FRANCIS 8. STREET, FRANCIS S. SMITH, } Proprietors, SUN \\ Ky Hy) \\ Strangely Won; ee ee we, THE BARONET’S SECRET. By Margaret Blount, Author of “BEAUTY BRIDE, “THE HEIR OF BALFOUR HALL,” “BURNT-MILL FARM,” ete. CHAPTER I. In one of the pleasantest and healthiest suburbs of Lon- don, stood a litle white cottage, ancient and overgrown with vines, whose owner had lived beneath the shelter of its red-tiled roof for five and forty years. Mrs. Murtha Bateman was the widow of a peasant, and &@ peasant herself by birth, yet with a natural keenness and quickness of intellect that had raised her far above her class. In her youth she had been the belle of the vil- lage; and some traces of her early beauty yet remained in the regular features and fair complexion, and large, well- shaped, piercing dark eyes. Her life had been one of toil, and Gare, and poverty till after her husband's death. Then, with the help of a pension left to her by her hus- band’s master, she managed to live several years in tol- erable comfort. Atthe expiration of that time, her family was suddenly increased by the arrival of a female child apparently about eight years of age—a child who “came from nowhere, and belonged to nobody,”’ said the neigh- bors, angry at finding the widow’s lips closely sealed on @ subject that had so much interest for them. The little stranger arrived at the cottage ina post- chaise, quite late at night, and attended only by a French maid. This woman left her charge with many kisses and tears, and promises to return; but nothing had ever been heard of her by the curious neighbors since that night, The child was fed and clottied and reared, like one be- longing toa superior station; and from the moment when she assumed the charge, it was noticeable that “the Wid- ow Bateman’? worked no more. She and her daughter Emily lived quietly on in the vine-shadea cottage, appar- ently entirely at their ease, so far as the things of this world were concerned. They ate and drank of the best, although they dressed no better than they had always done. Butit was known (is such things always wiil be known, try to hide thein as we may) that the widow paid neither rent nor taxes for her house—that she received a certain sum each year for the support of her mysterious protege. _As for the chiki herself, no one ever ventured to ques- tiou or even to speak to her upon the subject. Even at that erly age there was a kind of still reserve blended Wita hor chiidish grace and beauty, that tacitly forbade the tatrusion of impertinent curiosity, and that, in the opinion of the rustic population, gave certain evidence of her ee@ ite biood. “Nobly, even if basety born.) was the secret verdict Wica they pronounced upon her, in their fireside discus- Bons; and, in fact, it was dificult to look upon the slen- dor, stately figure, and sweet, serious fuce of the young Monica Moore, and doubt that some of the best blood of Kagiand flowed in her azure veins, At the cottage, she was always addreased as “Misa Monica,’ by the widow and her Guughter, The rooms set apart for her use were tastefully and even luxuriously furnished, with pictures, choice books, a piano, and ail that the heart of a young lady could possibly desire. A governess came each day from London, for four hours, to instruct her in the modern languages and all the fashion- able accomplishments of the day. Thus it happened, that on her sixteenth birthday, Mo- nica Moore was as fair, as lovely, as well-educated, and as graceful and accomplished as if she had been brought up Carefully under the eye of a proud mother, in an ele- gant and luxurious home. The old peasant woman had been faithful to the trust reposed in her. “‘He will be proud of her when he sees her,’’ thought the old woman to herself, as from her chair by the fire- side she watched the girl. ‘He willbe proud of her. How can he helpit? Blood tells! And thereis no mistaking that face and form—no mistaking the curl of that lip, or the flash and sparkle of those eyes! Whatever he may have believed sixteen years ago, he will believe if no longer, after one good look, at that lovély face of hers.’’ “Come here. Miss Monica,’ she said aloud; and at a Significant look from her, her daughter left the room. “Sixteen to-day, Miss Monica,’? said her guardian, “You are quite a woman now.” “Yes,’’ said. Monica, and her dark, gray eyes looked up with a peculiarly earnest glance. ‘i am, as you say, almost a woman. Old enough now, surely, to hear the secret of my birth.” Mrs. Bateman shook her head. “T am not the one to tell you that secret, Miss Monica.” “Who. then ??? “Your father.’ _ “My father!’ The girl's cheek flushed deeply, and her lips quivered as she spoke, ‘My father, did you say? He is living then ?’’ **He is.’? ‘*‘Where ?”? “In London. At least, he is there, just at present, he has been living abroad, for sixteen years past.’