NEXT WEEK—A GREAT DETECTIVE STORY, “LADY VELVET.’

 

Entered According to Act of Congress, in the Year 1899, by Strezt & Smith, tn the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washingion. D. C.

 

WS

S Q

C

N

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

 

Vol. 54.

TOO LATE!

Can you hear me, oh! my darling,
In the spirit world above?
Can my deep remorseful sorrow
Reach you in that land above?
Iam standing, ah! my losf love,
Standing where we often stood,
By the stile beneath the beeches
Where the stream runs thro’ the wood.

Clearly, sweetly birds are singing,
Softly sings the rippling stream;

Ah! the past long year of anguish
Must be but an awful dream.

I can see you coming to me,
As you used, my sweet, of yore,

Down the glade, beneath the beeches,
In the soft white dress you wore,

I can hear your dear voice whisper
Words of welcome and of love,

I can see your sweet eyes shining
True as Heaven’s deep depths above.

An! ’tis nothing but a day-dream,
You, dear heart, are far away,

And I stand alone, alone, love,
Till we meet in Heaven some day.

For I grieved you standing here, dear,
| was mad with pride and pain;

And I would not heed your words, love,
All that year I longed in vain

That: those words would be recalled,
sweet,

Ah! the long sad days gone by;

D nbc n

o
U

= =

es

Yet ne’er dreaming you could die.

Oh! the longing for your presence,
Just to see you once again;

Just to ask you to forgive, love,
Seems to burn my throbbing brain.

If one thought of earthly sorrow,
To thy bliss can enter in;

 

OFEIC h-:
238 William St.. New York

New York, October 14,-1899.

 

 

 

 

Think of me, dear heart, and pity,
All my anguish and my sin,

 

THE LILY OF

a

MORDAUNT.

By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON,

Author of ‘‘ Winifred’s Sacrifice,’ “The Magic Cameo,’ ‘‘Brownie’s Triumph,”
“Stella Rosevelt,’’ ‘‘Queen Bess,’’ Etc., Etc.

(‘THE LILY OF MORDAUNT” was commenced last week.)

CHAPTER ITI.—(Continued.)

Lady Elaine looked up, light dawning upon |

her.

“‘Arley,’”’ she said, with lips that trembled
with suppressed feeling, ‘‘that was not fair in
you. I believed you in earnest, that you were
intentionally deprecating Wil, while you were
only laying a trap for me. If I had not learned
to love you so well during the three weeks that
we have spent together, and to trust
entirely, I believe I should find it hard to for-
give you.”’

Arley opened a pair of innocent, wonder-wide

eyes
“A trap, my dearest? How could you imag-
ine anything so dreadful of me?’’ and then she

broke into another sweet, silvery laugh, as she |

saw from Lady Elaine’s reproachful glance
that her little stratagem was discovered.

She had_determined to discover whether Wil
Hamilton’s cause was hopeless or not, and if
it was, to allow things to take their own
course; if not, she meant to assist him in
every possible way to attain the desire of his
heart.

She knew well enough now that Lady Blaine
loved him, while Wil worshiped her, and if it
was in the power of human ingenuity to make
their course of true love run smooth, she
would accomplish it.

“TI will torment the life
some barrister rather than
between these two,”

out of that hand-
allow him to come
she thought, as she noted
how the love-light still lingered in the eyes
of her companion, despite the reproachful
glance bent upon her.

She arose, and, throwing one white, rounded
arm about her neck, bent and kissed her again.

“You will forgive me, mon ami, I know, for
I love you very, very dearly, and’’—with an
arch glance into those lovely blue eyes—‘‘I
wish Wil Hamilton his full share of happiness
in this life.’’

Then, without waiting
flitted from the room.

‘How foolish I am,’’ murmured Lady Blaine,
as the door closed after her friend.
have been striving in every way to

for an answer, she

hide my

secret during the last three weeks, and I fear I |

have done nothing but wear my heart upon
my sleeve; and now that sly Arley has, after
all, almost trapped me into a confession, or, at
least, a betrayal of my feelings. If I was only
sure,’’ she went on, with burning cheeks, ‘“‘that
I have not been unmaidenly before him, I
should not mind so much, for Arley is too true
and honorable even to hint at any discovery
that she may imagine she has made.”’

But there was a softer light in the beautiful
girl’s eye, a sweeter smile upon her lips, and a
deeper tint upon her cheek than usual,
she went down to the drawing-room.

Lady Hamilton was to give a large dinner
party that evening to a number of her friends
in the county, and there were also several dis-
tinguished people from London invited.

Lady Elaine was very glad of the presence
of these visitors, for they would serve to
shield her somewhat from observation, and

 

you so}

‘Frere I |

when |

| she was too conscious of her recently discov-
ered secret to wish ‘to be at all conspicuous,

She had chosen for the occasion a dress of
pure white, of some soft, gauzy material, and
unrelieved by an atom of color save a cluster
of dark, waxen-green leaves, which she had
fastened at her throat with a single diamond,
|that glittered among them like a huge drop
of dew.

“Mademoiselle is perfect;’’ her maid had
cried, when her toilet was completed; ‘‘there
| will be no one below one-half so lovely.’’

“Hush, Nanette! you must not flatter me,”’
her mistress said, with a reproving smile. “I
know,’’ she added, ‘‘that you have taken a
| great deal of pains with my dress, and it is
| beautifui—it pleases Ine very much; but I have
no doubt there will be far richer toilets here
to-night than mine.’’

“There will be no one so lovely,’’ persisted
Nanette, while her admiring eyes rested af-
fectionately upon that fair face and symmetri-
eal figure reflected in the full-length mirror.

It was a little late when she entered the
drawing-room; she had waited purposely, hop-
ing to be able to slip in among the crowd very
quietly and thus escape observation.

But, as it happened, this brought upon her
the very thing that she had wished to avoid.

As the curtains to one of the
drawing-room parted to admit the peerless
girl, there was a momentary hush, and almost
|every eye was fixed upon her with surprise and
|}admiration, for she made an entrancing picture
|there in her white trailing robes against the
} warm, rich crimson of the curtains.

’

the sea
|she grew calm, and
|she passed to the side of Annie Hamilton,
| who was assisting her mother to do the honors
|of the occasion.

|}she saw of faces turned toward her,

arches of the |

But after the first heart-throb of dismay, as | wherry, he leaped into it and pushed off from |

1 | went
with lithe, graceful step |

jae

The hopeless lover believed the simple act to be the consummation of a betrothal.

march upon him and won away his love.

Philip Paxton flushed to his very brow as
the too watched her enter the room.

“T never dreamed that any one could be so
exquisitely lovely,’ he said. ‘‘She is not so
sprightly and entertaining as the Wentworth
Rose,’ he added, his eye wandering to where
Arley stood, and who was also in white—simple
| white tulle, with dashes of scarlet verbenas
lin its graceful drapery, and a bunch of them
in her white gloved hands.
| She was as bright and cheery as some happy
| bird, and he sighed as he looked at her.

i ‘*Y wish she had more of Arley’s spirit and
| wit,” he continued, his glance returning to
| Lady Elaine, ‘‘but,’’ as he caught sight of that
| costly glittering gem among the green leaves—
iit was one of the Mordaunt diamonds, of

which there were many and worth a fortune in
| themselves—‘‘but I shall marry her if I can.’’

As it happened, it fell to him to take her out
to dinner, and owing to the excitement of the
| occasion, and something, perhaps, to the ad-
miration which she had excited, and of which
she could not fail to be conscious, she was un-
usually bright and animated. She chatted and
laughed almost as freely and merrily as Ar-
ley herself, who was bewitching the son of an
earl as fast as ever she could; though she had
frowned threateningly and cast a look of com-
miseration at poor Wil when she saw Lady
Elaine upon Philip Paxton’s arm, while he,
Wil, had to take down a spinster of forty, who
wore corkscrew curls and was otherwise
frightful in a toilet of mulberry and green.

The dinner was, apparently, a brilliant suc-
cess, and the guests in their happiest humor.

No one, save Arley, perhaps, suspected the
pain and passion that were raging in the
breast of Sir Anthony’s heir, while he covertly
watched his love glow and brighten in the
presence of her attendant, as he had never
seen her do before.

“Shall I learn to hate my dearest friend?” |

he fiercely asked himself, as he saw him bend
lalmost fondly toward his companion and
whisper words which brought a more vivid
|eolor to her cheek, and made her droop her
i white lids in maidenly confusion.

He grew so furiously jealous and disturbed | opened
as soon as the ladies had withdrawn, he |
excused himself from the table and stole away | val. and she was, for the moment, alone.

that,

out of the house, and out of the sound of the
mirth and laughter of the gay company.

| He wanted to be alone awhile;.he needed to
|} calm

ing up and taking possession of him.

| We wandered down to the lake, his

lwas hot and feverish; and here loosing his

|the shore for a hard row in the moonlight.

CHAPTER IV.

“Tl WILL WIN YOU YET.”

Wil, at the opposite side of the room, behold=- |

\ing her, felt his heart
|mingled exultation and pain—exultation over
|her surpassing loveliness, and pain lest some-
thing should cause him to fail to win her.
“She is like a stately Calla in her beauty; but
her spirit, so sweet and pure, is like the fra-
grance of the water-lily,’’ he breathed, while
ian almost unconquerable desire possessed him
{to clasp her to him and bear her away from
ithe sight and sound of every one, and pour
|forth the burning love that was consuming
him.
| “Who is that beautiful
asked; and they were
ing told that she was
the daughter of the
then eagerly pressed
tions.
**Jer-i-co!”’

girl?’’ everybody
greatly surprised on be-
Sir Anthany’s ward and
Duke of Mordaunt, and

forward for introduc-

ejaculated a young sprig of no-
bility who was honoring the occasion with his
| presence, ‘‘won’t she make a sensation when
| she comes out? Twenty thousand a year! Ah,
| won’t there be a fluttering among the birds of
prey when that bit of news becomes known?”
land he immediately began to flutter his own
| feathers, and to edge toward the object of his
admiration, to be presented.

 

bound within him with |

after Wil
in a much

returned
more rational

An hour
;}calm and
mind.
linternal wickedness at the oars,
son of meditation had done him good.
how unreasonable he had been to indulge in
such passionate jealousy and anger; for if
Lady Plaine preferred Philip Paxton’s society
to his own and was attracted toward him, no
| power on earth could help it, and he must try
ito make the best of it.

The night was supremely beautiful, and, as
ihe had ‘glided over the smooth bosom of the
lake, a sort of peace had fallen upon him; the
soft light of the moon, as it glimmered through
the net-work of foliage overhanging the waters
|had seemed to quiet the tumult that was rag-
ing within him, and charm away those dis-
lagreeable sensations of hatred and revenge
which for the time’ he had let take such vio-
i fent possession of him.
| ‘T Jove her, and I am going to try to win
lher,” he said, with a sudden resolute uplifting
lof his handsome head, as his boat went skim-
iming over the waters and he ‘had seriously
|thought the matter all over. “If I can do it
fairly and honorably, I shall be the happiest

frame of

and the

His false friend had stolen

his excited nerves and to try and exer- |
cise, if possible, the spirit of evil that was ris- |

head |
|bared to the cool evening breeze, for his brow
| absorbed by any one else.

comparatively | ;
| pursue that subject, he said:
He had worked off a good deal of his |
sea- |
He saw |

| she gave him a smile

| his heart
| ight.

 

man in the world; if I cannot win her—if she
cannot love me and will not be my wife—if her
heart turns to Paxton’’—and his fine lips grew
pale and unsteady at the thought—‘‘I have no
right to stand in his way, even though [I feel
that he is not treating me honestly after the
confidence which I have given him.”’

“T will go back; I will not sulk and pout like
an overgrown schoolboy, but I will go and
meet my fate like a man.’’

And as he reasoned in this sensible, straight-
forward fashion, he turned his wherry about
and began to row back to put his resolution
into execution.

As he did so the moonlight fell upon some-
thing white just at his side.

He bent to look. It was a water-lily, its
waxen face turned up to him, beaming at him
from the dark waters like a star of hope and
promise.

He uttered a cry of pleased surprise as he
put out his hand and carefully plucked it.

‘What strange freak of nature is this that
I find a water-lily in full bloom in the night?’
he said.

He held it out into the light to examine it
more closely, and, as far as he could see, it was
a most perfect and beautiful flower.

‘Shall I accept the finding of this as a good
omen? Is it a blossom of promise to me?’
he asked, his face brightening as he contem-
plated it. “I will hope so, at least, as long
as there is anything to hope for. I will take it
home to her, for she loves the lilies so, my
peerless Lily of Mordaunt.’’

He laid it carefully on the seat beside him,
and rowing swiftly and with a_ lightened
heart, he was soon back again at Hazelmere.

The lily he found to be without a blemish;
every petal and stamen was as perfect as if it

{had been moulded from wax.

He put it into water, feeling almost as. if it
7as a sacred thing, and as if, somehow, some-
thing of his future weal or woe might be
hinged upon it.

His first thought as he re-entered the draw-

|ing-room was of Lady Elaine.

near a window which
where she had paced
night of his arri-

She standing
the porch

Paxton on the

was

upon
with Philip
and when she him
of welcome.

en, truant, all this time?’

He approached her, saw
‘Where have you be
she asked, playfully.
His heart leaped at the words.
She had missed him, then, consequently her
attention could not have been very deeply

*T did not feel quite right after dinner, and I
out upon the lake for a row,” he an-
swered, frankly.

“Are you ill?’ she inquired, a shade of anx-
jety creeping into her lovely eyes; and again
thrilled with a strange, sweet de-
“No; Iam quite well.’”’ Then, not caring to

“But I have found something for you—some-
thing strange and.beautiful. Will you come
with me and let me show it to you?”

“Something strange and beautiful?’ she
peated, smiling. ‘‘Of course, I will come.

re-
[

could not endure the curiosity which you have |

aroused in me.’

She laid her hand lightly on his arm, and he
led her to a little anhte-room where he had left
his lily in water.

He had put it into a tall,
glass, and as he led her
claimed:

“Where did you get it? I never
think more perfect or beautiful.’’

She took the vase in her white- :
and bent over it, her face full of appreciation
and delight.

“T found it on the lake,” Wil answered,
thinking how like to the spotless flower she
was herself, in her pure white robes, with that
simple cluster of green leaves at her throat.

‘“What—to-night! I thought water-lilies al-
ways closed at night,’’ she cried.

“So they do; but some s

slender vase of cut
up. to it, “she. ex-

saw any-

gloved hands |

trange freak of na- |

lof dark hair which lay

Three Dollars Per Year.
Two Copies Five Dollars.

ture has kept this one open. Perh
added, with a smile, ‘‘some tiny, invis
or water-nymph has crept itno it and
sleep, and that is what keeps it ope

“What a _pretty fancy, Wil.”’ L
began, and then stopped sudde
beautiful blush suffused her

She had never spoken his name qui
this before, at least not in his prese1
again every nerve within him thrilled w

**‘Do you know,” she added, quickly,
cover her confusion, ‘‘what I mean
it? The sisters at the convent ta
art of preserving flowers, and
to this the first thing to-morrow
shall keep it always,’’ she asserted; t
ing she had said too much, she
drooping lashes, ‘‘for it is too
allowed to fade.”’

_Wil caught his breath; those shyly drooping
lids, the fluctuating color in that velvet cheek,
were very enticing signs to him.

‘Would you care enough about it to take all
that trouble?’ he asked, in a low, eager voice,
his whole soul in his eyes.

Before she could reply, a voice
said:

“Oh, here you are Wil.
you a moment,’’ and Sir Anthony
head most inopportunely in upon
declared lovers.

Then seeing the flower that Lady Elaine was
holding in her hands, and being quite an en-
thusiastic botanist, he came forward to ex-
amine the night-blooming lily, while Wil, per-
ceiving that his opportunity was lost for that
time, went to ascertain what his mother
wanted.

But his heart was lighter than it had been
for many days; something in his darling’s
manner, the involuntary speaking of his name
in that familiar way, her assertion that she
should always keep. his lily,.made him feel as
if his cause was not altogether hopeless.

Sir Anthony stopped only a moment or two
after- his son left them, then he, too, weni
back to his guests, leaving his fair ward alone,

As he disappeared, she lifted the glittering
vase which she still held, and laid her Ips
tenderly, caressingly, against that waxen
flower, resting like a white dove upon its edge.

Could an artist have painted her as she
looked then, his fame would have been estab-
lished for all time, for a fairer picture mortal
eye never gazed upon.

The little room, with its rich crimson hang-
ings, the walls paneled with embossed gold, and
adorned with choice paintings, with here and
there a gleaming stetuette, the glittering
chandelier above shedding its - : ero ~
all, and the young girl, in her pure white dress,
her face slightly flushed, her scarlet lips trem-
ulous with Some inward emotion, looking ten-
derly down upon the perfect flower in its
erystal cup—ah, it was 4@ vision which once
seen would be stamped upon memory’s page
forever.

Philip Paxton, standing unobserved in the
doorway, saw it and held his breath, almost
fearing that if he should move the spell would
be dissolved and she would suddenly vanish
like some sweet spirit from his sight.

He had seen Wil approach and lead her from
the drawing-room while he was talking with
Lady Mary Elgin, to whom he had just been
introduced and he instantly became alarmed
lest something should occur to balk his plans.

As soon as he could do so, he excused him-
self from his companion and followed them
from the room.

Passing through the hall he saw Wil emerge
from the little ante-room alone, and instantly
breathed freer. Surely no harm could have
been done in so short a time.

A moment or two later Sir Anthony followed
his son, and, believing that Lady Blaine was
now there alone, Philip, with a feeling of ex-
ultation that he should find a clear field, stole
forward, peeped within the room, and saw the
picture that has been described.

‘‘Now or never!’ he said to himself, yet
withstanding his anxiety to know his fate
was loth to disturb that delightful vision,

3ut a slight movement on his part made
Lady Elaine turn quickly, and _ then she
blushed a vivid searlet as she wondered if Mr.
Paxton had seen the tender caress which she
had bestowed upon her lily.

He had seen her bending over it,
having witnessed Wil’s presentation, he had
imagined her to be merely inhaling its fra-
grance, and now observing her blush, he fondly
believed that his unexpected presence alone
had causd it.

He instantly went forward to her side with
a smile.

“You have something very pretty there,”
said.

“Yes”? she said, recovering her self-posses-
gion. “It is a lily which has bloomed, or re-
mained in blossom, in the evening. Mr. Ham-
flton found it on the lake. Did you ever see
anything so perfect and beautiful ?”’

She held the vase toward him as she spoke,

He took it from her and looked at the flower,
but with a preoccupied air.

Then he put it down upon the table near
which they were standing, and turning to her
again, said, in a deep, intense tone, while an
eager, passionate fire burned in his eyes:

‘Tt is neither so perfect nor so beautiful as
its namesake, the Lily of Mordaunt. Lady
Elaine, you must know what I want to say to
you. I love you with my whole soul, and I
want to win you for my wife. I did not mean
to speak to you of this so soon I meant to
woo you gradually; but when I saw you in,
here alone in your trandscendent loveliness, +
was impelled to come and tell you of my love.
I was afraid to wait. I was afraid that I
should lose you, and my impatient heart would
not brook delay. My darling, tell me that I
may wear the Lily of Mordaunt forever on my
heart. Tell me that you will love me, and
give the right to call you by the sweetest of
all names—my wife.’’ :

He had spoken very rapidly—so rapidly that
she could find no opportunity to interrupt him,
though her very soul had shrank appalled as
she listened to his passionate avowal, for
such it seemed to her, since his voice shook,
and he was trembling with emotion and sus-
pense when he concluded. :

She had grown suddenly scarlet at his con-
fession, then as she realized the pain that she
must inflict upon him, she became as white as
her snowy dress :

“Mr. Paxton,’’ she began, sorrowfully, when
he paused, “I am deeply pained that you
should have said this to me. If I had once
surmised that you were beginning to cherish
feelings such as you have just confessed, I
should have found some way to show you how

e

aa

fairy
mnne to
y Elaine
while a

with
to be

added,

beautiful

behind them

Your mother wants
popped his
the almost

not-
he

but not

he

| impossible it would be for me ever to be your

wife—
“Oh! do not say that,”
rupted, in a tone of passionate
“T must, Mr. Paxton, or else

Philip Paxton inter-
entreaty.

be guilty of

| doing both you and myself an irreparable in-
Yaar ee”

She spoke with such positiveness, and so
calmly, that it angered him. _
“Perhaps the Lady Blaine Warburton would
not condescend to marry a young barrister,
however respectable he might _be. Perhaps
she desired to secure another title when she
takes upon herself the bonds of matrimony,
he said, sarcastically, while a burning flush
surged up and lost itself beneath the masses
above his forehead.
She drew herself up with a slight gesture of

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE NEW YORK WEEK

 

 

haughtiness at this implication, but she an-
swered as gently as before:

“If I had given my heart to a man whom I
believed.to be worthy, I should marry him
without regard to his profession or position in
life.’’

“Am TI not worthy, then? ‘Wherein do I
lack? Teach me how to be worthy of you,
and I will move the world to accomplish my
object,’”’ he cried, assuming an humble tone.

She lifted her eyes: to his face and they were
full of pity.

“T beg your pardon,’’ she cried. ‘I had no
intention of implying anything like that. I
feel that you are worthy of the love of a true-
hearted woman, and I esteem you very high-
ly as—as a friend——’’

He interrupted her with a gesture of repug-
nance,

“IT do not want to be your friend,’’ he cried,
impetuously.

Do you not?’ she questioned,
gentle surprise, a slight flush tinging
cheek,

“Oh, I do not mean that,’’ he answered, al-
most wildly, “but I want more—I want your
love—your heart—I want you.”’

“TIT can give you neither my love nor myself,”’
Lady Elaine replied, in a low voice, but. there
was no mistaking the decision in her tone.

He grew frightfully pale for a moment, and
then a rush of anger and disappointment dyed
all his face again.

“Tell me,’’ he said, abruptly, almost rudely,
and searching her face with a burning glance,
“have you given yourself to another? Do you
love some one: else?’’

She turned upon him a cold, imperious look.

“You have no right to ask me such a ques-
tion,’’ she said, icily; but her cheeks were
vivid in their scarlet hue.

He saw his mistake instantly.

She was very proud and very sensitive, this
peerless Lily of Mordaunt, and, if he hoped to
retain her favor, he saw that he must conduct
himself very circumspectly.

“Forgive me,’’ he returned, humbly—he could
afford to be very humble, if by any means he
could win that twenty thousand a year; “I had
no right to ask it, but I am nearly wild with
the pain of my disappointment, Tell me, please,
that you forgive me,’’

He held out his hand appealingly as he
ceased speaking, and with her heart full of
pity for him, and believing that he was sin-

.cere, she laid her own within it with a frank,
forgiving smile.

““You are freely forgiven,’’ she said, sweetly.

His fingers closed over hers in an almost
spasmodic clasp.

“Thank you,’ he murmured, tenderly; then
he added: ‘‘But I would give very much to
know if this hand is pledged to another.’

She quickly withdrew it, a curl of scorn re-
placing the smile on her lips.

“Mr. Paxton forgets himself often to-night,’
she said, haughtily; then added, with sudden
impulse, ‘‘and yet if it can be of any conse-
quence to him to know the fact of the case, I
can tell him that—it is not.’’ :

His face cleared in an instant: his heart
leaped with exultation; the beautiful girl with
her immense fortune might yet be his if this
was true; at all events he would leave no stone
unturned to accomplish his purpose.

He bent toward her with a brilliant smile, an
eager look in his handsome eyes.

“Then I do not despair,’’ he said, softly; ‘‘I
will win you yet.’’

And, without giving her an opportunity to
reply, he turned abruptly and left her.

CHAPTER V.
UNHEEDED FLEW THE HOURS.

Wilton Hamilton, after obeying his mother’s
summons and attending to her request, went
to seek Elaine again in the little room whither
he had taken her to show her his lily.

Something seemed to whisper to him that
she might be there“waiting for him to return.

He had all at once become very hopeful that
his suit would meet with just the response
which he so ardently craved, for her manner,
when he had given her the lily; had been en-
couraging, if not almost tender.

He hastened back, resolving that if he found
her still in the ante-room, he would settle this
question of his future without further delay.

As he drew near the still open door he heard
voices.

A moment more he stood upon the threshold,
and in an instant all the light and hope went
out of his face, and a feeling of blank despair
settled down upon his heart.

in a tone of
her

BT dae o i232 ineg

LS

meet her fate, for the forest lay’ off in that
direction,

As soon as Wil had announced his intention
of remaining at home she mentally resolved
that she would not accompany ‘the party,
either. It would not be pleasant. to be in the
presence of Mr. Paxton after what had oc-
curred the previous evening, while she judged
from his last words before leaving her, and
‘his manner, that he did not take her refusal
as final, and intended to prosecute his atten-
tions still further.

It was with a feeling of relief that she,. too,
heard the gay party cantering down the ave-
nue, and knew that she should have the day
to dispose of at her own sweet will.

A sense of freedom and something of exhil-
aration seemed to possess her as she found
herself walking alone along the highway, be-
neath the friendly shade of the huge overarch-
ing elms.

After walking a short distance, she turned
into a cart-path leading into the woods, where
she roamed about for an hour or more filling
her pretty basket with sylvan treasures, then,
feeling somewhat weary and warm, she re-
solved to make her way to a tiny brook, where
there was a rustic seat, and where she and
Annie often came with their books and work
to spend a warm afternoon.

Softly, and almost as light-footed as a fairy;
she glided along the mossy way, and ere long
reached the spot. Parting a thick growth of
foliage, she stepped into a small open space,
and the next instant started back suddenly
with a smothered cry of terror, for there,
prone upon the earth before her, was the
stretched form of a man, his face to the
ground.

He did not move, he scarcely seemed to
breathe, and for a moment she stood irreso-
lute whether to fly or go to his aid.

“ Then, as her quick eye marked and recog-
nized his clothing, she became pale as death
with a sudden fear.

It was Wil Hamilton, and so wretched and
absorbed as he was in his sorrow, he had not
been conscious of the approach of any one,
and lay as motionless as if he was dead.

Lady Elaine’s first thought was that he had
met with some serious accident, and was un-
conscious.

But with all her delicacy and gentle breed-
ing, she was brave at heart, and possessed a
latent energy and force which few gave her
credit for.

Lightly and as fleet as a deer, she sped over
the turf, and knelt beside the prostrate man,
sweeping back the moist brown locks from his
forehead as she did so.

“Wil, Wil—oh! is anything the matter? are
you hurt?’ she cried, her voice shaking with
ee great fear that had taken possession of

er.

In an instant he had sprung to his feet, and
stood looking down upon her, as if he ‘thought
her some thunderbolt which had just missed
striking him dead; while she, startled by the
suddenness of his act, sat staring up at him,
pee atom of strength and color forsaking

er.

“TI thought you had gone to the springs,” Wil
said, abruptly, almost rudely, after a moment.

His voice was harsh and constrained, his
face as white as her own, with great, deep
circles beneath his eyes, which were blood-
shot, and were so full of pain that Lady
eee almost cried out as she looked into
them.

““No. I—I did not care to go,’ she returned,
struggling to her feet and shrinking slightly
from him.

She felt as if she had no right to be there—
as if she had intruded upon him and his grief,
whatever it might be. She would have given
worlds to have been anywhere else at that
moment. ‘

He looked at her curiously.

; ane did not care to go! he thought, wonder-
nely. -

But Philip had gone with the rest, and it
seemed strange that he should leave his be-
trothed behind; and if they were happy lovers,
it was even more strange that she “did not
Gare to go’’ with him.

“Are you not well to-day?’ he asked, less
abruptly, and not knowing what else to say,
but realizing the absurdity of the question in-
stantly, for, saving her momentary pallor, she
aoe never looked better or more lovely in her
ife.

“Yes, Iam well,’’ Lady Elaine replied, “byt,”
with a slight blush, “I preferred to stay at
home.”’

Her blush pierced him like a dagger.

EY

VOL. 54—No. 52.

 

 

He caught her hands with a glad cry and
drew her into his arms.

‘Not the refusal, surely,”
note in his trembling, eager voice, “but the
belief that you had accepted him.’’

“How could I do that, when ” Lady
Elaine began, and then stopped short in con-
fusion.

“When what, my darling?’

“When I did not love him—when my heart
Bes long belonged to some one else—to. you,

’ i es

He bent and touched almost reverently the
lips. that had uttered this so sweetly.

“But,’’ she added, after a moment of silence,
“what could have made you imagine that I
had accepted him?” 3

Then he told her what he had seen—how,
when having attended to his mother’s request,
he went back to the ante-room, intending to tell
her all the sweet story that was in his heart,
he had seen her standing there with her hand
in Philip Paxton’s, and looking up smilingly
into his face, as if she had just granted him
the favor for which he had been suing, and it
had seemed as if the very fountain of his life
had dried up in that moment, and all his fu-
ture darkened. .

“Poor, foolish, faithless boy!’’ she said, while
she caressingly toyed with the rings of moist
hair which lay upon his forehead, ‘‘where
were your eyes, that you could not read me
better?—where were your intuitions, that they
did not tell you what others have learned all
too readily? It is a pity that your fairy did
not whisper something in your ear before you
brought her to me in the lily.’”’

“How could she?—she -was asleep, you
know,’’ Wil retorted, archly; but drawing the
fair girl closer to him with a sort of exultant
clasp, all thee pain gone like magic from his
face, all the misery from his eyes.

“True; I had forgotten that,’” she replied,
with a clear, sweet laugh.

She told him as briefly as she could all that
had passed between Philip and herself, for she
felt that he had a right to know it; and then—
the moments slipped unheeded by, as they al-
ways do with all lovers, until warned by the
blowing of a horn at a distant farm-house
that it was high noon, and they must return
to Hazelmere or a detachment would be sent
out to search for them.

“I can scarcely believe that I am the same
person that I was two hours ago,’’ Wil said,
as they arose, and he drew Lady Elaine’s hand
within his arm, though still retaining it in his
own. ‘To think that I came out here the most
miserable wretch on the face of the earth,
and now I am returning the happiest mortai
that walks, and with the Lily of Mordaunt all

my own!”
(To be Continued.)

A STAGE HEROINE:

OR,

In the Glare of the Footlights.

By GERTRUDE WARDEN,

Author of ‘Her Faithful Knight,” ‘The Haunted House
at Kew.” “An Angel of Love,” Ete.

he said, a joyous

(‘A Space HEROINE” was commenced in No. 45.
Baok numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers.)

CHAPTER XIV.

Fortune habitually favors the audacious, and
fortune favored Mr. ‘‘Frank Moriarty.”

On that thunderous August evening, after he
had performed the part of a good Samaritan
to the fainting Dorcas Morley, he made his
way to a theatrical club situated not far from
Covent Garden, of which a xeading member
was a personal acquaintance of his, who had
invited him to be his guest at the Saturday
night dinner.

This acquaintance was manager of a Dub-
lin theatre, and for two years Mr. Frank
Moriarty had, acted as his secretary, ng

 

 

ea a =
a vantemr@to get a

 

in response to Philip’s plea ‘“‘forgive me,’ had
looked up with that frank smile, and placed
a white gloved hand in his in token of her
pardon, and the hopeless lover, standing be-
hind them and beholding this, believed the
simple act to be but the consummation of a
betrothal—believed that, in his absence, his
false .friend Philip Paxton had stolen a march
upon him and won away his love.

He did not hear Lady Elaine’s words, ‘‘you
are freely forgiven,’’ for they had been spoken
low, and there was a dreadful ringing in his
ears, while all his faculties for the moment
seemed to be paralyzed.

Then, with such a sense of misery and deso-
jation as he never had dreamed a mortal could
experience, he crept stealthily away, leaving,
as he believed, a pair of happy lovers to their
first moments of bliss.

When Lady Elaine returned to the: drawing-
room, after Philip had left her, she at once
began to look around for Wil.

She hoped he would come to her and ask her
to dance with him. She longed for his com-
panionship, for she could not forget the look
that he had bent upon her when he asked her
if she cared enough for his gift to preserve it,
and the charm of his presence had been so
great that she was impatient to be with him
again,

But he was not there, nor did he make his
appearance again during the evening, and the
20urs dragged heavily to her until the com-
pany separated.

She thought it strange that he should ab-
sent himself thus, _.but supposed that Lady
Hamilton had sent him on some commission,
and never once suspecting that he was at that
moment in his own room, prone upon his bed,
battling with all his might against the misery
that was mastering him, and the doom which
he believed had been pronounced upon his
hopes.

He felt as if he could never look upon his
lost love again and bear the pain of it—could
never meet the man who had betrayed his con-
fidence and won the only woman he could ever
love.

When, the next morning, he joined the fam-
ily at breakfast, his face was white and
sunken, his eyes heavy and dull, his manner
unnatural and constrained, and he started vio-
lently whenever any one spoke; for he was in
constant fear of hearing an engagement an-
nounced.

Lady Hamilton was alarmed and declared he
was sick, and was for sending for a doctor at
once.

He said he was not ill, though he confessed
he had not slept well, but affirmed that he
should be all right again soon.

He pleaded a headache as an exeuse for not
joining a party upon an excursion which had
been planned for that day to visit some cele-
brated springs about five miles distant, and
then felt as if he should go crazy listening to
the regrets that poured upon him from all
quarters,

Lady Elaine alone said nothing;
looked troubled: and anxious.

