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A Romantic and Realistic Love Story, by Julia Edwards, Begins Next Week.

 

 

 

Entered According to Act of Congress, in the Year 1892,

Office

P.O. Box 2734 N.Y.

31 Rose St.

 

 

 

by Street é Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. C.

New York, January 7, 1898.

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

Three Dollars Per Year,
Two Covies Five Dollars.

 

 

 

 

“THAT CAME
BEING ARRES

‘tyou

 

 

WA PRETTY

 

 

 

HEAR OF HORACE DENT
POCKETFUL OF THE QUEER?

 

pain Be a ie
/ GOAT A
Uys SSP STA EY
an’ - 2

PLACE FOR A COUNTERFEITER'S DEN" MUTTERED NICK

 

‘“*You’re my prisoner. Horace Dent!

— ae

7 J
Dive
ttt gai Wo
§ 0 Fre

———
ai
i

 

Don’t make a fuss, but come

HESTRA & BALCONY #i

 

 

W \\\ % WV:
AA AY \
\ \ N ‘\ \
SS
SS

WA

 

HAND.

along quietly.”

 

THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.

“QUEER” CASE:

OR, ?

With a quick motion, the detective
his hand into the pocket and drew
pocket-book well filled with bills.

He opened it, the crowd craning their necks
to watch his movements. Already
| pathy for the young man was forgotten in the
interest in the drama.

out

the sym- |

thrust |
a}

}

The detective glanced over the bills with a|

rapid eye.

“All tens!” he said.

“What of that?” demanded the strange

man,

NICK CARTER AND THE COUNTERFEITERS

ee eR

BY THE AUTHOR OF ‘NICK CARTER.”

look upon him; but he bore his glance with
the utmost steadiness.

tive, after a pause,
A man who was well known on the street,

 

 

 

 

  

 

CHAPTER I.
THE ARREST.

the throngs
Hammer-

The matinee was just over, and
of spectators were pouring out of
stein’s Opera House, on One Hundred and
Twenty-fifth street.

Noticeable among all the others
handsome, noble-looking young man, and a
sweet-faced, beautiful girl ; both richly dressed,
and both looking very radiant and happy.

“Only one week more, Jessie!” he said, ina
low voice, looking down at her.

The red color leaped to her face, but there
was an answering joy in her eyes as they
sought his, and she replied in a tone as soft
as hi::

“Only one; and then I shall be your little
wife.”

It would seem that it was not the play they
had just seen that made them look so happy.
And in fact they hardly knew what the play
had been about. They had simply gone to the
theater to be together.

“You’re my prisoner, Horace Dent!
make a fuss, but come along quietly.”

The young man had hardly time to turn in
answer to the ominous touch on his shoulder,
or even to comprehend that the startling
words were addressed to him, before a slight
“click! click!” sounded in the street, and his
wrists were clasped in shining handcuffs.

Both anger and horror flashed into the dark
eyes of the young man, and he made a furious
effort to disengage his arm from the grasp of
the man who had manacled him.

“How dare you!” he cried.

“Oh, Horace!” gasped the young lady, pale
and terrified.

“Oh, come, now! none of that!” said the
stranger, curtly. “You’re my prisoner, and
you might as well come along quietly.”

A crowd had gathered in an instant, and no
one who was in front of the opera house on
that afternoon is likely to forget-the strange
sight that was presented.

The handsome young man, his eyes flashing
with the fire of indignation, his beautiful

were a

Don’t

Jiancee pale and trembling, and the minion of

the law stern and composed.
“What has he done?” demanded one of the
spectators.

’
Jessie.

“He knows well enough,” replied the man,
who, although in plain clothes, was in some
way marked with the
aw.

But, as if to make his standing unmistak-
|able, he at that moment threw back his coat
|}and displayed a badge, which proved him to
|be an officer of the Secret Service of the
| United States.
| “J know nothing,” cried the young man. “I
| have done nothing, and I appeal to these peo-
| ple to rescue me,”
i “What is the
| in the ear of the young lady.
| Jessie turned her troubled, terrified eyes on
| her questioner.

“I do not know,” she faltered. “This man
has—oh! oh! he has. put handcuffs on him;
|}and he won't say why.”
i “He must say why,” said the stranger, in a
| decided tone, and with such an air of con-
| fidence that Jessie felt hope springing up in
, her breast,
“You won't help yourself by such talk,” said
| the detective to Horace. “Nobody is going to
rescue you, and you might as well come along
quietly as to make a fuss.”

He tried to drag the young man with him
toward a cab that stood not many paces away.

“Stop!” said’ the man who had spoken to
“You have no right to arrest anybody
without showing a warrant or giving a
reason. What security would any citizen have
if that were possible? What has this gentle-
man done?”

The detective looked angrily at him, and
then at the crowd gathered about him; foroae
and another had caught up the words, and were
repeating them in a threatening tone,

The average citizen doesn’t bavea very clear
idea of what his rights are, but is willing to
fight for them when he does know.

It was very clear that the man was correct,
and the detective saw that if he would avoid
trouble he must adopt a different course,

“T arrest him on the charge of passing coun-
terfeit money,” he said, in a surly tone,

“Dat’s true,” said another voice. “He gafe
me a pad ten.”

“Tt is false!” cried the young man, “or, if
true, it was a mistake. I remember buying a
cigar of the man in order to change a ten-dol-
lar bill: but I could not have given him a
counterfeit, for I drew the money out of the
bank this morning.”

“Ah!” ejaculated the detective dryly; “then
you have more of it on you. Where is it?”

 

 

 

“In my inside pocket,” said the young man,
indicating his overcoat pocket with a gesture.

matter?” whispered a voice |

{and in all Harlem, in fact, as a money broker,
| leaned over the detective’s shoulder, aud said

; emphatically:

| “They are counterfeits. I’ve been stuck on

They’re the best I ever saw.

| yy. .
| The young man turned pale. He saw it
| would be useless to protest any longer.

| Jessie caught the expression and tottered

yack.
| “Oh, Horace!” she wailed.
| “You don't believe me guilty!" he cried, a
spasm of anguish distorting his fine face.
i “No, ten thousand times, no! But you will
| have to go to prison,” she sobbed. §
| “Don’t be troubled,” said the strange man
who had already acted as comforter. “If he is
| prison,”
| “Come!” said the detective, gruffly, and
|with a despairing glance at his betrothed,
| Horace Dent followed the detective.

The next moment they were both in the cab| think he will make an exception of this.”

and were driven rapidly away.

The young lady stared all about her like one
dazed by an awful blow, and then staggered
and w uld have falien but for the timely pres-
ence of the gentleman who had spoken.with
| her.

“Do not despair,” he said. “And come
|away, for you are the center of the crowd.
| Will you get into my carriage, and let me
| drive you home? Come!”
| The young lady followed

mechanically, and

she had been impressed by the manner in
which her master had received the name of
his visitor; for she stared with all her eyes at
him.

“Please, will you come up stairs,” she said;
and Nick Carter, for the gentleman was no
other, followed her to where Mr. Henderson
lay upon a lounge in one of the upper rooms.

After greetings had been exchanged, and

He was a benevolent looking gentleman,
past middle age, but there was something
singularly keen and searching in the eyes|
which looked at her through the glasses he
wore.

vk
rather take the cars,” and she made a
ment as if to tap to the driver.

“You mean,” he said kindly, “that I am an

 

I——” she stammered. “I think I would
move-

 

 

 

entire sranger to you, and that you are troubled

|at finding yourself riding with me in my car-

i
‘
|
|

|

air of an officer of the|two of them, and it isn’t easy to stick me. |

| riage.
The detective bent an angry and inquiring |
| |sion of her eyes was enough to prove the cor-

{me,” he said, reassuringly, and she

She did not reply in words, but the expres-

2 2 ;rectness of his guess.
Every one is a counterfeit,” said the detec- |

“IT am a stranger to you, but you are not to

then, and more still afterward, that she was

so easily calmed.

inquiries concerning Henderson's illness had

| been made and answered, Nick Carter broached

the object of his visit. F ee
“TI amin search of some information,” he
said, “and I thought you. as a member of the

|Secret Service force, might be able to give it

wondered |}

“T happened once to need a|

to me,”

“You know I will if I can,” said Henderson,
in a tone that betokened his deep admiration
for the other.

little assistance, which your father, George
Woodruff, gave me. I hope now to requite his
kindness through you.”

“Yes, sir,” was all she said, but she felt a
ray of hope stealing into her heart.

“TI saw a man arrested to-day for passing a
counterfeit ten-dollar bill. He wasa gentle-
man, and the last in the world likely to be
guilty; and if, as I think, he is innocent, I
wish to establish that fact. But in the first

“I cannot believe that Horace Dent is! place I wished to know something about the
| guilty,” he went on, “and if you will help me, | affair. Will you and can you enlighten me?”

}
’

innocent, there is no disgrace in going to|

I will endeavor to prove his innocence. |. “I will tell you all l’can; and when you
“Oh sir! I would give my eyes to help him.” | know the facts you will hardly be surprised
The gentleman smiled. lat anybody’s arrest on such a charge.

“That_ will not be necessary,” he said. “The facts are these: The city has been
‘ Tv bs it) 73 } 2 a¢ =O . . . i,
“What I shall do will be to engage the ser- | §o0ded with a series of counterfeits. A great

vices of a detective. Perhaps you have heard
of Nick Carter?”

“Oh, yes, sir; and Iam sure you are right.
I will give all the money I have; and Horace
will pay well I know, if I haven’t enough.”

“Never mind about the financial part of it.
I think I can promise that Nick Carter will |
interest himself when I ask him to.

many ‘queer’ tens have found their way into
| circulation, nobody knows how or when. They
are so wonderful, in fact, that it requires an
}expert to detect them.

“The puzzling part of it is, that there is no
trace of the channels by which they have en-
|tered into circulation. Our suspicion is that
He} an organized gang is at work in high social

| doesn’t usually take hold of such cases, but I | circles.

|

|

“But that is only one part of the affair. On
“No thanks are necessary. I am, delighted | £06 $*0 00 and “ones are, in cireviation.. The
y ~) D y ay 0 ° INO j Bans: a ,
y Pst toate wou: han. eae took ot tha detec- | snee ae besp quinn: for toy me, and the
tive eee time | this’ attersoon, oe ace aa ot ie From the beautiful character of the counter-
Say nothing of him, however, until you have | feits, we have concluded that they bave all

talked with him.” t pene De rs ' .
“I will do as you say. Do you think he will been issued by the same gang.

“How can I thank you?”

. “Sat bad > ay 2" suggeste Nick.

seibiitadd ti otes ace? snow he is in- But the paper? ted

Ss clearing Horace? I kno , “I was coming to that. itis one of the most
| “Nick will do his best, I am sure of that peculiar features of the whole affair. The

|the crowd opened: to let them pass, pouring |

| question on question at them both.
| Thet stranger hurried Jessie along
answering any of the questions, and
her in a handsome carriage that stood
the corner of Seventh avenue.

“Do you live in Harlem?” inquired the gen-
tleman of Jessie.

“Fifty-seventh street,” replied Jessie, in a
dry, mechanical way.

“Drive to Fifty-seventh street!” said the
gentleman to the driver.

without

near

 

CHAPTER II.

A HUGE CONSPIRACY.

It was not until the carriage had started off
that the young lady came toa realizing sense
of the peculiarity of her position.

The gentleman with whom she rode had as-
sisted her in a moment of utter bewilderment
and anguish; and he had won her confidence,
she hardly knew how.

But she did not know him; and as that
thought came to her tioubled mind, she turned
and looked fearfully at him.

 

placed |
, gentleman signaled to the driver to stop.
|then alighted, with a reassuring smile at Jes-

 

paper is evidently genuine.”

“I thought it was so carefully guarded,”
said Nick,

“That is just it. The makers cannot find that
lany paper is missing. And yet, you know,
the machinery for manufacturing the paper
is so expensive, and is, moreover, so effectually
covered by patents, that it would be next to
impossible to set it up and use it. In fact, it
would require such an enormous outlay that
nobody would be silly enough to spend it.
The men who had so much money to use would
not need to counterfeit.”

“Some other paper mill might have done it,”
suggested Nick, becoming interested in the
matter.

“Impossible. Noother mill could doit with-
out taking at least fifty men into the secret.
In fact the other paper manufacturers are
above suspicion, because they would be risk-
ing more than they could possibly get out of
e ”

By the way! he will present himself under
some assumed name; so be sure to see any-
body who calls.”

Jessie promised that she would,

and the
He

sie, and spoke a few words to the driver,

“Chick,” he said, in alow tone, “I want
you to drive this young lady home, After that
you may finish up this Crowall affair by your-
self, This young lady’s father did me a service
once, and I have the chance to partially re-
quite it. I am going to Bob Henderson’s
now, but will be home some time this even-
ing.”

Chick, the famous detective’s assistant, who
was playing coachman, nodded his head know-
ingly and drove off without a word.

The other turned down one of the side streets
and presently rang the bell of a modest little
house.

“Mr. Henderson home?” he asked.

“He’s sick with rheumatism,” the girl an-
swerea.

“Please tell him that Mr. Carter would like

o speak with him for a few minutes.”
When the girl returned, it was plain that

“Then the paper must have been stolen, it
would seem,” said Nick.

“But a careful record is kept of all that
made: and none has been missing.”

Nick was silent for a little while.

Ss

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

aw

 

 

 

“It certainly looks like a huge conspiracy,”
he said at,length.

“It is the best organized, the most thoroughly
equipped scheme of counterfeiting that has
ever come into existence. You see it is not
only that the bills are pe:fect, but also the
mysterious manner in which they are circu-
lated.”

“And you have not found a clew yet?”

“Not aclew; and our best men have been
on it fora month, Why don’t you take hold
of it? Thereis a big reward out, and you
would be just the man to run the ‘queer’ to
earth. The \chief would be delighted if you
would, T know.” ;

Nick shook his head. ;

“IT don’t care to gointo it. I am satisfied
that in arresting Horace Dent you are barking
up the wrong tree, and Iam interested only
in securing,his release, I will look into the
matter enough to accomplish my purpose, but
that is all. Much obliged. Excuse me if I
hurry away.”

 

CHAPTER III.
CHANGE FoR A HUNDRED.

Put even an innocent man ina prison cell
by himself, and he will soon feel a desperate
sort of hopelessness.

Just so Horace Dent felt as he sat in alittle
cell in the Tombs, whither he had been taken,

The coarse prison fare had been brought to
him, but he had pushed it aside untasted. He
had not even ordered something betver when
informed that he was at liberty to doso at
his own expense.

He had been there what seemed to him an
interminable time, when his door opened, and
a gentleman, with the unmistable air of a de-
tective, entered the cell.

“Tam a detective,” he said, inasharp, brisk
tone, in answer to the inquiring glance of the
wretched young man. “I have been | en-
gaged by Miss Woodruff to establish your in-
nocence. Sheis certain that you are innocent.”

“Heaven bless her!” he cried, brokenly.
“Thank you for bringing that word, sir, if
you do nothing more for me. Yes, Iam en-
tirely- innocent. I have no idea of how that
counterfeit money found its way into my
pocketbook.”

“Will vou answer my questions briefly and
quickly?” demanded the detective, who had
been studying the young man.

“Certainly. I have nothing to conceal.”

“Where did you get the money you had?
And why was it in tens?”

“J drew it from the bank this morning; and
I took it in tens because I always draw in
tens for my own convenience.”

“What bank?’

“The Harrison National, on Fifth avenue.”

“You are reported to be very wealthy. Are

ou?”
* “T am rich in real estate, but not in money.
And, in fact, I have been buying so much that
for some time I have been very short of cash.”

“It has been whispered that you are in-
volved in your affairs,” said the detective,

“That is true, in a measure; but I could sell
out and realize a large profit to-day,” an-
swered the young man.

“But for some time past you have felt in
some doubt?”

“It has been possible for me to lose nearly
everything. I see why you ask. You are won-
dering if I had not reason to make use of any
means to tide myself over. Perhaps you are
deceiving mein telling me you come from
Miss Woodruff. It does not matter. I am in-
nocent, aud I would tell anybody what I tell

ou.
” The detective held out his hand.

“T have no doubt of your innocence, Mr.
Dent. Iam engaged by Miss Woodruff, and
I will do what [ can for you. Do not, how-
ever, let any one know that I am engaged for

ou. Let matters take their course, and never

me nes a
OSCR ee

which had been taken to Miss Woodruff.
Fortunately he had warned Jessie that her
visitor would come under some other name
than his own.

Jessie appeared, looking wretched enough;
but very lovely in her grief,

“T am Nick Carter,” he said, quickly, in a
low tone. “Do not betray the fact to any one.
Have you told anybody that Tam to help you?”

“No one; though it seems hard not to tell

apa. However,” she sighed sadly, “I suppose

e would be sure to tell his wife.”

“Not your nother?” queried Nick.

“Oh, no. She is very little older than I am,”

Jessie evidently did not wish to dwell on
that subject, and Nick knew no reason why
he should, excepting on the general principle
of knowing everything. He said:

“T am just from seeing Mr. Dent,” and then
he gave the message.

Jessie wiped her eyes.

“IT do believe him innocent, As if Lcould
dreain of anything else. You do not believe
him guilty?” and she looked as if she would
do any dangerous thing if he said yes.

“Certainly not. If I did, I would not take a
step in his behalf. Does your father believe
the accusation?”

Something in her tone had made him ask
the question. She flushed indignantly.

“No, but Mrs. Woodruff pretends to.”

“Pretends to!” repeated Nick.

“Of course it is only pretense, She secretly
hates him, and me too——”

She stopped abruptly, and seemed sorry to
have said even that.

A light seemed to flash on Nick, but he gave
no sign of it.

“Why should she? I know you do not wish
to speak of this; but [do not ask in idle
curiosity. Why should she feel so?”

“Because she once loved Horace, and would
have married him if she could. There, I have
never before told that toa living soul. Not
even Horace knows it. I do not know why I
have told you.” 9 .

“Hush! somebody, is coming! Remember,
my name is Parker Hudson. Do you know
anybody in Philadelphia?” :

“ Yes.”

“Then you met me there, Iam so sorry,
Miss Woodruff,” he went on in an ordinary
tone, “that I should have called at sucha
time. I am very sorry, I am sure.”

“Do not speak of it,” answered Jessie, tak-
ing the cue so quickly as to give Nick a good
opinion of her wit, “I hope it will soon be
made right. Mrs. Woodruff, Mr. Hudson, of
Philadelphia,” and she introduced Nick to a
beautiful woman, gery not more than
twenty-five years old.

“Such a painful affair!” said Nick, with an
effusive society manner. “I am sure my evil
star must have brought me here to-night.
But I will notremain. I know how you must
feel. Oh, by the way! I might forget it, Miss
Woodruff. My sister asked me to give you
fifteen dollars for something. I have a
memorandum of it at home, but have forgotten
it. Perhaps you remember.”

“Tt was for a bed in the hospital,” answered
Jessie, readily; “but it doesn’t matter.”

“Margaret would never forgive me if I for-
got it,” said Nick. “Could you change a hun-
dred-dollar bill? How absurd, though! as if
young ladies carried change for a hundred
in their pockets. Ha! ha! ha! Stupid of me,
isn’t it, Mrs. Woodruff? Lovely weather!”

He had pulled a hundred-dollar bill from
his pocket, and was putting it back, acting
the empty-headed young man of society to
er perfection that Jessie could only marvel
at him.

“T think I can change it,” said Mrs. Wood-
ruff, a quick gleam in her dark eyes. “I have
some money up Stairs.”

“Tt does not matter,” said Jessie, wondering
what she was expected to say.

“Oh, yes,” cried Nick. “It is very important.

 

ose hope. You have good friends who will
not let you suffer.”

“Thank you,” peplied Horace Dent,
the préffered hand. ¢“ You
life.”
“Where did you put your money when you
received it from the bank?” asked the detec-
tive, abruptly returning to business.

“In a large wallet, which I put in my inside
overcoat pocket.” :

“Why in your overcoat pocket?
usually carry large sums there.”

Horace smiled.

“Jessie—Miss Woodruff—gave methe wal-
let. She is my affianced wife.” He flushed
with embarrassment. “I wished to carry the
wallet and use it because she gave it to me.
It was too big for iny under coat, and so I
have always carried it in my overcoat,”

The detective smiled and nodded. It was
not a strange thing for a lover to do, though
an unwise one.

“Where did you go from the bank?”

“To my rooms.”

“Who was there besides yourself?”

“No one.
afternoon; and there was no reason why any-
body else should be there.”

{
taking |
have given note néw {

Men do not

“And from your rooms, where did you go?” |}

“To Delmonico’s, for lunch,“

“Where did you put your coat?”

“Tt happened that the most convenient place
was over the back of the chair next to me.”

“No one could have gotten at it there, you
think?”

“I am positive. In fact, sir, I have gone
over every movement I made after receiving
the money, thinking the money might have
been changed somewhere, but I cannot get
any comfort in that way. Could it have come
from the bank?”

The detective smiled.

“It might have, but I happen to know the
paying teller at the Harrison, and we may
safely dismiss him from our calculations.
Where did you go from Delmonico’s?”

“To Mr. Woodruff's, to get Jessie to take
her to Harlem. We had some curiosity to see
what sort of place it was.”

“Where was your coat while at Mr. Wood-
ruff’s?”

“I threw it ona chair in the reception-
room.”

“Did you go out of the room?”

“Yes, for five minutes, perhaps. But I have
thought of that, and I am sure no one could
have gone in there. Certainly none of the
servants; and there was no one else in the
house excepting Jessie and Mrs. Woodruff.”

“Did Miss Jessie know of your habit of
carrying chiefly ten-dollar bills?”

“Did anybody else?”
oe don’t remember mentioning it to anybody
e se”

“That will do,” said the detective. “Don’t
hesitate to answer any questions put to you;
but, unless you are asked point-blank, do not
say that anybody is working for you. Good-
by! Any message to Miss Woodruff?”

“My dearest love, and the assurance that
her faith in me will give me courage to bear
up through anything.”

The detective went out with a silent celerity
that almost made Horace Dent wonder if there
had been any visitor in his cell.

The respect shown the detective as he passed
through the prison was very marked and he
was pointed out to some who did not know
him as the famous Nick Carter,

Yes, it was Nick Carter; but not in the

uise of his real self. Only his wife, and a

ew near friends, ever saw the real Nick Car-
ter.

For purposes of his own he sometimes wore
a disguise in which he perscnated himself, so
to speak.

From the Tombs he hurried to the:Third
avenue elevated station nearest there, and
took the up-town train to Fifty-ninth street.
Then took the surface cars across town, and
was presently in the house of Mr. Woodruff,
the wealthy merchant.

When or where he had done it, no one could
have told; but somewhere on his way from
the Tombs he had changed his disguise, and
now satin the parlorof the rich merchant,
looking exactly like a young gentleman of ele-
gant leisure.

Parker Hudson was the name on the card

My valet had gone away for the | P

If you will be so kind, Mrs. Woodruff.’

Mrs. Woodruff left the room, vailing a
singular expression. in her eyes by dropping
her Jogelashes.ogertham cAbut net. alhogeit. 4

1 Nick.

quickly enough to hide lt id
emanded Jessie,

“Why did you do tha
when they were alone. ;

“Because I had a word te’say to you, and I
was afraid we might not. be left alone again.
What I have to say is fhis: You may never
see me in this guise again; but you may trust
any one who comes to you saying ‘topaz.’ Will
you remember that?”

“T shall remember it.”

When Mrs. Woodruff returned, she found
Nick talking to Jessie in his effusive way, and
a slight smile of contempt flitted over her
beautiful face as she listened.
“Here are eight tens and a five,” she said,
taking his bill and handing him what she held
in her hand. “I haven’t the other fifteen,
Jessie, but will give it to you whenI can
change this.”
Shortly afterward Nick made his excuses

jand left, the eighty-five dollars in his vest-

ocket.

“T wonder,” he muttered, as he turned toward
the Sixth avenue elevated railroad, “if I am
barking up the wrong tree. If Iam right,
10wever, there is no credit to me, for she put
herself in the way of it.”

He stopped under an electric light in Sixth
avenue, drew the bills from his pocket, and
examined them carefully,

“Phew!” he whistled. “Six good and two
‘queer!’ It looks very much as if Mrs. Wood-
ruff was in this thing. I conld get Horace
Dent out of prison to-night, I think. Shall I?
Or shall I look a little farther? I don’t like
to stop on the very threshold of a_ discovery
like this. I guess Horace Dent will be none
the worse for one bad night, and justice may
ve the better for it. 1711 go to Harlem and buy
a cigar.”

 

CHAPTER IV.
DEALERS IN “QUEER.”

One Hundred and Twenty-fifth street is one
of the great thoroughfares of the city, and on
Saturday night in particular it is crowded
until a very late hour.

It was not very late, however, when Nick
got out of the cars at Eighth avenue and
walked leisurely down toward Seventh.

He knew the street well, as in fact he
seemed to know every street in the vast city;
and he turned readily into acigar store, whose
bright light easily attracted attention.

He bought a cigar and proceeded to light it
at once, tendering a ten-dollar bill in pay-
ment,

The man turned the bill over, glanced at
Nick’s imperturbable face, and looked again
at the bill, studying itso long and so care-
fully that Nick at last said:

“You needn’t be afraid of it; it’s good.”

“Vell,” said the man, “I don’t like to get
bit tvice in vun day.”

“Twice! How’s that?”
lessly.

“T took in vun counterfeit ten dis afternoon.
Haf you got anyting smaller?”

Nick drew out a five-dollar bill and handed
ne the man, saying sympathetically as he

id so:

“Took in a bad ten, eh? I should think you
would know good and bad money by this time.”

“Holy smoke! I thought I could, myselluf.
But dis was de_ best counterfeit you effer lay
your eyes on. I wouldn’t ha’ known it, onlya
gustomer vas in here an’ spotted it.”

“Was in here when the man came in with
the counterfeit?” queried Nick, carelessly.

“Came in right behind. him.”

“Somebody you knew,I suppose,” said Nick.

“TI didn’t know neider of dem. Ven de first
man wend oud, de second man said, ‘Led me
loog at dat bill!’ Ishowed it to him, and he
said quick, ‘Id’s a counterfeit,’ and he showed
me how. Den he tolt me vat to do, and—Holy
smoke! dere he is now!”

“The man withthe high hat?” demanded
Pa quickly.

“ ve ”

“The one who told you about the bill?”

rok Ge
“Nice looking man. Well, good-day!” and
he walked out and hurried after the man

with the high hat.

asked Nick care-

 

The man with the high hat was in no hurry
himself, however, and was easy to follow. He
made his way through the crowds leisurely.

At Seventh avenue he turned down and Liut
on to One Hundred and Twenty-fourth street,
when he turned to the left.

Nick followed on the other side of the way,
the man showing no sign of suspicion that he
was being followed,

The man kept on until he reached Mount
Morris Park, one of the most beautiful of the
city’s smaller parks.

Up to this time it had been perfectly easy to
shadow the man; but when he entered the
park, as he immediately did, the task was
much more difficult, inasmuch as compara-
tively few people use the park at that point
for a short cut, and the weather was much
too cold for loiterers. .

The very fact of a man, dressed as this one
was, going into the park, was sufficient to
make Nick determined to know what his busi-
ness there was.

If it had been a tramp, some homeless
wretch, seeking the bleak park, there need
have been no wonder.

Nick allowed the man to get some distance
in advance of him, and then ran silently and
swiftly across the street and entered the park
after him, gliding along by the extreme edge
of the path.

Once or twice the man looked around, as if
apprehensive of being followed; but Nick, too
wary to be caught that way, was always out
of sight behind a tree trunk.

On the highest point of the park there is a
large tree, almost devoid of leaves at this
time, but spreading its branches so far as to
make its shadow almost black in the darkness.

Under that tree the man stopped. Nick
hesitated a moment; but he could not remain
within reaching distance of any mystery with-
out making an effort to unravel it.

He made a short detour in a stealthy man-
ner, and crept toward the man at a point
where it was inthe blackest darkness. He
was rewarded by seeing another man come up
and salute the first one.

“How much do you want to-night?” was the
quick query.

“T don’t think I’d better take any more
tens,” was the low answer.

“Why not?” ;

“That game is up. Didn’t you hear of
Horace Dent being arrested this afternoon
with a whole pocketful of the queer?”

“Yes, I did, the big fool! Whogave him the

stuff?”

“IT did. I thought he could handle it well
oe; He had disposed of a good deal of it
vefore.”

“How much does he know?”

“Nothing. Does Dick know about it?”
“You bet he knows; and a madder man isn’t
alive. He says it was a fool’s job to give the
thing away like that.” '

“Tt couldn’t be helped as I can see.”

“Well, he says your friend may sweat for it.
He won't doa thing to help him out. You’re
sure he can’t blow-on us?” ,

“I’m sure he can’t blow on you, and he
won't blow on me. Hasn’t Dick got that new
five ready yet? I want some stuff bad; but I
won’t risk any more of the tens. Anyhow the
jig was about up. The Secret Service was on
the lay.”

“Dick says at least two thousand more could
have been disposed of. Well, I suppose the
rest will have to go out West. Youd better
see Dick yourself about the fives. Why don’t
you go to-night? You'll find Dick there.” \

“T don’t care to goif he’s ina tantrum,”
said the man Nick had followed.

“He isn’t madat you. You ought to see
the new plate, too. It beats the ten. I tell
you Dick’s got a dandy on engraving.”

“Who does it?”

The other ee in a low, chuckling way.
“That's what Dick doesn’t give away. Ask
him, and see if he does.”

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. =

THE CHRIST CHILD.

 

BY NELLIE O. HESTER MOBLEY.

 

Through the light of Judah’s glory,
Looking back, I read the story

Of the Christ Child sweetly sleeping,
While good shepherds watch are keeping;
And the glad star goes before them,

And the Father's eye is o’er them.

Sleeps the Christ Child, pure and holy,
Cradled in a manger lowly.

