A NEW STORY,

POPULAR

AUTHOR, WILL SOON BE COMMENCED.

 

 

 

 

Entered According to Act of Congress, tn the year 1909, by Street & Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of Congréss, Washington, D.C.

OFFICE:
79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York.

 

New York, June 26, 1909.

 

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

 

BE PROMPT.

 

BY GATH BRITTLE,

Old Mother Schmidt! What wealth of
wit
Her daily speech displayed;
What radiant gems of wisdom shone
In the homely words she said!

What though her garb was quaint and
queer,
And her broken English, too!
A wiser housewife ne’er was seen,
And ne’er a friend more true.

Her cheeks were marked with wrinkles
deep,
The work of age and care;

 

 

But her heart was sound, for time and
grief
Could plow: no furrows there.

One morning when the sun was high,
And all had broken fast,

{ came to share the dainty meal,
I, laziest and last.

But Mother Schmidt, with laughing eye,
And half repelling hand,

Said, ‘‘Who come not to right a-time
Shall eat vot overshtand.”

There’s solid wisdom Mother Nurse,
In thy simple, homely phrase;

Experience proves it, as l’ve learned,
Throughout my length of days.

‘*Who come not to right a-time,”
When work is-to be done,

When duty calls, or when the prize
For skill is to be won,

Will fail to gain the rich reward
That waits the ready hand;

He must depart as when he came,
Or ‘feat vot overshtand.”

The feast is for the early guest;
The tardy one must wait;

And oft ’tis better ne’er to come,
Mayhap, than come too late.

For all the good things of this life
Are ever in demand;
And the last to come will often find

 

 

 

Sane
epee
ped.

ies
aa

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re

 

 

There’s naught ‘‘vot overshtand.” Thus he appeared as

his wife returned with the doctor for whom she had hurried.

 

 

THE DEVERELL HERITAGE.

By OWEN MASTERS,

Author of “The Woman Wins,” ‘‘Captain Emlyn’s Bride,’ “One Impassioned Hour,’’
““When Love Rules the Heart,” ‘*The Ironmaster’s Daughter,” etc.

(THE DEVERELL HERITAGE” was commenced in No. 36. Back numbers can be obtained of all newadealers.)

CHAPTER VII.

“} KNOW THAT THIS LAWYER WILL BE OUR
ENEMY.”

Two months went placidly and dreamily by.
Frank Northcote was standing on the terrace of
the hotel in a blaze of sunshine. The summits
of the Apennines were lost in a blue haze. The
young man held a cigar heedlessly between his
fingers, and the fragrant weed was slowly burn-
ing itself out. He was thinking of England.

Presently the soft rustle of a woman’s dra-
peries awakened him from his dream.

“Elsie, my sweetheart!’ he said. His eyes
were full of rapture, and he passed one arm
around his wife’s slender waist.

“Of what are you thinking, Frank?’ Elsie play-
fully demanded. “May I hazard a guess?”

He caressed her sunny hair, as he was so fond
of doing. There was infinite tenderness in the
touch of his fingers. She looked up at him mis-
chievously.

“You are getting tired of foreign cities, Frank,
and—of our honeymoon!”

“Our honeymoon will be forever, darling. Our
love is as endless as the gold circlet which you
wear—emblematic of our union! Do you remem-
ber the verses I read to you under the cliffs of
Cheddar in the happy courting days? It seems
long, long since now, and yet how short the time
really is!

and his face was turned
away—‘‘Elsie, I want you to listen patiently to
me, little woman. I have something to say—
one to propose which you may not like to
ear;”’

“Your will is my law,” she replied simply, her
lips quivering.

“It is winter in England,’ he began wistfully,
“and I want to go home again, perhaps for the
last time!”

“For the last time?’ Her eyes filled with
tears, but she continued bravely. “I understand,
my darling. Mr. Jarvis will be due in England
soon, and there will be trouble over that wretched
money. [ am simple in the ways of the world,
Frank, but I know that this lawyer will be our
enemy.”

For a little while he was too much overcome
to reply; he pressed her to him in an almost
flerce embrace,

“How good you are, my saint!
be so hard but for you. I must sell my an-
nuity and leave England. There are new worlds
beyond the seas. Oh, Elsie, we have been so
happy here!’

“We shall be happy elsewhere together!”

“It will be terrible to part from you, my wife,
though only for a little while.’’

Her eyes dilated.

‘We shall never part, Frank, until death sep-
arates us!’’ She looked into his pale face, and
an exclamation of distress escaped her. “You
cannot mean it, Frank—you cannot mean it!’’

“J do mean it, in this sense, dear wife,’’ he
said desperately. “I must leave England be-
fore Jarvis returns; I must go away secretly un-
til his rage and disappointment have cooled. I
am thinking of your father. Both the vicar~and
Mrs. Butler write that life is fast slipping away
from him, and you cannot leave him, Elsie. You
can join me later, when——”

He left: the rest unsaid. His wife was
bing on his shoulder. She understood.

A week later they returned to Cheddar.
cote was not surprised to find that Captain
Langton had taken to his room. His mind was
wandering, and he held imaginary conversation
with his dead wife.

“He may linger for weeks,’’ the doctor said,
‘but you must be prepared for the worst at any
time.’’

The days dragged slowly away until the chill
winds of December swept through the gorge and
whistled amid the trees.

At the last the old captain had a brief spel!
of consciousness, and talked sensibly to Elsie and
Frank. He was wasted almost to a shadow, and
already the light of heaven shone in his dim
eyes.

“T am going to your mother, Hlsie,” he mur-
mured. ‘I am tired—-I have waited so long!
Frank, my son, be good to my darling child !’’
He closed his eyes wearily.

That night Captain Langton died. The house
was hushed, people crept about silently, and noth-
ing was to-be heard save the unappeasable sob-
bing of a woman,

ing on his shoulder,

My way would

"Burt — loved with a love that was more than
ove—
I and my Annabel Lee—
With a love that the wingéd seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

“<The angels, not half so happy
Went envying her and me;

Yes—that was the reason, as all men know
In this kingdom by the sea,

That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee,

in heaven,

sob-
North-
**But our love, it was stronger by far than the

Of those who were older than we—
Of many far wiser than we—
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea!
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.’.’’

Unconsciously his tone had saddened, and Bisie
had crept closer to his side.

“I do not like those verses now,”’
“They are not applicable to us, Frank.
bewailed a love that was lost.”

“But they were bound together in spirit;these
lovers, darling, as we are—as we should be if
one were taken.’’

Silence fell upon them.

Frank tossed his cigar over the balcony. There
was a thoughtful, anxious look in his eyes, and
his brow wrinkled.

“Bilsie,”’ he said at length—her head was rest-

she ‘sald.
The poet

 

 

A few days after the body had been taken to
its last home, Frank Northcote seemed ill and
feverish. One evening he became so weak that
he dropped helplessly into a chair in the kitchen. |
And thus he appeared as his wife returned with |
the doctor for whom she had hurried. :

The doctor’s ministrations soon revived him, |
and some hours later he was able to attend to}
several important matters. He had written sev-
eral letters to Mr. Jarvis’ managing clerk, and
had asked to be made acquainted with the law-
yer’s movements. He pretended that the busi-
ness was pressing. The slow-moving machinery
of American law had delayed Jarvis—‘most
vexatiously,” the clerk said. The principal was
wanted at the office. If Mr. Northcote required
money, he was empowered to advance it. Mr.
Northcote did not require money. He had sold
his annuity for several thousands of pounds, and
he had even laid his ease before eminent coun-
sel, who had advised him to tender the amount
of the forged bill—that Mr. Jarvis would not
dare to fight it; he had already been guilty of
attempting to compound a felony. Frank grew
hopeful, but. the doubt and anxiety were hard
to endure.

At last Mr. Jarvis was on his way to England.
The managing clerk wrote that the lawyer would
arrive before Christmas Day. The fight would
soon begin now—if fight there was to be!

Northeote arranged for a decisive
with his counsel in London. He had already
given the lawyer every penny due to Jarvis, so
that the proceeds of his annuity had been nearly
exhausted. He talked hopefully to his patient,
loving wife.

“When it is all over, darling,” he said, “I must
find something to do. What a relief when [I have
cast off the burden which weighs me to the
ground! Life will then be like a foretaste of
Heaven. <A few days will decide all.”

A few days! Perhaps Jarvis would insist upon
his arrest—would hunt him to the last! His
rage and disappointment would be terrible.

“T am going to London to-morrow,” he added:
“I may be away till the end of the week.”

“You will write to me, Frank?’ asked Blsie,
kissing his pale cheek.

“Every day, my wife—and every minute I
shall be thinking of you!”

The next morning there was a lingering, fond
parting between the young wife and husband.

“T hate to leave you, dear. But it is only for
a day or two. Look out for a long letter to-
morrow, and good news perhaps> The moment
things are settled I shall: telegraph.”’

He looked back at the slender black-robed
figure in the doorway; the blue eyes were shin-
ing through a mist of tears, and a few strands
of bright hair were fluttering in the wind.

“Good-by, my beautiful angel!”

“Not ‘good-by,’ Frank! I like
word.’’

He turned and embraced her again,
he hastened away.

The morning was bright and the air was clear,
but cold. The rain had changed to snow, and the
world was beautiful under the wand of the frost
king. When a glimmer of pale sunshine ap-
peared, it was as though a million diamonds
sparkled on the hedgerows, by the wayside, and
in the glittering fields.

Northcote walked to the little railway station.
He glanced furtively from side~to side, as
though expecting to see some enemy. His step
had lost its spring, and his form its upright
bearing. >

The vicar was pacing the ‘platform. He
greeted the young man pleasantly, his eyes wan-
dering to the leather bag in Northcote’s right
hand.

“Going a long journey?’’ he asked jocularly.
Then he noticed that the other looked pale and

worried.

“London,” Frank replied dully. “I may be
gone for some time,” he added, with a ghastly
smile; ‘You will look after my wife?”

The clergyman was astonished.

interview

don’t that

and then

 

“What a strange fellow you are, Northcote.
You startled me! day or two at most, I
presume. But it is always the way with young |
married lovers! They cannot bear to lose sight)
of each other. Oh, yes—Mrs. Northcote shall |
have my care if she needs it. She is an old
protégée of mine, you know. Brave little woman,
it must have been a trying time for her lately!
If you are in any trouble, sir cc

‘No!’ interrupted Northcote brusquely. ‘Good |
morning! My train is coming.’’

They shook hands. The train rolled into the
station with a hiss and a roar. Northcote took
his seat, then waved his hand to the clifis of
Cheddar, to his home, and to the love that he
was leaving behind!

CHAPTER VIII.

“Ir THIS BE TRUE, I WILL TAKE A TERRIBLE RE-
VENGE !”’

Darkness had already fallen when Frank
Northcote walked through the streets of London.
A keen northeast wind was blowing, and the
roads were covered with half-frozen slush. Pe-
destrians hurried along, warmly muffled, and the
homeless wanderer shivered in doorways, his lot
made still more miserable by the slowly gather-
ing fog.

Northcote went to an unpretentious hotel. He
had no wish to be recognized by his friends of
other days. His past was dead; he was a new
man. He washed his hands and face, and mere-

set before

 

ly toyed with the dinner that was
him. Though he had eaten nothing since the
morning, he could not muster an appetite.

His |

{

heart throbbed persistently with a dull, sickening |

pain, He was thoroughly depressed—weighed
down by the sense of impending evil.

“TI am a coward—a pitiful coward,’ he said;
“but it is not for myself—it is the thought of
my darling wife that unnmerves me! If we fail
and—-—’’

He fell into a reverie, and speculated upon his
probable term of imprisonment. Forgery was
accounted a great crime. When once the law had
been set in motion there would be no hope—no
possible chance of escape. The affair would be
in all the papers, and would form a theme for
gossip at every club. He must be either wholly
innocent—or guilty.
the truth? It would be his word against that of
an accomplished liar and schemer—a man with a
heart of flint and a face of brass! Jarvis had
told him that he signed his uncle’s name; he
had omitted to refer to the plausible arguments
he himself had used. He had trusted the lawyer
—that was all. He had been reckless—he had
wanted money, and money he had been determined
to have at any cost. The judge might be in-
clined to leniency, considering that he had_ ten-
dered the money of which he had defrauded Mr.

Jarvis; but——

“— gould kill him!’ he breathed through his
teeth. ‘I could kill him! My counsel does not
know the fiend; he is oversanguine! Elsie! Hl-
sie! When and where shall I see you again?”’

He put on his hat and coat and left the hotel.
The fog was thick now. The gas lamps shone
like glowworms in the murky gloom.

He walked on mechanically, many thoughts
running through his mind. But they always came
back to the same point—the scandal, the im-
placable hate and fury of Jarvis—-a criminal—
how long?—and Elsie, Elsie—always Elsie! Ang
at this last thought, he groaned aloud. ‘‘I couf
kill him!’? he muttered again between

He heard some one behind him. A
wretch was regarding him with an evil eye.
seemed to be alone in Trafalgar Square.

“Give me a penny, boss,’’ the man demanded,

his teeth.
shivering

| “fm @ navy man—honorable discharge, and stary-

You're a dude; you’ve got plenty !’’

ing! 2 :
bim and laughed dis-

Northcote turned upon
cordantly.
“T wish it Were possible for me to change places
with you, my friend!”
He gave the man a

coin, and received his

Of what use was it to plead |

They |

|
|
i
;
:

 

Three Dollars Per Year.
Two Copies Five Dollars.

hoarsely murmured thanks. Then he pursued his
way. The fog became denser at every step. He
heard a fierce altercation between a cabman and
his “fare.”” The cabman refused to go on; the
occupant would not alight.

“Two shillings from Waterloo to Clifford’s
Inn!’ the cabman growled. ‘I can’t do it, an’
I won’t. How was I to know I-should have te
walk my hoss nearly all the way? Cali the po-
lice if you like!”

“How much do you demand?” asked the man
inside the cab; and Northcote started violently.
Surely he knew those cold, incisive tones! Jar-
vis must have returned sooner than he was ex-
pected; the ship must have made a rapid pas-
sage. Here was his enemy!

“How much? Not a yard farther under five
shillings, an’ I ain’t goin’ to give a_ receipt,
either,” the cabman jeered. ‘‘Cash down, or you
walk, an’ take your luggage with you.”

There was a moment’s silence, then the chink
of silver. The. cabman had won! Northcote
crouched back in the gloom. So Jarvis was gao-
ing to his ehambers in Clifford’s Inn—to leave his
luggage, in all probability. He lived at Croy-
don, and on a night like this the journey would
be. doubly unpleasant encumbered with a port-
manteau and a heavy steamer trunk—only a few
days before Christmas, too, and the officials on
the lookout for tipst These thoughts flashed
through Northcote’s mind. He knew Jaryis well;
it would be a grand opportunity to talk to him
quietly—to sound him—to tell him the truth!

The cab was moving away like a phantom.
Frank Northcote followed. It was only eight
o’clock, but it seemed later than midnight. And
he -wondered where he was. At that moment 2
deep-toned clock began to boom the hour.

“Opposite the Law Courts,” he murmured.
five minutes we shall be at Jarvis’ office.”

His blood seemed to race through his veins like
molten fire. He would have it out with Jarvis
now !

The cab turned down Fetter Lane, and stopped
at the iron gates opening into Clifford’s Inn
Mr. Jarvis alighted, and the cabman set down his
luggage on the pavement. The lawyer carried
the portmanteau, and the caretaker followed at
his heels with the steamer trunk. Frank Nortk-
cote walked behind—across the ill-paved quad-
rangle, up two flights of narrow, creaking stairs,
as dark as .Erebus.

“Shall I light the gas_at the top, sir?” the cara-
taker asked.

“No; you can go away now. I shail not be
here for more than a few minutes,’”’ Jarvis re-
sponded austerely.

Northcote stood still in the shadow. The care-
taker passed him, and he heard the bang of a
lower door. All was safe flow; he could talk to
Jarvis without fear of interruption. He con-
tinued his way upstairs, and softly entered the
outer- office. He saw the shadow of the lawyer
moving fantastically on the wall. The steamer
trunk. had been pushed into a corner; the port-
manteau was being carefully overhauled. At last
Mr. Jarvis produced a small packet of papers.
He examined them; with a look of satisfaction in
his keen eyes and a smile on his cold, hard face.
He glanced at the great safe standing in a re-
cess, and moved toward it.

“My papers!’’ said Northcote to himself, as the
lawyer came into the clearer light. “I have paid
for them to the uttermost farthing! The money
is in responsible hands. He must not lock them
away!”

Jarvis started up and listened. He thrust the
packet hastily into the breast pocket of the over-
coat which he was wearing. There was no light
re outer office, but he heard a man’s foot-
all.

“Ts that you, caretaker? No?
His manner changed instantly.
of surprise and welcome. ‘‘Northcote! Be
seated, my dear fellow! How did you know that
I was here? My ship came in twenty-four hours
sooner than was expected. Strong winds behind
us all the way. Not at all unusual in Decem-
ber, I am told. I have just this moment come
up from Southampton, and called here with my
heayy luggage. Horrible night, isn’t it?’ He
glanced uneasily at the shadow beyond, and
strained his ears for the sound of the .care-
taker’s footsteps in the paved yard under the
windows. Northcote’s face was bloodless—his
eyes burned with a steady glow.

“Tam here by accident, Jarvis,”” he said stead-
ily. ‘I had business in town, and heard your al-
tercation with the cabman. I followed you here.”

“Yes? Now you had better go home with me.
Mrs. Jarvis will be delighted! I telegraphed to
her from Southampton.”

‘‘No—I will not go home with you.
quiet little talk here.’’

“Really? I am tired out.
about?”

“The old subject, Jarvis.’’

The lawyer’s thin lips tightened, and he glanced

swiftly at the other.

“Waste of time!” he curtly responded. “My
plans are unalterable. I am prepared for a Hlt-
tle rebellion. The squire wrote to you—my
daughter wrote to you. Why have you ignored
their letters? It is folly for us to quarrel—I re-
fuse to quarrel with you, Northcote!’’ He
laughed uneasily

“Tt will be your own fault if we quarrel,’’
Northcote said, and his eyes glowed more flerce-
ly. “Let me dissipate your dreams with a breath.
I can never marry your daughter, because I have
a wife—a dearly loved wife—the child of Captain
Langton, to whom you introduced me.”

The lawyer’s face became absolutely gray.

“You are jesting, Northcote !”’

“No—I am not jesting. I wish to redeem my
papers; my counsel is already instructed—you
know him well—Barham, a lawyer of some prom-
inence. He has the money—every penny.” He
flashed a glance of bitter hatred at Jarvis. The
latter felt as though he were choking; then he
cried:

“Forger! By Heaven, if this be true I will
take a terrible révenge! Do you hear? I will
know no rest until you are at Dartmoor prison,
your companions the refuse of the gutters—thieves
and forgers like yourself!’’

His impotent rage was terrible to see, North-
cote sprang forward with blazing eyes.

“You call me ‘forger’—you who made me do
it! I will choke the insult in your lying throat!’’

In his fury his strength was the strength of a
lion. His grip was upon the lawyer’s neck.

“My papers!’’ he cried. ‘Give them to me or
I will kill you! It is for Elsie’s sake! Do you
hear—you villain?”

“Help! Stand off, you maniac!’’ screamed Jar-
vis, trembling “Tt have no papers; they are
lodged at my banker’s! To-morrow——”

eo ‘Het.

With a frenzied movement Northcote tore open
the lawyer’s coat. The packet was there! He
seized it with a shout of exultation and shook
Jarvis off with a savage thrust.

“For Hisie’s sake!’’ he cried.

He glanced at the incriminating documents—
his eyes glaring and bloodshot, his breath com-
ing and going with sharp gasps. They were all
there, intact—the well-thumbed note bearing the
name of “James Deverell,’’ but not in the writing
of the squire, and the letters which he was
ashamed to read They were all there! He held
them in the flame of the gas lamp, then tossed
them into the firegrate to burn out. He poked
the embers until they vanished up the gaping
chimney in tiny fragments and then broke into
a4 iow laugh.

“Ror my wife’s sake, you Judas!
hunt me to prison, and kill her! Now do your
worst! Your money lies in Barham’s hands; he
will pay you every shilling when I tell him that
you have given the papers to me!”

"In

Who is there?”
He uttered words

I prefer a
What ts ft to be

You would

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

Vol. 64—No. 38

 

 

Jarvis did not speak. He had dropped upon
his knees when Northcote thrust him back. He
was clinging helplessly to the leg of the table, a
fixed glare in his eyes.

A shudder passed through Northcote’s limbs.
He glided to the open doorway and looked back
once. Jarvis was still glaring at him. He passed
silently down the back stairway and out into the
night. The fog seemed to have become denser,
and he was choking. He knew not whither he
was going. He was dazed and bewildered; he
could not forget the lawyer’s fixed glare of ter-
ror.

“Only a fit!’ he murmured. ‘‘Nothing moré;
I-did not strike him. . He is an old Man and [
am a young one, The caretaker will find him.
It will be all right.”

It seemed as though he wandered about for a
long time. He jostled heavily against several
people, and angry words were hurled at him for
his carelessness. Now he was standifig close to
a long row of iron railings. He heard a clock
boom the hour of nine.

“Those infernal Law Courts again!” he thought.
“T can’t get away from the place!”

A huge shadow loomed out of the fog and stood
beside him. It was the man to whom he had
given money in Trafalgar Square. He leered at
Northcote and laid one grimy hand upon his
shoulder:

“You'd .better get out of this place, guynor,”
he said familiarly. ‘I wouldn’t stand in your
shoes for all the gold in the Bank of England!”

Northcote shook off his hand.

“Don’t take offense!” the man went on in a
sharp whisper. ‘I saw you do it, and the old
lawyer is dead! You said you were going to
kill somebody when I met you in Trafalgar
Square, and I followed you, meaning no harm.
Now you cut it; I won’t peach—never fear!
You were kind to me. Shake hands and go! I
turned down the light and shut the door. He
won't be found till morning. I took the oppor-
tunity of emptying his pockets—a watch and
twenty odd pounds—dquite a lift for me! Good
night! Somebody’s coming!”

The man vanished. A policeman stumped
along, coughing and banging his gloved hands
together.

“Cold night, sir,’’ he said.

Northcote, with an effort, threw off the faint-
ness that had crept over him.

“Yes,” he assented. “I have lost my way.’

“Where do you want to go to, sir?”

“Piccadilly.” He was amazed at his own cool-
mess.

“Straight ahead until you get to Charing Cross,
sir. These are the Law Courts—Fleet Street.
Beg pardon, sir; but I hope the man you were
speaking to did not rob you?’
“Oh, no!” replied Northcote.. “I asked him
where I was.”

The policeman nodded and whispered:

“He used to be known as Flash Fred—one of
the worst characters on record. We keep an eye
on him. Good night, sir.”

“Good night!” And Northcote staggered away.

CHAPTER IX.
“THERE IS NO PEACE ON EARTH!”

Frank Northcote never knew how he reached
his hotel that night. He locked himself in his
room and cowered over the fire, his face hidden
in his hands. He could not forget the dreadful
glare of Silas Jarvis’ eyes, the crouching fig-
ure, and the foam-flecked lips.

“fT killed him!’ he thought, shuddering; ‘‘but

I merely pushed him away

I did not mean to.
from me. His head must have struck the table
But what am I te do now?”

or—or something.
Perhaps the last few hours were. unreal—the
dream? He heard a

phantasma of an ugly

ehurch clock, and he counted twelve solemn
strokes. It was midnight. Oh, if it were a
dream—only a dream! He glanced at his mud-
splashed clothes and his hands that smelled
strongly of charred paper. No—it was all true,
and soon——

There was a knock at the door.
stantly cool and self-possessed.

“Well?” he demanded.

“Do you want anything more to-night,
an attendant asked.

‘No. Call me at six o’clock.”

He breathed freely again.

“T have given no name here,” he reflected. “I
will take the advice of Flash Fred.’’ He Shud-
dered. ‘The first law of human nature is self-
preservation. My conscience acquits me; Heaven
will acquit me; but I dare not wait for the justice
of men. No—I will go, and when it is safe my
darling can follow.”

In the house adjoining the hotel the people
were making merry. \Now and again he heard
boisterous laughter and the noise of dancing
feet. It was a quiet little hotel in a quiet street,
and every unusual sound was audible. They be-
gan to sing Christmas carols. Oh, what a mock-
ery it all was! If they had but known the tor-
ture they were inflicting upon a fellow being!

‘‘*T heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old familiar carols play,

And wild and sweet

The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men;

He rose, in-

sir?”

“ ‘And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom

Had rolled along

The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will

“‘Tilk ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime,
A chant sublime,
Of peace on earth, good-will to men.

to men;

‘“**And in despair I bowed my head.
“Phere is no peace on earth,” I said;
“For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men.”

‘Then pealed the bells more loud and deep,
“God is not dead, nor doth He sleep,
The wrong shall fail,
The right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men.” ’”
The singing ceased, but one of the verses rang
fn his ears.

‘“'‘And in despair I bowed my head,
“There is no peace-on earth,” I said;
“For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of-peace on earth, good-will to men.”’”

Silence fell upon all things. There were no
belated wanderers in the narrow streets. The
slush muffled the sound of the policeman’s steady
tramp. Northcote sat at his table all through
the early hours, holding a pen in his right hand.
At last he began to write—a letter blotted with
tears. The letter was to Elsie, and read thus:

“Oh, my darling wife, when shall we meet
again—in this world or in the hereafter? Heaven
only knows! You will think that I am mad. I
wish that I were! My trouble is greater than I
can bear. And Christmas is here. The bells will
chime, ‘Peace on earth, good-will to men,’ and I
shall be far away from you. What a mockery it
all is!

“And in déspair I bowed my head.
‘There is no peace on earth,’ IT said;
‘For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men.’ ”

“The words are ringing in my ears. The peo-
ple in the next house have been torturing me
with musie and singing. But I am wandering;
I have to tell you dreadful news. Let me get. it
over, for my brain almost reels, and I can hardly
see, Listen, my darling, and forgive me if you
can. Yesterday my worst crime was forgery; now
I am a murderer! £ met Jarvis and followed
him to his office. I wanted only simple justice;
you will believe that. I swear that I had no
thought of injuring him. I asked him for my pa-
pers, and he would not hear me; he taunted,
threatened, abused me. His heart was adamant.
He gloated over me, and he would have cast the
shadow of my disgrace upon you: He refused
my money. He would have my heart’s blood—
and yours! TI asked him again for my papers; I
had redeemed them. I knew that they were in
his pocket, and I took them. I
him; but he was only a feeble man, and, when I
pushed him off, he fell to his knees: He saw
me burn the papers, and seemed to have been
seized with a fit. His eyes glared, and he shiy-
ered violently. I ought. to have called for aid,
but I was afraid. I thought that he would re-
cover. He did not; he is dead! How. will. it
look in the papers? I am fascinated by the de-
sire to see it.

“T shall try to escape, and I will write to you
to come to me as soon as it will be safe. IT will
send you: money when I can. You have a little—
your father’s hoard—and a home, thank Heaven!
They may never suspect me, but I am afraid: A
man saw me do it—-a_ thief, a criminal. No mat-
ter! I. feel that~we shall. meet again. in the
years to come, my poor, poor wife. And now
good-by! The seas will soon roll between us. I
am sobbing; my tears are blinding. me. Oh,
my Disie, my angel, good-by !’™~ :

He sealed the letter and kissed it 4 hundred
times; then he washed his hands and face and
waited. Life was. beginning to awaken in the
broader thoroughfares beyond. -He heard the dis-
tant rumbling of heavy vehicles.

did not -strike-

 

Promptly at six a’clock .the attendant rapped
at his. door.

“All right!’ Northcote responded.
some coffee—and a newspaper.”’

Fifteen minutes later he went downstairs, bag
in hand. The waiter was in attendance, the cof-
fee was ready, and a morning paper lay beside it.

“IT am much obliged,” Northcote said, perfectly
cool. ‘Is there any improvement in the weather,
Waiter?”

“No, sir;
bad, but the

“What a nuisance!
winter,”’

Northcote sat down, and turned over the leaves
of the newspaper. The waiter went away to other
duties. The sleet was driving hard against the
window and the wind came in angry gusts.

Northeote’s hand trembled. He glafced about
him furtively; then hé opened the paper, and sat
staring at it until seme one came inte the room.
The lawyer’s body—he read—had been discov-
ered by the caretaker just beforé midnight. There
was no doubt that Mr. Jarvis had been brutally
murdered; and afterward robbed. His pockets
had been rifled, his watch and chain were gone,
At present there was no clue to the assassin; no
one had been observed entering or leaving the
offices. The whole affair was shrouded in mys-
tery. The deceased gentleman had been highly
esteemed, both in business and social eircles. And
there it ended—until the police should run the
murderer to earth!

Northcote tossed the paper aside and drank
his coffee. His brain was at work. He was not
safe in London, where so many people knew him
and were aware of his dealings with Jarvis. As
for the thief who had stolen the dead man’s
jewelry and money, he would keep silent for his
Own sake—at least, for the present.

“Have you a railway guide, waiter?” He was
buttoning his heavy overcoat—the collar hid the
lower part of his face. “And let me have my
bill, please.’’

There was a train to Liverpool from Euston in
half an hour. He would have ample time!

He paid his bill, and gave the attendant 4
shilling.

“A merry Christmas to you, sir!’’

“Thank you. Mine will be a delightful Christ-
mas!” d

He laughed so strangely that the man looked
at him again. :

“Qne o’ them curmudgeofs who don’t keep up
the good old times!’ the waiter muttered. He
tossed the shilling dexterously in the air with a
satisfied smile. ‘“‘There he goes—eallin’ to a
eabby! I don’t envy him. This cold’s some-
thing awful!”

Within twenty
at Euston Station.

“Get me

not much. The fog ain’t quite so

Sleet’s fallin’ very |
I hate traveling in the

minutes Frank Northcote was

Fifteen minutes later he was,
being borne away from London. He did not mail
the letter to his wife until he arrived in Liver-
pool. There were so many curious eyes at Ched-
dar; the postmark might be a revelation to some
one!

There were several outward-bound vessels get-
ting up steam. He booked his passage to New
York, and called himself George Redman. - A
couple of detectives in plain clothes were loung-
ing about the shipping office, and keeping a sharp
eye upon all who entered. He spoke coolly to
them, lit a cigar, and went awdy. He had
thought of trying to alter his appearance It
was useless now. If the police were upon, his
track they would most assuredly find him.

He bought a small supply of new lineff,. and
destroyed that which he had carried with him—
together with everything else bearing the name of
“frank ’Northcote.” He also wrote another sad
letter to his wife.

On the next morning George Redman was on
the Atlantic on his way to New York.

TO BE CONTINUED.
PLAS aaa

THE CURSE OF GREED.

By MARIE CONNOR LEIGHTON,

Author of “The Peer's Masquerade,” ‘Love and Money,”’
“Faithful Blanche,’ “The Unwritten Law,” etc.

(“Tur CursE oF GREED” was commenced in No.
Back numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers.)

23.

CHAPTER XLITII.
WINNING A CHILD—-THE MYSTERIOUS MEETING.

A spell that was like the spell of a dream was
upon Orpah as she heard the man who had won
her love, and then had so shamefully forsaken
her, plead to the law to let him have the child
that was all that was left to her. In her suffer-
ing, and in her constantly watchful dread lest
Lance should enter the court, she did not hear all
the words that he said. But she was aware that
he said his mame was Henry Gilbert, that he was
a gentleman of independent means, and that be
usually traveled a good deal, but that when in
England he stayed at different London hotels. He
Claimed the child on the strength of its being for
the child’s own good that he should have it, as
he, being fairly wealthy, could give it more edu-
cational advantages than the mother would be
able to give it, if it were left in her care. He
would bring it up in a different class from that
in which she would bring it up. a

He spoke with a coolness which seemed ~ to
Orpah almost insolent, and deft her overwhelmed
with consternation.

How could he do it? Oh, if he had a human
heart at all, how could he do it?

“E should ‘like to go up an’ hit him straight
in the eye!’ Limping Ned remarked savagely, in
an undertone to Sally, who had managed to get
away from her work for an hour to hear the
ease, ‘Look at him there, a-standin’ up as_ cool
as a cucumber and speakin’ them words that’s
breakin’ that poor girl’s heart! An’ he doesn’t
look at her—not he! He’s grihnin’ away at the
judge, but he doesn’t dare to turn them false, dark
eyes of his on her! An’ wot’s the good of him
gettin’ himself up in them shabby old clothes?
As if it wasn’t easy enough to see that he’s a
swell, by the way he stands and the way he
talks an’ moves his hands!

“Besides, ain’t he just said he’s a gent who
don’t have to work for his livin’? Wot has he
got himself up for like that, then, if it isn’t so
as nobody sha’n’t reckernize him for somebody
else than wot he says he is! His name _ isn’t
Gilbert no more than yours an’ mine is! If we
only know’d the truth! Ob, fF wish young Dr.
Grove would come in! He'll give it to him hot
if he sees him! He always said he would, an’
I know he meant it!”

He, too, was watching the doors, even as
Orpah was watching them. But his watching
was eager and hopeful, and not full of fear as
hers was.

Then Orpah spoke, putting forward the pitiful
prayer of her longing heart, the strong claim
of her motherhood. Tears blinded Ned’s eyes as
he heard her, so that he could not watch the
doors any longer.

The magistrate—a kindly faced man—was
clearly puzzled: Some words that he spoke
showed that he sympathized with the sweet-faced,
golden-hairéd young mother who pleaded so _pite-
ously. He asked the little one, who was present
in court, to whom he wanted to go.

The child stretched out his little arms
Orpah with a lisping cry:

“To muvver—to muyver!”

Orpah’s wistful and. tender. prettiness and
trembling, breaking voice had won her treasure
back for her.

It was just as she was turning to leave the
court with her darling clasped in her arms that
Lance Grove strode to her side. .

‘Where is that man, Henry Gilbert?” he de-
manded of her. ‘I hear that he has been here
—hére in court.. I could not come sooner, <A
house that was being pulled down fell in, and I!
had half a dozen terribly serious cases... Other-
wise, I should have come here early, and should
have found the man and faced him and punished
him. Even as it is, I may still he in time.
Where is he?’

“He has gone.’’ Orpah answered with a ring
in her voice that was almost a ring of thanks-
giving to Heaven. ‘‘He has. gone.”

And, as she looked into Lance’s face, she was
glad that the man whom she had-once passion-
ately loved was beyond his reach.

When, half an. hour later, having parted from
Lance, who had to go back to his work among
the victims of the collapsed house, she reén-
tered her little sitting .reom with her three-
year-old darling clinging. to.her, she was sur-
prised to see a packet of papers lying upon the
table.

Going to the papers. and unrolling them, she
was startled to see red stains upon them. The
stains were ofa dull red that was. almost: brown,
but some unerring instinct told her that they
were stains of blood. And then——

A low ery broke from her as she recognized
the papers as certain documents which had been
among those stolen. from her father’s house at
the time of his murder. ;

In the heart of the sinister packet she found a
note addressed to herself. It contained these
words: ‘

to

“Tf you want to know the name of your fa-
ther’s murderer, come and meet the man who
has sent you back these papers. Meet him at
ten. o’clock to-night on the Embankment, by Cleo-
patra’s Needle. If you ever. loved your ill-fated
father, do not fail to keep this appointment.

*

‘go to-night to meet him,
thought she would tell Lance,. and get him to

 

sal eee .

 

“The stains on these papers are stains of your
father’s blood, left by the touch of the murder-
er’s fingers. Does not your whole soul cry out
for vengeance ?’’

Orpah stood staring
stricken, chalk-white,
her frame, ;

Should shé dare to keep this startlingly strange
appointment?

