

She shuddered, butedid not answer.

“If we had only known she was an im-
postor!” murmured the duke, presently.

“But we did not know it,” said Mabel,
fiercely, “and now we must fight her. If it
were only my life that was at stake, I would
not eare so much, but I am fighting to kee
George. Only a few days oO we came sud-
denly on that Miss Leslie, and I am sure that
George loves her, and I am afraid that he sus-
pects something. If this thing should come to
light, it would be an excuse for George.”

“YT tell you, Mabel,” said the duke, in a
choking voice, “that no harm can come to
you, since I, and I alone, didit. Do not for-
get that! I was the cause of the trouble, and
‘I only am guilty.”

“But the body!” said Mabel. “If the body
' cannot be found, no one is guilty.”

“Why should Margaret—that woman—accuse
you?” suddenly demanded the duke.

“Carlotte instigated the charge. But Car-
lotte is intimidated and bought now.”

: ay eee does Carlotte know?” demanded the
duke.

“She knows nothing, but she suspects many
'things, some true and some untrue. I have
' purchased her silence, but [I do not trust her.
| But there are other ways of obtaining silence,
'and rather than be at her mercy I will resort
‘to them.”

Mabel spoke fiercely.

| “No, no, Mabel!” cried the duke, “it must
‘not be. No more! Is not this enough? And
how useless! It might have been spared, and
we should be safe and happy now. Have you
felt no remorse? To me life is a horror, and if
it had not been for you, I should long ago
have ended it. Ihave lived to save you, and
I shall save you! Will you not understand
that I alone am guilty?”

There was an energy in his manner, even
‘hough his body lay there as if enchained in
death, that had never been characteristic of
him before. Mabel had turned away as he
spoke, but when he had finished she turned
passionately toward him.

“And what do you believe me to be?” she
cried. “Do you think I could let you take the
punishment of the crime, andthen go living
calmly on? Do you suppose there would ever
be happiness again for me? Have I not lived
through ages of torment already ? Has not that
bleeding body come between me and George
every time he took me in his arms?”

“And yet you talk of silencing Carlotte!” he
groaned.

“Yes; that and more, if need be,” she said,
wildly. “I will not lose the man I love. I care
for nothing else. If I could die this moment,
clasped in his arms, I could welcome death;
| but to know that I may live to see another in
i'my place, and that other loved with all the
warmth of a heart whose fervor I know, but
have never felt, almost drives me mad! Yes,
the horror of that night is always before me,
but a terror vreater than that is the fear of
losing George.”

“You need not lose him,” said the duke,
“And do not talk any more as you did just
now. Our enemies are strong, but we can be
stronger. Until the body is found there can be
no charge of—of—murder.”

“But if the a be drained?” she said.

“Tow can the body be there if the drag did
not bring it up?” he demanded.

“Then where can it be, unless either he is
not dead, or some one has taken the body from
the pool.”

“Tf he be alive,” said the duke, “we are safe
anyhow; for we could deny any story he could
tell. And if anybody has take the body from
the pool, it certainly cannot be the ge f per-
son who is interested in it, or his mother
would not have taken such trouble to have the
pool dragged.”

“She will never rest until she has solved the
mystery,” said Mabel.

“You must solve it first,” said the duke. “If
you do, you may defy her. Think of every-
thing, and reject nothing that may come to
you, however et it may seem. Have
the pool drained, but be careful not to let her
or any spy of hers be there when it is done.”

“But,” she protested, “if the bones are found
there it will have to be known.”

“Bones,” he said, shudderinzly, “are of no
consequence. It is only clothing we need fear.
A body must be identified. Give orders to
have the pool ijrained at once. It will not take
long.”

And when it is drained?” she asked,

“Then you must steal out there by night,
and find some means of searching the mud
before any one else does it.”

She covered her face with her hands.

“Go out there at night, and search for—for
him! Oh, Heaven!” she moaned.

“But if it will bring safety?” he urged, “If
I could go I would not hesitate.” :

“Why did you not have all this done when it
might have been safely done?” she demanded,
half-fiercely.

“Because I had not the courage then,” he
answered, with a groan, as he recalled the
“Now it must

 

 

 

 

 

 

be done.”

“And I must do it!” moaned Mabel.

Instinctively she appoached the window that
looked toward the pool, and as her eyes roved
over the landscape she saw a number of men
crossing the lawn with picks and shovels over
their shoulders.

“The work has already been ordered by the
earl,” she murmured. “The men are going to
the pool now.”

“Then by to night it will be drained, for it
will not take long,” said the duke.

“And to-night,” gasped Mabel, her face
deathly white, “I will go search for the man

“TI murdered,” interposed the duke, hoarsely.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)

 

Hints for the Household.

Mend broken iron with equal parts of salt
and ashes.

Emery powder will remove ordinary stains
from ivory knife-handles.

Spots are easily cleaned from varnished fur-
niture by rubbing with spirits of camphor.

If the hands are rubbed on a stick of celery
after peeling onions the smell will be entirely
removed.

A little horseradish or a few nasturtiums
placed in your pickle seeds jars will prevent
mold from forming on the top of the pickles.

All such ingredients of soup as rice, vermi-
celli, macaroni, etc., should be partially boiled
in plain water before being put into the liquor.

When you boil a cabbage tie a bit of dry
bread in a bag and put it in the kettle. You
will not be troubled with the usual disagree-
able odor.

When eggs are scarce, put away at night a
teacup of mashed potatoes, in which has been
strained a teaspoonful of sugar, and mix it in
the corn-cake batter next morning; you will
find the cakes light and sweet.

To remove the long dark scratches made by
drawing a match across painted surfaces, cut
a sour lemon in half and apply the cut half to
the marks, rubbing for a moment quite hard.
Then dip a cloth in water, afterward in whit-
ing, and rub until the stain disappears.

A good plan for keeping butter cool and
sweet in summer is to fill a box with sand to
within an inch or two of the top; sink the
butter jars in the sand, and thorcughly wet the
sand with cold water. Cover the box air-tight.

 

 

 

ou
epobhed so that those who were here saw it.

recalled her emotions when the ret came

The box may be kept in the kitchen,

 

THAT BOTTLE OF PORT. —

BY CHARLES DALY DOUGLASS,

 

 

“They don’t have much of the real port wine
in this country,” soliloquized Captain Le Beau,
holding up a bottle between him and the
light, and looking admiringly at the rich,
dark color—‘“ very little of the real article; but
I fancy by the color that this has seen Lisbon.”

Captain Le Beau was an aide on the staff of
a French general in Mexico during the reign
of the unfortunate Maximilian, and we find
him at this time in Queretaro, before the
investment. He had come in from a reconnois-
sance an hour before, and being hot; dusty,
tired, and hungry, he had repaired to a cer-
tain place of entertainment in that old town
which he we!! knew of, and after a bath and
a thorough brushing, he had ordered his din-
ner to be spread in the open court, and now
sat at ease to enjoy it. Could anything be
more delightful? Here he was, secure from
intrusion, shielded from dust and heat, sur-
rounded by fragrant tropical flowers, with

the cool, musical plash of a fountain close by;
and there was a dainty repast, for which his
epicurean mouth was watering, anda bottle
of such wine as he had not seen this side of the
Atlantic.

