A BRILLIANT LOVE By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON, STORY, “TRIXY; Or, THE SHADOW OF A CRIME,” CLEVER, SYMPATHETIC, MASTERFUL, BEGINS NEXT WEEK. ene me Entered at the Post Office, New York, as Second Class Matter. Vol. 59. OFFICE. 238 William St.. New York Three Dollars Per Year. Two Copies Five Dollars. OCEAN VOICES, BY NATHAN D. URNER. The Ocean! the Ocean! the Ocean! No whispering brook for me, But the roar on the shore, and the rout, and the shout, And the breath of the boundless Sea! A torrent may spout from the headland, One pine, if you will, for a tree, With an eagle’s nest in its stormy crest— But the Sea, above all, the Sea! How he heaves from island to island! How he riots from pole to pole! TheMoon is his bride, and he leaps with pride, Or melts in her soft control. She is pale from his fierce embraces, But he laughs aloud at her fears, Or falls on his shore with an amorous roar, And bursts into passionate tears. @QA. O Edith, bright smiler, thou movest In tenderest beauty above The restless leap at the shoreless sweep Of my wind, far murmuring love! Dost linger, O queenliest lady, Dost wait in thy sunrise home, Daring to smile, yet dreading the while Lest thy mad, mad iover will come? Nay, smile, smile ever, sweet trembler ! ’T will break so soft at thy feet! I, too, was born in that Land of Morn, Where our passionate souls must meet. "Twas roaming the Universe, darling, That fretted my love’s deep sea; With sun and star it dallied afar, But dreamed of quiet with thee. I should have been born in the Mountains, Where the whirlwind strips the pines, Where the shouting cataracts headlong plunge, And the thunder bursts and shines; And thou shouldst have been of the Valley, Where the biue lake smiles in her dream, Where the Drvad alone to the dingle is known, And the Naiad alone to the stream. eA For I come to thee, darling, darling, As the torrent forces are rolled— Icome, my Placid, my Beautiful, With that regal rapture of old That blazed upon Semele fiercely, And struggled in Hera’s hold, But which quivered to rest on breast In the glorious Shower of Gold! The Ocean ! the Ocean! the Ocean! The infinite swell for me! The. moans and cries, the laughter and sighs, And the glad heart-throbs of the Sea! My brain is bright with the glory That streams, O Edith, from thee, AsIroam in the roar of the surf-lashed Dane’s Mt at ha Het i) Th i Hin M Tu shore— The Sea! the Sea! the Sea! 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,’ etc., etc. (“UNDER FALSE COLORS” was commenced in No. CHAPTER LAYING IX. OUT THE WORK. The storm expended its fury during the night, and just before daybreak stars appeared through rifts in the dispersing clouds. 3. | At the first gray of dawn Capt. Gaspard and his | half-score of men, a motley lot of French-Canadian | and English seamen, yet as good sailors were vicious citizens, ripped down and housed the yards from the schooner’s foremast, and got the vessel out of the cove and under way. Long before sunrise she was miles the stirring scenes of the- previous night, bound up the St. Lawrence on precisely the sion Carvill had revealed to the detective. farly that morning Joan Gaspard called Nick from below, and the detective, who had en- joyed a good night’s sleep, despite his situation, at once repaired to the kitchen. There he saw to far better advantage the grave- eyed, resolute beauty who had befriended and so deeply affected the American lieutenant, It was no part of Nick’s present design, how- ever, to disclose himself in any way. Having par- taken of the breakfast provided him, and thanked the girl for her service, he inquired the. way to the village he had heard Gaspard mention the previous night, which was located about two miles farther up the coast. The directions having been given him, Nick at once made his departure, to the manifest satisfac- tion of both women. On the afternoon of the following day, a boat- man, with a passenger in the stern of his skiff, pulled alongside of the revenue cutter Vixen, then lying at anchor half_a mile below the town of Paspebiac. The passenger clambered over the cut- ter’s rail, and the boatman put back to the shore. The passenger was Nick Carter, and only Mr. Roberts, one of the revenue officers, was on deck when the detective unceremoniously climbed aboard. ¢ “You havé more ger,’’ cried Roberts, take this craft for a that skiff!’ “Sorry I cannot oblige you, sir,’’ returned Nick, with a grin. “I’m afraid I might swamp the dirty little tub. She’s half full of water now.” “Well, my man, you’ll be entirely full of water in very short order, unless you obey,” cried Rob- erts, sternly. ‘You'll throw me over the side, eh?’ “That’s precisely what I shall do “Think you will, eh?’ “T know I shall.” “Guess again, sir, laughed Nick. the side, sir, would in no way resemble taking a quick -junch at «@ saloon bar. Where’s Capt. Har- vey, sir?’’ mis- nerve than discretion, stran- striding nearer. “Do you ferryboat? Get back into ” you may Suess 1, right,’’ | You'd find that throwing me over | as they | | changed away from | and | to | | Carvill, |; smuggle them | net With a lightning-like movement he bounded nearer, and seized the weapon from behind. Back numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers.) Roberts. started more closely. “How do you know our commander’s name is Harvey?” he demanded. ‘‘You’re not———” He faltered, and Nick laughed and helpéd him out. “Yes, sir, I am,” said he, extending his hand. “I’m just the party you have in mind.” “Well, I’m blessed if I don’t believe you,” cried Roberts, heartily. ‘I’m glad to see you, and have my mind about throwing you over the side. Come below, Mr. Carter. Am I right?” “To the letter,’’ laughed Nick. “Come below at once. Capt. Harvey will be re- joiced to see you. We've been lying here in no little uncertainty, having found no-mail from you at the local office.’’ “Tll soon explain,’’ replied Nick, scended the companion-way. Chick was reading in the cabin when they came down, and a yell of delight broke from him on be- holding Nick. It was nearly three weeks since they had parted in New York, and their reunion was all that could be imagined, possibly more. It brought Capt. Harvey from his stateroom, moreover, when an intreduction was in order, and a brief period of general congratulations enjoyed. Then Nick got down to business, and quickly disclosed the discoveries he had made, and the fact that Lieut. Carvill was stil! alive and well. “TI am glad to hear it, rejoiced to hear it!’ cried | Harvey, warmly. ‘‘It will be good news for the | i ; slightly, and regarded Nick as they de- department in Washingtof, and these thievish ras- cals, if guilty of all you allege, must speedily be brought to the ringbolt. We'll get under Mr. Carter, and trap them in their own lair.” “T guess not, captain,” laughed Nick, “That will not do at all, nor can it be done.”’ “Why not, Mr. Carter?” ply. ‘“‘What do you mean?” Then Nick disclosed the circumstances ident siiin | and the part Joan Gaspard had played | in his behalf, as well as his own impressions of the and his idea of the consideration due her. “Nor is that all, Capt. Harvey,’’ he earnestly added. “There are other, and stringent reasons, why we should not proceed directly against these smugglers.”’ “What interest. “To begin with,’’ explained Nick, his vessel are now up the St. not return for several days.” “Gone up there te transport some of their plun- der, eh?” “In all probability.” “The knaves !’”’ “Furthermore,”’ continued Nick, that they have a storehouse near which they conceal their goods until ready to into the States. This hiding place must be quietly discovered, before we attempt to our game.,”’ way, was the surprised re- reasons, Nick?’’ inquired Chick, with 2 “Gaspard and Lawrence. and will “Carvill their retreat, in states | complish | Gaspard returns | he will locate himself in the village, to await “That’s right, Nick,’’ vouchsafed Chick. “There is still another reason,’ continued Nick. “That all the ground may he covered, it is neces- sary that we should learn with what vessel this rascally schooner is co-operating, and establish the identity of the man named Royden, that his arrest may be insured when next he enters an American port.’’ “This-also applies to Hurley, their confederate in northern New York,” cried Chick. “Certainly,’’ nodded Nick. ‘‘I think, however, if we can corner these rascals on the coast, and suc- ceed in identifying Royden and his vessel, that we shall have but little difficulty in finding Hurley and bringing him to account.” “That may be done later, Nick.” “That is my idea.” “T believe you are right,’ now Harvey. ‘‘Have you matured any these things may be accomplished ?” “Yes, captain, I have. To begin with, it will be necessary for me to return, and force myself among this crew of knaves, that I may success- fuly spy upon their movements.”’ “That will be a dangerous move on your part, will it not?’’ “T admit that, but I it, and rejoined Capt. plan by which also think. that I can ac- successfully deceive the rascals. with his vessel on Friday next. state that Royden is soon due this way, and that the schooner will put out to sea to meet him, probably with the intention of transferring a part of Royden’s cargo to the hold of the smuggler.’’ “T see the scheme. “It is Gaspard’s purpose, moreover, to be put ashore next Friday at. a small village up the coast, and which lies about two miles from the smugglers’ retreat. He lands there to make inquiries con- cerning his own safety, or to nose about a bit, as he put it, and to purchase a new supply of pro- visions, either for his vessel or for the house,” “Will he put in there with his vessel ?’’ “Not if he follows the plan I heard him out- line,’’ replied Nick. ‘‘The vessel will be brought around to the cove by one of the crew, presum- ably the mate, a man called Davy. This cove is an indentation in the shore, concealed from view from the sea by a high bluff, somewhat east of the house. Though exceedingly dangerous of ingress, for the entrance is between submerged rocks and ledges, it affords perfect shelted when once a ves- sel is in the cove, and she cannot be seen from outside.”’ “T understand,” nodded Capt. Harvey. “Their house, masked by the pines, is not vis- ible from the sea,’’ continued Nick; ‘‘and you, in cruising up the coast; cannot easily locate the place.”’ “Probably not. coves along these shores. “T have, however, a plan which may serve our purpose,’”’ added Nick. ‘‘You can easily locate the village I have mentioned, to which I shall proceed by land within a day or two, taking Chick along with me,’’ “Good I overheard him There ” are scores of similar enough,’’ muttered Chick. “I’m weary lof inactivity.’’ ‘While waiting for Gaspard’s return, I will quietly show Chick the lay of the land, after which re- sults. When Gaspard puts in an appearance, [I alone shall attempt to cultivate his acquaintance, and in some way acquire his confidence.’’ “Can you do that?” “JT think so. I, at least, can try.’”’ “What then ?’’ “If by any means I can do so, I shall force myself upon him, and join his vessel as one of his crew.” “A bold move, Nick.” “The situation requires it,” joined. “Should I. sueceed in Chick will remain at the village, easy view from the sea. A method from the shore must be devised, and on Saturday next, Capt. Harvey, you must cruise up in that locality, from which Chick will be prepared to sig- nal you in case he wishes to be taken aboard. He will then be well informed of my movements, and Nick quietly re- my undertaking, which within of signaling is our mutual work must then be determined by cir- cumstances.”’ “T understand perfectly,’’ cried Capt. Harvey. “By Jove, sir, you are laying out a hazardous, if not a desperate, bit of work.” “Let us hope that it may serve our purpose,’’ replied Nick, with grim indifference to the peril suggested. ‘‘Now, Capt. Harvey, we will arrange the plan with greater precision, and devise a code of signals.’’ ‘Very good, sir.’’ “As for you, Chick,’’ said Nick, turning to his assistant, “‘you had better be making yourself up after my fashion.’’ “Do we go ashore eagerly. “We go as quickly as we can make ready,” re- plied Nick. ‘‘The sooner the better.’’ to-day?’ demanded Chick, CHAPTER X. AN ALTERCATION. About an hour before nightfall, on that unlucky Friday when Capt. Peter Gaspard had planned to arrive in C———, a man approached the pump oc- cupying the stable yard of the village tavern, and helped himself to a drink. He was roughly clad in a worn, dark woolen shirt, and a pair of heavy boots, tops of which his baggy trousers were tucked. He had swaggered aimlessly up the country road and into the village a short time before, and, hav- ing quenched his thirst, he seated himself on the edge of the drinking-tub, his gaze turned with in- different interest upon a group of angry dis- putants, in and about the open door of the tavern barroom. The man was Nick Carter. In company with Chick, both of whom had been hiding upon the shore below the village; they had witnessed the return of the smuggler’s schooner about two hours earlier, which had been hove to only long enough to lower a boat and set Capt. Gaspard ashore. The latter had at once hastened lage, visiting in turn the several stores in which he wished to make purchases; and he had wound up his rounds of calls, as was his invariable cus- tom on such occasions, at the bar of the village tavern half an hour before. From the time he set foot ashore, however, Nick had not lost sight of him. The altercation which now drew Nick’s atten- tion, and which had become decidedly personal and uncomplimentary, had been in progress for some little time. Its chief participants were Capt. Gaspard, and a dissolute fellow by the name of Lowrey. Both were the worse for liquor, as well as several of the group gathered on and about the low porch outside the barroom door. None of these had observed the detective ap- proach, and Nick was not slow to discover that the altercation presented a rare opportunity for the execution of his design. He remained seated on pump, and listened. “What my business man’s affair, and you’re like to lose the most o’ that long tongue o’ yours if you wag it too freely,’’ Gaspard was saying, with an ugly fire in his grim eyes. “D’ye think so, Peter?’’ ‘Ay, I do.”’ ‘All the same, I’ll wager my tongue wags on long after you’ve lost your liberty, be it you keep on with your free trading,” retorted Lowrey, with deep significance. Capt. Gaspard, whose true vocation was rather suspected about there, yet who was held in suffi- cient awe and fear to preclude idle gossip, flushed angrily. “RWree trading,’ he violently growled. ‘‘What do you mean by that, you loafer? There’d be sense, mebbe, for some men to yawp against the right.o’ trading where and how one likes, But not for you, you dog!”’ suit, a into the rudely up to the vil- the empty tub near the is no other is, Lowrey, so “And why not for me, as well as others?” “Because you'd be only too ready to fill your own keg with smuggled whiskey, or your pipe with a contraband weed, my lad, so be it it cost you a penny less,’ cried Gaspard, with angry scorn. “That’s why, you landlubber!’’ Lowrey grew red with rage at the laughter evoked from the crowd by this sally at his ex- pense, and Capt. Gaspard, with a contemptuous toss of his head, added tauntingly: “It’s no matter o’ right or wrong with you, you galley scrub, that you cry out so loud.’’ “Right!” cried Lowrey, resentfully. law right, tell me that?” “Not always,. Lowrey, though you’ve not brains to know it. This ’ere’s a big world, my man, and men who make laws are like to be mistook. It’s little to me, lad, since I seldom go to the States; but I’m ag’in any law as says I shall pay for the right to buy and sell where I please.” “For all that, Peter Gaspard, he who the law commits a crime, and in that’s the and wrong of it,’”’ retorted Lowrey. “Crime!’’ sneered Gaspard, who enough not to betray himself by too sentment. “Ay, that’s what I said.” “And it’s a rash word for a cur o’ your cut to mouth so lightly,” cried Gaspard, angrily. ‘So be it you speak true, you’re a criminal each day o’ your miserable life.’’ Observed only by Nick, Lowrey’s hand had gradually stolen back-of him, and the detective saw that it had closed around a heavy cart-stake, which was standing against one corner of the porch. “D’e mean with pent rage. you water rat?’’ “Ay, Lowrey, his wife, drinks measure— a But Gaspard got no further, for Lowrey sud- denly sprang forward with an oath, and before he could be prevented had swung the heavy bludgeon into the air, to have fallen in a moment with crush- ing force upon the angry seaman’s head. It was at that moment, however, that Nick Carter got in his work. With a lightning-like movement, he bounded nearer, and seized the w@apon from behind. With a quick twist of his wrist, he wrenched it from the grasp of the young ruffian, and tossed it a rod away upon the greund. “Belay, belay, you bog-trotter!” he _ cried, sharply. “Take a man of your own years and displacement when you look for trouble, and not a weather-beaten old chap like that.’’ Capt. Gaspard involuntarily drew back, and stared at him with strange and startled eyes, more amazed by .Nick’s sudden appearance than inter- ested in Lowrey’s vicious assault. As for Lowrey, he swung around with an “ugly frown, and glared at Nick from head to foot. ‘““Mebbe you mean a man of your size,” he cried, ageressively. “Ay, ay, my noisy landsman, if it please you.” “It wouldn’t please you, I tell you that.” “*T’d take the chances.,’’ “You would, eh?” “That’s what I would,’’ growled. Nick, coolly, and with no apparent interest in the seaman he was designing to favorably impress, and who was still regarding him with grim curiosity. “So bear it in mind, matey,’’ Nick added, swag- gering nearer; “‘I’m not one to stand by and see an old salt banged on the pate with a capstan bar for speaking his mind—and the truth, as well!’ “Good for ye!’’ muttered Gaspard, under his breath. “The truth, eh?’’ snarled Lowrey, who was vainly trying to measure Nick’s fighting qualities. ‘Ay, matey, the truth,’’ growled Nick, still aim- ing to provoke the other. ‘‘A man should have the right to buy and sell where he likes, and how he likes, the world over. But the law-making landsmen say no to that, I’m told; and might makes right in most lands I’ve ever set foot on.’’ “You’re a bit too free with that limber tongue o’ yours,” sharply answered Lowrey, seeing smiles rising over the faces of several hearers. ‘Ts that so?” sneered Nick, tauntingly. “Ay, it is,’’ snarled Lowrey. ‘“‘And since might makes right, I’ll take your measure on the ground yonder, to prove you’re wrong.” And, with a sudden movement, he seized the detective by the throat, and forced him from the porch and to the level ground near by. With a mingled growl and imprecation, Capt. Gaspard rushed forward to interferé; but Nick quickly shook himself free, and waved the sea- man back. “Avast, cap’n, and let this galley cook have his way,” he cried, loudly. ‘I'll show him I’m right, and what I’m made of, by laying him out on his own dirt-heap.”’ “Isn't the breaks right had brains violent re- that, Gaspard?’ he cried, livid “D’ye dare charge me with crime, you or any other dog who beats himself drunk, and gives short CHAPTER DISPLAYS XI. NICK HIS PROWESS. The situation then devoloped was precisely what Nick had designed, for he well knew that nothing would so favorably impress Gaspard as a display of his rare prowess. Lowrey, being much the heavier man of the two, anticipated an easy victory, and he sprang at Nick with a snarl, and seized him around the waist. The group of excited observers uttered a shout, and Capt. Gaspard’s swarthy face was a picture of eager interest and grim approval. What Nick lacked in weight, he more than made up in strength, skill and agility; and for several minutes, to the intense delight and swelling ex- citement of all the spectators, he merely played with the burly young ruffian who was striving to throw him to the ground. Try as he would, however, Nick off his feet; and for all of ten two men swayed to and fro, this way over the ground, while the derisive cries of the delighted observers angered Lowrey all the more. “You can’t down him!” yelled one. ‘*He’s too much fur ye!’’ roared another. “Tackle a smaller chap, Lowrey!” shouted a third. ‘I’ve a kid at home who can down you!” Lowrey had grown as red in his face as a lobster. He was perspiring furiously, and panting like a locomotive. Nick, on the other hand, was ‘shrewdly acting only on the defensive, reserving his wind and strength, and he easily saw the culmination of the conflict he had designedly invited. Feeling his breath grow weaker, and now fear- ing the result of the fray, Lowrey threw all of his energy into a final effort, raised Nick clear of the ground, and hurled him earthward with all his strength. Nick had suffered that the unexpected ective. A ery of disappointment when Nick’s downfall appeared Then «yells of surprise and delight followed, when, catlike, he quickly turned in the air, and landed fair and square on his feet again. “Whoop! hooray!” roared Capt. Gaspard, with his red eyes fairly protruding from their sockets, “Down him, lad! Down him, lad!”’ Nick took him at his word. Before Lowrey could make another move, the de- tective slipped aside and nearer, then quickly cross-hipped him and turned him high in: the air, and hurled him bodily over his head and prostrate upon the ground, where the burly ruffian landed with a resounding thud, and lay nearly senseless and exhausted. A chorus of wild cheers greeted this unexpected victory, and Capt. Gaspard, red with rum and ex- citement, rushed down to grip Nick’s hand, nearly shaking his arm from the socket, and roaring all the while: he could not get minutes the and that this, the do all proves him to always knowing most ef- arose from every side inevitable. “Good man! Well done! Fine fellow! Good Yan, I say!” “Ay, ay!’’ shouted the others. - ‘’Twas well ““oTwas never done afore.’ But Nick, careful to betray no leaning toward shook himself free and turned to Lowrey, slowly rising from the ground he growled, in- hurt bad, and Gaspard, who was “A bit of a rough toss, matey,” differently. “T hope you’re not bear no ill-will.” “No, neither,” snarled Lowrey ; gave his words the lie. He abruptly turned on his heel, after rising, and strode off down the road. “He means you no good,’ cried Skellet, the tavern-keeper, shaking his head. ‘‘If you’re about here for long, keep your eye peeled after sun- down.”’ Nick shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. “T’m not long for this port,’ he promptly an- swered; ‘‘nor for dry land, so be it I can find a skipper who’s willing to ship a ready hand.” “That so?’’ ‘“‘My locker’s nigh empty, and a sailor broke is little good ashore. Thanks for your warning, all the Same.” “Bah!” roared Capt. Gaspard, striding nearer. “He’s a cussed catfish, and not worth an open eye. Heave along with me, lad, away from these galley cooks. Come hither, I say. You’ve done me a turn I like, lad, and I’ve a word for your ear. Heave along with me.’’ Nick had paused only to resume his reefer, and the smuggler, now on the verge of an indiscretion he would not have dreamed of committing under less extraordinary circumstances, roughly seized the detective by the arm and led him into the pape room of the inn, and closed the door with a bang. ‘Without a ship, d’ye say?’’ he growled, waving Nick to a chair. ‘“‘Mebbe I can set you right, then, so be it’s your fancy. I’ve use for a bold and ready man, if he’s wise aloft and can use his tongue right.’’ And the smuggler, completely deceived by the wily detective, threw himself into a chair oppo- site Nick, and made a sign through the window to the tavern-keeper, suggestive of crooking one’s el- bow, which presently resulted in the appearance of two glasses and a black bottle of liquor. “Without a ship, dye say?’ -Gaspard re- peated, glaring at Nick with his red eyes. “Ay, sir, I am,’’ nodded Nick, grimly. “That was a handy toss yOu gave that blarter,’’ cried the smuggler, vainly searching Nick’s face for any sign of duplicity. ‘Did you learn that trick ashore?” “Ay, sir, I did. But I got the power from slinging blubber on a whaler’s deck.” “Been in the Arctic, eh?” : “Ay, sir, for nigh three years. I shipped out o’ New Bedford, in the States, and got home but a spell back.’’ “D’ye think well o’ a long cruise like that?” “Not over well, sir.’ Yet it matters little to a covey alone in the world. Any cruise suits me, so be it I’ve a shot in my locker when ashore.” Capt. Gaspard grinned and poured a _ second glass, and tendered the like to Nick. ‘“What’s your name?’ he asked, bluntly. ‘Farley,’ growled Nick. “Jack Farley’s my name, Cap’n Gaspard.”’ “How'd you know mine?” demanded the smug- gler, suspiciously. “T heard it outside, while wetting my whistle at the pump,” Nick promptly explained. “I no- ticed that landsman crying against free trade, and I waited to hear it out.’ “Then you’re not agin selling stuff when you can, and without a duty?’ said Gaspard, point- edly. “Not I, sir, since I reckon all men should do as they like,’’ growled Nick. ‘I’m for any trade that’ll add to the weight o’ my. pocket.” “Well spoken,’’ nodded the smuggler, with grim satisfaction. ‘‘D’ye hail from these parts?” “Not I, sir. I come from across the sea. But I’ve an old messmate up the coast a piece, and I’ve been to see him.’’ “And where are you bound?” “T’m heading for any port where I’m like to sign aboard ship.’ “What d’ye say to signing along with me, eh?’ “D’ye need a hand?” “Tf the right sort,’ edly. Nick grimly: “I’m the sort that asking no questions. you want.’ “Ay, but “tis,” cried the smuggler, quickly. “And I fancy the cut o’ your jib, and the trick o’ this arternoon. Say but the word, and ’tis done, and. you come along with me. The work’s not hard, lad, though a bit under cover.” Nick nodded, indifferently. “Under cover, or in the open, matters little to me, Cap'n Gaspard, so be it the pay is right and always ready.” “D’ye mean that?” “Ay. sir; I. do. “D’ye say the word, then?’ “Ay, sir, if you’ll have it so.” For a reply, Capt. Peter Gaspard thrust out his brawny hand, and Nick promptly took it with a grip that caused the smuggler to wince. For another half hour the compact was dis- cussed, Nick cleverly meeting the man at every point, and all the while adding to the good im- pression he had made upon the rascal. Not until nearly dark did Gaspard, who was much the worse for his many potions, terminate his inquiries; .