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BURKE BRENTFORDS FINE STORY, “LA PASTORA, THE ACTRESS.’

 

-—

 

 

‘Entered According to Act of Congress, in the Year 1892, by Street é Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washinglon, D. C. _

 

Office

Vol. 47.

 

P.O. Box 2734 N.Y.

31 Rose St.

 

LITTLE JACK.

 

BY MICHAEL SCANLAN,

 

Day after day I saw him brave
The searching winds or piercing sleet;
His cry, a plaintive voice of pain,
Rose o’er the rattle of the street;
A sweet, sad face, grown old in grief—
A childhood stretched upon life’s rack—
That smote one with its lonesome look ;
The gamins called him Little Jack.

He was his mother’s only joy,
Sad heir unto a heritage
That snatcbed him from her hapless arms
And plunged him into aches and age ;
For her he trod the pulseless mart—
For her the tatters on his back—
For her he smiled at mock and jeer
When gamins called him Ragged Jack.

And day by day I saw him fail,
Despite his high resolve to win;
When coldness killed and chilled without,
His soul, a-fire, burned all within.
One morn I missed him-from the street,
And guessed that Death was on his track—
In angel guise, all light and smiles,
Death must appear to such as Jack.

Down famine-haunted lanes I went,
Where shame-faced Virtue slinks away
To die unseen. The breath of tombs
Hung clammy on the skirts of day.
Then up, and up—the doubtful stairs
At every step groaned crick-a-crack—
Till but the roof lay dark between
The skies and home of Little Jack.

Stretched on a pallet, fair, he lay;
The glory of his wondrous eyes—

Twin flames that burned his waxen cheeks—
Were caught up by the pitying skies;

And near to him his mother watched
In grief too deep for tears. Alack!

No more shall earth be glad for her—

‘ Herjoy has flown witht bittle Jack.

Then, looking on with holy awe,
Isaid: “Ah, God of earth and sky!
How near to Thee this child has drawn

Alas! how far away am I!
But yesternight he roamed the streets,
And all was lowering cold and black,
Ané now he sits beside the Throne!
Oh, happy, happy Little Jack !”

Whenever in the hurrying crowd
I meet a poor, barefooted child,
With wasted cheek, but wondrous light
Aflame within his blue eyes mild,
I stand in reverence, and I think,
For all the tatters on his back,
“ He’s but an angel in disguise—

 

 

 

New York,

May 14, 1892.

Entered at the Post Office, New

Three Dollars Per Year,
Two Covies Five Dollars.

 

 

 

 

a

NVA HI

 

 

 

 

 

An angel such as Little Jack !”

——_++0>++—_____

HERR ERICSON GLOWS WITH DELIGHT WHEN JOANNA COMES OFF.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“YOU SING LIKE AN ANGEL,” HE CRIES IN A RAPTURE.

ai
[| ‘ |

 

York, as Second Class Maiter.

 

No. 29.

It is rather late when she desnds
to the room with the cooking-stove,
which is kitchen, parlor, dining-room,
and children’s sleeping-room, inclu-
sive. The little black stove so super-
heats it that the windows are open,
and two or three pots of hardy rose
geraniums flourish on the sills. They
make a pleasant spot of color to the
girl’s country eyes, with their vivid
iN green leaves and pink blossoms. Sun-
H light finds the room as tidy as lamp-
light. Mrs. Gibbs stands over a tub
in a corner, washing; a little boy and
girl of five toddle about, each with a
dell made out of a bottle. This is the
home scene that greets Joanna.

“Good-morning,” Mrs. Gibbs says,
“How did you rest, my dear?”
¢ Mrs. Gibbs’ language and man-
|i} mers are superior to her station, and
| Mrs. Gibbs greatly prides herself there-
on, She is a person of literary
i) tastes, and has seen better days. The
-| better days were in the life-time of
it the late Mr. Gibbs, when she had but
| little to do, and a great deal of time to
read romances, of which she is exceed-
ingly fond.

Mr. Gibbs was by profession a mason’s
assistant, in other words, a hod-car-
rier, and one day, overcome by’ sun-
stroke, fell off a scaffolding and was
instantly killed. That was four years
ago, and since then Mrs. Gibbs had
adopted the occupation of laundress,
and wisely eschewed romance. But
what she has read has left its mark.
Her eldest son making his appearance
about the time she completed “Thad-
deus of Warsaw,” was named after
that hero. After a pause of seven
years, twins arriving almost simul-
tanouesly with a copy of “Alonzo and
Melissa,” these innocents were christ-
ened after that romantic pair.
Alonzo and Melissa who are now
pressing to their chubby bosoms two
root-beer bottles, and pausing in their
play to stare with round, wondering
eyes. at the new-comer. Thaddeus has
deparged to retail the day's news, and

ie t Sa 44 7 , -

x “af ver yeta Cemines pte,

{iH11

|i

NEAT WEEK.

°

 

: P Cte
” Joanna answers,

“T glept very well, rs
hand with a smile

and holds out her
to the little ones.

 

brighten at sight of them. Many
good traits are in the girl’s character
that have never had a chance to come
out—this is one of them. She has never
known a child in her life.

Alonzo and Melissa look at her, and,
with the intuitive instinct of children
and dogs, see in her a friend at once.

“Perhaps you won’t mind getting
your own breakfast?” says Mrs. Gibbs.
“I’m busy, as you. see. There’s the
teapot on the stove, and the dishes,
and bread and butter are in the pantry.
Set the table yourself and take your
breakfast.”

 

CARRIED BY STORM.

By Mrs. May Agnes Fleming,
Author of ‘* Norine’s Revenge,” ‘‘Shaddeck Light,” ‘* Wedded, Yet No Wife,”
‘SA Little Queen,” Ete.

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

CHAPTER V.—(CONTINUED.)

“Sa-a-y, you, hullo!”

Joanna looks up. It is only a boy, a gamin
of the New York streets, with a precocious,
ugly, shrewd little face—a boy of perhaps
thirteen. The infinite misery of her eyes
strikes this young gentleman with a sense of
surprise.

“Sa-a-y,” he repeats, “dodgin’ a cop?”

The tone is questioning; the words,
course, are perfectly incomprehensible.
does not reply.

“Sa-a-y! Can’t yer speak? Dodgin’ a cop?”

The tone this time is sympathetic, and is
meant to reassure her. If she is performing
the action in question, he wishes to inform her
he has performed it himself, and that she may
count on his commiseration.

“T don’t know what you mean,” she says,
wearily. “I am from the country; I have lost
my way in the streets. I have no home, no
friends. I was very tired, and I sat down here
to rest.”

Her head drops against the cold pillar. She
is utterly spiritless and worn out. He stares
at ber for a moment, says “Golly!” softly to
himself, and slowly resumes his whistle. He
is debating. whether to believe what she says
or not.

“Sa-a-y!” he drawls, after a little, “got any
money?”

“Not a penny.”

He resumes his whistle once more. Once
more the keen eyes of the boy of the streets
goes over her, takes in the silk dress, the
gleam of gold, the crimson shawl, the weary,
weary face.

“Sa-a-y! what brought ye up to York?”

“T came with a—friend. But Idid not want
to stay. I came ont and lost myself. You
need not ask me questions. I cannot tell you
more than that. I do not know what todo. I
have no money to go to another hotel.”

“Another hotel! Cricky! We've been ina
hotel—Fifth Avenoo or the Windsor, I
shouldn’t wonder, Sa-a-y, I’m blessed if I
don’t believe you’re tellin’ the truth !”

She looks up at him indignantly. The cute,
boyish face is a good-humored one, and his
youth gives her courage.

“I wish you would tell me what to do,” she
says, piteously. “You belong here, and must
know. I cannot ay here all night.”

“Should think not. Well, you might go to

of
She

the station for protection.”

“The what?”

“The station—poliss, you know.”

“Why should I go there?” she exclaims,

angrily. “I have done nothing wrong. How

' dare you suggest such a thing!”
| “Blessed if you'ain’ta green un!” the boy
; Says, grinning. “If you won’t go there, and
get lodgin’ free gratis for nothin’, where will
ye go? Sure you got no money?”

“Certain. Not one penny.”

“Well, what’s that a shinin’ so—a gold
chain? If it is gold—the real Jeremiah, mind
—you might put it up the spout, and get
money that way. I’ll show you your uncle’s.”

She looks at him with such bewildered eyes
that he grins again.

“Oh! she’s a green ’un, and no mistake.
Looky here,” he says, adapting his conver-
sation to his company, “if I get you a lodgin’,
aclean, comfortable, ’spectable lodgin’, will
you pawn your jewelry to pay for it? *’Cause
if you will, I guess I can help you.”

“Oh! most willingly!” she says, relieved.

The brooch and chain are gifts she hates to
part with, but anything is better than risking
a night ,=here. She rises at once, and hastily
begins to divest herself of them.

“Don’t you take ’em off now,” the boy says,
good-naturedly. “To-morrow ’ll do, Come
along. It’s a goodish bit of a walk. We might
take a car, but you’ve no money, and I hain’t
earned salt to my porridge to-day.”

“Do you work?” Joanna asks, eyeing the box
and brushes he carries. ‘

“You bet! Sells papers in the mornin’ and
shines boots the rest o’ the time. Hain’t done
a stroke worth acent to-day. Times is awful
bad,” says this man of business, despondently.
“Gents that always took a shine before, goes
muddy now, sooner’n part with a blamed
nickel !”

“Where are you taking me?” the girl in-
quires. She is in some trepidation, although
the mn face is not a bad one, and she is dead
tired.

“Home, to our house—my old woman’s, you
know. Laundress she is; does up gents’ and
ladies’ fine linen. We've got a spare room in
the attic, and now and then we lets it for
lodgin’ to girls out o’ Re ye know.
Mother knows ’em by dozens. They pays a
dollar and a half a week and grubs their-
selves.
have it. You look the right sort, you do.
Mother don’t take no other, mind you. ’Taint
much farther—up four pair, but the roof’s
handy for dryin’.”

Joanna is too spent to talk; so in silence
they presently reach the place. It is up four

 

It’s empty now, and I guess you can |‘

 

flights, and very long flights at that; she feels |

as though she could never reach the top. They
do reach it, however; the boy opens a door,
there is a flood of light, a gush of warmth,
and they are “there.” '

lé is now after eleven, but late as is the
hour, the boy's mother is still pursuing her
avocation. Upon a stove glowing red-hot,
stands an array of smoothing-irons; at a long,
narrow. table in the middle of the floor the
woman stands, polishing the bosom of a shirt.

The room is_ perfectly neat and clean, two
lamps light it brightly. The woman herself
is in a spotless calico dress and long white
apron, and looks both respectable and, like
her son,.good-natured. On a trundle-bed, in
a corner, two children lie asleep.

“Bless us, Thad, how late you are!” she be-
gins. Then she sees his companion, and stops
inquiringly, but in no surprise, and smiles a
welcome. “Good-evening, miss. Come in,
and take an air’of the fire. You look half
froze.”

Joanna advances. The mother takes in, as
the son has done, the silk dress, the golden
trinkets, the fine crimson shawl, and her face
grows first puzzled, then grave. She turns to
her son, with something of a frown, and
motions him into an adjoining room.

“Who is this you have brought?” she asks.
“T don’t know her.”

“No more do I,” Thad rejoins; “but she’s all
right—bet you ten cents on it! She ain’t no
help;nomoresheain’t astreet-tramper. She’s
a country gal, and greener’n grass. Cut away
from her friends, | guess, and come to New
York to seek her fortune. They all do it!
Don’t she hope she may find it!”

“Where did you pick her up?” the mother
asks, still dissatisfied.

Thad. explains at some length. Thad’s
mother listens, neither satisfied nor convinced.

“T’d rather have my room empty forever,
you know that,” she says, with some asperity,
“than harbor half the ruck that’s going. If I
thought she wasn't all right, I’d bundle her
off again, and let her go tothe station, and box
your ears into the bargain! I won’t have girls
picked up from the streets. I only lodge res-
pectable young women out of place.”

“Well, she’s a respectable young woman
out o’ place,” says Thad. “S-a-y, mother,
don’t let us stand here jawin’. Give a fellow
his supper, can’t you, and let him go to bed.”

“And you say she’s got no money?” says the
woman.

“No; but she’s got a gold chain, and the best
o’ clothes, and is willin’ to put ’em up the
spout first thing to pay you. Say, mother, you
can’t turn her out, so cheese it all, and give
us some supper.”

He returnsimpatiently to the kitchen, where
Joanna still sits in a cane rocker near the
stove. The warmth, the rest, the silence,
have lulled her into sleep. Her head lies
against the back, her hat is off, her pale, tired
face has the look of a spent child.

The woman bends over her, and gradually
the perturbed expression leaves her face. No—
on that brow the dreadul brand of the streets
has never rested. She is little better than a
child in years; the story she has told Thad
must be true, She is one of those foolish,
romance-reading country girls who run away

 

from home and come to New York to seek
their fortunes. There are so many of them—
so many! Poor souls! the fortune they mostly
find is ruin and sin for life, and a death of
dark despair. This girl has evidently ‘been
well off; her dress is of rich silk, handsomely
trimmed and made, she wears a gold chain
and watch, a breastpin, and aring. And the
shawl on her lap; the woman’s eyes glisten as
she lifts it. All her life it has been her am-
bition to own a shawl like this, all wool,
deeply, darkly, beautifully red. All her life
it has been an ambition unattained.

“TY will keep her a fortnight for this shawl,”
she thinks, replacing it, “if she’s a mind to
make the bargain.”

Thad is calling lustily for his supper. It is
soon set before him—some slices of cold corned
beef, some bread and butter, and coffee. The
lad falls to with an appetite, and his mother
gently awakens Joanna.

“You must be hungry,” she says; “take some
supper and go to bed.”

But Joanna is not hungry; she dined late,
and fared well. She is very, very tired,
though, and will go to bed, with her hostess’
permission.

“My name is Gibbs,” suggests the matron,
taking one of the lamps, “Mrs, Gibbs, Will
you tell me yours?”

For a moment there is a pause. She has no
name. The hated one of Sleaford is not hers;
she would not retain it if it were. Blake, she
thinks of giving; but no, she has no right to
poor George’s name. The only one that be-
longs to her is Joanna—Wild Joanna. Then
it flashes upon her—she has only to reverse
that, and she is now christened for life.

“My name is Wild,” she says, “Joanna
Wild.”

“And you look it,” thinks Mrs. Gibbs, going
on with the lamp; “wild by name, and wild
by nature, I dare say. But you’re not asctreet-
tramper, and that’s a beautiful shawl, so it’s
all right.”

The room is a bay attic chamber, with a
sloping roof, and lighted. by only two lights
of glass. The bed is wide enough to lie down
on, but certainly to turn in it would be a seri-
ous risk. Still it looks perfectly clean, and
that is everything. The floor is bare; one chair
comprises all the furniture there is space for,

“T hope you will sleep well,” says Mrs.
Gibbs, kindly. ‘“There’s a bolt on the door, if
roe a mind to, but you’re quite safe up

ere.”

“Thank you,” Joanna says. “Good-night.”

Mrs. Gibbs returns to her son and her work
—two is her general hour for retiring.

“Gone to roost, has she?” inquires Thad, still
going into his supper with energy and appetite.
“She’s a rum un, she is. Wonder if her mother
knows she’s out?” 4

And so, by the mercy of Heaven, Joanna is
saved from the streets, and sleeps deeply,
dreamlessly, and long, in her hard little attic
bed.

CHAPTER VI.
IN WHICH JOANNA FINDS HER FORTUNE.

With the rising of the next morning’s frosty
sun, Joanna’s new life may fairly be said
to begin.

“TI feel as if I were a burden to you,”
Joanna says, “but I hopeit will not
be for long. I have no money now, but the
very first I earn I will give you.”

She says it with an honesty and earnestness
her hostess sees is very real. Mrs. Gibbs finds
she “likes the looks of her” by daylight, though
she is an uncommon-looking young woman
somehow, too.

“What do you intend to do?” she asks, rub-
bing away at the shirt she is at work upon.

She smiles a little to herself as she asks—
she knows so well what the answer will be.
All these girls who run away from their
friends seem to have but one idea—to go on
the stage and dazzle the New York public as
full-fledged Lady Macbeths. They may leave
home plain and unattractive enough, but
something in the air of the great city is to
make them beautiful and talented, and send
them home to their relatives in a few years,
dazzling visions of loveliness, fame, and
wealth. It happens like that to their favorite
heroines, why not to them? But Joanna’s
reply is not tw order.

“T intend to work,” shesays steadily; “there
is no kind of housework, I think, I cannot do,
I am very strong, and very willing. I can
wash, iron, cook—I have done it all my life.”

Mrs. Gibbs is so astonished that she pauses
in her washing, and, with suds up to her
elbows, gazes admiringly at the speaker,

“Well! upon my word!” she says. Then she
laughs, and vigorously resumes her rubbing,
“T didn’t expect that, you see,” she explains.
“Work is the last thing girls that ran—come
up from the country—seem to think of. I have
known lots of ’em, and I never knew one yet
who wanted to work. They can get enough of
that at home. They want to go on the stage,
and be ballet-girls, actresses, what not. They
seem to think the New York flagstones are
made of gold. Poor things, they soon find out
their mistake! Sometimes they go back
ashamed and half starved, sometimes they stay
on, and ah! dear me, the city is a bad place
for a friendless country girl. And you want
to work.: Oh, well! you will get that fast
enough; always plenty to do for willing hands
and hearts. And housework’s easier got than
most things—than places in stores, or sewing,
or genteel things like that, But I wonder,
seeing it’s a hard life, that you came ae for
that. By your dress you should have been
pretty well off down there—wherever it is.
You won’t make enough at housework, let me
tell you, to buy silk dresses like that, and gold
watches and chains.”

Joanna glances down at her silk robe and
smiles, wondering what good Mrs. Gibbs
would say if she knew the truth,

“You must have had a good home,” con-
tinues the widow, “and kind friends. Take
my advice, Miss Wild, and go back before it
is too late. The city is not what you think it,
Go back to your good home, no matter how
hard you may have to work, and thank the
Lord you’ve got it.”

“Tt was not a good home,” Joanna says,
steadily. “I had not kind friends. It wasa
bad, cruel place to live in. Yes, bad, and they
were bad people. I had no friends in that
house.”

“And yet your dress, your jewelry——”

“Oh! the dress! that is nothing!” the girl

 

She loves children, and her eyes ,

 

  

 

 

 

 

 
   
    
    
   
    
    
          
      
    
   
  
   
   
 
  
   
 
  
  
 
  
    
   
   
 
 
    
     
    
  
 
 
  
   
   
 
   
  
 
    
  
 
  
   
   
  
   
 
  
    
    
   
  
  
    
 
   
 
  
  
    
 
 
 
  
 
  
  
  
  
   
 
  
    
    
   
 
  
  
   
   
 
 
  
  
 
 
  
   
  
  
 
  
   
   
  
  
  
   
  
  
   
  
    
   
  
 
   
   
   
   
 
   
    
     
   
  
  
 
  
     
    
    
   
   
  
  
  
    
 
  
   
   
  
 
   
  
     
   
  
 
  
  
  
   
  
     
 
 
  
  
    
 
  
 

 

 

 

     

 

 

 

 

2

watch and chain were New Year gifts from a
lady who was kind to me, But I cannot go
hack—I never will go back. Iam willing and
able to work; you may recommend . 1e without
fear. The jewelry I will sell and pa, you—the
watch I should like to keep for t.:e lady’s
sake,” her yoice falters alittle. “You have
been kind to me—you have saved me from the
streets. As sure as I live you will find me
grateful.”

There is silence. Mrs. Gibbs rubs away,
Joanna clears off the breakfast service. Sud-
denly the widow breaks out:

“Look here, Miss Wild, I don’t want to take
no mean advantage of you, but, of course, I
can’t afford to keep you for nothing. But I
will keep you, board, and everything, for—sa
a fortnight—that will give you time to loo
about you and get used to town, for that red
shawl of yours, There! I like that shawl. If
you think it a fair exchange, say so.”

She looks eagerly as she makes the proposal,
evidently fearing a refusal. That any one can
possess such a beautiful garment, and be will-
ing to part with it, is what she does not
expect. But Joanna’s face lights with relief
at the offer.

“The red shawl!” she exclaims, laughing,
and again wondering what honest Mrs. Gibbs
would say if she knew how she had come by
it; “why, certainly. I am glad to be rid of it
—I could not wear a red shaw] if I wanted to.
I am sure I do not know why I bought it.
Take it and welcome.”

The widow draws a long breath—the desire
of many years is attained at last.

“Well, I’m :sure, I’m much obliged. It’s a
beautiful, shawl, all wool, soft as silk; and
such a lovely color. I will tell you what I’ll
do,” cries Mrs. Gibbs, in a burst of gratitude,
“you shall stay for three weeks, if you’ve a
mind to, and Thad shall take you about Sun-
days, and I’ll find you anice easy place ina
small family, as a waitress, or nurse-girl, or
something of the sort. Would you mind wear-
ing a cap, and white apron?”

It appears, upon explanation, that Joanna
would mind those badges of servitude, al-
though otherwise preferring the situation of
children’s nurse.

“Well, then, it must be general housework,
I suppose,” says Mrs. Gibbs, “but never mind.
I’ll find you a nice, easy place, with only two
or three in the family, and every Sunday out.
You must come to see me often, and look upon
this as your home whenever out of place.”

Amicable relations of the warmest kind
being thus established through the medium of
Liz’s brilliant red shawl, no more is said. But
fate has decreed that Joanna is not to get
that “nice, easy place,” or begin life as a maid
of all work. Her voice and her five years’
steady training stand her in stead at last, in
the very way she least expects.

It begins by the cordial friendship that
springs up in the bosoms. of Alonzo and Melissa
for Miss Wild. They take to her, and she to
them, in a way quite wonderful, considering
the brevity of the acquaintance.

On the evening of the third day, as Joanna
sits in the rocking-chair before the glowing
stove, with Melissa and her “bottle baby” in
her lap, it chances that, half unconsciously,
she begins to sing. It is that little Scotch
song Frank Livingston used to like, “My ain
ingle side.”

Mrs. Gibbs is ironing. Outside a wild night
is closing in, with high wind, and lashing
sleet, and rain. As Joanna sings and rocks,
she is thinking how this fierce tempest is surg-
ing through the pine woods, rattling the tim-
bers of the old mill, troubling the frozen
depths of Black’s Dam. She shudders to
think that but for George Blake—oh, poor
George Blake!—she might be lying at this
hour dead in its foul waters. What are they
doing at Sleaford’s—what at Abbott Wood?
What does Mrs. Abbott, Geoffrey, Leo, think
of her? Is George Blake seeking her through
the vast city in vain? Is Frank Livingston
going to the opera, or the theater. or a ball

somewhere up in. these stately brown-stone

LY

bs gradually ceases work) and listens
with open mouth. * The Scotch song is
finished; she begins another, a German cradle
‘song this time, a crooning, sweet sort of lul-
laby, that Leo used to like at this hour, The
iron in the listener’s hand has grown cold; she
stands lost in wonder at this singing bird she
has caged. ;

“Lord bless me, Miss Wild ” she says, when
Joanna ceases, “wherever did you learn to
sing like that?”

The girl looked up rather vacantly, not yet
returned from dream-land.

“Eh?” she says; “singing?
I did not know it.
thing else.”

Mrs. Gibbs stares.

“Upon my word, Miss Wild,” she exclaims,
“you are a strange young woman! Why, you
sing like a—like a—like Mademoiselle Azelma
herself !”

“Who is Mademoiselle Azelma?”

“She’s a singing lady—a German. Who
learned you to singin German? I declare, I
never was more surprised in my life!”

“Indeed! Because I can sing? Oh, yes, I
can sing—I can play, too, although my hands
do not look like it,” Joanna says, smiling.

“You’re the most wonderful young girl I
ever came across!” repeats wondering Mrs.
Gibbs. “Who would ever think you could
sing like that? Do sing another—out loud
this time. Never mind Lissy—she’s asleep.”

Joanna obeys. She uplifts that fine, pure,
strong contralto of hers, and sings “Roberto
o tu che adoro,” and the Italian, and the com-
pass of voice, and the thrilling sweetness of

Was I singing?
I was thinking of some-

the song itself, completely confound good
Mrs. Gibbs. She gives up utterly, and sits
down.

“Well, I never!” she says, and stares blankly
at the girl. “I never in all my life !”—another
start. “I do declare I never did!” says Mrs.
Gibbs, and gets up again with a gasp.

Joanna laughs outright. She has a delight-
ful laugh—merry, girlish, sweet—but its sound
is so unusual it startles herself.

“Is it so very wonderful, then?”
still laughing. “I know I sing well; I was
well taught.”

“Tell me this,” says Mrs. Gibbs, almost
angrily; “why did you say you had no friends,
when you have the education, and manners,
and dress of a lady? Why, your musical edu-
cation must have cost a sight.”

“I suppose it did. I told you I had one
friend—the lady who gave me my watch.
When I was a little, half-starved, ill-used
child, she heard me sing, and thought my
voice worth cultivating. She haseducated me;
I owe her everything. She would have taken
me for good, long ago, only those I lived with
would not give me up.”

“Why did you not go to her when you ran
away?”

“T would not have been allowed to-remain.
There were other reasons besides. But you
need not be afraid; I will work just as well
when you get me that place, as though I could
not sing a note.”

“You work!” retorts Mrs. Gibbs, almost con-
temptuously; “with such a voiceasthat! I
will} get you no place. I will speak to Mr.
Eridgon about you instead.”

Joanna looks inquiringly.

“Mr, Ericson is a German,” says the widow,
resuming her work—“a teacher of music and
singing. do up his linen. His brother is
proprietor of a theater—a little German theater
—and Mlle. Azelma sings there, and makes
ever so much money. But Mlle. Azelma isa
wery difficult lady to get along with; when-
ever she is out of temper, it flies to-her throat,
and she cannot sing that night. Professor
Ericson swears at her awful in German, and
says if he could get any one to take her place,
he would send her about her business. Now,
I have heard’ her, and I do think you sing
better than she does; and then you have been
trained to singing, which is everything. To-
morrow I am going to take his shirts home,
and you shall go with me, and sing for him.
If hé takes a fancy to you your fortune is
made,”

she says,

says, with a touch of her old impatience ; “the

 

 

“But I don’t want to goon the stage,”
Joanna says, blankly; “I could not, I never
was in a theater in my life. I never thought
of such a thing.”

“Then you had better begin, for it’s the very
thing to suit you, with that voice. You will
earn ten times as much as in any other way,
and if you know how to take care of yourself,
it’s as safe as any other life. It’s a most res-
pectable little theater, only not first-class, of
course. Fashionable people don’t go there.
Mr. Ericson has given meand Thad tickets
often. Make up your mind, my dear, that
that voice wasn’t given you for nothing, or all
that teaching either, and earn your living in
the easiest way. Come with me to-morrow,
and let Mr. Ericson hear you.”

Joanna is startled; the idea is new, but she
is open to conviction. She goes with Mrs.
Gibbs on the morrow, and is presented in due
form to Herr Ericson, a little man, with a
bushy white mustache and a frowning brow,

“You can sing?” he says, scowling under his
eyebrows at the girl. “Bah! Mrs. Gibbs does
not know singing when she hears it. You can
play? There is a piano—while I pay for my
shirts, sit down and sing a song.”

His brusque manner sets Joanna.more com-
pletely at her ease than any civility..He looks
at her contemptuously. She will show this
cross little man she can sing. She seats her-
self, plays a prelude, and begins one of her
best German songs. The little professor counts
out his laundress’ money, stops . suddenly,
fixes his spectacles more securely on his nose,
rises hastily, crosses to the piano, and scowls
a scowl of intense surprise.

“Good!” he says; a trifle more snappishly
though, if eee ia than before. “ You can
sing. And you have been trained. That isa
very good song, and rendered with expression.
You want.to go on the stage?”

Joanna shrugs her shoulders.

“TI really do not care about it, Herr Profes-
sor. I never thought of sucha thing until
Mrs. Gibbs suggested it.”

“If I get you a place will you accept it?”

“A place?” .

“A situation—an engagement to sing at my

brother’s theater. The salary will not be much

at first. You can go on in the chorus, and so
get used to the stage. And I have a project
in my mind. Yes, a project——”

He breaks off, and walks rapidly up and
down, his hands in his pantaloons’ pockets,
frowning horribly, and biting his mustache.

“Look you here!” he says, “you can sing.
You suit me. You are the sort of a young
woman I have been looking for for some time.
Plenty can sing. Bah! that is nothing! A
voice without cultivation—that is the devil!
You have been trained. In a week you might
go before an audience and make your debut.
You shall go before an audience. You shall
make your debut! Tell me this—who are your
friends?”

“TIT have none, Mr. Ericson.”

“Good! Better and better! Friends are the
very duse! Now listen to me. Hundreds
would jump at the offer I am going to make,
with voices as good as yours, only not the cul-
tivation—mind you! You have a voice—yes!
You will make a success—true! You will
never be a great cantatrice!” shaking one ner-
vous finger at her; “donot think it. Nota
Nilsson, not a Patti—nothing like it—buta
fair singer, a popular vocalist, that you will
be. And you shall make your debut at my
brother’s theater, and you shall be paid, and
you shall be my procegee. Mile. Azelma shall
go to the devil! But you will make no en-
gagemenut with my brother, for I have another
project in my head,” tapping that member.
“Later you shall hear. To-day I[ will speak
to my brother; to-morrow night you shall go
on in the chorus. Good-day!”

He turns them. out of the room, then flies
after, and calls back Mrs. Gibbs. For Joanna,
she is fairly bewildered with the rapidity of
all this.

“ You take care of that girl, Madame Gibbs!”

   
  
   
 

the professor says, frowning fiercely. “Mark
you! she has a fortune in her throat.”
t all com oO pass as the professor, wills,

) hirlwind, with‘io idea

g any other living creature havea
will of his own where he is. He does speak to
“my brother”’—a large, mild man of true Ger-
man stolidity. He provides a costume for the
debutante, and sends her on in the chorus. It
is a small theater; the performance is German,
the actors, the singers, the audience, are all
German. Joanna goes on and goes oft witha
phlegm that even Professor Ericson admires.
She is nothing daunted by all the faces, and is
used to drawing-room performances.

After a night or two, she begins to enter into
the spirit of the thing, and to likeit. The
professor loses no time; he begins at once to
drill her in Mlle. Azeima’s principal roles.
She hears that poplular prima-donna, and feels
convinced she can equal her, at least. A spirit
of ambition, of rivalry, arises within her. The
first time Azelma’s temper flies to her throat,
she, Miss Wild, is to take her place.

That time is not long coming. Mlle.
Azelma’s latest costume fits badly, her larynx
is at once affected; that evening she is too
seriously indisposed to sing—something else
must be substituted. Nothing else shall,
swears the Herr Professor. And in a beautiful
costume, Miss Wild, to the surprise of every-
body, takes Mile. Azelma’s part, and sings
better than that lady ever did in all her life.
The audience applaud—they, like the manage-
ment, are tired of the leading lady’s caprices.
Herr Ericson glows with delight. He fairly
clasps Joanna in his arms when she comes off.

“You sing like an angel,” he cries, in a rap-
ture. “Mlle. Azelma may go hang herself!
Ah! I foresee my project will be a grand suc-
cess.”

