EFFIE A.. ROWLANDS’

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A VISION OF THE SHORE,

BY NATHAN D. URNER.
I stood on the shore at daybreak,
While the gulls were cuffing the fog,
And marked on the beach advancing
An ancient man and his dog;
A pilgrim, sallow and wrinkled,
Who bore in his trembling hands
A sack and spade, and who often bent
To search the ribbed sea sands.
I leaned on a fragment of shipwreck,
And studied him o’er and o’er,
And mused to myself: ‘What mission
Hath summoned him to the shore?
Humble his mien and raiment,
He seems to have come from far,
His locks are white as the salt sea foam
That fringes the outer bar.
“*Seeks he some waif of the tempest,
Some precious spoil of the waves,
Some treasure concealed by corsairs
Long since in their secret caves?
Or seeks he the corse beloved
Of fisher or mariner drowned
Which the weeping waves on the beach
have laid,
And with chaplets of seaweed crowned?
**Or, perchance, in grief he wanders,
With spirit and mind distraught,
O’erburdened with life’s disasters
And purposes turned to naught.
I will speak to him softly and kindly,
When nearer he draws to me.’’
So, now: “‘All hail, pale wanderer!
Why lingerest thou by the sea?
GA.
“Dost chant to the wild waves’ rhythm?
Dost -préach or pray on the sands?
Or searchest for long lost treasure,
Not buried by human hands?”
he wanderer eyed me sadly,
With sorrowful glance and mien,
While his dog slunk back with tail adroop
Between his haunches lean.
ea
He wiped from his eye a teardrop,
He wiped a drop from his nose,
While shrilly over the breakers’ roar
His hateful answer rose:
**! ben’t a-prayin’ or preachin’,
I ben’t a-singin’ no psalms,
If so be as how it consarns ye, sur,
I’m a-diggin’ o’ soft-shell clams.”

Vivienne glided silently into the room.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

HE STAIN OF GUILT

By CHARLES W, HATHAWAY,

Author of ‘‘ Marjorie’s Sweetheart,’ ‘‘ The Inheritance of Shame,’’
Dane’s Diplomacy,’’

(“THE STAIN OF GUILT’ was commenced in No, 1.

CHAPTER

HIS MASTER.

XI.

THE MAN AND
as death, Vivienne gasped and |
looked at Fairfax Tarrant. Rapidly and noise- |
lessly he turned the key in the lock and signaled |}
to Vivienne to say ‘‘Come in.”’

A servant entered. }

‘“‘A man wishes to you,’’. he explained. ‘‘He
says his name Mr. Bronson. I told him you
were engaged, but he said that he had an appoint-
ment with you !’’

“Send him here.’’ It was Tarrant who spoke,
and he tactfully moved in front of Vivienne, to |
hide. her from the too curious eyes of the servant. |

‘“All is lost, we are too late,’’ Vivienne cried.

“On the contrary, we are in time, and your
brother will be saved,’’ replied Tarrant, encourag-
ingly. “It’s barely half-past five. Burt Bronson
must have left the track directly after the race
and come straight here. He will have done noth-
ing. Leave him to me.”’

“T will. How good you are,: how strong.’

“Love makes me strong—leave all to me,
ways, Vivienne.”

And not knowing
what he meant, she

“Yes, I will leave all you, always.’’

“But Bronson*must not find you here,’”’
tinued. “Go to your room, and stay there until I
send for you. Go quickly!”

He led her trembling to the hall, again pressed
his lips to her hands, and then returned to the
boudoir, and waited for Burt Bronson.

The man presently entered the room with a hur-
ried step; but the angry words that trembled on
his tongue were never spoken, for he saw Fairfax
Tarrant, and not Vivienne Vanderveer, standing |
before him.

“You!
mered.

“Waiting to settle my
Bronson. Before you leave
to tell me why Mr. Dooley
you've got to pay my loss
that?”

For a moment the
stared at Tarrant in surprise.

“T’ve come to ‘settle,’’ he replied, doggedly ;
settle with Miss Vanderveer; she’s
both, and she’ll have to pay us
she?’’

“Miss Vandeérveer has nothing
matter, nothing to do with me.

Growing white

see

is

she said, not realizing
amid her sobs:

what
replied

to

What are you doing here?’ he stam-

account with you, Burt
this room you’ve
didn’t win to-day, and

Do you

humbugged us
both. Where is

the
had twen-

to do with
You’ve

; got

} give me the

al- |

| I’d have acted square, but she ain’t, so
he cone |

| quietly.
j;not a

| do
| Vivienne
| got
got |

racing tout was staggered; he |

“to

| tempting blackmail.
ito speak.
; you
j}and the
| think

ty-five thousand dollars of my money, and I want |

that back, since you’ve been fool enough to fail,
or———”’

“Or what——’”’

“Or I ring this bell and inform Hiram Vander-
veer that you stole the key of his stable in order
to try to dope his horse. The stable hands will
thrash you within an inch of your life, and then
hand you over to the police!”

 

: ‘Joseph

ete.

Back numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers,)

With a horrible
Tarrant with

Burt Bronson’s face grew livid.
exclamation, he strode toward
clinchéd fists.

Without moving a muscle the latter lightly laid
his hand on the electric bell, and smiling, said
sweetly :

“Shall I ring?

Bronson drew back on

“Don’t be in a hurry,”

9.7

the instant.

he said, quickly; ‘“‘let’s
know what your game is! I don’t see what you’ve
to make a fuss about. It’s me that’s been
cheated, and robbed, and humbugged, not you!”

Tarrant removed his hand from the bell, and
sank into an easy-chair.

“Oh, you’ve been cheated
you,”’ he replied, cynically. “By whom?’’

“By Miss Vanderveer. Didn’t she promise to
key of Liberty Bell’s stable; didn’t I
tell you how cleverly I’d managed it? She gave
me a key right enough, but riot the key. She'd
given ’em the tip, and they changed the hosses or
something or other, and she’ll have to pay for it,
Ps EERE
“Or——”’

“Well, never you mind; but I know what I
know, and that’s good enough to get all the money
back that we’ve lost and a bit more. I don’t want
to be hard on a woman, and if she’d acted square
she’ll have

and robbed, have

to pay,’
“Oh, no, she won’t,’’ said Fairfax Tarrant,
“She won’t pay a red cent, do you hear,
red cent.”’

“Then I’]]———~’

“You'll do nothing! You'll obey me, unless you
want to spend five years in jail for blackmail, and
five for stealing into private stables with intent to

|}commit felony, unless you want to be utterly and

You're in
sah.

finally ruined.
“In your power!
you think?’ he
had given
the stable
Vanderveer’s

my power!”’

How did I get this key,
eried, holding out the key
him. ‘How do you think I

last night? With the help of
daughter; she gave me the

into
Hiram

| key, she agreed that Liberty Bell.should be lamed,
understand |

and so did you; you’re init, don’t forget that, and
if I’m ruined and imprisoned, you’ll be ruined and
imprisoned, too.”’

“Silence! Now listen to me; you stole the key,
you attempted to lame Liberty Bell, and you’re at-
Hush!’’ as Bronson attempted
have plenty of proof, and if I say
fave done this, if Miss Vanderveer says so,
stable hands say so, what chance do you
you stand with the law, eh? Who’s going
to believe you, a broken-down, lying, poaching,
racing tout !’’

Burt Bronson laughed scornfully.

“Tf it eomes to a fight;,.Mr. Tarrant, I’ve some-
thing up my sleeve that will knock you out in no
time. Miss Vanderveer is just a-going to do what-
»ver I tell her, so is all this ’ere household; I can
be master here if I choose, do you hear,’ he con-

“ey

| tinued, raising his voice, ‘‘Master!’’

 

Bronson sprang to his feet when he saw her.

Tarrant stifled

“You’re a fool, Bronson, because you’re pitting
your brains against mine. Do you think I don’t
know all you know, and a good deal more? But
this discussion is getting wearisome, and it must
end. Now, unless you do absolutely as I bid you,
I’ll have you arrested; there are a good many lit-
tle secrets of yours I know, which, added to. your
latest achievements, won’t sound pleasant when
told in plain English to a courtrcom, and you know
what 4 reputation Jersey has for speedy justice!’

Burt Bronson shrugged his shoulders, and
walked to the door.

“Here, unlock this!”

“Certainly !

a yawn.

}
Tarrant lounged across the room, and fitted the

key to the lock.

“Tf you think you’re going to frighten Miss Van-
derveer by threatening to accuse her brother of
murdering Jake Carton, you are mistaken. I’ve
been aware of the game you played, all along;
and while it did no harm, and served my purpose,
I didn’t object. But you’ve failed, so. you’ve got
to clear out. It’s a dangerous thing to accuse a
man of murder, especially when you haven't
proof!’

Burt Bronson’s manner changed; he slowly re-
treated from the door, gazing at Tarrant with awe
and surprise, while his face grew pale.

“I have proof,’ he cried, haltingly.
proof !’’

Something in
struck Tarrant. He
then determined on a
the door, he cried:

“Then go and use your proof! But I don’t think
it will be Roderic Vanderyeer who will be pun-
ished for the murder of Jake Carton !’’

But Bronson did not move.

His jaw dropped, his face changed from pale to
white, and his arms fell limply by his side.

“What do you mean—what do you know
the murder of Jake Carton?’ he whispered,
ously.

Tarrant wondered how much he did really know,
and how much he guessed! But his bluff had suc-
ceeded, better even than he thought it would;
Bronson’s change of manner and startled reply
suggested the probability that after all
hadn’t actually murdered Carton!

Doubtless was partly responsible for the
man’s death, possibly he had employed some des-
peradoes to do the deed, and then, terrified, fled
from home, leaving Bronson to successfully black-

ss

his voice, his

moment

manner, his
hesitated a

bold stroke.

only,

about
nerv-

he

nail—Bronson perhaps one of the murderers him- |

self, why not?

‘What do I know?’’
and choosing his words carefully. -‘‘In the first
place I know where you were on the night of the
murder!” This was a lie, but a successful one;
Bronson’s face worked convulsively. “I know who
your companions were.” Again Tarrant paused. to
mark the effect of his words.

He was still on the right track; blind chance
was leading him the@right way, and fate was beck-
oning him on.

““And,’’ he continued, ‘‘since you saw Mr. Rod-
eric on the night of the murder, you must not for-
get that he also saw you——and your companions.”

This last shot was a dangerous one, but it found
its mark.

Bronson sank into a chair, and buried his
in his hands; he could not bear the steady
of Tarrant’s cold and cruel eyes.

The latter sighed contentedly, and lit a cigarette.

“T let you play your clumsy game of blackmail
because it was in my interest to do so. But hence-
forth you stop, understand that. I may find it
convenient to still let Miss Vanderveer believe that
her brother killed Jake Carton, but by you the
murder will never again be mentioned to a single
soul !”’

“Never, never !’’

“Tf you do you can guess the result—which is
more than I can,’’ Tarrant added to himself
grimly; making a mental note that later on he
would learn the whole truth from Bronson, if not
by tact and bluff, then by force.

“You’re a hard man,” said Bronson, after a long
silence, raising his head and looking at Tarrant

face
gaze

 

have |
face, |

Flinging open |
j}and your eyes open!”

Roderic

he repeated slowly, picking |

 

e)

’

with bloodshot eyes. ‘‘A mighty hard man; I’ve
worked for you, lied, cheated, risked my neck for
you, and this is all I get out of it!”

“You failed!” chuckled Tarrant, as he rentem-
bered the cause of his failure. ‘‘And any one who
fails in my service is useless to me.

“fT expect soon to be the master of this house,” |

he continued, “‘and all its vast estates, and when I
am you will be allowed to inhabit
farms, rent free, and perhaps train
horses; that is to say,
mouth always shut, and your ears and eyes always
open.

“T’d rather have a bit of money,
of America,’’ Bronson murmured.

“And I’d rather keep you by my side,”
said under his breath. Aloud he replied:

“We will see. I’m going to send for Miss Van-
derveer now, and you must apologize to her, and
tell her that you know nothing whatever about
Carton’s murder, and that you’ll never speak of it
or of her brother to any one again, so long as you
live.’’

He touched the electric

“Don’t send for her,”

some of my

and get out

Tarrant

bell,

implored Bronson. ‘ok
don’t want to see her! I wouldn’t have done her
harm, neither her nor her brother, I swear I
wouldn’t. I’d never have had dealings with her at
all, but it was the only way if Liberty Bell wasn’t

to win, and I knew if Liberty Bell did win you'd |

hard to settle with.’’

‘‘Well, Liberty Bell has
off very lightly.
now, you obey me, and you keep your mouth shut

be

won, and you’ve come

Vivienne glided silently into the room; she
looked like a ghostly vision in the fading twilight.
Bronson sprang to feet when he her,
pulling a large handkerchief from
fingered it nervously and awkwardly.

“Mr. Bronson has come to apologize to you, Miss

11S Saw

his

Vanderveer, for his foolish attempt at blackmail a |
to
told have not been repeated |

few days ago; he wishes to retract all he said,
assure you the lies he
to a single soul and
3ronson ?’’

The man’s face was as
white he turned his back
at her, speaking huskily.

“That is so, miss. I—I’m

never will be. Isn’t that so,

red as Vivienne’s
on Tarrant and

was
looked

real sorry—I never

really intended to do you or yours any harm, and, |
jas to lies, they weren’t

altogether lies; but
ever I said I’ve forgotten already, and I'll
say again so long as I live, so help me!”

“That’s enough, you can go!’’

But the man did not move, he stood staring at
Vivienne if suddenly hypnotized by her pres-
ence. And she looked at him, fear changing
surprise, and surprise to a strange mixture
seorn tempered with pity.

“Thank you,’ she said simply

And Burt Bronson went away
voice still sounding in his ears.

what-
never

as
of

“‘T believe you.”’
with the

CHAPTER

“WITHOUT

‘XII
OV ei

“YT have done as I promised,” said Fairfax Tar-
rant when the door had closed upon Burt Bronson.
‘Roderic is quite safe; your secret is safe. You
have nothing and no one to fear now!”

Overwrought, overstrung, Vivienne
toward him and seized his hands.

“God bless you,’’ she cried, ‘‘My protector,
savior!” ;

Exultingly he drew her to his breast, while
blood danced in his veins, and his eyes flashed
ultingly and victoriously.

“Oh, I have done nothing,’’: he cried, as she lay
half fainting in his arms, ‘‘nothing to what I will
do for you. That is such a little task, such an
asy way of proving my devotion; ask of me
something greater, some sacrifice.’’

“You have done for me what no one else in the
world could have done, what no one else would
have done,’’ she whispered.

Her breath was on his cheek, her hair swept his
face, her heart beat against his heart, and her
breast rose and fell with his breathing.

my

the
ex-

f “What ean I say; what can.ft

one of the}

so long as you keep your}

But remember, you’re my servant }

and |
pocket, |

to |

sweet |

tottered |

He lost control of himself, he let the reins of his
will power slip, his feelings at full flood swept
him off his mental balance, and drowned reasoned
in the whirlpool of victory.

“For years I have longed to serve you, and you
never knew it; for months I have waited and
watched, hungering for an opportunity to show you
I was your friend Es

““‘My friend always

“Ay, your friend, Vivienne, and more than your
friend !”’

“Yes, my brother, too, for you have saved a
brother !”’

“Friend and brother, and yet more than either;
friendship has a limit, brotherhood has a bound-
ary, but my love for you has no limit, my devo-
tion no boundary. I am not an ordinary man,
and my love is not an ordinary love, and if you
will become my wife, our marriage will not be an
ordinary marriage——”’

“Your wife !’’

Slowly his torrent of brought meaning

;

words 2
to her brain; gradually like a new terror i
dawned upon her that Fairfax Tarrant was con
fessing his love for her, asking—nay, it seeme
demanding—that she should become his wife!

She put out her hands and tried to press him
away, but her strength had gone, while his had
increased tenfold. He did not feel her feeble
struggle to be free.

“Yes, my wife. With you beside me I can con-
quer the world and rule men; with you beside me
there will be no limit to my ambitions; and you
shall be my queen, envied of all women; admired
by all men, but mine alone, mine, mine, mine!’’
“Let me go,’ she wailed. “T don’t love you;
me go, you are hurting me!’’

“But you shall love me! I will teach you to
love me; I cannot let you go, I cannot give you
up; already fate has joined us together; we share
a common sorrow, a common secret; a secret that
is a bond between us as sacred as a marriage
How can we go henceforth our separate n
life, each hiding and cherishing in his heart the
memory of a ghastly sin? No, no, we are
fate has willed. it so, you cannot escape me!”

“T cannot love you,’’ she moaned.

“You shall love me,” he cried between his teeth.
“Wait until we are married, then love will come
love will come.’’

‘‘Never—long since I gave my heart———’

“You thought you did! And to whom?
drew Graham! ~Where is he now, now in the ho
of your distress; why is he not by your 0
help and comfort you? Because he sneaked home
to prepare a sermon on the eyils of betting and the
sins of horse racing !’’

let

side t

aon”

“Leave yourself in hands; giv® yourself to
me! You trusted me once, not six hours ago, and
I did not fail you; trust me henceforth forever !’’

“But love, love! What is life without love?”

“What would ‘love have been without your
brother ?”’

“‘“Give me time—a month, a week,

“T must have your answer now !”’

“Then let me go, unloose your
time to think!’

Unwillingly he freed her, and she threw herself
down on the couch, hiding her face in the cush

And Tarrant above her with bloodshot
eyes, watching and waiting.

It was quite dark in the

Slowly the minutes passed.
raised her head and spoke:

“Tf I refuse———”

“Tf you refuse, I

my

arms—give me

ions.
stood

room
At

now.
length

Vivienne

shall go away; I shall walk
through life with a secret in my heart that be-
longs to you; I shall look at your brother, and
know that daily he goes in fear of his life I shall
look at your father, and watch him growing older
with the weight of his sorrow, bending nearer to
\his grave, fearing to leave a dishonored name
hind him. You will never marry,
| brother. But if you accept me, when
my wife, I will put both father’s
| fears. at rest, and all will be
Vivienne; will you marry me,
ness, find happiness yourself?’

“God help me, I must do my duty.
marry you—but I cannot love you.”’

It was enough for Fairfax Tarrant,
| away feeling that he had won.

Next morning he arose early. Time was
and every minute was precious. He sent off some
telegrams and then rode over to Vanderveer Park
| He did not wish to see Vivienne; indeed, his in-
tention was, if possible, to avoid meeting her, for
| he knew the wisdom of leaving her quite alone for

a day or two to recover from the strain had
undergone, and to allow her to realize her position.

His business was with her father, Hiram Van-
derveer.

Ten minutes passed before the millionaire en-

tered the room; he walked slowly; he looked worn
and tired, and regarded his visitor nervously.
i “Good-morning, Tarrant,’’ he said, with at-
| tempted cheerfulness. ‘‘You are an early visitor.
| I trust your business is not of—er—serious im-
| portance.”

“Tt serious, and it is*important,’’ Tarrant re-
plied with the languid air he assumed when he
wanted to read other people’s thoughts and impress
them with his own power. ‘“But I trust it will
give you pleasure nevertheless.

The look of alarm which had crossed Mr. Van-
derveer’s face at the first words gave place to an
| expression of relief. He forced a laugh.

“That’s good. Come, what is it, what
| for you?”

“Give me your daughter’s ha
The old man started to hi
i “My daughter—your i
| “No, I fear that is impos

‘*T hope not, indeed, I
plied coolly.

“There are many reast why she «
| you; many that I cannot explain.”
“Rest assured, my dear sir, that I know them
fall, and my knowledge is the reason wl
should—and shall—-become my wife!”
| Mr. Vanderveer sank. into his chair aga
|} stared blankly at his audacious visitor.

“What do you mean? What knowledge
possess that gives you the right to speak
| way ?”’

First walking to the door to see th:
| heard the conversation, Fairfax Tarrant
| concise words told Mr. anderveer what
| pened the previous day, h Vivienne had
betrayed her secret, he had
her, and eventually she had
brother’s murder,. Burt Bronson’
danger that existed owing the
horse, Liberty Bell.

“J told her I could save her
|} the secret safely away. I have
see, and, I hope, the honor house and
j}mame. Need I say that I did the knowl-
edge and power I possessed to induce your daught
to become my wife? I have loved her a long time;
at moments of great em¢ our ion run
j}away with us, our hearts speak ere
|of it; such was the case yesterday.
|my love, Vivenne accepted me as h
band; we are, with your
| litely, almost too politely,
mast three weeks, say the

nor

once you

and brother’s
So, chor

giving happi-

se,

and
Yes,
and he went

flying

she

is
”

ean I de

in marriage!”

fe,’’ he cried,

e, brokenly.
ible.”
think not,’’ Tarrant re-

annot ma

iv

in,

none

pal
guarded
conte
threat,
to vi
brother,
aved
of your

not use

and locl

Roderic, you

tion pa

we

consent,’’ he
be married in al
seventh of November !’’

“to

CHAPTER

OF

XIII,

THE BEND AN OLD MAN’S HOPES.

Hiram Vanderveer did not speak; he sat quite
still, staring across the room. Before his eyes,
dim with the weight of years, flitted ghosts of the
past, the ghost of his lost wife, so like the daugh-
ter he was about to lose.

She seemed to look at him reproachfully, her
cheeks were wet with tears, beside her walked the
ghost of a murdered man, Jake Carton, and last of
all came the murderer, his son!

He sprang to his feet.

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. .

 

boy, my boy!
e ied, with outstretched
“Your son is not here!”
A heavy hand rested on hi
voice continued:
“He is hiding in New
ys ago; I will bring
mn married.”
Che old
the vision
“Bring him
ri him

arms.

shoulder, and a cold

Torke; I met him a few
back to you—-the day

covered face with his hands,

departed.

man
back, Tarrant,’’ he said, weakly;
back safely, and take care of my
They are all that are left me, my two

lren; in them lie all my hopes, all my dreams;
in Vivienne, my wife—her mother—lives again; in
Roderic, I see myself; only a better, nobler self;’
a touch of the old pride and strength lingered in
his voice, “Save him, protect her:’’ The words
faltered away. to whisper.

“Your daughter will be. quite safe when she is
my wife, and your son shall receive every consider-
ation at my hands,’’ Tarrant replied. ‘Will you
be good enough to make an appointment for your
lawyer to meet mine without delay, so that a mar-
riage settlement may be drawn up? Of course, in
the event of Roderic not marrying—and I am sure
his honor will prevent him doing so great a wrong
to any woman as offering her the hand of a mur-
derer-—-—’”’

Hiram Vanderveer groaned,
testing hand; but Tarrant was merciless.

“As he can never marry, and so must die with-
out issue, you will, of course; leave the whole of
your and personal estate to your daughter, or
rather to me in trust for her.’

Tears arose in the old man’s eyes as he saw his
dreams fade forever away, his ambitions scattered,
and killed. He bowed his head; there was
no ¢ y»e—his daughter could only’ be saved by
his s¢ death!

The price was too great;
struggle, a hopeless appeal.

“Fairfax Tarrant,. you. are an ambitious man; I
know gold is the god that rules you; wealth and
power will give you happiness. They have become
nothing to me; you are young, on the threshold
of life; I am very old now, and on the brink
of the. grave. I me go down to my last sleep in
peace. Take my land, take my money, take all I
pos but leave me my children and my house-
hold goods.”’

Tarrant sighed, and pulled out his watch.

“T fear my time is short, and I have business
to attend to in the city. May I tell my: lawyer that
he may write yours for an appointment?”

Mr. Vanderveer’s head fell forward, he clu
the arms of the great chair he sat in, and w
hopeless, lifeless voice murmured, brokenly:

‘Ves 1’

Smiling;

and raised a pro-

h
}

but he made a final

Ol

ld,
i€t

ched
th a

+
t
j

Tarrant took his hat and and
without another word left the room.

When reached New York he had a long in-
terview with his attorney, then he called on Minnie
Moulin.

He wanted the actress to help him find Roderic
Vanderveer, but he feared she would hardly be in
a good humor; the defeat of Mr. Dooley had proba-
bly hit her rather hard, and she might be an-
noyed when he told her he was engaged to be
married.

‘And I shall have to tell her,’ he mused, “‘for
when she has found young Vanderveer she’ll be of
no further use to me, unless it’ be to keep an eye
on the young fellow. And the girl, Maud Car-
ton! I wonder what’s happened to the girl?”

Minnie did not keep him waiting long, that is
to say, not very long for a woman who was. array-
ing herself in a new dress. She looked un-
usually graceful, unusually beautiful; her gown,
if rich, was very simple, cut artistically to suit a
perfect figure; she wore one small string of pearls
around her neck, no other jewels anywhere, and
her hair was dressed low on the neck.

Tarrant raised his eyebrows—-he had ‘forgotten
how beautiful she could look, and’ he» wondered
whether she had dressed to please him or herself
—or some one else:!

“Well, my friend, what do you want with me?”
she asked, lightly, dropping into a chair and
crossing a pair of daintily-shod feet.

‘‘Well, the fact is,’’ he said with a feigned laugh,
“T just dropped in to sympathize and be sympa- |
thized with.’ |

“Oh! you mean over that betting scheme?”

“That's it. Burt Bronson told me surely he
could fix it so that the horse with the eccentric
name of Mr. Dooley might win the Suburban Han-
dicap.’’

“Yes, and as it happened, Mr. Dooley was beat-
en,’ she put in, icily.

‘“There’s no denying that; but believe me,
are not the’ only I, too, .put faith
Bronson and I’ve been mighty hard hit myself.’’

“You! Pooh!’ Minnie Moulin caught up a
fan and began to play with it idly. ‘You never
lose, my friend; you are too fond of yourself and
your money} you came out all right, I know, and
left your friends to pay the piper, eh?”

“How do you‘know I came out all right?” Tar-
rant asked, angrily.

The woman laughed.

“I didn’t know, I only guessed it, and you see I
guessed aright !”’

“TI grew suspicious
and hedged.
be angry.”’
“How .good of you !”’
Tarrant arose and walked
“IT came to tell you some: news;

want your congratulations.”’
Minnie yawned.
“Certainly; what am_I to congratulate you on—
an arrival, a union, ora long-looked-for departure?
Who has remembered ‘you in his will?”

“T’m going to be married on November the sey-
enth !’’

He waited, still facing the window, expecting
an exclamation of surprise or annoyance, but none
came, the silence at length being broken by an-
other long-drawn yawn!

He turned irritably; he began to feel that Min-
nie Moulin was: secretly laughing at him.

“Well, why don’t you say something?’’
manded.

“You have mot told me the name of the lucky
girl! Ah, how I envy her!”

Tarrant bit his lip.

“Miss Vanderveer her name. Miss Vivienne
Vanderveer, daughter of Hiram, of that name.”’

“Vanderveer? Ah, a daughter of the million-
aire who lives down in New Jersey somewhere?
Hiram Vanderveer? Hum! Owner of horse called
Liberty Bell. Now I know why Mr. Dooley didn’t
win the Suburban. You were quite right to hedge,
my friend; always hedge when there’s a woman in
the case.”

“T’m glad you know you
want of something better to y.
“Oh, yes, I know my sex, my delightful silly: sex ;
half of us are butterflies, poor, pretty things of the
day who fiy where the sunshine and the flowers
are, who’re chased by men with a silken net, cap-
tured sometimes, and either stuck in a glass case
labeled ‘Please don’t touch,’ or else pulled to pieces
and thrown away. I suppose Miss Vivienne isn’t

sutterfly ; she belongs to the other half; poor,

brown owls who sit in the woods all day—
waitine—waiting, for something that never comes !

; I know my sex—and yours!”

“Your mood to-day is a peculiar one!”

“I’m sorry, so sorry! Come, tell me how you

rsuaded Miss Vanderveer to consent to marry

cane,

he

you
in

suirerer,.

last moment and—

I hedged for you, too, so you needn’t

the

to the window.
” he Said slowly;
“y

he de-|

is

he sneered, for

yeople fall in love they generally marry,

hed.

laug
meaning of the

think ;
in love
ve made sure
son, this boy

han you

a

; Up

} you and I, you and I winning wealth and

| beyond all others, over all others?”

| She sat upright, and leaned toward him until!
her face touched his, and she looked into his face

| with her large, luminous eyes full of fire and that

power

for again and again.

“Yes, you are right; I’m tired of the theatre
and the applause and the fools who praise me!
I'm getting bored, I want a change, I want excite-
ment, I want more wealth, more power, more life!
Tell me your great game, and if there’s a
of money and a man’s soul in it, be sure I can help
you win. Tell me!”
| Fairfax Tarrant locked
|. some onds, and she bore
| terested smile.

“Is a woman to be trusted?’ he asked, cynically.

“Ah, if you. ask me that questibn my answer is
no! Trust no one, least of all a woman, or your-
self !’’

“But. I.thought you wanted to hear my plot, to
join with me and help me?”

Minnie laughed merrily.

“Tt don’t mind hearing you, I don’t mind joining
you, but I want to help—-myself. You are not so
simple as to think I would serve you, and perhaps.
not without danger, without securing some substan-
tial benefit for myself?’’
Tarrant chose a cigar from his case and slowly
it.

It was a happy inspiration of his to join forces
with this clever, reckless woman; she could be of
inestimable value to him in all his sehemes, par--|
ticularly at the present moment. And, he de-
cided, he could trust her,

Yes, he could trust Minnie, especially: when
dazzled her with the brilliamt future’ that lay
fore him, and .the
that awaited her.

3ut he would be careful not to tell her too much
at first, not until had gone too far in the
game to stop playing or to alter her mind. :

He, puffed meditatively at his cigar for a few}
moments, apparently gazing into space, but in real- |
ity watehing the woman out of the corners of his |}
eyes, and unconsciously being influemced by her
face; her wild, rare beauty possessed a fascination |
which at times no one could withstand. It af-
fected men, and even women, of all classes and all
temperaments, like a bar of’ stirring music, or a
wonderful, land and seascape of nature painted in
her wildest or softest moods.

No human being ever goes through life with-
out once consciously, perhaps unconsciously, being
influenced by a strain of music, or a sunset among
the mountains, or a sunrise on the waste of waters.
So, no one had ever looked long on the actress
without finding himself stramgely stirred.

And; as Fairfax Tarrant congratulated himself
on his sagacity, and metaphorically winked at his
conscience, he was slowly coming under the power
of Minnie Moulin’s magnetism.

“I told you that I was engaged toe be: married!”
he whispered, edging closer to her, and keeping his
eyes on her face.

She nodded.

“To the only daughter of Millionaire Vanderveer,
one of the wealthiest men in» America... On his
death the son and daughter divide the estate, and
the money between them. That is to say, when I
ami’ Vivienne’s husband; I shall possess half, Rod-
eric the other half. I want the whole!’’

“Of course !”

“T intend to have the: whole! Hiram is an: old-
fashioned fogey who likes to see cornfields and
meadow land where mills, and mines, and railroads
should be. I will build the mills and dig the
mines, and opem up the railroads; I will raze the
forests to the ground and turn the timber into
money, the earth and what lies under the earth
into money, the rivers and their restless forces
into money! |

“For money rules the world, Minnie; and I will
rule the world—we will rule the world! I am
going to be a king, and, if you help me, you shall
be my queen!”

“And what
lightly.

“She will obey me, she will be one of the step-
ping-stones by which I climb to greatness! The
first thing to be done is to get young Roderic out
of the. way.”

Minnie. smiled.
“That is. my first move in the game!’’
Tarrant laughed grimly.
“Yes, and an easy one, a delightful one, He is
young, innocent, and _ foolish. He has already
alienated himself from his family, run away from
home, in fact. You must find him, Minnie; I'll
help you to do that; make him’ fall in love with
you—he’ll be quite a novice at the game, and
afford you. infinite amusement. Drain him of
money, lead him into the wildest kind of dissina-
tion, then leave him—-New York will do the rest.
He fancied himself in love with Maud Carton,.tha
Gaughter of the gamekeeper at Vanderveer Park.
Probably she’ll have nothing to do with him now,
so he’ll the more easily turn to you.”’
“The gamekeeper’s daughter at Vanderveer
Park?’ Minnie repeated, puckering her brows.
“Surely I read something about a murder, didn’t
I—the keeper was murdered a week or two ago?’
Tarrant nodded:
“By whom ?’’
“T don’t know! It’s. quite possible that the
young fellow was mixed up in it; if he confesses
anything to you, be very careful to) keep it quiet,
but tell me at once. Now, as to finding the young
fool, that’s. the only difficulty. I’ve telegraphed to
a firm of detectives to send me: a good man to- |
night, and I hope he’ll run him to ground pretty |
quickly. When we’ve found him we'll keep him in |
town.”’ |
Minnie laughed. |
“T hope he’s good-looking !’’
“Very,’’ yawned Tarrant. “But you must be
very careful not to alarm him; play the sympa-
thetic sister game, you know.’’
“T know, but I object to detectives being mixed
in the business; they’re dull but dangerous,
they do everything but their duty, and find out
everything but the one important thing. Leave all
to me, I’ll find the boy.’’
‘Perhaps you’re right,’’ said Tarrant, medita-
tively. ‘“‘By Jove! I believe you are right; but
how on earth will you be able to: discover where
Roderie Vanderveer is hiding?”
The woman showed her, white teeth in a: smile.
“New York is a small place holding many peo-
ple; they hover around the brightest light like
moths. Send me a photo of the- boy so that when
I hold my candle up in the darkness: of the city:
for the moths to gather around I may recognize
him.”’

Tarrant arose.

“Right you are; find him before the seventh of
November, that’s all, and send me a telegram: |

7
i

steadily at Minnie for
his scrutiny with an in-

lit

ES
z : : }
excitement and big enterprise |

=}
sne

 

will Vivienne do?’’ Minnie asked,

 

when you’ve discovered his whereabouts. To-mor-
row. I’m going back to Vanderveer Park to. see my-}
bride-elect ; I have much to do between now and my
wedding day, so au revoir.”

“Au revoir, great schemer.”’

She saw him to the door, then threw herself on
the couch and laughed quietly.

“Oh, you men!” she cried aloud... “‘You lords of
creation; how wise you are and. how great your
reason! Yet how easily a weak woman: can make
you pay for the music you desire her to play;
while she chooses the tune that sets yow dancing !”’

TO BE. CONTINUED.

 

TUCKER’S STEAM PUMP.

BY MAX ADELER.

 

to have Roderic, wasn’t |
and irritation
she read him |
he realized that |
not to make her}
|

he}

Tarrant di
e felt at her
rather too clear
> must be more

I came

trying

away

upset.

home,
I wish

has—er—

people are rather

;| pump upon the bilge water

come to

io I
| idly in the hold, and the captain sent some men

the boy was

was staying with you,” s

send him
1 the way
n Jersey?

sw

be rather ir
t estate ji

at Minnie Moulin.
woman than he had
mistake if she took
to stand in his paths;

ant shot a swift
Certainly > was a cleve
thought. would pe a f
it into her head to tight
and women were ; she pretended to’ scorn
wealth and power, y knew she could never live
without m y, and applause, and popularity; per-
haps she was ambitious, too:
She was an adventuress, she» knew the world;
she cared as little for men’s hearts and souls as he,
perhaps. She could help him, help him
greatly, or, if the whim seized her, she could
prove a serious obstacle to his ambition.
He down beside her.

sate

him,

it
Vy

less

sat

“Are you inclined for an exciting game with a
spice of risk in it?’? he whispered.

“What, another Mr. Dooley fiasco! Oh,
thanks !’’

“Bah! a fool spoiled that! No, this is some-
thing great, something exciting, something out’ of
the common. You want some new excitement; you
want something great and dangerous. Come,

no,

‘
:

la
i
©

| steamer, which we will call the Wate
| when everything was ready the ship

| a voyage.

| and the ma

home to his |

}
|
I’ suppose he took fright'|
|
:

Some years ago a-‘man named Tucker invented a}
eam pump for use on shipboard. He elaimed for |
that it would pump about three times as many
gallons inva minute any other pump, and he got
some of his political friends in. Congress to use
their influence with the Navy Department to have
it tried on one of the navy vessels. Fimally he
succeeded in having it introduced upon a small,
Witeh, and}

arted upon
got out to sea, Tucker,
would. like to try the
to see how she worked.
ain ordered the engineer to turn it on,
ine operated, apparently, in the most
autiful manner. In about an hour one of the
ficers reported that the water was gaining rap-

at

c
t
as

she
he

after

said

Soon
who was aboard,

The capt

down to discover where the leak was. They came
back and reported that theyecouldn’t find the hole,
but that. the water was pouring in somewhere in
frightful quantities.

