A FASCINATING LOVE STORY,

BY A NEW CONTRIBUTOR,

BEGINS IN THIS NUMBER.

BH

 

 

 

 

a
oa

 

OFFICE.
238 William St.. New York

SURE TO READ Ir.

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

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THE STAI

By CHARLES

W. HATHAWAY,

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

CHAPTER I.
THE SPRINGTIME OF LOVE.

“I love him! I love him! I love him!

So Maud Carton, the gamekeeper’s daughter,
whispered to her heart as she stood in the. door-
way, listening to the mystic song of the 1d in
the trees, and drinking in the splendor of the sun-
lit meadows.

Fair as a lily, she was in
beauty that lay all about her. Scarce eighteen,
she was lithe, deep-chested, gracefully propor-
tioned, and her face was lighted with the most
lovely eyes that ever looked out on this fair earth,

And yet, just then those eyes were veiled. The
magnificence of the landscape was utterly lost for
her. She saw unseeingly. Her thoughts were
busy, for sly Cupid had come her way, all unsus-
pected, and an arrow had struck home. Her
young heart was awakening to the first glad joy
of love’s pleading. :

A step startled her. A man
the path, a man, rough-clad,
broad-brimmed hat that scarce
matted hair, under which
claim for comeliness was
shifty, grayish-green eyes,

oe

keeping with the

came striding up
with a battered,
hid his shock of
loomed a face whose
denied by a pair of

 

“So, Maud,’’ he sneered, in his coarse voice,
“still pensive and sad, like Cinderella! Waiting
for the prince to drop from the clouds.” He
laughed harshly. “I suspect that you have made
a prince out of this young son of Hiram Vander-
veer, eh?’’

Keenly he fixed his green eyes upon her, and he
saw the telltale red glow in her cheeks.

“It is true, then,’ he went on, striving to keep
back the passion that threatened to master him.
“You have made a hero of this—this jackanapes,
who treats me with disdain, this young swell, who
has got more of the villain about him than any
man in Goat Island Penitentiary.”

“Stop!” she cried, her form quivering with ex-
citement. “IT will not have you utter a word
against the man I love.”

“Love? Pshaw! He’s only playing with you.
Vanderveer is a scoundrel; take my word for it.”

The words came from him glibly, and he looked
startled when he saw their effect.

The young girl stood erect, her bosom heaving,
her eyes aflame. 2

“Father—if you are my father—dare. to
those words again and I leave you forever!”

“What do you mean, girl?”? he cried, hoarsely.
“Do you question my right to call you daughter?”

say

>»

Carton, when the

 

“Yes,’’ she said, firmly. ‘‘I- know there is a se-
cret about my birth, for I can reeall, though but
dimly, another face that I loved in childhood’s
hours. Ah! I was too young then to understand
what manner of man it was who gathered me
up in his strong arms and pressed me close to
his heart. The curtain still falls over those
early days, but some time I shall know’ the
truth, Jake Carton.”

For a moment the man stared in amazement at
the beautiful girl whom he called daughter, then
he broke into a harsh laugh.

“Tush, tush!’’ he cried. ‘‘Never let that thought
enter your head again. That I, Jake Carton,
gamekeeper and manager of the estate of Hiram
Vanderveer, should hear such mad words from
the lips of my daughter! It is too preposterous,”’
he gasped, in a fine affectation of offended dig-
nit

y-

“But listen to me,” he continued, and his voice
became hard and firm. “This flirtation with
young Roderic Vanderveer must cease.”

“Give it any name but flirtation,’ she pleaded.

“Call it what you will,’’ he retorted. ‘It must
not continue.’’

“But I love him, father,’”’ she said, simply.

“Bah! You are too young to understand the
meaning of love,’”’ he said, quickly. ‘‘I have other
plans for you than that there should be any en-
tanglement between you and Hiram Vanderveer’s
son. You will marry the man I select, and no
other.”’

“Ah, no,’ she breathed, as if to herself;
could never wed any one but Roderic.”

““What!”’ he shouted. ‘‘You. would fly in
face of my commands and sell yourself to
young coxcomb?’’

“IT would wed Roderic Vanderveer to-morrow, if
he wished me to do so.’

Jake Carton lashed himself into a perfect fury.

“You dare not disobey me, girl!” he hissed,
white to the lips.

“T dare disobey you, sir.’’

“Then I swear you shall rue this day. I shall
find a way to see that my plans are carried out,
by foul means, if not by fair!”

* * * * x

on

the
this

* >
“Now to meet sweet Maud.”

Roderic Vanderveer swung lightly down the

rope burns through, wou are

steps of the old-fashioned mansion, and walked
swiftly along the country road to the trysting
place, where he hoped to find Maud Carton wait-
ing for him. Breakfast had just terminated at
Vanderveer Hall, and the young heir had stolen
away from the guests without warning.

Roderic was twenty-one to-day, and his heart
was light. ’‘'Tis true, his father was possessed of
more aristocratic ideas than find root in our
modern America, but this was probably because
the stern old parent had come from the bluest
blood of Germany, and he had never been able to
get away from old-world notions.

Hiram Vanderveer was reputed to be worth a
couple of millions. He had been born wealthy,
and by wise discrimination and splendid business
ability he had trebled his wealth, and now he was
in a position to indulge his wishes to the utmost.

He had bought a well-wooded tract of country
among the hills of New Jersey, and here he had
built the family homestead, Vanderveer Hall.

He had stocked his estate with game, and his
shooting parties were the talk of the newspapers
from Maine to California.

Then, too, he kept a stable of the fastest racing
horses in the country, and he could show as great
an array of prize cups as any man in the sporting
world.

He was, however, a sportsman of the old
school. He bred pheasants to shoot, not to sell;
he raced his horses for love of sport, not for love
of money; his bets were modest, and, when he
won, a check for the amount generally found its
way to some little-heard-of charity in New York;
an unadvertised hospital for women, an unpatron-
ized home for girls, or more often to sundry
broken-down individuals, the drift-wood, wrack,
and waste that life’s storm is always casting upon
the desolate edges of our great cities.

No one knew that Hiram Vanderveer was a
generous man, no one but God and his bankers.
Every one knew he was charitable, because he had
never been heard to say an uncharitable thing of
any human creature. He was a good hater, and
rumor whispered that he had been a good lover,
and, therefore, when he married, a good husband
to the wife that died young, and no one had ever
cast a stone at a woman in his presence without

 

getting a rock hurled at his own head in return.

 

a dead man!

man who allowed his inner
mirrored in his face. Coldly
and apparently caring only for
and his horses, he yet loved his two

He was not a
thoughts to be
calm at all times,
his dollars
children passionately.

And why should he not? Never was
more attractive type of American loveliness than
Vivienne Vanderveer. Tall, full-formed, with
clear, deep eyes, and mobile lips, one had but to
look at her to fall in love with her.

And as for her twin brother, Roderic, he de-
served all the compliments that had been show-
ered upon him from the day when he took his
first examination at Princeton till the moment
of his graduation with high honors from that
historic university. He had apparently developed
but one fault; he was rash—rash to the point of
danger.

Roderic had but recently come back to what
he liked to call the old homestead, and he found
that his father had crowded Vanderveer Hall with
a number of kindred spirits, who did a little
shooting, and played a mild game of golf, and
talked of horses in a fashion unintelligible to the
average mortal.

Roderic was
moneyed people,
open arms.

As the heir of wealthy Hiram Vanderveer, he

s a most desirable parti, and eligible women of

ages were wont to lie in wait for him; but
Roderic cared nothing for the inane vaporings of
the gayly decked butterflies of society.

If the truth must. be told; his thoughts, in the
midst of the giddy throng, were with the sweet
little maid who dwelt in the humble hamlet in the
hollow, the girl whom Jake Carton, the game-
keeper, called his daughter.

The only woman on whom Roderic Vanderveer
had ever spent a second thought was Maud Car-
ton. And no one weleomed him back more gladly
than the winsome girl who had been his play-
mate in days gone by.

But something had happened since Roderic had
gone’ to college. He had attained his majority
now, and it was necessary for him to take the
world more seriously than he had done.

Heir to his father’s vast wealth, untold possi-
bilities lay in his reach.

there a

interested in these
him literally with

not
who

greatly
greeted

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

-~ ~

Barly that morning Hiram Vanderveer had
ealled his son into his study and told him some
of his plans.

Among other matters he touched upon love, and
alluded to the gamekeeper’s daughter.

Roderic turned the topic aside with a jest, but
Hiram saw that his words had struck home.

“Listen to me, Roderic,” he said. ‘Take my
advice and break off your connection with Car-
ton’s girl before any harm is done?’

“You are making a.mountain out of a mole-
hill,” laughed Roderic, as he left the room.

That conversation had taken place only a few
hours before, and now he was going to meet the
girl of whom his father had spoken.

But Roderic was ever self-willed, and as he
sauntered down the country lane he thought
naught of the old man’s words. His mind had
only room for one idea—would Maud be at the
trysting place?

A bend in the rqad ‘shut qut the view, but a
few steps farther,on Roderic saw that his hopes
were fulfilled.

Beneath the shade of a great chestnut tree,
Maud Carton stogd waiting. She was hatless, and
the breeze had tangled her hair; her short brown
skirt showed small feet and ankles, wet with dew-
drops from the wet grass; her face was flushed,
her red lips were parted. She looked nervously to
right and left, and started when she heard. the
sound of approaching footsteps.

“At last!”

Roderic took both her hands, and looked into
her face.

“You oughtn’t to have come. Everything must
be different now you’re twenty-one; I’m sure your
father *

“Wor Heaven’s sake, don’t lecture! Every one’s
been lecturing me; I’m tired of it. I woke up in
a good temper, perhaps because I heard you sing-
ing in the garden; but I’ve had a talk with the
pater, and now I’m in a bad temper. Forgive me,
Maud,” he added, impulsively; ‘‘and give me a
kiss. I’ve been panting for a kiss since I heard
your voice.’”” But the girl drew back, and shook
her head.

*“‘No, “no !”
let you kiss me.
ing like two children,

she cried; “‘I ought never to have
We've been playing at love-mak-
Roddy; and now you’re
grown up we’ve got to stop. Oh, yes, it’s difficult,
and it will hurt; but it must be done. I ought to
have thought of it before. I think I’ve been
wicked, and I’m very sorry, and 7

Roderic Vanderveer seized the girl in his arms,
and held her tightly.

“Maud, some one has been talking to you!”

“Yes; I confess, father has said some things
that have made me think. But it’s not only
father; it’s my own conscience tells me that we
must part. Let me go, please let me go!”

“T’m not going to let you go ever again,” he
muttered between his teeth. ‘‘You spoke truly;
we have been playing like two children; we've
been blind and selfish. People will doubtless call
me foolish -

“Yes,” she interrupted, eagerly, ‘‘that’s all.
But now you’re a man you mustn’t be foalish any
more. You must remember your position, your
work, your future. We've just been good -friends.
So let us part good friends.”

She tried to laugh lightly, but the tears. were
rolling down her cheeks. . ;

“Perhaps I’m foolish,” he continued, more. to
himself than to her; ‘‘I don’t care if I am. If
I’m not foolish, then no one need worry; and if I
am foolish, well, the pater told me to face my
folly. - Maud, we can’t part, and we aren’t friends
—I love you!”

“Hush, hush?’
not let her go.

“TI didn’t know I really loved you when. I woke.
up’ this morning. I didn’t guess it until father
lectured me—then I knew. 1 love.you, Maud!
love you!” i:

“You mustn’t!
gled, and hid her face.
closer.

“T love. you;-and you
and will marry-me!”

For an instant she lay passive in his arms, and
her head fell back, and she gazed.into his faee. —

Their lips” met. FS

She struggled, but he would

You mustn’t’ Still she strug-
But he held her’ closer,

must say that you love:me,

“T love you; but you must never marry me.
We must never meet again 1’ ih

He laughed, boyishly, gladly,”"smadly. ‘We
shall never part! We love; nothing else matters!
We love; nothing can*part us; nothing can come
Between us. Kiss me again, again; and say you
love me, again !”” ;

“Tlove you! I love you!” ;

Even as their lips met a harsh voice broke the
harmony love. was playing on his orchestra ef
two human: hearts, and Maud started back with
a frightened cry. :

Jake Carton was standing, looking at th with
a smile on ‘pis thin.lips, ;

“Your father “i waiting for -you at t¥fe'. hall,
sir! They want you to join-them in a shoot.”
He turned to the girl: iy ty

“Go home !”.s :

With a frightened glance
turned to go. =

“Meet me here, to-night at nine }’} Roderic whis-
pered in her ear... Them-he strode ahead of the
gamekeeper toward the hall. pes ae

“This has got to stop; Roderic Vanderveer !”

“What. do you mean?”

“You are trying to deceive my daughter!”

The young fellow turned and faced his accuser,
his eyes blazing;<shis:- hands trembling.

‘You scoundrel; how dare you’speak to me
like that?’

‘Now don’t get angry. Promise you’ll never see
her again.”’ :

» “Mind your own. business,’ Roderic replied,
controlling his rage with difficulty. ‘‘You shall
answer for your insolence to my father.’

“Very good. But I mean to see that my daugh-
ter is looked after.”

“T am not certain that she is your daughter;
but I am certain she will soon be my wife. And
understand, you will apologize to me to-night for
your conduct, or by Heaven a

In his blind fury he had not seen where he was
going, until he found himself by his father’s side,
among his guests.

Hiram Vanderveer has
words.

“Gently,
the matter?

Roderic laughed,
servant.

“Tm sorry; I was rebuking an insolent fool;
that’s aH,” he said, lightly. ‘I hope I’ve kept no
one waiting; let us start at once!” He laid his
hand on his father’s arm; the old man felt it
trembling.

“Gently, lad,’’ he whispered again; ‘‘don’t forget
you’re a man now.”’

“T won’t,’’ the son replied, grimly. ‘“‘And I’m
going my own way, whether that way is right or
wrong, and no one shall interfere with me!”’

overheard his son’s

lad, gently,” he whispered. ‘What's

and took his gun from a

CHAPTER II.
“YOUR TIME HAS COME.”

“T want to speak to you for a moment, sir.”

Hiram Vanderveer was eagerly discussing the
possibilities of the day’s sport with some of his
teas when the voice of Jake Carton startled

im.

“What is it?’’ he asked, irritably.

“Something of consequence, sir, or I wouldn’t
disturb you. I beg you to allow me five minutes’
private conversation.”

“Very good. Come with me.

Hiram Vanderveer felt that matters were ap-
proaching a crisis.

With @ sigh he led the- way to an alcove, Jake
Carton following doggedly in his wake.

“Now then, Carton, why do you want to dis-
turb me?”

“T’m sorry, sir, very sorry; but it’s about my
daughter and your son.”

_Hiram’s face grew a trifle pale. He looked at
his gamekeeper for some moments in silence; then
he carefully chose a cigar, lit it, and sat down.

“Explain yourself,’ he said, curtly.

“Your son Roderic has been making love to my
daughter,”

“‘Nonsense.’’

Carton’s brows lowered,
flamed dangerously.

“He’s been making love to her for some long
time past, but I took no notice; I thought it was
the harmless fun of young folk.”

“That’s all it is.”

“TI saw him with her in the wood to-day. I
overheard what he was saying, sir, and ’twas what
no gentleman should say to a young girl. “Twas
what no young girl would listen to unless her
honor. Ry

“Stop!” Mr. Vanderveer had risen to his feet,
and seized the heavy walking stick he used in
the house.

Carton grew pale, but did not flinch.

“He means to betray her, Hiram Vanderveer,”
he went on, stubbornly. ‘Send for him; send for
him, I say!’ he cried, in a fine burst of emo-
tion; “‘he can’t deny it!”

Hiram Vanderveer breathed heavily as he faced
his gamekeeper. Inwardly Jake Carton trembled;
he knew his master, and had gauged his character
to a nicety. He played up to his knowledge of it,
staking all, risking all on the unseen god of the
old gentleman—honor.

Hiram Vanderveer put his hand on the bell;
and Jake caught his breath.

“No; my son shall answer to me in due time.
He will tell me what, what—he will tell me all I
desire to know. Leave me.”

Jake walked to the door.

“He meets her in the woods to-night at nine.”

‘“‘Leave me, sir!’’

“To-night at nine!’

The door closed, and the millionaire. was alone.

He sank. back into his chair, and covered his
face -with his hands. :

33

and his small eyes

‘at her lover,” Maud’

“The man wouldn’t dare unless he was cer-
tain! And yet, Roderic, my boy, my boy, you’ve
always been free, freé to go where you pleased, do
as you liked; I put no comstraint on you, penned
you in with no moral laws or prudish notions.
‘Harm no woman, hurt no sisters of your sister!’
that’s all I asked; and to find in my home a girl
: sheltered, saved! Great Heaven, it can’t be
rue!”

He unlocked a drawer in an oak chest, and took
out a gold miniature, the portrait of a girl with
eyes the color of the autumn skies, and hair the
color of the autumn leaves,

“Your last words to me’ were,
to be gentle to all women for his mother’s sake-—
our son!’’”

The portrait faded away in a burst of tears,

* * * a

It was late in the day, and the shooting party
had returned in good spirits to Vanderveer Hall.

The splendid dining-room had never been, more
beautiful; beautiful scents and sounds, beautiful
flowers, and beautiful women. =

Hiram Vanderveer had just risen to propose his
sdn’s health.

“My son and my daughter! And may they
parvo get God and their country well and faith-
ully !”

Andrew Graham, Roderic’s particular friend,
albeit a man ten years. his senior, said a few
tactful words,”and Roderic replied, a little nerv-
ously, but yet wisely.

The nuts and dessert arrived, and the ladies de-
parted..

The cigars were lit, the wine circulated.

“It’s} a» proud man you should be to-night,
Hirans”’ said Fairfax Tarrant, the owner of half
a doz mines, and an ardent patriot. ‘As hand-
some a daughter and as fine a son as ever our
great country has produced; long life to them,
Gentlemen, I propose the health of our host, and
his son and, daughter.”

Hiram arose to the clinking of glasses, and in a
few well-chosen phrases gracefully acknowledged
the compliment.

As Roderic arose he seemed to feel that many
eyes were upon him; they were watching him,
reading his thoughts, looking into his soul.

He glanced anxiously at the clock in the corner
of the room.

It was nearing the hour of nine. Maud would
be waiting for him beneath the great chestnut
tree, in the darkness and silence of the park!
The moments slipped away rapidly, but Roderic
took no part in the conversation. He gazed. va-
cantly on the old portraits of ancestors which his
father had pompously placed on the walls. How
the pictured faces stared!

Hadn’t they loved once, secretly and, foolishly?
Hadn’t romance woven a spell around their hearts?
Hadn’t they met lovers secretly at night beneath
the shadows of the trees, and sworn vows to the
pale moon?

“Come, Roderic, your glass is still full!”

‘ He gulped it down, and refilled witha shaky

and. .

Nine o’clock struck. ‘

The room was full of smoke and conversation.

“He was going like the Empire State Express.
I missed him the first barrel, but got him on the
next. What’s that about the President’s Stakes?
Nonsense, Hiram has got a horse that can beat
creation. Yes, ‘sir, Liberty Bell captures the
President’s Stakes this year.”

Fresh bottles of wine were brought to the
tables, tongues were unloosed, and in the babel
of voices Roderic arose, edged near the open door,
disappeared into the hall, and, without waiting to
. find a hat, slipped into the garden and ran swiftly
across the lawn toward the park.

The moon peeped above the distant woods, and
played hide and seek with the big trees, and
danced on the waters of the silent fountain.

The..wind whispered through the leaves, whis-
pered words of love set to strange music.

_ Réderic, hastening toward his heart’s desire,
saw and heard, and his pulse beat quickly, and
his soul was stirred. -

“T love her—and I don’t care,’? he muttered be-
tween his teeth. .

She was waiting for him, silhouetted against
the Black tree trumk, pale, and slim, and fragile
as @ spirit; her thin dress clung to her slight
figute lovingly; eyés, lighted with the romance
of love}; lips wide open; hands clasped together.

“Roddy! Oh, Roddy!”

He did mot speak. He caught her in his arms,
and kissed her face, her hair, her lips, her hands.

And Old Time, looking down from behind the
dim hills, saw the lovers and laughed, and whipped
his horses into-a gallop—and the clock struck
ten ! —%

Hiram Vanderveer; in the midst of the revelry,
started, and glanced uneasily around the dining-
room. His sight.was dim, and the smoke of
‘wnAmMerous cigars $aung in clogds abovg the table
nd the wine had; circulated freely. — :

“Roderic! Where the dickens has the bo
got to?” ;

Every one stopped talking, ahd looked at the
vacant place, and no one spoke: Tarrant smiled,
Andrew Graham arose. ‘ p 5

“His head is not so.stféng as ours,” he said,
lightly. ° 2d : “

They tramped into the drawing-room, but Hiram

* * *

“| did not. follow them.

He took his hat and stick, and opened the hall
door and looked out into the night.

“What did Carton say—nine o’clock! It’s a
lie, and I won’t. go!” Ss

He turned’ back, but the ghost of a dead girl, a
wife and mother, met him on the threshold.

With an oath he strode down the steps and
across the lawn. The moonlight guided him to
the. chestnut tree. The wind ceased. Silence
spread her wings, ‘and out of the.silence came the
lovers’ voices—low, passfonate,- pleading?

“Nothing matters, Maud; nothing but love!
The world was made for love; you and I were
meant for one another, and now we belong to one
another, and no one shall part us; it:is too late to
speak of parting, dear. But if they do try, then
I shall run away with you!”

***No, no! You must remember! You are
Hiram Vanderveer’s only son, and—who am I?”

“You are mine, Maud! Soon, very soon you
will be——’”’

The last word was never spoken, the word that
would have left the harmony of things unchanged
had fate let it reach his proud old father’s ears.

But it was not spokeh, and so he did not under-
stand. It died on the lover’s lips, killed by the
father who would have given his soul to know it
had lingered one moment there.

“So it’s true!”

The lovers turned, one with an oath, the other
with a startled cry. The moonlight filtered
through the trees, lighted the face, now purple
with passion and broken, of Hiram Vanderveer.

“You coward!”

“Father !”

“Silence, sir!’? Then to Maud, in a voice trem-
bling with passion, yet trying to be kind: “Go
back, girl, go back to the house quickly.” And
as she hesitated, creeping closer to her lover, he
raised his stick, and pointed through the trees,
and shouted, ‘‘Go!’’

“Go,”’ whispered Roderic.

And like a frightened shadow, the girl disap-
peared into the darkness of the woodland.

Father and son faced one another.

“Coward, traitor!” The old man’s voice failed
him. The words hissed between his lips, and died
away as if ashamed of themselves.

“To hear this to-day of all days. I said Jake
lied. God help me, he spoke the truth. You, you
the first to cast a blot on our honorable name, and
in such a fashion. Hadn’t you enough freedom?
Weren’t the gates of life opened wide enough for
you, but that here, in our own home, in this free
land, with one who—who—»—”

“What has Jake Carton told you?”

Roderie’s voice was clear, and cold, and scorn-
ful. It stung the old man like a lash. He raised
himself to his full height, and towered above his
son.

“He has told me what I have just heard from
your own lips. No, don’t speak; don’t deny it;
don’t add a lie =

“Mather!” His face grew white as death. He
stepped forward until he was touching his parent,
and looked straight into his eyes. Their hearts
beat the seconds away in silence.

“Since you think I could He to you, father, I’ve
nothing to say!”

“ft’s true!’ Hiram’s voice sank to a groan.

. Yes,’ eried his son, raising his head proudly,
and shouting his answer for the sleeping woods,
and birds, and beasts, and the twinkling stars, to
hear. ‘Yes, it’s true—I love her!”

“Love!” shouted the old man, losing all self-
eontrol and raising his stick above his head with
a trembling hand. ‘Love! You have ruined an
innocent girl; smirched a clean record with the
ugliest blot man is capable of making!”

His voice failed him, rage choked him. The
wine swam in his head, wounded pride and love
caught him by the throat. The thing he imagined
was too horrible to contemplate. He lost his
head; he reviled his only son in words that stung
the young fellow to the quick.

“Pather, not that! Hush!
stand ee

Roderie seized his
shook him off.

“Don’t touch me; you’re no longer my son!”’

“Father, you don’t understand. She is pure,
innocent! I love her!”

All Hiram Vanderveer saw, all he heard was
his son proudly confessing his sin> In a paroxysm
of rage he tottered forward and struck him across
the face with his upraised stick.

“Oh, God!’ He elinched his fists as if to hit
his father. An owl suddenly hooted loudly above
their heads, the wind whispered to the leaves,
and shook a cloud of.them down to earth; a cloud
hid the moon, and hid his father’s face.

With a superhuman effort Roderic dropped his
coo a and, turning, fled away—away into the
woods.

You don’t under-

father, but the mad man

 

‘Bring him. up

On and on he ran, not knowing which way he
went; stumbling over fallen trees, startling the
wild things of the night, on and on. A _ light
sprang up in his path, gleaming like an evil eye.

And when he saw it, he knew where he had
been running.

It was the hamlet in the hollow, the home
where dwelt the girl he adored, and the man who
had poisoned Hiram Vanderveer’s heart against
his son,

He did not knock, but, flinging open the door,
marched through.

Jake Carton was leaning over a basket, filling
it with game.

He closed the lid -—-: start of fear, and
turned angrily at the tsteps. When he saw
who his visitor was, his face grew white.

Starting erect, he assumed an air of dignity,
and waited for the other to speak.

“Jake Carlton, I have something to say to you.”

The words came from Roderic in a quick, nerv-
ous fashion.

“Lead the way to your attic,’’ he went on, his
fingers closing and unclosing spasmodically. “I
have that to say to you which no living man but
yourself must hear.”’

Carton cast a frightened glance at the man
before him. He had thaught of rebelling, but Rod-
eric’s eyes were upon m, and he felt his will
weaken.

In silence he Jed the way up the creaking stairs.

Once inside the _cobwebby old attic, Roderic
turned with a quick movement and shot the bar
across the narrow door.

The attic had once done duty as a storeroom.
There was a trapdoor in, the center of the floor,
and above dangled a huge, rusty hook, that had
been used for hoisting purposes.

The trapdoor opened downward, and was fas-
tened in primitive fashion. It was formed of two
sections, with a huge ring in each. Through
these rings was thrust an iron bar to keep the
flaps in position. ria

Roderic gave one quick glance~»around, and in
that flash his eyes lighted upon a coil of rope that
lay in the corner. ;

“Jake Carton!’’ he cried,.in a sudden burst of
fury. ‘‘I allow no man to say ill of me. I have
come here on a mission of retribution,.. Your time
has. come!” © ;

He fiung himself Gh. the stupefied man, and be-
gan to bind the rope arqund his arms and legs.

CHAPTHR III,
AS THE ROPE BURNED,

The cold gray morn was stealing across the
eastern sky when old Hiram Vanderveer awoke
from: a troubled Gream, and started up from his
bed, bathed in perspiration.

“Am awake, or still dreaming?’ he gasped.
“Oh, God, if my dream should be true. Roderic,
my son, my son! It cannot be that your hands
are dyed with blood. No, no, it is impossible!
But what a dream! [I saw you go out with mur-
der-in your heart. The Vanderveers were ever a
headstreng race, and You could not bear Jake
Carton’s. words—but, thank God, it was only a
dream! I will go and convince myself that it was
but the baseless fabric sof a vision.”’ ’

Softly he stole into his son’s room.

The bed was empty.

“He has risen early and gone for a walk,” he
muttered, in a hollow Voice.

Quickly dressing himself, he searched the gar-
den, the woods, the fieids.

All in ‘vain. a

Roderic Vanderveer Was not to be found.

In a very fear of anxiety the oldman made his,
way to Jake Carton’s house.

He knocked.

No answer.

He knocked again, louder this time.

Still all was silent as the grave.

Then he noticed, for the first time, that the
door was not quite closed. He tremblingly pushed
it open, dreading lest he might find that his
dream had come true.. But there was nothing to}
indicate that any struggle had taken place. ‘

“The door of Carton’s: bedroom was ajar.

Hiram Vanderveer gave one quick glance
within, then a sigh of relief escaped him.

‘Thank Heaven no deed of blood has been com-
mitted here!’’ he gasped.

Next moment a new thought made him pause.
*“‘Where is Carton?’’
The bed. had apparently not been slept in ‘that

7 ;
earfully the old man looked about him. .
Across the hallway a stairway led.up to the
— It- was dusty “and apparently but little
used. ch ere * ai
‘Hiram Vanderveer’s. eyes’ became centéred on
the last-step of this stairway. :
The marks of a
mi the dust. : 3 << od
“Maybe Carton sieeps in Rie attic,” thought he,
Slowly he mounted the creaking old* stairway
and pushed open the docarway at the top.
* Then he stepped into the room.
Fora time he could not make out anything in
the. dim, uncertain light of the morning.
The next instant hé=started back with a shud-
dering cry. Then, falling on his knees, he buried

“My dream!  My.dream has come true! My

son -.has brought*upon our house the stain of
uilt !’’ etnies
. Not for a long time did the old man uncover
his face. .But at last his hands fell and his eyes
stared unseeingly at a form that swung slowly to
and fro in the center of the room.

It was a man that hung there, a man, bound
and gagged, and about his neck had been fastened
a rope. in this awful fashion Jake Carton had
been hurried into eternity.

Choking back his horror, Hiram Vanderveer
approached: the swaying form. No need for him
te go any hearer. He saw that nothing could be
done for the man. Jake Carton was dead!

But ene thing puzzled the old man. A rope lay
across the floor and-passed through the rings in
the open trapdoor, through which Carton had
fallen.

One end cf the rope was broken off short, and
Hiram saw that it was burned through. A can-
dlestick lay on the floor, evidently but recently
overturned.

Then, as in a flash, Hiram Vanderveer saw the

whole scene.

“Good. heavens! Is my son a fiend?” he
gasped. “The rope; the candle; what do they
mean? I sée it all! I see it all! Roderic came
here to murder Carton, and he planned this awful
way of carrying out his deadly purpose. He must
have come upon him suddenly, bound him hand
and foot, and carried him here. Then he removed
the iron bar that kept the trap closed, and placed
in its stead this rope, fastening it from wall to
wall. It would have held, rotten though it was,
but he did not mean that it should. A candle
was to complete the dastardly deed!

“T can see him making his last preparations
with that calmness for which our race has been
famed. Then lighting the candle he placed it
under the rope. The poor wretch watched him,
with staring eyes; but there was no mercy in the
heart of the murderer. He strode toward the
door, turning only for a moment to hiss out the
man’s doom, ‘Jake Carton, when the rope burns
through, you are a dead man!’ Oh, Roderic, my
son, my son!”

* cf = he

“Where is Maud?’

Hiram Vanderveer started upright at the
thought. In his search for his son he had seen no
trace of Maud Carton in the gamekeeper’s house.

For a moment hope returned to the stricken old
man—perhaps Maud Carton had murdered the
man the world believed to be her father! Why
was she not in the house, why had she fled? But
hope went with the next thought.

The murderer had taken her away.
derer, his son!

There was no loophole of escape, not the faint-
est doubt in his mind. He recalled his son’s hot
words overheard the previous morning; their in-
tervyiew that- night. Blind with love and passion,
he had gone straight to the gamekeeper’s house,
found Carton, and killed him, then eseaped with
Maud!

Hiram returned to the hall, and shut h‘mself
up in his study, refusing to see any one. wiriting
until his son should be caught and punished with
that rapidity for which New Jersey was noted.

His only and weli-beloved son!

He sat staring stupidly in front of him, mut-
tering incoherently to himself. The blow that
had fallen was too terrible to be realized at once;
the shock numbed his senses, paralyzed his brain.
oe not think, he could not act, he could only
wait.

The hours slowly passed; at last came a timid
knocking at his door.

Silently Maud Carton entered the room, closed
the door, and stood pale and trembling before
the grief-bowed millionaire.

He stared at her, while his lips moved dumbly,
refusing to utter the question in his heart. But
at length it came.

‘Where is my son? Have they found him?”

The girl shook her head.

“T have not seen him since last night, since you
met us in the park, and sent me away. I was
afraid to go home, afraid of meeting my father,
so I slept at the underkeeper’s cottage. This
morning they told me ed

Hiram Vanderveer finished the sentence.

“That he was a murderer !’’

"No, no; not that!’’ she cried. “It’s not true,
it’s impossible. I won’t believe it!”

‘‘Who else, who else?”

Maud did not reply; she began to walk up and
down the study, trying to choke the sobs which
rose in her throat.

“He loved you,’ continued the old man, as
much to himself as to the girl, mercilessly review-

“his face in his hands and muttered thickly.:

7 *

The mur-

 

ing his son’s actions, motive and deed, judging
him as he knew he would be judged by others.

| son ;
trevil befell through meé, and it would not he just

opt were plainly visible }

Vol. 59—N o. 1

 

“He loved you, and disliked Carton. I tried to
come between you, so did the man you call father;
Roderic quarreled with him; then, when Jake told
me his suspicions, and advised me to go to the
wood at night, I went, met you both there, and
when you had gone I lost my temper with Roderic;
he refused.to give you up—lI struck him oe

“And then?”

“He left: me—I suppose he went straight to
Carton’s house, and——-”

. “If he did, it, you drove him to it, you and the
man yau called my father,’ Maud cried, turning
suddenly’ and fiercely on the old man. ‘Roderic
was good and true. You must have driven him
mad between you; you believed the lies Jake
Carton tried to poison your mind with, you did
not trust me; no, nor your son. But I tell you
now he was as true and honorable as you or any
man in America; no word to me passed his lips
that was not good and pure; no thought or sug-
gestion; he loved me, and I him, and he begged
me to promise to become his wife one day. But
this man, who now lies dead, knew the secret of
my birth, perhaps knew more than you, and for
some reason he did not wish me to marry your
son; so he lied and slandered. And you, you
proud, blind man, you listened to the fabrications
of a gamekeeper, and not to your son. You, who
boasted of your love and pity for all women, were
the first to believe the first ill-word spoken of one
of your own household. If Roderic murdered Jake
Carton then you are as much responsible for that
tere as he! And you must find him and save

m!