And the eye of faith sees clearer,
As the wise inen, drawing nearer,
Worship and true homage bring
To the Christ Child who is king—
King of heaven and king of earth,
Though of lowly manger birth.

Farther on we read the story—

The crucified and risen glory

Of a Saviour kind and tender,

Who is now our stanch defender.
And our hearts with joy are burning,
And for Christ love we are yearning,
And we follow, gladly yielding

To the scepter he is wielding.

WEDDED, YET OW

A LEAP IN THE DARK.

By MRS. MA¥ AGNES FLEMING,

Author of ‘Carried by Storm,” **Norine’s Revenge,’
“shaddeck Light,” Etc.

 

(‘‘ WEDDED, YET NO WIFE” was commenced in No. 50.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. }

 

CHAPTER IX.—(ContTINUED.)

Polly rose up, striking her hand lightly on
her breast, her eyes shining with the fire of
inspiration.

“T shall find out my mother, and ask her
why she deserted her child. For my father’—
she looked suddenly at the note she held—
“will you permit me, my lord?’

He bowed his head silently. She opened
the note and read. It dropped from her fingers,
she covered her face with her hands, and the
tears fell, thick and fast. Her moods were the
moods of an April day, sunshine and shower,
bright and short-lived.

She looked up at last and dashed them
away, smiling radiantly. The color came back
to her cheeks, the glad sparkle to her eyes,
the joyous ring to her voice. She was rich,
rich beyond her wildest dreams, She wasa
young lady of birth and fortune. Lord Mon-
talien was her guardian. All the visions of
her life were realized—more than realized.
Was she dreaming or awake?

“It is like a fairy tale,” she said; “like a
story from the Arabian Nights. Oh, my lord,
is all this true you have been telling me? Am
I asleep or in a dream?”

Lord Montalien got up to go, with a smile,
holding out his hand in farewell.

“Good-by for the present, Miss Lisle. I shall
call again to-morrow. By that time you will
probably have convinced yourself that itis a
very pleasant reality. You, and your good
friends mere fix the time of your de-

 

“Has he any fiyes struck off?” asked the
man with the hight hat,
“ Heawwante face ie L of pions fret, “swan i

the evasive answer,
‘It’s no use for me to go way up there un-
less he has some fives for me.”

“How do I know what he has?” the man ex-
claimed. “You know Dick. He keeps his
business to himself. If you want some fives,
o up and ask him for them, I have nothing
ut tens.”

“All right, ll go.”

“You'd better hurry. You know the signal?”
“ Vos:

“So long.”

The two men parted, but had not gone many
steps, when the man who had been second to
arrive, turned and called out:

“’St! Mr, Marfield!”

“Well?”

“Who’s on the case? Do you know?”

“No; but from the way Dent was taken in
I don’t think much of the detective.”

“A regular Secret Service man?”

“Vea:"

“T don’t take much stock in them, myself.”

Again the men separated, and this time Mr.
Marfield, Nick’s man, kept on his way.

“TI think I shall be pleased to make the ac-
quaintance of this Dick,” muttered Nick. “As
for you, Eugene Marfield, you‘are the last man
l ever should have thought of in this connec-
tion. You are supposed to be wealthy. It
looks very much to me asif I had uncovered
a big hornets’ nest. So you are Eugene Mar-
field, whose father left a round million
only five years ago!”

Marfielad Icst no time in leaving the park;
and, when he was out of it, made directly for
One Hundred and Twenty-fifth street. There
he boarded one of the cable cars.

He rode over to the west side, and there
took another car north. Nick followed him
with what might have seemed reckless con-
fidence. He knew his man thoroughly by this
time, however, and was well aware of how
much risk he might take.

At Washington Bridge he took to walking,
showing a familiarity with the country that
proved it was not his first visit by night.

It was now that Nick was obliged to prove
his ability as a shadow, and he did it to per-
fection, keeping on the trail of his man through
alonely piece of country which must have
tried even his consummate skill.

At last Marfield stopped before a great,
lonely house, which had every appearance
of being deserted. It had once been out in
the country, but had been caught by the
march of civilization, and was deserted by its
aristocratic occupants. It was as lonely now
as if it had heen.in the heart of a desert.

Marfield went around to the back door, and
scratched in a peculiar way on it. It seemed
to Nick that he could hear an answering
scratch from the other side.

At any rate, Marfield scratched again, and
the door was opened and closed again so sud-
denly that Nick had not been able to see any-
thing. And Marfield was inside.

“A very pretty place for a counterfeiter’s
den.” muttered Nick; “and I am going to see
the inside of it, if I die for it.”

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
—_—»>

Hints for the Household.

Fours, so often attacked, in spite of the pre-
cautions of laying them in drawers with pieces
of camphor distributed about, require very
careful treatment. First, thoroughly shake
them before a fire, then beat them with acane
and thoroughly comb through. This process
should be repeated at least once a month, to
be found entirely effectua!. Camphor, rock
sulphur and pepper all help to keep away the
destroying moth.

 

 

parture. 2all not burry you, but I shall
certainly expect you, during your stay in|
Speckhavengge beg constant. visitor at the |
Priory.” ,

Polly thought of Allan Fane and Miss Haut-
ton, and flus all over her fair face,
“Or why not make you home altogether at
the Priory during the few weeks you remain?”
urged Lord Montalien. “It is your home now
and for the future, you know, and I need not
tell you how charmed we.all will be.“
“And leaye Duke and Rosanna!” Polly said,
looking at him in wonder. “Oh, no, no, my
lord. Thank you very much all the same.”
“At least you will come to see us every day?”
Polly shook her head.
“You will dine with us, then, once before
you go. Don’t be obstinate, Miss Lisle, and
force me into the role of tyrannical guardian

so soon.

“Well—if you insist—but——”
Her reluctance was very visible. It was not
shyness that he saw. If the girl had been born
in a palace her manners could not have been
more simple, more natural, more unaffectedly
easy. What was it? Lord Montalien won-
dered. ‘

“You know some of my people, I think,” he
said; “Francis and Guy tell me they are ac-
quainted with you, and Allan Fane is quite
an intimate friend.”

He was watching her closely, and the rosy
light shone again in the sensitive face. That
was it! The peer understood at once that Mr.
Fane had been quite an “intimate friend.”

“When I come to-morrow,” he said, moving
to the door, “I shall fetch Gripper (Gripper’s
your jawyer, my dear), and he has come down
here to draw up the necessary documents ap-
pointing me your guardian, and to explain to
you the circumstances under which you come
into your fortune. They are somewhat un-
usual, but, considering your father’s story,
very natural, Now, my dear, good-day to you.
Don’t lose your appetite and sleep, thinking
of this fairy fortune. But where isthe use
of advising you? Of course you will.”

Polly laughed. She was disposed to like this
pleasant new guardian already; and, indeed,
it was no hard task for most women to like
Lord Montalien. She watched him out of
sight; then she went slowly into the house.
She opened her letter and read it again. Her
father lived, and from over the wide sea spoke
to her those sweet, solemn words of fatherly
love; the first she had ever heard. Again the
great tears welled up into the blue eyes. She
stretched forth her arms with an_ involuntary
cry: “Oh, father! father! Come home!”

Only once in the letter he spoke of her
mother. “Your mother lives, my child,” he
wrote; “a lady of rank and title, the wife of
another man. But in your heart there must
lie no hard thoughts of her. Weak she may
have been—guilty, never. She believed, be-
lieves still, that Robert Lisle is dead—as I
am to her. One day I may return to England
and my precious daughter.”

“She kissed the letter, put it in her bosom,
and went in search of her friends.

Rosanna was bustling about the kitchen,
looking unutterably grim and stern to hide
all she felt.

“Duke's up stairs,” she said, curtly to the
girl, and turned her back upon her.

Strong-minded the spinster undoubtedly
was, but she was not strong enough to bear
the sight of Polly just then.

Duke was painting and smoking furiously—
always a signof great mental disturbance.
He looked round from his work and smiled,
rather a ghastly smile of greeting.

“Well, Duchess !”

“Well, Duke!”

She came over and stood beside him, resting
one hand caressingly on his shoulder. No
need to tell her what Rosanna’s grimness and
Duke's silennce meant; she understood them
perfectly, and loyed them better in this hour
than ever before in her life.

  

 

LACEs not in wear should be dabbled in clear
cold water to remove all traces of starch, dried
in the sun, and wrapped in dark-blue paper.

VELVETS should be held over the steam cf
boiling water, and kept well stretched until
the moisture has evaporated.

BLACK cotten stockings should be washed in
atrong bran water, pressed, and dried before
e fire.

 

“Who knows but I have been a prophet?”
the scene-painter said, still trying to speak
'gayly.. “You may be a duchess yet, Miss

sisle, I suppose it is the correct thing to call
| Lord Montalien’s ward and the heiress of
eighty thousand, Miss Lisle.’

“Duke!”

He dropped his brush and held out his hand,

VOL. 48—No. 11.

new life as—as I have tried to make you in
this. You’re going away, my dear—going
away, to come back no more; but I know you
will not quite forget Duke and Rosanna.”

His voice broke. He dropped her hand and
walked away to the window to hide the tears
of which his/ manhood ‘was ashamed. Two
white arms were about his neck in an instant,
two warm lips impetuously kissing his averted

ace.

“Duke! Duke! dear old Duke! the best, the
kindest friend ever was in this world! For-
pet you and Rosanna! Why, what a horrible
ittle monster you must think me! And I
don’t know what you mean talking about my
Bae away, never tocome back! If I were

ueen Victoria’s ward, and heiress of fifty
hundred million pounds,” cried this impetuous
young woman, “I should come back just the
same, This is my home—at least until my

‘|father returns from California to claim me.

His right is first, and most sacred. Oh, Duke!
to think Polly Mason should ever have had a
father !” :

Duke smiled in spite of himself,’

“It is extraordinary, I should like to have
told you ages ago, but you see I was bound by
promises to both, and dared not.”

“Promises to both. That means my mother,
I suppose?”

“Your mother. Yes, Duchess.”

“Tell me all about her, Duke. My mother!
how strange it sounds! What was she like?
Was she handsome? Am I like her? That
sounds conceited, I am afraid, but I don’t
mean it so,”

, “She was—she is beautiful, and you are not
in the least like her. You have your father’s
face and eyes, and a very good face and eyes
they are. Her eyes were black, and she was
smaller than you.”

He spoke dreamily, thinking of the great,
despairing black eyes that had looked at him
so lately, full of woman’s uttermost woe.
“Duke, I don’t think I likemy mother! She
must have been weak and cold-hearted. Why
did she give me up?:- Why did she marry that
other man? JI hate to think of it even. Why
was she not faithful through all things—to
death—to the husband and child she loved?”
The girl’s eyes flashed—the rosy light so
quick to come and go, under that transparent
skin, lit her gipsy face once more.

“Don’t you blame her, Duchess,” Duke an-
swered, gravely, “since she did it for your
sake. She would have preferred death to
marrying Sir ——— I mean, 1 mean, marrying
again on her own account. She sacrificed her-
self fer you. You were taken from her at
your birth; she knew you lived, but nothing
more, and she yearned to’ possess you. She
feared for you more than she cared for herself
—for your future happiness, life even; and
when you were made the price of her sacrifice
she consented. She had borne imprisonment,
even cruelty, rather than yield. She was never
more faithful to the husband she thought dead
than in the hour when he saw her at the altar,
the bride of another man; for she sacrificed
her own life to save his child. She gave you
to me—with me she knew you would be safe,
at least, and she dared not keep you herself,
Your motheris the purest, the noblest, the
most injured woman on earth; a martyr,
Duchess, as surely as ever suffering made a
martyr. Don’t you blame her—I cannot bear
to hear you.” .

“You loved my mother like this, Duke?”

“T reverence her, Miss Lisle. I pity her as I
never pitied any one in my life. She is very,
very unhappy.”

“Is—is her husband unkind te her?”

“T am afraid so, my dear. And she knows
you live, and she loves you, and must live
apart from you, and deny you a mother’s care.
Is that not enough of itseif?”

“Duke,” Polly said, entreatingly, “tell me
her name. Do! Let me go to her—only once,
ever so secretly, and kiss her, and tell] her I
love her, and am sorry for her, too. Do! Oh,
Duke, if you ever cared for your little Duch.
ess, whom you are going to lose, tell me her
name |”

neck; she coaxed him with tears and kisses.
The strong man trembled under that.clasp.

“T ean't, Duchess—don’t ask me. God knows
I would refuse you nothing if I could, but it
must not be. ou don’t know what you ask;
be content. Love her as much as you like—she
is worthy of it all—and hope forthebest. But
the day when you may know your mother and
go to her is not yet. Look here; Ihave kept
this for you for fourteen years. Your mother
gave it to me on the night I saw her first.”
He drew forth the opal ring and slid it on
one of Polly’s slim, ringless fingers.

“It is yours, my girl; wear it for your
mother’s sake.”

“And itis all I may ever know of her,”
Polly sighed. “It is all very sad and very
strange. I used to think it would be beautiful
to have a history+to be a heroine of romance;
and now I am, and somehow it saddens me
more than anything ever did before. To think
that I should have a mother who dare not ac-
knowledge me; that some day I may meet
her, and look at her, and not know her. To
think I should have a father, an exile, a
lonely, solitary wanderer in those wild, far-
off lands, who has Jost wife and child, through
no fault of his, and who may never revurn.
But I will go to him, if he does not come to
me. Yes, Duke, when my two years’ school-
life are ended, if he does not return to me I
will goto him. It will be like ‘Elizabeth and
the Exile of Siberia’ over again. And now J
shall go straight this very moment, and an-
swer his dear, darling letter.” Which she did
on the spot, dashing off page after page in an
impetuous, running hand. There was no end
of love, and noend of blots, and scores of
notes of exclamation, and doubtful spelling
and grammar; but when one’s heart is full
to overflowing, and one is a young peren of
sixteen, what does a little broken orthography
or syntax signify? Polly’s heart was in the
right place, if her words were not; and prob-
ably Mr. Robert Lisle, out in San Francisco,
smiled a good deal 6ver this epistle, even with
the tears in his eyes.

The news spread like wild-fire. Before the
summer stars came out that night, every man,
woman, and child in Speckhaven knew _ that
Polly Mason was an heiress, and not Polly
Mason at alJ.. The heiress had rushed head-
long to see her friend Alice, and tell her her
wonderful news, and exhibited her ring and
her father’s picture, which Miss Warren had
seen scores OF titnes before, and promised her
unlimited jewelry and dry-goods, when she
came into her fortune.

“And when I leave school you shall come
and live with me, Alice, if you’re not mar-
ried,” Polly cried; “and when I'm gone you
must write me long, long letters: and I shall
ask Lord Montalien for enough of my fortune
to buy a locket for my picture, and some of
my hair, to leave you. And oh, Alice! Idon’t
believe I shall ever sleep a wink again for
thinking of it, as long as I live!”

Her dreams were rather broken that night,
and it seemed to her the new day would never
dawn. She half feared the vision would melt
away in the darkness, and she would awake
to find herself little Polly Mason again, in-
stead of Miss Paulina Lisle.

Paulina Lisle! she repeated the pretty name
over and over again with intense, childish
ecstasy. She had hated her name of Polly so,
she had so longed for some beautiful, stately
appellation, and lo! here shehad it. I believe
her new name gave her tenfold more pleasure
than the thought of her nuble inheritance.

Lord Montalien came over next day with
Mr. Gripper, which legal gentleman produced
documents tied with red tape, and read them
solemnly aloud to his bewildered little client

Thousands |
Of people have been

Cured of Catarth by

 

 

 

 

 

“IT wish you joy, Duchess—upon my soul I
do! And I hope you'll be as happy in your

 

She clasped her arms onee more around his

 

 

 

Hood's Sarsaparilla |

 

*

 

CR cer noe

I Sime
 

 

 

 

 

 

VOL. 48.—No., ll,

 

 

exatea THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #2

 

d

 

 

It was all Greek to Polly, except one or two
conditions which her mind grasped in pass-
ing. She was Lord Montalien’s ward until
she should come of age or marry. If Lord
Montalien died before either of those events,
a new guardian, previously appointed by him,
was to exercise authority. And in the hour of
her marriage, whether she married with or
without the consent of her guardian, or dur-
ing. her minority, her fortune became abso-
lutely her own thenceforth.

This was the proviso which his lordship had
mentioned on the previous day as unusual. It
was easy enough, by the light of Robert
Lisle’s own history, to understand it—it was
to save her from her mother’s fate. How lit-
tle he dreamed in providing that saving clause

for the happiness of the daughter he loved,.

how much trouble, and shame, and remorse,
it was to cause her in the days to come!

The people from the Priory called upon
Lord Montalien’s ward with congratulations
and cordial expressions of good-will. Mr.
Francis, whom Polly did not like, Mr. Guy,
whom she admired and liked very much, and
Sir Vane Charteris, who repelled her with his
coarse mouth and fulsome compliments. The
girl wondered why he looked at her with such
intensity, his small, black eyes seeming to de-
vour her. His little daughter came with him,
beautifully dressed, and much more gracious
than on that other memorable occasion. .Sir
Vane expressed his regret that Lady Char-
teris could not have the happiness of making
Miss Lisle’s charming acquaintance. Lady
Charteris was ill, confined to her room—a
nervous, hysterical attack, but would prob-
ably be able to travel on the morrow, when he
proposed refurning to town to consult an
eminent physician on the state of her health.
Miss Lisle listened very coldly, she disliked
him and his daughter, and was relieved when
they want away. Miss Hautton also called
with her kinsman, Lord Montalien, elegant
of costume, indisputably high-bred and
patrician, but looking more elderly and faded
than ever by contrast with that fresh, bright
face. Mr. Allan Fane did not call—he was
eating his very heart out with rage and baffled
love. Retribution had come very swiftly to
the tailor’s ambitious son.

Lord Montalien’s ward, obeying the behests
of her guardian, spent one evening at the
Priory. Only one—Duke and Rosanna must
have all the rest. She went dressed in white
tarletan (white was the pace thing fora
heroine), witha blue ribbon in her amber
curls, and a blue belt around her slim watst.
And she looked lovely! The white arms and
neck glimmered through the flimsy tarletan,
and there wasa flush on her cheeks and a
light in her eyes. She entered those stately
rooms a guest, an equal, she who had been
Polly Mason last week; and she sat at Lord
Montalien’s right hand at dinner, and was
the little queen of the feast. The dishes at that
dinner were of “such stuff as dreams are made
of.” She had things put on her plate, and she
ate them, and wondered inwardly all the while
what on earth they could be. She drank some
sparkling Moselle, and she had a slice of pine-
apple, and did not make one single mistake.
She was not awkward, she was in no way em-
barrassed, neither was she in the least forward.
Altogether she was charming, and Lord Mon-
talien was secretly fascinated by his little
ward,

“How true and clear sherings!” he thought;
“if she had been bred a countess her manners
could not be more simple and perfect. What
a charming little rosebud she is, and how
gloriously destined to bloom in the future!”

Allan Fane sat opposite “Miss Lisle” at
dinner, with the faded eyes of his high-born
betrothed fixed icily upon him. He was pale
and cold, and sat silent at the banquet, with
the fabled vulture of Prometheus gnawing at
his vitals! This beautiful little heiress might
have been his, in this hour, and he had given
her up, and bound himself to a woman he did
not and never could love. “It might have
been.” He had wrought his misery with his
own hand. If Polly thirsted for vengeance on
this recreant lover of hers, she had it. But
she did not; she had met him with a smile of
_ perfect provoking good humor and forgiveness.
“Fie was so utterly indiferenee her now that
she had no room in her heart for him even to
wish him unhappy.

He might marry Miss Hautton to-morrow,
and she would go to his wedding with
pleasure. He knew it, too; no woman’s eyes
ever looked so frankly into the eyes of a man
for whom she cared one straw.

In the drawing-room after dinner, with some
little urging, Polly sang. She did not mind
singing at all, but she only played accompani-
ments of her own; she did not understand the

iano.
na What does that matter, Miss Lisle?” said
Guy Earlscourt, “who cares for the accompani-
ment? I know you can sing—I’ve heard you.”
Polly laughed, and blushed at the remem-
brance. “That song has haunted me ever since,
Iassure you. Singit again, Miss Lisle, and
exercise it.” a

He led hertothe piano, and she obeyed,
Her sweet, clear voice filled the rooms. With
proper training that voice alone might have
made her fortune. She sang again “County
Guy.”

‘* Ah, County Guy, the hour is nigh,

The sun has left the lea,

The orange flower perfumes the bower,
The breeze is on the sea.

The lark whose lay has trilled all day
Sits hushea, his partner nigh—

Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour,
But where is County Guy ?”

He was beside her, bending over her, his
dark, dreamy, Italian eyes fixed on her face.
What did Guy Earlscourt think of her? In
days tocome did that sweet, youthful face
haunt his dreams? In the girl's memory that
night lived forever, the first of her new ex-
istence, and there were hours when Guy Earl-
court’s dark face rose up before her, like the
face of a reproachful ghost, She never fergot
it, nor him, as he stood there beside her, the
dark beauty of his Southern face, and his
jet-black hair, such a marked contrast to her
own, How handsome he had looked! How
happy she had been! She had reason to re-
member it—bitterly in the years to come.

Allan Fane, hovering afar off, took his

vnishment in sullen silence. He haa lost her

imself, but that was no reason why he should
not be savagely jealous ofevery other man
on whom she smiled. Guy had been his warm-
est friend—he felt as loyally toward him as it
was his shifting, selfish nature to be loyal to
any one, but pst corld have murdered him
to-night. This girl, his father’s ward, with
her noble fortune, her peerless beauty, would
be one day Guy Earlscourt’s wife, and he—he
looked with sudden, angry eyes, at. Diana
Hautton, with her three-and-thirty years and
her faded face, and walked out of the room
and out of the house, The soft summer rain
was falling: he never heeded it. He lighted
his cigar, and walked up and down under the
fragrant trees, up and down, up and down.
It grew late—Miss Lisle was driven home—
she insisted upon it—he heard the last sounds
of the wheels that bore her away, and then he
flung himself on the wet grass, face down-
ward, and knew he had lost forever the hap-
piness of his life.

CHAPTER X.
THE LAST DAY.

The last day had come.

It was two weeks precisely since she had
first heard the wonderful news, and Miss
Paulina Lisle was entirely ready. The warmth
and splendor of mid-July lay over the earth.
Montalien Priory looked glorious in its green
and golden wealth, its rich corn-fields, its
spreading, grassy slopes, down to the cease-
less sea, and its dense depths of woodland,
where the rare red deer herded, The world had
always been a bright and delightful world to
Polly, but never half so bright, half so delight-
ful as now. Every dream of her life, it seemed
to her, was realized—she had a living father
and mother, like other people—she was the
mistress of illimitable wealth, it seemed to
her—Lord Mortalien was her guardian, and

-would .rather not go;

 

There were times when this excitable nature
was nearly wild with joy—other times when,
looking at the sad, silent faces of her two old
friends, her tender heart was stricken with
remorse, and she would fling herself into their
arms, and passionately cry out she was a
wretch, a selfish, ungrateful wretch, to feel
all this bliss, when she was going away from
them for two long, endless years. Two years!
Those faithful hearts knew better than that:
not for two years, but for all time—forever.
When they had said good-by, they had said
it; their lives lay apart. It was Duke himself
who hurried on the preparations for departure.
Had he so willed it, the girl might have re-
mained with them until September, when the
Convent of the Sacred Heart opened its school.
But it was inevitable, and the sooner it was
all over the better.

A sort of dull resignation might come when
she was gone—“if any calm, a calm despair.”
To see her now, knowing it was the last time,
was simply intolerable. Lord Montalien had
made a proposal of taking the young lady for
a midsummer holiday scamper through
southern France, the Tyrol], and up the Rhine;
and Polly’s eyes had flashed their electric,
joyous light for an instant, and then grew very
grave and tender.

lord,” she said; “I

“Thank you—no, m
want to stay with—
with them to the last.”

But Duke had decided differently.

“You shall go, Duchess; never mind about
us; we are going to lose you, and what does
a week or two earlier matter? You shall goto
southern France as soon as ever Rosanna has
all your things shamge 8

Her things were all ready now, and the day.
was fixed for her departure. It wasa wonderful
fit-out in this young lady’s eyes—silks and
muslins of all hues and the finest textures,
and linen, like drifted snow, trimmed . with
real Irish lace. Nothing like it had ever daz-
zled the eyes of the late Miss Mason’s friends.
That seven hundred pounds, so long laid away
in the bank, was drawn forth to finish this
wardrobe. For himself ana sister, Mr. Mason
positively refused a farthing. His pale face
flushed—his mild eyes quite flashed as Lord
Montalien, ever so delicately, made the offer.

“All the gold in the Bank of England could
not repay me for the loss of Polly,” he said.
“Unless you want to insult me, my lord, you
will never allude to this again.”

For once Duke was dignified. Lord Mon-
talien wrung his hand, and looked at him
admiringly.

“You area fine fellow,” he answered, simply,
“and have fulfilled your trust to Robert Lisle
right loyally.”

or Polly, she would have liked to fill the
little house with sumptuous adornings, and
load down her two friends with costly gifts.
They refused everything; and it was only
when, hurt and wounded, the girl was turn-
ing away, that Duke consented to replace his
big silver watch with a gold patent lever, and
Rosanna, her rusty brown with anew black
silk, stiff enough in its glistening richness to
stand alone. Miss Alice Warren got a locket
and chain, and numbers of pretty ornaments
beside. Polly would have jiked to have sent
gold watches and silk dresses to every one in
Speckhaven—the charity children included.
She had even made friends with her old foe,
with whom she had waged vendetta so long.
She had met Eliza Long on the street, and that
young woman had turned away with sullen
eyes and bitterest envy. There had been a
moment’s struggle in Polly’s breast—then that
generous nature conquered, and she went up
to her with extended hand and pleading eyes.

“Tam going away, Eliza,” she said; “don’t
let us part bad friends. I dare say I have been
most in fault all through, but Iam sorry. Do
shake hands!”

Brave words to come from so proud a spirit!
They had melted Eliza, and a reconciliation
took place there and then. And that night,
when the handsomest brooch and ear-rings
money could buyin the town reached Miss
Long, she fairly gave way and sobbed over
them, struck with surprise and contrition.
She was at peace with the world and all there-
in—heppy Polly—and no. charlowpt the. dark-
ness to come marred to-day’s brightness.

The visitors at the Priory were nearly all
gone. Sir Vane Charteris, his wife and daugh-
ter, had left the day before the one on which
the heiress dined there. My lady, closely
vailed, and tottering as she walked, came
forth leaning on her maid’s arm. Once, as
Lord Montalien said farewell, she had paused,
catching his hand in both her own, and cling-
ing to it as though her last hope were there.
But Sir Vane had come forth, and she had
dropped it, and fallen back in a corner of the
traveling carriage, with her black vail over
her face, and so the peer saw her. for the last
time on earth.

Miss Hautton had gone to Scotland two days
after to join the Duchess of Clanronald. Mr.
Fane was to meet them in London, and ac-

 

 

company them to the Italian lakes; Lord
Montalien, when his ward was safely deposited
in her convent-school, was to start for Syria;
Francis Earlscourt was going back to Oxford
to read for his degree; and Guy was to rejoin
his regiment at Knight s Bridge. So the
actors in this life drama were situated this
twenty-first of July, fixed for Polly’s de-
parture. Widely enough separated, it would
seem, but, like the cards in the same pack,
sure to come together again in the universal
shuffle..

They were to start by the noonday mail,
in time to catch the tidal train that evening
for Folkstone. Polly had bidden good-by to
all her’old friends in the town, to her guardian,
to her pets, to her violin, to her little ettic
room. ord Montalien’s,carriage awaited her
outside the garden gate. My lord sat within
in horrible dread of a scene. Alice Warren
was sobbing beside Rosanna—sobbing bitterly.
“I feel as though I were saying good-by for-
ever,” she said at once. It was good-by for-
ever, though she little knew it. The two
friends would never look in each other’s faces
more on earth.

Rosanna, looking as if carved in gray stone,
stood stiff and tearless beside the kitchen
fire. And up in the painting-room, Paulina,
in a charming traveling suit of gray and blue,
and a little French hat, had her arms around
Duke’s neck, trying to say farewell. The little
watch ticking at her belt pointed to five
minutes to two; at ten minutes past their
train started.

“Oh, Duke! oh, Duke! how can I say good-
by? Oh, Duke it breaks my heart to go!’

She was sobbing wildly. The scene painter
unloosed the clinging arms, and put her gently
from him, looking at her with eyes full of
great sadness.

“You must go, and at once, Duchess; good-
by, my little one, and God in heaven bless

ou!”

He led her out of the room. On the thresh-

old. he stopped and kissed her for the first
time since she had been a little toddling baby,
crowing on his shoulder. Then the door shunt
upon her; the glory of Duke Mason’s life was
over--he had lost the Duchess!
’ He went back slowly to his old seat, sat
down, laid his arms on the table, and his face
upon them, as though he never cared to lift
it again. And so, when hundreds of miles lay
between him and his little one, and the starry
summer twilight shone over the world, his
sister found him.

She had kissed Alice, she had kissed Ros-
anna, sobbing vehemently, her tears fallin
like rain, and she had fled from them, an
into the carriage with the coronet on its
panels. The liveried coachman started his
horses; she pulled a little blue vail she wore
over her face, and turned away from her com-

anion. They were Sion through the town.

he looked out with blinded eyes to take a
last gimpse at the familiar streets. Eliza
Long waved adieu to her from her window;
Francis Earlscourt, walking to the station,
lifted his hat as she passed. And then, through
all her tempestuous grief it dawned upon the
young lady that she was reddening her eyes
and swelling her nose in all probability, and
that there would be plenty of time to cry on

 

the way up to London. Ah, me! it is buta

 

his world and his order henceforth hers.|step from the depths of despair to the ab-

surdly ludicrous; the philosopher who laughed
at life and its follies and its pitiful weaknesses
was the wiser philosopher of the two. Miss
Lisle wiped away her tears, and wondered if
Guy Earlscourt would also be at the station
to say farewell.