Drawing her child to her, and holding Him close
as if for protection agaiist the new horror that
filled the air about her, Orpah fixed hér eyes on
the papérs with those sinister and teérrible Fréd-
dish-brown stains upon them,

Yes, they were undoubtedly a portion of the
papers bélonging to her father that had been
stolen at the time of his murder, simultaneously
with her own marriage certificate and the doeu- |
ments coneerning the Jan Muller farm out in the
Transvaal. And she did not for a moment doubt
Eeeaee stains were the stains of her father’s

ood,

“The murderer must have touched him, then,
after firing the shot which killed him,’ she
panted to herself—‘touched him, no doubt, in
order to search for something upon him, and soe
got the stains upon his fingers, which after-
ward came off upon these papers! Oh, the
thought of it is awful! It seems now as if it
had. happened only yesterday!”

A thrill of keener horror ran through her. She
caught up a piece of embroidered cloth that had
been spread over one of the sofa cushions, and
covered the papers with it, so that the ap-
palling stains might be hidden from her shudder-
ing sight.

“This man can’t be a fraud,” she told. her-
self, while her breath came quickly and painfully.
“He must know the murderer, or he could not
have got hold of these papers to return them to
me. Yes, yes; I must keep the appointment that
he has made! There may be danger in keeping
it, and—and I shall need all my courage. to do
it; but I must go—I must go!”

She rang the bell,- and, when the landlady
came, asked her who had left the packet of pa-
pers here on the table for her. That worthy
woman looked astonished.

“Nobody’s been in here that I know of,” she
replied. ‘‘If anybody’s left: papers in this sit-
ting room, it must either .be one of the other
lodgers, or somebody that stole up the back stairs
while I was taking my after-dinner nap. 1
ought to have done without that nap, seeing that
Sally and everybody else was out. I’ve always
felt those back stairs to be dangerous. There’s
no Py a done, I hope? Nothing been stolen
—eh?”

Orpah shook. her head a little dazedly.

“No, nothing has been stolen,’ she answered.
“T only wanted to know whether any one had
seen or spoken with the man who left these
papers?” She lifted the embroidered cloth and
showed the documents. ‘It gives mé a nervous
feeling to think that a stranger can come in and
out of my room unnoticed, while I am away.”’

“T suppose it does, my dear,” returned ihe land-
lady commiseratingly. ‘I’m sure. I wonder you’ve
any nerves left at all after what you have gone
through since the little one was taken away
from you. But we shall have to keep an eye on
those back stairs in future, ’specially when there’s
only one of us down in the basement.”

Orpah felt her blood grow more and more chill
in her veins as she reread the letter_of the un-
krown man who had se mysteriously returned to
her some of the property of her murdered and
stil! unavenged father. Yes; she would dare to
For a moment she

horror>
through

the letter,
shaking‘ all

at
and

go with her; but in the next instant she reflected
that the man might not see her if she came
with a companion.

“$ had better go alone,’ she decided at last.

She spoke the words aloud, so that little Harry,
who was still tightly clasped in her arms, looked
up wonderingly into her face. And then a hor-
rible thought came to her What if this man,
who had asked her to meet him, should be him-
self the shedder of her father’s blood?

“But, no! That cannot be!’’ she told herself,
again speaking aloud, as if to find comfort in
the sound of her own Voice. “If he were the
actual murderer, he would not ask to see me, but
would shun me. I might get Lance to go with
me and keep out of the way, and unseen. But
he wouldn’t do that. He would rush forward too
soon, and then there might be a deadly strtfggle.
The man might be armed, and Lance——— Ah,
no; I must go alone!”

Strong though her resolve was to go, she yet
needed a good deal of courage to kéep the mys-
terious and ill-omened appointment when the hour
eame for doing so. Sheystruggled against her
fear, and overcame it: An@#™&the moment when the
first stroke of the hour of ten sounded from the
church clocks found her walking along the Em-
bankment hurriedly, although unwillingly, to
where Cleopatra’s Needle towered aloft in the
darkness of the London winter’s night.

A man was striding up and down under the
shadow of the ‘obelisk. He stopped when he
eaught sight of her and stood still, waiting for
er to come up to him. And her instinct told
her that he was the man she had come out. to
meet. This same instinct would have told her
so even if his attitude had not shown her so
clearly that he expected her to approach him.

She went up to him, stopped in front of him,
and looked at him closely.

He was a tall, good-looking young man, hold-
ing himself very well, with a light-colored over-
coat on over his evening clothes. He looked
unmistakably a man of aristocratic birth and
breeding, but his face had lines of dissipation
on it which showed that he was in a fair way
to ruin his life, even if he had not already ruined
it. It was he who spoke first:

“F am glad you have come, Miss Grove. HEH
would have been foolish of you not to come.
have something very important to tell you.”

The girl lifted her head proudly.

“J am not Miss Grove!’ Orpah told him. “tT
used to be Miss Grove, but new I am Mrs. Henry
Gilbert !’””

She thought she saw the stranger smile oddly.

“Phat’s another point that I have come to
talk to you about,” he quietly rejoined. ‘“‘Now,
perhaps, you would Hike to *know who f am?
Well, my name is But, after all, I. don’t
see why I should tell you what my name is until
we’ve had a little longer talk. What I have to
tell you, first of all, is that. I’ve seen you pretty
often, although you’ve never seen me until now,
and I’ve fallem in love with your forget-me-not
eyes. and your silky, fair hair amd your pretty,
babyish smile. I’m so far gone in my infatua-
tion for you that I actually want to marry you!
And, as I’m @ friend of Mr. Henry Gilbert——”

“Why do you talk like this to me?” the girl
broke im indignantly. ‘‘I came here to meet you
because I believed you had something to tell nie
that would help my brother and me to trace our
father’s murderer.’’

“} am coming to that,’’ returned the stranger.
They were standing near a lamp; and again she
saw a curious smile flit over his face. ‘Chance
has led me to discover the man Who shot your
father. Those papers that I sent you are proof
€nough that I know. I will betray his name to
you. and to the police on three conditions. The
first is: That you give up your child at once
to Henry Gilbert. The second is: That you give
Henry Gilbert a signed declaration that you never
were lawfully his wife. He or his lawyers will
draw up the declaration, and you will only have
to put. your name to it. And the third conditfon
is: That you marry me. You need not hurry
for a month or two over the fulfilling of this last
condition. . I am willing to give you a little
time in which to get to know me and to like me.
But the other things—the signing of the declara-
tion and the giving up of the child—must be
done at once.’’

With a sudden agony of dread mingling with
her indignation, lest during this hour of her
absence from her child Henry Gilbert should be
trying again by some pitiless, fiendish trick to
take him from her, Orpah flung back the stran-
ger’s proposals in his face.

“You are a man, and yet you can bring your-
self to ie :

“Wait a bit, my dear girl! I forgot to men-
tion that, on handing over the child to the cus-
tody of its father, you will receive the sum of
five thousand pounds down.’’

Even by the light of the street lamp he could
see how her face whitened—flushed a momen-
tary painful crimson—and then paled anew. She
clenched her little hands.

“How dare you—how dare you? You heart-
less coward! Do you think a woman—a mother
—sells her own child for money, even to its fa-
ther? And do you think, above all, that she can
be induced to sign away her honor and her child’s
honor ?’’ :

The stranger made an impatient movement.

“Do you mean to say you will not do this to
avenge your father’s murder? It’s all very well
to say all these fine things, but I should have
thought that your daughterly love and sorrow
would have made you forget yourself in order to
get justice for your father’s blood.”’

“My father may not have been what Henry
Gilbert and you would call a gentleman; but he
had this much manliness and honor which seme
higher born men have not—that he would rather
have died a thousand deaths. and have none of
them avenged, than have his daughter sign away
her own good» name, and her ¢hild’s right ‘to the
name of his father!’’ she passionately declared.

A sneer crossed the stranger’s lips then,

“Do yo méah to’ say you are fool enough to
believe that you ‘really are Henry Gilbert’s tawful
wife?” he asked, with the sneer even more no-
ticeable in his voice than it had been in his look.

Then Orpah answered him very bravely and
proudly, with her fair head held high.

“Yes, I do believe it. Whether or not he in-
tended his marriage with me to be lawful, I be-
lieve that it was so, and that it will be proved
to have been so. If it were not so—if I hadn’t
any claim on him—why should he trouble, as he
does, to do me harm? He would forget me and
my child in that case. No, no; he cannot de-
ceive me about this! I am his wife—nhis true
wife—before man’s law as well as God’s, and
with Heayen’s help I shall yet prove it! God,
who will help me to prove it, will take into His
own hands the avenging of my poor ther’s
cruel death! You can tell Henry Gilbert this!
And, you can tell Him, too, if you will, that,
even after all the wrong he has done the, I still
lové him, and shall love him to the hour of my
death! God help me! If he would only show
a little pity to me and to his child!’

Im the next instant she had gone—had fled
along the Embankment 4s fleetly as a hare until
her small, slight figure had disappeared ¢omplete-
ly from the stranger’s range of vision.

The man stood looking in the direction im
which she had goné for some moments after she
had disappeared. As he turned away with a
light shrug of his shoulders, a dark figure
emerged from a patch of deep shadow and came
toward him.

“Well? Any luck?
her ?”’

“Nothing! Absolutely nothing! She’s as ob-
stinate as a mule!  You’ve got a tough hand-
ful there, my dear fellow! She’ll never let you
go as long as she has breath in her pretty little
body! You did for yourself that day on that
yacht, old ‘boy !”

The man who had come forward from the
patch of shadow clenched his hands.

“No; I did not!’ he almost fiercely muttered.
“She shall release me yet! I'll make her re-
seane me!’ Do you hear? JY’! make her, or
else a

There was something almost horrible in his
sudden breaking off. His silence held a threat
more ugly than could have lurked in even the
most fiercely and cruelly spoken words.

What have you got out of

CHAPTER XLIV.

A POINT CLEARED—THE FIGHT IN THE DARK—
JOSH OLIVER AGAIN!

“Doctor Grove will be here in a minute or two,
if you won’t mind sitting down and waiting,’
said Mrs. Cane, as, in the absence of Mrs. Honey-
bun, who’, had gone out shopping, she ushered
Mrs. Clere and Madoline into Lance Grove’s plain
little sitting room.

“Yes; we will wait,’ Madoline said.

She led her mother to a chair, and made her
comfortable in it, but she herself would not sit
down. She asked after Mrs. Cane’s little girl,
who was having her midday sleep in her crib
after hér early dinner, and then began to walk
restlessly up and down the room.

“~ hope he won’t be long,’ Mrs. Clere said
agitatedly. “This suspense is very hard to bear.
Who knows what may be happening even in
these moments while we sit here and wait?’

Searcely five minutes had elapsed before Lance
Grove came in. He showed his surprise no less
than joy at finding them there. Then Mrs. Clere’s
pale and distressed @ountenance told him that
something was wrong.

“What is it?” he askéd quickly, looking .from
the mother to the daughter. ‘“There’s something
the matter. What is it?”

“It is about Eve,’’ Madoline answered him,
speaking quickly and agitatedly. ‘“‘She went out
late last night, and she has not come home yet.
We are terribly anxious about her. -So we came
over to see you. We want your advice—your
help. What do you think we ought to do?”

Lance Grovée’s face had turned grave. He
stood looking at Madoline fixedly.

“Where did she go when she went out last
night?” he asked.

“J do not know,” Madoline answered. ‘She
often goes out at night without saying a word
to me about where she is going. Mother says she
thinks she was going down by the riverside some-
where, to a rather low quarter, on an errand of
charity. Oh, Lance, what do you think can
have happened to her? Something must surely
have happened. She cannot be safe, having been
away all that time.’

At the words “going down by the riverside to
a rather low quarter,’ Lance Grove’s face had
changed, and a half-suppressed exclamation had
broken from his lips. A deeper anxiety came
now into his ێyes.

“T am afraid ‘you are right,’’ he returned
gravely. “Something must be done, and at onee.
1 thank Heaven that it is Eve and not you! She
is bold and cunning, and will, at least, give any
one who may have molested or trapped her a very
bad time. Oh, how I thank God that it is not
ou!”

“Oh, Lance, Where
can my dear child be?’

Mrs. Clere had risen, and was moving forward
totteringly, with her hands outstretched in deés-
perate appeal. She swayed as she moved, with
a-strange faintness overcoming her. Lance Grove
sprang to meet her, and caught her arm, and,
leading her to the horsehair sofa, made her He
down there.

“Dear Mrs, Clere, you must not Make yourself
fl} with anxiety,” he said to her soothingly. ‘I
think you may be assured that no very great
harm has come to her. She is a clever and
strong-minded girl, and very well able to take
care of herself even in a great emergency. Leave
everything to me, Lie down for a moment and
rest.”

He made her comfortable on the sofa, and then
he returned to Madoline’s side.

“T ‘will go to the surgery and get some medi-
cine that will scothe your mother,’ he said, in
a low voice. “Will you come with me? You
cannot help her for the moment. She has closed
her eyes, and is half asleep.”

His dark eyes and his tender smile appealed
to Madoline even more than did his words, and
she went with him.

When they had reached the surgery, and he
had closed the door behind them, he caught her
in his arms, and almost crushed her in the close-
ness of his embrace.

“Madoline, have you done what I asked you
yet? Have you told people that you have prom-
fsed yourself to me?”

“T have told my mother and Eve; not Josh
Oliver, because I have not seen him for more
than a few minutes since I told you that I would
speak. Oh, Lance, that reminds me there’s some-
thing that I want to ask you—something that
I’ve wanted to ask you for days past. I wanted
to know if it was you who sent me that ring—
that ring, you know, with the wonderful dia-
mond in it, that I have been wearing lately. I
took it off a few days ago, because Josh Oliver
said unjust things about it. It was sent to me
anonymously; .and from the letter which came
with it, which seemed to me to be in your hand-
writing, I have felt almost sure that it came from
you. Lance, tell me now—was it you who sént
it to me?’

“T’—he looked at her in astonishment—‘“I?
No, no, darling. So-far from it having been I
who serit it, I was always tortured with jealousy
that you were wearing so constantly and so loy-
ingly a jewel which I believed had’ come to you
from.somé other man. And you all the while be-
lieved that it came from*me, and were wearing it
always for that reason? My little darling! How
mad I was to be jeagous! And you’ say the
handwriting of the letter that camegwith it was
like mine?”

“Yés) very much like yours; so much like
yours that it deceived me, and I did not speak
of it, because in the letter I was asked not to
mention the ring to the giver, if I guessed who
he was, and, :above all, not to thank him for
it. That is why I have been silent about it until
now. I tried to keep the letter, but I think some
one must have purposely taken it away from me,
for it disappeared from one of the drawers in my
room a day or two after I had it. But never
mind all that. What does it matter who sent it,
or anything more about it, so long as -you, had
nothing to do with it? Oh,.Lance, I am- so
glad—so glad and so thankful! I will not tell
you what Josh Oliver said about it. It does not
matter now. -I shall send it to him immediately
after I get home. Nothing matters so long as I
know you: to be perfectly honorable, perfectly
upright, and manly always. Not that I ever
doubted you, my prince, my noble lover!”

More closely yet he held her to him then—so
Closely that she could hardly breathe.

“Madoline, I want you so—I-want you so!’ he
murmured into her ear. “How much longer
must I wait? What are we waiting for—we,
‘who have youth, health and courage?”

‘We are waiting for a score of reasons, Lance,”
she told him when, between his kisses, he let
her speak. ‘“‘For one thing, Eve says that Josh
Oliver would turh her and my mother back into
poverty if I were to marry you. And, if he did
so, it would kill mother now: ‘You can sée for
yourself how very weak and delicate she_is. But;
of course, if there should. prove to be any truth
in this idea that the great Mr. Brabazon may be
our father Z

“That will be a new danger for our love, Mado-
line, and not a help,” he broke in, with a sudden
pating of his cheeks.. “The daughter of» the
great Mr. Brabazon would not be allowed to marry
@ poor young doctor. I should be told then that
your husband must be a peer. Ah, you do not
know—you do not know!”

“What, Lance—what is it that I do not know?”

“How much I love you! How I-worship you!
How I think of you in every moment of the day
until I am half mad with longing for you: Mado-
-Hne, you must not keep me waiting much longer.

what can it all mean?

 

Tell me, my darling, that, when your mother

 

and Eve are safe, you will marry me at once.
Tell, me that, so that I may have strength to
wait. Put your arm round my neck and say
so.”

Shyly and yet passionately she did as he asked
her to do, while a crimson flush dyed her cheeks,

“And, now, Lance, We must think of Hve. We
must not forget her in dur own Happiness. She
may be in great-misery, even in great danger.
Of course, she may be staying away of her own
free will; But I’m almost sure that’that is not so,
If she did indeed go to that rough neighborhood
down by the river—-a place where once went
for her—a thousand terrible things might have
happened to her. It is a@ dréadful place! She
did not Want any one to know about her going
theré; but I had better tell you, so that you may
go and search for her.” .

“Deetor Grove!
Grove here?”’

It was the yoiece of Limping Ned sounding at
the door, which he had begun to push open. Let-
ting Madoline draw herself away from his arm,
Lance Grové went toward the door.

“Is that you, Ned? Come in!’

Ned limped in, looking very white and scared.

“Oh, sir, there’s something dreadful been hap-
penin s

The lad, who was much frightened and agi-
tated, had suddenly caught sight of Madoline, and
had stopped as if he had been shot, and was
staring at her as if she had been a spectre.
Lanee Grove smiled encouragingly.

He went to the cabinet, poured into a small
glass the draught he had come to the surgery to
get for Mrs. Clere, and handed it to Madoline to
take to her mother. When she had gone, he
turned to Ned. ‘And, now, what is it?” he
asked. ‘‘What is it you have to tell me?”

“Why, it’s this, sir!’ Ned clutched at him.
“There’s something dreadful happening down at
my master’s place! He'd kill me if he know’d I'd
told you about it; but I can’t help it if he does!
There’s things going on that is something awful!
If If hadn’t jest this minute seen her heéfe,
should have said the lady you’re in love with
was shut up in that awful place they call my
master’s den. But there’s another lady—a young
*un ”

“Ah, it is her sister! Then that is where
Eve is! Yes, Ned; I will go at once. You shall
take me down there as soon-as I explain my de-
parture to Miss Clere and her mother.”

Hurrying to the sitting room, he found Mrs.
eee and Madoline coming out from it into the
all.

“My mother wants to go home at once,” Mado-
line told him. ‘‘She says she will. feel better at
home. Meanwhile, is there anything that we can
Oo +” be

“Nothing until this evening,’ Lance replied.
“Leave everything to me until then. Tf I do not
bring Bvé back to you by six ofclock we will see
what other steps can be taken. I think I have
a clue—enough to go upon for the next few
hours.”’

Madoline, even as she took hér sweet farewell
of him, noticed that his voice and manner had
chahged since he had spoken with Limping
Ned. All the way back to the Hampstead house
with her mother she was asking herself what this
could mean. By the time she reached home
she had connected Ned with the horrible river-
side den to which shé had gone once for Eve,
and the conviction had flashed into her mind
that her sister had almost certainly gone there
on the previous hight, and had mét with~some
serious, and, perhaps, dangerous, accident.

“T must go there myself at once,” she. decided
inwardly. ‘She may be waiting there from mo-
ment to moment for help.”

She started off in a cab as soon as she had

rseen her mother safely in her own room. How

she was going to find that wretched den, the first
sight of which dt. night had been so loathsome to
her, she could not tell. She trusted to her in-
are and to her desperate anxiety to guide
er,

Stopping the cab at the same spot where she
had stopped it on that other night when she had
made the same ugly journey, she got out, and
began the walk which then had terrified her.
Now, in the daylight—although the light was
momentarily fading, and the dusk beginning—it
was not so bad. There were again the drunken
ruffans who had insulted her before, and ggain
the scenes of lawlessness and cruelty shtcked
her eyes and ears alike; but she steeled herself
this time against both insults and horrors, nerved
to new courage by her fears for Eve. Once or
twice she had to ask her way by describing as
well as she could the tumbledown old warehouse
which was her destination. But, in the main,
her own great anxiety led her right. Presently
she recognized the spot where, after hurting her
foot, she had waited while Ned had fetched her
a cab, and from this spot she knew that she could
find her way.

The haze of dusk had thickened when she
reached the four decaying steps which le@ up to
the door of the den. The door was shut. She
knocked at it, but no answer came. With all her
strength then she pressed against it. The worn
and rusty hinges gave way, the door fell inward;
and she rushed in and along the passages which
had filled her with so much dread when she had
looked into them by the light of Limping Ned’s
lantern on the night of her first coming here.

How she found her way along the passages to
the wizard’s den she could never have told. She
had never been to that den before, and it was
not the only part of the abandoned warehouse to
which these winding, rat-haunted tunnels led.
They were as gloomy as in full nighttime, too,
although the outer world still only knew the dusk
of the afternoon. But a strong conviction that
her sister’s life in some way depended on her
efforts sharpened her senses tO a more than Bu-
man acuteness, and urged her forward through
all risks and in spite of all difficulties. Twieé,
at sharp turnings, she slipped and fell, and the
filth of the nasty. floor in the darkness was so
horrible that at any other time it would Have
revolted her beyond the possibility of going 4
step farther. She could have shriekéd@ with ter-
ror, but she kept her nerves well in hand.

At last she found herself in that part of thé
wretched building which at night served Mr.
Samson Argies as an office for the transacting
ef his business as felons’ banker.

The hideous place was lighter than the pas-
sages, but it was still very gloomy. Madoline
stood still for a moment, to look around affright-
edly, and to get her breath... Her chest was }a-
boring from the closeness of the air, and she was
trembling violently through all her frame. She
had already realized, to her surprise, that she
was. alone in the disagreeable place. She believed
that she had been alone ever since she had come
within these decaying and terror-haunted walls.

Suddenly, as she stood gasping, there came to
her ear sounds which froze the blood in her veins.
They were sounds of blows and eries, and they
seemed to come from the back of this grimy den
whose threshold she had just crossed. Some-
where there in the suffocating gloom, among the
old barrels and coils of filthy rope, something ~
terrible must be happéning. Surély—surely that
was Evye’s voice that she héard among thé othér
voices? Eve’s voice, calling for hélp?

She ran across the floor to the back of the den,
sending the rats. scurrying. béfore her. She had
felt sure that she would find an opéning thére,
but there was nothing but tle wall—the hide-
ous, repulsive wall, green’ and foul with damip-
ness. The horrors which she could imagine, aj-
though her eyes saw nothing of them, must be
gZGing on just behind this wall! Yes; very. close.
For the cries and blows were terribly. distinct
now, telling of a fierce and deadly struggle taking.
place. Again she heard her sister’s yoice, raised
first in angry defiance, and then in another wild
call for help:

“T am coming, Eve!
you, and am coming!”

She cried out the words at the top of her
voice almost without knowing that she was doing
so. “In the deep gloom she felt about the wall
for an opening or a door. She could fing . neither.
She flung herself against the wall désperately.

But the wall did not yield to her strength as
the door had done. It was strong to resist’ her
at all parts. With a gesture of despair she gave
up the attempt to foree it.

“There must be some other way,” she told her-
self, aloud. ‘It is useless, my trying here. TI
must get help—the help of the police.”

With her beautiful fair hair loosened, and her
costly clothing torn and begrimed, she made her
way back across the fioor to the dark and dis-
mal passages, and thence out—Heaven alone -knew
how—to the free open air again: She looked
about for some other entrance to the ramshackle
place, but could find none.

“There must be a way~ somehow—somewhere,
Whereis it? Oh, Heaven, help me to get help
for her!’

She ran toward a main street, heedless now of
the roughness of the neighborhood, and bent
only on finding a policeman. It might be hard
to find one. She did not remember “having no-
ticed one on her way here, either to-day or when
she had come before at midnight. Just ‘as: she
was beginning to. despair, and thinking that she
must ask the way to thé police station, an officer
came into sight at a street corner. With. the
speed of desperation she ran to him through the
dusk: : i

“Come with me!” she panted to him. ‘There
is something dreadful*taking place in that: old
warehouse that stands on the piece of waste
ground by the river. I can hear cries and groans
and a noise of fighting im there. They are mal-
treating a: woman—my -sister! I couldn't get
in, but there must be some other way.”

Breathlessly she gave him details: of where’ she
had been and what. she had heard. Ley

“There’s surely another: way in’’ she repeated.
“Where is it? Do you know? Quick! Quick,

I—Madoline—can hear

*

 

 

 

Beggin’ yer pardon, is Doctor .

i

 

 

 
 

 

 

AN

| he was going, and i
went there.”

»

 

| dar
_. ing, though perha

_ @ried Patsy,

 

 

Vol. 64—No. 88

“was ss THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

or Heaven’s sake! There may_ be murder per-

petrated while we are standing here!”
The officer. was thinking deeply.

.Dpeping 20% &

tween two and four in the- morning,
0

and not a soul would see

trying, anyhow. Come

him. |
e on, miss,
sees es; I’m comin
there!”

ve.

see oe RSME
_. that. is. in~
cs UCR 2

To BE CONTINUED. —

IVE KNAVE

By NICHOLAS CARTER,

Author of. “4 Fatal. Bargain,’’ “The Price of a Secret,”

"| “Kendrick’s Pledge,” “The Wheel of Fate,”
“Sealed Orders,” etc.

ae s

(Am ELUSIVE KNAvE” was commenced in No. 33.
Back numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers.)

| CHAPTER XIII. —
~ A SCHEME PERVERTED,

-. Seated in the business office in. Nick’s resi-
dence, at eight o’clock that evening, Chick. Car-.
' ter and Patsy were trying vainly to hit upon a

plausible explanation of Nick’s mysterious ab-

\ had seen him in the Coddington grounds
morning, talking with Captain. Gaskett ane
an

erossed Payson Street; but neither had thought it
rth . to follow. him. around the corner.
They did so a little later, however, only to find

sence.

also when he left them
worth “whi

that he was missing. —
_. When-=more than an
brought no

‘givings,
Gask

-fhad gone, however, and it

- the door brought no
yod reason for - it.

response.

shadowed to this house.

- < Two hours had then p

- Ludwig girl. "

The more Chick
however,

something was wrong in the Klein residence.

“Well, there’s one thing about it,” Patsy for-
_eibly declared, near the end of their vain. dis-
“We can’t stick here like two rr

°

cussion.
on a log. If the chief’s in trouble, we’ve got
- ‘get a move on and do something.” =

 .**Phere’s another thing about it, Patsy,” Chick
thoughtfully rejoined. ;

“What’s that?”

. “There is only one place to which Nick said
t’s dollars to doughnuts he

“The Klein woman’s house?”

- -' “Bxactly. He had it up his sleeve good and
_. strong for her, and only something extraordi-
nary would have deterred him from calling on
if he had discovered anything ex-
traordinary, he would have been dead sure to let
He knew we were near by, and it}.

her. | Now;

us know.
- wouldn’t have taken half a minute.”
“That's sound reasoning!
around it.” :

“And that leaves only one reasonable infer-

| ence—that he went where he said he was go-
cee: ‘Assuming that he-did, and that something
ae has gone wrong with him, that’s where the trick

ing.
-mnust have been turned.” —
“Tt surely. seems so, Chick.”
“I’m going to make certain of it.”
“Going out there again?”
-*That’s what,” Chick ‘said decisively.

look at the inside of it.

son.
in there.

| we know, and between them. they may .have
|. downed Nick to prevent an arrest.. If he didn’t

go there, where the dickens did he go?”
“Twas there

ing. “Let’s get.a move on. and go out there.”
‘Ym with you,’ said Chick, rising.

make good ing some way.”

tions.
Se

ever,
under his woolen cap. = — 3 ; f
s der boss in der shack?” he huskily
moment the ‘door was opened. ;
“You mean .Mr, Carter?”
“Dat’s what. I’ve been

shad any dope to dish out.”
Oh, you’re Tad. Horrigan,’

- §mstruections given him.
Nick is away just now, but

rmation you can impart. I am Chick Carter.

This is Patsy, another of our force.’’

orrigan squinted a bit doubtfully from one to

the other. — oe 3
“TJ s’pose it’s all right fur me to give you two
pook, ain’t it?’ he asked, in his inelegant

K dcr
slang. -
“Yes,

do.
- anything you have learned.”’

, *tain’t fear that I might get bit bad if
mugs,” Horrigan replied.
Mebbe.
when he has Ger tip, he’ll get next to something lif

1 doped der wen
“Only I tort I'd better make him_ wise.
himself. See?’
.. “Yes, that’s perfectly

“
La

ere ID Ro Py seta

age has opened a new poolroom, eh?”

“ said Horrigan, with several sinister nods.
been running a month, I’m told, and. only
of der big plungers have been put wise to it
“Do you know where it is located?”

:, PhS, with interest.

lockjaw..
d, d’ye see?
immie. I’ve per

1 vem goes, but |

© sure the place is running, how-|

Sure!

If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t be here,” Horrigan
edly declared. “I’ve got wise to dat much,
and I heard a punk what was always.
n Brayley’s dumps say dat he’s got an-

. (wid him on der play.”
0 eon he has taken a partner?” _

you get this information, Horri- |

from a guy named Grogan,”
“It’s on der level
but he’s der worst skin

viciously.

“Twas.

. “I’ve always had a notion that a queer sort of
fe. opening that there is up a back street close
by here leads into that plate,” he said. ‘We
may as well try it. I’ve had my eye on this
d good while past, and watched a
ry queer-looking customer slip in and orth hr
_ two fou: then when he
pent the iittle street was empty, as well as
4 1. It’s worth
if you’re tom-

ay g!. It is. own sister
Madoline panted.. “Quick—

8

hour had passed and
sign of-him, Chick began to have mis-
which led to a. confidential talk with
ett. The latter could. not say where Nick
eager then occurred to Chick
Ess oe had said that. he should call on Judith

After vainly waiting until noon, Chick also
determined -to go to her house and try to learn
whether Nick had been there; but his ring at
There was a very
: Maria Ludwig cautiously
peering at him through one of the Tace-draped
windows, knew him to be the man whom she had
seen spying upon Holland and Judith Klein the
| previous. night, and whom she afterward had

assed since the downfall
of Nick, and the only information Chick ob-
tained was erroneous—that volunteered by the
-neighbor.whom he had questioned the night be-
- fore, and who now came to a fence between the
- @wellings to say that she thought Miss Klein
- must be away from home, having seen nobody in
| er about the house that morning—which further
evinced the caution, craft and cunning of the

considered the circumstances,
when ‘Nick failed to come home that
evening, the more strongly he was impressed that

There’s no getting

; “We
ean size up that crib in the dark all right, and

if there are no lights in the house, we'll have a
k We'll find out whether
the Klein woman is there, lying low for some rea-
I’ll bet she is, or Nick wouldn’t have gone
Holland may be there with her, for all

he went, and I’d gamble on it,”
hard hit by Chick’s shrewd reason-

a ee 4 “Even if
{| -we discover nothing, we shall have lost but little
time. I have an idea, however, that we shall

Both Ractenta to get ready, but the doorbell
rang before they had completed their prepara"
“Chick did not wait for the -servant to
it, b d so himself, thinking a messen-
‘ick might have arrived. “At. the door,
, : e. found only .a seedy, haggard, sin-
-—- ister-eyed fellow, who gazed sharply at him from

asked,

‘doing der rubber plant
him, and was told to hike round here when

ae i said Chick, now
- fecalling Nick’s description of the fellow and the
“Come into the office.
Tl receive any in-

; ; Horrigan,” said Chick, assuringly. “I
| know all about the case and what you’ve been em-
: ( ‘You may state to me, as well as

plain, Horrigan, and very
Chick allowed: “What have you learned?’
I've found out dat der smoove guy has got

n’t so new der nap is still on) ar

"It's
a few
" asked
“Not yet. Dat’s what I’m trying to pull off.
But+all of der gang I’ve got next to so fur seems
Been tipped to keep dere
And you couldn’t pry ’em
. trying to pipe
ain’t got wise to

‘T’ll go down on dat against der field.”
Are eg. equally sure that Dick Brayley is

‘was him as give me der tip dat
BE, Pua Dat was before I got onto

=

dently asserted. “Gimme a little more time and
T’ll run dat Grogan guy into der sinkhole. I’ve
got it in.fur him; and you can swaller dat dope
wid nothing to wash it down.” .. ; ;

“Pl] take your word. for. it,” smiled Chick.
“J judge; Horrigan, this is all you can tell us at
_present.””_ siti sia

“Ain’t dat enough fur a_starter?”

“It’s capital, as far as it goes,” replied Chick,
approvingly. ‘‘You- will keep on with your good
work, I suppose?” :

“Sure ting!” Horrigan heartily vouchsafed.
“Pll hike. round here when [ get wise to some
more. I’ll keep you doped, all right!” :

“Very good, Horrigan. We shall expect you,
and Mr. Carter will see that you. get yours for
the service.” : :
-. “Dat’s .good enough fur me,” said Tad, edg-
jing toward the door. ‘‘So-long, gents.” -

“Good night, Horrigan, and good luck to you,”
said Chick, while he let him out-of the house.
“Faith, he’s an old tout, for fair,’’ Patsy. re-
marked, when Chick rejoined him in the office.

place and where it is located, I don’t know who

an.’ as iat s

“There is some truth in that, yet he is labor-
ing under one disadvantage.”

“What's that?” eas ; ‘
“Brayley, as his defiant letter to Nick indicated,
knows that Horrigan is out to expose him. Un-
| doubtedly, then, he has warned all of his asso-
ciates against confiding anything to Horrigan.”
That's. right, too,” Patsy nodded. ‘“‘I’d for-
gotten that.” ; . ;

“It’s worth something,” added Chick, “to know
that Brayley is running a place again.. We’ll find
some way to locate him. We’ll.be off for. Ford-
bam. first of all, however, and try to get-on
eae track, All ready?” 5

“ es. ” x

tle after. nine, when the two detectives arrived
in the suburb mentioned. Both wore the same
disguises worn that morning, a customary pre-
caution when on: work of this::kind, and very
little was said while they proceeded toward their
destination. Neither anticipated anything of a
-yery stirring nature, but it is wher? one least ex-
pects it that such incidents occur. :

They were still only a short distance from one
of the business sections, when Patsy remarked
-inquiringly: *

“T s’pose there wouldn’t be any use in calling
on Gaskett?”’ eae

“No, I think not,” said Chick. “It’s not like-
Iy that he has heard from Nick since their inter-
view this morning.”

*““Mebbe not.”

herself, if she’s there. If we can make nothing
out of that, we next> will Hello! there goes
the fire alarm.” ;

Instinctively, upon hearing the sudden clang-
ing of the bells, Chick halted on a corner at
which they had arrived, and glanced in each di-
rection for signs of a fire. uo

As he did so, a rapidly driven covered wagon
turned the same corner, and Chick had a mo-
mentary glance at the face of the man driving
it, quite plainly visible in the glare from an arc-
light near by. He saw the fellow’s expression
change, when their eyes met for an instant, as if
he was startled—as, in, fact, Chick also was. ~

“By Jove!’ he exclaimed, as the wagon rolled
on. of :
“What. now?” Patsy quickly asked, noting
Chick’s tone. we :

“Tll swear I saw that fellow in Coddington’s
grounds this morning.’’

“The one driving the wagon?’

“Yes. He looked startled, too, when he saw
me, and By thunder,. I’m right! -Some-
body’s peeking out through the back curtain.
Some crooked job is being done with that wagon,
Paley, Look lively! We must hold it up, or lose
a leg”

Chick was right, indeed. The man on the seat
was Tim Grogan, with Bill Hadley in the body of
the wagon, looking after the chloroformed figure
fof Nick Carter. Grogan had noticed Chick that
morning, as the latter had noticed him; and this
unexpected meeting, under conditions rendering
Grogan somewhat nervous, had occasioned his
involuntary change of countenance.