Next day the project is unfolded. It is to
travel through the country, with Joanna, and
another protege of his, a young Italian tenor
he has picked up and instructed, and give
concerts. Madame Ericson, who is also a
vocalist of no mean ability, goes with them.
They will be a company of four; and they’will
storm the country! They will make their for-
tunes! They will see life! They will cover
themselves with immortality!

It suits Joanna exactly. Already she is anx-
ious to leave New York. Twice she has passed
Frank Livingston on the street, and once on
horseback in the park. On neither occasion
has he noticed her, but the rencontree has set
her heart beating wildly. Riding in the park,
with a young lady by his side, he has looked
like a demi-god in Joanna’s dazed eyes, some-
thing so far above and beyond her, that she
wonders to remember she has ever spoken to
him at all. And her last words to him were a
bitter rebuke. She is not safe in New York;
he, or George Blake, may meet and recognize
her, any day. To all who have known her,
she wishes to be forever lost.

Early in May the little company are to start.
All this time Joanna has gone on living with
Mrs. Gibbs, whom she has paid and repaid,
over and over again, The rest of her earnings
are swallowed up by a wardrobe, which the
Herr Professor insists shall be handsome and
abundant. She is to sing songs in character,
and many costumes are needed to fit them all.

The winter days fly by. May comes, warm
and sunny. From Brightbrook she has heard
nothing. She does not want to hear. That
life is dead and done with; it holds no memory
that is not of pain. Sleaford’s Joanna lives
no more. Miss Wild does, and her new life
seems to open pleasantly and promisingly
enough. About the middle of May they leave
New York, and Joanna is fairly launched in
her new life.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
er 3 or P
CONSUMPTION CURED.

An old physician, retired from’ practice, had placed in
his hands by an East India missionary the formula ofa
simple vegetable remedy for the speedy and permanent
cure of Consumption, Bronchitis. Catarrh, Asthma, and
all Throat and Lung A ffectiofis, also a positive and radical
cure for Nervous Debility and all Nervous Complaints.
Having tested its wonderful curative powers in thou-
sands of cases, and desiring to relieve human suffering, I
will send free of charge to all who wish it, this recipe in
German, French, or English, with full directions for pre-
paring and using. Sent by mail, by addessing, with
ype naming this perer, W. A. NOYES, 820 Powers’
Block, Rochester, N. Y.

A LAMENT.

 

BY PERCY B, SHELLEY.

 

O world! O Life! O Time!
On whose last steps I climb, ;
Trembling at that where I had stood before
When will return the glory of your prime?
No more—O nevermore!

Out of the day and night
A joy has taken flight:
Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar
Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight
No more—O nevermore !

CONSTANCY REWARDED.

BY KATE LUBY.

 

 

 

In the inland town ot Bandon, Ireland, dwelt a
poor mechanic named Moriarty.

His daughter and only child, Eveleen, though hard-
worked and poorly dressed, was considered a beauty.
She had a kind word an@ a winning smile for all, and
was ever ready to share her scanty meals with the
starving peasants who resided near them. :

So much loveliness did not ‘blush unseen,” and
numerous were the aspirants for the hand of the
fair Eveleen, who had just completed her eighteenth
year.

To her many admirers Eveleen played the deaf

adder. One alone she favored—young Rory O’Keeffe,
the village carpenter, a highly-industrious and well-
educated young man, who was approved by her pa-
rents.

Rory had a malicious rival in Donald McCarthy,
who was desperately in love with Eveleen, but who
could never succeed in gaining even a smile from
her.

Donaid was of a sour, vindictive disposition, which
gained for him the sobriquet of the “boddach.”

Ireland was at that time steeped ‘n poverty and
wretchedness. The injustice and misrule of England
had nearly exterminated the people, had impris-
oned and helped to break the heart of the great lib-
erator, Daniel O’Connel.

by working hard all the year round, living on po-
tatoes, the poor Irish peasant could barely ward off
starvation.

Should he make improvements on the barren soil,
his rent would be immediately raised by a cruel
landlord, without giving compensation for his im-
provements.

Unfortunate Ireland was in a deplorable state, as
the ill-starred rebellion of 1848 had made her condi-
tion almost hopeless.

For years after this rebellion, Government officials
were very vigilant in the Green Isle, ever on the
watch for treasonous actions on the part of Ireland’s
patriots. fe

About the close of February, 1859, it was rumored
that the Prince of Wales had offended his royal
mother, Queen Victoria, by carrying ona serious
flirtation in her own household.

The Queen, in order to remove the young prince
from temptation, ordered him and his private tutor,
Mr. Gibbs, to make the tour of [reland. Every one
in Bandon was interested, wondering if the prince
would visit their town.

In the meantime a numerous picnic party from
Bandon and Timoleague arrived at Blarney Castle.
Among them were Eveleen, with her parents, also
Rory O’Keeffe and Donald Me eee’

Lord Bandon’s son,accompanied by a very dis-
tinguished-looking young man, entered the grounds,
the former leaving for a few minutes to get the keys
of the castle from ‘“‘Mrs. Biddy Casey.”

No sooner had he disappeared than an infuriated
bull, that had broken loose, darted across the
stranger’s path, and, crouching for a spring, made
the welkin ring with his bellowings. ,

The cowardly Donald, who was close by, climbed a
tree, while Rory, quick as lightning, ran between the
enraged animal and the terrified youth, and opening
suddenly alarge winbrella, gave the bulla surprise
which not only bewildered, but frightened him. It
was laughable to see the terror on the face of the
animal, who turned and fled precipitately.

Just then Eveleen, her parents, and several others,
approached. They were surprised to see the strange
only seers advance, and taking Rory’s hand,
ne said: :

“Ten thousand thanks, my brave deliverer! Do
you know who [ am?”

“You are a brother, man /”’ replied Rory.

“Tam proud of a brother, although T am the
Prince of Wales’*4said the stranger. “Is there no

vst AMHR NE taf

    
  
 

>

[ ehyess vould blush
think of accepting a teward for what was both a duty
and a pleasure,” answered Rory. _

The prince was charmed; and drawing a rich dia-
mond from his finger, he forced its acceptance on his
young champion, saying: ;

“T am going to visit the Lakes of Killarney; but
will be in Cork, at the Imperial Hotel, in a week or
ten days. Should you or any friend of yours need a
service of me, you will find me well disposed to
favor you in return for your heroic kindness.”

There was one concealed in the tree who had over-
pee all this, with scowling brows and gnashing
teeth.

It was the “boddach,’ Donald, who, before he de-
scended, swore to bring ruin on poor Rory.

He had found out that Rory was a member of the
“Young Ireland Club,” and he_ secretly pos-
sessed himself of letters and documents which went
to prove this fact.

At that time all persons known to belong to that
club were placed under arrest, and transported to
the penal settlements.

St. Patrick’s Day was being celebrated all over
Ireland, and a small minority of the residents of
Bandon were determined to commemorate the Green
Isle’s conversion from paganism.

The ‘People’s Ball,” under the patronage of Lady
Bandon, was a great success. It occurred during
Lent; but a special license was given for the cele-
bration, owing to the glorious occasion.

The ball caine off in the Court House, and was truly
a beautiful picture put in motion; its coloring being
most varied; its shadowing elear; grace and inno-
cent pleasure being its predominant characteristics.

“Tt is not sufficient,” says Montesquieu, ‘‘to pre-
sent a multitude of objects; they must be presented
with order.”

Perfect harmony prevailed at this ball. The hall
was brilliantly illuminated and adorned with flowers,
wreaths, and flags, Lady Bandon and other noble’
ladies, generously dressed in green (the National
color), had condescended to mingle with the daugh-
ters of poor artisans.

Eveleen was dressed in white and green, and was
pronounced the loveliest girl in the ball-room; Rory
compelled her to wear the sparkling diamond ring,
the gift of the Prince of Wales.

As she gyrated with her lover, in the mazy periods
of the waltz, she declared it to be the happiest time
of her existence.

The dance being concluded, Rory was informed
that a gentleman, who desired to speak to him on
some very important business, was waiting for him
down stairs. ;

Excusing himself to Eveleen, saying he would re-
turn in a few minutes, he quickly descended to the
street door, where a well-dressed, gentlemanly person
saluted him in a very affable manner, and asked him
some very commonplace questions concerning the
ball and the lady patrons. They continued conver-
sing until they arrived at the street corner, which
was quite deserted, and where a carriage stood wait-
ing.

Suddenly two fierce-looking men sprang out of the
vehicle, and seizing Rory, gagged him, and placed
handcuffs on his wrists, crying out:

“We arrest you in the Queen’s name, for high trea-
son against Her Majesty’s Government! You are
the secretary of the ‘Young Ireland Club,’ and
you will be tried and receive your sentence at the
Cork Assizes to-morrow!”

Soon Rory and his captors were on their way to
Cork, where they arrived in a few hours, and Eve-
leen’s unfortunate lover was lodged in jail.

As Rory could not disprove the accusations made
and sworn to against him by the wicked Donald and
a friend of his. he was quickly condemned to penal
servitude for life, and hurried off to Liverpool, where
a transport was waiting to bear him and the
other convicts to Australia,

He was not allowea to communicate with his
friends, as a rescue was feared, Rory being a prime
favorite with the people.

On returning home from the ball, Eveleen and her
friends were surprised to find no trace of poor Rory;
and several days elapsed before the sorrowful news
of his transportation reached them.

Words cannot portray the agony and desolation of
Eveleen, but, brushing away her tears as she glancea
at the diamond-ring on her: finger, she remembered
the kind promise of the Prince to befriend Rory or
any triend of his. ‘

Implorng her mother to accompany her, they both
at once set out for Cork, where, on arriving at the
Imperial Hotel, she received the joyful tidings that
the Prince of Wales and his suite had just returned
from the Lakes of Killarney.

The prince kindly. granted Eveleen and her mother
an audience, and was deeply concerned to hear the
gia news of the brave ‘“‘bull-fighter,’’ as he cailed

ory. :

“T pledge you my honor, as an English gentleman,
that I willliberate your friend if even I have to make
& eres to Australia in order to accomplish it,”
said he. ;

‘*‘May Heaven reward your Royal Highness !” cried
both women, sobbing with pure gratitude.

As Eveleen and her mother were waiting for a car-

 

‘speedily rec

 

riage, Mrs. Cotton, a generous and enterprising

wecota THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. $2222 wane

Scotch lady, who ‘’was proprietress of the hotel, ap- ;

proached them and handed a small parcel which she
said the Prince of Wales wished them to forward to
the family of Rory.

Both mother aud daughter were undecided about
taking it, knowing well that Rory wanted no reward
tor what he had done -

“This good prince sacrifices too much for us,” said
nt aa offering to return a purse well filled with
gold.

“I canna’ an’ T winna’ return it, an’ ye maun tak’ it
awa’ wi’ ye,” replied Mrs, Cotton, as she escorted
them to the carriage.

Reposing entire confidence in the promise of the
prince, they remained but a few hours in Cork,
where they learned that the transport in which Rory
had been placed with the other convicts had left
fezer poo! the day previous, bound for Vau Dieman’s

Vand,

With heavy hearts they returned to Bandon,where,
for nine long, weary mouths, they waited in vain for
tidings from Rory. ;

In the meantime Eveleen’s father fell a -victim to
typhus fever, and died, leaving his family in abject
misery.

Eveleen and her mother toiled assiduously night
and day, but could not eke out a subsistence. It was
evident that sorrow and want of proper nourishment
would soon close the poor widow’s earthly career.

Donald MeCartuy now pressed his suit hard. He
declared that he had been compelled against his will
to give evidence against Rory.

He wrote to Eveleen, saying that he would call on
her that night at eight o’clock for her final answer,
as he had obtained lucrative employment in Dublin,
to which city he would remove in a few days.

With sealding tears coursing down her cheeks,
she glanced at her poor, starving mother, and snatch-
ing a pen, she wrote atew hasty lines to Donald,
ee him she would-see him at eight o’clock that
night.

The Cork and Bandon coach arrived about dusk
that evening, bringing one inside passenger, a
grandly dressed, foreign-looking gentleman, who
was soon closeted in secret with the landlord of the
hetel, asking him news ofthe different families re-
siding in the town.

The landlord’s daughter, who was a friend of
Eveleen’s, and who often generously, out of her
scanty ‘store, relieved the wants of the poor invalid,
had just come home to him with the news that poor
Eveleen was going tou accept Donald McCarthy for
her husband,.and he was to go for her answer ateight
o’clock that very night.

On hearing this the stranger started, crying:

“Most unhappy girl! has she no friend or brother
to snatch her from this living death ?’

“Not a single one,” replied the landlord. ‘We can
scarcely make a living ourselves; everything goes
for rent and taxes.”

At seven o’clock it was quite dark, and a knock
was heard at Eveleen’s door. She ran to open it, and
on seeing the figure of a man, she exclaimed :

“Oh, Mr. Donald! I did not expect you till eight
o’clock; please to sit down and talk to mother there
a moment, while I run and fetch a light.”

“T want no light,” said he, in a gruff voice, without
removing his hat, which shaded hiseyes. ‘I want
your answer, this moment, before I sit down in your
house !”

Eveleen flew to her mother’s bedside, and kneeling
down, she raised the wasted hands to her lips, de-
vouring them with kisses, crying:

“Mother, darling of my heart! you know, and the
One above knows that I love only Rory, and that I
never can love another; but to save you, mother, I
will warry this man, and may the mother of Jesus
ask her divine Son to forgive me!”

Her voice was choked with sobs. Her mother
seemed to be suddenly gifted with miraculous
strength, for she sat bolt uprightin the bed, and
clasping Eveleen to her heart, she cried:

“No, my life! my darling! my only child! You
must not sacrifice yourself for me; it would kill me!”

Eveleen grew hysterical with joy, shouting:

“Father in Heaven, send back my Rory !”

‘Here he is, darling sweetheart, never to leave you
more!” cried Rory O'Keeffe, throwing eff his false
mustache and other disguises, and clasping her to
his bosom.

Who can depict the joy of each?’ When alight was
procured both mother and daughter recognized their
own Rory, looking nobler and handsomer than ever.

A message was dispatched to McCarthy, who did
not come at eight o’clock, but who started for Dublin
the next day, with one of those little insects that
bite and jump, in his ear.

Rory said that on arriving at Botany Bay, he found
the Prince of Wales’ order and the Queen’s free par-
don before him. They had arrived by a mail
steamer,

He was given a free passage back, with a check for
£200 on the Bank of England, and a promise of con-
stant work at his trade in London, should he desire
to go there.

He had disguised himself in order to give Eveleen
an agreeable surprise, in case she proved constant.

With his abundant means and good prospects he
was enablec tom rry Eveleen, whose good mother

red héalth and strength.

Rory was, and perhaps is still, one of the most
prosperous boss carpeuters of Bandon, happy as a
king, with his Eveleen, and the young Rorys and
Eveleens who bless his home.

 

This Story Will Not be Published in Book-Form.

Nick Garter “«. Green-Goods Men.

By the Author of ‘‘Nick Carter.”

(“NICK CARTER AND THE GREEN-GOODS MEN” was
commenced in No. 10. Back numbers can be obtained
of all News Agents. ]

 

 

 

CHAPTER LVIII.
“J MOCK YOU, NICK CARTER!”

Boynton was watching the black-eyed man when
the decision was announced, and he saw him rise,
and hastily leave the rool,

Not ten feet behind him went the reporter, and
Boynton, following a sudden impulse, leaped to his
feet, and pursued them both.

“Blessed, if I don’t think those fellows are in col-
lusion,” he muttered. . ;

When he reached the street, he saw the two men
walking away side by side, and he was about to pur-
ty them farther, when he heard Nick’s voice behind

im.

“Where away, Jack?’ he exclaimed.
don’t you care to know me in this rig?’

“Confound your rig! Say, do you see those two
fellows yonder, just entering that saloon on the
corner ?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know them ?”

“Why ?”

“Well, I have got a fancy that—er—that—confound
it! that black-eyed fellow watched every move you
made.” ;

“Did he?”

“Yes.”

; “Well, Jack, I begin to think you are quite observ-
ng.’
“The other fellow is areporter. He has been tak-
ing notes during the whole inquest, and now_they
have got their heads together—tell you what, Nick,
if I were you, I’d follow them.”

“Quite unnecessary.”

“Why?”

“Because I already know the one whom you believe
to be a reporter—and I have a shrewd suspicion
about the other one.” :

“Then who is he?”

“Which? the other one?’

5*Y eg.””

“He is a detective, or calls himself one, at least,
and unless Iam greatly mistaken. he was at the in-
quest to-day in the interest of Dan Dorrance.”

“Eh? What? Then he’ll go straight to Dorrance
with his report, won’t he?’

“Probably.”

“In that case, you ought to follow him.”

“T haven’t yet told you the name of the one I know
—the reporter.”

“Well?”

“His name is Chick; he is my assistant, who only
returned this morning, from the West. Be patient,
Jack Boynton, and before you are very much older,
Dll startle you with —”

“With what?”

“The most remarkable denowement you ever heard.”

To those of my readers who are familiar with the
exploits of Nick Carter, the name of Chick is not un-
known; but for the benefit of those who have not
made his acquaintance, it is well to state that Chick
was Nick Carter’s assistant, and in many respects,
his second self.

He was reared among the mining regions of Nevada,
and had been enlisted in the service of the great de-
tective when he was little more than a boy.

But he grew and expanded in every way under the
tuition of the celebrated detective, until he became
almost, if not quite, as adept as his master.

They were of about the same physique, and upon
the younger man Nick relied with almost the same
confidence that he reposed in his own abilities.

When Nick Carter went to the inquest, he knew
that in all probability Dan Dorrance would either be
there himself, or that he would have a lieuteuant on
hand to watch proceedings and report. It was,
therefore, with great pleasure that he found, upon
reaching home, where he went for the nernoer of
making the change in his disguise, that Chick had
returned, and was there, awaiting him.

“Hello, lad!” he cried. ‘“You’re justin time. Go
and make up as a sharp young reporter, and then
come with me.”

The story which interested the detective at the
time was related in a few words, and then, not to-
gether and yet not very far apart, they went to the
scene of the inquest.

Nick entered first, leaving Chick upon the outside.

It did not take the detective long to ‘‘tumble” to

“Wait; or

ee

 

the business which had brought the black-eyed man
there, and by a sign imperceptible to others, he made
his assistant understand what he was to do.

“Where now?” asked Jack Boynton, as he and
Nick walked along Twelfth street toward Sixth
avenue. ’

“lve got business that will keep me occupied till
dark, Jack, and I want to ask a question or two first.”

“Fire away, then.”

: ae are you going to introduce me to the Vin-
ons ? P

“By Jove, Nick, I think you’ve made that impos-
sibie to-day.”

“How so ?”

“Why, Vinton will discover that you are the one
who suggested the unpleasant questions, aud he’s
ao

“My dear Jack, did you ee for amoment that
I meant to be introduced as Nick Carter ?”’

“Well. What did you mean ?”’

“You were abroad last summer, weren't you?”

“Yes; for a few weeks.” . ,

‘La Bretagne, one of the French line of steamers,
will arrive the day after to-morrow, and the Count
de Louvre will arrive upon it. Are you paying at-
tention ?”’

**Yes.’’ :

“The count will go to one of the fashionable hotels
and will at once send his-card to you, whereupon
you will be elated at the prospect of introducing
such a capital fellow to yourfriends. You will speak
about it to several who are known to be gossips, and
may meytion his expected arrival to-night.

“When you receive his card, you will lose no time
in calling upon him at his hotel, and in pressing him
to accept your hospitality.”

“The duse I will!”

“Precisely. Don’t be alarmed, for he will decline,
preferring to remain in the hotel.” 5

“But—”

“When you make your call, oo will manage to
bring Vinton, and perhaps another friend with you,
and you will have expatiated upon the merits of your
French friend, until they are all prepared to take
him to their arms at once.”

“Wait, Nick; [insist upon knowing who this Count
de Louvre is.” .

‘“‘Myselt.”’

“Eh? By Jove! Capital! Whata sell! I wouldn’t
miss it for a thousand, ’pon my word! Nick, you're
a brick !”

“Thanks !’

“Do you mean it all?”

“Certainly.”

“Can you do it ?”

“Tl try,” dryly.

‘Well, look out for Vic. He’s sharper than a steel
trap, with all his languor and haughtiness.”’

“That’s what the countis coming here for, Jack—
to look out for Vic.”

“Eh? ,

“T’ll leave you now. Don't forget your part in the
comedy.” .

“ll do my part.”

“Good!”

Jack Boynton’s lips parted to give utterance to
another question, but before he had a chance to ask
it, the detective had turned and hurried away.

Boynton gazed after him with admiration.

“What a fellow heis!’* he muttered. ‘Wonder if I
hadn't better make a clean breast of the thing to him
before he finds it out for himself. He won’t half like
it when he finds that 1 have been all this’ time de-
ceiv—— Ah, well. perhaps, I’ll reveal myself to the
count; who knows?” and the young society-man
chuckled grimly, and then hurried away to his club.

That evening whena select party of clubmen, of
whom Boynton was one and Vinton was another,
were engaged at cards together, Jack suddenly ex-
claimed.

“T say, fellows, I've got a surprise for you—a dused
agreeable one, too.”’.

“Whatis it?’ drawled Vinton.

“A friend of mine, whom T met abroad, is coming
here; arrives on La Bretagne the day after to-morrow,
you know; wants me to show him the town and all
that, you know; he’s a count—de Louvre—you've
heard of him, Bertie ?’—to Albert Scroon, who never
would admit that there was any person of distinction
of whom he had not heard.

“Oh, yes, often. Parisian, isn’t he?’

4 “You bet! Oneof the best fellows Iever knew,
00.”” >

“Let's give him a blow-out when he comes,” said
Bertie.

“What! the night he comes ?”

“Tos”

“Rather sudden, isn’t it?”

“Well, tell him it’s our way, over here.”

“Done!”

“Where will it be—here?’

te ORs:

Everybody agreed, and so it was decided.
Presently Vinton looked up languidly, and drawled:
‘What steamer did you——”

He stopped suddenly, for Boynton had turned
quite pale. ;

He clutched at his pocket, drew out a note-book,
glanced inside, and then, with a hasty apology, and
murmuring something about an engagement that he
had forgotton, he hurried away.

His friends stared, but said nothing, ana two
minutes later Jack Boynton was in his’ coupe, and
was being rapidly driven toward the residence of
Nick Carter.

But if he expected to find the detective at home, he
was disappointed.

It was then half-past eight o’clock.

At nine he called again, with the same result. At
ten his luck was no better, and then he left a note for
the detective, and turning away went to his own
rooms, and nobody saw him again that night.

When Nick left Jack Boynton near the corner of
Twelfth street and Sixth avenue, it was still early ip
the afternoon, and he believed it to be a good time to
look for the papers, or rather the “something”
which was to be found behind aloose stone in the
foundation wall of the house where Madam Mystery
had met her death.

He took the elevated road, and in due course of
time arrived at the ruins,

There had been a heavy shower whicb had pretty
thoroughly cooled the heated mass, but he found the
debris still uncomfortably warm in places.

However, he persevered, and by exercising care,
he finally found the loose stone that had been de-
scribed to him, and removed it.

The removal of the stone disclosed a little steel box
about twelve inches long by four broad and deep.

He took it from its resting-place, and returned to
the more comfortable locality of the yard which had
surrounded the house.

‘He had not yet attempted to raise the lid of the
box, for he had noticed a keyhole, and it did not oe-
cur to him that the receptacle was not locked.

He was busily engaged in examining the character
are keyhole, when he thought he would try the

id.

Greatly to his surprise it yielded at once.

He raised the lid, and then uttered an exclamation
of disgust.

The box contained nothing but a single envelope,
on and so placed that the blank side was upper-
most.

He took it in his hand and turned it over.

Another surprise awaited him, for there in bold,
plain letters was the address:

“Nick Carter, Detective.”

“Humph!’” he muttered.

Then, without further delay, he tore open the en-
velope and extracted its contents. He found that it
was a letter, which read:

 

“Nick Carter will observe by this, that for once in his
life, at least, he is too late. Another has been here before
him and secured the papers which might—had he read
them—have explained many things that are mysteries
now. Itis a pleasure to outwit one who is so accustomed
to outwitting others, and a delight to say, ‘I mock you,
Nick Carter.’ ”

 

CHAPTER LIX.

THE TWO NOTES,

Nick Carter had felt that he would find something
of value behind the loose stone in the foundation-
‘wall of the burned house, and to discover that some-
body had been there before him, was a very great
disappointment.

That there had been papers there. which would
have given him a clew to the identity of Madame
Mystery, he did not doubt, and while it was by no
means Vital that he should discover who she really
was, he could not drive from his mind the thought
that the truth regarding her would explain many
puzzling points m the work that he had to do.

He feit that he knew who it was who had stolen a
march upon him in securing the papers.

Spring
Medicine

Seems more than ever a necessity this season, after the
mild, unhealthful winter, and the unexpected prevalence
of the Grip, pneumonia, typhoid fever, etc., leaving
nearly everybody weak, exhausted and tired. Hood’s
Sarsaparilla is just the medicine to overcome that tired
feeling, to build up your whole ‘system, purify your blood,
impart a good appetite,

Hood’s Sarsaparilla
Cures

Try it.
HOOD’S PILLS cure all Liver Ills.

 

 

Where other preparations fail.

 

 

   

 
          

 

 

 

 

—

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‘saw that in his eyes.

 

 

 

 

VOL. 47—No, 29.

:

esa THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #2

 

 

It could be no other than Dan Dorrance, who was
developing a shrewdness far superior to that with
which the detective had credited him.

“This man is getting dangerous,’’ mused the detec-

‘tive, as he was on his way down town, ‘‘and unless T

bring him up with a short turn before long, he will
be committing other murders, or worse.”

While undergoing the long ride necessary to reach
his home, he thought over the incidents of the inquest
with a great deal of care.

He was satisfied that Vinton had not told the exact
truth regarding many points upon which he had been

uestioned, but he hac kept so close to the facts,
that his story seemed like verity.

“Did he lie, or did he tell the truth, when he said
that he had not seen Queen Mab since the commis-
sion of the crime?” thought the detective. “I will
never know, until I have proved whether the woman
I saw in the coupe was Mab, or somebody else.

“Has he seen Dorrance? Did he see him that
night? It looks very much as though the carriage
‘did contain Queen Mab; as though Vinton had been
to Dorrance to get possession of her, for [ know by

_the note I found that she had been there, and I know

that Dorrance was there, because I saw him.

“Here arises a serious question. If Vinton did see
Dorrance that night, and if it was Queen Mab who
was in the coupe with him, it follows that he is in
some way In league with the Green-Goods King; and
there arises the question: In what way?

“Vinton is rich; therefore it is not for gain, He
has a reputation to keep up. and he is haughty and
reserved by nature; therefore itis not from deliberate
choice. The only reason that I ean assign, with the

‘knowledge that T now have, is that his familiarity

with Dan Dorrance arose solely from his desire to
get Queen Mab in his power,

“The story about the blackmailing scheme plainly
sounded like an invention, and yet there may be
some truth init. I will investigate that latter on.

“The romance about the cousin who disappeared
comes under the same head, and can wait.

“On one point Iam pretty well satisfied, and that
is that Vinton knows who the murdered manis. I
Plainly, I shall have to inves-
tigate Vinton, in order to get at thetruth of this
thing, for there is a mysterious iink somewhere
whieh connects him with the machinations of Dan
Dorrance from. beginning to end. Ah, well, I will
find out all about that while masquerading as the
Count de Louvre.”

The detective left the elevated road at the station
nearest his house, and started briskly away toward
home.

Had he not turned aside, he must have reached
there about the time of Boynton's first call upon
him.

But he had’ not gone twenty paces before he
overtook Chick, who was also en rowle homeward.

“Hello, lad!” he said, placing his hand upon the
young assistant’s shoulder. ‘Where away?’

“Home. I’m glad I met you.” :
“Good! SoamT. It'sa pleasant evening, so let’s

dight a cigar and stroll while we talk.”

Cigars were lighted, and arm inarm, the two de-
tectives continued onto Fifth avenue, and thence
turned southward. :

Nick Carter’s habit. when conversing with his as-
sistant, was to indulge in short, jerky sentences, and
he often asked questions to which he already knew
the answers.

His purpose in the latter was to get the expressed
opinion of the shrewd young pupil, and he found
that Chick often advanced a suggestion which had
not occurred to the master, and which sometimes
proved of great value.

On the other hand, Chick, being fully aware of -his
master’s peculiarity, seldom advanced a theory un-
less it was brought out by a question, or suggested
itself after the conversation had ceased.

“Well,” said Nick, ‘what did you think of it ?”’

“Of what?’ ; *

“Of the inquest ?”’

“Tt wasn’t much more stupid than the rule,”

“Hm! Hear Vinton’s testimony ?’

ey ”

“What did yon think of him ?”

“He should have been named Ananias.”

“Think he lied, eh?”

‘*Yess”

“About what?”

“Tevery thing.”

“That's pulling it rather strong.”

“Tt would be hard ‘todraw the line between his
truth and lies.”

“Tell me what you think he lied about.”

“For one thing, I think he lied when he said that
he Se not seen Dorrance or Mab since the murder.”

“e , y + .

“He looked it.” :

Niek had not told Chick about the coupe incident.

“Do you think that he is in league with them ?””

“He may be.” ¥

“What could be his object ?”’

“The woman—Queen Mab.”

“Good! Now, who was our black-eyed friend?”

“A detective. One of the kind that takes any case
that comes.”

“Exactly.”

«He was there to watch you?”

“Certainly.”

‘And to report to Vinton.”

“Eh?”

“Fact!”

“Where did he go?”

“To a telephone.”

“Ah 7

“T heard him call up a number, and afterward I
eae pat that it was Vinton’s.”

“ee ve 7

Ve eourse I only heard one end of what was
said.’

“Of course.”

“Tere it is,” and Chick produced an envelope with
some short-hand characters written upon the back.

“Read them,” said Nick, pausing before a lighted
window.

“Hello! yes; yes; just now; no; in about an hour;
yes; ’llleave it there, yes! I don’t think so; all
right, good b—— hey? Yes, that’s it; good-by.”

ete !’ exclaimed Nick; ‘not much informa-
tion in that.”

“No; there wasjust one remark that caught my
attention.”

“What one?’

“The ‘Tl leave it there !’”’

“Well?”

“T concluded to find out what he left and where he
left it.”

“Right”

“We had made friends before he telephoned. I
treated him at every saloon we came to, and I man-
aged to get him softened up a little.”

“Go on.”

“By and by T saw that he would not do anything as
long as I staid with him, so I lit ont.’

“And then——”

“Then I worked a change, and bobbed up serenely
not faraway. He went into a stationer’s, bought
some paper, and wrote a letter on the counter.

“When he came out with the letter in his hand, I
was right by the door, and you would have thought
that I was pretty drunk.”

“You fell on him, eh?”

“Yes, and knocked him endways.”

“What became of the letter?”

ie Po to the pavement, and I picked it up.”

oe Jel q°

“Then I scooted. I got sober awfully quick, but I
didn't run so fast that I could not hear him swear at
ine.”’

“Have you got the letter?”

. Yes.”
Have you read it?”
“Yes ”

“Well?”

“Hereitis. If you can make anything out of it,
it's more than I can.”

Nick took the letter and read:

“Everything worked exactly as you believed it would.
There was nothing new brought out in the testimony
that is worth considering. Body not identified. V. testi-
fied that he knew D. D. and M.; that they had once tried
to blackmail him. Carter put coroner up to all the ques-
tions. Matter firmlly adjourned one week. It is my be:
lief V. knew morethan he cared to tell about identity.»

