BRIGHT, CLEVER, AND UNIQUE,
By LURANA W. SHELDON,

>

~ THE GI

OM MONTANA,”

IS SCHEDULED TO BEGIN

WEEK AFTER NEXT.

 

Entered According to Act of Congress, in the Year 1901, by Street & Smith, in the Ojfice of the Librarian of Congress, Washington. BD. €

Vol 56

OFFICE:
238 William St.. New

Entercd at the

Post Office,

New York, as Sccond Class Matter.

 

Three Dollars
TwoCopies F

 

 

BY BAYARD TAYLOR.
“Give usa song’ the soldiers cried,
The outer trenehes guarding,
When the heatedguns of the camps allied
Grew weary of bombarding.

The dark Redan in:silent scoff
Lay grim and thréatening under,
And the tawny mound of the Malakoff
No longer belched its thunder

There was a patise. .A guardsman said,
*‘We storm the forts to-morrow;

Sing while we may} another day
Will-bring enough of sorrow,”

 

They lay along the battery’s side,
Below the smoking’cannon;

Brave hearts from Severn and from Clyde,
And from the banks nf Shannon;

They. sang of love and_not of fame,
Forgot was Britain’s glory;

Each heart recalled a different name,
But all sang ‘‘Annie Laurie.’’

Voice after voice caught up the song
Until its tender passion

Rose like an anthem, rich and strong,
Their battle eve confession.

Dear girl, her name he dared not speak,
But as the song grew louder

Something upon the soldier’s cheek
Washed off the stains of powder.

Beyond the darkening ocean burned
The bloody sunset 's embers,

Whilethe Crimean valleys learned
How English love remembers.

‘gpAnd once again a fire OP nell”
Rained on the Russian quarters
With scream of shot and burst of shet
And bellowing: of mortars!

And Irish Nora’s eyes were dim
For a singer dumb and gory,
And English Mary mourns for him
Who sang of ‘*Annie Laurie.”’

Sleep soldiers! still in honored rest
Your truth and valor wearing;

 

 

Hi it
HN

nH

 

 

The bravest are the tenderest,
The loving are the daring.

 

Brownie’s

“There is but one cross like that in the world,” he muttered.

Triumph

OR,

THE TROUBLESOME LEGACY.

By Mrs. GEORGIE SHELDON,

Author of ‘Faithful Shirley,” “The Lily

of Mordaunt,” ‘Audrey's Recsompense,’’

“That Dowdy,” “Queen Bess,’ “Ruby's Reward,” “Wild Oats,"’
‘*Nameless Dell,’ etc., etc.

(‘“BRownin’s TRIUMPH” was commenced in No. 39.

CHAPTER XilIl.
DRESSING FOR THE OPERA,

The passage proved to be an. exceedingly
rough one.

The Coolidge family were all confined to
their staterooms with that. much-dreaded
enemy, seasickness, excepting Mr. Coolidge,
Wilbur and Viola.

The two former attended to the wants of |
the wife and sisters, while Viola devoted her- |
self faithfully to Miss Douglas.

Viola Coolidge was at» heart_a gentle andj}
loving girl, resembling her brother somewhat |
in looks, and possessing his sunny, good-|
natured temperament.

During her attendance upon Brownie,
was so patient and grateful for every little
service, she became deeply attached to her,
and heneeforth the young egoverness had a
brave little champion in all the trials and |
difficulties which beset her path.

Brownie suffered more than any of the!
party, not being able to leave her stateroom |
during all the voyage.

Upon their arrival at

who

Liverpool, she was so |
weak and wan that Mr. Coolidge and Wilbur
were obliged to bear her in their arms from }j
the boat to the earriage which was to convey |
them to their hotel, much to the annoyance
and disgust of Isabel and her mother.

Adrian Dredmond had waited in vain for the
opportunity he had so desired. He had not
once seen Brownie during the voyage. He |
managed to scrape acquaintance with Viola
one day when she came on deck to breathe |
the fresh air, and not a day passed thereafter |
but that he sought her out, and made inquiries |
concerning her charge.

He also saw much of Wilbur CodMize, and
came to like the careless, good-natured fellow |
right Well. ¥

But they never once exchanged a
garding the object which constantly
the thoughts of both.

As by tacit consent, they avoided all men-
tion of Brownie—some instinctive feeling seem- |
ing to warn them that it would not be a con-
genial topic to talk upon.

Adrian stood by when they carried her to the
earriage, and a feeling of pain smote his heart |
as he saw her wan face and sunken eyes. ;

“JT eannot give it to her now, but I will seek |
an opportunity. I will sée her again,” he}
breathed to himself. ;

They lifted her into the carriage, shut the
door, and drove away. "

‘Brownie Douglas—the
she looks—good-by, my

word re- |
occupied

name is as sweet as
Brownie; we shall

Pgirl;

| picture

| longed
| if

| proficient.

| seeing

Back numbers can be obtained of ail newsdealers

meet again,’’ he murmured; and, with a deep
tenderness in his heart for her, Adrian Dred-
mond went his own way.

From Liverpool, the Coolidges, after a few
days of rest, went to London, where they pro-
posed establishing their headquarters for three
or four months, while they made excursions
about the country.

Here they took a house in the neighborhood
of Regent’s Park, and, to Isabel’s delight,
entered at once upon the gayeties of the sea-
son,

Brownie’s heart is
emotions as she finds
among the very scenes
life.

Here

with various
thus. settled
aunt’s former

stirred
herself
of her

Miss Mehetabel lived when she Was a
here she was wooed and won; here she
had lived that short, bright’ year, loving and
beloved,“and which was followed by a life-
time of mourning and sadness,

She swondered if Lord Dunforth

was still

i living, and-if it would be her lot while abroad
Sheehoped so; and she was con- }

to meet him.
fident that she shduld recognize him, from the
whi¢éh was now in her possession,

even though so many years had passed, and

{he was an old Man of Over sixty.

an equal, to him; but

into his face, to see

or even speak
for just one look
he had fulfilled the promise
manhood, and to'assure herself that he was
the noble, high-minded knight which her little
romantic heart had pictured him from Miss
Mehetabel’s description.

During the first hours of
Douglas and her. pupils dived
mystic lore; and so charming

the
deep
did

into the
she make

| their studies, and so interested did she appear

in everything pertaining to their welfare, that,
to their credit be it said, they applied them-
selves with the utmost diligence to their tasks,
and soon gave promise of becoming quite

The afternoons were devoted to. sight-
and riding, the evenings to receiving
company, attending drawing-rooms, the opera,
or the theatre.

One morning Wilbur
siderable excitement,
tickets upon the table, said:

“There, mother, are some tickets for Her
Majesty’s Opera, and I want every member of
this family to attend, for there are wonderful
attractions to-night.”’

“How so?”

“Titiens, Kellogg, Bettini, Nilsson and others
are advertised; and it will be a treat which
one does not often get,’’ he replied.

in
throwing

came home
and,

con-
some

”

 

| pear

 

: | it were doing
Of course, she never expected to meet him as |
she |

of his early |

day Miss |

 

**Girl, girl; where did you get it?” he demanded, hoarsely.

 

“Then, of course, we must all go, and the
girls will be delighted that you. remembered
them, for they are not often allowed to an-
in company, you know,’ she said,
smiling.

**And Miss Douglas, too, mother; I
a ticket for her,’’ he added,

Mrs. Coolidge demurred at this.

“But Miss Douglas is in deep mourning; it
would not be suitable for her to appear with
us in her black garments,’’ she said.

“Pshaw! she can wear something else. for
once. It is a shame to debar her from such a
luxury; any one can see that she is .passion-
ately fond of music, and I should feel mean to
take all the others and leave her behind,” he
returned, indignantly.

Mrs. Coolidge thought a moment, and finally
assented.

She well knew that too ‘much “opposition
often whetted passion, and she had no desire
to provoke Wilbur into being a champion for
the governess, and accordingly gave her .con-
sent,

He met Brownie in the hall a few moments
afterward, and told her of the arrangements
for the evening.

Her face lighted with pleasure.

It was long since she had attended an opera.

She loved it, and the thought of listening
once more to the entrancing strains of those
great artists filled her -with delight.

“You will go, Brown—Miss: Douglas?’’ he
asked, nearly forgetting himself.

He never thought of her now.excepting as
*“Brownie,’’ and no one but himself knew how
very dear the fair girl.was becoming to him
day by day.

“Thank you. I should enjoy
if it will not conflict with any arrangements
Mrs. Coolidge may have made,’’ she said.

‘It will not. I have just been talking with
her about it; and, Miss Douglas——’’ he con-
tinued, hesitatingly.

““Well?’? she answered,
encouraging smile,

“Please, if I may be so bold. as to make the
request, wear something not quite so sombre
as this,’ and he just touched: the black dress.

Her face grew very sad and her eyes
with tears.
two months, and the thought
seemed unsuitable to her,

“Forgive me if I pain you, but I
to see you for once as bright as the
the young man added, and then passed on.

She knew her black dress would not be
suitable for the opera, and yet she hesitated
about changing it for two reasons.

Her own feelings rebelled against it, as if
a wrong to Miss Mehetabel.
she said, thinking it over,
would not wish me to deprive
myself of the pleasure of attending the opera,
and I know, also, she would not hke me to
appear in such a place in black.’’

The other reason was the fear of displeasing
Mrs. Coolidge if she made any change.

But that matter was settled for her by that
lady herself. She came to her room. during

procured

it very much,

looking up, with an

of gay

others,’’

>

“And yet,
know auntie

the day, repeating the invitation which Wilbur |
: | had
something a}

had given her, and concluded by saying:

“Miss Douglas, have you not
little more appropriate that you
This black is hardly the thing.”’

“T have several nice dresses which I used to
wear upon such occasions, but I fear they are
hardly suitable for my position now,’’ Brownie
replied, with heightened color, for the first
tinfe alluding to the change in her circum-
stances.

‘*Ah!’”’. said the matron, in surprise,
pleased with this. evidence of the
modesty; then she added; patronizinegly:
have seen better days, I presume?’’

“Yes, madam.,’’

‘Wel, I leave the matter to your own judg-
ment; only do not wear black, nor white, for
Alma will wear that. Indeed,’’ she added,
after a-moment’s thought, “if you have a nice
dress, Miss Douglas, wear it, for, as. we are
all going together, I do not care how. nicely
our party appears,’’ and with: this affable ex-

could wear?

and
governess’
“You

 

 

Per Y ear.
ive Dollars

, dear, must I repeat my
Mehetabel ougias, anc
Brownie said, gayly
know that -OUTSE;
a fine lady some time
ided the y i, impatie
depend rether upon
mean by the t ine lady,’ Viola
‘Why, one
elegant and
people.’
Brownie smiled at
but replied
“My ar
will gratify you this, only pleas
that I do n¢ care ft > it spok
A year ago- 1 less—my
in life were your ow!
But death ‘ortune took
from me, ano as obliged to do
for my own support
“Did you live in
servants, horses ans
“Ves.”
“Have y¢ rays had
now ?”’

cx :
XY ©5

she

Qe

as

}
i
eve

legant house,
rriages?”’
these things
dear.’
“Then you are
and a shame that, you are
an equal,’’ bur from Viola’s
ly, as she remembered all
about ‘“‘the ~ governess,” and
scathing remarks regarding
Miss Douglas.”’

. ‘Hush, Viola!’ Brownie said, quietly, y
again smiling at the child’s naive remark
“Shall I tell you what my idea of a fine lady
is ?”’

every bit as good as we
not treate
lips, indign
Isabel's. si
her mot
‘that pe

its

, ao!’’ Viola
the first
courteous

sagerly
to be

Said,
place, it
to every

always kind

one; to respect one’s

so that one would never do a mean or

act; and never to triumph over or hold

self above others who maybe less for-
tunate in life,’’ aes

“That's it! that’s it! I only Wish mamma

and Isabel could hear you. They think they

are fine ladies, but, dear Miss. Douglas, I'd

rather be one after your standard, and ]

is

will!’’
and the impulsive girl threw her arms around
Brownie’s neck and kissed her heartily... —

Brownie was afraid she had made-a mis-
take in speaking : thus. =

She had not the least thotght.of
any reflections when she spoke,

She thought it wise now to-change the sub-
ject, - and asked:

“Where did: -youwgat
dear?’’ fs :

“Oh, I nearly forgot! “Wilbur sent them to
you, with his compliments,’ Viola said, apolo-
getically, as sheigave'.them to ‘her.

Miss Douglas colored a vivid crimsan;

She did not like to take gifts from him,
knowing the feelings of Mrs. Coolidge and
Isabel; and, at the same time, she did not like
to wound him by refusing: them.

So she compromised the matter by dividing
them.

“They are very beautiful, dear, and is
very kind of your brother to remember me
But there are so many of them, let me fasten
this spray in your hair.’’

She took the loveliest cluster of white moss-
rose buds from the bouquet

“There, see for yourself, Is it not
provement?’’ she asked, as her deft
wove it among Viola’s golden. braids.

casting

such...lovely. flowers,

it

an im-
fingers

 

pression, the lady withdrew, leaving Brownie
to con the matter over in her own mind.

An amused smile curled her lips at the ex-
pression “if you have a nice dress,’’ and when
the door closed after Mrs. Coolidge, she
laughed outright.

Evidently she thought if the governess had
seen better days they could not have been
very remarkable ones.

She crossed the room, and opened the trunk
in -which she had packed the richer portion
of her clothing, and took out her evening
dresses.

The decision was a difficult matter, and it
was more than an hour before she could make
up her mind which one of those beautiful
garments it would do to wear.

She had no desire to outshine Miss Isabel.

But that young lady, with all her love for
show and fashion, had nothing more etegant
than Brownie’s own wardrobe contained.

She at length fixed upon a delicate maize-
colored silk, trimmed with puffings of soft
illusion, and ruffles of fine thread lace.

She had only worn it once, and it was as
fresh as if it had never been put on.

The fichu of illusion and thread lace, the
tinted gloves, the beautiful point lace hand-
kerchief, and elegantly-carved pearl-handled
fan, all lay at the bottom of the box just as
she had left them when she. had last -worn
them.

When the hour came for. dressing,
rayed herself with a throbbing heart.

fer eyes grew bright with anticipation, her
cheeks rosy with excitement.

Involintarily she found herself humming
snatches from different operas, and for. the
time she felt almost like the gay young girl
she had been less than three months ago.

She had nearly completed her toilet, when
Viola came sweeping in, lovely in blue silk
and white tulle.

In her hands she
bouquet of flowers.

She stood breathless on
caught sight of Brownie.

“Miss Douglas,’’ she at

she ar-

carried a most exquisite

the threshold as she

length ,exclaimed,

| “how perfectly lovely you are!”’

: filled |
Miss Douglas had beén dead just |
attire |

would like |

;
|
{

}
}
;

 

are altogether
compliments,’’
smile.

the mirror, she
blushed with a

“Thank you, Viola;
too enthusiastic in
Brownie returned, with a

Yet, as she glanced into
grew suddenly conscious, and
sense of her own beauty.

Her hair was drawn away from
low forehead, and knotted gracefully at the
back of her small head.

Her beautiful neck gleamed through the
misty fichu, and her rounded arms were only

but you
your

her broad,

pS half concealed by the fall of delicate lace from
J |

her sleeves.

The dress was cut en
slight figure look taller, and, with the proud
poise of her head, almost regal.

She wore a finely-wrought chain of gold
about her neck, from which was suspénded the
beautiful coral cross, set with brilliants, which
her aunt had given her at the same time she
gave her the other contents of the casket.

The butterfly hair ornament to match she
fastened in her glossy hair, and it
and gleamed with her evs move-

train, making her

sparkled
ment,

Her lip. had quivered, and
started to her eyes when she took them from
their velvet bed, for it brought vividly to her
mind that last sad intérview with her aunt,

“Auntie,’’ she said, as she softly touched her
lips to them ‘‘you told me to wear them; I
have nothing that will look half so well with
this dress, and my heart is full of love for you
to-night.”’

She surely was lovely, as Viola said.

“Pm afraid your mamma will think me too
fine,’ she said, half regretfully, and struck
by the young girl’s words. ‘‘But,’’ she added,
“this is the simplest thing I have, unless I
wear white, and your mamma said Alma was
to dress in white.”

“Miss Douglas,.~who—what are you?’ Viola
asked, an expression of perplexity on her
young face. °

ry

the tears had

 

 

?

} poor,

 

 

“Thank you,’’ the young girl said, her face
beaming with pleasure as she caught the re-
fiection of a fair, innoeent face, surrounded
by. massive coils of luxuriant heir, among
which the buds, with -their green leaves,
nestled lovingly.

“But. you have given me the
had, Miss Douglas,’’ she added,

“And why shouldn’t I, dear?
forgotten who was so kind and faithful to a
sick, useless little body when we were
crossing the ocean,’’ Brownie playfully replied,
as she kissed the flushed cheek,

Ske then selected a few flowers for herself
and, telling Viola that she was ready, they
both descended to the drawing-room.

A hush of expectation followed their
trance,

Isabel’s eagle eye took.in at one sweeping
glance the simple elegance of the governess’
toilet, and her astonishment was plainly visi-
ble as she noticed those two almost priceless
ornaments which she wore upon her bosom
and in her hair.

“Really, Miss Douglas, you have bioomed,
haven't you?’’ she said, sarcastically.

“Indeed, Miss Douglas, I did not expecf to
see you quite so radiant,’ said Mrs. Coolidge
in the same tones, and wondering where under
the sun her governess got such elegant jewels,

Brownie dDlusked deeply at Isabel’s insult,
but did not notice her remark, except by a lif-
tle lifting of her proud head.

To Mrs. Coolidge, however,
courteously:

“Do I not meet your
If not, any change you may
I will gladly make.’’

“They'll spoil all her pleasure,
was Wilbur’s inward comment,
gloated upon her wonderful
gleamed with a stronger ray of
had henceforth dared betray.

Mrs. Coolidge knew she had
tongue by what she had said to Brownie in
her own room, but she inwardly resolved that
the same thing should never happen again.

“Your costume is rather rich for your posi-
tion,’’ she remarked, with well-assumed in-
difference, ‘“‘but it is of no consequence for
once.”’

Then, as they left the house, she whispered
to her daughter:

**"No one need know but that she is a guest.”’

*Tt’s fine, isn’t it, to have your governess
outshine your own daughter? I do hope this
night’s experience will teach you wisdom,”’
grumbled the envious girl.

prettiest you
regretfully
Il have not

en-

she said,

approbation, madam?
choose to suggest

the vixens,”’
as his eyes
beauty, and
love than he

tied her own

CHAPTER XIV
A SCENE.

Lane,
when

Drury
capacity

was
our

Opera,
utmost

Her Majesty’s
crowded to its
party arrived.

gut, having
cumstance did
least.

Wilbur Coolidge took care, after his mother
and Isabel were comfortably seated, that Miss
Douglas should have a place where she could
command a good view of the stage
He was disgusted with their treatment of
the lovely governess, and strove by numerous
little attentions to atone in part for their
rudeness.

A battery of lorgnettes was immediately
leveled at this brilliant company, and there
were numberless surmisings and questionings
as to who the new-comers could be,

In a box not far fromthe Coolidge party
there sat’ a royal-looking couple—an old gen-
tleman, still hale and hearty, although up-
ward of sixty-five, and a matron of perhaps a
half-dozen years younger,

By the side of the latter, and assiduously
attending to her wants, was a young man of
about two-and-twenty.

It was no other than Adrian Dredmond!

He, too, had leveled his glass as the new-
comers settled themselves in their places.
After one sweeping glance, he half started

cir-

the

private box, this
them in

secured a
not inconvenience

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

tHe NEW. ~YORK WEEKLY...

 

 

from his chair, with a low exclamation of
pleasure,

‘Whom do you see, Adrian?’ asked the lady
by his side. :

“Some friends who came over in the same
steamer with me, I believe,’’ he replied, taking
another look, and a smile of pleasure curving
his fine lips as his eye rested upon Brownie,
who seemed to him in her elegant robes like
some beautiful vision from another. sphere. ~

‘“‘Americans?’? demanded his companion, pre-
paring to adjust her own glass.

“Yes, your ladyship,” was the quiet re-
sponse. ;

‘SAY *

Her ladyship, as she uttered this with a
slight accent of contempt, evidently did not
deem them worthy the effort: of @ glance, and
accordingly turned her glass toward the stage,
the curtaim having risen for the first act.

For a time the attention of all was attracted
in the same direction.

Brownie sat as one entranced, fergetting the
past, and living over again the exquisite de-
light which she had so often experienced in
bygone days.

Wilbur Coolidge, as he stood behind her, his
hand resting lightly upon the back of her
chair, could feel the thrill of ecstasy which
crept over her as the first notes of that almost
divine songstress, Mademoiselle Titiens, broke
the breathless hush of the expectant throng.

“You are fond of the opera, Miss Douglas?’
he whispered, when the curtain at length fell.

“Passionately,” she replied, turning her
glowing face toward him; then added: ‘And,
Mr. Coolidge, you have given me the first bit
of unalloyed pleasure I have had since great
misfortune came upon me.”

Her voice quivered, her eyes were dewy,
and her breast heaved with the deliciousness
of the hour.

To him, as he stood looking down upon her,
she was the fairest being that breathed the
breath of life.

“Tt would I could henceforth give you every
joy of earth,’’ he murmured, tenderly, in her

ear.

‘‘Wilbur,’ his mother said, in cold, hard
tones, ‘will you come and arrange your sis-
ter’s cloak?”

She had watched his every movement, and
her heart was in a tumult of rage at that
= girl for presuming to keep him at her
side,

A meaning glance was exchanged between
mother and daughter, as she made her re-
quest; and after the cloak was satisfactorily
arranged, as he was about returning to his
post, Isabel said: . -

“Sit down here, Wilbur, and poimt out to
me some of the people whom you -know.’’

He pointed out several, when she suddenly
exclaimed:

“Why, there is that Mr. Dredmond who
came over with us, is-it not?’

“Yes,” dryly replied, her brother.

“Tt like his appearance very much. I wish
you would go and bring him here, and intro-
duce him to us.”’

“What is the use? Any other time will do
as well, and it is nearly time for the curtain
to rise again,’’ he said, impatiently, and with
an uneasy glance toward Miss Douglas.

‘Oh, there is plenty of time. Look!
bowing to you now.’

Wilbur returned the salutation, but did not
move, and his mother exclaimed:

‘Do oblige your sister, Wilbur. He is, in-
deed, a fine-looking young man; I wonder if
he is well connected?”

“Rather. He is grandson to an. earl,’ was
the laconic reply.

‘An earl?’ ejaculated both -mother
daughter in a breath.

“Yes; so I have lately learned, and, not-
withstanding he will succeed to an earldom
upon his grandfather's death, he is very
. modest about it, and prefers to be addressed
as en Mr. Dredmond, rather than ‘my
lord,’ ”’

“Wilbur,  y; must introduce him, by all
means. Isa who-knows what may~ hap-
pen?’ and Mrs. Coolidge, much excited at the
intelligence she had just received, ruffied her
feathers with motherly pride.

“There, Wilbur! 1 do believe he is coming
here. He has left his box, and- is. coming this

> exclaimed Isabel, her cheeks flushing a
vivid scariet at the thought of being intro-
duced to a peer_of the realm. E :

Adrian Dredmond was indeed bending his
_steps in that direction; but had- those proud
women known that it was on account of their
-despised governess, and her alone, they would
“not have been so elated. ee

Wilbur arose and met him at the entrance.~

“How are you, Coolidge?’ exclaimed the
.. young man, heartily, and extending his hand,
‘We have not met often of late,’ he added.

‘No; I have been dancing -attendance upon
the ladies. _ Will you come in and be intro-
duced?” :

‘‘With pleasure,” and his eyes lingered upon
that graceful figure, clad in maize-colored
silk, seated betweeh the two young girls.

Wilbur led him first to his mother and
Isabel, then presented him to Viola and Alma,
and finally to Brownie, in spite of Mrs. Cool-
idge’s warning glance, as she saw what he
was about to do,

The young girl’s cheeks kindled to a flame
as she laid her daintily-gloved hand in his,
and remembered that this handsome stranger,
whose name she had not known until this mo-
ment, had held her in his arms, and so close
to his bosom that she had felt the beating of
his great heart.

Wilbur noted her rich color, and the shy
adrocping of her white lids; he noted, too, the
lingering look of admiration which the young
man bent upon her, and a great pain smote
his heart—a fear that trouble, and disaster to
his hopes, would follow this introduction.

Mr. Dredmond was invited to a seat by
Isabel, and instantly monopolized by her,
while Mrs. Coolidge, much elated at the turn
events were taking, took care that Wilbur
did not resume his position near the gov-
erness, but kept him busy answering questions
till the opera was over.

Miss Isabel intended that Mr. Dredmond
should: attend her to the carriage, but, by
some means, in leaving the box, they became
separated, he standing at the entrance until
ali had passed out.

Brownie being the last one, he offered her
his arm to conduct her through the crowd.

She could not refuse without seeming rude,
yet she was keen enough to perceive that the
attention would call down the dire displeasure
of her employer upon her head.

The ‘fringe of her opera cloak became en-
tangled upon one-of the seats in passing out,
and, while stopping to remove it, the rest of
the party were borne along with the crowd,
leaving them far behind.

In the lobby they encountered an old gen-
tleman and lady. In an instant the gaze of
the former became riveted upor Miss Doug-

he is

and

las.
He stopped in her path.

His face grew ghastly white, his lips
twitched nervously, and he breathed as if ter-
ribly agitated.

Brownie lifted her eyes, and was startled
at his appearance, It seemed to her as if she
was confronting a madman. He bent toward
her until his quick breath smote her cheek.
He did not seem to notice her companion, all
his faculties were concentrated upon the
startled girl.

He lifted his shaking hand and touched
with one finger that glittering cross upon her
bosom, ;

“Phere is but one cross like that in the
world,’ he muttered. ‘Girl, girl, where did
you get it?’ he demanded, hoarsely.

Before she could collect her scattered senses
to reply, before even Mr. Dredmond could in-
terpose to save her the annoyance of replying,
some one behind cried out: ;

“Make way, there, a lady has fainted!’

Then the crowd surged in between them,
the old man was borne @ne way, Brownie and
her companion the other, and she only caught
one more glimpse of a pair of deep, fathom-
less eyes, filled with keenest pain, a white, set
face, its lips livid and rigid.

Then she found herself in the fresh, cool
air, and Adrian Dredmond saying, in tones of
apology: : :

“You will excuse him, Miss Douglas; he is
an old man.” :

“Gertainly; but he startled me somewhat,’
she answered, drawing a deep breath; and
before she could ask if he knew who the
strange gentleman was, he found they were
beside the Coolidge carriage.

“Really, Miss Douglas, is it you at last?
You have kept us waiting until we are tired,”’
exclaimed Isabel, peevishly.

She was boiling with rage that the. gov-
erness had secured the eseort which she had
so coveted.

“TI “hope you have not been troubled,
Mr. Dredmond,”’ apologized Mrs. Coolidge,
graciously, and giviffg Brownie a withering
look. ;

‘Oh, no} ithas given me pleasure to attend
Miss Douglas,’ blundered the young man,
saying the very worst thing possible.

**T-am sorry to have kept you waiting, Mrs.
Coolidge, but the crowd detained us, and my
eloak caught upon one of the seats,’ ex-
plained Brownie.

“Crowd, indeed! I’ve seen governesses be-
fore this who liked to flirt,’ sneered the irate
Isabel, under her breath.

be
several minutes in utter

Both Mr: Dredmond and Miss Douglas
caught the insolent words, and they aroused
all the fire in the young girl’s blood.

With the air of a queen, she turned, as she

out her little hand, she said to Mr. Dredmond:

ness, and good-night.”

others and turned away,

poor little governess for her audacity.
“She’s plucky, though,” he said,
smile, remembering her haughty air,

match in her.’’

“Miss Douglas, please ‘step this way
moment,’? Mrs. Coolidge commanded, in
tones, upon entering the house.

She led the way toward the library, Brownie
following, with head erect, and a mien which
even the fashionable and imposing Mrs. Coal-
idge could not subdue.

“T wish it distinctly understood, Miss Doug-
las,” the- matron began, with a look which
would have annihilated the young girl had
she possessed less of the spirit of heroes
within her, ‘‘that hereafter you are to receive
no attentions from gentlemen while you re-
main in» my employ. Miss Isabel’s prospects
are not to be interfered with by you.”’ .

Brownie’s red lips eurled with scorn.

She met her glance proudly and without the
quiver of a nerve.

‘Mrs. Coolidge, I have not the slightest de-
Sire to interfere in any way with Miss Cool-
idge’s prospects. The occurrence of this even-
ing was wholly unpremeditated, as far as I
am concerned. But, madam, I-wish it dis-
tinctly understood upon my part, that if the
insults to which I have been subjected to-night
are ever repeated I shall consider my con-
nection with you at an end.’’

This was a new departure, surely.

Who ever knew of a governess making terms
before with her employer, and in that tone and
spirit?

There was nothing disrespectful or unlady-
like in Miss Douglas’ manner.

But there was a resolution and firmness in
what she said which plainly indicated thai
she had no intention of being crushed or
browbeaten by any human being: upon the face
of the earth. .

Mrs. Coolidge could have strangied her as
she stood there in her proud beauty, but she
began to be a little afraid of her as well.

Yyrannical spirits are always cowardly.
“Really, Miss Douglas, it seems to me you
are assuming a great deal for a dependent,”’
returned the woman, haughtily.

“T recognize the fact, madam, that I am in
@ measure dependent upon your favor; but I
am also aware that my services are of no
small value to you. When I consented to take
charge of your daughters’ education, I did not
consent to forfeit my self-respect by quietly
submitting to any abuse from any member of
your family.”’ “

Brownie’s tone was very quiet,
clear and firm.

“What am I to understand by this language
from you, Miss Douglas?’ demanded Mrs.
Coolidge, nearly choking with anger.

“That I expect due consideration from your-
self and family, while I, in turn, render you
all proper respect. I wish you good-night,
madam,”

With’ a courteous inclination of her bright
head, Brownie turned and walked from the
room with the air of an empress.

Mrs. Coolidge stood looking after her for
amazement.

Never. before had a governess—and she had
had many—dared to address her in this man-
ner, <

Never before had any one in her employ
presumed to gainsay her in the slightest de-
gree.

But now she recognized a spirit, albeit it
was in a little bedy, that was superior to her
own, and it cowed while it enraged her.

“Who is this little vixen, I wonder?’ she
ejaculated, when she had_recovered her seli-:
possession somewhat. ‘She is evidently far
above her station; and, judging from her ap-
pearance to-night, she must have moved in
society equal to any into which we are re-
ceived.”’

Doubtless Brownie’s reply to Mrs. Coolidge’s
query would have been:

“Madam, I am a Dougias!”’

But that lady knew, as the young girl had
said, that she was invaluable to her.

Already her younger daughters were ac-
quiring a fluency of speech and an elegance
of manner which delighted her, and she felt
that it would not do to part with her culti-
vated governess for any light consideration.

She knew it would be very difficult to find
any one, while they were abroad, who would
prove as useful in every respect as Miss Doug-
las, and she resolved to swallow her wrath,
and keep her at all hazards, unless Wiibur
should fall in love with her.

At all events, one thing was. settled—Miss
Douglas should be seen no more in company.

but very

CHAPTER XV.
ISABEL’#® DISCOVERY.

A few days subsequent to Brownie’s inter-
view with Mrs. Coolidge, after a wearisome
day in the schoolroom, the young ladies hav-
ing been very dull and listless, Brownie donned
her hat and jacket, and went out for a stroll
by herself.

She had been very brave and defiant while
confronting Mrs. Coolidge, but the reaction
followed immediately, and she had been sad
and disspirited ever since.

She felt so alone in the world—so weary of
this loveless life.

It was evident that she was looked upon as
a@ mere machine, fit only to make herself
obliging and useful.

To be sure, there had been no more unkind
or insolent speeches, for Isabel had been
warned by her mother that Miss Douglas was
so extremely high-spirited that she would not
submit to them; but their manner to her was
so arrogant and overbearing that it was ab-
solutely painful to be in their presence.

She was thinking of it to-day as she went
out, and try as she would to rise above it,
to feel that it was beneath her to notice any-
thing so low and ignoble, yet it did sting
with a keenness which was very hard to bear.

She almost began to long for the oid days
in the straw factory, and the independence of
being her own mistress again, even though
she was obliged to live less luxuriously and
work more laboriously.

She walked briskly on for a mile or two,
past elegant residences, modern villas, and
ancient halis, wholly unconscious of the more
direful calamity which would befall her upon
her return—of the fearful cloud about to burst
above her head.

* > a * * * *
Isabel Coolidge had, so to speak, been dying
of envy ever since the night of their attend-
ance at the opera.

Brownie’s appearance upon that occasion
had been like ‘ta worm in the bud,’ gnawing
at her heartstrings continually.

How did Miss Douglas happen to have such
elegant apparel? Where did she get such
wonderful jewels?

She did not believe her mother’s theory that
she had been suddenly reduced from pros-
perity to poverty.

Brownie’s manners were too simple and un-
assuming for her-to believe that she had ever
been a ‘‘fine lady.’’

She kept revolving the matter over and over
in her mind.

The beautiful dress that she had worn,
heavy with its own_richness, the costly lace,
those wonderful jewels, the frostlike handker-
chief, and the lovely fan, were all alike a
marvel to her greedy eyes.

She longed to know if she possessed more
like them.