He was not-there. She felt a pang of disap-

‘pointment as she saw Francis alone

“TI liked him best, and he might have come,”
she thought, as my lord handed her into the
compartment reserved . for themselves. It
wanted but two minutes of starting-time—he
would not come,

“Good-by, Miss Lisle; I wish you a pleasant
journey,” Francis had said, shaking hands
and stepping back. And then, at that instant,
a tall, black horse came thundering in acloud
of dust down the road, bearing a breathless
rider, The black borse was Thunder, and the
rider Guy Earlscourt, late because he had
stopped to fill a dainty little moss-lined
basket with rarest flowers and fruit. He leaped
off his horse, and gave the basket to the guard
for Miss Lisle. The young lady’s heart
bounded as she saw him; flushed, glowing,
handsome,

“Rather a close finish,” he said laughing,
and holding out his hand, “I should never
have Spent yen myself had I been too late.
Good-by, Miss Lisle; don’t quite forgot your
Speckhaven friends in your Parisian convent,
and don't. I conjure you, take the black vail.
We cannot afford to lose you.”

She had barely time to touch the hand he
reached her through the window, when the
whistle shrieked and the train started. She
sprang up fora last look. It fell upon him
standing there, hat in hand, the July sun-
shine on his handsome head. And so the last
face the !girl took out «f her old life, with
the-smile upon it that lighted it into such
rare beauty, was the dark Italian face of Guy
Earlscourt.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

———

This Story Will Not be Published in Book-Form
Little Coquette Bonnie;

CROSSED IN LOVE.

By MRS, ALEX. McVEIGH MILLER,

Author of ‘‘The Senator's Bride,” “Brunette and
Blonde,” “‘Rosamend,” etc.

 

 

 

(“LITTLE COQUETTR BONNIE” was commenced in No. 4,
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.]}

CHAPTER XXXII.

“YOU TAKE A GREAT INTEREST IN THIS BONNIE
DALE!”

‘* A path of light across the sea,

Two walking on the shell-strewn sand,

The sea breeze flowing fresh and free,
The moonlight over all the land.

And love was there, sweet love was there,
Two uearts were caught in Cupid’s net,

He gazed into her face so fair,
And knew he never should forget.”

Mrs. ALEX. MCVEIGH MILLER.

Bonnie, swimming with graceful ease
through the breakers, heard a musical voice
by her side:

“Are you offended at my mistake,
Lloyd?”

She turned her radiant face, as fresh and
fair as Hebe’s, and saw Lin by her side
breasting the waves with joyous abandon,

The wet brown curls clung in masses to his
finely shaped head, his glorious eyes had in
them the blue of the sea, and the light of a
strange joy. On his lips was a dazzling smile.

Bonnie, poor little “A ed_er. lover
still in spite of that day when he had so
angrily put her from him, and her heart
leaped to. meet that rare, sweet smile.

She shook her head and the wet golden rings
of hair that crowned her brow broke into a
hundred dazzling spirals, framing the sweetest
dark eyes that ever a man looked into and
lost his heart.

“Oftended? oh, no. Mrs. Westland made the
same -mistake,” she answered, brightly, but

with a wildly beating heart.
~“Did she? And how about her husband?”
he asked, with a touch of banter in his tone.

Bonnie looked straight into his eyes with
an air of innocent unconsciousness.

“He, too, was struck by my likeness to his
wife’s dead sister,” she replied, calmly.

He put out his hand toward hers, and said
cordially:

“Shall we be friends, Miss Lloyd?”

ae? see that great wave!” cried Bonnie,

ayly.
: W en the monster wave had broken over
them amid the joyous shrieks of the bathers
and swinimers, she shook the water from her
face and head and turned to her companion.

“Tsn’t this glorious? I love the sea!” she
cried, joyously.

“And the sea loves you, Miss Lloyd. You
look like Venus rising from the waves,” he
replied, intoxicated by the loveliness of her

face and form.

“She is divine,” he thought. “And how
proudly she carries herself. She willf never
own that she is the little Bonnie that used to
love me,”

“Are you not tired?” he asked. “The swim-
ming out here close to the life-boats is very
heavy. Shall we go in nearer shore?”

Laughing assent, she turned and swam by
his side until the water grew so shallow that
it only reached vo their waists. Lin held her
hand as the great inrolling waves broke
against them, and said:

“Let us rest here a little and watch the
bathers. I find it great fun—don’t you?”

He was so calm, so cool, that Bonnie’s ner-
vyousness began to relax. Was it possible he
was going to take her at her word, and not
accuse her as the others did? She was so glad
that she began to give free vent to her joyous
spirits, laughing and chatting so gayly that
she brought back the pretty madcap Bonnie
of those autumn days at the old farm.

“It seems like a dream,” he thought, and
then it came to him that he had wakened to
a horribie reality. Bonnie alive, her husband
married to her sinter, and the beautiful heiress
afraid to confess her identity through fear of
the complications that had arisen!

A keen ‘pain tore through his heart as he
stood there in the sunshine by Bonnie’s side,
and his dark blue eyes grew grave.

“Miss Lloyd, I asked you a question just
now, and you did not answer me,” he said;
“T repeat it: Shall we be friends?”

“But you have a grudge against me,” an-
swered the girl.

“A grudge?” :

“You were tobe your uncles heir, and I
came between you, although innocently, God
knows, for Mr. Lloyd never breathed your
name to me. It was from Mrs. Westland that
I first learned what cause you had to dislike
me.” answered Bonnie.

“But I do not dislike you nor envy you now
that I know you, Miss Lloyd. I sincerely de-
sire to be your friend.”

Bonnie looked at him with a shadow of
thought glooming over that most fair face.

“But I do not believe in friendship. I sub-
scribe to the poet’s plaint,” she replied, and
quoted, vehemently:

“ For what is friendship but a name,
A charm that lulls to sleep,
A shade that follows wealth or fame,
But leaves the wretch to weep.”

 

Miss

Lin La Valliere’s face.flushed deeply at her

words,

 

“You think that I am anxious for your
friendship, perhaps, because you are young and
beautiful and rich,” he said, proudly, and a
half-sarcastic smile on the red lip answered
him without words.

Bonnie was thinking,oh, so bitterly, of that
day when she had knelt to him in the preacher’s
little parlor and told him she should die if he
deserted her; but smarting over the pain of
what seemed to him her treachery, he had
refused to listen to her denials, he had gone
away and left her to her despair. How could
she help the spasm of distrust that convulsed
her heart?

Reading her heart, as in a. book, he said,
earnestly:

“Do not distrust my motives, Miss Lloyd. I
have no selfish interest in my desire. It is for
your own sake I would like to be your trusted
friend. You are so young, and in spite of your
wealth you are environed, it seems to me, by
perils that you cannot escape.”

She started, and gave him a keen, half-sus-
picious look.

“What do you mean?” she faltered.

“T cannot explain,” he answered, “but, Miss
Lloyd, I read the shadow of a tragedy in those
dark eyes, and it seems to me that a heavy
sorrow lowers over your head. I would fain
guard and protect you, you helpless child, when
trouble comes. Will you promise to call on
me if you ever need help or advice?”

He was thinking of Miles Westland and the
terrible claim he had on this girl’s life. What
if he found out Bonnie and pressed his claim?

He knew Miles Westland’s nature well, and
he did not believe that he would hesitate be-
tween Bonnie and her wealth on the one side,
and Imogen and his child on the other. Strong
passions and selfishness dominated the young
man’s nature. Bonnie’s only safety from his
claim lay in his love. If he cared most for
Imogen she would be safe, that was all.

All this crowded into Lin La Valliere’s
mind, and made him speak to Bonnie with im-
passioned earnestness, but, ere the startled
girl could reply, a light laugh sounded near
them and Imogen came up to them, attended
by the Rainsfords and two young men. Intro-
ductions followed, and Lin soon saw that both
the new-comers adored beautiful Bonnie.

This interruption separated Lin from the

oung girl, and he had no further chance with

er until that evening when they met in the
beautiful ball-room of the Traymore Hotel,
where Bonnie and her sister reigned undis-
puted belles.

Lin did not goto them at first. He leaned
in the embrasure of a window and watched
Bonnie floating through the german, a fairy in
pale-tinted blue silk and diamonds, with jas-
mine flowers on her breast,

“She looks like a fairy princess!” he thought,
and could hardly make up his mind whether
Bonnie in her bathing dress all vailed in her
golden hair and with taper limbs and twink-
ling sandal-shod feet, or Bonnie in this drap-
ery of soft silvery blue silk, with the golden
tresses piled high on her head, were the fairer.
He could not decide, but he waited with burn-
ing impatience to ask her for one waltz. When
he gained that coveted pleasure his strong arm
trembled around her :dainty waist, he was
dizzy with keen delight, and as they moved in
unison together burning words formed them-
selves on his lips, and died unuttered in the
music’s beat and pulse of divine melody:

“My own love, my lost love, my sweet, my
darling !”

He longed to know whether the white breast
of the beautiful heiress yet retained the pas-
sion he had awakened in her when she was
simple little madcap Bonnie, the farmer’s
daughter. Her glance when it met his seemed
to say no, it was so frankly unconscious. But
then he knew that Bonnie, without studying
her part, was mistress of all sweet coquettish
wiles. They came to her naturallly as song to
a bird. Perhaps her heart was fickle, too. How
soon she had turned from Miles Westland to
him. Suddenly he remembered something that
Imogen had said to him that day:

“When Miss Lloyd was away at school she
spent Christmas with a schoolmate, a noble-
man’s daughter, down in Devonshire, and I
believe our preety heiress has a titled lover,
‘BU perhaps Mr.-Lisyd's money may buy.her a
coronet some day.”

He looked with burning eyes at the proud
golden head leaning so close to his shoulder,
and he owned to himself that it was beautiful
enough to wear a crown.

But what thoughts were stirring in that
white breast he did not dream as it heaved
under the diamonds and jasmine flowers.
How could he know that Bonnie, who was
called a little coquette, and who seemed so
cold and indifferent, had never loved but once
in her sweet young life, and that all her virgin
heart’s pure wealth was for him alone?

‘If he had known that when her proud, fair face
Turned from him, calm and slow,
Beneath its cold indifference had place
A passionate deep woe.

“Tf he had known her eyes, so cold and bright,
Watching the sunset’s red,
Held back within their deeps of purple light
A storm of tears unshed,

“If she had known that when her calm glance swept
Him as she passed him by,
His blood was fire, his pulses madly leapt
Beneath her careless eye.

“If she had known the longing and the pain,
1f she had only guessed—
One look-- one word--and she, perhaps, had lain
Silent upon his breast!”

When that divine-waltz was over, the little
hand clung to his arm as though loth to let
him go.

“Tam tired of the heat and the dancing.
Let us get Imogen, and go out upon the
board walk and watch the sea,” she said, and
his heart leaped at the thought. Man-like, he
eared little for balls, but he would have
lingered in purgatory, man-like again, to
watch that face that charmed him so.

“Why Imogen?” he asked, longing to have
her alone with him.

“Oh, I must have a chaperon, you know,”
laughed Bonnie, and she called to Imogen,
who stood talking toa gentleman. The bru-
nette, who was inwardly furious because Lin
had not asked her to dance, gladly assented,
thinking that her presence would break up
the tete-a-tete between the two.

But to her inward chagrin, the gentleman
who had danced with her insisted on becom-
ing her escott. She accepted, much to Lin’s
relief, and Mrs. Cornwall having brought
their white wraps, the two couples went down
to the board walk, where a throng of people
were promenading still, although it lacked
but an hour to midnight. In the bright glare
of the electric lights the scene was most
brilliant, and striking. The animated faces of
handsome men and beautiful, jewel-decked
women lent ‘fascination to the tout ensemble,
and down over the silvery, shell-strewn sands
old ocean came booming in with a solemn
roar.

“The sea is grand to-night, under the full
moon,” said Captain James, Imogen’s com-
panion, “Look at the white-caps rolling in.
Shall we go down on the sands, Mrs. West-
land?”

Captain James was a romantically inclined
young man, who loved to flirt with married
women, and he found stately Imogen very
much to his‘liking. :

All four went down on the beach, and the
captain found Imogen a chair, and stood at the
back of it, gazing down admiringly at his fair
companion in her rose-pink silk and dia-
monds. The other two walked arm-in-arm
along the level sands. Imogen would have
given the world to hear what they said, but
the booming of the waves drowned out every
other sound,

“How beautiful and queenly Mrs. Westland
looks!” the young girl was saying.

Lin assented; then remarked:

“T was thinking, as I looked at her a while
ago, how dreadful it would have been if her
supposed:dead sister had returned to life in
the person of yourself. You are wonderfully
like poor Bonnie, you know. But only think
of poor Mrs. Westland’s position if you were

 

really Bonnie. Her husband would belong to

“Really, I don’t think I should want him,”
ei heiress answered, with a silvery little
augh.

“But he might want you—for your money, if
not for love,” and in his voice Bonnie fancied
a subtle note of warning.

A slight shiver ran over her form.

“If you were really Bonnie, you would owe
a solemn duty to your unfortunate sister,”
continued Lin La Valliere, quietly.

Bonnie looked away at the sea without re-
plying, and he went on, persistently:

“You would have to go away to some quiet
place, and secure a divorce from Miles West-
land, so that he could re-marry Imogen, and
make their union legal.”

Bonnie put her little hand to her throat,
with a strangling gasp.

“He suspects me—he is giving me advice,”
she thought, tremblingly,and there was silence
for a moment, Bonnie watching the path of
silvery moonlight, on the vast expanse of
water, Lin waiting for her to speak.

At last, she said, in a careless, half-defiant
voice:

“You seem to take a great interest in this
Bonnie Dale. But, after all, from what Imogen
bas tale me, she was rather wicked, was she
not?”

 

CHAPTER XXXII.

“WHAT IF THE HEIRESS WERE TO GET DROWNED
WHILE OUT BATHING TO-MORROW 2”

It was a point-blank question, and Lin did
not answer directly. Bonnie waited with a
poles throbbing heart, aid at last he said,

ently:

“TI fear Mrs. Westland has not done her sis-
ter justice. She was not wicked, only weak.”

“Weak?” repeated Bonnie, turning her eyes
upon his grave face.

“Perhaps I should have said fickle,” said
the young man. “You remember she loved
Miles Westland well enough to marry him
secretly, yet just a few weeks later when she
believed him dead, she was willing to marry
me.”

“A very gay young widow!” laughed Bon-
nie, as if that girl had been a stranger, but
deep down in her heart was a passionate long-
ing to defend herself to Lin, to tell him the
story of her forced marriage, to cry out to him
imploringly:

“Oh, my dear lost love, I am neither weak
nor fickle as you call me! In all my life, I
have loved you only, and in my heart I will
treasure your image until I die!”

But she dared not sneak. She loved Imogen,
too, and how could she own her identity and
break her sister’s heart? ©

Tears welled up into her eyes as she realized
how completely her lips were sealed to the
truth. For Imogen's sake she must shield
are Westland and go on living this wretched

ie.

She wondered, sadly,. what was in the heart
of the man by her side. Did he love her still,
or had his belief in her unworthiness slain
his passion?

He was not looking at her,
dream he murmured:

“T was harsh and cruel to poor Bonnie. I
would not believe her when she told me her
husband was dead. I put away those little
ee outstretched hands, and left her to
ier cruel fate. I can never forgive myself, but
God knows I thought she would go home to
her father and be forgiven for her folly. Were
she living now, poor little wounded heart, I
would like to godown upon my knees to her
and pray her to forgive me for my harshness.”

Every word sank deep into the girl’s quiver-
ing heart.

“He knows me. He is pleading his own
cause with me,” she thought, then | bitterly:
“It is only repentance because he wronged me
by his harshness. His love is dead. Be still,
mE Ons. Let me look upon it all asa jest!”

as!

“ Tf she had known that wheu her laughter rang
In scorn of sweet past days, ede
His very soul shook with a deadly pang
Before her light dispraise.

Like one in a

 
 

fe te =a oat a eg

“Tf she had known how oft wheh tlreif eyes met,
And his so calmly shone,

But for man’s shame and pride they had been wet—
Ab! if she had but known !”

Suddenly she became aware that the beauti-
ful, grave blue eyes were searching her face
eagerly, almost pleadingly. Bonnie knew that
she was being put to a severe test. She must
rouse herself.

“How romantic that poor girl’s story was,”
she said, with the polite sympathy of a
stranger. ‘No doubt it would be pleasant for
you to beg her forgiveness, but on the whole
it is much better she did not-come to life
again. It would have been a terrible resur-
rection for pone Imogen.”

And in those words he read the secret of
Bonnie’s heart. She would never own her
ete she would live a lie for her sister’s
sake,

His heart went out to her ina great wave
of pity and love. Weak and fickle she might
have been in that past time, but there was
something noble and self-sacrificing about her
after all.

“Yes, it would have been hard for Imogen,”
he answered her, gently. “But as I explained
to you just now, Bonnie could have divorced
her husband and let him re-marry her sister—
everything quietly, you know. She would
have found kind friends to aid her—friends
who loved her well enough to sacrifice much
for her sake—” he paused, for Bonnie said,
shiveringly as she drew the white cloak about
her bare shoulders: “How cold the wind blows!
Let us go back to the hotel.”

Imogen was glad when they came back to
her chair. Captain James had been repeating
poetry to her, but she had hardly heard a
word. She had been watching Lin and Bonnie
as they stood together, the full moon lighting
the silvery blue of Bonnie’s dress into shining
white like a _ bride’s, until the thought of it
almost struck Imogen dead with jealous de-
spair.

Long after the whole world was asleep that
night, dark-haired Imogen walked the floor
of her room, racked with pain at the thought
that the beautiful heiress had won Lin so
quickly, and that perhaps ere long she would
be his happy bride.

“T hate her, I hate Miles, there is no one in
the wide world that I love except Lin La Val-
liere!” she moaned, wildly, and the thought
that he had fallen in love with Avis Lloyd
drove her mad.

“I would rather see him dead than married
to another!” she cried. “Oh, I wish that Avis
Lloyd were dead! Perhaps he is only making
love to her because she is rich, and by marry-
ing her he could get back the fortune he lost
by her coming between him and hiscousin. If
she were only dead he and Miles would have
it all, and—and—Miles might—die—some time
—and Lin, my love, my idol, might marry me!”

Those thoughts burned in her brain like fire;
she could not rest, she could not sleep for
thinking of golden-haired Avis Lloyd dead
and out of her way forever.

“What if she were to get’drowned while out
bathing to morrow? There would be ae
really strange in that. People get drowne
every day orso here at Atlantic City, even
good swimmers, because the undertow is
strong and sweeps them away,” she muttered,
darkly.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

CANDOR.—There is one means of preserving
peace, harmony and good will in our social
relations which, although very simple, very
just, and manifestly very effective, is perhaps

more frequently shunned and disliked than
any other, It is the frank admission of hay-
ing been inthe wrong. Nothing so quickly

 

disarms resentment, calms irritation, melts
away cold displeasure turns anger into_ ten-
derness, and changes a defiant attitude to
one of sympathy, as this candid confession,
and yet few words are more rarely uttered.

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

eS

VOL. 48—No. 1 1 s

 

 

NEW YORK, JANUARY 7, 1893.

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P.O. Box 2734. 29 & 3L Rose St., N. Vo

 

ote

 

Christmas Secrets

 

 

 

The anniversary of the natal day of the Saviour
approaches, and the Christian world is alert, pre-
pared to do homage to the lowly one of Bethlehem,
whose life has proved an inspiration and a grand
exanipie to all subsequent ages.

The memory of the Prince of Peace, whose mission
was to teach lessons of love, hiinility, kindness, and
charity, )}ecomes more sweet and radiant with every
passing year, and is revered in every civilized land;
while the renown of the panoplied heroes of the
world, who won transient fame through conquests
which caused the eusiavement of their fellow-imen,
or costly victories bought with human blood, pales
into insignificance beneath the luster destined to
shine forever on the humble Nazarene, whose life
was one of self-sacrifice. He contemplated simple
acts of kindness, even from the most lowly, as more
worthy of recognition and reward than the triumph-
ant deeds which brought high honors to the vic-

torious few, and misery to the many unfortunates
on whose necks they stepped to what was deemed

the pinnacle of earthly glory.

But the days of so-called chivalry are past, and
now the most popular heroes of the world are those
who rule with kindness, and win high esteem by the
We refer to the rulers of the
household, whose little armies encamp around the
domestic fireside, and who insure obedience, not by
rude commands, but by the innumerable deeds of
To
these rulers and their armies Christmas is an ever-

manifestation of love.

self-sacrifice which are prompted by affection.

memorable season of rejoicing

The young rejoice, because to them there is no
The little ones consider it

holiday like Christmas.
the harvest-time of the year, when good things in
abundance are garnered for general distribution in
the family. Just before Christmas there are mys-
terious visits from uncles, aunts, and cousins, each
freighted with strange-looking packages. The ex-
pressman also makes stealthy visits—they certainly
seem so to the keen eyes of the observant little
ones—and is confidentially escorted to the door by
prudent mamma, who has suddenly become a cus-
todian of weighty secrets. The children are im
pregsedwith the ige% that IMsunse’s obs
at Christmas sbe has not. the least
curiosity. At other times. when the expressman
comes with a parcel, it is opened immediately after
its arrival; but at Christmas, strange to say,;mamma
does not manifest any desire to view the contents—
not while the children are around.

Everybody in the house seems to act mysteriously,

 

  

PEA "ES

  

  

. ‘psF ae
changing —tiat

he or she ‘guards with almost religious devotion.

fully locked just before Christmas.
are protected from invasion or inspection, as if they
were the receptacles of articles not good for human
eyes to rest upon—until Christmas morning.
Throughout the house there is an air of mystery ;
and papa and mamma appear to be the only mem-
bers of the family who are really on terms of con-
fidential intercourse. From many an important dis-
cussion the younger ones are excluded; but the
latter wink expressively at each other, and know
they are the subjects of these mysterious communi-
cations. They are aware that ilove for them, and the
desire to surprise and delight them, combine to
form the burden of parental thoughts; and that on

all be revealed to expectant eyes.

enshrined in loving hearts.

and joy.

eternal bliss.

MERRY CHRISTMAS and a HAPPY NEW YEAR!

WHEN CHRISTMAS COMES.

BY KATE THORN.

 

 

 

weather, and the days are short.

ride.

or five dollars a dose, as

fellow-citizens will consume on Christmas.

hilarity and good cheer.

 

 

 

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'’o OLUB RAISERS.—Upon request we will send sample

preoccupied inthe contemplation of secrets which

Closet doors, which are usually left open, are care-
Bureau drawers |

Christmas morning the house will be a scene of
merriment. when the offerings of Santa Claus will

Although happiness reigns, it is in many homes
tinged with regret for the absent ones who have
passed from earth, but whose images will be forever
The pages of life are
turned until fond memory’s eye rests upon scenes
which recall the joyous Christmases of other years,
when every seat at the table was occupied, when
the merriest jest came from lips now sealed, when
radiant eyes, now closed forever, beamed with health

Kindly remembrance of the absent ones comes
most opportunely at Christmas. Their faults are
forgotten, and we think only of their generous
qualities and their good deeds, and mentally resolve
to emulate them in acts of charity and love, that
we may be worthy to join them in the realms of

That health and happiness may attend the holiday
festivities, is the earnest wish of the NEW YORK
WEEKLY. And toits numerous patrons if expresses
the compliments of the season, wishing them all a

When Christmas comes it is generally cold
All the young people want snow for a sleigh-

The old folks meet, and shake hands, and
indulge in reminiscences of what the weather
was on various Christmases fifty or sixty
years ayo; and they talk about how the breast-

bone of the goose indicates an open winter,
or the reverse; and how the husks on the corn
foretell unusual cold, or mildness; and they
repeat what they heard father or grandfather
say about the severe winters of the past; and
then they go their way, to tell the same story
over again next Christmas. The doctor thinks
with satisfaction of the doses of “blue mass,”
and other liver-overhauling compounds he will
be called upon to administer, to the tune of two
an antidote to the
plum pudding and turkey stuffing which his

The lawyer.confidently expects fees in cases
of brawls and disturbances which are liable
to occur from the too free use of those festive
beverages which flow freely at this time of

 

barrel of old sermons, hoping that some new
idea will strike him, and enable him to pre-
sent the old story in some striking way to his
critical hearers on Christmas morning.

The editor takes his coffee extra strong,
loosens his paper collar, flings back his wav-
ing hair, and seizes his pen, in the delusive
hope that something may come to him to say
on this occasion which he has never said
before.

The grocery man is jubilant. He is every-
body’s friend. He has smiles, and sweets, and
preserves, at an advanced price, for all crea-
tion. He beams as he weighs out the raisins
and measures out the molasses. He forgets to
frown on the small boy who filches a couple of
russet apples from the barrel, and he looks
beneficently on the seedy man who comes in
from the country, with half a dozen eggs ina
tin pail to exchange for groceries.

The head of the family groans mentally
when his wife begins to speak of the money
she shall need to get through with things in
decent shape. Tommy needs new shoes. Emma
must have a hat. Sadie must make Araminta
Jones a present, because Araminta gave her
that lovely coral set last year. Then there is
the turkey, and that new carpet for the sit-
ting-room, and presents for “father’s folks,”
and presents for the hundred and one friends
who in times past have made her presents, or
who in times to come may _ be expected to
make her presents. And then she mysteriously
reveals the fact that she shall want “about
ten dollars, my dear,” for another purpose,
and the husband knows just as well as she
does that she wants it to buy worsted to make
him smoking-caps and slippers or materials
for dressing-gowns, of which he probably has
a dogen, received in a similar way, on similar
occasions.

Everybody lives to eat on Christmas. The
turkey is king of the carnival, and the goose
is his prime minister. The plum pudding and
mince pie belong to the cabinet.

A great many new bonnets first see the
light on Christmas Day. Every woman goes to
church to see what every other woman has on,
and it will-take that same woman all the
week to make calls, and talk over Mrs. A.’s
blue velvet, “which is so unbecoming!” and
Mrs. B.’s red plush, which is “perfectly
awful!”

And so we go on, and each successive Christ-
mas is very like the one before it, and thus it
will continue to be.

And so we wish all the readers of the NEw
YorK WEEKLY a merry Christmas, and good
cheer, and light hearts, and clear consciences,
and money enough to settle the bills.

_—_—— oe oo

The Best Paper for the Home-

The New YORK WEEKLY presents attractions to
every one, old and young, and is therefore essen-
tiaily a paper for the home. The longer you are
familiar with it the more you admire it. Have it
sent to your address, postage free, for one year. The
cost is only three dollars.

WON WITH A KISS:
KATY ’S pan eae gg

 

GIFT.

 

BY JOHN A. PETERS.

It was with a feeling bordering on gladness
that Katy Brown called the roll, dismissed
her pupils to their respective homes, and
closed and locked the ponderous school-house
door.

She was a slim, pretty girl, with the sweet
mouth and prayerful eyes of a Madonna—a
girl of the nature of the ivy, clinging and
dependent, and not a bit strong-minded—the
last girl in the world to set up for a country

| schoolma’am, and have charge of a host of un-

at ge o> atte As

ruiy, ifl-mannéred giris aid boys; but what
else could she do? After the failure and death
of her father, once an influential merchant in
New York city, she had found herself obliged
to work or starve. Those who had been her
dearest friends, who had frequently partaken
of her father’s hospitality, turned a cold
shoulder to the orphan girl, when, penniless
and alone, she strove in every possible way to
obtain some situation whereby she could live.

At last she thought of a distant relative
residing in the picturesque hamlet of Rock-
ton. Squire Jones, a well-to-do farmer, hap-
pened to be the trustee of the district school,
and accordingly installed her as mistress in
the little red school-house, peeping out from a
wilderness of trees, behind whose giant trunks
the timid schoo]ma’am was often afraid some
wild beast lurked.

To-day she hurried along the road that
wound like a tortured serpent through the
green-branched tress, peopled with songsters,
afraid to glance to the right or left, an um-
brella over her head to ward off the glittering
rain-drops which pattered around her.

To the city-bred girl the scene was an un-
canny one. The cry of the birds startled her;
the sound of the rain-drops on the green-
boughed trees frightened her, and as she
emerged from the thicket into the highway,
and a huge black dog ran up to her and
growled, displaying his formidable, threaten-
ing teeth, she brandished her umbrella aloft
and screamed aloud.

At this juncture a horse dashed by at head-
long speed, probably frightened by the unex-

ected cry, and the umbrella, which, as she
waved it to and fro, looked not unlike an ill-
omened bird of prey, beating the air with two
sable wings. Taken wholly by surprise, the
rider, unable to control his mettlesome steed
or keep his seat, was thrown to the ground
just as Katy arrived at the conclusion that it
was only a dog, and not a wolf, that had
scared herso. She dropped her umbrella and
ran toward the prostrate man.

“Oh, sir, are you hurt?”

No reply. The man lay as if dead, the blood
oozing from a slight wound above the temple,
and trickling in a tiny crimson stream down
his face. The dog came up and licked his
master’s face, and then, as he did not stir,
wistfully. regarded the slim girl, who was
stanching the wound with her own dainty
handkerchief, while the rain beat down on his
still, white face.

Whata ecrand, handsome man he was! Little
Katy, wringing her hands in an agony of sus-

ense, could not but admire him. Fair, curly
hair clustered about a brow so broad, so
white, that it looked not unlike a slab of pol-
ished marble; the lips were overshadowed by
a drooping mustache, and Katy thought they
must be very firm and sweet when animated
by life; and such a big man! long-limbed and
broad-shouldered, and Katy had a liking for
gigantic, muscular men. She put her iad
to his heart, she could not feel it throb. Then
she took up one of the great hands lying at
his side; it felt cold as marble.