That was all,and Nick handed it back to Chick
with the remark:

“Tt may tell us more later than it does now; keep
it. Now. are you sure that it was Vinton to whom
yous man talked through the telephone ?”

FoIND.

«Then——”

“T only know that it was his number—his call.”

“You are positive about that ?”’

“Entirely so.”

Nick then related the story of his adventure in
Communipaw, and the episode connected with the
coupe. Lastly he told Chick what he intended to do
in the character of the Count de Louvre.

“Now, Chick,” he said, in conelusion, “I’ve got

some delicate work for you.”

“Pin ready.” ;

“You must get into Vinton’s house, either in the
capacity of a servant, or as the confidant of one of
them. You must find out if Queen Mab is there, and
gather all additional information you can.”

“Correct!” 3

“You know what to do, and you can accomplish it
in your own way. I leave that to you.”

“Tt shall be done.”

“Right.”

It was midnight when Nick Carter reached his
home, and there he found the note awaiting him
which had been left by Jack Boynton. It read thus:

“MY DEAR NICK:—Select some other steamer and some
other time for your arrival. I can’t possibly help you out
if youinsist upon La Bretagne. Explain whenI see
you.—Yours, “JACK.”

 

CHAPTER LX.
THE COUNT DE LOUVRE.

“That's a queer kind of a note,’’ mused the detec-
tive, after reading Boynton’s message the second
time. ‘‘It means something, too, and I wonder what.
Humph! 1’) stick to my tirst plan, anyhow.”

 

|

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}
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“Then he went to bed and slept.

The following day, nobody saw him, for he devoted
himself to getting ready for the part he was to play
as the French count.

He well knew that he would have to face a good
many smart men; men who were as_ familiar with
Paris as with New York, and who would be quick to
detect him if he committed an ertor of any kind.

‘There were a thousand and one thiugs to do to per-
fect himself im the part, and he did them all, omit-
ting nothing to help make the rendition perfect and
complete.

He thought seriously during the day, of looking up
Jack Boynton, and of asking a few questions about
that strange note; but he could not well spare the
time; neither could he see any cause whereby the
part that he intended to play would be prejudiced by
the mere fact of his supposed arrival on La Bretagne.

Nick knew where to go to procure everything he
needed, and in order that the reader may understand
something about the care that was taken when the
detective undertook an imposition of the kind, a
slight explanation of his modus operandi will be
given.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

WATCHING ALONE.

BY DAISY SHORTCUT.

 

 

A reflection of light flashed for aninstant across
my eyes, and I awoke witha start. Great Heaven!
Thad been sleeping. My lamp was out, and the room
quite dark. Whence, then, the light that had aroused
me? :

Full of fearful apprehensions and misgivings. and
cursing my weakness in giving way to the allure-
ments of Morpheus, I groped my. way to the window.
The night had grown perfectly black, and the moon
was completely hidden by masses of thick clouds,
and with a feeling of great relief I plainly saw my
light burning upon the grave.

I was about turning torelight my room-lamp,when
the sudden flashing of a dark lantern arrested me,
doubtless the same light whose previous reflection
had awaked me. A feeling of dread that I could not
conquer stole o’er my frame, as peering into the
darkness I discovered that though my light was
burning, if was not upon the grave on which I had
placed it; hut, as near as [ could judge, four or five
yards distant; and then, my eyes becoming used to
the gloom, I saw figures in the cemetery, busy in ae-
complishing the very thing I was watching to pre-
vent, and I bitterly repented the folly with which I
had decided to watch alone. y

But there was no time to be lost in foolish thoughts
or vain regrets ; action, immediate action, was called
for, but I felt myself miserably incompetent to make

it. The startling suddenness of the discovery seemed |

to have complétely unnerved ine; I, who was always
so vaunting and fearless; and I truly acknowledge
that my fearlessness was the result of faithin my
security and notinherent bravery. Still something
must be done, and resolving to do that something
without, however, having the remotest idea what it
was to be, I softly crept down stairs and out into the
cemetery.

General L.’s daughter had been buried the day be-
fore—a most beautiful young lady, in her twenty-
first year, accomplished, admired, and in every way
lovable. ;

She was to have married a young civil engineer,
named Stafford—a manly, handsome fellow,who came
to our town about a year previous on railroad busi-
ness, and had _ afterward taken up permanent quar-
ters with us. [hardly know though whether I should
say she was going to marry him, for there was really
no positive engagement made public; but then
everybody could see that they were devotedly at-
tached to each other, and it was an understood and
uncontradicted fact that they were soon to be
united; and, indeed, they seemed well-mated in every
respect.

One morning, without any previous announce-
ment, and tothe astonishment of the whole town,
young Stafford left our place, and did not come back,
and the general’s beautiful daughter grew pale and
wan, and in one short month after his sudden depar-
ture she was laid beneath the sod.

Of course Many rumors were set afloat by people
who knew nothing whatever of either party to ac-
count for Stafford’s abrupt departure. Some said he
was already married. and the general had discoy-
ered the fact; others, that he was a swindler; still
others that he had quarreled with the testy old gen-
eral on politics (they were well known to difter), and
had been kicked out of the house; but whether any
of these charges were true, or what really was the
truth nobody krew, for the general’s family kept
very quiet about the affair, and we never heard a
word concerning Stafford.

Great, indeed, was the grief throughout the town
wher it became known ‘that Miss Delia was dead,
for she was beloved by all, high and low, and though
always in delicate health, her early decease was at
once connected with Stafford's disappearance.

ate lamentations up at the house no pen can des-
eribe.

The general insisted that she should be buried in
an elegant wedding gown; and a gorgeous diamond
set, which no one had seen before, he placed himself
upon his daughter’s corpse, whispering, as he did so,
“My wedding gift, child.” :

Folks said the loss had crazed him; but crazed or
not, this he did, and Tom Biggles and I were
engaged to watch the grave until the monument he
designed to raise was finished and placed over the
sod.

Feeling confident that in our quiet place nobody
would disturb the grave, and having a great confi-
dence in my own bravery and resources, if they did,
I proposed to Tom to watch alternately, I one night
and . the next, instead of both together as we had
agreed.

‘The result of this double dealing you know.

No wonder then that the knowledge of my wrong-
doing added to the feeling of fear that possessed me,
and no wonder that my fear and dread were re-
doublec when I saw upon going into the cemetery
that three men were at the grave, and that they had
already made considerable progress in excavation.

The night wind blowing freshly through the trees
chilled me to the bone. I felt as if I were paralyzed.
I made a desperate effort to cry’ aloud, but found
myself unable to do so. I managed, however, to
draw slowly and silently nearer to the grave, my
limbs trembling beneath me, when suddenly [
stumbled over a mound, and my tongue unloosened,
and I uttered asharpecry. .

Tn an instant the men had seen me, and jumping
from the grave, before I could rise I was seized,
dragged forward and the light of the dark-lantern;,
turned upon me.

A man who had been sitting upon a stone away
from the others came quickly forward; I glanced up,
and recognized him with eyes and tongue at the
same instant.

“Stafford !” .

Yes, it was Stafford, but so changed from the
handsome, dashing fellow he formerly was, as to be
barely recognizable; wan and hollow-eyed, with a
strange, searching look that added to my already
overwhelning fright.

“You know me,” he muttered. ‘‘Whoare you?”

“Kenton, the watcher, Mr. Stafford.”

Stafford turned to the men, and said:

“Go on with your work, and make haste—no time
to lose. Leave him to me.”

The men took up their spades and resuined their
work upon the grave.

Stafford motioned me to sit down, and stretched
himself upon the grass opposite me. Thus we re-
mained—I know not how long—it seemed an age to
me. I was thinking what I could say to lim, and
finally I mustered up courage to speak.

“Mr. Stafford,’ I said, and he started and looked

up.
Rowell,” he answered, after a moment’s silence.

“Youre getting me into an awful scrape, Mr. Staf-
ford.”

He did not answer for some moments, and T was
just about to speak again, when he said, suddenly:

“Look here, Kenton, you keep quiet, and all will be
right. We'll leave this place as we found it, and
unless you speak no one will know the grave was
touched; so if you get into ascrape, you walk in
with your eyes open.”

“But suppose, Mr. Stafford, it should somehow be
discovered that the diamonds are gone—what
then ?”’

“Diamonds 2?” he said, quickly. ‘‘What diamonds?”

“Why, I thought you were after them.”

As soon as IT had spoken thé words,I saw T had
done wrong. He jumped toward me as if he would
have killed me with a blow, and grasping my throat
fiercely, he demanded:

“What do you mean, man? What
Speak out!”

Releasing me as suddenly as he had taken hold, he
asked, coolly :

“Do you mean that there are diamonds on that
corpse 2?”

“Yes,” Treplied; the general purchased a diamond
set, and——” '

oh turned quickly, called one of the men, and said
to him:

“Keep your eye on this man; if he moves knock
him down,” and strode rapidly off to the grave.

IT saw that he gave the men some directions, but I
could not hear what they were. I heard, however,
the scraping of the spade upon the coffin, and [ knew
their work was nearly accoinplished.

They needed the assistance of the man who was
guarding me, and he took me to the grave with him.

diamonds?

\ The coffin was quickly hoisted up with ropes, and’

landed by the side of the hole.
“Go you to the wagon till I whistle,” said Stafford.
“Kenton is used to this thing, and shall help me.”
The men withdrew, and Stafford handing me the
tools, bade me unscrew the coffin-lid. I was about to
refuse, regardless of consequences, but the strange
look in his eyes compelied me against. my will to do

 

his bidding. I-commenced the work, and Stafford

stooping close to me said:

“Kenton, your own safety compels your silence
concerning what you've discovered to-night. I did
not know there was any watching; I did not know
there were any diamonds. Go on with your work;
don’t stop. This coffin contains my wife—my wife,
Kenton, and her tather knows it, and -buries her,
shuts herin the ground, leaving me:to. discover it
as Tecan. Iswore not even death should part us,
and I'll keep my oath. She’s mine in spite of law, in
spite of malice and prejudice—she is mine, and I
claim my own.”

The lid was unserewed and I rose from the ground.

“Stay here, Kenton,” he said, and stooped to lift
the lid from the coffin.

For an instant it flashed through my mind to push
him over into the grave, escape, and give the alarm;
but [had notthe heart to do it, and besides, I thought
it would then become known that there was but one
watcher.

He removed the lid, and there lay the general’s
daughter as [saw heron the day of the funeral, us
natural as though she were but sleeping.

He raised the corpse from the coffin, and throwing
his arms around it, he pressed it closely to him, sway-
ing to and fro.

“Oh, my dear one, my life, my soul,” he satd, “is
it thus we meet again?’ and he sobbed aloud, and [
myself felt like joining him.

He quickly recovered himself, however, and slowly
put the body back into the casket. As. he did so

e noticed a eee and bringing the light toward it,
he called me to him, and said, eagerly:

“Look, Kenton—see! I told you she was my wife!
our certificate !”’

It was a certificate of their marriage.

“Now, Kenton, you have seen with your own eyes
—you know—and should you hear her fair name
maligned, brand the speakers liars—Kenton liars!
But I forgot; you are forced to keep quiet, and Delia,
my dear one, must go unrighted. But enough. Look
here. Kenton; [I claim my own, nothing more.
Here, see these diamonds.” d

He carefully removed them, kissing the cold clay
again and again as he did so, and laid them in the
coffin. The certificate he putin his pocket, and then
he raised the body. and laid itupon the ground.

“Now,” he said, ‘‘screw on the lid quickly, and I’ll
call the men to fill the hole.”

I screwed on the lid, he gave a low whistle, and the
men came back, leading a horse and wagon, which
they left standing at the gate. +

He motioned them to fill the grave, and taking up
the body, he earried it himself and laid it in the
wagon, and called me to him.

“T’m going, Kenton,’ hesaid. ‘I may be able one
of these days to openly avow to-night’s work; in that
case you shall not suffer, andif you are silent and
discreet, you shall be rewarded. Farewell!’

“But, Mr. Stafford,” I said, ‘‘you mustn’t go till
everything is right again. Suppose these men refuse
to work after you’ve gone, what then?
stay.”

“What men?" he asked. ‘I see no men.”

Startled at his words and look, I turned around,
and saw, with astonishment, that the men had gone
—no trace of them was visible. I was frantic with
alarm, and the very urgency of my position gave me
courage.

“What does this mean, Mr. Stafford?’ I cried.
“What trick is this? You must come and fill that

rave.”’
F “Nonsense, man.” he answered; ‘don’t be foolish.
I’m late now, and shall have hard driving to make
time,” and he took the reins to start the horse.

I sprang to the horse's head, and grasped the bridle.

“You shall not leave, Mr. Stafford, until you fix
everything as it was. You promised to do. so, and
you must!” *

HB jumped up in the seat, fire fairly flashing from

s eyes.

“Fool!” he shouted, “out of the way, or your body
eae fill the grave!” and he struck at me with the
whip.

Then suddenly I remembered my pistol, and thought
what a fool I had been toforgetitsolong. I drew
it out. a

“Tf you move, Mr. Stafford, I fire!”

He struck the horse a terrible blow that caused
him to dash wildly forward. I pulled the trigger,
heard the explosion, and——

Woke up in reality, to find my partner bending over
and shaking me.

“A pretty thing,” hesaid. “If we’d a done what
you wanted and watched alone. Here, you've been
a sleepin’ half the night. A pretty one to watch,
you are, ain’t you?”

I stared at him a moment, and then, without a
word, went to the window. The grave was undis-
turbed. I rubbed my eyes. Yes, all was right—poor
Delia lay sleeping peacefully. ;

“What time is it, Tom ?” I asked.

“Just struck six. Go to breakfast.”

This Story Will Nol be Published in Bator

ampted to Leave Her Lover

OR, THE

LIFE ROMANCE OF LILLIE GOLDIE.

By JULIA EDWARDS,
Author of ‘‘He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not,”
“The Little Widow,’ *‘Prettiest of All,”
“Beautiful, but Poor,” Etc.

 

 

(“TEMPTED TO LEAVE HER LOVER” was commenced
in No. 11. Back numbers can be obtained of all News
Agents. |

 

CHAPTER XXXVIII.
“MY BEAUTY!’’ CRIED LILLIE; “‘ IT HAS BEEN MY
CURSE!”

When Lillie cast herself into the seething waters of
the rolling river she believed she was going to her
death; but fate had pointed out a different path for
that weary soul to take, and whither fate points, the
feet of mortal must go.

A mananda woman sat in a boat, gliding down
the turbulent river at the very moment when Lillie.
uttering her last prayer, launched her body out into

the waters.

It was a strange place for such a pair to be at such
a late hour, and by the way the man had ceased to
ply his oars at the first sound from the shore, it was
plain that they desired secrecy.

Something of the colloquy between the desperate
girl and her pursuer they liad heard, and they were,
therefore, prepared to act when Lillie east herself
into the waters that must have swallowed her up had
they not been there to save her.

The moment she struck the water, the man hacked
with his oars so that his boat was held stationary
just below where she sank, so that when she rose to
the surface, he was enabled to reach out and grasp
her by the arm.

The altercation between the men on the bank pre-
vented them from hearing him when, with the help
of his companion, he drew the dripping form into the
boat.

With a whispered word the man surrendered Lillie
to his companion’s care, while he cautiously dipped
the oars into the water, and sent the little craft far
out into the stream, where the swift current carried
it along at a rapid pace.

“Is she coming to, Kitty 7?” the man asked, when he

ras satisfied that he had passed out of the hearing
of anybody on the bank.

“She is alive, Dick, but that is all.
do with her?’’

“Do with her!’ cried Dick, in a mock tragic tone.
“By the wooden dagger of my grandfather! I wish
she would come to her senses and tell us. Why
couldn’t she have picked ont somebody else to save
her? But she sha’n't spoil our performance, even if
she has rnined my stiffest cuffs.”

“Dick Daniels,” said Kitty, ‘‘you needn’t pretend
to be so heartless. You are just as sorry for the poor
creature as T am. And we ought to be sorry, I
ought, anyhow, for she is the victim of some wretch’s
cruelty.’

“Oh, Kitty!’ cried Dick, in an injured tone, ‘as if
you had any part in that sort of a play.”

“Well, you’re taking me away from my dear old
father, anyhow,” she half sobbed.

“But I’m going to love you better than he does,
dear. Oh,come! I'll do anything in the world for
the poor creature, but please don’t cry, Kitty darling.
Say, Kitty ! we can have her for one of the witnesses,
and then we'll take her home with us.” ~

“Home!” repeated Kitty, ruefully.

“Don’t say it in that tone,’ cried Dick. ‘Tt isn’t
much of a home for such a dear little girl as you, who
have been used to cozy firesides, and all sorts of
modern luxuries; but yon will not find it half so bad,
when you find how much love goes with it.”

“Don't think, I'm sorry, Dick, I told papa T’d
marry you, if you were ten times the actor you are.”

“You didn’t say that, Kitty?’

“Yes, I did.”

“Did you mean ten times as good an actor, dear?”
he asked.

“Oh, do be serions, Dick. Oh, Dick! she is coming
to! Now what shall we do?” , ;

“Ask her what she means by jumping into such
wet water,” replied Dick, in an undertone.

“You are in good hands, poor thing!” said Kitty to
Lillie, as the latter gave a sudden start of returning
consciousness. ‘‘We saved you from drowning. They
shall not touch you. Don’t be afraid.” if

It was such a sweet, winsonie yoice, that although
Lillie could not see the face of the speaker, she felt a
thrill of hope at her heart.

“You rescned me?” she said, faintly.

“Yes. We were out in this boat just as you jumped,

What shall we

You must.

and we picked you up.. Those wretches who were
pursuing you think you are dead.”

“T almost wish [ were,” said Lillie, sadly.

“Oh! don’t wish that. We will be kind to you, and
take you to your friends; won’t'we, Dick ?”’

“We'll do anything the lady wishes,’ said Dick,
heartily. “Only,” he added, under his breath, ‘I
wish she would let us get married first. If Kitty’s

“dear papa gets on our. track,.it will be.good-day to
this performance.”

“T have no friends,” answered Lillie.

“Well, we'll take care of you anyhow.
Dick?” said warm-hearted Kitty.
with us, if you wish.”

“Where are you going?” asked Lillie, puzzled by
the strangeness of the situation.

“Pll tell you,” broke in Dick, resting on his oars.
“We're dropping down the river, past the city, to a
little parsonage, where a clergyman is waiting to
unite me in marriage to that young lady. The elergy-
man is as good as gold, and will doall he ean for you.
And if you like, you can do us the honor of witness-
ing our marriage.”

“An elopément?” asked Lillie, wonderingly.

“Yes,” said Kitty. ‘‘Papa has an unreasonable
objection to Dick, because he is an actor.’’

“Not much of an actor, either,” muttered Dick,
who seemed too full of gayety to be able to suppress
it.

“So,” went on Kitty,‘we made up our minds to get
married ——”
teed ask his consent afterward,” interrupted

ick.

Even Lillie smiled at the tone of the jovial fellow,
and feeling that she was in good hands, she tried to
consider what would be the best thing for her to do.
But it was not easy to decide, and she was obliged
to let herself drift as fate directed. ©

‘When the parsonage was reached, she was hurried
into the house and placed in the hands of the clergy-
man’s wife, who started with surprise at her won-
derful beauty and strange plight, but who helped her
to remove her wet clothing, even while she asked
questions and listened.

Lillie told her as much as she thought was neces-
sary, having made up her mind that she would not
reveal her identity, lest it should lead to her discov-
ery by Mortimer Wallingford, whom she had grown
to fear as if he were the fiend incarnate.

The good old woman fortunately had clothing be-
longing to her daughter which fitted Lillie, and it
was not long ere Lillie was able to appear before her
kind rescuers to thank them.

Both Kitty and Dick were fairly astounded when
they looked at the. lovely face of the being they had
saved, and Kitty} taking Lillie’s hand, murmured
tearfully:

“How could anybody be wicked enough to perse-
cute one so sweet and lovely as you?’

“Maybe you don't feel well.enough to witness such
oi ove thing as a wedding right away,” said

ick,

“T feel well enough for anything,’ answered Lillie,
smiling in a sweet, sad way.

Fortunately she was strong, or the sight of the
happy face of sweet little Kitty, and the sound of
her tremulous voice in the responses might have
couipletely unnerved her, for she was painfully re-
minded of the two occasions when she had taken
part in the saine ceremony.

And there was something strange and unreal in it
to her. Her life had been passed in such a whirl of
anguish, suffering, and excitement for so many days
past that the sight of the happy, peaceful couple
standiug so serenely before the good old clergyman,
seemed hardly natural.

When the ceremony was over, and tearful little
Kitty had been kissed and congratulated, she stole
up to Lillie, who somehow seemed to her a different
iri of being from herself and Dick, and said softly
to her:

“Dick and I don’t want to know anything about
you that you don’t wish to tell us; but we infer from
what we heard this evening that yon have bitter and
cruel enemies, and we shall be glad to do anything
we can for you.”

“How good you are!” cried Lillie, her wonderful
eyes filling with tears. ‘‘I.am alone and helpless,
and Ido not know when my enemies will find me
and make my life a misery. All of my friends to
whom [ wish to go are dead, and I have no purpose
in life.”

“Come with us,” said Dick:

“T can’t do that,’’ answered Lillie. “I thank you
from the bottom of my heart, but I cannot be a bur-
den to anybody.”

“You won't be a burden,” said Kitty and Dick in a
breath.

“I'll tell you how itis," said Dick. “I am an actor,
and I am on the go all the time. Seldom more than
a week in one place. Join the company, and you
shall do anything you can, and anyhow you will be
well hidden. Will you come?”

“Please do,” begged Kitty. ‘“Ishall be lonely away
from home, and you seem like an old friend. 1 know
papa won’t forgive us fora year. He can’t hold out
any longer than that.”

“Can I do anything?” asked Lillie, thinking how
peaceful it would be to be hidden from the world.
ia cannot act. I never did such a thing in my

e.

“Pshaw !” said Dick, “If you will excuse me for
saying so, such beauty as yours would make an
audience forgive the most horrible acting.” ”

“My beauty!”
curse !”’

“Come with us and we will make it a blessing,” ex-
claimed Kitty.

Liflie thought rapidly. Why should she not accept
this offer? If itshould turn out that she could do
nothing in return for their kindness, it would always
be possible to leave them. Besides, she had consid-
erable money in her purse. Yes, she would go with
her new-found friends.

“You are very good to me,” she said. ‘I will go.”

“Good!” said Dick. ‘To-morrow we will be in

Philadelphia. a
CHAPTER XXXIX.
‘““OH, HEAVEN! MORTIMER WALLINGFORD HAS FOUND
ME!”

Won't we,
“You shall go

A year had gone by since Lillie had been rescued
from a watery grave by Dick and Kitty Daniels, and
the Daniels Dramatic Company was playing to
crowded houses in San Francisco, that independent
city which always forms its own judgments, refuses
to indorse what it does not approve, and enthusias-
tically stands sponsor for what it finds good.

It had found the Daniels Dramatic Company super-
latively good, and in consequence had crowded the
auditorium of the California Theater, where it was
playing.

In fact, the whole town was talking of nothing but
the new dramatic wonder, Goldie Lisle, whose strange
beauty, combined with an extraordinary genius, had
sent her star into the very zenith of popularity.

She was the queen of sparkling comedy, and her
laugh was the most infectious sound that ever fell on
mortal ears; though there were those who said that
no pathos ever equaled hers, so genuine and soul-
stirring did it seem.

She was the attraction of the company, and Dick
Daniels never doubted it nor failed to admit it. In-
deed, excepting for his wife, Kitty, there was no one
so sure of the genius of Goldie Lisle as he. He was
telling her so one night as they waited for the call-
bell.

“You were born for the stage,” he said. “And T
consider myself a benefactor to mankind in bringing
you to it.”

“All IT know you have taught me,” she answered.
“Without you and dear Kitty, what would my great
talent that you talk about amount to? Where would
I tind mirth to fashion a laugh, but from your happy
hearts?”

“Perhaps,” laughed Kitty, who sat listening, ‘you
take your beauty from me, since you get the music of
your laugh from Dick. Ah!” she sighed, “if you did
get that beauty from me, I wish you would let ine
have a little back again. You have enough for any
two women.”

Jillie stroked the plump hand of her friend, and
smiled sadly. for since the day she had been rescued
pe had ever been a tinge of melaneholy in her
‘smile.

If possible, she was more wondrously beautiful
than when, more than a year before, she had en-
thralled the heart of the men who had done and
suffered so much for mad love of her.

Many men had gone wild over her perfect beauty
since that time, but not one could ever approach
near enongh to get a word with her; for at her pit-
eous prayer, Dick had carefully guarded her from all
who came with messages of love on their lips.

She had found early in her life with the traveling
company, that she could give great help to her kind
friends, and as the fear of recognition wore off, she
yielded to their entreaties, and studied first small
parts, and at last began to fill the leading roles.

It was probably true that nature had titted her for
the stage, for while she had but slight impulse to
mirth in her burdened heart, she found it easy to
simulate it. She would have said that her soul was
better fitted for tragic roles, but nature gave an em-
phatic no to that, and she had found herself drifting
mae into those parts which sparkled with wit anc

MmMoer.

Her triumph had been easy, but she was shrink-
ingly modest as to her merit, and would have been
glad at any time to retire in favorof some other, She
did enjoy the acting, and, however heavy her heart
before she stepped before an andience, she was cer-
tain to immediately catch the spirit of her part, and
fairly live it.

But on this particular night sad recollections op-
pressed her. Just one year ago she had been snatched
from the arms of the man she loved.to be dragged
away by the man sne believed his murderer.

Just one year ago she had sought to escape shame
and infamy by leaping into the dark waters of the
hee river. Was it strang that her heart was
leavy?

Her kind friends knew what memories tugged at
her heart; for long ago she had told them all her sad
story, and they strove to make her think of other
things.

“Let her get before the footlights once,” said Dick
to Kitty, “and you will see how the old life will fade
away.

And so itseemed, It was a sweet play, in which

 

 

cried Lillie; “it has been my |

 

the merriment and pathos were fairly divided. In
the first part Goldie Lisle—or Lillie, as we know her
—took the part of a hoidenish tomboy, who kept the
audience in roars of laughter with her mad pranks;
butin the latter part she was a woman, touched with
a blighted love and maddened life. living in a blaze
of splendor, in which there was no heart.

In the rough garments of a rude and primitive life,
she was unrecognizable as the exquisite beauty who
burst upon the audience in the third act.

Like most true artistes on the stage, Lillie never
looked at individual faces in the auditorium. They
were nothing to her. She lived beSt in her part,
when the real world was out of it.

Had it not been for this fact, she would have seen
aman who sat listlessly through the play in its eari-
ier parts, keeping a gloomy, set face when others
laughed, and making more than.one wonder why he
came there.

Had he been asked, he could not have told. He
had drifted in with the crowds. When the intermis-
sions came, he still sat brooding darkly in his seat.

But when the third act opened on a scene of rich-
ness and splendor, he seemed to take more interest,
but little enough then. He had heard ot the surpas-
sing beauty of the principal actress, as he sat there,
and it had fallen on his ears that she would be seen
at her best in this act.

He did not notice her, when she first swept down
the stage, radiant, ravishing in her wonderful beauty;
but at the thunderous outburst of applause, he
looked up.

Then a cry escaped his lips, and his head fell back
as if he had been stricken with the palsy! His fingers
moved spasmodically, and his deep-black.eyes glow-
ered on her like living coals.

She spoke, and with a loud shriek the man rose up
and glared at her for a moment, and then turned and

ed.

Those who watched her, said she reeled under the
sudden shock of the truly demoniacal face of the man
staring at her so suddenly.

If so, she recovered herself, and went bravely
through her part. But when she saw the curtain
fall, she, too, sank on the stage, and was carried off
by Dick Daniels.

“Oh, Heaven! Mortimer Wallingford has found
! were the first words that wailiugly passed her

ips.

CHAPTER XL.

“BUT IT SEEMED AS IF DISEASE AS WELL AS MEN
HAD LEARNED TO SHUN HIM.”

Let us now go back for a moment to the time when
Mortimer Wallingford retired to his room in. the
mad-house of Doctor Sutherland.

His first act wasto lock his doors against intruders.
Then he paced the floor of the room that had been
near Es for Lillie’s prison. All his thoughts were
of her.

His face was set, his brows were knit, and in his
sloe-black eyes there gleamed a somber, evi) light.

“She is dead!” he muttered at last; ‘‘and lam her
murderer !”

He stopped his measured pacing of the floor, and
cast his eyes about him, as if he expected to see
something in the space around him.

‘Lillie! Lillie!’ he muttered, in a hoarse whisper;
if the dead can come back, why do you not come to
me? Tam not afraid tolook upon you! But, ab!
you would not come to me though you had the
power. I must go to seek you. Ay! andl will;
though to find you I must walk the same dread path
that you have gone. Iven in death you shall not
belong alone to Rupert Morgan. May the curse of
all the fiends rest heavy on his soul!”

He drew from his pocket the same vial of chloro-
form from which he had drawn to stupefy Lillie.

“There is enough,’ he muttered. ‘Ah, my darl-
ing, I love you so much that I will follow swiftly in
your footsteps. Perhaps I may win you yet.”

If there was madness in his veins, it was of a calm
and orderly sort that almost belied the terrible
gleam in his eyes. But there was even something
awful in his very calinness.

He placed the vial with its deadly potion on the
table, and drew some papers from his pocket, as he
seated himself.

He seleeted a blank sheet, which he tore from a
letter, and wroteon it with a fountain-pen which he
earried in his pocket. Then he wrote a check, which
he took from a private check-book which lay among
the other papers.

The letter and the cheek he placed on the table,
and pierced them with the blade of his penknife to
keep them in place.

Then he gathered together all his papers and threw
them into the open grate, where he set them atire
and saw them burn to ashes. He searched through
his clothes to be sure that nothing remained that he
would have destroyed, and then threw off his clothes
and lay down in the bed.

There, with the same horrible composure, he put
the vial of chloroform to his lips and drained it to
a last drop, murmuring, as he fell back on the pil-
ow:

“Lillie! Tam coming! Do not fly from me there!”

When morning came, Doctor Sutherland, who could -
be the cruelest of jailers to the unfortunate wretches
who were putin ‘his charge: bué who was the tiost-—
attentive and suavest of hosts to his patrons,
knocked at the door of Wallingford’s room. to ask
him what he would have for his breakfast.

When he received no answer he tiptoed away,
thinking his guest was asleep. But when his suin-
mons was still unanswered an hour later, and he
could not hear the faintest sound in the room, he be-
gan to.,suspect something, and tried the door.

When the door resisted, he knocked louder and
louder, until his alarm grew so great that he cried
out for one of his burly keepers. «

“Mr. Wallingford isin there, and T cannot make
him hear me,” he panted. ‘‘Knock the door in!”

The man obeyed and the doctor rushedin. There
was nothing alarming to see, but there was an odor
that was unmistakable to one of experience.

“Chloroform !”’ screamed the doctor, leaning over
Wallingford and shaking him. ‘He has committed
suicide! and in my house! Great Heaven! what
shall Ido? This will cause me no end of trouble.”

‘“‘Here’s a letter,” said the nan, gruffly.

The doctor snatched it up, instinctively clutching
the check securely. The letter was quite to the
point.