Hiram’ hid his face in his hands.

“T must do my duty.”

“Your duty! Yes, it-is your duty to save him!
Do on hear, you must save him, I insist!”

“You!”

“Yes, I; the unknown girl who was found on
the Vanderveer estate when a baby, and given to
the Cartons to bring up. Oh, I’ve heard the
story. Did you think I could grow up in igno-
rance of my birth; do you think deep down in my
heart, there was no desire that gives knowledge?
I may be the offspring of thieves or gypsies, I
may belong to a family as ancient and noble as
yours—but whoever I am, I love your son, and
I will save him, and you must*help me!”’

“What can I do—how can we save him? It is
too late.”

“Who knows of your. son’s love for me? Who
knows of Jake Carton’s hatred of him, and of
your quarrel last-night? Only the dead man, you
and I! Suspicion need never fall on Roderic.
But we must find him, and that quickly!’

Hiram hesitated, and stared. at Maud with
something of admiration and something of fear.

“But if we save Roderic, the imnmocent* may
suffer in his place!” :

“We have no proof yet that.he did this thing!”

“Proof! What further proof is required? He
killed Carton; I know he killed Carton!” cried
the old man. ‘‘And though we try to hide his
crime, though we throw honor and justice to the
winds in order to save him, the truth will out.4
Nothing can wipe the blood from a miurderer’s
hands; guilt will be written on his face, I. shall
see it there whenever I look at him, you will see
it there always. No. I cannot do it, it is impos-
sible, hopeless; justice must take her course!”

“Tf. justice is just,” whispered the girl, “you
should suffer fer your son’s sin, if he has sinned,
for you drove him to it. You doubted him, disbe-
lieved him—unjustly.”

“Yes, I know now—now. when it is too late!’

“You talk of duty, Hiram Vanderveer; then-do
your duty,” she continued, vehemently. “Save
Roderic !”’ ‘

“How?”
gone.

“If he is not found,,you must tell your friends
that he has gone to Canada—on a pleasure trip, a
sudden fad, to study the country—any excuse:
And we must find him, and bring him home!”

“And you, if you do mot find him?”

Maud’ Carton shrugged her shoulders.

“Tt does not matter what happens to me;
must think only of-him.” ©

‘Hiram put octit his hand and took hers.

“You are a brave girl; braver than I.
thim! We will save -him?’’
~~ “You promise?” pte t
“T promise—not bécattse he is my son, my only
not because I love him—but because this

‘His voice was weak, his strength had

We

Find

if he paid the penalty, and I went free.”’ F
“And if, when I find him, we can prove he did
not kill Jake,Carton, will you: then help me clear
this mystery of my birth, and consent to my being
his wife?” Bg 7 ie
“That, Maud Carton, will depend upom circum-
stances,”’ he said, coldly. : Bae
3 “TO BE “CONTINUED.
+

Comrades in Exi

eX

x

le

By ST. GEORGE RATHBORNE,

Author of “The Winning of Isolde,” ‘‘Ltttle Miss Millions,”
“My Hildegarde,’ “A Captain of the Kaiser,”
; “Dr. Jack,” étc., etc.

(‘COMKADES IN EXILE” was commenced in No, 48.
Back numbers can be obtained of aliimewsdealers.)

eCHAPTER XV.
WOMAN’S WIT.

The day dréw to a close. It was about eight
o’clock when Rex entered the hotel at which the
ladies were stopping.

Perhaps, since the persistent Austrian was so
much in his mind, it was only natural that he
should glance around to discover if the elegant
beau was in sight; but to his satisfaction he
saw him not.

To his chagrin, the ladies were out.

A few questions put him in possession of the
fact that a gentleman had accompanied them, no
less a personage than Count Rudolf, well known
to every hotel head porter in London.

Rex , felt depressed. Had they gone to the
theatre, or was this but a continuation of the
slumming episode?

He glanced over the list of attractions at the
prominent theatres, and selected three to visit.
It seemed almost as hopeless as looking for a
needle in a haystack, searching for any one in
this great modern Babylon.

First he chartered a hansom for the night,
and then began his round.

Thus he would enter, immediately rent an
opera glass, and begin to sweep the house, exam-
ining every available and probable spot,. utterly
oblivious of what was transpiring on the stage.

He did the three houses in record time, and
without a ghost of success.

What odds? There were almost two hours
left during which the theatres might be expected
to remain open, and he reckoned in visiting all
he desired in half that time.

Then, if success were denied him, he must give
the business up as a bad job.

It was not so written.

He had a bit of luck at the very next house,
for his eager scrutiny was rewarded by a sight of
Miss Moore in a box.

How it electrified him! Really, Rex was vexed
to discover matters had already gone so far that
a face had power to contro] his destiny.

What pleasure to devour that countenance with
burning eyes! He was not the only one who took
delight in leveling his lorgnette toward that quar-
ter, for the box holding the American beauty was
the center of pretty general observation.

The count was in plain sight, and his devoted
manner seemed to announce that he had at last
met one who could sway his personality with the
crook of her finger, and he did not care who
knew it; any man might be proud to feel himself
prostrate at the feet of such beauty.

Rex tried to. plan what he should do.

He had a latent fear that the tricky count
might have another wonderful scheme in view, to
be sprung after the play was over; no one could,
say what so fertile and daring a mind might not
eonceive when hard pressed by the advent of a
rival in the field.

At first Rex thought to wait until the last cur-
tain fell, and seek a chance to say a few words
to the girl in the crush of the exit.

Then another idea sprang up. Following this,
he placed himself where her eyes were certain to
presently discover him; and, by the aid of a mir-
ror, the sly fellow could watch her even while
appearing to be engrossed with the play.

Thus he knew to a second when she first dis-
covered his presence, and the start she gave was
a keen pleasure ta his enraptured heart; he also.
was fully aware of the several efforts she plainly
made to catch his attention, and yet sturdily re-
sisted the temptation to look up, for it. was like
balm of Gilead to his heart to know how eagerly
interested she appeared in him.

At last, unable to longer resist, even though
the suspense were so enjoyable, the gentleman
who stood up back of the stalls seemed to see her,
for he bowed in answer to her smile and nod.

The next minute, to his great delight, and just
as Rex had hoped would be the case, she eagerly,
yet somewhat coyly, beckoned to him.

Sq he entered the box.

The count had no premonition of his presence,
and locked red in the face when he beheld the in-
truder.

Nevertheless, he bowed politely when Miss
Moore introduced Rex as the fellow countryman
who had been so valorous on the preceding night
as to put to hasty flight the three footpads who

 

——— |

sought to rob her; perhaps a memory of the tre-
mendous stories he had» heard concerning this
same exponent of summary Western methods
flitted through the noble Rudolf’s brain, and ad-
monished him to discretion.

_ And the spinster, whatever may have been her
inward feelings, gave no token of displeasure;
indeed, Rex was astonished at the warm welcome
mshe gave him, though somehow he felt convinced
there were claws back of the velvet.

“And uncle wanted me to marry this walking
skeleton, this female tiger-cat, that purrs and
looks so pleasant, yet is always ready to scratch
like a devil. It nearly makes me sick to compare
the two. If there were millions with one, and
not a penny with the other, it would not take me
a moment to choose,’’ was the way his thoughts
ran.

Of course, there was mighty little opportunity
for him to say anything in private to: Miss Madge.
The count hovered near, and, on the other hand,
there was that benevolent guardian angel, who
apparently took so deep an interest in the welfare
of her niece that she eyen allowed herself to con-
spiré with the Austrian, in order to bring about
the advent of another American countess.

But Rex could wait—perhaps his opportunity
might came, for to the patient all things are given.

Only a few words would suffice to arouse the
euriosity of the young girl, and he trusted to her
common sense for the rest.

How he cudgeled+his brain for an idea, even
while chatting with the whole party.

Presently an opportunity came. The count
wished to exchange some words with his confed-
erate, and in order to do so without being over-
heard, moved back of the spinster’s chair.

Rex saw the golden opportunity. Instantly his
head came close to that of Miss. Madge, while he
pretended to be deeply interested in some action
of the play.

“T would like to be able to speak to you alone
for a few minutes; believe me, it is wholly in
your interest I ask. Could you think ofia way
to arrange it?” he earnestly asked.

He knew she must be very much surprised, and
disturbed, but he risked all that.

“‘Before we return to the hotel?’ she questioned
in a voice the steadiness of which quite charme
him, for it told of more than ordinary nerve.

“Yes, if possible.”

That was all he could say, for Count Rudolf
was moving up on the flank again; he did not
quite fancy seeing those heads se close together,
for he imagined it meant mischief to his plans so
carefully laid.

How she would do it Rex could not guess, but
he had a singular abiding faith in her woman’s
ingenuity. ey 3

Nor was it misplaced.

The play was two-thirds over, and between
the. acts there came a tedious wait, during which
the gentlemen visited some. ze

It was at this moment Miss Madge turned-to
Rex, and said, calmly:

“Mr. King, I’m going to ask a sates thing of
you. ‘Perhaps some people’s. sense. of decorum
will be shocked, but there are friends of mine in
a box across the way, and I want ‘to see them.
Will you accompany me .there?’’ a :

The count said something half under his breath,
while Miss Chester raised her hands in horror,
real or artfully simulated. wer

“Don’t try to stop me, aunty. - You know TI
usually do as I please, and snap my fingers at so-
ciety’s silly eustoms. If Mr. King is s0 obliging
as to escort me I will go, and be back presently.”

Rex bowed gravely and arose; his heart re-
joiced over the clever manner in which she had
outwitted the allies, though he was careful not to
let bis exultation betray. him. >

So. he followed Madge out of the box, and left
the gay count to play cavalier to the spinster.

CHAPTER XVI.
A GIRL IN A THOUSAND.

The count liked not the manner in which this
little incident came.about; he instinctively ree-
ognized a rival in this American, and such had
been his successes in the past that this new €x-
perience galled him fearfully. ;

When, therefore, Rex accompanied ~ the 1
from the box, the other. glared’ after the twafn,
and half-arose from his! chair,as:though he would
follow, but a pecking at his arm recalled him, fe
his senses, es a3
Rex and Madge had passed halfway. around
to the boxes on the other side of the house when
his companion came to a sudden halt. R

_She. looked up-—im his face, and he could see
there an expression that savored of trust, as: well

as feminine curiosity. am ys *
“Now, Mr. King, I have given you the chance

you asked for. Is your communication of yery

great jmportance?” she asked. cee ae

He. hardly knew how to begin, =. 40°

It was a serious business, andthe conditions
by which they were surrounded not of 2 nature te
invite a lengthy- explanation. he, ote

In desperation, therefore, he plunged straight
in, believing heroic ‘treatment best.

“You «must forgive me if I have appeared to
show too-mueh concern in your affairs. -I can
only plead the extenuation a man may make Who
hates” ption im every shape, and also the fact
that we are both New Yorkers gives me a. cer-
tain right to the claim of a friend. Will you ad-
mit that, Miss Moore?”

“With pleasure—please go.on. You have al-
ready succeeded im arousing a’ maddening curios-
ity, and it would be dangerous not to satisfy it.”

“TJ did not mean to pique your curiosity; but
simply tell a few things that have acidentally
come to the knowledgé of my friend Bridgewater
and myself, and which were of so distressing a
nature that, after mature deliberation, we mu-
tually agreed that you ought to be informed re-
garding them.”

“Your statement is very interesting—proceed,
Mr. King. What horrible discovery did you and
your friend make?’’ was what she said, calmly.

“That the attack upon you last night was not
so entirely unpremeditated as it seemed.”

“Pardon me, but I do not comprehend.”’

“Those rough fellows were.-apparently only
eager to ‘snatch any valuables you possessed.
Really, they were actually hired to do their little
act—paid to alarm you. It was a miserable
trick, an audacious affair, which could only be
conceived in the brain of a man lost to all sense
of honor.”

The blue eyes still looked into his own.

Really, Rex was afraid he laeked some of the
qualifications essential to make an effective story-
teller, for the young girl, whom he had expected
to show surprise and alarm, gave little evidence
of either.

He aroused himself to do better, so that at
least he might have credit for not being a fool.

“You can understand that I feel the gravity of
making such an accusation against one in whom
you have placed more or less confidence, but I
should be neglectful of my duty if I failed
through any foolish scruple in warning you, sa
that you might know him for what he is.’

“Surely you do not mean the police officer, who
was so tardy in coming to my assistance—you
can’t mean he was in league with those horrid
men?”’

“TJ don’t know—I hardly think so.

=

At any

‘rate, I wasn’t referring to him. There’s no need

of my beating around’ the bush, Miss Moore. I
have good reason to believe those rascals were
paid to frighten you, so as to give some one @
chance to do a beautiful little heroic act in rush-
ing to your rescue and scattering the scoundrels.”

Why, she actually smiled; he felt puzzled, for
surely it had never occurred to him that she
would take the startling news in this way.

“How strange, how romantic! Why, they
couldn’t do better than that on the boards, I be-
lieve. And why should this eccentric.party wish
to rescue poor me from such a desperate posi-
tion, Mr. King?”

Rex knew’ he was more or less red in the face,
but having started, there could be no halt.

“You must pardon me again, because I have to
refer to your private affairs.. I believe his object
was to arouse a certain admiration for his heroic
conduct, for the valor he displayed in your be-
half—in brief, to make a favorable impression
upon your heart, Miss Moore, knowing that all
ladies admire heroic achievements.”’

“But—just see, Mr. King, how you puzzle a
poor girl—how am: I to tell whether this is a
confession, or the recital of some other person’s
shortcomings, for you remember, no doubt, it
was to your gallantry I owed my safety.”

Jove! how cleverly she succeeded in confusing
him; he had an idea. she understood all along,
and was enjoying a little fun at his expense.

“Ah! yes, but my appearance on the scene was
an accident, and not set down on the programme
at all. I honestly did my best to crack some of
their heads, but imagine I made a poor mess of
it in cgmparison with the fireworks he had ar-
ranged. You evidently missed a grand spectacle,
beca pe his-.cab driver chanced to be tipsy and
carried him by Such a circuitous route that he
reached the theatre of action long after the af-
fair was over.”

“Now teil me who ‘he’ means.”

“Can’t you guess? Ish’t there some one who
has tried with indifferent success to add another
erown of laurels to his list of victories?”

“Oh! you mean the dashing Count Rudolf?”

She said it indifferently, and he eagerly noted
a contemptuous tone in her voice, which pleased
him not a little. Evidently his disclosure would
not result in any idol being thrown to the ground.

“It was Count Rudolf. I could hardly believe
it myself until proofs were forthcoming. You
see I am not, versed in the ways of these conti-
nental cavaliers, and had always entertained an
idea that a woman must be wooed to-day in the
same honest fashion our forbears practiced. It
seems. there are modern methods of courtship

 

with which a plain, matter-of-fact fellow like

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

moment that I appreciate

that, even with the facts so strongl

_-human_ nature.

 

 

 

: >

“Vol. 59—No.

——_—

mn wee

myself may not be familiar. I need not tell you
they are very distasteful to me, and that I con-
sider the man a scoundrel who would subject to

- danger the woman he pretends to adore.”

- Her eyes sparkled at his vehemence.- .

“You voice my sentiments, Mr. King. Please |
do not imagine I have been blind all this while,”
she said.

. “At least, you relieve my mind of one source of
anxiety.

The count has a winning way among
ladies, and I feared that you might—er—vwell,

_ have become so much interested in the gentleman

that my story would be received with incredulity,
perhaps as the idle vaporings of a dreamer.”

“IT should have believed it, entirely unsup-
ported by proofs, because you said it, and that

will tell you I have considerable faith in my

fellow countryman. But as it happens, there has
already been placed in my possession such knowl-

- edge as substantiates all you have said.”

Of course, Rex was badly knocked out at this.
“Why, do you really mean you knew some-
thing about this matter before I spoke?’ he stam-_

so; but I beg you will not imagine for a
our valuable service
any the less. It was so kind, so generous of you.”

“Nonsense !’’ in confusion again; “it was sim-

ply my duty as a gentleman, just as it was last

night to run up and hustle those beastly chaps
who were handling you so roughly.”

“While I squealed with all my might, and
seratched them in the face like a little tiger-cat,
and yet, although you may find it hard to be-
lieve, I actually knew something of the sort was
to be attempted before I left my hotel.”

“You did! You knew that, and never flinched?

$y Jove! I am surprised.”

“At what?” demurely.

“Well, your nerve, for one thing.
few girls would have dared.”

“Perhaps it was very rash on my part, but
I’ve always been pretty much of a harum-scarum
character as a child. My father was a soldier,
you see, and declared I had inherited all the
boldness that made him a captain at twenty-

Pn 4
“A soldier—a captain—and her father was,
too. Must be quite a military line of them,” was
what Rex thought, and then aloud:

“But why did you take such a dreadful risk,
if I may make so bold as to ask?”

“You will think me foolish, no doubt, but my
informant was unable to tell me just who this
unknown gentleman who meant to play the hero
might be, since she only overhea the talk by
accident in the dark, and my curiosity was
piqued until I even determined to find out his

I tell you,

-identity if I had to take the dreadful risks in-

volved.”

Then Rex grew cold, and a tremor passed

_through his frame, for it rushed into his mind

that circumstances had conspired to make it ap-
pear that he was the guilty wretch who had plot-
ted to win her gratitude through ignoble means,
since it had been his arm that had brought con-
sternation to her assailants.

CHAPTER XVII.
WHAT THE COUNT MISSED HEARING.

“Good heavens! you must have thought I was
the man,” was what Rex gasped.

The recess was over, the play going on, and
these two had become so interested in what con-
cerned them that they gave no heed to other
things, nor cared what the count and his com-
panion would think at not seeing them re-enter
the other box.

Miss Moore laughed; it was a merry laugh,
and charmed him with its heartiness, and also
reassured his heart.

“Well, to be sure, I was at first inclined to
look at it that way, and yet I confess I could not
bring myself to believe so honorable a gentleman,
who was not known to be partial to the society of
my sex, should exert himself so strenuously to
jump with a bound into the gratitude and regard

_ of one lone girl.”

“Now, how in the deuce,” thought puzzled Rex,
“does she know I cared so little for the ladies.
Is it a sharp guess on her part, or has Bridge,
confound him, given my weakness away? At any
rate, I am cured, and from this day a reformed
man, whose chief delight it will be to bask in
the sunshine of her smiles,’ and then he said,

aloud:

“Thank you for having such a good opinion 0
me. I sincerely trust I deserve it. RY, 2S:
sooner cut my hand off, or—or even marry the

- person who is most disagreeable to me in all this

wide world, than needlessly alarm one of your sex.
But things must have looked black for me. _
don’t understand how you could believe me any-

t
Riso ing but guilty, Miss Moore?”
Se pave hee oi sorts of doubts—it prevented |

me from enjoying my usual nap this afternoon.”

“That was too bad. And you finally determined
against me,
$ maignt be innocent. Really, I should like to

ow on what hypothesis you reasoned that out.
You see, I must have some good traits, and as
I’ve always been unable to find them, perhaps
you might tickle my masculine vanity a little,”
laughing to hide his confusion, for he was eager
indeed to hear what she had to say.

“There were several ints in your favor.
First of all, I could not believe this morning when
I met you in the hotel parlor, that you looked
like—well, a fan who would frighten a girl

~merely to play the hero act.”

“That’s really kind of you to speak so.”

““The more we talked the less inclined I was
to believe it could be so. Now, I’m not a strong-
minded female by any means, Mr. King, but I
amuse myself more than a little in studying
I even flatter myself that I am
able to read most people like a book, and even to
discover to some extent how much they may be
deceiving others.” ;

It gave Rex a bad minute to remember that he
himself chanced to be playing a little game some-
thing on that order, since he flourished under a |
name that was not really his own; but he hoped
‘that, should the occasion ever occur when con-
fession must fall to his lot, he would be able to
purge himself from all dishonorable motives in
the premises. - 3

“Still, you had other reasons for acquitting
me?” he urged, as she hesitated.

“Yes. Among the things that influenced me
was the fact that the Salvation Army girl who
warned me sai@ the man who made such a ridicu-
lous arrangement with those fellows seemed to
speak English with a foreign accent. Of course,
I had considerable reason to criticise your speech
under the circumstances, but though you are an
American, like myself, I failed to discover that
you spoke in any other way than as one to the
manner born.”

“Thanks.
ee of course, they are numerous, and it could

ardly be the one Bridgewater is interested in,
but do you happen to remember whether she
was at that rally last night?”

‘Yes, and she stared at me as though she
thought me mad to venture out after her warn-

“Oh! I thought her look meant something else.
So it was Nance—strange how things come about,
and that she should be concerned in your affairs.
Some other time I’ll take pleasure in telling you
of my friend’s hot hunt for a magnificent ruby,
stolen from the temple of. an East Indian rajah,
who offers a fabulous sum for its recovery, and
what this enthusiastic Salvation Army girl and
her supposed father, Ras Ragoula, the Abyssinian
astrologer, have to do with the matter. This is
not the time or place for so long a yarn, though
> positive it will interest you, if you are as
fond of romance and adventure as I imagine.”

“TI shall anticipate its telling with pleasure;
but do you realize that we have been away. fully
fifteen minutes.”’ : :

“It hasn’t seemed five,” declared Rex, glancing
at his lovely companion so ardently that she
blushed. c

“They will be anxious, I’m afraid,”’

“Let them console each other a little longer.
You have received what I had to say in such a
kindly spirit that I am tempted to go further,
and communicate another bit of news, only I fear
it may shock you dreadfully, and perhaps cause
doubts concerning my disinterested friendship to
arise in your mind,”

“After that there can be no escape from con-
fession. What dreadful thing have you done,
sir?” with a little assumption of girlish authority

“But you mention a Salvation Army

~ that rather pleased the man.

“We have conceived some monstrous suspicions,
Bridge and I, against one who is dear to you, and
in whom you appear to place every confidence,”
he blurted out, man _ fashion. ;

Miss Moore immediately looked distressed.

“Oh! surely you can’t mean aunty?”

Rex nodded. his head to signify that it was
even so—that this paragon of virtue had come

_ under the ban—and he told her what Bridgewater

had heard. ;

“It’s awful, I know, Miss Moore. I try to be
charitable, but for the life of me I can’t see why
Miss Chester. should want to enter into an al-
liance with this wonderful Austrian unless it is
the philanthropical idea of making you a count-

Nearly all American girls dream of such a

g, and she possibly wishes to secure‘the high
honor for you, even against your will. At least,
that is all I can make out of it. Knowing her as
you do, perhaps you can understand her eccen-

_ tricity better.”

_ “I’m sorry to say I fear I do,’”’ she answered,
a sadly that Rex was more than a little sur-

“At any rate, the affair is all blown over now,

.

and since their plans miscarried, I wouldn’t worry

1 about it if I were you,” he said, consolingly.

“Such ingratitude depresses one. At times I

 

‘feel so alone, so friendless in this great city, that

=
- ~ s

_THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

—--~

it overwhelms me. [I had believed my aunt true
to me, though what you call her eccentricity has
not been unknown to me. Now, whom can I
trust? Many think me the favorite of fortune,
but they can never understand how I would
gladly give everything to be a member, however
unimportant, of such happy households as I fre-
quently meet. It is a dreadful thing to be an
orphan, Mr. King.”

“T, too, am such, and have been a wanderer
upon the face of the earth, partly by chance, but
mostly on account of a strange fate that drags
us to our opportunities.” Then, fearing she
might suspect that he referred to his singular
meeting with her, he added, hastily: “But, of
course, these things affect womankind far more
than men. We are accustomed to the rough edges
of life—we make friends under every sun—we
voluntarily invite privation, and even danger, by
exploring unknown lands and seas, in hunting
trips to the wilderness. Yes, I can understand
how, at times, a woman may feel very lonesome.
But you, of all whom I have ever met, you, who
attract men like moths about a candle—I con-
fess, it is hard to realize how you can feel that
way.”

“Byven in a crowd one may experience this
sense of loneliness. As you say, men flutter
about me like moths; but their compliments to
me have an empty sound; I love sineerity, and I
despise duplicity; on the surface there may be
a most exquisite veneering or polish, but beneath
that all is vanity and vexation of spirit. You
will find me a singular girl, Mr. King, but my
life has been different from that of most others.
I spent my early years in Texas, on the prairies,
and learned things of truth from nature which
I have been foolish enough to expect to find in
humanity.”

“Ah?!” said he, seeking to cover his little con-
fusion, for he seemed to feel as though those
frank blue eyes searched his very heart, and
concealment of his duplicity could not long en-
dure the ordeal; “‘that accounts for your won-
derful nerve in allowing the adventure to occur,
even when forewarned. A girl raised on the
prairies never knows what fear is.” |

“Have you been there, Mr. King?’ eagerly.

“Yes, for a time, years back. I learned to
break a broncho and throw a lasso indifferently,
but never gave promise of being an expert—such
are born, not raised, you know.”

“Then I shall take a new interest im you, sir,
for my heart goes back to those glorious days and
nights on the wide prairies, and it seems at
times as though I would suffocate amidst moun-
tains and houses.”

“Yes, I can understand that feeling of home-
sickness. But I presume some day you will ex-
pect to return and look on familiar scenes?”

She sighed. 5:

“Yes, some day,” she said, with a sigh. “When
it is all over, and I may feel that there can be
no appeal from the decree of Cesar. But you
do not understand me—how could you when half
the time I am in doubt about myself? Oh, Mr.
King, we must return. Aunty will be shocked at
my lack of good manners, though she knows I’m
always, doing pretty much as I please.”

“Just a minute more,” he pleaded,
turned her laughing eyes upon him.

‘Really, I hope there is no other sensation in
store for me. I hardly feel equal to the shock,
after what has already happened.”’

“T only wished to ask you a question before we
abandoned our pleasant téte-d-téte. You see the
position of myself and friend has been very pe-
culiar in many ways. I think I can understand
your frank nature—you abhor deceit; and there,
the very mention of it brings an indignant color
to your cheeks, it is so very antagonistic to your
natural candor. Tell me, then, as a particular
favor, for it is something besides curiosity that
urges me to ask, can you conceive of circum-
stances excusing deception where no wrong is in-
tended—could conditions arise that would palliate
such action?” -

She no longer looked at him, but the blue eyes
were upon the floor. Somehow, the pause that
ensued before she spoke was full of anxiety for
poor Rex, who feared he must be already con-
demned in her eyes, while, truth to tell, the
young lady’s thoughts ranged along a different
line entirely.

Then she looked up, and there was resolution
upon her face such as he had not seen before—a
characteristic that amazed him.

Miss Madge was indeed a wonder.

“Yes,’’ she said, incisively, “I can understand
that there may be circumstances to excuse even
a deception, provided, of course, it was entered
into with a spirit that did not expect to profit
by the act. Does that answer your question, Mr.
King?’? © ,
~ Did

and she

she lay particular emphasis on the name,

‘or was his fancy playing him false?

He remembered what she had said about read-
ing human nature—was he, then, like a scroll of
manuscript, that she could decipher at pleasure?

Never in his life had he felt so uncomfortable,
and he might have allowed the spirit to move
and make a clean breast of it, only that time was
short, and he shrank from the knowledge reach-
ing Missg@ithester.

“Thank you—it covers the case fully. And
there looms up the gallant count, to ascertain
whether we have become lost in the crowd. I can
see fire flash from his eyes,”’ he said, with a satis-
fied laugh. ;

TO BE CONTINUED.

FOR OLD LOVE'S SAKE.

By BERTHA M, CLAY,

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

(“For Op Love's SAKE” was commenced in No. 42,
Back numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers.)

CHAPTER XXXI.
“THE LIGHT THAT NEVER SHONH ON SEA OR LAND.”

“I am sorry I’ve been unfortunate enough to
offend you in the last words I shall ever perhaps
speak to you!’’ Roderic says, thickly and inco-
herently. ‘Please to forgive me, Lady Christabel,
for taking as you say ‘an unwarrantable liberty.’
It is that. I feel it. What right have I to in-
trude my feelings on you even if—if I have been
mad enough to love you, desperately, passionately,
and been mad enough to be jealous, and to hate
every other man who may have the chances that
I can never have? But will you shake hands with
me, Lady Christabel?’”’ he pleads, in low, trem-
bling tones, and she can see his lips quiver be-
neath the thick mustache which his hand rest-
lessly passes over in his strivings to compose him-
self. “It is for the last time, and I will go
away at once before I make any more mistakes.”

Hard-hearted Christabel does not respond to
this humble entreaty by a word. She sees the
nervous hands restlessly stroking and twisting
the big, curling mustache; she hears the husky,
unsteady tones; she sees the tall, stalwart man
in the glory of his proud, brave manhood stand-
ing. humbly with bowed head before her, suing
for her pardon, with his honest heart laid at her
feet—and woman as she is—she glories in her
eruel little triumph for just a minute. True
woman as she is, the reflex of his pain hurts her
very soul.

“You must know you had no right to repeat
such things to me,’’ she begins, coldly and haugh-
tily still, but stealing one swift, wistful glance
at him.

“No, I had no right,-of course,” Roderic as-
sents, hopelessly. “I must have been mad to
venture so far! I had no daring, selfish hopes
of my own in saying it, though. I’m not quite
mad enough for that. He is not worthy of you.
That is the simple truth, but I suppose I should
have left others who had a better right to say
sow

“But I tell you,’ Lady Christabel says, flush-

ing angrily once more, “that it is only the
idlest, falsest- gossip that idle busybodies can in-
aha No one should give the slightest credence
0: ”

“Tt was the Marchioness of Glendornoch and
your grandmother, Mrs. Mallibrane, who both told
Sir Roger Allison, Lady Christabel,’’ Roderic in-
terposes, quietly. ‘‘I made a mistake in saying
‘the best authority,’ certainly, but I meant—as
members of both families—ladies who were at
the heads of both families, they were the best
authority for a statement of that kind.’

“Do you mean that Lady Glendernoch and Mrs.
Mallibrane told Sir Roger that I was going to
marry the Marquis of Glendornoch?” Lady Chris-
tabel asks, with a smile curling her lips, and all
the pride of a proud race blazing in her eyes.

“J do mean it, certainly, Lady Christabel,”
Roderic answers, deliberately. ‘‘Lady Giendor-

 

~

noch. and Sir Roger are great friends, and she |

told it to him, not as a secret, but as something
which was not openly talked of just yet, and
Mrs. Mallibrane followed suit, and gave him to
understand that everything would be arranged and
publicly announced before Christmas.’’

“My grandmother, Mrs. Mallibrane, is an ex-
tremely clever woman!” Lady Christabel says,
with a little laugh of icy scorn. ‘But her
machinations indicate that she relies too much
upon her cleverness. That is her great mistake.”

“Then it is not true?’’ Roderic asks, in a half
whisper, venturing to touch her hand again.

“Tt is utterly false!’’ Christabel says, delib-
erately. ;

“Thank Heavyen!’’ Roderic says, earnestly.
“And will you forgive me, Lady Christabel, for
that request of mine?’’

“Yes, I forgive you, certainly, under the cir-
cumstances,” Christabel says, gravely.

“And I may hope, perhaps, to see you again
as Lady Christabel Lindesay, when I return to
England, as I will, if I live?’’ Roderic persists.

“I dare say you will find me Christabel Linde-
Say if you find me at all,” she says, with a faint
smnile.

Poor Roderic! He is assuredly blind and be-

-wildered in the stormy emotion that rages in his

breast, or he would see the wistful curves in the
sweet, loving lips as they utter these words, and
the tenderness that brings a misty depth of color
to the sweet, true eyes that gaze on him.

“I will come back! I will find you, if I am
alive!’’ he says, in low, passionate tones; ‘‘and if
I am dead I will come back, if I may, to tell you
I am true to you, there, in the unseen world!
Good-by! Good-by! Will you give me a keep-
sake to take away with me, Lady Christabel? A
ribbon, or your handkerchief, or anything you have
worn or touched! Oh, do, do!”

He does not ask her for her heart’s best love,
but it is his unmasked. It is a golden, far-away
hope on the dim horizon of the future to him—
something to dream of in lonely hours and mid-
night reveries in his journeys across oceans and
continents, when he is thirteen thousand miles
away from her whose little hand now lies in his,
and whose sweet presence makes his soul thrill
in mingled rapture and despair.

To her it is a present reality, a sweet, sad
secret, hidden deep down in her heart. . Christabel
has loved him since the first moment his pictured
face met her gaze, and the dark, deep eyes, with
their steadfast smile, looked into hers.

“You may have my handkerchief, certainly, if
you want it, Roderic,” she says, with the ghost
of a little smile, as she gives him the little scrap
of hemstitched cambric; and he thrusts it into his
breast pocket.

*“Good-by,” he says once more, and presses
something into her hand wrapped in a morsel of
tissue paper. ‘“‘Will you accept that from me,
just as a token that you will remember me kindly,
as you promised, Lady Christabel? No! Don’t
open it! Don’t open it!” he says, hurriedly, as
Lady Christabel, with a bright look of girlish
curiosity, begins to unfold the wrappings of the
tiny parcel. ‘“‘It is only a trifle, a little souvenir
which I took down to St. Cray’s with me on my
second visit, intending—with your father’s permis-
sion—to ask you to accept it as a slight token
of my remembrance of your goodness and kind-
ness to me on the night of the railway acci-
dent——”’

“Is this what you call a trifle?’’ Christabel in-
terrupts, sharply, unfolding the last wrapping of
tissue paper, and revealing an exquisite and val-
uable ring of four large emeralds, set as a four-
leaved shamrock, the emblem of rare good-fortune,
and three diamonds, one in the center of the em-
eralds, like a tiny dewdrop, one small brilliant of
the first water at each side. Seven stones in all.
Perfection, good fortune, fidelity, priority, beauty,
are all symbolized in the ring, which is really a
lovely gem, and unijue in pattern. ‘‘I cannot ac-
cept such a splendid gift, Cousin Roderic,” she
says, gently, handing it back to him.