He had not once met her eye—had not spoken
one word to her, beyond a brief ‘‘good-morn-
ing,’”’ and she was quite sure that something
very serious was the matter both physicaily
and mentally, and she quietly resolved to learn
the nature of it before the day was ended.

Quite a large party were to visit the springs,
many of the neighboring families having been
invited to ‘‘picnic’’ with the Hamiltons, and
when at length the gay company cantereda
down the avenue, their happy voices and
laughter dying away in the distance, Wil
Hamilton, in his room, with the curtains and
blinds drawn close—for he could not even
bear the light of the glad, bright day—heaved
a sigh of relief at their departure.

“They are gone,’’ he said. ‘Now I will go
where nobody can come near me—where no-
body can see me.”’ :

Rising hastily, he caught up his hat, crushed
it down over his eyes, and stealing down a
side stairway, he went out, and, with a quick,
fierce stride, walked across the lawn. toward
the forest beyond, where he was soon lost to
sight. .

An hour later a slight, graceful figure, clad
in a dress of crisp, delicate lavender lawn,
made in the daintiest manner, a _ charming
shade-hat of white chip, lined with blue, upon
her golden head, and a pretty basket hanging
on her arm, might have been seen flitting
down the avenue, as if intent upon a solitary
ramble.

Arriving at the gate, Lady Elaine—for, of
course, it was she—stopped and looked right
and lgft, as if somewhat in doubt which direc-
tion t6 take.

She finally decided upon turning to the left,
moving with a free, brisk step, and all un-

but she

 

conscious that she was walking straight to

oh, 7
Se WAS shy the Fy
little used to her new happiness befofe she
appeared in public with her lover.

The thought was nearly maddening, and be-
he he was aware of it, a groan burst from

im. ;

Lady Elaine advanced a step toward him at
the sound, a wistful, troubled look in her love-
ly eyes.

“You are in trouble,” she said.
tell me what it is?’

“It is nothing—at least nothing that you can
help,’”” he answered, setting his teeth together
with a snap.

“Let me share it then. You know, ‘A bur-
den lighter grows when shared,’’”’ she said,
but her red lips trembled even though she tried
to smile. ‘‘Perhaps,’’ she added, trying to
speak more lightly, “‘your little fairy or water-
nymph, who went to sleep in the lily, has sent
me here to exorcise the evil spirit that vexes
you.”’

He gave her a quick, startled glance, as-
tonished that she should have remembered his
words, when doubtless she must have far
pleasanter things to think of now.

“Ah! if you could—if——” he began, passion-
ately, and then suddenly checked himself.

“Try me, Wil, and see,’’ she returned, reach-
ing out her white hand, and laying it gently,
yet appealingly, on his arm, while her eyes
seemed pleading for his confidence.

He seized her hand and_ lifted it to his burn-
ing lips.

“Shall I try you? Dare I try you? You can-
not mean what you say. You do not even
how what you are tempting me to,” he cried,
Ww A

She regarded him with surprise, but she did
not withdraw her hand. It lay perfectly pas-
sive in his. .

“T do not understand you,” she said. “How
am I tempting you? Why do you not dare to
try me? You need not fear, Wil. I will not
fail you.”

“You ‘will not fail’ me,’’ he repeated, with
trembling lips. ‘‘You have failed me already.
You are lost to me, and that is why I am so
wretched.’”’

A dry sob broke from him as he said it.

She had driven him desperate with her in-
nocent words and questions, and he poured
forth his misery regardless of consequences.

For one moment she stood regarding him
with wonder-wide eyes, too astonished to com-
prehend at once what he really meant.

Then it began to dawn on her, and a burning
blush overspread her fair face; her white gold-
en-fringed lids drooped over her beautiful eyes,
and she stood silent and covered with con-
fusioh before him.

She could not ask him how or why he re-
garded her as lost to him, because that would
seem to imply that she was not—that she loved
him before she was asked; so her lips were
sealed and she was mute.

“Have I startled you by this confession?’ he
resumed, bitterly, as he marked how lovely
she was in her maidenly modesty, and, hav-
ing once given the rein to his misery, he could
not stop. “‘Have you not seen, during all these
weeks, how I have grown to love, to idolize
you—how my heart has melted before you—
how I have had no will but yours, no thought
but for you? And now to lose you, to have
you stolen from me before my very eyes, and
just when I was beginning to hope that I
might win you—oh, my darling; if I could but
die here and now, at your feet, I should be
comparatively happy.’’

He wrung her hand in his vehemence so, that
at any other time she would have cried out
with pain; but she hardly felt it now. Her
heart beat with a strange, new joy; he loved
her—his wild words told her that plainly
enough—and she saw that this same love was
causing him great suffering, but just how and
why she could not comprehend—she was
puzzled by what he had said.

Her lids fluttered, she gave him one brief,
bewailing glance, and murmured:

“T should not be happy—I.do not want you
to die, Wil; and—I do not know what you
mean by—by my being stolen from you, and
all that nonsense.’’ 4

He caught his breath; there was no mistak-
ing the glance she had given him, nor the ten-
der tone in which she had said she did not
wish him to die.

Could it be possible that he had been deceiv-
ing himself after all?

“Blaine, my darling, have I been a fool?’ he
cried; “dare I hope that you-— But tell me
first, after I left you last night did not Philip
Paxton come to*you and ask you to be his
wife?’

“Yes,’’ she answered, with downcast eyes
and burning cheeks.

“Ah!” he began, almost fiercely, ‘‘and you—”’

“T refused him. Wil,’ holding out both her
hands to him and looking shyly up into his

.

“Won't you

the post with much ‘credit to himself and |
Satisfaction to his employer, until the daugh-
ter of the latter fell so deeply in love with
him that Mr. Moriarty nobly tendered the res-
ignation of his post, a resignation which was
gratefully accepted.

The manager’s daughter was, like ‘‘Old Mar-
gery’? in the song, not very pretty and not
very young, added to which deficiencies she

Jacked any superfluity of cash, and her at-

tentions bored Frank Moriarty. But the man-
ager thought he had behaved well, and was
anxious to do his former secretary a good turn,
“Is there annybody in London—in the the-
atrical worruld, I mane—ye’d be liking an in-
throduction to?’ he inquired of Moriarty at
dinner, :

mgr iexty appeared to reflect for a few sec-
onds.

“Faith, since you ask me, it’s at the Queen’s

Theatre I’d be liking an opening,’ he said
expansively. ‘‘’Tis a fine, large elegant the-
atre, like your own theatre at Dublin, Mr.
O’Rourke, in which I was so happy and com-
fortable for two years.”
in luck, my bhoy!” exclaimed
. “‘Here’s the business manager of
Mr. Cuthbert Fairbanks at the Queen’s, and
I'll inthroduce you to*him, and say a good
worrud for you with the best grace in the
worruld!”’
Mr. Gay, the business manager at the
Queen’s, was built on familiar business man-
ager lines—that is to say, he was short and
stout and eminently prosperous-looking, with
a large, sleek mustache, shifty eyes and fat,
white hands. upon which a brace of valuable
diamond rings twinkled. Theatrical business
management in this resembles tenor-singing.
Its immediate results would appear to be ro-
tundity of outline and diamond rings.

Mr. Gay’s manners, too, were of the tradition-
al business manager type, curt and offensive to
nobodies, and a trifle oily to people of posi«
tion in the theatrical, financial and social
world.

He nodded carelessly to Moriarty when
O’Rourke introduced the latter. He would
hardly even have condescended so far but that
he wished to book dates at the Dublin man-
ager’s theatre for Mr. Fairbanks’ smaller
tours. ‘

“And what does this young man want?”
he inquired. ‘‘To act, I suppose. Ah, well, all
young men want that! My dear sir, you’re too
tall—much too tall! None of the London actor-
managers are more than five-feet-eight. You
want several inches off te be any good.”

“TI never acted in my life, never wanted to,
and never tried to!’’ exclaimed Moriarty with
a laugh. ‘‘What I want is to adorn the front
of the house, and the bigger the better for
that, surely!” >

His impudence pleased Mr. Gay, who laughed
in the slow, genial way peculiar to the fat.

‘“*‘There’s no denying you’ve a fine figure for
a foyer,’’ he observed refiectively, as he noted
Moriarty’s splendid proportions and well-cut
dress-clothes.

‘“‘You try him in the box-office, and the ladies
—bless their hearts—will be booking seats all
day long!’”’ cried O’Rourke, slapping Gay on
the shoulder. ‘‘He’s been my secretary and
business manager for two years, and I never
knew any man cheat me less. He didn’t even
make enough out of me to set up a fur-lined
coat last winter!’

“It would take a cleverer man than me to
cheat you, Mr. O’Rourke,”’ observed Moriarty
modestly; and all three men joined in the
laugh that followed.

Such a recommendation from so sharp a
man-of business as O’Rourke was of great
value; and, as it happened that the Queen’s
Theatre was at the moment in want of an act-
ing-manager—so called because he never under
any circumstances acts—the present holder of
that office having received his notice on ac-
count of certain irregularities in his accounts,
after some further talk Mr. Frank Moriarty
was asked to present himself at the Queen’s
Theatre at eleven o’clock on the morning of
the following Monday, that he might be in-
troduced to: Mr. Cuthbert Fairbanks, the
Queen’s popular actor-manager.

“What astrike of luck!’’ reflected ‘‘Mori-
arty’? as, shortly after midnight, he returned
to his hotel. ‘‘And all owing to that. little
fool Peggy O’Rourke! The humor of it is that
I shall actually have the honor of making up
my wife’s salary for her in an envelope -week-
ly! “It will be odd if I can’t dock it a little
as a husband’s commission. Not at first, of
course! Only if other means fail.

“JT wonder: what she gets? Not less than
twenty or twenty-five. She’s worth it, and

:

 

 

 

if

more, if she’s anything like she used to be,

mS

face ‘‘is it that which has been troubling you
807?’

Sk eee Noy bad. been Orel Yer ed by

What did old Rowley Seymour say? That
before she was five-and-twenty she’d bé mak-
ing her thirty pounds a week. And so she
shall, or my name’s not—Francis James Scott!

“Hanged if I know what my name is! I’ve
changed it so oftn, It ought to be Francis
James Tracy, Earl of Clievedon, but it’s been
half a dozen other things already—Francis
James, and James Francis, and Frank Mori-
arty and——’”’

“A letter fer you Mr. Moriarty,’’ said the
waiter, tendering him a salver upon which lay
an envelope addressed, in an ill-formed femi-
nine hand, to ‘“Mr. Frank Moriarty, Charing
Cross Hotel.’ Y /

He knew Dorcas’ writing in a moment, and,
as he took the letter, he asked how it had
come.

“A lady brought it in a cab about two hours
si She asked if you were in, and then

e Paks

“Dorcas mustn’t hang about the place after
me, or she’d soon bring suspicion upon me,’’
‘‘Moriarty’’ reflected as he passed upstairs to
his room with the letter. ‘‘It was the oddest
chance, that meeting, for, if I hadn’t suddenly
remembered ‘Vavasour’ was the name of An-
gela’s mother, I should never have stopped at
the Queen’s.

“It gave me the strangest sensation to see
Angela again. . Prettier than ever, by Jove!
though she looks years older. She hadn’t the
slightest idea who I was, but that little fer-
ret-eyed Dorcas spotted me in a moment. I
can trust her, that’s one thing. I can always
trust the women who are fond of me. But
she must be very discreet, for, though the
police may have forgotten. me, and my limp
and red hair and pince-nez and Irish brogue
constitute a very admirable disguise, I
shouldn’t like to face Dion Stanley in it! If
re has keen eyes, the eyes of hate are equally

een!

‘“‘Now to find out who was that puppy who
seemed on such good terms with my Angela!”

He locked his door and tore open Dorcas’
letter, the letter she had scrawled in frantic
haste in her bedroom while Angela and Er-
nest were laughing and chatting together in
the sitting-room adjoining.

“I knew you in a moment, even before you
spoke. I would rather die than betray you.
A. does not in the least suspect. She has not
mentioned your name, or let me mention it,
all these years until to-day. Then she spoke
of you most cruelly, saying she hated you.
That man is Ernest Ferry, whose mother was
A.’s godmother and her mother’s dearest
friend. They met to-day quite by accident at
Ann Hathaway's cottage, Stratford-on-Avon.
I had gone with A. there to see the Shaks-
pere country. He is already. in love with her,
but she will not see it. I hate him for your
sake, but what can I do? He is going to take
her to Hampton Court to-morrow afternoon.
Of course I go, too. Write to me at this ad-
dress. Oh, I am so thankful to know you are
safe and well! Surely A. must love you when
you get a chance of talking to her again. It
is her duty. But I begin to think I don’t un-
derstand her. Whatever you want me to do
with regard to her I will do. Mr. Ferry is
staying at the Empress Hotel. He is only
in London for a short time. She won’t tell
him she is married. Can’t you get hold of
him and tell him so yourself?
“Always your devoted friend,

‘““‘DORCAS.”

Francis gave a long whistle as he finished
reading the letter. Then he went through it
again, and committed the addresses contained
in it to memory before he destroyed it.

“Bad news!’’ he muttered. ‘‘And yet it might
be worse. Hatred is better than indifference.
Oh, I can soon make her love me again! It
isn’t very difficult for me to make a woman
love me, especially when I am fond of her
myself. The sight of her brought it all back.
I never cared for any girl so much. Besides,
she is my wife, and will soon be making her
thirty and forty pounds a week; and, if she
thinks she is going to slip through my fin-
oo again she is very much mistaken in-
deed!”’

CHAPTER XV.

“And now, if you have finished all the le-
gends about the pictures—and you must be
tired, chere petite—let us rest outselves on this
window-seat and cease talking.’’ :
Angela looked at Ernest and laughed. To
call her ‘‘chere petite’? was perhaps rather
unnecessarily familiar; but, then, had they not
piayed together as children?

 

| there was something almost pathetic in this
beautiful woman, whose every look and ges-
ture was calculated to inspire worshipful love,
and yet to whom real, human love was a
sealed book, whose only delight lay in the
unreal glow of simulated passion, the make-
believe and glare of painted shams! ~ (
Sighing, he looked away from her delicate, —
rose-flushed face to the long line of water
shining like a silver ribbon between the green
spends on either side in Hampton Court Gar-
ens. :

“IT don’t believe you like-my being on the
stage,’’ Angela said, with a note of reproach —
ee ae a :

elore he could reply, Dorcas joined them,
guide-book in hand, She had been fluttering ©
close in their wake until a few moments be- —
fore, when she had stopped at a window ad-
joining that before which Angela and Ernest
were seated, her*attention having been sud-
denly attracted by something in the grounds.

That ‘something’ was the figure of a very
tall, well-built man, wearing a light-gray suit
and a soft, gray felt hat, a man with a pointed
red ‘Velasquez’ beard and mustache, and dark
eyes, set wide apart, shining behind heavy tor-
toiseshell-rimmed pince-nez. a

Dorcas’ manner, usually so dry and precise,
ane qursied and en a Nig hi but Angela

rnest were too much intere j
talk to notice that. a ee

“There’s a Tudor garden I want to see,’’
Miss Morley began, ‘‘and the grapevine. I'll
do those while you go on with the pictures.
Here—you had better take the book! T’ll meet
you-in the grounds. But don’t hurry. There’s
oe of time, as the place doesn’t close till

xs

_With that she left them, before they had
time to protest, if they indeed had any mind
to, and, hurrying down the staircase, she dart-
ed through the courts until she reached the
entranee to the gardens. Here she paused, —
hanging about the doorway and pretending to
look at the photographic views of the place
exposed for sale there, a little, insignificant,
shriveled figure, in neat but dowdy black.
clothing, whom no ‘stranger would: look at
twice or even once,

The sharp eyes of Mr. ‘Frank Moriarty,”
however, spied her out as they had already
Spied out her companions in the window-seat
of the picture gallery. Presently, while she
bent her head in apparent interest over a pile
of guide-books, she heard the voice she loved
So well close behind her, breathing a message
rather than speaking it.

“‘Meet me in the fountain court!”’

Poor Dorcas’ heart leaped within her at the
sound of that voice, which had not gladdened
her ears for five long years. She knew, none
better, that she could never be anything to-
him; yet, in these prosaic nineteenth-century
days, when martyrs are no more and romance
is Supposed to be dead, she would have cheer-
fully laid down her life to serve this man
whom she loved.

His back was turned to her, and he was at-
tentively gazing at the fountain when she
crept up by ‘his side.

“Francis,” she whispered, “I am here!”

Hush, my dear girl! My name is not Fran-

cis, but Frank—Frank Moriarty. I’m an Irish-
man of thirty, at present engaged as assist-
ant acting-manager at the Queen’s Theatre,
London.’”’
“The Queen’s Theatre! Angela’s theatre?’
‘To be sure! Isn’t it high time I looked
after my wife, when she sits spooning in the
window-seat of a public place like this with
a man who is not her husband?”

But here Dorcas’ honesty compelled her to
protest. ‘ _
“She is not spooning,’’ she said. “I have been
with them all the time. They are just like a
couple of children together. Besides, remem-
ber, you never sent her a word or a sign for
five years. How is she to know you are not
dead?”’
“T am dead!”
“That is the joke

 

he exclaimed triumphantly.
: of the thing! That is how
it is I have ventured back to London to find
my wife.’ .

‘“What do you mean?’ =
“This is a very unsafe place for confidences,” -
he muttered. ;

They were standing together near the rail-
ings, gazing out at the little fountain which
bubbled_and sparkled in the middle of the
court. Sheltered as they were under the col-
onnade, they were yet visible to visitors from
the windows of the gallery above, and to the
groups of Sunday excursionists and young .
men and maidens in river flannels who Passed

 

aI
on the low oak window-seat facing him.

She was dressed in fine white flannel, orna-
mented with silk feather-stitching about the
loose bodice. Her collar fell-away from her
round, creamy throat, beneath which it was
loosely Knotted by a white silk scarf, and a
wide black lace hat shaded her brilliant hair
and deep-gray eyes. She was extremely happy,
already deeply excited over the “‘great chance
of her life,’ as she called it—the opportunity
of appearing as Juliet before a London pub-
lic—and soothed and pleased as she had never
yet been in any one’s society by the compan-
ionship of Ernest Ferry. :

She would have scouted the notion that she
was falling in love with him. It was not as if
she did not know what falling in love was,
she would have said. Had she not fallen in
love with Francis Scott five years ago, and
experienced for a few short weeks a mingling
of excitement and admiration, fascination and
repulsion, which no doubt constituted falling
in love, and which was utterly unlike the feel-
ing of sweet content and lightheartedness with
which Ernest’s presence inspired her?

As a companion he was wholly charming,
but with a charm that was altogether unlike
that exercised by Francis Scott. He had read
and studied a good deal, and, although French
literature had tended to make him somewhat
cynical and pessimistic in his views of life,
that was only a surface melancholy, beneath
which lay a nature deeply sensitive,. sympa-
thetic and kindly, full of diffidence on the
subject of his own merits, and capable of the
most intense and passionate devotion when
once his deeper feelings were aroused.

It seemed to Ernest, in leoxing back, that
there had never been a moment of his life
when he had not loved Angela. Being three
years her senior, his earliest memory was
of that great day when, little more than a
toddling child himself, he had begged to be
allowed to hold the little gold-haired bundle of
white embroidery and pink ribbons which was
“baby Angela.’ During the first years of
her married life, Mrs. Wrayburn, to whom
stage surroundings were uncongenial, had
passed several months annually in Paris with
her beloved friend Mary Ferry, and, after
her husband’s death, she had remained with
the Ferrys two years, until her sudden death,
which left Augela an orphan at six years of
age.

Throughout all that period Angela and Er-
nest were inseparable. The boy was devoted
to his little English playmate, and could not
be induced to do his léssons unless Angela
was in the room. It was as though, child as
he was, he had understood the passionate de-
sire of his mother and of Angela that their
deep affection might be crowned later on by
the marriage of their children.

And now that both those tender-hearted,
sweet-faced women had passed away, now that
for sixteen years he had not beheld his little
playmate, and that for five years out of that
time he had believed her wholly lost to him,
there he was sitting, on this glowing August
afternoon, close to Angela in the oak window-
seat of Wolsey’s old palace on the Thames,
gazing across into her deep-gray eyes, a very
ecstasy of love alight within his own.

“What are you thinking of?’ Angela asked

m.

“IT was thinking—thinking—well, I wish I
were going to be the only person in the the-
atre when you act Juliet next month?’

She laughed merrily.

“Thank you!” she said. “I don’t: I should
soon get my notice if I emptied the theatre,
How should I get my salary from an audience
of one?’’ .

“Well, then, I wish that, like that mad ruler
with Wagner’s operas, I could hire all the
seats in the theatre and sit there, alone, to
admire you.’’ :

She laughed again.

“T couldn’t act to a hollow, empty house,’
she protested. ‘‘And then, think! One pair of
hands to do all the clapping! And to feel that
only one person was listening and sympathiz-
inz!”

“Tg it the multitude you want?’ he asked
rather sadly. ‘‘Ah, you would be content with
pleasing one, if that one were everything to

ou!’”’
yBut one couldn’t be everything!”’ she cried.
“Oh, you don’t know what it is to play in a
town in which you are a favorite—to hear the
welcoming applause from all your friends when
you come on, the buzz of approving comment
if you are wearing something new or pretty,
the hush to listen when you speak, the hearty,
loving encouragement of the ‘round’ they e
you at your exit—all that to me means life
and delight; it exhilarates me, and makes: me
feel I am walking on air among friendly
spirits.”’ oes

Her face was flushed with the quick enthu-

 

Se
ee

 

siasm natural to the artist. But to Ernest

and repassed them at intervals, the
— bea Rwug bier and “aa
through the cool and sheltered courts. —
“Come through to the cloisters,’” he said.
“There is hardly ever anybody there. Don’t
walk beside me, but follow at-a little distance.
I suppose Angela and that fellow won’t come
after you?’’
“Oh, no!
bit.’’ .
“Curse the pair of them!’’ he muttered under
his breath, and strode on with the slightly
halting step he had assumed as part of his
habitual disguise until he reached the brick- -
built walk, designed by Cardinal Wolsey for
exercise in wet weather, which runs down
the two sides of the first court of the palace.
Entering the cloister on his left, Francis
paused near one of the small windows giving
on to the courtyard; and here Dorcas joined
him, and, coming close to him, pééréal up into
his face in the obscurity. ee
“It’s really you!’ she whispered, with a
catch in her breath. ““‘That “horrid red hair
‘does change you. But. it can’t spoil you—
nothing can! [ knew you in a moment.”

“The deuce you did! I must hope other peo--
ple won’t be quite so discerning. However,
the police are luckily the most unimaginative
lot in London—in fact, the only people stupider
are the habitual criminals they have to catch,
and that is why they sometimes catch them.
People get caught by hiding and being myste-
rious. Now I haven't crouched or hidden once.
When Tf left you so hurriedly after that fool’s
unlucky death, I went straight to London and
to the British Museum. There I got a ticket
of admission to the sculpture-galleries as an
art student, and, while the police were watch-
ing every port for the man they were uncivil
enough to call a thief and a murderer, the
gentleman they were after was spending his
peaceful, honest time in the elevating atmos-
phere of the British Museum sculpture-galier-
ies and libraries.

”’T didn’t draw much,” you know, but I read
about the inquiry in the papers. Confoundedly
hard luck that pistol going off so that it
couldn’t have been self-inflicted! But there—a
man can’t think of everything! I’m sure you
did you’re best to get me off, my girl—all I
wonder is they didn’t have you up for perjury.
I can’t say as much for Angela. That stub-
oe silence of hers undoubtedly did me

arm.”’ ;

“She was so ill,” pleaded Dorcas. “I was
afraid all the time she would have brain-
fever. It was terrible, the way in which she
had worked herself up! And at least she never
eontradicted me.” = ,

“T consider,’’ he said loftily, ‘‘that her be-
havior showed a decided want of heart. - But
you, my stanch little friend, you were true
as steel!’’

He gripped her fingers with his soft, warm,
white hand as he spoke, and Dorcas, un.
nerved by his touch, convulsively raised it to
her lips.

“There is nothing I wouldn’t do for. you!”
she whispered. ‘‘But go on with your story.’

“Of course, the women helped me,’”’ he went
on complacently. “It is only the men who
are my enemies. The girls at the sculpture-
galleries were always drawing me instead of
the statues. Then one of them, who was rich
and something of an artist, got me to sit for
a mail-clad warrior in a picture she was doing
for the Academy, and in her studio I met other
artists, who engaged me at any terms I liked
to ask. The next year, when I went to the
Academy, I saw myself there in oil and water- _
eolor and black and white, and before the
winter I was standing for all the heroes in
the colossal group of warriors that Sir William

I doh’t suppose they’ll miss me a

| Greyson sculptured for the Memorial Hall at

Stupid work, though, and after
two years and a half I got sick of it and took.
ship for America. And I had on board as fel-
low-passenger the detective who was sent ou
to find out whether I was still there!’’ - To
‘Do. you really mean,” asked Dorcas in
shocked tones, ‘“‘that you were an artist’s
model for two years?” * :
“Two years and more. Why not? I had to
live. It was a comedown, I own, for the son
of an earl, especially as I dropped my ‘h’s’
all the time, and resolutely hid all traces o
education. But the artists,” he added, with
a smile of satisfaction, ‘‘are still mourning for

Manchester.

 

 

 

 

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Is fully as important and beneficial as Spring medicine
The body needs to be toned up, the blood enriched and —
purified. Hood’s Sarsaparilla is taken by thousands of peo-
ple as a Fall medicine, and it is the best money can buy.

2 oes

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Is America’s Greatest Medicine. It Never Disappoints.
HOOD’S PILLS cure indigestion, biliousness, headache,

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

\
-

=

 

VOL. 54-No, 52,

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

 

me. I carried all before me in the world of-

models, I can tell you. ‘Frank Enery Jimes’—
_ that’s how I used to pronounce the name I
_ assumed. But, cockney accent and all, it’s
astonishing the way the girls fell in love with
me. Great ladies visiting the studio were mad
as be introduced to the model, and, on my
| Word, if I hadn’t been so devoted to Ange-

__ “Please go on,” Dorcas said, with a note of
_ Vexation in her voice, ‘“‘about the detective on
oard ship.’’
_ “There was my luck-again! Posing still as
the illiterate ‘Jimes,’ cockney artist model, I
: — quite friendly with the detective, and, most
Y uckily for me, equally friendly with a half-
_ erazy gambler, a good-looking fellow of about
my build, who had a berth in the same cabin
with me. His ways were very mysterious, but
I discovered his name to be Cresswell. Half
Way out he lost a heap of money over poker
_ With me and some other boys, and committed
~ suicide by jumping overboard. The body wasn’t
recovered, and I had the inspiration of slipping
certain papers and letters inside the pocket of
his coat and his traveling-bag, and of abstract-
ing others. So that, when his effects were ex-
amined, the astute detective learned that the
suicide was Mr. Francis James Scott, aged
twenty-six, height six feet two, formerly an
_ actor, and wanted by the police on charges of
theft and murder!”
He laughed with tfiumphant cunning as he
finished that portion of the story, in the telling
of which he had indeed reveled from the first.
He was delighted to have at length an oppor-
tunity of exciting the admiration due to what
he considered as his pluck, his dash, and his
| fertility of resource.
“After that,’ he proceeded, after a short
pause, “‘things were pretty plain sailing. I'd
been a good deal in Ireland at one time, and
-I fell in with some Irish in New York. I took
on the management of a theatrical crowd
touring in the ‘smalls.’ It was hard work, but
well paid. Again and again I might have
; married American heiresses, but my heart was
in England with my wife.’
“Then why didn’t you write to her?’ asked
Dorcas simply.
ae was not in the least abashed by her in-
~ quiry. : \
“How could I, my dear girl, when I hadn’t
the faintest idea of her address? Even had [
known it, I should have feared to reveal my-
self. But now, after six months as an Irish
business manager in New York, and two years
as_an Irish business manager in Dublin, with
red hair and a limp, and a brogue you might
cut with a knife, and the police in full pos-
session of the facts concerning the sad suicide
of Francis Scott two years and a half ago, I
think I am safe anywhere—except from your
loving eyes, my dear! No one else recognizes
me. My devoted wife, as you are well aware,”’
he concluded with a sneer, ‘‘has not the least
suspicion that I am not many yards from her
at the present moment!”’
“And what do you mean to do? When do
_ you mean to tell her?’ asked Dorcas breath-
essly.
“That depends,” he said refiectively. ‘‘Not
until after she her first appearance in
don, I thi It would be unfair to her
to upset her. And then, she is so impulsive
and excitable, and you say she has persuaded
herself to hate me—who knows but that she
might throw up the part and run away, or
even, in an hysterical outbreak, betray me
to my enemies?’’
“Betray you?’ cried Dorcas
“She would never do that!’’
“An incautious word or look might do it
even now,” he said. ‘‘Risk fascinates me, but
I am neither ambitious of prison rations nor
of the hangman’s rope! I have a nasty enemy
so long as Dion Stanley, my brother-in-law,
lives. And I don’t suppose the Ford family
are too fond of me. They all live at Surbi-
ton, too, and might combine forces; however,
that suicide would quiet their suspicions, no
doubt. By Jove! whose voice is that? Don't
speak, but listen!”

Three persons, a gentleman and two ladies,
were crossing the court-yard in the direction
of the picture-galleries. Peeping through the
small lattice window in the cloisters close to
which she and Francis were standing, Dorcas
beheld two tall, young women of apparently
something under thirty years of age, dressed
alike in elaborate river toilets of sprigged mus-
lin, with red hats upon their smooth, dark
hair, talking in high, excited tones to a young
man of medium height and thick-set build,

0 SWertny ;

indignantly.

“JT tell you I can’t be mistaken,” the taller

of the two young ladies was saying. ‘Poor

- Graham had heaps of portraits,of her, and I
knew her in an instant. It’s the girl for whose
~gake our poor brother was murdered—Angela
Wrayburn!” —
: (To be continued.)

¢ showed unmistable signs | blac!
st ithe Countess Altenstein,

 

A SAD OUTLOOK.

This grievance I record against thee,
O, golf, seducive game!

That woman by hard work at thee
May perfect her bad aim.

And then, supposing this end gained,
What mis’ry the thought brings! .
With temper lost, she’ll lay men low

With plates, and combs, and things.

Lover or Husband?

OR

THE MADNESS OF JACKY HAMILTON.

By ADELAIDE STIRLING,

Author of “T1.e Wolf’s Mouth,” ‘‘Nerine’s Second Choi
“The PurplesMask,” “Saved From Herself,” Ete,

oe

(“LovER OR HvsBAND?” was commenced in No. 38
Back numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers,) .

-

CHAPTER XXXIIL.-
A SCAPEGOAT.

It was well for Jacky Hamilton that she could
not know for many a day just what those let-
ters of hers had done. 2

All London was ringing with the news that
Lesard—Lesard, the clever financier, whose
hard honesty had been a by-word—had been
arrested for selling stolen jewels to a woman
known as the Red Mouse. And more, had
been accused in a letter written by the miss-
ing girl, who was thought to have killed
Marchmont, of having been in his house on
the night of the murder and having stolen the
diamonds in her presence, :

It was incredible—but half the town flocked
to Bow street to hear the inquiry. To have
the impeccable Lesard turn out a scoundrel
would be sweet indeed to the men who owed
him money. People he had injured and peopie
he had served went alike to stare at him in
the dock.

They marveled at his hard, quiet face, as
at the brazenness of guilt. If he were inno-
cent, why did he not look perturbed, furious?

Not one of them imagined that to the man
himself the whole thing was a bitter farce
that could be explained by four words when
he chose to speak them,

The thing was ciear as daylight to him
(which was more than it was to any one else
but Mrs. Gibbs, choking with joy in the safe
retreat of a retired lodging-house!) He re-
membered those diamonds the instant he was
confronted with them. They had belonged to a
sham Austrian countess, who, five years since,
had startled all London with her audacity and
her lovers. She had been in a certain kind of
society till one unlucky day, when she met
Paul Marchmont. He was at the end of his
tether with debt, and moved heaven and earth
to make his new acquaintance love him. And
love him she did; giving the go-by to princes
for his sake; paying his debts; starting him
afresh. And the reward she got was that he
stole her diamonds—‘“‘her luck,’’ as she al-
ways called the gorgeous necklace, being su-
perstitious about it, as such women ar®. She
had been rich then, had had the whole detec-
tive force searching for her jewels, while the
man who had stolen them sympathized and
condoled with her. But her luck had gone
with the diamonds. She lost her money, aged
as some women do, with one leap, and van-
ished into the country, when one day March-
mont left her for good and all. Her supeér-
stition about the necklace seemed, curiously
enough, to hold water. Her luck went with
it; Marchmont’s grew and waxed till he lost
it, and his life, too; Victor Lesard’s good for-
tune had struck his first rock when he sold
them. But his ill-luck had fallen .on his
brother.

For Jacky’s vengeance had miscarried ut-
terly. As the morning went on the Lesard
she loved began to see that unless something
turned up—which was unlikely—it was not
four, nor twenty, words of his own that would

clear him. :

Now 4,. whom_he.kneyw-to be
the original owner of
the jewels, sat close to the dock. He saw her
pees aceataae the first piece of evidence was pro-

uced.