? And now the girl’s face flushed far more deeply than betore. Twice she opened her lips, as if to speak; twice she paused. At last, with downcast eyes, and in a falter- ing tone, she suid: “Mrs. Bateman, is my mother tiving 2" ne She died a few months after your birth,” was the reply. Again there was a long pause. “Was she—was she—oh, do not tell me that she was not good!” said the girl, suddenly. “I dream sometimes of her, at night, and it is always asan angel that I see her! Surely she was not wicked, in spite of all this secrecy abont my birth.” But “Wieked!’? said Mrs. Bateman, indignantly. “.\ better, and @ purer wOMan than your mother, never trod this ENTERED ACCORDING TO ACT OF CONGRESS IN THE YEAR 1871, BY STREET & LTT LLL, UNTILL TT Wy ati) a iy tH} eeetT SMITH, IN THE OFFICE OF THE LIBRARIAN OF CONGRESS, WASHINGTON, D. ¢. WAN Yh TERMS y WY La Wy, earth. Her life was not a happy oné, and those who ought to have been kindest to her, were most cruel, and so she broke her heart and died. But she was imnocent of all that they laid to her charge.’ The girl was listening eagerly. This sudden burst of indignation; on the part of the widow, hadtold her much, of which she had never even dreamed befvre. “You must have known my mother well!’’ she said at ay. now yours. fond of me, for all that. Alice!’ “Lady Alice ?” “The old woman gave a great start. ‘‘Who spoke that name? Not I! I swore never. to be- tray the secret till the time should come, and J have kept my oath!” “It was you who Said it, Mrs. Bateman!’ «ey 97? She gazed at the girl with a troubled air. “T, speak that name, and before you? Then, surely, my wits must be leaving me at last. I am growing an old woman! Heaven help me!’? child; I was her companion once, as Emily is I was many years older, but she was very Ay, very fond of me, was Lady “But, Mrs. Bateman, having said so much, you ought to tell me more,’’ said the girl, looking intently at her. “If I am nobly born, why am I not to know it? Why was I brought up in a humble cottage like this?’ ““Ay, her very look, and the pride of if!’ said the old woman, to herself, ‘‘No, ask me no more questions, Miss Monica, I cannot—I dare not answerthem. I havesworn to keep the secret, and surely you would not have me break my oath!” “But am I never to know more? Is my whole life to be spent here, and like this?!’ asked the girl, discontent- edly. “Change is coming to us all, Miss Monica—never fear. And it may be, when all has come and gone, that you will look back to the life in this poor cottage one day, and say that it was the best and pleasantest for you, after all.’ “Change!” said the girl, disregarding the rest of her speech. ‘What do you mean by that, dame? Am I to go away from here—from you?”’ **Yes, Miss Monica!’’ “Oh, when ?” “To-morrow! said the old woman, sad in her inmost heart to see the delight with which the girl welcomed the news. “To-morrow!? And will you take me to my father? To my mother’s grave?’ Her soft gray eves were full of tears, as shespoke. “To your mother’s grave!’’ replied Mrs. Bateman “Some day I may, perhaps, but not to-morrow. As for your father, Miss Monica, Go you rise early in the morn- ing, and dress yourself in your best, for before the sun sets, if it please Heaven, you will look upon your father’s face!’ “Does he expect me? ing 9 ; ‘No. But I obey the orders that vour mother gave me upon her dying bed. ‘Take the child to hin on the day after her sixteenth birthday, and ask him if the form, the face, the very look and manner are not Ris oon! And when I lie cokl in my grive, my daughter’s grace and beauty shall plead for me with her father, and inake hin own, With tears, that he wronged me when he believed me false.’ “Dame, did my father doubt my mother?’? asked Moni- ca. ‘Nay, do not shake your head and sigh. You owzht to tell me, for you joved her, and were wiih her at the an I woukl rather hear the story from your lips than his.°° “This munch I will tell you, Miss Monica, and then you Does he Know that I am com- “When you go to the Moat take care that you never enter the west wing! And, above all things, see to it that your foot never crosses the threshold of the Crimson Room |’ reserved. She loved her husband, tenderly, but she had no art to show it, as some can do. The love lay deep in her heart, but it seldom crossed her lips. And so, at last, he began to doubt it. And she was beautiful and young, and all men loved her. There was one, who never spoke his love; but he would have died for her. I Knew it by the look that came into his eyes whenever she crossed his path. But never a word fell from his lips that the whole world might not have heard.”’ “Tell methis: Did my father doubt my mother, on ac- count of the love this other man felt for her?’’ asked the girl. “He did. Heaven forgive him! He was very cruel to her, and her heart broke, with the wrong and shame he heaped upon her. And he seemed half mad with misery through it all. He could not have been in his righ! mind, or he would never have deserted you, and left his conntry | as suddenly as he did—sixteen years in a foreign land— and in all that time not one inquiry for his only chiic! His solicitor has paid me regularly the sum left for your education and maintenance, and that is all. It is a cruel thing!"’ “So cruel that Iwill not go to him to-morrow!” said Monica, springing to her feet. ‘‘The man who could so wrong my mother, and desert and disown me, is no father of mine!’ ‘Oh, Miss Monica, it is of little use to say you will not claim him for your father, with that look, so like his, up- on your face! Besides, the command of the dead must be obeyed. It is your mother, speaking from her grave, through me, and surely you ure not going to gainsay her! You must go to him, if only to clear your mother’s name, my dear.”’ “T hate him! Ihate him!” said Monica, through her clenched teeth. And then her proud young heart found relief from its heavy burden in a sudden burst of tears. Mrs. Bateman sat by her that night, till she had sobbed herself to sleep in her own room. CHAPTER It. It had been Mrs. Bateman’s intention to start for Lon- don by the earliest express train. They breakfasted early, and Monica, looking prettier and more gracetul than ever, in her holiday dress of blue muslin, with her gipsy ce, | half-shading and half-revealing her sweet, serious face, stood in the cottage door, impatiently watching the last ! preparations of the dame. Suddenly she uttered an exclamation of disappoint- ment that brought Emily to the door. A taxed cart, drawn by a fat gray pony, and loaded | down with farin produce, stood at the gate. A stout, com- fortable looking man, dressed in corduroys and top boots, like a farmer on a market-day, was helping a little, thin woman, with a pair of brizht, black eyes, and a good- ' natured smile, down out of the cart. | “Why. ’tis Aunt Lisbeth herself !’? said Emily, after one rapid glance. Sister Lisbeth!” said Mrs. Bateman, impetuousiy. She rushed toward the door and cuught the little figure in her arns, and for the next ten minutes there was a scene of confusion and of joy, that made Monicast.ind apart, and feel herself curionsly neglected and out of place. “She is the only sister | have in the wide world, my dear | Miss Monica, and I have not seen her for five years. Her | busbam! has coine up ona little business, and they will j stirt home this afternoon, and take Emily with them.” Meantime, Monic. was busy with her thoughts; and when sie watchect the final parting at the gate, and saw | the cirt drive merrily away, with Eenily and Aunt Lisbeth , wiping their eyes as they sat side by side upon the cus- | hioned seat—an‘ turning to the dame, with a hightened mustask yomore, Your mother’s muauner Was quiet and color and a beating heart, she sakl: j ‘Shall | put op my things now? Are we realy to go?” | Three Dollars Per Year. Two Copies Five Dollars, > bi We yi ges sadly Somehow my mlnd misgives me, now that we have come to lhe starting-point. “Yes, child,” said the old woman, the journey over as‘J0on 2s passilie I almost wish that Emily had stayed. It will be dreary ; enough to come back here, and find the cottage all shut up and desolate.’ The loud, clear whistle of an approaching train, cut through the air just then, and roused ier froim ler painful thought. “Well, Miss Monica, we must be press, and the parliamentary trait half an hour behind.’ That is the ex- will net 4S more than rolgg. Side by side the Vaike broad: familler path, and entered the station. icket office Was open, and jateman geisg wp "e, asked for two first-class onan. er.Cong charge out upon the level platform, here was noone to annoy her, only a solitary pas- gong smuking his cigar and pacing to and fro, as he waited for the train. Possibly Monica might not‘have noticed this passenger, but for an act of courtesy on his part which impressed her strangely as being the first she had ever received. The stranger, seeing her approach, gave one rapid glance at her sweet young face, then ceased to smoke, and threw his cigar away. Monica felt, intuitively, that she was in the presence of a gentleman, who, by that one slight act, paid homage to womanhood in her person; and with all the fearless yet shy grace of a young and periectly innocent girl, she could not help thanking him by a single grateful look. As she raised her dark gray eyes, they met a pair of blue ones, whose brilliant light almost dazzled her, at first, but whose stern, commanding expression softened sud- denly into a reverent and admiring gaze. It was enough! The cheek crimsoned, and the long lashes drooped, and in the innocent heart, a strange, new, troublous joy was born! What didit mean? What, indeed? For the stranger was no gallant youth to win the eye and heart of a maid- en fair as this. He was a man of more than middle age, with a strong and stalwart frame, and that air of habitual command, which only “one in authority’ can really pos- sess. His upright carriage and martial tread, bespoke the soldier, his reverent look at the blushing girl, denoted the man of gentle breeding and of gentle blood, and the almost god-like beauty of his face and form might