“You will not, you mean!’ Roderic exclaims,
bitterly, his face paling, his brow darkening.
“T have not even so much of your friendly re-
gard, Lady Christabel, as would make you con-
descend to accept a trinket from me!’’ c

“T could not wear it, you know,” pleads Chris-
tabel, flushing, while her eyes glance wistfully at
the beautiful ring. “You are misunderstanding
me. I have no ornament in my possession half as
lovely or as valuable as that ring. But I could
not wear it, you know, and so would rather not
accept it.”

“Lest people might misunderstand you,” Rod-
eric retorts, with a cold smile. ‘Well? so you
won't have anything to do with it?” and he raises

¢ away!” Lady Christabel
J-

angry | “For shame, Rod-
eric, to give way to yonr temper so!” she adds,
with severity. na ae Ee ’ =

“Will you accept it, then?” demands Roderic,
his eyes gleaming.

“To save you from the folly of throwing away
a valuable ring, I will,’’ Christabel says, coldly.
“But I ean’t wear it, Roderic.”

“Why can’t you?” he demands, shortly. ‘‘Oh,
I know. [I beg your Berson. Lady Christabel 4
with proud humility. ‘Well, if you will only take
it, and put it on your ring stand, and look at it
sometimes, I shall be happy.”

“You are easily made happy,’’ Christabel says,
sarcastically, and drawing off her little, clinging,
brown glove, the rosy white hand within shines out
fair as a lily beside its brown sheath, and she
puts Roderic’s ring on her finger. ‘“‘There,” she
says, calmly, “it is safe now.” ;

She looks up at him as she says it, but her as-
sumed calmness and severity vanish in a moment
beneath the gaze she meets, the passion of delight
and gratitude which burns in his eyes. She draws
her gloves on hurriedly, smiling tremulously and
flushing. _

“Thank you,” he says, quietly, in a low tone,
but he is trembling visibly. ‘‘If I live I will see
that ring again, Lady Christabel!” Then in a
lower tone scarcely audible, and pressing her lit-
tle hand between both of-his, he mutters: “‘Thank
you, my love, my love! Heaven bless and keep
you!” P

The fervent pressure of his lips seem to burn
through the glove on the hand he kisses, and then

exclaims, in angry

/he raises his hat, and with. one last look at her

through the tears that have rushed to his eyes and

threaten to unman him, Roderic turns away, and.

hurries out of sight the next moment.

And Lady Christabel, hurrying in an opposite
direction so fast that the devoted groom can hardly
overtake her, scarcely waits-to get into a four-
wheeled cab until’ she bursts into a flood of tears,
and weeps all the way back to Brook Street.

“T- am so happy!’ she sobs. ‘“‘So—so happy!
I never was so happy in my life, and I was never
so miserable!”

But the happiness predominates even over the
cruel pain of this parting. When the cab stops,

“and Lady Christabel gets out at the door of the

hotel, and hurries upstairs toward her own room,
the sweet eyes within the wet, dark lashes are
radiant with

“The light that never shone on sea or land.”

From a lurking place, where she has been wait-
ing and watehing for her coming, Lydia Surtees
sees her, notes every feature, every gesture, every
change of expression, and her wicked soul is
appalled at the imminence of her own danger.

“She has met him, as I knew she would!” she
mutters. ‘‘And there has been a love scene—as I
knew there would also. I have only a few hours
now for safety or destruction !”

She dresses herself for dinner, and for the
theatre afterward, in one of her most becoming
gowns, a rich, ruby-colored silk, simply made, ‘but
exquisitely contrasting with her milk-white throat
and arms, her weirdly-fair face and lustrous hair.

One pendant of. rubies rests on the pearly neck,
which gleams out between veiling folds of crimson
tulle; one ruby bracelet—a slender band of flery
jewels—glows like a thread of fire around her
snowy arm. ;

“How silks become me, and how jewels become
me!’ she mutters, looking at herself in the long
mirror with a sort of tigeress-like satisfaction.
“How splendor of every kind becomes me, and
suits me! Because I am so handsome, so ele-
gant, so like a lady of high degree! Few of them
could compare with me, with my figure, my skin,
my hair, and teeth, and eyes! They look coarse
and common beside me, half of those fine aris-
tocrats! I am far handsomer than any of them
I’ve seen yet! I’m one of the handsomest women
in London to-night. A few hours more, and I'll
be safe—safer than I’ve been yet. A few days
more, and I’ll be safer still, ‘with a coronet on my
brow,’ like the ‘Gypsy Countess.’ Ay! and I'll be
the handsomest Countess of Cardonnel they’ve
had yet!’ she adds, with a low, chuckling laugh of
triumph. ‘But, after all, I’l1 never get far from
this. This will see the end of it all some day!”

A shudder passes over her, her teeth chatter
until she clinches them tight within the lips,
grown pale and dry, as she takes a tiny bottle out
of a little morocco medicine case—an ordinary lit-
tle scent flagon it seems—and hides it in her
corsage, inside the blood-red tulle and silk lying
on her white bosom. ,

And it nestles warmly hidden there—this little
shining, flat, oval bottle, which is labeled ‘Es-
sence of Almonds,’”’ and contains one teaspoonful
of hydrocyanic acid.

CHAPTER XXXII.
AT THE THEATRE.

When Lydia enters the drawing-room, where
the earl and his daughter are waiting for dinner
to be announced, her elderly lover arises to meet
her with his usual adoring smile. :

“You look lovelier than ever this

1 is evening,
Lydia!’ he murmurs, putting up his

eyeglass,

g
} dangling by its delicate, threadlike gold chain,

®

 

the better to gaze on her rare, white beauty, set
off by the rich, esthetic elegance of the crimson
silken gown—silk of a quality, of a depth and
splendor of color, in its velvety shadows and
poppy-red lights, to delight an artist’s eye.

She rewards the earl’s tender speech by a
sweet, swift little glance of eloquent gratitude,
fer she really does feel exceedingly relieved.

“In your eyes, my lord,’ she murmurs, with a
meek little smile. To herself, she says, exul-
tantly: “It is safety! I am safe !—in spite of all,
I am safe! My luck has turned, and every ven-
ture will prosper—for a while!”

“In every one’s eyes!” he says, positively and
proudly. “I wish every one I knew in England
could see you to-night, my Lydia!”

“Oh! no, no!’ she says, modestly, and forcing
up a pretty blush. The art of producing a blush
to order is not a lost art, by any means, as we
have said before. ‘‘Not until I am Countess of
Cardonnel,’’ she adds, between her teeth.

So—she has nothing to fear from Roderic Lind-
say; if he could have harmed her, the harm would
have been done. She has nothing to fear from
Mrs. Mallibrane, who might have been an un-
conquerable foe. She is silent, and will be silent
—for her own sake.

“How useful all sorts of scraps of information
about all sorts of people are at certain times!”
Lydia thinks, retrospectively.

She has nothing to fear from Lady Christabel,
even if she try to thwart her. She is too secure
for that. She is safe—quite safe! She can go
=. and prosper, as flourishes the green bay
ree.

Lord Cardonnel asks his daughter, as usual, to
accompany Miss Surtees and himself to their box
at the theatre, and, as usual, Christabel declines,
on the plea of fatigue, even though her father
looks displeased, and reproachfully telis her she
cught to consider others’ wishes at times before
her own. ;

“TI would much rather not go, father,” Lady
Christabel says, with cold gentleness; ‘“‘but if you
are displeased with me for refusing, I will do as
you wish, of course!’’

“Certainly not!’ he says, icily.
entirely for your own decision!”

“Lady Christabel is tired, I fear,’ Lydia re-
marks, softly, with a sympathetic smile. ‘It has
been a warm day, and rather trying in London,
to one just from the lovely, fresh country air.’’

Rather bewildered at this unexpected aid to her
wishes, Christabel repeats that she really is tired,
and has a headache, and would much prefer to
spend an evening quietly at home.

“T am sure you would, dear Lady Christabel!’’
Lydia says, with sweet cordiality.. ‘You have been
walking about all afternoon, in Kensington Gar-
dens, too. I hope your head doesn’t ache badly?’’

“No, not badly,’ Christabel says, coldly, but
Lydia sees the involuntarily, startled movement of
her hands, and the quick glance she hurriedly
gives at her father, and then at herself—Lydia:
“T was sitting down reading a long time; I was
reading that wonderful story of ‘Dr. Jekyll and
Mr. Hyde.’ ”

“That is proof positive, if I wanted it, that she
did meet him,” decides Lydia, imstantly. ‘She
would not have condescended to explain what
are occupation was if she hadn’t something to
ide.”’

“Tt is a matter

,

indeed?”’ she says aloud, with a curious

“What a cleyer story that is! and how
I wish it were true! Fancy, how useful it might
be sometimes for a person to change their identity
and appearance by swallowing a dose of
medicine !”

“Rather a dangerous acomplishment, if it be-
came common, my dear Lydia,’’ Lord Cardonnel
says, with a serene smile at the frivolity of his
“dear Lydia.”

“Do you think so?” she says, with an innocent
look of inquiry. ‘‘I must have a chaperon, Lord
Cardonnel,’’ she says, thoughtfully; “I will write
a note, and ask Mrs. Mallibrane if she will come
with us this evening.”

‘Mrs. Mallibrane!’’ the earl repeats, raising his
brows with a little laugh of surprise. ‘‘My dear
Lydia, Mrs. Mallibrane is not a lady to be asked
at a minute’s notice to play chaperon !”’

“T am sure she will come, if I ask it as a great
favor,’ Lydia says, turning her greenish-amber
eyes on him with a soft, slow smile.

“J do not see how she could refuse you,” he
says, fervently. ‘‘But, my dearest, you don’t know
Mrs. Mallibrane.”’

“T think I do,’’ says Lydia, softly, with another
melting glance.

But when they drive to Mrs. Mallibrane’s house
she is not ready, and keeps them waiting a long
time out of sheer ungraciousness, but at length
makes her appearance, looking more witchlike
than ever, in a bandeau of priceless but not over-
clean old point lace, tied over her head gypsy
fashion, and a bright red silk mantle, whose tint

/ quite spoils the effect of Lydia’s beautiful gown,

as the old lady notices with a malicious smile.

She hardly speaks to Lydia, or even looks at
her, until the first act is over; and Lydia sits
serenely smiling and chatting with Lord Cardon-
nel as if quite absorbed in discussing the acting,
until the dowager can bear it no longer.

“Well!—-what’s your wonderful story?”
asks, abruptly, with a frown.

“IT said I had something to tell you which I be-
lieved you would consider serious,’’ amends Lydia,
with a cold smile, her weird, magnetic gaze fix-
ing the old woman’s glittering, restless orbs. “It
is not ‘wonderful’; it is an extremely common,
everyday story—a love affair between a hand-
some young man and an impressionable young
girl.

“Yes, Lord Cardonnel,’’ turning to the earl,
with a bright smile of assent; “I quite agree with
you. I think Ellen Terry’s Marguerite is the
most beautifully rendered of all her characters.

“But you would think it serious,” in a lower
but perfectly distinct tone, playing with the crim-
son feathers of her fan, as she turns her head
toward Mrs. Mallibrane, ‘if the future Lady
Glendornoch compromised herself in a clandestine
love affair, wouldn’t you?”

Something of worthy pride flashes up into the
older woman’s sallow, faded at the insolent
question. Her eyes gleam fie 7, and she draws
herself up haughtily.

“You forget yourself, Miss Surtees!” she says,
sternly. ‘‘ ‘Compromise’ is not a word to be
used in any reference to Lady Christabel Linde-
say!”

“It is you who have used the word in con-
nection with her name!” Lydia says, unmoved
and smiling slightly. ‘‘I only used it with refer-
ence to the future Lady Glendornoch, you will ob-
serve! Then you are prepared to face the alterna-
tive? A méssalliance ?”’

“T wish you would explain yourself, Miss Sur-
tees!” Mrs. Mallibrane says, setting her teeth
tightly. ‘‘Your veiled allusions are extremely in-
comprehensible and quite needless! I am_ pre-
pared to hear whatever you have to say—plainly.”’

“Very well, then,’ Miss Surtees says, with a
malevolent smile of amusement. ‘I will ask you
plainly if you are reconciled to the idea of Keith
Lindsay’s son, this good-looking young farmer
and Australian pioneer, being your grandson-in-
law? For both he and your granddaughter, Lady
Christabel, intend that he shall be!”’

“How do you know?’ Mrs. Mallibrane de-
mands, in a low tone, her deep-set eyes glowing
like carbuncles with a red fire of wrath.

Lydia Surtees laughs, a soft, sibilant little
laugh.

“You answer my question by asking another.
I thought that was a Celtic peculiarity !’’ she says,
eoolly. ‘“‘Well, I have a great many reasons for
knowing that your granddaughter is deeply in love
with this Australian third or fourth cousin of
hers. There is nothing extraordinary in that, as
I said just now. He is a very handsome man,
as you know, and extremely like his father in
character ds well as person. Very fascinating,
and very ardent, and very audacious—just as his
father was! And you can judge of the extent to
which he has carried his audacity and his love-
making together, when I tell you that he induced
your granddaughter, in the face of your warning,
and her father’s absolute prohibition of any ac-
quaintance with him, to meet him in Kensington
Gardens this afternoon, to spend hours sitting
under the trees with him, and after all sorts of
lovers’ vows and promises—with tears and kisses,
of course—she came home with her eyes swollen
with weeping.”

“Ts this true?’ Mrs. Mallibrane asks, abruptly.

“T am not in the habit of uttering barefaced
falsehoods, madam, whatever your friends and ac-
quaintances may be accustomed to do!” Lydia re-
plies, with an outraged air. ‘‘Disbelieve my in-
formation if you please, but act on it if you are

wise !’’

“What am I to do?’ Mrs. Mallibrane asks,
abruptly. ‘Listen to me! Don’t keep looking at
the stage while I am speaking to you! What in-
terest is it of yours whom Lady Christabel mar-
ries? You mean to marry her father—there is no
fool like an old one, and you have bewitched
him, I suppose. That cannot be helped now. But
why should you care whom Lady Christabel mar-
ries? I cannot see what game you intend to play,
I confess, and if you want me to follow your lead,
Miss Surtees, you will have to show your hand
more plainly.’’

“Candid, if not polite!’’ laughs Lydia, softly.
“Pardon me—I must admire Hllen Terry in this
jewel scene for a few minutes. Well, my ‘game,’
as you express it, simply is that I want to win
your good will, Mrs. Mallibrane, by aiding you
heart and soul in what I know is one of your most
earnest desires! ae

she

Is that very strange?

“Very,” the old lady grimly retorts. ‘‘J’d never
take you for a philanthropist, and I can’t see
what you would gain by my good will, as you
call it.’

“Your good will may mean a great deal to me
when Lord Cardonnel
Lydia says, with a modest droop of her eyelids,
which is a facial trick that no truly modest woman
permits herself to adopt.

and-I return to England,” |

“No, it’ won’t! Not much!” Mrs. Mallibrane
says, frankly. “I’m an old woman, my circle is
small now, nobody in it but personal friends, who’d
do a good deal for me, but who won’t know per-
sons who are not of our class.” ‘This she utters
with the thin, cold, insolent smile for which Mrs.
Mallibrane is famed. “So your position as Lady
Cardonnel!l will be a barren honor, I warn you,
as far as the best people are concerned,’ Mrs.
Mallibrane adds, with an air of calm assurance.
ee don’t mean, of course, that you can’t get into
society in another set,” she adds, with the mock-
ing, insolent smile once more, as she sees that
Lydia is gazing at her attentively, and is listening
almost breathlessly.. ‘‘Middle-class moneyed peo-
ple, for instance, are always ready to worship a
title, no matter how acquired !’’

Mrs. Mallibrane has not thought well to meet
the steady gaze of Lydia’s eyes.. They are gleam-
ing and glittering with a yellow light like topazes;
there is, as it were, an electric spark darting from
the black depths of the distended pupils, fixed in
burning intensity on the old woman’s face.

“So that is your ultimatum, Mrs. Mallibrane?”
she says, quietly and deliberately, but the words
come with a hiss through the shut teeth, and a
light seems to leap forth and draw back into
those weird, burning eyes, as she leans nearer and
yet nearer, and compels by sheer mesmeric force
the elder woman to look straight at her.

One look and her eyes are fixed, her gaze glued
as it were on Lydia’s face. A troubled, angry
frown corrugates her brows, her fingers twitch
nervously, but she can neither remove her gaze
nor turn her head.

“Don’t! Why do you look so? I don’t like
it!’ she says, uttering the words slowly and with
difficulty, her features twitching and wrinkling up
in nervous displeasure. j

“I thought you were wiser than to wantonly
insult me, and provoke my anger,’ Lydia con-
tinues, with cold, -sarcastic reproach, “when I
meant only to seek your favor and be grateful
to you for your condescension. You are not as
wise or as far-seeing as I have given you credit
for being. Henceforth I will do without you!”

The old woman trembles under the mystic
power of the other woman’s relentless will. Her
small, bony, shaking hand grisps Lydia’s white,
rounded arm.

“No, no, you mistake!’’
long breath.
Warn you.”’

she says, drawing a
“T don’t wish to offend you, I only

“T don’t want. your warnings,” Lydia says,
eurtly and scornfully. ‘‘Warn yourself that you
have made an enemy—a bitter enemy—of me, in-
stead of a friend !”

Her eyes blaze with a fierce, yellow light; she
leans closer yet, and hisses the words through
her tight-shut, gleaming teeth, and the old wom-
an’s lips work nervously; she moistens them with
her tongue ere she can speak, and, cowering in her
seat, she still gazes helplessly at Lydia.

“‘No—no! I want to be friends with you. I
would rather be friends with you, if I can,” she
says, falteringly.

“You must be a good friend, an honest friend,
or none at all!’ Lydia coldly retorts.

“T will! I will, as far as I ean!’’ she gasps.

“You will befriend me in every way I ask you?”
Lydia asks, in the same cold; resolute way. ‘‘You
will use your influence for me in society? Get
invitations, procure introductions, help to es-
tablish me in my position as Lady Cardonnel—
will you?”

“T will,’ Mrs. Mallibrane replies,
tone, with a nod of acquiescence.

“You promise?’’

“Ves,’’

“You will take Lady Christabel away at once
from the dangerous influence of this man, Rod-
eric Lindsay ?”’

“T will take her away at once.”

“You will hasten her marriage with Lord Glen-
dornoch by every means in your power?”

“T will!” Mrs. Mallibrane says, firmly, sub-
mitting now without a struggle to the will that
dominates and masters her.

Then the orchestra is silent, and the great
tableau curtains draw aside, revealing the ca-
thedral scene, and Lydia Surtees turns away to
look at the stage, assuming instantly a gaze of
rapt interest—silent in very triumph.

“Everything prospers with me! There no
fear! I shall succeed!’’ she mutters, in voiceless
exultation. ‘“‘Even this proud, obstinate old wom-
an is subjugated more utterly than even my Lady
Christabel! Her spirit I cannot bend, but—tI
can break it!”

“How have you enjoyed it, Lydia?” Lord Car-
donnel asks, solicitously, as they are waiting for
their broughan in the Lyceum entrance hall, and
smiling down on the fair, upturned face.

“Oh, so much!” she replies, with girlish fervor,
and with a sweet little graceful pressure of his
arm. “I have never spent a more delightful
evening.”’ ‘ ‘

“Indeed?” he says, smiling, bowing at the same
time very graciously to some one who salutes him
respectfully—a plain-looking, rather elderly man,
with grizzled hair, and a shrewd, thin, lined face
—a man, whose keen eyes are fixed on the beauti-
ful woman who is leaning on Lord Cardonnel’s
arm with a quick look of inquiry and interest
gleaming under the thick, level brows. ‘So
pleased, dearest!’’ Lord Cardonnel continues,
blandly, seeing glances of admiration and curiosity
directed from all sides at his fair companion,
muffled up now in a beautiful opera-cloak of white
velvet and brocade, with masses-of white chenille
fringe, which stir and toss like snowy plumage
in the breeze rushing in at the open doors; ‘‘but
I feared,’ with a little gentle reproach, ‘‘that you
had seen it so often that it had ceased to interest
you. You and Mrs. Mallibrane seemed to be so
deep in conversation !”

‘We were talking about Lady Christabel,”
Lydia says, gravely. ‘I will tell you all about it
some other time. No—I was charmed with the
play. No matter how often I have seen Elien
Terry as Marguerite, I want to see her again!”
The actual truth is, that never before in her life
has Lydia Surtees had an opportunity of seeing
the great emotional actress.

“So pleased!’ Lord’ Cardonnel repeats, with
placid, elderly satisfaction. ‘‘I wonder how long
shall we have to wait? By the way, you knew
to whom I bowed just now, Lydia, didn’t you?”

“No! Who ?—-where?”’ she says, smilingly,
glancing about.

“Why, your

in a low

is

lawyer—Blamire. Isn’t Blamire
your lawyer? I understood you to say he was,”
Lord Cardonnel says, looking surprised. ‘“‘You
recognized him, didn’t you?”

“No—no! I didn’t !—I saw no one!”’ she gasps,
hurriedly looking from side to side; and, dragging
her hand away from Lord Cardonnel’s arm, she
clutches at the white lace searf that. is thrown
over her small head and red-gold hair, and pulls
it half over her face. ‘What a time they are!
Where can the brougham be? Oh, how cold
that breeze is!” she mutters, shivering violently,
and glancing about in wild restlessness.

“The carriage, my lord!” the groom says, push-
ing forward through the throng pouring out at
the doors.

And ere he has well uttered the wofds, Miss
Surtees rushes past him, almost leaps into the car-
riage, and, sinking back in one corner, huddles
herself up in her cloak and shrouding laces.

“A bare escape!’’ she mutters, with chattering
teeth, shaking from head to foot, as if palsied.

TO BE CONTINUED.
eh oe
BEAUTY’S NURSES.

Don’t forget that the nurses of a woman’s
beauty are seven—fresh air, sunshine, warmth,
rest, sleep, food, and whatever stirs the blood,
be it exercise or enthusiasm,

Don’t neglect sleep. You can sleep yourself
into good looks. A warm bath and a long nap
will make any woman more attractive and lift
years from her shoulders.

Don’t eat when tired and don’t work when tired.
It is a mistake to work when not in fit condition
—pbad for the work and worse for you.

Don’t miss your “‘beauty sleep.’’ It is a mis-
take to go to bed late at night, rise at day-
break, and imagine that every hour taken from
sleep is an hour gained.

Don’t give unnecessary time to a certain es-
tablished routine for housework, when it could be
much more profitably spent in rest and recreation.

Don’t sit down to table as soon as you come
in from work, or a round of social duties. Lie
down, or sit down, for ten minutes, waiting until
you can partake of your dinner with the physical
machinery reste@ and refreshed. ‘

Don’t bathe in hard water. Soften it with a
little powdered borax, or.a handful of oatmeal.

Don’t bathe the face while it is very warm or
very cold.

Don’t wash the face when traveling, unless it
is with a little alcohol and water, or a little cold
cream. :

Don’t attempt to remove dust with cold water.
Give the face a warm bath with soap, and then
rinse thoroughly with clear tepid or cold water.

Don’t rub the face ‘with too coarse a towel.
Treat it as you would the finest porcelain, tenderly
and delicately.

Don’t be afraid of sunshine and fresh air. They
offer you bloom and color.

Don’t forget that hearty laughter is a source of
relaxation. So are all high thoughts, as those of
hope, beauty, trust and love.

Don’t forget that beauty
nothing more potent. It is to a woman what
capital is to a merchant. Its absence is a mis-
{ fortune; its culture wise and proper.

 

is power. There is

 

 

 

 

 
 

'

aaa oan

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

 

 

 

ees —— ees

NEW YORE, OCTOBER 17, 1903.

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and

 

 

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

 

 

PRINCIPAL

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eae cae + oh c | Sei
Ter Jae etian. | acd | blokes
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The Stain of Guilt (Serial)....Charles W. Hathaway
A Sweet Little Lady (Serial)....... Gertrude Warden
Comrades in Exile (Serial)....8t. George Rathborne
In His Grasp (Serial)............ Frederick R. Burton
For Old Love’s Sake (Serial).-........ Bertha M. Clay

Earle Wayne’s Nobility (Serial)...............
Mrs. Georgie Sheldon

An Unhappy Mistake..............---... E. M. Sweny
WORE. TUMIOS | ers Soe aes Fone keto ee ke M. M.
Workitig Givtesc 6 ck cok hes Michael Scanlan
The Artist’s Model...... 2.2.0.2. cece Lieut. Murray
TeGna BE vey A ko oc cducs ccubeck ce Hero Stong
A Good Investment................ ..Harkley Harker
Rooking-Chairs... eRe Cane dGebes ec wean te Kate Thorn
Josh Billings’ Philosophy............... Josh Billings
Pleasant Paragraphs..... reseneewe Charlies W. Foster
WER OR otic cewreecbancts ae aey .----Mre. Helen Wood

Items of Interest, Correspondence, ete.

POEMS
“Once in a While,” by Nixon Waterman.
“Who Can Tell?” by Henry Nehemiah Dodge.

“The Woman in the Case,” by James Barton Adams.

 

 

THE BASHFUL LOVER.

A bashful lover is an exceedingly difficult per-
son for the average girl to deal with. In the
majority of cases she is puzzled to know how to
shape her conduct toward a man she admires, and
whom she knows is deeply in love with her,
but whose bashfulness prevents him from declar-
ing his affection. To openly show that she is
aware of his secret, and would willingly say ‘‘Yes”
to a certain little question, if he would but ask
it, is, of course, inconsistent with her womanly
dignity and modesty. Moreover, such unmaidenly
conduct would probably lower her in the estima-
tion of her admirer.

It is a man’s sole privilege that he may choose,
while a woman must wait to be chosen, and there-
fore it behooves a girl to guard against showing
her preference for any man who has not acknowl-
edged himself as her lover.

At the same time, however, to assume a cold or
indifferent attitude toward a bashful lover would,
in all probability, have the effect of driving him
away. Some men are so sensitive that it takes
little coolness of manner to scare them off, and
many a girl who has studiously avoided a bashful
admirer for fear of immodestly betraying the state
of her own feelings, has lost her ‘‘Prince Charm-
ing’ through lack of encouragement.

But is it possible to encourage a bashful lover
without seeming immodest? Quite possible. In
fact, there are many little ways in which a girl,
without sacrificing her dignity or self-respect,
may indicate to an admirer that he is more than
a friend to her.

In the first place, it is not wrong, as many girls
seem to imagine, to give proper encouragement to
the man whose love you possess, and whom you
admire above all others. It is somewhat foolish
for a girl to deliberately avoid an admirer and
make a pretense of being indifferent to his atten-
tions, and afterward feel indignant because he is
not bold enough to declare his love and affection.
Indifference only throws cold water on a man’s
affections.

Try to strike a happy medium between being
too cold and too demonstrative. The girl who
wishes to encourage a bashful lover should be her
own bright, natural self. She should talk to him
as she would to any dear friend, or, better still,
encourage him to talk to her by exhibiting an
interest in anything and everything which inter-
ests him.

A girl appeals to a man the most when she
proves herself a ready and sympathetic listener.
She wins his confidence at once, and, as time goes
by, and he sees that she is by no means averse to
his talk and society, he will be encouraged to
declare that which bashfulness prevented him from
confessing.

Accept his little gifts and attentions with a
sincere show of pleasure; wear his flowers, and
don his favorite color of dress or ribbon. All
these are signs enough of encouragement to the
timid lover that he is agreeable to you.

To the tactful girl, the task of assisting a bash-
ful lover in his wooing of hem.is a compara-
tively easy matter. But every girl’s own innate
delicacy will invariably guide her how to act, and
to give just the right amount of encouragement.

If your admirer maintains a lukewarm attitude
toward you, don’t be too demonstrative in your
love. If, however, he shows you that he values
you, and that there is ‘‘just one girl for him,”
and that is yourself, then you can proceed to show
him that his love is reciprocated.

_ HO?

Or all bequests of parents to children the
most valuable is a sound constitution. Though a
man’s body is not a property that can be in-
herited, yet his constitution may fitly be com-
pared to an entailed estate; and if he rightly
understands his duty to posterity, he will see
that he is bound to pass on that estate uninjured,
if not improved.

Since the day when sinful Adam turned State’s
evidence on Eve,

And a flimsy web of guilt around his wifey tried
to weave,

Down through all the countless ages time has
left along her trail

Has the female had to suffer for the doings of
the male.

“oTwas the woman! ‘’Twas the woman!”
the cry through Eden’s bowers,

“Twas the woman ;’’ yet we hear it in these mod-
ern days of ours,

As the false bewhiskered sinners desperately try
to place

All the blame upon the shoulders of the woman
in the case.

Tang

That man is wise who invests in the love

of boys and girls.

That is, if an old man would do a good thing
for his own family, he will so treat young peo-
ple whom he meets in the world that, after he
is dead, these same young people shall say:

“That man was kind to me. I will be kind to
his children.”

“Your father befriended me when I was a
friendless youth. Now your father’s children
shall never lack a friend while I live.’’

“Your father made a man of me. I would al-
most die to pay the debt to any of his kin who
survive him!’

“Do you know why I come into your house,
and offer to help nurse your sick babe? Because,
when my young husband and I were strangers
in this great town, years ago, and our first-
born was stricken down like this, your mother—
God bless her!—came and sat with me in more
than neighborly kindness. Oh, madam, she was
like a mother to me that night in my trouble!
I want to pay the debt to her daughter. Now
ne hold the child while you try to sleep a

e.”’

This sort of interest is priceless. You can-
not call it six per cent. One never knows what
per cent. the bonds of gratitude bear in generous
young hearts.

One cannot call it a semi-annual interest.
There is no telling just when it may be paid.
Indeed, some of the bonds may be basely re-
pudiated; there are souls mean enough for that,
who would skin your children though you clothed
and fed those very souls years ago. But, for all
that, there are other bonded debtors, high-minded
and chivalric sons and daughters of honor, who
will pay back to your children’s children, some
sixty, some a hundredfold, what you did for them,
ee they were young, friendless and strug-
gling.

Perhaps it does not seem to you, Sir Money-
bags, that your descendants will ever need such
investments. You think of your tin trunk in
the safe deposit vault, your houses, and mines.
Perhaps these thoughts encourage your hard-
heartedness toward the clerks and junior mem-
bers of your firm; you care nothing for them
but as you can use them. You have no smiles
for young merchants, young lawyers, or any
of “the young fry’’ who swim around you in
the great pond of commerce where you are a
gormand.

And it is quite likely that to-day you are
literally independent... But to-morrow is coming.
You may live to see the day when an employee
who loved you could have saved your commercial
life; but when one who never got anything from
you but his bare wages would let you die. There
is in an attorney’s heart a loyalty that cannot
be purchased with money. If that’s true of law-
yers, I think it is true of the rest of the human
race. The junior members of the firm will be
standing in the office when your son and heir
enters to say:

“Father’s dead.”

“Yes; so we hear.”

“He left a will.’

“Yes; so we hear.”

“Well, well. You are very cool about this.
I am the son and heir. What is there left?
How stand things?”

“Confound you, young man! We are masters
at last. We obey only the law. We never re-
ceived favors. We have none to bestow.”

And these once office boys can do—what can-
not they do? And you cannot even stir in your
silent house. Oh, there have been young men
so schooled by kindness that they were a law
in themselves, and took the widow and orphan
on their broad shoulders, carrying them for many
a royal day.

A schoolboy has a bad memory for rules of
grammar, but an astonishing memory for the
palpable meanness of the teacher. The favorit-
isms, the partialities, the vinegar tempers, the
“‘You-are-a-dunce!’’ and ‘‘Any-fool-ought-to-know
that!’’ These things are very bad investments
for the teacher.

College professors have lived to be painfully
aware that they have made some wretched in-
vestments in the shape of needless ill wills of the
young gentlemen under their care. Years after

One-tenth part ov the labor and anxiety that
men display to acquire fame on earth would es-
tablish their reputashun in heaven forever.

A dandy iz an individual whoze usefullness in
this world depends entirely upon the fit ov hiz
clothes. ‘

Thare are two kinds ov men that fear makes
phools oyv—them that are afrade ov nothing, and
them that are afrade ov everything.

Mankind won’t learn from the experience ov
each other; every boddy iz anxious to see how
near he kan go to a mule’s heels without being
kikt.

Extravagance begets poverty, and poverty be-
gets so many children that they all haven’t got
names.

Thare never waz an estate yet but what a
spendthrift who understood hiz bizzness could run
thru with, and then hav menny years ov an or-
dinary life to be dependant and mizerable in.

Literary fame iz the most prekarious. This iz
the only kind ov fame that every boddy iz anxious
to cheat yu out ov; if yu are worth a millyun,
every one iz reddy to make it two.

Fashion has tabooed them.

They must not be placed in our parlors, and
if anybody should be vulgar enough to have one
in her reception-room, no lady should dare to
rock in it; for etiquette says she must not.

If anybody wants to enjoy a rocking-chair,
the said body must creep away into some back
parlor, or remote chamber, and indulge her in-
clination in privacy, like one who eats opium.

Rocking in a rocking-chair is not a trans-
action which will bear the daylight of obser-
vation.

Now, to our plebeian mind, this is all non-
sense! What is life worth to us unless we can
enjoy it in a rational way? What do we want
to live three-score years and ten for, unless we
can have the privilege of rocking when we choose?

If there is anybody who does not like to see
us rock, let him look at something else. There
are plenty of other objects in this world besides
a woman in a rocking-chair. ©

We are going to rock all we please, and in our
house our friends may do likewise, and not lose
easte,

 

 

 

 

—
oo
—

THE WOMAN IN THE CASE,

BY JAMES BARTON ADAMS,

So ’twill be till time has ended, till the sun is
stripped of light

And the earth is in the blackness of the never-
ending night;

Till the sounding of the trumpet calls the dead
from earthly sleep

And the heavenly inspectors separate the goats
and sheep.

Even at the bar of judgment, when we’re called
upon to show, y

The extenuating features of our sinning here
below.

There may be full many cowards who will stand
with brazen face

And attribute their transgressions to the woman in
the case.

A Good Investment.

By Harkley Harker.

the college boy has become a great merchant, and
the college wants money; or he is an influential
senator, and the old professor wants to be presi-
dent, and needs the senator’s vote.

