THE WEEKLY HAS NO EQUAL AS A PAPER

FOR THE FAMILY.

 

Entered According to Act of Congress,

 

in the Year 1899, by Strect & Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. C.

 

 

 

OFFICE:
238 William St.. New York

 

New York, September 23,

1899.

 

BY MARTHA SHEPARD LIPPINCOTT.
Spirit voices seem to linger,
Whispering sweet words in my ear,
And they tell me of one loving
To be round me, ever near;

That the mute heart loves in silence,
Though it utters,scarce a word;
And when no one seems around me,
Often my heart strings are stirred.

s

’Tis some little message whispered
By some spirit voice away,
Strange it seems his voice comes to me,
Thoughgso far my love should stray ;
And sweet words he seems to utter,
Though I see his form nowhere.
In my inner heart I’m searching
For I think he must be there.

st

That must be the habitation
Of the spirit voice I hear;
For although my love is distant,
Still his spirit must be near—
Speaking to my inner musings
Filling all my heart with love;
And I think he’s surely aided,
By sweet Cupid from above.

&

Spirit voices seem to whisper

| __All the joy that love will find;
“FSr they'll edd me to my lover, —
Showing me his heart laid bare. i

Shall | follow spirit voices?
For my heart is surely there.

vt

Spirit voices are conversing,
The heart’s musings seem to tell,
While one’s thoughts they are transmit-
ting,
To some one who loveth well;
'Tis unseen communication,
One soul with another’s heart,
The telepathy of spirits,

 

 

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All the

 

 

HER EVIL GENIU

By ADELAIDE STIRLING,

Author of ‘‘ Lover or Husband ?”’ ‘‘ The Wolf’s Mouth,’ ‘‘ Nerine’s Secona
Chotce,’’ ‘‘ The Purple Mask,’’ ‘‘ Saved From Herself,’’ Etc.

(“HER EviIt GENIUS’

was commenced last week )

 

CHAPTER IV.
THE LOVELY ANDRIA,

# While Beryl Corselas slept like a dead girl
in the flying railway carriage, a woman sat
in a beautiful house in London and wondered
why she was remembering the strange goblin
child. “I’m not fit to think of her or the
convent, either,’’ she thought grimly. ‘‘Who
would believe that I was ever Andria Heath-
cote, or brought up in a convent school?’’

She got up and looked at herself in a glass
with an insight that does not come to happy
women. The world had taught her that a
woman with a clear skin and good teeth has
it in her own hands to be beautiful, but it was
something else that had taught her to build up
her beauty as an architect builds a palace for
a king.

Her red-brown hair was but a little ruddier
than in convent days. She had been too wise

to dye it; her round, young face was chiseled |
by the}

into the firmness of a delicate cameo
sure hands of Love and vain longing; her
brave mouth was more scornful, more self-
reliant than of old, and the queer, veiled look
was gone from her blue eyes. They were bold,
under the lashes and brows she had learned
to darken, and the head. that had bowed so
easily to rebuke yas set proudly now. And
yet there was little for Andria Erle to glory
in. She turned sharply from the glass. ‘Bah!
The child would not know me, nor I her.’ she
thought. “I wonder why I am thinking of her.
Oh, I’m nervous—nervous! And I have no real
cause, I can't have any.”

But the step with which she paced the room
was not that of a woman at ease. She was
sick with a terror that grew daily,
knew it. She looked at the magnificence about
her, not indifferently, as she had been wont to
look, but like a woman who holds luxury by a
frail tenure and fears to lose it. Yet the lux-
ury of the place came last to her troubled
mind. There was more than that to lose; love
and trust, that might go any day. To keep
her thoughts away from that she tried to re-
member the convent, but it only maddened
her.

“Oh, Mother Benedicta!’’ she said to herself.
“You knew too little about the world when
you sent me to a house like Lady Parr’s., You
and the good sisters would have thought that
house hell on earth from the things that went
on there. I might have, too, if I hadn’t been
a blind fool. But I wouldn’t go back. I’ve
been happy; I’ve had my day—and I’ve no rea-
son to think it’s done yet. I know,’ deliber-
ately, “I’ve no reason!’’ and while she swore

 

and she}
|} out neat

 

it to herself ‘she kept listening for the post-
man’s knock.

It seemed to thunder through the house be-
fore she knew it. But the servant who brought
in the one letter that had come found his mis-
tress sitting reading, her exquisite pale satin
tea-gown in careful folds about her languid
figure.

Her heart Knocked at her ribs as she took
the letter; as the door closed behind the man
she sprang to her feet, crushing the thin note
to her breast.

“Oh, thank God!”’ she breathed, “‘thank God.
I knew it would come. I knew he didn’t mean
to throw me over.”

She kissed the senseless letter like a living
thing. She Knew each line of the address—
every letter was dear to her; yet Beryl Corse-
las would not have known the name on the
envelope, which certainly was not Andria
Heathcote. To Mother Felicitas it might not
have been so strange.

It was not for five minutes that Andria

| opened the letter, and when she did so she no

longer thanked God for it.

It was a white, haggard wretch who crawled
to a sofa and lay there staring at the written
sheet in her hand like one who cannot under-
stand. Yet it was plain English, and began
“Dear Andria,’ as letters do. But her face
was convulsed out of all beauty as she felt
those few sentences burning into her brain; a
dreadful trembling took her.

“T’m going to cry; and I won’t cry!” she said
savagely. She was on her feet and across the
room to where a stand of spirits and soda
waited for a visitor who would never come
back to that house. But though she poured
whisky and drank it, it could not
stop that horrible trembling.

7 tt tO 0. He’s done with me!’’ she
thought, ‘‘I—that thanked God at the sight of
his letter;’’ her lips quivered in spite of her;
‘‘who’ve been faithful for five years.’’

She tried to read the letter slowly and sanely,
but one sentence in it seemed to leap to her
eyes. “Of course you know our marriage was
nonsense. The clergyman was never even or-
dained. It would not hold good anywhere,
even in Scotland.’’

“Then what am I?” thought Andria, and be-
ing a brave woman kept in the cry. She read
on, mechanically.

“The fact is I’m ruined. I haven’t got a
penny left, and my father is nearly as bad,
You have plenty of sense, you will see for
yourself that I must give in to him and marry
money. He will be beside himself till we are

| ky

 

ming,

on our feet again and there is an heir to the
property. He would never hear of my marry-
ing you, even if our madness had not passed
by this time. You will understand this is not
a pleasant letter for me to write, so I will close
it. I send you what money I can spare, but
you need not expect any more, for I haven’t
got it. The sheriff will seize the furniture to-
morrow, but my father’s agent will take over
the house and pay the servants. Let me have
your address, like a sensible girl. But I know

you will see reason, especially as you are not |

tied to me in any way, and the end would have
had to come some day.’”’

There was no signature, and there were
pages preceding what was after all the
of the matter. Andria Heathcote, who
never been Andria Erle except in her
mind, crept to her sofa and lay there, her
buried in the silk cushions Raimond Erle
chosen that very spring. But now it was
vember, and this was ‘‘a last year’s nest.”’

She bit at her arm fiercely that pain might
keep away tears. None of Raimond Erle’s

two
gist
had
own
face
had
No-

servants should see that the woman who had |}

never been his wife had been crying in her
shame and anger. She wondered how
they knew. All London probably knew more
than she had done. She remembered how Rai-
mond had had no friends but men, how she
had gone among them by the nickname of “‘The
Lovely Andria;” how some of them had openly
thought her shameless—the
made her writhe where she lay.

A silver clock-chimed, and she counted the
sweet strokes,

“Rive!’’? Five already, and she
sleep another night under this roof.
had steadied her, helped her; she rose
and looked in the glass that an hour ago had
reflected a woman who had hope left in her,
and saw that no eye but her own would
any difference. Andria Erle had looked

would not

ous; Andria Heathcote was only a shade pal- |

er, a little harder eyed.

She turned to ring the bell, and saw some-|
a_ check for |

thing on the hearth-rug. It was
ten pounds, and at first she would have let it
lie. After five years he was turning her out of
the house with ten pounds! But it occurred
to her suddenly that she had no other money
in the world.

“Tt is bad to have been made a fool of, but
it is worse to keep on being a fool,’’ she said,
with quéer calmness, and stooped for
check.

Another woman would have sat down and
written. an answer to that letter, which would
have cut even Raimond Erle. But to quarrel
openly was not Andria’s way. If an opportu-
nity came to repay she would repay; it was no
use to write what he need not read unless he
chose. Once more she turned to ring
servant, and this time did not falter.

“Send my maid to me,’”’ she said. “I have
had a letter from Mr. Erle. He is not return-
ing and I am going away. Lord Erceldonne’s
agent will pay your wages.’’

She spoke gently as she always did, and the
servant admired her for it; he knew,
thought, that things were at an end.
liked her, as did every one who had ever
ie her, and he kept his sympathy from his
ace.

Her maid came as quickly if she had
been waiting outside the door.

“T want you to pack for me at once, Louise.
I am going away to-night, and I must leave

”

as

can never do without

me,’”’ said the girl, awkwardly. She would like

to go with the mistress who had never spoken
unkindly even when she was displeased.

“There is no room for you where I am go-«

ing.’”’ Andria’s voice was gentle still. ‘You

 

much |}

need not pack my evening gowns. But you
must hurry, Louise.’’

‘“*‘Madame’s jewels, of course!’’ with tears in
her eyes. All the household but the mistress
had known the end was coming.

Andria turned to the windows.

“TI will see to the jewels,”’
a suffocated voice. ‘‘I will not take them.”

The maid dared not say more. But it was
well that Andria did not see her packing.
Every gorgeous gown her mistress owned was
in the boxes decorously covered with under-
linen and every-day clothes by the time Mrs.
Erle came upstairs.

Her jewels were spread out on the toilette
table; perhaps the faithful maid thought the
sight of them would tempt her mistress to take
them. But she shivered as the gorgeous, shin-
ing things glittered in the candle light. Every
one of them had meant something in the days
when love was young; each stone held its sep-
arate insult now. She put them back in her
jewel case with averted face and ungentle
hands. Diamonds and pearls, opals and beryls,
not one would she keep; and her wedding ring
| fell with a clink on the mass.
cote had nothing to do with the baubles Andria
Erle had loved.

She stood up straight and fair as Louise
dressed her in a plain black gown. For three
months she had been dreading this day, fear-

 

remembrance |

The whis- |

see }
nerv- |

the |

for a|

as she |
But he|

ing heavily to note the small signs of its ap-
proach; but now that it was here she felt
curiously calm.

| ‘Tell James to call a cab,’’ she said, ‘‘and
|this is for you! You are a kind girl, Louise,
I have liked you.’”’ She held out a long gold
| chain set with pearls. It was her own, not his;
she had a right to give it away.

But the maid was crying.

“Don’t cry, child, for me,’’ she said steadily,
“ond take care of the jewels till Mr. Travers,
the agent, comes to-morrow. He will give you
a receipt for them, and you must send it to
Mr. Erle at the club.”’

“But you'll come back, madame?”

“No. Oh! my poor Louise, cheer up.
are better mistresses than I’ve been.”

“No, no!”’ passionately, ‘‘none. What haven’t
you done for me and my mother?’’ The French
| girl would have kissed Andria’s hand, but with
|a queer feeling of superstition her_mistress
| stooped and kissed her cheek. It was some-
thing to have a creature to say farewell to;
there would be none to greet her home.

“Get the cab,’”’ she repeated. And when the

| girl was gone she went to her writing table.
\'There was a photograph there and she stared
at it. Why had she loved him? He was just
la long-legged, haggard, gentlemanly-looking
man, like scores of others, yet she had sold her
soul for him.
: Her hand was on the picture to put it in the
fire, but a sudden thought flamed in her eyes
and stayed her hand. On the back of it was
written: ‘‘Raimond to Andria; on their wed-
ding day.’’ She would keep it! The world was
thick, they might never meet; but if they did
that writing might confound his dearest plans,
She slipped the photograph into her pocket
and went downstairs. The French girl with a
pang at her heart watched her get into the
cab and drive away.

sobbing.
There

CHAPTER V.
HER EVIL GBPNIUS

The train stopped with a jerk and a long,
jolting jar that startled ail the passengers, and
flung a solitary traveler from her seat in a
second-class carriage.

She lay on the floor, lax, inert as the dead;
but her eyes were open. Where was she?

 

she answered in|

Andria Heath- |

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

 

Two Copies Five Dollars.

What was this hard, narrow place, where a
light burned dimly? She thought for one awful
instant of her alcove at the convent, and
screamed wildly; but the train was starting
and the whistles of the engine covered it. The
noise of the wheels reassured the drugged
wits of the girl on the floor.

‘“‘No; it’s not the convent—it’s the train, and
I’ve waked up! Oh, why didn’t I die? Am
going to live after all that stuff?’’

She struggled up and back to her seat, dizzy
and sick from the laudanum. She tried to think
What should she—what could she—do now?
Life was before her, and not the death she
had craved. Presently the train would stop;
they would put her out into the cold, the dark-
ness, and she had no money for shelter or
bread.

“They ought to kill giris like me!’’ she
sobbed. ‘*‘What good has life ever been to me!
And what shall I do if I’ve been tracked—if a
telegram from Mother Felicitas is before me at
Blackpool?’

Every one’s hand had been against her all
her life, and it was well for her now. For a
madness cf determination came over her.

“They shan’t find me! No one shall find me,’’
she thought, clenching her hands. ‘I'll hide
somewhere and starve sooner than go back to
Mother Felicitas!”’

She opened the @arriage window and drank
in the cold evening air. It drove the fumes
of laudanum from her and stopped the head-
ache that was rending her. She had no rea-
son to go to Blackpool; she could starve as
easily in some other place. What if she got
out the first time the train stopped, and slipped
away into the dark? But it had been the stop-
page of the train at Preston that had wakened
her; she did not know there would be no pause
between that and Blackpool. The train seemed
to whirl interminably on, and she shut the
window and lay back against the cushions;
she would have warmth and rest as long as
she could.

Strangely enough, she felt better for that
drugged sleep—more reasonable, more sane.

But, think as she might, she could see noth-
ing but a miserable, lingering death before
her, and the death that had passed her by
would have been so easy.

The train whistled, stopped; the guard came
and took her ticket.

“Blackpool, miss,’’ he said to the pale girl
with the swollen, weary eyes. The convent uni-
form was black and he thought cursorily that
she was in mourning, a thought that served
her well afterward.

She hurried by him without answering, and
stood for one moment in the glaring station,
bewildered by the crowd.

Her white face, her tawny eyes, with that
strange vacancy about them which long years
of bullying had brought there, were striking
enough among the commonplace crowd that
surged by her.

A long-legged, gentlemanly-looking man,
whose handsome face was haggard and drawn
till it almost fell to the vulgarity of being
careworn, pulled his brown mustache as he
stood waiting for the London train.

“Tooks as if she were in a mess!’’ he thought
idly. ‘She might be handsome, too—it’s a
pity!’’ and he turned away. It was some other
fellow’s business; he had enough on his own
hands without taking up a girl who stared
past him till she caught his eyes on her and
then ran with a sudden, frightened bound out
of the lighted station.

“The wicked flee where no man pursueth,”’
thought Mr. Erle; he was rather fond of the
Bible, for amusement merely. And he got into
his train and thought of other things, not too
comfortably.

He had had an exceedingly annoying inter-
view with his father. After all he had done
to please him, the elder man would scarcely
listen to his question, or indeed speak to him,

At a strenuous appeal for money, indeed
Lord Erceldonne had broken out Sav-
agely:

‘You had better discover a lady who pos-
sesses it,’ he had said roughly, unlike him-
self. ‘“‘As for Erceldonne, you needn’t count
on the succession to it.”

‘What do you mean?” his son stared.

But Lord Erceldonne had recovered himself.

‘“Nothing,’’ he returned icily, ‘‘except that
| every stick we own is mortgaged. You must
forage yourself.”’

But his son had seen him crumple up a tele-
gram that lay on the table. It was not those
ancient mortgages that troubled him.

“T wonder what the deuce it was!’’ he re-
fiected now in the train, for distasteful as Lon-
don was, it was better than his father’s so-
ciety.

“For a moment I thought my reverend pa-
rent was about to impart to me that I was
not the rightful heir!’’ sneeringly. ‘‘He’s got
| something on his mind, but that would be rot!
There’s been no question of it for years.’’

The strange girl had completely left his
memory as the train reached London; indeed
she had never stayed there. Mr. Erle glanced
at his watch as he took a cab at Euston. It
was not eleven o’clock; he would see what for-
tune had done for him before he went—by
George! he had forgotten. He could not show
himself in town. There was that business of
the sheriff, and—Andria!.

“The Continent!’’ said he
soon as possible! But first I
well, I hope he’ll be my banker!’’ He stopped
the cab and got out at the very shop where
Beryl had bought that useless laudanum nro
farther back than the morning.

‘‘A shabby chemist’s,’’ she had thought, quite
unconscious that the drugs were but an out-
ward show, and that the proprietor was one of
the largest bookmakers in London, though he
never attended a race. Sometimes he had
provided Mr. Erle with sums that tided him
over; but of late that gentleman had not been
lucky. He entered the’shop with a languid
nod, and was glad to see the proprietor was
alone,

For once, too, he seemed to be paying some
attention to his legitimate trade. He was
studying a greasy blank book that was not out
of his inside office.

‘Ah, Mr. Erle!’ he said. ‘I
money for you—a hundred or more.

Mr. Erle never moved a muscle, though he
needed the money and had not expected it.

“Right!” he returned carelessly. ‘What
have you got there?”’

“Only my register, sir.
you read that name?’
across the counter.

“B. Corselas,”’ in an unsteady, childish hand
stared Mr. Erle in the face. B. Corselas, and
his father, neither to hold nor to bind! There
could be nothing in it, and yet—Mr. Erle was
startled.

“No,” he said coolly.
thing. Why?’’

“Well, she was aslip of a thing,” dryly, ‘‘and
she bought laudanum. She had a queer look
about her—very light eyes!”

“Tall, charming?’’ scoffingly.

“No, Mr. Erle. Childish and_ frightened-
looking. Will you ,have a check or notes?
They’re both here. She would have been hand-
some if she hadn’t looked hungry.”’

“Notes,’’ said Erle slowly. ‘‘You’ll get into
trouble yet, Peters, with your drugs. Good-
night!’’

He was richer than he had been for many a

to himself “As
must visit my—

have some

”

By the way, could
He pushed the book

‘Cassels, or some-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

day; but he was not thinking of that as he
got into his cab and drove back to Euston.

It was queer that he felt so assured that
he had seen at Blackpool the very girl who had
signed Peter’s book. He dismissed his cab at
the Euston’ Hotel, but before he entered it he
returned to the station. A few inquiries made
him surer than ever, but the ‘“B. Corselas’’
staggered him. It might be all right, but if,
after all these years, it was going to be all
wrong, it was no joke. ;

He wrote a brief note to his father. for there
was no.sense in trusting a country telegraph
office, and then retired to bed.

‘Paris for me!’ he reflected as he put out
the light. “If there is anything queer the
farther I'm out of it the better. Besides, other
things. -But, of course, it’s all a silly_coinci-
dence.”’

He little knew the trouble
‘saved him if he had
girl at Blackpeol.

it would have
spoken kindly to that

CHAPTER . VI.
LORD ERCELDONNE MARKS THE KING.

On the shore of St. Anne’s, that is a day’s
walking from Blackpool, is the wreck of a
brig. Dismantiled, gaunt in the daylight, black
and gruesome at night, it lies canted on the
beach a grim signpost on a coast where the
lifeboat men are seldom idle.

“The lamplighter looked at it as he finished
his rounds in the dusk. :

“Tis said it’s haunted,’ he remarked to
himself, ‘‘but ghosts have quieter tongues than
Margery! And ‘tis the only place she’ll not
rout me out of.’ His conscience was not clear
nor his legs quite reliable as he made an un-
ostentatious progress ‘ever the shingle to the
wreck. He was not drunk to his own mind,
but he would be drunk to a certainty in the
eyes of the rate-payers and his wife. Mr.
Ebenezer Davids had no mind to be brought
up before the vestry or the domestic tribunal.

He scrambled on board the weather-beaten
hull of the Highland Mary, and made his way
below, dewn a companionway- that slanted at
a discomposing angle. The darkness of the
cabin was musty, but. Mr. Davids was not
squeamish. He felt his: way to a moldy
locker and collapsed on it. Something rustied,
but he cared nothing for rats.. He only turned
more comfortably and let the joyful slumber
eft semi-intoxication possess him utterly.

The tide was rising; it lipped against the
seaward side of the Highland Mary with a
noise that was oddly like the frightened
breathing of a weak creature. But there was
no other sound till the lampfighter’s snores he-
gan to fill the cabin. Then came a faint rus-
tling in the berth opposite him, a gasp as ifa
desperate resolve had taken away some one’s
breath. The snoring kept on.

In the dark there: was a sound of cautious
feet; feet that had no strength or weight; but
if any one stole up to the lamplighter he did
not hear. In his sleep he flung out his arm,
and it struck something that gave; something
that was bending over him, trying to reach a
red cotton bundle that lay between him and
the wall. It was his supper of bread and
cheese that he had not eaten, and the smell of
the cheese, combined with the regular snor-
ing, had drawn a living thing to his side.

He started up, sobered with terror, sweating
with fear. What had touched him in the dark?
What had screeched in his ear?

“The place is haunted, curse it!’ he said,
and was frightened afresh. For the instant he
spoke a low moaning broke out at his very
feet.

The lamplighter was a little man, and not
brave. In sheer desperation and terror he re-
membered that. he carried the tools of his
trade in a bag at his side, and with a shaking
hand he lit his long wax taper. As it burned
blue in the close cabin he recoiled.

The place was haunted, indeed! :

What was this on the floor, like a white-
faced girl, whose long, black hair streamed
over her? No living woman could be so thin,
could have such strange, golden eyes.

“What—what are you? Get away!” cried the
lamplighter wildly. He raised his foot to kick
at the thing on the floor.

“Don’t! Oh, don’t hurt me!’’. The cry was
human, utterly desolate. “Tf didn’t mean to
steal, but I’m hungry,’’ with a sullen sob.

‘“Hunery!’’ said the lamplighter stupidly, and
his taper nearly fell in his surprise.. ‘“What
are you doing here if you're ungry, fright-
ening honest folk?’ He grew angry as he re-

membered how nearly she had sent him flying
back to Margery with a hogy tale that would
have made him a laughing stock.

“T’ve nowhere else to go.” ~~

At the answer he stuck his taper upright in
a convenient crack in the floor of the Highland
“Mary, and with a rough kindness lifted the
girl to the locker. She was a threadpaper slip
of sixteen or so, with the queerest eyes he had
ever seen: even the lamplighter, who was fa-
miliar with poverty, had never seen a- human
being so thin. ;

“Why, you’re. starved, lass!” he_ cried.
“What ever made you come to this old hulk?
You might have knowed there was no roast
beef here. Where do. you come from?’ for his
keen little eyes saw that her shoes were not
the shoes of a tramp. :

She did not answer, except to point to the
red handkerchief that smelled of cheese. :

“You can have it, certain!’ he had a foolish
lump in his throat as he stuffed-the thick, un-
appetizing stuff into her hand. And he turned
away as he saw how she tore at it with sharp
white teeth like a dog’s. But she only ate a
mouthful or two.

The lamplighter took a seat on the locker
and stared at her. ‘

“Come now, missus,’ he said, not unkindly,
‘Jet us know what brought you here. You
can’t stay here till you die—like this!’’ ‘

“Where can I go? No one wants me

“Go back to your friends, lass!’

“T haven’t any. I haven’t any money,
either, and it was cold and rainy, so I came
in here. I’ve been ill, Ethink. It seems a long
time.”’

“By gum!’ the lamplighter was nonplused
“Why didn’t you beg. Have you had anything
to eat?’’ sharply. :

“JT hate people, and they_hate me. No one
would give me anything. I went out in the
nights and got water at a brook over there,
and I found some bread one evening.’’ She
did not say it was crusts a dog had despised.

“How long have you been like this?’’ he
asped. F
- “f don’t know. More than a week. I’ve been
ill, I” her head fell forward with a stified
groan. : 2 x oe

“You’re sick, now, my lass! he said, piti-
fully. “Come, your way’s with me, and I'll
take you-—” He stopped; he dared not take
her to Margery, and the only other place was
the workhouse.

“T won't go to a convent,’ she muttered.
“T won't!”

“It’s not a convent,”’ he said, puzzled. ‘Just
a—well, there!—it’s.hell on earth to my mind,
but it’s better than this,’ he broke out
roughly, for the strange girl could not hear
him; she was in a dead faint at his feet.

Staggering, sweating, Davids managed to
carry her up the companionway to the deck
that was keeled over at such an angle that,
burden and all he nearly slipped through the
broken bulwarks to the stony beach. But he
clawed ard staggered valiantly, till he had
laid the girl—who to his mind was dying—
safely on the ground. Then he gazed about
him. What was to be done next?

“There ain’t no choice as I can see,”’ re-
marked the bewildered Samaritan. “Though
she’s gey and heavy for such a bag of bones.

He shouldered her like a sack of potatoes,
fearful that she might die on his hands. “

“Here goes, and prays I that Margery don’t
hear of it!’ he muttered, and with toil and
cursing, gained the highway, a ludicrous figure
in the light of the November moon. His only
thought was by what.byway he could come at
the workhouse, and as he puzzled at it he ran
into a tall man in an Inverness cape who was
coming from the opposite direction. eet

“What the devil!’ cried the latter, furiously.
“Why don't you look where you're going?

“Beg your pardon, my lord,’ gasped the des-
pairing Davids. ‘I couldn’t look, she’s too
mortal heavy.’’

“She—who? Why, it’s you, Davids! What
are you doing?’ Lord Erceldonne stared as he
had never stared in all his ill-spent life.

“Going to the workhouse,” wretchedly. .

“What for? And—why, it’s a woman!’’ with
unkind enjoyment. A_ squint-eyed. frowsy
lamplighter with a romance was too delight ful.

“Tt’s a lady, if you ask me,’ retorted the
man with some dignity. ‘‘And I think she’s
over near to dying for laughter.”

“What d’ye mean?’ enraged at the just re-
buke. Ebenezer told him. But it was too dark
for him to see how Lord Erceldonne’s hand
flew to his pocket where two letters lay.

“Put her down,’’ he ordered. “Let me look
at her.”

Bbenezer obeyed, with some relief.

Straight and tall, her long limbs as nerve-
less as if she were dead, the girl lay on the
sround. Her white face showed gaunt with

amine in the moonlight as her matted, wild
hair lifted in the night wind. For a moment
- poth men thought her dead.

‘Erceldonne knelt down by her.

>

“Did she tell you her name?’’
thick.

*“Not she!”

“Then she'll never tell
there was something so
ultation, in the pitiless words that Davids
looked angrily at the speaker. Then he
started.

The pale, worn face bent over the girl was
hers almost line for line; allowing for the dif-
ference between sixteen years and fifty.

“My soul!’’ thought the lamplighter. ‘She
is the very spit and—image of his lordship.”
He turned almost fiercely on the man, as if
he had been his equal.

“She ain’t dead, and she ain’t going to die,
while I can help it. Move, my lord—and let
me carry her to the workhouse while there’s
time.’’

A stranger look than ever was on Ercel-
donne’s face. This was Fate—but he had con-
quered Fate before. He burst into a cackling
laugh that made Davids jump; long and loud
he laughed in the light of the. moon over the
girl who lay dying on the ground.

“Get on with you then, to the workhouse!’’
he cried indifferently, but as he turned away
his eyes were still full of laughter, in strange
eontrast to his savage temper when he met
Ebenezer.

“IT mark the king, it seems!’’ said Lord
Erceldonne to the desolate night. “T mark
the king; after all!”

(To be continued.)

> o-

The Broken Trust;

A WOMAN'S SILENCE.
By BERTHA M. CLAY,

Author of ‘‘A Wife's Peril,” ‘‘Lady Ona’s Sin,” ‘A Hana

Without a Wedding Ring,” ‘‘Dora Thorne,” ‘‘How
Will It End,” ete.

His voice was

it now—she’s dead!”’
like recognition, ex-

(“Tae BROKEN TRUST’ was commenced in No. 39.
Back uumbers can be obtained of all newsdealers.)

CHAPTER XXXI.
UNEXPECTED MEETING.

Beyond a few unpleasant dreams and the at-
tendance of the skeleton that day and night
aan by his side, nothing ailed Sir Alan Ayns-
ey. :

He was_in the full tide of prosperity and
good fortune; his political negotiations had
been so wisely conducted that he was sure of
being returned for the borough of Oulston.
Carsdale was almost ready, and he had nearly
won from Lady Blanche a promise that if the
election ended favorably for.him, she would
crown his happiness by an early marriage.

“It has to be,’ the unhappy girl thought to
herself. “‘People do not usually linger in sight
of the scaffold, or the rack, when they have
to suffer thereon. Why should I live in sus-
pense? The day has to_come, let it come
quickly.”

So, when Sir Alan wrote passionate, implor-
ing letters, she replied coldly he had better
arrange the time for their marriage with her
father. His dark face flushed with triumph as
he read; the prize so longed for seemed within
his grasp.

There was nothing much to trouble him but
the fear of Esther. He had felt slightly un-
comfortable that morning in the artist’s stu-
dio. He wished he could have answered Mr.
Westerne’s questions; but of danger from the
artist and his daughter he never even
dreamed.

The month during which Esther had prom-
ised to keep silent was drawing to a close.
What would she do at its end: denounce him,
or cess his terms? Even did he love her
still, had he never seen Lady Blanche,™he
would not have married Esther; he- would
never have submitted to live under the thral-
dom of a woman who held sucha secret over
his head.

He thought he could be able to purchase her
silence—gold can do much.

On the very morning when Paul Westerne
had appointed to meet Mr. Grey, Sir Alan
went to the artist's house. It so happened
Esther Bruce went that same morning by ar-
rangement for a lesson, and the two who were
once all the world to each other met at the
step of the door.

Despite his nonchalant coolness, Sir Alan’s
face grew white and stern as he saw her.

“BEsther,’’ he said, quickly, ‘fare you in
league with these people? Do you want help
in hunting me down?”’ .

There can be no sorrow greater than that
which shone in the girl’s eyes as she raised
them to his.

“These people are your friends,’ Paul,’ she
said, gravely.

‘‘Have they said nothing of me?’’ he asked.
“Have they not told you all about me?’

‘‘Miss Westerne asked me one day if I knew
Sir Alan Aynsley and I told her, honestly,
‘No!’ ”’ replied Esther.

His face fiushed angrily at her words.

“On your oath, Esther, you have not be-
trayed me?’’ ;

“On my word,’’ she replied, proudly, ‘‘which
was ever sufficient for you.”

“Esther, what are you going to do when the
month is over?’ he asked.

“Shall you keep the promise you made me
years ago?’’ she asked.

“T may as well tell you now as then. No, I
have no intention of marrying any one but
Lady Damar—do you hear me, Esther?’

she replied, dreamily, ‘“‘I hear you,

AN

“Do not use that name,”’ he cried, angrily.
“Do you want to ruin me with your absurdly
sentimental ways? I am not going to marry
you, Esther. Shall you denounce me?’’

“No,’’ she replied; “if ever I was so false to
my womanhood or to my love as to threaten
you, I retract my words; mine shall not be
the voice to cry out against you, or mine the
hands to .drag you down. It will come in
God’s good time. He brings all evil to light,
but I pray Him not to make me the instru-
ment of His vengeance.”’

He was touched by her words, more touched
than he cared to own. The sublime sorrow on
her face moved him.

“Thank you, Esther,’’ he said, ‘it would be
hard if the woman I once loved should give
me up to the enemy. You are kind and good,
I am not sure but that I am half in love with
you again.. You care more for me than Lady
Blanche. Wouldn’t she denounce me if she
could!”’

“Spare me all insult,’? said Esther; ‘‘none
can be so great as the mention of your love.
No, I will not betray you; but I do not mean
to yield all claim to-you. I shall never cease
to pray to you—to plead to you—to beseech
you, in God’s name, until you promise to do
jastice, and give up what you have so unjustly
won.”

“And I give permission to preach,” said Sir
Alan, with a light laugh, ‘‘whenever you get a
chance.”’ :

“Your welfare will always be dearer to me
than anything else,’’ said Esther, with solemn
dignity. ‘‘I loved you very dearly years ago,
Paul; I think sometimes no woman ever loved
or suffered as I have done. I thought, when
I discovered your treachery, that I was strong
enough to punish you. I am not. I am not:
for the love you taught me is stronger than
life itself. God help me, I cannot betray you;
I would die sooner.”

