A ROUSING DETECTIVE STORY,

By NICHOLAS CARTER,

“ROUND DEAD,”

MYSTIFYING AND DRAMATIC,

BEGINS NEXT WEEK.

 

 

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OFFICE:
79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York.

 

 

New York, November 17, 1906.

 

 

 

 

 

Three Dollars Per Year.
Two Copies Five Dollars.

 

 

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THE CURSE OF

OR,

A DARK SECRET.

HER LIFE;

By HELEN CORWIN PIERCE,

Author of ‘‘ At His Own Game," ‘‘Carrie Emerson Wilde,’’ ** Badly Matched,’’
‘* The Cheated Bride,’’ ‘‘ Fair and Faithless,’’ etc.

CHAPTER I.
A WIFE’S SINGULAR ADVENTURE,

It was midnight, and a fearful storm raged on
the Scottish hills beyond Blackmere. The wind
was a hurricane, the rain fell in torrents; the
thunder and lightning crashed and blazed like an-
other Inferno.

Over one of the most dangerous roads
rough and precipitous region, a carriage
crazily.

The dizzy lightning, the fearful wind, the pelt-
ing rain; above all, the deafening thunder, like
one incessant cannonade, had driven the horses
mad with fright. They had become utterly un-
manageable.

Their driver, while he still held the reins, had
ceased all attempt to control them.

His companion, though a woman, neither clung
to him nor screamed. She kept herself from
being thrown out of the fearfully swaying vehicle
by holding with both hands to the back of the
seat, and she only opened her lips once in answer
to his passionate and remorseful protestations,
to say through shut teeth;

“What matter whether it’s the lightning or
Fairfax’ Tyrrell? I don’t-fear one more than the
other now, thanks to you.’’

That moment the air seemed to turn to fire, and
heaven and earth to meet in one horrible crash.

The carriage was lifted almost clear of the
ground, then stood still. Its occupants remained
unharmed. The horses fell dead, struck by light-
ning!

The woman was the first to move after the
shock. As she descended from the carriage into
the mud, the man sought to stay her. But she
wrenched herself loose from him and plunged away
into the storm and darkness.

With a muttered oath, he got down himself, and
followed her.

Fortunately, they were not very far from shel-
ter. But a short distance on they came sud-
denly upon a low stone house, set securely in a
cleft of the mountainside.

The man kicked and pounded on the door of this
dwelling, and tried to shout loud enough to be
heard above the storm.

The woman flew around the house, and tried
to discover by the flashes of lightning if there
was any sign of a horse. She found a rough
shed, but the door was fast, and she could not
tell what it contained.

She ran back to her companion, who had suc-
ceeded in rousing some one by this time. The
fastenings of the low, stout door were being un-
done, and presently they were admitted inside the
cottage.

of that
tore

 

An old woman and a young man welcomed them,

and hastened to

light a vigorous blaze on the

broad stone hearth.
The newcomers pressed forward.

The one was a

tall, handsome blond gentleman,

with pale-blue, sinister eyes and scowling brows.

He had lost his h
The other was

at.
a dazling-faced patrician-look-

ing girl, or woman, with ebon masses of wet hair

clinging about her statuesque form,

Of her bon-

net, only a few scraps of wire and dripping lace

remained.
Both were
with mud,

drenched to the

skin and covered

“Thank Heaven! we have found a shelter!’ ex-
exclaimed the gentleman.

“Have
pounds

you a
if you’ll

horse? I will
take me to

give you fifty
Blackmere before

morning,” said the lady,

‘*Edith,
frowning.
“T am not talk
“Can
Scotchman.

are you mad?’

you do it

asked her companion,

ing to you,’ she returned,
2” she continued, to the young

He shook his head doubtfully.

“You must!”

foot and wringing her white hands.
murder done if you don’t.

be murder done!
‘Nonsense !’’

protested

she cried, stamping her soaked
“There'll be
I swear to you there'll

her companion again.

“You can’t get in when you get there.”

“I’m not talking to you.

you!”
The gentleman
nearer the fire.

Let me alone, I tell

shrugged his shoulders and drew

The old woman and her son whispered together,

Edith watching
cheeks that
the chill she had

burned with excitement,

and
of

them with flashing eyes

in spite
undergone,

“Tf you didn’t mind riding behind Donald, lady,’’

said the old woman hesitatingly.

“Donald and

the pony are both rough ones,’’
“Donald and the pony are both a million times
better company than any I’ve had to-night !’’ cried

Edith eagerly,

with a

scornful fling of her lofty

head toward the blond and dripping young gentle-

man by the fire.
tert’ *

“The sooner we're off the bet-

She hurriedly jerked a tiny, jeweled watch from

her belt, and glanced at it

“Hurry, Donal

ning to get excited,

d,” said the old woman, begin-

too.

Edith turned to her.

**You’re the be
life,’’
other
sulky companion.

she said bluntly,
side of the fire,

st old woman I ever saw in my
and went and stood the
opposite her whilom and
As she stood, little puddles of

muddy water formed all about her onthe spotless

 

floor, and her
black hair,

The old woman stood and stared at the dazzling
glimmer of the jewels on her hands, the glittering
beauty of her white and perfect face.

Not all the havoc of the night had been able
to dull the radiance of one more than the pris-
matic glories of the other. |

“You'll catch your death staying in those
clothes,’”’ grumbled ber scowling companion.

“Tf I do, you won’t have to pay for my coffin,
Mr. Heathcote,” she bitterly returned.

“Tf you will go,” he said again, after a still
more sullen pause, “I had better go with. you.”’

‘Didn’t you hear my opinion just now of the
comparative “merits of your company and Don-
ald’s?” flashed the girl. “I won’t- have you!”

Heathcote bit his lips, and then, crossing the
hearth, spoke a few words to her in an under-
tone,

For answer, she gave him one look out of her
magnificent black eyes—that was all. At. that
moment Donald announced fhat he was ready.

Edith ran‘to the door at once. The wind and
lightning were much less, but the rain. was pour-
ing floods.

“This is a most ridiculous and mad proceeding,”
Mr. Heathcote said, following her. “I protest
against it, Edith. I am tempted to use force to
stop you.”

“Just you dare try it, that’s all!” called Edith,
springing from the chair the old woman brought
upon the pony, and settling herself firmly behind
Donald,

Apparently, Mr. Heathcote had: no idea of try-
ing it, for he dashed back into the house at once,
and spent the rest of the night in a sulky doze
before the fire.

Edith and the faithful Donald trotted off
the pitchy darkness, the mud, and the rain.

Only one well acquainted with the mountain
paths could have found the way to Blackmere
that night. >

Edith made her conductor
the east wing of the castle,
there.

“T’ll come to you within the week and bring
the money,’’ she said, at parting. “Meanwhile,
take this for your security.”

She slipped a flashing diamond off
and laid it in his hand.

Then, almost before he knew she was gone, she
had slipped through’a little door there was hid
in the ivy, and vanished from. his sight.

She had never traversed the passage to which
this door gave admittance but once, and then,
though she had a light, she had shuddered at its
gloom, its dust, its creeping things.

But now, in her wild agony to reach her own
apartments before her absence should be discov-
ered, she scarcely thought of darkness, of vermin,
or any other of the terrors that would have been
so hard to face at any common time.

The passage was narrow and long, being built
in the thickness of the wall itself. At every step
her wet clothes so impeded her that her strength
was well-nigh gone before she reached her desti-
nation.

A heavy mahogany wardrobe
back concealed the entrance from
sage into her dressing-room, where
low fire burning.

She entered without noise, exchanged her wet
clothes for a ‘wadded dressing-gown and quilted
slippers, and, without pausing to rest, passed into
the next chamber.

Here she found, as she had expected, her maid,
Barbara Fone, sleeping.

She started up, broad awake, the instant her
mistress spoke to her, and clasped her hands with
an exclamation of rejoicing.

“Thank Heaven!"

She was a middle-aged woman, witk a bright,
faithful face. Her eyes had the gleam of deep
affection as she turned them on Edith.

She had lain down with her clothes on, after
watching for her mistress most'of the night.

she wrung a stream from long

wet

into

take
and

her round to
set her down

her finger

with a movable
the secret pas-
she found a

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She wheeled the horse suddenly and dashed past Heathcote.

 

“Hush!” commanded Edith Tyrrell, in a whis-
per. “Has my. husband returned?”

“Yes, madame.”

“Did he come to my room?”

“No, And I had the door locked, if he had. I
knew he was not expected till the arrival of the
midnight train; and when twelve o’clock came,
and you were still absent, I just locked the door,
that he might think you asleep if he did come.”’

“That was very thoughtful of you, Barbara,”
and an expression of vivid relief crossed Edith
Tyrrel’s beautiful face. “I shall have to make you
a handsome present for that.”

“I was very anxious about you, mistress.
has been a fearful night.”

Edith shuddered.

“Yes, a fearful
room, Barbara.”

The woman followed her into the dressing-room,
and Mrs, Tyrrell flung herself upon a low easy
chair and let her head fall back upon the cush-
ions with a weary sigh.

‘Has any one missed me?’’ she asked.

“Miss Rose inquired, just at night, if you had
come in from your walk yet, and I told her yes.
It was a lie, mistress. But I thought it was the
lesser danger of the two.”

“Of the two?

“T saw Mr.
way you had gone.

Mrs. Tyrrell blushed.

“And you concluded I had agreed to ride with
him, and that it would be nuts to Rose to find it
out and tell my husband?”’

‘Yes, mistress.’”’ i

Mrs. Tyrrell laughed uneasily.

“Randal Heathcote is my cousin,

“Yen.”

But Barbara stared straight before her with
disapproving eyes and grim, compressed lips.

“Do you think it is wrong for me to ride with
him?”

“Don’t you, mistress

“Do you think IT would do it
was wrong?”

“Your husband does not like it.

“He has no right to dislike it.’’

Barbara was silent.

“Do you think he has?” demanded her mistress.

“It is not my place to say what I think.”

“But I give you leave—I insist upon it.’’

‘Your husband knows how near you were once
to marrying your cousin. Most husbands would
dislike a wife being so much with even a cousin
to whom she had once been promised in mar-

It

night. Come into the other

on

What do you mean, Barbara?
Randal Heatheote drive the same

”

Barbara,”

1 if I thought it

”» 2.

fault that I am with him so
him to come here. I don’t
But I won’t be bullied into
treating him rudely by my husband, or gratify
Rose by giving him over to her tender mercies.
I don’t love Randal myseif, but Rose shall never
have him.”

Barbara changed the subject.

“Have you just come in, mistress?”

T had not been here five minutes when I waked
you. I came in by that door in the wall.”

“T thought you would come that way, if you
came at all to-night.”

“What would you have told them all if I had
not got here by morning?’”’ Edith abruptly asked.

Barbara turned pale.

‘J don’t know. The master would have been
fit to murder me.”

Edith laughed shortly.

“TI believe he would,’’ she said. ‘But, Barbara,
I will relieve: your mind about me in one respect:
I had not agreed to ride with Heathcote; I went
the other way as fast as I could when I saw him
coming, and so lost my way in the woody moun-
tain paths. I don’t know but I might have wan-
dered so all night—if I had not met my cousin
again. I refused to ride with him at first, for I
knew it would enrage Mr. Tyrrell, and that he
would listen to no excuses I could make. But I
was tired out, and I did not know the way my-
self, and Randal promised to let me out before

is not my
much. I don’t ask
know why he comes,

 

 

we came in sight of the house. So I got in. But,
instead of driving toward Blackmere, he went in
the other direction, without my knowing it. Then
the storm came up, and we lost our way, and
wandered about more than half the night. The
horses were killed by the lightning. Then we
left the carriage and went on foot till we found a
house, and I made the only man inside it saddle
a little, scrubby pony they had, and bring me
home behind him. I promised the man fifty
pounds if he got me here before daylight. It was
not too much—eh, Barbara?”

Barbara drew a long breath.

“No—under ethe. peculiar circumstances,”
said slowly.

“I shouldn’t have saved myself, though, if you
had not been the quick-witted Barbara you are,
and pretended I was already home.’’

“Tt don’t like to tell lies, mistress.’

‘Nobody does. But we all have to sometimes.”

“T don’t think it pays, in the long run.”

“Tt doubt if it does myself,’ coincided Hdith
gioomily; ‘‘and the worst of it is that one lie is
so apt to mother a brood of them. What will you
do with that stuff, Barbara?” pointing to the
water-soaked and muddy heap of clothes on the
floor where she had thrown them. “You must put
them somewhere that they shall not betray me.”

*T will, mistress; but you must go to bed, or
you will be ill.”

“Tf I become ill, keep Rose away from me,”
murmured Mrs. Tyrrell sleepily, as Barbara helped
her into her bed.

sha

>

CHAPTER II
THE WIFE’S

But Mrs. Tyrrell did not suffer from illness.
She had magnificent health. It would take some-
thing more than even the hardships of that night
on the mountain to affect it. She did not leave
her room, however, till lunch-time, and Fairfax
Tyrrell, her. husband, having slept until then
himself, had still not missed her.

The two met in the dining-room, for the first
time since the husband’s return from a week’s ab-
sence,

Fairfax Tyrrell was an old man of seventy, at
least, with white hair and beard, heavy gray eye-
brows, and deep-set, sharp-glancing eyes. He was
tall, thick-set, and stood very erect—a well-pre-
served man for his years,

His wife was only eighteen
him, She was poor, he rich.
her wonderful, dazzlingly beautiful face. She
married him for his immense wealth, his high
position, and another reason.

She had become engaged to her cousin, Randal
Heathcote, a suitable match in eyery way. Both
were young, handsome, high-born. Heathcote was
rich, His family were delighted, The young
couple were apparently desperately in love with
each other, and, as matters were going, they
seemed sure of an earthly paradise together; but
suddenly, without the shadow of an excuse, Ran-
dal Heathcote scornfully and bitterly refused to
marry his cousin.

“Edith knows why, was all he would say.
‘“HWdith and I know why, and that is enough.”

But Edith did not know why, or said she didn’t.
She held one hot and stormy interview with her
recreant lover.

Exactly what passed no one ever knew. But it
was easy to guess something of its nature, since
both were Heathcotes, and, of the two, Edith pos-
sessed the haughtiest soul, the most passionate and
uncurbed temper.

That very day she
Tyrrell.

Captain Tyrrell had been married three times
already, and was a man of notoriously bad tem-
per, and of a jealous and tyrannical disposition.

But he was infatuated with the glorious beauty
of Edith Heathcote, and, as a last bribe to her to
marry him, brought her his will made out in her

ENEMY

when she married
He married her for

”

accepted Captain Fairfax

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

ja

 

 

ealth to her, without reserve or condition. ©
- It was a splendid opportunity to be revenged

on her cousin, if she wished to be. + as
Captain Tyrrell was the magnate of the coun-
ty; and, old, ill-tempered, and ugly-dispositioned
as he was known to be, his wife was sure to be
_ the envy of all the woman for her fine clothes, her
/ -earriages and jewels, and the splendor of her posi-
tion in every way. J a 3 <
|. Whatever reason influenced Edith, she accepted
| Captain Tyrrell; and as she did so the very day
of the rupture with her cousin, people were justi-
~ fied in inferring that anger at him had something

| to do with so hasty an arrangement. .
Randal Heathcote’s rage upon learning of the
new engagement was said to be fearful. It was
even whispered that he threatened to murder
Edith, and tried to kill himself. ;
However that was, Edith refused to even see
him after she promised to marry Captain Tyrrell,
or to hold the slightest communication with him.
His own yelatiyes made every attempt to bring
about a reconciliation, going so far as to appeal
to Captain Tyrrell himself. A very foolish and
useless proceeding this last, and one to which that
haughty old Turk replied with such a fierce and
wrathful outburst of denial and invective as fairly
~ scorched the souls of the Heathcote ambassadors.
~ Mrs. Heathcote, Randal’s mother, one of the
proudest old ladies in existence, went on her knees,
as it were, to Edith, to entreat her to forgive her

son.. But she would not. ;

“It is my turn now,’ was all she would say.

-“T adored him once, but I hate him so bitterly
now that there is not a creature in England so
Jowand infamous that I would not marry him

. sooner than Randal Heathcote!”

In a month she was Captain Tyrrell’s wife, and
her cousin was at the wedding, and the first to
offer his congratulations. ~

If he did-so with any sinister or hypocritical
motive, there was no sign of it in his handsome,

- smiling face, no glitter of enmity in his large,
light-blue, deprecating eyes.

Apparen
self to have endured at the hands of his cousin,

~~he had forgiven her.

Ww

n the happy pair returned from their bridal
~ travels, he Was among the first to welcome them,
and from that hour coolly established himself as
a regular and frequent visitor at Blackmere. 2
_The mystery of why these two had quarreled
remained a mystery. If Edith knew, she would
-— no tell eyen her husband; and Heathcote, after
keeping the secret so long, was not likely to tell

Heatheote’s marriage with Captain Tyrrell, his
jealous and tyrannical disposition, and her haughty
and ungovernable spirit; the two had not differed
so fiercely as might have been expected. They
would doubtless have got along rather amicably if
Randal Heathcote and Rose Altman could have
been dispensed with.
- -As Edith entered the dining-room, her husband
looked up, scowling. But he could not resist the
bright beauty of the brilliant face she turned
_ toward him. :
he frown disappeared, though he said crossly
in response to her salutation of welcome: .
- “Most women would have waited up for a hus-
band on such a bitter night as. last, instead of
going comfortably to bed and locking their door
against him.” 5
“So he did try the door, after all,’ thought
-Edith. ‘Thank my lucky stars and Barbara, it
was locked.”

band: : ,
~ “Ah, but you know I’m not like most women.
I went out for a walk in the afternoon and lost
my way, and by the time I got home [I was too
exhausted to sit up a moment longer, so I lay
down, and Barbara locked the door to keep out
—~ intruders.” , 4
“You don’t mean to say you.went to bed be-
fore dark?’’ questioned Rose Altman. :
- Miss Altman was Fairfax Tyrrell’s grandchild.
She was very vain and very homely, almost ugly,
and she hated her grandfather’s young wife with
absolute venom, in a bad, viperish way that was
_ perfectly patent to every one; for she was not
elever enough to conceal it if she tried. ’
a in,” Edith

_ “YT retired very soon after I came
answered Miss Altman carelessly.
_ “And have slept till now?” pene
“And have slept till about an hour ago.”—
} “You must have been tired,” Rose observed,
with a faint sneer.
| ‘She always sneered at her beautiful step-grand-
| mama when she dared. ~ —— .
e “T was,’ Edith answered, without noticing the
_ sneer, She despised Rose too much, as a general
| thing, to notice her. 2 oe
Poke ae you sée Mr. Heathcote while you -were
‘eS : % 3 OS
= ak seg. nat” ; /
| + “Edith colored as she said it. It was the first
absolute lie she had told. ~ -
Fairfax Tyrrell looked at her sharply.
| “I saw Mr. Heathcote drive past in his new
| . phaeton,’” pursued Rose. “I thought perhaps you
‘would try it. Odd that he did not overtake you.”
_ Fairfax Tyrrell started, and turned another
- dark and piercing glance on his young wife.

pent ogee if he had overtaken me,’ Edith said
coolly. ; ;

: Mr. Tyrrell leaped from his seat in a furious
passion. é “6 é€
| “Lucky for both that you did not!” he shouted ;
| “and if you ever so much as get into that phaeton
he _ with Randal Heathcote, I’1—I’ll murder both of

- Edith lifted her calm black eyes to his face.

4 “Then I shall be very careful not to do it. I
should hate to have you~hung on my account,”
|} she said quietly, | eae

} Tyrrell scowled at her. — es
i “If ever I am hung, it will be for killing one
of you two.” 3 f

“Or both, as you just proposed,” returned Edith.

Rose Altman went on with her lunch during
this interchange of courtesies between the husband
and wife, her appetite greatly increased by the
altercation. : Z Oa cs
Until Fairfax ‘Tyrrell’s marriage with Edith,
- Rose Altman had expected to be his heiress. That
was why she hated her. Her hope now was to

induce her grandfather to alter his will yet before
-_ he died, or else- destroy it, in which last case
PPS: — of the property would come jo her as next

Bee +
Edith was perfectly conscious of Rose’s dislike
and its cause. But, with all her faults, she pos-
sessed too large a nature herself to retaliate in
kind the ill turns Miss Altman did her at every
_ @pportuniiy. On the contrary, she never per-
~ mitted a chance to go by to do the girl a kind-

“ness; and Rose really enjoyed more privileges
Bi %. ae her coming to Blackmere than she had

“J know you hate me, my dear,” Edith would

But don’t be cross, Rose, If ever I do come into
- your grandfather’s money, you shall have half
oO et

- “TT have all of it, if I live,’ Rose would mut-

ter, under her breath, in reply.

“Randal Heathcote did not come to Blackmere for

-. some days, and when he did call the mistress of
. the house was absent. See re a
|-  Mrs. Tyrrell heard of his call from Rose with
- gharp misgivings. Miss Altman’s blue eyes seemed

to hold such a wicked light.
|. “What a pity about your cousin’s beautiful
| horses?’”? Rose said, at dinner that night. -
P Fairfax Tyrrell looked up with the scowl usual
at _the mention of Heathcote.

_ His wife, for three seconds, suffered sharp pangs
~ of doubt and anger.

“Can he have been so abominable as to tell
| her?’ she thought. But she controlled her coun-
, Le and only looked blankly inquiring at

“what is such a pity about the horses?” asked
Mare Fyrrells :
“He was out in the storm Tuesday night, and
_ they were both killed by the lightning.”” Rose
looked sharply at Edith as she said it. “Of course
you knew it,” she said.
- Edith shook her head. “I am very sorry for
his loss,” she said. ee
“Then I’m not,” roughly spoke Mr. Tyrrell.
4 Edith merely looked at him and said:
“That was not to be expected.”

CHAPTER III.
BARBARA’S ADVICE.

As she had promised, Edith went in a week to
the mountain cottage, to pay her debt-of fifty
oe" She had meanwhile inquired about the
te te and learned that they were noted all over

 

e mountain for their honesty and strict recti-
@.- a ¢
“They'll keep their word, then, and not gossip
bout me, if I get their promise,” she thought.
She paid Donald his fifty pounds, and made Mrs.
McVeigh, his mother, a present of ten more.
“That was my cousin here with me,” she ex-
ained in her frank way to the old woman, “I
‘ved him once, and was to have: married him.
at I hate him now, and my husband is jealous

him. My husband is a man of violent temper.

presume you know what Captain Tyrrell, of

slackmere, i I am sure he would murder one

both of us if he knew I was out with my cousin
er night, though it was not my fault.”

1] never hear of it through me or my
woman readily promised.

rell rode away homeward, her face

pulled te ha the folds of her

‘favor, and leaving every penny of his magnificent |

tly, whatever wrongs he believed him- |

“now. ges. :
Considering the peculiar circumstances of Edith

_. She laughed lightly as she answered her hus-

“Yes, I should perhaps have asked him to bring |

say in her light, frank way, ‘and I know why.

| effected her purpose, and she said no more.

pea eal le,

- ‘THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

Vol. 62—No. 6

 

 

She had received it from her cousin three days
before. She had read it more than once before
now, and each time with increasing irritation, its
tenor was so peremptory and presuming.

“Edith,” it ran, “you avoid me. You ought to
know I will not submit to that after all that has
passed between us. I warn you that I will not. I
shall be at the Hollow Oak this afternoon, at
four precisely.”’ : : }

“He never would have dared to write me such
a note as this but for my having been out with
him the night of the storm,” muttered Edith. “He
thinks that has put me in his power, because I
have concealed it from my husband. Suppose this

jnote had fallen into Captain Tyrrell’s hands? [I

believe that he hoped it would.”

She rode on some distance, her delicate eye-
brows knit, her scarlet lips compressed, the note
clenched in her little gauntggted hand.

her. Edith started angrily. >

“I won't be haunted by you in this way, Ran-
dal,”” she said, turning her horse, as if to seek
another path. — ‘

“Wait and hear one word from me first,” he
said, dashing in front of her. “I have not spoken
alone with you once since that happy night a week
aE0."* 4: ;

_Edith’s lip curled. “It was the most miserable
pent I ever spent in my life, with one excep-
on.”

: at

“T shall not tell you.
ness.” j

“I can guess it. It was the night after our
engagement. was dissolved.’’ E ;

He saw by the pallor of*her faee and the flash
ef her black eye that he had guessed right.

“Oh, Edith, what a fool I was!”

“You are a greater fool now, if you think I
will permit you to talk to me in this tone,” she
said angrily. But she dashed tears from her eyes
as she spoke, and he fancied by the quiver of her
lips and the heaving of her bosom that her heart
was full of him still, undeserving as he was.

“You know you love me yet,’’ he pursued au-
daciously. -

Edith looked him straight in the face.

“Tf I do,” -she said, ‘after your contemptible
treatment of me, I deserve to be despised of all
womankind. If I do, you are a coward and desti-
tute of every spark of manhood to tell me of it.” .

Heathcote turned pale.

“T don’t know why you abuse me so, Edith.”

“How dared you write me such a note as this?”
showing it. “Did you hope my husband would
find it and kill me?”
~ You know I did not.” ;

“You would never have dared write it but for
that night of the storm. You imagine that your
wicked contrivance to keep me out, and my desire
to conceal it from my husband, put me in your
power.”’

“You have not told him, then?” said Heaihcote
eagerly.

“It would be as much as both our lives are
worth to tell him, and you know it.”

Heatheote sneered.

- “Perhaps you think I am afraid of him?’

Edith made no answer. She was tearing the
note into small pieces and casting them into the
bushes, ;

Heatheote watched her for a little.

“Why didn’t you come to the Hollow Oak, as I
asked you? I only wanted to say half a dozen
words to you.’’

“You can say them now. I never will meet
you by appointment anywhere, Randal.”

“Why not?’ :

‘No matter why not, if you don’t know. I have
wronged Fairfax Tyrrell enough in marrying him;
I will never deliberately be guilty of one unfaith-
ful: word or act to him.”

Heathcote shrugged his shoulders and-smiled in
a way that made Edith’s temper flash up again.

“Edith, I want you and your husband and Miss
Altman to come with me to Heathcote House and
spend some weeks.” . s

Edith looked surprised.

“It is impossible. Nothing would induce Mr.
Tyrrell to go.” - me

“Will you promise to use your influence to have
the ae accepted ?”’ ;

ae o.”? x

“Why not?”

“T should have no influence in such a case, and,
if I had, I would not use it; because I believe
you only want to get me where you can involve me
in new difficulties.’

“T swear to you, no. I have been-thinking, in-
deed, of making love to Miss Altman.”

Edith’s face turned deathly white.

“Have you?’ she asked in a husky voice.
hope you may succeed.” c

“Will you go to Heathcote House if your hus-
band consents?’ : ?

“Not. if I can avoid it,’ she said firmly; and
then, giving her horse a sharp and unexpected
stroke of the whip, she wheeled him suddenly and
dashed past Heathcote before he could interpose
as he had before.

He looked after her some moments.

“I’m as fond of her as I ever was,” he said
to himself. “I love her a million times better
than I ever did, and she loves me. What a fool
I was not to marry her when I could. But’’—and
his countenance took a sinister expression—‘‘she’ll
be a rich young widow one of these days, and then
we'll see if we can’t make up for lost time.”

. * 55 4 * * =

The family at Blackmere were at dinner, a week
later. There was no company, only Mr. and Mrs.
Tyrrell and Rose Altman. es

The cloth had been removed, and wine and nuts
were on the table. The servants had been dis-
missed, according to a habit of Fairfax Tyrrell’s,
who often talked family matters at this hour, and,
unlike most men, was more aptsto air his temper
in his after-dinner mocd than at any other time.

Edith Tyrrell had not seen her cousin, Randal
aro since.the interview with him just nar-
rated. 5 ~

“TI saw Mr. Heathcote this afternoon,” began
Mr. Tyrrell, in a voice of import.

Edith looked up. Rose Altman looked down.
Rose knew what was coming. Randal Heathcote
had contrived to enlist her, -

“He is very urgent that we shall all spend the
coming month with him at Heathcote House, I
presume you would like to go, Mrs. Tyrrell?”
sneeringly. : :

It is none of your. busi-

aF

are my law.”

Rose looked up sweetly. -

“T wish you would go, grandpapa. There is to
be a large party, and every oné will think you are
jealous_of Mr. Heathcote if you don’t. You ought
to show yourself with your beautiful wife,. and let
people see how devoted she is to you.”

_Mr. Tyrrell wheeled in his chair swiftly.

“Tf you call me grandpa again, you minx, I'll
box your ears. Who says I am jealous of that
rascal? I’d horsewhip him if I were. I’m not
jealous, but I won’t have my wife flirting with
any man, and making herself the country talk.”

An angry color rose in Edith’s delicate cheek.
She lifted her head haughtily.

“Please to understand,’’.she said, “that I, for
one, decline to spend the coming month at Heath-
cote House.”’

‘You don’t! You sha’n’t!’’ cried the irascible
old man. “I have decided to go. I'll go to show

I am not afraid of him, if for nothing

Edith bit her lip. She read at a glance how
Heathcote had worked on her husband’s weakness
through Rose, and the look she gave that young
woman was a compound of pity and wonder.

“You are certainly governed by praiseworthy
motives,’’ she said to her husband. 2

Bi 3 motives don’t concern you. You are to
go. ou just said I was your law, and I’ll show
you I am.” :

_“T don’t require any convincing. I accepted the
fact in marrying you.” ;

Rose Altman knew when to be silent. She had

But

her demurely bent head could not quite conceal
from Edith that her blue eyes were glittering with
triumph and her lips curving every now and then
with furtive smiles.

In the privacy of their own apartment, Edith
made one more attempt to change her husband’s
purpose of going to Heathcote House. But in
vain. He. was bent on putting himself to the tor-
ture of going. It was torture, for bad and tyran-
inical as the old man was, he adored his wife, and
/was madly jealous of handsome young Heathcote,
because Edith had once been engaged to him.

_. Edith went into a room where Barbara Fane sat
sewing. Her face was very pale, her eyes gloomy.

“IT want you to bear me witness, Barbara,” she
said, “that I have done all I could to prevent this
visit -to Heathcote House.”

Barbara looked up, an expression of anxiety
filling her steady, honest face. ’

‘Ts it settled, mistress?”

“Yes. That girl Rose is bent on ruining me,
and fancies it can be accomplished by getting me
for a month under the same roof with my cousin
and my husband at the same time. She has so
worked upon Mr. Tyrrell’s sensitiveness to what
people may say of him if he don’t go that he is
set upon going, at the same time that he is
wretched at the thought of it.”

“Will you go, mistress?” ;

_ “J eannot avoid it. I have done all I could,”
she said wearily.

“You will have to be very careful.”

Edith’s faee darkened again. Her lips curled
and her eyes lightened with haughty anger.

“A pleasant month it will be to me, with Rose
on one hand to watch me, misconstrue and report
every word and look of mine, and my husband on

 

the other to judge me.”

At a turning in the path, Randal Heathcote met

“You would not,” said Edith quietly, “and you

“She is a snake, mistress; but he loves you.”

“Loves me? Yes, as the sultan does the beau-
tiful Circassian slaves of his harem. I am afraid
he will strike me some day, Barbara.”

“Oh, no! no!”

“He will.” ;

“Oh, mistress, no!’

“Tf he does, Barbara, I shall kill him!”

Barbara fell back in her chair, ghastly white.

“Don’t say that, mistress. .[ know you don’t
mee it, but don’t say such awful things. It isn’t
safe.’ te é

‘*You’re right, Barbara. It’s not safe. I spoke
in temper, of course, and it’s not safe -to even
think such things, particularly when one detests
another as I do Fairfax Tyrrell, and with such
reason. I’ve got an ugly temper of my own, I
know, but I would have been a good wife to him,
if he had let me.’’. : ;

Barbara clasped her hands. ‘

“Mistress, I’m an old woman, old enough to be
your mother. May I talk te you like a mother?
You know I love you like one.”

Tears rushed to Edith’s eyes. She laid her
little white hands tenderly on the old woman’s
shoulders and looked down at her with a quiver-
ing smile. ¥

“You may say anything you like to me, Bar-
bara. I believe you’re the only real friend I’ve
got in this world.”

“Tell me, then, mistress, dear, does your heart
hold yet one spark of love for your cousin?”

Edith started violently. ‘

“Why do you ask me that, Barbara? You know
better than any one else how fittle cause I have to
love him.” : :

“You're in ten times the danger if you love him
that you are if you don’t.”

“T don’t hate him so much as I ought to, Bar-
bara. I loved him so dearly once, and I am as
sure as that you sit there that something awful
will happen if we go to Heathcote. Why, look at
them!~ Rose so wicked, malicious, and sly; Ran-
dal so obstinate, unprincipled, and reckless—and
he fancies himself more madly in love with me
than ever—and my, husband so jealous, so hasty,
so hot-tempered. He often threatens to kill me
or Randal; and yet he will have him here, and
we'll go now to’ Heathcote.”

“You don’t believe that your eousin really loves
you yet?” -

“Not with a love that is worth having. He’d
be as ready to break the engagement to-day as
| he was before. There’s as much reason now as
there was then.” =

it may be, don’t let him see if, if you do love
him. You’re a lost woman the moment you own
to him that you love him yet.”

“JT know it, Barbara, and I don’t love him—I
won’t love him. Why should I?”

e TO BE CONTINUED.

RIVEN ASUNDER;

Beryl Grayson’s Ordeal.

A ROMANCE OF THE SAN FRANCISCO
DISASTER.

By JULIA EDWARDS,

Author of “The Little Widow,” “Sadia, the Rosebud,’’
“Prettiest of All,” ‘Stella Sterling,” ©
“Taura Brayton,” ete.

(“RIvEN ASUNDER’’ was commenced in No.1. Back
numbers can be obtained of ail newsdealers,)

CHAPTER XIX.
A FRIEND IN NEED.

Beryl had been but a child in the» cruel grasp
of Gorsline. He had hurled her into the leather
chair, bound her securely with the twisted sheets,
and then smothered her fips with a fold of cloth.
He feared she would c out, and that some of
the refugees who were eing along Sutter Street
would come to her aid. @This grievous work fin-
ished, he tore the wug§enificent diamond from
Beryl’s finger and wer ack to the other room.
Trenwyck had already left to search for Berdyne.

Poor Beryl could. not plead with the wretched
thief.to spare her the ring; she could not tell
him how the golden circlet symbolized the tie that
bound her to the man she loved better than life;
nevertheless, her eyes expressed the mute agony
she felt, and the sad, despairing tears dropped
from her long lashes.

She had been deceived by these hirelings of
Berdyne. Tonita was not there; the promise of
meeting her had been a trick to lure her into
that deserted house. And that ‘“‘good news’’ which
was to tell of Neil’s safety, and of the place where
he was impatiently awaiting his beloved—ah! this,
this was as false as all the rest! How was it
sets Ses the great world, there could be hearts so
ase! .

