A MASTERPIECE OF FICTION, “JENNIE VAIL'S M

a

 

Entered According io Act of Congress, in the Year 1888. dy Street € Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. 0.

i,

19

BY ANNIE ASHMORE,

NEXT WEEK.

Enterea at the Post Office, New York, as Secund Class Matter.

 

Office

43.

 

P.O. Box 2734 N.Y.

31 Rose St.

New York, October 6, 1888.

 

Three Dollars Per Year,
Two Conies Five Dollars.

 

, ETERNAL LIGHT.

BY MRS. M. A. KIDDER.

When my work is done below,
Over Jordan let me go;

All my sins to Him confessed,
I weuld on His bosem rest.

When I see the heavenly dawn,
I would take the wings of morn,
And with shining angels rise
Toward the gates of Paradise.

Through the pastures bright and new,
Through the fields of emerald hue,
Through the gardens of my home,
Glad, my joy#uh soul would roam.

Then shall Things seen dimly here

In the light offruth appear:

Saints around the great white throne
Then shali ‘‘know as they are known.”

Like the sunshine after rain,

No more sorrow, grief, or pain,

No more darkness, clouds, or night—

Heaven’s bright, eternal light.
BOP ok ecg 3

[THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM, |

HIGHTING AGAINST MILLIONS;

OR, THE

DETECTIVE IN THE JEWEL CAVES OF KURM.

By the author of “The American Margquit,” “‘The
Old Detective’s Pupil,” ‘‘The Wall Street Haul.”

[* FIGHTING AGAINST MILLIONS” was commenced last
week.

CHAPTER VI.
MOUK-MA CHANGES HIS ATTIRE.

Late as the hour was a small crowd was gathered on
the opposite sidewalk, watching the engines and the
now smoldering fire,

; ADE ORML> Sis jake, cnly passing naticas, tf be.
ing taken for granted that he was an inmate of the house
drawn forth by a desire to see the fire.

He crossed the street and passed through the group
of people, scanning the faces as well as he could in the
gloom. Having satisfied himself that nobody interested
in him was there, he took up a position in the rear of
the watchers, and favored by the darkness, made a few
rapid but radical changes in his disguise, so that he

might now be readily taken for areporter of a morning
paper.

During this while he had not lost sight of the house he
had left, watching it and soliloquizing at once.

“Unless I make a bad guess Mouk-mais the key that
will unlock this mystery. I wonder where his brother
Hwad-mais? If those two devoted slaves of the Baron
d’Orment are here helpihg Grace, there is, of course, no
doubt that she is the Baroness @’Orment. And then if
she leaves Mouk-ma in that house to destroy the evi-
dences of the secret passage, itis certain that she has
made good her escape. Where has she gone? Ah,
here comes Mouk-ma. I hope he will lead me to her.
I’m glad those fool detectives haven’t found out their
mistake and got back here yet. Now to find out what
eighteen months of Grace’s training have done for the
once half-clad, wholly savage Mouk-ma.”

The man thus described by Nick had come down the
steps and gone up the street. with a self-possessed air,
but with a singularly gliding motion notcommon in men
of his height and muscular proportions.

Occasionally he bent his head as if listening for fol-
lowing footsteps, and as often he would sweep the street
around him with a pair of glittering eyes.

His own footfall was inaudible by reason of light rub-
ber overshoes, worn probably for the very purpose of
enabling him to overhear the footsteps of others.

He had been trained in a good school, and was an apt
scholar; but he had on his trailone who was the very
master of the art of shadowing, and therefore, after
many doubles and snares, he deemed himself safe from
pursuit, and with increased speed and less caution
made his way te the Bowery.

‘here he practiced a few more cunning devices to
make sure that noone followed him, and then darted
into an open door-way.

Nick caught the character of the house at once. The
first floor was occupied by a store. and the second by a
hat manufactory. Above that were three floors rented
by rooms to men or women of quiet habits, be their
reputations what they might.

“Shrewdly chosen,” said Nick to himself, “for a quiet
home for a foreigner whose civilization sets somewhat
awkwardly on him for all his good training. At the
same time, friend Mouk-ma, nothing could be more con-
venient for me.”

Stealtbily, but with celerity, he slipped through the
door-way, and with listening ear followed the soft foot-
fall of the foreigner.

Up to the very top floor went Mouk-ma, and then after
amoment’s pause, Nick heard adoor gently open and
shut.

immediately he sped softly up, and standing in the
top hail listened and looked for some guiding sign.

A streak of light and a faint noise of some one moving
drew him to a door, where he stooped and peered
through the keyhole.

Mouk-ma was plainly visible, and was acting with an
ehergy and vivacity strangely in contrast with his for-
mer easy, Stealthy coolness.

He was disrobing. His first act upon entering the
room must have been to throw off his coat, for when
Nick looked in that garment was lying on the floor, and
vest, collar, shirt, and other parts of his apparel were
failing upon it with nervous haste.

A strong loathing was expressed in his features, and
even the manner in which he tossed garment after gar-
ment upon the floor, indicated a feeling almost of hatred
toward them.

Nick watched him with intensest interest, ready to
make capital of even the man’s betrayed sentiments if
opportunity offered.

ouk-ma did not cease his hurried removal of his
clothing until he was completely divested of them,
And yet he was not left naked.

A singular, glittering, kilt-like garment hung from
his waist to the middie of his thighs. The garment
was of a texture new to Nick, and was of a pure golden
yellow, while at the middie ot the waistband blazed a
monstrous ruby.

The instant the last trace of civilized costume fell upon
the floor a marked change came over the swarthy man.

He seemed to grow taller, and he poised his head with
an air of lofty majesty.

Suddenly his hand was lifted to his head and
upon the coal-black hair, parted and brushed
prevailing fashion.

That same look of loathing—fierce now—stamped it-
self on his face, and in an instant the nervous hand had
undone the work of the brush.

A shake of the head, a few deft touches of the fingers,
and as if accustomed by years of training, the inky,
wire-like hair parted in the middle of the head and fell
straight to the temples and in an even line around the

stan

laced
n the

ead.

Spurning the clothing on the floor with his naked foot,
Mouk-ma stepped to an fron cabinet resting on a strong
table, and pressed a concealed spring.

The lid flew open and Mouk-ma took from the cabinet
a yellow silken robe, or more properly a broad band of

 

 

 

 

—

THE GAS SPRA

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

INSTANT AND REVEALED TWO FOREIGN-LOOKING MEN.

 

silk, which he wound loosely around his waist, and se-
cured under theruby by means of an ingenious clasp
of gold.

He next drew a pair of sandals from the cabinet, and
bound them upon his feet. The sandal thongs were

| fastened by clasps hidden under rubies.

The man’s singular attire seemed now complete, for
he closed the cabinet and took from the mantle-shelf a
curiously formed pipe and prepared it for use. |

Then he took several pillows, of which there were
many in the room,’and made himself a sort of couch
upon which he dropped with astrange mingling of dig- |
nity and languor.

There he lay dreamily for some moments before he |
lighted his pipe and began slowly to puff at it. |

For half an hour he puffed lazily and dreamily at his |
pipe, then arose, put out the gas, and as Nick judged |
returned to his pillows to sleep.

CHAPTER VIL.
A CLEW.

It was asipgular scene Nick had witnessed, but. it
va ay seeming relation to the stealing of his Baby
Raiph. |

Nevertheless Nick knew that in Mouk-m& he had a |
certain, though probably remote, elew to the where-
abouts of Grace Eldredge. He was therefore determined
to keep close watch on his every movement.

‘Tf Lonly knew, now, where Hwad-ma was,” he mut- |
tered, as he softly retreated from the door,

A stealthy step on the stairs caught his ear, and
noiselessly as a snake he stepped into the farthest cor- |
ner of the halland waited.

“If that is not Hwad-ma now I miss my guess,” he
said to himself.

The steps drew nearer, and it seemed to Nick’s trained
ear thatin the quick though soft pat he could detect
glad haste.

. A tall figure glided by him and stopped at Mouk-ma’s

00)

r. |
Then followed a low, prolonged, scratching sound, and
the door was opened.

“Hwad-ma, sure enough.”

And Nick, witha feeling that he would now learn

 

 

 

 

something, once more took his place at the door.

Not a word was exchanged between the two until the
gas was lighted.
Then Nick saw the twojmen—Mouk-ma, the majestic
halt-clad savage, and Hwad-ma, dark and somber in the

ai of et ee and face each other.

«6 cwa ”"

It was Mouk-ma who spoke the word of interrogation,
and Nick could see under his apparent calm an eager- |
ness almost fierce in its intensity.

There was unconcealed though repressed gladness in
Hwad-ma’s reply.

“Fla. Krr-Mouyou Papa, Mouyou Mama, Fla.”

Mouk-ma’s eyes flashed with joy and then ran im-
patiently over Hwad-ma’s form. The latter seemed to |
comprehend, for, in a twinkling, he began disrobing,
and no word was spoken until he was attired exactly as |
Mouk-ma.

Then the latter uttered-one word in a hushed voice.

“Krr—Talamalla—Krr.”

“Fla, Fila,” was the answer in the same hushed voice,
but with a wild ring of exultation in it.

Then with one accord the two singular men stood side |
by side facing the door, and each shaded lis eyes with |
the left hand. |

Kach then raised his right hand with impressive |
solemnity over his head, and then in unison let it fall
with a slow, tremulous motion, at the same time chant- |
ing softly in weird cadences:

“Krr—Krr—Talamalla—Krr—Krr.” |

Repeating the same words over and over again, but |
varying the inflections in a way that was musical in the |
extreme, and at the same time conveying to Nick most |
clearly the idea of adoration. |

“Ab!” muttered Nick. ‘That I understood their lan-

 

| minutes.

| and a hew supply of tobacco sank back among his pil-
| lows, while Hwad-ma arranged a couch and prepared a
| pipe for himself.

| ma looked up and asked a question.

| over in his mind, endeavoring to catch some resemblance

| “ah” of comprehension, he murmured :

| likely as that, having accomplished their mission, they

while, anyhow, for they are going to sleep.”

| asleep before he moved from his post.
|

| two men were going to leave for Europe at noon, he had

' glanced at the headings on the first page.

guage. Itis enough like Sanskrit to make one feel that |
it is familiar, and yet I fail to grasp their meaning. If 1
had half a chance I'd learn it.

Nor did Nick speak boastfully. Languages had always
been a passion with him. Justifying himself on the
plea of usefulness in his business, he had mastered more
than one of the languages of far distant countries, |

; among them Persian and Hindoostanee. |

Asa boy he had acquired with native fluency the |
European languages, studying them at the centers |
where they were spoken.

Having made languages aspecial study, and having a |

| general knowledge of many that he could not speak, it |

was Singular that he was unable to fix the language of

| the two men before him.

They in the meantime having concluded what was so
evidently an act of worship, became silent for some |

Mouk-ma having prepared his pipe with fresh water

They puffed for some time in silence. Finally Mouk-

The answer was short, but it made the grave Mouk-
ma’s eyes flash with joy, and caused him to half-rise in
bed as he emitted an unmistakable exclamation of in-
tense gratification.

In the answer was the word Etruria.

For a moment Nick was occupied in turning the words

in them to words familiar to him.
Suddenly the word Etruria struck him, and witha low
“Etruria ; the Atlantic steamer, of course. What so
would hasten away, She sails at noon. Perhaps even
Grace will be on board. But, no,shewon’teither. It's a
clew Yil follow, however. These men are safe for a

CHAPTER VIII.
THE RUBY.

Nick waited “until the two singular men had put out
their light, and’ptoved by their breathing that they were

Then he stole down stairs and out into the gray light
of early dawn.

it seemed an untoward hour at which to accomplish
anything, but Nick had so planned his time that he could
utilize every moment of it; and if, as he bclieved, the

no time to spare.

He first sought one of those little rcstaurants that are
open at all hours for'the sale of coffee and cakes, and
there refreshed himseif.

He next took an elevated train up town and bought a
morning paper still damp from the press.

With a foreknowledge of what he would find there, he

Yes, there, in the place of honor, surmounted by star-
ing headlines, was what purported to be the story of
how Nick Carter had added one more to the series of his
secret crimes by burning the house in which he slept.

The fire, it said, had broken out soonerthan he had
expected it, and his only child had been abandoned
mh the heartless parents, anxious only for their own
Safety.

Then it told how Matt Solomon, the famous detective,
who had ferreted out all his crimes, had captured him
and then lost him again through the aid of concealed
confederates.

Nick read the account calmly, caring little tor the ac-
cusations against himself. and studying only to find in
the words of the article some expression or some state-
ment that might enlighten him in some way.

There was nothing for even his keen wit to take hold

 

of. however, and so, folding the paper up, he waited in
deep thought until Thirty-fourth street was reached,

when he left the cars and hurried over to Madison ave-
nue.

He stopped at one of the handsomest houses on that
aristocratic thoroughfare, and, walking up the stoop,
disturbed its solemn stillness by several vigorous pulls
at the bell.

Half a dozen more pulls ofequal vigor were needed,
however, before the doors were opened to his early sum-
mons, and a sleepy and indignant footman demanded :

‘What d’ye want?’

“TJ want to see Mr. Bedford at once.”

“He isn’t up yet, an’ wont be these two hours.”

«Then wake him, for I must see him on important
business.”

The man was impressed by Nick’s manner, but when
he cast his eye over his shabby attire he doubted the
pope of waking his master for such a man; so he
said, curtly :

«You're not very modest, but if you'll leave your name
and come back at eight o’clock Vl tell him about

jou.”

: ‘My man,” said Nick, pushing open the door that was
closing in his face, ‘don’t be an ass.
ford I’m here, or I’ll make such a row that the whole
house will wake up.”

And to prove himself equal to his words, Nick thrust
the man aside, walked into the hall, and closed the doors
behind him.

“Now, go tell Mr. Bedford I would like to see him ; or
here! take this to him.”

He wrote ‘‘An acquaintance of Howard Wilshaw” ona
card and gave it to the angry but overawed servant, and
then walked into the reception-room and sat down.

Ina few minutes the man returned and opened the
shutters of the window, saying his master would be
down in a few moments.

Mr. Bedford’s hasty appearance in dressing-gown and
slippers proved that the words on the card meant some-
thing to him.

He held the card in his hand as he came in, and there
was a pleased, expectant look on his face, as if he
knew and would be glad to see the writer of the words
on it.

He made no greeting, however, but with a half-puzzled
look of inquiry on his fine face, gazed at the shabby
man before him.

«©You look,” said Nick, with a pleased smile, ‘‘as if you
would be glad to see Nick Carter.”

“Then itis you? Glad, indeed. Do you not know that
no one lives so welcome as yourself to share the happi-
ness of a home that owesits existence toyou? But why
invoke me in the name of Howard Wilshaw ?”

‘Because it is due to him that I am here, as you will
learn when I tell you my story. You must have seen by
the papers that lam suspected of having burned my
Madison avenue houses.”

“Yes,” indignantly.

“Well, read this as quickly as possible, and you will
learn more of my rascality.”

He handed the young man the paper.

Mr. Bedford read the account with a rising flush of in-
dignation and a look of horror on his face.

“Infamous!” he exclaimed.

“Meaning me ?” queried Nick.

“You! f wouldn't insult you by telling youl know
you are innocent. But what does it mean? Is little
Ralph lost ?

“Lost, yes; but not burned. He was stolen from
us,”

“Stolen ?”

“Yes, stolen, and by Grace Eldredge, who had first set
fire to the house~”

“Grace Eldredge! Incredible!”

“Herbert,” called a soft voice from outside.

“It’s Mattie,” explained Mr. Bedford. ‘She thought it
was you and is anxious to see you. Will you mind ifshe
hears what youare going to tell me?”

“I would prerer to have her here.”

“Come in, Mattie,” said Mr. Bedford.

Mrs. Bedford, fresh and rosy as the morning itself,

Go tell Mr. Bed- |

 

 

came quickly in, and, with anair of hesitation, took
Nick's proferred hand, saying, laughingly.

«You are such a man of disguises that I am never sure
itis really you I am talking to.”

“It isreally I, andas lamin abhurry I will tell you
briefly what your husband already knows.”

And Nick rapidly sketched what was in the paper,
ending by telling her, as he had her husband, who had
taken Baby Ralph.

‘Oh, Herbert!” cried Mrs. Bedford, ‘‘don’t you see
how this connects with what we have to tell Mr.
Carter ?”

ieee that Iam!” exclaimed he. ‘‘I had not thought
of it.”

“Ah,” cried Nick, Ea “what is this? But wait.
I'll tell my story first. Oo you remember that when
Wilshaw, hunted down by me, took poison to avoid the
hangman, he made Grace swear to avenge him ?”

“Yes,*you told us of the dreadful oath she took over
his yet warm body to revenge him.”

«After that she disappeared.”

“Yes. You thought then that she had gone off with
that Baron d’Orment, whose jewels you gave Mattie,
saying they belonged to her.”

‘‘Now I am sure she married him, for his two foreign
servants were working under her in her scheme of re-
venge against me.”

The husband and wife exchanged glances. Nick no-
ticed, but did not inquire the meaning then, merely
going on to tell them of how he had been hounded by
Grace. .

‘«‘What a tigress she is!” exclaimed Mrs. Bedford.

“Yes,” said Nick, with a gleamin his eye, “but 11
tame her.”

“I think you will;” cried Mr. Bedford, in a tone of ad-
miration. ‘I shall never cease to wonder at the way
you saved me from her first husband, Wilshaw, and kept
me trom being branded with shame and infamy for his
crime.”

i ‘‘Now tell me what you know in this connection,” said
Nick.

‘It seems very little after hearing your terrible story,
but it may give you some clew that is hidden from us.
It alarmed us, and we had determined to tell you of it
anyhow. Do you remember that in those jewels of the
baron’s there was one enormous ruby ?”

Nick thought of the wonderful rubies in the belts of
Moukma and his brother, and started, saying eagerly :

“I do not remember. Ibardly looked at them. What
of it 2”

‘Well, there was such aruby. We often looked at it,
but it was so wonderful that we did not dare to have it
set, lest, in wearing it, too much comment might be
caused, and we might have to explain what would open
up that wretched affair of Wilshaw’s.”

“1 gee.”

“One day, however, I became possessed with a desire
to know its value, and I took it fromthe safe deposit
vault and carried it to Tiffany’s. What do you suppose
they appraised it at”

“Fitty thousand?”

“That’s a high guess, but far short of the mark. They
put it to every test, and then said half a million would
be as near as they could come; thatit was really price-
less, Since it was without a peer in the world. That
fixed me more than ever in my determination not to
have it set. Moreover, while the lapidary was exam-
ining it, 1 felt a singular sensation as of being
watched.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Nick.

“Yes, We were in the private room, but the door was
open, and asthe sensation I speak of became intoler-
able, I whirled around and looked out of the door. The
only impression I had at first was of a pair of burning,
piercing black eyes devouring that ruby. Then I saw
that a tall, dark man of a strange, foreign aspect. was
the owner of the eyes.”

Nick had drawn a paper and pencil from his pocket
and was rapidly sketching as Mr. Bedford talked. At
this point he handed the paper to him, saying:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
rip Pee ge

 

 

 

 

“Did he 100k like that ?”

“That is the very man! Look, Mattie!”

‘It is he,” she said, turning pale.

«You saw him too, then?” aSked Nick.

“Afterward,”

«Excuse the interruption. Go on, Mr. Bedford.”

“The man moved away as he caught my fixed glance,

but he first cast one burning look on me. I took the

ruby and placed it carefully away in my inner vest-pocket
before I left the store; but from the instant I took that
ruby in my hand 1 felt a most uncomfortable depression

of yada

«The result of some undefined fear ?” queried Nick.

“No, but—please don’t laugh at me.?

«« Have no tear of that. Goon.”

«Well, there was a singular feeling of having some-
thing which did not belong to me, and which would be
torn from me at the peril of my life.”

ea 7 re.”

‘What followed was stranger. I got into my carriage
with the order to drive to the safe deposit at once. To
go more quickly, the driver went by the least frequented
streets. e drove rapidly. All at once, as we turned a
corner,. another carriage ran violently into us, overturn-
ing my carriage and stunning me. 1 turned to con-
sciousness quickly with the feeling that something was
gliding over my body. I opened my eyelids to look into
the same blazing eyes I had encountered in the store.
The man’s hand. I am sure, had been moving over my
body in search of the ruby. I made an effort to move
and the man was gone. A crowd had gathered, but for
some reason I made no outcry. I felt for the ruby. It
Pig safe. A Carriage was brought and I went home in

«Were you injured ?”

~ “Not at all; only stunned and jarred a little.”

“Then why did you not go on to the safe deposit ?”

‘JT cannot tell. ITonly know thatI gave the order to
go bome mechanically, and though half a dozen times
ch to give a counter order, I did not do it.”

“When did this happen ?”

“Yesterday.”

“Yesterday? And this is all ?”
tecing 1 haa Spoken ofthe oling that my itetwas i

‘ee en of—the at my life was in
peril Gaounenot that ruby. I got up, lighted the gas,
and looked at the clock. It wasonly eleven o'clock. We
had gone to bed early. Mattie was w me, and
suddenly said, ‘Were you worrying about the ruby” I
told her I was, and she said she was too, I felt so un-
easy then that J] teok the ruby from the drawer where I
had put it,and placed itand my revolver under my pillow.
Then I went to bed again and fellasleep. You know we
have the new electric system of lighting the gas? I can
light it as I lie abed.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Well, at about midnight. I heard a slight noise near
the bureau. I cautiously drew my pistol and touched
the electric button. The gas sprang up in an instant,
and revealed two tall, foreign-looking men, one search-
ing the bureau and the other, with dagger drawn, by
Mattie’s side.” °

«The same man you had seen before and another ?”

“Yes. The sudden lighting bewildered them for a
second, and they turned to fly. but all at once they
sprang together, and, facing us, stretched their arms to-
ward us and began to wave them in an undulating way
horribly serpent-like. My pistol was nted at them,
but I could not summon resolution to t. Continuing
to wave their arms till their long fingers looked like so
many snakes darting at us, they seemed to float out of

~ the room. Mattie and I, like birds fascinated, did not
move for ten minutes. We made no alarm.”

“And the ruby ?”

“Itis here. I had made up my mind to send for you
and give it to you, asking you to learn the reason why
it was sosought for. lam ce the men were after
the ruby. Will you take it 2”

«I should have asked you for it if you had not given it
tome. I am going to be still bolder and ask you for

' gome more of the jewels that came from the baron.”

“You shall go to the vault and help yourself.” ;

_ “YT knew you would sayso. I am almost penniless. I
cannot get over a thousand dollars cash, and I shall need
much money in my hunt for my baby.”

«You are heartily welcome to all you will take. Not
including the ruby, there must be still nearly a million
‘dollars’ worth of diamonds left. We cannot get into the
vault until ten o’clock, you know.”

“J will meet you there at thattime, You may not
know me, so we will let ‘ruby’ be the signal.”

_ “Mattie has something more to say to you which may
be of importance.” .

What is it ?”
rst,” said Mrs. Bedford, ‘let me recapitulate my
history. Until Mr. Hooper died I thought he was my
father. Then you told me that he was not, but that

you said that my real father had years before been mur-

dered, and that the Baron d’Orment was concerned in it

in some way. You said the jewels were rightly mine.”
“TI was sure they were,”

to story, for I know you are in a hurry. Mr. Hooper’s
eff were handed over to me at his death, since he
had no kno yn relatives. His money was all given to

 

charitable uses; but his papers and other things were

keot. hoping to find fx them some Cclew to the manner of

ry Hers © pie > \ w eben = ns Bt
ind yOu'Hay ss souitil * Gemanded Nick,

‘No; but lopg ago i iound a portrait of a French army
Officer, which heart told me was my father. Yester-
day I was looking at the portrait and it fell from my
. hand. The case broke and a piece of paper fell out. Here
‘itis. Read what is written on it.”

Nick took a faded yellow sheet of paper from Mrs. Bed-

i and care unfolded it. 1;
On one side it was covered with writing in a fine,
woman’s hand, the ink being almost as pale as the

paper. ;
‘On. the other side it seemed blank, but as Nick turned
the sheet his eye caught some faint marks, and, think-
ig they might be the name of the person to whom the
was addressed, he held the paper so that the light
from the window fell upon the marks, and then closely
ye seams 1 he cried, hastil
ea a ng glass,” he cried, hastily.
- The glass was handed to him, and with it he care-
fully scrutinized the paper. Suddenly he started and
urm ;

murmured :
“It is the finger of Providence, pointing.”
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
———__>-_@-4+_____—_-
A NEW USE FOR GEESE.

A strange sight met the eyes of a traveler in Ala-
bama, on a plantation near Millervile. He saw a
man driving ten ortwelve geese toward a cotton
patch, and each goose had onits neck something that
looked like a small imitation of a horse-collar.

“For Heaven's sake,” said the traveler, addressing
the farmer, ‘“‘what is it you have on the necks of those
geese ?”

“Those are gourds full of water. I drive the geese
into that cotton patch, and keep them there all day
weeding out the cotton. There is no water in the cot-
ton patch, and I have to give them water in this way
to keep them there. Those geese will weed out more
cotton ina day than two people would. They will
eat the grass and weeds, but they won’t touch the
cotton.”

“But how do they get the water out of those
gourds under their necks?”

“They drink out of each others gourd. Each
gourd has an opening in the side, so that another
goose ¢an put his bill into the gourd and drink. If
yon will stay here long enough you will see it your-
se bs >

The traveler waited there half a day to see that
performance, and finally saw it. The geese did just
as the man said they would. When a goose got
thirsty he walked up to his neighbor and coolly drank
out of the gourd on his neck. When asked if he had
yet made a crop with the help of the geese, he re-

lied that he made a small crop last year .but only

ad a limited number of. geese, as he was only ex-

eens. This year he has over a hundred geese

n harness. and ‘they have succeeded in keeping his

crop cleaned out so far. He has a hundred acres

» under cultivation, and says he will make the best
crop he has ever made.

When asked how he came to think of using the
geese as farm hands, he replied that two years ago
he had asmall patch of cotton near hishouse. In

this patch the geese raised about his yard were
allowed to run. He subsequently noticed that the
cotton had little or no grass and no weeds at all,
and began to watch the geese. He found that they
literally ate every weed and every biade of grass.
But they did not touch the cotton. Finding how val-
uable they were for this purpose he resolved to try
them on a larger scale, andis delighted with his ex-
periment. His neighbors have paid close attention

to the matter, and next year they willeach of them
start a large number of geese in harness in their cot-
ton crops. If the farmer’s experiment is as success-
ful as he thinks it will be it is only a question of a few
years until the whole cotton crop of Alabama will be
weeded out by the ordinary farm goose.

—_——_ >- 9+
A WORD TO GIRLS.

:
-

The woman who is indifferent to her looks is no
true woman. God meant woman to be attractive, to
look well, to please, and jt is one of her duties to
carry out this intention of her Maker. But that dress
is to do it all, and to suffice, is more than we can be

brought to believe. Just because we do love to see
girls look well, as well as live to some purpose. we
would urge upon them such a course of reading and
study as will confer such charms as no modiste can
supply. A well-known author once wrote a very

retty essay on the power of education to beautify.
That it absolutely chiseled the features; that he had
seen many @ clumsy nose and thick pair of lips so
modified by thought awakened and active sentiment
as to be unrecognizable. And he put it on that
‘ground that we so often see people, homely and un-
attractive in youth, bloom in middle life into a soft-
ened Indian summer of good looks and mellow

 

Colonel Dupaige, a French army officer, was. Afterward -

“And we have had no hesitation in using them. But }

 

LEARN TO GIVE.

BY LUCY A. BENNETT.
Learn to give, and thou shalt bind
Countless treasures to thy breast;
Learn to love, and thou shalt find
Only they who love are blest.

Learn to give, and thou shalt know
They the poorest are who hoard ;

Learn to love, thy love shall flow
Deeper for the wealth outpoured.

Learn to give, and l2arn to love;

* Only thus thy life can be

Foretaste of the life above,
Tinged with immortality.

Give, for God to thee hath given;
Love, for He by love is known ;
Child of God, and heir of heaven,
Let thy parentage be shown.
>o~

[THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM"]

Manager's Favorite

The Tragedy of Carli Shores,

A STORY OF THE STAGE.

By HERO STRONG.

Author of *'The Captain’s Orphan Daughter,”
“The Lost Bride,” ‘Born to Command,” etc.

[“THE MANAGER’S FAVORITE” was commenced in No. 46.
Backnumbers can be obtained of all News Agents.)

CHAPTER VI.

“JY WAS ON THE CLIFFS THAT NIGHT AND
SAW WHAT YOU SAW.”
OR a moment Ethel was
dumb. It had never occurred
to her that any other shared
‘her terrible secret—that is,
any other except the guilty
man with the mark of Cain
on his brow—and it was with
difficulty that she controlled
herself.
“Sit down,” said Mr. Mont-
gomery, drawing her to a set-
oo _\ tee beneath the trees, ‘and
try not to look so white and terror-stricken. You will
attract the notice of passers-by.” ¥
“You have startled me by your absurd statement,”
said Ethel, making a brave effort to recover her self-pos-
session, ‘“‘and I do not. think 1 comprehend you.” ;
“I beg your pardon; you comprehend me entirely.
And you dare not look me in the face and,
have named the reason why you fled fre
“Mr. Montgomery, why have you bro

me this? What have I ever done to
take so much pains to distress me
‘All thatis aside from the qu
gomery, coolly. ‘*You and I both
ton is dead, and that Harry, his bi
She sprang to her feet and put
mouth, while her dark eyes grew wild wit
“You shall not say it! Hush! Be still,
There are people all around us with ears t
what you are Saying.” ‘ oe Fenty
He took her hand and held it close in his. *.-
*I do think, and 1 ‘will not say it since you ask me not

 

to. And Ethel, Miss Atherton, it lies with you to de-
cide whether I shall keep this secret that we share to- |
gether, or whether I shall give it tothe world, and let
the uirelings of law and ce hunt this guilty raan to

ae bea
oe soa

1 — .
Spo! , low vi
sevnied to burn into hers as he drew a little nearer, and |
his hot breath swept her cheek.
“What do you mean ?” she asked, nervously.
“JT mean just this. Ethel, you are a wondrously lovely
gir . I knew that when I first saw you at Carnleigh;
ut your loveliness has burst upon me like a revelation
since I have seen you here, where dress and ornament,
and the excitement of your life, have enhanced your
charms. Can you not guess what 1 would tell you 2”
She looked at him in cold surprise. 8
“Again I must say that { do not comprehend i -

(te @pok

oice, and his dark, passionate eyes |

“You are willfully blind!” he cried, passionately.
“Ethel, I Jove you! I love you with all the strength
thatisin me! And I want you for my own!”

Ethel drew back in startled dismay.

«“You—you love me?”she said. ‘You, who are the
promised husband of Miss Glenmore! You forget your-
self!”

“I forget nothing! Iam not married to Miss Glen-
more, and I have never loved her. Do you think that it
I had loved her I would have stood quietly by and seen
her mooning with those two low-born fishermen, and
tending the sick-bed of their rheumatic old mother?
What kind of a man do you take me for? Did you never
think it strange that I did not care how often she went
fishing in Paul Atherton’s boat, with him to row her,
or hunted for sea-weed, with handsome Harry for a
guide, in places where sea-weed never was found, and
never will be found till water runs up hill ?”

«“J—I never thought much about it.”

«Ethel, [do not ask you if you love Harry Atherton.
We will let that pass. Itis only natural that, being
brought up with him, as you have been, you should feel,
we will Say, a sisterly regard for him. I will not insult
you by supposing for a moment that you could entertain
a stronger regard than that for a man who has done the
crime which he has done.”

‘Mr. Montgomery,” cried Ethel, her cheek crimson-
ing, her eye flashing, ‘“‘you are rude and unmanly to
speak to me in this way !”

“Perhaps lam. And Ido not care to pursue the sub-
ject. Iam quite ready to keep Harry Atherton’s secret
if you wish me so to do.”

“Tf | wish you to! Oh, Mr. Montgomery, how can you
think that I do not wishit! Heis my brother. He and
Paul saved my life. And all these years they have given
me a home and the best of everything they had; and I
was so happy in the dear little house on the wild, free
ciiffs, with the great ocean stretching away as far as
the eye couldreach. Yes, Carnleigh may be a bleak and
barren place, and the people there may be rude and un-
cultivated, but we were all so happy before you city
fashionable people invaded our Arcadia, made us dis-
contented with our homespun ways of living, and dis-
satisfied with the rarrow existence we were leading.
And I wish—I wish with all my heart—that you had
never come.”

“IT think myself that it would have been better for all
parties,” said . Montgomery, quietly. “It is nota
good idea to mix two elements so tentirely dissimilar as
the fashionable people of New York and the fisher folks
of Carnleigh ; but the deed has been done, and you and
I cannot change it by mourning over it. It remains for
us totake the goods the gods provide, and spend no
time in lamenting by-gones.”

“How did you know that—that I knew aught of what
was done that night on the cliffs above the Demon’s
Basin ?” asked Ethel, impelled by a power she could not
control to question this man who shared with her the
secret.

“Ah, then you acknowledge there was a crime done?
How didI know? Ethel, I was on the cliffs, that night
and saw what you did! AndI know that it was about
my affianced wife that they were disputing. Rather a
pleasant scene for an adoring lover to witness, was it
not ?”

‘How can you joke over such a terrible thing ?” cried
Ethel: ‘You must be made of stone. Great Heaven!
do you know that you are talking of—of——”

er voice utterly broke down, and he finished the sen-
tence for her.

“Of murder! Yes, I know. But why do you not ask

me if the body has been found? Why do you not ask
me where young Harryis hiding? Itstrikes me that
for a woman you have not the average degree of curi-
osity.”
Pell me what you know,” she said, in a whisper. ‘I
have heard nothing since I fled in terror from the
place, and I have suffered agonies in conjecturing what
might be.”

“Compose yourself, and do not look so wild and
strange. We shall attract attention. There, that is bet-
ter. Now then, first of all, Paul Atherton’s body has not
been found. How could it have been when one considers
that the basin beneath the cliff has a powerful under-

round suction which nothing could withstand? And,
Besides, nobody knows that he was cast in there, and
there has been no search. Nor do [ think that any
amount of searching would have revealed anything. I
have looked the place over carefully at low tide, and I
believe that. the Demon’s Basin is capable of holding a
secret like that till the day of doom. Of course, the
whole village was wild when it was known that one of
the Atherton boys was missing; and Harry, pale and
grave, led every searching party, but never led them
near the Demon’s Basin. And a week after his mother
was buried, the cottage was closed, and Harry Atherton
left Carnleigh.”

“Left Carnleigh ? Where has he gone ?” asked Ethel,
anxiously.

«That I cannot tell you. The good people of the vicin-

 

ee

~| love me,

 

ity said that he went away because his grief over the

death of his brother was so great that he could not re-

main where anything reminded him of the one who was
gone. It was apretty and a sentimental way of putting
it, and I give the Carnleigh rustics the credit of it; but
you and I know that he fled because he could not listen
to the roar of the tide as it swept into the cavern which
held his terrible secret, and because, probably, like any
other murderer, he expected that his sin would find him
out. And soit will! Iam nota religious man, Ethel ;
I don’t believe much in churches or the long-faced de-
votees whorun them, but I believe that all sin is pun-
ished here in this world.”

“But he never intended to doit. Oh, I know that he
did not! Harry loved his brother—oh, so fondly and
tenderly! More than once has he risked his life for him.
I could tell you of so many things that would show you
how he must have loved him. No! no! Mr. Mont-
gomery, Harry Atherton never planned this thing. It
was an accident, | am positive.”

“Then why did you not stay and help him to find his
brother? Why did he not go straight to the people of
Carnleigh and tell them of the awful accident which had
happened, and ask their help and sympathy. That
would have been the conduct of an innocent man!”

“J grant that. But how many of us, in like circum-
stances, would have known just what it was best todo?
And would he have beer believed when he had told that
he and his brother were quarreling just before the ac-
ety and that they had even laid hands on each
other ?” :

“J cannot say. I, for one, should not have believed
him if I had known that the quarrel was about a woman
they both loved. Men have done worse things than mur-
der before now—for the favor of women!”

“T must ask one m juestion, Mr. Montgomery. Do
they—do the people at Carnleigh have any suspicion of
—ot Harry ?”

“No, I think not. I have heard nothing of the kind
lisped. It is the prevalent belief that Paul Atherton
walked off the cliffs that night in the mist—you remem-
ber that there was a mist—walked off and was
drowned.”