It was wonderful to see the relief that came
to his face. Was this the woman he had
feared so greatly, that the sight of her face
on canvas had shaken the strong life within
him? | «==

“You are a noble girl, Esther,’’ he said. “I
must see you again; you must let me offer
you ,

“Nay.’’ she interrupted, ‘“‘spare me the indig-
nity of a bribe; and remember, you are in
mightier hands than mine; remember—‘the
wages of sin is death.’ ”’

He started back at the words—no_ others
could have touched him so keenly. He had
read them first in that far off hut near Otana,
with the dying face of Alan Wayne turned to
him for comfort. They had haunted him ever
since, and now they came from the true lips
that had never said false words to him. He
shrank from her with a white, cowed, yet half
defiant, look on his face. He dared not retort;
the words were not her own.

“Good morning, Esther,’ he said. ‘I am go-
ing in here. You had better come another
time.”’

She turned away without a word, and he
congratulated himself in the quiet street where
so few passed that their interview had been a
private one. But the eyes he had most cause
to fear in all the world. had he known it, were
bent upon him. Edith Westerne, from _ be-
tween the closed Venetians of the drawing-
room window, had seen the meeting and
watched the whole interview. She noted the
sublime expression of suffering and patience

on Esther’s:face; she noted the mingled fear
land insolent triumph of Sir Alan; and, as she

‘

 

 

watched, felt more and more sure that the
so-called baronet was Esther’s lover, who was
“so much worse than dead.’’

“She told me,’’ thought Edith, ‘‘that she did
not know Sir Alan Aynsley, and yet she talks
to him as if she had known him for years.
How can that be? They are more like intimate
friends than strangers.’’

Suddenly an idea came to her.
so truthful, whose lips were eguiléeless and
stainless as her own, had said she did not
know Sir Alan Aynsley. Did she know the
man by any other name? Sir Alan’s loud rap
sounded on the door and she went down to the
library where he awaited her.

*“‘Mr. Westerne is not in, I hear. I merely
ealled to see how the picture is getting on.
would not go away without paying mes devoirs
to you, Miss Edith.’’

“You are very Kind,’’ she said, calmly; and
then, as usual when they were together and
alone, a particularly unpleasant and _  re-
strained silence fell over them. >

“By the way,’’ suddenly said Sir Alan,
thinking it best to provide against emergen-
cies, ‘‘that is a nice face your father
has found for the picture; the model, the
young lady—sitter—or whatever it is proper to
call her, reached the door at the same time I
did. I spoke to her—pray do not be shocked—
and complimented her on her pretty face.’’

“Then you took a liberty few would dream
of taking with Miss Bruce,” said Edith, qui-
etly. “She is singularly reserved and ladylike,
a great favorite with both papa and myself.’’

She could not help observing something
quite new in his manner, a shade of triumph,
a freedom, as of some fear removed.

She said but little more to him, and
Sir Alan. left the house quite unconscious
that he had left a most bitter enemy and de-
termined foe behind him. When he reached
home it was to find on his table letters which
gave such information as made his return at
next week’s election sure.

Flushed with the double triumph he sat
down and wrote at once to Lord Damar and
Lady Blanche, urging his request that the
marriage might take place soon.

Lady Blanche wrote two lines,
matter lay in her father’s
could not interfere. y

Lord Damar wrote at greater length, saying
in his plausible, courtly way there were im-
perative reasons why the marriage should not
take place yet, and his dear Alan must wait
a little while longer.

‘“‘He wants more money,” said the baronet
to himself, as he threw the letter impatiently
down, wincing as he thought of the many
thousands already lent, wondering how many
more must follow, and firmly resolved to keep
his purse tightly. shut when-once the marriage
ceremony had taken place. ‘‘He wants money,
but what does she want? I would give the
world to learn how to make her happy.” |

A scene was being enacted in the rooms of
Captain Vivian Chandos that laid the founda-
tion to Sir Alan’s ruin.

Mr. Grey had received the summons to at-
tend the consultation with some little wonder
and surprise.

“What can Captain Chandos want with me?
‘Private and most important business.’ Surely
there is nothing wrong at Carsdale; the heir
is steady enough.’’

Sir Alan Aynsley. was a favorite of the old
lawyer, and he was proud of him and consid-
ered him in some vague way his special pro-
tege.

He went to Captain Chandos at once, and
after a few words of greeting asked the mean-
ing of the important business. ;

“IT hope there is nothing wrong at Carsdale?’’
he asked, anxiously.

She, always

saying the
hands, and she

CHAPTER XXXII,
A MODERN PORTIA,

-“There is nothing wrong, I hope, at Cars-
dale?’’ repeated Mr. Grey, noting the blank ex-
pression on the face of Paul Westerne and the
excitement of Captain Chandos.

“That is the very thing we want to see you
about,’ said Vivian; ‘‘if this gentleman’s sus-
picions @re correct, there is something very
wrong indeed and must be set right at once.’’

Mr. Grey looked very much astonished.

“Surely,” he said, “Sir Alan has not got into
the hands of the Jews. I thought him so very
steady. is he trying to raise money on the es-
tates”

“The difficulty is not of that kind. We had
better come to the point at once. You, of
course, Mr. Grey, wére amply satisfied with
the proofs of Sir *R7t’s identity?”
seed identity! _, yer dreamed of doubting
it. tr.

_ “Yet serious doubts have arisen on the sub-
ject,” said Captain Chandos. ‘‘This gentle-
man—Mr. Westerne—was an intimate friend of
the late Edgar Wayne.- They lived at Wabash
together; and Alan Wayne as a child was well
known to Mr. Westerne and his daughter. They
both declare now that the man calling himself
Sir Alan is not the boy they knew in Wabash.”’

‘“‘But,”. cried Mr. Grey, ‘‘what proofs have
they of this assertion.”’

Paul Westerne handed him the little sketch,
saying:

“T took this portrait of Alan Wayne when he
was a child, and the present Sir Alan does not
bear the slightest resemblance to it.”

‘“‘But,’”? remonstrated the lawyer, ‘‘a man’s
face changes so—that is—perhaps neither you
nor I retain our childish features.’’

“Possibly not; but how about the color of
hair and eyes. You will see Alan Wayne’s
eyes are dark blue, his hair dark brown, and
both, I promise you, are correct. Sir Alan
Aynsley has dark eyes and black hair. The
sun may brown a man’s face, but I defy it to
change the color of his eyes,’’ said Paul West-
erne, impressively.

“Still, the evidence is so slight to bring for-
ward so serious a charge upon.’’

‘““‘There is more to follow,’’ replied Mr. West-
erne. ‘‘Believe me, Mr. Grey, I like Sir Alan
and I speak against my will. It will be a dark
day for me if he turns out as I fear—an im-
postor. He is my best friend and patron; he
has placed me on the road to fame and wealth
and I am grateful to him. My interest is one
with his, yet honor is honor, and I must speak
the truth.”

There was a quiet force and dignity about
the artist that impressed Mr. Grey favorably.
~ “Let me hear what other proofs you have,”’
he said.

Mr. Westerne told him all, of Alan and
Edith’s love, of her immediate recognition of
the fact that he was not Sir Alan, and of her
persistence.

“‘In the eyes of the law,’’ he continued,
may be slight evidence. I am ready to add
my oath to it. I can recall the face of Alan
Wayne, gentlemen; it was pale and earnest,
with dreamy blue eyes and tender lips—the
face of a man destined to die young, yet withal
there was something of the fire of his race in
it—a face in all respects different from that of
Sir Alan Aynsley.’’

“You say. it will not be difficult to get wit-
nesses from Wabash to prove what you sus-
pect?’ asked Mr. Grey.

“Not at all, if you require them. I think
you will prove the fact without it.”

“T have never. been so surprised in all my
life,’”’ said Mr. Grey. ‘I cannot realize it. I
cannot believe it. His papers were all right,
he had all the certificates, all my letters, both
to Edgar and himself; he had the letter we
wrote when Sir Edgar died; where could he
ey h obtained them if he be not Sir Alan him-
self?’’

“That remains to be proved,”
Chandos; “strange things are
wild countries. I pray Alan Wayne met with
no foul play. It is not difficult in a place like
Otana to kill a man and steal his papers.’’

Mr. Grey’s face grew quite white with hor-
ror.

‘““My dear Captain Chandos,”’ he cried, ‘‘you
think and judge too quickly; the man may be
an impostor, but he may not be a murderer;
you must be calm. I cannot believe one word
of it Not only were his papers all right, but
his handwriting was identically the same; and
he knew all the particulars of the family. He
cannot be an impostor. No man can play a
part as he played it. He talked to me the
first evening he came about his father and
Carsdale.’’

“That is the very thing I want to know,’’
said Vivian Chandos; ‘‘try and remember, Mr.
Grey: on the first evening did he talk or
did you? Did he first mention names and

est

said Captain
done in those

places, or did he skillfully draw you out—take

the words out of your mouth and make them
seem his own? Did he learn from you, do you
think ?’’

“Upon my word, I can hardly tell. You see,
we had no doubt: his conduct was in every re-
spect so perfectly straightforward. He came
to us, produced his papers, and went through
all the necessary legal forms. We never
dreamed of doubting him. Why should we?
We wrote as we had written before, to Alan
Wayne, and Alan Wayne came. I will think
it over. TI do remember one thing. At Cars-
dale, after dinner, Sir Alan asked me all par-
ticulars of his relations, saying that his father
had been unwilling to name them. Another
thing that struck me was, he did not in the
least recognize his father’s picture. TI felt and
expressed some surprise. He said his father’s
face had greatly altered with time and care.’’

“It seems to me,’’ said Mr. Westerne, ‘‘that
the most direct way would be for some one to

Gr

 

 

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

a)

go to Otana, to
Wayne certainly lived, and make
there as to whom he associated with.

“It would be a work of time,’’ replied the
lawyer, ‘‘but it is the best plan.’’

“Y should propose looking over the papers
again,’ said Captain Chandos. ‘‘Where are
they ?”’

“In the strong room at Carsdale. I can have
access to them, if you think it any use,’’ re-
plied Mr. Grey.

“¥ do, decidedly,’’ replied Vivian. ‘‘Having,
as.you say, no doubt, you would naturally not
look very closely into them.’’

“T was with Sir Alan when he put the let-
ters and papers into the iron safe. There was
a whole bundle of them. I do not know if he
is aware that we have always had a dupli-
eate key... But I cannot credit or believe it.
There must be some mistake. I should like to
see your daughter and examine her myself.”’

“That can be done at once,’’ said the artist.
“Let us go to my house now.’’ é

“Captain Chandos and I will follow,’ said
the lawyer, with his habitual caution; ‘“‘it
might excite suspicion if we all went at once.”’

In a short space of time the three gentle-
ment met again in the artist’s studio, and Paul
Westerne summoned his daughter to appear
before him.

There was no flush on Edith’s calm, fair face
as she entered the room; even before ske
spoke Mr. Grey was favorably impressed by
the calm, intelligent expression of her face.

“These gentlemen are more immediately con-
eerned in the discovery we have made,’’ he
said, after introducing her.

“You have come to do justice to Alan
Wayne?’ she said, quietly. “T Knew you
would come at last, but the time has seemed
long. This man is not Alan Wayne. You will
find it so; he is an impostor. What do you
thinkK he has done with my dear friend and
playfellow ?”’

She carried conviction about her; such ear-
nest faith in the truth of her own words, that
the three gentlemen looked at each other in
silent wonder.

Word for word, in her grave, low voice, she
went over the old ground, the three tests; tell-
ing her story with such evident love for the
true Alan, such evident belief in the impost-
ure, that Mr. Grey was completely bewildered.

“T am sorry to say,” he finally said, ‘“‘that
your story seems plausible enough; but it is
not sufficient to deprive a man of name and
wealth and brand him as an impostor.’’

“Tf he is really not Sir Alan, who is he?’’
asked Vivian Chandos.

“There is some one living in London who
ean tell you, unless I am mistaken,”’ replied
Edith. ‘‘Papa, you remember Miss Bruce? I
am quite sure she Knows who he is.”

“Where can this lady be seen?’’ asked Mr.

inquiries

ey.
“She will be here at noon to-morrow,’’ re-
plied Edith, ‘‘and you can meet her here.’’

She then turned to Vivian Chandos.

“Captain Chandos,’’ she said, “if my dear
friend Alan is no longer living. they tell me
you will be his heir to Carsdale. I hope you
will recover your rights.’’

And as Vivian walked slowly from the house
he said to himself the only character she re-
sembled was Portia, in the ‘‘Merchant of
Venice.”’

CHAPTER XXXII.
A WOMAN’S SILENCE.

Esther Bruce said to herself she had grown
inured to suffering; the bitterness of death, of
desertion, of betrayal, had all been strong up-
on her. She had been spared no humiliation,
no sorrow, no shame; but never had she felt
so lonely as on the morning she turned from
Paul Westerne’s house, leaving the man who
had been her lover there. Her tears fell fast
and thick underneath her veil. It seemed to
her she must be mad or dreaming—that. the
man she had just parted from so coldly could
never be Paul—Paul, whose warm kisses and
tender words had lived in her heart so long.
She was miserably unhappy. She could not
betray him; the lips that had kissed his face
could not denounce him—must not doom him®
to shame and death.

Bsther herself had a keen, passionate sense
of honor; there was no untruth or meanness in
her. Nothing Paul Lynne could have done was
so hateful to her as this. A wrong deed, done
in the heat of anger, in the fire of passion, she
could have easily pardoned; but this deliberate,
cold, deeply-studied fraud sickened her. Yet,
like all good and true women, she could not
be too hard upon the man she had loved. Love
with her had not been a trifle, given one mo-
ment td be taken back the next.
all, once given it was given forever; and now
that the man, too, on whom she had lavished
it proved himself so utterly unworthy, she
could not take it from him; it clung to, him
with tenderness and patience almost divine.
Had he been a wise man, he would have given
up everything on earth for such love as hers.

Sorrow began to tell upon her. The beauti-
ful face grew pale, the scarlet lips trembled.
Esther Bruce was changed from the young girl
who sat in the pit of the opera, spellbound by
what she considered then a strange likeness.

Her step is slow and languid, the quick,
bright elasticity has left her, on this eventful
morning as she walks through the streets to
Paul Westerne’s studio.

She was shown into the studio where Edith
sat alone; and a few minutes later three gen-
tlemen entered the room.

When Mr. Westerne introduced Mr. Grey she
bowed, believing him to be there over some-
thing connected with the pictures, as she was.

But when she was introduced to Captain
Chandos a curious change came over her face.

They all saw it—a look of wonder and terror
—a hunted look, as though she were brought
to bay. This fair-haired, handsome soldier,
then, was the man Paul Lynne had so shame-
fully robbed.

Her lips quivered, her eyes filled with tears;
then, for his sake, she controlled herself, but
in that one moment the astute lawyer had
learned all he wanted to know.

“My dear young lady,’’ he said, ‘‘this is no
accidental meeting; we are here purposely to
see you; we want you to help us do an act
of justice, we rely upon you.”’

They saw the look of horror that fell over
her, the dread and fear that shadowed her
eyes.

We want yeu to tell us,’’ said Mr. Grey,
persuasively, ‘fall you know of a person calling
himself Sir Alan Aynsley.’’

Her face grew white as marble, even down
to her lips—she could not conceal that; but
there was no faltering in her voice as she
answered:

“Tt is less than nothing; I am sitting as a
model for a picture I know he has ordered, and
I know also the lady whom he is engaged to
marry.’’

“That is information common to half Eng-
land. I am about to make a very solemn ap-
peal to you—one you must not dismiss lightly.
T ask you in the name of God and in the name
of justice to tell me all you know of this man?’

There was a solemn pause. Esther had cov-
ered her face with her hands. How thankful
she would have been for death, to save her
from the shame of a lie!

Then raising her head, she said, with droop-
ing eyes:

“T know nothing at all.”

“Think again,’’ said Mr. Grey. ‘Perhaps in
your womanly pity and compassion you would
screen him. Have no fear; we are generous
foes. Answer me only one question: Have
you ever known him by any other name? Pray
answer me.”’

Esther sat mute and motionless.

“We will give you time to think. [In ten
minutes I will ask you the same question over
again.’’

They left her alone to a solitude worse than
any other—to a torture greater, almost, than
she could bear—to thoughts that seemed to
burn both heart and brain.

‘“‘Here,’* whispered Revenge, ‘“‘here is a glo-
rious chance to repay the debt you owe him,
for his cruel trifling with your love, his bar-
barous deceit—for the tears, and sighs, and
sorrow that have eaten away your life since
you believed him dead; pay him now for his
seorn and mockery, for his leaving your love
for love of Lady Blanche; denounce him, and
sparé him not!”

“Keep his secret,’’ whispered gentle Pity;
‘he loved you once; his hand has clasped
yours; save him from his enemies, save him
from himself!’’

And pity gained the day, as it often does in
women’s hearts.

Mr. Grey came back and stood before her.

“T repeat my appeal,”’ he said; ‘“‘in the name
of justice, tell me what you know of this
man.,”’

“T know nothing!”’
and erect before him.
quéstion me?”

‘“‘Because I am convinced that whatever mys-
terv this man’s life holds. you have the key.”

“Speak in plain terms,’ said Edith West-
erne. ‘You know who and what this man was
nefore he went by the name of Sir Alan Ayns-

ley.”’
By the way in which she shuddered they
knew Edith had touched the truth. oe
“You ' know,” went on the calm, pitiless
voice, ‘‘when you screen a sinner you share
the sin. Have you no sense of justice, Miss
Bruce, that you refuse to answer?’

she said, standing calm
‘‘Why do you ask or

see the place where Alan

It was her |

 

VOL. 54—No. 49.

Still no word, but the white shaped
themselves to say:

“IT know nothing.’’

‘Perhaps you will listen to me,’’ said Vivian,
bending over her, with pity in every line of
his brave, handsome face. ‘If you know to
what we are alluding you will know how far
and how deeply I have been wronged. My
love, all I have in the world, is at stake. Will
you not do an act of justice for me? I never
injured you, but your silence will cruelly in-
jure me.’”’

“*I—I ecannot,’’ she gasped;

It was Paul West
his.

“‘Miss Bruce, your heart is as
face. Cruel wrong has, we fez
cruel injustice and fraud, and,
believe you are bound, if you
straight.”’

She turned her fair, tortured
cried:

‘Let me go—I have nothing
go!’
“You refuse

lips

“T know nothing.”’

erne who took her hand in

true as your
ar, been done—
before God, I

n, to set it

can,

to aay—iet me

all and any answer
questions?’’ said Mr. Grey, angrily.

“IT do,’’ she replied. ~

“Perhaps,” he continued, J
own reasons for so doing—pe
interest demands your silenc

He never forgot the proud, cold glance
her dark eyes as they rested upon him.

“Neither torture—nor death—would force me
to speak or to keep silent—unless I choose,’’
she said. “‘Let me go, Miss Edith, let me go!”

‘““‘We must presume,’ continued Mr. Grey,
“that you do not even Know to what we are
alluding.’’

“Presume what you will, only

The agony on her fair, young
Captain Chandos. He was less pitiless than
the young girl, whose heart was bent on dis-
covering the fate of her lost friend. He drew
near her, and bending over her, whispered:

“I know what love is. You look like one who
ean love until death. If it be from Jove you
keep silent, heaven forbid, even to save myself,
I should asSk you to break it.’’

She looked up at him, her whole soul do-
ing homage to the nobility of his—and this gal-
lant, noble man—this loyal gentleman, was
the one so cruelly defrauded!

he was nearer revealing her secret then
than at any other time; but Captain Chandos
turned round.

“Gentlemen,’’ he
terested in
and I say

to

our

have
your

your
own

in

let me go!’’
face touched

said, ‘I am more nearly in-

this case than any other can be,

from the depths of my heart, I
> and lose all

connected with it, than see Miss

tured for my sake.’’

“Why should it torture her
nothing?’’ said Edith, impatient
too chivalrous, Captain Chandos.
due to the living and to the dead.’’

“We will do what we have to do without
Miss Bruce,’’ he replied. ‘‘I cannot see a wom-
an suffer for me. Miss Bruce has expressed
a wish to go. Mr. Grey will, I am ac-
cede to it.’’

‘“‘Certainly,’’ said Mr. Grey,
grace, “‘though I agree with Ss
it is sheer folly to lose what might really be
a valuable witness from such very chivalrous
ideas. You please yourself, Captain Chandos.’’

The grateful look Esther gave him repaid
him. He was too much of a gentleman to see
a@ woman suffer so keenly for his sake.

“You have disappointed me, Miss Bruce,’’
said Paul Westerne.

am very sorry,” she said, humbly, “‘but ]
know nothing. I have nothing to say.’’

She went quietly from the room, without an-
other word, and passed out into the street.

(To be continued.)

y poor
Westerne;

A

Lover or Husband?

OR

MADNESS OF JACKY HAMILTON.

By ADELAIDE STIRLING,
Author of Tie Wolf’s Mouth,” ‘Nerine’s Second Choice,”
“The Purple Mask,” ‘Saved From Herself,’’ Etc.

(“LOVER OR HUSBAND?” was commenced in No.
Back numbers can be obtained of ail newsdealers.)

THE

38,

CHAPTER XXXVI.
THE NECKLACE OF BLACK DIAMONDS.

It was curious
shabby girl in the
Mouse that night.

She found herself fingering the gorgeous
stones that lay on her white breast almost
nervously. She, the Red Mouse, who had never
been nervous in her life. How did that pale
girl who looked at her so queerly come to be
loitering at her door the very first time she
wore those diamonds, and how did she know
they were bought from Lesard?

The Red Mouse clutched the necklace hard as
she sat in her rose-colored and rose-scented
drawing-room, where the scattered green ta-
bles were arranged as for an ordinary card
party, and not a coin was allowed to show
itself, only innocent red and white counters.

The faces round the tables, though, were not
those of men playing for counters. Perfectly
quiet and impassive outwardly, they played in
grim silence; now and then one got up and
went away, and if he had lost he wasted no
time on farewells to his hostess. It was not
expected of him; the Red Mouse had no time
for unlucky people.

To-night it was only from habit
kept a keen eye on the settling up. She took
her gains mechanically, smiled mechanicaily
in the eyes of @ foolish boy in the Guards who
lavished all his winnings into her willing hand.

Suppose there was something wrong about
those diamonds, that must be famous for a
gir! like that to have known them! Could Le-
sard have passed off stolen goods on her,
taken her good hard money for jewels that
any day the police might take from her with-
out redress!

That necklace had been a frightful extrava-
gance even for the Red Mouse. She was an-
gry and frightened_as she remembered the
sum she had given for it. She pulled herself
together to smile with slow sweetness at her
boy guardsman. He was heir to one of the
richest properties in England, and it would
go hard with her if she did not gnaw out the
pith of all he possessed.

‘Come and see me to-morrow,”’
softly. ‘‘No! I don’t want you to
longer now. Im tired. It‘s two o'clock, I
want to go to bed.”

The boy turned searlet with pleasure. She
had never spoken so kindly before. He trod on
air as he left the house, last of all to go.

But the woman he had quitted went to her
own room with no lightness in her feet. She
had been ready to sell all she owned to buy
that necklace, and to-night she wished she
had never seen it. Money was the god of the
Red Mouse, and there was an inexplicable un-
easiness growing on her that perhaps. she
might lose some day that nécklace and all she
had paid for it.

She looked up sharply as she entered her
own boudoir, where none of her visitors ever
set foot but on her invitation. A man sat com-
fortably stretched out in her own chair, the
smoke from his cigarette circling up to the
shaded lamp on the table by his elbow.

“Tesard!’’ she stopped short. ‘‘What on earth
are you doing here? Why.did you come to this
room instead of the drawing-room?”

But his unlooked-for presence had reassured
instead of displeasing her. f there had been
anything wrong about those black diamonds
she fancied she knew her man well enough to
be certain he would have kept out of her way
instead of seeking her.

“Why shouldn’t I come here?’ he lifted his
lean, dark face and laughed. ‘“‘I often do. And
you know I never play in your menagerie and
never add to yeur exchequer with’’—he laughed
again—‘‘my widower’s mite!’’

“TF don’t want you. I’m dead tired.’’ She
was gazing at him curiously. How handsome
he was—and what a devil!

“You tired!’ his eyes flashed with amuse-
ment. ‘Get me a better‘’reason, and I'll go

ome.
nou needn’t go for a minute,’’ she spoke
thoughtfully, and with her back to him as she
touched a bell. ‘‘You can go to bed, both of
you,’? she said as her head maid appeared. “I
wil! undress myself. Bring me my bou-lion
here, and > she had been about to say whis-
ky and soda, when she saw it was already in
the room. Lesard had made himself at home,
then, while he waited! What could he want?

“GOOD BEGINNINGS.

Make Good Endings.’ You are making a good beginning
when you commence to take Hood’s Sarsaparilla for any
troubie of your blood, stomach, kidneys or liver. Persist-
entlv taken, this great medicine will bring you the good
ending of perfect health.

Hood’s Sarsaparilla

Is America’s Greatest Medicine, It Never Disappoints.

that

Red

of
the

how the thought
street clung to

that she

she said,
stay any

”

 

HOOD’S PILLS cure bilionsness. 25c.

 

a

|
|

|

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

~ VOL, 54-No, 49,

 

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

 

“You look excessively handsome to-night,”
he said, languidly, when. the maid had gone.
He fixed his eyes on the Red Mouse as she
sat Orpettbe him tinkling a gold spoon against
‘the thin china of the cup that held her bouil-
fon. “Those things would make any other
weman look overloaded, but they: suit you. I
wish you wouldn’t wear so much rouge—you
don't need it, and it’s not—artistic!” with a
shrug.

“You didn’t come here to talk of my com-
plexion,”’ sharply, “or to pay me doubtful
compliments!”

“No, nor real ones,’’ he returned, calmly.
“You know I never make love to you. That is
why we have been allies.’

Semething in his glance brought back the
odd idea. that had been haunting her all the
evening; odd, indeed, for she had no inkling
that Lesard was anything but what he seemed
—a bird of passage, gay, reckless, untrustwor-
thy; here to-day and gone to-morrow.

She put her cup down softly on the table
nearest her, and with both hands behind the
nape of her lovely neck unfastened the strange
necklace for which she had given so much.
She laid it slowly, carefully, on her lap, and
sat looking at it. her white satin gown it
shone more fiercely than ever, dazzling her
eyes. She remembered the day she had first
seen it, flashing from blood-red fire to azure,
paling to green and sulphur sparks, black and
dead every now and then only for the crystal-
line, starry centres of the great stones, where
stayed a lustre almost unbearable.

Very evil, very wicked for ali their glory,
those stones had shone, till the Red Mouse
coveted them as she had never coveted any-
thing in the world. Lesard had laughed when
she begged for them, and put them back into
his pocket.

“Only money will get those!’’ he said; and
money had got them only that day. They had
been collected for a wicked woman, they be-
long to a wicked woman now; but to one
whose perceptions had never been blunted by
the dissipation which she watched and used to
her own ends, but never shared. The Red
Mouse lived by her wits; next to her money
she relied on her intuition, which thus far had
never failed her. Its familiar voice was loud
in her ears now.

“Did you come about these?’ she asked sud-
denly, and tapped the lovely, glowing things
on her knee. :

“I did,’’ he returned. ‘Oh, I.don’t want them
back again. You neédn’t clutch them.”

““Where did you get them?” she demanded,
her hard, blue eyes watching each shadow on
his face, for there were shadows there, as well
as a covert exultation.

“Where?” Lesard blew a light ring of smoke
far out into the room. “‘From a connection of
—my wife’s!’’ and the hidden truth of his
words misled even her acuteness. :

“Bah, you never had a wife! No woman on
earth is rich enough to afford to marry you,”
she commented cynically. ‘‘And it’s no con-
cern of mine—unless you stole them.’”’

The shaft struck home, but the man only
laughed with a queer enjoyment.

“T got them in exchange—for a lot of other
things,’’ he averred, lazily. ‘‘You own them
now, when I'm paid!”’

“What do you mean?

noon.”’

part, my dear Mouse; only in part.
These,’’ he pulled two checks from his pocket,
*‘‘were returned dishonored from the bank.’”’

She glanced at- them. It had taken ? huge
slice from her bank account to pay Lesard.
Rather than draw out all she needed she had
given him two checks drawn in her favor by a
man whose money she borrowed with both
hands. She remembered the checks perfectly—
one was for two hundréd pounds, one for five
hundred—and drew in her breath sharply. A
check dishonored meant to her an admirer to
be cast off. ;

“Well,’’ she cried, angrily, ‘‘that is no con-
cern of mine! I had nothing to do with it.
It is you who are out that much, not I!”’

“IT am never out.’’ His face darkened as he
saw her lips set determinedly. ‘‘Give me that
seven hundred in hard cash to-night and you
keep the necklace. Otherwise’’—he flicked the
ash from his cigarette—‘‘I am afraid it is you
who will be left lamenting. I will have all my
money, or——"’ he nodded significantly at the

fingers instinctively tight-

I paid you this after-

necklace till her
ened their hold on it.

But she said nothing for a long moment,
while she measured his strength with her eyes.
If he dared he could do it, strong as she was.
Well, he must not dare!

“You have had far more than-the things are
worth without that seven hundred,’ she said,

Ee . “I-wont give you another penny.” —

“Unless _I—make you!” his head flung back;
he looked at her, a threatening devil in his
half-closed eyes. - ‘

“You can’t,” she returned, steadily, shifting
her chair a little, “‘not while I haye my foot on
an electric bell!’’ with a sudden vicious energy.
“You don’t dare make a scandal.”’

“There would be no scandal—that would con-
cern you!’’ but the cold threat in his voice
never troubled the woman who had fought her
own battles all her life.

“Stop that rot!’’ she said, contemptuously;
“T believe these diamonds are far too well
known to have any fuss about. You take awhat
you’ve got and be thankful, for you won’t get
any more from me; not while you sell me
things that a little working girl in the streets
knows the minute she looks at them. [I be-
lieve you’ve been playing a low game on me
somehow, when a girl cries out at the very
sight of my necklace that I got it from you!’’

@ sullen threat left Lesard’s eyes as a
flame is extinguished. His hawk face seemed
to grow thin and hard as steel under her eyes,

“A girl—what sort of girl?” he demanded.
‘And when?” And this time she knew there
was no safety in defying him. _ :

“A slip of a thing, pale, with big eyes—in
the street at my door to-night,’’ succinctly.
“She was standing there as I got out of the
carriage.”’ a

“She couldn’t see through your cloak! z

“It was hanging off me. I felt too warm,
briefly. For once Lesard made no answer.

He was back again in that cave at Hamilton
Place, looking at that hidden receptacle that
was half empty instead of full. Marchmont
had said he had not got the belt—and now the
man who had stabbed him knew it was true.
He had known, in truth, since he had read
that evening’s papers, and cursed softly in the
reading, though he laughed, too. But now he
knew something more than that. Marchmont
and he had quarreled for nothing. It was for
nothing that he had done what might yet
bring him to the gallows. For, of course, it
was Gillian who had taken those jewels that
had been so easiiy carried off from Wellford
House, Gillian who had been mad enough to
restore them to the police, Gillian who had left
that damning trace of her presence in the
cave and might yet pay the penalty for her
husband’s work.

But would she? It was not a feeling of se-
curity that made him breathe with narrowed
nostrils, sitting opposite to the Mouse and her
illgotten gewgaw.

He sucked thoughtfully at his lower lip, for-

etful for once that the woman opposite was

een eyed as he.

Gillian Hamilton to have taken that canvas
belt might have been in the cave at any time.
To know that Lesard had those black dia-
monds she must have seen Marchmont die—
and where was his safety then?

He felt certain as if he had seen her that it
had been Gillian at the Red Mouse’s door, for
of course she was in London. She knew no
other place to go.

“Well,”’ said- the Mouse, tired of
‘‘who was the girl? You must know.’

He nodded, wishing he did not know. The
fate that had sent her to see those diamonds
he had thought it such a piece of luck to sell
might even now be leading the hounds of death
on his track. Unless—he pulled himself to-
gether and met the Mouse’s eyes with his old
confident smile. For the only person he had
to fear was the girl who had loved him to
madness. Manlike, he was secure that she did
so still—forgetting that even a woman will not
always bear everything a man puts on her.

He had married her for a passing fancy,
thrown her aside for pure weariness; kept
carefully out of her sight at Hamilton Place
after Marchmont had unfolded ‘‘Tom Hamil-
ton’s scheme” and his adoption of the daugh-
ter that he never dreamed had been Lesard’s
wife. Many a night before Jacky came to
Hamilton Place had Lesard sat there, playing
ecards and laughing to himself as he thought
of the girl upstairs and how little Marchmont
knew just why she had been willing to find a
home in his house. She had been a toy to
Lesard. He would have cursed his own stu-
pidity if he had known how easily love of him
would have fashioned her into a tool for his
own ends. Unconsciously, she had _ helped
Marchmont; consciously, she would have
made an evilly begot fortune for Lesard. But
even now, when he feared her, that was the
Per ea that did not occur to him.

“What on earth are you mooning about?”
the strident voice with the hoarse thread in it
shattered his musing for the second time.
“How did that street girl know those diamonds,
and why did she gasp at the sight of them?
If you came by them in any way that’s going
to get me into trouble you can take them back
this minute and return me my money.’’