“DOCTOR SUTHERLAND :—I am going to take mylife. I
shall be dead when you find me. I wish you. if it ean be
done, to throw my body in the water off the same spot
where the young lady jumped off. The check which you
will find with this,and which is made out to you, is for
your services in the matter. A thousand dollars ought
to pay you for the trouble I shall cause you. Nobody
need know that this has taken place here: for no one has
any knowledge of where I am.

‘““MORTIMER WALLINGFORD.”

The doctor looked stupidly from the letter to the
inanimate form on the bed. Then he cried out:

“That is all very well to say, but a rich young man
doesn’t die and be forgotten so easily. If I throw
you into the water, you will be fished out by some
busybody, and as sure as fate you will be traced
here. The hackman who brought you will be sure to
reinember your face.”’

“Cut him up and burn him,” suggested his brutal
attendant. ‘He'll never know the difference now.”

“TI might do that,” said the doctor, eagerly. “It
would be hard to lose a thousand dollars that’s right
In my hands.”

He ran over to the bed and looked at Wallingford
again.

“He isn’t dead yet?” he eried.

“He will be if you let him alone,” said the man.

“That’s so, too,” said the doctor, reflectively. “If
T could only feel sure that it would never be found
out, It would be a shame, wouldn’t it, to interfere
with his wishes?”

‘ a blasted pity,’’ answered the man, with a hoarse
augh,

“T wonder if it could be called murder to let a man
die when he wants to?” queried the doctor, who
found it very hard, to lose the chance of fingering a
thousand dollars so easily, and who yet was mortally
afraid of getting within the clutches of the law.

But at that moment his wife came into the room
and demanded an explanation of the scene, and
when it was given to her, cried out:

“You fool! why should you risk the trouble of let-
ting him die here? If he wants to die so badly, let
him go jump off the bluff. Bring him to! Here, you
Jim, bring the stomach pump!” And when the man
was gone,she whispered to her husband: ‘Idiot!
don’t you see that you have the check anyhow? You
needn’t give that back. Pack him away from here
before he has time to think of the check, and you go
cash it.”

“What a woman you are!” cried the doctor in ad-
miration.

“Lucky for you I am,” was the gracious response.
“Now, don’t lose any time.”

And in fact no time was lost. Mortimer Walling-
ford had taken an overdose in his anxiety to kill
himself, and had defeated hisown purpose. He was
revived, and was dressed and put into a carriage be-
mre he was fully aware of what had been done to
lim.

Still stupid and weak and sick “from the effects of
the drug, he was taken out into the country and set
down where he could make his way to some house
it he wished, or could find some means of conveyance
to the city.

He was found in the same spot by a farmer who

yas driving by, and who, because Wallingford was
well dressed, ae and tried tolearn from him
who he was and why he was there in such a plight.

“T am sick.” was all Wallingford would say, for his
senses were gradually coming to him. .

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

——>

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A CLEVERLY CONSTRUCTED STORY,

DESCRIPTIVE OF

LOVE, INTRIGUE, AND MYSTERY,

In the new romance we are about to begin, by a
popular contributor, we have a work which is at
once

BRILLIANT, VIGOROUS,
AND CAPTIVATING.

Each chapter bristles with dramatic action, and
glows with terse and vivid descriptions of

DEEP INTRIGUE,
every event tending to enhance the interest, and all
with a definite purpose in view.
titled

ld Pastora the Actress

By BURKE BRENTFORD,

Author of ‘Florence Falkland,” ‘Torn from
Home,” “Lost in New York,” ‘A Sister's
Sacrifice,” Etc.

 

The story is en-

 

The plot is mystifying, hold, and original; ingenu-
ity of construction is evident in every chapter; and
the reader is delighted with the graceful style, vigor
of movement, and the numerous intensely exciting
scenes, all of which are depicted with

JUDGMENT, SKILL, AND VIVACITY.

The opening installment of “LA PAsTORA, THE

ACTRESS,” will be placed before our readers nezt

po—toeek.

 

THE MAN WITH A MASK,

BY HARKLEY HARKER.

 

 

“I met you on the street yesterday.”

“No?” I responded. “I, at least, did not
recognize you.”

“Of course not,” said the millionaire, “for I
wore my mask.”

“You masked in the public street?” I ex-
claimed, in genuine surprise. “You are jest-
ing.”

“Not at all. Sit down, and I will explain.”

Isunk into the voluptuous embrace of an
easy-chair in this very rich man’s reception-
room. He took another, and passed me cigars
in a silver-trimmed holder which he pulled
from his pocket; and as the smoke arose he
went on with a curious narrative of his own
personal trials and habits, something as fol-
]OWs:

“IT am supposed to be averyrich man. Well,
as you are my old boyhood friend, I don’t
mind confessing to you that I am enormously
cumbered with the cares of riches.
one rarly all, for there are few wise ones who
know better—envy me. But I am free to tell
you that there aresome things about such vast
wealth which are very uncomiortable; and
they are not generally known, either. For
instance: I never can walk the streets of my
own city like other men. My face has so often
appeared in cartoons and photographs that
everybody who has ever seen an illustrated
newspaper would instantly recognize me. You
ask what of that? Why, at every street corner
I should be halted by beggarly wretches who
want alms. I cannot go from door to door in
Wall street but some struggling operator
button-holes me with a long string of ques-
tions for my views on this and that stock. My
face, in the open street, disturbs values. My
presence in a broker’s office produces an ex-
citement to such a degree that I am forced to
do everything by proxy. If I go through the
public thoroughfare on foot, I advance at a
snail’s pace. It is a simple fact that I am not
at liberty to move about among my fellow-men
as ordinary mortals do. Why, if it were
known that I wanted to purchase a pair of
mules, the price of the mules would go up
twenty-five per cent. The result is that I
never purchase in person even a box of cigars;
it is all done by agents.”

This vastly rich man went on to tell me that
men lay in wait for him at the door of his
church with subscription papers, or stood
watching to pounce upon him as he walked to
his daughter’s door just up the avenue. He
said that it was to escapethis army of beggars
that he had of late years used a close carriage
constantly. He found, however, that he was
actually growing disused to his own legs; was
suffering for the want of exercise upon his
feet. He rode to his oftices, only three blocks
away; rode to church, but two blocks away;
rode to the doors of his children’s residences,
thougb not one of them was five minutes’
walk from his own palatial portals. He
described to me the longings for a good old-
fashioned run on the streets, such as he used
to take when a boy; it was like the pinings of
a paralytic, or a bed-ridden invalid. He sin-
cerely envied the homeless and disregarded
vagabond, who was free to stroll where he
would through the world, no man noting. He
coveted the unrestraint of the humble citizen
who walked under his grand windows, arm-
in-arm with a wife; or the happy freedom of
his neighbors who paced the avenue on Sab-
bath afternoons, accompanied by the frolic-
some feet of their little ones.

“Tf I were to be seen out walking like that,
my grandchildren at my side, beggars and
business men would intercept us every hun-
dred feet. I should be forced to take refuge

All men—.

till the babes could hail a
hack for me. Then, too,” he continued, “I
havs enemies. One does not get up on the
ladder where I am _ without having pushed
down a goodly number of othermen. Iam
afraid to walk the streets. You may smile,
may think I am crazy; but, sir, more than
once a very rich man has been set upon by
some mad fool, threatened with dynamite,
and even pounded in the open day of this
metropolis. My daily mail is full of menacing
letters. I have been dogged from the carriage
to the door-mat. No; I don’t take my chances
of being kidnapped and held for a ransom.”

In short, this very rich man at last had hit
upon the expedient of a mask for appearing
abroad. He had consulted one of the best cos-
tumers in the city, anda mask had been manu-
factured for him which was a complete dis-
guise and utterly beyond detection.

“Look here,” and he whipped it out froma
drawer and donned it before my eyes. “I have
had and enjoyed this harmless disguise—you
see it is very perfect—for three of the happiest
months of my late years. With it I can go to
the theater, and no one ogles me, nor points
me out as being the richest man in the coun-
try. No army of obsequious fools and lick-
spittles cringe and fawn upon me now as I
enter a hotel, each one anxious to lie down
under my feet—in hopes of getting a tip of
five dollars. No dead beats—pardon the slang
—lift their greasy hats to me, and grin and
scrape like old acquaintances, or seem affronted
as fail to recognize them; none of all that
when I walk abroad masked. If I seat myself
in a horse-car, men do not move away from
me now, as if afraid te touch me. [am a man
among men. I mingle with my kind without
being treated like a demi-god. I find my fellow-
beings willing to talk with me. I hear some-
thing else besides this ceaseless flatterv, flat-
tery, flattery, with which a known millionaire
is everywhere treated. It is good for my man-
ners, which were becoming very overbearing.
It is good for my disposition, which was being
spoiled. Every now and then, when I have my
mask on, I hear very unwholesome thingssaid
about my own selfishness. A mechanic nearly
pushed me off the sidewalk, honest fellow,
only yesterday, because I forgot myself, and
was swinging along at my old lordly gait,
monopolizing the whole space. As I begged
his pardon I laughed, all inside, to detect a
workman in my own shape.

“Oh, cursed be riches, when they are so
great that one stands solitary, without equals
and companions among his kind! Cursed be
a palace like this, which is battered, from roof
to foundatioon, by the envious glances, the
cursing glances, the sorrowing glances of nigh
a whole city-full. Cursed be riches, which
attract human miseries as molasses draws flies.
Because I am rich I have learned how poor
this world is—for the world comes to me with
its story, over and over again, hoping that I
will help. Great God! It poisons my cup,
my bread, my air, the sorrows of a world!
None but arich man knows what God’s ear
hears of groaning want in millions of prayers.
So, to escape a little, I wear a mask.”

BUTTERED SIDE DOWN.

BY KATE THORN.

in some area-wa

 

 

As a child, our experience always was to
have our bread fall buttered side down.

And as we have lived along, ‘year after year,
we find the experience of our tender years
following us constantly, and everything gen-
erally falls “buttered side down.” ae

Did you ever have a plant which you cher-
ished with more than ordinary care and fond-
ness, and which you expected would, by and
by, reward your pains by its wealth of bloom?
If so, have you not found that if ill-luck befell
any of your plants, it was sure to blight this
particular pet first? ;

Does the cat knock down and break a vase?
Is it not always the one you especially prized?
The gift of some dead friend, perhaps, and
valued above gold on that accuunt.

Have you soiled, or greased, or torn one of
your dresses? Is it not the very one you liked
the best—in which you knew you looked the
sweetest, and which fitted you to perfection?

The pet lamb of the flock ‘is the first to be
torn by dogs; the sprightliest and prettiest
kitten is the one to be drowned in the well.
The hawk pounces on the whitest and daintiest
chicken, and the cow which gives the richest
milk is the very one to get suffocated in the
mire. Whatever we fix our affections or our
fancies upon, is the first tobe taken away from
us. Itseems to be arule of the management
of this world, that nothing shall be satisfac-
tory.

The fairest and brightest child of the family
is the first to be laid in the grave-yard—then
most useful members of society die first; and
if any shocking tragedy, or great calamity,
falls upon a community, it invariably falls
upon some man or woman, who, in the opin-
ion of society, has least deserved it.

The best men lose their property and die in
almshouses; children who have the strictest
religious training often develop into subjects
for the jail and the gallows—clergymen’s chil-
dren are notorious for their disregard of all
good things—and most of our defaulters, and
swindlers, and stock gamblers, are men who
make, at least on the outside, a show of Chris-
tianity.

The hopes that we cherish most always fail
us! The anchor on which we depend most for
security is soonest dragged from its moorings
by the storm of life. he influences to which
we have looked confidently for advancement,
are certain to prove powerless; and thesuccess
which we gain by the labor of a life-time,
turns often to ashesin our grasp! And why is
this? Everybody asks the question. The undis-
ciplined hearts asks it continually. The skep-
tic asks it. The good man, who has no spirit
of. resignation in his breast, asks it most of
all. Wedonot:know. No man living knows.
It is one of God’s mysteries, and wise though
many profess to be in matters of this kind,
there has never lived, nor will there ever live,
aman whocan explain the hidden things of
the Almighty.

The trials, and crosses, and disappointments
of life must be met, and the less we fret over
‘them the easier they are to bear. And by the
time a person has reached middle life he be-
comes used to the worry of things, and he can
stand calmly by, and see his very largest and
nicest piece of bréad and butter fall “buttered
side down.”

 

@

PROVERBIAL PIG.

BY JOSH BILLINGS. .

 

 

 

Az the white rose wakens intu buty, so dus
the white Pig cum tu gladden us.

Hiz ears are like the lilac leaf, played upon
bi the young zephurs at evenntide; his silka-
ness is the woof ov buty, and his figger is the
outline ov lovlaness.

His food is white nectar, drawn from the
full fountain ov affecshun.

He waxes fatter, and more slik, evra da,
and hangs from the buzzum ov his muther
like an image ov alabastur.

He laffeth at forms, and curleth his tale still
clusser, as his feast goeth on, then he riseth
with gladness, and wandereth with his kin-
dred, beside the still waters. :

His brothers and sisters are az like him as
flakes ov snow, and all the day long, amung
the red klover, and beneath the white thorn,
he maketh his joy, and leadeth a life arkadian.

His words are low musik, and his language
the untutored freshness ov natur.

His pastime is the history ov innersence, and

 

 

his lessure is eleganse.

He walketh whare grase leadeth, and gam-
bles tew the dallianse ov dewy fragrance.

He gathereth the straws in his mouth, and
hasteneth awa on errants ov gladness.

He listeneth tu the reproof of hiz parent;
his ackshuns are the laws ov perliteness, and
his logick is the power ov instinkt.

His datime is pease and his evening is gen-
tle forgitfullness.

As he taketh on years, he loveth kool plases,
and delveth in liquids, and stirreth the arth
tew ‘a fatness, and painteth hisself in dark
Sut eaee a reffuge from flize, and the torments
ov life.

He forgetteth his parents, and bekumeth his
own master, and learneth the mistery ov food,
and groweth hugely.

Men gaze at his porkyness, and kount his
valiu bi pounds, and Jay in wate for him, and
sacrifise him, and give his flesh salt for its

safety.
This is Pig life.

COUSIN JENNIE’S STORY.

BY MARY D. COLBY.

 

 

 

“Cousin Jennie, go with us to the concert
to-night, please. We can’t go alone, and we
want to hear Madame —— sing, so much,”
said pretty Minnie Norton, a world of entreaty
in her voice.

“To-morrow night, girls, if all is well. You
know this is Wednesday night, my dears.”

“Ob!. I forgot. That stupid temperance
association meets to-night. But why can’t
you miss it just for once?” pleaded Minnie,
the least perceptible pout on her rosy lips.

“TI don’t see what you find in those coarse

men and women so very attractéive, Cousin
Jennie,” added Carrie. “I don’t believe any-
thing short of a tornado or an earthquake
would keep her Bway. Min.”

Mrs. Minturn looked up smiling from the
little sock she was knitting to the fair faces
of her twin cousins, younger than herself by
ten years, and said:

“If you knew how much I have to thank
those ‘coarse men and women’ for, as you call
them, you would not wonder that I find their
company attractive. Dear brothersand sisters
they are, and always have been to me, and as
such I regard them.”

“Why, what have they done so wonderful
for you, Cousin Jennie? Tell us some of your
experience to compensate for the concert we
shall lose through oe to-night” said Carrie,
taking up the mate to the blue and white sock
Mrs. Minturn held, and seating herself at her
cousin’s feet, Minnie being already perched
on the wide window-sill, the shadow not yet
entirely gone from her fair face. ,

Cousin Jennie paused a moment, a shade of
sadness crossing her face, as if the history she
was about to relate was a painful one, and
then said:

“T will tell you, girls, what they have done
for me, although in telling you I shall have to
speak of things which I pray Heaven you may
never experience. The story is a sad one, but
it may do you. good.

“I was twenty years old when I married
Howard Minturn. I had been engaged to him
two years, and no girl ever went to the altar
with more faith in the man by her side than
I did, that beautiful June day ten years ago.
My young friends made a marriage-bell of
beautiful white flowers, and hung it in the
door way, and the little church was a perfect
bower of evergreens and blossoms.:: - +° —

“Father gave me this cottage for his gift,
andold Aunt Maria furnished it throughout,
and here, after a week’s trip, we settled, quiet
and happy.

“We had been married eighteen months
when our Lily was born. I need not tell you
how proud we were of our baby, for you know
how young couples invariably act over their
first child, and. ave_.ware no. exception to the
general rule. Lily had her father’s eyes
and hair, and was a ‘winsome bonnie lassie’
and the first word that passed her little
lips was ‘ —

“T was roc oe her to sleep one night, when
I heard Howard’s step on the gravel walk,
and in a moment he was in the room. I
motioned to him to be silent, and he stole on
tiptoe to my side and bent down to kiss the
little face on my arm. In doing so his face
was close to mine, and I smelled his breath.
He had been drinking—drinking liquor, too,
and trying to conceal it from me, for with the
scent of the brandy was also thatof cardamom
seeds—I have hated them ever since.

“He went quietly down stairs, and I sat
there as ifinadream. It had never occurred
to me that Howard could drink. What! my
noble, handsome husband a drunkard? The
very thought was terrible. What would the
reality be? I knew what often followed this
first social glass (for I was sure it was his
first), and I must try to save him. I laid Lily
in her crib, knelt down and prayed for divine
help, and then went down to the parlor.

“T need not tell what passed there. It was
the old story of meeting an old friend and
drinking with him. He promised that it
should he his last glass, and he had never
broken a promise to me in his life; and yet I
went to my rest that night with a heavy
heart and dark foreboding of the future.

“It was not his last glass. Night after
night he came home with that sickening scent
of liquor about him, sometimes a little stupid,
but always cheerful and kind.

“One night he came home as he had never
come before, and when Lily ran up to him for
her usual kiss, he pushed her from him with
such force that she fell, hitting her head
against the table and bruising it severely.
When I remonstrated with him he only said:

“<Tf you don’t want the brat hurt worse than
that, keep her away from me.’

“He ate no supper, but went immediately to
his room, and when I went up he was lying
on the bed in a heavy, drunken sleep.

“No one but those who have experienced it
can know what I suffered that night. It was
all clear to me now. Liquor was changing
my idol from a kind husband and an affec-
tionate father toa madman. I prayed God to
save him—by any means He would, but only
to save him. e heard my prayers, and
answered it, but in a way I least expected.

“Weeks passed in this terrible way. Some-
times he would come home near midnight and
give me ten minutes to get myself and the
‘brat’ (as he always called our child when he
was in that condition) out of the house,
threatening to kill us both if we staid where
he was any longer. Many times I caught the
baby in my arms, and wrapping a large shawl
round me, went at that late hour over the
long bridge and round the rocks to the lonely
river-road leading to my father’s house,
Sometimes he would bring three or four of his
companions home with him, and I would have
to build a fire and prepare supper for them at
that late hour, and many times morning
dawned before I closed my eyes in sleep.

“Father wanted me to leave him, but had I
not taken him for ‘better or for worse’ till
death should part us, and could I break that
solemn vow? Then, too, my faith in God
never wavered. I-believed He would save my
husband, and He did.

“All this time his business was neglected,
and we were becoming very poor. e took
many articles of furniture and sold them, and
even my clothing was sold to purchase the
fiery fluid that was sending soul and body to
destruction. Finally I becameso reduced that
I had but one dress to wear, Then came the
crisis. .

“The ninth of June, six years ago (it was
the fourth anniversary of our wedding-day),
he came home at midnight, crazy. I shall
never believe that he did that night’s deed in
his right mind. It had been my custom to
sit up till he came, but that night I had gone
to bed early, leaving the door unlocked. I
must have slept two hours, when I was awak-
ened by a heavy hand falling upon my shoul-

 

der, and I heard my husband’s voice bidding

 

 

CRSA THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. ae VOL. 47—No 29.

 

 

me dress and leave the house in fifteen min-
utes. I dressed myself quickly, and then went
to the baby’s crib to wrap her up and take her
with me. But he would not let me touch her,
When I refused to go without her, he dragged
me by force to the front door and pushed me
out. WhetherI fainted or was stunned by
falling I do not know, but when consciousness
came I was in the house of one of my neigh-
bors, and the warm sunshine was streaming
intomy room. I heard kind Mrs. Lee say to
the doctor: ‘How shall we tell her,’ and the
answer was: ‘God help her.’

“LT lay there with my eyes closed, a terrible
dread stealing over me, What had they to
tell me? Was Howard dead? or had he set
fire to the house in his drunken madness and
made us homeless? Ah! little did I dream
what it was.

“IT begged Mrs. Lee to tell me, and to tell
me the truth, whatever it was. She told me,
breaking it to me as gently as she could; but,
oh! it was terrible. Lily, my baby, was dead,
and her father had killed her.

“There were long weeks of fever, and delir-
ium afterward, but one afternoon, when I[ was
able to sit up, they told me all. A policeman
going by early in the ora and noticing
the open door and no signs of life about tke
house, had entered, and going up stairs,
found my darling upon the floor, her little
throat cut from ear to ear and the carpet
soaked with her precious life-blood. Near her
lay her father, his hand still clutching the
knife that had done the awful deed. He was
immediately taken into custody, and had been
there ever since.

“How I longed to go to him; but I was _ too
weak, I had prayed God to save him in His
own way, but how terrible was that way.
Could He not have saved him without the
sacrifice of that precious baby-life? Might He
not have given my husband to me clothed and
in his right mind without sending this afflic-
tion to me? Yet, through all this sorrow
were His precious promises fulfilled.

“It was just at this time that that noble
band of men and women, the ‘Sons and Daugh-
ters of Temperance,’ came to our help.
Efforts were put forth to prove that he did
the deed while affected with momentary insan-
ity, nor was it difficult to prove this All who
had known Howard Minturn before he yielded
to the tempter testified to his good character
both as a man and father, and one day in
August the prison doors were opened and my
husband came to me, not the gay, thoughtless
man he was when I married him, but a sub-
dued, tender, affectionate man, with a sprink-
ling of gray hairs in the brown, that were not
there when I saw him last.

“The night he was released he walked with
me to the cemetery, and over our darling’s

rave he took a solemn oath never to touch a
rop of liquor.

“You asked me, Carrie, what the temper-
ance people have done for me. I was hungry,
and they fed me; I was naked, and they
clothed me; we were poor, and they minis-
tered unto us. Througha!l] that dreadful sick-
ness that attacked Howard after he stopped
drinking, they were with him day and night.
They started him in his business, kept him
from temptation as far as_ possible, and
strengthened him with their prayers. Then
they threw around him the bands of their
simple yet beautiful fraternity, giving him
the hand of Ne love, and welcoming
him to a place among them. All that we are
to-day Wwe owe, through God, to the ‘Sons of
Temperance,’ those ‘coarse‘men: and women’
as you have called them, Carrie.” ~ "- :

“Let’s join them when we get home, Car-
rie,” said Minnie, wiping the tears from her
cheeks. a eu

But.Carrie, her head in Cousin Jennie’s lap,
was weeping so she could not answer.

JENNY CLARE'S ROMANCE,

BY WELDON CLARKE.

 

 

 

 

Some years ago one of the best-known men
in Glasgow was James Lambert, who was
famous in that northern capital of Great
Britain for having saved the lives of over
forty people from the River Clyde, who had
either fallen in by accident or who attempted
suicide. In one or two instances he came very

near losing his own life in his gallant strug:
gle to save that of other persons. Oneof those
whom he had saved from asuicide’s grave was
Jenny Clare, a young and handsome girl, in
humble life, whose after-history has lately
come to the public ear.

James Lambert, then a middle-ged man,
was walking by the river-side one evening,
when he chanced to overhear a dispute be-
tween two persons, who proved to be a young
man and woman. The latter was reproaching
her deceiver with emg false to her, and
threatening that unless he agreed to keep his
promise and marry her she would drown her-
self.

Maddened by the indifference of the young
man, she had just thrown herself into the
Clyde as Lambert came up. Heleaped in after
her, and succeeded, after a severe struggle,
in bringing her safe to shore. But the girl
was determined to take her own life, anda
moment after jumped into the river a second
time.

Again Lambert dove for her, and now,
crazed as it were, the girl actually fought
with him in the water, until he was obliged
to let her head go under long enough for her
to become partially insensible before he could
succeed in bringing her to shore.

As he landed the girl, he observed her be-
trayer, who had been an indifferent witness of
the whole scene, and handing the care of the
girl over to a friend, who came up to the spot
at this juncture, he devoted his attention to
the young rascal who was the cause of all this
trouble. He upbraided him soundly for his
guilt, and was in turn roundly abused for
interfering in what the fellow said was none
of his business.

“You have stolen her good name, and turned
her upon the mercy of the world,” said Lam-
bert, “and now you begrudge her life, and
would be glad to see her sink to the bottom of
the Clyde.”

The young fellow reiterated that Lambert
had meddled in what was none of his busi-
ness, and threatened to punish the preserver
of the girl upon the spot.

All wet and dripping as he was, this was
too much for the brave Lambert, and he
accepted the fellow’s challenge to fight him
then and there. The two men were about
equally matched in size, but Lambert felt
thrice his usual strength in the justice of his
cause, and thrashed the young fellow within
an inch of his life, actually pummeling him
so that a fit of sickness ensued before he re-
covered sufficiently to appear in his usual
haunts. ' :

As to the girl, she suffered enough from the
quart or two of Clyde water which she swal-
lowed to be satisfied with that sort of experi-
ment, and there was no danger of her ever
trying it again, as she told honest James Lam-
bert, who took her under his especial care and
keeping until she had quite recovered from the
unfortunate affair.

Time passed on, the girl repented of her evil
ways, and especially of her association with
him who had so basely deceived her. His

unishment had so mortified him that he left

tlasgow for Edinburgh to avoid the frequent
references which he encountered relative to
the matter.

The girl was a handsome and good lass at
heart, and soon after she found, in a worthy
and industrious man, an. honest and thrifty
husband. Her early misfortune—she was but
eighteen then—was known to but two indi-
viduals, and in her new relationship of wife
and mother it was not heard of at all. One
day the scamp who had first embittered her
young life, hearing of her happy domestic
situation, caused a hint to be thrown out for

 

her husband's ears, to the effect that James

) Lambert had once saved her from a suicide’s

grave in the Clyde.

The husband went to James Lambert, but
he kept the wife’s secret. The cause of her
attempted suicide was never suspected by the
two or three other persons who knew about
her rescue. The villain, who was the only
really guilty party, went to sea at that time,
and was never heard of again. Jenny Clare's
domestic life has been a happy one, though
her early experience was so tragic,

Correspondence.

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS.

te Communications addressed to this department will
not be noticed unless the names of responsible parties are
signed to them asevidence of the good faith of the writers,

 

 

A. P. RR. Brooklyn, N. ¥Y.—So many “interesting
things” have been written about the Bible that it is
difficult to decide what to select. We can only say in
brief that the most celebrated writers have acknowledged
their indebtedness to the Bible; among them the Ameri-
can statesman, Daniel Webster, who, having been com-

mended for his eloquence, said, ‘If anything I have ever
said or written deserves the feeblest encomiums of my
fellow-countrymen, I have no hesitation in declaring that
for their partiality Iam indebted, solely indebted, to the
daily and attentive perusal of the Holy Scriptures, the
source of all true poetry and eloquence, as well as of all
good and all comfort.” John Quincy Adams, in a letter
to his son in 1811, says, “I have for many years made it a
practice to read through the Bible once every year. My
custom is to read four or five chapters every morning
immediately after rising from my bed. It employs about
an hour of my time, ana seems to methe most suitable
manver of beginning the day. In whatsoever light we
regard the Bible, whether with reference to revelation,
to history, orto morality, it is an invaluable and inex-
haustible mine of knowledge and of virtue.” Sir William
Jones, of England, who was familiar with twenty-seven
languages, wrote his opinion of the Bible on the Jast leaf
of one belonging to him, in these terms: “I have regu-
larly and attentively read these Holy Scriptures, and I
am of opinion that this volume, independently of its
Divine origin, contains more sublimity and beauty, more
pure morality, more important history, and finer strains
of poetry and eloquence, than can be collected from all
other books, in whatever age or language they may have
been composed.” -William Wilberforce, the English
philanthropist, whose income was largely devoted to
charity, said, ‘‘I think religious people do not read the
Bible enough. Books about religion may be useful
enough, but they will not do instead of the simple truths
of the Bible.” xtracts, similar to the foregoing might
be multiplied to an indefinite extent, but our kimited
space in this department will not admit of any more.

L. P. W., Newburgh, N. Y.—One of the longest balloon *
voyages on record was made by M. Nadar’s great balloon,
“Le Geant,” which ascended from Paris on October, 1863,
with nine passengers, and descended the next day, in a
gale of wind, near Nienburg, Hanover, having traversed

seven hundred and fifty miles in seventeen hours. The
descent was of a perilous character, and several persons
were injured by jumping from the car, The balloon rose to
an altitude of 15,000 feet. On November 7th, 1836, the
celebrated English aeronant,Charles Green, accompanied
by Monck Mason and Robert Holland, left London in a
balloon, and landed the next morning near Welburg
in the Duchy of Nassau. The time occupied in the
journey was eighteen hours, and the distance traveled
upward of five hundred English miles. The greatest
height attained in this voyage was 12,000 feet. In 1849,
Arban, a French balloonist, made the passage of the
Alps, going from Marseilles to Turin, four hundred miles,
in eight hours. Mr. Coxwéil, the English aeronaut, and
Mr. Glaisher, the eminent meteerologist, made a number
of high ascensions together. ‘The most remarkable of
these took place September 9, 1852, when they attained
the greatest altitude ever reached by man. Mr.Glaishier
estimates this to have been between 36,000 and 37,000 feet,
or about seven miles. His last observation, made before
the greatest elevation was reached. showed an altitude of
29,000 feet. He then became insensible, and so remained
for the space of about seven minutes, the balloon mean-
while ascending untilit was checked by Mr. Coxwell,
who seized the valve-rope by his teeth, as his hands
were helpless. September 15, 1804, M. Gay Lussac
reached a height of 22,977 feet, his ascension having been
made for scientific purposes. Blanchard claimed to have
ascended to a height of 32,000 feet, and Margat, Garnerin,
Robertson, and others have claimed to outdo this, but in
most cases their balloons were too small to have been
able to carry them sohigh. Messrs. Rush and Green
ascended to an altitude of over 25,000 feet.

Lillie N., Newark, N..J.—1st. .If you refer.to.a kind of
tart apple called the pippin, the word probably comes
from pip, a spot, because of the spots on its skin. Shakes-
peare alludes to it thus, ‘‘We will eat a last year’s pippin.”
The name in this country is given to several kinds of
apples, as to the Newtown pippin, the Summer Pippin,
and other varieties. 2d. To makea baked plum pudding,
take twelve eggs, two quarts of milk, one tablespoonful
of rose-water, half a pound of seeded raisins, the grating
of one small orange, and sugar to taste. Beat the eggs
very light; then add the sugar, milk, and other ingre-
dients. Cover the top with bread well buttered (the but-
tered side up), which press into the milk, that the top

/ May become saturated. Grate alittle nutmeg over it.

Set the pudding dish into a shallow pan of hot water;
and bake ina quick oven. Assoon as the custard be-
comes solid, itis done. 3d. To make an omelet, take six
eggs, one gill of cream, and two tablespoonfuls of grated
lam. Beat the eggs very thick, add gradually the cream
and ham, and pepper and salt to taste. Have ready a pan
of butter boiling hot, pour the omelet into it, and fry a
light brown. The moment it is done, it should be sent to
the table. Garnish the dish with curled parsley.