She could not conceive how a poor girl, who
had been forced first to go into a straw- fac-
tory to earn her daily bread, then to become
a governess, could be the possessor of such
elegant and expensive articles of dress.

‘There is some mystery about it, mamma,
which I cannot understand,’ she said, when
speaking of it to Mrs. Coolidge. ;

“My dear, I tell you she must have be-
longed to some wealthy family who suddenly
a their property; such things happen every

ay.”’

“But if that is the case, she could easily
have sold her beautiful things—those jewels
alone would have brought a handsome sum,
upon which she could have lived a long time.”

“Perhaps they are heirlooms, and she does
not like to path with them.”

‘‘Heirlooms? Pshaw! what can a poor girl
want with heirlooms? It seems to me that
bread and butter would be the first point
demanding consideration.”’

“Well, at aH events, it did not seem to be
with her; as far as sacrificing her jewels
goes,’ returned Mrs. Coolidge. ©

“Mamma, I tell you I don’t believe the girl
came by them honestly,’’ Isabel said, impres-
sively, after a few moments of deep thought:

“Why, child, you do not mean to say that
you believe the girl is a thief?’ exclaimed her
mother, aghast. ;

“Tt is an ugly word, I know; but you said

yourself that you considered her artful.”

 

 

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“Yes, I think she is about attracting the
attention of gentlemen;-although, with. her
drooping eyes, and unconscious manner, one
less. versed in, the ways of the .-world would
say she was the impersonation of modesty.’’

“TI hate such. prudish .airs, and Ido. not
think there will be any harm in watching

Miss Isabel had registered a mental vow
that she should watch the despised governess,
and that no means would be illegitimate
which wouid reveal. her past history, or bring

piace she occupied.

Since Adrian Dredmond’s evident attraction
toward her on the night of the. opera, she
resolved that Brownie Douglas and she
shouid not live long in the same house.

With these thoughts continually in her mind,
she had kept. up a constant espionage’ upon
the governess’ actions; and to-day, when she
saw her leave the house, equipped@*for a long
walk, she concluded that the right e had
come. to caggy out certain plans which she
had formed.

Vatching her opportunity, when no one was
about, she slipped quietly into Miss Douglas’
room, and locked the door after her.

She had never deigned.to enter there before,
and she was now. surprised to find how taste-
tuily everything was arranged.

She noticed the few choice pictures upon
the walls, and here and there an exquisite
little statuette or article of bronze—those
relics of Brownie’s beautiful home in Phila-
delphia, which she dearly loved.

She went to her dressing-case, and was sur-
prised at the elegance of her toilet appurte-
nances. She had none go rich!

Gne little thing im particular struck her.

lt was an exquisite case of Russia leather,
with ihe initiais “‘E. H.’ engraven in gilt
upon its handle. ;

She opened it, and an exclamation of delight
escaped her. .

Wiihin were tiny flasks of cut glass,
with goid. stoppers, filled with choicest per-
fumes; upon each of which the same letters
were cut.

“Ah, ha! ‘Hh. H., that dees not stand for
Mehetabel Dougias!’’ she said, with a sinister
smilie.

She took them out, one by one, removing
their gold stoppers and inhaling the delicious
perfume with which they were filled.

Suddenly her attention was attracted by a
folded paper in the bottom of the case. :

fhe took it up, opened it, and read, in a
gentleman’s handwriting:

“My Daruine—To-morrow will be our wed-
ding-day. I cannot come to you to-day, as I
promised, but I send my little gift to help
grace your table. I pray Heaven that the
fragrance which this little case contains may
be but the emblem of your future life with me.
Ever thine, . WILLIAM.”’

Could it be that Miss Douglas had been
rich, and about to be married, and then dis-
appointed?

-There was no Gate, and no name but that
of William, to give the prying girl any clew
as to the author of the note.

No, this could have been no wedding-gift
intended for her, or the imitials would have
been different.

She replaced the note, also the bottles, and
then turned her attention to other things, but
becoming more and more convinced of
Brownie’s dishonesty.

She opened the bureau drawers, and was
surprised to find several other articles marked
with the same initials.

Two or three sets of undergarments, trimmed
with costly laces and embroideries, a couple
of .- handkerchiefs, which made her eyes
water to look at them, an emerald ring, and
@ pearl pin.

She found Brownie’s jewel box, containing
only a few plain articles of jewelry, and one
or two sets of jet, which she had purchased
since her aunt’s death, and the cuff-button,
the mate.to which was in Adrian Dredmond’s
possession.

But the jeweled cross and hair ornament
were not to be found there.

“TI wonder where she keeps them?’ Miss
Coolidge soliloquized, as, after examining all
the drawers, she turned her gaze about the
room,

Her eye fell upon a large. writing-desk which
stood upon a table at the further side of the
room. :

She went over ie
the lid.

«It_was locked, and the key removed.

“Bother!”’ was her impatient and inelegant
exclamation.

She then began to search for the key, feel-
ing -sure that the jewels were within the
writing-desk. :

Now, Brownie had not a thought that any
one would be guilty of such meanness as to
Overhaul her property during her absence, and
scarcely ever kept anything-locked, excepting
her writing-desk.

No one had access to her room except Mary,
the chambermaid, and she had the utmost
confidence in_her, for, having treated the girl
with great kindness, she was deeply attached
to -her, and was constantly affirming that
‘“Miss Douglas were more of a rale leddy than
them who purtended to be her betters.”

Browmnie’s keys, which were held together
in a bunch by a steel ring, now hung by one
of their numiber in the trunk from which she
had taken her evening dress on the night of
the opera.

On her return, She had first removed her
jewels and returned them to their casket,
then replaced her dress in the trunk, just
turning the key, and leaving it in the lock.

Isabel’s quick eye soon caught sight of them,
and, with a cry. of pleasure, she darted across
the room to secure them, then returned to
the desk, and finally succeeded in fitting the
right key in its lock.

The desk, in itself, was nothing remark-
able, for it had seen long usage, but its con-
tents were rare and lovely.

A golden penholder and pen lay within;
also an elaborate paper-knife of the same
metal; a silver paper-weight .of exquisite
workmanship and design; a seal of onyx, in
which blazed a huge ruby; besides several
other things; and all these were marked with
the same fitials, ‘““E. H.”

Isabel lifted the inner lid, and, behold! the
casket of ebony, inlaid with pearl, which
Miss Mehetabel had given Brownie on that
last day of her life, was within.

There were also several packages of let-
ede and papers, but to these she paid no
heed.

“TJ have found them,’ she cried, and was
about to seize the casket, when she caught
the sound of a footstep outside the door.

Her heart stood still with fear, and cold
chills crept down her back.

She had not dreamed that Miss Douglas
would return so soon, for she had heard her
tell Alma she would be gone for an hour
or more.

She would not be caught in this contempt-
ible act for all the jewels in the queen’s
crown, and she began to look about for some
way of escape.

A hand was laid upon the door-knob, and
it turned. A moment’s silence, and it was
tried again—this time with more force,

Then a voice called:

“Miss Douglas, please,
moment?’’

It was Viola’s; and Isabel grew faint with
a sense of relief, but she stood silent, scarce-
ly daring to breathe, lest she should be
heard, and her sister insist upon coming in.

Presently she heard Alma call out:

“Viola, Miss Douglas is not there; she has
gone out for a walk.’ ‘

Then the steps moved away, and the guilty
girl was obliged to sit down to _ gather
strength, before she could continue her in-
vestigations. Cowardice and guilt are insep-
arable. f

She dare not wait long, however, and soon
turned her attention to the ebony casket
again.

Fortunately for her, the little golden key,
ae its curious chain. attached, was in the
ock.

Brownie had forgotten to clasp it about
her neck again after replacing the jewels.

As she was about turning the key she hesi-
tated, while a feeling of her own meanness
stole over her.

“Tf I didn’t mistrust the girl, I wouldn’t do
it,’ she apologized to herself. Then she added:
“Tf she is not what she pretends, of course it
is better for us to know it before the giris
become contaminated; but if I do not discover
anything, why, then it is all right.’’

With this bit of doubtful sophistry in her
mind, she turned the key and lifted the lid.

The sight which greeted her, dazzled her
even as it had Brownie when she had .first
looked upon those treasures. .

There lay the coral cross and the butterfly
hair ornament, for which she had been seek-
ing; but she almost lost sight of them ‘while
gazing upon those others, of tenfold more
value and beauty?’

“Now I know she is a thief!’’
astonished girl, when she
covered from her surprise. ‘‘It is not possi-
‘ble,’ she added, “‘that any girl of her age,
outside of royalty itself, could ever be the
rightful posssessor’ of such magnificence as
this. Why, there is a fortune here,’’ she went
on; “and no one need tell me that a girl

six

to and tried to raise

may I come in a

murmured the
had somewhat re-

 

would choose to work for her daily
when she has the means of living in luxury
in her possession. But no, it is evident that
she has stolen them, and does not dare to
sell them for fear of detection. Yes, and she
must have stolen all those other things marked
‘Ee. H.. What a creature we have been hafher-
ing! I imagine Wilbur and-Mr. Dredmond will
not think her ‘quite so charming when they
come to know that her dainty hands have
been guilty of kleptomania. How exquisite!’
she said, bending over them and touching the
precious stones with her white fingers. “This
diamond necklace is fit for a princess. It is
like_some fairy story, or like a vision from
Aladdin’s palace. But what shall I do about
them?’ she asked, after she had inspected
them all. “If she has-stolen them, as I do
not doubt she has, they certainly ought not
to be left in her possession. I will take them
to mamma and ask her what shall be done
with them.”

With: this decision. arrived at, Isabel closed
the lid of the casket, remarking its beautiful
inlaid cover as she did so; then, removing it
from the desk, she shut and Iocked that and
restored the keys to the trunk where she had
found them. Then she -sped swiftly to her
mother’s boudoir, devoutly hoping that
Brownie would not return until she had dis-
played her treasures to her, made her ex-
planation, and they could decide what was
best to be done about the matter.

If the truth had been known,
some girl had a_ secret
those jewels herself.

TO BE CONTINUED.

the
longing to

meddie-
possess

The Crime of Monte Carlo

By GERTRUDE WARDEN,

Author of ‘The Wooing of a Fairy,” ‘‘A Bold Deception,”
“The Haunted House at Kew,” ‘\Her Faithful
Knight,” etc., ete.

(*THE Crime oF MontTE CARLO” was commenced in
No. 37, Back numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers, )

CHAPTER: XVI.

Guy Kean joined his friends at the window.
va, What does it mean, Bob?’ he whispered,
Why has Bailly brought the police here?
And what are we to do?’

“Bluff the thing through!”’
repliéd, his eyes gleaming oddly. ‘‘Now, Clif-
ford, my boy,’ he went on, turning to the
white-headed figure at the head of the table,
‘keep it up! Here is your chance to mystify
not only Bailly, but the police. No doubt
they have learned of Krakoff’s flight, and
they'll be beautifully nonplussed when they
find him here. Guy, go and open the door!’’

The knocking meanwhile -had continued.
Guy proceeded in a leisurely way to the front
door, and slowly and noisily drew the bolt
and chain. Then he presented his handsome,
flushed face and elegant figure in evening
dress to the view. of the two men in the
garden.

Paul Bailly for a moment appeared discon-
certed by Guy’s coolness.

The latter shook hands with him heartily.

“We thought you never meant to turn up,”
he declared. ‘‘You’re late, you Know. Who’s
your friend? We really haven’t room for
more than four comfortably in the dining-
room.,”’ :

“Mr. Kean,” Bailly stammered, ‘“‘your uncle
has disappeared——’’

“You don’t mean to say so!” cried Guy, as
he broke into the most natural laugh. ‘‘What
did I say to you this morning, Bailly? Leave
Uncle Nicholas alone and he’ll come home.
Oh, Uncle Nick knews how to take care of
himself?”’

“But he has not come home,’ protested
Bailly. ‘‘He hasn’t been near the hotél since
he was mysteriously summoned about this
time yesterday evening: 1 have spent the
entire day searching for him. I have been
to the Beau Rivage Hotel at Mentone; I have
telegraphed to every place I could think of;
I-have questioned the Monte Carlo cabmen;
and, from what i can discover, he was: last
seen in the neighborhood of this villa at half-
past ten last night. I consulted, therefore,
with Monsieur Legros’’—heswaved his hand
in the direction of his companion, a wiry-
looking man of middle-age, with a keen, in-
telligent face—‘‘and he agreed with me as to
the seriousness of the situation, and did me
the favor of accompanying me here to-night.”’

“Very kind of: him, I’m sure,’’ said Guy,
still laughing. ‘‘But I’m awfully afraid you'll
both have had your trouble for nothing!’’

“Are you all three in the house?’ asked
Bailly.

“Oh, yes—we’re all three here, Monsieur
Bailly, and we shall be very glad if you will
make a fourth.’’

Monsieur Legros hesitated on the threshold
of the villa after Paul Bailly had entered.

“Come in!’”’ said Guy, heartily. “SI am Mon-
sieur Krakoff’s nephew as well as his guest,
Monsieur Legros, and in his name I ask you
to come and have a glass of champagne with
us, after all the trouble you have had in
coming this long distance.’’

Thus adjured, Monsieur Legros
Monsieur Krakoff’s secretary to the door of
the dining-room. Guy,~-pressing forward in
the narrow passage, flung open the door, and
Bailly paused in the aperture spellbound,

The atmosphere of the small apartment was
heavy with tobacco; the guests, appeared to
be eating, drinking and smoking at one and
and same time. But in the dim light afforded
by a foul-smelling lamp, turned low, upon
the sideboard, Paul Bailly had no difficulty
in recognizing to his entire satisfaction not
only Robert Cunninghame, but his own miss-
ing employer, Nicholas Krakoff.

To Monsieur Legros the millionaire was
known by sight; his voice and manner, too,
were familiar to him, and he at once identi-
fied them as the gentleman at the head of
the table looked scowlingly across: at him,
with keen gray eyes screened by gold-rimmed

nose-glasses. .

“Tg it you, Bailly?’ Monsieur Krakoff’s
representative growled, in. his villainous
Russian-French. ‘‘In the name of thunder,
sir! why can’t you come at the time I invite
you? And who have you brought with you,
eh? Did I tell you you might fill the house
with your friends? Are you master here, or
am I, eh? You: want a lesson in manners,
Monsieur Paul Bailly!’

‘Monsieur Krakoff,’’ stammered the unfor-
tunate secretary, ‘‘you must pardon me if I
grew not unnaturally alarmed at your ab-
sence from the hotel, I feared some accident
had befallen you, and I therefore consulted
with Monsieur Legros, of the police depart-
ment at Monte Carlo——’”’

‘‘And what business had you, pray, to grow
uneasy at my absence, or to expect me to
render an account of all my movements to
you?’ shouted the white-haired figure, rising
in his wrath and shaking his fist at Monsieur
Bailly. “Am I in_ leading-strings? Can’t I
spend my time as I like, without asking my
secretary's permission? And can’t I keep
away from my hotel one day without having
the police set on my track? Am tla child or
a lunatic? Now, take yourself. and_ your
policeman off out of my house, Paul Bailly,
and consider yourself dismissed, with three
months’ wages instead of notice. Do yous
hear me, fellow? Don’t stand staring there,
put go—and take that police fellow with you!’’

“But, my dear uncle,” put in Guy Kean,
laying his hand on the speaker’s arm, ‘‘con-
sider! Monsieur Bailly was only acting out of
consideration for you, and——’”

“T don’t want his consideration, or yours,
either!’ roared the sham Krakoff. ‘‘I won't
be spied upon and followed by a fellow I hire
to write my letters!” :

“Really, Monsieur Krakoff, you are too
hard, I think!’ exclaimed Robert Cunning-
hame, in a deprecatory tone. “It is part of
Monsieur Legros’ business to attend if he is
asked——”’ ;

“Tt is not his business to force his way
into my house when I am giving a quiet little
supper-party to my friends!’’ shouted Guy's
supposed uncle. ‘I insist on the pair of
them clearing out at once, And if you, Mr.
Cunninghame, say one word more, I shall ask
you to accompany them. You require a lot
more watching from the police than I do!
A fine state of things, indeed, when I, Nicho-
las Krakoff, of St. Petersburg and London,
known and respected everywhere, cannot go
out for the day without having the_ police
set on me by my own paid servant! Do you
hear me, and do you understand, you two?
Don’t stand there as if you were statues, but
clear out at once.’’

“Monsieur,”? exclaimed Legros,
sulted and trembling with anger and out-
raged dignity, ‘I was induced to accompany
this gentleman here by.incorrect statements
as to your safety. Monsieur Bailly will have
to account to me for his conduct in exposing
me to impertinence. You are an ungrateful
and impolite person, Monsieur Krakoff, and I
have the honor to wish you good-evening!”’

With that, Monsieur Legros. wheeled round
with military stiffness and stalked out of

Cunninghame

followed

deeply in-

bread

 

Vol. 56—Noa. 43

 

with indignation. Bailly
a‘moment, loth to lose all hope

fortune by Monsieur Krakoftf’s
ald,

“T regret, sir,’ he began, “if I have been
Over-zealous in my care of your interests and
of your yg

You

the villa, bristiing
lingered for
of acquiring

safety——

have!’’) bawled the gentleman  ad-
dressed. ‘‘You have. been a bore and a nui-
sance!. You are too clever, too inquisitive,
and too meddiesome! My nephew Guy here is
a silly young fool, but you are tod much the
reverse, and I will have nothing more to do
with you. You will receive your wages by
post to-morrow, and I don’t. want ever to be
bored with you again. Begone!”

Angry, humiliated and crestfallen though he
was, Paul Bailly never for one moment lost
his self-possession. He was a_ big, solidly-
made young man, unusually tall for a French-
man, and it was with some dignity that he
bowed to the three other occupants of the
dining-room from where ke stood in the door~
way.

“As you will; monsieur,”’
“IT can only say I have
will take my leave.’’

At the front door Guy Kean joined him.

“Vm really awfully sorry, Monsieur
Bailly,’’ the young Englishman said, with
rather overdone sympathy. “And I assure
you it’s through no fault of mine that my
uncie has treated you in this way. You know
how trotchety he is, and you saw how he let
me have it two mornings ago. Now it’s your
turn; but perhaps he will change his mind.”

‘Oh, I accept my notice,’’ Bailly said, calm-
ly. “‘And I shall probably be even some day
With the persons to whom it due. Thank
you for your politeness, Monsieur Kean. t is
satisfactory that your uncle has taken you
into favor again. But may I suggest that
you should not build hopes upon that, as IL
have reason to believe your uncle is entirely
under the dominion of a young English lady
called Middlemist, and that he will probably
marry her in the shortest possible time. [I
have the honor to wish you good-night, Mon-
sieur Kean!’’

Guy Kean returned his
with much show of geniality, and watched
the. secretary pass down the little garden-
path and out at the front gate. Then he
locked and chained the front door, and paused
a while to wipe his heated face with his
handkerchief,

It was all very funny—deucedly funny!

He had never seen anything more amusing
in his life than the way that interfering secre-
tary and the Legros man had been taken in,
Clifford had acted magnificently; the thing
had gone off with extraordinary success.

But now that it was over, what did it all
mean?

For a moment, standing there in the chilly,
poorly-lighted passage, reflection sobered Guy.

It was as- though something had checked
him in his headlong career downhill. In that
moment he realized how entirely he had
become a puppet in. the hands of Cunning-
hame, how blindly he followed. Cunninghame’s
instructions, and let the control of his wasted
life pass into Cunninghame’s hands.

Something had depended on this evening’s
work—something of vitai importance.

But what? Why had both he and good,
honest Clifford been made to play their dif-
ferent parts in this comedy arranged by that
arch-plotter Cunninghame, to serve his own

ends?
And was Might

he ‘said,

quietly.
done my

best, and [I

is

parting salutation

it even a comedy? it not

} well possess a tragic and terrible meaning?

A cold shiver ran over the young man’s
body as the thought crossed his mind. It was
as though, in the flush of his dissipated youth,
his hand had touched the chilly fingers of
the dead,

“Guy! What are you up
Have you got rid of Bailly?’

It was Cunninghame who asked the ques-
tion, Cunninghame who appeared at the din-
ing-room door, his usually pale face reddened
by the fierce excitement that possessed him,
and by the copious draughts of champagne
he had been imbibing. Seeing his friend
alone by the front door, he went up to him
and clapped him, sharply on'the shoulder.

“Wasn't it grand?’ he asked, with a loud
laugh. .““By Jove! I never want to see a
scene better acted! No more theatres for me!
Clifford’s a Roscius—a Garrick! And you and
i supported him uncommonly well!”’

“It was decidedly funny!’ Guy agreed.
“But, I say, Bob, how is it going to end?’

“How is anything going to «nd?’’ cried Cun-
ninghame, recklessly. “And what in the
world does it matter? Death is the only pos-
sible end to anything and everything, -and
we shall meet Death fast enough at the pace
we’re going! We'll go back and drink Death’s
health!’

“Bob,” exclaimed Guy, shocked and startled
by something wild and unusual in his friend’s
manners, ‘‘you’ve been drinking too much
already!’

“Of course I have—so have you! We've all
been drinking too much. It’s the only thing
to do if one drinks at all!”

“Clifford hasn’t. He’s as sober as a judge.
He only here to find Miss
Middlemist

“Then let us clear out of here and leave
him to find her, in Heaven’s name!” cried
Cunninghame, as though struck by a sudden
idea. ‘You say this house gives you the
creeps. Well, I’ve had enough of it, I confess,
for one evening, We've finished our supper
and carried our trick through. Clifford rather
let both of us have it just now—calling you
a silly young fool, and saying that I wanted
police supervision, and he gave us both a
beastly shock by his trick in the pantry. Sup-
pose we turn the tables upon him by locking
him in this place alone at ten o’clock at night?
It’s easy enough for him to get out by any
of the windows, and it will just give him the
fright he deserves. Probably, though, he will
be only too thankful to get rid of us at
first, so that he can hunt about for his
precious Miss Middlemist.”’

“Where is she, by the way? You don’t think,
by any chance; Uncle Nick really has taken
her to Russia with him?’

‘Certainly not! She’s at the Beau Rivage
Hotel at Mentone, I tell you. If you don’t
believe me, go over there to-morrow morning
and see for yourself. But don’t waste time
talking now. We've carried the thing through,
and it is time to clear out.”’

“Tt’s rather rough on Cliff to leave him
in this ghostly hole after he’s come to oblige
ae: protested Guy, “And he acted so jolly
we eee ee

‘Only to serve his own ends, because he’s
in love with the girl. Come, Guy—now is our
time! I have shut the dining-room door, and
we will slip out here and iock the door on
the outside.’’

Suiting the action to the word, Robert Cun-
ninghame softly withdrew the key from the
lock of the front door, and, opening it, re-
placed the key on the outer side, Then he
passed quickly out, dragged Guy after him
before the latter had time to make up his
mind, and turned the key in the lock behind
them, 2

“Put your best foot foremost,’ Cunninghame
said, as he flung the key among the rose-
pushes. ‘‘We’ll leave Clifford in sole posses-
sion of Mon Désir, and take the first convey-
ance back to Monte Carlo!”’

to in the hall?

came to-night

CHAPTER XVII.

Ten o’clock struck from the eight-day clock
in the kitchen of Mon Désir.

Clifford Kean, sitting alone, smoking a
cigarette in the dining-room of the villa,
started at the sound,

For fully five minutes
ing the return of his cousin, who had _ left
the room to let¢Paul Bailly out, and of
Robert Cunninghame, who had gone ostensibly
to bring back Guy. Be cet

Left alone, Clifford’s’ thoughts had flown
elsewhere, and, as usual now, concerned them-
selves with the whereabouts of a pale-faced
girl with blue eyes and raven-black hair.

Was it possible, Clifford asked himself, that
she—that mysterious she whose Christian name
he did not even know—could really be im-
prisoned in that room upstairs? If so, what
must she have thought of the noisy singing
and laughter which had gone on below?

Always abstemious, Clifford had drunk even
less than usual; but he couid not fail to
note the heavy inroads both Cunninghame
and Guy had made upon the champagne and
whisky, several empty bottles of which now
adorned the table.

Where were Guy and Cunninghame now?

They wére certainly neither of them likely
to treat Miss Middlemist, should they catch
sight of her, with the reverert consideration
which was her due. Guy, Clifford knew to
be incorrigibly mischievous, and Cunninghame
was aman who habitually decried women.

Clifford sprang from his_seat as these re-
flections crossed his mind. He must find those
fellows at once, and, if possible, get them_to
leave the house before he endeavored to dis-
cover Miss Middliemist, and remove. her, if
it were possible, to some safer place of refug
than Mon Désir.

Just at this point the oil lamp, which had
been turned too low by Cunninghame, began
to splutter and give unmistakable signs of
going out altogether, and Clifford paused to
turn the light on more fully before leaving
the room. As he did so, his eyes fell upon
some dark stains on the polished flooring—

he had been await-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
- down three steps

 

 

 

—
%

 

 

: E Vol. 56- No. 43

_ Found spots of discoloration which, by the
_ Subdued light, he had not noticed before.

_ Bending down, he examined the marks closer
and closer still. Then, struck by a sudden
misgiving, he placed the lamp upon the floor
_ and looked again, following the train of stains
at they stopped short at the dining-room

Cold with vague alarm and horror, he raised
_ himself to his full height, lamp in hand. The

light fell full upon the clothes he was wear-
ing, and down the left lappel of the coat, and
again across~the left knee, he perceived the

Same dark red spots which, in a flash of re-
_ membrance, he remembered to have seen_upon
e ao gold-rimmed eyeglasses of Nicholas Kra-
~ Bloodstains! _ 3
_ _ That was what they were. He needed no

doctor to tell him that!

_, But what was the meaning of them? Was
it some gruesome joke on the part of Cun-
“Binghame and Guy? And where had those
fellows gone? _ :

He placed the lamp upon the table and
threw open the dining-room door.

. “Guy! Cunninghame! Where are you? I
| have something to show you. Where are you
>» hidimge?’ - ferret ;

_ Not-a sound
_ voice rang through the empty house. The
ae ners his heart began toe gather in in-

Darting to the front door, he shook and
‘rattled it in vain. : = :

He was locked in the haunted house, left
to face whatever there was about it of the
_. Mysterious and of the. terrible.

That it was empty he.soon assured himself.
Cunninghame had spoken falsely. The rooms
upstairs were all unlocked, the doors open
—desolation and _ stillness reigned everywhere,

_ Save for the loud ticking of the clock in the

kitchen, and the seurrying of mice ‘about the
waste paper in the lumber-room.

More and more uneasy, Clifford descended
the stairs, candle in hand, resolved upon ef-
fecting his escape by the back door. But in
the kitchen his steps ‘were again arrested by
_. those red stains which led from the dining-
room across the passage and the kitchen and
scullery to the door at the back of the house.

Upon“the stone flooring some attempt had

been. made to wash them oui, and, more suc-

cessfully, to conceal them by a piece of mat-
ting dragged across their track. Yet their
course was clear enough from a point near the
-dining-room table to the back entrance to the

vi
What did it all mean? Was there some
dreadful mystery underlying what had seemed
like a mad frelic on the part of his cousin
Guy that evening?

Clifford clapped his hand to his brow as
though to t back the awful suspicion that
was forcing. its way into his brain.

-It was all coming back to him—Nicholas
Krakoff’s announcement of his intention to
disinherit his nephew; his sudden and myste-
rious disappearance on the a frie tes day;
Guy’s lame explanation that his uncle had
been “‘summoned to’ Russia or somewhere;’’
and then, what seemed like Guy’s singular
whim in urging him—Clifford—to personate the
missing Krakoff for Bailly’s benefit. :

Clifford remembered now Guy’s insistence
on the point. His cousin had indeed refused
to leave him until he complied, and had him-
self fetched him in a carriage from his rooms,
so great was his fear lest Clifford might
change his mind. Always high-spirited, Guy
. had been Pano excited. that evening, and,
‘in dealing with Bailly and the inspector of
police, had shown a-resourcefulness and art-
fulness quite out of keeping with his general
character.

Then, again, how did Krakoff’s clothes, the
greatcoat and even the eyeglasses and scarf
he usually wore, come to be at Mon Désir,
ready for the masquerade which Guy had
planned? —

Once Bailly was got rid of, why had~Cun-
ninghame and Guy slunk off together and left
him alone in the villa? ;

And—last and most terrible question of all—
what was the meaning of those stains on the
floor of the house and on Nicholas Krakoff’s
othes. 2s 5 :

These questions beat against Clifford’s brain,
but he dared not answer them—dared scarcely
contrast the position of his cousin—discredited,
preniler over head and ears in debt, and in
Oe ee a thless os peng in al woman
—w what .Guy’s st ing would be were
Nicholas Krakoff to-be

Sud make a So nitttea’at

tt Guy has Fr y,committed an
was of Cunninghame’s. Bae attic ;
am I saying? These <
by the eeriness of the house. I have nothing
to go upon—nothing. to. prove that to-night’s
affair was anything but a harmless trick.
Nothing—except those bloodstains!’’

At least he would follow them, and assure
himself that there was no cause for these
horrible doubts and fears. The back door was
locked and the key nowhere to be found, but
nothing was easier than to pass in and out
of Mon Désir without the aid of keys. Clif-
ford had but _to open the window in the
‘kitchen and drop down three feet into the
little garden. — ea: ;

This he at once proceeded to do, and, armed
with a candie and matches, he closely exam-
ined the stone step outside the back door.
Here again he discovered a small red stain,
and in the narrowest portion of the garden,
‘between the side of the house and the fence
which almost overhung the ravine, he discov-
ered unmistakable signs of recent disturb-

ance. - : z
‘Shrubs which grew against the wall of the
house’ were trod down—heavy footsteps
in the mould had been hurriedly smoothed
over, and the broken branches of a lilac bush
. which half hid the entrance to the little cellar
E at the side of the house
seemed to point out that particular spot with
Sinister significance. By
- A sudden trembling seized Clifford. In all
_ his twenty-seven years of hard-working, kind-
_ ly, somewhat Bohemian existence he had never
encountered anything in the nature.of a crime.
Generous and large-hearted to a fault, and so
chivalrous that even his stage experiences
could not lower his estimate of his fellow-
-ereatures or destroy the gentleness which

_erime, it
ut what

underlay his assumed cynicism, Clifford had

never yet been brought face to face with the
- tragic element in life. The black suspicion,
now fast growing into a certainty, which pos-
sessed his soul dazed and horrified him. He
felt as if it were some other person, and not
e, who now stealthily descended the uneven
_ Stone steps, half hidden by the branches of a
lilac bush, and with trembling fingers endeav-
_ ored to force open the cellar door. .
It opened inwards, and, examining it closel
- by the light of the candle he still held, Clif-
ford discovered that there was no key in the
lock, and that the door, which was of. roughly-
hewn timber and in a bad state of repair, was
kept jammed in its place by a broken piece
of olive wood thrust through the aperture.
Withdrawing . this with some difficulty, he
found that the door still resisted his efforts,
but that when, bent upon satisfying his doubts,
he leaned with all his weight against it, it
yielded slowly but surely to his efforts—
_ slowly, as if there were a heavy body on the
other side.
_. He had put the candle on the top step while
_he pushed at the door; but as, by the exer-
cise of all his force, he contrived to force it
open sufficiently to allow of his entrance into
the cellar, he reached for the light again and
held it high before him, ip:
_ He knew where to look—the pressure against
the door had taught him that. And he almost

knew what he should see as, with dilated,:
horror-struck eyes, he stared down upon the.

livid face and blood-stained beard and shirt
of the man whose es he had been—the man
~ with whom he had quarreled two nights be-
- fore—Nicholas Krakoff, the millionaire, who,
-foully murdered, had been flung into a cellar
of his own house, to perish. miserably in dark-
ness and decay. | k ‘

CHAPTER XVIII.

“Guy has done this—my Cousin Guy!”

Clifford muttered the words half aloud in
his agitation, as, pale as death and trembling
in every limb, he shut the door of the cellar

upon its ghastly occupant, and, extinguishing

- the candle, staggered up into the garden under
the quiet stars. ;
_ “My Cousin Guy a murderer!”
_ His thoughts traveled back to the days when
they were boys together, almost of the same
age, and more friendly than are most broth-
ers, but always with the difference between
_ them of Guy’s handsome face, winning man-
hers, and brilliant prospects as old Krakoff’s

_ $elfish Clifford knew him to be, but only
_ selfish through want of thought in the large
things of life. As a companion Guy was al-
t ‘ideal—invariably gay, and sweét-tem-
ered, and sympathetic in manner. Cruel he
ad never been in word or deed; he had even
not infrequently remonstrated with his elder
ousin upon the latter’s bitterness of tongue.
That such a man should be impelled by mone-
ey difficulties and the evil influences .under
lich he had fallen to commit a cowardly
nurder seemed almost incredible. And yet
d arrive AE no other conclusion
. off had been mur-

came back in answer as his

Suddenly cut off before
y crime, it| An
‘e wild fancies, brought }

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

oan

as he love the friends of their childhood, with
a _ strong, unreasoning affection which is part
of their sincere and loyal natures. Once he
had overcome the first natural shock of hor-
ror at his discovery, his first thought was
how best Guy might be shielded from the
consequences of a crime which Clifford tried
to persuade himself could never have been
premeditated.

“He must have been goaded beyond control
by the old man’s insults, and have lost his
senses,’’ Clifford argued.