If you live on the same street with a public
school, quite likely you are annoyed by the
lawless urchins who swarm over your fences and
poach on your orchards. It is very easy to
make bad investments with the whole schoolful
of future citizens. Swear at them. Throw a
stone or two. Report them to the police. Get
mad at them, and “go tell the teacher, and
their parents.” In one term you can get a
name for being the “meanest old curmudgeon’’
the boys ever saw. It is only necessary for you
to forget that you were ever a boy yourself,
and, quite likely, if you have not kept your heart
young by unselfishness, you can easily so forget.
And then, as the boys of to-day are the men of
to-morrow, working at your side, they have you
down to a fine point. It is astonishing to a man
of fifty years how soon the striplings of yester-
day have come alongside him in the race of life.

Fifty years old will not acknowledge that he is
aging yet; he is only in his prime, and never
felt younger. But a new generation is treading
on his heels, and remembers how recently those
a were lifted up against them. Now look
out.

Boys recognize honor, high-mindedness, and the
justice of merited rebukes; they are not sorry
that they were deservedly punished. But all this
must be indeed high-minded. There is no one
whom it pays so well to treat with honor, with
frankness, with truth, as a growing boy or girl.
You see, old man, the future belongs to them,
not to you. ;

They are to live, you are to pass away.

Let a family physician invest in the affections
of the children.

Let a pastor of a church treat his young peo-
ple with great consideration.

They are the coming men of his church.

Let a _ politician keep the respect and good
will of the young Republicans and young Demo-
crats. They are the uncrowned kings of this
good land. §

A wonderful investment is a father’s honor-
able life—lived clean, kind and just for years
in the sight of his offspring. It is a sort of
common property for all the family. And it is
different from railway bonds, for it cannot be
divided. ‘‘Father’s good name” is owned by them
all in jointure, and so entails to the third and
fourth generation. Even the homestead may be
sold ‘‘to close out the estate,” and each of the
heirs takes his portion to go his way. There will
never be any more famif¥~pytherings for the sake
of the old house. But ‘the’ memory of parental
nobility unites them all, in thought at least, in
many a sweet and holy hour of meditation.
“Children, we are one, we agree, when we say:
‘Thank God for such a father and such a
mother!’ ”

On the whole, the longer I live, greedy old
man that I am, the more am induced to be
kind to the children; to run after young people,
and try to win their love,“for my old friends
seem to be dying off in a very lonely sort of
way; to see and save a fine young fellow who is
just beginning to drink, for he is worth saving,
and the sight of him by and by I think will make
me very happy.

I like to give a start in life to a young man
who has a little family, and is worthy of help;
not enough to spoil him, but just enough to saye
him from despair and assure him of success.
You see, I have had about all that this world
can give, and as I cannot live life over again, I
would like to see some one else entering just
where I would if I could. Let me see them
eat and laugh, for my food does not taste very
good now, nor can I laugh very long. I want
to leave a good road behind me when I go, and
the bridges all safe.

-I. think the meanest devil who lives to-day
is the monopolist who wants to make it very
hard for any one to live after he has got through.
If such a man should chance to look back here,
after he is gone into eternity, he might shudder
to find what an investment of ill will in all who
knew him he managed to leave his children. God
forbid it to me and mine!

Josh Billings’ Philosophy.

Civil war iz like a fight in a family—it never
waz known to be thoroughly healed yet.

Yu can judge more ov a man’s karakter from
nie eye than enny other organ; next to that cums
iz noze.

Mizers, az bad az they are, are better citizens
than spendthrifts are.

Often the grate mistake iz to make the boy fit
the profeshun, insted ov making the profeshun fit
the boy. In this way we lose good taylors and
git very common lawyers and klergymen.

The more a man learns in this life the more he
diskovers hiz ignorance; life ain’t long enuff to
edukate a man to the full extent ov his abilitys.

I don’t kno which iz the most delishus—to be
praized or te be pittyed. :

We kan trace most ov the joy and sorrow in
this world right back to woman.

An enemy that fears you iz not a very danger-
ous one.

Mankind are a race ov coquettes, burning for
temptashun; even virtew herself luvs once in a
while to flirt with the devil.

.

Rocking-Chairs.

By Kate Thorn.

What if we do wear out the carpet? We can
buy another, perhaps, when we need it; and if
we cannot, we can go back to first principles
and bare floors, which are much more cleanly,
though it might be difficult to make our fash-
ionable friends understand it.

Viva la rocking-chairs!

When we have finished the labors of the day,
and are ready for evening rest, then we want
a rocking-chair, softly cushioned, placed before
the fire, and when we are seated therein, with an
entertaining book in our hand, and the kitten
purring in our lap, we can see that creation is
not a failure.

“Better fifty years of Europe
Than a cycle of Cathay oe

And we would rather live half our days where
rocking-chairs are abundant, than to drag out
the.years until we are a centenarian, sitting on
those slippery, hard, straight-backed foreshadow-
ings of the day of judgment—known as fashion-
able parlor chairs.

 

‘this country by means of engravings,
| Trumpeters,’ ‘“‘The Barrier of Clichy,’ “Battle of

 

 

HELPFUL TALKS WITH
OUR READERS.

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

L. W. Braprorp, Jefferson, N. Y.—Lightning is
produced by a discharge of atmospheric electricity
either between two clouds, or between a cloud and
the earth. The thunder by which it is accom-
panied is explained in various ways, one of which
is that the electric fluid thus discharged opens a
passage for itself through the air in the manner
of a projectile, and that the sound is caused by
the rush of air into the vacuum thus created; but
this is objected to on the ground that a cannon
ball passing through the air ought to produce the
same sound, whereas it is really a whistling
noise. Another explanation, which is the most
satisfactory, is that when the electric spark
passes between two points, there is a decomposi-
tion and recomposition of electricity in all the
media through which it appears, and consequently
a vibration more or less violent is produced, which
vibration gives rise to the sound. The prolonged
roll is caused by the length of the electric flash;
although it is instantaneously seen its whole
length, the sound reaches the ear at the rate of
about 1,125 feet in a second. The intensity of the
latter varies with the temperature of the strata
of air through which the fluid passes, the position
of the observer and the nature of the country, the
reverberation in hilly sections being very loud
and prolonged several seconds.

A. D. PELLETREAU, Halifax, N. Y.—Horace
Vernet, the great painter of battle scenes, was
born in Paris, June 30, 1789. His father was
also an artist, and distinguished for the same spe-
cialty which his son followed. After arriving at
the age of twenty, Horace Vernet made rapid
strides toward fame, until he was justly esteemed
the first artist of his school, either ancient or
modern. He was created a Chevalier of the Le-
gion of Honor by Napoleon, in 1814, an officer of
the Legion of Honor by Charles X., in 1825, a
member of the Institute in 1826, and was made
a director of the Academy at Rome in 1828.
Among his most famous works, most of which are
of very large dimensions, are a series of battle
pieces painted by order of Louis Philippe, and
now to be seen at the Constantine Gallery at Ver-
sailles. His paintings rendered most familiar in
are ‘“‘The

Tolosa,” ‘‘Soldier of Waterloo,” etc. At the Ex-
position of 1855, a jury of painters of various na-
tions awarded him the grand medal of honor. He
died in Paris, January 17, 1863, but still lives in
the hearts of the French people, and especially
among all lovers of the grand and beautiful art.
He ranks as the greatest painter of warlike scenes
that ever lived.

J. H. Donovan, Fort Hamilton, N. Y.—Dis-
charged soldiers of the regular army are received
and maintained at the United States Soldiers’
Home, in the District of Columbia. There are
branches of the National Home at Dayton, Ohio;
Milwaukee, Wis.; Togus, Me.; Hampton, Va.;
Leavenworth, Kan.; Santa Monica, Cal.; Marion,
Ind., and Danville, Ill.
sion may be addressed to the Board of Commis-
sioners, Soldiers’ Home, War Department, Wash-
ington, D. C. There are State homes for disabled
volunteer soldiers at Yountville, Cal.; Monte
Vista,-Colo.; Noroton Heights, Conn.;. Milford,
Del.; Boise City, Idaho; Quincy, Ill. ; &efayette,
Ind.; Marshalltown, Iowa; Fort Dodge, Kan.;
Chelsea, Mass.; Grand Rapids, Mich.; Minnehaha,
Minn.; Grand Island, Neb.; Tilton, N. H.; Kear-
ny, N. J.; Bath, N. Y.; Lisbon, N. D.; Sandusky,
Ohio; Roseburg, Ore.; Erie, Pa.; Bristol, R. I.;
Hot Springs, S. D.; Bennington, Vt.; Orting,
Wash.; Waupaca, Wis., and Cheyenne, Wyo.

W. T. WavgerTon, Delmont, S. D.—The length
of the proposed Panama Canal, from deep water
in the Atlantic to deep water in the Pacific, is
forty-nine and nine-tenth miles, eleven miles of
which distance is the broad channel of Lake Bohio.
The total cost of construction of the entire canal
is estimated at $144,233,358. The sharpest curve
of the narrow channel has a radius of 6,232 feet,
so that the alignment may be considered good.
The commission has estimated the time required
for vessels to pass through the canal—a_ period
which, of course, will vary with the size of the
vessel and with the volume of the traffic. A ship
of average size—400 feet long, 50 feet beam, and
drawing 2414 feet—-meeting an ordinary number
of other ships, will require about eleven hours
and fourteen minutes to pass through the canal.

DupLEy R. JACKSON, Cypress, S. C.—The boom-
erang, a missile used by the natives of Australia,
is made of hard wood, usually from twenty to
thirty inches in length, from two to three inches
wide, and half or three-quarters of an inch thick.
It is curved or bent in the middle at an angle of
from one hundred to one hundred and forty de-
grees. When thrown from the hand with a quick
rotary motion, it describes very remarkable
curves, according to the shape of the instrument
and the manner of throwing it, often moving
nearly horizontally a long distance, then curving
upward to a considerable height, and finally taking
a retrograde direction, so as to fall near the place
from which it was thrown, or evén very far in
the rear of it.

W. T. CoLLENDER, Detroit, Mich.—The bubonic
plague is most prevalent among people who live
on marshy, alluvial soil, in a warm atmosphere,
in badly ventilated houses, among accumulations
of decaying animal and vegetable matters, who

the laws of health. It attacks a victim with
weariness, followed quickly by aches in the limbs
and loins; then fever ensues, and from the second
to the fourth day the buboes or swellings appear
in the groins, the armpits, or beneath the angles
of the jaw. The fever is very acute, but if the
attack is not severe, suppuration sets in about the
seventh day, and he may recover. Death appears
to be due to exhaustion, caused by the pain of
the buboes.

S. P. W., Portland, Me.—Kidney stew is made
in this way: Take a large beef kidney, remove
all the fat, cut it up in slices, then let it lie in
cold water, with a teaspoonful of salt added, fif-
teen minutes, wipe dry, and then put it in the pot
with three half-pints of cold water; let it boil
two hours. Half an hour before it is done add
one large onion sliced, one teaspoonful of pow-
dered sage, a very little grated nutmeg and pep-
per and salt to season well. Serve hot with
mashed potatoes.

LONGSTOCKINGS, Galveston, Texas.—The wear-
ing of long stockings by men is a matter of choice
and comfort, and every man has the right to
choose for himself. It is well known that many
males in the Eastern States wear long stockings
in the winter, solely for the sake of warmth. A
man who permits himself to be guided by the dic-
tates of fashion in the selection of undergarments
is a ninny.

 

Applications for admis- | -

are insufficiently fed and generally neglectful of.

JEMIMA, Midland City, Ill.—Corn fritters are
sometimes prepared in this way: To a cupful of
sweet corn, cut fresh from the ear, allow half a
eupful of cracker crumbs, mixed with half a cup-
ful of milk. ‘Add two beaten eggs, whites and
yolks beaten together, and season with salt and
pepper. Have a very hot iron spider or pancake
griddle ready, well greased with butter or olive oil, —
and drop in the batter, a spoonful at a time.
When the fritters are brown on one side, turn the
other, so that it may become cooked through.
Four minutes will make them a golden brown.

VILLAGE MAIDEN, Santa Fé Springs, Cal.—Very
few maidens avail themselves of the so-called
leap-year privilege of proposing marriage to back-
ward suitors. To do so would show a forward-
ness not in consonance with that modest propriety
which should always be considered by a self-re-
specting lady. You are as much at liberty to
make the proposal this year as you will be in
1904, when the leap-year privilege is supposed to
be sanctioned by a custom that is rarely practiced.

L. W. ApAams, Lawrence, Mass.—Here is a
simple walnut stain for wood: Water, one quart;
washing soda, one ounce and a half; vandyke
brown, two ounces and a half; bichromate of
potash, a quarter of an ounce. Boil for ten min-
utes, and apply with a brush in either a hot or
cold state. be a

JASPER, Mayfield, N. Y.—An engagement ring
need not be expensive, unless the donor is well
able to afford it. In that case, a diamond ring is
most suitable. If the expectant happy man is a
person of moderate means, an inexpensive ring
will serve the purpose.

L. B. WoGan, Lowell, eekysitep oldest mili-
tary organization in the United States is the An-
cient and Honorable Artillery Company, of Bos--
ton. It was organized in 1637, about 139 years
before the Declaration of Independence.

Se

WORKING GIRLS.

BY MICHAEL SCANLAN.

The respect in which woman is held in a State
is the surest index to its civilization.

The savage, with his crude ideas of “might
being right,” looks upon woman as an accommo-

‘dation, supplied to him by the Great Spirit to

plant his corn, chop his wood and cower to the
corner of his wigwam before her chief. As we as-
cend the scale we find the brutality of man toward
woman growing less, until we come to the United
States—woman’s promised land.

There is no other land where woman is as
universally respected as in our great Republic.
In the older nations there may be classes where
woman is treated with more etiquette, if honoring
rank may be reckoned as honoring woman, but
when we get outside the titled classes woman be-
comes the accommodation and the drudge again,
the sport and slave of the general rudeness.

That woman suffers even in the United States,
notwithstanding our advanced position in true
civilization, cannot be denied. Notwithstanding
that woman occupies a more pleasant and en-
viable position in this favored land than has been
accorded her in any other nation, there are women

even here suffering and pining beneath heartless
systems. ’Tis true they are not trampled into
the dust beneath the moccasin of the Indian, but
they are pressed down as surely and as unrelent-
ingly by our incomplete Christian civilization,
without exciting that general horror which is
aroused by woman’s condition in the rude grasp
of barbarism. ; 5

The class known as the “working girls’ in our
soldat is an illustration of “barbarism in civiliza-

on.”’ cece s

Were these working girls in Baraboolagha, rev-
erend gentlemen would arouse the land with in-
dignation over their sufferings and the barbarism.
of the system which paled their cheeks and
stamped them with premature age; and Christian
ladies in the households of the Republic would
mourn over their sad fate, but these girls being _
some of our own flesh and blood, and suffering
at our very doors, there is no romance in going to
their relief. And yet did Christian aspiration
ever have a nobler field of labor? Let us take
those girls who work in our city stores for a few
dollars a week, who walk in the summer sun and
winter sleet, to work their long and weary hours
for a miserable pittance. Many have parents to
support, and after returning to their cheerless
homes from their daily toil, must work for them-
selves until the midnight chimes fali on their
weary hearts like requiems for better days.
Talk of the heroism and strength of.those who
live. in comfort, because they resist the tempter.
Talk of the courage which faces death on the
battlefield, while fame will trumpet its deeds to
the four winds. But the godlike heroines, un-
honored and unsung, are the pale-faced, humbly
dressed working girls, who wear out their lives in
dingy shops, blanching their cheeks and their
brows to preserve the whiteness of their souls.

And how does Christian civilization pay tribute
to these virtues? By treating vice, when gayly
appareled, with more respect.

Go into the street cars, places of amusement, or
any other resort where fashion congregates (if
we can imagine working girls in such places!)
See that pale, genteel girl, dressed in poor and
shabby garb. She has worked ten or twelve hours,
and is weary. She looks half ashamed, for there
are no sympathetic looks turned toward her. She
stands, of course, for not one of the two rows of
well-dressed gentlemen (7?) will rise to give her a
seat. What care they for honest poverty? She
is not a lady, for ladies wear silks, and therefore -
she can stand. But there soon enters a lady—she
must be a lady, for is she not highly ornamented?
Velvets, lace, diamonds and paint—palpable, flar-
ing, shameless paint—all speak loudly for her.
She has the audacity of vice, and the voluptuous.
expression which never shrinks abashed as gentle
virtue does. A dozen gentlemen (7?) rise to give
her their seats, and feel happy when she bestows
that smile upon their good breeding, which has
been bestowed on the commonest ruffian of the
pave. There is not a man who risés to give her
his seat who does not know in his soul that her
trappings were purchased at the expense of that
which is the gem in the crown of womanhood.

What must our “working girl’ think and feel
when she sees the world thus paying homage to
vice—as heathens worship their hideous but de-
dizened gods!—and permitting virtue to stand
like a pariah at the golden gate of crime! When
she reaches her lonesome garret, must she not
hear the voice of the tempter, that silver voice
so musical with lies, whispering to her weary and
discouraged soul: ‘‘What are you paling your
cheeks for?’ “‘to preserve that which the world
tramples beneath its feet?’ ‘Fool! mankind re-.
spects appearances more than it respects sub-
stance.” ‘‘The jeweled wanton is higher in the
world’s esteem— its polished but flippant esteem
—than she who eats the bitter. bread of honest
labor and pairs with pinching poverty to save
her virtue.”

Oh, virtuous mothers, whom Heaven has blessed
with the good things of the world, why do you
not help and cheer those brave ‘‘working girls”
who battle against tyranny and temptation?

Oh, fathers, who respect virtue in your daugh-
ters, and brothers who would die to guard the
honor of your sisters, why do you not show more
respect to those brave “working girls” who fight
alone, against poverty and contumely, to pre-
serve that which you respect so much in your
daughters and sisters—that purity which is of
Heaven?

A country where honest labor and its heavenly
companion, virtue, are not respected, has ruin
written across its face, no matter how much tin-
sel and glitter hide that ruin from the public
eye. Such a country is like the vice which it
worships, painted rottenness. When respectabil-
ity means appearance, and when society tolerates,
nay, admires, gilded vice, such respectability and
such society are nourishing a career which will
destroy the very life of a nation; for virtue alone
is national life—vice is death.

America, being herself the goodly child of labor,
having no higher heraldry than the sword and
plowshare,.should not‘run into luxury—the foul-
blooded panderer to vice—ere her toiling founders —
are cold in the earth; and Americans, above all
other men, should protect and encourage, nay,
honor the ‘“‘working girls,’’ whose pale faces, like
silent accusers, appeal to Heaven against that so-
ciety and against the systems which ignore and
oppress them.

Man has a hundred tongues to publish his
wrongs, a hundred arms to fight his oppressors,
but these ‘‘working girls’ are being crucified, and
God only hears their sighs and sees their wrongs.
Let us also hear, and see, and apply the remedy
ere Heaven takes up their cause’in its anger, and

 

shakes the nation to pieces as other nations have
been destroyed for similar sins. .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

a

te

 

 

Vol. 59—No. 1

>

 

 

 

.

SWEET LITTLE LADY

By GERTRUDE WARDEN,

Author of

“The Wooing of a Fairy,” “A Bold Deception,” ‘Her Faithful Knight,”
“The Sentimental Sex,” ‘‘The Haunted House at Kew,” etc., etc.

~J

Copyrighted in 1902, by Street & Smith.

(OA Sweet LirTLe Lapy’’ was commenced in No. 49. Back numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers.)

‘CHAPTER X.
A SURPRISE.

“YT have taken your luggage up to the Imperial
Hotel, m’sieur,’’ old Pierre Machin informed Ivor
on his return. “That’s the nearest, and they'll
make you very comfortable. The fog has lifted,
and the passengers have all landed at last. I
found Philippe Audoire telling the captain of your
accident,’ he added, with a chuckle. ‘Aha,
Philippe, il n’est pas chafernaeuz, lwil’ (He is
not squeamish.)

“He stole this gentleman’s purse and watch,”
put in Francois, in Norman-French patois. ae

Pierre frowned heavily.

He was a stout, massive person, short, as are
all true Channel Islanders, with a leonine head
and flowing gray beard, bright blue eyes, and a
fresh, red-brown skin in no way suggestive of his
seventy-seven years. His two sons had been
drowned at sea, and his grandchildren were mar-
ried and settled. Old Pierre was a curious mix-
ture of large-heartedness and thrifty shrewdness,
and his kindness to the elf-child, whom he had be-
friended from the first, was richly repaid in house-
hold service and practical aid out of doors.

“Did you tell that Audoire fellow how you and
your boy here rescued me?” Ivor inquired.

The old man’s eyes twinkled.

“Nenni, it was no business of his. And now,
m’sieur, if you have supped, I will show you the
way to the Imperial Hotel.”

“J would much prefer to stay at a farmhouse
or a-cottage while I am here,” said Ivor. “I am
so tired of hotels.”

He said this with the idea that Machin might
be induced to take him as a lodger for a few

: But, clearly, that was no part of Pierre’s
plan.

“Tf m’sieur takes my advice, he will go to the
Imperial to-night, and look out for lodgings to-
morrow,” he said. ‘It is rather late, you see.
Plenty of lodgings are to be had in the summer,
but it is not yet May. The Le Liévres take in
boarders at Mon Repos, and the Bailleuls near
Dixcart’s Bay, and the Bourgaizes at La
Haie——”’ i,

“Where is that—La Haie, I mean?” .

Old Pierre glanced at zens before replying.

“ Mis a farm,” he then said, ‘“‘not far from the
Seigneurie—a large farm. Monsieur would, no

- doubt, be very comfortable there.”

“Monsieur would not,” Francois broke in, pas-
sionately. ‘And you know it, Pierre Machin!
Old Jeanne Bourgaize is une vielle sorciére, et
Jean, ch’est un troubdliair.’” (An old sorceress,
and John is mad.)

_“Silence! Bad’ la goule!”? (chatterbox) thun-
dered the old fisherman. ‘‘La Haie is a fine, large
house, m’sieur,’’ he explained to Ivor. ‘‘Any one
will show you the way there to-morrow. You
have only to ask where the Pearl of Sark lives,”
he added, with a mischievous laugh and a sly

_ glance at Francois, who had turned sharply away.

The Pearl of Sark!

Ivor’s heart beat quicker at the words. No
need for him to ask to whom that name applied.
Nevertheless, as a matter of form, he made the
inquiry.

“And who is the Pearl of Sark?” he asked.

“Oh, they’ll tell you all about her at the hotel
fast enough!’ replied old Pierre, who by this

time regretted having hurt his little helper’s
feelings. “Allons, m’sieur! We must moving.
As soon aS your clothes are dry I

them on.’ :

“Oh, it’s all right!
gage. But I can’t thank you enough for all you
have done for me, Monsieur Machin—you and
Francois here. Are you coming up with us,
Francois, or shall I say ‘good-by’ to you here?”

“Francois will stay in the cottage. There is
plenty to do,” the old fisherman said, sharply.

“Good-by, then, my little friend!’ Ivor said,
laying his hand affectionately on the boy’s shoul-
ders before following Pierre Machin out at the
door. ‘‘I-shan’t forget our appointment to-morrow
night. And I wish you would let me give you a
souvenir of my gratitude.”

“IT want no souvenir,’ Francois murmured,

raising his beautiful eyes, filled with tears, to
Ivor’s face. “But, if you want to please me, don’t
go and stay at La Haie!”
. here was a ring of almost passionate entreaty
in the boy’s voice which astonished.Ivor. Before
he had time to reply to this singular request old
Pierre returned, and, brusquely shutting the door
in Francois’ face, he signaled to the young Ameri-
ean in sufficiently authoritative fashion to fol-
low him. ;

Evening was closing in, but the fog had lifted,
and Ivor was able to realize in some measure the

picturesque beauty of the road, which was over-

arched by trees, and bordered by luxuriant
hedges and high sloping banks covered with
heather, gorse and bracken. The road was very
steep and very narrow—little more, indeed, than
a muddy, ill-kept lane. But even by this light
the extraordinary beauty and richness of color-
ing which distinguishes the island appealed to
Ivor’s artistic sense. Not a rock in Sark but has
apparently exhausted the colors on _ nature’s
palette in the infinite variety of reds, and browns,
and greens, and-the finer shades of gray and lilac,
which melt into each other along its surface; not
a hedge but glows with color in the freshness of
its moist verdure, and the glow of berries that
vary the charm of leafy tangle and drooping fern.

“What a lovely place Sark seems!’’ Ivor ex-
claimed.

His ges with the indifference to natural
beauty which so often distinguishes dwellers in
picturesque spots, shrugged his shoulders.

“It’s a hard place to make a living in,” he ob-
served. ‘‘But visitors generally talk like you,
m’sieur. And artists are very fond of painting it.
There is one who came over from Jersey on a
three days’ visit and has stayed seventeen years.
He lives in Little Sark over the Coupée—he and
his wife and family. They say his pictures are
wonderful, and Francois will sit quiet for hours
watching him at work. But for me, I do not un-
derstand these things.”

“Francois tells me he is no relation to you?”
was Ivor’s next remark. ‘“‘Have you any idea
who his people are?”

“Ah, ca!” the old man returned, vaguely, ‘‘No
one knows. They say a little man in green left
ee baby in a bundle at the well of a farmhouse

ere.”’ ;

“You don’t mean to tell me that grown people
in Sark believe in fairies and their changelings
at this end of the nineteenth century?”

are old man looked at Ivor sideways before re-
plying.

Then he shrugged his shoulders again.

“I can tell m’sieur nothing more,’ he said.
“Here is the Imperial’ Hotel. I will bring
m’sieur’s clothes when they are dry. Good-
night, m’sieur!”’ : t

“Good-night, Monsieur Machin. I cannot thank
you enough for your kindness and _ hospitality.
When I get at my things you must let me offer
you and Francois a little present.”

“M’sieur is very good!”
~ Unlike Francois, old Pierre had no idea of go-
ing unrewarded for his services, and, when he
had seen his companion disappear within the
doors of the hotel, he chuckled to himself with
great satisfaction while lighting his pipe.

“Hé! That was a good afternoon’s work!’ he
reflected. “L’Angliatin (the English fellow) has
clearly more money than he knows what to do
with. So much the better! My boat wants a coat
of fresh paint, and the roof of the cottage wants
seeing to, and Francois shall have some pétenotes
(beads) and finery out of it.”

Meantime Francoise, or Francois, had not tar-
ried long in the cottage after the departure of
Ivor and Machin.

' An idea had come into the head of the “‘pretty
boy” to whom Mr. Winthrop had taken so great
@ liking. WHardly, therefore, had the door closed
upon Machin’s visitor than Francois set himself
to work preparing old Pierre’s supper. Sup there
himself he would not, being far too angry with

: _ the old fisherman’s advice to Ivor to lodge at La

-Haie to remain the night under Maehin’s roof.
In five minutes’ time, therefore, Francois slipped
out and hastened down to the landing place at
Aval Le Creux, not, however, by the main road,
but along the fields, keeping a sharp lookout the
while through gaps in the hedge at passengers by
the road.

Before

he reached the harbor his patience was
_ rewarded.

° Two men were coming up the steep
lane, side by side. The elder, who stumbled as he
walked, and every now and then lurched heavily
- against his companion, was none other than Jean
Bourgaize, who long ago in Guernsey had wooed

ill. bring |
I have others in my lug-

to be his wife.
who roughly supported him

Audoire.

Jean Bourgaize was protesting, thickly.
have I to live for?
got since she was taken?
morning,
treats me like dirt beneath her feet.

and she costs two hundred francs a year.
hundred francs! It is a fortune.

cie Dobree. Ah, if that villainous garee (girl)
Francoise had not run away!

were a fool, Philippe, not to marry her!
are a fool not to marry her now!”

Bourgaize lurched violently against his cousin,
the hedge behind which Francois was creeping,

talk between the two men.

“Che que tu dis ch’est niollin!”’
are saying is nonsense), Philippe protested,
sulkily.
wing with one’s bare hand as Frangoise!
not only that she is cunning and quick, and as
swift as a bird, and light on her feet as a hare,
but in the water she is like a fish—she cannot
drown. She is not like you and me. They all
say she comes from the little people.
that you cannot force to work when they will not.
You cannot follow them, you cannot catch them,
and you dare not beat them !”’’

“Chut!? protested the farmer. ‘“I’d beat her

La Vieille Jeanne, I promise you! I tell you
we want her at the farm, instead of that great
greedy, lazy Yvonne; and, if you were man enough
to catch her, we would lock her up and starve her
into marrying you. I do not say she may not

she comes from, and there has always been some-
thing strange about her. But children that come
of fairy stock may be made to work, and they
work harder and better than anybody. It is a
shame, I say, that she should work for Pierre
Machin when, if you were not s a thick-headed
fool, you would catch her and make her marry
you and work for us all at La Haie. When did
you see her last?” :

“In a boat with Machin only a few hours ago.”

“And why did you not pull her out and make
her come with you?”

“Bah! You know not what you say, Pierre
Bourgaize. She would have dragged me under the
sea; she would have put an ensorcellement (spell)
upon me. Once I can make her my wife I shall
not fear her, and I warrant you I will punish
her; but until then I dare not touch chette p’tite
diablesse !” (that little devil).

With rapidly beating heart Francois listened
to all these schemes against the future happiness
of Francois la Fée. But at this point the two
men began to quarrel, and the sound of their
angry voices and coarse oaths made the little
listener leap on ahead, jumping over obstacles,
and flitting, with the birdlike quickness which
characterized him, over the intervening ground
} until the summit of the hill was reached.
- Striking off to the left from this point, Fran-

is made his way, under cover of the gathering

arkness, to the farmhouse of La Haie. The door

which led into the great kitchen was ajar, and
the sound of female voices in angry altercation
penetrated to the open air. La Vieille Jeanne was
scolding as usual, and Yvonne Mouton was re-
torting in no measured terms. Francois did not
linger to listen.. Retreating a little way from
the house, concealed from view by the ivy-hung
well in the center of the courtyard, his quick
eyes scanned the side of the house in order to
ac his future movements would be unob-
served. 5

From a window of a bedroom on the first floor
a light shone; the casement was open, and the
face of a young girl appeared in profile lowered
over the pages of a book. A sharp pang shot
across the heart of the watcher. Even at this dis-
tance it was impossible not to be struck by the
loveliness of the reader, by the exquisite regu-
— of her features and the glow of her radiant
coloring.

“When he sees her,’”’ muttered the little watcher
= the well, ‘‘he will go mad about, her, as they
all do. I wish—oh, how I wish I could put a

she really is! Fairies’ children have done as
much before. Didn’t Pierre tell me how his father
saw with his own eyes Louis Hougnez bewitched
on his wedding day by Gotton de la Rue, so that
he refused to marry poor Marie Bailleul because
he declared she had been changed into a black
rabbit? If I could only make Mr. Winthrop see
her as a black rabbit!” .

It was useless, however, as Francois soon real-
ized, to bewail the lack of the recipe for turning
beautiful girls into black rabbits in the eyes of
their possible admirers. There was still a good
deal to be done before the farmer and his cousin
would have time to arrive at La Haie. Reluct-
antly, therefore, Francois withdrew his gaze from
that bright vision at the upper window, and,
creeping across to the house, made his way to

the room on the ground floor given over to the

use of Philippe Audoire.

The casement of this room was fast shut.
Channel Islanders show their French origin in
their marked dislike to open windows, draughts,
or fresh air in their houses, and since Mary’s
death Darcie Dobree’s window was the only one
at La Haie which was constantly open. But
Francois had work to do in Philippe Audoire’s
domain, and was prepared for this obstacle. Tak-
ing from his pocket a formidable-looking, many-
bladed knife, he inserted it in the window-catch,
and, forcing it back, threw open the casement and
vaulted into the room.

-No attempt at decoration was to be seen in
Philippe’s apartment, the whitewashed walls of
which were destitute alike of pictures and of
paper. Abed, a washstand, a chair, a few pegs
on the walls, a seaman’s chest, made up the fur-
niture. There was no firéplace, and no carpet,
and the air was heavy with the strong tobacco
Philippe was in the habit of smoking.

A little shudder of: disgust ran over Francois’
frame as he contemplated the room by the light
of the rising moon, which—streamed in through
the open window. Then a mischievous light
flashed into his soft, dark eyes.

From the capacious pockets of his mackintosh
coat he proceeded to withdraw sundry prickly
fragments of bush and briar. These he inserted,
with great care, within Philippe’s bed, rearrang-
ing the sheets, that they might not appear to
have been disturbed. Next, he turned his atten-
tion to Philippe’s high boots, which stood against
the wall, and these he proceeded to fill with water
from the jug on the washstand.
directed his attention to Philippe’s tobacco jar,
the contents of which he mixed liberally with a
packet of pepper with which he had provided him-
self. Two of Philippe’s pipes, which lay about,
having been neatly stopped up with sand, Fran-
cois looked pensively around the room, regretting
that there was no more mischief which he could

The

do.
As he did so, he clearly heard, through the open
window, the sound of footsteps on the stone-

were returning.
Winthrop.
footstep approaching along the passag
kitchen, and he had barely time to draw the win-
dow to and slip behind some coats hanging from
owner of the room entered.
candle which Philippe lit, he perceived the heavy-
Winthrop’s would-be murderer. :

This, then, was the man who had said less than

this beetle-browed, dull-eyed being, who,

with distrust and suspicion.

