i ' ‘ aBce, V aia as i ‘Rises i FP. 0. Box 8784, New York. Vol. 84, rt FRANOIS 8. STREET - Entered ee to Act oF er in the Year 1878, bu Strect & Smith, mH Re Oe or the Libraries of Comanecs. tines. chee DGS New York, February 1%, 1879. FRANOIS 8. SMITH 1] Three Dalles Per Wis: Two. Copies Five Dollars. “What is this bond which draws us foward Some one, no stronger, truer, It may be, Than mans of his fellows whom we pass In life’s long, weary round unthinkingly. We take his hand, aad quickly at ita clasp « The inmost feelings of the heart are stirred. We look into his eyes, each hidden sou! Is there revealed pre a word. Our lives may only < eross and touch each dne, Pass from the other to the dim unknown; Yet by that mystic bond we cannot solve— Each soul as recognized its own. a {The right to —_— reengd bythe Author.] _ Detective’ : ‘Oath: HUNTED DOWN. By WALTER FENTON. CHAPTER L A PLOT. “¥ tell you, Mayne, there’s a chance for an im- mouse fortune, if the thing is managed rightly, Sarren knows nothing of his good fortune, and that helps us wonderfully.” “Tt may be as you say, but I confess I do not see my way clearly.” The persons whose conversation we have record- ed were seated one on either side of a small table within a miner’s hut. The place was California and this particular locality was a mining camp known as Miners Guich. The first speaker was a middle-aged man of ratlker prepossessing appear- it not for a certain sinister cast in one of his eyes, &#nd an air of recklessness which, without keing particularly prominent in any one respect, . yet pervaded the whole man, and was very appa- rent in his conversation. This man was ef very : dark complexion, and his haér and beard were * black though here and ois 7 line was to be. seen among both His comps mere boy or y¥G “Ath of twenty or Lyeny-ob> YOars. ~ handsome’ ha fee 2 dark blue. ané Iighte a noble brow. ' And | with all his “was that ¢ vbout thes youth’s: face natural beauty. and rendéred it at times quite're- | pulsive. That grim destroyer of beauty, dissipa- tion, had already commenced its work: of ruining his fine features, as surely as it had ruined and wrecked ull that was good in his heart and mind, The name of this young man was William Mayne, bat be was known throughout California as “Bill” or “Billy Mayne, the sharper,’ and well had he earned his title, for he was one of the most success- ful gamblers, three-eard monte, and general confi- dence men inthe West. — The other—he whom we have first mentioned— was known as Ralph Monksly; he was the constant companion of Mayne, and acted as his confedernte. With this necessary explanation as to the charac- ter of the speakers we take up their conversation ugair, and let them tell their own story. “Tt is perfectly plain to me,” continued Monksly. “Let me state the case,as welawyers say—you know I followed ete legal profession in New York.” “Yes,I know you dtd, and at last the legal pro- fession followed you,” sneered Mayne. “Hal! hal so they did.” laughed the other. “But the ease in question is simply this. There is an Sestate in England going begging for the want of an heir, and in the course of my business as un attor- ney I obtuined athorough knowledge of the case. Now Lam positive that one Rufus Warren, who was the missing heir and the next of kin, is dead; but I know that his wife and one child, a son, yet live. This son, William Warren, is by law the rightful heir, but he, knowing nothing of these facts. comes ere to California to seek his fortune. While here we meet him, you bear a striking resemblance to him, you make his acquaintance, learn his past history, read a diary which he kept for several years previous to coming here, and thus make yourself familiar with all the little incidents of his past life. William Warren dies. You assume his name, return to the east, establish your identity, secure the English estate, and put the old woman out of the way. Then, with your friend Monksly, you journey to a far country, and live happily ever after. There’s a brief for‘yyou. What do you think of ie *“Plausible, and perhaps practicable. I am as you have said, Will Warren’s most intimate friend. Thanks to his not knowing my real character, and he has told me much about his life at home, but just at present there are no indications of his dying for many & year to come.” “But he must die,” hissed Monskly. “You would not mur——” commenced Mayne. “Hush!” interrutped Monksly. “Even the trees we eurs. Let us speak in whispers. Isay Warren ust be put out of the way, and you arethe man to ‘Twill not stain my hands with human blood. » committed many a crime, but I am not yet a murdérer.” “But think of the fortune! Millions will be ours, and every pleasure that heart can wish will be within our grasp. Don’tbesqueamish. Be aman. What is one man’s life to stand between us and suchafortune. With money we can buy respec- tability, and people never care how a man makes his money only so he does make it.” “You tempt me, Monksly. You appeal to my strongest passion—the love of money. I wonder how it is the devil always takes a man at his weak- est side.” “So you liken me to the devil! Well, perhaps. I am a devilin some respects, but when we get the hen ETS eae souumbet-as tae a qmoney. wey - eee yee ey eR “THE Erne ens Ieee Woe day. and a + indy of middle age Is seated at an open window of a neatly-furn- ished room in an unpretending dwelling in the northern part of New York city. “How swiftly time flies,” mused the lady. “It seems but yesterday since Willie left mo, but It is really seven years since he went to California. He was a gay, hopeful boy then, with the world all un- tried before him. Now if he be living, and I pray Heaven that he is, ho must bea man. Let me see, he would be twenty-one this very day. What changes have occurred since he left me. Then I wast in comfortable circumstances, but now I am obliged to toilat my needle for a mere pittance. Something seems to tell me that my boy lives, but why does he not come home or write to his poor mother? He cannot know how I need him or he would hasten to my assistance.” The lady paused in her sollloquy, for footsteps were heard approaching. She started forward, and stood gazing fixedly out of the window. “Ah! there issomeone coming. How my heart beats. Who can it be?” she gasped. “It really seems that there is something familiar about that figure.” Just at that moment the footsteps paused, and a knock sounded upon the door. The lady opened it, and admitted a handsome young gentleman, with dark-blue eyes, light, curling hair,and light, graceful form. The stranger removed his hat deferentially. “Mrs. Warren, I believe,” he said. “Yes, sir,” she answered. “T called to execute a commission for a friend.” “Pray be seated, sir,” she answered, placing a chair. The stranger accepted the seat, and continued: “T am from the West.” “Indeed?” assented Mrs. Warren. “Yes; trom California. You have friends there, have you not?” “My oniy son is there. Oh,sir, can you tell me aught of him?” said Mrs. Warren with emotion. “You have not heard from him insome time, I be- lieve,” continued the stranger, coolly. “IT implore you, keep me not in suspense. You have something to tell me of him. Tell it, whatever it may be! Ioan bear anything better than this harrowing uncertainty,” said Mrs. Warren, trem- bling with excitement and apprehension. “Have you ever thought that he might return and even his own dear mother not know him?” Mrs. Warren started to her feet, and gazed at the speaker as onein a dream. He, too, arose to his feet, and held out his arms toward her: ‘‘Mother!” he exclaimed. “Mother, don’t you know me?” “Itis, itis! Oh, Willic, Willie!” cried the moth- er, and in an instant they wore folded in each others arms, while the fond mother shed tears of Joy. Oh, mother’s love, thou art a sacred thing! “Yes, mother, it is indeed Willie. The rover re- turned, with plenty of money. Mother denr, you shall never want again while life and strength are mine.” “Butwhy did you not write, Willie? I have not heard a word from you in three years.” “Mother, I have been a prisoner among tho In- dians during all that time, end while with them I discovered arich gold claim. I escaped, led a party of speculators tothe spot,and sold my claim for enough te make us independent for the rest of our lives. So, you see,Ilowe my good fortune to my | to be with her.” te FPL vat ei + oa ee q bce tae ene OF y x t et you: you Pimaat see |} Thus the reunited ones scitinued to converse until late into the night, but@p@k they had retired totheir several apartmentsAor repose, the young man did not act much Ike « happy boy who, after years of absence, isonee more at home. With a eurse, he threw himself upon the bed, but afiera moment he arose, and, taking a flask of whisky from his pocket, he took along draught, then he lay down again, placing the bottle upon a chair within easy reach of his hand. For some time he lay, oceasionally changing his position, vainly seeking sleep that would not come; then he had recoursetothe bottle again. This was repeated several times, and it was not until near morning, and when the bottle was empty, that the youth sank into a drunken sleep, OHAPTER IIt. A SHADOW, Long before Mrs. Warren awoke from asweet sleep which the thought of her boy’s safe return had freed from anxious dreams,the young man had arisen, hastily dressed, and made his way noise- lessly from the house. He had bent his steps to a saloon just around the eorner of the street, and after taking two large glasses of spirits, and getting his-bottle filled, he returned to the house. , When his mother came down,she found him seated by the window reading a morning paper which he had purchased uponthe street. Afterthe simple morning meal had been disposed of. the youth took his hat, and said thant he thought he would walk up to Judge Dean’s and call upon Nora. “Return soon,” said Mrs. Warren, “for I cannot spare my lost boy even for his lady-love.” When he reached the residence of Judge Dean, William Warren entered the spacious grounds which surrounded the fine old bullding, and was abeut to pull the door-bell, when he chanced to glance toward the flower-garden, and saw the ob- ject of his call, Noru Dean, among the flowers, of which she was the fairest, at lenst, to the eyes of the youth, who hastened to her side. “Good-morning,” he said, raising his hat. Nora turned, and looked full upon him, but she did not recognize him, and turned sway. “Stay one moment. Pardon my intrusion, but have I not the honor of addressing Miss Nora Dean ?” “That is my name,sir. To what am I indebted for this, as you yery rightly term it, intrusion ?” re- plied Nora, haughtily. “Why, it is but natural—after an absence of years one does not think of ceremony in calling upon the woman he loves.” “Can it be?” murmured Nora, half aloud. “Do you not know me ?” sald ‘Warren, taking her hand. “Iam William Warren. She looked at him intently, and then joy, she said: “Hlow you have changed. Ishould never have recognized you; but welcome back to home and friends. When did you come ?” “But yesterday. I must indeed have changed for my own mother did not know me, and you have changed, too, Nora. How beautiful you have grown.” “There, no compliments. Is that one of the bad habits you have learned in the West?” she said playfully. : “No, but this is,” and he stole a kiss from her pouting lips. with a ery of Ageshe still thinks | | Papa will be delighted to see you, and I have so}. AN A THAT STIRS DIES” ‘Tide alare, oi you ure eee. much Re & Hey as et ; es po ee ¥ Ave y ees ” pated fe ee ret ont tice aaT am.t That 1B" fiat’ sorry you know, but come with me to the house, —— « many questions to ask you.” “And I have one most important one to ask you,” he answered. : Nora blushed, and taking his arm they entered the house, After some time spent in conversation with his old f iends, Warren left the house of Judge Dean and took his way to a distant part of the city. He finally paused before a small brick house, and after looking at it closely, as though to make certain of its identity, he rang the bell. Instantly the door was opened, and he entered. He found himself in an elegantly-furnished room. A dark man, with hair slightly tinged with gray, and a peculiar sin- ister cast in one of his eyes, arose fromtan easy- ehair in which he had been reclining, and throwing away a cigar, came forward and shook hands with him with great warmth. “Well, Mr. Warren, Kow goes the battle? How have you succeeded thus far?” he asked, as they seated themselves by the table, upon which stood a decanter and glasses. “T have nothing to complain of. My most san- guine hopes Gould not have asked for better suc- eess. I have seen the girl, and now, even-were there no plunder in question, she must be my wile. And she shall be. I tell you, Monk—I mean Hayes —wwe are playing a desperate game, but the stake is large,” “Well, what progress do you report? And, by the way, aslip of the tongue like that you just made in culling my name, might have cost me dearly, had any one been within hearing,” said the man whom Warren called Hayes. Every thing has worked Iikeacharm. The old woman received me with open arms, and swallowed my story withont winking, and the girl, by George, she is astunner! She takes me for all I’m worth,” said Warren, using, unconsciously, the slang to which he had long been accustomed. “What is the next movo In the game?” asked Hayes. “In the first place, we must get rid of the old woman, and I want your advice as to the means to be employed, but mind you, no more mur—I mean such work as we did at Miners Guich. Ha! what was that? Did not a shadow cross the window,” said Warren, and he cowered trembling with fear. “T’vye seen that shadow several times since I came from the West. Do you believe in ghosts, Hayes?” “Ghosts! Ha! hatha! Why Warren, you are not turning coward, are you? Tuke a glass to steady your nerves,” said Hayes, “No, Hayes, you know I’m no coward, but ever since that night I haven’t been myself. When alone I feel as if I was eontinually followed—as if I was never really alone, and the shadow of the dead seems hov vering about me. There, (starting for- ward, and gazing with an expression of terror,) I tell you there is something by that window,” “Pshaw! I'll look though, to satisfy you that it is all imagination,” answered Hayes, and he left the room. He returned immediately. “T told you so; there is no one there,” he said. “T could have sworn that Isaw the shadow. I’m not myself to-day, but to business. How is the old woman to be disposed of?” “T have a plan,” replied Hayes. “Confine her in a lunatic asylum. If insane, she is dead in law, you know.” “OCapital—the very thing, but how to bring it about?” said Warren. “TJ have a man who can accomplish it,” said % k~ re _’m yer huckleberry. Hayes. "He was to be here this mornimg. Ah, here he-is nosy.’ As: he-spoke there came a tap at the door,and he admitted a tall, thin man, dressed in a suit of pro- | fessional black, and wearing a stiff silk hat. The new-comer had a very thin face, small, cunning | eyes, and his nose was of a fiery hue, which told of | his intimate acquaintance with the intoxicating : Cup. “How are you, Dr. Radcliffe? Draw up and help yourself,” said Hayes, pushing the bottle toward him. “This,” he went on, “is Mr. Warren ?” The doetor bowed. “Mr. Warren has a relative that he wishes to place under your kind care—the woman I spoke to you about. What are your terms under the ciroum- stances ?” asked Hayes. “My terms are quite high. You see, the authori- ties are more vigilant of late, but if I undertake the case I will pledge my word that there shall be no trouble. My house is very well gonducted ; never had any trouble. My patients never go out into the world to tell how well they are treated. They re- main as long as they live. They call me the mad doctor. and people shake their heads when they speak of me, but no one has as yet been able to prove anything against me,” spoke the doctor, “No doubt you area successful villain,” muttered Warren, ind then to him, “Well. speak out. let us close the bargain.” , “My terms are one thousand dollars down, and ‘another thousand after the patient ia secured. You see my prices are high, but I deal only with the wealthy. The poor cannot employ me.” “No,” said Hayes, “and they are usually too hon- est to do so,” “JT aecept your terms,” said Warren. “And, now, how are you to get the patient in your power ?” “Leave that to me,” answered Dr. Radcliff. “By to-morrow night the woman shall oeeupy cell num- ber nine in my private mad-house. Mr. Hayes pointed out the woman to me on the street, and Pll make no mistake.” “You speak confidently, and I hope you may suc- eeed. Here is your money,” said Warren. The doctor took his fee, and rose to go. “You may depend upoenme. I never fall, when I'm paid,” he said, and bidding his employers good- day. he departed. “And now as the business ts concluded, J must leave you,” said Warren. “I'll see you again to- morrow,” and Warren also leitthe house. . CHAPTER t. Og ES = HANK FINN, f : The scene of our story now shifts to the mad- house or private lunatic asylum of Dr. Radcliff, The shades of night are closing in, and the doctor has lighted his office lamp, and sets by the table looking over a newspaper. “Ah, here itis—my advertisement,” he said, and then read: ‘““‘Wanted a young man of experiénee to act as janitor at the private asylum of Dr, Rad- eliff. Apply at the office.’ There should be an ap- plicant by this time. There’s one now, I'll wager,” he continued, as there came a pull at the bell. He opened the door, and a young man came in. He was cof medium height, and had jet blaek hair and mustache, one eye was slightly discolored as from a recent blow. He wore a blue flannel shirt and red neck-tie, and a battered stove-pipe hat was perched upon the side of his head, He wore also a suit of decidedly loud plaid stuff, and had a devil- may-care air about him that smacked of the old- time Bowery boy, and modern rough. “Mornin’, gove’ ner.” said this attractive indivi- dual. ‘“How’s every bone in yer medical body. Tip us yer flapper.and let me make you aequainted with me,” and seizing the doctor’s hand he shook it violently. “Don’t be quite so familiar,” said the doctor, nursing his crushed fingers. ‘A little of that grip of yours will go a good way. Who are you? What's your name ?” : “Hank Finn!” answered the other, jerking out the words as though they were fired from acannon. “What?” “H-a-n-k F-i-n-n—Hank Finn, one of the b’hoys.” “Well, Mr. Hank Finnz,” said the doctor, and then aside, “What a name.” “What is your business with me ?” *“Hain’t you the medical galoot as wants a yank- er ?” “T want a janitor.” . “That's jist what I said. Well, I’m a yanker from Yankerstown, and I kin bounce anything you can trot out. That’s the kind of a clothes-hoss I am,” and he swaggered up to the table. “Do I understand that you wish to apply for the situation ?” “You bet. That’s jist what I’m after.” “Have yeu had any experience in the business ?”’ “Now look a-here, me festive old sardine, I hain’t no medical, I hain’t, but I’m business right from the word go. Ifthere’s any one to get away with, If there’s any knocking dewn and dragging out, consider me there. I’m right on my muscle, Iam; if you don’t believe it, jump up and balance yourself,” said Hank, seating himself on the table, and helping himself to a cigar from the doctor’s box and coolly lighting it. “Did you ever work in a mad-house?” resuméd the doctor. “Work in a mad-house?. Now you’ve struck me. I never worked nowhere else.” “Can you manage unruly patients ?” “Now you have hit me. Isuppose managing un- ruly patients is the enly thing I kin do two men’s work at,” said Hank, and reaching down, he drew a strange, crooked knife from his boot-leg. Below we give a sketch of this strange “weeping.” ea ye \ ec asgrokeeesteS oat eee VERO On On Oe ep gO aD Ot Tho doctor started back as Hank Finn flourished this queer weapon. ae S oe" on ~ shoemaker’s ‘of terror, ‘be “me rciful-take that from my head! Beware cf being cried theshoemaker, with a strangling ») murder me here re glee. feet in excess horrid pistol | Saviour clothes- | | will preserve the most impenetrable silence on the subject of that traitor’s death—the villain whom I | | smote to the heart.” know what |} i girl, the poor } forsake you, burst- | | heart ?’ | her mother. int a | | ment to | ly. } pour in all the multitudinous sounds that in| THE NEW YORK. WEEKLY. “Yes,” “and the on the cross. Come kneel and swear by these sacred objects, by the heaven you hope share with her, that whatever chance may come you he said. ‘Il swear!” bowing low. *Enough,” said Adelaide, crossing herself and round you, and from the wiles of those who eV en now plotting your destruction. Adieu. my shoemaker will neither Adelaide watched this odd being bow himself out und close the door behind him, and a strange pre- sentiment of approaching evil fell upon her, 1at deep and powerful emotion fills my she § said, as if addressing the portrait of “Tt is strange that this poor lowly me- chanic should have the power to make my emt ; quiver and my blood stand still in my veins. My : i him, and |} cowered abjectly like a whipped beast beneath the | mother—my dear mother—whom I have _no longer near me to guide my path over life’s dark waste, i look down from your abode on high and watch over danced with joy around the entrapped | your child.’ She was startled nearly to fainting by the ;:udden bursting open of the door andthe excited entrance of Jacob, “Heaven he cried, “Rouse the You us!” Quick! cried the girl, preserve family! ose!” “Heavens, Jacob!” hurriedly. “what mean ; ! i _ | you? he gasped, fing in vain | “The house is in flames below!” he cried, hoarse- “This is the work of Madinier! Quick, or you perish |” he horrified girl ran screaming to arouse her kindred, while the powerful artisan began hastily to tear the saghes from their casements, letting mark a conflagration in a crowded city Gongs and bells, and horian wild, deafening din. Paxot and his fi imily appeared bewildered by the sudden surprise. “By Heaven !” one of the burst open, tow voice mingledin ! cried Henry, leaning out from windows which the shoemaker had the house is one mass of flames be- image of our Blessed to | forget nor | | What interest could he have in a ¢loo | wishes were centered on and in the schooner. | wind’s propelli ing power, and keep her course; | it leveled in an instant ep With the glass Hugh could not make it out, so fe paced the eck, and imtipatiently awaited sunrise. The san came up biood- red trom the eastern sea; but not anti it had brixhtened to yellow gold was the distorting haze dis- pelled, showing objects within -the range of vision in their na tural forms. With the glass to his eye, Hugh had stood for some moments observing the distant sail, “It’sa sloop! It’s a sloop!’ he at length vehemently ejaca- | lated, his tones. betraying deep disappointment, not to say dis- he said, kneeling as she arose, “I | | also swear to save you from the dangers that sur- | are | gust, ‘lowering the glass as he spoke, and glancing aft. Sol took the glass and scanned the object ot interest,'a long way to the southward, and not showing very distinctly, “Yes,’’ said he, aiter a time, ‘‘it’s a single sticker, an’ aln’t the one we want, nohow.” With a fresh nor-west wind striking the brig aft the beam, she bowled merrily over the dancing waters, raising the distant every moment. Fifty times within an hourdid Hugh level his giass at the stranger, south-bound—for what r ason he could not have told when all his hopes and He w as forward, with the glass directed at the sloop. Suddenly e cried: “By the Lord Harry, it isn’t’a sloop! It’s a schooner with her mainmast gone, and the mains’! bent on the fore-mast!”” Then, not only he, but all the others on board the brig, took aa exceedingly lively interest in that ‘‘one sticker.’ The sails of the brig were trimmed to get the utmost of the and never Was & helm watched closer than that. of the Arrow by Zeb Swain, whe had taken the tiller just before the discovery by.our hero, ‘that the “sloop” was a dismasted schooner. sor an hour the brig sped on, bringing the schooner within a | distance offour miles. Half an hour more and the intervening distance was reduced | toja little something ov er two miles, have not a mo- | | in an excited tone, his mate reaching his side in a moment, “Sim, come forward!” sung out our hero in ‘the weather-bow, “Look!? exclaimed Hugh, passing the glass to Sim, who had ‘ look} “Skin me ’f thet don’t look suthin like the Whyte’s stara!”’ | said the mate, In a moment. ae Itis ee - the Whyte!” cried Huch, confidently, aad aot alittle agitat “Blamed ’f i some Diieve ’tis!” was Sim’s confirmatory re- sponse. Ten minutes more and there was no doubtin the minds of those who viewed the vessel with the glass—and allon deck bat the helmsman had had a look—as to her identity; and this be- ing assured, our hero be came greatly exercised at the thought that Constance might not be aboard, aiter all. A few moments more and the name—Walter Whyte—could be made out with the glass, and three men, besides the helmsmaa, could be seen on deck. the three working the puanp. Never had our hero been so great! perturbed asnow. He had been in a fever of anxiety for days, fh the desire to overhaul the Whyte, confident that the one in whom ali his hopes were cen- tered, was aboard of her; and now that he had fallen in with the vessel, he was in a fever of doubt in regard to the presence of Const: ance on board. at fey ate nents would tell, however—micht tell, perhaps, a tex- ale ta e g bore down upon the partially disabled schooner until within hai ling distance, when the yards were braced, and her main-sheet run out to slacken her speed, her mainmast not be ing noticed much by thosv .n the schooner’s deck. “Schooner, ahoy!” hailed Hugh, in a voice now braced to firm- ness. “Hello!” came back from the helmsman of the schooner. “Want any help?” queried Hugh. *“Dunno’s we do. Pil git ther skip ther skipper on deck.) Whe r’ ye boun “Spanish Tow n, J maica,” answ ered Hugh, promptly. “From New ‘Bedford.’ “Sho! Ldap oo t say so? Ther’s wher’ we air bound. We've ass’ ngers aboard, wich mout like ter git aboard the no, | 3 th ey would.” fuch jr duke had worn, and earrying a rapier under his arm, reached the appointed place. B loo ce ‘ie Madinie 2r was not the man to letany/| business lag, especially if it happene d to be of an/| 3 ked around and listened, but the gray, fit- | evil natuze, as was most ge nerally the case. ful moonli ant revealed no human form, and the} He wasas 3 assiduous in evi il-doing as he was ma- sighing wind and water were the only sounds he/|liciously inventive, amd this assiduity in the pres- beard. ent instance was urged on by the impatience of his “Hal’ he said, throwing himself easily into a| precious pupil. rustic garden seat. “My young fire-eater is not so | He and the duke felt so sure of the issue of the punctual as he might be. Thisis a very nicely ar- | duel between Henry Pagot and Flueret, th: a the y ranged affair. I am t ) stand up here in the duke’s | bothered their heads no more about it once they shoes and D ink this young spark under thespare| had got it all arr anger 1 te Sage) mutua Ls: tats wction. | ribs. Let meexaminetheground. The cloudsare| To besurethey w pul i both have enjoyed the please | thick and flit tting, b ut I think there will be light | ant spectacle ot their bravo Fluer« t spitting the enough for me to settle this little affair by in two} young soldier like a pheasant, and cl raring their | i ralf.” | path of villainy of one they both feared. lood 2d, 8 ( Boat business called their att ention elsewhere; for now that they were rid, as they felt sure they were, > Sward. | of the fiery and suspecting brother, Madinier had| !? he said, delightedly. “It is really | little doubt of being able to work the unsuspicious | spot. Good view in the distance to] confidence of the simple-minded father to his own Ip rs y; ‘and greensward as smooth as a parlor ear- villainous purposes. : : the old man’s wrongs, and may i: aze With all the | The young gir L ni >, V “He ave to—heavegher up!” cried Hugh, » To this end, before Henry’s furlough had brought i ngeanee, Take that pe and others ata neig be ri ng W a Ww passing across | him on the scene t >it iter lans, he had rite !” |} 2 stout plank to bri dge flery shasm. ii utter d ‘ing -him | the pen in histrembling| Just then the portion of the w i where Jacob had The scaooner’s helm went hard-a-lee, and she came slowly inte rs, to the still covering him heard the pounding . in with a thundering | the wind. The brig ran astern of her, and likewise came oP inte | crash, and through tl ure dashed Madinier | Syapeaet! cried toons aboard on he meson eee, ands six bri pace | ast!’ cried Hugh, and springing into the schooner’s borne away by mission of | lieve me, your excited passions into the com- | Even as hespoke,a acrime youmay forever Fepent. Be- {| anc I snot acted in this affair for myself. Alas! you Ww not what it is to compell: G0 ) serve a powerful lord, a vile who regar not even the sanctity of the di irele.” “Reptile! Miserable coward!” eried Jocob, the most withering 1 pt. aleNit. thu speak of your patron—your own papil—you taught him these lessons of dark iniquity in w you yourself are so deep a profieient? You t | abide the retribution of your viliainy.” ith Vith resistless strength, he drs ling prisoner to a tabl , On which w were spread,and forced him int tem pted to rise again, put the pist against his templ ‘Sit down a you into eternity!” cried the sneemaker, fier for nvywire is kindk rreat gust of flame, andsmoke, t whirling sparks was belched up in his face, and he was forced back. Vith natural impulse, the old man and the wo- men rushed toward the usual means of exit, but | they he sr d the warning voice above the din. wi th ‘No, *he roared. “That way’s to death—the staircas e is bu rnt down! .-Here! To this window, | tis our only chance! What ho, there! Help! help! If quickly, for | room in suffocating a and -. (Jim, get » be had it was needed ee her’ fromy rolling into the help wast esmoke was volumes. “Father, dear fa die in each othe ‘Courage! cour: “They are breaking away Way comes help!” “Hurrah ie sh de T ther!” sobbed Adelaide, “we will | sientifie murderer took a care- | mped to is throat. undings, and then bent down | r He wm any? Any women folks?” he ne Which the other might have thought one es “pre roared Jacob, joyously. : through the wall. This | ,inat | markable ¢ concern, | “Five on ’eu in all—three men an’ two women folks—but one Alexi is to tH ) rescue on.’em.’s in a bud way; got smashed when ther mainmast weat \ by the boar rai and saw her lover | °¥,tbe boar ce re te, or rll uted Henry, with so id ier’s cheer. ere’s comra a lime whose heart sank te zero—he was sure it was Constance who had been “smashed”? by this moment a neighbor the falling mainmast. it the hour, and firm, soldieriy st« ng clock began to | re with as if t kee sping time ti 2ps were heard approac h- | his pla the old m: un’S VE ity oy introduc ignates of the city, among othe Si ido it of thee oun i] y itso happened that on ok yemuke r, Ten o "el ook 1 7 the very a ning of! “Now write, ‘I, the unde raigne , precept seat. ane re’s 7 man!” Fahey ¢ said t trode out of ro peeded to unbue kle and ca 20 ybard. ullat nt- looking spark,” mut tered Flue- ‘is oppone nt as he felt the e 2 yeapon. “It’s a pity for me to sp must obey orders. We Il. sir, are yo r guard,sir.” cried the yo imself into position. blades crossed with a clash, and a bri ung sol: lie i ae cht | gleam of moonlight showed the unequalness of the | weapons, The soldier was armed only. with the short, flat saber of the regular army. while Flueret ha long, keen rapier of the professional duelist, which gave him a fearful advantage, Both saw the difference at a glance. Villain as he was Flueret’s professi onal instincts | ting ed his crime-stained nature with a glimmer of | nob iLity. “Hold, sir’? he said, throwing up the soldier’s | srber W ith as mnch ease asif it had been a twig the hand of a child. ; | couneil. | only, the |} in | between He ry Pagot kk plaee in * eta uc lience- very preside nt of the Chevalier De Laporte, was grand gala dinner, and thither invited Monsieur Pagot, to the | the old man. It was tendered to officials - aera gentlemen so the craf tty Madinie v that Adelaide W oul id be left alone at Rene) rand brothe 2 se wp way- aS ah one dead. , ulder the cir to seize and abdu tthe unprot ected daughter. ane duke was delig! hted with his preceptor’s uns, and wrung his hand warmly as he started rthe mercer’s house to perfect them. ow it so happened that just before th e scheming rr eutere d that particular section of the irregu- ae ooy. in which the Pagot family resided, Jacob the shoemaker, knocked at the mercer’s aoe ete a pair of shoes for the master of the house, “Oh, it’s you, Jacob?’ maid, Marg aret, ‘Yes, Mistress san. ny on whisk the Gaarrdl ee k secretary to »f the palace, this to gives great rejoicemént of ning, 7Umstances, , said the buxom serving- as she opened the door. LE igaret. it’s me,” said the arti- “Tve brought home Master Pagot’s shoes the | the wily Madinier | | had bet ledge tha i ‘is Pag iy warm family, i purpose of said Pago st, and bri OT -of the Said Du sac, i Di wing this time the cold, ¢! an n dropping on the pape lines as Madinier wrete. There was: le on the ste several pec app rom thing, and asthe ac of the prisoner ecaug , he and east doy e Devine: “Twill not i “Do «as L order you,” said sure reigns, your life will pay the forfeit.” rr They are hore! safe!’ cried Madi- nier, exultingly, as a lk os cking my und blurring f the sound of ite e suddenly Jacob, sternly, ‘‘or, as as Gi Lith. the « door ‘Open tl door, Margaret,” said Jacob, his gaze in oe direetion. Madinier took advantage of self-condemning document he ling triumphantly: “They are here to rescue mg from os nger uni i dis- grace! Perish this base m omngFtboLa y guilt. this to ar up had writte tt shuck- perspi ration | | URNER, ar | sounded on | turning |} the | Now | y»99 1ere’s the girl!” cried the scoundrel, pointing lelaide. “Away with her!” The desperadoes seized the se reaming girl. The shoemaker threw himself before the aper- ture, [TO BE CONTINUED., Another charming dramatic vritten from Shiel’s ne; or The Statues.” s00n. story, by NatHan D. great play of “Evad- will be commenced very HUGH LEE. “Hugh Lee” was comr nésbed It No. 6. Back numbers cam be obtaine ad from all News Agents in the United Statea.] CHAPTER “XXXVI GE SAIL SIGHTED TO WINDWARD. dawn, and when the sun, like adise of red- sea, its pathway of ethereal blue, wind, was not marked: by a single cloud | of Hug a rigging was on her deck in an instant, six others following lim. Dashing aft, our hero was met by the skipper, just up trom be- low—Skipy per Snow, formerly of the Eagie. Hugh was not surpri fon, but Skipper Snow was—more, he was struck with amazement; was rooted speechless to the spot. An inst : nt after him, there appeared on deck before the eyes 1 Lee—Gil Joy! He had h ae tir aa to believe his eyes—when utter amaze ment would have settled on Ais face—before Hugh, with an in- articulate cry of mingled rage and -vengeance, sprang upon and grasped him by the ‘throat, the impetus of the spring carry both to the deck, Gil Joy, of cours* , the under one, his pended fused with blood tha t would soon blacken under the skin by rea gon of its stopped c “iret ulation. “You scoundrel!” groaned Hurh, out his hard-set teeth. “You scoundrel! I u choke ithe—— He was interrupted by a cry—a shriek it was—that emoraced astonishment, joy, and horror inits tones. Then, instantiy, the voice cried, in horrified accents: “Hugh! Hugt | for mercy’s sak ce don’t kill him—don’? 421 wy brother! Thank him! thank him That cry doubtless saved that raaaal shfe. The next instant the would-be avenger and the utterer uc the cry were in each other’s arms A br’ef but tervent embrace, rendered pathetic by the sobs of Constance, and Hugh, gently raising the head of his betrothed from his breast, asked for h{s sister. “She’s down stairs with Walt—he’s dreadful, Hugh. He's ing to die, 1 know he !s—the mast broke and fell on hr between } down = airs and see aim, do—you’l never regret it.” Hugh looked a’ the speaker with astonishment. “How, sir?” eried the soldier, quickly recov ring |} ‘Come in,” said the girl. “I feel so frightened at his guar “Come on.” | being left nll alone in this strange, gloomy old “Our weapons are by es unsaual,.” said Flue- | house that Iam glad to see a friendly face. Come ret, rapidly. “I woul d not take a lvantage——” | in, come in, Jacob.’ “You maist be certain of y: a hand,” eried Henry,| Thus press 1d, the shoemaker fi lowe lher up the hotly. “If you are sat ishe d with thes uperiority of rambling staircase and ee a gothic apartment, your weafpon, lam. Ineither ask nor wlll receive | which was indeed strange an 1 gloomy enough. a favor eR i Villain ! Guard! ‘Master He enry is aww: LY» went on Ay, my% sried Flueret, “I am always ready , | Me argaret. (Adelaide is out; a to oblige my sustomers. Where would you lil ke me\| Pag some big dinner at the pré to pink y uZ2 “L come he here to jest,” cried the soldi er, flerce- i ly raining in his thrusts and blows, wl hich theo ther} maker, ‘“speuking this great # y i ppiite ¥ ; parried wifh marvelous skill. Ayour master has been invited, Il Mo nsieur f your Guughter, te 0 pe Te wee ill of “Have you said your prayers to-night?” asked the tlexi is just mow, and he thinks, as I hatthisin-/ associate in vill: ny!” valet, with a coolness which exasperated his oppo- tation is all a hoax, gotten up by 6 Se knavye who nent. | has, “perhaps. designs of a doubtful character in “Think rather iis quarter.” blows more fic a | “Who inthe world eould that be?” ap’n Hugh, in gpite ‘ A piercing shr leith. i e said a fs ‘oe “You think my : , th 80. e 1 be uy i her in five days, an’ poth - \ in the invol “LT can’t say,” said Jacob, seriously. “But this utweigh my j ave a fair wind. But s at be go far to the east’ard or Ad jag Pagot ri Monsieur Alexis did say that he: had reasons for | are deceived! My in pe ion j t thered, Fae hamnie tdmsides” Bat ‘ . less, et old Nep. don’t skipper : then saying that your master must brenk off all inti- | and if it were, there stil mit n my son her be avs. S’pose he willofi | On. ycur men, *'d burn th macy with his supposed friend, Mi vais Lier, and cut} heart in which it \ ever dic till you haye under Hatte. az.” said go Yur hero " making no rest ponse, put | boat nen w about thisjob, if ye his aequaintance entirely.” gone the punishment “it l j r i forward—the commencement of an Jour’s 8 pacing to | I name, Adel u le, begone!” i “Break off with Mo nsieur Mac aiuiort 1” exclaimed | depart, caitiff, with ; : . ba ie | na ne, do you say?” cried, in | the servant, ‘a man th: have known these| angcr which almost ny utterance. T *: he tered nnd one Sraeien wer potas tants. ; , He aven reproves this wicked | dozen years? T us i! It is nonsense, TOCOT aro reptiles in existence which we do not erush be- | 7", » lying sow’-sou’-east, with no other sail within the per- in! opower shall stirme} ‘Nonsense!’ said the shoemaker energetically. | cause of the d heir suffe orizon hence! Ant he exclaimed, wildly, turn- | “I tell you it must be done! The man 3 a vil-| ates ro t] course “Is Alexis I ) sip it, and not Ig I 8p. rm re n i ] vishine to run to the twat re the r to, and rod There he heard the bese: of the abduction in detail, ea F move ig this speech, b al US con- it the e ty Sw : : r- | Which we ist givel brie all! clusion his pent-up feelings i, release from th cave of the Wagtaila, : 1 horizor horizon. it is my turn to exult! ; it ag us morn, su h only as the sea attords ti Margaret ope ned th ed > fai i tothe seou indrel’s waters, Vig orously lively after the storm-lash- dismay, not the friends he i bal expecter 1, but Pagot, ust gone, white-capped and darkly blue, and Adelai: le, and Henrs#ente rs en fire of the rising sun, ee &@ Bight ‘ adinier! Thavinfamat Bec grves- Bee white, and gold—and one | . tter, “i y » very motio as exhiiars g. : eli aint Be a the le itter, in anegey A yl ment. ERS: de eck before the sun appeared avove the dark- ib means t is § ee 2) Reta Se abvard the first named § 2s, and che body ot Walt Whyte Constance Insisting 1at he sl nuld have as decent a burial as ould be under the eir- cumst iccs hen the brig cast off from the schooner 1€ eyes, t here!” ex- 4ee, OD ‘Miss it ise ne to & | house =r ‘By the vw: ay, Mistress Ma wearet, - { dies SS sly » instead of a dead-head gale and } 1S. UN- | 5 bh ck . i Mistress re! said to Bc 5 Blake, who had the yoorn ¢ ‘ t cls with the weather, e R réve advanta*ed by ; re are five passenger™ ¢ bo. ruin 5 ; i 8 tone and Sock | is he?’ Hugh d, urniug t vonst his | cher ater hen, itiater, he said: “But iv’s | “Minister Clark,” answe- he jr ne for / 3 1 i us—W alt and i? (she too: id th dinne? race . * ot ut the of » flustved and pale ad with the L¢ ternal emotion ind _bassic nas he lhe reprobate upon " 1iom he had ‘built his said the ust a friend. at on Vil } ii | th of your own,” he cried, plying hi ely still. ick awoke the echoes of the grove, untary pause of the combatants u nee will shed up and cast herself between Hugh sung ont te schooner, an’ let ve take toa didn’t, when ye’d found it Jas Don’t 7e come to He pstead again, Skipper Snow ther, hold!’ she screamed. yu) saven’s “On your life | ee she us here was no reply; and the two vessels parted, the schoomer 8 BE ing g scuth, and the brig heading a course northeast. re em: CHAPTER XX XXXVUL CONCLUSION » passengers, then desce.ded to the cabin of spacious : ne and comfortablh for the times. rutherly was laid and held for three ig was met by a tearing sou’easter off Hatteras | 2n ty fo \ ing toward Flueret, “you whose thirst of blood! lain seeins so insatiabl would you seek to slay | Wi hy, Master Jacob!” excel: the only haired father? Renounce | that what you say of Mon this dr sadtul i 1 tthe wrongs [| must be mad to talk in sue have r fron te shall hear my | who ever since we came to I Dray ” kindness timed Margaret. ieur Madinier? 1a mi mnner aboutalr ] u ne Sor e could h ay, you use hag away his face when she ap- if affected by her words, he en!” she shrieked rat do I beho!d? secretary of the 5 eried the soldie t _ sig “Can t i ee one of his m nea youhave found is done you too much equa “ footing. him ‘ honor ym an cried Henry, “you stand here for the iry of the Duie of fropacr “For the secretary, indeed | Hal hal ha!’ laugh- ed Fiueret. “No. by bt. aul! Istand here for tho duke himself, whose rank forbade his meeting you in person. s “What! was itthe duke!” exclaimed the soldier. “Tam thun Bos Bee uck. And he daresend tome his despicable valet!” “Beware, Prarie man—beware!” said Flueret, his black eyes flashing and his rapier point beating ringingly against ‘his shoe. ‘Go and tell your master,” said Henry, picking up his sword-belt, and she: thing his weapon with angry contempt, “that he must come himself to an- swer my appeal, or [ will publicly proclaim the Di ike of Fronsac a villain and » coward.” “With all my heart, sir,” said Flueret, with omi- nous calmness. “You can pull his nose if you like, Isuppose he is capable of attending to his own af- fairs, But you and I must have a bout before we art.’ ’ “Out of my way, reptile!” cried the soldier, in- dignantly taking the hand of the trembling Ade- laide to depart. *Hait there, sir!” orled Flueret, springing before him, and sti ihing him across the breast with his sword. “Do you understand that? ‘Ablow! And by a menial’ S, hand! Ah! low- the saber of the lived scoundrel! Blood! Blood! Ere these words were uttered, flery youth was ecircling and descending in fleree assault upon the well-worked weapon of his skill- ful antagonist. The appeals of the terrified girl were lost upon the brother,and she flew from the dreadful spot shridéking loudly for help She heard the tramp of heavy feet rushing swift- ly toward her, and a voice from the gloom ealled: “What isthe matter? Who calis for help rT “Ah, Jacob Odet!’’ exc laimed the girl, in a burst of frantic joyousness. “Thank Heaven! Thank Heaven, ’tis you! “You here, Adelaide!” cried the shoemaker, rush- ‘What is the matter ?” ia my brother, if you band and jin his power to show ! scount ire | k noe ;tne st elegant | to | yo Know tha ut Tam | the place of him 700 had the temerity to | of feeling toward us, ‘Kindne 38 of feeling, the ’ said Jacob, in lew, girl’ 8 retort was k at the door. That’s not Miss Adelaide’s knock, [I’m sur said, listening. “Margaret! Margaret!” keyhole, at the was heard. “Why, ’tis Madinier cob. “Hi ur eee ik of the devil,” whispered Jacob, sig- hang-dog-looking | bitter tones. hindered by a cautious * she voice through that the knock said a low same time whispered the girl, to "iatgaie t, Margaret! side. | you are alone.” ‘What do you think, Jacob? Mar garet asked. “Yes. The opportunity is a good one to learn his designs. Open the door, you are alc ne. Til go into the other room. yes! understand,” said the girl, towar i the door where the knocking and whisper- ing continued. The shoemaker disappeared into another room as she threw open the door and Madinier passed in. “Are you quite alone, Margaret?” he said, look- ing cautiously about. whispered the v: ‘Yes, being so into the birgain,” she answered. have something tosayto you, Margaret,” said, hurriedly, as he scanned the apartment once more,” and have but a moment to say itin before your master returns. You must give meall your attention.’ “Go on, sir. I listen with two good ears.” “Ah, you buxom, rosy-cheeked fairy you!” he said, insinus wtingly passing his arm around , ber plump waist. “Dll make your fortune for you. ‘Make my fortune!” cried the girl. “You don’t say SO, Monsieur Madinier? How will you do it?” “Listen to me, my little jade,” he snid, fawningly. “TI think I’ve heard you say that your chamber ad- joins that of Miss Adelaide.” “Well? If it does, what then, sir?” Madinier glanced once more around the room|: suspiciously, and eyen at the door behind which Jac ob Odet was Jistening. “Why, dear,” lhe said. in his olliest way, “you must know that we are getting up a little joke—a trifling bit of fun and pleasantry for your young mistress, and I want you to consent to hide some onein your apartment.” If Margaret had been blind itn her faith in this hoary villain. heretofore, she then sawin a flash his character. “Hide some one in my room?” she exclaimed? but she remembered Jacob’s words, and checked the ourst of indignati« on which was rising in her. ‘Yes, my girl,” hesaid, persuasively. ‘Do that, and you area made woman.” **My conseience!” she said, dissembling, * nsense. Margaret,” the tempter said; “don’t eo in silly serup les. and harmies*,” was only sure of that,” scaught a sign from Jacob Odet. sieur, who is the nnocent designs?” on have seen, gays taken forthe secretary of | > other than the duke him- | Ona. d Margaret, aston ice out: | ‘Open the door. I wish ti > speak to you while} Shall I admit him?” | but let him believe that | going | * | so, oe clare to you on the honor of a soldier that 1a / | pidly, * |**A base assassin, | rior skHl to try 6 kill my broth: r. ree rly. what a| wicked proposition to make toa poor but honest merit who has nothing but her good name to depend | tio) on your part would | death. My designs are perfectly | said the artful | ; ‘By | other party con-| snid Me adinier—| drawing i mother.” he cried = tu can heap 7 upon me because you are and @an ¢ antl’ master me. I Master on ie » baffled Od let ‘ p ot red: “'Neighb r Pag¢ J ts Let your di sible, in « rd er to free her from pursuit of wise: “A powerful en uch t take any means to grati- fy his dk sires W ithout fear of the judges or laws.” ‘Of esti do you speak?” “Of the Duke of Fronsac. It was he w your house underthe disguise of a BeC re tary.” “Can it be possible! “What, the duke! ‘Yes, father, it is true!” together, “We have fallen on evil times,” when justice has fled from the place that was her home, and out rulers tread in the paths of iniquity. Your advice, friend Jacob, will be regarded. my son, you have fought?” Ye, said the young 80 yidier, As : ae ‘on ne side, aaa t, [havea Lughter be ma of “Te Pre Oi advice t the govel "9 exclaimed the said Henry and Adelaide father “and my aaincuuee was most strange! y ove srthrown. He caught Adelaide and the shoemaker exchang- | ing asignificant look, and continued: “Don’t you see that Pm nlone, and frightened at | yet I de- have no recollection of wounding him. I strove to touch him, but his superiority over me enabled him to parry my thrusts with eonsummate ease and skill.” “Follow the advice of a friend,” said Jacob, ra- and return to your regiment forthwith. There this matter willonly be looked upon as a misfortune—lhere it may be heavily punished.” “Come, my son,” said Pagot, taking Henry’s arm, you must need repose, Jacob, my good friend, we ou, Jaeob, say you cannot believe m e, must say good-night,” Jacob returned the parting salute and they led away the wounded soldier,Adelaide alone remain- ing to see Jacob to the door. “Adelaide,” said the shoemaker, taking her by i the hand as soon ag the others were out of hearing, us that must be | ‘there is an agreement between rati fled before we part. ‘An agreement, San »b!” said the astonished girl, but a shudde r shook ber as she felt a preseutiment | of what was coming. ‘“‘Whrat mean you, Jacob ?” “Young girl,” said the shoemaker, griuvely, ‘you have been a witness to deed of blood, on your eyes should never have rested. give the death-blow to a man who— “Who richly deserved it,” said the girl, warmly. who took adv: ‘ ‘You do not believe I meant to murder the man ie he had acted fairly and honorably r i exclaimed Adelaide. feel- | could [| o, no, good Jacob!” “You a murderer har bor sue hathought!” ‘Yet.” said Jucob, seri usly, “the least be my eertain alone know it—there never! Never indiscre- ruin and We two must be thir | party to it. will never breathe it to a human being. “Will you swear to keep this seeret } “Tf you wish it, yes peee, then.” he said taking her by the hand and leading her towarda picture of a beautiful lady beneath which was an antique prieu dieu or devo- tional desk snrmounted by a erueifix which bore ” | the figure ef the Saviour. The shoemaker pointed silently and solemnly to | the picture, and the gir! said, in an awed tone: What ,mean you, Jaeob? it isthe portrait of my | Stan ppes ared | whis- | offer | rried as soon as pos- | one | Cauc } hk un l ‘on he scen ho visited | day, went like oment j fi | the strange mercer. | } | had t | top some five ini said the old man, ; the very insta And } } | between cabin which | You saw me} nts age of his supe- | | in hand commenced to pace the no } northern | by curiosity he demanded, in- like those ot , when his tdoyem ke 118 to an cee ink with n the foretop-gallan Gan’ t make he tly 3 & cased an yes sough “On ¢ 1e ECS, am. r out—she’s on’y a 1t. shout tec d Hugh, ev “Hard a--lee—steady | re handled with a will, and the brig came wind, when her head fell off to leeward, and, her he wind, she dashed away on the port tack likea ry man springing to dy? Then Hugt 1, taking his glass in hand for the fiftie a cat up the weath froin whence he scanned the sea to the southward in search ot which he prayed, though he hope, would be the Walter Wliyte. “D'ye make her out, Cap’n Hugh?” queried Sol Blake, e deck in that watch, after our hero had been in the butes, Harry, its a schooner, bound of satisfaction, not in reply latter sent up his query, “Get ’ our hero sang outa moment |! by the backstay, etop in a moment. iat the strange sail was a schooner south bound, and at thc moment on the same tack with the brig, could not be made out; and Sol shortly came to the deck, Hugh not long af ter first calling the lookout down tothe foretop and giving him the glass, telling him to give notice when the stranger tacked th time that * fore-rigging to the foretop, sali, “By the Lord Hugh, in an ecstasy south |”? to Sol, but at an’ take a look Sol swung hin the shrouds, was aloft it Other than t! later and, gaining Hugh then commenced his monotonous fore and aft pacing on | | ashore, of the bright deck, looking not a little disturbed. immediately troub sled him was the indisputable fact that the chase was fully fifteen miles dead to windward, with no probability of his being able to gain on her sufficiently, in the two hours of daylight left, to determine whether she Walter Whyte or not, and the possibility that she might be lost to sight in the morning Back and forth he paced, like a lion chafing from restraint, Back when he at once made for the fore-shrouds, just reaching them when the Jookout cried: “She's headed up a p’int, Cap’n Huch., Hugh glanced quickly at the canvas fore andl aft. It was as tense as possib e. Nota symptom ofa shake did it exhibit, resisting the wind in its every inc h. “We can go @ point closer, too,” sald he, glancing at Sim Wales. who now had the deck eh his watch, and who nodded affirmatively. ‘Put her up,’’ cried Hugh to the helmsman. her a liftin’, Zeb.” The brig easily took a point’out of the wind, her canvas just showing now and then the shade ofa shiver. On and on she sailed at the rate of six knots an hour. On and on untilthe sun went down, and the stranger holding his own, fading from the sight through the glass as the twilight closed in A miserable night was that which Hugh passed, alternating and deck until about three a. m., when he turn- the tact that it was falling calm adding to his burden of the port side What “Steady! Keep ea in, misery CHAPTER XXXVII OUR HERO JUST IN TIME TO BE IN AT THE DEATH. The sea next morning was as smoth as oil, but gently undu- ; lating. Hugh came on deck just before sunrise, South, then all round the horizon, through his glass, and water, water everywhere, but nota sail in sig “T ruess the wind’ll come with the sun,” said. “from tho south’ard, or south’ard and east’are.” “From anywhere, so it’ll come,” said Hugh; and deck fore and aft saw— ht, Sim Wales; ” with glass on the port side Up came the edge of the sun’s broad disc, afiame at t of its apparent cont Hugh swept the hot lous search and the ict with the blazi: zon on the south from west to eag the sail of the his glass swung he point g orb. anx and the , but without reward st, in of a sail semicircle afte rnoon previous round to his eye The wind came up with the sun from the south and east, as Sim had predicted, but before night it blew fair for the brig from the north-east, andat the endofthreedays she was on the Ba hama banks, her run down having been uneventful and monot onous'to Hugh,jnot even a sail appearing on the horizon to arise, and speculation, the weight of wretchedness upon him. On the morning of the fourth day, the brig just -entering the Straits of Florida, Hugh appeared on deck a little before sunrise, having been calied by Sol Blake, who discoverea a aail ahead— } dim and uncertain in the dawning light, but certainly a sail. hardly dared to | who | fore- | cried | ‘at | it would remove it—he was dying of the disease that killed his aloit here | } and for tl } had once beg wus the} and forth until uneasiness prompted him to go aloft again, | } measures on the t | bungling or other, | Whyte did which lifted the joad of misery from her soul forever. and looked tothe | | from the cabin, sea seemed | | serve } cried, | deliverance {rom a most tance Joy in his father’s vesse|—Sk.ip- 1is purp: se, but Hugh had .0t been im vith him g—Walt and Gil ef had beea him for a arating—Walt ke ep the other 1aving great influence over him, and bein at): to work wax. ing set in, the two were aboard the schooner. Walt ostrated by an attack of heart-disease, of whieh other had die s going to die—knew that he was, and rking Gil up to believe it. 1 him for Minister Clark—no use to send for his ay, and adoctor was not thought of, teld $ sister C onsts ance, 2s he had som et h g to confess m like , under the circumstances, would not have com- a dying friend's wish, when he could have relieved a ‘from wretchednessf Gil went for the minister, then home for his sister; finding Lucy there, he made known his message, and asked Luey to go Ww icy Constance, and they went, Would any woman, situated as was Constance, have refused to go? ‘. She was under a mountain of misery—the one who had caused mother. A minister would be there—her brothor and ould be no danger, certain! the thr ee went aboard the schooner in the dark ness, UB a single soul, the minister was there, and Walt W hyte im e@ agony, it lasted only a moment when he came to his teet In perfeet health; the schooner was in motion, the four were “passengers,” at matter, prisoners! From the tightly-closed cabin no cries were heard by any one and the schooner glided out upon the Sound, Walt then ordered the clergyman to finish the ceremony he un in his case, saying to Gil that he could be maz- it the same time; otherwise, he never would bow ught Gil would snap at this bait. as nistaken, Gil was incensed at having been so beguiled, and showed him- self as he never had betore Of course the minister refused to have any hand in the weather, and so Walt Whyte had four arrayed ayainst him. “You'll all agree to this before we get onthe Atlantic, headed jor the West Indies,” said he, “if youdon’t, you’ll all go there. He found himself mistaken again. To his credit be it said, little as itis, that he used no harsh rip. Once every day he would ask Constanes if she vould consent tothe marriage, threatening that, when naica was reached, she should be his without marriage if she lover’s sister ried to I icy | refused. Gil would have nothing to say to him, but stood by the girls iobly, as did the minister, while Walt smiled ever a Mephistoph- | elian smile, During that second gale encountered by the brig, by some the schooner’s mainmast went by the boa: and Walt was terribly crushed—the only one hu aboard, He would have put back, but Skipper Snow would not do it. Helpiessly crushed, the four individuals whom he had so foully dealt with, did everything in their power to alleviate his suffer. ings, watching by him in pairs in turn, jor it took two to attend him, After two days, knowing tha die this time, Walt in presence of the minister, thas Whyse the would ce miypess to Cc nstance What that confession was Constance became his wife, Such is the and Gil, Hugh Lee doubtless learned whea but not betore. substance of what Hugh learned trom Constanee, his sister, and the minister;,and when the story was told he embraced Constance tenderly, his sister lovingly, Gil Jog cordially, and the minister thankfully, and then proposed the deck, as the weather was fine. All in good spirits, Constance comparatively so, they emerged Hugh the last on deck were al! amid-ships on the weather side—every man when Sol Blake sang out, as Hugh ap- The crew but the helmsman | peared: ‘Three cheers for Cap’n H=¢h an’ ther ladies!” “Hold on!” cried Hugh, instantly, and authoratitively. “JT de no cheers, but Minister Clark and Gil Joy do/” “An? Minister Olark an’ Gil Joy—three cheers tur allf{” Sal immediately; and the cheers were given with a will Then those not acquainted were made acquainted, and the story ofthe abduction soon became known to the crew of the brig; and while they congratulated the abducted on their safe unpleasant situation, the latter thank- ed them heartily as being the instruments of said deliverance; and so general good feeling prevailed. Around Sol Blake and Constance, who were conversing in the most friendly way, not having needed any introduction, all the others soon gathered; all except the parson being acquainted te ee OE A with Sol’s part in the reseue of Hugh’s betrethed from the hands of Black Jack, and regarding them with special interest. “Oap’n Hugh,” said Sol, the former braced against the matn- mast, histace now looking serenely joyful instead of greatly troubled, as for a nunsber of days previous—“Cap’n Hugh, hope e won't be *Yended; butye know I was goin’ to keep the co waitin’ one night’’—Hugh smiled—“ye remember, don’t eY Wal, ifye’d ajetame kept him, an’-ye’d a let him done the Cosineas up fur ye, Miss.Joy an’ yerself would abe’n saved a good deal’o” heart-treuble and:head trouble—wouldn’t ze ? “Wal, here he is] mow, an’ why not. let him do the business fur ye now'? 0~ A Heartless Woman. The rumseller’s wife parades in gaudy fineries bought with the money squandered on rum by sel- fish men who feed their own base appetites, forget- ful of the wants of poorly clad wives and famishing children. Mrs, Martha Bunting, the unfortunate wife of an inebriate, is compelled to earn bread for herself and children by doing odd jobs of sewing. The wife of a New York rumseller, in whose store Mrs. Bunting’s dissipated husband spent most of his earnings, was recently applied to fer work, and gaye the poor woman a child’s sacque to make, promising to remunerate her with the sum of $2.50, After a week’s toil, for the sewing woman is an in- valid and cannot work rapidly, the sacque was fin- ished and brought home. The pale-faced woman meekly awaited her promised reward, but was astounded when the rumseller’s wife refused pay- ment. On what ground? the reader asks. The rumseller’s heartless wife coolly said, in explana- tion, “Your husband ewes mine two dollars and fifty eents, for liquor supplied him, andthe making of this sacque cancels the debt.” All this is literally true. It really seems that those who prosper by the sale of rum, and the consequent degradation of their customers, are not only un- prineipled, but heartless. JA Second-Hand Monument. Lack of funds often induces pecple to perform strange anties, Cincinnati claims a. man whose meanness took a very queerturn. An elderly gen- tleman of that city buried his first wife, and eom- méemorated her virtues by displaying them on ua $1,400 monument. In a short time he sought solace tor his loneliness in the companionship of asecond wife. She turned out to be a pleasure-loving kit- ter, although before marriage she seemed rather pious and sedate. Her extravagance made such an inroad upon his bank account that in afew months it was reduced from $65,000 to nothing. A quaint idea penetrated the brain of the impecunious hus- band. He removed the $1,400 monument toa marble- yard, had the inseription erased, und then exposed it for sale. He may be aptly characterized as the monumental mean man of the period, a HQ Was He Innocent? Dy. Kerwin, a distinguished physician of Dublin, was in 1851 convicted of murdering his wife. Inthe summer of the year just named, he visited an island in Dublin harbor, known as Ireland’s Eye. Some time afterward, the body of his wife, who had been stabbed to death with a sword-cane, was found on the beach of the island, The doctor was arrested, tried, and convicted on circumstantial evidence. Many persous held strong doubts of his guilt; and this fact induced the Queen to commute his sen- tence to penal servitude for life. After twenty- seven years’ imprisonment, the doctor has just been released, There uppears to be something mysterious about his pardon, and itis thought that prooftof his innocence has at last been secured, 7 BY SALLY A, HUMES. “}oyish we didn’t have a lawn,” >Said little Harry Gray; “Only some grass to play upon, -And sport about al! day. ‘l-want to chase the buttenflies ‘That filt among the flowers, And punch the ugly toad that Hes Under our rosy bowers. “I want to catch that humming-dird, And kill that bumbie-bee, aand see what was the noise I heard Thrumming in yonder tree, ‘I wish to follow up the snake That hid among the grass, And in that little bird’s nest take A sly peep as I pass. “I don’t like all these pretty things, Just spread_out for a show, Where only little birds on wings And crawling things can go, I don’t think it would hurt the lawn, I know it would.’t me, it I should run and tumble down, Or climb up in a tree.” > @ SNOWBALLING.. You want te be a boy in orderto enjoy it. Girls don’t likeit. It puffs up their hands, an mzkes them red, and the snow gets in their necks and takes the stiffening out of their ruches, an sends cold shudders and little globules of water down their backs. There és no fun in it for them. But when the first snow comes, the boys com- mence snowballing. Schoolboys are especially prone to indulge ih it, and all through recess the fun wages fast and furious, and the white missiles fill the air, and hit everywhere except where they are aimed. ; It is asort of inspiriting sight to an old fogy to watch aset of boys snowballing. How vigorously they paw into the snow! How they roll and press it together, as iftheir lives depended on the celerity with which they got the ball round and hard! How their cheeks glow! How slyly they take aim at an- other boy,and hit him in the eye, and when he doubles up and sets up a how), and says he will tell the teacher, “and then see what you'll git!” the uilty boy will put on sueh an injured leok, and eclare by allthe saints ina schoolboy’s calendar, that he never meant to hit him. He was only firing at that yellow dog of Jinks’. A boy never intends to hit another boy with a snowball. We have seen a party of them set upon a boy who had incurred their displeasure, and pelt him until he looked like a piece of rough-hewn statuary, with here and there a bit of comforter and short-tailed jacket, sticking from the crevices, and a yell which would do credit to a wild Coman- che coming out of the statue in peals of rage and pain, and then, when the teacher came to inquire into it, each and every one of those boys would de- clare on his honor that they were trying to see who could throw farthest over the stone-wall yonder, and that they never saw that Smith boy till they heard him holler. Wise people tell us thata man who teaches, learns himself while he teaches others,and we are sure there are some things the teacher learns right speedily. Helearns to doubt the story of Washing- ton’s conduct after cutting the cherry tree, and he learns that the average schoolboy thinks no more of telling a lie than he does of tearing his trousers. In snowball time a stray dog is a powerful tempta- tion to the boys. If he can get past a sechool-house without legging it for dear life, to get clear of the shower of snowballs leveled at him, he may eon- gratulate his canine spirit, and be thankful that he was born under a fortunate planet. But the man with the tall hat runs the greatest risk. The boy who can resist the temptation to shy asnowball at a passing tall hat, must haye the “original sin,” that the preachers tells about, kept wellin hand. He must be very nearly fit for trans- lation. He ought to have a perfeet record, and a | chrome at the end of the sehool. The tall hat presents such a striking and promi- jnent mark. There seems no possibility of missing : : i i In New York city, where rapid transit has | omand been satisfactorily solved, the travelers by the ele- | that there should be any solid | | | it. Every.boy feels sure he could hit it plump in the middle. And it is such fun to see how angry the wearer will be! and how he will flare round, and look for the perpetrators of the evil deed} And while he is getting the snow out of his eyes, all the boys will be hying flat behind the fence, and holding ! their stomachs lest the laugh inside should break betray them. i : To anybody who is not a boy jit seems incredible mfort in kneading until your hands are ngmb with cold, your ears early frozen, your n tingling, and ypur back, find your hair, and your eyes, and your col- lar full of snow thrown by other boys, and all the time the terror of the law, in the shape of an an- gry pedagogue with three feet of ferule, hanging over you, but the boys tell us there is, and their snow conduct justifies us in believing their assertion. KatTr THORN. ———__-—_>-4=+_____— THE NIGHT BEFORE THE EXECUTION. BY E. T. TAGGARD, The prisoner was to see the sun rise fer the last time on earth, and as he p his dismal cell un- der the scrutinizing eyes of the officers of the law who had been detailed to watch, he appeared to be the coolest and mest self-possessed of the party. He had been convicted of murder, and as it was now broad daylight, the carpenters had assembled in the prison-yard, and the sounds of the hammer und saw were distinetly heard in his cell. He had just finished his last meal, of which he had partak- en with a keen relish, as if utterly oblivious that but a couple of short. hours only stood between himself and eternity, and standing before a small oo he commenced to make his final o1uet “Old Unele Jasper often said I would never comb gray hairs. It was a falsehood, and I call you to witness that I am combing gray hairs now,” said the prisoner. é As he ceased speaking we all looked toward the prisoner, who was giving his huir the final touches. Although he had not yet reached the age of thirty years, he was as gray as an old man of seventy. “And he lied when he said I would die with my boots on, and [ call upon you all to witness it, too.’ Thereupon the prisoner sat on the side of a cot, which formed a part of the furniture of his cell, de- liberately removed his boots, and placed upon his feet wu pair of thin slippers. We were horrified. It seemed unnatural that’s man placed as the prison- er was could act in so unfeeling a manner. “How Game you gray r” inquired oné of our party of the prisoner. “You certainly have not yet reached the midday of life.” “There’s just where I’ve caught old Uncle Jasper inalie. The old man meant, when he suid I would never Gomb gray hairs, that 1 should never live to be an old man; but I’ve got gray hairs, and ma young man yet. Do you want to know how the thing came about? Well, Plitell you. Fortunately the story is not a very long one, or I should have to complete it in the next world. “Did you know Jack Reilly? You didn’t? Well, T supposed every body knew Jack; but the world is large, and there are a great many people in it that even Ido not know. Well, Jack was my pard. “8 broke into many a crib together, we fought the po- lice together, we served in jail together, and we were as dear to each other as man and wife. “Well, things worked along comfortably, and con- sidering thetimes, we were doing a good business, when all at once I heard that Jack Reilly had re- formed—that one of those mission preachers had gobbled Jack up, and that he not only had become | strait-laced as a churchman, but was going to make a confession of his crimes. “Now I didn’t object to Jack’s joining the church —that was his personal business—but when he contemplated making a confession and publishing it to the world, he was not ouly trending on my corns, and interfering with me, but threatening my liberty, if not my life; for there were some transactions that we were engaged in together that would have stretched my neck if known tothe authorities. “IT made up my mind to put a quietus on Jack, and so I concocted a job that I thought would do it effectually. I knew it would be useless to attempt to induce him to break a erib or do a Jittle highway business, for to either of these his newly-found re- ligious ideas would object; but I knew he was al- most penniless, and so I approached him in an en- tirely different manner. “ZT called on Reilly one day, and when I found him reading the Bible I was rather discouraged ; but I thought I knew my man, and sol proceeded. I told him that I had been offered a large sum if I could obtain the body of aman who had that day died, and who was to be buried two days thereafter in Greenwood cemetery, The party desiring the body was a physician who desired to use it for the | benefit of seienece. as the man had died of a disease which had created considerable diversity of opinion among the doctors. The family would not permit nu post-mortem examination, but the doetor was determined to have the body. I told Reilly that the body was to be deposited in a vault; which would make the job much easier, and that his share of the spoils would be two hundred dollars free and clear, “Of course there was no such job on hand, but ; Marys—Commander Robert L. Phythian, | which is set apart for that purpose, and the officers detailed no ener nt a a ee cn Nainital eden tall ba ; | my idea was to go with Reilky to ome of the vaults, get impressions of the Jocks, and then on some.ap- pointed-day epen the doer in his company, and when he had entered, close and lock the door, ‘and leave him to die like adog. “Reilly hesitated for.atime, but finally I talked him over, and paying him seme meney that I | claimed i had reesived in advanee for the job, I élinched the bargain, and on the appeinted day I met him, and we started fer the cemetery. “We entered the cemetery jate in the afternoon and joitered around, sarefully eluding the wateh- men until dark, when we-approached the vault and prepare {to enter. The key needed a little filing, ut as we broughtthe necessary tools with us, it was soon fitted and the large and ponderous iron door slowly sivung back on its hinges leaving free access tothe dark, unwholesome, and uninviting interior. “I told ReiMato- enter and I would follew, but he seemed to hang back, and as I knew he was some- what superstitious [ entered and invited him to follow. Taking my dark-lantern out of my pocket, I began feeling for 2 mateh to ligkt it, when [fansied i heard the vault deor close. Iturned quickly and madea h for the entrance of the vault, and just as [ came in violent contact with it, I heard the bolt turn in the lock, and then I found that I was a prisoner. Reilly had evidently divined my thoughts and had turned the tables upon me. “Tt was in vain that I called upon him. I beat the door with my Sts until they became so bruised and painful that I was obliged to desist; the air was suffocating and the darkness impenetrable. I al- ways was a believer in ghosts to a certain extent, and as Tjooked around and thought of the dead persons lying there, they seemed to rise from their coffins and approach me with outstretched arms as though to welcome me. I screamed in terror, and as I wandered around the vault and had lost all trace of the door by which Thad entered-Sekéat against the eatacombs hard enough to have awakened the sleepers within, if the seal of death had not been set upon their eyes. was becoming weary and faint; I fell to the hard. stone pavement. [had fainted. When I recovered { knew a day had prssed, for I could plainly hear the reverberations of the carriage wheels outside, but no sign of daylight found its way into the cay- ern of the dead. “Again the sounds died mt me and I knew another night had come areund, and began to consider how many other nights I should be a living prison- erin the tombof thedead. Would I pine away and die of starvatiofiiep-would the air of the vault des- troy my life before I began to feel the pangs of hun- ger? Indespnir, I threw myself upon the cold stone pavement of the vault ready and anxious to die, feeling that anything would be a relief from the arene fear that seemed ito possess my very soul. “T do not know how long I remained there, for I seemed to fallinto a kind of trance when I fancied that I heard a key grating in the lock of the vault. [jumped to my feet, reanimated with a new hope, when again I heard thesound of the key in the lock so plainly and dis#ffictly that there could be no doubt of ths fact. Guided by the sound I approach- ed the door. [heard the bolt of the ponderous lock slowly move backward. The door began to swing outward, and with a yell I made a spring forward, ag found myself again breathing the free air of eaven. “T thought it was Reilly, who, repenting of the act, had returned to release me, and I was surprised to find a stranger there, who, startled by my unex- pected aud wild appearance beat a retreat to a safe distanee. I ascertained afterward that he was an undertaker, an eat having oceurred in the family to wheni the vault belonged, he had_ visited the vault to prepare it for the interment. When entered that vault, gentlemen, my huir was as black as asioe’s. When f left it, it was as white as snow. “You know the rest. Isought Reilly, and found him. When I appeared to him he was as much surprised as though I was his father’s ghost. He knew his doom was sealed. I killed him; the jury found that I murdered him, and I am to be hung to- der for what they are pleased to call a crime.” When the prisoner concluded his story a steady tramp of many feet was heard appscamene We all turned pale except the condemned man. It was the sheriff’s posse, hey halted at the prisoner’s cell; his arms were pinioned, and the procession to the scaffold wasbegun. When he had marched several steps he turned to where I was standing, and in an unfaltering voice, and with a malicious twinkle of the eye, he said; “Tsay, when you see-Uncele Jasper, don’t forget to tell him that Aatethet die with my boots on.” A bend in the prisofevard hid him from view. A number of us were so lorrified and startled by his conduct that we declineti to execution. Inthe yard, howéver,: ieee death. We distinctly heard #8 ning of the rope through the pulley, that da %800: hat the de; truggle had re JG Sage men away ina co eeretige hy terrible scene Tt WP ins perience as tit De Th Gast % > a a —— Sndénts: © fainting conditi they had witnea! 2, a wateher, and” in, o >t T oO % cry*y ie S@- GOSSIP WITH | S AND R. S. X., Summit, N. a te » U.S. NavaljAcad- emy, at Annapolis, Md, @* appoin by the President and Members of Congress, 4nd, sc pass a satisfactory examination in reading, writing, spelflg, arithmetic, geography,.aad Eng_ lish grammar, The ilate who passes has to furnish him- self with an outfit, and will baye to deposit with the paymaster $50 to be expended for text books and other authorized articles. pe Applicants must not be jess than fourteen nor more than eight PP ent, een years of age. The length of thé course of instruction is four years, beside which the candidate signs articles to serve in the navy four years after graduating. The yot acadet is $5004 JONTRIBUTORS. can <4 THE NEW YORK WEEKL three hundred and eighty-five thousand spectators, and at this | latter place more people used to witness the chariot races at a time than are nightly assembled in all the public places of amusement in New York, London, .and Paris combined. P. J. P., Pittsburg, Pa.—As the young lady refuses to entirely break with your depesed rival, there seems tobe no alternative but to accept her decision as final,and allow his taunts to pass unnoticed. Itis but natural that he should feel hurt at being “cut out;” and as yor are the victor in the race for the young lady’sfavor, you can afford to be magnanimous. The young lady can do no jess than treat him civilly wen he makes a friendly call, but she might show aproper degree of resentment at his treatment ot you by a Jrigid formality of demeanor, f. L. C., Geneva.—ist. Asiatic black ink is made as follows: Logwood shavings Jand powdered galls, of each two pounds; green vitriol, one pound; gum-arabic, half a pound; pomegran ate bark, a quarter of a pound; water, ene gallon. Infuse four- teen days, with frequent agitation. This ink writes pale at first, but sogn turns very black. 2d. To drive worms out of flower- pots, cork up all the drainage holes in the pot, and+then fleod it or several hours with clear lime-water. Reader, Chicago.—Ist. The 24th of December, 1857, and the 24th of Mugust, 1854, both came on Thursday. 2d. If well mated in other repects, the respective hight and weight of the parties are matters of no consideration whatever. In the case cited, we do not consider them an ill-matehed pair, even in appearance. 34d. Broadway is the principal business street in this city, and Fifth avenue the most fashionable thoroughfare. Elsie H.—State the circumstances, in a written“communtieation to the. principal, who, if such a course is necessary,{will refer it to the local board. If, as you say, the change of circumstances will net render you ineligible for your present position, you might state your desire to retain it; otherwise, it might be un- dersteod that you proposed giving it up. Rubber Boot, New Haven, Conn.—There is no such office in thiscity. From the accounts of some of those who engaged to ge to South America to work on rallroads and other contract work, it is preferabie to stay at home and starve rather than go there to perish by privation and the diseases incident to a torrid elimate. Constant Reader, Buffalo.—Queen Yietoria’s eldest child, Vic- teria Adelaide Mary Louisa, was born Noy. 2], 1840, and on Jan- uary 25, 1858, was married to Frederick William, Prince Imperial ot Germany and Crown Prince of Prussia, by whom she has had eight children, seven of them now living. D. J. C., Glens Falis.—Ist. To clean silver and plated articles, mix a quarter of a pound of jeweler's rouge with three-quarters of a pound of prepared chalk, and apply with a piece of woolen. 2d. When tins are inuch blackened by fire they should be scoured with soap, water, and fine sand. 3d. We cannot inform you. Ten Years’ Reader, Houston, Texas.—Ist. For your various complaints you need the advice of a physician who ean give you his as attention. 2d. We do not regard the “specific” or “belts” reterred to as ofany value. 3d. A Remington derringer pisto] will eost from $3.50 to $11, according to finish. &, 0., Pitsburg.—To make a fine paste blacking, take ot ivory- black, two pounds, molasses, one pound, olive oil and oi! of vit- riol, of each a quarter of a pound. Mix with sufficient water to make a geod paste. A Seven Years’ Reader.—lst. To remove India-ink marks, bfis- ter the part and keep the blister open for a little while, then let it heal, when new skin will form, and the marks will thus be effectually got rid of. 2d and 3d. We cannot tell you. Ten Year Reader, Dayton, O.—The accepted poem wl) be pub- lished in the course ef time. The other and echoes one we re- turned by mail, but it came back to us marked ‘‘uncalled for.” Since your last we have remailed it. C. De L., New Havyen.—To any quantity of glue use common whisky instead ot water. Put both together in a bdottile, cork it tight, and set it away for three or four days, when it will be fit fay use without the application of heat. A. B. C., Greensboro, N. C.—If there is no drawing master in your place trom whom you can take lessons of instruction, pur- chase drawing materials and instruction books and develop thé talent as far as you can unaided. Cc. A. S.—Genuine Cheviot goods are maported from Scotland. They are made from the wool of a superior breed of sheep raised in the Cheviot hills of that country. Bookworm, Newburg, N. Y.—Ist. See paragraph headed “To Purchasing Azency Correspondents,” 2d. It depends on where or how you are to be employed. 3d. He is a quack. John Donalason.—The ticket itself should state what rebate you are entitled to. We do not know what is the regulation of that particular concern. J. H. W., Canastota, N. Y.—The address of the Winchester Re- peating Arms Co. is New Haven, Conn.; of the Sharpe’s Rifle Co., Hartford, Conn. Mrs. G. . T., Masthope, Pa.—Thanks for your elaborate, thoughtful, and just criticism, which we perused with close at- tention. W. Welling, Parksville, N. ¥.—Ist. You will have to write to the president of the college. keep no files of the magazine. We ape unable to tell you. 2d. We A. A. C., Henry A*or*, and F, A. Smith.—See paragraph at the end ofthis department, headed “To Purchasing Agency Cor- respondents.” J. F. O.—It is said to be fairly conducted, and we know of nothing to the contrary. Mtss M. D.—To gain flesh, eat food containing sugar and Starch, A. L. Sherman, Lanvar, Mo.—The paper suspended some time since, A. R. F. %.. Mazeppa.—The 34d of November, 1857, fell on Tues- day. ; Hic, Betiiehem.—The gentleman has a good reputation, but we know nothing personally of the merits of his preparations. i Constant Reader, Newark, N. J.—We know of no preparationy which will prevent superfluous hair from growing again. { Designer.—You may find a sale for your designs at oil-cloth manulactories or at large book-binderies. Capa, Buffalo, N. Y.—There 1s but one honorable course to pur- sue, and that is to make the young woman your wife. Connecticut Yank, New Haven,—In the recipe referred to, boil the ingredients with enough water to make a wood liquid. R, F. F,, New York.—We have no recollection of the poem, but our files are at your disposal. . Savon, Chicago, I!!.—Prof. Dussauce’s work on soap making may be procured for $10. year; alter graduaiing, $800 per year. 2d. Midshipmen are not a pointed outside of the ranks of the graduates of the academy. 3a. Enlisted men do not reach a higher grade than that ofa non-commissioned officer. 4th. The U. 8. naval training school ship Minnesota, Capt 8S. B. Luce, commander, is stationed at this port. Boys between sixteen and seventeen years ot age, of good character and fair mental capacity only are selected, and they stay in the service until they are twenty-one. The instruc- tors are officers of the navy who have been instructors at the Naval Academy. The boys are divided into classes, and are in- structed in seamanship, gunnery, arithmetic, reading and writ- ing. There is also aspecial course of study in navigation. Be sides these studies they are taught broadsword and foil exercise, boxing and other exercises to deveiop their physique. Boys of mechanical incilnations may join either the engineers’ or car- penters’ classes under special instructors. The pay is $10.50a month. 5th. See reply to ‘‘Warren.” Warren.—The New York nautical school 1s on the ship St. superintendent— under the act of Congress of June 2, 1874. The Board of Ed- ucation is aided in its general management and supervision by a committee of the Chamber ot Commerce. The object of the school is totrain up and edncate American boys to be for the mechant service, but they are also the general duties of men-of-war’s men, and pine and routine of the navy are 2easure. The instruction is very thorough, both in theory and practice, consisting of read- ing, writing, spelling, English grammar, geography, arithmetic, navigation, and ai] the duties on board of ship, in order that the boys on uiuating may be fully competent to take command of and handle a vesse!. Applicants must be at least tifteen years of age, physically sound, and have the written consent ot pa- rents or guardians. Each bey will be required to furnish an outfit, consisting of two pairs of boots or shoes, three towels, three pairs each of heavy socks, drawers and undershirts, three handkerchiefs, one each of scrub, tooth, clothes, hair and black- ing brushes, box of blacking, two combs, thread, needles, wax, tape and buttons, and to deposit $35,to be expended under di- rections of the committee, for completing outfit and supplies needed during school term. Merits and leaves of absence will be governed by the conduct of the pupil, and also the annual vaca- tion. The school ship makés un annual cruise of three or four months, usually from June to September or October. Applica- tions may be made by letter or in person to Commissioner David Wetmore, 146 Grand street, or 304 Greenwich street, this city. rood seamen instructed in for this reason the disc adhered to in a great M. E., Edmore.—ist, There are, as far as known, about 900lan- guages and 5,000 dialects spoken in the world. 2d. The national debt of Great Britain on March 31, 1878, amounted to £777,781,596, or about $3,780,000,000—nearly double our own national debt. 3d. The war indemnity of $1,000,000,000 which by the treaty of peace France was to pay to Germany, one-fifth during the year 1871, and the remainder within three years after, was paid in two years, much te the surprise beth of financiers and statesmen, who could not conceive how a nation which had just emerged from « disastrous and costly war could thus readily remove such |} a mountain of indebtedness, crippled as she was, and with her annual expenditures far exceeding her income, The greater part of the Joan wastaken up with the accumulated savings of the people, who not only promptly took up the first Joan, but when the Government, in 1872, put the second Joan on the mar- ket, the five per cent. renées or bonds were so eagerly sought for that the subseriptions covered the amount called for thirteen times over. Many who had their funds invested in foreign se- curities, of which large amounts were held in France, sold them and invested them in the Government Joan. What makes it more surprising is the fact thatthe whole sum of $1,100,000,000, including levies on the city of Paris and other war contribu- tions, with the exception of 100,000,000 francs in Bank of France notes, was paid in specie, according to the stipulations of the treaty. Civil Engineer,~—The construction of canals is of very ancient | date, the Assyrians, Egyptians, and Hindgos having made them long before the Christian era, Tn China they irom a very remote period, not enly for navigation but also for irrigation purposes. The Imperial Canal in that country is over 1,000 miles long. Of course it would be simply impossible to give you In this briet space any account of the progress made in huve been used modern times by the invention of locks and other improve ments. In the United States there are at this time 26 canals, the total length of which excegds 1,600 miles. The largest and most important.of these is the Erie Canal, 363 miles Jong, which cost over $7,000,000. In Canada there are 77 miles ot canal, which open a communication between our own great lakes and the ocean, so that vessels can clear at Chicago at the head of Lake Michigan, direct tor Liverpool. Theater-Goer.—The theaters and other places of public resort in ancient Rome were indeed{immense, as you will judge from the following figures as to the capacity of some of the principa; The wooden theater of Scauras contained eighty thousand seats; that of Marcellas would seat twenty thousand; the Coli- seum would seat eighty-seven thousand, and had standing room ones, }; accept for twenty-two thousand more! The Circus Maximus would hold 4. E. B.—We know nothing concerning it. De Mortuis NU.—Consult a regular physician. xX. ¥. Z.—We know of no such work. Alian’s Grove, lowa.—No. The tollowing MS. is accepted: **Conquered at Last.” The fol- lowing are respectfully declined: “Hunting the Grizziy,” “My Encounter with Panthers,” “Po Miss Lizzie J.,” “About a Kiss,” “Leslie’s Glit,” “The New Year,” “The Hermit of the Lake,” “The Two Letters,” ‘Tis Home Where the Heart Is,” “Intem- perance,” ‘Story of a Pocketbook,”~‘Ruth’s Thanksgiving,” “Sophie Stevens’ Trials,” “The Ruined Castle,’ ‘The Widow’s Death,” “Lilian White.” TO PURCHASING AGENCY CORRESPONDENTS, In response to the queries of our correspondents who send no address, we give the prices at which the foliowing articles may be procured through the New YORK WEEKLY Purchasing Agency: * Miniature locomotive engine, $4.50 to $20; Templeton’s “Prac- tical Examinator on Steam and the Steam-Engine,” $1.25; King’s “Lessons and Practical Notes on Steam, the Steam-Engine,” etc., $2; Roper’s “Catechism of Hizh Pressure or Non-conducting Steam-Engines,”’ $2; Bourne’s “Catechism of the Steam-Engine,” $2; Blackstone’s Commentaries, $7.50, $10, $12 and $13: “Coin- ages of the World,” $2 50, Art 7 ETIQUETTE DEPARTMENT. 3B. W. H., Hartford, Ct.—To enter a social circle without be- ing familiar with its customs and its best usages, is like attempt- ing to dance a quadrille without knowing its forms. It is claimed that kindliness of heart and gentleness of manners will make rudeness impossible, This is very true, but the finest and the sweetest of impulses combined, fail to produce graceful habits or prevent painful awkwardness. An intimate acquaintance with the refined customs and highest tones of society insuresh armony in its conduct, while ignorance of them inevitably produces dis- cord and confusion. Fortunate are those who were born in an atmosphere of intelligent refinement, because mistakes to them are almost impossible. They know no other way than the right one in the management of their social affairs. As to the un- fortunate who have been reared at remote distances from the centers of civilization, there is nothing lett for them to do but to make a careful study of unquestionable authority in those mat- ters of etiquette which prevail among the most refined people. High breeding may be imitated, and a gentie courtesy of man- ner may be acquired through the same proeess by which other accomplishment is pertected. Even a disagreeable duty may be so beautitied by graciousness that it will appear almost as if it were acompliment. Elegant manners should not be considered beneath the attention of any man or any woman. They will carry a stranger farther up the hights of social ambition than money, mental culture, or personal beauty. Combine elegance of manners with thoughtfulness, and any other of the three powers, and the world is vanquished. There is no greater mis- ake than to suppose that etiquette must of necessity be a‘ cold formality. The warmth or chill of one’s conduct 1s regulated by private sentiment, and a kindliness is always all the more beau- tiful if it is graceiully and appropriately extended. Therefore, if your comrades sneer it you for trying to be polite and manner- ly, take no heed of their sneers, for more‘likely than not they do it to hide their own deficiency in that particular point of good breeding wherein they sce that you are familiar. W. HH. B., New York.—Ist. If a gentleman is visiting a young lady with a view of making her his wife, and she is aware of that fact, we think if she receives his visits with that understanding, she should not receive the visits ot other young gentlemen, or t to places of amusement, without she first t of the gentleman whose attentions she is receiv- | their escor has the ing as her accepted lover, and if he does not visit other young ladies, nor invite them to accompany him to places of amuse- ment, we think the lady should ail the more serupulously avoid doing anything that she knows he would disapprove of. 2 Any young lady knowing a gentleman to be unworthy respect by virtue of some ungentlemanly action w society cannot receive his visits without injury to respect and dignity. 3d. Jf a gentleman has p has no right to break it, unless to prevent cri very dear friend from ignominy and shame he would be justified in so doing. but a ] lightly made, and should be kept to the really appalling threatens some part that case it nay be withdrawn, but the one to whom it was given. conse! Belle Baseomb, Conneout, O0.— ble that people shall fail to see young lady has accepted the ehurch, or any evening there would be no in but if a late hour, should not expe or within thre he should no lady's ewstom to receive, except upon certain Rhys, the gentle- | IMun May leave his card, and the lady should make it in her way to invite him to some evening reception at her home as early as convenient, providing always of eourse if she cares to retain him among oe ist of gentlemen friends. 3d. A lady may ac- cept a present from agentieman acquaintance if it is not of any great value, but valuable presents should only be given to be- trothed lovers, or very intimate friends. Charles H., Rochester, N. Y.—lst. A debut is a barrier between an immaturity of character and culture, and an admission of the completion of beth. Previous to this event a young gir! is not supposed to be sufficiently intelligent to be interesting to her elders among her own sex, and certainly not worldly-wise enough to associate with gentlemen. n New York’s best society she is never seen at a party that is composed of mature people outside of her father’s house, previous to the finishing of her education; nor is she present at any formal entertainment given at her own residence, except it be om. birthday auniver- saries, christenings, or marriages. . ‘ Queente.—The gentleman owes you an apology, has made it, and explained why he failed to keep” his ment with you, the only course for you to adopt is whe meet him to treat him with the utmost frigidity. Be ladylike always, but do not by any word, Jook, or act, give him an opportunity to approach you on equal terms unt he has made an apology for hrs ungentlemanly behaviour, for it was de- eidedly ungentlemanly to make an appointment and fail to keep it, without giving some very plausible excuse or reason for hav- ing failed. Laura.—No, do not ask him for an explanation, but wait until he is ready to give it. His actions were certainly not those of a gentleman, for if he had no other reason, only that he had heard something about the lady’s family, he should not haye made her the sufferer without first ascertaining the truth of the statement, and heard from her own lips the story at which he seems to have taken offense. We do not think he is worthy of a mo- ment’s consideration from the young lady. T. H., Chili, Ind.—If the gentleman is acquainted with the young lady, and her residence is in another town from his own, he may with perfect propriety write to her a note, asking if a cor- respondence with himself would be agreeable. She will of course write to him if it is, if not she need not answer his letter. She has pertect liberty to do as she feels disposed. ot TO A DYING PEACOCE. BY WILLIAM BRADSHAW. Oh, beautitul bird, at the close of your Hfe, Which your Juno regards with regret, Have you no relation, no mother, no wife; Whose features with sorrow are wet? Say, is there no friend to bemoan you, sweet bird, Not a breast to heave sympathy’s sigh, No down-sovered bosom by tenderness stirred, Nor a knelj to be heard when you die? What feelings were yours during life’s little span? Were they those of affection and hate? Hac yout little hopes and misgivings; like man, Or, with joy, was your bosom elate? : Perhaps, pretty one, you were loaded with grief, Which you now can surrender with all The willingness given, with Lethe's relied, To those who are freed from its thrall. How many have gazed on your plumage for hours, When its colors, while shown to the light, Were tender and fresh as the tints of the flowers, And afforded as true a delight! The pencil of nature was handled for you With a care that declared you her pet; Nor is there on earth, or in Heayen, a hue That was wanting upon her palette. Your virtues were many, but still you must own, That your nature, like others, was frall, For pride was a weakness, ’tis very well known, That you often displayed in your tail. Alas! it is true that you ceurted applause, When your raiment was fair to be seen; But you hid from the eye in the winter, because You knew you were naked and mean. Away with reproaches! Such faMings have been As peculiar to others as you— When youthful Amanda trips over the green, Her best robe is presented to view. And lovely Letitia, whose beautiful face, In the dreams of the gallant Lothair, Is rivaled by none that belongs to her race, Wil have blooming Jupines in her hair. Ab, live till the sun touches horizon’s brink, And depart in his splendor of light, For, oh, ’tis a pity, a pity to think That such loveliness perished at night. Breathe on, ti?l the lark has awakened from steep, Till he sings as he pierces the skies; ; Then may your good spirit his company keopf And rejoice in the change as it flies. 