Then some of the officers went down, and spent
half an hour in water up to their waists feeling
around after that awful hole; but they couldn’t }
ascertain where it was. The only thing they were
certain of was that the water was steadily gain-
' ing on them, and that the ship was certain to sink
unless something was done. All this time Mr.
Tucker’s pump was working away, and the captain
continually enjoined the engineer to give it greater
speed.

Then the captain himself went down and made
an. examination, and although he failed to find the
leak, he was alarmed to discover a quantity of
codfish and porpoises swimming about in.the hold,
because he knew that the hole in the hull must be
very large indeed to admit the fish. And still the
water rose steadily all the time, although Tucker’s
pump was jerking away at it in a terrific manner:
and all. the other pumps were running at. full
speed.

At last the captain made up his mind that he
should. have to desert the ship, as she was certain
to sink; and so: the boats were made ready and
packed with provisions and water, and a few little
comforts, and by this time the water in the bilge
was nearly up to the furnace fires:

|} inexplicable something men had sold their souls |
| ity of your pump?
}
’

million |

toderic, my son, my son!’’| would you like to play a big game with me; only; then the captain turned pale as death, and de-
| manded to know who stopped that pump, while

| Tucker buckled a life-preserver around him,
corked up a note to his wife in a bottle, and said
that now that the pump had ceased he would give
| that steamer just four minutes to reach bottom.

While he was speaking the engineer came up
and said:

“Mr. Tucker; what did you say was the capac-

“Ninety Ballons a minute.’’

“Ninety.
do you estimate
Ocean ?’’

“Blessed if I know.
tell that?”

“Oh, it don’t make any particular difference,
only. I thought you might have some kind of an
indistinct idea how long it would take you to run
that ocean through your pump.”

“IT dunno, I’m sure,’’ said Tucker,

“Well, I merely wanted to say that whatever
your calculations respecting the number of gallons
in the Atlantic, it is perfectly useless for you to
try to load up that ocean in this yessel. She
won’t hold more’n half of it.’

“What do you mean, sir?’ demanded Tucker.

“Why, I mean that that diabolical pump of
yours, instead of taking out the bilge, has been
spurting water into this vessel for the past four
hours, and that if you had a theory that you can

Well, Mr. Tucker, how: many gallons
that there are im the Atlantic

How’n the mischief can I

 

he }

; and guests, and all in keeping with the ele

a
a

ig
i

; he

strike dry land by that process it is ingenious, but
it won’t work, for it’s going to’sink this ship.”’

Then the captain swore till the air was blue.
Then he put Fucker in irons, and ripped out his
pump, and unpacked the boats, and pumped out
the water and picked up the codfish and porpoises,
and set sail for home for the purpose of making
a report on the subject of the new invention. The
Tucker Improved Marine Steam Pump went righ
out of use at the end of that voyage, and Tucker
abandoned mechanics and went into the life insur-
ance business.

Earle Wayne's Nobility.

By Mrs, GEORGIE SHELDON,

Author of “His Heart's Queen,” ‘The Forsaken Bride,”
“Steud Rosevelt,” “Queen Bess,’ “Sibyl’s Influence,”

“Brownie’s Triumph,’’ etc., etc.

(“EARLE WaYNF’s NoBILiry,’” was commenced in No.
87. Back numbers can beodtained of all newsdealers,)

CHAPTER XUI.

TOM DRAKE’S BEWILDERMENT.

We have left Earle for a long time in his mag-
nificent loneliness at Wycliffe.

But magnificent loneliness it indeed was, for in
his great house there was’ not a soul to whom he
could go for either sympathy or cheer.

He was surrounded on every hand by everything
that almost unlimited wealth could buy; he pos-
sessed one of the finest estates im England, and
farms and forests in France, which; as yet, he had
never seen; he occupied a position second to none
save royalty; he had the finest horses and car-
riages in the county; cattle and hounds of choicest
breed; he had all this, and yet he was heartsick
with a bitterness that seemed unbearable.

He could interest himself in nothing—-he took
pleasure in nothing; all his fair domains and

| riches were like a mockery to him; he never stood

in the oriel window that looked out from the center
of the main’ building at Wycliffe, and viewed the
broad expanse spread out before him, and beautiful
as Eden’s fair gardens, without feeling that he was
cursed worse even than Adam and Eve were cursed
when driven from Paradise.

His beautiful gardens, shining streams stocked
with finest trout, broad fields of waving golden
grain, the: noble park with its grand old trees,
God’s most glorious handiwork, all. mocked him
with their loveliness.

It was as if they said to him: ‘““You can have
all this—you can revel im everything that serves
to make the world bright and beautiful; you can
buy and sell, and get gain, add to your stores,
and get fame and honor, but after-all is told, you
must ever carry a desolate heart in your bosom;
you can never possess the one jewel worth seven-
fold more than all you possess; you can mever
behold the fair face, dearer than all the world,
beaming upon you in your home as you go and
come on’ the reund offfaily duties,’

What d¥a@ it amount to?—of what value ‘was it
all to him if he could not share it. with the only
woman whom, he could/ever love?

He forced himself day a Gay
the estate to see that everything was. in order;
and that his commands were properly obeyed;
but there was no heart in anything that he did,
while the servants .and workmen all wondered to
see him so sad and dispirited.

The interior of Wycliffe was in keeping with the
surroundings.

Entering the wide and lofty hall, with its, ecar+
petings of velvet, its panelings of polished oak,
its rich furnishings, its statuary and pictures, one
gained something of. an idea of the luxury await-
ing beyond.

Upon one side ofthis hall was a suite of parlors

iter

to go over

}——three in number.

The first and third were large, lofty rooms, and
furnished alike. The ceilings were paneled and
painted in the most exquisite designs. The walls
were delicately tinted, with rosewood dados, in
which were set panels of variegated marble, beauti-
fully earved. The carpets were of @ bright and
graceful pattern, and of richest texture, the hang-
ings of crimson. plush, and the furniture, mo two
pieces of which were alike; was upholstered to
match.

The middle room: was larger than the other
two, and even more dazzling in its furnishings, and
was separated from the others by arches, sup-
ported by graceful marble columns richly carved:
The walls were delicately tinted, the same as in the
other, rooms, but the dados were of white Italian
marble. The ceiling was painted with daisies and
buttercups, arranged. in most tasteful design; the
carpet was a marvel of richness and delicate
beauty—a. white ground dotted with golden heads
of wheat; the curtains were of goldem satin fes-
tooned with lace; the furniture, of different kinds
ef precious wood, inlaid. with gold and pearl, was

| cushioned’ with white satin brocaded with golden

eoreopsis; the lambrequins, which were of velvet
embroidered with daisies, gave a superb effect to
the whole.

Every accessory in the way of mirrors, étagéres,
pictures, statuary; etc., was perfect, and the ele-

|gance of the whole suite it would be difficult to
| exceed.

On the opposite side of the hall were the library;
sitting-rooms and dining-room, while leading from
the latter was a very fine conservatory.

Above, there were suites-of rooms for the family
gance of

those below; and if wealth and the good things it

e

e

, brings could possibly gladden the heart of man,

Earle Wayne, Marquis of Wycliffe, ought to be a
very happy one.

here is an old saying, “Uneasy lies the hea
that. wears a crown,” and we might add, heavy is
the heart whose all lies in a weighty purse, for in
1} England it would not have been possible to
nd a more wretched being that Earle Wayne.

And so the time went by until there came a

| strange break in the monotony of his life—the ad-
} venture of which Mr. Tressalia had told Editha.

He had been told by one of the servants, dur

| the day before, that a. suspicious-looking chara
| was prowling about the place; but he did not j

much attention to the matter, and when night
he retired as usual, and went to sleep without a
thought of danger:

Abcut two in the morning. he had been awakened
by the sound: of muffled footsteps in his dressing-
room. The next moment he saw the flash of a
dark lantern, and knew there was mischief brew-
ing.

As before related, it was but the work of a
second for him to reach out and grasp his: revolver,
which, remembering the robbery at Mr. Da!ton’s,
he always kept by him ready for us

When the man passed between his bed and
the wintlow, he knew that was his best chance,
and fired.’

The intruder dropped instantly, with a groan,
and his lantern went out as it fell to the floor.

Earle was out of bed and had struck a light’ in
less time than it takes to tell it:

‘Who are you?” he demanded,
his fallen foe.

Then he started back with®an exclamation of
surprise, as he immediately recognized the wretch
in. whose power he had found Editha; and who
had so cleverly escaped from him that morning in
the hotel.

It was indeed Tom Drake, and his career as a
midnight robber was ended for all time.

He-appeared to be suffering terribly; and, upon
examination, Harle found that the ball had en-
tered the leg just below the thigh, and; as he
could not move it, had probably shattered’ the bone.
Now that his enemy was fallen, Earle’s sympathies
were at once aroused. Suffering in any form al-
ways touched his heart.

“Well, my man,” he said, kindly; as he bent
over him, “what am I going to do for you, I
wonder?”

“TI guess you’ve done for me already,’”’ was the
rough response, accompanied by a fearful oath and
a groan as he reeognized his captor.

“Ym very sorry to cause you suffering, but
‘self-preservation is the first law of nature,’ you
know,”’ Earle answered, as he stepped quickly to

ame

stooping over

 

 

Just then Tucker's pump suddenly stopped; and

the bell-cord and gave it’a violent pull.

In less than five minutes a servant appeared in
answer to the summons.

‘Here, Robert,’’ Earle said, as composedly as if
nothing had happened; ‘‘I have invited a stranger
to stop with me for a little while.
and we will take bim across the hall to the south
suite; then I want you to go for Dr. Sargeant as
quickly as possible.”

The burglar was borne to the rooms mentioned,
but carefully as he was handled, he fainted during
the removal, and was a lomg time regaining con-
sciousness afterward.

The doctor arrived in about three-quarters of
an hour, and, after much difficulty ‘and probing,
succeeded in extracting the ball. The ugly wound
Was then dressed, and the patient made as comfort-
able as possible.

As the physiciam was
sought him privately.

“If you please,” he said, “I would like nothing
sail about this affair, I do not wish to create any
sensation, and tHe country will be alive with ex-
citement if the events of to-night become known.”

“But, my lord, the man ought to be given up to
justice,” said the physician, with a frown.

Earle smiled slightly.

“No one knows better than yourself that he is
no fit subject for justice now, nor will he be for a
good while to come,’’

“That is so. He’ll have a hard time of it before
he gets through. The bone is shattered. There
will be fever, and a great deal of pain; while. if
mortification sets in, he’ll get justice in another
world.’’

“Then please oblige me by keeping the
quiet, and do the best you can for him
expense.”’ "

“Surely you don’t mean to keep the
here?’ exclaimed the doctor, in amazement.

“Certainly. What did you suppose I would do
with him?” Earle asked, quietly.

“Send him to the almshouse or hospital. It
belongs to the authorities to take care of such
scamps.”’

“If a friend of yours had been injured’ in ‘this
way, would you advocate sending him to the hos-
pital? Would the excitement and fatigue of the
removal be beneficial?’ Earle asked, pointedly.

“No; inflammation would probably follow, and
the patient would doubiless die,’’ the physician
coolly admitted.

“That is the way I reasoned the question; there-
fore I hold myself, in a measure, responsible for
this man’s life,’”’ was the grave reply,

“The earth would be well rid. of a: villain,’” an-
swered the doctor, gruffly. ‘‘It was only the luck
of the thing that prevented your being. where he is
now, or perhaps a corpse.”’

“Not ‘luck,’ my friend, but the hand of’ Provi-
dence,’”” BHarle interposed; with his rare smile.
“Your judgment and my conscience tell me that the
man will die-unless he has the very best of care.
He must: be kept quiet, and free from anxiety also;
so I have decided that he shall remain here until
he recovers.’”

“But who will take care of him’ asked the
physician, his gruffness all gone, and. a look that
was not disapprobation in his eye.

“T will see that he lacks for no care or atten-
tion; as a wounded and suffering man, he will
be the same to me as. a friend or guest until he
gets well; and.as such I shall expect: you will also
exercise your utmost skill, and do the very best you
can for him,’’ Earle said, quietly.

“Well, well, well!” muttered the astonished
disciple of Esculapius; and then he stood: re-
garding’ his companion for a moment, with raised
eyebrows, and his mouth puckered into: the’ small-
est. possible compass.

“Unless you. object to treating such a patient,’’
Harle: added, with a little hauteur..

“No, no, no; bless you! no;’ Dr. Sargeant
returned,. quickly. ‘I will do my very best for
the: poor wretch; you are right——it: would’ be sac-
rificing his life to have him removed, and you
may rely upom my diseretion.”

And the noted doctor went away somewhat mys-
tified as: to what manner of man the young mar-
quis might. be, that he was willing to turn. his
magnificent home into a hospital for thieves and
robbers.

Earle went back to his charge, whom he found
restless;. feverish, and burning: with. intolerable
thirst.

He

about departing, Barle

maiter
at my

fellow

swore savagely as Earle made his appear-
ance, and defiantly demanded what he was going
to do with him.

“Take: care of you until you: get on your legs
again,’’ was the calm reply, as he held some
pleasant, cooling drink to the man’s parched lips.

He drank eagerly, and then fell) back among
the soft pillows with a groan:

“Bosh! that’s a likely story !’’ he returned, after
a minute, with an angry flash of His. eyes; ‘‘out
with it, and don’t keep me in. suspense; I’ve
enough to bear with this pain.’’

“Se you have, poor fellow!” Earle answered,
kindly; ‘‘and it is just as I have told you-—you are
to. stay here and be nursed il you get well.’’

‘What! stay here?” and the man’s eyes wan+
dered around the luxurious apartment in a: look
of, amazement.

“Yes, in this very room: Don’t you know’ that
you cannot bear to be removed?”

“T° don’t. feel much like it; that’s a» fact;’’’ He
said, suppressing another groan; “but’’—with a
keen look into the kind face above: him—‘“what
right. have you to say it?”

“The right of ownership—I am master here,’

“You !?

“Yes; you recognizé me, then?”

“Of course I do; and you knew me instanter;
which isn’t strange, considering one isn’t likely to
forget a phiz like mine; but—but ts

“But you had no idea that you were breaking
into my house when you came here last night,”
interrupted Earle.

“No; I'll be
but energetic reply.

“There has been a change in my circumstances
of late.”

“T should think so!
of Wycliffe?’ .

“Yes. What did you expect to find here-im the
way of plunder?’’

“T may as well own up, I suppose, since’ I’m
where I can’t help myself,’’ the man replied, reck-
lessly. ‘I was after the family jewels, which I
was told:were kept here.’’

“They are not here. I had them. deposited in
the treasure vault more than a month ago.. There
was only a little money in my safe, for:I had paid
off my help only yesterday; so you see, my friend,
you have had your sin and risked your life» for
nothing,’’ Earle said, gravely.

Tom Drake swore savagely again at this
formation.

“Do not be profane—indeed I’ must request you
to drop that sort of talk while you are. here,”’
Earle said, with decision.

“And you really don’t mean to send me to: the
hospital?”

“No, indeed. I do not need: to tell you that you
have a long, hard job before you from the wound
my ball gave you, and that it will be a. goo@ while
before you will get about again.”’

Earle thought he might as well talk of things
just as they were. Tom Drake nodded assent,
a look of grim endurance on his ugly face.

“And,” continued Earle; ‘unless you have good
care—the very best of care—it is doubtful whether
you ever have the use of your leg agaim.”

“And what should that matter to you?” was the
gruff query, accompanied: by a suspicious’ glance.

“It matters this to me: One whom fF profess to
serve has bidden me to \care for the sick and
needy,’’ Earle said, gently.

“Humph! that’s all cant. You'll watch me as a
cat does a mouse, and just as soon as I begin to
spruce up a little, you’ll hand me over to her
majesty’s minions, and I shall have a nice Httle
ornament attached to my leg, eh?’

He tried.to put a bold front on, but it was evi-
dent that he expertenced considerable anxiety re-
garding his future.

“There will be time enough to: talk of that
matter by and by,” Earle answered ; indeed, he had
not given a thought to the subject, and had no
idea what course he should pursue.

“Now I have to give you this quieting powder,’’
he added; taking up one from the table, “‘and the
doctor wishes you to get ail the rest and sleep
you can before the inflammation increases.”’

He mixed the powder in some kind of a tempting
jelly, the man watching him curiously all the time.

‘Who is. going to take care of me?” he asked,
after \he had swallowed it and taken a cooling
draught. ;

“Tt shall take care of you for the present.”

“You!”’ with another curious look. ‘‘I suppose
you’ve plenty of servants?”

Vent

int
Int

if I did!’’ was the irreverent

Then you are the: Marquis

in-

“They would do to look after a chap like me;
and’’—speaking more humbly than he had yet done
—<‘this is too fine a room to upset on my account.”’

This was encouraging; it showed that the wretch
had a little feeling and regret for the trouble he
was giving.

Earle bent nearer and said, in a friendly tone:

“f shall not trust you to the care of servants
until the doctor pronounces your wound t6- be
mending.

As for the room, you need give yourself no un-
easiness about it; you are to have just as much
attention as if you were my friend or my brother.
Now try to forget that you have been’ my enemy,
as I’ shall; for as you are situated now. I feel only
sympathy for you. You must not talk any more,
but try to get some rest.’

Earle smoothed the tumbled bedclothes, changed
the wet cloth upon the sufferer’s burning head,
drew down the curtains to shade the light from his
eyes, and was about to seat himself at a distance
and leave him to sleep, when his voice again ar-
rested him.

“Say!”

‘““Well?’”? he asked, again coming to his side to
see if he wished anything.

The man hesitated a minute while he searched

 

his face keenly, and then..burst forth 2

Lend a hand, |

} voice.

If you should be neglected ever so: lit-_
tle, there is no telling what the result might be.

| “I’m cussed if I can make out what kind of a
| chi p you are, anyhow !”’ s

| Earle smiled slightly at his evident perplexity,
and the invalid continued:

“First, you hit a fellow a swinger on the back
of the head that knocks the life out of him, and
makes one think that the fury of seven Jupiters is
concentrated in you; next; you sheot him with a
revolver, and then turn around and nurse him as
tender as a woman—-I can’t make it out.” J

“I did give you a heavy blow that night in the
hotel, I admit; the case was desperate, and I
knew I must not fail to lay you out the first time.
If you Had not escaped, I should have given you up
to the authorities, amd you would doubtless have
been serving out your sentence now, instead of
lying here. But you are wounded and suffering,
you will probably be sick a long time, and however
much [ may think you deserve punishment for
your past crimes, your condition appeals to my
humanity. As a sufferer; you are, instead .of an
enemy and a robber, my neighbor, my friend, and
as such I. shall treat you while you lie here,”
Earle explained, and there was no mistaking the
friendliness of his tones.

“Your neighbor! your friend!” Tom Drake re-
peated, in low, suppressed tones, and feeling al-
most as if he had got into a new world. -

“Yes, just that; and now, to ease your mind
and make you trust me, I will tell you that no one
save the doctor, myself, and my servants, know
what transpired last night,.and no one. else will
know of the affair while you are sick here. Now
go to sleep if you can.’”

Barle moved away without giving him a chance
to reply, the man watching his retreating figure in
stupid amazement.

CHAPTER. XLII

TOM DRAKE’ S TRUST.

Tom. Drake did have a hard time,.as the phy--
sician predicted and Earle feared.

He paid: dearly for his one night’s adventure
within the walls of Wycliffe; and yet, perchance,
the end will prove it. to have been a ‘“‘blessimg in
disguise.’’

For three weeks he raved im the wildest de-
lirium of fever; unconscious alike of his own con-
dition, the care he was receiving, or the trouble
and. weariness he caused; and it was three weeks
longer before the skillful physician pronounced.
him out of danger, or woultt give them any hope
that the wounded limb could be saved.

“Save it if you can, doctor; the poor fellow
has had a rough time of it, and I should dislike to
send. him away from here: a. cripple,’’ Harle- had
pleaded, when the doctor spoke of amputation.

“He will be a cripple anyway; so much of the
bone is diseased and will have to comie out, that
the leg will always be weak, and he will be lame,
even if we save it. But for your sake I will do my
best, though it is more than. the wretch deserves,”
grumbled the physician:

He had not much faith or patience in nursing
the ‘‘miserable wretch,’’ as he called him.

“Like enough he will turn. around and cut your
throat, some fine day, when he gets well. Such
people have no feeling, no gratitude; they are like
the brutes, and have no souls, and should. be
treated accordingly.”’

“Inasmuch as you have done it unto one of*
the least of these;’’’ Harle gravely repeated cnce,
after one of. the doetor’s outbursts.

“Humph! such high-toned. philanthropy will
doubtless be rewarded in a way you don’t ex-
pect.”

But with all his apparent gruffness and contempt
for the kindness Earle was bestowing upon the
unfortunate. criminal, the young marquis could
see that he was always very gentle with him, and!
was. satisfied that he was bestowing the very best
treatment that his knowledge and skill could sug-

est. ;

When at last the fever left him he lay weak
as a baby, and only able to be lifted gently in the
arms. of strong men when he wished to change his
position. ‘ =

He did not look. neatly so repulsive to Earle as
he lay there so pale, and thin, and: helpless, and a
great pity crept into his heart for this brother-
man whose life had been: so steeped. in sin and
infamy.

He had scarcely left him during those six long
weeks when he lay in such danger, catching what»
rest he could while his patient slept, and lying
upon a couch near his bed; and Earle himself:
looked almost as if he had had a. fit of sickness,
he was so worn and weary with his watching.

It was six weeks longer before Tom Drake
could be dressed and move about his room, sup-
ported by a servant om one side and’ a erutch
on: the other.

He had grown more quiet and gentle in his
manner during these weeks of convalescence. Af-
ter regaining consciousness when his fever turned;
his speech became more: chaste, no. oath left hds
lips to offend Earle’s ears, while now and then
some expression of. gratitude, rough though it was,
would escape him for the attention and. kindness
he was receiving. g

He became very thoughtful, even sad at times,
and then Earle would bring some interesting book
and’ read to him; but though he listened atten-
tively, and appeared grateful for the attention, yet
he could see that he did not really enjoy it, and
often grew nervous at the monotonous sound of his

One day he brought in a beautiful’ chess table,
and, after arranging the curiously carved men
upon. it, asked’ him: if he would’ like to learn the
game.

He was astonished to: see his face light up with
delight, as he exclaimed:

“Aha! them. are real beauties, and now I can
stand it:’’

He already knew the game—was even a skillful
player, and from that time until he was able to
ride out, Earle was never at a loss to Know: how to
amuse him. i

But as he grew stronger, Earle could see that
some heavy burdem oppressed him; and wher not
riding: or: playing chess, he would sit im moody
silence, his hands folded, his head bent, amd a
look of deep trouble on his face, and frequent
sighs escaped him:

One-day Earle had been reading the newspaper
to. him——the only thing of the literary kind in
which he manifested any interest. A-heavy sigh
interrupted him, and looking up, he found his
companion’s eyes fixed. sadly on his face, while
apparently he had not heard a word that he had
been. reading: '

“Well, Tom, are you feefing badly to-day?’
Earle asked, laying down his paper.

*"No-o,’” he returned, hesitatingly, and with some
embarrassment.

Then, with an air of recklessness that Harle
bs _ noticed before during all his sickness, he
asked > i

“T say,, what kind of a place is Botany Bay?”

Earle started, the question was so entirely un-
expected’; but he understood at once now why he
had been so sad and absent-minded of late. He
had been thinking of his probable future.

“It. is supposed to be rather a desolate kind of
place,” he said.

“Folks who are sent there at the expemse of the
erown don’t get rich very fast, and it is somewhat
inconvenient about getting away from there if one
should: happen to wish to visit his native land,
eh?” Tom Drake said, with a ghastly attempt to
be facetious.

“No,” Earle replied, very gravely, and with a
searching glance at his companion.

“"Phere’s. some comfort in knowing a. fellow
ain’t got to leave many behind him to grieve over
him,”” he said, absently, and as if speaking more
to himself than to Earle. i

“Where do your friends reside?’’ he asked.

“All the friend I’ve got in the world, sir, is my
old mother, and her I haven't seen for many. a long
year.” > '

Earle thought there was a suspicious huski-
ness in his veice as he said this, and that a tear
dropped on his hand as he turned quickly to look
out of the window; but he might have been. mis-
taken, and the man was still very weak after his
long illness, and tears come unbidden at such a-
time. ;

“Your mother! Have you a mother living?”

“Yes, sir, as good a woman as ever drew
breath,” Tom said, heartily.

“Who was that woman you had at the hotel i
New York?” Earle asked. :

“That was one of—the profession. She was
nothing to me, and I paid her well for that job.
“Well?” Earle said, encouragingly, as he
Tom evidently had something on his mind,
did not know just how to get rid of it.

“T ain’t usually very white-livered nor tender-
hearted, sir. I never thought I. was thin-skinned;
but—I—I want to tell you that that rascally busi-
ness about the young lady has laid heavily on my
mind this many a day. She was a—a. particular
friend o’ yours, weren’t she?’’ Pate

“Yes,” Earle said, with a heavy sigh.

Tom Drake ‘started at the sound, and shot an
anxious glance at him, while he grew, if possible,
paler than he was before.

“J—TI hope, sir, no harm came to her from the’
mesmerizing,’’ he said, in a sort of hushed tone.

‘‘No; she is quite well now.”

Tom looked intensely relieved, and he went on,
speaking with a rough kind of earnestness and
gratitude: ;

“You’ve been wonderful good to me after it all;
you’ve given me the best you have, and treated me
as if I were a gentleman instead of a gallows
bird. That was a pesky job—that business with
the girl. She was a pretty little thing, but plucky
as the—I beg pardon, sir; but she was the most
spirited little woman I ever set eyes on; and
many a time it has given me the shivers, on
waking up in the night, to think of her lying there,
growing so pale and weak, dying by inches.”’

“It was a cruel thing to do,” Earle said, with a

saw
and —

 

. faraway look and a very pale face.

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“He, too,eften remembered that waxen face, with
its great mournful eyes, in the still hours of the
night , but that now was not the saddest of his
troubles.

~~ *“*You are _right, sir,” Tom went on, with a

“strange mixture of humility and defiance; ‘“‘but I
had three or four fat jobs on hand just at that
time, and I knew that if John .Loker’s confession
got abroad, there’d be no more work for me in
the United States. I was going to crack a safe
that very night, and had all my tools about me;
s0, aS soon as you took the young lady off, I set
te work, picked the locks, and we took to our heels
with .all the speed we had. You hadn’t made
much noise about the affair, so when madam and I
valked out of the private entrance together, no
ome suspected us, and Wwe -gct off seot-free. I knew
it wopldn’t be safe for me to be seen around there
after that, so I made for a steamer that was just
ready to start out, and came over here to try my

_ stuck, never dreaming I'd fall into your clutches a
second time.”’

““‘Have you been at this kind of thing
Barle asked.

, “Nigh on to twenty years. I got in with a-gang
when I was a youngster, learned all the tricks
ef the trade, and have lived by my wits and a
burglar’s kit ever since.”

“Have you, as a rule, found i
tery kind of business?” i
pointedly.

Tom Drake flushed a vivid crimson, and for an
instant a fierce gleam of anger shot from his eye;
then he burst out vehemently :

“No, sir; I haven’t. Ive always had_to. hide
and sneak about like a whipped cur. It’s all up

. with me now, though, and I might as well own to it
first as last, and there’s no comfort in’ it from
beginning to end; but when a fellow once gets
started in it, there don’t seem to be any place te
stop, however bad you may want to. I'd got kind
of hardened to it, though, until—until that jeb
at Dalton’s, that you got hauled up for. I’ve
eursed myself times without number for that af-
fair, but I hadn’t the grit to own up and take my
chances; theugh, if I did put on a bold front, every
hair on my head stcod on end when I saw you
stand up so proud and calm, and take the sentence
and never squeal.”

Tom was getting excited over the remembrance,
and his whole frame shook, while Earle could see
hi perspiration that had gathered on his upper
ip.

His eyes were bent upon his hands, which were
trembling with nervousness, or some other emo-
tion, and his voice was not quite steady.

- ‘V¥ou’re a’ gentleman, sir, every inch of you,’ he
went on, after a few minutes of awkward silence.
“T’ve heard charity preached about no end of
times, and never knew what it meant before. I
suppose you won’t believe it, or think I am capa-
ble of feeling it, but I do—I feet mean clear
through, though I never would have owned to it
before. Here I’ve been for three months and
more, making a deal of trouble, being waited upon
by your servants as if I was a prince, drinking
your wine, and eating all sorts of nice things that
I never thought to taste, while you’ve tended me
until you’re nigh about worn out yourself. I tell
you I feel—mean! There, it’s out—I couldn’t
-hold it any longer; and if I have to wear a ball
and chain all the rest of my life, I shall feel better
to think I’ve said it; and I shall never forget to
my dying day that there was one man in the
world who was willing to do a kindness to his
worst enemy.”

He had assumed a roughness of tone that had
been unusual for the last few weeks, but Harle
knew it was done to cover his emotion.

It was evident that he felt every word he ut-
tered, and that the confession had cost him a
great effort, as his nervousness and pallor testi-
fied. , -

It was apparent also that he expected no mercy,
as his reference to Botamy Bay and the ball and
chain plainly showed. Barle pitied him deeply,
and he had grown .to feel very kindlystoward him
during his long siege of suffering.

He was a man of no small amount of intelli-
gence, and had evidently received a moderately
good education befcre he began his career of crime,
and if he had started right in life he would, no
doubt, have made a smart man.

Farle had as yet come to no definite decision as
to what course he should pursue regarding him
when he should fully recover, and he could not
bear to think of it even now.

He knew that his sentence, if tried and found
guilty, would be a very ‘severe one, and his own
sad experience naturally made him incline to the
side of mercy.

“But, Tom, whatever you may have been in the
past, I do not consider that you are my enemy
now,’ he said, kindly, when he had concluded his
excited speech.

“But am, sir. I have done you the: worst
wrong a map can do another—lI’ve wronged you
in every way—I’m a wretch, and whatever they
do with me, it’) serve me right, and I'll never
open my lips,’ he said, excitedly.

“Yes, you have wronged me, and I have suf-
fered in your stead the worst disgrace that a man
ean suffer. But that is all past now; my inno-
cence has been established, and no shadow of stain
rests on my name—John Loker’s confession accom-
plished that.”

“But, sir, it could not give you back those three
years of your life that—that you lost; you es

‘Noy’ Barle interrupted; ‘‘but those three years,
long and weary as they were, were not ‘lost’ by
any means, Tom. They taught me a lesson of pa-
tience and trust which, perhaps, I never should
have learned in any other way. It was a-hard
trial—a_ bitter trial!’ Earle exelaimed, with a
shudder, as something of the horror came back to
him; “‘but’—in a reverent tone—‘‘I know that
nothing which God sends upon-us, if it is rightly
borne, can end in harm; nothing but our own sims
ean do that.”

“Did you feel that way then?’’ Tem asked, re-
-garding the young marquis with wonder.

“Not at first, perhaps, but it came to me after
_a little; for Tom, I had a good Christian. mother.”

“Ay, and so had I,’’ he replied, with a sigh that
ended in what sounded very like.a sob. But Tom
was not strong, you know, and consequently more
easily moved.

“She used to teach me that suffering was often
blessing in disguise.”’

*“T never heard that doctrine before, sir,’’ Tom
returned, locking down upon his emaciated hands,
-and thinking ef his bandaged limb, which was still
very sore.

“T suppose you would not think that the wound
I gave you, and the terrible sickness which has

' followed, were blessings, would you, Tom?’ Earle
asked, with a smile, as he noticed the look and
divined his thought.

“Hardly that, sir, when my reason tells me how
it is all to end; but, sir, Pll say this much, my
own mother couldn’t have been kinder, nor given
me better care; and, for the first time in my life,
I’ve learned what it is to trust a man!’ he said,
earnestly.

“Thank you, Tom,’’ Harle returned, heartily.

“You've no cause, sir. I should have killed you
that night if. I had known you were there and
awake, and then the world would have lost a good
man and gained another murderer. Perhaps, look-
ing at it in that way, sir, the wound and the sick-
ness were blessings in disguise, as you call them,”
be concluded, reflectively, and he shivered slightly
as he spoke, as if the thought of crime had ac-
quired a strange horror to him.

“We will not talk of this any more now,” BHarle
said, fearing the excitement would be injurious
to him. “I am only too glad that your life was
spared and I did not slay you, evén in self-defense.
I am glad to know also that I have gained your
confidence; and I firmly believe that if you should
ever be free to go forth into the world again, you
would never Tift your hand to harm me or mine.”

“Thank you, sir; it is kind of you to say that,”
was the humble ‘reply.

“Now I want you to tell me something about
your mother. She must be quite old,’ Earle con-
tinued, to change the subject.

“Sixty last March, sir, and I haven’t seen her
for: twenty. years, though I’ve sent her enough to
give her a good living all that time. I used to—
to—love my ‘mother,’’ he concluded, as if rather

‘ashamed to make confession of a sentiment so
tender.

“Used: to, Tom?’’
 “T ain't fit to own to love for anybody now,
sir; and it would break her heart to. know what
I’ve been up to all these years.”

“Where does she live?’

“At Farnham, in this county, sir.”

“Here in England! Why, that is only twenty-
five or thirty miles from here!” exclaimed Earle,
in surprise.

“Yes, sir; and if I had made a good haul here,
Iwas going down to see her, and settle something
handsome on her,” he frankly confessed, but his
face flushed, nevertheless, at the acknowledgment.

“Wouldn’t you like to see her now?’ asked
Earle. ;

“That I would, sir; and I suppose the poor old
lady has been worrying and wondering what’s hap-
pened to me, that I did not send my usual letter
and money.” 1

“Did you send her money regularly ?”’

Earle began to think there was a little green
spot in the man’s heart after all, and there might
be some hope of reclaiming him even yet.

“Once in three months—sometimes more, some-
times less, as my luck was, but always something
as often as that, though it’s six fhonths now since
she’s heard a-word from me, poor old lady,” he
said, with a sigh.

“Why did you not tell me of this before? Your
mother should not be allowed to want,’’ Earle

* said, feeling a deep interest in the lonely mother.

“What right had I to burden you with my cares?
You've had more than enough of me as it is,” Tom
replied, flushing more deeply than he had yet done.

It was evident that he felt his obligation to
Barle was no light one. °

 Harle did not reply, and at that moment the
door opened, and a man entered bearing a large

long?”

a very s
listener

‘her hand across

ties of Lord and Lady Cardonnel.

 

tray, covered with a tempting array of viands that
would have done the heart of an epicure good.

“You must be hungry, Tom, after this long talk,
so while you are eating I will ge away, as I have
some letters to write,’’ Earle said, rising.

Tom looked up at him with a. troubled air,
opened his lips as if to speak, shut them again
resolutely, and then finally said, in a half-reckless,
tralf-humble way: }

“You can take my softness for what it’s worth,
sir; I couldn't help it; but—I’d have been broken
on the wheel before I’d have said as much to any
one else? Tom Drake’s known nothing but hard
knocks for the last twenty years, untid a bullet laid
him here.’’

Earle went out of the room with a very grave

“Tf I was only sure,’’ he murmured, with a deep-
drawn sigh, as he passed into the library and shut
the door.

TO. BE CONTINUED.

coe Se —---—————

FOR OLD LOVE'S SAKE.

By BERTHA M, CLAY,

Author of ‘‘The Lost Lady of Haddon,’ “Dora Thorne,”
‘His Wife’s Judgment,’ “Thrown on the World,”
“Gladys Greyé,” * Between Two Loves,’ etc.

(‘For OLD Love’s SAKen”’ was commenced in No, 42.
Back numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers.)

CHAPTER XXXVIII—Continued.

“Shall you have to go all the way back to
Florence this evening, Mr. Blamire?’” she asks,
solicitously. ‘‘I am so sorry I cannot ask you to
stay to dinner, but the countess being from home,
and Lord Cardonnel not being very well, will dine
in his dressing-room, so I am _ prevented from
having the pleasure of your company at my soli-
tary meal.’’ : ss

“Pray don’t trouble about me, Lady Christabel!
You are extremely kind!’’ Mr. Blamire says, has-
tily, feeling a little remorse for his severe judg-
ment. ‘It will but se a pleasant drive for me
again to-morrow. At waat hour do you think I
might hope to see Lady Cardonnel, to-morrow?”

“To-morrow ?’’ repeats the woman, thoughtfully,
leaning her head on her hand; ‘‘I think at almost
any hour, Mr. Blamire! Shall I tell her you wish
to see her early? It is no very important business
on which you want to see her, I hope?’ with a
sudden, merry, coaxing smile, that few men but a
grim, suspicious lawyer could resist. ‘‘No horrid
law business, is it, which will delay our trip to
Pompeii, Mr. Blamire?”