 

and won the little English governess, Mary Smith,
The other, red-haired and sullen,
in his shambling
walk, was Jean’s cousin and assistant, Philippe

“Can any one Wonder that I drink too much?”
“What
What sort of a home have I
My mother, she scolds
noon and night, and Darcie —

en
Yvonne Mouton, she eats more than she is —

wo
And what does
she do? Just helps ma mére, and cleans and
cooks, and helps in the fields, and waits on Dar-

She cost nothing,
she ate nothing, and she worked like ten.” You
You

With which concluding piece of wisdom Jean
almost driving that solidly-built individual into
with every nerve on the alert, to listen to the
(What you

“As well try to catch a sea gull * rs
+78

Women like

fast enough if I got hold of her, and so would

come of fairy-folk; for myself I cannot say where

spell upon him, so that he should not see her as

After this, he

paved courtyard. Farmer Bourgaize and Philippe
Francois guessed that the latter
would take the first opportunity of examining, at
his leisure, the articles he had stolen from Ivor
Already he heard Audoire’s heavy
from .the

a peg on the wall, when the door opened, and the
Francois’ fists clinched, as, by the light of a

shouldered form and lowering countenance of Ivor

half an hour ago that, if he could catch Francoise
la Fée, he meant to marry her, and punish her—
even
among the rough fisher-folk of Sark, was regarded

Francois’ heart beat fast with hate at the recol-
lection, but the vividnes of his feelings in no way
diminished the keenness of his watch upon Phil-
ippe, and long before the latter had taken off a
leather belt he wore around his waist beneath his

plans were matured.

hiding, from the peg upon which it hung.
he waited his opportunity.

thing he held in his hand.

and purse ke was holding, and which,
fright, he had almost let fall.
Before Philippe could extricate himself,

by the window.

,

CHAPTER XI.
AN UNEXPECTED MEETING.

badly on his first night in Sark.

every bone.

sprites danced around and pricked and pl
hin,
ing himself, passed downstairs, and
quietly out of the hotel.

ered brow, and

it not, for Little Sark.

reefs of hidden rocks, wild flowers bloomed among
the heather and the bracken about his feet, and
high overhead the happy song of a bird rang out,
rejoicing in the sunlight.

Ivor realized these things with a dim sense of
pleasure. But the fever was upon him, and even
in the sunshine he shivered. Each step grew more
dificult in the roughly-made path upon which
the brambles encroached at every yard, and
when, at length, he struck into the highroad,
and perceived ahead of him a narrow causeway
from which precipitous cliffs led down to the
sea, three hundred feet below, his brain reeled,
and he felt he dared nét cross the far-famed
Coupée (which he at once recognized from de-
scription) until the sensation of vertigo had
passed away. ;

Sinking down, therefore, on the low wall which
borders a portion of the pass, he closed his eyes,
and, leaning back against the rock, waited until
he should feel more equal to continuing his wan-
derings.

Resting thus, sleep fell upon him, and a _recur-
rence of the fever-dreams of the night. Waking
suddenly, with a violent start at some unexpected
sound in the open-air stillness of that wild spot,
he beheld before him a living picture, so strangely
beautiful that he rubbed his eyes, and thought
he must still be dreaming.

Right in the middle of the narrow path, bor-
dered on either hand by a precipice, stood a girl,
in a dead-white dress, relieved only by two great
purple irises thrust in just below her neck. Her
head was bare, and every ray of sunlight seemed
caught and concentrated. in the gold-red crown
of her hair. In figure, she was rather tall, and of
a most beautiful shape. Her poise, as she
stretched out her right arm, and held her hat
over the chasm, was full of imperial grace, and
her voice, a deep, full voice, that lingered long on
@ man’s memory, rang out in accents of half-
laughing command. :

- “You say you will do anything in the world for
me?” she said. ‘Very -well, then, I shall throw
my hat over here, and tell you to go and fetch it.
What will you do then?” .

A young man, of medium height and well-knit
frame, whose slouch hat and velveteen coat pro-
claimed artistic tastes, joined the girl at this
point, coming rapidly along the narrow Coupée:
He was fair-mustached, fresh-colored, and not
ill-looking; but the most’ noticeable thing about
him at that moment wak fhe passion of love and
longing that shone froni his
as they rested on the girl, :
“For Heaven’s sake,’’ he cried, “don’t go so
near the edge, Darcie! If you were to fall, noth-
ing could save you!”

‘Wouldn’t you?”

“Of course, I should jump after you, if you
mean that; but the chances are ten to one we
should both be killed.” .

“If you are as fond of me as you pretend,” the
girl said, throwing a glance of lazy allurement at
him over her shoulder, “‘you ought to revel in. the
idea of such a chance of proving your devotion.”

“You know how much I love you quite well
enough without that,’ the young man retorted,
flushing.

; vee you go after my hat, if I drop it?”

‘ ot”. 7

“Then I don’t believe in your affection. It’s all
words, nothing but words, and have heard
them all before. They weary me.”

“Have you any heart, I wonder?”

“Do you, an artist, know so little of anatomy
as to suppose I could draw breath without one?
Really, Mr. Carey, I shall have to put you on the
level of the boys at the college, who have sent me
Jove-letters since I was twelve—verses, too—

“Darcie Dobree,
I’m dying for thee!’

“Can you do better than that, if you try?

“ ‘Lily of Guernsey, and pearl of the sea,
* Sark holds no jewel like Darcie Dobree!’

“What do you think of that? And from_an
English officer, too, and not a college boy! You
must really infuse some originality into , your
love-making, if you wish to make any impression
upon me, Mr. Carey! Ive heard every word
you’ve said to me over and over again before.”

“And all these poor little boys, and the officers,
and so on—have you never cared one straw for
any of them?” —

The girl turned, and faced him, calmly. :

“Never, upon my honor!” she replied, with
slow distinctness.

Ivor was wide-awake now. Where he sat he
was screened a little by the rock, and so far he
had been unseen by those two upon the Coupée.
Aching as he was with fever, his brain was clear
enough to receive two impressions of overwhelm-
inging force—the first the hopeless love of the
man before him, and the other the extraordinary
charm of Darcie Dobree.

It was not only that she fascinated the eyes
by. her beauty, though that alone, in its combina-
tion of voluptuous grace of form, with glowing
coloring, was enough to stir an ascetic, or to
make a poet mad; Darcie’s power lay deeper—in
the exact understanding, even at this early stage
of her career, of the value of her attractions.
She knew by instinct how to allure while seeming
to repel, how to atone by a Janguishing glance for
a half-bitter jest; her red lips parted so sweetly
over her small, white teeth, while she uttered her
little sarcasms, her soft cheeks dimpled so ador-
ably in smiles over her own avowed heartlessness,
that a man who admired her, as all men must,
could but forgive her, and hope, and worship on.

Even had he not come to Sark primed to fall
in love with her, with the sole aim and intention
of laying his heart at her feet, Ivor felt he must
have loved her at first sight. She stormed the
senses and carried the imagination captive. She
drove reason to the winds, and, although, as he
watched her coquetting in the spring sunshine
with this man who clearly loved her to distraction,
Ivor felt deeply sorry for the man, he yet re-
garded her light cruelty with an indulgent eye.
‘} She was so young and high-spirited and beautiful
—who could blame her for reveling in the short-
lived power those qualities gave?

It was plain enough that her present victim

ark, deep-set eyes,

observed sadly that some day she, too, would
know what it was to love in vain.

“Now, that is absurd!’ Darcie protested, stop-

jed her hat-strings under her round, white chin.

merely amazing.
some one or something that doesn’t love you?
is sheer waste of time, besides being very undig-
nified. And that a woman should love a man
who doesn’t care for her is downright dreadful!”

“How could she help it?
we can control.”

“Do you know the French saying?’’ she cried,
turning upon him a face sparkling with gayety:
“‘Very few people would fall
hadn’t heard it so much talked about?’ ”’

he retorted,
Love in an old French palace:

© ‘Qui que tu sois

Voila ton maitre,
Qui es, qui fus,

Ou qui dois Vétre??
(‘Whoe’er thou art,

Thy master see,
Who is, or was,

Or is to be.’)”

 

loose jersey, and, opening a wallet attached there-
to, had brought the contents to light, Francois’

Stretching upward, he silently lifted the vo-.
luminous mackintosh coat, beneath which Pewee
en

Clearly, there was something in Philippe Au-
-doire’s haul which puzzled and disconcerted him,
for an. exclamation of astonishment burst from
him, as he bent his head to examine the glittering
The exclamation was
smothered as it rose to his lips, for at that iden-
tical moment, Francois, leaping forward from be-
hind, flung the mackintosh over Philippe’s head
and shoulders, and, on the movement, tore from
the hands of the astonished fisherman the at
in s

the
candle was blown out, and a gust of fresh air
taught him that his unseen assailant had escaped

In spite of his fatigue, Ivor Winthrop slept but

Fever troubled nis dreams, his arm pained him
greatly, and he felt stiff and sore, and ached in
At five o’clock, tired of restless toss-
ing and nightmare fancies, in which green =
e
and red-haired corsairs hunted him over
treacherous seas, Ivor arose, and, hurriedly dress-
slipped

The fresh morning air blew upon his dry, fev-
for the moment dispelled the
fancies which had oppressed him during the night.
The sun was up, the mist was gone, and Sark, in
all her springtime loveliness, smiled before him.

Small as the island is, it is a difficult place for
a stranger to explore, and Ivor, whose feet would
have taken him toward La Haie, on the road to
the Seigneurie, found himself presently wander-
ing in a narrow path.through gorse and bramble
along the cliffside, and heading, though he knew

Far below him the sea shone and sparkled in
the morning sun, frothing and splashing over the

did not find serious fault with her, even while he

ing to argue the point on the Coupée, while she
“What you call love appears to me to be difficult
to understand, but unrequited love seems to me

Where is the sense of sei

Love is not a thing

in love if they

“And do you know another French saying?”
“a saying written on a statue of

 

‘‘When I am in love,’ Darcie declared, with a
ringing laugh, ‘‘I give you permission to come and
see me eyery day, and laugh at me. And, now
that subject is disposed of, we can talk of other
things. When are you going back to Guernsey?”

‘“‘When you give me a definite answer.’’

“Haven’t I told you again and again I can’t
make up my mind? I am dazzled, of course, by
the bewildering splendor of your offer. ”

“Darcie, don’t sneer!”

“But, on the other hand, I don’t really care
in the least about you. Of course, it’s very good
of you to want to marry me. Your people, every
one tells me, are furious because you, the son of
a general and nephew of a baronet—have I got it
right?—are so anxious to throw yourself away
upon a little ‘schoolmarm,’ as they call them in
the wilds of America. But the’ schoolmarm
doesn’t want you. She isn’t in the least anxious
to get married; and, as to settling down to live
in Guernsey—well, I would almost as soon settle
down to live in Sark, and I can hardly imagine
a more horrible fate than that!’’ she concluded,
calmly.

“You don’t care for these lovely: islands in
which you have been brought up,” he said, rather
sadly. ‘‘What do you care for, Darcie Dobree?”’

She drew a long breath, and looked away
from him across the glittering, green sea to the
horizon.

“Nothing that I have ever had yet,’ she an-
swered, enigmatically.

“Ts it London you pine after?” he asked. ‘‘I
hate London with all my heart, but we would
visit it once a year—as many people do—if you
so desired. If we were careful, we could man-
age that. It’s almost worth doing for the relief
of getting back to beautiful Guernsey again. Do
you imagine for one second that in London you
will ever see anything to equal this? Look around
you at the sunny sky and foam-fiecked sea, and
many-colored rocks crowned with verdure! See
the waves creeping in over the wealth of -ame-

thysts, and topaz, and rose-colored jewels hidden}

in the stones three hundred feet below!
your mouth and breathe in the air, pure and
fresh and health-giving, that sweeps over the
heather! “Would you leave such a spot as this
for a soot and smoke-begrimed aggregation of
houses and dirty streets, swarming with pushing,
struggling humanity? Would you leave beauty
for ugliness, health for disease, peace for unrest
and misery?”

She turned upon him, with something like scorn
in her gray-blue eyes.

“You are a painter,’ she said, ‘and a Channel
Islander, as well! Channel Islanders are incapable
of seeing beauty outside their islands. Also, they
are too lazy to travel, or to make their way in
the world. As to painters, you set them down in
front of a wet rock, or an old red wall, in the
sunshine, and they ask nothing more. Our artist
here, whose pictures are worth hundreds of
pounds, does not care to show them, and spends
eleven years painting a rock-pool, from sheer love
of it, with hardly any idea of selling his work at
all. All that simply proves he is mad. I don’t
say madmen and geniuses—and Channel Island-
ers,’ she added, with one of her flashing smiles,
“are not happier because they are easily satis-
fied. But what I do say is that some of us must
have aspirations and desires outside these little
blocks of granite, three miles by two, or nine by
five, as the case may be. And some must feel, as

Open

I do, that there is not room here for mental
breathing and expansion, and that the life worth
living is out beyond!”

Again she looked seaward, and Leonard Carey’s
gaze followed hers, wistfully. He adored her,
but-he did not yet understand her. Perhaps until
this point only Mary Bourgaize, in her dying
moments, had really understood Darcie Dobree.

The next moment she was all sunshine and
laughter again.

“Fancy coming out for a walk at six o’clock in
the morning to talk leading articles!” she cried,
tripping gayly forward.

Leonard laid a detaining hand upon her arm.

“Give me an answer to-day!” he pleaded.

“What answer can I give?’ the young beauty
exclaimed. ‘‘You tell me you love me; [I don’t
love you, but you believe in time I shall. Cer-
tainly, I don’t love any one else. You also say I
shall love some day. Who knows? At any mo-
ment a ship may land in Sark bringing the fairy
prince who is to change me at first sight into a
colorless, humble, lovesick maiden. Perhaps he
will come to-morrow, perhaps to-day. Meantime,
as he has not yet appeared, I cannot prevent you
from hoping.” ;

On the words, lking a little ahead of her
faithful swain, Darcie turned a corner of rock, and
met the dark eyes of Ivor Winthrop fixed in-
tently upon her.

She started back for a moment, having had no
suspicion that a man was seated there where ber
talk could be overheard. Then, perceiving his
extreme pallor and the look of fatigue and pain
in his face, she advanced, with gentle gracious-
ness, toward him.

“TI am afraid you are ill?’’ she said, with a
sweet solicitude in her full, melodious tones,
“Can we do anything for you?”

The longed-for moment had arrived at last.
Darcie Dobree had looked into his face, and
spoken to him. She was lovelier than even he
had imagined; she was witty, cultured, and full
of womanly charm. And yet, as her brilliant
blue eyes looked kindly into his, a strange sense
- ee stole over Ivor Winthrop’s

eart.

“You are very good!’’ he said. ‘‘The fact is,
I was nearly burned to death three weeks ago,
and nearly drowned yesterday, and I have not yet
quite got over either experience.”

co drowned! Was that in the fog?”

ee es.’”’

“You do look bad!’ observed young Carey,
ae the others. ‘‘Can I help you back to your

otel, or where you are staying?”

“JT am staying at present at the Imperial
Hotel,” Ivor answered, ‘‘but I was on my way to
a farmhouse called La Haie.”

“La Haie!’ Darcie repeated, in surprise, while
an expression of vexation flashed over Leonard
Carey’s face. “Oh, I can show you the way
there! But it’s a very long way to walk; I doubt
if you can do it. Wouldn’t it be better to return
to your hotel?”

“My reason for wishing to find La Haie,” Ivor
said, “is that I want to lodge there a few days,
if they can accommodate me. I understand they
take lodgers there in the summer, and I detest
hotels !”’

“Nobody comes before the end of May,” Leonard
Carey was beginning, when Darcie cut him short.

“T live at La Haie myself, when I am in Sark,”
she said, “and I have no doubt old Madam Bour-
gaize would do her best to make you comfortable.
We will go there now, if you like. It’s very diffi-
cult to find one’s way about Sark at first. But
I am sure you can’t walk. Mr. Carey, will you
go down for me to Dixcart Bay? The little farm
cart is there, and this gentleman can go in it to
the farm. That is to say,’’ she added, turning
one of her radiant smiles upon Ivor, “if you don’t
mind a primitive vehicle without too many
springs?”

“TI should be exceedingly glad of the lift. I
certainly feel very shaky on my feet. But I
don’t like to trouble your friend rn

“Oh, it’s no trouble to him! Mr. Carey is de-
lighted to do anything for me. Are you not,
Mr. Carey?”

Leonard Carey bowed assent, though he looked
far from pleased as he struck off toward Greater
Sark, leaving his ladylove and the handsome and
interesting stranger téte-d-téte by the Coupée.

Darcie Dobree looked after him, and laughed.

Standing there, with her full, red lips parted,
her expressive, heavy-lidded eyes alight with mis-
chief in the clear sunlight, she seemed actually to
radiate warmth and color; and Ivor, in his ab-
normally sensitive and feverish state, felt that
he must shade his eyes to look at her—as though
he gazed at a diamond in the sunshine.

“Your friend will owe me a grudge for this, I
am afraid,’’ he observed.

Darcie turned her radiant face upon him, and
summed him up quite calmly and dispassionately
from head to foot with those brilliant eyes of
hers before she spoke.

“What does that matter?” she then said. ‘You
are not likely to see very much of him. Mr. Carey
lives at Guernsey, and only comes over to Sark
occasionally.”

“Drawn by a powerful magnet?”’

“He is an artist,’’ Darcie replied, evasively,
“and, therefore, he never has anything to do.”

“May I join issue with you over that? What
a true artist dées is very often the best that can
be done in this world.’’

“Well,” said Darcie, slowly, as she drew one
of the purple flowers from the neck of her dress
and proceeded deliberately to tear, it to pieces,
“the artists I know do very little, and take a
very long time over it. But perhaps you are an
artist yourself?”

Her keen eyes had noted the delicacy of his long
white hands, and the refined and intellectual cast
of his features. Certainly, he would be an ac-
quisition to the household of La Haie, but it was
as well to know something about him before she
encouraged him. ;

“TJ wish I had the power to be an artist, with
all my heart!’’ Ivor said. ‘‘My only claim in
that direction is a great love of what is beautiful,
and—would you mind not tearing that poor
flower to pieces?”

Darcie’s fingers left off busying themselves
with the flower. A shade of contempt swept over
her face, as she seated herself opposite to him, at
the beginning of the Coupée, and scanned him
across the intervening space.

“T suppose,” she said, slowly, “‘that you are
esthetic? That’s the right word, is it not? I
thought that sort of thing had quite gone out in
London, and that people were colloquial and
slangy now!’’

It was odd, and jarred upon him to hear this

 

 

beautiful creature, on her rock island home—
this heroine of his daydreams-for many months
past—discussing London crazes, with the. calm
assurance of a London beauty of many seasons’
standing.

“T am not a Londoner,’’ he said, ‘‘and perhaps
that is why I am old-fashioned enough to be
esthetic, if it be esthetic to dislike to see any-
thing of beauty ruthlessly destroyed.”

“You are American?’ she said, quickly. ‘I
didn’t catch the accent at first. My great friend
at. the ladies’ college at Guernsey is American.
It is a long way from America to.Sark.”’

“Very. I came by way of Mentone, Paris, and
London.”

“Paris and London!” she repeated, dreamily.
Then, after a moment’s pause, she continued, eag-
erly: ‘‘Doesn’t it seem strange to meet any one
who-has never been to either city—never been
anywhere, except to Guernsey and Sark, not even
to Jersey? I must seem like a savage to you!”

He wished with all his heart he could have
found her more. of a “savage,” less assured, less
mistress of herself, less complex and sophisticated.
He felt so much more than he could possibly put
into words on this subject, and the fact that he
was. here. at last, within. a couple of yards of
“Capt. Mitchell’s’” adored daughter, and the
woman he had sworn to win as his wife, talking
to her casually on indifferent subjects, was so
overwhelming to him, in his weak state, that to
keep up the conversation he felt to be impossible.

The feeling ~of dizzy faintness was gaining
upon him anew. Darcie perceived it, and, cross-
ing over to him, she laid her hand kindly on his
sleeve.

“Don’t talk any more,” she said.
will be here almost immediately.
thing I can do?”

For answer, he took her firm, white hand, and
held it a moment against his burning brow. But
Darcie Dobree’s touch was charged with mag-
netism, and utterly failed to calm his nerves.

-“J am afraid you are very ill,’’ she said, gently.
“Ah, here is the cart! I shall put you in
Madam Bourgaize’s care immediately.”

Ivor turned his head in the direction of the
sound of wheels. A small, rudely-fashioned cart
was approaching, drawn by a stout, shaggy-haired
pony.

But, at sight of Ivor’s white face, the driver
of the cart dropped the reins, with an ejacula-
tion of dismay, and, muttering a series of curses
in patois, scrambled down from his seat, and hur-
ried away as fast as his legs could carry him.

“By Jove,” Ivor murmured, half aloud, “it’s
the villain. who robbed and tried to drown me—
Philippe Audoire!”

TO BE CONTINUED.

“The cart
Is there any-

—____—=<-+- 6-+->_____—_
AN UNHAPPY MISTAKE,

BY. E. M. SWENY.

It was a lovely day, the sun was shining
brightly, the birds were singing, and everything
seemed gay. In a pretty little bedroom, sur-
rounded by every comfort, sat a girl, pale and
trembling, with a tear-stained letter lying before
her, which she presently stooped and picked up to
peed for the third time. The letter ran as fol-
OWS:

“My DEAR Miss JONES: After due considera-
tion, I have come to the conclusion that it will
be wiser for us both to say nothing more about
the matter we were discussing this evening, but
to let the affair quietly drop, more especially as
TI am leaving so soon. With my true regards, I
remain, Yours sincerely,

“EDWARD P. HALL.’

The Rev. Edward Hall was assistant to the
pastor of the village church, which for the past
three months he had had sole charge of, owing
to the ill-health of the latter. Many people much
preferred Mr.:Hall’s sermons to those of the pas-
tor, and there was consternation when it was
made known that Mr. Hall had had an offer of a
pastorship elsewhere, and had accepted it.

For a long time the gossips in the village had
noticed that Mr. Hall paid an unusual amount of
attention to pretty little Ida Jones, the doctor’s
daughter, and, strange to say, very few people
made spiteful remarks, for, if Mr. Hall was pop-
ular for his gentle, courtly manner to old and
young, rich and poor, Ida was just as much
loved by the villagers, and many an aged person
could testify to her skill in nursing.

Although Mr. Hall had shown a marked prefer-
ence for Ida’s society to that of any other girl,
he had certainly never made the slightest declara-
tion of love, and. the poor girl’s heart sank as
each day brought the parting nearer, but she
bore up bravely, and only her mother’s quick
eye noticed the sad look so often to be seen on
her face now; but Mrs. Jones was a wise woman,
and did not try to force her daughter’s confidence,
oe that Ida never kept anything from her
ong.

The evening before the arrival of the letter Ida
had been returning from the choir practice by
herself, when her quick ear caught the sound of
manly footsteps, and her heart beat quickly.

“‘Good-evening, Miss Jones!’ cried a cheery
voice. “I’m going your way, so hurried after
you, but never thought I should overtake you so
soon. How slowly you must have walked!”

Ida blushed, but said nothing.

“T have only one more week in this dear old
place,’’ Mr. Hall resumed presently, “and then I
shall have to take up my new duties. In new
surroundings and among new faces, it will be so
lonely, and sometimes I almost regret that I ever
accepted.”’

He stopped, as if expecting his companion to
say something, but Ida did not reply, and they
walked a little way in silence. Suddenly Mr. Fall
noticed a tear drop from the girl’s eye upon the
book she was carrying.

“Tda, can it be possible that you care whether
I go or stay?” he asked. ‘Does it really make
any difference?”

He had never previously called her by her
Christian name. For a moment the words almost
startled her, and before she could recover she had
burst into tears.

At this very inopportune moment wheels were
heard coming along at a good pace behind them,
and what the young clergyman might have been
going to say died away on his lips as he recog-
nized the doctor’s smart little trap, which shortly
drew up beside them,

‘Well, Mr. Hall, I’m glad to see you, old
fellow !’’ said the doctor, in his genial tones. “I’m
just returning home, so both of you get in and
come with me.”

Mr. Hall declined, pleading farewell calls which
had to be made before he left, but as he helped
Ida in he pressed the little hand so tremblingly
laid in his and whispered:

“T shall write to you to-night.”

All that evening Ida seemed to be treading on
air, and, needless to say, when she at last retired
to rest, sleep was a long time in coming. The
next morning she was up early, and every ring
at the bell brought such a start and shy little
it that Dr. Jones asked her if she was not
well.

When the long-looked-for letter did come and
Ida’s trembling fingers at last managed to open
it, she first seemed petrified and then burst into
a storm of tears. :

“Oh, why did I show him I cared?’ she moaned.
“Of course he despises me, but it was cruel to
write that letter! And now how shall I ever face
him again?”

* ca * * * * *

Ida was not the only person who had received a
letter that morning, and, if her letter caused
astonishment to her, the one received by another
member of Mr. Hall’s congregation created a
thousand times more, for it ran:

“My DARLING: You have no idea how supremely
happy you made me to-night. I thought you
surely must have guessed how I have loved you
for a long time, but, as you never gave me any
encouragement, I had almost made up my mind
to leave without speaking, but to-night decided
me. 1 shall have much to do to-morrow, but
shall be returning home about seven o’clock by the
meadow path. Meet me there, if possible.

“Yours ever, EDWARD HALL.”

Miss Mary Jones, the recipient of the second
letter, sat silent for a long time. She was the
last person, some people would have said, to
get a love letter. She was not beautiful, for one
side of her face had been scarred by a burn which
she had received many years ago while extinguish-
ing a fire and saving a little child’s life. In the
opinion of some, she might have been deemed
ugly but for the beautiful expression of her coun-
tenance, which was that of one who had suffered
and overcome. -All who looked at her knew that
she was one to confide in and receive sympathy
from, and many of those in trouble did come to
her accordingly.

After Mr. Hall had left Ida and her father, his
first visit was to Miss Jones, for they had always
been great friends, and he had got quite accus-
tomed to running in and telling her his little
troubles. To-night, however, he had tried several
times to reveal his secret about Ida, and then,
being overcome by shyness, had refrained.

Miss Jones was an active worker in church af-
fairs, and had been very full of fear on account
of a little gossip she had heard at several of the
houses she had been visiting at.

A short time before, a bell ringer of the church
had been arrested for a trivial offense. Mr. Hall,
much against his wish, had been obliged to give
evidence, and in consequence had been the very
innocent cause of getting the man a month’s im-
prisonment. Since he had been out of prison he

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

had been heard to threaten that he would take
terrible vengeance on Mr. Hall, and this piece
of news had so frightened Miss Jones that she
had begged the young clergyman to speak to the
police about the matter, which, after a great deal
of persuasion, he had half promised to do.

As soon as the first surprise at her strange
letter was over, Miss Jones took it up again and
reread it very slowly. Then she glanced at the
envelope. Yes—there could be no mistake; it
must be for her, and yet why should he write
to her in such a style? Could he have guessed?
But no—that -was impossible!

‘What does he mean by giving him encourage-
ment?” thought the puzzled lady. ‘It all seems
so strange that I hardly know what to do. Can
it really be true that he loves me? After all, I
am only five years his senior, but could a hand-
some man like that possibly care for a poor, plain,
unattractive woman like me?”

It was not long before Miss Jones had made
up her mind what to do. She would be in the
meadow at the appointed time, and, if the letter
was a mistake, she would soon find out by the
look on his face when she met the man she had
secretly loved ever since she had known him.

The day was beautifully fine, and two persons
at least found the morning and afternoon very
long in passing; however, time slowly dragged
on, and at last Miss Jones set forth from her
pretty little cottage with eager yet reluctant steps,
but with a happy smile upon her face, for she had
read the letter again before starting.

Strange though it all was, it surely could not
be a mistake!

She arrived at the trysting place early and sat
down to rest, for she was not robust, and the
anxiety caused by the letter had told upon her.

Presently, as Ida had done the day before, she
heard footsteps behind her, and turned, full of
expectancy, to meet the man she loved; but, when
she saw the astonished, not to say disappointed,
look on Edward Hall’s face, she knew that, after
all, it had been a mistake.

“Good-afternoon, Mr. Hall!” she said, with out-
ward calmness. “I knew that I should see you
here, and want to give you back this letter, which
you must have addressed to me without knowing

The poor man first of all became deathly white,
then blushed to the roots of his hair, and finally
burst out laughing. It seemed such a ludicrous
thing to write a love letter to Miss Jones—at
least, Miss Mary Jones—and he fully expected
that she would share the joke. But she did not,
and, seeing that she looked more serious than
amused, he apologized for laughing, and added:

“T would sooner you knew my secret than any-
body. I did try to tell you last night, but could
not screw up my courage.”

Then all was explained.. Mr. Hall had written
two letters—one to Miss Mary Jones, referring
to the bell ringer, whose threats he had decided
to pay no attention to, fearing to get the man
into fresh trouble; the other letter intended for
Ida. As luck would have it, however, the letters
had been put into the wrong envelopes.

Before an hour had passed everything had been
explained to Ida in person, and as she was parting
from her lover that night he laughingly said:

“Well, Ida, darling, it might have been a very
unhappy mistake.”

Certainly to one person it was!

IN HIS GRASP.

By FREDERICK R. BURTON,

Author of ‘Her Three Suitors,” ‘Her Wedding Interlude,”
‘Before They Were Married,” etc., etc.

(“Im His Grasp’? was commenced in No. 46. Back
numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers.)

CHAPTER XVII.
THE END OF HIS ROPE.

It is fair to presume that the count believed
what he said. At all events, not long after this,
he took steps to establish those better times upon
a firm basis. The first consisted of a call upon
Miss Louise Smith,

He had been often to see that interesting young
lady since his return from Europe, and there was
the beginning of a very respectable bill at a
florist’s in record of tokens he had sent to her.

On this evening the count proposed marriage.
Louise was not surprised. She had been sur-
prised when the count returned, and she had
fenced prettily with him about Clara Westover.
He had not told her half as much as she wished
he would, but he had denied that there was any
engagement,

Louise aecepted the count, in so far as it lay in
her power to do so, and then there was a highly
critical conversation with her wealthy father.

The paternal Smith raised no insurmountable
objections. On the contrary, he seemed gratified
with his daughter’s choice, but there were serious
considerations which duty impelled him to offer,
and he offered them with rare delicacy.

Rumors had come to him that Count Rubel was
financially unstable. Doubtless these rumors were
fabrications of the jealous, or based upon mis-
apprehensions. It would be well, would it not,
for the count to remove any shadow of basis for
them? :

Not that mere money was of prime importance.
Mr. Smith was thankful to say that he could
provide liberally for his daughter’s future, but as
her father he was bound to be certain that she
married a man of unblemished honor.

"To all this the count listened with becoming
patience, and, with frankness that became him
admirably when he chose to exercise it, he ad-
mitted that there was reason for the rumors re-
ferred to.

“T have been careless,’ he said. “I never had
proper training in the use of money, and have
permitted bills to accumulate at times that I
could’ not meet if remittances from any cause
were delayed. I am now arranging to settle all
claims, and have undertaken a complete change
in-methods. I shall incur no more debts.”

Mr. Smith commended this resolution, and sug-
gested that the announcement of the engagement
be*theld in abeyance until the count should present
what might be called a clean bill of financial
health.

“Straighten out your affairs, count,” said he,
Sand come to me with your assurance that there
is no danger of annoying complications arising
from that source in the future, and we will talk
about the date for the ceremony. Until then be
welcome here as in the past, but regard my con-
sent as reserved. Will you?”

Indeed, the count would! There was no word
about satisfying his creditors when he had re-
ceived the remittance from his agent- about which
he had talked to Forsythe, but he agreed with
convincing earnestness to set his affairs right
without delay.

To that end he appeared at Nelson’s the next
morning with his check for two thousand dollars,
which he invested on margin. While he had been
waiting for the owners of the apartment building
to make terms for his immediate withdrawal,
Count Rubel had been studying the newspaper re-
ports of doings in Wall Street.

He had come to the conclusion that Northern
Pacific Railroad shares had risen to a point be-
yond which they could not be sustained, and, ac-
cordingly, he asked Nelson to sell five hundred
shares.

“T don’t know,’’ said Nelson, looking doubtfully
at the check. ‘‘Margins are pretty stiff to-day,
count. This covers only four points.”

“Very well,’’ replied the count, in his most in-
different way, ‘“‘I’ll increase the margin if the
stock starts upward.”

With any other customer in the wide world
Nelson would have insisted on a higher margin
at the beginning; but Count Rubel was a gen-
tleman, a good fellow, he had been correct in all
previous dealings, and, moreover, he stood ready
to draw another check on demand, for hadn’t he
just said so?

The order to sell was* placed, and it was on
that day that Northern Pacific stock began those
terrific bounds that have passed into financial] his-
tory as the most extraordinary the Street ever
had known.

Forsythe was in Nelson’s office as usual, and
the count saw him. They bowed and _ shook
hands.

“YT am afraid you think I had forgotten you,”
said the count.

“Oh, no,” replied Forsythe, ‘‘men don’t forget so
soon.”

“True. The fact is that I have been exceed-
ingly busy. I shall take great pleasure in re-
turning the loan you so kindly made me by to-
morrow morning.”

“Don’t hurry, count.”’

They had no further eonversation, for both be-
came absorbed in watching the course of the
market. Northern Pacific was quickly on every-
body’s tongue. It scorned mere points in its
sensational leaps upward.

Count Rubel’s slender margin was wiped out in
a twinkling. Nelson pushed anxiously into the
erowd before his blackboard,

“Have you seen the count?” he asked of
Forsythe.

Forsythe looked around the room.

“He was here a minute ago,’’ he answered.

“Strange that he should disappear at just this
moment,’’. muttered the broker. i

“Anything the matter?” asked Forsythe.

“Why, yes, and no. I shouldn’t speak of it, but
as we three are friends I may as well:say that he

 

sold Northern Pacific short less than half an
hour ago. You see what’s happened. I’m hold-
ing his account. I’ve done it before, and it
came out all right, but this is a whirlwind. I
don’t know what to do. I hate to sell him out,
sad even if I do at this minute I’m a heavy
oser.”

“Perhaps,” suggested Forsythe, “he has gone
to get money to cover his margin.”

“T hope so,’’ and Nelson ground his teeth. ‘“‘If
he doesn’t support his flyer I shall have to, for I
can’t drop it at the present market.”

Forsythe had surmised correctly. Dazed to the
degree that even his iron nerve was unequal to
facing Nelson, the count had gone out to think.

The ending of his long career of adventure de-
pended on the successful issue of his speculation.
The market had gone against him, temporarily he
still hoped and believed, but would Nelson hang
on?