7 ‘ { chs bo le sis: | A TRUE HEROINE) While the British army had possession of Phila- delphia, and Washington’s army was camped about the city, the following incident took place: The English adjutant-general made his head- quarters at the house of a man named William Darrah, This man’s wife was a true friend and pa- triot, true to her friends and eountry. The house wasin a secluded part of the city, and the English officers often held their private meet- ings there. On oneof these occasions the adju- tant-general ordered Mrs. Darrah to have}the ut- per back room made ready for the reception of the officers. “And, Lydia,” he said, in conclusion, “be sure that all your family are in bed by eight o’clock.” Fearing to disobey, Mrs. Darrah had everything ready, and her entire familyin bed by eight o’elock, when the officers came. 3 As the general’s order had been very emphatic, a higher impuise than mere curiosity prompted Mrs. Darrah to become alistener. Accordingly, when all hes quiet, she slipped outof her room into the all. The room where the officers were holding their mecting was at the other end of the hall. Quickly and quietly she ran to that part of the hall,and placing her ear to the keyhole of the room door, listened. As she didso, she heard one of the offi- cers read an order from General Howe, command- ing the British army to moveagainst Washington’s camp. This was enough. After hearing this, Mrs, Dar- rah hurried back to her room and entered, locking the door. Soon she heardarap on her door. She knew what it meant, but she did not get up till af- ter three successive knocks. Then she got up an@ let the adjutant-general and his friends depart. The next morning Mrs. Darrah was up brighi andearly. Flour was needed for the family, and taking the bag, she went te the mill, three miles distant. But she did notgofor the flour alone. She had a great secret which she intended to make known to Washington. After leaving her bag at the mill to be filled with flour, she hurried on toward Washington’s camp. On her way she met Lieutenant Craig, one of Wash- ington’s officers, to whom she told her secret. She then hurried home, stopping at the mill for her bag of flour. On that cold, starry night she saw the English soldiers leave the city forthe attack on Washing- ton’s camp. Afew hours later she saw the same troops return to the city. F The adjutant-general soon reached his head- quarters, and summoning Mrs. Darrah to his room, he said to her: “Lydia, were all your family to bed by eight o’clock last night?” “They were,” replied Mrs. Darrah, quickly. “It’s strange,” mused the officer. ‘“We have cer- tainly beeu betrayed by somebody. You, I know, were fast asleep when I rapped on your door, for { knocked three times before [aroused you. When we arrived at General Washington’s camp, we found his cannon all mounted and his troops un- der arms. So we were forced to mareh back'to the city, without making the attack, like a parcel of fools.” Mrs. Darrah entreated Lieutenant Craig not to give her name, for she feared the fury of the en- emy. But the English never found out who betrayed them on the night that they marched against Wash- ton’s camp. +> @—<4__-—____—- - Only His Nose. “How dreadfully that cigar smells,” said Dobbs, to his friend Bumpus, who was smoking, “Oh, no, it does not,” said Bumpus, “Why, it’s an awful smelling thing,’ pei Dobbs. “T tell: tec esl C4 ta? ~—, = ; NEE OLD SAILOR," BY FRANOIS 8. SMITE. He was illy-clad, crippled, crest-fallen, and old, Halt dead from exposure to hunger and cold, And a sigh of deep agony heaved his rude breast, As he stood before justice an unbidden guest. “Your honor, excuse me,” the veteran began, “T don’t wish to take up your time, but 8 man Who is houseless and homeless, has nowhere to go, Must look for a harbor of some kind, you know; And so I have come here to make known my case, And see it I can’t anchor free in some place Where my old hull may float till my soul slips away ADM ‘body 4aiplaced under hatches to stay. mM a very oldman, as your honor can see, And for forty Jong years I have sailed the sait sea. Pm American born, sir—a native of Maine— And like most men I’ve tasted both pleasure and pain, But the winds of misfortune ne’er drove me aground Till my head-lights grew dim and my timbers unsound I eouldn’t climb, then, to reef topsails, nor steer, And so an old wreck, high and éry, I am here. “Every country and every people I’ve seen, _Ten times *reund the wide-stretching world I have been, In seventy-five ships a tar’s duty I’ve done, And from every commander a good name I won. But you see I'm jaid up and oan travel no more, My work here is finished, my wanderings are o’er, And all I want now while I stay in life’s port is a hammock to sleep in and grub of some sort.” The kind-hearted judge heard the veteran through, Then said, “I regret there’s but one place for you, The almshouse, old triend—you will have to go there, And I blush when I utter this truth, I declare. ».But I'll send them a line in your favor, my man, “ And doubtless theyll treat you as well as they can,” “Thanks, your honor!” the feebie old sailor replied, “JI won’t trouble them long—very soon I shall ride On eternity's sea to a haven of rest Where "tis said there’s sweet peace for the sick and dis- tress’d, And when I get there, sir, the least I ean do Is to tip the Great Captain a good word for you!” *Benjamin Lewis, a weather-beaten, erippled- old sailor, hob- died ingo the Tombs Police Court yesterday, and asked Justice Kilbreth to commit him as a vagrant to Blackw ell’s Island. “T am 66 years old, your honor,” saidthe oldtar. “I was bern in Albion, Me., and have sailed for now over forty so trom I finished my last trip fron: the Kast Indies . Cumberland, Capt. Webber, commander, the Tam incapacitated from doing duty throug, old age and rheu! . Lhave been steadily at sea since 1 have been ten times around the world, and have sailed in sev- enty- ear. Y. Sun, ae “ey ‘ eright to Dramatize is reserved by the Author.) CARRIED BY STORM. American ports. on board the 8 Vth of last y THE NEW YORK man should have’ successors, troubles her. pins in a paper, are on either hand. Pedes- say nothing. Lights gleam from basement | windows. at the pictures within. Long tables, laid with | white damask, glass and silver sparkling asat Mrs. Abbott’s, servants moving about. Some- times it is a parlor interview, a long, glow- ing room lit with great glass globes, a young girl at the piano, her music coming to where the homeless listener wearily stands ; mamma with a book or work, papa with his_ paper, little children flitting about. rejoins, ‘‘but she’s all right—bet you ten cents‘on it! She street- tramper. She’s a country gal, and greener’n Cut away from her friends, I guess, ;and come to New York to seek her fortune. They all do it! Don’t she hope she may find it!” ‘Where’ did you~ pick her Re: mother asks, still dissatisfied. Thad explains at some length. listens, neither satisfied the Thad’s | nor con- ‘I'd rather have my room empty forever, you know that,” she says; with some as- ‘than harbor half the rack that’s going. If I thought she wasx’s all right. I'd bundle her off again, and let her go to and box your ears into the bar- [ won't have girls picked up from I only lodge respectable young gain! ‘‘Well, she’s a respectable young woman out 0’ place,” says Thad, ‘‘S-a-y, mother, don’t let us stand here jawin’, © Give a fel- low his supper, can’t you, and let him go to hed.” ‘And you say she’s got no ratte g?” says the woman. but she’s got a gold chain, and the best o’ clothes, and is willin’ to put ’em up the spout first thing to pay you. Say, moth- er, you can’t turn her eut, so cheese it all, us some supper.” ‘No; I'm blessed if 1} ‘have lulled her into sleep. }no name, He returns impatiently to the kitchen, —_— ‘She ances on aide on, id ciok about | a hotel—Fifth Mood or the Windsor, i iwhere Joanna still s sits in a cane & rether near her suspiciously now, lest the florid gentle- | shouldn't wonder. but no one | don’t believe you're tellin’ the truthi” the stove. ‘The wanmth, the rest, the silence, Her head lies against the back, her hat is off, her pale, tired face has the look of a spent child. The woman bends over her, and gradually the perturbed expression leaves her face. No—on that brow the dreadful brand of the streets has never rested. She is little better than a child in years; the story she has told Thad must be true. She is one of these foolish, romance-reading country girls who run away from home and come to New York to seek their fortunes. . There are so many of them—so many! Poor souls! the for- tune they mostly find is ruin and sin for life, and a death of dark despair: This girl has evidently been well-off, her dress is of rich silk, handsomely trimmed and made, she wears a gold chain and watch, a breastpin and ring. And the shawl on her lap, the wo- man’s eyes glisten as she lifts it. All her life it has been her ambition to own a shawl like this, all wool, deeply, darkly, beauti- fully red. All her life it has been an ambi- tion unattained. ‘*] will keep her a fortnight for this shaw],” she thinks, replacing it, ‘‘if she’s a mind to make the bargain.” Thad is calling lustily for his supper. It is soon set before him, some slices of cold corned beef, some bread and butter, and coffee. ‘The lad falls to with an appetite, and his mother gently awakens Joanna. ‘*You must be hungry,” she says; ‘‘take some supper and go to bed,” But Joanna is not hungry, she dined late, and fared well. She is very, very tired, though, and will go to bed, with her host- ess’ permission. ‘My name is Gibbs,” suggests the mat- ron, taking one of the lamps, ‘*Mrs. Gibbs. Will you tell me yours?” For a moment there is a pause. She has ‘The hated one of Sleaford is not hers, she would not retain it if it were. Blake, she thinks of giving, but no, she h- no right to poor George’s name. one that belongs tc her, is Joanna—Wild Joanna. ‘Then it flashes upon her—she has only to reverse that, and she is now chris- tened for life. ‘*My name is Wild,” Wild.” ‘And you look it,” thinks Mrs. Gibbs, going on with the lamp, ‘‘wild by name and wild by nature, I dare say. But you're not a street-tramper, and that’s a beautiful shawl, so it’s all right.” The room is a tiny attic chamber, with a sloping roof, and lit by only two lights of glass. The bed is wide enough to lie down on, but certainly to turn in it would bea serious risk. Still it looks perfectly clean, and that is everything. The floor is bare, one chair comprises all the furniture there is | space for. “*T hope you wijl sleep well,” says Mrs. Gibbs, kindly. ‘'There’s a bolt on ‘the docx, if you've a mind to, but you're quite safe up here.” “‘Thank you,” night.” Mrs, Gibbs returns to her son and her work—two is Aer general hour for retiring. **Gone to roost, has she?” inquires Thad, still going inte his supper with energy and appefite. ‘‘she’s a rum ‘un, she is. Won- der if her mother knows she’s out ?” And so, by the mercy of Heaven, Joanna is saved from the streets, and sleeps deeply, dreamlessly, and long, in her hard little attic bed. she says, ‘‘ Joanna Joanna says. ‘*Good- CHAPTER VI. IN WHICH JOANNA FINDS HER FORTUNE. fTO BE CONTINUED! mene 7 WIDOW’S WAGER. A TALE OF Northern Hearts and Southern Homes. By ROSH ASHLHEIGH, OF SOUTH CAROLINA, {“The Widow’s Wager” was commenced in Nb. D1. Back Nos, can be ootained from any news agent in the United States.) CHAPTER IX. A FELLOW TO THE GLOVE. By what instinet she did it she knew not then nor after; but Ethel did stop and carefully _re- place the lumpof sodas she had found it. Her foot-print was still upon its surface. She lightly scattered the dead leaves and louse pine-straw around it; and having taken a minute survey of ;the pluce—setting certain distinguishing features in her remembrance—she hastened homew: ird, the gloye and the weapon concealed within the heavy folds of her seal jacket, and held fast against her breust. It was quite dark when she re-entered the chateau. She went directly to her chamber—not the bridal one, but another that she had chosen for herself, The dusky, tire-woman, Juliet, sat idle on the rug before the brighteak fire, enjoying the immu- nity from all other labors which her post of cham- bermaid to “the young missus” allowed. The oa ee showed her white teeth as Ethei en ere? é “Mus? tek off your tings, ma’am ?” asked Juliet, briskly, laying her dark, shiny hands on the sleeve of her mistress’ cloak. “Not yet till lam somewh at warm. ask Mrs. Howe to send me s *Clare to gracious, she got much manners fur niggers as ef dey been white,” muttered Juliet, as she closed the door upon the graceful figure that stood before the chimney-piace in the ruddy fire glow, but which now hurriedly moved to the door and fastened it on the inside: then taking the con- cealed articles from her cloak Ethel sat down over- come with the reaction of strange and shapeless thoughts that were not thoughts, yet seemed to be so ina dervish whirl of wild ¢onfusion. There were six chambers to the pistol. All were filled with cartridges save one. There were damp eurth stains on the polished metal that had rusted alittle in spots. Sheturned from it cold and sick with horror. The glove was damp,too, and much discolored, but. quite whole. Both were hasfily wrapped in her handkere hief, and locked in a desk of which the key was always | kept about her person. The door was unlocked again, fast as Juliet’s heavy eB ord. mit on the stairway outside. ord, ma’am, you looks as white as the whites | of my eyes!” eried Juliet, as she stopped before | Ethel, handing the glass of wine. “T am a little tired. and very eold still, Juliet, but | that isall. If you will hel p me to get my chamber- | wrapper and slippers on, I shall soon feel eomfort- | | Go dow a and some wine, please.’’ able.” The unrobing was duly accomplished, and Ethel | soon seated in. the warm bright ingle—a robe of | azure-blue eashmere girded with a silken cerd | about her waist, velvet slippers tomatch it on_her pretty feet in their delicate silk hose; and her dark | soft hair all loose about her shoulders, | Like flames of naphtha in alabaster lamps, the The only | light of her excited eyes shone over the pearly pal- lor of her face, and the rich warm depths of her crimson velvet chair nestled her loveliness so be- witchingly that Juliet, lost in admiration, ex- claimed: “There ain’t no pictur in the paintin’ gallry half so butiful as you is now! | Pity dar’s nobody better D, me to see you, ma’am,.’ “T dare say no one oP aa admire me more sin- cerely than you, Juliet. You can piace the lamp and book beside me now, and jet Mrs. Howe know that Ishall not care for any tea. I will ring for youif you are wanted again. You may go now, and alter the dress I gave you this morning. if you need help about it. tell Maum Qharity thatI i she must assist you to make it fit you nice- “Me in a true silk frock! Kil wot won’t dem oder niggers say! Bless her heart, she know’d Td had give my lef’ han’ to hab dat frock to dance in wid Anthony Joshuay at de Crismus ball!” soliloquized the sable Juliet, as she thonght of her ebony Romeo in eestasies over her raed attire in one of her mistress’ bridal dresses, The succeeding day dawned in grayness and chill mists, that shrouded all the sea andthe sand as with a pall. Continuously the deep hollow roar of the breakers mingled with the sob of stricken winds, and tales of shipwreck seamed to come in every gust that swept the main. Fitful rains followed by a vaporous gloom, icy and drear, filled up nearly two weeks of the time that intervened before the grand holiday of Okrist- mas. Ethel was left to almost unbroken solitude; the weather forbade her mother to venture out toward Exmoor unless under some strong necessity. which did not exist, and Ethel felt no wish to stir from the stillness of her absolute seclusion, which suited her mood so much better than the large, noisy family cirele, at her father’s home. Mr. Dorsay paid his daughter daily visits, but they were formal and tedious as himself, here was nothing that any one could add to the creature eomfort of Ethel Haughton’s life,in the palatial magnificence of her new home, and of ‘her spifrit’s sore needs all save one other heats were ignorant and careless. She was rich, gz, beautifal, and free. What more did she wine ate? Thus alone, Ethel watched the dark, eétd days flit by, like restless evil spirits brooding over the mo earth, until they brought.round the Christmas ye, All who know any thing of what life was on the southern plantations, remember what store of gladness was garnered upin the three only holi- days ofall the long year forthe dusky hosts, who crowded all their hopes and pleasures into this festival. The more lenient, generous, and considerate among the slav eholders recognized and respected this feeling in the blacks, and it was almost a uni- versal custom to commemorate the annual holiday with donations, in extra clothing, food, drink, to- baeeo, and license to make merry while the good time lasted. ‘ The severest masters relaxed the discipline, and often became magn. icent in largesse at the Christ- mas time. The day before the vigil of the nativity on Christ- mas Eye, the overseer of Exmoor had requested an audience of the young mistress to know her pleasure concerning the character of the festivities to he permitted. ‘Lisonght maybe you’d rather have no,frolicking on the ‘piantation so soon after—ah—the—ah—the trouble, ma’am,” stammered Mr. Thistle, the agent, ae: us these employees were commonly sallec “Let everything be conducted as usual, Mr. This- tle, so far as the amusements and additional sup- lies for the negroes are concerned. I believe it fas’ been the custom here, as on other places, to al- Genes feasting and dancing during the three ays Moderately, ma’am, moderately. Mr. Haugh- ton believed in keeping things up to the mark, ma’am—up to the mark. It’s best, ma’am—far the best. Saves trouble afterward. Mr. Griswold has directed me to proceed as usual, ma’am, provided it meets your approval.” “In addition to the extra rations of food ecustom- arily given tothe people, Mr. Thistle let a third one be allowed to each one, small and grown, as a present from me, and it is my eommand that on Christmas day a general feast of cooked food of the best be prepared and served up to the assembled slaves in any building you may deem suitable for the purpose, after which they must be allowed to enjoy themselves in any innocent pastime as _ as they may desire to. Let there be no stint shall have a report made to me of all the proceed- ings.” It was ‘something to Ethel in her own desolation of soul to feel she bad the power to confer pleasure on so many humbier creatures, and the idea roused her from the somber lethargy of her own condition totakeatemporary interest in the enjoyment of the slaves. The morning of the great, feast was clear and frosty, and bright. Ethel had just finished distrib- uting her ats of gay preat gowns to the women, linsey frocks to the children, and eolored woolen eaps and jackets to the men and boys, with pipes and tobaeco to the superannuated negroes. Words and smiles of grateful affection had been sounding in the ears of the‘ ‘sweet. young missus,” as the darkeys received their “Christmas gift,” which magie word each one pronounced with a low and reverent courtesy from the females, and pro- found salaam and pulling of the forelock from the maies Firally it was all over, and the whole black host in their holiday raiment had adjourned to a huge threshing-room. which had been cleared of the grain for the revel, which now resounded to the notes of banjo, flfe, bones, clapping of hands, shuf- fling of feet, and shoutings of sonorous monoton- ous voices in the barbarie harmonies peculiar to the race. Ethel had retired to her own apartment, and was seated with a sketeh-book at the window drawinga view of the sea through an opening in the park, when Juliet, who had been dismissed from all fur- ther service for the day, entered gorgeously decked outin the bright sce arfs and the pretty silk dress that Ethel had given the girl from the fated trousseau never destined to be worn by the bride for whom they were fashioned. : “How nicely you look, Juliet!” said Sapte with an encouraging enthusiasm as she glanced over the neat little figure of the maid-servant. who made a really picturesque appearance in her costly finery, put on without respect to harmony of shading, yet not without a ce srtain savage grace. “Please, ma’am, I is come to 2x a favor, ma’am,” said Juliet, looking modest, and showing all her teeth that gleamed with startling whiteness against her shiny black skin. “Well, I hope I can grant it. What Is it?” ‘Jis, ef you wot huh no pertic’jar a-jection missus, to give « consent fur Anthony Joshway an me to git mar ried ’ fore de feas’ to-day, ma’am. By dat means, ma’ ‘am, de Cris’mus aivier wot you so good sto giv’ us kin sarb de weddin’ supper aiso ow hy certainly, Juliet, if your mother ts willing, I have nothing to say against it She de berry one sen’ me fur ax you, ma’am.’ h, very well. I suppose I must give you a bridet present now—there put that around your neck, and your costume will be simply perfect of its kind.” Theimplied sarcasm was lost who, in eestasy of delight, fastened the string of coral balls around her ebony throat. “Where is the ce remony to be performed?” “In de barn, ma’am. Preacher Jake de wait to jine us now, ma "am, Anthony Joshway beg you please, ma’am, let um see you, and say thank ye, ma’ am! “Yes, he can come up to the door. I shall be glad to TPE VES, it on him that he must treat you kindly, Juliet.’ “Hf he didn’t, I lefum directly, ma’am,” said Juliet, with a grin of self-assumed independence as she w ent down to es sort her groom up to be pre- sented to “young missus; » said groom being aslave of one of the “neighboring planters, and only known of by Juliet’s report. Presently the girl returned accompanied by a smart-looking negro arrayed ina style to corres- pond with the toilet of the bride. As Ethel ran her eye over the oon personage a violent change came over her face when her glance rested on one hand of the darkey which was gloved —the other hung bare at his side. In the color, the apparent size. and the peeuliari- ty of the stite hing, that Single glove matched the odd discolored glove that “she had found in the forest. Not heeding the elaborate salutations of the negro, Ethel asked abruptly: “Where did you get that gloye on your hand, An- thony?” it ain’t mine, missus,” Those is it, then ?” “ty belongs to the Same person W ho is de owner of dis coat [hab on, ma’am. L[borrow, both of dem, ma am, for dis spe dal? casion, ma’am.’ ame hy have you not both of the gloves on ?’ ther one lost I ’spec, ma’am—le ast ays tena sed he nebber had but de one. ma’um, “Who is Tony 7 “De ber ry nice glove, ma’am,” “Well, What about him—that is, where who is he?’ “Oh! Tony is Mr, Griswold’s boas: -saryant,ma’am. | Him say dat de coat was a present -and him say he fine dis one glove in de pocket of de > Goat, ma’am Ethg) was silent for a moment, it hs id required all her seff-command to preserve an indifferent de- meanor while ecatec hising the negro thus. She said, re a forced smile “LT think you would look much better without any glove at all the in only one, Anthony. But as Pd like {tomake Juliet ’S TOO? na wedding present also, sup- pose I give you the moneyto buy apair of gloves, which yon @nun,after the marriage, give to your friend, in place of the odd one, to show your grati- on the negress. is boy datJlent me dis eoat and de is he, and eG wm = tude for the loau of his coat. Just take off that one ) and leave: it there on the table, for if you take it away you may be tempted to wear it. and it might give you bad luck as its fellow is lost.” This appeal to his superstition on the back of the generous substitute that was offered for the odd glove, which was evidently considered the crown- ing point to his make-up, quite vanquished An- thony, who instantly drew off the glove and laid it on the table, where Ethel had placed a small bank- bill wherewith to purehase the new pair, saying, as she did so: s ss “You ean step overto Elkton in five minutes and buy you anew pair with this.” Sho ealeulated on his stupidity to take no note of having been directed to leave the odd glove. When she was once more alone she compared the vy dog-skin glove of dark ray stitched with buff silk, to the stained one in her desk—they matehed in every pertigalar, ; Once more the Shadow of Destiny seemed to fall over the lone, frail woman, and the Spindle of Fate seemedto be lying in her hand in the guise of that stra glove. From the instant she had found the buried weapon she had felt herself supplied with the first tangible link in the evidence which would k to the discovery of her husband’s murderer. And now, as she stood holding the two gloves to- gether, the soft rosy lines of her sweet womanly mouth hardened and whitened, coldly and pitiless- y.the gleam of stern thoughts flashed from be- neath her half-drooped lids; the stony purpose of some 1. Nemesis grew upon her features, and ¢ » lowly: “He’shall reap, even as he has sown, the black har- revenye!” CHAPTER X. ETHEL’S CHRISTMAS GIFT. The bells from the steeples of the little town of Elton were sweetly calling the faithful to give R aise to Him whose adyent had made the fair In- ian hills resound with chants of angel choirs, on is day 50 many centuries ago. Ethel listened to the solemn music of the deep- toned chimes that wave on waye swept over land and soa in honor of the Prince of Peace. The dark spirits of all unholy passions that had seemed so long to haunt the air about her “like flocks of evil birds,” took wi eand fled before the tender thoughts that came in bands, as hovering angels, to make her heart bow reverently before the cradle of the Christ. Memories of her sunny childhood, when she had heard in the Christmas bells “tidings of great joy” untroubled with any sadness, flowed softas balmy winds upon her bruised spirit, and with a chastened heartshesat down and opened her Bible to read the tender story of the Saviour’s birthday. Her devotions were interrupted by the entrance of Mrs, Howe. who carried a basket of hot-house flowers exquisitely arranged. “Mrs. Haughton, Dr. Cassidy is down stairs; he sends you these flowers with the compliments of the season, and hopes you are well.” _ Please say to Dr, Cassidy that I will receive him in amoment. Lethimbe shown to my sitting-room, where thore is a fire.” “He is already there, ma’am. message.” Ethel had risen and_ crossed her. chamber with the tlowers, glad of an excuse to turn her face from the housekeeper’s eyes, lest its crini- son suifusion might excite comment. Placing the gorgeous bouquet in a rare vase, she selected from I will deliver your it a cluster of white jessamine. which she fastened | in the knot of dismal erepe at her throat, that rose from its black ruff like a slender column of porphyry. The spray of delicate blooms giving out their oriental fragrance relieved the somber severity of ber mourning weeds, and the soft rosy flush, that would not die out of her eheek, mocked the garb of woe, when Ethel en- tered the warm, dim chamber, where her guest awaited her. He seemed to have been watching the door by which she had to appear, for his bright, flashing smile was on his lips, and a weleome that thrilled to her loucly heart beamed out from the dark tawny depths of his cyes. : : _. He reached out both hands to her, and “she filled them both with glad, tremulous palms. “I could not resist the temptation to bring a Christmas greeting, you see,” he said, as he stood high above her, looking down on the silent, yet eloquent face, with a thirst in his gaze as of one who looks on fresh fountains after parched long- DER vid you want to resist it?” a3 you, yes; for myself, a thousand times, no “I cannot see why you should not have come, at least to-day, when happiness belongs of right even to the most unhappy.” “That was my own thought, and solam here.” “Your flowers are so lovely—who arranged them? It was an artist-hand that did——” “Phen Pam vain of the work, since you think so. My own hand gathered and grooped them from m own conseryatory. Itisagem of a place. TIwould | like to show it you,” : “Then you love floriculture?” “Llove every thing that pertains to nature, and that science which reaches nearest her great heart- throbs, is the dearest to me.” “You mean your profession?” “Yes,and its attending studies-for no physician can be atrue artist or scientist whose art is purely with the mechanism of the body. Unless he can connect each pulsing vein, each quivering fiber with the grand life-center of the immortal as well “ i Borat being, he is but a wretched cobbler at is trade.’ “Accordipvg to that theory there would be few artists, then, for to be so requires what few men possess, that deep underlying sympathy that can touch the pulse of the mind, as the material sense touches the pulse of the blood,” Very true, but cobblers are good in their places. Commonplace’ workmen can do ordinary work as well asa master. But weare waxing metaphysical, | and in this presence [ consider such discussion | ure waste of time. It delights me to see you ates so much stronger than at my last visit. The usual tension has been relaxed in some way.” “Why do you say that?” ' *“Bocause I see its effects. I have thought of you much during the dark chill days, and feared should find you worn by the confinement indoors, and the strain of your pent up thought. Have you been reading?” “Not much.” =) SOE oae = “One need only note the immutable light in your | eyes and the lines of your mouth to know that much. “Where did you study physiognomy, fair critic?” “T fear the term ‘study’ is too dignified for any of my wcquirements; I believe [ know most things by a sort of evolution,” suid Ethel, with a pretty move- ment of her head that seemed to repudiate all men- tal responsibility. “A good kind of knowledge—perhaps the best. But I must go now, and I find it easier, knowing I shall see you ain before another sunrise—if— always, if God pleases.” “Do not be late, or you will miss the fun ofthe ya ana tree—the children are sure to be impa- ient—— “Ay, and grown people too for that matter. I will come early. Good-day.” CHAPTER XI. THE CHRISTMAS TREB. It was a bright and merry scene that met Erl Cassidy’s sight when he entered the long, low sit- ting-room on the ground floor at Rosemary—Mr. Dorsay’s plantation house. Ethel’s young sisters and brothers had gathered a party of the neighbor- ing children to share in their enjoyment of the Obristmas tree which “Sister Ethel’ had provided for their entertainment. There was a look of solid, unpretentious comfort in the dark wainscoted room—the old-fashioned furniture—the brown stuff euttains—the rich-hued carpet—and most of all the great, wide chimney, where huge logS were blazing and crackling in defiance of the sharp, cold night. In the center of the apartmenta long table was laid and fairly loaded with dainty edibles. Out of the middle of the table, froma huge pot of earth draped with gray moss and ivy, rose the wonder- au tree that Santa Claus had hung with beautiful gifts. ; Thesignal had not. yet been given for taking down the presents, and the admiring children were gazing in rapt amazement at the gorgeous display of toys,and ornaments. and books that filled the rich green holly branches, whose scarlet berries shone like gems in the taper lights that had been fastened among the boughs. A quadrille of the older gitls and boys was being danced to the music of the piano, Ethel having the honor to play to them. For the time she had forgotten her woes, and gave her young spirit up with the genuineness of unaffected and natural youth to the infectious gayety of the children’s revel. A warm, soft color glowed on her cheeks, and dyed the velvet richness of her smiling mouth; light and laughter werein her lovely dark eyes, and all her lithe form seemed vibrant to the rapid strains of the brilliant music that her skilled fingers woke from the instrument. : It was thus with Ethel when Dr. Cassidy entered, and stood for some moments with his eyes fixed on | her sparkling face before she became aware of his presence. But when at last the quiet magnetism of his gaze reached her, she turned her head with a quick, startled motion, as if she had been suddenly | called or touched, though no one had come near, and in an instant all her face and throat were rosy | red. She went on with the music, but .knew she | had lost time, and struck wrong notes. | Meantime the doctor had been slowly crossing the | chamber, his eyes still on her, till he stood near the jend of the piano. Ethel had grown very nervous, and was making mistakes in every bar. She said, trying to seem | collected: 3 “You see I am turned piper for the little ones to | dance,” 3 “Yes, but you are giving them bad music,” he answered, with a mischievous smile, and looking down on her pretty white hands. “Oh, sister, what is the matter? You make us lose step all the time, and you were doing so nicely before.” cried Lena Dorsay, petulantly, as for the third timeshe put her partner out. “She is trying to do two things at once—talk. and play—and consequently is doing neither of them properly,” said the doctor, now smiling broadly in Ethel’s troubled eyes, “Please you come away from her then, doctor, watt our dance is finished,” said. Miss na, pertly. ; “Yes, scold him, Lena; he interrupted me,” said | Ethel, quite reeovering her self-poise, and contin- uing the music in excellent style. |}, “It is queer that a woman who can bear such high-pressure in the gravest affairs with your in- domitable nerve, should be upset so by a trifle,” said the doctor, placing himself immediately be- hind Ethel’s shoulder. “You are not very complimentary to yourself, and I would not designate six feet of such nervous masculinity ‘atrifle’” Soe laughed, in his light, sweet way, and said: “You eould easily be mesmerized.” “Why do you sity so?” : “Your sensibilities are so extremely delicate; you take impressions so eleetrieally.” “How do you know that? Jad thought myself ularly aplomb and placid. or are So, ON the surfaces but all the more sen- tient at the core because of the sustained effort.you make'to appear calm. y did you Sturt so, a Httle while ago?” oe “IT don’t know: I felt a sudden, indefinable im- ulse that made me loek round, and when { did ook, and saw you standing there, I got a little neryous, as one would naturally on being surprised with uny near presence.” = “You couldn’t by any possibility account for the impulse, I presume ?” . “Oh, you ave teasing me; and I know you flatter yourself that it was the polarity of your look that drew my head irresistibly round.” ‘ “No, not the look. but something behind it. Eyes have no power in themselves.” “IT should not like to think that any one possessed a er that controlled my acts without my own volition.” “Not even so much as would cause you toturn your head unless your will had first been consulted, eh? There! your task is oyer. Now that the dance is ended, you can turn your face round und talk to me instead of aé me.” ee “You are restive under anything that divides one’s attention with you. Do vou know that I think men are dreadful egotists ? They are so absolute “Of course that is true of whole-natured men, If they have a want at all, it is a perfect want, and nothing less than a perfect supply can content it. For that matter the same is true of every being, Yes, om I} and imperative about everything.” “Dreaming then? Yes; you are happy in this, that no yapors of the weather-world can clog the wings of your fancy so heavily as to keep them} from the bright empyreal regions of dreams,” Ethel, dropping her lids betwixt her transparent only nature has made women infinitely adaptable, and they are less apt to assert this absolutism than menare. Then, also, there is not so much to foster |itin your sex.” “Tshali-become afraid of you after awhile,” said | | wouldsay. [sometimes wonder why women should “Indeed no; but everything to repress it, one soul and the clear divining eyes that read its secret | have mind, or will, or purpose, when all the ten- nature as if it were written on a page.” } oW hy? Because Lunderstand you so well? That need not Bighten you, mined ou have nothing to be asbamed of in all your natube. “Not, perhaps to be ashamed of, but much that I would grieve to have revealed to any mortal.” “Things that are so saered and so sweet to your ewn heart, that you will not even let your own thoughts meddle with them, unless when sancti- fied for the task by solitude and silence. Is that . it?’’ : : “You shall. not put me thus upon the inquisitorial rack,” said Tebeh haghiag nervously, and feeling her whole being glow in the steady gaze of Erl Cas- sidy’s eyes. : A “Te is cruel, but you know there is an inherent love of torture in human nature, It crops outin the prattling baby who worries a butterfly to see its bright wings flutter, and the golden dust scatter from its down.” ae ‘ “Yes, and you who are scientists are still more eruel, you dissect every thing.” “Naturally. The goddess whom we serve is om- niverousin her appetite—all things are mete for the scalpel, which is the sacrificial knife with which she arms her hierarchy—and we consider that the fairest aré-ever the fittest victims for her altars, But even such implacable priests as I am some- ne of her life are against the least exercise of it. “Tam not surprised that you have that notion, especially herein the South, where the iron rules of conyentionality are never relaxed, and the lines e sectional and social prejudice are so tightly drawn. “I know nothing o social life elsewhere, but it has often occurred to me that intellectually one might easily eee in this atmosphere—I mean a broad-brained, wide-idead thinker, like yourself for instance.” “Oh, no; one need not try to keep one’s thoughts inside of an exhausted receiver like Elkton, you know,” and Cassidy lifted his heavy brows with good-natured scorn, and smiled compassionately. ‘Buteven to live actually within such narrow limits must wear the moral and mental forces of a full-grown man, I would think.” “Even thatis not necessary when one can so easi- ly have a life apart from them,” “Then he might as well be dead or ostracized, for social proscription is the inevitable penalty for any one who daresto be independent of the tyranny of etiquette in Elkton.” “What matter if one wants nothing at the hands of etiquette ?” “Oh, of course,inthat ease nothing matters; but times show mercy, and I think you, deserve it now. Are you going to spend this whole holiday alone?” *Are you, then, so sublimated by science as to be no longer a corporeal entity?” “Oh, of course I mean after I go away.” “No; I have promised to join the family at home this evening, where the children are to enjoy the ravishments of a Christmas tree that Lam having prepared for them under mother’s supervision.” “Tam glad you will be with the home eirele. Ah, me! how far away the bright enchantments of Santa Claus seem to us when the years haye made us wise,” : This was said in a tone so sad, with a look so mournfully retrospective that Ethel’s heart ached for the lone exile, to whom the yule-fire and the holiday gathering of dear faces were dim and dis- tant as shapes in adream. She said, with eager earnestness; wn you.do something to please me on this ay “On any day, and however I can; you know that “Then come with me this evening to see the chil- dren dance, and take their treasures down from the fairy boughs that.bear strange fruits,” . “It would be very charming, but——”! | “You have promised beforehand; I will have no ‘buts.’ I shall call at. your house for youin the earriage on my way to Rosemary——” “That will not do. No—but I will be there in good | time, after seeing a patient who lives on that road,” : “You will let nothin “Nothing human. You can always depend on my keeping every engagement that I make—how light or grave soever—unless a power beyond my own will takes hold on me.” “Then indeed you were correct ing human’ will prevent your acts. “Do you think there is no stronger natural agent than my will?” prevent you?” in saying ‘noth- Idefy you to establish the. possibility of such a mental condition to an everage Elktonian?” said Ethel, laughing gayly. ; “Heaven forbid I should try! But how does it tonian’ on this question ?” Bs ; “IT would not dare to assume a position so peril- us. ; “Nevertheless I know that you are not in sympa- thy with the local ideas.” “Never say that of me, unless you wish to see me burned as a heretic. But, confidentially, it does seem to me that we of this generation are carvers of cherry stones.” ; “Do you ever attempt to account for this deterio- ration of talent and diminution of enterprise ?” “T suppose the solution may be found in the cha- racter of our institutions. There is little or no necessity for the exercise of either mental or phy- sical energy in the South, where wealth and luxury are derived from the Jabor of slaves under a sys- tem that is inexorable.” : “Yet not the whole solution is to be found there. The stringency of easte prejudice lies closer to the root of the matter, I suspect.” _ “That must strike a stranger with peculiar force, no doubt, and I fear you have had too much cause |to notice the Chinese wall of social and sectional opinion. ButI trust you will not bécome discour- |aged. Our people, though slow to acknowledge the elnim of an alien,are, nevertheless, most hospit- able to. those who do leapor climb the barri- eade—once fairly inside of the magie circle you are safe.” : “I fear it requires more determined effort than I feel disposed to apply to the task,” said Cassidy, | with his eool, proud smile, “as I want nothing | save professional patronage from them,” “Yes, but you won’t get that,if you don’t ingra- tiate yourself with at least a few of the potentates of society.” “Yes, I will. There are two passions stronger happen that you are at issne with the ‘average Elk- | a eeta es ney and love of life. When my skill is needed, it provide against.” “Never let any of them hear such a sentiment from you, I beg, especially pupa. Helikes you now, aud I want him alwaysto; but he is Elktonian to the marrow of his bones, in his dislike of all free- thinking.” “Then he has got a heretic for u daughter,” “Alas! I fear so. mother, and it is time to let the tree be disburthen- ed. You areso tall that Ishall depute you to dis- tribute the gifts.” _ he evening went joyously by forall parties. Dr. Cassidy won old i and genuine interestin promotingthe pleasures of the occasion, and haying been elected “tale-teller” by acclamation, as there must be always a legend of Santa Cheats " elose the Christmas festival, he acquitted himself of the delieate task in a -distin- guished manner by telling the story of “Tiny Tim” with such moying pathosus to bring tears to all eyes. And every one knows that this is the perfec- tion of dramatic power and sensational enjoyment, especially to little folks—and womenkind. . hen it was time to break up the party, Mr. Dor- td and the doctor accompanied Ethel to her car- ringe, + > : “Why not let Ethel’s footman ride your horse, doztor, and you take a seat with her as far as your door, it is so bitterly cold in the wind?” said Mr. Dorsay, us the doctor was saying good-night to ‘Ethel, who said: i “¥es, do; Ishali be glad of company.” And so it wus arranged. Just take my horse to the groom at my stables, | Aleck,” said the doctor; and when Ethel gave the order for her coachman to call at Cassidy’s house to leave him, he said: ‘No; need the tram by way of a constitutional.” hey had dismounted from the eurriage, and hashed, seared way: “Do you not séé the shadoy of a mun passing to and fro within that room? There now!” Yes, there was the magnified shadow of a manon . the white linen blind that was drawn down peers 16 | was the bright, steady light of an astral oer the window—it passed and repassed slowly. light within lamp. ‘tremble so?” said the doctor, taking hold of the ehill, tremulous hand, “Because I know who that “Shall I comein with you?’ “No. It: is Mr. Griswold; you know that [ am much prejudiced against him, and an interview is visitor is.” always disagreeable; but since they will. be abso- | lutely necessary—considering his relations toward me ina be so startled and@“Wiinerved justnow, but it is quite past. Do not come any further, but say good- night , here.” “Good-night then,” said the doctor, seeming not | to observe thé unnatural effort and almost hysteri- entered the house alone. : Seurecly had she touched the door-bell when it the devil’s own smile upon his coarse scarlet lips, of his serpent eyes. {TO Bw% CONTINUED.| 7 THE | GREAT MOGUL. By P. HAMILTON MYERS, (‘The Great Mogul” was coinmenced in No. 1. Back Nos. can be obtained from all Nets Agetits in the United States. } CHAPTER LE. GRACE MADE HAPPY. The Great Mogul, utter censuitation to forego his intended ptgiehwed | events having giver Hem. On urgent invitatifon, choy Lynns. the colonel géing ou : host after such game as the plea of requiring : company ‘with Dbittoged By During that sind ? New York with bit, Bs sure, wrote te Madam, 4 er, a step to which the ts ing ler claim ito” t igo her. 4 Madame Julien Shem).t sh: Thegreat Gol : ken Kyeiyn fox} and she had béen @ ‘ his affections, ree This surmise—nay t))'s cers haste’ to communicates toG x who received the inte ' not altogether believi : As to Colonel Egremont, i} not consider that she had any claim upon him, on ghat ie was gnilty ofany b.each of faith. They were most distinetiv net engaged, and he was certainly at full liberty to choose a wife where he would. She had not indeed indulged any serious hepe of his seeking her until she heard that he had come to Ca yisit her, at that unfortunate time when the illness 0 rt or bad ealled her away, There seemed great gignificance in that circumstance, and when on her return fo sehneol, a few days alterward, she heard ef it, she certainly exulted at the thought that this great man re- membered her and had sought her out,and that there was a possibility that his regaris might ripen into love and end in mar- viaze. The Axtels were very.poor. The professor had acarcely the eoniforts of lite in his old age and sickness, and she iad rejoiced more for him than herseif, at this prospect of an alliance which would secure to them theadrantages of wealth. But now it was all ended; the vision had fled, its brilliant hues had ey and only the painful memory of her hopes re- mained, “I wouldn’t have thoaght it of Miss Lynn,” said Madame Julien, “she seemed so good. She knew, of course, that he came here only to see you. Am honorable lady would not have received his add resses under such: circumsjances, much less have gone off with him.’ “She only went home.on a visit, and they traveled in a public conveyance. Perhaps there was something about it that we don’t understand,” said Graee, seeking to exculpate her friend, but finding it hard te do so, even in her own thoughts, and Madame Julien certainly did not lend her any aid in this effort of charity. Grace’s doubts, however, were not to be of long continuance. On the next morning she received a very long, confidential letter from her friend, detailing the thrilling events of the last few days, and informing her of her engagement to Guy Ross. “And now, my dear Grace,’ she added, ‘‘what shall I say of Jolonel Egremont, the man who has moved New York fashion- able society to its center, and to whose return to the great me- tropolis many a reigning belle is now looking anxiously for- ward? Have you, with your quiet, modest ways, caught this great gold-fish, without even angling for him, when so many have thrown the bait and spread the net in vain ? ed another week at the daily with the sons of his v afforded, but Guy, under st of his time at home od hertnow happy cousras,, on ferSuading her to return to gly, us-a preparatory.mea- ing ler situation as teach- yaciled by her also resign- 2 of salary wlich was due to wW pretty plainly through it all. bo had in the drst place mista- enced by falling in love with her, o supplant her absent friend in sty ag she deemed it—she made , who had returned to school, and with most painful misgivings, yet am reluctant to speak about it. was nothing to confide—that he was only a chance acquaintance, see him again, that he was far above you, and all that. went far out of his way todo so, and itis to be presumed that he will come again. Ofcourse I do not know. } when I speak of you, except that he politely agrees with me in alike.’ there is nothing in the world would give me so much pleasure as your matriace to this noble inan, for that he is every way good and noble Lam certain. But what canIdo? I fear to say too much, or too little, and yet I feel as ifthe responsibiility was in some way upoRn me.”’ Grace had read the lettér breathlessly so ar, and here, to tell the truth, she stopped to kiss the loved name of her dear friend and correspondent, whom she had so wrongfully suspected. Three days later Miss Axtel received another letter from Eve- lyn, in which she said: “To-morrow Mr. Ross, Cousin Phebe, and myself will start for New York, and Colonel Egremont is going with us as far as Des Moines, whence he will goto Ontahato meet a Mr Ganseyort, who came on with him from the East, and who has been waiting there a fortnight for him. He says nothing about his move- ments after that, excepting that he may not reach New York tor several weeks, and as he has never mentioned Casstown, I can- not help thinking he is going there! “Cousin Phebe is coing with me to make a short visit, and to buy Alice’s trousseau, forthe dear girl is hardly strong enough to travel, and Mr. Wolie, who 1s perfectly devoted to her now, is not willing to spare her, norto subject her tothe risks of the He says she is too precious, and he insisted on paying Phebe’s expenses to go in her stead, an arrangement which Uncle Jabez objected to at first, but he has yielded to Charhie’s urgine.”’ “All happy but me! All but me!’ exclaimed Miss Axtel, drop- ping the letter and leaning ber head upon her hand, as she look- ed off pensively, through an open window, upon the distant landscape. ‘My lot is to be one of toil and poverty always—al- ways,” That Colonel Egremont was not coming to see her was now very evident, for he was going in quite an opposite direction, and so she resolved to dismiss forever her childish hopes. While she mused, painfully, Madame Julien, stout and red- faced, came to her rvom, with an open letter in her hand. “Now, what do you think, Miss Axtel?’? she said. “lt here isn’t a letter to me from that Great Mogul,as they call him, making inquiries about you, whether you have returned to school, or whether you are still at your father’s, &c. There, you can read it tor yourself, He iscertainly avery gentlemanly man.”? Whether Grace could read it or not seemed extremely doubt- ful. Her hand trembled, and her eyes almost refused their of fice at first, but after the dancing letters had subsided, she man- aged to peruse the brief epistle, which consisted simply of the inquiry named, and of a well-expressed compliment to madame and her celebrated seminary. “You had better answer it yourself,” she said, him at Omaha, as he saya there.” “Oh, no, I cannot do that,” said Grace, hastily. too indelicate.”’ Ax Madame Julien prided herself on understanding the pro- prieties of life and teaching them, she was offended at this re- mark, and replied with some asperity, but Grace mollified her with soft answers, and induced her to consent to answer the let- ter herself. “and direct to “Tt would be said. “It will bea great thing for the ie uti man .marries one of its teachers. I sha’n’t lack for assistants after that, nor for scholars either, for that matter.” So madame withdrew to write her note, which she resolved should be worthy of the occasion. and Grace resumed the inter- rupted reading of her letter from Evelyn. “J have two more things to say to you in this hurried scrawl,” she said. ‘One is that I shall depend on your writing to me the than caste prejudice, even in Elkton, love of mo-! But yonder he comes now with | and young to him by his kindly | | he became aware of a carriage stopping at his door. were half way upthe grand walk that led to the | surprise and pleasure, and whom he received with ¢ eat cordial- broad veranda of tho éhateau, when Ethel stopped, | . ' Sea put one hand on Uassidy’s arm, and, with the other | pointing to the window of the library, said, ina, “Some visitor awaiting your return. Why do you | 2 business way—I might as well become re- | signed to them. Of course it was feolish for me to | = eager tent rs dismiss him, ar pressing atbels iand kindly, he went bac o the te, while | d. 1 nS on a ae a Qwent back t t gate, while she | least halt by your aid, after youare satisfied of my eligibility.” was opened, andIrving Griswold stood before | her upon her own threshold inviting her to enter— ; and agloatingsvtticht in the coruseating irids i now took part in the conversation, inquiring when Grace was | with Guy Ross, concluded pt on the prairies, recent | iste for that kind of sport. | You have | never made me your confidante in this matter, and therefore I | I know you will say that there | that his attentions were very slight, that you never expected to | Still | there remains the faet that he did come to see you, and that he | all that I say of you (and you may be sure I have fully sounded | your praise), and he always adds gallantly: ‘You are wonderfully | “Oh, dear Grace, next to my own present cause of happiness, | “T am sore I shall be very proud if it leads to anything,’’ she | if so great a instant you have seen him, and I shall look impatiently for that letter. The other is that I shall ask leave of my parents as soon will be called on quite irrespective of personal re- | as I get home to invite you to make me a visit in Brooklyn, and ward, and this contingency exists in the chances | und accidents of life that even Eiktonians cannot | ‘engaged’ or not, you must come.” Grace was inawhirl of excitement by this time, and she did not know what to think, but she could not believe that she was | the wife of Col. Egremont. He would come and see } her, doubtless, for he seemed pledged to that, but certainly he ever to was In no respect committed to her, and she was 5ure that she | did not look as well as formerly, and that she could not “play | the agreeable” under such critical circumstances. The Great Mogul eame, however, in due time, and did not | seem hard to please. He spent three days at the village hotel, and was in company with Grace during all her ‘off hours” trom school, of which Mad- ame Julien took care that she should havea good many. They walked and rode together, and on the third evening, du- j ring a long stroll! at twillght, he grew confidential, and told Miss Axtel the principal points in his eventful history, including, of | | course, his real name and his reasons for having so long passed | I may as well know it.” under an assumed one. “I did not intend to preserve my incognito so long,” he said, | “but many circumstances led to prolonging it, and it has proved of the greatest value. It has led me to appreciate and love my father and Cousin Guy asI never did before, and it has fully opened my eyes in regard to other relatives of whom I had here- tofore thought better than they deserved.” The intrinsic interest of this story was of course very great, and Miss Axtel had showed her appreciation of it by her com- ments; but there was another point of view in which it acquired added importance. am know me now, Miss Axtel, in all respects but one,’’ he said. fully—the love with which you have inspired me, and which now opens in prospect the view of a new life for me more blissful whan anything of which I have ever dreamed or ever dared to hope. Such as I am, I offer myself to you, dear Grace, and I hope that you will not refuse me.’? Grace could not reply—she had no power ot utterance; but her lover was not slow to read in her eyes, ralsed timidly to his, the answer which he desired, CHAPTER LII. BLISSFUL DAYS, Professor Axtel’s home in the vicinity of Iowa City was a very humble one. An elder daughter lived at home with him, and | their chief means of support were derived from Grace, although | when her father was moderately well he earned small sums Lintend to see you safe | at Exmoor, and thep-walk back across the flelds—I | from scientific and literary periodicals to which he was an occa- sional contributor. He was engaged upon an essay for one of these papers when His visitor proved to be Colonel Egremont, whom he recognized with equal ity, introducing pan to his elder daughter, and expressing his regret that Grace Was not at home to receive him. “She will be greatly disappointed,” he said. “You are mistaken, my dear sir,” replied the polite visitor; “I ' have already seen Miss Grace, and have spent several days in | her company. I bring you a letter from her.” The letter, although a very long one, told all that was impor- tant in its first few lines, and it quickly dropped from the pro- fessor’s tremulous grasp, and fell fluttering to the floor. genie he said; “you and Grace engaged to be mar- ried!” Seller to your consent,” replied the colonel, offering his yand,. “Ot course! Grace would make no other engagement than thatif an emperor should offer himself to her,’ replied the fath- | jer, taking the offered hand and shaking it cordially. **‘And you,” said Egremont, “would not accept an emperor for | your son-in-law, unless you were assured of his good character, | and that he had the qualities necessary to make your daughter | happy—is it not so, professor?” “Very true. You anticipate me correctly, colonel, and even the Great Mogul, I see, is prepared tosubmit to some investiga- | tions.”’ “Nothing could be more proper when he seeks so great a | on. “I have but little tear for the result, after what I have already seen and heard of you, especially as I presume you do not pro- pose to fly away with my daughter at once.”’ _“No; Grace demands a century of delay before we are mar- ried, even if you consent,” said the lover, laughing; ‘or, what is scarcely more reasonabJe, she wants until next spring.” “Grace is young, not yet nineteen, and it will wait.” “It will do no good. [hope to get this probation abridged at “Tam ashamed to hear you speak that word; and yet, to be the destinies ot his daughter. ) As to the time, that isa matter of minor importance.,’ They were soon on the best of terms, and Mary, the elder! daughter, who had been only an astonished listener thus far, eoming home.” “In about a week,’’ was the rep possibly spare her sooner without br ing recently lost her other assistant. “Tt will be hard to lose Grace,’ she said; “‘although we so sel- dom see her. We are so very lonely here, and my life is rendered endurablie only by looking jorward to her vacations, which she passes with us,’’ “Madame Julien could not accustomed to sorrow. replied the colonel. ‘ part company with Grace, it will be your own tauit. ’ _“What do you mean, Colonel Egremont ?” asked the surprised girl. Astothe father he was deeply absorbed in reading the re- mainder of the long letter, and he heard nothing of tlus conver- sation. “I mean that her home shall be yoursif you wil, andI am | \ gure that she would not be half happy without you, Is there any- | thing to tie you down to this lonely spot ?” “Nothing but our poverty,” replied Mary. “That will no longer exist. York ? “Qh, dearly. It bas always seemed to me the height of happi- ness to live in a great city; and as to New York, I envy even its chimney-sweeps.”’ Egremont smiled: “Yona are entveeee he said. difficulty in winning you over.” “No, indeed! - But itis too much for much.” i “Why should it be, Miss Axtel? Is there really any obstacle in the way ?”’ “Well, as I said, no such good fortune can come to me, and I do not look for it. Of course I could not leave my father.” “No, no; you do not understand mie.” “Yes, Ido, but you do not understand Aim. He will never con- sent to be dependent on a son-in-law.” “He vever shall be. He shall be as independent a man as ever lived. Heshall have a fortune to-morrow, if he will only accept it. Will you speak to him of this when I am gone? To-morrow I will call again aud see him.” Mary reflected. “T think I had better not,” she said. “Shall J propose it to him now f”’ Mary again reflected; her embarrassment was extreme. She Was young, although Grace’s senior, and modest, and slie dis- trusted her own opinion. Would you not like to live in New “I think we shall have no me to hope for—far teo “Thope you will excuse me, Col. Egremont,” she aaid, “if I | suggest that you postpone all reterence t» this matter until—the | main question is settled.” considerate. Professor Axtel : y enced in his decision by any pecuniary motives.” Absorbed in his daughter's letter, the father heard nothing of | this conversation, and suspected nothing of its nature, and the | visitor soon after withdrew, declining the invitations which were pressed upon him fora longer stay. He would remain in the neighboring eity a few days, he said, and would call often to see them, until he returned to Casstown te bring Grace home, which she had consented that he might do, | This interval admitted ef improving their acquaintance of each other, and before the days had gone by, Professor Axtel seemed to have given his entire confidence to his prospective son-in-law. There was no resisting his genuine kindness and good-nature, for sincerity marked his every act and word. At the end of a week he went alter Grace, and when he re- turned with her, it was a happy circle indeed which gathered | around the protessor’s table and his fireside. although the delighted Mary informed Grace of all that he had was said to the old gentleman on the subject. Thus a few blissful days passed, and then the distinguished visitor departed on-his returm to the metropolis, after many a tond farewell to Grace. CHAPTER LIIL CONCLUSION, The Great Mogul’s palace in New York had been kept open during his absence, and Guy Ross, who had preceded him in his | return to the city, was occupying it when he arrived. ; ment’s request he had entered into and completed negotiations for its purchase, which he had effected at a price far within what | At Egre- he had been authorized to give. “You have saved half your ransom-money for me already, Guy,” said his pleaaed cousin. mit you soon.” Nobody was more delighted at Guy’s return than Job Ross, who came daily to see his beloved nephew, to hear his story over i | and over, and to congratulate him on his safety. He is very reticent | “What should I have done if you had been lost, my boy ?” he said; “I should never have taken another moment’s comfort— never! And as to that Mogul, Pll never say another word against | him. He must be an angel in disguise, notwithstandin’ I have never liked lim.” “You will like him a great deal better by and by, Uncle Job.” “Do you think 80? Well, I bope I will. TI could hug him now, 2 am sure.”’ Yet when Col. Egremont himseit came home, Job discontinued his daily visits at his house, calling only once to express, awk- wardly enough, his congratulations and his thanks, for he never felt at home in the great man’s presence. ‘He ts up in his sphere, fam down in mine,” he would say to Guy. ‘“Heis learned, and rich, and tashionable, and I am ig- norant and low; and though Ive got money enough, lots and lots of it, I don’t know where it comes from, nor when it will stop eoming.” Guy laughed. “T can tell you benefactor soon. Job had been sitting, but he now sprang to his feet with the agility of a young man. "Ts that so ¥ Do you know it ?”? he asked. **Yes,? “Did Lawyer Gordon tell you ?” “No matter whotold me—I know it.’’ ‘Have you seen him ?”” “Don’t ask me any questions, Unele Job, if you please. You shall know 4ll in a few days.”’ “You have seen him; I know it by your looks. Tell me some- thing about lim. Is he adook? Is hea Frencliman? But of course he is. Goodness! How'he did jabber to me that day, and I never understood a word.” Job suspected nothing of the true state of affairs; and even when a few days later his nephew announced to him that his mysterious benefactor would meet him atthe house of Colonel Egremont at an hour appointed, he failed to catch the faintest clew to the mystery. ° ; “T can’t imagine why the dook wants to meet me there. I IT would rather it would have ‘Does the Great Mogu!] know him ?” “Yes; but do not ask me any more questions.” “Tt is the strangest thing imaginable. However I'll, go, of course, Whatever the dook says I'll do; but I would rather that grand Egremont should not know so much about my affairs.” Job went home to improve his toilet, and then he went in great excitement to iniorm Jane of the coming interview, aiter which, at the hour appointed, he repaired, tremblingly, to the house of the Great Mogul. He was shown into one of the great parlors, where he found himself quite alone, and where he earnestly but vainly wished for the presence of his nephew, Guy, to sustain him and tell him what to do and say. He remembered, however, the sensible counsels of Jane, who had told him to be natural, and to remember that his benefac- tor knew exactly what he was, and from what he had risen. His suspense was not prolonged. While he waited and won- dered he heard steps and a voice outside. “Show no one into this parlor; do not let us be disturbed.” It was clearly the Great Moguls voice, and now that gentle- man entered, alone, and, strange to say, with an appearance of embarrassment—nay, even of agitation. His usual dignified demeanor was wanting. There was a boyish expression on his handsome face, and when he offered his hand to Job, the latter saw to his utter amazement, that his eyes were moist with standing tears, What could it mean? Job had looked beyond him as he entered the room, for an- other figure which did not come; but now all his thouchts were centered on the great man who stood before him, and who e} hibited an emotion so unexpected and seemingly so unca for. something more,” he said. ‘You will see your ” | telligence. 