“Then, for merey’s sake, let them believe it! Oh, Mr.
Montgomery, promise me that you will keep what you
know silent as the grave! See! I would kneel to you
andimploreit. He never intended to doit. They were
both young; their blood was very hot, their tempers
were high. You know how it is that sometimes every
one does something he never would have dreamed he
could have done—does it in afitof passion. And Harry
is young, with his life all before him. It would be dread-
ful, dreadful to have lif-accused of this thing. His
own conscience will punish him enough. Oh, Mr. Mont-
gomery, pro me that you will leave his punishment
with God !”

“J have no wish to interfere with the Creator’s scheme
of punishment,” said Montgomery, with the irreverence
which Ethel had often noticed in him before; ‘‘not the
slightest. I do not care afig about Harry Atherton.
But I want you, Ethel, and Lam quite capable of win-
ning you on any terms. Ido not profess to be a model
as to morals, and when I want anything I do not hesi-
tate over Ways and means. Not atali. I tell you so
frankly in the outset. I love you as I never thought
I should love any woman, and I would kill you now here
at my feet before I would let you live to belong to any
other man.”

Ethel shuddered and turned away from the passionate
fire of his eyes as theygleamed upon her beneath his
dark lashes. His usually colorless cheek flushed crim-
son, and his white, sinewy hands hurt her delicate wrist
as he drew her back to her seat.

“[ do wrong to frighten you, Ethel. I ask your par-
don for my violent words. But you do not know the na-
ture of aman who loves asido. Now listen. Mind I
do not hurry you. Take your time to decide. Let me try
to teach you to love me. Promise me that you will en-
courage no Other man; promise that you will be mine,
and the secret of Harry Atherton’s crime shall never
pass my lips. Refuse, and I shall fling it the four
winds. And he snali be hunted down to his shameful
death on the scaffold, or to his sentence for life in prison,
and I will do my bravest to help do it.”

He had risen trom his seat and stood before her, tall,
handsome, distinguished looking, a very god of a man,
and yet she shrank from him in loathing.

Her heart stopped beating, her blood seemed turning
to ice in her veins as she thought of herselt in his arms,
with his face nst hers, and his kisses on her lips.
And yet she knew well enough that there were scores of
fair women in the goodly eity of New York who wouid
ask no higher happiness than to be first in the heart of

| Ross Montgomery.

“You donot answer me, Ethel,” he said, in the low
voice of intense passion. “Well, I can wait. Look up
at me, dear, and see what it is to love!”

But she bent her head still lower, and would not see
the passion in his face, and directly he sat down beside
her and spoke quietly.

“AsI said before, I will not press you for an answer.
Take your time. A week, two weeks, a month—only
give me the reply I long for when it comes.”

“And do you forget Maude Glenmore ?”

No, I do not ferget her, but I never loved her. 1t was
an arrangement.* “tly between our two families to
unite our forte, / we? Maude is a lady of good style,
and } lid rv " anewer

ther ws) hy moan '
her,purpos' ver; y A eS ths

“TANG uO YOR Semuelaberwiiat T am’? A nobod) not
even & narkel can lay claim to. And amactress de-
pendent on the bounty of Mr. belmont!” —:

“It would make no difference to meif you werea
washerwoman. Let society talk. It will do them good.
When shall I have my answer?”

“Is there no other way?” asked Ethel, in a weak

Oice.

«There is none other.” ;

«Mr. Montgomery, you are cruel, and yet you say you
Is such cruelty consistent with love ?”

“TI take the means to compass the end,” he said, coldly.
«And I leave you to choose.’*

Ethel rose unsteadily to her feet.

“] must think of it,” siie said, feebly. <‘I—I cannot
tell youto-day Next week—in two weeks—maybe, I
will write you. I must think it over. Heaven help
me !”

“May Heaven help you to decide as I wish, and asI
know you will, my peerless Ethel, and meantime, do
not. dim your eyes over trashy play-books; there is
re better in store for you. Good-day.”

He lifted his hat to her as any ordinary acquaintance
might have done, and sauntered away.

And Ethel stood looking after the tall, handsome
figure as it disappeared around an angle of the path,
and through her shut teeth she muttered :

“T hate him! I hate him! And yet, Heaven help me,
it is my fate to be in his power!”

She looked at her watch and was surprised to see that
it was morethan an hour since she had left Madame
Therese, and she hurried home by the shortest route,
dreading to be questioned. But one of madam’s old
friends from Paris had arrived, and nobody noticed her,
and she was at liberty to steal away to her room and
think over Ross Montgomery’s strange proposal. .

What should she do?

How should she answer him ?

She paced the small reom back and forth until her
feet ached from very weariness, and her head swam
with thinking.

Was there no way to escape ?

But even if she should put a continent between
herself and the man she dreaded, still he would possess
the same power over her, for he would hold the dread
secret, and she could not save Harry from him,

If she were dead it would make no difference ; nothing
could make any difference unless this dreadful Ross
Montgomery should die! Oh, if that could only hap-

en! Why not? Men, good men—men whom women

oved, men who did the world good by living in it—were
dying every day ; and the Ethel stopped and shuddered
at her own thoughts.

Alas! that she had lived to make such thoughts pos-
sible !

And then, looking into her own heart as she had never
before looked, she knewthat it was not so much the
dread she felt of Ross Montgomery that made her hesi-
tate about accepting him for a husband as it was the
love, deep and strong, which filled every fiber of her
being for Harry Atherton!

And to save him she must kill that love, and live a
lie all her life ¢

+

CHAPTER VIII.
MR. BELMONT SEES THE RINGS.

Mr. Belmont had fallen into the habit of dropping in
at Mrs. Vanstead’s on afternoons when no rehearsals
were on, and Mrs. Vanstead was quite wise enough to
understand that these frequent calls were not meant for
herself or yet tor Madame ‘Therese.

But Ethel was quite innocent. She was always glad
to see the manager; he had been very kind to her, and
she looked upon him as a daughter might upon an in-
dulgent father. j

She was very young, and thirty-five wasa great age,
just as it is to any young girl, and Mr. Belmont seemed
to her quite venerable. Aid she always felt at ease with
him.

He made one of his informal calls a day or two after
Ethel’s interview with Ross Montgomery.

He was quick to observe any change in the face whose
every mood he had studied, and before very long he saw
that something was troubling her.

«You do not look oe yourself, Ethel,” he said, kindly.
‘‘What has occurred? Anything unpleasant at the Ar-
gentine ?”

“Oh, no!” said Ethel, trying to throw off her preoccu-
pied air. ‘Not at all.”

“I thought perhaps Carrini might have been annoying
you. Heisa presumptuous fellow, and if he did not
have such a magnificent voice I would dismiss him.
But, indeed, I do not know where I could duplicate
him.’

“T beg you will not discharge any one on my account,”
said Ethel; ‘‘they are all very, very kind to me, and I
feel quite at home with them. And before I met any
actors and actresses, but had only read about them, I
thought how much afraid of themI should be. And I
used to think what happy lives they must lead, with
nothing to do but dress beautifully, and do their best
every evening to entertain people who were willing to
be entertained, and who gave them lovely bouquets and
lots of applause. How very silly I was.”

Mr. Belmont looked at her a little anxiously.

«] hope you have not found that the life of an actress
is not happy? I want you to be satisfied and happy,
Ethel. You are too young and too pretty not to make
the most of life.”

“JT am satisfied. Why should I notbe? I shall never
be a great actress, Mrs. Vanstead tells me. She is frank
and honest, and I like her for it; but [ can be a very at-

catia THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. $235— won

tractive one—in minor parts, at least.
will be disappointed in me, Mr. Belmont.”

‘No one could be disappointed in you who saw your
face,” Said the manager, warmly; ‘‘and since I have
known you it daily and hourly grows upon me that I
have somewhere seen a face like yours, or something in
a face which resembles strongly something that I see in
yours. And it vexes me that I cannot fix it.”

“Perhaps—who knows ?—perhaps you might have
seen my mother? Oh, if youonly had! You have been
across the water, I think I have heard you say ?”

“Several times. I was educated in England.. My
father’s people were English. But why do you speak of
that. You are American born, are you not?”

“JT cannot tell you, but the presumption is that I am
not.”
“Indeed! You have never mentioned that. And now
that I think of it, Ethel, you have never told me much of
yourselt anyway.”

‘Perhaps not. I have no objection to telling you what
little I know ot myself as achild. Fifteen years ago, or
nearly that, a vessel was wrecked off Carnleigh shores
in aterrible storm. An English vessel named the Allen-
dale, from Liverpool. A couple of brave youths, sons of
a fisherman’s widow, risked themselves in a small boat
to try and save some of the unfortunate passengers. But
the vessel went down before their eyes, and they were
powerless. But they managed to drag into the boat the
form of a woman lashed to a plank, and clasped tight to
her breast she heldababy. She was dead; the child
was alive. I am that child!”

“Why, it isa romance!” cried the manager, rubbing
his hands gleefully... “‘What a capital advertisement it
will be for you, Ethel! Why did you not mention it be-
fore? It onght to have been adroitly introducea in one
of the criticisms of your debut. A thing like this is
widely copied, and takes immensely with the public.”

“It may be. But still I should hardly like to have it
held-out as an inducement for them to come and wit-
ness my somewhat indifferent acting.”

«Of course I will not press the matter ; but there is no
denyiag thatit would beatrump card. But did they
never tind out who the dead woman was? Were there
no means of identification? No letters, or jewelry, or
anything of that sort?”

“There was no name on the clothing—no papers of
any description. She was well, even expensively,
dressed, and was very, very beautiful! And not above
twenty two or three years of age. But she wore two
rings on her finger, and these rings I have.”

“Ah! It was wellto keep them. Even so slighta
thing as a bit of jewelry may be the means of bringing
you into afortune. Who knows? Why, Ethel, you may
be the daughter of an earl for aught we know. May 1
see these rings ?”

“Certainly,” said Ethel, and she went out of the room
to fetch them.

The manager rubbed his white hands softly together,
and a well-satisfied smile played over his face.

“Perversity, thy name is woman! That is the way it
should have been expressed,” he said to himself. «‘Now
why should she object to having this romantic business
about her early life known, I wonder? It would be such
an advertisement! The public—dear fickle, unreason-
ing souls!—like everything out of the common course,
and their liking puts money in our pockets. But it can
be whispered about, and sometimes a whisper, if you
whisper it for asecret, is more potent than a blazing
placard on every dead wall in the land. Yes, nothing
travels like a secret.”

Ethel came back presently and laid the two rings be-
fore Mr. Belmont.

He examined the diamond first.

“Ha! thatis a fine stone. Not a particle of color, and
not a flaw or blemish. Never cost less than five hundred
dollars without the setting. Your mother, my dear,
must haye been a woman of wealth. Now, then, this is
a wedding-ring”, taking up the other ornament and
turning it over carefully.

AS he did so his eye fell on the inside inscription, and
his ruddy face changed, his cheek grew ashen white, he
held the ring motionless, and gazed atit like one dis-
traught.

«Prom R. to C.,’ he repeated slowly.
Cc.’ Great heavens!”

The ring fell from his nerveless hand and rolled away.

Ethel, surprised and confounded by the strange change
in Mr. Belmont, laid her hand on the bell to ring for
assistance.

He recovered himself by an effort and stopped her.

“Do not call for any one. It—it is only a little dizzi-
ee : Ishall be all right soon. The ring—where is the
ring ?

Ethel recovered it from the floor.

*Jndeed, you look very pale, sir.
something to restore you.”

“No, no—I need nothing!” he cried, impatiently.
“Cannot you see that I am all right? Give me the

«From R. to

Let me ring for

ring!

‘She gave it tohim, wondering greatly at the emotion
which made hand shake as he took it, and» which
blanched the face she had never before seen turn pale.

Again he read over the inscription aloud, asif to nx it
upon his memory—‘‘* R. toc.’”

“7 have thought that peehene my father’s name might

 

have begun with R.” said Ethel, ‘and my mother’s with
C. was? My poor mothe:
pan ’ 7 fiad ? ™"

3 t y Sac. ) Very sad, indeed,” said tie
manager, absently; ‘but it thay be possible that your
parentage will yet be discovered. We will hope so. And
now,” looking at his watch, ‘I must bid you good-by.
Look your prettiest for the new play to-night. The clos-
et is sure to bring down the house.”

e shook hands with her, and the fingers which
touched hers were cold as ice.

Cramming his hat low down over his eyes, as if he
feared that those he met might read something of what
was passing in his mind, Mr. John Belmont strode home
to his rooms, and, without stopping to remove his over-
coat, he unlocked an escritoire and drew out a package
of papers yellow with age. He looked them over care-
fully, and did not find the one he sought till the very
a A mere slip it was, with a few lines of faded writ-
ng.

He read it over twice, and stood with it in his hand in
deep thought. ‘

“How strange it all is—how very strange!” he said to
himself. ‘And after all these years! What man is so
sate that the sins of his youth cannot find him out ?”

CHAPTER IX.
SHE GIVES HER ANSWER.

Ethel Atherton’s success on the stage had become an
assured thing. Not that she possessed such a decided
talent for histrionic performances, but she was young,
graceful, apt, and very beautiful. And people went to
see her lovely face, and listen to her sweet voice, and
came away satisfied, and went again and again.

Ross Montgomery was almost always among the audi-
ence at the Argentine. The man’s infatuation was com-
plete, and it surprised himself.

Miss Maude Glenmore could not fail to see that her
lover greatly admired the young actress, but she did not
for a moment believe that it was anything more than
admiration. She never dreamed that he would carry it
so far as to think of marrying a mere actress. There-
fore, she gave herself very little concern about it. She
had seen Ross smitten with young ladies before, and she
was notof a jealous disposition, so she only laughed
when her acquaintances referred to Ross’ infatuation for
the beautiful young country girl, who had so suddenly
become famous.

Ethel’s life at this time was a very much disturbed
and unhappy one. Time was passing on, and she knew
that it would not be long before Ross Montgomery
would demand to know his fate.

What could she tell him ?

The more she thought of it the more uncertain she

rew.

Oh, if it were only something on which she could ask
advice! If she could but tell Mrs. Vanstead, whose brain
was logical, and whose heart was kind, the whole mis-
erable story, and listen to her advice.

But that could not be. She must bear the distress and
uncertainty, and assume the responsibility alone.

It was one sunny, quiet afternoon, and Ethel had
gone out for a breath of fresh air, and she had strayed
much farther than she thought, and found herself in a
sparsely settled section of Harlem.

She had not been conscious of having been followed,
but suddenly she became aware of a presence near her,
and, looking back, she discovered Mr. Ross Montgomery
at a little distance.

She trembled and turned pale.

‘Do not disturb yourself,” he said, quietly. ‘Let us
sit down here,” indicating a sheltered seat beneath the
trees in a little common, where grass and flowers were
growing. ‘You look weary. It is not possible that you
have walked all this distance ?”

«‘I—I did not realize how far I was walking.”

“No, I should say not. You should be more careful. I
wonder that Mrs. Vanstead allows you to ramble about
by yourself and tax your strength. She is old enough
to know better.”

“J have been used to being out of doors all aay long.
I do not mind the fatigue. Indeed, I am the better for
it.’

He seated himself beside her, and for a moment both
were silent. Ethel’s heart beat almost to suffocation
with dread of what was coming.

“Well,” said Mr. Montgomery, at last, ‘I told you four
weeks ago that I would wait for you to fake your time,
and I have waited. What have you to say to me ?”

She looked up into his dark, handsome face, and col-
ored painfully. Her slender hands wove themselves in
and out among the ribbons which trimmed her corsage,
and her voice choked as she said:

‘1 do not know what to say to you.”

“And yet you have had four weeks in which to con-
sider the matter. Let me put the words of your answer
in your mouth. Say to me, ‘Ross, I will be your wite.’”

“Indeed, indeed, I cannot! How can I, since 1 do not
love you ?”

“7 will teach you to love me, darling. Would it be so
very hard a lesson to learn ?”

He bent his dark, magnetic eyes on hers, and she felt
the force of the man’s strong will influencing her in
spite of herself.

‘7 could not—I dare not; it would be wronging Miss
Glenmore. I should hate myself if I did this thing.”

“Miss Glenmore need not be considered at all. Ifshe
should chance to meet today a more eligible suitor than
my humble self she would not stay a moment to shed
tears over. my broken heart. I know her very well. A
cold, thoroughly selfish woman of the world, with no
heart worth mentioning.”

‘And yet honor binds you to her.”

 

“In a certain sense, yes. If she loved me I would
keep to my pledge; as it is—well, I don’t see it just that
| way. Ethel, I can make you very happy.”

Tam afraid you

 

 

 

“But I—I do not want to marryany one. 1am very
young, and I am not educated, or stylish, or dignified as
your wife should be.”

“I am willing to take you though, just as you are. Say
yes, and we will defy the world, Maude Glenmore in-
cluded.’

“Cannot I persuade you to keep this miserable secret
without doing what you ask of me? Oh, Mr. Montgom-
ery, you say you love me. Prove it by being the best and
most generous of men, and let me go away somewhere,
outof sight, where I can pass my lite in asking God to
bless you for your kindness to me.”

“That would be a very foolish way of spending time
for one sO young and beautiful as you are, Ethel. [
would rather you blessed me by your presence than by
your prayers. And I tell you once more, though I do not
like to seem to threaten you, that unless you give me
the promise I ask, I will bring Harry Atherton to the
gallows.” ;

“Oh, you are cruel!—cruel as death!’ she moaned.
“How can you feel such a sense of revenge toward one
who never injured you ?”

“IT ?—feel revenge? Ethel, [ do not care a fig whether
Harry Atherton lives or dies! I am only using the power
I have to bring about the result I desire.”

‘Have you no feeling? Have .you no compassion ?
Have you-—”

“T love you. Thatis all there is ofit. I would hesi-
tate at nothing that would bring you to my arms. Shall
I have you there, or shall I go and tell the world what I
saw that night on the shores of Carnleigh ?”

He rose and turned toward the greatscity. Ethel
caught him by the arm and drew him back f@ the seat
he had left.

*No! no!—not that!’ she cried.
wie give you the promise you require.
wife.”

He slipped his arm around her and drew her to him in
a strong embrace. Hthel,shivered and shrank away,
but he held her close.

“You are mine now, dearest. And there is no one to
see me take the kisses that I have waited for. My little
darling, the secret we hold is safe. I would die before |
would lisp it. Ethel, you have made me very happy.”

She did not answer him, but sat still and cried ina
heart-broken way against the breast to which her face
was pressed.

It was not a cheerful betrothal, but Mr. Montgomery
did not seem to mind it. ‘All his life he had been used
to seeing everything come round to suit his purposes,
bead he had no doubt that Ethel would love him in due

ime.

“And now, my dear, itis time to go back. The dew
will be falling, and Isuppose you have that abominable
stage business to attend to. Never mind. It wiil
not be tor long. A very few weeks will serve to put
everything en train, and then you will quit this lite
forever as my wife. Kiss me, Ethel, and say ‘| will try
to love you, Ross.’ ”

She laid her cold reluctant = ea against his cheek and
repeated the words mechanically.

fou will say them better by and by, dear,” he said,
cheerfully. <‘‘Now, then, take my arm and we will walk
to the elevated station and take a train to the city.”

She took his arm, for indeed she trembled, and felt so
weak that it is doubttul ifshe could have stood without
support.

As they turned to deparéthey were met by a showily
dressed woman, who paused and looked hard at them.
Mr. Montgomery glanced OVer his shoulder at her.

“Some one who knows you, I think?” he said, interrog-
atively. f

“It is Mademoiselle Euphrosyne, whose place I took, 1
believe,” said Ethel.

“Ah! Belinda Jones. Yes, yes, I have seen her before.
What an evil pair of eyes she has!”

“I fancy she does not like my stealing her position.”

“She can have it back again shortly,” said Montgom-
ery. “You Can willit to her when we start on our bri-
dal trip.” ‘

At the nearest elevated station they took a down-town
train, and half an hour later he left Ethel at her lodg-
ings. As he bowed to her he said:

“T will see you again soon. Good-night, my love.”

Mrs, Vanstead met her at the door with some alarm on
her face.

‘Where have you been? I have been anxious about
you. Itis past sundown, and time you should be at the
theater. It never does to be tardy in this business. It
would lose you your place with the ordinary run of man-
agers, but Mr. Belmont is one of a thousand.”

“T went farther than I intended, or than Il knew. It
was so pleasant, and—and I was thinking.”

“A dangerous thing to do,” said Mrs. Vanstead,
laughingly. ‘You had best break yourself of the habit.
You look tired, too, and it will never do for you to trifle
with your good looks. Comein and have a cup of tea,
and I will read over your part to you as you drink it.”

“Thank you, but Il am wellup on my part. There is
so little of it that I could not fail tocommit it. Has
Madame Therese gone ?”

“Half an hourago. She has a duet to practice with
Carrini. 1 will tell Katy tocall a hack. 1 wish you
would drink your tea.”

: «You are very kind, but, indeed. I do not want it, and
it is tifie 7 was gor

Sh t r room, bat

I will be your

Bier ee # .
OVS BE DM

isto be vou

bh: what a dLessing it

| Vanstoad; as she looked on the beautiful fac

A. Dif
ment ago you came in looking pale and jaded, and now
you are fair and fresh as the morning. Good-night, and
do your prettiest.”

She kissed the fair cheek of the young girl, and Ethel
was driven away through the gathering gioom.

Was it her fancy, or did the half-dozen young girls
who had part in the play for which she was billed,
shrink away from her as she entered the retiring-room ?
and why did they speak together in whispers, and look
askance at her ?

Mademoiselle Euphrosyne was among them ; she had
one of the less prominent parts, and she turned to the
mirror to adjust one of her ringlets just as Ethel was
essaying to fasten the broach in her collar.

“Give mea chance, it you please,” said Euphrosyne,
rudely. ‘I aint going to be stood one side by the likes
of you! I am respectable, if 1 ain’t quite so fine as
some other folks,”

Ethel looked at her in astonishment.

“No one wishes to put you aside,” she said, gently,
“and Ido not at all know what you mean.”

“Oh, no, I dare say not,’ said Euphrosyne, tossing her
bangled head till all the little trinkets rattled like a
shaker tambourine. ‘‘We are very innocent, we are!
And if we feel like walking away up in Harlem with fine
gentlemen that wouldn’t look at us on Broadway, and
strolling around with ‘em till after dark, we can do it,
me no questions asked, for we are the manager's favor-
ite.”

Ethel colored painfully, and the tears rose to her eyes,
but she forced them back.

“I scorn your insinuations,” she said, quietly, ‘‘and I
am sorry that you are capable of making them.”

The girls laughed a little scornfully, and Euphrosyne
was about opening her lips to say something still more
disagreeable when the door was gently opened and Mr.
Belmont entered.

His quick eye detected thunderin the atmosphere,
and he noticed Ethel’s heightened color and flashing

eye.
“What's the trouble ?” he asked. ‘“‘Miss Atherton, who
has been insulting or annoying you ?” 5
‘‘Nobody !” cried mademoiselle, in her shrill yoice. “TI
was only bantering her on walking about in lonely. parts
with fine young men after dark. And she don’t seem to
feel pleased over it.”

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
FEMALE DUELISTS.

There have been several well authenticated cases
of dueling in which women have acted as principals.
Only recently Mme. de Valsayre, the vigorous cham-
pion of woman’s rights, fought an American lady on
the Belgian frontier. Three years ago two ladies
had a bout with unbuttoned foils at Bordeaux, and
about the same time an elegant society belle who
used to attend the Paris theaters in masculine attire
was insulted by an audacious stranger. She sent him
a challenge, took two dragoons as her seconds, pre-
tending that she was a foreigner and knew nobody,
the real fact being that none of her friends would
act in the capacity. The duel took place in the Bois
de Boulogne, and the young man was wounded in the
wrist by his Amazonian antagonist.

On another occasion two popular Parisian actresses
were about to fight with foils, but they eventually
made up their quarrel at a pastry cook’s, where pies
and jam-tarts took the place of deadly weapons.

History records many duels between French-
women. Richelieu was the cause of a determined en-
counter between the Countess de Polignac and the
Marquise de Nesles. Mme. de Nesles fired first and
hit a tree. The countess then discharged her wea-
pon, and knocked off the lower part of one of her
rival’s ears. Then there was that terrible female
duelist, Mile. d’Aubigny, called ‘‘La Maupin,” who,
in the seventeenth century, went to a ball in the
Palais Royal, dressed as a cavalier, was insulted, and
killed three men, one after the other. ‘La Maupin,”
however, had the advantage of receiving fencing les-
sons from her husband, who was one of the most fa-
mous swordsmen of the time.

Nowadays fencing is practiced by many famous
Frenchwomen, if only for the purpose of giving sup-
pleness to their sinews. Mme. Sarah Bernhardt oc-
casionally practices with the pistol and the foil.
Mile. Abbema, the painter, can hit the stem of a
rose with a bullet without touching the leaves.

WHAT IS ROSEWOOD 2

It has been a great mystery to many young persons
why the dark, rich-colored wood so much used for
furniture should be called ‘‘rosewood.” Its deep-
tinted, ruddy-streaked surface certainly does not re-
semble the rose, so we must seek some other reason
for the name. Hereitis: When the tree is first cut,
the fresh wood exales a very strong rose-like fra-
grance, which soon passes away, leaving no trace of
the peculiar odor. There are several varieties of rose-
wood trees; the best, however, are those found in
South America and the East Indies and neighboring
islands

 

 

“Keep silent. I

 

 

 

nd {eRe Meo - eGR tae. ls cnsiuchicteenails anhapehescape sae"

'

 

 
 

 

_ changed, and unnatural as his face.

 

 

 

 

VOL. 43—No, 49,

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3

 

; THE LOVE OF HOME.

« BY SUSANNA JARDINE:

What is there in the human breast,
What deep, mysterious sympathy,

‘That ranks our birthplace in the best
And brightest page of memory?

Tho’ smoother paths and sunnier plains
May tempt the restless feet to roam,

This feeling yet unchanged remains,

_ The love of home, the love of home.

Though many an exile far away
Has gone to seek a richer soil,

Has left the land which failed to pay
Due wages for the weekly toil,

Yet who shall say that wealthier lot
Across the distant ocean foam

Is dearer than the low-roofed cot

- That made the toler’s early home?

Tho’ scores of hands may work for him
Who was himself a workman here,
Tho’ plenteous harvests clothe his fields,
And plenty crowns each passing year.
Think you he never sighs ““Good-night
' fo all across the ocean foam,”
And pictures not the moon’s calm light
That shines on those he loves at home?

Green is the prairie’s boundless track,
And wondrous are the mighty trees,
Yet oft his fancy wanders back
To other dearer scenes than these.
And when through fairer groves than ours
The whispering winds of evening come,
His heart recalls the Chestnut bowers
And primrose-blossomed banks of home.

The winding brook, the mossy stone,
‘The rustic stile or leaning tree,

The fields whose very names have grown
Dear by the light of memory,

The fern-clad hill and shady lane,
Where careless childhood used to roam,

Have each their part in joy or pain,
Made sacred by the love of home.

 

{THIS STORY WIL! NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.]

BDDED FOR PIQUE

By MRS. MAY AGNES FLEMING,
Author of “ Guy Earlscourt’s Wife,” “A Wonderful
- Woman,” “A Mad Marriage,” “‘ One Night's
Mystery,” ** Lost for a Woman,” etc.

(“WEDDED FOR PIQUE” was commenced in No. 34.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.j

CHAPTER XXVIII.
A HOUSE OF SORROW.

- Murdered! there could be no doubt of it. This,
then, was where the bridegroom was. While they
- had been accusing him in their thoughts and vowing

- future vengeance, he had been lying here, assassin-
ated by some unknown hand. The face of all had.
_ whitened with horror at the sight; but Colonel Shir-

_ ley, whose stern calmness nothing seemed able to

move, litted his head an instant after, with a face

that looked as if changed to stone. :

_ “& horrible murder has been done here! My boy,”
_turning to Joe, whose teeth were chattering in his
head, “how and when did you discover this?”

“It were just now, sir,” replied. Joe, keeping far
_ from the body, and looking at it in intensest terror.
_ “My lord and Mr. Channing, they sent me up to the
castle a-looking for you, sir, and you wasn’t there;

| bowing, ‘‘this here is what did the deed!

icularly proud and especially scornful, guarded

y Messrs. Sweet and Jones. The colonel took a seat,
and motioned the rest to follow his example; and
Mr. Channing desired Hurst, keeping sentry at the
door, to call in Joe. ;

Joe, standing in the hall, telling his story over and
over again to a curious crowd of servants, came in,
looking scared as ever, and told_his tale once more,
keeping to the same facts steadily,in spite of any
amount of cross-questioninyg.

When this first witness was dismissed, the bishop
turned to the prisoner.

“Tom, what have you to say to all this?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“Ts what this boy says true? Did he really dis-
cover you by the body!”

“He did.”

“And why, if you are not guilty, should you fly at
his SORT ORES i

“IT did nothing of the sort. Joe makes a mistake
there, for I never saw him at all.”

“And how do you account for your presence
there ?”” : ;

“Very simply, sir. I chanced to be walking through
the grounds, and came to that particular spot by
mere accident.”

“How long had you been there when Joe discov-
ered you?”

“IT did not remain five minutes altogether. I saw
and recognized who it was, and when I recovered
from the first shock of horror, I turned and fled to
give the alarm.”

Mr. Channing leaned over and spoke in a low voice
to Colonel! Shirley.

“Some one told me, when here last evening, that
the prisoner had been absent for several days—is it
true?”

“Ves.”

“Mr. Shirley,” said the magistrate, speaking aloud,
“you have been absent for the past week—will you
inform us where ?”’

“I have been absent,” said Tom, coldly.
been in Cliftonlea.”

“Where ?”

“At the Cliffe Arms.”

“Why were you not at home ?”’

“T decline answering that question, sir.”

‘‘Were you in the town last night?”

“No, sir. [ was on the grounds.”

Everybody looked at each other blankly. Tom
stood up, haughty and defiant, evidently perfectly
reckless of what he admitted.

“It is very strange,’ said Mr. Channing, slowly,
“that you should have been there instead of in the
house here—your proper place. What reasons had
you for such a course ?”’

“T decline answering that question, too. I decline,”
said Tom, with compressed lips. and flashing eyes,
“answering any more questions whatever. My mo-
tives are my own, and you nor any one else shall
ever hear them !’”’

There was very little need for Tom to make his
motives known. Not one present—the colonel, per-
haps, alone excepted—but knew how madly he had
been in love with his cousin, and that his furious
ealousy of the accepted lover had driven him from

ome. All knew his violent temper, too; his fierce
outbursts of passion; and believing him guilty, not
one of then needed to be told the cause of his prowl-
ing about the grounds in secret last night.

Dead silence followed, broken by a rap at the door.
Hurst opened it, and the gamekeeper entered, carry-
ing in his hand a great bludgeon, all stained with
blood and thickly matted tufts of hair.

“Gentlemen,” said the man, coming forward and
I found it
lying among the marsh grass, where it had been
chucked. You ean see the blood and the hairs
sticking in it. I know the stick very well. I have
foe it lying down there near the Nun’s Grave tifty

imes.

The gentlemen examined the stick—a murderous-
looking bludgeon, full of great knobs and knots—
capable, in a strong hand, of felling an ox.

“And, gentlemen,” continued the gamekeeper, ‘I
have something else to say. Last evening, about
half-past eight, as I was standing down near the
park gates, I saw Mr. Leicester come through, walk-
ing very fast. I thought, of course, he was going up
to the castle. and had come through Lower Cliffe by
way of a short cut.”

“Was he alone?” asked Mr. Channing.

‘Yes, sir.”

“Did you see any one following him?”

“T didn’t wait to see, sir. Me and some more went
up to see the fireworks, and that was the last lsaw
of him.” ;

“T think the facts are quite stron ee war-
rant the committal of the accused,’ said Mr. Chan-
ning to the colonel. ‘ ‘

“IT think so,” was the cold reply.

And the warrant of committal was made out im-
mediately. Then there was a general uprising; a

“T have

 

and I was a-coming back to tell them, so I was, down
* this way, which, i's & sbyrt cut to Lower Cliffe, and |
as I got here, I sawaman standing up and locking |
down on this here, which it were Mr. Tom Shirley, |
- as I knowed the minute I seen him. Then. sir, he
turned round, and when -he saw me, he ran away;
and then I saw him lying there, all over bluod, and I
got frightened and ran away, too; and thenI met/
you; and that’s everything I know about it.”
"Can Tom Shirley be the murderer?” asked the

bishop. in a low, deep voice. at

_- “Cireumstances, at least, are strong enough against
him to, warrant his arrest,” said Mr. Channing. ‘As
& trate, I feel it my duty to go in search of him
before he escapes.” ‘

He hurried away as.
taking off his large
ground. <
‘Help me to
er: and, wit
still bleeding form was laid 7 it and covered from
the mocking sunlight in its folds. Then, at another
motion from the colonel, the apothecary and the
lawyer lifted it by the lower ends, while he himself
took the head, and they slowly turned with their
dreadful burden toward the house. Joe followed at
a respectful distance, still with an excessively scared
and horrified visage.

Mr. Channing had, meantime, been making an ar-
rest. Getting over the ground with tremendous
sweeps of limb, he had nearly reached the house,
thinking to call the servants to aid him in his search,
when he espied a tall, dark figure leaning against a
tree, one arm thrown over.a high branch, and the
head, with all its dark curls, bare to the morning
breeze, lying thereon.

The magistrate went up and dropped his hand
heavily on the shoulder of the soning figure, and
Yom Shirley lifted his face and looked at him.

What aface! What a change in afew brief days!
Usually it was red enough and bold enough; but
now it was almost ghastly in its thinness and pallor.
The face of the murdered man could scarcely have
been more corpse-like, the black hair heightening

the effect, as it hung damp. and disordered around it,
and the black eyes looking unnaturally large and
sunken. Nothing, Mr.. Channing thought, but re-
morse for some enacted crime could have wrought so
vivid a change; but then, perhaps, Mr. Channing had
_ never been in love—at all events, so crazily in love—
and been jilted, like poor fom Shirley.

“Well?” said Tom, in a voice as hollow, and

‘he spoke; and the colonel,
military cloak, spread it on the
lace the body on this,” he said,
the assistance of Mr. Sweet, the

“Mr. Shirley, itis my painful duty to arrest you.”
Tom sprang erect as if some one had struck him.
“Arrest me! What do you mean 2’

“Mr. Shirley, I am very sorry; but duty must be
fnifilled, and it is mine to make you my prisoner.”

“Your prisoner, sir!” exclaimed Tom, in somethin
like his customary tone, shaking him off as if he h
been ababy. ‘On what charge?” i
digo that of murdering your cousin, Leicester

Cliffe. .

Tom stood rfectly still—stunned. A volley of
fieree words that had been rising hotly to his lips
seemed to freeze there. His face turned dark-red,
and then whiter than before, and the arm he had
raised ak d powerless by his side.. Whatever the
emotion which prompted the display, the magistrate
set it down to one cause—guilt—and again laid his
hand firmly on the young man’s shoulder.

“T regret it, Tom, but it must be done. I beg you
will not offer any resistance, but will come with me

ne the house. Ah! there they go with the

ody now.”

Tom compressed his lips and lifted up his head.

“JT will go with you, Mr. Channing. It matters
beat § little what becomes of me, one way or the
other.* :

He raised his hat from the ground, to which it had
fallen, and they walked on together, side by side.
The body was borne before them into the morning-
room, and through that into a smaller one, used by
Vivia asa studio. It was strewn with easels, blank
canvas, busts, and lay figures, and on a low couch
therein their burden was laid. The cloak was re-
moved. The colonel sent one of the servants in
search of the physician, who had remained all night
in the house, sternly warning the rest not to let a
word of the event reach the ears of Lady Agnes or
the young ladies. Hurst brought in warm water and
sponge, and the blood was washed off the dead face.
It was perfectly calm; there was no distortion to
mar its almost womanly beauty, or to show that he
had suffered in the last struggle. 'The blue eyes were
wide open in the cold glaze of death; and the bishop,
bending down, had just ¢losed them reverently, as
the physician came in.

The examination that followed was brief. The
blow had evidently been given by athick club, and
he had been struck but once, death following almost
instantaneously. The deed, too, from the appearance

| of the wound, must have been committed some hours
_ previously; for the blood on his clothes was thickly

clotted and ar ;

In silenee they left the studio and gathered to-

gether in the morning-room. The colonel had warned

e servants to keep quiet; but who ever knew warn-
ings to avail in such cases? Half adozen gentle-
men, the guests who had remained in the house the

revious night, had been told, and were there already.
The magistrate had taken a seat of authority, and
yore to hold a sort of inquest and investigate
the matter. The prisoner stood near a window,

| word she dropped into a seat, as if the last blow she

 

 

 

 

drawn up to his full height, with folded arms, looking

saeere was ordered, and Mr. Channing approached
‘om.