- ‘With a swift, backward glance at Hadley, who
was seated on a box in the wagon, he growled
| Sharply ; : :

“Look back, Bill, and see if those fellows. on
the corner are watching us.”

- “What d’ye think?’’ cried Hadley, with a star-
tled gasp.

“J dunno. Hang you, look and see!”

| Hadley now complied, drawing aside the leath-
er curtain a few inches—a move that at once
clinched Chick’s suspicions.

In another instant both detectives were in hot
pursuit of the wagon, already about fifty yards
away.

Hadley sprang back with an oath. ;

“By Heaven, you’re right, Tim!” he cried ex-
citedly. “They’re after us for fair! They’re
coming to beat the band!”

Grogan said not a word, but grabbed his whip,
giving the horse a blow that would have put
ginger into an army mule. The animal bolted
under it, and those that followed, ang in another
ten seconds the wagon was tearing through the
street at a two-minute clip, with Chick and Patsy
thirty yards behind. z

People drawn out by the fire alarm saw and
heard them. It would have been obvious to even
an idiot that some extraordinary episode was be-
ing enacted, that. only _ utter desperation could
have impelled a man to drive as Grogan was driv-

ng.

With shouts, shrieks and yells, as they drew
nearer the business section, where the stores were
still open and the light was brighter, people whom
the wagon had passed warned those in the way

f
. a tumult rose above the clanging of the
ells.
~ Fifty yards in advance of the wagon, 4 scat-
tered throng of men and boys were scurrying
across an open square, the junction of two streets.
Wild with. excitement, thrilled with -apprehen-
sion, seeing that a frightful accident was immi-
nent, they were watching both the approaching
wagon and a motor chemical engine that was tear-
ing through the cross street. All were yelling fu-
riously, and many were wildly gesticulating for
the wagon to stop. — E
Grogan, with his mind more intent upon his
pursuers, did not see these demonstrations of the
crowd. Glancing back at Hadley, he shouted
furiously :. ;
“Took back again, Bill!

>

: See if they’re gain-
ing on us.’
“How the devil can x
“Do what I say, hang you!” Grogan fiercely
shouted. “If they’re gaining, pull a gun and plug
them. ‘ We’ve got to give them the slip, or——”’
He turned to look ahead again -at that mo-
ment, turned. to. see the yelling crowds on the
sidewalks, the nearly deserted square, the glare
of lights from a corner window—and the chim-
ical engine, under full speed, as the team he was
driying and was powerless to stop, plunged direct-
ly in the way of it.
A collision was inevitable. -
A groan rose from the. horrified crowd.
Grogan dropped his reins and leaped for his

e.

Then. the. crash came, the rending of wood-
work, the quick overthrow of the horse and wagon
—and all was over in the fraction of a second.

The leather top of the wagon had been hurled
'to the farthest sidewalk.

Hadley had gone with it, and it had saved
his life and limbs. He was up in a moment and
scurrying away through the crowd.

. Grogan had- alighted on his feet, pitched for-
ward upon his hands, but was up and away be-
foré any observer could seize him.

On the pavement, near the curbstone, lay the
body of an unconscious man, bound hand and
foot, with his white face upturned to the horri-
fied crowd; and it was upon him that Chick Car-
ter’s gaze fell first, when he rushed upon the im-
mediate scene of the collision, only a few seconds
after it occurred.

“Oh, my God!” The cry, and the groan that
came with it, were inyoluntary. “It’s Nick tr

CHAPTER XIV.
NICK SIZES UP THE CASE.

“Well, there’s this much about it, Nick,” Chick
Carter declared. “I shall never feel more sure
that you are dead, than when I saw you lying
it that gutter. It looked to me like a sure

ng. > + c

“Me, too!” Patsy exclaimed. “Gee! I thought
’twas all off.” bs.” Bae 3

Nick Carter laughed. He was seated in his
business office with his two assistants, on_the
morning following the accident in Fordham. Bar-
ring a few slight bruises, he was none the worse
for the calamity, though as-much could not be
said of some who had figured in it.

“J was worth a dozen dead men,” he replied,
still smiling. “I was dead to what was taking
plaee, however, and it may be lucky that I was,
It is said that fortune favors drunken men and
somnambulists.— ;
‘|}haye made some move that would have thrown
me under the wagon.” oes ee are

“That's righ Chick admitted. “As a
matter of fact,
| clear of it when the wagon went down, and you

lled over and over into the gutter. The driver
f the chemical engine had three ribs broken, and

horse was killed outright. It’s an infernal

to0,”

 

“Jf he can’t find out who frequents Brayley’s new |

It was still early: in the evening, only a lit-}{

“We'll first tackle that house and the woman

If I had. been conscious, I might.

ervers told me, you were pitched

had got away with the
“Em t

 

ascals escaped.

a

“Temporarily -only,’’ said Nick, impyesaively.

He had told them all that had occurred to him
after leaving them the previous day, and a fur-
ther analysis of the circumstances, together with
the information imparted by Horrigan, had en-
abled Nick to arrive at some very significant
conclusions. 3

They were not in line, however, with those at
which most of the press and public had arrived.
Energetic reporters had been getting in their
work. Stories were current of which the origin
would have been difficult to trace, yet the foun-
dation for which none seemed to question.

It was boldly asserted that Miss Judith Klein
was mysteriously absent from home. It was
openly alleged. that District Attorney Holland had,
on the. morning following the Kennedy. murder,
been seen on an early train with a woman an-
swering her description, and that he had left
home without informing his-family of his. inten-
tions, or sending. any. word to his business office.

In view of these circumstances and the polit-
ical relations between him and Kennedy, allega-
tions that-he had probably killed the latter were
already being made, which his absence and si-
lence seemed in a measure to confirm.

Concerning the accident in Fordham and the
condition in which Nick had been found, the
press and public knew very little. Chick had
quickly reasoned that Nick must have been caught
in some kind of a trap, and that publicity might
be undesirable, and he had had him hurriedly
removed and brought home, before the. throng
upon the scene of the accident: discovered his
identity.

“Temporarily; eh?” he rejoined. ‘Evidently,
Nick, you now have definite views and plans.”

“Well, more definite than yesterday morning.
You ¢an bet on that.” ;

“Most of the newspapers seem to have formed
quite decided opinions.”

“Yes, and equally erroneous.”

“They are out strong against Holland.”

“TI am as strong in his favor,” :

“Ts -that so?”

“T am. going to clear that man, Chick, and put
this crime where it belongs, if it takes the rest
of my life,’’ Nick emphatically declared.

neon believe, then, that he is innocent?’’

ee oO. ,

“Against even what I saw and heard, and his
lies when you questioned him?”

“That evidence may have been misinterpreted,”
Nick replied. “He may have had some secret rea-
son, possibly a very serious one, for his conduct.
This is more than offset, in -my opinion, by what
we have learned since yesterday morning. Let
me size it up for you.”

“Go ahead,” Chick nodded.

“To begin with,” said Nick, “Gaskett states
that Kennedy was seen approaching the Cod-
dington place on foot a short time before the
murder. As you will remember, Holland admitted
that he also was on foot and came through Pay-
son Street, entering the rear grounds. Which of
the two arrived first, or whether they arrived
about the same time, is an open question. Know-
ing absolutely that Holland has lied to some ex-
tent, or, at least, has suppressed the truth, we
cannot tell in how far to believe him. It ap-
pears reasonably certain,. however, that. neither
he nor Kennedy was with the gang in the auto-
mobile before the erime was committed.”

“That seems probable, surely.”

“Now about that. car,” Nick proceeded. ‘‘I found
positive evidence that it stood for several min-
utes, at least, around the corner from Payson
Street, out of view from the Coddington grounds,
and that it was headed away from them. It
must have been standing there when the crime
was committed.”

“How did you learn that?’

“First, because a quantity of oil that leaked
from some part of the motor plainly showed that
the car must have stood for some little time.
Second, because the marks left by the tires showed
which way the car then went. It turned sharp
around the corner into Payson Street, where it
again made a quick turn and stopped near the
wall. over which Kennedy’s body was taken, as
indicated by drops of blood. on the stones, as
well as across the lawn inside of the grounds.
The car was then driven around the corner of
Vester Street, and thence into Myrtle Avenue,
where we saw it turn the corner and then tried to
hold it up. I am absolutely sure that that was
the course taken by the car.”

“The three men must have worked very rap-
idly,’ said Chick. ‘Not more than two or three
minutes could have passed, from the time you
thought you heard a, pistol shot, until we saw
the car coming around. the corner.”

“They did work rapidly, extraordinarily so, in
fact,” said Nick; ‘and that’s a very significant
point.’’ : ae

“Why so?”

“‘Because it suggests, Chick, that Kennedy may
have been killed by one of the men in the car.”

“How do you make that out?”

“Because they must have been prepared to in-
stantly remove the body,’’ Nick explained. “If
the murder was not: anticipated by them, they
could. not -have so quickly. overcome their natural
horror and surprise, to: say nothing of locating the
body, then transferring it to the car and get-
ting away with it. The dispatch with which all
this was done is very significant.”

“That’s true, Nick, I'll admit,” Chick nodded.

“Purthermore, the car was without a number.
Gaskett has found it impossible to discover its
owner. Obviously, this is not accidental. Just
such a precaution would have been taken by men
bent upon crime. If these three men knew noth-
ing about the murder before it was committed,
why was the car standing so long near the scene,
and so promptly used for removing the body?”

“By Jove, there is logic in that argument,”
Chick now cried.

“T think. so.”

‘But. here’s a point, Nick.”

“Well?”

“Assuming that Holland is innocent, and was
coming down Payson Street just before the mur-
der, he must have seen the lights of the car when
it rounded to the wall over which the body was
taken.- He ought, in fact, to have seen the men
removing it.”

“You overlook one fact,” said Nick.

“What is that?”

“There is a sharp curve in Payson Street in
the direction .from which Holland would have
approached, if coming from home, and. the car
might have got away before he rounded the
curve.”

“That’s right, too,” Chick thoughtfully said. “I
now remember it.” ’

“Now follow me,” Nick went on. “We know
that the gang in the car waited there for. some
time. The car was around an opposite corner
and headed away from the Coddington grounds.
Why headed away?: Simply, that the glare of
its lights, thrown beyond the corner, should not
be seen by a person coming. through Payson
Street from either direction. Was that precau-
tion taken because an intended victim was ex-
pected to approach through that street, who might
become suspicious, or wary, if hé-saw an automo-
bile drawn up near the Coddington place? Tl
wager that there was some such reason,” Nick
decidedly added.

“Whew !’’? Chick whistled, now deeply impressed
by Nick’s shrewd deductions. ~‘You certainly are
opening a field. worthy of investigation.”

“T feel fairly sure that the gang in the auto-
mobile were out to kill Jim Kennedy, and it’s
ng odds that one of them did it. It is impos-
sible to say, at present, what their motive was;
but it. looks to me as.if a plot had been laid to
commit the murder at such a time and under
such circumstances aS would serve to throw. sus-
picion upon Holland.”

“But why, in that case, did they remove the

“T don’t know.” ;

“And why did Holland knuckle to Judith
Klein, when she accused him of the crime, as I
certainly saw him do?”

“JT don’t know.”

“And why,’’ argued Chick, “did he lie to you
in the Coddington residence, half an hour later?”

“T don’t know,” Nick repeated, laughing. ‘“‘As
a matter of fact, Chick, there is a good deal we
don’t know relating to this case. That must be
cleared up later. What I do know, however, has
convinced me that Chet Holland, instead of being
a criminal, is probably the victim of a gang of
criminals.’’-

“Gee! J’ll bet*you’re right, Mr. Carter,” said
Patsy, who had been attentively following his ar-
gument. ; :

“Now, assuming that I am, here are a few
points that may set us on the track of the real
criminals,” Nick. continued. “First, what was Ju-
dith Klein doing in the Coddington grounds that
night? You discovered her talking with Hol-
land, the latter with ‘a reyolver in his hand,
pony ee the very spot where Kennedy was

e et

“There’s no question about that.”

“But you arrived, Chick, not at the beginning,
but at the end of their interview. -*What was said
before your arrival is an open question.”

“T’ll admit that.” is

“Now, to repeat, what was she doing there?
Was she lying in wait to catch Holland: in’ an
incriminating situation? Did he, as may have
been the case, come down Payson Street, enter
the rear grounds soon after the murder, and
while on his way to the side door of the house
discover that blood spot on the driveway, and,
very possibly, the weapon with which the. crime
was committed? Did Judith Klein approach. him
at that moment and assert that he had killed
Kennedy, and that confederates in his employ
body ?’’ Z
mt?!” Chick thoughtfully drawled. “That’s

er de an ingenious theory, Nick

| admit, of course, that it is only a’ theory,”

and living skeletons out of the poofhouse.

 

replied Nick. ‘‘Let’s see what we know that seems | humorist, and if you had listened you would have

to confirm it.
later, and the woman fied upon seeing Codding-
ton approaching, and hurried home. Holland
ealled about two hours afterward, only to find
the house in darkness and that he could not
arouse anybody. Next morning, both Holland and
Judith Klein were missing. Did the woman de-
part the previous night? Did she contrive the
following morning to lure Holland to some place,
on a pretext that their interrupted interview
might be concluded? .Was Holland seized by the
very gang guilty of this crime? Is he now held
a prisoner, possibly slain, in order to cast suspi-
oteeen him and thus shield the real crimi-
nals?’’

“By. Jove!’ cried Chick. ‘On this theory,
Nick, you are assuming that Judith Klein is in
league with the gang guilty of the murder.”

“’'That’s precisely what I suspect,” Nick de-
clared.

“Well, you may be right.”

“That is indicated by the fact that I was
knocked out the following morning by a gang
concealed in this woman’s house,’ said Nick. “TI
not only was recognized by the Ludwig gir], but
I was also expected; for the gang had already
laid their plans to down me, in case I entered
the house.’

“But how can they have learned that you
would call there? You had told only Patsy and
me.’’
“That’s one of the things we don’t know,” re-
plied Nick, being entirely ignorant of the move-
ments of Maria Ludwig the previous night. “We
may subsequently learn how they knew it. Be
that as it. may, the visit of Dick Brayley that
evening shows that he is identified with the gang,
‘or that these rascals were in his employ. I
heard one of them called Grogan, just before I
was struck down, which is the same name men-
tioned by. Horrigan last night, as that of an in-
timate associate of Brayley.”

“Tt’s odds that they are one and the same.”

“Exactly,” Nick nodded. ‘Now, before stating
my final conclusion, here is one more point. I
have learned from Gaskett, by telephone, that
he cannot find out who owns the team that was
wrecked last night. The wagon. is. quite an old
one, and a name that once was painted on it
has been scraped off. The same difficulty exists
with the wagon, then, as with the automobile—
an inability. to discover the owner.”

“T see the point,” Chick remarked. ‘‘The same
precaution having been taken in each case, you
think they were the work of a single gang.”

‘**Precisely.””

“By Jove, that’s a strong point. It hadn’t oc-
curred to me that the gang in the Klein resi-
dence might be the same that were in the automo-
bile. One of. them may, in fact, have been Dick
Brayley himself.”

“Very likely,” said Nick. ‘He may have had
some incentive to murder Kennedy, and so planned
the crime as to involve Holland, owing to his
war upon the poolrooms, thus killing two birds
with one stone. He threatened to put me where
I could do him no harm, moreever, and it’s long
odds that he meant what he said.”

“Yes, very long,’? Chick admitted dryly.

“Now,” said Nick, in conclusion, “here’s the
final point. This evidence, seeming to incriminate
Holland, has been given very generously to the
reporters, and stories are being circulated to cast
suspicion upon him. These, assuming that-he is
innocent, most likely are the work of knaves
anxious to shield themselves.’’

“That’s sound reasoning.”

“One of these stories is that of Matthew Griffin,
who told’me that he thought he saw Holland in
the Grand Central Station yesterday morning, in
company with a woman who he left it to be
inferred was Judith Kiein. Now, if the deduc-
tions I have drawn are correct, that story was
a lie out of whole cloth—which alone would war-
rant suspecting Griffin very seriously. Under the
circumstances, he would not have invented such
a story unless sure it could not be refuted by
Holland: himself. That being the case, he must
have known where Holland is located and what
has befallen him.”

“Gee! that’s about the size of it,’ cried Patsy,
impulsively. ‘‘You can’t upset that reasoning.”

“Do you mean,” queried Chick, doubtfully,
“that you suspect Griffin of being in league with
this gang?’”’ .

“Yes, providing my deductions are correct.”

“But I have known Matt Griffin by sight and
reputation for some years. He has been all sorts,
I’ll admit, a political heeler, bucket-shop operator
and the like: but he’s always been one of Jim
Kennedy’s strongest supporters and most intimate
friends. Why should he have had a hand in
killing him?”

“Once- more, I don’t know,’’. smiled Nick. ‘I
do know, however, that my deductions have led
me to that suspicion.”

“Furthermore,” added, Chick, “Griffin now is
running a bucket-shop in partnership with a man
named Green. If engaged in a job of this kind,
or if doing any crooked work in his place of
business, you are the last man, Nick, to whom he
would have introduced himself and given his card,
as he did yesterday morning.”’

“On the contrary,’ said Nick, “if he is in
league with as crafty associates as-I suspect, that
is precisely what he would have done.’

“To throw you off his track?”

“Bxactly.. At all. events, Chick, I’m going
to have a look at Griffin’s place and Griffin’s part-
ner. I want to know what kind of a brokerage
office they have, and what sort of business is be-
ing done there.”

TO BE CONTINUED,

rae ee ae OD Sears
MRS. BODWAY AT THE DIME MUSEUM.

BY J. H. WILLIAMS.

“T was at the dime museum this afternoon,
Josiah,” said Mrs. Bodway at the tea table the
other evening; ‘‘and of all things!’ ‘she added,
in a tone indicative of inexpressible amazement.

‘What did you see so wonderful?’ quietly
asked. her husband, drawing a paper from _ his
pocket, and running his eye over the stock quo-
tations.

“I saw some of the most. curious-looking ob-
jects ever created. They call them: ‘freaks,’ I
believe.”

“This is a freak country, Hannah, and when
you go to a dime museum, and don’t see the
freak you: want, you must ask for it. The sup-
ply is always equal to the demand. What most
excited your sympathy?”

“Why, the living skeleton. I thought» the poor
man was a Peary arctic survivor, or a country
editor. who lives on the receipts of his patent-
medicine advertisements, or some other unfor-
tunate being; and when I asked him why he
didn’t exchange boarding houses with the fat
woman, he smiled a ghastly smile. You see, I
thought if they were to make the. change. sug-
gested it would be a great blessing to both, as
they would gradually regain their normal condi-
tion. The living skeleton would pick up in
avoirdupois and the fat woman would lose flesh.”

“Yes,” said Bodway, “and then their occupa-
tions would be gone. The fat woman would be
compelled to toil twenty hours a day making
shitfs at twenty-five cents a dozen to keep the
wolf from’ the door, and the living skeleton would
be obliged to seek a position as street car driver
at $2 a day, to make both ends meet, unless he
married a milliner. The ‘only living .skeleton,’
Hannah, of whom there are scores, doesn’t need
your sympathy. He-and the fat woman are able
to lay up something for a wet spell by simply
sitting in the shade for people to gaze at. There
are hyndreds of able-bodied men who meditate
jumping from the Brooklyn Bridge or the Flat-
iron building, owing to their inability to secure
employment. If they were living skeletons or
fat women, they would never be out of a job.
Dime museums, it.is believed, were established
for the express purpose of keeping fat women
But
Did you

Bod-

“‘The Wild Man of Borneo,’’” repeated. Bod-
way slowly. ‘‘No dime museum is complete with-
out him,’’

“Um—n-no,” reflected Mrs. “Tt don’t
think I saw him.”

“Perhaps he was visiting the scenes of his
birthplace, in New Jersey.. You saw the ‘Beauti-
ful Circassian Girl,’ of course?’

“Oh, yes. And how thankful she should be,
Josiah, that she escaped from Circassia before she
was purchased and carried off as the slave of
some horrid old sheik, or sultan, or pasha, or
some other hateful wretch.”

“Yes, but it is more likely, Hannah, that she
has escaped from the arduous toil of taking in
washing to support a shiftless husband, whom she
has left in poverty at their old home in Ho-
boken.”’

“Do you mean to intimate, Mr. Bodway, that
beautiful Circassian girls are born in this coun-

9? .

“Not all of ’em. Some are born in Ireland,
and come to this country when young. A homely
young woman who can train her hair to stand up
like quills on the fretful. porcupine. can easily
convert herself. into a beautiful Circassian girl.
I s’pose you saw the ‘Tallest Living Giant’?”

“Yes; and I- heard a sad-looking young man
say that if there were no dime museums, giants
would be ‘short.’ What did he mean, Josiah?’

“That was a ‘chestnut,’ Hannah. The sad-
looking young man was evidently a newspaper

what else excited your wonder, Hannah?
see the ‘Wild Man of Borneo’?”

“The wild which of what?’? asked Mrs.

“way, with a perplexed look.

Bodway ;

Holland promised to call on her}

heard him observe that the
‘longer’ in the show business than: any other
freak, ‘Was the ‘Dog-Faced Man’, there?’

“Yes; I saw ‘Jo-jo,’ too. He’s a wonderful
curiosity, isn’t he?”

“Well, not so much as formerly. A year ago
there was only one of him in existence, but now
he can be found in every enterprising dime mu-
seum in the country. But do you realiy think
he much more resembles a canine than do the
puppy-faced young men who stand in front of
hotels and sit -at the windows of clubhouses
ogling young ladies?”

“Um! I can’t say that he does; but he looks
much more intelligent than some of them. And
then there was. the ‘Fat Baby.’ Just /fancy,
Josiah, a tired mother walking up and down. the
floor at midnight with two hundred pounds of in-
fant in her arms, trying to hush it to sleep; for,
of course, its own father wouldn’t relieve her
of such a responsibility !”

“No; not unless he was insane. The ‘respon-
sibility’ would be too heayy for a father. The
mother. should rejoice that the infant is not
twins, weighing four hundred pounds. That would
be too much—if not two too much.”

“Tt made the cold shivers run up and down
my back, Josiah, when the ‘Hindoo Female Snake
Charmer’ handled the monster serpents. How in
the world does she acquire such complete control
over them? And doesn’t she jeopardize her life
every time she coils one of the frightful things
around her neck?”

“Not much. . Those

giant had been

‘terrible: monsters’ are as
harmiess. as so many clotheslines. .The Hindoo
female snake charmer has a great deal more to
fear when she returns to her old home in Osh-
kosh and finds her husband with his boots full
of a lively assortment of. snakes, and his eye-
balls nearly: bursting with fright. They are a
species of serpent she can’t charm. But among
all the curiosities at. the museum, Hannah, did
you see the woman who passes the window of a
millinery store without turning her head to look
jn?’

“No,” said Mrs. Bodway crustily, with a sig-
nificant look. “I asked an attendant if she was
on exhibition, and he replied that she had be-
come so plural of late years that she was no
longer a drawing card. Then I asked him to
show me the husband that doesn’t fume and fret
and jaw around when he comes home and finds
dinner five minutes late, and he assured me that
for years the management had spared neither
time nor expense in their futile efforts to secure
such a phenomenal curiosity, and they had set-
tled down to the conviction that such a ‘freak’
did not .exist.”

“Wr-um—lI s’pose not,’’ faltered Mr. Bodway,
wincing a little. “But, of course, you didn’t
come away without gazing admiringly upon the
rara avis known as the woman who doesn’t mow
the grass in the back yard with a newly sharp-
ened carving knife?”

‘““Yes—she was there—four or five of her; but
she is no longer regarded as a curiosity. She
has become so numerous, that she is willing to
exhibit herself for. twenty-five cents a day.
was just dying to get a look at the man, outside
of the tailoring profession, who can sew on a
trousers: button without jabbing the needle through
his thumb, but he was not in the collection. I
was informed, Josiah, that an agent started out
five years ago with $500,000 to secure such an
attraction for a dime museum, and after travel-
ing all over the civilized globe, returned home
disappointed. He said he could find double-
headed women, and men with three legs, but the
man who can sew on a trousers button without
harpooning his thumb is as scarce as honesty in
politics.”

“1 think the agent exaggerated a little, Hannah.
And no doubt you saw the woman who didn’t go
to church on the Sunday morning following her
acquisition of a new bonnet a little more expen-
sive and much more handsome than that of her
neighbor across the way who attends the same
house of worship?”

“The proprietor,” snapped Mrs. Bodway, “‘said
he discharged the last ‘freak’ of that kind six
months ago, and was now anxious to add to his
eollection a man who retains his good humor
and sheds sunny smiles during the housecleaning
period, but his prospects of securing such a hu-
man being were not very flattering. Then I
wanted him to show me the man who was Satis-
fied with his new hat when he brought it home,
and didn’t express a wish that he had purchased
another’ style, and he said such curiosities were
too expensive.”

‘Perhaps,’ suggested Mr. Bodway, with bitter
irony, “he showed you the woman who detected
her husband reading a sweetly perfumed note, and
didn’t almost turn heaven and earth upside down
in her jealous efforts to get possession of it?”

“Yes, there were two such on exhibition; but
they were kept in an out-of-the-way corner, in
order to make room for fresher and more wonder-
ful curiosities. The proprietor ‘is credulous
enough to believe that he may some day capture
a-husband who is as polite and courteous to his
own wife when out in company as he is to the
wives of other men. But I haven’t enumerated
half the freaks on exhibition, Josiah. I saw the
tattooed m P

“T don’t want to hear any more
ejaculated- Mr. Bodway. decisively.
been outrageously swindled, Hannah. The dime
museum that claims to have on exhibition a
woman whose jealousy is not aroused by seeing
her husband reading a dainty little note, and
who doesn’t make things extremely lively in her
impetuous haste to secure it, is a glaring and
colossal fraud—a bold and brazen imposition—
and it should be pulled by the police.”

And thus relieving himself, Mr. Bodway left the
table, jammed on his hat and strode out of the
house with an evident determination to right a
great wrong; and Mrs. Bodway fully expected to
read in the paper next morning that the proprie-
tor of a dime museum had been arrested and
held in $20,000 bail to answer. the. charge of ob-
taining money under false pretenses.

about ’em,”’
“You have

—_—_—~—f °-@-2
MAN-EATERS.

Modern science is too much for the tigers of
India. For the last few years these animals
have been so destructive to human life and to
domestic ‘cattle; that people living in exposed
villages have been. terrible sufferers. Hunting
tigers is a royal sport and one in which the of-
ficers of the EngM@h army stationed in the East
very generally indulge, but the few thus dis-
posed of are not sufficient to keep: down the
number of these dangerous and savage creatures.
A premium is given by the government for every
one destroyed, so that the natives make a_ busi-
ness of killing them. But the hazard of the oc-
cupation prevénts its being very generally partici-
pated in, the hunters frequently losing their lives,

The destruction of a single tiger often becomes
of great importance to a village or neighbor-
hood. Various are the expedients~adopted to de-
stroy them. Bow-traps are set to discharge ar-
rows into them on their approach, heavy beams
are suspended so as to fall upon and erush
them when they touch the trap. Large boxes,
strong enough to hold them, are baited with
kids’ meat, and the game once having entered the
trap hole is secured.

The old mode of a looking-glass which at-
tracts the tiger is also still common in India, At-
tracted by his own image, the animal enters the
trap and is caught. A curious mode is also
practiced of scattering broad leaves, smeared
with a ‘Sticky substance like bird-lime, in the
tiger’s path, and if he sets foot upon a smeared
leaf, his fate may be regarded as sealed. He
rubs his paws on his face to.get rid of the leaf,
and the case becomes worse, the Iéaves being
transferred to his face, more are added by his
efforts until he is blinded by them.

While he rolls upon the ground in his rage
and blindness, he becomes an easy prey to the
hunter who is attracted to the spot by his roaring,
But so. prolific are these animals in India that
they have of late years baffled all these attempts
to exterminate them, until an English surgeon
entered the field on ‘a regular crusade against
the pest: He has fed the man-eaters with good
fresh meat, but with a slight decoction of strych-
nine added. Traps are no longer necessary, nor
powder and ball. The tigers and leopards partake
freely of the liberal supply of kids’ meat found
near their haunts, and strewn generally about
the forest, and almost immediately lie down and
die beside what is left of their meal.

————_—-__—-¢ @-¢- >

AVOID EYE POULTICES.

A British medical journal warns its readers
against the use of eye poultices, Binding a wet
application over an eye for several hours must
damage that eye. The failure to aggravate an
existing trouble by binding a moist application
over an inflamed eye, which application is sup-
posed to remain for an entire night, can only be
explained by the supposition that a guardian an-
gel has watched over that misguided case and
has displaced the poultice before it had got in its
fine work.

All oculists condemn the poultice absolutely, in
every shape and in every form. Tea leaves, bread
and milk, raw oysters, scraped beef, scraped raw
turnip or raw potato, and the medley of other
similar remedies popularly recommended are, one
and all, capable of producing irremediable dam-
age to the integrity of the tissues of the human
eye.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

NEW YORK, JUNE 26, 1909.

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WRAI eee

eeeereeeeese

and

 

 

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

 

 

PRINCIPAL

= gL
veer | Soe Spee
DAR AN) eke 1 i oh NH iy Sah:
DU Mf | | Bae

The Deverell Heritage (Serial) ........ Owen Masters
An Elusive Knave (Serial) ......-..-. Nicholas Carter
A Great Deception (Serial)..Mary Kernahan Harris
Sir John’s Heiress (Serial).......... o---eek. L. Dacre
The Double Secret (Serial)....-.. -Duncan McGregor
The Curse of Greed (Serial) .. Marie Connor Leighton
The Devil’s Reward.......:.:..--... Maud I. Douglas
Mrs. Bodway at the Dime Museum...J. H. Williams
A Bride’s Disappearance............... Mrs. O. Rolfe
Wherese’s LlOb. ose c ene eee «Allena Audley

The Reformation of Charlie Otis..............
Emma Garrison Jones

He Couldn’t Tune Tt......-----.-..65 --..- Max Adeler
Let Me Alone..... Uibvevcecie peamese -Harkley Harker
How to Carry an Umbrella........... .-.-Kate Thorn
Pleasant Paragraphe..... Rislee apeea Charles W. Foster
Josh Billings’ Philosophy sik Saale Se sla a Josh Billings
Worlk-Boro 80S Ho eS eee Mrs. Helen Wood
Items of Interest, Correspondence, etc.

POEMS.
“Be Prompt,” by Gath Brittle.
“Tn the Attic,” by Victor A. Hermann.
“The Dreaming Mother,” by Nathan D. Urner.

 

 

WHY MEN AGE SLOWLY.

It has often. been noted that men retain their
youth much longer than women. At fifty most
men are erect, active—gray-haired, to be sure,
but  fresh-colored and bright-eyed. At fifty
women are gray-haired, dull-eyed, wrinkled, and
colorless. What is the reason? Because for
twenty-five years or so men have been eating
good, substantial, invigorating luncheons in the
society of their fellow men, while women have
been having toast and tea and cold sliced meat
with the children at home. .

It is no base, material doctrine te preach,
that of intimate connection between good food on
the one hand and good temper and good looks
on the other. Have you a fit of bad temper?
Eat your luncheon in cheerful society, and make
it a delicious one, with a bit of crisp lettuce, a
taste of good cheese, some toasted bread, and
a cup of weak tea or coffee. You are likely then
to leave the table at peace with all the world.
The jostling crowd which you longed to throttle,
before eating, will arouse omly emotions of good-
natured interest now.

Are you depressed? Dine well, but do not
gorge yourself, and the world will bear a rosy
aspect after dinner. Forswear, once and for-
ever, the feminine ascetic notion which has pre-
vailed through the centuries, and you will be a
healthier, happier mortal than you ever have
been before. ;

Only remember that to dine well means to
dine with daintiness, not to over-eat, and that
luncheons, to be truly satisfactory and invig-
orating, must have due regard for hygiene. Sup-
pers may not be a cure for unrequited love, and
luncheons. may not minister to a mind diseased,
but for the “‘trifiing’’ worries that sap away vi-
tality there is no remedy so potent as well-
chosen food.

a
THE REWARD OF INDUSTRY.

The sweetest bread that any man or woman
ever ate is that which is won by their own en-
ergy, or deserved by their usefulness.

Whether labor be that of the hand or the
head, there is dignity in it.

Do not stand around with arms akimbo until

occasion tells you what to do; don’t live in hope.

with your arms folded. Fortune smiles on those
who roll up their sleeves, put their shoulders to
the wheel, and push!

You cannot dream yourself into a fine charac-
ter. You must hammer and forge yourself into
one, The drudgery which some men, and women,
too, have gone through in achieving success al-
most staggers belief.

To begin at the very foot of the hill and work
slowly up to the top may be a. very discouraging
process, but it is precisely at this spot where so
many begin to spoil their lives.

wR RB ee
THE MAIDENS OF THE PAST.

When we refiect how many difficulties which
obstructed the path of true love in bygone days
have been removed, it is hard at first to reconcile
the present lack of marriages with the plentiful
number of the past.

The girl of to-day turns green with envy when
her venerable aunts tell her how many offers her
grandmother had. Herein, however, lies the chief
reason for denying the fact that the modern girl
is really more easy to win than the old-fashioned
one.

The modern girl is by far more critical of the
modern man than the old-fashioned girl ever pre-
sumed to be, and is much less willing to abandon
her freedom than was the damsel of the past,
whose single idea of suecess in life appears to
have been to make a good marriage, financially
and socially.

 

 

IN THE

BY VICTOR A.

Here in the musty attic air,
Where gray webs quiver to and fro,
I slowly climb the creaking stair
I knew so well in time ago,
And there beside the papered pane,
Where sunlight shifts its misty rays,
I find an old friend once again, :
The trundle bed of childhood days.

O trundle small, I hold so dear,

Half hidden in your nut-brown wood;
The soft gray dust of yesteryear

Has draped you in a velvet hood.

Let Me

By Harkley

“T wish I could afford to say to the whole
world, ‘Let me alone.’ But, of course, I can-
not.” os

“No,” replied the aged lawyer to his disgusted
young friend, “nor can any man afford to say
it. Why, don’t you know that that’s just what
the whole world would be glad to do, if you
would only agree to it,”

And that last phrase had a yolume of truth in
it. All that the busy, selfish, ambitious. world
wants is any man’s consent to get on without
using him. If a young man will only agree to
it, his place is wanted; the honors, the riches,
the comforts, that he would elaim, others are anx-
jous enough for. He has only to slip one side
and iie down, surrendering his claims, giving up
his chance to push and get; and the world will
thank him and forget him. The world seems
crowded when all hands are out in the field and
swinging’ the sickle. Every dunce who will go
and lie in the shade makes more room for the
other reapers.

There is no greater mistake that some sensi-
tive and talented souls make than to suppose
that this self-centred world is sure to miss them
if they go off in the @tmps. Not a bit of it.
To be sure, genius will be sought out. Certain-
ly, conceit and egotism are offensive. Yet it is
the man who pushes himself to the front who is
noticed and used, after all, if he also has merit,

Note how promptly and gallantly Commodore
Dewey pushed himself to the front at. Manila,
and demonstrated that he only needed the oppor-
tunity to make the world recognize him as one of
the ablest naval heroes of the century.

Modest merit is well enough in story books ;
but in actual life it is self-offering merit which
gets recognition. One need not be offensive about
it. There is a becomifg self-offer. Surely in
these busy days we are not going to hunt long for
the hyper-sensitive recluse when the efficient man
stands right ‘before us, taking off his coat and
offering to roll up his sleeves and go at our task.
Men who want work must be on han@. Dream-
ers will surely be left behind, as things are now.
Skins must be thicker than once they were.