Truly this supposed attitude of Guy’s mind
was hardly in accord with the consummate
artfulness of his subsequent conduct. But Clif-
ford told himself |
was now entirely in Cunni
and acting ~his advice in his endeavor to
evade discovery and justice. Hence the clever-
ness of the ruse by which he had eluded de-
tection for the time Y imposing a sham Kra-
koff upon Bailly-and the inspector of police.

“T was a tool playing into their hands,’’ Clif-
ford refiected, as the cool night wind swept
over his heated forehead and seemed to im-
part lucidity to his reflections, “I said and
did just what they wanted to gain time and
divert: suspicion. Well, I am glad of it! I
don’t at this moment feel as if I ever wanted
to shake Guy by the hand again; but, if I
have helped him to escape justice, I cannot
be otherwise than glad. He lured me here

fellows must have known quite well that Mon
Désir was empty, and that I should never find
Miss Middlemist here. But _ self-preservation
Stands first, of course. Guy knew I could not
fail to shrink from him in horror had He told
me the truth, and so he had to deceive me,
For that, at ieasit, 1 cannot blame him.”

Guy’s reflections were cut short by the
sound of a smothered cough coming from a
spot immediately outside the fence enclosing
the garden ai the side. *

Staring nervously in the direction of the
sound, he perceived beyond the’ straggling
rosebushes the face of a-woman, who ap-
peared to be watching him atteniively. =

“Who is there?’ he called out sharply, un-
nerved by-the events of the evening. 2
_ Finding-herself discovered, the woman slowly
passed round the fence to the stone baiustrade
which bordered the front garden of Mon
Désir, and, leaning her arms on the gate of
the villa, waited apparently for Clifford to
join her.

By the moonlight he could see that she was
short, stout and dark, and not ill-looking, and
that her dress and appearance proclaimed her
to be one of the better class of Italian-French
peasants of the district.

“Good-evening, monsieur!’’ the woman called
to him, as Clifford reluctantly advanced a very
little way into the front garden. 2

“Good-evening. What is your. business?’’

“Ah! monsieur remembers me, surely, al-
though he did not call this morning as he
promised? Monsieur asked me if I would wait
at table to-night at a little supper he was
giving at half-past nine! But, as he did not
eall to give his last orders, as he said he
would, I thought perhaps he had changed his
mind. But half an hour ago my little girl,
whom monsieur knows—the one who brought
the young lady her supper and breakfast by
monsieur’s orders—came over here for me to
see if any one was about, and returned to
tell me she had seen lights in the dining-
room, and had heard voices talking and sing-
ing—yours among the rest, monsieur. I couid
net come immediately, for, see you, I was
very busy giving my husband, and some
friends of his who had dropped in, their sup-
pers. But, as soon as i could leave, I hurried
round here. I was going to knock at the

some one moving about in the garden. Mon
Désir is such a lonely place, and has- such a
bad name, that I said to myself, ‘Is it a thief
who has come to break in while Monsieur
Krakoff is taking his supper?’ So I crept
round the fence to watch. And, after all,
monsieur, it was yourself whom I saw! Oh,
monsieur! I cannot understand why you did
not call yesterday as you said you would, or
f why you ordered your supper elsewhere. I do
not like Mon Désir at night—but, then, no-
body does. Monsieur laughed at me when I
told him that everybody who lived here came
to a bad end, and that Father Christopher’s
curse’’—she stopped to cross herself—‘‘remained
on the house. But let monsieur wait and
see! Meantime, as I was saying, I would have

table, since my woman at the inn is afraid
to come, and my little Nini is too young.

curing his supper elsewhere!” —

, She had run ;
talked volubly on, resting her plump brown
arms on the gate of the villa; but her loquac-
ity gave Clifford time to collect his- thoughts
and decide upon his plan of action.

Until she recognized him and addressed him,
as Krakoff, Clifford had entirely forgotten
the fact of his disguise in the shock of find-
ing the millionaire’s body.

It. was impossible now to undeceive her, and,
in view of Guy’s safety, eminently undesir-
able. As, therefore, she chattered on, a plan
for diverting for the time all suspicion from
his cousin began to form itself within Clif-
| ford’s brain.

How if he should, still in the dress of Kra-
koff, a made up to represent him, make his
way immediately to Paris, there to fulfill the
remainder of the theatrical engagement which
was still held open for him? 3,

To-night’s discovery had made a further
stay at Monte Carlo in the vicinity of his
Cousin Guy impossible to him. He could not
be ‘made the accomplice of a murderer; he
did not want to hear Guy’s confession, and
he would have sooner cut off his right hand
than have appeared as a witness against him.
If, however, he could contrive. to leave. for
Paris in the disguise of Krakoff, Guy would
be perfectly safe, at least for a time; and,
however horrid his crime might appear, Clif-
ford felt he could not do otherwise than assist
him in evading punishment.

Only one consideration detained him in the
Riviera, and a portion of the woman’s speech
recalled that thought vividly to Clifford’s mind.
The innkeeper’s wife had spoken of the young
lady to whom her child had brought her meals,
and Clifford at once surmised that she must
mean Miss Middlemist. He longed to inquire
of the woman concerning Miss Middlemist’s
rent habitation, yet he dared not do so
or fear of betraying himself. Whatever might
befall ar: he felt he could not leave Monte
Carlo without ascertaining at least that Miss
Middlemist was safe and well provided for.
This woman’s words had but confirmed Guy’s
statements to him eee in the evening, to
the efféct that Nicholas Krakoff was con-
cerning himself with the young girl’s welfare.

pon what terms were they? And how would
Krakoff's death affect her?

These questions rushed into Clifford’s already
overheated brain with bewildering insistence.
This woman could probably answer a portion
at least of them, yet he dared not directly
apply to her; but by all means she must
not be undeceived as to his identity, and it
was therefore in an exact imitation of Kra-
koff’s voice and manner that Clifford next
addressed her. :

» “I changed my mind about the supper,’’ he
said. ‘I suppose that is my affair—eh? But
you shall ‘have something for your trouble.”’

As he spoke he thrust his fingers instine-
tively into the inside pocket of his coat, and
drew from thence a pocketbook half
notes—that same pocketbook which had
aroused alarm within the breast of Paul Bailly
as to his employer’s safety. E

It was with a curious shock that. Clifford
realized, on opening the book, that for the
first time in his life he was handling money
not his own and not honestly come by. At the
thought he thrust the pocketbook back where
he had found it, but, as the woman. still
waited expectant, he slipped his fingers into
the waistcoat pocket in search of change,
oe finding there a louis, he tossed it toward

er. ;

The woman caught it with effusive thanks,
but she eyed him curiously, and, as he
thought, suspiciously over the gate in the
moonlight.

“Monsieur does not want me to come in and
clear away the things and wash them up?’
she suggested. ‘‘There is no one but me who
would dare to come into Mon Désir so late;
but I have a good conscience, and am not
therefore so afraid of ghosts as some others

re.”’ :

are.
“No; I don’t want you,’ Clifford said, and
was turning sharply away when a second
thought made him stop. ‘‘I never thanked
your little girl,’ he said, “for looking after
the young lady. But I suppose the young
lady thanked her when you saw her last?’
“Mon dieu, monsieur! I have hardly set eyes
on the eae lady! Except at the station
of Les ochers yesterday morning, when I
saw you get into the train for Monte Carlo
with her, I cannot say I have ever. seen her.
And, if Nini had not been with me, I should
|/not have known it was the young lady from
Mon Désir. My little girl is so quick and
clever; she knew her in a moment. But I only
saw a lady in mourning, with a veil. Of
eourse I recognized monsieur. Monsieur is so
distinguished-looking it is impossible to mis-
take him. But I think you did not see me.’
“No,” said Clifford, ‘I did not. By the way,
did you notice the time at which our train

started ?”’ ;

 

that, in all probability, Guy |
‘@ tends

| discovered with sudden surprise and alarm

on false pretenses, of course. Both of those}

door when, just as I reached the gate, I heard}

brought the supper, and even have waited at:

monsieur has not treated me well in pro-~'|
herself out of breath as she.

full of]

 

“But yes, monsieur,’’ the woman answered, |

in slightly wondering tones. “It was the train
which left for Monte Carlo and Nice at ten|
minutes past twelve. I know because I was
seems Of my sister, who is working in a
hairdresser’s shop at Nice.’’

“Ah, thank you! Good-night!”

“‘Good-night, monsieur!’’

The woman retreated homeward slowly,
casting inquisitive glances over her shoulder
na Bhi did so in the direction of the lonely
villa.

“There was something very strange about
the old gentleman’s manner,’ was her mental
comment. ‘‘And I wonder what he was doing
down by his cellar, and why ‘he jumped so
when he caught sight of me? Is he by any
chance going mad, like that poor fellow who
lived in Mon Désir before him? Well, he
cannot say I did not warn him against the
place; but men will have their way.”’

Clifford meanwhile was making his way back
to the house. He felt a strong reluctance to
re-enter it, but he had left his own clothes,
together with his bag and theatrical dressing-
case, in the study at the back of the entrance
hall, and these things at least he must fetch
away. He felt moreover the imperative need
of quiet thought to mature his plans.

But, once arrived before the back door, he

that it: had been unlocked, and now stood
wide open!

A ‘cloud of surmise arose in Clifford’s brain.
Hadi the other two men returned? Or was it
possible that some one had indeed been se-
ereted in the house all the evening, a witness
re the strange scenes. which -had taken place

ere? ~

Mistrustful and apprehensive, he entered the
kitchen, which he found in complete darkness;
then; re-lightinge the candle he had taken with
him, he carried. it across the passage toward
the study. :

The door of this room was closed, but he
could plainly hear footsteps moving lightly
over the creaking boards within. Extinguish-
ing his: candle, he bent down and perceived
clearly through the keyhole that there was a
light within the room.

In another minute he had seized the handle
of the door and flung it open. :

His bag, which he had left on a writing-
desk near the window, had been removed to a
table in the center of the room, and bending
over it, examining its contents, a woman stood
—a tall, slight woman, in the deepest mourn-

ing. : 4

At the sound of the opening door she turned.
With a strange tremor, born of mingled de-
light, dismay and astonishment, Clifford be-
held the beautiful white face and deep-set blue
ee under straight, black ws of Hebe Mid-
d

A WARRIOR BOLD.

By ST. GEORGE RATHBORNE,

Author of ‘Little Miss Millions,” “The Spider's Web,
“Dr. Jack's Widow,” ‘Miss Caprice,” etc., etc.

(+A WARRIOR BOLD” was commenced in No. 33. Back
numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers.)

CHAPTER XXX.
HOT SHOT,

One look told Charlie that his friend had
good news.

_Artemus was fairly bubbling over with the
intelligence he had picked up. .

While a dramatist of no mean ofder, he evi-
dently could not claim very great success as
an actor, or else deemed the present a poor
opportunity for the exercise of such powers.

For which Charlie was glad.

He seemed relieved cf a great load even at
sight of -Artemus, showing to what extent he
had cause to pin his faith on the other.

Such a smile upon

looked bad for Captain Brand and his great
game; the foundations of his Spanish castle
were getting shaky, and possibly the whole
tremendous structure must come crashing
down,..enguifing him in:the ruins. —_-
Eee at’s the word?” asked Artemus, gingerly
extending a couple of fingers, for previous
experience had made him wary of. entrusting
his digits to the crushing grasp of the big
London man. -

‘All goes on serenely, so far as [I know.’’

“Of course you’ve run him off for keeps.”’

“Meaning the ogre; but you. know full well
I’ve done nothing of the kind, much as I would
anticipate the pleasure,” said Charlie.

Artemus shut one eye.

**There’s some high old fun in prospect.”

*Well, yes, I suppose so; St. Patrick’s day is
Soa booming with good cheer in New

ork.”’ wg 3

“Ah! I mean for us; for our friend the cap-

tain.

“That strikes closer home. Now, I knew you
were the bearer of good news when I saw-»you
enter.”

*Can’t help it. If you discovered a gold
mine, oe te 2 you grin from ear to ear also?

iumph!”

“It’s a gold mine, is it?’? smiling.

“Regular El Dorado. Why, King. Solomon
wasn’t even ‘in it’ compared with our luck.”

“That sounds strong, but good.”’

“And you'll just bear me out-when you hear
all I’ve got to tell.’’ ’

* *Barkis is willin’.’ ”

*T always said I- was born under-a lucky
star, and this settles it beyond peradventure,”’

“Consider that matter closed. Now tell me
your adventures, and how good fortune at-
tended- you. All of which shail’ be to the
glory of our cause, the vindication of truth
and right, andthe utter demoralization of
Captain Brand.”

“Come over here, where comfort. and: velvet
chairs await us, and prepare yourself for a
surprise that will, I guess, surpass anything
you ever heard.”’ i

Thus he artfully worked Charlie up ‘to fever
heat, which was just what he desired, for in
that condition, he could better spring his dra-
matic discovery with much richer. results, -

So they settled down, ;

Charlie endeavored to retain his composure
and possess his soul in patience.

He knew Artemus of old, and that a cere-
mony had to be gone through with ere he
would disgorge the secrets he possessed, such
as would not disgrace the cross-questioning: in
one of the higher courts. if

‘Well, now, you know what ‘hopes I had’ with
regard to the fellows on the Rialto;~how I
built up air-castles concerning. the finding | of
one or more among them who knew Macauley
by heart, and would, for a proper considera-
tion, take pleasure in denouncing him to his
face. :

“Times must be ‘better, since there are few
of thode knights of the buskin out of engage-
ments just now; road’ companies’ doing a
smashing land-office business, they tell me,- for
money is plenty after the war. .. :

“Consequently, I only ran across one.man
who had played upon the boards with the
great Macauley; he declared he would know
him under any disguise; that his mannerisms
must always betray his individuality: even
ees ne represented an Arab or a heathen
Chinee.”’ | , :

“An! that’s the man’ 'we want,” said Char-

ie.

“And that’s the man we won't get. You see,
he had one experience with Macauley, and to
this day he declares the mention of the man
always sends a chill up and down his -spinal
eolumn. In a word, he fears him worse than
the devil fears holy water, and neither bribes
nor pleading could induce him to say he would
open his batteries on Brand. The most I could
get him to promise. was to see the other from
a safe hiding-place and then secretly give us
bis opinion, with the iron-bound proviso that
his name would never appear in the matter.”’

Charlie elevated his eyebrows.

“T should say that man was a little bashful.”’

“He admitted the soft impeachment, and
confessed to a ghastly fear. o Macauley for
him, thank you. A burnt child dreads the fire,
you know.” :

‘Tt might be some ‘satisfaction to us if he
added the weight of his secret testimony to
our own strong convictions in the matter; that
is, it would perhaps influence Lady Arline.”’

“No doubt, no doubt.’’ ®

“Will it pay to summon him, then?’’

This direct method of questioning was the
best.way of assisting Artemus along.

It compelled an answer, and thus necessi-
tated the. unmasking of his strong batteries,

“T hardly think so.”’

‘You know best, but. I should like to hear
your reasons for refusing what small. favors
the gods throw in our way.”’

“And you shall, Charlie, my boy. In the first
place, it would hardly pay us to depend at all
upon such sécret testimony. If we could inject
some alcoholic fluid into this low comedian, to

ve him. backbone, so that. he would: face

the face of Barnaby |

 

rand and finish the game in a blaze of glory,

it would do yery well; but I fear the only
thing that would give the poor devil artificial
courage would at the same time steal away
his senses, so that our cause would nardly
—e much progress. Don’t you agree with
Charlie nodded in the affirmative.

He knew the other had hit the nail on the
head when he spoke so sensibly.

Besides, he was at the same time positive
that Artemus’ was only “sparring for wind,”’
as it might be called; that he had a card up
his sleeve with which he could clear the table
when the time seemed to arrive for its @xXpo-
sure.

What that card could be mystified Stuart,
and he felt that he might hazard many a guess
without learning its nature,

For the time being he was at Barnaby’s
mercy, and must submit to slow torture.

“That is one reason, you see. It wouldn’t
pay to bother with such a witness; time and
labor and good cognac wasted. There is
another point 1 wish to make. His evidence
ee eee =

_ ‘Since I have found another way of ensnar-
ing the wonderful Captain Brand in a net
which must render him utterly heipless.’’

“Good! Hear! Hear!”

_ “Now listen while 1 a tale unfold which, if
it doesn’t harrow up your soul and make
your blood run cold, will at least stun you
with the amount of luck that floats around
loose in, this queer world of ours.’’

“lve Steadied my nerves, and am prepared
for anything you can spring on me. Proceed.’’

“When the Rialto prospects grew dim, I had
in my mind another aliernative, by which I
meant to make one last, desperate. move, you
know. it was suggested by something you
said. a long time back, in case business tock
us to Lonaon.”

“Oh, yes, I remember—the shipping office;
but that was when we thoughi he was Ben
Hazen mate of the HeésSpasia. Now we are
convinced that he never saw that boat; per-
haps not even Africa.’’

“Just so,’’ continued Artemus, quietly, “‘but
I had a iingering hope that 1 might discover
something vearing on the case. in fact, my
boy, 1 am ready to aimost Swear some sense
of intuition, over which I had virtually no
control, took me off upon this line of investi-
gation, and, looking at it from the standpoint
Il now occupy, i am constrained to regard it as
little less than a miracle,

“First of ail, I began to make diligent in-
quiries among the various shipping houses
down in the region about Euiton Market; and
soon struck oil.

“One man remembered the Hespasia and her
sad fate perfiect:iy. me had satiea a vuyage
on her, and was later on connected in some
clerical way with the American branch of the
house in whose interests she was sailed up to
the time of her ioss.

‘“"Mhat branch house is still in existence and
only a block away from where we’stood talk-
ing at the moment; if interested in the Hes-
pasia or her gallant captain, I could not do
better than to turn in and make inquiries
there.

“This, you may be sure, suited me exactly,
and away I posted.

“it was a dim and dismal placé, with the m-
separable tarry smell hanging about—and odor
that always pleases my oifactories when I’m
ashore, and excites my misery afioat.

“When | opened my business: with a little
gray-headed chap, who was resident ageni, I
wish you could have seen him jump about six
inches off the fioor, while the look of aston-
ishment on his face was quite killing. I came
within an ace, I assure you, of pulling out my
notebook and entering a description of nis
actions as a point to be utilized in my crown-
ing triumph.

** ‘Astonishing! “Miraculous!’ was all he
would say for some time, while he continued
to stare at me through his glasses from head
to feet. ;

“Then another humor seized him, and he
laughed as though he were taken with a fit.

“That old chap evidently had a keen sense
of the ridiculous, but, for my part, as yet, I
failed to see where the humor came in, though
possessed of an idea that something was about
occur that could be twisted to my advan-
age.

“At length, when he had had his iaugh cut,
he turned to me and asked questions; what
had sent. me there to inquire concerning the
old Hespasia on that particular day and hour?
It was a rum go, the queerest coincidence he
had ever known, and the like of it could
never have happened to any one.

“For, as he presently informed me,.as luck
would have it, [ had come asking: about a
vessel lost many years ago, about, which no
vestage had ever been discovered, in the very
hour that the sole survivor of the luckless
Hespasia had been sitting there in the same
chair I occupied, and telling the most thrilling
tales of his adventures in the deserts of Afri-
eca—the most exciting that ever fell from the
lips of mortal man.”’

CHAPTER XXXI.
WHAT ARTEMUS DID.

ft would not have been’ Artemus to have
missed this opportunity for dramatic effect.

Having launched his little bolt, he watched
to see what the result might be.

Nor was he disappointed.

Charlie had not been expecting just this sort
of good luck, and showed both surprise and
delight.

It promised to greatly simplify matters.

en, just as suddenly, suspicions flashed
athwart his mind. Had Artemus been de-
ceived? He was usually keen and clever
enough, but just now he dealt with one who
had some claim te such a proud title as the
prince of rogues.

For in connection with the matter, Charlie
could see how Captain Brand might take it
upon himself to make such a venture in order
to strengthen his hold upon his claim.

it would be a clever dodge.

Tf he could manage to have the agents
recognize him as the Captain Brand who
sailed the ill-fated Hespasia on her last voy-
age, it would be tenfold more difficult on the
part of Charlie to disprove his claim.

Such a bold move would be very much in
the line of the man.

Did Artemus suspect it, or had he been de-
ceived by the mere fact that the residential
agent accepted things as they appeared upon
their face?

He announced good news.

This certainly could not be called such.

Either he did not realize the full audacity
of the man who claimed to be Captain Brand,
or else there was something else, something
that he held back, giving out his startling
facts in genuine homeopathic doses for fear
he might overwhelm his friend by too severe
a deluge. F :

It was impossible .to discover, from his
grave countenance, where only the haunting
shadow of a smile lurked, just what Artemus
did think, so that Charlie found it necessary
to proceed with the play, to ring up the cur-
tain and prepare for the second act. :

“That was quite a unique situation—to sit in
the same chair this survivor of the Hespasia
wreck had occupied within the hour, How it
must have stirred your blood and set your
nerves tingling! And then, just to think what
rollicking adventures he had to tell of his life
in Africa. By the way, haven’t we heard
something in that line before? I have an in-
distinct recollection of listening to some very
entertaining reminiscences that rivaled the
feats of old Munchausen. Perhaps, after all,
it was only a dream.”’ :

There was a significance in Charlie’s man-
ner that could not be mistaken, and the other
allowed his suppressed feelings to break out
in a broad grin. i

“Plainly, then, you think the old boy has
been up to his tricks. and spinning his yarns
to a fresh audience,’’ he remarked.

“T confess that thought came to me.’’

“His object being, of course, to get a firmer
grip on the seat he holds.”’

“Precisely.’’

‘Well, it struck me that way—at first.’’

“Ah! then you found occasion to change your
mind?’’

“1 did?”

‘*And it wasn’t the ogre?’’ breathlessly.

“Not a bit of it.”

Then Charlie gave vent to a whistle.

There were two Richmonds in the field.

The man they knew as:Captain Brand had
a rival for the honors,

And he could also spin extravagant yarns
concerning those wonderful doings on Africa’s
burning sands. ‘ :

It -was growing decidediy interesting, and
Charlie Stuart realized that his friend had
certainly stumbled upon news of importance,

Here, then, was Mate Ben Hazen, come
the surface after his long exile.

to.

Perhaps Macauley had run across him dur,

ing his South American tour, and, hearing
his wonderful story, had thought it worth
while to look up the captain’s family, and,
finding Arline in possession of a magnificent
fortune, had conceived the bold idea of per-
sonating her missing papa, believing rightly
that affection would cause her to deal liberally
with such a claimant.

~

%

*

 

3

Why, it was ali very simple.

The coming of Ben Hazen had explained
certain matters that previous to this hour
were wrapped in impenetrable mystery.

“Yes, it was a grand stroke of luck.

They could doubtiess easily prevail upon the
mate to meet the impostor face to face, and
tear away the mask with which he had all
this time concealed his identity.

Surely he would be willing to do this for
the sake of his old’ captain’s daughter,

No wonder Artemus felt pleased.

The conditions were built exactly upon the
order of which he was so ardent a devotee—
each point bristled with strong dramatic pos-
sibilities, and at every turn there was a rich
promise of astonishing developments.

These things rushed through Charlie’s mind
with the rapidity that marks the passage of
electric fluid from cloud to cloud.

_One proposition suggested another, and the
list gave no sign of being exhausted.

“Well,” he said, at length, “‘it begins to look
like business, I declare.”

“Very much so,”’ remarked Artemus.

_ ‘I can readily see there is some great fun
in prospect if we can bring these two won-
derful African travelers into contact.”

Oh! glorious!”’

‘And if we can get the mate to denounce
this old ogre, our end is gained.”

“Who is to denounce him?’

“Why, Ben Hazen, the mate, of course,”’

“Ah! where will you find him?”

“*F thought—that is, I understood, or, ‘at
tee I took it for granted, you had found
im.

Artemus slowly shook his head in the most
tantalizing manner.

“TI never said so.’’

“That is true.” &

“Indeed, I can’t remember of dropping even
the faintest hint that could make you think
it was Ben Hazen who had come to life
again.”’

“Then I jumped at conclusions, and. was
wrong?’

*“You were.”

“If Ben Hazen is out of the question, I sup-
pose this is one of the crew who has turned
up?”

_Artemus lay back in his chair, with thumbs
in the armholes of his vest. His attitude was
consequential and triumphant; it plainly gave
warning ‘that he was about to fire a volley.

“Guess again.’’

“Tam at my wits’ end.”

; LOW about the genuine Simon Pure cap-

ain ?’’ 7

Charlie caught his breath.

“Good Heavens! »that would be the most
stupendous thing on record—a coincidence
without a parallel. But see here,” as he de-
tected a quizzical gleam in the other's fun-
loving eyes, ‘‘this is too serious a thing to
joke about, you know, my dear fellow.’’

“You bet it is.’’

‘And you are in dead earnest?”

“Never more so in all my life—cross my
heart if it isn’t so.”

Then Charlie realized that he could believe

im.

“Tell me,’ he said, eagerly, ‘‘were you in-
credulous at first?’

*‘Rather.”’
eae how did you set about proving mat-

ers?

“I saw only one way—that was to
this new claimant for the honors.”’

**You did it?’

*T had to. You see, I couldn’t rid myself
of the idea that it might after all be Macauley,
our Ogre, spinning his spider web.”

“That would have struck me the first thing.’’

“Well, with me it was somewhat different,
for the case stood out so clearly. You see,
he came to the agency in company with the
captain of the English steamer that picked
him up in a small boat off the coast of
Africa—he having at last escaped from the
Arabs who held him prisoner so many years.

“This steamer was bound from Cape Town
to New York, and had been thrown out of
her regular course by a series. of terribie
southern storms.

“They wanted to put him aboard some ves-
sel bound for London; but, strange to Say,
spoke none during their.subsequent voyage,

look up

 

 

so that he has been landed here.’”

‘Most remarkable. What a-surprise for Ar-
line! I truly hope this papa will prove more’
acceptable than. the ogre has been,’ said
Stuart, reflectively.

Sothink. ty will,’’
calmiy so S- SOF : et

“What grounds have you for believing so?’

“The evidence of my judgment, as brought
to bear upon the matter by eyes and ears-
that are at least equal te the average:.’’

“Then you have-seen him?’

Oh, ay.”

“And talked with him?’’

‘Spent three hours in his company, and he
was very loth to have me break away then.”

Really, that should settle it.

In three hours Artemus could learn scores
of things that would go to prove matters were
as the new claimant declared.

“And the captain—what of him? Is he any-
thing like—well, our ogre?’’

“Not a whit in manner, and very little in
appearance. These long years on the desert
have darkened his skin and whitened his hair,

remarked . Artemus,,

|} but they could not*destroy his noble nature,

It shows in the determined and kindly glow
of his eyes, in the almost heavenly smile, and
warm clasp of the hand.’’

‘*EKividently he has mesmerized you at least,’’
declared Charlie, smiling.

**Well, I like him first rate, and so will you.”

“Then you’ve mentioned me in the matter?’

*‘Couldn’t help it, since he made me tell him
all about his little girl, and that necessitated
the story of the Steen dungeons.’’ i

‘“H’m! Well, I hope he'll be friendly,” said
Charlie.

*Oh; he’s wild to see you—to thank you for
all that has been done. Don’t worry a bit
about that-part of it—I’ve fixed matters,” sig-
nificantly.

Charlie blushed a@ little.

**Hope you haven’t overdone it, and made me
out a heroic sort of figure. By the way, what
did he think of the other?’

“You mean—the ogre?’

“Yes, Captain Brand Number One we may

“Well, I wouldn’t care to stand in his boots
when those two-meet. There’s going to be
war to the knife, I can tell you.”

“Just as I thought.” 4

**All these years he has lived on the nope of
seeing his dear ones again, and to find an
usurper in his place makes him furious.’’

‘Could he cope with the rascal?’’

*His wild life among the Arabs has hardened
his constitution like iron. Besides, he isn’t an
old man, although his hair is white. God help -
the ogre 1f once he falls into the aveager’s
hands.’’ ;

“Then we must see that this happens as
soon as possible. There is need of haste.
Such a romantic story as the captivity and
escape of Captain Brand can’t long be hidden
under a bushel. Some enterprising reporter
will get hold of it, and the affair can. be
spread out over a whole page of a yellow
journal,”’

“Correct. And for that reason I thought
you had better see my captain at once, so I
took the liberty of fetching him along, and if
you'll kindly take a little walk with me, I'll
introduce you to—papa!”’

TO BE CONTINUED.

—— rr

COMPLEXION HINTS.

To keep your complexion smooth and clear
in’ summer, don’t bathe in hard water; soften
it with a few drops of ammonia or a little
borax. Don’t bathe your face while it is very
warm, and never use very cold water for it.

Don’t wash your face when you are travel-
ing, unless it is with a little alcohol and
water, or a little vaseline.

Don’t attempt to remove dust with cold
water; give your face a warm bath, using
plenty of good soap; then give it a thorough
rinsing with water that has had the chill taken
off of it. ;

Don’t rub your face with a coarse towel;
remember it is not of cast-iron, and treat it as
you would the finest porcelain—gently and
delicately. ‘

Don’t use a sponge or linen rag for your
face; choose, instead, a flannel one.

Don’t believe you can get rid of wrinkles by
filling the crevices with powder. Instead, give
your face a Russian bath every night—that is,
bathe it with water so hot that you wonder
how you can stand it, and then, a minute af-
ter, with cold water, which will make it soon
afterward glow with warmth; dry it with a
soft towel, and go to bed, when refreshing
slumber will give your complexion a healthful

* tint,

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

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PRINCIPAL

ne baal K

She bY ms CAS

His Great Temptation (Serial)....... -Bertha M. Clay
Brownie’s Triumph (Serial) ....Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
The Crime of Monte Carlo (Serial).Gertrude Warden
Brave Barbara (Serial). .... Effie Adelaide Rowlands

A Fight Fora Fortune (S¢rial)..........-.....
Richard Ashton Wainwright

A Warrior Bold (Serial) ....... St. George Rathborne
Susan Wilde’s Choice.....-. Stn dteres Maurice Silingsby
An Escaped Convict...........2.2.... -Grace Gowing
Love in Sleepy Camp...................... Jack Eaton
A SaRy PROSBANG. 5 25 2° oc saat ahs cose see:
Fathers and Daughters... ...........c- ce cence
Oot cb Hamese .o.. 05: oe cokes Harkley Harker
What I Think of the Oxhart.........2.-. Josh Billings
Suggestions to Piano Players............ Kate Thorn
Pleasant Paragraphs.............. Charles W. Foster
Work Hot soi <-see ..--Mrs, Helen Wood
Items of Interest. Correspondence, Htc.

POEMS
“The Boy,” by W. H. Pierce.

“Phe Patriot Dead,” by 8.F.: Swith.
“Bettie, of Barton,” by Nathan D. Urner.
“Clasped Hands,” by D, Norman Gunnison.
“The Song of thé Cainp,”. by Bayard Taylor.

A STORY OF ENTRANCING INTEREST,
BY
LURANA W. SHELDON,
ENTITLED

The Girl from Montana;

OR,

ON PERIL’S VERGE.

WILL BE COMMENCED
WEEK AFTER NEXT.

p<

RESERVE FORCE.

 

WEEK AFTER NEXT.

Reserve force is the strength left over after
@ person has done his or her work, or that
power which may be required’ to meet emer-
gencies. When a bridge-builder constructs a}
bridge, he calculates how heavy a load it will
be called upon to bear, and then makes it, not
only strong enough to sustain this load, but
a great deal more. None of us would feel
comfortable in going over a railroad bridge if
it were known that the builder had not made
it with a great deal of reserve strength never
to be called into use. -

It is s0 with our bodies—they have usually
considerable reserve power not called out by
the ordinary daily tasks we put on them. We
admire a woman who has reserve force for
all emergencies; we know she can do her ordi-
nary work, whatever it is, with ease, and hold
out well in the race of life. But it is much
easier to estimate the amount of strength re-
quired in a bridge at a certain place than that
in our muscles and nerves. We can calculate
the former by mathematical rules, but not the
latter. Mathematics will not tell a woman just
how much she can endure with safety, and
how much will break down her constitution
and ruin her’ health forever; so she will fre-
quently attempt to perform work far beyond
what she has any right to do. There is a
tendency of our time to push everything to
the limit of endurance.

Our suggestion to women whose reserve
force is not great is to husband it well, accu-

mulate it by right food, abundant sleep, and
frequent short vacations; Guard it carefully,

instead of drawing upon it daily, as So many |.

do who become feverishly anxious to accom-
plish some important undertaking

The sensible and experienced athlete eareful-
ly measures his resources, and if his race is
to be a long one, nurses his reserve powers.
When he engages in a race, he does not over-
exert himself at the start, but so regulates his
expenditure of° energy that he shall have an
abundance left for the finish. That is precise-
ly what women should do who are engaged in
any hard work. Every woman high or low,
who labors daily is engaged in a long race,
which is in part a test of endurance. She
should so measure her pace as to have always
at command some reserve power. She should
not undertake to do more than she can with-
out undue fatigue, and she will be able to do
more, for a short time at least, when occasion
requires the extra exertion. Just as we see
the swift runner exhausted before the race is
half over; and beaten by his slower but more
enduring competitor, so we see. women over-
taxing their powers when young, and growing4
old and feeble while young in years. It is the
reserve power that tells in prolonged contests
—the reserve power of muscle, of spirit—for
she who exhausts herself in any kind of ef-
fort is unable to withstand the slightest added
burden, and succumbs to a force she might
easily have resisted if she had kept her re-
sources well in hand.

 

yY every . joint.

yeompletely.. used up!