The count: believed that the broker must carry
the trade, else he would lose thousands. To that
extent Rubel was right. If he had lingered and
sought to persuade Nelson, the broker’s anxiety
might have overcome his friendliness. Avoiding
him, the count threw the responsibility for loss
upon Nelson’s shoulders.

Ay, but for how long? Nelson would likely sell
him out at the first opportunity to do so with-
out loss. In other words, the count simply must
find funds with which to increase his margin.

It would take but a few beggarly thousands
to pay his debts on this side of the ocean. As
to the others, after marriage he could trust to his
well-skilled ingenuity to dispose of them.

But where could he obtain the use of a few
thousands for this one day? Forsythe? Ah! if
he had only had the sense to settle with Forsythe!
No, he could not approach the musician now, not
unless he could think of nobody else.

In his desperation the count actually began to
dream of his fiancée’s father. Might there not be
some device which could be worked upon him?
It was a wild thought, but the situation was
wilder. The count turned in the direction of Mr.
Smith’s establishment, not as yet with a settled
purpose of going there, but because his thoughts
= not act as a magnet to draw him anywhere
else.

He heard a voice say: ‘‘There he is,” and then
a hand was laid on his shoulder.

“Count Rubel, I believe?”

He saw a man in blue serge with a folded
paper in his hand. Another man, whose face
was vaguely familiar, stood beside him.

“What is it?’ asked the count, and for once in
an emergency his cheek paled. There was such
a thing as a last straw. A very little one at
this crisis might break him.

“TI have a warrant for you, count,’ said the
man in blue. ‘‘You will have to go with me.”

“A warrant! Are you an officer?”

The man pulled aside a lapel of his coat, and
displayed a badge.

“T am attached to the Jefferson Market Court,”
he answered.

A district messenger carrying a handful of
telegrams halted, and stared curiously at the
three. Have you ever noticed how successful an
idle boy may be in forming the nucleus of a
gaping crowd?

“This is no place to discuss the matter,’”’ said
the count. “Of course I will go with you, but
will you permit me to call a carriage?”’

“T have no objection,” and the officer looked
inquiringly at the third party.

“That’s your lookout,” said the latter. “I'll go
up by ‘L’ train, and meet you there,”

A hansom hauled up beside them, but the count
ignored it. He attracted the attention of the
driver of a coupé, and a moment later he sat with
the officers within it. Three messengers in ad-
dition to the first, and a dozen men stood at the
curb, and watched the coupé until it disappeared
at the turn into Broadway.

“Will you tell me what all this is about?”
asked the count, without a trace of bluster.

“Certainly. False pretenses. You are charged
with passing a worthless check.”

“By whom, please?’’

“Wittgenstein & Schaefer.”

“Oh!’’ and the count smiled.

He knew all about it now. It was annoying;
ay, perilous under the circumstances, but smile
he must for the benefit of the officer.

Wittgenstein & Schaefer were proprietors of a
restaurant which he had patronized more or less
during his previous visit to New York. Of course
he had run an account. One evening he had en-
tertained a number of friends there. The cashier
had called him aside, explained that the firm was
in need of funds, and asked for a settlement of
the account.

He remembered it all clearly enough now. The}

amount was seyenty-five dollars and some cents.
He had given his check for it. On the following
afternoon he had withdrawn all his funds from
his bank. -

The Wittgenstein & Schaefer check had not been
among his youchers. He had noticed that fact,
though it would not be necessary to say so now,
and had not re-deposited the amount to meet it
when it should arrive from the Clearing House.
Why should he? He had made a good turn in
the market with B. Q., and had about decided to
go to Europe on the following day. Wittgenstein
& Schaefer could be attended to when he returned.

And when he returned he had forgotten it.
Had he? If would do to say so if he could only
get at the proprietors. A paltry seventy-five dol-
lars must not be permitted to stand between him
Ae te He could manage somehow to settle
tha :

But Nelson’s affair? Bah! the speculation,
with its current loss of thousands, dwindled to
insignificance beside this miserable check. That
loss, if it must come, could be sustained without
a blemish upon his honor—so he reasoned at all
events—while this thing might cause a stain in-
eradicable.

Reporters would be at the court! how quickly
they would seize on an item reflecting upon a no-
bleman! Louise Smith’s father, complaisant gen-
tleman but also shrewd business man, never could
be persuaded that it was all a mistake.

Considerations of this nature sped through the
count’s mind while the smile was still ‘upon his
lips.

“There has been an unfortunate mistake,” said
the count, quietly. ‘I can explain it easily to
Wittgenstein & Schaefer. I believe I do owe
them a little money, and I shall take pleasure in
paying them at once.”

The officer made no response. Rubel had staked
substantially his all upon a decline in Northern
Pacific. By dint of unusual care and the good
luck of not meeting creditors fora period of sev-
eral days, he had come to the negotiation with the
owners of the apartment building with nearly a
hundred dollars remaining from the loan that
Forsythe had made him.

Fifty of this he had thought it prudent to give
to Pierre. There were left now a few dollars,
he was not sure how many, not enough to offer
as a payment on account to the restauranters, but
surely enough for a douceur.

“T should like to call at Wittgenstein & Schae-
fer’s,’’ added the count. ‘‘Will you permit me to
give directions to the driver?”

“Certainly not!’ -replied the officer,
“It’s my business to take you to court.”

“Surely,” assented the count, “‘but the restau-
rant is only a little out of the way. If the driver
hurries we may lose no time whatever.”

“Tt’s not to be thought of.” ’

“But all that Wittgenstein & Schaefer want is
their money. I can satisfy them without the ex-
pense and annoyance of court proceedings.”

The count was searching his pockets.

“Tt’s a criminal charge,” said the officer.

“Indeed! I wouldn’t have supposed they would
do more than bring civil suit even if they im-
agined that suit of any kind was necessary. I
admit that a matter of that kind is annoying,
very unpleasant to a man of my standing. Come,
my friend, no harm will come to you by letting
me pause long enough to have a word with Witt-
genstein & Schaefer.’’

He had his little roll of bills in his hand. The
figure five was conspicuous on the outside one.

“What's that for?’ demanded the officer,
harshly.

“Compensation for your trouble, a present, any
way you choose to look at it,’ replied the count,
gently forcing the money to the officer’s hand. “I
shan’t need more than a minute or two.’’

“Say,” said the officer, pushing the bribe away
roughly, ‘‘did you see the man who was with me
when I arrested you?”’

“Tt did. His face was familiar, but I could
not place him.”

“That was Wittgenstein.”

“Oh, so it was! Unfortunate
not———”’

“He will be at the court.’”’

“Yes, but I’d rather settle the matter outside.
I can speak with Mr. Schaefer at the restaurant.”’

“Schaefer died five years ago.”’

The count sank back against the cushions, and
looked straight ahead. There was a desperate im-
pulse to burst open the door and run, but he fore-
saw too many complications as the result of such
an effort. To sustain himself in the estimation
of Louise and her father, it would be necessary
to “face this dreadful matter with apparent
equanimity.

When the coupé halted at Jefferson Market he
observed that it was a quarter to eleven. Less
than an hour had passed since he made his su-
preme effort to raise funds for the settlement of
his debts, and thus bid for the fortune that awaited
his marriage with Louise Smith.

But the day was still young!

Wittgenstein was just within the entrance to
the courtroom. The count spoke to him affably.

“Don’t talk to me!’’ interrupted the restau-
ranter. ‘Tell it to the magistrate.”

The officer led him at once to the platform in
front of the magistrate’s bench. At his left was
a long line of prisoners, most of them ill con-

sharply.

that I did

 

ditioned. Perhaps they grumbled that his case
was pushed in ahead of theirs.

Immediately around him were a number of men,

some court officers, apparently, others, from
their note books, reporters. One of them seemed
to recognize him, for he edged eagerly to a place
directly behind the count.

“Can’t you arrange for a private examination?”
whispered Rubel, to the officer beside him. ‘‘For
God’s sake, have that much mercy on me.” —

“I can’t do anything about it,’’ replied the of-
ficer, and then the count was startled by the
celerity with which the matter was proceeding.

He became aware that a man almost within
his touch was addressing the magistrate.

“This man is a swindler, your honor,” said
he. “‘My client believes that he will be per-
forming a public service by bringing him to pun-
ishment. The amount involved in this instance
is inconsiderable, but we have knowledge of
many others, and in some cases the amounts are
large. We had difficulty in locating the prisoner,
and therefore are unprepared at this moment to
go on. We would like a brief adjournment to
enable us to bring our witnesses.”

The magistrate looked at the count. ;

“T am the victim of a very unfortunate mis-
take,’”’ said Rubel... “I admit that I oWe Mr.
Wittgenstein some money which I am only too
anxious to pay . :

“This is not a civil action,” interposed the
magistrate.

“He tried to bribe me on the way to court,”
refffarked the arresting officer, with that freedom
fr maintains in the police courts of New York

ty.
“Do you demand an examination,’’ asked the
magistrate.

“Yes,” answered Rubel, ‘I can easily clear———”

“Remanded till three o’clock. Have your wit-
nesses here at that hour. Next case.’’

They led Rubel to the prison, where they “took
his pedigree,’’ as the police reporters say. He an-
swered all questions without hesitation, describ-
ing himself as a man of leisure, a nobleman,
Hungarian by birth, thirty years old, and so on.
i wa it came to the searching process he pro-

ested.

“Surely,” he pleaded, “you can spare me this
indignity.”

“We can’t break the rude for anybody,” said
the warden.

The count thereupon took various articles from
his pockets with his own hands, and placed them
upon the bench.

Not satisfied with his surrender, the officers
insisted on making their own search. They found
only one other article, a revolver, loaded in
every chamber.

“Don’t take that!” stammered the count, his
iron nerve snapping suddenly. “I am never with-
out my revolver. It has been my comrade in all
my difficulties. For the love of Heaven, gentle-
men, let me keep it! please, gentlemen !”’

He said more than this, all to the same purpose,
with trembling lips and with tears in his eyes.
It seemed that the last straw had been laid upon
him, but the prison officers could not know that.
They merely saw the not altogether uncommon
spectacle of a man in a frenzy, and they were
so impressed by it that they made a much more
exhaustive search than otherwise would have
been the case.

They thrust their fingers into every pocket, felt
eyery square inch of his coat and vest linings,
pinched the entire circuit of his waistband, rubbed
up and down his trousers, even took off his shoes
and examined the soles.

Nothing else was found, and at length, his
whole frame pulsating with sobs, the count was
led to a cell and locked in.

CHAPTER XVIII.
SOMEBODY TO SEE MR, FORSYTHE. a

On the evening of the day previous to Count.
Rubel’s misadventure, a transatlantic steamship
arrived at the port of New York, and landed her
saloon passengers.

The lists given to the ship news reporters did
not contain the names of Mrs. Hugh Westover and
Miss Westover, but those ladies, nevertheless, dis-
embarked. ;

Mr. Westover haggard and worn with the pres-
sure of events in the Street, met them at the
dock, and went home with them.

On the following afternoon Mrs. Westover and
Clara sat in their carriage, and faithful John
drove them to Carnegie Hall.

They went up in the elevator together, and ap-
proached a door before which Clara paused with
an expression of dismay.

“RH, J. Anderson!” she whispered, looking
at the nameplate. “Why! this was his studio.
Of course I can’t be mist®ken.” | Seadte es ©

“T suppose he’s moyed,” suggested her mother,
composedly. : £ sed

“But why should he? I don’t understand 2

‘“‘We will ask this Mr, Anderson.”

They did so. Now, Mr. Anderson really had
nothing serious to complain of in the way of
professional success, but he had become just a lit-
tle weary of fruitless inquiries at his door for
Mr. Cecil Forsythe—fruitless, be it understood, so
far as he himself was concerned. None of the
callers returned to take lessons of Mr. Forsythe’s
successor. ee 7

So it was with some effort that he interrupted
a lesson to give polite answers to the inquiries of
these ladies.

“I really know nothing about Mr. Forsythe,”
he said. “I took his studio off his hands when
he abandoned the profession, and I have hardly
set eyes on him since. Where he went and what
he is doing I do not know. I am very busy in
my own way- se E

The ladies apologized, and withdrew. Clara
was startled and tearful.

“Something dreadful has happened
tremulously.

“Oh, no, I think not,’ responded her mother,
with confident tone. ‘‘We will call at his lodg-
ings.”

Faithful John took them to Forsythe’s former
residence. The work of demolition was well un-
der way. The roof over the sidewalk was com-
pleted, and the hallway was a litter of red brick
fragments and white plaster.

The ladies were nonplused, and the search
might have been abandoned then and there if it
had not been that the agent, who was inspecting
the work, saw them, apprehended their difficulty,
and inquired politely if he could be of service.

“We are looking for Mr. Cecil Forsythe,” said
Mrs. Westover. ‘‘He had rooms here, I believe.”

“Yes, I remember the name,” replied the agent.
“He gave up his lease and moved away some
time ago, I never knew exactly when.’

“Can you tell us where he went?”

“TI can’t, madam.”’ é

Mother and daughter looked at each other.

“We'd better go home, dear,’’ said Mrs. West-
over. ‘I felt quite averse to this errand, you
know. It was only for your sake that I con-
sented.”’

“For my sake, mamma,” the girl pleaded, “try
again. Perhaps this gentleman,’”’ and she turned
directly to the agent, “can suggest some way of
finding Mf. Forsythe’s present address.”’

“Well, I dunno,’’ said the agent, doubtfully.
“Tt’s the easiest thing in the world to get swal-
lowed up and lost in New York. If the hall man
was here he might know. Mr. Forsythe likely left
@ memorandum with him.”

“Can you * us where to find the hall man?”

“Let me ._.. He got a job, I think—-where
was it, now? Can you wait a few minutes?”

“Oh, yes, an hour, two hours!” exclaimed Clara,
eagerly.

“Clara!” said her mother, in a tone of mild
reproof.

“Tt is our duty, mamma,” she answered, firmly.

“Because,” added the agent, “there’s a man
not far from here who knows the hall man, and
he may know where he went. IH ask him, if
you'll wait.’’ e

They waited, Clara in growing apprehension,
and half an hour passed before the agent re-
appeared.

“JT found him,’ he said.

“We are ever so much obliged,” responded
Clara. “What is Mr. Forsythe’s address?”

“T mean the hall man, ma’am. He’s janitor of
an apartment house in West One Hundred and
Fourth Street. Here’s the number. You’d better
ask him. He’s most likely to know where Mr.
Forsythe went.’’

Away up to One Hundred and Fourth Street
they went, then, to find the hall man.

“We shall probably learn that he broke his
arm yesterday, and has been taken to the “hos-
pital,’ said Mrs. Westover, discontentedly.

It was not so bad as that. They found the hall
man in perfect health, and with a good memory.
Mr. Forsythe had gone to live at his club. He
named it.

“Why!” said Clara,
knew that Cecil was going to join it.
have thought of that before.”’

“Do you think we'd better call
asked her mother,
write to him there.’’

“And waste another day? No, mamma, we
must find him at the earliest possible moment.”

They did not find him at the club, but they did
get information there that took them to Nelson’s
office, where they arrived a few minutes after
the close of the Exchange; that is, about five min-
utes past three.

It had been a great day for many men in Wall
Street; it had been a great day for Forsythe.
He did a most uncommon thing, two, in fact, but
to take them in their order, he was attacked by
an extraordinary and violent case of caution.

The famous corner in Northern Pacific sub-
jected that stock to wonderful fluctuations, and
everything else on the list was affected by it.
The market was in extreme commotion, and values
changed.every minute. , :

?

she said,

“that’s papa’s club. I
We might

at a club?”
somewhat aghast. “Let us

 

 

Pecan Mttee ae ntees

Forsythe had the wit, or luck, to perceive that
the N. P. corner would be likely to depress the
values of certain stocks temporarily at least,
os accordingly he went into the market as a
seller. ; pe: ;

The a was not much more than half over
when he found that he had made a profit larger
than he had made on any two days together since
he became a speculator.

Thereupon he gave a ‘‘close” order for every
transaction, and drew out of the whirl.

It took more time than usual on that day to
get a report of the execution of orders, and he
remained in Nelson’s main room until his mem-
oranda had been handed to him. They were em-
inently satisfactory, but yet he lingered.

The progress of events was fascinating, now
that he understood them, and he had an odd sense
of dissatisfaction from the fact that he was no
longer interested in them.

More than once he started to give a new or-
der, either to buy or sell, and every time that
suddenly acquired caution held him back.

At last, when the end of the day’s tumult was
in sight, he remembered that he had not been
to lunch.

“It would be nothing less than insanity to jump
into the market now,” he decided, and went out.

Men were hurrying up and down the street,
and every tongue was wagging of the corner. He
overheard several scraps of conversation.

“Tt will be the worst crash in twenty years
when it breaks.”

“T hear that the Morgan interests control the

situation.” ‘

“Kuehn, Loeb & Co. say that they have bought
more than a majority of the shares.”

“Like enough, but can the shares be deliv-
e oP?

“Perhaps not.
sold.”

These and similar observations fell upon For-
sythe’s ear as he sauntered toward his favorite
eating house. He had not forgotten his five hun-

She market is certainly over-

dred shares of Northern Pacific in the safety de-

posit vault. :

On the contrary, he had been at the point more
than once during the day of hauling them forth
to reap a huge profit upon his investment; but,
aside from the caution that had attacked him,
there was the resolution with which he had ac-
quired that property. That was investment, not
speculation; it was his permanent property, and
if at any day his ventures should come to grief,
there was something to fall back upon.

Perhaps this was not businesslike, but nobody
has said that Forsythe was a good business man.
He was undeniably a very fortunate one.

“Old Westover’s short of N. P., and near
erazy: _?

This was another scrap that floated to him
from the passing throng.

Forsythe halted abruptly. According to = his
habit, he gave the situation his most careful
thought. It took him just a second and a half by
the watch to decide upon his course of action.

He did not go to lunch. Instead he went to
the safety deposit vault, and gathered up his
Northern Pacific certificates. 4

Armed with these he called at the office of Mr.
Hugh Westover.

He saw the banker talking with a man at the
door of his private room.

Mr. Westover was perspiring, he looked dis-
tressed, and the lines were drawn about his mouth
with sharpness that suggested the operation of iron
will aroused either to determination to win over
all obstacles, or to endure a killing blow with
fortitude.

The man with whom he was talking hurried
away, and Westover started to enter the private
room. Forsythe accosted him. ’

“Eh?” said the banker, recognizing him, ‘‘no,
not now. Another time. I cannot give you any
attention at this moment.” ;

“This is a matter of business, Mr. Westover,”
Forsythe replied. ‘‘You will be interested in it.”

The banker eyed him sharply.

“What is it?’ he demanded.

“T have some N. P. certificates———”

“Come in!”

They entered, and the banker waved Forsythe to

a chair.

“Now then, be brief.
certificates, did you say?
them for you?’

“No. It is my impression that you want to
buy them.” ;

“Bh? What put that into your head?”

“Gossip of the Street.’

“Where did you get the certificates?”

“I bought them some weeks ago in the ordinary
course of business.”’ fa
: “What's that? Are you a trader?’

You have some N. P.
You want us to sell

| Why didn’t you say so before?” almost shouted
the banker. Res

“Do you want to buy these shares?” asked
Forsythe. E :

“Want to? Yes, I’ve got to.
small the parcel is. I’d buy one.
have you?”

“Five hundred.”

“Ha!” and -the banker peered.at Forsythe over
his glasses, ‘‘What’s your price?’

“The market, sir.’’

“We'll see what that is.’

Mr. Westover arose, and went to the ticker in
a corner of the room. Forsythe stood beside him.

They had but a few seconds to wait before a
Northern Pacific quotation came into view. It

ad ; ;

“200 (“N. -P. 1,000."

“Great Scott!” gasped the banker, and his jaw
dropped as he turned to Forsythe. ‘

“That’s my price,’’said Forsythe, unemotionally.

Moisture fairly ran from Westover’s brow.

“T can go into the market, and undoubtedly
buy at a hundred points under,” he said.

“Very well, sir; I hope you can get the stock
delivered at that or any other price,’ Forsythe
remarked, and turned to go.

“Hold on, young man,” cried the banker, husk-
ily; “‘you can’t leave my office with those shares.
I’ve got to have them.”

“At one thousand, sir.”

“But that’s a half million for your parcel.”

“I am aware of that, Mr. Westover.” ;

Ah! that moment of triumph! it was worth,
not the loss of his sweetheart—nothing measured
by millions could compensate for that—but it
was well worth the dull weeks of speculation and
waiting for an opportunity.

Here was the man of affairs who had insulted
him, disparaged his manhood, outraged every
fine feeling in him; here he was in his grasp
at last!

There was a wild light in the banker’s eyes.
He seemed to hesitate as if it might be a question
- cessing which way he would take, both leading

ruin.

Forsythe exulted. ;

“Have you seen my wife?’’ Westover demanded,
suddenly. :

“Your wife, sir!’’ echoed Forsythe, taken com-
pletely aback. ‘‘No, not for months.’

‘i suppose you want your price now, don’t
you?”

Forsythe was bewildered at the apparently in-
consequential meandering of the banker’s thoughts.
Had the erisis really affected his reason, as the
passing gossip had intimated?

Then Forsythe was overwhelmed with an awful
thought. Suppose that were the case, suppose
that Mr. Westover were upon the verge of ruin,
and that this transaction should be the last blow
to send him toppling over; would it not be tragic
for Clara? Could he have it on his conscience
that he had deprived her of fortune, of comforts,
perhaps? 2

Would it not be better to forego his revenge,
and spare the banker, for Clara’s sake?

“Come! what are you thinking about? If you
are a trader in stocks, you need not stand and
dream like a ninny.” eae
That deeided Forsythe, for that proved that
Mr. Westover was quite himself. Why he should
have broken from a business transaction to make
a senseless inquiry about Mrs. Westover, was a
mystery, certainly; but the sarcasm in the tone,

I don’t care how
How many

| and the manner of speech generally indicated that

the banker was in his right mind.

If Clara should suffer, Forsythe could relieve
her. The old man might go ten times to smash
for all he cared. ;

“I am content to call for settlement at the usual
hour,” said Forsythe, with all the frigidity of
which he was capable.

. “That’s at hand,’ replied Westover, “and you
needn’t wait. Deliver the goods now, and I’ll pay
for them.”’

Forsythe placed his parcel on the table. The
banker examined the certificates, saw that they
amounted to five hundred, and proceeded to draw
a check Forsythe’s order for half a million.

“Tha better than you could have got if you’d
gone into the open market,” he grumbled, as he
pushed the check across the table.

‘Maybe, sir,” Forsythe replied. ‘Good-after-
noon.”

The banker wheeled about in his chair, and his
lips parted as if he were impelled to speak. There
was an extraordinary glitter in his eyes. Then
his jaws came together with a snap, and he merely
nodded in response t® the salutation.

Forsythe went out mightily satisfied. He -was
not elated, that emotion having become impossible
for him, but he had triumphed, and no man can
be so depressed that he will not enjoy triumph to
an appreciable measure. —

He had come to the end of speculation. .What-
ever happened now, he would withdraw from the
Street, and not tempt fortune further. It lacked
still some minutes of three o’clock, and he took
the opportunity to hurry to his bank in time
to deposit Westover’s check. Then he attended
to his neglected luncheon. ; ;

Nelson was standing outside the door of his
office when Forsythe returned. :

The broker had an evening paper and an en-

SR nee ee

 

—
ee aren —=

looked ill. ier oe
“There’s somebody to see you in the private
office,’’ he said.
senger about the same time.” — ;
e handed Forsythe the envelope. :
“Old man,’ exclaimed Forsythe, “you’re
looking well. I hope the market hasn’t broken
you. What is it?”

“No, I guess not, I hope not,” answered Nelson. —

“I’m pretty hard hit, but that isn’t it.” ;
He half raised the newspaper, then put it down
suddenly.
“Go in and added,

F see your friends,” he
hoarsely. -

“T’ll tell you afterward.
TO BE CONTINUED.

+
HARD TIMES.

FROM THE GERMAN, BY M. M.

Paul Korner was a landscape painter; he was,

also, a daily visitor at the Einhorn, the respect- —

able little inn of Gruningen. Here he drank his
bottle of Ingelheimer every evening except Satur-
day; on that night, after the heat and burden of
the week, he felt justified in substituting cham-
pagne for Ingelheimer.

This. had been his
time of his settling in the village, two ‘
fore. He had never once deviated from this rule,
for, unlike many of his brotherhood, he led
well-regulated life. .

One Saturday night, finding himself at the inn

years

rather earlier than usual, he sought to pass away |

the time till his companions should arrive at the
reading table. : ,

The Eastern question was agitating the public
mind F eg then, and people were speculating much
over it.

Paul began listlessly turning the leaves of a
bound volume of illustrated papers, looking indif-
ferently at the wood cuts.

Between the a
newspaper. His eyes fell on a letter from a
Vienna correspondent, who, in a diplomatic and ~
oracular fashion, discoursed upon the ‘“‘situation,”
winding up with the remarkable declaration: —

“We are Standing on a volcano, and no one
knows what a day may bring forth!” i ;

Paul, who had never been especially interested
in politics, closed the volume with a startling clap.

The words, “We are standing on a volcano,”
seemed to affect his mind very materially.

“The deuce!’ he muttered, to himself. ‘War is
imminent, and ‘war is the declared enemy of all
the muses!
which, according to this correspondent, is close
upon us? Horrors! Who will buy pictures’ when |
bombshells are bursting? Alas, alas! I must be-
gin at once to adapt myself to circumstances, and
to live sparingly and economically.” :

Now see what followed.

That evening he ordered, instead of his cus-
tomary champagne, a modest quantum of Ingel-—
heimer, with the words:

“In these hard times we cannot indulge in
luxuries.” : =

This remark made a profound impression on ~~

Herr Grundhuber, the landlord, and the next

morning, when-his wife asked for the money to ~

pay for the Sunday loaf of cake, he waved her
back, saying: ‘

“In these hard times there’s no money to waste
on cakes!” hat

The baker’s boy, who, according to Gruningen
custom, delivered his sweet wares at their patrons’
houses, stared blankly, and did not fail to repeat
to his master, word for word, Herr Grundhuber’s
remark concerning the hard times. ; t

The baker, who thought himself quite a politi-
cian, looked up and down and around in terrible

perplexity.

H’m! Herr Grunhuber, the well-to-do host of
the Einhorn, denies himself his usual Sunday
treat! There must’ be something in it! Things
must be bad! His self-denial is proof positive
that the times are hard indeed!”

An hour later when he éntered his wife’s room,
the baker found her examining with evident de-
light a quantity of dress material spread out be-
fore her. ~ ;

“Which piece had I better select for Mathilde?”
she asked, smiling.

““Alack!’’ the baker exclaimed, “we have had
many expenses lately, and now in these hard
times-we must buy only what is absolutely neces-
sary. What do you think? Grundhuber has taken
no cake for to-day, and under such circumstances —
our children must take what they can get,
wait for fine clothes till the times mend!” ~—

His wife’s wits quite deserted her.

“Heaven preserve us!’”’ she cried.
become of us? There’ll be war! there’ll be war!
I always said there’d be war, and who knows how
soon we shall all be Turks?
Lottie, carry all this stuff back as quick as you
can, and tell Herr Kleemuller that we can’t afford —
to buy with a war hanging over us, and while
the times are so hard.” ’ ns AES oha :

The servant hurried away on her errand.

Herr Kleemuller, one of the moneyed men
among the merchants of the town, listened to her
message in dismay.

“This is a fine prospect,’’ said he to himself.
“Tf the baker thinks even now of economy the
situation must indeed be bad. Well, we must be
ready for anything; the crisis may be close at
hand. First and foremost, we must indulge in no
needless expenditure.” : ee

Thereupon, hastening to his desk, he wrote and
dispatched the following letter:

“Fiprr PAuL KoRN»R.—Dear Sir: I am obliged
to give you a different answer from what I had
intended, in regard to your ‘Landscape by Moon-
light,’ which I had hoped to buy as soon as it
should be finished. To my great regret, owing to
the present depression of business, it is necessary
for me to deny myself the gratification of. possess-
ing this masterpiece. Let me express the wish
and the hope that the times will soon be better,
when I shall feel justified in purchasing one of
your truly admirable works of art. I remain, dear
sir, very truly yours, ALoIs KLEEMULLER.”

-This letter was like a thunderclap to our art-
ist. He had counted upon Herr Klieemuller as a
sure patron;
the sale of his ‘‘Landscape by Moonlight,’ which
was now nearly completed, but, alas, that dream
had fled! crs

At the Einhorn in the evening, he ordered only
half a bottle of Ingelheimer, and the groan ac-
companying his order created a deep impression,
not only on the landlord, but on the other guests.

The score that night was scarcely half as large
as usual.

“The times are degenerating,” moaned Herr
Grundhuber, as he examined his cash box next
morning. 2

A new reduction of his family expenses was the
result of this knowledge.

Before a week had gone by, the village of Grun-
ingen, but now so prosperous, had assumed an air-
of misery, such as might be accounted for only
by the horrors of a civil war. ;

The cry, “hard times,’ rang out from mansion
and hovel. Business was about at a standstill,
credit at an

A fortnight later, Paul sat again in the Hin-
horn, which he now visited only twice a week.

Again he drew toward him the illustrated vol-
ume which had been the means of disclosing to
him so clearly the “‘situation.””’ The paper with
the Vienna correspondence lay there still. He cast

a forlorn glance on the fatal sheet -before him. |

Then he raised it suddenly, and what dismay filled
his soul as he read for the first time the date of
this correspondence—it was four years old!

“This is foolisher than foolish!’ he _ cried.
“Have I allowed myself to be nearly frightened
to death by this nonsense of four years ago?”

Rising and seizing the latest newspaper just
brought in, he read in the telegraphic dispatches
that the conflict so long feared had at last broken
out. -

His hands fell at his side.

“We are then in truth ruined, annihilated!” he
groaned. “All hope is gone. It matters little —
what use I make of the two thalers in my pocket,
all I have left. Heaven grant thé rest of my
misery may depart with my money!” _

Thereupon, in this reckless mood, he ordered
two bottles of champagne. Z

The landlord smiled.

“The painter is a mighty politician,” he said to —
“Before any one else saw

his wife next morning.
the approaching fearful business depression he
foretold it, and now he foresees a change, for he
is drinking champagne again. That is a favor-
able sign; I am sure, Jetty, that the times are
better. This afternoon you may engage the cake
again as before. ~ - .

“Thank Heaven!” said the baker, when Frau
Grundhuber gave her order as of old. “The times
are improving. I tell you what, wife, we'll buy a
fine dress for Mathilde now.” : :

A week later Herr Kleemuller purchased the x

“Landscape by Moonlight.”

Business was ‘‘up’” again. The prevailing “de-
pression’? had taken leave of the village, although
the war that had caused it-was only just declared.

This short period of -unusual terror to the
honest citizens of Gruningen formed a subject for
discussion for many years after. :

“Heaven save us from hard times!” the house-"
ore muttered, as they -crossed themselves de
youtly.

A certain professor, passing through the town at :

that season of misery, was heard to exclaim, as

he took his departure from the hospitable Ein- —

horn:

“There are, forsooth, more simpletons among us

than hard times!”

 

 

1 “Been waiting half an hour or —
so, This note was brought for you by a mes- |

Pa

invariable habit from the .

be

ages lay a fragment of a political |

What will become of me in the event ©

and —
“What will —

Oh, dear! oh, dear! —

prosperity would certainly follow —

velope in his hand. He was ghastly ‘pale and Jas

y

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

Vol. 59—No. 1

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

 

ee

 

“WHO CAN TELL?”
BY HENRY NEHEMIAH DODGE.

It may be God has some far-reaching plan
Of life, some vast and wonderful design
Embracing all creation, more benign
Than aught that ever charmed the heart of man;
Ah, who can tell!

Earle Wayne's Nobility.

By Mrs. GEORGIE SHELDON,

Author of “His Heart’s Queen,” “The Forsaken Bride,”
“Stella Rosevelt,” “Queen Bess,” “Sibyl’s Infiuence,”’
**Brownie’s Triumph,’ elc., etc.

(Bani WAYNE’s NoBILITy,”» was commenced in No.
37, Back numbers oan be obtained of all newsdealers.)

CHAPTER XXXYV.
THE BEGINNING OF THE END,

Editha Dalton and her father went to New-
rt—he to get all the pleasure out of life that
e could by mingling in the sports of the gay

world and spending his daughter’s money, she
to bear with what submission she could the. weary
routine in which she had no heart, and which
was but a mockery to her. =

Earle had, faithful to his word, made over the
long disputed ten thousand dollars to Mr. Dalton,
and this, together with Editha’s handsome in-
come, which she tacitly yielded up to him, enabled
him to live like a prince.

But people wondered to see how the brightness
had faded from the fair girl’s life.

She took no interest in the pleasures and frivol-
ities of the fashionable watering place.

She would not attend their parties and social
gatherings, but wandered alone by the sea, or sat
in the seclusion of her own room, pale, sad, and
silent, thinking ever of the one so dear, who at
her bidding had put the ocean between them.

Her rebellious heart ‘refused te banish him
from the place so long Ss own, or yield up one
tithe of the love which she had lavished upon him.

The very name of brother, applied to him, made
her shudder with repulsion, and the thought of be-
ing his sister made her cry out with despair and
grow sick and faint with horror. ;

Mr. Dalton, to his credit be it said, after Earle
was well out of the way, changed his course and
treated her with great gentleness and kindness.

Perhaps he felt a thrill of remorse as he saw

her day by day growing’ so frail and slight, and
bearing with such sad patience the sorrow which
he had brought upon her.

Perhaps, since we cannot conscientiously attrib-
ute really unselfish motives to him, he only
realized that she was the goose. who brought him
the. golden eggs, and considered it a matter of
policy to conciliate her favor.

Be this as it may, he improved -his advantage
to the fullest extent. %

Money slipped through his fingers like water;
he had never seemed so gay, reckless and intent

upon his pleasure before, and more than one old-
associate remarked that “Mr. Dalton grew fast as}

he grew old.” :

But a Nemesis was on his track.

A relentless fate was pursuing him, crying, “No
quarter until the mighty one is fallen.”