Le threw back his head and laughed

,silence,

? with keen enjoyment. The low, rich note of it |

 

was the richer for the thought of how com-

pletely he had taken in the sharpest adven-
turess in London. If she only knew!

“By George! you do say outrageous things,”
he cried, in the middle of his laughter. ‘That
girl had excellent reason to know those dia-
monds, Shé’s my wife! She must have seen
me coming here lately and hung round your
door in hopes of catching me. No wonder she
patped when she saw you wearing that neck-
ace.

Not a word of not having seen his wife for
months escaped him. It was a godsend to
make the Mouse think jealousy had brought
Gillian to her door, not the pure chance the
man was old enough to know it for. But that
lost seven hundred was a cheap price to pay
for the knowledge that any living being had
seen him take the black necklace. Forewarned
was forearmed, and Lesard would run no
chances. Those dishonored checks had been
a stroke of luck, indeed, for nothing else would
have brought him back to the Red Mouse af-
ter she had been fool enough to buy his bau-
ble. But nothing was further from his
thoughts than to show them.

“Keep calm, my dear,’’ he said, leeringly.
“Your complexion won’t stand the strain if
you keep permanently to evil imaginings. Pay
me up, now, and I'll go home.’’

“T haven’t got seven hundred between my
fingers,’’ relieved, yet sulky. “I wouldn’t give
it to you if I had.”

“You'll give me all you got to-night!’’ He
was suddenly her master, standing lean, lithe
and brutal at her shoulder. ‘‘Hand it out of
your pocket, or I’ take it and the necklace,
too. What the devil do you think I care for
your servants if you do ring? Give me the
money!’

Sullen, furious, cowed in spite of herself, the
woman drew out a roll of notes, a handful of
gold. It was more than she wanted to think
of, for all young Ramsay’s winnings were
theré in addition to her own ‘“‘kitty.’’

Lesard smiled wickedly as his hard hand
closed on it. He could be gentler than silk

to a woman while he loved her, but this was

cold business.

“Ta, tal’? he remarked, gayly, ‘‘and consider
yourself well out of it.”

“You devil!” said the Red Mouse, slowly. ‘“‘If
I find you’ve made me pay my money for noth-
ing, you can look out for yourself.”’

But he only laughed again as he went lightly
from the room.

CHAPTER XXVII.
“IN THE DEEPS OF NIGHT.”

With feet that scarcely felt the dirty pave-
ment Jacky Hamilton walked swiftly away
from that house to whose owner Lesard had
sold the black diamonds.

He was in London! He was all ready to
profit by the helpless witnesses of his crime.

“He shan’t, he shan’t!”’ the girl panted, as
She waiked. ‘‘Not if I go to the police to-mor-
LA a if Gillian goes on her knees to save

im!’’

Her cheeks were scarlet, her eyes glittering
with the fire that scorched her heart. The
memory of each tender, lying word he had ever
said to her rose up-and added fuel to that
flame of eager vengeance. He had ruined Gil-
lian’s life, he had killed all mercy and forgive-
ness in Jacky; he stood clear while they two
as suffer and hide, going in terror of their
ives.

“Oh, no!’ said the girl who hated him, with
a quick clenching of her tender hands. ‘Oh,
no, he shan't!”’

Her lips were set as no woman’s ever should
be as she opened the door of her poor lodging
and stole in softly, not to waken Gillian.

Her caution was wast Gillian, fully
dressed, pale, half frantic, t on the edge of
their bed. ; .

**Come here,’’ she whispered, and clutched at
Jacky passionately. ‘‘Oh! where have you
been? Why did you leave me like that? I’ve
died a hundred deaths!’’ great tears slipping
down her anguished face. F

“T’ve been——”’ Gillian’s hand was on her sis-
ter’s burning lips.

“Hush! Don’t speak above your breath.
We've been mad ever to talk aloud in this
a Tell me, did any one see you go out or
ma ;

“No one.
shortly.

“Everything matters—when you’re hunted!’’
with a sharp catch of her breath.

“But we’re not—not yet!”

_ Gillian, her tears on her white cheeks, drew
closer and began to speak so softiy that Jacky
had to watch her lips not to lose the words.

“IT was asleep. I woke up and listened to see
if you were sleeping in your chair and I heard
talking. Hush, don’t answer! It was in the
next room—the man and his wife—I heard them
say ‘Hamilton,’ and that it ‘looked as if we
might be the girls in the paper.’ ’’

Jacky’s hands were clasped hard on her knee,
not a sound of reproach escaped her, though
it had been Gillian’s carelessness that had let
slip their real name when they took their
room and might ruin them now.

‘““He’s going to tell the police we’re here; she
didn’t want him to, but he talked her round.’’

“Why?” breathed Jacky, and at Gillian’s an-
swer her face contracted.

“Because there’s a reward offered for who-
ever killed Marchmont!”’

“We didn’t do it, it can’t matter to us!”
Jacky said, in a queer, strangled voice.

But Gillian only shook her head hopelessly.
They could not prove their innocence. March-
mont was dead, and they need not look to Le-
sard for comfort.

She sat on the bed watching Jacky stuff their
pitifully few belongings into their bag.

She dared not rise and help her, for fear of
the added stir waking the sleepers whose
snores came through the thin wall of the attic
room. But the same unspoken thought was in
her mind that was in Jacky’s; they must be
far away from this by the morning.

To-day was Thursday, the woman was paid
in advance till the’ end of the week; it was
they who would lose, not she, by their flitting.
But Gillian would have liked to leave all her
Small store of money on the table in grati-
tude. If it had not been for his wife the man
of the house would have told the police about
them by this time. But six shillings was six
shillings, and she dared not spare a penny. She
bowed her head on her hands and did not see
that Jacky sat writing something on some pa-
per and envelopes found among Tom Hamilton’s
old papers that they had not dared to leave
behind, and had had no chance to destroy.
She had bought two stamps on her way home,
and she put them on the letters, that she
thrust into her pocket.

Toward one o’clock, when there was no pass-
ing in the street except for an occasional han-
som, the two stole downstairs in their stock-
ing feet and plunged into the darkness of a
side street. As Gillian stooped to put on her
shoes, Jacky leaned against a pillar post and
lifted her hand. Something fell into the box
with a dull, flat sound, but Gillian noticed
neither that nor the covert action. Furtive,
cautious, glancing from side to side like hunted
things, they slipped from one shadow to the
next; skirting dark houses, slinking swiftly
past each gas lamp, Tom Hamilton’s daugh-
ters went out into the nightmare streets of
London. Bad father as he had been, he must
have turned in his grave had he seen them
now, hurrying in the friendly darkness they
knew not where.

When they had put a mile of winding streets
between them and the house they had left
Jacky drew Gillian aside to where some half
built houses stood a little off the street.

“Gill, where are we going?” she said. ‘‘We
ean’t go this way. We're getting into a sub-
urb, and suburban people notice everything.’

“I don’t know where it would be any bet-
ter."’ The flat, indifferent voice told Gillian’s
despair. :

“Wait, sit down! We must think,’ said
Jacky. (And oh, if she had known where their
thinking was to lead them.) .

The two sank down on a pile of bricks be-
hind a boarding, scarcely daring to whisper
lest a stray policeman might come round the
corner, or a nightwatchman flash his lantern
on their weary, hudd figures. If they had
known it they were fer on their pile of
bricks than they had been for a week, for the
street was up for repairs and absolutely de-
serted.

It had begun to rain, though, and the chill
which comes before night verges to morning
pierced their thin clothing. Jacky felt Gillian
shiver on their throne of damp bricks.

“Come,’’ she said authoritatively, ‘‘there’s
only one place for us to go. It mayn’t be safe
to stay there, but it’s all we can do to-night.”’

““‘Where? We can’t try to get a lodging at
this time of night. No one would take us in.”’

**No one will know anything about us,’ cool-
ly, *‘except one girl, and she’s a good soul. I

It wouldn’t matter if they did,’

can make her do anything. Get up, Gill; we'll}

catch our deaths here! And it’s idiotic when
I have the latchkey of my old rooms in my
pocket.”’ -

“Oh, Jacky! Dare we go there? They—they
may be watching it.”

“T don’t see how they—if you mean the police
—could know anything about it,’’ thoughtfully.
“No one at Hamilton Place knew where I
lived, no chance policeman would think of a
girl with smooth, red hair when he saw me

 

going out and in. I believe we were fools not
to go there at once. We needn’t show up in
the day, and six shillings will buy us food for
a fortnight if I go out after dark, when things
are cheap. Com on’’—her heart absurdly
lighter at the thought that might obviously
have come to her before. ‘‘There’s no sense
in sitting here. If we’re going to figure in the
police reports’’—with a bitter little smile Gil-
lian coul not see—“‘it can’t be avoided by hav-
ing pneumonia.’’ :

“If they do know anything about. the rooms
being yours,” Gillian said, almost joyfully, for
Jacky’s mood was catching, ‘“‘by this time
they must be pretty sure you aren’t in them.’”’

“They can’t know any such thing,’ flatly.
“Oh!”’ as she rose, “I wish my legs weren’t so
tired!’’

“You were out before, I forgot that! Where
did you go?”

“IT went——” she stopped, afraid to go on.
Tire less Gillian heard of Lesard the better. ‘‘I
don’t know exactly where I went,’ she finished
lamely. “I wanted air. I couldn’t breathe in
that dirty garret. Hurry, Gill! We're miles

j out in West Kensington, and we’ve got to get

to Bloomsbury.”

Through the quiet streets, back to the desert-
ed thoroughfares where the only passers by
were men going home to comfortable beds, or
ragged human wolves who had no beds to go
to, the two girls hurried in silence; hand in
hand, sometimes, .when the terror of the
ao that is like no other terror, came on

em.

A man spoke to them, and laughed as they
ran by in silence. A dreadful old woman
stopped their way and whined for money—
cursing them when they did not answer. Gil-
lian, to get the sound of that hoarse voice out
of her ears, flung sixpence into the dirty hand.

“She was so old, and she was a woman,’ she
said to excuse herself. Already the horror of
that London she had dreaded was upon her.
Would Jacky and she ever turn into things
like that just for want of a helping hand, a
few beggarly coins? Better to die, than live a
thing to shudder at! She held Jacky’s hand
for courage and hurried on.

Jacky trudged in silence, absorbed in fierce
exultation at what she had done without tell-
ing Gillian. Surely God would help them, and
not let them pay for Lesard’s sins; and yet it
seemed as if even in heaven there was neither
thought nor pity for Tom Hamilton’s daugh-

ers.

“Jacky, aren’t we nearly there?’ Gillian
spoke for the second time, for Jacky was deaf
to outside things, and her impatient voice was
loud in the quiet street. s

Jacky looked round her searchingly. They
were crossing the foot of the street where the
Red Mouse lived, and a church clock some-
where was striking four. Startled, she quick-
ened her pace.

“No, almost two miles,’’ she returned.
afraid the daylight will catch us.”’

The sweet, high voices that were so much
alike, were clearly audible. A man, who had
stopped just round the corner of the street
they were crossing to turn up his trousers
clear of the London mud, stood motionless at
the sound. As the light steps passed on he
stood up, careless that one immaculate trou-
sers hem had not been rolled up like the
other.

For one instant he listened to the quick fall
of those girlish steps, and then dropped a
newly-lit cigar into the gutter before he went
noiselessly, delicately in their wake.

Only a girl’s voice in a silent street; and
girl’s voices were as like as two peas often
enough. He might well be mistaken, and yet
he knew he was not. :

With easy, noiseless strides he kept drawing
nearer to his unconscious quarry ahead. He
was not Canadian born for nothing, had not
spent years of his youth in the wilderness
without learning how to track things he
meant to kill. Under a street lamp he saw
those two fleeing figures, clearly, and knew one
was Gillian and ‘tthe other certain to be her
sister; he quickened his pace, yet not enough
to come up with them. Even he could not
manage two girls in the open street. :

And so he dogged them to the end of their
journey, till they reached the door of the shab-
by old house in Blakes street that was all let
out in rooms; of which the only caretaker was
a slipshod old woman: who cared nothing how
her lodgers went and came so that their rent
was paid. Most of her tenants were girls, and
did their own cooking on oil-stoves; often their
landlady did not know if they were there or
not. Whether a locked door hid an empty
room was nothing to her, so long as her
month’s money clinked im sher pocket.

>

“I'm

- The unseen watcher saw Jacky Hamilton fit

her long-disused latchkey into the door and
push her sister in. He had run them to earth,
the only witnesses of what must never be told,
and he moved close to the door to make sure
of the number.

He could make his secret safe now, and he
paused a moment gloating over it, then stepped
back into the shadow of the next house
quickly.

The door had opened again. : 5

Jacky Hamilton had come out with sixpence
in her hand to buy hot potatoes from a stall
at the corner of the next street. For her
rooms “were empty, and a note left for her by
her roommate said the latter was gone to 4o
some work in the country. And breakfast
Jacky must procure. ‘ ‘

The man let her pass him, took a quick
stride and had her in his arms with one hand
heavy on her mouth.

(To be continued.)

PLEASANT PARAGRAPHS.

BY CHARLES W. FOSTER.

BOB INGERSOLL’S ELOQUENCE.

Deacon Grey—‘‘Do you think that Bob Inger-
soll has gone to.a warm climate?’

Deacon OldfeHow—‘‘Well, I heard him lecture
once and his theme was, ‘There’s No Such
Place.’ He interested me very much, and I
have lately come to the conclusion that even if
he has reached the devil’s dominion, he’ll never
feel the heat.’”’ —~

‘“Humph! How is that?’ :

‘“‘Well, when he begins talking, the imps will
be so entranced with his eloquence that they’H
let the fires go out.’’

A SICK

Mrs. McGinnesse—‘‘Oi
sick, Mr. McCallahan.”’

Mr.' McCallahan—‘‘Yis, she do be very sick,
Mrs. McGinnesse.”’

“Is she dangerous?”’

‘‘Niver a bit. She
now.”’

WIFE.
hear y’r woife do be

do be paceable enough

THE OLD MAN'S OPINION.

Mr. Scrimpps—‘“‘I asked your daughter a very
important question last night, and she referred
m- to you.”’ . ;

Old Gentleman—‘‘Humph! What did you ask

er?’’

“T asked her if she’d marry me.”’

‘“*‘Well, she won’t.’’

“Eh? Has she said so?’’

“No, but from what I know of the girl, I
don’t believe she would have bothered herself
about me if she had really wanted you.”’

THE ‘USUAL AFTERTHOUGHT.

Official (wildly)—‘“‘I want to see the owner of
that burned building in which forty people per-
ished yesterday.’’ -

Servant—‘“‘He is not in.”

‘Where is he?’

*“‘He’s gone to inquire the price of fire es-
capes.”’ ae
THE LADY ENGAGED.
New Domestic—‘‘Mr. Spinks has. called,
mem.”

Miss De Fine (at her toilet)—‘‘Mercy me!
You see I’m engaged.”’ :

Mr. Spinks (some moments later)—‘‘You said
Miss De Fine was at home, I believe.’’

New Domestic—‘‘Yesser, but yuh can’t see
her, sir.. She’s cuttin’ her a)"

corns,
A MAN’S WAY.

Tidy Housekeeper—‘‘This is sweeping day,
my dear, but you are at home, and I don’t like
to disturb you.”’

Husband—‘‘No need to. Just hang the rugs
outside for an hour or two, and the neighbors
will think you’ve swept.’’

A QUEER ODOR.
Mr. Grumpps—‘‘What’s that
Smells like burning lye.”’
Mrs. Grumpps—‘‘Don’t know. I haven’t put
anything in the fire, except some of your old
love letters.’’

queer odor?

SAFER TO SIGN.

Winks—"‘I hear that some of the prominent
actresses, singers, | reels and society ladies
get five hundred dollars for merely signing
their names to articles written for them and
printed-in the ‘Uppercrust Magazine?’ ”

Jinks—‘‘It’s true, too.’’

Winks—“‘Well! well! I wonder what they’d
get if they wrote the whole article them-
selves?’’

Jinks—“Get laughed at.’”’

 

PHOTOGRAPHIC PAINTER.
Photographer—‘‘That is certainly a good pic-
ture for an amateur—very good. How did you
manage to get such a pleasant expression on
the gentleman’s face?”
Amateur—“I told him
charge anything.”’

A FAMILIAR CHARACTER.
Friend—“‘Considering that your living ex-
penses are fully up to your income, I don’t
see how. you contrived to get such a reputa-
tion as a philanthropist.’’
Mr. Spendall—‘*Oh, I never give anything. I
do the hat passing.’’

REDUCING EXPENSES.

Bingle—‘‘Well, old boy, how are you getting
along? Business improving any?’

Jingle (struggling merchant)—‘‘A little. I’ve
succeeded in reducing expenses about fifteen
dollars a week.”’

“That’s encouraging. How did you do it?”

*“Married my typewriter.’’

e HE SAW HER.

Mr. Sliptongue—‘‘I haye not met your wife.
Is she here his evening?’’
Mr. ‘Hansome—‘‘Yes, but just at this moment
she is engaged—over there at the piano.”’ }
Mr. Sliptongue (with affected enthusiasm)— |
“Ah, I see. She is that goddess-like beauty |
who is playing an accompaniment for the/

mountain of flesh who is singing.’’
Mr. Hansome (stifly)—‘‘My wife does
play. She sings.’’
“TWO SOULS WiTH BUT,” ETC,
He (to himself)—“‘She hates me, or she would |
not be so cold and distant.”’ :
She (to herself)—‘‘He doesn’t care for me one
bit, or he wouldn’t sit way off in a corner like

that
CLUBABLE.
Bouttown—‘‘Do you
Club?”
New Acquaintance—‘“‘No, I’m an actor.
long to the Press Club.’’

I wasn’t going to

 

not |

:

belong to the Actors’ |

I be.

SELECTED PLEASANTRIES,

HiS PICNIC.—Notwed—‘‘S’pose you're going |
to the picnic to-morrow?’ |

Beenwed—“Not exactly going to one, but I'll
be where there is one. I’m going to stay home
and mind the baby while my wife goes.’’—Co- |
lumbus State Journal.

HOLDING HIS JOB.—‘‘I think the man who
works at that place across the street is the |
most faithful and conscientious workman [|
ever saw. He never takes a holiday and al-|}
ways labors away till it’s too dark to see any
longer.’’ i

“Faithful workman? Great Scott! He’s the!
proprietor of the shop!’’—Chicago Tribune.

THE THREE. TELLERS.—‘‘Can you tell
me,’’ asked the Summer Man, ‘“‘what are the)
three quickest modes of communication?’

“Well, no,’’ replied the Summer Girl.

“Ha! ha! Telephone, telegraph and tell-a-
woman,” and now he wonders why she re-/
turned his ring in the middle of the season,—
Philadelphia Call.

NOT SHE.—Friendman—‘‘Don't go away
from home with any such feelings as you have)
just expressed toward your wife; some day she
may join the silent majority, and then you will
be sorry for what you have said.”’

Harrier—‘‘What! My wife join a silent ma-|
jority? She couldn’t stand it; it’d kill her if
she had to be silent for just one minute.’—
Richmond Dispatch.

THE MOSQUITO MARKET.—Traveler—‘‘Are |
the mosquitoes thick around here?’

Suburbanite—‘No. Long and slim.’’—Life.

COULDN’T HOLD HIMSELF UP.=—Mrs. |
Jaggs (time 2 a. m.)—‘‘What in the world kept |
you so late?’

Mr. Jaggs—‘‘W-why (hic) m’dear, jus’ as I|
was comin’ (hic) ‘long firsht shing know’d was |
held up by shix or sheven highwaym’n on (hic) |
darksh street.’’ }

Mrs. Jaggs—‘‘Well, it’s a good thing they |
happened to be there to hold you up. You never |
could have done it yourself.’’—Chicago News.

LETTING DOWN A LITTLE.—‘‘I guess that |
I’m making some headway,”’ said the persis- |
tent lover, who is not in favor with her father.

“But I thought the old gentleman kicked you |
out whenever he found you at the house?”

“He does, but I have noticed that he is not
kicking nearly as hard of late. I feel sure
re he is gradually relenting.’’—Detroit Free

ress,

r

| water and let it soak half an hour;

| dissolved beat
| gether and add.them, Let the custard thicken,

| before using)

i longer you beat,

| charlotte russe will come out
| be cut with a knife.

| sweeten
}and add the
| tabléspoonfuls of powdered sugar, 14

| together;

| oughly dissolved. Sweeten

ISN’T IT?— It is funny what small respect
married people sometimes have for each
other's judgment, when you remember that
each fs supposed to have picked out a perfect
mate.—Boston Transcript.

A CLOSE IMITATION.—“I wish George
would shave off that fuzzy little mustache.”’

‘““Why?’’

“He kissed me last night and I thought it
was a caterpillar!’’—Cleveland Plain Dealer

 

Conducted by J. D. R.

SPANISH CREAM.
One-third box of gelatine; cover cold
add

with
then

| one-quarter cup of milk and set in a pan of

hot water over the fire until thoroughly dis-
solved. Now take l pint of cream (which must
be set in salt and ice some time before using)
and whip it up very stiff. Sift into the

| whipped cream three-quarter cup of powdered
|; Sugar; then add 1 tablespoonful of vanilla and
| one-quarter
| solved

Strain the dis-
cream. Stir gently

of sherry.
into the

cup
gelatine

| from the bottom and sides of the bowl until it

begins to thicken; then pour into a mold lined

| with lady fingers and set away in the icebox

| GRANDMOTHER'S

CHARLOTTE
DELICIOUS.

Yolks of 6 eggs, 12 rounded tablespoonfuls

of powdered sugar, one-half box of Cox gela-

tine, 1 pint of sweet milk, 1 pint of cream, 3

RUSSE

| dozen lady fingers and 1 tablespoonful of va-

nilla. .Put the milk in a double boiler or else
set the stewpan in a vessel of hot water. Add
the gelatine to the milk and when thoroughly
the eggs and sugar well to-

which will take about 15 or 20 minutes cook-
ing. Take it off; and when cool add vanilla.
Set this on ice and then take the pint of cream
(which must be set in ice and salt some time
beat the cream up very stiff and
beat it into the custard. The more and
the better and lighter your
charlotte russe. Line a mold with lady fingers
and when through beating custard pour it in
and set aside until used. When a success, the
whole and can

then

ORANGE CREAM
One-third box phosphate gelatine and 1 cup-

| ful of cold water; soak for 1 hour, or until dis-

solved.

sol Then add 1 cupful of strained orange
juice, 1

teaspoonful of orange extract and
to taste. Beat this all well together
stiff-beaten wh.tes of 3 eggs, 2
cups of
cream, whipped stiff, and 3 tablespoonfuls
more of sugar. Pour into a pretty glass bowl

| and set on ice until firm.

BOILED CUSTARD
Let 1 quart of sweet milk come to a boil:
have the yolks of 4 eggs and the whites of 2
beaten very light, with 4 tablespoonfuls of
sugar, and over this pour the hot milk and stir
then return it to the stove until it
thickens. When cool flavor with vanilla and
add the whites of 2 eggs, well beaten, with 1

tablespoonful of powdered sugar,

SNOW CUSTARD.
One-half box of gelatine; cover with one-half

}cup of cold water until dissolved; then add 2
i}cups of boiling water and stir

until it is thor-
; with 1% cups of
sugar and flavor with the juice of 2 lemons

| Strain and set in the icebox until it congeals.

Pour a_rich boiled custard in a glass bowl
When your gelatine is hard beat the whites of

;2 eggs to a stiff froth and mash the gelatine

with a fork in small pieces and whip it in the
stiff egg white; then pour it on top of the
boiled custard and serve.

 

 

 

 

In These Days No Paper Novel Should Cost More Than Ten Cents
The Only Book Lines at This Up-to-Date Price are Published by Street & Smith,

THE EAGLE LIBRARY

The Pioneer and Leading Ten Cent Line.

Examine this great list of stories and authors :

1.—Queen Bess..... Seoked Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
2.—Ruby’s Reward...... Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
8.—He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not..

: Julia Edwards
4.—For a Woman’s Honor....Bertha M. Ciay
5.—The Senator’s Favorite..........

Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
6.—The Midnight Marriage....A. M. Douglass
%7.*Two Keys...........Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
8.—Beautiful But Poor.......... Julia Edwards

9.—The Virginia Heiress..May Agnes Fleming |

10.—Little Sunshine.......... Francis S. Smith
11.—The Gypsy’s Daughter..... Bertha M. Clay
12.—Edrie’s Legacy......Mre. Georgie Sheldon
13.—The Little Widow.......... Julia Edwards
14.—Violet Lisle................ Bertha M. Clay
I Tor BACK. oo ds *....st. George Rathborne

i ee Paar OPO co ca oie coke ies
A novelization of the celebrated play
17.—Leslie’s Loyalty........... Charles Garvice
18.—Dr. Jack’s Wife...... Author of Dr. Jack

19.—Mr. Lake of Chicago............
Harry DuBois Milman

20.—The Senator’s Bride.............
/ Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
2i--A. toeart’s [doles as ca 455 Bertha M. Clay
des AINE Cok Me ea faa Raia dae Charles Garvice
23.—Miss Pauline of New York......

Author of Dr. Jack
24.—A Wasted Love............ Charles Garvice
2.—A Little Southern Beauty......

Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
26.—Captain Tom.......... Author of Dr. Jack
27.—Estelle’s Millionaire Lover..Julia Edwards
28.—Miss Caprice........... Author of Dr. Jack
20ST NCOGOTS soi se bce teed Victorien Sardou
30.—Baron Sam............ Author of Dr. Jack
$1.—A_ Siren’s Love.......... Robert Lee Tyler
82.—The Biockade Runner....J. Perkins Tracy
BGs DAP ESOUs she's en ti eae et Author of Dr, Jack
34.—Pretty Geraldine ................

Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
35.—The Great Mogul...... Author of Dr. Jack
em GOGO iid tes Wales ve 8 Victorien Sardou
37.—The Heart of Virginia..........

J. Perkins Tracy
88.—The Nabob of Singapore........

Author of Dr. Jack
39.—The Colonel’s Wife...... Warren Edwards
40.—Monsieur Bob.......... Author of Dr. Jack
41.—Her Heart’s Desire........ Charles Garvice
42.—_Another Woman's Husband

Bertha M. Clay
43.—Little Coquette Bonnie..........

Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
44.—That Dowdy........ Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
5:4 Vale. Mats osc een. Robert Lee Tyler
46.—Off With the Old Love..Mrs. M. V. .Victor
47.—The Colonel by Brevet..Author of Dr, Jack
48.—_Another Min’s Wife...... Bertha M. Clay
49.—None But the Brave....Robert Lee Tyler
50.—Her Ransom............... Charles Garvice
5$1.—The Price He Paid.............. E. Werner
52.—Woman Against Woman........

Mrs. M. A. Holmes
53.—The Old Homestead....Denman Thompsoi
OE MANSODELTA SD bie ee i Ta ee eR Victorien Sardou
55.—Thrice Wedded...... Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
56.—The Dispatch Bearer....Warren Edwards
57.—Rosamond...... Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
58.—Major Matterson of Kentucky..

Author of Dr. Jack
69.—Gladys Greye.............. Bertha M. Clay
60.—The County Fair............. Neil Burgess
i ee Mee go re he Pare eerie Victorien Sardou
62.—Stella Sterling........5...... Julia Edwards

;

{

63.—Lawyer Bell from Boston......

Robert Lee Tyler
64.—Dora Tenney...Mrs, Alex. McVeigh Miller
65.— Won By the Sword...... J. Perkins Tracy
66.—Witch Hazel..... . Georgie Sheldon
67:—Gismonda pas aereae eek hls Victorien Sardou
68.—The Little Cuban Rebel....Edna Winfield
69.—His Perfect Trust....By a popular author
70.—In Love's Crucible........Bertha M. Clay
71.—The Spider’s Web....St. George Rathborne
2.—Wilful. Winnie.......... Harriet Sherburne

.—The PERT PS 2 Ooo eo, Charles Garvice
po ae ORO Fe thee rs i Se Sutton Vane
PAR, SLOTS IGP oe cs pa Ce es T. P. James
.—Mavourneen tes cs From the celebrated play
— Tina. . »+s++ee.........Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
.—The Yankee Companion..Sylvanus Cobb,Jr.
—Majorie Deane... Hols. Bertha M. Clay
80.—The Fair Maid of Fez............ Fi

St. George Rathborne
81.—Wedded for an Hour............

Emma Garrison Jones
82.—Captain Impudence..Edward Milton Royle
83.—The Locksmith of Lyons........

Prof. Wm. Henry Peck
84.—Between Two Hearts...... Bertha M. Clay
8.—Lorrie; or Hollow Gold....Charles Garvice
86.—The Widowed Bride...............

Lucy Randall Comfort
MmBUNORANGOR CoS, Oi'sc Kis ene ok J. Perkins Tracy
—Virgie’s inheritance..Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
—A Gentleman from Gascony......

Bicknell Dudley

90.—For Fair Virginia............. Russ Whytal
91.—Sweet Violet....Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
LEI irae Tei ok sock Sutton Vane
93.—A Queen of Treachery..... T. W. Hanshew
94.—Darkest Russia........ H. Grattan Donnelly
95.—’Twixt Love and Hate...... Bertha M. Clay
96.—The Little Minister.............. J. M. Barrie
97.—The War Reporter........ Warren Edwards
a TMM oan Se ee Ua ain cs ou beY OE SEK Charles Garvice
99.—Audrey’s Recompense,

Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
100.—Alicé Blake... A: Francis S. Smith
101.—A Goddess of Africa,

By the author of Dr. Jack
02.—Fair But Faithless.......... Bertha M. Clay
103.—The Span of Life............2... Sutton Vane
104.—A Proud Dishonor......... Genie Holzmeyer
105.—When London Sleeps. From the cele-

EME POY cv baat ces weed ea ok Chas. Darrell
—Lillian, My Lillian,

Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
Married at Sight......

Effie Adelaide Rowlands
108.—A Son of Mars..By the Author of Dr, Jack
109.—A Heart’s Bitterness....... Bertha M. Clay
110.—Whose Wife Is She?............. Annie Lisle
111.—Faithful Shirley...... Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
BIZ SENOS RAttIS JOINS, oS ears ooo shred A. D. Hall
113.—A Crushed Lily.Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
Lid Bait a Pet ei oiiss By a Popular Author
115.—A Fair Revolutionist,

By the Author of Dr. Jack
116.—The Daughter of the Regiment,

Mary A. Denison
117.—She Loved Him............. Charles Garvice
118.—Saved from the Sea......... Richard Duffy
119.—An Ideal Love............... Bertha M. Clay
120.—The White Squadron..... T. C. Harbaugh
121.—Cecile’s Marriage..Lucy Randall Comfort

rs.

87.
88.
89.

‘106.

107.—Carla; or,

 

122.—Grazia’s Mistake....Mrs. George Sheldon
123.—Northern Lights................. A Hall

All the books in the Eagle Library are copyright novels, regular 12mo-size with elegant covers
of the most artistic design, good paper, clear type, and comprise the best work of favorite writers

whose reputation is world-wide.
dealer, or by mail, postpaid, from the publishers,

Each book costs you but TEN CENTS, either from your news

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i }it that that is his measure.

f
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<<

=

Her Evil Genius (Serial)...........- Adelaide Stirling

A Stage Heroine \Seria))...........Gertrude Warden

The Broken Trust (Serial). .........-. Bertha M. Clay

- Lover or Husband? (Serial;........ Adelaide Stirling

A Russian Romance (Serial). --.--..----- Vioia Tyrell
Winifred’s Sacrifice (Serial).... Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
Van Eeden’s Reward....-...--....----------+-

The Cupboard With the Brass Handle..--.--

Pew SOUND. Sos oa oo. os Coa
The Scent of the SONG rete oc
SET Lip ae Harkley Harker
A Day Off..--- Pclanabs CEA. he espe spss ae Kate Tnorn
Josh Billings’ Philosophy .......-.....-.-:.-..
Pleasant Paragraphs..........-.-- Charles W. Foster
Her Cook UOw. = we.s25 5325.4 pagans Senge oe J.D. R.
WAP Oma te ess sc Mrs. Helen Wood
Items of Interest, Correspondence, Ete.

POEMS

“Spirit Voices,” by Martha Shepard Lippincott.
“Your Memory,” Annie Hetherington Coxon.
‘Don't Judge by the Faces!”
“Hints on Your Health.”
“Pound Everywhere.”

 

 

HINTS ON YOUR HEALTH.

eg hor re as you are up shake blankets and

sheet;

Better be without shoes than sit with wet feet;

Children, if healthy, are active, not still;

Pee re and damp clothes will both make
you ill;

Eat slowly and always chew your food well;

Freshen the air in the house where you dwell;

Garments must never be made to be tight;

Homes will be healthy if airy and light;

If you wish to be well, as you do I’ve no doubt,

Just open the windows before you go out;

Keep your rooms always tidy and clean,

Let dust on the furniture never be seen;

Much illness is caused by the want of pure air,

Now to open your windows be ever your care.