“He is dead, doggie! your master is dead!
and so handsome, so gloriously handsome !”
she cried, to the shaggy brute, who howled
dismally, as if he comprehended what she
said: then, cut of sheer pity, she bent down
and kissed the mute, white lips.

Was it fancy, or did they indeed feel warm.
A thrill ran through her whole being as the
white lids flew open, and two blue eyes looked
into hers, and a musical voice said:

“Kiss me again, my pretty lass; I like it!”

But away sped the “pretty lass,” unheeding
his petition, and denouncing herself as a soft-
hearted fool.

“Oh, how dared I kiss him!” she moaned.
“Tt was an immodest act, and he may bea
villain, for ought I know! I hope I shall never
meet him again!”

Down the hill she ran, drenched to the skin,
her umbrella left behind her, while Harry
Howland slowly rose to his feet, and ruefully

 

 

The minister—poor man !—racks his brains,

gazed after the retreating figure.
“Brute that I was to scare away the girl!

jand searches his Bible, and hunts over his

i

l were the cause of Selim running away? The
ba

| tumble I got nearly Led. 18. :
“But,” interpolaux aty,

What a sweet face she has! what prayerful
gray eyes! for all the world like those of a
hunted fawn. Faith! what a delicious kiss!
If I had but kept my mouth shut, I might
have received another. Instead, I must drive
her away. Well, Selim, you did your master a
favor when you tossed him to the ground, and
ran away. No harm done but a slight cut on
the forehead, and clothes well spattered with
mud. Good Lion,” apostrophizing the dog, “we
must be going. The inmates cf Poplarwood
will be greatly excited when Selim dashes
riderless up to the house.”

They were excited.

“He has been thrown! He is dead, I knew!”
Mrs. Howland, Harry’s sister-in-law, cried,
as the swift-footed black steed rushed into
the stable, his mouth white with foam.

Intense excitement prevailed among the
guests at the great house of the place, till
those sent in quest of the lost man were seen
returning with the missing one, not much the
worse for the tumble he had got.

“How did it happen, Mr. Howland? We
were afraid you were killed when Selim came
in sight without his rider,” and a blue-eyed
brunette, one of the Juno sort, laid her jeweled
hand lightly on the arm of the mud-bespat-
tered individual, and awaited, a bit anxiously,
the reply:

“Oh, Pane all right Miss Travers,” he said,
coolly, not relishing the pathetic look in the
blue eyes. “A slight scratch, a suit of ruined
clothes, sums up the whole affair. How did
it happen? Oh, aslip of a girl, with an un-
wieldy umbrella over her head, a sort of mod-
ern Cinderella, was emerging from the school-
house woods, when Lion growled, threw her
into a fright, and behold the cousequences!
Selim vanishing down the road at break-neck
speed, his owner lying flat on his back ina
puna, and—well, there’s nothing more
to tell,”

He was walking away to his room when his
little nephew called after him:

“Uncle Harry, ‘was the girl pretty"
“Pretty, Lee? Yes, as pretty as 4 picture.”
“And did she have big gray eyes, that looked
as if they were full of teats, and oh! such a
quantity of snarly brown hair?”

““Well, Lee, in regard to the snarly hair, I
can’t exactly say,” with a comical look at his
nephew, “for her head was covered with a
scoop-shovel of asunbonnet; but her eyes——
You’ve described them to a T. Now, you
young rascal, appease my curiosity. Who is
she?”

A WELCOME TO CHRISTMAS.
BY J. W. HOGAN.

Stars of the evening, stars of the night,

Ever shine on in your beautiful light;

But never can stars of the firmament shine
T.ike Bethlehem’s star o’er the Saviour divine.
Guiding the shepherds on Bethlehem’s plain,
Guiding the “wise men” from Eastern domain,
Telling the place where the Saviour was born,
Hauling the coming of glad Christinas morn.

See how the shepherds fall down at His feet,

See the ‘‘wise men” bring their presents to greet,
See how they honor this one little Child,

The Saviour from heaven, so peaceful and mild,
He came to the earth to know sorrow and pain,
'To lay down His life and to take it again,

‘To teach the poor sinner no longer to roam,

But follow the Lord to his heavenly home.

We come here to honor the Saviour to-night,

‘To carol His praises in songs of delight.

To kneel at His feet and our hearts to unfold,

And give Him a treasure more precious than gold.
The heart is a treasure He wants us to give

To Him for His keeping as long as we live.

And when we pass over to be with Him there,
The treasure will always be kept in His care.

We thank Thee, Oh, Father, for aj] Thou hast done

To save us from sin through the gift of Thy Son,

To show us the way to the beautiful land,

Where angels and saints form a glorious band.

And when we have passed all our journeyings through,
And finished the work which he gave us to do,

We'll rise to that glorious work of renown,

And ever be stars in the dear Saviour’s crown.

“T HATE CHRISTMAS.”

BY HARKLEY HARKER,

 

 

“Christmas, eh! I hate these holidays!”

Thus he spoke as he strode home one night
after his day’s work was over, and observed
all along the city avenues of shops the ever-
greens which the tradesmen put out for sale,
“TI thought it wasn’t for a month yet; but
these shop-keepers always forewarn a man,
with their green boughs and blazing windows.
But L’ll be blind this time. I hate Christmas,

 

“The district schoolma’am, Kate Brown,
Uncle, I wish I could go to school to her. She
never whips the boys if they don’t mind,
Robbie Wood says; only coaxes them, and
once in a while gives them a sugar-plum and
a kiss.”

“She’s fond of kissing, chen—eh, Lee? I don’t
wonder you'd like to yo to herschool; I should
myself,” and he sprang up stairs, two at a
time, leaving imperious Juliette Travers stand-
ing there, a haughty frown on her pretty brow.

“Kate Brown,” he mused, while dextrously
knottinz together the ends of a necktie that
harmonized charmingly with his blonde com-
plexion; “what a simple, homely name! _ Yet
soirehow it suits her precisely. Little Katy,
I'll see if I can’t persuade you to change it for
the more euphonious patronymic of Howland.
It’s easier work to teach one pupil than thirty,
and I wouldn’t be very troublesome or exact-
ing, except—well, when I petitioned for a kiss
or caress. To-morrow I'll intercept heron her
ae home.” ‘

e did so.

Katy was returning from her tiresome work,
her sunbonnet dangling on her arm, one wee
hand overrunning with wildwood blossoms,
when suddenly she came face to face with the
stranger she had kissed the day before, who
stood leaning against the bole of a tree, ap-
parently a for ber coming.

His languid blue eyes met her frightened
gray ones,

“Miss Brown—Katy !”

She started to flee, but he stood in her path-
way, intercepting, her passage.

“Nay, you shall not elude me so easily
to-day. Do you realize, Miss Brown, that you

 

sia +e
with scarlet |
cheeks and dewy eyes, “it was your dog that!
made me scream and brandish my umbrelia

in the air; and,” summoning up a little cour-

age, “I don’t believe you were hurt one bit.

You look as well and strong as—as Samson,”

for want of a better comparison.

“Ha! ha! ha!” his joyous laugh rang out on
the air, putting to rout an army of red-breasted
birds in the branches above. “No, Miss Brown,
my tumble resulted in nothing more serious
than aching limbs and a bruised forehead.
Ah-h!” provokingly prolonging the exclama-
tion, “I forgot. ‘The mud-puddle I fell into
spoiled my new suit of clothes. As you were
to blame, you must——”

“Well, what?” as he stopped and smiled a
most tantalizing smile.

“Buy me a new suit, of course.
you ruined cost forty dollars.”

“TI shall do no such thing, Sir Shylock,”
reading aright the mischievous twinkle in his
eyes. “Where am I to get so much money as
that? I am acountry schoolma’am, and am
poorly compensated for my services. Besides,
sir,” swinging her sunbonnet ny kite strings,
her nut-brown hair tumbling about her face,
“T can bring in quite as big a bill against you
as the one you so saucily request me to liquid-
ate. On account of you 1 was obliged to part
with my umbrella; therain saturated my gar-
ments, half-blotting out the lilac sprigs in my
new calico print, and wholly destroying the
pasteboard-slats in my head-piece. Asa peace-
offering, take this,” presenting him with a
tiny nosegay of blue-eyed violets, fastened
with astem of ‘ribbon-grass; “and now get
out of my path, please; I want to go home.”

“T’ll accompany you,” inhaling the delight-
ful fragrance of the violets, and ignoring the
curtness of her tone, “Katy-did, I sent your
umbrella home to-day.”

Well, the aristocratic Harry Howland walked
home with the pretty schoolma’am, and so
thoroughly did he enjoy the walk that he
made it a specialty in the days that followed
to meet Katy when her day’s work was done
and accompany her home. If she were talka-
tive or distrait, it mattered not; in either case
he found the walk pleasant.

Thus matters eet until Christmas
eve. She had just left school, after dismissing
her pupils for the holidays. _In her hand she
carried a book her scholars had given to her
as a Christmas gift—in token of their affec-
tion. A feeling of loneliness came over her as
her thoughts turned to the Christmases of
other days, when she was_ beloved and happy
in the parental home. Now, alas! to her
Christmas was only a sad memory.

With an expression of keen sorrow in the
beautiful gray eyes, she was threading her
way disconsolately through the woods, when
Harry Howland confronted her, as usual, and
making her sit down on the trunk of a mis-
shapen hemlock, told his love.

“Katy-did,” dwelling affectionately on the
words, “I Jove you, and want re to be my
wife. Ever since your lips touched mine I have
wanted you for my wife. As in the song of
‘Mollie Darling,’ if you consent, put your
ee around my neck and ‘lef your answer be
a kiss.’”

Startled, Katy let the book slip from her
lap to the ground unheeded, but she made no
motion to obey the dominant man’s command;
but Harry Howland, in his masterful way,
imprisoned her in his arms and repeated the
words,

“Kiss me, Katy-did,and I shall be answered.”

“But Miss Travers,” stammered Katy, “ what
of her? I understood she was to be your wife.”

“She might have been, darling, had you not
won me with a kiss, Come, answer me! Will
you be my wife?”

So what could Katy do. but throw her arms
around the handsome fellow’s neck and kiss
him as he desired?

A book was not the only present that Katy
received that Christmas. The next morning
there gleamed upon her finger a diamond en-

The one

 

 

know father? You must have my face

friend you admire.
this sum insures its regular visits for twelve months
to any address in the United States or Canada.

I ictured
in your heart, though [ look in vain for it on
the walls.” -

But Charley shook his head. Charley had
been striving very hard these thirty years to
forget that his father was a poor laborer along
the Brooklyn docks. Charley had succeeded in
concealing the fact from his fashionable
neighbors. Charley’s daugthers had heard
rumors—had met an uncle and an aunt once
or twice, but that was yearsago. The secret
was hid in Charley's breast. So he shook his
head, and thought the “old man must be be-
side himself. Would he take a Christmas bite
in the servants’ hall, and go?”

Thus ran Golden Rod from one to eight; and
children there were none. It was Christmas,
and the home was empty. The crib of eight
was now useless lumber in the attie. The low
chambers under the roof’s peak were deserted,
and had been for years. There was abundance
of room in the small cottage now—a ghostly
abundance of room. There was no noise now,
no interruption to sleep by the cries of little
voices suddenly hoarse with illness. There
were no doctor's bills for children. Jt was
cheap living now for him and his old mate, for ~
only two sat at the little table, shrunken to |
the size it had been upon their wedding-day
yearsand yearsago Thetwooften satat even-
ing, so it seemed in his dream,and read the
sailor-boy’s letters, or the letters from others
so far away, and then Jooked into each other’s
eyes till tears would come.

“Christmas costs little now,” said the old
wife; and he made no reply.

_ But the laborer awoke from his dream. A
living little child had fallen out of bed and
yelled. And he went in to comfort the little
one, thanking God for eight yet under the
home roof, with Christmas-time but ten days

away,

 

 

A Pleasing Gift.

 

Send the NEw YORK WEEKLY for one year to the
It costs only three dollars, and

>< -

Josh Billings’ Philosophy.

BY JOSH BILLINGS,

 

 

anyhow !”

And again having spoken, this time aloud,
and as if addressing a huge Santa Claus who
stood invitingly beckoning pedestrians into a
gay toy-shop, the laborer plodded on. His
footsteps were heavy enough before, God
knows, as he stumbled up from the wharves,

homeward bound and hungry. But after this
they became heavier still. The big boots seemed
to weigh forty pounds each ; but there,was much
mud on them, and evidently the feet were
sore, especially the left foot. His arms hung
wearily down before; but now they seemed to
reach almost to his knees. His shoulders bent.
His head lurched forward and downward,

“T hate Christmas more than them all! If
I had only two or three chicks at home, now,
it would not be so bad. But what can a fellow
do with eight to please at Christmas? Christ-
mas taunts me. Itsays, ‘Now’s thetime to
feel how poor you are—how little you can give
for anything but bread.’ Christmas mocks me.
If there were only two or three young ones at
home—but think of eight!”

After his supper, this laborer sat down to
his pipe, and the children came about him,
They were all over him and under him and
into his very bosom or one about his red
neck. And their prattle was all of Christmas,
with a thousand requests for this and that,
till the old fellow groaned in spirit anew. In-
deed, his pipe repeatedly went out for lack of
“drawin’,” so intent was he upon the dolorous
thinking which had occupied him on the ave-
nue, and his laughter went out, too. So,

 

sooner ‘ban usual, and wondering how papa
was rium the little folks went out also,
oid. woman,” tired of!

Aicer a pile, tbe”
short ausw od went out. Then the lamp, |
burning sickly pale for a time, went out, and |
the fire in the stove, not to be out of fashion,
followed the universal example—went out.

Everything was out, save the sick-hearted
laborer, who sat, arms crossed upon knees
crossed, and gazed, as he thought, out at the
window. ‘The stars were out, which means
quite another thing, one by one, till the
heavens of the December night were “spotted
with seraphic fire.” The moon could not think
of being inonsuch a crisp and brilliant night;
hence, parting the cloudy curtain, out she
came, like a bride adorned for her husband,
and shone on every creature that was out late
at night, with wicked or with wistful witch-

ery.

Which shall it be? You have too many for
the Christmas gift-providing.”

So said the m2on to the lone laborer.

“Who are you? And what do you mean?”
he asked, rubbing his eyes with a rough, cold
hand.

“T am what I am. I will touch your children
with my golden rod, and -every one of them
shall be changed. See! This oldest boy. I pass
the rod over him. He is no longer a youth,
but a bearded man. Mark how gray his locks
are turning. His face is seamed, you see, with
the crows’-marks of years. Watch me; for
now I change him so that you would not rec-
ognize him, though he called you father. I
give his blue, bright eyes a dullness which is
the dull gray your own, once azure, now are
faded into. See! he has a man's eares, and
the boyish laugh is gone forever. He is weary
often, as you are now. His playfulness is over.
He is a work-horse in the rich man’s tread-
mill, just as you are now. You have no longer
any burden of that one boy, at least at Christ-
mas times.”

And before the blinking laborer could give
tongue to protest, this wizard moon went on,
passing her golden. rod over the next younger
child, a boy also. The little fellow seemed to
change into asailor before the mast. In a
storm-swept night he stood at the prow, on
the lookout: and it was painful beyond all
bearing for the pitying father to look on him,
even though he cried out, “It is not my curly
headed Tom! It cannot be!” But yet it was.

Then helplessly the laborer gazed as the
charmer moved the rod over the next child.
It was the girl first and only born among the
boys.

“ Ah, see! she is forty years of age. Would
you know that woman was once your little
pet? Would you know those feet, which you
used to kiss as gladly as thecheeks? feet rosy,
soft, and like cushions at bedtime frolics, for
you always managed that the only girl should
not go barefooted like the boys. Look at them
now! weary feet, slip-shod, sore with many
stones and thorns, standing now with pain at
the street corner, bearing up the burden of her
own child in her arms. Forty years of the ups
and downs of this good world. Say, man,”
asked the enchantress, “would you rather
have her woman grown, or a child to be
tickled with a Christmas toy?”

But before he could answer Golden Rod
went on. It touched the next boy, and, lo! he
was arich man grown. He dwelt in marble
halls. He rolled to his door-way behind gayly
caparisoned steeds. The lights at evening
flashed from his great windows upon thesilent
and swept pavements of an aristocratic avenue.
The sounds of music came with the opening
and shutting of the great portals. The flitting
forms of jeweled wife and danghters were re-
vealed under noble chandeliers. Flowers
bloomed in winter—for it was a vision of the
hoar Christmas—from vistas opening on those
radiant rooms.

“Go in,” said the enchantress.

The poor laborer entered. The servants
cast chill looks upon him, and he elippers awk-
wardly upon the tessellated floors. The house-
hold stared upon him, and the _fairy-like
daughters shrank back from him. He saw his
son. He approached him. But the rich man

| school-ship St. M
Twenty-tinrd street.

Thoze folks who are trieing to git to heaven
on their kreed will find out that they haint
got a thru ticket.

One ov the most reliable kures for love, now
days, seems to be to get marrid.

It takes longer to do nothing than it duz to
finish most jobs.

Thare are but phew people that yu kan
praze without flattering them.

I would rather see aman resolute, even if
he iz wrong, than to see him uncertain, altho
he iz right.

Two-thirds ov what iz called kontentment
konsists in having plenty ov money at inter-

est, and other things to match.

Most people are polite, not so mutch from

any partiklar goodness ov heart, az from a
vanity to be called polite.

- or

Correspondence.

ee

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS,

-

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

 

 

R.C. T. V., New Orleans, La.—Toads during the winter
remain torpid in holes and crevices, under stones,
stumps, etc., but the cited instances of their being found
alive imbedded in solid stone are not generally credited,
though they can live, withont doubt, for a considerable
time without food and with very little air. They have
been known to live, however, in hot-houses or as pets for
forty years, and to be domesticated to the extent of
taking food from the hands of those with whom they had

become faniiliar.
Wilmington, Del.—Address a letter te fhe New

Board of Education, which has control of the
t ary’s, now stationed af the foot of Kast

im. B.,

York

. oo
R. H. C., Duke Center, Pa.—ist. The style of piano re-

ferred to (three-cornered) is called a parlor grand, semi-
grand, or concert grand. 2d. June 23, 1869, came on
Saturday.

T. W. L., Lewes, Del.—Bent timber is oak or other
kinds of timber bent by steam processes and machinery,
for ship-builders and other manufacturing purposes.

L. Q. E., Providence, R. I.—The United States half-cent
coin has not been issued since 1857, and but few, if any,
half cents remain in circulation.

8S. G. and 8S. H., Pullman, Tll.—A letter addressed te
Paymaster-General F. R. Halsey, this city, will prebably
elicit the desired information.

Godfather, New Orleans, ].a.—An appropriate resent
would be a child’s silver set, comprising a knife, fork,
spoon, and napkin ring.

L. E. B.. Amsterdam, N. Y.—The price of incineration
at Fresh Pond, Long Island, a station on the Long Island
Railroad, is $25.

-E. C., Harrison.—The NEW YORK WEEKLY Purchasing
Agency will send you the periodical named. Price $1.25
a year. P

Eleanor, Tremont. Ohio.—A hair’s-breadth is a nominal
measure, considered the forty-eighth part of an inch.

Dott Cross, Tuscola, I11.—Great Britain has the largest
navy in the world.

ne H. C., Whitakers, N. C.—No personal knowledge of
1em.

TO CONTRIBUTORS.—The following MSS. are respect®
fully declined: “Dick Dunmore’s Ride.” ‘Winnie ,”
“Hope and Despair ;” ‘Sum of Life; “Ocean of Life ;”
“Outside the Pale;” “Better Thus;” “Ring, Beautiful
Bells ;’ “Over in Dreamland ;” “Christmas Bells.”

 

AN ENTRANCING LOVE STORY.

WHICH IS AT ONCE

ROMANTIC, YET REALISTIC,

FROM THE PEN OF THE

POPULAR YOUNG NOVELIST,

JULIA EDWARDS.

Another delightful love story, bold in conception,
strong in characterization, intensely graphic in
description, and abounding in affecting scenes, will
be begun next week, under the title of

Estelles Miionaire Lover:

Prettiest Type-wrter in New York:

By JULIA EDWARDS, °**
Author of “Evelyn, the Pretty Factory Girl,”
“Tempted to Leave Her Lover,” “Beautiful,
but Poor.” “The Littl: Widow,” etc.

 

It is evident that JuLia EDWARDS draws many of*_
her most stirring scenes from real life. There is dis-
played in them an earnestness that seems to have
been inspired by sincere sympathy for the toiling
heroines whose trials and sorrows the fair authoress
so touchingly depicts. :

The present story deals toa large extent with the
tender passion, and is crowded with stirring scenes
and exciting action. It has just enough mystery to
keep the reader ina delightful state of conjecture
and expectancy, and every chapter presents the
characters in entirely unanticipated events, all of
which are portrayed with fervor and animation.

 

 

gagement-ring—Harry Howland’s Christmas
gift.

drew back.
“Charley! Why, I am father! Do you not

The opening installment of this brilliant romance
will appear neat week. ghik

 
  

 

 

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At Christmas-tide when the snow lies deep,
When the stars smile down on the silent earth,
Will the lilac-blooms that have gone to sleep
Stir and dream of their April birth?
Will the pulse of the earth as it flows along
Wake and throb to the angels’ song,
And thrill with joy it cannot hide .
*Neath the deep, deep suow at the Christmas-tide?

AT CHRISTMAS-TIDE.

BY HATTIE HORNER,

At Uhristmas.-tide when the snow lies deep,

When the star smiles down and the angels sing,
Will the sweet “good-will” that has lain asleep

Stir to life when the heavens ring?
Will the “peace on earth,” ’neath the crust of wrong,
Wake and thrill at the angels’ song,

“Good tidings of great joy” abide

Since Christ was born at the Christmas-tide?

a

THIS STORY WILL NOT BE

 

 

PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.

FAITHFUL SHIRLEY;

A Royal Queen of Hearts.

By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON,
Author of ‘ Marguerite’s Heritage,” “‘ Wild Qats,” ‘Brownie’s Triumph,” ‘‘The
Forsaken Bride,” ‘*Sibyl’s Influence,” ‘‘ Stella Rosevelt,” Ete.

 

CHAPTER III.
CLIFTON SECURES A POSITION.

Clifton Vining went out from the home of
his old nurse with a strange conflict of emo-
tions within his breast.

The adventures of the previous night had
made a deep impression on his mind. It seemed
a strange combination of circumstances which
had conspired to make him instrumental in
saving the life of this young and beautiful

girl.
Had he been five minutes laterin making

his appearance in Houston street, that precious
life would doubtless have been sacrificed, that
lovely form would now be lifeless and floating
upon the turbid waters of the East River.
How strange it was, he thought, that he
should have been turned adrift from his own
home just at that time, to meet another human
being, thrust forth upon the streets, and that

their destinies should cross each other in such
a peculiar manner

“What will come of it, I wonder?” he mut-
tered as he walkedslowly up town, feeling
strangely changed, as if something had sud-
denly added dignity and age to hislife. “The
girl certainly has the loveliest face I have
ever seen; she is evidently a lady, too; her
mauner and language indicate her to be such.
With what eigaity she regarded me when she
told me that I seemed like a true man, but,
having been so badly used, she had lost faith
in every human being! She must be a good,
pure girl—she Sgr me as such by her
every word and look, and her confidence in me
has somehow made me desire to turn over a
new leaf in my own life. What lovely, inno-
cent eyes she has! and how they searched me
as if they would read my inmost thoughts!
Somehow it makes a fellow wish to be worthy
of the respect and confidence of such a girl.
There’s Annie, too, and she just about worships
her graceless brother; I—I believe I will try
to show the governor that there is something
worth saving in me, after all.”

Just as Clifton reached this point in his re-
flections, he turned into Broadway, and, feel-
ing that there was no time like the present, he
resolved that he would at once put to the test

 

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He straightened himself with a new sensa-
tion of importance, buttoned his overcoat
trimly about his figure, drew on his gloves,
and then turned his steps toward the office of
a well-known broker and a man who had long
been upon the most friendly terms with his
own family.

He asked to see Mr. Norwood, and was told
to take aseat in the private office, and that
gentleman would be in presently.

He did not have long to wait, for Mr. Nor-
wood soon made his appearance, and greeted
the young man most cordially.

Clifton at once stated his case to him in a
frank, straightforward manner, told him of
the trouble which he had had with his father,
the previous evening, and asked him if he
would give him employment, since he had de-
cided to make a start for himself.

Mr. Norwood listened to his story with kind
attention, but with a twinkle of amusement
in his eyes, for he did not imagine the trouble
so serious as represented; then, after a mo-
ment of thoughtful silence, he remarked :

“It seems tome, Vining, if you feel that
you have been in the wrong, and wish to get
established in some yood business, that you
could not do better than to gointo your father’s
office, as he wishes youtodo. It would be
the easiest way to smooth oyer this difficulty,
re-establish his confidence in you, and show
him that you mean to bea man, while he
could do more to help youonin the world
than any one else.”

Clifton’s face fell a trifle at this advice, and
for a moment he was silent, At length he
lifted is head proudly, while a flush dyed his
face crimson.

“While I am willing to concede that i have
not done asI ought, in some respects,” he
said, with a hardening of the lines about his
handsome mouth. “I also feel that my father
has not treated me with the consideration that
is my due; he is not in sympathy with me,
he does not believe in me, and we should only
continue to irritate each other; while the

ition which he would give me would only

a nominal one, and I want to get into real
work, where I shall feel that I am really earn-
ing what I receive. I want to show him, too,
that I havesome backbone—that I am capable
of taking care of myself, and do not merely
mean to play at business. Besides, I believe
that, as a rule, relatives do not get along to-
gether in business as well as strangers.”

“There is some truth in that, I admit,” said
Mr. Norwood, with a smile; then added: “I
like your eee Vining, and yet, at the same
time, I feel that you are not quite doin
father justice. Sti, feeling as you do, per-
haps you would work better in some other
office, and I think I have just the position for

ou.”

Clifton looked up eagerly.

“Thank you,” he said, gratefully and his
companion felt that he was thoroughly in
earnest, while he wondered what had given
rise to this new departure, for Clifton Vining
had hitherto been known chiefly as a society
man—as a genial, care-free fellow, who was
getting to be a trifle fast, but whose sins were
politely winked at because of his being the
only son of a millionaire.

Mr. Norwood himself had been inclined to
judge him very leniently, because, being the
father of a beautiful daughter, it had long
been his secret desire to marry her to the son
of his wealthy friend, and so he now reasoned
that if he could help the young man over this
critical period in his life he might be able to
achieve his fond hopes the more readily.
Therefore he determined to make a place for
him, secure his confidence and_ gratitude,
and thus lead him on toward the desired end.

“But,” he said smiling, in response to Clif-
ton’s eager acknowledgement of his kindness,
“T shall expect that you will stick to the
business and do your best, for I am particular
about there being no drones in my hive, from
principle, as well as ou account of the ex-
ample to others, and the economy of the mat-

tT,
“T am thoroughly in earnest, Mr. Norwood,

 

;} Sum.

your |S

(‘ FAITHFUL SHIRLEY” was commenced last week.]

I assure you,” Clifton responded, gravely and
with rising color, as he recalled the look he
had seen in acertain pair of blue eyes the
night before. “Perhaps you may think mine
has been rather a spasmodic conversion,
knowing as you must what my life has been,
and, to tell the truth, Ican hardly account
for the change myself; but truly I do feel im-
bued with the spirit of work, and I promise
you, on my honor, that I will do the best I
can for your interests, as well as for my own.”

“That sounds business-like, I am sure, and
I will take you at your word,” Mr. Norwood
returned, while he regarded the young man
with unusual interest. When would you like
to come to me?”

Clifton flushed again, then said, with a

Meantime, however, she served Shirley with
acup of delicious coffee, tempting rolls of a
delicate, golden brown, and a tender, juicy
steak, that was cooked to perfection.

She saw that Shirley was laboring under a
feeling of constraint, and so, with true hospi-
tality, she began to talk, in an off-hand way,
of her household affairs, to relieve the awk-
wardness, and at length succeeded in putting
her entirely at her ease, so that she uncon-
sciously ate a hearty breakfast.

When the meal was finished Shirley began

deftly to gather up the dishes, remarking:
“T hope you will let me help you about the
work. I shall feel so much more comfortable

than to sit idle.”

“Well, Ido not mind,” Mrs. Knapp re-
sponded, looking pleased at the suggestion,
“and maybe you’d like to tell me something
about yourself while we’re doing it. It seems
to me that a young girl like you must have
been pretty hard pushed to get so desperate as
you did last night. Now, don’t get frightened,”
she went on, reassuringly, as she saw the girl
g ow very white about the mouth; “you just
trust old Abby Knapp, and see if she doesn’t
prove to be as good a friend as you ever had.”

“You certainly have been very good to me
already, Mrs. Knapp,” Shirley replied, look-
| ing gratefully at her, “and I am very willing
ito tell you the story of my life, which isas
been a very uneventful one upto within the
last two or three months. But the last few
weeks—oh, who would have believed that I
could have drifted into such depths of degra-
dation——”

“You don’t mean it!” Abby here interposed,
astonished, but looking very grave over the
admission. - :

“Oh, please do not think that I have will-
fully done anything wrong,” cried Shirley,
flushing sensitively, “for I assure you that it
has only been my surroundings that have been
degrading, not anything that I have done my-
self, But I will tell you everything, and then
you can judge for yourself.” 2

“All right,” said Abby, as she wiped the
last knife and hung up her towel; “but let us
sit down and be comfortable; you can’t stand

for Shirley, while she seated herself in an-
other chair opposite her.