A. M#L., Worcester, Mass.—The White House in Wash-
ton was commenced in October, 1792. The Commissioners
of Washington City, a sort of board of public works in
those days, offered a premium for competitive plans, and

the award was given to James Hoban. The building is
said to have been modeled after the palace of the Duke of
Leinster. It isone hundred and seventy feet front by 86
feet deep. It has the appearance of being built of
white marble, but the material is freestone painted white,
with Ionic portico, comprehending two stories crowned
with a balustrade. In 1814 it was burned by the British.
It was repaired under the supervision of the original ar-
chitect, James Hoban. It was first occupied by Presi-
dent Adams in 1800. The grounds lie between 15th and
17th streets, and extend to the Potomac River, comprising
about 75 acres, of which about 20 are inclosed as the Presi-
dent’s private grounds, which are handsomely laid out,
and contain a fountain. The distance from the White
House to the Capitol is about a mile and a half.

M.M. S8S., Mishawaka, Ind.—ist. The figures referred to,
indicating a certain time, are simply the fancy of the
manufacturer. Other figures are used by those in the
same business. 2d. The first book printed in this country
was the Bay Psalm Book. It appeared in Cambridge,
Mass., in 1640. Though not strictly original, it became
very popular both in America and Great Britain. 3d. No
record of the date. 4th. The three balls sign used by
pawnbrokers was taken from that of the Italian bankers,
generally called. Lombards, who were the first to open
loan-shops in England for the relief of temporary dis-
tress. The greatest of the Lombards were the celebrated
and eventually princely honse of the Medici of Florence.
They bore pillson their shield, and those pills, as usual
then, were gilded in allusion to the professional origin
from which they had derived the name of Medici; whence
their agents In England and other countries placed their
eee bearings over their doors, and others adopted
the sign.

Salt.—The training-school for the merchant marine in
the United States, on board the school-ship St. Mary’s, is
under the control of the Board of Education of this city.
We suggest that you write without delay to the Board
named, and solicit full information upon the subject of
your inquiry. No salary is givento the boys; on the
contrary, the applicant, if accepted, must pay $30 for his
outfit; but all other expenses he is exempt from. During
the summer along cruise is taken, sometimes extending
as far as hea 9 The circular which will probably be
sent to you will contain all the important details of the
nautical profession. Oral instruction is given on board
to insure an interest in the studies pursued. The officers
‘of the school-ship are detailed from the United States
Navy. ‘The St. Mary’s when in port is stationed in the
harbor or at the foot of East 23d street.

John, Omaha, Neb.—It is not possible for us to answer
questions, as often requested, in our “next number.” As
we go to press two weeks in advance of publication day,
a query which reaches us the day after going to press,
cannot be answered in a shorter period than three weeks. °*
All letters containing questions for this column are
answered in the order in which they are received.

A. R. B., Annapolis, Md.—The derivation of the term
troy weightis uncertain. It is supposed to have refer-
ence to the monkish name given to London, of Troy
Novant. It was in 1828 thata standard troy pound in
brass brought from England was declared by act of Con-
gress the legal standard of the United States mint.

May Fleming, Augusta, Ga.—There are albinos among
animals, birds, etc., and the examples are the white
elephant, white mouse, white blackbird, and white crow:
The word comes from the Latin albus, white. The eyes
of human albinos are weak in the day-time, but they can
see better at night than other persons.

A. S., Middlebourne, W. Va.—ist. To make modeling
clay, knead dry clay with glycerine instead of water, and
a@ mass will be obtained which will continue moist and
plastic for along time. 2d, Great Britain has the largest
navy. :

A. P. R., Indianapolis, Ind.—The smallest watch we
have ever read of is said to be in a Swiss museum. It is
three-sixteenths of an inch in diameter. It is inserted in
the top of a pencil-case.

H. J. R. J., Petersham, Mass.—No recipe that would
be of practical value to you. If you wish it, we can
recommend a book on the subject.

M. E. E.. St. Louis, Mo.—The’salary of the Governor of
Rhode Island is now $3,000. It was formerly $1,000.

Old Read-r, Cincinnati, Ohio.—The name of the pianist
Paderewski is pronounced Pad-er-effs-kee.

James C. H. Kingman, Kan.—Tho song-book named is

 

out of print.

 

 

 

 

 

 

4

%
2
2

 
’ know the gown as well as you.

 

wg

 

  

 

 

 

- =

VOL, 47—No. 29. eh THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

 

 

MARRIED LIFE.

BY W. E. H. LECKY.

Two flowers blossom on one stem,
Two streamlets mingling run ;
And love and habit blending make

Two lives as truly one.

One in each interest, hope, and fear,
Whatever chance betide ;

One in affection’s bond, though two,
To comfort, strengthen, guide.

‘When passion’s torrid zone is past,
Hearts only draw more near;

And silent sympathies of love
Strike deeper year by year

When every little fault is seen,
And every fleeting mood,

And all the nobler impulses
Are shared and understood.

Yet still our secret, separate dread
Will sometimes cloud each mind;

Ah! which must face this cruel world
When left alone behind?

2>>+>4<>
~or->

>

THIS STORY WILL NOT BE

PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.

BEAUTIFUL VIOLA,
The Cloak-Maker’s Model;

OR,

DID SHE MARRY FOR LOVE?

By JULIA EDWARDS,

Author of ‘‘Tempted to Leave Her Lover,”

‘““He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not,” ‘* The

Little Widow,” ‘* Beautiful, But Poor,” Ete.

 

 

( BEAUTIFUL VIOLA” was commenced in No. 25. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.]

 

CHAPTER XII.
“MR. WAINWRIGHT IS MY LOVER, AND I
WISH TO LEAVE NOTHING UNDONE
TO PLEASE HIM.”
A liveried footman stood in the sewing-room
of little Miss Kane, waiting while she read a
note that had been sent by his mistress.

“Will Miss Kane please to come to my house at
once, and give me her servicesin dressing. My maid
has left me just when I most need her; and, besides,
no one but yourself can adjust my gown as it should
be. STELLA MONTGOMERY.”

It was a curt, haughty note, and it made the
keen eyes of the little dressmakersnap again
with anger, but she could not, afford to be

‘saucy in return to so wealthy-a patron, and

she would have gone in a moment if she had
not already engaged to go elsewhere.

“How annoying!” she exclaimed to Viola.
“See what it says.”

Viola took the note and read it over, start-
ing as if she had been stung by aserpent when
her eyes fell on the name at the bottom. Her
first impulse was to fling the note from her,
and beg that she might never again see that
name—the name of the woman who had the
love she had once believed hers.

Then a new and sudden impulse seized her

and held her. She would see this woman who
had won the love of Douglas. She would see

what it was:that he liked most.in the woman |:

he would wed.

“Let me go,” she said, byesily. her face pal-
lid with her terrible emotion, but her brown
eyes glowing with unutterable things. “I

not be as good, but I will do my best.”
“Wouldn’t you mind, dearie?” asked the
dressmaker, glad if she could do something
not to lose one of her best customers.
“T would like to do it,” answered Viola, in-

tensely. ,

It was a wonder the keen, loving eyes did
not note the agitation in the sweet face, but
the little dressmaker was too full of other
things to notice anything.

re he carriage is at the door,” said the foot-
man. :

Viola, her heart beating as if it would leap
from her bosom, followed him down, and per-
mitted herself to be shut in the luxurious car-

riage.

More than once during the ride she felt that
she could not go on, and was tempted to jump
out and return home, but always the burning
desire to look in the face that was dear to
Douglas, held her steadfast. -

For the last time she thought of turning
back, after she had knocked at the door of the
room that had been pointed out to her as Miss
Montgomery’s. Then she heard an imperious
voice bid her enter, and with a pale, set face,
she turned the knob and stood face to face with
the proud beauty.

“Who are you?” were the words that fell
a the red lips of the dark-eyed, haughty

irl.

- For a moment Viola stood and gazed at her
rival, noting the glossy raven hair, the flash-
ing black eyes, the carmine lips, the haughty
carriage, and the superb arms and neck, for
the young lady was yet in dishabille.

“IT come,” she answered, faintly, for in her
modesty she felt that she was far outshone by
this radiant creature, and she was sick at
heart, “I come from Miss Kane, who had
already been engaged by some one else.”

“It took you long enough to say it,” snapped
the irate beauty.

“T helped to make the gown,” said Viola,
“and I will do my best.”

“Well, don’t waste any more time staring,
then. I should think Miss Kane would put
anybody else off to please me. I don’t believe
she makes as much money out of any other
two customers.”

She did not look closely enough at her new
attendant to see how exquisitely beautiful she
was, but she very soon became aware that in
getting her instead of Miss Kane, she had
been very fortunate; for the deft, nimble fin-

ers aided a rare good taste to make the proud
Beauty more beautiful.

Who could have guessed how near to break-
ing was the heart behind the sweet, pathetic
face? And ah! how bitter it was to be adorn-
ing the beauty that his eyes would drink in.

yO et the very thought—strange contra-
diction !—that his eyes would dwell on the
beauty she helped to enhance, gave a certain
sad pleasure to the task.

She suggested things Miss Montgomery had
not thought of and tried new combinations,
until the spoiled beauty cried out:

“You are a treasure! You must go with me
to the ball, and ee the finishing touches to
my toilet. You have such good taste !”

‘Oh, I could not go,” cried Viola, thinking
she would meet Douglas there.

“But you must,” said the imperious beauty.
“Handsome Douglas Wainwright will be
there, and I wish to look my best for his sake.
What is the matter with you? You will tear
that delicate lace. If you are ill, sit down.
But you must go with me. Mr. Wainwright
is my lover, and I wish to leave nothing
undone to please him.”

“Would—would I be seen by anybody?” fal-
tered Viola, faintly.

“Of course not. But you could see every-

ou wished to. But you must go.”
will go,” said Viola.
She would see Douglas once more, Yes, she
would see him, even though it were to kill
her; and she almost believed it would kill her
to see the arms that had drawn her to his
breast, clasped about the waist of another,
and that other the woman he _ loved the best
of all the world. And there began the true
tragedy of her young life.

 

CHAPTER XIII.
“WHERE HAD SHE SEEN THAT DARK,
CYNICAL FACE BEFORE @”

The great ball at the Byron mansion was
not one of those vulgar crushes, at which no

——

My taste will |:

 

 

one can dance for lack of room, but was a very
select affair.

The guests had all been carefully chosen,
and were the very elite of Now York society.
No one who had been invited staid at home,
but too many had not been invited, and it
bade fair to be the gala night of the season.

Thousands had been spent to make the occa-
sion a perfect success. The floral decorations
were said to have cost thousands in them-
selves, and the whole great mansion had been
made to resemble a fairy palace.

“Douglas is here,” Viola heard Stella say to
her mother, a ring of gladness in the tones
that were so cold to everybody else. “I saw
him talking to Herbert Morrow.”

Perhaps if she and her shrinking attendant
could have heard the conversation between the

 

 

 

into the glowing fire in the grate, and ina
moment the blaze had caught the filmy stuff
and had wrapped the frightened girl in a mass
of flame. In afew moments more she would
have been burned to death in horrible torture;
but, even before she could cry out and scream
the terror that filled her soul, Viola had
caught up a great rug and with a quick move-
ment had wrapped it around the burning girl.
_ The peril was almost over in the moment of
its greatest danger, and, marvelous to tell,
the Reotter girl had not suffered any injury.

“Oh, how can I thank vou?” she cried from
a full heart. “ You have saved me from a terri-
ble death! Did you hurt yourself?”

“Not at all,” answered Viola. “But, oh,
dear! what will you do?”

The youn reas looked over her ruined dress
and turned her dismayed eyes on Viola.

“T can’t go down inthis,” she exclaimed,
“unless,” and with the buoyancy of youth she
laughed merrily, “I wish to set a new style.
Oh, I know what I will do. Come with me,
won’t you?” and for the first time she glanced
over Viola’s dress.

Viola, quick to comprehend, said quickly:

“Tam nota guest. I came here to see that
Miss Montgomery’s gown was right. Iam
her dressmaker’s assistant.”

“Miss Kane’s assistant?” cried the young
lady. “Then you know who I am. I am
Laura Godwin.

“Yes,” replied Viola,
dress.”

“And you are Vi.la Greylock. Miss Kane
has done nothing but rave about you all the
evening, and I just laughed at her; but,
really you are ten times as_ beautiful as she
said. And I owe you my life! You will have
to let me love you, won’t you?”

“TI shall be glad to be loved,” answered
Viola, sadly.

“And I shall be glad to love you,” re-
sponded the impetuous girl. “But do come
with me to Lottie Byron’s dressing-room. I
am not’ going home because of this mishap.
I shall just borrow a gown of Lottie, and you
will make it look all right, won't you? Lottie
is my dearest friend, and she will give me her
whole wardrobe to choose from. Luckily we
are about of a size. Miss Kane said she had
fitted my gown mostly on you. Oh, dear! I
wish I had such a figure as you. I never saw
anything like it. It is like poetry when you
move.”

Viola smiled at the enthusiastic creature,
and followed her willingly enough to Lottie
Byron’s dressing-room. ottie was not there,
but she came as soon as her maid informed her
that Laura Godwin wished her.

She was even more enthusiastic than Laura
when the story was told, and fairly embraced
Viola, declaring she would.not be happy until

“I recognized the

 

‘A

WITH HATE AND JEALOUSY.

 

minds to make her the most beautiful woman
at the ball, and when they had finished their
labors, and had clasped the diamonds about
her snowy, perfectly molded neck, they were
more than satisfied.

“Was ever-any woman so beautiful in this
world before?” cried Laura. “Never were such
eyes, such lips, such clustering curls! If I
were a man I would go mad over you!”

“Tf handsome, debonair Douglas Wainwright
sees you, he will leave Stella’s side, never to
return to it!” exclaimed Lottie.

“Heaven forbid that he should see me!”
cried Viola, in a sharp tone of agony.

“She is afraid of the jealous anger of Stella,”
laughed Laura. “Haveno fear, dear. He is
fast caught in that young lady’s meshes.”

A deadly pallor robbed Viola’s cheeks of
their roses, and she almost determined that
oP carers not do the mad thing they wished

er to.

But the thought that she might never have an-
other chance to see him, nerved her to go on,
and so she followed her new friends down the
broad stairs into the blaze and splendor of the
light, many an eye fixing itself on her in
startled wonder and admiration.

In her ignorance of such things, she had
thought she could steal into the ball-room un-
observed; but, all too late, she saw that she
would have no choice but cross the whole
length of the brilliant room to where Mrs.
Byron stood.

A murmur of surprised wonder at her extra-
ordinary beauty greeted her as she moved
along, and her two friends. were delighted
beyond measure at her success.

Except for a first scared look around on the
sea of faces, to see if Douglas were present,
Viola had not dared to let her gaze wander.

But Douglas was not in the room to witness
the sight of her radiant beauty. He had
retired into the conservatory with his mother
— the moment. He was begging her to excuse

im.

“My heart is not in this gay scene, mother,”
he was saying. “I am constantly wishing
myself away from here.”

“Give Stella the waltz you have promised
her,” pleaded his mother.

“J will do that, if you will excuse me after-
ward,” he replied.

“Tt shall be as you say,” she acquiesced, bit-
ter anger in her heart toward the fair girl who
had won his heart into her keeping.

And, all unconscious of her presence, that
same fair flower was standing before the host-
ess hearing her say:

“Why have I never heard of you before? I
wonder the world has not rung with praises
of your beauty, Miss Greylock. You will make
a wonderful impression to-night. I hope you
will rot steal all hearts away.”

a

| ne h aS
es 3 4

 

 

two men, both would have known a wonderful
change of feeling.

“What!” said Herbert, approaching Doug-
las, “have you returned to the flesh-pots of
Egypt so soon? Has the beauty of the elevated
cars pried on you already?”

“Oh, Heaven!” pane’ Douglas, “do not
jest about that. have lost her, Herbert. I
have lost the only woman I can ever love! I
would have made her my wife, but a cruel
fate came between us. Do you think I am
here by choice? This gay, frivolous s¢ene is
maddening to me! I am _ here because my
mother begged me to come.”

“And has the beautiful Stella no attractions
at all?” demanded Herbert, a jealous, sus-
picious flush rising to his swarthy face.

“I tell you no woman’s face has any charm
for me but the one that I have lost. But I
shall find her. All day I search for her, and
I have half a dozen skiiled detectives also
searching for her. No evil can have befallen
her; of that I am sure, but Iam in agony over
her fate. Oh, that I could leave this hateful
scene and continue my search.”

Meanwhile Viola, pale as death, was putting
the finishing touches to the toilet of the
beauty, and was wondering how she could con-
trive to look just once more on the face of her
beloved.

She knew she was weak to so love a man
who was plighted to another, but if it had
killed her she could not have helped it. And
she must see his handsome, debonair face
again.

“You may stand on the stairs, child,” said
Stella, condescendingly. “No one will mind
you, and you deserve some compensation for
what you have done.”

Viola bowed. She could not have spoken.
And when she was left alone in the dressing-
room, she bowed her curly head on her hands
and prayed Heaven that she might first see
the face she loved, and then die.

She had retreated into a corner, and was
not noticed by a group of merry, laughing
young beauties, who had invaded the room in
a body, and who were hastily removing their
wraps and shaking out the skirts that had
been doubled ay in the carriage.

Viola listened to their merry chatter, think-
ing how short a time ago it had been that she,
too, had laughed and jested as they were
doing.

She turned and watched them silently, and
saw them one by one finish their toilets and
go out to join their waiting escorts, until only
one remained—a pretty, careless, laughing
sprite, dressed in soft clouds of lace and silk.

Viola watched her with a longing to go to
her and talk to her, simply to have a little
human s oy ee in that hard and bitter mo-
ment. an , all at once, as she watched, she
saw’a terrible thing happen.

The light, fluffy lace of her gown floated

~ Children Cry for Pitcher’s Castoria,

 

- had done something to show her grati-
ude.

“But there’s the trouble,” she said, plaint-
ively. “If you were not a lady it would be easy
enough.”

Viola smiled.

“But I don’t want you to do anything more
than you have done,” she said. “You have
thanked me ten times too much already.
Why, I am repaid in the happiness of having
done something for Miss Godwin.”

“It’s just sweet of you to say so,” said both
girls at once.

Then Laura Godwin gave a little delighted

ry.

“T have it, I have it! Ob, Lottie! I know
Miss Greylock must love to dance. Why can’t
you give her one of your gowns, and have her
come down with us.”

“Oh, no, no!” cried Viola, aghast.

“But I say yes,” cried Laura, and Lottie
entered enthusiastically into the plan. “Lot-
tie will tell her mother that you are a dear
friend of hers, and it will be quite regular,
won’t it, Lottie?”

“Of course it will. And, Laura, won’t she
be the belle of the ball? That proud Stella
Montgomery will be outshone for once. Now,
dear,” to Viola, “you needn’t make any oppo-
sition, for we will have our own way. We
always do—don’t we, Laura?”

“Indeed we do. Now, Lottie, ra go speak
to your mother, while Viola and I—I am going
to call you Viola, and you must call me
Laura, and call Lottie, Lottie—while Viola
and I are dressing.”

Who can blame the poor child that she did
not resist the temptation? She _told_herself
that she could not otherwise see Douglas, and
that he would be too much engrossed with
Stella to see her, for she would not dance, but
would keep very quiet. She did say:

e Sores Miss Montgomery should see me!”

“Pshaw!” said the astute Laura, “she
wouldn’t remember ever having seen you
before. Do you suppose that that high and
mighty young woman ever looks at those she
considers beneath her? Not she. She will be
furious to see a more beautiful girl than her-
self, but she will never think of the real you.”
That was the end of her resistance, for she

c

knew that what Laura said was true. Then
Lottie came hurrying back, saying that her
mother was surprised, but delighted.

What an excitement began then! Dear,

kind, light-hearted Laura would not listen to
being dressed until Viola was fitted out from
the wardrobe.

“I’m going to have you look like a veritable
princess,” she said. Then Lottie cried out:

“Why, Laura, she must wear my diamonds!
Mamma. said they would never do with this
gown, but I am determined to see them to-
night.”

In vain Viola protested that the simplest
et and the simplest ornaments would suit

er best. The two girls had made up their

 

 

“Oh! take me away to a quiet corner,”
pleaded Viola, in a frightened whisper to
Laura.

“Indeed I won’t,” pouted Laura. “ You shall
enter right into thefun. I want tosee you
dance.”

“T can’t dance. I won’t dance,” cried Viola.
“Oh, indeed you must not ask me to do so.”

“Now, Viola, you must not be so shy,” de-
clared Laura, with pretty tyranny. “Anyhow,
it is too late now. Here comesa gentleman
with determination in his eye. Oh, Mr. Mor-
row! Miss Greylock, permit me to introduce
Mr. Morrow.”

Mr. Morrow! She remembered hearing
Stella tell her mother that Douglas had been
talking to him. She cast a shy, startled glance
up at him and bowed. Where had she seen
that dark, cynical face before?

There was no time to think, for he was beg-
ging her for the pleasure of the next dance,
a hop Yorke.

“T_J——” she was beginning to say, when
Laura struck in:

“Certainly. I will put your name down, Mr.
Morrow. hen the music strikes up, look
where the gentlemen are grouped the thickest,
and you will know where Miss Greylock is.”

“My eyes cannot deceive me,” muttered Her-
bert Morrow. “It isshe! But what is she
doing here, when Douglas says she is lost? I
will make it my business to solve that puzzle.
Perhaps fate is doing me a good turn, and
playing into my hands for once.”

 

CHAPTER XIV.

“} HAVE FIRED THE MINE; I WONDER WHO
WILL BE BLOWN UP”

It was as Laura had predicted; Viola had
carried by storm the coveted place of belle of
the evening. Stella Montgomery, proud and
haughty, had looked on in wonder and indig-
nation to see this unknown girl sweep away
in a minute the laurels she had worn for two
seasons. f

But Viola had no thought of doing such a
thing. She had but one thought—see without
being seen, the face of Douglas Wainwright,
and then make her escape.

Douglas, however, remained in the conser-
vatory nursing his sorrow, and the eager long-
ing brown eyes swept the drawing-room in
vain for a sight of that handsome face which
had won her heart.

But if he was not there; she need have less
fear of detection, and she yielded_ herself
gracefully to Herbert Morrow when he came
to claim her hand for the dance.

She had always been passionately fond of
dancing, and Herbert Morrow was accounted
the best dancer in New York.

What wonder, then, that when the two
started out they should attract every eye to

Children Cry for Pitcher’s Castoria,

 

them. Those who saw Viola then declared
that never until then had they realized the
true poetry of motion.

Light as thistle-down borne on the wind, she
floated through the mazes of the dance, her
lissom figure swaying and undulating in per-
fect harmony with the intoxicating strains of
the music.

“You are a perfect dancer, Miss Greylock,”
said Herbert Morrow, softly, in her ear.

“TIT am very fond of it,” replied Viola.

“And do you waltz, too?” he asked. “But of
course you do.”

“Oh, yes,” she answered, looking up at him
with a smile.

“Then you must let me introduce one of my
friends, a gentleman who enjoys waltzing
more than any man I ever knew. His name
is Douglas Wainwright.”

It was no fancy of his that at that name she
uttered a little frightened, gasping cry, and
almost sank in his arms. It was over ina
moment, but he had not been mistaken,

“You have danced too long,” he said,
quickly. “Come into this room, where there
is nobody, and where you can sit down.”
~ She followed him gladly. It would give
her a little time to think of some way of ex-
cusing herself from being introduced to Doug: -
las. She would rather die than have it hap-

en.

“Here is a chair,” he said, letting her arm
free and bowing courteously. “Now, may I
go find Wainwright and bring him to you? I
think you and he would be good friends.”

“No, no!” she cried. “I do not care to see
him. I—I mean that my card is full. At least
as full as I care to have it.”

Herbert Morrow smiled. It amused him to
see this poor little bird fluttering in his net.

“Oh, very. well,” he said. “Letus talk, then,
though I know the other gentleman will be
for mobbing me for monopolizing you. By the
way, did you hear that odd story about the
young girl who tried to poison herself in the
waiting-room of the Grand Central depot?”

Viola’s brown eyes grew dark with terror.
She could not understand this man. Could it
be that he knew aught of her, and was play-
ing with her? She looked up into his face, to
see what she could discover there.

As well study the face of the night as his
dark features.

“I do not wonder you look appalled,” he
said. “Poor girl! no one knew why she did
it. Why, she could not have been much older
than you—about your age, 1 should say.”

“Let us return to the—the ball-room,” fal-
tered Viola, her beautiful face pallid.

“As you please, Miss Greylock,” he care-
lessly replied. “I should have said that my
friend ainwright was desperately smitten
with the little beauty. That was one reason
why I wished you to meet him. You look so
much like her.”

Viola stopped.
ture any longer.

“How do you know how she looked?” she
demanded, her brown eyes almost fearless in
her despair.

“Oh, I was with Wainwright at the time,”
he answered. “I wonder you did not recognize
me at once.”

“Why do oye say that?” she cried.

“ Because” he answered, Oar “T recognized
you at once as the heroine of that tragedy.”

She leaned helplessly against a table that
stood near, studying his face to know what
use he intended to make of his knowledge.

“You will not betray my secret to—to— these
people,” she said, at last.

“1 think,” he said, quietly, “that you mean
to ask. me_not. to betray it to. Douglas; is it
not so?”

“Yes,” she said, driven to her last refuge,
“that is what I mean. You area gentleman;
you will not betray me.”

“But,” he said, “why are you here if you do
not wish to be betrayed? If I recognize you,
why should not more loving eyes?”

“T came to see him,” she said, in a low tone,
bowing her head in shame. “I could not rest
until I had seen him once more. That is all.
Surely it can do no harm. You will not betra

She could not bear the tor-

7

 

me?” she asked, piteously. Y

“T do not understand,” he said. “You love
him, do you not?”

“Alas! yes,” she murmured.

“And he loves you?”

“T fear he does not. Need I tell you that he
loves and is to marry Stella Montgomery?
And she loves him.”

The black eyes of Herbert Morrow seemed to
contract and grow smaller, and his nails were
dug into the palms of his hands.

“What if I were to tell you that Douglas
Wainwright would never marry Stella Mont-
gomery?” he rather hissed than said. “What
if I were to tell you that Douglas Wainwright
loved you better than any other woman?”

The fair, curly head was bowed, and _ falter-
ingly the words came from her perfect lips:

“T would bless you if it were true; but, alas!
I know it is not so.”

“How do you know it?”

“His mother told me, Miss Montgomery told
me, many have told me,” she answered, pain-
fully. “Oh, let me go, I beg uf you. No good
can come of prolonging an agony already too
great for me to bear.”

He waved his hand impatiently.

“Miss Montgomery wishes to believe it, and
his mother wishes to believe it. If you knew
that he loved you, and only you, would you
let them keep you apart? Surely you have too
much spirit-for that!”

“Tf I believed that he loved me, no power on
earth should ce us apart,” she answered. “I
do not know what your object is in saying
these things to me,” she went on, sadly, “but
you cannot convince me that he loves me, and
I would not put myself in his way.”

Herbert Morrow shrugged his shoulders, and
a slight smile that she did not see played
about his mouth.

“Have your own way, Miss Greylock,” he
said. “At any rate, you need not let the mat-
ter spoil your pleasure. Douglas has gone out
to keep an appointment, and will not be back
until midnight. If you would like to see him
then, I will make it possible for you. But do
not forget that I tried to bring ia together.”

ah shall not forget, and thank you,”
answered Viola. “I wondered why I did not
see him present. I did not intend to enter the
ball-room, but was surprised into it.”

“You look wearied by the emotions our con-
versation has caused you,” said Herbert Mor-
row. “Let us walk into the conservatory until
you have recovered yourself.”

There was something in this man that Viola
could not bring herself to like, but she was
grateful for the respite of a walk in the con-
servatory, and she went with him.

He led her on through the costly exotic
plants, pene in commonplaces, as if no
uther thoughts had ever occupied bis mind.

Under an orange tree, standing in a porce-
lain tub that might have cost. a thousand dol-
lars, he stopped with her and pointed to the
ripe fruit that hung amid the green leaves.

“Do you see this orange tree, Miss Grey-
lock?” he asked, and it seemed to her that he
raised his voice unnecessarily high.

“Yes,” and she turned her puzzled eyes on ~

him.

A smile was on his dark face, and he was
looking away from her, past the orange trees.
She followed the direction of his eyes, and
there, staring wildly, incredulously at them,
was the face of Douglas Wainwright.

Her face turned ashen pale, and she tottered
as if she would fall.

“You have betrayed me!” she moaned, hid-
ing her beautiful face in her hands.

He did not answer, and she turned away as
if she would fly, but a hand was laid upon her
arm, and a husky voice was saying in her ear:

“Am I mad? Do I dream? Look at me
again? Let me see that face once more! Are
you my darling? Are you my Viola? Speak
to me, or I shall think I have lost my senses
as well as my dear Jove! I have searched for

ou until my heart is sore, and I find you

ere. Or, are you not she? Speak! I beg you
let me see your face !”

She could not speak. The eae and the
doubt, the hope and the fear in his voice were
more than she could bear.

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

Se

 

Strangled sobs broke from her lips, but she
did not move or speak,

Then, fearfully and slowly, as if he dreaded
the disappointment that must follow, Douglas
reached out and took one of the little hands
from her face, and gazed on the tear-stained
cheek.

“Oh! Heaven be thanked! it is my darling!”
he cried, and caught her in his arms and
crushed her to his breast.

She could not stop the kisses that rained
upon her face, and for a blissful space she did
not strive todo so. Then it all came back to
her, and she pushed herself away.

“Douglas,” she breathed, “is this right? Has
not another a better right than I to your
caresses ?”’

“Another!” he cried. “What other?”

“Stella Montgomery,” she whispered.

“Stella Montgomery has no right,” he
answered. “I love you and only you. Why,

my darling, do you meet me with such a ques-
tion? Where have you been? I have been
dying with agony of your loss, I have spent
night and day in the search for you, and I
find you here.

“The night I lost you so strangely, I traced
you to the lonely house up town, I traced you
after the fire to the T'rents’, and Jennie said
you had gone to seek me at my house. I hast-
enned there, and no one knew where you were
—you had not been there. My darling! can
it be that you do not love meas | do you?
Ah! do not say it if it be true. It would kill
me. I thought I loved you that night we were
to be married; but, ah! I did not then know
what love was. It needed that I should lose
you that I might learn all the great strength
of the devouring passion that consumed me.

“Ah! my loved one, why did you hide your-
self from me?”

The words had poured from his lips like a ;
torrent that could not be stemmed, and Viola
had listened in a growing ecstasy of convic-
tion. He did love her! They had deceived her,
and his mother had deceived him; but it did
not matter now. He had found her, and he
loved her.

She let her sweet, beautiful face fall on his
breast, and she murmured, softly:

“Douglas, my darling! I did not mean to
hide from you. I have suffered an agony
worse than death in thinking you did not
love me. Icame here to-night to get one last
glimpse of you before sinking out of the world.
Thank Heaven! you found me, and made me
your own again.”

With a love like theirs, not many words are
needed. He comprehended enough, and was
content. It was as if his storm-tossed bark
had glided into a smooth, safe haven, and he
had only to enjoy the bright sunshine and
balmy air again.

He caught her in his arms and pressed her
closer and closer to him, till it almost seemed
that their two lives would merge into one, and
his lips sought hers and clung there with a
mad delirium of happiness and bliss.