“Jean Le Beau, your cup of joy is tolerably
well filled,” he said. “Now for a bumper, to
begin with, to Ninette; then another to fame
and promotion.” .

He placed the bottle on the table, prepara-

tory to removing the cork, when bang! went |

a pistol, and the bottle flew in fragments,
throwing the wine over thecloth, and a goodly
portion of it on his person.

He sprang to _ his feet, with a hot impreca-
tion, and glared around him. Not a person
was to be seen: but a soft chuckle behind the
blinds of a window facing the court caught
his ear.

“Come out here, whoever you are!” he yelled,
dancing up and down, and brandishing his
pistol in wrath—“come out, bandit, assassin,
thief——”

It is impossible to sa
epithets he might have hurled at the head of
the unknown. ‘These proved sufficient. The
shutters were thrown open, anda tall, hand-
some dragoon, in French uniform, stepped out
into the court, and confronted him.

“Captain Victor Blanc!” he cried.

“As you say!” said the other, with a smile
that was far from friendly in its meaning.
“And glad. indeed, am I to meet you.”

“Did you mean to kill me, scoundrel? Could
you not meet me like a gentleman?”

“Pish! I meant to spill your wine, and drive
you into a meeting. Are you ready?”

“With all my heart! ’I'was not necessary to
waste such good wine. I have been ready and
anxious to meet you ever since I knew you
were on Mexican soil. No fault of mine that
we have not met before. Shall we arrange the
matter right here?”

“Yes; this is quiet and
can do without. Swords?

“Nay; I am out of practice.
and toss for first shot.”

“With all my heart! Here’s a napoleon.
Up! Speak!”

“Heads !”

“And heads it is. You’ve won, Captain Le
Beau. Nevertheless, I assure you that I shall
kill you, and that, returning to =France with
Marshal Forey, covered with glory, I shall
marry the charming Ninette.”

“That infatuation has led you to your grave,
Captain Blanc,” said the other, carefully ex-
amining his pisto]. “Ninette is mine, and your
presumption in claiming her is insufferable.
So we will fight. Meanwhile, my dinner,
which you so rudely interrupted, is’ waiting.
Will you not partake of it with me? It is not
likely that you will ever have another.”

“Indeed, you are too kind,” said Blane,
waving hishand mockingly. “After I have dis-
posed of you, there will be just enough for me,”

“To your place, then.”

Without further parley these human blood-
hounds took their places on opposite sides of
the court, about four rods apart. Captain
Blane stood with his pistol in his hana, his
arms folded, and his left side turned to his
adversary, while his body was drawn up to its
full height, as motionless as if on parade.

The other took long, careful aim, and fired.
A ery of pain broke from Blanc, and he called
out:
“Stand fast, sir; I’ll show you a better shot
than that!”

An instant after the report of his pistol
was heard, and Le Beau measured his length
on the ground. Captain Blane stood wavering,
and then he, too, fell.

The waiters, alarmed by the shots, now
rushed in and found both combatants dead.
The provost-marshal was summoned, and with
him came several light-hearted young officers,
the companions of the dead.

“What could they have quarreled about?”
asked one.

“Small difference now what it was,” said
another,

“Were they not in love with the same girl
at home?”

“T have heard so.”

“And now neither can have her! How much
better would it have been to toss up for her!”

“Lads,” said the grizzled old provost-marshal
to the servants, “remove those bodies. My
sons,” to the officers, “a word of advice. While
there are so many of these rascaily Mexicans
to be killed, don’t be so silly as to kill each
other. However, I see that these hot-heads
have left a good dinner untasted. There is
almost enough for me. How grateful I am to
them for killing each other before dinner!
Retire, my sons, and I will enjoy the legacy
they have left me.”

It is hoped and believed that whatever for-
tune may have befallen the fair Ninette in
France during the exciting troubles of the
periods no greater good fortune could have

appened to her than the smashing of that
bottle of wine in Queretaro, which relieved
her of the danger of becoming the wife of
either Captain Le Beau or Captain Blanc.

what other or worse

retired. Seconds we
3

I say pistols,

_ 2 or

A BEAUTIFUL EyE.—The eye that has a
benign expression raises the plainest face to a
higher rank of beauty than mere symmetry
can ever attain. The greatest and most loved
women of history were often indebted solely
to the beautiful expression of their eyes for
their nameless power of fascinating all who
beheld them, And to make the eyes thus
beautiful, it is only necessary to throw into
them that light of the soul which emanates
from the gentler emotions and purest thoughts.
All violent passions abuse the eye, all unwor-
thy thoughts mar its clearness; and it can be
made either a perpetual reflection of the ra-
diance of heaven, or a mirror to the flames of
perdition.

D0 YOU WANT

$45.00 in cash anda ladies or gentleman’s gold or silver
watch? You can have both,—one for a little labor, the
other for nothing. Write us about it.

 

 

       
    
   
 
 
 
 
     
  

“WORTH A GUINEA A BOX.”

eS

(Tasteless—Effectual.)

$ FOR ALL
sBILIOUS and NERVOUS
: DISORDERS.

@ Such as Sick Headache, Wind and Pain in the
Stomach, Giddiness, Fullness. Swelling after
Meals, Dizzinéss, Drowsiness, Chills, Flush.
ings of Heat, Loss of Appetite, Shortness of
Breath, Costiveness, Scurvy, Blotches on the
Skin, Disturbed Sleep, Frightful Dreams, All
Nervous and Trembling Sensations, and Ir-
regularities Incidental to Ladies.

Covered with a Tasteless and Soluble Coating,

Of all druggists.
New

 

  

Price 25 centsa Box.
ork Depot, 365 Canal St.

RT CL
‘%

%

LOVELY FACES,
WHITE HANDS.

Nothing will
WHITEN and CLEAR
the skin so quickly as

Derma-Royale

= ; , The new discovery for @ dissolvingS
= and removing discolorations from the cuticle, and bleach-=

PEC T gy,

PANSOEGRUDUHIDYOENUNUGONUEYDUNLEQEEOEEDUGW

 

 

| = ingand brightening thecomplexion. Inexperimenting =
Sin the laundry with a new bleach for fine fabrics it was=
| 3 discovered that all spots, freckles, tan and other discol- 3
= orations were quickly removed from the hands and arms =
= without the slightest injury to the skin. The discovery =
j = was submitted to experienced Dermatologists and Phys- =
| = icians who prepared for us the formula of the marvelous =
| = Derma-Royale. THERE NEVER WAS ANYTHING LIKELT. It
= is perfectly harmless and so simple achild can use it. =
= Apply at night—the improvement apparentafterasingle =
= application will surprise and delight you. It quickly =
§ (lissolves and removes the worst forms of moth-patches, =
= brown or liver spots, freckles, blackheads, blotches, S
= sallowness, redness, tan and every discoloration of the S
5 cuticle. One bottle completely removes and cures the=
= most aggravated case and thoroughly clears, whitens =
Sand beautifies the complexion. It has never failed—ir S