= no—nothing of the sort, I hope, Lady
Christabel,’”’ Mr. Blamire says, placidly. ‘“‘I merely
wish to see Lady Cardonnel on a matter of busi-
ness which can be dispatched in a few minutes.’’

“Oh! I am so glad!’ his fair hostess says, in a
tone of much: relief. “I was afraid it was some
horrid lawsuit! Money matters are quite differ-
ent, and so much nicer!’’

The girlish naiveté of this remark does not much
impress Mr. Blamire, although Lady Cardonnel
fiatters herself that it has had its effect.

“I dare say my Lady Christabel would like a
little confidence in return for her condescension !”
he thinks, and the next remark made by ‘‘my Lady
Christabel’? makes him smile to himself at the cor-
rectness of his guess.

“Tt must be very pleasant to feel oneself rich!”
she says, with a soft little sigh.

“Tt must, indeed!’ Mr. Blamire says, gravely,
and as he utters the words her ladyship lifts those
drooping ‘white eyelids of hers for the space of a
second, and a lurid glance, like a flame, seems to
leap out from behind the long auburn eyelashes,

and makes him wince, as from a gieam of light- |

ning.

There is anether pause, and then the lady looks
up, and fixes her greenish-blue eyes, dilating and
glowing like jewels beneath the shadow of the
fringing lashes, steadily on the lawyer’s face.

“Tell me—I wish you would tell me,’’ she says,
softly, in a low, persuasive voice, in gentle tones,
with those magnetic eyes gazing into his in a close,
unwavering regard, “is Lady Cardonnel very rich?
You know all her affairs, Mr. Blamire; do tell me
—I wish you to tell me—is she very rich? She
talked so much of her money before, when she was
Miss Surtees, that I theught she must be very
wealthy indeed. Is she, Mr. Blamire? Tell me.”

“As far as I know, I should not consider her
‘very wealthy,’ Lady Christabel,” he
eoldly and formally, his heart beating faster with
a vague feeling of trouble and annoyance, and a
displeased sense of being trapped into making ad-
missions respecting a client’s affairs.

“No? And yet she always talked of being very

rich—of having ‘heaps of money!’ ” Lady Christa- |

bel says, disdainfully.

Mr. Blamire knows the phrase well, as having
been rather a favorite with Miss Surtees.

“Then that explains her having overdrawn her
bank account in buying her trousseau !’”’ continues
the woman, speaking with a smile of contempt.
“In fact, only this morning she had to borrow
fifty pounds of me. She said she was going to
write to her lawyer—that is you, I suppose—to
sell out five hundred pounds’ worth of securities—
railway shares, or something of that kind,’ with
another little moue of dainty disdain, ‘‘and to send
her the money.” :

“Overdrawn her bank account!” Mr. Blamire re-
peats, in surprise and concern; and then he recol-
lects himself, seeing those lustrous, glittering eyes
fixed on him. “T dare say Lady Cardonnel
thought that the occasion warranted a little ex-
travagance,” he says, smiling. “It is rather for-
tunate I called, then. It will save her ladyship
the trouble of writing.”’

“Oh, you have brought her the money?’ she
says, playing with her teaspoon.

“No, no, Lady Christabel; I have not brought
Lady Cardonnel any money. I did not know she
wanted any,’’ Mr. Blamire replies, dryly.

“This is a curious state of affairs!’ he says,
mentally. ‘Lydia Surtees has certainly altered in
every way! Her new dignities seem to have
turned her brain! Overdrawn her bank account,
and then borrowing fifty pounds from her haughty
stepdaughter, who evidently despises her!”

“T am sorry, for my own sake, that you have
not, Mr. !’ the lady retorts, her brows

Blamire! ;
gathering in.a frown. ‘‘Lady Cardonnel talks as if
and before ‘she is a fort-

she were a millionaire,
night married borrows all my quarter’s pocket
money !”’

“It is only a temporary inconvenience, as, of
course, your ladyship must be aware,” Mr. Bla-
mire says, stiffly. ‘‘Lady Cardonnel has, to the
best of my belief, an income of more than three
thousand a year. She can most easily repay your
loan in her next remittance from England, which,
of course, I will*forward without delay.”

“Tt is all very well for you to talk, Mr. Bla-
mire. I don’t deny that Lady Cardonnel is very
well off. You are very well off, too, I dare say.
You have no idea what it is to have every shilling
of your pocket money borrowed for an indefinite
time by your stepmother, and you up to your eyes
in debt to your modiste at the same time.”

She ends by another of those gay, shrill laughs,
rather a hysterical laugh, Mr. Blamire fancies,
oo he suddenly perceives a solution of her mean-
ng.
“Rancy an earl’s daughter stooping to such an
old shabby trick of impecunious womanhood!” he
thinks, scornfully. ‘‘Not. but what I’ve known
earl’s daughters do as shabby things as anybody
else’s daughters.”

“Tf I might be allowed, Lady Christabel,’’ he
says, courteously, but with no diffidence now, “as
Lady Cardonnel’s agent, to prevent you from feel-
ing any inconvenience from this lean.” He is
drawing out his well-filled pocketbook as_ he
speaks, and looking up, he sees her eyes ghitter
like a eat’s eyes. ‘‘I shall esteem it a favor if you
will permit me to pay this little debt without wait-
ing for her remittance.”

He takes out a sovereign purse, and drops one
by one, in five little heaps, fifty gold coins, and
pushes them gently toward her.

Her eyes are glittering, her lips are trembling,
her face is deathly white as she stares silently at
the little piles of gold:

“You—you are very kind. I didn’t want, you to
pay Lady Cardonnel’s debts,’ she says, in low
tones, biting her lips and staring at the money
with distended eyes. ‘‘I—I oughtn’t to take it
from you. ‘But I really want some money very
much just now, and——”

“Pray do not think anything of such a very
trifling obligation, Lady Christabel,’’ Mr. Blamire
urges, more kindly. ‘I am only acting as Lady
Cardonnel’s agent, you know. I am happy to be
of service to you. Would you prefer Italian
money? Unfortunately, I have scarcely any in
sold. Would you like notes?’’ ‘

“No, thank you,’ she answers, quickly.
fer this English gold.”

There is another period of silence, and then the
Jady looks up with a brief forced laugh, passing
her eyes as one does to brush
away the dimness of tears.

“J don’t know what you myst think of me, Mr.
Blamire!” she says, in a pathetic, broken voice.
“If—if' I could tell you all, you would not blame

7?

“T don’t blame you at all, Lady Christabel;
why should 1?’ he says, politely, but a little con-
strainedly ; wishing fervently, indeed, that he had
never come to the Villa Marati, and never plunged
imto the middle of the family discords and difficul-
“T dare say I
should have heard of them soon enough,’ he
muses, vexedly. “I might as well have had my
holiday in peace. Lydia Surtees’ aristocratic mar-

answers, |

riage doesn’t seem to promdse absolute blis
the future!”

“Will you try half a cup of tea after my rec-
ipe, Mr. Blamire? Do!’ he hears the
saying, while he is deep- in vexed thought. His
first impulse is to say ‘“‘No,” Mecidedly, as he de-
tests eall so-called ‘“‘improvements’ on good black
tea, sugar and cream. ‘Do, Mr. Blamire; only
half a cup? It is so nice, when you get used to
it!’ she urges, smiling.

And as he has just placed her under some obli-
gation, courtesy persuades him to yield to her re-
quest.

“Thank you; I will try tea and—essence of al-
monds, isn’t it, Lady Christabel?’ he replies, smil-
ing.

“Yes, essence of almonds,” she says, and com-
mences dropping the liquid out of the little flagon
on the lump of sugar, and then filis the cup half
full of: tea.

{ strong it smells!’’ Mr. Blamire remarks,

a rather uneasy smile; wondering uncom-
fortably what will be the probable result of ,the
flavored tea. :
“Oh, yes; it smells much stronger of almonds
than it tastes,’’ she says, quietly. ‘““The taste
searcely perceptible! Drink it off at a draught,
or you will not taste it at all.’’ ;

And as she hands him the cup she glances
swiftly _around the room, at the door, at the
window.

Despite the lady’s direction, Mr. Blamire h
tates before drinking the half-cold, cream]
strong-scented draught.

“TI think it will nrake me ill!” he mutters,
vexedly, and, putting the cup to his lips, he drinks
about a tablespoonrul. “It tastes—tastes—hor-
ribly !’”’ he gasps, and starts to his feet, his hands
extended, and beating at the air. ‘‘What—what
— you done? Lord ! I am  choking—

ying 3

“Drink some water! You are only a little
faint !’’ she says, rushing to a side table, while Mr.
Blamire, with his hand clinched on the table where
the tea is laid, sways backward and forward,
gasping for breath, and feebly striving to pull at
his cravat.

“The tea—poison—air! air!’ he says, thickly
and feebly, gazing helplessly at the distant window.
“Help !—air!—I am choking!’ The words come
with a feeble, suffocated cry from his white lips.

The woman puts a wineglass with a little water
in it to his mouth, and, as he either eannot or will
oy drink it, she pours it in between his parted
ips.

He mechanically swallows the cold liquid, and
his eyes open wildly wide and bright, and glare on
her in a last look of death-agony.

A frightful convulsion passes all over him, and
with a few rattling breaths, he falls heavily to
the floor—dead!

1s

esi-
es

CHAPTER XXXIX.
THE OBSERVANT VALET.

With a last spasmodic effort the lawyer clutches
at the edge of the table, and as he falls heavily to
the floor, the dainty table, with its silver service,
its delicate china, its flowers and fruits, falls with
him with a loud crash. Almost everything which
can break is broken; and among the rest, the cup
from which he has drunk is shivered to pieces.
And the woman who has given him his final potion
from the little flagon, throws that/also among the
débris of the smashed china, and setting her heel
on it, stamps the flagon to atoms. ‘Then she slips
a little oval bottle—empty—into the bosom of
her dress; while yet a~second little hottle—a fac-
simile of the first, and half full of liquid—lies
among the scattered articles on the floor. Then,
with one last glance at the prostrate form, whose
last convulsive breath has ceased now, she rushes
to the door with a piercing cry for aid.

The Italian house servants come rushing in, and
all sorts of remedies are distraetedly tried, by the

‘lady’s orders, she herself kneeling on the floor and

pouring brandy and ammonia between the tightly-
clinched teeth.

The Villa Marati is a roomy, rather straggling-
ly-built house, and a few minutes elapse ere the
noise of hurrying footsteps and alarmed voices
reach Lord Cardonnel’s rooms, and bring his valet
Harrold on the scene.

The English signor—the notary of the countess,
is ill—is in a fit—is-dying, they tell him volubly.

‘“‘He is dead,’ the valet says, gravely; his pale,
cold, clean-shaven English face growing paler and
severer, in strange contrast with all the excited,
flushed faces, the glowing eyes, the agitated voices
of the Southern servants. ‘‘My lady, you had bet-
ter not stay. The doctor will be sent for at once,
and .

“He was drinking tea, when he suddenly seemed
to grow faint, and said he felt choking,’’ my lady
says, looking up with terrifged eyes from where she
is crouching on the floor, “and I ran to get him
a drink of water, and he just swallowed it, and—
dropped—as you see him, pulling the table over
with him! Oh, Harrold, what is it? Can he be

 

“T prew

 

dead?’’ my lady reiterates, piteously.

“He is quite dead, my lady,” Harrold says, de-
liberately, and for one moment his eyes look into
hers, and my lady struggles to her feet, clasping
her hands and looking about her distractedly.

“Tt can’t be possible! “It can’t be possible
she moans. ‘‘Have yeu sent for the doctor?’’

“Yes, my lady. I have sent the groom for the
nearest doctor, though it is of no use,’ Harrold
says, quietly. ‘‘Would your ladyship break the
news to the earl? I will’have the poor gentle-
man lifted on to the couch and will wait here until
the doctor comes.”

“Oh, Harrold, I would rather you told Lord Car-
donnel!’’ her ladyship says, burying her face in
her handkerchief. ‘I shall terrify him if I at-
tempt it! I can’t! I must go to my own room!
I ean’t believe it! What could he have. died of so
suddenly! He can’t be dead, Harrold! Are you
sure?’’

“He appears to me to be quite dead, my lady,”
Harrold answers in his unmoved way.

And my lady, moaning hysterically, and trem-
bling violently, goes slowly away, followed by the
Italian maid Annunciata.

Put almost the next minute she is back in the
room again, looking wilder and more excited than
se has yet been.

“Warrold, Lord Cardonnel is calling you! You
must go to him! You must!” she says, in a sort
of frantic entreaty. ‘‘I dare not go near him! T
am ill myself, I am frightened to death!’’ She is
striking her hands wildly together, her eyes glit-
tering, her face white and contracted.

“C@tainly, my lady, I will go,’ Harrold re-
spends, in his icy, deferential manner, but pauses
to beckon the only other indoor man-servant to the
side of the couch where they have stretched -the
dead. man. ‘Allow no one to touch him, Beppo,
no one—you understand?” Harrold warns the man
sternly, in very literal Italian. ‘‘Let none of the
women lay a finger’on him. Do not touch him
yourself, you understand ?’’

And Beppo, shivering, protests with  out-
stretched hands that as all the saints hear him he
will not touch the poor signor’s body with the tip
of his finger!

Harrold is not absent three minutes, and when
he returns his master is with him, and they find
that, in spite of Beppo’s respectful entreaties and
objections, her ladyship is bending over the life-
less body with her hand inside the breast of the
co

”

at.
“T thought so!’’ Harrold mutters.
“Lydia, my dearest !’? Lord Cardonnel exclaims,

Poor fellow!
You. can do

“this is a terrible shock for you!
poor fellow! My love, come away!
no good !”’

He lays his hand tenderly on her shoulder, but
she shrinks away from his touch.

“T do not believe ‘he is dead!” she mutters. “I
think I ‘felt his heart beating just: now. I will not
go away until the doctor comes! I will not!”

She grinds the words out through her tight-
clinched little white teeth, and stiffens all over in
a rigid fury of determined wrath.

She does not look at any one as she speaks, but
stands there by the side of the couch, her chin
sunk on her breast, her shoulders drawn up, her
hands closed tightly and hanging by her sides.

“Tf you will permit me, my lady,’ the vatlet
says, in his smooth tones, and in his adroit, defer-
ential manner, moving closer to the couch, so close
that she must move back or refuse to allow him
to approach at all, “I will ascertain if his heart
is beating still.”

His hand is inside the coat ere he has finished
speaking, in the warmth of the late life that has
fled, and he rests his fingers a few moments over
the heart that is silent forever.

“There is no pulsation; he is quite dead, my
lord,’ Harrold says, in decisive tones, addressing
his master; ‘‘one can see it by looking
face.”’ '.

“Oh, yes! Poor fellow!
sudden!’ the earl says,

How terribly —terribly
in shocked -tones, but

drawing away nervously from the vicinity of the |

white, rigid face, the still form. “Lydia, dearest,
the poor fellow is indeed dead. We can do no
good by staying here; it is not fit for you to be
here, love!’ he urges, affectionately. -+‘Heart
disease, or apoplexy, I should suppose, Harrold,”
he adds, addressing his valet! ‘‘shouldn’t you say
$0?”

“Tt is difficult to say, my lord; the doctor will
decide,”. Harrold says, in his placid, cold voice.
will bring you and her ladyship word, my lord,
as soon as the doctor comes.”’

“Very well,’ the earl answers.
stay here any longer, Lydia; you will be ill, my
love,’”’ her husband urges again, tenderly.

“Rut I wish to stay. I—knew
time; { was an old friend. 1
him—till—till the doetor comes.’ she reiterates.

“Yes, I know, dear,” the earl says, gently,
rather surprised at, this outburst of feeling for the
dead man, who had only been a legal servitor for
her affairs, and whom she had never liked, as she
had herself told him. ‘“‘But the shock and the dis-
tress will tell on you afterward. I cannot allow
you to stay here, Lydia.’’

soft voice.}

| He draws her hand with affectionate marital au-
| thority within his arm, in spite of her petulant
; resistance, and leads her away; and she, chafing,
raging, terrified, her wicked soul seething in a
turmoil of guilty fears, is obliged to yield, because
she dare not, at this moment, disobey.

“Let us both wait here until the doctor comes?”
she urges, as a last chance of gaining ler ends.

“We will return when the doctor comes,’’ the
earl says, decisively, and rather irritably, because
of her persistence in what she can see is distaste-
ful to him. Indeed, bis cold, narrow, sensuous
nature is almost in a fever of anger and discom-
fort at all this horror, confusion, alarm and worry

rought here te his very doors, where, in the
poetic seclusion of this peaceful old Italian: villa,
he had thought to spend months of idyllic happi-
ness with his fair-young bride. ‘‘We will not stay
here for another hour, where we Cannot be of any
use! Harrold will remain until the doctor comes,”
he repeats, hurrying toward the door.

“T wish you would let me stay!’’ she pléads,
treatingly. ‘‘I am not afraid to stay!
stay, Cardonnel!”

“But I wish you not to stay, my love,”
says, tenderly, but determinedly. ‘‘Pray. obey me,
Lydia, dear. You know I am right. There is no
use in making more misery for ourselves than we
need, out of this unhappy occurrence,’’ he adds,
compiainingly. “Our stay here is completely
spoiled, of course! We shall have to go away
directly, after such a terrible thing happening
under the very roof! Come, Lydia!”

And as Lydia, Lady Cardonnel, leaves the room,
perforce submitting in sullen stlence to her hus-
band’s will, she gives one last anxious glance back
at the dead man, and at the living man who is
watching beside him.

And, for the second time, she meets
Harrold’s, eyes, and in them she reads
warning.

en-
I wish to

the earl

the valet,
Dlainly:

CHAPTER
THE SPELL OF A WOMAN’S CHARMS.

Harrold is still sitting beside the body when
the doctor—a mild, unassuming Englishman—ar-
rives.

He sees something which he cannot well overlook
almost as soon as his examination of the body
commences.

As soon as he raises the eyelids and sees the
bright, life-like eyes with the distended pupils, he
starts visibly, stoops closer ever the rigid face and
the livid lips, where a little white froth appears,
sniffs and smells, and then raises his face, grown
suddenly more pallid and serious, and looks across
at Harrold with a startled expression.

“You are his lordship’s personal attendant, I
believe, Mr. Harrold?’ the doctor says, nervously.

“Yes, sir; I have been his valet for twelve
years,’’ Harrold answers. ‘“‘Do you wish to see his
lordship, sir? He and Lady Cardonnel are natur-

xL.

{ally greatly upset and distressed, but I am sure

Lord Cardonnel will see you, sir, if necessary.’

“Tt will be necessary, I am afraid,’ the doctor
replies, his lips Working. ‘“‘There—there is some-
thing wrong here, something beside natural
causes.’’

“Good heavens, sir, you don’t say so!’’ Harrold
exclaims, with a-face of great amazement and
horror. ‘‘The poor gentleman fell. down in a sort
of fit while he was drinking a cup of tea, her
ladyship told us. The gentleman was her lady-
ship’s lawyer, she told me, sir.”

“‘Indeed?”’ the doctor more nervously. ‘“T
must see her ladyship, and trouble her with a few
questions, I am afraid.”

“Tt will inquire if her ladyship can see you, sir,”
Harrold says, deferentially, leaving the room.

Returning a few minutes later, he brings the
message.

“Her ladyship is nat at all well,
see you in her own room. Follow me,

Outside in the eorridor, rather faintly
with a few oil lamps, Harrold pauses.

“Phere is nothing more to be done, I suppose,

The poor gentleman’s body can be laid out
now ?’’

“Yes—that is, no, not until I
again,’ the doctor says, hastily. ‘Awd please keep
the cup and the tea, or whatever he was drinking
at the time of his death.”

“Can’t, sir,’ Harrold says, stolidly. ‘The
was all spilled, and the cup smashed to pieces.
He pulled the table over with him when he fell, her
ladyship told me.”’

“Oh! the doctor says, in a perplexed sort of
way. ‘Well, it can’t be helpeu. I must make a
closer examination presently; there are some ap-
pearances I can’t quite understand. When I have
seen her ladyship I shall be better able to fort
an opinion.’’

“T dare say, sir. Her ladyship will) tell you
everything you want to know,’ Harrold says, with
satire in his placid, respectful tones, which the
doctor neither hears nor suspects. ;

He knocks at a door at the farther end of the
corridor, and it-is opened by a young woman whom
Harrold addresses in Italian, and, stepping back
respectfully, the doctor enters, as the girl holds
aside a heavy velvet curtain for him.

Out of the chill, shadowy corridor it
transformation scene to step into the
warmth, the glow and glitter of the
richly-furnished room within.

“Oh, doctor, I am so thankful you have come!”
the physician hears a soft, plaintive voice say, be-
fore his dazzled eyes can make out where—amid
the glowing lamps, the glittering cut-glass can-
delabra filled with lighted wax candles, the ra-
diance of a blazing wood fire gleaming on brocade-
covered chairs and couches, silken hangings, lofty
mirrors, velvet-covered screens, tables loaded with
flowers, and books, and ornaments, jewel caskets,
and costly bric-a-brae of all sorts—-where, amid
all these beautiful and luxurious objects, is the
person who addresses him. He sees her at last;
the most beautiful and graceful object in the splen-
did room filled with beautiful and graceful things.

Lying in a low, crimson velvet-covered chair,
sheltered from a possible breath of chill air by a
crimson velvyet-covered screen, and fuil in the
warmth and radiance of the bright fire, is a lovely,
young, slender, white-faced woman, with beautiful,
glittering, changeful eyes, and wonderful golden-
red hair, all curling and waving in a nimbus of
shining locks above that delicate white face.

Then the doctor’s dazzled eyes’ note a little
further, and he sees that the slim, statuescue form
is lightly clad in soft, sheeny, silken garments of
pale yellow-—it looks like a golden tissue clinging
about those Jong, delicate, shapely limbs in the
firelight glow. The garment is really a tea-gown
of pale yellow “‘liberty” silk of finest quality; but
honest, simple-minded Dr. Williams has never even
imagined such a species of robe in his life.

He gazes at the clinging, shining,
silken draperies all the time the
with almost as much interest and
he does at the wearer.

A rich under-robe of soft, creamy lace and net
veils the neck and bosom, and the milk-white arms
inside the loose hanging sleeves of the yellow sik
gown; and in the lace, clasping it across the
bosom, is a superb diamond brooch, flashing in
scintillations of light at each movement. A ban-
deau 6f single diamonds glitters in her hair, hold-
ing the coronal of red-gold locks back from her
brow. Diamonds glitter like dewdrops in the lily-
like, long fingers; diamonds burn in starry ra-
diance on the rounded arms half hidden in lace. *

He has never seen such a woman—-never imag-
ined suck a woman, in his commonplace, workaday
life, spent mostly in dull provincial English towns,
with commonplace, plain-looking sisters, and a
most commonplace, sensible, bard-featured, good-
humored little body for a wife.

says,

sir, but will
sir, please.’’
lighted

have seen him

pale-g

interview

admiration as

soft, plaintive voice says again, in seduetive, half-
whispering tones. ‘I have been counting the min-
utes, sitting here, hoping against hope! But, alas!
there is no hope! I see it in your face! Oh, this
is dreadful !”’

The graceful head, with its wealth of rich, shin-
ing, chestnut-colored hair, drops like a broken
flower on one white hand as she moans out the
words.

“I grieve to say there is no hope, madam,” the
doctor falters. ‘“‘Have I the honor of speaking
to the Countess of Cardonnel? The poor gentle-
man is quite dead! More than an hour since, I
should imagine !”’ ‘

“Yes, I am Lady Cardonnel,”’ the lovely lady
answers calmly, but lifting her lustrous eyes, as
she sighs heavily, to the doctor’s face, and gazing
at him earnestly. ‘‘This is a terriblé event for us
—for Lord Cardonnel and myself, Dr. Williams!”
she adds, tremulously.

“T am sure it must be, my lady!’ the doctor

 

at his |

“oy |

“You must not |

him a long|
I wish to stay with |

murmurs, with respectful sympathy. ‘Your. lady-
ship knew the poor gentleman?’’

“Oh, yes,’ she says, calmly; ‘‘that is—as a man
of business, you know. Not very intimately. He
was a solicitor, and managed some of my affairs.
Indeed, it was on a matter of business he called
| here to-day. And, oh!’’ her ladyship says, with a
piteous clasping of her white, begemmed hands,
and a piteous uplifting of her-eyes, ‘“‘how I wish
i that he had neglected my business, poor man, and
never come !”’

“T’m sure you do, my lady!” Dr. Williams mur-
murs again, quite sadly. He feels much for
i her, he tells himself—a beautiful, high-bred crea-
ture like her, reared like a hothouse blossom all
her life, just newly married, with her title and her
coronet and her splendor all-about her; naturally
he feels the horror of this sudden death very
terribly! And, alas!-he will have to increase the
| horrors and the miseries tenfold to the lovely
young countess! ‘‘Mhe death being so sudden, my
lady,” he begins, falteringly, “‘there will have to be
an inquiry of some sort.”

“An inquiry? What sort of inquiry?” she asks,
with an innocent, childlike, troubled look, that Dr.
Williams says afterward goes to his heart. “‘I
will tell you exactly how it happened, doctor, as
far as I can remember correctly in my dreadful
fright and confusion !”

“T am grieved to be obliged to trouble your

so

“T am so thankful you have come, doctor!’ the.

 

ladyship, but there is no help for it,’
says, in most respectful earnestness. “T under-
stand, from the manservant, that your ladyship
was with the poor gentleman when—he died?’
“Yes, ob, yes!’ she says, with a sort of gasping
Sigh, and a convulsive shudder shakes her from
head to foot; her very limbs quiver perceptibly
beneath the thin silken folds of her dress. ‘‘I had
ordered afternoon tea to be brought in, and he
was just in the act of drinking some, he
rose up suddenly, doctor, put his hand to his
throat, saying he felt choking, and I ran to get
him some water, and, just as I put it to his lips, he
gave a sort of groan and fell!”’’
Her ladyship presses her hands
in a sort of spasmodic horror
of the scene.
““And the table?

Dr. Williams

when

over her eyes
at the remembrance

How did he
—does your ladyship remember?” Dr.
asks softly, feeling for ber so much.
““He,caught at it to save himself from falling,
I suppose, ‘and it went over with him, and all the
tea -service,’”’ she answers fe ly. wt could
it have been, doctor? A fit, or apoplexy r heart
disease ?’’
“Does your ladyship know if—-he was
health?” the docter asks reluctantly.
“T really am not sure,”’

in

good
she replies. ‘‘He seemed
ill—looked ill. -I cannot tell more that. He
looked to me to be in bad health.”

“And in good ‘spirits? Fairly good
lady?’ goes on the ‘doctor, more
“Did it seem to you as if there was anythin:
bling him?”

“Yes. He did seem
lady says, thoughtfully.

Then looking up, with that innocent, frightened
glance which goes to Dr. Williams’ heart, 2
leans nearer to him, so that he can feel the soft
warmth of her breath, and inhale the delicate per-
fume of her clothes, and lays one white, jeweled
hand on his arm.

“What do you
soft whisper.

“T mean, my lady,’ Dr. Williams falters, “‘that
I can’t give the authorities a certificate of the
cause of death, until I ascertain the cause.”’

“And how will you ascertain?’’ she asks breath-
lessly; ‘‘please tell me all. What do you suspect
as the cause?”

“There will have
mortem examination

than

in very low

mean, doctor?’’ she says,

to be an autopsy, a \post-
of the body,’ Dr. Williams
says, evasively. ‘‘I need not go into details with
your ladyship. Perhaps if I could see his lordship
for a few minutes it would be as well. I can ar-
range matters with him, the business details, and
so forth, my lady.’

“But you can go into business details with me!”’
she says sharply, and harshly, in a sort of re-
pressed excitement, speaking through tightly shut
teeth, her breast heaving beneath its half-trans-
parent laces. ‘‘I-am not:a child! I can hear what
you have to tell, Dr. Williams! I have a right to
know all the details of this awfully sudden death
of my poor friend, Mr. Blamire!”’

“Certainly, my lady,’ Dr. Williams says, sub-
missively, trying to evade the magnetic light of the
splendid, lustrous eyes burning on him, the potency
of her presence, of her touch, of her clasping hand
on his arm, of the delicate flower-like perfume
from those shimmering silks ands semi-transparent
laces that robe the slender, beautiful form. ‘I
only hesitated, fearing to distress you, Lady Car-
donnel,’”’ he says, soothingly, thinking at the mo-
ment how happy and fortunate a man he would be
if fate gave him beautiful, high-bred, amiable la-
dies like this lovely Lady Cardonnel in the list of
his patients. ‘“‘But the truth is the appearances
accompanying this very sudden death are so
strange that fe

“Strange—how strange? Oh, doctor, pray
speak plainly to me!’ Lady Cardonnel pleads in
pathetic entreaty. ‘“‘You are trying very kindly
to break some bad news to me, but it would be
kinder to speak out at once, and let me know the
worst, the very worst!’ she repeats with a hys-
terie, suppressed cry.

“T beseech you to be calm, my lady,”
Williams says, earnestly. “The very worst
that there are symptoms that Mr. Blamire diec
rom the effects of poison !”’

BE CONTINUED.

Dr.

is

TO

5-9

Items of interest.

Leprosy is common among the Filipinos. There

are about 12,000 lepers in the Philippines.

Some of the doctors in the London slums only
charge about fifteen cents for a consultation, with
medicine.

A’new cartridge, devised for the French army,’
will propel a bullet half a mile without any per-
ceptible rise or fall.

. The first millionaire resident of New York City
was John Jacob Astor, in 1820. wenty years
ago there were 294 millionaires in the city; now
there are 1,320.

During the last ten years the number of certified
pauper lunatics in the British Isles has been
steadily rising. Similarly, suicide is increasing
all over England.

improvement in engine
the power derived from
nearly three times. as
ago.

So vast has been the
boilers and fireboxes that
a pound of coal. to-day
great as it was fifty years

is

Borax has a whitening effect upon the hands
and face. Some ladies who desire to retain a fair
skin, take, twice a-week, a warm bath in which
half a pound of borax has been dissolved.

The press of*Spain is unanimous in the opinion
that the government of that eountry is lacking in
the sense of justice by delaying the payment of
the sailors who fought in tl Spanish-American
war. ‘Wive years have elapsed, and their pay is
still due.

The figures representing the white population of

Great ‘Britain’s colonies will surprise
sons. The important ones ¢ Rive
000; Australia, 3,860,000; Sc
New ‘Zealand, 815,000; which
11,075,000 persons.

The sale of

make a tota

fish was rece y

alarming extent in Marseilles by a

ment in a local: paper. The writer

most of the fish sald im the city durin;
vious month had fed on the bodies of persons
cently drowned off that port.

A city bank, for the benefit of needy wor
is to be established in @hristiania, Norway. I
will loan sums up to about $25, at an annual
terest of from three and a half to fo1 per cent.
It is intended to check the rapacity of pawnbrok-
ers, whose rates of interest are sometimes
high as twenty-five per cent.

while bathing in Vineyard
Haven Harbor, a bottle on the bottem ‘and
dived for it. When it was brought to the surface
it was found to contain a live lobster far’too large
to have crawled through the neck of the bottle.
It is supposed that it got into the trap when it was
a little fellow:and was unable to find its way out.

A strict law prevents the immigration of
Chinamen to Australia. A missionary in China
was endeavoring to convert one of the natives.
“Suppose me Christiam, me go to heaven?’ re-
marked Ah Sim. ‘Yes,’ replied the missionary.
“All right,’ retorted the heathen, ‘but what for
you no let Chinamen into Australia when ‘you let
him into heaven?’ ‘Ah,’’ said the missionary,
with fervor, ‘‘there’s nd labor party in ‘heaven!’

as

A young woman,

saw

An easy living was made by a gang of swindlers
in Paris, who pretended to be legatees to vast
fortunes, out of which they were kept by unprin-
cipled relatives. Plausible stories aroused sym-
pathy, and cash assistance was rendered to push
the claims of the legatees. Six men and four
women were recently sentenced to long terms of
imprisonment for this form of swindling. A. book
was found, in which their victims were enrolled
under the heading, “Directory of Softheads.”’

SS
A LADY.

An observant female contributor was once
asked: ‘‘Whiat is a lady?’’ To this importé
query she made the following admirable and sensi-
ble reply:

‘“‘A Jady neyer overdresses. She attires herself
with regard to the weather and the occasion, and
at no hour of the day, whatever may be her occu-
pation, is untidy. She is civil and obliging to all
persons in public whom chance throws in her way,
without distinction of garb or class, and 1-
able and humane with- her servants. never,
under shelter of her sex, is conversationally over-
bearing toward the other, to whom the rules of
courtesy forbid a-reply in kind. She never omits
by a smile or word gracefully to acknowledge the
slight favors they render her. She
ages matrimonial offers which she has n
of accepting: She makes a distinction in her
ception of gentlemen between those who at he
respect our sex and those who only make a pre-
tense of doing so. She never betrays, from a mean
vanity, the honorable love which she cannot re-
ciprocate. She never talks or laughs loudly in
public, or has-the Bad taste and bad manners to
disturb her neighbors in this way at concert, opera
or theatre. She is reverential at church, or, at
least, respects the feelings of those around her,
who desire to be so. She knows when to be silent,
when to speak, and how; in a word, she has tact
—I repeat it, tact, without which the most beauti-

is Teast

She

ful woman is but a tasteless fruit, a songless bird,

a scentless flower, or, in other words, a blundering
numskull !”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

THE NEW YORK

 

 

WEEKLY.

Vol. 59—No. 4

 

 

 

 

 

 

NEW YORK

NOV EMBER 7, 1903.
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The New York Weekly has a larger cir-
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PRINCIPAL

Under False Colors (Serial) .........- Nicholas Carter

The Stain of Guilt (Serial)....Charles W. Hathaway

A Sweet Little Lady (Serial) ...-.... Gertrude Warden |

Comrades in Exile (Serial). -
For Old Love’s Sake (Serial).....-..... Bertha M. Clay

Earle Wayne’s Nobility (Serial)...............

Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
Tucker’s Steam Paw p: ho cena ees Max Adeler
BRUNE Pegey's Helps s ist! Soe s aod Helena Dixon
What Nextt 3 saa. Rev. Geo. H. Hepworth
A Wife's Be VONRG. s oonsas voces cab tines esas Hero Strong
Tt Her-O wi Words 55 ends because: Clio Stanley
GOW EW Oi 5 40sec ds ae le awetiedase Florence Hope
The White Roses...... Orca Maggie Marigold
A: UTORR ABS. os ode saaticenrnns Richard Brodhead
“Keep My Secret?’’.. 2... eect ee Harkiey Harker
What the Baby Thinks.....:............,. Kate Thorn
Josh Billings’ Philosophy...........--.. Josh Billings
Pleasant Paragraphs.-.......-..... Charles W. Foster
Work Bose) cise AS es Mrs. Helen Wood

Items of Interest, Correspondeuce, ete.

POEMS

“Resignation,” by S. B. Pearce.
“The Old Barn,” by Adela 8. Cody.
“Forgiveness,”’- by John G. Whittier.

“A Vision of the Shore,” by Nathan D. Urner.

 

 

THE ADMIRABLE HOSTESS.

Tact and talent are required to be a good en-
tertainer. The qualities essential to make an
admirable hostess are yarious, and it would be
dificult to say which is the most essential one.

One indispensable quality of a good entertainer
appear, and, if possible, really to feel, inter-
ested in the things that her visitors discuss. This
uality is also a requisite of the fascinating and
popular woman.

However entertaining you may be, you should
not lose sight of the fact that others may also
want to air their talents in the conversational
line, and you should give them a chance.

There is nothing more é@xasperating, besides be-
ing downright bad form, as to listen in an ab-
stracted, slightly impatient manner, and begin at
once your story before the words are fairly out of
your visitors mouth. Listen attentively, inter-
estedly, and do not show that you are waiting
for one to finish. Another phase of impoliteness
is to an ticipate the point of an anecdote or to an-
nounce that you have “heard it before in a dif-
ferent way.’ Such breaches are really unkind-

and would never be committed if you cul-
tivated the faculty of putting yourself in the
other’s place. You like attention; you like time
to tell your story, and draw your point; you like
appreciation of your stories.
others these privileges? ;

While assuming an interest in others, do not
also assume that others are interested in all that
appeals to you. If everybody followed this sug-
gestion, the problem would be solved in a trice.
It requires much tact and discrimination in se-
lecting topics for all degrees and shades
thought. Do not talk above the heads of people
just to air your own ideas. Many people do this
to make “an impression, but the impression they

usually just the opposite of the. one

is to

do make is
they expected to make

~<$-+ Op
SURMOUNTING DIFFICULTIES.

