aN ARTISNC ROMANCE, <6FBONNIE JH AN,” “SRGNs Scxr We”

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Entered According to Act of Congress, in the year 1908, by Street & Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. C. Entered at the Post Office, New York, as Second Class Mat#

 

Vol 63. 79-89 oe New York. New York, August 8, 1908. Bre botlare No. Aa,

Two Copies Five Dollars.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Rt eee te eee ee eer oe a

LITTLE JACK, : i «tit i i ° . ‘ Digby seized them—he pressed them to his

lips—he held them to his heart. While. dream-

 

 

ti iil, "il! 4 3 ; ing over them a ste the graveled walk at-
BY MICHAEL SCANLAN. , ~ sade “anil ‘| a H ogg d pa Me a a Mise : tenctod’ eaten baa Laseay tenting out-
Ses § py . — : woe 7 side, he saw her—Florence, she who came so
+: : : J fe ay att an i Maat ot Tantiga a rt oF gull oi YTD. tht, near being his bride, walking slowly toward him.
Day after day I saw him brave: 2 ii ye sl Wisy ns ite “ HAE te \ Se . wtih, Her face was sad; her heart seemed heavy.
The searching winds or piercing sleet; pad Senta gM af fh hell au Vit scat } Vg sy SiN wh “Florence !”
His cry, a plaintive voice of pain, VA . Pa Ms : hy A i a Ay ea ae ,. he F ZH ry... seh She started as he called her name, and with
Rose o’er the rattle of the street; iy / atti »  Cigeel Aae : Ly nee peat : sa; "2 ~ iy) if i tig ae Cees fanned * n Pinion: and ‘chk vhs
> . a ‘ BR fi ai i é A ify f f or a het, . ie Listy 1 ’ y ee 2¢ } mc, 2 snecK-
A sweet, sad face, grown old in grief— i ee p thal i Gif He setad || 7 1! aa = ' bn ing herself at the door, she tottered and dropped
A childhood stretched upon life’s rack— §; Cf Pe Sill waa if Hr lh 3 7 AN BAD Ht 7 “ ; into one of the chairs just outside the summer-
. * \ g Pe ey } | i a t
That smote one with its lonesome look; ari if ie waft! (eee | pata) Z d i Sith: Me if Bovee. Digby! Why are you here?”
The gamins called him Little Jack. e yids He if i ; 1 S g % Gig ¥ ‘ | ee Ni il nes “— have come for one word—for one word,
3 ‘ : i per ee | F Z f es te ap eee ; | } a Se eo ae Florence; a word which will. make my heart
He was his mother’s only joy, Hey Md fu wtih af ; Wee Ph! Dilw\ ep ; Mtr rise casl UT a g ie lighter and my burdens easier to bear. My
Sad heir unto a heritage Nites | et eee E i White ¢ Zain itt lx Sea Be Gye Ie, es a! Wat ee ne ' d h, d Ray
. : D v Pay s ey . : { A ttt) s 4 : ag goby ray— — .
That snatched him from her hapless arms i ae ih ae oe Z 4 ; a2 Msp Seunk met heart Pete ee *
And plunged him into aches and age; iM Teen Ws ' - ae ae 4 Denied, gy \ ee ; - : j “Enough, Florence, your words convey the
For her he trod the pulseless mart— Zt pf i, Fa et sii NE AU Ba 0) il be a SON : en : rene bee bless - you, oe _-
; =a , Y f i: “ j os é j - shall go happy now. fe may never meet again,
For her the tatters on his back YUE So ree 5 - aE : es 7) § Florence; but you will know that I always loved
For her he smiled at mock and jeer eis er see I! Mlir fs , ; A ee ST : Be a you. I could not go away again without telling
When gamins called him Ragged Jack. r ‘ es : : : oe [SY Ah ees 5 you, this. I leaye England to-morrow x
TAL Bee ita neal Y eee Sa WW A84 ¥ j 5 “ : “Oh, Digby—to-morrow——”
And day by day | saw him fail A 5 tid & ; , 2 H i 7 i A AA 4 : z No words can deseribe the tone, the look, the
ee Sh : 2 , i i { a : " ji CE ; manner, which accompanied the simple words.
Despite his high resolve to win; ‘ i iti
espite Nis high resolve Oo Win; | : 4 iii8i) Ay i ; | , : i ‘pips § Digby Earle sprang toward her with open arms,
While coldness killed and chilled with out A , } ; ; : 3 yt tic but, checking himself before he touched her, he
- a#¢-s , Yd x i * an i Hi : c ONE itt turned ickly ; ‘overed his pai ith hi
His soul, a fire, burned all within. ae ee gal, | ' ern IM iat EAE. eg ee re ere PS ee or a a
One morn I missed him from the street, . f \ Mee \ K} HA ae ; : cs : z vf Fy, Ze ; “Not for long, Florence; not for long—yet
And guessed that Death was on his. Fm : : eae Ht ee) “¢ ‘3 FE H Me '% what difference does it make to us? We are
track: sa: pai ; a i ee Nui ee =H DWN ARPA ey “7 as far apart as if f were at the farthest end

tn angel-guise, all light and smiles, ee ro

 

“Yet I am happier when I know you are here.

”

you

Death must appear-to such as Jack. Gil Le ae i Se singe ata Pl ZB lat 7 a I can see you sometimes—I can hear from

: BEER AHR are H se eo ‘ 3
Down famine-haunted lanes I went, OR es is { = a Ceri yt Yes, Florence, did you think that I. knew
p re

th : - i y t ° . ‘ .
Where shame-faced Virtue sinks away aes (Pee AN Ee Oe
To die unseen. The breath of tombs ae ; set r ie tt : is ; y ' ett} were for the sake of sweet Florence Hyde?”
Hung clammy on the skirts of day. ere ner : pe pee See rea fs ey \ “Oh, Digby! Go—go—you torture me he
Then up, and up—the doubtful stairs | ere eu i ie Duet W/ é ‘ “ . One word, Florence, one word, and then fare-
“At every step groaned crick-a-crack — ; a = ; M4 : AAG a “Darling !”
Till but the-roof lay dark between Ly HiT By : uu a AR i KKeAeENa is It was searcely above a whisper, yet Digby
The skies and home of Little Jack. oe ay 25 Sie a eee Oe ee eal ne whe eke eee
Stretched ona pallet fair, he lay; ee cee i . ee Bt st UU Ree SR AN BE re vid suencah thi’ long: tea obo
The glory of his wondrous eyes— | hi ,
Twin flames that burned his _ waxen : EZ —S FAN tain

cheeks— ae shee i Nie N ; zi = ; Bid.< 5 Bede Poa “Yes my lady. My lord says would your
Were caught up by the pitying skies; ; de / | ; sae : =f , pe ttt yt, % ladyship come soon: He's in a bad spell again,
And near to him his mother watched he ; Na Wy Nai et é Ae ty Sac i" ANS We! a - — sree it } h ted t
j , ack! A " | ty : ‘ ae ste 1 itl Wat eZ wes “ee 4 sike a guilty thing she started—-not on ac-
In grief na deep for ore Alack! q 4 ha ey fh) | a caktaiall i Fitts count of her meeting with Digby, but from the
No more S$ all earth be glad or her— Hi | ihe | iW : eee A AK He Hh} we connection the remark had. with her own
Her joy has flown with Little Jack. Wy I { ; ; Us Hit : HH ¥ ill atthe 2 thoughts, and started toward the Mansion.
Hi ie . 3 Wy, it i reali) " : ji nee 4 “Bring my shawl and gloves, Dora. They are
% ; 3 ae HARK: es i : / ; : : is in the summer-house.”’
Pe oe e ade ie sme ky.t e i } HN ; i H nie ATTA i : ; The girl went back, and when she again came
H sats t rh Sth oe a ee ‘ eee / “Hits fi ‘ H he R nai , : up to her mistress the latter had -entered the
ow near to ee this child has drawn! H See y 1 ee : Cran i i ‘pee hall.
Alas! how far away am I!” : ; " ASE 2 ht ! : “Here is the shawl and book, my lady; but I
B ae it | 39 d tt cage : Wir ; : Wl ee ai | could not find one glove. This one was all I
ut yesternight he roamed the streets, ; er 1 : =f could see anywhere.’
And all was lowering cold and black, F : ht Ay: Sah : , a . —— “Oh! give it to me!” exclaimed my lady,
And now he sits beside the Throne! : : , : jas a ? Hy ae : i : 3 quickly snatching the glove from Dora’s hand,

; okt and thrusting it into her bosom.
Oh, happy, happy Little Jack! She knew well that the other was then re-

posing upon a true and loyal heart.

- Hid tail wate: sat there until a servant. came to her with a
i i E | ep li age 4, HU abet message from her lord.
i if) at Z ; ‘ ean tt “tas he finished dinner, Dora?’
4

’

 

Whenever in the hurrying crowd
{ meet a poor, barefooted child, ee} a “si Ta fii Hy i mt i (a mn uF ; ° Pa eat SE es : :
With wasted cheek, but wondrous light A on OMAN aura OEY UH Te nae ml a Wan — igs aa ; ee i : ; CHAPTER V.
Aflame within his blue eyes mild, ALU Valine bi Henzel il
stand ah -SGu ree ner and : think, a : ae 4 : ‘ i ‘i : i # The next day Langdale Carruthers started for
For all the tatters on his back, ih ; | , i $ Cornwall, and Digby Earle took the steamer for
‘*He’s but an angel in disguise— “Oh, Digby, why are you here?” ‘| have come A ee i ii Ostend. Baron Roderstein was to follow Lang-
; tas <3 et? . . : : : ” Tt ; \ dale as soon as he could find the man who had
An angel such as Little Jack! for one word—for one word, Florence.

i
\ i i ; Of > Bo OG oil ad A BARON RODERSTEIN VISITS LANGDALE CARRUTHERS.

 

sent the letter to Carruthers at the General
Service Club. It was very important that this
man should be found; but both agreed that it
was better for one to be in Cornwall.

It was on the morning of the second day that

i oT cg i - ‘ é A j
9 | a ~.) ry 4 : pa z ; ig the baron got track of his man, and sent to
. He P SS — H aN i make an appointment with him at a chop-house
Bai — — Tee eee Se ; y near the river.
; : { a s Mh ; : : F A The fellow and a comrade were drinking

 

 