= CANNOT FAIL. It is highly recommended by Physicians
= and its sure results warrant us in offering
$500 REWARD.—Toassure the public of its merits

~~~ weagree to forfeit Five Hundred
Dollars casi, for any case of moth-patches, brown spots,
= liver spots, blackheads, ugly or muddy skin, unnatural S
= redness, freckles, tan or any other cutaneous discolor- S
= ations, (excepting birth-marks, scars, and those of aS
=scrofulons or kindred nature) that Derma-Royale will 3
= not quickly remove and cure. We also agree to forfeit S
= Five Hundred Dollars to any person whose skin can be in- =
=jured in the slightest possible manner, or to anyones
= whose complexion (no matter in how bad condition it 3
= may be), will not be cleared, whitened, improved and
= beautified by the use of Derma-Royale.

Put up in elegant style in large eight-ounee bottles.

Price, $1.60. EVERY BOTTLE GUARANTEED.

Derma-Royale sent to any address, safely packed and =
securely sealed from observation, safe delivery guaran- =
teed, on receipt of price, $1.60 per bottle. Send money =
by registered letter or money order with your full=
post-office address written plainly; be sure to give
your County, and mention this paper.

Correspondence sacredly private. Postage stamps
received the same as cash.

AGENTS WANTED ccisccsicne $10 A DAY,

Relis on Sight
Address The DERMA-ROYALE COMPANY,
Corner Baker and Vinc Streets. CINCINNATI OHIO.

Cov eee eA CAVA UA UNTENTT TEE ETURTEA ELT EE TEETER EEE EEA

BUTE ERY DUDROUOTABOT ANE

“7

out

 

 
    
 
     

A
|
BN)
aa Ts
a4
So

Ss

 

The Queen & Crescent and

East Tennessee, Virginia & Georgia Railways are
established as the greatest

Southern Trunk Lines. The northern

part of these great systems starts from

Cincinnati, from which point they run

Solid Vestibuled Trains to ST. AUGUSTINE, FLA.,
going through Lexington, Ky., Chattanooga, Tenn.,
Atlanta, Ga., Macon, Ga., Jacksonville. Fla,
Making Through Vestibuled Trains to all

cities named and intermediate points.

The Queen & Crescent Specials are

Solid Vestibuled Trains runniug via

Chattanovga and Lookout Mountain, Birmingham
and Meridian to New Orleans. ;

At MERIDIAN the line diverges for Jackson and
Vicksburg, Miss. to Shreveport and Northern Texas,
At New Orleans, connection is made for

Texas, Mexico and California.

The Q. & C. is 94 niiles shorter and quicker

than any other line and takes

ONLY 27 Hours CINCINNATI TO NEW ORLEANS.
The Q.&C.and E. T. V. & G. are 110 miles
shortest line between Cincinnati an? Jacksonville.
The Q. &C. and E. T. V.& G. run sleeping cars
through Cincinnati to Knoxville, Tenn.,
connecting for Asheville, N.C. The

shortest and most direct route.

Before deciding on your route

write for rates, maps, and any Other

information you want about the

Bouth.

Address D. G. EDWARDS, G. P. A,

Cincinnati, Ohio.

VOL. 2 OF GOOD NEWS.

WITH INDEX, 85 CENES.

The papers in this volume are cut and trimmed similar
to our Vol.1. The price is also the same, 85 cents. Vol-
ume % contains complete serial stories by HARRY CASTLE.
MON, LIEUT. JAS. K. ORTON, OLIVER OPTIC, MAX ADELER,
W. B. LAWSON, LIEUT. LOUNSBERRY and others. It also
eontains numerous short stories by prominent authors,
the usual collection of useful and instructive articles, in-
teresting departments, ete. The Index to Volumes land 2
is bound in this volume. The price, 8 cents, includes all
charges for postage or expressage. Address Subscription
Department, GOOD NEWS, 31 Rose Street, New York.

-LADIES ONLY

For every case where our ** MAGIC RELIEF’? for
LADIES, used as directed, fails to produce pesire
ED RESULTS We will forfeit FIFTY DOLLARS.
SURE, Quick, EASY TO Take. By mail #2.
Sealed. GOOK REMEDY CO., OMAHA, Nes.

j Celebrated Female

Powders _ never fail.

Re et 9k NT cS ET

5 10,000 Ladies declare them safe

and sure (after filing with Tansy and Pennyroyal Pills)

guaranteed superior to all others. Particulars 4 cents
Dr. S. T. DIX, Back Bay, Boston, Mass

 

 

 

SEND A SLIP OF PAPER the size of your finger and

10 cents in Si!ver and I will mail you one of these Solid

Rolled Gold Rings and my Catalogue of Rings, Emblems

Watches and Novelties for agents to sell. $1.00 an hour

= easily made. Address C. E. MARSHALL, Lockport, N x
Sure Cure. I wilisena
the recipe that cured
me Free to znyone.

L. S. Franklin, Music Dealer, Marshalj, Mich.

 

 

 

TRUE & CO., BOX 1261, AUGUSTA, ME,
Send 10c. for ‘‘Infallible Safeguard”

MARRIED LADIE (no medicine, no deception); just

whatyou want. Ladies Bazar, Kansas City, Mo.

Y TO BOYS AND GIRLS UNDER ». FRE
YEARS OF AGE,ON EASY CONDITIONS
WITHOUT ONE CENT OF MONEY,
Western Pearl Co., 334 Dearborn St., Chicago, I.

Advice to Mothers.

MRs. WINSLOW’S SOOTHING SYRUP should always be
nsed for children teething. It soothes the child, softens
the gums, allaysall pain, cures wind colic, and is the best
remedy for diarrhea. Twenty-five cents a bottle.

 

in plain language. A hook with
over 200 pages sent securely seal-
ed on receipt of $1.00. Wallace
Publishing Company, 17 E. Fayette st., Baltimore, Md.

Ud

 

 

A friend in need is a friend indeed. If you
want a regulator that never fails, adiress
THE WOMAN’S MED. HOME, Buffalo, N. Y.

 

Morphine Habit Cured in 10
to 20 days. No pay till cared.
Dr. J. Stephens, Lebanon. O.

 

 

 

 

 

crepes

  

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

COMPENSATION.

 

 

 

BY CELIA THAXTER,

 

In that new world toward which our feet are set
Shall we find aught tomake our hearts forget
Eatth’s homely joys, and@ herv.bright hours of bliss?
Has heaven a spell divine enough for this?

For who the pleasure of the spring can tell :
When on the leafless stalk the brown buds swell,
When the grass brightens and the days grow jong,
Ané little birds break out in rippling song?

Oh, sweet the dropping eye, the blush of morn,
The star-lit sky, the rustling fields of corn,

The soft airs blowing from the freshening seas,
The sun-flecked shadows of the stately trees,

The mellow thunder and the falling rain,

The warm, delicious, happy summer rain,

When the grass brightens and the days grow long,
And little birds break out in rippling song!

Oh, beauty manifold, from.morn.till night, .

Dawn's flusk, noon’s blaze, and sunset’s tender light!
Oh, fair, familiar features, changes sweet

Of her reviving seasons, storms and sleet.

And golden chains, as start the wheels through space
From snow to roses; and how dear her face,

When the grass brightens, when the days grow long,
And little birds break out in rippling song!

Oh, happy Earth! Oh, Home so well beloved!
‘What recompense have we, from thee removed?
One hope we have that overtops the whole ;

The hope of finding every banished soul

We love and long for daily ; and for this

Gladly we turn from thee and all thy bliss,
Even at thy loveliest, when the days are long,
And little birds break out in rippling song.

MATRIMONIAL MISHAPS,

CARTNER.

 

BY W. iW.

 

(‘MATRIMONIAL MISHAPS” was conimenced in No, 15,
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.}

 

 

—

 

 

 

 

WAS THE PICTURE OF ABJECT MISERY.

NUMBER SEVENTY-EIGHT.
A Little Disagreement About Hanging a Picture.
“Henry, will you help me to hang this pict-
ure? I do not know where'to drive the nail so
that it will be firm. I want it driven about