It has been said, with great truth, that the
grandest phases of the human character are ex-
hibited in surmounting difficulties. Failure seems
but to discipline the strong; only the weak are
verwhelmed by it. Difficulties draw forth the
best energies of a man; they reveal to him his
true strength, and train him to the exercise of his
noblest powers. Difficulties try his. patience, his
energy, and his working faculties. They test the
strength of his purpose, and the force of his will.
Let no one say that because he knows a little,
and can do a little, he ought, therefore, to rest
where he is, and, dismayed at difficulties, give up
with “it can’t be done—it’s of no use trying.”’

Would you lie in the gutter if thrown down there? |

No! get up, act, work,
termine to advance

cultivate your nature, de-
; and if you are resolute, you
must eventually succeed. There may be diffi-
culties to encounter, but the dawn will surely
come to him who has patience to await it, and who
has energy of purpose to grapple with those diffi-
culties, and subdue them. One half of the diffi-
culties will be found imaginary, when they are
fairly fronted. In the dark we stumble, and are
confused by the first glimpses of light—we are apt
to despair and think the light will never ,come;
but at last we find a footing, and the darkness
flies away, as we hastily emerge into the upper
air. Hope and diligence are the life and soul
of success. The temper in which the words “It
can’t be done!’’ are uttered, have no kinship with
these. “It can’t be done!” does nothing; it is a
giving up in despair. But ‘‘It can be done!” “It
must be done!’ “It shall be done!” always
achieves wohders, and in the end seldom fails.

 

 

! That’s what good mothers,
..St. George Rathborne

|Il have found that I get along best when I keep

| my sorrows, disappointments, and calamities to my-
self.

Why not accord to}

of ing of?

 

 

THE OLD

BY ADELA

Its doors stood wide and free to all;

Each horse neighed welcome from his stall,
When summer showers drove us there

To linger until skies grew fair,

A magic realm ’twas to us then

Whose dark enchanter was old Ben!

Like chandeliers swung overhead,
The wasp’s wide nest of cells was spread,
And on some rafter, still and flat,

 

BARN.

s.

With wings outstretched, reposed the bat,
While pigeons fluttered in and out,
Viewing our presence there with doubt.

Ah, dear old barn; you stored away

Far more than oats and corn and hay;
Beneath your rafters what a hoard

Of shining dreams our bosoms stored;
And still from ’neath your shadows hoar
We take bright ingots from that store.

‘Keep My Secret?”

By Harkley Harker.

I put the above question to a friend.

‘Better not have secrets,’’ was his reply.

“That may be,’ I replied. ‘But of course no
one can live without here and there a secret aris-
ing in his life, which he wants to preserve in-
violate.”’

“What,

“Well,
affairs.”

“Very well.

for instance?”
family matters, for instance, or business

Why should one talk about such
things to any one? What occurs in your family
is no doubt about a counterpart of what occurs in
mine and every other well-regulated household. I
could guess it pretty nearly by thinking of my
own. No doubt you sometimes have a hole in your
stocking; I haven’t a shadow of doubt of it—
may have one this moment. I guess this because
such oversights have been discovered in our do-
mestic mending. But why tell anybody? | You
have a conjugal disagreement. Very well; keep
it to yourself, and tell no one but God. As to
business secrets, why, keep the affairs of your own
office in your own office, except as you impart
them to parties actually concerned. In which case
they become their secrets, and the recipients are
interested in their preservation. But to burden
a man with a secret which in no wise concerns
him except as your friend, is to tempt and strain
friendship as aera nothing else will. Many a
friendship has been gnawed through by the small
mice of intrusted Das eae that would

hardly have been burned by great fires of perse-
cution. It is another illustration of the little foxes
that spoil the vines.’’

“But sometimes a man’s heart gets so full

“Yes, I know. He longs to unburden Miaeeir.
and fathers, and wives
Your life is a sort of their
tell God, and God alone.

Tell them.
But, most of all,

are for.
lives.

If things turn out better than I feared, my
friends never know how weak and tottering I once
was, and they respect me as a strong man accord-
ingly. That’s worth something. It is a sort of
stock in trade, a credit to vigor of character, to
be known as uniformly efficient and competent.
Or, if things turn out for the worst, why, all my
friends come to know my misfortunes soon without
my prophetic telling. To foretell my fears spins
out the agony. It makes my face the signal for
tears and condolence, quenches all the laugh as
soon as I come in, and makes demands for sym-
pathy—all because they know my secret. I speak
now of true, sterling friends; whereas, if a super-
ficial friend has, by any chance, got my secret, as
soon as he sees me he says to himself: ‘There
comes Tom, and I know he’s in trouble. Bother it!
I wish he’d stay away.’ So I ask very few peo-
ple to keep very few secrets for me.’’

“But a man may have a happy secret.’’

“Oh, there are very few of them. If one is
happy he lets his light shine. Rarely does one
wish to keep good fortune secret. Certainly there
are exceptions. You are engaged to be married
to the prettiest little Christian in all the world,
and give me the secret. Yet you rather expect [’ll
let it out to my wife and all our friends. There
may be other cases; but my experience is that
most secrets, technically so called, are of trouble.
They are quiet, which had best be whispered to
God in repentance, and to the party sinned against
in offer of reparation. They are intentions of
wrongdoing, plans and parts of plans to get the

 

advantage of somebody. They are follies, blun-

ders, and ‘silly things that will not bear the light
of day. They are things which we are half or
quite ashamed of. They are acknowledgments of
our ignorance and incompetence as men among
men, and so we have come to levy on some wiser
man’s brains. I tell you no, As a rule, secrets
are not the tools of high-toned workmen in the
toil of life. Manliness tends to publicity. It is so
written on the open brow.”

My friend went on to point out to me that nine
times out of ten when the quéstion was asked,
“Will you keep it secret if I tell you something?”
the thing imparted was about a third person, some
tidbit of scandal, gossip, or slander» I think he
was right. My friend asked me to review my life
for a_single week, and note how few things in it
that needed to be told to others, would be improp-
erly told upon the housetop; that is, if I were a
pure man. I was surprised to find in review—
thank God! and don’t think me conceited, for I
doubt not the same is true of you—that an honor-
able week has few secrets. It is true that a great
many things occur in a week that are of no con-
cern to @he housetop, I broke my suspenders in
bowing at a reception, for instance; but there
would be no shame, no moral shame, in telling that
from the housetops.

My friend exhorted’ me to preserve a decent re-
serve, even with my most intimate friends.
Friends of to-day are not always friends of to-
morrow. He indicated to me the difficulty of com-
municating in secret to another in a way that
would be accurately understood. He said “try
your best,’’ and yet your confidant will miscon-
strue some word, or circumstance, and fail to get
your exact meaning. Only God can understand
the whole secret. No human secret-keeper could so
completely enter into the entire situation as the
best of friends can. Rarely, very rarely, does a
secret-keeper know how to advise you, from a just
appreciation of your dilemma, as well as you can
advise yourself; for you know all. The only ex-
ceptions to this rule are those close friends—say
a pious wife, or mother, or father—-who see you
living your life day by day; and they know your
secret generally before you tell it.

Secrets make disagreeable obligations. If I beg
to leave my rattlesnake in your bedroom for a
while, you will be asking me to conceal your tiger
in my back parlor, by and by. At any rate, few
men are going to lug your uncomfortable burden
around for nothing. There are glorious exceptions;
one man in a hundred thousand will take your
sorrow and lock it up, godlike. But the ninety-
nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine will
ask pay—some time. Depend on it, and such stor-
age bills are big. ; :

Now confide in God. Kind and generous
charity of Him who said: ‘‘Enter into thy
and shut the door. My Father who seeth in secret
shall hear and reward thee openly.” If it is all
right between you and Heaven, you may hold your
head up and throw opgp your coat, taking a long,
free breath, Then let ‘any rascal on earth assail
you, saying: “‘I’ll tell!
PH tell!’ You can
him:

“Tell, then! Why, there’s nothing to tell!’

They say that there is a Judgment Day coming,
and then the secrets of all hearts shall be opened.
But to whom? I doubt if you will ever know my
hidden sadness, my weary complaints and sorrows,
poured into God’s ears. He keeps the plaint, and
He forgives, and wipes away our tears.

is the
closet

Give me my blackmail, or
laugh out your answer at

Josh Billings’ Philosophy.

Mankind won’t proffit bi experience; the world |
makes az menny blunders now az it did before the
flood.

Obstinacy looks well enuff in a mule or a gate-
post, but it is neither ornamental nor usephull in
a man.

If you take the rumatism out ov old age, thare
isn’t mutch ov ennything else left to brag on.

Thare are people who are never unhappy, sim-
ply bekauze they hav never known what it iz to
be happy.

No man kan oy how mutch ov the hero or the
koward thare iz in him untill he haz been well
tried. ¢

Az long az life holds out, vanity and foolishness
will.

We kan’t be perfect, but we kan be better than
we are.

When reazon fails to korrekt an then

try ridikule.

Adam committed the most
amount ov temptashun ov enny
relashuns.

abuse,

sin with the least
ov our previous

only pedigree worth having iz the one a
for himself and transmits for ex-

The
man makes

 

ample.

Thare iz the vulgar in hi life az well az in low,
and the hifaluting vulgar are the most disgusting.

Very sedate children hav often been known to
gro into harum-skarum youths, and finally settle
back into stupid old men.

Fame iz the poorest wages enny
worked for.

man ever

The fust haff ov most peoples’ lives
knocking holes in their constitushun,
sekond haff in stopping the leaks.

iz spent
and the

Genuine wit and good sense are usually found
in each other’s company.

Don’t let the world kno ennything about yure
trials and trubles; it will excite their vanity
sooner than it will command their compashun.

The greatest heros the world haz ever produced
hay been thoze who hav conquered themselfs.

Yu kan’t git wit or wisdom in a college;
may learn thare how to use it.

you

Whether amung men or animals, yu will notiss
oe thing, all the very cunning ones hav smal
eads.

Thare iz this difference between a wize man
and a pheol—the wize man learns sumthing from
every one he meets, while the phool tries to teach
sumthing to every one he meets.

What the Baby Thinks.

By Kate

Somebody wants to know what the baby is think-

And we, too, would like to know.

It is a subject on which considerable conjecture
may be indulged, but to get at the truth of the
matter might be somewhat difficult. And we
should not, probably, recognize the truth when we
found it.

A baby of the genuine, orthodox sty
colorless, shapeless as to body, with a head round
as a bullet, a forehead as puckered and wrinkled
as his grandmother’s, and two little blinking eyes
set far back in a mass of putty-colored layers of
fat—is not tc our mind a very attractive spectacle
to contemplate, though we are well aware that
every worshiping mother of a baby will hate us
most devoutly in consequence of our opinion.

A big apple dumpling, with two huckleberries
judiciously set therein, might sit. for almost. any
small baby’s photograph with good hope of suc-
cess.

The baby’s sole idea, if one may be allewed to
judge from his actions, is how best to get both his
fists into his mouth at Once; and after that comes
the problem of how he can best turn his heels over
his head without getting off his back to accomplish
the feat. And when he finds he cannot do either of

these things to his satisfaction, he gets mad and
cries, and his loving mother is terrified for fear
cholera infantum is coming on, and she gives him
a dose of soothing syrup, and sends for the doctor.

No doubt a baby has some notions of hig own,
if he were only given the faculty of speech to ex-
press them.

The world,,to him, smells of flannel and sour
milk. We wonder if his very soul does not breathe
paregoric !

And if he would not like to rid the universe of
that vile abomination which has so many times
been employed to ransack his infantile stomach
and bowels, and which is designated by the label—
eastor oil?

 

Does he like being caught suddenly, and tossed

Thorn.

up to the ceiling, and turned upside down, and
downside up, in the reckless way people have of
handling babies? Does he relish snappy kisses
from fond old aunts and uncles who eat onions to
kill the taint of whiskey and tobaco, or vice versa,
we do not know which?

What does he think when a pin sticks in him, and
he yells with agony, and his mother takes him on
her knee, and ‘trots him, and tells the nurse she is
afraid the ‘“‘little precious” is going to have that
“dreadful, nasty colic’? again? And then comes
the castor oil bottle.

is it happiness for the baby to be swathed -in
flannel, and smothered in pillows, in a furnace-
heated room where the mercury is higher than it
has any legitimate right to be on the Fourth of
July?

Does he like to have his feet produced from their
wrappings and shown to admiring visitors as the
“prettiest ’ittle footsies tootsies’’ in the world?
Does he like to have his toes felt and squeezed?
Does he like to have his back patted? Does he
like to have fingers thrust in his mouth to make
him show his new teeth? 5

Don’t you suppose he wishes the man that in-
vented soothing syrup could be hung? Don’t you
suppose he wishes there had never been any such

a thing as “Mellin’s Food,” or Mellin either?

Why Woe he like to pull hair? Why does he
contemplate his toes by the hour, and break into
spasms of shrieking if anybody crosses the fas-
cinating objects?

How does he like his mother to churn him up
and down on her knee after he is fed, and then
put him in the cradle and rock him till his
wretched little head bounces from side to side, and
the world turns around before his dizzy vision,
and, weary with trying to keep pace with it, he
falls. asleep at last?

We were all babies ourselves once, but we are
none the wiser for it, and it seems quite likely that
time will go on, and we shall none of us know
what the baby thinks.

”

 

 

“?
D9

y

; " CORRESPONDENCE, *

A 3 HELPFUL TALKS WITH

OUR READERS.

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

ie

| TAS

 

7
yt

L. M. Peterson, Cincinnati, Ohio.—The triple
erown worn by the later popes had an interesting
origin. At first the ornamental headdress of the
popes was only a cap; but Clovis, King of the
Franks, to show his respect to the Church of
Rome, sent to the Palace of St. John Lateran a
royal crown of gold, which Anastatius, Emperor
of Constantinople, had presented to him. The Pope
Hormisdas, who flourished from A. D. 514 to 523,
placed upon the tiara this crown, which was at that
time nothing more than a circle of gold, sur-
mounted by leaf work, being a coronet such as is
nowadays worn by marquises in France. The suc-
cessor of Pope Hormisdas, Joannes I., and the suc-
ceeding pontiffs, continued to wear the tiara with
one crown only up to the time of Boniface VIIL.,
but this pope, having claimed all authority over
things temporal as well as things spiritual, wished
to mark this double dominion eyen on the pon-
tifical tiara, on which he placed two crowns, in-
stead of one. Ultimately, Pope Joannes XXII.,
who reigned from 1316 to 1334, added a third
crown. ¢

RavrorpD, Sandwich, Mass.—Beatrice Cenci was
a beautiful Roman girl, who was born about 1583,
and executed in September, 1599. She was the
daughter of Francesco Cenci, a Roman of large
fortune, but of bad character and dissolute habits.
Beatrice was the daughter of his first wife, and
was taken with her stepmother, by the father, to a
desolate castle near the Neapolitan frontier.
While there they were subjected to every species of
ignominy and insult, the daughter being forced to
submit to an unnatural crime. She vainly ap-
pealed to Pope Clement VIII. for protection, and
then she and her mother resolved to kill their per-
secutor. The first attempt failed, but the two women
afterward drugged him, and while he -was asleep
the assassins were introduced into his room, and
he was killed. One of the assassins afterward
confessed, and Beatrice, her stepmother,
latier’s brother were executed. The story has
formed the subject of a drama, tragedy, novel, and
numerous poems,

B. W. HopeGKIns, Montreal, Canada.—Thunder-
storms are most frequent in Java, which has an
average of no fewer than ninety-seven in the year.
Next to Java comes Sumatra with eighty-six, then
Hindostan with fifty-six, Borneo with fifty-four,
the Gold Coast of Africa with fifty-two, and Rio
Janeiro with fifty-one. In Europe the list is
headed by Italy with thirty-eight thunderstorm
days, Austria with twenty-three, Baden, Wiirtem-
burg, and Hungary with twenty-two, Silesia, Ba-
varia and Belgium with twenty-one, Holland, Sax-
ony and Brandenburg with seventeen or eighteen,
France, Austria. and South Russia with sixteen,
Britain and the Swiss Mountains” seven, Norway
with four, and Cairo with three. The United States
have an average of about twenty-two in the year.
In Eastern Turkestan and in the extreme north-
ern parts of the world there are few cr no thun-
derstorms.

CARAWAY, Centerpoint, Ind.—Apple batter pud-
ding is made by slicing tart apples.into a deep
dish, adding sugar and a little water, and baking
until nearly tender enough. . Prepare the batter by
sifting together two cups_of flour, three table-
spoonfuls of baking powder, and a little salt. Beat
an egg, and mix it with a cupful of milk, half a
cupful of sugar, and two tablespoonfuls of melted
butter. Stir the flour into this mixture and pour
the batter over the apples. Bake about twenty
minutes, and serve with whipped cream or a sweet
sauce. This pudding may be made with berries,
fresh or dried; peaches, or other fruit.

L. B. P., Buffalo, Ny Y.—To cleanse the hair and
scalp the following recipe is excellent: One tea-
spoonful powdered borax; one tablespoonful spirits
of hartshorn; one quart soft water. Mix all to-
gether and apply to the head with a soft sponge;
then rub the head well with a dry towel. Use once
a week......Another efficient method of cleansing
the hair is to take the yolk of an egg and rub it
in thoroughly, a little at a time: It will produce a
slight soapy lather, which should be rinsed out
with soft water. This leaves the scalp perfectly
clean and the hair soft and silky.

JEPSON, Santaquin, Utah.—The expression, ‘‘All
talk and no cider,’ originated in this way: A
number of gentlemen had been induced to assemble
at a spacious house in Bucks County, Pa., with the
understanding that they were to be treated by the
broaching of a cask of superior old cider. Politics
were introduced, speeches were made and discus-
sion ensued, till some malcontents withdrew on
the plea that it was a trap into which they had
been lured, politics, and not pleasure, being the
purpose of the meeting—or, as they declared, ‘‘All
talk and no cider.’’

T. W. MACKENZIE, Kalamazoo, Mich.—The card
which is jokingly called ‘‘the curse of Scotland,’’
is the nine of diamonds. There are two reasons
assigned for the title; one is that a Member of
Parliament from Glasgow, part of whose family
arms was the nine of diamonds, voted for the in-
troduction of the malt tax into Scotland; the
other is that the Duke of Cumberland wrote on
the back of the nine of diamonds the cruel order
to give no quarter to the Scots who fought on the
side of Charles Edward Stuart at the battle of
Culloden.

HENRIETTA, Dayton, Ohio.—To distinguish cot-
ton from linen when you are choosing handker-
chiefs, moisten the tip of your finger and place it
on the handkerchief. If it is wet through at once
it is linen, but if cotton be present in its manu-
facture, it will take some seconds to penetrate the
threads. In linen the threads are less even than
in cotton.

W. R. PATTERSON, Troy, N. Y.—Barnum’s Mu-
seum, at the corner of Ann Street and Broadway,
New York City, was burned down July 13, 1865;
its successor on Broadway was destroyed by fire
March 2, 1868; and the last one, on Fourteenth
Street, New York, was burned down on December
24, 1872.

NELLI£ E. Varn, Archbald, Pa.—‘‘The Crime of
a Countess,” by Nicholas Carter, is No. 5 of the
Magnet Library, published by Street & Smith.
Any news agent will supply it for ten cents.
Your suggestion regarding the other story will
receive consideration.

JENNIE, Port Jervis, N. Y.—To prevent flat-
irons from rusting,. rub them with wax before
they are put away. A little film of wax resists
the action of the air which produces rust. When
the irons have been allowed to rust they should
be scoured with salt.

CARTON, Sandpoint, Idaho.—The largest oil
painting in the world is one by Tintoretto, repre-
senting a view of Paradise. It is thirty-three and
a half feet in height, and eighty-four feet in wicth,
and adorns a room in the Doge’s Palace, Venice.

and the;

STURTEVANT, Hamilton, Ontario.—The air is
cooler over a forest than immediately above a
plain which is scant of trees. This is the reason
given for the fact that when a balloon passes’ over
a forest it descends, and ballast must be thrown
out to maintain the balloon’s buoyancy. This is
doubtless due to the existence above every forest
|of a stratum of cool, moist air, produced by the
{abundant transpiration of the trees, and extend-
ing to a height of\from 3,000 to 5,000 feet above
the tops of them. :

W. R. Enton, New York City.—The late Ed-
ward S. Stokes was tried three times for the mur-
der of James Fisk. His first trial resulted in
conviction of murder, and he was sentenced to be
hanged on February 28, 1873. He secured a sec-
ond trial, and was again convicted of murder in
the first degree; but a third trial was granted, and
the jury found a verdict of murder in the second
degree, under which he was sentenced’ and served
four years in the Sing Sing State Prison.

GENEVIEVE, Roxbury, Mass.—The first use of the
side-saddle for female riders is traced to the time
of Anne of Bohemia, eldest daughter of Charles-
IV., Emperor of Germany, She married Richard
Il. of England in January, 1382. Previous to this
time, all European women bestrode their horses in
manly fashion, but on account of a deformity, this
German bride was forced to use a side-saddle, and
the custom soon became general.

A. J. P., Santo, Texas.—Counting the numerous
foreign words, such as ‘‘matinée,’’ “‘khaki,’’ ‘‘chas-
sepot,”’ “jinrikisha,’’ “hacienda,’’ ‘‘tom-tom,’’
etc., which have recently been added to our lexi-
cons, there are about 350,000 words in the Eng-
lish language.

H. M. Innzs, Saltlick, Ky.—Scotland has long
been famous for the excellence of its oatmeal
cakes, and this is the reason for calling that coun-
try the ‘‘Land o’ Cakes.”

IN HER OWN WORDS.

BY CLIO STANLEY.

Hitt Farm, September 2.
He will keep his word with me. At last I have
the letter, in his‘own well-known handwriting, tell-
ing me that in one week more he will be with me.
Seven short, sweet days—for every one will be
filled with thoughts of my lover! s

My lover! How I say the words over and over
to myself, trying to satisfy my hungry heart with
the sound of them. Since when has he not been
my lover? Since the days when we were boy and
girl together, playing in my father’s garden, toss-
ing roses in-the air, or making garlands of them
for the bright June days that slipped so sweetly
away from us; or, since, youth and maiden, we
first found that there were sweeter paths in this
world of ours than those strewed with roses!
Never once has my heart wandered, never has he
broken faith, except in this last fatal summer,
when Kate Varley came to his mother’s house, and
won his thoughts from me with her bold, bright
eyes. It would be foolish in me, here in the silence
of my own chamber, to deny that she is beautiful—
and what man does not love to look at a beautiful
woman if she puts herself in his way? Just as
certainly I know that my loveliness is not exter-
nal—yet—-yet—-I know he loves me best. I should
be crazy indeed. not to know it, when in seven days
more, he has said, I shall be his beloved and hon-

ored wife.

September 3.
Another long letter, full of tender messages, has
made this day bright. The day, and the world,
and life, and especially this little corner of the
werld, where I am quietly bidding farewell to the

last bright days of my maiden life. How bright
those other days will be which I am approaching,
I know not; but I have faith that they will be all
that heart can desire. ;

This is a beautiful spot—this old-fashioned
farm, though the hiliside is steep and rugged.
There are patches of pine woods halfway down—
we are quite at the top of the hill—dotting the
light green land; meadows where quiet cattle are
grazing, looking, with their great, tender, brown
eyes, as if they> too, could discern the change on
the face of the earth, in these days that, though
sober, are yet brightly bound.

What a genial day it is! The cool air is blow-
ing about the few fallen*leaves, and bringing hints
of delicious fragrance somewhere near me, while
the golden-rod lifts its bright head along by the
fence, awaiting recognition.

And what a pleasant earth it is! It is like a»
rare bound volume, each leaf hiding away some
fair picture of spring, or summer, or harvest time;
and what happy memories each scene brings up!
For I will not think of anything that isn’t pleasant
and beautiful to-day. This day shall be a glad
one even down to its last faint twilight gleam!

September 4.

And it was. Not one miserable thought in-
truded itself while the sunlight lasted; but when
the gray curtains of the night fell around me my
courage was somehow gone. Faith and hope de-
serted me at once, and I had the very blackest of
dreams. :

I try to comfort myself by saying ‘“‘dreams surely
go by contraries’’—a wretched little line that I
have somewhere heard—but it is of no use; the
dream haunts me still.

I thought I was walking with Owen by the side
of a beautiful river, our feet sinking in the green
grass and daisies at every step. His arm was
around me, and he was telling me over and over
the sweet love story to which I have listened a
thousand times, when, suddenly, from behind an
elm that grew close to the river, stepped that
woman.

She fixed her. shining, cruel eyes on my face, and
Owen’s arm fell away. Then she turned to him
with a radiant smile, and put out her slender
white hand with the wedding ring ‘on it, and he
went with her!

With her, and left me standing like a poor
white ghost among the trees that only a moment
before had seemed so beautiful. Where they went
I did not know, but I was left alone, and they
were together, she with the golden wedding ring
which I was to have worn on her rosy, dimpled
finger.

It is only a dream, of course, but I cannot rid
myself of its bad impressions. God forgive me;
but I hate that beautiful girl! I cannot quite for-
give her, even though Owen has come back to me
and has apparently forgotten her.

But does a man ever quite forget when he has
kissed a woman’s lips and held her caressingly in
his arms? I will not think of it, or I shall grow
mad again. He is all mine now—my lover, as he
was before he saw her vivid beauty—and I will
not believe that he can forsake me now, when our
wedding day is almost here. i

September 5.

Almost here—I have written, and yet for two
days no letter has come. Can he be so careless of
my happiness after all, or does he mean to come a
day earlier, and give me a joyful surprise? I
wish to-morrow were here, and this anxious un-
certainty gone. I feel such a horror of foreboding ;
and yet the world is as bright and sunshine just
as sweet as it was two days ago. But life—ah!
life has lost something; how can I find out what
it is? Is my love wavering? No. A. thousand
times no! Is my faith shaken? I cannot tell. I
feel bewildered; vague fears oppress me and
darken the very air around me. I believe I have
been too long in the house. I will go out, and
down the hill, and walk by the pleasant river. It
may be it will sing me a song of hope. It may be
the music of its waters will charm away this dull
pain. a

* * oJ = = & = ¢

It is ten years since that last sorrowful, blotted
line was written. It is just ten years to-day since
my niece, Margaret, died. They said she was in-
sane, and took her own life, but I have never for a
moment believed it. This yellow, time-stained
diary, which I found last night tucked away ameng
the folds of her wedding dress, in the trunk up-
stairs, reassures me. I know absolutely nothing,
but I believe Katharine Varley murdered her. I
believe she met her there by the river and pushed
her into the dark waters which hide so many
secrets. She has been his wife eight years now,
but people say that a shadow of something evil
seems to haunt their home. I cannot tell—God
only ‘knows, or maybe her own heart. But some
day the secret will be brought to light, with every
deed of life, though I may never in this world

 

know the story of Niece Margaret’s cruel death.

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

 

 

 

 

UNDER FALSE

COLORS.

By NICHOLAS CARTER,

Author of ‘Tracked Across the Atlantic,” ‘“Run to Earth,” ‘‘The Old Detective’s Pupil,”
“Behind a Mask,” ‘‘The Chain of Evidence,”’ ete., ete.

(“UNDER FaLsE Coors”

CHAPTER IV.
IN THE GLOOM OF NIGHT.

“Ha! a right and a clearing! If I am not in
error, this should be the very place. It has been
a long and arduous Search, but the game is worth
the powder.’’

These observations, muttered with a growl of
mingled satisfaction and relief, issued from the
lips of Nick Carter, nearly three hours subsequent
to the scenes last depicted.

; The intense gloom of the wild night had en-
veloped the sea and shore, shrouding in a mantle
of almost impenetrable darkness. the heaving
waters of the gulf, and the barren peninsula,
against whose rugged and precipitous face the
surging billows were beating and breaking with a
eee like that of heavy guns in the heat of
attle.

The northeast gale tore through the sweep of
woodland that crowned the cliffs of the dismal
promontory, and its wild sigh, amid the swaying
branches, seemed to vie with the restless tumult
on the rocky shore far below.

From the spot at which he had halted, there was
brought to Nick’s ears the dull roar of the dis-
tant breakers, accentuating with their constant
beat the loneliness and desolation of the wild and
dismal scene.

The designs actuating him, and the occasion of
his presence on that dismal eastern shore, will ul-
timately appear, and only his immediate move-
ments are now essential.

Clad in a seaman’s garb, he had arrived at the
edge of the small clearing, a welcome break in
the gloomy woods through which he for hours
had been laboriously picking his way.

The light that had suddenly met his gaze, and
the dim outlines of the dwelling in which. it was
contained, were the only signs of a habitation
within miles; yet, since noon that day, the tire-
less detective had been in search of this retreat,
upon which he had now fairly stumbled.

As his muttered observations may suggest, he
had reasons for believing that the retreat was that
of the outlaws against whom his secret operations
had long been directed.

Yet not a sign of a human being rewarded his
searching scrutiny of the solitary dwelling scarce

* a hundred yards distant.

“Where there is smoke there should be fire, and
where there’s a lamp there should be people,’ he
muttered, after a brief pause.

“Vl make an investigation,.at least. If my
men are here, I must find some plausible way to

. pull wool over their eyes, and force myself upon
them. Yet, it’s odds they’ll not be easily blinded.”

Cautiously crossing the clearing, he approached
the house, the gloom of the night effectually hid-
ing him, while the tumult of nature- drowned
any ordinary sound.

The light was in a room on the ground floor,
the window to which had neither blind nor cur-
tain. Without much difficulty, Nick presently dis-
covered that the room was a kitchen, and de-
serted.

Crouching below the window, he crept around
the adjoining corner of the house, which brought
him to its front elevation, and that which over-
looked the break of the cliff on which it was lo-
cated, and the vast expanse of the gulf far below.

The front door of the house was closed, and the
front rooms were in darkness.

Before he could decide upon his next move, how-
ever, a sound as of one absently tapping on a near
window pane reached his ears.

“By Jove, the place is not deserted !”’ he said to
himself, renewing his caution. ‘‘This front room
is evidently occupied.” i

Stealing back around the corner, he ventured
close to one of the side windows, and there, after
intently straining his ears for several moments,
he caught the sound of a woman’s voice.

It was so dark outside that he ventured to peer
within. . ‘

The room was in darkness, or nearly so; only
the rays from the kitchen lamp, falling through
the hall, shed a faint glow into the front room.

By this Nick could dimly see a figure standing
at one of the front windows, apparently staring
out into the night. 3

It was the figure of a woman.

Then the sound of a voice, and the words
spoken reached the detective’s ears.

“Don’t you sight nuthin’ yet?”

“Sight anything? Yes.’

“What, Joan?”

“Pitch darkness—like a black wall
outside the window.”’

“D’ye want me to spell you fur a time?”

“No. My eyes are better’n yours.”

“Ay, Joan, they are. And your ears, too.’

“True, mother. Yet neither eyes nor ears are
worth much against the gale and* gloom of this
night.”’

Then there followed an interval of silence—a
silence broken only by the noise of the wind, the
distant beat of breakers, and the idle tapping on
the window pane, by the fingers of her who stood
staring out into the black abyss of night.

“Two women,’ said Nick to himself. ‘Evidently
alone here, and keeping watch for something.
Watching probably for Capt. Peter Gaspard and his
rascally craft and crew. A wild night for such a
duty, and a wilder night for them for whom she is
watching. I must invent some plausible method
by which to fool them.”

Then the silence within was broken again.

“Don’t you get any signal at all?” ;

“Signal!” was the response, contemptuously
uttered. ‘“‘I doubt if I couli see the flash of it.
My eyes are half strained from their sockets. <r
reckon nothing short of a rocket’ll pierce the mist
and gloom, and I heard dad say he had none
aboard.” 4
. “Is the wind dead ashore?’

“Ay, it is, and worse luck. If dad tries mak-
ing the cove this night, he must signal a long way
out.”

“Mebbe he'll chance using the gun, Joan.”

““Mebbe he will, the night oveing so nasty. Light
the lamp there.” ae

“If I do, Joan, you can’t see out.”

“T’ll do better,” was the curt answer. ‘“‘I’ll go
out on the bluff, where I can both see and hear.’’

In response to the command given, there was a
shuffling of feet over a bare floor, and a moment
later the rays of an oil lamp dispelled the gloom
in which the speakers had been enveloped.

Nick drew back from the side window, yet he
- was able to see plainly into the room.

Standing above the lamp she had just lighted,
was a brawny woman of fifty, with dark eyes and
hair, the latter plaited in heavy braids down her
back. A man’s jersey was drawn on over her
woolen “gown, the plain skirt of which barely
reached the floor.

She shaded her eyes from the light, and turned
to gaze at her companion, who still stood with her
face at the narrow panes of the front window,
vainly striving to penetrate the dense darkness
outside. '‘

Presently she swung around and approached the
table, rolling up with a sort of grim resolution
the sleeves of her loose blue flannel blouse, and
exposed a pair of sun-browned arms, as shapely
as those of a model, yet as strong as those of
many a man, ‘ ,

Nick Carter, despite that he was accustomed to
Meeting striking characters, was startled when*the
light fell full upon this girl.

She was about eighteen, and but little over me-
dium height; yet she appeared taller, so erect
and commanding was her figure, and so free and
graceful its every movement.

Her face was like a pitture in its somber beauty,

\ oval and regular, with lustrous darle eyes, heavy-
arched brows, and a firm, yet perfect mouth.

fica was loosely knotted at the back of her
well-poised head, and the open collar of her blouse
exposed a throat and neck of startling attractive-
ness,

“Joan, eh-?’’ muttered Nick, surveying her from
head to foot. “By what I have heard her say,
she must be Joan Gaspard, the smuggler’s daugh~
ter.”” ;

_Her skirt reached only to the top of her stout
boots, with one of which she. was beating an im-
patient tattoo on the hard floor, while sle silently
waited for the elder woman to saturate with resin-
ous oil a knot of cotton waste fixed at the end of
a stout stick.

“It’s blowing ‘a gale,’”’ said the woman, as she
arose from her occupation and handed the drip-
ping brand over the table.

“T know it,” said Joan, tersely. |

“Look sharp when going down the cliff.”
don’ have had to look sharp many a night before
¢ 8.”’ -

“D’ye want me to go with you?”

“Not I,” was the scornful rejoinder.

done before all I now have to do.”

built up

“T’ve eften

“Ay, Joan, you have.’’»

#

e

was commenced last week.)

the girl added, with an air of reckless bravado, her 4
eyes brightly glowing. ‘‘Ay, I’ve made the trip
to the beacon on worse nights than this, and I’m
best alone. Stir up the fire and heat some water.
If dad makes the cove to-night, there’ll be wet
hides aboard—ay, and cold ones.”

“Tl do that, Joan, while you’re away,” eried
the other. “Drat it, girl! but you’re made of
sterner stuff that I am.”

“Ay, mother, and younger stuff,” said Joan,
smiling coldly. ‘‘Set the lamp on the sill of the
wage: It will light me to the footpath down the
cliff.”

Nick Carter was not slow to see the possibilities
which the approaching situation would present.

As the elder woman took the lamp from the
table and approached the window, the ‘detective
darted away from the house, and in the direction
which he knew, by the dull roar of the breakers,
tes Joan Gaspard must take in order to reach the
shore. >

CHAPTER V.
PLAYING THE FOX,

After covering thirty yards, Nick halted and
looked back. < ‘

Martha Gaspard, which was the name of the
placed the oil lamp on the sill

elder woman, had
of the window. .-

Joan Gaspard had thrust a box of matches into
the bosom of her blouse, and, with the dripping
brand in her hand, she was striding into the ad-
{nae entry, and toward the front door of the

ouse.

For a rod or two the lamp in the window dis-
pelled the darkness outside. Its rays fell upen the
ground, and quickly revealed to Nick a narrow.path
worn down through the coarse grass. It led away
io the house, and out toward the break of the

uff.

“The footpath she mentioned,” said Nick to him-
self. “Can I reach the shore before her? At least,
I can make the attempt.”

Moving rapidly for quite a little distance, he fol-
lowed the path until the lamp no longer lighted it.
Then he resorted to feeling, and quickly traced it
some thirty feet farther. ‘Phere it ended abruptly
at a jutting point of rock, and on the very brink
of the ragged bluff on which the dwelling was
located.

Sixty feet below the wild waters of the sea beat
in upon the stern, rock-bound coast; great threat-
ening billows, that surged shoreward in ominous
silence, only to hurl themselves with a dull roar
against the black bowlders, curling over and over
again, and receding in seething volumes, only to
be met and absorbed in the billows that followed.