brandy and water when Baron Roderstein en-
tered. To these men he was Mr. Smith; but
———— Wat ! é his real name and station. were know to them.
" NH } a TLLADDASGRORRGSDRRDRRRBBRR eRe RanBoReueostoe : ots. “You are just in time for me, Mr. Smith;
: : - rT ; uN : i y : for I was to start this evening.”
By the Hon. EVELYN ASHBY : } : ees Beng Sf , NATE “Start for where, Foster? Where were you
? : ee ea - ——— : ; its E going?”’
«4 ; - 7 9) 66 ~ . 19 ke . : 3 Was Seca s he : | “To the coast.”
Author of “ Cecy Morgan’s Trial,” ‘‘A Case of Conscience,’’ ‘‘ Winthrop's Widow, 5 Sy ee oa get
: ° =; ; > 5 ‘It wi be the day after to-morrow, or the
‘*The Lost Heiress of Latymer,’’ étc. : b ql next day. You read Dick McGivney's letter,
: . SE ; didn’t you?”
“No; and that is why I was so particular
. Digby made excuses to enter her box at the opera. about seeing you. What became of that letter?”
(*“Lronoka’s Woorne"” was commenced in No. 42. Back numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers.) je ! enclosed it to. ME ReneS Foster looked
ro ae oe pete a —$—$—$—$$——————————————————————— = carefully around before whispering the name—
| “Carruthers—I enclosed it to Mr. Carruthers.”
: ; : j 5 E come down to give some hope to the frightened | was torn from him, and yet his heart was true. | “Coil him Mr. C., Foster—-—— But there was
CHAPTER IV.—( Continued.) “Next week? Doubtful. I’m going into the |) passengers. ° : e Never since had he spoken one word to her| no letter enclosed. I saw: him when your let-
Langdale Carruthers and the baron came in country for a time. I intended to’ start this “‘Oh, captain, I fancied I heard your voice,’| alone. Sh€ was a marchioness now, she had her| ter was opened, and there was nothing in it.”
a few moments after Digby-returned to his hotel. morning. called the Briton, ‘I’m awfully bothered here. | duty to perform, and Digby Earle was not a “T am sure of it, Mr. Smith—-I am certain
He greeted them with great cordiality, and Your servant told me you were here, or I|The ship rolls so I can’t half shave myself; |man to lead another into temptation. His own] of it. I would stake my life that Dick’s letter
talked with a vivacity unusual to him. ‘The should have gone to your banker’s. Going to| would you mind putting her about for fifteen or| sense of honor would not permit him to see the| was in the letter I sent to Mr. C.”
baron thought it was elation at his success at the North, I presume? twenty minutes?’ The coolness of the request | woman he loved yet as warmly as ever, and she “What was in it?” asked the baron, after a
play; but Digby was happy in the consciousness “You have a family place in the country, I| set: every one in a roar.of laughter, and Johnny who was dearer to him than his own life. few moments of thought.
of having performed a good deed. think?” said the baron at the same moment.|} Bull went back to wait until she should come Once upon a time he had some comfort. When “There was enough in it if it fell into the
“TJ have brought you the note, Mr. Earle,” Both looked curiously at Digby. about, as the captain had promised. Florence Hyde’s sister (Mrs. Carruthers) was} hands of the revenue men. The Sea-Gull will be
said Langdale at length; ‘‘and I have taken ad- “By the way, baron, I want your opinion on “Fortunately the ship eased a little just then, | alive, she sympathized with his grief, and gave} in the night before, or the night of the new
vantage of your indulgence so far as to make it | some remarkably dry champagne. I had the] and having shaved himself carefully, the Briton} him words that were very precious to his sore | moon—that’s in a day or two, you know.”’
six months.” greatest quarrel with the grower in order to|came out. ‘Remarkably obliging man, this cap-j heart. She told him that Florence had always “Did Dick say that? Were there any hints?’
“All right, Langdale, I am in. no want of] get-it made without sugar. I’ll open a bottle.” | tain of ours,’ said he coolly, and taking a copy} loved him; and she told him again and again “Only about buying lace. The most of it was
money. In fact, I have been investing some to- “Did you say you were going to the North|of the Times from his pocket, he braced him-| how she was forced to marry the marquis as| taken up with the other matter. The fellows
tS of England, Digby?’ Carruthers repeated. self firmly in one corner, and read for an hour.”|the penalty of her attempt to take a husband] have gone on to the Rhine after the spies.”
Digby was going on to tell them how he had ‘“There’s the brickmaker Burton that crops The wine, the stories, the fine-flavored cigars|of her own choosing. Now he recalled the last “And d——— bad business they'll. make of. it,
made an investment of a few pounds in a man-j out in him,’”’ Digby thought; “he hasn’t the de-| made the two visitors very merry, and for the | conversation he had had with her. He remem-j| too. Foster, that will be the ruin of us. Unless
ner unusual to financiers, but which had already | cency to see that I did not answer his question | moment - Langdale Carruthers. forgot that he] bered the interest. which was in the youthful} you or I can get Mr. C. to give up that—or, at
returned him more than pawn-brokers’ interest;| because I did not want to answer it.” He did} owed this man more than £10,000. He and|Leonora’s face as she listened to her mother’s| least to separate it from his business, we shall
but the look the two men gave each other madej not stop opening the wine, and, without seeming |the baron took their departure after making words, and he loved the child from that moment. } find trouble.”
him pause. He had that kind of clairvoyance; to hear, opened-the bottle. Digby promise that he would visit Cornwall as| Leonora became a great pet with Lady -Fior- “¥ don’t like it any better than you do, Mr.
which readily gave him a clue to the thoughts of “T was saying, baron, I had the greatest quar-|soon as -he returned from the country. Digby | ence from the same time. She could but adore} Smith; but what can we do? He owns the ves-
others, He saw that these men were putting| rel to get this wine made to my mind. The | slipped out on the balcony as they left. It was|one that he loved; he adored the little girl be-|sel, and we could not run another one as wWw®
him down as a very rich man, and were think-| growers said it would ruin their reputation to} then he overheard @he remark about his money.| cause she was Florence's pet. Yet, although | do this one.”
ing how they could get hold of some of his} make the wine as I wanted it; and they refused “Phere is no doubt he has a pile,” the baron| they came nearly every day to Mr. Carruthers’ “Then we must persuade him. Get the others
money, nor was he mistaken in this, as he after-| my bribes until I gave my word that not a bot- | responded; “but it seems to be doing no sood| house, they never met; and at length their} to refuse.”
ward knew. tle should go into the market.” to any one but himself. The more I think of | mutual friend and comforter was laid in the “They are hard men to deal with, Mr. Smith.
“JT told you he had a pile somewhere,” said Langdale blushed a little as -he took up his] it, the more I think that that fellow Henley be-| grave. You know that they will do anything for money,
Langdale Garruthers, as he left the doorway of! glass, and followed the baron’s example in sip-|trayed us.” Sinee that time Digby had seen much of his} and he makes them prodigious offers.”’
Digby’s hotel, little thinking that Digby himself| ping it and looking through it as if he were “T was sure of it at the time. When.a fel-| old love—gazed on her. from afar, made excuses “T now, L know. Well, we must do what we
was on the balcony just above the door. a connoisseur. low begins to whine to me about a sick wife|to enter her box at the opera, saw her at soirées| can, Unless that is stopped, I must— When
“Well, Carruthers, I seldom speak of myself, “It is a capital wine,’’ remarked the baron;| and children, I feel certain he has been cheat-| and concerts, but he never yet exchanged a|did you know about that first?’
but I was about to do so. I’m glad you suited | “I should like some of it myself. Will you give|ing me, or wants to cheat me. Now that I} word with her of that past. She loved him for “lve known it all along. He wanted it kept
your own convenience about the note, and if you| me the recipe ?”’ think of it, I knew a fellow named Henley down his consideration, and she knew how fondly he} from you _ because because a friend of yours
choose you may lump the other with it.” “Willingly, my friend; but I doubt your abil-|in Somerset. He had &.very pretty wife—but | yet loved her. wanted to marry the girl, and he intended to
“That would not be fair to: you, Digby,’ said|ity to get it made. I had to watch it through} this cannot be the one.” ; Why was it that her image came so freshly} have her himself.”
the baron, who began to take heart of hope,|the entire process of fermentation.” “Probably not,’’ responded the baron, absent- before him on this particular day? He could “Oh, that is it———”
and to think that he read Digby’s face. Car- “None but an Englishman would do that;”’|ly. ‘Which way, Langdale?” not tell. For the first time he had an unbear- “Yes, he was very particular about your
ruthers acquiesced. and the three men laughed good-naturedly over Digby could. hear no more, but he watched the| able longing to touch her hand, to_ hear her} knowing and was a good deal cut up when that
“Oh, no, Digby, I couldn’t think of doing|the wine as the baron ran off into stories of|two down the street for some distance, until they | voice, and to speak to her one word of love. | firs gave you even a hint.”
that. I like to deal fairly in all things, and| English eccentricity. took a cab. For years he had resisted; to-day the» longing at e exclaimed the ba'tron, “Then Mr.
if I were guilty of little things—or of doing “T know one who did a very curious thing— “A new. revelation! Digby, old boy, you are| was stronger than his will; and he felt that he| Langdale Carruthers is playing that game on
things in a small way—you might not like to} {ll tell this and go; I did- not- intend to bore} in luck ! Well, all I have to say is that Mr.} should die unless he could hear from her lips| me, he? We'll see: we'll see,” he said to
play with me again,’ you with my stories.” Langdale Carruthers has to play a keener game the one word which should tell him that he was| himself, relapsing into a reverie, In truth,
“Haven’t you had enough of me yet, Lang- “TJ like them, baron; and when one tells aj with his cousins than he has with me, or Ij not forgotten. Langdale did not want the lady, but the baron’s
dale? You see I have wonderful luck. After| story as well as’ you do, it is a great gift. You]|-will show him a trick worth two of his. Leonora Half an hour later he was riding down a Sur-|jnterest in her had led him on,
all, luck is everything+-eh, baron? It is next} have such perfect command of English, too.” shall not suffer through him. How Florence|rey road leading to the residence of the mar- “Come, Smith, old fellow, don’t look down-
te impossible to beat a lucky man, do what you “This Englishman,” the baron went on, look-| loved that little girl!” And as Digby Warle| chioness. He did not hope to see her; but he} hearted about it,’ said Foster, slapping his friend
will against him.” ing greatly pleased at the compliment, ‘was on mused upon the past he drew a golden chain would look upon her windows. Fate seemed to} on the shoulder at the same moment. with a
“But luck will turn sometimes, you know.”| the steamer with me from Bremen to Southamp- | from his breast, upon which was a locket, and | beckon him on, And, just as the sun was sink-| vigor that was startling. The baron sprang to
“True, baron; my luck May go against me} ton. We had a dreadful gale. One-half of the for some time gazed longingly upon the fair face | ing below the horizon, he entered the park. of] his feet; but in a second he dropped back again
any day; I know that well enough. You hadi passengers were praying; the rest were sob- | whose charms were depicted there. her husband. He saw the gables and chimneys] and accepted Foster's offer of assistance in the
better play for sovereigns for the future, Lang-| bing their final aecents, holding on for dear life. “Oh. Florence! My darling! My darling!’’| of the mansion as he dismounted from his horse:} matter, with his offer of brandy and water.
dale—that’s my advice.” Some fifty were huddled together in the cabin, | he cried, pressing one: hand upon his eyes; “T/ and tying the animal to a tree, he went on When they parted the baron went to his hotel
“T™want to try you once more, however,” said| when one of the stateroom doors opened, and] know that your heart is mine, although you are}| afoot. Some impulse led him to the garden. He!to make arrangements for leaving the city. He
the young man at length; “I feel sure my luck] this Briton. with a razor in his band, a napkin | his slave. Heaven bless you, my darling !”’ entered the summer-house. It was vacant; but|] was not in a very good humor.
will turn, Will you come to Langdale next.} under’ his chin and his face well lathered, came Few men could love like Digby Earle. Years} on one of the seatS were a book, a shawl and “That fellow is werse than I thought him,”
week?” out and looked around. The captain ,had just| had passed. since the young girl of his choice|a pair of lisle gloves. the baron mused; “far worse than I imagined

Ae

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
RRNA CREUSET PP Shao amet

e ‘Shimself.

 

= “ter:

“ruthers no good-will;

“cumstances.

-~ Jikely “to die any day;

 

 

 

 

 

= =

he could be. Success makes him bolder, and
I ean almost believe he would stop at nothing
—even to getting rid of his companions if neces-
sity seemed to require. However—that is not
my business; I will take good care to have the
game in my own hands.”

For. an hour or more Baron Roderstein sat
dreaming, but he gave no further thought to his
business with Langdale Carruthers. His thoughts
were with the family abroad, and especially with
the younger member of that family, the fair
. Leonora. Baron Roderstein loved her as much
as he was capable of loving any woman. He
had met her- at Langdale, and in London, and
had taken pains to make her aware of his pas-
ae but she never. seemed © to understand his
int

— At length the baron thought of Langdale and

the tale that Foster had told him. What could
he mean?

- “T have seen a change in him for some days.
When Digby gave the opinion of the Duke of
Omnium I saw the thought which filled his
brain—I read it like an open book. But why
should I fear? I have him in my power; and
I have made her understand my love. But have
I made her understand it?”

Thus the baron mused; but he could not an-
swer the question that he had- propounded to
The* truth was he could not under-
stand Leonora Carruthers. Her-purity and inno-
cence were far above his comprehension; her

mature was a constant puzzle to him.

But she was not*so innocent of the ways of
the world and of such characters as Baron Ro-
derstein’s as he imagined. She was a Christian
gentlewoman; but at the same time she was no
ascetic or bigot. Living in the world, she would}
not be a prude, and so she early formed. a rule
of conduect—probably the best she could have

“ adopted.

This rule was: to see nothing which a young
girt should not see; to hear nothing improper
for her ears; and to understand nothing which
was not fitting for her to know. Thus she ap-
peared oblivious of everything immoral or un-
christian. She could not correct the errors of
society ; therefore must she be blind and deaf to

_ them.

But- Baron Roderstéin did not give her credit
for principle, and for art in managing it—tact
it may be called; and he formed an opinion of
her only to discard it for another, which was
soon overthrown for another, until he had _ to.
acknowledge that he could not understand her
eharacter. Stiil he fancied that he loved her.
But such love as he could give a woman differed
“greatly from that of a true-hearted, honest-
minded gentleman. y

The morning of the day before the ‘new moon
Baron Roderstein arrived in Cornwall, and drove
up to the castle. ~Lord Langdale was out riding;
Carruthers came to meet him in the hall.

“Any news, baron?” asked Langdale, when the

Fos-

“baron was seated in his friend’s room.

“None in particular, I believe. I saw
‘What about the letter? Did he have it?”
“He swears that it was enclosed in the letter

which he sent to you at the club.”

“But it was not; you know
baron.”’.

“Unless you dropped it by the sofa upon which
Digby was lying. If you did, it will be bad
business.” ;

“T can’t believe that I did. Foster must have
made a-mistake about it somehow. It doesn’t
seem probable that I could have dropped a letter
and none of ts aware of it?” :

“Well, the letter is gone in some way, and
we must miake the best of it. What is the news
down here?”

“Tt don’t know of anything special. The Jew
is at the village with his pack, and if the goods
-come in to-night we can have him off by morn-
“ing. To-morrow there,is a new moon.’
~- “T know. What was the last ren

“Oh, yes; here are the figures. “You ean run
them over to see that they are correct, It was
a sMail-cargo, you know; but you have £800.
You will find the sum before you.”

The baron ran over the figures and seemed
to muse before taking up the money. Here were
£1,600 to the account of Mr. Langdale Car-
ruthers and £800. to himself.- True, the cargo
had been small, but it was of great value; for,
besides the lace, there were other things. which
had cost a round sum on the Continent. Ta-
king into consideration the risk he had run, the
baron thought his share of the profits was quite
small. He determined to inquire into the mat-

“T have to arrange the way ‘this afternoon,
baron, and so must leave you to amuse yourself.
I don’t like to dig myself, but the earth caves
jn so that “it becomes necessary. I wish one
of the men had remained on this side.”

“And why did you send them all away on
the yacht? Surely two were enough, besides the
crew’and Dick McGivney.”’

“T had other reasons for

“And I know well what

it .was not,

sending them.’ "
those reasons are.
I bear Philip Car-
but “I don’t want to see
the business ruined for the sake of—of

“Out with eit, baron. Why do you hesitate?
Maybe I am bold; but I intend to have this cas-
tle or lose my life in the attempt !”’

“You'll lose it, then, unless you are more
-areful.”’ ee 3

“Tm <as be under the cir-
gainer as well -as
that. Lord Langdale is
and if we were shut out
here we should lose more than we can afford to
lose at this stage of the game,’
~“TIs Lord Langdale feeble?”

“Listen to his voice. He has just
from riding. If you will look from
dow you will see how, feeble he is.’

Baron, Roderstein went to the window and saw
two stout lackeys taking Lord Langdale from
his horse, and between the two he was borne
into the hall. His face was the very picture of’

suffering.

“Heavens! has he come to that?” said the
baron as he returned; ‘‘he looks as if he already
had one foot in the grave. Things are more
serious than I supposed.”

“Listen to his cough, too.
way all the night through.
see why I am anxious to settle
The old man could not long
sides, his eyes are not sharp enough to see all
that is going on. Phil pomeots already,. and if
he again comes to Langdale he’ll find that pas-
sage under the mines, as sure as fate.’

“Nevertheless, you must be cautious.’

“Baron, the work is~ done!” said Langdale,
whispering the words in the baron’s ear. a
feel sure it is already accomplished. For. five
hundred pounds those men would do anything,

as I can
be a

careful
You will
z, baron—you know

come in
the win-

He coughs in that
Now, do you not
with the younger?
survive; and, be-

and I feel sure that they have done it.”

“What a caol-blooded wretch!” the baron said
to himself, with a look which sent a flush to the
cheek of Juangdale Carruthers:

“We shall know to- night, probably,” the lat-
ter continued, “and if it is true. we must send
these fellows to America at once—or get rid of
them in*some way. -I am as sure that I shall
be the master of Langdale, and that Baron
Roderstein and I are to make a vast fortune
from its possession, sas I am that: we now stand
opposite each other.’

The baron was a superstitious man, and the
coneluding words of his host sent a chill through
his very bones. They did not stand opposite
each other, for both were sitting, and nearly
side by side. Langdale did not observe his mis-
take. -

‘“‘Now, baron, will you see my father’ (Lang-
dale now called Lord Langdale his father) “‘be-
fore dinner; or will you remain in the library?”

“Thanks; I’ll amuse myself in some way—
take a walk I-fancy.’’

And the two men lighted fresh cigars and
strolled out into the garden. Carruthers went
off to the mines at the western end of the castle,
and soon disappeared among them.

“Now, then,” said the baron to himself, “I
will take my walk. The Jew is in the village,
he told me.” —

Baron Roderstein did not believe
ing that there ‘‘is honor among thjeves,”
truth was he had no confidence whatever in~ the
honor of Langdale Carruthers. They were part-
ners in unlawful ventures, but it seemed singu-
lar that the profits allotted as his share should,
be so Small. Langdale always had a good sum
of money to draw on, and the baron mistrusted
that a portion of this money should rightfully
have come to him,

“Meditating over the amount of money
in Belgium, and the probable amount
on this side of the channel, he lost all
of the distance, and before he was aware of
found himself entering the village.

It was a- small Cornish town—if it could be
“@istinguistied by that name—built along a semi-
-¢eireular bay, and just beyond the broad beach.
The. ground rose rapidly behind the place until
it swelled into a line of hills. - To the westward
of the town was a table-land, ending at a steep
cliff, which overlooked an arm of the sea. At
the point was a cliff, overhanging the beach and
the margin of the sea at high tide, and the cliff
rose perpendicularly fer about one hundred feet.

Upon this table-land, or plateau, was Langdale
Castle. One half of it was in ruins. A pile of
stones, with a half tower in a state of dilapida-
tion, still marked the ancient gateway; and a
tumble-down wall circumscribed the limits of
the olden keép. Within it was full of shrubs,
trees, and weeds; but among these were numer-
ous paths trodden out by people who had visited
the relic of past days, and sketched it, and
ehip pag it, for antiquarian souvenirs.
Ast6nished to find his walk so short, ‘the baron
looked behind him, and saw, more than aalf a
qnile away, the main tower of the- inhabited

in the say-
and the

invested

account
it

realized |

‘part of
near it.

the

beyond~ him,

der the cliff,

this makes th

tables. engaged
sipping brandy
clay pipe.
retreat;

“An!

“Thanks,

him.

I saw his-lJord

ot disturbed.

eaptain.

“Things

coast.
“Such
tain.

“There is

louder.”’

the coast for

’

may have
he was going

by the

“No, baron,
must have
a time,

‘“How
ham?”
‘Ten, all
good supply
enough, for
“Well,
them, captain.

many

The baron
back to them.
swarthy man,

it, however,
the castle.

the

the short, stun
den from
Israelite.
hind him,
men
presence.

“How
their

“Bad,
Dere’s
notings

“Yet you
Nathan.

The
nor

goes

Herr
no mo

lace?”
no- monish,

“So, so!
received.

“Yes,

German,
English.

baron

erty.”’
Such was

Langdale
terests.

on toward the
had spoken.

“Well,
and come
-morning.”
“Tf she coom

than.
he“sees you
you sure.”’
The Jew
that he

as. they
village.
Baron

he heard
castle.
and came
who was
in his hand.

“Hello,

ashen hue.
“What's wro
“Oh, baron,
Langdale
out into-a’ holl
“Of course i
is the matter
uproar?”

geon comes.

for’’
baron’s

now
mind.

ness like?”

“Awfully su

“Langdale !”’

—yes, by heav

best,’

crazy !’

circumstances.

 

traveling the usua&
“So she is here, eh!” he said to himself.

Baron
but the
and their eyes met.
Lieutenant Markham,
glad to meet you.”
baron.
“Only to-day.
was in feeble health, and so hastened up to see
I fear he has not long to live.’’