there,” she added, holding the broom-handle
against the wall to mark the place.

“Just'so. Now, Mrs. Wilson, I suppose you
imagine Iwill fly up and alight on the wall
like a measly fly, or how do you expect me to
get up.there?” he asked.

“T suppose, if you were not. so very disoblig-
ing, you would get a table or something to
stand on. I declare, I do wish you had a wife
like Mrs; Brown to deal with. She said, only
the other day, that she would like the hand-
ling of you for a short time——”

“She would, would.she? Theold hen! Do
you know whas I would do if I had a wife like
her? I would make her sit in a chair in the

corner, and ask leave of me to speak or move.
That is what I would do, Mrs. Wilson. Do
ou understand?” he roared, and he slapped
is hands together, walking backward and
forward in front of his wife, while he occa-
sionally stopped and shook his fist before her

face.

“There, Henry, get the table. If Mrs. Brown
were your wife, you would do justas Mrs.
Brown commanded,” was her reply.”

“T would, eh?” he yelled, slamming the table
against the wall, and turning to his wife, he
continued: “I would run my own house if the
Queen of England were my wife!”

“Get up onthe table and drive that nail,”
she said.

“There is no woman on earth that can order
me around,” he growled, as he climbed upon
the table. Bree

“Can you tell where the studding is by ham-
mering on the wall?” she asked.

“A man or woman who does not know
enough to do that should be entered in Mrs.
Brown’s class. If that woman ever comes
inside of my house, I will kick her out——
Yes, kick her out! Do you hear, Mrs. Wilson?
I will kick her out!” he yelled, and swung
the hammer around his head and danced a few
steps of the Sioux war-dance. :

“For goodness’ sake, drive that nail. You
will never kick her out while I am here.”

“What would you do if I should?” he asked,
leaning forward toward his wife.

“T would send you to the barn,” she replied.

“Before I would desert my own domicile and
seek refuge in the barn, the house would have
no women folks’ in it,” he roared, throwing
the hammer at the picture; but fortunatel
missing it. “Now, by the old Mosaic law——

“Henry, if you do not quit acting so fool-
ishly, you will fall,” said Mrs. Wilson.

“By the eternal Jehoshaphat——”

He stepped too near the edge of the table,
and over it went. He caromed against the
book-case and rolled under the dining-table.

“Did you hurt yourself?” cried Mrs. Wilson.

“It serves me right for trying to do any-
thing that you have any hand in fixing up.
1 suppose there is not a table in the house
with four sound legs to it,” he said, limping
to the table and hurling it across the room.

“T might have known better than to ask you
to do anything,” she said, pulling the table
back to the wall. “If I had done it myself in
the first place, it would have been done now.”

“All you need to be a full-fledged carpenter,
is to have a chalk-line around your neck and
a striped apron with pockets for nails. Give
me that hammer! I will drive that nail or
unjoint a shoulder!” he ejaculated, snatching
the hammer from her hand and bounding on the
table. : .

He tapped the wall backward and forward,
listening attentively. :

“There she is! Now give me the nail !”

“Are you sure, Henry?

“Sure as though I could see it,” he replied,
holcing the nail ready to strike.

He struck the nail, driving it through the

”

exams THE NE \

 

| plaster, and the hammer came down on his

thumb and forefinger. .

Uttering a yell, he dropped the hammer on
his toe, which prolonged the yell into a roar.
With his thumb and finger crowded into his
mouth, his foot in the other hand and his eyes
squinted half-shut, he was the picture of
abject misery.

“That is about what I thought. I do not
believe you know how the studding should
sound,” she said.

“Madam, I suppose you imagine it should
sound like a base-drum, or pounding on the
bottom of a cheese-vat,” he retorted; and after
blowing his finger he resumed sounding the
wall,

“T will bet a national bank to a fresh-water
clam that I hit a post this time,” he said,
driving the nail through the plaster and into
space.

PeThere, Anna, that settles it! Thére are no
posts in this side of the house. And before the
sun goes down to-morrow, I will have men at
work putting in some. For my part, I am
unable to see what keeps it from sliding
together like an old stove-pipe,” he saia, jump
ing off the table and eying the wall sus-
piciously.

Mrs. Wilson climbed on the table and drove
the nail into an upright the first time.

“There!” she said, eying the nail critically.

“You undoubtedly think that nailis ina
post; but let me tell you 1t is not, as I exam-
ined that whole side, and I know positively
that there is not an upright post there.”

“Nevertheless the nail is in a post,” she
replied.

“Anna Wilson, you are no more intelligent
than the ordinary mortal; and when you try
to tell me that by simply standing on a table,
with a hammer ‘in one hand and a nail in the
other, you can produce a battery or electric
circuit strong enough to materialize wood
where none exists, I rise to a point of order.”

“Tf you would rise and display a little good
sense, and raise some potatoes, it would go
farther toward keeping a family.”

“Madam, you will wrench your intellect if
you keep up the present strain on your brain
for any considerable time,” he retorted.
“Henry, do you know how to hang a picture
right, to have the best effect on the beholder?”
she asked.

“That all depends upon the picture. Some

tof the pictures you have here should be hung

in a tree at the back of the house, and you
should be particular to hang them where the
branches are thick in front of them, in order to
produce any effect whatever. There are pict-
ures that should be hung in the strongest
light, some ina subdued light or shade, and
a great percentage of them should be hung up
in the wood-shed. What is this picture in
question? Is it a work of some of the old mas-
ters, such as the Surrender of Lord Cornwallis
with a McCormick harvester in one corner, or
the Natural Bridge in Virginia, with a patent
medicine sign painted on the rock?” he sar-
castically inquired.

“No, my dear, it is an entirely different
study. It is a sublime and unequaled subject
—the face and bust of Henry Wilson,” she
said, turning the picture so that he could
see it,

“Mrs. Wilson, who did that?” he interro-
ated.

“One of the old masters,” she replied.
“Good heavens! woman, do you mean to
say that that daub looks like me?” he excitedly
asked. ;
“The very image of you. If it were set out
in the back yard, Brown’s goat would be
charging at it inside of fifteen minutes.” —
“Madam, if you ever hang that daub in this
room I will grind it under my heel! Why, it’
is the picture of an old tramp! Look at that
nose! “and the hair—it looks like corn-stalks!
and the chin——” J :

“Perfectly natural, my dear,” interposed his
wife.

“One shoulder is two inches higher than the
other. It looks like an intoxicated ape,” he
yelled, driving his foot through the canvas
and marching out of the room with the picture
strung on his ankles, S

“That man will be the means of breaking up
this family yet,” she hopelessly said, sinking
into a cha-r.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

oe

The Ladies’ Work-Box,

Edited by Mrs. Helen Wood.