Neither saw two women—both proud and
haughty of mien, but one young and beautiful,
and the otherof middle age—who stood behind
a screen of palms and watched them.

“He loves her!” hissed the younger one.

“He nas found her!” hissed the other.

“She shall never wed him! I will do murder
first!” said the younger one, her fair face dis-
torted with hate and jealousy.

“T have fired the mine!” murmured Herbert
Morrow, watching them all; “I wonder who
will be blown up!”

(T0 BE CONTINUED.)

—_—____ + e+ _____

This Story Will Not be Published in Book-Form.

BARON SAM.

By St. GEORGE RATHBORNE,

Author of “Captain Tom” and * Doctor Jack.”

 

 

 

   

 

{BARON SAM ” was commenced in No. 16. Back
numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.)

 

CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE RACE FOR LIFE.
“Victory!” shouts the Canadian, when he realizes
that the coast is clear.
Sam soon has the three ladies out of their niche
and hurrying along.
Afier considerable trouble, they reach qhe door,
wkich is found to be locked.
Dudley’s strengfh is here called into play, and in
a few moments a crash is heard.
“Jove! the lock is smashed. Hurrah!” cries Sam
Buxton. '
The door is flung wide open, and passing under the
gloomy arch, the little party of hunted foreigners
find themselves upon the crowded Corso,

They have escaped, but the danger may not yet be
over. Upon the crowded Corso it isjpossible for many
a dark deed to be done, and certainly this is no place
for ladies, except screened behind the mask.

Ah! abright idea comes to Baron Sam. He re-|
members that he mechanically thrust his mask into |
his pocket when droppmg it from his face after
reaching the decorated room where the amateur for-
tune-teller, Beatrix Paoli, had led them.

He instantly snatches it out. ‘
“Pardon,” he says, even while he places his arms
above Aileen’s head and adjusts the black mask over |

her face. i :

‘Ig it hecessary ?”’ she asks, in dismay.

“Positively. A vision such as you two—T mean
threedadies—walking along the bourse at this time of
night, and on such a night in particular, would as-
tonish. the natives. It is best.” Me

Aileen sees that Beatrix is already adjusting a |
similar beauty concealer, and that Miss Dorothy, who
does not wish to be left in the lurch, is looking ap-
pealingly toward Dudley, who fishes in his pockets
in a search for the article he had worn.

*«T submit,’ she says, in resignation. :

By chance Sam's hand comes in contact with that
of Aileen.

By deep design he hastily raises it to his
lips. The action is seen by only one pair of eyes, and
Beatrix turns her back on them.

Thank Deaven, Sam thinks, the hot-blooded Italian

 

beauty is already seeing that others can be brave in
time of danger besides Sam Buxton. When she
wrapped her delicate kerchief around the arm of
Dudley McLane she began to entertain a warmer
feeling for the valiant hero whose blood stains the
dainty cohweb—this kingly looking Canadian giant
who betrays his passion for her in every look, every
action.

They are now ready for the business in hand.
Their delay has been of short duration, and none of
their enemies has made an appearance.

So they begin to make their way along the Corso,
and in about this order—Sam escorting Aileen and
her aunt, while Dudley gallantly offers his well arm
to Beatrix; who cannot refuse, Sam has a little game
of hisown in bringing these two together—he be-
lieves Beatrix willbe over her infatuation for him
the sooner, if he ean get her interested in his manly
chum. Atthe same time he thinks the two will make
a noble couple.

Soon it becomes evident that their enemies are here
and there among the crowd. inciting the indignation
of the populace against the masked fugitives.

The crowd presses on all sides, some of the mob
apparently trying to separate the ladies from their
protectors.

For afew moments Baron Sam is perplexed. It
seems impossible for him and his friends to make the
least headway in the direction of their hotel.

A happy thought comes to him. He gathers all
the loose change in his pocket, and taking perhaps a
dozen coins in his hand ata time, he whirls them in
a semi-circle among the crowd.

The avaricious mob scrambles madly for the coins,
and thus a clear space for a few yards is made.

Three or four times this scheme is repeated, and
with such success that Baron Sam is encouraged.

There are a few vehicles to he seen along the Corso,
and fortune decrees that one of these shall be near
athand. Itis aclosed carriage, very similar to the
hacks with which New Yorkers are familiar.

Toward this Sam heads—he fights his way, and
hesitates not to deal those who would block his pro-
gress tremendous whacks upon the head. He clears
a space for the ladies, he guards the flanks of the
little column, he seems to be here, there, and-every-
where at the same tiie,

Aileen cannot but notice, Aileen must feel proud
to know thatthis is herhero who performs such prod-
igies of valor. Shefeels that he belongs to her,
since he has so declared it.

The vehicle is near—it lingers, not that the driver

|
|
|

pays any attention to them, but a block causes him 1

to rein in his steeds.

As they draw nearer Sam’s eagerness increases, for
he sees that their enemies are again fairly swarming
around, and knows the end is near when they must
resort to violence.

Just as Sam comes up, the vehicle clears the jam,
the driver elevates his arm to lay the whip upon his
steeds. It does not fall, for something bounds like a
rubber ball up onto the box, something that is full
of life and elasticity, and seizes the driver’s arm
with a grip of steel.

In the ear of the Italian is uttered a single word in
his own language:

“Stop!”

Baron Sam does not rely upon the power of rhetoric
alone-——he has no time to waste in expermuments, con-
cerning the force of the human eye, and what direct
influence one mind can have on another. What he
most desires is instant obedience.

And he has it.

The cold muzzle of a revolver suddenly pressed
against the side of one’s head is not conducive to
comfort or a peaceful frame of mind, and especially
is this true when the said weapon, a gentle persuader
in itself, is backed up by a fierce countenance upon
which appear determination and desperation.

The vehicle does not move.

By this time the others have also come up, and
Dudley grasping the idea that has appeared so like
a beacon onadesolate coast to his comrade, pro-
ceeds to carry out the details left to him.

He tears open the door of the vehicle—nothing in
the ordinary run of things could stand up before this
athletic Canadian now, even if he is crippled in one
arm. The door of the vehicle gives way.

“Enter, ladies, and be quick,’ he calls, and then
turns to keep back the foremost of the pushing
crowd.

The ladies proceed to carry out his wishes with
all the speed possible. Miss Dorothy is assisted in
first, with many groans and much sighing and pant-
ing, for the run has ‘made her very short of breath,
and her pet bronchitis has hold of her again. i

Then the others follow, while Dudley tights back
the surging crowd as best he may. His one well
arm throws the fellows this way and that as though
they were ten-pins and he a large swiftly-thrown
ball dashing in among them,

Of course all this is only temporary; with each
passing second Dudley will find his arm growing
weaker, while the new foes pushing up make a more
determined front.

The ladies are in at last, thank Heaven, and now
nothing remains but that the brave man from Mon-
treal follow them.

This is easier said than done, forin the vigor of his
work he has pushed away from the vehicle, and
there are several enemies between.

Dudley is equal to the occasion, however, and turns
upon these fellows with the fury of a young cyclone
rushing through the maples of his native country.
Canada brawn triumphs over Italian cowardice, fer
these knaves in the mob do not-represent the true
element of Roman manhood.

Dudley breaks a passage to the carriage door. Tt
is still open, and a face peers out as though anxious-
ly watching his progress. It is Beatrix who thus
looks upon his wonderful work, and in her estima-
tion Signor Dudley goes a notch higher.

The Canadian almost tumbles into the ladies’ laps.
The door closes with a bang, for Beatrix has retained
her hold upon it.

xm THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

 

Even the British plunger is on hand, though he has
no particuler part to play in the game.

Each foot gained counts now. ‘Thank Heaven!
the main part of the mob has had its attention
diverted for the time being by the scattered coins,
which sam Buxten has sent flying down the street.

They will not be bothered by them, unless held in
restraint a certain length of time.

Dudley takes in the situation as well as Sam, and
sees no reason why he should not help to cleara
passage to the stairs. That good right arm of the
Canadian athlete is in prime condition, and fairly
aches to plant against the head of the count that
which will settle past scores.

So Dudley whips the revolver into his left hand, to
be used only in a desperate emergency, as a shot
would probably inflame the mob still more, and
cause them to tear the foreigners to pieces.

Already is Sam engaged on the left, the ladies are
huddled ina bineh like a lot of frightened sheen,
moving onas opportunity presents itself, and Aileen
holds something in her hand which she will use in
case of necessity, her manner indicating that she is
determined. Of course it is her little revolver,
which she grasps; sheis no novice inits use, and if
the occasion comes may render no small aid to their
cause.

When McLane comes in contact with the first fel-
low who tries to bar their progress, it is ridiculous to
note the result; thatis, one who has no interest in
the affair might think so. The fist of the big Canadian
gives the brigand a sweep under the ear that actually
lifts the astounded fellow from his feet, and lands
him half a dozen feet away. Unfortunately for his
further usefulness, he strikes upon his head, his heels
are uplifted in the air, kieking like a pair of steers’
hoofs, and then the crowd closes upon the scene.

Dudley did not stopin the good work; he means to
virtually hew a way, if necessary, into the house.
Having disposed of one ian, he advances a pace,
the ladies keeping step with their protectors.

Sain is at it on the left, and though Buxton is infer-
ior both in regard to size and strength, he knows how
to handle his fists to good advantage, having picked
up his education in a gymnasium, where he used to
be a star boxer.

Thus he renders as good service on his side of the
line as Dudley doves on the other. Unless the count
makes some extraordinary move, the game seems
destined to go against him.

This worthy realizes the fact himself, and by his
frantic shouts endeavors to spur his men on to re-
newed exertions. If he can only throw enough of
his followers into the breach to block a passage, the
excited mob will do the rest, and those he has reason
to hate and fear must meet their death even at the
door of the Chief of Police,

In his desperation the count himself pushes for-
ward. Hn knows the danger, since he invites a bullet
from a hostile revolver, and has already learned by
experience what one Baron Sam can do in this line;
but the emergency is great, and his example may in-
spire his men with a new courage that must win the
game.

Thus the situation is exceedingly critical, and
much depends on the events of the next minute.
Should the mob once more succeed in sweeping down
upon them, all must indeed be lost.

The count has managed to gather half a dozen men
in a cluster; they throw themselves into the breach
and stand like a barricade between our friends and
the stairs which they have aimed to reach; stand
there with weapons displayed, and evidently deter-

 

Baron Sam, seated upon the box alongside the
driver, has kept track of all this, and knows the |
time has-come for a sudden move. Ie no longer |
holds arevolver to the head of Jehu, but he has the
man under full subjection, and when he shouts
*“Move on with all speed,” the driver cuts his horses |
savagely with the whip he holds.

 

CHAPTER XXIX.
AT BAY ON THE CORSO.

They are off. ; i

The street by a rare chance is somewhat open at
this point, and the horses, urged on by the driver's
whip. make headway.

When the excited crowd realizes that those who
have béen scattering showers of coins among them
are now apparently in danger of slipping from their
grasp, there is a great howl. Some shout from mo-
tives of cupidity, others through spirit of revenge,
for the men in the service of the count are present in
numbers, ready and eager to accomplish their ptr-
pose. ;

A movement is made; the rush is like that of
wolves swarming forward to seize wpon their prey.
Will they overtake the carriage, close in on it, and
tear the inmates from its interior? It seems an open
chance.

One there is who looks and wonders, who holds a
revolver in each Hand and ftingers the deadly
weapons as though ready, to let loose the dogs of
war atany moment,

Of course this is‘Sam.

He sits there beside the driver and keeps his eyes
well about him. Not only does he look for danger,
but seeks a chance to effect an escape.

Itis hardly possible that they can make sufficient
headway to get beyond the clutches of the furious
moh, '

Sam studies the situation. He desires to be ready
for the critical moment—to be able to meet the crisis
when it comes.

All that he has gone through with does not seem
to have crushed him; he is just as ready to meet an
emergency as ever.

They keep ahead of the crowd for several minutes.
and those inside the carriage indulge in hopes of be-
ing able to elude them altogether. The man on the
seat with the driver doea not haveany such idea; he
can see down the Corso, and notes that a little way
beyond there is another crush which it will be im-
possible for them to pass.

When they arrive at that point there will certainly
be trouble.

Baron Sam notes that they are already half way to
the region where the hotels abound. At least, there
is a small chance of reaching there, unless something
of a serious nature happens,

Now they have reached the crowded place and the
vehicle loses headway. It looks as though the end
must be very near.

Sain grits his teeth and resolves to defend himself
to the last, with those in his charge.

Those who pursue have reached the new crowd,
and seem to infuse their spirit into it. As the ele-
ment of discord and anger and hatred spreads, it
permeates the whole gathering,even as a small
quantity of yeast leavens the luinp of dough.

It is peculiarly terrifying to see the black looks up-
pon these olive faces, those which are not hidden by
masks. Even Sam Buxton feels athrill of alarm
when he looks around on that sea of scowls, but to
his credit be itsaid he is thinking more of Aileen
than himself.

Hands are held out, not with any good intention,
but to tear open the carriage door, to drag out the
inmates of the vehicle, and perhaps do murder. It
is a desperate case, and as such requires a desperate
remedy.

{iis eyes, in making one sweep around, take note
of a certain thing—the carriage has been brought to
a halt directly in front of the building where Justice
has her seat. A small sign announces that the
minister of police has his headquarters here.

This puts a sudden idea into Sam’s head—ean they |

not find safety here? Will the count and his followers
dare to follow them into the sacred precincts of the

{must be done instantly, or all is lost.
| the humor of the populace changed ; it seems to real-

mined to resist to the last gasp any effort made by
the two comrades to gain their end.

There is no time for a breathing spell; the work
Already has

ize that this last trap has been thrown out as a sort
of blind, which will cover the escape of those who
have excited both the cupidity and anger of the ele-
ments forming the mob,

The tide has begun to set in toward the spot where
Baron Sam and his comrade so valiantly strive to
beat their way through all obstacles. It must speed-
ily overwhelin them, unless—ah ! the voice of Buxton
is heard roaring above the cries of the mob like a fog
horn on the coast,

“The pistol. Dud; we must clear a way through, or
allis lost! Down with them! The revolver, man!
—our lives and those dear to us depend on it.’’

Thatis what Baron Sam roars, but ere Dudley has
time to carry out the instructions, a new element en-
ters into the game. A stream of men in uniform
rushes out from the door-way and surrounds the com-
batants, who immediately find themselves in a cor-
don ot gendarmes—the strong arm of the Roian law
has closed upon them. _

CHAPTER XXX.
“UNCONDITIONAL SURRENDER!”

Sam Buxton never before felt the joy that comes
over him at sight of these gendaurmes. They repre-
sent law and order, while the elements he has faced
so long stand for anarchy. ,

Tt is with deep satisfaction therefore, that he and
his friends obey, when a hoarse voice orders them to
ascend the stairs; this voice proceeds from a window
above, from whence, no doubt the Minister of Justice
bas Witnessed afteast the closing scenes of the great
play.

Baron Sam chuckles also; he sees that the count is
in the toils. Perhaps the latter's political influence
may let him off easy, but he is certainly in a sad
plight. The gendarmes hustle the noble Italian and
several of his men up the stairs, whither our friends
have preceded them.

Turning to one side they pass through a large, open
door into the office of the man who wields the whole
police force of the nation; seated at a desk is this in-
dividual, a shrewd-looking Italian, with a head well
adapted to his profession.

Baron Sam utters a cry of delight. If this be Sig-
nor Beppo, the Minister of Justice, the Chief of
Italian Police, then is their path one of roses, for Sam
Buxton recognizes one whom he rescued from a very
embarrassing position a year previous, but whose
identity he never knew.

Eagerly he removes his mask. It is the Italian’s
turn to utter a ery of astonishment. He springs
from his chair, he rushes forward with the warm en-
thusiasm that ever distinguishes his race, and Count
Vivoli groans in dismay when he sees the Minister
of Justice shaking hands so fervently with the
American, and at the same time calling him his best
friend, his benefactor.

Of course the game is nowup; the crowd has
already surged on, and in new pastures will soon
forget its disappointment.

Baron Sam introduces his friends, and, the ladies
having removed their masks, the Minister of Justice
tinds himself bowing before two as lovely creatures
as ever met his vision, while Miss Dorothy, having
resumed her glasses, and recovered her sedate man-
ner, strikes him as a most intelligent lady of uucer-
tain age, who at least has his respect.

The Chief of Police desires to hear the story. and |
Sam Buxton is just the man to tell it. He gives the |
count a dressing down such as few men have ever |
heard. The man grits his teeth and looks as though
he would leap upon the American likea tiger, but
the arms of the officers restrain him, and he is com-
pelled to listen to the scathing words of his enemy
and bow his head in shame.

The Minister of Justice addresses himself to the
defeated plotter. He tells him plainly that because
of his honored name he will spare him, but that as
sure as there is a heaven aboye,if a hair of the
foreigners’ heads is harmed during their stay in
Rome, Count Tivoli will be held accountable for it,

 

office of the man who rules all Rome?

Can they reach this room—will the crowd allow
them such a liberty ?

By accident Sam strikes his hand against the upper
pocket. of his coat, and feels something hard. He
remembers that he placed some coins there for a
certain reason and forgot to take them out.

That is their salvation.

New hope springs up, and Sam Buxton is almost
ready to shout aloud under its inspiration.
one of his weapons in his pocket with the rapidity of
thought, and snatches out these small coins. A
glance around and he has the situation pretty well
mastered. If the fellows nearest the carriage can
be induced to move back, even tempororily, the way
will be open for them to reach the house.

Choosing the exact spot that will best suithis pur-
pose, he sends the fugitive coins flying. The roar
that greets this act announces that the crowd ap-
preciates this sort of business. As he hopes and ex-
pects, a rush is made and the way cleared to a cer-
tain extent.

Sam waits no longer. He springs from the box and
is at the door of the carriage ina trice snatching it
open.

“Come out, friends! It is our only chance! We
are in front of the Department of Justice.”
Beatrix comprehends and utters a glad ery. She

knows the far reaching power that radiates from
this wonderful office, and if they can once gain its
shelter, there must be a chance of escape.

She is the first one out,

Then comes Dudley, on the alert for business,
though suffering considerably from his wounded
arm, which he has been using too freely. Aileen
follows, and assists Miss Dorothy. almost ready to
drop with fatigue after all she has heen through.

They are now all gathered in a bunch, ready, for
the last rush that, it is hoped, will land them ina
place where they may possibly defy their enemies.

It is Sam for whom they wait, but he does not de-
tain them three seconds. Thenthey move on with
all the speed possible, to cross the strip of pave-
ment that keeps them from reaching the house.

to pass over from the point where their vehicle
same to a stop until they reach the foot of the stairs

obstacles in their way.

them represent born devils.

destroy reach that staircase.

 

 

heard bellowing forth commands on the other.

He puts |

Althongh they do not have more than twenty feet

that leads to the Department of Justice, there are

Some of the men who would down them have ap-
peared on the scene again—they throw themselves
before the foreigners with a recklessness that makes
It is as if they realize
that their case is hopeless once those they seek to

Their ferociousness is no secret to Baron Sam, who
has discovered the count on one side urging them
forward, while the deep voice of Fra Diavolo can be

and be made to suffer. Then he tells him to go—to
take his miserable followers away, and to beware
lest the heavy hand of the law fall upon him.

| The count slips between the files of gendarmes and
| vanishes through the door-way.

“My friend,’ says the minister, turning to Sam
Buxton, “I know not even your name, but your face
I have never forgotten. You were enabled to do me

| a great favor under peculiar circumstances; the debt
isas yet uncanceled. I have threatened the count,
but he is a bold, unscrupulous man, besides bein:

| powerful with the Government. Publicly you hear

my declaration—privately [advise you to tarry no
longer in Rome. Leave as quickly as you can, and
thus escape any plot of this bad man.”

Baron Sam is not at all disturbed by this declara-
tion on the part of the minister, for he has already
decided in his mind that it would be fool-hardy for
them to remain longerin the Eternal City under such
circumstances.

They remain with the Minister of Justice for nearly
half an t:our. Then the ladies announce themselves
as rested, and the party proceed below where a car-
riage awaits them, the same in which they have
reached this place, for the driver has been restrained
from departing by an officer.

Guarded by a detachment of gendarmes they move
along the Corso until the hotel is reached, where our
friends take refuge. Nor do the officers leave them
here; they are under orders to remain and escort the
party to the train that leaves Rome for Naples at
8:10 in the morning.

All arrangments are made for the flitting. Beatrix
shows some sign of hesitation, but the earnest en-
treaties of Aileen, backed by a mute appeal she
quickly detects in the eyes of the athletic Montreal
man decide her, she will go, and messengers are dis-
patched to get the trunks of all. Asa gendarme ac-
companies these en they meet with no opposition
at the Palazzo Paoli.

The trunks of all are brought to the hotel, anda
few hours remain for sleep.

Up betimes, they eat an early breakfast and are
driven to the station. Until the train starts the
gendarmes hover near. Sam has secured plenty of
money from his letters of credit, and he makes each
of the men a fine present, waves them farewell as the
train moves out, receives an official salute, and then
they are off, headed toward the south.

Slowly thongh the train moves it reaches the beau-
tiful city of Naples at dusk. They drive to the Hotel
Empereurs, and Sam’s first question is about a
steamer. All breathe a sigh of relief when the in-
formation comes that a vessel leaves on the following
morning.

heads for the straits of Messina, on her way to the
Orient, Baron Sam finds an opportunity to join Aileen
as she stands by the side alone.

 

When the Minerva has passed out of the bay and

He means to close his business on the spot; if they
are to travel in company it cannot be as mere
friends, the state of his feelings will not permit of
that. She knows his step, and her heart bounds with
a sudden ecstasy, for it understands what his mis-
sion must be. ‘

* Aileen, I have come again with the same question
—it means more to me thanever. Will you be my
wife?” he asks,

His abruptness does not disturb her, she admires
a the more because he does not beat around the

yush.

“T remember that when I refused to consider your
proposition before, you said you would never take
no for an answer. Of course, under such conditions,
I feel—that is, a woman has the privilege of chang-
ing her mind, and [ confess I have discovered——”

She breaks down at this, blushing furiously. Sam
has quietly taken her hand, he knows the fort has
thrown up a white flag of surrender.

“Answer me, my darling, will you marry me?”

“T will, Sam Buxton,” she says,in a low tone, but
itis Pay perceptible to his waiting ears.

“Thank Heaven, Aileén. You belong to me—we
have belonged to each other—ever since uncle made
that stupid will. Do you believe it is the millions
I am after, or Aileen Winchester?’ he says, soberly.

She raises her lovely eyes now and looks him
squarely in the face.

“{ would trust you anywhere, Sam Buxton. IT be-
lieve you are a good man, I know you are a brave
one.

Now he smiles, he can afford to, since he has won
what he coveted.

“You believe that I would desire to make you Mrs.
Buxton if you were penniless? Tell me, Aileen, be
frank,” he urges.

“Yes, I have even that faith in you, Sam. Per-
haps i overestimate your nobleness of soul, but I
have pinned my whole trust upon you.”

“And Tam pleased to be able to prove that it is
not misplaced.”

He draws out his pocket note-book and selects a
paper which he hands to Aileen, As her eyes take
in its contents she gives a cry.

“Why, this is uncle’s will.”

“A copy of the original, which is safe in the law-
yer’s care.”

“But it is dated a year later than the one which
contained that strange clause, leaving me all his
money unless: you married me.

“That also is trne, my dear girl,” calmly.

“And by this will he leaves all he has to his be-
loved nephew, Sam, save one hundred thousand dol-
lars, which is to go to his niece Aileen.”

“You see it’s that hundred thousand I’m after
bah laughs Sam, who can afford to be in a good

1umMor.

“But I’ve spent more than that much; the library I
gave my native town cost fifty thousand. How can
Il ever repay it?” she says, aghast.

“Ah! then itis Aileen Winchester Iam after, and
not her money. Giveme yourself, darling. Together
we will endeavor to wisely spend the fortune uncle
meant for us.”

“Oh, Sam, forgive my unjust suspicions.”

: antes were quite natural, dear,’ he says, sooth-
ingly.

‘How long have you had this paper ?”’

“It was discovered a year ago. I meant to say
nothing for the present, but at some future time see
my cousin and make terms with her.”

“Well?”

_ “My terms are unconditional surrender.
be married when we reach Alexandria.”

A low skriek of dismay.

“Oh, Sam, you merciless monster! I can’t.”

“You must, my dear. See, here comes Aunt
Dorothy, who will be glad to get you off her hands, as
she sighs for Boston, while we mean to see more of
the world ere settling down. Besides, the example
may be contagious—look at Dudley and Beatrix—a
pair of turtle doves, oblivious of all around. Come,
your answer, dear Aileen.”’

“Take me, Sam, a bride without a trousseau—whio-
ever would have thought such would be my fate,”
but her happy face tells that her heart is full of joy.

(THE END.]

We must

 

~ ——

This Story Will Not be Published i) Book-Forn.,

WILD OATS;

Rising to Honor.

eee

By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON,

Author of *‘Nameless Dell,” ‘‘Brownie’s Triumph,”
“The Forsaken Bride,” ‘‘Sibyl's Influence,”
“Stella Rosevelt,’’ etc.

 

(‘WILD OATS” was commenced in No. 13. Back num-
bers can be obtained of all News Agents.)

 

CHAPTER XXXI.—(CONTINUED.)

Then there began an ideal life for the young
couple. Anita, utterly ignorant of all business,
gave the entire control of her large fortune to
her husband, who did not hesitate to spend it
with the utmost freedom. They lived most
luxuriously, and traveled extensively for a
year after their marriage. Thena beautiful
child, little Vera, was born, and, his wife
being somewhat delicate, Richard purchased a
lovely villa on the shores of the Mediterranean,
where he installed his family, surrounding
them with every comfort and luxury, while he
came and went according to his own will and
pleasure.

But the warm-hearted, sensitive Anita was
not Jong in discovering that she had surren-
dered herself and her fortune to acruel and
selfish nature. She believed that her husband
loved her, after a fashion, but she was sure
that she was secondary to his own wishes and
desires, and it gradually dawned upon her,
after long neglect and indifference. that her
money, rather than her own love and worth,
had been the chief inducement to a marriage
with her.

This conviction, and the secret grief which
preyed upon her, in consequence, soon began
to sap her life. The tendrils of her loving
nature had from-the first entwined themselves
about her husband—or rather about the ideal
which she fondly imagined existed in him—
but instead of gathering strength and support
from him, he had absorbed all vitality from
her until her starved nature could endure no
more, and she began to droop and fail.

Slowly she faded—so slowly and so patiently
and sweetly—never complaining or reproach-
ign him that her husband did not realize her
condition, until, one day, he returned from a
long season of roving, and found her dying.

Then. he awoke to a knowledge of her worth,
and, for a time, sincerely mourned for her.

And yet, even in his mourning, he was
utterly selfish, since he thought only of his
loss and discomfort, in having his well-ordered
home in confusion for the want of a mistress,
rather than of the blighted life that had been
cut short by his cruel neglect.

But, during these dark days, he began to
realize that he had a child, who required his
care; and Vera, the beautiful, dark-eyed little
fairy, who was but a reproduction of her dead
mother in miniature, made a place for herself
in his heart, so winning him by her sweet and
lovable ways that he soon grew to regard her
with an idolatrous affection of which no one,
who had known him hitherto, would have be-
lieved him capable.

At the time of her mother’s death Vera was
ten years of age; and, the following summer,
her father resolved that he would dispose of
his beautiful villa, where he was continually
reminded of his cruel neglect of his wife, and,
taking his child with him, spend the remain-
der of the season in travel.

pier to place, as
, leisurely enjoy -

And so they roved from
long as the weather permitte

ing their desultory, care-free life, the dainty
child, who inherited the warm-hearted impul-
siveness of her mother, growing to worship
the father who. devoted himself so exclusively
to her, and believing him with childish credu-
lity, to be the truest and grandest man on
earth.

When winter drew near, he placed her in a
convent in France, and, taking rooms in a
hotel, near the institution, where vey could
see each other often, he lived the life of a
sybarite until warm weather returned, when
the two began their ane again. ;

For six years they lived this kind of life.

But Richard Heatherton, or Heath, that being
the name under which he had married Anita

 

fee

VOL. 47—N Oo. 2 9.

 

Castaldi—grew more and more demoralized
during that time.

His habits were far from being what they
ought. to have been; he had spent money lay-
ishly, and the fortune which had come into his
hands, and which should have been preserved
for Vera, was fast melting away, so fast, that
he was really “gettin uite close to the
weather,” as he had tol Bete Lawson,
when he finally drifted back to this country,
and to the city of Boston.

When he first returned to his native soil the
aan previous to his re with his uncle,

+ was but natural that he should seek his old
home in New York, to ascertain if his parents
were still living.

He hoped they were not; he hoped also to
find that his uncle was dead, and thus he
should obtain possession of two snug fortunes,
and so be able to continue his rovings and
luxurious living.

But, greatly to his disgust, he learned that
his parents were alive and well, but that his
father was on the verge of bankruptcy, while
Mr. Lawson had long since left New York,
and noone could tell him whither he had gone.

Consequently he had no desixe to reveal his
identity to any one, and, putting Vera into a
convent in Montreal for the winter, he wan-
dered from place to place.until spring opened,
when he drifted to Boston, wien he sum-
moned Vera to join him; for, strange as it
may seem, she was the one idol of his life,
and he could not be long separated from her.

Upon leaving Mr. Lawson’s house after his
interview with Miriam, Richard Heatherten
proceeded to Park street, thence across the
Common toward Boylston street; but it was
evident, from his lowering brow and dejected |
air, that he was in no enyiable frame of mind.

“What shall I do?” he muttered, despond-
ingly, as he stopped on a corner to wait fora
car. “One thing I know I must do, before
long, and that is—get Vera out of the country;
it would break her heart, poor child, if she
should learn the truth about herself. Curse
en I would have given my right arm
to have prevented this thing. And—Mathews!
if I had dreamed that he intended to play me
such a trick, I would have throttled him. Oh,
my darling !—to think that this shame, which
I believed belonged to another, should have
fallen upon you!’

A groan of mingled pain and anger broke
from him in view of what he had learned that
day, then stepping upon a car, he rode, with
gloomy eyes and sternly compressed lips out
towara the Hotel Vendome.

CHAPTER XXXII.

GERTRUDE LANGMAID RECEIVES A STARTLING
PROPOSAL,

The day following Richard . Heatherton’s
interview with his wife, Mr. Lawson and his
household went to their summer residence at
Nantasket.

Ned accompanied ‘them to the boat to see
them off, and, as he bade them good-by,
promised to join them at the beach as early
as possible on the coming Saturday.

That same morning he received the follow-
ing note:

Boston, June 15th, 18—.

“DEAR NED :—You will, perhaps, be surprised to
learn that Lam athome. I arrived yesterday, but
only for a short visit. That will astonish you also,
but mamma has not been well of late, and the doctor
commands a sea voyage. Accordingly she and papa
start for Europe next Saturday, and I am going back
to Halifax to remain with mamma’s friend, Mrs,
Page, during the summer. Papa and mamma are in
New York for a couple of days, making arrange-
ments for their trip; meanwhile | am alone and want.
to be amused.

“If you have no engagement for this afternoon,
come to Arlington street, as soon as the bank closes,
and John will drive us out to the Woodland Park
Hotel, where a schoolmate of mineis spending the
summer, and upon whom I have promised to call.”