Old rags and old rubbish should never be kept;

People should see that their floors are well
swept;

Sa in children are healthy and
right, * ,

ees the young “cannot thrive without

ght. >

See that the cistern is clean to the brim;

Take care that your dress is all tidy and trim;

be = gee nose to find out if there be a bad

rain, ;

‘Very sad are the fevers that come in its train;

Walk as much as you can without feeling
fatigue;

Xerxes could walk full many a league. :

Your health is your wealth, which your wis-
dom must Keep;

Zeal will help a good cause, and the good you
will reap. ,

DON’T JUDGE BY THE FACES!

Don’t judge human creatures around you

By the countenance each one may wear,
For sunny smiles oft do but cover

Sad hearts that dark grief-burdens bear;
And while the lips: wreathe in bright laughter,

And gay conversation is rife,
‘The soul may be bowed ‘neath dejection,

Or torn in an agonized strife.

The heart that seems gayest and lightest
Is often the one that is sad;

The face that is longest and straightest
Hides often a soul that is bad;

The calm, placid brow that bears never
The impress of sorrow or care

: Is often the one that concealeth

A heart which dark agonies tear.

Oh, could we but see ’neath the surface,
What sorrows would then be revealed,
As we searched through the hearts, torn and
bleeding,
Which bright-smiling faces concealed;
But heaven has spared us that trial,
And given the power to all

Of hiding from sight of the million

The anguish that to us may fall.

So we smile, while our hearts, sorely troubled,
- Are throbbing with longing and pain!
Or feeling that blessings of friendship
Will never be ours again!
Ah, then, don’t let’s judge by the faces
That smile when the soul’s cleft apart!

For the smiles may be only the roses

That bloom o’er a grave in the heart!

WEEK AFTER NEXT. -

_ An entrancing love story by
MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON

 

 

_ which deals, as is only in the

power of'this exceptionally gifted

authoress: with all the passions
_ which agitate the human heart.
You must not fail to read

a4

be -

 

 

touch the dishes.

FOUND EVERY WHERE.

Ah, raise the cup of love and sip
It from the very brim; f

Let Cupid but his arrow dip
Before we gaze at him.

How dimpled are his roguish smiles
Ere he may cast at you

An arrow off the sunny isles,
Some false and others true.

We find him in the blossoms fair,
And in the flowing stream;
Also in locks of golden hair
And in a maiden’s dream.

 

 

oe oe . ioe

VOL. 54—No. 49.

 

 

We find him e’en when time hath laid
His hand upon the brow;

We find him with the spinster staid—

AH ages to him bow.

We find him with the youthful bow,
And oft with the bow unstrung;

Ere the arrow on its mission go,
Oft to the strings have clung.

_Ah, yes, ’tis true for weal or woe
Is every arrow sent;

That heart again will never know
The bliss of sweet content,

Once Will Do.

By Harkley Harker.

“That man lied to me once.”

‘Well,’ I replied, “that is once too many;
but the gentleman may have since changed for
the better.’’ :

“Gentleman, indeed!”’ fairly hissed my friend.
“When a man lies to me once, once will do. I
never give him a second chance.’’ And the
speaker turned contemptuously away from the
retreating form of the merchant whom he so
despised.

It is not a bad rule. If you find a man to be
“tricky,” unmistakably so, it is best to settle
Never give him
a second chance to wrong you. ~ “The leopard
may change his spots and the Ethiopian his
skin,’ but I have little use for a man who has
deliberately wronged me once. I am not dis-
posed to lay myself open to his seeret stabs
again. ¥

I have found this to be true. The greatest
mistakes that I have made in employing men
were when I recast my opinions of them, af-
ter deliberate first conclusions. I say deliber-
ate. Now, there is a hasty way we have of
“sizing a man up,’ by impulse, by prejudice,
by hasty passion, or irritation. All this is as
often erroneous as it is accurate, and possibly
more so. None of us is willing to be judged
hastily. We ought to accord to others the
justice that we claim for ourselves. But when,
after mature thought and accurate observa-
tion, one has come to a conclusion concerning

a man, ninety-nine times out of a hundred it

is a mistake to recast an adverse conclusion.
It may be that I am in error. Possibly the
man is fitted to get along finely with most peo-
ple, but he is not fitted to me; for me it is _saf-
est to avoid close business relations with that
man. We are the opposites of each other; we
shall never get on together, no matter how we
try.

I fully believe all men are better than they
seem, down deep in their hearts. I believe
that the worst of men may reform. I would
put no straw in any man’s way of recovering
his standing among men. Nay, I would, I
trust, try to help any man. But, for instance,
I have always been bitten when I tried to for-
get a deliberately mean act, and again sought
intercourse with the author, on the ground
that I hoped that he had reformed. ‘A liar
is always a liar. <A thief is always a thief.
An impure man-is always impure.’’ Those are
my rules\for intercourse. Let a man once

show himself coolly wrong in his treatment of |

me; he shall never have another chance at me,
if I can prevent it. I will do no more busi-
ness, in the line of trust, with him. I may
call on him and his family with my wife, of an
evening. I may rent a pew next to him in

Josh B

One hour of old-fashioned, jumping toothake
iz more than a match for a whole year ov enny
kind of plezzure.

Yu may make a servant ov a friend, but yu
kan’t make a friend ov a servant; it ain’t
nat’ral.

The instinks of wimmin are more korrekt
than their judgments, 5

Did yu ever see a bizzy boddy that was hunt-
ing for sumthing good?

Fault-finders never suspekt themselfs.

Precoshus children iz another name for pre-
coshus fools.

Men are apt to think they are not appreshi-
ated in this world; but the trubble iz, we mark
our goods so high that we can’t dispose ov
them.

Opportunitys, like game birds, have to b
taken on the wing. *

 

 

our church. I may belong to the same club.
But as to close, confidential business relations,
ur any unguarded point in our business corre-
spondence, never. Once will do. The most
painful wounds are cuts through old scars.
The most terrible injuries are breaking the

bone where it was once before broken. The
most uncomfortable errers of my life were
those of a second attempt to trust a man once
fairly proved false. Ido not try any more; I
would not try, even if it were my own brother
or my own son.

Now if my minister were to read this—and
he probably will—he may remind me of the
duty of forgiveness. I confess it. And I wish
to add that it is the effort to forgive that leads
so many good hearts into the snare of a scoun-
drel the second time. I maintain that I can
forgive and forget; that no man can forgive
unless he forgets, I agree. But it is the
malice, the sense of burning, that I am to for-
get. he experience I am not called upon to
forget. I have the same right to remember
the deceit of a man that I have to remember
the weakness of a bridge, or the dog that
snapped at me. I may even come to think
fairly well of a man. e is trying to do bet-
ter; he wants to reform; he is my brother-in-
law, if you please, and family reasons would
then enforce peaceful living. But if I were
so unfortunate as to have in my own domestic
circle a person who had once done me a great
injury, with malice prepense, I forgive the pain
and forget the indignation; but I remember to
look sharp next time, that he have no further
opportunity.

There are so many new friends to be made
that one had better try another new friend-
ship than to build much weight on a timber
once proven to be rotten. Or there _is yet
another wise way to deal with men. It is to
select them as you do wood, iron and stone
for building purposes. Wood is good, yet it
has its weaknesses. Iron has its uses, yet also
its deficiencies.

Each man, almost, has his possible useful-
ness; but many a man has displayed his rot-
ten spot. Ah, look out for that man in any
situation that would put strain on that spot!
Having been detected once, he may be useful
in other situations; but you ought to know his
fault. I think most of us learn, sooner or
later, the good in each and the bad in each, A
man may be very particular about his veracity,
but utterly unscrupulous in his selfishness.
Use him for truth-speaking, reject him as a
partner. Another may be very generous, but
given to his appetites. Use him where you
want big-heartedness; but having once laid
open his weakness of passions and appetites,
never put any of your family in his power.
You see the point, dear reader. The strong
hand of God may cooper up a poor fellow’s
weak spot; God may cure him. But don’t
let the man practice on you. ‘Once cruel, al-
ways cruel,” is the rule of your actual guid-
ance in association with him. Let him prove
himself to others. You know him well enough
to satisfy you. Life is too short to spend giv-
ing the same man two chances to ruin us;
most of us have too ay precious interests
at hazard—wife, chiiffen, credit, our career,
and our hairs are graying at the temples—to
go about fooling with dogs that have once
had the rabies and bitten us. Far better part
company with that dog and buy another; or,
if you must keep him, chain him at the stable,
where he can do no harm.

illings’ Philosophy.

The man who hasn’t never been cheated
don’t kno so mutch now az he will sum day.

We all ov us expekt to be fondly remembered
after we are dead and gone, but we go into our
graves like a shower. ov rain into the buzzum
ov the oshun, forgetting and forgotten.

Modesty and diffidence are often konfounded;
but one iz the conshiousness of virtew, and the
other iz the conshiousness ov ignoranse,

Human beings are natral slovens—born. so.
Yu hav to hold a yung one to wash hiz face,
and when yu want to comb hiz hair yu hav
to run him down.

Wimmin don’t like to be loved too mutch,
and I glory in their spunk.

If you hav enny doubts about the propriety
ov a thing, you may be pretty certain that the
doubt iz right.

A Day Off.

By Kate Thorn.

People of ample means indulge in outings of
indefinite length, and get rid of indefinite sums
of money, in the heated season, but people of
limited capital are restricted to short excur-
sions, at such time as the head of the family
can get “a day off.’ . :

How all his household look forward to that
day, and what glowing plans are made with
reference to it! x

“When John gets a day off,” the good wife
tells her next door neighbor over the back-
yard fence, as they are hanging out the week’s
wash on Monday—a domestic process which
begets unlimited confidence in neighbors—‘‘we
are going to the beach.’’

For weeks previous to the anticipated occa-
sion, things are arranged with regard to that
day off. The loose buttons about which John
has pleaded with his wife for the past six
months are sewed on, and his best shirt is
ironed, and his wife buys a new necktie for
him, and cleans up his Sunday pantaloons with
benzine and ammonia. The children’s ging-
ham dresses are freshly starched and ironed,
and Mary Ann’s shirtwaist is done up, and
some edging is put. into the neck of Mamie’s
red blouse.

Aunt Peggy comes over the night before to
keep house, for the impression generally pre-
vails among householders that if the house
should be left alone all day some law defying
desperado would. swoop down upon it and
carry it off bodily to parts unknown.

Oh; the multitude of charges that are given
to poor Aunt Peggy by the female head of the
household while they are waiting for train
time!

“Now look out for the fire. Don’t leave
that front door unfastened. Keep the cat out
of the parlor. Watch the Jones boys and that
sweet apple tree. I wouldn’t let any peddler
into the house. If a shower should come up
do remember to put the windows down. Mind
that Benson’s dog don’t roll on the lawn, Keep
an eye out for those hens of Johnson’s. Be
sure and set out the can for the milk. If Mrs.

Smith calls, tell her we’re off for the beach. |

Don’t take any paper to-day. John’ll have no
time to as much as look at it. You needn’t
There’s cold meat enough

 

L

for your dinner in the pantry. Don’t leave
the pump handle up, or the water’ll run down.
If the baker calls, tell him we’re away. Bring
in Sadie’s starched petticoat if it should rain.
Look out for Tom’s bicycle in the woodshed,
and you needn’t make up any fire for supper—
we'll drink lemonade,’’ and so on until the car
comes along and the cavalcade departs.

Bags, boxes, umbrellas, waterproofs, rubbers
are taken, because it is liable to rain at any
time when anybody is away from home; and
John, who is loaded down like a Mexican
burro, staggers along, followed by his numer-
ous family, each one of whom is in a peck of
trouble lest they may not catch that first train
for the beach.

the wearing anxiety of that mother when
the train arrives, in getting her family prop-
erly located in the car, so that Jimmy will not
be likely to fall out of the window, and Tom-
my will not get cinders in his eyes, and Ann
will be out of the draught, and Julius Caesar
will be in a position to observe the railroad
side scenery as the train whizzes along!

And little Dick wants the’ inside seat; and
Tommy doesn’t want to sit with the fat, bald-
headed man, and says so very audibly; and the
pompous passenger with the gold eyeglasses
objects to having poor Mamie put her feet on
the seat; and the baby cries lustily, to the
great disgust of the unsympathetic passengers;
but the expedition has started, and that mo-
mentous ‘‘day off’? has begun.

Oh, the delight of being at the beach, where
one can watch the steamers, and the boats,
and the breakers, and see the dead lobsters
washed up, and smell the clams, and_wade
in the sand, and get bitten by the sand-flies,
and burnt with the sea breezes! :

And there is the merry-go-round, and the
weighing machine, all for five cents; and the
band, and the man with the organ and the
monkey; and the basket making Indians, and
the vendor of toy balloons; and the odor of
fish dinners—all so cheering to the party hav-
ing a day off, and eating their ham sandwiches
and ginger cookies out on the sea rocks, and
washing down the repast with cold coffee, and
what is left of the baby’s milk. And while
the boys are quarreling about the dime their
father has given them for peanuts, the solici-
tous mother is wondering if Aunt Peggy will
think to let the dog out of his house to get
some water, and if they will be likely to get
seats together when they start for home.

What lots of solid gratification there is in
watching the bathers in their grotesque array!
How the boys do enjoy seeing the lobsters
boiled alive! And what a treat to observe the
man as he takes photographs in the tent! And
how delicious it.is to poke up the alligator in
the tank of water before the curio house!

And when the day is ended, and the party is
en route for home, John the elder says, with
a small amount of mild ey which can
readily be excused, that he hopes it will be a
year before he gets another day off!

‘4
+2.

 

 

 

¢ HELPFUL TALKS WITH
OUR READERS,

ee

 

Correspondents must sign name and address, not for pub-
lication, but because we refuse to answer anonymous
commuyications. <All letters are. presumed to be conyi-
dential, and are so treated.

Peggy and Helene.—Thank you for the
words of the song ‘‘Friendless and Sad,’”’ which
we print below. It depends entirely upon the
age of the gentleman. It is not exactly known
why opals are considered unlucky.

FRIENDLESS AND SAD.

Friendless and sad, I am dreaming,
Weeping o’er bliss that has flown,
Craving a heart-felt devotion,
Sighing for mother and home;
Many were tender and holy,
Joys were pervading the air,
And sweet love was the theme of my ballad,
Love was the light of my prayer.
CHORUS.
Oh! for the days of yore,
Mother, love and home;
Friendless and sad, I am dreaming,
Dreaming in sorrow alone,

Queen of the Graces they call me,
Lovers were pleading to woo;
Then came the choice of an idol,
One that I thought would be true;
Old as the world is my story,
Leaving a heaven of light,
How I suffer’d in shame and desertion,
Feeling my life is a blight.

Grief is my only companion,
Pleasure is now of the past,

Shadows are looming before me,
Shadows I fear that will last;

They who would smile are now frowning,
Pointing the finger of scorn;

How I used to think earth was a heaven,
Now I say, Why was I born?

Half a Century.—You want to know how to
live as long as possible. So do the majority of
men, and an infallible receipt would be worth
millions. But perhaps the following rules are
not without value: First, live as much as pos-
sible out of doors, never let a day pass with-
out spending at least three or four hours in
the open air. Second, keep all the powers of
mind and body occupied in congenial» work.
The muscles should be developed and the mind
kept active. Third, avoid excesses of all kinds,
whether of food, drink, or of whatever nature
they may be. Be moderate in all things.
Fourth, never despair. Be cheerful at all
times. Never give way to anger. Never let
the trials of one day pass over to the next.
The period from fifty to seventy-five should
not be passed in idleness or abandonment of
all work. Here is where a great many men
fail. They resign all care and interest in
worldly affairs, and rest of body and mind be-
gins. They throw up their business and retire
to private life, which in too many cases proves
to be a suicidal policy. During the next period
—the period from seventy-five to ane hundred
years, white the powers of life are at their
lowest ebb—one cannot be too careful about
eatehing cold. Bronchitis is a most prolific
cause of death in @ige aged. During this last
period rest should * in abundance. Anybody
who can follow these directions ought to live
to be one hundred years old at least. There is
always this comfort, however: If we cannot
live up to our ideas always, we can, at least,
try our best to do so, and the steady effort
will be bringing us constantly nearer them,

Doris.—No, such a course of action would
be altogether wrong; it would be very unfair
to the young man, and would in all probability
involve serious trouble for yourself later on.
If you consider the matter carefully you will
see that you are looking atsit altogether from
a selfish point of view. As long as you
thought the gentleman whom you preferred
was serious in his attentions, you did not
trouble yourself about your other admirer’s
disappointment; now that you have found out
-your mistake with regard ‘to No. 1, you begin
to consider No. 2’s feelings in the matter. It
may be that you might learn to care for the
latter gentleman in time, which would be a
very satisfactory arrangement, but in the
meantime you should not hold out any faise
hopes, and you should give yourself plenty of
time to be quite sure of your feelings. Do
nothing hastily, but give yourself opportunity
for serious reflection that you may act in the
manner that will be kindest both to yourself
and the young man. An engagement entered
into hastily in the present circumstances would
be likely to entail much unhappiness and dis-
comfort to you both.

J. M. H.—The following is the correct ren-
dering of the poem entitled ‘‘Those Evening
Bells,’ by Thomas Moore:

“Those evening bells, those evening bells!
How many a tale their music tells

Of youth and home and native clime,
When last I heard their soothing chime.

“Those pleasant hours have passed away,
And many a heart that then was gay
Within the tomb now darkly dwells

And hears no more those evening bells.

‘‘And so it will be when I’m gone;

That tuneful peal will still ring on,

When other bards shall walk those dells,
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells.”

Housekeeper.—For a salad dressing with-
out oil we recommend the following: Yolk of
three hard-boiled eggs, yolk of one raw egg,
two tablespoonfuls of vinegar, one tablespoon-
ful of melted butter, one gill of thick cream,
one-half teaspoonful of salt, one-quarter tea-
spoonful of pepper. Mash hard-boiled yolks
until perfectly fine and work in gradually the
raw yolk. This must be perfectly smooth
paste; then add the salt, pepper and melted
putter. When well blended add by degrees the
cream, working and stirring all the time. Then
add gradually the vinegar, and it is ready for
use. Put in a cold place,

F. F.—Your lover is evidently a very diffi-
cult person to please, and it is not an _ easy
matter for us to advise you. If you loved him
less we should say, give him up; but as your
life seems bound up in his, there appears to be
but one course you can pursue, and that is to
overlook his faults, and dwell as much as
possible on his virtues, but do not pander to
his every trifling wish, or make too many sac-
rifices. Devotion, unless tempered with rea-
son, avails nothing in such cases, and cul-
minates in rendering the wife a martyr and
a slave, and the husband an exacting tyrant.
‘“‘A word to the wise is sufficient.”

Invalid.—The ordinary temperature of an
adult when a thermometer is placed in the
armpit is 98.4 deg.; in the mouth, 99.5 deg.; the
blood is about 100 deg. Blood heat is marked
on the thermometer at 99 deg. Fahrenheit. In
fevers this is much exceeded, and the heat of
the patient may rise to 105 deg. or 106 deg.; a
higher temperature than this will generally
prove fatal, unless it descends soon. The high-
est temperatures recorded have been in some
cases of rheumatic fever, when that of the
body rose to 109 deg., and even to 111 deg.

Ettie W.—They are puerile superstitions.
Still, as you wish to know their ascribed mean-
ings, we comply yith your request. An itch-
ing of the eyebrow signifies there is one wish-
ing for you; of the right brow, to laugh; of
the left, to cry. ‘‘Left_or right is good at
night.” Of the nose, ‘‘When the nose itches
the lips are in danger; you'll be vexed by a foo]
or kissed by a stranger.’’ Of the elbow, 4
change of bedfellow; of the right hand, you
will receive money; of the left, you will pay
it away; of the knees, you will kneel in a
strange church; of the feet, you will walk on
strange ground,

Kitty L.—This is said to_be an excellent
method for curing earache: Save cherry_pips,
wash in clear water and dry in the sun. When
quite dry put into chintz or cheese-cloth bags
and lay aside against a day of need. When
that time comes heat exceedingly hot in the
oven and apply to the afflicted region. The
stones will not only retain the heat for a long
time, but give forth an aromatic odor much
more agreeable than the majority of poultices,

Mary J.—From what you write we should
say that you were in love with neither, and
the right one has yet to appear. Don’t mis-
take friendship for love, although it is a mis-
take which is frequently made. Of the two
men, we should think that the one you call
“A”? ig the better and the one more likely to
make you happy.

Farmer.—Fowls may be cured of parasites
by dusting the feathers under the wings with
brimstone. Sprinkling ashes in the “run” will
rid the fowls of the insects.

 

 

 

 

Edith H.—Thank you for the words of “A

| Mother’s Appeal.”

A mother was bidding good-bye to her son,
Who was going to leave her that morn;

It was hard to depart from the one that he

loved

And the humble cot where he was born.

He treasured the parting advice that she gave
With a love that a mother can feel;

In vain he endeavored his tears to restrain
As he heard his fond mother’s appeal.

CHORUS.

| Be faithful and fearless, devoted and true,

Be manly in sorrow or joy; -
In trials remember it is darkness ere dawn,
Was a mother’s appeal to her boy.

The years glided by and he wandered afar,
Like a lone exile as he roamed,
But in moments of sorrow his heart would be
cheered
When he thought of his mother at home. |
She always said: ‘‘Son, never yield to despair,
There is no pleasure without its alloy.”
They never more met, but he never forgot
A mother’s appeal to her boy. ‘

B. G. S.—You want to know the salutations
of the different countries. The following are
some of them: ‘‘How are you?” That’s
Swedish. “How do you are?’ That’s Dutch.
“How do you stand?’ That’s Italian. “Go
with God, senor.’”’ That’s Spanish. ‘“‘How do
you live on?” That’s Egyptian. ‘‘How do you
perspire?’ That’s Egyptian. “How do you
have yourself?’ That’s Polish. ‘Thank God,
how are you?’ ‘That’s Arabian. ‘May thy
shadow never grow less.’ That’s Persian.
“How do you carry yourself?’ That’s French.
“How do you do?” That’s British and Ameri-
can. ‘Be under the guard of God.’’ That’s
Ottoman. ‘How is your stomach? Have you
eaten your rice?’ That’s Chinese.

Dolly.—No, we do not recommend you_ to
“try and make it up.’? The young man has
proved himself utterly faithless and unreliable,
and you would be foolish in the extreme to
renew the former state of things. Send him
back all his presents and letters, and make
up your mind to dismiss so poor a lover from
your mind and heart altogether. Be sure you
will not regret such a course of action when
you meet a more honest and stanch man, as
no doubt you will some day, and are able to
bestow on him all the affection you have
wasted on such an unworthy object as this
fickle boy.

H. D. H.—To make a common looking-glass,
lay tinfoil on a flat table and pour mercury
over it, rubbing it gently with a hare’s foot.
It soon unites and becomes very brilliant.
Then take a plate of glass, and cautiously
slide it upon the tinleaf in such a way as to
sweep off the superfluous mercury which was
not incorporated with the tinfoil. Place heavy
weights on the glass, and in a short time the
-quicksilvered tin will adhere so firmly that
the weights may be removed. Two ounces of
mercury is sufficient to cover about. three
square feet of glass.

Jessie V.—To mount a lady’s bicycle proper-
ly the rider should stand on the left side of
the wheel. The right pedal should be raised
higher than the left. Grasp the left handk-
bar firmly in the left hand. Place the right
foot on the right pedal. Arrange the dress
skirt to hang properly by using the right
hand. Then grasp the right handle-bar with
the right hand, spring quickly into the saddle,
and place the left foot on the left pedal. At
the same time press the right pedal rapidly,
and this will balance the machine.

F. M. H.—To make court plaster, take half
an ounce of benzoin and six ounces of rectified
spirit; dissolve and strain; then take one ounce
of isinglass and half a pint of hot water; dis-
solve, and strain separately from the former.
Mix the two, and set them aside to cool, when
a jelly will be formed. Warm this, and brush
it ten or twelve times over a piece of black
silk stretched smooth. When dry, brush it
with a solution made from four ounces of
Chian turpentine and six ounces of tincture of
benzoin.

Lil.—The fact that you have attained your
twentieth year without an offer of marriage
should not cause you anxiety. There are few
women who may not marry if they choose,
and sooner or later your opportunity will ap-
pear; it is better, however, to remain single
than to contract a loveless marriage merely
for the sake of being married, or, as some old
wiseacre has it, to be able to write ‘‘Mrs.’”’ on
your tombstone, : ; 5

Patty.—To make orange syrup, pare the
orange and press the juice from the pulp. To
each pint of juice allow one and three-quarter
pounds of sugar. Put the juice and the sugar
together, boil and skim until it becomes
creamy; then strain it through a flannel bag,
let it stand until cool, and bottle for use,
Lemon syrup may be prepared in the same
way, except that the lemons must be scalded
before squeezing and more sugar allowed.

Curious.—A recent survey established the
number of glaciers in the Alps at one thousand
one hundred and fifty-five, of which two hun-
dred and forty-nine have a length of more
than four and three-quarter miles; the French
Alps contain one hundred and forty-four gla-
ciers, those of Italy seventy-eight, Switzerland
four hundred and seventy-one and Austria four
hundred and sixty-two.

L. M. A.—The French foot is Meagre, narrow
and bony. The Spanish is small and elegantly
curved—thanks to its Moorish blood, cor-
responding with the Castilian pride—‘‘high in
the instep.’’ The Arab foot is proverbial for
its high arch; ‘‘a stream can run under the
hollow of it.’’ The foot of the Scot is large
and thick, the Irish foot flat and square, the
English, short and fleshy. The American foot
is apt to be disproportionately small.

Phyllis—Considering the relations between
you, we think it would only be wise to ascer-
tain the cause of the young man’s altered be-
havior. If he can give no satisfactory reason
for the attitude he has taken up, it can only
be that he has found he has mistaken his feel-
ings for you, and is anxious to be released
from any: further attendance on you. If this
is the case, you are well rid of him.

L. F.—Pearls are carbonate of lime, the same
substance of which the shell of the oyster is
composed, and are identical with the ‘‘mother
of pearl’? which forms the interior of the pearl
oyster shell. A high temperature will reduce
any pearl to common lime, and in the heat of
an ordinary fire a pearl will completely lose its
identity and become a pinch of white powder.

J. V. L.—Queen Victoria ascended the throne
in 1887, when she was eighteen years of age.
No, she is not the oldest living sovereign. The
Pope, the Grand Duke of Luxemburg, the
Prince of Schaumburg-Lippe, the King of Den-
mark and the Grand Duke of Saxe-Weimar are
all older than she. The youngest sovereign is
the King of Spain, who was born in 1886.

Eleanor B. M.—‘Lady Ona’s Sin’ and
“Plighted Hearts and Broken Vows’ both
ended in No. 15. The name Eleanor means
“Light.’’ Your hair is a light brown, A good
preparation of powder will not hurt the skin.
Thank you for the poem, which has already
been published.

EF. P. G.—The cause of frequent blushing is,
as a rule, self-consciousness and nervousness,
and the only ‘‘remedy’’: we can suggest is a
determination on your part to remove those
causes by thinking less of yourself and the
impression you are creating, and more of the
people with whom you are conversing.

Mrs, C. W. B.—We answered your first ques-
tion in the last number of the Weekly. To re-
move warts: Take a small piece of potash and
let it stand in the open air until it slakes; then
thicken it into a paste with pulverized gum
arabic, which prevents it from spreading
where it is not wanted.

R. J. C.—A man is at his weakest when he
turns out of bed. Our muscular force is great-
ly increased by breakfast, but it attains to its
highest point after the midday meal. It then
sinks for a few hours, rises again toward
evening, but steadily ‘declines from night to
morning.

Mrs. D.—No, the husband cannot be com-
pelled to support the wife if she has left him
of her own free will, and declines to live in
the home he has provided for her. Should
she refuse his entreaties to return home she
will have to provide for herself entirely.

Vera.—We would advise against your culti-
vating heavy eyebrows. A delicately penciled
eyebrow in the form of a crescent is the only
one which is considered perfect,

J. J.. Wadsworth, 0.—We cannot tell you
how many murders were committed in Lon-
don, 1898.

Elinor.—Can any one furnish this corre-
spondent with the words of “The Ill-Fated
Maine’’?

Addie M, G.—Can any one furnish this cor-
respondent with the words of the song ‘‘Going
for a Pardon’’?

Pp. M. A.—Kentucky is by far_the greatest
tobacco-producing State of the Union. North
Carolina comes next, and Virginia third.

Mrs. M. F.—Write to the Scott Coin and
Stamp Co., 28d st., New York City. ¢

 

— sinh lg nn

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4

PANO A I RAR

 

 

VOL. 54—No. 49.

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

 

 

A STAGE HEROINE:

OR,

In the Glare of the Footlights.

By GERTRUDE WARDEN,

Author of ‘‘Her Faithful Knight,” ‘‘The Haunted House at Kew,”
‘“‘4n Angel of Love,’ Etc.

(“A STAGE HEROINE” was commenced in No. 45.

CHAPTER IX.

“By Jove, the pace is getting a bit stiff!’

It was the second week of the company’s
stay at Saltford. For more than a week a
certain formidable-looking sealed document
had reposed within Mr, James Francis’ writ-
ing-case. In this ‘“‘Wé, Frederick,’’ in consid-
eration for value received, gave full permission
to Francis James Scott, widower, to wed An-
gela Mary Wrayburn, spinster, at the Church
of St. Peter, Saltford, on the following Satur-
day, by which date the prospective bride and
bridegroom would have been resident a fort-
night in Saltford, and so have complied with
the requirements of the marriage license laws.

On the whole, Francis had deemed it better to
give his real name for insertion in the license.
If the lovely Angela’s dramatic genius was to
be exploited in America and elsewhere, it
would not be advisable to allow her a loophole
by which she might at some future time es-
cape from the married state and keep her earn-
ings to herself.

“T shall say nothing about my name, or hav-
ing been married before, until we get inside
the church,” Francis reflected. ‘‘She may not
even notice the word ‘widower’ in the certifi-
cate—she'll be flurried, of course. But, if she
does, I have a pretty story ready—boy-and-
girl attachment, consumptive bride, died in six
months, or something of that sort—that will
appeal to her romantic imagination.

“The deuce of it all is that I am not quite
a widower yet, and that Pauline, as if to spite
me, keeps lingering on.

‘““*Weaker every day,’ Molly writes. It’s all
very well to be weaker every day, but why in
the name of common sense doesn’t she die?
She’s got heart disease, and goodness only
knows what other complications; two doctors
have given her up, and yet she persists in liv-
ing! If Molly had any sense, she’d give her
some slight shock, say by dropping scalding
beef-tea over her, or letting the bed go down
suddenly; or, again, a double dose of sleeping
draught would be a kindness to a person in
that condition. I’ve hinted as much in my let-
ters, but Molly doesn’t seem to see it.

“Tt?s a most awkward predicament for a man
to be in!

“T am head over ears in love with this pretty
child, who adores me, and of course I want to
act honorably by her. But how in the world
am I to insure that Pauline is dead when I
marry Angela on Saturday—for marry her I
must: and will. It isn’t only that we don’t
get another fortnight anywhere until October,
but, now that surly, jealous brute Graham
Ford is on my track, and has already got my
name, and knows where I come from, and has
warned Angela he means to hunt up all about
me, my plans may be spoiled at any -mo-
ment, and I myself laid by the heels as soon
as the breath is out of Pauline’s body!

“It’s a confoundedly delicate position and it
will be only by the utmost luck, as well as cau-
tion and cleverness, that I shall get through.
I’ve got Angela on my side, of course, and
Doreas and Molly. On the other hand both Gra-
ham Ford and Dion Stanley are ugly custom-
ers, and between them I run a serious risk—
but then life is not worth living without risk,
in my opinion.

“T wish to heaven that we lived in civilized
times, and that dueling was still in fashion!
Ids ut a leaden argument in the skulls

 

-a position to frighten a policeman.

 

 

 

 

 

“of Ford and Stanley to cdénvince them of the
advisability of minding their own business!”’
This last idea impressed him strongly. A man
in constant danger of arrest for the trifling
péccadillo of having helped himself to a hun-
dred pounds of his brother-in-law’s money
should at least, so Francis told himself, be in
When,
therefore, upon proceeding to the post office,
he found that Molly’s daily bulletin enclosed
money-orders for five pounds, Francis resolved
to devote a portion of that sum to the pur-
chase of a second-hand revolver, while the re-
mainder, he decided, would buy a wedding-ring
for Angela.
From his point of view Molly’s news was

good.
“She has left off yg and lies quite still

all the time,’’ wrote olly. ‘I moysen~ her
lips with brandy in a spoon, and every_now
and again she opens her eyes and says ‘Fran-
cis.’ The Lord forgive you, Master Francis,
for sergesting I shold dubble her sleping draft.
The pore soul won’t trubble you long. if
you wasn’t my dere young lady’s child wot I
have brort up from a baby, I mite be temted
to call you crule. But I think it’s only a way
you have, and I feel shore you are sorry for
your pore wife and fond of your devoted oid
nurse. MOLLY.”’