“Indeed, baron! Why, you astonish me.

am really
_Langdale in better health than I had seen him
for many a day.”
“When did you get
Although he was only a lieutenant,
command of a vessel entitled him to be called

“This morning,
something going on somewhere on. the eoast,
I ran in here for a night or two

“Why the devil didn’t he run ‘snails else
just for this night or two,’
mental commentary.
are growing worse
Baron Roderstein,
tion that cargoes _are run
@ confess I am puzzled.”
things -
Men drop hints
themselves importance in the eyes of others.”
always
much smoke, baron.

shore,”

and that

told ;
of
that matter.”
I hope you

toward the windows,

the window for

walked along
it;

got

said to himself;

hundred pounds.
The Jew looked around for
saw that he was
ticularly charged him not to tell the baron,
had paid him for secrecy.
self tnwittingly.
“Did I say dree tousand?
sand four hundert.’
All this time he baron had been speaking in
and Nathan
Now he poured forth a volley of. Ger-
man protestations that he had spoken the truth,
and that he had paid over
was not deceived.
that Langdale was cheating him,
to get the best of him
“Money I must. have,”
money I will have.
tune than to be born
tried to live honestly ;

yonder
to the ruin

Langdale,
The young man sprang away as’ if shot,
threw up his hand, while his face assumed an

What is the matter?”
it you?

gasped, at the same moment breaking

“Lord Langdale
are trying to do something for him, until the sur-
He seems awful.”

What had been said about Philip Carruthers
and Langdale’s assurance that~-he had been

came, strangely

eastle r
Then
and took.in the glorious.stretch of
fine enough to gladden the heart of an artist.

But Baron Roderstein had but a moment’s
joyment of the scene,

his ey

he caught the top of a mast
saw the flutter of a flag.
yards and then-he saw it plainly:
eutter was rocking in the bay,
and beyond the
road.

e matte

in

le

ship, a

quite well—remarkably well,
is the matter with him?

“As yet I am unable to say.
lying down when I came, and I declined to ,have
I shall see him

asto

sir.

and

are

“Ft is very strange.
“None in the world.

miles,

some
The talk grows louder and

and I
likely to harbor_a lot -of smugglers.”
“But a house is not necessary,

ising above the tree-tops
es swept along the coast,
sea view—

en-
just above the ctiff
and
He walked on a few
The revenue
snugly moored un-

sight. of persons

“Well;
I only

for,

r.emore exciting.

hope that I may keep clear of that old officer.
He looked suspiciously at me before.
where the Jew can be; probably at the Arms.”

He entered the village inn,
he saw was the very one he least desired to see.
The revenue officer was
reading a
and ees
Roderstein
officer turned

I wonder
and the first man

at one of the
newspaper, while
cand smoking a short
thought he could
at that moment,

sitting

is it you? I am

When did you come up?”

eard that Lord Langdale

When
week ago, he was looking
I thought. What

His lordship was

at dinner.’

nished. I thought Lord

Captain” Markham?”
his being in

in,

There was a whisper of
and

was the baron’s
instead of_ better,
I have ‘positive informa-
in somewhere on this

exaggerated, cap-
things to give

always
of such
is

fire where there

Have you no suspicions?”
I know every house along
ean’t think of one

eaptain. They

7 a eave or underground passage

to say,

that w

some place for storing
place I am
I catch the fellows they will have a lively fight.”
mepn_ have

with
small

but the baron paused be-

fore the words were uttered—“‘have carts waiting
he concluded.
bound to offer any suggestions,
captain on new scents. ~

He did
or to

not feel
start the
ould be too open. They
the goods for
bound to find If
you, Captain Mark-
and a
strong

one small cannon,
arms, We are
in trapping

may succeed

Fortunately there are no very

He did

with a Jewish face,
a moment.
and had managed to signal it toward

He rose to go a few
revenue officer a cordial
more turned toward the
figure of the Jew.

ipy

They were beyond the village
sight ere-the baron come wu

latter
did he
as

nish.

“Did > you have trouble

“Mooch troubles—very mooch troubles.
Dat dree tousand I
me more troubles as ten thousand in goot times.
Mr. Langdale Carruthers,”
“it was three thousand
instead of twenty-four hundred.”
determined to make sure.

Nathan, but you gave bat twenty-four
Did you pocket some of it?”

the baron’s mental
walked on after Nathan and thought whether he
should remain a silent partner as he had been,
sharing none of the risks,
Carruthers ;
take those risks and look out for his

- It was sunset now,

eastle.

in.”

“Better not be caught watching
That old
prowling

lieute

said a few words
would exercise uncommon caution,
turned on his heel abruptly, bowing to the baron
parted,

and

Roderstein entered the
and, pausing to light another cigar, thought that
unusual
He took

sou

is

ng?

is
ow laug
t 4s. [i
in the

is

Why se
isn’t

“Something sudden,

dden, baron.
i spasms, or something of the kind.”

cried t

grasping Carruthers’ arm;
From this moment it must cease.
dale dies while I am here,
-You may well turn

en!

he dies while I am_ here,
have ,you hanged!
and with great
the young man spinning toward the castle.
‘He must be
said the baron to himself as he left the
grounds and walked rapidly to the cliff.

Nathan?”
native tongue.
Baron® bad.
Noting brings a

caught.

a few
suddenly upon Langdale Carruthers,
switching-at the shrubs with the cane

~taken

Go

insane !

good hiding-places along this shore.”
had, been
while the

sitting with his face
captain had his
therefore, a dark,
who peered into
had seen

not see,
The baron
bidding

once
Was

moments after,
adieu, er 3
castle. Before hfm
and quite hid-
with the
had not once looked be-
now turn his head. Both
if unaware of the -other’s
asked the baron, in
ish bad.
price—

Trade

a good price for the 2 last lot,
You did very
Herr Baron, I

well,’
does my best; but -trade

in working off the
Dere’s
pay him cost
the baron
you. re-
He

and
par-
and
He had betrayed him-

the first time,

Carruthers had

I means two tou-

had answered in-~ broken

but £2,400; but the

He was now satisfied
and determined
in the end.

he told himself, ‘‘and

There is no greater misfor-

noble and poor.- I have
but I eannot live in poy-

reverie as he

and being cheated by
whether he_ should
own in-

or

and still the Jew trudged

For

“Where are you going, Nathan ?’’
“T joost goes to take a valks.”
is the castle.

Go back now,

by four o’clock in the

Na-
if
nab

for her,
nant has sharp eyes.
about the coast he’ll
to

in reply, say

then

walked back toward the
eastle -grounds,

nds of commotion in the
paces forward to listen,

that you?”
and

I didn’t know you,’
h.

I've been walking.
eastle? What is all

ill.

What
that

suddenly They

“done
enough, into tho
should he could not tell.
it? What is his ill-

They say he has
he baron sternly, fiercely
‘no more of this lie!
If Lord Lang-
denounce you
pale. If
eternal! TP’ll
and do your
baron sent

I will

by the
in at once
strength the

Crazy! He must be

TO BE CONTINUED,

jaca

At

is

existence out of circumstance.
measured by our plastic power;
materials one man bduilds palaces
bricks and mortar are bricks-and mortar until

os

Man is not the creature but the. architect. of

character which builds an
Our strength is
from the same
, another hovels ;

»the architect can make them something she

‘

some time neither,

TO DISPEL _ THE CLOUDS.

A laugh is just like sunshine,
It freshens all the day,

Tt tips the peak of life with light,
“And drives the clouds away;

The soul grows glad-that hears it,
And feels its courage strong—

A laugh is just like sunshine
For cheering folk along!

A laugh is just like’ music,
It lingers in. the heart,

And where its melody is heard
The ills of life depart; E

And happy thoughts eome crowding
Its joyful notes to greet—

A laugh is just like music
For making living sweet!

-_—————_ <2 Oe

THE DANGER ZONE.

By NICHOLAS CARTER,

os q
| Author of “The Wheel of Fate,” The Price of a Secret,”
“The Seat of Silence,” “Circumstantial Evidence,”
“When Knaves Falt Out,” ete.

; Se

(“IN THE DANGER ZONE’ was commenced in No.
Back numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers.)

37.

CHAPTER XVI.
A HAZARDOUS PROJECT.

The scene last depicted, in which «he did not
figure personally, transpired. while Nick Carter
was riding home: with Frank Morton, whose
statements. had shed so much light on this Kel-
sey case. To put it more precisely, however, they
had served only to dispel a portion of the
ness; for the mystery involving the murder of
Bill Kelsey “was still very far from being solved.

It was eleven o’clock when Nick entered his
residence, followed by Morton, and they found
both Chick Carter and Patsy in the business of-
fice. ;

“Ah, both of you Nick
claimed. ‘“‘Who- has you
Patsy?”

**Bob Ferret,
with a curious glance
the disordered attire of
Morton’s house just now,

A faint smile stole over
face, but Nick said quickly:

“Ah, yes, I remember, -
Chick ?”

“I’ve heard from Chicago,’ of

“Good ,enough. I'll presently hear what you
haye learned, First shake hands with a friend of
mine, both of you. Two of my assistants, Chick
Carter and Patsy. Boys, this is Mr. Frank Mor-
ton,”

_ Both came out of their
once appreciating that

some important discovery,
Morton was exceedingly
a fiush of pleasure to his
placed him entirely at ease.

“By Jove, there seems to
relations, Nick, .since last
laughing. “I think you
friend.”’

“Very much so,’

And then, waving Morto
chair at his desk, and
ering all of the ground, he
what had transpired since
evening, as well as all
fided to him.

“By - gracious !’**- said
“This eertainly. sheds
Nick.” =

“Somewhat.”

“And it eonfirms, in a
heard from Chicago.”

“You have learned
said inquiringly.

“A little to the’ purpose
had a talk with the Chi:

heartily ex-
for a_ time,

here !’*
relieved

Patsy promptly — replied,
at Nick’s companion and
both. “He’s watching |
sire:

Morton’s

Anything

sir,”

attractive |

doing,

chairs with a bound, at
Nick must have made
and the greeting given
cordial, which brought
cheeks “and at once

be a change in your
night,” Chick
just caHed him your
Nick warmly rejoined.

n to a seat; he took the
in a brief way, yet cov-
told his two assistants
be left home early tha
that Morton had con-

at the conclusion.
the ~ case,

Chick,
new light on

what I have

Nick |

measure,

something, then?”
* nodded Chick. “I’ve
go chief of detectives.

cage for some time,
at the time of his
Mrs. Kelsey. The

and< acquired some notoriety
divoxee from the
chief did not speak

proceedings against him except the divorce suit.’

“Did you ask anything about his business
career?”

“Yes, certainly.
interested in mining properties a number of years
ago, or pretended to be, but quit that some lit-
tle time before he left Chicago. He was known
to be very friendly with a woman named Follett,
who then resided there,
who has now appeared

“Did he give you any
woman ?”

“He stated
able, though
was known.

in New York.’

that her character was question-
nothing very definite against
She was never arrested in that city,
he informed me, but was known in the fast set
with which she associated by the name of
Mag Follett, possiblye owing to her
beauty and dashing style, rather than the fact
that she was a crook in any line. Neither she
nor Budlong have been seen in Chicago, so far
as the chief knows, for more than a year. . He
could not inform me whether they left there to-
gether, nor does he know of their present where-
abouts.”’

“Well,
at all events,’’ Nick remarked impressively.
odds that the other is not far away. It may
be that the man I saw leaye her house to-night,
who opened the cab door with his left hand, is
none other than this Jake Budlong. She cailed
him Prescott, however.”

“A name may be changed, Nick,
guise easily assumed,’
cantly.

“Very

? J
we know the whereabout of one of them,

and a dis-

true. We'll revert to this a little later,
after I’ve asked Morton a few
and informed you of my _ deductions
from his disclosures. You’d better remain until
fthen, Patsy, after which you may recall Bob
Ferret. There no longer any need of shadowing
Morton’s house.’’

“Hardly, sir, I should say,’’
a smile.

“How about it, Morton?” Nick went on, now
turning to the other. ‘Do you know anything
more of Janet Tobey’s movements than you.have
told me?”

“Not a thing, Mr. Carter,”
plied, with obvious frankness.
anxious concerning her and

“We appreciate that, Morton, but cannot take
time to discuss it,’’. Nick kindly interposed.
‘What do you know of her relations with young
Kelsey ?’’*

“She had no
other than those
the same. family.
Kelsey, ‘who, on
fond of her. I

resulting

Patsy replied, with

Morton quickly re-
“JT am_ terribly

relations With him, I am sure,
natural to persons~ living in
I know that she did not like
the other hand, was exceedingly
don’t think, however, that he
imposed his affection upon her in any unmanly
vay. At least, sir, Janet has never intimated
anything of the kind to me.” “

“So much for that,’ nodded Nick. “Have you
ever visited the house, or been in the grounds,
at night?”

“Yes, at times,
communicate with

‘Possibly you were
sey states that she
served. ‘Have you
sons there at such

‘“‘No, sir, never.’

“Did you recognize,
encountered back of the pawmshop to- night,
one who resembled the fellow you saw in
Kelsey cellar?”

“T can’t say that I did, Mr. Carter,’’ Morton
gravely rejoined. —‘‘It was too dark to see plainly
to-night, and I was really too busy to take special

notice of. any of the rascals.”

“TI guess that’s right,

seeking to secretly

of the spies Mrs. Kel-

has seen there,’’ Nick ob-
ever encounteréd other per-
times ?’’

sir, when
Janet.”
one

among the men whom we
any
the

Morton,’ Nick replied,
with a laugh. ‘I reckon you’ve told me about
all you can of the case. Your disclosures settle
some features, but not all of them.”

‘dine from it, I should say,’’ put in Chick,
smilin

“That's right,’ Nick assented.
Morton as a criminal factor, howeyer. It also
shows, beyond any reasonable doubt, what Janet
Tobey’s designs were that night, why she had
not retired, and for what reason she left her
chamber, presumably just before two o’clock in
the morning.”

“As I look at it,’ argued Chick, ‘it seems
to indicate that she went down-stairs and dis-
covered the crooks at work in the library.”

“JT see the point you would make,” replied
Nick, smiling a little incredulously. ‘You think
that Miss Tobey, stealing out of the house to
meet Morton, ran upon the gang of crooks crack-
ing the library safe; and that she, alarmed by
the startling discovery, uttered the terrible
scream heard by John Kelsey and her mother.’

“Certainly,” nodded Chick. ‘It would have
been very natural for her to seream under such
circumstances. You’ll remember, too, that both
testified that the scream was abruptly cut off, as
if the ove who uttered it had been quickly

“Tt eliminates

 

dark- |

}

| by whom was
sta

 

eried, |
} move would have been
| get out as quickly

| haven’t lost sight of one thing.

| of her,
He states that Budlong haS been known in Chi-|
| to Quigley,
Presers |

very |
well: of him, yet knows of no criminal operations |
in which he has been engaged, nor of any legal |

The chief states that he was}

probably the same woman |}
information about this |
| added.
her |

Flash |
remarkable }

|

Vol. 68—No. 44

 

throttled. It looks to me as if the gang had
instantly seized and silenced her.”

“By gracious! that seems reasonable,’’
Patsy. “T’d be willing to bet a little
right.”

“T admit that it looks so,”
joined. ‘‘There are several
be considered, however, some of. which indicate
that that may not have been the case.”’

“How so, Nick?”

“Assuming it. was the case,’ Nick
argued, “and that. the crooks seized
her, the question naturally arises, why did they
abduct her? They. certainly can have had no
use for her, under ordinary circumstances, and
‘took -very long chances in delaying to get her
out and away.”

“Yes, that’s very
frowning perplexedly.

put in
that’s

” Nick gravely re-
important points to

pointedly
and silenced

true,” Chick admitted,

“The circumstances seem to admit of only one}

deduction,” Nick shrewdly reasoned. “The ab-
duction, if such it was, points to a_ possibility
that Janet Tobey recognized somebody engaged
in the attempted. burglary. In-that case, Chick,
the discovery she had made may have threatened
the safety of the entire gang. They
thought it necessary either to kill or abduct her,
and took the latter course, rather than to run
their necks into a noose. Only with a view to
precluding exposure can I conceive of a gang of
burglars removing a girl in this fashion.”