 

 

“fam serry—I am very sorry--but---~-”

“Dept fistresa yourself. Mr. Channing.” sa'4 Tam,
eynically am ready te go with’y at any m0
ment.” ®

The bishop came over, and began, in his urbane
way, some pious admonition; to which Tom listened
as unmoved as if he were talking Greek.

The carriage came round to the door, and he and
Mr. Channing turned to go, gee glance he cast back
toward the colonel; but hewas standing with his
face averted; and Tom passed the great portico of
Castle Cliffe, the home of his boyhood, for the last
time, and in five minutes was on his way to Clifton-
lea jail, to be tried for his life on a charge of willful

murder.
And still the news fled ; and while the examination

was going on below, it had been whispered, up
stairs and down stairs, and had reached the ears of
her who should have been the last to hear it.

As all slowly S haa from the morning-room,
the colonel turned into the studio to take one last
look at what lay there, and found that another had
preceded him. Besides the door of communication
with the morning-room, the studio had another epen-
ing in the hall. It stood wide now; and standing
over the rigid form, gazing atit as if the sight were
slowly turning her to marble, was Vivia.

“Vivia! Vivia!’’ cried the colonel,
‘Why are you here ?””

She turned and lifted her eyes; and the next mo-
ment, without word or cry, she had fallen back
senseless in his arms.

It was the first time in his life he had ever seen
Vivia faint. She was of too sanguine a tempera-
ment for that; and he nearly tore the bell down in
his frantic summons for help, as he quitted the room
of death and carried her up to ter chamber. Jean-
nette came in dismay, with smelling-salts and
eologne; and leaving herin her charge, the colonel
went out. In the hall he was encountered by Mar-
garet, looking, like everybody else, pale and wild.

? “Tsittrue? Whatis this story they are telling?
Has Leicester Cliffe been murdered ?”

“Margaret, go to your room! It is no story for
you to hear!”

“[ must hear!’’ exclaimed Margaret, in a sup-
pressed voice, her dark eyes filling with a dusky fire.
“Tell me, or I shall die!”

He looked at her in wonder.

“Margaret, you are ill. You look like a ghost!
Do go to your own room and lie down.”

ae you tell me, or shail go and see for my-
self?”

“Tf you will hear such horrors, it is quite true. He
has been murdered !”

“And they have arrested some one for it,” she
hoarsely whispered.

“They have arrested Tom Shirley.”

She clasped both hands over her heart, and a spasm
crossed her face.

«And do you believe him guilty ?”’

“T do,” he coldly and sternly said.

She sank down with a sort of cry.

But he had other things to think of besides her;
and he left her leaning against the wall, her hands
still clasped over her heart, and her face working in
a sort of inward anguish. So she stood for nearly
an hour, without moving, and then Jeannette came
out of the Rose Room crying and wiping her eyes,
oe ha by Vivia, who seemed to have no tears to
shed. ,

“You ought to lie down, and be nursed yourself,
mademoiselle, instead of going to nurse other
people,” cried the attendant. ‘‘You are hardly fit to
stand now.” :

“It will not be long, Jeannette,” said Vivia,
vot “All my labors here will soon be at an
end.

“Your grandmamma won't see you, either; so your
going isof nouse. Hortense told me that she gave
orders you were not to be admitted to her room.”

It was quite true. In the revulsion of feeling that
followed the awakening from her hysteria, Lady
Agnes had been seized with a violent aversion to
seeing her once almost idolized granddaughter. She
eould no longer think of her without also thinking of
her connection with some wretched old woman in
Lower Cliffe and a returned convict. She felt—un-
justly enough— as if Vivia had been imposing on her
all her life, and that she never wanted to see her
again. And so, when Hortense opened the door in
auswer to the well-known gentle tap, Vivia was
quietly and firmly refused admittance, and the door
civilly shut in her face.

It was only one nore blow added to the rest—only
fulfilling the rude but expressive adage, “When a
dog is drowning, every one offers him water;” but
Vivia tottered as she received it, and stood tor a no-
ment clinging to the stair balustrade for support,
with everything swimming around her. ‘Then this,
too, passed, as all blows do, and she walked back,
almost tottering as she went, to her own room.

Even there, still another blow awaited her. Mar-
garet stood in the middle of the floor, her face livid,
her eyes blazing.

“Oh, Margaret!” was Vivia’s ery, as she dropped
her head on her shoulder.

But Margaret thrust her off with repulsion.

“Don’t tonch me—don’t!” she said, in the same
suppressed voice. ‘*You murderess !”

Vivia had been standing looking at her as a deer
does witha knife at its throat, but at) the terrible

in horror.

could ever receive had fallen.

seeming to seorch into her face,
frightful in its depth of suppressed passion—‘you,
who have walked all your life over our heads with a
ring and a vlatter—you, who are nothing, after all,
but a pitiful upstart—you who have been the curse
of my life and of all who have ever known you! [I
tell you, you are a double murderess! for not only is
his blood on your head—he who lies down there a
ghastly corpse, but another who will die on the scaf-
fold for your crime!”

The corpse down stairs could scarcely have looked
more ghastly than did Vivia herself at that moment.
FRIAS ost lips parted to speak, but no sound came

orth.

Pitilessly Margaret went on:

“You, who stood so high and queenly in your
pride, could stoop to lure and wile, like any other
coquette !—could win hearts by your false smiles,
and then cast them inscorn from yourfeet: I tell
you, I despise you! I hate you! You have brought
disgrace and ruin on him, on all connected with you,
and you have broken my heart!’

“Oh, Margaret! have you nomercy ?”

“None for such as you! I loved him—I loved him
with my whole heart, ten thousand times better than
you ever could, and you had no mercy on me. You
won his heart, and then castit from you as a child
does a broken toy !” i

“Margaret, listen to me. I will be heard! I know
you loved Leicester, but it was not my fault that——”

Margaret broke into a hysterical laugh.

“Loved Leicester! Is she afoolas well as a mis-
erable jilt? Oh, you might have married him with
all my heart!” ne

“And who, then—— Margdafet,is it possible you
are speaking of Tom Shir——” |

“No!” cried Margaret, holding out her hands with
a sort of scream, “not his name from your lips! Oh,
Tloved him, you knowit well; and now he is to be
tried for his life, and all threngh you! Murderess
you are—a double murderess! for if he dies it will
be through you, as much asif you placed the rope
around his neck!” ;

Vivia had dropped down, with her face hidden in
her hands.

“Margaret, spare me! Oh, what have I done—what
have I done, that all should turn from me like this?
Margaret, Lam going away. Lam going back to my
conyent in France, where I shall never trouble you
nor anybody else again. All the world has turned
against ine; but there, at least, I can go and die!”

“Go, then; the sooner the better. You are no
longer needed here.”

“Oh, I know it! All have turned. against me—all
whom I love; and I would die for them. Even you,
Margaret, might forgive me now.’’

“Ask forgiveness from God! I never will forgive
you yon =

Vivia’s head dropped down on the arm of the chair.

Margaret left her, sought her room, and appeared
no more that day.

In the gray dawn of the next morning, when the
first train went shrieking from the Cliftonlea depot,
on its way to London, a slight, girlish figure,
shrouded in a long mantle and closely vailed, glided
in, took a seat in a remote corner, and was borne
swiftly away from the hometo which she had re-
turned so short atime before like a triumphant
queen, which she now left like a stealthy culprit.

That same morning, Colonel Shirley found a brief
note lying on his dressing-table, that moved him
more than all the strange and tragical events of the
past two days:

DEAR PAPA :—Let me ¢all you so this once, for the
last time. When you read this, I shall be far away,
but I could not go without saying good-by. I am
going back to my dear France, to my dear convent,
where I wes so happy, and I shall strive to atone by
a life of penance forthe misery I have caused you
all to suffer. Dear, dear papa, I shall love you and
pray for you always, and I know, much as you have

een wronged, you will not quite forget FEViIAs

She, too, was lost! Down below, Leicester Cliffe
lay dead. Tom Shirley was in afelon’s cell. In his
room, Sir Roland lay ill unto death. y Agnes
and Margaret, shut up in their own apartments,
never came out; and Colonel Shirley was left utterly
alone. Truly, Castle Cliffe was a house of mourning.

CHAPTER XXIX.
THE PRISONER.
_ The August roses were in fall bloom, in the scorch-
ing heat of early afternoon, within a pretty garden,
in a pretty village, some miles from London, as a light
wagon, holding two gentlemen, drove through the
wooden gates, andup a shaded avenue, toward a
large brick building. The gentlemen—one, tall and
handsome, with a grand, Kingly sort of face, and
dark, grave eyes; the other, middle-sized, but look-
ing puny compared with his companion, a very shin-
ing personage, with yellow timseled hair, wearing a
bright buff waistcoat, and ‘a great profusion of
jewelry—alighted before the principal entrance. A
stows little gentleman, standing jn the steps await-
ing them, ran down af gi) Loproach, and shook
hands With iis” iatter;"s fe Wine: of an oid-

7

| friend.

“Good-afternoon, Mr. Sweet. Itis a sight for sair
een, as the Scotch say, to see you again.” |

“Thank you, doctor,” said the tinseled individual.
“This is the gentleman I told youof. Doctor South,
Colonel Shirley.” er oe
‘ a8 doctor bowed low, and the colonel raised his

at. - '
“You are welcome, colonel. I presume you have
come to see my unfortunate patient, Mrs. Wildman.”

“T have. We can see her, I hope.”

“Oh, certainly, poor thing! <A very quiet case,
hers, but quite endurable. Most cases of melancholy
madness are. This way, if you please.”

Leading them through a long hall, the doctor
ascended a staircase, entered a corridor, with a long
array of doors on either hand, followed by his two
companions.

**My female patients are all on this side,” he said,
unlocking one of the doors, and again leading the
way into another, with neat little sleeping-rooms on
each side, and, finally, into a large, long apartment,
with the summer sunshine coming pleasantly through
two high windows, grated without, filled with women
of allages. Some sat peaceably knitting and sew-
ing; some were walking up and down; some sat
talking to themselves; but the colonel was astonished
to see how comparatively quiet they all were. His
eye wandered round in seareh of her he had come to
see, and it rested and lingered at last on one sitting
close to a window, who neither moved nor looked up
at their entrance, but remained gazing vacantly out,
and slowly and continually wringing her hands A
pallid and faded creature, with dim, fair hair, cut
short like a child’s, and streaking her furrowed foreé-
head; a thin, wan face, pitiable in its quiet hopeless-
ness, the light-blue eyes vacant and dull, and the
poor fingers she twisted continually, nothing but
skin and bone. Yet, as Colonel Shirley looked, his
thoughts went back to a certain stormy night,
eighteen years before, when a pretty fair-haired
woman had kissed and cried over his little child; and
he recognized this faded shadow instantly. The doc-
o went over, and patted her lightly on the shoul-

er.

“Mrs. Wildman, my dear, look round. Here is a
gentleman come to see you.”

The woman turned her pale, pinched face, and
looked up, in a hopeless sort of way,in the pitying
eyes of the Indian officer.

“Have you brought her back?’ she asked, mourn-
fully. ‘She sent her away; my little Barbara; my
only child—my only child !’’

“She keeps that up continually,” said the doctor,
with an intelligent nod to the colonel. ‘Nobody ever
can get anything out of her but that.”

“T wish you would bring her back to me!” said the
imbecile, still looking in the same hopeless way at
her visitor. ‘‘She sent her away—my little Barbara—
a TT her so much! Do go and bring her
back!

The colonel sat down beside her and took one of
the wasted hands in his, with a look that was in-
finitely kind and gentle.

‘Who was it sent her away—your, little Barbara?”

“She did! The one she kept was the gentleman’s
child, and it was always erying and troublesome, and
not kind and good like my little Barbara. I wish
you would go and bring her back. It is so lonesome
here without her; and she was my only child, my
only child!"

*T told you so,” said the dector, with another nod.

“You won’t get her beyond that if you keep at her
till doomsday !”

“Where did she send her to?” asked the colonel;
but the woman only looked at him vacantly.

“She sent her away,’’ she repeated, ‘and kept the
gentleman’s child—the tall gentleman that was so
handsome, and gave me the money.. But she sent
away my little Barbara; my only child, my only
child! Oh! won’t somebody go and bring her back?”

The colonel bent over her, took her other hand, and
looked steadfastly into the dull eyes.

“Mrs. Wildman, do you not know me
gentleman who left the child.”

She looked at him silently; but her gaze was list-
less and without eps Si

“Your little Barbara has grown up—is a young
ere panei and aceomplished—do you under-
stand?’

No; she did not. She only turned away her eyes,
with a little weary sigh, very sad to hear, and mutr-
mured over again :

“Oh! I wish somebody would bring her back! She
was my only ebild, my only child!”

“No
Hers |

? Iam the

“It's all useless,” interposed the doctor.
earthly power will ever get her beyond that.
is a case quite harmless and quite hopeless.”

Colonel Shirley arose, and pressed something he
ware out of his waistcoat-pocket into the doctor’s

and.

“Be good to her, doctor. Poor creature?”

“Thank you, colonel,” said the doctor, glancing
with infinite complacency at the bank-note for fifty
pounds. ‘She shall have the best of care. Perhaps
you would like to go over the whole establishment?’

“Not to-day, I think. We must catch the two
o’clock train back to London.” :

The doctor led the way down stairs, and bowed
them obsequionsly out.

Only one sentence was spoken as they drove rapidly

and her voice

“Tre unst

 

 

“You!” said Margaret, with her pitiless black eyes

down to the depot.

 

“Poor thing! she is greatly changed, but looks like
Miss—Vivia,” Mr. Sweet had said, and had received
a look in answer that effectually silenced him for the
rest of the way.

Next day, when the early afternoon train from
London came steaming into Cliftonlea, Colonel
Shirley and Mr. Sweet got out and walked up to the
town. The latter gentleman speedily turned off in
the direction of his own house, and the colonel
walked with a grave face up High street, turning
neither to the right nor the left, until he stood knock-
ing at the principal entrance of the town jail. The
turnkey who opened it opened his eyes, too; for,
during the two months his young relative had been a
cee there, the colonel had not come once to visit

im.

All Cliftonlea was in a state of ferment; for the
assizes were on, and Tom Shirley’s trial wouid begin
to-morrow; and setting his visit down to this cause,
the turnkey admitted him.

There was no difficulty in obtaining the desired in-
terview, and in afew minutes a ponderous key was
turning in a ponderous lock, a strong door swung
open, the colonel was in the prison cell, listening to
the re-locking of the door without, and the retreat-
ing steps of the jailer.

The cell was as dismal as could be desired, and as
empty of furniture, holding but a bed, a chair, and a
table; but the August sunshine came just as brightly
through the little grated square of light as it did
through the plate-glass of Castle Cliffe, and lay
broad, and bright, and warm on the stone floor.

The prisoner sat beside the table, reading a little
book bound in gold and purple velvet, that looked
odd enough in the dreary cell. It was a gift, prized
hitherto for the sake of the giver—a little French
testament, with “To Cousin Tom, with Vivia’s love,”
written in a delicate Italian hand on the fly-leaf; but
of late days Tom had learned to prize it for a sake
tar higher.

He rose at sight of his visitor, looking very thin,
very pale, very quiet, and both stood gazing at each
other for a few seconds in silence.

“Ts it really Colonel Shirley?’ said Tom, at last,
with just a shade of sarcasm in his tone. ‘This is in-
deed an unexpeeted honor.”

“You do. not need. to. ask, Tom, why I have never
been here before,’ said the colonel, whose face,
always pale lately, had grown even a shade paler.

“Searcely. Do ime the honor. to be seated, and let
me know to what I am indebted for this visit.”

He presented his chair with formal politeness ashe
spoke; but his visitor only availed himself of it to
lean one hand lightly on its back and the other on
the young man’s shoulder.

“Tom,” he said, looking earnestly and searchingly
at him, “I have come here to ask you one question,
and I want you to answer it truthfully before God!
Are you innocent?”

; ic is late to ask that question,” said Tom, disdain-
ully.

‘““Answer it, Tom!’

“Excuse me, sir. The very question is an insult.”

“Tom, for Heaven’s sake, do not stand balancing
hairs with me! You always were the soul of honor
and candor, and, late as it is, if you will only tell me,
in the face of Heaven, you are innocent, I will be-
lieve you.”

Tom’s honest black eyes, that never quailed before
mortal man, rose boldly and truthfully to the
speaker’s face. x

“Before Heaven,” he said, solemnly raising his
arm and dropping it on the purple book, “as I shall
have to answer to God, I am innocent!”

“Enough!” said the colonel, taking his hand in a
firm grasp. “I believe you, with all my heart! My
dear boy, forgive me for ever thinking you guilty for
a moment.”

“Don’t ask it! How could you help thinking me
guilty, in the face of all this circumstantial evi-
dence? But sit down, and let me look at you. Itis
good to see a friend’s face again. You have been
getting thin and pale, colonel.”

“IT am afraid I must return the compliment, I see
only the shadow of the ruddy, boisterous Tom Shir-
ley of old.”

Tom smiled, and pushed back in a careless way his
exuberant black curls.

“Nothing very odd in that, sir. Solitude and prison
fare are not the best things I ever heard of for put-
ting a man in good condition. How goes the world
outside ?”

“Much as usual.» Have you no visitors, then ?”’

“None to speak of. A few mere acquaintances
came out of curiosity, but I declined to see them;
and as my friends,” said Tom, with another smile
that had very much of#sadness in it, “thought me
guilty, and held aloof, I have been left pretty much
to my own devices.”

“Your trial comes on to-morrow ?”

“Tt does.”

“You have engaged counsel, of course?”

“Yes; one of the best advocates in England. But
his anticipations, Iam afraid, are not over brilliant.”

“Theevidence is very strong, certainly, although
merely circumstantial, but——”

‘But better men than I have been condemned on
evidence: -f-kiew it)” said T rOoRry-
quietly. Wii

“What do you anticipate yourself?’

“Unless Providence should interpose and send the
real murderer forward to make a clean breast of it, I
anticipate @ Very speedy termination of my mortal
cares.”

“And eon ean speak of it like this! You are indeed
changed, Tom.” :

“Colonel,” said Tom, gravely, “when a man sits
within four stones walls like this for two months,
with a prospect of death before him, he must be
something more than human net to change. I have
had at least one constant visitor, the bishop; and
though I am perfectly certain he believes me guilty,
he has done me good; and this small book has helped
the work. Had I anything to bind me very strongly
to life, it would be different; but there is nothing
much in the outer world I care for, and so, let the re-
sult be what it may, I think I shall meet it quietly.
If one had a choice in so delicate a matter’—with an-
other smile—“I might, perhaps, prefer a different
mode of leaving this world; but what can’t be cured
—you know the proverb. Don’t let us talk of it. How
is he! Agnes ?”” i

“Well in body, but ill in mind, She is shut up in
her room, and I never see her.”

“And Margaret ?”

“Margaret followed her example. Sir Roland is
laid up again with the gout at Clittonwood.”

“Castle Cliffe must be a dreary place. I wonder
you can stay there.”

“JT shall be there but a short time now. My old
regiment is ordered abroad for active service, and as
soon as your trial is over, I shall rejoin them.”

Tom’s eyes lighted, his face flushed hotly, and then
turned to its former pale and sickly color.

“Oh, that I—” he began, and then stopped short.

But he was understvuod.

“T wish to Heaven it were possible, Tom; but,
whatever happens, we must content ourselves with
the cry of the old crusaders, ‘God wills it? You
must learn, as we all have to, the great lesson of
life—endurance.”

Poor Tom had begun the lesson, but his face showed
that he found the rudiments very bitter.

The colonel paused for a moment, and then, look-
ing at the floor, went on, in a more subdued tone:

“Somebody else is learning it too, in the solitude
of a French convent—Vivia.”

Tom gaye a little start at the unexpected sound of
that name, and the flush came back to his face.

“You have heard from her, then ?”’

“T have done better—I have seen her. A shadow,a
spirit, came beind the convent grating, and shook
hauds with me through’it. She was so wan and
wasted, with fasting and vigils, I suppose, that I
scarcely knew her, and we talked for fifteen minutes,
with the grate between us. Satisfactory—was it
not?”

“Very. Has she taken the vail?”

“Not yet. No thanks to her, though. Itwas her wish;
but the superior, knowing it was merely the natural
revulsion of feeling, and that she had no settled
inclination, would not permitit. Then Vivia wished
to go out as a governess—think of that! But Mother
Ursula would not hear of that, either. She is to
make the convent her home for a year, and if, at the
end of that time, she still desires 1t, she will be per-
mitted to enter upon her novitiate. I will go by
Paris, and see her again before I depart to join my
regiment.”

“Does she know-——”

Tom paused.

“She knows all She gave me this for you.”

The colonel produced his pocket-book, and took from
between the leaves a little twisted note.

Tom opened it, and read :

“My BROTHER :—I know you are innocent. I love
you, and pray for you every night and day. God
keep you always! VIVIA.”

That was all.

Tom dropped his face on the table, without a word.

Colonel Shirley looked at him an instant, then
arose.

“T shallleave you now. Remember, I have firm
faith in your innocence from henceforth. Keep up a
good heart, and until to-morrow, farewell.’

He pressed his hand.

But Tom neither spoke nor looked up; and the
colonel went out and left him with his head lying on
the wooden table and the tiny note still crushed in
his hand.

(TO BE’ CONTINUED.)
at

_A MAN may regret his folly—never his affection;
he may deplore his worldly artitices; but forthe gen-
erous enthusiasm of youth, for its aspirations, for
its glowing fancies, for the love that filled the air
with fragrance and the land with brightness, he
has no regrets, unless it be ‘‘for the touch of a van-
ished hand and the sound of a voice that is stil.”

To be happy is no selfish indulgence, no favored
condition of fortune; it is a duty we owe to others
and to ourselves,a state of mind which we should
all strive to acquire.

POWER is so characteristically calm, that calmness
in itself has the aspect of power, and forbearance im-
plies strength. F

 

A YEAR AGO.
PY MYRA.

Just a little year ago,
You were all to me;
Even yet, I scarcely know
How such things can be.

Did you mean it all the time?
Were you false or trne?

Is it change of place or clime
That has altered you?

Did you think to love me still?
Did your fancy stray?

Did you change against your will,
When you went away?

Do you still remember this, -
Many miles apart?

Ah! you left your careless kiss
Printed on my heart!

Little dia my soul divine
That the year would see

Your dear heart, close knit to mine,
Drift away from me.

Yet I dream you b ave.and true;
Through the mists of pain,

Still I stretch my hands to you
Till we meet again.

Just a little year ago!”
Ah! my eyes are wet!
Cruel love! do you not know
I can ne’er forget?

THE END OF A JOKE.

BY MAY KESBLER DALLAS.

‘“Whatis your principal objection to joining our
party*to-night, Howard ?”

“Tf you have time to listen, Sam, I will tell you why
I never wish to join any party that indulges in prac-
tical jokes.”

“T have plenty of time, and shall be pleased to hear
your views on the subject; and perhaps. you will let
drop the reason why you are determined to remain
an old bachelor.”

The look, a look of intense sadness, which settled
around the handsome, well-cut mouth of Howard
Green caused Sam Cristen to listen quietly to what
his friend was saying.

“About ten years ago,” began Howard, “‘after I had
graduated, I went to Jerriville, a small town about
twelve miles from my father’s farm, to pursue the
study of law. It was there that I formed the ac-
quaintance of three young men who were also study-
ing law in the same office.

“T had been in the town some three months when T
accepted an invitation to be present at an evening
party given at the home of one of my companions,
John Clinton, a wild, fun-loving fellow, who would
not hesitate one moment from doing anything which
would afford him an hour’s pleasure. P

“It was there that I first met Lula Grant, a pretty
blue-eyed lassie, te whom I lost my heart. I took,
her home that evening, and in a short time I became
a regular visitor at the house of her widowed
mother. "

“My suit progressed finely until Doctor Percy Ash
appeared upon the scene. He was a tall, very hand-
some man, with an easy, graceful manner, which
gained for him the favor of all the ladies, both old
and young, in the town.

“IT believe I hated him from the first moment we
met. He was a distant connection of Lula’s mother,
and took up his abode in their house. The many
pleasant evenings that I had spent in the company
of the charming Lula were entirely broken up. I
could never see her for one moment alone. She went
out walking, riding, and visiting with the fascinating
young doctor. When I would call in the evening, the
doctor would be in the parlor, and Lula doing her
best to entertain him. Iwas balf-wild with jealousy,
and vowed that I would be revenged on the doctor
for winning Lula away from me.

“T had ceased to visit the house, and had not seen
Lula for two weeks, when John Clinton, Joe Bastler,
and Charlie Grey, the three law students, called at

bearding.!

~ |them in playing a grand joke on the city doctor. Of

eourse I was only too willing to lend my aid. After
giving my word and honor to keep it a secret, the
joke to be played on the doctor was made known
to me. :

“TLulaand her mother had started for New York
that day on a visit to some friends, and as the doctor
would be alone in the house, it was arranged that
two of the party should effect an entranceinto ghe
house, take the doctor by surprise, and compel him
to give his word to leave the town. We were to wear
masks, and disguise our voices, so that he would not
be able to recognize us. Tentered into the plan with
a tierce delight, and imposed upon myself the very
dangerous duty of being the first to enter the
house. ; ;

«+Are you sure that Lula and her mother are gone,
John? I asked, as we started off together from the
club-room, where we had spent the evening until
very near midnight.

‘Quite sure,’ he answered. ‘Lula came over
this morning to kiss sister Kate good-by before start-
ing.

“The town clock slowly | ig the hour of mid-
night as our party of four drew near the house and
silently entered the yard which surrounded the
pretty cottage. It was a gloomy night. A slight rain
was falling, and a superstitious fear crept over me
as Llooked upat the dark, window against which John
Clinton had planted a light ladder, which he had
concealed in a field near by.

“We waited for afew moments to make sure that

no one was about, and then I began to mount, fol-
lowed by Charlie Grey. The window was raised, and
for one moment, as I stood on the ladder gazing into
the room, I felt a strong temptation to descend and
not join in the joke at all; but the thought that my
companions would undoubtedly call me a coward,
occurred to me, and I crawled through the window
and leaped lightly into the room, closely followed by
Charlie Grey.
* “T had scarcely time to glance around the room,
when the figure of a woman, dressed in white, rose
suddenly from the other side of the bed, and the sharp
report ef a pistol rang out. I staggered and pressed
my hand to my side, for the ball had hit me. I looked
at the woman, who stood: pale and motionless, with
the pistol still pointed at me. As TI looked, a hand of
ice seemed to grasp my heart, and I exclaimed in @
loud tone:

“*Great Heaven, it’s Lula!’

“T felt myself getting weak, and my head seemed
toswim. I thought I was falling dewn, down into
some dark chasm. I threw out my arms, as if to
save myself, but finding no support, I fell heavily to
the floor.

“Tula sprang forward, and kneeling at my side, she
tore off the mask. My face must have been yery
pale, for she cried out: ‘

“*Howard Green! Merciful Heaven! I have killed
him—my love, my darling!’

“She kissed me passionately. The thought that I
was loved by hermade me feel so exquisitely happy
that I longed to take herin my arms, and hold her
there forever. But I could not move a muscle. I
heard Chariie Grey saying something to Lula, and
then I fainted.

“For many weeksI knew nothing, and when at @
last my senses returned, I found myself ina strange
room, and Doctor Percy Ash was bending over me.

“Tula, I murmured, in a weak voice.

“At the mention of her name, a frown black as
night contracted the doctor’s handsome brows, and
he said, in a low, stern voice:

“Howard Green, as long as we both live never
mention her name to me.’

“He walked away from the bedside, his usually
pale face flushed with anger, and a lurid glow burn-
ing in his eyes.

“Two weeks passed slowly, andI never saw any
one but Doctor Ash and the nurse.

“When I was able to sit up Charlie Grey called to
remove me to my boarding-house, and it was then
for the first time that I heard the fearful, terrrible
truth.

“Lula Grant was a raving maniac, The horrible
thought that she had killed me, whom she loved, so
worked upon her mind that reason tottered on its
throne, and then entirely gave way, and she was at
that time @ close prisoner in her mother’s house,
where I had been most kindly nursed back to life.

“Mrs. Grant, not feeling well. had deferred the
visit to New York until the next day. The doctor
was sitting up with one of his patients, and Lula,
who chanced to see the four masked men enter the
yard, became alarmed, and not wishing to frighten
her mother, procured one of the doctor’s pistols, and
waited in the room where she thought it most likely
they would enter.

““T pray to Heaven that no one may ever suffer the
agony I endured while listening to that horrible
story. For two years Lula Grant was an inmate of
the lunatic asylum, and at the end of that time she
was discharged cured. I sought an interview with
her, but, with woman’s perversity, she would not see
me, and one year afterward I heard that she had
married Doctor Ash.

“Now, Sam, you know my reason for not joining
your party, andif you will take a friend’s advice you
will give up the habit of playing practical jokes, for
their ending may one day prove as sorrowful to you
as the joke in which [ took part proved to me.”

 

 

 

hotne,cneerening,2raesked me cieeoin |

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

<a THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3

 

 

NEW YORK, OCTOBER 6, 1888.

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A Masterpiece of Fiction,

BY A POPULAR AUTHOR.

A story of deep interest, In which woman’s hero-
ism and filial devotion are delineated with a master-
hand, will be placed before our readers next week,
under the title of

Jennie Vail’ Mission
DOOMED FOR LIFE.

By ANNIE ASHMORE,

Author of ‘Waiting for Him,” “The Bride-Elect,”’
“Half a Secret,” ‘Faithful Margaret,” Etc. ~

_ Eyerysentencein this carefully constructed and
deeply captivating romance shows the skillful
touches of the experienced novelist. The plot is a
marvel of ingenuity, and is so cleverly evolved that
the interest becomes more and more intensified as
the narrative progresses. Itis also a sympathetic
story, because it is impossible to read it without ex-
periencing that keen emotion which indicates that
the heart is irresistibly drawn toward the devoted
heroine who strangely learns of _

Be A FATHER’S FATE.

Chance puts herin the possession of information
which enables her keen discernment to partially
penetrate the

CLOUD OF MYSTERY
which has obseured the years of her early life. She
caligag,that there js something wromk soma.
TERRIBLE SECRET,

which is purposely kept from her, and she deter-
mines to seek its solution. The remarkable experi-
ences she undergoes, the artistically wrought
drateatic events in which she is a prominent figure,

are depicted with such earnestness and vigor that
the reader’s attention is taken captive in the open-
ing installment, and held until the closing line of the
story, when victory and happiness are secured
through JENNIE VAIL’s MISSION.

*

TOIL IS BLESSING.

BY HARKLEY HARKER.

“Good by! , Vacation is over.”

“Are you not sorry to go back to work ?”

T turned to the finely built, clear-headed, and rich

young fellow who so replied to me. He stood by his

gateway, fingering the smilax that festooned the
‘post from a luxuriant vase on top. He nervously
shifted his hands about, and ended by plunging
them into his pockets, as he gazed point-blank at me
with his question.

It is no great matter what reply I made; though I
may say that I truthfully told him my heart in, ‘‘No,
not sorry but glad. Iam as happy now in the thought
of returning to work as I was in leaving work for my
rest here.” 3

I know, reader, that my dear friend felt that I had
spoken the truth. His head fell. He has nothing to
do from year to year. He has no place among living
men. No one “wants” him. He takes, but gives not.

’ That is, he collects his rents and dividends, but ren-

ders nothing in return. There is no office that misses.
him, no business that waits for his return. His
money is in ‘business, to be sure; but the money
would. be there, ODE Joh the same, if it was his
estate and he were dead. His eye, his voice, his
hand—for these no man looks nor waits. Dead he
is, at five-and-thirty, to all intents and purposes, ex-
cept with regard to the grocer’s and talor’s bills.

T bate heard this gentleman actually lament that
he was “‘of so little account among men,” to use his
own expression. There was an amusing fact, of
which I have never thought, revealed by his remark,
“Whatis the good of express trains and sleeping-
cars? I never am ina hurry to get anywhere.” And
again he remarked one day, ‘I don’t use my watch
much, It’s a very expensive one, but I hate to be

ways consulting a watch or a clock. I never know

if itis fastor slow.” Exactly; he has no pressing
appointments to keep. I fall into the same indiffer-
ence as to my watch when camping out; on return-
ing from the woods I am always surprised to detect
that my watch has lost or gained and I never realized
it.

My idle peer tries so many e ients to for-

et himeelt. e reads, but the reader grows indif-
erent unless he is reading fora purpose. Half the
pleasure of reading is the use we intend to make of
the information. A lawyer, on vacation, reads, and
slaps the book together as he whips out his note-
book; he has found something that he intends to use
at a speech-making. Every earnest man’s reading is
for material, for inspiration; or if for recreation,
then for the rest and amusement that shall be to his
rofit when he returns to his toil. Not so my friend;
e reads to kill time. His head is packed with a
thousand facts that he can never use. He hangs
round the garden to rest his eyes. But he has gradu-
ally lost interest in flowers, for he hires the hands
that attend them; it is the sameasif he purchased
the bouquet in the street.

_. He strolls down to the stable.
him, but his clothes get a smell of whicb his fastidi-
ous wife complains if he handles the handsome ani-
mals much; so he has given that up; he standsa
while and looks at them. He walks for exercise, but
that is dull work. I have known him to hire a boy to
stroll with him—that is, he bought all hisnewspapers
one by one and turned them over as he walked, the
boy meanwhile at his side—for the pleasure of hav-
ing the boy talk; the freshness of a boy’s outlook on
this new world. worn and threadbare to the older
man, was an amusement for which he was willing to

The horses are like

My neighbor yg much; late mornings, an after-
noon nap, early to bed; yet he was once, before his
uncle suddenly left him this independent fortune, the
best athlete in our class at college. My opinion is
that eating and sleeping are destroying his health.
He is perfectly temperate and all his habits are
moral. He smokes ten cigars a day, and perhaps this
custom is also stupefying an idle brain. Do you

, send the money in a Regis--

 

without injury.

This gentleman has several times attempted to set
himself to work in charities, and societies, and fra-
ternities; he belongs to lots of things, and I know
not how many clubs. The singular thing about this
department of his life is that he soon began to hire
the work done that he ought to have done for his so-
ciety or club. Why, the fellow joined for the sake of
getting something to do. But, you see, very natur-
ally, if anything was committed to his care he could
80 easily hire ‘ta first-class workman to do it a great
deal more to his mind” that that is just what he did.
At first he would stand around and watch the work-
man; but soon he got tired of even that. Now all the
fraternity say: “Billy? Oh, he’s nothing but a
check.” And itis about so.

Thank heaven for something to do. Thereis an
office that waitsforme. There are men who ‘want
to seé me,” and have something very important to
say to me; far more interesting than any novelist’s
imaginary story or actor’s plot is this something
that the people want to say to me who are waiting for
me to get back. I want to hearit. Thank God for
something to do that will never be done unless I do
it. Iam of some accountin the world. I do not loll
along the street to-morrow; I bring my heels smartly
down: Lam going somewhere, and must get there.
I know the value of an express train. The telegraph
is mine. All the great inventions serve me. I shall
not hire a boy for the funof the thing; I will use
boys and men to earn my bread. At the same time,
they can use me toearn theirs. I have need of God’s
care, forlam by no means independent. I look to
heaven as my friend looks to his dead unele. I have
a father; he has a departed relative. I have an
altar; he has a grave. Everything is before me; all
things are behind him. The future is to me a strange,
exciting, inspiring field of manly endeavor; to him
it is the same dull thing that yesterday was, only
more so with advancing years.

Man was made to be happy only in healthy toil. It
is the logic and lore of the thousands of years that
man has lived on the globe.

THE TYRANNICAL HUSBAND.

“BY HELEN FORREST GRAVES.

“Time thrown away, laborthrown away!’ said Mr.

Peckfield, impatiently. “It’s a woman’s business to
look after the ways of her household. Solomon says
so, or David, or Zachariah, or some of the prophets,
and I, for one, don’t believein this nonsense about
@ ‘mission!’”
_ “I do look after my household, Joseph,” said poor
Lillian Peckfield, with the tears coming into her blue
eyes. “Have youa word of fault to find with my
housekeeping ?”

“N—no!” said Mr. Peckfield, ‘‘but——”

Is there a button ever off your shirts ?”’

“Not that [remember!” unwillingly asserted the
husband, “‘only——”

“Are not your meals always promptly served to
the very minute?”