“Pp. §.—I’ve tuk five pounds outer the savins
bank for you, as you want it so bad.”

An hour after receiving Molly’s remittance
Francis was sitting by Angela’s side in the sit-
ting-room of her lodgings, trying a wedding-
ring on the third finger of her left hand, from
which he had previously removed the pretty
little pearl-and-diamond ring he had given her
on their engagement, the said pearl-and-dia-
mond ring having once belonged to Pauline,
from whose dressing-table it, had been ab-
stracted by her thoughtful husband_on the
oceasion of his hurried flight from Surbiton
to Horley a month ago.

Doreas Morley hovered in the background,
her sympathetic heart torn by the contending
emotions of envy and delight.

Angela, sweet and fresh as a newly-blown
rose washed with morning dew, in her sum-
mer attire of piyk cotton and white lace in-
sertion, smiled up, blushing, into her lover’s
face.

“Tsn’t it unlucky to try on a wedding-ring?’’
she inquired.

“No, my pet; I never heard it was. Now 1
have something very important to tell you,
an immense favor to ask you. Dorcas knows
what it is, for I told her last night.’

‘You told Dorcas before you told me?”’

“Why, child, you are not jealous, surely? I
told Dorcas because I wanted to have her on
my side to persuade you, in case you are a lit-
tle reluctant At first. I know, Dorcas, dear,”
he added, turning to the elder woman, ‘‘what
a point you always make of staying in the
room when I am here. But under the circum-
stances, as you know the favor I am going
to beg, would you mind just waiting in the
adjoining room a few minutes till Angela
calls you back?”

Doreas hesitated a moment. It was a sort
of salve to her conscience that she should be
present at all Francis’ interviews with Angela,
for down in her secret heart she could not help
realizing that Mr. and Mrs. Egbert Wrayburn
would most strongly disapprove vf Francis’
suit, and would certainly hold her, Dorcas, re-
sponsible for the speedy success of his wooing.
Moreover, Dorcas was so devotedly in love
with Francis that it afforded her bitter-sweet
compensation to be present while he made love
to Angela.

It was therefore with reluctance, and even
with some show of sulkiness, that she now
passed through the folding-doors into the ad-
joining bed-room,

“You had better be quick about telling her,”
was her parting admonition. ‘‘I shall be back
almost immediately!’’

The moment the folding-doors met Francis
flung himself on his knees at the feet of An-

gela, who was seated in a low basket-work |

arm-chair, and, slipping his arms about her
waist, held her cheek close against his in a
passionate embrace, while he poured forth
whispered words of pleading into her ear.

‘“Listen—my darling, my queen! I can’t live
without you any longer. You wrote to your
uncle and aunt about me a week ago; you can’t
hear for ten days or more; you think they may
disapprove of me because I am_ not at pres-
ent rich, and because, although I am the only
son of an earl, I cannot use my name or my
title because the law declares my poor moth-
er’s marriage illegal. But I am a Tracy for
all that, and. the Tracys are a hot-blooded
race, who will not brook opposition. If your
relatives write and order you to give me up,
how can I be sure you will not obey them?’

“J will never give you up. I have promised,
and you know you can trust me!” murmured
Angela. ‘Do pray let me go; you hold me so
tight that you hurt me!”’

eT ane a

}

|

 

Back numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers.)

“T can’t let you go until you agree to some-
thing I am going to tell you. You have sworn
to be my wife, darling, haven’t you?’

**"You know I have.”

“Ah, but when—when? We are here at Salt-
ford for a fortnight, but the company doesn’t
stop anywhere again for a clear fortnight un-
til nearly the end of October. And you stay
with this company until Christmas, and wher-
ever you are I shall be. Do you think I can
wait until October to be sure of you, to know
that you are my wife?’

“Oh, but I am not going to marry you this
year!’ protested Angela, as she pushed him
away from her and sat upright in her chair,
staring at him with startled eyes. ‘‘Next year
perhaps; but indeed I don’t want to be married
yet. I want to become celebrated before I
think of that.’’

He laughed rather wildly.

“Do you think for a moment I am going to
wait till then, or until next year, before I
claim you? Do you think I am one of those—
I won’t call them men, but fishes—who can go
on year after year, quite content to be en-
gaged to a lovely girl, and to watch the roses
fade from her cheek, the light from her eye,
the youth from her step, until, when all fire,
and romance, and charm have departed from
her, and from their so-called love, they can
marry and settle down to a jog-trot middle age
together? You don’t understand me, Angela! I
love you-madly, and I can’t and won’t wait!
Why in the world should we wait? What does
your Shakespeare say—

“ “What is love? ’Tis not hereafter;
Present mirth is present laughter,

What's to come is still unsure.

In delay there lies no plenty;

Then come and kiss me, sweet and twenty,
Youth’s a stuff will not endure!’

You and I are young and unencumbered’’—he
did not even wince as he spoke the word,
though the wan figure of Pauline rose up un-
bidden before his mental vision—‘*why should
we not take Romeo and Juliet for our modeis,
and belong to each other at once, before our
love cools into the commonplace? To have
what one wants at the moment when one
wants it, that is the secret of delight in life.
I know, for I have made a study of it!”

_ “Of love-making?’’ she cried, paling with
jealousy, as she thrust his glowing face away
from her.

‘No, you jealous darling,’’ he answered,
laughing, as he kissed her pouting lips, ‘of
happiness in life. You talk about your art;
and, while we are on that subject, I give you
my word of honor 1 won’t interfere with your
eareer, and that when you are my wife you
shall not only act as much as you Hke, but
I will be your agent and manager, and will
work like a slave to help you on. Well, as to
your career, my own brilliant, talented darling,
you don’t know how to act yet, because you
don’t know how to feel. You are half a child
still But when you are my wife, and you
love me as I shall make you love me, then you
will act Juliet for the first time!”

But this was a very tender point with An-
gela, and, stirred and startled as she was
by the fervor of his words and the passion of
his touch, she felt impelled none the less to
put in a plea for her interpretation of her
favorite part. ’

“Juliet was only fourteen,’’ she demurred,
“and she coaldn’t have known any more of
the world than I do——”

“Juliet may have been fourteen in the text,”
he said, interrupting her with a laugh, ‘‘but
Shakespeare, who put the words into. her
mouth, was older than I when he wrote them,
and began life early. You, darling, have not
yet begun to live.”’

He felt his wooing to be irresistible, for his
heart was certainly in his work, and he was
therefore the more surprised when the young
girl suddenly shook herself free from him, and
sprang to her feet, with burning cheeks, and
both hands stretched out to ward him off.

“Please keep away from me!”’ she exclaimed.
“Sometimes, when you touch me, when you
talk to me, I suddenly feel I almost hate
you!”

Most men would have been disconcerted by
this unexpected confession, but not so Fran-
cis.

“Tt’s because I am too fond of you to choose
my words, my dearest,’ he declared humbly.
‘You are the first girl I have ever really loved,
and I am not an adept at love-making yet, you
see. Now, if you will have patience with me
a little longer, I will try to be cool and quiet.
Only let me take your hand—I won’t even
squeeze it. And let me put my arm round
your waist, and nestle your dear little head
Pe eeeg my shoulder. That will give me confi-
ence.”’

“J don’t think you want confidence,’’ she ob-
served as, half reluctant, half laughing, she
obeyed him.

“Oh, but I do for what is coming! You re-
member what I-have just told you? That, un-
less we marry this week—this week, mind,
that finishes on Saturday next—we cannot mar-
ry until the end of October, which is a life-
time away——”’ Z

“Only four months.’’

“And do you imagine for one moment I can
wait four months? As I said before, why
should I? Now, my own little pet, you have
seen your wedding-ring—here is something else
for you to see.”

With that he suddenly produced from his
coat-pocket and unrolled before her astonished
eyes the marriage license before referred to.

Angela read it through from beginning to
end, dumfounded at first. Then she sprang
from his side, frightened and really angry.

“How dared you? Without consulting me?’
she panted out. ‘“‘This week? Why, it is pre-
posterous! To-day is Wednesday——”

“And we will get married at a quarter to
ten o’clock on Saturday morning. I have ar-
ranged it all with the vicar of St. Peter’s.”’

“You have arranged it with the vicar!’ she
exclaimed, with a little hysterical laugh, the
outcome of excitement and nervousness. ‘‘And
you dared to take my consent for granted!”

“There is no such word as ‘dare’ in love,”
he cried, as he seized her-in his arms, and held
her imprisoned, against her will, close to his
fiercely-beating heart. ‘It is not my fault, my
darling, that I love you so passionately, I can
neither eat nor sleep for thought of you, It is
destiny. You were made for me, and I cannot
wait, I cannot live without you! For heaven’s
sake, Angela, don’t play with me! You have
to che a man whom love makes desperate!
Look!”’

With a melodramatic flourish he drew from
his pocket the revolver he had purchased with
Molly’s savings, and brandished it threaten-
ingly before the terrified eyes of Angela, who,
like many other high-spirited girls, was ex-
tremely afraid of fire-arms, and shrank in-
stinetively from its contact.

“On my word of honor, Angela,’’ he con-
tinued impressively, ‘if I find you are play-
ing with me, and that you refuse to marry
me on Saturday, I will put this muzzle to
my mouth and blow my brains out!”

But at this point Dorcas, whose ear had
never been very far from the chink between
the folding-doors, burst them open and en-
tered, paler than Angela in her alarm lest An-
gela’s lover should be tempted to do himseif
a mischief. :

“Do put away that dreadful thing, Mr. Fran-
cis!’ she pleaded. ‘‘Can’t you see you are
frightening the life out of Angela? Of course
she will agree to marry you, since she loves
you, and you are so set upon it, even if you
ace the thing secret and part at the church

oor.”’

Parting at the church door had been by no
means part of Francis’ programme, but he
deemed it prudent for the moment to agree to
anything his stanch friend and ally suggested.

Between them they coaxed and persuaded
Angela. to’ agree to what Francis called a
“proof of her love and confidence, her be-
lief in him when all the world had turned
against him.’’ The young girl was stunned
and bewildered by the force and passion of the
man’s appeals. To her he appeared a heroic,
worshipful figure, in whom all the romance
and chivalry of all the ages were embodied,

 

a being as superbly generous, unselfish and
noble as he was perfectly beautiful to look
upon. That her idol possessed not only feet
of clay, but a heart of stone beneath the
outer glow of ‘his transitory passion, she never
for one moment guessed. Utterly single-mind-
ed herself, and capable of tender and devoted
attachment, Angela never suspected the mer-
cenary shallowness, the self-centred egotism of
her handsome wooer, His alleged misfortunes,
his noble birth, his recklessness and friend-
lessness, all these things were picturesque ac-
eessories in the eyes of a young and romantic
girl ‘to the single, towering figure, square-
shouldered and manful, facing an inimical
world with fiashing, dark eyes and auburn
head held erect in proud defiance.

Her imagination, fostered by the beautiful
unrealities of dramatic literature which had
grown to be far more to her than actual sur-
roundings, was held captive by the power of
Francis’ winning personality and by his showy
pleading. For the time, fascinated, blinded
by her lover’s passionate fervor, she lost all
power to reason or to criticise.

“T don’t think I want to marry him—at least,
not so soon! I am afraid of him, Dorcas. I
don’t seem able to think when he is here; 1
seem dazed and stupid and not able to con-
tradict him, and I shiver when he touches me.
How can that be love? And Saturday—why,
it’s only three days off! I get terrified when I
think of it, and feel that I want to escape
away somewhere by myself before then!’’

Thus did poor Angela unburden her soul con-
cerning her future husband so soon as Fran-
cis had taken his leave that day. The girl
was white and trembling and unnerved. She
clung to Doreas and fell to weeping on her
shoulder.

“Tf only my mother were alive!’’ she sobbed.
“J feel so silly and helpless, and he seems toe
take everything for granted.”

“But you love him?’ cried Dorcas. ‘You
must love him! And you have promised now.
Why, if it were me he wanted I should be in
the seventh heaven!’’

Angela lifted her tear-stained face from her
aes shoulder and scanned her wonder-
ingly.

“Surely you are not in love with him?’’ she
murmured,

“Ir? exclaimed Dorcas bitterly. ‘“‘As if 1
should be such a fool as to be in love with
anybody! I am much too ugly. Now, darling,
leave off crying, and let’s think of what frock
you will wear on Saturday morning!”’

“Tt must be white,’ said Angela, as she
wiped her tears away.

“Of course! Luckily you have a white
pique skirt home from the wash; and I will fin-
ish making that new white muslin blouse for
you this very day. And you shall have a bou-
quet of white roses to carry, darling, for I
will buy it for you myself.”

“We must slip out very quietly before half-
past nine, and not a soul must know,” said
Angela, her eyes alight and her face quivering
with excitement. “And he has promised to
bring me back here afterward, and to consider
it only in the light of an engagement.’’

“Yes,’’? said Dorcas dubiously; ‘the did say
something like that when you worried him.
But a man will say anything on such occa-
sions. Come to the next room now, and let
me try the bodice on. Oh, don’t I wish I was
you!”

The hours flew by for Angela in unnatural,
unrestful swiftness until the eve of that
looked-for yet dreaded Saturday. Francis left
her no time to herself, no time to think. He
himself was far too fearful of what might hap-
pen to separate them to leave her at any
time of the day alone when he could contrive
to be present, and with every hour his influ-
ence over her increased. His great dread was
lest Graham Ford should become possessed of
the knowledge of his antecedents and_ seek
out Angela with the news. But when Friday
night arrived and Ford had so far given no
sign, Francis began to breathe freely, and to
cease to finger his revolver stealthily when he
found Ford’s dark eyes fixed in unfriendly sus-
picion upon him. And on Friday night a tel-
egram arrived at the Saltford post-office with
news ene was almost the news Francis
wanted.

“Doctor says she cannot last through the
night.—Molly.”’

“Thank heaven!” murmured Francis, as he
tore the message to pieces on his way to the
theatre. ‘‘Of course it would be much more
cheering to know she was dead. But ‘can’t
by BeOeee the night’ is: the next best thing
o it!” ; *

As his step sounded on the stairs outside the
leading lady’s dressing-room, Angela darted
out, fully dressed as the Lady of Lyons ina
short-waisted Empire gown of pale pink satin,
her fair hair dressed high on her head and
intertwined with pearls.

Tears were shining in her-eyes as she smiled
up in her lover’s face.

“You will be jealous,’’ she whispered, as,
after glancing to right and left, he stooped
his head and kissed her lips, ‘‘for I have had
my first love-letter!”

His face changed, and a forbidding expres-
sion flashed into his eyes.

“From whom, pray?’ he asked sharply.

“From the sweetheart whose portrait I al-
ways wear,’’ she answered mischievously, as
she touched the little, heart-shaped locket at
her neck lightly with her fingers.

. ee French child?’ he said disdain-
ully.

“Hardly a child now; he is nearly twenty!
And he took our childish engagement seri-
ously, and wants to come back to England
solely in order to find me out. He has writ-
ten me such a sweet letter.”

She was holding the letter in her hand while
she spoke.

“We calls me his ‘chere petite fiancee!’ ’’ she
said. “It was always his mother’s idea—and
my mother’s also—that we should marry. Now
his mother i8 very ill, and it is even feared
she may not recover; and she is most anxious
that Ernest should bring me over to see her.’’

“And what are you going to say to all this
foolery?’’? he asked roughly.

She looked up, pained at his tone.

“T have already written——” she was begin-
ning, when he interrupted her savagely.

“Already! You have lost no time!”

“Telling him I am going to be married to
you to-morrow.”’

“And you are going to show me his letter?’’

She hesitated.

“Would that be quite fair to him?’’
asked.

“No! This is the best way to serve it!’ he
said; and, twisting the letter from her fin-
gers, he tore it into a thousand fragments
and scattered them over the stairs. ‘‘I brook
no rival, and I allow no love-letters except
from me!” he declared, as he noted the vexa-
tion on her face. ‘‘I am going to be your hus-
band, and your master, too, my darling. And
as soon aS you are my wife you must leave
off wearing that locket and chain!”’ ’

‘‘Never!”’

**To-morrow!’’

‘You are a brute, and I hate you!”’

“To-night you do, but you will love me to-
morrow!’ :

So they parted for the time, wrangling as
lovers do, and little guessing what ‘“to-mor-
row’ would mean to both of them for all time
to come,

she

(To be continued.)

VAN EEDEN’S REWARD.

In one of the Government offices at The
Hague an interview was going on between the
Minister and one of the higher clerks. This
was rather unusual. Young Van Eeden’s offi-
cial rank was not high enough to bring him
into frequent contact with his Excellency. it
was not, however, in his official capacity that
Count van Heteren had sent for the young
man; it was not Government business that was
at that moment occupying the time of these
two conscientious servants of their country.
Public business seldom awakens even in the
most patriotic the degree of emotion visible in
the countenance and in the manner of the
younger man.

The elder meanwhile seemed not to notice his
pale face and husky voice. He was grave and
preoccupied beyond the official gravity that sits
well on a Cabinet Minister. He seemed intent
on gaining some information that Van Beden
was either unable or unwilling to give.

“T must beg you to keep nothing back. I ask
you as a friend to tell me all you know of Van
Donselaer. You are aware of my sole reason
for asking you. Except as regards my daugh-
ter’s welfare, I shall consider you have told
me nothing.”’

“Indeed, I am holding nothing back,’’ the
young man answered. ‘He is a thoroughly
good fellow, and you can safely trust your
daughter to him, The reports you have heard
have no foundation whatsoever.”’

He said this clearly and deliberately, but with
visible effort. After a few scarcely audible
words about having to finish some work for his
immediate chief, he hastily left the room.

It was unusual for a man in his position to
leave the Minister’s presence without being
dismissed; but His Excellency was too ab-
gorbed in thought to, notice the irregularity.

 

 

 

Van Eeden rushed through the ante-room*

past the astonished valet. When he reached
the passage he reeled and gasped for breath.
He felt as a man who has signed his own
death-warrant might feel. By those few words
he had opened the door of bliss to k‘s rival,
and for ever extinguished his own nopes of
happiness,

in his anxiety to do complete justice to his
rival he had given him an even better char-
acter than he deserved. At the same time, he
knew it was the simple truth that, as far as
human foresight in these matters is worth any-
thing, it was safe to predict that Baron van
Donselaer would make an excellent husband.

In the sleepless night that followed, Van
Eeden repeatedly went over his conversation
with the Minister. He might have chosen his
words differently if he had written instead of
spoken; but the answer to the Count’S search-
ing inquiries would, in the main, have been the
same.

He could not repent that answer; neither
eould he rid himself of the impression that
everything depended on it. Rightly or wrong-
ly, he fancied that, as far as the girl herself
was concerned, his rival had been successful,

The Van Heteren and the Van Eeden fam-
ilies had been friends from time immemorial.
Count van Heteren and Van Heden’s father
(now dead) had sat together in the States
General for thirty years, and had since held
office in the same Ministry.

The Count had a particular affection for Van
Eeden, and the younger man returned it heart-
ily. He had been an habitue of the house ever
since, fifteen years ago, he had come to live
at The Hague as clerk in the Colonial Office.
Many people were surprised at seeing Van
Eeden so much at the Van Heterens house,
every one knew that he was not a good parti,
and that the Countess, who appeared to mo-
nopolize the management of home affairs,
would certainly not let her handsome daughter
make a poor match.

The fact was, she looked upon him so com-
pletely out of the question that she fancied
there could be no danger in admitting him to
the house. He was quite ineligible. He
was comparatively poor; he was. too old
(thirty-eight being a great age for a poor
man, though, as is well known, a rich
man is young at that age); though of good,
‘“‘patrician’’ family, he did not belong to the
old feudal noblesse; and he was lamentably
wanting in chic. In the other scale of the bal-
ance might have been put such trifling matters
as the noblest qualities a man can possess, an
honorable, though not lucrative, career, and
delightful family connections; but to a woman
of the Countess’ stamp all this would have
comparatively little weight,

Quite recently, however, the Countess had
taken alarm at trifles “light as air’ indicative
to her mind of a too warm an interest in her
eldest daughter on Van Eeden’s part. Hence
the young man*had been invited less frequent-
ly to the house, and had scarcely noticed the
advent of so formidable a rival as Van Donse-
laer, a man of high birth, great wealth and
deserved popularity.

The Count’s words were a sudden realization
to him. They placed him in a painful dilemma.
To most men the matter would have been sim-
ple enough. They would have entered the lists
and risked all to win the prize. To Van Eeden
there was another side to the question. What
right had he, a man so much her senior, to ask
a girl like Otteline, in all the glory of her
youth and beauty, brought up in luxury and
ease, to share a simple home with him in a far-
away street, and to submit to a thousand small
privations for his sake? True,-she was free,
and, if she deliberately preferred him to his
younger rival, he need have no scruples about
enjoying his happiness.

Would she indeed be free, however, if he, a
tried, old friend, pressed his suit upon her?
Would he not be taking advantage of his priv-
ileged standing, of the affectionate nature of
the girl? Would not that be an ungrateful re-
turn for the kindnesses bestowed upon him by
her parents? Besides, he knew that if she
could respond to Van Donselaer’s undoubted
affection she would be quite safe with him, and
would have every prospect of a happy and
useful life as the wife of one of the greatest
landowners in the Netherlands.

“Just like Van Eeden,’’ would have been the
verdict of his friends if they had known what
was passing in his mind. He was a singular
mixture of shrewdness and Simplicity, of ex-
treme unselfishness and sound, common sense,
of unconventionality and rigid adherence to
duty, of high principle and kindly toleration.
He was the plainest and the worst-dressed man
at The Hague. He had the appearance of a
earpenter and the instincts of a gentleman.

Being perfectly free from self-consciousness,
he was as much at his ease in the smartest
set of Hague society as among his friends at
the club.

People laughed openly at his oddities, and he
took their banter with perfect good temper;
but not the pertest of ‘‘smart’? young women
would have taken it into her silly head to
“snub”? him.

He was much thought of by men. They said
en could win distinction in political life if he
chose. F

To his old-fashioned solidity of character the
daily work that made the wheels of Govern-
ment move smoothly was more congenial than
the excitement of party politics, with the in-
evitable appeal to the democracy.

The old oligarchical instincts of his race were
strong in this least haughty and most open-
hearted of men. As the result of his anxious
cogitations, he resolved to leave the coast clear
for his rival and to take a journey on which
he had long ago set his mind. As he meant to
visit India, he could easily get six months’
leave from the Minister.

A fortnight later he had wound up his affairs,
taken leave of his mother, who was the only
human being who knew the real motive of his
journey, and was on his way to Genoa to join
one of the steamers that run between Amster-
dam. and Batavia. If he was kept up by a se-
eret hope that the girl he loved would, after
all, prefer him to his rival, it is not for those
of us who tread the valleys of commonplace
virtue to admire his heroic resolve the less.

The girl who had won this man’s deepest af-
fections was in every way worthy of him. She,
too, was in certain ways ‘‘old-fashioned.”’
Well-born and well-bred girls nowadays look
much the same the world over; only in-later
life the stamp of nationality impresses itself
more. Her fresh complexion, set off by dark
hair and dark eyelashes, her tall, slim figure,
her candid brow, gentle, brown eyes and reg-
ular features were not in any way distinctive
of Holland.

In manners she was more Dutch, or, rather,
as the Dutch used to be—too prim and formal,
some would say; all that a true gentlewoman
should be, others would declare. In tastes and
character she belonged to a type that is cer-
tainly being modified, even in Holland. She
was an intensely womanly, domestic girl, de-
voted to her family, at once the slave and pet
of her six brothers. Her chief interests and
pleasures were associated with the two houses
which had always been home to her—the state-
ly, comfortable town house and the dear, old
chateau in Gelderland, where the summer and
autumn were spent.

She enjoyed the out-of-door amusements that
are now such a large part of the lives of young
people of means and leisure in Continental
countries; but she was not afflicted with that
modern malady for which the Dutch have a
special word—uithuizigheid.

The English equivalent would be ‘out of
houseness.’’ Her education had been rather
superficial; but, like most Dutch girls, she was
a fair linguist. She had good sense and the
sort of intellectual receptivity that comes from
a very sympathetic temperament—perhaps the
happiest mental gift a woman can possess, To
be the eldest of ten children is in itself a ‘‘lib-
eral education.’’

A few days before Van Eeden left for India
there was a small dinner party at the Van He-
terens, Otteline was silent--and preoccupied.
The day before Baron von Donselaer had pro-
posed for her. Her first impulse had_been to
refuse him, but her mother had urged her by
every argument in her power to accept him, or
at any rate to take time to consider. Otteline
was undecided and unhappy, and her mother
had almost persuaded her that she did not
know her own mind and that girlish coyness
and caprice must not ruin such prospects as
all her girl friends would envy her for.

The company consisted only of an uncle and
an aunt—no great favorites, as it happened,
with Otteline—and four members of the States-
General, political friends of her father’s, whose
families lived in the provinces. Suddenly she
heard a name that roused her from her listless

s it true that Van EHeden is
India ?”’

“Tt is perfectly true,’’ was the answer. “It is
rather hard on the other officials in the office;
but he is a great favorite with the Minister.”’

“And well he deserves to be,’’ was the only
apology the Count condescended to offer.

The subject of Van Eeden’s merits was fur-
ther discussed; but Otteline heard no more for
the present. The sharp pain that shot through
her suddenly told her what she had not known
for certain before that moment. Her heart be-
longed irrevocably to the friend of her child-
hood; never could she become the wife of*an-
other. For the moment a strange sense of
thankfulness that the matter had been (as it
were) taken out of her hands, the de@sion

going to

 

 

 

made easy for her by this sudden revelation,
swallowed up every other thought or feeling,
Font that of sorrow at the impending separa-

ion.

Only her mother noticed her sudden pallor.
Shrewd woman as she was, the conclusion she
drew was partly false.

““T suppose she does care for him,’’ were her
thoughts; “but this will show her that he does
not care for her, or, in any case, did not intend
to propose to her. In a little time she will
come to her senses and do as I bid her.”’

Great was her disappointment when Otteline
that same evening, after their guests had left,
quietly begged her father, in her mother’s pres-
ence, to give her answer to Van Donselaer, and
to tell him that she did not care for him
enough to marry him.

_ “Well, dear, if you have made up your mind,
it is certainly better to tell him so at once,”’
said her father.

Otteline felt she had found an ally.

Her mother, however, insisted on
night’s delay.

Her clever husband, famed for his clear-
sightedness in public business, had no suspi-
cion of the double motives of his wife’s insist-
ence, He yielded on that point.

After a fortnight Otteline was quite decided.
And thus ended this chapter in her life.

* * aH * * *

A year later, if you had passed down one of
the new streets that are springing up like
mushrooms in every part of The Hague, and if
you were a Dutchman (that is, acquainted with
the names of all the ‘historical’ families of
Holland), you would have been struck by see-
ing one of these names on the front door of one
of its houses, (Excepting in the case of a few
aristocratic or long-established families, most
houses are thus marked in Holland—to the
great convenience of the general public.)

It is half-past twelve, the common hour for
lunch in Holland. Van EHEeden is letting him-
self in with his latchkey. This is certainly~no
bachelor’s residence. Even in the room he en-
ters, evidently his own sanctum, are traces of
feminine occupancy or intrusion.

A low table and a chair near the window
overlooking a small but pretty garden are cov-
ered with a lady’s paraphernalia. The perfect
order of the papers and books on the huge
writing-table and the stands adjacent betrays
the presence of some one other than the master
of the house, and a skill different from that of
the most thorough of Dutch housemaids.

There is a quick look of disappointment on
Van Heden’s open countenance as he sees that
the room is empty, deepened as a note on the
writing-table in a well-known handwriting
catches his eye.

He hastily opens and reads:

“Mama has just sent for me to lunch, and
pay visits afterward with her carriage. To con-
sole yourself, have a look at this book. I have
pasted in all the photographs you brought from
India—but one. The hospital you lay in for six
weeks is framed and hangs in our room. I
love India. Do you know that but for India
I might perhaps now be—somewhere else?

“Your loving wife,
“OTTELINE.”’

Van Eeden was a matter-of-fact, unroman-
tic Dutchman, but I am not at all sure that his
eyes were quite dry as he read these lines,

> © ire
if d S if
Winifred’s Sacrifice.
By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon,
Author of “The Magie Cameo,” “Little Miss Whirlwind,”
*Brownie’s Triumph,” ‘Stella Rosevelt,? “Queen

Bess,’ ‘The Golden Key,” ‘A Girl in a
Thousand,’ Ete,

a fori-

(‘*WINIFRED's SACRIFICE’? was commenced in No, 82,
Back numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers),

CHAPTER XXXV.,

WINIFRED SUDDENLY RESOLVES
DARING ADVENTURE.

Wallace P. Huntingden!

Winifred was conscious of a peculiar thrill
which seemed to pervade her from the crown
of her head to the soles of her feet as that
name fell upon her startled ears.

It was the very same that she had seen upon
the check which she had discovered in the old
writing desk in the attic at Crescent Lodge,
and she resolved to search for it the moment
she was free to go up to her room again,

‘“‘Huntingden,’’ she repeated, musingly, but
secretly all on the qui vive to learn more of the
man; “that is rather a. nice-sounding name.”’

“Yes, it is; and the man is a character, too,”’
responded Mr. Metcalf, who was inwardly de-
lighted to find his pretty wife so unusually
social; ‘the is evidently a cultured party, in
spite of the fact that—as he tells me—he has
lived in a mining district for some years. He
appears. to have—as I have said—unlimited
wealth, but no especial interest in life; has no
family, and, aside from his money getting, has
evidently led a very aimless existence.”’

“And he is taking stock in your road?’ said
Winifred, inquiringly.

“Yes; and he is a shrewd one, too, in spite
of the business being new to him, He has évi-
dently spent a good deal of time studying such
matters.”

“Has he been in New York long?’’

“Well, I understand he has been East some
six or seven months—has spent quite a little
of that time traveling about. He came to my
office one day only a little while before I went
to California to talk business with me, but
never made any definite proposition until a
few days ago, when he turned up again, and I
had forgotten all about him. I am to meet him
at the Hoffman to-morrow at ten, when
we expect to come to some definite under-
standing,’ said Mr. Metcalf, waxing confiden-
tial under Winifred’s questions.

“Ah! then he is stopping at the Hoffman, I
suppose,’ she observed in a would-be careless
tone, as she added a lump of sugar to her
coffee.

“Yes, and it’s a good house, too. Oh, by the
way,’ the man continued in an eager tone, and
breaking away abruptly from the subject, ‘‘I
saw Wadleigh this morning and have made
arrangements to have your portrait painted.
He says he will begin upon it at once, and, if
it will be convenient for you, he would like to
have you give him a sitting to-morrow at
eleven.”’

“Tt will be perfectly convenient, and I will
drop him a line directly after lunch to tell him
so,” said Winifred, with unusual animation
and feeling secretly pleased with the arrange-
ment, for she had been strongly attracted to
the artist and promised herself no little pleas-
ure in meeting him frequently while the por-
trait was being painted.

She did write him a pleasant little note, as
she had promised her husband, making the
appointment at the hour he had _ suggested,
and then began to search for the check which
had long been such a mystery to her—a mys-
tery which she now began to hope might pos-
sibly be explained.

She found it tucked away in the pocket of a
writing pad, and again examined it very care-
fully and with increasing curiosity.

“How very strange,’’ she murmured, ‘‘the
date is nearly twenty years ago. I wonder if
the Wallace P. Huntingden, whose name is
written here, and the gentleman of whom Mr,
Metcalf spoke during lunch can be one and
the same, or whether this will prove to be
only one of those singular coincidences which
now and then occur in life. The check is
made out to him and indorsed by him, and it
seems very queer that it should be floating
about among the possessions of any one else,
Oh! I would give a great deal to know what-
ever became of those other papers; their dis-
appearance is the most unaccountable thing
imaginable, and maybe there was something
among them that would have explained this.”

She sat for a long time pondering upon the
matter, and experienced no little annoyance
over the loss of what she felt sure must have
concerned in some way her mother’s early life,
for the dates on the various packages had
seemed ‘to indicate that. She finally became
so nervous from dwelling upon the matter that
she felt she must do something to change the
current of her thoughts.

She folded the check and put it carefully
away in her purse, then dressing for the street,
ordered her carriage and went for a drive in
the park.

She rode for an hour or more; but the air
was raw and cold, and she finally told her
coachman to turn about and go home. But
just as they ‘were passing out of the park she
sat suddenly erect, drew forth her watch and
glanced at the time, a certain daring project
taking form in her mind as she did so.

It was just fifteen minutes to four o’clock.