A part of the opposition and obstacles in the
way of success to-day is oversensitiveness, and
unwillingness to endure the sneer. ‘“‘Ah, he is
always presenting himself for honors.” Of course
he is, if he expects position. And so long as he
has abilities, and is fit for the place that he seeks,
if he be good-natured about his self-push, and
does not deal in mean tricks to get himself recog-
nized, men smile and take him. When he is
fairly in the saddle, the overmodest fellows that
sneered at him prove to be as glad to do him
honor, generally, as the world is.

It is an age of push. It is a time when goods
are sold by the drummer; the old days of wait-
ing for buyers to come to the counter are gone,
probably forever. He who wants to be let alone,
can be; and when he is starving, let him blame
himself.

I advise every young man to banish that selfish
exclusiveness that is too often the result of su-
perior birth or social exclusiveness. The young
rich ‘youth must not shrink from the crowd; he
must travel with the people; he must be willing
to knock elbows with the rabble if he wishes to
do anything in this world. The educated young
man, just out of college, who reads poetry, and
dreams that his flesh is finer flesh than that of

ATTIC’.

HERMANN.

The spiders toil with steady zeal,
And as they swiftly rise and fall
They link you with the spinning wheel
That rests beside the moldy wall,

O treasured friend of. other days
What memories you now awake;
I watch—in dream—the sun’s last rays,
And figures weird the shadows make,
And once again I’m tucked away
A laughing, romping, quilted heap,
And hear once more through twilight gray
A dear voice singing me to sleep.

Alone.

arker.

cated into sure failure. If his aristocratic mamma
and sisters are able to turn him aside from
“pitching right in,” because of his family, it is
certain that he will always be let alone by the
great needy mass of employers, the world at large.
Young men who, uptown, belong to art clubs,
must look to it that they do not bring any of
the art club exclusiveness downtown. It is “the
Tabble’” who buy goods, and employ lawyers and
physicians, and ‘‘the rabble’ who form our army
and our navy, and do our fighting, and elect the
President.

How many a yceung fellow has failed in life be-
cause he ‘‘couldn’t bear’ the people. The peo-
ple, forsooth! Why, they made his father rich!
The society ways of Newport and Saratoga are
poor schoolmasters for young, earnest men who
have their own ambition to meet or their own
bread to earn. And not a few young men whose
fathers haye died bankrupt, have simply ac-
quired this simpleton’s languishing longing, ‘I
wish I could say to the world, ‘Let me alone.’”

There is a danger in a too-exclusive love of
books, or of the studio, or the laboratory. Knowl-
edge is like eggs; it must be hatched out. Mere
love of study never made more than half a dozen
great men in all modern history, while it has
ruined thousands of bright minds, The enerva-
tion of excessive self-culture is as bad as any
other .effeminate practice. And it. grows on a
youth. He gets to the point at last that he is as
unpractical as a girl. He wants only quiet and
—more reading. The seductive habit of selfish
pursuit of any fond and favorite study, by a lit-
erary youth, is very hard to break up, or rather
to rightly direct into practical channels. Such
@ young person must be shocked out of his revy-
eries. The world will surely get along with-
out him if he allows it to do so. He must do
something for others with his music; he must
amuse, instruct, serve for charity or merey. Let
him go play to the sick with the favorite violin;
let him help his church social; let him offer to
teach the poor. Or, perhaps, he should be sharp-
ly asked, “What are you going to do, anyway,
in this busy world, you who thus far seem only
to be happy when shut up and let alone with your
art? Is it worth the sacrifice? Is it worthy to
be used as a sword with which to Carve your way
through life?” It may well be questioned if not
a few of the esthetic recreations of fine, spirited
young people, in these times of a-riper culture,
are not sapping the energies of youthful growth.
An esthetic recreation is always hard to keep
within due bounds of temperance. In America,
at least for years to come, the useful must take
precedence of the ornamental.

The heart of man needs the society of its fel-
lows. Without it the g@nerous instincts wither
and die. To be let aloe is not as dangerous to
the virtuous as to the. vicious, for the vicious
mean preying on the industrious. Yet the’ virtu-
ous are bound to keep near us, to preserve con-
tact with us—not only for our sakes, that we may
share their good, but for their own sakes, lest
they grow selfish in virtue. The ‘I-am-holier-
than-thou” sentiment is execrable! Such a man,
living apart from and above the world, will be
laughed at, and hated, and neglected. His influ-
ence will dwindle to nothing. But he himself
will deteriorate into a mere sanctimonious growl-
er, hating the world that has snapped its fin-
gers at him. For better or worse, here we all

 

the general mob and mass of us, has been edu-

Josh Billings

A praktikal joke iz like a fall on the ice—
thare may be phun in it, but the one that falls
kan’t alwus see it.

One ov the hardest things tew teach a child iz
tew tell the truth, but it should be done, even if
death ensues,

The man who thinks “he kan’t
wuss more than haff right.

What should we do if it wasn’t for the
churches? Thare iz plenty ov people who kan’t
worship God only in a church. If they were
out in a field.on the Sabbath day they would at
once bekum lawless, and fall to digging out wood-
chucks dr hunting for bumblebees’ nests.

Peopie worth noticing should never forgit that
everything they say and do iz watched. by sum-
boddy ; and it iz equally true that the good things
are generally forgot, but the bad ones never.

I phully apreshiate the proverb, that “‘speech iz
silver, but silence iz golden,” but I must say
that sum ov the most diskreet and dignified
phools that I have ever met hav been thoze who
never ventured an opinyun on enny subjekt.

What iz happier tew meet than a good temper?
It iz like the sun bi day and the soft harvest
moon bi nite,

Giv every one you meet, my boy, the time ov
day and haff the road; and if that don’t make
him civil don’t waste enny more fragrance on the
cuss.

Sum pholks are natrally so kross and krabbid
that .it iz an insult tew them to ask them tew
be polite. Yu mite az well ask a dog tew take
the krook out ov hiz tale, and be a gentleman.

Thare iz a grate deal ov religion in this world
that iz like a lift-preserver—only put on at the
moment ov extreme danger, and put on then, haff
the time, hind side before.

With all the howling for liberty that men and
wimmin engage in, thare iz, after all, but very
little ov it in the world—we are all ov us slaves-

do it,” iz al-

are together on the planet. The wise good make
the best of it.

’ Philosophy.

Most ov the animiles and insex (az well az
the men) liv on each other; but the spider iz the
meanest in the whole lot, for they set traps for
their. viktims, and don’t even bait the traps.

A man will defend his weak spots a grate deal
more sharply than he will hiz strong ones. ~

If men were stubborn just in proporshun az
they were right, stubborness would take her seat
amung the yirtews; but men are generally ©stub-
born just in proporshun az they are ignorant and
wrong.

Genius, after all, isn’t ennything more than
elegant kommon sense.

Thare iz in this world a grate deal ov dignity
oe iz komposed entirely oy dignity, and nothing
else,

We hav professors who teach the art ov. talk-
ing korrektly.
teach the art ov listening” pashuntly.

A skeptik 1z one who knows too mutch to be a
good phool, and too little to be wise.

Slander travels on the wind, and whare it
cums from, and whare it will go we don’t enny
ov us seem tew kno.

Look out for thoze pholks who are familiar on
ones notiss; they are like hornets, they mean
sting.

When a man ov larning talks he makes us
wonder, but a  wize man makes us think.

It iz safe to say that thoze who go into soli-
tude are not fit for soSiety, and thoze wha»are
not fit for sosiety are certainly unfit for solitude.

A -sophist iz one who puis hiz Hght under a
half-bushel, for the sake ov letting the light
shine thru the kracks.

ee in writing iz like style in dress—a good

How menny suspishus people one meets in this
world.. If their nozes waz stuffed with kotton

 

to sumthing.

wool they would smell sum kind ov a rat.

How to Carry an Umbrella.

By Kate

Perhaps you don’t know? If so, 1’l] tell you.

If you are in the country, where there is plenty
of room, the knowledge will be of no benefit to
you, and you had better not waste your time
reading this article.

But if you are in the city, you will find it prac-
tically to your advantage to study the rules laid
down.

To begin at the beginning:

Be sure and pull your hat well down over your
eyes before you start out with your umbrella.
Button up your coat. If it is cold weather tie on
a scarf. If you chew tobacco, take a fresh quid.
Slam the door when you go out of your house. It
will give people inside a clear understanding of
the fact that you are proprietor and have a right

to slam your own door as much as you please.
After you step out on the crowded sidewalk,
thrust your umbrella under your arm, and try and
have the two points stick out equally, before and
behind, at right angles with your body. It is
always well when you are purchasing to buy as
long an umbrella as you can get. It will be like-
ly to last longer, as well as to stick out farther

Thorn.

Then walk as fast as you can! The faster the
better. People in cities always go fast for fear
time will overtake them.

Everybody who has the impudence to push up

behind you will get punished for it by a poke
from the umbrella you carry behind; and every-
body you meet will get a poke from the umbrella
you carry in front; for arranged in this way an
umbrella acts on the principle of a double-ender,
and like old Grandpa Lyman’s gun, kills equally
well at each end.
i If a small boy or two should be knocked over,
no matter! It will teach small boys’ to stay at
home and pick up chips for their mothers. They
have no business out in the street, getting in the
way of people’s umbrellas! os

If it rains, spread your umbrella and hold it
well down in front of you. People who are com-
ing the other’ way must keep their own lookout.
Of course you will be going with yowr face to the
storm. One always is. If you put anybody’s
eyes out, it won’t be your fault—they should have
got out of the way when they saw you coming!

If your umbrella becomes entangled in a lady’s

 

when you are carrying it.

laces, or fringes, don’t stop to disentangle it.

Whi kan’t we hay sum who ae

Tear along.
fooleries ! :
Make your way, no matter who sinks or swims,

Serves her right for wearing such

relatives will be boiling over with joy at your
death, and will find employment for a year to
come in fighting over the lucre you have left be-
hind for them to squabble over.

THE REFORMATION OF CHARLIE OTIS,

BY EMMA GARRISON JONES.

“What does your husband read, my dear?”

It was Kathie Otis who asked the question.
We were old, old friends, Kathie and I, and at
this our first meeting, since my marriage, I had
been confiding to her my troubles. And they
were very grievous troubles, too. I had been
married two short years, and had one little baby.
I loved my husband devotedly, and I am sure
he loved me as well. We had a nice home, a
comfortable competency, and yet my
were grievous. Charlie was a drunkard; or he
seemed likely to become one,

I had heard of his inclination toward dissipa-
tion before our marriage, but in the egotism of
my girlish love, I was sure I could win him over
from the bad, yet I had failed. Tears, re-
proaches, entreaties had proved alike unavailing;
and although he promised me day after day to
reform and forsake his low associates, he grew
worse. The love of intoxicating drinks grew
upon him; his evenings were spent at the club,
at publie houses, at wine suppers, anywhere ex-
cept at his own fireside; and in the “small

hours” he came home, haggard, humiliated, and
often almost reasonless.

I thought my heart would surely break! My
baby was a boy, and his father setting him such
an example! What should I do! I was thinking
seriously of taking my child and going home to
mother, and leaving Charlie to follow his beastly
habits, when Kathie came down for a visit.

She noticed my pale, hopeless face, and soon
coaxed the story of my sorrows from me; and
her first question was:

“What does your husband read, my dear?’

“What does he read?’ I said pettishly. ‘““Why,
Kathie, what can that haye to do with it? ‘Tis
what he drinks that makes the trouble.”

“To be sure, my love, but be patient, and
answer. my question. What does Charlie read?’’

“Well, then, all sorts of literature—Dumas,
Sue, and various French authors of like ilk.”

“All trash—stuff,” responded Kathie, shaking
her curly head in a knowing manner. “Why
don’t you read the New YORK WEEKLY, and
make your husband read it?”

“Oh, I’ve fio time to read,” I said, beginning to
sob. “I have_to nurse baby, and Charle reads
what he likes.”

“Precisely, because you don’t interfere. Plen-
ty of time to read, Susie, and nurse baby, too, or
to listen to Gharlie while he reads. Now, my
dear, I’ve two babies—-twins, you know—awful
fussy little things, too—and I can’t afford to
keep but one girl. Hush! don’t cry; it is child-
ish, and it makes your eyes red, and Charlie will
be home to dinner in an hour; and of all things
men dislike sulky, mopy faces at dinner. Well,
as I was saying, I find time to read, or to listen,
rather. We get the New YORK WEEKLY, and
Ralph reads aloud, while I sew, and such nice
evenings as we have. Why, he never dreams of
going to the club nowadays.” ~

“Did he ever?’

“To be sure, and loved his glass, too; but you
see, my dear, I got the New YorK WEEKLY regu-
larly, and it made a convert of him. It is such
a family paper, my dear, worth all the ranting
lecturers in Christendom. You must have it;
we'll get it this afternoon, and make a beginning.
Now, my dear, as a first step, take that decanter
off your sideboard, and never let it be seen there
again. How can you blame your husband for
drinking wine when ‘you keep it under his nose
to tempt him?”

“But what will Charlie think?” I. faltered.

“No matter; tell him you’ve made up your
mind to follow the advice given by the NEw
YorK WEEKLY. Now, run upstairs and put ‘on
a@ smart dress, and let down your curls.”

“Why, Kathie, this dress isn’t a bit soiled,
and I wanted my curls fresh.for going out.”

“Nonsense! let your husband be first always;
give him the beauty of their freshness, no mat-
ter how they look for going out. Put on a
pretty dress, just such a-one as you would have
worn, my dear, when Charlie was your lover, and
I'll brighten up baby myself. Come, hurry,’ for
Charlie will soon be here. I tell you, Susie, it is
half as much your own fault, as it is Charlie’s;
you haven't tried to reform him in the right
way.”’

I ran eupstairs with a curious feeling in my
heart, and bathed my eyes, and let down all my
yellow curls, and put on my handsome blue dress,
and a lace collar.

When Charlie cante I met him at the door,
with baby in my arms. His eyes brightened at
sight of us. :

“Why, bless me, how smart we all are to-
day !’’ he cried, as he kissed us. “I feel quite
proud of my family.’’

We sat down to dinner in great good humor,
but by and by Charlie looked for the wine.
‘‘Where’s the wine, Susie, my dear?

forgotten it.”

“No, dear,” I answered softly, ‘I didn’t forget;
but—but—if you pleasé, Charlie, we'll not have
any more wine. I want to saye the money and
buy a nice paper for us to read evenings.
Shan’t you. like to read to me while I sew,
dear?” St

He looked up sharp and quick, and colored
slightly; but he answered quite pleasantly:
~ “Oh, yes, I suppose so, if your paper doesn’t
turn. out to-be stupid.”

Kathie and JI went out that afternoon and
bought a score or more of back numbers of the
New YorK WEEKLY.

They were on the table beside my work-
basket when Charlie came in, and the topmost
paper contained the first chapter of an impress-
ive temperance story. Charlie sauntered about
a while, played with baby, and then took up
his hat. Kathie gave me the wink.

“Well, I believe I'll go downtown for an hour
or so,” he said.

“Why, my dear,” said I, “only see the papers
we've bought, and we want you to begin to-
night. Please stay at home, dear, and read to
me while I finish baby’s frock.”

He tossed his hat across the room, and drew
up a chair.

“Of course, if you wish it, I will,’ he said.

“Indeed I do wish it, Charlie.”

So he toek up the New YorK WEEKLY and
began to read the story aloud, while Kathie and
I sewed and listened.

Two weeks went by, and Charlie had not
missed one reading, nor had the wine reappeared
at dinner. Then Kathie went home; but we
kept up our readings, and we bought the New
York WEEKLY every week. ;

At the end of six months Charlie came in
one afternoon with a folded paper in his hand.

“There’s my pledge, Susie,’ he said, throwing
it in my lap. ‘“‘You’ve won me, you and the
New YorK WeErEKtY between you. I’m a tem-
perance man henceforth, with Heaven’s help.”

And that was the end of my troubles. I wrote
a letter to Kathie that night, and told her about

You’ve

“Ah, Susie, my dear,’’ she said, in her answer,
‘IT knew how it would be—there would be but
few drunkards if husbands had the right sort
of wives and the right sort of home literature.”

oo
HE COULDN’T TUNE IT.

BY MAX ADELER.

While Judge Pitman was sitting on his front
porch one day last summer, a man came along
with a satchel, and entering the yard he said:

“Is your piano out of tune?”

“No, I don’t think it is,” said the judge.

“Ain’t you sure about it?”

“No; I never tried it to see.’

“How long since it has been tuned?’

“It has never been.’’

“Then, of course, it ought to be tuned at once.
You’ll ruin it if you don’t have it attended to.”

“T don’t believe I will.”

“Oh, yes, you will though. Nothing’s worse for
a piano than standing untuned.’

“Do you think you can tune it?’

“Certainly I can.”

“I don’t believe you can,” said the judge.

“T’a like to know. why not. I never saw &
plano yet that I couldn’t tackle.”

“There’s one mighty good reason why you can’t
in this case.”

-"?’d Hke to know what it is.”

aes want me to tell you, do you?”

©Y¥es.?" :

“Well, it’s because I haven’t got any piano.”

Then the man put his satchel under his arm,
wiped his nose thoughtfully, and left.

—

 

and most likely you will die rich, and all your}

troubles-

 

See

 

HELPFUL TALKS WITH
OUR READERS.

Correspondents must sign name and address, not
for publication, but because we refuse to
answer anonymous communications. All let-
ters are presumed to be confidential, and are
so treated,

L. M. Exwoop, New York City.—The history
of “The Little Church Around the Corner,” in
this city, so much favored by theatrical people,
is as follows: George Holland, the famous
comedian, died in this city December 19, 1870,
aged eighty years, Application was made to
Rev. Mr. Sabine, of the Church of the Ascen-
sion, Madison Avenue and Twenty-eighth Street,
to officiate at the funeral, but he declined to
do so, or to allow his church to be used, on the
plea that the deceased was an actor, remarking ~
that probably the pastor of ‘“‘the little church
around the corner’ would have no similar consci-
entious scruples, The gentleman referred to,
Rev. G, H. Houghton, pastor of the Church of
the Transfiguration, ‘Twenty-ninth Street and
Fifth Avenue, on being appealed to, gladly ten-
dered his services and the use of his church for
the obsequies. His course was applauded alike
by press and public, amd the conduct of the min-
ister who would deny a man Christian burial
because of his profession, as generally denounced,
For this act Rev. Mr. Houghton was made the re- ~
cipient of large sums of money from the profes-
sion, Which, however, he declined for himself, but
accepted in trust to be used for charitable pur-
poses; and many a widow and-orphan has cause
to remember with gratitude “‘The Little Churth
Around the Corner” and its pastor, who by one
simple act of Christian duty_ earned the good
will of the theatrical community, was enabled
by their generosity to relieve the wants of the
sick and needy.

R. T. SourHarp, Nanticoke, N. Y.—Some of the
peculiarities of the. Japanese are given in a work
recently. issued, ‘‘Feudal and. Modern Japan,”
from which we copy the following collection of
oddities: “The best rooms of the house are in
the rear. A Japanese entering it takes off his
shoes instead of his hat. If he takes up-a book
to read, he opens it at the back. He reads from
right to left, instead of from left to right. The
letters are arranged vertically instead of hori-
zontally. The larger margin of the page is at
the top instead of at the bottom, and the foot-
motes are at the top. If he writes a letter, he
will take a roll instead of a sheet, write along
the curye of the roll a missive which begins
just where one of ours would end and vice versa,
and then, putting it into an enveiope opening at
the end and addressing it to ‘America, New York
City, Broadway, Smith, John, Mr.,’ he seals it,
turns it over, and puts his postage stamp on the
back.”’

H. J. RepMoND, New Orleans, La.—The “‘Mar-
seillaise” was written by Joseph Rouget de
Lisle, but it is recorded that he did not dream
at the time that he was writing a song that was
destined to stir a nation to great deeds of valor.
A translation of the first stanza reads thus:

Ye sons of freedom, wake to glory!
Hark! Hark! What myriads bid you rise!

Your children, wives, and grandsires hoary—
Behold their tears and hear their cries!

Shall hateful tyrants, mischief breeding, ~
With hireling hosts, a ruffian band,
Affright and desolate the land

While Peace and Liberty lie bleeding?

To arms! To arms! Ye brave!
The avenging sword unsheathe.

March on! March on! All hearts. resolved
On victory or death!

T. M. Burton, Mystie, Conn.—Frogs’ nests are
common in Brazil. They are constructed by a
species of tree frog, and are patiently and in-
geniously erected in the water, to protect the
frogs’ eggs and young from the attacks of fish.
Starting at the bottom of a pond, the mother™
frog builds a cireular, tube-like wall of mud,
which at the top projects a little above the sur-
face of the water. In the water thus ineclosed
the eggs are laid, and when they are hatched,
the frog’s young are secure from enemies “until
they are able to take care of themselves.

THomMas BarDSLEY, Mott Haven, N. Y.—James
Fisk was shot and killed by Edward S. Stokes,
on the stairs of the Grand Central Hotel, Broad-
way and Fourth Street, New York City, January
6, 1872. On January 4, 1873, his trial was be-
gun, and he-was convicted of-murder in the first
degree. This conviction was reversed by the
Court of Appeals, in June, 1873. He was subse-
quently. convicted of manslaughter and sentenced
to State prison for a term of four years.

H. B. Purpon, Montreal, Canada.—The ex-
pression, ‘“‘a tinker’s dam,” is not a profane
phrase. It means a wall of moistened bread or
dough raised around a place which a plumber or
tinsmith wishes to fill with solder. The ma-
terial of such a dam can be used only once, and
is consequently thrown away as worthless after
its temporary period of usefulness, from which
fact it has passed into the expressive proverb,
“not worth a tinker’s dam.”

J. J. CARMICHAEL, Stockton, Cal:—“‘In God We
Trust” first appeared on the copper two-cent_
piecé of 1864 and was. the first use of the word
“God” in any government act. It appeared on
the 1866 issue of the double eagle, eagle, half
eagle, silver dolar, half dollar and nickel five-
cent piece in lieu of the long-existing motto “E
Pluribus Unum.” -On the trade dollar. of 1873
both motitoes were retained, “In God We Trust”
on the obverse.

A. J. Hanirty, Leonore, I11.—The Spanish
Main is that portion of the Caribbean Sea near
the northeast coast of South America, and in-
cludes the route traversed in early days by
Spanish merchant ships while traveling between
the eastern and western hemispheres. It was so
called during the time of Spain’s greatness, when
that government. was perhaps the most powerful
maritime power on the globe.

D. W. Harpsurton, Snyder, Colo.—The Castle
of Chillon is situated on Lake Leman, near Gene-
va, Switzerland. The Prisoner of Chillon, the

yhero of Lord Byron’s poem by that name, was

Francois de Bonnibard, a Swiss patriot; who ‘was
confined in a dungeon in the castle for a period
of six years.

T. W. Reminetron, Cincinnati, Ohio.—Cake-
walks have been common in the South for over
a score of years. It is a walking contest for a
cake, indulged in by>the negroes, to the accom-
paniment of music. The couple who are adjudged
to walk most gracefully receive the cake as &
prize.

_L. B. Ripuey, Akron, Ohio.—The City of Que-
bec is often spoken of as the “Gibraltar of Amer-
ica,” because of its commanding and impregna-
ble position on the heights.

T. W. Purirtcn, Heaston, Okla—The China-
Japan War was declared July 27, 1894, and
ended in May, 1895, is

See

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

Vol. €4—No. 38

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

pesca ee

s

 

A GREAT DECEPTION.

By MARY KERNAHAN HARRIS,

Author of “ Percival’s Honor,’ ‘‘An Unlucky Bequest,’’ ‘‘A Merited Reward,”
: ‘* 4 Maid and a Matron,’ ete.

(“A GREAT DECEPTION” was commenced in No, 32, Back numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers.)

CHAPTER XIX.

T oper my eyes to a brilliant golden fiood of
sunlight, and remember that it is the last day
of August. So much more of the time of our
visit gone—so many days nearer London and a
new. edition of Mrs. Wardell! To-morrow will
be the first of September; and I doubt not that
all the men of Oaklands who happen to be
awake at this moment are.chuckling disgracefully
at the thought that another four-and-twenty
hours will usher in the season of slaughter.
Some of the women’s faces, I am sure, will grow
longer as the men’s broaden; not a few of us,
I fancy, are already meditating ruefully on the
prospect of having more spare time than we
know what to do with.

I suppose—since the world has turned upside
down—I have acquired some right to be melan-
choly, too. Is it possible—really possible—that
Sir Eustace will miss me? Is it all a dream,
this remembrance which has come to me di-

_ rectly I have opened my eyes? In this matter-
of-fact broad daylight, with no music to bewilder
ene except the carol of the birds, I am very seri-
ously inclined-to doubt the reality of the whole
thing; all the more so because neither Stella nor
my- mother uttered a word to me about it last
night. Stella, it is true, did not open her lips
in my presence; but I fancied my mother was
about to speak to me on the subject several times,

and each time was restrained by a look from my”

sister. How clearly I seem to see this morning
Stella’s thin, tightly-compressed lips and the cold
glitter in her eyes! I am afraid I have made
her very angry; but_it is not my fault. Why
does she not blame Sir Bustace?

{ rise, throw open my window, and, after dress-
ing, run lightly downstairs, thinking that I will
spend a little time in the garden before break-
fast. The impression that it is all a dream is
on me still. I take my broad-brimmed hat in
my hand, and, opening a French window, soon
find myself among the sweet-scented flowers.
4 am tying my hat on, with its babyish blue
ribbons, and thinking how extremely juvenile I
must look arrayed in my short-skirted gray morn-
ing dress and with my curls blown about in ut-
ter confusion by the breeze, when I am suddenly
aware that there is some one coming toward me;
and in another moment I see that it is Mr. Roth-

well. oe

He is decidedly better-looking in the open air
than. in the drawing-room. If I did not dislike
him so -cordially, I should say that in some
things he was rather. a personable man, He is
tall and well set; his square shoulders are nearly
as broad again as those of Sir Eustace. The
general impression I have of him this morning,
as he comes idly along the path with his hands
in his pockets, is that he is a man of exceeding
strength and power, one who on occasion would
make himself as disagreeable as .he could.
look at him resentfully from under the brim of
my hat, with a very vivid remembrance of his
politeness to me on a recent occasion. I think
he sees the look, for a slight smile eurves his
lips under his heavy brown mustache; and, with-
out giving me a morning greeting first and ask-
ing permission afterward, he-coolly falls into line
beside me, and does not address me till then.

“You are out betimes, Miss Gertie. I thought
I had the garden to myself,’ he says provok-
ingly.

-f look up at him suspiciously. He has cer-
tainly very penetrating brown eyes—only they
are so particularly disagreeable. He is smiling
to himself again—very slightly, but still smiling
—and I am certain it is at the remembrance of
my apple-tree misfortune. Well, I am not going
to let that unlucky affair take the spirit out of
me whenever I happen to be in his presence,
am not a coward; and Mr, Eugene Rothwell shall
see that I am not afraid of him.

“Will you be kind enough to tell me if you
were smiling at me then, Mr. Rothwell?” I ask,
with amazing firmness,

“At you? Well—yes—if I am to be compelled
against my will to tell the truth about it. Why
do you want to know?”

“Then I think it is extremely mean of you!”
I say, with an outburst of indignation. “I sup-
pose you can’t forget that I was so silly ‘as to
climb a tree one day, and you think me a stupid
little tomboy in consequence, and you are amused
whenever you see me. You are at perfect liberty,
Mr. Rothwell, to think just whatever you like of
me; but to smile in the way you do—and you
own you do smile at me—is a

I am compelled to pause in order to check my
tears—I will at least save myself from that dis-
grace. Then I think woefully that for a girl of
nineteen I have made a childish speech that
would have delighted my mother and Stella.
did not intend to speak thus, and I have added
to my folly in Hugene Rothwell’s eyes, I know,
and am doubly angry with him for having led me
fnto such a blunder. If it were some one who
liked me—Sir Eustace, for instance—I should
not care, for I could soon make it all right
again; but I know that this hater of “bread-and-
oot misses” is again smiling at me contemptu-
ously.

“} owned I smiled at you.” My very words!

How unconscionably stupid it was of me to admity|

such an unwise thing as that! ‘Then you would
prefer, Miss Gertrude, thgt I smiled at you and
did not own it?”

“T don’t mean anything of the kind. f think
it is very uncalled-for for you to smile at me at
all,’-1 return, with as much dignity as I can
summon to my aid.

“And suppose I tell you that I never imagined
you would connect any smile of mine with that
slightly juvenile escapade of yours—suppose I

. tell you that, as I was still at some distance
from you when I made the~ discovery of your
presence, I saw you look down certainly, but
had rot the remotest idea that you had seen me
—am TI still to be blamed in this very remarkable
gaanner?” he asks, looking down at me. ;

1 feel considerably ashamed of myself, and
my cup of humiliation is full as he asks the last
question.

“No,” I reply, im an exceedingly meek tone
compared with my former emphatic accents. ak
don’t blame you for smiling if you thought I
didn’t know, and if you really cannot help it; but
why do you smile?”

He smiles again now. I glance up for a mo-
ment and detect him in the act. It is an odd,
reticent smile, altogether different from Sir
Bustace’s; but there is something pleasant about
it, now that it is free from cynicism.

“You must forgive me for saying, What a
child you are!’’ he says. ‘It is. really impossi-
ble to help it, when you ask such a question as
that, and in such a way.”

“But IT don’t forgive you,” I return indignantly.
“You laugh at me because I am a child, and I
am not a child. And, if I were, why should you
be amused? People don’t laugh at children be-
eause they are children.”

“Your logic is really quite unanswerable. TI
say no more, being covered with confusion. Al-

low me to congratulate you, however, Miss Ger-}

trude,’”” my enemy remarks,
liteness, “‘on a
feminine mind.’

“Mr. Rothwell,” I say, turning round upon him,
my cheeks burning, “are you naturally as dis-
agreeable as you seem to be, or do you try to
make yourself #0?” ;

We can be only “at daggers drawn” now. [f
ave lost both my temper and myspoliteness. [f
ook up half in defiance and -half in fright at my
own. temerity, and, instead of the frown [ ex-
pect to encounter in return for my childish~pert-
ness, I.meet a cool, imperturbable gaze, as though
he considered that amiability and courtesy were
not te be looked for in one of my age and dis-
position,

“Ts it actual, ingrained temperament, or do 1
make myself systematically unpleasant?’ he
queries coolly. “That is an extremely difficult
question to reply to all in a moment, Miss Ger-
trude. To one of your sex, with its natural
quickness of perception—and of statement-—to
reply. to any question of course would be easy.
But in my case I find it difficult. On the whole,
I incline to think that my fault is due partly
to the one and partly to the other, Shall we put
it down to both?”

“1 think it would be the nearest approach to
the truth you could make,” I er. rf

“Very good. We will consider the matter set-
tled then. What were we speaking about before
my character was honored by ‘your considera-
tion? Let me see—it has escaped my memory.
Perhaps you can tell me? Was it logic, Miss
Gertie, or the near approach of the breakfast
hour?’’* ee
. “Tt was neither,” I return toldly.
you why you smiled at me, nd you either would
ot or could not reply.”

with insulting po-
quality so extremely rare in the

“T asked

 

 

“Would not—I don’t think it was ‘could not.’”

“Very well, then,’ I observe, in my most dig-
nified manner—‘‘if it was ‘would not,’ and not
‘sould not,’ perhaps you will have the goodness
to inform me now.’’

“Are you really determined to know?’ he asks,
with that disagreeable curve of the lips again.
‘Am I to tell the truth, the whole truth, and
nothing but the truth? Miss Gertie, you are
looking: the incarnation of resolution. Is it not
a pity, when you come to think of it, to waste
so much feeling upon such. a trifle?”

“J should like to know, Mr. Rothwell,” I re-
turn frigidly, ‘why you smile with such evident
amusement whenever you see me; and, if it is not
on ee of my climbing the apple tree, what
is. it?

“I don’t say that it is not on account of the
apple tree. Don’t put words into my mouth
which I never uttered, Miss Gertrude.”

“Mr. Rothwell! You said re

“T said that I did not know you saw me; and
I will also add, if you like, that I do not see
anything particular to smile at in the love of
nature that tempted you into the boughs of that
tree. What did make me smile was the remark-
able air of primness you assumed when you met
me afterward. If my conduct has offended you,
I must make you all the apologies possible, I
suppose. If I have appeared. to be amused at
you since, put it down to the remembrance of
that first evening of our acquaintance, Miss Ger-
trude.””

“Oh! I exclaim comprehensively; and I con-
tinue to pace the garden path by his side, unable
to say more from sheer humiliation.

“ft hope I have satisfied. you thoroughly,” my
companion observes presently. “If there is any-
thing else to be explained, you know I am en-
tirely at your service, Miss Gertie.”

“Qh, yes—perfectly satisfied!” I hasten to as-
sure him. “I am glad I haye been able to af-
ford you amusement.”

He does not make any reply to my stupid little
speech, though, as I glance furtively at him, I
can see that he is smiling again. [I venture
to raise my eyes presently, as I hear footsteps
coming toward us, and I see that it is Sir Hustace
Lydiard, who is looking at us keenly, with a
slight contraction ef his dark eyebrows. What
an air of refinement there is about his slim
easy figure and aquiline features! How differ-
ent his manner is from the odious self-possession
of this detestable Mr. Rothwell! There is no
insulting smile to dread from Sir Eustace; if I
were Stella herself, I could not be treated with
more deference than I receive from him.

T am heartily glad he has come; it will be
quite a relief to talk to somebody who can treat
me as if I were a reasonable being.

“Not at all against my will,’ he says, “I am
sent to bid you come to breakfast; or rather,
to be strictly accurate, I caught sight of you
just now, and thought I would let you know that
it wants three minutes only to the breakfast
hour. I did not know you were to be found in
the garden so early, Miss Gertrude. You make
me quite ashamed of myself! I think I shall
try to turn over a new leaf without loss of time.”

“You have lost a good deal,” observes Mr.
Rothwell, with that odd curve of the lips again;
“Miss Gertrude and I have been walking up and
down this path for the last quarter of an hour
or so.”

“Conversing?” inquires Sir Eustace, as we all
turn toward the house.

‘“‘Quarreling,” I answer hastily. “It so happens
that Mr. Rothwell and I view everything from
a different standpoint. Have my mother and sister
come down yet,.do you know, Sir Eustace?” I
inquire more meekly, as I remember that, to play
my part properly, I ought to have: no opinions.

“Oh, quarreling!” exclaims Sir Eustace, look-
ing from my face to his friend’s with one of
his pleasantest smiles, ‘It was quite 4 happy
thought of mine, then, to come and put an end
to such an unseasonabie beginning of the day.
Yes, Mrs. Esmond has been asking about you,
and your sister, too, I believe, Miss Gertrude; but
I don’t think they will be likely to find fault
with you,” he adds, in a lower tone, looking at
me in a way so extremely suggestive of admira-
tion that I wonder if it can be my hat that has
taken his fancy, ‘“‘when they see what an ex-
quisite color the morning air has given you.”

CHAPTER XX.