Hastily, but ever yours,
**GERTRUDE.”

Ned was both surprised and delighted as he
read this note, which came to hand just as he
was going to dinner.

He slipped it hastily into his pocket and
hurried away to the restaurant, and, while
waiting to have his lunch served, drew forth
the morning paper, as was his custom, to pass
away the time.

As he did so Gertrude’s note came forth
oi the paper, and slipped unnoticed to the

oor.

At least he did not see it drop, but another
pair of eyes, which had been watching Ned
ever since he entered the room, marked the
dainty missive, as it fluttered under the table,
with an eager, jealous glance.

Immediately after finishing his dinner, Ned
hurriedly arose from the table and left the
room; while his old enemy, Bill Bunting, who
had been a little back of him, imme-
diately changed his seat, taking the one which
Ned had just vacated.

He gave his order to the waiter, after which
he stooped and stealthily secured the note
which the unfortunate lover had dropped.

His eyes gleamed ee as he boldly read
it, and a smile of triumph curled his coarse
lips, as he slipped it into a pocket of his vest,
muttering:

“So the pretty litle heiress is at home again.
The proud minx gave me the cut direct the
last time I met her, but I’m not going to stand
any such kind of treatment as that. I’ve made
up my mina to handle some of the old money-
bags’ cash, and I am _ not going to be balked
for the want of a little cheek. The old folks
are ‘away for a couple of days’—wonder how
it would do to call around at Arlington street
some time to-morrow! Guess I'll try it—‘faint
heart never won fair lady,’ and I confess I’m
awfully smitten.” "

Ned sped to Arlington street immediately
after his duties at the bank were over.

He found Gertrude awaiting him, and the
fair girl] flushed rosily as she greeted him with
even more than her accustomed cordiality.

“Did you think me very bold to invite you
to drive with me?” she shyly questioned.

“No, indeed!” Ned answered, earnestly,
“such a thought did not once occur to me.
was only too glad to be asked.”

“Well, I did not want to drive way to
Auburndaie alone, and, besides, I had papa’s
sanction to the arrangement.”

Ned flushed now with pleasure, for this
concession on Mr. Langmaid’s part assured
him that that gentleman still regarded his
suit with favor.

The ae afternoon was delightful, the
country beautiful, and the lovers enjoyed their
drive and call most thoroughly; returning to
Boston by moonlight in the evening.

The next morning, about eleven o'clock, Mr.
William Hunting—alias Bunting—swaggered
up the steps of No. — Arlington street with
serene assurance, rang the bell, and inquired
if Miss Langmaid was at home.

“Yes,” the servant responded, then asked,
as the young man boldly stepped within the
hall, “who shall I tell her has called?”

“Just say, please, that a gentleman wishes
to see her upon a little matter of business,”
he replied, after pretending for a moment to
search for a card.

The girl hesitated, glanced suspiciously at
him, then, seeing that he was determined to
carry his point, led the way into the reception-
room, after which she went up stairs to give
her young mistress the message.

Gertrude looked somewhat annoyed upon
being informed that her caller had not given
his name.

“How stupid!” she exclaimed.
not it is some agent or peddler, and I cannot
endure to talk with them.”

Nevertheless, fearing that it might be some
one whom she knew, and would not like to
treat with rudeness, she decided to go down.

She descended to the reception-room, where
she experienced a sudden shock of mingled
anger and repulsion at finding herself face to
face with Bill Bunting, the old-time enemy of
her lover.

She drew herself up with some hauteur as
she coldly inquired:

“To what am Il indebted for this visit, sir?”

The fellow arose and bowed with great
politeness, and Gertrude found herself won-
dering how he could have acquired so polished

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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a manner, while she observed, too, that he
was dressed with great care and even ele-
ance. .

“Pray be seated, Miss Langmaid,” he smil-
ey remarked, as he rolled a chair forward
for her, “for I have a little matter which I
wish to discuss with you.”

“Thank you,” the lovely girl calmly replied,
as she laid her hand upon the back of the
chair, but evidently with no intention of occu-
pying it. “You spoke of a matter of business
a you be kind enough to state the nature
of it?”

Her quiet self-possession and her icy manner
somewhat disconcerted her visitor, in spite of
his bold assurance, and he flushed a dull red.
But he had staked too much on this venture
to be balked in his designs, and, with a sullen
doggedness leaping into his eyes, he plunged
at once to the heart of his purpose.

“Certainly,” he said, still suave and affable,
“although no doubt it will be something of a
surprise to you—I am here this morning for
the purpose of craving the hand of Miss Ger-
trude Langmaid in marriage.”

Had a thunderbolt exploded at her feet,
Gertrude could not have been more stunned for
the moment, and the look of amazement which
overspread her face, plainly indicated that
she had not had a suspicion regarding the real
object of his call. :

This was quickly followed by a feeling of
hot indignation, and a flame of anger shot into
her eyes.

“Sir!” she began, but with a deprecatory
.wave of his hand, he interrupted her:

“T have shocked you, Miss Langmaid,” he
said, “and I ask your pardon; but, really, your
icy commana forced the truth from me more
abruptly than I could have desired. Do not
condemn me unheard for my apparent pre-
sumption,” he went on hastily, as she made

She had the utmost faith in her lover’s truth
and honor; yet the arrow rankled and made
her nervous and unhappy.

She could not believe that Ned could have
done Wed fra. wrong at the bank and still be
retained there in his position.

Still Bill Bunting had spoken so confidently
and seemed to know that some one had inter-
posed to save Ned, that it gave an air of plau-
sibility to the tale.

She knew that Mr. Lawson was one of the
directors, and that, if there had been anything
wrong, he would do all in his power to shield
Ned. She remembered, too, that Ned had not
appeared quite like himself during their drive
yesterday—there had been moments when he
seemed to forget himself and where he was,
and become absorbed in deep thought, then he
would arouse himself with an effort, and be
guite gay and natural for a time.

More than this, he had looked thin and pale;
but, when she had spoken of it, expressing the
fear that he was working too hard, he had
smiled fondly at her and said he was perfectly
well; that he did not have even enough work
hee his time as fully occupied as he would

ike.

“T will never believe it,” she cried out again,
as, in her own room, she thought over all
these things, but with an anxious fear in her
heart, “if all the world accused him I would
defend him; I know that Ned is incorruptible,
and it must be only a malicious fabrication of
that wretch, for—how could he have become
possessed of any such knowledge—even if it
was true—if the bank officials agreed not to
divulge it? No, it can only be a falsehood—my
dear boy is good and honest, brave and true,
and no one shall ever weaken my confidence
in him.”

Such was the faith which the true-hearted
girl had in her lover, while she was happily

an effort to silence him. “I must justify my-
self to this extent—must confess that I love
you with a passion of which you can have no
conception. I have loved you ever since I first?
saw you—when I stood, a barefoot boy, one
Sunday, by the drinking fountain at the
entrance to Beacon street and Commonwealth
avenue, more than ten years ago. Doubtless
you will feel anything but complimented by
such an avowal, but it will at least prove the
endurance of my affection, while, in. this free
land, where a pauper may become a statesman,
or a beggar a millionaire in a decade of years
the change in my own circumstances has em-
boldened me to make the confession. By my
own efforts I have risen to an honorable posi-
tion in life, and to-day I feel justified in offer-
ing you my hand and asking yours in return.
Oh, Miss Langmaid, tell me that you will lis-
ten to my suit—that you will give me hope,
courage, and inspiration for the future, by
becoming my wife.”

He had spoken rapidly and with increasing
earnestness, and with every appearance of the
utmost sincerity.

But Gertrude, knowing as she did, how false
to all honor and principle he had always been
—how treacherous toward Ned; how lacking
in chivalry and true respect for womanhood,
was sensible only of a feeling of loathing and
abhorrence toward him.

“Your wife!” she repeated, in a low tone,
that was rendered intense from these emo-
tions, “the wife of a man of your reputation!
—of a man who has been a thief! who accosts
and insults unprotected girls in the streets!
Really, sir, your presumption might be amus-
ing but for its brazen insolence——”

The man sprang angrily to his feet as these
scathing sentences fell upon his ears.

“Have a care!” he cried, hoarsely, and inter-
rupting her, “you do not know the nature you
are arousing. Miss Langmaid, I offer you, in
all sincerity, my hand, my heart, and my for-
tune—for I have lately come into the posses.
sion of that which will bring mea large for-
tune. And surely it is not kind to twit me
with the mistakes and indiscretions of my
nals mee Porc ~ ag deeply deplore. Let
my love for you plead——” 3 ”

“We will eon diasons the subject further,” E told Ber the truth,” he answered,

unconscious of the crucial test to which, ere
long, it was to be subjected.

TO BE CONTINUED.)

this Story Will Not be Published in Book-Furm,

The Sins of the Father.

By BERTHA M. CLAF,
Author of *’Twixt Love and Hate,” “Between
Two Hearts,” ‘‘FKair, but Faithless,”
"For Another’s Sin,” Thrown
on the World,” Etc.

CHAPTER XXIII.
THE REVENGE OF ARTHUR CAINE.

 

The manner of her father, and his convulsive
effort to speak, told Lady Mabel that Arthur
Caine must have spoken the truth; but it was
too horrible to grasp in its entirety, and fora
full minute she stood gazing from the sneering,
triumphant face of the young man to the con-
vulsed face and downcast eyes of the elder.
“Did—did you hear?” she stammered at
length. ‘“ He—he—says——”

“What did you say?” asked the duke, a
strange calm possessing him, though the
strained , tixed stare in his eyes that had fol-
lowed the distortion of his features, told of the
fearful internal struggle that was going on.
“What have you told her?”

Arthur Caine laughed with an effort at care-
lessness, though there was something in the
expression of the duke that made him feel un-
easy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Gertrude haughtily interposed. ~“It is utterly} _ “How much of it?” demanded the duke again,
impossible that I could for a moment enter- | in a dull, even tone. B :
tain your proposal——” _ Lady Mabel had followed this colloquy with

“Perhaps you expect some day to bestow intense attention, hereyes flashing from one
your coveted hand upon that upstart of a Ned | speaker to the other in quick succession. The
Wallingford,” her would-be-suitor sneered, | horrible truth was forcing itself upon her, and
without giving her an opportunity to complete | yet how could she believe it? It was more like
her sentence. ; a hideous nightmare than a sober reality. _

Gertrude did not deign to make any reply to| .“How much of it!” she repeated, her voice
this jealous attack upon her lover, although | pitched high, as if it were beyond her control.
she wondered if he had never heard of the “Ts there any word of truth in the things he
change in Ned’s name. has said tome? Tell me!”

“Talk about a ‘thief!’” he went on, mali-| |“ What has he told you?” repeated the duke,
ciously, “your hego is far from being immacu- | doggedly, transferring his glance to his
late in that respect—there is, you know, such | daughter, or rather to the ground at her feet.
a thing as a distinction without a difterence.” One of her hands was clenched tightly, the

“What do you mean!” Gertrude demanded, | Other pressed her heaving bosom, and her
with flashing eyes, and thoroughly aroused by | breath came pantingly. , :
this vindictive slur. “He has told me—he has told me,’ she said,

“Oh, I forgot that you have been away from | Chokingly, “oh, Heaven! how can I say it! He
home of late, and have not perhaps heard of | has told me that my—my—mother was—not
Wallingford’s unfaithfulness to his trust.” your—wife, Is that true? Is it? Is it?” _

“What do you mean?” Gertrude sternly re- She leaned toward him, her hands working
peated. 4 convulsively, and threatening gleams of fury

“Then you did not hear how he robbed the | playing in her blue eyes. She seemed to forget
—— Bank of a large amount of money.” Arthur Caine in the thought that all her life

“I do not believe it,” cried the fair girl, ex-| she had been the dupe, the betrayed child of
citedly, but her red lips trembled and paled| this man, who now stood before her as before
as she said it. “He could never have done} his judge. _ ;
such a thing without it being known to the| Little by little the truth and its consequences
public.” had risen into life before her mental vision.

“Don’t be too sure, my fair lady. What I|She saw herself dragged down from her high
have told you is true, but the bank officials! and haughty position; she saw herself an out-
hushed up the matter through the influence of | cast, as much dishonored as by some act of her |
one of the directors, who tbrew himself into} own; she saw Lord Westmarch, her affianced |
the breach to save the culprit.” husband and the man she loved best of all the

“It is false! Ned never would be guilty of | world, turning from her, perhaps pityingly,
an act so dishonorable,” Gertrude exclaimed, | perhaps even with relief; and all because of
but with a sinking heart, for the fellow spoke | the crime of the man wno was her father.
so confidently that his words somehow carried; Oh, how she hated him at that moment!
conviction with them. There was no shadow of pity for him in her

“TI tell you he has,” Bill Bunting responded. | heart, even though she knew full well that he
“But wait and see, and, mark my words, he| was abased before her, inwardly begging her
will yet prove it by even worse crimes; I pre- | mercy. s 5 ; k a4
dict that he will yet occupy a private apart- “Is it true?” she cried again, when he did
ment in a public institution not so very far | not at once answer her. ; Aye
from Arlington street. But that is neither “Yes,” he answered, huskily, “it is true.
here nor there—I didn’t come here to discuss| But hear me, Mabel! I did not know it until
my rival’s virtues or faults—I came to test my | a few days ago. I did not know it until she—
own fate. Miss Langmaid, I ask you once} his mother—came to me, like one risen from
more, will you be my wife?” the grave. I thought she was dead when I

““No—a thousand times no; you are utterly | married your mother. He promised me——”
obnoxious to me. I would not be your wife| “What did I promise you?” broke in Caine,
even though you possessed the wealth and | contemptuously.
position of a prince of royal birth——” He felt that he was complete master of the

“But possibly you might be tempted to wed | situation now, and he bore himself with the
a poverty-stricken baiecelerk with a hand- | aggressive insolence of a bully. ‘
some face and figure,” sarcastically interposed | The duke turned a lowering, shifting glance
her companion. “Don’t trysme too far, Miss | upon him and was silent for a moment before
Langmaid, or you may live td regret it; and, as | he answered in a low tone: :

ou well know, I have no love for Ned Wal- “Perhaps you promised nothing, but you
ingford.” gave me to understand that the secret should

“Ned at least does not require the protection | be kept, and that you would interpose nothing
of an alias to secure him the entree of the} between my child and her marriage with the
homes of respectable people. Good-morning, | Earl of Westmarch.” é
Mr. Bunting,” and with this cutting thrust “Ihave changed my mind, then,” answered
and dismissal, the proud and spirited girl! Caine, coolly. “When I came here I had certain
touched the electric button by the door, near| plans which have since been changed.” :
which she stood, then turned and walked from} He turned and looked at Lady Mabel, his
the room. eyes resting on her with bold admiration. She

Meeting a servant in the hall, she said, in a} stood there, cold and statue-like, hearing their
tone intended also for the ear of the man she/ words, but seeming to see neither of them,
had just left: Her father’s words had fallen on her ears like

“Sarah, show the man in the reception-room | a doom, and a sudden change had passed over
out, and never come to me again without the; her. Her fury had frozen in her eyes and on
card or the name of a caller.” her lips, and there was something terrible in

She swept up stairs, a hot flush on her face, | her appearance.
while the chagrined aspirant for her hand just} “Since I have been here I have learned to
caught sight of her vanishing silken skirt, as, | hate a man_and to love a woman. The man I
preceded by the servant who held the door| hate is the Earl of Westmarch, and the woman
open for him, he made his way out of the|I love is the Lady Mabel. It isin my power
house. to gratify both love and hate, and do you think '

His brow was black with anger, and he|I shall be such a fool as to turn aside from the
strode down the steps to the street, muttering | full gratification of both?”
threats of vengeance as he went. “What would you do?” asked the duke, see-

“T will bring down that proud little head of | ing that Lady Mabel had no intention of speak- |
yours, my haughty jade; before you are many | ing. ‘ ‘ ‘
months older,” he hissed’between his tightly| “What would I do?” cried Caine, laughing
lockea teeth, “and you shall yet find yourself | derisively. “What do you suppose a man
in a position where you will be glad to marry| would do who had been carefully cherishing
me, while your equally proud lover shall! his hatred and his love?’ Why do you suppose
occupy a prison cell, at least if certain schemes | I have waited until now? Let me tell you, so
do not fail.” that you will know—both of you—that it will

Gertrude did not believe one word of the| be foolish to try to move me. I separated Lord
miserable story regarding Ned, which Bill| Westmarch from the woman he loved, and I
Bunting had told her. know how bitter that was to him, but it was

 

’

 

 

 

notenough. I determined to strike at his pride
as well as at his heart.

“It is announced to the world that he is to
marry Lady Mabel; settlements are mude;
gifts are purchased; guests areassembled—ay,
at the very altar; and there they all await the
coming of the bride; but she does not come,
and he learns that she has scorned him and
has eloped at the last moment with—me. That
is my revenge!

“As for my love: Lady Mabel becomes my
bride, and the world never knows that she has
any blot on her escutcheon. I have no doubt
that with my wealth it will be possible to ob-
tain an act of Parliament enabling me to bear
the title.”

A smile at once self-satisfied and insolent
rested on his features as he concluded his in-
famous harangue, and he glanced triumphantly
from father to daughter as if to see how they
accepted the inevitable,

The duke, too, had continued to cast furtive
glances at his daughter during the progress
of Arthur Caine’s words, but she had remained
impassive throughout, as if she either had not
heard, or was prepared to bear the worst that
might come.

“Is there nothing that will change you?” he
asked of Caine.

The latter laughed as if amused at the ab-
surdity of the question.

“Nothing. I claim my bride. .
say, Lady Mabel?”

She turned slowly and fixed her eyes on him
with a singular expression in them,

“Of what use would it be for me to say any-
thing?” she asked in a dull, even tone.

“Ah!” replied Arthur Caine, “of what use,
indeed! I am glad to see that you, at least,
take a sensible view of the matter.”

“T take what seems to ve the only view,”
she said.

“And you are ready, of course, to assist me
in my plans?” he queried, speaking confidently
enough, but eyeing her doubtfully.

“Have I any choice? "she asked, still speak-
ing in the passionless tone of one who yielded
everything, and would struggle no more.

He laughed triumphantly. He realized that
she was yielding to force only, but to have
made her yield at all was a triumph to him,
who had leoked for a bitter struggle to the
very last.

The duke studied her face with contracted
eyes, seeming to try to dive to the very depths
of her soul for a meaning for a course which
no one knew better than he was totally unlike
what was to be expected from one of her un-
governable temper.

But the moment she turned her head as if
she would look at him, he shut his teeth to-
gether, and, lowering his eyes, walked with
slow, dragging steps to the window, where he
‘stood looking deggedly out, listening to what
passed between ,the other two, but taking no
further part in the conversation.

“No,” said Arthur Caine, answering Lady
Mabel, “I do not think you have any choice,
but I am glad that you are wise enough to see
that it is so. Shall I tell you what I would
have you do?”

What do you

 

“T must listen,” she answered,

“And you will do as I ask you?” he de-
manded,

“Can I refuse?” she asked.

“Not very well,” he answered, and laughed
again; “but I should be better pleased if you
would not act as if you were coerced.”

“Am I not coerced?” she asked, but not as if
she had any feeling concerning it. It was
rather as if she had yielded to the inevitable.

“Yes,” he replied, shrugging his shoulders,
“T suppose you are coerced, but you might re-
member that I love you, and will do as much
as Westmarch to make you happy. I should
think, moreover, that you might remember
that he does not love you. To oite as proud
as you it ought to be some satisfaction to
wound where you have been wounded.”

“Why argue?” she asked, drearily.

“Why indeed!” he replied. “And I will not.
My wishes are——”

“Your commands,” she interposed.

“My commands, then, -prefer that
word,” he said, half-angrily, resenting the re-
fusal of what he had intended as an overture
to friendly feeling. “My commands are that
you let everything go on asif the wedding
were to take piace, in the meanwhile secretly
packing such things as you wish to take with
you.”
me Where am I to go?” she asked.

“We will go to London together and be
married there. I have made all the necessary
preparations for it,” he answered.

“Am I to meet you in London?” she asked.

“No,” he answered with a short laugh, as if
he suspected a motive in wishing it*to be so,
“you will meet me in the. park. I will be
waiting for you under the oak by the pool. I
wish it to be an elopement in proper form.”

“At wnat time?” she asked, ever speaking in
the same, dull, measured tone.

“At about five minutes before the time set
for the wedding. That will make certain of
the wedding party being assembled, and will
give us time to catch the eight o’clock express
to London.”

“Very well,” she said.

“You will not fail me?” he queried sus-
piciously; for her ready, even if dull acquies-
cence, made doubts arise in his mind. “If

ou do——”

“Why threaten? Do you think I do not com-
prehend the extent of your power? Do you
think that because I have not made a scene
that I have not thought of all the possibilities?
Do you suppose I would have yielded if I had
not gone over all the zround?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

.“I_ supposed, of course, that you had under-
stood,” he said, “and I do not mean to
threaten; but when you are alone you may un-
derrate the strength of my purpose, so [ tell
you now, that if you fail me I shall not hesi-
tate to use every means in my power.”

“JT expected nothing else,” she said, coldly.

“You may have it in your mind,” he went
on, exasperated, perhaps, by her unmoved way
of accepting the situation, “that you can
hasten the marriage so that the ceremony can
be performed while I am waiting for you,
thinking that the exposure will not matter
when you are the Countess of Westmarch; but
I warn you that——”

“You are wasting breath, sir,” she inter-
posed with a faint touch of scorn. “Iam think-
ing of no such folly. 1 had thought of it, per-
haps, but I knew ina moment that it could
not be accomplished. Will it satisfy you if I
tell you that I will meet you without fail?
What more can I say? 1 will be under the
oak by the pool at the appointed time.”

“You are wise,” he said.

“Will you leave me now?” sheasked. “There
is much to do.”

He hesitated as if. he had a thought of show-
ing his power by refusing; then shrugged his
shoulders and bowed in acquiescence.

CHAPTER XXIV.
GOING TO THE OAK BY THE POOL,

Lady Mabel watched him silently until the
portiere had fallen behind him; then she
turned slowly to where her father stood, and
the expression that grew on her face was little
short of demoniac in its fury.

“And I owe this to you!” she said.

He turned, cowering and humble, holding
his trembling hands out to her as if beseeching
her to have mercy, but not daring to look at
her.

_"“As Heaven is my judge, Mabel,” he said,
“Tam not guilty. I had no suspicion of it un-
til she came to me only a short time ago.”

“Why did you not tell me then?” she cried.
“Why did you not give me a chance to antici-
pate this thing? Why did you leave it until
it was too late? Not guilty you say! Am I,
then, the guilty one? Is it by any act of mine
that my life is ruined?”

“There may be hope yet,” he said in a low

tone.
“What hope can there be? What hope can
exist for a woman dishonored as I am? e
scorn, the jest, the mockery.of every one?
Robbed of name, of. honor, of. wealth, and,

| went on with the preparations for the wed-

vonaron, «soca THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3
$1200 in Presents

worst of all of love! And you say to me that
there may be hope! Where shall I find it? In
the insolence or in the mercy of that vulgar
wretch?”

“Give me time to think, Mabel,” said the
misefable parent.

VO think !” she laughed, bitterly. “Oh, yes!
think. There is so much time for thinking.
And while you are thinking I will be doing—
I will be paying the price of your folly. Oh,
go, go! and she pointed to the door. ‘“Go—
and think!”

“You are very hard, Mabel,” hesaid, sorrow-
fully: “but I cannot. blame you. You are
right, the folly was mine, and I should pay
the price. If I could take all the load from
your shoulders I would; for all the love of my
heart is yours. And what I can do, I will do.”

“And what I must do, I shall do,” she re-
torted, but there was a little softening in her
manner.

Her father turned and took a few steps to-
ward the door, hesitated, and came back to her.
For a moment he stood as if considering how
to word the thought that was in his mind;
then reached out ‘his hand and let it rest on
her arm. ;

“Mabel, don’t lose hope until the end comes,”
he said, and turned and hurriedly left the
room,

A strange, spasmodic smile flitted over the
set, beautiful face. ; !

“No, I won’t lose hope,” she muttered. “ Nor
will IT lose the man 1 love. What! do they
think I will tamely submit? Ah, Arthur

 

 

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Caine! Arthur Caine! look to yourself! You
are a an, and you are strong. You hold my
fate in your hands, and you will impose your
commands on me. I am to go on with the
preparations for the wedding asif it were to
take place, am I?” She laughed in a discor-
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preparations, and may the curse of it all be on
your head !”

The firm set of the beautiful lips, and the
fixed pallor of the face, told of a desperate re-
solve, but she returned to her boudoir and

ding precisely asif nothing. had occurred to
render it an impossibility.

She tried to act as she would have done if
nothing had been suddenly thrust into her life
to mar it; but even she, superb actress though
she was, could not play her part so well that
— astute maid could not detect a change in

er.

And, as Carlotte’s idea of her duties in-
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curiosity, and noted all that she did that was
contrary to her usual custom. But this was
not because she suspected anything of the
truth, but only because she was acting on the
general principle of learning all she could.

 

 

 

.thing—to—me?”

Carlotte’s notion was that there had been
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She saw how Lady Mabel's face would sud-
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the white hands would close with a sort of
fierce contraction, how the beautifully curved
lips would move in silent mutterings and then
shut in a hard, even line, and how the blue
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And once, when she had been obliged to
leave Lady Mabel alone, she returned to see

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her mistress examining a jeweled stiletto,
which had been used half as an ornament, half
as a pin to throw loose scarfs over.

She would have thought nothing of it, but
for the strange expression in Lady Mabel’s
eyes, when, after a sudden, startled look at
being found so oceupied, she turned to her
maid and said with affected carelessness:

“It was not securely put in, but never mind

it now. It is very sharp, is it not?” and she
felt its point.
Carlotte-. shrugged her shoulders inher

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“Sharp enough to kill a man, I think,” she
said.

She never forgot the sudden manner in
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eyes dilating fiercely, and cried out in a chok-
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“Why do you say suchathing? Sucha

She

Carlotte opened her eyes in wonder.
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you say that it was many years old, and had
been used in some noble Italian family.”

*‘Ah, yes,” said Lady Mabel, asingular smile
flitting over her beautiful face, ‘and you sup-
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men, it was still equal to the task.”

“Yes, my lady,” acquiesced Carlotte, puzzled
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mistress.

“Ah, well!” went on Lady Mabel, again feel-
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“we do not rid ourselves of our enemies in

  
  
 
  
 
  

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Was it Carlotte’s fancy, or did she notice
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FREE He OPEL SEE

SAAR EPCOT OLEATE ORE LOCC OTL

 

 

 

 

THE LAST SHALL BE FIRST.

 

BY WALTER W. SKEAT.

 

Who would not haste to do some mighty thing,

If safe occasion gave it to his hand,

Kuowing that, at it@ @lose, his name would ring,
Coupled with praises, through a grateful land?
Who would not hear with joy some great command,
Bidding him dare to earn a glorious name?

The task is easy*that secures us fame.

But, ah! how seldom comes the trumpet call
That stirs the pulse and fills the veins with flame,
When victory asks fierce effort, once for all,

And smiling fortune points a way to fame

Along some path of honor, free from blame.

To one, the call to do great deeds speaks loud,

To one, amid a vast unhonored crowd.

Far otherwise the common lot of man,

Our hourly toil but seeks the means to live;
Our dull, monotonous labor knows no plan
Save that which stern necessity doth give.
Our earnings fill an ever-leaking sieve;

Our task fulfilled, another still succeeds,

And brief neglect brings overgrowth of weeds.

What wonder, then, if suffering men repine,

And hopelessness gives way to mad despair?
Some murmur at, yea, curse the scheme divine
That placed them where the saws of fretting care
Across their brows a deepening channel wear.
For them, no spring-tide speaks of hope renewed,
But changeless wintry skies above them brood,

Oh, fools and blind! This world is not the goal,
But shapes us for a larger world unknown;
The vilest slave that keeps a patient soul

Shall yet rank higher than the sensual drone
Who seeks to please his worthless self alone,

If hum blest toil be hardest, yet be sure

He most shall merit who cau most endure,

MATRIMONIAL MISHAPS.

BY W. W. CARTNER.

 

 

 

(“MATRIMONIAL MISHAVS” was commenced in No. 15,
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

_**THAT’S RIGHT!” YELLED WILSON, ‘* PILE THE

CHAIRS ON ME!
THROW IT ON!

NUMBER SIXTY-SEVEN.

An Adventure With a Goat Causes Mr. Wilson
to Plow the Earth With His Nose.

“Henry, do you know there is a spot on the
sun, and that the astronomers are anxiously
watching the effect of it? Professor Trisbie
says it has varied the magnetic’ needle one
and a half degrees. What effect will that
have?” anxiously inquired Mrs. Wilson.

“Well, Anna, it will be very liable to raise
the price of potatoes. You must understand
that the needle varies the magnetic current,
the latter does not strike the rows squarely,
and there will only be a few potatoes in one
side of each hill. I have arranged to have my
rows run out by the compass, to take advan-
tage of high prices,” he quietly replied, and
resumed reading. :

“T wish I had married a man who could
answer an ordinary question when politely
asked to do so. Other women’s husbands tell
them all about such things, but I never know
anything by your telling me,” she sighed.

“Well, Mrs. Wilson, I have not been up to
see just what kind of a snot the sun is afflicted
with. If it has accidentally run against the
horn. of the moon, and bruised its face, it will
come. out all right; but if it is something
hereditary, there is no telling what will
zesult. We must hope for the best, and let
Br. Trishie prescribe for it,” he said, laying
@own his paper and drumming on the table
with his fingers.

“When I look back only six short years ago,
when you patted my cheek and said it was
fairer than the peach, that my eyes were the
fulfillment of a lover's dream, and that my
disposition was the poetry of——”

“Stop right where you are! One more word,
and I will blow my brains from my skull! If
I ever uttered such addle-pated slush as that,
I should have been shot! I might have been
spooney—all men are; but if I ever reached the

lane you speak of I should have been put
behind iron bars. While I do not pretend to
knew anything about sun-spots, moon-spots,
or the eclipse of the pleiads, I know you to
be the most exasperating woman that a Chris-
tian man ever tried to drag out a miserable
existence with. We are about as well mated
as an ordinary mule and a two-eight trotting
horse would be.”

“Do you suppose that the sun-spot will make
i eool this summer?” she asked, looking him
immocently in the eye.

He did not even’ glance at her, but again
took up his paper and resumed reading.

“Are you going to paint the house this
spring?” she inquired.

“Well, suppose I am, what then?”

“Nothing; only I have selected the color I
shai have it painted,”

“Oh! you have, madam!
what color you have chosen?”

“A straw color for the body, dark trimmings
and wine-color for the sash.”

*A very good combination for a _hen-house,
er an ice-house; but, as long asI have my
senses, there will be no such truck put ona
house that I live in. It’s a wonder you do
not want it striped like a measly barber-pole.”

“Iam rather of the opinion that the house
trill be painted to suit my taste this time. I
have been twitted with living in a house
painted the color of a wash-tub——”" __

“Who said that, Anna? Who said this house
was the color of a wash-tub? I can knock the
hind-sights off the man that says this house
is any such color,” and striking a pugilistic
attitude, he nimbly danced around his wife’s
chair.

“Now, Henry, keep quiet. You know what
the doctor said about your heart, You are
Mable to bring on an attack that will carry
you off,” she soothingly remarked.

BRING THE STOVE AND
FINISH ME UP!”