3 | excitement he could safely bear, and hoping that his own voice, | or looks, or manner might in some way convey a suspicion of “You donot know—I doubt whether you ever can know. | his being mortally wounded. |} position that he was dead or dying.” ono harm to | | Mess, and have been with him ever since. | quest, and ere they parted, it wasarr | them for each other, when they were apart, and jcou | distinguish them when together. i 7 | to the diamonds, I will Egremont remained several days as a guest of the Axtels, and | 5 “I think I shall have to manu- | THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #2 Colonel Egremont, still holding his visitor’s hand, spoke quick- ly but feebly and falteringly: “Twelve years ago you parted with your soa, Mark, whom you ’ \ have long believed to be dead———’ Believed to be dead! Do you know anything about him?” gasped the old man, relinquishing the hand which had held his, and sinking back into the chair from which he had risen. : The colonel tried not to be abrupt in imparting his startling fn- He eyed his father closely, wondering what degree 0 the truth to his mind. But nothing of the kind occurred; Job saw only the Great | Mogul before him, and he repeated his question, more earnestly | than before. “Yes, I saw Mark Ross in California.” “When? Where? How? Why have you not told me betore? Because you know that he is dead, I suppose, and you did not like to tell me. But you need not fear; I have believed it so long “Your son is not dead!” ‘Not dead! Heaven be praised for that! I wil! go, then, to the ends of the world to see him, however voor and miserable he may be—ay, all the more for that.” “He is not poor nor miserable; he is a rich, prosperous man«=, very rich, and very prosperous,” “Is it possible? Are you sure of this?” ‘Perfectly sure.” “T rejoice to hear it, and yet it Is sad news, Colone ont; it is sad to think that Mark could get rich, and yet forget and neglect me so Jong, and when I was so poor and miserable.” “He has neither forgotten nor neglected you. He has often writ- ten to you, letters that you never received.” “Dear boy—dear boy!" “And more than that, he is the person from whom all your present lurge income is derived.” The astonished Job did not at first seem able to reply. He sat silently gazing at hls companion with a mingled expression of wonder, incredulity and joy. “My Mark as rich as that!” he said. “Is it possible! There must be some mistake! Besides——’ “There is no mistake.” “But if this was true he would be here! He would surely come to see me!” “He has come to see you! Heis here! Father, dear father, do you not yet know your son?”’ “You? You my son, Markt” exclaimed Job, rising tremblingly. an ay do you say this? You are Colonel Egremont, the Great Mogul! But Mark’s arms are around him how, Mark ‘holds him fast. Mark—yes, Mark has kissed him, and again calls him ‘Father, dear tather!” Who shall describe the scene that followed, the tumultuous joy, the tears, the laughter, the still recurring doubts and assurances and explanations! Guy was called in, and Guy confirmed everything, and it seemed as if not till then—not till the jubilant nephew had told the story in his own way, and had showered congratulations upon his uncle—that the bewildered old man was fully convinced of the truth of the wondertul stery. “Then there was no duke,” he said; ‘and that man whose life I saved has never been heard trom. ““Never,”? “And Mr. Gordon was Mark’s agent, and was acting for him all the while?” “Exactly so. I told to-day, and here he is. “Yes, yes, yes; but what a muddle I have been In. That Frenchman! I can’t get him out of my mind.” ‘**You would have forgotten him long ago if it had not been tor the fortune that Mr. Gordon so mysteriously brought you.” “So Ishould! In fact I had nearly forgotten him at that time; but when I began to guess where my annuity came from, Icould think of no one ko likely to have bestowed it upon me aa the you that you should see your benefactor | man whose life I had saved a year before.” “Of course not. It was avery natural conjecture, in the ab- sence of any other clew.” “How long haye you known all this, nephew?” Job asked, sud- denly. ‘Ever since the duel, I suppose, for before that, you used | to suspect the Great Mogul, and say the hardest kind of things ot him; and then allat once you turned around, and was his most intimate friend.” “Yes, [have known who he is ever since the day of the duel. He left a letter for me to be deliyered in case of his death, or of It was delivered to me on the sup:.. “And then you went and staid with him through all his sick- T see it all now.” Job asked many questions, which Guy answered, for Mark had seemed less disposed to talk, being contented fondly to watch A be | his father’s face while this conversation went on. sure, a parent must know, not conjecture, to whom he commits | Afterward he related much of his history, at his father’s re- i ged that Job should come on the next day, and take up his abode with his son until after his marriage, and that the mystery which had so long enveloped the Great Mogul should be at once cleared up. 1ere is no longer a Colonel Egremont,” said Mark. ‘He is | superseded by Colonel Ross, who will try to do no discredit to | his predecessor.”’ eaking up her achool, hay- } “ | than twenty-four hours a large. majority of the friends and ac- | quaintances of the late Colonel Egremont had heard the stor | in.ail its details, and perhaps to none ot these did it bring suc | utter astonishment—certainly not such mortification and dis- y | may—as to the family of Ezekiel Ross. She spoke mournfully and evidently sincerely, like one long | The news spread rapidly, and it may be safe to say that in Jess The great man whom they had all courted and bowed down to ; | was their near relative, and but for their own heartlessness and “T do not mean that youshall lose her, my dear Miss Axtel,” | ; “It either you or your excellent father ever | unkind treatment of Job Ross, might have been pow their wariness friend and ally, tosave them from the guifof poverty into which they were descending. For whatever other changes there were in the Great Mogul, there was evidently none in his | wealth, nor in his profuse manner of spending it, and his popu- | larity was not diminished—nay it was rather increased by the lifting of the vail which had so long shrouded his name and his- tory. His defamers ceased to defame; he was pronounced. “the prince of good fellows,” and even banker Gride had no longer | apy tault to find with him. In his new character, he gave another great fete, surpassin | the first in splendor, and this tume Mr.,Job Ross and Tom Goff, being among the most honored guests, laughed together over the | time when they had formed part of the crowd who leeked on | from the street at the former festivities, and wondered whether ; the Great Mogul’s servants were going to scatter gold and silver coin among them. Gracé Axtel and Evelyn Lynn both attended this party, for Grace had aecepted her friend’s invitation to make her a visit in Brooklyn, and as they were dressed exactly alike, they proved a perpetual puzzle to the other guests, who constant? mistook d scarcely heir exceeding beauty and loveliness was the theme of every tongue, but Grace, as the acknowledged flancee of!Colonel Resa, outranked her fair friend, unwillingly enough, pod was com- peHed to receive the larger share of attention. Her sudden promotion to such a lofty eminenge in New York society frightened and nearly overwhelmed tlie timid gir! at first; but Evelyn, who was more experienced in fashionable life, though not over bold, proved of the greatest assisyance to her. Florinda, who was necessarily present, and was flauntingly- dressed, would gladly have given her valuable aid, but atter some gentie hints from her sister, she subsided into less promi- nenee, and did not lack admirers, among whom Mr. Noah Blythe no longer numbered himself. For Noah was there, gay ag ever, in dress, but much meeker in deportment, having soon alter his memorable flasco been subjected to the guardianship of his mother and uncle, and being now engaged to be married to the amiable Miss Ray, of whose learning he made great boast, think- , , . | ing, perhaps, that she would make up for his deficiency, and “You are right!’ he replied, emphatically; “I am quite too in- | > ; 7 ? : must not even seem to be influ- | that lect. “She can calculate an é€eclipse, that girl can, to a hair’s breadth,” he said; ‘It’s the most wonderful thing; but for my part I can’t see how she begins. I shouldn’t know how to be- gin.’ Jane Goffdid not attend the great party, having pleaded so hard tween them they would havea fair average of intel- ; to be let off that Job, who consulted her happiness in all things, consented to go without her. “What should Ido among such grand people??? she sald. “They would all patronize me, I dare say, but I don’t want to be patronized.” “All right. But Mark will be disappointed. Mark thinks a | great deal of his step-mother that is to be—a very great deal. He would like to have you come and wear the diamonds that he sent you.”’ ‘He is very good—so good that I know he will excuse me. Aa wear them after we are married, Job, not before. When Iam your wife, and Col. Ross’ step-mother, I t ) ms | shall feel as if I had a richt, to wear diamonds, but not now.” said about his benevolent designs for her and her iather, nothing | i F 4 “Sensible to the last,” said Job, laughing. “You are always right, dear Jane, and your judgment is—well, it’s something wonderful.”’ Job’s marriage was not long delayed; it was the fifst of the three on the calendar, and it took place very quietly at church one fine morning, after which the bride and groom went away en ajourney, and returned totake possession of a fine house | near the abode of Col. Ross, which he had bought and furnished | tor them. The nuptials of the younger couples were ceiebrated together about three months atterward, in Mark’s great mansion, which was once more the scene of festivities far surpassing all that had marked his previous fetes, but the details of which may well be left to the reader’s imagination. Professor Axtel and his elder daughter were present at the wedding, and Mary’s merriment on this occasion was in de- lightful contrast with her former bopeless sadness. , They became members of Col. Ross’ tamily for a year, for so Grace would have it, but not.as dependents, for the professor was no longer poor , bis son-in-law having .compelled his acceptance | ofa sum, the interest of which was abundantly adequate to the support of himself and daughter. Notwithstanding ail his munificence, Col. Mark Ross found it difficult to spend or give away his large income, and tothe shoals of schemers and speculators who beset bim with plans for ma- king more money, his invariable reply was that he did not want any more. “Let those make it who need it,” he said; “it would not be quite fair for me to stand in their way.” His father and his Cousin Guy found themselves constantly called upon to accept some addition tothe wealth which had been already secured to them, and, of course, these golden streams overflowed into other channels, so that Guy’s and Eve- lyn’s parents and other poor relations received no small benefit trom them, Tom Goff lived during two years in Job‘s family, continuing regularly to teach his studious brother-in-law, but he grew rest- lesa from inaction, and bis traveling propensities came back so strongly upon him that he has since spent much of his time in foreign lands, and has been eonnected with various Government exploring expeditions, both abroad and at home, never lackin influence to procure positions for which his ability and knowl- edge qualified him. Charley Wolfe and Alice Lynn were duly wedded, and the hap- py groom atoned for his temporary defection by a most devoted love and eet after marriage, and happy Uncle Jabez thence- forth lost all faith in his foreboding wife’s predictions, especially all such as were founded upon a feeling in her bones. As to our noble Guy and his fair bride, we think it will be al- lowed that they richty deserved their great happiness Which they attained, and which they have long enjoyed with less of al- loy than usually embitters the cup of mortals, Guy’s later career and that ot his cousin, Colonel Ross, it need only be said that the former has risen to eminence, both in his profession and in political life, and the latter has not lived in idle pleasure, but has proved the friend and muntficent patron of sclence and the arts, as well asof the best benevolent insti tutions, and that his name is known, both abroad and at home, )} a8 a useful man in his generation, been anywhere else,’’ he said. | [THE END.] > Oo<—_—__—_ MRS. HOLMES’ NEW BOOK. JUST PUBLISHED: A SPLENDID NEW MARY J. HQ ENTITLED DAISY TH A large elegant 12: | this author’s otheg | “Lena Rivers,’ Worthington O; 7 ~ oi ry a ee — ADVE-RTISERS. 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Bulk Baking Pow- } is 5 | stop, and take your love in your own hands—to de- der is almost sure to contain Alum, 48-eowtf a 17 WAT Ay Y a —S125 A SALESMEN WANTED. Séi1: and expenses selling to dealers CIGARS. Samples free. Send 3c. stamp to insure answer. S. FOSTER & CO., Cincinnati, 0. 6-10-eow BUSINESS FAILURES. Lack of judgment causes fully 50 per cent. of all business men to fail, earlier or later. Do not an equal proportion of physicians fail to cure from the same cause? At. the Grand Inyalids’ and Tourists’ Hotel, Buffalo, N, Y., Dr. Pierce- through the skill attained by his several special, ists, each having devoted years to a special de- artment of medical science, is able to cure a arge per cent. of cases hitherto considered in- curable. Many physicians, in view of the su- oe advantages of this model sanitarium, ring there stubborn, obscure, complicated, and surgical cases, for examinations, operation, and treatment. Full particulars given in the People’s Common Sense Medical Adviser, an illustrated work of over 900 pages. Price, post-paid, $1.50. a the author, R. V. Pierce, M. D., Buffalo, rad Thorn in Her Heart By BERTHA M. CLAY, AUTHOR OF “THROWN ON THE WORLD;” “A BITTER ATONEMENT,” “A NAMELESS SIN;” “LOVE WORKS WONDERS ;” “EVELYN’S FOLLY.” {*A Thorn in the Heart’ was commenced in No. 50. Back numbers can be obtained from any News Agent im the United States.] A OHAPTER XLIX. “BE WARNED IN TIME,” When the night-wind blew more chilly, one by one the wanderers by moonlight returned to the brilliantly-lighted drawing-room. dy Hilda saw the earl, with his beautiful com- panion, enter. One look at the two faces was enough, it was no longer the dawn of love written there, it was the full light of the noonday. There was some music; Lady Hilda neither knew who sung or who played; she was lost in thought, until she was aroused .by her husband’s face bending over her as he said good-night. “IT am your debtor, Miss Dunn,” he said. “I owe coe Se a the happiest hours I have ever spent in my life. “I would make all your hours happy if I could,” she said, but he for long afterward thought of her fuce as she said the words, and wondered what brought the pain there. Her eyesseemed dim with it; what pain could she have to bear ? “I hope,” he thought to -himself, “she has not fallen in love with that young Captain Vernon.” How little he knew—how little he guessed! Lady Hilda was very unhappy. She loved her husband, and could not endure the knowledge nae THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #32-- that he loyed another. She could not bear the jeal- ous pain that tore her heart with sharpest wounds. and to this was added, for the first time, the pain of oubt, When she left him to whom all ties, both human | and divine, had bound her, she had{thought oj noth- ing but sacrificing herselfto him. He wanted her money, but he did not want her. She had given him her money and had taken herself away; the right or wrong of: it had not dawned across her mind. It did now for the first time. Could she so lightly throw aside her solemn vows, break the bonds that tied. her, throw all duty and obligation to the wind? Had shedone right in taking such a ecourse? Might it not be possible that, instead of standing before Heaven as a heroine who had sacrificed wealth, title, and all she valued, that, in the sight of Heaven, she was acriminal ? She could see some of the consequences ef what she had done now. If she had remuined with her husband, he might, by this time, have learned to love her—at least, he would have been kind to her, and the knowledgo that she was with him would pare kept him from falling in love with any one else. She would have been in some measure a safe- guard and protectionto him had she remained with him. He would have made a political life for himself, he would have had interest in life; his time would not have been spent in visiting and traveling. “If it be my wrong-doing, may Heaven forgive me!” she said; ‘I did not intend it.” f She saw what leaying him had done for her hus- band; how could she estimate the evil done to the voung duchess? If Lurline had seen a wife by rd Dunhaven’sside, a loving, true, deyoted wife, she would ghave had no need to pity him, and the pity would never have grown into love. “Tt is all my fault,” she said. “I have to answer for itto God and to man. No one can throw off all the obligations of life without suffering-for it.” Her heart was stirred with asudden sense of con- trition and sorrow. She must do her best to make up for it. She must try and find out what mischief was done,and remedy it, not by making herself known—that would never do now, it was too late— but by talking to the young girl whose truest friend she was supposed to be. “Twill go to her now,” she thought, “and give her the most solemn warning that.one woman can give another.” 5 She went to the duchess’ room, and found that most capricious and charming of ladies seated be- fore her dressing-table, her golden hair lying in waves over her shoulder, while Phillis fbrushed it out. The maid was soon dismissed. The duchess went up to Lady Hilda,and clasped her tender white arms round the stately figure. She laid her sweet face on the breast that was stirred with such deep sorrow for her. "Ma mie,” shesaid, “what a lovely night we have had. I wish it were always moonlight, with the lilies in bloom. -I wish all life could be like the last few hours.” Then the elder gir] raised the sweet face and kissed it. “Twant to talk to yon,” shesaid. ‘Sit down here, and let me speak to you as though I were your el- dest sister. Promise me that nothing I may say shall offend you.” “It shall not indeed, ma mie; Iean never be of- } fended with you.” “T have debated long in my own mind whether I should speak or not,” said Lady Hilda. “I have seen the eyil grow, but I have been afraid to in- crease it by even one word. Lurline, lookin your own heart and tell me what fills it—who lives there —who rules it—whom does it follow—who makes its light, its warmth, its sun? Tell me, Lurline.” But the sweet face drooped and was hidden again on her breast. ‘Darling, I am your sister, speaking to you; I) | havesuffered so much—I will tell youthis now—I | much that my life is but life in | have suffered so death. me, ” “y Let my pain plead with you to listen to am listening,” said the figure. “Tell me, Lurline—you said your heart slept— your poet friend told you so—is it awake now ?” “Yes. it is awake,” said the duchess; “itis awake, and will sleep ao more until it sleeps in death.” “Who awoke it, Lurline ?” But the golden head drooped still lower at the question, and no answer came. “My darling,” said Lady Hilda, ‘I know all about it—there is no need fer words. I will speak for rt You were but a child until you met Lord Dun- 1aven— She felt the shiver that made the slender figure | tremble. She went on: “You met him. and you liked @ach other. As you told me yourself, synipathy drew you together; you were sorry for him because he had what was worse perhaps than no wife—he pitied you because, being so young and so gay of heart, You were married toaman who, goodas heis,is old enough to he your grandfather.” “That is the simple truth.” said the duchess. “Then this Fight sweet pity grew inth love, but grew so gently that you did not know whén it ceased to be pity and became loye.” ‘You understand it so well,” said the duchess. “T watched it.” said Lady Hilda, gently: “I saw it all. This love lasted forsome little time before either of you knew that it was there, and when you both came to knowit, there was nothing in it to frighten you. Ispoke to you aboutit then, and you told me it was but a brotherly love on his part and sisterly love on yours. Was it not so?” “Yes,” said the duchess. “Until then it was all right, and there was no one to say even one word againstit; all would have been well if it could have remained stationary.” “Allis well,” said the duchess, with a smile half tender, half proud. Lady Hilda looked down on her gravely. “Allis not well. my darling,” she said, gently. “Your love and his has changed—it is lovers’ love now, not the love of brother, sister, or friend. It has gone beyond that.” “No answer came this time. and Lady Hilda went “Now is the time when atrne friend would warn you. You have passed out of the region o: friend- ship intothe region of danger. Love is very sweet; oh, 580 sweet that those who have it not die for! ; want of it; but that very sweetness hides the poi- }son just as the lovely leaves of the rose hide a thorn. Nowisthe time, Lurline, when you must | stroy it.” “Why should I destroy it,” said the duchess, “when it is my life itself?” “Has it gone so far asthat?” said Lady Hilda. “Alas! my warning comes late. You ask me why you must destroy it—because honor is dear to you, “Our loveharms no one: we do no wrong}; we neg- lect no one because of it. How can it be wrong?” “The truth is so plain, so simple,” said Lady Hilda. “You are a married woman; your husband has the only claim on your love, and if you ¢annot give it to him, you should giveitto no other. Then, Lord Dunhaven has a wife, and though he may not eare for her, still he ought not to give the love to you that should be hers. Do you not understand?” J think you are very hard,” was the reply. Do you? Idonot; Honor, duty, every law, hu- man and divine, forbids such love. If you were free to marry each other, all would be well; the love would be beautiful and poetic then; but you are not, and such Jove—I ean use but one word for it— is sinful.” The duchess raised her golden head proudly. “You must not use such aword to me, ma mie. I do not.like it.” “It is disagreeable, Lown; plainspeaking always is—but it is true. Only imagine if every lady un- happily married thought she had right and license to love some one else, just because her own mar- riage was unhappy. Gan you not see what a terri- ble thing it would be ?” The young duchess rose with a sudden passion- 6 ‘ a ? why should I give te ery: “Why should I be pOnAnDy e? Why should Ido up the only pleasure in my li ih?” “Ask thatof Him who framed our laws,” said Lady Hilda, gravely. ‘Ah, Lurline, it hurts me to speak so to you, you huve been so good to me; but Imust. Imust stand here and warn you in the name of God, who forbids all illicit and unlawful love, that you are on theroad to danger and ruin; that your husband's honor is imperiled in you; that your fair name will soon be written in the dust. My dear! my dear! be warned in time. Send him away from you while you can,” “T see no reason,” said the duchess, faintly. “Our love comforts us, and harms no one.” “You are blind and will not see,” cried Lady Hil- da. “You admit yotirself that your love is a thou- sand times stronger than it was. Now let me ask— what will become of you when it is stronger still ? where will it end? He told you this evening--I heard him—that he could not live without you; how is that to end? Oh, my dear, think—think, and pray.” . OHAPTER L. “THE END OF ALL SIN IS DEATH.” The duchess stood before her like some beautiful bright bird brought to bay. “Why do you speak to me like this? why do you say these cruel things to me, ma mie? ITamnota sinner; you speak as though I were a lost one. Why should you do this ?” “IT want to save you,” said the elder girl, witha rain of tears. “I love you, Lurline, and I want to save you. I see farther than you; Isee to the end,” “What is the end?” asked the duchess, touched and awed by her gravity. “The end of all sin is death—that is the plain, ugly truth. People may wrap it up in a silver vail, may clothe it in elegant words; it is all the same— the end of sin is death, and as all unlawful love is sin, its end must be death.” ] low voice: and the} white arms tightened their elasp rourd that stately | The sweet face of Duchess Lurline flushed hotly. oe Cane that ours is what you please to call an i unlawful love,” she said. “My dearest Lurline, you may not like the word, but indeed itis so. Your love should be your hus- band’s; when you give a lover’s Joye toany other man, it is wrong. sinful. unlawful, and the end of it is death.” “Teannot see it. Why should we not be happy with each other without sin? He comes to see us by my husband’s express invitation. Itis my hus- band who asks him to go out with me, who puts me under his charge.” “Your husband is an honorable gentleman who would never suspect evil. But. tell me frankly, Lurline, if the duke had seen what I saw among the lilies this evening, what would he havethought? I saw Lord Dunhaven’s manner to you, and it was that of alover. What would the duke say to that ? Would he approve of those- long walks, long con- versations, of those tender looks.afd tender words? Would he like all that?” “We have thought no harm,” said the duehess, “No, but after my warning you can never say that again—never. You know now: that you are on a dangerous path and that another step forward may ruin you, Think of it for one moment—you would not like disgrace, dishonor, the loss of your fair name and station. Loveis a fever. When the fever had passed by, you would be ready to kill yourself with shame.” “You must not use that werd.to me,” said the Duehess Lurline, proudly. “Nor must you deserve it, darling. See, stand be- fore this glass for one minute; look at the sweet face there. Only a few weeksago that was a child’s of heavenonit. What is there now? A womnan’s soul all awakened—a_ woman’s heart at war—pas- sion and love. Dear Heaven, what will bring you back the child’s face again?” “Nothing,” said the duchess.—““But I would rather be awoman than a child. IknoWw now what love is and I would not be without the knowledge.” Lady Hilda looked at her in deepest pity. How little she knew of realities, this fair, dreaming child, with her face of poetry and her eyes of light. “You must listen to reason, my darling,” she said |—‘‘you must, indeed. You must.take my warning | to heart.” “What would you have me do?” eried the duchess, impatiently. “Desperate diseases requi~> desperate remedies,” said Lady Hilda; “and as I see your ease, there is | but one remedy—only one. Yeu must send him | away, bad as it may seem; yorninstsend him from you, and not see him again until fou have con- quered your love.” “That is one side of the picture, give me the other.” “Tf you refuse to do this, and go on as you are doing now, the result will be an elopement, or worse.” “Well.” said the duchess, with a tragie air, “I ac- eeptmy fate—I will not fight against it. Ishall never ;} send him away from me, beeause he is the only ; comfort I have in life, and I love him—I am not ashamed to say that I im. You talk to me, ” she said; “now love him. Miss Dunn—you should rather go and preach to those who sold me and whosell such as me every day—preach to the mothers who teach their daugh- ters there is no goo@but money, who mislead them and tell them Joye is only a feverish dream. and leave them to find out too late that Jove is life.” passion of her words. ial ' ‘““Why was I cheated out. of my, birthright—love? | Why was I cheated, duped, and deeeived—told that | love was a Silly pastime? Leye has come to me, and iI findit atragedy. Why waS?maurried to one old ;enough to be my grandfather, to find | frat I had a heart to love and a soul to understand? | I know now that I was echeated—that I was made to laugh at love, made to believe wealth and title everything—made to believe that to bea duchess was to stand on the highest pinnacle of earthly |happiness. Surely if I go wrong, if I do wrong, it | will be the fault of those who fleceived me, and not my own,” “It will be yours, Lurline, You may have been ;}most eruelly deceived, but you have a conscience | of your own. You cannot falsify it; you know right | from wrong.” ~ | “TI shall never send him away from me,” said the | duchess—“‘never. I would rafmer shut the daylight | from my eyes.” |. “But, Lurline, you, the wife of one of the most j/honored peers in England—yon do not surely ad- | mit that you love another man?” Duchess Lurline turned go her with a glonious | light_on her face. do not see what rok see; I know nothing of shame and disgrace—I ne | I love Lord Duhaven.” | dy | yer shall know them; but ilda clasped he ay Heaven help us ; os ‘he duchess looked af ger. ry t doas not concern does not hurt iI ean mete’ ; myself! a | But Lady Hilda wormid ‘would not listen te « have coldiooks. : “You know that it is \beeause I Jove you,” she said. “From the love of amy heart I speak words that, if loved you less, Ishould never speak. Oh, my darling, stop and think? I have known terrible tragedies where love becameaster; it isa good servant, but asbad mastery ¥¥on are so young, your position so exalted, the j plicitly, the world respects you; stop and think be- ore youglose all this for a shadow.’ se care of myself. ‘sind take care of not be repulsed; she dwogds; she would not “and, ma mie, yon are too severe. Why should I lose any of these? I can kee haven’s love as well.” “Evil will eome of it,” etied Lady Hilda; “you will not take my warning, and evil will come.” “Ii it does,” said the duchess, proudly, “it will comfort you to think that you foresaw it.” | “You are cruelto me, Lurline. Oh, my dear, do |} not harden your heart against _me or against what |Tamsaying—do be warned. If you will not send {him from you, try at least to be less loving with | chim. “T can never alterto him,” eried Duchess Lur- | line, “I ean never change. I will kiss you, ma mie and forgive you, is«snid out of pure love for me; but you are mis- taken. See, it would be easier for me totako the heart living and beating frém my breast than to i take from that heart its Joye. You must say no more, i | Looking at the fair face, Lady Hilda said to her- | self that it would be quite useless to say more. The only thing she could do was to wateh and pray. | Duehess Lurline flung herarms round Lady Hil- | da’s neck. |. “How beautiful love is,’ she said. “how sweet!— / how it changes the whole world—how it seems to i} unloek the world of beauty=how it makes every- | thing bright. and beautiful! It would be better to | be without life than without love.” “So many people misuse the word,” said Lady Hilda. “In real love the first element is self-sacri- | flee, and the noblest love is when we loyethe soul better than the body.” The duchess looked up with a pretty gesture of alarm. “You are going to Jecture me again!” she cried. “No, I am not. Iwas going to saythat it was only the most miserable Jove in the world that would drag the soul of the loved one into sin.” “Speak plainly,” said the duchess. “Do you think I am leading Lord Dunhayen’s soul into sin ?” “Tthink you are runing it into danger, and that those who love the danger will perish in it.” “T would rather perish ten times over than that he should be hurt,” saidthe young girl; “but he will not be. It is you who are fanciful, and I will not listen to any of your fancies, Goto your room and goto sleep; we shall both have lost our roses to- morrow. Do you remember the moonlight on the lilies—how beautiful it was? Good-night, ma mie, and thank you.” But when Duchess Lurline stood alone in her room, the smile died away from her face. “Llove him,” she said to herself, ‘‘and I will not send him away.” She looked more like an angel than a mortal wo- man, her long hair falling in a golden shower over her white dréss, her white hands ¢lasped as she walked up and down her room. “No, [shall never send him away; why should I? Why should I make both him and myself suffer? Those who trained me and married me must have | known that, some time or other, I should learn to |love; they must have known that youth loves youth. I will do no wrong. I will keep my fair name; I will keep my faith, my*honor, and my loyalty untouched; but I will also keep him and his love. Why should I not?” While Lady Hilda flung herself on her knees to ask from Heaven that heip which earth could not give,she made to herself a resolution. Talking, advising, warning, were of no use, but, without seeming in the least degree to interfere, she would watch them. She would be with them when she could; she would find companions for them, so as to prevent the long tete-a-tetes, It might bethat the duke would get better, and be ableto spend more time with them. That night the duke said to his doetor: “T feel very ill. Do not tell the duchess; she is so oung I do not like her to be troubled; but, unless hon some change, I do not think that I shall ve. Dark days were coming for Duchess Lurline. CHAPTER LI. A LONELY HEART, A LONELY HOME. What could she do for them? That was the thought which day by day filled her heart and mind, as day by day she saw the fatal love increase between them. Shetried the role she had set her- self; she tried to be with them as muchas possible, but that.in no way stemmed the evil. She conld not say to him that he must not sit and look at the fair sweet face, that he must not listen tothe music of face, laughing, light, cloudless—the very sunshine! She paused for a few moments, exhausted by the | afterward | fou: trusts you Fo jim- | “It is not a shadow tome,’ said the duchess; | p them, and Lord Dun- | You mean well—all that you say | that most sweet voice, that he must not wateh her every movement—slie could not help these things. Yet no moment of peace eame to her, either by night or by day. It was her fault—aM her fault. She could see it plainly now that it was too late— she ought ‘not to have left him—she should have been more patient; and just because it was her fault it seemed to her that she must do all she could. lt was not easy. When the sun shone on the roses and the lovely, laughing world seemed to unite them, when Lord Dunhayen would say, “Duchess Lurline, come and see the roses,” or “Duchess Lur- line, if you will find a seat under the eedar I will read to you!’’