“That seems reasonable enough, I’m
Chick thoughtfully assented

“Then the question at once
the girl recognize?’ continued
reasonable to suppose that she
gang. Nor was Morton there,
led to suspect.’’

“T’ll swear she did not see me,’’
ton, who had-been attentively listening.

There’s only one other person of whom we are
informed,” whose movements seem _ to
some suspicion,’ said Nick. “We know
Bill Kelsey was partly dressed when killed;

sure,”’

whom
“Tt’s

arises,
Nick.

knew

as we were

not

at first

also,

that he would not have had time to put on any}

garments in the few*seconds between the time
when John Kelsey heard the scream and the
moment he found his son dead in the upper
This at once brings up the question, was
Kelsey -the one recognized by, Janet as a
federate of the burglars?’’

“Thunder !’” Chick impulsively exclaimed.
“There may have been something wrong
him, leading. him into a scheme with this gang
to rob his own father!”

“Phat is barely possible,’ nodded Nick.
in that case, why was the house broken into?
That can have been done, assuming we are right,
only to give the job the appearance of a gen-
uine burglary. This may have been the reason
why Kelsey was partly dressed that night.”

“T’ll. wager you’re on the right track.”’

“We must not be too sure of it,’ Nick said,
a trifie doubtfully. ‘“‘There are points which in-
| dicate that this may not have been the
If Bill Kelsey was in with this gang, why
he kiNed? What was he
irs? Surely none of the gang would
any reason to kill him. This would leave
one .person, so far as we know, who possibly
may have.done it. I refer to Ja uke Budlong,
whom we suspect was in the house.’

“~F comprehend, Nick.’

“Tt may be that Bill Kelsey, alarmed
net’s unexpeeted discovery, and the scream
followed, rushed up-stairs and encountered
long in the hall; but, in that case, why did
Budlong kill him? If he was really there, he
prone had designs only upon Mrs. Kel-
sey.
ee “That's true. There's. no

“Here’s another point: If
sey, why did the gang then
weuld -have known that, with
could not have exposed them.
to silence
as possible,’’
it would, Nick, surely,” Chick
nedded. ‘This is certainly a curious mix-up.

“Exactly,” said Nick. “The circumstances
may be twisted in -many directions. As a mat-
ter of fact, moreover, we know of nothing
Bill Kelsey.. He stands well in the community,
and seemed to have had no motive for
crime.- There’s only one course by which we can
get at the *truth,’”’- Nick bluntly added. ‘“We’ve
got to go deeper. Ill look John Kelsey up to-
morrow, and see if I can learn whether there was
any oc casion for such a job.”

“Have you any other plans?” Chick

“You bet!’ Nick emphatically declared. =

Kelsey’s frequent
after what we have learned

that
Bud-

denying it.”

Budiong killed Kel-
abduct: Janet? They
3ill dead, the girl
Their
the gir}

“So

visits to Mag Follett,

as that suggested. Her
moreover, immediately after my call,
indicates that she suspected that I was a
tective and that she hastened out to warn her
confederates. ‘The fact that I afterward encoun-
tered several ruffians back of his shop, suggests
that they were the woman’s confederates and
that the gang is quartered somewhere in that lo-
eality.”

“We ought to find them easily enough,
ease,” said Chick

“Tt may not prove to be so easy,’’ Nick quick-
ly replied. ‘‘They’re a crafty crowd, or they
could not so long haye eluded detection. They
may, moreover, at once change their quarters.”

“That’s very possible.’

“Wor that reason, Chick;
tigate Quigley’s place without
“You can do so in disguise, and without
arousing his suspicions. I want to get his rec~
ord, and also learn whether there is any secret
way out of his building.”

“T’ll get at it to-morrow, Nick.”

“Took up the painter, also, who is located over
his shop. If>we find him to be on the level, it
may be to our advantage. We could get him to
employ Patsy, who might then watch Quigley’s
place through a hole in the floor.’

“Gee!” Patsy exclaimed. “I’m good for that,

in such a scheme

in that

I want you to inves-
much delay,” Nick

| I reckon.”

It’s |
| their

| ered

Chick observed signifi- |
} Pm

more questions |

 

“What do you intend doing,

“IT have a plan of my own,’
“That gang was very anxious
clutches to-night.”

“Yes, evidently,’ Chick put in.

“They do not know me, however,’ added Nick,
ignorant of the fact that Quigley had discov-
his identity. ‘Yet they certainly thought
I was a detective, and after them. That’s why
they were so anxious to secure and silence me.
going to give them another chance.”

“What are your designs?”

“T’m going to call again on Mag Follett, pre-
tending I come from Chicago, and give her a
letter of introduction from Jake Budlong,” said
Nick. ‘If, as I suspect, he is the man I saw
leave her house to-night, called Prescott, she
will at once know the letter of introduction is a
fake, and that I am probably a detective. She’ll
at once plan to throw me into the hands
gang—trust her for that—-and in this wa
be able to definitely locate the rascals.”

“That’s taking a iong chance. It may cost you
your life,’ said Morton, regarding Nick with a
look of mingled solicitude and admiration.

The reply made by Nick Carter was very char-
acteristic of him.

“J’m well aware of
earnestly. ‘No chance
take, however, at the
to solve this mystery,
gather in these crooks,
it may.”’

Nick?”
* Nick: rejoined.
to. get me into

he said
me to
going
and
what

Morton,”
is too long for
eall of duty.. I’m
find that missing girl,
let the hazard be

that,

CHAPTER XVII.

INTO THE LION’S MOUTH.

Nick Carter had done great work in a com-
paratively short time. His rapid investigations,
his many important discoveries, some so _ ob-
scure as to have escaped a man of less remark-
able discernment, his keen analysis of the com-
plicated circumstances, the logical deductions at
which he had arrived, and the rare ability with
which he adjusted the tangled relations of the
numerous persons involved—these had combined
to greatly narrow down the Kelsey case and epen
the way to definite and aggressive action.

Nick did not undervalue his own work, but
fully realized all this; and he saw, too, that it
did not yet solve the mystery of William Kel-
sey’s murder. Though he had shaped up what
next must be done, moreover, he was not one to
plunge into it blindly and invite possible failure
by inordinate haste.

Deferring the work of his assistants
could pave the way for it by establishing cer-
tain timportant points, precautions which he
nearly always took in person, Nick’s first move
the following morning was to hasten out to River-
side Park and call upon John Kelsey. He found
the latter and his wife at breakfast, but both
quickly joined him in the library, where Nick
briefly imparted such of his suspicions as it then
served his purpose to confide to them. Chiefly
those relating to the murdered man.

-John Kelsey, a man whose rigid probity could
wink at nothing dishonorable even in those most
dear to him, became very grave and pale while
he listened.

“T am doubly
Nick,” he said brokenly, when the
stated his suspicions. ‘I can’t believe that my
son, my only son, was base enough to cooperate
with knaves to rob me. It seems impossible, al-
most inconceivable.’

‘Tt does, Jobn,
asserted.

“It may, be that I am wrong. I hope that I
am,” Nick said gravely, appreciating their grief.
“J ignore the circumstances, however, but must
investigate the aed as I find it.”

“Certainly. hat’s right, Nick. The truth
must be learned, if possible, though the heavens

until he

crushed by your

latter

indeed,’’ Mrs. Kelsey tearfully

may have’

did |

any of the |
declared Mor- |

warrant :
that |

hall. |
Bill |
con- |}

with |

“Yet, |

ease. |
and }
doing up- |
have had
only }

by Ja- :

natural}
and |

dubiously

against | you

such a|

| get from
| for

inquired. | his observations of Quigley, and learned that

seem to indicate that he may have been }
visit |

de- |

_ = =~

 

fall. If what you suspect is true, it may be
all for the best that my son lies dead in the
next room.” Kelsey looked and spoke like a man
who meant what he said. “Better death, indeed,
if there be dishonor.”’

“T wish either to verify my suspicions, or to
refute them, as soon as possible,’’ said Nick, with
no comment upon the other’s remarks. ‘Do you
know, John, whether your son had been specu-
lating ?”

“I do not.” Kelsey shook his
forbidden his ever doing so, Nick,
very strict with him since boyhood.”

Nick did not express the. thought that crossed
his mind, that too rigid discipline sometimes has
evil results. He recalled, too, the remark of
Frank Morton, that Bill Kelsey had stood in great
| awe of his severe and, somewhat arbitrary fa-
ther.

“You
| debts

head. ‘I have
and have been

 

not, I
he

any heavy
Nick in-

know. of
incurred ?’’

do
that

suppose,
may have

.I know of none.”

“Tt may be, John, that he had
ously in a financial hole, and took this way in
the hope of squaring himself,’ said Nick. ‘‘Many
a young man, driven to desperation, has done
much the same. If there is any further evi-
dence: that I am right, I wish to get at it. Did
| your safe; on the night of. the crime, contain
|}money or securities of greater value than
| usual ?”’

“Yes, it did,’’ Kelsey admitted,
ing the point. “There has been a
| bonds and railway securities, aggregating
eighty thousand dollars, in the safe for
a week.’

“Risky, John,”’
shake. ‘‘Securities
| kept in your
i bank. Did
safe?”

“Yes. It was partly at his suggestion that
they were left there. We anticipated using them
in certain business we have had under consider-
ation.’

“Had your son

got most seri-

 

at once see-
quantity of
about
nearly

Nick observed, with a head-
to that amount ought to be
deposit-vault down-town, or at your
your son know they were in the

had anything to do with your
books or banking?” inquired Nick.

“Yes, with both. He had, in fact, almost ab-
solute charge of them. I looked after another
| part of the business, and trusted him entirely.’’

“This is about what I anticipated,’’ said Nick
gravely. ‘I want you to put expert accountants
| onto your books at once, John, and let me know
| the result of their investigations as early pos-
sible. They may tend to show megwhether I am
on the right track. Will you do this?”

“The circumstances, terrible to me though they
are, do not admit of my refusing,” said Kelsey,
an answer eminently characteristic of him. ‘Yes,
Nick, I will attend to it to-day.”

Having set this wheel of the machine in opera-
| tion, Nick did not long defer his departure. He
lingered only to say a few encouraging words to
Mrs. Kelsey, who was nearly prostrated with anx-
iety concerning her missing daughter, and -he
then hastened over to the East Side.

A few inquiries in the neighborhood of Quig-
| ley’s place, where Nick appeared in disguise
about ten o’clock. that morning, established to his
that the painter who occupied the
! upper floor of the two-story building was known
} to be an honest and industrious man, who had
occupied his present quarters. for something like
| a dozen years, a fact strongly indicating that he
| had no evil relations, with the present tenant of
| the pawn-shop, who had acquired the place only
{a year before.

Nick learned that the man, whose name was
Malley, was out on a job that morning, most of
| his employment being outside work, and the de-
tective had no great difficulty in locating him.
He found him to be an elderly, unassuming Man,
| whose honesty was refiected in his simple face,
and Nick felt no misgivings in introducing him-
self and confiding what he suspected of Quigley,
; and what he wanted of his hearer.

“Good gracious, Mr. Carter, all this news
; to me,” Mr. Malley -declared. “I know nothing
fat all of Quigley, and have hardly spoken a
dozen words -with him But I’ve heard a good
deal about you, sir, and I’d be very proud to help
in any way I can.”
“Good enough, Mr, Malley,’
“You shall lose nothing

a¢
as

| satisfaction

is

Niek said hearti-
ly. by it, I promise
you.’

“Tt know that,
aiding
any trouble.
Nick then questioned

satisfaction Vil
than repay me

the
more

since
will

sir,
you
2»

briefly concerning
the
shop was frequent-
and occasionally
Malley had seen
had not afterward
tended to confirm

him

that his
at a time,
and -that

latter kept no help,
ly closed for hours
for an entire day,
men go in there, whom he
seen come out—all of which
the detective’s suspicions.

“He lives in the - room
doesn’t he?” Nick inquired.

“T reckon so, sir,’’ nodded the
wise, I know of no other place
I’m never at my spbop after six in the evening,
so [I can’t say what he’s doing nights.”

“¥s there any connection between
and his?”

“No, sir. There used to be a
was cut out and the floor boarded over
building was fixed for two tenants. A
to my shop then was built outside.’’

“Yes, I noticed it,’’ Nick remarked. Suppose
I should wish to put a young man, one of my
assistants, into your shop to watch Quigley’s
place?”

“You
readily.

“He could pretend to be a painter, employed
by you, which would serve to preclude any sus-
picions on Quigley’s part.”

“Sure, sir, that’s ‘true enough. I’d get a lot
of blinds in, too, as if I’d set the fellow to work
painting them. Then he could remain in the
shop all the time.”

“Capital!” said Nick

back of his shop,
painter; “‘Ieast-

where he lives,

your. shop
stairway, but it
when the
stairway

can do that, all right,” Malley said

approvingly. “If I de-
cide to do this, Mr. Malley, TV’ll.send him round
to you. He’ll come in a painter’s blouse and
overalls, as if you had already engaged him, and
he’ll tell you what he wants.”

“T’ll see that he gets it, too,
Mr. Carter.’’

“That’s precisely what I wish, Mr. Malley, and
I’ll make it worth your while,’ Nick warmly re-
joined, shaking hands with the man.

Having thus paved the way for Patsy, in case
his services were required, Nick returned home to
lunch and held a further conference with both
of his assistants, outlining the work he wanted
them to do. Later that day, well into the eve-
ning, he prepared to leave home carefully dis-
guised, and again started for the house of Mag
Follett.

“If I don’t return before
something has happened to
eantly to Chick, as he was

if you wish it,

morning, you’ll know
me,” he said signifi-
about to leave his

 

of the} do
y I may |

office. ‘‘In that case—well, you’ll know what to

os
“You bet!’ Chick declared. ‘I think you are
| making a mistake, however, in not letting us
watch Mag Follett’s house after you enter. If
you fall into the hands of the gang, as you ex-.
pect, they may turn you down at once, or re-
move you to some place that we cannot easily
locate. We probably could head off either, by
watching the house from the time you enter it.
It strikes me, Nick, that you are putting your
head into the lion’s mouth.’

“Tl have a good grip on the
all the while,’’ Nick replied, with a laugh.
I don’t want any of you watching her
lest some of the gang get wise to it.
ing to give them free rein and all the chances
they want. If they take my bait, as I hope, I’ll
be ready and willing to take all the risk of their
being able to turn me down.”

“IT imagine, on the whole,,
equal to that,’ smiled Chick.

Collectively we shall, Vlt wager,” Nick con-
fidently replied, as he turned to go. ‘Do what I
have instructed, you and Patsy, and the game
will finally be ours. Good night.”

“So-long, Nick.”

They parted with only these words and a
friendly nod, though well aware that tragic events
might transpire before they met again. Yet so
accustomed were they to confronting danger that
they regarded it with indifferent eyes, yet eyes
that were always watchful, invariably alert.

It was nearly nine o’clock that evening when
Nick rang the bell at Mag Follett’s front door,
and, as before, the woman herself presently an-
swered the summons.

“Does Miss Margaret Follett live here?” Nick
blandly inquired, lifting his hat. ‘‘I_ think this
is the street and number mentioned in my let-
ter.
Mag

then,
“No,
house,
I’m go-

lion’s jaws,

that you’ll prove

Follett was clad in a showy evening
dress, a bit the worse for wear, yet which dis-
played to some advantage her fine, somewhat
imposing figure. She looked sharply at Nick,
who wore a rather flashy business suit and
sported a large brilliant in his figured shirt-
front.

 

disclosures, |
had |

she replied, after a
Miss Follett.’’

Nick. ‘I. feared
letter of -in-

she lives here,”’
serutiny. “I am

“Ah, how fortunate,” said
I might not find you. I have a
| troduction to you, Miss Follett, from a mutual
friend, whom I met in Denver a short time ago.
Knowing I was coming to New York, he asked
me to-call on you and present his regards. Here
is his letter.”

And Nick, bowing and smiling, tendered a
+ ter he had prepared for the purpose.

Mag Follett’s eyes had taken on a gleam like
that in the eyes of a rattlesnake, yet her red
lips were parted with a smile. She at once had
guessed that this was a ruse of the detectivegshe
and her confederates had such very serious “yea-
sons to fear; and, like a flash, she leaped at the
opportunity it presented.