It was Jacky’s letters to the police and the
Red Mouse, the same and both to the effect
that Lesard had stolen the jewels from March-
mont on the night he was killed.

ce.”

-

 

 

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The Only Book Lines at This Up-to-Date Price are Published by Street & Smith,

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4.—For a Woman’s Honor....Bertha M. Clay
5.—The Senator’s Favorite..........

Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
6.—The Midnight Marriage....A. M. Douglass
TOE WO IGGVE yess ces. Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
8.—Beautiful But Poor.......... Julia Edwards

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11.—The Gypsy’s Daughter..... Bertha M. Clay
12.—Edrie’s Legacy...... Mre. Georgie Sheldon
18.—The Little Widow.......... Julia Edwards
34:7 GSE Ese ei OS a 2 Bertha M. Clay
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1G. The Patal Card ..<...95. <3. See.
A novelization of the celebrated play
17.—Leslie’s Loyalty harles Garvice
18.—Dr. Jack’s Wife...... Author of Dr. Jack
19:—Mr. Lake of ‘Chicago... 22.2) 2. ;
Harry DuBois Milman
20.—The Senator’s Bride............. ;

Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
Sink Beare se Ldoho es. ces. cs Bertha M. Clay
22.—Hlaine.......... (ieee ev ake Charles Garvice
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Author of Dr. Jack
24.—A Wasted Love...... bs aac Charles Garvice
25.—A Little Southern Beauty

Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
26,--Captain Tom... 8.5. Author of Dr. Jack
27.—Estelle’s Millionaire Lover..Julia Edwards
28.—Miss Caprice....... «-« Author Of Dr. Jack
Died DEGGOLE. Fc ik ecko oa ces Victorien Sardou
80.—Baron Sam.......... ..Author of Dr. Jack
31.—A: Siren’s Love... ...:.:. Robert Lee Tyler
82.—The Blockade Runner....J. Perkins Tracy
33. Mrs: bob. 3. cass ss iss  sAuthor of Dr. Jack
34.—Pretty Geraldine ... . ;

Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
35.—The Great Mogul......Author of Dr. Jack
86.—Fedora........ se we cte ens Victorien Sardou
87.—The Heart of Virginia..........

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

Author of Dr. Jack
89.—The Colonel’s Wife......Warren Edwards
40.—Monsieur Bob..........Author of Dr. Jack
41.—_Her Heart’s Desire..... ..-Charles Garvice
42.—Another Woman’s Husband

Bertha M. Clay

43.—Little Coquette Bonnie.......... 2
; Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
44.—_That Dowdy........Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
45.—A Yale Man.......... ..-Robert Lee Tyler
46.—Off With the Old Love..Mrs. M. V. Victor
.47.—The Colonel by Brevet..Author of Dr. Jack
48.—Another Man’s Wife......Bertha M. Clay
49.—_None But the Brave....Robert Lee Tyler
* 60.—Her Ransom...... Mae b ie kh ak Charles Garvice
§1.—The Price He Paid..... os Suesve sda. Werner

52.—Woman Against Woman.........

Mrs. M. A. Holmes
58.—The Old Homestead....Denman Thompson
O48 Cleopatra cas. EO eed Victorien Sardou
55.—Thrice Wedded......Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
56.—The Dispatch Bearer....Warren Edwards
57.—Rosamond...... Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
58.—Major Matterson of Kentucky..

: $ Author of Dr, Jack
69.—Gladys Greye..............Bertha M. Clay
Mee Tite Caunty Fair ica cv ied Neil Burgess
_ 6L—La Tosca.................Victorien Sardou
62.—Stella Sterling............ . Julia Edwards

63.—Lawyer Bell from Boston...... .

Robert Lee Tyler
64.—Dora Tenney...Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
65.—Won By the Sword...... J. Perkins Tracy
66.—Witch Hazel...... ..Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
ETO ok oe 5 8x 5 6 oka Cho Ok Victorien Sardou
68.—The Little Cuban Rebel....Edna Winfield
69.—HBis Perfect Trust....By a popular author
70.—4m Love’s Crucible........Bertha M. Clay
71.—The Spider’s Web....St. George Rathborne
72.—Wilful Winnie.......... Harriet Sherburne
Tak he MBP Gis o's Fo. oe ee Charles Garvice
74.—The Cotton King. os ...5. 0663 Sutton Vane
102 TIGEP TPO. a co Ce eeeee be 8c eek T. P. James
76.—Mavourneen...... From the celebrated play
Oe ee i ee ee Sek Mrs® Georgie Sheldon
78.—The Yankee Companion..Sylvanus Cobb,Jr.
79.—Majorie Deane.............. Bertha M. Clay
80.—The Fair Maid of tez:. ..... 5.45.

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

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

Prof. Wm. Henry Peck
84.—Between Two Hearts......Bertha M. Clay
85.—Lorrie; or Hollow Gold....Charles Garvice
86.—The  Widowee Pride... .c..:. s. &

Lucy Randall Comfort
87.—Shenandoah’..a...... asec, Perkins Tracy
88.—Virgie’s Inheritance..Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
89.—A Gentleman from Gascony......

Bicknell Dudley

90.—For Fair Virginia.............. Russ Whytal
91.—Sweet Violet....Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
92.—Humanity 2.00. ...cenes he herein ce Sutton Vane
93.—A Queen of Treachery..... T. W. Hanshew
94.—Darkest Russia........ H. Grattan Donnelly
95.—’ Twixt Love and Hate......Bertha M. Clay
96.—The Little Minister.............. J. M. Barrie
$7.—The War Reporter........ Warren Edwards
PR IB EG oS is cic cee ele a Charles Garvice
99.—Audrey’s Recompense,
i Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
100.—Alice Blake...... copes eeuns Francis 8. Smith
101.—A Goddess of Africa, '
By the author of Dr. Jack
02.—_Fair But Faithless.......... Bertha M. Clay
103.—The Span of Life..... Sn teak Sutton Vane
104.—A Proud Dishonor.........Genie Holzmeyer
105.—When London Sleeps. From the cele-
WTATOR PIaY.t ca si Do edaac Chas. Darrell
106.—Lillian, My Lillian,
Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
107.—Carla; or, Married at Sight......
Effie Adelaide Rowlands
108.—A Son of Mars..By the Author of Dr, Jack
109.—A Heart’s Bitterness....... Bertha M. Clay
110.—Whose Wife Is She?............. Annie Lisle
111.—Faithful Shirley...... Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
192," TS CAttio: KMIR ys is Oi es id ast A. D. Hall
113.—A Crushed Lily.Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
114.—Half a Truth......... By a Popular Author
115.—A Fair Revolutionist,
By the Author of Dr. Jack
116.—The Daughter of the Regiment,

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

 

ee .

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

; All the books in the Eagle Library are copyright novels, regular 12mo size with elegant covers
_ of the most artistic design, good paper, clear type, and comprise the best work of favorite writers
ose reputation is world-wide. Each book costs you but TEN CENTS, either from your news

dealer, or by mail, postpaid, from the publishers,

STREET & SMITH, 238 William Street New York.

To the Countess Altenstein the news that
Marchmont was the thief took away all the
joy of the discovery of her diamonds. When
she was called to the witness stand she only
turned dully toward Lesard.
| “If Mr, Marchmont took the diamonds,” she
said in a strained voice that pierced the crowd-
ed room, ‘“‘that man may ‘easily have known
he had them! For I used to see them to-
ether at theatres, often,’’ and she pointed to

esard,

There was nothing more to be got out of
her, but she had thrown the first stone.

The Red Mouse threw the second.

Mad with fury and greed she scarcely looked
at the man in the dock, and, indeed, between
a thick veil and the belladonna in her eyes,
all she could see was the general outline of his
face, and that was line for line like the Lesard
she knew. That the soul of the man shone
through—with a- difference—she neither saw
nor cared, if his conviction would get her
money out of him. She dwelt at large on the
sinfulness of taking away her diamonds and
giving her nothing till the magistrate cut her
short without ceremony. :

‘You swear the prisoner sold you those
jewels?” he asked, curtly.

“Of course he did!’’ furiously. ‘He said he
got them from a connection of his wife’s. He
told me that the girl who recognized the neck-
lace and wrote that letter afterward was his
wife.” Her rage would have been. funny if
it had not been dangerous. The prisoner
smiled. Victor had overshot the mark. But -he
smiled no more when the next witness was
called.

He had never laid eyes on her, but to see
her brought back Jacky, who had trusted him
not at all for his brother’s sake, who was in
the most sanguine view of things, hiding
somewhere in London, having sent him to the
dock of a police court when a little loyalty
would have saved her and him.

Gillian, white-faced, bronze-haired, never
<< her eyes when she had kissed the dirty

ible.

. A cup more bitter than death was at her
lips, a cup she had vowed never to drink.
But she would drain it now, and not she alone,
eu Vivian, who sat in court, must share

The man in the dock had been her hus-
band; she had loved him, and now loathed
him. Yet for that very reason she could not
deliberately swear his life away. If she proved
him guilty dnd cleared herself, it would be
that she might walk over his dead body to the
new love that was sweeter than the old. If
she had had Jacky to save, she might have
betrayed Lesard—but Jacky had either saved
herself or was dead. She knew what the pain
was that she must deal to an honest heart that
loved her, to Vivian, who had come to her in
jail when there was no one to help her, and
nearly broken her heart with his kindness and
his belief in her; who had engaged lawyers
for her that she might fight to the end what
she could not fight without staining her soul
with her husband’s blood.

. Almost inaudibly she answered to her name;
but at the next question she spoke out.

‘No! I never wrote any letters!’’ for they
had been signed with a short J that might
have been a G, and it was merely a supposi-
tion that the missing sister had written them.
“T could not write any. I never saw or heard
of any black diamonds.’’

The letters were handed to her.

aie your sister write these, to your knowl-
edge?” °

“Not to my knowledge,’’ truthfully enough,

“Are they in her handwriting?’’

**Yes!”” pale as death.

“Do you know where she is?’ sharply.

“No!” Her lips quivered and she lifted her
hand to hide it. .

“Were you also in the cave the letters speak
of, — the night mentioned?’’

sé res-"’<

“Tf you saw nothing of any diamonds, could
your sister have done so?”

“T don’t know. We were not together.”

Each answer seemed dragged out of her.
deze was afraid to tell the truth, and-equally
to lie, :

“Did you see the prisoner there on the night
in question ?’’

For the first time Gillian Hamilton looked
up, but at the magistrate, not at Lesard. She
had learned in the past three days what a
man’s self-forgetful love could be, and she
must kill that love that had grown dear to
her, whose height and depth had wrapped her
-reoeund when she was deserted and desolate.
Whatever course she chose would kill-it, for
to deliberately go to it by swearing away the
life of another man who it must come out had
been dear to her, would do it equally with the
only other way—the hard way she had choseii.

“You cannot compel me to answer,’ she
said, very sharply.

The magistrate gasped. 2

“Perhaps you will be good enough to state
why not?’ he said, his judicial calm a little
shattered.. . 5

“Because a wife may give. evidence against
her husband if she likes, but_no court in Eng-
land can compel her to. And that man’is my
husband. I was married to him at the regis-
trar’s office in Lambeth a year ago.’’

The flutter that went through the court cov-
ered Sir Charles Vivian’s convulsive start.

He sat whiter than Gillian, sick to death.
Gillian—the wife of a thief, for all he knew,
of a murderer. For her answer told him this
man had been in the cave, and might—for all
he knew again—have made her help him in his
ghastly work. é

“Perhaps vou do not realize,” said the mag-
istrate, icily, ‘‘that what you now admit is as
damaging to the prisoner as any outspoken
testimony could be!”

He saw the undisguised surprise on Lesard’s
face, and questioned him suddenly.

“Have you anything to say to this?’ :

The clear gray eyes of the prisoner met his.

“Only that it is an utter mistake, your
honor,’’ he answered, slowly. ‘I never saw
the witness until to-day, in this room. My
only knowledge of her came from the fact that
I was engaged to her sister, who is now miss-

ing.”

Charles Vivian stared at him as he had
never stared in his life; and quivered as his
eyes found Gillian again. 4
~She had covered her face and stood shaken
with sobs. No wonder that Jacky had ‘‘known
him,’’ no wonder she hated him! Gillian knew
now how Jacky must have suffered that night
when she knelt with her face hidden on her
sister’s knee—knelt to hide the agony that is
more cruel than the grave.

But Vivian could only think Gillian had
broken down because the prisoner had repu-
diated her, unless—surely she had not been
foolhardy enough to perjure herself to try and
save Jacky’s lover!

By this time the spectators were all agog.
They had come to see a well-known man tried
for the meanest of crimes; they were staying
now because it seemed that this inquiry into
the bistory of the famous diamonds was prov-
ing to be the first act in the drama of the
Marchmont mystery. It hung now on a
thread whether or not Lesard would be ar-.
rested on a fresh charge, on suspicion of com-
plicity in Marchmont’s murder.

But to the annoyance of every one the mag-
istrate adjourned the inquiry till the after-
noon. Yet the spectators could not regret the
entr’acte when they saw the next scene in the

lay. é ;

The first witness was the Lambeth registrar
himself, who produced the record of Gillian’s
murriage, which was hard and fast. Gillian
Hamilton and Louis Lesard, and gave his own
business-like testimony that, to the best of
his recollection, the Louis Lesard in the dock
was the man whose marriage he had _ per-
formed. Vivian, sick, miserable, incredulous,
could not tell what to think. The man had
seemed so straightforward all through, had
told the same story of his engagement to
Jacky in Vivian’s own house; and yet—Gill-
ian’s sworn testimony had _ been .confirmed.
And then to. his amaze a fresh witness ap-
peared. :

Brookes, strangely thin _and_ poor-looking,
came on the stand, and Vivian’s old distrust
of him revived. The man was shattered with
drinking, his face and manner more cringing
and furtive than ever, but his evidence ruined
Lesard.

He told his story like a man who walks to
the cannon’s mouth, or lies about his friend to
save his own life. :

He had often seen the prisoner, who visited
his late master, usually after nightfall. He
had certainly been there the day of the mur-
der, and had returned after dark, when
Brookes had seen him entering secretly and
had told Marchmont he was in the house. He
had most probably taken the diamonds, which
Brookes had seen on several occasions, and
knew had not been found after his master’s
death. But—stumblingly—in the opinion of
the butler, he had not meant to kill March-
mont.”

“We are not here to discuss that!’’ said the
magistrate, tee: “You can step down.”

No one but ivian noted that the man
obeyed with frenzied haste, and left the court-
room as if he had borne witness at the peril
of his life. And truly nothing but the strong
arm of the law had brought him there, where
he must face Lasard. Once out, the ci-devant
butler ran like a hare, till the sweat poured
down his emaciated face. He had met Le-
sard’s eyes once and come to no harm, but he
dared not confront them again. All death and

 

 

 

hell would not get him to witness at the mur-
der trial of Gillian Hamilton while there was
a chink in London that would hide him. He
ran at the top of his speed, lest each minute
might a hand lay on his shoulder. For by this
time Lesard would be defending himself.

And defending himself he was, till you might
have heard a pin drop in the court-room; for
he was doing it so guardedly, with such reser-
vations, that each answer seemed to paint him
blacker.

“Yes,’’ he answered the first question quiet-
ly, ‘‘my name is Louis Victor Lesard. But I
was never married.”

_ ‘Were you at Hamilton Place the night those
iereis were stolen—the night of the murder?”

“No.”

‘Where were you?”

The hard face seemed to stiffen. ;

“T was in great anxiety and trouble of mind,
I could not sleep. I used to spend my nights
in wandering about London,
walked out to Wormwood Scrubs.
come home till ten in the morning.”’

“Alone?”

oF ey, *??

“You met no one who could swear an alibi

for you?’

_“No one,”’ almost lightly; but the hard-bitten
lip was bleeding, for he saw that he was
ruined. There was a deeper hush than ever
as the magistrate, with a curious reluctance,
committed Louis Victor Lesard to trial for the
alleged theft of a diamond necklace of which
he afterward disposed on false pretenses. But
there was a kind of growl of excitement as on
leaving the court-room he was arrested on the
charge of complicity in the murder of Paul
Marchmont. There was only the missing girl
now who might clear up the mystery, the girl
whom her sister’s husband swore he was-en-
gaged to marry.

I did not

2

Lesard, sitting alone in the
cell where he must wait his trial, leaned his
handsome head on his hands.

He had said not one word about Victor, nor
would he till bare life forced him. He had no
feeling for his brother but loathing, and yet
had not even accused him of selling the dia-
monds to the Red Mouse. It was the thought
of Jacky Hamilton that kept him silent. Try
as she might, she could not evade the police
long, and if they were going to hang her—
well—he could always say it was he who did

“They would make it manslaughter, per-
haps,’? he thought, cynically, ‘‘and I could take
my chance of escaping. And she is a woman,
she could do nothing.’’

For his soul was dark in him at the thought
of Jacky. That bloody hand print had fright-
ened him, for he knew Marchmont, and knew
she might have been driven desperate. And
if she were not guilty, where was she now?

He realized suddenly, appalled, that she khew
of but one Lesard, whom she had good reason
to hate. She had written the letters that ac-
cused him. If she came at all it might be to
give evidence that would hang him. KE'rom
Victor he knew by experience there was noth-
ing to expect; he would always go scot free if
any one could be made to suffer for him.

“T’ll give him the time between this and the
trial to extradite himself,’’ thought the man
angrily. And then the sense of his position
rushed over him. If Jacky obstinately re-
mained hidden, there would be only his own
word to go. For though he might weaken the
lying testimony Mrs. Gibbs would give, he
ae not force a jury to. disbelieve her on his
oath.

He was a man with few friends, no inti-
mates. None of them would believe in this
convenient brother, of whom he had never
spoken. And a hundred enemies could swear
there was no Lesard but one, for Victor had
been very clever. Truly, his face very grim
and defiant, he seemed to have made @ scape-
goat-of himself with great success!

CHAPTER XXXIV.
ORDEAL BY FIRE!

Jacky’s thoughts made her writhe where she
stood in her prison.

Lesard would be hanged for murder! And
she—who had sworn to be loyal to him—‘‘and
you may need to be loyal to me!’’ the words
stabbed her memory—had betrayed him! She
had tried to hurry the mills of God, and this
was what it had come to. The sham Lesard
was gone, never to come back. No one else
knew where she was, and by this time she
Knew she must be a prisoner in an empty
house. There was nothing in the room with
which to force the door. Nothing but the
bare walls, the sofa, the table and the lamp,
By and bye the lamp would burn out and leave
her in the dark. Trembling she stared at the
homelike flame like a woman hypnotized. How
soon, how soon it would be gone!

Motionless, wide-eyed she crouched till she
grew torpid. This was the last light she
would ever see; she must watch it till it-flick-
ered out. With the thought something seemed
to snap in her brain, like a thread that horror
of the coming darkness had stretched to too
great tension.

With a wild cry she leaped to her feet. Was
there nothing she could do—nothing? Panting,
shaking like a desperate caged beast, she
stared round the desolate room.

What was that on the table behind the lamp?
Did something glitter there, or was she gone
crazy? :

Something did glitter, and she cried out as
she sprang to it; cried out in utter thankful-
ness for the impulse that had made her ex-
tinguish the lamp.

Lesard, relighting it, had thrown down and
not noticed his silver matchbox. And the
sight of the shining top filled with ‘matches
put a thought in her brain the lamp would
never have brought there.

‘“‘Matches!”’ she cried. ‘‘Fool, fool that I was
not to have thought of fire!’’

Down on her knees by the door she made a
pile of all the matches but the six or seven
she must keep; on them she laid bunches-of
horsehair stuffing from: the crazy sofa. De-
liberately, as if she might not be making her
own funeral pyre, she put out the lamp and
poured half the oil on the bits of horsehair,
smeared the rest on the door itself. :

The crack of the matches as she lit the pile
was like an explosion, but after the first flash
the horsehair began to smoke chokingly. She
was forced to pull most of it away, to kneel
with her eyes smarting and her throat sting-
ing, and feed the flame that ran wanderingly
over what horsehair she had left. -

“Oh, it won’t catch!’’ she muttered, brushing
the water from her smarting eyes. “It won’t
catch!” But even as she said it.she heard the
first snap of kindling wood.

The lower edge of the door had caught, al-
most before she knew it was flaming, with the
strong draught under the threshold. Sparks
flew out in her face as she kept on feeding the
fire with the oil-soaked horsehair, that caught,
flared, smoked and was gone.

What should she do if the fire went out? If
it burned only a tiny hole she could not get
her hand through!

“It shall burn!”’ she cried, fiercely, and tore
at the flimsy old table till she had it in pieces.
With the oily wick of the lamp to start them
they. burned like tinder, being old and thin.
The door caught smoulderingly, higher up;
the smoke and the stifling smell were suffocat-
ing her, but the fire gained. :

Presently she had to get back from it, and
lie down on the floor to get the air the fire
was drawing under the threshold.

The flames crept to the doorposts, flickered
out there, caught the panels higher up with a
smell of singeing varnish. But to her sore eyes
the door looked strong as ever, scarcely two
inches of it had burned away. She drew her
skirts about her and, standing up, drove her
foot hard at the door. A .charred fragment
broke away, but she was afraid to try again.
And the floor in front of the threshold was
catching. ; ‘

After all, had she accomplished nothing but
to burn herself to death? Would the flames
leave the door and creep into the room, filling
it with fire, roasting her in slow torture till
she died? Between weariness and want of air
she was exhausted. She could do no more, and
lying down on the floor for the better breath-
ing, shut her eyes to keep out the pungent,
stinging smoke of the horsehair.

Suddenly a wave of heat made her start up,
scorching,

The doorpost had caught, the door by the
hinges was burning bravely. But the fire
was creeping round the edge of the floor, till
in a few minutes there would be a ring of
flame round her! :

It was a duel now between the slow charring
of the thick door and the smouldering of the
floor that was helped by the little hoards of
dust that flared up viciously. :

If the door burned fastest she might get
out; if the floor went first it meant death by
inches, :

She could not watch them for the stinging of
her eyes; her breath hurt her as the room
grew slowly to an intolerable heat. So small
was it that nowhere could she get further than
six feet from the fire, and she would have
stifled long ago if it had not been for the in-
visible cracks in the boarded-over skylight.
She thanked heaven it was not glazed.

A kind of dullness crept over her body that
might have deepened to a swoon if it had not
been for the pricking torture in her lungs as
she drew her difficult breath. Only that saved
her from sinking into a stupor that would
have ended in death, for little flames were

That night I!

licking round the edges of the floor now, flash-
ing up into the cracks of ‘tthe surbase, reach-
ing nearer every minute to that huddled fig-
ure on the floor.

The steady br-r of the fire was loud in her
ears, lulling her strangely, dreadfully. She
dared not raise her head to look at the blaz-
ing door lest she should only see that escape
was hopeless, only face the agony of death
before her sooner than she need. A sharp an-
guish in one outstretched arm made her
scream, sit up, leap to her feet.

The room seemed full of choking’ smoke,
leaping flame. That was creeping fire in a
crack of the floor that had burned her, a
tongue of flame that had licked up the dust be-
tween the boards and died. But next time it
would not die! Scarlet and orange the walls
glowed in the firelight, black whirls of smoke
wreathed up to the skylight, the doorway was
the most awful flame of all, a very gate of
hell that she must face or die in agony. Cow-
ardice or bravery would make very little dif-
ference in that!

Dry-tongued, her throat so scorched she
coul scarcely breathe, Jacky turned her thick
serge skirt up to her knees, holding the
doubled folds of it round her with one hand.
Her other arm in its cloth jacket-sleeve she
held across her face, and so went as near the
flaming door as she dared.

That it opened outward was the only thread
of hope that upheld her. Whether it was
burned through or not she dared not uncover
her smarting eyes to see.

Blind, desperate, she stood as near as she
could and drove her foot in its thick shoe
straight and hard at the hinge of the door.

Sparks, charred, burning’ fragments, flew
baek at her in a threatening shower that only
page her thick clothes as she shook them
off.

Where had she learned that to force a door
the toe of a boot is useless? Only the straight
driving thrust of the flat sole from the knee
can do it. With all her strength she drove her
foot again and again at the door. The coat-
sleeve covering the arm across her face
scorched, singed, burned nearly through where
she stood at her hopeless task.

here was a roaring in her ears now, an
agonized longing in her lungs for the air that
was not in the blazing place; from behind her
the fire crept to her very heels. Once more
she could try and never again, for her strength
was done.

With all her weight she kicked once more at
the stubborn door, and nearly fell forward
into the flame that surged into her face.

The hinges had torn out of the charred wood,
the door was open—only a crack, but open—
and it was the draught of air from the passage
that was sending the blaze into her face. That
one breath of air was like a breath from
heaven, hot as it was. Hope made her heed-
less of her scorching skirts, her shoes and
stockings that were singeing off her feet as she
drove at the door again. And this time it gave
indeed.

It fell away from the burning post a space
of some half yard, and through that narrow
gap Jacky Hamiilton jumped for her life, over
La threshold that flamed high.

Out in the passage she fell, crushing out
her smouldering skirts with her hands, brush-
ing the singed ends of her hair out of her eyes:
thanking heaven she had not heen dressed to
her death in lace petticoats, tearing off the
smoking boots that blistered hands and feet,

The cold, close air of the shut-up house was
rapture to her parched lungs; the dull day-
light of the passage rested her eyes after that
flaming hell behind her—and she was not on
fire! Scorched, singed, blistered, blackened
with smoke, she was yet alive—yet free!

She staggered on a few paces, fell, forced
herself up again and leaned against the wall.

“I must get out!’’ she thought, and could
scarcely move. Her back; that she had for-
gotten, was sickening her with shooting pain.

Were there people in the house, or was it
as it seemed, empty?

“‘Lesard’s gone,’’ she thought, ‘‘no one else
can matter. And the house is on fire, other
people would only think of that.’’

he had no more dread of danger; the fire
was in the very-top of the house and would
burn everything above it before it crept down.
And let it burn as it would, let the house be
empty or not, she must make her way out of
it as fast as she could; make her way to Gill-
ian in jail, and that Lesard her unfaithful-
Uae had ruined as it had nearly ruined her-
self.

But she could scarcely drag herself along
as she crept to the end of the passage, down
a rickety stair; stumbiring-blindly down other
stairs till at last she stood in the empty en-
trance hall with its locked door.

Through the dirty cracked panes of the fan-
light came a gleam of dusty sunshine, the
spring sunshine that could be so sweet. It was
day there, afternoon by the lowness of the
sunbeams—that was why no one had noticea
the fiery smoke from the cracked skylight.

Was it burning still? She hardly cared! She
leaned against the wall trying to calculate
the time she had been in this dreadful house.
It seemed like years; she did not realize it
had. not been twenty-four hours.

“Gillian is arrested,’ she tried 'to think co-
herently, and could not, ‘‘and Lesard’’—a sob
ehoked her as she realized that she had no
Idea where she was, and that she might find
her way to Lesard, a grimy, miserable object
with but one sixpence in her pocket. His of-
fice was in Capel Court, but what cabman
would drive her there when she could not
pay, if she were too far from it to walk?

With painful fingers she tried to tidy her
masses of singed hair. The sunbeam that fell
on her showed her blackened face, her blis-
tered hands, her shoeless feet, with rags of
stockings half scorchd away. Her beauty was
gone from her, but there were no tears in her
bloodshot eyes, no qualiling of her steadfast
spirit as once more she began to creep througn
the dusty house which, for all she knew, might
yet be her death-trap. :

Down the kitchen stairs something guided
her scarlet, blistered feet. And the kitchen
window was raised a scant inch. Somehow
she got it up, the pain of using her scarred
hands making her shut her teeth; somehow
scrambled through*it, and was free in the de-
serted mews outside.

Without looking to right or left she stum-
bled on and at the entrance to a little court of
five or six houses fell headlong on the stones.

A woman in a dirty blue gown gave a sud-
den cry where she stood at a doorway.

“‘Look!’”’ she cried to a pallid man in shabby
clothes. ‘‘For God’s sake look at that.’’

For Jacky was face down on the pavement,
her hair fallen anyhow, her bare feet. and
hands dreadful in the afternoon light.

“She’s dead!” said the woman with an awe-
struck grin, :

(To be continued.)

 

 

 

What a Little Faith Did

FOR MRS. ROCKWELL. @

 

 

 

 

 

 

[LETTER TO MRS, PINKHAM NO. 69,884]

‘*T was a great sufferer from female
weakness and had nostrength. It was
impossible for me to attend to my
household duties. I had tried every-
thing and many doctors, but found no
relief.

‘*My sister advised me to try Lydia
E. Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound,
which I did; before using all of one
bottle I felt better. I kept on with it
and to my great surprise I am cured.
All who suffer from female complaints
should give it a trial.”.—Mrs. Rocxk-
WELL, 1209 S. Drvision StT., GRAND
Rapips, MIcH.

From:a Grateful Newark Woman,

*“When I wrote to you I was very
sick, had not been well for two years.
The doctors did not seem to help me,
and one said I could not live three
months. I had womb trouble, falling,
ulcers, kidney and bladder trouble.
There seemed to be such a drawing
and burning pain in my bowels that I
could not rest anywhere. After using
Lydia EK. Pinkham’s Vegetable Com-
pound and Sanative Wash and follow-
ing your advice, I feel well again and
stronger than ever. My bowels feel as if
they had been made over new. With
many thanks for your help, I remain,
L. G., 74 ANN St., NEWARK, N. J.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

VOL. 54—No. 52.

 

 

 

 

nee —~ 7

NEW YORK, OCTOBER 14, 1899,

DN I eee

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STREET & SMITH,
238 William St., N. Y.

 

 

The New York Weekly has a larger cir-
culation than all other similar publi-
cations combined.

 

 

  
 
  
    
 
 
    

     

  

a
ean
CAN

dG

   

LED ee

 
   

The Lily of Mordaunt (Serial).Mrs. Georgie Sheldon

Her Evil Genius (Serial).......---.. Adelaide Stirling
A Stage Heroine (Serial)........--- Gertrude Warden
The Broken ‘Trust (Serial).........--. Bertha M. Clay
Lover or Husband? (Serial) ..-.--.-.- Adelaide Stirling

Winifred’s Sacrifice (Serial)....Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
The Cobbler Who Loved a Queen .......-.----
She aren en Was. oo ow nak ose se coe eee en
Az ACt OF Previdenee oe 665465 sone ty
The Green's GHost 2. 2s. os ees. ese ees
The NAN TDS PUR asic wee oe ee oe aan er ses

The Homeless Man... <2... -...--.-..-- Harkley Harker
TitG:2OOU8 e277 sss ee eee - Josh Billings
‘The Sonne itis 2a ee, to eect Kate Thorn
Pleasant Paragraphs.........--.-% Charles W. Foster
Ours Céok: ROOk:-<... 22 ae GE ee owe a. D.
Work Box...... ict aes vga oe Mrs. Helen Wood

Items of Interest, Correspondence, Etc.

 

POEMS:
“The Brighter Day.”

“Too Late!”

“A Sad Outlook.”

“Over and Over.”

“The Point of View,” by Martha 8. Lippincott.
“Pastimes—Lemonade,” by Bessie Chandler.
“Love is Dead,” by Grace Ireson.

 

 

PASTIMES—LEMONADE.

 

BY BESSIE CHANDLER.

 

Once my love and I together,
In the midst of summer weather,
Made some lemonade, and found it most as-
tonishingly nice.
How she squeezed the lemons neatly,
Touched the several halves discreetly
With her dainty milk-white fingers, and I tried
to pound the ice!

Then I whispered words concerning
Certain hopes—the words were burning,
Though I think the ice had rendered a less ar-

dent lover chilly.
But her sweetness, who could doubt it?
Not a trace of tart about it,
If the air did smell of lemons as I murmured
something silly.

Ah, there’s nothing more beguiling
Than a pretty girl, who, Smiling,
Asks your help in squeezing lemons, to com-
pound a lemonade.
For white hands Gan look so pleasing
That the necessary squeezing
Isn’t all done on the lemons, as it should be,
I’m afraid.

Once again we two are brewing—
See, upon the gaslight stewing
Is a funny little saucepan with a drink that’s
not for me,
Nor for her. And, truth to tell,
Neither of us likes the smell,
For this funny little saucepan is quite full of
catnip-tea,

LOVE IS DEAD.

 

BY GRACE IRESON.

 

Love was born in the sweet, early spring,
When the flowers were blooming gay,
But the flowers are dead, and Love is dead;
Their graves are gray.
Love lived on through the languorous days,
But drooped when the flowers began to fade;
But till after the flaming maple’s time
Its death delayed.
Over the fields the winds are roughing,
The leaves are following, the flowers fied;
The grass is sere and my heart it sere,
For Love is dead.

 

NEXT WEEK

A splendid Detective Story, full

of mystery and startling situations

LADY VELVET;

OR,

The Stroke of a Life-Time

By Richard Ashton Wainwright.

 

WEEK AFTER NEXT
A new love story by

BERTHA M. CLAY.

This world is as we make it,
I often hear them say;
If we are sad and tearful
The world will look that way;
And if we seek the dark side,
Where everything goes wrong,
And see mole-hills as mountains,
Our lives will seem too long.

But if we seek life’s sunshine,

- Sweet joy to others give,

And gayly climb life’s’ mountains,
As though we’re glad to live;

To overcome disaster,
And sunshine round thee shower,

To make our dear friends happy,
Then joy will be our dower.