The clock has just struck four; but we take no
notice of it, for we are all more or less occupied
with tennis, those who cannot or may not play
forming interested groups of critics and lookers-
on. ‘To-morrow the men will be off shooting; so
we are gathering our roses while we may, if the
mild flirtations going on around me can be dig-
nified by so fair a phrase. Lucy Audley is
ensconced in a low armchair, and is again re-
proving us with her never-ending fancywork.
She has succeeded in entangling Bugene Roth-
well in her little spider web of conversational
nothings. I hear her ‘“‘Wouldn’t it, Mr. Rothwell?
I think so—don’t you?” going on as unceasingly
as her fingers. I fancy that he is looking in-
tensely bored; but, as his expression is always
more or less melancholy, I may be mistaken. Sir
Eustace and Stella are playing; I am watching
their manceuvres, and those of Beatrice Ellison
and Philip Hamerton. I am glad I resisted Sir
Eustace when he seemed so anxious to teach me
how to play. I should not like to make a sim-
pleton of myself before Rosalie and Lucile Frank-

n.

’ How handsome Sir Bustace. and Stella look!
How bright her eyes are! What a color has
come into her clear, cold cheeks, and how the
sunshine shows to full advantage her beautiful
hair! It surely cannot be possible that any man,
looking at her as she is now, could turn away
and find my insignificant countenance pleasanter
to gaze upon! \

Beatrice and Philip Hamerton were having the
best. of it, I know, when I last paid proper at-
tention to the game; but I did not expect to see
Sir Eustace coming across the grass so soon, hav-
ing relinquished his racket to some more able
combatant. Stella is talking lightly to Harry
Audley ; but I know, from_the compression of my
sister’s lovely lips, that I am to blame for Sir
Eustace’s retreat, simply because he happens to
be coming in my direction. It is Mrs. Audley,
however, of whom he is in search, and he seems
anxious to address some remarks to her on the
subject of his defeat. He drops into a vacant
chair by her side, and for a few minutes is en-
tirely occupied in talking to her. I. am on the
other side of the chair. Maud was sitting in my
seat a few moments since, and I feel a convic-
tion that Sir Eustace and the conversation will
somehow turm round presently in my direction.
Similar incidents have occurred so many times
before that I am getting quite experienced in
them.

The event comes about exactly as I thought it
would. Sir Eustace discovers my presence in
about three minutes. I am drawn into the con=
versation almost before I can realize the. fact,
but not before Lucile and Rosalie Franklyn are
aware of it, for I encounter their respective
scornful glances one after another. [{ am_ afraid
they have not forgotten yet that I had the au-
dacity to walk into the house before breakfast
this morning under the escort of the most eligi-
ble man of our party, and followed, in addition,
by Mr. Rothwell. I have the consolation, of
eourse, of knowing that it is no fault of mine;
but I do not find that consolation quite so sooth-
ing as it ought to be. I have made up my mind
that the best thing I can do is to avoid morning
walks for the future.

“The last day of August,’ observes Sir Eustace
to me, as though the remark were a very wise
one.

“Yes, I suppose you are delighted?” I return.
“Ts there anything else that could give men. so
much pleasure as the prospect of destruction?”
I ask, with proper feminine scorn.

“T don’t know that I am_ particularly de-
lighted,” he says leisurely. “I know that you
give me credit for being so; but I cannot see
that there are any signs of rapture about me.”

“The other men speak for you. Perhaps you
are not of a demonstrative nature,” I rejoin dis-
approvingly. ‘You know you are delighted, Sir
Eustace; so what is the use of making believe
you don’t care about things?”

“Do I make belleye I don’t care about things?”
he says in a lower tone, bending a little toward
mé that Mrs, Audley may not hear. ‘I do care
about things—some things very much. May
tell you what they are some. day?”

Tt am too much engaged in observing my
mother to pay close attention to what) my com-
panion is saying. She has just crossed over to
us from the house, and is looking almost as love-

‘clusion.

“before.

 

ly in her way as Stella, with a soft white fleecy
cloud wrapped, elderly-lady fashion, about her
neck and shoulders. I notice the expression on
her face as she looks first at me and then at
Stella; and I see the ‘swift glance that is ex-
changed between mother and daughter. Poor
mother! She knows that SteHa is angry, and I
think she dreads the expression of that anger
which is yet to come. My heart feels heavy as
I realize the unhappiness which this scene means
—the anxiety in my mother’s mind, the belief
of both that I am the luckless cause of so much
waste of valuable time,

Somehow I have bégun to think that Stella
will have to make up her mind to accept some
one else instead of Sir Eustace. I wish she could
think so, too, but she is putting every other op-
portunity aside~ ruthlessly. She could have had
all that Philip Hamerton has to offer; but she
is so indifferent to him that, ardent lover as he
is, he must begin to cool down a little. | Mr.
Voysey was perhaps more to her liking. He is
certainly richer, and I know Stella does not
like very young men; but I think he has with-
drawn from the contest now, and,-I fancy, will
not hastily enter the lists again. Then there
was Bugene Rothwell—suppose he had really
been my brother-in-law, as I fancied at one time
he would be? :

I suddenly become aware that I am keeping
Sir Eustace waiting for an answer tO some ques-
tion; but I am called back to common sense and
reality rather more forcibly in another moment.

“Gertie, my dear,” my mother says, coming up
and looking over my shoulder at my “unoccupied
hands, “don’t you think at your age you are
cultivating the habit of idleness rather too much?
I know you have some holiday tasks with you—
something in the way of needlework. Sir Eustace
will excuse you—he must think you a very lazy
little ._person, I am afraid. Thank you, Sir
Eustace—you are very kind, but no one could
find what she wants but herself.”

I walk away very humiliated; and I can feel
that my face is crimson. ‘Cultivating the, habit
of idleness!’’. Did I not work early and late till
I came to Oaklands? Among all the sins and
shortcomings that have been urged against me,
when have I been accused of idleness before?
But why am I so foolish and so forgetful as to
weigh any words that may be said to me? Is
it not all on Stella’s account? And, if Sir
Eustace thinks I am a child, has he not been
given to understand so a dozen times before?

When I reach the house I stand and look back
at the scene I have left, and the old feeling of
dejection rises again in my heart. I know that
my sorrow is born of selfishness; I know that I
dread the ending of this golden summer holiday,
that I shrink from the thought of smoky London
streets—from a life that will be one dull round
of teaching, with no home brightness to relieve
it. If there were only some one to welcome my
return in the evening, I think passionately, I
could endure it.

I look back again at the scene on the lawn.
How green the velvety stretch of grass is, how
golden the sunshine that lies across it, and what
a delicious blue there is in the sky! The lively
voices reach me, the brightly-dressed figures move
to and fro. What a happy thing it must be to
live always amid such surroundings! How dif-
ferent my lot will be-from Stella’s! In a few
weeks more my summer holiday will be a thing
of the past.

I go upstairs to my own room, and draw forth
from a box there the ugly little crewel-work mats
my mother alluded to when she spoke of. “holi-
day tasks.” At the last moment they were put
in. on my account. Where the little monstrosi-
ties came from or who chose the bright-colored
wools that accompany them, I know not. I make
an heroic effort. to be cheerful, and, having meek-
ly gathered together the grass-greens and brilliant
blues that are. supposed to make my work a
thing of beauty and a joy forever, I go down-
stairs. ‘Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,’ I say
to my rueful reflection in a mirror as [I pass.
“Nothing lasts forever in this world—especially
a charming summer. holiday.”

The late afternoon sunshine is streaming in
through the open French windows of the draw-
ing-room. -I have wandered in. here without any
very definite idea, unless it be that I know I can,
through the open windows, rejoin the others at
any time, but just at present I have no inclina-
tion for the voices and laughter. The knowl-
edge that the longer I remain away the more ac-
ceptable will my behavior be to my mother and
sister is not conducive to light-heartedness. If
sit down in one of the comfortable low chairs
within the shadow of the window curtains, and
here, with my crewel-work on my lap and the
garden to look out upen, I can linger for the
present until I grow -adittle more cheerful.

It is depressing to know that your absence is
better appreciated than your presence; and my
eyes are full of tears before I am well aware of
the fact—tears that blur the outline of the little
mats that lie in my lap, as I look down upon
them, afraid some one may come in and discover
my weakness. I am not at all ambitious to be
found shedding tears, like the child I am supposed
to be; so 1 draw my chair further back behind
the curtain. I wonder what Mr. Rothwell would
look like if he found me crying.

My meditations are abruptly brought to a con-
I had already heard footsteps, but did
not think they were so near; and now, before I
can collect my scattered senses and fly, I hear
two people talking outside the window. I shrink
back a little further into my corner to hide my
tears, when I suddenly find that I can not only
hear distinctly what is being said, but I can
recognize the voices.. The first words that reach
my ears are spoken by Sir Eustace Lydiard:

“You quite mistake me! I have no thought
of flirting.” :

‘Well, I must ask your forgiveness then.” It
is now Mrs. Audley’s pleasant voice. “She is
so young yet, I could hardly believe that. you
were in earnest; and I felt that flirtation with a
child of her age, who no doubt hardly knows
the meaning of the word yet, was really not quite
fair. I take a great interest in little Gertie, you
know.” ;

“Little Gertie!’ Do they mean me? Am I
listening to a conversation about myself—one
that is certainly not intended for my ears? They
are standing near the window now, and I am at
my wits’ end. I cannot leave my hiding place
and let them know I have overheard their re-
marks, My cheeks.are burning; I am_ utterly
undecided as to what to do; and, while I am
in suspense, Sir HBustace speaks again. I hear
every word; and I am so completely taken aback
that, even if I had a chance of retreating, I
should remain stupid and immovable,

“T take more than an interest in her,’ says
Sir Eustace, his voice lowered, but with a cer-
tain force and emphasis in it that were not there
“Tt is not a thing one generally speaks
about to others, but I fully appreciate your mo-
tive and your kindness, Mrs, Audley. I can as-
sure you, once for all, that I have been serious
all along; and, if I could only think she would
promise to be my wife when she knows me a little
better a

“You would be the happiest man in the world.
I understand,’ Mrs. Audley returns in the mo-
mentary pause. “Do you know, I imagined it was
Stella—the other sister. One is apt to suppose
that a beauty has the monopoly in all such
things.”

“She is the loveliest woman I have ever seen,”
answers Sir Bustace soberly. I draw a passion-
ate breath of relief as 1 hear that they are walk-
ing-further away from me. _“‘I was very much
dazzled by her at first; but I forget that she or
any one else is in the room when her sister is
there.’’

“T really cannot tell you what Gertie will say
to all this,” says Mrs. Audley, and I see that they
have passed the second window, and that now is
jay time for flight.

CHAPTER XXI.

I do not know how I reach my room, That I
do so is all I am conscious of; and then I drop
down upon my. knees in the window seat and hide
my face in my hands, in a passion of shame,
surprise, and a hundred conflicting feelings. Have
I not listened-to what was never intended for
my ears? And yet, I ask myself, in answer to
my own reproaches, how could I help it? 1 did
not discover that they were speaking of me until
it was too late for me to move; I had shrunk
pack a little more closely behind the curtains
simply that they might not perceive me and my
tears. I eover my face with my hands again,
and my very temples seem to burn, Well, J
may feel humiliated, I think, as I rise at last to
my feet and try to'cool my burning cheeks, but
neither Sir Eustace nor Mrs. Audley will ever
know that their conversation was overheard. Hap-
pily it was nothing that concerned the private af-
fairs of others. I have not heard anything more
than I shall now, without doubt, one day hear
from Sir Eustace’s own lips. I forget my humilia-
tion at this point—the actual realization of what
it all means is too overwhelming. It means that
it is I—Gertie Esmond—not Stella—who, am to
have the opportunity of leaving the old life of
poverty behind—that wealth, dignity, position,
everything that I have heard my mother and
Stella speak of as making life pleasant, will be
offered to me, laid at my feet, and I shall simply
have to accept them. Yes, and love, too! I won-
der why my heart is not more stirred by the
thought of the nearness of what IT have so longed
for. It means all this, and more.

{} have never known till now how little I have
been. affected by the attentions Sir Eustace has
paid me—how certain I have felt all along that
his kindness might end at any moment, My own
overwhelming sense of amazement proves that;

 

and yet, now I have heard the truth, I find my-
self believing it without a shadow of doubt.

I walk up and down the room and pause bhe-
fore the glass, looking at my crimson cheeks and
tangled locks. Is it possible that he thinks me
pleasant to look upon?. He must do so, or he
would never like me well enough to ask me to be
his wife. Is it all a dream, that old life? Have
I never really been mourned over on account of
my plainness, scolded for my lack of dignity,
told I had no prospects, and never should have
as long as I lived? Have I really worked hard,
taught Mrs. Wardell’s children, come home un-
welcomed and unattended, often in rain and some-
times in darkness? No; rather must this won-
drous present be the dream—I know the Gertie
Esmond of that old time so well. It seems im-
possible that I shall be asked to call myself Lady
Lydiard—that I shall be mistress in a house such
as I have ventured sometimes to dream of only
for Stella. And Sir Eustace’s wife—why do I
not think more of that? Would not any girl in
love think first of that, and of the rest after-
ward?

A strange chill sense of fear comes over me.
Am I really converted to the opinions that I have
always shrunk from accepting in the past? Do
I believe in, my secret heart that wealth and
position are everything? Perhaps I have in-
herited that conviction, and I shall never be able
to free myself from it. And yet I know that
hitherto such thoughts have been abhorrent to
me.

How is it that I am beginning to change my
opinions now? But must have altered won-
drously; the old days must have gone and my
child-heart with them, when I can stand by this
window and. realize that Sir Eustace Lydiard
loves me and is determined some day to ask me
to be his wife, and yet think only of what this
sudden reversal of fortune will mean—of the
surprise of my mother and Stella—of the con-
sternation of those others who have treated me,
some so indifferently, others so insolently—of the
wealth and social position I shall acquire as Sir
Eustace’s wife.

What will Mr. Rothwell say when he finds
that I am to be Lady Lydiard? My thoughts,
foolishly enough, seem to revert to him—I sup-
pose because he has treated me so cavalierly—
and it will give me much pleasure to let him
see the regard in which I am _ held by others.
Will those penetrating eyes of his look straight
in my direction as they have once or twice be-
fore? Will he wear that curious observant
look, or will he be surprised, startled—even
annoyed? -How foolish I am to think that my
becoming Lady Lydiard will affect him in any
way! ~
Oh, I shall be very happy, I know! Who has
ever been so kind to me as Sir Eustace? I have
already learned to love him alittle for that, I
think; now that I am free to do so with all my
heart, I hide my face in my hands again,
though I am all alone-and a hundred happy fleet-
ing fancies come before me. Well, I had better
smooth out my disordered curls and make myself
presentable. My mother desired to make a
change in the disposition of things on the lawn;
but she did not intend ée¢ banish me from it—
people will be making inquiries about me. Ah,
as Lady Lydiard, how much I could do for my
mother and Stella! She should never know what
poverty meant again; and Stella should have
every advantage that my position could possibly
give her. A blank conviction comes to me that
Stella may not view the matter in exactly the
same light as I do. However, I must leave all
such things as that for the present. We are at
Qaklands, and Sir Eustace loves me!

“Loves me!’ I think shyly, as I linger at the
top of the staircase, half afraid to go down.
“Loves me!’ J] think again, in something like
trepidation this time,-as I touch the handle of
the drawing-room door and dare not turn it. At
length, however, I muster up courage, and find
no. one in the room when I venture to look in.
The windows are still wide open—the sunshine is
pleasant outside; but it finds its way no longer
into the room. I pull down my hata little farther
over my eyes as I pass a mirror, tighten my
hold ‘upon my crewel-work, and, with a grand
effort, make my reappearance upon the lawn.

Mrs. Audley is not there; but I see- Sir
Eustace sitting by the side of Stella, who is talk-
ing to him as gayly as though she had forgotten
his previous defection. My mother is plying her
knitting-needles at some little distance from
them, and Maud and Harry, Lucile Franklyn and
Philip Hamerton are enjoying a game of tennis.
T walk across the grass as unassumingly as I can,
and find a haven in the nearest chair, but not
without discovering that Sir Eustace is looking
at me, with what sort of glance I do not try to
find out. . For once I bestow a benediction upon
those ugly little mats as I bend over them
sedulously, not venturing to raise my eyes until
my cheeks are, I hope, a little less searlet,

It is very foolish of me, for Sir Eustace
knows nothing of my eavesdropping, and at this
thought I find my cheeks cooling down, and pres-
ently I venture to raise my eyes.

The first person whose gaze I encounter is
Beatrice Ellison, who is looking at me observant-
ly with compressed lips. I know the reason of
that look, and the knowledge rouses a curious
recklessness in me—a spirit of gayety of tri-
umph, the vivid conviction that itis at last my
turn to be indifferent. I am conscious of the
unworthiness of such feelings; I know that the
fact of Sir Bustace’s loving me ought to awaken
in me such thoughts as could leave no room for
these. I do not know if it is simple revulsion of
feeling, or resentment for past treatment, or
vanity, that prompts me to meet Beatrice Elli-
son’s eyes and return her glance with calm in-
difference. I put down my crewel-work now,
and look about me, first at the players, then
at those who are supposed to be surveying the
game. I feel as if I had taken-some intoxicant.
How fresh the air is! How sweet the scents are
that are borne to us from the garden! How fe-
verishly, recklessly elated I seem to be!

As no one notices me, Iehave leisure presently
to become more clear-headed, and to discover
that every one is thinking of a move toward the
house. The game is over, and Harry and Maud
are conquerors.

I hurry to Maud’s side, determining that we
shall go in together, and that Sir Eustace shall
be left to Stella. I think, with a little thrill
of triumph, that it will be delightful to observe
how soon he makes his way in my direction. In
my direction! Mine—Gertie Esmond’s? ie
seems impossible! The very presence of my
mother and sister recalls the mourning and
lamentation there have always been over “Ger-
tie’s prospects.”

“T did not intend you to run away altogether,
Gertie,” says my mother, more serenely than
usual, as we repose in the pleasant coolness of
the drawing-room, refreshing ourselves with cups
of tea. “I only wished you to fetch your work.
I like to see you employed—that is all.” :

“You disappeared from our view altogether,”
interposes Sir Eustace. I did not know that he
was standing behind me, and I notice that my
mother’s delicate brows are contracted a little as
she looks up and sees him. How did he come
to be se near? He was in another part of the
room only a few moments ago. “Is that your
work?” he goes on, looking down at me with
one of his peculiarly winning smiles. ‘‘Have I
your permission to examine it? I should like to
see what took you away from us.”

My mother looks worried and bewildered as she
sees Sir Eustace take the seat beside me. He
bends over to look at my productions in green
and blue, and I know that his smooth, dark head
is very near my untidy locks, and that we are
observed by nearly every one in the room; but I
can afford to smile at the knowledge. I am
conscious, too, that I am looking my -best, for,
when I glanced at the mirror a few moments
ago, I could hardly belieye that I was looking
at my own refiection. If my eyes were always
as bright as they are now, if my cheeks always
were that same brilliant tint, and my curis al-
ways shone in those mingled hues of russet and
gold, I should esteem myself quite a personable
young woman—indeed I do not know that I should
not be preposterously vain. However, since I
cannot always look so, since it evidently requires
extraordinary excitement to brighten my eyes
and tint my cheeks to this surprising extent, I
may as well make the most of my short-lived
attractions, and rejoice for the evening in the
loss of the oppressive sense of my own short-
comings. I shall lose that sense altogether, I
think, if I stay much longer at Oaklands; it re-
quired the continual reminders of my mother and
Stella to make me perpetually conscious of my
sins of omission. Since neither of them can very
well enter on the subject in the midst of a party
of guests, and since Sir Eustace is so often by
my side, looking at me as if I were at least a
“Joy forever,” if not actually a “thing of beauty,”
I am in a fair way to having my head turned.

“Crewel-work, is it not?’ inquires Sir Eustace,
looking at the mats with an air of edification.

“Crewel-work? I don’t call this crewel-work,”
T return. I know perfectly well my mother over-
hears every word, but that consideration rather
urges me on. “Ugly, formal little things! They
give not the least idea of what forget-me-nots
and roses ought to be. I work at them, but I
detest the very sight of them!”

“Gertie! Detest the sight of your work? What
a foolish child she is, Sir Hustace!” exclaims
my mother, with a glance of annoyance that is
intended for me alone.

“J like crewel-work very much when the de-
sign is worth doing,’ I return, tossing mats, wool,
needles, and all upon a table with an air of reck-
lessness, at which my mother looks aghast. and
Sir Eustace smiles. I am thinking of the work
I haye done in

 

the past—delicate embroidery |

upon satin, trails of vine leaves, flowers that
bore some resemblance to their exquisite orig-
inals. I know of course that all such work is
forbidden to me at present, lest I should appear
too skillful for my age; but never until now have
I felt the spirit of rebellion rise in me in any-
thing like actual strength. ‘“‘These are only fit for
a child!’ I say audaciously. ‘If I were a child,
they would do very well for me to begin to learn
with. As it is, to sit and work at them is noth-
ing but waste of time. Don’t you think so, Sir
Eustace?”’

My mother looks at me in actual fear, and
a sense of compunction comes over me at the
sight of her poor, anxious face. Strangely enough,
it is as much as I can do to prevent the tears
from filling my eyes. For a moment I wish that
the old days were back again—that the visit to
Oaklands, with all it has brought, had never
been. I think I must have been happier than I
knew in those old days—happier than I ever
thought when plodding away, often with a head-
ache, in the ugly schoolroom at Mrs. Wardell’s,
or even in those Jong, dull evenings when the
only change was additional study.

I leave Sir Eustace and my mother together,
and go oyer to talk to Maud. As I do so, I look
toward a group gathered around Mrs. Audley ;
and beyond it, standing quietly. by himself, with
his arm resting on the mantelpiece and with his
eyes fixed upon me, I see Eugene Rothwell.

There is something so coolly observant, so
difficult to understand in his expression, that I
feel the color mounting to my cheeks as I look
at bim. I endeavor at once to appear utterly
unconscious of the fact that I happened to glance
in his direction at all~ A sudden feeling of re-
sentment rises within me at the expression on his
face, and I wonder why it is that I am compelled
continually to waste indignation upon Mr. Roth-
well. I find, however, that my gayety has re-
turned to me as I take my seat by Maud. Has
not my world turned upside down, and am I not
to be Lady Lydiard?

TO BE CONTINUED.

THE DEVIL’S REWARD

By MAUD I. DOUGLAS.

CHAPTER Tf.

A FATAL DISASTER.

The man smiled slightly, and courteously raised
his hat, as he recognized the two ladies in the
railway car as the same with whom he had
traveled a previous stage of the journey.

Then, beyond lifting one or two trifling pieces
of luggage in and out of the car for them, they
had had no communication with one another ;
the mien of the elder lady did not invite conver-
sation, while the younger one was apparently en-
tirely under authority, though her eyes rested
often and long upon the fine specimen of man-
hood in the opposite corner.

It was not only that he was tall, handsome,
well-bred—he possessed that strange, nameless
quality which we call “charm,” and in so pow-
erful a form that it drew to him the hearts of
men, women, children, and even the very dogs
in the street gave a friendly wag of their tail
as they passed by. f :

His smile was like a gleam of sunlight—irre-
sistible, kind, and infectious; his well-cut mouth
and chin showed strength of character under-
neath the good nature. Something in his eyes
told that he had known sorrow, that he had. met
it squarely and conquered it, yet that the re-
membrance would ever remain with him.

The younger of the two ladies was remark-
ably handsome in a rather unusual fashion. Her
hair and eyes were dark as_ night, her com-
plexion smooth and white as ivory, her lips as
red as a rose, and her figure superb. She was
dressed in black, and on the third finger of her
left hand was a wedding ring. ;

The elder lady was fidgety, impatient, queru-
lous, and the other attended to all she said or
wanted with a patience and self-control which
aroused the man’s sympathy; it was evident that
she was cultured, refined, had been widowed al-
most in girlhood, and, not being too well pro-
vided for, had taken a situation as companion
with a rather tiresome member of her own sex,
who meant to get the full value of the salary
paid. All at once there was a terrible noise, the
sound of cracking wood, a blinding flash; some-
thing awful had happened—shrieks and cries
were on all ‘sides of them; a babel of tongues
stunned their ears.

“What is it?”
with lips suddenly white as
hurt! Lady Fairlegh, open
God’s sake, speak!”

The man dragged her away over the body
of the elder woman, and he put aside the paper he
had been reading; he himself was wounded in the
arm, which was bleeding freely.

“Get out instantly!’ he commanded. “I fear
it is a bomb! Your friend is dead—save your-
self,’ and he helped her out of the wrecked car
as he spoke and guided her to a place of safety.

The whole track was swarming with dusky
forms, clad only in linen robes, and wearing
bright-colored turbans on their heads—a _ shriek-
ing, frightened, injured throng—while wreckage
lay all around.

Almost instantly, as

asked the handsome woman,
death. “She is
your eyes; for

it seemed, even there in
India, helpers and doctors, with hastily improvised
ambulances, appeared on the scene, and the
work of attending to the wounded began.

The man was right; the mischief had been
caused by a bomb, meant for the regiment which
was to have traveled by that train. Anarchism
is nowhere rifer than in modern India; but the
troops had gone by an earlier train. Only 2
few stragglers were in this, and the bulk of
the injured were natives, ignorant and innocent
of treason or offience.

CHAPTER II.
THE UNKNOWN RIVAL.

I have
Mrs. Tre-

REFLECTIONS CONCERNING

“Mary, I have brought you a guest.
assured her that she will be welcome.
garth, this is my wife.”

“Indeed, you are welcome. Oh, I am _ so
sorry for you,’ said Mrs. Howard, bending for-
ward impulsively and _ kissing the newcomer.
“you have had such a terrible shock; but we
will take care of you and to try to make you
happy while you are here.” :

“You are too good,” replied the guest, with
a grateful pressure of both hands, “‘and, as you
say, the shock was terrible.”

If they could have looked into her heart they
would) have been surprised to learn that the
greatest and only real shock she had felt was in
learning that Erol Howard was a married man.

The explosion had startled her certainly, but
she had felt almost glad that Lady Fairlegh was
killed. For two years she had been compelled
to bear her ill-humors, put up with her caprices,
swallow insults and slights that were bitter as
gall to her proud, ambitious nature. She had
borne all with extraordinary patience, because
she could not help herself, but all that was sav-
age in her had chafed beneath the tyrant she
served, and she hated Lady Fairleigh as she
hated nothing else on earth, then; though ere
long another object would arise on which she
would concentrate all the savage hate of which
she was capable. She had not even hated Lady
Pairlegh so much, until Erol Howard came into
her life, and during those long hours which
stretched into long days while they traveled as
fellow passengers from Calcutta to the Hima-
laya.

Shé was young,
she had inherited from }
wild passion of that race; her life had been bit-
terly disappointing—hard, cruel, exasperating.

She had married at seventeen, for his money,
a man four times her age, and he had died seven
years later, leaving her as poor as she was be-
fore she married him.

No one knew why. He seemed to have pro-
vided for every relation, friend, and dependent
he had in the world except his beautiful young
widow. No word of his condemned her; but
the utter absence of mention was almost more
condemning than the most violent abuse would
have been.

That happened nearly two years
landed in India with Lady Fairlegh.

Soon after she arrived they met Erol Howard,
and even before that terrible accident made them
acquainted and drew them together in a way
that even the friendship of years might not have
done, a wild fancy for him had sprung up in
her breast—a fancy which almost at once grew
into an ungovernable passion. Her life of late
had been so dull, stupid, monotonous; she longed
to know him—she felt certain he longed even
more to know her; he made all the advances
which courtesy permitted, paid them small at-
tentions which only needed the slightest encour-
agement on their side to turn into an acquaint-
ance—and Lady Fairlegh was old enough to
dispense with much formality in the interchange
of civilities on long journeys extending over sev-
eral days such as theirs was to be—but to
Julie’s secret rage, her companion gave no Treé-
sponse beyond a stiff inclination of the head,
plainly showing that she desired to have nothing
to say to him, and Julie Tregarth was so en-
tirely dependent upon her patron that she dare
not rebel against her. ae

But when in an instant Death swooped down

she was unusually handsome,
an Italian mother the

before she

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

Vol. 64—No. 38

 

 

and claimed the cross, selfish, tyrannical old
woman, there was no regret, no horror.in Julie’s
breast; instead, was to be found a fierce con-
tent, a satisfaction. If ever ghe believed in a
God it was at that moment, for she saw in it
her opportunity and seized it with both hands.

She was a stranger in the land, alone, friend-
less, penniless. She was traveling companion to
Lady Fairlegh, and they were on their way to
join General Sir John Fairlegh, who was. with
the camp—somewhere—she was not even sure of
the locality. Her ladyship had been often in
India before, but she, Julie, never, She was ut-
terly alone and terribly frightened.

She fad clung to Erol Howard and wept in
his arms as a child ‘might have done; she had
thrown herself utterly upon him, and he had
soothed her, saved her all trouble and expense
possible, and after the inquiry was over he had
suggested her going home with him.

“My wife will do all for you. that can be
done,” he had assured her gently; “she is so
good and kind, she will comfort you, and she
knows so many people. that no doubt she will
be able to find you another situation, You may
even be fortunate enough to get one for Eng-
land. Yes, indeed, you must stay with my wife
until you have recovered from this shock, and
thoroughly arranged your plans.”

He did not see how white her face had sud-
denly grown, nor the look that had come into
her eyes; he did not know that his words had
dealt her a bitter blow; that, aware ,of her own
great beauty, she had hoped everything from the
accident. Fate had made them meet, and thrown
them together, and she had taken it for granted
that the small courtesies he had shown to her
and Lady. Fairlegh had been for herself alone.
She was not accustomed to the greater geniality
of India, nor had the men she had seen most of
in her life been quite such models of courtesy,
unselfishness, consideration for others, as Erol
Howard. was.

But that does not imply that the circles she
had moved in were inferior to those he be-
longed to, but simply that even a king upon a
throne may not be a gentleman, a duchess may
be very far from being a lady, and that the pos-
sessions of a kind heart, quick eye, and hand
ready to help whenever. necessary, are among
the first requirements in the .stamping of the
brand. . But on all that long, weary journey she
had resented the fact that he was already married
-—that some other woman was waiting for him at
the Bungalow in the Himalaya—that the only man
for whom she had ever felt that absorbing in-
terest was himself in love with another woman.

She herself could have married again’a score
of times, at least, during her two years’ widow-
hood, but she meant to make no mistake the
second time, and none of her “chances” had
come up to her standard.

She had heard that women married well in
India, and that reason had influenced’ her more
than anything else in remaining with Lady Fair-
legh, who, she knew, was eventually bound to
join her husband there.

Hither in camp, barracks, or. civil life, eligi-
bles would abound; she would wait her time.

Then the absurd thing happened that she had
immediately lost her heart to a married man.

And all the concluding stages of the journey
were filled with torturing thoughts of what that
other woman was like—was she -fair or dark,
tall or short, and was she very, very beautiful?

Even before she recognized the thing herself,
she was mentally pitting her .own good points
against those of her unknown rivak

Married or single, could she win Erol How-
ard’s heart to herself? The rest hardly mat-
tered at that stage of affairs. Could she, by
much striving, win his love from the other?

Even in staid old England there was such a
thing as the divorce court. It was said there
was greater laxity abroad... Should» she let any-
thing or anybody bar the way to her happiness?

But could she do this thing? Had she the
power? Suppose that other woman could hold
her own?

That was why there was such a curious smile
on Julie Tregarth’s lips, and why» her heart beat
so tumultuously as she looked upon Mary How-
ard’s face.

She was sure of victory, for while she was
near, no man under heaven would even remem-
ber the existence of the plain, unattractive little
dowdy whom Erol Howard called wife.

CHAPTER III.
THE DEVIL’S. TEMPTATION.

“Tt is so nice to have music once again,” said
Mrs. Howard, with a sigh of content. ‘I have
always been sorry that I am not a musician, be-
cause my husband loves it so. No matter whether
it is Italian opera or a tin whistle in the street
he revels in it—and that last song you gave us
is a special favorite of his.”

“TI am so pleased you like it,” replied Mrs.
‘Tregarth, with a smile, “‘and I shall make a
point of singing the “Last Waltz’ very often—I
almost feared Mr. Howard did not like it.”

For once she spoke the truth—he had not
raised his head, had made no pretence of thank-
ing her, but had walked to the window, and
gazed out at the night as if he did not hear, or
did not care for the song she was giving them.
She had known how passionately fond he was of
music, and her talent for it was one of the
strongest weapons in her hand in the game she
was playing.

She hada rich contralto voice, which had
been exceptionally well trained, and when she
sang in a soft undertone tender little love songs,
or gentile lullabys, Erol Howard would stand or
sit near the piano for hours together, listening
with all his soul, lost in reverie.

Mrs. Howard could neither sing nor play, but
she was above any petty jealousy of another
woman, whether for her beauty or her talents; in
fact, as Julie thought, with secret scorn, ~she
must have a good deal of the fool about her, or
else be the most conceited person in India. Trust
and confidence in one’s husband sound all very
well to talk of, but the best of men is but mor-
tal, and- Julie knew. her own attractions. Mary
Howard had only just escaped being ugly—she
was certainly plain; she had no pretensions to
cleverness; in fact, she was just a homely, ordi-
nary woman; one of the kind of whom it is said,
“She would pass in a crowd,” and often Julie
Tregarth would sit and study her, and wonder
why Erol Howard had thrown his brilliant self
away upon her.

The more she studied the
certain she was that he did
then, however much he might have done
the time. of.their marriage.

He seemed so glad to have a third person
with them—-he made her so welcome, he pressed
her. so cordially to. remain their guest just as
long as she could be happy there.

“Sometimes I am absent for weeks together,”

said .one day, “and I should be so_ pleased
to think that. Mary.was. not alone with only
servants in the bungalow. She is not strong,
and. the doctor says she must be at the hills as
much as possible while we are in India.”

“You are both so kind,” Julie murmured, with
an upward glance of. her wonderful eyes. I
shall certainly not. leave you yet—it would al-
most break. my heart to go away.” :

Again she was speaking the literal truth. She
had grown to care for Erol Howard as she had
never cared for living soul. since she was ‘born,
and every..passing day confirmed her belief that
he joved her, and: had never loved his wife.

But no one suspected that but herself, Mary
was serenely. unconscious of it, and a_ super-
ficial. observer would have said that she was
his. first. thought in life, for no husband was
ever kinder or more considerate, or took more
pains to please his wife, than Erol Howard-+did
—plain, commonplace little woman as she was
—so that sometimes Julie almost lost patience
with him, for he purposely, as it seemed, wasted
so Many opportunities of enjoying walks, drives
or music with her because Mary had suggested
his doing something else, which took him in an-
other direction altogether.

Julie received an unpleasant shock one even-
ing at a small informal dinner party at a-neigh-
boring bungalow, to which the Howards took her
as their guest.

he subject turned on “divorce,” owing to a
discussion which was taking place in a favorite
newspaper, when their host, Colonel] Mapleson,
said with a laugh:

“Howard refuses to talk on the subject at all
—his views aré too well known to require ven-
tilation, so suppose we change the topic.”

“What aré. his views?” Julie asked of her
neighbor, who replied in a low tone, smiling
the while.

“Puritanical. He is quite
that ‘till death do wus part’ ought to be taken
literally. _He is of that type of man who thinks
that ‘If thine eye offend thee, pluck it out, for
it is better to enter the Kingdom of Heaven
with one eye—i, e., one wife—than not at all.’
Seriously; he is a rattling good fellow. His wife
is a lucky woman. If ever he did feel his fancy
straying elsewhere he would- i

“Yes! He would——”

“Bolt. -Flee from temptation,
furn until he had conquered it.”

“But, fortunately, there is no fear of his af-
fection ever straying from: dear Mary,” put in
Julie ‘sweetly; ‘‘their~mutual affection is some-
thing beautiful to witness. I ought to know,
seeing that I have lived under the: same roof for
such a long time now.”