Nick gazed grimly down over the face of the
bluff, but could discern only the vague outlines of
the ragged rocks.

“Not at all inviting,’’-he muttered, with one
backward glance. ‘Yet I must reach the shore
before her, and I reckon I’ve no choice but to
feel my way down.”

That he at once attempted to do, moving both
with haste and caution, and at the end of a few
minutes, after several hard knocks and more than
one narrow escape from pitching headlong, he suc-
ceeded in reaching the less precipitous shore at the
base of the cliff. f

There the prospect was even more terrific, for
the crash of the breakers was almost at his feet,
Tits to shake the very ground on which he
stood. k

“It’s a perilous place, and a long chance,’”’ mut-
tered Nick, peering back up the grim face of the
bluff. ““And it’s a bold girl who dares such dan-
gers. It may not prove easy to blind her.”

Fortunately for his’ design, Joan Gaspard had
halted on emerging from the house, to stand for
several moments and gaze out over the sea, with
her ears strained for some distant signal. By this
delay. on her part Nick had been able to accom-
ona his object, and arrive on the shore before

er.

For nearly five minutes the girl stood there,
with her imposing figure thrown into relief against
the lighted window; but only that same impene-
trable darkness met her seaward gaze. f

“God help them!” she at length earnestly mut-
tered. “I cannot believe they’ll try to make the
cove to-night. It seems to me the darkest night
I ever knew. I’ll wait on the shore below for an
hour, and if I get the signal while there, I can
more easily reach and fife the beacon. Mebbe
they’ll stand out and try to weather the gale.”

Then she strode rapidly from the house, follow-
ing the path to the jutting rock, and immediately
pick her way down the face of the bluff, moving
all e while like one thoroughly familiar with
every danger and every foothold.

Though unable to see her through the darkness,
Nick heard her as she came down over the rocks.

Without a moment’s hesitation. he crept down
the shore, ripped open the breast of his seaman’s
shirt, and threw himself among the rocks, where
the surge of the breakers would, at brief intervals,
submerge him.

There he remained prostrate and waited,
drenched by the chilling water, and in constant
danger that some mightier billow than common
would crash over him, and drag him seaward in
its undertow. But the design he had in mind
required this desperate introduction.

Joan Gaspard had seated herself on a huge bowl-
der, resting the brand across her knees, and again
was gazing out over the turbulent sea.

At the end of three or four minutes, she gave a
ery of surprise, and sprang to her feet and lis-
tened. .

A sound like that of a groan from the lips of
a dying man had fallen upon her ears.

t “Good heavyens!’”’ she muttered. ‘What do I
ear?”

Playing the fox, in as bold and desperate a game
as he had ever undertaken, Nick presently uttered
a second groan, deep and gurgling, like that of a
man half choked by the sea.

Joan started like one electrified.

She sprang down the ragged shore toward the
sound, and nearly fell over the body of the de-
tective, who was struggling prostrate among the
rocks and in the receding waters.

He half raised himself in the darkness, and the
startled girl, with a quick cry of encouragement,
bent down and seized him by the collar.

Nick noticed that her grip was as strong as that
of a man.

“Courage, matey!” she pityingly cried. ‘‘Wait
a bit and I'll raise you.”’

She was trying to regain her foothold on the
treacherous rocks, and then, with a gasp of
alarm, she glanced toward the sea.

A mountainous billow, loftier than any before,
was sweeping shoreward.

One glance told the girl that, remaining there,
they must be submerged.

She made an effort to raise Nick, who had not
observed the peril, and was feigning complete ex-
haustion; but the task was beyond her strength.

Joan Gaspard believed that, if she left the man,
his death was inevitable.

She gave no vain cry for help. Dropping the

brand to which she had instinctively clung, she set
her teeth together, inhaled one long breath, gripped
Nick’s clothing more firmly, then twined one arm
around the edge of a ragged bowlder nearby.
_ It had been accomplished in a moment, and
then the breaker crashed over both man and girl;
but Joan Gaspard did not lose her hold, either on
man or rock.

Though startled, and indeed half drowned, Nick
played his part to the end.

In another moment the girl could trust her feet
in the receding water, when, as if suddenly en-
dowed with superhuman strength, she succeeded
in drawing the detective to a safe place higher on
the shore.

Then, as she dashed the water from her eyes,
she again gazed over the black sea, as if her éar-
lier duty bad not for a moment been forgotten.
“No signal yet!” she gasped. ‘Heaven above,
it comes! The brand is lost, the matches
soaked; I could not fire the beacon. I must re-
turn to the house. And here’s a double duty.”

Nick did not move.

He lay like one dead on the rocks.

Stooping quickly, Joan thrust her hand through
his clothing, until it rested on his naked breast.

She found him chilled by the cold sea, as Nick
had planned, but she instantly detected the beating
of has heart.

“God helping me,’’ she muttered, starting to her

if

‘| feet, “‘I’ll save you if I can!

Heedless of personal peril, she darted up the
shore, then scrambled recklessly up the pathway
over the cliff, and rushed back to the house.

Pale and almost breathless, with her garments
dripping with the briny sea, she rettifned to the
woman from whom she had so recently parted.

“Good heavens, Joan! cried Martha Gaspard, as

 

 

“And it’s a time for instinct, rather than eyes,”

the girl entered; ‘“‘what’s wrong?”

“Nothing—not a thing!’

“You’re wet through.”

“Quick!” cried Joan.
and follow me!
in at the bend!”

Her movements were as hurried as her words.
Before the last word was uttered, she had satu-
rated another brand with the inflammable oil, and
ce a box of dry matches from a sheif on the
wall.

“What sort of a man
harshly.

Her weather-beaten face had grown pale, and
the light of rising suspicion glowed in her dark
eyes. ‘

“I didn’t stop to look,” cried Joan, sharply, and
started for the door. :

“Wait. Your arm is all blood! What 3

“Don’t stop to question me now,” cried Joan,
angrily. “It’s a case of life or death! Come with
me.”

The other, believing that to obey was the quick-
est way to learn what had happened, now followed
the girl, and together they made their way down
the face of the cliff.

Hardly for a moment were Joan’s eyes turned
from the darkness of the distant sea, and her only
remark during the whole descent was:

“There’s been no signal yet!”

Ten minutes after leaving Nick on the shore, the
two women reached his side, and the girl stooped
and poured a little brandy between his lips.

Nick found. it very welcome, but he gave no
sign of knowing what was taking place around him.

Apparently the liquor had failed to revive him,
and Joan, who for several moments had been beat-
ing his hands and wrists, turned suddenly and
cried: .

“Lend a hand here, mother.
ried to the house.’

“Impossible !”’ was the angry response.
can never do it.’’

“We can and must,” declared the girl.
die of cold if left here.
lend me a hand.”

There was something in the speaker that pre-
cluded further objection, and the woman obeyed.

They never could have brought him down the
steep path, in the darkness ané@ wind that night ;
ou upward climbing is easier under such condi-
ions.

They bore him to the footpath, the woman grum-
bling sullenly, the girl exerting all her strength;
then on and up the steep acclivity, now. lifting the
limp figure of the crafty detective over a ledge
of rock, often dragging him at times, and at times
pausing for a moment to rest,*or crouching lower
that they might not be swept from their perilous
positions.

They had nearly reached the brow of the cliff,
and were at one of the most hazardous points of
their laborious ascent, when a fierce blast of wind,
as if it realized the urgency of the appeal it bore,
swept violently about them.

Boom!

It was the dull thunder of a @istant gun.

It .was a signal brought through the darkness
by the night wind from over the sea.

Cowering under the blast, the girl still held
firmly to Nick’s arm; but the woman instantly let
go her hold, to lean forward and scream loudly :

“The signal, Joan! The signal!”

“T heard it,’’

i To the beacon, Joan!

“Get the brandy flask
There’s a man most dead, washed

2” demanded Mrs. Gaspard,

He must be car-
“We

“He’ll
Don’t delay to argue, but

To the bea-

But Joan Gaspard pointed sternly to the near
brow of the cliff, and cried above the rush of the
wind and the crash of the breakers far below:

“You can’t raise him alone.”’

“‘Let him go, then.’

“You can’t hold him alone.
top.’’

The woman, who was farthest up the path,
sprang by the motionless figure of the watching
detective, and fiercely seized Joan by the arm.

“Are you mad?” she shrieked, wildly. ‘Will
you let your dad run upon the rocks? Away, I
say, to the beacon!’ :

With a cry of passion, Joan shook herself free.

“No, [ll not go yet,” she answered, with ter-
rible vehemence. ‘‘They are two miles off shore;
I know by the sound. First save this man.”

“You fool! You don’t know but he’s a spy!”

“Be that as it may, I know at least that he’s a
man !’’ thundered the girl. ‘‘Not one step will I
move till it is done!”

And she pointed again to the brow of the cliff,
and the woman hesitated.

“Good girl, and brave,’’ said Nick te himself.
“Nor will I forget the service you would do me,
if the hour ever comes in which it’s due to you
that I should recall it.”

Frowning and snarling; Martha Gaspard sprang
back to her position, and the two resumed their
efforts to get the crafty detective over the brow
of the bluff. In a few moments more the task
was accomplished, and Nick lay prone in the
grass on the level ground above.

“Take him alone, now,” cried Joan,
“Get him into the house and abed.”

Then, without awaiting a reply, she turned and
hurriedly descended the path by which they had
come.

At the base of the cliff she secured the brand
and box of matches she had left there, then ran
at the top of her speed around a long bend of the
rocky shore, then up another ragged pathway, and
along a rising promontory, backed by lofty dark
pines, until at length she reached an elevated
point, where the land seemed to abruptly ter-
minate, far above the turbulent sea.

Hurriedly removing a canvas covering from a
great heap of resinous brush and barrel staves
piled upon the ground, she struck several matches
on the box she carried, then quickly lighted the
saturated brand and thrust it into the collection
of dry brush and wood.

In an instant the entire heap was in flames,
blazing fiercely.

Then Joan Gaspard drew back, to gaze out again
over the sea.

As she stood there in the glare of the blazing
beacon, with her. wet garments clinging close
about her splendid figure, with her hands clinched,
her bosom heaving, and her white, resolute face
lighted by the soaring flames, she presented a
startling picture of forceful and heroic womanhood.

Nick Carter was right in his estimation of her,
and the great detective had run upon as strange
and interesting a character as it had ever been his
lot to encounter. '

For several minutes she stood there, when, satis-
fied by what she saw, she turned away and retraced
her steps, leaving the beacon blazing behind_her.

Get him to the

sternly.

CHAPTER VI..
THE STRANGE SAIL.

Before reverting to Nick Carter®& movements,
one glance must be taken at the strange sail that
had occasioned some interest aboard the revenue
cutter, and at the men with whom the detective
was planning to come in contact.

Close inspection of the vessel would have re-
vealed facts not plainly observable from the deck
of the revenue cutter.

The schooner’s model was long and low, as if de-
signed for speed. Her rakish masts were tall, her
sail plan of unusual expanse, and she carried a
light set of foreyards, thus presenting a rig not
much in vogue on this side of the Atlantic.

On her forecastle deck was mounted a small iron
cannon, one easily housed, and. which, judging
from its rusted appearance, saw but little in the
way of usage.

Other than these the vessel presented no un-
usual features, but resembled the ordinary type of
a small coasting schooner.

When sighted by the Viren that afternoon, her
topsails were snugly furled, but her recently-low-
ered foresail hung in stays only.

Standing in the companion, with his gaze bent
over the rough sea, was a man of fifty, of sturdy
build and weather-beaten features. His small gray
eyes had a crafty coldness, his thick beard was wet
with the driving mist, and his general appearance
was grim and threatening.

At the wheel near by, with his powerful hands
gripping the spokes, was a younger man, one in
the twenties. He was fully six feet tall, and
broad in proportion, a giant beside the other.

His face wore a more grave and composed ex-
pression, yet was quite as firm and resolute.

“What d’ye think, Cap’n Gaspard?” he pres-
ently demanded, looking up. ‘‘Had we best try to
make it?”

“Ay, Davy, we had,” replied the elder, in gruff
tones, as if long exposure to damp sea air had
affected his vocal argans.

“T’ll do just what you say, Peter.’’

“Well, Davy, I’m thinking we had. Barring
accidents, we can sight the cliff afore nightfall, and
she bids fair to be worse’n nasty outside.”

“So she does, for a fact.’’

“TI reckon we'd best be snugly stowed in safe
quarters, than beating out against a sweeping
nor’easter, that might send us all to Davy Jones.”

“Little danger o’ that,’’ replied the other. ‘‘I’d
about as soon be outside with plenty o’ sailing
room, as trying to round the beacon point after
dark to-night, with the gale on shore. It’s a des-
perate chance o’ grinding a hole in our bottom.”

“Ay, Davy; but men o’ our calling have to take
those chances. It’s scarce an hour’s run from here,
and it’ll not be dark afore that. And what if it
were, lad?’’ he added, with grim vehemence. ‘‘We
can trust Joan to fire the beacon.”

“Ay, ay, Cap’n Gaspard, we can trust Joan for
that,” replied the younger seaman, with a slight
flush creeping over his bronzed cheeks. ‘But with
the gale we are like to have this night, it’s no
fool’s task to make the cove, beacon or no bea-
con.”

Then their remarks were abruptly terminated by
the cry of a seaman forward.

“Aft, there! There’s a steam craft ahead, just
over our port bow.’’

With a growl of surprise, Capt. Gaspard came
from the companion and mounted the weather rail,

*

gripping the shrouds to lean outboard for several
moments, and gaze at the low, black hull of the
cutter, which rapidly became more clearly dis-
cernible through the misty atmosphere.

“What d’ye make of her, Peter?’’ demanded the
man at the wheel.

Capt. Gaspard’s grim countenance had taken on
a look of vicious hatred and. resentment.

“She looks like an infernal American cutter!”
he cried, fiercely.

“A revenue cutter?’ cried Davy.

“Nuthin’ else, and she’s dead in our course,”’
roared Capt. Gaspard, springing down and aft.
“Stand by to set the foresail. Gimme the wheel,
Davy, and lend a hand for’ard.”’

“Lend a hand it is, Peter!” cried the other, has-
tening to the vessel’s waist.

“Lively, lads!” thundered Gaspard, throwing up
the helm. ‘‘Double-reefed, there! Double-reefed
as she is! Now, hard alee!”

His voice rose high above the rush. of the wind,
the beating of the waves, and the tremendous
fapping of the sails as the vessel shot into the
wind.

His orders were obeyed with a celerity already
noted aboard the distant cutter, and presently
the schooner, which had been pitching wildly in
the heavy sea, fell off again until the blast struck
Wer, listing her till her yards dipped and a surge
of the sea poured over her lee rail.

Then she righted like a thing of life, gathered
Way again, and sped like a race horse over the
angry waters, casting blinding clouds of white
spray the entire sweep of her deck.

Davy Thompson left hands at the foresheets
and came striding aft, wet to the skin.

“The devil take the infernal hulk!” cried Gas-
pard, as the other approached. ‘‘How’s she bear-
ing, Davy?”

“She’se heading up a bit, as if to give us chase.”

““Mebbe to learn our name.”

“Like as not.’

“I can guess what it means, Davy, that craft
about here,’ growled Gaspard, with grim bitter-
ness. It’s because of that covey we’ve got un-
der cover. The devil take her, that she should
erent in sight from that quarter and at this
our!’

“She can’t overhaul us, Cap’n Pete,’ muttered
Davy, gazing back at the laboring cutter.

“Overhaul us!’ growled Gaspard, with an oath.
“She couldn’t overhaul an old woman’s washtub!
But, for all that, we must stand out again till we
— double on her, and that’ll set us back nigh an
our.”’

““You’ll still make for the cove, eh?”

“Ay, I shall,” declared the smuggler, with his
malignant eyes briefly turned astern. ‘‘What else
to do, lad? Mebbe she’s sighted our spars, and if
it breaks away clear by morning, she’ll scour these
waters for us.”

“Little doubt o’ that Pete,’’ muttered Davy.

“We must house our yard agin’ that, lad,
and to do it we must make the cove to-night.
To-morrow might be too late. I’ll take no chance
agin’ that black robber o’ men’s rights that’s
astern of us.”

“You're right, Cap’n Pete,’ nodded Thompson,
who was steadily watching the distant cutter. “I
reckon we’d best make for the cove, foul weather
or fair.”

His face was grave while he spoke, however, yet
not from fear.

None of the motley and desperate crew then
gathered on the vessel’s deck cared less than Dave
Thompson for the perils confronting them. The
rocks and shoals through which they must pass on
that wild night were like old acquaintances to
him. But even old comrades sometimes strike in
the dark, dealing a fatal blow.

The schooner found it an easy matter to distance
the cutter, however, and no sooner had darkness
fallen, and he was sure the move could not be ob-
served, than Capt. Gaspard brought the vyessel
sharp about, and stood away before the wind to-
ward the rugged eastern shore of the great Gaspe
Peninsula. :

For nearly an hour she held her course, her
two principal sails performing their full function,
her silent, sea-drenched crew waiting in readiness
for the first command to come from the set lips
of the man at the wheel.

His grim eyes were on the darkness far ahead, a
gloom so dense that the schooner’s bow
swallowed up in it; a darkness through the chaotic
immensity of which he watched to see one single
distant gleam-.of light.

“Td most think Joan would fire the beacon to-
night without a signal,’ muttered Thompson,
drawing nearer the smuggler’s side.

“I’ve often told her not to,’’ growled Capt. Gas-
pard, without a movement of his rigid body. ‘‘It’s
only a waste o’ fuel.’

“Have you sighted the light yet?”

“Not yet. Your eyes are as sharp as mine,
Davy. Is the gun ready?”

pitts ay, Cap’n Pete. D’ye think we’d best use
it?”

“Ay, I do. We must signal a long piece out,
for our speed’s too great to take chances. Go
for’ard, and the minute I round up, let the gun
speak.”’

Davy nodded, and hastened off in the darkness,
and less than a minute later a stentorian cry came
from the forecastle deck.

-“A light! A light over the port bow!”

Capt. Gaspard stooped a little, to peer below the
main boom, then smiled grimly. His course had
been like that of a bullet to its mark. For several
minutes longer he held the schooner as she was;
then, throwing up the wheel, he roared furiously,
above the tumult of wind and waves:

“Trim in! In with your sheets!
and aft!’’

At the same instant there came a flash of light

Trim in, fore

in the darkness, and a single thundering note of

a cannon boomed forth upon the night.

It was like a note of appeal, a cry for help,
seized by the fierce night wind, and borne away to
the face of a precipitous cliff, still far away. .

With slightly altered course, and laboring hard
in the heavy sea, the vessel tore on toward the
erisis of her peril.

Presently Thompson came rushing aft,
loudly :

“Stand by, lads! Stand by now, for your lives!”

Seizing the shrouds, he sprang upon the weather
rail, to lean far out above the surging billows and
gaze ahead through the darkness.

One minute passed, then another and another,
and still there was no sign of the beacon light for
which he was watching.

Still clinging to the shrouds, Thompson felt a
sudden presentiment of something wrong. He
knew what that would mean, and for a moment
he scaree could breathe; it seemed for the in-
stant that he must lose his hold, and pitch head-
long into the sea, Faint at heart, he wound his
arm about the ratlines.

“Davy! Davy! Don’t you sight it?’ roared
Gaspard, desperately, from his place at the wheel.
‘ ae younger seaman, aroused by the voice, cried

ack:

“Not yet, sir! Not yet!”

The cheeks of the men at the sheets had grown
paler, and more than one heart was sinking lower.

With the terrific gale dead ashore, the vessel
must be among the breakers almost the moment
they were heard.

Even Capt. Gaspard, who laughed at peril and
scorned fear, held his breath in the intensity of his
anxiety.

Then there came through the darkness a sudden
thundering boom and rumble, and then a voice
yelling from the forecastle deck:

“The breakers! Breakers dead ahead!”

The appalling sound was still thundering wildly
on the night, when a second cry was heard:

“Breakers on the lee bow!”

shouting

“Why don’t she fire the beacon?”

For am instant longer he held the vessel a8 she
was, then screamed in fearful rage, his voice rising
high above the tumult of the elements:

“About ship! About ship! We must make an
offing! In your foresheets! Trim in flat! Flat
you must!”

He had thrown the helm hard up, and the plung-
ing vessel rounded quickly and came into the
wind.

Under ordinary conditions she would have made
the tack in an instant, but a mountainous billow
then caught her on the quarter, breaking with
all its fury over her deck, and casting her lee-
ward, and left her hanging directly in the eye of
the wind, with her sails threshing with a noise
like thunder, and a violence that shook her from
keel to trucks.

Every man on board held his breath in momen-
ary horror.

In the Egyptian darkness the helpless schooner
was drifting in the teeth of the gale, stern fore-
most, toward the mighty breakers and the merci-
less ledges on which they broke.

Then high in the air above her, and a full cable’s
length away, there came a sudden glimmer, and
then a gleam of light, and then the beacon fire
burst into a blaze.

The light shone down over a grim cliff, and upon
threatening ledges, down upon a sea as ragged as
broken clouds, and white With foam.

But it lighted, too, one narrow strip of deep;
dark water, making through the chaotic dangers
and into a sheltered cove.

The schooner’s mate saved them that night.
From his position on the rail, he saw sweeping
upon them the billow that must cast the vessel’s
bow off from the wind.

With a shriek like that of frenzy, he sprang
toward the wheel.

“You can make it!’’ he yelled. ‘Let her off!
Off, I say! It’s our only chance!”

Capt. Gaspard now saw it.

Down went the wheel as the billow caught her
starboard quarter, and the schooner swung broad-
side to the blast.

“Let go your foresheets!’”’ shrieked Gaspard.

The vessel bowed like a reed, with a flood sweep-
ing over her lee rail; and then Thompson’s voice

 

rose again, as he sprang to the dripping ropes:

‘sheuld be,

 

 

“Ten thousand devils!’’ shrieked Capt. Gaspard. '

 

 

 

“Trim in now! Trim in again!
man, and we’ll make it yet!”

The beacon fire was then burning brightly.

Just ahead the sweep of shore was white with
seething water, but only for an instant was the re-
sult doubtful.

Then the daring little vessel tore like a racer
through the narrow inlet, leaving the perils astern,
and the beacon blazing high above her over the
port side.

Steady, every

TO BE CONTINUED.

——— <4 0
AUNT PEGGY’S HELP,

BY HELENA DIXON.

Beechwood was the name given by Aunt Peggy
Stapleton to the low-lying farm, which for gen-
erations had been the home of the Stapleton
family.

_ The farm now belonged to Peggy, an unmar-
ried, wrong-minded lady, whose age might have
been anywhere between forty and sixty, for all
clue to it which a stranger could get from the
closest scrutiny of the coal-black hair and eyes,
well-preserved teeth and skin, and plump little
body, which seemed to be ever on the move. For
Aunt Peggy never lacked for something to do,
though she lived entirely alone in the great lone-
some house, save when her nephew, Clarence
Stapleton, came down to spend a night as a holi-
day from his bachelor quarters at the Dayton
College. Seldom a week passed but he made a
visit, for, as Aunt Peggy expressed it, “‘Clarence
was a great home body.”

Clarence was the last of the Stapletons, and, as
everybody thought, would be the heir to Beech-
wood. And so the old lady fully intended he
until she chanced upon the, to her
startling discovery, that he was in love with and
intended to marry “a snip of a city girl, with
more airs than sense;’’ and then the old lady de-
clared that the “home of the Stapletons”’ should
go to strangers sooner than any idle city minx
should come there to queen it right in sight of the
little hillocks under the beeches, where so many
of the stanch old Stapleton stock were sleeping,
and where she expected her own dust would
mingle with theirs.

“That’s what comes of giving him a college
education instead of letting him learn his arith-
metic and spelling book at the district school, as
the rest of us did. I’ve heard dear father say
many a time that the more high learning a man
got into his head the less room there was left for
common sense, and this love affair goes to show
that every particle of the mother wit that be-
longs as natural to a Stapleton as the grass does
to summer has been crowded out of- Clarence’s
head by Latin and Greek, and other outlandish
stuff. But, thank fortune, a full-blooded Stapleton
is mistress here yet, and I’ll look out that no be-
decked and bedidened city woman ever trails her
skirts of authority over Beechwood.’

And having thus delivered herself to a sym-
pathizing neighbor, Aunt Peggy went off after the
most approved fashion into a yiolent fit of
hysterics.

The next day she was confined to her bed with
rheumatism, and Clarence, like the dutiful nephew
he was, came home at once to see what he
could do for her.

“T’ll be better by and by. - Don't worry your-
self,” said Aunt Peggy, with something like irony
in her tones.

Then, turning her face to the wall, she mut-
tered:

“Ym not going to die yet, and when I do I
shall leave in black and white whether a worker
or a drone shall be mistress here, so don’t be
thinking about your wedding suit or your poor
Aunt Peggy’s gravestone either.”

“Die! Aunt Peggy,’ said the young man,
jocosely. ‘‘Why, nobody thinks of such a thing.
You’ll be around the house as brisk as a kitten
before to-morrow morning. But what would you
like to have? Shall I make you a cup of tea?’

“Hear that now! As though any man could
make tea fit for anybody to drink. And as to
getting up with my lame back, it shows how much
you know about the female constitution. I shall
lie here a month, I know I shall; and if you
want to do anything for me, go hunt me up a girl
—one that can take care of me and give me some-
thing besides slops to eat, such stuff as that crea-
ture gave me when I had my last bad spell. And
I don’t want to get up to find the house all up-
side down, either. Get a girl that knows how to
work and isn’t too lazy to do it; and—wait a
minute, you needn’t go off like that and not half
understand your errand. I don’t want an Irish
girl—they’re always humming away at a love
song; nor a Dutch nor a Swedish one; their gib-
berish makes me nervous. And I don’t want a
girl as homely as a hedge. fence. I like good-look-
ing people around me, especially when I’m sick.
There, now go.”

Clarence departed with a rueful look on his
fine, manly face. Where was he to find a girl
who would meet all his aunt’s requirements?

Suddenly, as he descended the stairs, a bright
idea seemed to take possession of his mind, for
his countenance lighted up, and seizing his hat he
rushed out to the stable.

After an absence of several hours he re-en-
tered his aunt’s room and informed her that the
help had come and would, soon be up to see her;
and, he added, that as she no longer required his
services, he would go back to Dayton, but would
run down every day or two to see how she was
getting along. r

Domestic matters went on swimmingly at
Beechwood. Under the help’s skillful fingers
everything in the house, and especially in the
sick room, retained its olden air of comfort with
something of grace and refinement added.

Far from being homely, Aunt Peggy declared
to herself and to Clarence, whenever he would
listen to her, that the girl was ‘as handsome as
a picture.”

Aunt Peggy never grew tired of having her
sprightly little maid of all work near her. When
she did not require her services as nurse she
would have her bring a book and read to her: or
she would have her take her sewing, and, mak-
ing her sit just before her where she could watch
the play of the nimble fingers, Aunt Peggy would
drop away to sleep to dream of all the Stapletons
whose somber portraits looked at her from the
walls, and of Clarence and the odious city girl,
and of Mary Dormer, the help. Awakening sud-
denly from one of these dreams, she turned her
eyes to where the girl was sitting.

“Mary, I want to dress and go down stairs. I
am well enough, I think.”

When Aunt Peggy, assisted by Mary, had made
the tour of the house, she returned to her room
and sank wearily on the bed.

“Mary, you are a charming little housekeeper,
and fit to be the wife of a prince. How do you
like my nephew, Clarence?”’ ;

Mary’s head drooped until the brown curls
which covered it nearly concealed the crimsoning
face. But she made no reply.

“Say, child, how would you like Clarence for
a husband?’

“T—-he—I have seen
have been here——”
stammering.

“I know it,’”’ jerked out Aunt Peggy. ‘He seems
to shun you as though you were a plague. The
simpleton is bewitched after a girl in the city—
handsome they say she is, but good for nothing
but to be looked at, I dare say. Just so sure as
he marries her he is a beggar. Suppose you try
to win him, Mary? I don’t see how he could re-
sist.’’

“That would be hardly maidenly, would it?”
and Mary raised her blue eyes wistfully to her
companion’s face.

“Under the circumstances it would be more
than maidenly, it would be angelic!” said Aunt
Peggy, with spirit. ‘‘You would be Saving him
not only from beggary but from the toils of that
designing Mary Grantville.”

Aunt Peggy was soon able to be about the
house again, but still she would not have Mary
go. Clarence came home oftener than usual,
nearly every day, in fact, and the old lady saw
with great satisfaction, though she pretended not
to notice, that Mary was the attraction, and Clar-
ence seemed very anxious not to let his aunt wit-
ness the many téte-d-tétes he had with Mary on
the back porch; and Aunt Peggy, who saw it all,
laughed to herself to think how nicely her little
plot was working. So she was not much sur-
prised when, one evening, Clarence led Mary be-
fore her, and in his frank, blunt way, told her
that they wanted to get married some day, and
asked for her sanction. Aunt Peggy gave it with
her blessing added, and then Mary fell on her
knees, and burying her face in the old lady’s lap,
began to murmur something about how wicked
she had been in deceiving so good a friend, not
a word of which the old lady could comprehend.
So Clarence blurted forth with:

“She wants to tell you that she is not simply
Mary Dormer, but that, with Grantville added.”

Instinctively Aunt Peggy drew back, but only
for a moment. Then she laid a hand on each of
the still kneeling girl’s shoulders, and smiled.

“Well, I have nothing to complain of after all,
though you did get the start of me, and that, too,
when I thought I was helping to outwit my long-
headed nephew here, who by his shrewdness has
proved himself a Stapleton all over.”

Aunt Peggy lived to lavish caresses on half a
dozen curly-headed Stapletons, every one of whom
she fondly declared would grow up an honor to
the name. And she never had reason to complain
that the future mistress of Beechwood had been
reared in the city.

him so seldom since I
said Mary, blushing and

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

take

a

RESIGNATION,

BY 8S. B: PEARCE.

On the farther side of Grief

Beyond the Mount of Pain,
There lies a smiling valley,
Well

Where sunshine loves to ling

solaced by the rain,

Upon the golden grain.
'Tis the Vale of Heart’s Content—

The Stream of Grace runs through ;
And morn and eve ‘tis watered

By soul-reviv dew—
|}
Th

is valley
That of

happy, smil

ens out view.

On the farther side cf Grief,
Beyond the Mount of Care,

Turn thither, all ye way-worn,
And seek your solace there!

None find this Garden’ of Delight
Without the clew of Prayer.

— —_—_—_—>--->-* > —

A SWEET LITTLE LADY.

By GERTRUDE WARDEN,

Author of “The Wooing of a Fairy,’ ‘‘A Bold Deception,’’ |

“The Sentimental Sex,” “ter Faithful Knight,”
“The Haunted House at Kew,”’ etc., etc.

Copyrighted in 1902, by Street & Smith,

(“A Swrer LirrLteE LaDy” was commenced in No, 49.
Back numbers can ve obtained of all newsdeaiers. )

CHAPTER

FAIRY

XVII.

THE NURSE.

wild pacing up and down Ivor’s sitting-
room adually ceased. The doors of both the
sitting-room and the bedroom with which it com-
municated Had been locked by Madam Bourgaize,
and her mad lod left to his own devices.

Jean Bourgai i
elined to interfere.
women folk, and if their lodger had gone mad
with fever, that was his affair. It was a way of
amusing himself like another, and he must L
mad until it pleased him to become sane again.

As usual, in the evening, since Mary’s death,
Jean Bourgaize was surly and stupid with drink.
Yvonne, who, in spite of her size, was a great
coward, would not on any consideration be in-
duced to approach a madman. Darcie never did
anything unpleasant, and even tough old
felt that she had had sufficient fright f

Still, she did not wish a lodger who
well to die of lack of food and attention,
was really grateful when, at eight o’clock,
Audoire offered to take another basin of
stairs for the invalid, and furthermore
himself to force Ivor to eat it.

Nursing, he

paid so

soup up-
engaged

“Hl stand over. him with the spoon and make it |

go down!” the young man good-naturedly volun-
teered.

On one point he and Grandmére Jeanne and
Darcie Dobree herself were equally disappointed.

In spite of the letter, duly delivered at five
o’clock into the
him slipped under the door of old
tage, Fay had not appeared at La Haie to re-
ceive the beating Madam Bourgaize was longing
to administer. Whether she guessed the letter to
be a forgery, or whether she had never received it,
certain it was that the two women on the watch
for her never saw her approach the farm, and that,
throughout the long hours of that terrible May
day, the unhappy millionaire imprisoned upstairs,
sang, danced, shouted, and broke the furniture in
an ecstasy of what looked like madness indeed.

Not until half-past nine o’clock did any quiet
come to him. After that hour a welcome
took place, and from then on until eight o’clock
calm and tranquillity, et first partial and then ab-
salute, reigned in the {nvalid’s apartments.

When, therefore, Philippe Audoire arrived at the
door of. Ivor’s sitting-room, dead silence pre-
vailed within. Cautiously, withdrawing the key
from the lock, the young fisherman peered through
the keyhole. The room was empty, the door be-
tween the two rooms was ajar, and no sound came
from the bedroom.

Slipping the key in the lock again, Philippe
turned it and entered the sitting-room. Doubtless,
so he decided, the invalid had worn himself out,
and was now asleep.
hoped the drug might have already killed him, but
the sound of low,
room taught him the futility of such a notion.

He therefore placed the basin of steaming soup
upon the table, and, withdrawing from his pocket
the precious phial he had brought from Gotton,
deliberately emptied at least three teaspoonfuls
into the basin.

“Tf one teaspoonful made him as bad as he was
this afternoon, three will certainly kill him before
morning,” he reflected. “He has fasted all

Machin’s

presently he will awake ravenous and swallow this |

down.”

He remembered Gotton’s other directions, and
now proceeded to produce from under his coat, and
place upon the table, a murderous-looking horn-
handle knife. Then he went to the windows and
threw them both open. There was just space,
decided, for a big man like Ivor to scramble
through, though Philippe g satly feared the
id not be deep enough to kill him.

erhaps it would be wiser
him now with pillows as he pt?

Philippe stood debating this question in the
middle of the sitting-room, with his back to the
communicating door. Suddenly, as he stood hesi-
tating, some one or something rushed past him like
a wh “ind. The next sensation he experi ad
was that of a basin of scalding soup emptl
his head and face.

Stampi and r«
his assailant, and,
longer dressed as a
brown serge—-who,
and raven locks fly

Half blinded with pai
upon her with an o
whipped up the
and was pointing

“Leave the
oner!”’ she issed at him
teeth. Jo you hear a"

Dumfounded with
from the effects of the scalding,
himself to be driven at the knife’s point through
the door, and, soon he was outside it, Fay
withdrew the key and locked the door on the in-
side.

Ivor’s nurse, having thus disposed triumphantly
of his enemy, proceeded to shut the windows and
to wipe up from the floor the soup that had been
spilled there.

Then she peeped in at her patient,
and worn out, was lying, dressed, upon the bed in
a deep sleep.

So far he
three-quarters of
she had crept down from a window

iring with pain, he turned upon
lo, it was Fay he lf—no
boy, but in a gown rough
ith white face, blazing eyes,
stood close behind him.

oI

in an instant she
himself had provided,
at him threateningly.
between her clinched
2 Go, or I will kill you!’
astonishment and smarting

ac ac
as as

an hour which had elapsed since

above, which she had entered by a skylight in the |

roof, and made her way thus through the window
of his sitting-room. His paroxysms
citement and wild delirium had not frightened her.
Fay had the true nurse’s instincts, which, allied to
her patience, strength,
her: whole-hearted devotion to her unhappy
tient, had produced results little short of miracu-
lous.

She had soothed and quieted him, talked
reasoned with him, until Ivor, worn out by
long fasting and terrible nervous excitement of the
day, had gradually quieted down under her gentle
influence, and ended by obeying her

No mother watched over her babe with more ten-
derness, more jealous love, than that shown by the
neglected elf-child toward this stranger who
been kind to her.
for her; that, so little had she impressed him, he
believed her to be a boy. She had seen the por-
trait and hair of Darcie Dobree, together with the
girl’s name, in that locket she had. recovered for
fvor, the locket which; as he himself had told her,
he valued above all his possessions. He had come
to Sark, she guessed without difficulty, to woo and
win Darcie Dobree, and she, Fay, was nothing in
his eyes but a litttle wild creature to whom he
had shown a careless, good-natured kindness.
Nevertheless. she loved him with an

on—a romantic hero worship such as Darcie

bree would never know or understand.