“Whither going?”

“Nowhere,’’ was the tramp’s laconic answer.

“Where have you come from?’

“Nowhere,” this time with a grim smile.

I found this vagabond actually a man of ed-
ucation. His name appears upon the alumni
record of a well known college. I have ascer-

tained that it is his name. He had every ap-
pearance of sound health. That he was of
sound mind I leave the reader to settle for
himself. As we talked, this soft, autumnal day,
sitting there on my farm wall by the roadside,
this is something that he said and some of the
ways he reasoned. What does the reader think
of them?

He told me that, several years ago, he de-
cided’® to lessen his wants, in hopes to supply
them more easily. All that he wanted was
food enough to live, clothes enough to be de-
cent, and time to think. He had no home, ne
kindred. He abandoned all ambition; he
dreamed of living like the birds, for instance.
No one being dependent on him, he would be
dependent on no one; he worked just enough,
and no more than enough, to pay for his sim--
ple and homely fare.

In a certain savings bank he had just enuugh
money to bury him when dead and the **Se-
lectmen” of the village knew the fact.
He made my blood run cold by calmly saying
that he ‘‘would never be sick three days.” I
knew that meant the stoic’s suicide. He tran-

quilly explained that by such a plan there

“could be: no lying sick on a roadside, or in
a poorhouse, with nothing to pay for shelter.”’

Then the happy wretch went on to talk of his
comforts. He had absolutely no cares. No
tooth of worry ever gnawed at his vitals now.
Day after day passed over his head, and he
had not an anxious thought. He was never in
sorrow. For whom or what should such as he
mourn? He loved nobody, therefore nobody's
sickness, or calamity, or death, could touch
him. He had no country, and therefore the
weal of society was absolutely nothing to him.
Harvests or blights were all one to him, for he
had no fields to be proud of or to lament. He
owed no debts. Think of that. He never would
owe 2 debt. But, then, no one owed him. He
was under obligations to nobody. But, then,
no one cared a copper for him.

In short, this cultivated man, on a Dutchess
County highway. near the close of the nine-
teenth century, was trying to reproduce the
Greek stoic philosopher or the mendicant as-
cetic of many a hundred years ago. I re-
minded him what an old dream of human na-
ture it was, and how futile. He confessed its
antiquity, but stoutly denied its futility. I at
length put a sharp question to him.

“Ag an honest witness, are you happy?’’

He changed color, became thoughtful, and
while his reply was satisfying, in that he hesi-
tated to reply at all, I went at him.

“Are you not ashamed of yourself? You_are
a shirk. You cast off the honorable and God-
given burdens of life. You are a coward,

ae

By Josh

I would just az soon hav a bile on me, the
biggest one that the blessed old martyr, Job,
had, az to hav a pair ov tite boots.

Thare isn’t no sorrow like them, thare isn’t
no bitterness like theirs, thare isn’t no eskape
from their mizery, nor no repentanse that at-
tones for their wickedness.

And yet thare are people who cultivate them,
who grin and bear them, who limp and wear
them, who-.are proud the more they pinch, and
who rejoice the more they pucker.

I loathe tite boots; they are the ideot’s fol-
ly, and a fool’s revenge upon himself.

{ never had but one pair ov tite boots on me
in mi life. I wore them a week, and then
soaked them three days in kerosene oil, filled
them with tar, and sot fire to them, and
wouldn’t take 7. dollars now for the common
sense they lent me.

The average American schoolgirl hasn’t a
particle of reverence for anything or anybody.

She has no respect for customs or laws of
any kind. She isn’t afraid of anything. She
laughs at the curfew law, and defies all the
portentous ordinances which relate to riding
bicycles on the sidewalks and getting off cars
while they are in motion.

She has shoals of freckles on her nose, and
wears her hair braided up in two tails hanging
down her back. And the ends thereof are
forever coming loose and slipping out of the
ribbons that are supposed to tie them, and
the girl is obliged to pass a good deal of her
time in braiding up the loose ends. And she
holds one strand of hair in her mouth while
she gets the third one into a condition for
praiding,

Her sailor hat is either tipped rakishly to one
side, or else it is well set back on her head,
so as to be out of the way.

The gold in her front teeth is always very
much in evidence. She chews gum on all Qc-
casions. Her shoes are in a state of chronic
shabbiness, and some buttons are missing.
And the long ends of the thread which sewed
them on are hanging, to show the observing
world that once upon a time all those buttons
were there.

She has an insatiable appetite for sweets,
and would accept chocolates or caramels from
anybody, from the Czar of Russia down to
the snubnosed boy who sells newspapers and
blacks boots on the street.

She gets a pickle from the grocer’s parrel
every time she goes to the store on an errand
for her mother, and she eats it on the street,
and enjoys it, too.

She laughs at old maids, and makes fun of
her old bachelor uncle, though she loves him
dearly all the time. She thoroughly believes
that in all the world there is not another per-
son who knows quite so much as she does
about most things. She can give her mother
and her aunts, and all her other female rela-
tives ‘points’? on everything under the sun.

She plays the piano as if she owed it a last-
ing grudge.

She rushes through the house like a whole-

 

 

 

some breath of west wind, and drops her

 

THE POINT OF VIEW.

 

 

 

 

 

BY MARTHA SHEPARD LIPPINCOTT.

 

The world is but a mirror,
Reflecting each one’s mind.
If we look at it crossly,
To us *twill not look kind;
But if we smile upon it,
It will be joyous, too;
‘No matter how we see it,
*’Twill give us our own view.

So when the world seems dreary,
And life seems bitter, too,
Just ask your disposition
If it can better do;
And if it turns to sunshine
The world will look so bright
That you will be forgetting
How dark has been the night.

The Homeless Man.

 

.

By Harkley Harker.

 

afraid of pain; and—like an unmanly creature,
a very cur—shrinking from your share of the
sorrows that belong to our lot. You are not
wise, for you ought to know that every day
has its night, every sweet its sour, every joy
its sorrow. You ought to know that love
makes men happier far than hatred makes
them miserable. A home is a care, but a home
also takes care of a man. A dollar is often
an anxiety; but it also saves anxiety. You
cannot reduce yourself to the condition of an
ox in yonder field. But look! even the ox will
not stay alone in the field, for you_see that
wherever the herd moves he moves after them.
You suffer tortures alone at night. Visions of
what you might have been haunt you.”

I saw the fellow’s lips tremble. I charged
at him again.
“Byen you have had your loves. There is,

or there has been, some one whom you love.
Even you have a memory. Some one once
loved you.’’

Then, with all my poor powers, I tried to in-
duce the man to return to society. He was
not a drunkard. He was not the victim of
any habit that should have driven him out of
society. He had many marks of attractive-
ness about him.

“Return,” I pleaded, ‘‘to your place among
men.’’ ;

Leaping down from the wall, the tramp said:

“Sir, I am crazy! My:mind has lost its equi-
poise. And I tell you, here and now, that that
is the case with most of these people called
tramps. I see much of them. We are on the
road together. I divide them into two classes
—the criminals, the insane. There are few of
the first class. I tell you I know what I am
talking about. Desperate straits may drive
them to petty larcenies; rum may tempt them
to occasional violence. But most of this great
procession of vagabonds are broken-hearted
men, The nerve has given away. Happy?
No! Do you’ suppose a homeless man like me
can be happy? If there is nothing to curse me,
there is nothing to bless me. My mind was
upset by the failure of a book that I had
spent the best thought of ten years on. The
world soured on me; I soured on the world.
I know my condition. If I should talk five
minutes on the subject of my book, you would
see that I am insane. But Ill spare you. Did
you see ‘that fellow just before me? His
trouble was an accident in a foundry. There's
another chap up the road—he was deranged
by a love affair. Oh, I know them all. Look-

Ling into a pond you will see, here and there, a

fish with a bunch on his head, or a white
nodule in place of an eye. Some accident has
happened to the poor thing, yet he is still a
fish, and goes on swimming about among the
rest. Now that’s the way with the tribes of
men. We fellows have been hurt. We are
still upon our feet: Weare human beings, but
we have been knocked ih the head. or wounded
in the heart, or broken.in the spirit. And you
fellows, more fortunate, regard us with aver-
sion.”’

It may be so. God pity them. It is a new
thing on the fair hillsides of industrious
America, this ragged fringe of wretched hu-
manity. Five-and-thirty years ago it was not
so. ‘"The tramp’ is a new word in owr lan-
guage. Vagabond was the old name. It is
pitiful to think that, in this land of plenty,
so many should have gotten wholly out of
joint with the beautiful country of homes ana
happiness. Philanthropists, what is your ex-
planation? :

 

Tite Boots.

Billings.

Life isn’t long enuff for enny man to outgro
all hiz follys, but the.man who kKan’t learn
from one pair ov tite boots the,sum and sub-
stance ov that kind ov foolishness iz liable at
every time to follow a flok of sheep in the wil-
derness and git lost, or be et up by geese in
the midst of civilizashun on the village com-

mon.

Tite boots are the cheapest insult that enny
man ever submitted to; they are the lowest-
priced martyrdum we hav enny ackount ov;
they pander to the meanest kind ov pride; and
the man who will wear out one pair ov them,
and then buy another, wants az mutch watch-
ing az a common thief duz.

I. would rather sit all day with mi feet in
the stocks, or in a bake oven, than to be seen
creeping about with a pair ov number 10 feet
choking to deth in a pair of number 8 boots.

 

The School-Girl.

By Kate Thorn.

 

school books and her hat and coat down any-
where, “‘so’s to have them handy when she
wants them.”

All her skirts and petticoats look as if they
had shrunk in washing, she grows out of them
so fast. She bullies her little brothers and
patronizes her big sisters. She giggles when
Mary Jane’s beau comes, and giggles so that
he can hear her, and she intends he shall.

She has a dear, dear friend and confidante,
to whom she tells everything, and she would
be supremely wretched if that friend should
have any other intimate but her.

She wears spectacles now—she used to wear
eyeglasses—but those days have gone by. It
is fashionable to “Shave trouble with your eyes”
when you are in school.

The schoolgirl of to-day has a smattering
of all the learning and of all the isms and
ologies in the world. She can talk physiology
with the family doctor and law with the law-
yer, and architecture with the contractor,
and psychology with the transcendentalist, and
theology with the minister, and floor him hope-
lessly with the innocent questions she delights
to propound.

She dissects bugs, and holds post mortems
over all the dead family pets, and notes down
her conclusions.

The braid on her dresses is generally in a
woeful state of dilapidation, and her shirt
waist is spotted with ink, and smudged witk
colored crayons. She pins the trimming on her
hat when it comes off, and never remembers
to use a needle and thread when the oppor-
tunity to do so comes round.

She is a creature of contradictions and of
vast possibilities. You never know what freak
she may take next, and her mother cannot
calculate on the probability of her washing
the dishes afternoons when she goes to the
club meetings.

She torments the househoid and sets at de-
fiance all the regular laws of the kitchen mag-
nate when she takes a fancy to make molasses
taffy or concoct chocolates.

But the household would be desolate without
her, and life would be too lonesome to live.
She is too independent, too self-assertive, too
conscious of herself, too pert, too forward al-
together, but she is, upon the whole, the most
delightfully charming bit of femininity in the
whole world, and we all love her, and admire
her, and pet her, and spoil her, until the com-
ing man (and he will surely come) arrives all
too soon, and woos and wins her, and lives
happy ever afterward in consequence.

 

 
   
 

  
  
     

RRESPOND

OUR READERS.

 

 

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

 

Marie.—We cannot understand what song
you mean. Can not you give us the first line?
No one knows the use of the mosquito. Thank
re for the words of “The Moth and the
Tlame.”’

THE MOTH AND THE FLAME.
At a gay reception given in a mansion grand
an

A young man met the girl he used to know;
And ae i again the story of his honest love he
re tS :
The love he’d cherished since long years ago,
But she sighed and sadly murmured that her
childhood love was past,
That soon another man she was to wed;
The lover knew that other man already had a

wife;
He bade farewell, but as he went he said:
CHORUS.
The man and the flame played a game one
a

The game of a woman’s heart;
And the moth that play’d was a maid, they
say,
The flame was a bad man’s art.
The moth never knew, as she flew so near,
That the flame was the light of shame,
But she fluttered away. just in time, so they

say—
That's the tale of the moth and the flame.
The maiden did not understand the fable that
he told;

A church was soon arrayed in holy state,
A couple at the altar stood before the crowd
of guests,
When a woman screamed, ‘‘Stop! ere it is
too late!’’
The villain turned and saw his wife and rudely
struck her down,
Denouncing her as an imposter bold;
But the girl threw off the bridal wreath, ‘‘You
coward!’’ then she cried,
a. oor love warned me when this tale he
oO 27?

: (Chorus.)

J. L. AmWhen a human being, unable to
swim, falls into the water, if it is of no great
depth, he first goes to the bottom; but, on
account of the air in the lungs, rendering the
specific gravity of the body lighter than the
water, he immediately rises to the surface.
The efforts made by him to maintain himself
at the surface diminish the quantity of air in
the lungs, and he again sinks, but soon rises
again, and this alternate rising and sinking
may occur several times in succession. The
air expelled from the lungs is seen to rise to
the surface in the form of bubbles, and the
specific gravity of the body is increased with
every expiration, the powers of sensation and
voluntary motion rapidly diminish, and the
body at last settles to the bottom. No mat-
ter how “deep the water may be, the body will
sink to the bottom, the laws of gravitation
bringing about this result.

Jack B.—To cure a rabbit skin, let the skin
steep in cold water for twenty-four hours, then
take it out, clean it well and remove all the
fat. Now prepare the mixture for curing the
skin Three pounds of powdered alum and four
ounces of rock salt dissolved in as much water
as will cover the skin. Boil it, and allow it
to cool; when milk-warm, place the skin in it,
and leave it for four days, working it well with
the hands every day. After that time, take
jsut the skin and dry it in an airy place, but
not in the sun. Boil up the liquid again, and
repeat the process. Afterward wash the skin
well in clear water, changing the water several
times. Beat it with a wooden mallet until soft.

N. B.—To make sealing wax melt four ounces
of shellac cautiously in a bright copper pan,
over a clear fire (charcoal if possible), and

pwhen fused add- oné GiTte-a t

Venice turpentine. Mix thoroughly, and then
add three ounces of vermilion, for red wax,
and two ounces of ivory black, in an impalpa-
ble powder, if black sealing-wax be required.
Remove the pan from the fire, cool a little,
weigh it into pieces, and.roll them in circular
sticks on a warm stone slab, by means of a
polished wooden block. If preferred, the wax
may be poured into moulds while still very hot
and in a state of fusion.

Constanece.—Young people who take what is
called a liking to each other have curious ways
of bringing about that placid understanding
which leads to that delicious state known as
courtship. The rule on the subject that is the
most severe is that the lady must never make
the first approach. Shyness in a man is no ex-
cuse for want of maidenly dignity in a woman,
Wait. Shy men are often sly men.

Fannie L.—Greasiness of the skin is an un-
pleasant condition, and is by no means easy
to cure. All rich and greasy foods should be
avoided. The face should be washed in rain-
water, or, if this be unattainable, in water
softened by the addition of borax. The soap
used should be of the purest, and contain no
glycerine. Wash the face occasionally with
white vinegar diluted with rosewater.

Mrs. R. A. J.—An excellent furniture polish
is made as follows: Three parts of linseed oil
and one part of spirits of turpentine. It not
only covers the disfigured places, but re-
stores the wood to its original color and leaves
the lustre upon the surface. Put on a light
coat with a piece of cloth, and rub with
weollen.

Ss. G. M.—After a gentleman has been intro-
duced to a lady, the subsequent recognition
must come from the lady herself. That is the
social and proper etiquette, and a very good
system it is for the ladies, for it gives them
the privilege of electing among the other sex
those whom they think are most worthy of
being distinguished in the throng of admirers.

E. F. M.—The young lady’s mother is cer-
tainly most unreasonable, and the young lady
herself should take the matter in hand and
insist on naming a day for the’ wedding. if
she will not do this, we do not see that you
can do anything, hard and unjust though your
position is.

Alice L.—Certainly, a knowledge of compo-
sition and punctuation is necessary fer any
author, although it is the proofreader’s duty
to see that there are no mistakes. There are
publishers of: all classes. State what sort of
literature you desire to submit.

C. Z.—Lord Byron died at Missolonghi, in
Greece, in the year 1824. He was only thirty-
six years old when he died. His early death
is in a great measure to be attributed to his
refusal to have medical assistance until it was
too late.

Mrs. C. B.—Write to the John Church Pub-
lishing Co., Fifth ave., New York City. - Diet
carefully and take plenty of exercise. Try hot,
sweet milk to remove the stains, but befor®
soap has been applied.

B. M. K.—There are now over 250,000 words in
the English language acknowledged by the
best authorities, or about 70,000 more than in
the German, French, Spanish and Italian com-
bined.

J. F.—Excessive perspiration of the feet may
be greatly checked by bathing every night in
a solution of alum and warm water. Wash
the feet with soap, but do not soak them in
hot water.

Nellie Q@.—We cannot give the private ad-
dresses of authors. Write to Mrs. Sheldon,
care of this office, and your letter will be for-
warded.

J. R. C.—Blue ointment and kerosene, mixed
in equal quantities and applied to the bed-
steads, is said to be an unfailing remedy for
bed-bugs. Use sulphur for fumigation.

J. S. P.—The elasticity of rubber can be re-
stored by placing it in water and ammonia,
two-thirds latter and one-third former, and
allowing it to remain there half an hour.

B. T. R.—There are now twenty-seven royal
families in Burope, and they have about four
hundred and sixty members. Of these twenty-
seven families, eighteen are German.

Elsie C. D.—This correspondent desires the
words of a song beginning, ‘““Remember me not
as a lover.’? Elsie means ‘“‘Consecrated to God’
and Rupert ‘Bright in Fame.”

38 M Ave.—We cannot. answer medical
questions in this column. Consult a physician.

Mrs. Mary 8.—Both poems have been pub-
lished recently in these columns.

AYR. G.—The quarter of 1853, without arrows
or says, is worth two dollars and a half.

BE, G. K.—The song has already been pub-

+} lished in these columns.

 

F,. F.—The following are the words of
“Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean,”’ or “The
Red, White and Blue’:

O Columbia, the gem of the ocean,
The home of the brave and the free,

|The shrine of each patriot’s devotion,

 

A world offers homage to thee.
Thy mandates make heroes assemble,
When Liberty’s form stands in view,
Thy banners make tyrrany tremble,
When borne by the red, white and blue.
Chorus.
When borne by the red, white and blue,
When borne by the red, white and blue,
Thy banners make tyranny tremble,
When borne by the red, white and blue,

When war winged its wide desolation,
And threatened the land to deform,

The ark then of freedom’s foundation,
Columbia, rode safe through the storm;

With her garlands of vict’ry around her,
When so proudly she bore her brave crew,

With her flag proudly floating before her,
The boast of the red, white and blue.

Chorus.

The boast of the red, white and blue,

The boast of the red, white and blue,
With her flag proudly floating before her,
The boast of the red, white and blue.

The wine cup, the wine cup, bring hither,
And fill you it true to the brim.

May the wreaths they have won never wither,
Nor the star of their glory grow dim!

May the service united ne’er sever,
But they to their colors prove true!

The army and navy forever,
Three cheers for the red, white and blue.

Chorus.

Three cheers for the red, white and blue ,
Three cheers for the red, white and blue ,
The army and navy forever,

Three cheers for the red, white and blue.

Clara.—We cannot possibly counsel you to
accept a young man for whom, as you say,
you do not care ‘‘one little bit.” At the same
time, we will quote the homely proverb,
“Don’t go through the wood to pick up a rot-
ten stick at last.’’ Analyze your feelings, and
see what it is that fails to attract. An honest
love is not to be despised.

‘How could I tell I should love thee to-day,

Whom that day I held not dear?
How could I know I should love thee away,
When I did not love thee anear?’’
says the girl in the song, when she had dis-
covered her love too late. Love is very beauti-
ful—while it lasts; but a marriage founded on
mutual regard often ends in greater happi-
ness; for a wild, passionate love endows its
object with all the virtues, whereas he may
turn out to be a very poor mortal when pro-
pinquity disperses the enchantment that dis-
tance lends.

“Love me little, love me long,

Is the burden of my song,

Love that is too hot and strong

Runneth soon to waste,’’
says yet another song.

F. D. C.—To tin small articles, first put them
in warm water containing a little sulphuric
acid, which will clean them. Take them out
and add powdered sal-ammoniac to the water
and stir till dissolved; then wash the articles
in clean water, again immerse them, and put
them by the fire to dry. Have the tin ready
melted in a pot. A kind of pan, with holes in
the bottom, which can be dipped into the pot,
earries the articles to be tinned, and, after
sprinkling a littlesal-ammoniacover the melted
tin to clear it from dross, dip in the articles.
After all smoke has disappeared, lift the pan
out, shaking it well over the pot and sprink-
ling a little sal-ammoniac over the articles to
prevent them having too thick a coat.. Plunge
them in cold water to keep them bright.

B. J. C.—The Scriptural injunction that ‘‘a
man Shall leave his father and mother and shal]
cleave unto his wife,’’ is not intended to con-
vey. the idea that a man should desert or
neglect his parents, but that he should not
neglect his wife in order to enjoy their so-
ciety, or deprive her of proper support for the
purpose of assisting them to an extent beyond
their actual requirements or his means. The
correct way is to observe the happy medium
which will enable him to combine filial duty
with a husband’s protective love and care.

Millie.—You are doing wrong in meeting the

young man as stated. As he is known to be of
intemperate habits, idle and_bad tempered and

 

   

 

 

U F euiy Dy irienus
and relatives to have nothing to do with him,
we fail to understand the attraction which
draws you toward him, particularly as you
own to having many other and more worthy
admirers. We would advise you to cure
yourself of this foolish infatuation for a
worthless young man as speedily as possible.”

A. N. M.—To make marking ink, dissolve
separately one ounce of nitrate of silver with
one and a half ounces of good washing soda.
Mix the solutions and collect and wash the
precipitate in a filter. While still moist rub
it up in a marble or stone mortar with three
drachms of tartaric acid, add two ounces of
distilled water, mix six drachms of white su-
gar and ten drachms of powdered gum arabic,
half an ounce of archil, and.enough water to
make up six ounces. +!

H.-T. A—As you cannot marry the two
young ladies with whom you believe yourself
to be in love, we would advise you to refrain
from proposing to either. The truth of the
matter is that you are not in love at all. If
you were you would not even ask yourself
such a question as you put to us, namely:
‘Which shall I marry?’ You would know
quite well, and would neither require nor ac-
cept the advice of an outsider in the matter.

Mrs. Anna F.—To make elderberry wine
pick the berries when quite ripe and dry.
Squeeze out the juice in a proper press for
the purpose. Then put the mashed berries into
an open jar with juice enough to cover them.
Let these stand about a week to infuse. Next,
strain the juice into a cask, and to every, ten
gallons add one gallon of malted spirit. A
little sugar and some cloves should be added
to the brandy.

Cc. I.—Whales are being caught in nets on
the New Zealand coast. An observant whaler,
having noticed for several seasons that the
whales, in their journeys southward, invaria-
bly passed between a small island and the
mainland, blocked the little strait with nets
and then beset the nonplussed animals with
harpoon and lance. AS many as six whales
were thus caught in one day last season.

A. J. P.—The four seasons are said generally
to begin on the first of the first, fourth, sev-
enth and tenth months of the year. Others,
who desire to be more particular, make spring
commence about the middle of February and
end about the middle of May, when summer
begins; and so on for the other seasons. There
seems to be some plausibility in adopting the
latter system of computation.

P. D.—Red seems to be a favorite color for
flags. Of the twenty-five principal countries
of the world, nineteen of them have red in
their national colors. In this list are included
the England, United States, France, Germany,
Austria, Italy, Spain, Denmark, Belgium,
Switzerland, Turkey, Mexico, Chili, Portugal,
Venezuela and Cuba.

Mrs. M. I.—The Wandering Jew is an imag-
inary person, whose existence is founded on a
legend connected with the crucifixion of Christ,
and has been written in poetry and prose by
various authors, the most celebrated of which
is ‘“‘The Wandering Jew,’ by Eugene Sue in
the form of a novel.

Ada.—It is impossible to state the probabili-
ties of your case, as you give us very few facts
to found our opinion upon. According to the
experience of the world, the quarrels of lovers
do not necessarily lead to the breaking off of
an engagement. Whether the union will ever
take place is more than we can prophesy.

A. B. J.—The Boers are descended from the
Huguenots who left France under the Revoca-
tion of the Edict of Nantes, and from the Hol-
landers, who emigrated at various times in
search of civil and religious liberty.

M. F.—‘‘Perpetual motion’’ means a power
which supplies its own motive for repeating it-
self. Much time and money have been wasted
ijn the endeavor to discover it, without success.

Anxious.—Wait for four years. at least.
Meanwhile continue at school and learn all
that you can. You are much too young to
think of the stage.

L. A. L.—Your questions have all been an-
swered, and you have probably seen them ere
this.

Allie K.—This
words of “Allie Ray”
Stairs.”

Dora G.—We strongly advise you to give up
all idea of the stage. Not one in a hundred
succeeds.

Ww. H. B.—Write to the secretary of the
Women’s Christian Temperance Union, Chi-
cago, Ill.
oF any one give us the words of ‘Picture

correspondent wants . the
and “The Golden

Mrs. H. H.—July 15, 1890, fell on Tuesday, and
Oct. 31, 1892, on Monday. :

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

By

-

at

REMERON

ee
+

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ioe
ee

Cv IyP- CNET:

  
  

 

 

 

 

VOL. 54—No. 52

THE? NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

 

HER EVIL GENIUS.

 

By ADELAIDE STIRLING,

Author of ‘‘ Lover or Husband ?’? ‘'
Chotce,’’ ‘‘ The Purple Mask,

The Wolf’s Mouth,’ ‘‘ Nerine’s Second
? ** Saved From Herself,’’ Ete.

 

(“HER Evin GENIvs” was commenced in No. 48.

Back numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers.)

 

~ CHAPTER XIII.

“A JABBERING LEER,
FACE TO MY FACE IN HOT WATER CLEAR.”

In a less lonely place the governess would
have thought nothing of those footsteps, but
here she had been expressly told two things—
there were no neighbors and there was danger

abroad at night.

“T wonder if I dare!’’ she thought, and peered
The moon
was on the other side of the house; she could
see that much, for this side was in deep shad-
ow. No one below could possibly see if ae
he
unbolted the smallest division of the heavy
hanging shutters and noiselessly pushed it

through the slats of the jalousy.

lousy were pushed ont an inch or not.

outward as far as she dared.

All she could see was the strip of garden and

shrubbery directly beneath her; darkly shad-
owed as it was she could not tell if there was
any one there.

“The night is dreadful in this place—dread-
ful!’’ she thought. ‘‘There might be devils be-
hind every bush. The very moonlight is not
like the good, clear light I know. Mr. Egerton
need not have warned me not to go out—noth-
ing would take me into those dreadful shad-
ows, that veiled, honey-colored light.’’

The heavy jalousy tired her wrist, in another

minute she must let it go, and so far had
learned nothing. She had known down in the
drawing-room that some person or thing was
outside. Nothing moved now in the stirless
garden—those strangely light, quick steps had
ceased. But out of the quiet another sound
and a nearer smote on her senses, a creaking
as of wood rubbing on wood.

Her aching wrist forgotten, she peered
through the crack, and, with horror, the creep-
ers swaying below her.

Some one was climbing up!

Somehow, she shut the jalousy, bolted it and
got back into her room. Something noiseless,
light, a darker shadow against the dark, clung
for an instant to the very shutter she had
just closed, clung and was gone. She heard
the quick slither of it as it went down the
creepers, but whether it had been man or beast
she could not tell.

Her terror had taken her to the opposite wall
of the room, that she _ might at least: have
something solid behind her back, and for a
long minute she stood there, sick with the
dread-like horror of the thing.

Yet as she stood there, trembling-kneed, her
heart grew strangely light; she felt suddenly
uplifted, happy, in the midst of she knew not
what mysterious dangers. Here was the chance
to do as Mother Benedicta, that saint on earth,
had bidden her long ago. To fight Beryl’s bat-
tles bravely, and in doing it rub out, perhaps,
those years that had been so evil. For evil
they had been; she had never been sure as she
pretended that Raimond Erle and she were
man and wife. She had snatched at happi-
ness, had cared little if that happiness were a
sin, and now——

“T have my chance to blot it out!’”? she said
to herself deliberately. ‘‘I’ll save the child if 1
have to die for her. Perhaps Mother Benedic-
ta’s saints won’t shut mie out of heaven then.”’

The hope that had never yet left her, that
Raimond Erle might some day come back to
her, ceased suddenly, as her thoughts of re-
venging herself died in the new -hope that
came over her.

“T’ll never see him again,’’ she thought, lit-
tle Knowing,’ and I’ll beat Mr. Egerton yet!
A. better woman would have been a far more
easily-managed governess. One like me knows

‘too much. For I’m sure—sure that he brought
Lphat sirl here to nut her out-of the

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

‘his warnings to Salome and me were nothing

. but a blind.’’

' The danger she was in made her almost gay.
Quite boldly she stepped out on the veranda

and looked through those shutters where that

strange, hunting thing had scented her.

What was it? It had looked, with its spread- |

eagle arms and legs, like an ape. She would
find out in the morning if there were such
things here. Then she shuddered, with a quail-
ing at even her cold heart.

Salome had thanked heaven she was black!

Then the thing, whatever it was, only at-
tacked white people. _Could it be some dread-
ful, ~half-crazy black man, run wild
woods?

“IT can’t get a pistol,’’ mused Andria drily,
“but I can get a knife!’ and she went quietly
in to bed. The thing, whatever it was, was
gone.

> * *, _* * ~ *

Bright and early she woke to a new day.

Amelia Jane, with a -teatray, stood by her
bed, and Andria, after a dazed instant, remem-
bered where she was, and saw, too, that
Amelia Jane looked tired. She was the young-
est of the colored women and the stupidest,
and she stared as she answered Andria’s good-
morning.

Fully dressed, she had lain down on her bed,
her only toilette for the night having been to
take out the pins from the great circle of ruddy
hair that hung round her in a glorious mass.

Under the servant’s wondering eyes, she
laughed.
“TF must have fallen asleep,’’ she said. ‘‘Don’t

tell any one, Amelia.’’

“You wasn’t awake late,
woman returned curiously.

“T don’t know. I thought I heard footsteps,
Amelia,’ suddenly, “last night!’’

Amelia Jane put down her tray.

“Don’t speak of ’em—they isn’t lucky!’’ she

was you?’ the

said. ‘‘They’s haunts, miss.’’
“Do you mean ghosts?” - d
“Jus’ ghosts. My soul! I slep’ here in this
house once. I heard them steps all night.
Hurry, hurry—hunt, hunt—but I never see
nothin’. Bermuda’s haunted, I tell you so.”

“Ts the house called Bermuda?” quickly. |

“Yas’m. And if it isn’t haunted, why is it
that they’s no footsteps heard out’n the quar-
ters? -Only in the big house.’’

So the house was called Bermuda!

That was what Amelia had meant on the
stairs.

Andria’s heart lightened a little, for at least
it showed the servants were not in league with
Egerton to deceive her.

“Nobody ever sees the ‘haunt,’ do they?’ she
asked.

“No’m! Sometimes t’aint here at all. Sa-
lome she say it’s nonsense—but I don’t hear it.
An’ yet it ain’t never amounted to nothing,
only jus’ noises.”’

“Are there monkeys here, Amelia?’’

Amelia Jane laughed till she had to cover
her face with her apron.

‘“‘Monkeys! No’m. I been here three years,
an’ IL never hear tell of no monkeys. There
ain’t no beasts t’all. When you’ve had you
bath’m kin I brush out your hair? It’s tangled
till if you piroots round in it you’ll tear it out.”

Andria thanked her, her heart warming to
the kindly voice. But when her toilette was
done and she stood, fresh and fair, in front of
the glass, some one knocked at the door. It
was Salome, and her fat face was anxious.

“Morning, missus,’ she said hastily. ‘‘I come
to tell you little miss must habe gone out. I
can’t see her nowhere.’’

“Out! Alone?’ Andria gasped. ‘‘Oh, Salome!
Which way? Not down that path?’

“You clear out and look down de road, ’Melia
Jane!» commanded the housekeeper,
stopped Andria, as she would have followed.

“Don’t you say nothin’ of dat path to ’Melia
“She’d be faint-hearted

Jane,’’ she whispered.

- of de place ef she got skeered. But run, missus,

do; and get little miss.
other way to go.”’

“Then you heard—last night!’’ cried Andria,

almost running through the house, Salome at

her heels.

‘Heard what? Dey ain’t nothin’ to hear,

Don’t you listen to tales from ’Melia Jane
Dey’s fever in dat path, dat’s

*bout haunts.
all,’’ lying obstinately.

Andria shot out of the house like an arrow

from a bow.

Down that uncanny path, with its hot, strong
scents and gaudy flowers, she ran as she had
never thought she could run; her skirts caught
she leaped and stumbled and
slid over the tangled vines and sharp rocks.
Sudenly a gleam of white caught her eyes, and
between two high rocks she saw Beryl, kneel-

to her knees,

ing over something on the ground.