And the faithless one who had led her into that
trap had gone in quest of Nicholas Berdyne! He
would come there; again she would find herself
in his ruthless hands.

The yery thought roused her tortured soul to
action. She tried to scream, to wrench herself
free so that she might fly with winged feet from
the hateful spot; but her struggles were yain, and
she gave up with a choking sigh. Then, in that
supreme moment when she thought the fight was
lest, a voice came to her.

_ “Tell me this, my poor girl:
ried, married to Mr. Preston?”

It was a woman’s voice. For an instant the
stricken girl felt that she must be dreaming. She
locked up and saw Irma Lee standing before her.
How could it be that Irma Lee was there, in that
room, when she and Beryl had last met in the
wooded path at Sunset Ranch?

“Ah, how brutally you have been treated!” ex-
claimed Irma Lee, seeming to notice for the first
time the cloth that covered Beryl’s lips and pre-
vented speech.

Without loss of a moment, she unfastened the
cloth and removed it, and then deftly untied the
knots of the makeshift ropes.

“You here!’ exclaimed Beryl wonderingly.

“Not so loud, Miss Grayson,’’ warned Irma, in
a whisper. ‘‘Remember, Gorsline is in the other
room. The door is closed and locked, and so we
may talk for a little time.”

“But how did you come?’’ persisted Beryl.

The other pointed to one of the window open-
ings. “It was comparatively easy to enter this
room in that way,’’ she said.

“You knew these men were here?’’
Beryl.

“Not until a few moments ago.”

“T left you at Sunset Ranch, and now we meet
in this desolated city! I cannot understand it.”

An inscrutable smile played about Irma’s lips.

“T followed Berdyne and his lawyer hireling,”’
she murmured, “and was on the same train that
brought them to San Francisco, although they had
no knowledge of it. They evaded me at the Town-
send Street station, and I had gone to the Palace
Hotel, where Berdyne usually stays when in the
city. He was not*there. I had no more than
learned this when the shock came, and I was
thrown out in the street, with all the other guests.
Since then,” she added, “I have been a wan-
derer.

“A little while ago I chanced to see Trenwyck
in Portsmouth Square E

“Trenwyck?” queried Beryl.

“The man-who brought you here,” explained

Were you mar-

continued

rma.

“He told me his name was Percival !’””

“He will tell you anything that best suits his
purposes. As I was saying, I saw him, and I fol-
lowed him in the hope that he would lead me to
Berdyne. But he did not.
he met the man Gorsline, talked with him a little,
and then I was dumfounded to see him approach
the Stevenson Memorial and address you.
thought there was something wrong; and, when
you and he left the square, I followed you.

“Waiting and listening at the side of the house,
I was not long in discovering that you had been
brought to this room and made a prisoner. After
the door closed, and I knew your jailer was gone,
I came in through the wrecked window.”

“You brought me joy and hope when you came
to me before,’ said Beryl; with a quivering lip,
“and now you bring me liberty—release from one
whom I would rather die than meet again!’

“T am your friend in need. Miss Grayson,” said
Irma, ‘‘and yet I cannot call myself your friend.
What I do is because of my love for Nicholas
Berdyne, and because I would see that you are
removed from his power forever.” Her eyes
flashed and her bosom heaved with its pent-up
emotions. ‘“‘And now tell me,” she went on, with
feverish eagerness, “are you the bride of Neil
Preston?”

“Yes,’”’ answered the wretched girl, with brim-
ming eyes, “‘but I fear that—that he is dead!”

“Hush !” eautioned the woman. ‘You must not
give way to your grief here. One lurks beyond
that door who is capable of anything. Do you feel
at enough to leave this house? Are you able to
walk?” , ;

“Indeed, I am _  strong—-stronger than you
think !” a

 

| wounded heart to find one who, while not claiming

‘‘Mistress, whatever happens, and however true

To my astonishment,

 

 

panoramas See ies

 

sorp
i

hen come with me. We will get away from |
here before Gorsline discovers that you have been |
released. Trenwyck has left the place. Neither
he nor Gorsline knows where to find Berdyne, yet
the lawyer_has gone to try and find him among the
crowds of fugitives. Amid such confusion as
reigns in this city at present, it is labor wasted
to try to find any one.” 4

“It seems a providence,” said Beryl, “that you
were able to find me.’’

Irma, climbing to the sill of the window open-
ing, leaped lightly to the ground, and immediately
assisted Beryl to descend beside her. Then they
fled into the street. r

It was like balm tothe stricken Beryl’s
to be even a friend, was yet to be trusted. She
yielded herself entirely into Irma’s hands and per-
mitted her to be the guide.

Irma Lee seemed to know exactly where she
should go. Without a moment’s hesitation, she
struck ;out boldly through the torn and broken
streets. :

“Tell me what happened to you,’ she said, as
they hurried along.

In breathless and broken sentences Beryl told
of her flight from Sunset Ranch with her sweet-
heart and her dear friend, the Mexican; told of
the arrival in San Francisco, of the marriage at
the rectory, of the earthquake, the wicked work of
Berdyne when Neil was stricken down, and of her
escape and her miserable wanderings.

A strange, wild joy glowed in Irma’s face when
she learned that the earthquake had come after
the wedding-ceremony, and jealous hate took the
place of exultation when Beryl! narrated how Ber-
dyne had spirited her away in the automobile.
The conclusion of the sad story left Irma thought-
ful and silent.

“Tt cannot be,’ said she, “that your husband
is dead. If he had been, you would have found
him lying in that room where he was stricken
down. In the awful events of the day the maimed
and injured have claimed the attention of the
authorities and there was no time to look after
the bodies of those who lost their lives.”

Beryl had grasped at so many straws of hope,
only.to have them break in her hands, that she
hesitated to draw courage from Irma’s reassur-
ing words. Yet, if her dear one had passed out
of her life forever, she knew that she could not
live. Out of her terrible ordeal black despair
was rising and gaining the mastery over her.

“Mr. Preston,’’ went on Irma, seeing how loath
Beryl was to be beguiled by false hopes, ‘“‘must
have recovered and gone forth to search for you.
No doubt, he was merely stunned by the falling
masonry, and left the minister’s house very soon
after you did. I know something about him, Miss
Grayson, and you may rest assured that he will
move heaven and earth to find you.”

Beryl made no answer, but her overburdened
heart found relief in tears.

“You know, do you not,” proceeded Irma, ‘that
Mr. Preston has a cousin living on Nob Hill?”

“Neil told me that,” replied Beryl, ‘a long,
long time ago. But I could not go to any of
Neil’s people,” she added, with a touch of pride.

No need for Irma Lee to ask why. All aristo-
cratic Denver had heard of Neil Preston’s love-
affair, and knew that his purse-proud people
looked upon it with disfavor. All Denver knew,
too, that Neil had remained loyal to his heart’s
choice, had broken with his relatives, and had
declared that he would make his own way in the
world hand in hand with Beryl.

“T believe I understand the sentiment that ani-
mates you,” said Irma, “‘but I think it a mistaken
sentiment, at this time. Would not Mr. Preston
think that, in this direful emergency, you would
go to his cousin’s for news of him? And would
he not be likely to go there for news of you? Nob
Hill is yet safe, and most of the houses are
habitable. Perchance some of Neil’s people are
still there, for it is difficult to leave the city to-
day. If you will be advised by me, Miss Gray-
son, you will put away your pride and go to the
home of Neil’s cousin.”

“T cannot, I cannot!’ answered Beryl, clench-
ing her small hands tightly. ‘‘If my darling lives,
he will find me; I will wait and pray for him to
come.”’

That a girl, tried as Beryl had been, should still
have so much spirit aroused Irma Lee’s admi-
ration.

‘Very well,” Irma replied. “I am taking you
to Russian Hill, where some refugee friends of
mine have pitched their camp. I know they will
shelter you and protect you. Meanwhile,’”’ she add-
ed determinedly, ‘I shall continue my search for
the man who would prove false to me; I am thor-
oughly familiar with the city, and believe that I
will be successful. It may chance, too, that I
shall find your husband; so, if you will remain
on Russian Hill, it is possible I may be able to
send him there.”

“Heaven will repay you for your kindness to a
poor, forlorn girl, Miss Lee,” returned Beryl.

A hard look erossed the fading beauty of Irma
Lee’s face.

“Yt ask nothing of Heaven,’ said she harshly,
“but to bring me face to face with the man who
would cast me aside for one who loathes and ab-
hors him.”

So the jealous, revengeful woman and the beau-
tiful and sorrow-stricken girl continued on their
way up the steep slope to the very crest of Rus-
sian Hill. Alas! if Beryl had only known that
every step she was taking merely carried her
farther and farther from the man she loved !

Yet it is often thus with our most cherished
desires. Fate, at times, indulges in a strange
play of cross-purposes.

CHAPTER XX.
THE STRANDED VAN,

The experiences which would usually come to a
person only in the course of many years were
passed through by many thousands of individuals
on that one day which opened this tragic San
Francisco drama. And in the three fiery days
which marked the city’s ordeal the events of an
ordinary lifetime were crowded. The first shock,
the crunching, groaning, and shattering upheaval
whieh disrupted buildings, broke the water-mains,
and released the fire-demon, lasted but twenty-
eight seconds; yet, in that brief period, the locks
of youth were silvered as with age, intellect was
overthrown, millionaires beggared, lives crushed
out, and misery untold heaped upon the devoted
City of the Argonauts.

We have been seeking to follow but two of the
half-million threads woven into the warp of the
great disaster; and for these, indeed, each minute
had its thrilling incident, each hour its exciting
chapter. Humanity, for the time, had become the
plaything of destiny; fate moved her pawns
across the chess-board of life in a swift and be-
wildering fashion.

In the morning Beryl and Neil had missed a
reunion by only a few fateful minutes; in the
early afternoon Beryl had fied from the house in
Sutter Street at the very moment when Neil was
hastening to her rescue. And so the play of
cross-purposes continued; at any moment their
paths might cross, at any moment they might di-
verge wildy.

Neil, miraculously preserved from death, rushed
into the street through a perfect avalanche of fly-
ing masonry. Through smoke and flame, a hot
breath as from a furnace beating in his face, he
staggered toward purer air and safety.

He fell before he had cleared the zone of
danger. A brave cavalryman saw him, galloped
to his aid, and dragged him to safety. Always
the soldiers kept just ahead of the flames, driving
the people out of harm’s way; calm, resolute, un-
daunted, ,they earned a nation’s praise for their
gallant work all through that period of stress and

eril.
rs Neil rested for a few minutes, then arose and
hurried away. His darling had escaped from the
house where she had been held captive. The evi-
dence of this had been brought home to him, and
he knew that he was not deceiving himself. Again
she was like a bit of wreckage afloat on that sea
of troubled humanity. He could only drift with
the many currents and continue to hope and pray
that he would find her.

In a little while, he scarcely knew how, he
found himself advancing along a thoroughfare in
the vicinity of Union Square. This breathing-
spot, like every other within the city limits, had
been preempted by refugees. Government tents
were going up for their accommodation, belong-
ings of every conceivable sort were heaped high
in the open spaces, and preparations -were being
made for a distribution of water and food. This
was Wednesday afternoon; but at midnight three
sides of the square were in flames and refugees
and troops had retreated !

But we anticipate. Neil, in the thoroughfare
that led to the square, pushed into a group of
men and women who were clustered about a van
piled high with trunks. The fire was close to the
van, from which the horses had been removed
commandeered, most likely, by soldiers. _A man
on the seat of the vehicle cried out an offer of
$500 to a passing automobile if it would take
the van in tow and drag it to safety. The auto-
mobile, however, was filled with men wearing red
crosses on their sleeves, and no attention was paid
to the frantic offer of the man on the truck. The
luggage was from one of the great hotels, and
had been confided to one of the hotel employees.

With the man who had charge of the van was
another. A quiver sped through Neil’s nerves as
he recognized the second individual as Berdyne’s
valet, Hargreaves.

“J will give you $500,” shouted Hargreaves, to
the driver of the Red Cross automobile, “if you
will save just one trunk for me!”

Still no attention was paid by those in the car.
They had other and weightier business on hand,

| joined the refugees in their flight.

“The trunk,” shouted Hargreaves, almost beside
himself, ‘‘contains valuble papers! It must be
saved !”’

A thrill shot through Neil Preston’s frame. He
pressed closer, a glint of fire in his dark eyes.
He saw one of the trunks, canvas-covered, brass-
bound, and with the mame, “Nicholas Berdyne,’”’
and the address, “Denver, Col.,” lettered on the
end. The trunk was well down in the pile that
filled the van.

“Clear the way !”’ shouted the soldiers, charging
toward the crowd. “The fire will be here in a
few minutes! They’re going to dynamite! Clear
the way!”

Tossing his arms despairingly, the hotel em-
ployee leaped to the ground and joined the crowd
that skurried along in front of the soldiers, Har-
greaves, climbing upon a wheel of the van, strug-
gled wildly to draw the canvas-covered trunk
from the pile.. But the work was beyond his
strength. A soldier forced him roughly from the
wheel.

“Move on!” the soldier
pistol in the valet’s face.

Hargreaves cast one lingering look behind and
Neil, retreat-
ing slowly, saw a brick wall topple over upon the
van, overturning it and breaking and scaitering
its contents. Berdyne’s trunk, as he could see,
had been thrown far out toward the opposite side
of the street, shattered, overturned, and with its
contents Iying white on the littered pavement.

This mishap to the van and that particular
trunk brought a daring thought into Neil’s brain.
To think, with him, was to execute. Swiftly turn-
ing aside from the fleeing group, he dashed to
the opposite side of the street and returned on
the track the driven refugees had covered. He
sheltered himself behind piles of débris, for the
most part creeping on hands and knees. The sol-
diers did not see him, and the fugitive citizens
had their own lives to think of.

“A bold stroke for my darling Beryl!’ mur-
mured Neil, pushing recklessly on. ‘‘Fortune has
given me this opportunity, and I would be a pol-
troon if £ did not take advantage of it. Who
knows but the very papers that mean a fortune
to my sweet little bride may be among those lying
there on the pavement? God grant that it be so!
God give me strength to search and find them!”

Love was the spur of that brave, death-defying
effort. It would have been strange if love had not
brought the venture through to a success; and,
truly, fortune favors the brave.

By the time Neil reached the vicinity of the
van and its scattered load, the smoke was billow-
ing about it. Falling brands had set fire to some
of the released contents of the trunks. Hardly
thinking of self, he crept resolutely into the pall
of smoke.

Soon, guided by his intuition, he was among the
scattered papers. Some of them were afire, and
he could not see to catch the merest word on any
of them. In the midst of his despair the wind
tossed aside the smoke-clouds and left him free
to use eyes and hands to some purpose,

He picked up packet after packet, only to cast
each aside with a hasty glance. At last he picked
up one charring bundle, and gave a fierce cry of

commanded, waving a

! joy as he read the written words: “Papers, Con-

cerning the Grayson Affair.”

As he lifted himself erect and slipped the small
bundle into his pocket, the crack of a firearm
pierced the roaring crackle of devouring flame
and a bullet whizzed past his face.

Neil had been mistaken for one of the human
vultures whose cupidity led them into deadly
peril! Ere another shot could be fired, perhaps
with more telling effect, the friendly smoke once
more swept around him and hid him from view.
Turning, with the precious bundle safely in his
pocket, Neil effected his escape to Union Square,
where he threw himself, exhausted but exulted,
on the hard .ground.

Surely there was a providence in all this! A
higher power must be watching over the for-
tunes of his sweet bride, or such a chance would
never have come Neil’s way.

“One part, one little part, we dimly scan

Through the dark medium of life’s fevering
dream ;

Yet dare arraign the whole stupendous plan,

If but that little part incongruous seem, )

Nor is that part, perhaps, what mortals deem;

Oft from apparent ill our blessings rise.

Oh, then renounce that impious self-esteem

That aims to trace the secrets of the skies:

For thou art but of dust; be humble and be wise.”

As the yerse of the stirring song that had swept
through Portsmouth Square had ii spired his hope
and faith, so now this bit of for une lent wings
to Neil’s drooping confidence. ‘he Power that
could so befriend his darling wuld shield her
under its mighty pinions, and he and she should
meet, in happier times, in love and safety.

For an hour he rested, then formed im Hne and
received a draft of water and a slender ration of
food which the soldiers were dispensing. Then
he set himself to think what had best be done
with the precious papers which had come so won-
derfully into his possession.

He feared to carry them about with him, for,
if they were what he hoped and believed, their
value went into the hundreds of thousands. They
represented the undoing of Berdyne, as well as the
wealth and station of poor, wronged Beryl, who
had been compelled to toil through another’s in-
iquity.

Ah, yes, those papers meant even more than
that! Once his darling was restored to what
was rightfully hers, Neil’s proud relatives would
kneel to do her homage.

“What will not wealth do?” Neil thought bit-
terly. ‘‘My peerless Beryl, whom I loved for her-
self, will take a different station in the eyes of
the world when she comes into her own. For
myself I do not care; possessing her love, I am
rich beyond the dreams of avarice. Yet I would
have her on a social level with the rest of my
purse-proud family; yea, I would have them at her
feet, begging her favor!”

He could think of but one person in that hour
who had the facilities to care for the papers as
they should be eared for. His cousin, Arthur
Preston, of Nob Hill, had a fire-proof safe in his
residence. Arthur would guard the papers, Neil
knew. Not yet was Nob Hill in danger of the
flames, and it might escape them altogether; yet,
even if it did not, the papers would be safe in
the vault where the silver and the other house-
hold valuables were stored.

It was eight o’clock in the evening when Neil,
his course lighted luridly by the fire, left Union
Square for his long walk to the aristocratic resi-
dence district of the doomed city. A surprise was
awaiting him there.

CHAPTER XXI.

“Ip 8 THE WORKING GIRL WHOSE BEAUTY HAS
ENSNARED MY SON !”’

“Oh, it is hard to put the heart,
Alone and desolate, away;
To curl the lip in pride, and part
With the kind thoughts of yesterday!
Tis strange they know not that the chill
Of their own looks hath made me cold,
That though my words fall seldom, still,
Their own proud bearing hath controlled
My better feelings.”

“Mrs. Preston! My poor child, where have you
been during all this sad, sad time?”

A familiar voice struck on Beryl’s ear. She
and Irma Lee were making their way through the
cool, sweet grass on the slope of Russian Hill,
winding in and out among the pitiful structures
of sheets and blankets which housed the homeless
ones who had fled to the hill for refuge. Some
one stood at the entrance of one of these rude
shelters and cried aloud in a tone resonant with
surprise and joy.

“Mr. Bickerdyke!’” exclaimed Beryl, and in an-
other moment she had fallen like a tired child into
the good man’s arms, :

“Thank Heaven!’’ said the minister, ‘‘that your
steps were directed here. I have thought muck
of you, little one, and cried out upon the hard
fate that snatched you from us. But you are
alive and well, after passing the day in our
stricken city, and there is nothing but gratitude
in my heart. And I have something for you,”
said he, disengaging himself from the weeping
girl and drawing a paper from his pocket. “Your
marriage-certifieate,” he finished, “witnessed by
my daughter and your friend Tonita.” ‘

Beryl took the paper in her hands and pressed
it to her lips. How thoughtful of the good man,
amid all the harassing trials of the day, to think
of that! Yet how many fond hopes and dear de-
sires were wrapped up in that bit of paper. This
certificate had come to take the place of her ring,
cruelly torn from her hand by the wicked Gors-
line.

Irma stood by with satisfaction flaming in her
stern eyes,

“You are the minister who married Miss Gray-
son and Mr. Preston?’’ she whispered.

“Aye,” he answered, surveying the woman with
some curiosity. “Are you the little bride’s
friend ?”’

“Tt have befriended her,’? was the response, ‘‘and
was taking her for safety to people I know who
are encamped on the hill.” ;

“You may leave her with me,” said the min-
ister. “I will care for her as I would for my
own flesh and blood. Indeed, I have known her
husband for years, and think the world of him.”

“Wer husband lives?’’ queried Irma.

*Ves,’”

Irma’s satisfaction deepened. 3

“T am going down into the city,” said she, “to
search for one whom I must find. If I perchance
discover Mr. Preston, I will send him here.” —

“Mr. Preston was taken to a temporary hospital

 

and the offer of a fortune could not have turned
them aside.

in the Mechanics’ Pavilion,” observed the min-
‘dster.

 

 

 

 

 

 
i

 

+ se

you
band

 

 

 

. | 3 Vol, 62—No. 6 ° :

ey

- THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

———

“The pavilion is burned!” murmured Irma

quickly. “Was Mr. Preston badly injured?”

--. “2} Ihave learned from Miss Morales, who went

with him, that the doctor said he was merely
stunned.” Eaeik

_ . “It would be well, I
to persuade Miss “Grayson to seek her hus-
at his cousin’s, on Nob Hill. Her pride
ae in the way, but perhaps you can overcome

Without another word, Irma. Lee glided away

and lest herself to view among the wretched shel-

ters erected by the fugitives. When Beryl, who~

' was dreaming over the bit of paper placed in her

- “the certificate,

-- heart-breaking anxiety mirrored

gently.

-She is tireless in her attempts to find you.

hands by the minister, turned to present Irma, ~he
“Was gone. However, other thoughts, inspired by
were swirling in Beryl’s_ bewil-
dered brain. Re” : “

“Tonita—she could- not have signed this in

your home, sir?” Beryl asked. ;

_“She signed it at noon, when she came to our.

encampment after a fruitless, heart-breaking
search for -you,” answered the minister.
“Then she knows where you are?” cried Beryl,
a flicker of joy crossing her wan, sad face.
“She knows, my child, and she will come again.
The
girl has a-noble spirit, a fine, unselfish nature.
She loves you dearly, little one, and feared much
- on your account.” : -
Beryl clasped her hands. ee
“Tonita is like a dear sister to me,” she mur-
mured. Then, with a frightened, startled glance,
=e set falteringly: ‘‘And—and Neil—my hus-
pand?”. ; =
Mr. Bickerdyke saw the agony of doubt, the
: in the lovely
face, and echoed the trembling words.
~ _“Courage,’” he smiled, seizing one of her hands
in a fatherly clasp. ‘‘Your friend and f, after
the first paralysis resulting from your abduction
had passed, carried Neil out of the house. A
Wagon was passing, carrying wounded people to
a temporary hospital. Neil was sent in the wagon,
Tonita going with him. ‘The last thing I called
to Tonita was that she would find my daughter
and me on this hill. Tonita came pack to us,
and said Neil had merely been stunned by the
blow he had received and that he would not be

_ |-. long in the hospital.”

~“Oh, where is this hospital?” cried Beryl, over-
wrought with joy and relief. “I must go to my
-darling! I must be with him in the hour he
Meedee MEP ss : “
“You cannot go to the hospital, little one, for it
has been burned. But,” he added, noting the sud-
den woe that flashed out in the sweet face, “Neil
could not have been there at the time. He is
seeking you, and perhaps—we must not put tvo
much trust in circumstances,.you know—perhaps
Tonita will find him and lead him to you. But
come, let us sit here on the grass while you tell
me all that has befallen you. Not one in the
whole city but has met with sorrowing adventures
- this day. My daughter, eyen now, is ministering
to the injured and distressed; and I,” he added

sadly, “may be called at any moment, as I have

— oe of the day, to give comfort to the dy-
ee ;
Russian Hill is the most lofty height within the

_ ity proper, some eight blocks west of Kearney

Street, and the same distance from the north shore
of the peninsula on which the city is situated.
There, while they watched the -smoke hovering
ever the city’s heart, Beryl repeated her story.

“Cruel fate,” muttered the minister, ‘that this
tender form should be so buffeted about in the
swirl and strife of such a mighty disaster. Yet
you are but one among thousands, my child. You
- @ecountered muck evil, yet you almost met kind-
mess and generosity. Neil had relatives in the
city,” he went on, suddenly changing the theme
of his remarks, “among them a wealthy cousin
living on Nob Hill. You knew this, did you not?”

“Yes,” she answered, averting her face.

“And Neil knew that you knew it?”

“He told me of his cousin himself,’’ she an-

“Do you not think that he would imagine that
this cousin’s house would be the very place you
would go to seek him?” asked the good man

“No, Mr. Bickerdyke,” said Beryl, “Neil has
told me things concerning his cousin, Arthur Pres-

ton, which would not allow him to imagine such &
thing.”

_ hurried note

a breathed Tonita, “it is well.

_ The minister was no stranger to the enmity of
the Prestons. toward Beryl. Neil had made the
minister his confidant. %

_. “To-day, my child,” said Mr, Bickerdyke, “pride
has been brought to her knees in this great city.
There are no rich, no poor, no aristocrats, no
plebeians. The millionaire and the beggar share
their last cup of water, their last loaf of bread.
“It would be well, I think, if you called at the
mansion of Neil’s cousin and asked for news.”
“If you counse) it ’* murmured Beryl, with

When you are rested and re-

freshed with such poor food as we have here, I
will go with you.” ;

~ She clasped his hand in silent gratitude. While
they were eating some of the homely fare which

‘the minister set out on the grass, fate, seemingly

bent upon retrieving the hardships showered upon
Beryl during the preceding part of the day,
brought Tonita. : oe

How can one do justice to the joy which filled
the two friends as they leaped into each other’s

arms? Tonita was wearied to exhaustion with |
her fruitless search, and her glad tears mingled.

‘with Beryl’s in-the transport of this unexpected
meeting. The minister could not remain long

with the girls, being called away to attend upon

the last moments of one who had been stricken
down and had not been able to find the means for
reaching a hospital. ’ :

‘With hands clasped and tired hearts reviving
under the spell of tender companionship, the two
friends sat long together, each recounting her
varied experiences. Tonita, after learning that
Neil was not seriously injured, had written the
for him and had gone abroad into

the city to search for Beryl. She had not much

hope, knowing too well the evil daring and re-

sourcefulness of Berdyne. Far and wide and into
Many dangefs her search had led her, but she

had come safely, although with an unsuccessful |

errand, through them all. _
- After hearing Beryl’s story, the Mexicana was
quite positive that Berdyne had succumbed when
- he had run the Red Flier into the live wire. —
“It he has met his death in this shattered city,”
Many a better man
bas been killed or ruined this day, dear.’’ The
Mexicana shuddered. ‘‘Oh,” she whispered, “I
have seen such sights as I hope I may never live
_ to see again. And they are being enacted over
and over again, down there, at this very moment.’
‘Tonita waved one of her small brown hands
toward the fiery distance. a - :
- Evening had come while the friends were sit-
ting and talking—a perfect evening. The air was

warm, the clear, pale stars shone in the blue arch,

and the hush of nature was broken only by the

_ sullen roar to the south and by the low voices of
those who had clustered on the hill. The smoke

_ of the fire arose a mile or more straight up into
_ the air, a great shaft luminous with the flame

- that laved its base.

Beryl felt and believed that somewhere under

i ‘suddenly.

 Tonita, — i

_ trouble me more,” answered Beryl simply.

- that awesome pall her dear husband, with the

- bitterness of despair filling his heart, was seeking
for her. Her bosom trembled under spell of the
thought. Suppose he had gone to his cousin’s at
Nob Hill? And suppose her own false pride had
prevented’ a glad reunion with him? She arose

nso a
_ “Dearest,”
_ go to Nob H
- “What?" cried the Mexicana, amazed.
will go there now?” :
“Yes,” and she told her friend why. “Mr.
Bickerdyke has not returned,” went on Beryl, ‘“‘and
I fee} that 1 should not wait any longer.’”’
— “You do not know way, querida,’” said

said she in quivering tones, *‘I must
= + 5
“You

iS ogee inquires oF :

“But suppose that wicked man, Berdyne——”
“Heaven may have decreed that he shall ae

Ae te e-

sides,” she added, laying her hand on her heavin
breast, “something here seems to tell me that

| ~ should go to Arthur Preston’s—and go now.”

 “) will go with you, then, dear,” said Tonita,
rising at her friend’s side. : aie Be

“But you are tired, Tonita!” — gees
_ "J have not borne half what you have, Beryl.
I could not let you go alone! Nothing shall
el us again while we are in this doomed
Cys eee as wes o 4
“My dear, dear friend!’ murmured Beryl. ‘“‘I

| hope that some day I may be able to repay all

- your kindness to me.” —

ee.

They would have liked to inform the minister
where they were going, yet Beryl felt sure that,
when he found them gone, he would understand.

| Besides, it was he who had advised the step, and

 

hhad humbled the foolish pride which had kept her
from taking it before. ¢ : j
When they left the little refugee camp on the
rassy slope, it was eight o’clock—the very hour
which saw Nei) starting from Union Square for

- the same destination.

cs But the girls did not know the way so well as-
Neil did.

_ direct course, and many times they were wrongly

aa it chanced that when they finally

Many times they strayed from their

the mansion, and were assured by a man
the home of Arthur Preston, they had

been hour longer on the way than Neil had

/ been. Aln Pies ae with weariness, they sank
down on the br

: ad steps to rest before ascending
to the stately entrance. Ul pee $

All about them were Chinese, Japanese, Italians,

negroes, encamping for th
store of goods along to s

‘ight, of dusging their
- ]

other locality where
On the brown-

think,” said Irma, “for.

‘answered decidedly

 

stone enclosing wall of the mansion portable |
stoves were glowing, and tea was steeping in
little, Oriental kettles. These queer fires lighted
the whole front of the house, in weird contrast
with the immense banners of flame that shivered
overhead in the night sky.

The palaces of Nob Hill seemed to have with-
stood the earthquake shock most valiantly; for
the stately edifice, up whose marble steps Beryl
and Tonita presently mounted, appeared to show
no signs of ruin apart from its fallen chimneys
and cracked and broken windows. As they stood
on the great, railed veranda and pressed the bell,

some one inside stole a look at them through a |

broken pane,

The face of the person within was that of an
elderly woman. It was a cold, haughty face, in-
delibly marked with that arrogance of caste which
has gold for its god

Both girls, their
light from the little stoves on the wall, were
clearly under the eyes of the elderly woman.
Astonishment crossed the woman’s proud features
—astonishment, which was swiftly merged into
anger and apprehension. She turned to a man of
thirty, or thereabouts, who was standing near her
and holding a candle.

“A rare night for visitors, Aunt Hester,” said
he grimly, “and I must be my own flunky and
answer the ring in person.”

“Two girls!” gasped the woman;
people, Arthur. And one of them is—is

“Calm yourself, Aunt Hester,” returned the
man in his measured, well-bred tones. ‘‘What
should excite you so? You know one of them?
Who is it?’ t

“It is the working girl whose beauty has en-
snared my son!’ The words came quick and
sharp, but in a low tone.

“Impossible !’”? muttered the man in a voice of
dismay.

‘I cannot be mistaken, Arthur!” the woman
. “Oh, that this should hap-
pen, and now, of all times. I saw the creature
once in Denver—in fact, I made it a point to see
her—and I never forget a face. Send her away!
Or, stay; can you-keep Neil in his room while I
talk with the girl?” e

“T think so,” returned the man.

“Then you might admit them, and leave them
alone with me.” .

The woman’s thin lips closed with cruel firm-
ness, and she waited ominously while Arthur Pres-
ton went to the door, ~

TO BE CONTINUED.

“common

a

Tho Seoret of & Letter

By GERPRUDE WARDEN,

Author of “The French Witch,’ ‘The Wooing of a Fairy,”
_ “A Bold Deception,” ‘Scoundrel or Saint?”
“The Crime of Monte Cario,’’ etc.

(“THE SECRET oF A LETTER’ was commenced in No, 48,
Back numpers can be obtaiued of all newsdealers.)

CHAPTER XXIII.
HOME AGAIN.

Long before the time came for leaving his rooms,
Shirley had repented of his harsh judgment of
Ileene, and longed to give her an opportunity of
exonerating herself from all blame.

More than once, as he pondered over recent
events, the true explanation of Ileene’s visit to St.
Cloud occurred to him. He knew quite well her
desperate anxiety to prevent the duel, and how
she would probably leave no stone unturned to
effect her object. If, as he began to suspect, she
had gone to De Villars simply and solely for his
—Shirley’s—sake, he was inclined to be intensely
annoyed by what he considered her unnecessary
interference, but at the same time he could hardly
be too severe with her for her excessive anxiety
on his account. - :

As to Sir Everard’s carefully worded innuen-
does, Shirley had every reason to doubt Sir Ever-
ard’s veracity, especially where his own interests
were at concerned; and the baronet was ob-
viously in love with Ileene and piqued by her in-
difference to his steadfast wooing. His manner in
conversation was so apparently frank and convin-
cing that while under the spell of his presence it
was difficult not to believe in him, yet in the
matter of Ileene he was admittedly unveracious,
and Shirley had no more reason to suppose him
truthful now than when he had declared Mrs.
Cameron to be weak of intellect and united to an
invalid husband. i

His longing to ses her again grew stronger as
the minutes flew by. At length, at about eight
o’clock, Shirley went down to the familiar doors
and rang the bell, feeling as he stood there wait-
ing that his whole life’s happiness depended upon
what. the next few minutes might bring forth.

Inside, in the dining-room, three persons were
seated at table—lIleene, Miss Macleod, and Sir
Everard Morrison. All three heard the bell, and
guessed who it was called so late. The blood
came and went in the princess’ face, and she made
a little movement as though to leave her seat.
Her companions were both watching her curi-
ously; she saw this, and sank back again into
her chair, Hstening intently as she heard the
outer doors open and then close again. When
Félix entered the room, soft of foot and impassive
of face, as usual, she asked him who it was that
called. - :

“It is Monsieur North, madame.”

“Did he say anything?’ -s ;

“Only that he was leaving Paris in half an
ee time, madame. I gave him madame’s
note. :

Ileene bent her eyes on her plate, and pretended
to go on with her dinner. Sir- Everard, whose
gaze scarcely left her face, saw that she was eat-
ing nothing. Presently a little, gasping sob broke
from her lips, and she fell back in her chair, her
arms hanging limply at her sides. She had
tainted, nor did she recover consciousness until
Shirley North was on the train which bore him
from Paris to the sea. ‘

Sir Everard’s little plot had been perfectly suc-
cessful; had he not added those fatal eight words,
Shirley would most certainly have pleaded for and
obtained a farewell interview, during the course
of which everything would have been explained,
forgotten, and forgiven. ~

As it was, Shirley sat in the railway-car star-
ing out at the flat and uninteresting country under
the shadow of night, his young heart torn with
pain, regret, and unsatisfied longing, and burning,
too, with a sense of deep and unmerited wrong.
Even now, though, he could not for long ‘cherish
feelings of resentment against her.’ He did not
for one moment believe that she had entertained
any idea of marrying Sir Everard Morrison until
this evening. It must have been, so he told him-
self, some sudden impulse on her part, prompted
by Sir Everard’s artfully planned lies. ‘“‘Try not
to think harshly of me,”’ she had said in her note.
Shirley was not capable of thinking harshly of
her, but of Sir Everard he thought with absolute
abhorrence, and recalled with horror the latter’s
cynical remarks concerning the woman who was
about to trust her future life to him.