—it was not easy then to intrude her- self, to ask if she, too, might listen if he were going toread. She could do it sometimes, not often; but it made no difference. Lord Dunhaven never said to himself that he wanted to talk to the duchess about his affection for her; he did not purposely seek for long tete-a-tetes with her. He was so se- eure in himself,in his good intentions, that he said as much when Lady Hilda was with them as when they were alone. Ho had never owned to himself that he loved her, though he worshiped the very sound of her name. He tried to blind himself to realities, and in some measure he succeeded, szady Hilda saw that she was quito nowerless, she eounld but watch*and pray. One lovely, sunlit morning—some of their visi- tors had left them, and those expected had not ar- rived—when they rose from the breakfast-table Lord Dunhayen said to the mistress of Fernhurst: “Nothing c6uld be more pleasant this morning than to go out among the roses; and, if you like, I will read to you.” “IT should like that. better ‘than anything else,” said the duchess, and Lady Hilda, who stood by, raised her eyes with such sudden, wistful entreaty, that the earl was touched by it. “Will you come with.us, Miss Dunn ?” he asked, quietly. “Yes; I should like it very much,” she answered. They went, all threa together: they walked slow- ly through the rose garden. The. duchess loved that spot better then any other in Fernhurst, just because the roses grew there. “T love roses,” she said to Lord Dunhaven, as they stood looking, at the wonderful variety—erimson, white damask, maiden blush, moss rose—all in such luxuriant profusion. “I wish,” he said, ‘that I were arose. Ishould ask nothing better, duchess, than to live for one hour in your hands, then die.” “It would be a short life,” she said. “It would be longer in its happiness than a life of fifty years,’ he said. ‘I can picture it. I would be a deep crimson rose; I would have all the beauty and perfume of the queen of flowers; then you, walking here through the rose garden, would gather me; then——” “Well, after then ?” she said, laugbingly—“what after then ?” “Those sweet, white hands would caress me; the fair face bend over me; perhaps the sweet lips would praise me, and then, bending over me, you would kiss me, and in that kiss I would die—give up my flower life—in that one kiss my leaves should all fall to the ground and die there.” “That is like a little poem,” she said. “I am very glad that you are not a rose, so that one light touch | of mine might destroy you.” “The destruction would be very pleasant,” he whispered. And Lady Hilda, hearing all that passed, clenched her white fingers, lest the hot. jealous pain should | foree a cry from her lips. They went on to the great cedar tree that stood in the grounds—a tree that was the admiration of every one who saw it— one of the finest cedars in England; it. was like a beautiful shady house; it was of enormous size,and the great drooping boughs made a complete room —the duchess called it her garden-room. Pretty, picturesque ehairs and tables, were placed under the shmde. It was a little earthly paradise—the beautiful light, the rich gréensward, the bright flowers blooming all round, the music of the birds; no wonder that Duchess Lurline preferred it to the magnificent drawing-room wherein kings and queens had been entertained. They were soon seated, and Lord Dunhaven began to read to them; but very soon the book fell from his hands. and he began to talk. “There is a pretty view of the wood from here that reminds me of my home—Havendale,” he said; “it is so much like the view we get from the cop- pres You have not*’seen my home—Havyendale— 1 ave you, duchess ?” “No; I have {seen but few of the ‘ancient homes’ of England,” she said; ‘‘very few.” Lady Hilda’s heart had given one great beat at the sound of that word—Havendale—that had been her father’s home, the great house where her fair young mother died.. How often she had longed to see it. If she had never left him, they would have been living at Havendale now. How her whole heart and soul longed for. some news of the place whieh should. haye been her own. She looked at ithe master of it, but he had eyes for no one and | nothing except the lovely young face before him. “Do you live at, Hayendale, Lord Dunhaven ?” asked Lady Hilda, alter ashort pausé. Ho glanced ather with a bright Smile. j { | “Tought to do so; it has always been the home of | ithe head of the Dunhavens—the last earl was the | | only one who lived or died ont of it.” “Why did he not live there ?” asked the duchess. | Lord Dunhaven shrugged his shoulders. “He was eccentric, Duchess Lurline—a hand- |} some spendthrift in his youth, a miser in his age. | | [would rather not speak of him.” uady Hilda bent her head, that no one might see | the sudden pallor of her face. It was of her father | they were speaking, the father whom she had kiss- ed for the first and only time as he lay dead. | said no more, bufthe curiosity of Duchess Lurline was aroused. ‘ “You need not talk about him unless you like,” shesaid, “but Iam much interested. What relation was heto you, this old earl ?” she asked. “My father and he were cousins,” replied Lord Dunhayen. “Then how came you to succeed him ?—had he no sons of his own ?” “No,” replied Lord Dunhaven, “he had no sons; hehad one daughter,and Lbelieve he hated her. He never forgave her beeause she was not a boy. [have heard my mother say that he never kissed | her once in his life,” “Poor girl!” murmured the duchess, in tones of sweetesr compassion. “Yes, she was greatly to be pitied.” he replied, sadly; “no one knows how much.” Duchess Lurline was looking with curious eyes into his face. “Tell me about her,” she said. in her—what beeame of her ?” Asunbeam fell over the greensward, a bright- eyed bird hopped under the shade, the wind stirred “T am interested Was no sound. seemed to linger in the air. Lady Hilda rosé from her seat; her heart was beating, her pulse throbbing, her brain seemed to be on, fire. She could not remain there to hear what answer he had to make. Dear Heaven, what would he say? She must hear it—she could not go. She leaned against one of the big, thick branches. She was fascinated; she could not go. She must hear it —if the hearing of it killed her. They were too much engrossed in each otherto think of her. She buried her face in her hands and bent her head on the cedar bough. Duchess Lurline repeated her question. “Tell me,” she said, “what became of her?’ He was silent for a few minutes: Then he an- swered: Do you not know? Have you never heard?” No, [never heard even of her existence until this moment. Of course the name of Dunhaven, as belonging to the haute noblesse, has always been familiar to me, but I know no details of the family history; tell me.” ; “T must tell you, since you ask me,” he said. “Can you not guess what became of her?” “No; how should T?” she asked. “T—I married her. She became my wife.” : “Your wifel” cried the duchess; “is it possible you married her? What was her name?’ “Lady Hilda Dunhaven,” he replied. “You married her,’ repeated the duchess. ‘‘It seems hardly credible. What was she like?” “T can hardly expect you to believe me,” he said, “but I hardly know what she was like. If I were to meet her, [am afraid I should not know her. I am ashamed to say so, but Ido not really believe I ever looked into her face. My mother said she gave great promise of being a beautiful woman—all the women ofthe Dunhaven family are beautiful.” “You never looked at her!” eried the duchess, in wonder. “I cannot understand—nay,I do not be- lieve it. Did you not love her?” “It was no question of love,’ heanswered. ‘I eannot explain more to you, because the secret is foe my own; but it was no question whatever of ove.’ “But did you love her?” persisted the duchess. “Since you ask me the question—no,I did not love her.” ’ There was no oneto seethe agony of the white face that lay on the cedar bough, or to hear the stifled ery that went up from that heart to Heaven. “TI did not love her,” he said, “yet I know now that she was worthy of love. Poor girl! it would have been far better for one of us to have died than for that marriage to have taken place.” “Where is she now?” said the duchess. He looked at her. “Do net ask me,” he said. “I would tell you every thought, every secret of my own—I may not-tell hers. There is a mystery about my married life, Lurline, I may tell no one. That mystery has made for me a lonely heart,a lonely home, a lonely life——” He stopped suddenly. A. low, wailin to them, and looking up, he saw that had fallen with her face on the grass. “She has fainted,” said the duchess, It must be the strong perfume; she will soon be all ‘right. What a beautiful face it is—how white and still!” (TO BR CONTINUED.) ss « ery came Lace Hilda She | the deep boughs. but where those three sat there | The words that the duchess gpoke | Pleasant Paragravhs (Most of our readers are undoubtedly capable of contributing toward making thiscolumn an attractive feature of the NEW YORK WEEKLY, and they will oblige us. by sending for publica- tion anything which may be deemed of suflicient interest. for general perusal. lt is not necessary that the articles shoud be penned in scholarly style; so long as they are pithy, and likely to afford amusement, minor detects will be remedied The Fungus Family At Home. The Fungus family having got duly settled, and their pictures arranged upon the walls. great pleas- ure is felt by the many who visit them and listen to deseriptions of their travels, which combine both amusement and instruction. Music is introduced as an element of interest, and the singing of Miss Cecelia Fungus ene admirable by her many admirers. er father is very proud of her, but represses his enthusiasm,.and recently, when she was being praised by a visitor, he replied: “Oh, she is passe,” asif he would mitigate the compliment. ‘‘When I was in Europe,” said he, “I thought some of having her educated to be a ma- donna, but the professor found fault with her reg- ister, as if she were a stove, and I gaye it up.” ‘Did you attend the opera while abroad?” one asked. “Oh, yes, of course, because ’twas the fashion. I couldn’t understand a word that was sung, though, and if I bought a laboratory it didn’t help it any, for ‘twas all Greek tome. I’d much rather hear the Swiss mountain horns making the welcome ring. “Did you like the'Matterhorn?” “T don’t think I heard that; I missed it somehow; but I heard a good many of ’em, and their reverte- bration among thehills was very pleasant, espe- cially in a fog.” : “Did you go to Bern?” “To burn? No, not 1;’twas in August, and I went to cool off. But we all burnt bad enough, let me tell you—fully as bad as we should at home.” “You at Jeast had pure air?” “Yes, outdoors; but let metell you that moun- tain goats and mules, though nice in travels and poems, are far different when regarded as fellow- oarders at mountain inns, and their smell is not aromantic by any means. Where pigs and hens, goats, mules, and travelers are thrown together al- most indiscrimagingly, you can imagine how offen- sive the atmosphere must be to sensitive oilfacto- ries. “Did you see the Jungfrau and Mont Blane?” “Well, no, l can’t say I did. Wetook some pains to do so by climbing up goat-paths so narrow that itseemed we must. bethrown into the mountain chasms below; and hereis another humbug. Those things are all advertised in the guide-books, but when you goto see ’em they are postponed on ac- count of the weather. Ihadn’t timeto spendin such fooling, so went back to where I started from. But there are mountains enough all round there, without caring for these trifles.” “What did you think of the organ at Zurich?” “Cecelia liked it first-rate; but it didn’t begin with the big organ in Boston. They madea great to do about the Nux Vomiea stop, but hang me if I eould see anything wonderful in it.” : “You went to Lucerne, of course?” “Yes, we went there by the Otard Pass; but be- | yond cheeses andthe great lion by the Danish seul- | pin, there was little to seethere. We wentto Altorf, | too, where Tell did that trick with the apple, and | killed the old tyrant that put his hat on a pole for j the people to bow to; but I couldn’t get any facts ; about it, and some say there never was such a per- | son_as Tell.” ; “You doubtless were interested in Geneva, the in There are none of his ome of Calvin?” “T can’t say that I was. |} contemptuaries Jiving, and the memory of him is |}about faded outin spite of the Sally de Refama- tion which they have built there. This Sally is nothing but a large hall, and that’s the way one is eonfused by names, Why,they calla big glazier | the Mare de Glace, and up in the Pass St. Bernard, | a hotel is a Horse-piece.” s “The Hospice, yes. You'must have been-pleased be that,so full of humane and poetical inter- as ” J “Another deception, let me tell you. We had all heard about the dogs that saved peers from per- ishing inthe snow, and we asked if they would show us 2 specimen of hawthey did it. One of the monks politely told us that if we would wait until next winter, and’ get snowedin, he would senda dog or two to look us up, and that was all he could do about it. The summer, he said, was not a good time for incidents of that kind. And that’s ali the satisfaction we got.” ; “How were you struck by the moral and politieal aspect of the country?” “T didn’t see the ghost of a moral aspect; and as for the political, 1 don’t believe one in a hundred of the pheasants knew who the President of the United States was. As for their intelligence, we ean only faney what that must be when they have only the Swiss papersto read, one of which was enough to satisfy me.” “On the whole, fou enjoyed your tour?” “Oh, yes, that’s. what Ipnaid for. Anybody ean getalong very well if the sight-seers will let him | alone, and the best way to do is not to see anything that others want youto. Now, my mind is full of ; things which I didn’t see,and when J go again they will be all fresh and new. Come, let us go into ithe picture-gallery; I want to show you some cheap-do-overs that I bought in Florence. Ah, Florence! T’litell you about that sometime. Jest | hear Cecelinsing. ’Tisanareafrom Foster. Don’t she gush like asirup? And that teacher said she | hadn’t capacity enough to be a madonna, but I told him she should have it if I had to pay ten thousand dollars for it.” The lunch was excellent. B. P. SHELLABER. Bulls from Abroad. “What!” exclaimed an Irish merchant to his elerk, “you don’t know Mr. Fogarty’s address? Then write to him immajately, and ask him for it.” An invalid, after returning from a Southern trip, said to a friend: “Oh,shure an’it’s done me a wurruld o’ good, goin’ away. I’ve come back an- other man altogether; in fact, I’m quite meself agen.” An equivocal compliment was that of the Irish youth who dropped on hisknees before anew sweetheart, and said: ““Darlin’, I love ye as well as if ’'d known ye for seven years—~-and a great deal betther.” An eccentric lawyer thus questioned a client: “So yer uncle, Dennis O’Flaherty,had no family?” ‘‘Not at all, yer honor,” responded the client. The law- yer made a memorandum of the reply, and then eontinued: “‘Very good. And your father. Patrick O’Flaherty, did he have chick or child?” An Irishman, speaking of Henry the Eighth, i said: “Shure he was the worst king England ever had. Why, even his redeeming qualities were all bad ones.” High-Toned Irishmen. Two Irishmen were up in a balloon, when one remarked: “Pat, we’re gettin’ high-toned, aren’t we?” “How is that?” asked Pat. ey answered Mike, “because we’re above work.’ Are Wrinkles a Sign of Age? At the supper table, little Johnny thus addressed his maternal relative: ‘Mother, are wrinkles a sign of old age?’ “Well, yes, my dear. But why do you ask?” Little Johnny (innocently.)—" Well, those squash- pies—they can’t be very young then.” E. C. G. Brevities. A Yankee has been properly described #o be a driving man, He sees aqueducts in babbling springs buildings in stones, and cash in every- thing, The French feed hens with bread soaked in wine to make them lay. Soaking bread and eggs in wine in this country makes people lay—in the gutter. A ‘bachelor remarked the other day that wives whose the needle are like the enemy spoken of in the parables; they sew tares while the hubsband- men sleep. “Say, Spriggins, do you believe in the appearance of spirits?” : ; “No, but I believe in their disappearance. My bony of brandy has been missing since yester- day.’ A ‘genius named MacFlaherty, of Washington City, has the following sign posted on his window: “Eggs newly laid here at the shortest notice.” A man ata fair was asked if the horse he offered for sale was timid. i ii “Not at all,” said the jockey. “H ‘ whole night by himself in the stable.’ Tne Herald says of a late fire: “Owing to the prompt efforts of the firemen the fire was confined to the house.” They ought to have put it owt. At what.time of life may a man be said to belong to the vegetable kingdom? That’s easy enough. When experience has made him sage, ‘Father,’ said a little boy, “I know why some pistols are ealled horse pistols.” ‘Why, my boy?” “Beeause they kick so!” “Well, Dick.” said the doctor to a ab man, whose wife he had been attending, “how is your wife?” “She is dead, I thank you!” was the reply. A colporteur called at the American Tract Socie- ty’s establishment for a package of tracts, and re: quired those most Soe of death. Jones be- ing present referred him to the railroad tracks, and then immediately made tracks himself, A village doctor returned a coat to his tailor be- cause it did not fithim. The tailor soon after, see- ing the doctor at the funeral'‘of one of his pat ients, said: “Ah! doctor, you area happy man.” ‘Why so?” asked the doctor. “Because,” replied the ‘ tailor, ‘you never have any of your bad work re- turned upon your hands,” , ® spends the Sa a ME aS. ed eee eee ————— THE N atid rare a Ne ee TTA DREAMING OF THEE. — BY MARIA 8, JACKSON. The breezes are sighing, The moonbeams are throwing A silvery light on the rippling sea; Thear the waves murmur, In musie entrancing, I hear them just whisper, I’m dreaming of thee. The night-birds are waking, Calm nature reposing With tremulous, passionate melody} But I heed not the music, Tho’ my soul is o’erfiowing, The music seems surging, I'm dreaming of thee. Oh, oft when I wander "Mid scenes of wild grandeur, And strange thoughts of veauty steai over me, I speak to the rocks, And the hoary old mountains, And tell them my secret— ('m dreaming of thee. They will not lisp it, The flowers nor the sunshine, Nor the stars that gleam on the lea, They know that I’m waiting And longing to greet thee, They khow that I’m dreaming, E’er dreaming of thee. But the brooklets may roil In music untold To the depths of the slumbering sea. And I will not tell thee, Tho’ my heart break in keeping, You never shall know That I dream but of thee. “SPIRITS OF EVIL. ” BY MBS, A. ELMORE. “You may talk about’ witches and ourses, bad luck und dreams, as much as you like, no well- alanced mind wecepts such nonsense in this day of the world, Pray don’t pretend that you believe in such folly, you will only be laughed at.” Laughing or not laughing makes no difference to me now, Mrs. Banks, nor would it to you with my experience,” was the earnest rejoinder little Mrs. Glenn ventured to muke to the protest of her well- meaning though rather abrupt friend. Please tell me your experience, then. I will promise not to interrupt you or give freedom to my spirit of fun-making: knowing your sincerity, I will listen to your story with interest.” he sincere and pleasant face turned toward Mrs. Glenn was so reassuring that she answered: I am willing to tell you, although but few of my dearest friends know anything of the circumstances or of the belief which is the result. Iwas in busi- ness previous to my marriage, being sole proprie- tor of a little notion storeon Main street. My scrub- woman was a large, powerfully-built Irish woman, an honest, hardworking woman of sixty years. Her complexion was dark, and her intensely black, deep-set eyes beneath her snow-white curling hair, rendered her asingular-looking woman. She had, undoubtedly somes good blood in her veins, proba- bly illegitimately obtained from some being whose title granted him immunity from the penalties of crime. “Bridget had no education, and always brought her savings to me to count and deposit for fer. kept her bank-book, wrote her letters to her absent ehildren, and readethe answers. When, at last, she bought her a little home, I made her bargain for her. I frequently used—at her request—her money until she had brought ms the requisite amount for & deposit. a H “I had always anideathat Bridget was at least partially demented, but she was always clear-head- ad, giving me no cause of fear. She had a way of counting which was not laid down in any school- book. There had never been a difference of account until I married, at which event she took offense, and made a claim for money whieh had been paid. All argument failed to convince her that I had not willfuily cheated her. Time and again she called for the money, which I refused her. “When my baby was seven months old, she called again after aloug absence. I shuddered as I saw her coming in atthe gate. It wasa_ fine day, and baby satin her crib, near tothe open door, sajoying the sunshine. “TImpulsively I sprang to cateh her in my arms, but Bridget hud already stooped to kiss the velvet cheeks, and wonder-opened mouth. As my arms lifted my precious one te my breast. a hideous laugh rang through the room,startiing baby, and fairly ecurdling my blood. There was a strange, wild.triumph in Bridget’s face which fairly para- lyzed my limbs. “Tn-a low voice the woman uttereda few words which I did not understand, and then turned and left the room, marking a cross on door, thresh- old, and gate as she panepa, Closing the gate she leaned over it and called to me, shaking her weird finger at me meanwhile: “ “This curse I leave you because you have wrong- ed a poor, heart-sealded woman—that a year from oan you may bea childless widow without a 10m8e. “Then she passed on down the street, but I could not overcome my terror. When my husband re- turned he laughed heartily at my fears, a merri- ment in which [could notjoin. Baby ceased grow- ing from that day, and two months later we laid her in her grave. : “Kight months of suffering passed, and my hus- band slept with my baby! Then moved away, hoping to break the evil spell. My household goods were all placed in the new house at nighttall, but the desolation tempted me to spend the night with a friend. “Hastening inthe morning to begin ths work of ‘settling’ my house, I found only ashes where had stood the pretty cottage, and of my goods nothing was left me. Then Iwas obliged to turn my skill and taste to preparing ‘notions’ for the bazars,a business which was fairly remunerative then. ‘Months passed, and J met Bridget on the street one day, and although I tried to evade her, her keen eyes would not be deceived, and she hailed me at the same moment that her strong hand caught my arm, How is the baby ? she asked. ** Well,’ I answered. a ‘And Mr. Glenn ?’ Ik. **Where do you live ?’ ; “Tn Silvan Grove; but we will not any of us be at home for several weeks.’ “Will you pay me now?’ “No, Bridget, I shall never pay you onecent. I do not owe you anything.’ s a face flushed with anger, and leeringly she said: ‘ “Do you want the curse taken off you? I know you aoe felt it. I don’t believe Glenn and the baby are well. “T turned away from her and eluded her vigilant pursuit for that time, but she found me—how I do not know. Her wicked laugh rang out again s0 startingly that I almost feared she would do me bodily harm, when, overwhelmed with surprise, I opened the door to admit her. : “The followinglday Ilmoved again, leaving no ad- dress, except with the letter carrier. I never after met Bridget face to face, although I onoe saw her placing flowers on the grave of her youngest son as I Way, pemelng through the cemetery on asimilar errand. Mrs. Banks had listened attentively, and her ex- ressive face was very eager as she leaned toward rs. Glenn, and laying her magnetic hand on the tremulous one of the narrator, she asked: “Would you listen as quietly to the sequel of your story as I have done to you?” Mrs. Glenn looked rather incredulous as she an- swered: “Tf you can give it, I am all interest.” Mrs. Banks hastened to say: “My husband was prosecuting attorney in your native city during your long sojourn in Europe. Bridget Gonegal was brought before him as an in- eendiary, she having burned Senator Patterson’s roperty on account of a grievauce similar to that n your case. She was sentenced to five years’ im- risonment. Previous to her removal to the State rison she became violently insane. During her raving she referred to you, but not by name. She admitted the administering of poison to your babe by pricking her shoulder with a small poison- filled quill, which was concealed in her hand. You doubtless thought the mark was an insect bite.” Oh, yes,” exclaimed Mrs. Glenn; “I remember. Woethought it a spider-bite for several days; it was much inflamed.” “She administered the same subtle poison to our husbandin a cough sirup, which was sent to 1im ostensibly by seme one hearing of his cough. Bridget had been in early life the mistress and as- sistant of an eminent chemist and toxicologist, Although unusable to read, she understood the sym- bolic characters he used, and had added to them characters of her own devising. When a quarrel separated her from the chemist, she secured some of the poisons, retaining them under careful sur- yoillance through all the years of her married life. She is dend now, having worn out the remainder ef her days in wrathful excitement and continuous frenzy. With her died the evil knowledge which had enabled her to create a superstitious dread in the minds of all who knew her. Her curses were the compound of her own malice, and her shrewd the victims of their natural caution. Had she said {will poison you,’ or ‘I will burn your house,’ a close guardianship would have frustrated her de- signs, but in the threat, ‘I will curse you’ she onl excited ridicule, and her victims were easy prey. i hope my sequel clears away the sobwebs of super- stition from your usually clear brain.” L confess,” answered Mrs. Glenn, “that you have cleared away a cloud of mystery, but you have not shaken my belief that evil-disposed people are guided in their designs by evil spirits.” Ae gt sn, ag 2 The Great Wonders Around Us, NUMBER ONE. BY PROFESSOR RUDOLPH. Wonders of the | Microscope. Yory few, even among the intelligent, have a pro- per conception of the es ber of living be nhabiting our rosie en they speak of the an- imal creation, they have in mindi only those larger creatures that ean be sean with the unaided eye, never once imagining thatall these taken together are but as a drop to the ocean, or®is a grain of sand to the entire sea-shore. Nor is this true cy respect to numbers, but th @ bulk of these minute creatures will be found to be far greater than at first supposed: their remains often eae a large part of great mountains and extensive islands. and some- times spreading over. vast continents in one solid mass of great thickness. Let us begin with the well-known substance, A FRAGMENT OF OHALK. Nothing would seem, at first view. more unlikely to furnish any wondrous revelations than this; but let us see. We will take a small fragment and soak it in water, and when softened, with a fine brush, we will gently reduce it to a pewder, and then place asmall quantity of it under the microscopes. And now what dowe see? To our amazement we find this fins powdered chalk Se penes of the perfect- ly-formed shells of myriads of minute creatures, so smal that billions of them are necessary to make a single cubic inch! These animalcul~ existed many thousand years ago, and, on on , they sank to the bottom of the ocean, and their shelis alone are now found condensed and changed into the sub- stance chalk. In some parts of the old world there is founda powder-like substance called “mountain ” be cause the peasantry, in times of scarcity, mingle it with their food. This, also, is found by the micros- cope to be composed of the shells of insects, andse small that 12,600 of them, placed side by side, would only measure one ineh in length! This mountain meal is not composed of shelis alone, for it is found to be nutritious. and is often eaten by the poor without mixing with other food, which proves that some other part of the animal has been retained with the shell. So again we find under the microscope that a cer- tain kind of limestone is composed almost entirely of the shelis of another class of small marine in- sects, and this limestone is found over a space eighteen hundred miles in extent. This shows very clearly that the seas and oceans of antiquity were very densely populated with these animaleu- #, and we are quite sure that there are almost if not quite as many in existence to-day. But let us look in another direction, and we shall see still greater wonders while using this powerful instrument. Let us take some of the living inseets of to-day; for instance, the common house-fty. On examining the two brown lobes on the sides of the ead of this insect, which are generally regarded as the foo eyes of the fly, we find instead of Reo eyes, no less than two thousand on each side of the fly’s head, making four thousand in all. But startling as is this discovery, there are others far more so in reserve for us. On examining the dragon-fly we find twenty-five thousand dis- tinct, perfectly-formed eyes in the head of this ac- tive creature, while the mordella has no fess than fifty thousand perfect organs of sight, twenty-five to divert attention fromthe reality. and to divest spools of cotton with the belief that he was paying outline; and she controlled herself when he point- ed wildly, while he was asleep. to Mrs. MeGlory, a visitor who. had eres in,and declared that he ones take half aton of whale-bone out of her. ut, gentlemen, he carried his conduct too far. One night, while Miss Butts was sitting quietly by the table, she had oceasion to blow her nose; per- haps she used more vigor than usual; perhaps not. At any rate,the defendant, Hubner, rose dreaming, and shrieked, “There-re-re she blows!’ and grasping a closed eabrals. hurled it, harpoon fashion, toward her. It struck her, fractured her shell-comb, disheveled her hair, caused her to drop her teeth again, and knoeked.her upon the floor. He awoke, and when she expressed her indigna- tion he laughed. ] then he said, that as she evidently didn’t love him, would break tha engagement, and he did. She now sues hin: for $19,000 damages as a partial atone- mont for the srong done to her wounded sensibili- Then the cad? Want on, and when the jury got it, they gave Miss Butt« three cents damages. She is li single; ba her bold mariner is married to a forbearing wider. 