“Yes.”’

“Well, then, why should you grudge me a few
hours every day in the studio?”

**Because it isn’t a woman’s business,” said Mr.
Peckfleld, doggedly, “to be dabbling in clay and
mud.”

“Women have been great sculptors before now.”

“Fiddlestick!”’ snarled Mr. Peckfield, discourt-
eously, “you'll never be.”

“Why should I not?”

‘Because you haven’t the capacity.”

“But I don’t know whether [ have or not, and I
shall not know until I have tried,” still pleaded
Lillian, to whose soft poetical nature the ideal
dreams of beauty molded from plastic clay by her
quick, loving fingers were an absolute necessity—
an ons valve that oftentimes prevented her
from being almost driven mad by the jarring,
arrogant words and unreasonable requirements of
the amiable Joseph. _ :

“T want that studio fora smoking chamber,” said
Mr. Peckfield, grimly, ‘‘so clear out your mud and
marble as fast as you please.”

“Oh, Joseph! won’t the little south room do just as
well?”

“No, it won’t.
vests, and things.’

“The room over the nursery, then ?’

“Do you suppose I am going to trail up two fights
of stairs, just to indulge an unreasonable caprice on
your part, thatnever will come to any good? I tell
i von t want bhat porthirrem and Loeante hered.
; And I shall allow no inore such waste of time in my
| house ; so the sooner you understand it, the better,

i require that for my coats and

And he walked out of the breakfast-room with the
calm, dominant air of one whose will is law.

Lillian burst into tears; she could not help it. She
had so loved those dumb, marble creatures of her
soul; there was such sweet companionship in the
silence of her studio. It was there, and there only,
that she could forget that she was mated to a brute
—an arrogant, overbearing, self-absorbed brute,
whose comfort was his first and last and only idea,
It was there alone that her cramped, dwarfed
soul could soar into the contemplation of the in-
finite and sublime. And this was to be taken from
her, because Joseph Peckfield had conceived a whim
about its being ‘“‘unwomanly.”

As she sat there, her head bowed down upon her
hands, and tears trickling slowly through her slender
fingers, the door softly opened, and a young and
elegantly dressed lady entered.

; yn !—oh, pardon me! I did not mean to in-
rude,” ;

She was withdrawing, when Mrs. Peckfield started
up, her brilliant blue eyes sparkling radiantly
through their tears.

“Stop, Laura—you are no intruder; only—my last
hope is fading out into final despair. !’”’

“What do you mean?”

And Lillian told her friend, Mrs. Estcourt, the story
of her griefs and trials.

“It is foolish, Laura,I dare say, but it was my
only comfort—that studio. And he will not tolerate
it longer!”

“Lillian,” said Mrs. Estcourt, who was a positive,
determined little lady, with a very decided will of
her own, ‘‘you shall not be deprived of your studio.
You shall have it still.”

“But how?’

“At my house. I have the dearest little north
room. with a bay-window, and walls tinted of a dull
brown. I keep my sewing-machine there, but I can
easily move it to the second floor. You shall have
that for your studio; youshall have your clay, and
ere and models there, and come daily for inspi-
ration.”

Mrs. Peckfield’s eyes sparkled.

‘“‘Are you in earnest, Laura?’

“Of course I am.”

“Oh, I never, rever can thank you enough !”* sobbed
poor Lillian, feeling asif she had indeed found an
abiding-place for the idols of her spiritual nature—a
refuge, as it were, in the wilderness,

Mrs. Estcourt laughed.

“‘When you are famous, Liblian, you'shall make me
a little statuette of ‘Faith’—that shall be my reward.”’

So Lillian stole every day to her friend’s house,
when Joseph Peckfield was safe in the crowded pur-
lieus of Wall street, and dreamed out her visions of
beatitude, and strove, as far as in her lay, to repro-
duce them in the dazzling masses of marble, that
ae to her so many undeveloped possi-

ilities.
So things went on. The household matters were
administered just as deftly as ever; the shirts were
well Son rea with buttons, the ripped gloves mended,
the puddings served upin a@ style that would have
done no discredit to Delmonico; and yet Mrs. Peck-
field found time to cultivate her talent.

“God has not given it to me to be hidden in a nap-
kin,” she said to herself, ‘‘and I will try to render
some good account of it to the Great Steward on the
Judgment Day.”

While Joseph chuckled grimly to himself, thinking
that he had effectually put a stop to what he called,
in ‘glittering generalities,” ‘‘all this nonsense.”

But all men, it is written, are fallible. Joseph
Peckfield was not an exception to the rule; for, one
bright April day, the firm of Peckfield & Peckfield,
bankers and brokers, No. 444 Wall street, failed.

Mr. Pecktield crept up the quiet, first-class street
in which he lived, a ruined man, thinking vaguely
how he should tell Lillian that they were worse than
beggared. For, eS and tyrannical as he
had always been, in that hour he felt absolutely
afraid to face gentle little Lillian.

But he never told her, for when they brought him
in, he was a wretched paralytic, with one side of his
body totally helpless. Beggared and crippled both,
the hand of Providence lay sore upon him.

It was weeks before he. could speak; but in the
first words his faltering tongue syllabled forth you
would scarcely have recegnized the arrogant nature
of Joseph Peckfield.

“Tt’s my own fault, Lillian, I oughtn’t to aes
and I’ll try not to. But you and the children, what is
to become of you? It’s all gone—absolutely all!”

And his haggard face was terrible to look upon.

Lillian had been this man’s wife for ten years, but
she had never really loved him until now. The roses
came up to her cheeks, a soft, tender sparkle glowed
in her eyes.

“Dear Joseph, do not let yourself be troubled; I
have money enough. See!”

And she held up, with a bright, arch smile, a five
hundred dollar bill, which she produced from the re-
cesses of her porte-monnaie.

“Where did you getit?’’ he asked, hoarsely. ‘Surely
you have not begged; and it were worse than folly
to borrow, now that we have no chance of repaying

”

 

 

 

“Neither the one nor the other,” she made answer,

know, I think one must work hard to smoke much

Mrs. Peckfield.” ft

 

cheerfully. “Mr. Ardheim has purchased my two
little statues of ‘Moonlight’ and ‘Starlight,’ two hun-
dred and fifty dollars each; and Dr. Gordon bought
my ‘Psyche’ the very day you were taken ill, for a
hundred and fifty dollars. And I have orders for—
oh, so many more, from Ghill & Darlett,in clay and
marble both. So you see that my mission has proved
a blessing after all.”

Joseph Pecktield lay quite silent for a while.

“Lilly,” he said, softly, ‘‘Lilly—I never thought it
would come to this. ButI thank God, Lilly, that you
are not helpless and weak like other women. I must
lean on you now, and the arm will be strong and
faithful.”

“To the death, dearest,” she whispered.

And she kept her word. Through all the years of
the paralytic’s life he never knew a wish ungratified,
a need unfulfilled. And when he died, at last, it was
blessing the wife whose value he had never appreci-
ated, until taught it inthe sharp school of adversity.

STAYING AT HOME.

BY KATE THORN.

When the wife and the children take their summer
outing, and the husband stops at home to see after
the house, and earn the money to pay the hotel bills,
how the sympathy of the community goes out toward
that lonely man in i$ lonely house, lying awake
nights listening for the stealthy steps of burglars, and
revolving in his harassed mind the best way of turn-
ing an honest penny and multiplying it into dollars.

Everybody pities him, and says his wife is ex-
travagant, and that she does not care how hard he
works if she can only get money to spend.

And when the martyred husband runs down for a
Saturday night to the sea-side resort, where his wife
swelters in a seven-by-nine bed-room by night, and
offers herself as a sacrifice to boarding-house flies by
day, he tells her that business is rushing, and heis
tired to death, and he must catch the Sunday even-
ing train, so that he can be at his post early Monday
morning. ;

What creatures these stay-at-home men are!

Those who are conversant with the reverse side of
the picture know just howit is. They have heard
the old saying, ‘‘When the cat’s away the mice will
play,” and it never applies better than it does to the
man who stays at home while his wife goes on her
vacation.

He can smoke all he likes, and there is nobody to
figure up the cost of five cigars a day at ten cents
each at the end of ten years, with the interest
added.

He can stay out just as late as he pleases, and there
is nobody to remind him in lachrymose tones that he
is the father of a family, and that he ought to be
ashamed of himself for setting suchan awful example
before his children.

He can ask a few of “the boys” home with him of
an evening, and not be afraid of sour looks. There
is nobody to look sour. ;

The cooking at the club is good, and the meals
are at all hours, so if he wants to sleep off his head-
ache next morning, he can do so, and no fear that
Bridget will give warning, and his wife will be in
tears.

The man who stays at home takes his own little
outings when and where he pleases. He goes to
Coney Island, or down the harbor to fish dinners, and
is not burdened with extra shawls and parasols, and
waterproofs, and a string of children trailing behind
him crying “‘papa,” at every turn, and asking ques-
tions that a philosopher could not answer, and teas-
ing for candy and peanuts, and wanting to stop and
see the monkey every time they came across an or-
gan grinder. : ‘ \

If he sees a pretty girl he can be polite to her with-
out the fear that his wife’s admonishing eye will be

| upon him, and her reproying voice will remind him

that “such carryings on area disgrace to an old, gray-
headed married man like him.”

h, there are lots of ways in which the stay-at-
home husband can amuse himself, and he knows
just what they are, and he will take advantage of
them. And the wife who feels in her secret soul that
she ought not tohave gone away and hada good
time, and “‘left poor dear John at home there 80 lone-
ly,” may console herself with the reflection thatJohn
never had a better time in his life.

HOW TO MAKE MONEY,
allie neces

6.—BE EVELASTINGLY PATIENT.

The late lamented Peter Cooper, who was a mil-
lionaire several times over, and who had made
money in many different businesses, used to’say that
of ten men who knew a good thing when they sawit,
only about one would have patience enough to hold
on to it until it had paid all it would.

If you will look around at the various great busi-
nesses of which you chance to know something, you
will see that Mr. Cooper didn’t put the case too
strongly. Making allowance for all sales that have
had to be made because the cost of “holding” or ‘“‘de-
veloping” property or business was more than the
owner could stand, the fact remains that nearly
every notable money-making enterprise has changed
hands from time to time because successive owners
preferred a little profit quickly to a great profit that
had to be waited for.

“Quick sales and small profits” is a first-rate rule
for aman who keeps a store and sells goods which
ean be replaced from day to day, but it would be
idiotic if applied to a promising enterprise which had
been discovered only after long search, and with no
more of its kind lying around.

Even down in Wall street, where the sharpest of
sharp men are supposed to congregate, you can listen
all day long to moans over sales madelong ago of inter-
ests in mines, railroads, ranches, mills, newspapers,
and inventions that have since become bonanzas, as
the moaners were sure they would. They were not
sold because the owners needed the money—it was
only because there was not enough patience to hold
them and work them for all they. were worth.

A certain respectable but poverty-stricken old gen-
tleman never tires of telling the writer of these
sketches that once he owned a publication—which
has since made two families very rich—a publication
which every reader would recognize were [ to give it
afree advertisement by naming it.

“How did you come to lose it?’ asked the writer,
when first he heard the story.

“Lose it? I didn’t loseit,”’ said the old gentleman,
proudly. ‘I sold it. Why, sir, I saw there was a
great future in it, so T boughtit. It cost me a thou-
sand dollars, and the next day, the very next day,
sir, I sold it for twenty-five hundred.”

“That was a great profit on the investment,” I re-
plied, ‘‘but if, as you say, you saw a great future in
it, why didn’t you keep it and work it yourself?
Hadn’t you enough capital ?”

“Oh, yes; as much as the buyer had. But who
could resist the temptation of making fifteen hundred
dollars in asingle day on aninvestment of only a
thousand? Why, sir, it was the talk of the whole
printing trade forty years ago.” iid

‘“‘Have you ever seen before or since so promising
an enterprise ?”’

‘‘Never.”

“Then ’twas the one chance of your life?”

“Young man,” said the poor old fellow, as he tried
to smooth with his threadbare sleeve the nap of his
shabby old hat, ‘don’t remind me of that; I remind
myself of it often enough,”

Not everybody hasa thousand dollars with which
to buy something of which his common sense, backed
by his business experience, approves, but the value
of patience is proved as well by small investments as
large ones. ‘ }

Several years before the war a new woolen mill
was started in a New England town onthe plan
which then was common—the issue of stock in shares
so small that anybody could buy one. The shares
were all taken in small. quantities by the people in
the town, none of them rich. One poor school ma’am
took five at a dollar each ; others were taken by shep
girls, store clerks, and mechanics’ apprentices.
Prices of all woolen goods wentup as soon as the
war began; all the mills in the country began to run
long hours, and the stock increased so rapidly in
value that three-quarters of the holders began to sell,
the pont was so tempting. The school ma‘am
bought all shares that her slender purse would allow,
taking them in quantities so small as to be beneath
the noticesof large investors. When she had accu-
mulated about a hundred shares the local bank lent
her much more on them than they had cost her, and
with the money thus obtained she bought more, Be-
fore the war ended she owned the entire mill, and
many of the people from whom she had bought were
working for her for wages, some of whom are still at
it, while she is worth a quarter of a million. Her
working people were quite as smart as she, but they
weren’t as patient—that was the only difference.

A few years ago a couple of honest, money-saving
printers, whom the writer has the pleasure of know-
ing, attended an anction sale of building lots in the
“annexed district” of New York, hoping to secure
cheap ground on which to build homes when they
should marry, as each expected soon to do. It wasa
rainy day, the sale had to be made, and each printer
secured eight lots at about the price of so much first-

VOL. 48—No, 49,

 

class farming land. Everybody told them they had
made a lucky strike, and they believed it next day
when a professional dealer called on them and offered
each a hundred dollars for his bargain. One accepted
the offer and put the money in the savings-bank. He
is still an honest, saving printer, but his family lives
in a stuffy four-room flat ina poor part of the city.
The other held on to his lots, and, in spite of assess-
ments and taxes, he would be ten thousand dollars
ahead if he were to sell out to-day. He had plenty
of patience; his friend hadn’t.

Then is a man or woman to hold on forever,in spite
of anything and everything? Certainly not. There
comes a proper selling time for everything; ‘‘the
time to get out’ is quite as important as ‘the time to
get in,” and ordinary sense can be trusted to inform
you'about this. You already have been warned against
obstinately clinging to a losing property, business,
or trade. Itis here that you must use your brains;
they were given you for such purposes, as well as
others.

But is a man to go on accumulating, and pinching,
and holding on, with the risk of suddenly dying and
not getting any good of his money, but having it go
to his children, or somebody else, to be squandered ?
Well, if this is the size of your soul. you had better
go to church, or jump off the dock. It you’ve no pur-
pose in life but to enjoy yourself through what money
will buy, if doesn’t much matter what becomes of
you—intelligent heathens will agree with Christians
on that point. But even pirates, and counterfeiters,
and burglars take pleasure in providing for their
families’ future.

Then isn’t a man to enjoy any of the fruits of his
own labor? Certainly. Isn’t he to begin enjoying
until he’s so old as not to have much capacity for
enjoyment? My friend, the brisk, wide-awake man
of affairs gets more true enjoyment out of his daily
work than you do out of all your purchased pleasures,
and the parents of a family get a great deal more
pleasure out of anything money ean buy than their
children do. Don't you worry about holding on to
your property until you're too old to enjoy it; a miser
may do it, but you won’t. Don’t ever be afraid of
patience; or, as a far better writer than yours truly
oad remarked, “Let patience have her perfect
work.

a

KEEP COMPLETE FILES.

Be sure to preserve complete files of the five great
stories now running in our columns. You will want
to read some of them again, All the news agents are
prepared to supply back numbers of the NEW YORK
WEEKLy; or they will be sent direct from this
office, to ail parts of the United States and Canada,
postage free.

CAUGHT IN THE ACT,

BY GLENDOWER.

 

‘Whenever I see a rat-trap,” said Nick Waverley to
me, as we passed a hardware storein Sixth avenue,
in the show-window of which was displayed, among
other articles of general utility, a rat-trap, “it re-
minds me of an incident which occurred when I was
a clerk in a Binghampton dry-goods store. The es-
tablishment had once been successfully entered by
burglars, who made the visit a very costly one to the
owner of the goods. To prevent a repetition of such
visits, I was offered a slight increase of salary if I
would agree to sleepinthe store at night. I wasa
bachelor then, and accepted the offer, making my
couch on a cot bed in a small apartmentin the rear
of the salesroom.

“T had occupied this room as a sleeping chamber
for three months without experiencing any incident
worthy of note, when one night, some two hours
after [had retired, I was awakened by hearing a
slight rasping sound. Rising quietly in the bed, I

listened attentively a few moments, and had no
doubt that something unusual was about to occur.
Noiselessly I arose from the bed, took my revolver
from under the pillow, and in my bare feet crept in
the direction whence the sound seemed to come.

“On tiptoe I cautiously entered the salesroom,
and there the rasping sound was loud enough to in-
dicate at once the very spot where the work was
going on. It was at the door leading from the store
to the cellar, which, by the way, was infested with
rats. Sometimes the rats would make their way to

trap, properly baited. wag. nightly nlaced.near the
hoie through which it was supposed they entered.
This hole was at the jamb of the door at the head of
the cellar stairs, and the trap, with a chain about
four feet long, was there deposited, invitingly open,
and to save the vermin the trouble of rambling
further in quest of food. The chain was fastened to

| a staple fixed in the surface, so that when a rat was

not instantly guillotined, and lingered longin the
elutches of the spikes which impaled him, he could
not wriggle off to a corner where the trap might not
readily be found.

“As I approached the door, I could see by the glare
of the single gas-light which we always kept burning
at night, the point of a saw about four inches long,
and not more than two inches in width at its broad-
est part. This saw was being rapidly worked by
some unseen power, and it was evident that the ob-
ject was to make a hole large enough to admit a hu-
man hand, that it might withdraw the strong bolt
which prevented the opening of the door.

“In a few moments I noticed the narrow blade
bobbing in and out, My first idea was to wait until
the bolt was withdrawn, and then boldly confront
the burglar, with my revolver cocked for instant
use. Then, fearing that the man who was sawing
might have accomplices, who would not hesitate to
murder to prevent capture, I was about to hasten to
the front door, pass out, and give the alarm, when I
espied the rat-trap on the floor, and a novel idea at
once suggested itself.

“Twas standing at the side of the door, having
taken this position to screen myself, deeming it
likely that the operator on the other side of the door
might place his eye to the aperture he was making,
to see if the coast were clear.

“Cautiously lifting the trap, I held it in my left
hand, with the revolver in my right, both ready tor
use.

“Rasp! rasp! rasp! The saw continued its move-
ments, and asI peeped over the side of the door-
frame I could see that the instrument was rapidly
making a cirele, about four inches in diameter. When
the circle was nearly completed the saw was drawn
in, aan a knife-blade chipped off a small strip of the
wood.

“Then I saw one finger enter. The object was to
seize the circular piece, and prevent it from falling
to the floor on the outside.

“The wood readily split, and the piece which was
broken off was carefully taken inside. Then another
piece, and so on until the hole was perfect.

“Then I observed a human hand, the fingers of
which began to grope for the bolt.

“Now for the trick! I thought, as I nervously ex-
tended my left hand, which held the trap, toward
the aperture, but a little below it to prevent its
being seen.

“Slowly the trap was, moved, ready for a favor-
_ opportunity to give the burglar’s hand a warm
clasp.

“The moment I saw the fingers extended I plunged
the trap at them, and the hand entered to the wrist.

“Click! The spring was touched, the trap sprang,
and ahuman hand was impaled! The burglar was
caught—caught in the act! He on one side of the
door, and his captor on the other.

“A groan of agony followed as the spikes pierced
the man’s flesh, and he attempted to withdraw his
hand; but the hole he had made, although large
enough to admit the entrance of a man’s hand, was
not of sufficient dimensions to permit the passage of
a rat-trap.

“He groaned, and uttered terrible oaths, but his
proranity and wailings were useless. All his efforts
to withdraw his hand proved unavailing.

“Feeling assured that he was securely held in this
uncomfortable aren, Thastened to the street door,
unlocked it, and shouted for assistance. An officer
soon came, and when I had conducted him to the
cellar stairs, I withdrew the bolt, opened the door,
and discovered the culprit, who had to follow the
door as it swung against the wall. He was a man of
about thirty-seven, heavily-built, with short-cropped
red hair, a face of villainous aspect, and his features
deeply indented with small-pox.

“Before taking the trap from his hand, which bled
profusely from five different punctures, the officer
searched his pockets, and found therein two Der-
ringer pistols, a long dirk, and a number of burglars’
tools. Having disarmed him, his hand was released
from the trap, and he was conducted to the police
station.

“It was afterward discovered that he had entered
the cellar from a window in the rear, having opened
the shutters by the same plan he was attempting to
practice when caught.

“A trial followed some weeks later, he was con-
victed, and for five years became a vores of pro-
priety in a public institution, never leaving his own
chanber unless with the consent of his keepers, and
otherwise leading such an exemplary life that for
the time mentioned, through compulsion, he became
areformed man. Whether his reformation contin-
|ued after his release from prison I am unable to
state; but itis very unlikely that he again tried to
grope for a bolt in the dark, or jeopardize his liberty
by taking the chances of being CAUGHT IN THE ACT.”

_ Oo oO
THE capacity for happiness, like every other, needs
continual exercise for its growth and development.

If it is continually checked and postponed, it will
wither away.

 

 

the store, and to give them a fitting reception, a steel |
| 246.417 Indians. exeluding Alasita. a

 

Correspondence.
GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS

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

Wm. F. B., Concord, N. H.—ist. The title of doctor is
said to have been invented in the twelfth century, at the
first establishment of the universities. The first person
upon whom it was conferred was Irnerius, a professor ‘of

law, at the University of Bologna. He induced the Em-
peror Lothaire T,, whose chancellor he was, to create the
title; and he himself was the first recipient of it. He
was made doctor of laws by that university. Subse-
quently the title was borrowed by the faculty of theology,
and first conferred by the University of Paris on Peter
Lombard, a scholastic theologian. 2d. William Gordenio
was the first person, it is said, upon whom the title of
doctor of medicine was bestowed. He received it from
the College of Asti, Italy, in 1329,

M. T. C., Houston, Texas.—In regard to the amount of
sleep required by persons in health, it seems to be con-
ceded that the average is from seven to eight hours.
Some can get along with six, or even five hours, but no
one measure will do for all, nor will the same amountof

sleep suffice even for the same person at alltimes. A
person weakened by-sickness will require more hours
than one in good bodily condition; and so will the one
who has exhausted himself by hard physical or mental
efforts. There is, therefore, no absolute standard for all
persons in the amountof sleep, any more than in that of
food. Something depends upon the temperament, much
upon the constitution, and a great deal upon the exer.
tions indulged in during the hours of labor.

Charles P,—ist. To make chocolate drops, take one cup
of cream and two cups of powdered sugar. Set in a ves-
8el of boiling water, and boil until stiff. Into another
vessel of hot water set a half-cup of grated chocolate, and
let it melt. Rollthe sugar into balls, and dip into the
chocolate, and then set away to cool. 2d. To candy nuts,
take three cups of sugar and one cup of water. Boil until
the sugar hardens when dropped in water, then flavor
with lemon. The sugar must not boil after the lemon is
putin. Put anut onthe end of a fine knitting-needle,
and then turn the sugar on the needle untilit is cool.
If the candy gets cold, set on the stove forafew min-
utes.

Reine Rivers, Augusta, Me.—There are a number of
recipes for the cure of felons. Oneisto stir half a tea-
spoonful of water into one ounce of Venice turpentine
with a stick until the mixture appears like granulated
honey. Wrap a good coating of it round tha finger with
acloth. If the felon is only recent, the pain, itis said,
will be removed in six hours. Another cure is this: As
soon as the parts begin to swell, get the tincture of
lobelia, and wrap the part affected with a cloth saturated
with the tincture, It will never fail, it is said, if applied
in season.

Carrie®L, P., Windsor,—To make peanut taffy, take one
pound of brown sugar, a quarter of a pound of butter,
one quart of peanuts, nicely toasted alight brown. Put
the sugar and butter in a skillet with two tablespoonfuls
of water. Let them boil until the taffy is of a clear, dark
color. Then stir in the peanuts. Let it boil for fifteen
minutes. Then have ready the griddle on which break-
fast cakes are baked, and drop one spoonful of taffy on at
atime. It will cool very quickly, and makes very pretty
little cakes. A soapstone griddle is the best, as it cools
the taffy quickly, and does not retain heat.

Romulus, New Haven, Conn.—The steamships Sirius
and Great Western arrived at this city on April 23, 1838,
The first from Cork, and the latter from Bristol. The

Sirius arrived first, and had the honor of being the first
ocean steamship to arrive in New York; but the eredit
of being the first steam vessel to cross the Atlantic is due
to the Savannah, which was built in this city in 1818.
From here she proceeded to Savannah, Ga., where she ar-
rived in April, 1819. From there (May 25) she steamed for
Liverpool, which she reached on June 20.

New Yorker.—Simon Cameron, ex-Secretary of War,
ex-U. 8. Senator, and ex-Minister to Russia, was born in
Lancaster County, Pa., March 8, 1799. He started in life
as a printer, and in 1820 was the editor of a paper in
Doylestown. In 1822 he edited a Democratic journal in
Harrisburg. He lett the Democratic party ou the repeal
of the Missouri Compromise in 1854, His son, Jas. Donald
Cameron, familiarly known as ‘‘Don Cameron,” is one of
the present Senators from Pennsylvania. In politics he
isa Republican.

M. C. M., Boston.—The Indians included in the census
ineach State and Territory are those reckoned as civ-
ilized, or outside of tribal organizations. Indians not

taxed are by law excluded from the census. Estimates
of their numbers vary widely—from 200,000 to 350,000 (the
latter as estimated in the census of 1870), while the
latest census or estimate of the Indian agencies, as re-
ported in 1881 to the Commissioner of Indian Affairs, gives

“

N. T, N., Harlem.—Bartley Campbell, the playwright
who died recently, derived a very handsome income from
his plays, but as a manager he became seriously embar-

rassed early in 1886. He subsequently developed signs of
insanity. ‘Che most successful play for himself was “ the
Galley Slave,” but the one from which his managers
realized most was, it is said, “My Partner.”

Lucius C., West Point.—The remains of Thomas Jeffer- .
son were buried at Monticello, Va., where he died, July

4, 1826. The inscription on his tomb is as follows: ‘Here
lies buried Thomas Jefferson, author of the Declaration
of American Independence, of the Statute of Virginia for
religious freedom, and father of the University of Vir-
ginia.”

A.A, L.—Andrew Johnson, the seventeenth President
of the United States, was bornin Raleigh, N.C. He re-
moved to Tennessee in 1826. He worked in South Caro-
lina as a journeyman tailor for about two years, return-
ing to North Carolina the same year he left for Tennessee,

lt was under his wife’s instructions that he learned to
write and cipher.

B. J. D., Eaton, Ohio.—The lines from Butiler’s “Hudi-
bras,” to which you refer, read as follows:

“He that complies against his will,
Is of his own opinion still;
Whieh he may adiere to, yet disown,
For reasons to himself best known.”

Constance B., Jersey City.—To make lemon turnovers,
take four dessertspoonfuls of flour, one of powdered

sugar, the rind of one lemon, two ounces of melted butter,
two eggs, and alittle milk. Mix flour, sugar, and lemon
with the milk to the consistency of batter; add the butter
and eggs well beaten. Fry, and turn over,

In Dispute.—In thirteen States the Governor has a
house free of rent in addition to the salary of the office.
The namesof the States are Delaware, Georgia, Illinois,
Kentucky, Maryland, Mississippi. Missouri, New York,
North Carolina, Penusylvania, South Carolina, Texas, and
Virginia.

M. P. O., Louisville, Ky.—Charles F. Browne (Artemus
Ward) edited Vanity Fair, a humorous publication, in

this city, in 1860. After its failure he resorted to lec-
turing, and his first lecture was delivered on Dec. 23, 1861.
In 1866 he went to England, where he died of con-
sumption.

J.J. E. D.—Full information regarding the requisite ~
mental and physical qualifications can be obtained by
communicating with the president of the institution

named. Address your letter to “President of Indiana
University, Indianapolis.”

In Doubt, Norristown, Pa.—Many counterfeit coins and
medals exist. The Greek forgers were very skillful. The

Roman forged money was mostly cast. American colonial
coins have also been forged, and rare dates are often
found carefully altered from common years.

R. M, C., Newton, Tll.—Nyack is in Rockland County,
N.Y. It is situated at the foot of the Nyack Hills. It
ison the west bank of the Hudson River. 1t has nu-
merous churches, schools, newspapers, manufactures,
banks, &c. Population in 1880 3,881.

B, J. M., Belfast.—ist. Yes. The 19th chapter of the
Second Book of Kings and the 37th of Isaiah are alike.
2d. The number of verses in the Old Testament is 23,214;
in the New Testament, 7,959.

R. W. C., Portland, Me.—Diamonds perfectly free of
color are said to be of the first water, andre most valued.
Those of a slight rose tint are valued highly, and next to
these green tinted stones are considered the best.

R. M. S., San Francisco.—The iron railroad bridge over
the Missouri River at St. Joseph is divided into three
fixed spans of 300 feet each, one of 80 feet, and one pivot
draw-span of 365 feet.

Robt, L. N.—Swedesborough is a post-village in Glouces-
ter County, N. J. It is 20 miles from Philadelphia. It
has several churches, newspapers, academies, a foundry,
ete.

A, C. 7,—To make basilicon ointment, take ten ounces
of resin, four ounces of yellow wax, and sixteen ounces
oflard. Melt them together, strain through muslin, and
stir constantly until cool.

R. A. W. P., Plainfield, N. Y.—A simple remedy for an
ordinary cold in the head is the inhaling of hartshorn.
Spirits of camphor may also be used for the same pur-
pose.

Mamie; Wheeling, W. Va.—Letters addressed to the
managers of theaters will receive attention. The address
of the party named is not known to us.

Jasper, Washington, D. C.—‘‘The world loves a spice of
wickedness” occurs in Longfellow’s ‘‘Hyperion,” book 1,
chapter 7.

“Ouida,” Jersey City.—Apply at the Cooper Union in
person or by letter. Ample information will be given
you.

Richard L., Easton, Pa—A
ister in Washington, D. C.—
West.

M. B. S., Mystic, Conn.—We can send you “The People’s
Cook Book” for 30 cents.

L. N. M., Brooklyn, N. Y.—The Hudson River Railroad
was consolidated with the New York Central in 1870.

The following MSS. are respectfully declined :—‘‘No-
body’s Child,” ‘True Friendship,” “The Sea-boy’s Fare-
well,” ‘‘A Fatal Mistake,” ‘‘Nothing but Leaves,” “Love
Comes and Goes,”

ly to the British min-
on, Sir L. 8S. Sackville

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

at THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #5

men of his age—real love matches, too. Why, he was |

VOL. 43—No. 49,

 

 

a few minutes the water was dotted with gay colors as | rash young man who flung the forget-me-not to his lady-
in the very prime and flower of his manhood! the boats shot away ; the sun very considerately got be- | love and perished in the act.”

This hope would whisper against despair, while the | hind a thick white cloud, so that a cool shadow fellupon| ‘Ho! Miss Vi'let, you ain’t in earnest,” answered
sweet notes of that fresh young voice fluttered down to | the lake, and the coquettish breeze finally consented to | Prudie.

him from Violet's window. | fill the sails of the little yacht, so that-it crept lazily in | But she are up, and took a brighter view of her
| water-soaked shoes and ruined dress.
}
}

mecome., I was to stayin the dressin’-room and wait
on the ladies. I guess V’llgo there now. I’m dry in
Streaks, anyways. If you want anything, ma’am, just
ask me. Ill wait on you, in welcome. IL help her dress,
so I’m posted in ladies’ wants. Ain’t either of you goin’
to dance? I don’t see how folks cat set still when fid-
dles is going it like that. My toes tingle like anything,”
and she took afew steps and made a pirouette which
astonished her high-bred observers.

“Stop a moment, Prudie. What fis your master’s
name ?”

“It’s Campbell, sir.
menagerie ?”

“And the lady’s name ?”

“Oh, its Campbell, too. He’s her brother. Leastwise
her adopted brother. Do you know, mother says—but
don’t tell Miss Vi’let I told you—she’s a fondling.”

“Good heavens!” exclaimed the young man.

‘‘Leastwise, she wasn’t put on the door-step in a
basket, oh, no! But her ma was throwed out of the
stage-coach and killed. and nobody ever came for the
baby, an’ so she growed up with’em. An’ I’ve seen her
ma’s picture, La, you never saw nothing so beautiful!

WORK.
BY FRANCIS 8. SMITH.

Arouse, thou sluggard! Leave thy bed so dear,
Nor longer in thy drowsy chamber lurk ;
Walk forth with open eye and listening ear,
And let kind Nature teach thee how to work.
Turn where you may, each thing in Nature’s school
The tale of constant motion will rehearse ;
Nothing is idle—labor is the rule
Which regulates the mighty universe.

At dinner—served at two o'’clockK—Jacob was in so | the rear of the fleet.
much better spirits, that Violet, half-famished after her | Picnics are apt to be disappointing affairs. They are| This little episode had diverted Violet's thoughts from
breakfast of strawberries. ventured to make outacom- | a kind of pleasure parties very Hable to be disturbed by | the mysterious scrap of paper ; but as soon as the excite-
fortable meal. Then, while he smoked the second cigar | accicent. | ment subsided she re-read it, furtively, and her cheeks
of the day, she ran away to dress for the picnic. Prudie| But these entertainments, in the region of Lakeville, | burned and her breath came fast.
wason hand in her room quite as much excited as her | had been reduced to an exact science. A scene of more If some unseen hand had suddenly opened a high gate,
mistress. While she buttoned the nice little fawn-colored | perfect Utopian enjoyment could not be imagined than | and some unknown voice had bidden her walk through
kid boots of Violet, she looked up at her with comic | this of this delicious summer afternoon. The gay boats | into a new world of undreamed of glory, she could not
gravity. | gliding over the lovely water, with music, Singing, and | have been more deeply affected than she was by those
“You'd better take me along, Miss Vi'let, to look arter | laughter, made for one of the most beautiful of the many | few penciled lines. She belleved that they related to
your things.” | enchanting points some four or five miles up the lake. A | her, and that the stranger had written them.
“My things? I shall have nothing but my straw hat | point running out into the water, covered with pines, Oh, what did they, what could they forebode ?
and a shawl, which I can hang on the bow of a tree any- | hemlocks, and beeches; under the shade of these trees a She placed them in her wallet for safe keeping.
where.” | long, low, rustic building, called the club-house;ahard,} Soon the pleasure-seekers were approaching and land-
“T reckon you'd better put me under the tree to watch | white beach, balsamic odors from the wood ; low lap- | ing on the Point.
’em.” ping of waves on the shores, permanent tablesinacer-| As their boat came up, Violet’s attention was at-
“Nonsense! £ shouldn’t be reduced to beggary if I | tain pleasant place under the trees and close to the | tracted toa connie who seemed to have arrived some
lost these two articles of every-day wear.” water, the house itself being a spacious hall, floored for | time before any of the others.

Did you ever see a camel toa

By work the ever-active, honest bee
With store mellifiuous supplies his hive;
The tiny ant by constant industry
Garners up food to keep himself alive ;
Even the plants, whose flowers pass from view

In winter hoar, are toiling in the earth They sat on a smooth

 

 

 

)
a5

 

For sustenance the dreary season through,
To give, when spring-time comes, more sweet buds
birth.

By work, the bright stream, singing merrily,
Is kept pellucid in its onward flow ;

Check its glad action—curb its motion free—
And it will stagnant and offensive grow.

’Tis motion that each planet bright upholds
Steady and constant in its proper sphere,

As in its course it ever onward rolis—
*Tis motion that keeps pure the atmosphere.

Then heed the lesson, sluggard! Man was made
Greater than earth, or air, or.stars on high;
For these will surely into nothing fade—
The soul’s immortal, and it cannot die.
But by inaction man may torpid grow,
And drone his life away in useless dreams,
Just as the evils of inaction show
In stagnant, fetid, death-exhaling streams.

 

 

") ae

Hnemy of the House;

THE UNSEEN HAND.

By MRS. M. V. VICTOR,

Author of “The Phantom Wife,” “The Brown |
Princess,” “ Born to Betray,”
** Back to Life,” etc.

(“THE ENEMY OF THE HOUSE” was commenced in No. 47.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.)

CHAPTER VI.
“LOOK! THERE SHE IS NOW’

“Withdraw the curtain! let me gaze
On what I am—I shall not start.”