From the moment when his features became in- |

etly visible to her in the fog by the boat’s
side, Fay knew that she had met her ideal.
had tried to prevent him from running the risk
of landing in Audoire’s boat, and, failing in that,
had persuaded old Pierre Machin to follow him.
All her tender womanly instincts, crushed’ down
by her strange, wild life, arose and throbbed in
pure delight as she flung her arms around the neck
of the drowning man and-helped to drag him into
the boat.

Yet she had not attempted to correct his mis-
taken idea concerning her sex, so utterly beneath
and afar from him did she know herseif to be. It
was true that she prided herself upon her fairy

his return home, utterly de- |
said, he left to the |

remain |

Jeanne |
or one day. |

and she |
Philippe |

hands of Charles Bailleul, and by |
cot- |

change |

For a brief moment Philippe |

labored breathing from the inner |

he |

day; |

he |
fall |

and simpler to stifle |

and fury, Philippe sprang |
had |

you wretched, cowardly pois- |

Philippe suffered |

who, white |

had not recognized her during the |

in the attic |
of fierce ex- |

and utter fearlessness, and |
pa- |

to and |
the |

instructions |
with childlike docility and falling heavily asleep. |

had |
Well she knew that he was not |

unselfish |

She |

i descent. Among the people with whom she spent

' sg : eo . > ‘ . : °
| her life belief in the fairy origin of exceptionally |
| of wild disposition and small stat- !

| gifted children,
| ure, still prevailed, and there was not one of the

| Bourgaize household, with the exception of cynical, |
be+ |

| highly educated Darcie Dobree, but secretly
| lieved Fay had been left on the well in the court-

\'yard of La Haie by the fairies fourteen years be- |

; fore.

| It was but natural
| should pride herself
origin. Often and

her than mortal

when

upon
often,

more
food

was scar

land life was hard, she would sing softly to herself |
beautiful

of the
the clouds—she

her work, and tell herself
beneath the sea or away in

| over
|} land

was not sure of the exact locality—to which some}

day one of the “‘little green men” who were her
kinsmen, would summon her. But this belief did
not blind her to the fact that fairies’ children could
be made to suffer cruelty at the hands of mortals,
and that even dread of her possible fairy powers
did not prevent Jean and Philippe and old Jeanne
|}at the farm from overworking and underfeeding
| her, and abusing her from morning till night, from
lher earliest remembered days until .the afternoon
\of the day when Mary Bourgaize di d.

| Of Mary Bourgaize, Fay had been afraid. It
lwas Mary, as the child knew, who would not per-
lmit her to be beaten; but the coldest looks and
ithe bitterest sayings directed—to her were from
| Mary, too. The lonely child’s heart ached with a
|longing for affection which she was too proud to
| show. She would have loved Darcie Dobree, of
| whose beauty and acomplishments she cherished
a passionate admiration, and Darcie, as

girl, was ready enough to accept her homage. But
on the day of Mary’s death all that was changed.

In Darcie’s eyes Fay became suddenly transformed
|} from a little contemptible drudge into a dangerous
fenemy; and, with her usual direct practicality,
Darcie had gone down to the bay where the elf-
child was lurking, with the intention of putting
| her out of the way.
| ler scheme had failed, and failed disastrously ;
|for Fay, aroused by the dog Roger, had turned and
beheld Darcie’s murderous intent. The wound
made by the stone in her shoulder healed in time,
but the wound in the child’s heart never healed,
land from that day forward she and Darcie Dobree
had never met again.

Partly out of kindness, to save her from starv-
ing and partly out of thrift, as he wanted some
| one to keep his place in order, Pierre Machin had
adopted Fay. But, kindly and humorous as he
was, there was nothing about the old fisherman
to appeal to the girl’s deepest feelings. The shelter
he gave her she repaid by doing a servant’s work
in the cottage, a man’s work in the little plot
of yegetable garden, and a lad’s work in the
boat. Pierre found her in the highest degree
docile and intelligent, and entirely indepen-
dent. There were days and nights when he did
not see her, although she never failed to visit the
cottage and prepare his dinner for him. And
Pierre took these wandering ways of hers with
great philosophy.

“What will you?’’
like other girls.
it pleases her.”’

Left thus to her own devices, Fay, who was as
ignorant of book-learning as a savage, as full of
‘life as a kitten, and of an extraordinarily fancifui
{and imaginative turn of mind, steeped herself in
the romances and fairy legends of the islands as
| detailed to her by the vielles femmes au fouar (old
women at the hearth), and wandered, and swam,
land danced with her shadow on the sands by.moon-
light, until she really believed she saw and held
communion with the spirits of the air and sea.

Then, in the middle of her dreams, the mortal
| appeared in the shape of Ivor Winthrop, whom she
was destined to love, and all the tender humanity
lin the neglected gir! awoke at last.

As“she watched him now, after she had driven
lout Philippe Audoire, standing by the half-open
door between the two rooms, a beauty that was not
fairylike, but wholly womanly, illumined Fay’s
| small-white face. f

But for the fact that he had suffered, she would
have been so glad that he was ill!

Thus she could have him to herself, to tend
and nurse into health, and no hard, triumphant
beauty would take him from her until “she had
|cured him. Creeping softly into the room, she
| stood with her great gray eyes fixed upon Ivor’s
| sleeping face, her whole being absorbed with love
and anxiety for him.

“Get well—oh, you must, you must get well !’’
she whispered, as, kneeling down, she laid her lips
lightly upon his hand. “I love you so that you
must get well!”

For over an hour her patient slept profoundly,
with the deep sleep of utter exhaustion. Long
before he stirred his nurse was tormenting herself
| with the problem of how she was to obtain food
|for him when he should wake.

Not for a moment did she suspect that the let-
|ter which had brought her to Ivor’s sickroom was
ja forgery, planned and written by Darcie Dobree,
| in order to lure her back to La Haie. But instinct
| and experience alike warned her to be wary in her
| dealings with her old enemies’ She had, there-
| fore, waited until the light waned, and had clam-
|bered up the back of the house and into Ivor’s
lwindow with her usual monkey-like agility, with-

|

he would say. “She is not
She will come back home when

lout exciting observation from the inmates of the
house.

She knew the danger she ran of being captured
by the Bourgaizes, but no consideration would
have kept her from Ivor’s side. It is true that she
marveled how he could have indited a letter of
appeal to her in the state of feverish delirium in
| which she found him, but anxiety for him speedily
| drove all other thoughts from her mind. By nine
| o’clock she was racking her brains as to how she
|ecould get for him the nourishment he would cer-
|tainly require.

“He is sure, afer all that fever, to wake up
hungry,’ she told herself. “And those brutes
downstairs will let him starve, or let him be
poisoned by that wretch Audoire rather than
trouble about him !”’

reflecting. The ex-
suddenly set and

She stood in the doorway
|pression of her face became
dogged.

“J will go downstairs,’ she decided, “and I will
getting some soup and wine for him,
and young Madam Bour-
and kettle, so that: I

| insist upon
iand candles for to-night,
| gaize’s invalid spirit-lamp
lean heat things for him. I will take that knife
| with me, and threaten to kill them if they meddle
lwith me. I don’t think that would frighten old
| Jeanne, or Farmer Bourgaize, either, especially if
he has been drinking. But that can’t be helped.
Whatever they do to me, Mr. Winthrop shall have
what he wants!”

The ribbon which held together her beautiful
dark hair was loose. She stood in the doorway and
shook out her flowing locks before tying it back.
And at the moment, although she knew it not,
Ivor opened his eyes and fixed them in an intent,
wondering gaze upon her.
| She had not the least idea how picturesque a
| figure she looked. Her costume, made by her own
inimble fingers, was simplicity itself—a loose flan-
nel blouse of russet-brown, held around her slen-
der waist by a broad leather belt, and a scanty
lskirt of rough serge, several inches from the
|ground. But she had her redeeming attractions.
| Her slim and beautiful feet were encased in woolen
| stockings of bright scarlet, and a bunch of scarlet
|berries at the neck of her dress enhanced the
| startling whiteness of her skin.
|” Phe loose sleeves fell back as she raised her
lhands to her head, revealing slender wrists and
well-turned white arms. The fever had left Ivor,
but the fever-dreams still fioated around him.

“It is the Fairy of the Cave!” he whispered to
himself, and closed his eyes again, to make sure
he was not still dreaming.

Presently he felt a small, cool hand on his prow.
| Always keenly sensitive to touch, he felt at once
| soothed by it, and knew well, without opening his
|eyes, that this was not the soft, plump, maddening
hand of Darcie Dobree. This was the touch of a
\kind and loving friend, and with it came the dim
recollection of the face he had seen somewhere
very recently, of great, gray, pitying eyes, and a
|-voice with a penetrating and pathetic cadence.

“Lie still,” the voice was saying now, “and ‘go
on sleeping until I bring you something to eat.
i-You will feel much better and stronger when you
have had some food.”’

The hand was lifted from his brow, and Ivor
opened his eyes in time to sec a slim, brown-clad
figure passing out through the door which led to
ithe sitting-room.

His floating ideas suddenly began to take definite
shape. Some one was nursing him, was being won-
derfully kind to him, some one whose eyes and
yoice he seemed to know well.

Who was she?

He knew quite well where he was
|Haie, and his last recollection was
|bringing him some evil-tasting broth.
|he eould remember nothing.

The ministering angel, who had just left him
and promised to return, was wonderfully like the
gayly-dressed fairy who had sung so sweetly to
him in the eave on the preceding evening, and who
had, moreover, restored to him his watch.

Recollections were pouring in upon him now.

Where was Francois, to protect his friend?

For if this girl was indeed the “‘fairy,’’ was she
|not also the lost servant at the farm, and the lost
| pride of the villainous Philippe Audoire?

What was she doing in this house of enemies?

now—at La
old Jeanne
After that

Still with something of the confusion of fever}

in his brain, but actuated by a definite purpose,
| that of protecting the forlorn little “‘fairy’’
had befriended him, Ivor sprang from the bed,
flung on a coat, and, with halting, unsteady foot-
steps, made his way down the staircase to the
| door which led into the kitchen.

Outside this door he paused. An intense giddi-
ness had seized him, and he had to lean upon the
stair-rail for support.

But as he stood thus the sound of loud talking
| in the kitchen arrested his attention. Softly open-
|ing the door, unnoticed in the tumult, Ivor looked
And the sight that met his eyes

| into the room.

that the imaginative child |

arce |

a

a young |

who |

=

drove dreams

in an

all bodily weakness and all
instant from his mind.

CHAPTER XVIII.

HIS LONG-LOST IDEAL.

the fire of logs and smoldering seaweed stood Fay,
her face white as death, her great eyes blazing
| with excitement, and her fingers upon a horn-han-
dled knife she had thrust into her belt.

And around her, in a threatening
like wolves snarling at the prey they
|tear to pieces, stood the Bourgaizes,
son, and Philippe Audoire.

They had her absolutely at their mercy,
Yvonne had gone au son (to a country dance) that
evening, and Darcie Dobree was out for a
light sail with Leonard Carey. Even while
looked at her, Jean Bourgaize drew from his
pocket a short-handled whip, with a long, leather
thong, which he used for driving the cattle.
man’s features were red and swollen with drink,
and in his small eyes, under their beetling brows,
there gleamed a look of sullen ferocity.

La Vieille Jeanne was clawing the air with her
nails, which she longed to drive into the flesh of
ber former victim.

“You have come for food!” she screamed. “You
ask me for soup and. wine, after running wild for
a year and eight months pours’aiguichier-Vbec ! (to
get up an appetite). You miserable, ungrateful
foundling, it is not food I will give you, but the
lstick! Echippe me’ chunna (throw me that),
Philippe !’» she coneluded, pointing to a stout stick
by the fireplace with which she was in the habit
of belaboring Yvonne. ‘‘We wéll see if we cannot
give this runaway more than she wants!”

Philippe at once handed the stick to his elderly
relative, but Fay sprang forward, caught it on the
way, and broke it in pieces.

“Don't dare, any of you, to lay a finger on
me!” she said, in low, determined tones, in strange
contrast to Jeanne Bourgaize’s screams. “T put
up with your cruelty and wickedness—all of you-——
for years. I slaved and starved fer you, and I re-
ceived nothing but hard words. I am not your
servant now. I came into this place to-night, al-
though I had sworn I would never enter it again,
because Mr. Winthrop, who is my friend, sent for
me. And as soon as he is well I shall leave this
house and never set foot in it again.’’

A coarse laugh from Philippe Audoire inter-
rupted her. ‘“Niaise! The Angliatin never sent
that letter. I gave it to Charles Bailleul, to put
under Pierre Machin’s door.”

“T don’t believe it! the letter said he was ill,
and 1 found him terribly ill. That was because
you, Philippe Audoire, had been. poisoning him.”

“What does she say?’ cried old Jeanne, turning
indignantly upon Audoire.

“It’s a lie!” he protested, sullenly.

“It is not!’ cried Fay. ‘I caught you putting
something in a bottle in Mr. Winthrop’s soup, and
I threw the soup over you. The bottle must be
in your pocket now !”’

In an instant old Jeanne’s clawlike fingers had
dived into her young kinsman’s pocket, and with-
drew the phial sold to him by Gotton de la Rue.
The old lady smelt the decoction and flung the bot-
tle on the fire.

“T]] talk to you about this aftegward she
said to Philippe, menacingly. “As to you, you
wretched hussy,’”’ she continued, directing the flood
of eloquence to Fay again, “‘you need not hope
you will ever leave La Haie again. You will first
have a good beating, instead of the food you impu-
dently ask for, and then you will be locked up
and starved until our good Philippe sets you free
to marry you. A great honor for you, IT tell you!
It is not every fine honest lad like Philippe who
cares to take to wife a wretched, mad thing that
dresses as a boy, and goes wandering about alone
with gentlemen. You ought to be very grateful
to us Bourgaizes that we should admit a thing
like you into our family.”

“Grateful !?? cried the girl, while a sullen flush
rose in her pale cheek. “Grateful to you,
gaizes! I would not take a_crust or a drink of
water from any one of you. I came down to-night
for food for Mr. Winthrop—soup and wine that I
will have. The moment he is well not one of you
shall ever see me again. I hate and despise you
all: and as to you, Philippe Audoire, tT would
rather dash myself from the Coupée or fling my-
self down the Creux Derrible, than so -much as
touch your hand!” ‘

The words had hardly left her lips when the
thong of Jean Bourgaize’s whip went circling
across the kitchen; but for a sudden, swift move-
ment on the part of Fay, she would have had her
cheek cut open.

As it was, the tip of the thong barely grazed
her shoulder. But that touch was enough. Every
drop of her blood was up, and like one frantic in
her storm of indignant fury, the girl rushed to the
fire, and dragging from it a burning log, she swung
it around her head.

“Tf Iam so much as touched by any one of you
I will set the place on fire!” she cried.

“The child is mad! Put the log down, Fay.
We will not harm you.” Jeanne called to her in
dismay.

“Swear you will none of you touch me!”

“T swear it!’? Madam Bourgaize cried, hastily.

The burning log was within a few inches of the
valance of chintz above the fireplace, and the low
roof was of timber. The danger was imminent.

Fay saw her advantage, and kept it.

“The men must swea® too!” she cried. “And
if they break their oaths I will put an ensorcelle-
ment upon them!”

“T swear!” growled Jean Bourgaize, sobered by
his fear for his farm, as he thrust the whip back
in his pocket.
® “And I swear, too!’’ muttered Audoire,
more afraid of Fay than ever.

She flung the burning log on the fire,
volleys of sparks about the hearth.

“And now, Madam Bourgaize,’’ she said, with
sudden dignity, “kindly give me what I want for
my invalid upstairs.”

She had conquered. Ivor had no. more fears
for her now. At one point in the interview he had
pushed the door open, meaning to dash in to pro-
tect her. But protection was needless for this
lion-hearted girl. Old Jeanne busied berself to find
her what she wanted. Jean Bourgaize relapsed
into his chair and relit his pipe in sulky silence,
and Philippe Audoire, beaten at all points,
slouched out of the kitchen, slamming the door
after him to vindicate his manhood.

Very cautiously Ivor ¢rept upstairs and back to
his room, where he placed himself in exactly the
same position in which she had left him.

His brain was in a whirl. At last he under-
stood. He had come to Sark primed with romance
to lay “his heart at the feet of Darcie Dobree, and
even before ie landed another and far stranger
romance awaited him.

Little Francois, with the soft laugh, the small,
strong hands, andthe wonderful fairy stories, the
sweet-voiced, sweet-faced Lady of the Cave, and
this devoted, self-sacrificing nurse were one and
the same person!

Brave as a man should be, tender as a woman,
innocent as a child, untouched by civilization,
ignorant of the world, and unworldly as the fairies
from whom she claimed descent—was not this the
long-lost ideal of Ivor’s boyish fancies?

Not beautiful, imperial Darcie Dobree, but
little ragged and friendless elf-child of Sark.

semicircle,
dare not

ee

now

sending

the

CHAPTER XIX.
HE IS WORTH WINNING.

Jext day a letter arrived for Miss Darcie Do-
bree from her American friend, Ella, at the ladies’
college, at Guernsey.

Miss Ella was given to gush, and she adored
the young pupil-teacher, as schoolgirls often adore
girls a little older than themselves.

darling Darcie,’ Ella wrote,
“what a romance! It is just too splendid! And it
could only happen to you. Papa knows Mr. Ivor
Winthrop well, and he has been to our house in
New York. Only once, though. Its most more
than any one can do to get him to go anywhere,
but he was at college with my _ brother, Eden.
Isn’t he splendidly handsome? And he is won-
derfully clever, and has written books, and painted
pictures, which is so unnecessary in a millionaire.
“But, of course, you don’t know, as I’ve forgot-
ten to say; he is only son and heir of Gervase P.
Winthrop, the railway king. His mother is an in-
valid, of very good Southern family, and very rich.
My! 1 don’t like to say what they have, I guess
they could cover the Continent of America with
doliars end to end, and not miss them. They
have a marble palace in Fifth Avenue, and a
chalet at Long Branch, and an enormous property
in Colorado, and a flat in Paris on the Champs
Elysées, and a villa at Mentone, and an estate in
Devonshire, and the finest steam yacht in Amer-
ica! And to think that Ivor Winthrop has heard
of your beauty right away in America, and come
|to marry you! He is only about twenty-seven,
and all the belles in New York have already tried
to catch him. I know you wanted a title, but Mr.
Winthrop can buy an Italian one, of course. What
carriages you will have, and what diamonds !
Where will you be married, and when? I am
quite too crazy with excitement over it to work
lor do anything. But you deserve it all—you
| beautiful, high-toned darling! Write immediately,
ito your loving and devoted BILLA.”

“My own dearest

 

 

 

| Darcie put down the letter with a flushed face
}and shining eyes.
all that she had

It had come at last,
| longed for!

Wealth, position, carriages, diamonds! She
was going to marry a millionaire, whom the fame
of her beauty had attracted from the other side
of the world.

As to a title, that she had certainly longed for
with a curious intensity, invariably picturing her-

| self in her day-dreams as Lady This, or the Coun-

then,

30ur- |

of fever |

Vol. 59—No. 4

 

tess or Marchioness of That. Not being American,
like Ella, however, she spurned the idea of a pur-
chased Italian title, and decided to hédpe on that

| she might prove to be a titled lady in her own

right when once her parentage became known.
There was this American to be married first, of

| course, before she could arrive at any of her glit-

In the middle of the long, low-roofed room before |

mother and | L]
| throp,
for |

moon- |
he |

The |

)
)

tering ideals. His invalid mother would doubtless
soon die, and then she, Darcie, would be undis-
turbed mistress of all the villas and palaces
enumerated in Hlla’s letter.

»She seized a pen, and in a rare mood of child-
ish vanity, proceeded to write her future name
in various ways upon loose sheets of paper.

“Darcie Winthrop,” ‘Phe Hon. Darcie Win-
“Lady Darcie. Winthrop.”

The last was undoubtedly the best. When: Ivor
proposed, which would be, no doubt, as soon as he
was well, she would drag out of him all that he
knew of her father, and discover whether it was
from him that Ivor had heard of her and received
her portrait.

Always ready to impute the smallest and pet-
tiest of motives to others, Darcie now asked herself
whether it was the American love of titles, as well
as her matchless beauty, which had induced Ivor

| to fix his affections upon her.

 

 

 

, “Very likely he knows I am the daughter of an
earl, or something of that sort!’’ she reflected.
“And in that case, millionaire though he be, he is
net so much of a catch for a beauty such as I!”

A sudden anxiety about his health now seized
her. Running downstairs to the kitchen, she be-
gan interrogating old Jeanne on the subject.

“Oh, he’s much better!’ the old woman said.
“That Fay made me give him a sedative, and he
slept right through to eleven o’clock this morning
without moving. Fay sat up in the sitting-room,
and I looked in twice in the night. This morning
he had a capital breakfast, and now he’s dozed off
again.”

“Where is Fay?’

“The little wildeat swore not to eat anything
under this roof, so, as she cannot go any longer
without food, she has slipped off to get some at
Machin’s.”’

“She must not be allowed to come in here
again,’ Darcie said, decisively, “either by the door
or the window !”

“Polfradnique !’”? exclaimed the old lady, drop-
ping the iron she held heavily on the table in her
surprise. ‘Yesterday you were all for our ceatch-
ing her and making her marry Philippe. What
has changed you?”

“T will look after Mr. Winthrop myself,’’ Dar-
cle said, calmly. ‘‘And until he leaves Sark, Fay
must be kept away.”

“Oné!? Jaughed the crone. ‘So you are jealous
of Fay with the fine young gentleman!”

Darcie’s fair cheek flushed crimson with anger.

“T jealous of Fay !’’ she exclaimed, disdainfully.
“A thing like that—a miserable handful of sea
sand! You do not understand, grandmére. This
Mr. Winthrop has come all ‘the way from America
because he saw my portrait and fell in love with
me. And as I am going to marry him, T cannot
have him pestered by insane beggar girls?”

“Marry him!” repeated the astonished farmer’s
wife: ‘Why are you going to marry him?”

“Because I am fond of him!’ Darcie replied,
coolly, as she drew aside the muslin blind and
looked out of the window.

“Oh, he is rich, then?’

La Vieille Jeanne asked the question in all good
faith, not from a desire to be satirical, but be-
cause she understood at least one side of Darcie’s
nature.

The girl was apparently not at all offended.

“Yes, he is very, very rich,” she answered,
quietly. ‘‘But I can trust you to say nothing
about it to any one, grandmére?’’

“You can, ma fille.’?

Madam Bourgaize went on with her work for
some. seconds in silence. Then she suddenly put
down her iron, and, coming to where Darcie
stood, lost in thought, she laid her hands on the
girl’s shoulders, and kissed her on each cheek,
with unexpected tenderness.

“YT knew from the first, when Mary showed
you to me, fifteen years ago, as a lovely baby, that
you would be a great lady some day,” she said.
“May Heaven bless you, my child!”

Darcie did not return her embrace, but extri-
cated herself as speedily as possible, and retired
promptly to her own room. She looked perplexed
and dismayed.

* “How much does the old crone know, or guess,
I wonder?’ she reflected. “A good deal more
than she ought, I’m afraid!”

The result of the interview between Darcie and
ola Jeanne was soon made evident to the invalid
in the guest-chamber.

He had been dozing when Fay took her leave,
and, when -he awoke, feeling hungry and re-
freshed, at three o’clock in the afternoon, his
eyes, roving around the room in seareh of Fay,
fell on the hard-featured, wrinkled face of old
Madam Bourgaize, silhouetted against the window,
and engaged in knitting.

He watched her for a few moments in silence,
wondering if she could ever, in the faraway past,
have been young and comely.

“What has become of Fay?’ he asked her, sud-
denly.

The old lady jumped.

“T thought you were asleep,” she said, rising
and coming over to him. ‘You look much better,
m’sieur.”

“T feel better, thank you,
in fact. But where is Fay?

The old lady shrugged her shoulders.

“Who knows?” she said. “She is a mad thing!
She told: me just now she did not mean to come
again, as you were quite well. What will you?
She is a good-for-nothing. She takes fancies con-
stantly to the ladies and gentlemen who come by
the boats; she meets them on the cauchie (har-
bor), and follows them everywhere. Then, sud-
denly, she forgets them, and they never sed@her
again. It is a troubllair.”

Recollecting what he had witnessed on the pre-
ceding evening, Ivor did not believe her. As he
lay silent, wondering “how he could get tothe
truth about Fay, there was a tap at the door of
communication between his two rooms.

“May I come in, Madam Bourgaize ?”’
Dobree asked, softly.

Madam Bourgaize went to the door and threw
it open. Darcie stood in the aperture, with her
hat on, her face beaming above a great armful of
dog roses, daffodils, iris, and heart’s-tongue fern.

“Is he better?” she whispered. “Oh; I do hope
he is better! I have brought scentless flowers,
which will cheer him without making him feel
faint.’

That was the beginning of Darcie’s ministra-
tions. During the three following days, in which
Ivor was allowed to get up and have his meals
and spend his time in the sitting-room, he could
not fail to be touched by the girl’s kindness. She
arrived with his breakfast, dinner, and supper
trays, and coaxed him to eat, and read aloud to
him, and talked with that vivacity and cultured
intelligence which, together with her coquetry,
made her so brilliant and charming a companion.
In a hundred little ways she let him gather that
he had already made an ineffaceable impression
upon her wayward heart, and the least vain of
men would have believed himself beloved on such
encouragement.

Ivor was dazzled and fascinated. This was, in-
deed, a bride to be proud of. She would take New
York and London by storm; and she appeared to
require no apprenticeship before taking in either
capital the leading position which was her due.
As the consort of a millionaire, she would be
exactly in her element, the ideal, queenly, volup-
tuous-looking young Juno to whom diamond tiaras
and robes of costly lace were the necessary settings
to her beauty. If Capt. Mitchell could have but
seen this radiant daughter, how his heart would
have swelled with pride! ; ;

And yet Ivor delayed telling Darcie how much
he loved her, and how greatly he longed to make
her his wife.

Right down
unceasing longing,
night and day.

Even when
ing aloud to him from the book on
and folk-lore, which, at bis request, she had pro-
cured for him from the parsonage library, he
seemed to hear echoing through his brain the wail-
ing notes of the Cave Fairy’s song. Even when
Darcie’s wonderful gray-blue eyes looked with rav-
ishing tenderness upon him, under their heavy
lids, as she inquired after his health, he eculd see
painted in the air behind her thoge black-fringed
eyes, brimming with tears and eharged with un-
utterable love and pathos, of the elf-child, Fay.

fan took himself to task over this divided wor-
ship.
“Fave I lived to my twenty-eighth year without
falling in love only to be in love with two women
at once?” he asked himself.

His next mental process was to assure himself
solemnly that he was not in love with Fay. The
idea was absurd. Her picturesqueness charmed
his artist sense, and he would be a brute, indeed,
if he did not feel grateful to her for her unexam-
pled goodness to him. She was a lovely, noble-
hearted child of nature, whose whole life inspired
in him an infinite pity; but she was only a child,
surely not more than sixteen at most, and ‘his at-
titude toward her was as that of a protecting elder
brother.

If he could only protect her, if he could only
discover her present hiding place, and exchange
even a few words with her, to assure himself of her
well-being! 3

No information concerning her was to be ex-
tracted from either Madam Bourgaize or Darcie,
and both adhered to the same story about her.

Darcie had opened her. great blue eyes when he
had inquired after the girl, ;

“Pay! That poor, half-mad child, who used to
be a servant here, you mean? She insisted upon
coming to nurse you at first, did she not? Madam
Bourgaize told me so, and that is why I did not
dare to come and see you the first day. The child
is not quite right in the head, and extremely vin-

madam. Quite well,

Darcie

in his heart was a dull ache, an
that troubled him vaguely

Darcie’s full, rich tones were read-
Channel Isl-

 

‘what was better still,

 

 

. said.

—— = Sn

dictive. She hates me—I don’t know why, for,
although I naturally saw very little of her, I was
always kind to her, and often remonstrated with
the Bourgaizes for being too hard upon her; not

‘that they ever ill-treated her, but those half-witted

creatures are very difficult to deal with. It ap-
pears she haunts the quay, dressed as a, boy, and
takes violent fancies to some of the visitors in
the summer. I haven’t seen the poor little thing
for more than a year; but, living as she does
among those rough fisherfolk, she has, no doubt,
become very savage!’

“On the contrary, I found her most gentle and
intelligent!’ Ivor said. ‘‘And she has a singing
voice of such rare beauty that, were it cultivated,
I believe she could make her fortune. I wish I
could induce you to take an interest. in her, Miss
Dobree.”’

“TI do take an interest in her,” Darcie assured
him, “‘and am sorry she detests me. And, now that
you have asked me to, I shall do all I can for the
poor child.”

He could not see the flash of cold wrath that
lit her lowered eyes. She was asking herself how
this man dared to speak or think of another
woman in her presence.’ He had now: been five
days at La Haie, and had never yet in his talks
with Darcie made any allusion to his oyvyerpower-
ing love for her. But for the testimony of the
portrait in the lecket, for which she had_ only
Philippe Audoire’s word, she could hardly, with ail
her vanity, have persuaded hérself that Ivor was
in love with her; and on the night of the fifth day
Darcie went to bed genuinely perplexed and un-
happy.

No encouragement was wanting. She had as
good as told this man sbe loved him. She had
devoted herself to him for three whole days, and
cruelly snubbed her other admirers, whom, upon
the whole, she preferred to Ivor.

And yet, all the time this wretched millionaire
was alone with her in his sitting-room she could
see by his abstracted manner and the absent look
in his eyes that he was thinking of something, or
of some one else.

Darcie began to hate him!

Somehow or other, he must be made to propose
on the following day, she decided. The idea that
he might get well and leave Sark without declar-
ing himself was too shocking to contemplate. Dar-
cie’s rose-colored cheeks blancked at the thought.

Was it humanly possible, she asked herself, that
it was that vile eif-child who had so captivated the
fancy of this idiotic American as to seriously dis-
tract it from her, Darcie Dobree?

The girl ground her teeth with fury at the
thought. For once in her life, she passed a rest-
less night, and on the following morning, when she
came to greet Ivor at breakfast-time;, an un-
wonted pallor lent her beauty a more appealing
attraction than before in the young man’s eyes.

“TI feel wonderfully improved this morning,
thank you,” Ivor said, as he held her hand in
greeting. ‘Madam Bourgaize says I may go out
to-day, and I want to know if you, Miss Dobree,
will Come with me? There is a great deal I have
to say to you, and-I should like a nice, quiet place
to say it in. But you don’t look quite your bril-
liant self this morning!”

“Tt is nothing,’’ she assured him,
into his face with a radiant smile.
that you were looking ill last night.
were worse, and I could not sleep.
glad you can go out. I will take you to the
Seigneurie grounds, which are near here, and
open to the public to-day. There are plenty of
seats there, and you can rest and talk to your
heart’s content.”

By twelve o’clock, Darcie, as cicerone, had
shown Ivor all the beauties of the Manor House
(or Seigneurie) gardens; the hawthorn hedges to
protect the fruit and flowers from the sea winds ;
the long terraces of turf, arranged in steps; the
“battery” behind the house, with Queen Bliza-
beth’s cannon inscribed: “Don de sa Majesté au
Seigneur de Sercq. A. D. 1572’? the ponds, in one
of which a punt lay hemmed in by duckweed, and
shaded by the giant leaves of the wild rhubarb;
the holy well; the cottage, roofed with geranium
and fuchsias; the great banks of rose and blue
hydrangea, which later would fill the grounds with
blossom; and, lastly, the rustic path bordered by
tangled blackberry bushes and high bracken, be-
neath which a hidden stream ran gurgling to the
sea.

On the broken wall where once the mill stood
Ivor and his guide at length sat down to. rest.
It was low tide, and two hundred feet below the
wet pebbles beneath the natural arch of crimson
and purple rock glittered in the sunshine. To
their right the cliff rose again, forming a great
window resembling Gothic church architecture in
form: and over the broken surface of the massive
isolated rock Tintagen, on their left, the sea birds
wheeled and flew.

No» other living thing was in sight, and there,
alone with her and the superb stretch of foam-
ing sea and frowning rock, and the spring verdure
of the woodland path and inland hills, Ivor Win-
throp,took Darcie’s hand in his and told her how
he had known and loved her father, how Stanley
had given his life for him, and how he, Ivor, had
sworn to him on his deathbed that he would come
to Sark to lay his name and fortune at the feet
of Darcie Dobree.

TO BE CONTINUED.

looking up
“It is only
I feared you
But Iam so

——_-— <> - oa  —___——

WHAT NEXT?

BY REV. GEO. H. HEPWORTH.

An old man was sitting one bright summer af-
ternoon under the shadow of an elm, just beyond
the coziest cottage it was ever my lot to see.
His white hair—it seemed white as the purest of
winter snows—fell almost to his shoulders, and
there was such a serenity of manner and bear-
ing about him, that one was immediately at-
tracted. He had the mild dignity of a prophet,
and seemed to impress every one with the feeling
that he had goné through life like a brave sol-
dier, and was now waiting the roll-call of the
angels, when he would answer, “Here,” with a
steady voice, and go to his reward.

His life had evidently been a successful one.
There was no trace of the terrible wear and tear
which marks the average man of business. And,
his heart was young, and
he delighted in nothing so much as in the group
of young folks who often sat about him, and lis-
tened reverently to his pleasant chat. Fer ey-
ery one he had a kindly and an encouraging
word. Indeed, he was the sunshine of the whole
neighborhood. I. have seen him sitting on the
village green, and enjoying the sports of the
school children, of a Wednesday or Saturday af-
ternoon, as though he were only a boy; and I
have seen him, again, at the prayer meeting in
the evening, talking so levingly to the farmers
that every man seemed to entertain a personal
love for him. He made them feel that plowing,
and sowing, and reaping was a religious work,
and that every man was God's steward, and
coula do God’s work wherever he was; in the
house, on the farm, or in the corner store. In
this way religion was made, not a creed simply,
nor yet a mere formality, but a friendly element
in everyday life. :

By his side sat a young man of perhaps twenty
years of age. He was high-spirited, chivalric
and hopeful by nature. He was just starting
on a career, had come to say good-by, and receive
the benediction of his friend, long known, loved
and trusted. Let us listen to their conversation.

“Well, George, the offer you have received is
a good one, and you are determined to accept it.”

“Yes, sir; they tell me that my start in life is
very flattering. I hope to do good work, and
shall not dishonor your friendship.” ;

This was said with evident feeling, and, at
the last, George laid his hands on the old gen-
ee knees, and looked up for a word of good
cheer.

“Thanks, my dear boy, for your confidence in
me. I hope to feel very proud of you some day,
and I have dared to predict for you a very suc-
cessful life. Now, then, tell me all ‘about it.
What is the first thing you will do?’

“J shall go into the firm as a clerk,”’ was the
reply, “and, by industry and honesty, I hope to
win the good will and confidence of my em-
ployers.”’

“Ah, yes,” said the old. man, putting his hand
on the boy’s head, “‘that is well, and what next?”

“Oh, I suppose I shall have to ‘remain a clerk
for some years, and be satisfied with a small in-
come: but by and by I hope to be taken into the
firm.”

“Good! good, my son! it is proper to have
ambition. Every man has a_ right to develop
himself. No one cares to be a mere clerk all his
days. And what next?” . ;

With just a bit of surprise in his eyes, the boy
looked into*the old man’s face, and replied:

“Why, when I become a junior partner in the
business, I shall give all my time and strength
to my work, and do all I can to make our trade
so extensive that my share of the profits will be
something worth looking at.” ; ;

“That is all laudable, and no one can object to
it,’ said the patriarch.
his time and strength to his business.
men are the basis of the country’s weal, I like
to hear you say you intend to be faithful. Faith-
ful and honorable men are to be respected, and
even in this selfish world a really honorable man
is greatly prized. And what next, my boy?” |

“JT suppose,’’ said the youth, “that after some
years, and when I have arrived at middle life,
the senior partners may possibly retire; or it is
natural to suppose they may die, and then I shall
become the senior partner myself, and select my
juniors, from among the clerks who have served
me faithfully.”

“T like to hear you say
“Never be selfish.

Business

é

 

 

 

de i er retainer

“A man ought to give ~

that,” the old man.
If the -present firm

a

 

 

 

 
€

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Vol. 59—No, 4

“THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

—

helps you to a position, it is but fair that you
_ Should do the same to others. Never beceme a
niggard. And what next?’’

“Well, then I shall give the very best years
of my life to the acquisition of a fortune, and
try at the same time to win a place in society
which it will be an honor to fill.”