FASHION’S FANCIES.

 

 

 

 

The red shoe, with hose of the same color, will be the
rage at watering-places.

All white costumes seem to be more popular this season
than ever. ; ‘

Baby sashes of moire or fancy ribbons have become a
feature of the summer gown.

Black and cream muslin dresses are very fashionable,
printed with a spotted figure.

Ear-rings promise to be revived, and those shown now
by leading jewelers are long pendants. _

Evening shoes are shown in great variety, and should
match the gown, while black shoes are worn with white
dresses, eos :

The inereased use of lingerie in fine batiste is re-
marked, and the fabric is as often colored as plain, and
shows polka dots and small stars.

Gold and silver shoe buttons are one of the extrava-
gances of the summer belle, and they have a patent fas-
tener, and can be easily made to do duty on several pairs
of shoes. j

The round waist of nainsook has the low yoke formed
of lace insertion, while narrow ribbon is run through the
insertion and tied in front, and the arm-hole is finished
with three rows of the insertion.

Waists made of a distinct color from the skirt and of an
entirely different material are considered good taste even
for rich costumes, a hint which will be welcome to the
home dressmaker.

Alpaca is having quite a revival this season in black
and neutral colors for street and traveling gowns, and in
white and light shades for evening wear, while it is also
used for some handsome imported gowns.

Pearl-gray gloves, white glace kid, and cream-colored
suede are the popular summer promenade gloves. With
traveling dresses an ugly blood-red glove is worn, and
with carriage or visiting gowns of rich materials pale
yellow suede are the favorite choice. :

White pique and Marseilles vests are particularly ef-
fective with the black suits, and will be used with them
even more as the weatlier grows warmer.

Rosettes of plaited ribbbon in two colors, loops of silk
or velvet ribbon in drooping rows, one above the other,
braids of silks formed of lined silk folds braided in and
out like strands of hair, and puffs of silk between bands
of velvet, are all used to finish the bottoms of skirts.

It is quite a fad to have corsages in directoire jacket
shape to wear with plain skirts of asolid color. These
little bodices reach only to the waist, and usually have
deep revers and a chemisette and lace cravat.

The short Eton jacket of smooth black cloth, and
having revers faced with black silk, is worn with a white

shirt and broad black sash. The skirt in harmony with this
should be a perfectly plain tailor-nade one, escaping the
ground,

The latest thing in sleeves is*ths revived fashion of the
Bie sleeve finishing with two ruffles just below the
elbow.

The old-fashioned combs of our grandmothers are again
in vogue. They are high in appearance and price, being
made of gold and tortoise shell, while daggers are also
worn, and fine gold hair-pins are much in favor.

The sleeveless jacket is a feature of the new Eton
jacket which has replaced the well-worn blazer in sum-
mer outing dresses. Bright bodices, either of the Rus-
sian yariety, in three colors, with embroideries of black
cross stitch or of the bright taffeta silks, are usually
worn beneath them.

The newest thing in hats is the silk traveling hat. the
shape of a woman’s Alpine hat, made of soft silk and
stitched precisely like acloth hat. They are delightful,
and have every advantage, becoming and jaunty, light
ald uncrushable, and made in every color.

The five plaits which have secured the fullness of the
seamless waist at the back have dwindled to two, and’
the plaits of the skirt have almost disappeared in long,
loose folds that are not secured, but hung with sach art
that they cannot be ungraceful if they try.

The latest cut inbathing suits is meant” to~be
modest, as bathing suitsgo. ‘he French models grow
widertoward the bottom, ald ‘the garment fits:on the
shoulders with a short yoke across the back, while the
frontis gathered into the shoulder seams. The sailor
collar extends infront to the belt, and the sleeves are
longer than last year to proteet the upper arms m. the
sun. The skirt is two yards round ; is gathered or
plaited, without gores, and reaches just over the knee.
The drawers are five or six inches longer than the skirt
and of good width at the knee. They may havea rubber
band, gathering them very slightly, but for the most part
they are straight, with a decorative band. The fabries

that will bear frequent salt-water baths do not increase
much in number, and serge is considered the best, as_ it
sheds water and willnot shrink. Twilied flannel, when
used, should be ordered shrunken at the store or else
washed at home before being made up. Woven jersey
suits are always in the market. The colors that will not
rup are practically restricted to dark blue, searlet and
eardinal, white, and blaek, while black suits are much
affected by the French, Decorations must. be flat, and
consist principally of contrasting bands and spaces of the
colors and fabrics named. A French happy thought also
is to use wide bands of wool braid of a contrasting hue,
feather-stitched with colored wool yarns, For women
who want novelty in their bathing suits, the varieties of
the Russian blouse offer available models, and many
other designs of the season can be utilized. Striped
flannel is available also, and to give it character it should

 

be bordered with a plain color. Agreeable variety can
be given toit also by plaiting it at intervals, so that
many dark and many light stripes come together and
make one broad suripe. Head coverings are oil silk caps
or rubber hats with broad flat rims. For. the feet are fast
black stockings of special make, withor without.a canvas
and cork soles, and when without this sole a shoe should
be worn. The sole has a cork and rope sole and canvas
upper, bound with colored braid. It is modeled after
the Roman sandal, and furnishes to the dress a nec-
essary last touch for beauty. F

Mildred H.—A new and pretty design for a serge yacht-
ing gown hasa bodice smoothly fitted, like a cuirass,
from the throat to the waist, then curving out on the
hips, and evenly all around. This plain bodice is banded
across with row after row of red or blue braid, edged
with gilt. A short Figaro jacket of the white serge
covers the top of this corsage, and extends say two or
three inches below the arm-holes. It is cut in sharp van.
dyke points, and bordered with fuur rows of the braid,
while the sleeves are in one extremely large pes to the
elbow, then close below, and nearly covered there with
rows of braid. The round skirt escapes the gronnd, and
is bordered to match the jacket, while a sailor cap of
hile serge, banded with the braid, completes the cos-

ume.

Constant Reader.—A very pretty dress, for a little girl
of eight years, has a low top above shirring, with ruffled
bretelles, with the sleeves formed into two full puffs,
while the skirt is gathered very full. The pattern for
this model is No. 1189, and the price twenty-five cents,
while this design is suitable to any material, but most
especially to light cottons.

Hattie H.—A neat design for a yoke skirt is plain on
the front, and gathered quite full at the back, while the
buttoning is at the back, and the foot of the skirt is