‘THE PATRIOT DEAD,

BY 8. F.

Breathe balmy airs, ye fragrant flowers,
O’er every silent sleeper’s head;

Ye crystal dews and summer showers,
Dress in fresh green each lowly bed.

Strew loving offerings o’er the brave,
Their country’s joy, their country’s pride;
For us their precious lives they gave,
For Freedom’s sacred cause they bled.

SMITH.

| Each cherished name its place shall hold,

Like stars that gem the azure sky;
Their deeds, on history’s page enrolled,
Are sealed for immortality.

Long, where on glory’s fields they fell,
May Freedom’s spotiess banner wave,

And fragrant tributes grateful tell

_ Where live the free, where sleep the brave.

Out of Harness.

By Harkiey Harker.

Don’t shake your ears off, old fellow.”

My stableman was just saying this to the
family horse, ‘‘Prince,’’ the other ‘evening, as
I walked by the hitching post in front of the
Stable.

“See him shake himself, sir,’’ he said. ‘‘He
does that every night, this hot weather, as I
slip the harness off. I sometimes think he’ll
shake his mane and tail hose. He would if
he wore any false hair. Fact is, sir, when he
gets the collar off he begins to shake at his
head, and it runs all over him, as if he was
loosening his very joints.’’

‘‘How is it, Prince?’ I asked, stepping up to
the noble old animal, with a friendly pat.

Then, it seemed to me, he expressed my own
feelings so exactly that I went into the house
to write them down.

One never knows how tired he is till the har-
ness is taken off.- While at work, bone fits to
socket and muscle to muscle so closely that
fatigue can’t be felt. But stop work, lay off
the harness, and you know how hot the bear-
ings have been. You shake yourself, and lo!
you are all in pieces.

My friend, you are not going to take any
vacation? You do not feel tired? You can’t
see but you work as easily here in midsum-
mer as you did last winter? You poke fun at
all us fellows who go off to spend our money,
while you toil on like a hero? Wait and see.
About next November the doldrums will take
you some morning. You will conclude to stay
at home a day. Oh, then, once the harness is
off, you will discever that you are ten years
older than you ought to be. You will hardly
have the strength to shake yourself; but prob-
ably your trembling, exhausted nervous sys-
tem. will shake you. It may be too late then
to rest in a- day. You will find typhoid symp-
toms and doctors after you. Better take off
the collar now, with the rest of us foolish fel-
lows;and confess that you are not quite made
of cast-iron. ;

Think your bookkeeper had better ‘‘keep
right on, save his money from the hotel
sharks, and take no vacation?’ Think it ‘‘up-
sets the store dreadfully, about as bad as a

‘fire, this vacation season?’ ’ Well, you are mis-

taken. You will cut sticks and run to Eu-
rope along in December. But the exhausted
clerk, saleswoman, and boy cannot do that.
To be sure, these all are sticking close to busi-
ness till the day for them to be off. You, at
least,-are never told how hard it is for them
to get vigor enough each morning to crawl to
their place. They all seem to you to do their
work just as well as ever. Of course. But
God knows that the thing that keeps them up
is the expectation of rest and His daily mira-
cle. You should see that young bookkeeper,
yonder, the first morning in the country.
Why, she sleeps till nine o’clock as if all the
farmside were one blessed green Sunday. As
she descends to breakfast she feels old in
She barely crawls out to the
hammock under the trees, She tumbles her
thin limbs: into its zephyr Sore meshes, and
draws a-breath a mile long. “Oh, I am just
Don’t eak. to ye
auntie. I'll tell you all the news when T get

. Jrested. All I now want is to be let alone.”*

And the weary thing sleeps ten hours out of
twenty-four for a week.

Some of you who read this have been out
of harness now for a week or two. Your va-
cation is drawing .to a close. Now, you were
rather reluctant to come away from your city
work. Your friends had to pull you away.
You were afraid you ‘would lose some-chances
to make a dollar. You feared your competitor
across the street would get the advantage of
you. ,But here you are, two weeks of rest in
your bones. Are you not glad you-came? Un-
less you have been careless in eating, drink-
ing, or playing; unless you have danced or
traveled yourself to death; why, you are new
from head to foot. Contrast yourself to-day
With the day. you: came! How’s your back?
How’s your head? How are those shaky
muscles in the calves of the leg? H'ow is the
dinner after you have eaten it now? How
about breakfast, to get at which you..can
hardly wait: to dress?) You can lift your oldest
boy. You can wrestle down Jim, your brother
from Boston, who just came yesterday and
looks like a museum ‘specimen of a walking
skeleton. To-morrow you will sweep home-
ward. You will not sit curled up on the boat,
not able. to stir; you will romp all over the
decks with your children. You have ‘made a
new impression on your boy; ‘he used to think
you could not punish him, but now he has a
wholesome respect for your powerful right
hand. You look to be five times the man you
were, You are two years younger. The bronze
is more than skin deep.

“IT like my own harness best,” said a gentle-

man to me last week. “I’ve had it off now a
month. When I took ‘it off I thought mine
was the worst collar ‘that any slave wore.
But every man has to wear some sort of har-
ness. And now I’m going back to put mine
on, happily. ‘Mine fits me the best. have
been watching other fellows. Give me mine
for me.”’ ,

The best thing about a vacation is that you
come to see other life; and as you see it you
realize the fitness of your own for you. You
go back with a sort of attraction drawing you.
“You have missed your own bench or desk. You
realize that most of your friends are in your
line, in your town, and that you would not be
happy elsewhere. This may be an old saw, but
it is true, and we ail need to have it repeated
once in a while. Out of your harness you
would not amount to much. You often think
now that you could get rich, or richer, in some
other collar. But you cannot mow; you can-
not fish, to amount to much; you could not be
a good railway conductor. Your uncle is a
carpenter, but you would not hammer worth
five hundred dollars a year up there in his vil-
lage. And did you not observe how he seemed
to count you a lucky fellow to live in the
great city all the year? How many thousand
questions your cousins asked you about city
life that showed the amiable envy they cher-
ish toward you. After a little you began to
plume yourself that you did live in the great,
toiling city. You are: glad you do; you feel
proud and grateful that. you can make a living
down there.
shake Mit ete: _Good+by,.
out of

‘old _ hills. -

 

arness long enough, ‘Welcome my own
collar.

What. | Think of the Oxhart.

By Josh

The oxhart iz a cherry, az round az a mar-
ble, and about the same size.

They are az blak az the ace of klubs.

They don’t gro on a vine, az Mark Twain
sez they do, but they gro on a tree, and git
out onto the end ov the limbs az fur az they
Kan.

This is cussid kunning in the oxhart, and I
have thought it waz a little mean.

They gro on a stem about two inches in
length, and hay a stun inside ov them that iz
az hard az the heart ov a mizer.

They are just az natral, and az easy to eat
az a sugar plum, and a pek ov them iz enuff
for enny Christian to slay at once.

I hav et them when I waz a boy, and had to
steal them besides, untill I couldn’t walk
without limping.

But this iz a poor rule to follow.

I think now, az I look backwards onto the
pathway ov life, which I hay cum, that it
rather improves the flavor ov enny kind ov
fruit to hook it, prone you don’t git ketched
at it

I hay got ketched at it before now, and tho
they couldn’t git the cherrys back, f I re-

 

member rite, they impaired the taste ov them.
Black cherries are the best to eat rite oph

Suggestions to

By Kate Thorn.

Always refuse to play when asked. Always
declare you cannot, possibly! Say you don’t
know how; you never knew how. Say you
have been out of practice for two months, and
have. positively forgotten ali about it! If you
sing, be sure to have a ecold—a very bad
cold. Singers always have them; they are
never without them. Sometimes they have
sore throats, but this is not quite so common.
Sore throats are more particularly the stock
in trade of clergymen who want vacations,
and their pay to go on ali the same.

After the company, each. and all, have
coaxed and pieaded, and entreated you to
favor them, reluctantly consent. Tell them
they will regret their pertinacity when once
they have heard you.

Take your seat. Of course, the stool will be
too high or too low—it always is—and it must
be let down or elevated.

If it is evening, you will want more gas
turned on, or else you will want the light sub-
dued; and if it is daytime, the curtains will
have to be seen to. The light is never just
right, you know.

Look over the music on the stand. Run your
fingers over the keys, and then lift your hands.
and eyes in horror.

Exclaim in a tragic voice:

“Good Heavens! how shockingly
tune!”’

If the piano is a Chickering, inform the com-
pany that there is no instrument like the
Steinway, and vice versa. It will teach peopie
who buy pianos to look sharp and not get
cheated into buying the wrong . kind. =

Strike an attitude, and begin with a bang
and crash! It will produce a more powerful
impression on the listeners, and first impres-
sions are everything.

Loud pedal down, by all means!

Don’t spare your muscle! Lay out all your
strength! Buckle down to the business, and
go at it with a will! Give it to the keys with-
out merey! Make the thing howl—the louder
the better! Everybody will then have a
chance to judge of the compass of the instru-
ment. Jump one hand over the other consid-
erably; that always tells on a company. Give

out of

 

them the idea that you know all about it, and

 

Billings.

from the stem; yu kan pi them, and yu kan
bile them, but their glory iz in the raw. |

Thank the Lord for one thing—noboddy kan
git enny rum out ov them, and I will defy
enny man to git drunk eating them.

If a man could git drunk eating blak cher-
rys, I should hav filled a drunkard’s grave
long before I waz fourteen years old.

Iz it not horrid to think ov?

It. iz aktually worth five cents a quart to

pick blak cherrys and take yure chances ov
falling out ov the tree and having to pay for
breaking the board fence that yu strike on
But yu kan git blak cherrys. pikt for nothing
if yu ain’t too much in a hurry.

Thare iz a flok ov birds who. allwuss travel
about together.:.I don’t kno whare they kum
from, nor what their names are, but they are
just one size smaller than the robbin, and hay
a tuft ov feathers on the ge ov their heds—
a kind-ov minature waterfall

A fiok ov theze birds will klean a blak
cherry tree in just four days from the time
they fust take the job, unless yu stand on all
sides ov it with a dubble-barrell gun.

They swallow the cherry whole, pit and all,
and after they hav et two dozen ov them,
they fii off three hundred yards for exercise,
and then fli back in just about five minutes,
all fixt for sum more.

Piano Players.

are not afraid of losing your place if you do
skip around. >

If you sing, choose some Italian song; all
people, except the lowest and most vulgar,
understand Italian, and it is more classical.
If you sing English, take care that none of
the words shall be intelligible; that is the
grand secret of all fashionable singing.

By the time you haye got through with the
first piece, everybody in the room will be talk-
ing gayly, for there is nothing encourages con-
versation like a little music; it would break
up the stiffest “‘Quaker-meeting”’ in five min-
utes.

But you need not pay any attention to the
company; keep on with your perform: ance; sing
at the top of your voice. Your veins’ will swell
out, and your neck and nose will grow red,
and likely enough you will perspire, and your
rouge will be striped; but all are too’ busy
talking, or looking at the photograph album,
to notice you.

Music is music—so go on; keep playing
everything you know;
ever knew. Ditto, as to singing.

Don’t’ stop! If the“people present did not
want to hear you play, why did they ask you?
That is the question.

Go it as long as your strength holds out.
Ask Mr. Smith, or Mr. Brown, who is turning
the leaves, to get you a glass of water or
lemonade; it will rest him to walk a little. No
doubt his back aches with leaning over the
piano; but that is no matter, he had no busi-
ness to offer to turn your music if his back
could: not be depended upon. ~~.

Somebody onge very pertinently said that it

was next to impossible to get a pianist to play,
and quite impossible to ‘stop her after she got
at it.

When you have drunk the water you will
feel strong enough to proceed... Do so. Keep
doing so. Continue until you feel exhausted,

; play
play every thing you

and then let Mr.Smith lead you to an easy-

And if the audience is a
it will exclaim with one

ehair and fan you.
well- ‘bred audience,

voice

ve Perfectly splendid! ' Charming! ‘Bo sweet!”

And you will feel greater than Washington
did just after that interesting little affair with
the hatchet and the cherry tree; serene in the
sweet OnEpIOUSH EER, of, PevIRE, Sone your oe

Your harness is gilded, at least)
Tye _been |

 

 

"_ CORRESPONDENCE)

|‘ MWELPFUL = WITH
OUR READERS.

Dorreenonsicnt | must sign name aed elas not for pubs
lication, but because we refuse to answer anonymous
ciearnamioaee all letters are presumed io ve congjl-
dential,and are so treated. m=

Troubled Husband, Syracuse, N. Y.—This
correspondent informs us that he has been
married only seven months, but that during
that time his wife’s mother has contrived to
spend the past two months as a seemingly
permanent resident of his home. The more he
hints to his wife that it is about time for her
mother to bring her visit to ah end, the more
determined is the wife to retain her as a mem-
ber of the household. Now this gentleman
seeks our advice, with the hope that it may
enable him to adopt some adroit means to
dislodge her without creating matrimonial
trouble. We can only suggest the plan
adopted by a similarly annoyed gentleman,
the hero of an anecdote related by Max O’Rell.
A short time after his marriage his mother-
in-law installed herself in his house. The
son-in-law welcomed’ her, and lavished the
most assiduous attentions upon her, He “was
not a church-goer; he went to church, and in-
sisted on carrying the excellent lady’s books
of devotion. When a walk was taken, tt was
to her he offered his arm, ‘‘Your mother is]
old,” he said to his wife, ‘and so kind, too! I
am getting awfully fond of her!’ In the
evening, after his wife had retired, he sat up
with his mother-in-law and. took a hand at
piquet. At the end of the week the mother-
in-law had vanished as if by magic. The
young and neglected wife had managed the
affair,

J. M. Walters, ay “‘Sovk City.—It is on
record that an humble attache of a Philadel-
phia theatre had a desire to take part in a
Shakespearian play after his death. His name
was John Reed, and for forty-four years he
was the gasfitter at the Walnut Street Thea-
tre. Never, during his life, had he appeared
before an audience, yet he was ambitious to
assume a rG6le after he had passed to ‘‘the
silent majority.’? “With this desire, one clause
of his will read as follows: ‘‘My head is to
be separated from my body immediately after
my death, the latter to be buried in a grave;
the former, duly prepared, to be brought to
the theatre, where I have served for most of
my life, and to be employed to represent the
skull of Yorick—and to this end I bequeath my
head to the properties.’”’ It is stated that his
wishes were obeyed, and that for some years
afterward John Reed’s skull appeared in the
representations of ‘Hamlet’ in the theatre
where he had been employed so long.

Caroline, Yukon, Oklahoma.—At one time,
many years ago, the wedding ring was worn,
on the first finger. People who have seen the
old pictures of the Madonna in Rome will re-
member that in one or two of them there is a
glistening ring on the forefinger of her right
hand, but with Christianity came the wearing:
of the wedding ring on the third finger rather

vein. that. runs: from that finger to the heart is”
nonsense. Its use originated in this way: The
priest first put it on the thumb, saying: ‘In.

|'the name of the Father;” next on the fore-'

finger, adding: ‘In the name of the Son;” on’
the second finger, repeating: ‘In the name of
the Holy Ghost,’’ and on the third finger, end-
ing with ‘‘Amen,’’ and there it was allowed to
remain,

s

Robert, Eddyville, Il.—In the winter the
sun is about three millions of miles nearer
the earth than in the summer, The reason why
the temperature is highest in summer—al-
though the earth is farther from the ‘sun at
that time—is that, on account of the inclina-
tion of the earth’s axis, the rays of the sun
fall almost vertically, or perpendicularly, on
the earth’s surface at that season of the year.
At other seasons they fall more or Jess
obliquely; and the more obliquely they fall,
the less heat they possess.

‘W.-M. P., Troy, N. Y.—To prepare mutton
broth, cut two pounds of mutton from the
neck in small pieces, remove all fat, place the
meat in a saucepan, add two quarts of cold
water, one teaspoonful of salt, one onion, two
stalks of celery, a small carrot and parsley;
cover and cook slowly till the meat is tender.
Strain the broth through a fine sieve, free it
from all fat, and serve in a small china cup.

L. M. T., Dayton, Ohio.—Your son’s intem-
perate habits are indeed lamentable and dis-
tressing to an affectionate mother. Reason
with him calmly, try to arouse a feeling of
self-respect in him, point out to him in a
kindly way the shame and degradation of his
conduct, and the results likely te follow un-
less he soon reforms. Thus your erring son
may be induced to renounce his evil ways.

L. L. B., Zalma, Mo.—The following simple
recipe for apple tapioca is commended: To
half a cup of tapioca add one and a half pints |
of cold water. Let it stand over the fire till
clear, stirring occasionally, to prevent burn-
ing. Sweeten and flavor to taste. Quarter
and core half a dozen tart apples. Put into a
deep dish and pour the mixture over ol Bake’
until the apples are done.

w. Thistle, Runge, Texas —The “Bridge of
Sighs’’ is the name popularly given to the
covered passageway “which connects’ the
Doge’s Palace in Venice with the State prison,

were taken over this bridge from the hall of
judgment to the place of execution.

A. H. Henderson, Peoria, Til. —The Anar-
chist riot in Chicago took place November 11,
1887. Spies, Fischer, Parsons and Engel were
hanged, and Schwab, Fielden and Neebe were
sentenced to imprisonment for. life, but were

pardoned by Governor Altgeld, June 26, 1893.

kK. T., Tarrytown, N. -Y.—The steamer Lex-
ington was burned on ‘January 13, 1840. The
disaster occurred. off Eden’s Neck, Long
Island Sound, while the steamer was on her
way from New York to Stonington: — hun-
dred and forty lives were lost.

- Annie R., Jennings, Mich.—To check ex-
cessive perspiration of the hands, bathe them
two or three times a day with a solution
Lformed of two tablespoonfuls each of pow-.
dered alum and tannin in one pint of water.

_ J. Edwards, Thomasville, Colo.—'The long-
est railroad tunnel in the world is that of the

land. It is 16,295 yards in 1 length, ‘or meaty

9% miles. "28 =
Emma, Zell wood, Fla.—The tottering lines
appear in Coleridge's” Reape. of “The ‘Three
‘Graves:’” >. oa
: ny mother is a ; punaae staal)

 

) French revolution,

than the first. "The old story of there being a}

|things that were out of my reach. He lo

| stil. I knew ot
was so dark that I could scarcely see my hand —

from the fact that the condemned prisoners | gy

Mount Saint Gothard, in the Alps of Switzer-}

was boftn in Pau, aay on Jan. 26, Te
and died in Stockholm on March 8, 1844, He >

jwas the son of a ee ee was educate See,

and ishievad aatBeic distinction © L
He worked his- “way

luntil he became one of Napoleon’s marshals, —

guage he never really mastered.
treme intelligence, and in this imitating ‘Nae
poleon himself, he surrounded himself with |
a kind of royal medizval atmosphere. - < Sis
always remained a Frenchman at heart; ‘and,-
though he soon ceased to be on even friendly
terms with the man to whom he owed ‘every- —
thing, the news of Napoleon’s overthrow at —
Waterloo filled him with grief. Hewas then
still only Prince of Sweden, and did not pro-
claim himself King until February of 1818,
when Louis XVIII, actually found himself —

gratulations to a brother sovereign who had —
begun life as one of the humblest subjects of
Louis XVI. He lived
see Napoleon’s remains brought to Paris from.

Saint Helena. Commenting on this, he ex- —

claimed: ‘To think that I was once a mar-
shal of France, and what: now I am only ie
of erenent:

 

~ é > ¢-

A GAY HUSBAND. 3

It was on the broad, cool veradeg of che’ ;
specious Grand Hotel. Scores of fashionably- —
attired guests were enjoying the cool, invig-—
orating breezes wafted from that big’ body of
water in front of them. The orchestra was
in the midst of a dreamy waltz from Strauss, —
and the environment was one of caspase
languor. ~

would be happily interrupted by a burst of
laughter from a group of young men and
women lounging on the steps leading up to the
porch from the driveway below. A barouche ©
or two, laden with pretty, fresh-looking girls

triennes ambled past. 2

A girl stepped out las the hotel “walked —
slowly down the veranda, glancing from rent
to left in search of a-vacant chair. She ap--
‘peared to be about twenty-three years of age, —
was above medium height, and very fair. Her
face was decidedly pretty. Her hair was al- —
most golden—Titian, some would call it. She é
walked gracefully, and attracted considerable ©
attention as she passed along the piazza. es

An unoccupied chair finally caught the girl’s
eye, and she settled down into it with a little

sigh of contentment. Seated directly at the
right of the girl was“a woman of striking ap- ©
pearance. The young men referred to her as —
“stunning; the middle-aged men called her —
an “out-and-out beauty,’’ while the old, gray-
whiskered fellows rolled aris eyes ecstatical iy
and said nothing. ; %
The object of this astonishing amount of
admiration was a brunette in the true sense 0
the word, and divinely beautiful.
about medium height and a trifle above the —
medium weight, but the slight superfiuity of —
avoirdupois only accentuated her charms. .
finely-shaped head was set upon a throat so
symmetrical, so proud and white, that she ee
peared to be ae than, she gehen we He

her many char ‘The: e large,”

oe dark as a Naa ses ‘night, and a is y
of long, jet lashes almost hid ee from ‘sig t

As ‘the’ blonde girl seated herself, her da
haired neighbor eyed her Satie unis iar Sate
ingly. The glance was returned, and both
smiled in a friendly manner. Soon t they ae =
in the midst of an animated téte-a-téte,
girl doing the talking, while her ate rnion 3
proved to be a good listener.
The girl said she was from Hartford. She
was the only daughter Prod rich parents, and
had just arrived. No, she knew hardly any-
one, and did feel a trifle lonely.
were ardent meter, players, and were at et
moment decply engrossed in that pastime.

They made a_ striking couple, these — ty
women of such different types of beauty, a
they were freely commented upon by the. pass-_
ers-by. The girl chatted away volubly, and
was surprised to find herself making a confi-
dante of her new frien The large, black eyes
seemed so friendly and sympathizing that a
girl aeons her heart, in a way that all girl
do. She had been away from home so lo

intimates, that she felt happy in the posses- —
sion of a new friend who seemed so interested
in her girlish adventures and confidences. At.

soon telling of her love affairs, an ample
amount always. pees the property of every
winsome miss who has ‘passed her twentieth —
birthday. | :
“But [am really and truly in love now.” she
went on, coloring prettily. ‘I met him on the —
steamer on our way here. He is very hand--
some, and is a trifle older than I. I first saw
him in the dining-room; he sat opposite, and —
was so polite and courteous in wanding such —

at me rather persistently, I should ‘think, Once,
when he passed me the salad, our hands
touched, and I fancied that he tried to squeeze

n é

“That evening. my_ folks - played cards as
usual, and I went out’ on deck to enjoy the
dark! I drew up my eat: a oT stern of t
boat, in a retired ae d began to. ‘doze
‘and dream of—well, t thoasht of him,

“Suddenly I felt a thrill shoot through | me
and I actually believe my heart almost st
he was near me. Although:

in front of my face, yet I was positive that
he was approaching. _ Presentl yf heard h
voice, and he said:

“Pardon me, any Tittle friend, if-I seem. rudé,-
but I am lonely, and you do not appear to. be.
very well entertained, either. May I not sit

pany, you know oi
“Oh, I know i should have sent him away,
but I didn’t; and we sat and talked for over
an hour. He was so interesting, and seem
very cultur and a great traveler.
of various p ois he had visi i
tained me ee with a reminiscences.
How I did hate to go to my stateroom! oe
I knew that I had rate! broken too many —
rules of- propriety, so
See eee os
id he kiss me?” The girl averted her face,
lips. trembled as she answered,
, “Yes, and I am not sorry, either!
, “I did not see much ~

our a glimpse of. hi im

and her
frankl

of him next day, as
most a Jobe une.
at. -the =
raised Pais hat. ee he shook hands with me
and said: >
a “Good-by, little girl. We shall meet again’ "
“I saw him a few minutes later as he Jumped —
into a carriage, and——” ;
Here the girl stopped suddenly. Her hand
clasped together, iaenbied. perceptibly, and he
face was suffused with a carmine blush. —_.
She was looking toward the driveway, where |
a horse and his rider came slowly up the
path. The rider was a man of about forty
His brown, curly hair was streaked ubou
the temples with gray. He was tall, looked
every inch an athlete, and rode his ‘horse wit
the ease and grace a a trained equestrian
His riding-dress was rfect fit and cut.
The dark-eyed ets Ollowed the gaze
her companion, and when eae caught sight of.
the handsome man, her face lighted up with
an amused smile, and she waved her band
cee te The rider raised
; re” faltered the girl; “that fs a 2
“Who?” asked her new friend.
“Why, he whom I met on the ‘poat—the ma
I love!” 3 returned | the girl impetuously. |
“Ah, my dear,” said the brunette, -smiling-

| ci ciosenobukely at the “bares g girl, as she
-to meet the rae of their conversation, |
was now approac! hing : m, ‘you

mind him, you know.’

“Then you know him?’
“Slightly,” the §

 

ae holiest Suen aliv. 2

 

 

 

and he ended by being not only the ruler, but _
‘the popular sovereign of Sweden, whose Jan- a

compelled to send an envoy to bear his con- _

long. enough to- 4

Occasionally the quiet ipernity of the place ;

in white, and lazy, loliing fellows in blue serge, ‘

Her parents —

and had been so apart from her friends and ae

first she spoke only of her schooldays, but was & ;

oked ~

 

beautiful night. It is simply glorious aiser =

down and chat with you? Misery” loves: com-— ag
He spoke” oe

I bade him good-night = i

we landed here, and he

 

it etna east IE adnan

 
 

hea Lad Harlow,

 spite- of
- gudden fears, she was still lovely and ad-

_ she muttered;

 

 

; mm ;
| to-day. I love your

 

% the lawn yonder,
There was
0

o>

‘permit a long engagement betwee

ekg

Park, but a rich man,

iB

oe Your daughter is engaged to

ae

 

j

 

“NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

 

eee By BERTHA M. CLAY, —
Author of “The Lost Lady of -Haddon,”

ae

— §Thrown on the World,” “The

(Hus Grear Temprarion” was commenced in No.

“5 CHAPTER. Ve =
Sa UNPLEASANT MEMORY. ee
_. Lady Clare Harlow reclined in an easy
Chair in her blue-tinted boudoir. : i
_ Her attitude was one of languid grace, but
her face was fiushed, and the hand which
heid an open letter trembled very much..

"Time had-dealt lightly by her, if she might
be judged by her appearance on this day.

Her. sKin was unwrinkled, her eyes were
bright, her lips full and pouting as of old,
her bust perfect, her limbs graceful. _
Pear thirty-seven Lady Harlow did not leok
_ thirty. :
- Remo

; is said to drag one down, but in
unting thoughts and starts and

foireds ao. => s
f “Her expression now, however, was_ that
of a ‘beautiful fiend as she addressed her
daughter, who sat near the open window.

“So you have determined that this lover

_ of yours, this importunate adventurer, -shall

-reeeive an insult at my hands,’’ she said.
aes Eee OF ‘the kind,’’ replied Belle, reso-

; ‘if he is insulted, I warn you, that I
shall ES a manner as will bring
-odium on both you and my father. I have

said that if you receive him politely, as a
- Jady should, and give him your reasons for

refusing his suit, I will wait patiently till f
am of age, and able to act myself. But_be
ass that, young as I am, I mean what
1 say; if you insult him I will leave this
home forever.” :

A a rose to the lips of Lady Harlow, but
as She glaneed out at her daughter it died
away upon her lips. B
-. ‘Phere was no mistaking the emotion which
_ Was overwhelming the girl; her flashing eyes,

- her pale cheeks, her bosom beating in irregu-

jar throbs, told their own tale.
She had more than her mother’s spirit, and
to rudely thwart her now would be danger-

I will consent to see him,’ said
“but I tell you distinctly be-
forehand, that I shall refuse to listen to nis
suit. You are promised to Sir Lyon Ed-
er Were ne ee

“And,” said Belle, rising suddenly, “I shall
never marry him, rest assured, mother.” —

-— And she swept from the room.

Lady Clare’s frown deepened as the clock

_ struck twelve. -

‘He said he would be here early—at noon,”
“he will soon be here. Well,
T will see that there is but a short inter-

_ view; I will listen to no pleadings, no he-
roics! Ah! there is a knock—that is he.”

_.. She rose languidly, glanced at her hand-
some person complacently in the mirror, and
when the servant announced the arrival of
her guest. she was ready to descend.
Perhaps Ralph Arnold had never looked
so handsome or so distinguished as he did

that day, when he advanced to meet Lady
Harlow in the exquisitely appointed draw-

-ing-room, his manner gentile and polished, but
his eyes were slightly flushed, his cheeks be-
traying his eager excitement.

She bowed gracefully, and politely extended
to him her finger tips. — oe
Did no memory of
BRE Fo Tig a eae oe ;
- Did she not. think of the time when her
mother had driven from the house her lover,
uben—when she, she, had been driven
> madness, goad d even to the com- |

nk. > 3s Pavey tee Seen ke pier oe

the past come to her

the

ning memories. came to her, though

she. could not read
9d-morning, Mr, Arnold,” she said. “T
stood from your-letter that your unele
would accompany you.”
“He has done so, Lady Harlow,’ replied
Ralph, “but I begged him allow me a few
‘minutes to plead my cause first. He is on
admiring your exquisite
owers.”’ so oes :
; ‘@ pause as they sat down near
the French windows, which were partially

pen.
Lady Harlow resolved not to help him in
the slightest. Her manner was a ‘severe
- damper, and she saw that he felt it.
Nevertheless he plucked up courage. ~
“My note, Lady Harlow,” he said, “has
ade you aware of my object in sr Re here
ughter, and I wish to
make her my wife. How much I love her,
and how happy I have resolved to make her,
I need not dwell upon; you would set my
words down to a lover’s rhapsodies.” ;
 “Y should, indeed,” said Lady Clare, con-
temptuously; “men always Bay. the same
things. We will, if you please, ‘take them as
” as I have heard our legislators say in
House of Commons.” Sa Se
“All right,’ said Ralph,
anger at the gratuitous insult;
- therefore go straight to- business,
I should have only been able to ask you to
your
daughter and myself, until I had ,achiéved a
position worthy of her; to-day, through the
_ kindness of my uncle and others, I can offer

repressing his
“we will
Yesterday

- her a good home, with a thousand a year in-
- eome, and I can settle upon her—on her mar-
- riage day—the Estate of
: a thousand annually, for her sole use and
- 5 ee > :

arkhurst, worth an-

Lady Harlow was taken aback. :
This kind of wooing was not at all what she

had bargained for. ©

She had hoped to have had to stop an end-
less amouft of lover’s nonsense, and she had
- rehearsed the necessary speeches for the oc-
ceasion, in which she could pent out the dis-
advantages of poverty and decline to bind her
to a life of penury. a4 : ‘
was beaten all along the line. Here was
no needy adventurer, eager for a marriage
with her daughter, the heiress of Harlow
claiming her as his
ual. ; oe :
‘well, Mr. Arnold,’ she said, ‘I can only
say I am very sorry for all this. If you had
come to me some time ago, perhaps things
might have been different. ‘But you are too

- Jate. My daughter is engaged to Sir Lyon

| Edwards, and the marriage will take place in

month.” - Res
“Excuse me, madam,’’ said Ralph, stiifly;
“put you must allow me to contradict. you.
me, and, ail
hings being well, we propose to be married
in six weeks or two months, Belle declares
that no engagement exists “elsewhere, and
~ that she will never be the wife of Sir Lyon, |
‘Lady Harlow rose, She was angry with him
nd herself, too. The ground was cut from
- beneath her feet... ree ae
“Really, Mr. Arnold, you must allow me to
the best judge,’’ she began.
here she paused suddenly, her face became
en white, and she clutched for the table
for support. — ie gt Rg tins ove ae
Heaven be merciful!” she gasped, ‘‘who is
this coming up the path?” — eee E
ora a uncle, Mr. Conyngham,” said Ralph,
Bae by the turn of events. Pe the 5
“In a few moments the newcomer was in the

“There is no occasion for an’ introduction,
Ralph, ae rs he said. ‘I and Lady Har-
low’ are old acquaintances—are we not,

madam?” | ae
“Then you are—”

se voice.
y present

come guest.
name when I came into my Bere
1 you met me I was called F

“Phe way in which this was said, and the
Jance which accompanied it, caused a deadly
iintness to overcome Lady Harlow, and she

reeled and would have fallen had not Mal-

nyngham, as he was now—caught her

she began, in a low,

‘name is Conyngham,” said her
“T was compelled to eat
bu

y laid her om a couch, while
time, even with the aid of Mrs.

e housekeeper, before Clare Har-
ciently recove to dispense
and again speak to her

airfax Mal-|

“Marjorie Deane,” ‘A Bitter Atonement,”
World Between Them,” etc., ete.

41. Back numbers can be obtained ofall newsdealers.)

%

see you again, Mr. Arnold,’ she added, with
a sweet smile to Ralph. “Call on me about
noon,
properly.” ae ——
“And kindly, I hope,’’ he said, with an an-
swering smile, though in his heart he felt her
to be cruel and unwomanly. ; j

When they had shaken the cold hand of
their unwilling hostess, and were about to g0,
Lady Harlow called Mr. Conyngham back.
‘I must see you alone,” she said, in a hur-
ried whisper; ‘‘to-night at ten I shall be at
the black wicket which divides our park from
Lennox Wood.” - nes :

He laughed lightly. : ; :

“Eixeuse me, Lady Harlow,’ he said, “‘but
jI must decline. The circumstances under
which [I last met you alone were such that I
scarcely deem it safe for me+to make an up-
pointment. I would rather meet you in the
‘garish light of day,’ as the poet expresses li.
rt can easily be arranged;. you have organized
a,picnie for the day after to-morrow. invite
me and my nephew; we can then readily pro-
vide for a {éte-a-téte.” ; es

“EF cannot. invite your nephew,’’ she said,
repressing her anger, though her heart was}
boiling over with a deadiy spirit of vengegnce;
‘Gt would be openly consenting to his sii.”