“My father died whenI was a very little
girl,” Shirley began, “leaving my mother with
only a life insurance of six thousand dollars
to support herself and me upon. A friend of
my father invested this at a very good inter-
est, however, and it yielded an income which,

 

forced laugh:
“Mr. Norwood, I

with economy, gave us a fair living. Our

up and talk,” and she pushed forward a rocker }

 

VOL, 48—No, 11. eCCRRe THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. =

fairly well dressed, and though he tried to
appear kind and sympathetic, in view of my
great trouble, it was evident that he was far
from being the gentleman that my mother had
hoped and expected, while his manners and
language were extremely cbnoxious to me.

Still, he was the only relative I had in the |

world; he had shown a certain kindness— I
imagined—in coming to Cclorado to befriend
me, and so I tried to cultivate a feeling of con-
fidence in him. He took charge of all mamma's
affairs, and managed everything very nicely,
so that I had no care, and after our little home
was sold, and all business settled, we started
for New York.”

“And he took all your money in charge?”
inqured Abby, looking rather blank.

“Yes, for mamma had appointed him my
guardian, believing him to be trustworthy,”
Shirley responded.

“That wasn't a very wise proceeding,” Mrs.
Knapp sagely remarked.

“TI suppose it was not,” said Shirley, with a
sigh, “but he had written such a nice letter,
it is not strange that she was deceived.”

“What has he done with your money since
you came to New York?”

“I am sure I do not know,” replied the
young girl, wearily, “and I wonder now how
I could have trusted him at all; but he was
very kind to me during our journey, exerting
himself to be agreeable, unti] I began to think
that though he might be somewhat rough in
his exterior, he perhaps possessed a_ kind
heart. At the same time I had a secret fear of
him all the way, and a fear, too, of some im-
pending evil. But oh! I never dreanred of any-
thing one-half so terrible as the reality which
greeted me upon my arrival here in New
York,” and Shirley covered her face and shiv-
ered at this point in her story with an appear-
ance of horror that was truly pathetic.

 

CHAPTER IV.
SHIRLEY’S STORY AS RELATED TO MRS. KNAPP.

“Poor child! poor child!” said Abby, with
unfeigned sympathy; “it was hard lines for
you, and you needn’t tell me anything more if
it is going to upset you so.”

“Oh, I shall tell you everything,” Shirley
returned, looking up quickly. “It would not
be fair to tell you only half my story, and I
want you to know how I happened to be in
such a terrible situation last night.”

“All right; goon, then,” said Mrs. Knapp,
who had become intensely interested in her
recital,

“I made some in-

 

have just eight dol-
lars in my pocket,
and that money
really belongs to my
sister. So you can
understand how a
fellow of my tastes
and habits must feel
with only that small
sum between him
and starvation. Ac-
cordingly, if you are
agreeable, I should
like to take off my
coat and begin work
this minute.”
“Whew! I shall
begin to think that
you have some of
eer father’s shrewd
usiness proclivities
after ‘all,” his com-
anion responded,
aughing at his eager-
ness; “but I like you
all the better for
your energy, so off
with your coat and
I’ll set you a task
without further de-
lay, your salary to
be the same as I
have been paying for
the same work dur-
ing the last year,”
and he named the

Clifton had not ex-
pected to be treated
quite like an old em-
ployee in this res-
pect, and feeling
much gratified he re-
moved his gloves and
coat, and was soon
absorbed in looking
over his employer's
correspondence and
taking his first in-
structions as a pri-
vate secretary.
* *

Let us now go back
to Abby Knapp’s
tidy kitchen to see
what is occurring
there.

John Knapp had
had his morning

 

 

 

 

meal at six o’clock,
after which he went
immediately out to
his day’s work,

**He became very

me to his terms.”

 

angry, and swore he would break my proud spirit, and bring

quiries of Mr. Hub-
bard durirg our jour-
ney regarding my fu-
ture home,” Shirley
resumed, “but he
seemed somewbat
reticent about the
niatter, said I must
not expect to find
New York anything
like Colorado
Springs, while he
was not living exact-
ly as he wished, but
was contemplating a
change to a more
agreeable locality be-
fore long. This was
rather disheartening,
but I can never ex-
ress the sense of
oneliness and desola-
tion that I experi-
enced when we at
last alighted before
that dismal house in
Houston street. Mr.
Hubbard had told me
that he had no wife
—she had died seve-
ral years previous—
but he had a compe-
tent  hvusekeeper,
who, he assured me,
would be kind and
attentive to me,
a son and a daugh-
ter in his family.
They all met us at
his door. The house-
keeper was a coarse,
untidy looking wo-
man of about forty
years. The son was
a second edition of
the father, only more
repulsive, if possible,
while the daughter—
a rather good-looking
girl of sixteen—ap-
peared neglected and
unhappy”
“Humph!” sniffed
Abby, contemptu-
ously, “that was a
pretty place to take
a girl like you into!”
“IT was wretched,
Mrs. Knapp,” Shir-
ley continued; “I
had to share a room

 

 

Later, as we know,
Clifton Vining. was
served his breakfast, and after his departure
the thrifty housewife cleared her table, washed
her dishes, and put her room in order, think-
ing that she would allow her strange visitor
to sleep as long as she wished.

“Poor child! it was a hard night she had,
and she needs a good rest to set her up again,”
she murmured, as she went softly about her
work, so as not to disturb her.

It was nearly nine o'clock when the door be-
tween Abby’s simple parlor and kitchen was
opened and the young stranger appeared on
the threshold, with a timid, appealing look in
her innocent blue eyes which went directly to
the heart of her kind-hearted hostess.

“Good-morning, miss,” she said, in a hearty,
cheery tone, and involuntarily assuming the
manner and speech of an inferior, for she in-
stinctively recognized the lady in the fair girl;
“T hope you had a good sleep. I’m sure you
look as bright asa new dollar,” she concluded,
as she noticed the lovely tint that glowed in
the girl’s cheeks, and how neatly she had
dressed her hair, which shone like a coil of

old at the back of her small, finely shaped

ead, while her dress had been carefully
brushed and made to look as tidy as possible.

“IT feel nicely rested, thank you.” the girl
responded. “I have not slept as well for many
weeks,” she concluded, with a long-drawn

igh.

“Well, tis a good bed, if I do say it,” Abby
remarked, in a gratified tone. “But I imagine
you’re beginning to be hungry by this time;
sit right down here, and I’ll have your break-
fast ready in no time. I haven’t had mine yet.
I thought it would be more social if we ate
tozether—if you don’t mind my sittin’ down
with you,” she concluded, darting a covert
glance at her guest, who had taken the chair
indicated.

“Certainly not; I shall be very glad not to
have to eat alone,” she cordially returned, and
smiling pleasantly at Abby in a way that at
once made the woman her stanch friend.

“And perhaps you’ll be so good as to tell me
your name, miss, so that I shall know what to
call you,” Mrs. Knapp continued, as she busied
Paes placing a tempting breakfast upon the

able.

“My name is Shirley Livingstone,” the fair
girl replied, the delicate pink in-her cheeks
deepening to crimson as she uttered it, for
now in the light of that beautiful morning she
shrank with a keen sense of repulsion from
identifving herself with the rash deed which

previous.

“Humph!” was Mrs. Knapp's inward com-
ment, “that’s rather a high-sounding name,
I’m thinking, for a girl whocame out of
Houston street. I only hope it belongs to her.”

 

 

she had so nearly perpetrated only a few hours | h

home was in Colorado Springs, where my
father had been obliged to live for many
years on account of having weak lungs. I was
the youngest of several children, and the only
one who lived beyond infancy, and my mother
reared me very carefully; she was a lady of
excellent education, having received every ad-
vantage during her early life, and it was her
ambition to give me as thorough a course of
study as she had received. Although we were
in modest circumstances we mingled in the
best society, for in Colorado Springs there
exists a certain sympathy of refinement among
cultured people regardless of wealth; indeed,
society is largely made up of those who go
there to seek health and who prize refinement
above money; so my mother was much sought
after, and we lived very happily among these
quiet, pleasant people.

“But about a year ago mamma’s health
began to fail. She grew steadily worse, until
only four months since she felt that she had

not long to live. Her home during her early
life had been among the Catskills of this
State. She was an only daughter, but her

father had adopted and reared an orphan
cousin, of whom she had then been very fond.
She had not seen or heard from him for many
years, but, as we had noother relatives living,
she believed that he would care for me after she
was gone, and so she wrote to him, told him
that she thought her eng was near, and asked
if he would come for me, take me into his
home, and give m the same care and protec-
tion that her father had given him, when he,
an orphan, had been thrown upon the world.

“She received no reply to her letter for two
or three weeks, but when at last one came it
comforted her greatly, for ‘Cousin Jack,’ as
Mr. John Hubbard signed himself, said that
he would be only too glad to take me into his
home and. care for me as his own. He stated
that he would start for Colorado Springs im-
mediately upon the settlement of a matter of
business, which would require a delay of only
a few days, when he should hope to receive
her instructions regarding my future. The
letter was kind, and nicely written, and
mamma seemed very much relieved to think
that I would not be left homeless. But,” and
Shirley caught her breath with a sob at this
point, “she did not live to see her cousin; she
died only three days later, and the very next
evening Ms. Hubbard arrived. But, oh, Mrs.
Knapp,” the fair girl said, with quivering
lips, en was afraid of him the moment I saw

im

“Afraid of him!” repeated Abby, in sur-

rise.

“Yes. I had expected to see a kind, nice-
looking man, one who was gentlemanly and
refined, for mamma had remembered him as
being a fine-appearing fellow, while instead

 

Children Cry for Pitcher’s Castoria,

he was stout and coarse, with a red and
bloated face and brusque manners. He was

 

with Helen Hubbard,
and it was disorderly
and unclean; the carpet was ragged and full
of dust, the walls marred and unsightly, the
bed and bedding soiled and comfortless. I
cried myself to sleep that night, and for many
nights after, and then was ill for a week
from homesickness, and a heavy cold which I
had contracted on my journey. When I was
able to get about the house again, I was told
by the housekeeper that I ‘must take hold and
help,’ and she set me to washing the dishes
and doing the dusting. 1 did not mind a little
work, but I was surprised at this reauirement,
for I supposed I had money enough to pay my
board, at least until I could secure a position
as a teacher, companion, or governess, ¥
which I might increase my slender income.
spoke of this to Mr. Hubbard, but he only
smiled in a peculiar way, and said ‘he guessed
I'd better make friends with Miss Sanders, for
her temper wasn’t of the sweetest when
aroused.’ So I endeavored to make the best of
my uncomfortable situation for a while, but I
aultod Mr. Hubbard if he would try to get me
a position of some kind, as I wished to be
earning something for myself.

“He looked at me rather queerly, I thought,
and said ‘he’d see,’ and that was all I could
get out of him.

“T began to notice after a time that I was
never left alone—I was never allowed to go
out upon the street unless some one accompa-
nied me. At first it was Helen, now and then
Miss Sanders, but oftener Henry Hubbard
would force his company upon me, to my great
disgust. This last arrangement aroused my
indignation, and I finally refused to go out at
all, except when Henry happened to be away
from home. More than this, I soon discovered
that the house into which I had been brought
was a den of gamblers, for night after night
it was frequented by the most loathson.e
wretches I had ever seen, who, with their ter-
rible orgies, made the place seem like a veri-
table pandemonium.

“TI made up my mind that I would leave the
house and seek a place of refuge just as soon
as I could learn of a home where I should be
safe, The only comfort I had during this ter-
rible time was the use of the piano, which
was a fairly good one, and as I am extremely
fond of music I spent much of my time, espe-
cially evenings, in the parlor, trving to drown
my misery by practicing my old music, as I
was not allowed to bave any new.”

“Why on earth didn’t you go straight to
some policeman, and tell him your story?”
Abby here interposed, with considerable ex-
citement; “he would have got you out of that
miserable place in quick time.”

“TI did think of doing so several times,”
Shirley replied, “but, as I told you, some one

© Children Cry for Pitcher’s Castoria,

 

~ hile there wes aleot Abb

a

 

was always with me when I went out, and I
had no opportunity.

“One day I was terribly frightened by an
offer of narriage from Henry Hubbard. Of
course I flatly refused to listen to his propo-
sals, and being very indignant that he should
presume to address mein such a way, I was
inot so civilas I might have been in my re-
jection of his suit. I treated him with so
much scorn that he also became very angry,
and swore at me in the most fearful manner,
threatening that he would yet break my proud
spirit and bring me to his terms. 1 resolved
that I would leave the house that very night
as soon as it should grow dark enough for me
to steal away. But 1 was moreclosel) watched
than ever after that, and found it utterly im-
possible to escape observation long enough to
get away.

“Yesterday the vile wretch renewed his de-
mand that I should marry bim, and to escape
his persecutions I shut mysef in my own room,
retiring at an early hour and crying myself to
sleep. I was awakened about aiden by a
fearful carousal in the room directly below
me, and knew that Mr. Hubbard was enter-
taining his usual quorum of guests, and it
was evident that they were having a more up-
roarious debauch than common. I lay awake
some time, shivering and quaking with fear,
for it seemed as if the brutes were becoming
more lawless every moment. A little later I
heard some one staggering up stairs.

“My heart leaped into my throat when the
steps paused before my door. Then there came
an imperative knock, and Mr. Hubbard ordered
me to get up and come down stairs to play for
his friends to dance. I told him I could not.
He swore, and said I must. I then resolutely
said I would not. He became furious at that,
and declared that he would burst the door
open and drag me from my bed if I persisted
in refusing to obey him.

“T saw that it would be worse than useless
to resist him, and I finally said if he would
allow Helen to come with me I would dress
and go down forawhile. Hesurlily consented
to this, then retired below, after ordering me
to ‘waste no time in prank ing.

“We both arose and dressed, when, with- a
trembling heart, Ifollowed Helen down stairs.
I was terribly frightened, on opening the door
nf the room where the revelers were gathered,
to find, half a dozen tipsy men and as many
women in the same state.

“T went directly to the piano and played for
them to dance until they were weary of their
sport, and began to grow stupid from their
numerous fotations, sinking into chairs and
upon the floor in a maudlin state.

“Thinking I should not be needed any
longer, I was about to steal away unobserved,
as I supposed, when Henry Hubbard reeled up
to me, and commanded Helen to play a jig,
and said that be must have a dance with me,

“I sprang away from him, declaring that I
would not. He tried to seize me in his arms,
while the company, evidently enjoying my
distress, cheered him on, telling him that
‘faint heart never won fair lady.’

“IT do not know how I managed to elude
him, flee from the room, and get out upon the
street; I think that Helen, pitying me, must
have helped me. I only know that 1] finally
found myself outside upon the pavement, while
oaths and curses followed me as the door was
banged after me.

“As I fled down the street I imagined I
heard the key snap inthe lock. I believe
Helen did it to give me time. I was nearly
beside myself with fear. I felt that I would
rather die than submit to be touched by the
vile fellow from whom I was flying; and then,
as I went on, I heard some one running after
me. I believed it must be Henry Hubbard. I
knew that he was drunk, and would show me
no mercy, and so, scarcely knowing what I
was doing, I made straight for the East River.

“Do not blame me, Mrs. Knupp,” Shirley

pleaded, turning her tearful blue eyes upon
the woman. “I believe I was almost insane
with fright. I was determined to leap into the
river rather than be captured and taken back
to that wretched den and the miserable life
that I had been leading during the last few
weeks,”
“No one could blame you, poor child,” said
in.atone of sym ~:
my flesh creep to think how near you came to
losing your precious life.”

Shirley also shivered over the remembrance.

“JT did not discover my mistake,” she went
on, “until Mr. Vining bad dragged me some
distance from the pier, and even then I feared
that he might be one of those wretches—one
of Henry Hubbard’s boon comvanions, who
had followed me to take me back to a worse
fate than I had yet known. But when hespoke
to me in such a kind and respectful way I was
assured that he must be a gentleman, and
then, after I saw his face, instinctively
trusted him.”

“And. well you might, miss,” said Mrs.
Abby, much gratified by this tribute to her
former nursling; “the boy may have been a
little wild now. and then, but he never yet did
a mean thing. He has the kindest heart in the
world, if one only takes the right way to get
at it—which his father doesn’t always—and
he’d never see a lady in trouble and not try to
help her,” she concluded, proudly.

“Pie told me that you had been his nurse,”
Shirley remarked.

“And so I was—I was in his father’s house
close on to fifteen years, and took care of him
and his sister until they were able to look
after themselves; and a finer pair of children
it was never my lot to see,” said Abby, with
ford enthusiasm. “Miss Annie, bless her dear
soul,” she continued, “was the delight of my
heart, and, miss, she has blue eyes and yellow
hair like yours. But, poor child, I’m very
sorry for you, and I suppose that wretch has
been using your money—gambling it away,
perbaps,” she concluded, in a regretful tone.

“I am afraid he has,” said Shirley, with a
weary sigh; “it certainly has not been used to
improve their condition in life, and they made
a slave and drudge of me from the moment of
ae going into their house. It has been a fear-
ful experience.”

“If there is anything left there ought to be
some way for you to get it,” said Mrs. Knapp,
musingly.

“If that would involve meeting them again,
I believe I would rather never recover a single
penny of it,” the young girl responded, grow-
ing pale at the thought. “I will work—I will
do anything that is respectable to earn my
living, but I can never go near those vile peo-
ple now that I am free from them.”

“T am sure that man could be arrested and
‘mprisoned for wronging you so,” asserted
Mrs. Knapp, who longed to see justice meted
out to the wretched creatures who had so
abused her protegee.

“But I would be obliged to go into court in
that case, would I not?” Shirley inquired, with
a troubled look.

“T suppose so.”

“Then I will never have anything done
about the matter,” the young girl returned,
decidedly. “They may keep their ill-gotten
gains, for I would never suffer the shame of
having it publicly known that I had ever been
asscciated with such disreputable people.”

“Well, I dou’t know asI can blame you,”
said Mrs. Abby; “it would be hard on you to
have to face a judge and jury.and tell them
that you had lived on Houston street in a den
of thieves. Ugh! I guess you’d better stay
quietly here with John and Abby Knapp, and
let them take care of you for the present.”

“Oh! will you keep me for a little while,
until I can find some way to take care of my-
self?” the fair girl eagerly cried, while she
laid her hand appealingly upon the woman’s
arm and lifted Set wistful eyes to her honest
face, feeling that such a friend would be a
tower of strength to her.

“Of course I will, dearie,” Abby answered,
while a suspicious moisture gathered in her
own eyes. “You did not suppose I was going
to turn you adrift again, did you?” ,

“You have already been very kind in giving
me shelter and sympathy,” said Shirley,
tremulously, “but I have felt sensitive about
intruding myself upon you, especially as you
cannot know anything about me except what
I have told you myself. Oh, dear Mrs, Knapp,

 

Ze wend f. it makes ——

Aesihi.
“>

 

 

ee re

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

6

it is dreadful to be so friendless in a strange

city. I should have been glad to die last
night, and get out of the world, where such
fiends in human form dwell; but this morning
life begins to look attractive to me again, and
I am so grateful to have found two kind
friends,” she concluded, with fast-dropping
tears.

The woman softly patted the hand that lay
upon her arin.

“Well, dearie,” she said, “you shall stay
with us as long as you like, if you can be con-
tent with humble fare and such a homely
place to live in, though I well know that John
and 1 can’t be much company for one lady-
bred like you.”

“YT should feel very safe here; I could not
fail to be content,” Shirley said, gratefully.
“But,” looking up into her companion’s kind
face, “you must let me help you—-you must let
me be useful. I know how to do some things
well; I can wash dishes: I can dust, and I can
sew very nicely.”

“Well we will see about that later on,” Abby
said, evasively, but with an approving look
upon finding that her guest was not above
work. “I reckon you’ll need to rest a bit, after
the hard time you had last night. I imagine
it will be kind of pleasant to have you about
the house,” she went on, regarding the beauti-
ful face opposite her with a tender look. “I've
missed Master Clifton and Miss Annie more'n
I can tell you ever since I left my place to get
married, though they docome here now and
then to see me, and never forget to bring old
Abby something nice or pretty, bless their
hearts !”

Shirley flushed rosily at this last piece of
information, for it assured her that she would
be likely to meet from time to time the hand.
some young fellow who had saved her life the
night previous if she remained with Mrs.
Knapp.

She looked up with a vright smile at her
friend,

“TI slept so well last night that I do not need
to rest any more at present, and would really
like some work. Give me sewing, if you have
any ready,” she said, eager to do something for
the kind woman.

Abby saw tbat she would be happier if she
had some employment to occupy her time, so
she brought forth a dozen of nice napkins,
which “Miss Annie had given her last Christ-
mas,” and which she had never found time to
hem.

Shirley eagely attacked them, and _ before
night she had finished them all, while the
“beautiful, fime stitches” were a matter of no
small wonderment to Mrs. Knapp, who evi-
dently was not an adept with her needle.

Evening brought Clifton to inquire how
Miss Livingstone was feeling, and he was evi-
dently delighted to find her looking so fresh
and apparently happy, although she was a
trifle embarrassed upon being presented to
him, for until that moment he had not known
her name.

She seemed far more beautiful to him than
upon the previous evening, for her hair was
nicely arranged, the look of fear had disap-

eared from her eyes, there was a lovely color
in her cheeks, while she was: self-possessed
and lady-like in her bearing, and he felt
assured that she belonged in afar different
station from that in which he had found her.

He spent a very pleasant hour conversing
with her upon various topics, and he was sur-
prised to find how well stored her mind was
with knowledge.

She referred only once to the thrilling ad-
venture of the night before, and that was just
as he was going away.

“TI want to thank you again, Mr. Vining,
for saving me from the commission of a great
sin,” she said, with a gravity that seemed
very sweetly solemn to him. “My brain was
almost turned, or I could never have contem-
plated such an act. Mrs. Knapp will tell you
the circumstances which drove me to it, if you
care to hear them, and then I hope you will
judge me as leniently as you can.”

“T could not judge you otherwise Miss Liv-
ingstone,” he said, as he shook the hand
which she extended to take leave of him, “for

I iCit sure fx : Uy i [
Wwerewwhee caused jus wihd

kful that I was at
at he aaa

tVeatine ay
I cannot be too than
to aid you. And let me assure you,
gazing earnestly into her grave eyes, “that |
no one save my good old nurse and [| will evex
know anything of the circumstances, while
even I will not seek to learn what led to them,
if such is your wish.”

“It is not my wish,” she answered, quickly.
“TI want you to know—I want to be justified
in vour estimation.”

Emotion prevented her from saying any
more, and bidding him a low good-night, she
turned abrubtly from him and left the rooni.

Abby then. related to him the story which
Shirley had told her that morning at the same
time expressing the warmest sympathy for
her, and speaking eloquently in her praise.

“She is almost as sweet as Miss Annie her-
self—bless her!” she said, “and I'm sure I’m
much obliged to you, Master Clifton, for bring-
ing her here.”

“That is very good of you, nurse,” the young
man returned, “and if you will keep her with
you until we can see what is best to be done
for her you shall not be a loser for your good-

ess.

“Tut! tut! Master Clifton; she’s been a god-
send to me to-day, for she’s a sunny-tempered
thing, and she is welcome to a home here as
fong as she desires to stay,” was the hearty
response.

Clifton thanked her heartily, and then took
his leave, for he was thoroughly tired out
after the first real day's work that he had
ever done in his 1ife.

However, he felt strangely light-hearted
and happy, for he had a sensation of independ-
ence which he had never experienced before.

As he went to his lodgings his mind was
filled with thoughts of the beautiful girl
whom he had just left.

“She is very lovely,” he murmured, that
night, as he wearily threw himself upon his
couch; “even Annie is not more beautiful nor
more cultivated and Jady-like. I must try to
help her to some position where she will be
happy and be kindly guarded, for it is evident
that she has been very tenderly reared.”

And with these thoughts and plans for the
fair stranger whom he had saved from a dread-
ful death, and whom for one moment he had
held with a strange thrill to his breast, he fell
asleep.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
ee

ENGAGED AND MARRIED.

 

They were very pretty, and there was ap-
parently five or six years’ difference in their
ages. As the train pulled up the younger girl
blushed, flattened her nose nervously against
the window, and drew back in joyous smiles
as a young man dashed into the car,

shook hands cordially, and tenderly insisted
on carrying her valise, magazine, little paper
bundle, and would probably. have carried her,
had she permitted him. The passengers smiled
as she left, and the murmur went rippling
through the car—“ They're engaged.”

The other girl sat looking nervously out of
the window, and once or twice gathered her
parcels together as though she would leave,

et seemed to be expecting some one. At last
ts caine. He bulged into the door like a
house on fire, looked along the seats until his
manly gaze fell on her upturned expectant
face, roared, “Come on! i’ve been waiting
for you on the platform for fifteen minutes!”
grabbed her basket, and strode out of the
car, while she followed with a little valise,
a bandbox, a paper bag full of lunch, a_bird-
cage, a jar of jelly preserves, an extra shawl.
And a crusty-looking old bachelor in the far-
ther end of the car croaked out, in unison
with the indignant looks of the passengers:
“They're married !”

$6 ——$$

 

RrsBons may be washed first ina thin lather,

eee

<<ai4 THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

FORGIVENESS.
BY CHARLES MACKAY.

Ye who have scorned each other,
Or injured friend or brother,
In this fast-fading year ;
Ye who by word or deed
Have made a kind heart bleed,
Come, gather here!

Let sinned against and sinning
Forget their strife’s beginning,
And join in friendship now;

Be links no longer broken,
Be sweet forgiveness spoken,
Under the holly bough.

this Story Will Not be Published in Book-Form

EVELYN,
THE PRETTY FACTORY GIRL:

OR,
MARRIED AT THE LOOM,
By JULIA EDWARDS,

Author of “‘Beautiful Viola,’’ ‘*The Little Widow,”’
Beautiful but Poor,” etc.

 

 

{“EveLYN, THE PRETTY FACTORY GIRL” was commenced
in No. 48. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. }

CHAPTER XL.

“I KNEW THAT NEITHER PRISON BARS NOR DIS-
TANCE WOULD KEEP YOU FROM ME. LOVE
MELTS AWAY ALL OBSTACLES!”

 

The upper floor of the house which Gordon
had entered, was as dark and silent as the
floor below.

He listened for a moment, but he could hear
no sound. Then, with a sinking heart, he
darted toward the first door.

It was the first door he had found fastened,
and as he leaned toward it to take hold ot the
bolt, it seemed to him that he could hear a
faint noise within.

It was too faint to be certain of, and hada
muffled sound, as if it came from a long dis-

tance off.

“Evelyn!” hecried. “Evelyn! it is I—Gor-
don! Oh, heaven, if I should only mock my-
self!”

“Break down the door,” said Hinckley.

“The key is here!” cried Gordon, as his hand
touched it.

He turned the key, but the door would not
open until two bolts had been shot. Then the
door opened inward, 4nd a flood of light il-
lumined the scene.

Evelyn stood in the middle of the room, her
breast heaving and her face white.

' “My darling!” cried Gordon.

She stared a moment, and then threw her-
self into his arms, sobbing as if her heart
were bursting. ,

“Gordon, Gordon! You have come tome at
last! I knew Heaven would send you! Oh,
my darling! my darling!”

Hisakles discreetly left the room, making
the excuse to himself that he might as well
look over the remainder of the house.

“My sweet one!” murmured Gordon, “I
might have known that Heaven was leading
me straight to you. How you have suffered !’

“It is nothing,” she whispered, pillowing
her curly head on his breast, as she had so
often dreamed of doing. “Now that you are
with mé, the rest is nothing. I knew so well
that you would come, Gordon. I knew that
neither prison. bars, nor distance, nor ignor-
ance of where I was, would keep you from me.
Love melts away all obstacles !”

his calculation about the location of the little
station, and within half an hour they were
speeding into Lowell.

On the way there was time for the lovers to
exchange such confidences. as they were will-
ing Hinckley should share, and they were so
well satisfied of his devoted friendship that
they hid very little from him.

The chief thing to trouble them for the mo-
ment was what course to pursue in relation to
the abduction.

None of them had any doubt that Gerald
Washburn was at the bottom of the affair, but
when all things were considered it was deemed
best not to make any noise over it, but to let
it pass as if nothing had happened.

“You see,” said Gordon, “there is the affair
of Don Adams to set straight, and now that I
have found you, I shall make that my busi-
ness at once. If we can fix that crime on him,
it will not be necessary for your name to be
mixed with his at all.”

“But what will you do?” inquired Evelyn.

“T will obtain employment in the counting
room of the mill, if I can. I heard to-day that
a clerk was wanted. It isa small place, but
I have a little money, so that it won't matter.
The great difficulty is that I have no refer-
ences.”

“Wouldn’t I do?” asked Hinckley, readily.

“Yes, but I won’t use you,” replied* Gordon,
who had not told him of the one great trouble
of his life, and would not use him asa refer-
ence without doing so. “I will find some way.
I. must be where [ can watch Gerald Wash-
burn.”

Rosie was at home waiting, in the. greatest
distress imaginable, for some news of Evelyn,
and she was quite overcome when Evelyn was
returned to her.

She had hurried home from the Hinckleys’
and back again, and then home again, so that
she was tired as well as the men and Evelyn.
But tired as Evelyn was, she could hardly Jet
Gordon go from her,

“Tt seems as if it might turn out to be only
a dream,” she said, clinging t&him. “Besides,
I do not know where you will go,” she added.

“If he will go home with me, I’ll_ take it as
a favor,” said Hinckley, who had been won-
dering how he could get the invitation in.
“We have a spare room in the cottage and my
wife and I would be proud to have you use
it?

Gordon accepted the invitation in the same
spirit in which it was given.

“Thank you,” hesaid. “I shall be glad to go,
and I know I shall never sleep under the roof
of a truer man,”

So he bade a final adieu to Evelyn, and
left her.

CHAPTER XLI.
“TI RATHER ENJOY.THE PROSPECT OF TAMING
HER.”

Early rising was not, as arule, a thing to
be laid tothe charge of Gerald Washburn;
but he made the morning after the abduction
of Evelyn an exception.