At breakfast the next morning Prudence Green tried |
in vain to make out what was the matter with her mas- |
ter and mistress.

The second appearance of the chicken was again |
slighted. Miss Violet ate a dish of strawberries and Mr.
Campbell drank double his allowance of strong coffee, |
but all the remaining edibles were slighted.

They certainly had not quarreled, for they were very |
pleasant, and made great efforts at conversation, but one
seemed gloomy and the other troubled. |

“If they’d been other folks I’d a believed they’d fit,”
she told her mother as they cleared away the table to- |
gether; but them never fights. Maybe it’s because the

Alderney heifer’s lost up in the woods and can’t get |
found Mr. Campbell’s so down in the mouth. Ob, ma,
there’s goin’ to be a ball tothe club-house this after-
noon! Sam said so when he came in with the milk. All
the high-fiyers at the hotels is a goin’, I wonder if Miss
Vilet won’t take me along to look after her things. I
bet she will. I’m goin’ to ask her.”

“Better wait till she says she’s goin’, Prudie.” {

“Pd like to see a picnic or party in Lakeville without |
Miss Vi'let Campbell,” said Prudence, trying to turn up
TRAE ROSE CH A BT ON CARE UD ETAES Best |
ability. “It would be like a currant pie without sweet-
enin’.” :

«Jes’ so, child. Butif she’s low-spirited she may want
to stay hum.”

“There's somebody come to ask her now!” cried Pru-
die, smoothing her obstinate black curls and her ob-
stinate white apron, as the door-bell rang, for it was her
duty to wait upon the summons.

She was right. Half a dozen gay young people of
Lakeville, out for a Summer-morning walk, were wait-
ing in the vestibule to tell Mr. and Miss Campbell of
the picnic and dance.

Jacob looked at Violet, into whose pale face a bright
flush was rising. Very little he felt like joining a great, |
joyous party of revelers; but whatever Violet wished,
that he would do.

“There will be a good many young ladies and gentle- |
men from the hotels—nice people—but the committee of |
arrangements has been very careful in ‘issuing its invi- |
tations, so that you need not be afraid of meeting un. }
pleasant people,” added the principal speaker, mistak- |
ing the cause of their hesitation.

“It isn’t that,” said Violet, ‘‘but Jacob isnot very well |
this morning.” i

“Then a little frolic will be the best medicine for
him,” said a pretty girl, with blue eyes and a senti-
mental expression. The rich bachelor in the handsome |
new house was no mean prize in the estimation of many
of the village belles, and this one who now spoke had a
great longing for the grand piano, the velvet carpets
and silver spoons of Jacob Campbell’s establishment ;
just as he had 7o¢ a longing for her doll-face and pretty
affectations.

“Go without me, Violet,” said Jacob.

“J shall not go without you, Jay.”

“But—do you want to go, child ?”

“I think i should like it,” answered Violet, hesitat-

ingly. |

The truth was, she wassorry for Jacob’s state of mind |
and anxious to please him; but the possibility of meet-
ing the stranger whom they had met on the dock yester-
day was so delightful to her that.she wanted dreadjully, |
as girls say, to join the party.

‘‘What hour ?” asked Jacob of one of the young men,

“‘At three—on the whart ?”

“How about provisions ?” added Violet.

“Qh, this is a grand affair! No miscellaneous collec-
tion of goodies, such as you ladies provide. The steward |
of the Irving House superintends the supper. Then we |
may expect you ”,

“T suppose so,” answered Mr. Campbell, drearily.

“How nice!” whispered blue eyes, aside, to him.

He “smole a ghastly smile” at her, and the gay party, |
fluttering like a crowd of butterflies, took its departure, |
and he, lighting a cigar, sat down on the door-step |
and frowned at the humming-birds diving into the}
honeysuckles. Violet went into the breakfast-room |
for her zephyr-worsteds and came and sat by his side. |

“I won't go to the picnic if you don’t care to go,” she |

id.

**Do you think I wish/to keep you at home, Violet ?’

“No, no, indeed! You never have any wishes but
mine. That’s the trouble. Supposing, for a change, that
you let me do what you want,’

“Very well. ThenI want youto attend this grand
affair; and I want you to look your sweetest, puss; to
wear your new white frock with the twenty ruffles, and
your rose-colored ribbons, and your brightest smiles.

“Seriously, Jay ?”

“Yes, seriously. If I did not hope that you would ut-
terly blot from your memory what I said to you yester-
day, and be just as carelessly happy as you were before,
Ishoulad be more miserable thanI am. I want youto
forget it all, and to take all the pleasure you can in the |
society of gayer companions than I can be to you.” :

**T don’t like gay company so very much, Jay ; andI1do
like you a thousand times better than any one in this
living world.”

**[ believe it,” he said, sadly. ‘‘You are good and sweet,
little one. To please me, go to this party, and let me
see, too, that you are enjoying yourself.”

She dropped her knitting to give his hand an affection-
ate squeeze.

He finished his cigar in silence, then walked off into
the garden where the gardener was pottering with his
flowers. It was a delicious day, dry and hot, but not too
hot, with a deep blue sky, and some white clouds on the
western horizon which promised a breeze.for the after-
noon.

Violet was young and healthy ; she could not long re-
main downcast under all these exhilarating circum-
stances; she tried to obey Jacob and to forget the dis-
tressing subject of their yesterday’s conversation; and
she succeeded so well that in less than half an hour he
caught snatches of sweet tunes which came floating
down from the window of her chamber, whither she had
gone to look over her toilet for the afternoon’s pleasure;
caught these soft notes that bubbled up out of a bright
spirit, and smiled, and groaned. Poor Jacob Campbell!
The very young are incapable of real tragedy ; it is older,
wiser, heavier hearts which do the hopeless wretched-
ness of life’s drama,

Not that Jacob was hopeless; he was not, he could not
be. It would have destroyed him had he been compelled
to give up at once and entirely the sweet dream in
which he had abided for the past year. Violet was such
a child the idea of marriage with any man would have
frightened and repelled her at first! Who knew but
that, when she had accustomed herself to the idea, her
feelings would change ! She did love him very dearly,
S a friend. Why could she not learn to love him as a

over ?

Jacob did not /eez old—no older than when he was
twenty-six instead of thirty-six. Girls often married

 

| the laughter.

| color ;

“But you'd take cold comin’ home on the lake without |
’em, an’ then you’d goin a consumption, like as not ; and |
how would Mr. Campbell feel to see youin decline? [|
can’t bear to think of it,” added Prudie, wiping her eyes |
with a corner of her apron. |

Violet looked at the child in astonishment and then }
burst into a merry laugh. ; |

‘You are aching to go to the picnic, Prudie!” 1

“T jes’ be, Miss Vi'let. I do want to go awful much, if
you could make me useful. Ill dust your boots when
you're through dancin’; I’ bring you ice-cream and |
pick up your hankercher, an’ fan you when yer sittin’ |
down ; an’ I'll hold up your train behind when you want |
to walk in the grass.” |

“But my beaus won’t like you to interfere in that
way, Prudie. ‘They'll be jealous of you, don’t you
see!” i

“fF could bring chips to bile the tea and coffee.”

“But there are men employed and paid to do that |
work, child,”

‘I could carry a basket to lug home the moss and
johnny-jump-ups, and water-lilies you’re allus a-pull- |
ing, Miss Vilet.” |

“T shall not have time to pull many this afternoon. |
Get up, Prudie. Look, is my hair right ?” ;

‘It’s beautiful. You do look splendid with it all up, |
but jes them two or three curls hangin’ down yer back.
It makes you look sort 0’ proud an’ sot up. Anybody
‘ud take you to be eighteen or nineteen years old, with
your hair done that way.” }

**‘Would they really, Prudie ?” |

“They would, solemnly. Say, Miss Vi'let, don’t you |
think you could take me ‘long to sorter stand round
promiscuous an’ hear what the fellers say about you? I
could tell you all the compliments they paid to you, an’
I could learn to take the steps at the same time. That

|

}
|
;

| would be killin’ two birds with one stone”’—pausing,
| with the fleecy white skirton her arms, ready to toss
| over her young mistress’ head, and peeping through the
| placket-hole with her two beady black eyes glistening

with eager expectation.

“Learn to take the steps? For heaven’s sake, child,
what are you talking about?” cried Violet, laughing so |
that she shook the white fleece to the floor, and it had
to be put on a second time. i

“| think I was cut outfor a dancer,” answered Pru- |
die, ina low voice, looking down, somewhat abashed at !
«Ever since I went to the circus last sum- |
mer I’ve been goin’ over them capers of Madam-o-sel-le |
Flora Bell-air. I kin stan’ on one foot everso long; I |
kin stan’ on. my hands and feet. backwards; I kin turn
seventeen back-handed summersaults without stoppin’
to breath; | can balance myself on the clothes-line (I
never fell off but oncest, and that was the time 1 hurt
my elbow and wouldn’t tell you how I come to do if); |
Il can turn around on my toes like a top on a piece 0’ |
marble, an’ never get giddy. I allus practices all the
steps I sees. But if I don’t never see no good dancin’ I |
can’t expect to git along very fast in my larnin’. I
hearn Mr. Campbell tell you to the table one day that |

| every person has their spere, an’ Pm nigh on to cer- |

tain that my spere is a circus-dancer. Why, Miss Vilet, q
I’m that limber I can twist anyways. But don’t tell
ed she’d never allow it, an’ do, do let me go tothe |
picnic.’
«“Prudence,’ replied Violet, solemnly, ‘you shall go |
to the picnic. You shalf learn to dance, too, next win-
ter when the dancing-master has a class, but never

’

 

|

| row.

dancing, with a raised platform at one end for the musi-
cians, and the fragrant hemlocks thrusting themselves
in at the sashless windows,

The faintest possible shadow had come over Violet’s |
sunny face when she saw nothing of the stranger on |
looking around at the various groups on the dock. Jacob

| her side was reading a book.

rock, Shaded by a dark hemlock, and overlooking the
water but a few paces from the landing. The lady’s lap
was full of blue forget-me-nots ; her large, lovely eyes, of
the same color, wandered admiringly from the lapsing
water murmuring on the beach below her perch to the
distant hills and picturesque village. The gentleman by
He glanced up as Jacob’s

| boat touched the sand with a grating sound; his eyes,
| full of the thoughts he had gathered from the poem he

was reading, rested on Violet's. Instantly he spoke in

| @ whisper to his fair companion :

} | telling you of last night.
| | Sneer at my description.
| yourself.

| creature who had sprung from the boat and was wait- |

“Look, Evangeline, there she is now; the girl I was
Your proud lip took on a fine
Now you can see and judge for
Was | extravagant ?”

The Calm, rather cold blue eyes rested on the young

| ing the movement of the others of her party.

“It would be hard to exaggerate in this case, Jaspar.

| [ will confess that even I am dazzled,” was answered in

| the same low tone.

 

Anda great trunk full o’ jewelry and silk dresses. Don’t
you leton Itold you. Tum—tum—ti—tum! It’s most
as good as a circus to hear that music.. I must go.”

She scampered off toward the ball-room, and the two
young people looked into each other’s eyes.

‘*Do you think the child made up that story, Jaspar ?”

“J should say not. I thought my heroine must have
some kind of a romance. I told you so last night.”

“It is quite interesting.”

“Do you think so, Evangeline ?”

“Yes. I should like to make her acquaintance.”

‘So should I. Suppose we go into the ball-room and
take another peep at her.”

The brother and sister—for such they were—placed
their books, wraps, etc., in a safe corner by the roots of
the old hemlock, and strolled toward the rustic build-
ing, from which the inspiriting music of a fine band was

| floating out upon the air to the bewitching measure of a

‘‘With her Jooks,” she added, more |

| discreetly, ‘‘that dainty husk may cover a coarse-flavored |

| mind.

Don’t be rash, Jaspar.”
; gee is not my fault,” said the young gentleman,
aryly

Violet had instantly recognized him as her boat ap-

| proached, and the happy surprise of finding that he was

| to be at the picnic after all, with the strange, Overpow- |
ering emotions awakened in her fluttering breast by the |
possibilities hinted at in those suggestive lines she had |
| twice read over, had exalted her into a mood of rapture, |

| and hope, and deep excitement, which shone through

| her face in a soft radiance of soul, kindling it to the high-.|
A tremulous smile hovered on her lips, her |

est beauty.

waltz.

Violet was sitting in one of the windows resting, with
Jacob standing by her side, and saw them enter the
room. Her heart quickened its pulsations, for she had

| been troubled and disappointed, atter the vague, wild
; anticipations aroused by the paper found in the boat,
| and had begun to think that mysterious scrawl] in no

| glorious dark eyes, as they met the stranger’s, seemed
| to ask of him some wonderful question, to which he,

thrilled, surprised and delighted, would fain have re-
sponded.
“He will explain all to me. This very day I shall learn

| Something of whol am and whatf am to become?”

thought Violet to herself, in a breathless dazzle of won- |
| der and joy ; and, like a young princess stepping forward |
to be crowned queen, she went along the path as if she |

walked on air.

“T ALWAYS WAS ARISTOCRATIC,” SHE SAID, SAUCILY. |
***T ASPIRE,’ IS MY MOTTO!” i

placed her in one of the smallest of the skiffs, which she }
recognized as that which they had used the previous |
day, and which the stranger had used after them. Some
of her vines and mosses were stillin the bottom, along
with a scrap of paper which some impulse urged Violet |
to gather up. Half ashamed of the vague curiosity that |
prompted her, she picked out the paper from among the
damp mosses, and while Jacob was looking about foran |
agreeable couple to occupy the boat with them, she
slyly glanced at it.

It seemed to be a leaf from a note-book, and was writ-
ten over one side with a pencil, in a man’s handwrit- |
ing : }

ey am wild with her beauty. Mother, I did not think |
I should ever Owe youso much! Don’t think I shall
abandon the chase now. Neyer! never! till the game is |

| Winged. My reluctance to attempt the pursuit has given

place to a maddening zeal. Beautiful. Well, beauty is
not her only charm. Sbe is pure, lovely—all that a
woman should be; too heavenly for any breath to
breathe upon that is not pure iike her own. I expected |
to finda pretty, rustic country girl! I find a peerless |
young lady. Her blood asserts itself. What would she |
give to know whatI know? Supposing I should go and |
tell her that I know where a fair estate and a hundred |
thousand pounds in bank lay awaiting a mistress. |
Would she grateful? Would gratitude lead to love ? |
But none of this must be whispered at present. She}
must choose me before she knows how much higher she |
might——” |
Here she came to the bottom of the page, and here |
Prudie tumbled into the boat, to the imminent danger |
of its upsetting, scrambling to her feet again and bal- |
ancing herself, like the nimble creature that she
was ; and Violet awoke from a bewildering dream to find
Mr. and Miss Pearlash, of the village grocery-store, sit-

| ting opposite her, and talkingaway at her without her
| understanding one word eltier or them said.

“A mackerel sky, Miss Campbell,” Mr. Pearlash was
observing, his twinkling eyes turning from the white-
flecked sky to her puzzled countenance ; ‘‘rain to-mor-
But what do we care for that, so that to-day is A

| No. I, which it promises to be ?”

“Very true,”

: bounding of her heart, while those four words on the
| penciled page throbbed through her brain until their

| voices seemed far away.

| the same thing of herself a thousand times ?

were the words.
Whose blood ? Whose but her own ? Had she not said
Who had

| written these mysterious words? It must have been the
| stranger, and they must have been about herself! How
} he praised her beauty; he called her a lady; he said,

| ‘would gratitude lead to love ?”

He spoke of a fortune
and a fair estate.
Her brain whirled so that she grasped the side of the
boat to keep from falling; there was a buzzing in her

| ears and a darkness before her eyes, from which she

“IT COULD STAND ’ROUND PROMISCUOUS, AN’ HEAR
WHAT THE FELLERS SAY ABOUT YOU.”

speak again of the circus. I couldn't respect you if |
you became a circus performer. Hurry, child, and |
change your dress; wear your pink gingham. And re- |
member, we must invent something for you to do to
excuse your presence at the picnic.”

“Laws, yes, Pll. find plenty to do; rest easy about |
that,” responded Prudie, whose countenance had fallen |
at the idea that her mistress disapproved of her future |

| vocation, but which was quickly reilluminated with
| the prospect of the afternoon’s enjoyment.

“Do you |
think you kin spare me now while I git ready ?”
“Yes, and lose no time; we must be going in fifteen |

| minutes.”

The few minutes spent by the little waiting-maid in |
putting on her morocco shoes and pink gingham dress
were passed by Violet in studying herselfin the glass;
not because she was vain; on the contrary, because she
doubted herself. People from New York, and Boston,

|}and Philadelphia, even from London, sometimes spent
| the summer at this beautiful and retired watering-place.

The hotels this season were full of pleasure-seekers, and
she would be sure to meet this afternoon those before |

| whose criticism she should shrink. Except the two years |

spent in a New York city finishing-school, she had seen
absolutely nothing outside of Lakeville. She was quite |

| aware that to bearoff the palm of belleship here was no |

criterion of her real merits. She falteréd at the thought |

| of the terrible grand dames and fashionable girls whom |

She might encounter. Fortunately, by means of rail- |
ways and cut-paper patterns, the dressmakers of Lake-
ville were not more than three weeks behind the age, |
and Violet’s pretty white dress was tucked and ruffled,
and looped like a Fifth avenue lady’s.

Her gloves, sash, and breast-knot of the palest prim- |
rose; her white silk parasol lined with the same delicate
her broad-brimmed sun-hat, with green vine |
twisted aboutit, were allot a dainty hue and fashion |
which were both simple and elegant.

Violet, of course, was no judge of her own air and |
manner, of herown extreme beauty, or the rarity of that
particular style of beauty. Others would soon be dis-
cussing those themes. Meantime she called Prudie, and
the two descended to the hall, where Mr. Campbell was
walking up and down, man fashion, looking at his
watch. |

“How do I look, Jay? I’m terriply afraid of these ‘dis- |
tinguished strangers,’ as the village paper says.”

‘If those distinguished strangers will produce me as |
perfect a specimen of what a young woman should be I |
shall be duly surprised. I’m not afraid of comparisons.
You look particularly nice, Violet.”

“Oh, I dare say ?m nice. Hollyhocks are nice—but
provincial.”

“Well, that’s no disgrace to them. I like country pro-
ducts. However, it strikes me that you look far more
like that tea-rose the gardener brought you this morn-
ing than you are like a hollyhock.”

“Thank you. Are we late ?”

‘No, we have time enough to reach the dock by three,
aS we shallride. Iwas atraid the dusty walk would
heat you and soil your dress.”

“Oh, what_a ‘happy thought !’
hot day.”

«Does this imp accompany us ?”

‘Yes, Jay, in the character of waiting-maid.”

“] am afraid you are becoming too aristocratic,” said
Jacob, with a sharp look at Violet.

“] always was aristocratic,” she said, saucily, return-
ing his look with a proud flash of her dark eyes. ‘‘ ‘I
aspire’ is my motto.”

“Ah,” he responded, with asigh, ‘‘you"should never
have grown up here.”

But the carriage was waiting and they entered it, Pru-
die perched by Sam on the driver’s seat, vainly trying to
look aS grave.as the dignity of the occasion required,
while her shining face was continually being broken up
into dimpling circles, as if a pebble had been cast into
it, and it was a pool of water.

A little fleet of boats was moored about the single long
dock which ran out for some distance into the lake,
mostly row-boats, though alanguid yacht was vainly
trying to get up strength to unfurl its sails in the tardy
breeze, and a little fat steamer, somewhat bigger thana
good-sized turtle, was puffing and splashing about.

Those who were timid about the row-boats took to the
steamer, but the latter was soon filled by the party of
young people which gathered speedily on the wharf. In

Children Gry for Pitcher’s Gastoria,

I do prefer riding this

 

 

| came in time to hear Miss Pearlash sweetly descanting |

to Jacob as the boat flew onward.

«Distinguished strangers—ten couples from the Irving |
House — elegant cold collation—Richard’s band—six
couples from the Washington Hotel—very select com-
pany—sweet weather—oh, was he fond of waltzing—she
doted on it—sorry he didn’t waltz—oh! oh!” Shriek.

The shriek was in consequence of Prudie’s reaching
out so far after a straggling water-lily which she desired
to pluck for her mistress as to lose her balance and plunge
head foremost out into the water.

Down went poor little Prudie amid the cold fishes.

“Don’t you fret yourself, sir,” said the oarsman, see- |
ing Jacob pull off his coat to dive for this troublesome |
imp. ‘I'll haul herin when she blows for breath. Be
quiet, ladies—she’s all right.” ;

It did not seem to pale and horror-stricken Violet asif |
her little handmaid was ‘‘all right” foundering down |
there atthe bottom of the lake; but presently Prudie |
appeared at the surface, and the stout boatman, who |

| had headed the skiff so as to be alongside, reached over

and lifted her up with one powerful motion, swung her,

| disliked—they were quite savage-looking teeth—or else |
| his smile, which did not strike heras exactly a frank |
smile ; she wished that he was not so very attentive, |

‘*¥ THOUGHT MY HEROINE MUST HAVE
OF A ROMACE.”

SOME KIND

dripping, back to the seat she had occupied in the stern
of the boat, and dropped her there with the remark:

‘Don’t you drabble them ladies’ dresses with your
swash, miss; if you do ’ll put you back where I took
you from.”

The child drew herself up into as small a compass as
possible, Wringing the water from her garments as well
us she could over the side of the boat, never whimpering
or shedding a tear.

“What possessed you to fall out ?” half chided Violet,
secretly pitying the figure she cut, her pink dress cling-
ing to her thin limbs, and her curly black locks washed
out straight, and pasted down on her cheeks and neck,
yet halt bursting with laughter at the scared, demure
air with which the child bore the accident.

* ’Spose I did it on purpose, Miss Violet ?”

“JT don’t know, really, how you could have fallen out
unless you tried.”

“I saw a lily, an’ I knowed how partial you was to
them water-lilies, Miss Vilet, an’ I grabbed an’ caught
it, an’ it jerked me right out quicker’n you could say
‘Jack Robinson.’”

“Do you feel cold, Prudie ?”

“Not a dit of it, thank you, ma’am.”

‘‘Why do you look so serious ?”

“IT was thinkin’ how cheap I'll feel makin’ my daboo
amongst the ladies and gentlemen in this fix.”

«Tis too bad, Prudie. But when they know that you
nearly sacrificed your life to pluck a water-lily for your

 

 

mistress you will be quite a heroine—fully equal to the

CHAPTER VIL
A LEFT-HANDED MAN.
Jacob Campbell never danced. He had not learned in

way related to her. Now, as she saw them glance in her
direction, she was certain that they were about to seek
her acquaintance, which was true; as, after pacing up
and down the floor once or more, they stopped to speak
with a gentleman of Lakeville who boarded at the Irving
House, and with whom Mr. Campbell was on bowing
terms, and who immediately crossed the room with
them and begged to be permitted to introduce Miss and
Mr. Webster of Boston to Miss and Mr. Campbell.

The waltz was over, and the four stood a few moments
making those unimportant remarks which usually pre-
face an acquaintance ; then the music resumed, and Mr.

| Webster asked Miss Campbell if she would dance the

Lancers with him, which was next on the list. Then
Jacob remarked that he was no dancer, but would find
Miss Webster a partner. Miss Webster answered that
she seldom danced, and would prefer sitting in the win-
dow and chatting with him, if he had no objection.

Jacob blushed and looked pleased.

They did not converse very much, however, for their
eyes had enough todo following the young pair who
had left them through the figures of the dance. Mr.
Webster was a quiet, exceedingly graceful dancer, while

| Violet, willing and pliant, floated about as if she moved

his young days, and he felt himself too dignified to be- |
gin at this late day; but he regretted his inability |
keenly when he saw Violet constantly led to the head of }

the embowered hall by one after another of

the |

very “pinks of propriety” among the ‘distinguished |

strangers.”
There

was anxious to secure Violet for a partner.
like a sylph, and was not afraid to look as if she enjoyed
it. The faint_rose-color in her cheeks deepened a shade,
her eyes shone like stars, she smiled when she was

was not a pale-faced, light-whiskered New |
| Yorker, nor an ice-molded Bostonian in the crowd but ;
She danced |

spoken to, yeta quieter reserve was not preserved by |
the haughtiest belle present than by this inexperienced |

child.

“Who is she?”
‘“‘Where is she from ?” were questions buzzed about the
hall on masculine lips.

.
- =.
a INT rote

murmured Violet, trying to quell the}; -

“Her blood asserts itsell,”| _

(i is igang
ill t #

allan” tz,

‘© VIOLET VILLIERS—MY MOTHER’S NAME! WHAT

WAS MY FATHER’S NAME?”

Violet was enjoying herself, but she was not satisfied.

The couple in whom she was most interested still re- |
| mained out under the hemlocks.

Meantime Mr. Pearlash had introduced to her a young
man whom she did not quite like, but who had twice

asked her to dance, and who was particularly impressive |

in his attentions.

His name was Mr. Percy St. Clair. He informed her

that he was of English birth, but had resided in New York |

since early childhood. He also gave her to understand
that he was of good family, was living on his money,

| and was deeply impressed by her appearnace ; but, find-

ing that she quietly and decidedly repetied his compli-

ments, he was keen enough to change his tactics very |

soon.

 

on the air alone.

Many an admiring glance watched the two through
that set of Lancers. He pale, haughty-looking, very in-
tellectually handsome, cold, composed, and easy in
every movement; she sparkling, buoyant, half smiling,
eyelashes drooping, cheeks rose-tinted, a picture
lovely enough to make the old wish they were young
again.

‘Your sister is as graceful as she is pretty,” remarked
Miss Webster,

Mr. Campbell did not hear her; he was absorbed in

| thought as he watched the couple, mated in youth, in

beauty, in tastes.
Miss Webster looked at him when he did not answer,
and saw the cloud on his face. She did not know enough

| of the circumstances or history of the strangers to com-
“What hotel does she stop at?” |

prehend from what a storm of inward misery that cloud
had arisen, but she instinctively reached toward the
truth when she spoke again.

“Ts she your only sister, Mr. Campbell ?”

“Yes. She is all I have in the world. I have a brother
far away inthe West; but Violet and I live alone at
home. We have no father or mother. Weare allin ali
to each other.”

“She is so attractive. You cannot hope to keep her

| long,” said the lady, lightly.

‘‘What you say is too true,” answered Jacob, slowly,
and there was a profound sadness in his expression
which set her to thinking.

eee the dance was over, and the two returned to
them.

‘Supposing we walk on the beach awhile. The sun is
low, and it isfar pleasanter out of doors, unless Miss
Campbell prefers dancing.”

“IT do not prefer dancing, Miss Webster,” answered
Violet, quickly.

Se the teow: -wanderedof dewns tie

a

ha»

bay eloon

y Uscteny

| gravelly beach. where they threw pebbles in the water,
| Scratched inottoes in the wet sand, and talked in low
| voices, while the music came to them in sweet snatches,

| which Prudie had so prematurely made.
| was twenty-two or three years old, and had been in so-

| almost a little girl.

through the gloom of evergreens on the bank above
them, and the clatter of dishes was heard as the waiters
prepared the long rows of tables gleaning under the

| trees a little distance off.

Miss Webster was very kind to the fair child, in whom
she was deeply interested because of that revelation
Miss Webster
ciety for several years, so that she looked upon Violet as

She was a little, a very little, un-
easy for fear that her brother might become too deeply

| interested, yet she had seen him tried too often by the

fairest young ladies, the very bloom of the best families,

| to really fear that he was in danger of being conquered
| by this modest young girl.

Before they were tired of the beach they were sum-

| moned by Prudie to the sylvan supper. A gay scene met
| their eyes as they clambered up the rocky point.
| golden ‘‘arrows of sunset” glittered under the flat-roof-
| ing

The

hemlocks, striking upon laughing faces, white
dresses, scarlet shawls, fluttering scarfs of pink and
blue, the great flag waving indolently over the club-
house, and the handsome tables covered with tempting

| edibles, and wreathed with green garlands. They would

not sit at the ‘festive board,” for Jacob found them a
comfortable seat on afallen tree near at hand, and,
nestled here, the two ladies were assiduously served
with all the delicacies of the season, from salads to
creams.

Mr. Webster was not their only attendant. Mr. St.

| Clair persisted in making himself useful to Miss Camp-
| bell, much to her chagrin, and had engaged her for a

Violet could give herself no reason for disliking him. |

He was a good-looking man, twenty-four or five years |

old, of English build, rather stout and square-shoul- |
| dered, with square jaws, a large mouth, ruddy com-
| plexion, deep-set, black, glittering eyes. and very hand- |

some dark-brown hair, crispy and profuse, and a stylish |

mustache. She thought it must be his teeth that she

and she felt relieved when Jacob finally came and took
her away from him.

Meantime the young couple under the tree were tak- |
ing the pienic rather coolly, not to say exclusively. They |
| from the trees.

declined dancing, and kept their places by the water-
side, reading or conversing between themselves, as the
mood stirred them. Their repose, however, was, after
an hour or two, brought to a sudden end by something

tumbling out of the hemlock over their heads, knocking |

off the gentleman's hat in its fall, and coming down
rather heavily on one of his feet.

Tt was Prudie.

She scrambled up and shook herself, looking somewhat
ashamed.

«What under the sun were youdoing up there ?” ques-
tioned the gentloman severely, for the shock had discon-
certed him.

“I was hung out to dry, if you please, sir.”

“Hung out to dry ?”

‘Yes, sir. 1 fell overboard comin’, an’ was so wet I
was ashamed to show myself in the dressin’-room; sol
clumb up here to git out o’ sight. I was hangin’ over a
limb a-dryin’ beautiful, when I seen a bird’s- nest full of
the dearest little speckled-eggs. I tried to reach ’em an’
lost my balance. I don’t see what’s come to me to-day.
I kin mostly stiddy myself anywhere, sir. I kinjwalk a
picket-fence on my toes quite easy.”

‘How old are you ?” queried the lady, amused.

“1m twelve, but I’d easy pass for thirteen, ma’am,”

‘You think so. What’s your name?”

“It's Prudence Green—Prudie for short. That’s what
she calls me.”

“Who ?”

‘Miss Vi’let. I’m her hired girl. Mother’s her cook.”

“The pretty’ young lady who came in the same boat
with you ?” asked the gentleman, forgetting his aching
foot.

“Yes, sir. Zsay she’s pretty. Do you?” turning her
twinkling eyes upon himas quickly as a flash. “I’m
awful sorry I hurt your toe. Don’t tell her, will you?”

“T will not tell her, Prudie,” he replied, seriously.

‘‘Because I bothered her to death to let me come, I
didn’t lay out to make so much trouble,”

“Does she scold you? Is she ever cross ?”

“Jasper, you are going too far,” remarked the lady.

He laughed, coloring at the same time under her re-

roof.
' «She scold! Not she. She tries to sometimes, but she
allers laughs. She jest spiles me, that’s a fact. I’m as
full o’ my capers asaeggis full o’meat. I try drefful
hard to be good, but I’m so lively I never can subside. I
told her if she’d let me come to the picnic ld tell her all
the compliments I hearn about her in the crowd.”

‘Was that the reason she allowed you to come?” inquired
the lady, so interested as entirely to forget the warning
she had given her brother. There was an accent of con-
temptuous amusement in her voice which the child was
sharp enough to understand.

“No, you bet! She never gets nothin’ from mornin’ till
night but jest flatterin’ remarks. She despises ’em. She
wouldn’t go out of her way to pick up a compliment.
La, she’s too sweet to live. I jest worried her into lettin’

Children Gry for Pitcher's Castoria,

 

 

dance after supper before she realized how averse she
should feel to keeping the engagement. The delicious
moments of her fraternizing with the Websters drew to
a close.

For her part, she would not have cared if they had
lasted a year.

She was sorry to find the deep twilight sinking down
through the luminous sunset glow. But lamps were
hung in the ball-room, and Mr. St. Clair came for his
partner.

As soon as the set was concluded she asked him to
take her to Mr. Campbell. But he begged her, so politely

| and earnestly, to stop outside afew moments and see

what was about to be done there that she knew not just
how to refuse him.

She thrilled with aversion as she took the arm which
he offered her, and was escorted by him out of the room
and along the path, dimly lighted by lanterns suspended
More than half the company was out,
so that she felt no impropriety in walking with him, but
she could not like him. Merry voices shouting and
laughing and giving orders were heard down on the
beach.

“Weare tohave a grand bonfire,” said Mr. St. Clair.
“The young fellows have been working like Trojans
getting the drift-wood together. If you will sit here,
Miss Campbell, you will have a fine view.”

He placed her under the hemlock where Miss Webster
had sat during the afternoon.

She trembled, she knew not why. He remained stand-
ing respectfully by her side. The groups of figures
moved darkly about on the starlit beach. Presently a faint
light glimmered. A match was applied to the dry hem-
lock boughs in the center of the mighty mound of drift-
wood. Little flames leaped and crackled from stem to
stem, building a fiery tracery of boughs and sprays. In
five minutes a fountain of flame was spouting to the
sky.

it was an hour and scene of enchantment. The trunks
of the trees flushed crimson ; every object came forth in
startling vividness, leaving black shadows haunting the
farther woods ; the ripples of the still bosom of the lake
sparkled like fiery serpents swimming on the water ; the
far hiils caught a rosy reflection; the groups which
thronged the shore hada weird, fantastic look ‘in the
unnatural light; the flames darted upward daringly as
it trying to lick out the feeble stars. Then, too, there
was a sweet, balsamic odor from the pines and hem-
locks, and a faint, moldy fragrance of damp mosses and
trampled leaves. The far-away darkness appeared:all
the more deep, from the rich burnishing of nearer ob-
jects. People’s faces were transfigured in the golden
light. Timidly Violet looked up at the man by her side,
drawn to iook at him by some magnetic power; she met
those eyes—deeply set in their sockets, dull and yet
thinking, singular eyes—fixed upon her with a strange
expression. Was it the reflection of the fire which gave
them that red, half-murderous, wholly gloating and
covetous gleam ?

Involuntarily she shrank away from his side, looking
about for her friends. Mr. and Miss Webster stood a
little distance away, and Jacob was talking with them.

‘You almost appear as if you were afraid of me,” said
St. Clair, with a smile, which made her ashamed of her
action. ‘I hope you will like me, Miss Violet—I will not
say Miss Campbell, for the name is not yours, and I do
not fancy it—for I feel that we are destined to become
better acquainted.”

How did he know that Campbell was her adopted
name? Again she looked at him uneasily. He lifted
her hand, drawing it through his arm, and bending
very close to her, as he said, very low and very softly:

“IT know more about you than you know yourself,
Violet Villiers.”

“Ah!” she cried, as he called her by the name which,
in her thought, she always gave herself. ‘‘Violet Villiers
—my mother’sname? What was my fathers name?
Do you pretend that you can tell me that ?”

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

<<aeia THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3

VOL. 48—No, 49,

 

THE TWO LIVES.

BY WILLIAM CANTON.

x

Among the tonely hills they played ;
No other bairns they ever knew ;

A little lad, a little maid,
In sweet companionship they grew.

They played, among the ferns and rocks,
A childish comedy of life—

Kept house, and milked the crimson docks,
And called each other man and wife.

They went to school; they used to go
With arms about each other laid;

Their flaxen heads, in rain or snow,
Were sheltered by a single plaid.

And so—and so it came to pass
They loved each other ere they knew;
His heart was like a blade o’ grass, :
And hers was like its drop o’ dew.

The years went by; the changeful years
Brought larger life and toil for life ;

They parted in the dusk, with tears—
They called each other man and wife.

They married—she another man,
And he, in time, another maid;
The story ends as it began—
Among the lonely hills they played !

hie a iii
—_-

[THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM. |

WITCH HAZEL:

THE SEGRET OF THE LOGKET

By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON.

Author of ‘**Geoffrey’s Victory,” ‘‘ Brownie’s
Triumph,” *“‘ The Forsaken Bride,” etc.

[‘‘WITcH HAZEL” was commenced in No. 42. Back
numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.]

CHAPTER XIX. |
HAZEL BECOMES A HEROINE.

ER grace called precisely at
quarter past two and found
the girls awaiting her and
looking as fresh and fair as
two flowers newly bloomed ;
Belle in a dainty pink cham-
brey, and Hazel in a crisp
blue lawn that made a de-
lightful contrast with her
fair skin and shining hair.
The face of the duchess
F . beamed with pleasure as she
looked upon them.

“Lam afraid you will have a dull time of it, my
dears, with an old woman like me,” she said, giving
a hand to each, as they sprang into the carriage.