“Y—-e—s!” replied her companion slowly, and
then glanced quickly at her from under his eye-
brows—a curious glance, which she understood
only too well; ‘certainly that’s a pretty good

subject, the more
not. love his wife
so at

he

rigid in his belief

and never re-

 

test, isn’t it, and I ought to know, seeing that [
was his best man.”’

The hostess rose from the table at that inter-
esting moment, and Julie had no further oppor-
tunity of continuing the conversation.

But her spirits. were not so good after that
dinner party as before it. .She understood many
things now that had puzzled her before.

She knew why that repression was always in
his every word and look, why he never for. an
instant dropped guard. She knew why his face
suddenly grew stern and white, and why he went
out on the veranda for a smoke when she sang
certain of his favorite songs. Once she met his
eyes, and the look in them fairly electrified her,
it was so eloquent with repressed, passionate de-
spair. He made one quick step forward, as if
he had reached the limit of endurance, then
turned abruptly away, and she did not see him
again for.a month,

He had been ‘called away” .before.she was
down next morning, and, when he returned some
weeks afterward his manner toward her was: as
courteous and practically as formal as it had
been on the first day they -met, and she gnashed
her teeth in fury. This man was all the* world
to her, all she asked of earth or heaven, and
just when she had felt almost sure of him, he
had ‘‘fled temptation,” and. re€urnmed to. that
dowdy, uninteresting, plain wife of his, full of
tenderness, Jaden with rich gifts, and apparently
absolutely satisfied with his lot.

CHAPTER IV.
THE DEED.

“T am afraid she is going to be very ill,” said
the doctor, as he left the bedside; “it is a pity
she ever left here at all; the plains are so sultry,
and she is always delicate, certainly she has
only returned in time to escape the worst.”

He was speaking of Mrs. Howard, who had
just returned to the hills after accompanying
her husband on one of his’ expeditions to the
plains, and she had had a bad attack of fever.
Mrs, Tregarth had remained at the bungalow,
keeping house for them during their absence,
and no one knew. but herself the bitterness and
jealous hate she felt at being left behind, or the
fierce joy. that raged within her when Mary was
brought back seriously ill, with no small chance
of dying under the attack, judging from the doc-
tor’s words and grave mien. :

Erol Howard. was terribly agitated the more
so as he could not remain there with her, but
had to return almost immediately to Kalka.

“Of course, I shall come back as soon as pOS-
sible,’ he said, as he bade her good-by. You
don’t know what a comfort you are to me
now, Mrs. Tregarth. I—you—-I—you will do
your best for her, won’t you?” ‘a

“T am the best nurse in the world,” she re-
plied, pressing his hand gently.~ “I shall not
leave her—you know how much I feel for you—
how I suffer with you.”

“Heaven bless you,’ he whispered. “Oh, if
I could only stay—if you only knew »» Then,
with the sentence unfinished, he rushed off.

An hour later a telegram came for him, and
Julie opened it: { :

“Your uncle and his son. drowned in Mediter-
ranean; you succeed. Come home.”

Her lips closed with a snap. likea. steel trap.
Sir. Michael, his uncle, dead; he-—-Erol—was. now
the baronet and possessor of huge estates and, in-
come, and that woman—that woman—his wife!
Oh! if she would only die! .She must-die—she
was such a poor, weak, fragile thing—life was
only a curse to her!” 2

The doctor had come again, and was looking
at his patient with considerable satisfaction.

“Good!” he said, rubbing his hands together
gleefully. ‘‘My dear Mrs..Tregarth, you are a
eapital nurse. Between us we shall pull her
through, I. really believe we ‘shall. The fever
is less, the pulse a trifle stronger, if she has a
good night she will live. I shall ride over early
in the morning. Here is the draught, give it to
her .at midnight. We shall save her yet.”

Mrs. Tregarth took the bottle from his hand
and smiled.

“Yes, come early,” she said, turning her
splendid eyes full.upon him as he went out; “you
know there is not one soul in the place I can
rely upon to help me in an emergency. If—sup-
pose she does not have a good night, doctor?”

“Then she will not require me in the morn-
ing,” he replied gravely. ‘I would stay, if I
eould, for this is a critical time, but I have an-
other patient to whom it is absolutely necessary
I should go now. Let us hope for the best.”

She watched him go out, she heard his horse’s
hoofs clatter as he left, then .she returned to
the sickroom and turned the lights very low—so
low that if there had been spies close to her they
could hardly have seen to bear witness against
her—but, after all, what. was there to see?

Absolutely: nothing, .and. even a dog cannot
be hanged for doing nothing. But, yés, there was
once “an unprofitable servant’ who was. con-
demned for inertness alone.

A weary woman craving rest, parched lips
begging water, ebbing life that could have been
retained—and the saving draught poured out
upon the ground. That was all, and yet it is
difficult to tell how many. of the. Ten. Command-
ments remained unbroken by Julie Tregarth on
that dark night in that flower-covered bunga-
low in the Himalaya, when the devil came to her
to sell him her immortal soul in exchange for
the man she worshipped, the title of “lady” and
limitless wealth.

CHAPTER V.
DUST AND ASHES.

“This news of the death of my uncle and
Cousin necessitates my immediate return to Eng-
land,’” said Sir Erol on the evening of his’ wife’s
funeral, ‘to the few friends who had come to sup-
port him at the sad ceremony. ‘If I set out to-
night I shall be just -in time for the transport
which leaves Calcutta on Monday. You, Stan-
ford, will arrange all my affairs here for me,
won’t you? You know exactly what I want done.
Of course, Mrs. Tregarth, you will want to return
to England; that is understood. You had better
travel with Captain and Mrs: Stanford; they
leave “~here next month on a year’s leave. Or if
you wish to remain here——”

“T return to England, of course,’ she replied
quietly, though her heart chafed at the separa-
tiom and delay. Could not his affairs have waited
just a few days longer; or could he not have ar-
ranged for her to start for Calcutta on the pre-
vious day—the day of Mary’s death, for she had
passed away in the early hours of the morning—
and why did these tiresome people remain so
long; did they not know she wanted a private
talk. with Sir. Erol, that they had certain details
to arrange, last farewells ‘to utter?

“That’s your horse, my boy,” said Stanford,
as the clatter of hoofs came outside; “your
traps went off. this morning. Heaven bless you;
but I’m riding. with you as far as Kalka. Good-
by, ladies, good-by !”’

He. was off, and Sir Erol only remained long
enough to shake hands with the friends—includ-
ing Mrs. Tregarth——who had come to-the. funeral.

She was. white as. death herself at the part-
ing. . Could he go like this, were men always
so different, was love indeed ‘of their lives “a
thing apart’? Why, it would be weeks before
they could meet again.

No; her heart gave one great leap of joy.
He\ was coming back. He bent his head and
kissed her hand, an said in a low; unsteady tone:
“You will forgive me for leaving. you so abrupt-
ly. Stanford will tell you. He knows all that is
in my life and heart. I can never, never repay
you for all your devotion and ‘kindness to my
dear Mary; but you are in his care until you
are back in England again, then——”

Stanford had come back. and caught him by
the arm. :

“Sorry to -hurry you, old but. time
presses; we must be on our way.

She reeled back into the cottage. Her hands
caught’ a trail of Judas flower hanging round
the porch and tore it down in -her effort to
steady herself. How long the time would be
until they met again. Each hour would seem a
year. Could she live without him? Yes, because
when they met again it would be to part no
more.

“You are unnerved, dear,’? said Mrs. Stanford,
drawing her gently indoors; “it has all been such
a terrible time, and you have been such a ecom-
fort, help and support to us all. ' Jack has some-
thing to tell you, and a letter from Sir Erol for
you.”

“A Vetter for’me; give it to me now—now.”

“T can’t, because it’s in his desk, and that is
five miles away and locked,” was the reply; “but
you will have it soon. Sir Erol wrote the note
last night.”’

* * * * * * *

She tore the envelope open feverishly. In-
side was a check for £500 and a few words of
deep, heartfelt thanks.

Well, the money would be useful, of course.
Sir Erol thought of everything. Still ‘she had
hoped for—but Captain Stanford had something
to tell her. She turned to him and asked quick-

fellow,

Pr)

“This is not all; you have a message—some
ei a aby or instructions; your wife said—he
said.” <

“Yes; I. have something which I think you
ought to know, in justice to him, lest you might
blame him for—well—for s6 soon—as it may.
seem—forgetting poor, dear Mary and thinking of
another woman. You once said to me how beau-

 

tiful it was to see the mutual devotion of Erol
and his wife. I did not contradict you, but the
truth is that he was never in loye. with his wife,
before or after marriage; all the feeling he. ever
had for her was that of affection, friendship,
loyalty; but with all his soul he worshipped an-
other woman.”’

Julie’s eyes glistened, and she turned her head
away so that they might not betray too soon that
this secret was already known to her.

‘“‘Mary was like a very dear sister to him, and
her parents were like his own to him always, for
he was an orphan.

“Four years age he met a girl. with whom he
fell instantly and deeply in love, and you. will
not be surprised to hear that she returned his
affection fully, and one night he asked her to
marry him, and .she said yes.

“That night the. house they were all staying
at was burned down, and the girl, Hildegarde
Villiers, would have lost her life if Mary, at
enormous risk to herself, had not» crawled up a
burning staircase, roused her from sleep, and
dragged her to life and safety.

“Hildegarde. was .untouched—unhurt, for Mary
covered her with @ wet blanket, but. she—Mary
—was. not. so . lucky. Her complexion was
scorched, her hair and hands burned, and I must
tell you that such beauty as she had lay in her
rose-like complexion and lovely hair; she was a
pretty and attractive girl before the fire, after
it she was a plain woman.

“That was not all.. A piece of burning timber
had struck her and hurt her head, so that she
was delirious for days, and all the time she
called for. him. ‘Erol,’ she .cried aloud in her
love for him; ‘Erol, Erol, Erol!’ without ceas-
ing.

“Hildegarde, helped to .nurse her and heard,
She understood; and with superb gratitude, gave
himup to Mary.

“You see, the whole household knew then of
Mary’s love for him, but no. one, knew but their
two selves. of what had passed between them.

‘He saw it.as Hildegarde .did. ~There was
Mary, her beauty gone, her pitiful secret known,
They must give each other up forever, never see
each other again!

“They were both strong enough to do it..He
volunteered for foreign service, married Mary,
and. came here, and if his wife had lived would
never have looked upon the women he loved
again.

“But now—well—you can understand that he
has gone to her. She is, still true to his.memory
and free. God took pity on them, and now
comes: their sweet reward.

“You must have noticed the look of endurance,
resignation, strength in his - eyes, You know
how some music, ceratin songs, made him ex-
tremely agitated, because they tried him too
much; and recalled the past!

“Those were the songs Hildegarde sang to him.
‘The Last Waltz’ was being played while he pro-
posed to her; he listened to it while he kissed
her for the first and only time in their brief
love dream.

“He has gone. back to her!”

Dust’ and ashes! The devil’s fee in return for
a soul!

Julie rose from her seat and went. out heavily.

She had lost her soul for this, ; merely: to.send
him away from ‘her forever, to the arms of the

.woman he loved.

Dust and ashes; ashes and dust!

THE DOUBLE SEGRET

By DUNCAN McGREGOR,

Author of *‘Kennedy’s Foe,” “Ishmael Reformed,” ‘Edna's
Peril,” “A Game of Three,’ etc.

(‘THE DovuBLE SkCRET” was commenced'in No, 25.
Back numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers,)

CHAPTER XVIII.
THE PRICE OF THE SECRET.

Our serene young man had but reached ‘the
plateau on which stood Terre del.Pocco,’ known
among “Italian Liberals as the lion’s: den, when
suddenly as if by enchantment closed about him
a band of a dozen stalwart young fellows, shout-

ing: ‘

“Welcome, Englishman! Are you so enchanted
with hill life as to return unasked?”

“And who are=you? Where did you come
from?’ asked Dugald.

“We are the-whelps of the old Hon of Terre del
Pocco. We have had the honor of following your
journey up the hill as your escort.”

And in another instant the party were within
the: fastness.

Dugald was conducted up the stairway, and his
guide’ knocked at a door. The voice of Granitto
called him to enter. The door fell’ open and re-
vealed. to Dugald: Lina and: Granitto, still in the
glory of their marriage’ costumes.

Lina gave a glad cry, and springing up ran to
her cousin’s arms and gave him a much warmer
embrace than he had ever before received from
her.

“My dear Lina,” cried Dugald, his arm ‘around
his young cousin’s graceful form, “is it possible,
and—and——”

“Granitto, my dearest, come and. welcome my
cousin—your cousin. Dugald, shake hands with
my husband.” .

Granitto ‘came up smiling; and regaining pos-
session of his wife with his left arm, gave Dugald
his right hand.

“Your husband?” said Dugald.
band?”

“My husband, of couvse: Married this morning,
and we had Aunt Vilthorpe at the wedding, too,
and Allan Bird, and got a marriage certificate,
or something of that sort, from Allan.”

“She is mine,* Signor Probyn; by law and by
gospel; and by ‘her free. choice,’ said Granitto,
regarding his wife with admiring pride. And,
trust me, she shall not Jong be. the wife of an
exile and outlaw; freedom shall triumph, and
Lady Lina’ Arriano shail shine in the court of the
King of United Italy.”

“Come, dear Dugald, why are. you -standing
here after your Jong ride? Granitto, let us send
Dugald. somewhere. I do not yet know the re-
sources of my castle, and it is so full of armed
men that I do not venture about it alone; and
let him brush his coat and wash- his hands; and
come back here for something to eat. He will
not care to sup on tea and pretty talk, as swe
were doing, but we can order for him something
more substantial.” :

“By all means!” cried Granitto, “‘but first we
will relieve the good cousin’s mind by showing
him the document of the-illustrious Avoctat Bird,
who for his pluck and his general goodness and
wisdom, ‘should be. prime minister:’’

Afriano gave Probyn a look at his . beloved
document: With it came out of his pocket the
sealed and well-protected. packet containing the
Secret; he tucked it back as a matter of no con-
sequence, little knowing its value, not merely to
himself but to the heir-at-law of Harcourt.

“And how is Lord Harcourt?” said Lina, step-
ping back and‘ looking down, with much confu-
sion on her fair face.

“Ah, Lina, he is overwhelmed, distracted, heart-
broken.”’

“Oh, poor dear Lord Harcourt! Dugald, do
get. him to:.forgive me, and say he does not feel
so very badly,” said Lina, stirred to some tardy

“Your hus-

pity.

“My child, your lack of filial affection is your
worst feature.’’

“Dear Dugald, I have filial affection, but some-
how it has never been developed—it is dormant.
Lord Harcourt is not its proper object.”

Dugald Probyn- had intended to return to Flor-
ence on the second day after his departure for
the city, but such a trivial dnd absurd accident as
a sprained ankle detained him. He was walking,
the morning after his arrival; on a part of the
wall which he did not know was unsafe, when ‘it
crumbled under him and disabled him. He: sent
by Baptiste a letter to Lord Harcourt, but Madzo,
perceiving that it was not in Arriano’s hand-
writing, and seized witha fancy that it might be
a revelation of his own iniquities in serving many
hostile interests at onte, burned the document.
Lord Harcourt was therefore in anxiety’ about
both daughter’ and kinsman. While Dugald was
daintily nursed by Lina at the castle, and Mrs.
Bemis daily marveled why such a man had not
won the heart of the perverse damsel, and while
anxiety reigned in Palazzo Ridolfi, and anarchy
and revolution muttered in the streets of Flor-
ence, Lady Astraea, by an unusually speedy and
easy journey, reached London and was conveyed
modestly in a hackney coach, with Birkin seated
at her side, to the office of Allan Bird, reaching
there only an hour or two after Allan made his
appearance, returned from his fruitless Italian
expedition. Lady Astraea- was ushered into the
inner office, sacred to the lawyer alone, and
shut out from the outer world by two chambers.
The first and largest of Allan Bird’s chambers
was well piled with desks and with clerks who
joked and wrote, and inspected all newcomers
with equal diligence. The second room ‘was
smaller, furnished with a round table, a pile of
magazines, a shelf of books, popular reading of
the day, a lounge, and some armchairs; in one
of these sat Birkin, upright and alert, impressed
with the importance of being in the great law-
yer’s waiting.

 

 

Meantime Allan Bird was in deep conference
with Lady Astraea. Her ladyship had said:

“Mr. Bird, I have come to lay before you a
family matter which is causing me some unéasi-
ness. My son, in his youth, like many other
young men, which makes it no less inexcusable,
was guilty of a grand error. As you will per-
ceive, the matter is not one that I could talk
oe easily with a stranger, but I must have ad-
vice,”

Allan Bird bowed, with the conventional mur-
murs about ‘highly honored,” ‘‘all that was in his
power,” “rely upon his interest and discretion,”’
“trusted her ladyship’s anxieties would prove
needless,” and so on, but with Allan Bird these
phrases meant exactly what they said—he had no
mere forms of speech.

“I shall tell you the story as briefly as possi-
ble,” said Lady Astraea. ‘“‘When my son was
about twenty-two he formed the acquaintance of
@ young. man of rank, who had, among.. other
bad habits, one of going about under an assumed
name and incognito, to escape, as he said, the
burdens of his natural position, but rather to
obtain. more freedom for discreditable conduct.
Emulating such an example, my son so far. for-
got his honor as to go to our Marke Holme es-
tate, where he had not visited for years, and
putting up at the Holme Arms as Mr, Morecomb,
he devoted himself to hunting, fishing, and mak-
ing the acquaintance of the tenantry on other
terms than of being their landlord.

“Among those whom he met was a girl named
Agnes Clifford, the daughter of a dissipated army
captain. This girl was living with her’ maternal
aunt, and was not only remarkably handsome, but
was an unusually sweet singer. She .was. en-
gaged to Gervase Lewis, an amiable young musi-
cian, the organist of the church on our estate.

“My son became much’ fascinated with this
girl, and it gratified the self-conceit.of youth to
find that she preferred his attentions to those of
her former lover. Agnes Clifford doubtless found
my son more congenial to her tastes than was
Geryase Lewis, and, while. she did -not know
who he really was, she believed. him to be. of
higher position and fortune than the organist.

“The acquaintance continued for two years.
At first my son .was so enchanted with the girl
that he was ready to make her his wife, although
he knew. my own wish that he should marry the
lady who afterward became Lady Harcourt, and
though he had already been very greatly pleased
with her, and had shown her ‘particular atten-
tions, Agnes Clifford for the time displaced all
other love in his: heart, and there was an en-
fagement of marriage made between them.

“This was at the end of the first year of their
acquaintance, and still my son hesitated to take
the irrevocable step of marriage. During the next
six or. eight months. a passion, which rested, on
no -solid groundwork of esteem, began to grow
cooler; my son saw various little gaucheries .and
follies which would. ill become a lady of Har-
court. Agnes. Clifford revealed the pride and sel-
fishness and capacity for revenge that. made part
of her nature, and in proportion as her lover
hesitated. and grew Jess fond of. her, the noble
character of my dear late daughter-in-law grew.
in, his esteem.. Pride of. race, which had long
lain dormant, asserted. itself above passion.

“The engagement. between Miss Clifford and the
so-called..Mr. Morecomb was a secret, but Ger-
vase Lewis found himself neglected,. and became
exceedingly unhappy. His love for this girl was
as extravagant as it was slighted... My son.was
at Marke Holme, at the Arms, when the news of
his grandfather’s. death and his.own accession to
the title reached him. Although he had always
expected this, yet its actual possession seemed to
make a different. man of him; it seemed that with
his title he.came also into the overwhelming
pride of family and rank for which.the Har-
courts have been remarkable;. it descended - upon
him as a mantle... By the time that he had at-
tended his grandfather’s funeral and completed
pressing business with lawyers .and stewards, he
had about made up his mind that he could not
marry Agnes Clifford. He also had an exag=-
gerated idea of what.would be my opposition to
this match. He felt that I would never be recon-
ciled. to it. . Meanwhile, Agnes Clifford, discover-
ing his real name and position, made a desperate
effort to retain him... He went to Marke Holme-se-
cretly, but the girl overdid her part, and suc-
ceeded in irritating him, and telling her that
their past was mere play, and that they must
hereafter be strangers, as a Harcourt must marry
his peer, he returned to Harcourt Towers.

“During his absence I had received a letter
from the curate at Marke Holme informing me
that Gervase Lewis could not finish some musi¢
which he had been. writing for me, as hé had
fallen into a-very low state of health. The ex-
planation was that he was betrothed to a girl
whom he wildly loved, but that a stranger named
Morecomb had aliénated her affections, and. she
had broken Lewis’ heart. I recognized in this
culprit my son. At once I confronted him with
the story, and he admitted that he had been ex-
travagantly fond of Agnes Clifford—that he had
Joved her as never he had loved another, and
that he had entered-anto an engagement with her.
The idea of her inferior position, her lack of
dowry, and my expected hostility to such a
match, had.caused him to think that it had bet-
ter be broken off. .At this time he was in the
revulsion of feeling occasioned by his parting
with Agnes Clifford, and by penitence for his felt
injustice to her. He declared his reason. for
repudiating his engagement to be that he was
sure of my opposition, and that his pride as a
Harcourt demanded a higher alliance.

‘Words cannot describe my horror and_indig-
nation that my son under the lie of an assumed
name, had wantonly triffed with the affections of
an innocent girl—had disturbed her-relations with
a suitable lover—had been the eause of deep. sor-
row to such a young man as Geryase Lewis.
The cruelty and treachery of the affair seemed
an ineffaceable blot to our whole escutcheon. I
telid my son that his birth gave him no «charter
to trample underfoot any. woman’s faith—that the
highest honor was the honor of the inviolate word.
A Harcourt should indeed not marry beneath him,
but. who is beneath a man who has stooped» to
deliberate and continued deception?-. His: name
and line were much, but. his pledged word was
more, and that an acknowledged engagement
ought to be kept.

“Those were not days when a railroad. would
carry.us in a few hours to any part of the coun-
try. =I -was in London, and, could -only reach
Maidstone by coach. In less than two -hours, with
Birkin for my. attendant,-I had set off for Marke
Holme, to see this Agnes Clifford, and bring her
home with me as the betrothed wife of my son.
When I saw her I trembled for my son’s fu-
ture. She was wonderfully beautiful, but pride
and. passion. .were written on every. line of her
face, and her eyes. were stormy and fierce. She
looked at me for. an instant defiantly and haugh-
tily as a queen might look at a, subject, then
she veiled her eyes, and dropped into a chair
without) a word. I said:

““*My son has told me of his engagement to
you. _No honorable man should: break a .mar-
riage engagement except. for. cause .of, treachery:
I have come to take you with me to: Harcourt
Towers, to.remain. with. me until that .engage-
ment is fulfilled. . I trust that longer and deeper
acquaintance will teach -us to regard our rela-
tionship with. contentment and pleasure.’

“She. rose, quivering in every nerve with sup-
pressed excitement. I absolutely feared her as
she said, in slow, distinct tones:

“ ‘Madam, it is too late. . Your son repudiated
my claim,-and three days.ago I was married to
Gervase Lewis; but I shall yet be even with the
Harcourt pride !’

“She turned and walked out of the room.

“My son said nothing when I told him of
Agnes. Glifford’s marriage. .Three days after he’
informed me of his. engagement to the woman of
my choice for him. In four months they were
married. My son has lately told me that within
the first year after his marriage he was sure that
Agnes was three or four times near Harcourt
Towers, Once he thought he saw her parting
with an under housemaid of ours—Susan—now
Susan Larkin. They seemed to haye been speak-
ing at the wicket gate leading into the forest.
Once he thought he saw her at a distance in
the village street, and once he made sure he saw
her facé through the window of old Widow Lar-
kin’s cottage; but he sent Timball to inquire, and
Mrs. Larkin said that she had no strangers.
This last timé was within a week of the birth of
my granddaughter, and about ten months after
my son’s marriage.”

Lady Astraea then proceeded to tell of the
fears which Lord Harcourt had entertained that
this woman ‘should gain the friendship of his
daughter, poison her mind and thwart his plans.
She told of the lodger and the ring at Susan
Larkin’s,* and of the mysterious Mrs. Bemis at
Marke Holme.

“Haye you any proof that this Mrs. Bemis is
Agnes Clifford, or that she has been lately in
Italy?’ asked Allan Bird.

“Yes; I feel sure of both.”

“And what was the after history of Gervase
Lewis and his wife?”

“The old lady died and left Agnes the cottage.
Six months after her marriage she began to be
absent from home at intervals. Finally, after an
absence of six weeks, she returned, bringing her
babe. Gervase seemed more and more unhappy
after his marriage. His health grew infirm, he
lost interest in everything; and did not care for
his child. A year after his wife’s return, when
she brought home the babe, she and Gervase must
have had some fierce quarrel, for she disap-
peared, taking the child; and for two years and
a half was absent. She returned alone, to find
that Gervase Lewis had been dead for nearly a
year. He never mentioned her name after she

abandoned him. When she found that he was, directed their course up the hills.

“they are the subject of my profound study.

 

dead she shut herself in the cottage alone for
nearly a month, having the least possible inter-
course with any one. After that she sold the
furniture, the doors,.and the windows, and leay-
ing the place to go to ruin-—the cottage stood
with half an acre of ground, a very ancient little
freehold—she went away, and has never since
been heard of in Marke Holme. The village
folks set up a story that she had committed sui-
cide, and that her ghost haunts the cottage.”

“Had she any property?”

“Fifty pounds a year.”

“Well, I see. You think this Mrs. Bemis has
earried out her, plans, and has secured this un-
fortunate marriage of Lady. Lina and the Italian,
It is a bitter revenge and lasting, for, my lady,
the marriage was legal, and there are no grounds
for divorce——”

“Sir,” said Lady Astraea, “I thank Heaven
that the marriage was legal; and I think that
divorces are wicked.”

“T heard,’ continued the lawyer, ‘‘of some
English lady at Terre del Pocco, but I neither
heard her name nor saw-her. I was captured
merely to get from me the sealed packet contain-
ing Miss Percy’s secret. I. feel. sure that the
Englishwoman at the Terre was the moving cause
of that robbery; if that woman is Mrs, Bemis,
why, then, it seems to me_she holds in one hand
the mystery of Miss Percy, in the other, the re-
venge on.Lord Harcourt. A _ horrible. fear. seizes
me. JI should -be cruelly sorry to give’ to Miss
Percy this Mrs, Bemis for a mother.”

“Miss Percy is fearful. that. Mrs. Bemis is
her mother; certain facts.in her conduct at Marke
Holme suggest it.”

“So.unlike, so utterly unlike. .Miss-Percy is
so. proud and so lofty in her ideas_of right and
wrong, like yourself, my lady, like yourself,
molded on your model, as if born .of your. blood.”

“And my granddaughter has eloped with an
outlaw !’”

“There are ‘perversities of flower and fruit,’ as
an American poet elegantly expresses it. But
Lady Lina is. a most fascinating creature, and
at her marriage looked lovely as a seraph. Oh,
I wish. you could have seen her, my lady.”

“Meanwhile my son is. frantic and disgraced. f
may yet. relieve part of the force of the blow.
There is a paper containing three questions for
your careful study. Good morning.”

Allan Bird gave his arm to her ladyship and
accompanied her to.the waiting cab. Lady As-
traea had thought good that the Harcourt coach
should not exhibit itself during her investigations
that morning. She told the cabdriver to take
her to.the house of Sir Herbert Lester, a famous
physician residing in Hyde Park. Square.

While Lady Astraea was being’ taken thither,
Allan Bird had opened the envelope ‘and direst
wonder grew on his face as he read Lady As-
traea’s three questions. Then he rose, and un-
locked three drawers, one inside the other; and
put Lady Astraea’s paper into a drawer guarded
by a secret spring, and locked the other three
drawers upon it, and thus hid Lady Astraea’s se-
eret from mortal eye, and’ after that betook him-
self toa very profound thinking indeed.

. ee Astraea’s business with Sir Lester was
rief.

“You swere present at the birth of my grand-
daughter; did you make any note of a peculiar
mark onthe child?” ‘

“My dear lady, I always notice these oe

am
preparing a large and exhaustive work in’ two
parts. It is a work greatly needed in the medi-
cal profession, and I have devoted to it the study
of years.”

“But this mark on my granddaughter,” in-
terposed Lady Astraea, as Sir Herbert Lester
paused’ for breath.

“A very unique mark; four inches below the
hollow of ‘the throat; three minute pear-shaped
moles, forming an exact triangle. I made a
drawing’ on the :spot, and it is in my book—
Part. First; Section’ First; paragraph twenty,
page forty-two; name, of course, in asterisks.”

“And it’ was a mark not likely to grow less
or pass entirely away?”

“By no means! Madam, my dear lady, I
watched that mark carefully during ten days; it
was clearly defined, unmistakable. -As. long as
her ladyship your granddaughter, the belle of the
season, I-hear, lives, that mark will remain; un-
less it is removed by some needless surgery, of
which I beg you: will not think. The mark. so
placed is no blot on her dazzling beauty, and
I regard these marks as advantageous—a stamp
of identity.”

“But if I told you that this child, from an
early period, after the date of your last notice,
has shown no mark at all 2

“Quite impossible! I think the nurse asked
me if it would go away, and I emphatically said

a?

“But if the child had soon no° mark?”

“Then it could not be the same child,” cried
Sir Lester. 5 :

“Which is “impossible,” said Lady Astraea.

“But ten times more impossible for the mark
not to remain the same,’ cried Sir Lester, deeply
excited, setting his wig crooked, -disarranging
his neck scarf and collar, dropping his spec-
tacles and handkerchief, and hustling frantically
for a pile of papers and plates, and dragging out
oné which he introduced as No. Ten, with. all the
dignity with which he would have introduced a
peer.

“Here is the plate of that mark, full size; a
remarkable eccentricity of nature, as if designed
expressly for a lady of such high fortune and re-
markable beauty as Lady Lina Harcourt... Madam,
this is perfect.’

Lady <Astraea looked, sighed, was silent; shoe
was wise not to use speech, where speech was a
superfiuity.

And yet, returned to her hotel, when. Birkin
had left.sher alone:to eet-a little rest, Lady As-
traea asked herself, in sorrow of soul, a ques-
tion:=-“Shall I rob -him of the child’ who -has
displeased him, leaving him childless; shall I
take away a sad certainty. by as sad an uncer-
tainty?”:> Then came the question ever para-
mount with her: “What is RIGHT?”

That evening Lady Astraea told Birkin. that
they would next day set out on their.return to
Florence.

“My lady, you will be captured, like poor Mrs.”
Vilthorpe !” :

“Mrs, Vilthorpe and: I are two very different.
persons. She travel® with a poodle,” said Lady
Astrhea, with great severity.

*‘But,’? remonstrated Birkin,
not to blame for her being» captured,
please, my dear lady.’’

“There is no one -will dare capture me, Bir-
kin; I have never met an uncivil word -in all
my life.”

Then Birkin, trembling in her..very- soul at
thought of bandits, was: constrained like a mod-
ern—well. salaried—Ruth to respond: “Where
thou goest I will go.’’

“A letter, for Lady Astraea Harcourt,”
a servant at the. door.

It was. only -a-line.or two from Allan Bird:
“Can you devise any method of getting that packet
from the Italian? Could your granddaughter
persuade him to give it up? “Would he. be like-
ly to sell it? I fear lest this Mrs. Bemis may
destroy it:. I:would be ready to offer an enor-
mous price for it.’

“The. packet? Of course Mrs.. Bemis has. de-
stroyed it, if it contains. anything inimical to
herself.. Poor Pauline, she must leave her origin
unknown; but. better that than .known to be
disgraceful. If+she.is Mrs. Bemis’ child, is she
legitimate? Gervase Lewis was a gentleman and
aman not to blush for as a father.. But, if il-
legitimate,. whose -child. 4s. she2?- And yet, as
Agnes. Clifford rises before me now, it is as a furi-
ous woman, a revengeful woman, but not as a
lost. and dishonored. woman.”

Thus Lady Astraea

And even then Mrs. Bemis sat at Terre del
Pocco, with the sealed packet in her hand, weigh-
ing in her mind its value, and considering what
price she should set upon it, and«to whom she
should offer it. :

There was no question now of destruction; the
secret must bring its value, not for her sake, but
for the sake of others. There was a price set
en the secret.

“the poodle was
if you

said

CHAPTER XIX.
APPROACHING THE SECRET,

On the twenty-first. of April, 1859; Lady As-
traea, in spite of the warnings and. entreaties of
her-friends, and the disturbed state of the coun-
try, valiantly left the French’ boundaries to re-
join her unhappy son in Florence. Meantime
Lord Harcourt was in a state of the greatest dis-
tress, as no further news had come to him of
Lady Lina’s well being, and a dead silence. had
fallen over the fate of Dugald, now sixteen days
absent.

Like Dugald, Lord Thomas was a. man of
valor, and go in search of his heir he must and
would, danger or no danger.: He called for
Madzo.

“Madzo, I am going to the hifls to look after
Mr. Probyn. Be ready in the morning to guide
me.’’

“My lord,’ said Pauline, when they were left
alone, “let me go to the hill with you. Where
you are I am-safe. I am a tireless rider. I
shall not mind the fatigue. I love Lina, and
desire to see her.. Pray let me go,””

Lord Harcourt mused. ;

“Well, Miss Percy,:so Jet it be. I hope I am
not taking “you into danger, and that we shall find
poor Dugald’ safe.” J

The’ following morning, aceompanied by the
son’ of Barbary, Lord Harcourt and Pauline
drove to a hostelry some six miles from’ Flor-
ence, where they procured saddle horses; and then —
After making

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

leagues
Madzo s
‘tron
n-law.” - —
Harcourt win
conferred on

ins.

 

they

‘y met ‘three’men in green, with
eemed very familiar. : ge
n goes up to Terre del Pocco to visit
ced. Oh! inauspicious hour, |
im a~bandit son-in-law.

the strangers\took his place near his

stirru

ito the priva
the old man
On a low seat |

a

sat on the

r head bowed over on

en cloak, belonging toe

t. entirely concea
ef clerkly appeara

3

ig mi ;
=, “One of
Pauline on his

e strangers!” eee
P the conte slowly rose to his

er

oble
“Oh,

hei? an
nd, and
b I come to

dent which
_ youth

i is.

is

-

>

byn

as

ead!” cri

and without effort kept pace
¢ horses. The travelers
-at about three o’clock. 3
no being absent, they. were led at once
te room of Conte Latrelli. As usual,
a ; ed with lions’

reached Terre

a woman,
and a great

the braves had preceded them into
now as Lord Harcourt entered with

arm, the man that attended them

t, “some time ago

a kinsman came up 4
has not returned. Nor have I heard

seek him.”
: It is a mos
has detained him.

ed Pau

here on a brief

t unhappy. acci-

Unfortunately the ;

line, in alarm.

dead! What~shall I do! what shall

4
face illumined

have

 

stepped

had not left her lips, when Du-
with Joy, led
in a

ning on the
the farthest

having heard in the

aw

had come.
Ba Probyn Pauline shrank
I said? Oh, my lord, how

? she murmured, in great dismay,
crimsoned face to his lordship’s arm.
away! Where is Lina?” :

of

heir, Lord Harcourt was. able to smile | enemy. ‘th

Bis worst anxiety by the appear

smile of that month, at Pauline’s self-

Biting his lips to hide this smile, and
Dugald’s best measure would be
of what Pauline had

vantage 1
her,

permitted

to

escape

d to
in her
he shook his

t Probyn to warn him to be discreet, and

ae ee E
Miss Percy, here is our lost man now!

ide him a little for his delay, and ask7
poor Lina.” F .
1 him away—

Lo
md takin

huddered as the woman neared her.
fears seemed about to be realized.

Ss

d her

in

do take him away!” whis-

who feared, in the revulsion of

ay, that she could not properly meet Probyn.