“Beryl,’’ she screamed, hoarse with fear and
anger at the girl’s disobedience; ‘‘Beryl, why

did you come here? Come home!”’

in the;

and

She didn’t know no

‘“Hush!’’ said the girl softly, turning her

head, “I’m all right!
see what I’ve found. Such a darling kitten!”

the child mean?
that Salome had no dogs or cats.
her heart contracted.

ous black rings on its yellow-white. coat.

of a second person.

with soft, strong fingers.

“Pussy, pussy—little, little cat!’ she whis-
pered in the thing’s small ear; and as if it
knew her it lay on its back and patted her
with velvet paws.

to the governess. Had it been a full-grown
thing like this that had smelled her out on
the upper veranda? Trembling, she stepped to
the girl’s side.

“Beryl, put it down! Come home,’’ she
begged, for orders, when the girl’s face was
absent and obstinate, were useless. ‘It may
have its mother somewhere, you don’t know!
Come home.”’

“She wouldn’t hurt me!’’ and for a moment
those strange, yellow eyes met Andria’s, not so
unlike the eyes of the queer, wild kitten.
eee but she might me,’’ quietly, as a forlorn

Beryl turned pale.

“Oh, Andria, forgive me!’’ she cried.
got. There, little cat, run home!
take it with us and feed it?”

“No, no!”’ quickly. ‘‘Oh, come away!” with a
{ wild horror she thought of being followed up

the path by a prowling thing like she had seen
the night before. Almost she stamped her foot
as Beryl lingered, kissing her new-found toy.
Instead of scratching it purred and rubbed* its
head against her, and Andria knew that if she
had touched it the thing would have clawed
her eyes out. Her heartbeats, which had
shaken her from_breathlessness, shook her
now with terror. Who could tell what moment
death might not be on them?

But Beryl, putting down the kitten very
gently, slipped her arm through Andria’s with
quick compunction.

“Come along,’ she said, sweetly. ‘‘I’d forgot-
ten this was a bad place and we weren’t to
come here, Run home, little cat! See, Andria
it will follow us!” :

“Yes,’* said Andria, with stiff lips. ‘It won’t
come far, I fancy.’’ She pushed Beryl in front
of her so that if more than the kitten should
; follow the girl would have a chance to run,
; and found herself glancing every which way
just as Egerton had done the morning before.
oe despair Beryl turned suddenly off the
path.

“Look!” she cried, ‘“‘here’s the kitten again!
It’s caught up with us. And here’s the dearest
little pond, Andria!’’ (She did not believe for
one second in that fairy tale of the kitten’s
mother.) ‘See it—all white sand, and so
| Clear.” -=

Andria was utterly furious.

“Beryl, please come! I’m so hungry,’ she
said. ‘‘I believe you want me to get fever.’’

“How can you!’’ reproachfully. ‘‘You poor
dear, I'll come now.”’

And she did, hurrying with easy steps up the
stony path. The kitten stayed behind, and
that terrified Andria anew. She turned to fol-
low Beryl and her foot slipped. For a moment
she fell on her knees, faint with pain; her face
bent over the still water of the little pond that

ored her- clearly. The next second. her
heart seemed to die in her. There was more
than her own face reflected in the water. Over
| her shoulder, leering, mouthing as if it jib-
| bered at her, was a second face, so wild and
| dreadful that her throat grew shut and dry
with fear. With her newborn instinct of fac-
ing an enemy she wrenched herself round on
her knees and scrambled to her feet.

The space behind her was utterly empty!
Even the wild kitten was gone.

Not a rustle, a moving leaf, stirred the gor-
geous shrubs anywhere, and yet she knew
some one had vanished into them but now.
That face that had leered at her from the wa-
ter mirror had been no dream, but a dreadful
reality.

“Reflection can’t lie,’’ she thought. ‘‘And I
saw it face to face with me.’ She could
scarcely move as she realized how close it
must have been to her to have peered over
her very shoulder.

‘Beryl!’ Ghe suddenly remembered the girl
she had sworn to herself to take care of, and
forgot her turned ankle as she raced after
‘her. At the end of the path she almost sobbed
| with joy. There stood Beryl, fresh and lovely
{in the sunshine that flooded the open turfed
ljlawns. Her face was quite careless and un-
troubled.

“T won’t tell her,’ Andria thought swiftly.
“She’s seen nothing.’’ But even there in the
open ground she made her charge walk in front
of her all the way to the house, for fear of
what might yet be behind them.

Salome stood waiting at the door, and turned
away as she saw them.

“T for-
Or shall I

 

   
  

|

 

“What on earth’s the matter with Salome?’
| Beryl said, laughing, ‘‘Andria, she was -truly
pale! She was gray!”

But Andria said nothing.

 

-HAPTER XIV.
THE EYES OUTSIDE THE JALOUSY.

The weather changed that afternoon. A
high, hot wind blew from the southwest under
a gray sky; the sea thundered on the beach
below the house; and as Beryl looked out list-
ee rainlike waterspouts came _ thrashing

own.

“Fateful!’’? she said pettishly. “I was, going
out.” Andria, whose bruised foot ached, be-
gan_to laugh. a

“You needn’t laugh! If you do I'll go still,”
with babyish willfuiness.

“Tt wasn’t that,’ said the so-called gov-
erness; ‘it’s only this—do you know that we
were supposed to do lessons, and_there isn’t
a sign of a book in the house! Not even a
novel. Amelia Jane has half a Bible, and
she says that’s the only book there is.”

“J believe he’s just stuck us here to mould
away and die,’ returned Beryl quite calmly,
“He didn’t care whether I learned anything
or not, in spite of his grandfatherly ways.
But I’m not going to mould or die either. I
like the place!’’ coolly. ‘I hope he’ll never
come back.’’

“Yon won't like it long,’ muttered Andria
to herself, ‘“‘You won’t have a chance,’’. for
her adventures were heavy on her mind, and
it took all her will not to pour them out to
this careless listener.

“T like it out, I mean! I didn’t like it in-
doors much.”’ Beryl went on, blessedly ig-
norant of the thoughts in her companion’s
mind. ‘That’s rather funny about the books,
but I don’t care. I wouldn’t do any more
lessons if we’d a library. All I want to do
is to lie under the trees and be lazy.”

“You need it, you poor baby,” said Andria
pitifully. For tall and strong as the girl
was she was too thin, the lovely outline of
her pale, warm cheeks too hollow. But in
Andria’s mind was that there would be few
days to be out of doors in sun or shade; if
things went on as now this house would not
be their prison alone—their only safety would
be inside its stout stone walls.

“‘FTurrah, here comes tea!”’ cried Beryl gayly.
“Salome, I haven’t anything to do, and it’s
raining.
look for my cat?”

The tray clattered on the table.
all but dropped it.

“Cat?’’ she said.
here.
you mean?”

“Just what I said,’ provokingly.
Don’t you like cats, Salome?’’

Salome had

whites.

obstinately. ‘What you mean?
pring no cat. I didn’t see none.”’ ;

“TJ did then, and I didn’t bring it either,’
with a cheerful laugh.

spots.”

“My gracious sakes, little miss!”

 

Come here quietly and

Andria, her pulses thumping and her breath
gone, caught back an angry word. What did
She had noticed last evening
And then

On the ground beside Beryl, playing with her
hand, was a, small cat—all marked with curi-

But it was no cat. Its face was square, its
eyes wild, as it stopped its play at the sight

‘ Beryl, her own strange
eyes intent and masterful, began to stroke it

What she had seen in the night came back

Couldn’t Amelia Jane go out and

“Cat! Dey ain’t no cats
For the land’s sake, Miss Ber’l, what

“Why?
Salome opened her eyes till they looked all
“Dey ain’t none on de fsland,”’ she persisted
You didn’t

“The dearest little
eat, Salome! I found it on the path on the
shore this morning—all yellowy with black

said the
woman slowly, and Andria saw she was nold-

 

ing herself hard. ‘Don’t you come and tell!

ole Salome dem tales.’”’

“She did find a cat, Salome!’’ Andria inter-
rupted, “I saw it, too. But it wasn’t like a
common cat. I think it was a wild one. Why
didn’t you tell me there were wild cats?’’

_ The woman drew her breath so sharply that
it was all but a sob.

‘‘Dey ain’t—no wild cats!’ she returned
faintly.
“T told you so, Andria,’’ Beryl struck in

gayly, helping herself to tea.

- : “T knew it was
ame!

1€ and had such sweet
fur.

“You didn’t go -for to touch it?’
fiercely Salome turned to the girl. ,
“Why not, if it was only a dream-cat, like
you &ay?’’ with that goblin look in her queer
face. ‘Salome, you silly woman, of course I
did! I played with it for ages.’’
“Arn you never seen nothin’ else? Nothin’
insistantly, her big chest heaving.
; , of course not. Andria said it‘s mother
might come and eat us, but she didn’t.”’

Andria’s eyes, full of meaning, caught Sa-
lome’s from behind Beryl’s shoulder. The col-
ored woman read them like print. If one had
not seen, the other had—and been silent. For
an instant the black woman looked rebellious-
ly at the white. If the new red-haired mis-
tress meant there should be accidents Salome
would have no hand in them. She moved,
stiff with angry suspicion, to the front door.

“Guess Pll lock up now,” she muttered.
“Don’t want none o’ dem cats in my kitchen.”’

“Salome, don’t shut up!’’ Beryl cried, run-
ning to the nearest window. ‘‘My cat may be
out there; wait till I look. I’m going to
bring the poor thing in out of the rain if
it’s there.’’

She stared out into the blinding ‘white mist
of wild and streaming rain. It was impossible
to see through it if there had been fifty cats;
against it there was almost no difference in
color between the gray tree-trunks and the
green leaves, so blanched was the world. Sud-
denly lightning passed before her eyes, short,
white and vicious through the pearl. white
rain, like a striking sword. After it thunder
that shook the very earth. Under cover of the
deafening peal of it Andria spoke in Salome’s
ear.

“Don’t tell her, don’t frighten her,’ she
whispered, ‘‘You and I must take care of her.
Oh, Salome, I saw something!”’

The woman’s face changed as if by magic.
“I was suspicioning you,’’ she said, banging
the door. ‘I don’t fancy dis place an’ dat’s
a fact. But if you don’t neither, I guess we'll
get over dem—all o’ dem,’’ she laughed savage-
ly, but Andria caught at her black hand as
at the hand of a friend. “I trust you, Salome!”’
she breathed.

“Fo’ the Lawd, yeu kin,’ said the woman
shortly. ‘‘But dey ain’t no time now. You
wait, missus, till to-night.’’ ;

“Oh!? shrieked Beryl. ‘‘There’s my cat. I
saw it. It’s looking for me. I'll get it.’’

Salome, with a bound that was ludicrous in
a stout person who shook as_ she walked,
caught the girl half out of the window. ‘‘Does
you want to get killed by dat lightning?’’ she
eried authoritatively. ‘I tell you dey ain’t
no playing wid de sword of de Lawd in dis
country. See dat!’ sharply.

A tall tree was struck as she spoke, and the
thunder drowned the fall of it, as the rain
quenched it’s smoking liimbs. ‘‘Dey ain’t no
eats worf’ frizzling for, I tell you.’’

To Andria’s surprise Beryl turned obediently
from the window. Salome with feverish haste
shut up her fortress and lit the lamps.

*“Dey’ll be good men drowned in dat wind,’’
she said soberly. ‘‘You pray for dem, Miss
Ber’l, instead o’ chasing after no cats.’’

A sudden heavy gust against the house cor-
roborated her. The wind would be a hurricane

It was so soft,

almost

by and bye. In the noise of it the woman
muttered to herself despairingly. ‘‘She see
dat cat in daylight—broad daylight. Oh! my
soul—and dey’ll be wind to-night. I dunno

what I’m gwine do, I daresn’t tell ’em; he'd
murder me just like dat if I did. I got to
piroot some way out of it.”” And she shook
her head meaningly as Andria would have fol-
lowed her from the room,

Chloe and Amelia Jane waited at dinner.
Salome was absent, doing other things.
Strange things enough in that loneiy place, far
from towns and tramps. The woman was
strong as a man, and she worked feverishly
at ‘her self-appointed task; piled packing cases
before the doors opening on the lower veran-
da, put heaps of some strange smelling, dried
herb on the verandas themselves. The top
ones she never thought:of, knowing nothing
of Andria’s vision the nigitt: before, .When-she
had finished her poor precautions she regarded
them doubtfully enough.

“Broad daylight, and I’d been sure dey was
clean gone,”’ she groaned. ‘‘And here it’s night,
and de wind risin’. Pray dey’s grit in ole
Salome yet! But I ain’t knowing just what to
do. Dey tells me red-haired white women is
liars, and how do I know ’bout dis one! She
kin trust me sure enough, but I ain’t trying
no ’speriments on her.”’

Yet that very wind that was racking. Sa-
lome’s nerves had set Andria’s at rest, There
could be no prowling spies on a night like this;
not even that strange being, whose leering,
mocking face she scarcely dared remember,
could be abroad in such a storm. The face
had been barely human; animal greed and
hatred had been in it, hungry fierceness in its
glittering eyes as it grinned at her. She
longed to go and pour out her story to Salome,
but when she looked into the kitchen all was
darkness.

“Salome needn’t have deserted us!’’ she
thought, like a hurt child, and then resolutely
banished all fear of their great loneliness in
the inclemency of the night.

“Took out!’’ cried Beryl, as Andria returned
to the drawing-room. “See what I’ve found.
Isn’t it fun?”

She had from somewhere unearthed a long,
ugly dagger, very fine and sharp. On the floor
she had put a row of oranges, and with uner-
ring aim was throwing the dagger at them. She
never missed; each orange as it was struck
was nailed to the floor. Andria -took the dag-
ger from the orange where it stood quivering.
How sharp it was! She had fairly to drag it
from the polished board.

“Tet me try!’ and to her surprise, after the
first failure, the thing was easy. Only the
fear of breaking the new toy made her stop;
she might have need of it.

“J found some cards, too, and a book!”
Beryl cried, ‘‘Such a funny, old book. Lis-
ten!’ She read aloud from a battered calf
octavo: ‘‘ ‘As sure as the turquoise brings love
and the amethyst repels it, so does the opal
attract misfortune and the beryl bring bad
dreams.’ There, the beryl’s me! What kind
of a stone is it? I never saw one.”

“Tt’s green,’ absently; “‘pale green; some-
thing the color of that wild kitten’s eyes.”’

“Then look here!’’ excitedly. ‘Is this one?
It was shut up in the book. Trust me to rum-
mage round and find things!’’ ; :

She held up a tarnished gold ring, thin and
old, set with a pale green stone that glittered
in the lamplight.

Andria seized it.

“Tt’s a beryl, certainly,” she said, slowly.
“I wonder whose it is!” et -

“Tt’s mine now,’ snatching it and slipping it
on her slim finger. ‘I’m going to wear it.”’

“Bad dreams, the book says,’’ doubtfully;
“and you've no right to it, you know.”

“Neither has old Egerton any right to me.
V’ll bring him bad dreams, too, if I can. Oh,
Andria! Isn’t it pretty?’ I never wore a, ring
in my life.”

Andria looked silently at her
fingers where once. the diamonds had felt
heavy. ‘‘They didn’t bring happiness,’ she
said, softly. ‘‘But you ‘can wear it if you
like. Where are the cards? I’H teach you to
play euchre.”’

Curiously enough, all Beryl’s nervousness of
the night before had vanished. She sat down
calmly with her back to the uncurtained win-
dows and bestowed her whole attention on the
game. Her left hand, with the cards in it,
was held high, with the ring glittering on it,
so that if there had been any one to look in
they could have seen it plainly. The storm
made the house shake, solid as it was, and the
noise of it was deafening. There could be no
one abroad to-night, yet suddenly Andria
seemed to stiffen in her chair.

“Beryl,” she whispered, putting down a card
that was all wrong, ‘‘there’s the queerest
sound in the wind! Like something sniffing
at the door. Can’t you hear it?’ ae

“T heard it ages ago,’ gayly. ‘‘Perhaps it’s
my cat. Shall I let it in?”’ ,

“No! Don’t move. It’s too loud: no kitten
could make it. It sounds like a horse sniffing
dust and blowing it out again.”

The girl listened. : 5

Very, very soft, in the battering wind, came
another sound; a scratch, scratch, scratch at
the door. :

“Tt is my kitten! I’’—with a curious look
in her eyes Beryl had risen—‘‘I must go.

‘you shan’t stir,” said Andria, with a sud-
den ugly gentleness. ‘‘You don’t know what's
outside. Come upstairs; it isn’t safe here.’’
She caught Beryl’s arm and fairly pushed her
from the room, catching up that lean, sharp
dagger as she_ passed it. The instant they
were over the threshold the scratching ceased,
as if whatever was outside knew they had

one, .
eHaltway upstairs a sudden crash as if some
one had upset a heavy table stopped both
girls short. Fear caught Andria by the throat;

own bare

 

Silent and dry-lipped she pushed Beryl against
the wall and stood in front of her, the dagger
in her hand. Had something got in upstairs?
Was she to fight for both their lives—now—
on these stairs? The next second she heard
Salome’s voice: ‘‘Ladies, ladies,’ she called,
frantically, ‘‘come up out o’ dat. , my soul!
Dey’s smelled de white blood—de white blood!”

“Salome! I thought you’d gone to your own
house. What is it?—there’s something—outside
at the door.’’-

“Come up, come up!”’ The black woman ran
down to them, her snowy turban askew on
her frizzy hair. ‘‘Oh, Miss Holbeach, I been
here six years and I never see nothin’ like
dis. Dey’s hunted you down, hunted——’ her
voice broke horribly.

“What?’? said Beryl, sharply. She broke
from Andria’s hands and ran upstairs.

Andria tore after hem and stopped short at
what she saw.

Beryl was out on the veranda, staring into
the darkness. Opposite her, not two yards
from her face, something shone through the
bar of the jalousies. Two great eyes, green
as the stone she had found, glittering, raven-
ous, were fixed on her; but not even a
shadow of the thing in whose head they
mone showed against the black storm out-
side.

“Come in,’ said Andria, paralyzed.
in! Oh, what is it?’

At the sound of her cry there came a snarl
that made her blood cold, but the creature,
whatever it was, could not loose its foothold
to claw at the bars.

“Tt’s an animal,’ said Beryl, in-a queer sing-
song tone. “I’m not afraid of animals. Go
in, or you’ll be killed.”

She walked nearer to those awful eyes,
crooning softly to herself. The snarling
ceased, but as Andria, in mad fear, leapt after
the girl, broke out so wildly, with such_a
guttural note of rage that she sereamed. The
thing had got foothold! It was clawing at the
bars.

“Come

(To be continued.)

THE MAN FOR HER.

“T read one of your stories yesterday, Miss
Deland,”’ said Jameson.

Gates looked up quickly.
he asked.

“°Tis a good enough story of its kind,” said
Jameson, bluntly, before she could reply to
Gates. ‘But I haven’t much opinion of that
kind of a story. What I want to see you write
is a love story.”’

“TI daresay it would amuse you immensely.”

“But why have you never tried it?’ per-
sisted Jameson.

“T will tell you. It is because I have never
been able to imagine a man’s making love, or
proposing in a way that would not disgust or
forfeit the respect of any woman with a grain
of sense.’’

Gates laughed.

“That’s pretty severe,’’ said Jameson.
hits me and my wife both.’’

“I’m very sorry, but I can’t alter my opinion
on that account. I haven’t a doubt that you
inspired one or all of the sentiments I have
indicated. Mrs. Jameson must have overcome
them by a tremendous effort of the will. Many
sensible women do.”’

“And if the right man came along you would
overcome them also, Miss Deland.’’

“Never! As soon as he began to show signs
of softening of the brain he would cease to be
the right man for me.”

“Perhaps, and perhaps not. We shall see.”’

‘And in the meantime, my dear Mr. Jame-
son, will you be so kind as to go away?
Otherwise I shall never get to the end of this
pile of manuscripts, even with Mr. Gates to
help me.”’

“There’s nothing would please me more,’’ re-
torted Jameson, good-naturedly, and took him-
self off to his own desk.

At intervals during the afternoon and on the
way home at night Gates mused over what
Miss Deland had said about love-making, and
imagined different ways of doing it.

“T believe she is more than half right,’’ he
concluded, as he went upstairs to his room af-
ter supper.

He had bought a copy of the Anglican Mag-
azine that he might see her story, and when
he had read it he laid aside.the magazine and
fell to thinking of the writer.

“Perhaps I have not been quite just to her,”’
he soliloquized. ‘‘This little story shows that
there is more in her than I thought. There is
a tender human interest in it, and a hint of
deep religious feeling. I wish she would try
to be a little more feminine. Somehow it ir-
ritates me, her independent manner, the se-
verely plain way in which she dresses, in spite
of the fact that she always looks neat. It isn’t
exactly masculine, but neither is it feminine.
I don’t like her, and yet there is something
about her that attracts me.”

It was two or three weeks after this, in the
latter part of February, that Gates forgot one
night to speak to Miss Deland about some
small but important detail that had to do
with her work the next day. He was not to
be at the office in the morning, so could not
repair the omission then. At first he thought
of sending her a note, and then decided to go
to her house and tell her.

He gave a perceptible start when he was
shown into the pleasantest of sitting-rooms
and confronted Miss Deland. She seemed a
different person, in a dress of soft gray, a film
of white lace about the neck, with a pink
flower or two at her throat, and her hair done
in a way that did not do violence to a natural
waviness.

She saw his look of surprise and_ laughed. |

“Perhaps I ought to be introduced,” she said.
“At the Weekly Recorder office I am Miss De-
land, reader of manuscripts—a mere business
woman. Here I am myself. I like to keep two
personalities distinctly separate.”’

“T am most happy to meet Miss Deland her-
self,’ said Gates, with a smile and_a bow.

Then he was presented to Mrs. Deland, who
looked very like her daughter, only that she
was smaller, more delicate, and of course
older. Gates felt drawn to her at once, and
they fell into an easy conversation, somewhat
to his amazement, for he usually found talk-
ing difficult.

Tt was so pleasant that nearly an hour had
passed before Gates recollected that he had
come on a mere business errand, and rose to
go.

He was in such a brown study that he went
half a mile beyond his lodgings. When he en-
tered his room at last and lit the gas he
glanced about him discontentedly. Everything
seemed dingy and uncomfortable.

‘When does the transformation take place,
Miss eDland?’” he asked a few days later, as
they came out of the office and walked along
together.

“What transformation?’

“Why, yours—from the new woman to the
old-fashioned one.”’

“Oh, that depends upon circumstances. Usu-
ally not till I get home, but in winter and on
other nights when I have to work late, I’m
afraid it takes place the minute I leave the
office. am a dreadful coward. You don’t
know how glad I am of your company this
horrid, dark evening.”

“The pleasure is mine.”

“Oh, don’t feel obliged to make pretty
speeches. I don’t like them,”’ she rejoined with
a trace of annoyance. ‘I meant what I said.
TI was getting nervous before you moved up
this way. I had a sort of feeling once or twice
this winter that I was followed by some one.
Very foolish, I suppose, but it frightens me
now when I think of it.” 2 :

Gates gave a sudden impatient exclamation
half under his breath.

“T don’t wonder you are contemptuous,”’ she
said.

‘} did not mean the contempt for you. Would
it make you any easier to know that it was a
friend who was following you?” he asked, hes-
itatingly. poet

Miss Deland gave him a sharp glance. “Was
it—it couldn’t have been you, Mr. Gates.”’

“tT did follow you those dark nights you speak
of,’ he admitted, ‘but I never meant you to
know it.’’

‘Why did you do it, please?”

“Because it didn’t seem safe for you to go
alone, and I fancied that if I offered to go with
you you wouldn’t let me.’’

Miss Deland was silent.

“You are not offended?’ he asked, when they
had reached her door.

“Of course I’m not,”’ she returned, indignant-
ly. ‘‘I have been trying to think how I could
express my appreciation——”’

“Oh, that’s all right,’’ interrupted Gates.
“Good-night,’ he called back over his shoul-

 

 

“Do you write?’

“Tt

der.

“Mr, Gates, I want to ask you a question,”’
Miss Deland said, when next they walked
home together. :

“I'm waiting to hear it.”

‘When you first came to work on the Re-
corder five
afterward,
strongly?” -

“Did you notice as you
morning,

didn’t you disapprove of me very

came along this

 

months ago, and for a long time |

 

Miss Deland, that the chestnuts in'

 

that little square yonder were in blossom?”

Miss Deland laughed. “I’m answered,’ she
said. Then she became grave. “You disliked
me and disapproved of me, and yet you went
ever so far out of your way, night after night,
sometimes when you were very tired, to see
that I came to no harm on my way home!”

After his first call on the Delands, Gates
contrived excuses for repeating it. He always
departed early, though he would have liked to
stay late, and he never went oftener than once
a. week, though he would have liked to go
every evening.

In his thoughts he acknowledged that he

liked Miss Deland—that he liked her very
much. This liking he called friendship.
He continued to call it friendship until a

new man named McClintock came to work in
the office and began paying Miss Deland many
little attentions, which she seemed to find ac-
ceptable. Then Gates came to a better under-
standing of himself.

It was Summer now. Gates had taken more
work upon himself and always outstayed Miss
Deland at the office. One day, however, he ar-
ranged his work so that they should leave to-
gether.

“It seems quite like old times, doesn’t it?’
she said.

“Yes,” he answered, absently. Then abrupt-
ly. Do you remember, Miss Deland, something
you said once to Jameson about proposals and
love-making?’’

He looked straight before him as he spoke,
angry with himself that he could not keep the
restraint out of his tone nor the color from
coming into his face. 3

She gave him a quick glance and then looked
away. ‘I remember,” she said.

“You were the business woman when you
made those remarks. I have often wondered
if you yourself held the same opinion.”’

‘Oh, yes. The business woman and I disagree
on some things, but that is not one of them.”’’

“T don’t think that you ought to feel that
way,’’ he exclaimed, irritably.

“Why, of course I oughtn’t. It is a perfectly
Soa way to feel. But how can I help
i

“You do not believe in marriage, then?’

“Certainly I do. I think a happy marriage is
the most beautiful thing in the world. And it
improves people so much!’’

“But no man could show he wished to marry
you without exciting your disgust, turning you
against him, and insuring his refusal?’’

‘“Exactly.”’ :

“It is fortunate that all women do not feel

that way

ise t Ate?

‘“‘Miss Deland, have you a heart?’

“T don’t know. I have asked myself that
question. There's one thing that makes me

think perhaps I have—I do love my mother.”

“Yes, that is true,’’ Gates admitted. ‘‘I have
often been touched by it. I had no right to
say you were heartless.’’

Then he sighed and neither spoke again till
they parted.

_In the office next day McClintock, having a
little leisure on his hands, caught a large cat
that frequented the building, and tying-pieces
of paper to his feet, set him on the floor near
Miss Deland’s desk.
_ The cat walked slowly round the room, lift-
ing each leg high and shaking it at every step,
and snarling querulously as it progressed.
Nearly every one in the office was convulsed
with laughter at the ludicrousness of it,
Miss Deland laughed with the rest at first,
then ran and caught up the cat, which had
gone as far as Gates’ chair, and pulled off the
papers, pretending indignation.

“Mr. McClintock, you are an
wretch!” she exclaimed.

Gates, who had not even smiled, and in whose
mind the conversation of the night before was
still rankling, yielded to a sudden impulsk

inhuman

“You had better take the contract to im} ve
him,’’ he said, significantly, in a savage’ n-
dertone,

Miss Deland looked
rushed to her face.

“Thank you for your very kind advice, Mr.
Gates,’2 she answered, haughtily. ‘I will take
it into “consideration.’’

She put down the cat and walked to her
place with her head in the air, while Gates bit
his lip and would have given half of his year’s
salary to recall what he had said. :

After this-there was a decided coolness be-
tween Miss Deland and Gates.

So the autumn passed and the winter came.
McClintock’s attentions to Miss Deland had
become so marked by this time that they
were a matter of comment to every one in the
office, and not a few out of it.

at him and the color

“She seems to have feund your visht man,’ ’*—

Gates blurted out to Jameson one day, nodding
toward McClintock, who was leaning on Miss
Deland’s desk.

‘“Humph! You don’t think she cares any-
thing about that fellow?’’

“She encourages him,’’ returned Gates, dog-
gedly.

‘I don’t think so,’’ said Jameson, ‘‘and it is
only his thick-skinned persistence that makes
it look that way.”

But Gates-was not convinced.

He had grown thin since the summer,
his temper was not improved.

Gates, however, even though glum and quick
of temper, was universally liked, while as for
McClintock, no one, except Miss Deland,
seemed to like him at all.

“He talks too much, has too high an opinion
of himself, and is none too honest,’ was the
general opinion.

One afternoon in January, Jameson came
over to Gates, ostensibly to borrow a knife.

“Oh, that fool McClintock!’’ he groaned, un-
der his breath.

‘What has he been doing now?’ asked
Gates, with assumed carelessness.

“Oh, he as good as told Doddridge that he
intends proposing to Miss Deland this even-
ing,’’ answered Jameson, looking critically at
the knife. ‘‘He’s going to take tea there—in-
vited himself, probably. He’s cocksure she'll
have him, too. And,’ he continued, still intent
on the knife, ‘I’m afraid she will, myself.
There’s no knowing what a woman will do—
especially if she is unhapy.”

‘What makes you think she’s unhappy?”
demanded Gates, hoarsely. ‘I thought she
seemed to be in excellent spirits.”

“Those excellent spiritS are all put on. You
just catch her unawares, as I have once or
twice lately. Well,’’ he added with a sigh,
“What is to be will be. If I fail to bring back
this knife, kindly remind me.”

After Jameson had left him, Gates leaned his
face on his hand and thought. If he could
only get the start of McClintock. The chances
were nine hundred and ninety-nine out of a
thousand that it would do no good, but there
was the one chance. He looked at the clock.
Miss Deland would leave the office in about
twenty minutes and McClintock would be
ready to go with her.

As he sat there his glance fell on his left
hand, which rested on the desk in front of him.
On the little finger was a ring which his only
sister had given him just before she died and
which he had worn ever since.

An idea came to him.

With considerable difficulty he drew off the
ring and folded it in a half sheet of paper.
Then drawing a fresh sheet toward him, he
dipped his pen in ink and wrote hastily:

“My dear Miss Deland.

“if you can accept the inclosed article—An
Engagement Ring—it will afford me intense
happiness; if not acceptable, please return.—
Very sincerely yours, J. Albert Gates.’’

Then he put the ring and what he had writ-
ten in an envelope and addressed it.

There was no messenger handy so he deliv-
ered it himself. Miss Deland looked at him
with cold indifference as he approached.

He laid the letter before her.

“Please read’ it now,’’ he said.

Then he went back to his work.

After a few minutes Gates gained courage
to look toward Miss Deland. She was calmly
unfolding a typewritten manuscript, and he
watched her while she read the first page, a
part of the last, and a paragraph here and
there between, then, refolding it, put it in an
envelope, together with a rejection slip, sealed
it, and as calmly went on to the next.

Tn about ten minutes more she tidied her
desk, and five minutes after that she, in the
company of McClintock, was leaving the of-

In going out they passed near Gates. Miss
Deland, however, did not so much as glance
in his direction. She carried herself proudly,
her eyes were bright, her cheeks tinged with
color, a smile on her lips.

Gates held his hand against his face IN a
way to shield it from observation. There was
a tight feeling in his throat, a smarting sensa-
tion in his eyes.

Some one touched him on the arm. He
started angrily and looked round, It was Mc-
Clintock, who thrust an envelope into his hand.

“Miss Deland asked me to come back and
give you this,’’ and he hurried away. io.

Gates grew hot. How like an unforgiving
woman to send her refusal by the hand of his
rival, and so enhance its bitterness!

He held it in his hand and looked at the ad-
dress for a full minute. Then setting his lips
together, he slowly opened the envelope and
unfolded the letter.

“My dear Mr. Gates. . ;

“Your article-An Engagement Ring—is ac-

ed.—Very truly yours,
oe z “Blinor Bertram Deland.’’

and

i fice.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

CETL RS RE MELT RSAC T ITE

FIRE DRAGER RELIED

 

 

 

,

 

 

6

 

THE NEW - YORK: WEEKLY.

<9

VOL. 54—No. 52,

 

OVER AND OVER.

Over and over, and over again,
No matter what we may purpose or finish—
Work of the fingers or work of the brain—
All that we do cannot end or diminish,
Wield we the hammer or plant we the grain
Over and over, and over again.

So with His purpose. God works in the hours,
Tarrying not in the cycles that pass;
Sends us His sunshine and gives us His show-
ers—
First the green meadow and then the brown
grass.
Cometh the reaper, but God clothes the plain
Over and over, and over again.

Courage, faint heart! though the labor of years
Fade from thy way like a vision of night,
Take up thy burden, though watered by tears;
Doubt not the ending shall be in the light.
Do what He purposes—never complain—

Over and over, and over again.

Winifred’s Sacrifice.

By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon,

Author of “The Magie Cameo,” “Liitle Miss Whirlwind,”
“Brownie’s Triumph," ‘‘Stella Rosevelt,” ‘Queen
Bess,’ “The Golden Key,” “A Girl in a
Thousand,” Hic.