“You must please yourself, Lady Harlow,”
he said, stiffly; ‘‘you can either invite us or
not. But unless the matter is definitely ar-
ranged within two days, the whole story shall
he the public property of the county. I de-

ine to meet you alone by night, as I value
~ life; therefore, it is the picnic or noth-

ng.” _ a

Ralph at this moment strolled back.

Lady Harlow—a sudden thought rushing
through her brain, and making her heart leap
with evil triumph—seemed to capitulate at
once with easy. grace. :
“Mr. Arnold,” she said (for. what did one
lie matter before ‘‘Fairfax Malcolm,’’ who
knew her own life to be one grand lie), “I de-
tained your uncle.to ask him to join our pic-
nic party the day after to-morrow, and to
bring you with him. We start at twelve for
Dashwater Falls, and expect a most enjoyable
afternoon.”’ : :
~- “YT shall be most happy, Lady Harlow,” said
Ralph, with a smile of such radiant triumph
that she felt she could have stabbed him on
the spot. “I hope my uncle has accepted?’

“Certainly, my boy,’ said Fairfax Conyng-
ham, ‘lI would not miss such a treat for the
world. Good-morning, Lady Harlow. We
shall be sure to be punctual.”’

‘Uncle,’ said Ralph, as they presently
walked through one of the tangled avenues
of Lennox Park, “you are a magician.”

His uncle laughed. ; ;

‘“How so?” he asked.

“You bring Mr. Wynnstay out of his shell
for the first time in ten years; you make a
rich man of me, when yesterday I was well-
nigh a pauper, and you make Lady Harlow.
capitulate without saying a word, just at the
very moment when she was riding the extreme
high horse to me,’’

“Ah; my boy,’ said his uncle,
not make too much of her yet.
depth of cruel cunning in that woman of
which you know nothing. She has not yielded;
pray do not be led away by such an_idea,
She has only pretended friendship in order to
gain time, The real battle is still before us.”’
“TI care. not -how. tough it mdy_be, so that
we may hope for victory,’’ said Ralph. —
~~ *kh,”? said his’ uncle, sadly; “you know ‘not:
what mysterious pitfalls are Before us. I
only trust that amid ali the sorrow :-and
shame and dishonor which may. have to be
faced, you will believe that I have acted for.
the best, and for your interest.” A

“Indeed, uncle,’ cried Ralph, warmly, ‘TI
shall always think that; but your words make
me somewhat doubtful of the result. What
mysterious shadow is there hovering over me
and Belle? Can you not confide in me?”

“Believe me, Ralph,’’ said Fairfax Conyng-
ham, ‘it is best as it is. It may be that you
need never know; but, if it is necessary, lI
shall not hesitate a moment to tell you.”

And with this Ralph had to be content.

He knew well that when once his uncle had
made a resolve he adhered to it. He felt very
heavy of heart, however; and looked forward
with a sense of fear and hopelessness to the
day after the morrow. é

His feelings would have been those of utter
despair had he known the wording of the
telegram which Lady Harlow dispatched to
PLondon half an hour after her guests had
quitted the house. It ran as follows:

“To Sir Lyon EpWwaRDsS—Come down at
once, or your ehance will be lost. If you
neglect coming, do not blame me.

- 4 “CLARE HARLOW.”

Even after her unexpected meeting with
Pateret Conyngham, she was resolved to dare
ate, E .

“you must
There is a

CHAPTER VI.
AT DASHWATER FALLS.

Sir Lyon Edwards lost no time in obeying
the injunction conveyed to him. :

He reached the park on the following day at
noon, and found Lady Harlow waiting to re-
ceive hin. ~ eae

Her husband had not yet Yeturned from his
visit to London; Belle had retired to one of
her favorite haunts, and so there was little
chance of their being disturbed.

“T suppose my telegram somewhat alarmei
fyou,” said Clare Harlow, with\ a sweet smile,
when the usual courtesies had been ex-
changed, and they were alone. ‘
| ‘Well, it did give me _a_ start.” said Sir
Lyon, with a drawl; ‘but I don’t allow things,
as a rule, to upset me much.’’

He was a man of uncertain age, this bar-
onet—certainly on the shady side of forty—
with a handsome face, seared by the iron of
dissipation. A reckless, resolute fellow, evi-
dertly, who would pause at no evil thing to
attain his ends. — :

“That is well,’ said Lady Harlow, ‘for I
have some startling news for you. As things
stand at present, Belle cannot be your wife.”

“Confound it, madam! What do you mean?’’
he cried (only he did not say ‘‘confound,’’ but
something stronger). “I have made every ar-
rangement in anticipation of the event. I have
taken a new house in Park Lane; I have
sketched: out the honeymoon; told every one
of my duns, who will only wait until then;
and—and—in fact, madam, we will dismiss this
sorry jest. This is June, and in the last week
of July your daughter becomes Lady Edwards
—or,’” he added, after a slight pause, “you
know the consequences.” me ie

Ske made an impatient gesture,

“TJ. do,’ she - said. “You wili—being a
chivalrous gentleman—deliver over to my hus-
band certain letters written by me which will
cause him to leave me forever. Well, there
are Se eee than that. The one
who is forcing her marriage with Ralph Ar-
nold (the iover to whom she has pledged her-
self) holds over my head a sword far wmo01e
sharp than yours; a secret horror compared
to which your knowledge is as nothing.”

“Very well,’ drawled Sir Lyon, whose rage
in reality was at fever heat, “very well, then;
‘as you have resolved to throw me over, I can t
see why you took the trouble to telegraph
to me. It only remains for me to stay to
dinner, and hand over the letters to Sir
George. He will be home by that time.”

“That will not pay your debts,” said Lady
‘Harlow, sneeringly. eset.
“Just so; but it will be revenge.”

_ “Bah! you are a simpleton,” said Lady Har-
low. ‘‘Can’t you see what I mean? You must
change your tactics. You must be bold and
act for peed. while I shall pretend to be
playing into the hands of the enemy.”

“Pray,” said Sir Lyon, sipping a glass cf
wine, ‘pray be more explicit.”
“J will,” returned Clare Harlow; “I have no
doubt that you will think me absurdly ro-
mantic, but the thing is constantly done in
Treland, and there can be no earthly reason
why it should_not be done here.” _ }

- “Yes, well. Deuce take the romance, as long
as it gives me Belle for a wife, and her
fortune to pay. my debts,” returned Sir Lyon.

He was perfectly frank with this worldly.

nother; it would be absurd for either to pre-
nd to possess sentiment. | ee, ee

r xs AS

 

 

Ltwo,”’ he said.

and I will see you and answer you)

jnow I must ask you-a favor.

|have blazoned to the world.

hsaid; “but we will not discuss that.

you,” said

“Simply this, then,” replied’ Lady Harlow.
ar shail pretend to acquiésce in the engage-
ment of Bele and Ralph Arnold, on the con-
dition that it is mot made public, and that they
name six months hence for the marriage, in-
stead of three weeks. In the meantime, you
must find means to carry her 0 I will give
you all the help I can in-regard to -her move-
ments, and when she is gone—leave things to
me.’”’ : =
“PHat is all very well,” said’ Sir Lion, “‘but
if she sticks out afterall?’ ~

‘“l suppose you are not fool enough to let
that happen,” said Lady Harlow; “‘she can
‘be sO compromised that she will be glad to
marry you. Bah! I need not give you lessons
in such matters,”’? ~. © ;

This was not meant as a compliment, but
as an expression of contempt; but the baronet
chose to take it as the former.

“Well, I do fiatter myself I know a thing or
“7 don’t like the plan; but, to
oblige you, I'l] consent. But, remember, those
letters will not be given up to you until Belle
is my wife. I have been tricked too often.
And now to discuss details,

Which they did to their apparently mutual
satisfaction, : ‘

But there was one more detail which had to
be settled hefore Sir. Lyon departed. _ ;

‘T' don’t wish you to come to the picnic to-
morrow,” said Lady Harlow; “it would com-
plicate: ‘matters: dreadfully... To please me,
and. render. everything more smooth, kindly
do not remain to dinner. Sir George would ke
sure to’ ask you to accompany us to-morrow,
and everything -would go wrong again.” :

“Very, well; anything to oblige a lady,”
laughed Sir Lyon, with a coarse laugh. “But
I’m in a deuce
of a mess; overdrawn my account at the
‘bank, and all the money lenders have turned
crusty. Let me have a hundred, I know this
is about the time you draw your allowance,
and I really have no other person to ask,”

Stifling the exclamation of angry contempt
which ‘sprang to her lips, Lady Harlow rose
and took from her secretaire a roll of bank
notes. 2 ss tz att

“Here are notes for the amount you re-
quire,’ she said; ‘‘And now, Sir Lyon, if you
will permit me, I will retire. I have a call
to make, and have only a short time to dress,”

“Which is politely -giving me my conge,”
laughed Sir Lyon. ‘Farewell, sweetest and
fairest of mothers-in-law, farewell.’’ And he
passed. out. eae

“Oh! how I hate him!’’ she murmured; “and
yet to such a man I must sacrifice my_ child.
Yes, must. When they find she has fled with
him, they will be less than human if. they
betray me, It will be of no avail; it will only
be bringing fresh ruin and shame on Belle.”

CHAPTER VII.
“HOW EASILY MEN ARE DECBHIVED.”

Next day the picnic party assembled punc-
tually at noon at the park.

All seemed happy and disposed for a day’s
thorough enjoyment. | :

Belle and her lover were radiant. They
made no secret of their happimess; and Sir
George Harlow, grave and sedate, wondered
greatly thereat. For his part, he did not like
Sir Lyon Edwards, and was secretly. pleased
at anything by which this mariage de con-
venance might fall through.

He had met Ralph Arnold occasionally in
society, and liked him; and to Fairfax Conyng-
ham he once took a great fancy. Clare Har-
low shuddered as she saw them together, but
she could do nothing to prevent. their in-
timacy, at any rate, without exciting sus-
picion.

The spot which had been chosen for the
picnic was eminently suited for the purpose.

It was situated: on the edge of a wood by
the banks of a river, which, at this point,

rushed madly toward the cluster of black]

rocks over which presently it fell, forming
what was known as the Dashwater Falls,

- Over these, where the waters hissed and
leaped and roared, a tiny bridge was thrown,
leading to some grand old ruins known as
Dashwater Castle,

These were the haunts of many a_ loving
couple in the gay summer time, and were
on this day to be one of the special sources
of amusement to the picnic party, for there
were many there who had never before visited
the spot. Poke AS : :
-Luncbeon -was soen disposed of under the
wide-spreadin
paired off across the-rustic bridge.

Lady Harlow led the way: with Fairfax
Conyngham, on whose arm she was compelled
to lean, and it was not long before, walking
faster than the rest, they disappeared from
view behind the gray old walls.

“Now, Mr. Conyngham,” said Lady Harlow,
in icy tones, ‘‘we can dispense with the sem-
blance of friendship, and speak as the enemics
we are. Follow me, and I will show you a
place where we are not likely to be disturbed.”’

“T ean’t see why we need be enemies,” snid
Mr. Conyngham; ‘‘our lives can drift apart as
they did before; all 1 am doing is for the sake
of my nephew and your daughter. She would
never have been in existence if it had not
been for my greed and cowardice—if I had not
kept silence upon a matter which I ought to
I feel I cwe her
some reparation, and, while I have the power
to prevent it, she shall never marry a man vf
the stamp of Sir Lyon Edwards,”

This was just what Clare Harlow desired,

It opened the way for her subtle treachery,
and she at once availed herself of the chaace.
“Ah! Mr, Conyngham, you do not know me,
or you could never dream that I could de-
sire such a union,’”’ she cried; ‘‘only help me,
and my daughter shall be the wife of Ralph
Arnold.”’ : ;

Fairfax Conyngham eyed her for a moment
in surprise, and something akin to disgust.

“— shall certainly help you,” he said, ‘and
why should you think that I would. not con-
sent to do so? I know that you are guilty of
murder—nay, heareme-out, I saw you push
your husband from the train, and, to my
shame, I have kept silence all these years.
Now 1 am determined.to make some atone-
ment by doing a good action, even at the
risk of my own life and liberty. - You shall
not commit a-'second crime to conceal the
infamy of your past; you shall not doom your
child to lifelong: misery that ‘you may ‘keep
your good name before the world.” ‘

‘You speak boldly,’ said Clare Harlow;
“perhaps you overrate your power?’

“J do mot,’ said Fairfax Conyngham; “TI
have more power than you dream of.”

“Suppose that no one. would believe your
mad story,’ she cried; “suppose that the
world chooses to believe me instead of you?’

“— have no reason for trumping up such a
story,’ he replied. “I am rich, 1 am Belle’s
friend, and her lover’s also. It could not be
my purpose to brand her as the illegitimate
daughter. of .a murderess, for, any other: rea-
son than to save her from a hateful union
with a man who holds her mother in his
power.” - ‘ ‘

“Bah! .INegitimate!”’ cried Lady Harlow,
furious: with rage; -‘‘who would believe you?
My husband has been recognized and received
by every one as Sir George Harlow for nine-
teen years. Who is to prove that he is not?”

“There may be persons who could.swear to
birthmarks or eculiarities,’ ~ said Fairfax
Conyngham, speaking at random.

‘Well, and what then?” exclaimed Clare;
“the: living man may not possess thenr; but
no one could prove the dead one did. The
grave of a railway victim buried years and
years ago would be very unlikely to reveal
such secrets.” :

“We are wasting time, Lady Harlow,” said
Fairfax Conyngham, in @ dry, hard. voice;
‘Jet us come to business at once. I know
that your husband (as we will call him,
though he has no more right to the tithe than
T have) is not Sir George Harlow at all. He
is Reuben, Harlow, the baronet’s cousin. Nay,
do not interrupt. When you found that your
husband had not been recognized after you
had thrust him from the train, you fled to
him, your lover, and tempted him by. your
beauty and your fortune. to forget his honor.
You carried out the original programme be-
fore the eyes of the world, easily hoodwinked
by the extreme likeness of Reuben to Sir
George. Reuben and you went on your honey-
moon together after a marriage which both of
you knew was. illegal.’’

Clare laughed in hysterical derision.

“Ha, ha!’’ she cried;. “I knew your talk of
illegitimacy would fall to the ground. We
were married under our proper names. In the
church Reuben never took George’s name,” .

Fairfax was slightly nonplussed at this. He
had another card. to play, however, but he
could not play it yet.

‘The marriage is illegal all the same,” he
Our bar-
gain is .this—either you consent to give up
this project of uniting your child to that
ruined scoundrel, Sir Lyon Edwards, or, you
shall be branded. before all as guilty of the
murder of your husband, a murder of which
Reuben Harlow is even now ignorant, He was
coward enough to take advantage of an acci-
dent—not a crime.” Bias ss
HENGE. YOUR: «454i sak fe i ae
“y Rei take ‘my. meed of punishment. with

‘Fairfax Conyngham, bravely. “I

j they had learned Lady Harlow’s decision?

“trees,“'and then the ‘couples

 

 

wish to atone for my sin; I will die to save
Belle from the hideous fate to which you
would doom her.’’

Clare Harlow’ saw.
worst card to play.

She must try pretended submission.

“Mr, Conyngham,”’ she said, ‘I fear you have
me at all points, and I must yield. But even
you cannot be so headstrong as to wish use~
lessly to precipitate me inte a gulf of shame
which would ‘bring ruin on all connected with
me. i cannot yet openly defy Sir Lyon. With
him I must temporize. Belle shall be Ralph
Arnold’s wife; I give my consent and my
promise freely, but Sir Lyon must know noth-
ing yet.. He must remain in a fool’s paradise
a while longer, until I find means to drag
from him the power he wields over me.”

‘Js his power, then, greater than mine?’
asked Conyne‘ham, coldly.

“Oh, yes—yes! In one way it is!’’ cried
Clare, passionatety. ‘It would rob me forever
of my husband’s love, if he knew my terrible
secret. It was in a moment of mad anger and
folly when I wrote those letters which Sir
Lyon holds over my head like a sword of
vengeance. They would seem to him to prove
all my love a lie, but it is not—it is not.
Through all the sin and the shame and the
prospect of ruin and dishonor, I love him.’’

How much of this was true, and how much
acting, Fairfax Conyngham could not tell.
He did not care to discuss it.

“Very well,’ he said. ‘‘I agree to this hol-
low truce. I will tell Belle and Ralph the
good news, and imperatively command secrecy.
But, by the good heaven above us, if you
try to play me false I will call down upon
your head such a storm of disaster that no
loophole of escape shall be left you but the
suicide’s grave!’’ ;

The words were not spoken melodramati-
cally, but with a stern, calm solemnity which
made her shudder,

“Say no more,’ she said, in a low, hoarse
voice; “I hear voices. Our compact is made;
but, outwardly, until I succeed in obtaining
the letters,- Sir Lyon Edwards will be to
himself and the world the affianced husband
of Belle Harlow. Your arm, please, Mr.
Conyngham.”’ ss

He offered his arm as if to assist her over
a difficult part of the path, just as two of
the picnic party came up. -

Mr. Conyngham’s pale, stern face, and the
evidently agitated manner and appearance of
Lady Harlow, could not, of course, be over-
looked; but Clare was. an excellent actress,
and ere she rejoined her husband and the
others she was her own bright, vivacious self
again.

The remainder of the day passed off bril-
liantly.

The lovers were as happy as children.

How could they be otherwise when secretly

that defiance was the

Ere he quitted Harlow Park, however, Fair-
fax Conyngham had an unpleasant shock.

He was about to depart when his hostess
suddenly took him to one side,

“Mr, Conyngham,’’ she said, “I give you
credit for being a just man. Give me your
word that on no consideration you will divulge
what I am about to tell you and ask you.”

“T promise.’’

“Then answer me this,’ said Clare, in a low
voice—“‘have you any reason for supposing that
my daughter i$ acting a part—that she does
not love Ralph Arnold as she pretends?”’

This was a staggerer, indeed.

“Acting a part!’’ cried Mr. Conyngham, a
sudden fear unaccountably taking possession
of him. ‘‘Why, what makes you think so?
Tt would break my boy’s heart—my nephew
loves her as his life.’’

“Yes, yes—that may _be,’’ she said. ‘But
girls are so perverse! The very _ease of con-
quest sometimes tires them. And you know,”
she added, with a wan and wistful smile, “she
may inherit some of her mother’s bad blood.”

“Madam,” said Conyngham, impatiently,
‘pray explain yourself.”’

“Simply this, then,’’ continued Lady Harlow,
in a low, hushed voice. ‘I surprised her just
now in an ante-room, She was alone, holding
in both her hands a portrait which ever and
again she kissed passionately. ‘Oh, Ralph!
Ralph!’ she was murmuring, “how shall I ever
tell you? How can I keep up the farce any
longer? My love has fled—it has gone out to
the one I thought I hated. Lyon—dear, dear;
Lyon?”’-. Y ‘

‘‘Impossible!”* murmured’ Fairfax Conyng-|
ham, and yet:a sickly ‘dread crept’ into: his!
heart. ‘“‘Had his striving been in vain, after:
all? Was: there truth in Lady Clare’s pitiful’
words? Had Belle inherited. some of the blood
of her mother?’ : ‘

“Tt seems -impossible,” said Clare, well
pleased with the slight impression she had;
made; ‘but still I thought it best to tell you.
I do not understand the enigma myself. I only
ask you to watch, as I wiill,’’ and she held
out her hand to him.

Others were present, though at some dis-
tance; yet. they were near enough to see his
refusal of her hand-grasp. He merely touched
her palm lightly and departed.

“Pool!’’ murmured Lady Harlow, as he went,
“How easily men are ‘deceived! I shall tri-
eur yet! All I want is time—time, and
then——”’

What her further words may have been it
is impossible to say, for at this moment she
had to pause, and wreathe her face in smiles
to meet her husband, who was advancing to-
ward her with more than his usual geniality.

Reuben Harlow had been sorely tempted; he
had lived a life of deceit, but of his wife’s
crime he knew nothing, and ‘he loved her still,
strongly and passionately.

TO BE CONTINUED.

 

FATHERS AND DAUGHTERS.

The bond between father and daughter is a
very close and tender one. From the outset a
father is inclined to be very indulgent and
caressing to his little female pet. Toward a
boy he may behave with a certain sternness,
may be sometimes unduly exacting and severe,
but he is probably as wax in the dimpled
hands of the little princess of his house. On
her part the little girl shows a wonderful re-
gard for her father. During ‘babyhood she
likes to be carried in his strong arms, and to
lean her head against his broad breast. -No-
body is like papa to the little prattling child,
who runs to meet her father when she hears
his latchkey in the door at night, and who
watches him from the window for an hour be-
fore it is time for his appearance, As the
child grows older she often resembles her
father in mental characteristics, likes the
studies he cares for, and is a replica of him-
self in many respects. If he is fond of mathe-
matics, the little girl will probably be just like
him, and have no trouble whatever with arith-
metic, algebra, geometry, and such studies. If
he is proficient in languages she will acquire
them without much difficulty. Sons are apt to
display the intellectual traits of mothers, and
daughters resémible fathers.

It frequently occurs that a daughter inherits
the business capacity of her father to a degree

which the son does not, and when this is the

case it seems unfair that the boy should have
the ‘business opening from which the#girl is
debarred. Some years ago a father at the
head of a large business yielded to the wish of
his daughter, and allowed her_to enter it and
serve in various capacities. She became his
eonfidential clerk and adviser. During a long
enforced absence of his from his post of duty,
she took his place, and after death she suc-
ceeded to the ‘business and carried it on suc-
cessfully herself. This girl would not have
been satisfied with a circumscribed domestic
life. Nature had indicated for her a business
career, and her father was suffieiently wise to
get her feet on the ladder leading to it.

A “subtle understanding prevails between
father and daughter. They must become more
than mere kindred; A daughter may be her
father’s intimate friend, and often when
things go wrong, and he is worried and per-
plexed, she cheers him, consoles him with her
intelligent sympathy, and makes the world
seem possible again. As she grows up the
father observes with pride how much she
looks as her mother did in the days when he
courted her. She becomes conscious herself of
the sentiment which first perfumed _ the
father’s life in youth. He introduces. her to
his friends with a certain air of pride, and it
is well. known that a father makes a most
popular and agreeable chaperon for his girls.
When father and daughter go off together for
a journey or a trip for recreation, their letters
home are apt to show decided pleasure on
both sides. A girl who has had a loving and
considerate father, courteous, and in a meas-
ure gallant in his treatment of -her, will not
too easily: choose a husband inferior to her
father. The young man must be able to stand
a comparison with that dear and honored
comrade,

 

BETTIE, OF BARTON.

 

BY NATHAN D. URNER,

The red cheeks gleam on the loaded boughs,
The fruity winds blow warm,

When out, with a laugh, from the gray old

house

Trips Bettie, of Barton Farm.

Singing, singing, merrily singing,

Out, with a trip, and a laugh on her lip,
Goes Bettie, of Barton Farm.

Away through the poppies
corn,
Then down to the old stone bridge,
Where the river laughs at early morn,
Trips Bettie, of Barton Ridge.
Singing, singing, cheerily singing,
Down the path through the aftermath,
Goes Bettie, of Barton Ridge.

that prank the

How her small feet danee,
glance,

As she flits through the trees with a thrill,

Whatevef can seek, with such red cheek,
Sweet Bettie, of Barton Hill?

Singing, singing, softly. singing,

Through the hazel-close, like a sunbeam, goes
Sweet Bettie, of Barton Hill.

how eager her

With tenfold rapture sing linnet and thrush;
Who is that upon Robin Ray’s arm,

With a loverlike joy in her evgry blush?
Who but Bettie, of Barton Farm?

Sighing, sighing, tenderly sighing,

With soft head at rest on her true lover’s

breast,

Moves Bettie, of Barton Farm.

Fair be their paths through the aftermaths
Of life, without let or alarm!

And may sunshine of love linger late o’er the

dove—

The jewel of Barton Farm!

Shining, shining, goldenly shining,

To bless for life as maid and wife
Dear Bettie, of Barton Farm.

a ee te

A Fight for a Fortune;

3

THE BEAUTIFUL UNKNOWN.

ae

By Richard Ashton Wainwright,

Author of “Lady Velvet,” ‘Hunted Down,” *Dfiriam’s
Legacy,’ “After Many Days,” ete., ete,

(‘A FI@HT FOR A FORTUNE” was commenced in No, 34.
Back numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers.)

CHAPTER XXIX.
A SIREN’S BARGAIN

The detective softly descended from the stool
he had placed against the partition.

He drew it away from the wall, and glided
back to the couch.

The critical juncture in the Hemyng case
had arrived, he decided, and on the next ten
minutes might hang the fate of the ex-king of
Wall street and his missing three millions.

Bart stretched himself out in his original
pose of unconscious helplessness.

Personal peril was the last thought in
mind at the present moment,—~_,~_—

The woman; Nydia, had termed him a pris-
oner, in her power—had practically offered to
turn him over to his’ foe!

Despite this menace, the .deteetive felt that
he must have an opportunity to watch, to lis-
ten, to the: further ‘disclosure of ithe nan and
woman, who Seemed, on the point: of forming
an alliance to his cost, : ;

Nydia had‘ followed up her ‘assertion con-
cerning the presence, ofthe, detective: under
that roof by moving from the room she and
Pinero occupied into the one where Bay had
spent the afternoon.

Here she lit a lamp. Bart felt its rays cross
his face as the door was unlocked and opened.

“Are you convinced?’ inquired the woman,

“Tt’s the man who called at the Greyson
place this morning,’’ admitted Pinero.

“Hazard, the detective.”’

“You see, he is disguised——’”’

“But I know. Come, I have something more
to tell you—something that will convince you
as to this man’s identity.”

Bart was at the stovepipe hole by the time
the twain were back in the adjoining room.

Nydia had aroused and deeply interested her
accidental visitor.

“T can’t understand all this!’? murmured
Pinero.

The woman made a clean breast of it. She
confessed to her impulse of making the detec-
tive a confidant, a partner,

She played that situation as her stake in the
game now.

“You would have betrayed me!”
Pinero.

“JT would have driven you from the Greyson
establishment, yes,’’ Nydia recklessly con-
fessed. ‘‘Believing that girl was your attrac-
tion, why not? Now, Jose, it is peace or war
between us. I am desperate. We pool our

his

observed

“Do not ask me! Man, it is dangerous to
play with a woman’s heart, and such a heart
as mine!’’

“Nydia, I am afraid of you!”

“My temper? Time has chastened me.”

“Your past——”

‘Who can reach
lightly.

“That detective.”

‘‘A man whose life I can snuff out at will?”

Pinero seemed troubled. He reflected in si-
lence for a moment or two. Then he looked
up like a man who had made up his mind,

“We will work together,’ he said.

“You mean that?’

“Of course.”

‘‘Then you are going to tell me why you are
at Avondale?’’

aes going to tell you everything. Who
am 1???

The woman started curiously at the way in
which the question was put, but she said:

“Why, Jose Pinero, of course.”

Her companion laughed.

‘“Wrong!’’ he announced.

‘“‘A false name?”

“Tt is. When you met me, eighteen months
ago, I was gambling my time away under that
name, it is true; but constantly looking for
some one,’’

‘“Who?’’

“A family.”

“T can guess—the Greysons?”’

“You have guessed correctly—the Greysons.”’

“Why ?’’ :

“Because I but the
Count Ulmar.”

The woman stared. The statement bore no
significance for her.

The detective drew a long breath; he saw a

reat light,
: the Ulmar?’”

“Who : is
Nydia.
- e~he son-in-law of Mrs. Greyson—the person
who married her eldest daughter abroad
twelve-years ago.’”’
“Y know nothing of that. You never told
have

it?’ scoffed the woman,

am not Jose Pinero,

Count murmured

me!”? began Nydia, her brow darkening.

“That I was a widower? Would it
made any difference?”’

“Perhaps not.”’ :

“Gertainly not. Don’t get jealous! I mar-
ried Dorothy Greyson for money—and never
rot.’

“What then?’

“J forgot her. I
pleasure at Monte Carlo, t
capitals—and finally in America, My father,
who had heard of my peccadilloes, disinherited
me. I needed money. I located the Greysons.”’

‘And got it?’ :

“Some,” admitted Pinero. ‘I presented my-
self to Mrs. Greyson. She gave me quite an
amount.”’

WLately.f i 2 :

“Three evenings since.
that detective and your affairs, made
bulk demand. All my bribe, the entire
amount, I was to receive to-day, when——”’

‘Yes, when?’ as Pinero paused.

“There was a miss.’’

“Flow do you mean? Wait, though! Tell
me, first—why should the Greysons pay you
money ?”’ ;

“Oh, you are dull, Nydia!”
“Cannot you understand th
the two children, I have only to claim them?’’

“J gee! I see!’’

sought: excitement and
in the gay European

Then, hampered by

railed Pinero.

 

 

 

 

at, as the father of ©

t

 

 

 

 
Ee

BOON

 

 

 

 

 

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

 

“The Greysons believe that by taking the
children back to Hungary I can sue my
father’s estate in their behalf.’’

“And they would pay anything to prevent
that risk?’

“Yes, that—risk!’’ nodded Pinero, in a cold-
blooded tone.

“That is your hold on these people?’’

“Ts it not a strong one? The mother sent
her daughter away with the children when she
knew I was coming. I insisted on staying in
the house till I received my fee.’’

“How much was your fee?’

“Fifty thousand.”’

“You are modest!”

“This amount Mrs. Greyson has been raising
on her property. There has been some ob-
stacle—or she is deceiving me. I have changed
my plans.”’

“How ?’’

“Tam going after the children, whom I have
not yet even seen,’’

“Affectionate parent!”’

“T am going to take them away from their
BD ts and hold them till this money is actually
paid.”

“As hostages?’’

“In your hands—you shall help me that far.
No one can dispute my right to the children,
and if I do not get them they may be spirited
away. Besides—— Nydia, what are you about?”’

The detective could not see what Nydia was
about, for she had passed toward®the par-
tition wall, and therefore out of his range of
vision,

Pinero, following her with a curious face,
withdrew, as well, from Bart’s sight. Only
their voices now betrayed their presence in
the room, :

“I am going to show how I appreciate your
confidence in me!’ was spoken in accents
thrilling with fervor.

“What is that box?’

“T am going to smooth your path—make all

~-things sure!”’

“You mean the detective?”
ae that detective to me—entirely to me.”’
G ;

“‘Silence—I glory in any risk to serve you!”’

Bart slipped from the stool. He did not
dally to have a palpable warning turn into a
direct menace.

Into some closet connecting with the room
he was in, or at some partition aperture com-
municating with it. The woman was working;

‘he could hear her.

The detective remembered the snake at the
New York hotel; this woman of pets could
ereelsare murder by a method unique and
silent.

Bart fancied what was coming—some deadly
animal or reptile let loose upon him, as the
poisonous serpent had heen thrust into Miss
Muriel Greyson’s sleeping apartment.

The detective glided swiftly about the room,
inspecting its every side.

A break indicated a door;
knob.

Just as a snap and a fierce rustle sounded
in the apartment, to the detective’s infinite
satisfaction the knob turned.

He opened the door, and put a foot over its
threshold, but no flooring met the advanced
foot. He had half stumbled, when the hand
he held on the joint of the doorway enabled
him to recover his poise.

Just in time he had saved himself a tumble
into unknown depths.

Beyond the sill was darkness, nothingness—
no stairs, steps or platform.

Closing the door softly after him, balancing
on that narrow ledge, the detective held his
breath, and listened, and waited. ‘

Bart located its

CHAPTER XXX.
THE MIDGET’S REPORT.

The detective caught a peculiar sound; it re-
sembléed that of some sluggish object trailing
about the room he had vacated,

Then all was still, except a hum of human
voices. These were vague, indistinct, until a
door creaked and footsteps were apparent.

Somehow, the two people had moved so as
to bring themselves nearer to the point where
the detective had found refuge.

They seemed to be leaving the house by the
oe f what the detective could trace.

Bart heard the man say:

“There is no noise, me struggle!’

A wicked laugh. responded.

“Why should there be, with the man _in-
sensible and my trusty pet sure of its prey?”’

“My death is taken for granted, eh?’ solilo-
quized Bart. ‘‘They are about to depart.” _

Such appeared to be the case. Temporarily,
at least, the two were leaying the house.
~The detective figured up the situation rap-
idly. }

Notya word had passed between Nydia and
Pinero’ concerning the merits and mystery of
the Hemyng case.

They had disclosed much that cleared the
air, that fortified the detective’s general posi-
tion, but the main issue was no farther eluci-
dated than before Bart had come to Avondale.

This side complication, however, was not
only engrossing to&®the detective, but he con-
sidered it vital to the interests of young Ross
Hemyng.

Bart, about to turn the knob, to step back
into the room he had just vacated, paused.

He had no weapons whatever, not even a
pocket-knife.

He did not know exactly how- formidable a
foe Nydia had introduced into the adjoining
apartment.