“Who is our friend,

“Yes,
| moment’s

let-

sir, to whom you refer?”

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

a

 

-

Vol. 63—No. 44

THE NEW Y

 

she asked, with a subtle mingling of malice and
‘satisfaction stealing into her voice. —
She had accepted the letter, yet only glanced at

_- "Mtr, Jacob Budlong,” replied Nick, with much
~ suayity. \

“{ think you’H recall him, Miss Fol-
lett.’ ;

. “Jake Budlong—oh, yes!’ Mag quickly ex-
claimed, as if highly delighted: “He’s a very
dear friend, and I’m glad to welcome any friend
of 7 I’ve not seen him for ever so long. Come
in, Mr. 5 :
- “My-name is Billings.’
“Come in, Mr. Billings.”
Nick Carter bowed and smiled again—and en-
tered. the house. Sak
The door behind him closed with a sharp, omi-
nous snap—as if it were the jaws of the-lion
- Chick Carter had mentioned. _ .

TO BE.CO

: J

THE STORM-WAIF;

Sister Josepha’s Charge.

~
a

- By Mrs. SCHUYLER MESEROLE,

Author of “The Earl's Bride?’ “The Unknown Suitor,”
: “Roderick’s Quest,’ ** Will She Win?"

“Thrice Married,” etc,
- / (@Pae SroRM-wa1F’ was commenced in No. 34, Back
numbers cap be obtained of all newsdealers.)