 

(“WINIFRED'S SACRIFICE’? was commenced in No. 82.
Back numbers cau be obtained of all newsdealers),

CHAPTER XLI,

MR. WALLACE P. HUNTINGDEN TELLS AR-
THUR WADLEIGH A VERY INTERESTING
STORY.

The next moment Winifred found herself
looking up into Roger’s face, his arm still en-
cicling her form, and she Knew that he had
saved her from a terrible, perhaps fatal, in-
jury.

He was as white as chalk, and she could
feel his heart beating with great throbs of
fear, as she leaned against him, for she was
so weak from the shock which she had sus-
tained she could hardly stand.

Another moment and she felt a fierce grip
upon her arm, and her husband towered above
her, a look of passion convulsing his face with
an expression fearful to behold.

‘Release her, you—cur!’’ he hissed, as he
glowered upon Roger, and then deliberately
Slapped him in the face with a folded paper
which he held in his other hand.

Roger drew back a pace or two, folded his
arms across his breast, which arose and fell
with indignant resentment at the unparalleled
insult he had sustained+«and which, under any
other circumstances, would have prompted him
2 make the man measure his length upon the
floor.

There was more of courage and mettle man-
ifest in this wonderful self-restraint than there
would have been had he proceeded to thrash
the offender within an inch of his life, as he
most richly deserved.

“You forget yourself, sir!’’ he observed with
quiet dignity, but with ashen lips.

“TY forget—nothing!"’ retorted the still angry
man, with significant emphasis.

Nevertheless, as he glanced around upon the
disapproving faces about him, he became un-
pleasantly conscious that he had forgotten
to be a gentleman, and had lowered himself
irretrievably in the estimation of every one
present by yielding to the fury that had moved
him upon seeing Winifred in the arms of her
former lover; even though he knew that she
probably owed her life to the promptness with
which he had acted.

‘Come,’ he continued, imperatively, and,
turning to her as he drew forth his watch, ‘‘I
ordered the carriage to return for us at three-
thirty, and I have an important engagement
at four.”

“Be dind enough. to. let go of my arm, Mr.
Metcalf,’ Winitred said in a low tone, but with
a note of authority which made him involun-
tarily release his hold of her.

She turned from him and walked with quiet
deliberateness to the artist and extended her
hand to him.

“T think we will have to go now, Mr. Wad-
leigh,’’ she said. trying to speak composedly,
but with a look in her eyes that. made the
man’s heart ache for her; ‘‘but I hope your
beautiful painting is not utterly ruined.”’

“Ah, but the painting is of no account com-
pared with your safety,’’ he returned earnest-
ly, ‘‘and, as far as I am able to judge,’’—with
a glance at the _ picture—‘‘nothing but the
frame has suffered in the fall.’’

“T sincerely hope so,’’ Winifred replied; then,
with a glance and a bow of farewell, which
included every one in the room, she made a
dignified and graceful exit and followed her
husband from the building.

When they reached the street they found
their carriage waiting, and Mr. Metcalf ex-
tended his hand—the hand that had smitten
Roger—to assist her to enter.

She deliberately waved it aside and stepped
in without assistance, he following her, but
with a sense of humiliation such as he had
never experienced before.

He was bitterly conscious that he had made
a fool of himself, and he had repented of that
dastardly blow the instant it was struck; not
by any means because he regretted the in-
sult, for he would have been glad to annihi-
late Roger Woodman; but because of what he
knew people would say and think of him and
the publicity of the affair. : ;

He knew also that Winifred despised him for
what he had done—tha® he had forfeited for-
ever even what little respect she may have
previously entertaied for him—for she did not
once voluntarily addresg him during their
homeward drive. :

In the room they had just left not a single
remark was made referring to the disgraceful
scene that had just been enacted there.

The company was too well-bred to discuss
it then, and everybody seized the opportunity
to express sincere regrets regarding the de-
molished picture; or, rather, the frame, for the
painting was found—as Mr. Wadleigh had
been quick to observe—to be intact. ’

“There must have been a defect in the wire
with which it was hung, or else it could not
have been securely fastened to the screw-
eyes,” he quietly observed, and then sent a
boy for some one to come and remove the rub-
bish.

A few minutes later his guests began to
retire, and soon the room was almost deserted.

Roger, however, had remained to have a
few words with Mr. Wadleigh, with whom he
had become very friendly. ;

“What a degrading affair!’’ he observed with
a stern, white face. ‘I wonder why some
kind fate did not interfere to prevent me from
coming here to-day?’

“You certainly have nothing to regret,” re-
plied Mr. Wadleigh, his thin nostrils dilating
with supreme contempt as he recalled the vul-
garity of the coarse, but rich, parvenu. “You
were nearest the lady and did what any gentle-
man .would have been prompted gto do under
the circumstances. You have borne yourself
splendidly throughout the affair, and, I re-
peat, you have nothing to regret.”’

‘Nothing except that she should have been
subjected to such mortification,’’ said Roger
with a sigh. Then, with a sudden flash of
spirit; ‘‘and that I could not have had the
satisfaction of thrashing him as he deserved.”’

“JT can understand how you must have been
tempted to give him a lesson,’’ returned his
companion, with a sympathetic smile, “but,
believe me, you gave him something far worse
than a physical thrashing, for, if I ever saw
a man looked crushed and humiliated, Mar-
tin Metcalf was that individual as he left
the room, and to his dying day he will carry
the consciousness that you proved yourself
a brave and noble gentleman—he the craven
‘cur.’ But, how do you like it?’’ he questioned,
as he noticed that Roger’s eyes were fastened
with a peculiar expression upon Winifred’s
portrait.

‘‘Wadleigh, it is simply alive!’”’ was the en-
thusiastic response. ‘‘I have seen her look just
like that when her whole soul was stirred by
some noble purpose or lofty sentiment.’’

**And so have I, many times, during her sit-
tings, and I was determined to catch the ex-
pression if possible. I am glad that I have
been successful. Ah, Winifred Metcalf’s is a
rare, sweet nature, and some day, please God,
it will blossom forth in all its beauty and re-
finement. Must you go?’’ for Roger had sud-
denly extended his hand to take leave of him.

It was trembling visibly, and as the artist
glanced up into his face and noted how pale
and drawn it was and the despairing look in
his eyes, he experienced a sudden shock, for
‘he read the story of his hopeless love—he now

 

 

understood much that had puzzled him in con-
nection with Winifred during his recent in-
terviews with her.

“Well,’’ he added as Roger turned abruptly
away, ‘“‘come around to my studio some even-
ing soon, and we will have one of our social
chats.’’

He followed him to the door and stood look-
ing thoughtfully after him for a moment and
then turned back into the room, when he was
surprised to find Mr. Huntingden standing by
a window, poring over something which he
had found in the paper which had dropped
from Martin Metcalf’s hand after he had
struck Roger that dastardly blow.

“Ah, Mr. Huntingden!”’ he exclaimed in sur-
prise, ‘I did not know you were here. When
did you come in?”’

“Just as your guests were slipping out—I was
detained and could not get here earlier. I
hope I shall not delay you—I can come in
another day,’ the gentleman returned.

‘No, indeed; I am glad to have you all to
myself, for I have some questions which I
wanted to ask you about the wild West, from
which you came, as I am contemplating a
trip to the Pacific coast in the near future,”
Mr. Wadleigh responded, then added: “But
what have you found to interest you in that
unfortunate paper.”’

“Simply a curious advertisement, which has
given me something of a shock,’ said Mr.
Huntingden, his eye returning to the para-
graph he had been reading. ‘‘That is, I am
impressed that I may be able to give the party
who advertises some information if I could
meet him or her and was convinced of the
honesty of the individual.’’

“May I see it?’ Mr. Wadleigh inquired, with
repressed eagerness, and holding out his hand
for the paper.

“‘Certainly—it is the third one, there, under
the personal column, asking for information
regarding a man who disappeared from—Eng-
land, twenty-seven years ago, and stating that
the person advertising has information of an
important nature for him.”
ee pointed out the paragraph as he conclud-
ed.

“Yes, I see,’’ said the artist, who had not
even glanced. at it, but was earnestly study-
ing the face of the man before him, ‘‘and—and
do you know a man who left—England twen-
ty-seven years ago?’

“TI—do not feel at liberty to say any more,
at least until I am assured of the sincerity
of the party inquiring for him,” cautiously
returned Mr. Huntingden, while he met the
searching eyes of the artist with a glance as
keen as his own.

Mr. Wadleigh was very pale now.

“Mr. Huntingden,’ he began, gravely, ‘I
am the man who caused this advertisement
to be inserted—I have had a Similar one in
various papers every month for years. I am
the son of this man for whom I am searching,
and I have been seeking my father here in
this country, after long and fruitless efforts
in Europe.”’

“You are his son!’? exclaimed Mr. Hunting-
den in a startled whisper. “Ah! now I know
why you have reminded me so strongly of my
—friend, although I never knew that he had
a son, and supposed the likeness was only
one of those singular coincidences that some-
times occur in one’s experience.”’

“Your friend,’’=repeated Arthur Wadleigh
with tremulous eagerness; ‘‘can it be possible
that you are a friend of my father?’

“That remains to be proven, young man,”
smilingly responded Mr. Huntingden. “I know
comparatively little of the history of the man
of whom I am speaking; but, of course, when
two people live together for years, even though
there is a tacit understanding between them
that their past is to remain a sealed book,
there will, now and then, slip out unawares
trifles that in time become pregnant with
significance. I know that my friend originally
lived in—England; that he came to this coun-
try about twenty-seven years ago, and that he
is a bitterly disappointed man, as far as do-
mestic ties and happiness are concerned, al-
though he never even hinted to me that he
was a married man, or ever had children.
Moreover, I do not know him by the name of
Wadleigh.’’

“What name is he known by?’ queried the
artist.

Mr. Huntingden did not reply at once; he
seemed to be gravely considering some ques-
tion of importance.

Finally he lifted his head: and smiled frank-
ly into the young man’s face.

“I hope you will not regard me as uns;
duly reticent,’’ he said; ‘‘but will you tell me a
little about yourself and what you remember
ae your father, before I answer that ques-
ion?’

“Certainly,’’ replied Mr. Wadleigh; ‘‘but sup-
pose we repair to one of the clubrooms, where
we can find some comfortable seats and talk
at our ease?’’

“That is a sensible suggestion,’’ was the
reply, and the two men left the room, passed
downstairs to another portion of the build-
ing, where, entering a small apartment that
was unoccupied, they settled themselves with
some cigars, and Mr. Wadleigh proceeded to
relate his story.

It was, in substance, the same that he had
told Winifred, and with which we are already
familiar, although he went into details rather
more, and Mr. Huntingden listened with the
most earnest attention throughout.

“Of course I realize,’’ the young man re-
marked in conclusion, ‘‘that, my mother, being
very high-spirited and my father proud and
sensitive, and possessing a strong will, there
was fault on both sides. I am sure if my
mother could have Known where to address
him she would very soon have recalled him to
her, for she bitterly regretted the trouble be-
fore he had been gone a month; but he had
disappeared, leaving no trace behind him, and
from that time he was worse than dead to us,
for the suspense regarding his fate was tor-
ture to us all. When my sister died I felt, for
a time, that life was hardly worth the living,
with no one to love, and I was in no condi-
tion to make a home for myself—that is, 1
could not marry, even if I had found a con-
genial companion, for I had to fit myself for
my career, working up from the lowest round
of the ladder; then it was, with yearning in
my heart, that I began the search for my
father, which has proved so fruitless and
wearisome. I had about given up all hope and
had decided to stop the advertising at the end
of this month. But now tell me—pray tell me—
your story, for you have aroused fresh hope
within me, and if you can put me in the way
of finding my father, that I may henceforth
have some object in life outside my own per-
sonal interests, and perchance bestow upon
him the care which his advancing years re-
quire, I shall be grateful to you for the re-
mainder of my life.’’

“Well, then; Mr. Wadleigh, I am pretty
thoroughly convinced that my friend and you
are father and son, and, at the risk of seem-
ing to violate the letter of a solemin compact
which we two made when we cast in our lots
together, I am going to do what I can to re-
unite you. To begin with, Iam going to give
you the name by which I know this man of
whom I have been telling you; it is John
Evans, though when he meets strangers he
goes by the homely soubriquet of Hawkins——”’

“John Evans!’ interposed Arthur Wadleigh,
sitting suddenly erect, a glad light leaping into
his eyes. ‘‘My father’s name was John Evans
Wadleigh. Oh! at last!—at last! the wearisome
search is over,’’ and something that sounded
very like a sob concluded his sentence, in
spite of his manhood.

CHAPTER XLII.

MR. HUNTINGDEN CONCLUDES HIS STORY.—
THE NIGHT OF MARTIN METCALF’S MAS-
QUERADE ARRIVES.

“T imagined as much,” Mr. Huntingden ob-
served in a tone of infinite satisfaction, ‘‘and
I’m mighty glad to know that my friend will,
in all probability, no longer live the life of a
recluse, for the more I study your features
the more they seem to resemble my partner’s
—for partners we have been, through thick
and through thin, for the last six years.”

“But where is he?—tell me where to find him,
for I must go to him at once!’’ cried Mr. Wad-
leigh with irrepressible eagerness.

‘“‘Have patience, my young friend—have pa-
tience,’’ returned his companion, with a smile,
“for I have a long story to tell you, and then
you will have a long journey to take. It was
six years ago last summer that I first met
John Evans, as he called himself. For many
years previous to that I had been in an in-
sane asylum. Yes, it is true, but it’s no
matter how or why I came to be there,” the
man interposed in reply to the artist’s start of
surprise; ‘“‘that dates back to a terrible wrong
that was perpetrated upon me nearly twenty
years ago; but I came to myself again at last,
thank God! and was formally released from
the institution by the proper authorities. I
went forth almost penniless to begin once more
the battle for existence. I was in the far West,
and about the only thing that seemed to offer
to contribute to this result was to go to work
in the mines, and I let myself, as a common
miner, thinking to get a start in this way and
be on the lookout for something better, but in
less than three months the vein that was being

 

worked came to a stop, the mine was _aban-

 

doned and of course all help discharged. One

of the overseers, a man to whom I had been
attracted because of certain evidences of cul-
ture which assured me that he had known bet-
ter days, was taken ill the very day that the
force was disbanded—too ill to leave with his
comrades, and as no one appeared to have the
slightest sympathy for him, but all were eager
to,get away to a country further south, where
there were prospects of work, I told him that
I would remain behind and see him through.
He had a tough time of it, but began to con-
valesce after three or four weeks, and then,
as the weather was fine and we could procure
plenty of game and fish and still had quite a
stock of other provisions on hand, we thought
we could do no better than to remain in tpat
locality until he became perfectly strong.’’

Mr. Huntingden paused just here to get him-
self a glass of water from a cooler that stood
near him and then resumed:

‘We had become firm friends by this time,
and though the man was extremely reticent
about himself, I saw that he both trusted and
clung to me, while I had begun to experience
a sincere regard for him. As he continued to
improve we began to consider what we should
do for the future. Evans said he had been
in the mining business for years, and, though
he had made a little money, the result was
not especially encouraging, considering the
time and strength he had expended. He said
he believed that there was plenty of gold in
that region, if we only knew just where to
strike for it, and, as he was of a persevering
turn of mind, he was inclined to stay just
where he was, make himself as comfortable as
practicable and peg away for a few months
longer. I told him I was with him if he want-
ed me—that I hadn’t a friend in the world to
lend me a hand if I went back to civilization,
and I would not mind roughing it a while
longer, even if the returns were not very large.
We settled the matter then and there, prom-
ising to stick together for a year. We spent
the remainder of the summer and fall in fit-
ting up comfortable quarters for the winter,
just inside the mine, and in laying in a’store
of provisions. to last us until spring, while
it was our intention to spend the long, cold
months picking our way further into the
mountain, at the end of the tunnel which had
been abandoned.” :

‘J will not spend time going into details,’
the gentleman said, after a moment spent in
thought;
winter, and, though we made no lucky strike,
we found indications of gold, here and there,
which led us to believe that we were on the
right track for it, while we thoroughly en-
joyed our free and independent life and the
companionship of each other. We accordingly
renewed our contract at the end of twelve
months, and continued working straight into
the mountain. But toward the end of our sec-
ond year we lost all trace of gold, when I
began to get discouraged, and told my part-
ner I thought we were wasting both time and
strength, notwithstanding that we had each
taken out a few hundred dollars’ worth of the
yellow metal.

*‘He insisted, however, that he believed there
was plenty of it all around us, and, though he
did not want to urge me to remain against
my better judgment, he was determined to try
it for another year. Again I said that I would
stand by him—I had grown to feel that he
was about the only link that held me to life—
and, after laying in our third store of provis-
ions, we began another winter’s campaign.
Evans then informed me that he was going
to take another tack—he was going back to
the point where we had lost trace of gold and
stick upward instead of inward, as before. We
went to work, beginning almost immediately
to find evidences of ore, and worked steadily
for three months with s6dme encouragement,
but nothing to boast of. Then, one morning,
my partner suddenly came upon the vein which
he had always felt sure was hidden there. In
a fit of desperation he had swung his pick
with telling force a little to the left of where
he had been working the day before-and all
at once laid open a seam of almost solid ore.
He then ordered me to strike downward from
that point, while he continued to work up-
ward, and we found it both ways. At the end
of another month Evans broke through the
side of the mountain and came out upon a
ledge or plateau, while above and below there
was nothing but almost perpendicular walls of
solid rock. He then joined me and we both
worked downward, following the vein, until
we came out at the bottom of the mountain,
close beside a river that wound along its base.
We knew then that we were rich men—that
with industry and perseverance we might hew
out a colossal fortune. We were, of course,
jubilant, but we agreed to keep our discovery
a profound secret until we had realized all
that we cared for, then dispose of our inter-
est and retire upon our laurels. In order to do
this we built a hut or small house among the
boulders on the plateau to which I have re-
ferred on the side of the mountain, filling them
in with earth and small rocks in a way to
make the walls seem like a natural formation,
so that attention would not be attracted to
it. Then we transported portions of our shanty
and all our belongings thither, and soon had
a very comfortable dwelling, almost in mid-
air, and where no human foot had ever trod
before. Then, to make sure that no one would
follow or molest us, we walled up the opening
which we had made from the main tunnel,
thus cutting off all access to our precious veins
in case any wanderer should chance to come
prowling about the old mine; while, with the
new outlet we had made, we could go and
come as we chose and work in secret as long
as we wished. By means of the river and a
canoe we had easy access, except during the
dry season, to the town of some fif-
teen or twenty miles away, and where we had
been in the habit of procuring the most of our
provisions. Near-this town there were smelt-
ing mills, and to these we transported our
ore from time to time, and afterward shipped
our gold East. Now, to make a long story
short, Jahn Evans and I found ourselves very
rich men at the end of five years from our
start together, and with the prospect of un-
limited resources for the remainder of our
lives. Last spring—nearly a year ago—I came
East to make investments and to negotiate
for the disposal of our mine, which we do not
eare to work personally any longer. I also
had another object in coming to New York, as
I had ascertained that a person who did-me
a terrible wrong in early life might be found
in this section of the country, and I have a
long account to settle with that individual;
but,’’ Mr. Huntingden concluded with a deep-
ly drawn sigh, ‘‘that is only a personal mat-
ter, and I will not weary you with it.”

“This is indeed a wonderful and a. thrilling
story,’ Mr. Wadleigh observed when his com-
panion paused, ‘‘and I feel absolutely certain
that -your partner, as you call him, must be
my father. But it seems very strange to me
that you could have lived with him all these
years without learning more of his history.”

‘Well, my young friend, we agreed at the
outset, as I told you, that we would let by-
gones be bygones. I had my past as well as
he, and neither of us cared to rake over our
harrowing experiences; though, of course,
there would a word slip out, now and then,
from each that could not fail to give the other
an inkling concerning the carefully guarded
secrets of his life. But we never followed up
these slips with any questions.”’

“But what an isolated, lonely existence you
must have led!’’ remarked Mr, Wadleigh in a
tone of regret.

“Yes, in a way it has been isolated and
lonely,’’ assented Mr. Huntingden, ‘‘and yet we
kept reasonably well posted regarding what
was occurring in the haunts of civilization.
We bought books, magazines and papers, and
thus kept in touch with the brightest minds of
the country—although our periodicals were
sometimes late in reaching us—so we have
not become quite like savages during our long
season of seclusion; and let me say here that
John Evans is one of the most intelligent men
I have ever met—he was educated for a physi-
cian

‘“‘Ah! and so was my father; but he did not
like the profession,’’ Mr. Wadleigh eagerly in-
terposed. ‘‘My grandfather, however, was a
skillful doctor and was very anxious that his
son should follow in his footsteps. Can you
tell me if he has followed mining during all
these twenty-seven years?’’

“Yes, I think he has for most of the time.
I judge that the disappointments of his early
life made him shrink from society and he
chose that kind of life because of its seclu-
oe from the world,’’ Mr. Huntingden re-
plied.

“How can I get to him?—tell me how to
reach him!’”’ Mr. Wadleigh inquired with con-
siderable excitement, for he was deeply moved,
in ee of the important discovery he had
made.

‘Well, my friend, you will have to exercise
patience,’’ said his companion, with a smile,
“vou certainly cannot go to him until after he
receives a letter from me. No one, save our-
selves, knows of the secret of our mountain
eyerie, and even if it was discovered it would
ox safe for any one to force an entrance
tO Ti’. :

‘But surely your can understand how anx-
ious I am for this meeting after my long and
fruitless search for the man,’’ said the artist,
with tremulous lips.

“but we.worked diligently all that

“Indeed I can, and I sincerely sympathize
with you,’’ replied Mr. Huntingden in a hearty
tone; ‘but the only feasible plan that suggests
itself to me is that we both write to him. IL
will send him an account of my acquaintance
with you and of our discovery of to-day—you
can indite whatever your heart dictates and I
will close it in my letter; then we must pa-
tiently await the result.’’

“Surely you do not think that my father will
refuse to receive and acknowledge me as his
son!’’ exclaimed the artist, with some dismay
in view of his companion’s last words.

“No, if he proves to be your father—and I
have no doubt such is the case—for I am con-
fident that he has long. been hungering and
thirsting for kindred affection,’’ Mr. Hunting-
den gravely responded as he arose to go, for
the afternoon was nearly spent.

Thus the matter was left; both gentlemen
wrote voluminous letters that evening and the
next morning they were speeding over the
country toward that lonely recluse—thrice lone-
ly since the departure of Roger, who had
awakened an intense yearning for his own
family in his long-starved heart—among the
mountains of Arizona.

* * cS a * + *

Three days later was the date of Martin
Metcalf’s grand masquerade.

It was fortunate, perhaps, for that gentle-
man that it: followed so close upon his dis-
graceful assault upon Captain Woodman, for
otherwise he might have had an empty house
on that occasion.

As it was, some of the society people who
and learned of it sent excuses, pleading un-
foreseen contingencies, while others remained
away without even the formality of sending
regrets. ’

Both homes were ablaze with light upon the
eventful evening and a large and brilliant com-
pany assembled to honor the affair.

Everybody came, as requested, in costume,

and when all were gathered in the beautiful
room, which had been especially fitted up for
dancing, and formed in line for the opening
grand march the effect of the hundreds of ele-
gantly clad people who represented many na.
tions, and periods, and characters, was some-
thing magnificent, while, of course, everybody
was On the alert to penetrate the disguise of
his neighbors.
_ Winifred had decided to wear a simple dom-
ino of heavy white silk over her evening dress,
which was also white—an elegant satin, both
skirt and corsage elaborately ‘‘jeweled’’ in
beautiful designs, the entire costume being
an exquisite creation of art.

Although she already possessed many dia-
monds, Mr. Metcalf had presented her with a
wonderful necklace and pendant, worth a
small fortune, for the occasion, and when
she was dressed she was simply radiant from
the gleaming crescent in her hair to the tips
of her dainty satin boots, which were also
jeweled to match her robe.

She could not fail to realize that she was
marvelously beautiful as she stood before her
mirror putting the last touches to her toilet
before assuming her domino; but she sighed
wearily as the consciousness forced itself upon
her, and she told herself that she would giad-
ly have exchanged her costly apparel for*one
of the simplest dresses that were packed away
in. a_ certain trunk in the store-room, if she
could then have walked out of the house and
hidden herself away in some obscure. corner
from all the glare and glitter of her palatial
home, which was only a mockery to her.

But she could not dwell long on these mor-
bid thoughts; duty called her away, and, get-
ting into her spotless domino with the assist-
ance of her faithful nurse, she covered her
face with her mask, then slipped out of her
room into one of the dressing-rooms across
the hall and joined the procession of guests
who had already begun to descend to the ball-
room.

As each lady entered she was joined by a
gentleman, who escorted her to a position in
the line that was forming for the grand march,
and as soon as it was complete the music
struck up and the company began to move.

There were various changes and, among
others, one which enabled every individual
to change partners many times. That is, on
reaching a certain position in the room a sig-
nal was given, when the gentlemen wouid
pause and the lady on his arm would pass on
to the next. This was repeated until each lady
in the line had paced a few measures with
each gentleman.

Winifred had made half the round of the
room, when, at the call for ‘‘change,’’ she

 

tell me, however, that the ghost was reported
to be entirely harmless.

hey described it as being nothing more
serious than a phantom hand, which, in the
silent watches of the night, upraised itself into
the view of the occupant of the bed at the
foot. That was all. I confess that I thought
it rather gruesome.

But I am not a superstitious man. It was
with no nervous qualms that I undressed my-
self for bed and put out the light. I like the
moonlight to come into my chamber, when
there is a moon, as there was on this occa-
sion, and so I drew aside one of the window
curtains,

Then, just as a slight mark of deference to
the alleged ghost, I took my revolver out of
my bag and put it under my pillow. If any
spook should be so imprudent as to present it-
self, I made up my mind that I would have a
shot at it.

It must have been not long after midnight
when I suddenly became—I don’t know why—
as wide awake as ever I was in my life. Per-
haps without my being conscious of it, the
ghost was in my mind. At all events, it was
the first thing I thought of, and I began to
recall the description of it which had been
given to me.

I looked toward the foot of the bed, half-
expecting, though my good sense repudiated
the notion, that something might happen.

I remained awake for a while, and found my
attention fixed somehow upon the foot of the
bed, though I tried my best to divert my
thought to other objects and ideas. Presently
my sharp attention was.suddenly attracted.
There was no mistake about it; it was a fin-
ger which projected about an inch above the
top of the rail, as if feeling for a hold!

The finger, another finger, and then another
rose very slowly into view. All five digits
were in sight! I acknowledge that my hair
stood on end.

But I retained my presence of mind, and, as
the whole hand—a white and ghostly hand like
that of a corpse—lifted itself above the foot-
rail, I reached gently and quietly beneath my
pillow and grasped my revolver. It was a
trusty weapon, and courage came back to me
as I took hold of it . Yet, I thought of what
use is a pistol against a ghost?

Nevertheless, as cautiously as I could, I
levelled the revolver at the phantom hand
and took careful aim. I may say inciden-
tally that I am a very good pistol shot.

Bang!

I fired—and an instant later I was writhing
in agony on the floor, my yells of anguish
quickly bringing the family to my assistance,
in spite of their belief in the ghost.

It was my own foot that I had shot. The
bullet went clean through it, between the
bones of the great and second toes. I had not

The

missed my aim.

I found the- explanation after a time.

footrail was very low and the mattress a little
too long. The result was that the bottom of
the bed was ‘“‘bumpy,’’ almost like a pillow,
and the sleeper’s feet were so high that his
toes were likely to stick up and show.
_iI have a habit, when lying awake, of plac-
ing the heel of one foot on the instep of the
other. I must have done this unconsciously,
hence the slow rising into view of the shad-
ow hand. My excited imagination must have
filled in the details.

a 0 rr

The Broken Trust;

>

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

Author of “A Wife's Peril,” ‘‘Lady Ona’s Sin," ‘‘A Hand
Without a Wedding Ring,” ‘Dora Thorne,” ‘‘How
Will It End,” ete.

(“THE BROKEN TRUST’? was commenced in No. 39.
Back numbers cgn be obtained of all newsdealers,)
CHAPTER XLI.,
LOVE’S RECOMPENSE,

They saved his memory as much_as possible,
Had he lived the story of his fraud must. have

 

stepped forward to the sidé of a tall, black
domino and the moment she laid her hand upon
his arm a shock went quivering through her,
for she instantly became conscious of a famil-
iar presence.

“‘Winifred!’’ whispered her companion.

“Roger!’’ was all that the startled girl could
articulate, for she was taken so completely by
surprise.

“‘Yes,’’ he returned, “I have been studying
every figure in the hall, and I was sure I had
penetrated your domino. The moment you
stepped to my side I was convinced I had not
been mistaken, so dared to speak.”’

“T am afraid you aré imprudent,’’ said Wini-
fred, still in an almost inaudible tone.

“Yes, I know I have been guilty -of an un-
pardonable breach of etiquette, in coming here
without an invitation, but you are going
abroad in a few days, and I could not let you
go without one last word—especially after
what happened last Monday,’ the young man
returned in a hopeless voice, then inquired:
“Where can I see you alone, just for five min-
utes?’’

“Roger!—I.am afraid it will not be right,”
faltered Winifred, and actually trembling in
view of what might happen if her husband
should learn that her former lover was in the
house.

“Only for five short minutes,’ he pleaded;
“T am sure no one will miss you for that little
while.”’

“Well, then, I will manage to slip away from
the supper-room for a few moments, just be-
fore we return here to the ball-room and come
to you in the alcove back of the library—in
the other house, you know—can you find it?’

‘Yes, I will be there,’’ was all that Roger had
time to say, for at that instant there came the
order to “‘change’’ again, and Winifred was
obliged to pass on.

(To be continued.)

THE GREEN’S GHOST.

It was a lucky acicdent that my friend John
Green—that was not his real name, but will
do as well as any other—secured for the win-
ter a very desirable residence at a surprising-
ly low rent. The reason of it was that the
dwelling was said to be haunted.

Where there is a ghost, there must be a
ghost story, and the tale connected with the
mansion taken by my friend Green was so
odd and absurd that I feel obliged to tell it in
as few words a& possible. :

A certain diplomat connected with the Ger-
man, or perhaps the Austrian, Embassy, as a
second or third secretary, had been appointed
to his place through the influence of cer-
tain noble relatives at home who were anxious
to get rid of him. He was the sort of man
who, in an earlier age, would have pursued
the comparatively lucrative profession of |
robber baron, and would have done well at it,
but in these later days he was a failure, and,
while evincing a decidedly predatory inclina-
tion, was eventually reduced to borrowing
money wherewith to maintain himself.

Under these circumstances, it is not sur-
prising that his influential kinfolk should have
been glad to see him provided with profitable
employment in a foreign land. 5 :

Being possessed of a title, an aristocratic
manner and a superb mustache, much waxed
at the ends, this high-born adventurer had no
difficulty in securing a wealthy bride.

The next step was to get rid of her, with a
view to obtaining possession of the fortune
which he had persuaded her to leave to him
by will, and this he accomplished by holding
her head under water in the bath.

The occurrence was attributed to a fit, and
nobody thought of suspecting the robber
baron, who soon afterward left for his native
country; having converted his wife’s estate
into ready money. See

This is the story of the origin of the ghost
as it was told to me. For my own part, I con-
sidered it wholly nonsensical, and was sur-
prised to find that my friend Green’s daugh-
ters, Agnes and Katherine, believed in it
thoroughly. Anyhow, the mansion, as I have
said, was rented astonishingly cheap by rea-
son of the ghost, and to the latter on this
account the Greens had every reason to feel
indebted.

I have to thank them for the frankness
which they exhibited in telling me that the
room allotted to me, on the occasion when [{
became their guest for a night, was the par-
ticular haunted chamber. It was rather a_pe-
culiar kind of a ‘‘haunt,’’ judging from their
description, though it ought to be explained
that none of them had ever seen it, or heard
it or felt it. <

The account of it, indeed, came to them
from other sources—from people who knew
the femily which had once inhabited the dwell-
ing. None of the Greens had ever dared to

 

occupy,the room. They were kind enough to

peen made pupic, “Now, there seemed little

need for the great scandal. Sir Vivian Aynsley

shrank from bringing so strange a story into

the papers, and from being pointed out as ‘‘the

—e who was cheated out of his estates, you
now.

Lord Damar was, perhaps, the one most
anxious for the secret to be kept. The idea
that his beautiful, stately daughter had been
for many months the betrothed wife of a
nameless, penniless adventurer filled him with
annoyance. He would not have such a stain
upon her name for all the wide world. Care-
less his lordship might be of other things, he
was careful enough of her reputation. Nor
was the firm of lawyers, so skillfully imposed
upon, less anxious. Such a scandal would add
nothing to their professional repute.

So that, by all those most interested, it was
agreed the history of Paul Lynne’s sin should
be buried with him. Some few were obliged
to know, but they did not tell; others guessed,
but said nothing of it, for the grave in the
country was plain and simple; a marble cross
stood at the head, saying, in a few brief
words, that Paul Lynne slept there.