His days of unholy” living and revenge, of
treachery and wrong, were numbered, though he
knew it not, and no spirit of warning whispered
that for every evil deed he had done he must soon
give an account, g

FRO cf * * x » * *

It was a matter of some surprise to Paul Tres-
salia that Earle should return to England alone.

He had fully expected that he would bring
Editha as a bride to Wycliffe; and he had: tried to
school his'own heart to bear it.' He saw at ofice
that there was some deep trouble on his mind; no
one ever had such “heavy, hollow eyes, such a
worn and haggard face, without some adequate
cause. But, as Earle did not. offer any explana-
tion for it, he could not question him. And so
the days went by, while he began to mature his
plans for his own future.

Earle at 6nce entered upon’ his duties as master
of Wycliffe, and was received most heartily by
all the adherents of the former marquis, and soon
gained an influence and footing in the county
which ought to have satisfied the most exacting.

He was féted and flattered, quoted, advised, and
sought after; but never for a moment did he for-
get that sad, white. face that for a few minutes
had lain on his breast for the last time, nor the
last heart-broken farewell and the low-murmured
“God ever bless and keep, you.”

But the time came when he had to fight an-
other mighty battle with himself.

His hopes for the future had all been de-
stroyed by a single blow; but Paul Tressalia still
loved Editha, he knew, and there might be a ray
of hope for him.

The question arose within him, “Ought he not
to tell him of the change in the relations which
existed between Editha and himself, and if there
was the shadow of a possibility of his winning
her love, ought he not to allow him to put it to
the test?”

One day he sought him, with a pale, worn face.

He had conquered a mighty foe—himself.

He remembered that Editha had once told him,
when speaking of her refusal of Mr. Tressalia’s
offer of marriage, that “she had never suffered
more at the thought of giving pain than she did
in refusing him.” .

Some,one has written, “Pity melts the mind to
love,” and perchance, out of her sympathy for
him, something of affection might’ arise, anda
life of quiet happiness be gained for her as well
as for his cousin.

“Paul, I have something of importance to com-
municate to you,” he said, coming to the point
at once.

“Say on, then; are you in trouble? Can I do
anything for you?” Mr. Tressalia asked, with an
anxious glance into the worn face.

“No, there is nothing that you or any one else
ean do for me; it is to give you a chance in the
race after happiness that I come to you,” Earle
answered, with something of bitterness in his

one.

“T do not understand you,” he returned, a flush
rising to his cheek.

“Do you still love Editha Dalton?’ Barle asked,
setting his teeth to keep back a rebellious groan.

“Do you need to ask me that question?” Paul
Tressalia returned, reproachfully, his face sud-
denly paling now. “I must always love her.”

“Then go and win her if you can; the way is
open; there is nothing to hinder you,’ Earle
said, wiping the cold sweat from his face.

His cousin looked at him in blank astonishment,
wondering if he was losing his mind that he
should make such a statement as that, or if it
was some lovers’ quarrel that had driven BHarle
home in such despair.

Earle, without waiting for a reply, proceeded to
relate to him the story of Editha’s relationship to
himself.

“It is killing me,” he said, when he had fin-
ished. ‘I rebel every day against the cruel fate
that has separated us, for I love her only as a
man can love the woman who should be his wife,
and shall love her thus until I die. You love
her, also; and perhaps, if you can win her, you
both may yet know much of domestic peace. If
I cannot conquer my sinful heart I may die,
and you will. then regain what you have lost,
ee Editha will, after all, be mistress of Wy-
cliffe.’’

“Barle, do not speak thus,” Mr. Tressalia said,
with deep emotion, for the wild bitterness and
misery of his cousin grieved him. “I was glad
to relinquish Wycliffe to you when I knew that
it rightly belonged to you. I do not covet it, and
I would not have matters in this respect.ether
than as they are. I hope, too, that you may live
to see a lusty heir growing up to take it after
you. But this is a strange story you have told
me—Editha your half-sister! Mr. Dalton your
father !”’

“Yes, it is even so, though I would gladly give
every acre of my inheritance to have it proved
otherwise.”

“You must resemble your mother’s family alone,
then, and she her mother, for there is not a single
point of resemblance between you to testify to
any such relationship.”

“JT do not know as to that. I only know that
the facts exist to prove it,’”’ Earle said, dejectedly.

“Poor child! she loved you so devotedly, she
was so proud of you, and she must have suffered
also. I would that I could give you both back
your lost happiness. Is it not strange that only
out of the ruin of either your hopes or mine hap-
piness can come to either of us?” Mr. Tressalia
said,_regretfully.

“It is ruined whether you win or not, and yet
I go on sinning day after day, loving her as madly
as ever,’’ Barle cried, clinching his hands in his
pain. ‘Go, go,” he added, wildly, ‘‘and win her
quickly if you can, and perchance, when she is
once your wife, I may be able to gain something
of peace, or the semblance of it.”

Paul Tressalia needed no second bidding,
though it must be confessed he was not elated by
any very strong hope of success.

His heart told him that if Editha loved with
the same intensity as Harle, it would be as en-

——————

 

during as eternity, and he could never hope to
win her as his wife.

Still he could not rest content until he had
once more put his fate to the test, and, with a
tender though sad parting from his noble-hearted
kinsman, he once more crossed the broad Atlantic.

He reached Newport in the height of its gayety,
and was enthusiastically welcomed by his old ac-
quaintances. ;

To his surprise, Mr. Dalton received him with
great coolness, surmising at once the errand upon
which he had come. -

He had discovered, if others had not, that
Paul Tressalia was no longer “heir to great ex-
pectations,’’ and he was not at all anxious now
either that Editha should marry.

She was ill, failing daily and hourly, as every
one could see, and many predicted a rapid de-
cline and an early death unless some change for
the better occurred soon.

Mr. Dalton shook his head sadly and sighed
heavily, as a fond and anxious parent should do,
whenever interviewed upon the subject, but. se-
cretly he was calculating his chances of falling
heir to her snug fortune.

“She is my daughter,’ he would say to him;
self, rubbing his hands together in that peculiar
way he had. “If she dies unmarried and without
a will—and I don’t think she has thought of such
a thing as that—of course, being her nearest
blood relation, I shall inherit;” and he always
ended these confidential cogitations with a chuckle,
accompanied by a look of infinite cunning.

So it will be readily seen that Mr. Dalton had
no idea of encouraging Mr. Tressalia as a suitor,
especially as he could no longer offer her any
peculiar advantages.

But that young man was shocked at the change
in the fair girl. The laughing eyes were sad and
lusterless now; the rounded cheeks had fallen
away, leaving great hoHows where before had been
a delicate sea-shell bloom; the scarlet lips, which
had ever been wreathed in sunniest smiles, wore
& mournful droop, and were sad, blue, and
drawn with pain.

She greeted him, however, with more than her
accustomed cordiality, and listened eagerly while
he-told her all about Earle and the magnificent
inheritance that had fallen to him. Any one who
could tell her aught concerning her dear one was
doubly welcome. a;

She was never weary of hearing about Wycliffe,
and all the noble ancestors of the noble house
of Vance. She took a strange, sad pleasure in the
mournful history of the unfortunate Marion, and
Paul Tressalia, seeing it, gratified her-as far as
he was able, though he could but realize that he
was making no progress in her affections.

“TI am afraid Newport does not agree with you,
Miss Dalton,’’ he remarked one day, as he came
upon her sitting listless and dejected under a tree
hear the seashore, her eyes fixed dreamily upon
the restless waves, a look of pain contracting her
fair forehead.

“I do not enjoy Newport,’ she said, with a
sigh; ‘‘at least, the gay hurry and bustle that we
are constantly in.”

“Then why not go to some more quiet place?
Why not go to some farm among the mountains,
where the air is drier and purer? I do not like
to see you looking so ill,’’ he returned, with vis-
ible anxiety.

“Papa is not content unless he can be where
there is considerable excitement,”’ she answered,
wearily ; ‘‘and I don’t know as it matters much,”
she added, with a far-away look.

“Tt does matter,’ Paul Tressalia burst forth,
indignantly; “if this air is too heavy: and brac-
ing for you, you should not be allowed to remain
here another day. Do you not see that your
health. is failing? You are weaker and thinner
even than when I came, a week ago.”

She smiled faintly, and, lifting her thin hand,
held it up between her:eyes and the sun.

It shone almost transparent, while every bone,
vein, and»cord could be distinctly traced.

_ With a little sigh she let it drop again into her
lap, and, turning to her companion, said, with a
grave, thoughtful look on her face:

“T wonder what the spiritual body will be like?’

“Miss Dalton—Bditha, what made you think of
that?” he asked, startled by her words, yet know-
ing very well what had made her think of it—
that little hand: had more*of a spiritual than a
material look about it. ‘

“One cannot help thinking of it when the phys-
ical body is so frail and so easily destroyed.. When
one is putting off the mortal, one naturally is
eurious to know what'the immortal is like;” and
she spoke as calmly as if she were nierely talking
of changing a dress.

“Editha, you are not—you do not think you are
so ill as that?’ he cried, almost awe-stricken.

“Yes, I hope so;; what have I.to live for now?”
she asked, turning her sad eyes upen him, and his
heart sank in despair within him, “You know
all my trouble,” she added, a moment after; “‘you
know how all my hopes were crushed. I am, as
I might say, entirely alone in the world; I have
hardly a friend on whom to depend, no one to
comfort and cheer me, and I have no right even
to the name I.bear,. Do you think that life holds
out very much that-is pleasant to me? am
young to die, and I eannot say that I do not
dread the thought of being laid away and for-
gotten, and yet I know it would cure my pain—
there is no pain beyond, you knqw. If I had any-
thing to do, if I might be of any comfort or use
to any one, if I had even one friend who needed
me, I should feel differently.”

The sadness and hopelessness of her tone and
oe almost made him weep in spite of his man-

ood.

He threw himself down upon the grass beside
her, with a low cry.

“Bditha, there is; I need you; my heart has
never ceased to cry out for you; my life is miser-
able and aimless without you. Come to me and
comfort me, and let me try to win back the light
to your eyes, the color to your cheeks and lips,
and nurse you back to health. I do not ask, I
do not expect, that you can learn to love me at
once as you have loved, but if you will only let
me take care of you, give me the right to love
you all I wish, I do believe there may be some-
thing of peace for you yet even in this world.
But I cannot see you die while you are so young
and bright. Be my wife, Editha, and let me take
you away from this noise and tumult where you
can regain your health, and the world will not
seem so dark to you then.” ;

The young girl was seized with a violent
trembling while he was speaking; she shook’ and
shivered with nervousness and excitement, as if
some icy blast from a snow-clad mountain had
swept down upon her, chilling her through.

A bright, hectic flush tinged either cheek, and
her eyes, no longer listless, glowed with a bril-
liancy that was almost dazzling. Never while in
perfect health had Paul Tressalia seen her so
strangely beautiful as she was at this moment,
and yet it was with a beauty that made his heart
tremble with a terrible fear. With almost the
impulse of a child, she reached out both her
hands to him as he ceased speaking.

But he knew instinctively that it was not a
gesture of assent, though he clasped them invol-
untarily, and started, to find how hot and fever-
ish they were.

“Mr. Tressalia,’” she said, excitedly, ‘I know
how true and noble you are, and I know, too,
that you love me with a deep, pure love. I know
that you would be very tender and indulgent to
me, and never allow me to know a sorrow that
you could shield me from. But I cannot be your
wife—I cannot be anybody’s wife—and I should
only add sin to sin if I should grant your request,
for I can never for a moment cease to love Earle
in a way that I should not. It is that that is
eating my life away—let me confess it to you, and
perhaps it will help me to bear it better. I
know that I ought to trample upon every tendril
of affection that is reaching out after him, but
I eannot;: my love is stronger tha#?I, and this
constant inward warfare is fast wearing me out.
Oh, if you would simply be my friend, and let
me talk to you freely like this, and never speak
to me of love again, it would be such a comfort
to me.”

She paused a moment for breath,
continued :

“JT can trust you; I have confidence in you as
I have in no other in this land. Mr. Tressalia,
will you be my friend, strong and true, and only
that, for the time that I may need you?”

There was intense yearning in her look and
tone. She did need just such a friend, strong and
protecting, as he would be, if he could have the
strength to endure it.

She could not trust her father; her heart had
recoiled from him ever since that day when so
much of his evil nature had been revealed to her,
and she had no one in whom to confide.

Day and night her busy, excited brain went
over all the horror of that last interview with
Barle, and day and night she constantly fought
the obstinate love in her heart.

It was, as she had said, wearing her life away,
and if she could but have some one in whom she
could confide, it would be a comfort to her.

But cquid he stay in her presence, receive her
confidences, hear her daily talk of Earle and her
blighted hopes, and make no sign of his own sor-
row and bitter disappointment?

“Be her friend, strong and true, and only that!”

The words were like the knell of doom to him;
but she needed him. If she could relieve her
heart of something of its burden, health might
ie and her life be saved. Was not his duty
clear?

“And never anything more?” was his last ap-
peal, as he held her hot, trembling hands and
looked into her glittering eyes.

“And never anything more,’’ she repeated, after
him. ‘It cannot be—will you not -believe it?”
and he knew that so it mast be.

Back, back into his aching, almost bursting
heart he crushed his great love, with every re-
bellious thought, and all the hopes that had be-
gun to bud anew.

and th&

 

He would do anything so that she need not die;
he would ‘‘trample upon every tendril of affec-
tion reaching out after her,’’ as she had said re-
garding her love for Barle, and become only the
true and faithful friend, if by so doing he could
comfort and perchance save her.

Something of the struggle that this resolve
cost him could be traced in the pale but resolute
face, and in his quivering lips.

“Editha,”’ he said, solemnly, as if recording a
vow, and still clasping those small hands, “‘it
shall be as you wish; I will never utter another
word of love to you; I will be your steadfast
friend.”

“Oh, thank you!’’ and, like a weary, grieved
child who has restrained its sobs until it could
reach the safe and tender shelter of its mother’s
arms, she dropped her head upon his shoulder
and burst into nervous weeping.

He did not move, he did not speak one word
to stay her tears, for he knew that they were
like the refreshing rain upon the parched and sun-
baked earth, and she would be lighter of heart and
freer from pain for their flow.

But who shall describe the feelings of his own
tried heart as he knelt there with that golden
head resting so near it, and from which, for her
sake, he had resolved to crush relentlessly every
hope for the future?

CHAPTER XXXVI.
&A NEW CHARACTER.

From that day Paul Tressalia put every thought
of self aside, and devoted himself in delicate, tire-
less efforts to interest- and amuse the frail girl
who had such entire confidence and faith in him.

His own heart would haye prompted him to
go away from all sight and sound of her, but he
had promised that he would be her “steadfast
friend.” There was no particular necessity of his
returning to England at present, and, if he could
do this unhappy girl any good, he resolved to
stay and comfort her until she should need him
no longer.

Little by little he drew her away from her own
sad thoughts—at least during the day; he could
not, of course, know how she spent her »-nights,
whether in refreshing sleep or in sad and morbid
brocding.

He took her on long, delightful drives to places
where, with a dainty little lunch and a tempting
book, they would spend a few quiet hours, and
then return, just weary enough to make a rest in
a comfortable corner of the broad piazza the most
enjoyable thing in the world, while he talked of a
hundred entertaining things in the twilight.

By and by he ventured to invite two or three
entertaining people to go with them, and such
charming little picnics and excursions as they
made! They were quiet but cultivated people,
and deeply interested in the fading girl, and they
exerted themselves in an unobtrusive way to min-
ister to her amusement.

Almost unconsciously Editha was beguiled from
her melancholy; little by little the look of tense
agony faded from her face; her eyes lost their
heavy, despairing look; something of animation
and interest replaced her listless, preocupied man-
ner, and an occasional smile—albeit it was a
mournful one—parted her sweet Hps, which grad-
— began to regain something of their original
color.

Mr. Tressalia was very wise in all his maneu-
vers; everything he did was done without any
apparent effort, everything moved along smoothly
and naturally, and, if any. one joined the party,
it was brought about so quietly as to seem almost
a matter of course.

Her failing appetite he managed as adroitly as
he did her wounded heart; every day some tempt-
ing little bit would find its way to her room—
where, owing to her health, she tock her meals—
just-at dinner time, It was never much at a time,
just enough, and served so attractively as to
make her taste, and tasting was followed by a
desire to eat the whole, and then she involuntarily
found herself wishing he had sent a little more.

In this way she was not surfeited with any-
thing, but a natural eraving for food was gradu-
ally created, until she found herself able to eat
quite a respectable meal. 4

One day they went, as they often did, to Truro
Park. Mr. Tressalia had found a cozy, retired
nook, where they could sit, and talk, and read
without ‘fear of being disturbed, and see without
being seen.

The day was delightful, and had tempted
many people abroad, and the park was filled with
gay visitors.

Editha, reclining on a soft shawl which Mr.
Tressalia had spread over a moss-covered rock,
was the picture of comfort as she listened to her
companion’s rich voice as he read from a new
and interesting book, while her face involuntarily
lighted as she caught the sound of merry laughter
and children’s happy votege"ii the distance.

She found herself wondering if she could be
the same miserable creature that she had been
three weeks before.

A feeling of peace was stealing over her, a
sense of care and protection surrounded her, and
she knew that health and strength were gradually
returning to her.

Her heart was still wounded and sore—it could
not be otherwise; but there was not quite the
intolerable burden crushing her that there had
been before the coming of her kind friend.

Mr. Tressalia closed his book at last, and a look
of satisfaction stole into his eye as he marked her
look of interest, and the faint tinge of color that
for the first time he saw.in her cheek.

He drew from his pocket a silver fruit knife,
and, reaching for a tiny basket that he had
brought with him, but had kept tantalizingly cov-
ered all the time, he exposed to view two of the
largest and most luscious peaches imaginable.

“Now, when you have eaten one of these as
an appetizer,: we will return for our dinner,’’ he
said, with a smile, as he deftly extracted the
stone from the crimson and yellow fruit, and,
placing the two halves on a large grape leaf, laid
it in her lap.

“It is too beautiful to eat,” Editha said, view-
ing it with admiring eyes; but she disposed of it
with evident relish, nevertheless.

The other was prepared in the same way, and
ready for her as the last mouthful disappeared,
but she demurred.

“You have not had your
smiling.

“You are my patient, remember, and I shall
prescribe for you as I judge best; but if you feel
very sensitive about it, I will share with you this
time ;” and, while he ate one half, he watched the
other disappear with intense satisfaction.

Editha could not fail to improve if her appetite
could be coaxed back in this way.

They arose to return to their hotel, and, as they
left their cozy retreat, they saw approaching them
a lady leaning upon the arm of a gentleman.

They were both distinguished looking, and in-
stantly attracted the attention of Editha and her
attendant.

As they drew nearer, Mr. Tressalia started and
uttered a low exclamation; the next instant he
smiled, lifted his hat with a low bow, and, re-
turning his saluation, they passed on.

Mr. Tressalia would have stopped and greeted
them, but he knew how shy Editha was of strang-
ers in her weak state, and he did not deem it
best.

Editha, in her one passing glance, had in-
stantly been attracted by the tall, queenly woman,
who might perhaps have been about forty-two or
three years of age.

Her face was fair, and sweet, and beautiful as
a picture, and was surrounded by soft, waving,
chestnut hair.

Her eyes were large and blue, but rather mourn-
ful in expression, while there was a grieved droop
about the full, handsome mouth.

Her companion was a middle-aged gentleman,
though somewhat older than the lady, and, from
their resemblance to each other, Editha judged
them to be brother and sister.

“There goes a woman with a history, and a sad
one, too,” Mr. Tressalia remarked, when they
were beyond hearing.

Editha sighed, and wondered how many women
there were in the world who had sad histories,
but she only said:

“They are acquaintances of yours, then?”’

“Yes; the lady is called Madam Sylvester,
though I have been told that it is not her real
name, being her maiden name, resumed after some
unpleasantness connected. with an unfortunate
marriage. I met her in Paris two winters ago,
and I think I never saw a more charming woman
of her age in my life.”

“She is certainly very pleasant to look at,
though she shows that she has known sorrow of
some kind,’’ Editha said, thoughtfully.

“Would you like to know her history—at least
as much of it as I am able to tell you? It is
quite interesting.”

“Yes, if you please.”

“Report says that when quite young she fell
in love with her own cousin, and became engaged
to him. This was a secret between them, since
the lover was not in a position to marry. He
went to sea to seek his fortune, as the story goes,
and not long after was reported lost. Miss Syl-
vester, to hide her grief, immediately plunged into
all sorts of gayety and dissipation, and only a few
months after her lover’s death met a young
American, who was instantly attracted by her
great beauty. He soon made her an offer of mar-
riage, and, after a very short courtship, they
were married. A year later the former lover sud-
denly turned up—he was not lost, though had
been nearly drowned, and afterward lay a long
time in a fever. The youn wife, in her joy at
seeing him once more, thoughtlessly betrayed her
love for him, which even then was not dead. The
husband grew furious and unreasonably jealous,
charged her with willfully deceiving him, and a
hot and angry scene followed. The next day the
wife was missing—‘she had fled,’ those who knew
anything of the circumstances said, ‘with her early

share,” she said,

 

lover.’ She returned almost immediately, how-
ever, humbled and repentant; but her husband
denounced her, although she swore that she had
committed no wrong. He returned to America;
she hid herself broken-hearted for a while, but
finally sought. her brother, whom she convinced
of her-chastity, since which time, having no other
friends, they have seemed to live for each other.
She would never consent to be called by her hus-
band’s name after that—though I never heard
what that was—but took her maiden name. She
is a wonderful woman, however; her life has

been devoted té doing good; she is chastity itself,

and is beloved by everybody who knows her, while
her sympathy for the erring is boundless. That
is an outline of her history, or as much as I
know of it; but I believe there are some self-
righteous people who shun her on account of what
they term her ‘early sin,’ but the majority revere
her, while I must confess to a feeling of great
admiration for ‘her.’

“What became of the young lover with whom
it was supposed she fied?’ Editha asked, deeply
interested in the sad tale.

“T do not know—I never: heard. Madam never
speaks of her past, and that is a mystery to the
eurious.”’

_ “I should like to know her,” Editha said, feel-~
ing strangely drawn toward one who, like herself,
had suffered so much.

“Would you? That is easily managed. I will
ascertain where she is stopping, call upon her,
and, as her heart is always touched for the sick,
I know she will gladly come and see you,” Mr.
Tressalia said, eagerly, exceedingly pleased to
have Editha manifest so much interest in his
friend. .

“Phank you. I should like it if she would;
her history is very sad, and her face attracts
me strangely,’”’ she replied.

Three days afterward they. were in the Redwood
Library, examining some of, the valuable manu-
scripts ‘on exhibition there, when Madam Sylves-
ter and her brother entered. :

Mr. Tressalia had tried to ascertain where
they were stopping, but, to his great disappoint-
ment, he had failed te de so.

He now went forward at once to greet them, and
they seemed very much pleased to renew their
acquaintance with him.

After chatting a few .moments, ,he brought
Editha to madam, and introduced her.

She studied t sweet face for a moment, then
her faultlessly gloved hand clased over Editha’s
fingers in a strong yet tender clasp of sympathy
and friendliness.

She had read in the pale, sorrow-lined face a
ss kindred to what she, too, had suffered in tha
past.

“You are-not well, my dear,’’ she said, with a
wistful look into the sad, blue eyes, still keep-
ing her hand closely clasped in hers.

“Miss Dalton has not been well, but we hope
she is on the gain a little now. Have you seen
the new piece of statuary that was brought in
yesterday?’’ Mr. Tressalia asked, to draw her at-
tention from Editha.

She was quite sensitive about having her ill-
ness remarked by. strangers, and the color was
now creeping with painful heat into her cheeks.

Madam took the hint.at once, and turned to
look. at the- new statue, and for a while kept up a
spirited conversation with Mr. Tressalia about the
objects. of general interest in Newport.

But ever and anon her eyes sought the fair face
bending with curious interest over the. manu-
seripts with a look of pity and tenderness that
told she was deeply interested in the frail-locking
stranger. .

“Wha,.is she? Some one in whom you are par-
ticularly interested?” she asked, with the privilege
of an old friend, as shé drew Paul still farther
away, ostensibly to look at. some pictures.

He started, and his noble face was clouded with
pain, as he answered:

“Yes, I am particularly interested in her, but
not in. the way you mean, for her heart belongs
to another.”

“Ah! I thought from appearances that she be-
longed, or would some day belong .to you,” re-
ao madam, with a keen look into his handsome
ace.

“No,”
friend.
row.”’

“T knew.it,’’.madam replied, with a soft glance
at Editha, and a-slight trembling of her lips.
“Has the dear child a mother?”

“No; her mother: died some years ago. . She
has no relatives living excepting her father, and
he is not in sympathy with her.”

“Ah! how I would like to°comfort her. Come
and see me this evening, and tell me more about
her. I am strangely. attracted toward her.”

Paul Tressalia promised, and then they went
back to Editha. Madam monopolized her, while
he entertained her brother, and it was not long
before the fair girl’s heart was completely won
by the beautiful and tender-hearted woman.

Madam Sylvester was remarkable for her tact
and great versatility of talents, not the least of
which was her charming manner in conversation.

She could be grave or gay, witty or learned,
and fascinating in any réle.

Paul Tressalia regarded her in surprise while
she talked with Editha; drawing her from one
subject to another, until she made her forget that
there was such a person in the world as poor,
heart-broken Editha Dalton.

She won the smiles back to her lips, drove the
lines of care and trouble from her brow, and once,
as she related some droll incident that had oc-
curred on the steamer in which she came over,
made her laugh aloud—the old-timed, clear, sweet
laugh that made Paul’s heart thrill with delight.

“Miss Dalton, I am coming to see you. I am
a dear lover of young people,” she said, as they
began to talk of. going.

“Do; I shall be delighted,” Editha said, with a
sudden lightning of her sad eyes.

“TI am a stranger here in Newport, never hav-
ing been in this country before,” madam con-

he said, gravely; “I am simply her
She has: recently met with a great sor-

4{ nervous

| spare you, Editha

 

tinued. “I wish you and Mr. Tressalia would
take pity upon me, and give me the benefit of your
familiarity with the objects of interest here.”

Editha unhesitatingly promised, not even sus-
pecting that this request was made more for her
own sake than for the beautiful stranger’s; and
then they all left the library together.

As they were about entering their carriage, Mr.
Dalton drove by in his sporting sulky.

He bowed to Editha, and then bestowed a pass-
ing glance upon her new acquaintances.

That glance made him start and bestow a more
searching look upon Madam Sylvester; then he
grew a sudden and deep crimson, while a look
of great anxiety settled on his face.

He turned and looked back again after he had
driven by.

“There can be but one face like that
world. I must look into this,”
easily.

““Who was that lady and gentleman with whom
I saw you to-day at the Redwood Library?” hé
asked of Editha that evening.

“A Mrs. Sylvester and her brother,”
plied.

“Mrs. Sylvester!” repeated Mr. Dalton, with a
slight emphasis on the title.

“Mr. Tressalia introduced her as Madam Sylves-
ter. Do you know anything about her?’ she
asked, looking up in surprise.

“Ah! Mr. Tressalia knows her, then? Where
is she from?’’ he returned, thoughtfully, and not
heeding her question.

“From Paris, France; they are French people,
and extremely agreeable.”’

Mr. Dalton’s face lest something of its habitual
glow at this information, and he appeared ill
at ease.

“Um! Strangers, then, here. Does Tressalia
know them intimately?’’ and he shot a searching,
anxious glance at his daughter.

-“Yes; he was telling me-something of madam?s
history a day or two ago.”

“What! have they been here any length of
time?’ interrupted Mr. Dalton, with a frown.

‘Less than a week, I believe.”

“Yes, yes; go on with what you were going
to tell me,’’ he again interrupted, impatiently.

“He said madam had seen a great deal of trou--~-
ble—there was some misunderstanding between
herself and husband, who, by. the way, was an
American, which resulted in their separation af-
ter they had been married only a year. But she ap-
pears like a very lovely woman to me,” Editha. re-
plied, with a dreary look, as she remembered how
she had been drawn toward the beautiful stranger.

Mr. Dalton watched her keenly out of the cor-
ners of his eyes; he was exceedingly moved and
about something; the corners of his
mouth twitched convulsively, while he kept clasp-
ing and unclasping his hands in an excited way.

He paced the floor in silence for a few mo-
ments, then abruptly left the room,

Half an hour after he returned, and, while pre-
tending to look over the newspaper, said:

“Editha, I’ve about concluded that I’d like a look
at Saratoga: it is just the height of the season
now; everything will be lovely, and. Newport is
getting a little tame.”’ =

“Tame, papa! Why, I thought there was no
place like Newport to you!” she exclaimed, in
surprise.

“ft know; Newport is a sort of summer home
to me, and, of course, there is no place like home;
but, if you do not mind; I’d like a change for a
little while.” :

“Cannot you go without me? I am-*very com-
fortable here,” Editha asked, with a sigh.

She had no heart for gayety, and she was
really happier just now there at Newport—not-
withstanding her assertion to Mr. Tressalia that
she did’ not enjoy Newport-—than she had ever
hoped to be again.

“No, indeed,” he returned, quickly and
edly. “I could not think of leaving you-~alene
while you are so delicate; and besides, I cannot
you and { are rather alone

in the
he muttered, un-

she re-

decid-

in this busy world.’

She looked up~.in surprise at him at this un-
usual remark. It was a very rare occurrence for”
him to address her in such an afféctionate manner.

It almost seemed to. her, with the distrust ‘she
had lately had of him, that there was some sinis-
ter motive prompting this sudden change; but she
stifled the feeling, and answered >

“Very well, I will. go to Saratoga if you Hike.
When do you wish to’ start?”

‘““To-morrow, if you can arrange it,;’’ Mr. Dal-
ton replied, the cloud lifting from his‘ face.

“Yes, I-can arrange it;’” but she sighed as she
said it, for she was really beginning to wake up to
a little life; and she’ dreaded any change.

She had been so calmly content since she had
come to a definite understanding with Mr. Tres-
salia, and she wondered, with a feeling of sadness
stealing over her, what she should do without her
tireless friend.

She had grown to depend upon him for amuse-
ment; besides, he heard regularly from Earle, and
though she did not dare acknowledge it even to her
own heart, yet those letters from over the sea
were the great events of the week to her.

She was sorry to go away without becoming
more intimately acquainted with Madam Sylves-
ter, for she had been strangely drawn toward
her, thinking almost constantly of her and her
eHarming ways ever since her introduction to
her. All during the evening she kept hoping that
Mr. Tressalia would drop in, that she might tell
him of the change in their plans, half wishing
that he would join himself to their party and ac-
company them.

But he was spending the evening with Madam
Sylvester, and meant to see Editha as early as
possible the next morning.

But in this he was disappointed, for a gen-
tleman friend sought him to give his advice upon
the merits of a horse that he was contemplating
buying, and before the bargain was completed
Editha was gone, without even a word of
good-by.

TO BE CONTINUED.

 

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ONCE IN A WHILE.
BY NIXON WATERMAN.

Once in a while the sun shines out,

And the arching skies are a perfect blue;
Once in a while, ’mid clouds of doubt

Hope’s brightest stars come peeping through.
Our paths lead down by the meadows fair,

Where the sweetest blossoms nod and smile,
And we lay aside our cross of care,

Once in a while.

Once in a while within our own
We clasp the hand of a steadfast friend;
Once in a while we hear a tone
Ot iove with the heart’s own voice to blend;
Ané the dearest ef all eur dreams come true,
Ame op life’s way is a golden mile,
Mack thirsting flower is kissed with dew,
Onee iz a while.

Once im @ while is the desert sand
We find a spot ef the tairest green;
Once in a while trem where we stand
The hills of paradise are seen;
And a perfect joy in eur hearts we hold
A joy that the world cannot defile;
We trade earth’s dross for the purest gold,
Once in a while.

Oe Ge ne

THE ARTIST’S MODEL.

BY LIEUT. MURRAY.

It is difficult to conceive of a more interesting
or suggestive sight than is afforded by the flower
market of Paris. The women of all ages who
bring these beautiful floral gems to the city ex-
hibit a taste in their arrangement which would
be of value to a professional painter. It is intui-
tion with them, and you see a living poem in
every little department which
special owner,

The principal market lies just across the Pont
Neuf, on the large square bordering the Seine,
and covering in extent some three acres of ground.
There is something very tender and human. in
the element of appreciation which makes such a
business possible and profitable in a great Babel
of a city like Paris. A people who have a love for
these emblems of purity and beauty cannot be
wholly depraved.

Like music, flowers are a universal language,
and both address themselves to the finer sensi-
bilities of the Heart.

But let. us watch the scene which lies near the

Pont Neuf, just back of the Palais de Justice, and
see who they are who form the purchasers and
appreciators of these floral gems. Here is a ve-
hicle fit for a princess, with its liveried servants
and richly caparisoned horses. The lady occupant
descends lightly, and walking hither and thither
among the long alleys between the stands, selects
an elegant bouquet and several pots of blooming
plants, which are duly dispatched in accordance
with her orders.
. Here is a rough-looking butcher. Can he want
flowers? Yes; and he selects his pot of full-blown
pansies with native taste. Here is a sad-faced
woman in widow’s weeds; the wreath of immor-
telles which she pays for tells its own story. To-
night it will decorate a tomb in Pére la Chaise.
This giddy and nervous fellow, full of smiles, takes
away a wedding wreath, packed carefully in a
box. Price is no object to him.

But stay! This party, who is also paying for
white flowers, with a few blue heliotropes inter-
mixed, sighs heavily as he receives the sad em-
blem, to be devoted to the last ceremony over a
beloved child, perhaps, or a wife from whom he
parts forever.

Observe this pale-faced, but handsome grisette.
What a beautiful.figure the girl has! How came
one so humble with such an exquisite form, with
hands and feet so small, and with the quiet dig-
nity of a queen? She carefully counts the few
sous in her purse. She must, perhaps, forego her
dinner, but she resolves, and the sweet little pot
of mignonette is hers. She carries it away as
daintily as though it were an infant which she
held in her arms.