“No, indeed,” Belle retorted, gayly, as she stooped
to imprint a kiss upon the good woman’s still fair
eheek, “no one can ever be dull with you, and one
oes not often have the pleasure of riding with the
dearest old lady in the world.”

- “Tut, tut, chatter-box, ’'ve got beyond the age of

flattery ;” her grace returned, smilingly, but looking

pleased nevertheless, at both the compliment and

the hearty caress; “but, truly, I believe I, enjoy
young folks now as well,if not better, than I ever

did. Miss Gay, how are you getting on with this

giddy, untamed young a y*

Hazel’s face dimpled, and her eyes rested affection-
ately upon Belle’s animated countenance.

“She is very tame with me, your grace,” she re-

plied

“IT -T tenia, FOR Tas safp,* BHEeiie broke Th,
Ralf in jest, half in éarnest, “only this morning I |
behaved shockingly to her, but if mamma will just

- keep her long enough I almost believe she’ll turn me
ut an angel yet.” HORS BA te

The duchess laughed pleasantly and thought Hazel
-very lovely, with that delicate flush coming and go-
ing in her round cheeks. Then she began to point
éut certain places of interest to her charges and to
tell them something of their history.

When they reached Purgatory, which was truly too
beautitula place to have been so named, in spite of
the frightful gorge or chasm, which some convulsion
of nature had made by rending a hM of granite in
twain, Lord Nelson, who had been watching for their
‘arrival, came forward to assist them to alight.

The company were just completing their lunch,
but he led the duchess to a comfortable seat, which
he had previously arranged for her, and insisted
upon serving them with the most ene viands.

Her grace said she would have a roll and a little
salad, but Belle and Hazel preferred cake and cream.

Charles Harwood and one or two other gentlemen,
who had met the young girls the previous evening, |
came forward and vied with each other in serving
them. Belle’s quaint remarks and frank criticisms
amused them, while Hazel charmed them by her
more refined wit and sparkle.

“You should have been named ‘Witch Hazel,’”
Lord Nelson said, in a low tone, as he bent to take
her empty plate, the remark having been called
forth by a sally of wit that had evoked peals of
laughter from her listeners.

“Why, my lord, what little bird has been whisper-
ing my secret in your ear? Ihave been called by
that name ever since I can remember,” she returned,
a bright color suffusing her cheeks.

“No little bird, but only your own witching self
betrayed it to me,” he returned, in a voice intended
fer her ear alone.

‘‘Really, Miss Gay, you appear to be holding quite

acourt! Pray what subject do you find so entertain-
ing and absorbing ?” :
_ It was Helena Stewart who spoke in the softest and
most duleet tones, and glancing up, Hazel found that
young lady standing near, an expression of amuse-
ment and indulgence upon her high-bred face, as if
she considered it arare joke for a governess to be
playing the lady in that style.

In spite of her smiling face and musical tones, a
shiver of repugnance ran through Hazel’s nerves.
There was something about the beautiful belle that
had always chilled and repelled her, and now she
‘instinctively detected a hidden malice which warned
her that Helena Stewart was her bitter foe.

“Cake and strawberry cream, just now, Helena,
constitute the most entertaining topic I tind for dis-
cussion,” interrupted Belle, who was just finishing
tthe second plateful of her fayorite ice.

“Oh! [imagined that pearls and diamonds must be
dropping from Miss Gay’s lips by the way every-
body was hanging upon her words,” retorted Miss
Stewart, with a gay laugh, which seemed simply to
erg an inoffensive jest, although the keen edge of

er intended satire cut Hazel to the heart.

She was too proud-spirited to show it, however,
and passing her empty plate to Lord Nelson, she
asked, composedly :

“Have you been down into the gorge, Miss Stew-
art? Iam told that it is a very weird place.”

“Yes; I have been there, and it is as dismal as the

ave,” Re Helena, briefly, and with a shrug of

er shapely shoulders.

“Come, Harwood,” said Lord Nelson, ‘‘we must do
the honors for these young ladies; if you will attend
Miss Belle, I will escort Miss Gay. Miss Stewart,’
to Helena, ‘‘may I leave her grace in your care until
our return?’

Helena bowed assent with her sweetest smile, but

the look which she shot at Hazel, as she took the
young lord’s proffered arm, showed that she pos-
sessed less of self-control than usual that day.
_ The four young people went off boxe their explor-
ing expedition, and a merry time they had of 1t, for
both Belle and Hazel were in their gayest mood, and
when they returned they came laden with honey-
suckle and fragrant wild roses.

Helena was quick to notice the dainty little bovt-
veniere which Lord Nelson wore, and surmised, with
more of accuracy than pleasure, whose hand had
‘placed it there.

_ Hazel had enjoyed her ramble and came back look-
ung so flushed and happy that the duchess remarked,

as she approached her:

“Dear child, how you enjoy life! if your face is the
‘mirror of your heart, what a well-spring of joy there
must be within it.”

“‘His lordship’s face seems to be a mirror also, just
mow,” Helena observed, in a tone which her grace
alone caught, and glancing quickly at him she re-
marked the look of admiration, blended with some
feeling even stronger, with which he was regarding
the beautiful girl. :

‘She started slightly, and then grew suddenly grave.
What she saw as she quietly watched the young
people for an hour longer did not tend to lift the
cloud from her brow, and she at last turned to Lord
Nelson, remarking : .

“7 think we should be returning very soon, my
ee would like to get honie before the dew begins

6 . : es

 

_ “Any time you choose, your grace,” he replied, go-

ing immediately to her side. ‘Shall I order the car-
riage now ?”

“Yes,” she told him, and in ten minutes it was
ready for her.

He gave her his arm and conducted her to it.and
saw that she was comfortably seated, then assisted
Belle and Hazel to enter. ;

The other members of the party had ridden and
their oer were being brought forward for them to
mount,

Helena had followed the duchess to her carriage,
and stood beside it while Lord Nelson arranged the
robes about its occupants. She wore a perfectly fit-
ting habit of dark blue cloth, a tall crowned hat, and
long Suede gauntlets. She looked very handsome,
and her fine figure had never shown to better advan-

tage. .

i her left hand, which hung carelessly behind her,
she carried her riding-whip which had a costly and
beautifully carved handle of ivory.

Just as the carriage was about tg start she stepped
back, and in doing so her foot became entangled in
the long skirt of her habit, she lost her balance and
with a low cry of fear, she fell to the ground. That
low cry changed to a shriek of agony before she
touched it. Lord Nelson sprang forward and lifted
her instantly, and beneath her the beautiful riding-
whip lay broken, while one ef the ragged ends of the
fractured handle was stained with blood.

“You are hurt,” said the young lord, regarding her
anxiously.

“A little, I think—my arm pains me,” she said with
white lips, but trying to smile; then she swayed diz-
zily and seemed about to faint.

Hazel sprang from the carriage with a startled ex-
clamation.

“She is bleeding; her sleeve is saturated with
bleod,” she cried, and, trne enough, a crimson stream
was trickling down her hand, while her sleeve was
literally dripping with blood.

She had broken her whip in her fall, and one of the
sharp points had evidently inflicted a serious wound
in her arm.

“Give me a knife, somebody,” Hazel commanded,
in quick, authoritative tones.

Two or three were at her disposal in less time than
it takes to tell it, and, seizing one, with great pres-
ence of mind and.a steady hand, she ripped Helena’s
sleeve from top to bottom, disclosing her beautiful
arm and a ragged puncture, just over an artery, from
which the blood was pouring profusely.

Hazel had around her waist a blue belt with long
ends, and this she wrenched off with one motion of
her hand.

She had once heard Percy say that a ligature would
stop profuse bleeding, and she had made him tell her
just how it should be applied.

“Help me, Lord Hartwell,” she said. ‘Hold this
end just here while I bandage her arm.”’

He obeyed, supporting Helena with one arm, while
he held the ribbon with his other hand.

With swift and.steady fingers Hazel did her work,
binding her sash above the wound and knotting it
firmly over the artery.

“You hurt me, Miss Gay,” Helena said, weakly, but
with a note of impatience in her voice.

“Tt will have to hurt you, Miss Stewart,” Hazel re-
plied, ‘but you must try to bear it until you can have
surgical aid. This ligature will be very uncomfort-
‘able, even painful, but it will probably prevent your
bleeding to death. There, now I will bind my hand-
kerchief ever the wound, and, Lord Hartwell, she
poner go at oncein the carriage to have it cared

or.”

“Yes, indeed,” said the duchess, who had been won-
deringly observant of all that had occurred, but ren-
dered so weak and faint by the sight of blood that
she could offer todo nothing. ‘Put her in here be.
side me, and we will drive directly to Sir Henry
Harwood’s. Fortunately we shall find him at home
to-night.” .

Lord Nelson carefully helped Helena into the car-
riage, and made her as comfortable as circumstances
would permit. She was very pale and weak from
loss of blood, but she had a strong will and she bore
up bravely.

azel thoughtfully wrapped the wounded arm in a
soft shawl which she had brought to protect herself
from the evening air, and then, the others having
mounted, the company set out upon their return.

“Can you bear to ride fast, dear?’ the duchess
asked of Helena, and feeling anxious to get her un-
der surgical care as svon as possible, é
_ Yes, the faster the better,’ she replied, for she
was suffering greatly and longed to be relieved from
that painful bandage.

When they reached Sir Henry Harwood’s residence
he was just alighting from his own carriage, having
that moment arrived from the station.

He was accompanied by another. gentleman whom
Hazel recognized with a start and a thrill which set
every pulse throbbing with joy.

“Percy!” she said, under her breath, “ how came
he here?’ ’

The good doctor came bustling up to the duchess’
carriage to ascertain what was wanted of him, and
when the accident had been explained to him he re-
mea Tt lie CHEERY Saissiiring Way.” es

* Well, well, young lady, so you’ve been getting
into trouble again. However, you'll stand it well
enough, and we will have you fixed all right very
shortly.”’

He assisted her into the house, made her lie down
upon alounge in the pretty home-like parlor, and then
proceeded to examine her wound.

‘Here, Morton,” he called, as a step sounded with-
outin the hall, “lend a hand, will you?’ and Perey
entered the room.

He saw Hazel instantly, for she had followed
Helena and the duchess, anxious to learn how serious
the wound was, and hereyes kindled with pleasure.
He smiled and nodded at her, but could not stop to
speak with her, for Sir Henry’s toue had told him that
he needed him at once.

The wound was not a serious one, although it
might have been but for Hazel’s prompt treatment
and Percy’s heart grew warm with pride. and love
as the duchess described her wonderful presence of

mind and the way she had bandaged the bleeding |

arm.

“Tt will soon heal,” Sir Henry said, after the artery
had been taken up and the ragged wound skillfully
treated, ‘“‘your blood is young and pure and you will
not experience much inconvenience from it; at the

silence, then with an effort, Percy asked in his usual

 

 

same time, Miss Stewart, you owe a great deal to}
that plucky young lady; you would probably have |
bled to death but for that ligature. You’re quite a}
little surgeon, my dear,” he added, turning to where |

Hazel had stood. ‘‘Bless me! where is she?’
concluded, looking disappointed at not finding her,
for the young girl had slipped out unobserved.

Perey found her a little later alone upon the
veranda, looking flushed and weary, a troubled ex-
pression in her deep blue eyes.

The duchess and Mrs. Harwood were up stairs |

he |

|
|
|

|

|

with Helena, who was under the doctor’s orders. to |

remain quietly where she was for the night, and Sir

Heury was in bis office preparing a quieting mixture |
for his patient; so these two had an opportunity to |

meet unobserved.

Hazel sprang up from the rocker where she was |

sitting as Percy approached her, and gave him both
her hands, but she drew back slightly when he would
have kissed her.

“Oh! Percy. I am so glad to see you,” she said,
with a heartiness not to be doubted, while her lip
quivered with emotion. “How did you happen to

_come to Brighton ?”

“Sir Henry sent for me,” Percy answered, as he re-
leased her hands, feeling slightly hurt at her refusal
to receive his proffered caress. ‘‘Thatis,” he added,
“he telegraphed me to meet him in London to-day,
to consult with him upon a matter of importance, and
eee that [should come here to spend the
night.’

“Could oon leave your patients?’ Hazel inquired.

“Yes; Kingston is remarkably healthful just at
present,” Perey returned, smiling, ‘besides, I ex-
pect to leave Kingston very soon.”

CHAPTER XX
A CHANGE IN PERCY’S AFFAIRS.

“Going to leave Kingston ! why, you are but just
established there!’ Hazel exclaimed, astonished.

“True, but Sir Henry wishes me to go to London to
share his practice,” Perey returned. “‘He has made
me a very generous offer, and Iam to give him my
answer to-night or to-morrow. He says that he finds
his large practice wearing upon him—that, as he
grows older, he would like to drop gradually out of
professional life. He has been on the lookout for

some time for some one to assume a portion of his |

duties, and lift his ever increasing burden from his
shoulders. He was 80 pleased with my treatment
ot Miss Stewart's case at Osterly, that he has been
making inquiries regarding me, and has concluded
that I am the wan he wants.”

*Then hereafter you will be settled in London,”
said Hazel, retlectively.

“Yes, if I accept his offer, and I think I shall; and
Hazel, my income will henceforth be much larger
than it ever has been; will you not come to me now
and let.me take care of you. One reason why I came
to Brighton to-night, was to ask you this. Come,
dear, be reasonable. Icannot bear the thought of
your earning your own living.” ;

“Percy, I cannot,” Hazel responded, in a low tone,
the quick blood dying cheek and brow and neck. “TI
cannot be dependent.”

“That word should never be used by you to me,
Hazel,” Percy replied, gravely, “for you could not be
more dependent upon me than TI upon you, for the
comfort and happiness which I should experience by
having youin myhome. I need you, Hazel—I amaill
alone in the world.”

The young girl’s lip quivered and her heart throbbed
painfully.

Was not she, too, alone in the world?

She longed—oh, how she longed to yield to his re-
quest, and if he had but spoken one word of the
great love that was surging in his heart—it he had
but asked her to come to him as- his wife, she would
have thrown herself upon his breast and yielded only
too willingly.

“T cannot,” she fepeakee with downecast eyes, but
: e voice so firm that it pierced his heart like a

nife. :

He sighed heavily; there was a moment or two of

| own before them all.

 

kindly tone:

‘How are you getting on, Hazel, in your position?
Do you find it pleasant ?”’

“Yes,” she answered. ‘Mrs. Stewart is very kind,
Belle is good ye 9 and considerate, and my
duties are neither hard nor irksome. But, Perey,”
she added, looking up at him and speaking in a love,
eager tone, as if some sudden and important idea
had struck her, ‘‘please do not let any one here sus-
pect that you know me.”

He looked at her amazed.

“Why not?’ he demanded,in a stern, displeased
tone, and growing pale to his lips at her strange re-
quest. “Why do you ask such an unheard of thing
of me?’

“Because—of my position,” she returned, flushing
crimson.

“Do you imagine that I would be ashamed to be
known as your friend simply because you have be-
come a governess?” he asked, his lips curling with
scorn at the idea.

“Oh, no; I know that you would never be ashamed
of me for that; but if others knew that I belonged to
you in any way——” |

“Itis very evident that you do not care to belong
to me in any way,” he interrupted, bitterly.

“But it might injure you.”

“How ?””

“People might think it very strange that I should
be a governess when—when——”

“When Lam abundantly able to take care of you,”
he supplied, as she hesitated. ‘Yes, I suppose they
would and with reason. But what of that? You do
belong to me by right 6f the past, and whatever your
position, I believe [ have sufticient moral courage to
acknowledge our relations before the whole world,”
he concluded, with a slight smile and avery tender
glance at her fair, troubled face.

“But, if I donot wish you to, Perey—if I would
rather you did not?’ Hazel pleaded.

She could not bear that any one should think ill of
him for what was her fault alone.

He regarded her keenly for a moment.

‘Hazel, I do not understand you,” he said at length.
“You are very much changed from my frank, con-
fiding little friend of years ago. Am I to understand
that*veu do not wish me to acknowledge, before
chess people, even a previous acquaintance with
you?”

She was nearly weeping, his tone was so stern, his
expression so displeased; but she did not wish the
Stewarts, the Harwoods and the duchess to know that
she had been reared as Percy Morton’s sister, and
now that he was rapidly rising to eminence in his
profession, blame him, as she felt sure they would,
tor allowing her to teach for her livelihood.

“Yes, Perey,” she answered, trying to speak
steadily. “I am afraid they would say hard things
of you tor what is my fault alone, and—I——”

“And you would not like them to know, either, how
willful Miss Hazel Gay is capable of being,” he con-
eluded, bitterly. ‘‘Very well,” he added, after a mo- |
ment of painful thought, and cut to the heart by her |
strange request, *‘I will humor you; fortunately no |
one knows oft this interview, and since it is your
wish that we should he regarded as strangers, I will
not recognize you again, at least until we have been
formally introduced.”

He bowed gravely to her, then turning on his heel,
entered the house, leaving Hazel nearly heart-broken
at the thought of having offended him.

Sir Henry was just coming to seek him and Inet
him in the hall.

“Ah! here you are, Morton,” he said. “I was com-
ing to look for you; it is about time, I think, that we
had something to refresh the inner man. Here
comes Mrs. Harwood and her grace, and we’ll go in to
supper.”

The two ladies were just descending the stairs, and
Sir Henry pressed her ladyship to remain to tea with
them ; but she refused, saying she must go to Mrs.
- whi and break the news of Helena’s accident to

for Hazel.

‘“*Bless my heart! I had nearly forgotten that
brave girl,” exclaimed Sir Henry, and he walked
quickly out upon the veranda in search of her.

He found her standing just where Percy had left
her and looking as pale as.a snow-drop.

“TI beg your pardon, Miss Gay,” he said, going to
her and cordially clasping her hand, ‘‘we have been
very thoughtless to neglect you thus. Eh! what’s
the trouble here ?” he added, as he noticed her pallor
and how icy cold her hand was; ‘“‘reaction, I imagine.
Come, come, this will never do; you must have some-
thing to stir your blood, or we shall have another
patient on our hands.” .

He drew her hand within his arm, led her forcibly
into the house, and then sent a servant for a giass of
wine.

** Look here, Morton,” he said, as Perey glanced up
at their entrance, but with no recognition in his look,
“this is the young lady who performed that neat lit-.

er.
“Where is Miss Gay ?” she inquired, looking around x

 

tle bit of surgery this afternoon. = Gay, allow me
to make veuw acquainted. ite Dr, Morte un
“Pie “formal introduc’ on” had been achieved, and |
Perey and Hazel coulii now recognize each other |
without fear of comment.

Percy bowed and simply repeated her name after
Sir Henry, though there was a look of grave re-
proach in his eyes, as Hazel met them and briefly re-
turned his greeting, that smote her keenly.

Fortunately the servant brought the wine just then
and Sir Henry insisted upon her drinking it, or she
might have broken down and betrayed herself.

She sipped a little of it, then turning tu the duch-
ess, she said: ;

“I think [must go home now. Mrs. Stewart will
wonder what bas kept nmie.’’

“Of course you must, dear child,’ her grace re-
turned, with great kindness, ‘‘and you look as if you
needed care yourself; the excitement has been too
much for you. Come with me; my carriage is still
waiting and I will take you home.” .

They all passed out upon the yeranda where they
were inet by Mrs. Stewart and Lord Nelson.

He had repaired directly to her house upon his re-
turn, where he found Belle just telling her mother
what had happened. Instead of going in to Sir
Henry’s with the others, she had leaped from the ear-
riage and gone directly liome, and Lord Nelson had
arrived just in season to escort Mrs. Stewart to the
house of the great physician.

The young lord, after saluting the party, turned
his attention to bis grandmother and Hazel, while
Mrs. Stewart was conducted directly to Helena by
Mrs. Harwood.

“You are ill,” said Lord Nelson, looking anxiously
into the fair, pale face of the young girl, and speak-
ing ina tone that sent a keen pang to Percy's heart.

or smiled faintly, but assured him that she was
not ill.

His manner was so tender and solicitous when he
assisted her into the carriage, wrapping a robe about
her and throwing hershawl around her to protect
her from the dew, that Percy, watching from the |
veranda, was filled with jealous pain, and had hard |
work to keep himself from dashing out, taking Hazel |
forcibly from the carriage, and claiming her as his

He reproached himself bitterly for having yielded
to Hazel’s request, butit was too late now to right
matters without making a very awkward scene, and |
he was obliged to hold his peace.

“That young sprig of nobility is learning to love
her,” he said to himself, “and I am afraid she will be
lost to me forever. Oh! Hazel, Hazel! it would kill
me to have to give you te another.”

Still, he could but aeknowledge that this sprig of
nobility Was a very promising young man, and that,
if he should lay his hand and fortune at Hazel’s feet,
a brilliant career would lay before her—a career
which he would have no right to mar from any
selfish consideration.

Hazel was very glad te get back to the privacy of
her own room, where she could indulge her painful
emotions, and she literally wept herself to sleep.

Nothing could give her greater pain than to feel
that Percy was offended with her. and, when she
came to reflect on their interview, she feared that
she had made a mistake, Still, she had acted on a
generous impulse to save him from censure; she had
told himso, and she thought it rather hard that he
should be angry with her for it.

It was too late now, however, to rectify her
blunder, if blunder it was, and she could only make
the best of it, and let matters take their course.

The next morning she awoke much refreshed after
her night’s rest, although that keen pain was still in
her heart, and she had not fully regained her color.
Still, she would not omit a single duty, although
Mrs. Stewart, out of the abundance of her gratitude
tor what she had done for Helena, told her to rest tor
two or three days if she wished.

She did not wish; to have been idle would have
been misery for her; so the lessons were gone
through with, and the practice, also, as faithfully
done as ever. 7 :

Helena did not return to Crescent Villa until after-
noon, and then she came ina carriage attended by
both physicians.

Percy assisted her to alight, and supported her to
the house. She was somewhat pale from loss of
blood, but was bright and animated and seemed to
exceedingly enjoy the attentions of her handsome
attendant.

Hazel was sitting alone at one end of the veranda
when they arrived—Belle had gone out riding with
Marie Earlescourt and Charles Harwood—and her
heart sank within her as she noticed how confidingly
Helena leaned upon Percy’s arm, and the earnest,
absorbed look which she turned to him as she con-
versed with him.

Mrs. Stewart met them at the door, and invited |
Dr. Morton to enter, but he politely declined, saying |
that he and Sir Henry were going for a drive.

“But,” he added, with his rare smile, ‘“‘he has com-
missioned me to inquire for Miss Gay; she seemed
somewhat unsettled by the events of yesterday, and
he feared that she would be ill.”

“Oh, Miss Gay is all right,” Mrs. Stewart replied,
as she gave herarm to Helena to assist her to her
room, ‘she is out upon the veranda, somewhere,
reading, I believe.”

“With your permission [ will speak with her,” said
Perey, whose keen eyes had already discovered
Hazel’s whereabouts. ;

 

ithedirectinn which, bad ,bronght. Cant

Meeting.

“Oh, certainly,if you wish,” the lady responded, ;
indifferently.

Percy hastened toward the young girl. His con-
science had reproached him for his harshness last
evening, and he was eager to make amends.

As he approached the spotwhere she sat, removing
his hat and bowing before her, no one would have
suspected that they were aught but strangers to
each other.

But his low, eager ‘Hazel, are you better to-day ?”
Pn ecg his deep interest and tender regard for

er.

“Yes, I am quite well; but oh! Percy, tell me that
you are not angry with me,” she returned, tears
starting to her eyes.

He smiled fondly upon her; she was very lovely
in her sweet contrition, and he longed to gather her
ore his arms and kiss away the cloud from her

row.

“IT am not pleased with the hard terms that you
made with me yesterday,” he said, with reproachful
tenderness, ‘but [am much too fond of you to re-
main angry with you very long. Shake hands with
me. dear, and let us forget all unpleasantness, for I
aim going back to London on the evening train.”

‘ She laid her handin his, and Sir Henry, watching
them from the carriage, thought that the young
physician was merely counting her pulse.

“Going back?’ Hazel repeated, with a regretful
sigh, ‘‘and have you decided ?”’ *

“Yes, [have decided to accept Sir Henry’s offer,
and henceforth Iam to be associated with him in
business. It is a brilliant opening for me, Hazel, and
IT only hope that I shall preve myself worthy of it.’

“T am not afraid; you are worthy of anything
Perey,” Hazel replied, with a glance that set his
pulses bounding with hope.

“Time will prove that,” he returned. ‘But I must
say good-by. Take good care of yourself, dear—I do
not like these pale cheeks—and you must write to me
as usual. ITimayrun down to Brighton again soon,
and will not fail to see you then.”

“You are very good to me, Percy. I was afraid——”’

“Well, of what were you afraid, my pet?” he asked,
as she faltered.

“That you would not forgive me——”

“T have not,” he iiterposed, flushing slightly, but
still smiling, “and I shall not, quite, until you do.as I
wish you to.”

Hazel blushed crimson at this.

“IT am sorry——” she began, humbly, when Percy
laughed outright.

“You look so pretty, Hazel, with that lovely color
in your cheeks, that I should surely kiss you if Sir
Henry were not looking, and in spite of the fact that
you refused my caress last evening. But I must go,
or my superior will think that I am a great while in
making my professional inquiries. Az revoir, dear,
and be sure that you write to me often.”

He lifted his hat again, bowing with mocking for-
mality before her, and then went away, leaving her
greatly cheered, for she saw that, while he was far
from being reconciled to their present relations, he
did nor cherish anger toward her. Her face was very
bright after that little visit, and no one had occasion
to remark upon her lack of color again that day.

(f0 BE CONTINUED.)
————_> © —<+—_____—__
(THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM. }

The Man of Mystery;

“QUOTATION MARKS.”

An Exciting Detective Story.
By EUGENE T. SAWYER,

- Author of ‘‘Manton Mayne,” “The Maltese
Cross,” ‘““Ramon Aranda,” etc.

(“THE MAN OF MYSTERY,” was commenced in No. 44.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.]

A
CHAPTER XXIII.
A DYING VILLAIN’S DISCLOSURE.

The flight of Maurice Holton brought its natural
sequence.

Quotation Marks hurriedly requested Alda Duane
to ‘‘remain here for the present,” and quickly
followed in the wake of the fugitive.

Five minutes passed, minutes of keenest suspense

 

 

to the heroic girl, when a new-comer apperred from
» Lareles:—
wounded confederate.

Bushy gray whiskers covered the larger portion of |
his face, on his head was a wide-brimmed sombrero,
and he was dressed like a mountaineer.

Alda Duane, obeying her first impulse, quickly
arose to her feet, and brought the muzzle of her

pistol to bear upon his breast.

But as he made no offensive demonstration she
slowly lowered the weapon, and looked at him with
a puzzled expression.

Alda,” came from his 7 in a voice that thrilled
her with unspeakable delight. “don’t you know
me ?”’

**Creed, dear heart, of course I know you,” and the
loving embrace that tollowed the utterance testified
to the passionate joy that each experienced at the

“What—what’s the matter?”

The words, in a faint voice, brought the
from heaven to earth.

Pete Rattler had raised his head, and resting on
one elbow, was looking about him with dazed eyes.

ee was blood on his forehead and a pool by his
side.

Lawton approached, and soon discovered that the |
blood upon the ground had flowed from a deep
wound in the breast. His forehead was bruised and
bleeding from the fall, he having struck a jagged
fragment of rock with such force as to produce
temporary unconsciousness.

Atter rendering all the assistance possible, the de-
tective turned to his sweetheart with a questioning
expression.

She briefly narrated what had happened since the
night before. x

His tace spoke his admiration of her nerve and
bravery. ;

In return, he told of his narrow escape from death,
and of the shrewdness and courage of Quotation
Marks.

Her sighs, her tears, and her eloquent glances
more than repaid him for the dangers he had en-
countered.

As for her sufferings, he found that mere expres-
sions were powerless to adequately portray the
emotions that avitated his breast. :

They talked a while, and then asa groan reached
their ears, a sudden pallor chased the roses from
Alda’s lovely cheeks.

“Will he die?” she asked.

Her true woman’s heart, now that the enemy had
been worsted, palpitated in merciful sympathy.

Lawton made a lengthened examination.

“Yes,” was his reply. ‘His chances of life are
nearly run out.”

“Sure of it?’ asked Rattler, with a frightful con-
tortion of countenance.

“T am sure, and before you leave this world, I
want you to confess your sins, particularly with re-
ference to your connection with Captain Careless,
and the murder of Carlton Duane.”

“Who—who are you that speaks to me in this
way Y’

He bestowed a terrified glance upon his seemingly
aged questioner.

“T am Creed Lawton, the detective.”

“No—no!” covering ys face with his hands, and
shivering asif with thé ague. “You are not Lawton;
he’s gone—he’s dead.”

“You are mistaken,’ was the calm, impressive
response. ‘TI was rescued from the shaft where you
pa ree principal consigned me to die a horrible

eath.’

“Remove your disguise, then, and let me see.”

Lawton did as requested.

The dying outlaw looked at him with staring eyes,
and then gasped:

“Yes, yes, you are the detective.
I’ll confess.”

His teeth chattered, and his eyes rolled wildly.

When he had,in a measure, regained his composure,
he began his strange confession, his voice growing
weaker and weaker as he approached the end.

“T tirst met Captain Careless in Colorado.”

“What is his true name?” interrupted the de-
tective.

“T don’t know. He was a miner and a road agent—
the same double line of business that he is engaged
in here. I was secretary of a mining company, with
headquarters at Denver, and he was the financial
agent. I was short in my accounts, and in my des-
peation, I confided my troubles to him. He was not
surprised, and he did not give me a moral lecture.
On the contrary, he laughed, patted me on the back,
and promised to show me a way to square myself.
That way was the road.”

“Asa highwayman ?’

“Yes; and I soon replaced the money I had stolen.
Then I resigned the secretaryship, and devoted all
my time to lawless adventures. When the country
got too hot for us, we came to California. He ob-
tained the appointment at the Rajah, and as but a,
portion of his time was occupied, he soon branched’
into the old business, and [helped him out. Coll
Herrin and Faro Bill joined the gang, but I was the
only one that knew Captain Careless was Maurice
Holton.”

“But about the murder of Duane?
as soon as possible.”

lovers

The game is up.

Come to that

 

Lawton saw that the end was near, and he feared

lest the opportunity to obtain most important ififor-
mation would be lost.

“He was murdered by Captain Careless.” :

“You are positive of this?’ excitedly exclaimed
the detective.

“T saw him shoot the actor.”

Alda Duane put her hand to her heart, gasped, and
then sinking upon the rude bench, bowed her head,
while great sobs shook -her frame.

“Without provocation ?”

“Without provocation.”

“The particulars? Come to the point at once.”

Supporting the dying highwayman’s head, Lawton
gazed anxiously into his face, over which a bluish
pallor was already stealing.

“T was in the ‘El Capitan’ saloon one day, talking
with Faro Bill, and I remarked that the captain
would give one hundred dollars to meet Duane, the
actor. In the early evening, while I was standing on
the sidewalk outside, Duane accosted me. I knew
him by sight, but I was surprised when he addressed
me and said:

“‘T was in the alley this afternoon, the side door
was open, and I heard what you said about me.
want to earn that hundred dollars. Who is your
captain, and where can he be found Y

“T was knocked ‘ygalley-west and crooked’ by the
words, but I. soon recovered moself. He looked as if
he meant business, and so I told him that if he
would be at the old barn in the field, north of town,
in an hour, I would fetch the captain and the boodle.
‘T’ll be there,” he said, and then walked off.

‘“*‘My next business was to find Holton. Unluekily,
you will say, he was at the hotel, and he looked like a
demon when I told him of my find. Well, I went with
him to the barn, and on the way he put on his dis-
guise. Duane was on hand. But few words passed
between them. The captain took him to one side and
said, ‘I’ll give you the money, and then we will talk,
for of course I expect youto earn it.’ The actor
reached out his hand to take the gold, when the cap-
tain drew a pistol and shot him through the head. It
was all over ina moment.”

The sobs of the murdered man’s sister grew more
painful and violent. °

“That’s all,” continued the dying man, in a husky
whisper, exeept that he took the pistol which the
actor carried, fired off one barrel and placed the
weapon beside the body, so that it would look like a
case of suicide, He said the killing of Duane was but
a stepping-stone to.a more important enterprise.
The girl—the actor’s sister—she was to be worked on
next—she was to help him to—to 7

The voice ceased, a gurgling noise succeeded, his
muscles quivered, and he was dead.

CHAPTER XXIV.
ON THE TRACK OF THE ASSASSIN.

Creed Lawton turned from the dead outlaw to Alda
Duane.

The revelation of Maurice Holton’s cold-blooded
villainy had not shocked her half as much as his con-
federate’s narration of the awful cireuiustances at-
tending the death of her beloved brother.

The detective sighed as he looked into her tear-
stained face, and walking a few steps away from
her, he muttered savagely under his breath :

“A lifefor alife! Maurice Holton, your doom is
sealed. As you showed no mercy, so shall no mercy
be extended to you.”

He looked in the direction taken by the fugitive
murderer and Quotation Marks, but couldsee nothing,
hear nothing. *

Then he glanced at Alda with a troubled counte-
nance.

“Marks may need my help,” was his thought;
‘and yet I can't leave her here alone.”

As if she divined what was passingin his mind,
the brave girl, having conquered her agitation, now
spoke:

Nemo risetiiiiib may have happened to our mutual
friend. Iam not afraidto remain here. J] am armed,
you see, and besides, in my opinion, the danger has
passed away. Go tothe assistance of Mr. Marks, and
may Heaven guide you.”

“No,” he replied, ‘not yet. No shots have been
fired, so that nothing for or against our side has yet
been accomplished. I will wait half an hour, and
then, if we-hear nothing we will returnto town to-
gether. Marks is all right, I am convinced. He is
more than a match for that villain. I'll trust the
affair with him for the present.”

Seating himself beside her, he gave himself up to a
short season of blissful rest.

After a pause she said:

“T think Mr. Marks is my cousin, Lawrence Carl-
ton.”

Lawton’s face showed surprise. :

She told him of the statement made by Maurice
Holton, which, coupled with her remembrance of
her cousin as a boy, intensified her suspicious regard-
ing Marks. :

“You -may beright,”’ reflectively, “but then, how
do you account for Holton’s interest in your affairs ?
For the murder of your brother?” de ess

“In this way: Manrice Halton lived in Colorado...
My brother was fh that Stete <cveral inonths, piay-

jing in Denver, Colorade Springs and other places

They may have become acquainted.”

“What of that? It was not known until very re-
cently that the half million had been bequeathed to
you and your brother.”

“Maurice Holton, as Captain Careless, might have
obtained the knowledge here in San Tomas,’’ was her
quiet response.

“How, Alda?
second sight.”

She smiled and shook her head.

“There was a mail robbery on the stage road
several days before the murder. Mountain Jim, the
driver, so informed me.”

‘Well ?” looking at her in admiring curiosity.

“A letter to Carlton might have been in that mail,
and might have been appropriated and opened by
Captain Careless. Suppose this to have been the
case; suppose, further, that the letter contained the
news of the bequest, isn’t everything explained ?”

A great light broke in upon Creed Lawton’s under-
standing.

He thought he saw daylight.

“Yes! yes!’ he exclaimed, *‘I see your drift. What
a head, what a brain you possess! That would cer-
tainly account for many things. But’’— and his en-
thusiasm cooled on the instant—‘it would not ac-
count for Holton’s murderous enmity to your
brother. Why did he kill him ?”

“To remove an obstacle from his path, to pave the
way for a bold, unscrupulous enterprise; to have the
right to the half million of dollars vested. solely in
me.”

“To what end ?’

“So that he might marry me, by fair means or foul.
Once my husband, he would be in a position, by mur-
dering me as he did ny brother, or by threats and in-
be ge aaa to acquire the whole of the fortune him-
self.”

Her words seemed to carry conviction with them,
and the detective was deeply impressed.

Alda had certainly evolved a most ingenious eluci-
dation of the motives and desigus of their crime-har-
dened enemy.

“You must have guessed the truth,” was his im-
pulsivereply. “Yes, you have the whole thing ina
nutshell. Alda, you ought to have been a detective.
You possess wonderful penetration, and—I adore
you.”

He imprinted a kiss upon her scarlet lips, and af-
fectionately stroked her goiden hair.

“But whatif I should be mistaken after all,” was
her next remark, which was accompanied by a down-
cast look and an impressive shrug of her pretty
shoulders. “Whatif my poor brother was killed for
some other reason ?”’

“You want to mystify me, Alda, but I refuse to re-
cede from the position which your previous sugges-
tion has compelled me to take. For the present, then,
I must look upon Maurice Holton as a fiend incar-
nate, who assassinated one heir to a fortune in order
that he might successfully assail the other.”