Bart conjectured that it must be another of
her reptile favorites—probably of considerable
size, judging from what he could hear of its
movements,

There was not only this foe to overcome, but
a stout door to break down beyond, s

Bart was in utter darkness. He strained his
sight downward, but could not discover a
single ray of light.

He tore a button from: his coat, and, with
senses strained, timed its slightly echoing drop
on a hard, clayey floor.

“Bight feet ten?’ he calculated. “T will
trust to finding a way out when I get below.”

The detective lowered himself over the
threshold. Then, hanging by his finger tips,
he steadied himself for a firm landing.

‘‘Ah!”’ he suddenly exclaimed. “What is
this ?’’

His foot was struck—then both feet, once,
twice, as with a club or ponderous paw.

The rapid consecutive contact was suf-
ficiently forcible to cause him to sway on
quite a broad swing.

Bart took the alarm, and instantly essayed
to relift himself to the ledge he had just aban-
doned.

Under ordinary circumstances this was no
mean feat; now it was doubly hampered.

“A regular den!” breathed the detective, as
his frail hand grasp was torn entirely free.

One of his feet had been seized. He was
pulled downward. <

As he landed flat on his back, the sweep of
an enormous paw ripped along one arm, and
cut its covering to tatters.

A furry surface and a hot, hissing breath
eame clese to his face. Bart struck up with
one hand and out with the other, involunta-
rily.

There came a roar, the sinuous quiver of a
huge animal’s body! A moment later the se-
cret service man was in the grip of a tiger!

Another of Nydia’s pets, confined here be-
low. Unwarily, the detective had jumped
right into its clutches. :

Instinctive desperation caused Bart to seize
the first object his outflying hand chanced to
meet.

He at- once discerned that it was metal, with
jagged ends. In a flash he raised it and
thrust it up to drive back the lowering head
of his powerful foe.

It was met and forcibly held, with a sudden-
ness that for an instant startled and puzzled
the detective.

With a frightful snarl of pain the brute
astride him whirled from its position. Writh-
ing all about in a blindly furious way, it ut-
tered hollow, unnatural, choking sounds.

The fragment of metal, Bart decided, must
be the handle of a stewpan or other iron dish,
and he had by sheer accident thrust it directly
in between the distended jaws of the monster
foe gaping for his destruction. .

Iin-a whirlwind of agony, it was temporarily
eoncerned only in-ridding itself of the instru-
ment of torture.

There was a snap—the piece of metal had
been crushed apart.

The detective had arisen quickly to his feet.
There was no time to lose.

He receded a step or two, and then leaped
upward and forward with all the agility of
which he was capable.

‘“‘Missed!”” he muttered. ° 5

“Just as well,’? he added the next instant.

Bart had aimed to reach and clutch the
threshold of the door from which he had re-
cently dropped.

In the dark a miscalculation was excusabie.
As his fingers scraped along the boards he
knew he was out of range.

Then they passed a broad crack in the sid-
ing, and to this his fingers clung.

The detective did not lose time.
up, located another crack,
hole, a hook, a nail, in turn.

By this erratic ladder route he was soon as-
sured of a position of safety. Suddenly his
head struck a board that yielded.

It was a part of the roof of the cellar at-

He reached
another, a knot-

tachment of the queer stone hut. Bart antici-
pated speedy deliverance as his shoulders
moved this top timber.

It resisted like a set springboard, but let the
starlight through, and finally the detective
himself, the result of a tight squeeze.

Bart came out on the sloping roof, panting
from his exertions, but, mentally, much re-
lieved. : '

He lay perfectly still, .to
make out his environment.

It was now dark. There were no lights about
the house; no sounds indicated a human pres-
ence in the vicinity.

Still, Bart exercised due caution as he let
himself slowly down the roof. s

He dropped beside a great water butt, trust-
ing to its shadow for a few moments.

He had crouched there for perhaps two
minutes, when something struck its surface
right over his head,

Bart instantly. became alert. A second peb-
ble came—then four others succeeded,

The detective scanned the near distance. A
ruined summer-house was in range. He ut-
tered a low, brief whistle. Presently some
vines fluttered, as if shaken by the wind.

Bart knew they were, in reality, shaken by
the Midget, and crossed over to the spot.

‘Been waiting,’ .@nnounced his assistant.

**How long?’ .

‘Half an hour,’’

“Seen anybody about?”

‘Not a soul, except yourself.’

The Midget regarded his chief with a good
deal of curiosity, but Bart would not explain
for the present.

‘Well?’ he said, interrogatively.

The Midget made a gesture indicating that
“things came easy.”

ao to that Greyson house,”’ he reported.

“Got in—in my own way.
almost anywhere, you know.’

“Yes, I know,” assented Bart.

“A vine, a trellis, a balcony,
room. I know a good deal.”

“What do you know?’ asked Bart.

recuperate and

I can squeeze in

a dressing-

with spirit.

‘What did you get?’’

The Midget delved into a pocket and pro-
duced a large, bulky envelope. He handed it
to Bart. The detective took it.

“Money?” he said, feeling.

“Fifty thousand dollars.”

Cyn

‘‘Here’s something else.”’

Bart tried to scan a small piece
half printed, half written.

“Tt looks like a pawn-ticket,’’ he intimated.

“It is a~pawn-ticket.”’

“An!”

‘“‘For some diamonds,”’

Bart could not repress an unmistakable
movement of satisfaction, as well as surprise.

“T think,” declaréd the Midget, nis tone half
a chuckle—‘‘I think, Mr. Hazard, that we
have them on the run.” :

of paper,

CHAPTER XXXII.
MURIEL,

‘Be speedy!’’ ordered the detective, and the
Midget hastened his explanation.

He had got into the Greyson mansion un-
detected, he related.

In half an hour Bart’s valuable ally had
discovered much, overheard considerable, and
appropriated what he had just delivered to
the detective.

Mrs. Greyson was unable to leave her room,
Pinero held her under a spell of terror that
had nearly driven her to the verge of mad-
ness,

In the midst of a stormy
the man she had fainted away. When Pinero
had hastened to summon a_ servant, the
Midget had stolen from concealment. :
It was to possess himself of the contents
of a reticule which he had seen Mrs. Greyson
conceal about the couch where she lay.

From what he had overheard, and putting

this and that together,
ant comprehended that the lady had been dis-
posing of some property, to secure the means
to finally and effectually buy off her dis-
reputable relative from claiming his two chil-
dren.
She had not told Pinero that the money had
arrived, and insisted that she would not pay
it over until he made some public legal sur-
render of the children, so he could not renew
his elaim. ¢

Tt was while discussing this’ phase of the
matter that the woman had been overcome.

The Midget realized her. weakness and

Pinero’s power. He determined to block the
game till he could: consult with Bart.
“T suppose she had a terrible time when
she found the reticule empty,’’ said the Midget,
“and, of course, she could not convince Pinero
that she was. dealing squarely with him.”’

“That accounts.for what he said to the
woman, Nydia, who ‘prompted. his move to
get the children in personal control, fearing
evasion or treachery,’’ mused the detective.
Bart examined the money package. It rep-
resented the amount of the Count Ulmar’s
bribe, but the detective decided he should
never get his fingers on it. ‘

The pawn-ticket was for two thousand dol-
lars on diamonds.- The’ detective knew whose
diamonds, and where this preliminary bribe
also had gone. at

He was also sure that he could anticipate
the next move of the plotters.

“About those children, Midget?’
Bart.

“Yes?’? nodded his assistant.

“Do you know their ages?”

“Boy of ten, girl of eight.”’. :

“All right,’’ replied the detective, thought-
fully.

“Boy's name, Norman—girl’s, Beatrice.”

“And they «re with their aunt?’

“At Berwyn.”

“Very good,”’

Bart Hazard was silent for the space of
sixty seconds; it sufficed to determine him as
to immediate action ahead, 2

“Midget,” he said, ‘‘you will
woman.”’

“Nydia?’’

“Keep in touch with her till I come back.”

“Where from, Mr. Hazard?’

“Berwyn.”’ k

“Oh, that’s where the children are?’

“And that is where Pinero is going.”’

“To get them?’’

‘He may.”’

“You.won’t allow that?”

“Well, that depends,” evaded Bart. ‘Should
he do so, he will give them over into the
charge of Nydia—that is their bargain.”

‘I see.”’ :

“You must not let‘her escape you; see where
she takes them.”

“Trust me.’’

Bart made a brief calculation; the Berwyn
train schedule cut a certain figure in his
calculation, ;

He did not return to the village, but struck
out on a swift dash for a point two miles
south, which was a kind of junction. ~

“The first train Pinero can get for Berwyn,”
soliloqguized Bart, “fis due at midnight. I have
five hours in which to work.’’

Bart applied himself diligently. An observer
would have wondered as to the object of his
haste, and at the same time have marveled
how he got over the ground so quickly.

The detective caught a fast freight at the
junction, and was soon in New York city.

He had to go to his rooms to don new attire,
for his rough experience at the old stone cot-
tage had made him resemble a tramp.

Bart soon effected a change. He ran over a
pile of,gletters and telegrams on his desk.

He opened those he knew to be important,
pigeon-holed others that could wait, and thrust
several dubious omnes into his pocket, for
later reference.

Then he got into a cab and was. whirled
over to Jersey City. _

It was just nine o’clock when he approached
a neat, homelike place, suggesting the resi-
dence of some ambitious mechanic.

The front door was open. A matronly
woman, engaged at sewing, arose at his
knock.

“Oh, Mr. Hazard!” she greeted, effusively.

‘Tt’s I,” nodded Bart. ‘‘Where’s the chil-
dren?” ;

“Oh!’’ exclaimed the woman, ‘‘you haven't
come to——’”’

“Take them away? Not permanently—from
this good home. And it is a good home,”
complimented Bart, with a glance at the cozy
interior. :

“We try to make them like it,’’ replied the
woman, proudly. “My husband is getting so
attached to them, so fond of them! They are
forgetting the life of the streets you saved
them from.”’

“Good!” said Bart. ‘‘Well,

“To-night?’’

‘‘Without a minute’s delay.’’

The woman looked anxious,
to another portion of the house.

The children referred to were brother and
sister—homeless orphans whom Bart had
picked up half-starved on the streets of New
York about a year previous.

He had found them bright and intelligent,
and had ‘‘adopted’’ them, placing them in the
eare of the kind woman, who had grown to
love them as if they were of her own flesh
and blood.

interview with

observed

take up the

I need them.”

but hastened

 

 

“And I got a good deal,’* added the Midget,’

Bart’s shrewd assist- }

 

It had chanced twice during the past year
that the two children had come into. play in
matters in which Bart was professionally
concerned.

They had ‘taken’ to detecting like ducks to
water!’ the Midget had admiringly affirmed,
but that Was: because they had explicitly
obeyed Bart’s orders,

Bart’s face expressed. a smile of pleasure
as, in the course--of two or three minutes,
a door came open with cyclonic swiftness and
clatter, and an eager-faced boy dashed into
view.

_ After him, less demonstrative, .but devour-
ing the detective with animated delight, there
followed a girl somewhat younger.

‘Keep your distance! I know you are glad
to see me,’’ observed Bart, fighting off the
affectionate demonstration of the twain. ‘‘Line
up, now!’”’

The boy assumed an attentive pose, while
the girl demurely ranged herself beside him,
but with a knowing, expectant beam in the
corners of her bright eyes.

‘*‘Let me seé,’’ remarked Bart, speculatively,
to the boy—‘‘you are eight—nine?”’

‘Eleven years old.”

**And you, little one?’

“Just passed eight.”’ ;

‘Well, your name is. Norman,”’ advised Bart.

“T won't forget it!’ winked the boy.

“You are Beatrice,” said the detective to
the girl. 5 4

“Yes, sir!’ courtesied the little maid, de-
murely,. :

“Tt tell you the rest as we ride along,”
added Bart. c

Bart placated the anxious foster. mother,
and bundled the children into the cab in
waiting. "

When the New York train reached Berwyn
at eleven o’clock, he had his two juvenile
allies as animated over the duty he had set
them as if they were about to take a pleasing
part in an exciting play.

Bart located the house where he knew Miss
Muriel Greyson to be a guest.

It*had a large garden. A-lighted room at-
tracted his attention. Bart got through a
break in the fence, bade his youthful charges
remain where they were, .and advanced
through the shrubbery.

The, house was wrapped in slumber, it
seemed, save for one occupant,

On a stool near an open French window was
a beautiful girl.

It was the person Bart wished.most partic-
ularly to see, and see alone at just that mo-
ment,

Miss. Muriel Greyson’s cheek rested on a
little table, upon which her head had prob-
ably unconsciously sank.

Bart read the great change a few days had
effected in that radiant face.

It was drawn and pallid, and in her light
slumber the winsome creature moaned as if
some deep mental distress pursued even to
her dreams. : é
Bart got up near to*the window. He awak-
ened her by gently repeating her name.
“Miss Greyson! Miss Greyson!’’ | 4
Despite the detective’s caution ‘the young
lady roused up with frightened eyes, distrac-
tion in features and manner.

“Has some one called?’’ she breathed, quite
excited. :

Tt was I,’ softly intoned Bart, Keeping in
the background. :

“Who is it?—a stranger?’’ :
“A friend,’’ said Bart, boldly pressing for-
ward. ‘‘Do not cry out, Miss Greyson! I have
come on a secret mission of the greatest im-
portance. I have information for your hear-
ing. solely. Shall I come 8

in?

“No—that is, I will come out. Sir——’

She began trembling. The detective’s reas-
suring glance only partly calmed her,

She stepped down from the window upon
the soft lawn and back into shadow, holding
to. a rustic seat in a weak,. wavering way.
She dropped into it, and~her breath came
quick and short; her eyes scamned the de-
tective anxiously.

‘“Who—who are you?’ she began.

“A friend, I told you,’’ answered Bart.

“But I do not know. you.’’

“T ama detective,” said Bart.

The girl uttered a keen cry.

“Do not let that frighten you. You will _re-
member me when you recall the night Mr.
Ross Hemyng was robbed of his case of dia-
—— in upper Broadway.’’

sé h-—”

The girl started as if. something had struck
her—as though the allusion had revived tor- |
menting memories. * 3 sis

“Mr. Hemyng must have told you something
of his mission: to New York—his anxious
concern over a missing father.’’

“Ves,’’ she hesitatingly responded,

“T have been acting for him, I have been
led into some strange discovefies thropgh that
service,’ observed the detective, pointedly.

Miss Greyson’s head dropped forward on
her breast. She was silent, but Bart saw that
she was suffering.

“Mr. Hemyng-——’’

‘Do not mention him, please!”’
irl. i ‘
o Because your mother has forbidden it?’’

‘My mother! You are torturing me!’ cried
Muriel, arising to her feet with sudden ani-
mation. “Tell me why you came.” :

“To straighten out matters,’’ promised the
detective. :

“That can never be!’’ sobbed the girl.

“Oh, yes,’ responded Bart, assuringly. “We
will not go over what may distress or em-
barrass you at present, I came particularly
to-night to seek your co-operation in a matter
that not only affects your family interests,
but incidentally those of Ross Hemyng and
his father.”’ ;

“What do you mean?’”

“The Count Ulmar has brought dismay, ter-
ror, into your household of late.”

“You know all!” "2 p

“There was a_large amount which
weak mother would: turn over to him.”” — ,..

“Which she must—which she must!” insisted
Muriel; ‘‘it is his price.’

The detective shook his head slowly.

“No, no,’”’ he said, positively.

“Do you understand—’” :

“That he claims the children,”

“And he can take them!’’

‘Yes, he can take them.”

“Tt would kill my mother to part with them;
I would die to lose them!”

“Lose them you shall not!’’

“You do not know him!” -

“Zax,

resumed Bart.
panted the

your

I know him fully,” interrupted the
detective; ‘‘and, knowing him, I am making
a bold move. Miss Muriel, for’ your mother’s
sake—for the sake of these innocent ‘children,
and that of Ross Hemyng—I_ ask you to sub-
mit yourself entirely to my direction.

“Can I refuse?’’ .

“Then Jet me. teli you that a change has
come in .the plans of this villainous brother-
in-law of yours. He has left Avondale."

‘He, has left there!’’,

“He. fears treachery, . L
away of: the children, so he is.coming here.

“Here?’’. Muriel’s voice. was hollow, indica-
tive of surprise and alarm. , . 3
. “To get the children.” .

Shemuttered a wild sob,

“TQ take them away under his own control
—and you must let him.”’

‘‘Never!: Hark!” -

In front of the house some kind of a con-
veyance had halted. : g

The detective .bent ‘his ear to catch familiar
aceenss Ga. ;

“Jose Pinero, alias the Count Ulmar, is ‘here

now,” he_ said. : Fare i

“Protect me! Save the ‘children!’’ > cried
Muriel, almost falling into the detective’s
arms, and wild with alarm. :

Bart had. uttered. a brief signal whistle as
she tottered, toward ‘him.

There were, brisk rustling ‘sounds in the
shrubbery near by. .~ ; =

“Be calm, Miss Greyson,’” he said, as the
two children he had brought from the city
appeared in view. ‘‘Calmness is necessary.
Everything depends on.it. ‘Go into the house,
receive this villain. When he demands the
children, give: them up.”

“Tt will kill.me!”’

‘‘These children.”

“What—who——” :

Miss. Muriel Greyson became rigid with
astonishment and confusion; she had caught
sight of, Bart’s .proteges. :

“Fhese,’’ repeated Bart, with an expressive
smile. “Do you ,not understand? You will
substitute them for the real children of the
Count Ulmar.”’ :

TO BE CONTINUED.

evasion—the spiritin

’

=> °

TRUE SYMPATHY.—Let none imagine that a
feeling of pity fer another’s woe constitutes
an unselfish character. It-may be united with
it, and: be an inspiring influence to it, but of
itself it can never create it, nor is it synony-
mous with it. We may be very pitiful, very
sensitive, very tender-hearted, and at the same
time very. selfish...Only, as we truly desire,
our neighbor’s happiness and actively work for
it can the sympathy we feel for him” really
partake of the nature of generosity.. Other-
wise it‘is a mere impulse, evanescent as the

 

foam upon the wave.

 

. CLASPED HANDS,

- BY B. NORMAN GUNNISON,

‘The foaming surf along the beach
Washes upon the heated sand—

The bathers wade, and each to each
Stretch kindly out a helping hand. :

The’ wave sweeps in and breaks the hold,
The shallow waters grow more deep,

And they are changed, and strangely celd
Has grown to us their inward sweep.

Upon the hot sands of our years
The waves roll slowly in to land;
Amid our doubtings and our fears,
We reach to grasp a kindly hand.
That hand is held, the wave sweeps on,
It coldly rolls with foam-flecks~ tipped,
We reach in vain, the hand is gone,
From out our own its clasp as slipped.

And thus it is with all we hold;
We grasp but for a fleeting day;
The wave sweeps onward, high and cold,
And those we trust are borne away.
Yet, reaching upward we may feel,
Yeay whether on the sea or land,
While over us the waters steal,
The Clasping of a kindly hand.

BRAVE BARBARA.

ee

By EFFLE ADELAIDE ROWLANDS,

Author of “A Girl's Kingdom,” “A Woman Scorned,"
“4 Kinsman's Sin,” ete., ete.

(“BRAVE BARBARA” was commenced in No. 36,

Back
numbers can be obtained of ali newsdealers.,)

8

CHAPTER XV.

Great excitement prevailed in the little town
of Newchester, an excitement that spread to
Lingford, and even to the small village that
lay beyond the Manse estates. It was in New-
chester that the major portion of Villiers’
wealth was derived, for it was fast growing
to be a populous and eee successful
mariufacturing place. And all the land upon.
which buildings were springing into existence
belonged to. Lionel Villiers. :

Hitherto this town of Newchester had re-
served to itself the right of affording excite-
ment in the autumn to its inhabitants, and to
the Dern Oeree country, for it was in New-
chester Town Hall that the celebrated county
ball was given, an event to which all the
young people looked forward eagerly; but
this year the brilliancy of this.function was
eclipsed entirely by the stream of entertain-
ments started by Mrs. Grantley immediately
on her arrival at Castle Chase...

She was not content with filling the house
with guests; she threw open the doors of the
beautiful old house and issued invitations to
dinners, luncheons and tea parties; and final-
ly, when she had been at Castle Chase about
a fortnight, she sent out cards for a dance.

The effect of so much hespitality and energy
on the part of Sir Charles’ mother was quite
electrical.

Barbara hardly knew the sleepy old village
in its present guise.

The excitement reached her also, but it did
not have upon her the same influence it would
have had some months ago, for the girl was
still much depressed.

There was no anger in her father’s face,
nor in his voice; he seemed to have gone
back to his old self; yet the girl realized only
too surely every hour of her life that she
and her father would never be knit together
ean. never be to each other what they had

een. : « : .

The name of Lionel was not even spoken
between them. She did not know what had
happened.

At times a yearning to plead to her father
for forgiveness was almost’ too strong; at
times the longing to beat down this invisible
barrier that separated them was almost un-
supportable; but, young as she was, Barbara
was learning wisdom. She Knew that it was
better that they should remain silent, for
were they to reintroduce the subject, the
bitterness might be greater than before. *~

She went about her work as cheerily as she
could; she never relaxed one iota of her ten-
der, anxious care; and no one remarked that
her smile was but transitory, and that she
seemed to have grown more slender than ever.

Mrs. Baillie might have seen this had she
and Barbara met, but all the old freedom was
at an end for the latter. It was strange for
her not to find herself dancing across the
lawns and making herself at home in the old
house she loved so well; but with the advent
of Mrs. Grantley the very atmosphere about
Castle Chase seemed changed.

The- carriages were always rolling to and
fro in the lanes, bearing new guests. There
was no longer tranquility and unbroken peace;
it seemed as if a little portion of the great
city had been set down in the heart of this
quiet, old-world place. Ps

The only time that Barbara had been at
Castle Chase had been on the occasion when
she had driven with her father, to leave
cards with Mrs. Grantley. 5

It seemed strange indeed to the girl to fulfill
this stiff, conventional duty.

She had only a glimpse into the hall, but
it seemed to her as if Mrs. Grantley were
installed with all the retinue of a queen.

In the old days a gray-haired butler (since
dead) had opened the door to Sir Norman’s
guests; now there were at least four or five
footmen, and all the simplicity was gone.
Barbara was soonsweary of hearing the gossip
and excited talk that prevailed. She had an-
other little trouble in connection with this
matter. <

When Mrs. Grantley sent forth her invita-
tions, Lady Susan Villiers drove down to the
cottage.

Barbara saw her coming, and her heart
contracted. It cost her so much to seem in-
different and negligent to her godmother, yet
how was it possible to take up the old friend-
ship as if nothing had happened?

She was very pale as she went out to greet
Lady Susan Villiers. ~~

She was sure that this visit was significant
of some kindly thought on the older woman’s
part, and ‘she shivered; for though it might
have been natural to her to expect kindnesses

“Vol. 56—No. 430

oo

Barbara rose to her feet.

| I do. ;
There was a pang at her heart as she spoke
—a pang that had been set there the day
before, when she and Nelia Somers had met
for a few moments. :
Miss Somers had been .walking with Sir
Charles along the high road that led past

had come face to face with them. - ;

She had given“her hand to Charles Grantley
and had bent her head to Miss Somers, and
she had wondered, poor child, why it was
that sight of Nelia’s beauty could be so hurt-
ful to her. : ;

“T was just asking Sir Charles to show me
your home,”’ said Nelia, with her most fascin-
ating smile. ‘‘I wonder if you will let me
come and see. you some afternoon, Miss Bunt-
ng?’ ;

“T shall be very gilad,’’ Barbara had said; -
and then Nelia had smiled again.

“T had a letter from your brother this morn- -
ing,’’ Nelia said. ‘‘He tells me he hopes to
be down here véry soon.”’

She passed on with this, and Charles Grant-
ley had passed on with her. : é

arbara had that vision of Nelia before her
now as she thought of Dick. - :

It hurt her more than she could describe to—
realize that her brother could be so indifferent.
to his relatives at home, and yet find time to
write to this stranger -

Dick,’’ she replied. _ a

Lady Susan sighed a little impatiently.

She really did not quite understahd Barbara
in these days. .

“T think you had better have a soft, white
silk gown,’’ she observed. ‘‘We will drive into
Newchester to-morrow. That dressmaker who
has come from town is really quite clever.
She made me this cape; I am quite pleased

with it.
ate little color had waved up into Barbara’s

ace,

“Don’t think me unkind, godmother,’’ she
said, pleadingly, “but I cannot let you give
me a new dress. After ali,’’ she went .on,
quickly, ‘‘an evening gown is quite useless
to me. I was not even going to the county
ball this year, and if I can avoid it I shall
not gO to Mrs. Grantley’s dance.’ ;

Lady Susan turned and looked at the girl.

Her usual good-natured expression had dis-
appeared, and she was frowning. ;
-“T don’t in the least know .what has come
to you, Barbara,’ she said. “I never antici-
pated that you were going to develop into
one of those objectionable, strong-minded girls,
but this is what it seems to me you are fast
becoming. I think Lionel is quite right—you
have been allowed far too much liberty.” __

Barbara had to turn and press her hands
to her lips to check the words that rushed

broken by the appearance of Dr. Bunting,
hes Beer in his study when Lady Susan ar-
rived. *

‘Now, Oscar,’ said Lady Susan, “you are
just in time. arbara has annoyed me very
much, indeed; she not only declares that she
will not come to this dance, but she_ refuse
to allow me what is my privilege as her
godmother—to superintend her gowns.”

Dr. Bunting glanced at his daughter:

“Barbara has lately developed a will of her
own,” he said, lightly; but the girl caught the
bitterness in his voice, - E

woe answered him on the spur of the mo-
ment, : :

“You know, dearest,’’ she responded, and
theré was a break in her voice, ‘“‘that my will
is always subservient to yours.”’ a

“Not always;’’ answered Dr. Bunting, dryly.

Barbara put her hand to her brow. ith
an effort she restrained her tears.

She went behind him as he sat, and let her.
hands rest on his shoulder.

eee is your.will in this, dad dear?’ she
asked. :

Dr. Bunting moved so that her hands slipped
from his shoulder.

“Need you ask?’ he replied, almost coldly.
“T desire that my daughter should do what
others in her position do. You have no rea-
sonable excuse for refusing Mrs. Grantley’s
invitation; and if Lady Susan is so good as to.
interest herself in you, I think it is your duty
to accept her kindness with gratitude.”

' Barbara paused a moment, and this time it,
was impogsible for her,to keep back the tears.
She saw the old familiar room as thro a
mist, then she conquered herself. Bice hae

to Lady
mother she stooped
cheek. “If you insist on being kind to’ me,’’.
she said, ‘I am very grateful.” — ae

And after that Lady Susan was in her ele-

ment.

“J want the child to look her very best,”
she said to Dr. Bunting. “‘This is really a
kind of debut for her.’’ '

And when Barbara came back with Bessie
and the tea tray, she chattered on eagerly
about the things that she should arrange.

In a sense it was a relief to the girl's con-
strained heart to hear this kindly woman gos-
sip and chat, and yet she had never felt so
sad in all her life as She felt now.

Unconsciously she found herself thinki of
Kathleen Lambart. Not once, but many times
since they had parted, she found herself turn-
ing to this gentle creature as to one who
would have been the greatest solace to her

now.

Outwardly Lady Susan Villiers was the em-
bodiment of charity and good nature, but she
was just one of those good souls who blunder
through their very goodness.

She drove away well content with the result
of her visit, and Barbara felt herself pledged
to go with her on the morrow and choose a
gown. * °

Though it was-gall and bitterness to her to
bend her pride in this way, she accepted the
sacrifice; and yet even as she did so, it seemed
‘to her so strange that her father, who must
have known her spirit almost better than she
did herself; shoul
drew back

from this indebtedness to the.
mothe

of the man she had refused to marry.
When shé returned from accompanying Lady
Susan to her carriage, she found her father
had returned to his study. 2
Barbara sat down in one of the old-fashioned

its chintz cover.

She felt tired and depressed. : <

In this moment she realized what a strain
it had been upon her nervous system to live.
through the fortnight, so close to and yet so
far from her father. ‘ :

It seemed to her that it would be ee te
for her to go on living in such a adow.

and she seized it almost eagerly, for it bore
Mrs. Lambart’s handwriting, and Barbara was.
very anxious to have news of her friend. _

The letter did her good. It was so bright,
seemed to be so full of happiness, and it was
full of gratitude to Charles Grantley.

*J find it impossible,’’ Mrs. seareee wrote,
“to let you know how infinitely good Sir
Charles has been to us. He seems to have

from Lady Susan, it was most bitter to let] remembered every little thing about which I

Lionel Villiers’ mother show her the smallest
attention. ;

Lady Susan kissed her most affectionately.

“Do you know that it-is a whole week since
you have been to see me, Barbara?’’ she said.
“T am very much hurt by your indifference.”

Barbara kissed her.

“You must forgive me, dear,’’ she said; “I
have so much to do, and i must be here to
look after father when he comes home. You
know that there has lately been a great deal
of illness among the poor.” ~

Lady Susan sighed. - :

She had never forgotten that speech of
Lionel’s about Oscar Bunting.

‘Your father ought not to work so much,”’
she said, almost fretfully. “I saw him as I
drove through the village just now; he looks
a mere shadow.”’

The girl uttered a little cry. ‘

“Oh, no!’’ she said, involuntarily, and she
clasped her hands tightly together. ‘‘I thought
—he—he was looking better.”’

Lady Susan awakened to the fact that she
had spoken too freely. $ “

“Of course I am only speaking figuratively,”’
she hastened to say now.- ‘‘All the same,
mean to have a conversation with Oscar.
he won’t give up practice altogether, he must
have a holiday. But, now, come and sit beside
me, Barbara; I want to ask you what you are
going to wear at Mrs. Grantley’s dance,”’

Barbara sat down beside her godmother and
smiled a wan smile. s : F

“It is not easy for me to talk about dress
when I have distressing thoughts of my father
pressing on my heart.” “

“Oh, but you must think about dress!” cried
Lady Susan, cheerfully. ‘‘You are very much
too dull, Girls of your ageé are generally
amusing themselves from morning to night.” —

*J don’t want to go to this dance, god-
mother,’’ Barbara said, suddenly, .

“Not want to go?’ echoed Lady -Susan; ‘“‘but
this is absurd, you know.’” .

“Other girls may amuse themselves from
morning till night,” Barbara said, in her
candid way, ‘“‘but other girls are not placed
as I am. I know you think that I am very
unhappy; but I want for nothing, as long as
ican be with dad and help to make life a

‘little easier for him.”

“That is Dick's duty,” said Lady Susan, a

little crossly.

spoke to him. His generosity is only equaled
by his tact. Kenneth has lost his heart to
his kinsman, and I feel almost as if-I had
another son. And yet, with all this, I am
troubled about Charles Grantley. ere is
something in his loo 1 ;
voice, that tells me he is at times a miserable
man.
I fancy that I have been mistaken, something:
drives back to me my first conclusion. He
has been to see us constantly, an
desires that we should go to Castle Chase;
but as I understand that his mother is enter-

vent my accepting his offer, apart.
which, as you know; I have no desire to meet
his mother. I only wanted -to know that.
Charles Grantley would be a friend to my
boy, and now that I am sure of this, I am
satisfied. te : :

“Tt wish I could see you, dear Barbara. Ken-
neth sends his love to you, and he is so
grateful to you and to your father for all
that you did for me. Tell Dr. Bunting I think
I am better; at any rate, I hope I am, for
Kenneth’s sake.’’ : v

There was a warmth in Barbara’s heart
as she read these words of heartfelt appre-
ciation of Charles Grantley, that had not been
there these many re past. é

It was the kind of feeling that always came
when some one spoke in praise of her father;
but, as she re-read Mrs. Lambart’s letter, a
shadow came over her face, and the warmth
died out of her heart. yee

It had not needed Mrs. Lambart’s own few
words to let Barbara understand how right
was his*kinswoman’s definition of him.

He was an unhappy man, he who had every-
thing in the world to give him eae

She herself had seen that misery in his
eyes, and she longed to sweep it away.

moment in this last fortnight, Barbara had
seemed to dwell with him. te we
readiness with. which he taken “up the
work she had found for him. The magnitude
of Sir Charles’ undertaking, in connection
with that portion of the Chase property which
had for so long been a reproach, was indeed
a theme of common talk in the place. This.
combined with his mother’s lavish gots feet
land his own energy in furthering good wor

 

 

 

“Dick,” she repeated—‘Dick cannot do what |

Chairs and leaned her head wearily against

Bessie brought her a letter as she sat there, |

the cottage, and Barbara had passed out and | —

have ceased to ‘build any hopes, about |

ak

to them, and a silence prevailed which was —

Re ey 3 :

“T will go and get some tea, dear,” she said
Nisan, and as she passed her god-

and kissed the smooth: —

not support her when she

in the tone of his —
I try to think otherwise, yet just when - |

always |

taining very largely, this in itself would pre-
from |

Though they had only met for that one brief >

| She had been inexpressibly touched “by. the —
- ha

 

see

 

 
 

 

 

JHEANEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

 

 

on the estate, elicited general praise, and Sir
Charles Grantley was being quickly forgiven
for his long absence,

The one topic, indeed, upon which Dr. Bunt-
ing had discussed freely, had been the topic
of Sir Charles Grantley’s many improvements.

“At least we have got a gal head at Castle
Chase,” he said. “There were many splendid
qualities in old Sir Norman; but this man
seems to me to -grasp the responsibiilty of the
position as the other never did.’’