__.‘*Who is that girl?’ I asked, of the woman who
sold her the plant, and of whom I purchased a few
buds by way of introduction.

“That is Marie Blanc.”

“A -poor girl?’ i

is allotted to its

“Well, yes, Marie hasn’t anything but her beau- |

tiful figure, in the way of fortune.” .
“How does she gain a livelihood?” I asked.
“Well, Marie used to be a model to the artists,
but she does not do much of anything now. Some-
times she ‘stands,’ as she used to do, just to get
a few francs.”
“She is very beautiful.”’
tea she is faded now, but she
u oe

ae used to be beau-

“Has she met with misfortune?”

“Misfortune of the heart,’’ was the reply.

“Has some villain deceived her?’

“No, Marie has not been deceived.”

“How then ?’’

“She has. been fascinated.
she has been bewitchéd.”’

“How so?” I asked. .

“It is a long story. -She lives in a little room
over that bird store yonder.’’ :
Thank you,” said I, paying my half franc,

ore for the information than the flowers.

I resolved to leafn poor*Marie’s ‘story, if I
was obliged to purchase half the canaries in the
bird store to accomplish it. I found the man who
kept the shop, and who let her the little garret
over the same, to be a very intelligent and com-
municative person, who was ready to answer ail
my questions freely.

He told me, that Marie was a good girl, entirely
respectable, and now left quite alone in the world
by the loss of her mother within the last six
months. As I had before been informed, she had
gained a_respectable living as a model, a very pe-
culiar occupation, but yet quite possible and con-
sistent with the most rigid ideas of propriety.
This had been especially the case in Marie Blanc’s
instance, while her mother lived, as she was her
inseparable companion. But of late Marie had
grown sad and moody, and only resumed her old
occupation briefly and at times when her purse
became quite exhausted.

She had for nearly a year previous to her
mother’s death, been the special model of a young
married artist in the Rue Rivoli, who had profited
by her exquisite form to inspire both his pencil
and his chisel, for he was both painter and sculp-
tor, and a perfect enthusiast in his art. Pierre
Jenot, though married to a worthy and good com-
panion, was in reality wedded to his art alone;
there his heart and mind centered. Marie, who
had innocently posed for him, had been in his eyes
solely a means, not an objeet. He looked far over
and beyond the beautiful girl herself.

His model knew that Pierre was married. She
knew that the young artist could never be aught
to her more than he then was, but a strange and
thrilling sentiment gradually developed itself in
her bosom toward him, until in her secret heart
she loved the young artist above all else in life.
No sign of this appeared, and word of such senti-

Some of us think

ment would have meant instant banishment, for

her mother was the very soul of honor and pro-
priety.

Finally Pierre Jenot made, with great care and
labor, a wax figure, with Marie for his model,
and his own poetical imagination as promptor.
It was indeed the perfection of art, so exquisite
and true to nature as to astonish his fellow-
artists, and all of those who were permitted to see
the statue.

Is it not strange that the ancient fables of
classicelove should be corroborated by familiar
facts in our own day? Herein we have an in-
stance no less curious than interesting. The
mythological story familiar toé most readers, I
must briefly repeat in order to show its remark-
able counterpart. ;

Pygmalion, a famous sculptor, had made with
wonderful skill a statue of ivory so beautiful as
to enchant all beholders. It was the perfect sem-
blance of a maiden that seemed alive, and only
prevented from moving by a sense of modesty.
The sculptor’s art was so perfect that it con-
eealed itself, and the statue looked like the work
of nature. Pygmalion admired it so much that
at last he fell in love with his own creation!

Oftentimes the artist regarded the statue so long
and so lovingly that his senses became confused,
and he would lay his hands upon it as if to as-
sure himself whether it were living or not, and
could not then believe that it was only ivory. He
even caressed it, and gave it presents, those that
young girls love, such as flowers and beads of
amber. He even put raiment on the beautiful
limbs, and rings on the fingers. To her ears he
hung rings, and strings of pearls upon her neck.

At last Pygmalion prayed to the gods. He did
not dare to say: “Ye gods, who can do all things,
give me, I pray you, my ivory virgin for a wife,”
but he did say: ‘‘One like my ivory virgin.’ This
prayer he offered at the altar, amid the smoke and
perfume of burning incense. When. he reached
home once more, he hastened to see his statue, and
to press a kiss upon the mouth. It seemed to
be warm!

Pygmalion pressed its lips again, he laid his
hand upon the limbs, the ivory felt soft to his
touch, and yielded to his fingers like human flesh.
He stands gazing with ardent delight, again and

*

 

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

again. kissing the statue with a lover’s ardor.
The virgin felt the kisses and blushes, and open-
ing her timid eyes to the light, fixed them beam-
ing with love upon Pygmalion. Venus blessed
the nuptials she nad formed, and from this
union Paphos was born, from whom the ancient
city, sacred to Venus, received its name.

This was the mythological story related thou-
sands of years ago; now let us go on with that of
to-day.

Pierre Jenot had perfected his statue of wax,
and he sat sometimes for hours before it.
reproduced it upon canvas, he wrote verses about
it, he sat and sang songs to it. Surely Pierre was
infatuated.

“Pierre !’’ cried his wife, one day.

“Yes, wife.’

“Come hither.’’

“JT will,” he answered, still lingering.

‘“‘Why do you sit there idling?”

“Oh, it is not idleness,” he replied;
heaven !”

“Bah! you are a fool, Pierre.”

“My statue is inspired!’’ said the enthusiast.

“Tf you don’t stop your nonsense about the
statue,” she replied, “I will destroy it.’

‘Destroy it! . It would be murder.”

“J have promised you,” said the hard, unsym-
pathetic companion, “so beware !”’

“You would break my heart,” said the artist.

After performing the slight service for which
his wife had called him, Pierre Jenot returned to
his studio, where he met Marie Blanc, her coming
and going being so common a thing as to cause no
especial notice. Her quick eye detected the sor-
Tow and anxiety which his wife’s words had
created upon Pierre’s features. She saw him sit
down sadly, yet half entranced, once more before
his statue. She crept close to his side, and held
his hand and kissed it.

She could understand the artist’s enthusiasm.
She knew that it was her own‘beautiful limbs and
body that had furnished the model for the statue
he loved. It was as though she herself was be-
ing worshiped by proxy. ‘‘Am I so beautiful. as
that?’ she asked herself, as she held his hand,
al’ unconscious to him. He.was fascinated by the
statue, she was fascinated with him. And still he
sat there absorbed, and she kneeling by his side.

The statue, the artist, the model, what a group
for a picture! The wondrous beauty of the inani-
mate figure, the rapt and adoring expression of
the handsome artist, the loving gaze of the kneel-
ing model. Had they been posing-they could not
have formed a more striking tableau. The careful
observer would have seen that it was Marie Blanc,
and she alone, who was reproduced in that ex-
quisite work of the young artist.

At this moment the door of the studio opened
cautiously, and there stood the angry wife!

She saw Pierre turn toward Marie and smooth
back the hair from her forehead, quite involun-
tarily, and then resume his entranced gaze upon
the statue. :

Her patience was exhausted, and rushing’ for-
ward, by considerable exertion of strength, she
threw down the statue, which was broken into a
score of pieces in a moment. The patient labor
of a twelyvemonth was destroyed. Her husband’s
idol had perished before his eyes.

Marie saw the rising tempest, and seizing her
chip hat hastened away to her home. Pierre said
not a word, but rushing into another room found
a knife, and hastening toward his wife sought -to
kill her. Her cries brought assistance, and the
weapon was taken from his hands.

But Pierre Jenot was a maniac!

Such was the story I learned concerning Marié
Blane, the artist’s model, and Pierre Jenot, the
latter being confined in an insane asylum near
Versailles, while the former was dragging along
her weary life in a garret of the Rue Rivoli.

I had heard nothing of either, since my return
to America, until 1 saw the following paragraph
in a Boston paper: :

“A modern Pygmalion died recently in an in-
sane asylum in France. He was a maker and
exhibitor of wax-work figures, and made one of a
girl so supremely beautiful that he passed most of
his time in contemplating it. His business being
neglected, bankruptcy overtook him. He still re-
tained his wax figure, but one day his wife de-
stroyed it, which so enraged him that he made
a furious assault upon her, and would have mur-
dered her but for the intervention of neighbors.
The authorities, finding him to be insane, placed
him in an asylum.”

Farewell, Pierre Jenot. But I may yet learn
ji er chapter of the life of the artist’s
model.

Pat i: dee

i 2 0 i

LOST MR. GREYLAND.

BY HERO STRONG.

—

She was a proud woman always, and just now
she was a very angry one.

Her fine figure was drawn up to its full height,
her brown eyes flashed so they looked black, and
a vivid crimson burned on her cheek, whose
brightness no Oriental rouge could ever hope to
rival. Imogene Leigh had always been handsome
—to-night she was magnificent.

Charles Greyland could not help admiring her,
even while her glance of scorn burned into his
soul and crushed out the deep love he thought he
bore her.

He was rich, and she was poor, and in that fact
lay the cause of the trouble. Some kind friend
—everybody has these kind friends, you know—
had insinuated that Imogene was marrying Mr.
Greyland for his money; and Greyland, in a mo-
ment of pique occasioned by Imogene’s dancing
twice with a handsome cousin of her own, had
let fall something of the’ kind in her hearing. Of
course, Greyland was a fool, but not so much of
a one that he was not sorry for his folly the in-
stant the thing was done; but he was too proud
to say so. He did not for a moment believe that
Imogene’s love for him was influenced by his for-
tune; he had only spoken thus because he was
angry, and angry people are generally idiots for
the time being.

Never would he forget the flash of Imogene’s
eyes, or the keen sarcasm of her tone, as she an-
swered him: 7 : :

“You are free, Mr. Greyland. A man with a
soul so small that he deems a few paltry thousands
of more consequence than himself, should seek a
mate from among his own kind. Take back your
ring. It is a diamond, and as such no doubt val-
uable to you.” 7

He ‘set his heel on the bauble, and ground it
into the carpet; then he said a few angry words,
for which he would always be sorry, and left her.

I am making only a few words over what it
was very bitter for both these proud hearts to ex-
perience—what they both said, to themselves, had
wrecked their lives and destroyed their faith in
human kind.

They went their separate ways, and tried their
best to show their faces to the world bright and
gay. You who have lived through an experience
like this—and many of you have been thus un-
fortunate—know how very hard it is to be cheer-
ful enough, without overdoing it.

Imogene succeeded admirably; but Mr. Grey-
land overshot the mark, and people said he was
getting frivolous, and the pastor of his church
“labored” with him, and won the everlasting dis-
like of his wealthiest parishioner by so doing.

About this time Marge Atherton came to the city
where our disunited lovers dwelt, and here was a
field of labor just suited to her. She had been
some years in pursuit of a rich husband, but the
man she desired to honor was slow in making his
appearance, and there was a strong prospect that
Miss Atherton, in spite of her manifold attrac-
tions, would have to die an old maid, or emigrate
to Oregon—a country where it is generally sup-
posed they do not raise women.

Mr. Greyland was the very subject for her. She
set herself to work at once to conquer him. She
flattered him, she deferred to him, she asked his
opinion on every trifling thing, and poor Grey-
land’s heart was so sore that he was glad of any-
thing by way of balsam.

The very duy that he had made up his mind to
propose, Fate stepped in, and did a good stroke of
business for him. A great financial crisis oc-
curred, and swept away every dollar he possessed,
and in twenty-four hours the news was all over
the city; and when, a day or two afterward, Grey-
land, aching for sympathy and love, went to call
on Miss Atherton, she was “not at home,’’ though
he could have sworn he heard her voice at the
top of the stairway.

And that ended their acquaintance.

Miss Atherton married a seventy-five year old
millionaire, who willed all his property to a
home for old women when he died; and Greyland
became misanthropic, and took to keeping dogs
and smoking cigars innumerable.

Things with him were not so bad as at first
seemed. ‘They never are, at least in stories, and
he had, after all, a few thousands left. He went
into business on a small scale, but the confinement
of the counting-room injured his health, and some-
time in the summer his physician sent him to
the White Mountains to recruit.

Meanwhile, Imogene Leigh had become an
heiress. A great aunt of hers, after living fifteen
years beyond the age of man, and tormenting
the lives almost out of everybody who had any-
thing to do with her, had died respectably one
night in her bed, and when her will was opened,
her greedy relatives found that she had _ be-
queathed everything to a great-niece they had
searcely heard of. .

But it was no use to get angry, and so they
“were ajJl very sweet and affectionate when Imogene
came and took possession of Beechlawn. But the
girl found the great house very lonely, and so in
July she joined Mrs. Judge Kendall’s party, and
went to the mountains.

And it so happened that at the Crawford House
the names of Imogene Leigh and Charles Grey-

He

 

ee

font stood one above the other on the
ster.

They met at breakfast.. Imogene in her crim-
son morning robe, with her silky black hair rip-
pling down over- her shoulders, and her white
hands sparkling with diamonds—not his diamonds,
however—looked very fair and queenly as she sat
opposite to him, and sipped her coffee, and carried
on a brilliant fire of repartee with Judge Kendall.
To have seen her and Greyland, nobody would ever
have dreamed that they had once been all the
world to each other.

Two or three days passed away. Somebody in-
troduced Mr. Greyland and Miss Leigh, and they
had exchanged a few well-bred platitudes and
drifted apart. That night Greyland tossed until
morning on his bed—audibly anathematizing the
mattress for his restlessness—and Miss Leigh
nearly succeeded in making herself believe that the
wind in the corridors was keeping her awake.

Next morning Greyland started off alone for
Mount Washington.

Everybody told him to take a guide, and spoke
of the danger of going into those mountain wilds
alone, but he laughed at them. He was not go-
ing to convert himself into a hero by getting lost
—not he! He should dine at the Tip Top House,
and be back in season for stewed partridge at the
Crawford.

Imogene sat on the piazza, doing some trifle in
green Berlin wool,- and heard every word. Of
course it was nothing to her, any way, but after
Mr. Greyland disappeared in the scrubby ever-
greens which cluster around the entrance to the
bridle path, she was conscious of a feeling of some-
thing lost out of the brightnes of the day. But
she would not indulge in it. She.walked down
through the Notch, and looked at the cascade,
and tried to discover, what is undiscoverable, the
likeness of the rocks which bear the name of
Elephant’s Head, to the caput of that unwieldly
animal; then she went back and had a very little
sail on the very little pond at the entrance of the
Notch, and by that time it was noon. :

Clouds began to gather over the summit of
Mount Willard. A party who had ascended early
in the morning came down drenched; and by and
by the equestrians who had gone up Mount Wash-
ington just after Greyland’s departure returned
cold and blue. A hard storm was in progress on
the mountains—the mist and fog were almost
blinding—and Mr. Greyland had mot been seen or
heard from. Grave apprehensions were enter-
tained for his safety among those who best under-
stood the danger of being lost on the mountains,
and the gentlemen stood apart in knots, and -dis-
cussed the matter with serious faces. ;

The night of storm and gloom. wore slowly
away, and the morning broke cold and wet. Imo-
gent sat by the open window, just as she had sat
all night, listening to the wild howl of Rodale.
the beautiful pet hound of the missing man, which
had been left chained in his master’s room:

With the first gleam of dawn, a party of guides
and half a dozen friends of Greyland’s sallied
forth to search for him.

All day they scoured the mountain paths, only
to return at night as they went. No trace of him
had been discovered. on

Another dismal night, and another misty morn-
ing, and again they went forth on their quest—
this time with little hepe of finding him alive;
but, as one of the guides remarked: “It looked
unchristian not to find the body, and give it a
decent burial.’

Imogene heard what the man said, and for a
moment her heart stopped. She knew, now, that
in spite of all the*scorn she had tried to feel for
oe Greyland, she had never ceased to love

im.

And how he was dead!

No! no! she would not admit the thought! He
must be: living! God, who was so good—who
loved all His creatures—would surely permit her
to find him, to ask his pardon for the past, to
tell him that in spite of everything she loved
him still! i

She threw a shawl over her shoulders, and went
to the room he had last occupied. The key was
not there, but her own key fitted the lock. She
went in and released the dog, -which sprang into
her arms with a cry almost human in its sorrow
and despair. :

She hugged the wretched animal to her breast,
for had not he loved and caressed Rudolph!

She said not a word to any one, but, preceded
by the dog, she took the path she had seen Grey-
land take.

Rough and stony, full of mud holes, barred by
brushwood, and obstructed by gullies she found
the way, but she followed the dog.

All the long forenoon she went on, faint, al-
most despairing, and so weary that it seemed
at each successive step as if she must sink down.
Rain, and mist, and fog,’ were all around her—she
could see scarcely a rod in advance, and many a
time she trod the eevee one of a precipice all
unawares. And Rudolph led her on. ;

At last they found him! e

The glad barking of the dog a little ahead sent
joy to Imogene’s heart. She leaped forward, and
sank down helpless by the side of Charles Grey-
land. He was sheltered by a rock, and he was

clerk’s reg-

‘smoking a cigar, and altogether seemed quite,

comfortable for a man who had been
lost on the mountains. :

Imogene would have fallen. back on her pride
even now, but it was too late. Greyland had her
in his arms, and was kissing her cold lips in a
ry that made all attempts at remonstrance use-
ess. Z

“You did love me, after all, darling!’’ he cried;
“and I thank Heaven for being lost; and I don’t
mind the cold, and wet, and hunger a bit. Put
your arms around my neck, dear, and tell me
that you forgive my hateful conduct of a year
ago, and tell me that you love me!”

And she obeyed him meekly enough, while
Rudolph capered around them, and expressed his
satisfaction in a series of joyful howls which
awoke all the mountain echoes for miles around.

The party out in search heard the dog, and
were guided to the spot, and by sundown every-
body was safely basking in the warmth of the
great wood fire in the drawing-room of the
Crawford. es

Two weeks afterward Charles Greyland and
Imogene were married, and a happier home than
theirs I do not think you have ever. seen.
Neither do I think that a more. contented, self-
satisfied looking dog than Rudolph exists.

Or
Items of Interest.

Smoking-cars for ladies are in use on some of
the Russian railroads:

Bloodhounds are to aid the Berlin police in
the tracking of criminals.

The jawbone of a whale of average size meas-
ures about seven feet in length.

The hide of a cow produces about thirty-five
pounds of leather; that of a horse about eighteen
pounds. *

Gray horses live longer than those of any other
color. OCream-colored steeds are usually delicate,
and much affected by warm weather.

With a machine much like the clipper used by
barbers, a sheep can be shorn in three minutes.
It is operated by electricity or steam.

An electric crane, capable of lifting fifty tons at
a time, floats in the harbor of Kiel, Prussia. It
is used for loading and unloading ships.

The coldest inhabited country is said to be the
province of Werchojansk, in Oriental Siberia. The
daily mean temperature of the entire year is 2.74
degrees below zero.

It is unwise to use tea leaves for laying the
dust when sweeping a light-colored carpet, unless
they have been previously rinsed in water; other-
wise the carpet may be badly stained.

Three vaccinations are now compulsory m
France. The first must be made during the first
year of infancy, the second in the eleventh year,
and the third in the twenty-first year.

During a game of baseball at Bainbridge, Ga.,
a ball hot from the bat struck John’ B. Stegale in
the side, causing death in an hour. The victim
was one of the players, aged twelve years.

On the sandy deserts of Arabia it is said that
whirling winds sometimes excavate pits two hun-
dred feet in depth, and extending down to the
harder stratum on which the great bed of sand
rests.

A hotel in Bangor, Me., contracted with an
electric light company to put in seven electric
lights. After they were in working drder, the
hotel employed a handy man to fap the wire sur-
reptitiously on the street side of the meter and add
forty-nine lights more,

The red coral which is used in jewelry, and
which is known as precious coral, is mostly ob-
tained in the Mediterranean, the Barbary Coast
furnishing the dark red, Sardinia the yellow or
salmon color, and the coast of Italy the rose-
pink. It is also found in the Red Sea.

Astronomers announce that the Star of Bethle-
hem, Which directed the wise men to the birthplace
of the Savior, will -appear once more in 1910 or
1911. Josephus, the Hebrew historian, speaks of
this. star, which is now known as Halley’s comet,
and since his time it has appeared on twenty-
three occasions. — eh -

An old negro in Carrollton, Mo., being ill, was
attended by a colored physician; but as the pa-
tient did not improve, a white,medico was called
a > te felt the darky’s pulse for a mo-
ment and then examined his tongue. “Did? your

two nights

=

==

 

*

other doctor take your temperature?”
“T don’t know, sah,” he answered, feebly; ‘I
hain’t missed anything but my watch as yit, boss.”

Cruel must be the son who strikes his mother.
We have heard of one, sailing on the Campania,
traveling east, who, by means of wireless teleg-
raphy ‘‘struck’’ his mother for $50. She was on
the Lucania, traveling west, and the vessels were
‘over two hundred miles apart.

When an infant selects Holland as a good

some of the towns it is customary to announce
the new arrival by hanging at the outside door
of the house a silk pincushion decorated with
lace, If it’s a boy, the pincushion is red; if a
girl, white.

A furnished house was rented in Asbury Park,
N. J., and ten days after moving in the tenant
was forced to vacate because the domicile was
infested with bedbugs. Suit for the rent was
brought by the owner, but Judge Heisley decided
that the house was unfit for occupancy, and that
therefore the landlord had no just claim.

PLEASANT PARAGRAPHS.

BY CHARLES W. FOSTER.

WHAT THE WORLD WANTS.
Chappie—‘‘There goes the—ah—man that in-
vented smokeless powdah.”
Wearie Beauty—‘“I should feel more interested
in him if he had invented smokeless cigarettes.”

A GLORIOUS VICTORY.

Mrs. De Style—‘I’ve got ahead of Mrs,
Fashion at last.”

Husband—‘‘How ?”’

Mrs. De Style—‘‘At Mrs. De Fashion’s last
party, two of the guests fainted; but at my grand
reception last night, the crush was so great that
six of the ladies had to be carried out, and one
had to have a doctor.”

THE AMERICAN CLIMATE.
Visitor—‘What sort of weather did you have
here this time last year?” .
Native—‘Wall, really now, I don’t just remem-
ber whether it was a drought or a flood.”

HAD THOUGHT IT OUT.

First Tramp—‘‘I wonder why it is that poor
oleae always more willing to help us than rich
olks?” i

Second Tramp—‘People that don’t mind givin’
things away is the ones that stays poor.”

MUCH IN A NAME. 3
Citizen—‘‘What did you do with that gang of
tramps arrested last night?’’
Magistrate—‘‘They said they were not a gang,
but an ‘army,’ so I tendered them a banquet and
bought them tickets to the next town.”

A PERMANENT ATTRACTION. ©
Clara—‘‘Are you not afraid that some one will
marry you for your money?” ;
Dora—‘‘I would rather be married for money
than for beauty.” c
“Of all things! Why?’
“Beauty fades, but money can be kept at inter-

De

VERY DRUNK.

Magistrate—‘‘How do you know this gentleman
was drunk when you arrested him?” .

Policeman—‘‘He was talking about his wife, and
he said she didn’t care what sort of dresses she
had so long as she was comfortable, and she
didn’t get mad about the furniture when the neigh-
bors had better, and she didn’t care for a fine
house, and didn’t want a carriage, and she would
eer her own housework than bother with
servants.” : »

A DISAGREEABLE HABIT.

Old Grumpps—‘‘Sure that girl loves you in-
stead of your money?”

Son—‘‘Absolutely. Why, she actually keeps
count of the kisses I give her.’’

Old Grumpps—‘‘Hum!~ That’s bad.
keep it up after marriage.’

MODEST ENOUGH.

She may

that ball dress made a little bit higher in the neck
—to say nothing of the back.”
Wife—“I’ll have it changed if you wish, but
this stuff costs ten dollars a-yard.’’ :
Husband—‘‘Um—vwell, never mind.”

A STARTLING CHANGE.

Miss Reader—‘‘How -strange it would be if
fashion should go back to the old time brass
knockers, instead of electric bells.”

Mr. Sardonique—“It would seem strange. The
knockers always work.”’ :

NO CRUELTY.

Traveler—‘‘Yes, I was captured by the savages,
and sentenced to marry a squaw.”’

Hostess—‘‘Horrible !”

Traveler—‘“Yes; but they had some mercy.
They did not insist on a fashionable wedding.”

GOOD MATERIAL WASTED.
Winks—‘‘These ‘L’ guards ought to be dis-
ciplined—always yelling at people to ‘step lively,’
‘hurry up,’ ‘get a move on,’ and so forth.” 5
Jinks—“‘Théy never bother me any.”
“Bh? Don’t they yell at you to step faster?’
““Never.”’ :
“Say, old boy, you ought to train for a sprinter.”

A SPOILED PUBLIC.

Boy—‘‘Paper, sir?”

Uptodate—‘‘Well, I don’t know. Have you any
paper that prints coupons which you can take to
the office next day and exchange for a fresh
paper?”

DECIDEDLY IN DOUBT.

First Villager—‘‘How do you like
neighbor?”

Second Villager—‘‘Can’t tell you whether I like
him or hate him.”

“Why so?”

“The first thing he did was to put up a high,
board fence, and I haven’t been able to discover
whether it is to keep his chickens in or my chick-
ens out.”

your new

KNEW HIS MAN.

Managing Editor—‘Why didn’t you print Scrib-
bler’s remarkable article about a crazy million-
aire scattering money along the streets?”

City Editor—‘It’s a fake. If it had been true,
we wouldn’t have had the article.’* :

“Why not?”

“Scribbler would have been following him yet.”

SELECTED PLEASANTRIES.

THEY ARE STRANGERS Now.—Mrs. Newed—My
ee I regret to say, is a man of very poor
aste.’’

Miss Singleton—‘‘Well, you ought to be thank-
ful that such is the case.”

Mrs. Newed—‘‘Why so?”

the bachelor ‘ead

ONE THI SETTLED.—‘‘Grace is greatly wor-
ried. She can’t decide where to go on her bridal
tour.” .

“When is she to be married?”

“The date hasn’t been fixed yet.”

@ Whom is she going to wed?”

“That’s another detail that is yet to be ar-
ranged. But she has her trousseau all planned.”
—Kansas City Journal. ‘

WILLIz’s BEDTIME.—‘‘Pa, if a warship is called
‘she,’ why isn’t it a woman-of-war?”
‘ Father—‘‘It’s your bedtime, Willie.’’-—Boston
ost.

LANDSHARKS.— “Did you have a pleasant voy-

“Delightful. The sea was
all the way across.”

“See any sharks?” =<

“Not till we got to the New York.
House.”—Chicago Tribune. : 4

THE Victorious Cop. — Flaherty — ‘‘Foightin’
with Doogan, wuz he? An’ did little Doogan do
all that damage to ’um?”

Casey—‘“‘Not at all!. Not at all! Thot wuz
done by the p’leeceman thot separa-ated them.”—
Brooklyn Life. .

A ParR OF TROUSERS STORIES.—Richard Gol-
den, who used to be known as Old Jed Prouty, was
out walking in the suburbs of Seattle the other
day, when he met a little fellow strutting along
with all the dignity of young manhood, and wear-
ing a pair of trousers whi were so long that
they wrinkled perceptibly at his ankles.

“How old are you?’ asked Golden, with a
cheerful inclination to draw the boy into conyver-
sation.

The little chap appeared confused, hesitated,
and finally replied: ‘‘Well, I ain’t but twelve, but
my pants is marked sixteen.” ‘

Speaking about “pants,” brings up another
story. Nat Goodwin declares that last spring he
had occasion to turn down a persistent street beg-
gar, and remonstrated with him on his laziness
and his ragged clothes. The medicant drew him-

as smooth as glass

Custom

 

he asked.

country in which to begin its earthly career, in

Husband—“I really think you might have had{

Y.
Miss Singleton—“Otherwise he would still be in|

self up stiffly and replied: “My pants may be
ragged, sir, but they cover a warm heart.” —Chi-

cago Journal. ,

you any teeth?”
Grandpa—‘‘No, my child, they have all pens.” a
Johnny—‘‘Then I think I’ll let you hold my
nuts while I run an errand.’’—Glasgow Times. _

old chap, you ought to see the nine-pound addi-
tion $a ou family that arrived last night. He’s
a peach!” ; siti
Oldwed (the father of twins)—‘‘Well, you
Spent to be thankful he isn’t a pair.’’—St. Louis
A ar. 2

girl, Miss Daysey is.” mi :

Arthur—‘‘Dooced_ pretty.” ;

Theodore—‘‘And she has such a nice way with
her, don’t you know. . So encouraging, don’t you
know. I told her I was afraid I was going to
have a brain fever, and she said it was impossible.
That encouraged me, don’t you know, and I didn’t
have any fever.’’——Boston Transcript.

Bronco BILi’s CONFESSION. — Tourist — “Did
you—-er—ever shoot a man?” .
Bronco Bill—*‘No, lady, I’ve plugged a few In-
dians, Greasers, an’ dudes, but I never killed a

human !’’—Puck. .

His WisH—anp Hrers.— : ;
“TI wish,” he said, “you could make pies,
Like mother used to bake.’
“And I,” said she, “wish that you made
The cash pa used to make!”
Cincinnati Commercial Tribune.

By special arrangements with the manufacturers, —
we are enabled to supply the readers of ‘‘The New
York Weekly’’ with the patterns of all garments
described or illustrated in this. column TEN
CENTS each. When ordering patterns,

perticulay to mention the number of the pattern
an

“The
ity.

size wanted. Address Fashion
New York Weekly,” Box 1,173,

sparta

> FASHION NOTES.

A pretty model for a blue-linen gown has a
skirt side-plaited in small, shallow plaits formin
the paneled front gore. The plaits are graduated
as to length, being longest on the sides. Above
the hem is a three-inch band of rather coarse
white linen drawn work, The same drawn work
outlines the yoke, which is sharply pointed back
and front, and over the shoulders. Bands of the
drawn work start from under the arms at the
waist line, and meet the yoke directly in the mid-
dle of the blouse. Under the yoke the waist is
st to match the skirt. The sleeves are simi
arly treated. oo

Batiste is more generally used now than ever
before in the history of corset manufacture, its
light weight, pliability and absence of bulky
qualities recommending it to all classes.
silk brocades.are marvels of beauty, delicate alike —
in color combinations and embroidered motif, and
in the hands of the artist manufacturer corsets of
this material become veritable works of art.
Coutil is used for the winter models only. Heavy
but elegant materials, such as peau de cygne, both
plain and embroidered, are also seen in the corset
of high grade manufacturers.

Birds and wings are not popular this summer
in Paris. Nevertheless, they are prophesied for
this country this fall. An paieeert =22 millinery
describes a number of bird-trimmed hats, a strik-
ing example being a flat hat of white straw, bor-
dered somewhat deeply with velvet, embossed in
an Egyptian pattern, and curiously variegated in
color. A lace searf, arranged in a big flat bow,
almost covers the rest of the plateau, and on this.
bow is placed a pale pink ibis, its wings extended
on each side of its flattened body. BPN as

‘Soft silks and woolens in sun-pleated and ac-
cordion effects will be worn by children and young
girls this fall. One such frock, that is adapted to
the small girl, hangs-in fan pieats from a-tiny
yoke of lace. The neck is cut high, which is a
characteristic of-the fall models for small girls.

The pongee gowns are very popular, and white
pongee is an extremely effective material, while

e blue, with lace dyed to match, and tr
with quantities of little tassels of the same color,
is in favor, and pale gray is most popular in this
style of gowns.

Shirring is seen on nearly every skirt intended
for the young girl’s fall wear. Row upon row of
shirrings—cord shirring, tuck shirring and just
plain shirring—is seen on all skirts where the
nature of the goods will permit of it.

A fashion which seems as yet to have been
adopted by only a few .exclusive dressmakers is
= of trimming linen gowns with spotted fou-
lards.

CeIn ordering patierns be sure to gue size and number,

_No. 3188—-LADY’S FIVE-GORED SKIRT.

The five-gored skirt is a favorite model, and
may be used to advantage in cutting goods of
various widths. As illustrated, the original is of

: spotted lawn, and
black velvet rib-
bon, and beading
supplies the dec-
oration» The
gores are narrow
at the top, and
are cut with a
flare at the lower
edge; these gores
may extend the
full length, or
end at the top
of the flounce.
The skirt fastens
at the back,
where the full-
ness is gathered
and joined, as
are the front and
side gores, to the

tucks, which are drawn in to fit the skirt. The
lower edge of the skirt may be simply finished
with a hem or trimmed with lace insertion,
appliqués of lace, or any preferred form of
decoration. The pattern is cut from 22 to 30
inches waist measure. Size 26 requires 8 yards
of 42-inch material, 3% yards of beading, and
10 yards of velvet ribbon. 3

No. 3200—SHIRT-WAIST FOR A MISS.

The skirt to this dress is cut with five gores,
two of which are laid at the top in an underfolded
plait.. As illustrated, the skirt is made of different
material from c
that used for the
waist, but if pre-
ferred, the dress
may be made of
one material.
The back of the
waist is plain,
with the excep- —
tion of ascant
fullness at the
belt. The mate-
rial of each front
is Laid at the
shoulderina
box-plait, which
is stitched to
yoke depth only,
and is then re-
leased to form
the soft and be-
coming fullness. —
The edge of the
left front of the
waist is finished
with an extension —
lap, and to the
edge of the right
front the applied
plait is joined.
The sleeve is a
plain bishop
model, finished : Pee
with a cuff, and the neck is completed with a
fancy collar. All seasonable fabrics may be used —
in developing. The pattern is cut from 12 to 16
years. Size 14 years requires to make, as illus-
trated, 2% yards of 42-inch material for the skirt
and 8 yards of 32-inch material for the waist.

(All patterns published in “The New York
Weekly” will be sent to our.readers for 10 cents

 

; York Weekly.’’)

each. Address FASHION DEPARTMENT, “New

 

 

A PrRupDENT Boy.—Johnny—‘Grandpa, have See

MicHt Have BEEN WorSE.—Newwed—“I say, ‘

Won His Esrrem.—Theodore—“Dooced pretty | |

is run in narrow —