“Pm afraid it isn’t just the proper thing to
do,” Winifred said to herself, a gleam of anxi-
ety in her eyes, ‘“‘but’’—resolutely—“‘I’m going
to do it all the same.”’ :

“Hibbard,’’ leaning forward and speaking to
her driver, ‘I think you may drive me down to
Stern Brothers. I have an errand I would
like to do before going home, and you may
hurry, if you please.’’ :

The coachman cheerfully acquiesced, for it

UPON A

 

 

 

 
“an

 

 

 

 

 

was always a pleasure to obey the courteous
requests of his lovely young mistress, and he
now made all possible speed down town toward
the fashionable store she had named.

When she alighted before the entrance she
told the man to drive up and down the street
a Keep the\horses moving, for the day was
cold.

The carriage passed on, and Winifred, in-
stead of entering the store, turned and walked
swiftly back to the corner of the street, turned
into Broadway, and, a few moments later,

passed into the Hoffman House by the ladies’

entrance.
. Proceeding to the reception room, she rang
for a waiter.
“Will you ascertain if Mr. Wallace P. Hunt-
ingden is in the house? If he is, please ask
him if he will grant me’a few moments of his
time.’’ \ :
When the waiter disappeared to do her bid-
ding Winifred began to be frightened at what
she had done, and wondered what power be-
yond herself had impelled her to such an act
of indiscretion, for such she was sure it would
be regarded by Madam Grundy if it should
reach her itching ears.
This disconcerting view of her adventure
brought a vivid color to her cheeks, and she
had neyer been more beautiful in her life than
she was at this moment.
She was dressed in a rich carriage robe of
golden-brown cloth, trimmed with brocaded
velvet of a darker shade. Her stylish sealskin
jacket fitted her slender form to perfection
and her brown velvet hat, with its costly
plumes and dash of pink, was extremely be-
coming.
Fortunately for her peace of mind, the room
she was in was empty, a circumstance for
which she was deeply grateful, and she de-
voutly hoped that no one would come until
she had done her errand and could get away
unobserved.
She was half tempted to slip out and go
home, even then, and let the gentieman think
what he would of her; but that, she knew,
would be rude, and, as she had sent him her
ecard, which, of course, bore the name of Mrs.
Martin Metcalf, unpleasant complications
might arise; for, if he should happen to men-
tion the matter to her husband, it would be
exceedingly awkward. 4
No, she must abide by her act whatever the
result. oa
She did find herself hoping that the waiter
would fail to find Mr. Huntingden; then she
could easily recover her card and no one would
be the wiser for her folly.
But Mr. Wallace P. Huntingden happened to
be in, and when he appeared in the doorway
and glanced about the room for his caller Win-
ifred caught her breath sharply and her heart
gave a great, startled bound, for she recog-
nized the man instantly.
She had seen him three times before. Once
on that moving steamer in the harbor, the
previous autumn; again in the Grand Cen-
tral Station, just as she was starting for
Southern California, and he was also the gen-
~tleman who had disentangled the fringe of her
opera cape when it caught on the projection
of the statue in the foyer of the theatre, only
the night before.

» The gentleman also changed color—but grow-
ing pale—as he, too, recognized her, and an
-expression of wonder swept over his face.

But he came forward and bowed courteous-
ly to her.

“Have I the pleasure of addressing Mrs. Met-
ealf?’’ he inquired as he glanced at the card
in his hand. :

“Yes,’’ said Winifred, rising and returning
his salutation, “‘I am Mrs. Metcalf, and’’—with
a frank smile—‘‘I am beginning to think that
I ought to apologize for seeking this inter-
view; but, strange though it may seem to you,
some unaccountable impulse has prompted me
to do so. I learned by accident to-day that a
gentleman by the name you bear was stop-
ping here, and, as [I have in my possession a—
a piece of paper bearing the same signature
and which has come inte my hands in a pecu-
liar way, I ventured to come to inquire if it
might not prove to be of some importance, or
at least of some interest, to you.”’ ;

Mr. Huntingden had given a start of sur-
prise, while a strange light had leaped into his
eyes the instant she mentioned the paper.

“Pray be seated, Mrs. Metcalf,’’ he said, with
a visible effort at self-control, whereupon he
rolled a comfortable chair forward for her,

Winifred sank into it, feeling really weak
from repressed excitement; for she had ob-
served the man’s start and believed that she
was on the verge of some important discov-
ery relating to the papers which she had found
in her mother’s desk.

- Mr. Huntingden brought another chair and
seated himself near her.

“tT am sure you are the lady whom I met
last evening,’’ he observed with a smile, but
searching her face with a hungry look.

“Yes, 1 am, although of course I did not _sus-
pect the fact when I came here to-day,’”’ Wini-
fred replied. .

“You are certainly very kind to take so
much trouble for me,’’ Mr, Huntingden contin-
used, appreciatively, “‘and now allow me to in-
quire what is the nature of the paper to which
you refer?”’

“It is a check,” Winifred replied as she drew
her purse from her muff and, opening it,
brought forth the time-worn slip.

**Aha!’’

There was a world of suppressed eagerness
mingled with triumph in the simple ejacuia-
tion, while the hand which the man held out
to take the paper trembled perceptibly. :

He sat staring at it for a full minute, his
face startlingly pale, his lips compressed into
a straight, stern line.

“The unexpected has indéed happened,’ he
remarked at last in a tone that was husky
from some inward emotion. “This bit of paper,
which was issued a seore of years ago, is of
more value to me than you can possibly im-
agine—although there was another of vastly
more importance te me than this. May I.ask
how it happened to come into your possession,
and when?’’ ~

“IT found it last fall in an old writing desk

that belonged to my mother——”’ .
. “Your mother!’’ began her companion, with
a gasp of surprise. “‘Pardon me,’ he added,
recovering himself, “but will you kindly tell
me what was your mother’s maiden name?”

“Annie Wellman—ah!’’—as the man started
violently again and a peculiar look swept over
his face—‘‘can it be possible that you couid
have known my mother years ago?’’ and she
recalled his emotion and how he had addressed
her involuntarily as ‘‘Annie’’ the night before.

“Yes—I did know Miss Wellman when she
was a girl,”’ her companion responded, gravely,
and still struggling for self-control. “You re-

' semble your mother very strongly, Mrs. Met-
ealf, though you have more color and your
hair is darker than hers was.’’

Something in the man’s glance as he said
‘this thrilled Winifred strangely. c
thought, with a pang of regret for him, he
might have-been an old admirer of her mother
—pernhaps, even, a disappointed lover. ie

“Yes, my father has often told me the same,
she replied, smiling, for it pleased her to be
thought iike her mother. ‘‘Perhaps you may
have known my father also,’’ she added, and
lifting a searching look to his face as she re-
called his strarge behavior on the boat and
her father’s peculiar manner; also the meet-
ing in the station.

“Y-e-s—I have met Mr.—Beresford a number
of times,’’ said Mr. Huntingden with evident
constraint, ‘“‘I—ah—will you allow me to kgep
this bit of paper, Mrs. Metcalf?’’ he queried, as
if anxious to change the subject.

“Certainly—it undoubtedly belongs to you,”
Winifred replied.

He nodded, as if assenting to her words.

“I—I suppose there were no more of these
checks in the desk?’’ he inquired with some
anxiety.

Winifred flushed. She was beginning to feel
very much embarrassed.

It struck her as being exceedingly queer, to
say the least, that a check bearing the name
of Wallace P. Huntingden should have been
hidden away in a secret compartment of her
mother’s desk, and something more than queer
to have him now ask her, in that matter-of-
fact way, if there were not more of them!

Truly, matters were becoming complicated.

Possibly there had been more of them among
those packages that had disappeared so mys-
teriously—she had no means of knowing, but
the thought made her feel very uncomfortable.

Then, all at once, she made up her mind
to tell him the whole truth.

ere was something very winning and at-
tractive about the man.

He inspired her with perfect confidence, and
she was somehow impressed that she ought to
tell him the story.

“f really cannot say, Mr. Huntingden,” she
began thoughtfully; ‘‘there were a lot of other
papers in the desk——’”’

“Ah! there were others?’ he interposed ea-
gerly and growing strangely excited.

‘Yes, there were several packages of papers
of various kinds, all neatly fastened together
by broad bands of papers—some were letters, I
judged—and certain dates were written upon
these bands.” she began to explain. “I found
them by the merest accident. I happened to
go into the attic of my old home, one day last

Perhaps, she’

 

fall, and while there carelessly upset some fur-
niture—this old desk, for one thing. It was ut-
terly demolished by the fall and, though I had
supposed it to be entirely empty, for as a child
I had played with it for years, when I stooped
to gather up the debris I found the papers of
which I have spoken underneath. I discov-
ered that they had been concealed in a secret
esi that ran around three sides of the
esk——”’

I—I—ah! pardon me for interrupting—
pray go on,’ stammered Mr. Huntingden.

He had begun to speak in an excited tone;
but, catching Winifred’s look of astonishment,
had immediately pulled himself together again.

“I—you will pardon me, Mr. Huntingden, if I
do not go into details very minutely,’’ Wini-
fred resumed, with some confusion, ‘‘but there
were reasons why I did not wish any one to
know of the discovery I had made. I felt sure
that there was some secret connected with
those papers, and I determined to investigate
it myself before sharing it with any one else,
for I believed that it involved to a certain ex-
tent my mother’s early life. So I made them
up into a bundle, took them to my room and
locked them away in my own desk, intending
to examine them when I had a convenient op-
portunity. I was obliged to be away from
home that afternoon and the evening was oc-
cupied with duties. The next morning. we were
to come to New York, but I thought I would
take them with me, hoping to find time during
my visit here to look them over; at any rate,
I dared not leave them behind me for fear of
fire. When I went to my desk to get them
to put in my trunk they—had disappeared.”’

CHAPTER XXXVI.

MR. WADLEIGH, THE ARTIST, RELATES A
VERY INTERESTING STORY.

“Disappeared!’’ echoed Mr. Huntingden in a
tone of bitter disappointment, and growing
strangely white about the mouth.

“Yes, and it was the strangest thing imag-
inable, for not a soul in the world, as far as I
know, was aware that they were in my pos-
session,’’ Winifred responded. ‘‘I am sure that
no one had the slightest suspicion of their ex-
istence——”’ ‘

“Not even your father?’ queried her com-
panion,

““Not even my father, for a short time after
mamma died—I was about nime years old then
—he looked over all the papers which she had
left in the desk and then gave it to me to keep
my dolls’ clothes in; I had wanted it a long
time for that purpose, but mamma said she
prized it because it belonged to her mother. I

‘suspect, however, that the secret of that hol-

low back and sides was another reason. I
played with it for years—until I was too old
to care for dolls—when it was relegated to the
attic, where it has remained ever since, until
I destroyed it in the way I have described.”’

Mr. Huntingden remained silent for several
minutes after Winifred concluded, evidently
absorbed in deep and troubled thought.

At last he looked up with a sigh.

“Well,” he observed, ‘‘I am greatly disap-
pointed, for I feel impressed that there were
more of these checks among those missing
papers, and I would have been very glad to
have them, for they concern a matter of busi-
ness of a very serious nature, the settlement
of which was one of the strong inducements
that led me to come to New York at this
time. However, I am deeply indebted to you
for your kindness in bringing this one to
me. Will it seem presuming in me to ask, in
the event of your finding that mySterious pack-
age, that you will notify me if you should find
other checks among the papers?”’

“Indeed, no! I will surely see that you get
them,’’ our heroine earnestly returned. ‘‘Shali
—are you going to be in New York for some
time longer ?’’ :

“Probably for some weeks—that will depend
chiefly upon my business operations.”’

“And if I should not find the papers before
you leave?”

“T will see that you have my address to en-
able you to send me whatever you may find
belonging to me, in case they should ever come
to light,’ the gentleman returned, while he
studied the beautiful face before him and won-
dered what she would think if she should ever
learn what had been his chief object in com-
ing to New York.

Winifred now arose and extended -her hand
with a frank smile.

“TI do not know what you may think of mé
for coming to you like this,’’ she said with a
deprecatory note in her voice. ‘I am afraid

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

that I have done a very unconventional thing; |

but, under the circumstances, I did not dare
to trust my errand to any one else; and—and,
really, I cannot explain the matter to you
any further; there are some things in life,
you know, which—which are not easy to talk
about,”” .

Her cheeks were crimson as she concluded,
for she felt that she had involved herself in
a very awkward situation, having said both
too much and too little.

“That is very true, Mrs. Metcalf,’’ gravely
returned Mr. Huntingden, as he clasped the
pretty, perfectly gloved hand a thrill of min-
gled pain and pleasure pervading him, ‘‘and—
this is one of them,’’ glancing at the check
in his other hand. ‘‘Doubtless you have been
wondering how this slip of paper, bearing my
name, came to be in your mother’s desk—hid-
den away from all the world. There is a
story connected with it, of course, and were
you any one save the daughter of Homer Ber-
esford, I might feel at liberty to relate it
to you. Possibly you may learn something of
it in the future; but, whatever you may hear
of me, I beg that you will try to think as
kindly of me as you can.”’

His voice trembled and almost broke as he
concluded. It may have been caused by the
kindly smile upon the girl’s beautiful face, or
because there were tears in her lovely eyes,
for the note of sadness and earnest appeal in
his voice had touched a very tender chord in
her young heart.

. But she felt that there was nothing more to
be said, and so she bade him a cordial ‘‘good
afternoon’’ and turned to leave the room.

He accompanied her to the door, where he
bade her a courteous adieu, when she sped
down the steps and back to the corner of the
street, where she paused to reconnoitre for a
moment.

She saw her coachman just turning in front
of Stern Brothers’ to go down the street again,
and when he had passed the store she hur-
ried to the entrance, where she waited until
he reappeared, then entered the carriage and
was driven home.

Her face wore a very puzzled look all the
way.

“T am sure that he must have been an old
admirer of mamma's,” she said to herself
while reviewing her recent interview with Mr.
Huntingden, ‘‘and yet, even if he d been
a lover, that would not explain how she hap-
pened to come by the check. Oh! if I only
could find those papers I am confident that
this whole mystery would be solved.”

Mr. Huntingden went thoughtfully up to his
room after his fair, young visitor left him, a
look of keenest pain, mingled with perplexity,
on his face.

As he entered the apartment and closed the
door after him, he took the check to a- window
and examined it attentively.

“Yes, this.certainly is one of them; but that
particylar one which I am so anxious to get
hold of is doubtless among those papers of
which she spoke to-day. There is a mystery
about their disappearance which seems to be
incomprehensible; I can think of only one solu-
tion to it, and that is that Homer Beresford
must have learned of their existence and stolen
them. So she is Annie’s daughter,’’ he went
on, musingly, ‘‘but,’”’ with a violent start,
“‘good heavens! he told me that day in the
Grand Central Station that he had no children!
What could have been his object, I wonder, in
saying that? He said he had come to see
some friends off, and he let me think that the
girl was Martin Metcalf’s daughter—though I
did not even recognize him at that time! Now
I understand it better, for I was toid, a few
days later, that the man had been married
and gone on his wedding tour—but I did not
learn who he had married. Evidently Homer
was afraid that I might let out some truths
to the millionaire that might be disagreeable.
And she is married to that old man!—old com-
pared with her, though pretty well preserved
for his years—it is too bad, and it looks to me
ae much as if she had been sold to him, poor
. hea

He sat down by the window and fell into
troubled thought.

“It is no wonder that I mistook her for
her mother last night,’’ he resumed after a few
minutes. ‘She is her very image, only taller
and more self-assured in her bearing. There
was a look in her eyes that haunts me, some-
how, and—and I’ve half a mind to give up try-
ing to right that old affair; I don’t feel as if I
would like to bring disgrace upon her. No,”
throwing back his head with an air of renun-
ciation, ‘I can’t go on; she is his daughter and
hers, and I could not bear to cause Annie’s
child a single pang. And yet, from what she
said about there being ‘some things that could
not be talked about,’ and the fact that she did
not confide in Beresford about those papers, I
imagine there isn’t the utmost harmony be-

es = ee

 

 

tween them; how could there be, when he is
such a treacherous wretch. Ah! what a wreck
he has made of my life!’ he concluded with a
sigh that was almost a groan. :

The next morning Winifred went to have her
first sitting with Mr. Wadleigh.

It proved to be most satisfactory, for both
were in their happiest mood over the pleasure
of meeting again and the prospect of renewing
their acquaintance. Mr. Wadleigh said he
would like to finish the picture for the annual
exhibition of the Club, and accordingiy
arranged for her to come to him frequently.

Winifred looked forward to and enjoyed
these occasions exceedingly and soon grew to
feel a freedom with, and a tender regard for,
the artist, such as she imagined she might
have experienced toward an elder brother, had
she been blessed with one; thus she was
usually in her brightest mood whenever she
went to him.

But one morning she went to him with a
very heavy heart. It was the day following
one of her ‘‘at homes,’”’ and Roger had. not
been present—neither had he shown up the
week previous—and she was bitterly disap-
pointed, while her yoke of bondage was con-
tinually becoming more irksome.

She sat quietly in the position in which the
artist had arranged her; but, soon becoming
lost in thought, the animated expression faded
out of her face, her eyes grew heavy and sad,
while every now and then a long-drawn sigh
escaped her, thus revealing that she was far
from being happy.

All at once Mr. Wadleigh laid down his
brush and regarded her with a look of anxiety.

“ft am afraid you are not feeling well this
morning, Mrs. Metcalf,’”’ he observed in a tone
of kindly consideration.

Winifred started. She had been wholly lost
in her thoughts and had almost forgotten
where she was. ‘

“Oh, yes; Iam perfectly well,’’ she said, try-
ing to speak naturally and to throw off the
spell that bound her. “Did I get out of posi-
tion? You must excuse me, but I was thinking
about something else.’’

“The position was all right; but your face
was so pale—so sad! If I should paint the ex-
pression it wore, I am afraid people would be
inclined to weep from sympathy,’’ Mr. Wad-
leigh returned in a gentle voice, which held
much of the same sentiment in its vibrations.

“Did I look like that?’ queried Winifred,
flushing and giving herself a little shake.
“Well, I believe-I do not feel-especially brili-
lant this morning, although I am not ill.”

Nevertheless an involuntary sigh concluded
her sentence.

“That long-drawn breath surely does not
bespeak the lightness of heart which properly
belongs to one of your years,’’ the gentleman
playfully retorted, but with a kind smile and
a glance that touched her deeply.

“Are you never heavy-hearted, Mr. Wad-
leigh?’’ she suddenly asked him, and with her
eyes full of unshed tears.

“Yes, indeed, often,’’ he gravely returned as
ne turned to his table for his spatula, ostensi-
bly to mix some colors, but really to give her
an opportunity to wipe away those crystal
drops which he knew must fall in another mo-
ment.

“‘And,’’ he continued, as, without looking up,
he vigorously worked over his pigments, “I
have sometimes thought that I have more rea-
son than most people for such a state of mind.
Would it bore you if I should tell you why?’

“No, indeed; I should like you to do so, if
you regard me worthy of your confidence,’”’
said Winifred, eagerly. ;

Mr. Wadleigh gave her a luminous smile.
She little knew what a tender spot in his heart
she had touched.

“You remind me very much of a dear sis-
ter, who—who is not here now,” he began,
with a slight tremble in his tones. ‘‘Even the
first time I saw you—that morning of the ac-
cident on Sunset Hill—you impressed me as
being very like her, and ever since there has
seemed to me to be a peculiar bond of sympa-
thy between us. My parents were English peo-
ple, and I was born in England. When I was
very young some misunderstanding caused a
separation between my father and mother,
and the former disappeared from my life, and
I have never seen him since. My mother, who
was a very high-spirited woman, was never
the same afterward and led a miserable ex-
istence for years, remorsefully bemoaning her
unhappy condition and claiming that she might
have prevented it. if she had been more lenient
and yielding .regarding the cause of her
trouble. It finally ended in her losing her mind
altogether, when she also failed very rapidly,
physically, and died.“ My father had settled
everything that he possessed upon his family
before leaving us, thus my sister and I were
left very cemfortably provided for.

“‘When our mother passed away, she—my sis-
ter—was at a private school for young ladies;
I was at college. We decided that we would
complete our education, then go to Paris,
where I wished to study art, and make a lit-
tle home for ourselves. Ethel was a very
lovely girl, and I adored her; but before our
mother had been gone a year she was sudden-
ly stricken with a fatal malady and died be-
fore I could reach her, although I had been
summoned by telegram. It was a blow from
which I have never recovered,’’ Mr. Wadleigh
here interposed in a voice that had become
almost inaudible, ‘‘and I have never before
spoken of the event to any one—I simply could
not talk of it. Six months later, on the very
day that I took my degree, I learned that,
through the failure of the man with whom our
fortune had been left in trust, I was penni-
less—everything had been swept out of exist-
ence, as far as I was concerned, and I was left
with only my two hands and my wits to make
my way in the world. Determined not to be
balked in my purpose to become an artist, I
went to Paris, where I secured a clerkship
and pursued my studies at the same time, and
I do not need to tell you that I had to en-
dure many hardships while so doing. Finally
I was fortunate enough, through the influence
of my master, to get a picture hung at the
Academy. It was sold immediately and from
that time I began to be successful—at least in
a financial way.”

“You should have left those last words un-
said,’’ Winifred here gravely interposed. ‘‘It
goes without saying that an artist. who has
won such repute as you have attained would
be financially successful.’’

“Well, but during all these years I have had
my ups and downs,” said the gentleman, smil-
ing at her tribute, ‘‘and many disappointments
as well; for, as soon as I began to find money
in my pocket, I determined to commence a
search for my father, and I have been a wan-
derer for years, seeking fruitlessly for him for
whom ‘my soul yearns; and who, I am sure,
also bears a heavy heart in his bosom, if he
still lives, in view of the mistakes which
served to separate him from his wife and chil-
dren. He must have realized long ere this,
that there was blame on both sides and that a
little forbearance on the part of each would
have stilled the tempest and enabled them to
weather the storm.’’

“What a sad, sad story, Mr. Wadleigh!’”’ ex-
claimed Winifred, with a look of earnest sym-
pathy in her lovely eyes as he concluded; while
for the moment she had forgotten her own
troubles. ‘‘And have you lived alone all these
years?”

‘Yes; I have not a relative in the world, that
I know of,’’ he replied in a tone of patient
sadness.

“Have you given up all hope of ever finding
your father?”

There was a slight pause, and Winifred was
sorry that she had asked the question when
she saw how pale her companion had grown.

“TI do not like to admit that I have,” he said
at last, with a smile that was more pathetic
than tears, “but there are times, you know,
when ‘hope deferred maketh the heart sick.’ ”’

The quotation sent a keen pang through
Winifred’s heart.

“Ah, but that is better than to know there
is no hope,’’ she cried with a thrill of passion
in her tones. ‘“‘I mean,’’ she added, flushing
and realizing that she was betraying more
than she ought, ‘‘that there is always a ray
of comfort in hoping, even if it is attended by
a fear that the worst may come; it isn’t quite
like having everything blotted out all at once.
Ah! but did you have reason to believe that
your father came to America?’ she asked, and
pulling herself together with an effort.

“No,” Mr. Wadleigh answered, and bending
a curious glance upon her, for he began to
understand some things in connection with her
life which had puzzled him heretofore. ‘‘No, I
simply came here because I wished to study
America and American people, and, since I
could get no trace of him in Europe, I have
tried to buoy myself up with a faint hope that
I might run across him during my wander-
ings here. I have advertised in many papers,
and continue to do so once every month; but
all to no purpose thus far. I am beginning to
fear that he also may have died, although he
was a man who-had always had perfect health
and belonged to a long-lived race.

“And how long have you been in this coun-
try, Mr. Wadleigh?’’ Winifred inquired.

“A little more than six years, and’’—lifting
a smiling look to her—‘‘in many respects they
have been very pleasant years. I find that
you are, for the most part, a very kindly dis-

a s

 

posed and appreciative people, in. spite of the
fact,” with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes,
“that you were once very disobedient and re-
bellious children.’’

Winifred laughed out musically at the shot.

‘“‘Now I know that you are really a descend-
ant of John Bull, who has never forgiven those
Same naughty and ‘rebellious children’ for run-
ning away from home and setting-up for them-
selves, bless them! and who neglects no op-
portunity to remind them of the fact,’’ she re-
torted roguishly.

“It is very evident that the same spirit which
animated those old heroes of ’76 still flows in
the veins of some of their progeny,” said Mr.
Wadleigh, with a light laugh. ‘‘And now, if
you are rested, will you kindly resume your
position? I would like to do a little more be-
fore you go.’’

He had made her forget herself—had brought
the sunshine back to her face and wanted io
eatch its brightness before it could fade again.

(To be continued.)

—_—_—_—_——(€9 - oo ———___

A Russian Romance.

B VIOLA TYRELL,

Author of “Master and Man,” “The Woman Page,”
“Colonel Luscombe,” etc.

(‘A Russian ROMANCE” was commenced in No. 37.
Back numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers.)

CHAPTER XXIX.
THE ANGEL OF DEATH.

“T loved—and blind with passionate love—I fell.
Love brought me down to death, and death to Hell;
For God is just, and death for sin is well.
—Hay.

When Mr. Gregory came down to breakfast
the next day in the bright pretty morning-
room with its cheerful chintz, gay flowers and
its canary bird in a little gilt cage, he found
only Lucille at the breakfast-table. He was
not in a particularly good temper, having been
much disturbed by the breaking off of the
match between Edmond and Frances, which
would entail his daughter remaining with him-
self and Lucille perhaps many a long year to
come. He was fond of his daughter, but she
had reigned as mistress of his house for so
long that all sorts of unpleasant situations
might occur when Frances’ was deposed and

Lucille, his wife, reigned in her stead. Women,

were not like men. They were so confoundedly
small-minded! It seemed to make such an
awful difference to them who grasped the han-
dle of the teapot in the morning, and all that
sort of thing. What did a man care who poured
his tea out, so long as he got it as he liked?
He had never met a woman yet who was above
such petty trifles.

He did not understand that women consider
this matter of the teapot an outward and visi-
ble sign of authority, just as the mayor does
his solemn mace. Altogether Mr. Gregory was
in an unamiable mood. But this did not ex-
tend to Lucille, whom he always adored and
who could do no wrong.

She was sitting at the table waiting for him,
her beautiful head bent with a flowerlike
grace over the early morning paper.

“Why, my pet, are you studying politics?”
said Mr. Gregory, indulging in a fond and long
embrace, which would have been impossible
had his daughter been present. ‘‘Don’t bother
your pretty head about anything of the kind.

ut the paper down and give all your atten-
tion to me.’’

Lucille surrendered the paper with a charm-
ing grace, and returned his kiss.

“Where's Frances?’’ he asked, looking round
as Lucille began to pour his coffee out.

“Frances has such a bad headache that I in-
sisted on her staying in bed,’ said Lucille, -put-
ting the right number of lumps of sugar in his
cup of coffee with pretty solicitude and bring-
ing it round to his side herself. ‘I think she
is a good deal upset about the breaking off of
her engagement.”’’

“The young idiots!’”’ said Mr. Gregory, wrath-
fully, “‘What did they get engaged for, if they
didn’t mean to marry each other?”

“‘People make mistakes sometimes,”’ said Lu-
cille, buttering a piece of toast. .‘‘Den’t you
think it is better for them to find it out before
marriage than after?’’

“T suppose so,’’ said Mr. Gregory, with some
unwillingness, “‘but they always: seemed cut
out for one another. Fan never would look at
any other man, and Edmond seemed as devot-
ed as young men ever are nowadays. Not that
that is saying much! A precious, lukewarm,
matter-of-fact set they are, who think as little
of gaining a woman’s heart as of buying a new
piece of jewelry. The old fogies are the best
for that sort of thing, sweetheart, after all.
They win the day against many a younger
man.”

“I hope you don’t count yourself as an old
fogy, Ralph,’ said Lucille, parting her lips
with a smile that showed the evenest row of
teeth ever possessed by a woman.

“You are in the very prime of life and are
a most poetical and perfectly delightful lover.
Some men are born lovers. I suppose you are
one of them.”

‘““My darling, no man is a true lover till he
meets the right woman,” said Ralph Gregory,
gazing across at the exquisite face that he
loved so well. ‘‘Therefore, as a lover, you
have, so to speak, created one and I am glad
you are satisfied with your work.”’

Lucille made no reply. She smiled and went
ae her breakfast for awhile. Then she
said:

“After all, this unhappy business with Ed-
mond may be only a lover’s quarrel, I dare
say they will make it up again and that
Frances will marry him after all.’

“Do you really think so?’ said Mr. Gregory,
laying aside the papers he had been scanning.

“tT wish I agreed with you, I’m sure—though
for several: reasons I would rather she had
taken Rodney Chesterton. She’ll never get
a better husband than he will make if she
searches the world over. But they are first
cousins, you see, and that’s always an objec-
tion, to my mind. And Dmietroff is an at-
tractive sort of fellow, in his way, Luciiie,
you must own that, although I know you don’t
like him.”’

“Attractive?”’

“Well, what. you women eall attractive. I
suppose,”’ said Mr. Gregory, drawing the silver
marmalade dish nearer to him—no English
breakfast being complete without this prepara-
tion—“‘that is to say, he is handsome, a good
talker, and has that half-morbid interest about
him with which Byron invested all his heroes,
Not that I admire it myself, but melancholy
eyes attract all women who don’t bother much
about the soul that lies behind.’’

Again Lucille made no reply. This time
because she found her heart throb so con-
vulsively at the sound of Edmond’s very name,
that she knew she could not for the moment,
steady her voice sufficiently to reply to him.

Mr. Gregory took up his paper again and
began to read little bits out of it for Lucille’s
edification. The Queen had gone to the Ri-
veria, the German Emperor was becoming
more markedly eccentric every day. There was
likely to be a war in Egypt.

*Do you still have any interest in the frost-
bound country of your birth, Lucille?’ asked
Mr. Gregory, coming to a stop before some
particular paragraph.

“Of course, I do. Has anything been hap-
pening there?’’ asked Lucille, in tones that
were rendered even by the most terrible self-
control she had ever exercised.

“Well, I don’t know that it’s anything of
very much importance,’ said Mr. Gregory,
laying down the paper and going on with his
breakfast.

“But they’ve discovered a nest of those
devilish Nihilists and are going to string them
all up. Best thing to do. Mischievous vermin
that think they can cut every political knot
with a cold steel dagger, plunged in the heart
of the wrong man.”

Lucille had been prepared for this moment
and had tried to steel herself against it, but
she was hardly prepared for such a wholesale
denunciation. Until she could control her voice
again the only thing for her to do was to keep
silence.

Mr. Gregory went on placidly, unconscious
that he was turning the knife in the wound.
“There’s something romantic about the story
too. There always is in great tragedies. It
seems that this society was the most secret
and dangerous in all Russia, although it was
not large. It was called the Brotherhood of
Seven, and some of the noblest men in Russia
belonged to it. It used to meet every month
and send its death warrants abroad. There
is quite an interesting article on the room
where these wretched men used to meet. It
was dramatically hung with black, and a great
figure of a golden Christ was found there,
with costly diamonds for tears and rubies for
blood. What a travesty of the Almighty!
How dare they kneel at the feetiof such a
Christ.?’* i

 

VOL. 54—No. 49.

“Are they all taken?’’ inquired. Lucille, as he
paused and looked at her. She felt she must
say something—it was expected of her.

“Well, that’s rather a- curious part of the
story,’’ said Mr. Gregory, referring to the
paper again. ‘‘Five were captured, but two
are missing. It is supposed to be one of these
two that has given the information, I suppose
conscience awoke at last.’’ ¢

“You think it right to betray a society to
which you have belonged?’’ said Lucille, with
a curl of her haughty lip. ‘“‘That’s not the
way the Russians look at things!’’

“That is the way some Russians look at
things,’’ said Mr. Gregory, smiling at her.
“What a little firebrand you are, Lucille! I
could imagine that if you belonged to such a
society and held that its tenets were right
ones, you would be led to the stake for it.’’

She did not answer and he went on.

“Strange to say, a woman formed one of
this society. She was remarkable for being
as dangerous as she was beautiful. It is sup-
posed that it is she who has betrayed her
brethren. You see women are at the bottom
of every evil, Lucille. It is the old story over
again.”’

“If there were no men in: the world no wo-
man would go wrong,’ said Lucille. “It is
men whom I curse as the mainsprings of every
foul and ignoble action. This poor creature
you speak of, who has sold her master as
Judas Iscariot sold Christ,.do you think she
did it for nothing? No, depend upon it, a man
is at the bottom of that business. A woman
does not sell her soul for nothing. But there
are some things worth being damned for!’’

“My dear Lucille!’ ejaculated Mr. Gregory.
“What very extraordinary language! ‘Worth
being damned for!’ What an expression! And
all this excitement for some wretched woman
who is not werth a second thought. The idea
of this foolish affair upsetting you like this!
Why you are quite pale and trembling.”