prettily adorned with ruffles. The pattern for this model
is No. 5457, and the price thirty cents. Silk is generally
used for these skirts, which are indispensable with the
style of walking-skirt which requires to be raised, and
consequently displays what is worn beneath, but any
washaple goods may be employed.

Miss Susie B.—\st A handsome model for a lady’s travel-
ing cloak has a notched collar, with pointed revers, and
somewhat high sleeves, plain on the forearm. The front
shows a fold on each side, which extends to the hem of
the garment, and the double-breasted top has a buttoning
on the right, while the back has plaits running to the
hem. The pattern for this stylish design is No. 8018, and
the price thirty-five cents, whileitmay be made up in
any of the light-weight cloakings. 2d Gray, tan, and
wood tints are chosen for many traveling dresses, with
accessories in red in the vest, cuffs, side panel, buttons,
and binding of the shoulder cape.

Mrs. Maud W.—A very pretty dress fora little girl of
six years has a low-cut, square top, with a shirring be-
low, Which runs down without division to the hem of the

skirt on the front, while the back has a repetition of the
shirring, and its extension to the hem of the skirt. ‘lhe
sleeves consist of two full puffs, andare short. ‘lhe pat-
tern for this design is No. 577, and the price twenty
cents. Any summer material may be appropriately em-
ployed for this stylish and handsome little gown.

AT THE SWORD’S POINT.

BY ALEXANDER ROBERTSON, M.D.

 

 

 

“Are you ready, gentlemen?”

“Ready.”

“Then, when you see this handkerchief fall,
begin your work, and may Heaven be with the
right !”

The silence of death ensued.

Not a note from a bird could be heard in
tree or bush; all was still and hushed. Then
the white handkerchief left the hand of the
speaker and settled lazily toward the ground.

Hardly had it commenced its descent before
there was heard a sharp clash as of steel
smiting upon. steel, and then the two long
blades of the duelists were twined together,
writhing, twisting, and squirming like a
couple of serpents. ;

The scene was a dramatic one,

One of the duelists had thuwn off vest and
coat, as if realizing the importance of the
occasion; the other had buttoned his black
coat over his slender form, and looked almost
ministerial in his bearing.

YORK WEEKLY. #3

 

the host of the night when the insult had been
given—Godfrey Willis. .

The others noticed something strange in his
actions toward Lawrence Kennedy. One would
think the young man was a brother over whom
the other exercised almost paternal solicitude,

Then the duel began, the Englishman in his
shirt-sleeves, the better to have free use of
every muscle, while Lawrence Kennedy fought
with his coat buttoned up to his chin.

No sooner had the swords crossed than the
Englishman realized that he had at last met
his match with the steel. When his opponent,
having the choice of weapons, took swords,
his heart had given a mighty throb, because
he had always been perfectly at home with
this tool, and no doubt he had indulged in
various mental calculations as to the length of
time that would be necessary in order to send
his trusty blade into the shoulder of the
unknown.

If this were so, then these fancies quickly
took flight, for he realized that this duel had
not been brought to a pass without premedi-
tation.

And now a suspicion flashed into his mind
that this was not the first time he had looked
upon that face, and had the thought come to
him before, he might have reasoned it all out;
but in the midst of the duel, where a slip
might cost him nis life, it would never do to
allow his mind to rest upon such matters.

Each of the duelists showed many fine points,
while the swords tlashed in the first rays of
the morning sun, but it was plainly evident to
the lookers-on that the Englishman had the
losing hand.

He was an excellent swordsman, and in nine
cases out of ten would have found an easy vic-
tory; but in this particular instance he found
he haa caught a Tartar.

He knew several tricks that might yet gain
him the victory, and, finding all of the common
thrusts. perfectly familiar to his mysterious
antagonist, he proceeded to bring these tricks
to his aid.

When he found each of these passes, by
means of which he had hoped to terminate the
duel, met and coolly parried by this stripling,
his face grew purple with rage and fear.

“You are the devil!” he hissed, between his
teeth.

The other laughed mockingly.

Then the swords clashed again, writhing in
and out as if they were living serpents with
tongues of fire. It wasa wonderful sight to
see the play of those weapons, and the grace-
ful motions of the twomen who wielded them,

That the contest was drawing to a close
could be seen from the change in the aspect
of the young man who had hurled the insult
to the memory of Barbara Richmond in the
teeth of the man from whose foul lips it had
emanated.

The mocking smile had left his face, and in
its stead came a look of determination that
gave him the appearance of a master, From
his wondrous eyes there seemed to literally
flash sparks of living fire, and he grasped his
sword afresh as though fully resolved to end
the matter as speedily as possible.

The Englishman could hardly repress a cry
of horror when he realized that at last his
unknown enemy was showing his hand.

Back he was driven, foot by foot.

Before his eyes there seemed to be continu-
ally flashing a wall of steel, from which ema-
nated dazzling rays that almost blinded him;
still he fought on, stubborn to the last.

Finfally he was pressed against a _ granite
tombstone, and his farther backward move-
ment was effectually stayed. ;

He made a sturdy effort to recover his lost
ground, but it was too late. There were a few
more rapid passes, a sharp exclamation from
his enemy, then the Englishman found his
sword twisted from his grasp, as though by
the hand of a giant, and sent spinning away.

At about the same moment it seemed to
him as though a red-hot iron had been passed

VOL. 47—No. 40.

 

| there. She can’t play nothin; and as for singin,’ she

can’t tell one tune from another.”

Manager—“‘That won’t matter.
didly for topical songs.”

Ignorant City Folks.

City Niece (reprovingly)—‘Uncle Wayback, why
fo yon pour your coffee into the saucer before drink-
ng it?’ ;

Uncle Wayback—“To cool it. The more air surface
you give it, the quicker it cools. Guess these ’ere
city schools don’t teach much science, do they ?”

Supply and Demand.
Peddler—‘Any tins, ma’am ?”
Housekeeper (indignantly)—“Those tins you sold
me last wee have all gone to pieces.”
Peddler—“Yes’m. I knew you’d want some more

by this time.”
A Trifle Too Good.

Chappie—“TI wish to—aw—purchase an umbrella.”

Dealer—‘Umbrella, sir; yes, sir. Here is some-
thing just out, sir—ten dollars.”

Cha: pie—‘‘Oh, not that kind. I’ve got one of that
kind, don’t you know. I want something to use when
it wains, don’t ye know.”

An Early Bird.
Employer—“You are not worth your salt to-day.
Whatis the matter ?”’ F .
Clerk (sleepily)—“I got here on time.”

The Usual Reason.
Daughter—‘Papa, I wish you'd get me the New
Universal International Unabridged Encyclopedia,
complete in ninety-nine volumes.”
ae Seneerraae hittaker! Why do you
a 19
Daughter—‘Because Clara Wayupp has one.”