“Tleene! Ileene! If you had only waifed! If
you had only let me see you once again!’’

These were the words of the refrain which rang
in Shirley’s ears all through the journey to Eng-
land. Not for one moment could he forget her,
Her face seemed to float in the night air before.
him as he-paced the deck of the steamer, and her
eyes, her voice, remained with Him still] as, some
hours later, the train bore him from London to the
sleepy old cathedral town of Warminster, with its
roomy, old-fashioned deanery, in which the Norths
had been born and bred.

Only the dean was there, with two servants, his
man and a cook respectively, the rest of the
family and household being still at Bournemouth.
The Very Reverend William North, Dean of War-
minster, was in his study, attending to his cor-
respondence, when his son quietly entered the
room. Mr. North, senior, was a handsome, portly
man, on the right side of fifty, ruddy of com-
plexion, aquiline of feature, and dark-haired. He
was a charming-mannered ecclesiastic, both digni-
ficd and popular, and as he turned over his papers
he hummed a song not to be found among ““Hymns
Ancient and Modern.” It was, indeed, a comic
song which the dean had heard on the street-
organs, although he was unconscious of the fact
until he felt Shirley’s hand on his shoulder and
heard him softly laughing behind him.

“Why, dad! That’s a music-hall refrain! What
would the bishop say?” :
a ne my boy! Why, I thought you were in

aris !”’

“So I was,’’ Shirley returned, dropping into a
Sense his father’s desk. ‘I came over last
night.”’ , ;

“How ill you look, my: dear lad!
the matter?” |

Shirley shook his head.

“I am tired after my journey.
that’s: ull.?-7 z s

“You must have some breakfast, and go to bed
for a bit,’’ said the dean, touching the bell by his
side. He was deeply attached to his son, and
sympathy taught him that here was something
seriously wrong, concernin which, no doubt,
See ‘would presently speak to him of his own
accord. al > 5

And the event proved that he was right; for
while be was quietly prosing to his son concern-

Is anything

Want of sleep,

‘ing local affairs in the old town, the latter sud-

denly buried his eee in his hands and leaned his
arms on. the table. eee

faces caught luridly in the |

 

Mr. North paused, and a look of mingled pity
and pain clouded his handsome face as he looked
down on his son’s curly fair hair. Only the other
day, it seemed, the lad was petitioning for a new
ericket-bat, and bringing home in triumph his
school-prizes, and already the shadow of the
world’s sorrow had fallen upon him. ‘

“My boy,” he said gently, at last, “if there is
anything on your mind, tell it to me. My advice
may be of some use to you.”

“It’s too late,’’ returned Shirley, with almost
a sob in his voice. ‘I have been in love, and I
a lost her, and must get used to it. That’s
all.”

“In love!” repeated the dean, surprised. ‘With

| Dora Webster?”

Shirley raised his head and laughed, half-hys-
terically.

“Dora Webster? I had forgotten she was alive.
Do people fall in love with girls like Dera Web-
ster? It seems such a ridiculous waste of feel-
ing. Like falling in love with bread and butter,
or muffins and crumpets.’”’

“She is an extremely amiable and pleasing girl,
and a great favorite with your mother and me,”
the dean said gravely.

“Oh, yes, I am sure she is extremely nice,” said
Shirley wearily, getting up and stretching his
arms. “Only, you see, father, I don’t happen to
have been thinking about her.’’

He paused. Then a great longing for
pathy overcame him, and he asked suddenly?

“Can you~ understand, father, or do I. simply
worry and shock yeu? I have been fool enough
tc fall in love with the most beautiful woman I
have ever seen—not only beautiful, but wealthy,
accomplished, of high rank, and irresistibly fas-
cinating. Well, I tried to make her love me, and
I failed; and now I have come home, beaten, to
eat my heart out, thinking of what I missed.
That’s what makes it funny to talk of Dora Web-
ster. After to-day I hope I shall have sense
enough to be silent on the subject. But just while
the wound is raw it seems difficult to speak.’

The dean looked at him kindly, albeit anx-
iously. .

“A good many of us have been through some-
thing like that,’’ he said, after a pause.

Then he lifted the cover of his desk, and, open-
ing a secret drawer at the back, took out a little
parcel folded in tissue-paper. It was a leather-
covered miniature-case, and within, painted on
porcelain in the old*fashioned style, in the dress
and coiffure of thirty years before, was the por-
trait of a preity, dark-complexioned girl, as un-
like as possible the present Mrs. William North.

“What became of her, sir?’ Shirley inquired,
as he looked at the piquant gipsy face, the charm
of which even the conventional painting could not
wholly disguise. ; :

“She jilted me, and married a brute who broke
her heart,” his father answered quietly. ‘She
died twenty years ago.”

He carefully replaced the picture in paper,
locked the drawer, and closed the desk.

Shirley did not need to be told that. his were
the only eyes except his father’s which had beheld
it. He felt strangely comforted by this silent
sympathy, and, without a word more, a bond was
established between father and son which could
only be loosed by death.

The dean held out his right hand, and Shirley
wrung it.

“God bless you, my boy,” the dean said in a low
yoice, as his son left the room.

sym-

CHAPTER XXIV.
AT LAST.

Monsieur Achille, Shirley’s temporary valet, was
despatched back to North Castle as soon as he
and young Mr. North arrived in London with a
letter to Major North from his dutiful grand-
nephew.

“My Dear UNCLE: In spite of your most kind
cooperation and sympathy, I very much regret to
say that I have returned from Paris, having failed
to accomplish what I hoped—the winning of a
charming bride. The lady has, no doubt, very
wisely chosen another suitor. I feel so sore about
it at present that I can’t quite talk on the sub-
ject; and, being very bad company, I propose stay-
ing at the deanery for a few days alone with my
father until my spirits revive, when I hope to
come down and see you, to thank you for your
kindness, and to return the balance of the five
hundred pounds you so generously lent me,

- “Always your affectionate nephew,
; “SHIRLEY NORTH.

“Pp. S.—I need scarcely add that you were
totally misinformed as to the character and social
status of the lady in question.”

Major North was much disappeinted both at his
protégé’s failure and at his absence; but Achille’s
picturesque account of*Shirley’s experiences did
much to reinstate the young man in the ‘‘Nabob’s”
favor. The Frenchman waxed enthusiastic over
the charms of Ileene, whom he described as being
lovely as Venus and rich as Cresus, a princess
in rank, and in style and manners a very queen.

Major North nodded approvingly as he listened
to Achille’s highly colored account of Shirley’s
gallant conduct apropos of the duel, and was
amused to hear that he seemed really disappointed
— the Marquis De Villars retracted his chal-
enge.
oe lad is my nephew and a gentleman,” he
said. '

But the part of the recital which most strongly

interested him was that which set forth how the
sudden arrival in Paris of Sir Everard Morrison
had immediately preceded Shirley’s departure.
On this point he repeatedly cross-questioned Achille,
who, however, remained firm in his statement that
shorily after young Mr. North’s return to his
rooms on the fourth floor early in the afternoon
of the previous day, he, Achille, reconnoitering
with Juliette, the princess’ maid, on the stairs,
had easily recognized the baronet as he rang the
bell before Ileene’s door. It was “Sir Morrison,”
or “Sir Everard Morrison,” as, with a fine French
disregard for English titles, Achille called him in-
differently, who had come to see the princess, and,
according to Juliette, the maid, ‘‘Sir Morrison”
was the lady’s guardian and trustee, and greatly
wished to become her husband. :
. Major North had long ago forgotten the name
of the Princess Galacci, who had been the cause
of Sir Everard’s leaving the diplomatic service
five years before. The only title by which Achille
knew Ileene was that of Princess of Diano; there-
fore the old soldier in no way connected her with
the wickedly fascinating lady who appeared for a
time to haye ruined his friend’s career.

“He’s a sly dog, that Morrison,” the major
reflected. ‘Comes down to me to frighten me
by telling me my boy is entangled by some ad-
venturess; gets me to write, recalling him under
threat of my displeasure; offers to deliver the
letter himself, and all the while the lady is a
ward of his, and there’s not the least doubt that

he’s after her himself, and wanted to get my,

good-looking boy out of the way. So what does
he do but invent a story about her being a low-
born widow of thirty, who was suspected of mur-
dering her husband, or some nonsense of that sort.
Achille,” he continued, aloud, ‘‘you are a French-
Man and, no doubt, a connoisseur in women’s
looks. How old is this Princess of Diano?’’

“Twenty-two or twenty-three, I should judge,
monsieur. But she is, ah! so ravishingly beau-
tiful one has no time to think of her age. And,
monsieur, it was an accident, I assure you; but,
as Monsieur Shirley sat by the table in the parlor
of his apartments before leaving Paris, I saw—
I could not avoid seeing, it is well understood—a
few of the words of a letter he had in his hands.
And it said: ‘Good-by forever. I am going to
marry Sir Everard Morrison.’ ”’ ;

Major North was strongly excited by this news.
It seemed to him that both he and his nephew
had been duped by the wily baronet, who had
decried the lady’s value simply in order to leave
the field clear for himself. He tried to put this
view of the case before Shirley when the latter
arrived on a visit to North Castle some days
later, but he found that the young man shrank
from discussing the subject.

It was all over now, Shirley said. Of what
use then to discuss the motives which had ac-
tuated the movers in a played-out game?

Major North found him changed in manners
and appearance; Shirley’s laugh had lost its
gaiety, his manners their boyish, spontaneous
charm. Heewas as courteous and could be as
entertaining as before, but the light had died
out of his blue eyes and the ready smile from
his lips. More than before, he snatched at the
chance of regular occupation, and he plunged into
the intricacies of his uncle’s accounts, which the
agent, Walker, had left in a state of hopeless con-
fusion, as a relief from his own thoughts.

Only once did he take courage and visit Hed-
lingstone Manor-house, passing through the field
where he had first met her with an aching heart,
while his memory reconstructed every detail of
that first scene between them. Autumn’s touch
was already stripping the elm-trees in front of
the old gray building of their foliage, and dry,
red-brown and yellow leaves _whirled and danted
about his feet, swept by the cool sea-breeze. Shir-
ley’s old friend Janet, ever on the lookout for
the slight excitement of a passer-by, ran out to
chat with him. ;

Had he found her mistress in Paris, she in-
quired, and fairly jumped with excitement when
Shirley informed her that he had discovered Mrs.
Cameron almost immediately, and for a short time
had seen her daily.

“But,” he added quickly, seeing the sympathetic
delight in Janet’s eyes, “your mistress will have
nothing to say to me. She is going to marry
Sir Bverard Morrison.” ,

Janet was intensely disgusted.

Sir Everard was such a “varra old man,”’ she
demurred, and plainly intimated her astonish-
ment that he should be preferred before Shirley.
He laughed rather sadly at her

‘

her “something to buy ribbons with,’’ and was
slowly -wending his way back to the town over
the fields which for him would be forever haunted
by Ileene’s presence, when soft-hearted little Janet
rushed after him, bearing in her arms the white
Persian kitten which had been left behind be-
cause Christian, the dog, disliked her.

““Ma’ mistress loved it, so maybe ye’ll like to
have it,’ she said; and Shirley returned to the
castle with the white kitten, grown now to a
mature size, under his arm.

All the time which his great-uncle could spare
him Shirley spent in London, so as to avoid the
inquisitive chatter of his mother and sisters, who
had long since returned to the deanery, together
with the little governess, Jeanne de Vignon, whom
Shirley could not bear to meet. The sharp eyes
of Alice and Isabel speedily found out for them-
selves the fact that their brother had been “in
love,’’ and the little girls spent many a half-hour
imagining what manner of woman it was who
had treated “‘dear, kind, handsome Bobby” badly,
Isabel even going the length of drawing an im-
aginary portrait of her in pen and ink, all hair
and eyes, on the inside of a disused copy-book.

Shirley’s father and great-uncle loyally kept his
secret; but, owing, perhaps, to his two little
sisters’ precocious powers of observation, the fact
that he had had a serious love-affair in Paris
leaked out somehow. His mother and elder sisters
bombarded him with questions, and Miss Dora
Webster, to Shirley’s great relief, promptly en-
gaged herself to a tennis-playing curate.

It was three months since he had seen or
heard anything of Ileene, when, late in November,
news came to Warminster of the sudden death in
Italy of Madame Ravelli. Little Jeanne asked
and obtained a holiday to attend her mother-in-
law’s funeral, and returned in a fortnight full of
voluble grief over the old lady’s demise, but a
little comforted by the tiny income which her
husband’s mother had bequeathed to her. She had
news, too, about which she desired to consult Mrs,
North, who, in her turn, Shirley being at the
deanery on a short visit, consulted her son.

The wicked Italian princess, by whose machina-
tions Jeanne’s husband had perished, had, on
learning of Madame Ravelli’s death, written to
Jeanne from Vienna, begging her to accept an in-
come of five hundred pounds a year in English
money for the remainder of her life. It was quite
evident that the little widow secretly longed to
accept the gift, but sentimental considerations re-
strained her. Shirley, therefore, contrived an
interview with her alone, in the course of which,
with as little show of emction as possible, he
laid before her Ileene’s version of the sad old
story just as she herself had related it to him in
Paris,

His account came as a revelation to the young
Frenchwoman, She was, she owned, very young,
only eighteen, indeed, at the time of her hus-
band’s death; and in everything she had allowed
herself to be swayed by the dominant will and
strong prejudices of Madame Ravelli, senior. She
owned to having been greatly charmed by the
Princess Galacci on first acquaintance, and she
admitted the latter’s endeavors to know her better,
and be kind to her.

“But she took my husband’s fortune, and that is
why she is rich, and offers me money,” Jeanne de
Vignon exclaimed.

“That is totally untrue. Whatever the Prince
Galacci left, his own family took possession of.; the
princess was penniless, and would have been desti-
tute but for the kindness of friends. Every far-
thing she now has comes to her through the will
of her stepfather, Mr. Cameron, of Glasgow, which
you can see, as I did, at Somerset House, in
London, at this moment. The sole wish of the
princess is to make you happy, and atone for
the wrong which she, in all innocence, brought
about. You need have no scruples of availing
yourself of her generosity, madame. Only I must
beg you not to mention to my family the fact
that I was once honored by—her friendship.”

So Jeanne Ravelli,de Vignon allowed herself
with small difficulty to be persuaded into accept-
ing the little fortune, which, with her mother-in-
law’s legacy, made her a small heiress in her
beloved Paris, to which she at once returned, there
to find speedy consolation for her past troubles
in the love of a far better husband than Raphael
had been. 3

In the chatter and excitement consequent on
her departure, Shirley was able to get quietly
back to North Castle, where a letter was awaiting
him with the Vienna postmark, addressed in an
old-fashioned, elongated, feminine hand.

He tore it open, his heart beating riotously,
and, glancing at the signature, found that his cor-
respondent was none other than Miss Macleod.

“TI have only to-day by accident discovered your
address,”’ the little lady wrote, “but I have fully
determined to write to you for weeks past. Ever
since you left Paris my dear princess has become
sadder day by day, and even the change,of ideas
and scene which foreign travel affords has been
powerless to alleviate her melancholy. It was on
your account, as I now learn, that a few days ago
she had @@@serious a discussion with her old and
most tru@-aad valued friend, Sir Everard Morri-
son, that, enraged by her indifference to his long
devotion, he yesterday led to the altar the Bar-
oness Von Schlangenstein, who is enormously rich,
but fully ten years older than himself. And in
return for the tender—and you must pardon my
saying, to me, inexplicable—affection which my
sweet friend cherishes for you, what have you
shown her but the most cruel and heartless in-
gratitude?

“Just like all men, you condemned her with-
out a hearing, and dared to think that she, the
very soul of refinement and delicacy, attended
Monsieur De Villars’ féte for the pleasure of his
disreputable society! I was with her on that
evening, as you might easily have discovered by
inquiry. I saw the mental anguish which she
endured, and the cruel shock it was to her
womanly pride when, in my presence, as a price
for withdrawing his challenge against you, the
Marquis De Villars insisted that she should ap-
pear for a few minutes at his supper-table. If
you had had the least faith or patience, or any
one of those qualities which are natural to us
women, but extremely rare in men, you could
easily have ascertained these facts for yourself,
and not have helped to break the heart of one of
the sweetest women who ever breathed.”

Within an hour of receiving the little Scotch-
woman’s letter, Shirley had started for the Aus-
trian capital, only te find that the two ladies had
already left for Italy. To Genoa, Naples, and
Venice he followed them, every now and then
losing their track and wasting time and money
among porters, hotel assistants, and detectives in
vain. By night he could not sleep for anxiety
and excitement, by day he could not rest. It was
a bitterly cold winter, and in Italy, where there
were few appliances to mitigate the severity of
the climate, frost and snow became far more for-
midable than in England. A dreary Christmas
night spent in a damp bed at an uncomfortable
Italian hotel while making his way back to Paris
brought on a violent chill, and for the first time
in his life Shirley found himself really ill, with
fevered brow, burning eyes, and shivering limbs.

Still he would not desist from his search. At
No. 35 Boulevard Kauffmann, Juliette, who opened
the door to him very early one morning, was
startled by his pallor and his haggard appear-
ance. Madame la Princess and Mademoiselle Mac-
leod had left for England two days ago, she said.
She believed they had gone to madame’s country
house. “Edlinstun’’.was the nearest pronunciation
she could give to it.

A dreary train journey, with the snow drifting
through chinks in the doors, a bitterly cold cross-
ing, London in the fog and slush and sodden snow
of a winter afternoon, a hurried drive from station
to station, and then down to Dorsetshire in a
train delayed by snow-drifts so that it did not
arrive at its destination until nearly ten o’clock.

The snow lay two feet deep in the hedges, and
earth and sky seemed one vast expanse of falling
white flakes. It was madness, they told Shirley at
the station, to attempt to find one’s way across
the fields on foot, and no vehicle would take him.
But a strange delirium, brought by long fatigue
and fasting and the feverish chill he had taken in
Italy, reigned in* Shirley’s brain. He must see
Ileene that night, even if it were his last on earth,
and over the frost-bound fields he groped in the
blinding snow, falling every now and then into
deep drifts, and always with the roar of the wintry
sea behind him and before him in the air, mistily
seen, the face of Ileene, calling him to her, urging
him onward.

Just as all strength seemed to be leaving him, a
light shone through the gray night.
bare boughs of the elms the old manor-house
loomed, and from the drawing-room, as Shirley
reached the gate, the sound of music came to him,
and the sweet tones of a woman’s voice in song;

“As the flight of a river that flows to the sea
My soul rushes ever in tumult to thee.

Look up! I am near thee, I gaze on thy face,
I see thee, I hear thee, I feel thy embrace!”

Through the window he could see her seated at
the piano, the lamplight and firelight glowing on
her gray velvet gown and lowered auburn head.

“Tleene !”’

She sprang up in astdnishment and fear as that
strange figure staggered in, pale, hollow-eyed, cov-
ered from head to foot with snow, with ice-cold
hands stretched out toward her. Suddenly she
knew him, and in a very passion of tenderness
threw her arms round him and drew him to the
fire, pressing his chilled fingers against her warm
cheeks and lips, and lavishing upon him every
loving epithet which affection could invent,

He tried to ask her pardon for ever having
doubted her, but the words died upon his tongue,
and he lost consciousness with her kiss upon his
lips.

A week later he woke, as from a bad dream, to
find Doctor Murphy, Miss Macleod, Ileene, and a
hospital nurse,’all anxiously watching him as he
lay in bed in a room he had never seen before,

 

3 artisanship, gave , the guest-chamber at Hedlingstone.

*

Between the |

 

“You’ve had a bad time of it, my dear boy,”
the doctor said, shaking him by the hand. ‘But
you’re all right now. And how is it you are
here, instead of at the castle?”

Shirley looked at Ileene. She came over to him
and slipped her hand into his.

“He was taken ill here, Doctor Murphy,” she
said, “And as soon as he is well I am going to
be his wife.”

THE END,

PLEASANT PARAGRAPHS,

BY CHARLES W. FOSTER.

WHERE THE WORK COMES IN.

Minister’s Wife—‘‘You haven't been out of your
study an hour this week. What is the matter?”

Minister—“Some of the congregation say my
sermons are too long, and I’ve been trying to write
a short one.”

NOTHING NEW.

Adorer (neryously)—‘‘Isn’t that your father’s
step on the stairs?”

Sweet Girl—‘Yes, but don’t mind that; it’s
only a scare. He won't come down. He al-
ways stamps around that way when I sit up
with young men after eleven o’clock.”’

GRADUATION ESSAYS.
First Sweet Girl—‘“What subject have
chosen for your graduation essay?”
Second Sweet Girl—‘‘ ‘The Correlation of Hyp-
notice and Theosophic Theories.’ What’s yours?”
First Sweet Girl—‘*‘Oh, I selected an easy one
— Is Marriage a Failure?’ ’”’

UP TO SNUFF.

Golucky—“‘As I’m the special summer corre-
spondent of the New York Daily Blowhard, I sup-
pose your terms to me will be somewhat different
from your terms to regular guests,’’

Summer Hotel Clerk (briskly)—‘‘Yes, sir—yes,
sir; of course. Our terms to you will be cash in
advance.”

you

POOR WOMAN.

Mrs. Gabble—‘‘What an awfully worried, anx-
ious look Mrs. Goodsoul has.”

Mrs. Dabble—‘“‘Yes, I guess she’s stopped doing
her own work and gone to keeping a girl.”

THE MODERN NOTION.
New Yorker (gladly)—-“‘My dear, my salary has
been raised to $20,000.”
His Wife (ecstatically)—‘‘Isn’t that grand?
Now we can afford to give up this unstylish house
and old-fashioned garden and live in a flat.”

CHOOSING ‘A PROFESSION.

Pretty Girl—‘“I have called, sir, to ask if I am
beautiful enough for the stage?”
Theatrical Manager (kindly)—‘‘No-o, my child,
yours is not a good stage face; but don’t despair.
You would be a brilliant success as a typewriter.”

ONLY ONE PLACE FOR HIM,

Prominent Politician—‘‘I have done a good
many favors for you, and now I’d like you to put
a friend of mine on your paper.”

Great Editor—‘'Would he do for a reporter?”

“‘No, he hasn’t any legs.’’

“Um—nmight make an
haps?”

“He couldn’t read the newspapers.

“Poor fellow! Can he hear?”

“No, deaf as a post. He is a fine writer, though,
and he has a lively imagination.”

a I will appoint him London correspond-
ent.”

exchange editor, per-

He’s blind.”

LACK OF EXPERIENCE EVIDENT.

Old Physician—‘‘What! You called in Doctor
Blank during my absence? Why, he’s just out of
college.”

Patient—“‘Indeed?
man.”’

Old Physician—‘‘No, he’s of middle age; but it’s
plain to see he’s new to this business. Why,
saw him this very morning looking sadly depressed
just because he had Jost a patient.”

He certainly is not a young

ONLY ONE WAY.

Westerner—‘“‘Yes, sir; I believe it is absolutely
impossible to reform a horse-thief.’’

Easterner—‘‘Nothing easier. Make a sailor of
him.”

4 TOO LATE.

Confidence Man—‘‘I should like to see Mr. Hay-
seed, of Hayseedville.” :

Hotel Clerk—‘‘He is over there at the cashier’s
desk paying his bill.”

Confidence Man (sadly)—‘‘I’m too late.’

SELECTED PLEASANTRIES.

A CRUSHING CRITICISM.—‘‘Miss Blank
she’s crazy over art.”

“Her paintings look

says
it.’—-Detroit Fre? Press.

ALWAYS ON THE Move.—Kind lady—‘‘How
many servants does your mother keep, dear?’

Small Girl—‘“She doesn’t keep any; they’re
always coming and going.’’—-Boston Transcript,

THE FaTHER’s EXPLANATION.—‘‘Pa,” said little
Willie, looking up from his book, “what are
*gastronomics’ ?”’

*‘Oh—er—lemme see,” said pa. “Oh, they’ra
these country jays that blow out the gas,’’-—-
Philadelphia Ledger.

THE AUTO-SPEED MANIAC.
He scorched upon the highway,
He scorched upon the street;
He scorched away from rivals,
He scorched his friends to meet;
He scorched in pleasant weather,
He scorched when it was hot;
He scorched when races asked it,
He scorched when they did not.
At last, his neck he broke it,
When scorching on a bet;
And for all that you or I know,
He may be scorching yet.
—Baltimore American,

HANDING HIM AN IcE,—Softleigh—‘‘Good eye-
ning, Mrs. Moran. I came to see if your daughter,
Miss Mabel, would go for a walk with me.”

Miss Mabel—‘‘How do you do, Mr. Softleigh? I
shall be delighted. Mama, do I look fit te go to
a restaurant ?’’—Life,

INsIpE INFORMATION.—Bobby had early shown a
great interest in anatomy, and always drank in
information about the various parts of the body
most eagerly. One day he came to his mother in
great perplexity, and said:

“Mother, I know where my liver is, but where
is my bacon?’’—Harper’s Weekly.

THs Hear ACCOUNTED For.—‘What makes the
milk so warm?” asked Betty, as the milkman
brought the day’s supply to the door.

“Please, mum, the pump-handle broke, and
missus took the water from the bD’iler.’’-—Lynn
ltem.

A Business Liz.—‘‘Say, Bill, I think you are
trying to boom our new ice-plant a little too
much !” called the head of the concern.

‘‘What’s the matter?’’ asked Bill.

“Why, there was a lady in here just now making
a complaint,’”’ continued the head of the concern.
“She said you had guaranteed that this ice
wouldn’t melt.”—Detroit Free Press.

CHILLING WEATHER.—‘“I always pitied Adam
and Eve for being driven out of Eden in such in-
sufficient clothing, just as winter was beginning.”

“How do you know it was winter?”’

“Why, it was just after the fall, wasn’t it?”’—
Cleveland Leader.

AN OFFENSIVE Girt.—Kate—‘‘Penelope had her
thirty-fifth birthday Wednesday, and she got mad
over the present Mildred sent her.’’

Alice—‘*What was it?”

Kate—“A mustache-cup.”—Somerville Journal,

ONE OBJECTION.— ‘Tommy, why are you not at
your sister’s wedding ?’’

‘“’Cause she’s marryin’ the wrong man, an’ I
told ’em I’d sing right out an’ tell the preacher

“What is the matter with the young man?”
‘He yanked me out from under the sofa once
an’ spanked me!’—Chicago Tribune,

ArnouT THE SAME THING.——Little Elmer (who
has an inquiring mind)—‘Papa, what is meant by
‘honor among thieves’?’”’

Professor Broadhead—‘‘Oh, just about the same
as ‘senatorial courtesy,’ my son.’’—Puck,.

NEIGHBORLY ANNOYANCES.—‘Your family plays
the piano later every night,” said the visitor.

‘Yes,’ answered the suburban resident; ‘‘we’re
trying to keep the people next door up so that
they will be too sleepy to mow the lawn in the
morning. And they’re trying to mow the lawn so
early that we won’t feel like playing at night.’”—
Washington Star.

A Suppressep Boy.—‘‘Ma!” said little Willie,
for the tenth time..

“Silence, sir!’’ cried his mother. ‘‘Didn’t I tell
you not to interrupt me and Mrs. Gabbie? Wait
until we’re through talking.” ;

“But, ma, I want to say this to-day.”—Philadei-
phia Press. 3

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

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HALLO

BY JOHN

-*Tis. fifteen years ago to-night,

_ Since by the: streamlet side we met,
_ Your eyes_haye pot so much of light,
Nor are my locks so deep a_jet,
By greater cares we are beset;

- Yet we will not sit down to grieve;
_ We've more to treasure than forget
Since that far-distant Hallow-eve.

Let us recall the happy hour
When o’er the stubble-field we strayed,
And song of bird and scent of flower
Were issuing from the tempting shade,
_ And far above us lay arrayed
The riches of Old Nature’s tome.
_ And on the air in dalliance played
“The rustic song of “Harvest Home.”

In that soft hour, with trembling heart,
: I whispered first my fervent flame,
_ And shook to see the sudden start
You gave to hear love’s hallowed name ;

W-EVE.

F. COWAN.
Your flushing cheek’s hue went and came,
Your light hand trembled on my sleeve,
I saw your eyes my bliss proclaim,
Upon that holy Hallow-eve.

My eager spirit upward sprung
From hovering o’er doubt’s dark abyss,
And o’er the coral lips I hung
_. As issued forth the welcome ‘Yes.’
. Ah! what-ecstatie thrills of bliss
To see your eyes with love-light shine,
To snatch affection’s pure, first kiss,
- And clasp you to my heart as mine!
_ oe * * * ” =
How safely faithful memory shuts
Young love’s bright visions in its shrine,
Again we watcb the burning nuts,
And see the smoking columns twine.

Again, as then, I hail the Sign,
No earthly care my spirit grieves,

Oh, grant us, Providence Divine,
Many such happy Hallow-eves! -

The Oldest Child.

By Harkley Harker.

“Tt was my ill luck to be the first-born !”

: growled a fine-looking young fellow in my hearing

recently. Upon my asking what ill luck there

ss was to that primacy of birth, he responded:

Riven Asunder (Serial).......... _.-1.Julia Edwards
‘Caught in a Web (Serial) ..........-..Nicholas Carter
- The Becret ot a Letter (Serial)..2..Gertrude ‘Warden
Against Odds (Serial)..... wesseeee-Mrs. M. V. Victor

= Miracle-worker....... rae _---+- Oswald Wildridge|

A Story ‘tor Hallowe’en.......Emma Garrison Jones
/ New Member ot the Lyre Club. Peggy Webling
yw Rats Saved My Lite.... +++ dAptb Or L, Meserve
n Indisputable ANDI. 20... eee eee ee eee eee
The Oldest Child... Sag sogsese coos Ea Harker

a TimMdity........-... sees es eee eeee was cevenr Kate Thorn
¥ Josh Billings’ See ae esas +--+ 08b Billings
. _ Pleasant Paragraphs since coccese-Oharieg w. Foster

a

: ‘purposely puzzled.

MMR 2k 10ers .....Mrs, Helen ‘Wood
-Ttema ot Interest, Correspondence, eto.

POEMS. —
"Ode t to the Oyster.”
““Ballow-ere,” by John F. Cowan. :
3 eOctober’s Gitta," oy. § Maud E. Sargent.

ok PERPLEXING STORY.

 

x sees ace on a , tantalizing mystery.

always finds favor with the general reader.
‘He becomes eager to anticipate the denoue-
ment. and therefore his thoughts keep in ad-
vance of the author’s revelations, to show
his cleverness and independence. But it
sometimes chances that. the reader has been
This is likely to be the

- case in the ingenious story entitled

FOUND E DEAD;

The Hystery di a Vacant House,

By NICHOLAS CARTER,

si ; 2 4s st Mill py
RE ie a nee aoeene SORORE TF ola. pithy Marust.

a “Ihe Silent Partner,” “Playing a Bold Game,”’.
mie Pech Sener

The opening chapters ‘Ginclece a strange
agedy, the identity of the victim being a
ystery. The purpose of the crime or suicide
it is difficult to conjecture, because there are
‘several conflicting cues. In a brief time,

- however, enough is revealed to indicate that
Re -adetermined woman is in some way con-

%

-

se nected with the tragedy, and as the story
advances curiosity, is stimulated to ascertain
_ the motive for her connection therewith.

The narrative’ is crowded with dramatic
action, and the anterest: is maintained until
_ the close, Ber op Bec

The first instalment will appear in the
“next issue ot the New mane WEEKLY,

“To BRING up CHILDREN.

“There are eae” ‘distinet ways of. bringing up”
hildren. One is by discipline, and aims at teach-
ing selt- contro) by imposing habitual submission
if ne contro) oi others. _ The other works in the
site direction, and aims at freedom. The

se faatin and to ‘eae ‘wisdom by Cae sade,
That the former method is harmful is self-evi-
, and requires no discussion; -still, it is sur-
Soh that so many young aphe' folk should

reason with ehildren: while they are

, and before they are able to eps: f
course, these people mistakenly assume that
vehiidren cannot reason, when it is-a fact
en before it can talk a child has already a

a payer. of doing so. Observant mothers and

| nurses: ‘know this well, and act accord-

ne ise, is. certain, and it is that the mother
ts her child on a platform of friendship and
earest to success in her method.

t them past a particular

teaches them how to

y themselves, and this.

hildren to stand

| poverty

“Look at the donkey-team, silver harness, span-
gled cart, and all, which my little brother Timo-
thy, yonder, has just driven into the grounds.
Why, when I was small, my father was a poor
man. Even Christmas seldom brought me more
than two toys. We couldn’t afford it. We lived
in two rooms down on Street, instead of in

this fine suburban residence with velvet lawns. I>

am glad, of course, that father was smart enough
to become rich; but I saw little wealth when I
was_at home.”

It was a hateful spirit thus exhibited. Yet the
thought was new to me, I have since obseryed
how frequent is this inequality of childhood in
American families. America is the land of swift
mutations of fortune. The eldest children of
many a rich man dwelt with him in a poor man’s
cabin; the mother rocked the cradle with her foot
as she plied the needle to help support the family.
The younger children were born in a palace, The
mother never rocked their cradle; hired nurses
cared for them.

But, sir, your mother’s arms were your herit-
_jage; her breast was fonder for your care than any
hired lap could be. Her ‘ullaby was a sweeter
song than any stranger voice could sing for wages, |
Your own young mother’s watch and ward above
your slumbering infancy was a more faithful '|
yigil than your wealthy young brother ever had.
“Mother taught you how to walk. Mother fondled
you when you fretted, ans attertded you when you
were sick.

You, the child of your father’s youth, were the
nerve of his youthful hands just beginning life’s
battle. For you he dreamed his dream. For you,
the babe in the cabin or the tenement-house, he
gathered up his courage anew in dark days that
otherwise would have crushed him. Father came
home at night to gather you in his honest and
tired arms, and counted the kisses that you gave
as his sufficient and great reward. You, child of
their poverty, was the recipient of their sacrifice.
They never felt the gifts of wealth bestowed on
your younger brothers and sisters as they felt
the deep and hallowed sacrifices by which alone
the smallest comforts -were bestowed on you. The
love which sacrifice alone enriches a yours;
and is yours to-day, unless you a it by
behavior. It may not be that a pret rent will
confess to loving one child better than another;
surely he ought not. Yet it may well be doubted
if any late-born child can, in the nature of things,
seem quite so intimately associated with the very
soul of our souls as the child which shared our
and was with us in the days of small
things. The child of our luxury is much more apt
to be injured by our wealth than the child of our
poverty. Observation bears out the statement.
There is often to be seen a greater self-reliance, a
reater mental and physical hardihood, in the
eatuiosn. for the above reasons, than in the latest

born. Obedience, industry, habits of thrift and

ill |

frugality, are ingrained in the eldest.
the staple of his daily teaching.