By a supreme effort Lucille regained a por-
tion of her self-control,

“I have fierce foreign blood in my veins,
Ralph,”’ she said, ‘‘and I burn for the wrongs
of my countrymen. What do you know in
happy, peaceful England of the frightful in-
justice, the inhuman barbarity that goes on in
that miserable country? The rivers are not
more frozen than the hearts of its rulers, the
iron rocks are not harder than the souls of
is oppressors! Think of Siberia and the chain-
ed gangs of broken-hearted men and women
who travel along that weary road until they
come to that boundary where those who are
to accompany them no farther are separated
from them forever—for eternity. Between
Europe and Asia run two dividing ways, at
the crossroads there is a huge circle looming
dimly against the leaden sky. There are two
signposts, one with ‘Europe’ on it, and the
other ‘Asia.’ Those who go forward through
that arch go through it to a living hell, with
ice instead of fire, and darkness in the place of
smoke. They leave the world for their living
grave, and as they pass under that arch they
lift their eyes above and pray that God may
cut their suffering short! But the Angel of
Death flies but slowly with his sable wings
when he is summoned to call the unhappy
home to rest!”’

“What a sensitive little woman it is,’ said
Mr. Gregory, remorsefully going round to her
side to kiss the bowed head. “If I had known
it would have upset you like this I’d have
thrown the infernal paper in the fire.”’

CHAPTER XXX.
AS A TALE THAT IS TOLD,

I have brought poppies for you, weary heart
White poppies, steeped in sleep;

Ask love, if he will give thee ere we part
One happy dream to keep,
Then sleep, sleep, sleep,
Why shoulds’t thou wake to weep?

It was as the clocks were chiming midnight
that Edmond Dmietroff entered the yew arbor
in the topiary garden at Glyn Abbott. It was
Lucille who had made choice of that particu-
lar spot as a trysting place for the long-prom-
ised rendezvous where the explanation of all
her peculiarities of conduct was to take place.
He involuntarily shuddered as he entered that
gloomy bower, and wished that Luarcille had
made choice of a spot less disused for her love
tryst. For a love tryst he did not doubt it
was to be. But as the minutes crept on, the
intense darkness of the place seemed darker
than ever darkness had been before. He shiv-
ered, though the night was warm. An almost
noisetess-footstep roused him, his-senses were
strung and alert. In’ another moment Lucille
was in his arms. Her heart beat on his own.
What did the darkness matter? It glowed and
throbbed with the voluptuous intensity of their
own passion. The red riot in Lucille’s heart
was almost killing her.

“You are late, sweetheart,’ he said at last.

She was dressed in soft, sweeping black dra-
peries that made her figure seem to belong to
and be a part of the great surrounding dark-
ness. He almost doubted if he held a living
woman in his arms.

“Yes; it was not safe before.’’

She released herself from his embrace and
sank down on the rustic bench. She wore a
tea rose in her bosom. Edmond never smelt
its sensuous perfume in after life without re-
membering that night in all its details.

‘‘What a terrible darkness!’’ he said at last,
hoarsely whispering.

“IT dare not bring a light.
from the house.

They were silent again. He sat down beside
her. In the intemse stillness she could hear
the “heavy, labored beating of his heart. By
and by. his hand closed on hers and held it as
though he would never let it go. Then he drew
her toward him and kissed her passionately on
the lips.

‘‘Lucille, Lucille, you know how I love you?’’

Ten

She let her head rest on his shoulder and
sighed a little, as one who is very, very tired,
and, having found the haven of desire, is con-
tent with the passing moment and does not
wish its bliss disturbed. She remained thus
for a long time, every now and then mutely
turning her face to his to receive his Kisses.

“Ah, my beloved!” she murmured at last,
winding her arm about his neck and drawing
yet closer to him. “How I wish I could die
now—in your arms—perfectly happy and at
peace.”’

“Die, my darling?
die?’’

“Because I am perfectly happy, and I know
that in a short time I shall be perfectly mis-
erable.’’

He pressed her closer to him.

“The world will be well lost for your love,
my sweetest. We shall never be separated
now. I love you too well for that.’’

She sighed again and moved uneasily in his
arms.

“The time is so short!’’ st murmured.

‘Dearest, we have all our lives before us.”’

She smiled in the darkne and gently put
aside his clinging arms.

“Life is uncertain, love, and in any case we
must part.’’

“And why? Neither God nor man shall
wrest you from me now that I know you love
me.’’

“It is I who must sever the bond of sweet-
ness with my own hand,’ she answered,
hoarsely,

“Because of Ralph
Gregory ?’’

“No, no; that should not stand between us.’’

“You would sacrifice yourself for Frances’
sake, then? No, Lucille, you shall never do
that. We are involved in a difficult web, I
own, but it is not an unbreakable one yet,
thank heaven!”’

“It is for none of these reasons that I give
you up, Edmond.’’ She paused a moment,
drawing her breath quickly. ‘“‘It is harder to
tell you than even I thought,’’ she said.

Then she turned to him with a piteous ges-
ture.

“Kiss.me once more, Edmond.
time.’’

His lips lingered on hers.

‘Why the last time, dearest? When we are
married we shall laugh at the tragic way we
are looking at things to-night. Love is the
strongest power on earth, my darling. It can
break all barriers down.”’

She rose and stood erect, looking down at
him with her old composure of manner.

“When you know who I am,”’ she said, with
slow deliberation, ‘‘you. will be the last person
on earth to wish to marry me.”’

He laughed incredulously.

“Try me,’’ he answered boldly.

“It will be no use, Edmond. The fates have
declared that we shall part. But I came here
ta-night to make a confession to you and to
give you a warning.’’. She hesitated a mo-
ment before commencing her task. He took
up the word for her.

‘‘Never mind the confession, love, and let the
warning go unsaid. Whatever and whoever
you are, you are the woman [I love. Nothing
can alter that.”’

‘Not even if I were a murderess?’’

He started in the intensity of his astonish-
ment. Grasping her hands, he drew her to
him, his straining eyes striving in the dark-
ness to see the expression of her face.

“I am not afraid,’’ he said at last, releasing
her. ‘“‘Why do you try to frighten me by say-
ing such horrible things, Lucille?’’

\

It might be seen

Why should you wish to

your engagement to

It is the last

 

2

 

 

 

 

 

it aaa tn sn a

ae

by

+i al si Fl ss CY

 
 

 

Sa

 

VOL. 54—No. 49.

_ THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

 

_ “Yes, it is horrible,’ she answered; ‘‘but
- suppose it were true?’ :
~ “YT eannot suppose such a thing! But if it
_ were’’—he drew a deep breath—‘“‘I believe I
- should love you still!”
“Thank God!’ She drew a deep breath. Then
she began her story.
“IT am guilty in many ways, but you are right
in believing me to be no murderess. And yet,

| perhaps you will deem me little better when

I tell you that had you been a different man
from what you are I should have shot you

long’ ere this.’
“You? Shot me? Are you mad, Lucille?’
He rose to his feet again in extremity of ter-
rer and stood face to face with her.

__‘“T am not mad. Sit down and listen to me.
I will tell you my story, my wretched story,
in four words—I am a Nihilist.” -

_._A silence feli upon them so profound that
the scent of the tea rose seemed to float on the

_ darkness like a sound.

_ **You!’? said. Edmond at last, in a hoarse
voice, that he hardly recognized as his own.

“Yes, I. And I was sworn to destroy you—
you, the only man I ever loved!” She paused
_and went on rapidly. “I have never been
chosen—in that way—before, because I was a
woman. I was useful to the Chief otherwise.
But one day I received my orders. I was to
go to the village of Crawfordton and kill Ed-
mond Dmietroff! ‘It is death to disobey one’s
oath. Besides, I had then a private reason
for not rebelling against it.” She drew her
breath. “Do not ask me what it was, for I
shall never tell you! See,” she added, touch-
ing the ring on her finger. ‘‘Now you know
why I always wear this. I am wedded to the
cause!”’ She laughed bitterly.

“But why?’ said Edmond, finding voice
; “why should I be chosen out for death?
_ What harm have I ever done?”

She laughed again.

“None, that I know of. But your father was
a tyrant whose name was a terror to the poor.
It is the old law, you know, that the sins of
the father should be visited on his children.
And you were doomed. Mine was to the
hand that was to take your life!”

He did not shrink from her at these words,
but_waited im silence for her to proceed.

“Tt was all very easy at first,’ she went on,
“It was easy—until I saw you! I came here
_ and got the post of companion quickly enough;
- then, while waiting for a fitting opportunity
te accomplish my purpose—I loved you! I felt
you were far more to me than my own wretch-
ed life; so I put it off from day to day. I even
went to see my brother to see if nothing could
be done: But it was useless. And Paul could
not understand my feeling for you. Well, I
let the days slip by, hoping against hope that
something might step in to save both of us.
I might have known how foolish such a course
was! A week ago I received a sharp, stern
letter bidding me do my work in three days’
time: .4 3: 3 hey are: pest?’ : .

“Lucille, Lucille, what made you do it! You
terrify me!*? ~

“Do what? Join the Cause? In those days,
Edmond, I burned with only one thought. I
lived only to revenge the wrongs we had re-
ceived at the hands of our tyrants. Let me
£0 on. The time is short. The Brotherhood of
Seven to which I belonged, the most secret
-and powerful in Russia, consisted of six men
and myself, all sworn to obey the chief’s
lightest order. You will understand, therefore,
that if I fail in my duty there are five other
human beings who will step into my place—
follow you up—hound you down—until they kill
you.’’

“Yes.”’ His face was white, but his voice
was steady now. his whole thoughts concen-
Da on how to best save Lucille and him-
self. :

She went on: ‘‘Last week I posted a letter.
It was addressed to the head of the Russian
police. It contained five names—five probable
towns in which the five Men to whom those
names belonged might be found. Did you read
the paper this morning? The Brotherhood of
Seven no longer exists, and mine has been the
hand to destroy it! My oath is broken!’

“You have sacrificed five lives for my sake?
Great heaven, Lucille! are you mad?”

“Yes; mad with love,’’ she answered fiercely.
“What are their lives compared with my be-
loved? I have saved you, and you will be
happy; but not with me!’’

‘“‘Why not with you? Your sacrifice would be
vain if I did not reap the sweet reward of
your love.” : :

“You love me now with a fierce, fleeting pas-
sion,’’ she answered sadly, ‘‘but it would not
last. When I am gone you will go back to
your first love and be happy with her. You
wale 1orget-me, or only remember me as a
~teVeMsh-sort of dream, and wonder hdw you
ever loved me!”’ : ;

“You are talking wildly, dearest: be calm.
You have not yet told me all I want to know.”

“T will tell you anything you Hke,”’ she an-
swered with a sob. ;

“Sit down by me, Lucille—so. Are you safe
now, yourself ?’’ :

“Perfectly. I swear it to you.’

 

““You said there were six men in this society.
You have only accounted for five. Who is this
one man whom you shave allowed to escape?
Tell me, for I will know.”

“He is my brother—Paul Zouroff.’’

“You leave my life in his hands?’

“He will not harm you. He has sworn it. I
have written to him. He will have Sabina.”’

“Lucille, I would rather you had shot. me
dead than told me all this.”

nae loved you so. It was the only way out
oO 2?

He began to pace up and down.
acne real name is Zouroff?’’
é ve >?

“Why did you engage yourself to Ralph
Gregory if you loved me?” .

“Ah, she answered reck-~
lessly. I must have been half mad!
I wanted just for a few days to know what it
was to feel honored and respected and loved.’’

“T can hardly understand it all yet, Lucille,
It seems too horrible to be true. I would far
rather you had left me to my fate.’” He paused
and then went on. “I dare stop no longer
here now for your sake. We will talk this over
to-morrow. I cannot think clearly now. I am
bewildered—terrified!’’

She rose submissively, her figure swaying a
little as she moved.

“Yes; to-morrow will be better,’’ she an-
swered with dry lips. ‘‘We—we shall be calmer
then, and perhaps you will no longer love me!
But you will pity me, Edmond? Promise me
that you will at least pity me!”

He took her in his arms. All other feelings

were merged into sorrow for this suffering, er-
ring woman.
_ “Good-night, my darling,’’ he said, kissing
her brow. ‘‘You will always be dear to me. I
shall always love you. It is a feeling that is
stronger than I, I could go through the gates
of death for~your sake.”’

“‘And so could I for you!” she answered, with
a strange, mystic smile. ‘‘Good-bye, my heart,
my soul—till we meet again.” :

She left the rose that was warm with the
warmth from her heart in his hand. Once
more he felt the passionate pressure ,of her
lips. Then she was gone into the outer dark-
ness; the last sound of her soft, sweeping dra-
peries was lost in silence.

* * * * * *

In the morning when they went to call her
they found her hushed and still, with a smile
upon her face, lapped in eternal forgetfulness.

She had passed, alone, through the Valley
of the Shadow of Death for his sake,

(To be continued.)

 

an

The Cupboard With the Brass Handle.

Although Mr, Rodder had only lived in Cliff-
sea about six months, yet nearly everybody
knew him by sight, and exactly the same num-
ber of people properly regarded him with great
respect. x

Every fine morning punctually at eleven, he
might be seen in his bath chair being wheeled
along the West road so far as the asphalt
went, to enjoy the sea air. He was an invalid
and never moved out except in his chair, and
then only in the best weather.

I entered his service a few weeks after he
came to the little seaside town, and though I
was not paid a remarkably high wage, yet I
could not complain of being overworked, for
very often the extent of my day’s work would
be to help the old gentleman into his chair and
wheel it along the pavement into the shelter
of an old wall, wait there for exactly twenty
minutes, and then slowly back home.

The little children who played in the sand by
the old wall would leave their play and come
shyly up for “old Mifter Todder” to pat kindly
their sea-browned little cheeks; then they
would run back gleefully to their sand castles
and shell houses, looking happier for the kind-
ly smile from the graybearded face and the soft
touch of a gentle hand, while the older folk
would smile sympathetically, as though to
say: ‘“‘Ah! he must be a great sufferer.’

Beside myself and the old housekeeper there

“were no servants, and indeed none were need-

ed. For no visitors ever came, and Mr. Rod-
der’s wants were so simple that we could only
with difficulty find enough work to occupy our
time. .-

The house had, at one time, I imagine, been
a farmhouse, though no-signs of farming were
visible, the adjoining land having long since
been put to other uses; but the house remained
the same, standing alone in a good-sized in-
closure, which might; with cultivation, have
been made a garden, but was merély a stretch
of hard-trodden earth, strewn in places with
cinders, through which a brick path led up to
the house. i

Mr. Rodder occupied two rooms which com-

}Municated with each other, and each opened

into the same passage, or hall, as Mrs. Danks
preferred to have it called.
Within these rooms he lived entirely, never

 

 

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‘anything I had seen, I offered to do anything,

going into the other parts of the house, and |
only coming out for his customary fine weath- |
er airing in the wheel-chair, at which times |
he would carefully lock both doors and take |
the keys with him, never allowing anyone to |
go inside when he was not there himself. i

The reason for this curious fad was not very
easy to discover, and as I argued to myself: i
“Why try to discover it? I am paid regularly, |
I have a very easy job; then why attempt to
pry into matters which certainly don’t concern
me and which may lead to extremely unpleas-
ant results?’’

But one of the most wnaccountable phases
of that mysterious force in us which we eall
Human Nature is to essay to unravel so many
of those complicated twistings which we see in
the lives of others, which puzzle us and by
their very complication seem to invite us to
take one end of the tangle and unwind and
pass through and round and round until we
come to the other, because, perhaps, at that
end we may come to some more or less tan-
gible satisfaction.

And-so it came about that in spite of my
philosophic arguments, curiosity, continually
excited by the daily locking of the two doors,
became more and more assertive, until at the
end of a few weeks I would again be on the
tip-toe of expectancy for an opportunity to
look into the causes of the old man’s secret-
iveness. Had I known what the explanation
entailed, no doubt I should have drawn in my
horns of inquisitiveness. —-

There was certainly nothing either in the
sitting-room or bedroom of such extraordinary
value as to warrant the necessity of continual
oversight; plain furniture, few ornaments, no
curiosities beyond a small case of coins of va-
rious European countries, the value of which
could not have been excessive. Undoubtedly
the cupboard, or rather its mysterious con-
tents, were the source of anxiety.

It was a rather remarkable cupboard, about
four feet high and rather narrow, let in level
with the wall, low down almost on the floor,
and secured by a massive brass handle.

I was not often in the room, and never alone,
so had not much time for inspection, though
I frequently lingered as long as I dared, in the
hope that Mr. Rodder would tell me to do
something or other, which would lead me be-
hind his chair and near the cupboard door.
Once I ventured a little further than usual in
that direction, but my master’s sudden change
of manner made me decide not to repeat the
experiment. .
: met I was nearer the solution than I imag-
ned.

The following evening, after I had as usual
fastened up the front door and was about to
retire to my own room, I was surprised by*
hearing a noise as I passed the door of Mr.
Rodder’s sitting-room.

As a rule everything was perfectly quiet at
this time, and neither Mrs. Danks nor I ever
saw the old man after his supper was removed
at nine o’clock, so that the sound of movement:
an hour later than usual was quite sufficient
to arrest attention, and bring me all on the quf
vive to listen at his door.

The jingle of keys and the heavy creak of a
door, followed by the chink of a bottle and the
sounds of male voices talking in subdued tones,
and then—silence.

A thousand thoughts’ rushed through my
mind. Burglary, perhaps murder, the mem-
bers of some secret society come to extort their
lawless blackmail, or, perhaps my master was
ill and talking to himself, in-the way lonely
men will; and the cupboard—what secret did
that ever closed door conceal? With a vague
army of phantom fears conjured up in my
mind I determined to try and gain admittance.

I tried the doors, first one and then the
other; both locked. I shook and rattled, but
all to no purpose; there was no answering
sound but the echoes among the half-furnished
rooms in the dreary old house. My fears be-
gan to grow into a very definite uneasiness.
If Mr. Rodder was in either of his rooms he
must have heard the noise I made, and if he
was not in, where then? I had distinctly
heard him less than five minutes before.

Suddenly I remembered the front door key:
rushing back I fetched it, and inserted it in
the bed-room door, which to my joy yielded
without difficulty. :
»~ The room was empty; I struck a match to
make sure, and then passed through into the
sitting-room. Empty, too! I naturally turned
to the cupboard for an explanation, and at
once saw that it was open, I did not wait to
examine the door minutely, but a glance Was
sufficient to show that instead of being an or-
dinary cupboard door it was nothing less than
the heavy lid of a safe; but a lid only, without
the- customary drawers and shelves behind it:
It was let in level with the wall and the hinges
bolted on to the solid -stones of which the
house was built... It had been left open for
the simple reason that it could not be fastened
on the inside. -

I stepped through and nearly came to grief
down a steep flight of stone steps.

It was very dark, but by feeling along the
wall I was able to grope down.

At the bottom I found myself in a dark
passage, with a glimmer of light at the other
end. This led into a small, low-roofed cellar,
which in its turn opened into another and
much larger, extending, I should think, the
whole width of the house and a good part of
its length. _I had scarcely stepped up to the
entrance to this second cellar before I began
b realize that I was a fool to have come so

ar.

From the.time when I stood outside Mr. Rod-
der’s door listening to the unwonted sounds
within till now, when I found myself within
sight of their explanation, had not been many
moments; I had not even paused to think, or
else in all probability I should never have ven-
tured down.

To say the scene which revealed itself in
this underground chamber was startling would
not be expressing my feelings.

This is what I saw: An arch-roofed, brick-
built room, from the ceiling of which was hung
an oil lamp, the yellow glare from which was
toned down by a bluish flame from a queer-
looking stove at the far end of the room. On
one side stood a machine of some kind, while
in the center, under the lamp, was a strong
wooden table, littered with various thing, in-
cluding a good many stone jars. I don’t think
I should have recognized Mr. Rodder, he had
undergone such a remarkable transformation,

His venerable beard and wig were laid aside,
revealing a closely-cropped head of black hair,
his coat off and sleeves rolled up showed a
pair of muscular. arms, his whole personality
changed from the quiet-looking invalid to the
lawless villain. With his back to the table
and busy with the strange machine wag an-
other man, while bending over a round pot
which was heating on the stove was a third of
unmistakably foreign extraction.

I had no time to see more; my advent was
evidently unwelcome, for before I could utter
a word of protest Mr. Rodder’s sinewy fingers
had closed round my throat, while he shook
me savagely as a dog would a rat, every
shake emphasized with an oath. I was pushed
struggling but helpless into the semi-darkness
of the first cellar, where I was very quickly
roped on to a chair by the three men, who car-
ried on an excited jabbering in some language
of which I could not understand a word.

I don’t Know how long it was, possibly half
an hour, that I was left to myself, with the
cords cutting my limbs and numbing my hands
and feet, but all the time I could hear the
men in the other room busy at what I judged
to be packing up.

I could tell when the stove was put out by
the sudden diminution of light: then com-
menced a heavy trampling and shuffling, as
though things were being carried about which
required the strength of more than one person.

Once Mr. Rodder passed through my place
of captivity and upstairs, to return in a few
moments bearing the small case of foreign
coins from his sitting-room, and then the work
appeared to be completed. I could hear them
talking in low tones for a little time, varied
by an occasional laugh from one or all, but at
length they returned to me, and without a
word carried me, chair and all, into the larger
room.

They had indeed been busy. Everything had
been removed from the room, with the excep-
tion of the table and lamp and-a miscellane-
ous heap of rubbish, old bottles and jars,
which were thrown in a corner. The general
emptiness of the room served to give promi-
nence to a remarkable arrangement on the
table.

A square tin box about a foot high, from
which protruded the neck of a bottle, on the
top of which a tiny alarm clock ticked away
loudly, and would very quickly have attracted
attention, even if one had failed to notice its
significant accompaniment. :

My chair was placed facing this, a couple of
yards away, and my three captors stepped
back, to regard me with evident amusement.
I have never, I think, seen three more sinister
looking scoundrels than the men who faced me
then, and I felt that to hope for clemency from
such a combination was useless.

I knew what the thing on the table was. At
the first stroke from that alarm gong I should
be blown to bits, probably obliterated beneath
the shattered ruins of the house. With the
ener; of despair I implored the men to re-
lease’ me, I promised absolute silence as to

 

to serve them like a slave for no remuneration
if only they would let me live. But no gleam
of relenting showed from those malignant
faces; I might as well have addressed the very
stones.

At length, having apparently derived suffi-
cient entertainment from my entreaties and
distress, Mr. Rodder came forward, and point-
ing to the elock, said with a coalness more
thoroughly brutal than had been his grip on
my throat:

“IT see you understand and appreciate our
little preparation for your benefit. Of course I
very much regret that our relationship as mas-
ter and man should be thus abruptly termi-
nated, but no. doubt you will readily under-
stand that, but for your unexpected intrusion
into a part of this house to which your duties
did not call you, we should still have remained
on our former terms of amenity.

‘“‘Hlowever, I won’t waste your time in talk-
ing, you will notice the alarm is set to go off
at three, it is now half-past eleven, so that you
have a clear three hours for meditation.”

I begged, I howled, I shrieked for mercy, but
the only effect produced was that one of the
men, in a fit of merriment, caused no doubt
by my agitation, came and placed on my head
the gray beard and wig worn by Mr. Rodder in
his character of the interesting invalid, With-
out .waiting for any further confab, the
wretches put on their overcoats and hats and
disappeared through a low doorway at the far
end of the cellar, which I had failed to notice
before, and through which doubtless Mr. Rod-
der had admitted his confreres. The next few
hours remain impressed on my memory as
though seared in with a hot iron.

Now and again a most intense pain would
rack my limbs, owing to the tightly lashed
cord, then a numbed, frozen feeling would
succeed, as bad in-its way as the pain.

Sometimes I struggled and tore at my bonds,
sometimes my head drooped forward on to my
chest, as half-exhausted I fervently prayed for
oblivion. And the ceaseless, relentless ticking
of the clock sounded like the whirr and rattle
of a_ great engine. How the hands raced
round! Minute after minute rushed by and

brought the little hand nearer and nearer to-

the figure 3! I must have become delirious
once, for I completely lost count of over three-
quarters of an hour. It was only a quarter to
three! Perspiration streamed down me, only
to be followed by a clammy cold,

Oh heavens! If only I had one hand free I
would push the clock on and end my misery.
Ten minutes! Five! Two! In my agony I
shrieked out and tugged at the cord with the
strength of frenzy. The cord never gave an
inch, but my _ struggles overturned the chair.
and falling sideways, my head struck the stone
floor with a crash, and I lost consciousness.

When I came round I was still lying where
I fell. It was some minutes before I could cal.
lect my scattered senses sufficiently to decide
where I was. The lamp still burned and I
could hear the clock ticking. I attempted to
move, and to my surprise the cord which was
wound round and round my elbows and the
back of the chair was decidedly looser, in fact
the deadened and helpless sensation was gone
from my hands.

The reason was not far to seek. When I fell
the back of the chair had broken into several
pieces. It was not a very difficult matter to
free myself altogether once my hands were
free, but when I attempted to stand my legs
were so.cramped and useless I found it impos-
sible, my head throbbed like a machine. and T
was forced to lie still where I was, till the
first effects of the cramping and shock had
passed.

When at length I struggled to my feet, nat-
urally, I turned to the table and its hideous
burden. It was just as-~ before. except that
the clock had tumbled off and lay face upward
on the table.

Twenty past four! Why was not I blown up
according to arrangement at three? I gingerly
peeped into the can. It contained an empty
whisky bottle! No sign of an explosive, no
fuse, no cotton, nothing in fact. No wonder
those brutes laughed when they placed me in
front of a thing like that.

How I reviled them! You never realize the
extent of your imprecative abilities until you
put them to the test, and for once I fairly sur-
prised myself. But I was utterly exhausted,
and even while I reviled my prosecutors I
sank back on the stones and fell asleep.

How long I slept I don’t know, but I was by
no means refreshed when IF was tugged and
slapped back to consciousness, and my opening
eyes were greeted by the sight of a policeman,
another man in plain clothes, and Mrs. Danks.
There was an expression of bewilderment: on
all their faces, which for' a moment [I failed
to trace, till casting my eyes down I saw I
was still wearing Mr. Rodder’s beard. No
wonder they scarcely knew me till it was
taken off..

I was obliged to have the assistance of the
two men to get upstairs, for my legs still
seemed incapable of bearing my body, but at
length I managed to crawl into an easy chair
in my former master’s sitting-room, and after
being stimulated by a stiff glass of spirit I
commenced a minute and detailed account of
my subterranean adventure.

I was feeling a bit of a hero, and certainly
expected, if not praise, at any rate sympathy.
It was, therefore, a very rude shock at the end
of my recital to hear the plain clothes man
give expression to his feelings with the very
unsympathetic remark:

“You infernal idiot! But for your wretched
meddling we should have had our hands on the
worst gang of coiners we know. of. If there
had been any sense in your fat head you might
have known long ago your precious Mr. Rod-
der was a fraud.”

Words failed me. I could only gasp inartic-
ulate nothings and after the detective had gone
I felt very considerably ill-used, but after fur-
ther consideration I have come to the conclu-
sion that I was pretty lucky to get off with
eat worse than a lump on the side of my

ead.

ii

Items of Interest.

The world annually consumes beer to the
value of $1,080,000,000,

A. whale of average size yields about 2,000
gallons of oil.

Bricks made of coal dust are used for pav-
ing in Russia. The coal dust is combined with
molasses and resin.

Lager beer is rapidly gaining favor in Eng-
land. A large brewery, for the manufacture
of lager, is to be erected at Burton-on-Trent.

The Chinese are noted for the excellence of
tie’ razors. They are made of old horse-
shoes,

One of the public schools of Pittsburg is to
have a big swimming pool and several shower
baths for the use of the pupils.

Portable houses are made in this country for
shipment to Venezuela. Four handy men can
in three hours erect one of the domiciles.

The bones of over 4,000,000 human beings rest
in the forty-eight cemeteries in New York city
and vicinity. The interments in Greenwood
average about 4,500 annually.

An electric headlight for locomotives has
been tried on the road between Cincinnati and
Indianapolis, and proved a success. It is of
4,000 candle power.

A Mauser bullet passed through the throat
of a soldier in a Colorado regiment, at Manila.
Before receiving the wound he had been a
stutterer; now he has no difficulty in talking.

A: strange funeral was lately witnessed in
Folkestone, England. The undertaker, arrayed
in deep black, rode a wheel in front of the pro-
cession, with a child’s coffin strapped across
the handle bar.

Six prized kittens, belonging to a lady in
Germantown, Pa., died mysteriously in one
day. A post-mortem examination revealed
traces of arsenical poisoning. They had eaten
dead flies which had feasted on fly paper.

Mr. Napoleon Trideon, of Biddeford, Me., has
been married three years, and is a perplexed
man. His family is increasing more rapidly
than his salary. His wife has just presented
him with the third pair of twins. She was a
twin, and so was he.

A petrified forest, covering an area of 100
square miles, has existed for centuries near
Billings, in Arizona. Thousands and thou-
sands of petrified logs strew the ground, and
represent beautiful shades of pink, purple, red,
gray, blue and yellow. One of the stone trees
spans a gulf forty feet wide.

The Dum-Dum bullet derives its name from
Dum-Dum, India, where it was first made. Its
top is of brass, and hollow. When it strikes
its victim it becomes umbrella shaped, and
tears its way through the-flesh, making a dan-
gerous wound. Blood poisoning sets in within
thirty minutes after the bullet strikes.

While hunting near Cloverock, N. Y., a negro
named Andrew Lum was struck in the ear by
some object, and soon after fell to the earth,
where he writhed in convulsions. ‘A doctor
found that the object that struck him was a
beetle one inch long, which had entered his
ear.

 

A cyclone house has
Iowa genius. It if built over a deep cellar.
When a cyclone gives indication of its ap-
proach, the owner of the house touches a but-
ton, and the house does the rest—it quickly
descends into the cellar. When the cyclone is
over, another touch ef the button brings the
house above the earth’s surface.

been invented by an

Some of the members of popular social clubs
in New York are private detectives, who eare-
fully note the movements of some of their
fellow members and report to the detective
agencies that employ them. They are watched
in the interest of their employers, who fear
that they are spending more than their sala-
ries, or their wives, who suspect that they
have reason for jealousy.

Water constantly freezes in Summer in a
rocky crevice on the farm of John Dood, in
Sweden Valley, Pa. Aside of this fact, and
with the intention of forming a natural ice-
house, the owner tried to have a shaft sunk
in the rocks. When the men had gone down
fourteen feet the atmosphere became so dense-
ly cold that they had to cease work. Dripping
water freezes there in a few minutes.

KIDNEY
TROUBLE

 

 

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THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

VOL. 54—No. 4°.

 

 

 

YOUR MEMORY...
BY ANNIE HETHERINGTON COXON.

You are so dear to me that every blossom
wakes

A memory that no mist or sorrow takes,
Though sad earth’s pain, 2

EH’en yearS may pass away,

And leave their shadows gray—

- Dear heart,
Your memory must remain.

Though Time shall take beyond the things so
Sb 3 ©. dear,
- And leave a desert darkly cold and drear,
Where flowers have lain; |
Through skies still sweetly blue
Mine eyes shall turn to you,
Dear heart,
Your memory must remain.

Though Death should claim, dear love, one
heart of ours 2
Love lives anew in God’s perennial bowers,
Despair is vain,
And at life’s fading beam,
Like echoes of a dream,
Dear heart,
Your memory must remain.

2 The Scent of the Heliotrope

He turned the package in his hands. A
_— odor of heliotrope diffused itself through
e air.
“Valuable family papers, eh?’’ he muttered.
“T can read the riddle better, M. de Nerval.
I'll wager, my boy, that I should find a few
faded fiowers, a lock of hair and some treas-
ured letters in this sacred trust that my chiv-
alrous friend has left with me for a day. This
duel, too, I dare say, is about her. Poor, rash
knight-errant! As if any one of them was
worth risking a life for! Well, I must put this
in a place of safety—and if he falls—I am to
- watch it consume till the last spark dies in
blackness. But Gerald will not fall. I feel——”’
What he felt he did not finish. The door was
softly opened and a young girl, fresh, bright,
rosy as a summer dawn, appeared,

She wore a gown of pale pink woolen mate-
rial, girdled at the waist with a silver belt.
Her bright hair was piled up in a sort of
crown on her shapely head, but curled low on
her brow above a pair of velvet-soft brown
eyes,

‘“‘A visitor, brother Andre,’ said she. “A
very stern and iron-gray looking man. Impor-
tant business, he says. I don’t know why, but
he has made my heart beat faster.’’ “Is he
_the first man that has done that, little sister?’’
said Andre Bertin with a laugh.

“Tt beats with fear,’’ said the young girl,
nervously.

‘Well, show the ogre in,’’ exclaimed Bertin.

The next moment a middle-aged gentleman,
with a narrow, severe face and steel-gray eyes,
was bowing to him in a perfunctory manner.

“This is Monsieur Bertin?’’ he was inquiring
with a penetrating gleam in his eye as when
the sunshine flashes on steel.

Bertin bowed.

“IT am the examining judge, M, d’Aubigny,”
he went on. ‘I come in the name of the law!”’