May I inquire

“What do I care for your basswood-headed
doctor? Who said that? Take that!” he yelled,
as he struck out with his fist at an imaginary
antagonist; “and then take that!” and kick-
ing vengefully at his imaginary opponent, his
foot slipped and he slid under his wife’s chair.
She sprang up to help him, and turned the
chair over on hin,

“That’s right { Pile the chairs on me! Brin
the stove and throw it on! Finish me up.
am down here with a broken leg; ,I cannot
help myself,” he groaned.

“Good gracious! have you broken your leg,
Henry?”

“What do you suppose I am _ lying here for?
You probably think I crawled under that chair
because I was afraid you would whip me, or
send me to bed. I can stand on two legs when
they are all right,” he yelled.

“Shall I go after the doctor?” she anxiously
inquired.

“No, you will not.
as any of them,”

“How will you get to the bed?”

“Tf you have good luck, I think you can take
me there in a couple of weeks. Sit right
there, Mrs. Wilson! Do not lift a finger to
help me up! Let me lie right here until my
broken leg knits, and then I can go on
crutches without any of your help,” he growled.

“Judging by the way you are kicking
around, your leg is not very badly hurt.”

“That's right! Of course you know all about
it. The thing is settled; my leg is all right.
Nothing can hurt me. 1’m the man that lives
in the house painted the color of a wash-tub.
I can catch bullets in my teeth and cannon-
balls in my hands. lam water-tight and fire-
proof, and can stretch out or curl up like a
piece of second-hand rawhide. Madam, I am
no applicant for admission to the home of the
feeble-minded. I know when I am hungry
without being told of it, and I know when I[
am hurt. My leg is broken squarely off
there,” he yelled, as he scrambled to his feet
and caught his knee in his hands and twisted
it in different directions to show her the
extent of his injury.

“Tt is undoubtedly broken, Henry. I can see
that by the way it—— Well, I declare, if that
goat is not right in the center of your onion-
bed!” she said, as she looked out of the win-
dow.

Wilson was out in the back yardin a twink-

I can set a leg as good

j ling, and the next moment the goat dashed by

the door, with Wilson a strong second. As he
passed Mrs. Wilson, he yelled:

“Come on, Anna! It is death
this trip!”

As the goat ran into the corner of the fence,
he suddenly stopped and Wilson made a fran-
tic effort to fall on him, but he was under too
great headway, and went over the animal,
plowing his nose in the ground.

“Stop him, Anna!” sputtered Wilson, as he
spit mud and wiped his bleeding nose,

“Did you hithim, Henry? Good gracious, are
you bleeding to death?” ;

“Where is that perfumed snubbing-post?” he
bellowed.

“Weut home, shaking his head and running
as fast as he could. I thought you had hit
him with a club,” she replied.

“Mrs. Wilson did you ever try to hit a flash
of lightning and miss it? Well, that is the way
I hit the goat,” he said, as he tenderly felt his
nose.

“lfow in the world did you get your nose
hart, and your face all mud? I declare, Henry,
you do beat all creation. to get yourself up to
look hideous in one minute’s time.”

“Mrs. Wilson, the next time the goat comes
over, you can give him a whirl; and when you
get through with him, if you are not ready to
take a course of medical-treatment to cure you
of ‘the habit of chasing goats, I will buy you a
nine hundred-dollar seal-skin cloak next win-
ter.” he said, shaking his head and gesticu-
lating excitedly.

“You had better go to the house and wash
your face and set your leg,” she suggested.

“You never mind my leg. .I will take care
of mvself. I am doing it too well to suit you.
\It will be a long time before you flip around
las a widow. Yon hear, Mrs. Wilson?” he
roared, as he marched away without a limp.

“We will kill himself yet in spite of all I
can do,” she said, as she bowed her head
reflectively.

to one of us

(TO BE CONTINUED.) *

The Ladies’ Work-Box.

Edited by Mrs.

 

 

Helen Woed.

 

FASHION’S FANCIES.

Nothing surpasses a serge for spring wear.

Braiding of all sorts is a favorite style of trimming this
season.

Silk bengaline is one of the most fashionable of the
spring materials.

Vicuna and serge show many novel styles and new ef-
fects of color, and are quite popular.

Spangles are used on everything. They are seen on
gowns, bonnets, and especially on fans.

Two-toned satin flowers, in lilac blossoms and other
small varieties, are made in the closely-clustered pompon
style.

An unusually great amount of lace is used on all bridal
gowns at present, and large puffings of tulle are also seen
on such dresses.

Grenadines are again very popular, and have, ina great
measure, superseded black lace.

Gowns of gingham, percaie, aud of the various white
goods, will be trimmed with the pretty imitation thread
lace now shown.

Children’s hats have the same featnres as last year, a
flat crown, wide brim in front, narrow back, and long
streamers in the back.

Women who find the various shades of heliotrope be-
coming to them are, for the time, casting all other colors
aside for it, and having their tea-gowns, their street
dresses, their evening dresses, and other costumes made
of it.

Blouse waists of very rich silks are now ma@e for
home wear; handsome striped orspotted silks, or Scotch
plaids and other heavy and rich patterns, are made into
stylish little waists to be worn with skirts of any kind.

tough straw turbans in bright blue, red, brown, and
ecru mixtures are jaunty hats for girls in their teens.
There is a decidedly pretty sailor hat, with a low cloth
erown and rather a long, narrow brim, aud the cloth
crown is circled with a rope twistof velvet. High loops,
quills, and lace bows trim these hats for young folks.

The Marie Stuart bonnet is one of the great favorites
of the season. In mixed brown straw, trimmed witi
brown. velvet and ecru chiffen, it isa pretty church bon-
net, while Rhine-stone buckles are much used in some es-
tablishments. In others, rope twists of velvet are used
to circle low crowns, or are coiled round on top like a ser-
pent.

Burnt sienna is anew shade, which, in combination
with sailor blue, makes natty yachting suits. The skirt
is bordered with a three-inch band of burnt siennacloth,
headed by a narrow band of gold braid; the waist is
trimmed similarly ; a Knox sailor hat in navy.blue straw
has one wide loop projecting forward from the back with
two quills, while the loop of sienna velvet matches the
shade used on the dress.

A sea-side dress at one of the spring openings attracted
much attention. The material was acream wool, striped
with Roman colors; it had a bell skirt, with corselet
and guimpe of cream white china silk, suspenders of the
bright red in the stripe of goods being fastened to the
corselet with steel buckles. These bright Roman colors
are frequently found this season in checked surahs, wide
sash ribbons, rough straw hats, and striped wools.

The full lines of shirt waists in all the stores make it
easy for women with slender incomes to dress themselves
neatly. There are first the dark blue sateen ones, dotted
with white, made box plaited, with turn over collar and
cuffs. The plaited and belted gray flannel ones are just
the thing for the mountain or sea-shore, and are inexpen-
sive, while the silk ones are dainty for afternoon wear.
As pretty as any are those made of black silk, dotted
with pink or blue, with the color of the dot showing on
the wrong side.. These are made up with collar, cuffs,
and belt of the wrong side of the silk, giving a most
charming effect, With one good bell skirt, cut long for
house wear, and one short gored skirt for the street,with
two or more of these waists, one could look well all sum-
mer, and, best of all, be comfortable. And women would
be happier if they went away for health, comfort, and
rest rather than for the display of their costumes.

 

Miss Jessie B.—ist. For church weddings, the high
round corsage of satin gowns is made with seams only
under the arms, and has a yoke with bretelles or bertha
of lace. The sleeves have enormous puffs from armhole
to elbow, with the close lower part of lace without lining.
The end of the waist passes under the top of the bell
skirt, and wide satin ribbon forms a carelessly folded
girdle, that is knotted on the left side, with two upstand-
ing loops, one drooping loop, a cross strap, and two short
wide ends. The bell skirt sweeps widely at the foot, and
is gathered at the top instead of being plaited in the
back. A ruche of ribbon or a lace flounce trims the skirt,
and a vine of orange blossoms extends down each side,
from belt to foot, while a lace ruche around the neck is
fastened by some orange buds, and a bouquet is worn in
front of the girdle. 2d. White, pale rose, and pale green
are the favorite colors for bridesmaids’ gowns for spring
and summer weddings.

Lillie U., Redwood,N.Y.—Flowers are extensively used
on spring millinery, and some of the new styles are very
beautiful. Bonnets with the brim formed of small flowers,
having a garniture of larger flowers posed at the back,
are among the new floral designs, and close, narrow

 

 

wreaths of small flowers are seen for the bordering of

bonnets and the facing of hats. Chiffon continues to be
greatly favored for trimming, and corrugated crape,
China crape, and many new varieties of diaphanous
tissues, while lace is much used for making and trumming
hats and bonnets. Jet bonnets, or bonnets in which jet
forms the greater portion, are anong the Most numerous
of those sent from Paris. The latest taney in jets, how.
ever, is in very fine cut beads, strung on fine wire, for
bonnets, crowns, and head pieces, in lace-like designs, and
these are extremely pretty and dressy looking.

Ella F. C.—We can send a book entitled “Law Without
Lawyers,” on receipt of one dollar.

Mrs. W.C.--A very pretty kilt suit for a little boy of
four years has a square, turned-down collar, and a plaited
back and front. there being three ee on the front, and
one in the middle of the back. The buttoning is on the
middle of the front; the sleeves are full, and plaited on
the shoulder, with a wide, pointed cuff; the skirtis laid
in flat plaits all the way round; and a cord and tassel
decorate the waist. The pattern for this design is No.
1165, and the price twenty-five cents. Woolens of light
weight are especially suited to this model, as are also
foulards having stripes, or plain or Scotch plaids in any
materials for the skirt, collar, and cuffs, associated with a

THE FEMALE SPY.

BY LIEUTENANT MURRAY.

 

 

 

About ten years agothere might be met on
almost any pleasant day in Detroit, Michigan,
in the principal streets, a well-dressed and
fine-looking woman of about thirty years—a
dark-eyed brunette, of medium size, and pos-
sessing a well-rounded figure. There was noth-
ing about her to especially attract the eye ofa
passer-by, save that her style of dress and her
manners were perhaps a little too strong, lack-
ing that indescribable something which we
call refinement.

Her deep dark eyes were ful! of expression
and spirit, and she would have been called
handsome in any company—a woman by whom
thoughtless men could easily be led astray,
and for whom innocent ones might barter
honor and respectability, and break their
honest hearts for—a type of that class who

may be found in all large cities, leading a for-
saken and castaway life.

Such women have alwaysa dark history.
They have come step by step to this brink of
perdition. Fortune has dealt hardly by them.
Events beyond their control have generally
prompted their downward steps. Hunger,
hardships, desertion, misery in a hundred
different forms have tracked their way; temp-
tation has been strong, resistance feeble.

In the instance which we relate, even the
horrors of civil war had united to harden a
heart once tender and loving, and to teach
vengeance where only confiding gentleness
dwelt before.

In the early spring of 1861, Kate Karney, as
she was .called, was a lovely young girl of
seventeen, just returned to her rural home in
one of the southern districts of Kentucky.
She was more than well-educated, possessin
many accomplishments rarely attained unti
maturer yeacs. Impulsive, romantic, intelli-
gent, Kate was the pride of her doting father
and more tenderly watched because she ha
not a mother’s guidance. She was the very
life of her plantation home.

Near by her father’s estate was that of the
Hudson family, consisting of an old gentleman
and wife, with one son about Kate’s age. Of
course, being such near neighbors, an intimacy
naturally existed between. the two families,
and young Hudson and Kate were the best of
friends—indeed, they were already lovers.

Rebellion was rife, and the raids upon the
Unionists by Southern soldiers provoked re-
taliation, so the tide swept back: and forth
along the Border States, which became the
battle-ground for troops representing both
sides. It thus came about that the plantations
of Kate’s father and the Hudsons, both fell
under the ban of war, and both were destroyed.

During the conflict the parents of young
Hudson, as-wettt-as—ikate’s father, lost their
lives. |

These two young friends were both made
orphans on the same day by thecivil war. The
conflict that swept like a blighting fire over
their districts, despoiled them not alone of
every inch of property, but of every relation
they had ever known, and thus friendless and
alone together, they were the more tenderly
drawn to each other.

Hugh Hudson and Kate naturally took sides
with the rebellion; latitude and lonvitude,
rather than any sense of right or wreng, often
settling, these matters in civil war. It was un-
doubtedly by the Union troops they had
suffered, and so together they vowed ven-
geance against all who supported the cause of
the Union. .

As a woman Kate could do but little, there-
fore she assumed male attire, and was called
“Kit.” Hugh and his companion now joined
a neighboring gang of guerrillas, or bush-
whackers, as they were called during the war.

This band was engaged in all sorts of irreg-
ular warfare against the North, and acted as
banditti rather than as soldiers, becoming the
terror of the Kentucky border.

Kate proved especially valuable as a spy,

and in the pursuit of such information as
might prove valuable to her associates, often
assumed her proper attire, and by means of
her double character frequently avoided arrest.
She became so important a member of the
guerrillas, that she rose to second in command
of the force. She won the respect of all, and
to them she was a man, no one of the gang,
except her lover Hugh, suspecting her sex.
She was a fearless rider, brave to a fault,
and knew the use of fire-arms so as to employ
them, especially the pistol, with fatal ac-
curacy. For two years Hugh and Kate were
the terror of the border. and controlled the
band of lawless men whom they had joined,
until finally she found her health gradually
failing her, and a change became necessary if
she would preserve her life.

Hugh saw this, and advised her to seek em-
ployment in the Confederate Army, where she
could also have the ordinary comforts of
civilized life. Her two years of camp experi-
ence had been too trying for her physical en-
durance. Still she would not quit the cause
she had espoused, and so adopted Hugh’s
advice.

Disguised as a young man, and supplied
with the most desirable testimonials, she suc-
ceeded in securing a position on the staff of
General Claiborne, the famous fighting Irish-
man, in the Confederate army. This situation
she held, doing her duty like a man in all
respects, until the battle of Atlanta, July 12,
1864, in which her warm friend and comman-
der, General Pat Claiborne was killed. This
broke up her connection with this division of
the rebel army, and she returned to her
youthful hero, the Kentucky bushwhacker.

Here Kate reveled in carnage. The gang,
incited to fresh activity under her influence,
perpetrated some of the most daring deeds
which the records of the war exhibit. She
acted the dangerous and important part of spy
to perfection, and thus gave these guerrillas
remarkable advantage, besides which as a
leader she was courageous to desperation. She
had been taking lessons of fighting Claiborne,
as he was called, a man who absolutely loved
the sight of carnage.

Camp life and its trying exposures, often
sleeping night after night upon the bare
ground, with the stars only above her, soon
put her again on the sick-list, and by her in-
domitable perseverance she succeeded in being
ordered by the rebel war department to Ander-
sonville.

Here she was_ intrusted with a lieutenant’s
duty, and passed for a man, her sex never even
being suspected. Some Union prisoners who
were incarcerated in that famous prison, and
who chance to read these lines, will perhaps
recall a short, rather -stout, and smooth-faced
lieutenant, with flashing black eyes, who was
on duty there. Harsh and cruel, it is said she
was, to the last degree, but was she not carry-
ing out her bitter oath of vengeance?

In the meantime her hero was engaged in

 

«eid THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3

co t
| his bravo business on the border; he scorned

all regular warfare; his guerrilla operations
were marked by inhumanity and needless
bloodshed. He became the terror of the hour
for fifty miles around, until finally a price
was set upon his head, and he was hunted like
a wild beast, which he seemed to resemble
more than a human being, in his atrocities.

Finally his career became-so outrageous as
to call for a reprimand from the aerate
at Richmond; but what cared young Hudson
for orders? He belonged to no organized mili-
tary association, he was emphatically a free
lance, and fought upon his own line and in his
own way, but, at the same time, though much
and many of his operations were of the most
dastardly and cowardly character, still he
must run some personal risk to accomplish
them, and his career was drawing to an end.

Early in 1865 a band of irregular cavalry was
gob together to hunt out this pest of the bor-

er, and they determined to bring him in or
not to return. Many of the men who composed
the party had suffered by his depredations, and
several had lost those near and dear to them
by his assassin knife and incendiary torch.
Such men were in earnest, and they would not
be turned from their purpose. The bush-
whacker’s days were numbered, .

He was finally surprised and captured in
camp, with a number of his gang, and brought
into Louisville, and committed to prison.

Kate was away in Andersonville, but she

heard of his capture, and hastened to the
neighborhood of her old home. Here she
assumed her proper sex, and attended, as far
as permitted, upon her hero. The captured
brigands, for they were really nothing else,
were tried by court martial and condemned to
death. Kate was by the culprit’s side during
the trial, from beginning to end, and en-
deavored in various ways to influence the
court, but in vain.
He was convicted and hung at Louisville,
Ky., in March, 1865, and in the same grave
with her young hero was buried the broken
heart of the Female Spy.

—<>--

Pleasant Paragraphs.

 

 

BY CHARLES W. FOSTER.

 

Took the Prescription.
Poor Patient (after, an examination)—‘“‘Doctor, is
there much the matter with me?” ;
Doctor—“‘Nothing but the effects of care and worry.
You must reduce your expenses so as to live within
your income.”
Patient—"‘I’ll begin now. Good-

Here’s ten cents.
day.”

Suburban Woes.
Mrs. Suburb (joyously)—*My dear, I’ve succeeded
in getting a servant-girl at last. Gotothe kitchen
and kiss her.”
Mr. Suburb—*Kiss her ?”
Mrs. Suburb—*‘Certainly. Ihad to promise that
she should be treated as one of the family.”

Two Views.
Mrs. Bliffers (looking up from the paper)—“Of all
things! A couple who have lived together for sixty
years have applied for a divorce.
; Mr. Bliffers—‘‘My, my! Sixty years!
der.”

I don’t won-

Ye Business Manager.
Advertiser—“‘W hat is your circulation?”
Business Manager—‘‘Sir! Our presses have a capac-
ity of 100,000 perfect copies an hour—yes, sir, 100,000
an hour, all cut and pasted and folded—yes, sir. And
here, sir, is a detailed and absolutely perfect photo-
graph of one of the presses. Look at it yourself.”

A Lucky Fellow.

Mra. Jinks—“*What do you think? A thief shot at
Mrs. Bingle while she was sitting in her roow, and
the bullet lodged ina ball of yarn which she was
winding.”

Mr. Jinks—“Well! well!
isn’t he?” ‘

Mrs. Jinks—“‘T should say he was.”

Mr. Jinks.—‘*Yes, indeed. He has a wife who
darns stockings.” :

Bingle is a lucky fellow,

A Suspicious Character.
Detective—* Keep an eye on that woman, while I
go for help. She’s a shoplifter.”
Floorwalker—‘How do you know ?”
Detective—‘‘She buys.”

Making Sure.
He (earnestly)—‘‘Are you sure, absolutely sure,
that you will love me till death us do part?’
She (solemnly)—“I am sure, absolutely sure, that I
shall love you till death do us part. By the way, is
your life insured ?””

The New Way.
First Bank Director—“T think it would be a good
idea, some time or other, to quietly employ a physi-
cian toinquire into the mental and physical condition
of our cashier. JI think he is suffering from paresis.”
Second Bank Director.—“My, my! How much has
he stolen!” \

Parallel Cases.

Mrs. Grumpps—“There are thousands of oecupa-
tions in which men have places which women should
fill. Why shouldn't women be druggists? Answer
me that.”

Mr. Grumpps—“This cottage pudding isn’t good at
all. How did you make it?”

Mrs. Grumpps—‘“‘I took a few handfuls of flour
and some milk and afew eggs, I forget how many,
and some sugar, I think, and I believe I added some
salt, and maybe some baking powder, don’t know
how much. I never measure.”
Mr. Grumpps—That’s why.”

No Need to Listen.
Mr. De Loud---“‘I have—er—ealled, sir, about—er—
about your daughter, sir. Will you—er—listen to my
suit 2”
Old Gentleman—‘‘Huh! Icould hear that suit a
block off.’

Chance for Athletes.
Farmer--‘‘Yes, I want a man. Are you a good
jumper 2?”

Applicant—“Jumper? Well, yes”
“You could jump a barbed wire fence without much
trouble, I s'pose?”

“Uni—I s'pose so.”’

“Well, that’s all right then; you'll do.
some of our bulls is a leetle wild.”

A Cold Day.
Mrs. De Silke—“‘I wish to give a memorial of some
kind to the church, in memory of a relative. What
would you suggest ¢”
Struggling Pastor—A-—er—an appropriately dec-
orated—er—new church furnace, madam, and a—a
few tons of coal.”

You see

Unpopular Pastors.

Bilkins—“T don’t like our preacher.

ligion and politics.” .

Jimkins—“I don't like our preacher, either. He

mixes business and religion. Last Sunday he
preached against cheating.”

The Modistes.
Little Dick—“Why do all these dressmakers have
big signs sayin’ they is modest ?”
Little Dot—“I dess they want folks to know it
isn’t their fault the dresses is cut so low.”

He mixes re-

Not an Exception.
Little Niece—“Do you eat tobacco ?”’
Uncle Wayback—‘‘No, I only chewit.”
“Wat's the use of chewin’ anything if you don’t eat
9°"

_
co

“T_T dunno.” .
“Seems to me grown peoples never know why they
does half the things they do.”

A Coming Woman.
Mrs. De Fashion—“That new neighbor across the
way has filled her hay-window with flowers.”
Little Miss De Fashion—“Nurse an’ I stopped an’
looked at’em. They is all geraniums, an’ geraniums
is disgustin’ly cheap, you know.”

 

SELECTED PLEASANTRIES.

A WIFE NoT TO BE TRIFLED WITH.—‘What if T
were one of those husbands, my dear, who get up
cross in the morning, bang things around, and raise
a rumpus because the coffee is cold ?”’ asked he.

“John,” she answered, sweetly, “I would make it
hot for you.”’—News-Letier, :

A THOUGHTFUL PARENT.—The Groom—‘“T can't
see that check your father placed among the wed-
ding-presents.”

cigar with it.”—Lfe.

SHE ATTENDED TO THAT.—Brown—‘Say, Jones,
when you. come in late at night, don’t you always
wake your wife?”

Jones (promptly)—“Never.”

Brown (surprised)—‘Jehosaphat !
manage it ?”’

Jones (with asigh)—“I don’t have to.”

Detroit Free Press.

NoT A VALUABLE CONSTITUENT.—Ward Leader—
“Billy, there’s a new family moved into your pre-

How do you

 

The Bride—‘“Papa is so absent-minded. He lit his|

   

cinct. Bettersee the man.
maybe he’s one of our sort.
Heeler—‘Naw. He’ll never vote for nobody.”
“Why not ?”
““*Canse he’s perfessor of political science in a col-
lege. Them ducks never knows when it’s election
day.”-—Chicago Times.

PRICES RISE WITH THE MERCURY.—Bulfinch—
“How much is this thermometer ?”

Clerk—Seventy-tive cents.”

Bulfineh--“Why, | got one just like it here a couple
of days ago for forty cents.”

Clerk—‘ What time in the day did you buy it?”

Bulfinch—*About eight o’clock in the morning.”

Clerk—“ Ah, well, it’s twelve o’clock now; thermom-
eters are always higher at noon.’’—Boston Courier.

SHE Was SORRY FOR Him.—‘*You have a new
beau, Ethel ?”

“Yes, und he’s a perfect treasure.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes; he neither drinks, smokes, nor chews, and
what is more, he never loved a girl till he saw me,
nor—nor kissed one either.”

“T’m sorry for him.”

“Why 2?

“I’m sorry to think that a young man who neither
drinks, smokes, nor chews should be such a liar.”

N. Y. Press.

“Algernon,” she said, dramatically, “is aman after
my own heart.” ‘No, he isn’t, my dear,” replied her
practical father, “he is after your fo

ashingion Star.

A good name is better than great riches, but it isn’t
wise to put the good name at the end of anote unless
you have the great riches necessary to hack it up.

Somerville Journal.

“Where did you shoot these birds?” asked madam.
“Down in New Jersey,” said Mr. Sporty. “Indeed!
I suppose this receipted bill is off one of the birds
that got away?” queried madam.—Harper's Bazar.

Old Friend—“How is it you don’t stop at home
evenings and be some company for your wife, like
you used to?” Van Puff—"“I can't. T feel crowded
and out of place, and T have to get out where I feel
free.” Old Friend—Why, what has caused you to
feel that way?” Van Puff—*My wife has become an
enthusiast on hcme decorations.”— Galveston News.

THE MINISTER’s StupyY—How to make both ends
f meét.— Life.

We need every vote, and

_ The only way to winin an argument with a woman
is to walk off when you have stated your side of it.
Alchison Globe.

SERIOUS’ OUTLOOK.—Watts—‘T tell you it makes a
man feel pretty serious to find himself threatened
with paralysis.”

Potts—“You don’t mean tosay that is your case,
do you ?”

Watts—‘‘Yes, my butcher told me that if I didn’t do
something for him hy tlie first of the month he would
paralyze me.”’—Indianapolis Journal.

Some men are the architects of their own fortunes,
and others are the contractors of their fathers;
iortunes.—Zimira Gazelle.

uals dis
> -o—

DURATION OF LIFE.

a

Under ordinary conditions the average dura-
tion of life of animals, birds, etc., is herein
pretty accurately given: Elephants live 100
years and upward; the rhinoceros, 20; camel,
100; lion, 25 to 50; tigers, leopards, jaguars, and
hyenas (in confinement), about 25; beaver,
50; deer, 20; wolf, 20; fox, 14 to 16; llamas, 15;
chamois, 25; monkeys and baboons, 16 to 19;
hare, 8; squirrel, 7; rabbit, 7; swine, 25; stag, —
under 50; horse, 30; ass, 30; sheep, under 10;
cow, 20; ox, 30; swans, parrots, and ravens,
200; eagle, 100; geese, 80; hens and pigeons,
10 to 16, hawks, 3u to 40; crane, 24; blackbird,
10 to 12; peacock, 20; pelican, 40 to50; thrush,
1 to 10; wren, 2 to3; nightingale, 15; black-
cap, 15; linnet, 14 to 23; goldfinch, 20 to 24;
redbreast, 10 to 12; skylark, 10 to 30; titlark,
5 to 6; chaffinch, 20 to 24: starling, 10 to 12;
carp, 70 to 150; pike, 30 to 40: salmon, 16;
codfish, 14 to 17: eel, 10: crocodile, 100; tor-
toise, 100 to 200; whale, estimated, 1,000;
queen bees live 4 years; drones, 4 months;
worker bees, 6 months.

Sicilia dead

Items of Interest,

©

 

A curiosity exists near Olympia, Washington.» Ia
is a welltwenty feetin depth, which is certainly grad-
ually rising to the surface of the earth. For some time
the brick wall of the well has been protruding through
the ground, until now it sticks upinto the air like a fun-
nel to the height of ten or fifteen feet. The pricks form-
ing the wallare still intact. The bottom of the well, too,
is rising with the wall.

An easy way to lay in astock of iee for summer use
is practiced by a Minnesota farmer. In the winter he
packs drifted snow in his ice-house, for a few nights wet-
ting it with weli-water. When frozen hard, it is covered
with sawdust. Last summer his stock of snow-ice lasted
until late in September; it was just as good and clear as
river ice; and he hadn’t the trouble of hauling it.

A San Francisco young lady had a pet parrot,
which she had taught many merry tricks of speech and
action. A visitor, entering the dimly-lighted parlor, ac-
cidentally stepped upon the bird, and its spirit vanished
with a terrifying squak. He substituted a living bird
exactly like it. Now thelady cannot understand why
her petis utterly irresponsive to her endearments.

A shopkeeperin Belfast, Me., has contrived many
economical schemes to lessen the drain upon his purse,
but his latest excuse for reducing wages may be truth-
fully proclaimed ‘‘a corker.” He hired a clerk, and gave
him $4 for the first week’s work. The second week he
gave him only $3. saying that as he was now familiar with
his duties, they were easier.

Miss Julia Pullman, daughter of the sleeping-car
magnate, has a very pleasant occupation. She selects
names for the sleeping and drawing-room cars, and for
this duty her generous pa allows her $1,000 a year. She
isa great favorite with her acquaintances, and there are
several worthy young men who would like to choose a
new name for the heiress.

Four generations of a family met in a house in
Warrensburg, N. Y., a short time age. The youngest,
named Ada Chandler, is three months old. her mother,
Mrs. Frederick Chandler, is fifteen years of age: her
grandmother, Mrs. John Allen, is thirty.two, her great-
grandmother, Mrs. Oscar Green, is not yet forty-nine.

London scientists have recently demonstrated that
the purest air in cities is found about twenty-five feet
above the street surface. Heretofore it has been thought
that the highest floors in tenement-honses had the best
air. The investigations above referred to show that the
healthiest apartments are those of the third floor.

Mrs. Mary Wilson, of Ozark, Ark., had no faith in
banks. She accumulated a little over $3,000 in gold, and
buried the coin in a field near her abode. This was thirty-
five years ago, and she died without revealing the hiding-
place. The money was recently accidentally discovered,
but the finder is unwilling to give it to the heirs.

All the guests ata party given by Madame. Made-
leine Lemaire, in San Francisco, came arrayed, by special
request, in outer garments made entirely of paper. The
most admired costumes were white, with trimmings of
gold. The men were anything but comfortable in their
stiff and crackling garments.

Morphine is so often carelessly substituted for
quinine and other comparatively harmless drugs, thata
German chemist prevents such accidents by coloring his
morphine with a bright pink aniline dys. He intimates
that human life would be rendered safer by the general-
adoption of his plan.

It-is said that mulberry-wood makes the most dur-
able fence-posts. Near Strode’s Mill, in Chester County,
Pa., there isa farm which was inclosed with mulberry
posts ninety-five years ago. They are still in good con-
dition, and are now supporting the sixteenth set of rails.

There is a remarkably prolific sheep in Amity,
Oregon, belonging to R. O. James. Two years ago she
gave birth to twin lambs; last spring she had three more,
and this spring she again ushered triplets into the world.
Two of her offspring have each had twins.

Ex-Alderman George O. Hall, a lunatic, escaped
from the asylum at Danvers, Mass., Deg after midnight,
and had walked twenty-five miles along lonely roads in a
ae atmosphere, in his night-robe, before he was cap-
tured.

One of. the most eloquent preachers in Canada, is
Dr. George Douglass, whose arms are paralyzed, and who
is totally blind. Hisarms hang helplessly by his side,
and his voice seems to come from a dead body.

A horse-shoe was nailed over his door, by a St.
Louis man, for good luck. A few days later, as the man
was entering his home, lightning passed through the
horse-shoe and knocked him senseless.

Think of golden shoes for a horse! They are really
worn by a Shetland pony belonging to the Shah of Persia.
This expensively-shod animal is only twelve and one-
half inches high.

Persons born on February 29 will have but one
birthday to celebrate in twelve years—in 1896, and after
that not until 1904, as the year 1900 will not be a leap year,

Paper quilts are becoming popular in Europe.
They are cheap and waym. They are composed of sheets
of perforated white paper sewn together.

Fifty ponnds of honey are annually produced by a
hive of 5,000 bees. In five years the bees will have in-
creased to 50,000.

The death penalty has just been resumed in Switz-
erland. For twenty-five years ithad been abolished.

In the United States there are 673,643 Freemasons’
and 647,471 Odd Fellows.

 

 

 

 

 

 

   
 
   
 
 
    
   
    
   
 
  
    
   
    
  
   
  
    
 
  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
  
 
 

 

 

   

 

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