He rose at an early hour, made a most
pe toilet, and slipped quietly out of the
ouse.
It was evident that he had planned his early
rising in advance, for he went from th2 house
to a stable near at hand, and there was a horse
ready saddled, waiting for him.
He ieaped on the horse’s back and was pres-
ently cantering through the fresh morning air
out on one of the back roads.
It is very doubtful if any of the beaxties of
nature claimed his attention; for the smiles
on his face, and his muttered words showed
that his thoughts were all centered on quite
another object.
“My little beauty will be a little tamer this
ecb | I fancy,” he said to himself. “I don’t
expect her to give in right away, however, and
to tell the truth, I rather enjoy the prospect
of taming her. Ah, if she only knew how I
loved her, she would yield sooner,”
He slashed at the hanging branches on the
trees with his whip, and resumed, his manner
being one of supreme self-satisfaction:

 

 

   

Ltn stering. cyped sono the
ly y 50

He held her close to him, feasting his eyes
un the ravishing picture, and i

VY es

precious one,” he murmured, “I|
and I was determined to}

my

vas seeking you,

find youif 1 sought all my life. But Heaven |
has helped us, else we shouid not now be to-
gether.”

“True love isfrom heaven, I think,” whis-
pered Evelyn, nestling closer. “Ever since I
have known your love it seems to me that I
have had heaven in my heart.”

Her face was turned up to his, her meltin
blue eyes searching his, ‘and her red lips parted
in murmurous speech,

He bent over her and their lips touched ina
long, ecstatic, lingering caress,

Why is your face so dark?” Evelyn asked,
when her lips were free again, 2

“It is a part.of my disguise. My mustache
is gone too,” he answered.

“Yes,” said Evelyn, blushing as she said it,
“TIT missed it.”

She was so happy in his presence that, even
in that place which had been her prison, the
old merry spirit.returned to her.

He noticed the mischievous sparkle in her
blue eyes and laughingly demanded:

“When did you miss it?”

“Oh,” she answered, saucily, “partly when
I looked at you, and partly just now.”

He enfolded her in his arms again and kissed
her twenty times over, saying:

“You may as well get used to missing it;
tor I shall not be able to wear it until I have
won the right to wear it by clearing my name
of the stain upon it.”

“What an outrage it was!”
Evelyn. “Tell me all about it.” |

“Not now. We both havea great deal to
tell, but we must get away from here as soon
as possible. But first tell me if Gerald Wash-
burn has had aught to do with this last out-
rage.”

“T cannot tell you. I only know that I was
captured by two men as Iwas leaving the
Hinckley cottage, and was brought here. I
was put in here, and have been here alone
ever since. I tried to escape, but you can see
that it was made for a prison.”

For the first time Gordon examined the
room, and understood why it was that no
sound had been heard frorn it.

The walls were heavily padded, and the
door was almost six inches thick with pad-
ding inclosed between heavy oak boards,

At this point Hinckley put his head in at
the door, and said:

“T’m thinking we’d better be going.”

“Mr. Hinckley would come with me, Evelyn,
and I assure you that if we had met your ab-
ductors they would have had a sorry reception
from his mighty arms.” ;

Evelyn gratefully held out her little hand,
which the mill-hand took awkwardly in his
great fist, and then laughed to see how it was
lost there.

“Why, you need a big hand to fight your
battles, miss, don’t you?” he said.

“It seems I don’t need in vain,”
swered.

“That you don’t,and never will while I live,”
he said, feelingly. “But, there! you don’t
need my big hands while you have such brains
as his to plan for you. You should have seen
how he worked it all out, and followed you
here like the blood-hounds I heard you read-
ing to Carrie about t’other night.”

velyn looked adoringly into the handsome
face of Gordon and murmured:

“Tt was not like blood-hounds.”

“Ah, you’re right in that miss,” said Hinck-
ley. “It was just love. Nothing but love could
have held him steady to it as he was to-night.”

Gordon smiled joyously.

“Well, I won’t deny it,” he said, “but I
must say that love tells me no way of getting
home from here, unless I carry Evelyn.”

“Then here,” said Hinckley, “is where plain
Common sense comes in. I will take you to
a railroad station not more than a mile from
here, if I'm not mistaken, and we’ll beable to
catch the two o’clock milk train. Nota very

fine train to travel on, but it will get us inte

exclaimed

she an-

 

and then ironed under muslin

stroking the}
Oy BW ite fore sept ~ Jor ne
ead, |} when I can have her and the money, too.

to marry her, but what is the
Feb-5-4meney,;

 

Claire is such a fool that 1 shall be able to do
anything I like with her after we are married.
“But what a peerless creature Evelyn is! I
never knew human flesh could be so lovely
until I saw her. Why, her beauty is fairly
dazzling! Andsucha figure! Poor Claire,
with all her beauty, is but a fright in compari-
son. ;
“T suppose I shall have no end of tears when
Evelyn finds I don’t intend to marry her after
all. I would have done it the other night,
though. But now that I have her safe in the
padded room—— Pshaw! it would be folly.”

As he drew nearer to the house his eager-
ness increased, and as his fancy pictured his
lovely captive, now weeping in dire distress,
and now defying him with that queenly air of
hers, he raised his whip and brought it down
on his animal's back.

“Come, Dick,” he said, “don’t forget that
you are taking me to one of the houris from
paradise.”

Dick broke into a swift gallop, which soon
took him to the house Gerald was seeking.

He sprang from the horse, aftera careful
look around to see that he was not observed,
and unlocked the gate with a key which he
took from his pocket.

The reins hethrew over his arm, and led
the horse around the house to a stable in the
rear. There he tied the heated animal, giving
ae a handful of hay to munch on, and left

im.

“TI will prepare breakfast first,” he said to
himself,” and this afternoon that woman should
be here from New York to take care of her; for
I don’t want my pretty bird to lose her roses
while I am taming her.”

He whistled softly, as a man in very high
spirits will sometimes do, and walked along
with a jaunty air until he came in sight of
the broken door. ;

Then an oath broke from his lips, anda
ghastly pallor whitened his face.

“What’s this? Who’s been here?”

He stood a moment staring, and then leaped
through the door and ran up stairs. The bird
had flown. There would be no tears of dis-
tress, no haughty defiance this time.

The taming would have to be postponed.
There was no doubt of the reality of the dis-
apvearance; though Gerald, in his impotent
anger, had the folly to run from one room to
the other, cursing the men, vowing to recap-
ture Evelyn and make her pay for his disap-
pointment, and acting for a little while like a
demented man, .

Then came the thought of how she had
escaped. Whohad helped her? Someone from
the outside must have done.it. Who?

If Don were alive he would at once have sus-
pected him. Could the men have returned and
done it? What could be their object?

Was it known that he had had anything to
do with it? No. Luckily he had not seen Eve-
lyn, nor she him. Where was she? Would she
have gone back to Lowell?

The thing that he must do was to get away
from there as quickly as possible. He did not
wish to be suspected in any case; least of all
since he had lost his prize. He closed and
locked the door of the padded room, and put
the key in his pocket so that any marauders
should not be able to get in it without vio-
lence; though he did not fear them much,
since the house had long had the reputation
of being haunted.

He laughed at the idea of ghosts, but he
would not lie down to sleepin the dark any
more. .

As quickly as possible he procured his horse,
and rode back to the stable in town.

“A good morning for a ride,” said the stable-
man.

“Lovely,” replied Gerald, but he did not seem
to think so.

At his usual hour he was at the mill, and he
would have given anything to know whether
Evelyn was in her place or not.

But he did not dare risk arousing suspicion
by going to see at once. He was obliged to let

It turned out that Hinckley was right in|

through the loom-room in which Evelyn had
been stationed.

There she was, working as if nothing had
happened. She did not look up as he passed
her, for she knew she could not subdue the
scorn that flashed in her eyes, and Gordon had
said that she must not let him know that she
suspected him.

Gerald was puzzled to know what it meant.
Was it pessible that the men had carried off
the wrong girl, and that her friends had fol-
lowed and rescued her?

For once in his life he felt completely foiled
and baffled. He longed to know if anything
had happened to Evelyn, and yet did not dare
to ask a question.

He ground his teeth and returned to the
counting-room, muttering:

“The next time I swear I will succeed !”

He was never very courteous to those under
him in the office, and to-day he was ready to
vi an ugly thing on the mAs BrALomn igor,

‘he clerks all hated him, and it was for that
reason that no one remained in the office under
He who could find employment anywhere
else,

Mr. March had given him charge of one
branch of the office, so that he was supreme in
his own department.

It was about eleven o’clock when Gordon
walked intothe room. He had already been
out to see how Don was progressing, and was
happy with the news, that while he had not
yet recovered, he was certainly out of any
danger of losing his mind,

Miss Adams had consented to have Rosie
come as _ her assistant, though without know-
ing of the mill-girl’s attachment to Don.

And what was of more importance to Gor-
don, he had confided his story to the young
doctor, and had so completely won his con-
fidence that the physician had permitted him
to use him as a reference.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
a

This Story Will Not he Published in Book-Form,

FOR A WOMAN'S HONOR

By BERTHA M. CLAY.

Author of ‘‘’T'wixt Love and Hate,” ** Between
Two Henrts,” ‘*Fnir, but Faithless,” ‘* For
Another’s Sin,” ‘Thrown on the
World,” “The Sins of
the Father,” etc.

 

 

[FOR A WOMAN’S HONOR” wascommenced in No.1,
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. }

CHAPTER XXIII.
A DESPERATE LEAP.

There were pain and distress in the steady
blue eyes that looked into the furious brown
ones, but not an eyelash quivered under the
expected blow from the uplifted whip.

For a moment they remained thus, the dark-
ness deepening in Erna’s eyes, and then fad-
ing out. The whip slowly sank; and Erna’s
bosom rose and fell like a stormy sea; Then
she spoke in a strangled voice.

“Which way do you go?” she demanded.
“You are angry with me,” he said, regret-

 

fully.
“T hate you!” she cried, “I came out to be
alone, and you thrust yourself on me. The

least you can do is to leave me. You cannot
expect to remain here forever, holding my rein.
Do you find something heroic in your atti-
tude? Tc me it is ridiculous. There! the
groom is coming. I shall appeal to him.”
The restive horses had kept moving uneasily
on ail the while, and were now in such a
a that to make the jump Erna would have
een obliged to turn around, which would
have enabled the earl to intercept her. He
release bbe rein, saying.in.a troubled tone> :
“Why is it my fortune to anger you?”
“J do not care to guess your riddles,” she
angrily retorted. “I wish to continue my ride.
Will you be good enough to choose your way,
and let me go mine?”

He bowed low, his face pale and troubled,
and without a word turned Selim toward the
direction of the Castle and rode away. Erna,
with head erect and eyes burning, touched
Dandy with her whip and darted forward at a
swift pace. On andon she went fora mile
and more; then checked ne and put him
at alow fence, Then she tried a water jump,
and after that a wall.

Her face was pale and set, and her eyes were
dark and flashing. She had turned back when
the groom came up with her. He dropped be-
mad’ her, wondering at her blazing eyes, but
setting them down to the exhilaration of rid-

ng.

“T’ll do it if I break my neck,” she mut-
tered. Then she rode on, twisting and bend-
ing the pliable reins in her nervous fingers.
“He brought Selim here for her. It is true,
then, that he intends to make her his count-
ess. He followed me to trifle with me. Would
he dare? would he dare? Oh, I will make
him sufler for it, and her too. But I will make
the jump, if it kills me.”

She knew it was a reckless thing to do, but
she was so furious with the earl, and still
more furious with herself, that she would not
have been dissuaded by any argument that
could have been adduced.

But she did not wish to fail if she could
help it. So when she reached the jump on her
return, she rode up to it and examined it. It
was a terrible jump, with death or broken
bones. lurking on the other side. But Erna’s
was atemper so furious that the danger was
an added attraction.

“That’s the envy of the country,
said the groom, touching his cap.

“Why?” she curtly demanded.

“It looks tempting, but nobody- dares try

miss,”

“Ah,” ejaculated Erna, closing her white
teeth.

“Surely, miss——” began the groom.

“Heaven's mercy! she'll be killed!”
He could not move to overtake her. Be-
sides, it would have been useless, and he
could only sit there and stare in horror at the
fool-hardy attempt.

Erna had Dreneht the whip down on Dandy's
flank and he had sprung forward as if pro-
jected from a gun. He knew what he was ex-
pected to doas well as if he had understood
what had been said, For a moment he seemed
disposed to shirk it; but, as the groom noted
with horror-stricken admiration, Erna steadied
him, slowed him a trifle, and got him into his
stride.

It was an ugly wall, .witha bad_ take-off
and a worse landing. But Erna had studied
all that, and had unerringly picked out the
best spot to make the attempt. On flew
Dandy, steady now, and determined to do honor
to the courage of his mad rider.

“Hi!” she cried, and lifted her whip.

Dandy planted his feet fairly on the take-
off selected, and with a mighty effort rose in
the air, his magnificent muscles standing out
in his thighs like ridges of iron.

Over he flew, his nostrils distended, his
large eyes standing out of his gallant head,
and seeming to almost buoy himself in the
air. The wall and water stretched beneath
him. Erna sat him as if a part with him, now
leaning forward, now swaying backward.

There was adread instant of uncertainty,
and then the noble animal was safe on the
other side. Over! She had defied Lord
Aubrey; she had made the jump in spite of
him; and she would go home triumphant.
Dandy quivered in every muscle, but he took

and seemed to delight in the praise of his
rider.

The groom was dumb with astonishment
and admiration. Thenceforward the model
of womankind, in his eyes, would be Miss

 

 

 

Lowell.” .

an hour or more elapse before sauntering

March; and at that moment the worst he

eee

VOL. 48—No, 11,

 

 

—

| wished her was that she would marry the
marquis, his master, and that he would die
within a month of the wedding.

None of the guests were yet stirring when
Erna returned to the Castle, and she «ES her-
self in her apartments and remained there un-
til late in the morning, when Violet came to
seek her, crying out the moment she was ad-
mitted:

my hy Erna! what have you been doing?”

“Well,

Erna, quietly.

“Why, everybody is talking about you. They
Say you went out this morning to ride, and
took a jump nobody hasever dared to take
before,”

“They are making a great fuss over very
little,” said Erna,

“That sounds well from you, my dear, but
nobody else would say it. But what do you
think?—who do you think is here?”

“Lord Aubrey and the Morehams,” said
Erna, composedly.

“Oh, you knew it. Well, do come and show
yourself. They are all crazy to see you. I
wonder why the marquis asked the earl and
Lady Gertrude here. He must have known
you were not good friends,”

“You are mistaken,” replied Erna; “we are
the best of friends. The earl was out riding
with me this morning, part of the time.”

Violet shrugged her shoulders, like one
who feels that she may be treading on unsafe

 

the smaller jump lower down in gallant style,, Lady Gertrude saw and

_ “Well, do come down,” she said,
is just green with envy at your performance
of chis morning; but F don't believe she in-
tends trying it too.”

About the same time Lady Romley was talk-
ing privately with the marquis.

“What evil spirit possessed you to invite
the Earl of Aubrey here?” she demanded, with
considerable asperity,

“Why—why——” stammered the marquis,
taken aback by the tone, “isn’t he a kinsman
of Erna?”

“Isn't he a fascinating man?” retorted the
marchioness, inwardly thinking men the
stupidest of creation. “Think of his reputa-
tion! think of his good looks, his wealth, his
youth! I thought you knew he was the very
man of men you should not have here. You
certainly seemed to speak that way when you
conferred with me at Romley.”

“Aubrey !” cried the marquis. “Did you mean
Aubrey? I thought you referred to Captain
Merriwether.”

ground,
“Gertrude

“Well, it’s too late now,” said the mar-
chioness. “All wecan do is to watch and
wait. Erna may treat him horribly. She did

the last time they met, and may again. For
your sake, my dear marquis, I hope she will.”
The marquis was in despair.
“But,” he protested, “Aubrey is as good as
engaged to Lady Gertrude, they say.”
“They say!” repeated Lady Romley, scorn-
fully. “Wait until it is announced. I wish he
were engaged to her. But to think of bring-
ing them here!
thrown a match into a powder magazine,”
Lord Aubrey, in the meantime, was having
a very wretched time of it. He was well aware
of the fact that he ought to utterly condemn
any young woman who would fly into such a
passion as Erna had that morning. But, in
fact, the more he thought of Erna, the more
he dwelt onthe astonishing beauty she had
displayed in her fury.
“What a termagant!” he said; and then he
thought, “ Where is the other girl who would
have dared to do that jump?
“What I can’t comprehend,” he reflected,

with me, just at the very moment when I was
rejoicing in the friendship I had been longing
for. For a few moments there, I was as happy
as a boy. She is a strangely fascinating
creature. I suppose now she will not look at-
me again.”

When Erna came down she was surrounded,
according to custom, and was soon busy an-
swering questions, and laughingly protested
that she would never have taken the jump if
she had known so much fame was to be ac-
quired by it. Then, when she saw the oppor-
tunity, she exclaimed:

 

    
 

what havel been doing?” inquire Ma at

Marquis, I would as lief have

“is why she should so suddenly become angry | —

 

 

morning. He too was out riding.”

She crossed over to Lady Gertrude, and
greeted her cordially.

“IT am _ so delighted to see you, Lady Ger-
trude. Good-morning, Lord Aubrey! hope

you have forgiven me for my display of tem-
per this morning,” and she smiled up into his
oa so brightly that he wondered if his eyes
ere playing him a trick.

Was it possible that she had so completely
recovered from her anger, which had seemed
so furious? Yes, he could not doubt it. And
when had she ever been so delightful before?
He was charmed. Lady Gertrude smiled and
talked vivaciously, but in her heart she was
saying that Erna was preparing a trap.

Ah! who could resist Erna in that mood?
The ear) saw in her something of the merry
hoiden of his first meeting, and something of
the womanliness he had discovered later. But,
besides, there was anew charm—a seductive
winsomeness which somehow reminded him
of Lucie; though he cursed himself for per-
mitting the thought to take shape in his mind,
Gradually Erna separated him from Ger-
trude, and presently had him walking with
her out on the terrace. There she held him
enchained as she talked to him of the things
she had unearthed in the Castle, drawing him
out to talk of himself somewhat, but talking
for the most part herself.

And he, listening tothe softly modulated
voice, whose every tone was the sweetest music,
thought he had never dreamed of such bewitch-
ing grace and winsomeness.

She recalled the song she had sung at Rose-
boro, and hummed it then ina low, witching
way that enthralled his senses. Then she
spoke of other songs she had found there; and
these, too, she sang séftly, so that no one but
himself could hear; and to him it seemed as
if he were listening to the angels.

When she finally left him, he was like a
man intoxicated, and he could not bear to re-
turn to where the others were, jest he should
lose something of what he had gained from
the strange, bewildering creature, who seemed
to Have so many moods.

 

CHAPTER XXIV.
A GAME WITH FIRE.

Strong men! What isaman’s strength to
a woman’s witchery? It took only a short
time, but to Aubrey it came like a burst of
dazzling sunlight through the gloom—the fact
that he loved the enigma of a woman, who
had been a factor in his life almost from the
first moment of seeing her.

He wondered that he had not realized it
sooner, but was conscious, too, that it was a
thing not be reasoned out. He was in love,
infatuated, bewitched; and he could do noth-
ing but think of her when she was not near
him, and watch her when she was in sight.

Her voice hada strange wer over him,
which shesoon learned, and she used it to
‘make his emotions play upon his bronzed,
handsome face; now making his stern eyes
dance with delight, now filling them with
moisture of sympathy, and then suddenly fill-
ing them with dismay.

As for herself, she went ou like one who has
deliberately cast herself over a precipice and
no longer has a choice of direction. Her
spirits were unnaturally high, but only those
who knew her well were aware of this; and it
was not only the earl she carried along on the
current of her witchery.

The other young men, and not a few of the
older ones, looked for her coming in the morn-
ing, and sighed when she went away at night.
Her eyes were the only eyes, her voice the only
voice: and, when she smiled, others must
laugh perforce, from very infection.
gnawed her heart
in silent misery. Beautiful and gifted as she
was, she was like one. effaced in comparison
with the marvelous magnetism of the other,
She had loved Aubrey, she loved him now.
She had no claim on him: for, in spite of the
gossips, it had not come to that yet. Aubrey

 

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had not even done anything which would give
her a moral hold on him,

But there had been no doubt in her mind, or
in the minds of others, that he intended
eventually to ask her to become his countess.
She had even consented to accept the invita-
tion to Melrose in a spirit of conscious strength,
She had not had the least fear of Erna; yet
Erna had won him from her witha glance of
her eye, a tone of her voice.

The marquis was distracted with a fear no
one could have comprehended, and which no
one certainly sympathized with, unless it was
Lady Romley. The measure of his love for
the bright being who was so far removed from
him by age, was not to be gauged by ordinary
standards.

He realized, as well as anybody who was
merely an indifferent spectator, that it was
absurd and incongruous for him to think
of mating with Erna, whose youth and won-
derful beauty were such a contrast for his
rather unpleasant old age and decrepitude.

ut he worshiped her with that infatua-
tion which very old..and very young men are
often guilty of. And his love made bim hum-
ble. He even dreamed with delight of how he
would bask in the sunshine of her presence
for a little while, and then pass away, leav-
ing herrich and with all the world before
her. Surely that was the very acme of abnega-
tion!

And now another, equally rich, equally
noble, and with all the advantages of youth
and good looks, had come along and snatched
her from under his very eyes. And it did not
mitigate his misery to know that he had de-
liberately planned to have Aubrey come to the
Castle.

For a few days Lady Romley merely looked on
and was troubled. She had come to know Erna
well; and she was sure that there was morein
the matter than appeared on the surface,
though just what it was she was unable to
fathom.

She hesitated to interfere: for what reason
was there why the earl should not wed Erna
if he would? He might make a better match,
from a worldly point of view, but, after all,
that was a small matter in his case. He was
rich enough and noble enough, and no name
ae with his could add luster to that of

ecil.

But as the days went by, and she studied
Erna closer, she was sure that she was only
acting. And yet the marchioness had been so
sure that Erna loved the earl! She could not
comprehend it; but she was decided that she
ought to speak to Erna.

She went to her room one afternoon when
she had gone up there to dress. Erna sat in
achair bya little round table, her head on
herarms. She looked up with a start when
the old lady entered, and Lady Romley could
see that her face was very pale.

“Erna, dear,” she said, going quickly over to
where she sat, and placing her hand on the
brown, curly head, “something is wrong;
what is it?”

“Nothing,” replied Erna, and with a violent
effort she’ drove away all signs of unusual
emotion, and smiled up at the old lady.

“Yes,” said Lady Romley, “there is some-
thing the matter. I have watched you for
several days, and I know it. Why have you
taken the earl away from Lady Gertrude? Do
you love him so much?”

Erna started up from her seat suddenly,
stamped her little foot vehemently, swallowed
something in her throat, and cried out with
flashing eyes: ;

“Love him? I hate him!”

“Then why.do you encourage him to hover
about you?, He is madly in love with vou.
You have taken him from Lady Gertrude, and
you willend by making misery for yourself
and all the rest.”

“T do not care,” retorted. Erna, passionately.
“She came here with him to flaunt him in my
face; he came here intending to marry. her,
but to try to play with me. I vowed I would
wring his heart, and I will, if I break my

ee-end-ghe-burst inte such apassion of
‘sobs as frightened the old lady.

There was such a pent up power, whether
for good or evil, in the beautiful creature, that
her joy and her sorrow seemed different from
the same nvassions in other girls. She wept as
if she were wrestling with a demon; and then
suddenly dried her eyes, as if the very fire of
her passion had dried them up.

“You do not know,” she said to the troubled
old lady. “I love him, I—I have always loved
him. He treated me from the first as if I were
not of the same clay. He betrayed my girlish
confidence. The first morning he was here, he
saw me riding out of the park, and hurried
to get his own horse and follow me. When
he caught up with me, he begged me to be
friendly with him; and he seemed so noble
and true that I—like a silly little fool—was so
happy I could hardly contain myself, and I
gave him my hand, I loved him, and 1 be-
lieved he must love me, And he did, he did,
I am sure of it!

“But he would not marry me! You had
warned me against him, so had my aunt; but
I had not believed either of you. I gave him
my hand, and I gave him the glad smiles of a
happy heart; and then—oh, I could make him
suffer for it!—he gave me to understand—he
said enough to let me know that Lady Ger-
trude was the one of his choice.”

She tapped her little foot on the floor, she
tore a lace handkerchief in shreds, and her
eyes blazed, but her face was white and set.
Lady Romley could have wept for sorrow at

_the unvailing of this passionate ,soul in its
agol.y.

“My dear,” she said, gently, “you must be
mistaken. ‘Your very love for him makes you
put a wrong construction on his words.”

“I am not ‘mistaken. Did not you tell me
that he was achoice husband, but a danger-
ons guardian? I did not fully coimprehend
then; but Ido now. Did not everybody, even

one of the grooms at Aubrey, warn me that it |
laughed

was better not to know him. But I :
at them. He knew that, under all my coldness,
I loved him, and he kept seeking me until I

ielded. Then he warned me that I could not

e his wife. That was what he meant; and
although I love him, I hate him for that; and
I will wring his heart, as he has wrung mine.
I have blinded him now, and he would even
make me Countess of Aubrey. Well, he may
make her his countess.”

“My dear! my dear! you are playing with
fire,” said Lady’ Romley, -sadly, but feeling
powerless to check or turn the torrent of pas-
sion that swept from the tortured heart of
her ward. “Besides, you forget that you have
given encouragement to the Marquis of Mel-
rose, and that you are making him suffer.”

“Oh, as for him,” said Erna, “I am _ not
troubled. I shall marry him. That is all he
wishes. He is bidding in the open market for
a wife. As well him as another. I will marry
him.”

“Erna, my darling,” said Lady Romley,
drawing Erna to her, and folding her in her
arms, “you and I have been together but a
short time, and yet I have learned to love you
dearly. Won’t you give up your terrible notion
of punishing Lord Aubrey. Youare scorching
your own heart, searing yourown soul, put-
ting all possibility of happiness far away from
you. You will eternally regret it if you per-
sist, I am older than you, and I can see what
you cannot.”

s “What will give me happiness?” demanded
rna,

Alas! how could Lady Romley, or any one
else, answer that question?

“At least you can do what is just and right,”
said the old lady, sorrowfully.

“No,” cried Erna, vehemently, “I cannot do
what is just and right. Iam too wicked for
that. Do you think Icannot see the misery
before me? I have seen it all along. I saw it
before he came down here, I felt it away back
at Aubrey. I saw him climbing up that fear-
ful cliff at Aubrey, and my heart went out to
him, That morning when he overtook me rid-
ing, even when my heart was furious with
him for what he had said, I loved him for the
masterly way he held my horse and would not
let me take that jump. I love him every mo-
ment now. But I will wring his heart.” She
ceased and looked fixedly out of the window

 

|

 

 

 

 

 

 

for a space of a minute, almost; then added,
ina low, agonized tone: “After that Ido not
care.

Lady Romley had been equal to many trying
emergencies in her life. It seemed to her-that
she ought to be to this one. She felt that she
ought to be angry with Erna’s wicked insist-
ence on doing this wrong. But somehow Erna
compelled love, in her worst moods. The old
lady shook her head sadly.

“Erna,” she said, “I feel that I ought to
warn the earl. It is not right to permit this.”

Erna smiled, and stroked the wrinkled hand.

“Do you think he would heed your warning?
No, he is infatuated, and he would believe
you were maligning me. But do what you
will,” she added, wearily. “I wish it were all
over. If the marquis speaks to you, tell him
that 1 give my word to be his bride. He won't
ask for love, I should think.”

Lady Romley was defeated. What could she
do? It was quite true, as Erna said, that the
earl would never believe a word against the
woman he worshiped. He was perfectly well
aware that the marchioness had wished Erna
to marry the Marquis of Melrose; and he
would be justified in suspecting that she was
maligning Erna, with a purpose.

So she did nothing; and when Erna came
down, later in the afternoon, smiling, bril-
liant and gay, she could only marvel and pity.

The days went by, and the comedy went on.
Only Lady Romley knew of the tragedy that
was_ being played behind the scenes, and she
shuddered when she thought of. the end.
Aubrey was a strong man, but he would reel
under the blow, and her heart bled at the
thought.

Lady Gertrude did what she could to win
the earl back to her. She sang the songs he
had praised; and then Erna would sing the
songs she knew he loved; and Gertrude, feel-
ing the thrill in her own heart as she listened
to the voice she hated, knew fhat the heart
of the earl was throbbing wildly.

ft was true that Lady Gertrude had urged
the earl to let her ride Selim, wishing to
show to Erna that she was so much his mis-
tress; and it was true that the earl had so
tamed Selim that he. was not afraid to trust
Lady Gertrude on his back. And yet Selim
stood in the stable, and she did not ask, nor
did he suggest a ride. Erna’s ride on Dandy
that first morning had changed everything.

For a week Lady Gertrude bore it bravely,
unwilling tobe defeated; but as each day
strengthened the infatuation of the earl for
Erna, and she saw that she was as nothing in
his thoughts, she broke down, and sobbing
piteously at her mother’s feet, begged her to
find some excuse for going away.

“She has stolen. him from me!” she cried.
“Oh, why did I ever come here?”

So, one day, Lord Moreham found impera-
tive reasons for leaving Melrose. Lady Ger-
trude sought an opportunity when the earl
was alone, and went to him, holding out-her
hand with a smile.

“We go to-morrow, Lord Aubrey,” she said,
“and I may not have another chance to say
good-by. Shall we see you at Moreham before
the Easter holidays?”

It was the best way to approach a man like

Aubrey. He knew he had not acted quite
fairly toward Lady Gertrude. He had said
nothing and done nothing that gave her any
claim on him; but he knew that it had been
his intention to ask her to be his countess, and
he felt troubled.