s

CHAPTER XVIII. _
FATHER IGNATIUS.

~~~ Out into the mad whirl of the Parisian night

_ Sir George Vane!”

back to the

- yoice husky. and broken.

went. Genevra, her golden head uncovered, her
boots unlaced, her soul in a wild tumult of rage
and -Gespair, only one thought seething through
her mind: 3

~“T am Sir George Vane’s wife!”

_ Op and on, never pausing, though the crowd
jostled her from side to side, from one _ gaslit
street to another,. under gay arches of ban-
ners; under trailing wreaths 6f odorous blos-
soms; through groups of gaily robed women; into
knots of grotesque masqueraders; into the midst
of riotous soldiery, filling the air with the clash
of their sabers, and the clang of their musicalh
instruments. .

“She is mad! she
eried out the spectators,
hooting, in her wake. ;

“She is a thief! she has stolen something of
value,” cried one. :

“Perhaps she is a jailbird, just escaped from
her cage!” echoed another. —

On she went like the wind. <A tall man, wear-
ing a badge of office, iatercepted her. ;

“Little one,” he said, looking down at her
wild, white face, ‘‘what is it that causes you to

speed through Paris like a whirlwind? How
ean I help you?”

“By letting me alone,’ she gasped, and, tear-
ing herself free, she flew on again.

A woman, rough of aspect but kind of heart,
laid her hand on her shoulder.

“Stop, ma petite. You are too young and too
fair, to be alone in Paris at this hour, even
though you fiy like a bird. What ails you?” ~
_ “Something that you cannot cure. Let me go,
please.”

And on she hastened. Into bystreets and  de-
serted lanes, through mud and mire of wret¢hed
courts filled with sin and pestilence. _

“Stop, my pretty bird,’ cried out a big fel-

clapping his hand upon her shoulder. .

But the sight of her white facé and wide blue
eyes filled him with awe, and he released her.

On the child went, panting, breathless, mad,
till the glitter of the Seine flashed upon her
eyes. : :

“There is the river—I can rest there!’ she
whispered. hoarsely. “I am the wife of the man
who murdered my father!”

-But before she reached the water’s edge she
fell. Her foot had slipped into an opening, and
she found herself unable to rise. A mist swam
‘before her eyes, the heart in her bosom seemed
about to burst, her head reeled.

“Tt Joved poor papa so,’ she moaned, in a’
faint, ‘heart-broken voice, “and I have married

is demented! Seize her!’’
and a crowd followed,

Then darkness fell upon her. The touch of
_a gentle hand aroused her—how long after she
never knew.
_ “My child,
Four = : :
Such a kind, pitying voice. She opened her
aching eyes. An old man, his beard and hair
snow-white, in the garb of-a monk, bent over her.

“Are you ill, my child?”
~ “fT hoped I was dead. Oh, why did you awaken
me?” she said, shuddering, as her memory re-
turned. ‘‘Where am I, and who are you?”

- You are alone in the streets of Paris, poor
child, and I am Father Ignatius. Tell me what
I ean do for you.”’ : F

“Nothing; let me go on to the river yonder.
No one can help me.” f :

She struggled to her feet, and started on, bu
he held her back. : ¢

“So young and so tired of life,” he said pity-
ingly. “Child, where are your friends and
home ?”’ 3
~“T have none in the wide world.’

“Then come with me; I will take you to a
safe shelter.”

She looked at him, noticing, his garb for the
first time. “

‘Who are you?” she asked.

~ “TF am Father Ignatius.”

She sobbed in a dry, tearless sort of way.
~ “You'll pity me, then; Father Francis was so
goog always. I lived in a convent once,’’ sHe
said brokenly. ~_ : :

“Why did you leave it?’’ he asked, leading her
along beside him.” : ky

“Why? - Oh, because I was wicked! But I
“have my reward. Oh, I can’t live! Let me go
river.” i
“No, no, child. Tell me your trouble ; I may

be able to help you.’’ Ses

“She laughed hysterically. “Help me, oh,
Heaven! Yes, I will tell--you. my trouble! I
have married Sir George Vane, the man who shot
my father.’ :

The monk stood still,
over his face. :

“What do you
‘‘Who are you?”

“J am Genevra Montraville.”

“Merciful Heaven!”

He gave a great start, his face becoming ashen
white. ; ints :
~ “Genevra Montraville!’” he said at last, his

“>t have heard the
When did you marry

are you il? What can [I do for

‘a swift change sweeping

mean?’ he hurriedly asked.

_name of Montraville before.
Sir George Vane?’”’

“To-night, not an hour ago. I was unaware of

his identity—he kept his name _ secret until the

J stabbed him with a dag-

eeremony was over.
I hope I have

ger when I discovered who he was.

So MeIGG. at 8a

~The monk stood dumb, that ghastly look still
om his face.

_ “Then you don't love this man you have mar-
-ried?”” he said slowly, at last. me

“Love him? Oh, merciful Heaven! The man
who shot poor father! Oh, I have not forgot-
ten it. I was a poor, little child then, and papa
was all I had. Sir George Vane laughed at me
when I begged him to spare him! Love him?
Didn’t I tell you I tried to kill him?” :

“Yet you married him?’’.

“J knew him under another name. I was a
weak, wicked girl, and I grew tired of the old
con¥ent, and Sister Josepha wanted me to take
monastic yows.”’ : =

“Sister Josepha?”

“Yes; do you.-know. her?” . ;

“T did once. Is she alive and well?”

“She was when I left the convent. She is
heart-broken now—she loved me so, and [I un-
gratefully deceived her.” ‘

The monk suppressed something like a sob.

“You are sorry, therefore she will forgive you.
Would you like to return to the convent?”

“Oh, yes! I am ready to go back now,
become a nun, like Sister Josepha.”

“Come with me, then, and you shall return to

and

=the convent to-morrow.”

But the morrow found Genevra ill with brain
ifever, and for weeks she lay at death’s door,
itenderly cared for by Father Ignatius and the
Sisters of- Mercy. ;

Sat > * * * * * *

Mrs. Montraville had been domiciled at the old
French convent a week, her daughters with her.
It was midnight of a stormy night, and she
had just left her son’s ae Through the re-
mainder of the night Mr. Kent went on duty.

Sir Bayard was still unconscious, lying in a
half-comatose state, as he had lain from the first.
Nothing would: rouse him, not even the fond
tears that bedewed his pale face. . ;

- “He is worse,’’ the doctor had said, a famous
court physician, called over from London; “his
pulse is lower, and he seems to be sinking. It
is my duty to be candid; I fear there is little
hope of his recovery. We are nearing a crisis in
his case; he may pass away at any minute;

ee may live, and never regain his. reason.”

*

4

‘couch upon which the miserable woman

Jorder to draw our hearts to Him.

| kenby ;

my life,

j atone for

 

cruel verdiet for a mother to hear. Her

glorious boy, the pride and idol of her life, like-
ly to die at any minute; or, if he lived, that
other alternative more bitter than death. é

“A poor, reasonless imbecile, my gifted, bril-
liant Bayard! Oh, Heaven, let him die, sooner!
It is eruel, cruel! God is merciless; my pun-
ishment is greater than I can bear,’’ wailed the
miserable mother, sinking upon a couch in her
own room. 3

Sister Josepha stood and looked at her, sin-
eere pity in her sad, tender eyes. Few attain
that state of perfect godliness, when it is possi-
ble to pity and forgive one’s mortal enemy—pos-
sible to do good unto those who have despitefully
used us. This pale, gentle nun had reached that
beatific state. Tried in the furnace of sore af-
fliction, her soul had come forth as pure gold!

Standing beside this woman, who in the days
of her pride and prosperity had turned her-from
her. door, who- had lent her power and influ-
ence to drag her down to infamy and wretched-
ness, Sister Josepha felt no malice, no revenge-
ful wrath, nothing but pity and forgiveness.
Like the Divine Master, whose steps she fol-
lowed, she found it in her heart to pray for those
whose hands had been ready to shed her blood.

“There have been sorrows as great as yours,
my friend,’ she said gently, sitting down by the
lay ;
“other mothers have loved their sons, and have
lost them.”’

“That fact does not tend to lessen my _ sor-
row. My son was my idol, my ali in all. If it
had been my daughters, I could have borne if,
but my boy——— .. Oh, Bayard, Bayard!” »

Great. sobs convulsed her frame, she slipped
down from the couch, and, kneeling, buried her
face in the nun’s robe. Sister Josepha laid her
gentle hand on the bowed head.

“God takes our idols from us,’’ she said, “in

We are so
prone to forget God in our prosperity, to dis-
obey Him, and disregard His holy teachings, that,
not in wrath but in tenderest love, His chasten-
ing hand is laid upon us. He is not cruel—
He is just and merciful.’

“Yes, God is just,” cried the mother; her heart
erushed, her pride all gone; “I am only reaping
my reward—I might have known that my pun-
ishment.would come, here as well as hereafter!
I have sinned, yet I have had no pity for oth-
ers, and Heaven will have no pity on me. Oh,
Sister Josepha, if I might die, and my son live!”

“Are you prepared to die, my friend?”

“Oh, no, no! -My soul is black with sin—a
secret sin that has rufhed my life! I am unfit
to die, but I- would risk eternal punishment to
save Bayard.” ‘

“Your son is in the mereiful Father’s hands;
let Him do with him as He will. Cannot you
trust him in God’s. keeping?’

“What have I to do with God? Dare I ask
Him to pity and help me, knowing how heartless-
ly I have sinned? I was a mother, yet I had no
pity for that peor, wretched’ mother; and Heaven
is visiting my great crime upon me! Oh, pity
me, pray for me, Sister Josepha !’’

“I do, I will; but you must pray for yourself;
you must confe&$s your secret and hidden sins, and
look to Heayen for pardon and absolution. It
may be, if you truly repent of your transgres-
sions, and freely confess the sins that you have
committed, that, seeing your .contrition, our di-
vine Father will withdraw His chastising hand.
He is not slow to pardon.’’

The wretched woman looked up, her face white
with agony and remorse, a wild hope lighting her
eyes.

“Do you mean that My son might yet be spared
to me?” she cried. “Oh, if I thought so, I
would tell the whole shameful truth.. It was for
Bayard’s sake I sinned!- Oh, perhaps God will
give me Bayard’s life, if I do all in my power to
right the terrible wrong I committed?”

“Whether God spares your son’s Hfe -or not,
you should confess your sins, and repent of them
for your own soul’s sake,’ said the nun _ sol-
emnly.

Mrs. Montraville hid her face again,
whole frame shook with sobs.

“T am deeply repentant now,’ she said bro-
“T*never saw my crime in its true light
until I came here. She loved her babe as I love
Bayard, and I tore him from her! Oh, wretched
woman that I’am, there is no pardon for me!”

Sister Josepha’s white face grew a_ shade
paler; an eager, hungry look dawned in her eyes.

“What do you mean?’ she asked, her voice
hoarse and tremulous; ‘‘I do not understand you.”’

Mrs. Montraville clasped her hands.

-“No matter. I cannot tell, I dare not proclaim
my crime! -Even you might betray me. Then,
oh; cruel fate, my boy would lose everything, all
that I have periled my soul to secure.’’

-“f will not betray you,’ said the nun, the hun-
gry look still in her eyes, her lips trembling.
“Tell me of the poor mother and her child.”

The proud woman at her feet cowered down,
hiding her face in her hands.

“It was-such .a cruel, heartless, unwomanly
deed to do,” she said, her hands locked to-
gether, her face haggard. ‘I’m ashamed to con-
fess it; yet I dare not ask God for Bayard’s
life with this awful secret locked up in my soul.
I must tell Some one or my heart will burst.”

‘Would you tell Father Francis?’ asked Sis-
ter Josepha softly.

“Oh, Heaven, no! I could not tell him! Tf
could tell you; you are a weman, and you are
so good and true, I am sure you would not be-
tray me. You would understand my motive, too;
my sin would not seem so terrible to you if you
had ever been a mother.”

-‘I have been a mother,’’ said the nun.

Mrs. Montraville looked up at the pale face
hidden beneath the white cornette.

“You have been a mother?”

“T have been a mother!”

There was infinite sadness in the géntle veice,
yearning, wistful tenderness in the mournful eyes,
Mrs. Montraville drew a deep breath.

“Then you can understand the feeling a moth-
er has for her only son; how she would be almost
willing to peril her own soul for his sake?’

“T can understand it.”

“You will not betray me if I tell you? It
would be my son’s. ruin, if his dear life is spared.
You promise not to betray my secret?”

“I promise; it~shall not pass my lips,
you give me permission to speak.”

“T can trust you; it will ease my heart to tell
some one, and you may be able to advise me, you
are so good, and I am so wretched and wicked.”
* “Go on; tell me of the mother and her child.”

There was feverish impatience in the nun’s
suppressed voice, but in her own pain Mrs. Mon-
traville failed to notice it.

“The mother I+spoke of was my _ brother’s
wife,” she began; “she was my governess when
he married her, and I was terribly enraged at
the mésalliance. I forbade them ever to darken
my doors again. They went off to some remote
place; and not long after some trouble—I never
learned what—separated them; my, brother, or
half-brother, as he was, went off to India, leav-
ing his wife forsaken. é

“Months after she came to me at Creedmoor
with her babe in her arms seeking tidings of her
husband, poor soul. I turned her qut of my
house, with cruel words, and when she was. gone
I followed her and stole her child.”

A subdued cry broke from Sister Josepha’s
lips; she clutched the back of her chair, and set
her teeth. :

“What became of the child?” she questioned,
in an impotent whisper.

“JT stole it, as I have already told you—that
child would have stood between my son Bayard
and the family title and estates. The hope of
since the hour of my _son’s birth, had
Sir Bayard of Montrayille

and her

unless

been to see him
Towers.

“T took my servant and followed the forsaken
wife. Fate favored us; we found her sitting un-
der a hedge in a dead swoon, the babe on her
breast. We stole it from her! Ah, Heaven, I
shall remember till my dying day how the little
thing cried out and clung to. her.”

“But you took the child?’ urged Sister Jo-
sepha, her eyes expressing hungry, eager impa-
tience. -

“TI took it—and my servant carried it off to
the Foundling’s Home in London, and the poor
mother was arrested and accused of slaying her
own babe. Circumstantial evidence proved her
guilty; she was convicted and sentenced for a
term of five years. But all this time I held my
peace. Oh, Heaven, there is no pardon for a
sinner like me!” __ ; :

“ ‘Tlf thy sins are as scarlet, I will make
them white as snow,’’’ quoted Sister ‘Josepha,
keeping down the terrible suspense that wracked
her soul. .

“Ah,” continued Mrs. Montraville, “if I might
the cruel wrong, I should feel some
hope; but the wretched mother died before her
term ended.”’

“And the child; did from - that
again?”

“Heaven makes our own
of jour punishment,’ said thd lady bitterly.
“Years went by, Sir Humphgey Montraville died,
and my son went to hear the will read, and re-
ceive his fortune, never dreaming, my _ noble,
darling boy, what it had cost the mother he loved
to secure that fortune. We found an adopted
son at» Montraville Towers, and to him Sir Hum-
phrey had willed most of his money. The in-
stant I saw his face, I knew bim for my broth-
er’s son. Later, the proof eame. My servant
confessed to me that she bribed a nurse at the
Foundling’s Home to tell her the name by which
the child she had carried there was christened.
That name was Dudley Kent.”

Dead silence then. Sister Josepha sat with
downcast eyes, and lo@ked hands, and silent lips.

“Now you understand,’ continued the peni-
tent lady, ‘“‘why I cannot confess,;my crime pub-
liely. To reveal to Dudley Kent—-Heaven bless
him for a true and tender friend to my dear boy

s*

you hear

sins the instruments

‘larly good next

 

ae pene

 

ORK WEEKLY.

 

—the secret of his birth, would be to ruin my
own son’s prospects forever.’ Should his life be
spared, he would lose his title and the trifling
annuity which accompanies it.”

“Ts it not likely that he would sooner resign
both than hold them unjustly?’’ asked the nun.
e oe know it; my son is the soul of honor; it
is his poor, weak mother who covets rank ‘and
wealth for him. He would resign everything,
and never feel eyen momentary regret. But why
should he know? Dudley Kent is already well
provided for.’’ :

“But justice should be done; the young man
doubtless is anxious to know the secret of his
birth.”

“Yes ;
heir ‘he

but as Sir
: should feel no
herit my own son for

Montraville’s
IT cannot disin-
his sake. If the mother
lived, the poor mother I so cruelly wronged, I
would-not hesitate an instant.”

s A smile flitted across Sister- Josepha’s quiet
ips. ‘ ;

“T hope, and I shall pray, that God may bring
you to a full sense of your duty,” she said
gently.

“But you will
divulge the
keeping?”

‘Never,

”

Humphrey
regrets,

not
your

me? You will
committed to

not betray
secret I have
unless you give me permisSion to do
so.
A bell. filled the silent oid convent with solemn
echoes, and Sister Josepha left the room.

CHAPTER XIX.
THE MONK’S STORY.

The days drifted slowly by. at the old con-
vent, dreary, sunless, winter days. It might have
been a tomb, so silent were the great, chilly
halls, disturbed onky by the presence of a black-
robed nun passing noiselessly as a phantom to
and from the chapel.

Prayers went up unceasingly, but to the white,
quiet face the meaningless eyes, the limp, pow-
erless form in that hushed and darkened cham-
ber, there came no change. Sir Bayard’s soul
seemed to be silently and slowly drifting out to-
ward the lonely sea of death.

Bruno came home from Paris, and presented
A ages at the conyent, with Norse King at his
side.

“YT could not find her,’ he-said gloomily; “I
came back to tell you. I searched Paris through
and through, and lay in wait day and night, I
and the poor beast here; but we could not find
the little one. I will leave the poor dog here;
I am going back. df that traitor is atop of the
earth, I'll find him; I have a double grudge
against him now.” And he_ went.

Norse King lay all day.in the sunshine under
the linden-trees, a look of human sorrow in his
eyes.

One morning, after a night of weary watching
in Sir Bayard’s room, Sister Josepha went out
for a walk. Her face had changed indescriba-
bly in the last few days, a tender smile hovered
about her lips, a happy light filled her eyes; the
secret locked in her heart filled her whole being
with tremulous joy. She had found her son;
the little babe whose loss she had mourned so
bitterly.

Tears filled her eyes and trickled down her
cheeks as she crossed the lawn in the glow of
the opening day. .

“Oh, blessed Lord,
to poor, unworthy
clasped hands. “My
neth over !”% ;

A quick step sounded behind her.

“Ah, Sister Josepha, out for a walk at this
early hour?’ cried a cheery voice. “I fancied
you were in bed and asleep after your hard night.
Do you care for company?”

She looked up at the bright, boyish, handsome
face, so like the face of the bridegroom of her
girlhood. Oh, to hold that manly head once
upon her bosom, to call him her own, her dar-
ling, her long-lost child! How cruel the prom-
ise that bound her! But she had no intention
of breaking it. ;

“T am always glad
Kent,” she said softly.

So they walked on side by side.

“Really, are you? I feel flattered at that,”
said the young man genially. ‘‘Do you know, Sis-
ter Josepha, that I have thought a dozen times
that you are just the sort of person I would like
my mother to be, providing I could find her! Tf
am like Japhet, always in search of a father,
and a mother, too; and I have a fancy my moth-
er, if I ever discover her, will be like you.”

Her heart beat so tumultuously she could not
speak for a minute, but she laid her hand on his
arm.

“My father,’ he went on, “I cannot fancy,
somehow ; he seeins a sort of myth, and TI cannot
imagine his appearance. Well, I have much to
be grateful for,.and I am; but a fellow likes to
know who. his grandmother was, Sister Jo-
sepha.”

‘Certainly, it is quite natural.
will solve your mystery some day.”

“T hope so, indeed; I shall never rest satis-
fied until I do. I have had a rough time of it
in my short life. I will tell you my adventures
some time, Sister Josepha.”’

“YT shall be delighted to hear them.”

“You shall. Oh, how my eyes smart. Sitting
up all night doesn’t make a_ fellow feel particu-
morning. Poor Sir Bayard, I
get any better, Sister Jo-.

how kind Thou hast been
me!’ she murmured, withe
cup of joy is full, it run-

of your company,. Mr.

I hope you

fear he will
sepha.”

“That is
swered solemnly.

never

an-

exactly my impressions,’’ she
little

“His mother and . poor
Lulie take it so bitterly to heart, too. Miss
Grace does not appear-to care much for any-
thing but her own handsome self. Ah, if his life
might only bé-spared.”’

“We must reconcile ourselves to God’s
He knows best.”’

“Undoubtedly, but it is hard—we are human,
and human hearts cling to their idols. Hello,
‘Norse King, old fellow; what is it?’’.

The dog, trotting noiselessly behind them, sud-
denly leaped forward with a wild, peculiar cry,
and went bounding down toward the gates. e
two hurried after him, and saw a carriage ap-
proaching the grounds. It drew up, and out of
it stepped a lady, and a man wearing the garb of
a priest.

will—

ee
HER SACRIFICE.

BY FLORENCE REVERE PENDAR.

Apple Blossom Court was situated amid such
a maze of criscross streets that it would have
puzzled any one not already familiar with the
locality to have found his way there without a
guide, although its smoketbegrimed walls reared
themselves close within the city precincts.
Whether the court had received its name in de-
rision, or whether, in years gone by, a tree
bearing these dainty blossoms had stood in some
odd corner thereabouts, was a mystery not likely
to be solved. Not that any of its dwellers gave
it a moment’s thought. To them it meant a place
to crawl into at night, a place to eat the meager
meals that fell to their share. Beyond that, for
the most part, they asked nothing, knew noth-
ing. To toil and moil was their lot. Yet,
at. times, a wail of bitterness” issued from a