The day after the sad tragedy in Belgrave
square, Lord Damar sent for Sir Vivian Ayns-
ley. The young officer was surprised to see the
change that had come over the cynical noble-
man,

“Vivian,” he cried, ‘‘this affair has quite un-
nerved me. I cannot forget it—not that I care
about the man himself, but think what a nar-
row escape it has been for Blanche. If any-
thing had happened—if they had been mar-
ried—it would have killed me, I believe. Only
imagine such an exposure when my daughter
was his wife!’’

“Tt is an escape,’’ said Sir Vivian. ‘‘Does
Blanche know anything about it?’’

“Not yet,” returned: his lordship. ‘‘To tell
you the truth, it was to consult you on that
very matter I sent for you. She ought to
know—and she should not discover it from
the papers; but I declare to you I do not kaow
how to write. I persuaded her to marry him;
she could not endure him, and I shrink from
telling her what has happened.”’

“Do you want me to do it for you?’ asked
Sir Vivian . :

“Tt would be a great relief to me if you
would,’”’ replied his lordship with some anima-
tion. ‘‘I should deserve her indignation; you
are not to blame. If you could find time to
run down to Cowes, you would see her the
first thing in the morning.” :

“J will do it with pleasure,’ said the young
soldier. ‘‘Lady Blanche waits daily, I sup-
pose, to know the time fixed for her marriage;
it would be terrible for her to read of his
death in the papers. I can only stay an hour
or two, as there is so much business to be at-
tended to; but I will go, and lose no time.” —

It was still early on the bright sunshiny
morning when Lady Blanche, weary of the
house, weary of the prospect before her, of her
own thoughts and everything else in the world,
walked slowly down to the water’s edge. She
rebelled against her fate, but she had no hope
of evading it. She envied the fisher girls who
passed her with songs on their lips. Down to
the water’s edge; the waves came rolling in,
fresh and crisp, breaking into sheets of
creamy foam and spreading over the golden
sands: the morning sunbeams shone upon the
sca, until it resembled a mass of heaving gold.

She sat down upon a large piece of fallen
rock and watched the rising tide. Ah, dear
heaven, year after year the tide would ebb
and flow, it would chant the same grand an-
them, it would smile and rage, caress and de-
ceive, while she would be—where? Hating the
sunrise and the sunset, loathing the needs that
took her from the man she loved and gave her
te the one she despisd, hating the beauty for
which he loved her, the life which would only
terture her. Tears rose unbidden to her eyes.

 

 

 

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She did not often indulge in them, but the
contrast between the light, sunshiny morning,
and her own bleak, cheerless life was so great
a feeling of pity for herself, a sentiment quite
new to Lady Blanche arose within her.

es “Blanche,’’? said a deep, rich voice near her.

Why ere you weeping? What are yeu think-
ing of this bright morning?’’

She turned hastily, the tears still wet on her
long eyelashes, and saw the lover trom whom
she had parted in bitter sorrow, near her. She
rose from her seat, and tried coldly to bid him
welcome, but the color faded from her beauti-
ful face, and she had no word to say.

‘““Have you heard any_ news, Blanche?” he
asked, anxiously, ‘“‘that I see trace of tears?’

“No,” she answered, “there could be no
news that could move me so, unless—noting
has happened to my father?’

“No,” he replied, gently.
asked me to come.’
re “He asked you to come?” she said, bitterly.

Have you been offered a peerage, that you
should be an acceptable visitor to Lord Da-
mar’s daughter?”

“Something very unforeseen and terrible has
happened,”’ he said, ‘‘and Lord Damar thought
I could bring you the intelligence.”

Still no idea of the truth entered her mind.

“What is it?” she asked. “Do not fear to
tell me. Is it duns or bailiffs, or is papa quite
ruined? Have no fear, ever since I was ten
ore I have been waiting for some such

Ws.

“Tt is more than that. You did not love Sir
Alan, Blanche, and he was even less worthy
your liking than you believed him to be. I
have come to tell you the contract that bound
zou two together is null and void--you are

ee.

A beautiful, tender gleam of light came over
her face.

areal she cried, raising her face to the
morning skies. ““Free! how can it be, Vivian?’

“T do.not want te startle you,’’ he said. ‘““You
axe tree, because he is dead.”

Dead! It was not possible; why, it seemed
only yesterday that he had left her full of life,
and strength, and animation. Dead! While
the sun shone, and the crisp, fresh waves
broke with a musical ripple on the shore!

“T am very sorry,’ she replied, gently. “I
did not like him, but I am sorry he is dead.
How and when was it?’

Suddenly, while the sad gravity stole over
her beautiful face she remembered that the
man before her was now Master of Carsdale,
in his own right, and that she was free.

“T almost begin to wish,’” he said, ‘‘that
oe one else had undertaken to tell you the
story.” ;

“Not so,” she replied, gently; ‘“‘whether it be
goo. er evil report, let me hear it from your
ips.

She sank again upon the piece of fallen rock
and he upon the sands at her feet.

He never forgot the horror in her face as he
told of the base, shameful fraud. She only
interrupted him once, to ask him, with quiv-
ering lips, how she ought to thank God best
that she had escaped such a man. Horror, in-
dignation, shame, scorn, all these died away
when he told her of Esther Bruce’s agony.

“He could not have been all bad,’’ she mur-
mured, ‘“‘or such a girl would never have loved
him so much.”

Lady Blanche wept over Hsther as she had
never wept over herself.

“J always thought that girl was noble,’’ she
said, “her face struck me from the first; and
he was the lover over whom she nearly died!
Oh, Vivian, how she has suffered!’

“Yes,” he said, gravely, ‘‘and pitiful as was
his life, cowardly his death, her love throws a
halo over both. Blanche, Carsdale is mine
now; it ought to have been mine long ago.
value it as I value my title, because my dar-
ling, they will win you. Lord Damar, will not
say nay when I ask for his daughter.”’

She made no reply, but a look of great con-
tent came over the beautiful face, such an ex-
pression of perfect peace and rest as he had
not seen there since the December day when,
under the gray light of the wintry sky, she
had said farewell to her love.

“We will not speak of that time now,” said
@ir Vivian; ‘‘when the grass has grown upon
his grave, and the mists of death have passed,
I shall come again, Blanche, and ask you to
be my wife.”

For one-half moment she thought she must
«be dreaming—his wife! When only an hour
before she had been weeping over her lost
and blighted future.

Sir Vivian had left Lady Blanche where he
had found her—on the sands. it was under-
stood between them that his visit should Det.

‘ c

“Tt was he who

must keep the‘dead man’s secret,
Lady Belmont was
morning paper in her
Lady Blanche with tears and condolences.
“So very shocking, my dear, so terrible.

have heard the news, I see.

“Yes, I have heard,’ replied Lady Blanche,

in a faint, trembling voice.
“Killed by the sudden explosion of
volver,’ said Lady Belmont.

a

Carsdale.
late baronet’s.”’

‘Ainsi va le monde—the man who had loved
the world with so terrible and fatal a love was

forgotten before he was buried.
And Lady Blanche,
repeated:

“How could she best thank God for having

escaped such a man?”

CHAPTER XLII.
DAWN OF HAPPINBESS.

When the May flowers bloomed next spring

there was a grand wedding at Woodale.

Lord Damar’s only daughter, the beautiful
and accomplished Lady Blanche, married Sir

Vivian Aynsley of Carsdale.

The day was one of the fairest—there was

sitting aghast, with the
hand; she overwhelmed

No
wonder you look white and bewildered. You

re-
“Poor Sir Alan!
That handsome young officer will be Lord of
I always preferred his style to the

by night and by day,

no cloud in the deep blue sky, the sunbeams
fell warm and bright, the sweet south wind
was laden with the odorous breath of spring
flowers, the hawthorne was white upon all
hedges, the grass green in the meadows, the
birds sang a thousand songs—while Sir Vivian,
remembering the December day when he part-
ed from the only woman he loved, felt that his
present happiness was without limit or bounds.

There had been no trouble over his succes-
sion to Carsdale. Soon as Paul Lynne was
laid in his grave, Sir Vivian went down to the
Abbey, where he was received with warm wel-
come, as are all new sovereigns. One of his
first acts was to order from Paul Westerne a
large painting of Alan Wayne, to be copied
from -the little sketch that had been of such
value to him. Those who had never heard,
whom even the faintest rumor of the story
had never reached—wondered why the dark
face of Sir Alan Aynsley did not appear with
the other portraits. Sir Vivian also besought
the artist to continue the picture he had com-
menced for the late master of Carsdale.

“You must not forget Alan Wayne’s last
letter, Mr. Westerne,’’ said Sir Vivian. ‘He
prayed me, whenever I met you, to be your
best and truest friend. You must not deprive
me of the pleasure of fulfilling his wishes.”’

But it was long before gentle, tender-hearted
Paul Westerne could forget the man who, de-
spite his faults and crimes, had been good to
him. There was one thing the artist noted.
Edith, who never touched peach or grape sent
by Paul Lynne, enjoyed the dainty fruits and
rare wines that found their way from Cars-
dale, and never made the slightest objection
to receiving them.

With the discovery and the restoration of
the rightful heir to his estate, all Edith’s per-
tinacity vanished, she. knew that the _ fair-
haired boy who loved her so well was dead—
buried on the far-off A ralian shores, where
the waves of the mig ocean chanted his
requiem. She knew that he was at rest, the
wrong righted, the fraud discovered, and she
went on her way, quiet, gentle; devoted as she
haa ever been to her father.

But fate had something in store for Edith.
Lord Helstone, when he had been Paul
Lynne’s great friend, was captivated with her
fair face and gentle wisdom. He made fre-
quent visits to the artist’s studio, he ordered
several paintings, and, finding that after each
visit he grew worse instead of better, Lord
Helstone proposed for Miss Edith Westerne and
was quietly accepted.

So quietly that the artist was puzzled. They
had been married in a perfect whirlwind of
rapture. He could not understand the placid,
ealm manner.

He thought then, as he thought often after-
ward, that all the romance of his daughter’s
life lay buried in Alan Wayne's grave. Yet
Lady Helstone was very happy; though better
than™~-diamonds or jewels, or any costly treas-
ure, she valued the little square picture;
though when quite alone, her serene, lovely
eyes wore a dreamy, far-off look, as though
she were watching the waves beat on some
far-distant shore. Ah! there are few lives
without some such secret.

Sir Vivian most faithfully executed Alan
Wayne's last wishes. He was_a true and con-
stant friend to the artist. He sent out to
Wabash and caused a monument to be erected
there for Edgar Wayne. He did still more,
he sent out his own steward to Otana, who
took down the gravestone bearing the name
of Paul Lynne and in its place there rose a
stately white marble monument, bearing the
name, the rank, the age of him who slept so
quietly below.

* * * * oe * * *

One lovely evening in June a group that
Watteau could have done justice to were as-
sembled on the lawn at Carsdale.

The slanting sunbeams fell upon the grand
old Abbey, gilding the walls and tinting the
ivy-clad turrets with flame. The summer sky
was blue and bright as the sky of Italy. On
the lawn the acacia was in full bloom and its
white blossoms fell on the soft, thick grass.
From over the meadows came the perfume of
the newly mown hay and the pink hawthorne,
the golden laburnum drooped its delicate blos-
soms; the fragrant lilac lifted its plumes, a
thousand flowers yielded their fragrance; roses
in whose crimson breasts purple_ butterflies
lay sleeping; white lilies, whose golden hearts
gleamed brightly. The birds were singing of
love and beauty, and all that makes life fair.

Under the spreading shade of a large cedar
sits Lady Blanche Aynsley, the sunbeams
glistening in the diamonds fastened round her
white throat. Time has added to her beauty,
and has changed it, The proud defiance has
a = eee 2. C + >

 

left her lips;
in her dark eyes.

She looks what she
woman
Vivian Aynsley, who is

feat.
many years ago in the

In another part of the garden, in
is a sunny-haired little girl,

look of gravity on her beautiful face.
whom every one admires for_ her
beauty,
long ago won
failed to keep it.

face;

tells no common sorrow has fallen to her lot.
For many long
Belgrave wodge,

 

 

 

HE ills of women overshadow their whole lives.
Some women fre constantly getting medical treatment

and are never well.

‘*A woman best understands wo-

men’s ills,’? and the women who

consult Mrs. Pinkham find

her counsel practical assistance.

grim King Death. When she recovered it was
to find Lady Blanche her true and steadfast
friend.

The mistress of Carsdale would never let
Esther leave her again. She remained with
her some years as companion, and then, when
the children required a governess, Lady
Blanche would not hear of any one save
Bsther. A stranger walks across the lawn, the
young Curate of Oulston, the Rev .Max Her-
well, and he approaches Lady Aynsley with
some degree of nervous trepidation in his. man-
ner. After some few words of greeting he
turned to her.

“Have you pleaded for me as you promised—
is there any hope?”

Lady Blanche looked grave—a look half of
pity came.over her fair face .

“T have done my best, Mr. Herwell,’”’ she
said, “but I am afraid—l do not like to give
you pain—but I am afraid it is all useless.”

The curate’s noble face grew pale, even to
the lips.

“T hope against hope,” he said; ‘‘it seems to
me such love as mine must meet with some
return. If I must bear the disappointment, I
will meet it like a man; at the same time I
would do anything to avert it. She will give
me no chance of speaking myself?”

“TI will make another effort to-night,’’ said
Lady Blanche, good-naturedly, ‘“‘If that fails
you must give up all hope.”

“Tf that fails I shall go out as a missionary,”
said the young man, sadly. “I could not re-
main here.’’

Sir Vivian came up and claimed his atten-
tion; then Lady Aynsley rising, went over to
where the white, odorous lilies grew in rich
proiusion.

“Violet,” she said to her little daughter,
“run away and play. I wish to speak to Miss
Bruce.’’ s

The child ran after a gorgeous butterfly.

“BMsther,”’ said Lady Blanche, ‘I came to
make a last appeal to you—is there any hope
for Max Herwell; he is good and true, so de-
yoted to you. Could you not be happy with
him, could you not love him if you tried? You
are too young to shut all love and hope from
your life.”

The sweet, south wind brought the odorous
breath of the lilies to them, and Esther, stoop-
ing down, gathered a tall, white one. She
took from out its shining leaves the golden
‘heart, and crushed it with her fingers.

“See, Lady Aynsley,’ she eried, ‘‘is there
anything now that can restore life and
strength to the flower?’

“No, was the grave reply.

‘What you see I have done to the heart of
this beautiful lily,’ said Esther, ‘‘was done to
mine; it was so hopelessly erushed; nothing
can put life or love into it again, nothing can
restore it.”

“You are so young, Esther,’ said Lady
Aynsley, ‘‘and so fair to see; is it quite im-
possible” — ‘

“Quite,” replied Esther, “in all my life I
have loved only Raul Lynne. We do not know
what passes in another world. I may meet
him there, the mantle of sin that shrouded
him when he died fallen from him. Whether
eternity restores him to me or not, I must be
true to him, true to him in life and in death.
Say no more to me, I ask no greater happi-
ness than to serve you and your children until
I die.”’

Max. Herwell never forgot her as he-saw her
that evening amid the odorous white lilies,
her peautiful, patient face raised to the sky,
and the shining leaves clasped in her hands.
She remained with them until her death. When
Esther Bruce died they found her little Bible
and in it was written in her own hand: ‘The
wages of sin is death.”

THE END.

o~

THE COBBLER WHO LOVED A QUEEN.

General Gilbert Motier, Marquis de la Fay-
ette, lived in the old family chateau at Cha-
vaniac, in Auvergne, a large seignorial build-
ing. Not far away tall forests of beeches
and: chestnuts arose. Under the dim green
light of these broad woodlands dwelt in their
rude cabins, and labored shoulder to shoulder,
charcoal burners and resin gatherers, bushel
makers and coopers, cobblers and fashioners
of clapboards and laths—the whole tribe of
workers in wood.

To this company belonged an orphaned cob-
bler boy, pensive, timid and silent, who, apart
from the rest, cut and clipped, pared and point-

 

 

» 4 vv aa rs
there are beautiful gleams of
tenderness in her lovely face, a layyhing: light

is—a perfectly happy

The light in her eyes deepens as they rest
upon the handsome face and fair hair of Sir
vainly trying to teach
his son and heir some wonderful gymnastic

Lady Aynsley called her first born son Alan,
in memory of the young kinsman who died so
strange, distant land.
He is a noble, beautiful boy, with_ his moth-
er’s Spanish eyes and his father’s Saxon face,
a wilder-
ness of odorous lilies and crimson roses, there
and by her side
stands her governess, a lady with a patient
A lady
strange
the dark eyes and golden hair that
the heart of Paul Lynne, yet

There is a strange story in the sad, fair
the shock of horror has fied out of it,
the awful look of terror has left the large,
lustrous eyes, but the face of Esther Bruce

months after that tragedy in
Esther had lain fighting with

ed, hollowed and polished the sabots that he
e = is arazou. And, because

set out a little picture of Marie Antoinette,
that he was in love with their beautiful queen.
Paris to the castle of Chavaniac. It was in

played the pastoral under the leadership of M.
de Florian,

of the land,
and millers,
shepherd girls and milkmaids.
all wore sabots, dainty ones,

disguised
as country schoolmasters,

the first among them.
which the good
to the eager listeners
ests; and Darazou was
tener of them all.
“The Queen, then,
le Marquis?’’
ey an?°
“And
to her,
“Surely,
fine enough for our )
And Dazarou was off. Night

wears wooden shoes, M.

M. le Marquis?’’

gentle Queen.

truth a handsome
his choice;

wife and the aged dame.
pair of sabots, 2
asked for M. le Marquis.

“Tt is I,” he said, ‘‘and
shoes.”’

“You have made them
they might be for your
are beautiful;

 

in

PRACTICAL

Mrs. Pinkham’s address is Lynn,

Mass.

HELP FOR

Mrs. Masel, Goon, Correction-

ville, Ia., tells how Mrs. Pinkham

saved her life. She says:, -

‘‘T cannot thank you enough for

what your medicine has done
me.

WOMEN

for

SUFFERING

will give them to the Queen.”’

yood, narrow and elegant,

wreathed above it these four tetters, ©". ‘T.

2?
.

it a little. The Marquis

in Auvergne.
Darazou hurried home, and underneath his

 

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tiny portrait of the Queen he heavily traced
in black the four mystical characters. | Gen-
eral de la Fayette-left for Paris, carrying to
Trianon, as he had promised, the sabots of
Auvergne; nor did he forget to tell their story,
for the Court was ever ready for a shepherd’s
tale.

The Queen was greatly pleased; real country
sabots from the hands of a real sabot-maker
of the mountains! And so quaint and queer!

“Phe heart surrounded with rays I under-
stand; but T. T. L._V., Marquis?’ |

“Your majesty alone can permit or com-~
mand me to declare their meaning.’”

“T listen, Marquis. I permit you.’

“™aimerai touta la vida.” ‘

Marie Antoinette, greatly
puzzled.

“Auvergne peasant language. Otherwise, Je
t’aimerai toute la vie—'ll love thee my whole
life long;’ and M. de la Fayette laughed
heartily. Not so the Queen, and she said noth-

“Well?” exclaimed

Phe curious fact is that my simple young
cobbler adores you under the form of a small
image, yet very like your Majesty.’

“Brave boy! Poor fellow!’ murmured the
Queen, deeply moved. ‘The sabots, M. le Mar-
quis, are, I think, a little large; but so much
the better for the reward;’’ and Marie Antoi-
nette spoke low in the ear of the Princess de
Lamballe, who took the sabots, went out
quickly, bringing them well filled with gold.

“Marquis, put this gold in a casket and send
iteto your cobbler with the Queen’s best
thanks, and tell him, too—no, tell him nothing
more.” And General de la Fayette laid in
a handsome box and_ sent to Chavaniac the
two sabotfuls of- gold, and the Queen’s ac-
knowledgments.

Marie Antoinette was pleased to put the sa-
bots on; yes, they were a trifle large, as she
had thought, and she might even have fallen
had there been time for her to wear them. But
it was the vigil of the revolution.

The revolution passed like whirlwind blasts,
with even greater fury. Already Callot d’Her-
bois had brought an indictment against Gen-
eral de la Fayette; already the. bright, golden
head of the Princess de
a pole, had been earried through the boule-
vards of Paris. Darazou, in his quiet mountain
home, knew it; and it took the color from his
face and sent anguish to his heart. And, final-
ly, when he heard that the royal family had
been taken to prison, he grew more sad and
yserious; and one morning he was missing from

 

under an old musket hanging in his hut he mad’
the rest laughingly whispered to one another

One day General de la Fayette came from
those days that at Trianon the French Court

captain of the Dragoons, and the
rich grand seigneurs, and the fair great ladies
themselves as swains
as

"Tis said they
to be sure, but
veritable wooden shoes, with Marie Antoinette
Such was the story
Marquis de la Fayette brought
in his neighboring for-
there, most eager lis-

if I made her a pair you’d take them
if you can make such as shall be

and day he
worked, nor stopped until he had made in
pair, such as the Auvergne
peasant fondly fashioned for the maiden’ of
and they—for they are the wed-
ding sabots—are ever treasured by the young

Darazou, with his
knocked at the chateau and

here are the wooden

well, to ‘be sure; and
sweetheart, for they
and you may be sure that I

‘And indeed they were beautiful; of chestnut
finely set and
carved with delicate ornament; upon the toe
was wrought a heart encireled with rays, and

: As for the point, since it was for a
royal foot, the simple cobbler had exaggerated
i took the sabots and
carefully examined them, admiring them, yet
smiling too; for well he knew the meaning of
the letters written on the shoes of every fiance

Lamballe, mounted on

 

his hut, a pretty box wide open, the old mus-
ket gone, and the picture of the Queen.

The poor youth had started for Paris on
foot, with his musket at his side, with all the
golden louis sewn in his drugget vest and the
picture of Marie Antoinette hung round his
neck. In his love and his ingenuousness he
had thought nothing less than that he could
save the Queen. He traveled by night, keep-
ing to the wood by day, weary, famished, but
ever going on. ‘

Finally he reached the city on the 17th of
October, 1793, worn and ill and mad with rage
and tenderness. In the Place de la Bastille he
accosted a patriot, wearing a Phrygian bonnet,
armed with a club.

“Which is the way to the prison?’ he asked.

‘What do you want to do-at the prison?”

“Rescue the Queen?’’

“The Austrian? Yesterday she was done
for,’’ replied the patriot with a ferocious ges-
ture and a stupid sneer.

The youth, pale, quickly raised his musket;
but the patriot anticipated him with a blow
that laid him senseless, upon the ground.

‘““An aristocrat! Down with the aristocrat!”

And a crowd collected and -“rummaged the
body. On his breast they found the portrait
of Marie Antoinette with the four suspicious |
letters, T. T. I. V. Here was a means of |
identification—this man a conspirator from
Coblentz, a traitor to the nation! Furious cries |
arose; and they carried him to the river and |
there they threw him, the poor eobbler of |
Auvergne, the lover of the unfortunate Queen,
with his shining gold pieces in his waistcoat
and the sacred image on his heart.

<a ¢

PLEASANT PARAGRAPHS.

BY CHARLES W. FOSTER.

 

COOKING BY OBSERVATION.

Mr. Newwedded—‘“‘This coffee is weak as
water again.’’

Mrs. N.—‘‘I can’t account for it, my dear.
No matter how careful I am, it’s always the
same way.”

“Perhaps you don’t use enough coffee.”

“Nonsense! I put in a whole half eupful,
and everybody says that’s plenty.”

“Did you measure the water?’

“Huh! Who ever heard of measuring water?
All cooks pour it right out of_the tea-kettle.
I’ve seen ’em often—so there!”

GOT NO SYMPATHY.

Mr. Jay (of Wayback)—‘‘T just tell you what
it is—them there New Yorkers ain't no better
nor so many thieves, for them wot don’t steal
is in sympathy with them wot does.”’

Neighbor—‘‘Ye do-ayt say?”

“True es preachin’. I got a circular some
time ago from a New York firm offerin’ $2,000
wuth o’ fust-class counterfeit greenbacks for
$500. Well, I just jumped at it.”

“Tn course.”’ : :

‘Well, I raised $500 on a mortgage quicker’n
a wink an’ took th’ train fer New York. The
firm met me at the depot, took me to their
office, showed me the money, $2,000 of as purty
a printin’ as you ever looked at, put it in a
box fer me, took my $500, an’ accompanied me
back to the depot.”’

“Mighty perlite.’’

“Huh! Quick as they left I opened the box
fer another peep, an’ wot d’ye think I found—
nothin’ but wrappin’ paper an’ rags. Phew!
wasn’t I mad! I rushed about yellin’ ‘stop
thief!’ an’ a big crowd gathered, an’ when I
told ’°em how I'd been swindled, wot d’ye think
they did? They jes’ laughed.’’

A GOOD REASON.

Mrs. Takem—‘‘Huh! Pretty condition for |
you to come down in! Been drinking, have}
you?”

"Mr. Takem—‘‘All (hic) mishtake, m’ dear. I’m
all ri? (hic), dash whash I am.”

Mrs. Takem—‘‘Huh! Haven't been drinking,
eh? Then why do you talk as if your mouth
was full of mush?”

Mr. Takem—‘ ’Caush a shoft ansher turnesh
away wrath, m’ dear.”

EASILY AMUSED.
Young Man—‘‘I have been—er—very atten-
tive to your daughter for some time, and she
—er—has listened favorably to my suit. If you

 

will give your consent, I will do my best to
make her happy.’’
Olddad—‘‘Oh, that’s easy enough, my

Mr.

 

dear young end, easy . =r .
a blank check-book, to fill out as she pledses.”’

NO EXCUSE FOR THEM.
Mother—“‘I don’t see why you and your hus-
band should have so much trouble. You don't
belong to different churches, do you?”’
Daughter—‘‘No, mother.”’
Mother—‘Then there is no excuse for fight-
ing like cats and dogs.’’

HE KNEW HUMAN NATURE.

Stranger—‘‘Here is a little poem which I
submitted to a number of my nearest and
dearest friends, and they all said it was worth
printing.”’

Editor (who has friends himself)—“I am de-
lighted to get it, sir. A thing which a man’s
bosom friends fail to criticise must be about
perfect.”

A LITTLE TOO ENGLISH.

Chum—“What! You are not engaged to Miss
Hightone! Well, I declare! I thought surely
that would be a match.”’ '

Young Tremolo—‘‘I backed out. She was too
much a slave of fashion—too English, you
know.”’

“You amaze me.’’

“Fact. She wanted me to go by myself and
ask her father’s consent.”

THE BOILER BURST.

Gallant Cowboy (after a soul-wearying per-
formance by pretty hostess)—“‘Er—what was
that you just played?’

Miss Pianothumpp—‘ ‘Impromptu No. 976,’
by Poundowwhiski. Did you like it?’

Gallant Cowboy (with an effort)—‘‘Oh, yes,
yes; every note of it, as you play it—yes, in-
deed. I was entranced by ._your—er—lovely
touch, you know. But if I ever catch that
composer, I’ll shoot him.”

THERE’S MANY A SLIP.

Toffer—‘‘Have a cigar, old boy. I’m afraid,
though, these are not very good. In fact, they
may be worse than those I gave you last.”

Friend (in a burst of politeness)—“‘Impossi-
ble, my dear boy, impossible.”

SELECTED PLEASANTRIES.

NO CREDIT FOR GOOD INTENTIONS.—
“Some people,” said the boy, “never thank ye,
no matter what ye do fur ’em. A feller put
a bent pin on the teacher’s chair th’ other
day, an’ when the teacher was about to set
down I pulled the chair out from under him
to save him frum the pin. An’, by George, he
licked me fur it!’’—Chicago Tribune,

WHAT MADE IT LIGHT.—‘‘Why don’t you
put out the gas?’ he asked sleepily.

“T have,’ replied his wife scornfully. ‘‘All
that remains to be done now is to powder your
nosé.’’—Chicago Post.

TOO ZEATLOUS.—Ida—‘They
didn’t succeed as a nurse.”’

May—‘‘No; she aroused the patient every few
minutes to ask him if he was resting easy.’”’—
Chicago News.

HELPS THE DOCTOR.—‘‘Do you make
much out of your apples?’’ asked the visitor.

“Oh, pretty considerable,’ answered the far-
mer; “but I’ve got a son up in the town who
makes more out of the apples in a month than
I make the whole season.”

“A farmer, is he?’’

“No: he’s a doctor. I’m talking about green
apples now.’’—Yonker’s Statesman,

WILLING TO ASSIST.—‘‘The gradual accu-
mulation of wealth in a few hands,” said the
rich young man, “is a serious problem.”’

“True,’? replied the poor girl, ‘but in indi-
vidual cases the danger may be at least par-
tially eliminated by securing the proper assist-
ance in disposing of what accumulates. There
are, you know, some fields of human endeavor
in which woman is pre-eminent.’’—Chicago
Post.

ACCOUNTED FOR.—Hoax—“I wonder why
it is the noblemen who come over here give
themselves so many airs?”

Joax—‘‘Oh, I suppose it’s because we give
them so many heiresses.’’—Philadelphia Rec-
ord.

NO MORE RETAINERS—‘No,” said the
convicted saloon-keeper,. “I won’t have you
to defend another case for me,” ;

“But,” his lawyer protested, “you know you
were guilty and you know, too, that the evi-
dence against you was overwhelming.”’

“Oh, I don’t deny that, but after having the
ease postponed four times you run out of ex-
cuses. A lawyer what ain’t got no more re-
sourees than that can’t git fees from me.”—
Chicago Times-Herald.

say Maud

 

 

 

CRUSHING THE OLD MAN.—Purse Proud
Father—‘‘Can you support my daughter in the
style to which she has been accustomed?”

Complacent Young Man—‘‘I could if I were
contented with it, but I hope to give her some-
thing better.’’—Somerville Journal.

MADE LIGHT OF IT.—Jiggs—‘‘I tell you
what it is, it takes a baby to brighten up a
house.’’ ;

Newpop—‘‘That’s right. Our first arrived
three months ago, and we’ve been burning gas
at all hours of the night ever since.’’—Catholic
Standard and Times.

 

 

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SELF-SEALING PIE TIN

has a crimped rim which holds both

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A Beautiful Gloman
Is Nature’s Masterpiece,

Beauty fades from various causes. It should be wo-
man’s study how to preserve longest that measure of
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Published by STREET & SMITH, and elegantly bound in
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Address
STREET & SMITH,

238 William St., N. Y.

 

 

 

An Open Letter to = -
READERS OF

The New York Weekly

For many years we have been en-
deavoring to make a paper to suit your
taste, and. the enormous circulation
which we hold steadily as time goes by
proves that we have correctly inter-
preted the desires of the reading public.

Three years ago we introduced the
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THE BRIGHTER DAY,

““There’s a brighter day a-coming,”’
Don’t you know?
Don’t you know?

the chorus
As you go.

There’s a day of golden hours

And sunny April showers

That'll freshen all the flowers,
Don’t you krow?

Keep humming—humming

““There’s a brighter day a-coming,”
Don’t you know?

Hark! the regiments are drumming
High and low;

For Joy has slipped his tether,

And Joy and Hope’s together,

And we’re marching to fair weather,
Don’t you know?

“There’’s a brighter day a-coming,”’
Sing it so!
Keep the chorus
As you go.
Bright
Sweet

humming—humming
skies above are blending,
messages are sending
And God’s love is unending

THE FR

>-@~<

ENCHMAN.

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

the

| fright,
| hnight!’’
*

and jumped overboard during

x *

you

*
never

*
met

sometimes think I do not
It would recall such a terrible

*
any

*
‘“‘And have of the
gince?’’

‘Never! I
to.
ence,

“But they seemed to have behaved so splen-
didly,’’ persisted my friend, ‘not only from
what you have told’me, but from the evidence
that came out in the paper. The captain must
be a grand man, and the first mate inter-
ests me enormously. He ought to have fallen
in love with you.”’

We were sitting on the top the cliffs
near a small village in Normandy. A blue sky
above us, a bluer sea before us, Stretches of
flower-laden grass and yellow. cornfieids
around us; butterflies, bees and birds all re-
joicing in the sunshine, and feeling, like my-
self, that life was pleasant and beautiful, and
worth living. Anything contrary to the pres-
ent seemed an evil dream—to be dispelled as
soon as thought of.

But Ada Roberts, with whom I was travel-
ing, had had no evil experiences of life, and
to her real tragedies were but as penny nov-
elettes. I disliked talking of my sufferings at

men

want

experi-

of

 

 

Sea, not only that they had left me, for a
long time, much impaired in health, but there

 

was always in my mind connected with that
time a lurking fear that I should let out, by
some chance speech, the secret that I held in
common with the other occupants of the boat.

“That poor Frenchman!’ I heard Ada com-
menting. ‘It was so sad that he should have
been the only person to perish when everybody
else was saved. Did nobody try to rescue him
when he jumped overboard ?”’