Going It Too Fast.

Guest—“Now I’ll take some ice-cream to top off
with, three flavors.”

5 par one bill is seventy-five cents already,
sir.”’

Guest—What of that?” .

Waiter—‘‘Why, you see, sir, mixed ice-cream is
twenty cents, and you’ll probably give me a dollar to
pay the check, and that’ll leave only five cents for
ie.

She’ll do splen-

want

 

 

SELECTED PLEASANTRIES.

CIVILIZING THE HEATHEN.—“We'll have to recall
our missionary from across the water,” said the
preacher,
ait ? asked the deacon. “Isn’t he doing his

uty ?”

“No. He’s civilized the heathen, staked off their
land in town lots, and those who ain’t in the real
estate business are playin’ poker and runnin’ for the
Legislature !”’—Allanta Constitution.

CURED.—‘‘So Ginfiz has been in an inebriate in-
stitute?”
Yeu.?? ;
“Did they cure him 2?’
“Perfectly. He never enters a bar-room now.
Buys all his whisky at the drug stores.”
N.Y. Press.

ON HAND EARLY.—Road Agent (stopping a funeral)
oe up y’r hands! I want all th’ money ye’ve
rot!’

Chief Mourner—‘Bless me! MHere’s the under-
taker’s bill-collector already.’’—Life.

It was a real turtle that won the race against the
hare. A mock turtle would have got in the soup.
Boston Transcript.
Ella—‘‘Do you believe in signs, Algy, dear?” Algy
—‘To tell the truth, darling, I always was a little
superstitious.” Ella—Well, there is a sign over
there that says ‘ice Cream.’ ”
a Harvard Lampoon.

“Henry, I’m afraid that new gir) of ours is one of
those anarchists.” “Eh?’ ‘‘She seems to believe in
the total demolition of property.”

Indianapolis Journal.

“A tight squeeze”—Hugging a lamp-post.—Puck.

Some pastors of churches in this vicinity are noth-
ing if not up to the times. One of these last Sunday
announced that the next Sunday he would delivera
sermonette, it being children’s day.

Boston Republic.

“Hello, Jones, what are you doing with your coat
buttoned up to your chin? Are you-sick ?”’ Jones—
“Hush, don’t mention it}; I have on a tie that my
wife selected.”’— Chicago Inter-Ocean.

Position with many thoughtless people is merely a
soft place to sit down.—Galvesion News,

 

 

through his breast, for his opponent’s blade

 

 

The contrast between the duelists was alarm-
ing.«< i
He who. stood there receiving and parryin
the thrusts of his opponent so coolly, and wit
such dexterity, that one forgot his slender
frame in the admiration his wondrous skill
evoked, had a face as white as that of a corpse,
and yet it was classic in its contour, and beau-
tiful rather than handsome.

The other was a manof some thirty-five
years, stoutly built, yet with a frame that
spoke of great strength and agility.

He had a face that would have been reck-
oned exceedingly handsome but for the marks
of dissipation that could be easily traced upon
it. The blonde side-whiskers and mustache
gave him an English look, and Dayton Mus-

rave claimed to be ascion of a noble house.

f this were true, it failed to reflect any honor
upon his kinsmen, for he had gained no little
notoriety in New York as an adventurer,
though he had always been well received in
society, as he had plenty of money and had
brought unexceptional references.

He had: been looked upon as a man who
wished to match the honor of his name and

rospects of becoming a lord at some future
ay against the money-bags of some Ameri-
can heiress, but, most strange to say, he had
so far not been given the chance he coveted,
and was pursuing his laudable still-hunt when
events drove him into this duel.

He had met this young man for the first time
on the preceding nig t.°

There was a small company of convivial
friends assembled at the house of Godfrey
Willis, and this slim youth had made one of
the party. While they were in the midst of
their social entertainment, the Englishman,
led on by remarks from the host, arose and

protruded from his back,

With acry, be fell backward,

“Tl am killed!” hecried. “Mysterious man,
fiend, or devil, whichever you may be, you have
done your work well—I am a dead man !”
“Not so,” replied the other, composedly;
“you have only a severe wound, and_ will live
many years to curse the name of the woman
who defeated you in a duel. Wretch! Barbara
Richmond has avenged herself !”

The disguised girl removed the wig she
wore, allowing a shower of golden curls to
escape their confinement. Standing there, she
looked beautiful beyond expression. :

One last glance of contempt she cast upon
the wounded and discomfited wretch at_ her
feet, and then, accepting the arm of Godfrey
Willis, whom all now saw was her lover as
well as second, she left the field on which she
had won such a victory, and punished the man
who had made her suffer in the past.

Dayton Musgrave recovered from his wound,
but the story got out, and he sailed for Eng-
land, unable to face New York society again.

Barbara and her lover were married, and I
doubt if a happier couple exist than they. The
past has gone, and they live in a joyous
present.

citi hin
o

Pleasant Paragraphs.

 

BY CHARLES W. FOSTER.

 

A New York Hat.
Mrs. Wayback—‘ What sortof a hat is that? Seems

to me it looks kinder mussed.”
M. ‘ Wayback—"That's th’ latest New York style,

She—“‘Why do you call me your ‘pet pastry?” He
—“Because you're a little tart, occasionally.” :
New York Journal.

“T am losing flesh,” said the butcher as the dog
stole a sirloin steak.— Washington Siar.

A mean man will do almost anything to beat a
neighbor, but you never heard of a man mean
enough to beat a neighbor’s carpet.—Bradford Era.

Charlie—“It’s funny, isn’t it, we never hear of
labor unions south of the equator?’ Johnnie—
“Well, you know, you’re not allowed to strike below
the belt.”—Yale Record.

inal, fai iital

Items of Interest.

 

Two-thirds of the male population of the world use
tobacco.

Plate-glass was first made in 1688, at St. Picardy,
France.

It is rare indeed to find a blue-eyed person who is
color-blind.

Light-haired people, as arule, live longer than the
dark-haired.

It is asserted that the oldest building in the world
iz the Tower of London.

Matches to the value of $185,000,000 are annually
consumed throughout the world.

Several of the London omnibuses are lighted by
electricity from storage batteries.

While slicing a ham, a lady in Pottstown, Pa., found
a silver thimble imbedded therein.

Apple trees four inches high grow in Japan. Their
fruit is about the size of currants.

Paper umbrellas, for protection from the rain, are
cheap, popular, and efficient in Paris.

A Newark gentleman advertises for a wife “‘who is
pretty, but entirely ignorant of the fact,”

 

 

Miranda. Bought it in th’ city.” ‘
“What's that deep crease 1n the top for?”

 

proposed to drink to the good health of their
loves of the past.

This was done, and then it was further pro-
posed that each one should individually toast
some girl who in the past had been all in all
to him, which the Englishman speedily sec-
onded, and the host appointed him to begin
the novel entertainment.

“Through the years that come and go, I will
ever be haunted by the bright eyes of a maiden
fair, who fell in love with me one summer at
Brighton. Gentlemen, I drink in honor of my
conquest, Garbara Richmond, the queen of
beauty.”

Directly across the table sat the slender
youth, and as this name fell from the lips of