weil have attracted her admiration, had thirty years been taken from his age. But who could expecta girl of six- teen to feel a ‘‘love at first sight’? for a man of fifty? The stranger’s broad, high brow was smooth and fair as ever, and the brown locks that waved above it, had nev- er lost their silken gloss nor golden sheen; his blue eves, bright and piercing, were brilliant as in youth, and the smile that lingered now and then about the beautifully- chiseled lips, if melancholy, was also dangerously sweet. Yet, in spite of all this, no human being can pass through the cares and sorrows of fifty years without showing some traces of the struggle; and the face on which Monica’s eyes had rested for that one brief moment, though strik- ingly beautiful still, was not the face (one would think,) to impress itself upon her fancy, or to trouble her, as sle walked “in maiden meditation, fancy free.”’ And yet it was of the stranger, and of him alone, that Monica thought, as she waited on that platform, listening to the regular fall of his martial tread, as he passed to und fro. The train came up at last. The stranger turned toward Mrs. Bateman politely, and helped her into the first carri- age. Monica followed. And, after a moment's hesitation, looking hurriedly up and down the line, he entered thg carriage after them and closed the door. As they neared London the train was violently agit the carriages swinging to and fro, and the ligh } os THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. 28> thrown from their casings by the rocking the speed increasing every moment. Mrs. Bateman still slept quietly through and disturbance. along the line. He turned to her with a smile. ‘It is a bad curve, and they are wrong in going so fast. here some) day. shall ” grinding, grating sound, and a headlong falling motion, accompanied by wild screams, and the hoarse shouts men along the line. Monica sprang to her feet. “Sit still!’ said the stranger, grasping her hands in his. And then the carriage, in which they were, swayed and headlong down the railway bank, CHAPTER TIT. THE CRIMSON ROOM. Out of what seemed to her like a long, confused, and partly painful dream, Monica Moore awoke at last. The stillness and comfort of an elegant and refined home met her startled senses as she gazed around. She was lying on a downy bed, from whose carved canopy blue silken curtains, edged and embroidered with silver, swept softly to the floor. For afew moments Monica rested quietly enough, look- ing with pleased eyes at the beautiful things that sur- rounded her. But the starry flowers upon the carpet took her thoughts back once more tothe cottage at Norwood— to the dame—to the moment of that awful accident, with its sudden crash, its shrieking voices, its agony of fear. She tried to rise as these thoughts came crowding upon her. Butshe sank weakly back upon her pillows the next moment. A sharp pain pierced her arm as .she. moved, Glancing down she saw that it was tightly bound in splints, “Oh, what has happened??? she moaned aloud, thick drops of perspiration gathering on her forehead. ‘‘Dame —dear dame—where are you? And where amI?, How long have I been here? What ails this arm that it feels so stiff and strange?” A door at the upper end of the room opened as she ceased to speak. A tall, severe-looking, middle-aged wo- man entered, bearing a covered silver basin on a silver tray... This woman was apparently some fifty years of age. Her dark face looked harsh and lined, yet sad, as if pain and sorrow had been busy there for years. Her eyes were wge and biack, with a weary, indifferent look in their epths. Her iron-gray hair was put back plainly beneath . Muslin cap, and her form, wnusually tall, erect, and thin, Was arrayed in a gownof black, whose somewhat scanty skirts fell in prim folds to the floor, Monica looked up at her with a pleading glance and re- peated the question: “Where am I? What has happened? dame ?”” The woman started slightly as she spoke, but the composure of her face and manner was unshaken. She placed the tray upon a little carved stand near the bedside before she answered. “In the first place you are not to talk,’? she said quietly. Her voice was cold and somewhat harsh, hermanner to the last degree unsympathetic. Monica, half frightened by the strangeness of all around her, shramk back from this severe figure with a pettish moyement. “T want the dame. Tell her to come to me,” she said. The woman lifted the silver cover from the basin. It was full of a rich brown broth, that sent up a most appe- tizing steam and fragrance. Lifting a heavy siiver spoon from its napkin, she placed the Wasin before Monica on the bed. “TI have had to feed you like a child ever since you came here, and you haye not taken enough to keep a bird alive,’?? she said, in the samé cold, gratingtone. ‘Eat, now that you are able to help yourself, and do not forget to thank Heaven for your miraculous escape.”’ “T want nothing,’’ said Monica faintly. ‘‘Nothing except the dame??? ; The woman eyed her sourly for a moment or tio, then, as if @ee@ming it best to try persuasion, she said; ‘‘1fyouw will eat that Iwill tell you what you want to know.?? Monica’s pale face fiushed. “Help me to sit up,?? she said, and when the woman had“arranged the pillows so as to support her, she ate the broth obediently like a good child. “There! there is some little hopes of you now,” said the woman in a satisfied tone, as she replaced the basin upon the tray. ‘Death-and I have had a hard fight for you, young lady. I made up my mind not to be beaten by him, ond Oe that you can eat and talk once more, I aim sure of it. “Where is the dame?’’ asked Monica. you wouid tell meali.”’ ‘‘All that I know,’? replied the woman. as you call her, 1 Know nothing.” “But how eame here?’ asked Mo with me??? ; “Only my master.’ “Who is lie?” “Sir Stephen Powis, Baronet... This is his honse.’? ~ here 7°?) ‘In Bovdon. Yor are now in the old court suburb, on the direct road to Fuliam; if you Know where that is.” Mow notnimg..’ Said Monica, sadly. ‘““Noteven how I ere? My last recollection is of a carriage in? ~ail- ain. The dane Avas.sleeping beside me; and there creat noise and confusivn—tiemts fashing, and men en crying out and'screaming. Then the carriage a tipped, anda gentleman caught my hands as snd told me <¢@ sit still. And then we seemed pwn—down—with an awful crash, and I if I woke up im this room.”? y Mastwe who wag with you that lage. You were insensiblé when -arm was broken and you had con- nh. Sir StephenWas coming direct to fought you with him, to this house, and By care, Thatis allt know about the mat- Where is -the stern “You said that “Of the dame, Iies ida, “Was no one a Db sivaiige that he should have done this, fae Was With me,’’ said: Monica, faintly. “I annot uncwerstaudic, We were going to fizid—that is, we were going to Londo ogether,— How could She let me come here, with Sir Stephen)dnd without Ten “T do not know,” replied the Woman. And inthi spoke a part of the truth, though not all. She did nse know; but she had @ Strong suspiciomof a2 that had taken, place. It was important, however, that this should be kept from Monica; at least Ul she Was stronger, and better able to bear bad news, “J do not know,’ she repeated, as the dark-gray eyes followed her about, with a wistful questioning glance. «But if You spill try and sleep now, and do your best to get well fer a day or two, I will bring Sir Stephen up to see you, and he will tell you where he leftyour friend.” With this promise, Monica was forced to rest content. CHAPTER TY. In the cours@ Ofthe next two weeks Monica gained strength and health so rapidly, that the physician con- sented to tile initerview between her gna’ Sir Stephen Pow- is, WHich should give her the tidings’she longed so earn- estly to hear. Sir Stephen came to her room, where he. found herisit- ting! in an easy Chair, with a, wrapper of soft blue cash- mere, concealing the ravages which sickness had made i her. rounded and elasticform: He shook his head gravely as he took “herhand. “Much as'she’ had improvediin the eyes of her nurse, she was, in his, only the shadow of her former bright and blooming self. ‘My poozr.child, how you must have suffered,’’ he said glancing at her bandaged arm. ‘‘I wish, with all my heart, that I had béen the Gne'to meet with the accident and to bear the’pain, if you cOuibhaye been spared by my doing so.” She glanced up into his grave yaudeome face. The bright ‘blue eyes were full of kindness, bu hey were also full of grief. \ What did that strangely sorrow}, yet strangely tender gaze of his, portend? * ‘Tell me,’? she said breathlessly. ‘‘Tell me all that hap- pened on'that awful night.” “Tt was'a very dangerous curve on the line, around which they went at an increased rate of speed. Am acci- dent there has long been predicted by those who knew the road. It was a fearful one!’ he added with a shudder. “J hopel may never seea sight like that again! Six carri- ages went headlong down the embankment and were crushed together there like egg shells.’’ “Ours among them ?” “Yes. “And there were but three of us. Stephen?” “A little, he said, pointing toa scar across his broad high forehead. “It was rathera bad cut, but it is ealed now, and the scar will soon disappear.”’ «“snd—and—Dame Bateman,” said Monica; in a low voice: It was the question she had been dreading and long- ing to ask, ever since his entrance. His silence answered her, even’ before he spoke. “The woman who was with you? he asked. “Yes. ‘What was she to you? Notarelative!’ “No,?! replied’ Monica, struggling to'be calm. ‘ButI have been undér her care eversince I was eight years oid, She is almost the only friend Lhaveon earth.” Trere was,a long silence, hand. Were you hurt, Sir than) this!” Monica.burst info tears. speak once more, | “When—how wasit?’’ she asked at last. as if she slept.’ “And oh—how long have I been here ? bring me to this house?’’ himself to her. to think quickly, if at all. that you were seriously injured. were in greater danger than you. many years, attended you through the crisis of your ill f. f 39 hat the body o breast-pockét of his coat. . sody of Mrsi Bateman was claimed by her daugh motion, and all the noise Monica, seriously alarmed, at last glanced imploringly across at the stranger, who was looking out of the window They will haye to alter the line yet, or have.an,accident But do not be alarmed. Noidoubt we At that moment there was a violémt concussion, a of rocked violently from side to side, and went crashing Then Sir Stephen took her “My child, she ‘is now your‘friend in a better world Sir Stephen sat béside her, waiting silently till she could “The shock must have killed her instantly. They found her lying under the wreck, looking as calm and tranquil Why did you “What was I to do?’ said Sir Stephen, asif excusing “In the confusion of the accident one had I saw that she was dead, and No one knew anything of either of you, and the physicians summoned to the spot, had all they could attend to, in caring for those who I took counsel with myself, and brought you to my house, as under the same circumstances I would have brought my young sister, Mrs. Caryl, 2 woman who has been in my service for ness. [have ascertained, through the railway authorities He referred here to several letters, which he took from ter Emily, and carried home for burial, as soon as the in- quest was over. The daughter is now residing with her aunt, at some place in the New Forest, whose name is not given. My informant adds that Miss Emily Bateman, or her aunt, suppose you to have been claimed and cared for by your father, Who was also on the train, at the time of the accident. There is evidently some mistake here, The authorities have not mentioned my\Mame to your friends, but if you will give me the properaddress, I will write to them.at once, and send.you to,them, in the charge of Mrs, Caryl; atany time you mame, At the same time let nié assure you that everything, and every person im this house, is entively at your disposal. And | beg that you will reMain under the shelter of my roofas long as you are inclineéd—or, at least, till your health shall be fully and entirely restored.” ! ‘The courtly grace of his manner, as he said this, touch- ed Monica to the hearé, f “Oh, Sir Stephen, [ean never thank you enough for all your kindn@gs,’’ she Said, gratefully. *f shall be glad to stay a little longer, if 1 may, forindeed I do not know where to find Emily-just at present. I-donot even know the name of her aunt. She spoke of ‘Aunt Lisbeth,’ and ‘Uncle Mark,’ but the last name I have never heard. Nor do I know their address in the New Forest. But you, ho doubt, can find it out for me, easily enough, through the ae y people, since they have been corresponding with her,?? “Yes—I could find out the address, if -you really wish it,*? said Sir Stephen, thoughtfully, with his eyes fixed upon the floor. ‘But it seems to me that your father ought first to be consulted. Are you sure that he will wish you to reside in the New Forest, and with these peo- ple?’? Monica crimsoned to the temples. “Sir—J do not know my father.” Sir Stephen looked up at her in mute surprise. “Dame'Bateman was taking me to'sée hint im London,’’ she went. on,.brokenly... ‘‘He.has.never. seen. me since my. birth—sixteen years ago! I do not know his residence— I do not.even know his name!’? “And your mother? Is she living?’ : “No. She died soon after my birth, and left me in Dame Bateman’s care. But I did not go to her-till L was eight years old. I lived somewhere in the country, where it was all green and lovely, beneath great, noble trees, where the deer ran about, and droves of ponies, andof forest pigs were eyerywhere around. Iwas very happy there.’? “But who took care of you in this place??? asked Sir Stephen, with increasing wonder, “Lucille! Pauvre Lucille!’)said the girl, with a purity of accent that was unusual ina native of England. ‘*‘That was what she called: herselfy when she bade me good-by. An old man and woman kept the cottage where we lived, and Lug¢ille often played With me, under the trees, the whole day long. She loved me very much, and said she would come back’to me,,one day. Butit is many years ago, and haye never seen her yet.”’ ‘And was no provision made for you by your father asked Sir Stephen. ‘‘Has he taken no Care of you during all these years? How could he neglect a child so fair and young ?”” “A provision was made. My father’s solicitor paid it regularly to Mrs. Bateman. But oh, I wanted my father’s loye—I longed for my father’s care—and I have never had them!’? said Monica, her soft, gray eyes filling with tears, Sir Stephen was silent. Man of the world as he was, the story began to seem plain to him—plainer than she knew, or she would have shrank back from his look of kindness, and the comforting and encouraging clasp of his hand. He pressed the little hand he held, and looked down upon the pale, sweet face of the girl with a feeling of the tenderest pity. “My dear, do not think ofthat, if it makes you sad,’ he re “One day, you will nfeet your father, no doubt—and then——”’ “How can I meet him, when I do not know his name?’ ~ “You do not bear it then?’ he said, and was shocked and confounded by his inadvertence, when he saw the red blood dye her face and neck. “My dear child, I beg ten thousand pardons,’ he said, earnestly. ‘Forget that question—forget him—forget everything that can pain or wound you. No doubt Mrs. Bateman had some papers that will givea clue to your identity, and restore you to your rights, if you ever wish to claim them. But—if you can content yourself to let them rest in abeyance for a time, then make me happy by sharing my home. I am a man old enough to be your father, as you see; but I Nave no child to make my life hap- py as you might make it, if you only would. What do you Say? Could you-be happy in my home? You shall have allthat yourheart desires, and in return I will only ask of you the affection and the attention a daughter would naturally give me. I live so retired and quiet a life that no scandal can arise from our intimacy. It would be my first care to guard you from any harm like that. At any future time, when you wish to return to your friendsin the New Forest, 1 will find them out for you, and you shall go. But for the present, as you seem thrown by Providence upon my care, stay with me! You Will make me happy by doing so—and happiness andl have been as strangers for many a long and weary year.” His blue eyes looked at her with a wistful, tender glance as he spoke, Oh! if this had been in truthdherfather pliiietoavbom. she owed her being, had but looked at her Wi such @ look—and spoken to her in such a tone! She thanked yn? Was bothgrave and-sad. ° mn “Ah—itjymot Lwho am deme you when she eased to speak, . “it-tsper the favor, as you will see before, you have been with me very long. By the way, we Shall not live here. Weshail gointo the country to an old house of mine where Ll often go when the season is over. Will this suit you?” | “Yes; I like the country far better than the city, Sir Stephen.’? A tiny clock on the mantel-piece rang out the hour. He started ¢ nd struck his repeater to see if it was really So late. “T must go, or Mrs, Caryl will be up here, with a face of severest propriety—ah, here she comes!” The door opened as he spoke, and the nurse entered; her face more stern and pitiless than ever. “Mrs. Cary], do you think our patient can be moved soon down to the Moa8®*? asked’ Sir Stephen, trifling with his watch-chain and Jogking-at the floor, as he spoke. Mrs. Caryiturned deliberately and looked at him. . “Did I understand you rightly, Sir Stephen? Did you say to the Moat?” “Most certainly I did* he replied, impatiently. Yo are going to take fev there, Sir Stephen?’’ * The bareket Jifted his lead with a frown. “His blue eyes looked at her with their coldest, most commanding giance. “Jam geing to take her there, Mrs. Caryl. Where elise should she go, when you and I leave London for the Moat, as we soon must do?” “T did not know but that the young lady might wish to return to her friends, Sir Stephen,’’ said Mrs. Caryl, meekly. Sir Stephen bit his lip. Monica blushed deeply. It was one of those keen, malignant stabs whiclronly a woman can give, and which no man on earth was ever yet able to bear or to parry. “The young lady will stay with us for a short time, Mrs. Caryl,’? ‘said Sir Stephen; at last. “And Dask you, jor the secon@ time, verrember, how soom site will be able to bear the fatigue of the journey?” “She can'go to-morrow, so far as the fatigue is con- cerned, Sir Stephen,” said Mrs. Caryl, who’ knew that it was best to answer ‘warily, when she saw that look and | heard that tone. The baronet turned to Monica with a smile. “J will not be so merciless as that. ‘Butif you feel able to start by the third day from this——”’ “Oh, yes,*? said Moniea, eagerly. “TD feel quite strong and well already, and Ilong to see the glad green coun- try once more.”? “Shall I write, then, to your friends to say that you will remain under my care for the present??? “If you please, Sir Stephen,’? replied .Monicas She was as innocent as a child, and saw no shadow of impro- priety in the plan proposed. If Sir Stephen was wiser, he gave no sign or token of his wisdom. The baronet, regardless of the sour looks of Mrs.. Caryl, vent away to write his letter to the New Forest, fecling sure the while that he was doing everybody concerned a good service, by taking thecharge of Monica entirely off their hands. Meanwhile Monica sat in her easy-chairas he had left her, gazing down, with a look of troubled perplexity, upon the frills of lace that decked her cashmere robe at the neck and wrists. Presently ‘Mrs. Car “Well, miss, said thatlady, who stood apart, watch- ing the gir? from under her black lashes with a shy and malignant look. “JT cannot well ask Sir Stephen—it is such an awkward question.” Can you tell me——” She hesitated again. “Well, missi?’