But with the advent of luxury into the house
the parents themselves have relaxed that healthy
practise and teaching. They take their ease; the
younger children are observant of the example;
no precept can take the place of example. It is
the oldest son who enters business, most frequently
with the father, and is to-day earrying the burden.
It is the oldest sister who shows the most char-
acter, very often; she becomes the mainstay of the
other children,-for she was taught to.be cour-
ageous and strong; her husband’s home is often
the refuge of her younger sister and brothers
after they have scattered the portion of goods
that fell to them.

How frequently is this line of teaching
culcated in the second blood of children, born of

They were

gentleman. I am not impudent; I am only asking
my bright-minded readers to peruse the page of
daily life about them. The sons of the dead
woman are strong, industrious, taking each a
man’s place in the world’s great work-shop. The
little sons of the present wife sport donkey-carts
and costly splendors, indulged and pampered by
the feeble old dotard in his ripe and generous
love, but are in danger of growing up to be scat-
| terers rather than gatherers, The only escape is
|; when the young mother is a genuine woman, of
| sterling common sense, with a wise eye to fore-
| see the danger to her darlings. I can see, too,
that very frequently the shrewd old children of
the first mother are wickedly willing that the
pampered innocents, children of the second mother,
shall be allowed to destroy themselves. They
forget to love, and warn, and shield them as they
ought; there is an estrangenient which often
would not protect these younglings if it could.
After all, there is something proud and noble
in the position of the eldest born, if he be in-
deed of good stuff. It is’ not difficult for him to
early win and always keep a beautiful authority.
If he be of an affectionate disposition, he is
tenderly loved and loves tenderly the little ones.
They take pride in the unfolding of his charac-
ter; they cheer loudest when he graduates; they
boast of his strength and valor, often exercised
in their behalf; they admire every good thing
about him, from his gouns beard to his name on
a new business sign. is possible for the
eldest to preserve and hides this respectful love
into an influence for ihe young ones’ welfare that
is hardly second to father’s or mother’s. And the
peril of a bad example is equally great. Alas!
for that young man who must confess that he
Jed his younger brother astray! What a mem-
ory of horror will that yet prove! To have first
put the wine-cup to his brother’s lips; to have
first whispered the foul secrets of the sinful street;
to have been the companion of the boy in his
first excursions down to resorts of shame! If

 

lash will fall on that older brother’s back!
the family, as elsewhere, honors and primacy
carry grave responsibilities in their hands.
Heaven forbid that fratricide should ever be
charged to any reader of these lines,

In

 

Josh Billings’ Philosophy.

Mankind gennerally admit that the world re-
volves on its axis; the only great mistake they
make iz, each one seems to think he iz the axis.

The man who kan say all he has got to say on
a subjeet, in two lines, is either a phook or &
genius—probably a genius.

Suckcess in this life iz like Watebina for a
rat—the rat iz quite az apt tew cum out at the
other eend ov the hole. ~

Adversity haz the same effect on a phool that
{b cen duz on a mule—it sets them tew kiking
a

One ov the sriadiseee ov ola age seems tew be
tew giv advice that noboddy will phollow, and
relating experiences that everyboddy distrusts.

Vice in the young fills us with horror—in the

Ambishun iz az natral tew the soul ov man
az blood iz tew hiz ddy. hare isn’t a shu-
black on the face ov the earth but who be-
eaves he kan “shine ’em up” 2 leetle better than
ennyone else.

The only. thing that we are positively sure ov
in this life seems tew be the only thing that we
think a never a- going tew happen, and that
iz—death

s

Timi

The grate desire ov mi life iz tew amuze sum-
boddy. I would rather be able tew set the mul-
tiplikashun table tew sum lively tune than hav
bin the author ov it. .

The man who never makes enny blunders sel-
dum makes enny good hits.

Truth iz the only thing that time cannot des-
troy, and eternity cannot dispense with.

Life iz short, but if yu notis the way most
people spend their time, yu would suppoze that
life wuz everlasting. ~ ;

it makes the phools endurable.

Forms and cerimonys are just az mutch neces-
sary in the church az uniforms are in the field;
strip an army ov its cockades and brass puttons,
and it would bekum a mob.

Iil-bred people are alwus the most cerimonius;
the kitchen alwus beats the parlor in punktillio.

If yu want tew be good, all yu hav tew do is
tew obey God, luy man, and hate the devil.

Politeness iz the cheapest investment I kno ov;
it iz like lighting another man’s kandle bi yours,

To be a good critic requires more brains and
judgment than most men possess

 

dity.

By Kate Thorn.

We aljJ laugh at timid people, and yet every-
body is afraid of something. Perhaps it is an
unacknowledged fear, but it exists, nevertheless.

_ Timidity makes us unhappy, but if we “fear
nothing,” then, according to the old saw, “we
know nothing. st

We know a man who has been in numerous
battles, who has walked boldly to the cannon’s
mouth without blanching, but let the same man
see a spider in the room, and he needs all his
womankind and some ot his neighbors to protect
him.

Women are proverbially timid. Joan of Arc
would probably have fainted away if a mouse had
‘got into her male apparel, and the bravest woman
of our acquaintance would go into spasms at the
sight of a striped snake!

But nothing torments the average woman quite
so much as the fear of burglars. She looks for
them all her life. She confidently expects them
every night. If she has only a half-dozen silver
spoons, which were her grandmother’s, by way of
silverware, and fifty cents in money, she is afraid
some housebreaker may have heard of it. She
will put the spoons in the husk bed, and listen to
every sound about the house, and make herself
uncomfortable during the dark hours with imag-

ining what might happen. —

She will wake up her husband every time a
mouse squeals in the wainscot, and tell him, in a
terrified pushers that she “heard something,” and
he will fall to snoring again in a moment, and
she will lie awake and listen, and plan what she
would do if she had a pistol and 2 burglar should

} come, and she wasn’t afraid to s

oot,
a ee of a aye ‘fills hee with eer

 

the soft tread of her favorite cat makes the cold
shudders run down her back, and so she lies and
worries till morning, and finds herselt alive and
that nothing particular has happened.

It seems to be human nature to dread some-
thing, either real or imaginary, and it doesn’t
make much difference which. Imaginary evils
have caused quite as much distress as real ones.
The. things which never happened have sown as
many gray hairs in our heads as those which have
actually taken place. The bridges we have
crossed before we came to them have gone down
under us with quite as fateful a crash as those to
which we have come regularly in the legitimate
course of events,

Some people fear one thing, some another.

We have a friend who sees no beauty in the
summer, because she is in mortal terror of thun-
der-showers. When a cloud no bigger than a
man’s hand comes up in the west, she suspends
her ordinary avocations, pulls out her hairpins,
removes her earrings, takes off her corset, and
prepares to be miserable. We have another friend
who ridicules this fear, and yet she will not ride
on a railway-car for fear the boiler may burst, or
there may be a collision, or sométhing else fright-
ful may occur.

Mrs. A. will not sit down with thirteen at table.
Mrs. B, laughs at her, and yet Mrs. B. does not
like to see the moon over her left shoulder.

Some people spend their lives in being afraid of
sickness. When an epidemic prevails anywhere,
they have all the symptoms of the disease. They
are sure some of their family will die of it. And
so every time measles, and scarlet fever, and diph-
theria are. mentioned, they expect to have those

 

in- }

a second marriage to an old and now wealthy |
| months.

The grate advantage ov good breeding iz that

 

maladies, and suffer, by apprehension nearly as
much as they would if they were indeed attacked.

We know people who are afraid of ghosts, and
to the mind of an intelligent person nothing can

} seem more absurd, yet the superstitious individual

suffers intensely, ‘and gets little sympathy. Just
imagine how terrible it must be to walk about
day by. day expecting to hear behind you footsteps
which long ago went out of the world, listening
for voices to address you that have long since
been silenced in the grave, expecting to see the
ghostly face of your dead grandmother, or aunt,
or mother-in-law glaring at you out of the festal
teacup, or scowling at you across the beefsteak
and onions, and daily bread of your dinner-table!

Yes, timidity, in whatever form it may appear,
is an affliction, and though we may laugh at our
fearful friend, we cannot do anything to rid him
of his familiar demon. It is something he will
have to bear to the end, and be thankful it is
no worse.

ib « Go ge

HOW RATS SAVED MY LIFE.

BY ARTHUR L. MESERVE.

“Rats desert a sinking ship,’’ said Ben Haley,
the old sailor, as he took in a quid of tobacco, and
gave the waistbands of his trousers an energetic
hitch.

“An old saying,”’
more truth in it than
similar sort.”

Gld Ben stared at me with distended eyes, as
though he doubted my sanity, or thought that I
was quizzing him.

‘It is the gospel truth,”

“That rats leave a ship when
sink?”

*!¥es.t*

“How do-you know ii?”

“T have seen ‘em do it with my own eyes.

“And the ship was lost?”

“Yes, on the very next voyage it made.”

“How came you to see them?”

‘T’l] spin you the yarn,
My seeing ‘em saved my life.
should have been in. Davy
ago.”

‘1 told Ben that nothing would please me better
than to hear the story, as long as he vouched for
its truthfulness. So, giving his trousers another
hitch, he began:

“You see, this thing happened when I was a
young man. I was courting my old woman in
those days, and we got spleed on my twenty-
sixth birthday. This was the year before, so I
was twenty-five at the time the thing happened
that I am going to tell you about.

“JT had been lying in port for nigh about. six
I wasn’t very well when I came ashore,
and afore I got better I run across Susie Brown,
and she took possession of my heart afore I knew
it. I was dead in love with her in no time, and
after that, although I got strong again, I couldn’t
tear myself away. So I hung round until I be-
came ashamed of myself, and made up my mind
that I would ship on the first vessel that came
into port in want of hands.

said I, ‘‘and one that has no
hundreds of others of a

he said solemnly.
it is about to

%”

Jones’ locker long

“In just two days after I had made up my |

a ship came into port. She was a whaler,
bound op a three years’ yoyage, and was lacking
a few men. She was an old vessel, and I didn’t
like the looks of her very well; but I had been
lying on my oars so Jong that I hadn’t a shot in
the locker, and waS glad of any chance.

“One of the mates came ashore, and I fell in
with him. He found out that I wanted to ship,
and he tried his best to get me to go on board
and sign the papers at once. But I held back,
Three years seemed a long time to wait for Susie,
even if somebody didn’t step in -and cut me out.
She hadn’t promised then to be mine, but some-
how I felt sure that I should get her if I worked
hard for the prize. -

“7 told the mate that I would let him know the
next day, and so got away from him. That night
I went to see Susie, and told her that I had made
up my mind to ship. She said that she was glad
of it, for I had _been loafing round long enough.
Her tongue said so, but her eyes told me another
story when she knew how long it would be before
the North Star would furl her sails again in our
port. Three years is a good while to look forward
to, but sometimes they go by almost afore you
know it.

“The moon was shining bright over the town,
and somewhat late in the evening I asked Susie
to go down to the wharves and take a look at the
North Star with me. So she clapped on her bon-
net, and off we started.

‘“‘We hadn’t a great distance to go, but we were
some time in getting there. We had a good deal
to say, and weren’t in any hurry. But we got to

mind,

| the wharf where she was lying at last, and stepped
there be a judgment-day to come, what smarting | ee PP

in the shadow of a warehouse to look at her. In
the moonlight she looked well, and so I said to
Susie, although I didn’t mean more than half my
words:

‘“**Ain’t she a beauty? It won’t be a bad home
for a fellow for three years, will it?’

“ “She looks well enough, Ben, but it is a great
while to be gone.’

* ‘I know it, Susie,’ said I, giving her a hug,
‘but a sailor can’t stay always on shore.’

**You are right, Ben,’ she answered bravely.
‘Of course you have to go.’

“She didn’t speak again for a minute, and I had
an idea that she was going to burst out crying.

“Her face was turned toward the ship, which
lay as still and silent as though there was not a
living thing on board. Then Susie gave a great
start, and a cry at the same moment.

‘Ben! Ben! you must not go in that ship! If
you do, you will never come back.’ —

‘“"Why, Susie, what do you mean?’ said I,
amazed.

* ‘Look yonder, and tell me if I ain’t right.’

‘She pointed to. the plank which led from the
gangway to the wharf. The moonlight fell upon
it, and I saw at once what the matter was. The
rats were leaving the ship! Over the plank they
scampered, and then.down through a hole in the
wharf to join the hordes of their race that dwelt
there,

“Susie looked up into my eyes with a face as
white as the moonlight.

“Rats always leave a doomed ship,’ she said.
‘All the old sailors say so. Depend upon it, the
North Star will never come back. How lucky it
was, Ben, that we came down here to-night.’

“ “So it was, Susie,’ said I, with a shiver. ‘The
North Star will go without me. I will wait for
another vessel.’

“We stood still and watched the rats as they
scampered out. It did seem as though there
would be no end to them. But there was at last,
and then I knew that you might hunt the North
Par from stem to stern and not find one left be-

n

‘Susie and I went home, and before I left her
that night she had promised to be my wife.

“T told the mate next day that I had changed
my mind, but I did not tell him why I had done
so.

“The North Star sailed away on her voyage,
but she never came back. What became of her
remains a mystery to this day.

“In about a week I got another vessel, and
went on a short voyage. When I came back, Susie
os her promise, and the parson made us man and
wife.

“That, mister, is the way the rats saved my
life. If they hadn’t left the North Star just as
they did, I should have gone down with her,
and you would never have heard this story.’

tO
HEALTH AND HYGIENE.

Tnere would be fewer delicate wives and
mothers were we better educated along the lines
of hygiene and sanitation. I have learned by sad
experience the value and nééd of sanitary regu-
lations in cellar, bathroom, kitchen, etc. The need
of disinfecting and purifying should be better un-
derstood, and the sooner housewives learn the
art, the better it will be for their homes and its
inmates. To destroy the parasitical growths and
to purify the air of the cellar, place some pul-
verized brimstone in a pan, pour alcohol upon it,
and set fire to.it. But first close the windows and
doors tight, and keep them closed for several
hours, Repeat this precess every few months.

.To disinfect the kitchen sink, which becomes a
hotbed of disease unless it is carefully watched,
flush it out daily with a strong solution of borax
water. This kills disease germs and removes dis-
ease-breeding impurities. So many other disin-
fectants are unsafe, such as coppers and car-
bolic acid, that I fear to give them; but the borax
is harmless and yet very effective.

The kitchen is a very important room in our
homes. Much illness and malaria has been traced
to the kitchen sink, the pipes leading from it
having become clogged with poisonous water. Not
long since a wealthy Philadelphian’s. loss of his
only daughter was traced to this cause.

SARA H, HENTON.

 

if you want to hear it.
If I hadn’t, 1}

| Westminster Abbey.

 

 

 

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 cor/fidential, and are
so treated.

KENNEDY, Chillicothe, Texas,—The largest city
in each of the several States is here recorded:
Alabama, Mobile; Arkansas, Little Rock; Cali-
fornia, San Francisco; Colorado, Denver; Con-
necticut, New Haven; Delaware, Wilmington;
Florida, Jacksonville; Georgia, Atlanta; Illinois,
Chicago; Indiana, ~ Indianapolis; lowa, Des
Moines; Kansas, Kansas City; Kentucky, Louis-
ville;. Louisiana, New Orleans; Maine, Port-
land; Maryland, Baltimore; Massachusetts, Bos-
ton; Michigan, Detroit; Minnesota, Minneapolis;
Mississippi, Vicksburg; Missouri, St. Louis;
Montana, Butte; Nebraska, Omaha; Nevada, Vir-
ginia City; New Hampshire, Manchester; New
Jersey, Newark; New York, New York City;
North Carolina, Wilmington; North Dakota, Far-
go; Ohio, Cleveland; Oklahoma, Oklahoma City;
Oregon, Portland; Pennsylvania, Philadelphia;
Rhode Island, Providence; South Carolina,
Charleston; South Dakota, Sioux Falls; Tennes-
see, Memphis; Texas, San Antonio; Utah, Salt
Lake City; Vermont, Burlington; Virginia, Rich-
mond; Washington, Seattle; West Virginia,
Wheeling ; Wisconsin, Milwaukee; Wyoming,
Cheyenne.

S. T. THALLMEYER,
at first increases the
makes it coarser. The beard should not be shaved
during its development, and during youth its
natural growth should not be disturbed. Shaving,
though for a time it may accelerate the growth
of the beard, eventually ceases to have any stimu-
lating effect, but, on the other hand, serves to
retard growth, as‘it causes the single hairs
to become prematurely strong and hard. The
finest beards are those which have not undergone a
process of shaving. To judge of the true effect
of shaving requires the face, after being so treated,
to be viewed through a microscope, when the en-
lire skin over which the razor has traveled will
be found to resemble a piece of raw beef. Under
the microscope it will be seen that the blood-
vessels have been exposed, each little quivering
mouth holding a minute blood-drop, and protesting
against the rude treatment of the razor. The
nerve tips are also uncovered, and the pores left
unprotected, making the skin tender and un-
healthy, and the shaved one liable to incur colds,
hoarseness, and sore throat.

Milwaukee,
growth of the beard,

Wis.—Shaving
but

its

B. C. WORTHINGTON, Green Mountain Falls,
Colo.—The ashes of Sir Henry Irving repose in
This historic edifice was in
existence in the early part of the seventh ecen-
tury. The largest part of the present structure
was completed in the thirteenth century.. The
British sovereigns, from Edward the Confessor,
to the present monarch, have been crowned in
Westminster Abbey. It is in the form of an
irregular cross. It is 511 feet long, including
Henry VII.’s Chapel. . The extreme breadth of
the transept is 200 feet. The height is 102 feet,
and the tower is 225 feet in height. Surround-
ing the east end, in a semicircle, are nine
chapels.. In the south transept, in and near the
poets’ corner, areé monuments to most of the great
poets of England. Near the poets’ corner are
monuments of many illustrious Englishmen,

W. T. BurGeEss, Little River, §: C.—The ha-
bitual use of opium, either internally or by in-
halation, as in smoking, is exceedingly harmful.
It should never be taken unless by the advice
of a conscientious physician. The drug ob-
tained by cutting the capsule of the poppy-flower
with a notched iron instrument at sunrise, and
by the next morning a drop or so of juice has
oozed out. This is scraped off and saved by the
grower, and, after he has a vessel full of it, it
is strained and dried. It takes a great Many pop--
pies to produce a pound of opium, and it goes
through a number of processes before it is ready
for the market. In a liquid state it is of a
brownish-yellow tint, and of a waxy consistency.

is

L. H. HAtiipay, Toronto, Canada.—Calecutta is
known as “the city of palaces and pigsties,’’ and
it is also noted for its charming botanical gardens.
A stranger, visiting the gardens for the first time,
will find his wonder and admiration excited by
the appearance of an immense banyan-tree. The
branches of this tree droop as do our weeping
willows; and when a branch is sufficiently long,
its extremity becomes imbedded in the earth, takes
root, and in turn sends out more branches. In
this instance the operation has been repeated until
the tree now measures 959- feet in circumference
at its base and has attained a height of 85 feet.
It forms a VOR AnIS: maze—a marvel to the eye of
a stranger.

B. D. M., Azalia, Ind.—The royal female swim-
mer of Europe is Queen Amelia, of Portugal. She
is tall and graceful and shapely in form. Accus-
tomed to the water from childhood, she is a dar-
ing and powerful swimmer. She has saved several
persons from drowning, and the people of Lisbon
often speak with pride and joy of the day she
leaped into the Tagus and rescued two children
from drowning. On another occasion she saved
the life of her boatman—a man beyond the aver-
age size—who would most certainly have been
drowned had it not been for the queen’s impulsive
bravery.

HELMWROTH, Milwaukee, Wis.—The Teutonic,
or Germanic, nations are divided into three
branches: 1. The High Germans of Upper and
Middle Germany, with the Germans of Switzer-
land and the greater part of those in the Austrian
Empire. 2. The Low German branch, including the
Frisians, *the Low Germans, the Dutch, the Flem-
ings, and the English descended from the Jutes,
Angles, and Saxons who settled in Britain: and
8. The Scandinavian branch, including the Ice-
landers, the Norwegians, the Swedes, and Danes,

HUNTER, Center Moriches, N. Y.-—‘‘Hobson’s
choice” means that you have no choice at all, but
take what you are forced to take. The expression
originated from the custom of Tobias Hobson, a
livery-stable keeper in Cambridge, England. He
would not permit his patrons to choose the horses
they hired, but so arranged them that the freshest
horse, or the one most needing exercise, was al-
Ways nearest the door. That one the applicant
was compelled to hire,

WINSTON, Cincinnati, Ohio.—It has been au-
thoritatively declared by the San Francisco Board
of Health that 452 persons lost their lives by
the earthquake and fire which began on April 18.
Of the victims 266 were killed by falling walls,
177 perished by fire, 7 were shot, and 2 died from
ptomaine poisoning due to eating canned goods
of a deleterious quality,

L. W. M., Milwaukee, Wis.—The standard for-
mula for a concrete mixture is one part of Port-
land cement, three parts of clean, sharp sand, and
five parts of fine crushed stone. The particles of
stone shold not be larger than half the size of a

hickory-nut,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

Pai os < etetens sounded on the stone, they saw through

5

 

 

terror which she never forgot.

moved to say much more,

: -Dale’s soft voice calling to them.

_ stood for a few seconds without seeing anything.

~ showered eat on the strawberries.

way.” sighed Mabin.

two white hands of Mrs. Dale,

a Fr saw, am she was too irquisitive. ~

< "assuredly the watcher would go after her, while

3 unhappy day when I saw you last?
And

- pause,

ne fae iy don’t care!’

“Rudolph stopped and looked at her.

" of-tact- girl,
quickly, | ‘and looke

asked.

 

 

 

 

‘The Howse on

 

3

 

the Marsh ae ete.

 

at a without a crutch, when she heard a great
rustling of the branches of the lilac- bushes which
grew close under the wall.

And then, above the wall, she saw the face of
Rudolph,

“OL! !” cried Mabin, with a little fluttering of
the heart. “I—I thought you had gone back to
your ship!”

“Why, so I had,” replied Rudolph, raising him-
self so that she had a view of his shoulders as
well as of his head. “But I’ve come back again,
you see.’

“T can guess eth! behuahe you!’ said Mabin,
wishing the next moment that she had not uttered
the words.

Rudolph took her up quickly.

“Can you? Well, then, what was it?”

Mabin blushed scarlet, Of course, the thought

-|that was in her mind that the charms of the

(Dap Lapy IN Buack” Was commenced last week.)

_ CHAPTER I1I—Continued.
They were under the portico now,-and as their

_the-open door into the dark hall and heard Mrs.

“It takes ever so much longer to get a thing
done than to do it oneself!” she exclaimed
brightly, with a sigh, as she came out of the
-Yroom on the left, and invited ‘them to go in. “I
could have brought Miss Rose in in half the time,
even if she had fought to get away. Did she
_ fight?” went on Mrs. Dale, with arch innocence.

were in the room by this time, and
> Mabin, ‘coming in out of the glare of the sun,

Then her hands were gently taken,
found herself pushed into a low chair.
“Bring her some strawberries, Mr. Bonning-
ton,” said Mrs. Dale. ‘“‘By the way, I may as
well remark that I don’t intend to call you Mr.
- Bonnington -very- long. I shall drop into plain
‘Rudolph’ very soon, if only to give a fresh
shock to the neighborhood, to which I am Shocker-
in- -ordinary.”
““"Phe sooner the better. I can’t understand
ee being Mr. Bonnington but my father.
e looks equal to the dignity, while I
. I always feel that there is a syllable too
- for me, and that people. despise _ me in>

and she

Sis. who had recovered. the use of her eyes,
felt rather envious. The quick give and take of
light talk like this was so different from the
solemn conversations carried on at home, where
her father laid down the law and everybody else
agreed with him, that she felt this levity, while
“pleasant and amiusing, to be something which
would - nave caused the good folk at home to
kok askance.

‘“‘And how have you been, child, , Since that
Dale came to the oor chair, and

“Oh, I’ve been getting on all right, but it is
tiresome not to be able to walk without those
things. And it has made me in “ee

“How is that?”
“Papa could have Tet the pease, to go abroad,
‘as he wanted to, when the accident happened.
Only I couldn’t well be moved then. And now
that-1 could go, he has lost the house he had
heard of at Geneva, and one which he could
have now is- too small for. us, So that I feel
a am or the way again.”

Oo you mean,” asked Mrs. Dale quite eagerly,
“that, they could go if they could only dispose of
you?

“Yes. There is one room short.”

Little Mrs. Dale sprang up, and the color in
her cheeks grew pinker.

“Do you think,” she asked, after a ‘moment’s
“that your parents would allow you to.
stay with me? If you would come,”~ she fin-
_ ished, with a plaintive note of entreaty on the
“last meee
“Oh, I am sure they would, and I am sure.
. would!” cried Mabin, with undisguised de-
ight.

“And then, quite suddenly, the face of the
black-robed_ lady grew ashy-gray, and she sank
down | into her chair trembling from head to

“No, I—I mustn’t ask you,” she said hoarsely.
And there was a silence, during which both
her young hearers cast down their eyes, feeling
that they dared not look at her. It was Mabin
who spoke first. Putting her hand between the
she said gently :_
“Is it because ~you are lonely you want me
to come?” —
_ She did venture to look up. lhes, startled by
the shiver which convulsed Mrs. Dale as she
- spoke. And in the blue eyes she saw a look of

=

“Lonely Oh, child, you will never know how
lonely !” burst from her pale lips.

“Then will come,” said Mabin. “y should
Hke to oa eee. :

There was another silence. Mrs. Dale had evi-

dently to put strong constraint upon herself to
eheck an outburst of emotional gratitude. Ru--
_ dolph, moved himself by the little scene, was
_ booking out of the window. The lady in black
presently. spoke again, very gravely:
“JT don’t think you will be very much bored,
dear, and you will be doing a great: kindness to
a fellow creature. And yet—I hardly like—I
~ don’t feel that I ought ;

“But I feel that I muat and shall,” said

_Mabin brightly.. ‘‘You don’t know how beautiful
it would be for me to feel that at last, for a
little while, I shouldn’t be in the way!”
_ And the overgrown girl, who was snubbed at
home, had tears in her eyes at the remembrance
of the kind touch which she had felt on the
day of her accident. Mrs. Dale was too much
but it was agreed
between the ladies that the suggestion_ should
be formally made by the tenant of ‘‘The Towers”
to the heads of the household at ‘Stone House’
_ without delay, that Mabin should stay with her
new friend during the absence abroad of the
Test of the Rose family.

Mabin did not pauses. while they talked, that
Rudolph remained not only silent but somewhat
constrained ; but it was not until she took her
leave of Mrs. Dale, and he followed her out, that
the young girl attached any importance to his

‘reserve,
“Once out of-hearing of Mrs. Dale, who stood

on the stone steps to bid them good-by, Rudolph |"

Learn her abruptly: —
“Do you think they’ll let you come?”

“Oh, yes, they'll only be too glad to get rid of
me. Why do you ask in that tone?”

“Well, there is something I think I ought to
_ tell you, if you are thinking of staying -with
pers, Dale.” :

“Well, what is it?”
“It is‘that she is being watched. v

“Watched !”

“Yes, by a stranger, | a man whom I have
“meyer seen in the place before. He hovers about
this place, keeping out of range of possible eyes
in the anee, at all hours of the day, and even)
Lae cee ight.”

3ut how do you know this?”

he words slipped out of her ‘mouth, and it
was not until she saw Rudolph redden ‘that she
_quietiy, sure of what I say, anyhow,” said ae:
qu

“Mabin- Jooked thoughtful.
she- said at last.
st thought you wouldn’t.

a

And : sha’n’t tell’ anybody anything about itt

“JT was sure you wouldn't.
“But I shall tell Mrs. Dale. 7

“I think you had better not do that; eh Nie. aia.
“But why should a person watch her, except
with tne intention” ot trying to do her some

ar Well, a3 don’t know. But I think if you do
~ tell her, knowing how highly nervous she is,
you. will do her more harm than ever the mys-
_ terious watcher would. Perhaps you would even
drive her out of the place, in which case most

if we keep her here, perhaps we may manage
to draw his fangs.” —

Mabin felt frightened. Then, being a matter-

she | as the better of this feeling.

up keenly at her companion.

do oe exactly mean by that?”

“Only iat Ey will et hold of the man quietly
d find out what his little game is. Though
ean guess.”

“Well, you can tell me what your guess is?”
“Why, debt, of course. One can see she is
clined to be extravagant, and very likely ‘she
as run up bills. somewhere. Don’t you think

s tone was rather anxious, | “Mabin- thought.
But she answered indignantly: _ ™
I don’t would be very dishonorable
away without paying one’s debts, and I
on’t think you much of<a friend to poor Mrs.
ile to suggest such a thing!”
; Ih looked not guilty, but grave. Z
as so he, “‘people don’t hang about a
place, a risk of getting taken up ‘on sus-
picion o “loitering, for the purpose of committing
a ‘felony, ut some reason.’
ae ae triumphantly, “that is the
_has some lovely diamond
peer eae to ateal |

“What | she

“I am sure of it!’ retorted Mabin resolutely. |
And she held out her hand. ‘‘Good-by, and
thank you for your helps”

“And you will remember my. parabie about
the roses?’’ said he, as he took her hand, and
thought he liked gray eyes, after all, better than
blue ones.

“Perhaps,” said Mabin
honped away on her crutches,

cautiously, . she

CHAPTER Iv.
WAS IT A RECOGNITION?

While Mabin was still talking to Rudolph in
|the road between “The Towers” and “Stone
| House,” a tall parlor-maid, in snow-white French
cap and ends, passed them, on her way from the
hand. to the latter house, bearing a letter in her

an

And when Mabin reached home she found that
the Powers had already’ received Mrs. Dale’s in-
vitation to Mabin.

In truth, it had put both husband and wife into

a@ position of some difficulty. For while, on the
one hand, they were delighted at this opportunity
of getting ‘ ‘the one too many” off their hands for
a time, yet there were the opinions of their neigh-
bors to be considered; and the tide of public
feeling had set in strong gly against the Jady in
black.
If her hair had been dark instead of fair,
would have made all the difference. The beauty
which goes with brown hair and a more or less
dark complexion is not so startling; not so sensa-
tional, as the loveliness of pink and white and
-gold which made Mrs. Dale so conspicuous. If,
again, she had not been in mourning—and such
| pretty mourning—they would have been readier to
make allowance for her eccentricities. But the
knowing ones had begun to discover that there
were discrepancies in her attire, that her mourn-
ing was either too deep for diamond rings to be
permissible, or not deep enough for the heavy
black veil she wore.

So that, in short, it was now almost univer-
sally admitted that this person with the too
-showy carriage and horses, and. the dangerously
pretty face, was an individual to bé avoided, and
it was decided that her reluctance to enter the
best society of the place, when that society had

held out its uninviting arms to her, arose from
a wholesome fear that the wise women of the
place would ‘‘find her out.’’

Mr. Rose read Mrs. Dale’s note twice through
very slowly, as if trying to discover hidden mean-
ings in its simple words. Then he looked at his
wife, who was watching him rather anxiously.

S Ww ell, my dear, and what do you think?’’ asked

e.

It pleased him to ask her opinion thus on most
things, not that he ever had any intention of
heeding her wishes in preference to his own, but
in the hope that she would express some modest
inclination one way or the-other, to give him an
impetus in the opposite direction.

“J think, dear, that it would hardly do,” mur-
mured the lady, hoping that for once her husband
would fall in with her views. ‘‘You must have
heard the way in which people talk about this
Mrs. Dale, so that it would be thought very
strange if we let Mabin stay with her. Don’t you
think it was rather underhand of her to get hold
of the child this afternoon ?’’

“‘Underhand! Certainly not,’’ replied Mr. Rose,
with decision. ‘The most natural thing “in the
world, considering how kind she was to the girl
at the time of her accident. And as for the talk
of the place, why, if you listened to all the old
women say you would never go outside your door
for fear your neighbors should think you were
going to steal their hens!” _

There was a pause. She would not irritate him
by another remark. So he presently went on:

“TI suppose hs think the vicar’s wife would
scold you?’’

“Not. scold, of ‘course ; put I am sure she would
disapprove,’’ said Mrs. Rose meekly

“Ah! I thought so. Well, I will give the old
lady something to talk about. Mabin shall stay
with Mrs. Dale if she wishes.”

Mrs. Rose sighed heavily.

“She will wish it, of course. Girls always wish
i do the very things which are not proper for

em.”

“You may be quite satisfied, Emily, that what
I allow my daughter to do is quite proper,’ said
Mr. Rose severely, as he left the room.

Mrs. Rose sighed. She had not told him, be-
cause it would have been useless, that she had to
be more particular than he about Mabin, because,
being the girl’s stepmother only, she was the
more exposed to the gossip of the neighborhood—
a force she dreaded—than her husband was, But
she vented her ill humor on Mabin herself, whom
she informed very acidly that if she chose to go
to “this Mrs. Dale,’’ and was not comfortable
with her, the fault was hers and her father’s.

Mabin received these remarks meekly, rejoicing
in the approaching holiday. She had nothing
very serious to complain of in her treatment
under her father’s roof, but the snubs of her
father, the tacit dislike of her stepmother, and the
fact that the difference in age between her half-
sisters and herself left her much alone, all com-
bined to make her welcome the change.

Emily and Ethel, who were fourteen and twelve

years of age, insipid and spiritless young per-
sons, with little brown eyes and little brown pig-
tails, teased her with questions about her visit of
the. afternoon.

“Ts it true that her hair’s dyed?” asked Emily,
getting Mabin into a corner after tea.

“No, of course it’s not,” was the indignant
answer,

“Oh, well, you needn’t be so angry. Miss Brad-
ley said she Was sure it was, and; that she anew
the stuff she used.”

“Miss Bradley had better try the stuff on her
own wisp, then,” retorted Mabin angrily.

“What is the house like inside, Mabin?’”’ asked
Ethel, who, though only twelve, was quite as
great a gossip as there was in the parish.

“Why, there were chairs and tables in it, just
as there are in every other house. What do you
suppose it was like?’

*“Mabin, don’t snub the children, Their interest
is very natural,” said Mr. Rose peevishly, from
‘the other end of the rgom..

“Horsehair and mahogany, red moreen curtains,
and a black marble clock on the mantel,” said
Mabin ‘laconically.

“Why, that doesn’t sound very nice, that you
ot be in such a hurry to go there!” objected

“But perhaps the other rooms are better.’

y likely,’’ said Mabin.