He had grown to like her, and he was
reasonably sure that she more than liked him.
But he had not loved her; and he did love
Erna. He could not carry out his original in-
tention, for he dreamed of sharing his life
with Erna. Nevertheless he was troubled, and
he took Gertrude’s hand and held it as he

“I would like to visit you at Moreham. I
owe a ites deal of pleasure to you, and I hope
we shall always be such good friends that it
will be a pleasure to meet.”

It was Lady Gertrude’s last effort to win
him back. Ghe -maintained, her. gammacurs
with difficulty, and hastened away fron) him,
She had the courage to be merry during the
remainder of the day, and to make her adieus
with good spirit; but she was glad to be alone
in her own room when night came, and glad
that she would be off in the morning before
the Castle was aroused.

She had seen the mocking light in Erna’s
eyes when she said mney to her, and had
understood the meaning of the regretful words:

“Are you going so soon? Weshall miss you,
I hope we shall meet in London next season.’

“Do you intend being there?” Lady Ger-
trude had responded, ever so sweetly. “But
of course you will, for I hear rumors about a
certain generous old marquis. Iam sure I
congratulate you, dear.”

“The dear old marquis!” said Erna, com-
posedly. “Well, I do not contradict rumor.”

Lady Gertrude could have cried in her vexa-
tion. She had thought to deala blow at Erna;
but the latter had turned it aside so easily.
When Erna sat alone in her room that night,
however, her face was ashen pale, and her lips
were quivering.

“T have driven her away,” she murmured.
“To-morrow, he may know what it is to play
ya a woman’s heart. Oh, I wish L were

ead !”

-| answered :

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
eo ___—_——_

Thus Story Will Not be Published in lain
packed Acvass the Atlante:

Nick Carter Amons the Smugglers

By the Author of ‘‘NICK CARTER.”

(“TRACKED ACROSS THE ATLANTIC” was commenced in
No.49. Back numbers can be obtained of al NewsAgents.]

CHAPTER XLIII.
NICK’S MYSTERIOUS FRIENDS,

 

 

The reader remembers that when Nick Carter
went to make his call upon the diamond mer-
chant, Reubens, he was in complete disguise.

It is true that Carruthers recognized him,
but only by implication. That is, when, dis-
missed by Reubens, he hurried to the peep-
hole, what he saw convinced him that no one
but the great detective would dare to act the
part which was being played before his eyes.
He therefore knew that it was the detective,
simply because he knew that. it could be no-
body else.

It must also be remembered that while Car-
ruthers knew him, nobody else did.

It was the smuggler’s scheme that he should
remain unknown, the better to fall a prey to
the French law.

The wily free-trader was sufficiently famil-
iar with the habits of the detective to know
that even the Chief of the Detective Bureau of
Paris had not been permitted to see him as he
really was.

He also knew that once taken to prison, and
subjected to the rigid examination that is
made of all prisoners in France, before trial is
thought of, the fact that he was in disguise
would be quickly discovered, an it would be a
long and tedious unwinding of red tape before
the detective would be able to convince those
in ar oe who he really was, and so be liber-
ated.

But if Carruthers was aware of all this, so
was Nick, $

That was why he adopted such summary
measures to escape.

It was with infinite pleasure that he struck
the blow which laid the prince of smugglers
low.

. There were pleasure, anger, annoyance, and
genuine delight in the fist that felled Car-

 

ruthers; and haying done the deed, Nick
bounded from the room and locked the door as
we have seen. .

When he reached the door that admitted
him to the shop, however, and saw an addi-
tional force of gendarmes there to head him
off, he was, for just one instant, dismayed. 3

But only for an instant,

He bounded back ayain, and with wonder-
ful quickness, tore away the disguise that he
wore.

In a moment he was Nick Carter in proper
person, for the officers who had first attacked
him had left him no paraphernalia whereby
he could adopt another disguise.

His own handsome face was, however, the
best disguise of all.

In the meantime the men who were confined
in the room which he had so suddenly left
were using every effort to free themselves.

The noise of the pounding upon the solid
door reached the ears of the reinforcements,
and believing that their compatriots’ were
having a rough time of it with the captured
thief, they rushed forward through the shop
and toward the source of the noises.

Nick had only to draw back out of sight
while they passed him.

He knew that they would very quickly un-
fasten the door to the private office, when he
would only havea moment in which to escape.

As the last man passed him, Nick glided
forward and entered the shop. *

The clerk was there, and so also were sev-
eral spectators, who had been attracted by the
excitement.

The detective never did anything by halves.

He walked boldly up to the clerk, and in an
authoritative tone said:

“You are to clear the shop immediately !”

Then passing rapidly on, he confronted the
curious ones, and in perfect French, said:

“Gentlemen, you must wait outside.
out, please.” ‘

The clerk looked at him in astonishment.

In his surprise, he forgot to look for the offi-
cial sash of the commissary of police; he only
thought that Nick was some person in author-
ity, who, in the excitement, had escaped his
notice.

The next moment Nick was outside with
those whom he had driven from the store.

He made his way quickly through the crowd
that had gathered by this time, and was
about to hasten away, when his arm was seized
and a voice said in his ear: ~

“This way, sir.”

He wheeled, believing that he must have
another struggle for liberty.

But it was the smiling face of the hack-
driver, Michael, that he saw.

“You!” he exclaimed.

“Yes. Come quickly. My hack is waiting.
Wasi explain later. Come!”

“ t ”

Pass

“Tf you would escape much annoyance, Mr,
Carter, enter my hack. knew you were
inside Reubens’ place, and I was waiting for
you. Come. The officers will be here in an-
other moment.”

“True! Where is your hack!”

“There.”

“Good! Donot drive away. Stand where
you are until the excitement is over.”

“Trust. me for that, sir.”

“Really, Michael,” said Nick, as he entered
the hack, “you are a puzzle. 1 should think
you would betray me instead of assisting in
my escape.”

“You will understand it all later, sir.”

“You bet I will!” was the laconic response.

Nick was now inside the hack, and Michael
stood at the door, talking with him through
the window.  —

At that moment the store door was thrown
violently open, and several officers leaped into
the street, /

“Where is he?” dios cried. “Where is our
prisoner?” f,

The crowd laughed.

Then the gendarmes dashed this way and
that.

Lhey..rgn
search, but nobody had seen a sifu-of the man
whom they described. ¥

Two of them came to Michael’s hack.

“Have you seen this man?” was demanded
of him.

“What man, gentlemen?”

They described him.

Michael shook his head.

“All I saw,” he replied, “was the crowd. I
drove up ‘to see what was going on. If he has
escaped, I will go.”

He turned and leaped upon his box, seized
the reins, and drove leisurely ann

“He’s invaluable!” muttered Nick. “He
said he was waiting for me. It followed, there-
fore, that in some mysterious manner he
knew that I was at Reubens’. To have known
that I must have been recognized in the dis-
guise I wore, and I’d stake almost any amount
that nobody but Chick could penetrate it.”

The detective leaned back in the seat and
wrinkled his brow in genuine perplexity.

He had given Michael no instructions where
to drive, nor had the strange fellow sought
any. :

He evidently knew his destination, how-
ever, for the speed of his horses increased as
street after street was forsaken for another.

“Let him go,” mused Nick, who thought
once of giving him an order. “Perhaps he will
take me to some place where the strange part
he plays in my affairs will be explained.

“By Jove!” he exclaimed, suddenly; “TI for-
got that a spy follows this hack wherever it

oes.”
. He leaned forward and pulled the string.

Michael drew up instantly and leaped to the
ground,

In a moment his face appeared at the door.

“Well, monsieur?” he said.

“Where are you going?” asked Nick,

“To the Cafe Malet.”

“Ah bf

“Tt is a place from which you may readily
escape.”

ae iv ‘

“Since monsieur was good enough to intro-
duce me to the Chief of the Detective Bureau,
my hack has been under surveillance,” contin-
ued Michael, calmly.

“Indeed! You know that!”

“Certainly, monsieur.”

“Well, drive on,” said Nick, smiling. “You
are an odd fellow, Michael, but I feel inclined
to trust you.”

“Thanks, monsieur.”

He leaped again to his box, and once more
the hack moved rapidly through the streets.

Corner after corner was turned, and at last
the vehicle drew up at the curb in front of the
Cafe Malet. :

In an instant Michael was again at the door.

He threw it open.

“Step down, if you please, monsieur,” he
said; but he ded, in a low tone: “Be care-
ful; the spy is close at hand.”

Tossing the fare to the driver, Nick strode
rapidly toward the door of the cafe, but he had
barely reached it when a man whomhe did
not know rushed forward, exclaiming:

“Ah, monsieur, we had about given you up.
Follow me, please.”

“Well, this gets me!” muttered Nick. “One
would think that this whole thing had been
planned.”

He followed the stranger without a word,
however, resolved to see the thing through.

He was conducted up stairs, a door was
opened, he passed through and then he uttere
a cry of delight. :

He was face to face with Chick!

CHAPTER XLIV.
EXCHANGING CONFIDENCES.

‘cee !” he cried. “Thank Heaven, you are
alive!”

Never had he been more moved than at that
moment, when he suddenly found himself in
the presence of his beloved assistant, whom he
had given up for dead,

After the first greetings were over, they dis-
cussed the things which had so perplexed the
detective.

“Now I can understand much that puzzled
me,” said Nick. “You, Chick, have been out,
you saw me when [entered Reubens’, and you

in... every irection, mmmtheir eager |

| LOVE

stationed Michael there at the door, to wait

“Yes.”

“IT knew that no one but you could have
recognized me in that disguise, and yet, be-
lieving you deaa, I could not understand it.”

“Of course you were puzzled.”

“Is Michael, then, in your pay.”

“He is under my orders.”

“Ah! And I have puta spy from the bureau
on his track,” said Nick, with some chagrin.

“Believe me,” returned Chick, “that does
no harm. There has hardly been a day for
a when Michael has not been spied upon.”

“Ah!”

“T have invaluable assistants here. . When
I came, I was barely able to walk, but now I
am strong again; now that we are together
once more, I am well.”

“Tell me of these assistants of yours. Who
are they?”

“They are invaluable. There
them, but Michael, Legarde——

“What! Legarde also?”

“Yes, and Malet—or, more correctly speak-
ing, O’Mally, the proprietor of this place.”

* Humph !"

“Those three are treasures.”

“So I begin to believe. Who was the fellow
who met me at the door?”

“Another; an Italian; Lafori, by name.”

“My dear Chick, who and what are these
men?”

“They comprise the Parisian department of a
corps of special agents who are under the
direct control of the Czar of Russia himself.”

“Bosh! Bosh! Chick !”

“Tt is true.”

“But why?”

“Nihilism has attained gigantic proportions
as you know. Its bloody arms reach every-
where, into every country on the globe, into
every city in the world where intrigue can be
carried on. The purpose of this vast army is
solely to destroy the Czar.”

“ Tr

are several of
”

“The regular secret agents have been found
unable to cope with this great octopus, whose
tentacles stretch out in every direction, and
there is a body of men organized by the Czar
himself, whose very existence is a secret.”

* Ah 1?

“They are picked from every country in the
world; they are selected for their integrity,
their caution, their bravery, and their devo-
tion to the cause they support.

“The Chief of the Russian Police dses not
himself know that this organization exists.
He may suspect it, but nothing more.

“The Czar retains direct supervision of these
men himself, assisted by trusted officials under
him. Do you begin to see now why I, having
for the moment attained direction of this force
in Paris, was able to save you from the house
of the Princess Olga, was able to prevent your
assassination the other night, and to-day could
have you brought here in this manner?”

“T see it all—except one thing, Chick.”

“What is that?” -

‘This thing is so secret; how did you get in
~vith them, and how could you reach the point
where you command ?”

“By an accident, Nick. Accidents often do
more than anything else for us.”

“True.” 4

“I was drugged and thrown into the sea by
Livingston Carruthers. How I was saveii from
sax re Heaven alone knows, for I do not.”

ae -.

“When I returned to consciousness, I was
lying upon a piece of floating wreckage which
lookea Jike a part of the upper deck of some
small vessel. I was bruised and sore, and must
haye struck upon that fioating mass when I
was hurled into the sea.”

“Fate, Chick.”

In all those leagues of
watery waste there was one spot ten feet
square that would support me, and I fell upon
it: The hand of God placed it there, having
read the terrible plot for my undoing in the
heart of that oily fiend, Carruthers.”

“Tt is wonderful.”

Wee
upon that floating wreck. I cannot.”

“You were saved, Chick; that is enough.”

“Yes, I was saved. I was picked up by a
private yacht and taken to London. Weak as I
was, I managed to save the life of the owner
of that yacht, who had saved me.”

“How, Chick”

“The knife of an assassin was aimed at his
back. I saved him, that is all. He could not
forget it.”

“Naturally.”

“I told him my story, for we became great
friends. He had heard of you and of me.”

“Ah! Who is he?”

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

THE KEELEY TREATMENT

WITH the Double Chloride of Gold Remedies for
ALCOHOLISM, DRUG ADDICTION AND NERVE
EXHAUSTION can be obtained in N. Y. State only at
the Keeley Institutes in White Plains, Binghamton,
Canandaigua, Westfield, and Babylon, L.I. For terms,
address or call at either Institute, or at the following
offices: 7B. 27th St., N. Y: City ; Room 10, Chapin Block,
Buffalo ;32 Larned Building, Syracuse; Room 8, 55 State
8t., Albany; 122 Ellwanger & Barry B’ld’g, Roc

All communications BEWARE OF IMITATORS

strictly confidential.
IGH FIVE OR EUCHRE PARTIES

should send at once to JOHN SEBASTIAN, G. T. A.

 

 

 

 

All kinds cheaper than

 

C. R. I. & P. R. R., Chicago, TEN CENTS, in stamps, per
pack for the slickest cards you ever shuffled. For $1.00
you will receive free by exprees ten packs.
Double BREECH oe eer ae .
elsewhere, Before y
LOADER $7.50 S ceowhare Before ou bay
y POWELL & CLEMENT CO.
BICYCLES $15. CINCINNATI, OHIO.
ANSY PILLS!
Safe and Sure. Send 4c. for “WOMAN’S SAFE
* GUARD.” Wilcox Specif'e Oo., Phila., Pa.

y ARRIED LADIES, worry and doubt never come to
J those who use our “Companion.” Just introduced,
lasts a lifetime, safe, reliable, only 50c. prepaid, to intro-
duce. Reliable Supply Co., 204 S. Clark St., Chicago, Ill.

eTHIS MACHINE FREE

examine inany home.Sentanywhere

 

   
 

without one cent in advance. W arran-
raj ted the best sewing machine ever made
| Our terms, conditions and everything

far more liberal than any other house
ever offered. For full particulars, ete,
cut this advt. out and sendto us to-day,
Alvah Mfg. Co., Dpt. €202 Chicago, LiL

Mention NEW YORK WEEKLY.

PLAYING CARDS.

You can obtain a pack of best quality Playing Cards
by sending fifteen cents in postage to P. S. EUSTIS,
General Passenger Agent C., B, & Q. R. R., Chicago, Ill,

 

 

ALL FOR 25c., To introduce, we

fa complete Elixir Remedy, 2 kinds of
SOs | Perfume, bcos Lovely Photos, Money Mak-
= ing Guide, Unique Pocket Book and Lovers
Guide to Marriage, al! for 25 cts., in stamps
or silver, price of Elixir alone.
Smith Mfg. Co., Palatine, Ils.
NESS AND HEAD NOISES CURED
by Peck’s Invisible Tubular Ear Cushions, Whis,
pers heard. Successful when all remedies
tail. Sold only by F. Hiscox ,853 B’way,N.¥. Write for book of prot REE
AND DUTY 2nd 150 Latest Songs all

for 10c, New Antograph Verse Book
25c. H. WEHMAN, 128 Park Row, N. Y.

FULL BEARD ano
HAIR IN 21 DAYS
Prof. Dyke’ s Elixir forceshea-

Mustache, Full Beard and
Hair in 21 days. Guaranteed.
Can prove this, No one elxe
Aare attemptit, See other side

 

 

 

 

ES aay) eitha [ehey RU e 0

eit Herre) 814, fd BOX 1925 NY.CITY

; Dialogues, Speakers, for, School,
lub and rior. Catalogue free,
PLAYS: DENISON, Publisher, Chicago.

GUN SPORTING GOODS

HENRY & CO, No, 21, Box B, CHICAGO, ILL,

charge.

vicinity. Put your name and address back of
Avenue, Brooklyn, N. Y. References: Rev.

 

 

REVOLVERS, DICE,
CARDS, Etc. ‘64-page
catalogue FREE. O,

 

f.

VOL, 48—No 1. <<a THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. 32>

 

 

Sgu TRS s

SO
‘VESTIBULED TRAINS

QUEEN & CRESCENT

AND A.& GA
YENN.Y 5
EAST T" SYSTEMS.

AA

SOUTHS:

 

Winer ee OIE SRN RE EN ke

yaan en.

 

 

 

pnrouce SLEEPING Gins,

GINCINNATI TO JACKSONVILLE, FLA,
“THROUGH SLEEPING CARS

CINCINNATITO KNOXVILLE
Throvcy Trans | ATLANTA.
CINCINNATITO NEW-ORLEANS

IN 27 HOURS.

0.G.EDWARDS.

GENERAL PASSENGER AGENT.

 

i

 
    
   
    
  
 
  

REE.
SUPERB FORM,
LOVELY COMPLEXION,

PERFECT HEALTH.
These are my portraits, and
on account of the fraudulent
air-pumps, ‘‘wafers,’’ etc., of-
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any lady FREE what I used to se-
cure these changes. HEALTH
(cure of that ‘‘ tired ’’ feeling
and all female diseases)

Superb FORM, Brilliant -
} EYES and perfectlyPure »
i COMPLEXION assured. ‘
Will send sealed letter. Avoid advertising frauds. Name this paper, and

address Mrs. ELLA M. DENT, Station B, SanFrancisco,Cal.
per day, at

to $15 home, selling
LIGHTNING PLATER

and plating jewelry, watches
tableware, &c. Plates the
} finest of jewelry good as
new, on all kinds of metal
||| with gold, silver or nickel.
ii, No experience. No capital.
ii! Every house has goods need-
ing plating. Wholesale to
© agents $5. Write for circu-
rs. H. E. DELNO &
‘o., Columbus, 0.

     
   
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
  

 

  
  
 

 

ick, T won't a@etail tne inctdents

Pinl lothes Line
WANTED-—Salesmen to whom we will give EXCLUSIVE
TERRITORY to.sell our celebrated PINLESS CLOTHES LINE,
the only line ever invented that holds clothes WITHOUT
PINS—a wonderful success; orour famous FOUNTAIN INK
ERASER which willerase ink instantly, and has NO EQUAL.
The success of our salesmen shows the great demand for
these articles, many making $20 to $50 per 7. On receipt of
50c., will mail sample of either, or pare of both for $1, with
rice-lists andterms. PINLESS CLOTHES LINE CO.,
Yo. 268 Hermon Street, Worcester, Mass, 4
s

 

 

ink Eraser

 

F L Amateur Theatricals, Tem-

perance Plays, Drawin’-Room Plays,

AYS,-PLA Ss

Fairy Plays, Ethiopian Plays, Guide Books, Speakers,
Pantomimes, Charades, Jarléy’s Wax Works, Burnt Cork,
Theatrical Face Preparations, Wigs, Beards, Moustaches
and Paper Scenery.
novelties, full description and prices, sent FREE! FREE!

New Catalogues, containing many
T. H. FRENCH, 28 West 22d St. N.-Y.

 

 

We send the marvelous French
Remedy CALTHOS free, anda
legal guarantee that CALTHOs will
STOP Discharges & Emiasiona,
CURE Spermatorrhea, Varicocele
and RESTORE Lost Vigor..

Use tt and pay tf satisfied,

Address, YON MOHL CO.,
Sole American Agents, Cincinnati, Ohio,

 

 

 

WHEN YOU GET TIRED |

with the doctors with their big prices and quack
remedies, write to me and I will send (sealed ) F

a prescription that will quickly cure Lost REE
Vitality, Nervousness, Weakness and restore com-
plete vigor. A new positive remedy that cures
when everything else fails. Addre

 

 

« D. HGUSE, Box 6, ALBION, MICH.

TECTIVES |

Wanted in every county to act in the Secret Service under
instructions from Capt. . rannan, ex-Chief Detectives of Gin-
cinnati. Experience not necessary. Established 11 years. Partic-
ulars free. Address Grannan Detective Bureau Co. 44 Ar-
cade, Cincinnati, O. The methods and operations ofthis Bureau
investigated and found lawtul by United States Government.

 

INSTANT RELIEF,
Cure in 15 dayspnever re-
turns. I willsend (sealed

D FRE te my fellow-suf-
ferers a prescription toenlarge small weak or-
gans, Asure cure for Emissions, Lost Manhood, Ner-
®ous Debility, Varicocele, etc. Address

 

 

.. 8. Franklin. Music Dealer, Marshali. Mich.
CARTER’S RELIEF for WOMEN
is asafe and alwavs reliable medi-
cine for Irregularities and all
other Femaie troubles. Suvcess-

fully used in thousands of cases.is nsure remedy, guaran-
teed. Sent promptly on receipt of 81.00, and 6@, in stamps for

postage. or full particulars fora 2-cont stamp.
RIOH MED.CAL CO., East Ham>ton, Conn,

 

D

Cor

bad result,

 

THE OLD DOCTOR'S

TON OT PILL

Ladies’ Favorite,
Always Relinble and Safe. 38 years’ use and not one
Send 4e. (stamps) for sealed particulars,
R, WARD & CO., 120 N. 9th Street, ST. LOUIS, MO.

Fai People 10 %» 15 lbs. a month at home

without starving or injury by
Dr. Clarke’s Home Treatment. Proofs, Tésti-
monials Free. F. B. Clarke, M. D. Drawer 133, Chicago,l}.

 

 

 

You can reduce your weight

 

B

w

and suitable for offi

on receipt of twelve cents in postage by P, S.
General Passenger Agent, C., ]

MARRIED LADIES

MAP OF THE UNITED STATES.

A large, handsome Map of the United States, mounted
ce or home use, is issued by the
Copies will be mailed to any address
USTIS,
B. & Q. R. R., Chicago, Tl,

urlington Route.

Send 10c. for ‘‘Infallible Safeguard”
(no medicine, no deception); just
hatyou want. Ladies Bazar, Kansas City, Mo,

 

LADIE

A friend in need is a friend indeed. If you
want a regulator that never fails, address

 

 

Morphine Habit Curedin10

THE WOMAN’S MED. HOME, Buffalo, N. Y.
to 20 days. No till cured, \
Dr. J. Stephens, banon. O. !

PRETTY GIRLS—3 cabinet size, spicy photos

P H oO ' Oo 30c, 6 for 50c, Correct positions, &c. Nothing

like them. boys, but keep it dark. Novelty Photo Co.. box 543 M. Kas.City.Mo. \

 

oto., and send same to Cody
DeWitt Talmadge, all newspaper
Banks, and Express Companies of New York and Brooklyn. P. y
_one sending us photo, and not receiving crayon picture Free as per this offer,

If you will send us within the next 30 days a photograph or a tintype of
yourself, or any member of your family, living or dead, we will make you
one of our finest $25.00 life-size CRAYON PORTRAITS absolutely free of
This offer is made to introduce our artistic portraits in

our 1
Co., 755 DeKalb f
. ublishers, j
i
}

S.—We will forfeit $100 to any

 

Piso’s Remedy for Catarrh is the
Best, Easiest to Use, and Cheapest.

     
 
  

 

Sold by Druggists or sent by mail,
50c. E. T. Hazeltine, Warren, Pa,

    

LADIES,

MAMMAINE Enlarges the Bust. Package

 

Don’t fail to procure MRS. WINSLOW’S SOOTHING SYRUP
for your children while cutting teeth.

FREE. YATES & CO., Jersey City. N.J- {

MOTHERS!

It soothes the |

child, softens the gums, allays all pain, cures wind colic,

and 1s the best remedy for diarrhea.

25 cents a bottle,

 

 

 

 

 
           

         
          
            
     
    
    
    

  

          
           
      
   
 
    
   
   
   
   
  
  
     
  
  
   
   
   
    
 
   
   
   
    
  
  
   
    
  
   
 
  
    
     
   
   
  
   
   
  
   
    
     
    
 
   
   
   
   
     
   
    
 
   
   
   
    
 
   
  
  
  
  
 
 
   
  
    
  
  
  
  
   
     
   
   
    
   
  
  
  
  
   
    
  
  
   
 
  
 
    
   
 
 
  
 

          
         
 
      
          
   
      
   
   
     
        
        
       
        
      
         
    
      
    
   
 
        
    

 

    
    
     
    
      
        
   
       
    
      
       
     
     

 

 

 

FOR THE LITTLE ONES.

BY FANNY CROSBY,

 

 

Children, your faces my fancy can see,
Beaming with pleasure and laughing with glee;
Then, as I listen, your voices I hear,

Singing together so sweetly and clear.
Welcome, oh, welcome the beautiful mora,
Jesus, our blessed Redeemer, is born,

Over His cradle the angels above,

Tenderly keeping their vigil of love,

Sang as they welcomed tlie dawn of the morn,
Lo! a Redeemer and Saviour is born.
Children, dear children, be happy to day,
Quickly the moments are tripping away,

Joy on her mission is speeding her flight
Over the world like a creature of light,
Telling the weary, the lonely, and sad,
Christmas returning should make them all glad.
Why are you keeping so quiet and still?
Waiting for Santa your stockings to fill?
Waiting for Santa your presents te bring?
Soon in the distance his sleigh-bells will ring
Over the mountains of ice and of snow,
Urging his reindeers more swiftly to go.
Santa is coming—how glad he will be

So many bright little children to see.

Listen a moment; your trouble is o’er ;

Now for a frolic! he enters the door.

Shake his hand warmly, and sing him a song;
He is in haste, he can tarry not long;

Sing him a song that his heart will delight,
Thank him, and bid him a loving good-night.

THE BRIGGS PAPERS.

BY W. W. CARTNER,

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ui

Yy

KNOX
a

. a —
Sa Wh
ce is

Sa

Ps

—

 

“HERE SHE IS, BILL—HERE’S THE POST-
OFFICE,” HE SAIDp HANDING ME A
CIGAR-BOX.

 

NUMBER ONE.

Jack Briggs’ Nephew Secures a Promising Open-
ing for a Young Man.

There is a longing in every young man's
heart to do something out of the general rout-
ine to achieve notoriety. Such a feeling existed

in mui when I had attained the age of
ome years. eae

As i look back on those days, and think Low
great, how inexhaustible was my store of
knowledge, it is a miracle my head did not
burst and hurt some one.

[had an uncle who owned a ranch in the
West, to whom | had repeatedly written for
a position to enable me to gain a foothold in
the country where fortunes were made and
lost in a minute. One day I received a letter,
as follows:

“My DEAR NEPHEW :—I have been appointed Post-
master of Ghost Creek. If you feel disposed to as-
sume the responsibility of the office, 1. will allow
you the whole salary for your remuneration.’

I immediately packed my other clothes in
my grip, and with it in my hand, a twenty-
two caliber revolver in my hip-pocket, my hat
set well back on my head, and the air of a
government official, 1 wended my way to the
depot and procured an emigrant ticket.

Arriving at the station named in my uncle'’s
letter, I disembarked with an air and odor
that can only be obtained by traveling, and
traveling aia emigrant. The diffusive odor
to which I refer can not be purchased at the
drug store. Manufacturers of perfume have
tried to counterfeit it, but a person who has
once inhaled the genuine can easily detect the
spurious article. Scientists have gone so far
as to place the matter in the hands of the
Pinkertons, to runit down. The detectives
had no trouble to trace it to the seaboard
cities; and one officer said he could feel large
bodies of it strike his olfactory nerves as he
stood on the dock, with the trade-winds blow-
ing in his face.

There was not much reliance placed upon
this report, however, as it was subsequently
Shown that 4 passenger steamer was lying at

CWENCF

zamchor one hundred and fifty miles to wind-

ward at the time.
Science accounts for it as being the product

of seen ameeen odic-force, and I am sometimes

of that opinion myself,

Well, having arrived, as I thought, in the
vicinity of my uncle’s abode, I asked a man
who was running a dray-line of small mules,
which carrled the goods on their backs, if he
could tell me where Mr. Briggs lived.

“What! old Jack Briggs?” he asked.

“1 am looking for John Briggs,” I replied.

“T don’t know him. Old Jack lives up on Lit-
tle Ghost, about twenty miles up in the hills,”
he said, moving away.

“Does the railroad run up there?” I asked.

“No; but if you wait until Saturday, you
might go up with the mail; only Jack rides a
mule, and you would have to walk,” he re-

lied.

“Faint heart never earned a railroad,” I
sighed, and grasping the handle of my grip, I
started for the post-office.

Night drew on apace, and it required all my
strength to keep pace withit. At thetopofa
hill I saw an unpretentious building, and a
column of smoke was crawling out of various
parts of the roof. The night air was getting
the better of my summer suit, and I stood gaz-
ing wistfully at the house, wishing it wus
large enough to hold two, when a man came
to the door, and after looking me carefully
over for a few moments, said:

“Are you going somewhere, stranger?”

“Can you keep me over night?” I asked.

“You bet! Come in. This is the Summit
Hotel, and as good a house as there is on the
range. What will you have for tea?” he
asked, after I had entered and taken a seat
en a three-legged stool.

“ITcan eat anything, from stewed chicken
feet to fried elephant liver. How far is it to
Ghost Creek?” I asked.

“You are right there now. Is your name

“Tam your uncle, John Briggs. I thought it
was.you. Look just like your mother,” he
said, shaking my hand.

I. gazed around the little room, wondering
where the bridal chamber was; and then I
thought of home, and woula willingly have
given my extra suit for one glance at my

See Pere

“Say, Bill, what kind of an animal have
you been fighting with? I do not seem to
remember that particular perfume. Smells
something between a coyote and a rattler.
Something new they have got down in York—
eh?” he inquired, throwing open the door.