“Good again! good again, déar boy! You do
well to seek a good name, and, believe me, you
will get it and keep it if you deserve it. There
are many things which money alone will buy.
But, thank God, there is not bullion enough yet
dug out of the bowels of the earth to purchase
the love of your fellowmen, if by your heart
and lifes you are not entitled to it. And what
next?”

“Oh, I suppose I shall be married, and shall
have a family.”

“Well, and what next?’

“After that I shall probably begin to feel the
weight of years, and then shall give the business
up to younger hands and brains, and retire to the
serenity of a happy old age. If it could only
be like yours, I should be proud indeed.’’ :

“My boy, a green and happy old age, with no
wasp-stings in the heart, is very enviable. By
that time I shall be under the daisies. That is
the eourse of nature. The old felk die, one
after another, and you young folk grow older
and take our places. After a while you begin to
drop away, and your children take your work,
and carry it on. They in turn grow old, and
others take. their places. So the mill grinds on
forever, and there are always hands enough on
the crank. Well, and what next?’

By this time the young man had a puzzled
look, as though there were a significance in the
inquiries, which he had not comprehended, and
which he could not yet quite catch.

“What next?’ he replied. ‘Why, why, I sup-
pose by that time I shall be thinking about dy-
ing. Everybody dies some time, and, I take it,
my turn will come, though I hope not until I
os lived long enough to become weary of

ife.”’

“One hardly ever becomes exactly weary of
life,’ said the old man, cheerily. ‘‘When I was
twenty I thought a man of fifty very old. Now
that I am seventy I feel quite ready to live along,
and should be very unwilling, too, to fix any
time when I should be able to say, I am ready to
go. Life is very beautiful to me; I shall not
be exactly sorry to go, and yet I am more than
willing to stay. Still, as you say, every man’s
time comes at last, and so you may rest. assured
yours will. And what next?”

“What do you mean, father?’ said the young
man, looking straight into the face of the
prophet. “What do you mean by what next?’ ,

“T mean just what I say,’ replied the old man.
‘What will happen to you next? Do you not
know ?”’

“Why, I suppose, what will happen to all of
us, the resurrection of the soul, and the sum-
mons to stand at the Bar of God, to be judged
for the deeds done in the flesh.’’

“And what next?’ said the old man, arising,
and putting both, hands lovingly on the shoulders
of the youth.

The boy turned pale fora moment. He saw
that his friend was in terrible earnest. Those
words, “‘And what next?’ seemed to have been
voiced in thunder. They rang in the boy’s soul,
and he saw at once: where the old man had been
leading him.

He said, bravely:

“T see now what your questions mean. You
want me to understand that at the Bar of God
the supreme moment of my soul’s career will
arrive. I shall then be judged for eternity.
That judgment I shall make up word for word
_by the acts of my life, and it will’ be my own
fault, and the fault of no one else, if the verdict
goes against me. You would teach me to keep
that fact in view all the time. I shudder at the
responsibility.” :

“No, do not say that,’’ responded the dear old
man; “do not say that. When you are over-
whelmed in the years to come, go down on your
knees and listen. You will hear these encourag-
ing words as they come fresh from the’ lips of
angels?

“Te, I am with you always, even unto the end
of the world.’”

What next, brother?

Comrades in Exile

By ST. GEORGE RATHBORNE,

Author of “The Winning of Isolde,” “Little Miss Mitiions,”
“My Hildegarde,’ “A Captain of the Kaiser,”’
*“Drt Jacky? 'etc., ete. ‘

(*COMKRADES IN EXILE’ was commenced in No, 48.
Back numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers.)

CHAPTER XXIV.
CROSSING THE MODERN STYX.

Bridgewater looked a little serious. .

He had an idea that in the change from the train
to the packet something might be attempted by
those cunning East Indians to secure the precious
jewel he was believed to be carrying on his person.

The train slowed up.’

“Now look sharp, Mr. Smithers, if you please.
These fellows have tricks of their own that are
most devilish in their ingenuity, and, really, it’s
a point of honor with me to outwit the whole
clique,’’ was what the diplomat said, in an under-
tone to his guardian angel.

And the solemn face of the other relaxed just a
trifle to allow his left eye an opportunity for a
droll wink; while the other side of his coun-
tenance facing the rest of the travelers was as
severely sanctimonious as ever.

Then the train came to a sudden stop.

, ‘All_out for Dover,’’ sang Bridgewater, blithely,
for he was feeling in particularly fine fettle. Why
' not? When the game seemed turning altogether in
ne are with love and fortune stalking hand in

and?

Of course there was considerable bustle and con-
‘fusion about the scene when our friends issued
from their carriage. ié

Luggage must always demand the attention of
travelers upon foreign railroads, since few have
adopted the admirable checking system that has
been in vogue in America for decades.

This little task was speedily accomplished and
their luggage sent on board.

Rex for a short time forgot all about the woes
and tribulations of his comrade in arms, for lo,
he had managed to discover Miss Madge at a dis-
tance, seated upon a trunk that had been tossed
from another van.

His promise to Bridgewater prevented a deser-
tion, so the poor fellow was fain to content him-
self with a few hoe gestures, when finally the
young lady—-who knew of his presence all the
while—deigned to glance his way.

« What this cabalistic display communicated to
Miss Madge was, it might be hard to tell, but she
seemed pleased, for she smiled and blushed and
even waved her hand coquettishly in return, when
no one seemed to be looking.

Of course Rex had to come face to face with
the gay count while the latter was engaged in a
hot. search for his leather trunk.

It must have resembled that of Rex not a little,
for the Austrian pounced upon the uptilted port-
manteau with a cry of satisfaction, without deign-
ing to raise his eyes to the party who mounted
guard beside it.

“Mon Diew! at last I have it. Porter, this way
—carry this aboard the steamer,’”’ he exclaimed.

. “Excuse me, but this is my property, count,”
said Rex in his most indifferent tone.

Then’ the Austrian looked up, and his face was
the incarnation of astonishment, mingled with
disgust, when he recognized the man who thus
disputed his rights.

“What, you?’ he ejaculated, and then uttered
some words.in the Magyar tongue.

Rex knew he was swearing like a trooper, and
strange to say it pleased him not a little, for he
loved to tantalize this fire-eater.

“Why not? I presume I have as good a right to
do the Continent as the next. Of course one has
more or less trouble with straying carriages and
stubborn drivers, but little things like that never
Shea me from accomplishing what I set out to
eer

His meaning was very significant, and the count
turned white with either alarm or anger.

“Sapriste! you do not mean to insinuate that I
had anything to do with your delay, .monsieur?”
he said, furiously. :

“J intimate nothing, so please don’t excite
self, my dear count. Ags for this: trunk

“Tt: 1s. mine.’*

“Indeed, since when did
Singapore, Calcutta? See,
those Asiatic places and others on the end.

you. still claim it, count?”
The Austrian. was stung by the vein of sarcasm
fn. the voice of the New Yorker, but words failed
him just then.

He hastened away in a. hot temper, and this
was not at all soothed. when he heard some by-
standers, fellow-countrymen of Rex, and_ both
loud in dress and manner, laugh gleefully over
his signal discomfiture. a 4

Then Rex managed to remember that he had a
companion. , ‘

; How was Bridgewater progressing?

|. The little Britisher was dodging about searching
for the goods of Miss: Nance with a zeal that
stamp) on a true son of Albion—at his side
flitted the Salvation Army lassie, and hovering

your-
”

you visit Hong Kong,
ere are labels of ail
Do

Only savages fight in that way.

| that will catch your fancy.

 

over them both, in an@ out, no matter where they
went, was the ubiquitous Mr. Smithers.

Rex had curiosity enough to glance around, re-
membering that his friend had said there were
seven of the thugs aboard the train; he saw num-
bers of foreigners about to return home—there
were Turks and Italians, Germans, Swedes and
Russians, besides-a generous sprinkling that might
be classed ‘“‘unknown.”’ :

Apparently it would test the ability of an: adept
to pick out Hindoos or Burmese from this throng.

His only chance was to take particular notice of
their actions, and thus try to discover those who
manifested an undue interest in Bridgewater.

When one’s attention is distracted by the pres-
ence near by of a divinity in skirts, such vigil is
apt to prove rather irksome, and Rex found he

‘could only fix upon a couple of dark-faced parties

who watched either Bridge or his handsome com-
panion with eagerness.

One of these afterward turned out to be an
attaché of the Turkish legation, returning to the
Bosphorous, while the other was a noted Italian
opera. singer whose name thrilled the musical
world. :

So much for appearances.

If the Burmese secret agents were present they
knew better than to render themselves marked
men by showing undue interest in the party who
earried the precious stone they had journeyed so
far to recoyer. ;

By degrees the pilgrims transferred themselves
to the packet.

Madge and her aunt went at once to their state-
room, whence they might not issue until the shores
of France were reached. t

When Rex ran across his friend on deck he of-
fered him a cigar.

“T see they didn’t get you in the push; old
chap. Sure there are seven of the gentlemen?
For the life of me I couldn’t place them.”

“Requires a sharp eye,’ said Bridgewater,
when he had finished laughing at the other’s mis-
take with regard to the illustrious tenor and the
Turkish attaché.

“I presume you could pick them out offhand.
Suppose you post me now,” sarcastically.

“As you say.”

He began in a matter-of-fact way, and thus
five gentlemen whom Rex had never suspected,
were brought to his notice. Pt

“You said seven.’* ~

“Seven it was. The other two are also aboard.
Look yonder at the rail.” a

“JT see our friend, Ras Ragoula, leaning over,
watching the luggage come aboard.”

“True, and Nance at his side. The old man car-
ries many valuable things back to Abyssinia and
is of a necessity greatly concerned over the safety
of his traps, while Nance has her trunk half filled
with Salvation Army literature and truck, with

| which she means to start business among Mene-

lek’s. people. Bless the little missionary, her heart
is all aglow for the betterment of mankind, and
I’m dead certain she’ll make a first-class wife,
better than I deserve.”

“Come, stow all that, dear boy, and tell me
why you drew my attention in that quarter.”

“Because you were curious to know just where
the other two pilgrims from Mandalay were lo-
eated. Cast your eye back of the general and you
may see a couple of fellows pressing close against
him.’’

“But surely they couldn’t be from Mandalay;
those men seem to the manner born; Burmese
accustomed to native robes could not wear our
Western attire so jauntily.”

“Ah! you say that because you don’t know how
versatile a lot they are, how readily they imitate,
and adapt themselves to conditions. Watch now
and see what happens.”’

Thus adjured Rex did use his eyes, with a sur-
prising result.

“Why, they’re going through his pockets, I do
believe, and he doesn’t seem to mind in the: least.’’
Bridgewater chuckled.

“A most audacious thing!
and warn him?’’

“What's the use? They take nothing, since their
search is only for a certain package which you
understand they won’t find.” '

“Still, it rather riles one to see so bold a
performance. ‘Ras Ragoula doesn’t seem to
mind.’’

“Bless you, he knows nothing about it; didn’t
I tell you the equal of these fellows for sleight-of-
hand tricks doesn’t exist on earth.’’

“There, they’ve finished.”

“And look a little dismayed.”

“‘Now they turn to the girl.”

Bridgewater uttered an exclamation.

“They’d better keep their hands away from
her!” he said, with a frown, as he made a move in
the direction of the rail. :

“Hold hard; perhaps a bit of
store for you.”’

“How so?’

“Well, you know she carries another facsimile
of the ruby as an armlet or charm; what if they
secured -posssession of that! no jeweler here to
consult, and at Calais you could disappear with
your outfit ere the stores open. Leave them alone,
Bridge, they won’t hurt the girl.’’

“But she would be vexed to lose her talisman,
and. I’m not the man to let some one I care for be
annoyed to do me a good turn.’’

So saying Bridgewater pushed up against the
two dark-featured gentlemen, tpon whom he bent
sueh a scowling face that they moved to another
part of the deck, baffied for the time being in their
designs.

The signal for departure was given, and pres-
ently the Channel steamer began to move away
from the landing stage.

Rex was perhaps as contented a person as she
bore among her heterogeneous list of passengers,
for his affair of the heart seemed to progress to a
favorable degree, and a mind at ease made the
world look rosy to his vision.

So our bachelor felt in a very good frame of
mind as the lights of Dover and those upon her
chalk cliffs began to grow hazy, and the sea took
the Channel boat in its grasp.

It was in this frame of mind that he suddenly
found himself confronted by Count Rudolf.

Why don’t you shout

good fortune is in

CHAPTER XXV.
“EXCUSE MBE,’’ SAID THE COUNT.

There were lights enough upon the deck to show
Rex that the Austrian was somewhat excited.

“T’ve been searching for you, M’sieur King,’”’ he
said, in a thick voice.

“Too bad you’ve been put to any trouble, count.
I’ve been here all the while, and quite ready to see
my friends. This hurricane deck is all of twenty
paces long, and while a trifle unsteady for a sure
aim, might answer the purpose to a couple of en-
thusiasts advancing upon each other.”’ &

““What?’’ gasped the count, ceasing to scowl.

“Well, my bag is handy, and I always carry the
little darlings with me. You know they declare
that we Western men invariably go with a bowie
knife down our back, and a revolver in our boot,
but I assure you, count, that is a libel out and out.
But you don’t seem to fancy my proposition?’
with a look of surprise that was well assumed.

“Barbarous! Continue shooting as you ad-
vance, until both are punctured like a_ sieve!
A gentleman’s
code of. honor does not allow for cannibalism.’’

The redoubtable American laughed.

“Good for you, count. You see I understood you
hungered for new and nove! effects, upon which the
sensational yellow journal reporter could spread
himself.
wide world. Let’s try another deal, then.’

“What is that?’’? ventured Count Rudolf.

“Let me see. Ah! I have it. Do you swim?”

The count moved back apprehensively from the
rail when Rex fairly shot this question at him.

“TI have that proud reputation; I have the medal
won in Vienna.”

“Ah! a champion, eh?
will of course strike you as a bright idea.

Then my proposition
We

-can settle this dispute once and«for all, and in a

way that may not shock our friends with a sight
of wounds and gore.”

“Tell me,” said the count, eagerly. |

“Tn. half an hour we expect to be midway be-
tween France and England, Let us then jump
overboard and swim back to Dover. The one who
arrives first wins the game.”

“Le diable,’ said Count Rudolf, weakly, lean-
ing against a support.

‘Then it’s settled, a go,’’ with enthusiasm.

“Perhaps one might not arrive; no one ever
swam halfway across the Pas de Calais.”

“Tf one arrived, the glory must be his.”

“And if neither should be heard from, m’sieu’?”

Rex shrugged his shoulders.

“Some other lucky fellow gets the prize. But I
say, of course you accept the proposition ?’’

“Of course I decline. I am not a madman like
you cowboys of the plains. As well might you ask
me to jump with you over a precipice, each with a
dynamite bomb in his arms. Ah, no, M’sieu’
King, I must see some chance when I accept such
a challenge.’’

“But, my dear count, let me propose something
Listen; in my valise
are two cigars, so exactly alike that no one can
tell them apart. You smoke of:course? Well, you
will declare you never burned a weed the equal
of the one you shall select—that is, if you live!”

“Yes,” said the count, fascinate@ in spite of
the horror he felt for this dreadful American.

“When you have picked out one I will take the
other; then we will light them here and sit on
deck with others’ in our company, chatting, until
all of a sudden the little cartridge that is in-
geniously hidden in one of the cigars explodes, and
the bullet enters the brain of the smoker.’

Count Rudolf uttered an exclamation of dismay.

“Diabolical! Think you I could sit here and

| smoke calmly when-—-excuse me, M’sieu’ King,

I have lost all taste for tobacco now. Bah!”

“TI think it is rather a little sea sickness, count,
and would advise you to lie down.
part of the Channel is yet to come.”

4

I’m the most accommodating chap in the |

The roughest

 

“T am no novice I would have you to know; !

already I have crossed this water twenty-three }
times. I am not afraid. But I came not here to
talk of such things.”’ \

‘‘And I can’t for the life of me imagine what you
did come for, since you won’t accept any of the
lovely propositions I make you. I shall try to
think up a few more when we get ashore, count,
for I feel that one of us must go to the wall, and
I enjoy considerable red fire about what I do.
Nothing would please me better than to buy a
couple of old motors, and run them at each other,
you on one, myself manipulating the other, at the
speed of a mile a minute. I rather think if either
survived the smash he would be marked by
nature as a favorite son. I saw a thing like this
done onee, but there were no men on the. ma-
chines. Anything to oblige your love for the novel
vand picturesque, count.”

The horrified Austrian had by this time quite
enough ; he experienged some of the sensations. that
beset the wretch who has been indiscreetly monkey-
ing with the buzz saw, and finds himself minus a
number of digits. s

“Excuse me,” said the count.’ “I beg of you
then to take no further trouble in my case, m’sieu’,
since our ideas on the subject of the delightful
duels could neyer harmonize.”

“‘Well, what the deuce are you bothering me
about, then; what did you hunt me up for?” de-
manded the American with a show of temper.

“You see I—+that is the circumstances—oh, yes,
m’sieu’, the trunk really was yours, since I have
found mine on board, and of course, claiming to be
a gentleman, I wished to apologize for my rude
behavior at the time,” said Count Rudolf, with a
sneer upon his face.

“Oh! that’s all right; apology’s accepted, only
I beg of you don’t.do it again. And, by the way,
my dear count, I have wanted to have a little chat;
why not how since we have the deck pretty much
to ourselves?”

“So ae

“TI understand you are annoying a young lady
who is a relative of mine, and has placed herself
under my protection.’’

The count jumped almost a foot.

“Sare,” he exclaimed, “‘she a relative of yours?
It is quite impossible.”

‘“‘Not at all; I’m her brother, you know, adopted
brother. Ask her and be convinced. And, be-
tween you and me, in the course of time I hope to
assume even a closer relationship to Miss Moore,’’

The wretched count was certainly in a far from
enviable condition ; he could have gladly murdered
his rival if looks were given the power to kill, but
dared not éven put a finger on his person lest he
arouse the dreadful devil that Bridgewater had as-
sured him most solemnly lurked back of the Yan-
kee’s exasperatingly cool manner.

“Sacre! you say this to make me reckless, when
you will find a chance to—what you call it?—
carve me with your bowie knife. But I shall not
the opportunity give you yet. I shall cool keep until
my time comes. But, m’sieu’, this I say, the lists
are open to all—let the best man win.”

“That suits me, provided you play a square
game, count. No more schemes to win the lady’s
gratitude; if her life is put in jeopardy again under
such conditions it will not be well for the scoundrel
who is to blame. A fair field and no favor strikes
an American as the right thing every time. Win
her fairly, and hang it, I’d be the first to congratu-
late you. swear it. But no fighting under
cover, no underhand business, count, or I won’t
be answerable for the consequences. You found
your trunk, you say?” good-naturedly.

“Ah! yes, but good-night, M’sieu’ King. I be-
lieve the sea is rougher than I expected. Really,
I must—excuse me—another » And then he
went to the rail to look yearningly in the dis-
tance, perchance to discover the lights of Calais
dimly permeating the gloom ahead.

Rex turned from the sad spectacle, for a man
in the throes of mal de mer loses both caste and
dignity, and it was more than ever a positive thing
that Count Rudolf would be in no condition for
advancing his cause while he remained aboard the
Channel steam packet.

To Rex it was rapidly assuming the character
of a farce, this argument with the fierce fire-
eating member of the nobility who had been so
deeply impressed with the hurricane manners of
Texans in general and this supposed one in par-
ticular. ?

Deep in thought, Rex briskly paced the deck, and
while he walked with the lights of Calais ahead, he
saw Bridgewater approaching with quick steps,
like a man who has exciting news,

CHAPTER XXVI.
BOTH IN THE SAME BOAT.

“Looked for you all over the boat—had a half
idea that blarsted count had watched his opportu-
nity and fed you to the fishes,’’ Bridgewater ejacu-
lated, upon clutching the arm of the American and
falling into step with his promenade.

“Well, I gave him the chance, but he politely
declined, although I swore this hurricane deck.
deserted as it was, would answer all purposes, ana
I had the tools in my bag below. I’m very much
afraid the count doesn’t fancy the American meth-
ods of giving satisfaction. You’ve been and loaded
him down with such ghastly yarns of my eccen-
tricities out West, that he sees a horrible pitfall
in every modest proposal on my part.’

Bridge looked up at the quizzical face of his
companion as seen in the light of the lantern near
by, and gurgled:

“By Jove! now, it’s as good as a play, d’ye
know! All the elements in hand, too. I thought
he took my ghost stories rather seriously; but then
I’ve seen and heard about some remarkable af-
fairs in your wild and wovuolly West, and if I un-
consciously drew the long bow im retailing them,
what’s the odds. But let that pass. I wanted to
see you desperately.”

“So I judged. Has the vessel sprung a leak?
Will I have to swim ashore, after all? That was
one of the things I proposed to our friend, the
count, but he didn’t seem to fancy it a bit.”

“Rex, you’re a—a—corker ; bless me if I thought
it was in you to bait a dare-devil of an Austrian
duelist like that. No, the steamer isn’t sinking,
but she carries a passenger we never dreamed of
seeing again, and who may sooner or later have an
influence on your foriunes.”’

“Now, who the deuce can you mean?”

“Knew you couldn’t guess; was surprised to see
him myself. Who but Tremaine.”

‘Lord Duffield?”

“The same. He’s laid out like ordinary mor-
tals now, wrestling with the insidious monster
that lies in wait for nearly all who dare venture
on this water; but once ashore he’ll be himself
again. Although he’s half again your age he can
give you a chase for your money.”’

‘Look here, you don’t imagine Madge cares for
him, do you?” nervously.

“Well, he’s a fine chap, Tremaine is, made of
sterling stuff. They’ve angled for him these
Many years, and now that he’s fallen in love with
the little American, I expect. it will prove a seri-
ous case. Of course you’ve got the inside track
now, but I honestly believe only for your appear-
ance on the scene she might have appealed to Tre-
maine in time of trouble, and he’d have lashed her
enemies like the old fighting lion he is. Then—
but what’s the use of speculating how her respect
might grow into a warmer feeling. Tremaine is a
fine fellow, I give you my word, and, next to you,
I’d like to see him win out.’’

“Ah! thanks awfully. I was in luck, then, to
happen on the spot when she needed help.”

“You owe the count something for that.’

“So I do, bless his heart. But, lay on, Mac-
duffi—you have more to tell.”

“Those sharks from Mandalay.’’

“An! yes, they’re giving you a bad hour.”

“Most of the chaps are doubled up and harm-
less, but several seem to be proof against the
rocking of the old tub. I tell you it’s deuced un-
pleasant to have a shadow constantly at your el-
bow. When I look over the rail and see the black
water hissing and foaming below, it gives me a
cold shiver to think that only one fling would be
sufficient to.toss a fellow over.”

“The penalty of greatness, my boy.
have no cause to worry like that.’’

“Tell me why not.’

“In thé first place, so long as they believe you
may carry their precious old idol’s eye on your
person, no man among them would have the nerve
to. drop you over into the drink.’’

3ridge drew a breath of absolute’ relief.

“Ah! you make me fecl so much better when
you say that. Twice to-night I’ve felt myself being
touched when in a crowd—-a hand pressed against
my person here and there, as if in search of
something, and I tell you it’s a very disagreeable |
experience. What if that hand held one of their |
infernal knives? I'll be a happy man when I’ve |
delivered that gem to the rajah, and receive his
reward.”’

As the vessel neared Calais and drew into calmer
water the tortured ones came out of their agonized
conditions, and a mighty stir began to proclaim
their readiness to leave the vessel.

People pushed here and there, gathering parcels
and forming into groups.

Presently Rex discovered the one for whom he
searched, amd it rejoiced his heArt to see that so
far as appearances went Miss Moore showed no
signs of having been sick; just why this should
please him he could hardly have explained, save
that he had an ardent hope they would be upon
the water together many times when the land of
the lotus eaters was reached, and that it must be a
keen delight to cruise indefinitely with one who
had no terror of the sea.

He was soon at her side; and appeared to be as
much at home as though he had a divine com-
oe to especially look after Miss Madge’s com-
ort.

What though the spinster frowned; and the
count gnawed his military mustache in vexation,
Rex was utterly impervious to all rebuffs so long
as =H sure he was wanted: by the object of his
regard.

Still, you

So it was the Americam who earried her littl
parcels, and to whose arm the charming Mis
Moore clung upon landing from the steamer.

Formalities were soon over, and they found
themselves at liberty to enter the train that stood
waiting to conduct them to the French capital.

Then up came Tremaine.

Rex watched when the other was bending over
the hand which Miss Moore eagerly extended; it
was his desire.to read the truth, no matter if it
proved painful to him.

She was glad to see Lord Duffield—only that
and nothing more—he was a good friend in her
estimation; the coming of Rex had prevented him
from ever reaching a higher step; there was no
constraint, no blushes, as when she met our Rex.

And that worthy heaved a sigh of relief as he
muttered to himself:

“Sorry for you, milord, but the truth is you
were never in the race at all, And sooner or later
you're bound to get a bitter dose of medicine.”’

The prospect was exhilarating, and he could af-
ford to feel kindly toward every one.

Perhaps that was why he suddenly remembered
Bridgewater and his checkered plans; Bridgewater,
whose lines had not been cast in as pleasant plac
as his own, and whose dream of empire necess
tated a rough experience ere the prize could be
won.

Would those shrewd agents from India yet suc-
eeed in outwitting the little diplomat? He knew
it must be always a question of cpportunity with
such unscrupulous chaps, and not moral obliga-
tions, for could they but secure the thing they
sought, a score of human lives would count for
naught in their Eastern religion; so that with poor
Bridge it must be a case of eternal vigilance the
price of liberty, since innumerable chances might
erop up between Calais and Caleutta, whereby
the robbery could be effected, provided his wit was
unequal to the cunning of his sagacious enemies,

A WIFE’S REVENGE.

BY HERO STRONG.

Very much against the wishes of her
and of her twin brother, Albert, Marian
married Leroy Aliston.

_It was one of those cases’ we find it extremely
dificult to explain, where a woman, sensible on all
other points, is yet a fool where the object of her
love is concerned.

If any girl of her acquaintance had fallen in
love with Leroy Allston,.and Marian had stood
by, a calm, indifferent spectator, she would have
deeply commiserated the unfortunate girl, and
perhaps have ventured on a littlé friendly advice,
which, of course, would have been deemed im-
pertinent, and treated accordingly.

Allston was of good family, and he had a very
handsome face to recommend him; but he was dis-
solute, reckless and unprincipled, and people were
right when. they said that he sought Marian solely
for her fortune.

He was possessed of wonderful powers of fas-
cination, and when he sat beside Marian, and
looked into her face with those deep, dark, pas-
sionate eyes of his, and told her in a voice sweeter
than that of a siren how he loved her, she forgot
everything but his presence, and was entirely un-
der his control.

Women like her love deeply when they yield to
the sweet madness; and Marian’s passion for her
handsome lover knew no bounds. Her fortune
was her own, having been left her by a deceased
uncle; and as she was twenty-four years of age
she had a perfect right, to do as she pleased.

So, as I said at the beginning, she married All-
ston, and all her relatives were grieved and dis-
pleased thereat.

The young couple commenced housekeeping in
splendid style, and for a time everything went
on in harmony.

Allston used his wife’s money freely, and gath-
ered about him several fast young men. He kept
his pair of blooded ponies, and his crack trotters,
and he had his suite of rooms at the clubhouse,
he smoked the choicest cigars, and drank the fin-
est wines which money could purchase.

All this time Marian loved him, and fondly
and foolishly enough believed that he loved her.
When he tame home at night so much under the
influence of wine that the keyhole of the door was
lost to him, his wife would hasten down to admit
him, and hurry him up to their chamber, lest the
servants might see and remark upon the disgrace-
ful state of the master. - :

Martian bore it all without complaint. “I suppose
she would have gone on bearing it to the end, if
Allston had not indulged himself in another fash-
fonable vice of the day.

Mrs. Staniford was a widow, or professed to be,
and she was beautiful and fascinating, and un-
fortunate, and all that, and Allston was her very
devoted slave. He furnished a house for her in
sumptuous style out of his wife’s money—and
there he spent his leisure time. j

Do you think that society frowned upon him
because of this? Then you know not society.
“He was a rich and fashionable young man, and
his wild oats were not yet sown; his wife was
rather prim and orthodox; and, after all, he was
no worse than the majority of men!” Virtuous
young ladies smiled on him, and doting mammas
greeted him cordially, and made him welcome to
their homes and to their firesides.

Marian was the last to hear of her husband’s
last sin. When she did, she refused to credit
it. Through everythingshe jhad never once
doubted his love for her, and that had kept her
heart tender toward him. Confirmation was not
long wanting, and Marian had an opportunity to
convince herself beyond all possibility of doubt,
of his defection.

No one knew or guessed how hard this was
for her, for she was one of those women who be-
lieved in the necessity of personal purity and
chastity for'a man as much as for a woman.

She met Mrs. Staniford often—a bold, hand-
some woman, who laughed in her face, and more
than once ventured to address Mr. Allston when he
was riding or walking with his wife.

From the time Marian first made herself sure

8
s |

Things went on thus for 4 couple of yéars, and |

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parents, |
Seymore

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75

ef her husband’s infidelity, whole nature
seemed to undergo a change From being a gen-
loving, iding girl, she became
> woman. And, 1
iendship of Mrs. St
in a ge degree, the base woman’s confidence.
Those who knew Marian best, wondered at
of her features, and the st
>, and at the expression of
tion which had settled over her counts
“My dear, you look like one of the Fat
Allston to her one day, after had studied
face over his newspaper 10pe you are
sitting for a tableau of resis.’
She smiled grimly, but
deed, she seldom answered
Her brother Albert was
and the trim vesse f wh
lay idle, with furled sails }
By and by it was reported
Allston and Mrs. Staniford
re voyage in the
n¢ and everybody won
that “‘queer Mrs, Allston !’’
had got out of sight of land, it was all
On and on the vessel sailed, until
thor

}
Lie,

sought the
large

her
not

I answer him; in-
anybody in those days.
at deal with her,

e was the master

}

uthern
had
Oo be put on
were
i he

seas were reached; Allston
begged, and threate

shore, Capt. Seym

on a pleasure voyage, “he sa
hoped they would all be as h
possible.

Something in
something in the suller
erew—something in tl
which Marian regarde
ford—struck ter
wretches,
day.

The vessel anchored one r
a low, sandy island,
ance of tropical vege
out.

AUston and Mrs, Staniford standing
gether on the deck of the Nawtilus, looking
the green oasis. The captain ) ;
lantly offered his arm to the lady.
“You have been very anxious to go on
said he; “‘you now have an opportunity

Mili

and

pr

Mr Sta

impt

lee of
luxuri-
got

under the
with the
a boat

to

os

ivite you to accompany us.’’
was a cold, steel-like glitter in his eye as
i e, which might have warned A
the fate which awaited him, had he ob
but he was too eager to set foot-on dry
nore to notice anything unusual in the car
demeanor.

tai
They all entered the boat, which was pulled by
two silent oarsmen, and in a few moments the
keel grated on the sand of the shore. The party
alighted, and no sooner had Aliston and Mrs.
Staniford advance a few paces up the beach than
Capt. Seymore and his sister returned to the boat,
which instantly pushed off from the shore.

About forty feet from shore the men drew in
their oars, and Mrs. Alliston stood up in the boat,
and spoke, in a clear, ringing voice, to those left
behind:

“A long and happy life to you! And may you
never grow weary of each other’s society! Your
island is all your own, and from the fact that it
lies a hundred leagues from the usual track of
vessels, you will not be subject to much co any.
You will have nothing to do but love each other.
Adieu.” ¢

Then the boat shot away into the
gloom, followed by the agonized cries and en-
treaties of those left behind, and in a few mo-
ments the Nautilus spread every sail to the fresh-
ening breeze, and when morning broke over the
blue, sweet sky, she was miles and miles away
from the dreary little island and its hapless waifs.

The Nautilus came into port just eleven months
from the time she sailed away, and Mrs. Allston
was in mourning for her husband, who was said
to have died of malarial fever somewhere in the
tropics.

Nobody inquired for Mrs. Staaiford, but it was
presumed she had been left at some port where
the Nautilus had touched.

Years passed away, and Marian Allston had
stood at the head of society in her native city,
beautiful, fascinating and rich, but cold as stone
and nearly as feelingless, said her admirers,

At forty, she lay dying of quick consumption.

Her brother had died three years before, and
her parents had followed: him within a year of
each other. Consequently, there was no near
relatives to stand around her deathbed.

She sent for Dr. Deane, the rector of St: Mat-
thew’s. ? ,

To him she told the story f have been trying
to tell you, aiid to him she gave A chart of the
Sovitkern waters, where thirteen years before she
had left her husband and his mistress to fate.

Upon him she enjoined the task of fitting out a
ship to sail. to these remote seas, and seeking
that desert island, to bring back those wretched
creatures if alive, or if they were dead, to bury
their bones. A little after midnight she died. Dr.
Deane performed the service required of him.

The vessel he fitted out found the island,
found likewise the bones of Allston and
wonian.

Sbe had died first. He had evidently been dead
but a short time, for his flesh was not all con-
sumed, and in his hand was found a scrap of
paper, faded and discolored, bearing these words:

“Aug. ——, 18—

“TJ Have managed to keep the date up to this
time. I feel that I am dying. Dying; oh, Heav-
en! and all alone! Fanny has been dead eleven
years. Oh, Marian! Marian! you have indeed
had your revenge!

“It grows dark; the palm trees wave
branches over my head like mocking
Heaven have mercy upon—me!”’

A grave was made on the desolate shore,
the two skeletons were placed within it.

gathering

and
the

their
demons.

and

+ 0

anything better or fairer on earth
than gentleness, the Savior would have taught
it to us; and yet He has given us only two les-
sons to learn of Him-—meekness and humility of

WERE there

 

 

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Vol, 59—-No. 4

 

FORGIVENESS.

BY JOHN G. WHITTIER.

My heart was heavy, for its trust kad been
Abused, its kindness answered with foul wrong;
So, turning gloomily from my fellow men,
One summer Sabbath day, I strolled among
The green mounds of the village burial place;
Where, pondering how all human love and hate
Find one sad level; and how, soon or late,
Wronged and wrongdoer, each with meekened face,
And cold hands, folded over a still heart,
Pass the green threshold of our common grave,
Whither all footsteps tend, whence none depart,
Awed for myself, and pitying my race,
Our common sorrow, like a mighty wave,
Swept all m, pride away, and trembling I forgave.

ane iene

GOD’S WAY.

BY FLORENCE HOPE.

She was scarred with a disfiguring birthmark
that spread its ugly dark hue entirely over the
smooth contour of her. cheek, extending to her
throat and ear.

It marked her for life, and she was keenly sensi-
tive about it, morbidly so, shrinking from contact
with strangers and avoiding society. Thus it was
that Margaret Keith’s life was a very solitary one.
There were certain compensations, as there always
are if we would but grasp them. One of these was
that she possessed a glorious contralto voice, rich,
deep and thrilling—such a voice as would have
given her fame had she been able to go on the
stage, for it was entirely suited for the opera.

But the stage, with that marred face! Of course
it was out of the question, so the wonderful har-
mony of her voice was hidden from the world, and
only heard by her master who cultivated it, and
her own relations and friends.

One by one companions of her own age became
engaged and married, and deep down in the girl’s
heart was a feeling of envy, for marriage seemed
to Margaret Keith the height of bliss, a haven of
happiness that could never be hers.

She had seen men shrink from looking at her,
and little children shudder and look frightened ;
yet she loved the little things, and longed to take
them up in her arms and kiss them.

She was only twenty-five, and had a long, love-
less future to look forward to. Her brother, for
whom she kept’ house, had just told her that he in-
tended to marry in a short time, and asked her
what she thought of doing—-whether it wouldn’t be
pleasanter for her to live in a family than to be by
herself.

She was thinking of this now, as she stood in the
gathering dusk of the afternoon, looking out of
her window on to a lawn that was strewn with
leaves that the autumn winds had blown from the
trees. There was a damp mist rising, and the
outlook was not particularly bright; indeed, it
was so depressing that she was about to draw the
curtains and ring for the lamps when she saw a
figure coming up the gravel path from the gate.

He wore a soft felt hat and Inverness cape,
and walked briskly up to the door as if with a set
purpose in his mind, and Margaret recognized him
at once as one of the fathers from the Catholic
church on the hill, a fine church that had only
recently been erected.

“Rather Andrews, please, miss. I’ve shown him
into the parlor,’’ said the neat maid a minute or
two later. ‘

The priest at once stated the errand he had come
about, it was to beg Miss Keith to grant them a
favor. Their contralto was ill, they had no one
to fill her place, and the next day was Sunday—
would Miss Keith sing for them?