- when, thoroughly convinced that Nick was a very desirable accession to his knavish erew, he declared that they must get under way. Nick readily complied, knowing well where they were bound, and they together left the village, and started through the woods in the direction of the cove. Before they had covered half the distance dark- ness had overtaken them, and Capt. Gaspard, strid- ing ahead, with many-a growl and stumble over the rough ground, commanded Nick to follow in his wake. In this position, their talk gradually waned, and finally ended, save at brief intervals. At the end of an hour Nick began to see remem- bered landmarks. Faintly visible through the trees were the out- lines of the bluff approaching the cove, and pres- ently the dull sound of the breakers was borne to his ears. “We're nigh into port, Farley,’ growled Gas- pard, over his shoulder, yet steadily tramping on through the noisy brush and crackling twigs. “D’ye hear, Farley?” he cried. ‘Stick close to me for a pilot.” To his surprise he received no answer. He stopped short in the gloom under the trees, and spoke again. ; “Ahoy, Farley! Still no response. A vague suspicion arose mind, but the, events of that afternoon had been convincing, and he quickly subdued his rising dis- trust. Then he shouted lustily, with all his power:- “Hello! Hello, Farley!” The vociferous cries seemed to lose themselves and die away in the woods around him, and only the rustling of the leaves in the night wind,. and the distant beating of the breakers reached his ears. Nick Carter had vanished as completely as if the earth had opened and swallowed him. TO BE CONTINUED. —_—____—~<4 +o + THE LORBERRY WATERMELON BY MAX ADELER. but his look > returned Gaspard, point- shook his broad shoulders, and answered takes orders and obeys ’em, Mebbe that’s not the sort ? Have you lost your bearings?” in Capt. Gaspard’s I related, some time ago, my experience with some seeds that I procured from the Agricultural Department at Washington. Since then I have had additional reasons for appreciating the value of that excellent governmental institution. My con- gressman sent me, early in the spring, some of the seeds of the Lorberry Mammoth California water- melon, with the assurance that the representative from California had informed him that it was the most gorgeous watermelon that had been produced since Adam quit gardening in Eden. I planted the seeds and awaited their develop- ment with a good deal of interest. When the sum- mer came the vines grew splendidly, and th melons proved to be superb. They were a little late in ripening, but on toward the middle of August they attained maturity, and they certainly were the biggest, and roundest, and handsomest watermelons in the county. We thought it would be a good idea to ask some company around to try them when they were ready for the table, and so, one evening, we put a dozen melons on the ice, invited fifteen or twenty of the neighbors, and determined to give them a surprise. About half-past eight o’clock we assembled the folks around the table, and I ordered thé servant to bring in one of those-melons. When it came I remarked that this was the Lorberry Mammoth California watermelon, and that I was glad to be able to introduce it to Delaware as a very remark- able variety. Everybody was interested. Then I cut off one end; then I cut off the other. Then I cut out a slice. I noticed that it was white upon the inside, and I observed to the company that one of the characteristics of the Lorberry Mammoth was that it had none of the redness of the common watermelon, but was of a rich, creamy hue. Then I handed the slice to Mr. Butterwick, and then I helped the company. Just as I was about to help myself, I noticed that nobody was eating, and I asked Judge Pitman what he thought of that melon. He looked queer, and said he had been busy talking politics and hadn't ! THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. tasted it yet. Then I inquired of Dr. Potts if he | exactly say, save that it was-a bit Quixotic; and didn’t think it was an improvement upon the old- fashioned melon, and he said that he had not been very well that day, and he couldn’t eat any fruit. When I asked Mrs. Butterwick what she thought of it, she colored up and said she hardly knew, and I remembered then that she perhaps couldn’t eat melon for fear of giving the twins colic, while nursing them. Peter Lamb’s opinion also was asked, and he remarked that he should be obliged to decline participating in watermelon because his aunt was dead. I couldn’t see exactly what that had to do with it, but it struck me as being quite as reasonable as Mr. Chubb’s excuse that he had slipped on a watermelon rind in 1857 and had broken his leg, and he had never been able to eat a piece ‘of watermelon since. As there was nothing else in the house to eat but cold mutton and butter, I was a good deal wor- ried at this general refusal to touch the melon, but I concluded to try a bit myself, anyhow. As soon as I tasted it I understood the situation. It was raw, hard and bitter, and exceedingly disgust- ing. So I told the hired girl to clear it away, and to bring in a good one. When the next one came, it, also, was white upon the inside, and when I helped it around, the company cautiously smelled it and began to talk about the weather. Then I tasted it, and it was as bad as the first. So I went to the ice-house and picked out a good one myself. It, too, was white and nasty. We cut up twelve of the Lorberry Mammoth California watermelons that evening, and they were all hor- rible. When they were consigned to the slop-bar- rel, the folks got up from the table looking hungry and mad, and adjourned to the parlor. After a bit, Butterwick came to me in a mysterious manner and asked me if he could see me privately for a few moments about something. I said he could. Then he led me up into the third story and locked the door, turned up the gas, sat down close to me, and said: “What kind of watermelons did you say those were?” “Those are the Lorberry Mammoth California watermelons. They are a great favorite upon the Pacific Coast; they ze “Adeler, do you really believe those are that kind of watermelons ?’’ “Of course; I’ll show you the label that came on the package of seeds.” “Oh, I Gon’t care for that. for a joke?”’ “Joke! I was never more serious in my life. I’m awfully sorry the melons were not ripe.’’ ‘“‘Adeler, I like to meet a man like you once in a while. So fresh! So innocent! So confiding! Your faith in human nature is beautiful to con- template. Why, merciful Moses! man! those are not watermelons! They are nothing on earth but green pumpkins!” ‘ “Mr. Butterwick, you insult the Agricultural De- partment of this government. when you make an assertion like that.” ‘Don’t care a cent. That’s what they are, any- way; and I'll bet you a cow they’ll be as yellow as my dog before the first of October.” I took the bet, and I lost it. I shall plant the old kind of watermelons next spring, and I have instructed my congressman to yote against the Agricultural Department. You didn’t intend it > < - He had a comfortable place to lounge, and could take it easy enough, but. sleep was as utterly out of the question with him as during an electrical storm. ee Why, they flashed past stations and through towns in a way that must have terrorized a timid passenger, but it only wrought his feelings up to the highest pitch of excitement, until at times he felt as though he were flying through the air. All Rex could do was to scan his map and figure as to how rapidly they might be cutting down the terribly long start of the express—excess of speed, and the fact that they had fewer stops to make, would by degrees accomplish this desired end, so that it was even possible to make a rough guess where in the mountains they would overtake the regular train. Always providing that the special met with no accident. Rex shrugged his shoulders at the thought of a broken rail. Well, it was one con- solation to feel that he would hardly know what had happened; a crash, a plunge, a shock, a ery —then eternity. Pshaw! What was-the use of worrying—this was the time to be philosophical, to conjure up something of the Oriental’s belief in fate, and take what was meted out to him. . The grimy driver evidently intended to earn those napoleons, or know the reason why. Once they stopped for water. Rex took advantage of the opportunity to call the guard, who was in another compartment of the carriage, have him unlock the door, and then step down for a few words with the driver. Twenty minutes gained! It was a triumph that thrilled him. A few more like it would nullify the advantage with which the express started. ; Already, in imaginatiog, as. they jumped for- ward again, like a hound slipping the leash, Rex pictured the look of pleased surprise on the face of Miss Madge when he coolly. saluted her at some mountain station, and the black scowl that must indicate the gloom of the count. Oh! it would be balm to his soul and amply repay him for all the journey had cost. . Count Rudolf would have another reason to think his Western rival a. man of extraordinary ability, since it lay in his power to annihilate even time itself. : All of which played its various changes through the mind of our bachelor while sprawled out along the wide-cushioned seat, and enjoying his cigar. When the first hundred miles had been covered, and a new engine was attached, Rex began to realize something of the immensity of the game he was playing, and to feel that the high price demanded for his freak was not so near the border of robbery after all. When a second century had been completed in great shape, and they began.to draw near the mountains along the Swiss border, Rex had come to the conclusion that five napoleons was, after all, a miserable pittance when he considered what the successful. issue of the mad race might mean to him. Accordingly, when he ran forward to see his faithful French driver mount the fresh engine, he caught his eye and shouted, so as to be heard above the hiss of escaping steam: “Double that five napoleons if we succeed.” “They’re mine,’ calmly replied the confident man at the throttle. ‘‘Step aboard, monsieur, and hold your breath.” Rex was charmed with the daredevil. He tossed some cigars into the cab of the motor for those who labored; that he might indulge in a little whim, then ran back and plunged into his car, just as, with a shrill whistle, they were started upon the third stage of their eccentric journey. It was broad day. The fields, and woods, and gardens were fair to look upon in the bright October sunshine. Despite the fact of his rest having been broken so much of late, Rex was feeling in prime condi- tion, for excitement is, after all, what buoys one up and causes fatigue to lose its sting. He discovered that his guard had carefully obeyed his injunctions, using the telegraph to or- der a breakfast at this place for all on board. The hamper for Rex individually had been stowed in his car, and when his eyes discovered it he began to realize that hunger may even assail a man who pursues phantoms. . So he opened the basket. Considering the conditions under which break- fast was served, Rex was pleased to commend the bill of fare—even to a pot of hot coffee, it was all there, and very appetizing at that. “This is something like,” he laughed, as he ate, and surveyed the panorama constantly shifting past his windows on either side; ‘the acme of luxury—a whole train subject to my command, a clear track ahead, and running seventy miles an hour-!”’ The morning was wearing on, and it was easy to see they were approaching that mountainous barrier separating France from her little neighbor among the rugged Alps, the home of the valiant Swiss, long unsubdued. All the while they had been gaining on the ex- press, and might reasonably expect to overtake that flier by the time the station figured on by Rex and the engine-driver was reached. The road grew rougher, and progress more la- bored, but our friend knew full well they made better time than the regular. Now the mountains loomed up around them, with towering peaks, snow-capped, the sides covered with forests, and-a gray sky overhead, that seemed to promise rain. Tt was at the next stop that Rex had something of a shock—-something that cast cold water on his high spirits, and aroused again the demon of jealousy in his breast. | He had taken a short and brisk walk up and down the station platform, while the necessary operations were under way, partly to stretch his legs, stiff from the long confinement, when, to his surprise, he discovered that the guard was not alone in his apartment. Lying at full length upon one of the seats, and evidently enjoying things hugely, was a gentleman whom Rex re- membered to have seen at the hotel in Paris; at least, his face was quite familiar. The first thing that.occurred to Rex was amuse- ment, because the tricky guard had stolen a march upon him, and doubtless collected a steep toll from this second party, who desired to make haste in traveling, without the expense of hiring a spe- cial. Then he wondered if the joke had gone further, and the breakfast ordered by wire also satisfied the hunger of this uninvited passenger. Really, it was an extraordinary piece of nerve on the guard’s part, that might lose him his place in case the gentleman from New York chose to complain to-the authorities of the road, which Rex was hardly likely to do. . That was not the worst. More agony had to be also chanced that the satchel when, by so doing, he may the sooner bask in the at the clerk’s suggestion, and chase down again, ‘ : a of this stowaway passenger lay on the seat, and there, in plain view, he discovered a name that had given him some bad hours of late—a name that Madge Moore: 4 . “Chauncey Odell, of New York.” CHAPTER XXX. : MR, CHAUNCEY ODELL, OF NEW YORK. There was no time to interrogate the guard just then, as the signal for a start sounded, and they were off again like the wind, this time climbing upward with a rush and a roar, an irresistible cyclone of steam and power. Rex had something to think about now, and the more he considered the matter, the greater his suspicions became—evidently this charming fel- low of stupendous nerve had a deep motive in thus bribing the guard to carry him, knowing, as he must, that the law of the road looked upon this train de luxe as the individual property of the for the privilege of overtaking the express—and Rex would, under the circumstances, haye beeh a very dull fellow indeed if he had not been able to discover the truth. She fled—he followed—that was the affair in a nutshell; but what bothered Rex more than all else was the secret cause of this flight—-what might Chauncey Odell be to Miss Madge? As he pondered, his indignation arose—the sub- lime nerve of the fellow had appealed to his ad- miration at first, but this soon gave way to in- a vehicle by means of which this chap pursued his pretty -quarry—Rex paid the freight, and the other profited thereby.. It was enough to make a saint swear, and he did-not profess to have any great claims for a halo just yet. And yet, it had been a bit of extremely clever work on the part of Mr. C. O., that was bound to arouse the admiration of any. one who could appre- ciate assurance-——he looked so comfortable, sprawled Out there, as if he owned the whole out- fit, and Rex, whose gold paid the bills, was only a passenger on sufferance. Confound his impu- dence, anyway! What might be done? Rex felt as though he held a mortgage on that limited train, and no party had the ghost of a claim to a passage with- out his free consent; consequently he had the power to. demand that the breezy gentleman de- seend from his perch and vacate the premises forthwith, continuing his journey by the next regu- lar express, or chartering a since he seemed to have a fancy for that mode of traveling—lots of people do when some one else pays the:freight. ~ How had it happened? Did the friendly hotel clerk give the story away to his other guest im- mediately after Rex left the caravansary, allow- ing that industrious worthy an opportunity to get another cab, reach the station in time to cultivate the acquaintance of the slippery guard, and ar- range for a free passage in the latter’s van? Well, it was lucky he discovered the play be- fore it had become too late, since he was given a chance to do some thinking, with a view of blocking the ultimate success of the smart game. It was for Madge; that gave him more zeal than he might have shown for himself; for the dainty little lady of the sky-blue orbs, who seemed to be in great need of the friendship he had so joyfully promised her at the time they made their contract. There could be no denying the fact that the fellow was very good-looking. Strange that this fact should cause Rex to feel even more bitter against him; sometimes it may be unpardonable to possess a handsome ‘“‘phiz,’”’ at least, when one uses his physical perfections to annoy a young and charming lady. 4 es Sometimes Rex laughed, and then again he said words not to be found in the lexicon of any self- respecting person, but which, it is to be feared, served as a vent to his overwrought feelings; at least, he seemed to appear better afterward. They were now far up the mountains, and clos- ing upon the express at a rapid rate, according to his time-card as arranged by the guard. Pres- ently he would know just what he might expect as a result of his expensive venture; and all the while that infernal scoundrel—he had apparently arranged the status of the unwelcome passenger to. his satisfaction—was enjoying the hurricane flight of the chartered special with little regard as to the cost, for it is, of course, much cheaper to buy a French railway guard, body and soul, than to charter an entire train for a three or four hun- dred-mile run. Rex had no fault to find, save that he was be- ing hoodwinked by the rascally guard, who not only feathered his nest at his expense, but actually carried Miss Moore’s enemy on to give her further annoyance. - : 7 That was the unkindest cut of all. | He could have forgiven the fellow had his pas- senger been a stranger, one who had nothing to do with his fortunes; but to drag Odell along was an injury that rankled. So Rex nursed his wrath, and amused himself in making ready his writ of ejectment. There was a grim earnestness in the manner of his turning back the sleeves of his coat, after the style of one who has an unpleasant duty to per- form which cannot be neglected. A whistle! ; Ah! their speed was slacking at last, and evi- dently they had arrived at that station where, ac- cording to telegraphic advice, a fresh engine would be in readiness to take the place of the one just exhausted. : Mr. Odell’s time was at hand. E Rex had not allowed the guard to lock the door of his compartment after that first time, since valuable seconds were lost in awaiting his lordly pleasure. _ Accordingly, the train had hardly ceased to move ere he was out upon the platform and at the door of the guard’s compartment. That worthy had issued forth, but something in the look Rex gave him caused his face to pale and his knees to show a decided inclination to knock | together. A guilty conscience makes cowards of the best of men. i - : Rex stood at the door, and glared in. : Mr. Chauncey Odell was seated at his ease, his feet thrown up at an angle of forty-five degrees, after the usual American manner, and he smoked a weed that Rex thought very much resembled the prime ones he had cast into the cab of the engine with such a lavish hand. F Despite his anger, he was forced to admire the cool audacity of the individual; never had he seen it paralleled in the whole course of his check- ered experience. - ; Mr. Chauncey Odell, looking indolently out of the door, saw that he was being surveyed by some one who had stopped there, some one who scowled like a pirate, and who beckoned with his finger. He dropped his legs from the seat, and straight- ened his figure, while a bland smile crept over his ha@hdsome face. * “Ah! How d’ye do? Have a seat, and join me in-a cigar, now. Great pleasure, I assure you,” he said, seductively. Ss Rex still beckoned. he said, endeavoring to speak dispassionately. - “T say, have we arrived at our destination?” jumping up eagerly, and half-stretching his arm toward his valise, now up in the rack. : “You have, at least,” replied the stern proprie- tor of the special. “ “But I want to go to Lucerne.” 5 “You are at liberty to do so, on the next train.” “But this one is going there.” + “Exactly, but it will not bear you, I fancy.” “See here, I’ve met you somewhere or other. Face very familiar, Are you connected with the railway—conductor, superintendent, a new guard, perhaps?” “TI happen to be the party who. chartered this special,’ said Rex, stiffly. aera “Oh! indeed. Thought I had seen you some- where—it was at the hotel in Paris. Well, sir, I admit to you that in one way I have played you a scurvy trick by taking advantage of your hurry; still, it has not hurt you an iota, and I assure you that Haste is of the most vital importance to me just. now.” > _- : 2 “Indeed !” sneered Rex, wondering how long the fellow would talk, and whether he would be com- pelled, after all, to forcibly eject him. . “It was of the utmost necessity that I leave Paris. I missed connection with the express, and was almost in despair when, at the station, I chanced to hear that somé rich foreigner had char- tered a special, with the understanding that it was to overtake the regular train in the moun- tains. It seemed a golden opportunity too valu- able to be missed. E bribed the guard and came. No doubt I should have seen you, and endeavored to make proper arrangements, but I was so afraid you might refuse the favor that I took my chances the other way. At any rate, there was little op- portunity for thought. And now I want to apolo- gize frankly and offer to share your expense in the proportion you think just and right.” e Well, that frank speech disarmed Rex more than a little; he could not find it in him to lay violent hands on the man who stated his case in that open way. Besides, after all, scamp. So he stood and looked at him, Odell did not seem like a unmindful of “You ,would have done just the same thing your- self in a like emergency, I warrant, sir,’? said the unwelcome. passenger. ‘ : It was so—Rex admitted the fact in his heart; the other had simply seized upon an opportunity that was offered him, as any other bold chap would have done. Soi as $3 Immediately, a feeling of friendliness struggled in Grafton’s heart. ~ -= < “And allow me to tell you in confidence,” pur- - te. he had connected with the miserable persecutor of party who had planked down the coin of the realm” dignation at the thought of being so coolly made |. “special” for himself, “You will have to come out of that, my friend,” | the fact that valuable seconds were flitting. = Vol. 59—No. 6 sued Chauncey Odell, with a smile, “that the need of urgency on my part is caused by an affair of the heart.’ <— * : = ; “Oh, indeed!’ said Rex, his lips tightening an his eyes becoming hard again, while | fin opened and shut in a manner that told of ness to lay hold of something in the shape of ee coat-collar and do a little act in the eviction line, — The deluded Odell seemed to consider that he had aroused the other’s interest—which he cer- tainly had—and awakened that fellow-sympathy which makes all the world think well of a love which was hardly in line with the truth in this © case. , wae He chattered on. SS aa) “The girl with whom I’m in love has been car- ried away by her guardian. Imagine my despair. — Then came this glorious chance to overtake them, for which I am beholden to you. Ah! my dear sir, I’m exceedingly grateful to you. Continue to be my friend, and if I win the girl against the objections of all concerned, I shall insist on you being at the wedding.” a Pets “The deuce you will!” roared Rex, for the fel- low was, of course, referring to sweet Madge Moore, with whom he was himself madly in love, — TO BE CONTINUED. sae! 2 el IN THE LION'S DEN. as BY : HERO STRONG, a Circuses are in ill-repute among cultivated peo- le, as I am_very well aware, and when I say that am a circus performer, and that my parents were circus performers before me, I do not expect much interest or sympathy from what is called the better elass of readers. : But, nevertheless, it is a fact that we people who — ride bareback horses, swing at the risk of our worthless lives from the iddy trapeze, leap through blazing hoops, and double ourselves into footballs—it is a fact, I say, that we have hearts —nay, even souls—quite as much as legs and stomachs. My mother was a refined woman, and ran away from a home of luxury and pride for love of my father, who was a somewhat celebrated tight-rope dancer. And although it would seem that she gave up everything, and gained nothing, I do not think she ever regretted it. 2 Not that I would be understood as counseling wealthy young ladies to elope with circus perform-_ ers; I only mean to be understood that my mother’s love for my father outlasted passion, © poverty, and time itself. : ate =o She used to ride in-the. ring sometimes, but my father was never willing. Still she persisted, be- cause her grace and beauty attracted so many more to the circus; and you know that upon the crowd a show of this kind draws depends its ex- istence. “ One night, when I was about ten years old, and had begun to make myself useful in small boy parts, we were exihibting in Monmouth, a large town which gave us extra good patronage. The people were loud in their calls for Madam Zel-_ naire, for so my mother was designated on the — bills, and she, anxious to please them, appeared on Sultan, her favorite horse. < z = I was riding, balanced on my father’s shoulder, when she dashed into the ring, and even now I. can recall just her very looks as she flew past us. She was tall and slight, with raven-black hair and eyes, and a complexion pure and creamy as a water lily. But now excitement had lent her cheeks an unwonted flush, her eyes were like dia- | — monds, and her white shoulders gleamed like ivory | through the misty lace which drooped over them. I felt a slight shudder shake my father’s frame, for he had grown strangely nervous of late in re- gard to her riding, and he put out his hand as if to stay her course. She smiled gayly, and shook her head at him, and as she did so, crash came one of the heavy tent poles to the earth, and as it fell it swept down in its fatal course Sultan and his rider in a cloud of dust! ; My father flung me away from him as if I had been a stick or a stone, and went down on his knees beside the dead horse and the dead woman! For both were dead—my mother with the smile _ frozen on her face, and the sweet eyes wide open, just as last they had lifted themselves to meet the — gaze of him she loved. ; My father raised her up and bore her away to our own private tent, and shook off the kind friends who would have given him help and sym- pathy, as if they were wild beasts. zs “Poor man!” said the ringmaster, “his wits have left him! Let him alone! he'll be better by > and. by.” : : = And then they all tried to soothe my childish gray dawn of the next wretched day I sobbed my- — self to sleep. - ; ; sa Rares The ringmaster was right. My father’s mind was utterly lost, and the day after the funeral of — my mother he was found dead on her grave. They never hinted to me how he died, but I have little reason to doubt that he perished by his own hand. After everything was over, Mr, -Page, one of the proprietors of the cireus, called me to him, and said: ‘ “Well, Tommy Crestmore, thy boy, what are you going to do?” : I burst into tears, and said I did not know. I only wanted to die and be with my dear mother. Mr. Page was one of the kindest-hearted men in the world, and he soothed my grief as best he might, and offered to adopt me as his own child, and bring me up to the profession. so He had a daughter, named Inez, who was two or three years my junior. She had a tutor, and was being educated for a lady, and when I joyfully accepted Mr. Page’s kind offer, he patted me on the head, and said I should have some book learn-— ing, and should share Inez’s studies. Sas This pleased me extremely, for I had a passion for books, and I loved Inez with my whole soul. And this studying together would be so delightful! — As the years went on my attachment for Inez grew and strengthened, and if my lessons were all learned perfectly, and if I got on wonderfully well with my studies, as our tutor said, it was alto- gether owing to the fact that her presence made all things easy and delightful for me. ~ : I had my own place in the circus, and was called a good “artist’—for our names were somewhat pretentious—but my heart was