‘abin was really just a little bit alarmed
at her own good fortune in getting her father’s
consent so easily. She had a superstitious feel-
ing, in spite of her reputed strength of mind, that
anything worth having ought to be rather difficult
to get. In spite of all her loyalty to her heroine,
too, she thought more often than she wished about
Rudolph’s ridiculous fancy that Mrs. Dale was
watched. And although she always dismissed the
thought by saying to herself that Rudolph was in
love with the lovely widow, and therefore ‘‘fan-
cied things,’’ she was anxious to meet him again
and to learn whether he still thought that the fair
tenant of “The Towers” was being watched.

In the meantime great confusion reigned at

“Stone House.”

Everybody | iwas immersed in the horrors of
“packing up,” and it was impossible to go up-
stairs without encountering people staggering un-
der the burden of a heap of things which would
have been better left behind. Even the authority
of .Mr. Rose, who disliked the daily routine to be

disturbed, failed to get any meal eaten at the

it

{proper time, or without unnecessary hurry

ven the fact that Mr. Rose’s old fcienth ‘Mrs.
Haybrow, was expected on a short. visit before
the tigration failed to check the fury of the
packers. It was certainly. unfortunate that she
| should come at such a time. But Mrs. Rose réck-
oned on inflaming her friend’s mind with her own
zeal, and inwardly proposed orgies of competitive
trunk- filling to while away the visitor’s time.
Mrs. Rose secretly hoped, too, that Mrs. Hay-
brow, through her connections at Todcaster, would
be able to furnish her husband with proofs that
Mrs. Dale was not a person to be encouraged.
It was not yet too late to put off Mrs. Dale,
although Mr. Rose had called upon that person
to thank her for the invitation to his daughter
‘and to accept it.
It was the day of tite. Haybrow’s expected ar-

station to meet her. Mabin, wondering whether
the visitor, whom she had not seen since she was

 

a child, would be “nice,” was hobbling. along
. the eee: me omnes erode indeed, but

peer ?*2

rival, and Mr. and Mrs. Rose had driven to the|.

 

fascinating widow had drawn him to Stone. And
just the least little twinge of nascent jealousy
had given a sting of pique to her tone. But she
would not for the world have owned to this; and |
the mere thought that he might have guessed it
was misery. As she did not ‘answer, Rudolph
shook his head. 2
- “YT don’t think you are quite as clever as you
suppose,” he said. “And I don’t choose to tell
you what brought me back, But I may just warn
you that you are likely to get tired of the sight
of me before I do go away altogether, as I can
get as much leave as I like while my ship is at
Portsmouth. Rather alarming prospect, isn’t it?”
“You will get tired of being on shore, won't
you?” asked Mabin, not feeling equal to answer-
ing him in his own tone, which was what her

parents and the vicarage people would have called |

flippant.”

“That depends,” said Rudolph, looking down
with interest at the dried-up blossoms of the
lilac-trees.

- Mabin glanced at him, and began to hope nerv-
ously that she might not see too much of him.
She had never seen a man whom she considered
so handsome as this brown-faced young lieutenant
with the merry black eyes, who made her feel so
ridiculously shy and stiff. And the very attrac-
tion he had for her seemed to the simple young
girl alarming, since shé raised him in her maiden

fancy to a pinnacle from which such a peerless |

creature could never descend to her.

In spite of herself, her tone sounded cold and
constrained, therefore, as she cut short the pause
in the conversation by asking if they were all
well at the vicarage.

“Quite well, thank you,’’ answered Rudolph de-
murely. ‘J suppose that kind inquiry is. meant
for a-snub, isn’t it? And intended to imply that
I ought not to have addressed you in this in-
formal manner over the wall, but that I ought to
have.called in the proper manner at the other
side of the house?’

“Tt wasn’t meant to imply that,” replied Mabin,
with solemn straightforwardness. “Only I wanted
to say something, and I had nothing better to say,
I must tell you that everybody says that I have
no conversational ability.” .

“People allow you very
cording to your account.”

“Quite as many as I have,

“Well, at least,
unusual modesty.” -

Mabin looked up at him

“It’s rather difficult for me to talk to you, be- |
cause I can never tell whether you are serious or
only laughing at me. Don’t you rather—rather |
puzzle Mrs. Bonnington ?”’

“Well,
too.” - -
“We must all seem,
luvian to you. There
here you can speak to in your own way.”

“Mrs. Dale?” :

To Mabin’s fanciful and rather jealous eyes it |
seemed that Rudolph’s color grew a little deeper |
as he uttered the name.

"Ve an ”

“Ah! You will have an opportunity of learn- |
ing the art, if you are going to stay with her.”

“But it is an art which will be entirely use-
less when I get back here again. Papa ard)
mama would think it rather shocking.
know, if they knew how lively Mrs. Dale is in
her ordinary talk, they wouldn’t let me go to

“Then I shouldn’t tell them,
You will find a use for the art of conversation |
some day, you know, when you come across other
frivolous and good-for-nothing young persons like
Mrs. Dale and me.”

Mabin would rather he had not
name with that of the lovely widow.

“Were Mr. and Mrs. Bonnington interested to
hear you had been to see her?’ asked Mabin, feel-
ing as she spoke that this was another jndis-
cretion.

But Rudolph began to laugh mischievously.

“They would have een extremely ‘interested,’

am sure, if they had heard. of it,” said he,
“But I have too much consideration for my par-
ents to impart to them any information which
would ‘interest’ them too deeply to be good for
their digestions. I suppose you think that shock-
ing, don’t you?”

But Mabin was cautious. There was more than |
one gulf, she felt, between her and the merry
young sailor, and she was not going to make them }
any wider.

few good points, ac-

though.”’

down here, very antedi-

if I were you.

coupled his

then, you have one merit of |

| visit was over,

|
}
}

 

 

| sort of person who

land Mrs.
I am afraid I rather—rather shock her, |

|

is only one person about |

Do you |

a | tellectual
steadily and frankly. |

| Haybrow answered:

 

the garden, the girl added: ‘‘Oh, mama, how pale
she looks !”’

“She is tired, no doubt,” said Mrs. Rose, as she
left the room to meet her friend as the latter
came in.

But she also was surprised to see how white
Mrs. Haybrow had become.

“You should have waited until after dinner.
You look quite worn out,’’ she said. ‘Well, and
what had your friend got to say to you?”

Mrs. Haybrow paused, as if too much exhausted
to answer at once, Then she said quietly:
oy was mistaken. She was not my friend, after
all,”

“Not your friend! Dear me! You were so
long gone that we were quite sure she was.”

_ “No. She is very nice, though—quite a charm-
ing woman.”

*‘Ah !” exclaimed Mrs. Rose suspiciously. ‘But
what do you think about her having Mabin?”

’ There was another slight pause before Mrs.
“T am sure you may be quite
satisfied about that.’

But when dinner was over, Mrs. Haybrow got
Mabin to take her to see the new ducks that Mr.
Rose was so proud of; and on the way back she
asked the girl whether she was very anxious for
her visit to ‘“‘The Towers.’”’ And finding that she
was, Mrs. Haybrow added: :

“And, of course, dear, if anything were to hap-
pen while you were there, which seemed to you
rather strange or unusual, you would write or
telegraph to papa and mama at once, wouldn’t
you?”

“Of course. I see,’’ ‘went on Mabin, smiling,
“that mama has managed to infect you already
with her own suspicions of poor Mrs. Dale.’

“No, dear, Mrs. Dale seemed to mé a very nice
woman indeed, and very anxious to have you.
But I am getting old, and I am nervous about
girls away from their homes. That is all.”

; ane she turned the conversation to another sub-
ject.

CHAPTER V.
A STARTLING VISIT.

Mrs. Rose was not a woman of acute percep-
tions, but even she was vaguely conscious that
there was something not quite satisfactory about
the account Mrs. Haybrow had given of her visit
to “The Towers.”

Surely it was very strange that, after being so
sure that Mrs. Dale was an old friend of hers, she
should have discovered that she was mistaken!
And again, if the pretty widow had really proved
to be a-stranger, why should Mrs. Haybrow, tired
as she was after her journey, have stayed at ‘“‘The
Towers” so long?

Besides, Mrs. Rose could not help thinking that
she had heard some name like “Dolly Leatham”’
before, although she had forgotten that it was
from the lips of Mrs. Bonnington, and that it had
been part of the back-stairs gossip .which Mr.
Rose would have been angry with her for en-
couraging.

Mrs. Rose was a person in whose mind few
facts long remained in a definite shape. Accus-
tomed to have all mental processes performed for
her by her husband, she lived in a state of in
laziness. in which her faculties had
begun to rust. Mr. Rose had complete confidence
in Mrs. Haybrow, who was indeed a staid, solid
inspired trust. If, therefore,
Rose trusted to Mrs. Haybrow’s judgment,
Haybrow saw no objection to Mabin’s
visit, surely there was no need to fatigue one-
self by hunting up obstacles to a very convenient
errangement.

And so it fell out that, when Mrs. Haybrow’s
and the Roses started for Switzer-
land, Mabin saw them all off at the station, and
then returned to “Stone House,’’ to pack up the
few things she had left out which she would want
during her stay at ‘‘The Towers.”

She had reached the portico, and was going up
the steps of her home with leisurely steps, rather
| melancholy at the partings which had been gone
| through, and witha few girlish fears about her
| visit, when the door of the house was opened
| suddenly, before she could ring the bell, and the
parlor-maid, one of the two servants who, at the

Mr.

| request of the new tenant, had been left behind,

|

 

;

|

“I’m sure you do what is best,’’ she said mod- |

estly.

‘I’ve got something to tell you,’’ said he. “But
it’s rather a confidential communication, and these
lilac-bushes extend a long way.
nearer to the wall, or may I get over it?”

“You may get over, if you like,” said Mabin,
coming, as she spoke, a little nearer to the bushes,

Rudolph availed himself of the permission in
the twinkling of an eye, and stood beside her on
the grass path under the limes, looking down at
the prétty nape of the girlish neck, which showed
between the soft brown hair and the plain, wide
turn-down collar of pale-blue linen, which she
wore with her fresh Holland frock,

“The man—I told you about the man I saw
watching ‘The Towers.’ Well, he has disap-
peared,” said Rudolph, not sorry to have an ex-
cuse for whispering into such a pretty little pink
ear.

“Oh, I am glad!”

“So I hope we shall see no more of him.’

“And do you still think—surely you can’ t still
think—that he was watching Mrs. Dale?”

“Oh well, I don’t know, of course. And, at
any rate, the slight objection I had to your going [f
to ‘The Towers’ has disappeared.”

Mabin felt a strange pleasure at the interest
implied in this concern for her. There was a
pause, broken by Mabin, who suddenly started, as

-if waking from a dream.

cried she. “They have come
Good-by.”’
He took it, and de-

“The carriage!”
back. I must go in.

She held out her hand.
tained it a moment.

“T may come and see you sometimes, when you
are at ‘The Towers,’ mayn’t I? For old acquaint-
ance sake?’
~ “Oh—for Mrs. Dale’s!” said Mabin quickly, as
she snatched away -her hand and ran into the
house,

She was not so silly as not to know where the
attraction of ‘‘The Towers” lay!

Mrs. Rose’s lumbering old landau, which made
such a contrast to Mrs, Dale’s smart victoria, had
returned from the station, and as | it drove slowly
along- the road past ‘‘The Towers,’ *’ Mrs. Rose was
just finishing to Mrs. Haybrow a long recital of
her difficulties in connection with the doubtful new
resident.

Mr. Rose had chosen to come back on foot, so
his wife could pour out her tale without inter-
ruption or contradiction.

“There !’? she cried, below her breath, as they
eame close to the gates of ‘“‘The Towers,” ‘‘you
will be able to see her. She is standing just in-
side the garden, calling to her little dog. Don’t
you think that a little dog always looks rather,
rather odd?”

Mrs. Haybrow thought that this was somewhat
severe judgment, but she did not say so. She
got a good view of the mysterious lady in black;
for Mrs. Dale raised her golden head as the car-
riage passed, and she and Mrs. Rose exchanged a
rather cool bow.

To the great surprise of her companion, Mrs.
Haybrow fell suddenly into a state of intense ex-
citement.

“Why, it’s Dolly Leatham, little Dolly Lea-
tham !”’ she cried, with evident delight. ‘“‘The idea
of my meeting her down here! I haven’t seen the
child for years.”

“You know her, then?’ asked Mrs. Rose, in a
tone which in relief was mingled with disappoint-
ment at the collapse of her own suspicions.

“T used to know her very well. She was the
belle of that part of Yorkshire. The last I heard
of her was that she was engaged to be married to
some man who had a lot of money; and they said
she was being hurried into it by her people rather
against her will.’

“Well, she has managed to get rid of him,” said
Mrs. Rose coldly. ‘You see she is in widow’s

dress now.”

“Yes, so I see. Poor Dolly!
strange to find her here, so far from all
friends! And the things you have told me.”

After a pause Mrs. Haybrow said decidedly:
“T must call upon her to-morrow. No, I’ll go
and see her at once. There will be plenty of
time before dinner, won’t there? There’s some-
thing mysterious about this, and I must find out
what it is.”

So, when she had had a cup of tea, Mrs. Hay-
brow went straight to “The Towers.”

She remained there a long time, so long that
Mrs. Rose wondered what the ladies could have
to say to each other. And when, at last, Mabin,
who was watching at the drawing-room window

It seems rather
her

Will you come}

 

appeared, with her finger to her lips.

Mabin paused on the top step and Toned at her
| with surprise.

Langford came out, and spoke in a whisper.

“Shall I pack up your things and send them in
to Mrs. Dale’s to- night, Miss Mabin? Mr. Banks
has come, and he seems such a queer sort of gen-
tleman I don’t quite know how to take him yet.
He came upon us quite sudden, almost as soon as
the bus with the luggage had turned the corner,
and asked, sharplike, if they were all gone. And
I said ‘Yes, * and he seemed relieved like, and so
I didn’t dare to mention you were coming back to
fetch your things.”’

Mabin stared gloomily at Langford, who was
evidently anxious to get rid of her.

‘“What’s the matter with him? Do you think it
is Mr. Banks, and not some man who’s got into
the house by pretending to be he?”

“Lor’, Miss Mabin, I never thought of that!”
cried poor Langford, turning quite white.

She had evidently entertained faint suspicions
of her own, for at this suggestion she was about
| to fly into the house in search of the newcomer,
and perhaps to brand him as an impostor, when
| Mabin, smiling at her alarm, caught hold of her
to detain her.

“No, no, you. silly girl. Of course {t’s all
right. It’s sure to be all right. He’s probably
eccentric, that’s all. Doesn’t he look the kind of
person you would expect?”

“Oh, yes, Miss Mabin, he’s every inch a gentle-
man. But ” She hesitated, -apparently unable
to put into appropriate words the impression the
new tenant had made upon her.

“But what?”

“He is rather—rather strange-looking. I—I
think he looks as if he wouldn’t live long. His
face has a sort of gray look, as if———- Well, Miss
Mabin, it’s a queer thing to say, but he looks to
me half-scared.”

“Mad?” suggested Mabin, more with her lips
and eyebrows than with her voice.
Langford nodded emphatically.

“Oh, dear!”

Then Mabin was silent,. trying to recollect all
that she had heard in the family circle about the
gentleman who was so anxious to take the house.
And she found that it did not amount to much.
A rich man, ’a bachelor, of quiet habits, who dis-
liked unnecessary fuss and noise, and whose refer-
ences Mr. Rose’s lawyer had declared to be unim-
peachable—this was the sum of the family know}-
edge of Mr. Banks.

“Did he come quite alone?’ asked Mabin, in
spite of the mute entreaties of Langford that she
would take herself off.

“Yes, Miss Mabin, quite alone. And ke
his luggage would be sent on.’

After a short pause, during which Mabin made
up her mind that there was nothing to be done
but to accept the newcomer as.the genuine article
until he proved to be an impostor, she turned re-
luctantly to go.

“Good-by, Langford. Bring.me my things, and
mind you don’t forget to feed my canary. And
you might come and see me sometimes in the eve-
ning, when you can get away. I think I shall be
lonely.”

And, indeed, there were tears in the eyes of the
girl, who. was already homesick, now that she
found herself thus suddenly denied admittance at
the familiar portal.

It was in a very sober and chastened mood that
the young girl arrived, a few minutes later, at
the gate of “The Towers, * but the welcome she
received would have put heart into a misanthrope.

Mrs, Dale was waiting in the garden, her
pretty, fair face aglow with impatience to receive
her friend. She drew the arm of Mabin, who was
considerably taller than herself, through hers, and
led her at once into the house, to the room which
Mabin had been in before.

The table was laid for luncheon, and Mabin
observed with surprise that there were two places
ready, although she had not promised to come till
the afternoon.

“There!’’ cried Mrs, Dale triumphantly, point-
ing to the table, ‘‘was I not inspired? The fact
is,’ she went on, with a smile which was almost
tearful, “T was so anxious for you to come that
I had begun to tell myself that I should be disap-
pointed, after all; so I had your place laid to
‘make believe,’ like the children. And now you
are really here. Oh, it seems too good to be
true!”

Mabin was pleased by this reception, as_ she
could not fail to be, but she was also a little
puzzled. She was conscious of no attractions in
herself which could explain such enthusiasm on

her account.

“T am afraid,” she said shyly, “that I shall
turn out a bitter disappointment. You can’t
know much about girls, Mrs. Dale, or you would
feel, as they all do at home, that there is a time,
which I am going through now, when a girl is
just as awkward and as stupid and as generally
undesirable as she can possibly be.’

“Hush, hush, child! You don’t know anything
about it. Don’t you know that girls are charming,
and that part of their charm lies in that very be-
lief that they are ‘all wrong,’ when, as a matter
of fact, they are everything that is right?”

“Ah! You were never gawky and awkward!”

“T wasn’t tall enough to be gawky, as you like
to call yourself. But five years ago, when I was
eighteen, I was just as miserable as you try to

make yourself, believing myself to be in every-
body’s way. It led to awful consequences in my
case,” added Mrs. Dale, the excitement going quite
suddenly out of her face and voice, and giving
place to a look and tone of dull despair. Mabin,
who had been made to take off her hat, put her

said

tor her return, called out that she was coming up| hand in that of the little widow.

 

“Come and see if you like your room,” said
Mrs. Dale, springing quickly toward the ae with
a rapid ‘change of manner. “I must tell you
frankly I am afraid you won’t, because this place
has been constructed haphazard, without any re-
gard to the comfort or convenience of the un-
fortunate people who have to live in it. Every
fireplace is so placed that the chimney must smoke
whichever way the wind is, and every window is
specially adapted to let:in the rain, when there is
any, and the wind when there isn’t.”

Mrs. Dale, as she spoke, led the way from the
dining-room, and Mabin followed.

Mrs. Dale certainly exaggerated the defects of
the house, but that it was inconvenient could not
be denied. The side nearest to the road, where
the dining-room was, had once been the whole
house. It had a basement, and out of the warren
of small rooms of-which it had once consisted, a
fairly large hall and a few fair-sized rooms had
been made.

The newer but not very new portion of the
house had. no basement, and it was by a short
flight of steps that you ascended from the hall
into the drawing-room, and by another short flight
that you ascended to the bedroom floor. Here the
same irregularity was apparent. A corridor ran
through the house from end to end on this floor,
broken where the new part joined the old by half
a dozen steep steps.

It was to a- bedroom on the higher level at the
old end of the house that Mrs. Dale conducted
Mabin.

“Why, it’s a lovely room!” cried the girl, sur-
prised to find herself in a big, low-ceilinged cor-
ner room lighted by three windows, and looking
out, on one side, to the road, with a view of fields
and sea beyond, and on the other to the garden
at the back of the house, where apple-trees and
gooseberry-bushes and the homely potato occu-
pied the chief space, while the nooks were filled
with the fragrant flowers of cottage gardens, with
Sweet william and sweet pea, mignonette, and
wallflower.

“Do you really think so?
over to Seagate the other day and got some cre-
tonne for the curtains and the easy-chair. The
old chintz there was in the room would have given
you the nightmare.”

Mabin had not recovered from her first im-
pression of astonishment and admiration. The
dingy dining-room, with its mahogany and horse-
hair, had not prepared her for this. -A beautiful
rug ‘lay in front of the fireplace, which was filled
with a fresh green fern.

“This will be put in the corridor outside at
night,’ Mrs. Dale was careful to explain.

The hangings of the little brass bedstead were
of cretonne, with a pattern of gray-green birds
and white flowers on a pale-pink ground; these
hangings were trimmed with lace of a deep cream
tint. The rest of the furniture was enameled
white, with the exception of a dainty Japanese
writing-table in one window and a low wicker
armchair in another.

But it was not so much in
the care and taste with which all the accessories
had been chosen, the sifver candlesticks and tray
on the dressing-table, the little Sévres suit on the
mantel, that a lavish and luxurious hand was
betrayed. Mabin’s delighted admiration made
Mrs. Dale smile, and then suddenly burst into
tears,

“Don’t look at me,
about me, child,”

I’m so glad. iI went

these things as in

don’t trouble your head
she cried, as she turned away
her head to wipe her eyes. “It was my vanity,
the vanity I can’t get rid of, that made me want
to show you I know how to make things appear
pretty and nice. I made the excuse to myself
that it was to please you, but really I know it was
to please myself!’

“But why shouldn’t you please yourself and
have pretty things about you?’ asked Mabin, in
surprise. “Is there any harm in having nice
things, if one has the money to buy them and the
taste to choose them? I suppose it helps to keep
the people that make them.”

“That is what I used to say to myself, dear,”
said Mrs. Dale, with a sigh. ‘But now I don’t
buy pretty things any more—for—for a reason.”
And again a look of deep pain swept across her
face. But at Mabin’s interested look she shook
her head. “No, no,’’ she added in a frightened
whisper, ‘‘I wouldn’t tell you why for all the
world !”

“But you wear pretty clothes!

Or is it only

that you look so pretty in them?” suggested Ma-

bin, blushing with the fear that she was blunder-
ing again.

Mrs. Dale shook her head; smiling slightly: vel
have my dresses made to fit me, that’s all,’ she
said simply. ‘‘And as for these,’ she touched the
flashing rings on her fingers, ‘I wear them be-
eause I’m obliged to.”

Which was all sufficiently puzzling to the young
girl, who, having washed her hands, was drying
them~on a towel so fine that this use seemed to
her a sacrilege. She refrained from further re-
mark, however, upon the- luxury in which she
found herself installed, and as the luncheon-bell
rang at that moment, the two ladies went down-
stairs together.

But after the beautiful appointments of her
room, Mabin was struck by the contrast afforded
by the rest of the house, which was furnished in
the usual manner, with worn carpeting in the
corridor and on the stairs, and with cheap lamps
on brackets and tables in the hall and passages.

At luncheon Mrs. Dale was again in high
spirits, She chattered away brightly for the
amusement of her young companion, who, entirely
unaccustomed to so much attention, was happier
than she ever remembered to have been in her life
before. Mrs. Dale did not spare the eccentricities
in walk and dress of the ladies in the neighbor-
hood any more than they had spared hers.

“TI don’t know how you can ever be dull when
such funny things come into your head!” cried
simple Mabin, wiping her eyes over a hearty fit
of laughing.

Mrs. Dale grew suddenly grave again.

“Ah, nothing is amusing when one is by one-
self, or when one has—thoughts !” she ended in
a low yoice, with a different word from the one
which had been in her mind. ‘‘And now let me
show you my den. No, it is not a boudoir; it is
nothing but a den. Come and see.’

She opened a door which led from the dining-
room into a small room, even more bare, more
somber than the other. It had evidently once
served the purpose of a library or study, for there
was a heavy old bookease in one corner and a row
of empty book-shelves in another. And there was
the usual horsehair sofa.

By the one window, however, there was a low
and comfortable, though shabby, wicker chair,

“T have had this. other door fastened up and
the cracks filled in,’ said Mrs. Dale, showing a
door opposite to the one by which they had en-
tered. ‘It goes down by a flight of ‘preakneck
stairs into the drawing-room, a loathsome dungeon
into which I never penetrate. The draft used to
be strong enough to blow me away. So I thought,”
she went on with curious wistfulness, “I might
just have that done.’

Again Mabin wondered at the penitential tone;
again she glanced up. But Mrs. Dale recovered
herself more quickly this time, and, putting the
girl gently into the wicker chair, while she curled
herself up on the horsehair sofa, she drew Mabin out
and encouraged the girl by sympathetic questions,
and by still more sympathetic listening, to lay
bare some of the recesses of her young heart.

The afternoon passed quickly; and when Mrs.
Dale, springing suddenly off the sofa after a si-
lence, ran away into the dining-room to ask about
certain dainties which she had ordered from town
for Mabin’s benefit, but which had failed to ar-
rive that morning, the girl was left in a state of
happy excitement, thinking what a_ picture the
little golden-haired ,creature had made as she sat
curled up on the sofa, and wondering how she
could have been so ungrateful as to imagine she
could be anything but happy under the same roof
with Mrs. Dale.

Mabin looked idly out of the window, and
craned her neck to see if she could catch a
glimpse of the sea. But this was the north side
of the house, and the sea was on the southwest ;
so she failed. But as she looked out she saw a
cab drive slowly up the road, and was surprised
to find that the solitary occupant, an elderly lady
with gray hair and a hard, forbidding face, stared
at her fixedly through a pair of gold eye-glasses,
as if she felt some personal interest in her. Ma-
bin felt herself blush, for she was sure she had
never seen the lady before.

Just as she drew her head in she heard the
cab stop at the front gate. Mrs, Dale’s voice,
talking brightly to the parlor-maid, came to Ma-
bin’s ears through the door, which had been left
ajar. Then she heard a knock at the front door,
and the parlor-maid went to answer it.

“Mabin, come here,” cried Mrs. Dale
next room. ‘I want to show you

The words died on her lips; and Mabin, who

was in the act of coming into the dining-room in
obedience to her call, stopped short, and, after a
moment’s consideration of what she ought to do,
retreated into the smaller room and shut the door
behind her.

But she had been in time to witness a strange
meeting. For the elderly lady whom she had seen
in the cab had appeared at the outer door of the
dining-room as she had shown herself at the in-
ner one, and it was at the sight of her that Mrs.
Dale had stopped short in her speech, with a look
of abhorrence and terror on her face.

The elder lady spoke at once in a harsh, com-

manding voice. She was very tall, erect, and
stately, handsomely dressed in black, altogether a
commanding personality. Her voice rang through
the room and reached Mabin’s ears, striking the
girl .with terror, too.

“fF am afraid I have taken you by surprise.’

“T suppose,’’ answered Mrs. Dale, in a low voice,
“that was what you intended to do.’

“T am sorry to see you meet me in that spirit.

from the

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

- yeady to her lips,

= _ the hall,

 

you and me. Yo
- the cause of all that has happened, and I refuse,

“Jt does matter very much.

- “house for a young girl while you live in it.”

“With is

door of the dining-room. “Run away.

a

ming purse, could not offer these poor friends

 

ause, which Mrs. Dale would not

“1 propose, therefore,” went on the elder lady,
a ay with you myself—at least, for a little

Mrs. Dale, who had remained standing, as her
visitor did also, turned upon her quickly?
“That I will not put up with.” Se
“That is scarcely courteous, surely?” _
_ “There is no question of lip-courtesy between
You, and no one else, have been

absolutely refuse, to stay under the same roof
with you, even for a single day.” 3

. "Jn the meantime poor Mabin, frightened and
uncertain what to do, had in the first place put

her hands to her ears so that she might not play
the part of an unwilling eavesdropper.
voices grew too loud for her to avoid hearing
what the ladies said, she made a frantic rush for
the door, and presented herself, breathless, blush-
ing, in the doorway. : Dab i
“Oh, I—I can’t help hearing what you say!”

2 -eried she, glancing from the forbidding face of

the visitor to Mrs. Dale, who looked prettier than
in her anger. . are
dear, it doesn’t

the elder Jady broke in: — : :
This is not a fit

matter,” said Dorothy

And, turning to Mabin, she said, with a sudden
st of vindictive feeling: ‘“‘Go home at once to
r proper guardians. The woman you are now

Before she could utter the word which was

t Mrs. Dale interrupted her.

Springing between the other two women with a

low cry, she addressed the elder lady with such a

~ torrent of passion that both Mabin and the visitor
_ could only listen without an attempt to stop her.

“You shall not say it! You shall not tell her!

-_ You know that she is safe with me, as if she were

own home. You have spoiled her happi-
vith me, because you knew it made me
But you shail not contaminate her with
our wicked words. Go, child.” She seized Ma-
in by the arm and ran with her to the outer
you when this woman is gone.”
d the next moment Mabin found herself in
with the dining-room door closed.
ed TO BE CONTINUED.

dds

yo By Mrs. M..V. VICTOR,
whor of “Born to Betray,” “The Enemy of the House,”
- “ “The Dead Witness,” “The Brown Princess,”
“OF With the Old Love,” etc., ete.
| (“A@arnst Opps’? was commenced in No. 45.
numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers.)

gainst

a

Back

CHAPTER XXIX—Continued. ee

- For the first few days one or the other, with
-Victor’s rapier near at hand, kept constant watch,

' pight-time and daytime; and at night had one or

two of the fishermen lie at the door—for their fear
of another attack of the enemy was great.

_ Constance knew who the assassin was, and his
‘motive, as well as if she had seen him direct the

nes. a
She never felt entirely sure that Gagnard was
o9t hanging around, spying on all their move-
ments, until after weeks had passed. Then the

: ae of a new danger was ever present in her

Gagnard would never rest in his revenge.
Whether or not he was aware that he had not
succ in murdering Victor, he would, of
course, find his way to Paris and reveal to the
Officers of the law their present whereabouts. It

would be easy for him to represent that it was

- Victor de Montgomery who had crawled on board

the ship in disguise and bribed the captain to

er course—so that he and his lady-love

might seek some sunny Southern shore, there to
live together according to their own. will.

_ Constance knew Gagnard so well, she thought
this would be certain to be his course. It troubled
her; she communicated her uneasiness to the two
others; but they, although sharing it to some de-
gree, never allowed the matter to weigh on them

it did on her. <

- While caring for the wounded youth, the wants

of the ladies were freely supplied by the rude pot-
wives, as far as lay in their power. A box con-
taining a package of East-India sweetmeats had
come ashore, and these were given to the ladies.
Also a supply of tea. Their fare, aside from these
luxuries, was fish, fish, fish, and once a day black
bread. But they grew very healthy despite their
ardships, and Constance was never so _ bloom-
ingly beautiful as then.
diamonds and her cheeks wore a rich color, the
peer of any rose in Spain. :
In about a month Victor was able to creep out

z into the sunshine. It was now the middle of
- February, and already the air was softening and

about to revive. g
_ The first thing he noticed was that every lass in
the settlement was wearing a silk dress; every
old woman, too; that each had a new pair of ear-
rings, and that the men were wearing, with the
ee of inexperience, doublets of fine

cloth. oo °
Victor laughed at this sight; he did not reflect

the vegetation farther inland gave token of being

that his father’s money had purchased a good deal

f this finery; he only knew that Gagnard had
laid in a ship-load of goods, which goods the
Portuguese fishermen were now reveling in.

- The men had disposed of a large portion of the
spoil in Lagos, and had bought the rings for their
sweethearts, and now went about jingling money
in their pockets. eee Ree ee

eantime, the garments of the ladies were get-
ting very shabby. They had no change of ap-
arel, and were compelled to wash out their under-
clothing at night. Their silk raiment, by con-
stant use, was worn into rags, which they had to
patch up with pieces of a mantle which madame

had worn when taken ashore.

Victor-had

Vi ot one single sou in his purse. :
Oh, how he wished for money! |
never known what it was to go without a brim-

: fe

his any service. Had he possessed any money,

’ ld have risked a visit to Lagos to purchase

garments for them. .
He woul
looks the blooming, rosy, radiant face of the
girl he adored. She was more charming to him

n her shabby old dress, water-stained and
weather-worn, than she had ever been in pearls

‘snowy silks. , se :

_ He was wild with longing to speak out his burn-
ing love, to touch her lips, to be allowed the little
sweetnesses of an acknowledged lover. But he
never dared assume any air but that of friend-
ship. She froze him by a-chilly reserve the mo-
ment he attempted it. :

Oh, how happy and yet how wretched he was!

_ As for Constance, she was happy, without the

wretchedness. It satisfied her to be near Victor,
talk with him, work with him. Had it not been
r that fear of discovery and arrest, there would

have been no cloud over her heaven but the anx-

fety for her father. ee ‘ ¥
When she was talking about this, one day, Vic-
r promised her that, as soon as the time came
hen he Se influence enough over the fish-

ermen, he wou ]

little fishing-vessels, and attempt the rescue of

D’Anglade. Se ae ae
_ The days glided on into March. Victor was
strong again; he had nearly mastered the Portu-

puese patois of the people, and could converse with

hem quite freely. = _ .

The ladies, too, coul
y words with their uncultured friends. Victor
cone into business. In hopes of earning
enough to take them away from that spot, should
ht become necessary, he went out as a com-
fisherman with the rest, who generally gave
place in their boats, where he rowed or
threw out or hauled in the net; and when the
iT ds of an excursion were disposed of, he
receive a few copper or silver pieces as his

of the profit. — ee tea cae Mas
fe horded every coin with the eagerness of a
ls But he saw that it would take him too
long to get enough to purchase apparel for the

0) nder his care. So one evening he repre-

ie matter to a knot of his rough com-
and the next morn madame was pre-
a piece of black silk, enough to make

up ir days, t
ke h p a suit of clothes, of which

in sore need. Seas ee
ad rigged up an awning in front of the
hut, so that they could sit- out-of-doors;
weather Toran ag) w °

ra ;

But as the |

I will find”

@ politic,

Her eyes sparkled like

d sit long hours devouring with his.

d get them to take one of their |

id now exchange a good]

ful with the needle—Victor, who had got the vil-
lage tailor to cut out his garments in the Shape
of those worn by the men about him, tugged at
the needle, too, laboring patiently to get the things
together as the tailor had told him they must go.
The awning was constructed of one of the sails
of the ill-fated ship, and in its shadow the group

enjoying each other’s society.
They sat there sewing and looking about them

las contentedly as if they had never lived under

the roof of a palatial mansion on the Rue Royale,
and been driven in elegant carriages through the
gay streets of Paris. Madame, indeed, had many
thoughts of the past, as she sighed over her
work; but to the young pair, to be together made
}any spot-a heaven, be it where it might.

There were none of the formalities of etiquette
to check their famuiarity; they were together
every evening, if not all day; and it speaks well
of their true virtue and refinement that Constance
was never more the reserved lady, nor Victor the
chivalrous, deferential gentleman, than then.
~ Sometimes Constance, looking suddenly up,
could not misunderstand the language of the glow-
ing fiery eyes fixed discontentedly upon her;
such times the color would fade in her cheek and,
with a reproachful look, she would then drop her
eyes, nor look up again for a long time.