“T would never have married him; I would have
died first.”

“Of course you would, but his soul is so steeped in
infamy that he has no conception of the rare virtue
and goodness, of the grand devotion and self-sacritice
that may exist in others. But come, Alda, the half
hour has passed, and our friend, Marks, is still ab-
sent. Let us set out for the hotel.”

They met with no interruption on the way, and
Creed Lawton, without his disguise, saw his sweet-
heart safely to her room.

Before he left the building he called upon Florence
Aldwyn, who, almost entirely recovered from her
illness, greeted him with a pleasant smile.

His anxiety about Marks induced him, as soon as
he had left the ladies, to start out on a tour of inves-
tigation.

He first went to the cabin. Marks was not there.
Half an hour later, on his way to the Rajah mine, he
encountered the colored errand boy, whe had twice
been used by Maurice Holton as a decoy, and who
had tried to save Alda Duane the night before.

The lad endeavored to avoid the detective, but
Lawton caught him by the arm.

“Why were you running away ?”’

Cos’ I’se afraid.”

“Of me ?”’

“Yes, sah.
nuffin.’ ’”’

“Who told you so?”

“De mine boss.”

“Holton ?”’

“Dunno his name.
toward the mine.

“What else did he tell you ?”’

“He said dat you was a wicked man, and dat I mus’
nebber let you cotch me, or IT was a gone coon.”

“Do vou believe all that?’ looking at him kindly.

“No, sah; I don’t now.”

Lawton’s gentleness had reassured him, and he no
longer feared for his safety.

“The man who told you such a lie is a villain. You
gave a note from him to a lady last night?’

“Yes, sah; an’ de pootiest lady I ebber seed.”

“And you afterward found her lashed to a tree by
a Villain who had choked and nearly killed her?”

“Yes, sah; an’ if it hadn’t bin for de wilyun coming
up pe I got her free, she’d got out ob de woods sure
nuff.”

“Well, my boy,” in solemn accents, ‘that pretty

Not uniess he possessed the gift of

You ‘puts folkses in de jug

He works up yon,” pointin
p 3

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

VOL. 43—No. 49.

_ lady was choked and abused, waa tied to a tree and |
=, by this man you have served—by the mine
. iB."

The horror that was reflected in the youngster’s
eyes at this announcement was comical in the ex-
treme.

Lawton, repressing a strong inclination to laugh,
hastened to ease his mind by informing him that the
lady was now safe from harm.

“Then he asked, in a serious tone: :

“Where is the mine boss? Have you seen him to-
day ?”’ . :

o¥es, sah: ‘bout fifteen minutes ago. He came
from ober de ridge, puffin’ an’ blowin’, and went into
de mine office, an’ [ ’spec’s he’s dar now.” E

“Did any one follow him ?’ demanded the detective,
in great excitement. .

**) ’spec’s some one did.’ ‘

“Who was it? Quick—tell me all about it.”

“Well, den, a man wid long hair came along ’bout
two minutes arterward.”

“Did he, too, go into the mine office!

“Dunno, sah; I was comin’ away w’en he skooted
by me.” ;

Creed Lawton waited to hear no more, but starte
for the mine on a run.

He felt that the end was near.

CHAPTER XXV.
QUOTATION MARKS’ PURSUIT.

Maurice Holton, with death in his rear, went on at
a tearing pace when he left the clearing which held
Quotation Marks and the dead or dying Rattler.

His brain was in a whirl, and he plunged through
bushes and over rocks, utterly regar.less of personal
injory or the damage to his attire.

Making a sudden detour, after he had gone a hun-
dred yards, he sped down_a deep and narrow gulch,
that halfa mile distant opened into a canon flanked
by steep mountain sides, over the ridge of the farther
one of which was the Rajah mine and the little city
of San Tomas. .

This quick turn was the means of his temporary
salvation, for Marks went straight on, his objective

point be ng the stage road, which he supposed the
unted man was making for.

He did not discover his mistake until he stood on
the top of a smal! hill.
ere he rested a few moments, and looked about

im. Ri

The stage road could be plainly seen in the near
distance, but there was no sight of a human being,
or any noise or movement of bushes to indicate one’s
presence in that direction.

Turning his head, his eyes glistened in satisfac-
tion, for he caught sight of his quarry.

Holton was ascending the ridge on the farther side
of the canon, and evidently making for the mine,
which in this way could be reached without passing
through San Tomas.

“T'll have him yet,” he muttered, and down the
hill he went.

By taking a reundabout course, for the purpose of
concealment, and getting over the ground like a deer,
Marks managed to arrive at the base of the ridge
just as Holton was staggering over the summit.

1d far-seeing hunter at once made

The intrepid a a
up his mind Ea he arch-villain intended to visit
the mine fi specific purpose.

All his plans had miscarried, his lawless agents
were dead, his shrewd, relentless enemies were alive,
his identity was known, andthe gallows stared him
in the face.

There was but one thing to be done—to gather up
his money and valuables, probably concealed in the
mine office, and then give up the fight and make his
escape from the country.

Thus reasoned Quotation Marks, and he deter-
wena, if 1t lay within man’s power, to circumvent

im.

Possessing wonderful endurance, and a fleetness of
foot that would have made his fortune as a sprinter,
he hurried up the mountain side, by zig-zag courses,
and placed his foot in the summit before Holton had
reached the outermost limits of the wiring property.
. The discomfited and sorely-enraged villain, with-
out looking behind him, intent only on providing
himself with funds to-accelerate his flight from the
State, kept on his way, and at last, with his breath
well-nigh gone, staggered up the office steps.

He fumbled in his pockets for the key, found it,
unlocked the door, and stumbled in.

. For one moment he glared wildly about him, and
then, with a haunting fear, closed and locked the

oor. :

Then, dewn on his knees beside the safe, he ex-
citedly worked the combination.

He operated with dispatch, and atlast stood upon
his feet. ; :

At that moment a noise outside caused the per-
spiration to start anew on his brow, and his limbs to
tremble under him.

Alda’s face during this recital had lighted up, from
the prospect of a pleasing discovery.

To her keen, discriminating mind, there seemed to
come a perception of the truth.

She asked in repressed excitement:

“Your husband—had he any peculiarities ?—any-
thing to distinguish him from other wen ?”

“Nothing more than his absurd habit of quoting
poetry under all sorts of circumstances. He acquired
it from his attendance at a literary club shortly be-
fore our marriage, and I have never been able to
break him of it.” ae

“Quoting poetry! I knew it, madam,” in a tone of
conviction, and with an air of proud satisfaction.
“Your husband is safe; at least he was two hours
ago. He is playing apart, forsome reason of his
own, and he calls himself ‘Quotation Marks.’ ”’

“Where is he?’ not '\eeding the words which fol-
lowed the glad tidings. ‘Take me to him! Oh, John,
John, what agonies of mind have I endured on your
account!” ,

Miss Duane’s ebullition of joy, which had been
looked by reason of her solicitous regard for the
woman before her—the wife, as she supposed, of her
brave friend and defender—subsided when there
came to her mind a realization of the danger with
which he might, even then, be confronted. ;

But her honest heart did not prompt her to deceive
her visitor. 4

‘Gently as she could, she told of the pursuit of
Maurice Holton, the murderer of her brother. _

“Do not be alarmed, Mrs. Carlton,” she continued,
as an encouraging phase of the situation presented
itself, ‘for Mr. Holton is unarmed. Your husband is
in no danger, I assure you.” :

But her attempt at comfort was a failure.

Mrs. Carlton’s married life had been a happy one,
and now. after months of separation, to find that
her husband was in close quarters with a murderer,
who, goaded to desperation, would be capable of any-
thing, caused her heart to sink and her face to lose
alLits recently acquired color.

“He is one of the bravest men I ever met,” Alda |
continued, as she saw she had a diffieult subject to
deal with. ‘‘and he is as shrewd as he is brave.”

“Yes, yes, I know; but still I shall not have a mo-
ment’s peace of mind until I look into his face, and
know that he is alive and unharmed. ‘Where is he? |
Which way did he go ?”

Miss Duane gave as clear an explanation as was |
possible, and then made this suggestion: i

“Let us go up into the tower, and perhaps we may |
be able to discover his whereabouts. There is a
spy-glass there, and we can obtain a splendid view of
the country.”

The tower had been erected upon the hotel for the
benetit of the many tourists, sight-seers, and inva- |
lids, who had sought this mountain city for health
and pleasure.

Before ascending the stairs, Florence Aidwyn was
summoned, and she gladly made one of the party.

Alda took the glass, and first brought it to bear on
that part of the region nearest the cave, which the
interposing ridge permitted to be seen.

No sign of Quotation’ Marks, or Maurice Holton
anywhere.

Then, instinctively, as it seemed, she turned the
glass so as to bring the Rajah mine and its surround- |
ings into plain view. :

For a moment or more she gazed, and then the
baphe left her cheeks, and she uttered a shriek of

orror.

“What is the matter? What have you seen?’ cried |
Mrs. Carlton, with a terrible fear tugging at her
heart.

“Mr. Marks! Your husband !—the mine——”

She could say no more, but sinking into a seat,
covered her face with her hands.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

 

atti

A MOMENT’S FOLLY,

BY ELLA WHEELER WILCOX,

No happier woman lived than Day Carrington
when she rose from the piano and strolled to the
long French window that opened upon the moonlit
garden. :

No more wretched creature ever lifted up a bruised
and stricken heart to God in prayer than she when
she turned away, scarcely five minutes later.

The face she took to the window was beautiful with
love and radiant with youth and joy.

The face she brought away was drawn with sud-
den pain, and old and gray, as if swift age had come
upon her.

 

 

The noise was a peculiar one.

it was caused by the turning of the knob in the
door. E ;
Yo

ai
Dent ou» Melacing Feaee ;
raled !
Silence for a moment. }
- Then, from within a rasping sound, succeeded by a
faint thud. ates :
Crash! went the door.
An entrance had been forced.
Quotation Marks, pistol in hand, bounded over the
ee and then gazed about him in blank
ismay.
Maurice Holton had disappeared.

CHAPTER XXVI.
WHAT ALDA DUANE SAW.

Shortly after the departure of Creed Lawton from
the hotel, there came a knock at the door of the room
occupied by Alda Duane.

She opened it to be confronted by a young lady,
attractive in appearance, and with a countenance
marked by goodness and esty.

“Miss Duane, I presume.”

“Yes, madam.” :

“T am the wife of your cousin, and I would like to
speak with you concerning him.”

“Come in,’ and with a strange tumult in her
breast, but with a smile of kindly welcome on her
face, she ushered the lady into her appartment.

The wife of her cousin! What cousin? Why,
Lawrence Carlton, of course.

“Now,” she thought, as she sat opposite her
visitor, “I shall learn the truth about some things
that have sorely puzzled me.”

“You are a stranger in California, are you not?”
she graciously remarked, as she noted the other’s ex-
pression, which might be attributed either to ner-
yous timidity or mental uneasiness.

“Yes. I arrived in San Francisco day before
yesterday.. amin search of my husband, and I
fear’’—with a trembling lip—‘‘that something has
happened to him.”

“What induced you to think he was in San
Tomas ?”

“His last letter, written afew days before I took
the overland train, was dated here. I telegraphed
from San Francisco to announce my arrival, and in-
form him that I should start next day for this place,
but I received-no reply. So I came on with many
misgivings, for he has never failed me before.”

“Perhaps heis away from town on business—at
some distance in the country. That would account
for your not receiving the telegram,’ returned Miss

uane, consolingly.

“Yes, yes, and that may be the reason.”

Her face lightened, and her eyes lost their expres-
sion of sad perplexity.

“By the way, you have not yet told me your
name.”

“T beg your pardon,”. was the response, in a
mnortitied tone. “I was sotroubled that I quite forgot
to properly introduce myself. I am Mrs. Carlton.”

“The wife of Lawrence Carlton ?”

“No, of John Carlton, his brother.”

“John Carlton! I had almost ceased to remember
his existence.”

The last words were spoken in a whisper, for the
announcement had astonished and bewildered her,

John Carlton in San Tomas! Then, where was he?
—and who was Lawrence Carlton?

The next words of her visitor interrupted the train
of her strange meditations.

“How long have you been in this place ?”

“Several days.” .

“And you have not seen him? He has not called
on you?” j

“No; but, then, I have been engaged out of doors
a large portion of the time.”

“Strange,” Mrs. Carlton mused, ‘‘very strange.
would certainly haye called, on you, had he kno
you were in town, for he has often referred toh
cousins in California.” *

Her look of anxiety caused Miss Duane to say in a
tone tilat was meant to be encouraging.

“You must not worry nor vex your mind with
gloomy forebodings. Your husband may have an ex-
cellent reason for not revealing himself at present.
There have been some strange occurrences here. My
brother has been murdered.”

Instantly Mrs. Carlton put away her own trouble,
and she was allsympathy when made acquainted
with the heart-rending facts in the case.

After a while Alda Duane, who had been plunged
in deep thought, suddenly asked :

‘“T can searcely recall your husband’s features,
Describe him.”

“He is dark like his brother, Lawrence, and greatly
resembles him.”

“What is his profession ?”’

“He is a singer.”

An inquiring look induced Mrs. Carlton to ex-
plain.

“John used to singin choirs before our marriage,
and his voice, a lovely tenor, attracted the attention
of an operatic manager, who induced him to go on

the stage. His father was so much incensed at this
action—for he had destined him to a life of trade—
that he cut him off in his will; and his uncle, a much
richer man, refused to even recognize him in public.
He came to California a few months ago for his
health, and when he wrote to me that he was improv-
ing rapidly, and that he intended soon to seek an en-
gagement in San Francisco, I determined to come to

for ive got you cor-

ght as. well give up the ship!” shouted a |

}said, always so tender, so devoted, so thoughtful.

 

She crouched down in a great arm-chair, and buried
her face in her hands. \

“Heaven iclp me!” she.moaned
me !”’

From the dawn of a glorious June day her life |
seemed suddenly to sink into impenetrable night.

Just then she heard the sound of voices and foot-
steps upon the verarda.

“They must not find me like this /”’ she cried, and
dashing the tears from her eyes, she sprang to. the
piano, and was playing a mad galop when Ross
Flanders and her cousin, Roxy Howe, entered®
through the low window.

Half an hour before, Ross Flanders had leaned
over the piano where she was playing softly, and
had said:

“Tam going out in the moonlight to smoke and
listen. Play on, and I will return when I finish my
cigar.”

She had played on, dreamily, and had sung his
favorite moon-song—

“Stay, O moon, O silver moon,
You set, you set too soen !”
in her rich soprano voice, and then some sudden im-
pulse called her to the window.

Roxy crossed the room and leaned upon the piano,
and smiled down into her cousin’s face. Her dark
hair glittered with dew-drops, her black eyes fairly
scintillated, her cheeks and lips were like a child’s
that had been kissed into scarlet bloom. Day had }
always thought her cousin beautiful. but it was
satanic beauty she saw in her face to-night.

, “What mad thing is that_ you are playing?’ asked
the scarlet lips. ‘I never heard it before.”

“Nor I,” Day answered. ‘It is an outlet of my
feelings, and like them, nameless.”

Ross, who had been lingering by the window came
over and looked at Day inquuringly.

“You are very pale,” he said, ‘‘and your eyes look
feverish. I fear you are not well.”

“My head |

Heaven help

 

“No,” she said, and rose from her seat.
aches—it aches terribly, and I must be excused.” |

“What a brute I am,” cried Ross, as he drew her |
arminhis. “I haveallowed you to sit here and sing |
and play to entertain me, while your poor head was
aching. Why did you not tell me, dear ?” |

Then as they reached the stair-way that led to her
room, he whispered :

“It is the excitement and bother of the trousseau,
and the other preparations, I know that are making
you ill, but never mind, sweetheart, only one week
more and then you are mine to shelter and protect.
Good-night,” and his kiss, like a coal of fire, fell on
her hand.

She had searcely closed her room door when alow
tap came upon it, and Roxy entered.

“Mr. Flanders sent me to you,” she said. ‘He fears
you are going to beill. How fortunate you are, dear,
to possess such a lover.”

“Very fortunate,” answered Day, as she let down
her long hair.

Roxy came forward and took the brush from her
cousin’s hand.

“Let me be maid to-night,” she said, “and prepare
you for bed. I love to comb hair—beautiful hair like
yours. I think Providence is very unjust sometimes,
to give so much to some, so little to others. You
have everything in the world to make you happy.
Beauty, money, youth, and a handsome lover who
dotes upon you.’

Day could feel herself paling under the thrusts of
her petty torturer, but she made no answer, only her
‘heart cried.

“Everything? [have nothing.”

Roxy talked on and on—always of Mr. Flanders—
his elegance, his position, his devotion.

“Every one speaks of his manner toward you,” she

ou seem his one thought.”

 Itseemed to Day she should go mad. Once she
ame near turning and striking the handsome foolish
creature at her side a stinging blow. She had always
known that her cousin was shallow and light, she
had never known her to be malicious and silly until
now.

When the door closed upon her persecutor at last,
Day locked it with a sense of relief, and then threw
herself upon her couch and wept bitterly.

It was all so sudden and terrible. She had felt such
perfect faith, such quiet trust in Ross Flanders.
They had been betrothed a year, and no shadow had
marred their happiness. Since Roxy came, three
months before, she had seen less of her lover alone,
and had wished him to make Roxy’s stay as pleasant
as possible by his courtesies. She had trusted them
both so implicitly; butnow she wasrudely awakened
to the truth.

In the moonlight, scarcely her own length from
the veranda, she had seen Ross reach down and
gather Roxy in a close embrace. had seen her arms
about his neck, had seen his lips pressed to her face.
Then she had turned away, in awful pain and horror,
to look the terrible truth in the eyes. R

Ross had deceived her when he said he was going
out to smoke; he went out to meet Roxy; he loved
Roxy not her! Roxy knew it, and took a silly pleas-
ure in talking of his devotion to her—Day; of his
love for her, knowing all the time that she had won
him from his allegiance.

Oh, now she could recall so many, many things that
made her gasp with pain and humiliation as she
thought of her blind trust and belief.

 

hi.”

 

How cruel they had been, how cruel! and how

; after you left.
| and heard his ravin

 

oe ae
Ross must despise her for her blindness! Whata

tool he must think her to take for truth his tender
speeches and actions. Well, he should see. Better
that he should hate her, than to despise her for her
weakness.

When she fell asleep it was to see in her dreams the
shoeking vision of these two locked in lovers’ em-
brace, and to start, and wake, and weep, and sleep
again to dream the same. That she kept her room
the next day was no wonder—too ill to see any one.
In the afternoon Ross rode over, aud finding she was
sick, he sent up a beautiful bonquet. Roxy brought
it, but the perfume of the flowers made Day ill. and
she sent them from the room. Another haunted
oe and then Day came forth, but looking far from
well. .

“You will need only a ‘cabinet,’’’ laughed Roxy
“to appear from to be a genuine spirit-bride, if you
keep on losing flesh at this rate. You are but a
shadow of yourseif already, and you have been ill
but a day.”

* * x * * *

* *

The wedding-cards were out, the wedding-dress
and trousseau ready, the wedding-breakfast spread.
The few near friends and relatives came gayly to
“The Pines” to see the heiress wed her handsome
lover, whose blood and breeding rendered him a
worthy suitor for the fair lady’s hand.

."A splendid couple!’ people said; and the sun
shone, and faces smiled, and no one saw the anguish
of death that lay in the bride-elect’s heart.

Then the solemn marriage service began.

3 pean wilt thou have this woman?’ the minister |
Said.

The groom’s voice rang ¢Cleat-and distinct.

“T wilh!”

Then turning to Day, the minister continued:

“Wilt thou have this man te he thy wedded hus-
band, to live together after God’s ordinance, in the
holy estate of matrimony; wilt thou love,, honor,
obey, and keep himin sickness and in health. and for-
saking all others keep thee only with him so long as |
ye both shall live ?”’

Clear and distinct, like the ringing report of a pis-

| hands.
| One last hour here alone!”

cm THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. 33

 

 

could any body. she thought, and in England she had
more friends than she had had at home, since her
affair with Flanders. She had paid dear for her
revenge.

Suddenly she heard a step, and, turning, faced
Ross Flanders. Brown, bearded, strong and hand-
| some he stood before her.
| “I beg your pardon,” he said, removing his hat. ‘I
/ did not intend to alarm you.”

For she had grown pale, and clung to one of the
neighboring pines for support.

“To what do ITowe your presence, sir?’ she de-
manded, gaining herself control, and turning her
haughty face full upon him.

“T come,” he said, quite as proudly, ‘tin the absence
of my valet, to bring a noteto you. [did not intend
to intrude myself upon you. But I understood only an
hour ago that you were making preparations to leave
‘The Pines’ to-morrow, and retire to private lodgings.
I came to bring you this note, in which you will see
I have begged you to remain here as long as you like.
Although the estate will pass into wy hands to-mor-
row, there is no reason why you should not remain
for months if you like. I donot wish to occupy it
lnyself, and have no tenant at present.”

“The Pines—yours!” she cried, and then she burst
into most undignified weeping.

The sight of a woman in tears always unmanned
Ross Flanders. He went close to her, and there
were tears in his voice as he spoke.

**Miss Carrington—Day,” he said, ‘I am sorry to
take your home from you; I will gladly make a deed
of it back to you if you will let me. Once you ac-
cused mein yourmind of coveting the estate, when
it was only you I wanted. Let me prove that to you
now by giving you back your home—free of debt.”

She did not look at him.

“That would not wipe from my memory the proof
of your preference for another—of your cruel decep-
tion to me,’ she murmured; with her face in her
‘‘No—go—the place is yours, but let me have

_ “The deception TI confess‘” he said, without heed-
ing her command; “the preference I deny. I had,

 

 

tol through the stillness, eame Day’s answer:

“No, I will not!” |

And before the astonished listeners could collect |
their ideas, she had swept from the room.

Consternation and excitement prevailed.

Friends and relatives sought the bride and de-
manded an explanation of her outrageous conduct.

To all she answered, simply:

“Ask Ross Flanders; he knews,”

When he stood before her, white, shaken like a
tree in the tempest, and cried:

“For Heaven's sake, Day, tell me that this is an iil-
timed jest and no more!”

She answered, unmoved:

‘Itis no jest. Let eruel and secret deception be
paid by public disgrace. Iam no child to he toyed
with. Ross Flanders, the heart you struck so cruel
a blow, could strike back again, it seems. We are
even! Now go!”

a *

Twelve hours later Day Carrington was on her
way to Europe, and Ross Flanders was raving in
wild delirium. He was quite alone in the ‘world;
and knowing this, the kind-hearted housekeeper at |
“The Pines” had him brought thither, where she |
tenderly cared for him, and brought him safely |
through to convalescence. Roxy, who still remained
at “‘The Pines,” tried vainly to be of some assistance.
The sick man became violently excited if she en-
tered his sight, and consequently she was obliged to
keep at a distance.

But she bided her time, and the convalescent was
obliged to thank her for many thoughtful kind-
nesses. She read to him,she prepared dainties to
please his taste, she did a thousand and one little
things to relieve the ong hours.

By and by he grew well enough to leave ‘‘The
Pines” and return to his lodgings.

“But you willcome to see us sometimes,” said Roxy,
looking up softly in his face. ,

“T shall never forget the kindness I have received
beneath this roof,’ Ross answered, and then as he
felt the clinging fingers of her soft hand upon his, he
faced her frowning.

“Look here,” he said, ‘‘we may as well understand |!
each other at once, Miss Roxy. The sight of you is
painful to me—it reminds me of the greatest piece:
of gross folly I was ever guilty of, and of my irrepar-
able loss. I fear Ishould grow to hate you as I hate
myself already, if I saw much more of you. I thank
you for all your acts of kindness during my sickness,
and now, good-by.”’

He turned on his heel and left her standing, crest-
fallen and humiliated.

A few weeks later, Day Carrington received a letter
from her affectionate cousin.

“I do not blame you, dear Day,” she wrote, “for
throwing over pons lover as you did. The whole
region about “The Pines” is terribly excited over it,

* * * es es

by your wishes and desires, been thrown almost daily
with Roxy for three mouths. It was a terrible bore
tome from the first, for I found her silly and vain,
but I could not tell you, her cousin. I tried to be

| polite and entertaining, and the girl began to seek a

flirtation. I hate a man, Day, that throws the blame
on @ Woman in such cases; and were I not baring

| me er! to you, I would not tel the ugiy truth about
| the girl.

She knew she was handsome, and she
fancied she could draw me into a flirtation. At last,
for the first and only time, as God is my judge, I
yielded to an impulse as uncomplimentary to the
girl as it was disloyal to you. She saw me from the
window when I went out to smoke that evening. She
came down and gota butten-lhoie bouquet for me,
and was a long time in pinning iton my coat, and ina
thousand nameless ways which are indescribable, but
unmistakable to aman, she invited a caress. I took
her in my arms and kissed her on cheeks and lips
boldly, in a manner that nine women out of ten
would have resented. Then I put her away, ashamed
of myself, and with such a welling up of pure love
for you as I never had felt in all my years’ betrothal.
When I came in and you complained of a headache,
I thought I must fall at your feet, kiss the hem of
your garment, and confess all. If I had, all this
misery would have been saved us hoth. Heaven
knows my part of the punishment for such an im-
pulsive folly has been bitter enough for a much
worse crime. God alone knows what I have suffered
through those years, Day.”

“And I!’ she eried. ‘‘Do you not suppose I have
suffered. Why, it has been more bitter than a
thousand deaths.”

Then she paused, blushing painfully.
were betraying her.

Slowly and solemnly came Ross Flanders’ words:

“Then let us put it all behind us, Day, all the folly
and the mistakes, and begin anew. I will give you
‘The Pines’—will you give me yourself?’

A great peace settled upon her heart—like the peace
that passeth understanding.

“Yes,” she said, softly, and together they went up
the path—together into the old new life.

In the parlor they found Roxy entertaining the
Englishman. Well, he bore hisdisappointment bravely
and married Roxy. Day felt sorry for him; but on
their return voyage the ship was wrecked, and Roxy
was among the lost, so he was relieved from even
discovering her venomous qualities, and to this day
speaks of her as “his angel-bride.”

ete te Lertich  Miata
PUTTING ONE’S FOOT IN IT.

Her words

“T never open my mouth but I put my foot in it,”
was the curious complaint of some unlucky wight,
who might have receiyed consolation had he refleeted

 

and severe upon you, because Mr. Flanders was so ill
But I was iy the hease all the tine |!

vs in delirium, and am well con
BRE OF Wile FOR PR i en Pie
and the estate were a creat 163s to his mind thar
the woman. And I was so indignant when, on his
convalescence, he dared instit ine with words
love. Lhad been kind to him during his sickness,
and had remained at ‘The Pines’ simply because he
could not bear to have me out of his sight; but you |
may be sure he heard some plain language when he
talked of marriage with me. I left ‘The Pines’ the
next day, and shall not return there again.”

Day crushed the letter in her hand and then tore it
into bits. :

However certain she was of the fact that Ross
Flanders had cared more for her property than for
herself, it was bitter as death to have another in-
form her of it. And so he had proposed to Roxy
and been refused? She could not fathom the mo-
tive, for the silly girl’s infatuation for him was be-
yond doubt.

Three years later Day Carrington received letters
that demanded her immediate return to America.
Through the speculations of her trustee, ‘‘The Pines”
and all her estate were in danger of being lost. She
hurried home with a sinking heart. ‘‘The Pines” had
been in the family for three generations; it had
sheltered her father and grandfather, and had de-
scended to her as nearest heir. To see it fall into
other hands would be like losing a part of her life.

Yet this fear seemed about to be realized when she
reached home.

The trustee had absconded in fear and shame, and
the whole business was a confused mass of debts
and embarrassments. Only the sale of ‘‘The Pines”
could rescue enough to enable Day to secure a living.
If she had been brought up to think of self-support
she might have found something to do, and bor- |
rowed enough to pay off the most pressing debts and
mortgaged the estate in the meantime. But she was
a lily of the valley who could neither toil nor spin,
and she must have enough from the wreck to enable
her to live.

Oh, how she bemoaned her idle training through
those days! Howshe envied women who were earn- |
ing fine salaries as teachers and clerks—the women |
she had always deemed so deserving of pity!

In the midst of her trouble she received a letter
from Roxy, who announced her intention of coming
to make her cousin another visit.

Troubles thickened about her. Thank Heaven Ross
Flanders was not nearto know of her misery. He
had left for parts unknown soon after his recovery,
and had never been seen in the place since.

There was very little sympathy felt for Day in her
troubles. Her treatment of her lover had alienated
all her friends and relatives, and there was not one
who did not say or think thaf she merited the dis-
asters that had come upon her.

A miserable sum had been offered for ‘“‘The Pines,”
barely enough to cover the debts and leave her afew
hundred dollars. But she must either accept it, or
lose all, as no one bid higher, She was in trouble,
and she was a@ woman—and unpopular. Therefore,
she must make the best of the circumstances.

Then Roxy came.

“T should think she would be ashamed to show her-
self here.” said the outspoken housekeeper one day.
“But I suppose she thinks no one Knows how Mr.
Flanders treated her.”

“What do you mean?” asked Day.

“Why, he never could bear the sight of her after
you went away, miss—would not have her in the
room when he was sick, and yet she was that set
after him that she quite made love to him when he
was going away. They stood on the veranda, and I
was just inside the door near the window. I heard
Mr. Flanders tell her she was hateful to.the sight of
him, and she might as well know it at once. She
looked that mad when she came in [ feared she would
go into a fit.”

Day felt as if a serpent had crept into “The Pines”
when Roxy came. How false and cruel the girl
was.

Then a way out of it seemed to open for her. One
day a card was brought up to her—the card of Albert
Morsely.”

She went down to greet a middle aged man—an
Englishman. He was a wealthy manufacturer, and
a gentleman of agreeable manners. Day had met
him while abroad, and had known of his interest in
her, but had not encouragedit. Now he had followed
her home. Well, he was good, and kind, and wealthy;
and he loved her. Yet her heart died within her at
the thought of being his wife.

Albert Morsely went direct to his subject in a busi-
ness-like fashion.

“T have come over to America to ask you to be my
wife,’ hesaid. ‘‘Lshould have asked you before you
cameif Thad known you contemplated coming so
soon.”

“Give me time,” was all Day could answer.

A week later Miss Carrington’s lawyer came to say
that another bid had been niade for ‘The Pines,’
and this time the full amount of the place was
offered. Day was jubilant, and the offer was ac-
cepted. She didnot even ask the name of the pur-
chaser,some one from the West—from the mining
regions, the lawyer had said. It did not matter who
he was now that the place must go.

One night she went out to take a last farewell of
the old home. She was to go away the next day—out
to some quiet lodgings, and she had decided to marry
the Englishman. He was patiently waiting her an-

| pany.

| had been playing.

on the number of offenders that daily keep him com-

A child. may. often, he

heedless little foot in it, as the phrase goes.

dinner at the house of a little
At the table, his hostess anxiously
inquired:

“Charley, can you ent your own meat?”

“Hump!” said the youngster, who was sawing
away; “can’t I? I’ve cut up quite as tough meat as
this at home,”

A millionaire railway-king has a brother who is
hard of hearing, while he himself is remarkable as
having a very prominent nose. Once this railway-
king dined at a friend’s house where he sat between
two young ladies, who talked to him very loudly,
rather to his annoyance, buthe said nothing. Finally,
one of them shouted a commonplace remark, and
then said in an ordinary tone to the other:

“Did you ever see such a nose in all your life?”

‘Pardon me, ladies,” said the millionaire; “it is
my brother who is deaf!”

We can imagine the horror of the lady who in-
dulged in such personal remarks.

Advertisers and unpracticed writers, through am-
biguity of words and phrases, often commit absurdi-
ties that may be touched on as further illustrating
our subject. A country paper once related how
“during the celebration a child was run over
wearing a short red dress, which never spoke
atterward.” In the description of the doings of a
mad dog, itis said that “he bit a horse on the leg
which has since died.” Anaccountof afuneralsays:
“The remains were committed to that bourne from
which no traveler returns attended by his friends.”

It is not surprising that foreigners sometimes fail
to catch all the shades of meaning belonging to our
words. A Frenchman translated Shakespeare’s Jine,
“Out, brief candle,” by, “Get out, you short candle.”
And the expression, ‘‘With my swordI will carye
my way to fortune,” was rendered, “With my sword
I willmake my fortune cutting meat.”

Advertisers often give us amusing specimens of
composition, of which this is an example: ‘Lost by
a poor lad tied up in a brown paper with a white
string a German flute with anovercoat on and several
other article of wearing apparel.” A wmiller at-
tempted to testify to the merits of a powder for de-
stroying vermin by saying, “A fortnight ago I was
full of rats, and now I don’t think I have one.”

A bashful gentleman who visited a school kept by
a young lady, was asked by the teacher to say a few
words to the pupils. This was hisspeech: ‘‘Scholars,
IT hope you will always love your school and your
teacher as much as I do.” A tableau of giggling
pupils and a blushing teacher attested the effective-
ness of his words.

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——

VOL. 48—No, 49,

 

SEPTEMBER.

BY ASTLEY H. BALDWIN.

‘The hazel-boughs are ripe with wealth
Of clusters, red and brown;

The China-aster coyly rears
Her white and crimson crown.

And scarlet fuschias quake, and nod
Their violét-lined bells ;

And purple heather all a-glow
With glory tints the fells.

The,brown bee still hums o’er the thyme,
The kine still seek the shade ;

The lark still warbles on the lea,
The linnet in the glade.

Upon the south wall gleams the peach,
Pink-tipped amid her leaves;
The partridge through the stubble roams,
Where late stood golden sheaves.

The bullaces that skirt the fence
Are rich with yellow fruit ;

The bloom on the blue damsons sits,
And on the old oak’s root

The acorns ripe come showering down,
Shed by the boughs above ; ;

The nimble squirrel spies the prize,
And on her perch the dove

Feeds on the tragrant beachen-mast,
The while the dormouse small

Seeks other fare. and bears away
The chestnuts 3s they fall.

Oh, glorious month !—dream realized
Of Nature’s summer bliss,

When earth, and sky, and ocean glow
*Neath autumn’s ardent kiss.

Thanks for thy treasures! Thanks to Him
Who loves the great and small,

And in His bounteous providence
Provides alike for all!

THE SLOWLY PAPERS,

BY MARY KYLE DALLAS.

 

No. 3.—MRS. SLOWUY AND MIRANDA
BUY BONNETS.

i
as our big Newfoundland dog used to shake off the

poodle when he got troublesome playing with him.
And he caught two other ladies by the arms, and
plunged into that horrid vortex with ’em.

“Angels preserve him!” says I.

Then up comes Sam and Mirandy.

“That there. gallant critter beats all I ever see,”
saysI. ‘He saved my life, Mirandy, and now he’s a
savin’ others. The story your pa tells of Cappen
Whopper, that rescued a hundred souls from the
Molly Jackson, wasn’t nothin’ to it.”

‘Ma, for mercy’s sake,” says Mirandy, ‘‘where will
people think you’ve come from? That’s only a police-
man.”

“T don’t care what he is ; he’s a noble man!” says I.
“He saved my life!”

“Gracious goodness, Aunt Amelia!” says Sam.

He calls me aunt out of respect, seein’ I’m an old
woman, though I’m actually a cousin. Gracious
goodness, Aunt Amelia! it’s his duty. That’s what
he’s put here for.”

‘‘He’s a brave inan,” says I.
put here.”

Well, we walked on. Sam trod onto everybody’s
dresses, and run my umbrella into one poor man to
that extent that it knocked him over and took his
breath ag By and he, being an Eyetalian, and as
they all are high tempered, got in such a dreadful
rage that it’s a mercy, I’m sure, he didn’t whip out a
knife and murder us. I expected it every minute. I
don’t like Eyetalians, and I think their comin’ to this
country ought to be stopped.

At last we got off, and went into amilliner’s. For
says Mirandy:

“Our bonnets are the worstjn the city, and make
us look like heathens.” aa

I’m sure I didn’t think so. Mine was black silk,
that I hadn’t worn much, with a big bow on top. and
a nice pleated cape. And Mirandy’s had a wreath of
roses and long cords round the crown, and cherries
under the brim. Her pa bought it a present for her
himself, and Cappen Slewly don’t spare expense.
But, la! young folks know more than their mas and
pas nowadays.

Well, we went into the milliner’s, and it was splen-
did with looking-glasses and eases full of velvets and
ribbons, and Mirandy says to the young gal that
came to wait on us:

“We want to see some of your most fashionable
bonnets.”