“My dear, it was night, and I was asleep;

 

“Ah, mademoiselle, we are a great nation—
a brave nation! Can I never convince to you? }
Why will mademoiselle thus smile. Read of |
our, glorious past és |

At that momeut the ship gave a tremendvus |
Jurch that upset the Frenchman’s equilibrium,
Stopped his tongue, and recalled to him his
mal de mer. The first mate and I laughed
it his agonized departure, for we were glad |
of a respite from the man’s everlasting brag |
of himself and his nation. |

We had been living through terrific weather |
the past week, and all felt battered and |
bruised the poor ship itself. The still |
ran high, which kept most of the passengers |
in their berths, though now and again some |
bedraggled, seasick wretch would crawl out]
to ir ‘e if the wind were abating. I sat in|
the saloon after the mate’s departure, an un-|
Willine listener to the groans and sounds
1round nite, and thanking heaven I was a well- |
seasoned sailor, when I heard the captain’s |
\ ring out: |
an the pumps!”’ i
y nautical knowledge is limited, but it was
icient to tell me what that meant: we had |
sprung a leak. The next minute my fears |
were confirmed, for the order came: |

“Every soul on deck!’’

|

as

AS sea

su

[ have read of shipwrecks by the score, be-
fore and since; but to recall that scene makes
me proud to be an Englishwoman. During
the short time, in which were crowded ali the
terrors of reality and imagination, there was
trace of panic or cowardice. The crew,
conscious of their peril, worked heroically; nor
were the men alone in the display of those |
qualities which are the only consolation to be
derived from these tragedies at sea. The |
women gave evidence of courage and self-de-
votion as they stood on deck, a small crowd |
cf white, patient faces, waiting for the boats |
to be lowered. No one pushed, no one}
Screamed, and yet there was fear enough writ- |
ten in the eyes ‘of many, and the attitude of
the children, as they clung on to their parents
betokened what they felt.

Of this exhibition of heroism, there was but
one exception, Held firmly between two men,
was @ kicking, writhing creature, in which I
recognized the Frenchman, pouring forth a
volley of blasphemous oaths, He had not been |
allowed his choice of seats in the first boat, |
and this is how he showed his resentment. The |
man was mad with fright, and if anything |
tended to restrain our own fears, it was the |
sight of this desperate coward.

The captain gave his orders calmly and firm- |
ly, and, the passengers being few, the boats
were soon filled, manned and provisioned.
intent had I been in watching the whole scene,
that I must have stood hidden behind some
of the crew, with the result:that for the last
boat there only remained the captain and the
first mate, the Frenchman, with his two jail-
ers, a few of the crew, and myself. “Not

i130

|

 

| you

| friend
| intentionally

his plain, blunt, sailor fashion.

and everything was put in the papers, which
you seem to have thoroughly read, so I can
tell you no more,”

[ am fraid Ada
my nerves were not of yore; we sat‘in
Silence, till my companion, getting restless,
Suggested returning to the hotel. I let her
alone, feeling the want of a little solitude, |
which, however, was not to be mine that aft- |
ernoon.

Ada had not left me five minutes when I ob-
served a man walking along the cliffs in my
direction, whose appearance struck me as
Slightly familiar. I looked again, and recog-
nized, in him—the first mate!

For a moment I hoped he would not know
me; but, as his eyes traveled in my direc-
tion, his face lit up with a beaming smiie,
and he came toward-me with outstretched |
hand. ;
“This is a pleasure, Miss Stewart, to meet |}
again!’’ i

I could only stumble out the commonplace |
remark of ‘‘How do you do?’ Memories over- |
whelmed me; but hig natural, unassuming |
manner quickly restored my _ self-possession,
and we were soon sitting together on the grass,
chatting on any ordinary topic of conversation, |
though by tacit consent we avoided the sub-|
ject of the shipwreck.

Most people under the circumstances would
have talked over their past adventures; but
the Frenchman stood between us.

I found he was staying at an
Same village, and now that the
I was over, I felt glad. The mate was

an unattractive person.

Ada was very excited at my meeting an old
for as_ such I introduced Mr. Barton—
keeping her in ignorance as to
where I had exactly made his acquaintance.

“Where did you meet him?” ghe asked.

‘In America,’’ was my vague reply.

‘‘Before you sailed in that unlucky ship?’

ei Raehce®

“Did you know him well?”

Oh, why had I a companion who would ask |
questions ?—they required so much evading.

Luckily, Mr. Barton divined my wishes, and
was equally discreet.

Those were blissful days!
piness, and all

thought I was cross, but

as SO

sO

 

|
|
|

hotel
chance

}
; }
in the
meet-
first
|
}
;

I drifted into hap-
owed myself to be carried along, |
Shutting my eyes to all possible breakers |
ahead. The first mate loved me, and I loved
the first mate, now known to my heart as
Tom. Most women say that proposals come |}

| unexpectedly; but I felt no surprise when Mr.

sarton told me he loved-me, nor did he

t | pear overwhelmed with astonishment when he
©O | Jearne

d that his affection was returned.

“Will you marry me, then?’ he asked,

hr
roe
in|
:

Why at that moment did the parrot-like re-

frain sing in my ears: ‘‘We are a great nation

—a brave 2 ie ;
z i , ; é 2 red a social’ ci

eetore lL can sive you any answer.” J said, | had enjoyed a social ¢ Dae eet ON

999

nation

vanila.
begins to freeze add the macaroons and sher-
ry

pineapple
|}one lemon and two oranges; add two quarts of
water and three cups of sugar, and freeze.

orange and add three cups of sugar and one
quart of

| clear.
Six
quart
more sugar.

one-half cupfuls of sugar.
of water;
1 to
| move
j} and strain through a fine muslin cloth.
| cold, add the strained juice of twelve oranges |
and two lemons and one pint of cold water. |
|} If not sweet enough, add more sugar.
it,

to ‘ i c
and no one can make me think differently.’’

<

[I sat speechless and petrefied; thought
seemed useless. Ada, of course, took him for
a madman, and Mr. Barton never took his eyes
off him, fearful of what he might do any mo-

ment.

“I Know _you now! Villain! Scelerat! It
was you! You would kill me, you would! Mis-
erable! I give you to the police at once! At
once we arrive in Paris, you are in prison! You
hear? The both—in prison!”

Thus he shouted and raved through the
whole jourhey, and many a time I thought he
would have flung himself on Mr. Barton in
his agitated fury. That journey seemed hours;
but at length we drew up about a quarter of
a mile before Paris was reached, as often hap-
pens. The “Frenchman, in his excitement,
thought we had arrived at the station, and,
Shrieking: ‘‘I call the police! You shall not
escape!”’ burst open the carriage door, and was
precipitated on to the line before he saw his
mistake.

At: that moment
rushed past us.
“Don’t look out!’’ exclaimed Mr. Barton to
1s.

But he did, and what he saw satisfied him
that we need never fear the Frenchman again.
* * - cK * * *

“Is it any use my proposing to you again?’

aSked Mr. Barton of me next day,

I gave him full permission.

an express from Paris

1

Conducted by J. D. R.

MACAROON ICE CREAM.

Take three dozen macaroons, put them into
a tin pan and place it in a moderate oven to
dry for ten minutes; remove them and lay on
a table to cool; then put them on a biscuit
board, and, with a roiling-pin, crush and roll
them fine. Now put them in a bowl and cover
with sherry wine, which takes about a pint.
Next take a quart of cream and a pint of
milk; sweeten it to taste and flavor it with |
Pour it into a freezer, and when it

and turn it until it is well frozen,
PINEAPPLE SHERBET,

Squeeze the juice from a large can of grated

and add to it the strained juice of

LEMON SHERBET.
Clip the yellow rind from one lemon and one
cook to a syrup. Skim it
add the strained juice of
and two oranges and one
If not sweet enough, add
and freeze.

of water, and
When cold,
arge lemons
of cold water.
Strain it
ORANGE SHERBET,
rind of four oranges on two and
Add to it one quart |
boiler and cook |
careful to re-
from the fire
When

 

 

Grate the
a double
being very
Remove

put it in
syrup,

the scum.

clear
all

a

Strain
and freeze.

AN AC

‘*Yes,”’
so,

een gtine Be ad

OF PROVIDENCE.

as he rose
by chance,

Amory,
is run

friend
world

cried my
“the whole

We had been spending an evening at whist,

and now that the game was over, we four e

>

ar before separating.

mottars
ar

know; but she’s as
She refuses, unless I can produce
calls proof of the high standing
and he has sent to France for the

“I thought for a moment, and -then said:

“*Was the wedding to have been at once,
before she made this demand?’

“**That’s it. I wanted her to have him, and
he wanted her at once, for we were to go to
the Continent together—and make the wedding
trip a sort of business trip, too. But—confound
it—you know the girl, and she has simply
backed out until the papers come. It’s all
right, though, and in two weeks the matter
will be arranged,’

“IT cogitated a little, and then said:

“ ‘Better have the settlement drawn while
you are waiting. I suppose you intend to give
Marcia everything, and you might make the
will and then have Dupray sign the settle-
ment, or at least have it all drawn up so that
it can.be signed when the time comes. [ am
free to tell you that I want to draw that
paper, for while your foreign son-in-law may
be the best fellow in the world, and willing
to promise everything now, I am going to put
British law about his neck, so that he will have
to keep his promise by-and-by if he should
want to change his mind.’

“The old man laughed.

“I knew you were always in favor of that
young doctor, and he’s a good enough fellow,
but now that a better man has come along
and wants my girl, and she is willing, he’s
going to have her. But it’s right that every-
thing should be done in proper form, and I'll
bring Dupray down in a day or two and we'll
fix the things up.’

‘Three days later, one afternoon, Leroy and
the Frenchman came into the office. Dupray
was as polite as one could ask, and yielded a
quick consent to all the Suggestions I made
with relation to th@-<papers to be executed:
but, somehow, as I hegan to write, I felt that
he was not friendly with me, and that he laid
it at my door that these papers were being
brought to a head so certainly before the mar-
riage.

“You may be sure that when that idea took
possession of my mind, I was stubborn enough
to determine that the papers should be drawn
and signed that day; and when Leroy “pro-
posed that they should leave me to my wriit-
ing, while they went and had a smoke, I said:

“““No, smoke here; and then when I want
you to sign I shall not have to run after you.

“And they sat down again.

“Leroy took out some cigars, and offered
one to the Frenchman and one to me. I de-
clined, as I do not like to smoke and work,

what she
of Dupray,
papers,’

 

and the Frenchman declined, Saying that he
preferred a pipe, produced from his inside
pocket a handsome meerschaum, and proceed-
ed to fill and light it.

“Remember that this was more than five
years since my brother-in-law had told me of
his foreign experience, and I doubt if I had
thought of it even for half that time.

“Well, the two men smoked and I wrote, but
all the time with that uneasy feeling that
sometimes comes when you are not in accord
with your surroundings, and it was with sat-
isfaction that after an hour I completed the
first draft of the paper and laid down my pen
to read it to the high contracting parties.

“AS turned in my chair with the agree-

stubborn as her old daddy. f

 

In a sermon by a Minneapolis clergyman the
assertion was made that not more than seven
out of a hundred church members were real
Christians. Every listener hugged himself, and
mentally declared that he was one of the
seven.

A. boat 15 feet beam, 48 feet long and 10 feet
deep is to convey Firmin Moindron, an old
sea captain, from California to the Paris Ex-
position. This vessel is to be hewn out of the
trunk of a redwood tree, and will be schooner-
rigged.

Eleven vessels are constantly kept
by the British Government making
the sea and recording shoals, rocks
lar submarine perils to navigation,
they charted 10,000 square
parts of the world.

A. natural snake-charmer was born in Caw-
ker City, Kansas. He is a boy named Claude
Bristow. When only five years old he para-
lyzed his mother by bringing to her a live
rattlesnake. No snake seemed disposed to
harm him. He now travels with a show as a
snake-charmer,

in service
charts of
and simi-
Last year
miles in various

A novel experience is chronicled by Mrs. W.
M. Schowengerat, of Independence, Mo. She
put on the stove a kettle of water to boil for
tea. As the water became warm, she heard
a splashing in the kettle, and presently saw
a snake’s head emerge from the spout, She
had filled the kettle from a cistern.

A. gay party of thirteen adventurers left Bos-
ton for Alaska eighteen months ago, Sailing
around Cape Horn, Storms of various sorts
assailed them, they lost one man overboard,
found very little gold, but a great deal of
Scurvy, lost their ship on a sandbar, and are
now returning with a great deal of bitter ex-
perience, and all dead broke.

A pompous police magistrate of Chicago was
investigating the f woman who had
tried to drown herself. ‘‘Did she give any-rea-
son for attempting suicide?’ he asked the po-
liceman who had rescued her. “She _ did.’’
““What was it?’ the magistrate inquired. -‘‘She
said she wanted to kill herself,’’ replied the
officer with a furtive wink at the court clerk.

case o a

 

At what

F age does a son outgrow parental
authority?

Monroe Hedges, of Anderson, Ind.,
thinks he has a right to whale his offspring
whenever the latter deserves it, no matter
what his age. He lately gave his eighty-year-
old son Hiram such a severe lathering that the
young fellow had to have his scalp dressed by
a surgeon. The old gentleman is in his 106th
year.

A Mormon church was in course of erection
in Beechburg, Ky., when a number of citizens
assembled with the intention of setting fire to
it. Learning that the building was insured,
they determined that the Mormons should not
claim money damages, so they deliberately
chopped it in pieces, making each piece of tim-
ber so small that it could not be used again,
unless for firewood.

>-o—~<

THETA Heetereserenrre rien

TECETPCCTATECR END Y PEED EEE tpee anys

 

 

ment in my hand, Leroy threw away the stud
of his third cigar, while the Frenchman re-
moved his pipe from his lips and drew nearer
to me to listen carefully to the legal bars that
he knew I was preparing to keep him out of
the money, I felt pleased to think that it was
so, and perhaps my face showed a trace too
much of that pleasure.

“As I began to read, the man
pipe in his mouth, and from
blew clouds of soft, aromatic
face; but as I was a smoker
termined not to allow this to disconcert me.
as I had no doubt he intended it to do, but
read steadily on. When an agreement had been
covered, I would pause and look at Leroy for
his approval, then continue to read.

“At one of these pauses, for no known rea-
son, my eyes turned upon the pipe held loose-
ly in the Frenchman’s hand as he sat listen-
ing at my side, and my heart leaped into my
very mouth as I saw that it was a Turk’s
head, small and with flowing hair and beard,
with an open, laughing mouth, wherein
gleamed a single small gold tooth.

“It was the pipe that my brother-in-law
had described to me as having been stolen
by his valet.

***May I see your handsome pipe?’
xtending my hand, while my eyes studied the
face of the Frenchman. ‘It certainly is a

his
time

my

de

replaced
time to
smoke in
myself, I

said I,

 

@ Soul was left on the sinking ship.

We lay out at sea, rising and falling on the
huge, swelling waves, watching the great, dark
hulk settle down and finally plunge into the
sea amid a whirlpool of rushing waters. It
was a heartrending sight. The sun went down
and darkness came on, and the whole night
through I lay in the bow of the boat, cold and
miserable, too frightened to either eat or sleep,
waiting only for the dawn, and wondering
what terrors were in store for us.

It is unnecessary to dwell upon the terrors
of such an experience, or to commend the
courage and devotion of the men who shared
these perils—the Recording Angel has written
them in another book. By next morning the
wind had dropped, and we found ourselves
sole occupants of the sea as far eye could
reach. The other boats had drifted we knew
not whither. The sense of an awful desolation
was too intense for description, and the days
and nights that followed were series of terri-
ble nightmares. Every moment of daylight
we were the lookout for rescue; now a
light, sail, roused up new hope and
energy, however, to plunge us into
deeper despair as they receded from view: |
Were they all ships that pass in the hight? |
we wondered.

The weather was good; but about the fourth |
lt overheard the captain wishing for rain, |
nd his face looked anxious.
‘Why,’’ I asked, ‘‘why do you want rain to}
add to our other miseries of cold and expos-|
ure?

Seeing’ it no good keeping me in ig-
rance, the first mate explained as kindly as
could that our water supply was running
Our food was scanty enough; but noth-
drink—oh, the horror of it!
Frenchman hitherto had kept fairly
[ think the presence of those stalwart
at such quarters overawed |
him, though he often ineffectually tried to
clutch at food and drink that were not his
portion, and which the first mate guarded and
doled out in equal portions twice daily to every
one. But when Monsieur understood that water
was searce, after swearing all unholy oaths,
he sat down and cried like a baby—howled, I}
may say. We were almost thankful to him,
for it gave us something to laugh at, which |
did us all good. But despair was in my heart,
for already I knew something of the agony of
thirst, which livi night and day in the open |
sea air brings on

When I woke next morning, for the first mo- |
ment something seemed different in the boat.
What was it I lacked? { looked from one
man to the other. How white and pinched
were their faces! And then I knew what I
missed—the Frenchman. :

“Where is he?’ I blurted out, abruptly.

There was a momert’s silence, and then the
first mate, looking me hard in the eyes, said, |
sternly:

“He went mad with terror, and jumped over-
board during the night.’’

{ knew it was a lie, I looked at those men’
cold, set faces, and said to myself:

“Tt is a iie.’’

Shivering with fright, I dared ask no
tions. They handed me my scanty breakfa
in stony silence; but the biscuit choked
and I
whisky and water.

“Who had done
and over again.

He had gone suddenly and silently. Why
and how? I felt my head going. I seemed
to hear that broken-English voice reiterating:

“Ah, mademoiselle, we are a great nation
—a brave nation!’’

I thought of how we
eall him ‘“‘the Parrot,’’ for he always would
repeat the same phrase over and over again;
and the recollection made me laugh loud and
hysterically.

In a moment I felt the strong arms of
first mate round me, and something
poured down my throat. te

“Ts it the Frenchman’s portion?’ I cried, and
would have pushed it away.

‘A ship! a ship!’’ exclaimed a hoarse, dried-
up voice.

So often had I heard this cry that my faith
init was gone. Nevertheless, it brought me to
my senses, and with the others I strained my
tired eyes to the horizon.

vs it fancy that the black spect there erew

er, and still larger? The excitement among
us was intense, It not only grew larger, but
assumed the shape of a ship coming nearer,
nearer——”’

Self-control left me. I cried and laughed and
screamed. I heard the men shouting:

‘We are saved! we are saved!’’

Then I remember. no more, except the cap-
tain bending over me, and saying, in his firm,
decided manner:

“Remember, the Frenchman was mad with

as

 

on.
now a
only,

Iau
aay
an

was
Ti
h
short.
ing to

The
quiet, |]
Englishmen

12

lg close

ng

Ss
1S
ques-
st

me,

it?’ I asked myself over

passengers used to

the
was

| d’hote, and tried to distract my thoughts with

| primitive gaming-house

| arm,

| here to-day. 3 :
heart him relating the story of the shipwreck— |

| continued the first mate, L }
ing being misty, they ran up against him with-

eould only gulp down my allowance of |

‘‘you must reply to a ¢
killed the Frenchman?
wl 40s

The answer came quite calmly, quite simply,
with his clear gaze fixed on mine.

‘“Why?’’ I asked.

“I found him in the early morning trying to
steal some water and provisions. I had a heavy
hammer lying beside me, and in my momen-
tary rage I used it. He fell dead without a
cry, and, with the help of the man next me,
I threw him overboard. You were the only per-
son asleep. The rest saw it, and I told them
that should we be rescued, my life was in their
hands. With consent they swore never to be-
tray me, and I know I can trust every man
there implicitly.’’

But I could not marry him—I

juestion of mine. Who |
:

simply could

 

not. The Frenchman would come between us
forever, and I could never forget. I told him
so. He accepted it in his courteous manner,
and I think he understod. If he was miser- |}
able, so was I; but my decision was final.

With a heavy heart I went down to the small |
casino of which the village boasted, after table |

watching the ‘Petits Chevaux.’’ Gambling
even in the mildest form is exciting, and my

| attention was soon fixed on the chances of the

familiar}
for in the
not com-|

game. Suddenly my ear caught a
voice above the hub-bub around me,
silence was
pulsory:
“Ah! but mademoiselle,
tion—a brave nation!’’
“You are feeling faint, dear,’’ I heard
say; “‘come out of this hot atmosphere.’’
White and trembling,
while she led me out of the room, but
not before I had given a wild glance around
and had located that voice coming from a fac-
simile of the shipwrecked Frenchman.
“Yes, Ada, feel a trifie faint,’’ I gasped,
as she helped -me to a Was 1 going}
off my head?
‘Why, there is Mr. Barton!”’ exclaimed Ada,
ignoring my faintness.
“She had the keenest scent for romance I ever
met, and that
us that evening, believed his absence to be
responsible for my faintness. In a moment she
nad called him to our side, made a hasty ex:
cuse, and disappeared.
Mr. Barton looked very
‘*“What has happened ?’’
I told him.

we are a great na-|

Ada |

seat.

R

eTave.
he asked.

“It was no delusion on your part,’’ he replied. |

Frenchman.
Sat near me

is the

Same
He

S35 He only arrived
at dinner, and i
his version. He was picked up by a fishing
i vessel, and was ill for a long time with con-
cussion and fever, and has lost all recollection
of what happened between the time he left the
sinking ship and when he found himself recoy-
ering from a long illness in the cabin of a
| fishing smack.”’

‘“'Thank heaven!” I murmured. ‘But
miraculous escape!’’

“My blow could have stunned him,”’
i ‘and the early morn-

only

out seeing us. But we must leave here at
| once;
ory.”’
So to explain to Ada that the place
did not agree with me, and that I was dying
to see Paris. Ada smiled indulgently, as
though to say, ‘‘People in love are not re-
sponsible for their actions.’’
Next morning found Mr. Barton, Ada and
myself seated in the train to take us to Pa
We had just begun to move when a. porter
flung open the door, chucked in bundles and
rugs and finally shoved in an excited, flurried
gentleman, who flung himself down on the
seat opposite us, exclaiming:
“Mon Dieu! Enfin! Helas!’’ while he wiped
a perspiring face. It was the Frenchman!
The train did not stop till we got to Paris.
There were two, hours

before us, and not a
single newspaper among us behind which to
hide ourselves.

Each time I looked at the Frenchman he was
sturying one or other of us hard. Ada chat-
ted incessantly. What we answered I know
not, or even if we spoke coherently. I could

I had

ris.

ris

ner of my eye. For a few moments he would
look puzzled, then wrapped in deep thought,
then gaze at us again, then mutter to himself,
and through all I saw memory returning—
light dawning on his mind. Oh! the agony of
suspense and the tension we suffered!

At last he. leaned over to Ada, and said:

‘‘Mademoiselle, have you ever suffered ship-
wreck?’’

‘‘No,”’ replied Ada, blithely; “but my friend
here has in a dreadful =

manner.
And _ then he knew us, and remembered
everything.

 

| woke :
|a dark-lantern at one side.

| to-hand

| his

I clung to my friend’s |

| sel

i; to

entleman having failed to join |

| ing hair

| the

what a}
| with

the sight of us might awaken his mem-|

| seldom

only furtively watch monsieur out of the cor-|}

iiic” cr Nad turned BDPUTE SULT SUES aI eC;
and Amory, an AgnoStic, had advanced his
favorite theory that “everything was governed
by chance alone. ae
‘Clark, who had studied for the ministry, but
was now in business, had combated with him
for a vigorous half-hour, and as the night was
old, and we were about to part, it was evi-
dent from Amory’s last remark that he had
not been convinced. -

“For myself,’’ said I, also rising, *‘I have lis-
tened to you both, and have said nothing; but
if you will come to my rooms to-morrow night,
I agree to tell you a story that bears- upon
the matter, and then you can better decide
which theory is the right one.”’

It was agreed, and the next night, after a
little’ supper, my three friends_settled them-
selves about my open fire and told me to begin.

“You will remember my brother-in-law, Mer-
riam, of the navy? Well, thirteen years ago
he was in Paris, on leave. He had a good-
looking, smart valet, for he Knew but little of

| the customs of the country, and needed some

he had a
night he
with

and he thought
until one
at his cash-box,

him,
desirable servant,
to see the fellow

one assist

most

to

“Ned did not wait, but springing from his
bed he seized the man, and they had a hand-
struggle in the dark, for the lantern
was overturned the first thing. é

“‘Merriam is of good size, and it was evi-
dent that he was about overpowering the valet
when the fellow stabbed him, and slipped from
grasp out of the door and escaped. The
wound was not a bad one, and as he had in
turn given the thief a good pounding he did
not follow.

“Upon examining his cash-box, he found
that the man had only taken some two hun-

1S

}dred francs and a handsome meerschaum pipe
| that he had recently bought, and feeling him-

he con-
square and not go
conclusion he fol-
valet in France

stranger in a strange land,
to call the matter
police at all, which
and never saw his

a
cluded
the
lowed,
again.

“When he returned home, naturally he told
of the experience and described the pipe to me,
as it was a curious one, and seemed to be
the thing that he most regretted losing.

“Tt was a Turk’s head, small, and with flow-
and beard, with the mouth open, as
laughing, and in the back of the mouth

artist had inserted one small,
that could only be seen if you
to look for it.

“It was just the sort of thine a naval officer

if

knew where

| would fancy and spend his money for, and, as}
that Ned most |

1}
have related, an old client of mine introduced

I say, it was the one article
seemed to miss by the robbery.
“Five years after the occurrence

that

to me a gentleman one day by the name of
Dupray.
to England to engage in business,
way had become acquainted with Mr. Leroy.

“Leroy was a merchant, rich, queer, and
no family but his daughter. Now this
daughter, strangely enough,
posite to her father.

“He was homely, she was beautiful: he was
queer and rough; she was one of the sweetest
women that I ever had the good fortune

in

father, and to his disgust.

“She wanted to marry a young
was a doctor in a neighboring town, while her
father desired that she should make a grand
match with some one who should raise her
from the level on which she was born.

‘““‘No amount of argument on my part, as an |

old ‘friend, could change Leroy, and the sub-
ject had been dropped between us:
that Marcia, for so the daughter was named.
saw her lover; and then only in se-
cret, and that the father waited his chance
to capture a rich, or at least a high-bern,
son-in-law at the first opportunity.

“A few days after my first meeting with
Dupray, Leroy came to my~-office in a most
merry frame of mind, and in a few moments
announced to me that the Frenchman was in
love with his daughter, and would marry her
if he would allow it.

“The Frenchman was willing to settle on her
all the property that her father might leave
her, so that he was not after her fortune.

““*He’s a fine man, too, Hamilton,’’ said the
old merchant, rubbing his hands; ‘comes of one
of the old families, and has plenty of money.
I think that we shall’ make a good thing of
it if. Marcia marries him.’

“ “Well, I suppose she will, of course, if you
demand it,’ said I, knowing how strong was
his control over her, and wondering whether
she had given the young doctor up, ‘What
does she say?’

“The old fellow’s face sobered.

 

“*That girl’s the apple of my eye, as you

gold tooth |

He was a Frenchman, who had come |}
and in some |

was entirely op-}

to |
| meet; he wanted everything his way, and she |
| was willing to do his will
but one, and in that I upheld her against her |

every particuiar |

man who |

but I knew |

TVET |
Ta

EDITED BY MRS. HELEN WOOD.

By special arrangement with the manufacturers we
are enabled to supply the readers of the ‘“‘New
York Weekly’’ with the patterns of all garments
described and illustrated in this column at TEN
CENTS each. When ordering patterns please be
particular to mention the number of the pattern and
Size wanted. Address Fashion Department, ‘‘The
New York Weekly.’’ Box 1,173, New York City.

I shall be very glad to answer to the best of
my ability any questions that my lady read-
ers may care to put to me as to questions of
toilet. So, if you are puzzled in any way, don’t
hesitate to appeal to me for such advice as I
am capable of giving you.

HELEN WOOD.

 

 

DORRIT GT One, anid very oda. ~“Wagere “aia you
find it?’ :

“for an instant the fellow hesitated, his
mouth twitching, then he handed the pipe to
me, replying:

*“*T purchased it in Paris some
from a friend who imports them.
rather a curio in its way myself.’

““It surely is,’ I said, ‘for I never saw but
one like it, and that belonged to a naval offi-
cer, Lieutenant Merriam. It was stolen from
him, I think, in Paris’

“The man’s face flamed in an instant.

***What!’ he cried, ‘do you accuse me of
stealing this pipe? Do you call me a thief?’

“As he spoke, the door of the outer office
swung slowly open, and a man entered who
advanced directly to our group. I looked up
in surprise, but before I could speak the new-
comer said:

** “No, Felix, he does not; but I do. This is
my pipe, and this is the man who stole it
from me five years ago!’ And with a quick
motion he seized the article in question. ‘And
now will you kindly call the police?’

“It was unnecessary. With a single, startled
curse, the Frenchman fled before I could rise
from my chair, and Merriam, home unex-
pectedly on leave, turned to grasp my hand,
with a laugh, saying:

“* ‘How like the devil I frightened that ras-
cal! What was he doing here?’

**Only some business with my friend, Mr.
Leroy, here,’ said I, with a meaning look at
the old merchant; ‘but I think we are well
} rid of him, and shall not seek to follow him.
Was it not strange that you should have hap-
pened to come in at the very moment when I
had told him that the pipe was similar to the
one which you lost? A lucky chance, I call
it :

years ago,

I think it

***No, sir, it was no chance,’ interrupted Mr.
Leroy, ‘but an act of Providence direct to
prove to me that I am an old fool, and to save
my girl. Hamilton, you may tear those papers
up. My Marcia will marry the man of her
choice, if she marries at all. Good-day! ”

2

Items of Interest.

Horseshoes made
| Australia.

The tongue of a full-grown giraffe is about
| eighteen inches long.

Outdoor musical performances -are
mitted in St. Petersburg.

Eleven cubic feet of water,
make twelve cubic feet of ice.
Indians seldom wear head
this account for the fact that
are extremely rare?

The robe worn by Pius VII. at the crown-
ing of the first Napoleon is among the relics
shown to visitors at the Church of. Notre
Dame, Paris.

There are in existence about sixty eggs of
the great awk, an extinct bird. One of them
| slightly cracked, was recentiy sold at auction
in England for 300 guineas.

A place of safe deposit for furs has been es-
tablished in New York city, and the furs are
kept in cold storage all the year round. No
moth can live in the icy temperature.

Iceland has just one policeman, and his beat
is in the capital, Reikiavik. The residents are
| So orderly that he has little to do beyond keep-
|} ing himself tidy and smiling at the servant
| girls.

A trained rat is a pet in the family of Forbes
Baker, of Steuben, Me, A Maltese cat caught
it last winter, and brought it up with a litter
|of kittens. In time it learned to catch mice,
and is a capital mouser.

Several people in Maine, in the neighborhood
of Hartford, Oxford County, are combined in &
Custard Pie Association. They meet annually
in a hemlock grove, and each strives to outdo
the others in eating custard pie.

A roof garden, intended for summer
vices, is to be a prominent feature of the new
Hanson Place Baptist Church, in Brooklyn,
N. Y. Electric elevators will convey the con-
gregation to and from the roof garden.

Toothache troubled a cat belonging to James
Dever, of Norristown, Pa. A dentist extracted
all her teeth and fitted an artificial set in her
jaws. Every night, before retiring, she runs
to her master to have her teeth removed.

It common in Samoa for girls to bear
boys’ names, and for boys to bear girls’
names. If a girl is born soon after the death
of a brother, or a boy soon after the death ot
a sister, it is inferred that the spirit of the
deceased has been transferred from one child
to the other, and the name of the dead child
is given to the latest arrival.

 

of cowhide are in use in

not per-
when frozen,

Does
Indians

covering.

bald

ser-

is

 

Eee” In ordering patterns ve sure to give size and number.

NO. 2003, LADIES’ JACKET.

Our model represents a plain fawn-color

cloth, with collar, and revers of yellow guipure

de venise. The

back of the jack-

et is fitted snug-

ly to the figure,

the front some-

what drawn in

by the single

dart, but not

enough to bevery

close fitting. The

pattern is so ar-

.anged, however,

that by merely

drawing the

fronts close to-

gether the jacket

becomes tight-

fitting. A rich ef-

fect can be ob-

tained by facing

revers and collar

with silk, or they

may be of plain

stitched cloth.

The pattern is cut in sizes 32 to 42 inches bust

measure. The medium size requires 1% yards

54-inch goods, with 5 yards of contrasting
goods for facing.

NO 2004,

This model will
prefers natti-
nes to fluffiness,
and on some
occasions all
women do so.
It may be made
in any cloth
suitable for a
dress, but is
best adapted to
light weigh#
fabrics, such as
silk, cashmere,
drapd’ete, brill-
iantine and
the like, with
revers of silk or
allover lace.
The pattern i
cut in sizes
to 42 inches }/
bust measure.
The medium }}
size requires 1% 4}
yards of mate-
rial forty-two
inehes wide,
with three
yards of trim-
ming,

8

WAIST.
the woman

LADY’S

just suit who

NO. 2005 GIRL’S DRESS.
Quite an attractive costume is provided by
OS this simple
model, and one
which is par-
ticularly appro-
priate to
School and gen-
eral utility
wear. The ef-
fectiveness of
this dress de-
pends upon the
materials Oo
which it is con-
Structed. For
gSeneral wear a
yolk of silk or
velvet and the
balance of
some. noveity
fabrics will be
appropriate.
6-5 more
dressy occa-
sions the yoke
may be’of lace,
tucked or cord-
ed silk, shirred
mousseline,ete.,
and the body
of the gown of
crepon, crepe
de-chine, nun’s
veiling, ete. pattern is cut in sizes 6 to 12
years. The medium size requires 24% yards of
42-inch goods, with % yard of contrasting ma-
terial and 284 yards of trimming.

\i4
The

(All patterns published in “The New York Weekly”
will be sent to our readers for 10 cents each. Address
FASHION DEPARTMENT, “New York Weekly.’’)