mother’s white lips as she saw her little ones
gasp out their lives day by day in the pestilent
air of their crowded pen. Yes, pen, rightly
named, where they were herded together like
cattle, two and three families in one room. Do
you wonder at crime spreading like a contagious
disease in such holes? Can you expect goodly
plants to come from such wretched soil?

On one of those sultry days peculiar to August,
when even ordinary exertion is a thing to be
dreaded, Apple Blossom Court presented» signs
of unusual excitement. Women, clasping sickly-J
looking infants, leaned from _ rickety windows.
Men, with their heads swathed in bandages,
pipes between their lips, lolled lazily against the
dirt-begrimed doorways, and watched, with as
much interest, as such downtrodden creatures
were capable of, a group gathered about a woman
who appeared to be a shade higher in the social
scale than her neighbors, if one could judge
by her attire, which, although of the common-
est material, was clean and neatly patched.
Tears were coursing down her pinched, wrinkled
cheeks, while her trembling hands vainly tried
to smooth the gray locks into their usual tidi-
ness. Shocking curses loud and deep fell upon
the fetid air from the lips of women as well as
men, as she sobbed out her grief.

A door of one of the houses opened, and a
young woman came forth. As she moved toward
the group, little children stopped their play to
chll to her, and tiny toddlers held up their weak
arms. With a word, a.«smile, or a friendly pat
she made her way among them. Her face, which
was absolutely colorless, was relieved and_ ren-
dered almost pretty by the deep blue of her
clear, thoughful eyes and the rich chestnut hue
of her thick braids. The little circle fell aside
at her approach, and the oaths died away upon
their lips. Laying her hand upon a sorrowing
woman’s arm, she asked kindly: .-

‘What has happened, Mrs. Watson?
do anything for you?’’

“Oh, Mattie, there’s na
and it’s breaking me heart!’

And the gray head bowed itself upon the young
woman’s shoulder, as the latter drew it lovingly

to that shelter.
“It’s about Jamie, Mattie,’’ eagerly exclaimed
two or three, adding; ‘‘He’s been arrested.”

“Ah, Mattie!’’ wailed the poor mother, as she

Can I

help, I’m fearing,

 

elung to her companion; “and he such a good
son, and it's all along of me that he came to
do it, and he~tried so hard to get work. He
couldn't bear that I needed a meal, or the like.
‘Mither,’ sez he, when they was takin’ him awa’,
don’t ye turn agin’ me. It’s the curse of pov-
erty that made me do’t; and I’m. believing,
if .there’s “a God, he’ll na judge me so hard.’
As if I could, his own mither, and he the best
son that ever drew breath.”

“What caused him to get into this
Mrs. Watson?” queried the young woman.

Raising her tear-stained face, the mother
plied :

“Ye ken, Mattie, what
and ye'll believe wi’
of the sin until it

Tears glistened in
answered :

“Fm sure of it.
wrong purposely.”

A heartfelt “God bless ye!’’
old woman’s lips, and she continued with:

“Tl tell it ye in Jamie’s ain words. ‘Mither,’ |
ses he, ‘this is the way it happened. I’d_ been |
on a bit of an errand wi’ a letter, and was
walking “past them fine houses on Fifth Avenue, |
when I see a carriage stop before one of them
and a leddy get out, and a minute after I
struck my toe agin’ a bit of a bag made o’
satin, or summat like. Weel, the coachman was}
na looking, and when f felt the siller in the}
bag, the thought came to me of the many things!
ye ha’ sore need of, and I just put it in my
pocket. The leddy were rich, and she wouldna
miss it, but I ha’ na the right feeling all the|
same. If it was na for the disgrace, ’m most]
glad that one of the leddy’s servants had seen
me take it.’ My poor boy! and locked up_he is
how, and he’ll be tried in a week, the Lord help}
me-!’’

“In a week!’
you know
purse ?”’

“Yes, dear, a Mrs. Browning. I’m thinking I'll;
na forgit it to the eend of my days,’’ was the)
answer, followed by “She might ha’ let my boy}
go; she has her siller back; can she na be}
satisfied?”

With tender, pitiful words the
sought to console the poor mother, as she gently
led her toward her own door. The little group
scattered itself, and Apple Blossom Court settled
down to its daily drudgery. ‘

Some fourteen years previous
of my story Mattie Burns had
in this crowded court, a little girl of ten years,
whose widowed mother, a fair, gentle woman,
ar out her life seeking to support herself and
child.

Before Mattie had reached her thirteenth year,
she was motherless, but not quite friendless.
Kind hearts were among the denizens of Apple
Blossom Court, and between them they did what
they could for the orphan child, and she remem-
bered it in the days that came after, when she
might have severed the link that bound her to
them, and would not. A faint dream of her
childhood’s home- lingered in: her heart, of a bit
of a cottage away off in Scotland, and a father
who had been so loving’ and kind. Then there
had been the dark day of her father’s death,
and the long journey across the sea, to the
uncle who was to provide for them, and her
poor mother’s grief when she learned that he,
too, had died suddenly, and they were alone in
the world, without money or friends.

With her father’s sturdy honesty of purpose,
and something of her mother’s gentle prettiness,
that would have bloomed to greater perfection
with purer air and better living, this Scotch
lassie took root and grew fair and_ guileless
amid the. weeds of Apple Blossom Court.

child Mattie had been referee in all
dispute among her little companions,
and as she grew older, children of a larger
growth sought to unburden their troubles, and
so it came about, little by little, that this young
woman grew to be a necessity to most of her
neighbors, while the toughest of then endeavored
to appear well in her sight. Her influence over
these downtrodden men and women was great,
yet She never showed consciousness of it. They
suffered, and she wept with them. They were
kind to her when there had been need, and she
loved them for it. That was all she thought,
while they felt, but could not have explained,
the good of such as Mattie in their midst.

The day after the arrest of Jamie Watson, a
young woman,» poorly but neatly clad, paused
before one of Fifth Avenue’s handsome dwelling-
houses. After a moment’s hesitation she as-
cended the steps and rang the bel. The Man
servant who opened the door, having received
instructions to admit a young person, a seam-
stress, allowed her to pass, with the information
that. Mrs. Browning desired hér to wait in the}
library, whither he ¢condescendingly conducted |
her. Mattie, for it was she, had ample time
to note the many costly works of art scattered
lavishly throughout this elegantly furnished room.
Such a real pleasure as it was to her, this first
glimpse of things beautiful. With an impulsive
“Oh!” she started from her seat as her eyes
fell upon a large painting of a Scottish moor,

trouble,
re-

a good lad Jamie was,
me that he ha’-na thought
was all over.’’
Mattie’s eyes “she

as an-~

 

Jamie was not the.one to go

;
|
}
|

exclaimed Mattie,
the name of the lady

adding: ‘“‘Do}
who lost her |

young woman

to the opening
come to. dwell

 

AS a

cases of

dropped from the | “¢
i | the

| the

 

with a little cottage standing in its midst; -a
fair-haired woman shading her eyes in her hand
at the open door, a golden-crowned toddler in
her arms, both watching a stalwart, sun-browned
man crossing the heather toward them. Some-
thing like a sob escaped Mattie’s lips, and her
hands were raised almost imploringly toward the
picture. It was like the home she could never
forget, and for a moment she lived her child-
hood days over again.

The folds of a portiére across one end of the
room stirred’ slightly, then became motionless,
as a lady entered at the opposite door.

“Dear me!” exclaimed the lady, “what
James mean? You>are not: Miss Howard.”

“No, ma’am; I am Mattie Burns,’ answered
Mattie, adding, ‘‘and I would like to speak with
you, if you can spare.me just a few moments.”

“Well, really, I am not in the habit of giving
audiences to unknown persons, but as you are
here I will listen to what you have to say,
provided you are brief;’. and, seating herself,
the lady signified that the visitor might pro-
ceed. :

For a moment Mattie stood with her hands
nervously interlaced; then she began slowly, as
if weighing her words:

“JT have come to ask you to let Jamie Wat-
son go.’’ Then seeing the look of bewilderment
in the lady’s eyes, she added: ‘The boy who
had your purse, ma’am.” ”

“Tndeed ?”’ the lady answered, somewhat
haughtily, as she raised her eye-glass. and
scanned Mattie more closely as she continued
with: “T presume this James is some lover of

does

“No, ma’am,”’ came the quiet answer. ‘He jis
but a boy, and nothing to me; but he isthe sou"
of a good mother, and it is for her sake I
Sik st,7,

“Well, if she is such a good mother, why
did she not bring him up better?’’ ejaculated the
lady, somewhat impatiently.

“He has always been a good son,
not for himself that he wanted the money. His
mother is ailing, and the doctor says she must
have good nourishment. Oh! you don’t know,”
continued Mattie, the tears gathering in her
eyes, “what it is to see those you love dying
day by day for the want of things you cannot
honestly get. You do not know the temptation
of it all—how can you? Yet if you did, such
pity and sorrow would fill your heart that there
would be no room for anything else. If the rich
and the poor could only learn to understand
each other better. But you stand so far off,
and we have our bit of pride. 3ut I did not
come here to speak of these things, which I do
not rightly understand myself, only that there’s
a wrong somewhere. If you’d only not prose-
cute poor Jamie, I’d be so thankful for it, and
all of the people living in our court would be
grateful to you—oh, so much!”

“And simply-to please you, whom
seen before, and these other unknown
I am to allow a thief to escape the law?’
swered Mrs. Browning, rising, as if to end
interview.

“Oh, no; not for that only. Could you hold
the power to give a poor boy the chance to turn
over a new leaf, and make a sorrowing mother
happy, and not use it?’’ slowly questioned Mat-
tie, her heart sore with the thought that she
had failed in her mission, and that Jamie would
be doomed to imprisonment, and his poor moth-
er’s head bowed with grief and shame.

At that moment the portiére was drawn aside,
and an elderly gentleman stepped into view, the
lady exclaiming:

“Why, Tom, I
town !”

“No; I have been
my dear, there is a great deal of truth in what
this young woman says. The rich and the
poor are too far apart. I’m always ready to}
put my name down to any subscription, and I
don’t think a poor devil ever had to ask me
twice for a loan to help him along, but there
it ends, just where it began. Now, my “dear,”
continued the gentleman, turning to his wife.
“just by way of experiment, don’t you think we
might as well let this fellow off? To tell the
truth, I’m rather interested to see how it will
turn out.”

“Why, really, if you
Tom, I’m sure J cannot refuse.
death with the whole affair.’

“Then I think, miss, you can tell the mother}
it will be all right for her son,’ spoke Mr.}
Browning, with a slight bow to Mattie. |

“You are very kind, sir; and I thank you sin-
cerely,” came from Mattie’s now trembling lips.

“Tut, tut!’ and Mr. Browning’s kindly face
beamed with good nature as he added:

and it was

I have not
parties,
an-
the

thought you had gone down-

here, and I really think,

look at it in that light,
I’m bored to

 

to-day,

) and I’m more than pleased to _be able to
give o

some return.
* * * * * * *

The Brownings did not appear against Jamie,
but Jamie received a letter telling him he could
find work by applying at the firm of Dixby,
Green & Co., ironmongers, and from that red-
letter day things brightened both for mother and
son, and after a few months they moved away
from Apple’ Blossom Court to a better and
healthier neighborhood.
Just about that time a
man began to make his
AS a rule, strangers were
a cool reception in that
did the old gentleman work his way with the
help of the children, that he had become almost
as one of them before they realized that he was
stranger in their midst. wt mother can
a kindness done to and to the
gentleman,” as the
little ones seemed to
of penny ices and
thereto.
From the
seemed to
Landlords
of coal,
sick
the right

quaint,. elderly
ippearance in the
apt to meet with rather
quarter, but so deftly

court.

take

cookies

of the “fold gentleman”’
up for Apple f
less harsh.
baskets of provisions
found their way’* to
moment. Somehow,
summer (none could tell
managed) there was not one that crowded
court who had not enjoyed for y or a week
pure air and green fields. 1 Mattie, she,
too, had her trip to the country,. with a flock
of little ones in her charge.

The ‘old gentleman” had been coming to. the
court about a week, when one day, meeting Mat-
tie, she exclaimed, in her astonishment:

“Mr. Brown 33

“Ah, yes, my dear,’ answered he, a blush suf-
fusing his kindly faee, while a slya twinkle crept
into his eyes, as he added, “I’m the ‘old gentie-
man’ here, you know.”

“And it is you who have been so kind?’’ mur-
mured Mattie.

“Tut, tut, Miss Mattie;
now and again to the
blessed if I don’t enjoy as much as they, the
rascals.” Then lowering his voice, he continued:
“T think I’m getting nearer; subscriptions are all
very well, but if you want a thing properly
done, do it yourself, and so I’m experimenting a
bit. ‘Old gentleman’—capital idea of the court’s,
that. By the way, what do you think of a
nice, large farm, lots of grass, and chickens, and
such? We could manage to keep it tolerably full,
eh? How would you like to live there, and
sort of superintend matters?’’

A home in’the country! Mattie’s heart gave
one great bound; it was what she had longed
for all her life; but Apple Blossom Court—
could it spare her? No; she knew that it could
not—that ‘its miserable homes would become
still more so if she were not there to help, and
encourage, and stand between many a blow and
h:rd word. Her lip quivered slightly as she
auswered :

“Please do not think me ungrateful; butt [
could not leave the court. Your home in the
country is a grand idea, and what happiness it
would bring to those who have never known
better than this old place.’

Almost reverently uncovering his head, -the
“old gentleman” held out his hand, saying, as he
clasped Mattie’s: :

“Miss Mattie, I am proud to know you I
have read of unselfish, self-sacrificing women,
but I never expected to meet one, and it’s a little
upsetting; and turning, he hurried out of the
court as fast as his stout body would permit.

Winter came, bringing to Apple Blossom Court
much sickness “and death, and the “old gentle-
man’s” work grew heavier and heavier, while
Mattie’s never ceased. No one seemed to notice
that Mattie’s step became slower, and her here-
tofore pale cheeks now oftentimes wore a slight
flush, yet they loved her well; but they had be-
come so used to I$ok to her. to bear their bur-
dens that it never occurred to them that she,
too, might suffer and need aid.

The breath of spring was -sheavily laden
its flowers’ perfume when they found her,
tired hands at rest, a smile upon her lips.
Alone in her attic she had died, “almost in
her sleep,’’ they whispered, in hushed tones.
An awed stillness settled down upon the court,
and from aged and infant lips came the cry:

“Our Mattie is dead!”

Many a grander funeral
none I ween with “more
thougts of the dead. The
allowed to purchase a lot. Mattie had liked him,
and he had grown to be such a friend to them
all, but the coffin—no, that should be their care.
He might give toward it, but they must all
1elp, and many a néeded article was pawned
that they might do what was right by “our Mat-
tie.”

Mattie

advent
look
grew

things
ssom C
Mysterious — bus
and medicines
the court just at
during that hot
exactly how it was

for

only a bit of a treat

children, which I’m

with
the

than Mattie’s, but
Sorrowing or loving
‘fold gentleman’’ was

one of these
miles away
lay her fa-
that’ had

back to

loved flowers, therefore
downtrodden creatures walked five
out into the country that he might
vorites upon her breast, the breast
cradled his sick child and soothed it
life.

Many a one turned to look
the funeral moved on its way.
all they could afford, and the rest
and women, with little children in
each down to the veriest. babe wearing
black tacked to their sleeve.

and question as
Two carriages,
on foot, men
their arms,

a bit of

* * * * * * *

then, and
more, but
old farm-
No mis-
plentiful

Years have come and gone sifice
Apple Blossom Court is known no
away in the country there is a_ grand
house called Apple Blossom Farm.
nomer this time, for apple-trees are
thereabouts.

Within the farm’s
women and sickly children find
strength again, and no downtrodden
whether man or beast, is ever turned
gates.

A white-haired gentleman is often seen there,
who is never so happy as when he is superintend-
ing the addition of a new wing or some other
improvement for the benefit of his poorer breth-
ren who seek strength and rest at this pleasant
home. Away across the orchard, in a little dell,
a pure white marble shaft rears itself amid the
trees, inscribed on which -you may read the
words:

overworked
health and
creature,
from its

generous shelter

ERECTED IN MEMORY OF

OUR MATTIE,
BY
Apple Blossom Court,

+0
DEACON HORNE’S DIFFICULTY

BY MAX ADELER.

last Easter, as Deacon Horne
came home from class-meeting, he thought he
would buy a few eggs to color for the children,
and so he stepped in at the grocery-story and
procured half a dozen, which he placed in the
pockets of his coat tail., The deacon is an ab-
sent-minded man, and by the time he reached
home he had forgotten all about the eggs, so they
remained in his pockets. He wore the coat to
church next day and sat on three of the eggs
during a large portion of the service without
being aware of the situation.

Just before the sermon he
collection, and he started down
so. As he handed the box to old
thought he saw a bug. crawling
and while she was getting her
put his hand in his coat-tail
handkerchief to brush it off.
scended Mrs. Coffin observed a look of anguish
steal across his face, and as she thought he
was getting angry because she hadn’t given
enough, she exclaimed, out loud:

“Tt’s none of your business, an what I
give. I'll give just what I ple and you
needn’t be glaring at me in that y I won’t
have it!”

This made the deacon so nervous
his presence of mind, and pulling out
which was covered with broken shell and
yellow strings dangling from it, he tried to
brush that bug from Mrs. Coffin’s bonnet with it.
As soon as she caught a glimpse of the bedaubed
hand, she rose up in the pew, brandished her
umbrella under the deacon’s nose, and shrieked>

“G’way from here! G’way from here this in-
stant! If you put that nasty stuff. on me, Mr.
Horne, I’ll knock the breath outen you with this
yer umbrella. GQ’way, I tell you!’

The deacon felt ready to faint, and he clutched
the top of the pew to keep himself from falling
Noticing the smear made by his hand, he dropped
the box and held on with the other hand. Then
it occurred to him that he must pick up the box,
and he did so, collecting the scattered money
with his egged hand, and getting it into an awful
condition. Then the broken eggs began to ooze
through his pocket, and he stood there in the
aisle with a thin, yellow string dripping from
each coat tail, until Brother Smith suggested that
he was spoiling the carpet. Then, in utter des-
peration, the deacon darted for the front door,
taking with him the money-box, and confirming
old Mrs. Coffin’s suspicions that he intended from
the first to rob the church as soon as he got
a chance. She was about to stand up and cry
“Stop thief!’”? when Miss Coffin explained the
matter to her and she subsided.

The deacon hasn’t been to church since
He is getting his Sunday coat cleaned

On the eve of

had to take up the
the aisle to do
Mrs. Coffin he
on f bonnet,
money. ready he
pocket to get his
As his hand de-

pway,

that he lost
hand,
had five

his

Easter,

and his

“That’s all right; you opened my eyes a bit, feelings soothed.

 

 

 

gentle-.

 

 

 

ae) eta cbt =

Ma ak i i

a

 
 

=

 

_ 8 months
4

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fg o> jel: Allen’s Cat eeerne
“Her BOEPOG HLS. Sees sae sk ne

at

 

 

 

 

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sar) | tain- daily journals.

“paanors" s Wooing (Serial). ...... Mon: Evelyn Ashby

The Woman Wins (Serial) he Ree ey Owen Masters

-Mrs. Schuyler Meserole

~The Lady of Lyndhurst (Serial)..Mrs. Kate Chrystal

Love and Money (Serial) ....Marie Connor Leighton

| “Her Sacrifiee...... va++-s0++-Florence Revere Pendar

: The Juror’s seceue* SS Saree Lawrence Leslie

Setes ast L. Dacre
..Mrs. E. Burke Collins

Stella's Two Eovers cst ae es eS S

= Deacon Horne’s Difficulty... .2..02....-.. Max Aghia

T Don’t Need to Know.....: eSrve =... Harkley Har’ ‘er

-Too M any Women: eS Addressed to Kate Thorn

Josh Billings’ Philosopuy .... roize ae Josh Billings
Pleasant Paragraphs. Ee eae -+++--Charles WwW. Foster

Work-Box.. eiSei vali waar cae aE ae Mrs. Helen Wood

Items ot Inter est, Cor respondence, ete.

ae _ POEMS.
* €To Dispel the Clouds.”
“Little Jack,”’ by ‘Michael Seanlan.
“No Red Flag Here,” by Denis A. McCarthy.

_ “Spring in the Heart,” by Bertha Alexander Garvey.

 

 

A LIFELIKE ROMANCE.

An author’s art is shown in his ability to
portray his characters with such fidelity that
they seem real personages. ‘They act and
; speak like human beings, and-the incidents
in which they figure never surpass prob-

ability. We think our readers will agree

with us that lifelike characters and realistic
events are artistically portrayed in the de-
lightful story entitled a

BONNIE JEAN.

Rp Sere

: By OWEN MASTERS,

~~ Author of “The Woman Wins,” “One Impassioned Hour,”
“Clyda's Love Dream,” ‘‘The Heir of Avisford,”
“The Ironmaster’s Daughter,” etc.

The plot is simple, yet ingenious,
ducing many highly dramatic situations;
while in parts the narrative is quite pathetic.
It would be unfair to the author to give even
a hint of the captivating plot, lest the

_reader’s interest should be marred by the