not in it. The dream of my life was to make a fortune, marry Inez, and take her to Italy, and there, under the skies of perpetual summer, let life slip away in love and peace. A very useless and romantic sort of life, I suppose you will say, but the prospect. was delightful to me. I think it was none the less so to Inez, for I had often spoken to her about it, and we had no secrets from each other. — : When Inez was about sixteen, Mr. Page added some wild animals to his show. A couple of lions, three tigers, an~Arabian camel, several monkeys and an eijiephant. The elephant was a trained one, and could do lots of amusing tricks, and the lions had been tamed, and were considered perfectly harmless. With the animals came their keeper. His name ~ was Carl Andrus. I believe he was of Spanish parentage, but he-was American born, and well educated. ~ : ee en People called him extremely handsome, and ladies who came to see the animals went wild over the keeper; but, to my mind, Andrus was an evil, sinister-looking fellow, and from the~first I distrusted him. ee ; Of course, you have anticipated that he fell in love with Inez—indeed, it-could not well have been — otherwise; for Inez was so lovely and bewitching that all who came within the sphere of her influ- ence were fascinated. crt ‘ She gave him no encouragement, for the dear girl was no coquette, and in the world she loved only me. : = Andrus exercised a certain sort of influence over her, owing, perhaps, to the strong mesmeric power which was his, and to which no doubt he owed much of his success in subjecting wild ani- mals to his control. : He had not been a fortnight with our troupe be- fore he declared his love for Inez in the most pas- sionate terms, and was very quietly rejected. He grief, but I knew no relief until some time in. the ~ was angry, and charged her with loving me, and _ she proudly confessed it. ; 2 At first Andrus was. very cross and sulky, but after a time he ralkied, and was very sweet and eomplaisant to both Inez and myself. _ pe By and by he offered to teach her his art of lion-taming- Mr. Page caught at the idea greed-— ily, for although a good man in other respects, he — was ready to do almost anything to make money, and he foresaw that a female lion-tamer would bs _ a great acquisition to his exhibition. .An an- nouncement that a young and lovely woman would | over— | enter the den of wild beasts would draw thou-- = sands. ; ; ae) ae Inez loved her father, and was quite ready to do anything to please him, and, besides, there was a wild spirit of adventurous daring in the girl, which made the idea of danger attractive to her. —_ | When first I heard the project mentioned, I was filled with the direst apprehension. I distrusted Andrus more than I distrusted the wild beasts. As for the lions, they seemed harmless enough, but a lion is a lion, and can never change his _ nature. : “335 yee I besought Inez with all my powers of persua- sion to give up the mad project, but she only laughed at what she called my nervousness, And- when I would have forbidden her by right of the love I bore her, from thus putting her life in peril, Ze she kissed me, and said I was a cross old tyrant, and ran away to tell Andrus that she was ready for her first lesson. So it went on for several , Inez entered the den with Andrus, and under his tuition was becoming very expert at the business of lion-taming. The animals were really . ST a nee nw ee ON ca eae ee Md rae ee ed a Vol. 59—No. 6 THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. getting quite fond of her, and she was losing all fear of them very fast. No exhibition had yet taken place in public, but Mr. Page decided to advertise the new attraction forthwith; and in spite of my wild entreaty that he would no longer risk his child’s life among . those savage brutes, the bills were printed. As we had all expected, the bait took with the public, and on the night appointed for the début of Inez the vast tent was filled to overflowing. I have never seen such a crowd at any show before, or since. Just before I was to go into the ring in some of my acrobatic performances, Inez sought me out, and flinging her arms around my neck, kissed me passionately. “Dear old Tom,’’ said she, ‘‘don’t look so cross. ¥ am going to make all our fortunes. Kiss me, dear, and wish me success!” I pressed her to my breast, and kissed the sweet mouth, the soft cheek, the shining hair, and once more besought her not to risk the feat she was about attempting. But she was firm, and I let her go—feeling much as the mourner feels when he sees the coffin- lid shut down over all that he loved. I went about my duties with little heart and no spirit. I did not care whether I pleased the crowd or not. More than once I heard the whisper going around > . “Tom Crestmore is failing fast. out,” ete., but what did I care? Such a burst of applause as rent the air when the curtain which concealed the wild_beasts was drawn up! Such whispering and sly joking among the young men, and such coarse speeches with reference. to the fair débutante—speeches for which I could have torn out their hearts, were it not for the fact that we players have to bear in si- lence what we would indignantly resent if we be- longed to any other life. The bell rang, the curtain rolled up—the band erashed. their brazen instruments, and the multi- tude cheered till I seemed to grew deaf and blind. Then the door at the back of the cage opened, and Andrus went in among the beasts. He was cool and self-possessed, but I had never seen him look so pale. There was something in his eye not unlike the expression in the yellowish orbs of his own wild beasts. Both lions were crouching down. Prince, the larger one, was half asleep; but Cain, the younger and more playful of the two, was, as usual, wide awake. Andrus made a few passes of his hand around the heads of the animals, and then the door opened to admit Inez. Never had I seen her look half so beautiful, and I did not wonder that the crowd grew almost frantic in their wild demon- strations of delight. ; She was clad in a tunic of blue velvet, spangled with golden stars; her neck and arms were bare, and over her ivory shoulders fell the long, glitter- ing masses of her hair, braided with strings of rarest pearls. A deep flush was on her cheeks, her eyes were bright with excitement, and there was a fearlessness in her mien as she went forward to Prince which quite won my admiration, while at the same time it filled me with nameless terror. She put her soft hands on his head, and the creature roused from his sleep and turned his nose so that it rested against her arm, uttering at the same time a low grunt of satisfaction. As I stood there, breathlessly watching every motion, I saw Andrus give Cain a sharp thrust in the side with the barbed spear he held, and as he did so Cain sprang forward with a fierce growl and seized my poor Inez in his ferocious jaws. Simultaneously the black-hearted Andrus dashed open the Goor of the cage and fied. It was then that Prince aroused himself, and with a roar that shook the place to its founda- tions, “~he turned. upon the now cowering and frightened Cain. Such a fearful combat as en- sued I trust I may never see again. I had broken from those who would have held me back, and thrown myself into the den at the very first, and over my prostrate body, as I clasped my dead love to my heart, these two kings of the forest settled their deadly revenge. Prince was victorious. atoms in his iron jaws; and when only blood and broken bones remained of his adversary, Prince came to my side and looked down upon the dead face of his gentle mistress with eyes in which I- am sure I read an almost human grief. He touched her carefully with his huge paw, he put his nose to her cold cheek, and then turning away, he hid his face in his paws, and for two days, they told me afterward, he would neither eat nor drink. For weeks after the death of my darling I was mercifully unconscious, wrestling in the gripe of brain fever, which came near being fatal; but youth and a good constitution triumphed, and I came back to life and to a sorrow which. shall never end until I clasp hands with her on the other shore. You ask what became of Andrus? “When he left the cage on that fatal night he had to pass through the den of the tigers. He had lost his self-possession, and the beasts made a meal of him. It was just as well for him, for I should have killed him the moment I had gained strength enough to do so; for I knew then, as I know now, that he had sworn Inez should never be mine, that he would give her to death sooner than to me, and he doubtless goaded Cain on to the fatal attack. As for me, I travel still with the circus. Prince is my especial care. We live together a great deal, and I feel for him such a love, I suppose, as other men feel for their families. He is getting toothless and purblind, but his noble spirit still remains, and I never can forget that he killed my darling’s craven murderer, and would have saved her if he could. 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 Greye,” ‘Between Two Loves,” etc. About played Cain lay crushed to (“For OxLp Love’s SaKr” was commenced in No. 42, Back numbers can be obtained of all uewsdealers.) CHAPTER XLIV. BAD NEWS FROM ENGLAND. Week after week, month after month has passed away since Roderic Lindsay sailed in the Rotoma- hana, and to his parting letter to Lady Christabel no answer. has come. Nor has his letter to Mr. Blamire, with the urgent request for the one word of a cablegram, ‘‘groundiless,’’ evoked any response whatever. Z At Melbourne, at Hobart Town, at Perth, where the expedition arrives in the middle of December, Roderic Lindsay waits and watches in vain, as mail after mail arrives from England, but never brings him the letter or the message he longs to receive. The strain of the constant anxiety, the feverish alternations of hope and despair, tell on Roderic’s temper as the time goes on, and it gets wind among his associates that Lindsay is restlessly expecting letters from England. He has to stand a lot of good-natured jesting in consequence; but to the amazement of those who have known his bright, buoyant manner, Roderic resents the pleasantries, grows ill-tempered, and even sullenly receives an apology proffered. by one of the offenders. But weeks and months succeed each other still, and Roderic, bitterly disappointed, deeply morti- fied, sick at heart, resolves to give up the hoping and fearing, the waiting and longing, and counting the days until the arrival of that letter from Lady Christabel—the letter which never comes. “Her father forbade her to write to me, and she neither dares disobey him nor fiy in the face of Mrs. Grundy, that’s the long and the short of it!” he tells himself, bitterly. ‘‘Not even a few lines of the most formal letter, though she knows—she must know—how suspense is eating my heart out all these long, long months. She doesn’t know whether I am dead or alive. She doesn’t care, I dare say. Her grandmother, and her father, and her titled friends—to say nothing of my lady, the new countess, her stepmother—have been too much for my Lady Christabel’s constancy. Besides, it was only a dream of a few bright summer days to her; the claims, and duties, and pleasures of so- ciety have driven me out of her memory by this time !” So he thinks and speaks when in his angered and hopeless moods. But there are other times when he cannot but remember Christabel as the sweet, true*souled girl, with loving eyes and faithful lips, the gentle ministrant in his hour of pain and distress, the fair, frank, kindly young kinswoman with whom he had spent that never- to-be-forgotten morning in the gardens and the library of old Furnace House, the girl by whose side he had spent that summer evening among the flowers with the scent of the heliotrope in the air; the girl from whom he had parted in Kensington Gardens, as a lover parts from the woman who is mistress of his soul. He hides his secret well after the first betrayal of his anxiety, and no one imagines that deep in poor Roderic’s heart there is a despair that is burning like a slow fire of anguish, whenever he gives himself time to think. He has grown colder, prouder, more reticent and distant in manner of late, and not even Sir Roger Allison likes to venture on an attempt to gain his confidence. . But in the last week in January, when the expe- | “Roderic answers vaguely, and dazedly still. dition is just ready to start on the west coast voy- age, northward to Sharks’ Bay, something happens to increase Roderic’s anxiety and misery to a de- gree beyond secret endurance. : A letter comes at last by the English mail, and is handed to Roderic one hot, sunny morning when he and Sir Roger are hard at work writing the articles on the Tasmanian woods, which they have been preparing during a four weeks’ stay in Tas- mania. Sir Roger notices silently how the -blood rushes to Roderie’s face, and how his eyes glitter with eagerness, and his breath comes hard and quick as he reads the postmark “St. Cray’s,’’ among other postmarks. But as soon as he opens the letter, Sir Roger sees his brow cloud and color; hope and brightness fade out of his face as quickly as they had come. After glancing over the first page, he drops the letter on the table with a quick, smothered sigh— pushes it aside, indeed, with a sharp, impatient movement—and drawing the page he has been writing before him again, continues his work. “It’s only a lawyer’s letter—from Feardon & Blamire, solicitors to the Furnace House estate; you may remember [I told you, Sir Roger, that I had some idea of investing in real estate—if I saw my way,” he says, slowly and absently, as if he is thinking of something else while he speaks, and thinkly sadly, too. One or two of those quick, stifled sighs come with his words, and his voice sounds dull and weary. “Tt—it was only a whim of mine. I was a fool ever to take up such a notion,’’ he goes on, with a faint, bitter smile curling his lips; “but I did, and wrote to them just after leaving England, on the voyage out, to put things in order with a view to my purchasing. And they’ve done as I bade them,’ Roderie concludes, with another sharp, quick sigh; ‘“‘now, when—when I’ve grown tired of my whim, and don’t want the Furnace House, or real estate in any shape or form in England, they write to tell me that I can have it on lease for twenty-one years for three thousand pounds, with another thousand to be spent on requisite repairs. They tell me it is extremely cheap, and that if I wish to let it, they will have little difficulty in se- curing a good tenant, and getting me six per cent. interest for my money. Of course, as a speculation merely, it might be worth while,’ Roderic adds, in the same weary, indifferent tone; ‘‘but I don’t care much about the idea. It was only a whim, and I’ve seen the folly of it!” “Tt’s a handsome old house—inside especially, I believe ?’’ Sir Roger remarks, watching him keenly. “T have been told that the gardens and orchards were once famous throughout the country, as_well as the productions from that curious deposit of fine clay, which the former owner turned out of his amateur pottery works. If ever you do own the place, Roderic, I hope you’ll ask me down to stay on a long visit,” Sir Roger concludes, laughing. Then suddenly, in a careless tone, going on with his writing, ‘“‘You know the place well, I suppose? You have been over it several times, I dare say, as you thought of buying?’’ ‘“‘Never but once,’’ Roderic says, curtly, with a perceptible tinge of color rising up through his suy,tanned cheeks, to his fair wide brow. Oh,” Sir Roger says, with queer curves at the corners of his mouth. “Only once? It must have been a case of love at first sight, then?’ “T believe it was, Sir Roger,’’ Roderie answers, rather huskily. And then, feeling instinctively that Sir Roger’s keen, kind eyes are on him, and that the sudden rush of hot color to his face, and the painful heaving of his chest, will tell their own tale and betray him, he takes up the half-read letter, with a muttered remark that he ‘‘may as well see how far these lawyer-fellows have gone in the matter.” He turns over the page, there is dead silence for a few moments, and then Sir Roger sees his hands clutch at the stiff. letter=paper, which erackles and rustles loudly, and a smothered ex- clamation, which is almost a cry of fear and amazement, escapes from Roderic’s lips. “Tt is she! Good heavens! It-is! It is!” He drops back heavily in his chair, and stares unseeingly at Sir Roger’s alarmed, sympathetic face opposite, with a blank stare of bewildered distress. “What shall I do? What shall I do?’ he re- iterates distractedly, and Sir Roger rises to his feet impulsively, and leans across the table. “Bad news from England, Roderic?” he asks, in his quick, frank, honest voice. “Can I help you in any way, my boy?” “J don’t know that you can, > or any one! ae were only in England this minute! If I could be in England to-morrow morning, I’d give five years of my life!”’ “Nonsense, man. Five years of your life are not yours to give,” Sir Roger says, sharply. “You can do better than that with them. As for being in England to-morrow—well, a cable message will be —* to-morrow for you, if that will be any good.” “No, it won’t,’’ Roderic answers, hopelessly, star- ing blankly about him, talking as if to himself. “It’s too late! It has cost one man his life al- ready! I don’t know who may be the next!” “Roderic, my boy, I don’t think you are quite well,” Sir Roger says, scrutinizing him. ‘A little upset;- that burning sun this morning in the melon patch has made me feel a little sick- and queer in my head. - Has it similarly affected you?” “No. I’m all right! I haven’t got a touch of sunstroke, as you seem to fancy,’’ Roderic says, quietly. ‘Though, what has happened is enough to turn one’s brain! Sir Roger, you know the story of the murder on Dead Man’s Flat, and the disappearance of the woman Geraldine Sinclair, alias Lily or Lilith Scrope? I-told you that I discovered, from what Henry Smith told me on board, that the two names were aliases?” “Yes—yes ! I remember!” Sir Roger says, earnestly, ‘‘and that you heard that she had gone into some lady’s service in England, and was killed in-a railway accident! Well?” “Ay, in the railway acident at St. Cray’s—-some one was killed, and was buried under the name of ‘Lilith Scrope!’”’ Roderic replies, drawing his breath hard; ‘‘and the lady in whose service Miss Lilith Scrope was, Miss Lydia Surtees, hav- ing made the acquaintance of Lady Christabel Lindesay at the time of the accident, strangely enough fascinated Lord. Cardonnel, and became Countess of Cardonnel a few weeks later! I told you all this, Sir Roger?” “Yes—yes! Well, Roderic?” “Well, Sir Roger, there’s a sequel to the story, another act in the tragedy, I should say,’’ Roderic adds, setting his teeth close, and clinching his hands in fierce emotion, ‘‘and not the last act either, Read this letter, please, from Feardon, the senior partner of the firm .of Feardon & Blamire, and see what my suspicions of the new Countess of Cardonnel have done!” Roderic says, hoarsely. “T’vye sent poor Blamire to his death, as sure &: the sun is shining in the heavens above us, > Roger!” Roderic says, striking his hand on_ the table. “My suspicions of the woman who is Lord Cardonnel’s second wife have sent poor Blamire to his death!” Sir Roger seizes the letter without a word, and reads it hurriedly to the end, then he reads it over again from the beginning, slowly and earefully, and looks up .with something like vague horror in his eyes. “You wrote to Mr. Blamire?’’- he asks, slowly, “T don’t quite see, though, Roderic; his partner says that he forwarded a letter to Mr. Blamire when he was in Switzerland, which he believes was from you; and that Blamire went to Italy imme- diately afterward to see Lady Cardonnel on some matter of business, and that there, in Lady Car- donnel’s villa, on the very evening of his arrival, he was seized with an attack of heart disease, which was proved to be of long standing, and died very suddenly. Mr. Feardon adds that since Mr. Blamire’s death Lady Cardonnel has removed the management of her affairs from the firm, as Lord Cardonnel wishes his solicitors to undertake what business there was to do. Still, Roderic,” Sir Rogers says, slowly and quietly, though his face has paled and his brows have drawn together, “you surely don’t think—there’s no ground, you know, for imagining that the poor man’s death was attributable to anything but natural causes? Heart disease of long standing, you see? The death accelerated perhaps through fatigue or some sudden emotion, but through no other cause, surely! Surely no! Heaven forbid! There are awful creatures walking the earth in swoman’s shape, I know, Roderic; female fiends that outdo the worst men in wickedness, but there aren’t many Lady Macbeths, my dear boy. Women with wealth, and title, and position, have other ways of quieting enemies besides murder!” “Do you forget, Sir Roger, that I said I had suspicions as to the identity of the woman whom Lord Cardonnel had married on such a brief ac- quaintance?’’ asks Roderic, in somber tones. ‘Do you remember the details of a hideous, merciless murder in which the woman, whose real name was Lilith Secrope, was guilty, guiltier than even the accursed Lady Macbeth, for she, at least, did not do the deed with her own hands? Lilith Scrope did; remember that, Sir Roger!” “Yes; but, Roderic,’’ Sir Roger objects, wiping from his brow the sweat that has gathered there in increasing excitement, “I can’t quite follow you! It was a’°Miss Lydia Surtees whom Lord Cardonnel miarried.”’ “He married a woman who called herself Lydia Surtees,’’ Roderic interposes. “Well—but—bless my soul! Heaven save us! Roderic, man! How could Lilith Scrope turn her- self into Lydia Surtees?’’ Sir Roger asks, fairly gasping in irrepressible excitement. “Do you mean. that-— e “TJ mean that I tried to find out how Lilith Scrope had become Lydia Surtees,’ Roderic says, slowly, ‘‘and asked poor Blamire to ascertain be- yond a doubt the identity of the new Countess of Cardonne!l.with his former client, Lydia Surtees, ® and his interview with Lady Cardonnel ended his | life. Dead men _ tell Sir Roger !”’ “Merciful heavens! Could such a thing be pos- sible?’ Sir Roger exclaims, in ineredulous horror. “What will you do, Roderic? What do you think of doing ?’’ “TI? Doing? Oh, nothing!’ Roderic says, hope- lessly, gloomily staring at the blue horizon over the blue-gray foliage of the hedge of young euca- lypti, beyond the green sod and the flower-borders of the lawn. ‘What can I do? Lady Cardonnel has the whip-hand of.me this time! She is in England, possessor of a coronet and a fine old title, surrounded by troops of aristocratic friends, I’ve no doubt. I am at the antipodes, and can’t get near her for six months to come!” “Roderic! You can start for Europe to-morrow, if you like!’’ Sir Roger says, earnestly. ‘‘The ex- pedition will miss you sorely, there’s no denying that; but if you believe that you ought to be in England without delay; if you think, for instance, ae there might be some danger to Lady Chris- aha * A spasm passes over Roderic’s face, and his hands clinch themselves as he looks up suddenly into Sir Roger’s kindly eyes. : “Tt is of her I am thinking,’’ he says, hoarsely, and half-audibly, his handsome sun-tanned face growing crimson and pale by turns. “I must do my duty, whatever happens! I mustn’t leave you, Sir Roger, and the expedition in the lurch, for the need of my _ services. It would not be either manly or honorable; but -you would pity me if you only knew the torture I have _ suffered since I guessed at the terrible truth, as to the identity of the woman whom Lord Cardonnel mar- ried. That woman I know to be Lilith Scrope, a fiend in human form, and Lady Christabel is at her mercy.” “Listen to me, Roderic,’’ Sir Roger says, firmly; “if your suspicions are correct, this is too terribly serious a matter to be ignored or trifled with. Recollect, I cannot think your suspicions are cor- rect, my boy; the thing is too outrageously im- probable to my mind! But I may be wrong, and you may be right, and on that probability we must act at once. As soon as we get beyond the Ham- mersley Range you must leave us, Roderic, and return to England at once. You can start about the end of May, and be in Plymouth about the last week in July, and so save nine or ten weeks’ sus- pense. Meanwhile, you can send a cable message to Luton, to act for you in my name in any way you think best.” “Thank you, Sir Roger. You are very kind,” Roderic says, very gratefully, but. despondent yet. “Only I hardly know what I can do; she is under age, you see.” ‘Who is?” Sir Roger_asks, with a faint, hidden smile in his eyes. ““She—Christabel, I mean,” stammers Roderic, flushing hotly, and drawing lines all over his blot- ting-pad. ‘‘I think she will be twenty-one in July, but until then, of course, she is under her father’s control, under the control of her enemies, that wicked, worldly old Mrs. Mallibrane, and the new Countess of Cardonnel. Heaven help her! Qne unprotected girl! Worse than fatherless, with a father such as Lord Cardonnel; helpless, indolent, selfish, cold-hearted! And I have no authority at all, you see, Sir Roger, to interfere.” ~ “Well, I’d have it then, if I were you,” Sir Roger interrupts, briefiy. “Bh, how do you mean?” Roderic says, innocent tones, while his face flushes a deeper, and his blue eyes glow darkly. “How do I mean?’ repeats Sir Roger, dryly, ‘“‘you’d never find out if I didn’t tell you, I sup- pose? She’s of age in July, you say? Well, marry her in August!’ “Why, good gracious, Sir Roger!’’ Roderic says, crimson to the roots of his hair, and his eyes lit up with radiance, like sapphires, though he tries to look severely dignified and reproachful. ‘‘What an idea !—marry her?” “Ay, a splendid idea, so simple and concise,” Sir Roger says, calmly. ‘‘I’m only surprised— ane rather surprised—you’ve never thought of it!’ At this Roderic is obliged to burst into a con- vulsive sort of laugh. “Tye never thought of much else since the first time I met her,’ he confesses.- “‘But I haven’t exactly asked her, you see.” “That’s a pity,” Sir Roger rejoins, “Ask her by the next mail.” no tales, you see, in very little calmly. “No, I won’t do that,’ Roderic says, reluctantly,. smiling and sighing, as he thinks of that last let- ter of his which-Christabel has never answered. “But I’ll‘tell you what I will do, Sir Roger; I have been thinking of it for six months, and this letter decides me. I will do it without delay now. I will give Christabel a house of her own!” “A house of her own? repeats Sir Roger, look- ing very much puzzied,>. “Yes, the Furnace House and grounds. She ad- mires the place so much, and is so fond of visiting it,” Roderic explains, eagerly, in hurried words, as his heart beats high with the hopes that his own words conjure up. ‘“‘She.loves the old place! I—I thought of buying the lease of it, the moment I heard her praising it, and fearing some speculator would buy the grounds for building lots. Pit tell Feardon to buy the leasehold at once. Send him a cablegram, and write instructions to him by the mail!” he goes on, hurriedly, “and tell him to have the place put in nice order, and on her twenty-first birthday give Christabel the lease of the Furnace House as a birthday gift from me!” “Meaning to add yourself to the gift of the Furnace House, Roderic?” Sir Roger says, satiric- ally. ‘‘Lady Christabel won’t care for the house without its master, I’m sure.” “Well! If she cares to have me, as well as the house, of course!’’ Roderic says, flushing and stammering, and looking very boyish, and glad, and handsome. ‘‘She—she knows I’d give her my life if she wanted it.” ; “Oh, well, that’s all right!’’ Sir Roger says, dryly. ‘‘Lady Christabel will have a nice birth- day: gift.” ‘ “T wish it were a gift good enough for her,’ Roderic says, in a low tone. “Oh, come. We are in the humble stage of our love’s young dream,” Sir Roger says, sardonically, laughing. ‘‘May it long continue on Lady Christa- bel’s behalf. But, I think she is to be congratu- lated as well as you, Roderic. I would rather see her your wife, and living in a cottage, than to see her the Marchioness of Glendornoch with thirty thousand a year—ay, a hundred times sooner!” “Thank you, Sir Roger,’ Roderic says, his brows contracting, and sinking his teeth in his lip. “I'd rather see her dead than to see her the Marchion- ess of Glendornoch !” CHAPTER XLY. IN THE MAIL, “Cardonnel!’’ the countess says, imperiously— her ladyship, the countess, has grown excessively imperious and haughty of late toward her servy- ants, dependents, her husband, and other insignifi- cant persons whose opinion of her does not signify —“Cardonnel! I do wish you would attend to things when I tell you of them!” “What things?’’ Lord Cardonnel asks, in the cold, wearied tone in which he generally speaks to this fascinating young wife of his. ‘‘You tell me of so many.” “Oh, nonsense !’’ Lady Cardonnel retorts. ‘‘You don’t want me to believe that your hearing or your memory is failing, I suppose? [I told you what Mrs. Mallibrane says about Christabel. I’ve told you over and over again. If you don’t choose to pay attention to what I say, I shall say no more, and trouble myself no more about your daughter. If you don’t choose to see where her interest lies, or where your interest les, in getting her splendidly married, I’ll repeat just what Mrs. Mallibrane says. I will wash my hands of Lady Christabel! And you can send her to school, or put her in a convent—much the best place for her, I think—but I certainly will not have a sulky stepdaughter making my life miserable every- where I go!” And her ladyship sways her huge, white fan backward and forward with ill-tempered reckless- ness, although it is a fragile, costly thing, all carved mother-of-pearl and soft, snowy ostrich feathers. “You need not copy Mrs. Mallibrane’s discour- teous speeches, I think, Lydia,’’ Lord Cardonnel says, his thin cheeks flushing in faint streaks of red, his breath coming in gasps. ‘“You’re making my life miserable between you all!’ he goes on, in fretful reproach. ‘‘I can’t compel Christabel to marry Glendornoch, if she doesn’t wish to marry him. I’ve advised her strongly, but she seems to —to dislike the thought ie “Of marrying any one but that ‘Australian bushman,’ as Mrs. Mallibrane calls him,’ her ladyship interrupts, with a bitter sneer, hissing the words out through her teeth. ‘That presuming, swaggering farmer, or gold-digger, or whatever he is! A nice mésalliance for the daughter of the Earl of Cardonnel, truly. I really thought that you had more of the proper pride of race, Lord Cardonnel, than to tacitly permit such a dis- creditable thing.” “Pray, Lydia, don’t be so shrewish,’”’ Lord Car- donnel pleads... “I am not permitting anything! My daughter does not wish to marry any one at present, and I can’t force her to marry if she wishes to remain single for a year or two longer. She knows nothing of Roderic Lindsay, receives no letters or messages from him. I cannot think why you and Mrs. Mallibrane want to worry me so unceasingly,’’ he adds, more angrily. ‘I don’t want to drive my daughter out of my house, if you do, Lady Cardonnel.”’ “Well, she is not in your house, as it. happens,’’ Lady Cardonnel says, again sneeringly. “And Mrs. Mallibrane refuses—positively refuses—to keep Christabel in her house after this season, if she continues to disappoint her and disobey her. So, Lady Christabel will haye no place to go if she chooses to refuse a coronet, and estates, and a Seotch castle, and a splendid house in London, and the Glendornoch diamonds and thirty thousand a year,’ the countess adds, her lips curving in lines of avarice and greed, her eyes dilating in greenish luster—‘‘Ah!’’ with a gasp of passionate envy, “if I had had such a chance!”’ “Lydia! Do you mean to insult me with such words?”’ Lord Cardonnel asks, his voice hoarse with rage at the insolence he has to endure from the imperious woman he married. “Not at all,” she retorts, coolly. ‘“Christabel does not quite know her own mind, and has rather a girlish shrinking from the notion of the. duties and responsibilities of the station she will have to fill'as the Marchioness of Glendornoch. I wish & marquis with thirty thousand a year had asked me to marry him, five years ago! Of course, I’d have said ‘Yes,’ like a sensible girl.” “J wish _he had,’’ Lord Cardonnel says, gloomily. “Bxactly. We are quite of one mind!” she says, with a light, scoffing laugh. ~ But when Lady Cardonnel is in close, confiden- tial discourse with her ally, Mrs. Mallibrane, she does not laugh. She is bitterly, rancorously, fever- ishly in earnest to hasten on Lady Christabel’s marriage. ‘The marquis has proposed, or almost proposed, and Lady Christabel has gently but plainly let him see that he will meet with no acceptance from her. But his mother tells him that Lady Christa- bel is so young that~she will in all probability learn to.love him soon for his own sake, and not for his wealth and station. “‘Christabel shall not refuse a splendid alliance like the Glendornoch match to marry a scape- grace Australian farmer if I can prevent it,” as- serts Lady Cardonnel hotly, when discussing the matter with Dame Mallibrane. “Tf she marries Roderic Lindsay, I will disown her!’ Mrs. Mallibrane says, with gleaming eyes. “TI will curse her and disown her! I told her so.” “Good gracious!’’ scoffs Lady Cardonnel. ‘She won't care for that as long as he owns her! She is in love, my dear lady, and Roderic Lindsay’s handsome face and winning tongue will carry the day against all odds!” “You speak from experience, I dare say, my dear, or you wouldn’t detest him so?” Mrs. Malli- brane says, maliciously. “Well, I have no cause to think well of him or his honor or honesty, as I told Lord Cardonnel before we were married,” her ladyship says, with downecast eyes of modest candor. ‘He is a flirt, a handsome, fascinating, heartless flirt, as his father was before him,’ with a glint from her yellowish eyes at Mrs. Mallibrane and in a mean- ing tone, ‘‘and a fortune hunter to boot. Of that I have absolute proof, Mrs. Mallibrane! Roderic Lindsay is a base fortune hunter, and I tell you in confidence that, disappointed of Lydia Surtees’ fortune, he determines to have Christabel Linde- say’s—that is, Mrs. Mallibrane’s money! There is no use in appealing to Lady Christabel or re- monstrating with her; she is obstinate, blind and deaf to all remonstrances. All that remains is to put them asunder forever.” “And can you do that?’’ the old woman asks, eagerly. “T can, and will!” TO BE CONTINUED. —i>-°- Ge MADALINE RAY. BY LAURA C. HOLLOWAY. ‘“‘Made penniless by the result of the recent war in Cuba, did you say?’ asked Sidney Mason of his friend, at Mrs. Grey’s elegant party, looking at the same time at a lady who had just entered the room. “Yes: she is absolutely poor—no fortune what- ever, though I believe her uncle withholds the real facts from her, and meets her demands with his own funds. He is rich, and she an orphan, without any other relation nearer than this uncle, her father’s brother. She is wise and sweet, Sidney, there is no denying that, but no catch at all.” And Philip Starr turned again to look at a col- lection of prints, quite satisfied that he had done his duty to his old friend. But Sidney -Mason was interested. He could not ignore the presence of the beautiful girl, and preferred not to lose sight of her. “T incline to think,” said he, ‘‘that she is an at- tractive woman, Starr; but do introduce me; then I will be better able to judge of her attributes.” “Wait a spell, Sid; it will not do to have the lion of the evening fall under Miss Ray’s magnet- ism before he is introduced to some other belles.” “Oh, then she is magnetic? I imagined so from her repose of manner and serene expression of countenance. But come.. I must know her.” “Under protest, then,” laughingly replied his friend. ‘“‘But wait until I ask her permission; she is arbitrary, and you will find= her excessively prudish.” “Bor which I shall like her all the better,’ was Sidney Mason’s reply. ‘Miss Ray, an old friend of mine, and a stranger in New York society, greatly desires an introduc- tion. May I present him?” “Tf he is charitable enough to excuse my short- comings. I am not very sociable this evening, and am feeling just now quite willing to be enter- tained if no like recompense is demanded.” - “Then I will present him. He is a noble man, and anxious to know you. You will find him agreeable.” “Bring him by all means,” she added, and before the sentence was finished the young man had touched his friend and spoken the introductory words that made the two strangers no longer, but friends at once. - She was an animated talker, as well as a care- ful listener, and was singularly gifted with that rarest of all gifts in woman—a cultivated and beautiful voice. Sidney Mason was too genuine an admirer of beauty to lose any of its tones, and he listened to her and observed her as only a man greatly charmed can. When the music began, and the dancers filled the space about them, the two retreated to the library, where, half an hour later, Mr. Ray found his niece chatting and laughing as he had not heard her often at such entertainments. “Why, Madalme,” he exclaimed; ‘how lively you are to-night, and how glad I am. Will you make me acquainted with your companion?” “Mr. Mason, Uncle Ray—Mr. Starr’s friend. I know he is glad you have come to share his exile. I had quite overlooked the fact that the room was deserted; and perhaps Mr. Mason would like to be enjoying the dancing?” “Mr. Mason is very happy where he is, Miss Ray,” said that gentlemnan, bowing; “and, as for dancing, I gave it up when I ceased to be a youth.”’ “Well, you two can shake hands there, sir,” said Mr. Ray; “Madaline will not dance at all, unless in some children’s affair at home, where: she can outrace and outrun all the youngsters.” “Stop, uncle. Mr. Mason has heard enough of my weaknesses already. He is Mr. Starr’s friend, and you know Mr. Starr is not inclined to over- estimate your niece.” There was a tone of bitterness in this unlooked- for speech, which surprised both gentlemen. The speaker herself seemed to notice their embarrass- ment, and quickly added: “Pray, pardon me, both of you; I did not intend to be personal, but I overheard Mr. Starr apprising a gentleman of my financial prospects to-night, and said report did you more credit, uncle, than it did my bank account. However, we will pass it over since Mr. Starr is so honest as to be above suspicion in his pursuit of money.’” “Some one. else’s money, you mean, Madge, But never mind, girls, we will not have Mr. Mason believe us uncivil, and Mr. Starr is to be par- doned, not condemned, if he has no other appre- ciation of you than the amount of your taxable property.” Mr. Mason’s face was a study. He had heard his friemd use the same language himself concern- ing his fair young acquaintance, and he could not justify him. He only felt confused and sadly in want of something to say that would convince her of his own sentiments. But she gave him no time to frame words. Putting out her hand to him in token of good-by, she expressed the hope of a pleasant evening for him, and taking her uncle’s arm, joined the throng in the hall. Nor did he have an opportunity of again talking with her alone during the evening. She was surrounded by admirers, and there was no cessation of atten- tion toward her until the carriage was ordered and she was saying her adieux. As she gathered her ermine mantle about her shoulders, and left the cloakroom, a sigh of weari- ness escaped him. Looking up, she saw Mr. Mason at the stairs, waiting, evidently for her. “Why was she in such a hurry?” “She was tired and weary,” she said, giving for answer words that would have seemed more ap- propriate coming from a laborer out in the cold, than from a pleasure-goer leaving those heated parlors. But she was truthfully speaking. She was tired, there was no doubt of that, for weari- ness was depicted on her face. It appeared more the result of indifference than physical prostra- tion. Her questioner said nothing. “Shall we meet again, Miss Ray?’ was the ques- tion he put to her. He was tenacious, and no amount of crowding in the hall could prevent him from putting his plea. ‘Yes indeed, Mr. Mason,” replied the cheery tones of the uncle, who had overheard it. ‘‘Come and see us, and here is my eard to direct you. Madaline is at home Tuesdays and Thursdays.”’ “Thanks, uncle; but you will permit me to cor- rect you. I am at home every day for the next week, at uncle’s, Mr. Mason, and will be glad to see you. After that I shall be away a while.” “Pray, where, Madaline?’’ her uncle asked. “On my way to Cuba, uncle, to see how far right Mr. Starr was in his statement to-night.” Mr. Ray was evidently alarmed and annoyed, and it was a relief to him to hear that the coach- man awaited without. Four days later Sidney Mason called at Mr. Ray’s residence, and learned, to his great surprise and regret, that Miss Ray had gone South on business. * * * * * * * Four years have passed, and down Broadway. one bleak, wintry morning, a sweet-faced woman passes swiftly, looking intently for a number she cannot discover. Her dress is simple, but rich, and there is an air of preoccupation about her that cannot be mistaken. She is a business woman intent on business, and her absorption in her own thoughts leaves her no time to notice others. Finally, she discovers her desired number, and enters a large building. “May I ask if Mr. Hartly—William Hartly—is not indebted to this house?’’ she asks, modestly, yet with an air of confidence that secures her recogni- tion promptly. “Yes, madam,” says a clerk to her. “Will you tell me how much?’’ “Not unless we can be assured it is your busi- ness to know. Are you any relative?” “No, sir; but I pray you tell me what he owes here. I assure you the information is desired from a right motive.” “Tf Mr. Mason consents, madam, I can tell you,” and directing his steps to a high desk on the other side of the building, he addresses a gentleman, who returns with him. “‘My errand is perhaps a singular one, sir,’”’ she said to him, “‘but it is soon explained. Mr. Hartly once did a loved one a great service. I desire to return the kindness, and learning from an ac- quaintance, who knows his business affairs, that he is embarrassed, I determined, in my humble way, to help him. Will you let me?” The sweet voice acted like a spell on her lis- tener. He stood looking into her face, and then glancing out the door, certainly not hesitating, poe seemingly perplexed and lost in his own mus- ngs. “Oh, yes, certainly; excuse me,” he said, with an awkward effort at apology. ‘I was trying to think. But about Mr. Hartly—do you tell me he is embarrassed in financial matters?” “T am not authorized to speak of him, sir. In- deed, it may be very wrong for me to come here for the purpose I haye, but I want to help him, and now is the time for me to do so. I have not been circumstanced so that I could before.” “Then I will reduce his account one-half, and give you a receipt for the entire amount. Will that be acceptable, madam?” She looked up into his face, smiling, and then shook her head. “‘Can I not pay the bill, and have the receipt in ma It will be a nice Thanksgiving present for a. She was persistent, but the gentleman hesitated. He evidently did not want to take his visitor’s money, yet she was ready to circumvent any effort he made to avoid the issue. “Give the lady a receipt for William MHartly’s account, Mr. Myers, and receive from her forty dollars,’”? he said to.the clerk. ‘“‘Now will that not do?” was his inquiry of his guest. “Thank you, kind sir, but I do not wish you to lose by the operation. I am ready to pay the bill, whith is, I understand, about double the amount you name.” “T am willing to settle the matter as I have said, and hope Mr. Hartly will appreciate your act.” “Oh, sir, you have given me only half an op- portunity to return a noble deed performed by him years ago for one long since dead.” “Ror whom did he perform it, miss?” “For my mothd®” she said, looking at him through her tears. The clerk interrupted her to ask her name. “Will you promise me,” said she, turning again to the head of the house, “that he shall not know 1¢7°* “T do,” was his answer. “Madaline Ray is my name.’’ “And now I know you, Miss Ray—I am sure you are the same. I knew your voice and face from the first. Have you forgotten an acquaint- ance of one evening, and that four years ago— Sidney Mason, whom you met at Mrs. Grey’s with Philip Starr?’ ‘‘No, indeed, Mr. Mason, I have not forgotten you.” And right gladly she extended her hand to him again. “When you put out your hand to me just now it recalled a memory that was always very pleasant to me; but I could not make up my mind that it was the same-hand.” “T am vastly changed since then, and no one would remember me who had not seen me in so long, particularly a stranger.” Sidney Mason bit his lip, but did not tell her that he was not so much a stranger to her char- acter that he had not loved her after that one meeting all these years. “T must be off now, Mr. Mason,” she said, after chatting with him further; ‘“‘but I trust I shall see you again some time. I am very grateful to you for your kindness.” “May I go this very day to see you?” he asked, looking into her face earnestly. ‘‘Or will you do as you did before, and hie away for another four years?’”’ “Oh, no, I have nothing to hie away after, now; and, indeed, I have not been gone four years. I have passed this door almost every day for the past two years.’’ “What doing?” “Working, Mr. Mason—earning my own living and that of Uncle Ray’s lame daughter. Uncle died that same winter that I met you, and Mar- garet, his only child was left alone in the world. Her property was all invested in the bank that failed near you here, two years ago, and since then she has let me care for her.” “And you are doing what?’’ “Bditing a juvenile magazine, living.”’ Sidney Mason was always persistent where his heart was enlisted. He walked quite to the door of his office with her, then back in a kind of ecstatic dream. She was found again at last— his ideal woman, whom he had treasured in his heart as a beautiful memory. Now she was alone in the world, poor, and, best of all, heart whole. But did he know that she was? No, but he was sure, and that very evening he would know. “JT met Philip Starr after I saw you to-day, Miss Madaline, and I told him I had seen you,” said Sidney Mason, when he called that evening. Madaline laughed to think how near she had been during these years to Mr. Starr, and yet had almost forgotten his very existence. ‘What had he to say of her financial condition, Mr. Mason?” “Do not be cruel to him now; he has been ter- ribly punished: He married poor little Ella Rush- ton—you remember her, I am sure-——and before they returned from their bridal tour her father was bankrupt. Starr had worked so hard to marry an heiress that the disappointment utterly crazed him for a while, but now he is in business and working like a man. His wife is a hopeless in- valid, and, I fear, an unbappy woman.” “TI owe Mr. Starr the first hint that I had of my own poverty,’ she said, ‘‘and perhaps I ought to forgive him the pain he caused uncle that night, for I, not knowing the true state of affairs, was only piqued that he considered my fortune a trifle, and myself of no worth in consequence; whereas, in truth, he was right, and uncle was trying to keep the fact from me. When I went home that night I made him tell me all, and then I went imme- diately to Havana, where my parents had invested largely, and where I thought I owned a great deal of property. In the end, with confiscations, law suits, and lost time, together with the terrible de- preciation of all kinds of property, I found myself indeed a beggar. Uncie died while I was away, and now Maggie and I are all alone in the world.” “And may I tel you that I, too, am alone in the world, and dreadfully in need of affection and companionship. Miss Ray, Madaline, will you be my wife?’ “Tt is a solemn question,’”’ she said, softly. ‘“T cannot answer it for a long time yet, Mr. Mason. Your sympathy is aroused, and your kind heart prompts you to try to brighten my way. Is it not so?” “T have loved you four years, child. Must I have no word of encouragement ever?’’ He was agitated and suffering, and she tried to spare him pain and wait until he was more com- posed before trusting to further conversation on the subject. “What did Mr. Hartly say when you sent his bill receipted?’’ she asked, evasively. “That it was vegy unbusinesslike and strange, and he requested an explanation and the name of the person who had canceled his debt.” “What said you to this?’ “Nothing then. I. waited, him- i He stopped short, and looked down into her face, waiting for a sign or a glance that he could inter- pret. But the bright eyes avoided his, and the smile about his mouth faded into a sad look as she made him no reply. “What shall I tell him, Madaline?” “Tt do not know,” she said, confusedly, hearing him call her so. “Tt do,” was his firm reply, bending down to meet her gaze. ‘If you will let me, I will tell him next month that Madaline Mason can give him the information.” “Will the receipt hold good as it is, then?’’ she asked, roguishly, looking up at him. ‘Indeed, indeed, it will, and be more satisfactory and making a hoping I could tell to me.’ He took the proffered hand, but laughingly claimed more, and folding her to his _ heart, kissed her blushing face with loving tenderness. THE NE W YORK WEEKLY. 2M Sota’s NEW YORK, NOVEMBER 21, 1908. RARRAAADMMAAADAARAADAARAAAMADAAAADAAAARADRAMMARAAN I Terms to Mail Subscribers: (POSTAGE FREE.) 8 months: 308. <3. Fbed2: Gonlesss ie. cea $5.00 4 months ........%$1.00/4 copies, ... .. ...10,00 Ke VOGE Stas Sa Vk aese 2.0018 copies s<: ¢d.xii's s:3 20.00 TO CLUB RAISERS.—Upon request we will send sample copies to aid you in obtaining sub- scribers. AGENTS.—Our responsibility for remittances applies only to such as are sent to us direct, and we will not guarantee the reliability of any sub- scription agency or postmaster. ADVERTISING RATES.—One__ dollar twenty-five cents per line, agate measure. Subscriptions may begin at any time, and any issue later than 1896 can be supplied at regular rates. Carefully state with what number and volume you wisd your subscription to begin. COPIES LOST IN TRANSIT—Are duplicated without extra charge. Remit by Express Money Order, Draft, Post Office Order, or Registered Letter. We will not be responsible for loss of remittances not so sent. All letters should be addressed to S8STREE'T & SMITH, 288 William St., N. Y. and The New York Weekly has a larger cir- culation than all other similar publi- cations combined. PRINCIPAL A) Sant, 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)....8t. George Rathborne For Old Love’s Sake (Serial).......... Bertha M. Clay Earle Wayne’s Nobility (Serial)............--. Mrs. Georgie Sheldon dm: the: BAen’s Den-to:... occu s vee ncewen Hero Strong Madaline Bay. i. ssc. -Se uss seas Laura C. -Holloway A Marriage Agreement.............. Mabel H. Robins That Handsome Fellow.......-.--.. James L. Bowen POG NU GRON. 66 bias vs + kde nts peeves Arthur L. Meserve Para Vs COWS. cos cesses reese she Potiphar Potts, Esq. Helen Lindsay’s Luck......... Helen Forrest Graves Smith and His Counterpart........... Clara Augusta The Lorberry Watermelon............-.. Max Adeler Can You 20 1ttik Jes as sateen Harkley Harker Me Poor Tavortuy cee. iiss fe. ese ees ta, Kate Thorn Josh Billings’ Philosophy..........-.-... Josh Billings Pleasant Paragraphs........-.