And Barbara had listened, and had treas-
ured these words as she treasured those writ-

_ten words of Kathleen Lambart’s; yet, as
she folded up the letter and rose to put it
away, there flashed back to her the vision of
Nelia’s face, the remembrance of those two
walking slowly away together. Remembrance
‘also of the whisper that was passing around
the village that this beautiful Miss Somers
was destined to be the future mistress of
Castle Chase, and warmth .and gladness died
out of Barbara’s heart and left it cold as a
stone in her breast. “S \

CHAPTER XVI.

Mrs. Grantley was well satisfied with her-
self and with the way in which things were
proceeding,

She had not, as a matter of fact, antici-
pated finding life at Castle Chase pleasant or
easy, and if it had not been that she felt
convinced Sir Charles would have been very
much better satisfied if she had not joined
him, she would have hesitated a long time
before arranging to spend the winter in such
a dull place.

It needed only a little opposition to make
a@ nature like Alma Grantley’s become deter-
mined to resist that opposition; but life at
Castle Chase had agreeably disappointed her.
In the first place, her son made no effort to
dispute her authority, neither did he seem to
object to anything that she chose .to do.
In the second place, he seemed altogether
more reasonable. In the third place, she had
great hopes of seeing matters comfortably ar-
ranged between Nelia and herself.

She did not see too much of Sir Charles,
-which was, in a sense, also agreeable; and,
though she had little sympathy with the va-
rious improvements he had started in connec-
tion with the estate, and realiy grudged the
money such work demanded, Mrs. Grantley
was Only too pleased to note that there was
something that could interest and occupy Sir
Charles’ mind.

When he was absent every. now and then
for a day, she naturally supposed that he went
to see his lawyers, or to interview some one
in connection with the vast alterations that
he was making in the village.

She did not count the hours till he returned,
as Nelia did; she did not have that gnawing
sensation of doubt that was burning gradually
through Nelia’s self-control.

As the names of Kathleen Lambart and her
son were never spoken between Sir Charles
and herself, Mrs. Grantley lulled herself into
the comforting conviction that she was not
going to be troubled with these people.

She was in her element entertaining numer-
ous guests. She had frequent visits from an
army of fashionable folk—people who were
absolute strangers to Charles Grantley in
every sense of the word.

He welcomed them since they were his
mother’s friends, but he had nothing in com-
mon with them.

Nelia, watching him with jealous intensity,
saw that he turned indifferently from all the
women, many of whom were long-standing
rivals of her own, and noted that he seemed
only to be content when he was away from
the people who thronged his house.

His manner toward herself presented a prob-
lem which she found impossible to solve.

He did not seem to avoid her as he did the
others, yet he never sought her. If ever they
were alone together, it was always her doing.

His manner was always the same—grave,
gentle, courteous. : ;

Nelia could not sleep at nights because of
her disturbing thoughts about him. It was
not merety selfish anxiety to fix.her future
that agitated her mind; it was a new and
deeper feeling that had taken possession of
Nelia these last few weeks—a feeling that was
as closely akin to love as such a nature as
hers could ever experience.

She had been utterly indifferent to Charles
Grantley in the old days, as; indeed, she had
been indifferent to all the many others .who
had fluttered about her; but this indifference
existed no longer; it was not only the magnifi-

 

 

a

}

 

 

cent position, the wealth, the luxury, that ap-

pealed to her; it was the man himself she
wanted—the Charles Grantley of the old days
for whom she craved.

But as the days went by Nelia was forced
to admit that the Charles Grantley of those
old days was not only dead te -her, -but to
all the world. ~

It was_a bitter blow to her vanity to have
to set this truth before herself; and if she
could have deceived herself she would gladly
have done so; but it was useless for her to
build up her hopes and ambitions. upon so
insecure.a foundation; indeed, at times she
almost wearily set aside these hopes, so
gloomy did the future seem.

But such moods did not last long. Nelia
had far too much at stake to lightly relinquish
such’ a magnificent chance,

If she could only arrive at the knowledge
as to the cause of this great change in him,
then she might be able to see her way clearly.

By this time she had conjectured that, though
she pretended ignorance, Mrs. Grantley knew
the truth concerning her son.

There were many times when Nelia longed
to force Alma Grantley to share this truth
with her.

What made her position more disagreeable
was that she was perfectly well aware that
everybody was putting their own construction
upon her presence at Castle Chase.

The smart women who came down from
tewn were none too pleased with her. They
considered Charles Grantley far too wealthy,
handsome and desirable a young man to be a
suitable mate for her, and Nelia had never
been popular with her own sex; she was too
beautiful for other women to love her. Even
now, had she chosen, she could have.started
a flirtation under arles Grantley’s very
nose; but she did not so do simply because
she knew by thi8 time that she would not
be able to rouse him by such means.

She felt, she hardly knew why, that Sir
Charles might resent any reference to the

@ boyish infatuation of past years; yet, putting

this apart, it gave her a kind of satisfaction
to feel that ick’s sister did not approve
of her brother’s friendship with herself.

And Nelia did not like Barbara; althdugh
she apprehended no danger from the girl, still
she disliked her because of her rare beauty
and guilelessness. And on that one occasion
when they had met in the road outside Tudor
Cottage, Nelia’s dislike had become more pro-
nounced.

She resented the fact that Barbara was
aoe than she, that she had an equally
proud bearing, and that even in her shabby,
countrified clothes (such a contrast to her own
well-cut garments) the doctor’s daughter was
her equal. ‘

She had thrown out a feeler as she and Sir
Charles walked away.

“That is an exceedingly pretty face; don’t
you think so?”

His answer had satisfied her.

“T suppose you are right; but I must truth-
fully say I have never studied her face.”

He might have added what came in his
mind as he uitered this statement,

‘“‘Because I have been drawn to the beauty
of her Heart and the simplicity and nobility
of her nature;’’ but this was something that
Charles Grantley kept to himself, and Nelia
was not to Know that at the sound of Bar-
bara’s voice this man’s pulses would stir as
they never had been stirred, even when she
and her beauty had been paramount with him.

She tried to fling herself into his mood, to
be most sympathetic.

She always withdrew from the others when
they sat down after dinner to play bridge
whist, or some other fashionable game; and
on such occasions Sir Charles would feel in
duty bound to go and sit beside her.

“I suppose I must be very stupid,’ Nelia
would say; “but I cannot see the fascination
of cards.”’

“T wish,”’ Sir Charles Grantley said to her
once, “that you would impress this feeling on
my mother.’’ e

He spoke in“a low voice, and he glanced
as he did so at a table in the adjoining room,
around which were gathered the guests of the
moment. »

‘If you do not like it,’’ said Nelia to him,
softly, “why do you noi stop it? Are you not
master here?’’

He did not answer her—he only shivered.

Another time she spoke to him of his music.

“Why do you never play now?’ she asked
him. “I remember how delightful it used to
be sometimes of an evening, when you came
to see mother and myself, and, you would sit
and play for hours.”

“T have said farewell to music,’ Sir Charles
answered.

She was watching him eagerly. His face
did not change as she spoke of those evenings.

Was it possible, she asked herself, in a stifled
sort of way, that she could have lost all
power over him? The struggle to win him
back was wearying her; there were times

when she felt almost too ill; there were mo-
ments when Nelia longed for tranquillity.

‘Why does Alma bring all these people
here?’ she asked herself at these times. ‘‘He
hates them} they drive him away. If we were
here alone, it would be so much more pleasant
for him.’’

But Mrs. Grantley had no intention of. fore-
going her own pleasure.

She threw herself heart and soul imto the
preparations for her dance.

Mrs. Baillie was bewildered at the extent
of preparation that went on.

The whole castle seemed to be put into the
hands of decorators.

Cases of magnificent flowers arrived from
the South of France. Everything that money
could buy and taste could devise seemed to
be forthcoming.

It was™“the fulfillment, indeed, of Sir Charles’
propheey to Mr. Lorrimer, for the house was
turned literally upside down.

The affair was to start with a big dinner,
and Nelia had devised an exquisite gown for
the occasion.

‘He will waltz with me,’’ she said to her-
self; ‘‘he will hold me in.his arms; I will speak
to him of those old days; I will remind him
of that one night that we waltzed together
just before he went abroad; then I shall know
if he really has forgotten, or if he is only
treating meso coldly. now because_I treated
him coldly then.’’

She had never looked more beautiful than
she did now in her gossamer gown of white,
with pearls about her throat, and some white
flowers in her soft, golden hair.

Those who envied Miss Somers her charm-
ing clothes, those who always saw her ex-
quisitely garbed, never realized that the money
lavished on these things would have made a
vast difference to her mother’s life, and Nelia
was the very last person of all to devote
thought to this.

She was only too glad to get away.from
the remembrance of her mother, and her heart
beat with passionate hope on what this night
might bring forth.

Mrs. Grantley fluttered into her room, for a
brief inspection of Nelia, just before they de-
scended together.

She was in the highest. spirits.

“You look perfectly sweet, darling,’’ she de-
clared. “Dear me! what a delightful thing it
must be to be beautiful!’

“Surely it cannot be difficult for you to
realize that!’ laughed Nelia, her spirits catch-
ing the infectf6n of enjoyment from the other.

“Oh, for an old woman I—I am not so
bad, you know,’’ Mrs. Grantley said, merrily.
“Sometimes I really find it hard to believe
that I am the mother of a grown-up son. Oh,
by the way, Nelia, I have just had a penciled
note from Lionel Villiers, asking me if he
can come to-night. Silly boy! of course he
knows that he may come. I thought he was
abroad, or I should have written to him. I
asked his mother the other day where he was,
and I understood her to say he was abroad.
Let me see, wasn’t he very devoted to you
a little while ago?”

Nelia shrugged her shoulders.

_ “Dear Alma,’’ she said, ‘‘don’t let us_go
into ancient history. You know by this time
that I am a failure. So many people have
been devoted to me, as my mother says,.and
here I am fast becoming an old maid.’’ :

Mrs. Grantley looked at her. She saw that
there was bitterness under the lightness of
these words. \

“You have it in your power to change all
that, Nelia, when you like.”

Nelia shook her head.

“No, you overrate my power.’’

The two women were silent for a moment.

It disturbed Alma Grantley far more than
she could have described to hear this note
a weariness, almost of despair, in Nelia’s
voice,

She was beginning to be impatient; she could
not understand why Nelia should be so long
in working out the end that was so desirable
to them both.

“T will not believe that you have lost your
powers of fascination,’’ she said, suddenly.
“Two or three years ago you could do what
you liked with Charles.’”’

ae paused an instant, then she bent for-
ward.

“Be frank with me, Alma,’’ she said. ‘‘What
is it that has changed him?’ .

Mrs. Grantley’s face paled till the delicate
tint of her complexion stood eut like a mask.

“Why do.you think that I know?” she asked,
and Nelia answered her with another question.

“Why do you prevaricate with me? We
must be. plain with each other, Alma. You
know that I care for Charles as I never
thought I should care for any living soul.
You know that to be his wife isithe one hope
,of my life; and you know also tRat you desire
this, for some reason of your own—that you
are as eager in one sense as Iam. Have I not
the right, therefore, to know the truth?”

Mrs. Grantley paused. It seemed as if she
were struggling with herself; then she laughed
an airy. empty laugh.

“My dear Nelia, you imagine too much. I
am, indeed, eager that you should be Charles’
wife, because F think you are the only one in
the world for him; but I have no other reason;
I assure you, than to see you both happy.’’
Then she fluttered to the door, gathered her
laces and silks about her,. and waved her
| hand.

“I must go downstairs,”’
guests will be arriving.’’

Nelia stood and looked after her with a
frown, then she turned. }

‘“‘Never mind,” she said to herself; “if Alma
will not tell me the truth, then Charles must.
To-night I will put an end to all this suspense.
If he will not speak, then I must, for I cannot
endure this kind of existence any longer.’’

TO BE CONTINUED,

she cried; ‘‘my

Items of Interest.

One-fifth of the married couples of France
are childless.

The Supreme Court of Tennessee has de-
ete that women cannot practice law in that
tate.

The albatross has been- known to follow a
ship for two months without ever being seen
to alight.

Hot water is used to sprinkle the streets in
Boise City, Idaho. It’ is drawn from an
artesian well.

In the oil district of Baku, Russia, the flow
from some of the wells runs as high as 60,000
barrels a day for each well.

Australia is tired of pounds, shillings and
pence, and is considering the advantage of
adopting the decimal system in counting its
money,

An extensive oyster bed near Mobile, Ala.,
was recently sold for $130,000. It is estimated
that it at present contains $100,000 worth of
oysters. :

The new United States Mint Building in
Philadelphia cost $2,000,000; but in a few weeks
it will be able to make enough money to pay
the entire cost\of erection.

When Vesuvius is at her best as a spouter,
she performs wonders. Her longest and great-
est eruption lasted from July, 1895, to Septem-
ber, 1899, and one day a rock rete hing thirty
tons was hurled to a height of 1, feet.

a
The proprietor of a dry goods store in
Preston, Ohio, is supérintendent of a Sunda
school, On a recent Sabbath, in the school,
after explaining the Bible lesson, he _ said:
“Does any one wish to ask a question?” “I
do, Mr. Barnes,’’ said a little girl, in great
excitement, ‘‘How much is those little red
parasols in your show window?’

A maltese cat and a large rat had a fight
to a finish on the lawn fronting the residence
of B. W. Scott, in Anderson, Ind. It must
have been a savage contest, for the next
morning both animals were found dead, each
clutching the other. The rat’s teeth were
fastened in the cat’s neck, while the cat’s
jaws firmly held the rat’s body.

The proprietors of a medicine manufactured
in Topeka must have discovered the elixir of
life, and are trying to push it for alli it is
worth. Here is one of their advertised testi-
monials from a lady whom it miraculously
snatched from the jaws of death: ‘‘Having
suffered fifteen years from a fatal disease, I
am eee to. say that I am now entirely
cured.”’ 2

A colored couple in Charleston, 8. C., who
for years kept a small grocery, recently an-
nounced their intention to retire from _ trade.
This was the notice displayed on the door of
their store: ‘‘Dis am to inform de public dat
me an’ de old ooman am goin’ out of bisness.
Dem dat owes de firm may settle with me;
dem dat de firm owes may settle with de old
ooman.,’’

Curiosity is one of the conspicuous traits of
@ lady in Ellsworth, Me. She is also so afraid
of fire that at night she frequently scents the
smoke of imaginary conflagrations. Suddenly
awaking her husband one night, she solemnly

 

‘| aspirants,

 

declared that there was smoke in the air. ‘‘It
smells like rubber burning,’’ she said. ‘‘Oh,
it’s your neck,”’ the husband drowsily replied.
With a snort of contempt she at once shut
up.

. The first action of a partridge, on awaking
in the morning, is to eat breakfast. A tricky
fellow in Custer, Montana, who raises part-
ridges, confines them in a dark cellar. Four or
five times a day he turns on the electric lights,
and the partridges, under the impression that
day has dawned, repeatedly proceed to break-
fast. Thus they are induced to fatten them-
selves for the market.

SUSAN WILDE’S CHOICE.
BY MAURICE SILINGSBY.

Susan Wilde was in a deep quandary.

Her aunt, Mrs. Gladstone, was working an
embroidery pattern at the opposite end of the
room. On a stand in front of Susan lay a
necklace of pearls and a simple white rose.

The rose and the pearls were each accom-
panied with a separate note. They had both
been presented to her by special messengers
within the last half hour,

“DEAR SUSAN.—Will you wear this rose on
your bosom this evening, if there is any room
for hope for one who loves you truly and
devotedly? HENRY JOY.”’

The second read as follows:
“Springvale, June —, 18—.
“DEAR Miss WILDE.—If you feel that you
can ever love me with one half the ardor and
intensity that I do you, please acknowledge
the sweet truth by accepting the pearls, and
wearing them at Mrs. Gladstone’s receptio
this evening. THUR FLOYD.’

And these two missives were the source of
the quandary into which Susan Wilde, the
acknowledged beHe of Springvale, had so
naturally and insensibly fallen. Arthur Floyd
was of the firm of Floyd & Son, dry goods
merchants, while Henry Joy was simply a
salaried clerk in the establishment of the
aforesaid firm. The young men were of about
the same age, both intellectual, well educated,
and good looking. They had been classmates
at the same university, and young Joy owed
his present position in the establishment to
the influence of his friend, Arthur. Both were
madly ‘in love with Susan Wilde, the beautiful
orphan niece of weaithy and aristocratic Mrs.
Gladstone, who had come to reside at Spring-
vale after the death of her husband, who was
reputed to be worth millions. Mrs. Gladstone
was still of a marriageable age, being but a
trifle over forty, and remarkably healthy and
young-looking. ‘Mr. Gladstone had left his
property equally divided between herself and
stepson, a sophomore in Harvard.

Susan was an only child of an elder, sister,
who had died some years before, leaving her
offspring to Mrs. Gladstone’s care.

Her father had left some property, which
her mother, through tact and economy, had
very materially increased, so that at the time
of her death, Susan was left quite an heiress—
having an unincumbered farm, and some four
or five thousand dollars at interest. Neither
of the young men had concealed from the
other the passion for Susan” Wilde; and, rea-
soning between themselves that she could
make but one of the twe happy in a matri-
monial sense, they had jointly hit upon the
above novel method of ascertaining which of
the two might claim her preference, each
promising to abide by the young lady’s de-
cision, without harboring the slightest enmity
or ill-will against the other.

In their social intercourse, she had shown
no especial preference for one more than the
other. Their visits and attentions had hither-
to seemed equally welcome to the young lady,
and they were now both anxious to know
which was in the future to be the favored
one of her choice.

Susan had read both of the notes carefully,
and was now deeply pondering. They. had
evidently brought the young girl to a profound
sense of reflection, and she saw that she must
decide between the two.

Arthur Floyd, aside from his personal at-
tractions, had abundant prospective wealth to
recommend him; while Henry Joy had only
his intellect, beauty, and fine physical powers
to plead for him. With almost unlimited
means at his command, the former could
place her in the most. exalted position in
society, while the latter, with no other re-
source than his salary, could only expect to
support a wife comfortably, not ostentatiously.

“Well,” said Mrs. Gladstone, after a some-
what lengthy silence, “you seem to be un-
usually reserved on the subject of your morn-
ing’s correspondence, Can’t you see that your
good auntie is dying with curiosity to learn
the contents of the notes?” q

Susan looked up confusedl

“Will -you read them,”
shall I?’

“You read them, dearie. You see, I am busy
just now with the embroidery pattern.”’

Susan obeyed, reading aloud what we have
already submitted to the reader. :

“What am I to do?’ she questioned, with
a look of evident annoyance, although it was
plain from the blush that accompanied it that
she felt not a little flattered. 2 ;

“Why, you silly little innocent,’ , replied
Mrs. Gladstone, laughing, ‘it is against all
rules of propriety to keep two strings to your
bow after they have become so importunate.
The only thing you have to do is to consider
the respective claims of these two daring
and decide between them. The
choice cannot be very difficult, of course,
when you consider their relative positions in a
worldly sense.’’ ‘ : ie

“T know, Arthur is rich and Henry is poor.

‘Yes: and the former is certainly not greatly
inferior to the latter in point of beauty. and
intelligence. Of course, you will discard the
rose for the pearls?”

“T am not sure, auntie, dear. I have been
pondering the matter deeply for the last five
minutes. I have always prided myself that I
am something of a judge of human nature.
To be sure, Arthur Floyd is rich, and can
lavish pearls, or even diamonds, upon the lady
‘of his choice; but in my knight of the white
rose I recognize a natural superiority that
wealth alone cannot confer. My decision,
auntie, ought not to be governed wholly by
the present situation; for riches, you know,
have wings; and, aside from that, I find in
my poor admirer more sincerity, more strength
of purpose, and a great deal less vanity and
selfishness than may be found wrapped up
in him who is represented by. pearls.

“Surely you would not be_so insane, my
dear, as_to resign Arthur Floyd, with his
prospective wealth and _ recognized social
standing, for a poor clerk in his employ, with
nothing but his good looks to recommend
him ?”’ r ?

“T might, auntie, A young girl is sometimes
supposed to consult her heart rather than her
ambition in these matters; and surely if I
allow my heart to have a voice, it will plead
most potently in favor of Harry.

“Well, I have no power_to control your de-
cision,’’ responded Mrs. Gladstone, somewhat
impatiently. ‘‘I can_only advise you as I
think for the best. You are, of course, your
own mistress; but as you make your bed, so
must you expect to lie.”

There was but little more said upon the
subject, and that night Susan Wilde wore the
white rose instead of the pearls. Arthur knew
of his disappointment in season to send in
his excuses to Mrs. Gladstone, for Susan had
returned his present, with an appropriate de-
clination, early in the afternoon. Indeed, Ar-
thur had privately flattered himself that the
preference would be awarded to him, in eon-
sideration of his wealth and_ high social
standing; and to be thus set aside for one 80
greatly his inferior in a worldly point of view
was a source of deep mortification to the
young man.

Henry Joy, on the contrary, was in an
ecstasy of happiness at sight of the simple
white rose so modestly displayed upon the
heaving bosom of the fond object of his
heart’s worship; and he. found opportunity in
the course of the evening to draw her into
the conservatory, beyond the reach of ligten-
ers, where he poured into fer willing ear the
passionate story of his love, and how feeble,
until that hour, had ever been his hope of
winning such an exalted prize.

“7 could net afford such a costly present as
Arthur sent you,’’ he whispered, softly, ‘‘and,
therefore, I had scarcely dared to hope. Had
I not loved you so wildly, so madly, I should
have hardly ventured to make the bold
proposition to you that I did.”

“JT thought it a model of manly delicacy and
cleverness,’ responded Susan, blushing, and
permitting him to squeeze her hand in a most
demonstrative manner.

“T felt myself very much in the condition of
a drowning man,’’ said Harry, in a tone of
happy triumph. ‘‘The faint hope I had of
winning you from:such a rival as Arthur was
the straw, figuratively speaking, at which I
grasped, and lo! it buoyed me up, and I gained
the haven of my desires, Oh! Susan, darling,
you don’t know how happy your sweet prom-
ise has made me!”’ y

“You_ know, Harry,’’ said Susan, quietly,
‘that I have always aimed to be a sensible

y.
she asked, ‘‘or

 

and steady-minded girl. When I chose you,
dearest, I did not do it without reflection. In
the first place,.I was fully sensible that I
loved you the best—that there was more, in
fact, worth loving in your character than in
Arthur’s. He would_be much ‘more selfish
and exacting with a wife, and far less self-
sacrificing himself than you; besides, I have
been made acquainted with some things that
do not reflect credit upon his character. For
instance, I have heard, on very. good au-
thority, that he sometimes drinks more than
is good for him; that he prefers associating
with gamblers and roughs, to sober, honest
young men of his own age—a class whom that
set characterize as ‘old-fashioned’—and I have
often heard it whispered that he, too; indulges
in the pernicious habit of gaming. Consider-
ing these defects, the intrinsic worth of your
character—for I have been assured by those
who know, that your record is a spotless one—
weighs more in my humble, womanly estima-
tion than all the wealth of the world asso-
ciated with a tarnished name. I reasoned
that Arthur, with habits of recklessness and
extravagance already formed, though rich and
courted now, might be poor, despised and de-
graded at no distant day; and then what
would a loving, proud-spirited woman have to
live for? I duly considered all these things,
as well as my decided preference for you;
and the result was, though contrary to my
good auntie’s advice, who had not the faculty,
as she said, to discover any of these bugbeéars,
I accepted the rose. in preference to the

pearls.”

“Bless you, darling?’ cried Harry, deeply
impressed by the sensible discrimination of his
promised bride. “If I ever disappoint you in
your hopes or expectations regarding me, it
will be because I lack the ability, not the will,
to sustain the réle I have marked out.”

“T have the most perfect confidence in your
ability, dear Harry; and to show you that If
have, I shall place every dollar of my little
fortune—some ten or twelve thousand in all,
if the farm can be disposed of to advantage—
entirely at your command, which will enable
you to commence business .on your own ac-
count—not so extensive as the Floyds to be-
gin with, of course; but under your careful
management it will grow. The man I marry
is not to be cramped in his aspirations on
account of my fears for the money I might
have lying idle in some savings bank.”’

The lover could only express his emotion of
gratitude by a tender pressure of the hand as
they strolled back, and once more mingled
with the gay company.

The next morning Susan informed her aunt,
Mrs. Gladstone, that she and Henry Joy were
to be married at the expiration of a month,
and preparations for the approaching nuptials
were immediately set on foot.

Everything was in readiness when the time
arrived; and a very costly and sensational
display was the legitimate result of Mrs.
Gladstone’s clever management.

Agreeable to the promise given him before
marriage, Mrs. Joy surrendered all her prop-
erty into her husband’s hands, and he im-
mediately set up for himself in a limited way
in the same line of business as the Floyds.

As Susan Had prophesied before their mar-
riage, his business grew, and its growth proved
a healthy and profitable one, In five years
Susan’s twelve thousand dollars had muliti-
plied to fifty, and Harry Joy was beginning
to be spoken of as one of the ‘“theavy men”
of Springvale.

But during that five years a great change
had come over the fortunes of Arthur Floyd.

His father had died, leaving him in full con-
trol of his extensive business. For a while
things seemed to go On as smoothly as ever
with Arthur, though prudent people observed
that he was becoming daily more fond of
the wine-cup and the disreputable company of
fast men and professional gamblers. He let
his business go at loose ends, trusting to the
integrity of the salesmen he employed, and
they robbed him. He spent much of his time
in the city, and a rumor reached Springvale
one day that he had lost twenty thousand
dollars at faro in one night—nearly twice the
amount of money that Harry Joy had had to
commence business upon.

From this time Arthur Floyd became more
reckless and dissipated than ever, and
cautious people began to whisper of impending
bankruptcy; and, sure enough, it came sooner
than the most observant. had predicted. A
sheriff’s officer from the city arrived one day
and closed down upon everything. He had
been running his business for a long time on
the strength of a credit which his father had
previously established for the house through
his business tact and integrity. :

The next morning after that. ruinous, but
to some, unexpected failure, Arthur Floyd
was found suspended by the neck to a great
beam in his own barn, and quite dead when
discovered. Susan Joy had just received @
call from her aunt, Mrs. Gladstone, when the
sad news of the suicide reached them,

‘‘Where should I have been now, had I ace
cepted the pearls?’ was all that Susan said.

“Indeed, dearie, you were wiser than I,
after all,” confessed Mrs. Gladstone, with a
sigh,

oe

FALLING FIVE THOUSAND FEET.

(Harvey Sutherland in Ainslee’s.)

‘**No, I don’t remember ever thinking over
all the past events of my life when I was
falling,’ said the workaday balloonist. ‘The
nearest I ever came to it was once when I
was about five thousand feet in the air, with
a gas balloon, and it burst on me. It seemed
an awful long time that I was falling, and
the air roared in my ears and through the
netting. I remember thinking, “Can this be
death?” but most of the time I was working
hard trying to get the parachute loose. The
balloon giving no resistance, I couldn’t pull
the knife hard enough to cut the rope. But
finally when I was about three hundred or
four hundred feet from the ground I got it
loose, and, the parachute being partiy open,
I came down all right. I used to have a linen
parachute that was a little too small, and
every time I came down with such a jolt
that I used to shake myself and twist around

to see if I was all there. Yes, this scar on
my hand is 'the only bad accident I ever had
with a ‘balloon. Oh, bumps and scratches
don’t count. You must expect them. But if
a man is careful and looks out for every-
thing, it's as safe a business as any. You
read in the papers every once in a while dis-
patches with the headline, ‘‘Another Aeronaut
Killed.’’ They’re not aeronauts; they’re bal-
loonatics. They’re careless, or they’re too
brave. Well, foolhardy, if you like. It’s hard
to draw the line. Real aeronauts die in their
beds at a good old age. Look at Coxwell, the
man that took Professor Glaisher up so many
times—once the highest that any man ever
went, seven miles straight up, so high that
Glaisher was insensible: and Coxwell lost the
use of his hands and had to climb up into
the ring with his elbows and pull the cord
to the escape valve with his ‘teeth. Nothing
ever happened to him. Look at old man King;
he must be one hundred years old, and good
as new. Nothing ever happened to him. Look
at Wise—look at the Baldwin brothers. Noth-
ing ever happened to them. Why? Because
they know their business, and look after
everything and don’t take any chances un-
necessarily. I have had as many as nineteen
aeronauts working for me in a season, and if
a man says, “Oh, that'll be all right,’’ or,
“Pd as Heve be dead as alive, anyhow,” I
don’t want him around. I want people that
expect to come back and go up another time.
I strap them in ‘the trapeze so they can’t fall
out, and if there’s any waiter about I make
’°em wear a life-preserver.~I always do, my-
self—regular United States Life Saving kind—
one that will keep you floating for two days.’ ”

 

 

THE PEOP: E’S
COMMON SENSE

MEDICAL ADVISER

IN PLAIN ENGLISH;

OR

Medicine Simplified.

By RAY VAUGHN PIERCE, M.D.,

Chief Consulting Physician to the Invalids Hotel and
Surgical Institute, and President of the World’s
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This book contains over one thousand pages pro-
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Although some of the subjects may seem out of

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adapted to their wants. and imparts information
without which millions will suffer untold misery.

We will send this book, postpaid, to any address
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ach oe °
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Advice te Mothers,

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Love, Courtship «« Marriage

L

uide

G

 

Ring.

Certificate—Wedding

to Make Home Happy.

A COMPLETE AND RELIABLE '!HAND-BOOK
CONTAINING VALUABLE INFORMATION ON
THE FOLLOWING SUBJECTS:

Introduction : What is Love *—The Symptoms of Love—The Tyranny
of Love—Getting Acquainted— Whom to Marry—The Age to
Marry—Love-Producing Qualities—Imaginary Love—Flirtation—
Prudery—Deception—Fickleness —How to Recognize True Love—
Flattery—Caprice—Contidence—Jealousy—O wuership as a Lover
—The Stages of Love—Proposing Marriage—How to Propose—
The Wooing of a Widow—Lovervy’
Engagements—The Rejection of a Propesal—The Rejected Lover
—Pleasing a Sweetheart—Courtship—Love Gifts—Love Signals
and Signs—Embraces—The Art of Kissing—The Engagement

Love Letters — Letter. Expressing Admiration Without Declaring
Love—Reply to the Above—Letter Expressing Love—Proposal
by Letter—Reply to Aboye—A Strictly Up-to-Date Proposal—
Sensible Reply to the Above—Letter From Betrothed Lover.

Engagement Announcement—“ Naming the Day ”—Invitations to
the Wedding— Wedding Cards — Wedding
Bride and Bridegroom — The Wedding Ring — Bridesmaids —
Groomsmen—The Bride’s Toilet--The Bridegroom’s Toilet —
Etiquette of Weddings—The Marriage Vow—To Honor and Obey
—After the Ceremony—Difference in Religion—The Registry and

Favors—Wedding ¢

Tour—The New Home—Wedding Announcements—A Talk With

the Bridal Pair — Divorce — Mothers-in-Law — Step-Mothers —

Attire of Husband and Wife—Personal Habits—Expenses of the

Household—Benetits of Happy Marriage—‘‘Old Maids ”’—How

Quarrels—Long and Short

Presents — Duty of

Feasts—The Wedding

 

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238 William St.,
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THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

Vol, 56—No. 43 —

 

 

 

 

THE BOY.

 

BY’ W. H, PIERCE.

\

I wouldn’t be single thing on earth
Except a boy;
And it’s just an accident of birth
That I’m a boy;
goodness gracious!
think
That I once trembled on the very brink
Of making my appearance here a girl,
It fairly makes my ears and eyebrows curl—
But I'm a boy.

 

And, When I stop and

Just think of all the jolly fun there is
When you’re a boy!
I tell you, you’re just full of business
When you're a boy.
There’s fires to build in all the vacant lots;
Go swimmin’, tie the fellers’ clothes in knots;
Tie tin cans on the tails of dogs—why, gee!
The days ain’t half as long as they should be
When you're a boy.

There's lots of foolish things that make you
tired
When you're a boy;
There's: heaps of grouchy men that can’t be
hired
To like a boy;
There’s wood to chop
bring,
And ‘‘Here, do this—do
And, worse than all,
smoke!
Are they a crime, or are they just a joke
Upon a boy?

at home, and«coal to
that—the other thing!’’
there’s girls—oh, holy

And then, there’s always somebody to jaw,
When you’re a boy—

Somebody always laying down the law
To every boy;

“Pick up your coat; see where you’ve put
your hat;

Don’t stone the dog, don’t tease the poor old
cat:

Don’t race around the house’’—why, suff'rin’
Moses!

The only time you have to practice things like
those is

When you're a boy!

And yet, I don’t believe I'd change a thing.
For. any boy;

You've got to°laugh, to cry, to work, to sing,
To be a boy;

With all his thoughtless noise and careless

play, ‘

With all his heartfelt trials day by day,

With all his boyish hopes and all his fears,

I'd like to live on earth a thousand years,
And be a boy.

AN ESCAPED CONVICT.

BY GRACE GOWING.