I explained that | had ridden in an emigrant
car, and—— |

“Yes, I know, I saw one of the boys go into
one of those cars to see some Dagoes, and
when he came out he shot himself to get rid
of the overpowering odor,”

I hardly knew whether my uncle was in
earnest or not.

“Where is the post-office?” I asked, moving
back from the table.

“Here she is, Bill,” he said, handing mea
cigar-box. “You will find a blank for the oath
of office, which you will fill out and sign.
Then you are a United States officer. Open her
up,” he said, as I sat holding the box and
staring at him in a stunned way. “Thas ‘ere
box contains all there is except the official
bonds. We had to send them to Washington.
You will have to take good care of the para-
phernalia of the office. If the residents ask for
mail between now and Saturday, tel! them
there are no letters in the office.”

I opened the box and removed nine two-cent
stamps, a piece of lead-pencil, and the oath of
office.

“TI had twenty to begin with, and have sold
all but these,” he explained.

“What is the salary?” I breathlessly asked.

“You can keep the money for every stamp
you cancel. I have cleared twenty-two cents
and have not run the office but three weeks.
I.believe a man can work up quite a trade if
he gets a hustle on himself. Here is the key.
Sometimes the mail comes in a sack; and if
so, it is always locked. I kept the whole shoot-
ing-match outfit here for over two weeks and
used it for the office; but that fool at the sta-
tion came up and said he would report me to
the Post-oftice Department if I did not send
the sack back, and would have an inspector
come out and examine the office. I told him he
could report if he wished; but I warned him
that if ever an inspector passed that office on
his way up here, just four hours after he could
report that the department was short one in-
spector, for I should blow the top of his head
loose. And if I ever heard another complaint
from him, I would come down and visit him
in the capacity of an inspector from this end
of the route, and I emphatically assured him
that I did my inspecting with a forty-five cali-
ber pistol.

“The office has been run satisfactorily since,”
continued my uncle. “I think you will like
the business; and as I keep five hundred head
of sheep here, you can herd them for your
board and tobacco, so you will have the reve-
nue from the P. O. in clear cash !”

“Are there any gold or silver mines around
here?” I asked. j

“T should not be surprised if there were.
There should be lots of them, considering that
none have ever been found yet,” he gravely
replied.

“Say, uncle, what will yon give me to herd
sheep, and you keep the proceeds of the office?”
I timidly asked.

“Well, you see, Bill. I got the office on pur-
pose to make it pay the herding, and it must
do it. Think over it till daylight: It’s a good
thing if it is worked right. Then it is worth
something to be P. M. in this growing coun-
try. You must buy a pair of blankets. Every
man furnishes his own bed in this commu-
nity.”

“How much do they cost?” I inquired.

“ About twelve dollars,” he replied.

“It would take something over two years’
salary of the post-office to pay for them. Do
many of the sheep die?” TI thoughtfully asked.

“No. Why do you ask?’ :

“J did not know but I could he able to save
enough pelts for a bed in less time,” I meekly
replied.

“Well, I will furnish the bed, seeing thai
vou are a relative. We will try the busi
to-morrew, and talk the thing over te-morrow
tignt? Hut? now fet “us go
throwing me a blanket and rolling himself up
in another.

 

ess

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
sles st Sig Le

A DISAPPOINTED POSTMASTER.— Some of Uncle
Sam’s mail-tossers find more labor than ducats ap-
pertaining to a post-office appointment. This was
the case with Bill Briggs, who was anxious to serve
his country and himself at the same time. Read the
opening article of “THE BRIGGS PAPERS,” on the
last page of this week’s issue, and smile over the
disappointments of a very ambitious and exceed-
ingly energetic young man,

aati
~

Se
oe

The Ladies’ | Work-Box.

Edited by Mrs. Helen Woed,.
FASHION’S FANCIES.

 

Jet belts upon gray cloth gowns are very effective,
There is a charming display of dainty shot and striped
silks, satins, and French moires for evening wear.

Sedan cloth is a new fabric for winter costumes.
Handsome silks are brecaded with tiny rosebuds, and
have a very quaintand old-fashioned look.

Some of the new sleeves are formed of two or three
puffings, and finished with a deep frilling.

‘The bell skirt. is now superseded by many others, but
they all bear a family likeness to that onee popular skirt.
The long, crinkled white Mongolian fur is dyed in
various colors, and used for the full boas that are now so
fashionable, :

Plaid silks are favorite linings for wraps, and especially
for the close-fitting style of garments.

White gloves with black stitching are worn with even-
ing dresses in which black enters as a trimming, and also
with all black toilets.

Quills form an important part of the trimming on this
season’s hate, and they have the Alsatian bow effect,
black being the favorite, although they come in all the
colors of the rainbow.

The Columbian vailing is a novelty, and is very pretty.
The vails are of fine tulle, sprinkled with chenille or jet
spots, and have an inch-wide border pattern in the same
style on three sides.

A rainy-day dress skirt is of cheviet which reaches

within eight or ten inches of t.e ground, and is supple-
mented by a band of mackintosh of the same shade. ‘This
band buttons on invisibly, and can be taken off and
cleaned,
Some of the new skirts in cornet shape in the back and
only medium in length have a rich trimming surroand.
ing the front breadth, which defines a tablier. This
trimming, in pointed passementerie or cut-jet gimp, is
repeated along the back seams.

The new suede gloves, for evening wear, come in the
most artistic and dainty shades of pink, ciel blue, delicate
greens, and grays. ‘he wrists are embroidered in the
same shade as the glove, in silk and jewels, making them
exquisitely pretty, while there are others in yellow, and
also pink, embroidered in black and jet.

A great deal of ribbon, either wide or narrow, is still
used in most capricious ways on wool, silk, and silk-and-
wool. Sashes of ribbon are as much in vogue as ever;
but for evening dress they are ent in points, and edged
with lace, chiffon, or fringe, Sashes shoulki be worn on
one side.

 

Rosalie, Newark, N. J.—The prettiest style of head-gear,
for x little girl of six years, is a silk or velvet cap. The
front piece may be made of crinoline, and the front edge
of the puff stitched upon it, while a facing of velvet is
placed upon the front, and finished with a cording of silk

at the back edge. The back edges of the puff and ecrino-
line are gathered together, the back seam being closed
and joined to the crown, on which are one or two pieces
of silk cording, or it may be made plain. A silk lining
may be made from the pattern used for the crinoline, and
a crown piece also, the lining being gathered at the back
and joined to the crown, This is placed inside the cap
with the seams inside, and invisibly fastened around the
edge, while a lace ruche finishes the edge of the cap, and
tie stringsof ribbon are sewed under the edges at the
side. The pattern for this comfortable little modelis No.
30, and the price 10 cents, and it comes in sizes from one
to six years of age. A handsome cap may also be made
of bengaline, or any of the heavy corded silks, witha
band of fur for the facing, while velvet or any soft wool
material, to match the dress or cloak, will also be suitable
for making this dainty little cap.

Miss Anna B., Pittsburgh, Pa.—“Columbia” could be
very prettily represented withabodice of light bine

material, cut square and low in the neck, and pointed
back and front at the bottom, with a border of darker
bine studded with white stars; a skirt of alternate
stripes of red and white; a Liberty cap of white satin,
witha blue border and white stars, and the hair falling
in loose, wavy foldsover the shoulder. The slippers
should be of white, and the stockings of blue, while the
skirt should be made ina plain manner, and could be as
short as the wearer desired, but would have a_ better
effect if made to hang about six inches from the floor.

Eveline, Pittsburgh, Pa.—A pretty and inexpensive
scrap receiver can be maile of a clean, new peach basket,

stained in oak, or left in its natural color, and covered
with brown varnish, Wide ribbon is interlaced through
the slats, row after row, filling the space from the bor-

 

well-remembered room in the. paternal man-
sion,

 

 

 

tom to the top, both of which are decorated with a full
ruche of the ribbon or silk to match. A less expensive

4

 

style is to substitute felt for the ribbon, pinking the
edges of the bands, and making the ruching very full.

L. C. D., Albany, N. Y.—The price. of “The Ladies’
Manual of Fancywerk” is fifty cents, on receipt of which
we will mail it to you.

Daisie.—We can furnish the “Ball-Room Guide and

Call. Book” for fitty cents.

 

oo —

Make Your Home Happy.

Christmas is the season for good resolutions. One
of the wisest is the determination that the New
YORK WEEKLY is to cheer your home during the
coming year, Forward three dollars to this office,
and thus be assured that the mode! story and sketch
paper is to exert its influence, all through 1893, in

affording to the members of your family innuimer-
able topics of delightful interest.

 

MAMIE’S CHRISTMAS LEGACY.

BY MRS. ALEX M’VEIGH MILLER.

 

 

Mamie was kneeling down by a long wooden
box that she had just pried open with a
hatchet. Her sweet blue eyes were drowned
in tears.

The open box was filled with a heteroge-
neous collection of Indian arrow-heads, geolog-
ical specimens, and butterflies and_ beetles
mounted on cardboard, while in the midst of
all reposed a sturdy-looking wooden leg. Noth-

ing there to weep over, surely, so perhaps it
was the open letter in Mamie’s hand,
Let us read it over her shoulder,

“DEAR SISTER,” it ran, ‘Uncle Henry is dead at
last, after being bedridden over a year with rheum-
atisin; and a lot of trouble he was all the time.

“| may as well tell you now that he forgave you
long ago, and wanted me to write you to come home;
but [ knew your husband was too poor to afford it,
so I put him off with excuses. He died a week ago
to-day, aud we buried him in the old grave-yard by
his wife and their little girl, the only child they ever
had, you know, Of course you don't expect to get
anything by his will, as you married against his
wishes and mine; and, anyhow, he didn’t have much
to leave but the old place and the poor sticks of
furniture, and those he gave me for taking care of
him all these years. Poor pay, too, for I thought
Unele Henry had money laid by from his pension
savings and his horse trades. But what he left
doesn’t pay me for my trouble,so you needn't be-
grudge it to me. But what I write for mostly is to
tell you he left you his old box of curiosities and his
wooden leg. He’s had them packed up together six
months, [reckon; and he said one day, kind of bit-
terly : ‘If Mamie’s as poor as you say, Agnes, the old
leg will do to make her a fire some cold morning.’
And that’s all it’s fit for, Mamie, so you’d just as well
take him at his werd,

“As for me, I'm ‘tired of the country, and I intend
to advertise the old place for sale. The lawyer says
it may bring a few thousand dollars. I’m bound to
have money some way, 80 as to get away to the city
tolive. Lean’t think what Uncle Henry did with
all his savings. [know I never would have staid
here and waited on him like a slave oniy for the
hope of getting his money. Butit seems he hadn't
any. Well, I’ve sent you the box of things by ex-
press. ‘hey’re heavy, but I couldn't afferd to pre-
pay the express for you, even if | had the will to do
it, which I haven't, for I don't forget old times,
Mamie Glenn, and I’'magood hater. So your path
and mine lie far apart. Good-by.

“Your sister, AGNES ELMER.”

Mamie was weeping over the death of the

orphan nieces so tenderly.

In a passion of sorrow she bent and kissed
the poor, senseless wooden leg.

“Oh, how it brings the past back!” she
sobbed. “I can see him again, with his kind,
true face, stumping along on this dear old
wooden leg, and how happy we weve tovether,
Uncle Henry and I. helped him find the
arrow-heads in .tke fresh-plowed field. I
chased the butterflies for him. Oh, I can see
again the fresh green fields of the country,and

 

Loy dbarline “Es
. 0 Pi, Se

to bed. he said, |

|

|

smell the fraizrant air.’

Are youg ‘egretting that you married me,
ee +4 ‘ Ben
hy 1 a mij@biul..voice ssruss tne

 

rooin, F

it was Manve’s husband, handsome Laurie
Gienn, for whose sake Agnes Elmer hated her
sister to-day. Both girls had loved him, and
when he chose blue-eved Mamie, the elder sis-
ter silently swore revenge on her lovely rival.
She turned heruncle’s heart against his pretty
pet, and by persistent cunning kept them
apart until the old man’s death.

Mamie’s home was in a Southern town, a
hundred miles away from her old country
birthplace, but she cried:

“If Agnes would but have written me he
wanted me, I would have walked all the way
a than have missed seeing him before he

ied !” :

And again the voice across the room asked,
plaintively: —

“Are you regretting that you married me,
my darling?” —

ber answer she ran to him and clasped her
loving arms about his neck.

“T love you better than the whole world!”
she cried.

“And yet if would have been better for you,
Mamie; had you never seen me,” he sighed.

“Oh, Laurie, do not talk so. You break my
heart. Have I ever reproached you?”

“Never, my dearest. You have been an
angel; and that is why I reproach myself. I
should never have taken you from your happy
country home, to starve you to death in
this dreary town.”

“Oh, Laurie, do not say such cruel things
of yourself. Lam not starving; no, no. And
you will soon be well again, and can go back
to the office.”

“Oh, Mamie, I shall never get well again,”
and his weak voice grew stroug with anguish.
He lifted a thin, transparent white hand, and
held it up to the light. “See how thin I
am, and I am getting weaker every day. It
is four months now since I was first attacked
with la grippe, and I’ve lain here ever since,
weak and ill, while you had to struggle with |
poverty alone. We have sold what little of
value we had—my watch, and your few jewels
—and everything we could spare from this
little house; and—and—it has dwindled away
for food and medicine, until I fear there is
nothing left,”

“Oh, I had to pay the expressman three dol-
lars for that heavy box—— I wish Agnes had
not sent it just yet!” she groaned.

“And how much have you left, Mamie?”

“Don’t ask me—it--it—doesn’t matter, Laurie,
for—for—I'll try to get some plain sewing to
do. Oh, don’t you worry, dear!” but her face
was ghastly.

She did not know how to earn any money,
this little wife who had been simply reared in
the country until she was seventeen, and then
made a runaway match, with asummer board-
er, a clerk in a law-office.

She had been married three years now, and
since it had been a love-match, Laurie’s small
salary had sufficed for simple comfort and hap-
piness until—sickness came, and with it the
grim specters—want and hunger.

She knew well that his convalescence woulda
have been more rapid if she could have pro-
cured for him the things the doctor ordered—
the wines, the nourishing foods; but how
could she get them? She had sold all her
clothing except the very shabbiest; she had
taken in sewing. and been cheated out of her
pay. Now the rent of the tiny cottage was
due, the fuel was out, the larder was empty,
and there was only one dollar in the little
purse in her pocket. The three that had gone
to the expressman had robbed them of the
means of life; and to-morrow was Christmas.

Weeks and weeks ago Mamie had written to
Cncle Henry and sister Agnes, telling them
of her misfortunes—how her baby had been ill
so long and died, how Laurie was languishing
of la grippe. She had begged them both to
lend her a little money till ber husband re-
covered his health.

But no answer had come until that cold,
hard letter to-day, and the box, her sole lagacy
from her dead uncle. Cruel Agnes !—perhaps
she had received the letters—perhaps she knew
well their povertv, and had rejoiced in the
thought that the ex»ressage on the heavy box

 

of wood and sto: e would take the very bread
out of their mouths.

old soldier, her uncle, who had reared his}

esa THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. &3e9<

 

 

her suffering husband, sobbed harder every
time that she looked at the box—the box that
had brought back the happy olden time, the
— of peace and plenty, on the pretty little
arm.

And Agnes was going to sell it to strangers—
their birthplace—Uncle Henry’s old home, and
theirs. Mamie thought of the whispering old
trees beneath whose shade dear Laurie had
wooed and won her. Then she thought of
ae the doctor had told her privately yester-

ay.

“Your husband’s lungs will always be weak
after this terrible spell. He should never go
into an office again. It would be best to move
into the country, on some little farm, and
spend his time in out-door pursuits. He would
live longer that way.”

“Oh, I wish Uncle Henry had given us the
farm! I wish I had money enough to_ buy it
and take Laurie there to live!” shecried, in an
agony of keen despair.

But she knew that there was only one dollar
in her purse—one dollar between her and the
wolf at the door—and Laurie was already
sinking from lack of proper sustenance. The
handsome face was thin and epee white,
the large dark eyes were rimmed with purple
shadows. Death seemed hovering near.

A wild horror seized upon her lest Laurie
should die first and leave her alone in the
cold, pitiless world.

“He shall not! He shall not!” she thought,
frantically, and, seizing her. thin shawl.
wrapped it about her head and shoulders. “I
will buy food and wine and fuel—a little of
taunt the money,and I will not take any
myself. Then death will claim me when it
claims my Laurie,” she said, erimly, to her-
self, then kissed his pallid face, and then Lur-
ried out into tne storm, for the snow was fall-
ing fast as she tottered weakly to the corner
store. People with well-filled market-baskets
came out of the store, passing her as she
entered, and she heard them saying that there

And poor, pretty Mamie, kneeling there, by | of xold and bank notes to the amount of five

thousand dollars,
And a little note among them gave this little
fortune to his dear niece, Mamie Glenn:

“For T know,” wrote Uncle Henry, “how Agnes
hates her sister, and would cheat her out of this gold
ifshe could. So TI take this means to give it to my
favorite niece, with my love and my wishes for her
happiness. Aud I have heard Agnes tell her cronies
that she would sell the old place when I am dead
and move to the city, where she might catch a fine
rich husband. So [ hope Mamie will buy the old
home with some of this legacy, and make it her home
and her husband's, as I forgive them both now. and
would never have been angry but for the schemes of
erafty Agnes.”

Oh, what a happy Christmas dawned for
Mamie and Laurie! What a new life of hope
and joy!

At the farm-house, where they lead so happy
a life, the fragments of the old wooden leg
are kept in a velvet case, satin-lined, and
labeled in bright gold letters:

“MAMIE’s CHRISTMAS LEGACY!”

——_________—_ai}> ©-

Pleasant Paragraphs.

BY CHARLES W. FOSTER.

 

 

Delicate Consideration.
Mother (just before Christinas)—‘Why did you
jump and run when your father came in?”
Daurhter—“T had a lap full of Christmas presents.”
Mother—“But they are not for him.”
Daughter—‘‘No, but I wanted him to have the
pleasure of thinking they were.”

Needed Protection,

Mr. Suburb—“What in the world is that fat, lazy
tramp doing around here ?”

Mrs. Suburb—‘“! hired him to stay around and pro-
tect me from thathorrible big wate g you brought
home last night.” "

A Suggestion. ei

Woman (on railway train)—“Hush! hush! ‘There!
there! Baby bye! ***** [don’t know what in the
world to do sometimes. The more { work with him,

 

was going to be a regular Christmas snow-
storm.

The streets were full of people, and they all
had baskets and bundles. All’seemed gay and
joyous. No one seemed to notice sad-eyed,
pale-faced Mamie, except her landlord, who
happened to enter the store while she was
buying a half-pint of cheap wine. He sneered
at her extravagance, chafing at the fact that
the rent was overdue.

She flushed crimson when he looked at her,
and faltered :

“The doctor orders wine for my husband.”

“T am glad you can afford to buy it. I will
call for my rent again the day after Christ-
mas,” he replied, brusquely.

She bowed tremblingly, and gathered her
little purchases into her apron, hanging the
small bucket.of coals on her weak arm. Then
she staggered like a drunken woman, going
out again into the sloppy street. She had not
had enough to eat for many days, and the wet
snow slopped into the gaping holes in her
thin shoes.

Poor Mamie! poor little Mamie! could cruel
Agnes see her now, she would think herself
well avenged for the loss of handsome Laurie
Glenn!

The little purse was quite empty now, but
‘Mamie would not tell her husband that. She
choked back her sobs, and coaxed him to
partake of the wine, and jelly, and crackers,

“You first, my dearest,” he said, tenderly.

“No, I must put on fresh coals, for it is
going to be very cold,” she answered, cheer-
fully, and while he sipped daintily at the
wine, she dried her wet feet before the fire.

“To-morrow is Christmas, you know, Laurie,
and ] must make some small preparations,”
she said, slipping into the httle kitchen be-
fore he could insist on her eating.

“TI must save it all for him,” she murmured,
with a hoarse sob, and slipped down on her
knees.

“God send us help!” was all she could say;
— e crouched on the fireless hearth
thin hiweesi :
paid tc the expressman for her uncle’s wooden
leg and collection of rocks.

“No one would give me that for them. Not
that I would sell uncle’s leg—never!” thought
ey distracted Mamie, with the tears in her

lue eyes, and the golden hair slipping loose,
like a crinkly vail, about her shivering form.

When she crept back into her bedroom Lau-
rie had fallen peacefully asleep. There was
even a faint color in his thin ecneeks. Her
heart thrilled with joy to see it.

“The wine has made him better, and there
is a little left for to-morrow, To-morrow—ah,
what a terrible Christmas it will be for us
two. Heaven help us!” she sighed, miserably,
but Laurie slept sweetly on, never guessing
that the last penny was gone, or that little
Mamie was starving herself in secret that the
food might hold out a little longer for him.
It would have broken his heart to know it,
for all his care was for her, as hers for him.
For many days he had secretly thought:

“fam dying by inches, and I hope the end
will come soon, for Mamie’s sake, for then
surely those hard hearts would forgive her,
and take her home again.”

The short wiuter day waned to its early
close, and Mamie, to save the few drops of oil
in the lamp, retired very early.

“It breaks my heart, darling, to think that
I shall have no Christmas gift for you to-
morrow,” Laurie sighed, as she kissed him
good-night.

She soothed him tenderly, but when she
nestled by his side she prayed, secretly:

“Dear God, please let us both die in our
sleep before the fatal to-morrow, when we
shall have no fire nor food.”

But in that dark, dark hour, that comes be-
fore the dawn, Laurie shook her feebly with
an icy hand, moaning, in the querulous tones
of the invalid:

“Mamie, the fire has gone out, and I am
freezing.”

“Yes, dear—yes, dear,” and she crept shiver- |
ingly from under the blanket, groped for a
mateh, and lighted the lamp. It flared up in
the black darkness, and showed her the fire-
less grate, where the coals had burned into
dull red ashes. The little bucket, with a few
remaining coals, stood close to the hearth.
Mamie seized it eager-y.

“We will soon have a fire, dear,” she said,
soothingly, but she felt her limbs tremble and
her nea reel. She was so weak from want of
food.

But she groped for the poker, and looked
about her for some kindlings.

Alas! she had none, and without them the
coals would not burn.

She remembered that yesterday she had used
every scrap of wood, even to the top and sides
of Uncle Henry’s box, to coax a feeble flame
under the kettle for Laurie’s tea.

She crushed back a moan of despair, and her
hollow blue eyes roved about the room in
hopeless search.

But the room was empty of furniture, save
the bed and the little willow rocking-chair.

But there—in the box—surrounded by the
dried butterflies and geological specimens—
lay the sturdy wooden leg—Mamie’s legacy.

The words of her sister’s letter rushed over
her mind:

“If Mamie is as poor as you say, my old leg
will make her a fire some cold morning.”

“He would not care, dear Uncle Henry,” she
sobbed, and the little bare feet went pattering
across the floor.

She caught up the hatchet, and began to
drag out Uncle Henry’s leg from the box. It
seemed heavy to her weak arms, and as she
tugged at it, Laurie exclaimed, in wonder:

“What are you doing?”

“Oh, Laurie, there is no kindling, and—I’m
going to split this up! No, I’m not crazy, and
I won’t stop! It’s mine, and Uncle Henry
wouldn’t mind if he knew!”

Up went the l.ttle hatchet, and came down
with a whack. The dry wood of the old leg
split and flew into splinters. But what was
that sound like the chink of gold pieces?
what was that gleam like jewels on the bare
floor?

Mamie brought the lamp and knelt down

 

 

 

 

 

 

-thiec dollars she t =

the worse he cries.”
Quiet Passenger (benevolently)—‘Have you-+er—
ever tried chloroform ?”

A Tender Spouse.

Wife—“Here comes a friend of mine.
into this side street until she passes.”

Husband—‘Quarreled with her?’

“No, but I don't want you to see her.”

“Hum! Why not?”

“Tt know you'll admire that new dress of hers, and
it will only worry you to think what a rediculous
fuss you made over the bills for this cheap thing [’ve
got on.” :

Let’s turn

Observing Eyes.
Mother—“I have my doubts about that Mr. Han-
som.” :
Daughter—“He wears a dress snit on all proper
occasions.” ;
Mother—“Yes, but it isn’t always the same one.”

Contracted Quarters.
Flat Agent—““Madam, I told you distinctly that no
children were allowed here.”
Tenant—“We have none.”
ee how did these walls get all banged
u ” ‘
Tenant—“That comes from our elbows.”

No Mistake.

emer eeen trae had newspapers in ancient
gypt.”
Host—‘Well! well! Did you find one?”
Egy ptologist—“‘No, but. we found a fossil roach
and a petrified office towel.”

Fond Recollection.
She—“You haven't brought me a box of candy
since we were married.”
He—“Yes, but think of the tons I brought you be-
fore we were matried.”

Ye Modern Merchant.

First Clerk—“‘Eh? Had six weeks’ vacation this
summer 2?

Second Clerk—“‘Yes; Silk, Ribbon & Co. always
gixe all unmarried clerks that much. It draws
trade.”

“I don’t see how.”

“Simple enough. All the girls we get engaged te
keep coming in all winter, to snub us.”

 

SELECTED PLEASANTRIES.

TENDER, BUT NoT LEGAL TENDER.—"“I
wealthy,” he said; “but if the devotion of a true and
as. heart goes for anything with you, Miss
ara—”
“It goes Well enongh with me, Mr. Spoonbill,” in--
terruped the fair girl, with a pensive look on her
face, “but how will it go with the grocer ?’— Puck,

To MEET A LUONG-FELT WANT —Budweiser—“Have
yon seen the new piscatorial snbaqueous camera ?”*

Bartholomay—* What’s it for?”

Budweiser—‘To photograph the big fish that get
away.”—Pitisburgh Dispatch.

So THOUGHTFUL.—‘“lrhere, dear,” said Mrs, Mc-
Bride, when the curtain went down, as she handed
him a couple of cloves. ‘There, dear, you won't
need to go out between the acts to night. Wasn’t
your little wifey thoughtful ?"—New York Sun.

How HE RETURNED.—“Fremember as well asif
it only happened yesterday, that in my younger
days IT once walked twenty miles at a stretch for the
purpose of thrashing a hated rival.”

“And did you return on foot?”

“No; they vrought me back in ar ambulance.”

La Epoca

“Yes,” said Bass, “I used to believe everything I

| heard; but since I have had this sore throat, it is

hard for me to swallow anything.”
Boston Transcript.

“T see you hired Martinettito sing at your musi-
eal.’ “Yep. Paid him $100.” “How did he sing ?”
“Like a bird. I was conscious of his bill all the
time.” —Harper’s Bazar.

She—‘No wonder they married. He was the tenor
and she was the soprano in a church choir.” He—
“They met by chants, eh ?’—Truth.

One swallow does not make a summer, but if taken
from a demijahn it may lead to a fail.

Boston Courier.

aii
<a

a
~~

Items of Interest.

 

The young reporter has sprouted in a North Mis-
souri town. His first assignment was a wedding. and
he described the groom as being “dressed in conventional
black, making a most lovely appearance.” The supper
was ‘both styHsh and beautiful, with nodding plumes of
flowers that added to the great mounds of sweetness
present.” He said the wedding presents were “valued
in the aggregate to the amount of $200.”

A donkey in Nutley, N. J., reversed the order of
nature by sleeping all day and braying all night. His
nocturnal music exasperated the neighbors, and even his
owner at last tired of itand soki the animal te a cirens.
The neighbors were so delhghted at the abs the
sleep-disturber that they commemorated the key’s
Se by a public parade and the display ef fire-
works.

An industrious burglar plundered eight houses in
Camden, N.J., in one mght. He then sought his home
in Philadelphia, to enjoy a much-needed sleep, after |-is
night’s hard work. He fell asleep in the ferry-honse at
Camden, while waiting for the boat, and his bulging
pockets aroused the suspicions of the ferry-master.
policeman was summoned, and the man was arrested. .

Henry Roberts and Jerry Constantine, of Sparta,
Ky., entered into a strange agreement. The former bor-
rowed money of the latter, and stated that if he did not
pay him upon a specified day, that Constantine would be
at liberty to kill him. ‘The day came, Roberts hadn’t the
money, and Constantine shot him dead.

The captain of a bicycle club, in an English tewn,
while suffering from a fatal illness, requested that his
body should be conveyed to the cemetery on bicycles.
His wishes were obeyed, and forty-three men on bicy
followed the coffin.

A barrel of molasses collapsed in a Buffalo grocery,
and the fluid ran over the floor. A rat beeame smeared
with it, and ran off. Although the house had been pre-
viously infested with rats, not one of them has been
seen there since.

Fifty-five of the survivors of the last war with
Great Britain have formed an association under the
name of the “Society of the War of 1812.” The oldest
member is David McCoy, of San Bernardino, Cal. His
age is 102.

A preacher in Philadelphia advertises to supply
clergymen with “ready-made sermons.” His circular
contains the titles of several of the sermons, some of
which are soli as low as $3 each.

Paderewski, the pianist, has been a great sufferer
from rheumatism. This disease lately laid him on his
back, and he. had to cancel engagements which would
have netted him $45,000.

Wild geese avoid the vicinity of Sherman, Oregon,
in daytime, and only approach the neighborhood in the
night. They have been so much hunted there that they
have become cautious. ‘

The tiger makes short work of the buffalo in
Sumatra. Theretore, to avoid its enemy, the buffalo rests
at night in the river, with only its nose and horns above
the surface.

The latest bonanzain Fairhaven, Washington, is a
coal vein extending through aw area of 1,000 acres, and
prose ting an estimated proauction of 10,000,000 tons of
coal.

Patriotic Frenchmen in Alsace Loraine, who are

 

among the splinters, and found that Uncle.
Henry’s old wooden leg had been stuffed full

rash enough to shout “Vive la France!” are arrested, and |
each fined twenty marks.

 

 

      
        
    
    

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