“Certainly, madam,” says she.
for this lady ?’

“Yes,” says Mirandy, sitting down and taking airs,
and pretending not to see anything wonderful.

But I couldn’t help staring.

“La!” says I, “what a great big store! Why, all
York must get their bonnets here, and that young
girl must be makin’ money to dress so work days.
Now, do you know, if I was young and had taste in
bonnets if I wouldn’t sot up just such a place at
Toppletown. I and Amelia Slowly.”

“‘La, ma! do hush!” says Mirandy.

“Well, says I, “I never saw the like Of this before,

“No matter why he’s

“For yourself and

and I don’t mind saying so, if you do, and you know |

it is splendid!” ; :

By this time the gal come back with two bonnets,
one blue velvet, with a yaller bird with a long tail a
top, and one pink with. gold thing-um-bobs.

“Will you have one on, madam?” she says. So
Mirandy she went to the glass and put it on. Then
the milliner’s gal went off like the boys on Fourth of
July, when they see skyroekets.

“Oh! oh! oh! How lovely!”

“Does it become me?” asks Mirandy.

“Well,” says I, ‘‘to tell the truth, Mirandy, it makes
you look like that there cockatoo pa brought home
rom sea when you was achild. It may be fashion-

able, but when I was a gal I’d have died before I'd a
wore it.”

“Perhaps pink becomes the lady best,” says the
gal, and she changed the bonnets.

“That's worse,’ says I. “If I didn’t know you,
Mirandy, I shouldn’t think you fit to speak to. There
used to be a——” __

“For mercy sakés, Cousin Sam, how do you like it?”

says Mirandy.

“Yes, how do you like it, sir?’ says the gal, putting
her head on one side and putting the blue bonnet in
a bandbox that stood ona chair. ‘Thal’s the ques-
| tion, ’ve no doubt.”

“Oh, good gracious !”’ says Sam.
understand ladies’ bonnets.
before. Oh, oh, no!
becoming. That is—oh, yes—very.”

“T—J really don’t
Isn't it on wrong side

I’m—well, yes,i expect itis |°

 

 

&
» aR
eg:

+ Well, we started out. He gave me his arm, and
_? earri

- YIry elber, and poked us into seats,

=e a
ae

Roe Ne -

_-Y think I told you I was going a-shopping with

== Minerve.Well, my _dear,-she- 2nd ~rae Went 2d

Cousin Samuel Scroggins, from Toppletown, he went
along with us. Jest as we was startin’ he arriv, and
it wouldn’t have been manners to have left him be-
hind. :
He’s a very nice young man indeed, and he’s study-
in’ for a doctor, but he ain’t got through yet. Some
of us hopes he will, and some agin has quite giv it
up. You see he's so bashful that it stands in his
way, and he’s what they call abstracted. It’s an
awfulthing. I should say ‘twas wuss than lethargy.
Poor Mrs. Runkum at Toppletown was afflicted with
that. She’d goto sleep anywhere and anyhow, and
the family wuz continually occupied shakin’ her
awake to go to her meals, or to be put to bed, or to
take to church. Pa he used to say: P
“Why don’t they put ber to bed at once and let her

 . gleep it out?”

But they wouldn’t.

Now, you know nobody expected poor Mrs, Run-
kum to do anything while she wus in that condition,
but they do expect it from Cousin Samuel Scroggins,
just as if he was like other folks, and I don’t see but
what he needs shakin’ awake as bad as she did.
Goaeee says I, ‘what are you goin’ to do with

m?”’

Says she: Bit

“Well, perhaps he’ll keep his senses about him, and
anyhow he knows York better than we do, and won’t
get lost so easy. And for a wonder he’s had his hair

- @ombed and has on a clean collar.”

And that wus a wonder for him, my dears.

irandy’s shopping bag, and wus
for him. He told us all about a horrid
e, and made my blood run cold.
Pt be boosted me into the car amazing polite by
He was obleeged

uite spry
issection

. to stand up. And while he was standin’ I saw the

nee Slowly, he

; Jest then

first moony look come over his face.
“Mirandy” says I, “sure as my name is Amelia
8 gettin’ abstracted.”
‘ n @ minute the conductor came along, and says
e:
“Fare, sir.”
Samuel was staring right at him, but he took no
more notice of him than if he hadn't spoke.
_ “Here, ’4 ,’ saysl. ‘It’s us that are a goin’
sheaves and it’s but fair.” %

* The sound of my voice kinder woke Sam up.

“Good gracious! not at all—I can’tallowit,” says
he. ‘‘Here, conductor, for three.” And he turned
round and handed something to a stout old gentle-
man that. warn’tany more a conductor than I was.

He kinder laughed. bd

“Conductor,” says he, “the Gaetan has. given
me four suspender buttons. Will you have them”

“Oh, gracious!” says Cousin Samuel. “I beg

your pardon; I thought them five-cent pieces. I did,
really,’ and he hauled out some money, and turned
aoe. like a tutotum, and gave it this time to a big
Trishman.

The conductor grabbed at it.

“I can see through your game, mister,” says he.
“Tm wide awake, I can tell you. If this warn’t gen-
uive I'd call the police.” :

“Good gracious!” says Cousin Samuelagain. And

ust then the car gave a jolt, and over he went right
to a great market basket, and there was a squash
and an awful screech. ,

What he’d broke I don’t know, for just then we
eame to the end of our journey and we got out.

Cousin Samuel tred on Mirandy’s gown getting
out, and she left her satchel behind. It was a mercy
her purse was in her pocket.

It’s a most av awful thing to cross Broadway.
Dunno’ as you've ever tried it, but if you ever do,
you'll know I speak the truth. It was as bad as

steam.
Cousin Samuel got kinder flustrated and tangled
up with carts ri away, and Mirandy cut and run
in a manner frightful to behold, and I should be this
minute in a gory grave if it hadn’t been for the
nicest, politest, biggest man you ever saw, who must
have belonged to the militia. He took me by the
arm, and he shook his fist at the drivers and made
"em holt, and he beaued me over that awful place
like an angel. I held tight to him and shut-my eyes,
and so we got over. When we goton the other side
I jest stopped, and I took a hold of his arm, and
says I:

chm ever so much obleeged to you, I’m sure. If it
hadn't been for you I’d have been oe a mangled
corpse under them there hoops and w eels. I sha’n't
never forget you till my dyin rr: and I hope it ever
ou’re in the same position of danger somebody ‘ll
be riz up to save you like you saved me.” And says
I, *My poor distracted daughter, thar an’tno hopes
of my ever comin’ across alive, will thank you, too,
and my pardner, Cappen Slowly. He’ll remember
you in his prayers; and if ever you come to Topple-
town yowll be welcome. It's the first red house
a-top the hill west of the depot. Anybody’ll show

you. Or if you'll call while we ye
he kinder growled, and shook me off, jest

 

PAHANG R With the

 

“1’ll take the pink one,” says Mirandy; “and now

if you'll look for one for na——’

“My dear,” says I, ‘I ain’t one to take liberties ;

if you ,haven’t one with ears and a crown, I’d rather
I take cold easy, my dear, and though I+
ain’t vain, the thought of how brazen-faced an old

not see it.

woman like me would look with a silk teapot lid on
her head is dreadful to me.” ‘

“Oh, we have some that will suit you, ma’am,” says
the gal. “Sit down and I’ll bring them. Take a seat,
sir.” ;

That she said to Sam, and the poor, abstracted crit-
ter first took out a handkercher and blowed his nose
loud like a trumpet, and then sat down flat into the

jG bitte bulues if It.

I screeched and Mirandy glared, and we cotcht
hold of him and histed himup. The bandbox was
flat and the bonnit was flatter.

In ran four other gals and stared, and laughed, and
hollered, and in came a fat lady and stared too.

And Cousin Sam turned red, and looked wild, and

says—

“Ah, good gracious. I really did it quite unin-
eee: I—I hope you can mend it or iron it out,
or something. I——” :

The stout lady put her back to the door, as if to
keep folks from going out. Says she:

“The gentleman is excusable, because, of course,
as a gentleman he’ll pay for the bonnet.”

“Oh, of course,” says Sam, feelingin his pockets.
“J——, How much isit? I—oh—ah.”

“What is the matter, Sam?” says I.

“Did either of you see me throw away my pocket-
book? because I must have done it,” says Sam.

‘Allow me to say I’m not to be trifled with,” says
the stout lady, “nor am I to be robbed with im-
punity.” }

“He tells the truth, mam,” saysI. ‘He’s moyen
to abstraction. If his head was loose he’d have lost
itlong ago. Can’t you find it, Sam?’

“‘He will before he leaves my store,” says the stout
lady. ‘Ann, eall a policeman.”

Just then, as I was lookin’ through the window,
who should I see but pa. I waved my handkercher
and hollered. In he came, and I felt we were
saved. (

“What’s the matter?” says he, ‘mutiny ?” .

Says I, “Oh, cappen, Sum has sot down in a bonnit
or throwed away his pocket-book so’s he.can’t pay

or it."

“JT rather think he will before he leaves my store,”
said the stout lady, shaking so with rage that the
little gold things in her hair went bobbity-bob.

“Yes, sir, before he leaves this store.”

“Calm down, my lass,’ says the cappen. “I'll pay
the score. These here women folk is part of my
crew, and they beguiled this here young marine into
a bonnit shop where no man should ever go. It’s
fair I should pay. IfI should stay here long I'd be
sure to do damage to all your cargo. Name the sum
and while your doin’ it fetch out a bonnit for this
here lady. T’other has got her’n a’ready, [ see.”

And then what I’ve fonght agin’ since we was
married did happen. The cappen bought me a bon-

nit.

If his taste was too gay for me when I was seven-
teen, think of me now, at sixty, in his choosing. The
tastes of seafaring men are always gay. you know.

Tt is red and yaller, and blue and green, and it’s got

feathers, and bows, and roses; and I’ve got to wear
it, for I wouldn’t hurt pa’s feelin’s for the world.
And when [ got it on, says he:

“There, it’s the first you've ever had that suited
me,” and paid for it and marched me off.

“Mirandy,” he says, ‘take Sam in tow and steer
him clear of reefs, and we'll go and have some
oysters.” And we went, and got home safe. So
we've bought our bonnets, and mine’ll be a night-
mare to me in my dreams, I’m sure. I dasent look at
myself in the glass yet.

Yours truly,
' SARAH ANN SLOWLY.

at

HINTS TO COMIK LEKTURERS.

BY JOSH BILLINGS.

. Comik lekturing iz an unkommon pesky thing
to do.

It iz more unsarting than the rat-ketching bizz-
ness aZ @ Means OV grace, or az a means Ov lively-
hood.

Most enny boddy thinks he kan do it, and this iz

jist what makes it so bothersum tew do.

When it ia did jist enuff, it iz a terrifick success ;
but when it iz overdid, it iz like a burnt slapjax-—
very impertinent. ;

Thare ain’t but phew good judges ov humor, and

mney all differ abouts it.

If a lekturer ere tew be phunny, he iz like a hoss

Sons rt trot backwards—pretty apt tew tred on
mself, - ;

Humor must fall out ov a man’s mouth like musik

out ov a bobalink, or like a yung bird out ov its nest
when it iz feathered enuff to fly.
- Whenever aman haz made up hiz mind that he iz
a wit, then he iz mistaken, and iz without a remedy ;
but whenever the publick haz made up their mind
that he haz got the disease, then he haz got it sure.

Individuals never git this thing right, the publick
never git it wrong.

The publick never cheat themselfs, nor other folks,
when they weigh out glory.

Thare iz jist 16 ounces in a pound ov glory, and no
more—that iz, by the publick’s steelyards.

Humor iz wit with a rooster's tail feathers stuck in
its cap, and wit iz wisdom in light harness.

No man kan be a helthy phool unless he haz nussed
at the brest ov wisdom.

 

Thoze who fail in the comik bizzness are them

 

 

a4 =
who hav bin put out to nuss, or bin fetched upon a ! fully. and cool. When quite cold it is fit for use, and should

bottle.

If a man iz a genuine humorist, he iz superior
tew the bulk ov his aujience, and will often times
hav tew take his pay for hiz services in thinking so.

Altho fun iz designed for the millyun, and ethiks
for the few, it iz az true as molasses that most all
aujiences hav their bell-wethers—people who show
the others the crack whare the joke cums laffing in.

I hav known popular aujiences deprived ov all
plezzure during the recital ov a comik lektur, just
bekauze the right man, or the right woman, want
thare tew point out the mellow places.

The man who iz anxious tew git before an aujience
with what he calls a comik lektur, ought tew be put
immediately in the stocks, so that he kan’t do it, for
he iz a dangerous person tew git loose, and will do
sum damage.

Itiz a very pleazant bizzness tew make
but thare iz mutch odds whether they la
laff at what yu say.

When a man laffs at yu, he duz it bekauze it makes
him feel superior to yu; but when yu pleaze him
with what yu have uttered, he admits that yu are
superior tew him.

The only reazon why a monkey alwus kreates a
sensashun wharever he goes, is simply bekauze—he
iz @ monkey.

Everyboddy feels az tho he hada right tew criti-
cize a comik lektur, and most ov them do it jist az. a
mule criticizes things—by shutting up both eyes and
letting drive with hiz two behind leggs.

Humor haz but phew rules tew be judged by, and
they are so delikate that none but the most delikate
kan define them.

It iz dredful arbitrary.tew ask a man tew laff who
doesn’t feel the itch ov if.

One oy the meanest things in the comik lektrin
employment that a man haz to do, iz tew try an
make that large class oy his aujience laff whom the
Lord never intended should laff.

Tharé iz sum who laff az eazy and az natral az the
birds do; but most ov mankind laff like a hand organ
—if yu expect tew git alively tune out ov it yu hav
got tew grind for it.

In delivering a comik lektur, it iz a good general
rule tew stop sudden, some time betore yu git
through. This enables the anjience, if they hav had
enuff, tew be satisfied with what they hav had, and
A eer want enny more, it enables them tew hanker

or it.

I kno it iz dredful tuff, when a man iz on one end
ov a stick ov molasses kandy, tew quit till he gits
clean through; but he musn’t forgit that hiz aujience
may not be so sweet on molassis kandy az he iz.

I don’t urge ennyboddy tew cultivate the comik
lecktring, but if they feel phull ov something, they
kan’t tell what, that bites, and makes them feel
ridikilous, so that they kan’t even saw wood without
lafiing tew themselfs all the time, I suppose they hav
got the fun ailment in their bones, and had better let
it leak out in the shape oy a lektur.

But I advise all such persons tew pitty themselfs,
and when they lay a warm joke, not tew act az a hen
does when she haz uttered an egg, but look sorry,
and let sum one else do the cackling.

If I had a boy who showed enny strong marks ov
being a ecomik critter, if lcouldn’t git it out ov him
emily other way, I would jine him tew the Shakers,
fae saaeee him weed onions for three years, just

riune

pcre laff,
f at yu, or

o~

The Ladies’ Work-Box.

Edited by Mre. Helen Weed.

FASHION’S FANCIES.

‘

Heavy corded silks will be fashionable.

Spanish embossed leather is used for belts, cuffs, and
collars.

Copper tints will continue popular during the fall.

Very long trains are reserved for brides, young matrons
2
and dowagers.

Fancy straw bonnets are shown in dark colors, tomatch
the new tweeds and cheviots.

Undersleeves of a different fabric from the dress will be
a feature of fall costumes.

The sailor blouse, with a deep square sailor collar and
necktie, is worn with kilted skirts by girls from ten to
twelve years of age.

White net vails, with a thick selvedge and stripe above
it, imitating a hem and tuck, are the most fashionable for
morning wear,

Small bonnets, for dressy occasions. fit lower on the
back of the head than formerly, and usually havea rolled
coronet front.

Among novelties in milline

goods is a ribbon made of
feathers. It consists of shor

bands of plumage woven

or sewed: ther. and stra eed a tee 3 and pointed
Frida. peevibsly Wee Foe bere. | sol pata

New dressing sacques have the back fitted partly to the
figure, and the fronts loose, with tucks holding the full-
ness at the top in a pointed yoke. They are made of lawns,
striped with pink or blue, and have valenciennes lace
trimmings.

Among the grenadines which come in time for the late
season are some in which black stripes aré woven so as to

remind one of armure silk, alternate with others of cadet’

blue or deep cream.color or mignonette nm. Still others
are brightened by bars of gay Scotch plaids, and these are
very pretty to change an old grenadine frock into a
semblance of newness.

The large, black lace cloaks in accordion plaits are the
most comfortable of ie t wraps, and are too costly to
grow common, although not so dear as to be counted
among the impossibilities for all but the very wealthy.
They are very easily made, and as the lace is not cut ex-
cept just enough to make openings for the hands in front
and for the ribbon belt which holds the fullness of the
back at the waist, the lace may be used again for other
purposes. The forty-two-inch flounces are used for the
cloak itself, but the fiillat the foot varies in depth ac-
cording to the wearer’s height.

Children’s and missés’ hats are shown in fine light
felts, with high sugar-loaf crowns, and straight, narrow
brims turned up atone side. There are also suede colored
felt hats for little ones, with a border worked with heavy
silk in button-hole stitch. A novelty consists of two wing-
like pieces, made of feathers, which may be joined
together and form a new round-crowned turban which is
entirely of feathers. These pieces are imported in brown
shades, in golden pheasants’ plumes, in binish green
shades, and in the plumage of the Chinese pheasant.

There are no striking novelties in color this season.
The golden brown shades of the summer are repeated
with the addition of a bright gold color, which will prob-
ably replace the suede tints so popular during the past.
Florentine green in olivine tones, and brighter verdure
green, are prominent colors for autumn and winter, and
are repeated in felt hats, ribbons, and trimmings. There
are many cardinal felt hats shown, and the absence of car-
dinal colors among the milliners would point to the fact
that they will be trimmed generally with black. The
terra cotta shades this season partake of a crimson tone,
and include a bright etruscan red and sienna. Electric
shades of blue, verd de gris,a greenish gray, and two
silvery shades of gray, compose the range of colors im-

rted for millinery. Two-toned effects and shades shown
n ribbons indicate that shaded effects will not be aban-
doved, and that bonnets with trimmings in a lighter
shape of the same color without contrast may be popular.

Little bonnets and pokes are often made entirely of the
breast plumage of birds. Wide hats with low, square
crowns and under brims of brush beaver are shown in all
colors for children’s wear. Among novelties are stylish
English hats, with crowns covered smoothly with suede
kid in different colors, and finished with wide brims in
dark velvet. There are also little bonnets ma:'e entirely
of braids woven of gros-grain ribbon in either of the two
narrowest widths. Anextremely high hat, with a peaked
crown and narrow brim rolled evenly at the side, is im-
ported in light felts with brim of dark velvet. It is
especially stylish in white felt with black velvet brim,
trimmed near the tip of the crown with an irregular
band of plain white gros-grain, finished with a small bow
of gros-grain atthe side. These English hats are speci-
ally imported for eae irls and misses. Sailor hats for
little ys are finis with an anchor buckle and
miniature compass.

The new ribbons are of por gros-grain, faille Francais,
and ottoman cords, and there are many ribbons striped
with velvet and with bandsof satin on a gros-grain or
ottoman background. The majority of ribbons are
finished with different edges; a velvet band half an inch
wide may border one edge, the surface of the ribbon may
be broken irregularly with satin and velvet stripes, and
the other edge may be a mere.cord or a narrew satin line.
T'wo-toned effects in ribven are now considered desirable.
Silvery white and cream white gros-grain ribbons,
striped with satin in two shades of Florentine green or
in two shades of golden brown, will supersede the shaded
moire rivbons used during the summer. Cream white
risbons banded with lines ina silvery gray sheen with
black velvet are effective, while reseda greens in two
colors are shown in satin and gros-grain stripes on an
ottoman background. :

Mrs. B. W.—Fleshy women should wear straight skirts,
with no drapery on the hips, while a judicious use of
loose fronts will help them more than steels and close
fitting. Stout women should never wear a belt or gir ‘e,
or @ basque, or any garment which makes a break at the
waist all the way around. They want the longest lines
bm 4 can t and the Pe ert curves, and should
avoid anything which reaks up the attire into parts.
The wegewn snot anit exactly, but it is very gene-
rally built upon the model of a loose fronted princess
robe, and some modifications of the latter robe is the
stout woman's fit attire.

Miss Allie M.—i1st. An attractive boating dress fora
young girl has the skirt, collar, and cuffs made of blue
and red striped flannel, and the blouse, skirt trimming,

and sash of plain dark blue flannel to correspond. 2d.
Unless for a mourning or traveling dress, either of which
should be as simple as possible, there is, qenecwlly speak-
ing, no such thing as a plain waist. 3d. We will send
you a “Catalogue of Fashions” for five cents., from which
you can make your own selection. 4th. The NEW YORK
WEEKLY Purchasing Agency will furnish any of the
fone on receipt of the price mentioned in the cata-
ogue,

Essie S.—ist. To remove sunburn, take two drams of
spirits of wine, one half-pint of sweet milk, and the juice

of half a large, fresh lemon ; simmer for half an hour over
a slow fire, then allow it to boil two minutes; skim care-

 

 

be applied at bed-time and washed off in the morning with
clear warm water. 2d. Coarse, red hands may be made
white and soft by wearing old kid gloves every night, first
rubbing the hands over with cold cream or glycerine.

Mrs. D. C. L.—All dresses for girls from eight to fourteen
years of age are now made quite simple. The skirts cling
close to the figure, and are invariably finished with a
long, soft sash, tied broadly around the waist, with hang-
ing ends behind, while the bodice is usually an English
blouse, or it is made with a yoke, and the full sleeves are
gathered to a deep cuff.

Miss Mamie C.—Nainsook, with tiny embroidered dots
like point d’esprit, is the newest fabric for simple white
dresses, and they are made up with a yoke and deep cuffs
of open embroidery, and have long skirt drapery.

Reader, Camden, N. J.— The price of the ‘Baker's
Manual” is fifty cents, on receipt of which the NEW
YORK WEEKLY Purchasing Agency will furnish it.

Alice M., Brooklyn, N. Y.—Long cream-white kid gloves
are worn, drawn smoothly up on the arms, with white
evening dresses

Jennie B., Bath, N. Y.—The price of the “Guide to the
Stage” is fifteen cents.

a

Pleasant Paragraphs.

The Girl With a Daisy Bang.
Breathes there a girl with soul so dead
Who never to herself has said,

“Aha! my bang looks daisy!”
Whose heart has not within her burned,
As she her eyes on others turned,

And saw that theirs looked crazy?

A Third Base Voice.

“Does your Uncle James sing in any church?’
asked a Boston girl of a New York youth.

“Well, I guess not,”* replied the boy.

‘‘Linferred that he did,’ she continued, “from the
fact that somebody said the other day that he had a
tine base voice.”

“Well, he has got a base voice, but it’s a third base
voice, and I tell you when he lets it out it scares the
runner of a score.”

Interior Decorations.
Stranger (to bartender in ‘“‘art gallery’”’)—“‘I see you
have fine interior decorations here, my friend.”
Bartender—‘‘Best in the city, sir. There is a bottle
of interior decoration that has been in the cellar for
twenty years.”

Generosity of a Common Sort.
There is a new baby over at Snagg’s, and when the
two-year old baby saw it he said:
“T div ze new baby my crib.”
Tom was highly commended. Then some one asked
him where he was going to sleep.
“Wif ze new baby,” he answered coolly.

The Molehills and Mountains of Life.

Mrs. De Cash.—*Oh, yes, my plan of managing a
man is to let him have his own way in small things,
and then he is more impressed when you oppose
him in great things. It is simple enough, and very
easy.

Fair Young Bride—‘‘But what do you call small
things ?”’

“Oh, smoking in the back library, sitting with his
legs crossed, neglecting to properly adjust his neck-
tie, andsoon. There’s no use fighting about such
things. But when a man begins criticising milliners’
bills, it is time for a woman to assert herself.”

Getting His Money’s Worth.

Mr. Shentpershent (at hotel table, a summer re-
sort)—‘‘Mein cracious! Isaac, you little fool, vat vor
you ask for bret?”

Little Isaac—‘‘I vant bret mit my meat, fadder.”’

“Mr. Shentpershent—“Shust hear dat! He vants
bret ven bret sells for only fife cents a loaf, an’ he
ran’t eat a kavater off a loaf, an’ I pay fife tollars a

ay at dis hotel. Here, Isaac, eat dis bottle off olives.

| Dey cost von tollar a bottle.”

Wouldn’t Mind the Baby.
Wife—‘‘Shali we go to the picnic to-day, dear?’
Husband—‘‘Just as you say, love.”

Wife— Well, if we go we must take the baby.”
Husband—“Oh, by the way, there’s all that cord-
wood to cut and split. I guess l’llstay at home.”

A Man Clothed in Fine Raiment.

“How did you manage to capture such a handsome
wife, Mr. Tucker, when you are such a homely
man ?” ‘

“Oh, my good clothes did it; I just put on my best
bib and tuck her.”

A Crushed Suitor.

“My young friend,’ said old Mr. Surplus to young
Mr. Giddiboy, “do you not think that you were rash
to ask my daughter to marry you when you are not
able to support her?’ .

Weil,” said theyoung Wien, craftily, “pernaps ft
was. Ladmitmy fault, and throw myself on your
generosity, sir.”

“That’s right,” declared the old gentleman.
shall not lose by it, I assure you
nickel to pay your car fare home.
please. Good-day, Mr. Giddiboy.”

He Knew the Best Place.
Minister (to Bertie)—‘“‘I hope, Bertie, you don’t go

“You
_ There, sir, is a
No thanks, if you

pn the lake fishing with your father on Sunday ?”

“Bertie—‘‘No, sir.”

Minister—‘‘I’m glad to hear you say that, my boy.”

Bertie—‘“‘No, the best fishing is down at Burke’s
Creek. That’s where I go.”

A Chestnut to Revive a Mummy.

“Gracious, how well it is preserved,” said one
traveling man to another, as they gazed at a
mummy inamuseum. “It looks asif it might wake
up and speak, if you could only arouse it with some
familiar words.”

“So it does. Suppose youtry it with that story
you just told me.”

Thoroughly Subdued.
Lawyer—‘‘Your wife, Mr. Henpeck, made no pro-
vision for you when she died ?”’
Mr. Henpeck (sadly) —*‘None whatever.”
Lawyer—‘‘Are you going to try to break her will ?”’
Mr. Henpeck (alarmed)—‘‘Certainly not. I got
enough trying to do that while she was alive.”

The Cutest Way of Dunning.

Two teachers of languages were discussing mat-
ters and things relative to their profession.

“Do your pupils pay up regularly on the first of
each month?” asked one of them.

“No, they do not,” was the reply. “I often have to
wait for weeks and weeks before I get my pay, and
sometimes I don’t getit at all. You can’t well dun
the parents for the money.”

“Why don’t you do as I do? I always get my
money regularly.”

“How do you manage it?”

‘“Ttis very simple. For instance, I am teaching a
boy French, and on the first day of the month his
folks don’t pay the money for the lesson. In that
event I give the boy the following sentence to traus-
late and write out at home: ‘I have no money. The
month is up. Hast thou got any money? Have not
thy parents got money? I need money very much.
Why hast thou not brought the money this morning?
Did thy father not give thee any money? Has he no
money in the pocket-book of his uncle’s great-aunt?’
That fetches them. Next morning, you bet, that boy
brings the money.”

Slickness No Sign. ;
We were out among the milch cows, speakfng of the best
ones there,
When the farmer of my first choice said, with patronizing

air:
“She’s as plump as any pigeon, and her coat’s as soft as

SILK,

But oy = et heifer ain’t the one that gives
the milk.”

Take a lesson from the farmer, with his sturdy common

sense,

Who, unlike the politician, never sits astride the fence;

Watch the smoothest-talking fellow, he may prove the
biggest bi

Know “the

bilk ;
slickest-looking heifer ain’t the one that gives
the milk.”

Afraid of the Club.
Judge—“If you were sober when arrested, why
didn’t you remonstrate with the officer ?”’
Prisoner—‘Please, your honor, I hadn’t enongh

money with me to pay a fine and a surgeon’s bill,

too.” ¥

a

A Hint to an Early Bird. m

The rooster would be a much more ee. bird i

he could only be induced to feel that there is no real,

vital necessity for his reporting his whereabouts be-

tween midnight and3 a.m. We know that he is at

home, im the bosom of his family. So are we, but we
don’t get up in the night to brag about it.

Kept in the Original Package.

“T do think,” said Armanda, who adores pro-
fundity, ‘that Mr. Greathead is full of ideas and in-
formation; don’t you?”

“I think he must be,” replied George; “he’s had
forty years in which to accumulate them, and has
never yet let one of them out.”

An Irresistible Appeal.

Scene: A ~— spoton a dark night—‘Would the
gentleman be so kind as to assist a poor man? Be-
sides this loaded revolver, I have nothing in the
wide world to call my own!”

A Daniel Come to Judgment.

“Prisoner,” said the magistrate, “the officer says
you struck the prosecuting witness. who is now in
the hospital and unable to appear against you, with
a chair-leg three times; then you threw a pop bottle
at him, and after that chased him down street and

ushed him off the dock into the river, and threw
wricks at him every time he came to the surface to
breathe, Is this true ?”’

“It is all true, your honor,” said the prisoner, ‘and

in addition 1 broke a bed-slat over him before the
officer saw me. I wassitting in my office, very busy,
when the complainant came in and began to tell me
about his trip to Europe. He said they were gone
six weeks, and saw everything and went every where,
and that coming back Dee through a storm
which the captain, who had followed the sea for
fifty-six years; said was the worst he had ever ex-
reece and that——”

“Officer,” said the magistrate, interrupting, “when
will that fellow be strong enough to move ?”

The officer said he thought he might venture to
bring him around in the morning.

i “All right,” said the wise and humane magistrate;
‘you fetch him up then, and I'll sock it to him in a
way that will teach him that people who stay at
home have some rights in this country yet. The
prisoner is discharged, and the court is very sorry
that he was arrested under a misconception of the
merits of the case.” Rost. J. BURDETTE.

Humorous Brevities.

The old maid’s favorite vegetable is to mate, O.

“That's it!” exclaimed Mrs. Bascom at the concert,
as the singers came out again in response to an en-
core. ‘“Make’em do it over again until they get the
thing right.”

A boiler which exploded out West a few days ago
was said to be asthin as paper. It was attached to
a stationary engine, of course.

_ Husband—*I think we had better give up our pew
,in the church for awhile, my love.” Wife—‘Why ?’
Husband—“I am going in the coal business, and I
hate hypoerisy.”’

What is that which isin visible, yet never out of
sight? The letter “i.” om

‘Doctor, I have come tosee you about my little
boy.” “What ails him?” “One legis shorter than
the other and he limps. Now, what would you do in
such a case?” ‘I think I should limp, too.”

A fat man is more likely to fume and fret with im-
patience than a lean one. He thinks it may reduce
his wait.

The man who hates the cornet player has been
tutored in the school of suffering.

_ The sweetest of sweet girls who will wait for you
is worth her wait in gold.

Doing light work—Cleaning the lamps

The deadhead at the theater is like a successful
prediction—he has come to pass.

As arule orchestra leaders are moral heroes. They
all face the music. ‘

Talk is cheap in this world, because the supply is
so much larger than the demand. ‘

When the grocer retires from business he weighs
less than he did before.

He—‘‘I wonder what makes the flies so sticky to-
day ?” She—“I suppose it must be that new fly paper
you bought.”

The facetious father of a pair of twin babies com-
plained that although they ‘filled the house with
music he could not tell one heir from another.

A solemn old scientist printed the fact that by
bathing the feet in tepid water a man could double
his circulation, and now all the edito#sef our daily
journals are having tanks fitted to their heating
apparatus.

> O—~<

Items of Interest.

Topers who have the desire to reform will be in-
terested in the discovery of a Russian physician. He
asserts that drunkenness may be cured by the subeutane-
ous injections of strychnine in the proportion of one
grain to 200 drops of water. Five drops having been in-
jected every twenty-four hours for eight or ten consecu-
tive days, the patient finds that the “first attempt to re-
sume drinking will produce such painful and nauseating
sensations that he will turn away from the liquor in “dis-
gust.”

Feats of memory are daily performed by Richard
Watrick, the hat-rack man of the Grand Union Hotel,
Saratoga. He can take the hats of fully 500 men, a8 they
file into the dining-room, singly, in pairs, or in trios, and
give each man his hat as he passes out. Some years ago
there was a darkey at the Palace Hotel, San Francisco,
who could do the same thing, and his memory extended
as well to their canes and umbrellas. :

The miraculous restoration of sight is noted in the
case of a Wolverhampton collier, who through an acci-
dent had become totally blind. While being led home, a
flash of lightning seemed to focus on the spectacles he
was wearing to conceal his disfigurement. After the peal
of thunder which followed he complained of pain in his
head. The next moment he found that he had regained
| possession of hiseye-sight. ° "~~ —~—<;7273 3}PFSté<S~*S

Before beginning a speech in the public streets,
Robert Harding, a young English socialist, does a strange
thing. Having supplied himself with a heavy chain and
a big padlock, he locks himself to a post, and then begins
his arguments in defense of socialism. When the police
come to arrest him, some time is spent in releasing the
| orator from the post, and when that is accomplished he
has uttered a speech of some length.

A noisy fly entered the ear of John Lord, whois a
resident of Athens, Ga. The insect was promptly re-
moved, and Mr. Lord thought no more about it until he
was awakened in the night by a violent pain in the ear.
He sought a doctor. who, with considerable difficulty,
brought out eleven well-developed and very active mag-
gots, which had hatched from the eggs laid by that fiy
during its brief stay in Mr. Lord’s ear. *

An antiquarian in Liverpool secured, through an.
agent in Milwaukee, a mummy that had graced a glass
case in a dime museum of the latter city -and-was said to.
be at least four thousand years old.- The:English anti-
quarian had the curiosity to remove the outer covering
and wash it. It proved to be strips of a coffee sack, with
these words plainly visible: ‘Prime Mocha, 35 cents.”

A bridge across the channel between France and
England is contemplated. The distance at the narrowest
point is about twenty-two miles. The piers of masonry
will be 160 feet long by 100 broad, and will be placed ag
intervals of 550 yards. The causeway of the bridge will
be 160 feet above sea level. The estimated cost is
$200,000,000, *

Intent upon a still hunt® for deer, John McAdams,
of Monroe, Ga., went out early in the morning. Just be-
fore daylight he perceived a movement in the bushes,
took aim at the supposed deer, and fired. He was terri-
tied on discovering that he had lodged a load of buckshot
in his father’s neck. He had left the old gentleman sound
asleep in bed.

A modern French custom at baptisms is that of
presenting each guest with sugar almonds in a. bon-
bonniere which has the appearance of a roll of parchment.
On this roll are inscribed the names of the child, of the
parents, god-parents, the date of the birth and christen-
ing, and the name of the church where the ceremony
was performed.

 

Three wives have been buried by a Tennessee man
who is not yet forty years of age. He is about to leada
fourth wife to the altar, and has already persuaded her to
insure her life. If he had adopted similar precautions
with regard to his former wives, he would now have sut-
ficient cash to make him a comparatively rich man.

The French Government has resolved that after
May next there will be uniform time for the whole of the
country. This will be “Paris time,” which wiil be adopted
in railway stations and public places all over France,
On the frontiers, however, there are to be quadrants
marking both the Paris and the foreign hour.

A pine tree that smokes is something worth looking
at, and a curiosity of this description can be seen near
Hallowell, Me. A column of vapor as large as a man’s

‘m arises from the top of the tree and extends several

et in the air. The phenomenon is of periodical oceur-
rence, and no one is able to explain it.

The “drop-a-nickel-in-the-slot” racket is worked in
all sorts of shapes at the Wild West show. A kind friend
from the city decorated one of the Indian tents with a
large black letter sign, which read, ‘“Throw in a brick and
see an Indian come out.”

To arrest the decay of dead bodies, a chemist of
Brest covers them with a film of copper; that is, he
electrotypes them. If amore costly covering is required,
according to the wealth of the family, they may be sub-
sequently covered with a skin of silver or gold.

There are one hundred and seventy-five different
pieces in the average watch, requiring in its manufa*ture
twenty-four hundred separate and distinct operations.

Fashionable people in Paris have introduced a
novelty at dinner parties. They seat their guests at small
tables, instead of at one large one.

At Lenox, Mass , there are thirteen cottagers whose
wealth aggregates $150,000,000.

Mrs. Nancy Edgerly, of Wolfboro, N. H., has just
celebrated her 104th birthday.

A Boston paper tells of a man who “suffered an
ajJmost irreparable loss in the death of his wife.”