 

 

The man in stripes clipped steadily at the
warden’s rose hedge. The shears worked with
a rhythm while he counted under his breath:
“One, two, three, four, five,’’ then a pause,
and on again from one to ten, followed by a
longer pause, So convict No. 19 counted when
he did’ not want to think. Five years had
passed since the prison doors closed. on him;
ten more must drag themselves along before

 

i

 

 

 

he: might take off the stripes and let his hair
grow. ,

He looked up at the: warden’s; house, erown-
ing green terraces, then dowm at. the blue bay
stretching away to join the ocean. He. coul
dimly. discern the land: where ‘the city lay. ;In
fancy he walked the familiar streets, watched
the crowds passing and repassing, climbed the
stairs to his: old home; and dooked down, on
the smoky, dingy: square, -not:.so: fresh .and

~.green'asthis garden; but:there-were' no stripes

to be seen in it; men came and went as they
pleased,

Once more the rhythmic’ clip, clip went on.
It was..well enough for the men under lock
and key to think, but for a trusty, with the
free world about him, and the sky abuve him,
counting was better than thinking.

The prison bell tolled six o’clock. No.. 19
gathered his gardening tools and went down
the terrace steps toward the office. The
warden paused in the office doorway, watching
the man coming toward him. He Tiked No. 19.
The hard side of life that his position com-
pelled him to feel had not taken the kindness
and sympathy from his nature.

‘You're doing well with the garden,” he said.
“To-morrow you may trim the rose over the
porch. Cut it-back from the upper window, tt
takes too much sun from my room,”

The trusty touched his hat and passed on.

The warden started up the first terrace
toward his home. Above all his worries there
was the pleasant consciousness that there were
some men about him upon whom he mignt
rely. No. 19 was a trustworthy man, A touch
on his arm startled him. No. 19 was beside
Lim. For a few seconds the two men regarded
each other silently.

“Well?” queried the warden.

No. 19 steadied his voice with an_ effort.
I've been here five years,’’ he said. ‘‘For the
last year I’ve been a trusty, working about
the garden as if I were free, but, for Heaven's
sake, lock me up again!”’

The warden stared blankly at him. ‘Lock
you up again?’ he repeated. ‘‘‘What’s the
trouble now?”

No, 19 looked past him over the bay. He
could see the twinkling lights of the city
through the autumn twilight.

“Only this,’’ he answered. “‘I’m not to be
trusted out here when I can look over yonder,”
with a vague gesture in the direction of the
lights, ‘‘and I want to be locked up again. [I
tell you, if you've a drop of human kindness
in you, you'll shut me up, away from all this,”
he added, fiercely.

The warden: looked at him kindly. ‘‘You’ve
been thinking too much,’’ he answered. .“‘Cheer
up, and put those ideas out of your head.
There’s been more than one sentence. short-
ened by good behavior, you know,” he added,
encouragingly, as he turned and went up the
steps, while No. 19 went down, and on through
the great iron gate, which shut heavily after

him.

“Twelve o'clock, and all’s well!’ starting
faintly in the distance, ringing clear as che
guard near the convict’s cell took it up, dying
away to an echo as it reached the farthest
wall, round No. 19. He smiled grimly as he
heard it. ‘‘All’s well so far,’’ he muttered,
“but if they don’t lock me up——”’

The next afternoon No. 19 trimmed the rose
over the porch of the warden’s house. «here
was no counting now, only thinking. He
climbed the ladder, step by step, as he worked.
It was nearing time for the lock-up. At a
quarter before six he stepped from the top of
the ladder to the railing above. He looked
through the open window into the warden’'s
room, at the comfortable bed, the bureau with
its brushes and boxes, the easy-chairs, and
through the half-open door of the closet, in
which he caught glimpses of the warden’s
clothes, suits without a stripe on them.

For five minutes the clipping went steadily
on. There was no one upstairs, no one within
sight in the garden. The warden and his fam-
ily had gone to-the city, and they would not
return before seven o’clock. The twilight had
already begun its work of softening the edges
of everything; in half an hour it would mix
all into an indistinguishable mass.

No. 19 paused a moment before he stepped
over the windowsill. The city lights seemed
to twinkle encouragingly at him, ~

The six o’clock bell tolled as he climbed over
the sill. He stopped at the sound of the famil-
iar prison bell. He stood straight and still
in the window, looking at the dark walls and
buildings far below him.

“Come,’’ the bell called, deep and resistless.
He raised his head and looked up and out. All
the free things in the earth about him seemed
to call him silently. As the last note of the
bell died warningly away he leaned far out of
the open window.

“T am coming,’
the silent voices.

He turned and crossed the room to the door
leading into the hallway, and locked it. He
slipped his coat off as he went to the closet

he said. He had answered

door, and, entering, took the suit hanging
farthest from the door, and a dark hat and
overcoat. Then he undressed and dressed

again quickly,

When he was ready he rolled his own striped
suit into a bundle. They must be hidden; but
where? He looked quickly about him. As he
lifted his arm to place them on the closet
shelf, a bell clanged out from the prison. He

was reported missing, and the man-hunt had
begun. While he thrust his clothes back on
the shelf he heard hoarse shouts below. They
were searching the garden. He stole to the
locked door, turned the key and _ half-opened
the door. That might disarm suspicion if they
searched the house. Then he returned to the
closet, and stood back in a corner, hidden by
the warden’s clothing.

There were eager voices under the window.

“Here’s where he was working,’’ answered
some one. ‘‘Maybe he’s hidden up there on
the poreh.”

“He’s too sharp for any of those tricks,”
answered another, but he climbed the ladder
as he spoke and flashed a lantern through the
window.

No. 19 watched it from his corner. If they
came in through the window and searched the
room—— He pressed closed against the walt.
The steps descended the ladder. The guards
entered the hallway downstairs. There was a
hurried opening and shutting of doors as they
went through the formality of searching the
warden’s house. ;

‘Tramp, tramp, upstairs the footsteps came
down the hallway to the door of the warden’s
room, No. 19 could hear them talking as they
drew near.

“No sense in searching the warden’s house,”’
growled one,

He pushed the door farther open as he spoke,
and fiashed the lantern in,

“Now, look here, Dennison,’’ interrupted an-
other, “I’m going to search this room thor-
oughly. We've made a farce of this thing,’so
far, and I believe in looking in unlikely "places,
i’ve a theory——”’

“Hang your theory!”
first speaker.

“But I tell you I will search this room,” re-
joined the other,

“ve been in this business longer than you,
and I guess I know——’”’

‘“‘Here, give me the light!’’

No. 19 stood rigid. On’that lantern his fate
depended. There was a wavering of the light
in the room; it brightened. The man in the
warden’s overcoat measured, with his eye, the
distance to the open window.

“Bring the lantern down. There’s been
enough time wasted up there,’’ called: a voice
of authority from the foot of the stairs.

The bearer of the lantern hesitated, grumbled
something about mere formality; then the
light receded, and No, 19 was left alohe in

egruffiy answered the

the darkness.

When the house was quiet “once more, he
walked softly to the window. .He looked down
on the peaceful garden.- Below, at the office,
men hurried about, giving and _ receiving
orders. From the watch tower on the next
hill the searchlight swept blinding white rays
over the fields and roads, and he could see
the glitter of the barrels of the gatling guns
on the towers. There was a fascination in
watching this preparation for his own capture,
but this was not the time for such indulgence.

He stepped out upon the porch roof. He
must descend the ladder quickly, before the
searchlight swept the house. A. moment he
watched its wavering course. Would it turn
to the right or the left? He climbed over the
railing, The light flickered hither and thither.
He reached the middle of the -ladder. he
brightriess rested far away over the fields to
the right. So far he was safe. Surely he could
reach. the ground before the light turned in
his direction. Down -he went over the few
remaining rungs. Two rungs from the bottom
and fortune still favored:him. Then the great
sword of light quivered, and. shone full upon
the warden’s house.

The man on the ladder threw himself face
downward at the foot of the rose vine. He
lay breathless among the leaves for a second,
though an age of a lifetime’s emotions; then
he raised his head slightly. The dazzling white
light was still upon him. A feeling of utter
hopelessness weighed him down. Once more
his head sank upon his hands, and he iay
waiting. The light seemed to rest heavily upon
him, to crush out. all energy and resistance,

After he had waited several minutes. he
turned over and sat up. The light had gone,
and he was in darkness; one more chance had
been given him. He rose and ran noiselessly
down the terraces, keeping close to the bushes.
He did not take the path that led back to the
hills, but headed straight for the road that
led from the prison through a little village to
the left.

He. dropped over the last terrace wall into
the road, just outside the village, He stopped
running, took an easy. stride, pulling his hat
over his.eyes, and, with his hands thrust. deep
in his. coat: pockets, whistled. softly as he
walked down the middle of the road.

He went unhindered through the village.
There were several outlying cottages to. be
passed. Then he could take to his heels and
be-in the little fishing station in half.an hour,
A boat stopped there on its way to the Gity,
about four in the morning.

He hastened his steps as he approached the
last house, and swung his arms freely. As
he drew near he saw two forms at the gate.
They were talking quietly, but stopped as he
came opposite them, and looked at him -sharp-
ly. Involuntarily his whistling ceased, and,
despite his efforts, he almost ran.

“Good-evening,”’ called one of the-men, in
a challenging voice, taking a step toward him.

“Good-evening,’’ he answered, in as careless
a tone as he could assume. ‘‘You aren’t, join-
ing in the search for No. 19. The doctor told
me he had got away this afternoon.”’

“Oh, you’re the friend that’s staying with
the doctor!’’ replied the man. We're guarding
this road, but there’s no use in it. No one ever
tries to escape this way. They all take to the
hills. Good-evening, sir.’’

No. 19 felt the sharp eyes of the other guard
upon him as he hurried on. There was an
eager whispering between the men behind him,
then a quick exclamation.

“Tt can’t possibly be,’’ said the man who: had
addressed the fugitive. ‘‘You must have been
mistaken in the voice.”

A quick command interrupted him.

**No. 19, halt!”

No. 19 glanced over his shoulder, and ran
down the road, the two men in pursuit; He
had fifty feet start of them, and he was
running for his freedom. Two pistol bullets
whizzed past him, then all was still save for
the sound of running feet.

On they. went in the starlight, following the
curves of the road, past rocks and stunted
trees, Here he was safe from the flashlight at
least. Once the guards took a short cut and
gained a few feet on him. With an effort he
quickened his pace, and again widened the dis-
tance between them. H'e rounded a low hill,
and the dark outlines of the wharf and the
buildings about it were before him. That was
his goal, that rickety 6id wharf, but what pro-
tection could it offer him? He glanced eagerly
about. To the right the waters of the river
lapped the rocks, to the left a hill rose, sheer
and steep. There was no choice, he must keep
to the road.

The men back of him ran steadily and easily.
He kept his pace with difficulty. The overcoat
weighed more heayily as he advanced; lack of
exercise began to tell on him, and he felt his
strength going. Step by step the guards
gained on him, till he could hear their hard

byeathing:

‘Halt!’ cried one. “Stop, or I'll shoot!’

Still he stumbled on. As he reached the
rough planks of the wharf a bullet. went
through his hat. .

“Close enough, that time,’ a guard -ex-
claimed. “The next on€ will bring him down.
Can’t let him drown, and he’s crazy enough to
try even that.”

He stopped.as he spoke, and aimed at the

staggering figure ahead. The crash of the
weapon was followed by a rending of wood,
and a hollow; sounding splash under the

planks. The wharf lay clear before him. ;

“Got him that time, but he’s gone through
the wharf. There’s some nasty holes out there
and the boards. are half-rotten all around
them,”’ said the one who had-fired the shot.

“Hurry up,’ cried his companion. ‘“‘He’ll yell
when he comes up They’re all as afraid of
the water asrats.”

They ran carefully forward, for the wharf
was dangerous. As they neared the spot where
an 19 had gone down, they saw a large, jagged

ole.

“This is the place,’’ one whispered. ‘He
ought to be up by this time.”

They waited silently at the opening. The ex-
pected call for help did not come, There was
no sound save the ceaseless sighing and gurg-
ling in the water. Presently one of the guards
lay down and peered into the darkness below.
The black water rose and fell; with -strange
gray lights on it, like the reflection of white
faces far below. He shuddered as he rose.

“He’s had plenty of time to come up, if he’s

going to,’’ said one, “if I haven’t——

oat whispered his companion, ‘‘maybe
e's——
‘“‘T guess he is,’’ answered the other. ‘Come,

let’s Bet out of this.”’

They walked. hurriedly back. over thes road
they had come. As they turned the first curve,
a. dripping figure drew itself. slowly out of the
hole. The man chafed his hands, stiff from
clinging to the pile in the cold water. There
was a bullet-hole in the sleeve of the warden’s
overcoat. ‘‘Lucky I stumbled when he shot,’’
he thought. “The warden’s overcoat did the
whole thing.”’

An hour later the guard reported the shoot-
ing and drowning of 0. The morning
papers presented sensational accounts of it,
‘and orders were given to withdraw the men

 

 

who had been set to watch the steamboats as

they landed in the city. No, 19 was no more.
* * * * * * *

The warden's time expired, and he was once
more a private citizen. He walked slowly
through the outskirts of the city, enjoying his
freedom. Nature had put too kind a heart in
him.to fit him for a_prison_officer, Life in
sight of the prison walls had been irksome to
him.. What must it be within them?

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound
of clipping on the other side of a garden wall,

There was something familiar in its rhythm,
He stopped and. listened, One, two, three,
four, five, the shears went, then from one to
ten. Then clipping ceased, A man rose from
behind the hedge and faced him. He recog-
nized No. 19.

_ The warden looked into the fearless face in
front of him, long-and silently. The. two had
met upon one of the unfamiliar bypaths of life,
Vague thoughts of honor, justice, right, and
wrong skimmed through the warden’s. mind.
This man before him had risked all for free-
dom; he had fought hard and won. Slowly an
understanding of the iove of liberty. rose in his
mind and face and silenced all his doubts. He
turned slowly. and walked away. No. 19,
watching him, knew that he had nothing to
fear from the warden.

> @

LOVE IN SLEEPY CAMP.

BY WACK EATON.

 

 

 

 

It was too hot for work in ‘Sleepy. Camp,”
so nearly all the men had given it up for the
day and lounged into ZGeb’s saloon to have a
smoke and a drink, *

Though it was getting well on in the after-
noon, the sun was still blazing hot, and there
wasn't a breath:of air to move the red dust.

In a little shanty, not far from the saloon,
sat two young > miners,. both tall, well-built
men, but one handsome, the other -ugly—hence
their nicknames. Bob, the Beauty, and Ugly
Sam. Sam sat in the corner near the window,
through which could. be faintly heard the
laughing and singing: at the saloon; Bob sat
on the table, swinging his legs.

“Tt's a treat to git out o’ that scorchin’ sun,”’
said Ugly, pulling a pipe out of his pocket and
knocking the ashes. on the floor,

“Yes,” -agreed. :the > Beauty,
arms and yawning fearfully.

“We've: had ja grand-. day,
Beauty ?’’ asked
boot. ;

“Yes,’’? answered Bob, shutting his big mouth
with a snap. é

“You. seem to take it awful:quiet—you don't
seem: to: grasp that:we—we two pards—have

stretching his

haven't we,
Sam, striking “a match-on his

found the biggest nugget ever dug up in
Sleepy. Camp.”’
“Oh, yes, I do,” replied Bob, kicking so

hard: at. the table leg that it seemed more
than likely the rickety old thing would give

way.

“Let's have another look at it!’’

So saying, Sam jumped to his feet and took
a, key out of his pocket, crossed to a large
chest that -was standing against the wall,
fitted. it in the lock and threw. back the lid
with a bang,

It was a nugget—goodness knows how much
it was worth.

“Isn't it.grand,’’ cried Sam, falling on his
pee and patting it affectionately with his
iand.

“T should fust say it is,’’ said Bob, slipping
off the table to have a look over Ugly’s head.

“Another find half as big as that, and we're
made fer life;’’ and Sam replaced the nugget,
closed the lid: and locked it, putting the key
carefully back into his pocket.

Bob. crossed to the table and took up his
former position,

‘Ours has turned:out a trump of a claim,”’
he said. ‘

Sam: nodded his head and replied:

‘‘Rather!’’

‘“What'll yer do when yer have enough—give
up work?” asked Bob.

“JT might think o’ doing so,’’ answered Sam,
relighting hi. pipe.

“Might git married, eh?”

‘‘Maybe.”’ ; ch

Bob slipped down off the table once more
and went to the door, opened it and looked
out. Two or three miners were passing .on
their way to their shanties. They greeted him
with ‘‘Good-evening, Beauty;" and walked on,
Bob kicked the door.to and strode across to
Sam; who was still puffing at his pipe. — :

“Look here, Ugly,’’ said Bob; “‘it’s no good
us two goin’ on'like this, is it?’

“No,” replied Sam, rising from his seat.

‘“What’s ter be done?’

Sam shook his head. :

“*Bout Lil, I mean,’’ explained Bob.

“T. know what yer mean, Beauty,’ and Sam
looked intently at the fioor, as if thinking.

‘Which does she hike the best .o’ us two?’
asked Bob.

“Can't say; the one She’s talkin’ to at the
time, I guess.’’

“Look. here, Ugly,’’ said Bob, ‘‘we’ve always
been good pals; we've not had rows like
Hatcheit: and Black Géorge, and it’s a pity
we should star now, especially ‘bout a
woman.,”’ ;

‘“‘Yer right enough :there!’’ agreed Sam.

‘Now, we both love Lil,’’ continued Bob, and
there was a perceptible catch in his voice at
the word “‘love,’’ “and we think she cares fer
us both’ jist about the same.”

“Yes.”’

“Well, if one were to go, the one left would
most probably have ’er—eh?’”

“Yes,’’ from Sam, with a nod of the head.

“Who's to go?’ asked Bob.

The two men looked at each other; there
was silence for a moment, except for the dis-
tant laughing. Then Sam felt in his pocket
for something, and said: -

“Yer see this. dollar piece? Well, it may
sound a bit wrong to spin for her, but listen,
Beauty—one of us two has ter go. Pll throw
this coin up, you call, and if yer right I'll
pack, but if yer wrong I'll stay.

Bob bit his lips.

“Js it a go?” asked Sam.

“And the one that goes,
share?’’ Bob asked.

“He takes that,’ answered Sam, pointing to
the chest. ‘‘lf yer call right yer have Lil—and
I take the mnpeRel but if wrong yer go with
the nugget an “y stay with the gal.’’

does he take his

“Tt seems a bit funny——”’ :

“But,’’ interrupted the other, “‘it’s a way out
of the wood. If we both stay there'll be
shootin’.’’

“AN right, Ugly, it’s a bargain.’”*> Bob drew
a long breath. ‘‘We’ll stick by the spin of
that there dollar.’’
coe will. Shall I throw?” asked Sam, qui-
etly.

‘““Yes,”’ came from Bob in the same tone.

“Call while it’s high,’ said Sam, and up it
went, spinning round and round in the air.

‘Ta its!’’ cried Bob. s

Down it came with a ring on the floor and
rolied into a corner of the room.

‘See what it is,’’ said Sam. ,

Bob crossed hesitatingly and peered down
into the corner.

“Tt’s heads,” he cried; ‘I’ve lost.”’

“And I've won,” cried Sam, rushing over to
the place! and picking up: the dollar, ‘‘my deur
oldjucky coin,” and he put it.to his Hips and
kissed it; then. went to Bob, who was: lookiug
out. of the window.

“Shake!’’ he said, holding out his hand.

Bob turned and'took it, gripping hard.

‘“‘Here’s the key of the chest; you ve got the
nugget,’ said Ugly Sam.

“Yes: that’s right enough,” replied Bob, the
Beauty, in a husky. tone; “Tl be off in the
morning.’’

* * . * as od * *

Tt was early. when, Bob got up next morning;
so early: that there .was. only a. very faint tinge
of..light in the east; but he hadn’t slept a
wink, so it was as pood.as tossing about for
another hour or so. ’ 4

He unlatched the door of the shanty as
noiselessly. as he could, for.fear of waking
Sam; who was: snoring away on. his back, and
slipped: out into the open, He wanted to have
a- last. .look .round,.and straighten..things up
for his going. He’d have to make some ex-
cuse. to: the. boys, he ,thought;. they’d think it
so’ strange, and so he walked. down to the
claim; ‘

Although he had gone out so quietly, the
click. of the latch had)been enough for’ Sam,
who woke to find himself laughing, positively
laughing, he was:.so happy.

He didn’t get: up immediately, but lay there
planning out: his future happiness. .He .was
sorry, very -sorry for, Beauty, but perhaps the
nugget:would be some-consolation to him; be-
sides; he. didn’t think Bob. liked .the girl as
much «as ‘he. did. Sey

Quite.an hour passed, before he dressed ,him-
self,.a bit.smarter than usual, and went out.
He. even, picked, a little yellow flower that was
growing among. the grass by the side of the
track, and put it in his buttonhole.

He had been~ walking for some time, now
and then breaking into song in his deep, rough
voice, and hardly noticing as he went, till he
looked up and found himself by Peep Hollow,
some way out of camp, so he-sat down with
his back against a big pine and lit a pipe.

‘As happy as a king I'd be,’ he started to

 

 

 

sing between the puffs of smoke; when he

stopped suddenly, for, coming along the path
toward him, he saw a slight figure in a big

ster hat. His heart gave a bound; it was
il!

Ugly sat very still as she approached, and

She didn’t see him, being very interested in

something she was talking to. He strained his
ears to listen.

“You dear, dear, old fellow—how I love you—
tek than all the world—Sleepy Camp thrown
ne

It was a photo-picture she addressed these
remarks to; Sam could make that much out,

“There, back to your little hiding place and
nobody knows nothing about yer.’’ So saying
she kissed it and slipped it into the front of
her blouse; then, turning from the path, cut
eff through the pines.

Sam had stopped his song to listen, and it
was some moments before he thought of get-
ting up to follow her, but he did after a time,
and tried to make out the way she had gone,

He had been breaking through the. under-
growth for a few minutes when he saw some-
thing on the ground a few yards ahead.

“Tt’s the picture she had,’’ said Sam to him-
self, so he forced his way through to the spot
where it lay. It was face downwards; he
picked it up and turned it over—it was the
Beauty’s. .

Sam let it fall with a half-stifled cry and
put his hand to his throat, then made his way
to the track again, and started for the shanty.

He met two or three of the boys who were
off to work, but he never raised his head to
their greetings. Reaching the hut he pushed
the door open and stumbled in. Bob hadn’t re-
turned (his things were still unpacked); he
took a long time to say good-by to his friends.

Sam dropped into a chair, and stared hard
at the door; then he jumped up and rum-
maged in the locker for something, and re-
turned to the table with a dirty piece of
paper, anda little stump of a pencil.

He sat down, and then, with his great heart
ae a lump of lead, wrote, in a very illegible

and:

“DPAR BHEAUTY:—Your sure ter be knocked
when yer see this, but you’ll be glad. We
tossed fair and square for the gal, and I won.
Well, I were a fool ter think that a gali would
like me in pref. ter you. Anyway, I soon
found out my mistake, so I'm goin’ instead of
you.

“The 'rangements were that if,one had Lil,
the ether had the nugget—so being, it belongs
ter me; but I ain’t goin’ ter take it—you’d ’ave
ter wait a time ’fore yer found another—p’raps
never—L don't want it. Yer stay—I go.

“Still always yer mate and pard,
*Uciy Sam.”

Leaving this scrawl upon the table, Sam put
a few belongings into a bundle and went out,
slamming the door,

As he threw the bundle over his shoulder he
noticed the little yellow flower in his button-
hole. He took it out. and threw_it away, lit
his pipe, and turned his back on Sleepy Camp,

 

PLEASANT PARAGRAPHS.

BY CHARLES W. FOSTER. —

 

 

 

A DELIGHTFUL REMINISCENCE.

Mrs. Gotham—‘What did you most enjoy
during your trip abroad?’

Miss. Flightie—‘“My visit to the home of
Thomas Carlyle.”

“You did.”

“Yes, indeed. The handsomest young man I
ever saw was watching me when I wrote my
name in the visitors’ book.”’

BROKE THEM ALU UP,

GE ees were not so late as usual to-
ay.” .
Wife—‘‘No; the meeting of the Society for
the Emancipation of Women from the Thrall-
dom of Men had to be postponed.’’
Husband—‘‘What was the matter?’
Wife—‘One of the members came in with a
crinoline ,on, and we all rushed out to buy
one.” *

WANTED TO KNOW.

New Boarder (gently)—‘‘Hasn’t this butter
rather—er—a peculiar taste, Mrs. Slimdiet?’’
: rs. Slimdiet—“That? That's. roll butter,
sir."’ > ; 3
New Boarder—‘‘Yes—er~—I suppose so; but
where have they. been: rolling. it?’ ;

CONCLUSIVE PROOF.

Waiter (mysteriously)—‘‘Send for a detective,
quick!”’

Head Waiter—‘‘What’s up?”

“See that woman over there? She’s a man
in disguise.”’ ; :

“Phew! How d’ye know?”

“She ordered a reg’lar square meal,
gave me a tip.”’

PA'S NARROW ESCAPE.

Boutton—‘What’s the matter?’

Downton—‘“‘Phew! Didn’t sleep a wink last
night. Scares me half to death when I think
of that accident on the Coney Island railroad.
I was in the’ train.’’

Boutton—‘‘Nonsense! That didn’t amount to
much. There were only a few seriously hurt,
and most of the injured got off with slight
seratches.’’

- Downton—‘‘Y-e-s, but suppose I’d got one of
the scratches. My name would have been in
the papers along with the rest, and my wife
would have seen it. She’s at Long Branch.”

,

an

VERY DISAGREEABLE.

Summer Belle—‘‘There go two of the most
disagreeable men I've met this season.”
Friend—“‘Are they? Why?"
* Summer Belle—‘‘One of them stares me out
of countenance, and the other won’t look at
me at all,”

HE’D MAD SOME EXPERIENCE,

She (on the hotel’ veranda)—‘‘You had no
business to do that.”’

He—“I am engaged to you.. Why shouldn't
I kiss you?” ‘

She—‘‘But people were looking.”’

He—“‘That’s why I did it. I am determined
that you shall at least return my bow when
we get back to the city.’”

TOLD HIM THH REASON.

Deacon Scrimp—‘‘Humph! Think you've got
to have a vacation, eh?’ ~

Struggling Pastor—‘‘Yes, the doctor says I
must go off until this cough is cured.”’

Deacon Scrimp—‘‘Well, I'd like to know why
preachers are always getting bad coughs.”’

Struggling Pastor—‘‘Weil, you See, we have
to visit around a good deal, and we = are
always asked to hold a little service before
leaving, and I think our throats become af-
fected from breathing the dust that fies from
the family Bibles.”’

SELECTED PLEASANTRIES. *..

 

THE JUDGMENT OF THE CouRT.—A -young
Arizona’ lawyer who recently visited Detroit
gave-the following as an example of the style
of justice that prevails *in some remote sec-
tions of the frontier:

A certain justice of the peace, whose knowl-
edge of the law was never gained from books
or actual practice before the bar, was hearing
an assault and battery case. The Jawyer for
the defense was shouting his arguments when
the-court said:

“That will do. Set down.’’

He then adjusted his spectacles and sagely
observed:

‘Prisoner, sthand up! Accordin’ tah th’ law
an’ th’ evydince—an’ there is no evydince—Oi
foind yez guilty, sor, an’ foin yez fifty dollars.
If yez air guilty, faith, it's a very loight sin-
tince; an’ if yez air not guilty itll be a mighty
good lesson for ye:’’—Detroit Free Press.

A CUSTOM IN DANGER.—“‘The Chinese,”’ said
the man who is always trying to unload back-
number information, ‘Shave a very curious
custom of paying all their debts the first of
the year.”

“Well,” answered the man who takes every-
thing seriously, “‘I guess they. will get over
that habit when it comes to indemnities.’’—
Washington Star.

A Buow THAT STUNNED.—‘‘'Have you ever
had a dumb, nameless feeling of some ap-
proaching disaster?’’ she asked.

“Well, no;” the celebrated lawyer replied;
“the only. time I ever, had that kind of a
feeling was once after the disaster arrived.’’

“Oh, dear! .-What was it that happened to
you?” >

“Why, you see, a girl that I had been en-
gaged to several years before my marriage,
eame into my office one day to have me give
her some advice concerning the disposition
of about three hundred and sixty thousand

dollars’ worth of ‘property she had just in- , Weekly.’’)

herited from an uncle in Australia that she
had never told me about.’’—Chicago Record.

OUTCLASSED,

I loved a maiden and proposed,
And she at once said ‘‘Yes.”

We married so@, and settled down
To lifelong happiness.

At least, that was the way I thought
That it was going to be,

But pretty soon I had my ‘doubts,
For we did not agree.

She chose to rule and so did I.
We could not both be first.
One of us was compelled to yield—
And that is not the worst.
Her will, I found, outrivaled mine,
A termagent was-she.
I. thought at first [I’d married her—
Not much! She married me!
° —Somerville Journal.

Wisk as SoLtomon.—Two ladies contended
for precedence in the Court of Charles the
Fifth. They appealed to the monarch, who,
like Solomon, awarded: ‘‘Let the elder go
first.”” Such a dispute was never known after-
ward.—Argonaut.

A Poor JUDGE or Music.—Mrs. Nexdore—‘‘T
suppose you noticed that my daughter is
taking music lessons?”

Mrs. Pepprey—“‘Oh, is that what she's doing?
Do you know, I thought it was a typewriter
she was working.’’—Philadelphia Press.

ENTIRELY UNNECESSARY.—First’ Citizen—‘‘Of
course, we don’t want to put a premium on
political corruption——’’

Second Citizen—‘‘I should say not.
get all we want at par.’’—Puck.

> @-~<

We can

   

A ieee! |

EDITED BY MRS. HELEN WOOD.

 

By special arrangements with the manufacturers
Wwe are énabled to supply the readers of “‘The New
York Weekly’’ with the patterns of all garments
described or illustrated in this column at TEN
CENTS each. ‘When ordering patterns, please be
particular to mention,the number of the pattern and
size wanted. Address Fashion Department,
New York Weekly,’’ Box 1,173, New York City.

 

FASHION NOTES.

The woman who has skill enough to trim
her own hats depends largely upon her old
silk waists and parasols for her trimmings.
When they are too far gone for their tegiti-
mate use they can be turned into the most at-
tractive hat trimmings. A twist or a knot will
always hide a worn spot, and if the silk ma-
terial is. soiled it can be easily cleaned with
gasoline or naphtha. These two inflammables
must be used with great care, however,

Louisine comes in .so many soft, pretty
shades that it is particularly well adapted for
corsage trimming or the making of entire cos-
tumes, :

A shirt waist of Indian pongee is both serv-
iceable and extremely stylish. The prettiest
trimming for a waist of this material consists
of bands of Oriental embroidery mixed with
tinsel. A vest of the embroidery is also appro-
priate. : :

Dimity is the prettiest of materials for un-
derwear as well as gowns, but look out for the
laundress, It will wear well if it is given ten-
der treatment, but not otherwise.

Many of the finer qualities of French white
wash waists open in the back and have blind
fastenings: :

Dainty. little. fichus completé the toilet in a
graceful fashion, and are worn ‘with gowns of
every, description. They .may sometimes ~ bé
drawn into.a point-at the back, and are pret-
tiest when madé of some filmy stuff’ and edged

“Shears

 

    

a} St oasis *

*

S25)

on

cae

PPE ine

opty

 

 

 

 

with soft lace.

Gold effects on white aré much ‘fancied now
for. either day, or ‘evening ‘wear. Ceinturés of
gilt are always pleasing, but’a decidedly new
idea is a boa of gold tissue, edged ‘with finger
width white mousseline de soie, or with tiny
ostrich plumes:

 

Ce In ordering patterns be sure to owe size and number.

 

No. 2508—GIRL'S SQUARE YOKH DR&SS.

This very at-
tractive little
dancing frock
is made of im-
ported Swiss
over sapphire
blue taffeta.
The low neck
and sleeves of
elbow length
are completed
witha fullruffile
of embroidered
chiffon, Dresses
of this descrip-
tion are equal-
ly attractive in
silk, woolen or
wash fabric.
The pattern
euts in sizes
four to twelve
years. Size
eight requires
three and
three - quarter
yards o
ty - two -
material, with
one-half yard
extra of the

 

same width for ruffle.

NO. 2500—YOKE DRESS FOR A MISS.

This model consists of a fitted lining that
closes as does the waist. All-over lace forms
the * collar ._ and Sy
yoke... The full Sr
portions of the
waist are gath-
ered at the up-
per edges and
joined to the
yoke. Gathers
also adjust the ©
fullness at the
waist tine. The
front drops be- ;
comingly over }
the belt. The
sleeves may be ¢
made either
wrinkled or}
plain, and in el-
bow or full fy
length. The pat- {
tern is cut from
12 .to 14 years.
To make as -il-
lustrated’ the
medium size will
require 1% yards
of- 32-inch ma- ;
terial, with % yard of all-over, and 1 yard of
chiffon for knife plaiting.

NO. 2510-LADY'S FIVE-GORED SKIRT.

(To be made with one, two, or three gradu-
ated flounces, the back te be laid in an
underfolded box-plait or gathered.)

This is the latest five-gored skirt supple-
mented by three circular flounces, one, two or
three of which
may be used,
The views of the
back of the skirt
are given, one
with the fullness
plaited and one
gathered? The
material -select-
ed is imported
ehiffonette. Lace
edging” is used
to trim, The pat-
\ tern is cut from
twenty-two and
thirty inches
waist measure.
To make size 24,
with th ree
flounces, re-
require’s 16%
yards of 21-inch
pieces of lace to trim.

(All patterns published in ‘‘The New York Weekly”’
will be sent to our readers for 10 cents each.
Address FASHION DEPARTMENT, ‘“‘New York

 

 

 

 

 

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LGR AS