“The law—I do not understand,’’ said Andre
Bertin, paling a little.

“T have come to search the premises!’’

Bertin took a step involuntarily nearer to his

desk as if to defend it.

“This is a disagreeable business,’’ the visitor
continued, “but in time of war we must sub-
mit .to much that is not exactly pleasant.
Here is a writ that requires your premises to
be visited and all letters and papers seized for
examination.”’

For a moment Bertin felt as if his blood was
turned to ice. Then a consciousness of inno-
cence reassured him.

“All right, monsieur le judge—go on, search.
Here are my keys.’’

“IT do not suspect you, M. Bertin,’ said the
judge, as he coolly gathered all the papers he
found and tied them in a packet, “but there
are rumors, and this is necessary. I shall take
these with me and examine them at leisure.”

“T submit,” said Bertin, proudly; ‘‘you will
find nothing.’ /

“But this!’’ cried the judge, seizing the pack-
age and opening the paper. ‘‘What have we
here—a locked box?’’

“J—I have not the key of that,’’ said Bertin,
with hesitation. ‘It belongs to a friend and
contains—valuable family papers.’’

*“Oh—ah—what is the name of your friend?’
asked the judge, skeptically. ;

“That I can’t tell.’

“Why not? I shall ask him to open the box,
and all will be right.’”’

“No. I have sworn that no one shall see the
contents of that box! I do not know what
they are, but I am quite sure they are private
papers. with which the law has nothing to do.”’

“T don’t for a moment doubt your good faith
and sincerity, but I must take the box. Any
one else in my place would break the lock. It
would be easy to do it. But I will respect your
declaration. I shall keep the box intact till
this blows over, and then I will restore it to
you. I can ‘do no more.” 5
. “Thanks!” said Bertin.
that, I suppose.”’

So M. d’Aubigny seized the box and carried
it away with Bertin’s private papers.

Once in his office he looked at the box with
some curiosity. It was of yellow plush with
cut steel hinges, such as ladies use for hand-
kerchiefs or gloves. The lock was very frail.

“Tt looks as if it belonged to a woman,”’
mused the judge, ‘‘but this may be a ruse of
Bertin’s. e is suspected of being a spy for
Germany, but——’”’ :

He examined the box again—a vague perfume
escaped from it and was wafted toward him.

He started. ‘‘What is this perfume? I know
it!’ he cried; ‘‘it is white heliotrope.’’

A sudden chill moisture dampened his brow.
He stood for a moment motionless, breathing
in the delicate odor. An iron hand seemed
clutching at his heart!

“Oh! am mad,’’ he murmured;

women use white heliotrope.’’

But the perfume still seemed to send an elec-
tric thrill through him.

~~ “Tf it should be Constance!”’ he gasped.
-In aosudden frenzy he was about to break
the lock when he saw that the box was bound
by something fine, almost invisible, as if it was
of the same color as the plush. He seized this
almost imperceptible thing and unwound it.

It was a slender strand of golden hair. It
curled about his hand like a thing of life. He
dropped the box. For a moment M. d’Aubigny
stood staring at this object as. if a.venomous
snake had coiled about his hand. His face
was livid. He was stified. The air had sud-
denly grown dense. He clutched at his throat
and gasped for breath.

*‘No, no; it is impossible!’’ he groaned.

The next moment he seized the box furiously.

“T will know,’’ he muttered; ‘it is my right.”’

He stared about him with bloodshot eyes, a
ee wheels of fire seemed whirling in his
rain.

He found a metal paper-knife and inserted
the blade under the lid of the box. The frail
lock yielded, the lid flew open.

few faded flowers, a knot of rose-colored
ribbon, a tiny glove, and letters—letters with-
out envelopes, written on thin paper and folded
in the smallest compass. These were letters
that had never gone by post.

From all, the subtle odor of heliotrope floated
up to him like a haunting memory. He pushed
ioe away with frantic hand, but the
etters.

He opened one of them.

“Oh, Heavens!’’ he gasped, as he fell back
in his chair, rigid and motionless, as if turned
into stone.

* * * * _ * *

ae
Gerald de Nerval did not fall in the duel.
He had wounded his adversary, but not fatal-
ly, and a sense of the joy of living pervaded
his soul and senses as he hurried back to re-
- lieve his friend Bertin of the sacred trust, the
_ yellow plush box.
Blanche opened the door. She was in tears.
*‘What has happened?” cried Gerald, with a
‘ani foreboding of evil.
“My brother has been arrested,” she sobbed.
“But how—why? It’s a mistake.”
“Tt know; but he’s suspected, Oh, something
political! But M. d’Aubigny says it will be
nothing. He will soon be released. He told us
that when he made the search, but it seems

ul.
“A search?” cried Gerald, turning pale. ‘‘M,
ad’ Aubigny?”’

“Yes, he ought to be ashamed,”
Bianche, her soft eyes blazing; ‘the just took
all of Andre’s papers, the mean thing!’’
Be ie 1?” eried Gerald, in agitation, his pallor

“T must submit to

“many

7

cried

 

ENGR er? oe rar A48
“Are you ill?” exclaimed Blanche, in alarm,

“Oh, no; it’s nothing; that is, there was a
yellow plush box among Andre’s effects. I
suppose that was not taken, as it did not be-
long to him.”’

“A yellow plush box?’’ said Blanche. ‘‘Wait!
I will look.”’

She opened the desk. At the first glance
Gerald saw that the box was not there. He
felt as if some one had struck him on the head
with a hammer... |

Oh, irony of fate! Could it be possible that
M. d’Aubigny had that box in his hands? He
began a frantic search. In vain. The box
could not be found.

“But—this box—did it contain
value?’’ asked Blanche. *

“Only the honor and lives of three persons,”’
cried Gerald in a strangled voice, as he rushed
from the room. :

* * * * * *

*

In the white and gold boudoir of Madame
d’Aubigny a twilight gloom reigned. The sun-
beams that struck the heavy white silk hang-
ings looked pale and opaline. The judge stum-
bled over a fantastic gilt chair as he entered
abruptly. A young woman started up with a
stifled cry at the sound.

She was fair as the foam fresh-bathed in
Paphian waves. A gown of pale yellow India
silk, shrouded in lace and filmy chiffon, fell in
soft folds about the curves of her beautiful
form. Her face was pale, but her lips were as
red as a posaoerana te flower. In her sea-blue
eyes shadows lurked—shadows that deepened
as she saw the livid fury of her husband’s
face. She could not move. He strode toward
her and fixed his burning eyes upon her.

‘Madame,’ he said, without raising his
voice, in a tone that cut like a sword, ‘‘you
have a lover.’’
aed lips grew rigid, but she faltered, ‘‘Prove
=. ;

anything of

“T ean,”’ he cried, thrusting the letters before
her eyes.

“Do you deny that you wrote these?”

Her heart almost stopped beating.

“Do you recognize them?’

“Yes ’*

“What have you to say?’

“Nothing.”’

M. d’Aubigny made a movement of rage. A
thin line of foam fiecked his discolored lips. -

“Take care,’’ he said; ‘‘do not defy me.”’

She did not speak.

“So you love another?’

Constance was silent.

“Speak, woman, I command you. You have
never loved me.”’

‘“Never!’’

“Infamous creature, tell me his name!”’

‘What name?’

“The name of your lover!’’

A sudden light irradiated her face. He had
the letters, but he did not know the name. She
remembered that she always used a pet name
—originated when they were children together,
She breathed again. es

“His name!’’ reiterated d’Aubigny.

“T will not tell it.’’

“Bah!’’ cried the judge,
laugh, ‘‘I know i..”

“Then you need not ask.’’

“It is Andre Bertin,’’ he cried exultantly.

The face of Constance betrayed utter aston-
ishment.

“You will deny it, of course.’’

“Certainly.”’

“Ah, well,
proofs.’’

“Show me,” she gasped.

Her brain reeled, but one thought dominated
among the chaos. Gerald was not suspected;
Gerald would escape.

“The law sent me to search Bertin’s papers.
I found there a yellow plush box. [I took your
letters from it. He got up some fiction about
the box having been confided to him by a
friend.”’

“Yet you opened it—how

“Yes; I opened it. You do well to talk of
honor. I read the letters. Then the iron en-
tered my soul. I longed, Madame, to strangle
your lover with my own hands and throw his
corpse at your feet.”’

Constance uttered acry of terror. The image
of Gerald dying at her feet sent a convulsive
shudder through her frame. But she could not
save him.

‘“‘Come—is it Andre Bertin—yes or no?”’

Constance was silent. Only her heart spoke.
‘“Yes,’”’ she faltered. -Let the whole world per-
ish if Gerald could be saved. ;

Her husband cast one look
upon her and left the room.

“Oh, I am a wretch,”’ cried Constance, hiding
her face in her hands. ‘‘But I have gained
time. I shall think of some way to save him.”

with a mocking

I have proof. You are fond of

honorable!”

of furious hate

She tried to persuade herself that both could |

be saved. Andre was innocent, and of course
could prove his innocence without betraying
his friend.

Five days dragged their slow length. along,
and Gerald never came. Her face faded like a
flower kept too long in the shade. Unutterable
anguish shone in her eyes. Her husband main-
tained stony silence. But one day her pulses
quickened at a step. She stood waiting—throb-
bing from head to foot. He was coming—he
that could: make her dust quicken if she ‘‘had
lain for a century dead.’’ She was in his arms.
He was kissing her.

“T thought you would never come again, and
you have been fighting a duel for me,’’ she
Een “Oh, Gerald, I have blasted your
ife.’’

“You- have blessed it, my angel,’’ he said.
“But I have been waiting. I expected another
challenge.’’

“Another?’’ with a shudder.

“Yes, your husband has your letters.”

“T know,’’ murmured Constance.

“The fact that the judge meets me exactly
as he did before makes me uneasy. He found
she box at Bertin’s. He probably suspects

tic

“Oh, absurd!’’ said Constance, feebly.

“Yet I am persuaded of it. Bertin has some
secret enemy working against him. I am sure
it is the judge. Bertin is branded everywhere
as a spy. I have sworn to save him. And you
must help me.’’

“1? cried Constance, shivering with terror.

“T shall not let my friend suffer for me. I
shall declare the truth.”

“Oh, I shall go mad!” cried Constance.

‘He does suspect Bertin, then?”

“What of it?’ : :

“T must tell him he is mistaken.’’

She clutched his arm convulsively.

“No, no, do not! He will not believe you. I
confess, yes, I made him believe that I love M,
Bertin.”’

“Oh! why, why have you done this?’ groaned
Gerald.

“T wanted to save you.”’

“But it is infamous.’’

“He would have killed you.’’

‘Better so.’’

‘But I loved you. I had to choose between
the two.’”’

“This is horrible.”

“Oh, I know it is horrible,’’ cried Constance,
clinging to him, ‘‘but,it would be more horrible
to doom you to death. I would not have told
the lie to save my own life—but yours—Gerald
—yours.”’ :

Gerald dropped
face in his hands. .

“Oh, my love,’’ she moaned, ‘‘do not hate
me!’’ x

He drew her gently toward him. ‘‘My child,’’
he said, ‘‘I am the only one that has no right
to either judge or blame you.”

“Then I do not care for others,’ she said,
with a smile. z

“But I cannot become your accomplice.”’

“What will you do?’’ she cried, wringing her
hands.

“Tell M. d’Aubigny the truth.”

“And then he will kill you!’’ cried Constance,
shuddering, =

“Better kill me than Andre Bertin.”’

He took her hands in his. They were as cold
as ice.

“Constance,”’ he said,
guish I must cause you.
obey.”’

“Gerald,’’ she said, in a low, eager voice,
‘you know I have always refused to fly with
you. Give up your purpose now, and I will go
to the end of the world with you.’’

For a moment he was dazzled.

“Constance,”’ he said, “could I be happy even
with you, if I had condemned my friend to dis-
honor?” _

She turned away with a passionate gesture
and walked to the window. Her eyes burned
with a strange fire, and blood-red roses flamed
on her cheeks. .

An approaching step was heard. Constance
remained motionless. Gerald stared at the
door. The judge entered brusquely, then
bowed to the visitor.

“T have a few words to say to you,’’ Gerald
began.

He was ghastly pale, but his voice was firm.

“Will you come into my library?’ asked the
judge, politely.

Constance made a step toward him.

“T know,’’ she said, in a slow way, ‘‘what M.
de Nerval is going to say, and I want him to
speak before me.”’

There was something strangely sweet and
resolute in her voice. Both men trembled at
her tone and her aspect. Some subtle change
had P ssed over her.

“I implore you!’’ cried Gerald.

into a chair and buried his

“forgive me the an-
Honor speaks. I must

i

“IT wish it,’’
“Speak here.’’

“So be it,’’ said M, d’Aubigny.

“T would give the rest of my life to escape
this,’”’ said Gerald, in an agonized voice; ‘‘but
it must be——” oe

“Go on.”

“Judge, when you made the search at Andre
Bertin’s five days ago, you found a yellow
plush box. He was ignorant of its contents.
The box contained letters with no address.
You believed them his, as you found them at
his house.’’

*"Whose were they?’’ cried the judge hoarsely.

“They were mine.”

‘Villain!’ exclaimed)d’Aubigny, glaring about
him for a weapon. He had his pistol in his
hand the next moment. %

Gerald crossed his hands upon his breast,
and waited. Constance moved in a feeble way
to her husband’s side.

“He does not speak the truth,”
faintly.

The judge savagely examined her face with
his wrathful eyes,

“T believe you lie, Madame.
Save your lover.”’

Constance staggered back as if the words
had been a blow, then fell heavily on the floor.
Her eyes were dilated, fixed. Her face was
bloodless.
gasps.

Both men rushed toward her. But her hus-
band flung Gerald off and raised her in his
arms. He laid her on the divan. His face was
white, rigid, terrible. ‘She is dying!” he
gasped.

At the words the heavy white lids lifted
slowly from the glazing eyes. Constance looked
into his pale, desperate face.

“What is it?’ he cried. ‘‘What does this
mean?’”’

“T have taken poison,’’ she feebly ejaculated.
“T want to die.’’

To Gerald the room and all in it seemed
swimming away in lurid mist. He sprang to
the bell and rang it furiously.

“Quick, quick, a doctor!’’ he cried, frantical-
ly to the servant that appeared.

A strange glitter passed across the dim eyes
of the dying woman at that voice. Then the
light was quenched as suddenly as when a
candle is blown out. ‘Too late,’’ she moaned.
“Better so. Adieu! Forgive——’”’

The voice trailed away into silence. Over the
face came a change like a strange mask.

“Heavens, she is dead!’ groaned Gerald,
dropping on his knees at her side.

An iron hand dragged him back. The judge
confronted him like an avenging Fate.
| The cold touch of steel was at his temple.
Gerald did not flinch.

“Shoot me!’’ he cried. ‘‘It
Avenge yourself. I shall be glad to die.
me!”

M. d’Aubigny’s arm fell.
| vulsed his lips. He dropped the pistol.

“‘No,’”’ he said. ‘“‘You have wronged me too
terribly. You have wounded me too deeply.
You shall not escape retribution by death. I
hate you too much!”’

FRANK’S DILEMMA.

Frank White was in an awkward predica-
ment. He was in love with two girls at the
same time, and, for the life of him, he couldn’t
make up his mind which lady to wed. It never
occurred to him that he was not bound to
marry either; but it was perfectly clear he
could not choose both. He weighed their re-
spective charms carefully in the balance, and
found them equal; he compared their photo-
graphs, and pronounced them equally lovely;
their eyes were similarly dazzling; their pos-
sible wedding dowries nil. His feelings in the
presence of each were almost precisely the
same—he always fancied he loved her the bet-
ter in whose company he happened to find him-
self. The position was appalling! And he was
vain enough to believe that both girls were in
love with him. In a fit of despair, he resolved
to unbosom his trouble to-his friend, Cecil
Morton. Even this was no easy task when he
eame face to face with his confidant.

‘Cecil, I am in a deuce of a mess!’’

“What's the matter, old man?’’

“TI—I think [’m ill.”’

“‘“How do you feel?’’

“Queer. all over.”’

“That’s very vague. Can’t you locate the
trouble?”

“T—I’m afraid it’s my heart.’’

“Heart disease?’’ ;

“No; not quite. I think my brain’s affected.”

“Heart and brain! You are bad, old man,”’

“T can’t sleep at nights!’ :

“My dear fellow, you must be in love?’”’

Frank started nervously.

“How did you know?” he demanded.

“Oh! I guessed as much.”’

“Are you sure I’m in love?’’

“Quite certain.’’

“Then perhaps you.can tell me with whom?”’

Cecil laughed outright. :

“For Heaven’s sake, talk sense, Frank!
joke’s a joke, but this is beyond everything.’’

“No, I’m serious. I am in love; but how am
I to cure it?”

‘Get married, of course.’’

“What! marry both?’’

“Both what?’

“Both girls.”

“Certainly not. Only the one you love.”’

‘““‘Which one is that?”

“The one for whom you would sacrifice every-
thing, whose presence thrills you with delight,
whose eyes are. like diamonds or stars on the
sea, whose voice is like the rippling of the
brooklet, the glint of whose hair matches the
finest gold, with cheeks like roses and teeth of
pearls.’’

Frank shook his head sadly.

“They’re both like that.’’

Cecil grasped the situation, and burst into
laughter.

*Oh, I see! You’re in love with two girls.”

“That’s about the size of it.’’

‘Well, let’s come to business. Perhaps I can
advise you; but, first of all, who are the—er—
objects of your affection?’’ P

“Oh! didn’t I tell you?’

*No.”’

*T did tell you.”

“You didn’t, really, old man.’’

“Well, can’t you guess? There are only two
in all the world who could answer your de-
scription.”’

“Yes, of course—to you; .but,
don’t see with your eyes.”’

“Tf you only saw them once,
agree with me.”’

‘‘Well, who are they?’’

“Gracie Lee and Agnes

“What! you scoundrel!
love her myself!”

*°Who?’’

“Why, both.’

“And they have accepted you?”

“Nio—not quite.’’

“You base usurper!
never marry them.”

“Nor you either.’’

Frank White fled precipitately, resolved to
put the question to the lady who resided near-
est to him at that moment—Gracie Lee,

‘‘Miss Lee—Gracie—I love you!’’

The beautiful face flushed scarlet,

“Can it be true?’’ she whispered.

A few moments later her golden tresses were
hanging gracefully upon Frank’s shoulder.

This little business ended _ satisfactorily,
Frank bethought him of the other girl. Jeal-
ousy goaded him on to madness, and, making
a hasty excuse, he soon offered his heart at
the shrine‘of Agnes Dawson.

“Agnes! my angel, I cannot live without
ou.”’

“Frank, you cannot mean it!’’

“Mean it! Of course I mean it. I love you
with all my —— I love you fervently.”’

She mingled her raven locks with his.

Reason returned to Frank an hour later.

“Good gracious! what have I done? Loved
them both to madness! (the darlings, how
sweet they were!), and now I have asked both
to be my wife! How prettily shyly they con-
sented!”’

The last state of that man was worse than
the first. Frank pondered over the situation
long and earnestly. The more he thought of
it the more hopeless he seemed. Yes, they
were both charming girls; both nestled into
his arms with equal warmth in response to his
passionate appeal. For an instant the mad
suggestion flashed across his brain that he
would marry both, but this idea modified into
a resolve to divide his attention equally be-
tween the two, in the hope that a short period
of courtship would show him which of the
twain Heaven meant to be his bride.

Meanwhile, Cecil Morton, fearing that Frank
might steal a march upon him, sallied forth an
hour after Frank’s departure, on love-making
intent. Being a more resourceful man than
Frank, he settled upon his prospective bride by
spinning a coin, thereby singling out Gracie
Lee.

Miss Lee seemed delighted to see him. She
was radiant with smiles, and to Cecil’s eyes
her lovely face, suffused with blushes, wore a
tell-tale expression of joy at his presence. Re-
assured by a sense of self-complacency, he re-
solved not_to appear too anxious or precipi-

she exclaimed, imperiously.

she said,

You wish to

She drew her breath with painful

is your right.
Kill

A cruel smile con-

naturally, I

you would

Dawson.”
How dare you! I

I swear that you shall

 

tate.

 

Al-

 

 

se
Lee?

“Beautiful!” she exclaimed.

““Makes one feel glad to be alive.’’

a the joy of living!’’ she cried, ecstatic-
ally.

Truly she was in a strange mood, Cecil
thought; but all the better for his chances.
She would be the more susceptible to tender
emotions.

“Miss Lee, I have something on my mind.”

*Really!’”’

This was distinctly uncomplimentary.

“Yes; something which I want to share with
someone,’’

“With whom?’’

“With you, Miss Lee.’’

‘With me, Mr. Morton? I’m afraid my mind
is already quite occupied. Oh, I am so happy!”

“Perhaps my declaration will add to your
bliss,’’ he continued, softly. ‘In fact, I ven-
ture to hope that the anticipation of it is the
cause of your present happy condition.”’

The roses on her cheeks became of a deeper
red, and the light of love shone from her eyes.

“If that is so, I am willing to listen, Mr.
Morton.”

‘““Won’t you call me ‘Cecil’?’’

“Why?”

“Because I love you!”’

“Sir!”

He advanced toward her with outstretched
arms. The color fled from her cheeks, and her
eyes flashed fire.

“Stand back!’ she commanded. ‘“‘How dare
you attempt to lay hands upon a betrothed
maiden, the affianced bride of Frank White!”
_Cecil gave a-long, low whistle of astonish-
ment, and took his departure, muttering exe-
crations upon his rival.

He had not proceeded far before he met Miss
Dawson hastening to impart the news of her
engagement to her bosom friend, Gracie Lee.
Cecil was struck with a happy inspiration, he
would propose to Agnes. Yes! after all he
loved her best. No one should rob him of this
prize.

Agnes was a very impulsive girl, and ran
toward Cecil directly she caught sight of him.

“Congratulate me, Mr. Morton!”

“Congratulate you!”

*On my engagement.”’

“To whom?” .

“Frank White.”

He forgot to congratulate her, and she failed
to notice the omission, but hurried on to carry
the tidings to more sympathetic ears.

Cecil turned his footsteps in the direction of
the home of his friend, Frank White, and as-
suming a tone of deep penitence, he extended
his hand in apology.

“Forgive me, old man, for my rudeness this
es I feel a beastly cad after acting as

did.’’

“Don’t mention it, old chap,’’ replied Frank,
taking the proffered hand. He was in want of
a friend just then.

“At the same.time let me wish you joy, dear
boy. I met Miss Dawson a few minutes ago,
and heard from her of your engagement.”

“That’s not the worst of it, Cecil,”
Frank, mournfully.

“What on earth are you talking about?’’.

“T’m engaged to both.”’

“Both what?’

“Girls.”’

‘““Who?’’

“Gracie Lee and Agnes Dawson.’’

“Frank White, are you a fool or a knave?”’

“Both, old man,’’ he repeated. ‘I loved both,
proposed to both, both accepted me—but I
can’t marry both!”

With a fine show of righteous indignation
and a sense of outraged honor, Cecil lectured
his friend upon the gravity of the situation,
ending up with an appropriate picture of the
gallows looming in the distance. It was all
lost upon Frank. He welcomed the idea of the
gallows with an alacrity which caused Cecil
instantly to change his tactics.

“Took here, Frank. It’s only natural I should
be angry with you, but I’m none the less sorry
for you, and if I can in any way help you out
of your difficulty I will do so.”’

“Noble friend!’ exclaimed Frank, gratefully.

“Have you made up your mind which of the
Me love the better?”

sé Oo ””

said

“That’s awkward; but you must find out.
Write a note to each, couched in precisely sim-
ilar terms, asking them to meet you at the
turnstile at six o’clock this evening. Before
they arrive, you can conceal yourself behind
the fence and listen to the conversation. Prob-
ably you will hear enough to enable you to
decide.’’ :

After some demur, this plan was agreed upon,
Meanwhile, the unsuspecting maidens were
reveling in the game of ‘‘guess,’”’ so dear to all
young ladies. Neither could hit upon the name
of her friend’s fiance, each guessing everybody
except Frank White, which was not surprising
under the circumstances.

Asa penalty for this lack of intuition, each

sentenced the other to a night’s suspense, thus
securing a happy ignorance of the true state
of affairs.
At a quarter to six that evening, Agnes Daw-
son caught sight of Gracie Lee loitering around
the neighborhood of the turnstile. Agnes men-
tally wished her anywhere else but there, and
Gracie Lee reciprocated that feeling.

Nevertheless, they expressed great pleasure
at meeting, and walked each other up and
down the road, impatiently hoping for a divorce
before six o'clock. In a condition bordering
upon desperation, Agnes finally halted at the
turnstile.

“T have arranged to meet a friend here at
six o’clock,’’ she remarked, seating herself
upon the turf. :

“How strange, Agnes! So have I!”

‘“*Never!’’

“Quite true.’’

“What a strange coincidence!”’

“T’m not altogether sorry. I shall
opportunity of introducing my fiance.

“And I of presenting mine.’’

‘What is he like, Agnes?’’

‘‘You shall see presently, my dear.’’
-*Dark or fair?”’

“Shan’t tell you.’’

“Does he wear a moustache?”

‘Wait until you see.’’

“Or a beard?”’

“Oh, dear no!
horrid beard.”’

“Ts he young or old?”

“Why young, of course.”

“Plenty of cash?”’ ; a ae

‘What an inquisitive girl you are, Gracie.

‘Why, here he comes, Agnes!” Gracie ex-
claimed, as she pointed to the approaching fig-
ure of Cecil Morton. Aa BS

“Cecil Morton! Why, you deceitful girl, I
mentioned Cecil Morton in the morning, and
you told me it wasn’t he!” ’

“No more he is; but I presume he is your
fiance?”’ : ‘ a

“Mine, Gracie! Certainly not. I don’t mind
admitting that he might have been, if someone
else hadn’t been first in the field. I could see
a proposal written all over his face when I
met him this morning, only he was too late.
But what can have become of Frank?

“Wrank!’’

“Yes! Frank White!’’ :

“What on earth do you want with Frank
White?”’

“He's my fiance, Gracie.”

“Don’t jest on such subjects, Agnes.
mine.”’

“How do you do, ladies?” sang the cheerful
voice of Cecil Morton, as he approached and
raised his hat. ;

He had arrived just in time to prevent one of
those voleanic eruptions which ladies call ‘fa
scene.’’ Both maidens were on their good be-
havior at once. a

“How do you do, Mr. Morton?’
advancing and shaking hands cordially.
you seen Mr. White?” E 3

“No: but I expected to see him here.

“What a bundle of mysteries!’’ exclaimed the
laughing girl. ‘‘Gracie expected him, I ex-
pected him, you expected him, and he hasn't
turned up yet.’’ 5

“’m glad he hasn’t. It will give me time to
explain the mystery. Now, listen attentively,
both ladies, please. Frank White, overwhelmed
with the love of one girl, made the disastrous
mistake of proposing to two! I can only as-
sume that the delight of his first success tem-
porarily turned his head—not his heart, mark
you—and led him to offer his affections to
sweetheart number two. Ah! I see you under-
stand. Now I. hope that you will pardon his
indiscretion—you, Miss Lee, because his love
for you was but the cause of his momentary
aberration; and you, Miss Dawson, because
your love for him was a myth!”

Agnes started, and looked Cecil full in the
face, Instantly she realized that he had guessed
her secret.

Cecil continued:

“Perhaps Mr. White will step forward and
apologize?”’

With much shame and confusion of face,
Frank jumped over the fence, and substantially
corroborated his advocate’s opening statement,
There was an awkward silence. during which
somehow Gracie found herself drawn tightly
in Frank’s warm embrace. This so shocked
the modesty of Agnes that she looked help-
lessly around for a_ place of concealment.
Cecil Morton’s extended arms were the best
shelter she could find.

have an
,

I couldn’t bear a man with a

He’s

said Agnes,
“Have

What charming weather we’re having, Miss [ ‘ Nt TANI
i } }
L i

 

 

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i

EDITED BY MRS. HELEN WOOD.

By special arrangement with the manufacturers we
are enabled to supply the readers of the ‘‘New
York Weekly’’ with the patterns of all garments
described and illustrated in this column at TEN
CENTS each. When ordering patterns please be
particular to mention the number of the pattern and
size wanted. Address Fashion Department, ‘‘The
New York Weekly.’’ Box 1,173, New York City.

I shall be very glad to answer to the best of
my ability any questions that my lady read-
ers may care to put to me as to questions of
toilet. So, if you are puzzled in any way, don’t
hesitate to appeal to me for such advice as I
am capable of giving you.

HELEN WOOD.

EF In ordering patierns ve sure to give size and number

No. 1982, BOY’S JACKET.

No small boy’s © .rdrobe is complete with-
out a_ reefer,
nor indeed
would it be too
many if he
could boast a
half dozen.
They are suit-
able for cloth,
serge, flannel
ana pique, the
last named be-
ing the most
appropriate for
the summer.
Not only white
pique, but the
more delicate
tints of pink
and blue are
available, and
are particular-
ly dainty when
tastefully trim-
med with an
abundance of
fine white em-
broidery. The
principal op-
portunity is of-
fered by .the
large sailor
collar, but the
cuffs and pock-

ets may also be similarly trimmed. Large,
white pearl buttons are the only kind permis-
sible on pique, though one sometimes sees
erystal. The pattern is cut in sizes 2 to 6
years. The medium size requires one and one-
half yards of material 42 inches wide.

NO. 1986, LADY’S WAIST.

Everything that suggests a yoke or a guimpe
is unusually pop-
ular at present,
and this waist
meets the uni-
versal demand.
For late summer
wear this waist
ean be made of
challie, silk, bril-
liantine or nun’s
veiling, as these {
materials are
quite suitable for ‘
early autumn
wear well.
The yoke may
be of tucked
lawn or silk, or
of some _ fancy
material in har-
mony with the
balance of the ;
gown. The pat- a»
tern is cut in JM)
sizes .. 32. -to --40 ‘ a
inches bust measure. The medilum~sizéTre-
quires three and one-eighth yards of material
32 inches wide.

NO. 1987, LADY’S WAIST.

Shirt waists are the order of the day, but
simple style of a
season ago, It is
impossible to-day
to have these
waists too much
trimmed or too
fanciful in style.
Even . the shirt
collar and cuff
may be done
away with and a
ribbon stock or a
bit of lace take
its place. Of the
more elaborate
styles the model
illustrated here-
with is an excel-
lent example. All
summer materi-
als are suitable
for this waist,
but more espe-
cially silks, such
as foulards, In-

it dias, pongees and

He SX) such soft Wwool-
ens as nun’s veiling, barege, cashmere and
henrietta. Pique would also develop effectively
in this style. The pattern is cut in sizes 32 to
40 inches bust measure. The medium size re-
quires two yards of material 32 inches wide.

NO. 1989, LADY’S FIVH-GORED FOUNDA-
TION SKIRT.

Skirts trimmed, flounced and draped have
entirely superseded the plain model in vogue
a season since,
Even the flounce
is now so gar-
nished that it
seems rather a
sort of trimming
in itself, more in
the nature of a
drapery. The
present model
has the advan-
tage of being in
reality two dis-
tinct skirts. In
the first place,
the one-piece dra-
pery may be
omitted; in the
second place, the
eircular ruffle
need not be used, /

a plain five-gored (fy men, ¢
skirt of the very’ “\golrcs

latest cut being ,

the result of these omissions. The pattern is
cut in sizes 22 to 80 inches waist measure.
The medium size requires four and one-half
yards of material 42 inches wide.

(All patterns published in “The New York Weekly”
will be sent to our readers for 10 cents each. Address
FASHION DEPARTMENT, ‘“*New York Weekly,’’)

Minnie W.—The simplest way to _ recurl
feathers is to shake them before a clear fire
and then with a paper knife or the blunt side
of a penknife coax them to their original form,
treating each tendril separately. Another way
is to dampen the feathers and curl them round
waving pins, leaving them for twenty-four
hours, then loosen the waves by the gentle ap-
plication of a comb.

Mrs. R. A. G.—Flannel should be soaked in
cold, hard water before making up, and hung
up to dry without any squeezing in the water.
If these directions are followed the flannel will
not shrink again. Flannel should always be
washed in a lather made of boiled soap and
water, and the fabric should never be rubbed
with soap, as it mats the nap and makes the
flannel hard,

Dorothy.—When a black coat is soiled and
requires renovating, put a few drops of ammo-
nia into some strong coffee, and clean the coat
by rubbing it vigorously with a sponge dipped
into this liquid. Afterward -rub down with a
piece of woolen cloth. A new bit of neckwear
consists of a soft silk stock tied in front with
two bows, one beneath the other. Each bow
is made with loops and ends, and is fastened in
the centre with a tiny jeweled buckle. With
shirt blouses, plaid gingham bows and Ascot
ties are worn, also the short puff ties of silk,
as well as the taffeta bows with very long
ends. Among the new stocks to wear with
elaborate gowns are those of wired lace, the
design picked out with bits of coral.

as

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