Harcourt understood her.
on a bench by, the wall, met Dugald,
his arm led 1 into the court, there
quiries as to Lina and his own late

her. He hastily

door closed behind his lordship, the
‘the fire rose, shaking back the cloak,
ne, to her amazement, saw Mrs. Bemis.

she conquered her emotion. _
: “Mrs. Bemis! You here! You, too, a cap-

me cast down and alarmed.

‘Do not be frightened.
*d Hareo

ASO, 7
will
Tage!

A strange

=

“This from you!” she murmured—‘you who

f.

softening came ‘ove the woman’s

c I am sure
urt has influence enough to get your
You shall go back to Florence with us.
pay your rafsom, if one is needed. Take

Her
‘Then

‘recalled the woman’s recent position, as

I—we—

ight curse me for your lost and nameless state!

This from

Belt: mae,
7 Aes, tor

fle

from you !’?
. Then suddenly changing her_
- seemed to freeze, and her palsied tongue re-
| to ask, “Are you my mother?’ she con-

s

“What man?”

“This

~ $@

man

id

. this Probyn, t
Mrs. Bemis,

=

er tone, while Paul-

1, do you love this man?”
uline, with genuine girlish folly,
Oo a subterfuge. :

his heir of Har-
impatiently. :

line hung her head, then said, faintly:

IT have chosen a single life.” ;
absurd nonsense!”
“Come, tell me; I have a right to know.
you loye this Probyn—does he love you?

I see plainly ;’’ and as Pauline

“What

are not betrothed,

“Why let me -trust my eyes and ears.
love him, and ‘he loves you.
This is the hand of destiny!

wers!

cried M

ts. Bemis.
Do
You

she continued, excitedly:

You and he!

You
Great
I Have

ight my battle through, for wages of a life-
pain and loss!” 3 :

.e stopped suddenly,

for the door sprang

» and Lina, lovelier than ever, flew in, an

} elasp Pauline in a warm embra
you darling!

again, dear.

“me just two

in equal ft

word to say to you!’.
swept out of
ier silken, garments

vit

tairs.

I

BDY 5

you love,

Ah, did

cried

t help what I did.
y; let_us kiss and be friends.”
‘put a little cold kiss, like a drop of ice, |

cel
Kiss me

; you come up to see me?
Lord Harcourt is in a dreadful freeze; he gave
tips of his fingers as I rushed down

; ‘Don’t be angry with me; I
Don’t blame me for

And

middle of my head, and said, ‘Lina, I am

a

) Sea at

it; it _was
‘Dearest
Lina,

_your kind

ou.’

Surprised?

No, he isn’t, one

just what he might have expected.”

child,” said Pauline, with her arms

“but only | think how you dis-

father.”

rather Granitto than a
ina. “But, all the same, Pauline treasure,

y and make us _ friends.
want to be unfriendly.”
us take Miss Percy
nfortable,”’ said Mrs,

‘Be

hundred fathers,”
T am so happy

to your room to
mis, leading the

The halls were empty. When Pauline’s toilet

‘Was renovated
ment, sedulously waited on by Lucy,

nth

fi

x

Ss.
“On the contrary, Lord

moniaca as

She,

ep like an augry queen.

and she had taken some refresh-

the two

the large, velvet-lined chairs. before
and sat looking. silently into* the fire,

for cheer than need.

Mrs. Bemis

e side the chimney, her hand rest-

mantelpiece.

artly

she

and, by

,

means
effected, Arriano led

r stood looking down
re, thinking. Granitto had returned,
ar ourt,

Ola

robyn,
Lord

g parti
pstairs, and into Lina’s sitting room.

through the gloomy ap
now drawing on,
e circle of

the fire,

artment, for
Lord Harcourt
Opposite the

ian, who kept her place ee
od still; then she slowly raised her
xed them full on his. Lord Harcourt

” he cried, in a choked voice,
is complete!

J ngeance com
-sgour yow. You hb
ou have. conquered.!”

You have ful-

aye. carried out your

Harcourt, “I have

What could you more of success? My

jublic baths of Vienna rich and

n
din

sin 1d

ursery

g has, with several smal
56 feet in-widt

ty
he day.

h hundreds of other women, for this bath)

a

ooked at the two startled girls.
it; I have failed!”

i worse t
cried

: you ik have “ft

fury.

“Lord

\

han you obtained, it
Lord

Harcourt, furi-

ai? eried Mrs. Bemis,

Harcourt, to-morrow I have

the room, her
rustling about her, her

‘TO BE CONTINUED,

‘

quality, t
ai I

iM FOR FORTUNE. —

poor

he laborer with the banker,

her m

istress, though the
ble blood. $ Pee ot
, which is situated in the

as not-long ago the scene of

sm which led to t
girl to the son of a nobleman.

ccomn

he marriage of a
The

ler tanks, a swim-

width by 578 in length,
ater is from 2 to 12 feet.
ations for 1,500 persons.
to which we refer the child of Baron
s§ with her grandmother in the large

exclusively by the ladies from 9 a. m.

sv

m

ran
toward the deep water. Her guardian

. The little girl is,only five years of
er emerging from th

e. bath ran away

amother, and dashéd gleefully along

was jin the act of stretching her
-child when the latter dashed

bather, slipped, and fell into

hough. unable to swim, was
ing but the
She madly plunged into the’

inst
i

at this spot at least nine

ant was _

peril of her

struggling to save

h: were: in great
ments only

_| the moon.

head held’

ry | Prin
. ca hi

«

—
aoe

the child_on her back, the girl held the grand-
mother’s head above water until a life-preserver
was flung to her. In a few moments more all
were safely landed. SONS eae ‘

The gratitude of the father, when he heard of
the heroic act of the nursery-girl, was not con-
‘fined to lip-service. He drew a check on his
banker for two hundred ducats, and gave it to
the brave maiden, and insisted upon her becoming
-a friend and a visitor of the family? The uncle
of the child, a young fellow of twenty-five, be-
eame so smitten with the charms of the fraulein
that he made some inquiries concerning her ante-
cedents and family, and learned that she is the
daughter of a poor college tutor whe has become
almost destitute through an affection of the eyes.
A few months later the younger son of the old
Baron Hulst led the heroine of the hath to the
altar, and the ceremony. was witnessed by repre-
sentatives from the best families in Vienna. The
husband is proud of his bride, but not more so
than Baron Hulst is of his sfster-in-law.

~~

SIR JOHN'S HEIRESS,

By F. L. DACRE, 3
Author of “A Loveless Marriage,” “A Change of Heart,”
uTrerhoimes Trust,’ “A Case for the Court,” €fe. ) ~~,
_ » , af S

(Sir JoH#n’s HErREss” was commenced in No, 30.
Back numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers.)

CHAPTER XXIV.
A TRAGEDY IN THE WOOD.

The insane notion had taken possession of
Captain Carrington that Victor Linton was his
It was “this infernal limb of the~law,”
‘as he termed him, who had raked up his past
and had put the police on his track. And why?
| Beeause ,he wanted his own influence over Miss
Carrington and her wealth to be supreme. It
was all So Clear—Linton; with all his cleverness
and double-dealing, had been unable to disguise
his real feelings!

Thus. Carrington, in his mad mood, reflected,
and the’more he dwelt on the subject the firmer:
became his belief in His theory. He was ruined
/—yuined! There was no gleam of hope—before
him was the criminals dock or death, and death
was preferable a thousand times! He was a
traitor, a forger, and a thief! And the news-
papers would be full of the details of his villainy.

“T can’t face it!” he decided. ‘‘I will die, but
not alone—there is Linton; and there is also my
evil genius, the accursed Indian!”

He went up to his daughter’s boudoir, and,
finding Linton there, gave utterance to his raging
thoughts. But his purpose was changed; fer he
reflected that Hilda cared for Linton—was his
promised wife—and Hilda would be good to her
stepmother, so he would not harm his daughter’s
lover. And Linton’s sin was sure to find him
out! But there was another—the man who had
caused his utter downfall! ;

Bareheaded, he rushed into the courtyard to
cool his throbbing temples; then he remembered
‘that he must speak or write to Hilda, and must
kiss his wife “good-by.” He cared for her in
his way, though he had led her a life of priva-
tion and misery. :

He went to his. room and scribbled these lines:

“J shall die to-night after I have’killed my
worst enemy. Why should I live to disgrace you
more? The police are here; and, when I think
of them, I am appalled by the magnitude of my
erimes. I am one of those unfortunate crea>
tures who are born under an evil star; no mat-
ter how good their intentions, they always fail,
and drag the innocent with them in their down-
fall. TI want you to forgive the wrong I have
-done you, because I could not help myself. And;
now that it is too late, I am beginning to realize}
what I owed to you in the matter of parental
duty. But forget and forgive, for, when you read
this, my life will be over! But I am determined
to send another before me! 3

““Good-by, Hilda! And one last request—be
kind to my wife! Whatever her faults, she has
been faithful to your unhappy father,

“VANE CARRINGTON.”?

“The servants or the police will find it here,”
he thought grimly as he sealed the letter and ad-
dressed it to Hilda... ‘‘But when? Not until my
ehecks are handed in!” ae

He left the grewsome message on the table, and
went to Mrs, Carrington’s room, which adjoined
his own. eS
His wife was reading a novel, and merely
‘glanced up as he entered. His comings and. go-
ings were erratic, and she was rather afraid of

m. ; ;

. “Alice’—his voice was hoarse—‘‘put down that
“trash and listen to me! I am sorry if I have
startled you, but I want to say ‘good-by’ to you,

my girl.” 8
“Good-by to me? Not if I know it! Where
you go I go. I wish we had never come here
to be treated like dirt!” She began to cry in
her hapless way.

“Don’t snivel, Alice! I’ve never been overgood
to you, but I am going to do you the best action
of my life!’ He laughed boisterously. “Let me
kiss you, and don't ask questions! And, my
poor*girl, always remember that I never under-
estimated your good qualities! Better a thou-
sand times for you had you married my orderly!”

“Vane, my dear, what are you talkin’ about?
| How can you compare yourself—you a gentle-
man—with- the like of Sergeant Jaggers? It’s
cruel of you, my dear!’ Mrs. Carrington’s hand-
kerchief went up to her eyes. 2
- Her hitsband looked at her fixedly, and the
wild light in his eyes softened a little,

“Jt will be all right soon, Alice. Don’t fret—
that’s ali! Everything will be explained to-
IMOTTOWs > te .

“Don’t go out again, dear—spend the evening
‘with me!” she pleaded. “I do hate that Prince
Ali, and wish your daughter would send him to
the right-about! If I was the mistress here, as
you thought I should be, he’d have to pack up
pretty quick !’” pie

Carrington’ bent and kissed his wife’s brow,
oo he nodded and left the room without another
word. g i
a nscious that even the servants might be
spies, he had asked the rajah to meet. him near
the lake, thinking they would not be interrupted
there. He clutched the revolver in the breast
pocket. of his coat. That the prince would be
at the place appointed he neyer doubted; he
had noted with satisfaction the. swift flash. of
alarm. in. the Indian’s dark eyes, the sudden
compression of his thin, cruel lips. These Asi-
atics were crafty, but, as.» to the powers they
claimed for themselves—Carrington laughed—
‘what utter folly they were in a real crisis!

The clouds were scurrying .over the face of
How the wind blew, how the ice-
cold rain beat upon. his. bare head! ; ‘

‘With swift feet he crossed the moat, passed
over the lawns and terraces, and struck into the
little wood that bounded the lake. Then _ he
stood irresolute until a tall figure loomed before
him, and as he recognized the Indian the hot
blood rushed through his veins. | ;

“Ts that you, Prince Ali Narain?”

“It is I, my friend,’ came in cooing tones.
“You requested me to meet you here, and now
you pretena surprise!” . ;

“YT pretend: nothing.”

“Bah! You are quarrelsome—I read your
thoughts.” ; ’ -

“Stuff! Your thought-reading is, like yourself,
a fraud—humbug through to the core!”

The’ rajah laughed. : i

“T have never failed to read your. thoughts,
Captain Carrington, and to anticipate your every
action, You wish» me to give up. the. supreme
effort of my life, and I decline.. Mind, you have
already insulted me and crossed me once to-
day, and it tnust not occur again!’ He hissed
out the last sentence, ‘‘I shall make a princess
of the charming Hilda!” ge

MVOR. S00. 3 cor)

“J wear a flower in my coat which she dropped
to me from her window—see, ‘a white camellia!
Now, do you realize the extent of my power?
She will come to me in a day or two of her own
ae will—or what will seem like her own free
wilh?!

‘Liar! Your: power? Faugh! “And your
knowledge?) Why, you don’t even know now
that we are tracked and deomed! The _ police
are in the house—they have come to take us—
they know that we are here, and will follow
us in a moment! And you talk of your power!”

The Indian reeled backward. ~- ‘
“Your knowledge?” repeated Carrington, follow-
jing him and glaring at him. “You craven hum-
/bug and cheat! And to think that I have been
led by such a thing as you—-that I have been
your dupe and servant! But the end has come,
I have only one more thing to- do—to save the
hangman a little work.” > ba?

A report like the crack of a whip rang out,
startling. a bird in a tree above them. The
moonlight broke through a mass of flying cloud
and penetrated faintly even to where they stood.
ce Ali Narain leaped forward brandishing
€ tick; a cry like the snarl of an angry

his lips; the stick fell with a dull
xt moment all was dark again. _
: antes Deere ah

 

 

-men—reporters and policemen!

| morning,

: that hour.’*

—
oe

The wind whistled in fitful blasts through the
bending trees, and the rain fell in torrents.

Midway between _the lake and the carriage’
drive to the stables Hilda Carrington was
crouching. Her face was deathly pale. She had

witnessed the blow which had killed her father,

had heard the splash as of a body falling into
the lake, but had been incapable of movement or
speech. Now a moan burst from her lips, and
she turned toward the castle.

“Life is indeed ended for me!’ she thought.
“Tt was Victor who fired; his was the tall, fa-
miliar figure. Ah, this is more than I can bear!”

The clatter of .a horse’s hoofs on the drive
fell upon her ears, and, crouching back in the

shadows, she waited for the rider to pass.

As the animal came into view, reared for an
instant, and then dashed onward, she saw that
the horseman was none other than Victor Linton!

CHAPTER XXYV.
“] NEVER WISH TO SEE THIS PLACE AGAIN!”

Hilda: regained her bedroom wet’ and bedrag-
gled, the rain dripping from her hair. The
servants had stared in wonder as she passed
them on the way.

Mrs. Maxwell, her kind, motherly face puck-
ered and troubled, followed her speedily with
some port-wine negus.

“My dear young lady, why will you do such
things? You will catch your death of cold?
But the very atmosphere of this place is enough
to drive anybody mad!’ she added, with un-
usual candor and considerable warmth.

She stirred the fire into a blaze, and begged
Hilda to have her dripping hair dried by a’ maid.

“Please sit here, Miss Carrington, in the
warmth of the fire, and drink your wine! I’m
afraid you've got a chill—-you look so strange!’

The girl’s lips moved, but she did not speak.

All at once a disturbance was heard in the
courtyard. Angry voices reverberated in the
square, and then there was the sound of 4 pistol
shot. A fierce blast of wind shook the case-
ments, and the raindrops pattered like hailstones
against the window.

Hilda had started up,
some one. was at the door.

“Don’t trouble, my dear,’ the housekeeper
said: “it is only one of the maids looking for
me. Oh, dear me, this place of mystery!”

But it. was not a maid. Mrs. Maxwell’s face
turned red with amazement and indignation as
she saw Bartlet standing before her.

“Oh, it’s. you—is it? I thought you_ knew
your place better than to intrude here! I hope
there’s been. no accident?” she added in a whis-
per. = ; ;

“T must see Miss Carrington!” the butler stern-
ly answered. ‘Yes, I have no doubt thae she is
indisposed, but that makes no differencé; if she
will not see me here I must come into the room,
Mrs. Maxwell, and you may hear all that passes.
You object? My good woman, I have no reason
to keep on my mask any longer! I am no more
Bartlet than you are; that gentleman is at the
antipodes long since. I am a detective, .and my
name is Perrin. I fancy that this will be no
news to your mistress, thanks to Mr. Victor Lin-
ton !””

Some of the servants had crept in quietly after
the detective, and in their midst was Mrs.
Staples-Lambert.

“My reputation is ruined forever!” ske moaned.
“To think that I should have come to a_ place
like this—the home of criminals! But I will
make Miss Spitfire pay for it!”

“Silence, woman!” the detective. commanded.
“And you”’—to the servants—‘‘go to your own
quarters.”

“You dare to call me ‘woman,’ you ~ vulgar
creature?” screamed Mrs. Staples-Lambert. “Tl
report you to the authorities!”

Perrin. followed Mrs. Maxwell into Hilda’s
room, and slammed the door behind him; then a
look of pity softened the fierceness of his eyes.
Miss Carrington was facing him, intensely im-
dignant. and defiant, though, with trembling
hands, she clung to the mantel for support.

“I am sorry to trouble you,’ he began, “but I
am bound to do my duty. Here is a note left
by Captain Carrington on his table for you,
miss, and_I felt it my duty to open and read it.”

“You dared?’’ she panted. ;

“Tt Gs not a matter of daring or imperti-
nenee, Miss Carrington,” Perrin said respect-
fully. ‘I regard this as a clever blind; it was
meant for me to read, and you know it! To come
to the point, you had better tell me where the
captain is hiding away. The rajah was caught
while trying to escape. I had a dozen men posted
about, and his highness could not get away; he is
now downstairs. But he» was not taken until
he had nearly put a bullet through my head.
We have also captured two foreign political
spies at Llanberis railway station to-night. Both
the scoundrels were coming to Woodcroft Castle.
The entire gang is now in the hands of the law
—with the exception of Captain Carrington. If
you still refuse to give me all the information
in your power about him, I must. reluctantly
order a search of every room and closet in the
castle. It is a matter of impossibility for him
to escape, and much unpleasantness will be saved

pale and trembling;

eee er

He broke off abruptly, as he saw that Hilda
had opened her father’s letter, and, with an ex-
pression of despair in her eyes, was reading it.

“You are free to search as yo please,’’ she
said at length. ‘I knew nothing of this—that
my unhappy fatherresolved to kill himself.”

“Can you name the enemy he alludes to?”
Perrin said, watching her doubtfully.

Her dark eyes dilated, and there was a ¢atch
in her bréath.

“Bnemy? He had ho one. but enemies!”

“Perhaps a foe of his may have been one too
many for him,” remarked Perrin. “But we Shall
soon find out if that is the case} my men are
searching the grounds and the lake now.”

She started tremulously.

“And there may be a charge of murder against
some one,” he went on, with a smile. ‘‘You were
observed, Miss Carrington, to leave the castle
shortly after Mr. Linton, and you were seen to
return.”’

“And you may add,” retorted Hilda fiercely,
“that I have wished my father dead—that I have
said it in- your hearing—and, if you find his body,
pee me @ murderess! Now go, and do your

uty !”? :

She pointed to the door with a trembling
finger, her eyes flashing.

The detective turned -and retired.

“She looks capable of it, too!” he regretfully
thought. ‘‘And I “can’t forget how she -has
haunted the lake side and asked questions. about
its depth. It wasn’t Linton, because -in watch-
ing him I lost sight of Carrington.” He stamped
his foot impatiently. “Poor girl—I’m really
sorry for her!” :

Half a dozen men with lanterns were search-
ing all through the night, but not a trace .of the
eaptain could be _ discovered. The lake ‘was
dragged in the gray hours of the morning, but
without result. Every nook and cranny of the
old castle was carefully overhauled, but Carring-
ton had vanished as completely as though the
earth had opened and swallowed him. :

When Hilda heard of the détective’s failure,
her pulses thrilled with a sense of thankfulness.
Her father’s body was doubtless entangled among
ieee thick growth of weeds at the bottom of the
ake,

Soon after the breakfast hour Mrs. Maxwell,
with @ grave face, presented herself before her
young mistress. :

“They've given up the search, my dear,’’ she
said. “There’s been six of them at it for
twelve hours, and the castle’s just alive with
I’m sure it’s
no place for you for a while, Miss Carrington,
and the servants are packing up to leave—every
one of them!” ; :

“J don’t blame them,” Hilda quietly replied.
“Are you going, too, Mrs. Maxwell?”

“What? And leave you, my lamb? Never—
unless you send me away!” Her eyes filled with
tears. “I was going to. ask you if you would
telegraph to Mr. Linton and ask his advice.”

“No, no!” Hilda replied sharply; then she
added: “We will leave Wooderoft Castle this
if it can be arranged; I must go to
London, leaving matters entirely in the hands
of Mr. Molson. And I never. wish to see this
hateful place again!’ Her eyes had lighted up
with sudden hope. ‘Will you ring and send
for Mr. Perrin, Mrs. Maxwell?” ;

Perrin came, and Hilda, meeting his search-

“JT have decided to go to London at once, if
you will permit me to leave Woodcroft. The
castle will soon be deserted, and I have no wish
to be left alone.” ’

“— have no power to interfere with your
movements, Miss Carrington. ‘You will certainly
suffer no hindrance at my hands!’’—and the de-
tective withdrew, completely baffled.

“This beats everything!” he said to himself.
“ft can have the young lady shadowed, of course;
but. I’ll stake my word that Captain Carrington
is not far off. As Mr. Linton “has evidently
given me away, I shall send him no further
news,. and he will get the benefit of my honest
opinion !”’ . : ;

The moment he was gone~Hilda. gave orders
for preparations for her departure to be made
at onee. ge 2

“It is just. nine o’clock, Mrs. Maxfrell.” the
girl said. ‘Can we get to Lianberis Station by
twelve? There is a train for London about

jing gaze with perfect calmness, said to him:

“Do you wis

iE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

“T shall be glad if you. will ask no questions
and pass no remarks upon my actions. And, if
you have no family ties, I should like you to
stay with me always, Mrs. Maxwell, for I have
no friends.’’~ :

“No friends?’ (The housekeeper opened her
eyes wide, but she checked the words that rose
to her lips. “I have no family ties, my dear,”
she said. ‘My boy—my only child—is in India
with his regiment, and my poor husband lies
in Tooting Cemetery. If £ can be of use to
you, it will be a pleasure I’ve never dreamed of.
And I pray that Heaven will lift the cloud
efrom over your young life!”

Hilda moved impatiently. ;

_ “Den’t—don’t!” There were tears in her eyes.
“And now one word, Mrs. Maxwell! I never
wish you vo refer to Mr. Linton after this hour.
We have had no quarrel, but I love him too well
ta drag him down to my own miserable level.
I am the daughter of a criminal, and am leav-
ing Woodcroft Castle so that I may never meet
Mr. Linton again. We must waste no more time,
as I have two calls to make; I cannot go without
sayimg good-by to the rector and to Miss Lewis.
They were both kind to me. Call the servants
together, and tell them that each will receive
three months’ wages from Mr. Molson; I will
give orders to that effect.. And let them know
that I am leaving immediately. The carriage at
eleven—not a minute later!”

Mrs. Maxwell went from the room, and Hilda
sat down at her desk. She had a letter to write
—a farewell letter to Victor Linton!

CHAPTER XXVI.

“you GO AGAINST YOUR OWN WIFE TO DEFEND
THAT HATEFUL GIRLIE!”

The writing of the letter was not a difficult
task. During the awful night that was just past
Hilda had thought it over a hundred times, and
ft was based on the belief that her father’s body
would not be found; for the lake was deep, the
bottom was covered with weeds, and, years be-
fore, a drunken coachman had reeled headlong
into the water, and his body had not been found
he the weeds were cut away by. an expert

ver, 4

Hilda prayed that her father’s body might
remaim undisturbed for a little while, lest the
man she loyed should be suspected of having
killed him. He had killed him, she believed, but
the blow had been struek in self-defense. it
was “known that they had quarreled bitterly.

The search in the lake had, however, been
abandoned for the present. Several drags had
been Tost, and the quicksilver failed to indicate
that the water contained a human. bodys infact,
Mr. Perrin feit certain that the captain had not
committed suicide, and that the letter which he
had left for Miss Carrington was a mere blind.

“A Dbabyish trick!’ he decided. ‘But I must
keep hisedaughter under close observation. She
will probably join him jin London, if he has,
by some miraculous piece of luck, actually got

away.”
So Hilda wrote this letter:

“Victor. My DARLING: The end has come, and
I am going away forever. You must know that
marriage between us is now impossible. Filled
with fear for your safety, after my father’s
threats, I broke the promise I made to you last
night and left my room. I saw you and him at
the lake-side, and then you rode away on. Black
Bess. I am writing this after a night of anx-
fous thought, and—must I confess it?—hours of
sobbing. But it is over, and I am_ perfectly
calm. I do not blame you in my heart. You
struck my unhappy father in self-defense—you
“are too brave and chivalrous to take advantage
ef an old man. He shot at you—-I heard the re-
port—and he might have killed you.. I acquit
you of all, save one thing—Why did you seek
him? Why did you not go straight away from
the “@astle, as I thought that you would. have
done? TI am asking questions which I shall give
you no opportunity of answering, because you
have looked upon my face for the last time on
earth. Sometimes I shall think of you, and of
the mine, and pray for your happiness.

“Mr. Molson will be instructed to sell. Wood-
croft—even if he can obtain only one-half its
value. I hate it, loathe it, and nobody likes
me here! Once more, Victor, I bitterly regret
that Sir John Carrington éver thought of me
with kindly feelings! From that very hour our
happiness has been blighted—yours and mine.

“T wonder how I can write this cold-blooded
letter—at least, it seems cold-blooded to me
now. Perhaps it is because it has been care-
fully thought out, and that my. nerves have, in
a@ manner, become torpid. Throughout the long
and horrible night I have been quivering with
pain; I have wept bitter tears; I have cried
aloud in my anguish, but now I can laugh, even
if my laughter is mirthless. The. detectives have
not found my father’s body, and I don’t think
that they will find it for days and days. This is
good news, but it may be stale news when you
read it here. I have only one favor to ask
of you, Victor, and that is that you will give my
poor father. decent burial when you think that
it is safe to do so. And it has eome to this!
Good-by, Victor dear, forever. HILpa.’’

She finished the letter hastily, for her dead-
ened nerves were becoming sensitive again. Then,
having sealed it, she put it into the. pocket. of
her dress. No other hand must touch it, no other
eye see it, until it was committed to the mail.

She walked to the window, and a deep, quiv-
ering sigh passed her lips. ‘How glorious was
the face of nature after the night of storm!
The heavens were brilliantly blue, and the earth
sparkled with diamond. drops.

Two men crossed the courtyard—big, broad-
shouldered. fellows.

Hilda left the window, remembering that she
had not yet spoken to Mrs. Carrington about
the future. She half regretted that she had not
been kinder to her father’s wife. How could she
approach her? And miust she tell her the truth?

While gathering together the things which
were to be packed, she thought over the matte
If Mrs. Maxwell would undertake it—-but no—
that would not be a graceful or a kindly act.

The clocks struck the hour. of ten, How
swiftly time was flying! Mrs, Maxwell and two
female servants came-into the room, the hguse-
keeper red and perspiring. A pile of luggage
had been got out into the corridor.

“J have spoken to the servants, Miss Carring-
ton,” she said: in an -undertone, ‘‘and. they are
very grateful to you for your kindness. Quite
half of them, who were faithful to Sir John, will
be ready to come back. here when you return. I
have told some of them they will be required to
stay. to. take care. of the place, but. that they
must look to Mr. Molson for instructions.’

“Yes,” assented. Hilda.

“My.own things are - packed,”
went on. “Are you- ready, miss?

Then Hilda sought Mrs. Carrington.

The unhappy. woman’s face was red with weep-
ing, but her, eyes. flashed resentfully at sight
of her stepdaughter. -

“J hope you’re. satisfied now,’ she began—
“now that you’ve driven him away! He wished
me good-by.. last night, but I didn’t think he
was really going.”’ 5

A fresh outburst of -sobbing cut short her
speech, and she rocked herself to and fro.

“Tt is better so, Mrs. Carrington,’ Hilda said
gently. “He has gone to—to avoid being -ar-
rested. You understand? And I want to know
what you intend doing.’ ;

Mrs. Carrington dried her tears,
defiantly at her stepdaughter.

“T suppose you want to turn me out, now

“T am not here to discuss such questions!
am going away myself immediately.”

‘Well, I’m not! Where’s my poor dear to find
me when he wants to?”

“Of course, you are quite at liberty to, remain
at the castle—until it is sold. And I intend
giving the lawyer instructions to see that you
are well provided for.’’

“Going to sell Woodcroft over my head!’
“sobbed Mrs. Carrington.

Hilda withdrew, the woman’s taunting voice
ringing. in her ears.

“T shan’t go for anybody but my husband—not
if you. do. sell Woodcroft—so there!’ :

A feverish desire for haste now possessed. the
girl. If Victor should come? Oh, she could
not face the ordeal!

The luggage was dispatched to the railway
station in a cart, and Hilda said good-by to the
servants, who had gathered in the entrance hall.

Perrin approached Mrs. Maxwell.

“When shall I see you again?” he
“An ugly break-up this!”

“And who is responsible for it?’ retorted Mrs.
Maxwell. ‘I call you an underhand sneak—pre-
tending to be a respectable butler while you were
nothing but a common policeman! I have no
desire ever to see you again!”

The detective laughed.

“Tye the greatest respect
he said bowing.

“And my contempt for you couldn’t be meas-
ured; sir !’’

Mrs. Maxwell sailed after her young mistress,
and Perrin hastened forward to open the car-
riage door. :

“you and the rest of them havedone all this
very cleverly, Miss Carrington,” he whispered,
Jooking full into Hilda’s eyes. “But be careful!
At first I+ was angry at being hoodwinked; but,
for the sake of the good old name and the -con-
fidence the late Sir John reposed in me, I won't
haye. you shadowed. ‘I’ve secured the arch-con-

spirator—the master mind—and the rest of his

,, Mrs. Maxwell

and looked

I

asked.

for you, ma’am!”’

 

: h me to go with you, Miss Car-
rington ?""* °°" - ‘
Hilda hesitated,

confederates, so I will be satisfied. Good morn-

 

: Hilda inelined her head slightly, speech being
impossible, and the carriage drove away. Had
Perrin discovered the truth?

The coachman had been ordered to drive rap-

j idly, and, as they were whirled along, a feeling

akin to desolation crept into Hilda’s heart. As
she beheld the peak of Snowdon, the noble forest
trees, the undulating meadow land, the gleaming
expanse of a wide-spreading lake, she realized
that she was putting behind her forever the past
with its shadows and its sunshine.

Soon the town of Llanberis came into view, and
Hilda decided to call first upon Miss Lewis.
When the carriage swept into the quiet litte
town the shopkeepers came to their doors and
watched her curiously. Then she noted that they
gathered together in groups, and she knew that
she was being discussed.

The carriage stopped before Miss Lewis’ shop,
and that lady herself ran out, her kindly face
sympathetic. but curious.

Hilda teok her hand.

“I am going away,’’ she said briefly; ‘‘and I
have called to say good-by to you, and to thank
you for your kindness to me.” Her eyes dark-
ened with tears. ‘“No—I won't come in; I leave
by the twelve-o’clock train for London.”

“tT am so sorry, Miss Carrington! Are you
sure that there is nothing I can do for you?”

“Quite sure !’’

“I wish that you had come in!”
glanced angrily at a group of inquisitive men
and women standing on the other side of the
street. ‘‘These p@pple are all agog with curiosity.
I know how galling it must be to your sensitive
nature.”

“J am past caring, I think. But I have al-
ways been more or less of a pariah! And I love
the wild beauty of Llanberis, although I hate
it. Paradoxical, isn’t it?” She smiled wanly.
“T have only discovered it this morning.’’

“But you will not be gone for long?”

“Forever !”

Miss Lewis snatched at her hand impulsivély.

“TJ am so sorry!’ She did not think for one
moment that Hilda’s words were true. / “You
are anxious to be gone; this terrible trouble has
been too much for you. I shall see Mr. Linton
before he follows you, I am sure.”

She waved her hand as the carriage rolled
away, and her eyes were moist.

“Poor child!’ she murmured. “And just when
happiness appeared to be within reach !”

The people on the opposite side of the way
stared after Miss Carrington, and then the
group began to disperse. By way of showing
her. detéStation «of such heartless gossips,
Lewis slammed her shop door behind her as she
went in.

Hilda soon reached the rectory. How often
she had sought consolation there from the hon-
est-hearted clergyman! He had always been her
friend, though at times he had severely reproved
her.

The slatternly
deor, and she
Miss Carrington.

“La, Miss Carrington,
rector you be wanting to
study, please—’cause he’s got a visitor in
parlor.” The maid grinned from e
‘An’ the missis is there as well.
reason I have.to answer the door h
peeling the ‘taters with ‘hands like these!”

Hilda hesitated. a

“T have no time to spare,” she began thought-
fully.

“Neither has the rector for the party he’s
there,” the girl returned with a sly wink. “He
won't be two minutes, miss. Now. there’s them
brats up to mischief—things has. been so quiet!”

The maid-of-all-work shambled away and
Hilda sat down in the study, the door being left
slightly ajar. The indistinct “murmur of voices
reached her ears; then there was the sound of
an opening door, and she heard the voice of the
rector, speaking angrily.

“JT don’t care, Miss Morgan—I utterly
to discuss malicious gossip with you and
Jarvis! I quife appreciate the fact that I am @
mere figurehead in my own household—I am @
meek and enduring man for the sake of peace—
But I will not hear another word about that
poor girl! You both appear to rejoice in her
misfortunes.’’

“She was always
deserves all that
Morgan. “When under my care
defy me. And, as for Mr,.Linton, the man who
has turned her silly head, he the sort of
creature I most abhor—a male flirt!”

“Andrew,” Mrs. Jarvis chimed in icily, “you
have insulted me in the presence of Miss Mor-
gan! Is that wicked creature to cause trouble
between husband and wife? I told you long ago
what she was—an impudent, ugly, saucy vixen!
I hope that she will be sent to prison with her
thief of a father! We can do. without such
ereatures in Lianberis. And, if the truth were
known, old Sir John Carrington was no better
than he should have been.”

Hilda noted that

Miss Lewis

Miss

the
£3
av

maid-of-all-work
stared with

opened
wide-open eyes
it the
his
the
ear.
s the

Ty
im

for sure! Is 31
see? Come into

got

refi

ise

‘aie
aiYS.

and

Miss

little vixen,
snapped
she used to

a. perfect
she will get!’

is

“This. is most unseemly !’
there was a tremor in the rector’s voice.

“Yes—you £06 against your own wife to defend
that “hateful girl! They are bad, root ant
branch !” i

“fam afraid that the fact of Miss Carring-
ton’s having lived at Harlech School will do mé
an irreparable injury. Several of my girls have
already given notice; and the scandal is not half
out yet.’ Miss Morgan spoke in a plaintive
tone. “I hope that she will not settle in this
neighborhood—I have a wholesome horror of the
ereature—she is really uncanny !’’

With glowing cheeks and flashing eyes, Hilda
rose silently from her seat. Should she face
her traducer on the spot?

“J will not sell the castle now,’ she deter-
mined—‘“I will not gratify my énemies! I will
come back to Llanberis some day, and they shall
feel my power! The dear old rector defends mé
—I shall not forget. his disinterested kindness,
ts ve can’t see him after all—the time is
too short, and I will not meet these women—TI
Pee I should do something desperate if

did!”

The voices in the parlor were lowered
but Hilda heard Miss Morgan saying
morning’ to Mrs. Jarvis.

“T will drop in to tea this afterncon if you
are disengaged,” the schooslmistress said.

“Yes, do, my dear! tIt is a relief to have
somebody to speak. to after.a day of worry and
toil ‘with the. children; and Mr..Jarvis has ho
sympathy with me. Don’t forget to bring all
the. news !”’