the Englishman, he sprang quickly to his feet.

Those who saw him thought of course he
intended to follow this toast by one of his
own, or second that of the Englishman.

To their surprise, therefore, he did neither.

Leaning forward, be looked straight into
the eyes of the Englishman. Then raising
aloft his wine-glass full of the ruby liquor, he
said in clear, cold tones, that seemed to cut
the air like a knife:

“Gentlemen, I brand that declaration as a
lie, and the one who gave utterance to the
sentiment an infamous coward.”

Swift as the flight of the hawk when in
pursuit of its prey, the youth’s arm flew down,
and the blood-red wine that had: been in his
glass flew across the table.

When they turned their attention to the
English braggart, they saw that it had struck
him full in the face, and was streaming down

very| upon his clothes,

“There is iny card, sir; if you are not the
coward I brand you, make use of it.”

As the strange youth uttered these words he
threw down a card upon the table, and then
left: the scene of festivity.

Of course the Englishman ranted and raved
about what he would do, and perhaps he meant
it, too, for there, in the presence of that
goodly company, he sat down and wrote a hot
challenge to the one whose card proclaimed
him to be Mr. Lawrence Kennedy, and for
whose social standing the host vouched em-
phatically. .

The outcome of it all was that on the second
morning after this rencontre, two hacks drove
up to a country grave-yard, isolated from all
dwellings, and from these vehicles six men
got out.

Besides the two principals, there were two
surgeons and a second for each of the duelists.
The man who had come to see the youthful-

 

 

 

“J don’t know ’xactly, but I think likely that’s in-
tended fer a sort of a watershed ter catch th’ drip-
pings from th’ elevated railroads.”

Not Two Prices.
Husband—“Seems to me you paid two prices for
everything you bought this morning.” —
Wife—‘Indeed I didn’t. I went to the One Price

re.”
per A Conditional Order.

‘Sweet Girl—“Have you any parlor shades that
won’t break loose eae: fly up all ofa sudden when
you least expect it?”

Dealer—‘“‘Yes, miss.”

Sweet Girl—* Well, I wish you’d send aman around
and see if he can’t talk ya into buying some.”

Killed His Man. °
Cowboy—“Guess you never killed a man, did ye?”
Tenderfoot—*Huh, I helped to kill half a dozen of
them.” ‘

“Here?”

“No. At college.”

“Fightin’ with ’em ?”

“No. Initiating them.”

Rural Delights.

Jinks—“Boarding in the country now, eh? What
do you do with yourself evenings ?”

Winks—‘‘Some nights I sit outdoors to keep cool,
and other nights I go to bed to keep warm.

Hard to Bear.
New Nurse—“J’m goin’ to leave when me week is
up, mum.” ; a. ‘ 4
Mistress—“Dear me! What's the matter?
New Nurse—‘“Please, mum, your childrens is just
gettin’ the measies, an’ all the other nurses cuts me
’

— A Little Too Short.

Employer—*What do you do with your Saturday

lf holiday ?”’ 3
ek tO Thavea good time thinking where I
would go and what fun I could have if it were a
whole holiday.”

His First Love. :

Young Downie—‘I would ropose to Miss
Hangutie, but I’m afraid she’d only promiseto be a
sister to me.” ;

Miss Haughtie’s Little Brother—‘T think she’d
promise to be something nearer than that.”

“Do you, really ?”
“Yep. { gueks she’d promise to be a mother to

you.”
A Graduate.

First Chinaman—“Come to Melican Sunny school,
Ling.” . “

Ling Lee—‘‘No goodee now. Me gladuated.

First Chinaman—“Tt you gladuated, then intloduce
me to you wifee.”

A Coming Star.

pearance on the stage. Has she any talent y"

she can just elocute all the girls in town right out 0’

 

looking stranger through was no other than

Manager—“Your daughter would make a fine ap-
‘Prond Father—“Wall, when it comes to elocution,

their boots; but when it comes to music, she ain’t

A straw hat anda linen duster have been worn for
forty winters, by Dr. S. B. Victor, of Columbia, Mo.

Woman's age is a sacred thing. Inthe Old Testa-
ment the age of only one woman is recorded, that of Sara,
Abraham’s wife.

Tn fifty-five years Miss Hannah Fairchild, of West
port, Conn., has not missed a single service at her
church, ‘this beats the record.

Life at the age of 106 proved to be dull and unin-
teresting to Alexander Bulan, a peasant, of Iekaterin-
oslaw, Russia, so he closed his career by suicide.

Tobacco isa slow poison. So think the relatives of
Thomas Nugent, of Boston, who died there recently, of
excessive smoking, at the ripe old age of ninety-five.

A rooster in Columbus, Indiana, got into a fight
with a bull, and plucked out the bull’s eye. About a year
ago, on one day, the same fowl killed eleven turkeys,
seven geese, and three roosters.

The smokestacks of our ocean steamers are much
larger than is generally supposed. They range from
fourteen to eighteen feet in diameter. Those of the
Etruria are over the latter figure.

An ‘old maid’s insurance company” prospers in
Denmark. Females are allowed tojoinit at any age from
13 to25. If they remain unmarried at the age of 40, they
become entitled to a regular weekly allowance.

Walter M. Reason, of Lapeer, Mich., lately took
stenographic notes of 524 words in one minute, as they
were dictated to him. This is almost at the rate of 53¢
words per second. He subsequently correctly read them.

A new convenience has been added to a church in
Manchester, Conn, Several members of the congrega-
tion, males and females, ride to and from the chureh on
bicycles, and a shed has been provided for their storage
during service.

As Fred Eberhardt, of St. Louis, was crossing the
threshold of his home, a bolt of lightning struck a horse-
shoe over the door, passed down the right side of his
body, tore the sole from the shoe on that foot, and he has
since been speechless.

A startling variation of the snake story comes
from Rome, Ga. A gentleman, seeing a snake lying on
the road, prodded it with his umbrella. The snake
straightened its body, spread out two long wings like a
goose, arose in the air, and flew across the field.

Chickens have been acting as gold collectors for
J. A. McConville, of Butte, Montana. In one chicken’s
crop and gizzard he found some golden nuggets. He
therefore killed the remainder of his brood, thirty-one in
number, and found in them gold to the value of $387.

The body of Mrs. Charles Block was buried eight
years ago in Hazeland Cemetery, near Montezuma, Iowa.
A few days ago the coffin was opened, and it was discov-
ered that the remains had turned to stone. A bunch of
roses held in the hand of the deceased was also petrified.

Cincinnati theater, when the calcium light man brought
down the house by tumbling from the oe, and alight-
ing among the audience in the parquet. is perform-
ance aroused more attention than that on the stage.
Upon his promise not to again engage in this sort of gym-
nastics, he was allowed to resume his duties.

Two young apple trees were planted sixty-four
years ago near Medora, Ind., by John F. and G. W. Carr,
sons of Thomas Carr. Both trees flourished. John died
at a comparatively early age, and on the da
the tree he planted fell. His brother lived to bean old

i The

man, and died a few days ago at Crawfordville.
veces planted toppled to the cekth on the day of his
eath.

 

 

 

 

 

 

There was a little excitement the other night in a