Margaret hesitated, she knew most of the music
of the service; besides, she could read at sight
quite easily; the choir was placed where the con-
gregation could not see it, so she would not be
remarked.

Father Andrews waited in silence, watching her
face, and praying that she might accede to his
request; he was overwhelming in his thanks when
she did so, and promised to send the music around
at once for her to look at,

So this was how it began; what it led to I have
still to relate. It brought a new interest into
Margaret’s life; she loved the kind of music that
was required of her, and every Sunday, and at the
Wednesday evening services, her glorious voice was
poured forth in Mozart or Haydn, Cherubini or
Schubert. It was in an Ave Maria that Denis
Tremaine first heard her voice, and it startled him
with its thrilling beauty.

Music, especially singing, charmed him as noth-
ing else had the power to do, and he listened en-
tranced, spellbound !

He went to church again in the evening, though
it was not customary for him to do so, and heard
the same wonderful voice singing the solo parts
of the Litany of Loretto. He covered his face
with his hands, absorbed in the glory of the music,
and giving himself up to voiceless prayer. For
Margaret’s voice was at its best in sacred music,
raising one’s thoughts and feelings nearer . to
heaven. “a

That evening Father Andrews had been invited
to supper with Mr. Tremaine, who was a bachelor
living in an old-fashioned, ivy-grown house near
the church. He had but lately come there, so
had made no acquaintances yet, nor was he anx-
icus to do so, for he was a reserved man and
cared for the few, not the many. He was wealthy
and had given a large sum of money toward the
building of St. Walburga.

“Now, tell me, please, father, who is the singer
whose marvelous voice I heard to-day for the first
time?” inquired Mr. Tremaine, as they sat down
to supper.

“Ah! I thought you would want to know that.
She is a Miss Keith who keeps house for her
brother, a lawyer; they live at Elmwood, the cor-
ner house at Beverly Road.”

“Ts she a public singer?”’

“Oh, dear no, it was as much as I could do to
get her to sing at church; but as she has done
it to-day, I hope she will be good enough to favor
us again.”

“JT hope so, indeed; it is a marvelously beautiful
voice. I wonder she has not gone on the operatic
stage,’ said Tremaine.

“Probably she would have done so had no
Father Andrews hesitated; why should he speak
of Miss Keith’s disfigurement to Denis Tremaine?
He turned the phrase into: ‘‘You see she has her
brother’s house to look after.”

“That would not keep many women from seek-
ing fame when it lies ready for them; she can have
no vanity, no conceit,” said Denis, thoughtfully,
crumbling his bread.

“She hasn’t; she’s an exceedingly good woman.”

“How old is she—if it isn’t a rude question?”

“Twenty-four or five, I should say.”

“J wonder she is not married; just think what
a continual delight her voice would be to her hus-
band—what a joy—what a solace to a man like
myself.”

Mr. Tremaine sighed.

“Let me introduce you to her. I should like you
to meet Miss Keith; she is clever, well read, and
intellectual—above the average woman.”

The priest spoke with enthusiasm; a_ sudden
idea had entered his mind, it seemed an inspira-
tion—Denis Tremaine, the wealthy but lonely
bachelor, and Margaret Keith.

“Are you turning matchmaker,
Tremaine with a laugh.

“T think it would be for your
marry; you ought to think about it.”

“Perhaps I will.”

The subject was not referred to again, nor was
Margaret Keith’s name mentioned.

There was a. mission held in the church that
week, and every day Margaret sang at the evening
service, and as she left the choir after all the oth-
ers had gone and the congregation had dispersed,
she invariably noticed a man in one of the front
seats who lingered as if loath to leave the church.
She admired his refined, rather careworn face; it
was the type of face that appealed to her, and
almost unconsciously she began to think a good
deal about the stranger; she knew nothing about
him, not even his name, and she was not inquisi-
tive enough to inquire.

It was about a fortnight later that she was leay-
ing the church late one afternoon after practicing,
when just as she reached the porch, Father An-
drews overtook her, his hand on the arm of the
gentleman whom she had noticed so often in the
church.

The yellow light from the lamp’ that lit the
porch flashed on his face, and Margaret drew back
into the shadow as she fancied he was turning to
look at her. As she did so Father Andrews spoke
to her.

“Miss Keith, my friend, Mr: Tremaine, begs for
an introduction; let me “introduce him to you.
Mr. Denis Tremaine—Miss Margaret Keith.”’

Margaret bowed, her face still in shadow, and
Mr. Tremaine lifted his hat.

“TI am afraid you will think this rather an
unconventional introduction, but I begged Father
Andrews not~to miss this chance of allowing me
to become acquainted with you. I want to thank
you——but my words are so poor—to thank you for
the wonderful treat you are good enough to give
us, of your voice in the church.”

As he spoke he held out his hand toward Mar-
garet, and she placed hers in the outstretched
palm.

‘“T am glad to have given you pleasure,’ she
said, softly.

“T hear you live with your brother; I should be
very grateful if he would call upon me. I wonder
if you would ask him?’ continued Mr. Tremaine.

”

said

to

father?”

happiness

Margaret; then, with a slight bow, she wished the
priest and Denis Tremaine good-evening, and went
down the steps into the road.

Her heart was beating fast, then
her face became suddenly very sad.

“He did not see me, it was too dark; he will
shrink from me in horror when we meet—if we
ever do—by daylight, but I shall do my best to
keep out of his way; there is no happiness of that
kind for me, and yet—and yet—oh, what would
I give to be that man’s friend, to be something to
him more than a passing stranger!’’ she thought.
Tears gathered in her eyes which she brushed al-
most angrily away.

That evening she gave her brother Mr.
maine’s message.

“Tremaine—I fancy I’ve heard something of
him. Oh, yes, I’ll call, though I don’t, as you
know, call upon newcomers as a rule. I haven't
the time; still, I'l] go around in a day or two and
do the polite act,’’ said Keith.

But when he did so he found Mr. Tremaine not
at home, so, leaving a card, he felt that he had
done his duty.

A few days afterward Margaret was in the par-
lor, arranging fresh flowers in the bowls and tall
vases. It was a bright day, and the sunshine
poured into the pretty room.

The girl had ransacked the garden for the last
of the autumn blossoms; a mass of wet nastur-
tiums lay under dark leaves amo some rich-
hued dahlias and earthy-smelling chrysanthemums,
trails of Virginia creeper gave a touch of blood-
red color, and mingled with some somber ivy leaves
for foliage.

Margaret was wondering where her home would
be when another autumn came around; she
dreaded leaving the house in which she had lived
since a child; it meant an awful wrench to her
that she hardly dared to think of, and her heart
sank at the prospect.

She was so intent on her flowers and so ab-
sorbed in thought that she did not notice the stop-
ping of a carriage at the gate, nor the ringing of
the doorbell, but she started with surprise when
the drawing-room door was thrown open and Mr.
@remaine was announced. Involuntarily she held
up a mass of the flowers against her scarred cheek.
The sun shone full upon her, she felt its warm
rays on her face and shining in her eyes. An
unconscious prayer arose in her heart that Denis
Tremaine would be pitiful toward her and- not let
her see that she was repulsive to him.

His eyes met hers clearly, there was no shrink-
ing in them, not even a semblance of horror or
surprise, or even pity.

“Hearing that your brother was out I ventured
to ask for you, Miss Keith,” he said. ‘I am for-
tunate to find you at home.”

“Won’t you sit down?” said Margaret, in a voice
that was a little unsteady.

“Thank you!’ He hesitated, made an_ uncer-
tain movement, then stretching out his hand, said:

“Forgive me, I must ask you to guide me to a
chair; you know I am blind!”

The acquaintance thus strangely begun soon
ripened into intimacy. The physical imperfections
of each found no bar to an exchange of heartfelt
sympathy; in time they grew to admire each other,
and then to love with a deep and abiding affection.
It was not strange, therefore, that in three months
the owner of the wonderful voice became the bride
of the man who had for years endured the loss of
the most important of all our physical faculties—
the power to view the beauties of nature. But if
he could not see, he could hear; and it was the de-
light of his life to listen to the divine music of his
gifted wife.

a ath
THE WHITE ROSES.

BY

it sank and

Tre-

2

MAGGIE MARIGOLD.

“Come, Jenny, it’s time to be adorning for our
trip,’ exclaimed Louise Lord, as she danced into
her friend’s half-darkened room, and found her
curled up in a great rocker, reading the last pub-
lished novel.

“Oh, is it time to go?’’ asked that young lady,
wiping her tear-stained eyes, and closing the
book. :

“Yes, child. But how you look.
to read books that spoil one’s beauty.
affecting?’

“Perfectly heartrending,’’
the handkerchief again.

“Fly around,’ urged Louise, ‘‘for it is three
o’clock, and we were to meet those creatures at
four, and I’ll help you, for I’m all ready.”

“There’s a perfect rush at the library for that
book,”’ said Jenny, applying a wet towel to her
flushed cheeks and drying them by artistic little
dabs which avoided all friction.

“Well, I won’t read it if it makes me cry, for
one never knows when callers may come, and it’s
so inconvenient to be unpresentable,’’ responded
Louise, taking a caramel and supplying her friend
with a handful. ‘‘Now all you want is some pow-
der to take off the gloss,’’ she continued, fishing
around in the bureau drawer for the beautifier,
which was soon found, and scientifically applied
with a small piece of flannel.

“Mercy, don’t wear that blue suit!’ exclaimed
Louise as Jenny lifted it off the peg. ‘It would
kill my green feather and gloves. Wear the black
silk, that’s a dear, and the Roman sash, and
you'll look divine;” and, catching her friend’s
handkerchief, she fell to sprinkling it with
“Jockey Club.” ‘‘What would the boys say if they
knew we were going to meet a couple of strange
gentlemen?’’ she added.

‘“‘Wouldn’t they raise a grand hullabaloo?” ex-
claimed Jenny; ‘‘and if they knew that we had
answered an advertisément and been correspond-
ing with the gentlemen for two weeks under as-
sumed names! But speak softly, for Frank is in
his room. I heard him scraping on his violin
just before you came in. One can hear so plainly
through these walls, you know. It’s very incon-
yenient to have one’s brother in a room next
your own. Only last week Bell and I were talk-
ing about Will Bailey meeting us in the park
for a walk, when Frank overheard us—probably
one of the doors was ajar—and he threatened to
tell papa if I wouldn’t promise not to do it again.
Of course, I had to promise, for papa’s a regular
old poke, and mamma’s so fussy that if Frank
had told, they’d have put me in a straight-jacket.
Frank cuts up high himself, but if I so much
as wink freely before him, he snaps me up like
a turtle. What toads boys are, anyway,” trying
to stick her hat on at an angle of forty-five de-

rees.

i “Yes, Brother Bob’s just as bad,’ acquiesced
Louise. ‘‘Frank and he can have jolly times to-
gether, but we girls are regular caged animals,”
and she gave a final touch to the little frizzles
on her forehead.

“Oh, our roses! We have forgotten our white
roses!” cried Jenny, as they ran down the steps;
“wait here and I’ll go and get them. Louise, they
are all gone,’’ she called, appearing at the front
door with a disappointed face, a moment later.
“T’ll bet that miserable Bridget has hooked them
to wear to-night. She’s going to a ball, or a
wake, or something. What shall we do?” and
the young lady of sixteén looked ready to cry.

“Do? Why, go down Broadway as fast as we
can and buy some, of course,” replied Louise.
“There’s an Italian woman, not two blocks below
here, who has a flower stand.”

“What a romantic performance!” said Jerny,
as she fastened a tiny bunch of white roses in
her own and her friend’s buttonhole. “The gen-
tlemen will know us by these. Oh, mercy! am I
all straight?’’ whispered she. ‘“‘Here “comes that
young donkey of a Will Bailey. Now if he joins
us, just let me send him walking, please. We
can’t have any one tagging after us to-day.”

The said young ‘‘donkey,’’ seeing these dainty
maidens at that instant, pricked up his ears, and
lifting his hat with a grand flourish of the right
arm, joined them.

“Charming day,’ he observed, twisting the cord
of his glasses. “?Pon honor! there’s Madam
Theresa Tizzgigg, the new tragedienne! Isn’t
she gorgeous? That blue thingumbob—I should
say that what do you call it—around her shoul-
ders makes her look like an angel.”

“Wer tunic, you mean,” replied Louise.

‘Have you seen her play Camille?” inquired
that very young gentleman, trying. in vain to
twist the down in the place where the mustache
ought to be. ‘“‘She’s perfectly thrilling in that
character. I saw her last night. The house was
in tears. They really needed mops and umbrellas
in the parquette.’’ é

“Oh, herée’s our store,’ said Jenny, suddenly
stopping before Wanamaker’s. “We will have to
say adieu, Mr. Bailey,’ and both girls disappeared
within. ‘

Jenny priced some yellow damask window cur-
tains: took several samples of other colors, -and,
then feeling sure that their “donkey’’ was some
distance off, they cautiously emerged.

“Oh, dear, only half a block to Goupils! I’m
almost afraid to go in,’ said Jenny. “If papa
should find it out he’d take my head off.”

“Well, he won’t haye.the chance,” responded
Louise, with a toss of the head; ‘‘so come on and
have our fun.”

“Look here! How are we to know the creatures
if they happen to stand with their backs turned
toward us?’ asked Jenny, pausing at the door.

“Basy enough. ‘They'll probably be standing
around looking for us,’’ answered Louise, smooth-
ing her kids and stealing a glance at herself in
her pocket mirror.

“Ts my hat straight?’’ asked Jenny, in a little
flutter, as she slowly opened the door.

“All right,’’ answered Louise; and they en-
tered. “Now, there’s a fellow with something
white in his coat, the first thing. Over there in
the corner, looking at ‘Beatrice Cenci,’’’ she

It doesn’t pay
Is it very

and Jenny applied

 

whispered; but he evidently never spoke to a girl
in his life. ‘“‘Look how quaint and moony he

“T will certainly do so if you wish it,’’ replied

looks. Disgusting? He’s got a red handkerchief.
Turn around quick, Jenny; he’s looking this
way. Now, if he dares to speak to us, just you
keep still, and let me quench him.”

“There they are, I’m sure,’’ whispered Jenny,
as a couple of young swells, in velveteen suits,
rose-colored ties, and tea-roses in their button-
holes, entered.

“The dear creatures! aren’t they. sweet!”
sighed Louise, stealing sly glances at the snobs,
and pretending to be examining a statue of Nidia.

“Here they come,’ whispered Jenny, in a flut-
ter. ‘‘But their roses aren’t white.”

“Lovely piece of carving, isn’t it?’’ observed
one of the young men, striking an attitude before
the marble blind girl, and staring through his
gold-mounted eyeglasses. :

“Feet too large,” replied the other, with the air
of a connoisseur, as he twisted the ends of his
waxed mustache. ‘‘Hasn’t enough arch in the
foot; ankles too thick.’’

“But a fine-looking girl,
old country gentleman.

“Yes, y-e-s,” drawled the connoisseur; “very
fair representation of Bulwer’s enslaved Greek.”

“Send her to the dressmaker’s,’’ snapped the
country gentleman’s wife, pulling him away with
a@ nervous jerk.

“Hullo!” exclaimed a familiar voice behind the
girls, and looking up they
Bob resplendent in their most killing rig, with
white roses in their buttonholes, At that same
instant the young gentlemen discovered their sis-
ters’ flowers.

“By thunder!’’ ejaculated Bob, ‘‘here’s a pretty
piece of business. Frank, they’ve played us this
trick deliberately, but we’ll be square with them,”
and Bob grew very red with indignation.

Jenny was taken with a violent fit of laughter
at the turn affairs had taken, and choked so
spasmodically behind her handkerchief that Louise
led the way to the street with a would-be severe
countenance.

“What a mess’ you’ve made ef this, girls!’
cried Frank, when a lull in the roar of the street
traffic made talk admissible.

“Didn’t know it was you,
Louise, with an injured air. -

“How do we know but it’s you who have played
us the trick?” laughed Jenny behind her veil.

“Of course we didn’t,” answered Frank, jerking
his head uneasily as though trying in vain to
escape from his best clothes over the top of his
shirt collar, but beginning, on the whole, to feel
ener since learning that it was a mutual sur-
prise.

“Going to tell papa what a pack of fools we’ve
been?’’ asked Jenny. ;

“No, Miss Blanch Montross—oh! ‘ye gods and
little fishes!’ what a name! I expected to find
a pink and white angel, with tallow-candle curls.
No, as it’s all in the family, we’d better keep
mum. Let’s all go to the Marlborough and have
a light lunch instead.”’

“Yes, we mustn’t be cheated out of our fun,”
laughed Louise, and away they went.

withal,’’ replied an

of course,’

PLEASANT PARAGRAPHS.

BY CHARLES W. FOSTER.

REALLY A SERIOUS MATTER.
Actor—‘Hurry, or we’ll miss the train.”
Actress—“I can’t find my diamonds or my

purse.”’
“Oh, well, never mind.”
“Yes, but the purse had ten dollars in it.”

A FRENCHMAN’S MISTAKE.
Winks—‘“‘Dr. Fauve, of Paris, announces that
the odor of flowers has a pernicious effect on the
human voice.”
Jinks—‘“Nonsense! When I give my wife flow-
ers, her voice isn’t nearly so sharp as it is at
other times.”’

YE SYMPATHETIC FRIEND.

George—‘‘Jack, old boy, I’m so glad I ran
across you. Never needed your friendship more.
I’m in love with the belle of the season, and I
promised her a sail to-day, but I had a run of
bad luck last night, and haven’t a cent left.”

Jack—‘“Too bad.”’

“Yes, I don’t care for myself, you know; but
it’s such a pity that a charming creature like
that should be disappointed. You have a little
money to spare, haven’t you?”

“Oh, plenty. Make yourself easy, my dear boy.
She shan’t be disappointed. I'll take her myself.”

HE EXPLAINED.

Mrs. Wayupp—‘The children. tell me that while
I was away you frequently used the expression ‘a
high old time’ while talking to your friends.”

Mr. Wayupp—‘Y-e-s, my dear. Antique & Co.
have a genuine ‘grandfather’s clock,’ which I was
thinking about buying for you. Most eight feet
high, and a century old. I'll have it sent up
to-day.”’ x

IMPOSSIBLE CONDITIONS.

Housekeeper—‘“‘I’ll_ give you ‘all you want to
eat if you'll tack down this carpet.”

Tramp—‘“Couldn’t, mum. If you’d give me all
I want to eat, I’d have to stand up.”

GETTING ACQUAINTED.
Relative—‘‘I notice that you have at last got
acquainted with your next door neighbor, who
has lived alongside of you for the past ten years.”’
Mrs. D’Avnoo—‘‘Yes, we were introduced to
each other at the Pyramids of Egypt, and I found
her a delightful companion. We became very in-
timate.”’
STUDY IN PSYCHOLOGY.
Mrs. Bloom—‘‘Did you ever notice how hard it
is to keep from laughing on solemn occasions ?”’
Bachelor Bounce—‘‘Once.”’
“T thought likely. Nearly every one has such
experiences. Tell me about yours.”
“Tt was the day I was told that the baby next
door was dead.”

A DECIDED ATTRACTION.

Miss Citimaid (in the country)—‘‘Why is it that
you country people, when you come to the city, al-
ways go to some theatre that is presenting a play
full of country scenes—farmhouses, fields, agri-
cultural machinery, hay wagons and such things?”

Farmer Meadow—‘‘Wall, we don’t care so much
for the plays; but I just tell you it’s a mighty
comfort to sit and enjoy country scenes without
mosquitoes.”

EUPHEMISM.
Doctor’s Wife—‘‘Have you told Mrs. Blank that
her baby is deaf and dumb?”
Old Doctor—‘‘Not exactly; but I have told her
that if the little girl grew up and married, her
husband would be devoted to her.”

COULD APPRECIATE IT.

Hostess—‘“‘I have been told that the Russians
never touch food or drink without making the sign
of the cross.” *

Traveler—‘Well, there are some Russian drinks,
and a good many Russian dishes, that I wouldn’t
touch without making the sign of the cross and
saying my prayers, too.”

A SPECIMEN. PREDICTION.

Weather Prophet—“‘I hit it again. I never fail.”

Ordinary Man—‘‘Huh! The thermometer has
dropped twenty degrees, and it is raining piteh-
forks. You predicted fair and warmer.” 1

Weather Prophet—‘“I predicted fair and warmer,
with increased humidity. I may have been a trifle
off on the fair and warmer, but you can’t deny the
humidity, sir—no, sir.”

SELECTED PLEASANTRIES.

His CHANGED NamEr.—Naggsby—‘I understand
that Sir Thomas used to call Capt. Wringe ‘Sind-
bad the Sailer,’ just for a joke.” -

Wagesby—‘‘Yes, and since his recent experience
he has probably changed it to ‘Sailbad the Sin-
ner.’ ’’—Baltimore American.

2A CoNUNDRUM ANSWERED.—She—‘‘Why should
the average woman lead people to believe she’s
younger than she really is?”

‘“Hle—“‘She doesn’t. She merely ‘tries to.’—
Philadelphia Ledger.

A CONFISCATED CHICKEN.
chicken for dinner.”

‘“‘Yessuh,” said Mr. Erastus Pinkley.

“TI hope you bought the chicken.”

“Well, no; but the transaction were strictly
regular. Dat chicken has been roostin’ on my
fence for months wifout payin’ nuffin’, and’ I reck-
oned it were ‘bout time to fohclose.”— Washington
Star.

REASONABLY CERTAIN.—‘“I understand old Skin-
flint has got religion.’’ :

“Tt’s. possible.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Well, if Skinflint and religion have come to-
gether at all I think it is safe to say that he has
got religion. There certainly is nothing to indi-
eate that religion has got him.”—Chicago Post.

EASY AND EFFECTIVE.—‘‘Before I consent to let
you have my daughter,” said the square-jawed
captain of industry, “I want you to answer a ques-
tion. What would you do if I were to give you
$1,000,000 2?”

“T sée. you have

After the coroner had viewed the remains and |

 

decided that death was due to heart failure, caused

beheld Frank and

said]

by a sudden shock, the old man lit anothey cigar
and murmured :

“That’s worth tryin’ again some time.’’—Chicago
Record-Herald.

LIKE FATHER,—Rangle—‘‘What were you pun-
ishing your boy for this morning?’’

Angle—‘‘For lying. He said he saw a fish in
the millpond as big as the one I’ve been telling
about that got away from me there last week.”’

Rangle—‘But maybe he did see it.” :

_ Angle—‘‘Nonsense! There isn’t a fish that big
in the pond.’”’—Philadelphia Press.

How THE CURE WAS ACCOMPLISHED.—Dr. Blus-
ter—‘What! The boy is well already? Well,
well! A marvelous cure, indeed! What do you
think of my medicine now, Dame Tackleigh?”’

Dame Tackleigh—‘‘Wonderful, doctor; simply
wonderful! I told the boy yesterday that if that
medicine didn’t cure him you were going to fetch
a different kind to-day.”—Puck.

DIRECTION OF HER FwBAR.—Maude—‘‘What
makes you so awfully nervous, dear?” |
Clara—‘Why, Fred is to have an interview
with papa this afternoon.”
“Oh, and you are afraid your father will not
give his consent?”
I’m afraid Fred won’t show up.’—Tid-

SUBURBAN FORESIGHT,—The citizen of Dreary-
hurst was showing his visitor through the spa-
cious garden in the rear of the house.

“Over there,” he said, pointing with his cane,
“is the turnip patch.”

“You must be a good deal fonder of turnips
than I am,’ commented the visitor.

“Oh, we don’t use them op the table,’’ his. host
replied. ‘‘We raise them to throw at the neigh-
bors’ chickens. They’re cheaper than coal.’’—
Chicago Tribune. .

Tee .
A FREE PASS.

BY RICHARD BRODHEAD.

A few years since I was agent for a large manu-
facturing concern, and my duties caused me to
make long and frequent journeys. Among my
warmest friends was the treasurer of the Black-
water Railway Company. One day, while he was
at our office, I happened to say that the next morn-
ing I intended starting for the West, and proposed
visiting several of the larger cities. Pulling out a
number of railroad passes, he gave them to me,
saying that as he had no use for them, I might as
well use them. Upon my remarking that they
were made out in his name, he replied that that
was immaterial, as most of the conductors were
unacquainted with either of us; that he received
the tickets through exchange of courtesies with dif-
ferent railroads, it being customary to send passes
to the principal officers of other railroads.

With that, the conversation was interrupted, and
in a short time he departed, leaving the passes in
my possession. F ;

Without thinking much about the matter, I
placed the passes in my pocketbook, where they
remained several days without my noticing them.

When I arrived at St. Louis, the parties whom I
wished to see had gone to Chicago, and would not
return till the latter part of the succeeding week,
and, it being necessary that I should see them _be-
fore I proceeded on my journey, I was forced to
await their return. While bemoaning my ill-luck
in being tied in St. Louis for a week, I recollected
that my old college chum, Jack Bartlett, had_lo-
cated down in Arkansas, and, as I had not seen him
in several years, I determined to visit him now.

Packing my traveling-bag, I hastened to the
depot, arriving there just in time to get on board
an outward-bound train. Not having had time to
procure a ticket at the station, I commenced get-
ting my fare in readiness for the conductor. While
rummaging in my pocketbook for change, what
should I find but the forgotten passes, and among
them one for the very railroad I was traveling on.
For a few moments there was a struggle between
conscience and economy; but, you know how it is,
when dollars and cents are at stake conscience is
very elastic. I very soon resolved to use the pass,
thinking that the conductor would merely examine
it, pass on, and that would be the last of it, and
I be a few dollars the gainer. ~ +

I wished it had been the last of it. I knew I
was not doing exactly the right thing, but then my
funds were low; so when the knight of the punch
came along I handed him my pass. He glanced at
it for a moment, then extending his hand, said:

“TJ am very happy to meet you, Mr. Ferguson,
and hope you will enjoy your trip over this road
Please excuse me; duty first, you know.”

Yes, Mr. Ferguson would excuse him; or, at
least, I, the bogus Mr. Ferguson, or ideal Mr, Fer-
gusén—which ever you like—would excuse him.
Gladly, too; for I felt just a little uncomfortable
when he was near. I soon found out what “duty
first’? meant. It was evident that railroad had in-

‘structed its employees to be specially courteous to

railroad men. -

Whenever that infernal conductor had a mo-
ment to spare, he would come and sit down beside
me, address me as Mr. Ferguson, when everybody
knows my name is Kelly. Then he would prate
about this road and that road, signals, switches,
self-acting brakes, spiral and elliptic springs, and
a whole category of railroad fixtures. Then he
would ask me about our railroad; whether we used
this article or that; which method of this some-
thing or that something we preferred. All this be-
ing Greek to me, I had to be very cautious and
non-commital in my replies. Being only a-“drum-
mer” for a factory, I knew nothing of his lingo, so
I tried to change the conversation. I tried talking
poetry, politics, religion—made original remarks
about the scenery; said that the mountain around
whose base the railroad wound was grand and
sublime. ‘.

“Yes,” said the conductor; “it’s sublime and
grand enough, I suppose; but it is the meanest
grade on the road.”

I saw that I would have to try a new tack, as he
was very practical in his ideas. Then I asked him
whether he was married, what he,;though of matri-
mony, whether he would advise me to attempt it,
if it would not be sensible to be harnessed tempo-
rarily the first time—a kind of an experiment like;
in short, I asked him everything imaginable and

“unimaginable, but the only effect it had on him

was to change him from talking of air-brakes to
talking of automatic couplings.
I was almost driven to despair. I longed to tell
him I was a humbug, but pride forbade that; for
by so doing I would not only debase myself, but it
would be unjust to my friend. Gratitude de-
manded that I should endure my martyrdom.
Zou may imagine my dismay when presently I
beheld my well-meaning persecutor pushing his
way toward me, accompanied by a middle-aged

gentleman, who seemed to carry himself as if he‘

owned the whole road.
conductor said:

“Mr. Ferguson, permit me _ to
Lovelace, president of this road.”

Now I was in for it, sure enough. What could I
do? Where could I charter a knot-hole. Here I
was, personating another man, and imposing upon
one of the most prominent men in that section of
the country. In my wrath and despair, I inwardly
cursed passes, Tom Ferguson, myself, and last, but
not least, this diabolical imbecile of a conductor.
I was too much embarrassed to say anything aloud,
Like a ray of light through the deepest darkness,
stood out the fact that the old president was grind-
ing out a long-winded welcome to my arrival ‘at
the western section of our railroad chain.’”’ I think
that was the way he spun it. This railroad mag-
nate differed somewhat from some I have seen; he
was gentlemanly, cordial, and really sociable.

Assuming, I suppose, that one in my position
(treasurer) would be well versed in everything
pertaining to railroad finances, he began a lengthy
discourse on them. Fortunately I knew consid-
erable more about income and expenses than I did
about patent brakes and spiral springs, owing
to the fact that Tom Ferguson and I had had
many conversations concerning the finances of
his railroad, and seeing that I had some taste for
such things, he had posted me fully.

In for a lamb, in for a sheep. Seeing no way to
escape, I determined to present a bold front and
hobnob this great man the same way I would Tom
himself. In a very short time we were deep in the
mysteries of stock, common and preferred, first
mortgage and convertibles. With what effect I
talked may be judged from the fact that old Loco
closed the conversation by exclaiming:

“Young man, you have studied your business
well. The East is no place for you. Come West.
Here you will be appreciated, and your talents will
find the reward they merit.” ;

Though I had some compunctions about making
the assertion, I replied that probably I would lo-

Stopping at my seat, the

introduce Mr.

cate West at some future time. Upon which he|

made me promise that I would advise him when I
decided to emigrate, and he would endeavor to find
me a remunerative and agreeable position. .

As we were nearing the city in which he resided,
he strongly urged me to remain with him for a few
days. Though I had imposed upon him most
shamelessly, I was not so far lost to the dictates
of conscience as to insult his hospitality by becom-
ing his guest under a false name and reputation.
So I pleaded a prior engagement, and he reluc-
tantly excused me. ; ;

After he had left me, I saw that malignant con-
ductor making for me again, and I thought it judi-
cious to feign sleep, which I did whenever he was

jin the car during the remainder of my journey.

Arriving at my destination, I had a very pleas-
ant visit with my old friend, and the time of de-
parture came altogether too soon to please me, but,
of course, ‘‘duty first,’ you know. :

The first.salute I received upon entering the sta-
tion was: .

 

“How do you do, Mr. Ferguson? Going up with
us to-day?” ;

 

Yes, I was going up, but I wished heartily that
he had gone to—well, anywhere where I could not
meet him—though I did not tell him so. Ager

Well, that was not the only shock I received, for
on entering the car the first person I met was the
president. I was no sooner seated than he came
and sat down alongside, and said that he must_
congratulate himself on his good fortune at meet- ©
ing me again. I could not help thinking that I _
cursed my good (?) fortune at meeting him. —
Railroad affairs suffered again. ; vs

After I had been on the train a short time, ‘I
noticed that a strongly-built, determined-looking |
man, seated opposite, was attentively watching me
—so attentively, indeed, as to be rather annoying.
I was on the eve of speaking to him concerning
the matter, when he followed the conductor from
the car, and I felt relieved, though I eould not
say why.

In a short time this Argus-eyed gentleman re-
turned, and stepping up to where the president.
and Iwere seated, proceeded to arrest me for mak-
ing an illegal but~successful draft on the funds of
the Blackwater Railway Company. :

It seemed, according to the officer’s story, that
a day or so after I left home, a clerk in the treas-
urer’s office had embezzled a large amount of
money and left for regions unknown. The railroad
company had notified the police of all large cities, .
St. Louis among the number, of the robbery,
offering a reward for the detection of the thief,
and giving a description of his person. :

The detective who arrested me, and. the conduc-
tor were intimate acquaintances, and the detective
having said something to the conductor about the
robbery, the conductor naturally spoke about his —
having the treasurer of that road on his down trip
a day or so. } ;

The detective, thinking it odd that the treasurer
would be so far away from home so soon after the
robbery, desired to know how I looked. Now, you

jsee, this clerk and I looked somewhat alike, and

Mr. Detective was sure he had his man. a
I was loud in my protestations of innocence, and

indignant at my arrest, but could not deny that I

was not Mr. Ferguson. The only results of my
protest were that the railroad president left me in
disgust, while Mr. Detective grimly smiled, and re-
marked that he never arrested any but innocent
persons, though somehow they were always con-
victed. To cut a long story short, I was en to
St. Louis, and after remaining in prison over
night, was identified by my friends and imme-
diately released. But, I can assure you, since my
embarrassing experiences, I have a strong an-
tipathy to railroad passes. ,

Ii

|

i

+)

Wh

H}
i

NSO ORCA

MR
INTUTE ll ieee
EDITED BY MRS. HELEN WOOD.

Hi

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 illustrated in this column at TEN.
CENTS each. When ordering patterns, please be
particular to mention the number of the pattern
and size wanted. Address Fashion Department,
oe New York Weekly,’’ Box 1,173, New York

y-. ’

_ FASHION NOTES.

The fashionable fur for fall and winter, say the
importers, will be mole. Already it is fashion-
able in Europe, and American furriers have placed
immense orders for it. Moleskin makes up well,
and wears as well as squirrel, while in effect it is
far handsomer. It has a rich, shaded look, chang-
ing from light to dark, making it both handsome
and becoming. Ermine will be almost twice as ex-
pensive as it was last winter, the catch having
been very small, and the demand for it very large.

Among dainty accessories to the toilet- are
many scarfs, stoles and capes, but none prettier
than the plain, long scarfs of liberty gauze which
come in a variety of delicate colors, as well as
black and white. These scarfs, although a yard
or more in length, are so fine that they fold up in
very small space. A black one for mourning has
a border on all sides of black marabout feathers.

Kimonos are being shown in all the plain and
figured Japanese cotton crépes, in Japanese siik
crépe, gayly flowered or in plain white and solid
colors, and in China silks, trimmed with bands of
Persian ribbon or lace insertion overlying a solid
color. Others are made of soft, white muslins and
eto and trimmed with lace or embroidered

ands.

Silks for shirt-waist suits and petticoats now
come from twenty-seven to thirty-six inches wide.
They are to be had in solid colors, in white, with
pin stripes of black, or with embroidered dots.
These wide silks are rather expensive, but they
cut to very good advantage. x

The most fashionable material for tailored suits
is undoubtedly covert cloth. This fabric, until
now used exclusively .for light coats, wears re-
markably well. It comes in a variety of tones and
in several weights.

Genuine coins are utilized for hatpin tops and
brooches. The head of the coin is brought out in
three-quarter relief.

Valenciennes lace in an écru tine is much in
demand for millinery use.

oF In ordering patterns be sure lo give size and number

No. 3202—LADY’S SKIRT.

Pale blue veiling makes this stylish skirt, and
the design is suitable to light woolens, soft, pli-
able silks, and washable fabrics of a transparent
nrature.~< The
skirt, which is
cut in two sec-
tions, is length-
ened by a shirred
flounce of gradu-
ated width» that
is hemmed at the
lower edge. The
upper section of
the skirt displays
several rows of
shirred tucks
run in at evenly-
spaced distances,
to form a short,
round yoke.
Above the flounce
the material is
also gathered,
and between the
flounce and the
yoke there is a
group of shirred °
tucks. The placket opening is at the center-back,
and the top of the skirt is finished with a belt of
the required size. The pattern is perforated for
round length, if preferred, and is cut from 22 to
30 inches waist measure. Size 26 requires 6 yards
of 42-inch material. :

No. 3193—-DRESS FOR A GIRL.

Three materials are combined in this pretty
frock. The skirt, which is straight, is gathered
ed to the waist. The blouse

3 portions of the

waist are gath-

ered at’ upper

and lower edges

and arranged

over the lining,
which is. faced ©

with the tuck-

ing to simulate

a yoke. The

bertha forms an

attractive feat-

ure, and 39s

adaptable To.

any fancy ma-

terial. The

eap, to which

the full puff is

joined, and the

fullness at the

waist is gath-

ered into a

straight cuff.

The use of the

lining .and the

bertha is a mat-

ter- ch fancy.

.The design is

suitable to a

sleeve iS in

three parts, and

consists of @

: short. sleeve-

combination of materials, and will make up pret-
tily ineall seasonable fabrics. The pattern is cut
from 6 to 14 years. Size 10 years_requires 4
yards of 32-inch material, 84 yard of all-over,

and %4 yard of tucking. . *

(All patterns: published in ‘“‘The New York
Weekly’? will be sent to our readers for 10 cents
each. Address FASHION DEPARTMENT, “New ~

York Weekly.”’) s we j Sa

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