? said Mrs. Caryl with serene composure, Monica’s cheek burned. “J went away from Norwood without my things,’’ she stammered. ‘i do not know what the dame intended, but she took nothing of mine with her, except the things I wore. Whatam I to do forclothes if 1 go to this place —to the Moat? Ought motto write to my friends and get some money, and let you buy-me such things as Imay need ?”? “Oh, miss, you are not to trouble yourself at all about things like that, if you please. Your own clothes were entirely spoiled by the accident—all torn and soiled, and Sir Stephen’ bade me throw them away, and procure others for you. In the nextroom are two great boxes packed full of everything that a young lady can possibly want. You will see them when we get to the Moat. Oh, dear! To think that you are really going there!” : “Why should I not go there?’ repeated Monica, looking at her curiously. ‘Nay, I cannot say, miss. There are secrets in'every old family, and those who eat the bread of those families must not betray them. I only wish, however, that I dared give you one word of warning before you 'go.% You'will need it—once at the Moat: you will need it—upon’ my word you will!” “Give it then,’ said Monica, eagerly. “Swear then that you will keep it from Sir Stephen. Swear that you will never repeat to him what I am now going to say.” ‘Indeed I will not! Monica. The woman came nearer, an to a level with the girl’s. ‘When you go to the Moat take care that you never enter the west wing. And, above all other things, see to it that your foot never. crosses the threshold af the Crimson Room!” ‘ | she spoke. 1,99 ” Upon my honor will not!’? cried ad bent her paie face down (To be continued,) SirStephen for his kind offer, ie he shear p soon, t aaehe could speak. Helistemed her with asm That a Sivor Yor,” he said, fi u Who are granting fh ‘ LOST We A. 8. Cc. The ships they come, and the ships they go, The sails loom up, and thes: ink low, P; ; An@the ocean waves heaye to and fro, Forever in my sight. [sit andwateh the changing sca, That never. bringetha change to me, Till my blinded @yes cam hardly see To count tlieBails aright. One ship has gome that will not come, One sail sunk low that will not loom In the horizon’s misty gloom, Though iwatch foritday and night. The seasons Come, and the seasons go}; In the summer sun, and the winter snow, The waves of the sea heave to and fro, But the gleam of one white sail IT know Will never greet my sight: WHY DID OR THE MISTRESS OF CHUDLEIGH. HEATH. By Annie Ashmore, MARGARET, BEAUTIFUL RIENZI, BISHOP DEBT, ete, (‘Why Did He Marry Her?” was commenced in No. 24. CHAPTER XVII MR. JASPER FAILS. Mr. Jasper’s last duty for the night was to call on Mrs. Schmitz. The white-locked Dane was present, and somewhat im- peded that perfect flow of confidence which the old man liked to keep up between his weak-minded sister-in-law and himself. ‘ Mr. Schmitz expressed himself “Sharmed to meet vid Mistare Bloundt,’’ and repairing to his little harmonium, poured out his soul in rapturous praises of Darling Daisy Dane, whom Mr, Jasper did net care a fig about. How- ever, while the little man chanted Mr. Jasper had his chat out with Alice, and picked up the following items of in- formation: ; She had passed the day With Kate Fitzroy, who was better, but fearfully sullen. ‘‘Wonldn’t open her mind to me at, all, her as was always as [ree as daylight”—as Mrs. Schmitz put it. About one o’clock Mr. Grey had come to see her; im- mediately after Mrs. Lester had left him, it seemed. Mrs, Fitzroy went down to the drawing-room him, vowing vengeance, and looking like murder. Alice tried to stand in the passage and catch what they were saying, but failed to make out one word. 5 When Mrs. Fitzroy returned to Alice she looked like a different woman. \ She was as bright and gay as a bird, and told Alice she wasn’t going to mope any more—thatJames Grey might do what he liked for her, Alice asked her if she hadn't made it up with Grey, and she snapped her fingers in her face, and told her to go and find out. ’ : Mrs. Schmitz was affronted, and refused to have any- thing more to say to Kate Fitzroy or the likes of-her. : Mr. Jasper was mightily interested in these. domestic to see ing under this unaccustomed tribute to her cleverness, Mr. Schmitz brought a checker-board and made her sit down to.a game with him. Alice incessantly poking her men in the enemy’s quarters, and the heroic Harold constantly seizing them avith noisy triumph, spite of his bride’s helpless looks of dismay. =~ “Mr. James Grey haS made some new promise to Mrs. Fitzroy,’ growled Mr. Jasper, as he tridged homeward— “does he intend to poison Kose when his schéme has sue- ceeded? Ah, my man, you must look sharpif you want to escape Jasper Blount!” , He was in the station-house next morning, in time for the first London train, and hiding in the crowd, saw Mr. Grey’s carriage come down, with Mr, Grey in it, and, alas! Rose beside him. So Mr. Jasper was fain to get into the next car, and trundle down to London with them. a