She knew by that instinct given to the most
‘innocent women for their, protection that, unless
she held her lover in sternest check, he would
break through every restraint and demand that
she should become his wife. -

He represented that his marriage to Pauline was
no marriage at all—but a base fraud, in no sense
legal, since he had not consented to it, save in
jest—nor ever acknowledged Pauline as his wife ;
that he should never live with Pauline, as they
well knew, if he lived to be a hundred; that he
should have to wear out life without a companion,
unless Constance would consent to go with him
to some church in Lagos and be made his own
true wife—as truly his as the other woman was
not. meee ee

He was very eloquent—very persuasive. Ma-
dame admitted that there was no justice in the
ceremony performed between him and Pauline—
that every sentiment of right cried out against it
—that he ought to be at“liberty to marry her
daughter; but, since the king and the archbishop
pronounced the marriage legal, they had nothing to
do but abide by these authorities.

In return, the young man pleaded that they
were exiled from their native land, and com-
pelled to find a home somewhere—to make it for
themselves. There was no more room for him in
France than there was for them—and that, under
the circumstances, in the presence of God and
her approval, he believed Constance ought to con-
sent to become his wife. ;

The mother responded that it was his place to
be even more careful of the girl’s acts and repu-
tation that she would herself be.

Then the lover, with the full tide of tenderness,
passion, and emotion turned back to overwhelm
his heart and brain, broke into a great burst of
violence, accused them both of being heartless,
unfeeling—declared that Constance was
selfish, had not an atom of generosity in her whole
nature, i : ,

. Then madame quietly withdrew, leaving him to
rage in the company of the stars and waves.

The storm wore itself out, the lover begged par-
don of both ladies, and peace was declared.
_~Constance could not understand his impatience
and vehemence. As she said, their engagement
had only begun five months before—-some lovers
were betrothed for years before marriage—and if
he had patience, and really loved her well enough
to wait for her, who knew what might yet hap-
pen? She reproached him with want of gratitude,
in calling himself miserable, when he had so much
of her society and her mother’s, if he really prized
their society. So Victor was fain to content him-
self with things as they were. | ;

One day they sat under the awning, as~ usual.
The new clothes were nearly done; on the mor-
row Victor was going out with the nets again.
It was late in March, and in that Southern cli-
mate spring was far advanced. The ocean, out-
side the bar, lay quiet, and was of a deep, in-
‘tense blue; the sky was blue, too, but warm and
fresh in its tint; inside the bar the water sparkled
as if strewn with jewels—for back in the country
green fields and distant vineyards could be seen.
In all the time they had lain perdu in that place,
not a soul had visited it, until lately gardeners

spring vegetables, once or twice, and had received
fish in exchange for their greens. :

On this particular day of which we speak, as
our friends sewed and chatted, one of those rare
visitors came along. His green stuff. was wel-
come, for nearly every fishwife came out and took
something; his cart was empty before he reached
madame’s hut; but, as if he wanted to take a lock
at the beach, he drove his donkey slowly by and
down to the water and back again.

He seemed deeply interested in the group under
the old sail-cloth. This was not strange, for any
stranger would have been surprised+—aye, aston-
ished—to see such a trio sitting there in that out-
of-the-world place. ‘The vender wore one of the
wide-brimmed slouched hats of the country, well-
pulled over his face, and his garb was that of one

figure, or his way of holding himself, struck Con-
stance as familiar, and filled her with vague
alarm, Her thoughts reverted to the peasant
again and again, long after he had passed out of
sight. She asked Victor if he had noticed any-
thing peculiar about the man. ,

Victor had also noticed something, but he did
not wish to make the ladies uneasy, and so smiled
and shook his head.

The vegetable-vender was only Gagnard, who
had hired a donkey-cart and filled it with garden-
truck, that he might visit the settlement in dis-
guise and see how his friends fared.

Imagine his astonishment when he saw Victor
de Montgomery, whom he was certain was rotting
in his grave, in full life and health, unbearably
handsome and happy, enjoying the society of the
ladies, who seemed in love with hardship and mis-
fortune, so contented and cheerful was their air.
_Imagine his rage at the sight, also!

He was not many days, after that adventure, in
shipping as a common sailor on a vessel bound
for France, and laden with olives, oil, fish, and
the like products. The vessel had a prosperous
voyage, and one pleasant evening in April Gag-
nard found himself again in Paris.

His brain was full of plans of revenge which
he was to begin to put into execution on the fol-
lowing morning. ~ :

CHAPTER XXX.
GAGNARD SPENDS A NIGHT IN! PARIS.

Thinking that ‘to put money in his purse”
would be a good thing, and also to get some
clothing and hear the latest news, Gagnard made
his way to the suburbs, to the house in which he
had left Cartand. That she would be very angry
Hand jealous with him for going off without taking
her into his confidence about it, he had no doubt;
and, never guessing that she knew his purpose, he
made up a story to tell her, about being ‘‘im-
pressed”’ for a sailor and carried off to sea against
his. will. — :

Cartand was at home when he etitered the house
without knocking and caught her about the waist
to kiss her as if overjoyed to see her. .

The authorities, after her brief imprisonment,
had replaced Cartand in the house, as they had
nothing against her except that she had been too
slow in denouncing the guilty parties. They were
quietly awaiting the return of the vessel they, had
sent to America, which could hardly be expected
before early in June. Cartand was awaiting the
same event, and was living upon the sale of the
milk and butter of her cow. ;

The sudden appearance of Gagnard astonished
her quite as much as if she had seen a ghost; she
uttered a sharp cry. But when he attempted to
kiss her, she drew back and stared at him with
. ed strange look which he could not under-
stand.

“Don’t be jealous!” he began, with an attempt
at gaiety; “I am not to blame this time—I was
seized upon and dragged off- -

“In company with Mademoiselle D’Anglade, to
America.” |

“Oh, oh, Cartand! Indeed, you are at fault

How.could I go to America and come back
this soon?” ~

“Time enough! I dare say, she flouted you with
scorn, and so you had nothing to do but turn tail
and come home again.” :

“JT swear to you I’ve not been to America, my
dear! I swear it by the Holy Trinity. No, in-
deed. But I’ve had some_curious adventures, and
much bad luck, and now I’m savagely hungry, and
pete my good girl to get me some supper. Will
she?” :

“Oh, certainly.”

“Where’s Belestre?” |

“Dead.”” ee :

“Dead! Mon Dieu! Dead, did you say? What
did he die of?” — : 5

“A very fatal, sudden sickness, I assure you.”

Shit weat er. a
_ “J will tell you by and by, when I have more
time. I must get you some supper.”
~ “Do, my dear friend.”

. “There’s not much in the house. I did not ex:
pect you.” : 4 st
_ “Certainly not. I shall be content with what
yOu have. i 2 ;

She went out into the kitchen, while he sat,
in his rough clothes, drumming on the table with
his fingers and thinking hard.

In a quarter of an hour she placed before him
a bottle of the wine which he had left in the

 

cellar, an omelet hot from the pan, some curds,

of three sat busily sewing, and at the same time |

at

He did broach the subject once to her mother.

had drawn their carts along the street, crying the

of his class. Nevertheless, something about his

and bread. He ate heartily, but when his appe-
tite was somewhat assuaged he leaned back in

it all the time: - ‘

“And so our comrade is dead!”

“He has been in his coffin these two months.”

*“T ask you of what did he die?”

“T will tell you the particulars presently. Do
you propose to sleep here-to-night? If so, I must
put a bed to air.”

_“‘Yes, my angel, I tarry here for some rest to-
night. To-morrow I have important business with
the government,” —

She went up-stairs to kindle a handful of char-
coal in a large porcelain warming-pan, and to lay
out some linen for the bed.

Gagnard, as he finished his bottle of wine, won-
dered at the change which had come over Cartand.
Her bright, laughing eyes were dull and cold, her
manner restrained, her cheek had lost its peony
color, and she acted toward him as if she feit a
positive aversion to him.

“it is not jealousy alone,” he thought.
likety ’tis the death of poor Belesitre. His sudden
loss has put her out of spirits. No wonder! im
sure I feel melancholy myself to think of it!”

However, the returned traveler was too weary
and heavy with sleep to indulge in much pious re-
fiection; he made an,effort to get up a flirtation

“Very

her into being good-natured, and, this having
failed, through her indifference and his drowsi-
ness, he went up to his room and to bed.

Cartand sat a long time by the table when he
had left her. Midnight came and passed, and still
she remained, her brow in her hand, her elbow on
-the table, her eyes bent on vacancy.

“T cannot do it!” she whispered many times.

Once she started to her feet with clenched hands
and contracted forehead.

“Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!
always thinking of Belestre. His head is off his
shoulders, and both are in his coffin. It is not
so easy to betray one who has aie at your board,
sat by your fireside! He was bad—but was that
my business? I did not seek to punish his bad-
ness—it was revenge that prompted me to de-
mnounce him. He was a pleasant-tempered, easy
man, who never did any harm to me. As long as
this wretched life lasts I shall. never be able to
forget the look he turned on me when he was
condemned. Now here comes this man, walking
straight into the snare. I can let him step into
his grave, or I can save him! Ah, the first ac-
ceny of his-voice told my wretched, lying heart
that I loved him yet, despite of his neglect, self-
ishness, contempt! I am weak as water—a fool
—pbut'I love him, mean as he is! How am I to
carry myself? Ah, but I’m in a pickle! How is
it that one hour I hate him—the next I am a dog
again, that cannot be beaten or starved away
from his master?”

It was two o’clock in the morning when she
came to a determination, characteristic of her sex
and class. She stole up to the room where her
visitor was sleeping heavily.

“Curse him!” she mutiered, “I ought to let him
die!” and in contradiction of her words, she placed
her hand on his shoulder and shook him, until he
moved, grunted, and_half-started up.

“Oh, is it you?” he said feverishly.

“Yes, and I want your attention.
rise and dress at once.”

“Ts it morning so soon?’

“Nay, but too near it. I have already allowed
you too much sleep. Listen! Your life is in
danger!” —

‘What is that you are saying?” he questioned,
still but half-awake, and catching enough of her
meaning to try to arouse himself. ~

“T say this: You asked me the cause of Beles-
tre’s death; I will tell you. His head was stricken
off by the ax for his share in the business of
robbing the Count De Montgomery’s coffers.”

“For God’s sake, what is this?’ exclaimed Gag-
nard, now wide-awake and one foot out of bed.
“Cartand, are you telling me the truth?”

“The officers were here and searched the house.
They have the box, with the money, the bracelet,
and a part of one of the count’s papers. Every-
thing is known, and Monsieur D’Anglade is al-
ready set free, and is in Paris awaiting the com-
ing of his wife and child; a vessel has been des-
patched to America to bring them back, and also
you, for whose head the executioner waits impa-
tiently. Judge, then, how safe you are in Paris,
even for one hour! I have let you rest, because
you were wayworn,. c

I am always, always,

You must

Now you must up and away!

Gagnard was scrambling into his clothes, even
before she finished speaking.

“Keep on your. doublet and breeches, but put
over all one of my plainest gowns, and take a
basket in your hand, and go forth in the guise
of a market-woman. You can travel some miles
into the country in that way, and thereafter you
must escape in the way that opens before you.”’

She brought him a cotton gown, and as he was
slender and small, and she full-size, it fitted him
well; with a bonnet on, he cut quite a feminine
figure, for he never wore a beard, and his face
was pale and delicate.

“Shall I never have done with masquerading?”
he exclaimed to himself impatiently, as he flapped
down-stairs in the awkward dress. “I must con-
fess that I came to Paris with different intentions.
Sacre! what a world this is!” Then he stopped
on the stairs and burst out into a low, sardonic
laugh; an idea had occurred to him, which, in
the midst of his own bitter disappointment, af-
forded him exquisite pleasure,

His idea was: No being on earth, except my-
self, can give Monsieur D’Anglade information of
his wife and daughter, nor the count of his son.
I shall keep my knowledge to myself. When the
ship returns home without the ladies, they will be
mourned as dead, for it will surely be thought
that the ship went down in mid-ocean! Meantime,
none of them will venture to enter France again,
and thus the delusion will be kept up on both
sides. How amusing this state of affairs will be
to me when I have nothing else to think of! As
to Monsieur Victor, the count will look long for
his return, while Madame Pauline will enjoy her
widowhood! Doubtless, Monsieur Victor, free from
the trammels of society, has already wedded his
lady-love. I can’t help that now. But I shall
pay them another visit ere long, provided I get
safely out of this net inte which I have walked
in coming to Paris.

“You are a good girl to tell me of my danger,
rafter the way I have neglected you, Cartand,” he
said, with some little touch of feeling, as he
stumbled into the sitting-room. *

“You must learn to walk better in ~petticoats,”
‘was her answer.

‘If I ever get settled in life anywhere so that
I can, I will send for you, and you shall be my
wife,’? he went-on. ‘‘And now, sweetheart, I must
have a few pieces of gold to help me on the way.”’

“TI know not where you're to find them. I told
you the officers carried off everything of value on
the premises.’

“That is bad luck indeed!
am to do.”

“Here are a hundred sous in silver, from the
sale of butter; they will buy you a ride across
the Channel, if you get the opportunity.”

“Thanks, my godd friend, ‘A friend in need is
a friend indeed!’ ”’

“Put this meat in your bosom and a bit of
bread,” she said, handing him a dried sausage.
“Tt may come good if you have to hide. And
here are the rings you gave me the first thing
after you had so much money’’—taking them
from her ears and handing them to him. ‘You
ean coax some woman with these to give you food
and lodging for a day or two, after you get into
England.”

“T like not to take your earrings, Cartand.”’

“But you must. I should wear them no longer,
anyway.”’

He slipped the trinkets into his purse.
“Bat something and have a cup of wine before

I know not what I

a”

you go.
She brought a bottle, and he hastily swallowed

{a piece of bread and drank some of the wine.

“J suppose I must say farewell, Cartand.”’
“Aye, and be quick with it; ’twill be light
anon.”

She did not now refuse his kiss, but returned it,
then ran for a large basket which she had cun-
ningly filled with grass torn up out of the yard,
as if to cover the, vegetables, eggs, and so forth,
supposed to be beneath. : :

“Do not trip in your gown,” were her words of
warning as she
watched him walk away in a direction which took
him out of the city.

“TI have done wrong in helping him to escape,”
she muttered, and then went in the house, where
she flung herself down and sobbed as if her heart
would break, i"

ar days after that Cartand started at every
sound. :

In the daytime she spent many hours in the
little plot of ground in front of the house, affect-
ing to be tending the roses, lilies, and pinks that
were coming into bloom; in reality she was listen-
ing and looking up and down the road continually,
she so feared that Gagnard would be discovered
and arrested, and she should see him brought back
to trial and punishment. :

As the days passed on she grew less nervous.

Gagnard had made his way to Dover with but little
difficulty, and was soon acting as a waiter in an
inn in that seaport village. As he was but little
known, after all, in Paris, he had small fear of
being recognized by French travelers, and he was
eager to earn money enough to carry out his
project of returning to Portugal to spy on the
doings of Victor and Constance. ;

It was true, what Cartand said, that Monsieur
D’Angtade had been released from the gallevs and
was in Paris, living on the bounty of Madame
Guillemot for the present. ;

While he awaited the recall of his beloved wife
and child, he was busied in seeking some repara-

 

tion of the wrongs which had been heaped, moun-
tain-high, on him and his. =

his chair and said, as if he had been thinking of |

with Cartand when she came down, just to flatter |

let him out of the gate and,

Vol. 62—No. 6

 

EES petitioned the legislature for letters of re-
| vision, and to have the reports of his accusation
and trial stricken from the records.

Of more importance still was the suit which
he instituted against the Count De Montgomery
for damages, and the return of the money and
property confiscated to pay the heavy fine which
had been laid on him—-D’Anglade.

Sore from the persecutions of the count—-who
had so treated his daughter and pursued him with
more malignity than desire to punish crime—-he
carried on this suit with the utmost vigor.

But the count had the most money and influen-
tial friends, and resisted with equal earnestness.
The process threatened to be a long one. A vast
amount of legal knowledge was brought to bear

fication, on the ground that
pointing to D’Anglade’s guilt were suspicious—
especially that of his refusing to attend the count’s
féte at Villehousin; that the circumstances were
afterward explained, but not in time to prevent
the arrest of cne who seemed to be guilty.

On.D’Anglade’s side, he not only showed how he
had been wronged in reputation and estate, but he
showed, also, wilful persecution on the count’s
part, caused by the fact that the count’s son was
attached to his daughter.

Thus the ball of debate was tossed to and fro
by the lawyers, while D’Anglade, feeble in health,
much broken by what he had endgired, always
gained the sympathy of the disinterested, as he
put forth all the strength remaining to him to
secure- justice.

He desired to bring the suit to a close before
the first of June, when he should begin to expect
the longed-for event—the return of his exiled rela-
tives,

Not a thought of the possibility of disappoint-
ment ever occurred to him. He dreamed, by day
and night, of the hour when he should clasp his
wife to his bosom and look on the sweet face of
his daughter.

Suffering had caused him to think seriously of
his faults of character; he had resolved to aban-
don play forever, although he had formerly found
it profitable, and it was fashionable for the finest
gentleman to indulge in gambling to excess.

We, who know the bitter disappointment in store
for him, can pity the ardor with which he looked
forward to the arrival of the approaching ship.

Meantime, the count was not free from irritating
vexations. He had to spend a good deal of money
in defending himself against -D’Anglade’s suit; his
heart was heavy to see his only son; he was tast-
ing some of the fruits of having an extravagant,
unprincipled, and selfish young woman in his
household. He was tired of Pauline’s humors—
her fretfulness, and the bills he had to pay for her.

TO BE CONTINUED,

—<$- 2
-AN INDISPUTABLE ALIBI.

The Honorable Richard Plantagenet Lorke dif-
fered from most Englishmen of distinction, in that
his breeding was as unimpeachable as his phys-
ical comeliness was striking. In conversation his
tones were not self-assertive and blatant, but, on
the contrary, as soft and winning as a woman’s. |

He never bragged of his nation’s achievements,
nor sneered covertly at the manners and customs
of the hospitable American friends who enter-
tained him so handsomely. He did not make a
practise of expressing his contempt for American
society by going to dinner-parties in tweed clothes,
and had no fondness for indulging in heavy drink-
ing and then criticizing the quality of his host’s
stimulants.

He was civil to all men, and gracefully polite
to all women—particularly the old ones. More-
over, he had not yet been known to play cards
for high stakes or borrow money from the mem-
bers of the clubs at which he had been put up. He
had even been known to recognize the point of a
joke, and—most marvelous of all !—occasionally
to crack a very fair one himself.

All this was very extraordinary to the critical
American society, though, of course, no one was
so impolite as to comment upon it openly.

It was little Freddy Dinkelspiel, the rich jew-
eler’s grandson, that would have obliged any for-
eign nobleman on earth with a loan of a thousand,
and thanked the fates for the opportunity of doing
it, that confided, awe-stricken and sotto voce, to
one of his cronies: ‘‘Of course, I like Lorke as
well as any of you; but, hang me! if he doesn’t
seem too much of a gentleman to be the son of
an earl.’

This was some six weeks after the superb figure
and golden Grecian head of the Honorable Richard
Plantagenet Lorke had first appeared to dazzle
the youthful and gilded set of the Whipper-Snap-
per Club.

There was a freshness about his smile and a
sunniness in the straightforward gaze of his bright
blue eyes that won him a welcome at once. Fur-
ther than that, the man that had introduced him,
young Casper Van Dunk, the heir to untold mil-
lions, and the very embodiment of all that was
exclusive and patrician in New York life, was
not a man to be slighted.

Van’s word was law in such matters, and his
assurance that the Englishman’s credentials were
unimpeachable was more than sufficient.

The newcomer’s magnetic personality did the
rest. Van Dunk and Lorke were quite inseparable.
They walked, drove, dined, and went to the thea-
ter together. They had made each other’s ac-
quaintance on the steamer one very stormy day,
on which the latter had saved the former’s sister
from a very ugly fall by catching her in his arms
at the very instant that a plunge of the vessel had
overturned the steamer-chair upon which she was
reclining while very, very ill.

Truth to tell, the young Briton had never quite
forgotten that instant, either.

Bdith was one of those exasperatingly bewitch-
ing creatures with the physique of a well-developed
woman and the face of a child; and her pathetic
glance of gratitude, as the pallor of her cheeks
blossomed for an instant into a delicious, rosy
tint, had made him think momentarily of heaven
and the angels.

After that there had been a few stolen mo-
ments on deck, when the shy pleasure in the
girl’s face as he approached her had set his stout
heart beating like a sledge-hammer; and he had,
of course, seen her quite often at her own house,
where he was a welcome and favored guest.

But yesterday, only yesterday, when they were
cantering in the park together, with the groom
a safe distance behind, she must have grown
alarmed at the words he was finding himself suf-
ficiently audacious to utter; for she told him, with
much stammering and blushing, of her engage-
ment to Mr. Skinnand Fieece, a very prosperous
lawyer, who was expected home from Europe that
very day. .

And the Honorable Richard Plantagenet Lorke,
as they walked their horses homeward, was sufii-
cient of a brute to experience joy in the knowl-
edge that his dainty companion’s lip was all
aquiver and her tender gray eyes melting with
moisture suspiciously akin to tears.

In consequence of all of which, the Englishman
was not in an exactly happy frame of mind as he
walked up Fifth Avenue, New York, this bright
autumn afternoon, on his way to his apartments.

He was to dine at the Van Dunks, and would
meet, among others, Mr. Skinnand Fleece. The
thought brought a steely look into the sunny blue
eyes; but it departed instantly, and he found his
brain shaping a wish that the girl this hated
lawyer was to rob him of might be as happy as a
queen all the days of her life.

* * * * * * *

The dinner was, of course, sumptuous. Banker
Van Dunk’s dinners always were great. Lorke,
i the way, had quite won his heart by praising
hem.

There were some of Caspar’s intimates from
the club, a sprinkling of girls and dowagers, one
or two of-the host’s fellow ma: .«. trom Wall
Street. The happy Mr. Fleece did not appear—
he was expected later—and Lorke was supremely
happy during the hour and a half that the beau-
tiful Edith sat beside him.

While the people were chatting in twos and
threes in the pailor, Lorke and Edith found their
way, quite accidentally, of course; into a recess
curtained off by half-drawn portiéres, and in which
stood some great yases of ferns and palms.

Some one was playing a noisy waltz on the
Steinway grand, and the music quite drowned the
half-whispered tones in which they spoke. Lorke’s
brain was on fire. He had not uttered a dozen
words before he broke off short with: “I love
you, dear.”

The girl’s head dropped. ‘Hush!’ she whis-
pered breathlessly. But they were unobserved,
and Lorts, after one swift look round, bent his
head. and kissed her on the lips.

»At the instant he did so there was a commotion
in the room, and every one was welcoming Mr.
Skinnand Fleece, who had just entered. As for
Edith, she had turned very pale, and seemed about
to faint. She managed to control herself, but
leaned heavily upon Lorke’s arm as they advanced
to meet the newcomer.

The glance of Mr. Fleece, who was a very tall
man, of, perhaps, thirty-five, with a very pale
complexion and enal-black hair and beard, was not
altogether pleasant as it rested on the couple. But
a the expression of his face changed to-
tally.
~ He bestowed on Lorke, for an instant, a cold
stare of stony contempt, and. as he drew HEdith’s
arm, with an exasperating air of proprietorship,
within his own, he said to her icily:

“T am sorry to find you in such company.”

Lorke’s lips turned white, and he moved a step

 

on the case, the defense putting in a plea of justi- |
the circumstances j

| whisper to the lawyer:

 

forward. Every one in the room heard the re-
mark. There was a dead silence, which was
broken by the Englishman:

“T have not the honor of knowing you, sir,” he
said; ‘“‘but perhaps you will be good enough to
explain your meaning?”

“Bluffing won’t do,’ rejoined Fleece coarsely.
“Of course, you don’t remember me, eh?”

Pb AO Not, Siti

“Then let me tell you,” answered the lawyer,
with great heat, “that I remember you—yes, very
well indeed—-as the accomplished gentleman that
swindled me out of two thousand dollars at Al-
giers three months ago by palming the ace of
spades in a game of poker. Do I make myself
understood ?”’

The look of blank amazement that came over
Lorke’s face gave way swiftly to one of fury.
The veins in his forehead swelled. He clenched
his fists, and seemed ready to spring at the throat
of the man that had made this fearful accusation.

“You speak falsely, sir,’’ he said quietly.

Meanwhile, horrified murmurs of amazement
broke from the other guests. Before any one
could speak, Van Dunk, senior, marched forward,

nd said:

“Fleece, this gentleman is my friend and my
guest. You might have chosen a more fitting time
fer your denunciation; but, since you have de-
livered it, I suppose you are prepared to prove
what you have said?” s

“Prove it? -Of course I am,” sneered the law-
yer. Edith’s white lips parted in a pathetic gasp,
and the tears came into her eyes. ‘“‘See! Previous
to swindling me, this gentleman had presented me
with his photograph. I have kept it as a pleasant
scuvenir of my visit to Algiers, and, by the best
luck in the world, I happen to have it with me.
Examine it, sir,’ handing Lorke the portrait he
had drawn from his pocket; ‘‘examine it closely,
and then try and summon up the nerve to deny
your own identity.”

Mechanically, Lorke extended his hand and took
the picture. He looked at it, and his face faded
to the color of ashes. The piece of cardboard fell
from his hand, and was picked up by Fleece, who
proceeded to show it to the wondering guests. The
likeness was perfect—blond hair, kindly eyes,
everything.

Lorke was gazing blankly in front of him. He
swayed gently to and fro, as though about to faint,
Young Van Dunk stepped forward, and looked into
his face.

“Lorke,’ he cried, in grief-stricken tones, ‘‘say
neces for pity’s sake, say the thing isn’t
rue !”’

For an instant Lorke returned his gaze—
frankly, openly. Then, as his eyes met the agon-
ized ones of Edith, he bowed his head, and said
huskily: ‘I have nothing to say.”

A whisper of astonishment and indignation ran
through the room. Fleece smiled triumphantly,
and replaced the photograph in his coat pocket.

Then the voice of Van Dunk, senior, was heard,
saying to a’servant:

“Jackson, a cab for Mr. Lorke.”

One look the. condemned man cast upon the
white-faced girl that stood beside his accuser, with
a piteous expression of entreaty in her gray eyes.

Then, without glancing to the right or the left,
he strode from the room. As he did so, it seemed
to his dulled senses as though he heard the girl
“T hate you!”

e * * * * og *

A month of healthy exposure and hardship in
the Rocky Mountain hunting-country exercised quite
an improvement in Lorke’s appearance. When he
went Away he had looked like a consumptive in his
last stage; when he returned there was a bronze
glow on his smooth cheeks, and something like the
old sparkle in his eyes.

Still, he was far from happy as he walked up
Fifth Avenue on his way from the Holland House,
where he was to stay for the three or four days
before he sailed for England.

Occasionally his features contracted; his teeth
elenched themselves closely as he passed one of his
former friends, who, on seeing him, would pass
straight by with a stony and altogether unrecog-
nizing stare.

Presently Lorke’s heart
toward him was Caspar Van Dunk.
himself for the ‘‘unkindest cut of all.”

But, to his amazement, Caspar stopped short,
and stood gazing at him with an intensely puzzled

expression.
It was Caspar who spoke first. ‘Why, Lorke,”
“but, it is not really

stood still. Coming
He nerved

he said, stupidly enough;
you, is it?’

“No one else, my—-er—fair-weather friend,’’ re-
turned Lorke coldly.

“But it can’t be—no—how did you? Pshaw!
I’m hanged if I ean read the riddle,” stammered
the other,

“What riddle?’’

“T simply mean to say that only yesterday you
—or a man claiming to be you, and the exact
counterpart of what you were when you left, but
without the sunburn I see on your face—cailled on
me at the club and asked me for two hundred and
fifty dollars. Of course, I gave it to him. He
was half-drunk, and—well, very shabby.”

Again Lorke grew white. ‘I suppose you are
convinced it was not I?” he asked.

“Of course, I am,” exclaimed Van Dunk, and
added, holding out his hand impulsively, ‘‘Lorke, I
never believed that accusation. Won’t you explain
now ?”

“T can’t,” answered Lorke; and then burst out
passionately, “‘but this last is pretty nearly too
much,”

’ “Walk up to the house with me,” said Caspar
guietly, ‘‘and have a chat.”

“No,” answered Lorke.

“Yes,’’ insisted the other; “besides, Edith would
like to see you.”

This was enough. As they walked on up the
avenue, conversing pleasantly on unimportant top-
ics, Lorke noticed that the men they passed now
looked surprised, but they bowed, just the same.
Then it was he felt he loved this patrician Ameri-
ean youth like a brother.

At the moment Caspar was inserting his latch-
key, the door opened, and a young man came
staggering out on the steps.

He was the exact and perfect physical counter-
part of the Honotable Richard Piantagenet Lorke,
save for the absence of the latter’s brand-new
bronze complexion. Caspar exclaimed: “This is
the fellow, Lorke.”’

The man started back with a maudlin exclama-
tion of horror. As for Lorke, his eyes were
blazing. He grasped him by the collar and pushed
him back inside the door without a word. Cas-
par followed, wondering.

“Now, sir,’’ said Lorke, ‘‘I have borne every-
thing thus far, and I have suffered endless tor-
tures for you; but you shall tell me—dquickly, too
—what you have been doing in this house, or ll
choke your life out!’

As the fellow stood swaying backward and for-
ward, a light footstep was heard, and Edith Van
Dunk stepped into the hall, There were traces
of tears in her eyes.

When she saw Lorke the light of a great joy
leaped into them. Before she could speak, her
brother asked gently: ‘“‘Edith, what does this fel-
low’s presence here mean ?’’

“He came about an hour ago,” she said, blush-
ing. “I saw him from the window, and let him
in myself, because £

*Well ?’”

“Because I thought it was Mr. Lorke,” she said
defiantly. Then she broke down and began to
Cryy

“The mistake was a natural one,’’ said Lorke
calmly. ‘In one respect, the resemblance is per-
fect; but what did he do?’

“He asked me to lend him five hundred dollars,
and I let him have the money, because———”’

Lorke smiled grimly.

“Because you thought it was I?
an expensive luxury.”

“Brother!” whined the drunken man appeal-
ingly. Whereat Caspar and his sister started.

“T would not have told if you hadn't,” said
Lorke. ‘“‘Yes, my dear Caspar, this is my scape-
grace brother, whom I promised our mother to
care for and protect. I think I’ve done my duty.
It is he that has ‘given himself away,’ as you
Americans would say.’’

“Then,” exploded Edith,
that———”’

“Precisely,” answered Lorke. ‘‘Percy, my boy,”
he added, ‘‘you’d better go away from here. Come
and see me at the Holland to-night. I'll pay your
way home.’’

* = * o* * * z

“Tt was my fault, after all,’ said Lorke to
Edith, during a téte-A-téte balf an hour afterward,
“You see, I wrote and told him all about my New
York visit, and Fleece’s charge, and begged him
to write to your brother, and exonerate me. It
seems he has used the information I gave him in
quite another manner.”

“T’ve a confession to make,’ whispered Edith.

“And it is a

‘When I thought he was. you-—and he looked so
broken down and miserable, and it seemed so
pitiful that you——-you’’—she blushed divinely—
“should be reduced to begging me for five hundred
dollars—I think I’d have given five thousand if
he had asked for it—that—that you see I‘ thought
it was you—that—i—I—kissed him.”

“But what has become of Fleece?” asked Lorke
wonderingly.

*T have nct spoken to, Mr.
answer, delivered in a whisper,
night you were here.”

I seem to be

“it was he—that—

Fleece,” was the
“since the last
————<-+ 0

Constant use prevents the tool from rusting.
The more we accomplish the more we may.

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

| Amphibious gem!

ae

 

=

~

roof and gutter.

 

 

ODE TO THE OYSTER,

Delicious bivalve! Fain would I express
_ The deep regard fond mortals have for thee.
_ A thousand pens of burning eloquence
Could scarce portray the charms we taste and
see. ;

The priestess of the stove,
Through thee, immortal honors doth attain.

A steaming fry suggest! Why even blighted love

Would wipe its tears to taste, and taste again.

But how thou comest, little doth it matter,

“A thing of beauty” ever must thou be.
Whether reposing “mid a sea of batter,
- Sublimely. crisped, and browned unto a T;
Cr in a stew, with butter freely found,
Or bottled-up, as pickle tempered keenly,
Or when in “native beauty unadorned,” gs
“Thou glidest down our eager throats serenely.

Ecstatic mussel! May thy noble race
Never with dread or dark disease expire,
But mayest thou ever prosper and increase,
The welcome scions of a luscious sire.
-No-sly old monk, with face rotund and purple,
A daintier dish enjoys in hidden cloister.
Why, Jove himself, his wondrous feasts ambrosial
‘Would throw unto the dogs at sight of one big
oyster. pene ae ae

-
os i. i #
oe

CAUGHT IN A WEB.

By NICHOLAS CARTER,

uthor of “Playing a Bold Game,” “The Silent Partner,”

“Fighting Against Millions,” “A Double Crime,”
- “the. American. Marquis,’ etc. etc.

(“CaUGHT IN a WEB” was commenced in No, 50, Back
- Dumvers can be OVLAlicd Ui win oe WoUearers,) ;

eS os -

CHAPTER XVIII.

eee A DESPERATE HAZARD.

Rap!

pasta : >

Rap—rap—rap!

Chick Carter pricked up his ears at the first
sound. - ;

He was lying on the floor of a bare ropm, as
bare as the day the builders left it, and the sound
was so faint that it could have reached his ears
only through the medium of the wall near which
he was lying—as he had been lying for nearly
eighteen hours, since thrown in upon the floor the
previous night. — : ,

The door was locked and barred.

-~ The single window was closed, yet was without.

bars, for bars were needless. it was fully for
feet from the ground, with only the sheer wall of
the house presenting any means of descent—no
means any ordinary man could have made avail-
able.- --- + : is

‘The man on the floor, moreover, was still in
ropes and irons, hand and foot, as he had been
the night before; and the most critical captor
could not have asked for greater precaution
against his escape. ee

Yet the moment Chick heard the repeated raps,
for which he had long viinly listened, he started
up to his elbow like a man electrified.

“Ha! at last!” he muttered. ‘‘She must have
been removed to a room from which I can now
hear her. The sound comes from below. Had she
been there all day, she surely would have signaled
before.” :

He was right in his conjecture. Dora Vandyke
had been removed to a back room by Annette

only a short time before the arrival of Grout and

Nathan Clay.

Cramped, wearied, and rendered desperate by
rough usage and solitary confinement, Chick had
already resolved to attempt escape that very
night; and to rely upon subsequent efforts to: lo-
cate Dora Vandyke and rescue her, as well as to

“gnsure the arrest of Clay and his gang. :

Presently he heard the rap again, and now he
answered it, tapping on the bare floor with his
manacled wrists. — ooo

Then he heard two raps, and answered with
wo. A ;

Next he gave three quick ones, and almost in-
stantly received a corresponding answer.