Hilda came out of the study, and let herseif
out..at the front door.. She wondered if they
could get away unnoticed. _ Of course the maid-
of-all-work would inform her master and mis-
tress of her visit, . but———

Hilda sprang into the carriage,

‘The railway station!’? was her order to the
coachman.,

again,
“eood

TO BE CONTINUED.

 

 

WATIONAL ~

DREAM BOOK.

A truthful explanation
of dreams, omens, and
forewarniugs, placed. in
alphabetical order, and
interpreted ‘1 accord.
ance with the teachings
of the wisest:authorities,
together with designa-
tion of numbers fortu-
nate for human happi-
ness, Price, 10 cents.
All newsdealers,..If sent
by mail, three cents ex-
tra for postage. *

STREET & SMITH, Publishers,
New York City.

PHYSICAL
HEALTH CULTURE.

Clustrated. )

A popular manual of bodily
exercises and home gymnas-
tics for ma/e and female. This
book is regular size, profusely
wlustrated by full-page photo
engravings showing the dif.
ferent exercises by male and
Jemate models posed especial
ly for this work. Price, 10c.
All newsdealers. If sent by
mail, three’ extra for
postage,

STREET & SMITH, Pu

 

cents
blishers,

New York City.

7 A RYE —Any numbers of the
WANTE Fireside Companion.

Write stating what you have and
what you want for them.

WILLIAMS, P. O. Box 24, Sta. O.,
Nias ©.

~ a
WAN /TE D
GOLDEN HOURS, Address, stating what numbers
GAMA, P. 0. Box 24, Sta. “0, N. Y.

—Gertain ‘numbers of THE
GOLBEN ARGOEBY and

have,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
fs

THE DREAMING MOTHER.

 

 

 

 

BY NATHAN D, URNER,

In June, if ever, our mother earth
Is given to dreams that are Eden-sweet,
When the limitless chains of her teeming birth
Their cares and longings and joys repeat,
And only such rest as a mother can know
Is born of the fancies that come and go.

She then in her soft pavilion lies,
With half-closed eyes upturned to the roof,
While light little airs from the calm blue skies
Wave the gray hazé-curtains of delicate woof,
Letting the sunbeams flutter and flow
On the faint flushed cheek of the dreamer below.

By banks of violets sings the brook,
Loud over pebble and soft over sand;
And the waveless lake, like an open book
Just dropped from the sleeper’s listless hand,
Reveals its pictures, tender and bright,
Of shores reversed and clouds in their flight.

A lone bird-call from the woodlands brown,
A nearer whistle from out the Copse,
A fountain of melody rippling down
From the thrush who has built in the cedar
tops;
And the lips of the dreamer with half smiles part
As the music steals to her heaving heart,

A pair of lovers, with downcast eyes,
Stroll down through the fragrant meadow sweet,
With low-tongued queries and lower replies,
For they love the mother asleep at their feet.
“Sweet be thy dreams, dear mother!” they say;
“We, thy children, bless thee for aye.”

“Sweet be thy dreams!” from the tinkling brook—
From the waving willows around the lake;
“Sweet be thy dreams!” from the clover nook;
“Sweet be thy dreams, for thy children’s sake,”
And the benisons fall on the sleeper’s breast,
And gladden her deep, maternal rest.

So, softly pavilioned from troubles and storms,
With her spirit away in the far, deep skies,
In dreams: she repeats the beautiful forms
Which she sees and studies in paradise!
And the vagrant sunbeams flutter and flow
Like angel smiles o’er the dreamer below.

Po ne Be
A BRIDE’S DISAPPEARANCE,

BY MRS. 0. ROLFE,

A bridal party took train at a station in the
far West, one bright morning, bound for the East.
The groom was a fine-looking young man of about
five-and-twenty, a good, wholesome, honest-ap-
pearing young fellow, such as it pleases one to
look upon in these degenerate days; and a pret-
tier or more lovable little bride never left the
home nest for the protection of her chosen one
than the bride of our story.

The friends who had come to see them off had
kissed them two or three times around, and when
the train pulled out and began to rattle away
the happy pair watched their waving handker-
chiefs till they grew dim and indistinct in the
distance. Then they were left all to themselves.

They settled themselves, stiffly and awkwardly,
as uncomfortably far apart as the limits of the
seat would permit, and indulged sparingly in
conversation, which told those about them that
they were en route for Philadelphia, Washing-
ton, and New York, the very happiest honey-
moon since Columbia became one of the powers
of the earth,

Of course they took great pains to convey the
impression that théy had been married for years,
but it was patent to each observing fellow tray-
eler that they were just the very newest and
latest family of the present year.

The first day’s stage of their journey was done,
At ease in the reclining chairs of a drawing-room
coach, the young couple gazed Hstlessly out as
the long train dashed through the night, Clasp-
ing his bride’s soft hand, the young husband
dreamed of the future and all of its manifold
possibilities and vicissitudes, till the rattling of
the wheels on the rails became almost inaudible,
and the lights in the car looked dim and ghost-
ly; the little hand he had been holding slid out
of his grasp—and he was far away in the land
of dreams,

It was hours before the sudden stopping of the
train jolted Bernard Walters and aroused him
from his deep sleep. The gray light of the dawn-
ing day was coming in at the half-shrouded win-
dows, and the clatter of cabs and express wagons,
the ringing of bells, the din of many voices, and
the quick, confused patter of many feet, told that
the train had arrived at a station of importance.

When he had yawned and stretched himself, he
was sufficiently awake to wonder how he could
have so long ignored the presence of his bride;
and half chiding himself for having slept so
long and so soundly, he turned and put out his
hand as if to touch her.

But it only grasped the air. The chair which
she had occupied was empty, and she was gone!

In a dazed way he looked around him, half
wondering if he were really awake. Everything
appeared as it had been the evening before—only
the light of the new day made the lights in the
car look pale and sickly.

Beside him, hanging carelessly over the arm of
the chair, was the shawl his bride had thrown
around her shoulders a few hours previously, and
one of her gloves lay on the floor at his feet,
But she was not there!

Springing up, with a vague fear making his
heart beat fast and hard, he went through car
after car, till he had gone the entire length of
the long train, peering into the face of every
lady he passed, scrutinizing each half-concealed
countenance carefully and anxioysly; but in
none of them did he recognize the loved features
of his bride.

“Tt must be all a dream or a fearful mistake!’
he muttered breathlessly. ‘‘Perhaps if I go back
to our own car I may find her—she may hayes
returned.”

And back he went, walking fast and staring
like a madman, but he. only saw the vacant
chair, with the pretty shawl hanging over its
arm, and the dainty glove lying on the floor
close by.

With such a troubled face as he had never
worn before, he went forward and inquired for
the conductor,

“Have you known a lady to leave this train
since eight o’clock last night?” he asked.

“No. We have only stopped onvte, and. that
was at a lonely watering place about midnight.
It is not a regular station, and no passengers ever
get on or off there. There isn’t even a depot
—only a water tank in the woods, and a road
leading back into the country. But why do you
ask?”

Then in broken tones, Bernard Walters told
how he had dropped asleep with his bride at his
side, and awoke to find her place vacant.

“She must be on the train,’ said the con-
ductor.

“I’ve been through every car,” said Bernard,
“and I know she is not.”

“Then she is in the depot, perhaps.”

“T. awoke before the train stopped, and she was
gone then.”

“JT guess we will find her soon,’’ said the con-
ductor, quite cheerily, though in a tone which
showed that he was somewhat mystified. “Come
on.”’

And he went with Bernard through all the
ears. But they were compelled to give up the
search as vain.

“Tf I hadn’t seen you sleeping there in that
chair,” said the conductor, indicating the one
nearest the window, ‘‘and your wife sleeping in
this one here, asS:late as eleven-twenty last night,
Y should almost believe you were a lunatic.”

“J shall surely be one soon,’’ thought Ber-
nard Walters, “if this strange mystery isn’t
cleared up.’’

And for hours afterward he sat in the tele-
graph office, sending messages and receiving
them, but getting no tidings of his Clara.

One fear that had possessed him was gone.
There came no tale of a mangled, lifeless form
lying cold and stiff at the side of the track.
But this, while it gave him room for hope, only
deepened the mystery! ;

e ® * * * a *

Scene—a little settlement of six or eight fami-
lies; a dense forest on two sides, the north and
east; a broad, muddy river flowing a little to the
west; and the wide prairie stretching away to
the south. A dull, sombre blackness over all,
only relieved by a dim light from a window of
one of the cabins. The rain falling slowly, and
heavily, and steadily, its persistent patter drowned
by the roaring of the river and the sound of the
wind through the trees in the wood.

There was only one human being to be seen
there—a woman of slender form and weary step,
who staggered blindly through the darkness, paus-
ing now and then to put her hand to her head

 

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

and mutter as though under the influence of some
subtle spell: :

“Where am I? Where am I?”

Then she rubbed her eyes as if to brighten
them, and peering around her in the gloom, she
repeated the question:: ;

“Where am 1?”

There was no answer, except the roar of the
wind and the water.

She turned around and around, struggling
hither and thither in the storm, at times sink-
ing almost ankle deep in the wet earth.

“J never saw this place before. Where am I[?
How came I here?” she said, slowly, like one
whose mind is under a cloud. ‘‘There are huts
here, and a forest, and a broad river, and dark-
ness and storm. I don’t know how I came here,
or When, or even where I am. I am so—sq
tired; I am weary, and weak-—-and——" ;

She seemed to grope in mental gloom a min-
ute or two; then she staggered and swayed to and
fro, and murmuring, ‘So tired!” sank down in-
sensible.

The darkness seemed to grow denser, as if to
shroud her; the rain came driving down with
many & dash and patter, as if to keep time with
her fluttering heart; the long, weird cry of an
owl was borne upon the night air, and every-
thing was as quiet and lifeless as the grave.

Daylight came by and by. The still form lay
there yet. The storm had ceased, and the red
sun looked over the tree tops, and its rays fell
upon the pale, pretty face of the young bride,
who had dropped peacefully asleep, hours before,
ee swift-rushing, eastward-bound express
rain, ‘

By and by a column of blue, curling smoke is-
sued from the wide chimney of the nearest cabin;
then the door opened, and a man came out and
looked around on the glories of the midsummer
morning. An exclamation of surprise broke from
his lips as his eyes fell on the form of the woman
lying prostrate by the wayside.

An hour later Clara Walters opened her eyes,
to find that she was lying comfortably and easily
on a bed, in a log cabin. There was a small
window near., It was wide open, and a very re-
freshing breeze came in thereat and fanned her
cheek till the roses began to struggle to the sur-
face again.

A motherly-appearing woman of five-and-forty,
plump and fair, was bending over her, and peer-
ing anxiously and somewhat quizzically into her
ace

woman, kindly.

“Yes,” said Clara, in a half-hesitating way. “I
believe I am in my right mind now. Will you
tell me where I am and how I came here? Where
is Bernard?”

“Well, I will try to answer all of your ques-
tions as_well as I can,’’ said the woman. ‘‘You
must not talk too much—you are very weak.
You are in the cabin of John Kellar, in Black
Forest settlement, on the Missouri River, about
six miles from the water station of the Pacific
Railroad. I am John Kellar’s wife, and I have
been doing all I could to bring you to your senses,
You were brought in here by my husband a
while ago. He found you out there in the road
in a dead faint. How you came there I don’t
know. I don’t know any one named Bernard,
and I can’t tell you where he is. It’s as great
a wonder to us where you came from and how you
got here, as it seems to be to you where you are.

How do you feel?”
“T feel rather weak,’’ answered Clara. “Just
I will tell you all I

a little—and that is all,

know of it. It is very strange. I remember
sitting in a car with Bernard beside me. Then I
remember finding myself out there in the dark-
ness and the storm—and that is all. Oh, Ber-
nard, Bernard! where are you? Why don’t you
come to me? Oh, this is terrible -

Here she broke down completely,
to sob.

“It is a regular novel mystery,” said the woman
to her husband, as he came in and regarded
Clara questioningly. “The poor thing doesn’t
know any more about it than we do. The last
thing she remembers is riding in the cars. She
says she doesn’t know. how she came here—the
first thing she knew after that she was out there
in the storm. It’s a very curious affair.”

“T should think so,” remarked the man.

“Can’t be spirits, can it?” suggested the
woman.

The settler tapped his forehead significantly.

“This—more like,’’ he said.

Clara saw him and heard him.

“You are mistaken,”’ she said quickly, drying
her tears. “I am as sane as you are. But
there is some strange mystery which I cannot
explain. If you will get some sort of a convey-
ance, and take me to the nearest railroad station,
I will pay you well. But EF must go at once.”

“Tt’s six miles to the tank,” said the man; “and
& bad road.”

“Never mind the distance or the road. I can
pay you. Go at once and get ready. Don’t keep
me waiting!”

She would listen to no remonstrance. By the
time the man had his horse and cart before the
door, she was ready, and thanking the woman for
her kindness, she went out and seated herself in
the rude vehicle.

“Wonder of wonders!’ muttered the woman,
" she watched the cart move off. “Such do-
ngs!”

Soon after the settler and his mysterious pas-
senger reached the lonely stopping place, an
eastward-bound train paused to take in a supply
of water.

Clara did not know what else to do; and so she
told the conductor all she knew of the strange
occurrences of the previous night.

“Your husband fs at the first station east from
here,” he said. “He has been telegraphing for
news of you all through the day. So you need
not worry about him. There {is no office here, but
there is a line repairer on board the train, and
I will have him attach an instrument and notify
your husband that you are safe and will be with
him at four-forty, if we don’t meet with any set-
backs. But of all mysteries I ever heard of this
is the most mysterious !’’

As the train pulled out. Clara consulted her
watch. It was just noon. There were over a
hundred miles between her and Bernard yet. But
at exactly twenty minutes before five that after-
noon, she was clasped in his arms, and heard
him thanking God that she was restored to him.

Bernard Walters motioned to a cabman, and
soon they were whirling away toward a hotel.
He felt that.a few hours’ quiet and rest would do
much for both of them; and that afternoon as
he listened to Clara’s account of her. nocturnal
adventure, the mystery which had troubled him
all day, though it had lost its horror, was more
mysterious still.

At nine that evening they resumed their jour-
ney. Exhausted, the young wife sank into a
deep sleep; and Bernard sat beside her watching
her intently, and wondering greatly as the star-
tling events of the past day passed rapidly through
his mind.

At last he, too, surrendered to the sleepy god.
It was not until the cars came to a sudden stop,
hours afterward, that. he awoke. A. glance at
his watch told him it was midnight. His bride
appeared to be slumbering undisturbedly.

While he yet looked at her, she arose and
walked slowly toward the door of the car.

A strange expression was on her face, and her
eyes were staring fixedly at nothing.

A startling suspicion entered his mind.

Without speaking, he arose and followed her.

She went through the door, and out into the
night. He laid his hand on her shoulder.

“Clara!” he said.

She awoke with a sudden start.
was explained!

eee nh 9 iim ne

Items of Interest.

The maguey tree, in Mexico, grows a needle
and thread all ready for use. The large leaves
are dark green; and at the tips are thorn needies
imbedded in a kind of sheath. -When the needle
is drawn from its sheath, it unwinds a great
length of fibrous thread, which is attached to it,
and is used, as is its manufactured namesake, to
sew with, though, needless to add, not for a deli-
cate seam!

Miniature watches are all the rage in France.
Some ladies carry at least two of them. A
fashionable damsel in Paris recently simultane-
ously carried a watch suspended from her belt,
a smaller one on her purse, a still smaller one
on the third finger of her gloved hand, and one
was the head of a hatpin. They were all master-
pieces of the jeweler’s art in appearance,’ but
no two indicated the same time.

The advantage of wholesale trading is en-
joyed by a codperative purchasing ~ association
started by the Reverend Doctor Frank, in Phila-
delphia. The members are assessed twenty-five
cents each as yearly dues. They order groceries
and other provisions a week in advance. The
goods are bought in wholesale lots and sold to
the members slightly above the wholesale price.
The: saving is at léast ten per cent.

At some of the Swedish ports, where the most
absolute confidence is reposed in the honesty of
the people, a very informal postal system is in
vogue. As the mail steamer reaches-a landing

and began

Tha mystery

place, a man goes ashore with the letters, which |

he places in an unlocked box. on the pier. Then
the passerby who expects a letter opens the box,
turns over the letters, and selects his own, with-
out being watched or questioned by any one,

There are few healthy male paupers in Hol-
land. In that country there is a tract of public

“Well, you seem to be yourself ag’in,” said thef

 

land containing five thousand acres, which is
divided into six model farms, and to one of these
is sent any poor person applying for public re-
lief. If he voluntarily serves till he learns agri-
culture he is allowed to rent a small farm for
himself. Every pauper who is thus reclaimed to
honest regular industry is so much gain to the
state,

ioc
PLEASANT PARAGRAPHS.

BY CHARLES w, FOSTER,

Stee s

THE STOP-OVER PRIVILEGE.

Passenger—‘“Is this ticket good to stop off?”
Conductor—‘‘Yes’m. But it won’t be good to
git on again,”
LIVING AND SHOW.
Foreign Visitor—‘“Does it cost much to live ii
New York?”
Host—“‘No, sir, it doesn’t cost much to Hve

in this city; but it costs like Sam Hill to keep up
appearances,’”’

HOW IT HAPPENS.

Neighbor—‘‘How does it happen “that your old-
est daughter has consumption, while your other
daughter is the picture of health? - They appear
to be of exactly the same temperament.”

Hostess—“My oldest daughter got her winter
fashions from Paris. The other got hers from
Canada.”

NOT THAT KIND.

Mrs. Hardeash—‘‘I want you to get me a di-
vorce from my husband, and an allowance of
$1,500 a. year.”

Lawyer—“How much is his income?”

Mrs. Hardcash—‘'It’s about. that. I wouldn’t
ooh ee more than a man makes. I am not that
in -ve

TOO HASTY.

Coal Dealer (anxiously)——““Hold on! That load

hasn’t been weighed. It looks to me rather large

for a ton.”
Driver—‘‘ ’Tain’t intended for a ton. It’s two

tons.”
Dealer—‘“‘Beg. pardon. Go ahead.”

A STASPH OF ITT.
Noted_Anarchist (explaining his position to fel-
low passengers on Western railway train)—‘Ve
vant all laws banished from the statute pooks.
Ve vant effry citizen to do as he blease e
Leader of Western Outlaws (suddenly boarding
the train)—“Hold up y’r hands!”

HELPING THE CAUSE.

Mrs. Hayfork—‘‘Pop, why is it that w’en you
take up th’ collections at th’ church, you always
push y’r way into ev’ry pew, instead o’ lettin’
the people sittin’ there pass th’ plate along?”

Deacen Hayfork (a pillar)—‘So’s to step on
th’ corns o’ them sinners wot don’t give nothin’.”

SELECTED PLEASANTRIES.

Likn A Berxr.—Blobbs—‘‘Why do you liken
Harduppe to the busy bee? He isn’t particularly
industrious, is he?” ;

Slobbs—“Oh, no, it isn’t that, but nearly every
one he touches gets stung.’’—Philadelphia Record.

UNSATISFACTORY BusINESS.—“Remember,” said
the second hand cynic, “that every man has his
price.”

“Perhaps,”” answered Senator Sorghum; “but
when a man comes cheap enough to enable you
to buy him, he usually isn’t worth having.”—
Washington Star.

A Forecastte Mixture.—First Seaman—‘I
say, Bill, wot’s this card?”

Second Seaman—‘“That’s the saloon passengers’
menu, of course.”

“But wot does it mean?”

“Oh, it’s a list of all the things they have for
dinner—soup and fish and vegetables and meat.
That’s the difference between the saloon and the
forecastle; they. get them all separately and call
it a menu. In the forecastle we get them all to-
gether and call it Irish stew.’”—Titbits.

Tom’s Brtu.—Tom (in restaurant)—‘“Excuse
me, old man, but would you mind paying my
check? I haven’t anything but a $40 bill!”

Jack—“A $40 bill! Why, I never heard of a
bill of that denomination.’ —~ ~>

Tom—‘Here it is—a bill from my tailor !’—
Chicago News. ; :

Auto BLAMED AGAIN.—Two small boys had
strayed in the mummy room of a certain mu-
seum. ‘‘Wot’s these?” said one. :
“Them’s guys wot’s bin dead a long time,” an-

swered the other.

‘And wot’s: them letters, B. C. 14, over the
guy in the corner?”

“Guess that’s the number of the automobile
wot run over the poor bloke.”—-Bohemian Maga-
eine,

SuPpERIoR Way or Dyine.—He was excessively
fond of dancing. Also he was very clumsy. Like
a good many other people he was fondest of do-
ing the thing he did worst.

She, too, was excessively fond of dancing, with
the difference that she was the personification of
grace. But now she was suffering. Already he
had torn her train with his ungovernable feet,
and her dainty slippers bore the marks of his
shoes. At last she could stand it no longer.

“Let us sit out the rest of this dance,’’ she
suggested. ‘‘I am tired.”

He was reluctant. ‘I thought you said you
could die waltzing,” he said.

“So I could,” she replied, “but there are more
pleasant ways of dying than being trampled to
death.”"——N. Y. Times,

een sen SDS Siem rte
THERESE’S PLOT.

BY ALLENA AUDLEY,

os

Her face matched her name perfectly.

A fair skin,- with soft cheeks like peach-blos-
soms, masses of wavy, golden hair gathered in a
loose knot at the back of her exquisitely formed
head, and tied with a broad violet ribbon; eyes
large and ‘soft, but jet-black, .changeful with
eonstantly changing emotions; and marvelous
lips that were smiling a welcome to the fair
June morning.

She had tied a fringed scarf of violet silk over
her head, and was dusting the pictures in Mrs.
Lemoine’s pretty parlor. .

Her loose sleeves had fallen back, exposing the
fair, rounded arms, dimpled at the elbow, and her

cheeks were growing warm from exercise, when}

there was a ring at the outer door.

With the great feathery duster hanging on one
arm by its black ribbon, she went to open the
door.

‘Does
home?”

The speaker, who was looking at her very curi-
ously with his sunny blue eyes, was a man, and
one of the handsomest men she had ever seen.
Tall and broad shouldered, with a wealth of light
hair just escaping red tossed back from his broad
white brow, a mouth tender, yet whose curves
betokened command, This was what met her eye
at that first glance on the stone step.

“T believe she is at home. Will you walk in?”

She opened the door into*the cool, shaded par-
lor, and, when she had relieved him of his over-
coat and hat, went to summon Flora Lemoine. _

A curious smile flitted over her lips as, going
slowly up the stairs, she read the name on the
white card which she carried.

“Charles Thornton!”

Flora Lemoine, who had come-down the long
hall behind her so softly as to be quite unheard,
— over her shoulder and read the name
aloud.

Therese Bell turned in surprise, a redder blush
stealing to her cheek. :

“So he is here at last! my conquering hero,
who is to adorn me with pearls and rubies and
diamonds, for the rest of my .life!”

And Flora Lemoine, her black eyes sparkling
with triumph, executed an admirable pirouette.

“Come and make me beautiful,” she said, beck-
oning to Therese who stéod awaiting her orders
—for Therese .Bell had been hired for that es-
— purpose—and she flitted hastily up the
stairs.

Therese followed slowly into the room where
half a dozen dresses were spread in disordered
array on the bed. f

“Which shall I wear?’ Miss Lemoine asked.

“This rose-colored lawn,’’ Miss Bell said de-
cidedly. ‘“‘The parlor is in half light, and all
my. bouquets this morning are white and green.’’

“J think you are right, Therese. Where did
you acquire such marvelous taste?”

“Tt is my gift from the gods,” said Miss Bell
unaffectedly. ‘I could make myself beautiful if
I had such accessories at.my command.”

‘What dress would you choose for yourself?”

“That. grenadine of black and gold color,”
Therese replied, without ‘hesitation.

“To match your hair and eyes?’ Miss Lemoine
said, with a light laugh. “Fortunately it is the
very oddest dress in my wardrobe, and I am
heartily tired of it. You may Mave it,” she
added, graciously. > ‘

“Therese Bell!”

Miss Lemoine live here, and is she at

 

‘soon as you have finished dressing Miss Flora,

come to me.”

“There’s mamma calling you! Hurry, Therese,
fasten my dress; give-me my sandal-wood brace-
lets, and then you may go. Be sure you wear
this thing to-night, and let me see how you
look, You know mamma entertains to-night, and
we shall want you to play and sing.”

And Flora Lemoine, a radiant vision, passed
down to the parlor to meet the man whom she
expected to marry, while Therese Bell went away
to spend the morning in altering a flounced silk
for Mrs, Lemoine. :

That night she wore the dress which Miss
Lemoine had given her, looped over a heavy black
silk with two great passion flowers. The silk
was cut low in the neck, and had the sleeves cut
short, and the shoulders and arms of such mar-
velous whiteness gleamed like marble under their
yail of black and gold.

“Who is she?” asked Charles Thornton, as thé
crowd parted at the piano to allow Therese to
move away. “Her voice is superb, and her face

"She is housekeeper, waiting maid, and—lady,”
said Fiora Lemoine, abruptly. “‘We pay her a
liberal salary, and so she condescends to come
down and sing for us occasionally. Shall I in-
troduce you?”

Before he could reply, Therese was opposite
them, and touching her lightly on the arm, Miss
Lemoine had introduced her friend Mr. Thornton
to Miss Bell,

And more than once that evening, when some
one else. claimed Miss Lemoine’s attention, he
sought her out in her quiet corner.

The next afternoon when he called, Mrs. and
Miss Lemoine were out; and in a charming blue
mull, with pansies at her throat and belt, Ther-
- completed the conquest begun the night be-
pre. So ‘

I don’t know how long he waited, but he found
an opportunity before he left to whisper his secret
in her willing ear. :

“But I thought you were to marry Miss Le-
moine?” she said, giving him a bright glance of
inquiry. :

“Let me tell you all about it, pet,’’ he said, a
few minutes later, when her golden head was at
rest on his shoulder. “I have an uncle, whose
heir I am—old Ralph Thornton, of Dilksvale.
He has insisted for the last two years on my be-
coming acquainted with two young ladies—dis-
tant relatives—of his wife, who has been dead
many years—and marrying one of them, provided
either of them would say yes. ‘These ladies were
Miss Flora Lemoine and Miss Isabel Corneye. I
never loved any woman in my life, until I saw
you, darling, so I was not unwilling to please
him who has been a father to me. But-I have
met my fate,” he added, leaning down to kiss a
very rosy. cheek, “and it’s too late to think of
anybody else.”

ne Miss Corneye—you have not seen her
e or

“And de you think ” he began, indignantly.

“T think you will go and see her, to please me,”
she said, gravely. ‘If, after that, you still love
the maid, Therese, you shall tell me so.”

‘And you will be my own little wife, Therese?”

i Unele Ralph only this HOFBIm~

 

Vol. 64—No:; 38

tm ee

“J will make no promise until you have seen
Miss Corneye. What do you know of her charms
yet?”

So they parted—Charles Thornton to seek
Miss Corneye, and Therese, who had been dis-
misse® by Mrs. Lemoine, to go home to her fa-
ther’s house.

Two days later, he was ushered into Mr, Corn-
eye’s library, and was met by the bluff old sail-
or’s outstretched hand,

“You gre welcome—right welcome,” he er‘

+ : “ ~<ited
out, in a hearty voice. “I had a letter trom your

in which ie
rry Miss Flora Le-
did well to wait for
cean!”

tells me you
moine. Gad, si:
my little pearl

“But, Mr. Cor y dear sir, you are quite
mistaken in my tions. I could not be so
vain as to suppose~ your daughter would accept
a lover whom she had neyer seen. I only came
Oo

“Of course, of coursé—only came to woo and
win her! But my daughter is an obedient child,
sit, who knows better than to refuse her old fa-
ther any reasonable request.”

“f have no doubt Miss Corneye is all that a
daughter should be; but is it quite reasonable to
expect = :

“Not a word more, sir! Your modesty does
you credit; but I will wager my diamond pin
against that fine one you wear, that Isabel will
fall in love with you at first sight, and be ready
to say ‘yes’ before you have asked her.’

: “Then I had better go at once; for, my dear
sir, I onty-fame to say that I have already—-—”

“Already what, sir?’

“Already fallen in love with a charming young -
lady, whom I hope at no distant day to make
my wife.’

“Indeed !”’
“May I
then?” ‘

“I promised Miss Bell, the lady I mean to
marry, to make Miss Corneye’s acquaintance;
and I came this morning to redeem my promise.”’

“And so you expect me to put Miss Corneye on
exhibition to please this Miss. Bellringer of
yours } Zounds! but you’re an impertinent young
man!” ;

“Oh, papa! papa!” eried a merry voice from the
half-open door. “Let us end this comedy! I
am tired of standing in the hall and hearing my-
self abused.”

At the first words Charlie Thornton had turned
eagerly toward the door, and the last word ended
in a rapturous kiss.

“Therese! my own little. Therese! how could
you deceive me so?’ . =

“Tt was afraid you would like Miss Lemoine
best, and—and -

“And so you are really the formidable Miss
Corneye?’”’ :

“Isabel Therese Corneye,. at your service, sir.”
“T shall claim your service at once then. The-
rese, will you marry me next week?” a

“No!” she cried, in dismay.

“Next month, then?” he-asked, with his arms
around her. .

“Perhaps,” she answered;
kissed a very rosy cheek.

said Mr. Corneye, very distinctly.
ask what brought you to my _ house,

and once more he

Hm wm KH

~

 

 

THE LADIES’ WORK-BOX

EDITED BY MRS. HELEN WOOD

 

 

2
By special arrangements with the manufacturers, we are enabled to supply the
readers of THE New York WEEKLY with the patterns of all garments described or illus-

trated in this column at ten cents each.
be forwarded on receipt of twenty cents.

Catalogues containing about 1,000 patterns will
When ordering patterns, please be particular

to mention the number of the pattern and size wanted. Address Fashion Department,
Tue New York WEEKLY, 79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York City.

BRASHION NOTES

To come upon a group of women wearing the
present seasonable hats with their abundant
display of fruit and berries, is a surprise to
the conservative. They may be seen to advan-
tage now at the Southern. resorts. It is as if
one had suddenly been set down in a garden
blazing with June roses. - These flowers bloom
most generously on every feminine head; “they
form the crown of the hat, while the brim is of
coarse straw. The color is chosen to tone with
the gown it is to be worn with, and the shape
is difficult to define. Most women haye it bent
and twisted to suit their own type of face, con-
forming only to the regulation crown of flowers.
Some people prefer lilac, violets or hyacinths;
but the majority are faithful to roses. Toques
are all in coarse straw or porcupine quills,

Entire turbans of jet, which have been so
popular in Paris, are seen everywhere in profu-
sion, and where an entire jet hat is objected to
on account of its somewhat hard and unbecoming
appearance, there are lighter and more fanciful
models in jetted and spangled tulle, which are ef-
fectively shirred and draped on the elaborately
wired frames. Gold, silver and steel woven
gauzes are much liked for this purpose, buckles
and cabochons of the same metal being employed
for trimming. Metallic ribbons furnish material
for twists and Ynots at the base of a feather
or a cluster of stubby quills, which are so often
noticed mounted at the side of one of the im-
mense turbans.

Reversion to tucks and plaits is becoming evi-
dent, especially in the thinner materials, but
they are utilized only as means of acquiring ful-
ness below the hips, for they are stitched to that
point. This suggests a way of bringing the
kilted skirts up to date, although kilted skirts
will have regained much of their own lost prestige

 

 

 

 

Ladies’. Skirts.

2522—Thirteen-gored Flare Skirt, with a double
box-plait _at front and an inverted box-plait
at centre-back seam. Black yoile was used for
the development of this dainty model trimmed
with black taffetas and buttons. Hight sizes, 22.
to 36 inches waist measure.

2512—Four-gored Circular Skirt, closing with
buttons down the front. and having an inverted
box-plait at centre of the back.. An excellent
model for the everyday skirt of thin serge, mo-
hair or linen. Seven sizes, 22 to 34 inches waist
méasure.

1958—Bleven-gored *Skirt, with an inverted
box-plait at centre-back seam, and fan-plaits at
lower part of the other seams. .A_ pretty model
for voile, taffetas, serge, mohair or foulard.
Seven sizes, 22 to 34 inches waist measure.

2536—One-piece Circular Skirt in medium
sweep or round length and with an inverted box-
plait at centre of front and back. A good model
for linen, duck, serge, mohair or broadcloth.
Seven sizes, 22 to. 34 inches waist measure.
- 2516—Sixteen-gored Circular = Skirt, closing
with buttons down the front, and having an in-
verted box-plait at centre of back. An excellent
model for linen or duck, as it is very easy to
launder. Hight sizes, 22 to 386 inchés waist
measure, : ;

 

by the time spring is well on its way. If the
front and back plaits are stitched either clear
down or nearly so, then the side-ones may be per-
mitted to fall free in panel effect, or they may
be stitched at unequal lengths. Some of the most
exclusive models are designed in this way.

Perhaps the most interesting, if not the most
important, feature of fashions just now is the
trimmings and color manipulation, Both are de-
Signed to be most effective without being too
conspicuous, Beautiful, even brilliant pinks,
greens, blues, and yellows are used, but there is
a brownish cast over them that subdues and
makes them generally becoming. While there is
still a leaning toward the monochrome effects, the
new shades are also cleverly combined.

Braiding with soutache, picked out with but-
tons, has lost not the least of its. charm, but it
has taken on a novelty by broader detail and a
combination with satin cordings and bandings.
There is a wide soutache that is new, but thus
far it has appeared in the shops only in black.
Then there are new -pendant fringes that. will
be found wonderfully adaptable. These are to be
had in ornate design as well as in the ordinary
spherical drops. Many of the trimmings of last
winter have been duplicated in those deemed un-
suitable for summer bandings, appliqués, braid-
ings, and all-overs,

An attempt is being made by several leading
tailors to indicate the natural waist line in coats
of .a shapely sack order, which otherwise tend.
to an extreme straightness of outline.

Just now there is a revival of. canary-color
searfs, Some of the stores are showing them
in knitted silk patterns of very elaborate char-
acter, both in solid yellow and also crossed by
horizontal stripes of pale blue.

 

 

 

 

Stylish Underwear Garments.
_1563—tLadies’ One-piece Corset-cover, with or
without Peplum. Nainsook, batiste, Persian lawn,
or, in fact, any of the sheer white materials are
adaptable to this model. “Six sizes, 32 to 42
inches bust measure: :

2377—Lady’s Corset-cover, Adaptable to
flouncing, nainsook, Persian or Victoria lawh, or
batiste. Hight sizes, 32 to 46 inches _ bust

measure,
2380—Lady’s Chemise. China silk, and any
are all adaptable

of the sheer white materials
to this model. Four sizes, 82, 36, 40 and 44
inches bust measure. A garment easily made,
and most attractive.

2104—-Four-gored Petticoat for a Miss, with
or without flounce. A very good. model for taf-
fetas or any of the sheer white materials. Three
sizes, 13 to 17 years.

1582—Girl’s and Child’s Yoke  Night-gown.
White cambric was used for the development of
this neat model, the yoke being trimmed with
embroidery insertion. Six sizes, 2 to 12 years.

2543—-Lady’s Circular Petticoat Drawers.
These are developed in nainsook, batiste, Persian
lawn, jaconet, or China silk, trimmed with in-
sertions of fine Valenciennes lace and a ruf-
fle to match. Hight sizes, 22 to 36 inches waist
measure, :

ealled Mrs. Lemoine. ‘As + Ha In ordering paiterns be sure to give size and number. All patterns wilt be mailed on the day the order ts received,

~