9 THE MAN WHO OWNED HE WAS A FOOL. Dr. Thevenst. « Mstinguished surgeon at Calais, one day recalved a note without signature, request- ing him to repair to a hotel not far off, with such instrumenis as were necessary for an amputation. Thevenet was somewhat surprised at the manner of the invitation, but concluding that it was the work of some wag, paid noregard toit. Three days after,he received a second invitation sti! more pressing, and containing the infcrmation that the nextday ai nine o’clock a carriage would area Catone bis )ouse in order to convey him. eyenset resoived to let the affair take its course, and when, on the following day, at the striking of the clook, an sleytint carriage stopped before the door, hé seated himself in it, and asked the driver to whom he was te carry him. The driver replied in English: ne *What I do n&¢know I cannot tell.” At length the esrriags stopped before the door of the hotel. A handsome young man, of about twen- ty-esight years cf age, reeeived the surgeon atthe door. and conducted him up stairs into a large chamber, where the following conversation took ve sent for me?” am much obliged to you for the taken to visitme. Here is coffee, if you would take anything be- you hav chocoiats, or wih, fore the operation.” Thev,—“Show me the patient, sir; I must first as- certain whether tie injury is such as-to render an amputation necessary.” w.— Itis necessary. Dector, seat yourself; I have perfect confidence in yon. Listen to me. Here is a purse of one hk jred guineas; this is the pay you will receive forthe operation. If done suseess- ully, it ould you refuse to comply with m . Sev, Bore is a loaded pistol. You arein my power; Twill shoot you.” : Thev. Sir, Lam not afraig of your pistols, But what is your particular desire? Tell me without preamble.” Fe Eng.—“You musi cut off my right leg.” Thev.—" With ail my heart; and; if you please, your head, too, Bat the leg is sound. ‘You sprang up stairs just now with the agility of ®edancing- master. hat ails your leg?” ; Hno.~"Nothing.. 3 only want it off.” . Thev.— Sir, you are a fool.” Hng.—" Why does that trouble you, Thevenet?” Thev.— What ain has the leg committed?” Eng.— None; but are you ready to take it off?” .—'Sir, 1 do not know. Bring me evidence that you are sownd of mind.” : .—“ Will you comply with my request?” Fivev.— "Yes, sin se soon us you give me sufficient reasons for such mutilation of yourself.” Fng.—'I cannot tell you the truth, perhaps, for ours. Bo er _** thousand en eash side of itshead. Let no one sup- nose fora moment that this is mere conjecture, | Under the microscope they aré all as distinctly | seen as the two eyes of the observer, and can easily be counted, as they frequently bave been. If it be asked what is the use-of s0 Many eyes? | We @an only answer that probab r One reason is | shat, as the food of these insects is often floating in | he atmosphere, and is so minute in size they re- | uire numerous microscopic eyes to sea if at short j istances, and in different directions, for only eyes | of microscopic power would enable them to see | their food in such small quantities. Now when we remember that each one of these | visual orbs is made upon precisely the same. prin- ciples as our own, we have wv new illustration pf the power of Omnipotence to make so manyand so minute and perfect organs of sight in such small | space, But the microscope ravealanother wonder. Per- haps you have often wonderSd to see a large, strong iorse fly struggling helplessly while enveloped in a spider’s thread, and that thread so small as to be seen with difficulty. Or, what is still more surpris- ing, you have seen, perhaps, a large beetle success- fully captured and held fast by the same fine and almost invisible threads.- Now the secret of the re- markable strength of these threads is in the fact. which the microscope so strikingly brings to light, | that they are made up of several hundreds of threads—and in some instances of more than a thousand—which are all twisted together the mo- ment they issue from the spinning apparatus of | the aS body. This instrument very distifictly shows us this wonderful machinery, so that we can easily see the separate threads issuing from the separate and nu- merous tubes that make up this spineret of the spi- der, as the spinning apparatus is called. Not only this, but we see also that certain threads are knotted at tegular intervals of space, where they cross other threads in the web, so as to pre- vent them slipping, and thus they give such great strength to it that it holds various insects much larger than the spider itself So once more, when we place under the micros- | cope a dropof apparently pure water, in which | flowers have been ‘long standing, we find it alive | with multitudes of variously-formed insects, the smaller chased and devoured by those larger, and these in turn devoured by those larger still, but all so minute that a thousand of them in a mass would not be visible to the unaided eye. But we must defer a fuller account of this and still more startling wonders to another article. A BREACH OF PROMISE CASE. BY MAX ADELER. \ | : When the case of Butts versus Hubner was called in the court, the counsel for the prosecution arose and explained the facts to the jury in the following terms: “This, gentlemen, is a suit brought by Miss Han- nah Butts against Daniel P. Hubner, for breach of promise of marriage. We will show you that Hub- ner is a retired sea-cuptain, having spent much of his life upon whaling voyages, and that some months ago he began to pay attentions to Hannah Butts, a maiden-lady somewhat beyond the prime of life. Subsequently she accepted him, and they were engaged. “Hubner used to come around to see her every evening, and it became a habit with him to go fast asleep on the sofa before the evening was half over. But I will refer to this directly. From the first some of his methods of conversation were offensive. If she purchased a new bonnet he would refer to it as a sky-scraper. Upon one occasion, when she eee he told her that she’d be scuttled some day f she didn’t keep her hatchway shut. He ex- pressed his Seapprovel of a sacque she wore, by saying that he didn’t like the cut of her mizzen rig- ing; and one day, when she dropped her slipper, cc pioked it up, and running his eye along the sole, remarked that ‘a keel of that size ought to keep any craft steady.’ ees “These things pained the plaintiff. She thought him lacking in true affection when, at one time, while she was hinching at his expense at a restau- rant, he told her that if she stowed her cargo so fast as that it might cant her and wreck her on the voyage home. Her fears of his growing coldness were heightened further by his remarking, one evening when she was singing a pathetic little bal- lad for him, that if he ever went to sea again he would know where to geta fog-horn free of ex- ense. ee hat she is slender she is well aware, but that cannot excuse the cruel observation made by the defendant, thatit wouldn’t pay to cut her up for blubber; and I leave you toimagine her feelings, when, having come into the house unexpectedly, when she had her teeth out of her mouth, he sug- gested that if her hull was as loosely put together as that, she had better go into dry-dock for repairs. I will not refer to his heartless conduct upon an- other oceasion, when she had mislaid her teeth and could not find them, and he advised her to send up a rocket as a signal of distress. iE 3 over these, and other similarly scandal- ous things. AsI said, his custom was to spend much of each evening snoring upon the sofa, while she sat patiently by, strong in her love, and sewed, while she waited for himto wake up. He seemed to dream regularly of his past adventures, for when he was not swearing at his sailors and using nautical phraseology of an apparently pro- boat pursuing whales. “Miss Butts bore with his conduct good natured- ly. She did not complain when he tried to row the sofa with the poker; she remained calm when he grasped a chair and dragged it upon the sofa un- der the evident impression that it was a man over- knowledge of humanity. Her incantations served: ‘but £ Will foxy i mouth of the pix | crease and lengthen d | was made ready fo, $f fane nature, he would imagine himself at sea, in a} some years; but J wiil lay a wager that after acer- ‘tain time you shall understand that my reasons are most noble—that my happiness, my very ex- stance. depends. upon my being freed from this < * Thev.—“Sir, Lingo wagers. Tell me you name, residence, family, and occupntion.” Eng.—"You shall know all that hereafter. take me for an honorable man ?” ev.—''T cannot. A man of honor does not threat- en his physicivn with pistols. I have duties toward you as a stranger. i will not mutilate you. If you wish to be Jer of a guiltless father of a Do you sthe murde family, then shoot.” : “Well, Mz. Thevenet, I will es puicy tke off my leg will nctuc ho. sepeoy bol money, nor bullet, you shal! ge forte im passion.” rn haw 302% ng.—"T wikt Dae: ny tols, and here > ae The Englisho®: not shoot you; What vow a gz by discharging my pis- jruy eves,” — * 7 avenged himself, and placed the eifes to his knee. Pnevenet oi epenging to preyent him, but was on the pointségf he exclaimed: ee : “Stir not, or I fret /Now,” said he, “will you in- ut my pains for nothing ?” “You are a foo!.” siys Thevenet, “but it shall be done. I will take off the unfortunate leg.” The Englishmen. olmly laid by the pistol, and all operation. seon as the surgeon began to eyt, the Englishman lighted his pipe, and swore it should not go out. He kept his word. The leg lay ¥pon the floor, and the English- man was still smoking. Thevenet did his work like a master; the jround, by his skill, and the pa- tient’s own good tature, was healed at a fixed time. He rewarded the surgeon like a king, and |thanked him with tears of joy for the loss of his leg, and sallied over the streets with a wooden one. About eight weeks after his departure Thevenet received a letter from England with the following contents: “You wilt reeeite inclosed, us a proof of my most heartfelt gratitude, an order for two hundred and fifty guineas ¥vpon Mons. Panchard in Paris. You have made ms the happiest mortal on earth in depriving me of my leg, for it was the only hin- drance to my earthly felicity. Brave man, you may now know the cause of my foolish humor as you called it. * “You concluded,.at the time, that there could be no reasonable ground for such self-mutilation. I offered to lay a wager; you did well in not _aecept- ing it. After my second return from the East in- dies, [became acquainted with Emilie Harley, the most perfect of women. FT loved her most passion- ately. Her wealth, her family connections, influ- enced my friends in her favor; but I was influ- enced only by her beauty and her noble heart. joined the number of her admirers. Ah! excellent tt hevenet I was so fortunate as to gain her affections. She loved me above alli—made no secret of it—but she still rejected me. Isought her hand in vain; in vain [implored her parents and her friends to intercede forme. She was,stillimmovable. Fora long time I was unable to conjecture the cause of her refusing me; sinee, as she confessed herself, she loved me almost to distraction. One of her visitons at length betrayed to me the secret. “Miss Harley was a wonder of beauty, but she had only one leg; and, on account of this imperfes- tion, shé- feared to become my wife, lest I should esteem her the less for it. My resolution was ta- ken. I resolved to become like her; thanks to you I became so. Leame with my wooden leg to Lon- don, and inthe first place visited Miss Harley, It had been reported, and tauyself had written to England, that by a fall from a horse l had broken my leg, which was consequently taken off. It was much regretted... Emitie fell into a swoon the first time she saw me, She was for along time incon- solable. but now she is my wife. The first day after our marriage I intrusted to her the secret of what a sacrifice Thad made in consequence of my wish to obtain her hand. She loves me now the more af- fectionately. Oh,my brave Thevenet! had I ten legs to lose, I would, without a single contortion of feature, paxt with them all for my Emilie. So Jong as I live I will be grateful to you. Come to London —visit us—become acquainted with my wife, and then say I was a fool. CHARLES TEMPLE, Bart. This was the answer of Dr. Therenet: “Sig: I thank you for your valuable present; for so I must call it. because I cannot consider it as re- ward for the little trouble I was at. Icongratulate you on your marriage with a woman so worthy of your affections. It is true a leg is much to lose, even for a beautiful, virtuous, and affectionate wife —but not too mush. To guin possession of Eve, Adam was obliged to part with a rib, and beautiful women have costsome men their heads. But, after all, permit me to adhere to my former judgment. Truly. for the moment, you were correct, but with this difference: the correctness of my judgment was founded on long experience, as every truth edge. Sir, mind me, IT lay a wager, that after two years you will repent that your leg was taken off above the knee, You will find that below the knee had been enough. After three years you will be convinced that the loss of the foot had been suffi- eient. After four years, you will conelude that the ‘sacrifice of the great toe, and after flve years, of the little toa, had been too much. After six years, you will agree with _me that the paring of a nail had been enough. ButI do not say this in prejudice of the merits of your charming wife. In my youthI devoted myself to. love, but I have never parted with a leg. Had I doneso, I should. at_this day, | have said, ‘Thevenet, thou wast a fool.’ I have the honor to be, yours, &¢., JEWIS THEVENET.” Eleven years after, during the horrors of the Revolution, Thevenet, whom a person that envied his reputation caused to be suspected of aristocra- ey, fled to London to save himself from the guillo- tine. He inquired after Sir Charles Temple, and board; she endured him when he unrolled two was shown his house. He made himself known, This made her more angry, and’ the fear of a ead should be, which we are not disposed to acknowl- | jacket the required length, turn the fronte back en revers, lining | and was received. In an arm-chair by the fire, surrounded by twenty newspapers, sat a corpulent man, who could hardly stand up, he was so un- wieldy. Ah, welcome, doctor.” cried the corpulent man, who was no other than Sir Charles Temple; “excuse méeif Ido notrise. This eursed leg is a hindrance to mein everything. You have come to see if your judgment was correct,” _Lcome as u fugitive, and seek your protection.” “You shall have it with pleasure. You must live with me from this day, for truly you area wise man. You must comsole me. Surely, Thevenet, probably I had been an admiral of the blue, had not my wooden leg disqualified me from the ser- vice of my country. When I read in the gazettes of the brave deeds done by the defenders of my coun- try, [become angry, because I cannot take part in these glorious actions. Come, console me.” your wife can do that better than I.” Say nothing of her. Her wooden leg prevented her dancing, go she betook herself to cards and to Mfashion. There is no such thing as living peace- ably with her.” “What! was my judgment correct, then ?” Oh, welcome, beloved Thevenet; but be silent on the point. It was asilly adventure. Had I my leg again, I would not now give the palring of a nail. Pawo you and me, Iwas a fool, but keep this to yourself.” Read It and Speak of It We are so confident that Rost ASHLEIGH’s power- ful and artistic story of "THe Wipow’s WaezR” will be enthusiastically appreciated, that we hope none of our subscribers will fail to ayail themselves ofthe rare treat it affords. It is notonly a good story, but, considered as the first serial by its au- thor, it is really a great story. Read if, and you will so admire it that you will be inclined to take our advice, and recommend ail your friends to peruse this delightful story of “NorrHERN Hearts AND SOUTHERN *HoMES.” a oo The Ladies’ Work-Box. Edited by Mrs. Virginia Ingram. It has been suid—aund truly said, it seems to us—“thut a lady ot fashion keeps her wardrobe as fresh and varled near the end of the season as at the beginning or middle of it.” Inspection: remodeling, perception, and purchasing are never at rest. slightest apparent imperfection or negligence about her toiletlat any time will detract from her reputation as a leader of style. ness, and must have a harmonious degree of effect, whether of antique or more modern elegance and taste. The Freneh re gard this equality with fastidiousness. Ribbons, laces, flowers, feathers, robes, bonnets, gloves, hoslery, and all are continually subjected to critical supervision, so that when a costume appears on its wearer in society she ls prepared to meet the closest scrutiny with triumphant comsciousness of every detail! being faultless. There was a time when the style of a bonnet was many @ lady’s first consideration. She possessed but one in a year, and its style was ail the more important on that account. Now that ingenuity and taste have besome almost prevailing elements in a lady’s character, she easily arranges tor herselfa variety of these pretty things. They have therefore lost something of their profound importanee, and the cloak of midwinter has taken the bonnet’s place of henor. Not that the cloak is like the oid-time bonnet im ether respects, because it need not be imported to become worthy of her aa- miration. Indeed the ciouk is as often of domestic origin as the modern hat and bonuet, and it is Ukely to be a sole or solitary garment that is to be worn day after day as long as the weather demands its use. It must also be capable of adapting itself to the various costumes of the possessor. More than likely this last reflection has passed through and through the affluent braina of the best designers of fashion, and particular which meets even the taste of the most exacting and tastidious of iadies, Itappears in the form of a cloak, with dolman sleeves, the grace and comfort of which it would be difficuit to surpass. Its body isalong sacqme, the back of which is halt- fitted by three handsomely-curved seams, while the straight tront is wide enough for ease and elose enough for elegance. There is an arm’s-eye of sufficient breadth to permit the passage ofthe arm without rumpling a full dressing upou the sleeve of the costume. A dolman sleeve is set over the shoulder and dewn the side-back seam, talling in a graceful trimmed point behind, and quite covering the dress sleeve in front. A rolling collar conspletes the neck, and Bradenburg, buttons and button- holes, or ornamental! clasps, fasten it down the front. Ribbon ' bows, tassels, or passementerie ornaments may be arranged upon its back, as its wearer pleases. For chinchitlas, diagonals, baskev-cloths, beavers, lamb’s-woo!, velvets, elther plain or bro- ed, ins, Siciliennés, or ribbed silks, itewill be equally at- tractrve and fashionable, and its borderings may be of any one or even two sorta of fashionable fringes, or of fur bands, feather bands, !aces, satin-yiped tolda, ornamentatly stitched Ss, etc. Thin goods may be ined with plaid flannels to respect the last eotamands ot a ode, or they may made warm with fur, or with wadded sulk that is apd gulited and wadded, and is to be purchased by the yard in all colors and qualities. opera cloak in white satin or chinchilla, bordered with a siik fringe, etrmounted white-tox tur or birds’-breasts, its shape is superb. The number of the patterm for this garment is 6,451, price 35 cents, and is in ten sizes for ladies, trom 28 to 46-inches, bust measure. To make the garment for a lady of medium size will require six yards and three-fourths of goods twenty-two inches wide, or three yards and® fourth forty-eight inches wikie. “Kitty,’? Cleveland, Olic.—Ist. The short costume fer street wear is an established fact. And while it proves a blessing to the lady who prefers to walk while she is shopping, it is most heartlly welcome to ladies who have recently formed pedestrian clubs and walk for exercise and pleasure. 2d. The short prin- cess dress, cut from pattern No. 6,437, is exceedingly pretty, and or simply decorated as the taste of the wearer demands. Itis cut with five visible and beautifully-shaped fitting seams behind, an under-arm seam, and the usual front-darts. It has a standing-col- lar and also a rolling shawl coliar, and may be cut to escape the ground all around the figure, according to the directions on the model, which should always be carefully followed. Upon the outer edge of its side-back is cut an overlapping or extending piece that, when finished with buttons and button-holes, pipings, or other trimmings, serves tor a handsome revegs. of this garment being tied back in two elegant folds by under- tapes, this revers secures all apparent attractions of a separate ornament. The skirt trimmings, whatever they may be, wheth- er plaitings, ruffles, bands, or fringes, terminate at this revers. The label of directions upon the model explains how the back ot this elegant style of dress may be lengthened or shortened when it is cut. 3d. Alady’s apron, with pointed pockets and side- plaiting across the lower edge, is one of the useful models for slik, cambric, linen, chambrey, or cross-barred wuslin. Ham- burgs or laces may be used upon it when _preferred to ruffles. Number ot pattern for this apron is 6,447, price 16 cents. “Celestial.’—For a dress for simpie evening toret you could hardly have anything more serviceable or genteei than black velveteen, made as a prineess robe, trimmed with black satin. Fasten it down the front with buttons to about twenty inches from the edge of the skirt, then turn back the right side of the tront, en revers, lining it with black satin, and adding, to fill in the opening, a simulated skirt of plalted satin, which will relieve the plainness of which you complain in a simple princess robe. Then tor the Jeft side, make a large chatelaine pocket ot velvet- een, piped with satin, and with a satin flap, and suspend it around the waist with a thick black silk cord. Finish the sleeves with satin parements, which you had better make to fasten on at will, so that you may be able to replace them by others ot lace, as occasion requires, and slash the upper a of the sleeves with black satin. A dress made in this way will be suitable for vislt- ing as weil as home tollet. “Madeline.”—For a short fancy costume, we think the gipsy girls dress would suit you, as you can make it as cheap or as ex- pensive as you desire. The dress may be composed of pale blue and white-striped silk. The bottom of the skirt may be trimmed with side-plaited ruffies, a fold, and gold sequins. Bands of red gros grain bound narrow with blue silk may be placed upon the skirt at intervals, and held together with gold buttons. The sleeves should be short and covered with a puff. A little jacket of red gros grain without sleeves. Bind the edge and the arm- holes with blue silk, and trim the arm-holes with seguins. A turban and belt of red gros grain are trimmed with sequins. The dress may be made of any material the wearer chooses to select, only haying the colors as described. “Mrs. H. Rv M.'—We have given the Information quite a num- ber of times before, but as you request us, we will tell you again. The cook book “Baking Made Easy,” you can procure by send- ing ten cents to the NEW YORK WEEKLY Purchasing Agency, The book ts in pamphlet form, and contains recelpts for making almost every delicacy you can imagine. It not only tells pro- portions of ingredients, but also how they should be put toge- cooked. You can also procure the Royal Baking Powder, which is the best powder made, by sending to the same agency. “Mrs. M.”? wants to know how to make a ‘“‘Matinee.” A very and Valenciennes. embroidery and lace edgings covers the top or the back, and ends in a point in tront. Two lace frills outline a plastron in the form of a triangle, completed at the base by embroldery and ace. Three butterfly bows of caronbiers satin trim the left side of the plastron. cient to allow you to alter it into a jacket and skirt. Cut the these with black satin, and adding a waistcoat of the same. The skirt requires no alteration unless the satin around the edges is worn or faded, in which case it should be renewed, also the pare- ments if they are in the same condition. ‘“Mother.—A: very pretty dress for little girls of from three to and back arranged in narrow plalits. of cashmere, the sewing on of whichis hidden by a brocaded of white lace, collar, cuffs, and pockets trimmed to eorrespond with blue silk brocade and white lace. Pearl buttons to fasten. dress. talning the draperies. “Suffering Friend.’—Take our advice and try the chiropedin. It will certamly, we are told, if properly used, relieve corns and j bunions. While your feet are damp from the bath use the pow- The | Each accessary toa costume must have a special appropriate- | the result of their consideration is the production of a model | For an | may be made of cashmere, camel’s-hair, velvet, silk, flannel, or | any of the dress materials in vogue, and may be as elaborately | The fullness | ther, and in what manner of pan, etc.. the article should be | pretty one of nainsook 1s decorated with embroidered insertion | A sort of a bertha formed of three rows of | “Blue Eyes.”—The length of your draped princess robe is suffi- | five years old, may be made of pale blue !cashmere ;5 the, front i Round the edge a flounce | “Daisy.”—Dark green follage would not look well on a black | Have silver foliage, or sprays of small rosebuds, or‘any | other light-colored flowers to relleve the black, arranged on the | neck of the corsage, and in any fanoiful style on the skirt re- | der morning and night. Price per bottle twenty-five cents and fifty cents, according to size. “Minerva.”—You will flnd a thick cioth patetot, trimmed with fur, very warm, and atthe same time suitable and becoming Many of the new cloths have the wrong side covered with a soft hair almost like a fur lining. A cashmere cloak lined with fur would cost ubout the same as a paletot. “Dora B.”’—Ulsters are again in fashion this winter, particu larly those made of seal-skin, and the hats worn with them ari made of thé same material as the ulster. Jockey caps of black velvet are also worn, but have rather a fast effect. “Embie.”"—The hair arranged 1!n a coil low on the neck is on suitable tor giris in their teens, possessing smail, prettily shaped heads, and regular teatures. i a ibe Blows from a Corpse’s Hand. A very romantic and yet horrible ineident not long ago shocked the residents of Gawtrie, Ala- bama. Some five years previously a Mr. Lemuel Safford had married a Miss Alma F, Dornton, rec- ognized by many admiring friends as a woman of rare and lovely accomplishments, Safford had al- ways been a rather wild fellow, and numerous sto- ries were told of him which would rather go ‘to prove hisinsanity. Miss Dornton’s one living rela- tive, an austere lady named Mrs. Folsom, Gait bit- terly opposed the match, but notwithstanding her efforts toward pravcntion it ultimately took place. Soon afterward, Safford, whose business was that of an aporserssy, lost everything through certain imprudent speculations; his wife was taken under the protection of her aunt, and he went to New Or- leans in the forlorn hope of mending his fallen for- tunes, During the four years that followed, how- ever, he seems to have been almost uniformly un- successful, Itis said that his wife was meanwhile living on the most unpleasant terms with Mrs. Fol-? som, who made the bread of charity taste as bitter as possible. Her frequent letters informed her husband of this fact, though dhe seeme willing enough that she should continue her residence in Mrs. Folsom’s house. At last the yellow fever broke out in Gawtrie, and Safford reeeived a note from Mrs. Folsom, informing him of his wife’s danger- ous illness. Safford hurried from New Orleans the moment that he received the letter, but he reached Gawtrie too late. On arriving+at Mrs. Folsom’s house, he arent that his wife had died on the preceding ay. The man’s grief is said now to have surpassed all description. He flung himself on the floor and tére ° his hair in agony, behaving for several hours much ;more like a madman than like asane member of | society. |. At length. when Mrs. Folsom and the servants | believed his paroxysms to have been permanently | quieted, he burst forth in violent invectives against ;the woman whose roof had sheltered his wife for four years past. He accused her of having actually | killed his “Allie” by her cruel ill-treatment, and | manos his language with more than a single dark | threat. | Mrs. Folsom declares that she bore these accusa- | tions meekly, fer the simple reason that she be- | lieved the man Was really suffering from an in- | tense sorrow. - . } i | By four o’cloek that afternoon Safford was agin quiet, being seated in the chamber beside his dead wife, at whose white face he was stnring with gloomy fixity. Mrs. Folsom had left him thus, und ' was occupied with some dutiesin her own apart- | ment, when, as she testifles, her door was suddenly | Hung open, and Safford, looking more wild than | ever, Se on the threshold. He held some- | thing concealed in the breast of his cont. Mrs. Fol- | som 1s Acourageous Woman,and by no means given !tocalling out inthe presence of danger. She did | not scream now, though sbe declares that Safford | seized her with a grip of iron and violently forced |herinto a chair. Then he struck her five or six | times on the face with_something that had a cold; | flabby feeling (to use Mrs. Folsom’s own. words), ' though she did not suspect how horrible was the j nature of this weapon. “Let the dead avenge the dead!’ he kept erying.in a wildly excited way, i while his blows fell. He then rushed from tie room, leaving Mrs. Folsom half stunned by the in- uries that he had dealt. But imagine the lady’s orror when, on looking down at the floor, she dis- | covered lying there a human arm and hand! Saf- | ford had managed te amputate the urm of his dead wife, and had used it in striking his blows. The matter caused great indignation throughout the neighborhood, and Safford’s arrest. took place be- fore his wife’s funeral. He has since been remanded to am asylum, two orthree examining physicians having pronounced him _ insane. Many persons assert that Mrs. Folsom had always treated her niece with great kindness, and that the unique mode of punishment adopted by Safford was as un- deserved as it was abominable. | -~ Paragrapher’s Niche, BY OSCAR F. HEWITTY = y ; To ascertain the ege of a tree—ax ity A hat is often so dark-colored as tobe felt. Why is a chap who gets admitted to an asylum upon feigned insanity l#&ke an old soldier? Be- cause he knows how to beat a retreat. Ice-fields should be mown with icicles. Uncertain money is like oranges—Gold at morn- | ing, silver at noon, and lead at night. A novelty in umbrellas.—One sent home, Why is « frigate bird and an anti-smoker atike ? Beeause neither stops to light. It was not eating the fruit that made Adam fall zit | Was slipping up on the peel. Enter Tramp—Brandy, quick, or I faint.” Shop- man—“Hain’t got any brandy.” “Then I will be darned if I faint.” Wear a plug hat if you chews, and astove-pipe if you smoke, Pain is the name of our new dentist. He adver- tises “Teeth extracted without Pain,” and then when 2. customer comes dodges off to sample-room, and lets the office boy do the business. Why is it that theschoolboy. who is forever carv- |ing his initials on the old oak trees, is seldom, if ever, heard from in after life? While Dean Stanley was in this éGountry, they asked him one wet duy to putona suitof oilers. “Guess you have made a mistake,” said he, “for I am no Sar-dine.” . | ; | Penurious parent—‘John, whereis that egg the white hen laid this morning?’ John—‘Dunno; hain’t seen it. Guess it got mislaid somewhere.” | Our clock is a setter. times a day. It wants setting a dozen The hands are pointers. SH Paper bricksare made in Wisconsin. They are durable, and impermeuble to moisture. Some folks out West are so pleased with the new building ma- terial that they have begun to savetheir old papers, for the purnose of having them converted into bricks. A man who patronizes the press liberally would soon have enough to lay the foundation of a home. + The congregation of a Methodist Church in Essex County, Mass., are determined that their pastor shall not soon accumulate sufficient wealth to afford him an excuse for “putting on airs.” They give him a yeurly salary of $400. But last year. as he earned $200 by making shoes and digging clu they deducted this sum from his stipend. oe PP O-4 ene: mas, Even clergymen occasionally err. A New Haven divine had prepared a sermon on the Holy Ghost. In writing an announcement for the press, he ab- stractedly made his pen declare that on the follow. - ing Sunday it was his intention to deliver a sermon on “The Holyoke Ghost.” ; ; y~ —---—-—-- -&- @ -q---——---—— The Great Wonders Around Us, Old and young will be deeply interested in Pro- fessor RUDOLPH’s new series of instructive papers on “Tax GREAT WONDERS AROUND Us,” The open- | ing article appears in wnotber column, -- > @ <4. -—- border of biue silk fringed on each side, and by a narrow fiounce | A New Orleans paper suggests that corner loafers be utilized by laheling them with the names of thé streets they infest. ————-— > - 4 A glass roof, to cover Regent street, London, and ‘stretching above the eaves of the houses, is pro- posed as a protection from rain. pi