-... Charles W. Foster WON Fie 5c 3 CK on a: taeacs Mrs. Helen Wood Items of Interest, Correspondence, etc. POEMS “Ocean Voices,” by Nathan D. Urner. “Among the Corn,” by Wilfrid M. Owen. “A Little Girl’s Letter,” by R. K. Munkittrick. “Life’s Failures,” by Eva Anstruther. A BRILLIANT LOVE STORY. A charmingly told love story, devoid of mawkish sentiment, in which the tender passion is naturally developed, with those graceful touches which show the master. hand, will be commenced in the next issue of the New York WEEKLY. It is entitled, TRIXY; ’ The Shadow of a Crime. By Mrs. GEORGIE SHELDON, Author of ‘Earle Wayne's Nobility,” ‘‘Brownie’s Triumph,” “The Forsaken Bride,’ “His Heart’s Queen,” “Sibyl’s Injiuence,” etc., etc. The reader will not have progressed far in this fascinating romance ere realizing that it is one of extraordinary power, vivid in action, and remarkably strong in the deline- ation of character. The plot is clever and delightfully mystified, and at the same time keeps within the bounds of probability. The leading female characters are cousins, quite opposite in character, one stately and sedate ; the other a merry romp who loses no oppor- tunity to indulge in playful pranks, Both are heiresses, and are therefore considered desirable matrimonial ‘‘catches.” How affec- tion is turned to dislike, and keen rivalry chills the genial current of friendship, is effectively portrayed, neither at first sus- pecting that their emotions are being played upon by A DESIGNING WOMAN who has an eye upon théir respective for- tunes, and is eager to enact the part of AN ARTFUL MATCHMAKER. It is a narrative of constantly increasing interest, in which the love episodes, while charming toa high degree, are still subsidiary to the intensely dramatic and varied action introduced in the development of the in- genious plot. In the next issue the opening installment will appear; so we request our friends to in- form their acquaintances, that they, too, may Since yonder maiden on me smiled The very air seems wanton-wild, With wedding-bells a-ringing ; Such music in my breast doth dwell, So doth my heart with rapture swell, My tongue must needs be singing. ’'Tis Phyllis, with the eye of morn, And hair that mocks the golden corn, And form like swaying grasses— Lips where the pearl and ruby meet, And cheeks where rose and lily greet— : My pride—my queen of lasses! Can Can you look in at a jeweler’s window, where diamonds are exposed in the most tempting array, and admire them, enjoy intensely gazing at them, be very happy for ten minutes while you stand with these wonders of God’s creation before your eyes, and then resume your walk without coveting? That is, supposing yourself an admirer of precious stones—some folks are yet such savages or such Puritans that diamonds are to them less than dirt —and supposing that you are the possessor already of a reasonable number, can you do it? Can you see your friend, the lapidary, as I saw him last week, pour out the palm of his hand full of these brilliants and pass them to me that I might flash them in the sunbeams; can you—-I am not saying whether I could—hold steady and be charmed for the moment, perfectly delighted, and then pass them all back without a covetous itching of your palm? ; Can you look upon that splendid residence which your neighbor is erecting, and glory in all its ele- gance, a thing of beauty to you and always a joy as often as you pass it, yet not be annoyed by any mean little pangs because it is not yours, nor criticise its defects more agreeably than you oppose its graces? Can you walk up Fifth Ave- nue, or Riverside Drive, and thoroughly enjoy the lordly vista that stretches away in sublime miles to the north? If you can, how happy are you; for you have all the delight without any of the taxes, assessments, insurance, repairs, and vexa- tions. If a young mind can but teach itself to see pretty things, and really have a true esthetic judgment as to what is pretty, and yet not be tortured by covetousness, that mind can go through life in almost perpetual enjoyment. He or she may be a poor mechanic or sewing-girl, and never get above being a toiler fer a mere living; yet so does this world hang out its pretty things for show, that the humblest eye is more than full of the sight of them, if it be a trained eye. The rich dress for such eyes; they build their houses beautiful on the outside for such eyes; they varnish their car- riages and polish their harness for such eyes; they trim their gardens, full of flowers, statuary, and fountains, for such eyes. Everybody puts on his best when he appears in any public place, for such eyes. Old Curmudgeon shaves his ugly face every morning to make it appear as benignant and little offensive as possible to such observing eyes upon the street. I must’ buy a new style silk hat—price six dollars—that I may do my part toward the good appearance of the common sidewalk throng of whose stream I make one drop. All this is for your happiness, if you are trained to look upon it, enjoying and not envying and coveting. They say that wealthy ladies dress, not to please, but to torture others; they wish to make all their neighbors unhappy with envy. Ah, being a man myself, I have the advantage of them; I simply enjoy their good looks, and covet not their attire! Neither do I covet them. I would not exchange dear, handsome, gray-headed Mrs. Har- ker“for the street full, after all these forty heroic years. But I really fear that my daughters can’t do it; nor can you, daughter unknown, who are reading this. Try; it is worth trying. Do not suffer such complete success on the part of these butterflies, the pretty creatures, who dressed to torture you, and so often do it. Gan you, my dear old fellow, can you go to a wedding, and be really happy as you look on the A fust-rate pun iz a literary mosaik; and if a man iz lucky enuff to execute one, he ought to stop right thare. It iz no viktory to convince a phool. The man who kan’t learn ennything from his failures iz past all hope. Men ov the greatest genius hay the most sim- plisity and reverence. The road to ruin iz down hill, and allwuss Mc- Adamized at that. Thare iz no room in a small hed for ennything else but cunning. I hav seen men so lazy that they would tire the tools all out that they workt with. Pashun nutralizes both strength and reazon. True liberty iz the result ov judishus restraint. Envy and avarice kan’t be satisfied; after they hav et up everything else, they will commence feeding on themselfs. Truth doesn’t alter nor gro old; two and two made four when Adam waz a boy, and they amount to the same to-day. We know a man who deserves a great deal of pity. He is possessed of houses, and lands, and stocks, and bonds, and horses, and cattle, and the world calls him rich. Almost everybody envies him. He wears fine clothes and diamonds every day, and drinks good wine, if somebody else will pay for it. 2 But this rich man feels very poor. His whole life is a round of direst apprehension. He is afraid the banks will break. He studies the financial record as if his life depended on what he reads. He cannot sleep if he hears that any one of the railroads whose bonds he holds is not paying ex- penses. He lies awake nights and worries about fire, and if he hears the alarm, he is out of bed and dressing with lightning speed. He is afraid it may be some of his buildings. If anybody talks about murrain, he grows pale; he has thou- sands of dollars invested in cattle. He is always talking about hard times. It is difficult, he says, for him to make accounts balance at the end of the year. He is at such an expense and so little coming in. Taxes are enormous, out- rageous, in fact, and how he is going to pay them is more than he knows. There ought to be some- thing done to lower this tax rate; it is eating everybody out of hotisé and home. His family are under the cloud of his poverty continually. He buys the cheapest steak, and the strongest butter,.and suggests to his wife that they should use molasses instead of sugar, stocks are so uncertain. He wonders where on earth that bar- rel of flour has gone to. He never saw anybody use so much flour as they do. If they are not careful, they’ll have to go to the almshouse yet, BY WILFRID M. AMONG ‘THE CORN. OWEN. Her arms embrace the ample shook Which fell before my reaping-hook, And, as the grain she presses, The yellow stalks her neck entwine, As if unwilling to resign The sweets of her caresses. But, should I sing the whole year through, I scarce could picture her to you, Nor tell her virtues over. To be in all her charms complete, You must have worshipped at her feet, And be her chosen lover! You Do It? By Harkley Harker. young chap who is thirty years better off for this world’s life than you? Can you go home, after having danced a little with the young’ people and made yourself generally, with your snowy head, like a winter’s sunbeam, and sit down by your grate to rub your rheumatic toes before bed, with out growling and coveting the younglings’ fresh- ness? It is said that the old king can never love his son, the prince, who is to be king as soon as he is dead. Can you be happy in the happiness of youth about you? If so, I congratulate you; for this world is full of young people and empty of aged folks. Twenty to one you see youthful faces on the street and along the paths of life. Alas, for the old wretch who envies you, instead of enjoying them. Can you do it—take delight in seeing another man get on in this world? Do you find pleasure in contemplating another’s advancement, watching him creep up alittle higher, and yet higher, every year?. If so, you are a lucky dog; for everybody is then engaged in trying to please you. Who is not trying to better his condition? On every hand, all your neighbors are slaving, night and day, to do the thing that is a source of happiness to you—namely, make more and more of their chance in the world. But in what a chronic state of misery must that man be to whom the spectacle of another’s prosperity or effort to thrive is a source of envy. The world—except the vagabonds and criminals—is in league against such a man’s peace of mind. The incident that suggested to me this line of thought, I really must give you. I was walking along a proud and generally thronged avenue of a fashionable city. It was the dull hour of noon; few people were passing. Direetly in front of me I had noticed a fair-haired little girl playing at the nurse’s apron strings. It was a wonderfully beautiful face, with blue eyes laughing almost as audibly as the silver-toned throat. I had not noticed two ladies in heavy mourning who were walking near, till they paused, and the younger lifted the stifling crape from her sad yet pretty features. Then, with a swoop like an eagle’s, she caught up this tiny stranger child, crying out: “‘Oh, oh, Heaven help me! It is just the same!”’ kissing it over and over. The nurse screamed to me, because I was the nearest male, I suppose. - The elderly lady exclaimed, pityingly: “Lizzie! Lizzie! restrain yourself! Oyr darling is in heaven !”’ The lady, with the child yet in her embrace, re- sponded: ; “IT know, mamma, dear—I know. more, and I will put her § the ground. She is so like! so like! I could nex help it!” Then, turning to me, she said: “Sir, pardon me. If that is your child, I wish you joy. I had one once, and I can never see any child of her age but I covet—oh, so much I covet! How happy your home ought to be, sir!” And with that word she was gone. Perhaps the most masterful control ever achieved in this world is that of the bereaved parents who can look on another’s houseful and yet be glad, and only glad. Or the lone husband or wife, who, seeing man and wife happy together, yet is glad, and only glad, at sight of a joy no longer possible to the solitary observer. Can you do it? Heaven alone can help you to do it. ~ Just one kiss Josh Billings’ Philosophy. I never hay seen an angel yet, and don’t think I want to; I shouldn’t kno how te behave in the presence ov one. One man kan see into futurity just as far az another. kan, and none ov them kan tell whether the world will be in existence to-morrow. Thare iz a grate diffrense between a brave and a rekless man, and the two should not be kon- founded. Poverty iz not dishonorable enny more than sick- ness iz; it iz only the cauze ov it that may be dishonorable. Man’s pashuns make him more terrible than enny beast ov the dessert. . Thare iz no labor-saving invenshun that kom- pares with the eye ov the master. The best hits that hav ever been made, hav been made just az the boy hit the woodcock on the fly—bi picking up the fust stone he could find and letting drive without taking aim; and the boy and the woodcock, both, were astonished at the result. Thare iz one witness who always swares to the truth, and no one kan suborn or impeach it, and that iz, a man’s conshience. A Poor Unfortunate. By Kate Thorn. says he wishes he could be a woman for a spell. He’d see to those swindling dressmakers and mil- liners in a way they would not relish. If any of his workmen are two minutes behind time in the morning, he groans, and feels bitterly aggrieved, and vows he will cut them down ten per cent. if such a thing occurs again. He’ll let them know that he is not going to pay them for loafing up and down the streets. No, sir. He beats everybody down. If only a few cents can be saved, he says, it is worth while. _He wants through. But business interests are fluctuating, and inyestments so ticklish. Ask him for charity, and he will look at you as if he deemed you mad. Want him to give some- thing for Smith’s family of children, ten of ’em! Why, good heaven! whatever could Smith be a- thinking of to raise so many children. Didn’t he know he was poor?” Didn’t he know it costs money to feed so many mouths? For his part he has ways enough for what little spare cash he gets to go without feeding those ten children, that had no business to be born. What if Smith was killed by falling from the roof of one of his buildings that he was repairing? That wasn’t his lookout; it was Smith’s. He hadn’t any business to fall; he was paid for staying up there and laying shingles, not for falling down and getting killed. Ask him for money for the minister. He will laugh in your face, and instance St. Paul and several other ancient worthies, who preached for nothing and found themselves. He doesn’t want any minister. If everybody behaved as well as he does there would be no need of ministers. to try and get enough together to take him ma amen at tana ne ——————— + | y » ‘ae +3) CORRESPONDENCE) * :" 3 HELPFUL TALKS WITH - OUR READERS. Correspondents must sign name and address, not for publication, but because we refuse to answer anonymous communications. All let- ters are presumed to be confidential, and are so treated. H. M. Ackrrson, Hickson, N. D.—The model dwellings for the poor of London were erected and paid for by an American millionaire, George Pea- body. Only a moderate rent was -eharged for apartments, just sufficient to pay the expense of maintaining the houses in a tidy and sanitary con- dition. The philanthropist through whose gener- osity they were erected, was born in Danvers, Mass., February 18, 1795, and died in London, November 6, 1869. When a young man, George Peabody was engaged in the dry-goods business in Balti- more. In 1837 he went to London, and in 1843 started a banking house. His donations during his lifetime to libraries, educational institution, art and science, with his contributions toward furnishing the working classes of London with model lodging houses, amounted to about $12,000,000.. His last visit to the United States was just previous to his death. His obsequies were celebrated in West- minster Abbey, and his remains were conveyed to this country in the steamship Monarch, of the Royal Navy, and afterward interred in his native town, Danvers, now called Peabody. Mary T., Florence, Mass.—If the young man is worthy of your love, he will exhibit unmistakable signs of reformation ere he requires you to name the happy day. About his other fault, his habit of “romancing,” this you have only upon hearsay evidence. If he were a chronic falsifier, you would certainly be as well qualified to judge as the lady friend who is suspiciously anxious to publish him as ‘a disseminator of untruthful statements. Be assured of one thing, that it would be very rash for you to marry a man with the hope of re- forming him after marriage. If he is conscien- tious, manly, industrious and ambitious, he will show that he is likely to prove a suitable mate, for a good woman by giving up his wild habits at once. 2. Your penmanship is good, and indicative of a refined, cultured, thoughtful nature. The com- position is commendable, and the ideas are well expressed. D. A. KENNEDY, Commonwealth, Wis.—By the terms of the land reform bill recently enacted in the British Parliament, for the benefit of Ireland, measures have been provided’ for the complete abolition of landlordism throughout the island, and the turning of the soil over to the individual ownership of the men who live upon it, cultivate it, love it, and who, through the centuries since they were dispossessed of it, have clung to the tradition that it is rightfully theirs. The credit of the govern- ment is to be employed to the extent of about £100,000,000 in effecting the transfer, and the government will undertake to pay a bonus amount- ing to probably £800,000 or £900,000 a year for half a century in harmonizing the differences which may exist between the landlords who sell and the tenants who are to buy. WEATHERBY, Highgate, Vt.—The flowers for the various months are as follows: January—Snowdrop, expressive of fidelity, hope, purity. ; February—Primrose: sincerity, _youth. 5 March—Violet: faithfulness, love, modesty. April—Daisy : innocence, patience, peace. May—Hawthorn: hope, happy domestic life. June—Honeysuckle: fidelity, love, devotion. July—Water lily: purity of heart, faith. August—Poppy: consolation. September—Morning-glory : ity. October—Hop: hope. . November—Chrysanthemum : fidelity, love. December—Holly: domestic happiness, foresight. affection, equanim- THOMAS P. DENSLOW, Hoffman, Minn.—A tree which is supposed to bear ‘‘the forbidden fruit’ is one ofthe botanical curiosities of Ceylon. It is generally spoken of as. ‘‘Eve’s apple tree.” The blossom has a very pleasant scent, but the really remarkable feature of the tree, the one to which it owes its name, is the fruit. It is beautiful, and hangs from the tree in a peculiar manner. The apple has an orange tint on the outside, and is deep crimson within, and each one has the ap- pearance of having had a piece bitten out of it. This fact, together with its poisonous quality, led the Mahometans to represent it as the forbidden fruit of the Garden of Eden, and to warn men against its noxious properties. ‘ C. W. Mooney, Centertown, Mo.—To weld cast steel, take ten parts of borax, two parts sal am- moniac, and one part flowers of sulphur. Pound them well together, and fuse them in a metal pot over a clear fire, taking care to keep up the heat tig all scum has disappeared from the surface; pour out, allow to cool and harden. Next grind to powder. A small quantity of this powder will be sufficient, sprinkled on the parts to be welded while in the fire; or raise the steel to be welded to a bright yellow heat, then dip in the ‘powder. Again place in the fire till of the same heat, “bring to- gether and hammer until thoroughly welded. N. B. CuarKE, Concord Depot, Va.—A remedy for nasal catarrh is here given: Wash out the nose on each side night and morning with one part of carbolide to four parts of warm water, ‘through a nasal douche. Continue until the nose is clear. Avoid the patent medicines which are said to be specifics for this disease. Many of the so-called eatarrh remedies contain cocaine in dangerous quantities, and the frequent use of them leads to the cocaine habit, which is almost as pernicious as the morphine habit. In serious cases of catarrh, it is always best to consult a competent physician, and not rely upon newspaper treatment. L. R. Stanton, Santa Clara, Cal.—Most of the licorice root used throughout the world comes from Asia Minor, and is the root of a bush not more than three or four feet high. The dried roots are sent to Bagdad, and thence to Paris, London, Ber- lin, and the United States. The black licorice stick in the drug stores comes mostly from Spain, and is made of pure juice, mixed with a little starch, which prevents it from melting in warm weather. The word ‘‘licorice’ means ‘“‘sweet root,” and is of Greek origin. - T. C. WILLISTON, Saltpoint, N. Y.—To protect furs from moths, first thoroughly beat the furs with a thin rattan, and air them for several hours; then carefully comb them with a clean comb, wrap them up in newspapers, perfectly tight, and put them away in an air-tight chest, lined with tin or cedar wood. Take them out and examine them in the sun at least once a month, thoroughly beating them. The printing ink on the newspapers is very distasteful to moths. Among woolens strew cam- phor. : Susin, Shepherdstown, W. Va.—To remove iron- mold from linen, sprinkle powdered salts of lemon on the stain, which should be placed in a clean, K. B. A., Saratoga, Iowa.—There is no law. which prohibits the President of the United States from leaving the country during his term of office. But no President has ever done so, there being an unwritten law to the effect that it would be unde- perable fur him to be absent. ; ss a FARMER, High Forest, Minn.—To remove stains with half an ounce of powdered salts of lemon. rub well with a cork until they disappear. Then wash with cold water. 3 WiLpwoop, Concord, Cal.—It was Sir Walter Scott who gave this terse description of a play: “A drama is a composition in dialogue, in which the action is not related, but represented.” ener eo reser ree JOE’S NUGGET. ~ BY ARTHUR L. MESERVE. | ‘ o I had been about three months at Tear-Shirt Camp when the thing happened which I am going to tell you of. g All of us had had only middling luck. None of the party had made a big strike in the way of finding nuggets. Still we had nothing to complain of. long run, is better than making a big haul at one time, and then laying off and running through the whole of it in less than a month’s time, as I have known plenty of fellows to do. One day the camp was all astir like a hive of bees which somebody had thrown a rock into. One of our chaps, a fellow by the name of Joe Garland, had made a ten-strike. He had hit upon the biggest nugget of gold that had ever been found in the region of Tear-Shirt. It was a good one, worth a couple of thousand at least, and the boys all gathered about it with greedy eyes. They envied Joe his good luck; still they were all glad that he had got it. A more delighted fellow than he was you never saw. He hugged the chunk and petted it, and it seemed that he would never tire of feasting his.eyes upon it. After the first excitement was over Joe was left to his treasure, and the boys turned to digging again, each one hoping that he might soon be as fortunate as Joe had been. ; Joe had half a mind to set off for “Frisco with his treasure at once. The express only ran once a week, and it lacked three days of the time of going again. He was afraid that in some way he might lose the nugget before it was got to a place of safety. Still, I don’t think that there was in the camp a person of whom he was sus- picious. It would have been hard to have picked out a fellow who was not called all right. Joe carried his nugget to the camp, but he would not stow it away with the rest of the treasure. He would hide it for himself. If the rest was stolen while he was away at work, he was going to save his. Two or three times a day Joe would leave his work and go and see that the nugget was safe. We used to tease him about it, and tell him he was losing flesh at the rate of ten pounds a day, and that if the treasure was not sent away soon, there would be nothing left of him but skin and bones. The third day after the finding of the treasure, about the middle of the forenoon, Joe made one of these visits to the camp. He was gone but a little time, and when he came back, a more frightened and woe-begone looking countenance than his you never saw in your life, : “What is it?’ we all cried, in chorus, as he came dashing in among us. “It’s gone!’ was all the poor fellow could man- age to say. “What is gone?’ we repeated, though on the mind of each flashed the thought of the treasure. “The nugget!” he gasped. We dropped spade and pick, and started for the camp. All of us were interested. If the nugget was stolen, most likely all the dust we had gath-» ered had gone with it. ; We piled into the camp, and went for the spot where the general treasure was kept. Each drew a breath of relief when we found that it had not been tampered with. The robber, whoever he was, had contented himself with Joe’s nugget. After we had satisfied ourselves with a look in the place where Joe had kept it, and thus con- -yvinced ourselves that it was really gone, we all turned to, to try and find a clew to the robber. ‘But, try as we would, not the slightest clew could we find. Not a track could we discover about the camp except those which we felt sure our own feet had made. ~ The fellow who did the cooking was the only one who had been about the camp since we had Ieft in the morning, and nobody, much less Joe, suspected him, for he was Joe’s brother. It had been his custom to do up the work in the morning, and spend the rest of the forenoon with us until it was time for dinner. He had not been at the diggings more than an hour “before Joe had made the discovery of his loss, so that the robbery could have but just taken lace. : FE: All that day we spent in searching around, but getting no clew. Whoever the robber was, he had covered his trail too well for us. Night obliged us to give over the search, and the lost nugget was the last thing in our thoughts as one after another we dropped off to sleep. aris I had been asleep some time, when some one gave me a nudge in my side, which completely woke me. I started up and dimly .in the darkness I saw Joe’s brother beside me. . “What do you want?” I said, a trifle annoyed, for I didn’t relish the punch I had got. “Hush! Joe has just got up and gone out; and if he wasn’t asleep when he went, then I miss my guess. He follow him.” I sprang to my feet, and we went softly out. A sudden thought flashed to my mind, but- I said nothing. It might be that the nugget would be found. It was bright starlight outside, and we saw Joe moving away toward a cluster of oaks which stood about forty rods off. We followed after him as fast as we could, and got to the trees almost as soon as he did. At the foot of one he stopped and bent down, and pretty soon we saw him draw some- thing forth. For a while he seemed to be fondling it, then he put it» carefully back, and turning around, he went by us toward the camp. He moved like one who had his eyes shut, and both of us would'have taken our oath that he was fast asleep. a the nugget is found,” said I, in a whisper, and then we hurried to the tree. Its trunk was hollow, and thrusting in my hand I drew out the lost treasure. Z We carried it back to the camp. When we got there no one was stirring. Joe was lying on his back fast asleep, and all the rest were snoring in concert. We carefully put the nugget in the place where Joe had kept it, and then turned in our- selves. place where he had seen his treasure. When his eyes fell upon the nugget a more astonished man you never saw in your life. Then, to the wonder- ing crowd, we told the story of how we had found wt: ————_—<4 +0 __ — « ‘ THE BOSS OVERRULED. Two men who~had often discussed the propor- tion of husbands who were masters in their own homes formed a plan for deciding the matter to their satisfaction. 'They were to start with two horses and a chicken. If the first man met proved to be the boss of his household, he was to have one of the horses; if his wife was the ruler, he was to have the chicken. They had not gone far when they came upon a farmer, and they his rake and stretching himself to his full height of six feet, he replied that he was boss of every-_ thing for forty acrés around, to see the woman who could way! sae “Very well, sir,” said one of the gentlemen; “we are glad to find a man who is the actual head of his home, and we are going to give you one of these horses in appreciation. Which- do you prefer, the sorrel or the white horse?’ 2 “Well,” replied the farmer, ‘I don’t know just yet which one on them is the best; handy looking. I think I like that sorrel.” Then he edged off, and went into the house. he reappeared, a window was raised hurriedly, and a thin, clear voice called out: — “John, you’d better take the white one.” The farmer began to look the animals over. “Gentlemen,” he said, with affected indifference, “T believe I’ve changed my mind. I'll take the white horse.” orders him in any from mahogany, mix six ounces of spirits of salt . Drop a little of this mixture on the stains, and — We were making fair wages, and that, in the . used to do such things when he was a boy. Let us. put the question to him immediately. - Dropping © and he would like — they’re both © As” In the morning we got Joe to show us the last ~ empty dish. Over this pour boiling water out of a kettle. If the stain has not disappeared after leaving it for three minutes, repeat the process. “You most certainly will not!’ cried the two And we quite agree with him, for if all the world men in the same breath. ‘You will take the- were like him it certainly would not be worth saving. It would not be a paying investment. He is always cutting down his wife’s supply of pocket-money; he knows she is not so careful about her expenditures as she might be, and he have the opportunity to peruse this story of sterling merit. ain anVe, chicken !” ~ s = | THE STAIN ‘doing, something it’ll be more than your freedom rant’s face was invisible. the other’s expression, to try to read the other’s wanted him for.” 4 _ of desperadoes had aided, or perhaps only urged slowly, and his thoughts were muddled; - since he was going to marry the sister. *' But Bronson did! ‘if I do risk imprisonment.” _ way, make him commit suicide, or, failing that, hand him over to justice. You needn’t be afraid Vol. 59—No. 6 THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. Go By CHARLES W. HATHAWAY, Author of ‘‘Marjorie’s Sweetheart,” ‘ ‘The Inheritance of Shame,’’ ‘‘ Joseph Dane’s Diplomacy,’’ ete. (“THE STaIn oF GUILT’ was commenced in No. 1. CHAPTER XVIII. A MIDNIGHT CONFERENCE. _‘There is only one thing to do, and that is to make a clean sweep of everything and every one that stands in my path.” This was the conclusion to which Fairfax Tar- Tant came after his interview with the actress. And having arrived at this definite thought, he Was consumed with a desire for instant action. _ He dashed to a telegraph office and sent a tele- gram to Burt Bronson, telling him he was coming from New York on the next train, and directing him to be at the depot to meet him. Bronson was on time, and greeted Tarrant some- what shyly. The latter was in no mood for talk, and in silence they set out to walk to Tarrant’s country home. : The little town was asleep, and their footsteps | Trang out weirdly in the night air as they paced down the main street. Soon they had come to the outskirts, and the open country lay before them. There was no moon in the sky; the road in front of them yawned inky-black. “When we.come to the big tree we’d better cut across the edge of the meadow,” Bronson said, eruffly ; “‘it’ll be a trifle less dark there.” « “Are you afraid of the night?’ sneered Tarrant. “No; but E have no desire to go through the woods, nor come back through the woods by my- self!’ The path through the woods led past the mur- dered gamekeeper’s cottage. Fairfax Tarrant re- membered, and smiled to himself. He slackened his speed. ; “See here, Burt, do you know why I telegraphed to you?” “No; if I had, perhaps I shouldn’t have come.” “Oh, yes, you would; you forget you’re always going to obey me in everything.” “While I’m in your service I must, because I’m dependent on you, but I’m going to leave your service, Mr. Tarrant. I was going to write and tell you so if I hadn’t got your telegram. I want to go at once. I don’t want to stop here any longer; I don’t like the place, and I shan’t like my work, and I’d rather starve than live in lux- ury as your servant.” “Oh,” said Tarrant, lightly, though-a frown furrowed his brow. ‘You prefer starvation to working for me; well, I haven’t the faintest ob- jection to your starving; you’d make a very bad servant. But I’ve something for you to do before you leave my service, something I insist on your is worth if you refuse or fail.” : Bronson said nothing; he looked up, but Tar- Each man wanted to see thoughts, but each failed. secrets. They walked on in silence for some time, past the big tree, across the edge of the meadow. “Do you know where Roderic Vanderveer is?’ Tarrant asked, suddenly coming to a standstill and laying his hand on Bronson’s shoulder. “No, I don’t; but even if I did * “*You’d tell me!” “T’m not so sure of that.”’ “And why wouldn’t you tell me?” “T should want -to know what purpose you The night hid their “To restore to his family, of course, directly I’m married to Miss Vanderveer.”’ “And when is that to be?’’ “The seventh, in three days’ time. What do you suppose I want to find him for but to save him? I’ve no wish, after I’m married, to be saddled with a convict brother-in-law, or, worse still, let the world discover that my wife is a murderer’s sister. “The other fellows,’’ he continued, “who are re- sponsible with him for Carton’s death, are not likely to open their mouths, unless it’s blackmail, but they love their own lives too much to risk oe , even you wouldn’t try blackmail, would you, urt ?” Again Tarrant tried to discover the effect his words had on Burt Bronson, but he could see nothing of his face save a blurred, white outline. He waited for his answer anxiously. Was he on the right track in presuming Bronson and a gang Roderic on to the murder? If his arrest might endanger them. “Well, why don’t you speak?” Bronson shook off the other’s hand and strode forward. He was thinking. His brain nereee e be- lieved Tarrant must be speaking the truth when he said he desired to find Roderic in order to save him, And yet— knowledge of the man gave him distrust; his gam- bling instincts were on the alert. He didn’t want to help Tarrant unless he knew his game, and was well paid; he didn’t want to harm Vivienne, and he didn’t want to lose in the transaction. He began to have a pretty shrewd suspicion that Liberty Bell’s victory was not due to any blunder- ing or deception on Vivienne’s part; Fairfax Tar- rant knew more than he supposed, and, finding that it would pay him best for the horse to win, ar- ranged accordingly. And perhaps now he had as big and clever a coup to bring off, a scheme to enrich himself and ruin. others. Gradually, as he reviewed past events carefully, Bronson’s mistrust grew; he knew Tar-: rant cared nothing for him, and would only use as a tool and then throw him aside; prob- ably he cared nothing for Vivienne Vanderveer. so, She was something new in women; he had never met a woman like her. “She shan’t be crushed with too much weight, she shan’t,’” he muttered to himself. ‘Mr. Tar- Tant spoiled my game, and now I’ll spoil his, even The two men were within a couple of hundred yards of the road now, Bronson slightly in ad- vance. On their left yawned a broad, deep pit, a disused quarry, half ‘filled now with water; on their right stretched undulating hills. ‘Look here,’? shouted Tarrant; ‘“‘are you going to answer or not?’ Bronson pulled himself up short and stood with his back to the quarry pit. “Yes; I’ll do what you want, on two conditions.” Tarrant gave a sigh of satisfaction. He pulled a eigar case from his pocket and, giving Bronson a smoke, took one himself. Then he struck a match, sheltering it from the wind, and casting a light on the other’s face, and lit his cigar. “First, you’ve got to pay me well.’’ “Agreed.” A curious smile flitted across Bronson’s mouth; Tarrant saw it as the match burned his fingers and fell to the ground. He swore at his cigar and struck another match. “Secondly, you’ve got to tell me exactly what your game is.” “T’ve got no game,” drawled Tarrant. ‘I’m go- sen ne marry and settle down and look after a big estate.” “But Mr..Roderic Vanderveer owns estate, doesn’t he?” The second match flickered out and the dark- mess wrapped the men eloser around with black silence. The expression Tarrant had seen on Bronson’s face puzzled him; it was vindictive, confident; it was the expression of a man who intended to most of that fight. “Well, and if he does?” Tarrant replied, care- lessly, after a minute’s pause, “IT suppose you’d be glad to see him out of the way; you never were good at sharing anything.’ Tarrant threw his cigar away into os darkness ; its light showed him the edge of the © quarry where they stood. me “How much do you want?” he whispered. “What aOR Tt: fe “To find Roderic Vanderveet, get him out of the Back numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers.) of his giving you or the others away; I can prom- ise he’ll keep his mouth shut.” Bronson laughed and stepped back a few paces; Tarrant put his hand out to him—he was danger- ously near the edge of the quarry. “That’s your game, is it; well, you shall hear _| mine.” He laughed again and puffed his cigar vigor- ously. ‘‘I told you I wanted to leave your service, I wanted to go away; that’s so. You said I should starve; I didn’t think I should myself, but I wasn’t quite sure. starve. You’re going to keep me in affluence, you’re going to give me treble what I’d have got if you hadn’t purposely let Liberty Bell win. Oh, I know,” he continued, gradually raising his voice. “I know your game, and it’s very good of you to tell it to me; because if I hadn’t known it I shouldn’t have been able to play mine!” “I can’t stop here all night listening to your folly,’’ said Tarrant, angrily, but with a shade of nervousness in his voice. ‘‘Tell me what you want quickly.” S “Oh, yes, you’ll stop here just as long as ever I please,’’ said Bronson, insolently, with a satisfied chuckle. ‘‘In fact, yeu won’t be. half so anxious to go when I’ve said my say. You’ve been foolin me by telling me that you knew who really Killed Jake Carton, but you don’t!” Tarrant started. “You've arranged a very nice little wedding on the strength of it. Of course, if Miss Vivienne wants to marry you, I shan’t stand in the way; but she did me a good turn once, and I’m going to do her one now; she isn’t going to marry you to save her brother’s life, because it doesn’t want saving, and you aren’t going to grab the whole of this vast estate by having Hiram Vanderveer’s son hanged for a murder he didn’t commit! No, he didn’t murder Jake Carton. I saw the man who did the deed, and that man was not Roderic Vanderveer,”’ CHAPTER XIX. THE ONLY WAY. There was a long silence. Tarrant caught his breath and glared through the darkness at the glow from Bronson’s cigar. He advanced a couple of steps toward him; the cigar completed a semi- circle in the air—it set a thought alight in Tar- rant’s brain. ; “How much do you want to keep your mouth shut?’ he whispered. “A hundred thousand dollars by to-morrow night; and Miss Vanderveer must know that her brother is innocent before the eighth of the month. T’ll find him and let him know that his imagina- tion must be running away with him, and tell him the plain facts in the case. That'll bring him to his senses.’’ Fairfax Tarrant watched the red glitter of light from Burt Bronson’s cigar; it burned a thought into his brain, a suggestion into his heart, which at first he dismissed peremptorily, then hesitat- ingly, and finally he let it remain and smolder. ~ It was a dangerous thought, a horrible sugges- tion, and yet it might be the only practical one left; it might mean the only possible exit from the tangle he suddenly found himself in. “Am I,’’ he asked himself, ‘‘after having given up a small scheme for a greater, going to let an ignorant, broken-down racing tout steal the prize from under my very nose?”’ : He laughed at the absurdity of the thought, and Bronson heard and took the cigar from his mouth and puffed a cloud of smoke into the darkness that enveloped Tarrant. ‘ “"Well?’? he said, complacently. “A hundred thousand dollars is a big sum,’’ was the reply. “Tt isn’t much to you.” a “No. But it’s more than you’ve ever had in your life. Now, look here, Bronson, take my ad- vice. Meet me to-morrow at the City Hall, New York; I'll give you a tidy sum that’l#%upport you in luxury for some years, as well as a ticket to Australia, or wherever you like to go.’ “That's coming down to business,’ replied Bron- on. “But you keep your mouth shut with regard to young Vanderveer; you were the first to aecuse him of the murder, remember. I’m going to marry his sister; nothing in the world shall stop me, do you understand?” “Oh, we’ve had enough talk,’ broke in Bron- son, brutally. ‘‘The question is, are you going to give me a hundred thousand dollars or not?” Tarrant raised his arm as if to strike out at the gleaming round shaft of light from Bronson’s cigar a few inches away. Then he shut his eyes and held his breath—and his arm fell to his side. “Tt’s the only way, the only way,” a voice sang in his ears. “But it’s a dangerous way, a horrible way,” his heart replied. ‘‘You swore to sweep aside who- ever stood in your path, whatever came between you and your desires. This man, and this man only, stands in the way—-for Minnie Moulin will not count once young Vanderveer is gone—but this man can pull down the whole foundation of the glorious building you were raising; he can and he will, unless———” “Unless what?” Tarrant opened his eyes; all was darkness; he could see nothing, no one in front of him, no glim- mer of light. ‘‘Where are you?” he asked, unsteadily. “T’m here,’’ said a voice where the light had been. ‘‘And I’m tired of waiting; if you’ve noth- ing toesay, well and good, but don’t blame me if, instead of finding yourself in church on the sev- enth, you find yourself in jail.. Who said some- thing about blackmail?” ; “Listen to me!’ Tarrant crept a little nearer to Bronson. ‘‘Where are you, I don’t want to have to shout?” Bronson put out his hand and touched Tarrant ; the latter felt for his shoulder and held it while he spoke. “Tf you think you are going to prevent my mar- ‘ying Miss Vanderveer and possessing her fortune, you. are wrong. I’ve made up my mind that no human power shall interfere now; if you try, if any one tries, woe betide him, for I shall crush. him, obliterate him! “You’ve threatened me to-night, so I can’t trust you; if you agree to hold your tongue you must come back to my house now and write down a con- fession, stating you saw Roderic Vanderveer mur- der Jake Carton, and you’ll stop with me until I pay you and see you off to the other side of the world.”’ “Tf not 2 “Tf not, if you refuse to obey me implicitly, I’ve told you I shall crush you under my heel, so!’ He dug his boot into the ground, taking a firm stand on the soft soil and tightening his grip on Bronson’s shoulder. ’ “Then I’ll take the risk of being crushed! I am not going to see you ruin a young man’s life, to say nothing of a young girl’s heart; I played a low trick on them both to serve you, but when the good thing had come off I’d have let them know the truth, and cleared out. So, just take your hand off my shoulder and let me go!” “Tarrant did not move, “You absolutely refuse? Think well before you answer; I give you one more chance—the ast !’’- “Here! let go. I tell you I refuse; that’s enough !”’ “Fool!” cried Tarrant, under his breath. Thrusting his left arm forward, he caught the man by the other shoulder, and, gathering all his strength into a swift, sudden movement, hurled him violently off his legs, backward. Burt Bronson fell, and as he fell he saw far be- low him the faint glimmer of water, the water at He flung out his arms to save himself, he clutched desperately at the bunches of weeds fring- ing the great pit. Raising his foot, Tarrant stamped his heel on the straining fingers—there was one hoarse ery for help, a rattle of falling earth and stones, and then a heavy, dull splash— and silence! the bottom of the disused quarry. CHAPTER XxX. GOOD-BY TO GIRLHOOD. The silver chimes from a neighboring clock tower broke in on Vivenne Vanderveer’s troubled sleep. Ss The day of all days had come, the day when she was to merge her life in that of another—and that other a man she hated! = paar She awoke with a shudder, feeling that some evil awaited her, something she would give the world to escape from, but was powerless to avoid. At first, as she slowly opened her eyes to a dull, OF GUILT But now I am certain sure I shan’t. cold day, she did not realize what it was that weighed so heavily on her; then recollection came; she started up in bed with the horror of a loveless marriage facing her. On a chair near by were spread some of her wedding garments, others hung in front of her, grinning smart sarcasm from frills and furbelows. She sank back on her pillow with a groan and closed her eyes. She would rather face death than marriage with Fairfax Tarrant. Her maid was preparing her bath and laying | out her clothes. “It’s past seven-thirty, miss, and you asked me to wake you early.’’ “Yes, Jeanie, I know,’ she answered, tremu- lously; “but I think I’ve time for ten minutes’ more sleep! Don’t disturb me for ten minutes.’’ “Very well, miss.” The servant left the room quietly. She had instinctively guessed that her mistress found no joy in the forthcoming ceremony, dear to every loving woman’s soul, and she felt sorry for her. Yet she knew it was her duty to see her through it with due observance of ancient customs, and she had prepared accordingly. But Vivienne did not sleep when the girl had taken her departure. She lay in her bed, clasping the clothes tightly and staring across the room. A mad desire to run away seized her; she, who scarcely knew the meaning of timidity, now felt an overwhelming fear. Of what she_ scarcely knew. - ’ Of the new-born day—of marriage—of the vows she would soon have to take and the duties she would have to perform—of her future husband himself. “T don’t love him, I cannot love him, I shall never love him,” she repeated over and over to herself. And, strive as she would, she could not silence her heart, which cried aloud—‘I love An- drew Graham!” ° Those horrible wedding garments staring at her! What a mockery of love they were, and of all that is beautiful in love!. How could she deck herself in them to attend the murder of love? The pretty silks, and laces, and ribbons seemed loathsome and ugly; if she were going to wear them for an- other, if she were going to make herself beautiful and desirable for another, for her true love, how. different it would have been! With what pride and joy she would have ‘put on each pretty gar- ment, but under the present circumstances she could not wear them. It was little comfort that the wedding was going to be a quiet one, few guests were asked, and they were old friends; yet the church would be filled and the house would have its array of well-wish- ing guests. People would eongratulate her, even envy her; it was a good match, society said. ~ She laughed thysterically. ‘“‘A good match!” She was glad she was to be married in a travel- ing dress, and that they were going to Europe at once. The clock struck eight, and Vivienne dragged herself from the bed and walked wearily across the room to the window. The sky was gray, the earth was gray, the gar- den looked bare, the trees were almost leafless; a shrill wind whistled dismally around the house, carrying the first snowflakes of winter in his arms. She shivered and turned away; the day seemed typical of her future life. At last she called Jeanie to help her dress. “Is this part of my trousseau?’” she asked, looking with repulsion at the clothes the maid handed her. “Yes, miss, of course. pretty.” “Pretty? Yes—too pretty. on, Jeanie—take them away!” “Come, miss, don’t be nervous,’”’ the maid said, sympathetically. “You’ll be proud enough by- and-by to show your husband your beautiful things.”’ Vivienne shivered. “T can’t wear them, I tell you—they’re a mock- ery ; who ordered them?” “T did, miss; you told me to!” “Never mind, Jeanie; put them away now, pack them. Give me the plainest garments I pos- sess, anything old—ugly, if you like; don’t deck me out in finery.” Wonderingly, sorrowfully, Jeanie obeyed. “You mustn’t get frightened or feel lonesome, miss; it’ll be all right by-and-by,; and you'll be as happy as a bird. But young brides always do feel queer on their wedding morn, so my mother used to say.” 3 Vivienne dressed in silence, slowly, as if dread- ing the hour that approached. “At-what time is the wedding?’’ she asked, when her hair was dressed. “Why, at ten-thirty, miss.” She glanced at the clock. dress on presently.”’ , She did not speak again until the maid was leaving the room, then she called her back. “Jeanie, what will you-do after I’ve gone?” “T don’t know, miss; I suppose ‘I. shan’t_ be wanted here; I’d be glad if you could take me when you settle down in your new home.” Her new home! ‘The word struck like a death shot at Vivienne’s heart; she would never possess a home again! “Jeanie,’’ she said, after a minute’s silence; “could you come with me, on my wedding tour— to-day ?”’ The maid started, hesitated. “Why—yes, of course I could, if you wish it, miss.’’ Vivienne gave a sigh of relief. ™ “Then please do; be ready to start at twelve o’clock. Thank you, I shan’t want you again.” “Will you come down to breakfast, miss?” “No; send me a cup of tea here, and call me when the carriage comes. Until then I want to be left alone.’’ As soon as her tea arrived Vivienne locked the door, and with trembling hands opened the solitary letter that had been brought her that morning. She knew whom it was from—Andrew Graham. I hope you think they’re I—I can’t put them “Then I'll put my “Good-by, Vivienne. God guard, and strengthen, and bless you always; I shall pray for you night and day, and wait, ready to serve you should you ever want help. Your friend, : “ANDREW GRAHAM.” At the bottom was the name of a hotel in France, where he expected to remain. She pressed the letter to her lips, then folding it in an envelope, which she sealed, she placed it in her jewel case. She looked at her reflection in the mirror; her eyes were lifeless, hard and dry; she wondered why there were no tears in them, why she did not weep. It would have been a relief to have cried, but the well of emotion was dried up. This was the last time she would sit in her own little bedroom, the last time she would see her own girlish face looking at her from the mirror; she had to say ‘“‘good-by’’ to girlhood. She fell on her knees by an almost disused bureau, and began to empty its contents; old dresses, old playthings, old worthless treasures— worthless, yet more valuable than anything in the world, for they were filled with dreams and memories, most rare and precious. At her touch they exuded a perfume of half-forgotten days, of joy and sorrow. At sight of these sweet reminders of days gone by the blessed tears at last dimmed her eyes. -She could not see what she held in her hands now, something big and soft, something almost human, with wonderful golden hair. A doll! Only a big doll; the make-believe of childhood; a speechless, inanimate thing, that had been kissed, and loved, and guarded so carefully, and then secretly hidden away, to sleep among the other toys until, perhaps, one day——— Salt drops of water fell on its pink face now; Vivienne covered it up. and plunged her hands deeper into the collection of forgotten things. A ball programme—a bundle of letters tied with blue ribbon—a bunch of faded flowers, with the scent of dead hope clinging to their petals. Stifling a cry, she fell forward, her face buried in the ghosts of the past. Jeanie knocked at the door. “The carriage has come, Miss Vivienne.” She struggled to her feet, and somehow got into her dress, shivering: Then falteringly she left the room, left the past, with its joys, and sorrow§, and golden dreams, to face the unknown, fearful future. She cast a longing glance back at the old bureau, and its scattered treasures, smiling up at her from the floor. “Put them away for me, Jeanie,’’ she sobbed. “Lock them all carefully away and give me the key.”’ a the hall her father waited for her; were dimmer than usual, and he was look at his daughter. But he gave her his arm with something of his old grace and pride. “Bear up, my darling,’’ he whispered. “God bless you, father,’’ she replied, “You need not fear for me.” As she was helped into the carriage a ragged, tattered figure sprang from a clump of bushes on the lawn and rushed toward the carriage. One of the servants saw him, and tried to stop him. ‘There’s that tramp again,’ he whispered; “twice he’s tried to get into the house, and twice I’ve kicked-him out. What the dickens is he up ta?” The man dodged his would-be captors, reached the carriage door, and thrust a mud-stained arm through the open window, throwing a little note into Vivienne Vander'veer’s lap. “Read it,’ he gasped; ‘quickly, at once!” The carriage started and bowled swiftly down the drive; and before the servants had time to realize what had happened the strange man had disappeared. his eyes afraid to bravely. Vivienne mechanically picked up the letter, but she did not look at it. She was trembling violently and leaned against her father for support. Lov- ingly he gathered her in his arms and held her there until the church doors were reached. TO BE CONTINUED. —~ she asked, CHAPTER II. They were staying with friends on the Hudson, and Fane was gently rowing Angela down the stream. Their engagement was a fortnight old. “Have you seen Miss Weaver lately?’ asked Angela, trailing her fingers through the water. He leaned on his pole and glanced down at her. He wished she would not look so unconcerned as she asked the question. “TI saw her the day before I came down here. She congratulated me on my engagement.’’ “Did she seem annoyed? Was she piqued be- cause you did not appear to mind her desertion?’ “Annoyed? I really don’t know. I didn’t think about it.’ “Not think about it, when her annoyance was the only reason for our emgagement.”’ “Oh, well,’ quickly, ‘‘you see, she must have read it in the papers, and had time to get over the shock. I only saw her for a few minutes. Mr. Elmswood was with her.’’ “How can she marry man?” He shrugged his shoulders. anything for wealth.” “Perhaps,’’ she said, hotly to her*face. He laughed a little grimly. men marry from pique,”’ he said. “Yes,’’? she answered, and seemed to be watching absorbingly the flies as they skimmed along the water. Her lashes looked very long on her cheek. “T must go up to town to-morrow,’’ she said, presently. ‘‘I heard from Mitchells’ this morning, and they want me to sing at some garden party.”’ “That is nonsense,’® answered Fane, frowning. “You must give up all that sort of thing now; it is ®ot necessary for my wife to sing for money.’’ “But I am not your wife—yet.”’ “Tt is all the same; you soon will be.” She shook her head. “It is not all the same. For it is necessary for me to make some money now. You forget I have to buy my trousseau.’’ “You can get it after we are married.” She smiled, unconvinced. “T must go,’ she said. “And supposing I forbid you?”’ He had fastened the boat to the shore, and now he came over, and sitting beside her, looked stead- ily into her eyes. She laughed. “JT should be all the more determined to go.” And she glanced at him mutinously. ‘“‘And supposing I asked you to give it up?” Her eyes fell again. “Don’t do that,’ she said, after a perceptible pause, ‘“‘because—lI really want to go.” He leaned a little nearer, looking at her ear- nestly. 5 “And though you want to, you would really give it up if I asked you as a favor?” She thréw him a quick glance. “Perhaps; I am afraid I am too good-natured. I always give way when—any one asks as a favor.” such a detestable old “Most girls will do while the color mounted “Just like some “Any one?’”? There was disappointment in his tone. Suddenly his face brightened. ‘‘It shall be a bargain,” he said. ‘‘You shall go if you will let me kiss you.’’ ““That—that is not fair,’? she answered, while a faint color crept up into her cheeks. “Do you know,” he said, ‘that people talk about us, and say what an unromantic pair we are, and that we really don’t care for each other a bit?” “IT don’t care what people say.’ ““No—but I do. And I don’t think you are quite fulfilling your part of the agreement. If the state of affairs reaches Miss Weaver’s ears, she will understand that I became engaged to you So ie pique and—then where would my revenge e > _ ‘You don’t want to kiss me in public, do you?” indignantly. He smiled. “Not exactly.” She was silent. She did not give the obvious retort that if no one saw him kiss her—it would not affect the report that was going about con- cerning their engagement. She glanced up after a minute or two. “IT don’t like you to think I am not doing my part of the contract,’’ she said. ‘‘So—you may kiss me sometimes, but not very often.’ A flash of pleasure sprang to his eyes. “Only sometimes? And—and is this one of the times—now ?”’ “That—that murely. is_as you please,” she said, de CHAPTER III. It was a cold day in early autumn, and Angela’s wedding day was drawing near. She and Fane were sitting over the fire in the Vaughans’ home. ‘“‘Miss Weaver is to be married to-day,’’ said the girl, in an indifferent tone. But she was carefully watching the effect of her words. “By Jove! so she is. Do you know, she had the impertinence to ask me to her wedding.” “And what did you answer? Did you write strongly, and abuse her for her heartlessness?”’ He laughed amusedly. “Not quite. I don’t believe I answered at all—I quite forgot.’’ “That was very rude—besides being undiplo- matic. She will think you are still smarting.’’ “T am afraid I don’t care much what thinks.”’ Angela slightly raised her eyebrows, and opened her lips to speak, then changed her mind. “T dare say her marriage will turn out very happily,’’ she said, presently. ‘‘At least, there is love on one side—Mr. Elmswood is devoted to her, isn’t he?” “Is he? I am sure I don’t know—they don’t interest me.” Angela took a log from the side and threw it on the fire. “No,” she said, dreamily. she ; “But—I was think- n ‘‘What were you thinking?” “TI was thinking about marriages, and compar- ing them—that is, love marriages and marriages of convenience, like yours and mine will be.” *‘And what made you think about them?” ‘Because I had a letter this morning from an old friend of mine. He has been abroad for a long time, and had not heard of-my engagement. He —he wrote, asking me to marry him.’ “The devil he did! I hope you answered at once, and told him he was rather late in the field.” “T haven’t answered at all yet,’ gazing thought- fully into the fire. ‘‘I was wondering es “What were you wondering?’ “T—well, I wondered sharply. if it were wise and—and right to enter into such a loveless marriage as yours and mine. This man’s letter set me think- ing what a marriage of love would be.” “Do you mean to say you love him?’ eyes blazed fire as he spoke. “Oh, no,’ answered Angela. loves me—he much 3 “And you are wondering whether it would not ee right to give me the grand bounce and marry im?” : “Well, you see, I should get a home and money in the same way as I do with you—only with love thrown in—while you e “And what about me? You had better tell me!” ‘“*Well—well—any other girl in the world would do for you. You only want to marry to show Miss Weaver—or, rather, Mrs. Elmswood, as I suppose she is by this time—that you don’t mind being thrown over by her, so it really doesn’t matter whom you marry.” . He gave a short, harsh laugh. ‘““Who is the fellow?’’ he asked. “He is not a fellow!’ indignantly. gentleman !”’ “Who is he?” “T don’t think it is quite fair to tell his name— in case I don’t—accept him.” “Oh!” sarcastically. ‘‘You have not quite made up your mind yet?’ His tone changed, and he talked sharply and angrily. “Tf you think I’m going to let you off, mistaken. You have given me your word, and you cannot break it. Besides, you would be doing the —the gentleman a wrong, for you would be start- ing on an unequal footing. You do not return his ove.”’ ‘While with our marriage at least we regard each other with the same feeling—there is no love on either side. So, perhaps, as you say, it is fairer, after all.” “No—with us there is no love on either side,”’ he repeated, and again that short, mirthless laugh rang out. “Very well,’ with a little resigned sigh. tell him it is impossible.’’ The log was blazing up, and the light flickered on Angela’s fair face. Fane watched it, and drew a deep breath. “T must be going,’ he said. ‘‘I believe that is why you stipulated that I should only kiss you once a day, and that when I said ‘Good-by’—be- eause you knew the fact would generally hasten my departure.” “Oh, don’t go yet,’’ she said. A look of pleased surprise crossed his face. ‘‘Do you say that in order to put off the evil moment or because you really desire my company?” “T think I said it because I really desired your company,’ she said, smiling up at him. He crossed over and sat beside her on the sofa. “T wonder,’ he began, “I wonder if you really like me?”’ “*T really do.” “Only a little?” “T like you very much.” “Do you think’’—in an eager whisper—‘that such a liking could ever deepen into—love?’’ She shook her head. “It is to be hoped not,” she said, ‘‘for love is not mentioned in our agree- ment.” He moved farther from her—her words and her unresponsive tone had disappointed him. She turned and smiled, and then put her hand with a pretty, confiding gesture into his. “T believe,’’ she said, ‘‘that you could really make love very nicely—if—if—such a thing had been mentioned in the agreement.”’ His hand closed firmly over hers. ‘Would you like to see how I make love?” he said, hurriedly. ‘‘Shall I try?” “What? We are to have ‘pretending’ games like children? All right—-we will just for a mo- ment pretend that ours is not a marriage of con- venience, but—one of love.” He smiled. “You must pretend on your side, too,” he said. She shook her head, smiling. ‘I don’t know how—I have not had the long practice you have.” “Then I will teach you.” He moved a little nearer, around her waist. “You must place your head—thus,”’ he said, and he bent it gently until her dark curls rested on his shoulder. And then his own bent lower and lower. “And you must raise your lips thus’’—tilting her chin upward until her eyes met his—‘‘and now— you must do your part.” She hesitated, and the warm color swept into her cheeks, then she apparently made up her mind, for all at once he felt two soft arms- steal argund his neck and two lips were pressed gently on his cheek. But he could keep still no longer. With a little cry he caught her to him, and, in another moment, passionate kisses were raining on her face. “We must give up our pretending game now,” she said, half frightened at his vehemence. “Vos,” he cried. ‘‘We will leave off pretending forever—at least, I will. I have been pretending only friendship for you when you are the love of my life. My feeling for Miss Weaver was nothing to this—that was merely fascination. But since my engagement to you—this love has grown until it is stronger than myself—and, dear, I can never give you up—even though I know that we are no longer on an equality, and that I have broken the rules of our marriage agreement. I am con- tent to take the risk.’’ Her head was-still resting on his shoulder, and she smiled tenderly at him. “There is no risk to be taken,’ she whispered, “for we are quits after all—you see’’—slowly—‘‘I loved you all the time.” 5 + 0 HINTS TO THE PLAIN-FRATURED.—No matter how plain your face may be, you can become a stylish and fine-looking woman if you cultivate a graceful carriage and a certain individuality in dress. You know that the most fascinating women have been plain-looking. There is a charm of personality that has nothing whatever to do with bright eyes, symmetrical features. or pretty hair. Do all you can to improve your complexion. Cul- tivate a pleasant expression by having a cheerful disposition, and then train your body to symmetry and gracefulness. Fane’s “YT don’t, but he seems to care for me so very “He is a you are “T will and his arm stole 3 LIFE*S FAILURES. BY EVA ANSTRUTHER. Our heads are bowed, our eyes look to the earth; We speak in whispers and our voice is drowned In the loud noise of other men’s applause, We failed to climb the ladder of success ; Scarce set a foot upon its lowest rung (Slippery with blood of countless that had failed), Ere_that foot slipped, and Fate, with iron hand, Flung us aside, relentless; bidding us To stand below upon the cold, damp earth, Steadying the ladder others climb, to fame. Mutely we bow to Fate’s unkind decree, Nor curse at this our lot; for in our hearts We know ’twas through ourselves that failure came, Too weak, alas! were we to grip and hold The rungs of that steep ladder of success. We stand in silence at the ladder’s foot, A weary, hopeless crowd; a mass of men, Nameless, unknown, uncared for, and unfamed; Full of high yearnings, unfulfilled desires, Conscious we are the failures of the world. meet 0 0 pe A SWEET LITTLE LADY. By GERTRUDE WARDEN, Author of “The Wooing of a Fairy,” ‘‘A Bold Deception,” “The Sentimental Sex, ‘Her Faithful Knight,” “The Haunted House at Kew,” ete., etc. Copyrighted in 1902, by Street & Smith. (‘A SwRHer LivrieE Lapy’’ was commenced in No, 49. Back numbers can be obtained of all newsdeaiers,) CHAPTER XXIII. “NO ONE SHALL EVER KNOW.” ‘The Earl of Burnley begs to acknowledge Miss Vereker’s letter. He can offer her no advice con- cerning her marriage: until he has made her ac- quaintance and that of the gentleman who has proposed for her hand. The earl will be pleased to see Miss Vereker at his London residence as soon as she can find it convenient to make the journey, for which he will, if Miss Vereker require it, forward a check.” : Ivor, to whom Darcie brought the above note in triumph three days after his adventure at the Creux, by no means shared her pride and joy on reading it. “You actually wrote to your grandfather,’”’ he exclaimed, ‘‘in spite of the harsh terms he em- ployed concerning your father!” Darcie was silent for a moment. gently: “You forget I did not know my father. It is for your sake, Ivor, that I forgot my pride and wrote to Lord Burnley.’’ “Fore mine?’’ Then she said, “Yes. Can’t you understand that I don’t want your people to think you are marrying a nameless nobody, whose relations will not receive her? Once | Lord Burnley acknowledges me, and launches me} in London society, as his granddaughter, I shall feel I am a more worthy bride for you.’’ “Tt is very good of you, dearest!’ he said, ‘‘and yet I wish you had not done it. We could have been quietly married in Guernsey, and - “TI will not be quietly married anywhere!” the girl broke in, proudly. ‘‘Do you wish the world to think you are ashamed of me? Or is it,” she continued, turning away to hide a smile, “that you | ee the expense of a fashionable London wed- | ing?’ Ivor laughed_outright. Then he took both Dar- | cie’s hands in his and held them affectionately. : “You are a most unworldly young lady in spite} of your cleverness!’’ he said; ‘‘for you have never | once spoken to me of settlements, or asked me any questions as to my income and position !”’ Darcie cast down her eyes and blushed beau- tifully. “T accepted you because I loved and respected you.” she said. ‘‘I liked you from the first. And then you were my father’s friend.” He kissed her hand with real tenderness. He was the more touched by this disinterested affec- tion in her, since he was conscious of his own secret disloyalty. Not once had he seen Fay since they had parted near the Creux, not once had he sought for her or spoken of her. But her image haunted him none the less, waking and sleeping. “J cannot tell you how grateful I am to you, Darcie,’’ he assured her, earnestly, ‘for your good- ness to me, which I have done nothing to deserve. I hope you will forgive one foolish weakness in me. I have always longed to be loved and ac- cepted on my own merits, and therefore I have purposely refrained from speaking of my affairs. My father, Gervase Winthrop, is nicknamed in the States ‘The Railway King.’ He is exceedingly rich, a millionaire several times over indeed, and I am his only son and heir.’’ Not the least tremor passed over the lovely face of his betrothed. She merely raised her liquid blue eyes to his, and observed calmly that she was glad to hear it, as it was much better to be rich than poor, and she herself had hardly any- thing, “merely a tiny dot,’ she added, with a laugh. Ivor could hardly find words in which to ex- press his admiration of her noble disinterested- ness and absolute indifference to wealth. Nothing he could ever do, he declared, would repay what he felt he owed her. . At once she seized her opportunity. Leaning her golden head against his shoulder, she gently begged him to take her away from Sark with the least possible delay. “Let us leave to-day,’’ she urged. “I can stay the night at my old school, and we can start for London to-morrow morning.” “To-day !’’ Ivor exclaimed in dismay. ‘But, Darcie, there is packing to be thought of; and ladies’ packing takes a long time, does it not? Surely we could not go to-day?” “Why not?’ she asked, calmly. “The boat does} not leave until five; it isn’t one o’clock yet, and | I have very little to pack. I shall travel in my} black dress, and have proper mourning made inj} London, where tailors know how to make clothes.” } “But in London—where will you go?’’ “Straight to a hotel. Of course you must go} with me, and I must at once engage a maid. | Then I will write and tell Lord Burnley I have} arrived, and go and see him the next morning. | After that I think you will find you will not have/ to trouble about my position,’’ she added, sig- nificantly. Her self-possession and forethought astounded Ivor more than it pleased him. He did not in the; least wish to leave Sark, where his heart was, and he would have gladly lingered in the island through all the summer. But there was no with- | standing the wishes. of Darcie Dobree. He was/ beginning to realize what all who came within the sphere of her influence knew, that hers was one of | those overbearing wills it was useless to oppose, | and that under that gentle and winning manner | she concealed an iron force of mingled obstinacy and determination. The discovery repelled him. Himself of an in- dependent nature, he detested all unjust exercise of authority, and the undtle ascendency which per- | sons of hard, narrow, and selfish disposition in- variably acquire over their friends and families inspired a strong disgust in his mind... The more he studied Darcie, now that the first ; glamour of her beauty had passed away, the less | he believed he should be happy with her. But re- treat was impossible. She was beautiful and charming, she had accepted him without knowing he was rich, and she was the daughter of his dead friend. A thousand times a day he told himself that he was in love with her, that she loved him, and that they would be very happy together. But in his inmost soul he strongly doubted all those three things. Naturally, Darcie gained her point. Already her trunks were packed, and she had been only waiting for Lord Burnley’s answer to start for England. She read the letter in triumph to Leon- ard Carey, when she met him, by appointment, that afternoon, in response to a last appeal from him, before the rough steps which led to the studio he had taken. The studio was a two-roomed cottage, furnished, as it appeared, chiefly with sketches of Darcie, and berries and bracken nailed along the rafters, and about the narrow windows; facing it was the picturesque little stone jail of Sark, in an open place resembling a farmyard, the little, two-celled jail, with its domed, Moorish roof, and two little slits above the doors for letting in light and air upon the prisoners who (to Sark’s credit be it said) very rarely find their way there. Darcie discovered her unhappy lover seated on the steps of his studio, pale, wild-eyed, and ex- tremely wretched. Her radiant smiles and evident delight at her future irritated him beyond en- durance, and, when she finished reading aloud oe Burnley’s letter, the young man’s ire broke orth. “You have been fooling me to the last minute,” he cried, ‘keeping me on and off to while away the | sea,’’ whose beauties haye been sung by poets from | figure stretching out her hands to him in vain ap- | Priaulx just now. | life on | friends, and no home, and it is the least I can do time! I suppose it was to make sure how much | money he had, for I don’t believe you care a} straw about him!”’ “TY don’t,’ Darcie admitted, frankly. | you much better, Leonard. But you are not a millionaire. And I must marry a millionaire, if} I can’t marry an earl, though I would rather | marry an earl,” He looked at her with angry, dark eyes, that | seemed to see her for the first time as she really | was. “And you really believe,’’ he said, “that you are | the granddaughter of the great Lord Burnley ?’’ “Of course I do. I read you his letter.’’ *“‘And who do you tell me your mother was?” “A very beautiful Spanish lady!” “J don’t believe it!’? Leonard exclaimed, shak- ing his head doggedly. “I believe that you are an islander, and that you are the daughter of Mary Bourgaize.”’ She had been seated by his side on the stone steps leading to the studio. But, at the words, she sprang to her feet, her breast heaving, her eyes flashing with fury. “How dare you insult me in that way?” she panted out. ‘‘You say these things to me because you are furious to find I am so much above you!”’ “T don’t believe you are above me,” he main- |} tained. ‘“‘If you were, you would not boast about it! A lady of good family does not talk as you do. And -you have the voice of an islander and the eyes of young Madam Bourgaize!”’ “Tt is a lie!’ she cried, beside herself with rage, and striking him full in the face with her open hand. “A mean, contemptible lie! And, Leonard Carey, I will never speak to you again !’’ “You are a Bourgaize, a true Bourgaize!” he shouted after her, in his wrath, as she fled home- ward. ‘‘Not a great lady, but a Sark farm girl; and you will live to bitterly regret refusing and insulting me, a Carey!” Not anger alone lent wings to Darcie’s feet, but a sudden paroxysm of fear which had caught at her _ heart. Cnly a very few hours more would she spend in Sark, and never—so she was fully determined— would she return to the Channel Islands again! In London no one knew her; in London no one would be able to say her eyes were those of the dead Mary. Her road took her. past that windy hillside where Mary slept beneath the long grass. Not once had Darcie visited the spot, but she paused now by the open field of the dead, and a sudden superstitious fear made her quiver. “No one knows!’’ she whispered ‘to herself, as her eyes sought out and found Mary’s grave. ‘‘No one shall ever know! What was it she said to me when she was dying? That a curse would fol- low me if I did not do as she-wished me to? She was wrong—wrong! I was never more successful, never nearer what I mean to win! I am the granddaughter of an earl, the affianced wife of a millionaire. I am as clever as I am beautiful, and I mean to take London by storm, and be adored, and worshiped, and féted, and covered with jewels —not to marry an ignorant boor, and die shiver- ing with cold, and be buried on a bare hillside!” Her lips moved. She was thinking half aloud in her fierce excitement, hurling defiance at that dead woman, who, in her time, had sinned and suffered, but who had also loved and repented. Darcie’s cheeks. were flushed, and in her eyes there burned a feyerish and unnatural. light, as she made her way homeward from the cemetery. But, as she turned a corner of the lane close to La Haie, a sight met her eyes that seemed to drive the blood from her heart with a shock of mingled | anger and alarm. It was only a little, ill-clad peasant girl, stand- | ing in the middle of the way, with both her hands | held fast between those of a tall, well-bred-look- ing man in a tweed traveling suit. They had met but that moment, and they were saying good-by. But Darcie caught the look that} passed from Ivor’s eyes to those of Fay, and she knew that these two dared to love each other! “T liked | CHAPTER XXIV. “I MUST GO TO LONDON!” Two hours after Darcie had parted in anger from Leonard Carey, she was standing by Ivor’s side, upon the deck of the little steamer bound for Guernsey. Not the least trace of regret shadowed her spirits at leaving thus forever the land in which she had been reared, that ‘“‘pearl set in a silver Drayton to Swinburne. To old Jeanne’s querulous inquiry as to whether she meant ever to come back as a great lady to her island home, Darcie had returned an indefinite answer; she had also strongly protested against the old lady coming down to the landing piace, be- ing fearful of anything in the nature of a demon- stration from her. Over Jean Bourgaize, however, she had no control, and, to Darcie’s surprise and annoyance, the farmer watched the boat off from the stone entrance to the harbor, fixing the gaze of his fierce, deep-set eyes upon her to the last moment with a curious intensity. Jean had taken the death of his relative and assistant; Philippe Audoire, strongly to heart. It was known that Philippe had been under the in- fluence of drink on the day of his disappearance; and, when his body was discovered in the Creux, it was not unnaturally supposed that his stagger- ing footsteps had led him to his doom. No other elucidation of the affair being fur- nished by either Ivor or Darcie, Philippe was buried, and only Jean Bourgaize, whose constant companion he had been, regretted him. Jean’s wife had gone, Philippe, too, and now Darcie Dobree was leaving the island, never to re- turn. She was leaving to take her place, as Jean knew, in the gay and briliant money-spending world of London, leaving to live the extravagant, luxurious life for which she had been trained, and for which Mary Bourgaize had destined her. It was all quite right, of course, and the end, he knew, must come. There had been no companion- ship or friendship between him and the haughty young lady who condescended to spend her holi- days under his roof. And yet there was a strange yearning in Jean Bourgaize’s rugged face, and a mist that seemed like tears in his eyes, as he silently watched the starting of the boat which bore Darcie Dobree away. There were others at the landing place to see the “Pearl of Sark” depart, notably Pierre Ma- chin, and the wife of the clergyman, with both of whom Ivor held long converse, and there was Leonard Carey, pale and resentful, who watched his ladylove go, and was ‘cut’ by her with a sang froid worthy of a London belle. And, far above their heads, unperceived by any one until the boat steamed out of the little harbor, there stood upon a high cliff a slender, dark-haired girl, with hands tightly clasped and tear-laden eyes fixed upon the departing steamer. Ivor perceived her first, and over his troubled face a light broke, as he waved his hand to Fay, in token of farewell. Not one word had been ex- changed between them since they had parted at the Creux, for they had but met on the instant when Darcie surprised them near La Haie, and a handclasp, a glance, was all that passed between them before Fay disappeared. Dareie saw now quite plainly how her fiancé’s face cleared at sight of the shabby little-peasant peal upon the cliff. So furious did she feel that} she could have struck him where he stood. But} her self-control was great, and, joining him where he stood by the boatside, she slipped her hand into his arm. “Is that poor little Fay you are waving to?” she asked, sweetly. Ivor started, and flushed at her touch. “Tt is Fay,’ he replied. ‘‘I had no chance of} saying good-by to the poor child.” “IT couldn’t help overhearing a part of what | you were saying to Pierre Machin and to Mrs. It was about Fay, was it not? And you were trying to make some provision for her future?”’ “T was,” he answered, gravely. more than one occasion. “Fay saved my She has no to provide for her maintenance and education.”’ “Bducation !”’ Darcie exclaimed, with rather a shrill laugh. ‘‘It seems a quaint idea to try to make a lady of poor, little, savage Fay!” He turned sharply away from her. “Tt is ummecessary,’” he said. ‘Fay already !”’ — No more words on the subject passed between them; but Darcie, who was pre-eminently a good hater, and never forgot an affront, hated him un- swervingly from that moment forward during the whole of her life. ; Nevertheless, it was delightful to be taken by him in state to the ladies’ college at Guernsey, where she was to pass her last night in the Chan- nel Islands, and to return among her school com- panions, not as Miss Dobree, the pupil-teacher, reared on a farm in Sark, but as Miss Dobree Vereker, orphan granddaughter of the great Earl of Burnley, on her way to London to take her rightful place in society and to marry an Ameri- can millionaire. She had refused Leonard Carey; her engage- ment ring, telegraphed for from London, was made of enormous diamonds, and worth three hundred and fifty pounds; she was going to be married in white satin, smothered with diamond passemen- terie, and she would wear a diamond tiara; she would be given away by her grandfather, the earl, and her uncle, the viscount, would be present at the ceremony, as well as her other great and titled relatives. She gave the girls to understand, in- deed, that, in marrying a millionaire without a title, she was stepping down from her high estate. And American Ella, who was to be her bridesmaid, really believed her: “It’s* just too beautiful!” Ella said. “But I wish you were going to be titled yourself, Darcie, darling. In New York, if our beauties and heir- is a lady |} entered her mind: |had a deft talent and a great love of his work, | statues, and tall palms, in porcelain pots, likewise . oe THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. esses can’t get an English duke or lord, they just take a French, or Spanish, or Italian prince, or count, or baron. Sometimes it’s a German or Rus- sian, though their titles don’t sound so well. But I’m real sorry you’re not going to be ‘my lady!’” Darcie was as sorry as she. In her own opin- ion, a crown was hardly out of future possibilities. Her sole idea of marriage was as a method of furthering her personal ambition. No thought of love or tenderness associated with it had ever She knew that Ivor was only marrying her because he believed himself bound in honor to do so; and she knew that he preferred the half savage: elf-child, whom Darcie so hated and despised, to her. For this insult to her beauty, she cordially. dis- liked him; but she never once wavered in her resolution to marry him, uniess-a more advan- tageous offer should come in her way. Mean- time, such was her self-control, that she treated him perfectly, with what looked like the frank, confiding affection of an intelligent and amiable girl. What could a man want more, Ivor asked himself again and again during the journey to London, than such a life companion, beautiful, brilliant, and agreeable? And what sentimental folly was it that drew his thoughts forever back, with poignant regret, to the rugged coast of Sark, and the little, lonely figure waving farewell to him from the cliff? Had he but known it, that was the spot where Fay remained long after the vessel had passed out of sight, and after the shades of night had swal- lowed up the coast of Guernsey, and naught was to be seen or-heard but the moaning sea beneath the moon. , No fairy fancies cheered Fay’s solitude that night. Fairy tales had flown with the coming of the prince; love had but quickened her intelli- gence, and all through that night, as she lay, sleepless on the heather, she seemed to see the coming years in the light of grim reality; the dreary years through which her body would grow coarsened by manual labor, and her mind, .no longer excited by supernatural imaginings, would sink to dull sadness, the while her heart died within her day by day, worn out with the longing for the things which could not be. Of Ivor’s efforts to smooth her future, she had no suspicion. She did not approach Machin’s cot- tage in the following morning, and the old fisher- man, philosophically telling himself she would reappear there when the mood took her, went about his day’s work in high good humor over the sub- stantial sum Ivor had left with him for Fay’s benefit. The clergyman’s wife, on her part, was most anxious to undertake Fay’s education and conver- |. sion, as requested by Ivor. But-she had her hus- band, her household, and the school to attend to, and could not be expected to roam the cliffs in search of Fay, whose reputation in the island for wildness and fairy sorcery rather alarmed her. Thus it came about that, on the following ‘after- noon, about half an hour before the steamer started for Guernsey, Fay, white-faced and sad- eyed, still watched, with longing eyes, from the cliff, and was found thus seated on the heather, a dejected little figure, with her hands clasped around her kneés, by an artist from Guernsey, who had come over that morning to sketch in Sark, and was returning by the boat. This -artist was a good-looking, brown-skinned man in the thirties, a true Bohemian in all but his dress, which was so invariably good as to suggest ample means and a first-class tailor. Every one knew Ralph Forres, and every one liked him; he and his little mannerisms of speech and gesture were counterbalanced by so excellent a heart and so gentle and kindly a nature that he made friends wherever he went. ? He knew Fay well; her picturesque figure and the suggestion of fairy ancestry about her, had always greatly interested him during the course of his frequent sketching visits to Sark, and there was nothing the girl loved more than to watch artists at work. To-day, however, she did not raise her head and smile, as usual, at Mr. Forres’ approach, or ask him what progress he had made in his work, and the brooding sadness of her attitude arrested his attention. “What is the matter, Fay?” he inquired, stop- ping in front of her. ‘‘Have the fairies been scold- ing you? Or are you sorry to lose Miss Dobree?” “T never saw her,’’ Fay answered, without turn- ing her head. “I left La Haie long ago!” 3 “Then, what are you fretting about? Your face is all wet with tears. Come, tell me, Fay. We have always been pals, ever since you were a very small child, you know. What are you look- ing so woe-begone about?” . She sprang to her feet, and pushed her long hair back with a favorite gesture of hers. “JT want to go to London!” she cried, passion- ately. ‘Oh, if you only» knew how much I want to go! I have no money, but I would give ten years of my life to go! Could I swim to Guern- sey, Mr. Forres? And would there be the least chance of my getting on to London from there? Is Guernsey very far from London? I can do so many things to make myself useful, I am sure I could get work in London. I can sew, and cook, and nurse, and clean; I can do girls’ work, as well as boys’ work. And, if I don’t get to London, I am sure I shall die!” ¥ ; “Why, what does all this mean?” the artist exclaimed. ‘‘You don’t mean to tell me that you have started a sweetheart, Fay, at your age, and that he has gone away and left you?” The girl turned abruptly away, while a deep flush overspread her face. “It is true, I love some one, and he has gone,” she murmured. “But it was not his fault, and please never speak of it to any one. But, oh, if I could only get to London !”” With that, she broke down altogether, and, cov~ ering her face with her hands, burst into passion- ate weeping. This was far more than Ralph Forres’ passionate heart could stand. ; “For goodness’ sake, child, don’t cry!’’ he ex- claimed, as he thrust his hand into his pocket and examined its contents. ‘I’ve just sold a little picture; now, if you leave off crying, and are a very good girl, and promise me to go straight to an address I will give you in London of an old woman, who will give you work and take care of you, I’ll see you as far as Guernsey now myself, and pay your fare to London. Of course, I can’t afford it, and it’s very silly of me, but we’re pals, and you’re a good child. Now, don’t hug me, or go mad, I beg of you, but fetch some sort of a hat and coat, or something, and meet me on the steamer in twenty minutes’ time.’’ Before he had finished speaking, she was speed- ing away like an arrow from a bow. And, when the little steamer passed out of the Creux harbor, the elf-child stood upon the deck by the artist’s side, her heart beating high with hope, as her eyes took a-last farewell of her island home. - com- CHAPTER XXV. LORD BURNLEY. “His lordship is engaged at this moment, ma’am. But, if you would not mind waiting a few min- utes, he will be very pleased to see you.’’ - For the first time, Darcie found herself in the house of a great nobleman. ‘Truth to tell, it was a dreary and depressing house, dark and vast. The drawing-room, on the first floor, in which Darcie awaited the coming of the earl, was furnished with the solid and opulent ugliness which charactizes the showrooms of royal palaces. Huge chande- liers depended from the eeiling, countless yards of heavy silken brocade were draped around the long windows, which looked out onto a somber square; Brussels carpets, gilt-legged furniture, lHfe-sized adorned the room, which opened into a domed conservatory at the back of the house. Darcie stared about her, resolutely determined not to be overwhelmed by her surroundings. Was this the house, she wondered, in which Mary Smith had taught Lord Burnley’s children, and learned to love Lord Burnley’s second son? Darcie was interested, but not moved, by won- dering thus. Mary was a fool, she told herself, for letting herself be found out and turned from the house. She should have forced Stanley to marry her. “No man shall ever treat me badly,’’ Darcie re- flected. ‘‘But, then, I shall never love any man, and it is by loving them that we give them power to hurt us.” Her lip curled scornfully as she spoke. She was recalling, with no touch of pity, the despair she had seen on the face of Fay, when she parted from Ivor in the lane, and the jealous fury Leon- ard Carey had shown in his last interview with her. “JT will hurt them, but they shall not hurt me!” Darcie muttered, half aloud. Tired of waiting, she arose and crossed to a tall mirror, which reflected her full length, in her simple but elegant mourning garments of silk and crape. The close-fitting, black dress showed off to perfection the full curves of her lovely form, and the large, black crape hat emphasized the dazzling tints of her skin, the red-gold of her hair, and the wonderful gray-blue of her eyes. : “T am very beautiful!” she whispered to her- self, and smiled. : “You are, indeed!” A557 Turning, with a violent start, Darcie perceived a man standing close behind her. Clearly, he had entered from the conservatory, and had overheard her remark. But Darcie was a born coquette, and speedily regained her self-control. She looked ‘at her own reflection again, and then at that of the man, who now stood close behind her, as though to challenge him to deny her words. At that he burst out laughing, and something in his laugh sent a sudden blush to Darcie’s cheeks. She turned her back on the glass, and looked ; shoulders sli at him-curiously. - é He was a man above the medium height, and of a graceful figure. His features were remarkably— almost effeminately—handsome, and his complex- ion, of a waxen, unnatural: pallor, enhanced the effect of his long and brilliant dark gray eyes under heavy black lashes. He was. perfectly dressed, ‘oomed, brushed, and perfumed, and, but for the thinning of the dark hair at his temples, and a certain sinister expression in his eyes, his beardless face and elegant figure would have suggested youth. Z 5 _ But there was no youth in his voice or manner, as laying his hand suddenly upon Darcie’s shoul- der, he observed: “You are perfectly right, my dear chiid, you are very beautiful! All the more pity that you should waste your looks in the schoolroom! You ‘come after the place of governess to Lady Spen- der’s children, I suppose?” ‘ _ ‘And, if I do,’’ Darcie retorted, ‘‘what has that to do with you? -Are you Lord.Spender?”’ “There is no Lord Spender, my dear child. His name is Sir William. I am a relation of the fam- ily, and I occasionally interview the governesses.’” “Whoever you are, I protest against your in- terviewing me!” exclaimed Darcie. Her eyes belied her words, for they allured, while the words repelled. She had intended acting the part of a very great lady in her grandfather’s house; but instinct was too strong for her, and that same odd strain of commonness, which even lovesick Leonard Carey. had detected in her, showed itself plainly now to the practiced London roué, who stood admiring her. ; “Tf I persuade Lady Spender to engage you,” he said, ‘‘and I think I can promise to do that, we may see a good deal of each other. So let us start friends.” - “Is Lady Spender Lord Burniey’s daughter?” a inquired. ke oe io. ** “And do you know Lord Burnley well?” ‘Tolerably well,’ her companion replied, with a grin. ‘But he is a bit of a bore, so we won't talk about him.” : “T don’t want to talk at all,” Darcie observed, with sudden hauteur. “I am simply waiting here, and I don’t wish to detain you.” “But it’s much more amusing waiting with me to amuse you,” he suggested, insinuatingly. “You don’t amuse me,’ Darcie asserted, promptly. “Wouldn’t you rather some one else told you you were beautiful than have to tell it to your- celf in the looking-glass?’’ he inquired. : “Thank you! But I have been told so often I am tired of hearing it.” - - He laughed again, and stood and stared at her, deliberately, a few feet away from the sofa upon which she had seated herself, stickingva glass in his eye, and studying her as he would a picture “Why in or a statue. “Beautiful and witty !’’ he murmured. the world should you be a governess?” “Pardon me,’’ Darcie said, raising her brilliant eyes to his, “but I never said I was a governess. The statement was yours!” . ce “Then, if you are not a governess, who in the world are you?” : She did not answer, and he came a little nearer. “Tf I were poetical,” he observed, “I should téll you you were ‘Venus reincarnated.’ But, as I am hideously practical, I’ll simply tell you I have never in my life—and Ihave lived a good deal—seen any one so astonishingly, so ravish- ingly, handsome!” “T am from the country,’’ Darcie said, to all appearances unmoved by the compliment, “and quite new to London ways. Is it the custom for London gentlemen to address London ladies who are strangers to them in this strain?’ “Special cases demand special treatment!” he said, coolly. ‘‘You, for instance, cannot expect to be treated as an ordinary person.” “T see,’ she said. ‘Because I am unusually good-looking, I must not expect ordinary polite- ness.” ; He laughed, and seated himself on the sofa by her side. “Do take your glove off!’ he pleaded, in a low voice. ‘‘I want to be quite sure you are real!” She turned her head to look at him, in an affec- tation of scornful indignation. In reality, she was neither scornful nor indignant. This handsome, middle-aged roué had taken her measure at once, and had treated her—not with the adoring wor- ship of Leonard Carey, or the reyerential tender- ness of Ivor Winthrop—but exactly as he treated pretty girls»whom he knew to be his social in- feriors. : She scanned his face, and its cold wickedness and studied insolenee attracted her. This was a man, she realized, who understood her, and would be her master. : 5 Her eyes dropped beneath his glance; for the first time she felt cowed, and at the same time fascinated. : “ s “You are very impertinent !’’ she said, and then she deliberately took off her glove. “There is my hand,” she said. it is quite real.” He took it in his hand and examined it—that soft, plump, warm, white hand that had never “And, you see, done any work. He turned it over, and looked at the full, rosy palm, the rounded wrist, dimpled knuckles, and well-kept nails. . “There is a lot of character in hands,’’ he then said, slowly. ‘I like the character of yours.” “When you have quite finished with, it a “But I haven’t. Studying it tells me you won’t be very angry if I kiss it.” “T shall be furious!” “Nonsense! I can see by your face that you can’t be angry with me.” He bent his head, and covered her hand with kisses. Darcie did not draw it away. Her heart began to beat fast, her breath to come and go. Love, the only kind of love she was capable of feeling, suddenly stormed her heart. The man’s insolent self-assurance, which would have _ dis- gusted a woman of real refinement, attracted Dar- cie as no amount of respectful wooing could have done. ‘There was a new, light in her eyes, as she turned to look at him. Another moment, and their lips would have met, when the door of the draw- ing-room was suddenly flung open, and Darcie sprang to her feet, as a tall, gray-bearded man en- tered the room. . She could have no doubt as to his identity. By the -cartoons in Punch alone, Lord Burnley’s features were familiar to all people, and his keen, gray eyes, high, Roman nose, and snow-white mustache and beard, cut in Charles I. fashion, made him easily recognized wherever he appeared. He glanced now keenly, through gold-rimmed pincenez, at Darcie, and then at Darcie’s com- panion. “T understand,’ he said, in a cold, level voice, “that you are my late son’s only child. I suppose you have already -been introduced to my elder son here, Lord Landover?” “Lord Landover !” “Stanley’s daughter! By Jove!” _Darcie’s first sensation was one of overwhelm- ing disappointment. . This handsome, aristocratic- looking, audacious stranger, who had. unders how to attract her at first sight, was only her uncle, after ali! : She had never left the Channel Islands, but she knew, by her French schoolfellows, that in France girls could marry their uncles. Was it legal to do so in England? f These thoughts were rushing through her scheming brain the while the earl took stock of her, and his son gazed at her rather blankly. r At last Lord Burnley spoke. - “TI have received by post from Mr. Winthrop the papers and letters which prove your identity,” he said, ‘‘and I was much pleased to get your let- ter and picture.s Even the photograph, however,” he added, more reflectively than gallantly, ‘‘failed to do you justice.” : “JT don’t photograph very well,’’ Darcie said, in gentle, modest tones. “‘I suppose it is because 1 am too fair.’* Soe : “You are certainly very fair!’’ Lord Burnley said. ‘‘We-Verekers are generally dark, gray- eyed, and black-haired. Your grandmother, too, was true Norman-French, short and black-haired, as I have heard the Channel Islanders mostly are, That ruddy hair and vivid skin of yours is a new departure for us. Yet your mother was a Span- iard?” < “Yes,” Darcie said. Lord Landover’s eyes were upon her, and she felt certain that he would remark her sudden pallor, and wonder at the cause. She had felt herself grow pale, and, in truth, now, in the mo- ment of victory, a sudden fear at her own audacity seized her. She felt grateful to Lord Landover /when he changed the subject. “TJ don’t think it matters much how she came by her good looks,’’ he said; ‘‘but she is certainly the best-looking Vereker this generation has pro- duced. May I take an uncle’s privilege in wel- coming you?” With that, he took Darcie’s hand, and lightly kissed her cheek. The blood flooded the girl’s beautiful face. Lord Burnley noted the blush, and misunderstood the cause. =e : “Go and fetch your sister, Everard,’ he said, sharply, to his son. Then, when the door closed pea the viscount, he turned again to Darcie, speaking in kindlier tones. : 2 “You will feel strange at first,’’ he said, ‘‘among so many new relatives. Mr. Winthrop has _ not come with you, I see?” ~ : “No,” the girl replied. like to see you alone first. You have not yet told me if you approove of my engagement with Mr. Winthrop?” ; : ; “Oh, I?” exclaimed the earl, shrugging his ghtly, as he took off his pincenez and began slowly rubbing them with his handkerchief. “T have, really, no opinion for or against Mr. Win- throp. Hailing as he does frorh the States, he doubtless wishes to marry into the English aris-. es eet English-speaking - “TI thought I should | Vol. 59—No. 6 ee rn renee = tocracy. a f that he might well have expected a title—they think so much of those things over there! He seems an odd, independent person, to judge by his letters. But, no doubt, he is greatly attached to you. Indeed,’ he added, unbending a little, as he smiled across at Darcie, otherwise.”’ - : The girl shook her head. “T really think,” she said, although he admires me very much, chiefly wants _ to marry me because I am my father’s daughter.” — The earl’s . moved restlessly away. , : He was sorry this girl was not more lil dead son. Even to himself, he would hardly own how much he had wished to see some likeness to the son he had cast aside and disowned in the face of Stanley's child. Something in the tone in which Darcie alluded to her dead father, a note of aloof- ness and indifference, jarred upon him. He had been cruel and hard to Stanley, yet he resented the _ ‘ But, on the other hand, he is so rich — ale face flushed slightly, and he ~ e like his _ es “he could not well be _ B “ . aces “that Mr. Winthrop, fact that Stanley’s daughter spoke of him with cold self-possession.. ; She, for her part, lacking as she was in sym-— pathy and feeling, could not divine his sentiments, and imagined that she would displease him by affecting any interest in the father she had never seen and the son he had disowned. Surely, she told herself, Lord Burnley must be proud of so lovely a granddaughter as she! Nor did she for. a moment suspect that, in his tardy remorse, he would have welcomed, with far more affection, a descendant less beautiful, but with somethi in her face; voice, or manner to remind him of his — dead son. : ; : The entrance of Lord Landover and Lady Spen- der broke a silence which, to Darcie at least, was embarrassing. Lord Burnley’s eldest daughter was - a pale, elegant-looking woman of about thirty, of the over-tall, over-slender, anwmic-looking and ultra-refined type, among the women of her station in the present day. Her smile was stereotyped, and her man- ners were colorless; nevertheless, she contrived to make Darcie realize, as neither of the men had done, that she was entering a world of which she did not even know thé language, / ‘ She was kind enough to Darcie, in a way, and took her for a drive in her victoria after lunch; and suggested that the girl should come and stay with her until her marriage. : Pass “You can’t be married from a hotel, you know,” she explained. ‘Sir William and I will be charmed to have you. I like weddings, really. They amuse me. I should wear white chiffon, if I were you—_ it’s so much newer than the eternal satin.” J “So you are engaged to be married?’ Lord Landover said to Darcie across the luncheon table. “Why was I not told all these things? My family credit me with a total absence of human feeling.. I am just informed that I have a niece somewhere on a desert island, and then I walk into the draw- ing-room, and find a radiant vision, in deep mourn- ~ ing ro: “Whom you took for a governess!” Darcie put in, demurely. as “Whom I took for a governess,’ he admitted, “because I couldn’t imagine who it was. Now If hear my niece is going to be married! - Why was I_not consulted?” : ; “Darcie has very sensibly become engaged to a millionaire, Everard!’’ Lady Spender explained. “Like you and me, she realizes that money is the only possible goal in London society at present. She is engaged to the only son of Mr. Gervase Winthrop. I think he is called a railway king, or a trust emperor, or something.” pe ; “Gervase Winthrop’s son!’ Lord Landover ex- claimed. ‘‘Then, she has done better than either of us. My dear niece, I congratulate you!” —_ “I detest the modern fashion of discussing the subject of marriage,’ the earl said, severely. ~ “Suitability in rank, age, family, and disposition, that is the thing which should be studied. But, in the present day, people talk of getting married as they would talk of buying a hat. It is a solemn covenant, and should not be treated in a spirit of © what I should call musie-hall levity.” ; “We laugh at everything nowadays,” his son explained, ‘‘except money, beauty, and brains!” With that, he looked> hard across the table at Darcie. . Something impelled her to speak. “T like and respect Mr. Winthrop very much,” she said, addressing Lady Spender, “but I feel sure the reason why he is so anxious to marry me is that he was so much attached to my father, and promised him, on his deathbed, to look after me.” The earl’s pale face flushed, but Lord Landover laughed. : “My | look after you now,’’ he said. ‘My father and my- sisters, and even unworthy me, and certainly every man in England. And may I suggest that your looks had something to do with Mr. throp’s affection ?’’ . ; ; “Whatever you do, don’t let Landover turn your head with his silly flatteries!” Lady Spender ex-— claimed, as she arose from the lunch table. “The carriage is here, Darcie, and we will go to the park.” : é . During the course of the drive, Lady Spender languidly ‘“‘pumped’’ Darcie concerning her life, her intentions, and her aims. But that astute young lady fenced her questions, and contrived on her side to elicit much information concerning Lord Landover which interested her greatly. % He was forty-four, he would be the Earl of Burnley, he was a childless widower, and his wife’s fortune, valued at three hundred thousand pounds, was absolutely his. Most of his time was passed abroad, and his moral character was so had that chaperones were afraid of him, and women of all ages were supposed to find him irresistible. The result of these inquiries of hers set Darcie thinking deeply when she returned to her hotel to make arrangements for her stay with Lady Spender. . = She had a great belief in her cleverness and luck, as well as in her beauty. Ali that she wanted was coming into her grasp. : Suppose—suppose she should try for one thing more? ‘3 : “Tt would be difficult, very difficult,’ she told herself, with a little gasp of excitement. “But, to be a countess, and his wife, it would be worth it!” Meantime, in the smoking-room of his club, the object of her thoughts was thinking about-her. “A lovely creature!’’ he was telling himself. “A ripe peach, a half-developed Juno! The most beautiful, alluring, tantalizing ever seen! “But I don’t believe she is my brother Stanley’s daughter !” “ TO BE CONTINUED. : THAT HANDSOME FELLOW. BY JAMES L, BOWEN. : - The handsome young man may usually be very happy, but no sooner is it-necessary for him to take a journey by rail than he seems to suffer un- told torture. If one may judge from his acts, he becomes at once insane—his every movement be- ~ = eontrolled by an evil spirit of unrest. ‘in tHe gets to the depot early, and makes his head- quarters in the ladies’ waiting-room. He buys his” ticket with a great display of bank notes, and is. obliged to count his change several times, stopping © only to wind his very elegant watch and compare_ it with the clock at the station. If circumstances permit, he goes outside, takes a few turns up and down the platform in front of the windows, and then comes in again to see that his watch still agrees with the clock. This comparison is re-- peated as often as a pretty young lady enters the waiting-room, and becomes his chief cause of anxiety until the aboard. << PF: Does he take a seat like travelers of common flesh and blood? Not by any means. He selects a whole seat, places his dainty little traveling bag 4 and umbrella in it so that no one else will secure train arrives, and he gets — which is so much in evidence ~ it, and stands in the passage-way till the train — gets under way. Then he looks about, and doesn’t seem to like his location. So he walks, very erect and very steady on his feet, no matter how much the train may vibrate, all the way to the rear door of the rear car, and, after looking out upon the receding roadbed for a while, takes his way back again. . : Of course he is looking for a good, vacant seat, | but he seems a great deal more interested in — those they are occupied—by young ladies. He is dressed to perfection, as a necessity. Who ever heard of a “‘slouchy’” Adonis? His kids pridge Bear Creek. —Louisville Herald. KEEPING TRACK.—‘‘Won’t you have another bis- cuit?’ asked the hostess, = = “No, thank you,” she replied; ‘really, I don’t know how many I have eaten already.’ “T do,’ said little Robbie, eagerly; ‘‘you’ve ate seven. I’ve been counting.’’—Town and Country. AN (INEXPERIENCED WoorER.—Stella—‘How does Jack make love?” Bella—‘‘Well, I should define it as unskilled labor.’’—Life. od Rose To THE Occaston.—Archibald—‘Mamma, give me a penny.” errr too big to be asking for pen- nies.”’ Archibald—“Well, Chicago News. Not ANXIOUS FOR THE JoB.—‘‘Dey’s one conso- then, give me a quarter.”— lation,” said Brother Williams; “de devil is gwine | ter be chained for a thousand years!” Brother Dickey was silent. “Well, what you thinkin’ ’bout now?” “I wuz thinkin’,’’ replied Brother Dickey, ‘‘dat I wouldn’t like ter be one er de committee ap- p’inted ter chain him !’—Atlanta Constitution. so SmatL Boy ENTERTAINS His UnciEe.—‘‘Did Johnny entertain you nicely, Uncle Abner, while I was out?’ asked the niece the old man was visiting. “He did very well,” was the rather constrained answer. “He spent most of the time making me promise to let him come to my funeral.”’ “Dear little fellow. He’s so thoughtful.”’—Chi- cago Record-Herald. 3 THE Foop AND THE MaAn.—Church—“Tell me what you eat, and I’ll tell you what you are.’’ ee ee I eat hash at Mixum’s restau- rant.’”’ Z ‘Then you’re a fool.”—Yonkers Statesman. A a uu i DMI aah EDITED BY MRS. HELEN WOOD. 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, Rag New York Weekly,’’ Box 1,173, ew York y- FASHION NOTES. The prettiest simple gowns for autumn. wear will be modifications of the shirt-waist suit. Plenty of soft and pliable materials suggest themselves for these dresses. Fhere are several weights of canvas and voile which are admirably adapted for the purpose. A brown voile gown of this description has a nine-gored skirt, laid in small box plaits, connected by chenille fagotings, The fagoting ends above the knees, allowing the skirt to.fall in soft folds to the feet. There is a slight flare to the skirt. - The waist is also box plaited, and the fagoting forms a deep yoke. same scheme appears in the full sleeve, the of which ends just below the elbow in a cuff of cloth folds, joined with fagotings. Among the prettiest materials of the year are the new silk grenadines. They are as sheer as gauze, and have a fine satiny finish. White grenadine with a pattern of strewn roses formed the material of a lovely dancing gown. It was simply made, over pink taffeta, and had a bertha and sleeve caps of point lace, and a girdle with long ends of black velvet ribbon. Made-up ties of glacé silk in the shape of the old French abbe’s tie are much worn. French lawn, real lace, or clear, fine mousseline de soie are utilized for these abbé ties. For evening wraps the new zibeline and plush eloths in white have the preference, although sil- ver-gray is a much admired tint. _ To keep delicately tinted tea or ball gowns clean around the edges, put three graduated ruches under the hem. ; Among the new dress materials is a velours diamante, which is really a crushed velvet. Initial sash pins represent a recent fad in jewelry. Ger In ordering patterns be swe to give size and nunibers No. 3217—LADY’S SKIRT. The upper section of this skirt is cut in one piece. It is circular in shaping, and the surplus fullness over the hips is taken up in small darts. The lower section. consists of a cir- cular flounce of graduated depth, which lengthens and at the same time completes the skirt, and provides a grace- ful sweep at the lower edge. The back is in habit fashion, and the center seam is concealed by a shaped strap. of the material. As pictured, the model is trimmed with bias folds; these are not in- cluded in the pat- tern, and any , : preferred mode of decoration may be used instead. The strap may also be omitted in favor of a band of insertion or passementerie, and bands of wide insertion or ribbon velvet could be used if the folds were omitted. The pattern is cut from 22 to 30 inches waist measure. Size 26 requires 5% yards of 42-inch material. No. 3208—GENTLEMAN’S NEGLIGEE SHIRT. The-garment here pictured is made of cotton cheviot-of blue and white mixture. The fitting is accomplished by shoulder and under-arm seams. fa :The upper edge aT of the back por- tion is slightly gathered and joined to the lower edge of a straight The front is fin- ished with an un- der and over-lap, may be made buttonholes or studs. - The one- seamed sleeve is the regulation shirt-sleeve, hav- ing a straight and over-laps. The neck is com- pleted with a. band, and the pattern gives three sizes of yoke and three sizes of neckband. The materials suitable for making shirts include cambric, percale, muslin, chambray, batiste, Madras, linen, Oxford, Panama cloth, pon- gee, Scotch flannel and Lansdowne. is cut from 32 to 48 inches chest measure. — Size 38 requires 4 yards of 32-inch material. ¥ia*) (All patterns published in “The New York | | - Weekly’’ will be sent to our readers for-10 cents © Address FASHION DEPARTMENT, “New — each. “Can’t you — wy yoke. _ and the closing — with buttons and _ cuff and under sy The pattern |