“She hears me, that’s evident,” he reasoned,
-with some satisfaction. “She may now infer that
I will make some move to aid her. If I couid
contrive to join her, or even discover in just what
room she is located Bah! I il make the at-
tempt at once,* and take the chances. If I’m
discovered—well, I shall be in no worse a box.
I must have at least a patch of daylight left me
in order to work at all.”

- Ghick had already studied the view from the
lofty window—only a strip of cleared ground and
a dense woodland beyond; but as yet he had made
no attempt to escape, content to await a more
favorable opportunity than broad daylight af-
forded.

Now, however, he set rapidly to work.

Fishing from the depths of his hip pocket the
penknife received from Dora Vandyke, he soon
succeeded in cutting the ropes from his wrists,
despite that they were secured behind him and
also confined with handcuffs.

With a simple contortion of his supple figure, he
next brought his hands in front of him, and then,
with a curious twist of his wrists, which enabled
him to grasp the irons, and then a number of
sharp blows on. his boot-heel, he snapped the
locks by a trick known only to Nick Carter and
his three assistants.

To free his legs was then an easy matter, and
Chick quickly sprang to his feet and stretched his
cramped muscles. _- ; ;

“So far so good!” he proudly muttered. “Any
visitors here now will meet with a warm re-
ception.” ; :
- He slipped the knife and handcuffs into his
pocket and glanced sharply at the closed door.

_ He had heard it: heavily barred on the outside,
_hewever, and knew that escape in that direction
was next to impossible. ; ;

' Only the window remained,_and to this Chick
quickly hastened. It was Secured only. with a
catch and was easily opened. Peering out in the
- dusk of the early evening, Chick readily saw why
‘no greater precautions were thought needful.
“A drop of full forty feet,” he said to himself.
“That means a broken leg, if not a broken neck.

It’s too risky.a chance. The eaves—by Jove! I
might reach them.” es

Gazing up, he had discovered the projecting
roof, along the edge of which ran an ordinary
-gutter. It led to a vertical iron conductor spme
yards away, which was secured to the wall of
the house near one corner. ;

As he followed the conductor downward with his

- eyes, Chick made another discovery—that a room

on the floor below, and evidently to the right of
that directly under his own, was brightly lighted
and the window-curtain drawn.

“Bureka!” he quietly muttered. “It’s a hun-

_ dred to one that Miss Vandyke is in that room.”

To any ordinary man the fact would have sig-

nified but little, however, for the room seemed
_ entirely out of reach.

' Yet Chick instantly saw that one side of the
lighted window was only about two feet from the
vertical iron conductor. : ;

Next he again glanced up at the gutter on the
edge of the roof and estimated its strength.

His white, determined face now wore the look
of a man about to take his life in his hand.

“Tl try it!’ he softly exclaimed. “I'll at
least make the attempt.” oes

; Quietly letting down the upper part of the win-

- dow, Chick now climbed over it and stood on the
sill outside, still gripping the.upper sash to main-
‘tain his balance on the narrow foothold.

That he was forty fect above the ground, that a
slip and fall meant almost certain death, seemed
hardly to cross his mind. |

Yet he first glanced down to make sure that his
- movements were not observed. “The strip of clear-
_ ing at the side of the house was deserted. At no

point of the dusky wall of woods, a few rods dis-

_ tant, was there any sign of life.

_ Then his gaze rose again to the eaves.

Three feet above his head were the projecting
The latter was beyond his ut-
Most reach by about eight inches. In one way
only could he reach it—by leaping backward and
upward from the sill, at the risk of missing it
and falling to the ground.

“It’s a desperate chance,” he mentally mut-
tered. “It’s a hundred to one aginst me. Even
if I reach it, moreover, the gutter may break
under my weight. *-

“Yet something must be done for sake of that
girl, possibly for her life and honor, and it’s up
to me to do it. I reckon I’ve got to take the
chance—or kick myself for being a coward.” =

For only a moment longer he hesitated, with

his white features re set and determined.

_ Then he turned slightly on the narrow Sill,
1d both feet squarely on it, measured with his

‘the distance to the gutter—and then he let

_ go of the window-sash and made the backward and

d leap. eae ‘i
_ An observer on the ground forty feet below, if

had been one, would have turned sick with

_ fear and horror,

é

 

 

 

Yet Chick Carter was perfectly cool and his
nerves were never more steady. ‘

He caught the gutter with one hand only, miss-
ing it by half an inch with the other.

For an instant he swung round and swayed
te and fro, as if a fall was inevitable, and for
that one instant only his every drop of blood
seemed to rush to his heart.

Then his fingers gripped the gutter more firmly,
and he got his other hand on its edge.

With a thrill of relief he found it amply strong
enough to sustain him, and he at once began to
work himself toward the iron conductor.

This, too, proved to be securely fastened to the
house, and within a minute Chick had descended
to a level with the sill of the lighted window.

There he held himself, firmly gripping the con-
ductor, and found that he could peer between the
window-casing and the drawn curtain.

Medora Vandyke was seated at a table,
her head bowed upon her arms.

Chick reached out his foot and tapped gently
on the pane, then found he could easily rest his
weight on the outer sill.

“Miss Vandyke!’’ he softly whispered. :

The girl had heard the rap, and now heard the
voice: fhe sprang up with a low cry, then darted
to the window. In a few seconds she had raised
both the curtain and the sash. —

It was nearly at this same moment that Nathan
Clay ended his interview with Annette Fostelle.

It was only the fraction of a minute later, how-
ever, when Nick Carter and Patsy met in the
gloom of the perch belew.

The investigations of the great detective were
rapidly coming to a crisis.

“Are you alone there?’ Chick quickly asked,
with an evident effort, his strength having been
severely taxed by the tremendous exertions he
had made.

“Yes, yes!’’ exclaimed. Dora, white with amaze-
ment and agitation.

“Step back,’’ commanded Chick.
there.”

The girl instantly drew away, but when Chick
threw one leg over the sill and grasped the win-
dow-casing with his hand, she sprang forward
again and helped him epter the rocm.

- “Merciful heavens!” she cried in hurried whis-
pers. “How did you get here? I heard you up
above only a minute ago.” ;

“It's merely a trick of my trade,’ Chick softly
ene as if.he had performed no extraordinary
eat. ‘

“But how did you-——”

“Don’t ask me ovestions, Miss Vandyke, but
answer mine,’ Chick hurriedly interposed, while
he noiselessly closed the window and drew down
the curtain.
to us. We’re still in imminent peril.” .

It was, in fact, of much greater’value than he
imagined while speaking, yet his conjecture was
almost instantly verified.

Before he could frame the first question he
would have asked, Chick’s keen ears detected the
sound of approaching steps in the adjoining hall.

They were those of Annette, on her way to obey
the command of Nathan Clay.

Chick glanced sharply about.

“Not a word!” he softly whispered to his com-
panion. “Sit down as before!”

. The room offered but one place of concealment,
a wardrobe closet in one. corner.

Into this Chick darted, and held the door ajar.

Dora Vandyke, quick to appreciate the perils of
the situation, resumed her seat at the table and
her attitude of utter despair.

Then a key was thrust into the locked door, and
in a moment Annette appeared on the threshold,
with a jealous scowl! about her evil black eyes.

“Clay’s coming here to see you,” she curtly an-
nounced. ‘You'd better be ready for him.”

Miss Vandyke raised her bewed head and bit-
terly answered: Z 3

“T cannot prevent his coming.”’

“You bet you can’t!’ sneered Annette, as she
withdrew.

The heavy tread of Nathan Clay was already
sounding in the adjoining hall. e

“Light the lamps here!’ he growled, as he
passed Annette. “Spider Flynn is coming up to
take some grub to that dog in the garret.”

with

“I’m coming in

CHAPTER XIX.
CONCLUSION. —

That Nathan Clay meant business that night,
that he had resolved to learn just where he stood,
and, if possible, end at any cost the desperate
situation by which he felt himself threatened, ap-
peared in the first words he addressed to Dora
Vandyke after entering her room and closing the
oor.

“I want just a short talk with you, Dora Van-
dyke,” he_curtly declared. ‘And I want it before
I talk with my confederates. What I say to
them will be determined by what you now say to
me. I’m a desperate man, in a desperate position,
and I’d advise you to weigh your words before
you utter them.”’ :

He spoke with ominous quietude, and a deadly
threat was in his cold blue eyes, in his drawn
white features, in the subtle ring of his bitterly
determined voice.

Miss Vandyke had risen to her feet, instinctively
shrinking from him when he approached, and she
eteadied her trembling figure by resting one jew-
eled hand on the table,

In her heart she was thanking God, as well she
might, that one friend, at least; was near, in the
closet directly behind her,

“I’m compelled to hear you, Nathan Clay,” she
bitterly answered, meeting with frowning gaze the
evil eves he had fixed upon her. “I have no alter-
native, since you have me completely at your
mercy.”

Clay came a step nearer, replying still with his
same cold voice and ominous mien:

“Yet you have it in your power, Dora Vandyke,
_to bring me to my knees at your feet, a supplant
for pardon, a servant willing to obey your every
command.”’

“Then my power is greater than I imagined,”
was the scornful reply. 3

“Yet the power is yours.”

“At some sacrifice, I infer.”

“At a price,’”’ Clay curtly declared. “If you see
fit to pay it, to accept the terms I shall dictate,
‘no further harm shall befall you.’’

“And if not?”

“And if not, Miss Vandyke, you must suffer the
consequenees of your own-mad act, that which
enabled you to discover my secrets.’’

“What if I refuse even to consider any terms
you may make?” the girl slowly demanded.

“Your life will be the price of your refusal.”

“My life!”

“You threaten my liberty,’ said Clay. ‘I shall
have no alternative, and will insure my own safety

a

“Dy adding even murder to the crimes of which
you already are guilty,” Miss Vandyke scornfully
interrupted.

““Tf necessary—yes !”

“You: will not dare!”

“You are mistaken, and do not realize your own
perilous position,’ Clay quickly answered.

“ts. that so?’

“You left home voluntarily. You lied concern-
ing your motive and your destination. Your loca-
iion is unknown. JI have secretly removed from
the hotel in which you disguised yourself the gar-
ments by which you might possibly have been
traced. Now there exists no clue to your move-
ments, From the very beginning your own du-
-plicity would serve as my safeguard. If I were
to end you this very night, Dora Vandyke, I could
do so with comparative safety, without the slight-
est fear of subsequent suspicion,”

“And I think you are quite capable of it,’’ de-
clared Dora, pale and awed by his terribly threat-
ening aspect. ‘

“You are right. I am capable of it.”

“Tt is painfully. obvious.” : F

“And whether I shall do so,” Clay sternly add-
ed, “depends entirely upon you.”

“T guess not,” thought Chick, attentively listen-
ing in the near closet. ‘It depends upon me, in-

tead of her, and I reckon I’m equal to the emer-
gency.”’

“Depends upon me?” said Dora. ~

**Ves,’? :

“In what way?”

“Your acceptance of the terms I shall offer.”

The girl drew up her shapely figure and smiled
faintly, a smile imbued with concentrated bitter-
ness and disdain. :

“TE will hear you state them,” she answered.

“They may be briefly stated,’’ Clay frowningly
rejoined. ‘I am short in my accounts at the
Emerald Trust Company. I am a defaulter to the
tune of half a million dollars. It was because of
that, and with a hope that I might rest -e the
deficit by other criminal ventures, that I leagued
myself with counterfeiters in an enterprise not yet
completed. I now see, however, a better and safer
way to accomplish my object.” y
~ “In what way?”

“with your help.” PA

“Axplain.” ’

“You are very wealthy,” continued Clay. “You
could set me on my feet and scarcely feel the ex-
penditure. If you will do that, and swear never
to betray me, and if you will also receive me
again as a suitor for your*hand, and Be

“And; in a nutshell, become your wife #’

“Bxactlv! If you will consent

“Stop right there!’’ said Miss Vandyke, retreat-
ing till her shoulders touched the wall behind
her. “I will not for a moment consider such
terms. If the price of refusal —*?

“The price will be all that I have stated—your
life!” threatened Clay, striding toward her with
features growing convulsed with evil passion. ‘“‘As
surely as God hears me, Dora Vandyke, the price
will be your life, yo eS Fei,

 

your
He never completed his villainous threat.

“Time, you know, may be of value
y

Chick had heard a sudden sound from the hall,
a sound that told him. that a great crisis was at
hand, and one that must be met with utter des-
peration and despatch. 3

Clay, while speaking, had approached nearly to
the closet.

His last words were drowned by the bang of
the door against the wall, when Chick threw it
CE=%,
With a single bound, before Clay could utter
the cry of alarm that rose to his lips, the detect-
ive had him by the throat, choking him to silence.
Then his clenched hand rose and fell twice with
ee ta force upon the struggling miscreant’s

Dora Vandyke. uttered a low scream, turning
away and covering her face with her hands.

The knees of Clay collapsed under him and he
dropped to the ficor, as an ox falls when struck
down in the shambles. >

Then Chick Carter sprang to Dora’s side and
drew her to the wall, planting his shoulders
against it.

The sound he had heard a moment before was
the heavy tread of many feet up the hall stairs.

The occasion may be quickly explained.

Going to Chick’s quarters with food for him,
Spider Flynn had discovered that the prisoner was
gone and the window open, and he at once had
guessed. that Chick might have succeeded in get-
ting down to the room in which his fellow captive
was confined.

As ‘quickly as possible, the crafty little rasca
had hastened down-stairs and informed the en-
tire gang, and to a man they kad at once started
for the chamber.

Two others rapidly followed them, however—
two who had heard, while still in the gloom of the
torch, the startling disclosures Spider Flynn was
tnaking *

As
upon protecting her and putting
his life, the door directly opposite

ne.
Chick drew Dora Vandyke to the wall, bent
was

the house poured into the room.

girl standing against the opposite wall.

A yell breke from some and a roar
Murphy.- -

“Nail him!’ he shouted. ‘‘By Heaven, he has
killed -Nate Clay! Nail him, ‘boys, before he
can es

Then there came an interruption that rose like
thunder above all the disturbance of the room.

“Nail nothing! Throw up your hands, every
man of you! The knave who doesn’t will be a
corpse in three seconds! Up with your hands,
every man!”

Every man turned as if lashed with a whip, and
Chick uttered a shout of mingled joy and amaze-
ment.

On the threshold of the open door, each with a
brece of leveled revolvers, stood Nick Carter and
Patsy.

The staring, startled crooks, mute and awed by
the ‘deadly weapons that covered them, hesitated
for just the fraction of a second—and then the
hands of every man went into the air.

The sequel may be told in few
words,

In less than ten minutes Nathan Clay and all
cf his confederates then in the house were Sse-
curely under arrest, Annette having been caught
as she was hurrying from the rear door.

Nick then sent Patsy to bring help, which was
obtained after but little delay, and before mid-
night the entire gang was in the custody of the
police, on their way to the nearest. station.

Nick, Chick, and Patsy then searched the house,
and speedily found evidence of the great criminal
enterprise they had luckily discovered before its
completion. In the basement were Barker’s work-
room and tools, several unfinished plates for new
counterfeits; and in an adjoining room were two
presses, a vast quantity of bank-note paper, made
in excellent imitation of that used by the govern-
ment, and also thousands of spurious notes ready
for early circulation.

“We have headed off a gigantic scheme,’ was
Nick’s comment, made with much satisfaction
when he surveyed this evidence of the vast felony.
“Tt’s lucky that my deductions so nearly hit the
mark,”

He spoke with modesty, habitual even to him
at the moment of great success.

In the trial that subsequently followed, how-
ever, a trial resulting in the conviction and pun-
ishment of the entire gang, the absolute truth of

ick remarkable deductions was. effectively
‘brought out.

hey have already been so fully presented, how-
ever, as well as the motives of the several crim-
inals involved, that further reference to them ap-
pears entirely needless.

-It was some weeks. before the less culpable
members of the gang were discovered and rounded
up by Nick and his assistants, but in the end the
lest of them was taken; and one and all met with
their just deserts.

As regards Barney Magee, it was learned that
he had arrived in New. York and joined Barker
enly a week before his death; also, that it was

from Peter

and simple

Annette Fostelle, who, in her evil love fer Nathan
Clay, had quickly planned and executed the hein-
ous* crime described.

The gratitude Dora Vandyke felt for the Car-
ters, as well as that of Rockford and the Arnolds,
ray be easily imagined. Dora fully confessed the
curious fault of which she had been guilty, and
which had come so near costing her very dearly,
and a little later she gave her hand in marriage
to John Rockford, who was well worthy of her.

So, as Nick Carter remarked when he heard of
it, the case had one redeeming feature, after all.

THE END.

he ie

A MIRACLE-WORKER,

BY OSWALD WILDRIDGH.

This was the end!

Crouched jin the capacious depths of his office
chair, Geoffrey Thwaites, in a dull, despairing
.aShion, turned the thought over and over and
over again. The end!

In itself, the thought was incomplete, only a
‘ink in a chain, a link that was held by others
and to others gave support, but for the time it
dominated him. He ignored the circumstances by
which the climax had been wrought, overlooked its
train of ¢cpéndent evils. The catastrophe alone
fascinai.d. This was the end! Ambition had
produced disaster, work was represented by ruin.
A- mighty fabric of triumph he had planned and
labored upon with all his craft and strength, gor-
f. uS_as the rainbow. had been the color of his
cream, and now he sat amid the ashes and his
sky was black.

All around there were forceful evidences of life
‘and activity. Through the office windows the
flaming lights of his factory glared down ur
him, a myriad of searching, yellow eyes; the air
Loomed with the rattle of spindle, the metallic
ring of loom; the floor of his room vibrated as
igh beneath the tread of a mighty army. From
ell this turmoil in the days that lay behind he
had gathered inspiration; the clangor of his mills
bad scunded as sweetest music, to its. stra
bad marched along the golden road of his own
cheice. Now it beat upon him as a dirge.

By and by the boom diminished and died away,
throb and iron-tumult ceased; across the yellow
eyes living forms hastily passed; there was the
harp slamming of docrs, and after that the clash
of clogs on factory flags, and the hum of voices,
the tired voices of well-worn age, the laughter-
laden voices of youth. The young manuiacturer
rose and- listened with pained intensity to the
familiar,.home-going sounds.

“The last time,’ he muttered; ‘‘another phase
of the end. It’s ‘gocd-by,’ but they don’t know
it. And when they learn the fact it will t 2
kiittle of the sting that it holds for me. To-nigh
the place is mine, they are my people; to-morrow,
for wamt of a handful of gold, it will pass from

tho
Liuid

in my room and do the work I have calicd my
own. In a year they will have forgotten me.”

In a year! What would that year mean for
him? What—would—it—do—for—his—-wife? How
would it treat his children? To-day he ranked as
one of the great factory town’s merchant-princes,
a son of King Cotton; to-morrow he would be
deposed. Henceforth, even if he were permitted
to serve the monarch at all, it would only be as a
salaried menial. He must begin life anew in a
cottage, one of a hundred mean, insignificant
awellings; his wife must be her own servant, and
—he knew full well what collapse in the big
factory town involved—unless fate gave him an-
other chance his three golden-haired girls might
eyen in time become slaves of the loom. Love
lent cclor to his fears, daubed the lurid patches
thick and heavy. ;

At any rate, his crucifixion was almost ended.
There remained for the night that one agonizing
tosk, the soul-shattering confession to be made to
his wit>; then, on the morrow, the crash, and
efter that—a new start. the first blow in the most
desperate of all his battles.

He donned his overcoat and hat, went down the
stairs and through the engine-room, with its
gleaming fire, its glowing coppers and cans, passed
into the street. Thence, by way of a tortuous
labyrinth of courts and alleys, he gained the
heart of the town, and, moved by the force of
habit, waited for the trolley—for at Sherburne the
end of every day discovers master and man trav-
eling homeward. side by side in the same car, and
seeing nothing odd in the circumstances. But

 

when the car rumbled along and halted by the
corner, he suddenly remembered the new-born call

 

up the fight of |
fiercely |
thrown open, and the six men of the gang then in |

Their excited eyes instantly fell upon Clay, in- |
sensible on the floor, and then upon the man and}

yy + } t 1 ;
not generally known that he was the husband cf

 

{she smited as

 

for economy, reminded himself that to-morrow. a
nickel might have become a coin of value. His
foot was on the step, but the thought thrust him
back, plunged him again among the crowd on the
sidewalk. He wondered what they would think
of him, how they would treat him, these people
who knew him, some of whom greeted him with
words of cordial warmth, if the reality were re-
vealed to them, if they were shown that he had
been reduced to this—the price of a trolley ride.

Away up the sharply climbing road he heavily
tru..ed, exchanging business and bustle for sub-
urban calm, and at last, just on the fringe of the
town, he turned in through the gate of his own
garden. On the lawn he hesitated, fear playing
havoc with resolution; on the porch he paused
again, so that ere he entered he might get a thor-
ough grip of himself. He felt like a destroyer, a
wrecker of joy, longed for the power of flight, if
only that would be accepted as an all-sufficient
sacrifice, leaving his paradise unharmed.

At last he*turned* the handle and crossed the
threshold, and at once the silence was broken by
a boisterous, glad cry.

“Dad! dad! dad!”

A scamper of tiny feet, a flash of golden hair
and sparkling eyes, the hug of little arms clasped
about his neck, a rain of kisses on-his face. This
and more, and in the end a greeting from their
mother, still fair to him 4 } whereon she
became his wife. t his drooping
shoulders, resclutely raised his Here was
inspiration nerving him for any Regret,
keen, dagger-pointed, remained with him, but de-
sEair had vanished,

“It is only the little that is lost,’’ he told him-
self. “Only the little, and I thought all had
gone. These are left me, and love, and, for the
sake of these, love will help me play the man,
and fight—and fight, and—win !”

Lusty, unrestrained, the music of juvenile rev-
rang out overhead, for bed-time in he
hwaites household was one of madcap capers, an
hour that proved Nellie Thwaites to be a woman
of discretion and patience, one completely fitted
for the manifold duties of motherhsod. As a last
act in the day’s doing, when the little maids were
ed away in their cots, a demand was
e for ‘‘father,’’ without whose kiss and
etik they would have gone .to sleep ill
eontent; and while he waited for the call, Geof-
frey listened eagerly to the merry chorus, the
rain of mental conflict stamped upon his face
and again ng in a half-hearted
fe remembered gladly the buoyancy
joiced in the now xe ;
ter the blow fallen, ; ar
ee upon the lips of his children,
still be t ined to song.
his wife! Ah, there was the rub. To her
meant the overthrow of her most radiant
the denial of her dearest plans, rank des-
He rose and crossed the floor to her
k-basket, picked up the exquisite little frock
p gers had begun to fashion, wondered
her, in spite of his resolution of work, this
light be the last of her needlework dainties. He
ran to rove round the room, examined his pic-

25 one by one, recalled the fact that in buying

1em he had thought only of her preferences, won-
cered how life between bare walls or walis hung
with cheap prints would grind upon her. ~Roved
end looked and wondered, finding’ her linked with
all that the room contained.

Then, without warning, a new thought, hate-
ful in all its proportions, flung itself. on him.
Whence it came and why were trifles unworthy of
juiry; all that counted was the suggestion that
even after making allowance for all his wife’s
excellencies, she hag failed him in his grea
need, that his marriage was a lamentable mistake.
He shrugged his shoulders angrily, vexed that

should ever have permitted the shadow of
doubt to fall between them. But the thing would
not be shaken off so easily. Again it stared him
in the face, spcke to him in hot, insidious whis-
perings, compelled his attention.

At first it was a hint of mild extravagance, but
his soul rebelled against the charge; knowledge
and love threw themselves into the breach for her
defense. Never since she came to him had she
been guilty of that. If either of them had been
reckless, it was himself. He could recall ever so
many occasions when he would have spent but for
her restraining counsel. ‘‘Never mind, dear,’’ she
had said, “wait till our luxury days come, and
then buy it. We can do nicely without it for the

nt.” Moreover, she had lived quietly, her
yme, her children, and—and he himself had been
her all. As a matter of fact, more than once he
had gently chided her for her exclusiveness,
preached to her of social duty, told her she ought
to visit more and throw open her own door a
little wider, but she had always silenced him with
ene of those happy, contented smiles and words
ich he could. never find an answer.
spend my time in other houses when
satisfied with my own? E would be

for entertaining,

Irw
sry

aur

srrow,
still
their hearts

but

he

my eyes

§ 1ve grown
aving me with a lot of re-

the days and the hours I kave stolen
from them to give to some one else without a
claim upon me. No, no; wait till the right time
comes, then I’H entertain as much as you wish—
and then you'll see your money fly!” Vhat could
ony man, and especially a young husband marnied
but a handful of years, say to pleadings such as
these?

Well, then, cried the tempter, if not extrava-
gant, may she not havé been just a wee bit was<e-
‘ul, careless of some all-important details? But
this indictment also he knew to be false. Why,
in her economies he had thought her excessively
exacting, and had _ playfully lamed hen called
her a “regular little higgard.’ No, she had not
been a wasteful wife.

Still—suspicion had him now completely within
the grasp of its repulsive toils—what had she done
with the money? He had been generous to a fault
in the matter of her allowance. She herself had
aid so. He would never forget that day at the
end of the honeymoon, when they came to plan the
olid, every-day arrangements of domestic life.
She positively gasped when he told her the sum
he should have for her housekeeping, and when
she recovered from the shock of surprise she pro-
tested strongly and almost refused its acceptance.
“It is teo much, dear, far..too much.
reelly think I could manage on half.”
insisted, however, and from that day the
had never again been mentioned. The one
certain was that she had spent it. The close of
every month had found her ready for more. He
vas inclined to think he had been too lax. It
micht be that he would have displayed more -per-
fect wisdom, shown. greater kindness, had he paid
a little mere attention to this side of their life,
kept a tighter hand on the purse-strings. And
yet—and yet

“What is it, dear?”

She was bending over him, her hand upon his
shoulders, her eyes seeking his. He looked up
sherply, and for the first time quailed before her
aze. He had doubted her.

“What is it, dear? The children have called,
and called for their good-night i and you
haye never answered. What is it?”

He looked up again, this time without flinching.
She saw the agony in his eyes, and, stooping,
kissed him.

“I’ve seen for days,’
was amiss,

"Ss i
knew it, lea

* she said, “‘that something
and I’ve waited for you to tell me.
New go and say good night to the girlies, and
then come and let me share your trouble.’’ ,

When he returned to the room she made him sit
in his own chair; then she dropped upon her knees
by his his. hands in her own, and
straightway drew the fangs of torture from his
task.

side, took

is it that troubles you, dear?
39

He replied with a nod of the head, whereupon
though the confession relieved her
of her darker fears. In a dull way he realized
that money an@ position did not rank first in her

| regard.
me; a few days longer and another man will sit |

| of
| mended?

“Very bad business?’ she continued, in a tone

interrogation—‘‘something that cannot be

It must be, to make you look so fear-

fully worried. Perhaps you are thinking of me,

dear; but you must not be troubled overmuch on

my account. I can stand anything—so long as I
have you left—and my girlies.’

“Anything, dearest,” he. repeated
Are you sure of that?”

“Yes, quite sure.”

“Even to beginning over again, right down at
the bottom rung of life’s ladder?”

“There will be the joy of climbing.”

“Well’—by an effort he pulled himself together
—“that is what we shall have to do. To-morrow
I shall be a ruined man.”

Just for a few seconds she quivered under the
shock. He saw the roses in her cheeks grow
paler, felt her hands tremble. But all the while
her pity was for him, and when she kissed him
again and murmured, “My poor boy!” he knew
that not one of her regrets was for herself. A
short spell of hard, tense-drawn silence, and then
she begged for the whole truth.

“Ts there no way out, Geoffrey;
the thing is as bad as you say?”

“IT can find no way, dear. You see, it’s all
because of the poor cotton crop and a bad blunder
that I made right at the very beginning of the
season. For the first time, my judgment was at
fault, and since then I’ve been simply hanging
on to a desperate chance of escape. Until a few
weeks ago I thought I should just manage to keep
afloat until the first shipments of the new crop
reached us, but—it’s been too much for me. I’ve
raised money on everything; it’s been a terrible
struggle, for so many firms are badly hit, but

“anything?

are you sure

le
of youth, re- |

the time}

 

- =
I’ve mortgaged the mills and borrowed money on
the house, and—and still I’m short. To-morrow
my name will be hammered on ’Change, and—all
will be gone!”

“Not all, dearest,’? she whispered, her face
very white now, but very resolute; ‘love will be
left us—love and work.’’

“And you think——’”’
rupted him.

“TI think I’m going to be wonderfully proud of
my husband. He’s going to show the world some-
thing of the grit that is in him. We came to-
gether for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer.
So far we have tasted only the richer and the
better side; now we may know a little of the
poorer, but here is going to be no worse in our
lives.”’

Then Geoffrey Thwaites bowed his head upon
his hands. This was the hour of revelation—the
hour wherein there was disclosed to him the ma-
jestic power of womanhood. But not even yet
was the revelation complete.

With a calmness, a defiance of circumstance
that still further amazed him, she began to dis-
cuss the days that lay’ ahead, cheerily tried to
show him how together they would meet and
vanquish whatever might be coming to assail
em, and it was on!'y as though by an after-
ought that she returned to the present and
begeed for a little more light.

Ah,” he exclaimed, “that is the most tragic
part of the whole business. A mere trifle would
have saved me, only my resources are exhausted,
and I can’t raise another dollar.”

“A trifle,’ she echoed; ‘and how much may
that be?’ There was a curious, excited ring in
her yoice, but. he failed to detect ‘it.

“Well,” he replied thoughtfully, ‘‘three thousand
dollars would do it. It wouldn’t clear me out
and out, but I could meet my accounts to-mor-
row, and then I should be all right until the
new crop came to hand. But then, it’s all the
ame, for I’m simply dead broke. Here, what’s
the matter?’

He was alone. He heard her sweep in frantic
haste along the corridor and up the stairs, heard
her return, as though her errand were one of life
cr death. It was, at all events, a mission of
transformation, for when she came again into his
presence he saw that her cheeks had surrendered

sallor for the hot glow of excitement, that
} shone with joy. In her hand, out-
stretched toward him, she carried a book.

“There! she cried joyously, ‘look at that, and

me you’re glad > thing I’ve done!”

dumt y wonder, a great, unnama-

te Dp surging in his heart, he obeyed her

ymmand, but his hand trembled so that the tale

he book could not be read.

“Pell me what it is, dear,”
all mean?”

he pointed to the book—“is my only

id you at the start, Geoffrey, that you

re being too good to me, that I could keep the

house going on half of what you allowed me, and

I’ve done it—or very nearly so. But you wouldn’t

bave any of the money back, and so I schemed a

little scheme, and all I could. That

is my ban dear—there’s nearly four thou-

; I'm the happiest woman in the

he began, but she inter-

t
t
I

he begged; ‘‘what

I’ve saved

One lone, bewildered look, then, as the truth
foreed itself upon him, the book slipped from his
fingers, he sank into his chair and again bowed
his head upon his hands. Not yet could he
thank her for the miracle she had wrought, not
vet declare his gratitude and pride. He Was
writhing in the torment of self-reproach. His
wife had saved his name from dishonor, his home
from destruction, his children from sacrifice, and
—he had doubted her, he had doubted her. In
all the years he might yet give to. her he could
never atone for his wrong.

Rut Nellie Thwaites knew nothing of her hus-
band’s doubts, and when he took her in his arms
and called her his queen, just as in their courting
days, she was quite content.

——_—____—_ << Go DP

THE LADIES OF THE HAREM.

Every Turk is allowed to have four wives.
This is sanctioned by the law and religion; but
very few Turks avail themselves of the privilege,
for the question of expense is a serious one,

All Turkish houses are divided into the selam~
lik, or down~stairs, for the master and his friends,
and the haremlik, or up-stairs, devoted ~to the
women, children, or slaves. One room is called
the “coffee hearth,’’ where an old dame always
presides with a charcoal brazier ready to boil
coffee at a moment’s notice.

There are many sofas, divans, and cushions,

marble-topped tables and candelabra, with an oc-
casional stiff, high-backed chair, while sherbet
goblets, rosewater ‘ sprinklers, hand-mirrors, and
jewel-boxes abound, and a quantity of mother-of-
pearl inlaid walnut stools for matches, ash-re-
ccivers, and coffee-cups stand within convenient
reach.
There are no bedsteads; but each room has a
cupboard built into the wall, into which the slaves
store the profusion of pillows and cushions that
rm the bed, which is made up at night, when-
ver required. A small wash-room is deemed suf-
ient for an ordinary lavatory, as for special ab-
utions Turkish women go to the private or public
bath,

If a slave child gives any promise of beauty
whatever, her future is assured. She is reserved
for light duties, given over to the care of a kalfa
—a slave whose position as head of some house-
hold department has been assumed by seniority—
and under the loving care and guidance of this
woman, whose adopted child she becomes, the slave
cirl is taught to dance and embroider, sing, play
the tambourine and lute, and acquire a proficiency
in Moslem faith, deportment, and etiquette.

The negresses and more strongly muscléd, plain-
featured slaves are given over to the menial labor
of the home, but they, equally with the beautiful
white slaves, are almost invariably well treated,
well fed, and, after seven or ten years of service,
given their liberty, a husband, and a trousseau;
end the same law of the seraglio, that the lowest
lave may, perhaps, be chosen for the sultan’s
favor, epnlies in a certain degree to private house-
holds, alihough no Turk may visit a slave belong-
ing to his wife without that lady’s full permission,
and should the slave bear him a child, she is im-

+ OD thin

re

| mediately set at liberty and another set of apart-

ments and retinue of slaves and eunuchs must be
furnished for her.

Many ladies of high position, wives of ministers
and public officials, buy crowds of young slaves’
children, educate, bring them up, dress them
richly, and sell them at the age of seventeen or
eichteen at a handsome profit, this private trade
having been greatly increased since the abolition
of the public slave markets. These lady slave-

ickers aim to outdo each other in the num-

> of beautiful and expensively dressed slave girls
their harems, and very often a slave raised
arefully in this way is bought for a daughter-
in-law by a father whose means are not equal to
the expenses of marriage with a free woman for
his n. :
- bought slave may be had for the purchase-

y; she is beautiful, well-educated, and ac-

smplished, without interfering relatives, her chil-
dren are as legitimate heirs as those of a free
\ and, in nine cases out of ten, the young
falls madly in love with her, gives her her
i ty, and marries her as soon as possible, her
cial position and privileges being in no wise
affected by her former condition.

 

 

Shirley’s 20th Century
LOVERS’ GUIDE

LOVE, COURTSHIP AND

s MARRIAGE,
a OH There are seventy-four
Cal i — different subjects write
ten about and explained in this book in language
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rice, 10 cents. If sent by mail, three cents extra

for postage.
STREET & SMITH, Publishers,

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LETTER WRITER.

An up-to-date and accurate
guide to correct modern let.
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WAY a IN Ty Be oo numbers of THE

GOLDEN ARGOSY and

GOLDEN HOURS. Address, stating what numbers you have,
GAMA, P. 0. Box 24, Sta. ‘‘0,” N. ¥.

“Children Teething.”’

MRS. WINSLOW’s SOOTHING SyRUP should always be
used for children teething. It soothes the child, softens
the gums, allays all pain, cures wind colic, and is the best
remedy for diarrhoea. Twenty-five cents.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
*

1» ah ve mae ye at nin a mtg aa

 

 

 

 

‘OCTOBER'S GIFTS.
BY “MAUD E. SARGENT,

“T have no red, red rose,” she said—
This fair maid clad in russet gown;
“T offer crimson leaves instead,
And rich nut-clusters rips and brown.

“For me no golden kingcups gleam,
No lilies lift their cups of snow,
But by the margin of the stream
The tall sedge-grasses thickly grow,

“No scented blossoms trail and twine
Upon the woodbine branches green,
But gleaming coral berries shine
Amid the thick leaves’ verdant screen.

“TI have no bluebells fair and slight
To dance upon the wind-swept lea;
My blooms are asters, mauve and white,
And yelvet dahlias, fair to see.

“TI haye no wreath of golden wheat—

The harvest fields are bare and brown—
-But brambles flame beneath my feet

And gay hop-clusters form my crown.

“T have no summer sunbeams bright,
No springing grass, no blossoms new;
At morning dawn, by sunset’s light,
I don my veil of frosty dew.

“No cherries glow for me,” she said,
“But ripened apples load the trees
And strew the orchards ’neath my tread
At ey’ry passing autumn breeze!”

—— et 8 Oo
A STORY FOR HALLOWEEN.

BY EMMA GARRISON JONES.

“To-night’s Hallowe’en, girls; and I’ll venture
to say not one of you remembered it!’’

We sat in the long drawing-room at Cheswold
Manor, with its low, seaward windows and-black-
oak paneling, our chairs ranged in a semicircle
before the glowing fire, when Aunt Hunice en-
tered, with this remark. It brought us to our
feet on the instant.

We were down in Devon, Maud and I, on a
visit to Lilian—cousins, all of us, and three as
merry, rosy maidens as could be found in wide
England.

Lilian, a rare, pearl-faced blonde, was Aunt
Eunice’s only child, and heiress of Cheswold
Manor; Maud, dark and stately, was the daughter
of Uncle Roger, a London banker; while I—but
no matter; you will find out my pedigree time
enough,”

“T thought you had forgotten it,’’ Aunt Eunice
continued, pushing up to the fire, and settling
herself in her great velvet chair, “young folks
made a great fuss over Hallowe’en when I was a
girl, but the times have changed, I suppose.”

Lillian turned to me all of a tremor.

“Oh, Christie!” a vivid red rising to her pearl
cheeks; “let’s do something—try our fortunes,
won’t you?”

“Ask Maud,’ I responded, nodding toward the
dark beauty, who stood with her queenly head

- poised daintily, and a half-scornful, half-amused
smile curving her ripe lips. “Won’t you Maud,
dear?’’ Lillian pleaded.

Maud laughed till the drawing-room rang with
silver echoes; then bending down, she took Lil-
lian’s cheeks between her two jeweled hands.

“Little Lily, you’re a great silly, and that’s a
rhyme,” she said gaily. ‘‘What good will trying
our fortunes do? Yours is as fixed as fate. I
can read it for you. You will marry Squire Bron-
son, and settle down at The Willows, and in ten
years to come you'll be a plump British matron
with half a dozen blond-haired youngsters round
your feet. That’s it to the letter, isn’t it, Aunt
“Bunice?” . :

“I hope so, Maud,’’ replied Aunt Eunice pleas-
antly, as she smoothed down the soft folds of her
brown silk dinner dress,

Lily’s cheeks flamed, and her sea-blue eyes
filled with tears. She was my pet cousin, and the
sight roused my temper,

“Let me read yours, my Lady Maud,” I re-
torted, drowning Lillian’s faltering protest.

“Thank you, no,” tossing her sloe-black ringlets,
“T’ll leave such folly to you and Lily. Matrimony
doesn’t happen to be the goal toward which my
aspirations tend. don’t covet Squire Bronson
and The Willows.”

“The fox didn’t covet the grapes, either, Maud
—they were sour.”

- She turned on me like a tigress,
flashing.

“Christabel, how dare you?”

**& Cheswold dares everything,’ is one of your
favorite sayings. I am a Cheswold as well as
yourself.”

“An offshoot from the ancestral tree, I grant
you.” :

It was true as she said. My father was Roger
Cheswold’s brother; but he disgraced himself in
the eyes of his family by marrying a rector’s
daughter. .

Lillian was in trouble, and had been ever since
midsummer.

Squire Bronson, a great, herculean fellow, with
sleepy, hazel eyes and long, tawny beard, was her
lover.

It was the old story. They had been compan-
ions from their youth up—happy in their chi'dish
love, happier still when the slender crescent of
youth began to round into the full circle of ma-
turer years.

Lillian was exquisite, fair, and feminine beyond
all expression—the one woman to win the heart
of a strong, masculine fellow like’ the young
master of The Willows. He loved her as his life,
but he was foolishly exacting, and a trifle prone
to jealousy. _Men of his type invariably are.

If Lily’s blue eyes turned from him an instant,
if she chanced to smile upon another, he was
vexed and wounded. Lillian was true as steel;
there was not a spark of coquetry in her nature.
She loved the squire, great, bearded fellow that he
was, as a mother might love her babe, but in her
shy, girlish modesty she never dreamed of letting
him know it.

She had promised to be his wife, but the squire
was always in doubt about her loving him enough,
and this marred their happiness, and caused the
course of true love, which never did run smooth,
to be a little rougher than usual, They quarreled
in midsummer.

Maud and I were at the Manor when it hap-
pened—indeed, Maud was the cause of it,

She was a wondrously bewitching girl, my
cousin Maud, and that afternoon she was at her
best. We were dining at The Willows, with Squire
Bronson’s mother. How well I remember Maud’s
dress! Where she got her marvelous robes has
always been the one mystety of my life.

Pale-golden silk, so heavy and lustrous that it
seemed to irradiate the great dining-hall; fashion-
able as no other woman’s ever was, with rare old
laces and quaint garnet ornaments; a few scarlet
buds and trailing sprays of green in the heavy,
purplish-black curls; her cheeks a’ vivid carna-
tion, her eyes like winter stars.

“She’s a magnificent woman, by Jove!”

The exclamation escaped the young squire’s lips
elmost before he knew it. Maud heard it, and a
sudden resolve took shape in her dazzling eyes.

She was sitting apart from the rest of us, and
I, watching her covertly, could read her like a
bo

her eyes

ok.

Before the dinner-bell rang she had managed to
get the squire by her side—for Lilian was talking
to Captain Turner, of the Lancers, a very old
friend of hers, and her silly lover had been loun-
ging about for some time in a fit of jealousy.

But Maud soon succeeded in beguiling him into
something like interest. He was a handsome,
courtly gentleman, this stalwart young squire, with
some of the best of English blood in his veins, and
untold English guineas at his command—the very
best match of the season. And my Lady Maud,
with all her regal beauty and fastidious tastes,
Was as poor as a church mouse.

Hence she did her best to bewitch Lilian’s lover,
and simple Lilian looked on well pleased.

“You'll drive with me, Lilian, won’t you?” asked
Squire Bronson, as we were preparing to depart.

Lilian wanted to say “Yes,” but she was too
shy and modest, too afraid to betray her pref-
erence; accordingly she stammered something
about having promised the captain. The squire
was off in a breath, and in five minutes he whirled
past us, with beautiful Maud seated beside his
blooded bays.

“Are the Bronsons quite a good family, Aunt
Hunice?’”’ questioned Maud that night, lying back
amid her cushions with lazy indifference.

“Very good, I believe,” was the laconic reply.

“Wealthy, too?”

‘Very wealthy.”

- “Well, well”—yawning gracefully, and clasping
and unclasping her pretty hands—‘“I’ve a mind to
set my cap for the squire; he’s rather a bearable
kind of person. What do you say, girls?”

~ Lily’s face crimsoned with painful confusion,
and mine flamed with anger. Knowing, as I did,
that Maud was aware how matters stood between
the squire and Lily, I could not restrain myself.

“Squire Bronson’s not free, and you know it,
Maud,” I cried; ‘‘he’s engaged to Lilian.”

 

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. °

Vol. 62—No. 6

 

 

The poor child bounded to her feet, with such
a look of pain on her sensitive face that I heartily
regretted my thoughtless words.

“No, no!” she protested; ‘he’s free—I’ve no
claim on him. Cousin Maud may " and with
the sentence unfinished she vanished from the
room.

Aunt Eunice said nothing, but Maud and I had
it sharply for some moments, and parted for the
night in high wrath.

The squire was down bright and early the next
morning, but Lilian vanished the moment he ap-
peared, and left him to Maud, and an hour after
she went riding with Captain Turner.

The squire came only once-more, and then there
was a stormy time in the library, from which
poor little Lily came forth with a proud, pale
face, the engagement-ring gone from her finger.

That was the end, or the beginning, rather, for
Lady Maud.

Yet poor little Lily was so eager about “trying
her fortune.” Woman’s love is se long-suffering,
so tenacious, and yet so proud.

It was cruel in Maud to speak as she did, under
the circumstances, and I should have expressed
my indignation in clearer terms had not Aunt
Eunice interposed and cut me short.

“For shame, girls,’’ she said severely. ‘You’re
like two cats, always ready to scratch. Christa-
bel, you are the older, and I’m really surprised
at you!”

Maud went off with a wicked glance, and I
sought Lilian. She was in her own room, her
bright head on a cushion, the tears trickling
through her fingers.

“Oh, Christie’—when I raised her head—‘I’m
so weak and miserable. I try not to be selfish,
but I can’t help it. I want them to be happy—
she’s so beautiful, and suits him so well. I wish
I could die, and be out of the way—indeed I do,
Christie!”

I wasn’t like divinelike Lillan. If another
woman had come between me and my afflanced, I
should have been ready to tear her eyes out. I
made up my mind on the instant. Interference
between lovers is rather a risky thing, but I did
not pause at risks. I kissed Lilian, and went
out.

In a few short moments I was under thé soar-
ing October moon, equipped for a walk; and in
twenty minutes I stood before the great, black-
oak door at The Willows.

The squire himself met me, all spurred and
booted for a ride. His fine, clear eyes opened
with astonishment as he led me into the drawing-
room.

“One moment, Miss Cheswold; I will
mother.”

“No, I beg your pardon; my business is with
you.”

He dropped into a seat.

“Squire Bronson, will you answer me a serious
question if I ask it?”

“Yes, if I can.”

“Which of my two cousins do you love, Maud
or Lilian?”

“Lilian.”

“You are engaged to Maud?”

“No.”

“Then—excuse me, but you are a pair of sim-
pletons, you and Lily. She is breaking her heart
over this estrangement &:

“Lily !’’—bounding
“Captain Turner is her

“Hush! Sit down and hear what I hayes come
to tell you.” In half an hour I was back with
Lily. -
“Now, Lily, I’m all ready, and we must try our
fortunes. We may not ever spend another Hal-
lowe’en together. Maud’s too find a lady; we'll
have it all to ourselves. Come!”

She sprang up, all in a tremor. She was a
childish young thing, and Aunt Hunice’s old-time
tales had inspired her with a superstitious rever-
ence for the customs of the past.

“But what shall we do?” she asked breathlessly.

“We'll go down to the purple chamber, and, just
as the clock is on-the stroke of twelve, you shall
stand before the great looking-glass and pare an
apple, and as you toss the paring over your left
shoulder the face of your future husband will ap-
pear in the glass. Aunt Eunice says it never
fails.”

She laughed, and her eyes dilated with fear;
but she did not draw back. Twelve o’clock found
us both at the door of the deserted purple cham-
ber—Lilian with a penknife and a great English
russet apple in her white, trembling fingers.

“Come, now,” I said, entering and setting down
the light, ‘“‘you shall try first, and I’ll stand out
in the hall.” :

Her cheeks whitened, but she started on eagerly,
fascinated by the weird terror of her task.

The wind was high without, shrieking amid the
turrets, and the sea beat upon the strand with a
sobbing cry. . Away up in-a windy tower a great
bell struck the midnight hour. :

‘Now, Lilian! Stand steadily !—-and mind, you
are to tell me whose face you see,” ;

She went in, closing the door after her. I
listened breathlessly. One moment of dead silence,
then there came a short, sharp cry. I rushed to
the door and looked in. The squire had her in
his arms, his handsome eyes full of wordless
tenderness.

call

up with blazing

eyes—

I fied, and left them to their happiness in the.

purple splendor of the ruined chamber.

An hour elapsed, and Lily came up-stairs, her
sweet face all smiles and blushes,

“Well, Lily, love, I got tired; you were so
dreadfully long. Whose face did you see?

“Oh, Christie, you know; it was all your doing,
and I am so happy!”

Before another Hallowe’en came round they were
married, Squire Bronson and Lilian, and 50 was I.

Maud’s prophesy was verified. Lily settled
down at The Willows, the happiest of English
matrons; but for stately, dark-browed Lady Maud
herself, She still hangs, an unplucked rose, on the
ancestral tree.

THE NEW MEMBER OF THE LYRE CLUB.

BY PEGGY WEBLING,

Nicholas Felix Hankey was the guest of the
Lyre Club, in London. There had*been some talk
of electing him as an honorary member; but opin-
fons were divided.

He was a slight, wiry young American, with’

solemn, narrow, gray-blue eyes; smooth, fair hair,
parted down the center; a small mustache, which
he had a trick of pressing up with two fingers,
showing a thin mouth and even white teeth,
gleaming with gold stopping; his skin was sallow,
but clear, and his smile—although he rarely
smiled—ingenuous and attractive.

It had been a dull evening at the club, and the
conversation gradually drifted into a monologue
by Westerton, a tediously loquacious member.
The wearines of summer rested on ‘the company.
Nobody cared to taik. Westerton was giving a
long description of how he swam from Easibourne
to Beachy Head the previous summer, suggested
by the news of a Channel swim failure in tho
evening paper. When he had given us all the
details of the start, the swim, and the finish,
Jack Grosyenor summoned up enough energy to
tell us’ that he made a point of swimming five
times across the Serpentine every morning of his
life. He said it was especially bracing in a
November fog. It was a habit of his to be called
at five-fifteen to the minute, and he would rather
miss his breakfast than the vigorous tramp from
Clapham, where he lived, to Hyde Park. z

“T can’t say I do much in that way myself,’
observed ovr secretary ; “but when my people were
staying at the Isle of Wight last month, I made it
a rule to swim over to Portsmouth once or twice
a day; but that’s nothing.”

“Talkin’ of performances in the tank way, I
had rather a pleasant little experience last Toos-
day,”” observed our guest, Mr.. Nicholas Felix
Hankey, in a soft voice, ;

“Tell us about it,” said Westerton, in a tone of
endurance rather than interest; fér, as ‘‘Chich’”’
muttered to the man beside him, Hankey’s man-
ner was alarmingly truthful and precise,

‘Nothin’ much -to tell, and I’m no. hand at
compilin’ yarns—had too much of it when I edited
the Fireside Journal for the Elderly, in New
York pe ;

“Oh! I didn’t know you had edited a paper
in New York!” exclaimed Westerton.

“Why, yes; I was quill-drivin’ for over three
years,” said Hankey. ‘Well, sir, about this pic-
nic last Tuesday. Now, I don’t pretend to be
much of a swimmer, for our home being in the
far West—Hankey family, pioneers of the State
of Washington—of course we boys went in for ridin’
and shootin’, and sport o’ that kind; but as I was
visitin’ an old friend at Dover—studied electrical-
engineering together at Cornell University—of
course, we were interested in these ducks who
have tried to paddle across the English Channel.”

“Ducks?” queried ‘‘Chich.”’

“Excuse my slang,” apologized Hankey. ‘‘Can’t
break myself of old habits picked up when I was
barn-stormin’ years ago in Michigan.”

“Oh, come! You-were never barn-storming,”
protested his friend Westerton.

“Pardon me!” exclaimed Hankey. “But I was
on the road with a show playin’ ‘East Lynne,’
‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin,’ ‘King Lear,’ and other old-
world dramas for something like two years—
stranded in Illinois, and tramped to Chicago.
Well, sir, my friend and I were just crazy over
this long-distance swimmin’ stunt—excuse me
again, we always called a new feat a ‘stunt’ in my
old days in the ring sit

“What! The prize-ring?”

sir, the circus-ring,” answered Hankey.
“I never did much with the gloves—amateur

interrupted Gros-

 

champion featherweight at the famous Olympia
Club, ‘Frisco, for two seasons; but that ain't
much. Well, my friend at Dover and I had no
end of a jaw about the subject. He’s something
of an athlete himself, and he was roastin’ me
about the old days on the shores of Lake Erie,
when the Hankey boys were right there in every
game that was goin’. He seemed to think I’d
lost my old form—I confess that since I’ve gone
in for the study of medicine I’ve grown a bit too
brainy—and he proposed that we should try a
little swim on our own hook, just for sport. Well,
sir, I was agreeable. Hope I’m ready at all times
to do my best to keep things movin’. We boys
who have been on the road—was a drummer, or
commercial-traveler, as you express it, for nine
months, and did a stoopendous business slingin’
groceries—are always on hand for a match. My
friend wanted to have the little float in the day-
time; but I said, no, sir! Better to try at night,
more pleasant every way.”

“Why?” asked ‘‘Chich.”

“Kind of romantic. Quiet water, full moon, and
twinkling stars. Sentimental notion, perhaps; but
you mustn’t forget I’m something of a poet—
‘Dreams of the Night,’ by N. F. Hankey, published
in Boston, sixteenth edition now in press—so
carried my point. Presume you know Dover?
Yes? Well, last Tuesday night we went down to
the sea at the foot of Shakespeare’s cliff—inter-
estin’ spot, been a student of English history all
my life—and then we waded in.”

“Do you mean to say you descended the cliff?”
asked Westerton. :

“That’s so, and it’s not much for a man who
knows the Alps about as intimately as you boys
know Piccadilly. Say, it was a lovely night, just
enough breeze to fill a sail, and just enough moon
to suit a pair of lovers in a garden. I found my
friend was a decidedly good swimmer, and it gave
me real pleasure to see him get to work.”

“Weren’t you a little jealous, Hank?” asked
Westerton.

“No, sir; for when a boy’s been grounded fn
humility—known as the ‘little missionary’ in my
native town in New England—he don’t know the
meaning of jealousy,” obseryed Hankey, with a
touch of offended dignity.

“Your native town in New England!” exclaimed
Grosvenor, “I thought you said you lived on the
shores of Lake Erie?”

“Quite correct—raised there, but not born,” said
Hankey. “The Hankey family went out to New
Hngland with the Pilgrim Fathers—first settlers
in Massachusetts———_”’ d

“Never mind that; get on with
Hank,” said Westerton impatiently.

“Sure!” said Hankey. “Well, sir, after a time
I turned on my back and just floated along like
& cork. It was very pleasant, most refreshin’.
I forgot my friend, closed my eyes, and fell into
& day-dream;. just as cozy and comfortable as if
the water were a feather bed.. I watched the moon
slippin’ through the fleecy clouds. Just the night
for a painter—studied art in Paris, and lived for
twelve months in the Latin quarter—and I felt as
happy and as peaceful as a Rockaway clam.

“Well, sir, I opened my eyes at last and spoke
to my friend; but he didn’t answer. I gave a
shout. Still no answer, So I flopped over and
took a look round. My friend had vanished, but
‘way, ’way back in the distance I could see some-
thing dark bobbin’ about in the water, That
must have been his head; but I can’t say for. cer-
tain, I was too far out. The shore was only a
black shadow along the horizon. I was all alone
in a world of water—that sentence shall go into
my next story in the ‘Hankey Novelette’ series,
just appearin’ in Baltimore—and I felt as lonely
as a dejected candidate for alderman.”

“So I suppose you turned back?” said Wes-

the swimming,

sir!’ exclaimed Nicholas Felix Hankey.
“If you knew anything about the Spanish-Amer-
ican War you wouldn’t ask N. F. Hankey if he
turned back—captain in Rooseyelt’s Rough Riders,
wounded twice, enteric three times, usual medals.
No, sir; I went on! I clenched my teeth, I made
up my mind, and I turned my face toward the
coast of France,”’ :
Hankey pressed up his small mustache. and
smiled—so did the members of the Lyre Club.
“Tt must have been something between eleven
o’clock and midnight,” he continued; “can’t tell
the exact hour. Say, I just laid in for the work,
as if there was a shoal of Cuban sharks at my
heels. I don’t mind sayin’ that I’ve got a power-
ful over-arm stroke, and I guess I was soon goin’
twenty-eight strokes to the minute—that’s my
form when I’m takin’ things easy. It was a

} dream of a night, and I hoped that if it held up

I should be all right with the tides. It was kind
of lonesome, you know, and made me think of my
little shack in the middle of the Manitoba prai-
ries when I was ranchin’ in western Canada: but
I just forged ahead, ‘

“It was a little cold at the turn of the night.
I thought of the old folks at home, and occupied
my mind with knockin’ together a little song—
put it into shape yesterday, and sold it this very
afternoon to a firm of music-publishers in Bond
Street—and sort of hummed it in my head to pass
the time. -It was one of those times when a
man’s glad he’s sung in the chorus of grand
opera. At about two o’clock in the morning, but
it may have been later, I saw the Ostend mail-
steamer in the distance—hadn’t taken any notice
of other boats—there she was, pluggin’ along, and
it did my heart good to watch her. When a
man’s spent the best years of his youth at sea—
eee service—he doesn’t forget old affec-

ons. -

“Well, sir, the man on the bridge saw me.
Say! I wish I’d had my camera, just to take a
snap shot of that boat! All the passengers
crowded on deck, wavin’ hats and canes and
handkerchiefs. ‘Go it, Hank!’ they shouted.
‘Good luck, old boy!’ ‘Well swum, Hank!’”

“So they recognized you?’’ said Westerton.

“Why, yes; it was a sfrange thing, but the
captain happened to be one of my oldest friends
—a Scotchman, went a walking tour together
through the Trossachs five years ago this sum-
mer—and I could see him plainly. All the Han-
key family have remarkable long. sight. Of
course, they would have picked me up; but I felt
all right; and sure of ‘my stayin’ power, An
hour later I kind of smelled the dawn. The moon
began to look pale.

“Say! I had to laugh when I thought of my
friend at Dover. ‘Naturally, he’d think I was
drowned, and the news would be cabled to the
United States. I could just imagine the public
consternation, flags at half-mast, and so on. By
four o’clock in the morning I guess I was about
four or five miles west of Cape Grisnez—but you
must remember I had no means of judging time
or distance—and I just went on as if the Eng-
lish Channel was New York Harbor, with my
home in the distance.”

*‘Were you tired?” asked Grosvenor,

“Somewhat,” replied Hankey; ‘but I’ve always
cultivated endurance—stranded once in Nevada,
and earned my livin’ as a fastin’: man—so I was
still in elegant shape when the French coast lay
before me. It was a little bit of a disappoint-
ment to find I was making straight for Boulogne
—lived there as a child with distant relatives,
and remembered it well—so I. just altered my
course, romped* along the shore, waded out of the
water, and strolled up the quay at Calais.”

Hankey stopped speaking as modestly as he had
begun, and gently smoothed his fair hair back
from his forehead,

He was unanimously elected, before we sepa-
rated, as an honorary and unusually gifted mem-
ber of the Lyre Club.

 

Items of Interest.

Professor Korn, of Munich, claims to have tele-
graphed pictures a distance of sixty-two miles. -

The Norwegian catch of codfish this year
at tat 1,073,257 gallons of medicinal cod-liver
oil,

In Switzerland there are already 296 stations
which distribute electric power produced from
falls and- streams, ;

The average number of a warking-man’s ehil-
dren in the United States and England is three;
in Germany it is five, and in Italy six.

A young lady in Downs; Kansas, sent a dollar
to a Chicago advertiser for ‘‘a sure preventive
of jigger-bites.”” The advertiser, after pocketing
the dollar, sent this advice: ‘‘Keep off the grass.’

The Salvation Army deserves commendation and
assistance for its good work. During the past
year it sent over 12,000 emigrants from England
to Canada, and put them in the way of maintain-
ing themselves,

A traveling pawnshop has been started in this
city. A safe is installed in an automobile, and
this vehicle frequents race-courses, to aid un-
lucky betters by taking their watches and jewelry
as security for loans,

A paper in Hiawatha, Kansas, reports this in-
teresting bit of news: “Ewing Herbert tried to
prevent a dog fight in the park Wednesday night,
and one of the dogs bit a piece out of his new
pants and his old leg.’’

A jolly skipper, just for a joke, approached the
Solomon Islands, in the Paeific, fiying a black
flag with a white skull and cross-bones on it... He
was fined fifty dollars and sentenced to three
months’ imprisonment.

A-French physician asserts that deaf persons
never suffer from seasickness. A large class of
deaf-mutes crossed the ocean on a steamer, and

 

ee

the captain noted that they were all exempt from
the disturbing malady.

The Cape to Cairo railway has been pushed
north from Cape Town 2,250 miles. The bridge
over the Kafue River has been completed. It
consists of thirteen spans of a hundred feet
each, on pillars resting on a bed sixteen feet
under: water.

_ The most common form of color blindness is an
inability to distinguish red. Last year thirty-four
officers and would-be officers of the British mer-
cantile marine failed on their color test, twenty-
three being red blind and the remainder unable to
distinguish green.

Paupers’ brains are, as a rule, not marked by
intellect. Yet they comprise about nine-tenths of
the gray matter offered for dissection in the hos-
pitals, The surgeons and medical students are
now kicking because they cannot have the brains
of brainy men to examine and comment upon,

The heaviest man in Europe was the late Hans
Fromm, of Willenberg, in eastern Prussia, a hotel-
keeper. He weighed 525 pounds. A showman in
Paris once offered him a large salary to exhibit
himself, and he was willing to accept it, but he
was too large to enter any passenger-car, and re-
fused to travel in a freight-car.

Philadelphia has the monumental mean man.
He dropped a large roll of bills on the street, and

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a boy who found it returned the money to him.
Counting the roll carefully, the owner put it in
his pocket. ‘‘My son,” he said benignly, to the
boy, “I am rejoiced to see that you are guided by
lofty principles, and as an earnest of my appro-
bation shall refrain from charging you interest for
the time you have had my money.”’

Silk hats cause baldness, nervous diseases, and
affections of the brain. This is the opinion of a
French physician who has been testing the tem-
perature in high hats. In the early morning,
when the doctor was walking in the Bois de Bou-
logne, while the shade temperature was 77 degrees,
the thermometer inside the hat registered 90. At
noon, when the outer air was at 90 degrees, the
temperature inside the hat was 108. In the eve-
ning, with a cool breeze at 68 degrees blowing, the
silk-hat temperature was 88.

A cork model of the Colosseum in Rome is in
the Soane Museum, England. This was probably
acquired by Sir John Soane chiefly because cork
is difficult to cut. A droll story is told of this
model. The late keeper, Mr. Birch, was showing
a party of American visitors over the museum,
and mentioned that this was “made in cork,”
“That is curious,” said one of the ladies; “we
are just going to visit some friends there.” “f
mean, madam,” he explained, “that this model
was made out of cork.” “That is still more curi-

 

ous,”” she replied; “our friends live just a little
way out of Cork.”’

He eH He MH

 

 

THE LADIES’ WORK-BOX

EDITED BY MRS. HELEN WOOD

 

 

By on arrangements with the manufacturers, we are enabled to supply the
readers of Tue New YorK WEEKLY with the patterns of all garments described or illus-

trated 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,
Tue New York WEEKLY, 79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York City,

FASHION NOTES

In waist decorations there is likely to be close
rivalry between the straight, narrow band, the
sash, and the princess girdle. At present the
latter is several laps-ahead. The princess is a
compensation for the princess skirt, which is de-
cidedly ugly when worn without its top garment.
It is fitted at the waistline, and an improvement
to any figure, is a positive boon to the unshapely
woman, especially if made, as some of them are,
with an elastic band through the center.
suéde belts and girdles are most appropriate for
wear with shirt-waists, although those of moire,
bound with suéde or leather, are likewise popular.
One yery attractive girdle seen recently was made
of corn-colored silk, elaborated with Japanese em-
broidery and finished with two buckles, one at
each side of the front, underneath one of which,
of course, the belt fastened. The buckles were
exquisite specimens of Oriental art, being of bur-
nished gold filigree, set with some opalescent blue
stones in a manner quite beyond description.

The separate guimpe, the chemisette, and the
undersleeves are necessary adjuncts of this sea-
son’s. frocks, and very satisfactory ones are to
be had ready made in the popular stores at al-
most any price one is willing to pay. For wear
with the inexpensive linens and muslins there
are pretty sets fashioned out of finely tucked mull
overlaid with an appliqué embroidery, which, in
spite of the fact that it is machine-made, is very
effective. For the dressy gowns there are exqui-
site lace sets, either in real or imitation, and
among these the Irish crochet has assumed first
rank.

Although cross-barred effects in checks and
plaids are still popular among fashionable dressers,
yet their wide prevalence is leading rapidly to an
enlarged demand for stripes. Some of the nattiest

Rar In ordering patterns be sure to give size and number.

No, 1095.—PETER PAN. WAIST,

The Peter Pan waist has come to stay. The
model which was designed for summer wear has
taken so well that it will become an item in the
fall and winter styles. This design is one easy
to make at home, and every woman will want
one, because of its utility and comfort. The il-
lustration shows a model with a rolling collar
and a pocket at the left side; the fronts are plain
and slightly gathered at the waist and closed in

is SI |
fT AN

shirt effect. The back is tight-fitting at the

and gathered at the waistline; the
sleeves are in bishop style, having a turnover
cuff. This mode will develop nicely in figured
challie, French flannel, or any suitable material
for fall and winter wear. If desired, it could
be made effective by using contrasting material
for collar and cuffs. The pattern is cut in 6
sizes, 32, 34, 36, 38, and 40 bust. For medium
size, 3% yards of material 27 inches wide are
required.

No. 1044.—LADIES’ FRENCH DRAWERS,
: IN OPEN STYLE.

Underwear made in the French style is always
well-shaped, and speaks for comfort, as well as
for appearance, These drawers are extra full,
in open style, and fitted at the waist with darts at
the front and sides, while the back is adjustable
to the waist size by means of a tap or ribbon
run through a casing at the edge.

Drawers cut in this way are not difficult to fit;

shoulders,

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the legs are of generous width; the lower edges
are trimmed with straight, full ruffles, or tucks
may be used, if a more elaborate design is de-
sired. Long-cloth is much used for such under-
garments, and a ruffle of fine lace, or embroidery,
would be pretty, with insertion set in between

The |

walking-suits and handsomest silk gowns being
turned out from the dressmaker’s workrooms now
are of the latter ‘kind. Fall, it is expected, will
See a prevalence of stripes, which will lead all
other effects. Attractive stripes are found in
gauzes—chiffon cloth, chiffon, and the like. They
are often made. up, especially the black-and-white
ones, over flowered foundations.

The short bolero that dips slightly to the front
or dips both front and back is. the favored shape
just now, and any: sort of lace that pleases one’s
fancy is the material. The early season’s jackets
were largely of Irish lace, but later productions
show combinations of Cluny with Irish and Venise
and appliquéd laces, with others of linen, in which
Venise and Irish laces are-layishly combined with
find hand embroideries,

Newer than the lace coats nov in demand are
the innumerable little silk jackets and coats that
every one is buying. Most of these are boleros,
with short, fancy sleeves, and sometimes with no
sleeves at all. These come in all the colors of the
rainbow, and are worn a great deal at summer-
resorts over muslin and net gowns. A pretty com-
bination with a light gown is a bolero of the color
of the sash. These transform a simple gown into
something quite smart. One might contrive to
have several boleros and sashes, and make a
small wardrobe appear capable of various combi-
nations,

Many parasols are embroidered in ribbonwork.
A lovely example in rich white satin was dec-
orated with large bunches of deep-toned yiolets in
ribbon. Another in pale-blue satin was similarly
decorated. A second parasol in pale-blue had a
border of violet ribbon, and was painted with pale

 

violets.
All patterns will be mailed on the day the order is received,

tucks at lower plain part. Wash-silk, lawn,
linen, and muslin are good selections. Torchon
lace would make a nice trimming. The pattern is
in 4 sizes, 20, 24, 28, and 32 waist measure. For
24 waist it requires 2% yards of material 36
inches wide, with 2% yards of edging and 2
yards of insertion.

No. 1032.—BOY’S BLOUSE, IN RUSSIAN OR
SAILOR STYLE.,

Particular attention is now being given to the
Suits made of wash-fabrics, and many smart ex-
amples are shown. The sailor and Russian blouse
are the favorites, and are very fashionable. . The
materials which are most chosen are duck, crash,
linen, piqué, and Galatea, all of which make. smart
suits. Plain goods seem to be in favor, although
& dainty blouse could be developed in striped
material, with collar, shield, and cuffs, with plait
of plain material,

This blouse has’a Russian closing, and sailor,

or turn-down, collar, with shield. If sailor style
is used, a tie gives the finishing touches. The
sleeves have a box-plait formed at the shoulder
and extending to the wrist, finished with a cuff.
A pocket can be emade in the left front, if de-
sired. This pattern is in 6 sizes, 5, Got Ba By;
and 10 years. For 7 years it requires 3% yards
of material 27 inches wide, or 1% yards 44 inches
a with % yard for sailor collar, shield, and
cuff.

No, 1049.—-_ LADIES’ SEVEN-GORED SKIRT,
IN CIRCULAR EFFECT.

This skirt is one of the most attractive of tha
season’s models; it is cut in seven gores, having
a panel front gore, two box-plaited side gores, two
plain circular sides, and two box-plaited back
gores. The edges of the plaits are stitched to
yoke or flounce depth. A choice of three lengths
—round, short round, or instep—is given. The
shaping at the waist allows a smooth adjustment
over the hips, with a slight flare at the sides,
Most of the new skirts are in round length, as

 

 

 

 

this is preferable for street wear, This desigt
will take well, as it makes up nicely in the light-
weight materials, and is well adapted to wash
fabrics, such as linen, Madras, piqué, Marseilles,
or duck pongee. Rajah or taffeta silk would de-
velop nicely. The pattern is in 5 sizes, 22, 24, 26,
28, and 30 inches waist measure. For 26 waist
it requires 8% yards of material 27 inches wide,

 

or 5% yards 44 inches wide.

 

 

Best So rere tie