untimely revelation of the main secret upon
which the action revolves. We can assure
our patrons that they will find much to ad-

mire in the vigorous and spirited romance of

“BONNIE JEAN,” 7

The opening instalment will appear in the
next issue of the New York Werk Ly, Tell
your friends about it, that they too may be
induced to read a charming story.

‘TO POSSESS A FINE COMPLEXION.

Famous beauties nearly all unite in giving
testimony that a thorough steaming of the face
at night is ~wonderfully effective in - producing
-a'clear complexion. This is done by holding: the
face over a bowl of hot water.

A certain amount of exercise is indiapebsapl
Brisk morning walks, regularly taken and per-
_ Sistenly adhered to, produce a healthy glow that
~ defies artificial imitation.

: Avoid rich and greasy foods. Though it is
practically useless to tell a waman to abjure

» eeweste, it may be ‘declared that they are com-

plexion destroyers,, and that the fewer sweets one
eats the fairer one’s skin is likely to be._
_ Massage is recommended by many. who have
made a special study of the fine aft of com-
_ plexion-preserving. A. gentle kneading of the
face at night and in the morning makes the skin
- Soft, smooth, and healthy,
“Too-frequent washing br the face should be
‘avoided. Some physicians insist that the face
should be washed but once a day, and then only
in tepid water. It is understood that only the
purest =e should be used.

“4.

~

ea ees —~ > ae e

} anything about

....:-.Nicholas Carter |

| those who own the

intro-

BS America, to all the world
Thou stretchest forth a friendly ‘hand?
Beneath thy glorious flag unfurled
No bars to human progress stand.
The honest mind
In thee can find
No chains to hamper or to bind,
Thou dearest hope of all mankind,
- Thou first and freest land!

: . :
Then what of those who now would flout
Thy flag that millions died to save
Since first upon the breeze flung out
It. stirred the spirits of the brave?
What men are those,
; What fools and foes,
Would change the flag the fathers chose,
And in the place where it arose
A blood-red flag would wave?

~~

There are so many things that I don’t need to
know. I am so thankful for the cares that are
not mine. . The older I grow the more I see about
me. that ben not fret me. On a recent Sunday
morning I sat for a happy hour and numbered
up the vexatious things in-our neighborhood that
were none of ‘my business. Why, I felt free as
air and light asa feather. -On the piazza two of
my guests were eagerly concerning themselves to
jfind out who had committed a notorious New
| York -weurder. They had _ foellowed- the horrid
| story in all the vile details spread through cer-
They appealed to me, and
i} Il laughed. ‘That is the business of the police.
They are paid for that. I do not have to know
it.’ They asked if I-were not
interested. ‘‘No, I had spice and excitement
enough in the daily problems of my own business.
Life was active enough, these dubious times, with
me; how to pay my notes, make debtors pay
me, and. sell goods. Why should I use up my
nerve-force playing the sleuth-hound for fun?”

My boy brought me a puzzle of wire rings.
The little fellow had spent two days on it. He
said his Uncle George knew how to solve the
puzzle. I.told the lad that it was one of the
things he and I did not need, then, to know.
As Uncle George was in the family, that he could.
go to him any time he really must have those

rings unsnarled. My son seemed surprfsed. But
I further explained that I must, of necessity,
solve the puzzle of getting his bread on Mon-
day. But this ring-puzzle I did not need to
know. I never spent two minutes on one of those
invented troubles. é

There are men on salary, in newspaper offices,
who are constantly inventing troubles for whom-
soever will be troubled. - Weeks before the Presi-
dent. appoints his cabinet, they attempt to ex-
cite the whole country with predictions and ad-
vice regarding his legal advisers. That is the
President’s affair. Let him attend to it, with
the Senate’s help. The future of politics is often
worked up in this way. As to “being interest-
ing,’ it is not so to me, if it does not specially
concern me. - But in fiction, a story of the imagi-
nation now, I can amuse myself by entering into
the situation restfully. I know it is not real’; yet
I am sure the author will conduct me through.
There is no shocking reality to it. It is a rec-
reation. Quite preferable to all this anxious
perusal of prognosticated future events in news-
‘papers is the enjoyment of literature. -

-What my neighbor’s daughter will do with her
profligate husband is not on my shoulders. The
neglect by the street cothmissioner of a hole in
‘the road is his affair more than mine. How the
heirs can build a public library to my dead
friend’s memory is their lookout.: Are his. debts
all paid? Yes, all he owed- me. Whether the
new tralley-line pays expenses is a matter for

mortgage bonds. And so I sat
there on the piazza all the hour before church-

 

5

I hav seen prudery that yu couldn’t” deskribe
erny other way only to call.it honest hipokrasy.

spend their time finding fault

The majority
instead ov ae to

with what others hav done,
improve upon it themselfs.

Truth iz very kompakt, but a
plenty ov room or it will smother.

lie must hav

Imitators only interest us for a short time;
to make a grate suckcess a man must either be
original or improve on others.

Ridikule iz more cutting than insult, bekauze
it may be true, and iz more diffikult to resent.

Reading iz the means, but thinking iz the end,
ov knolledge.

The poorest kind ov religion that a man kan
have iz the kind that. he iz all the time bragging
~about.

It iz a grate mistake to try to learn wizdum out
ov books. : s

Thare iz a grate menny individuals in this
world who expekt to reach heaven, not on enny
partikular merit oy their own, but on the fail-

agidngs ov others.

I never met an infidel yet who didn’t lug hiz
unbeleaf into every conversation he could. This
looks to me like talking to. keep up their currage.

The best way to satisfy yourself, and others, too,
‘iz to mind yure own bizzness.

“One grate disadvantage in being a habitual liar
iz, that when a man duz aktually tell the truth
he don’t git kredit for it only at the rate ov
50 cents on the dollar.

RESPECTED MADAM: I am a single woman.
People who have no regard for language or po-
liteness call me an old maid. I was not always
thus. I was young once, and I expected to marry
a king or a prince when I was eighteen. At
twenty I would have married a duke, if he had
pleaded very hard. At twenty-five I would not
have refused an earl, if his habits had been good
and he had not used tobacco or alcoholic stimu-
lants in any form. At thirty I would have smiled
on a rich young man who might possibly in the
future have been a member of Congress or a Gov-
-ernor. At forty I would have solaced the sorrows
of a widower with children, if he had not ex-
pected me to have any of his first wife’s relations
) to live with us. At forty- five I would have_taken
almost anything which came along. No reason-
able offer would have been refused. !

But I am still unmarried. I live '
chusetts, where there are more old maids than
there are in any part of the known globe, and
where everybody of the old-maid persuasion
wears eye-glasses, and is interested in ‘mission-
ary -work in the Philippines.

I have just been reading a book, entitled
“Words to. Women.’’ There are a great “many of
}such books. When a man gets out of busiress,
he drinks some strong-coffee, tosses back his hair,
locks his door so that the washerwoman he
owes cannot get in, and writes a book of advice
to women. Every man intends to write such a
book before he dies. He feels positive that he
-eould say what is necessary, much better than
it was ever said® before; and, meanwhile, he
| practises on his wife, and tells her how to dress,
and how to mix the pudding, and how to wash the

in Massa-

 

INO RED FLAG HERE.

‘tin on the corner,

rsay:

 

 

 

baby, so ‘how to think on politics: and religion,

Se

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

ol. 68—No 44

 

 

BY DENIS A. M’CARTHY,-

¢

No lovers of their kind are they
Who’d wreck the work the fathers wrouamts
Blind leaders of the blind:are they
Who’d render yain the fight they fought.
Not love but hate
Inspires the prate
That bodes such eyil to the state,
But, by the God that rules our fate,
Their plans shall come to naught!

Before no flaming flag of ted
Thy spirit, O Columbia, cowers,
No symbol of disorder dread
Shall palsy thy benignant powers!
But over thee,
From sea to sea,
Shall float the banner of the: free,
The flag of Law and Liberty,
That starry flag of ours

I Don’t Need to Know.

- By Harkley > arker.

time, numbering up the thousand things there
mentioned that I was not cailed upon to know.
Things on which I need not spend one moment’s
precious energy of thought.

We all, in fact, know too much ‘in these days.
I-mean just that. We are forced to know many
things that we do not choose to know. The life
we lead is burdened with thought for things
wholly outside our own lives. By the press, the
newsboy’s cry, our gossiping neighbor, the bulle-
the chatter of the throng on
sccial functions, the taik of the club, we are in-
terested before we realize it. Our form of goy-
ernment causes us an education in varied knowl-
edge. It is often really difficult for a man to
keep his mind on his cwn duty and errands as
he goes down-town. Have you not noticed your
increasing use of a memorandum? You are com-
pelled to jot down your own affairs, lest, in the
whirl of the town, you forget your business. So
do other people’s businesses impudently get in
your eye. *

The skill, of selection is the secret of endur-
ance, The ability to let things alone is the
power to do things. To pass by on the other side,
and go about your own affaifs with set teeth and
a single eye, that is the rare talent now. You
do not need to be selfish: You must not lose
touch with your kind. You belong to a family,
to a club, to a church. You have your friends.
You -are not unwilling to make new friends, for,
alas! we lose friends and customers; one must
keep up with the world. Still we need not be
a walking directory. I pity the man, or woman
—and in every set there is one—of whom we all
“If you. want to know, ask Tom,” or,
“Maggie keeps track of all. these people, Ask
her.’’ What a burdened mind that must be!

It_is no disgrace to say that you ‘really do-not
know who Prince Henry is.’ You are a busy
American. It is no discredit to you that you can-
not speak French. I have often observed that
the man of an “all-around education’’ was either
an idler born to wealth, or an unsuccessful com-
petitor in the open field with the rest of us.
There never was so much to be known as now.
The. knowledge that has an edge, a cutting cor-
ner, is that which will help.a man these. days.
Nearly every calling has become intellectual.

Economy, my dear fellow, is your chief con-
cern; how to use yourself to the best advantage,
how to make every blow tell, how to save your-
self till the time comes, and then not give a
thought to saving yourself, but striking like a
giant. Therefore, economize your nerye-force.
For recreation, seek recreation that is real. Do
not ‘“‘get your mind off’? your own affairs by so
intense a study of the newspapers. Let lots of
things. go by. They are not worth the knowing.
Surely one should blush to be asked anything
by his employer that he.ought to know and did
not, if useless stuff had crowded him too full.

Josh Billings’ Philosophy.

We often hear ov men ‘‘who kno more than
they kan tell,’’ and once in a grate while we cum
akrost* one who kan tell more than he knows.

Diffidence may be an evidence ov merit, and
may be the result ov simple ignorance, but it iz
very eazy to find out whitch.

Energy and judgment iz what tells. Thare haz
been, and allwuss will be, just az menny failures
in a good cauze az a bad one, if they ain’t
handled right.

Poverty iz.a grate blessing to sum pholks.

I allwuss think it iz good taste, and also good
judgment, when a man prays for the sins ov the
people, to count himself in.

The best men, and the wust men, are the only
ones fit for solitude.

I hav heard it sed that adversity iz a grate deal
safer for a man than prosperity; and I guess it
iz, espeshily if the man iz a phool.

Ridikule iz a lancet, good enuff in right hands,
but often used by a bungler, who bleeds at the
wrong time and in the wrong place.

I hav seen ignorant men who were. yery wise,
and hay seen learned men who were very ig-
norant. :

The fate of the good-natured man iz a hard
one. While he iz prosperous, everyboddy feeds
and fattens upon him; but when adversity over-
takes him, he iz left ‘to feed upon himself,

I look upon a thoroughly bizzness woman with
a species oy respekt, mingled with ,wonder; but
I couldn’t Tuy one enny More than I could a buzz-
saw in motion.

Too Many Women.

Addressed to Kate Thorn.

and anything else which may offer. Oh, it must
be a fine thing to have a man to tell you just
how to act, and just what opinions to hold.

But to return to the book. The writer ex-
pressed himself in this wise: ‘It is the boun-
den duty of every woman, unless she be sickly or
deformed, to marry, and have children. No race
suicide for her. It is what she was created for.”

Now, that sounds nice and proper, but it is a
great deal easier said than done, as the writer
of that book would find if he lived where I do,
and was a’single woman. What in the name of
common sense is a woman, to do when there are
only three marriageable men in the town, and
one of them is blind of an- eye, and the other
two are so sought after that they don’t dare trust
themselves at a church fair or a concert, and
hardly venture out on Sunday? :

I am willing to fulfil my destiny, and so. are
forty-eight more of us in this town, but how are
we to do it? We don’t want to poison any man’s
wife, and so throw another man into the market
Brigham Young is dead, and the» rest of the old
fellows in Utah have got more mothers-in-law

than they can attend to. If the old maids in
this section of the country were created to get
married, there must be a miscalculation in the
scheme of creation. Somebody hasn’t kept the
books correctly.

All my married friends tell me,
ought to get married! Sally, why
don’t you get married?”

Yes, why don’t I? I don’t want to marry a
woman. I am hopeless about waiting for any
man’s wife to die and leave a vacant chair.
Most of the vacant chairs in this town are chairs
-of the masculine persuasion, And if a nhewcomer

‘Sally, you
in the world

rsis as he spoke,

 

moves into the place, some designing widow picks
him up. Widows are the ruin of old maids.
They are used to men, and know all their weak
points. Widows ought to be burned, as they are
in Burmah, or some other foreign country, where
the people know how to do things. Yours truly,
SALLY L. BREAN.

—~<}-+- 0+
HER SECRET.

BY MRS, E. BURKE

COLLINS,

“DARLING PAUL Your note safely received. I
will meet you at the upper City Park this after-
noon at three. Be prompt, for if we are discov-
ered all is lost. Your own EK.”

Mr. Clarence Montgomery stood like one sud-
denly petrified as he read these words slowly over
and over, once, twice, thrice; then he turned away
with a groan of despair.

“Great Heaven!’’ he murmured brokenly; ‘it
does not seem possible! She, my wife, upon whose
purity and innocence I would have staked my fu-
ture existence. False? No; I cannot believe it.
Yet this note is in her handwriting. I have found
it upon her writing-desk. What else can I be-
lieve but that it was written by -her to some
man? Paul! I wonder who he can be? Great
Heaven! what a fool I have been to be de-
ceived by her apparent guilelessness. I know
what I will do,’ he added sharply, crushing the
little note into his pocket with vehement empha-
“T will be at the upper City Park
at three, and I will face her with her perfidy.
But, oh, Ethel! Ethel! my wife! it is worse than
death itself to doubt her!”

He was turning away from the handsome apart-
ment, which was fitted up as a study, when a
light footfall paused at the door, and Ethel Mont-
gomery entered the room. She was the impersona-
tion of innocence. No deceit lurked in her soft
blue eyes, and there was something childlike and
confiding in the sweet, youthful face.

She came to his side, and her soft, white arms
went around his neck, while her blue eyes met his
with a loving gaze. He started in surprise. Could
this be guilt? Yet there, in her own handwri-
ting, -was the promise to meet ‘“Paul’’ at three.
The words of the letter seemed to burn his heart
as they lay against it. A-~« sudden impulse
prompted him, and he stooped and kissed the
sweet, upturned face.

“Ethel,” he said, “will you drive with me this
afternoon? The weather is so perfect. I will
try to get away from business, sand will call for
you at three.’’

A blush, red as a rose, flashed over the sweet
young face; the blue eyes drooped under his
gaze, and the hand that lay in his grew cold and
trembled slightly.

“Thank you, dearest,” she returned slowly;
“you. are very kind; but I have promised Aunt
Mary to go with her this afternoon to do some
shopping. You know the old lady has not been
long in New Orleans, and she depends upon me to
pilot her about the streets of our great and
wicked city. I do not like to disappoint you,
Clarence, dear, but I can hardly break the en-
gagement made with Aunt Mary yesterday.”

He dropped her hand without a word, and
turned away. For the first time since their mar-
riage, one year ago, he left his wife without the
customary good-by kiss. All day the thought of
that meeting haunted him. It stood between him-
self and the long rows of figures before him.

He was a thriying business man, and had much
to engross his attention; but to-day the ghost
that haunted him persistently refused to be laid.
He felt sick and miserable. About two o’clock,
unable to endure this sickening suspense any
longer, he went home on the ostensible errand of
finding a mislaid paper. He found his wife
dressed to go out, and never since he had known
her had she looked so lovely in her handsome
street-suit of blue silk and plush, with a broad-
brimmed plumed hat to match. She was sur-
prised at her husband’s unexpected appearance,
and, he fancied, startled, also. But she recev-
ered her composure soon.

“Clarence,’’ she said, while he was tumbling
a heap of documents into inextricable confusion in
the little study, “‘did you—did you—find a note
of mine this morning? I have mislaid one; it is
not very important, still I would like to find it.”

He set his teeth into his under lip to-crush
back the execration that trembled for expression,
and his face was very pale as he turned and con-
fronted her. Had he delivered that telltale let-
ter then and there into his wife’s possession, he
might have saved himself much after suffering
and trouble. But we are all wise when it is too
late.

“T know nothing of your correspondence, Ethel,”’
he answered a little sharply.

She came to his side to soothe his irritability
with a loving kiss.

“Forgive. me, darling,’ she cried, “‘for annoying
you with trifles when you are tired! Kiss me,
Clarence, won’t you? Oh, great Heaven!. what
have I done? Have I offended you, darling?”’

For he had turned away coldly, and refused to
grant the caress. Then he left the room and
the house, left with a cloud upon his brow, and a
cold, numb feeling in his heart.

Three o’clock found Clarence Montgomery at
the upper City Park. And lest he should be seen
and recognized, he had stooped to the deception
of a disguise. He peered about among the groups
of people, walking or ‘sitting in pleasant con-
verse, but no trace of the woman he sought and
the ‘‘Paul’’ whom she expected to meet. He waited
until it began to grow dusk; then, with a strange
despair closing in upon his spirit, he went home.
Ethel was there before him; but she was reading
a letter—a letter which she thrust into her
pocket with a guilty start at his unexpeced ap-
pearance. Later in the evening the bell rang, and
the seryant announced ‘“‘a gentleman to see Mrs.
Montgomery.” Ethel grew very pale, then flushed
“celestial rosy red.” She arose hastily and went
to the drawing-room. Half an hour passed. Clar-
ence Montgomery, sitting with a newspaper in his
hand, but not seeing or. heeding one word of the
printed matter before him, was startled by the
sound of hasty footsteps. The door was flung
open and -Ethel appeared before him, perfectly
radiant. In her hand was a small package, which
she deposited upon the table before him.

“Clarence !”’ she cried gaily, ‘‘I’ve been keeping
a secret from you for weeks—a weighty secret,
too.’

“Does it concern Paul?’ he sneered angrily.

Fo his astonishment, instead of being over-
whelmed with confusion, his wife burst into a peal
of musical laughter.

“‘Yes,, it concerns Paul!” she cried,
she could speak for merriment. ‘‘See here, Clar-
ence, I do believe that you found my note, after
all, and that you have been jealous, actually jeal-
ous of Paul Kingston, my hero! For you did not
dream that you had an authoress for a wife, did
you, sweetheart? Nobody knows my secret but
Aunt Mary; she has been going with me to the
publishers in connection with this business; she
went there with me this afternoon. I wanted so
much to surprise you; so I waited to finish my
story, and make sure it was. accepted before I
told you. It is a serial story, for one of the
first literary journals published here. To-night
Mr. Audley, the publisher, called here himself to
pay me—there is the money, Clarence—and he
says he will accept all the work of equal merit
that I may choose to furnish him. Look in my
eyes, my husband, and say that you forgive me
for keeping this secret.” ,

“And ‘Paul’?—and the ‘upper City Park’?”
faltered Mr. Montgomery, feeling decidedly small
at thought of those long hours of weary waiting
and watching incog. ~

She daughed heartily.

“When you read my story, you will see it all
there,” she cried. ‘‘The scene is laid here in
New Orleans; and, darling, though I did write
it myself, the story is charming !’’

And to this day Clarence Montgomery keeps, as
a secret of his own, how he spent three mortal
hours in the park, as a sole performer in a pri-
vate masquerade.

as soon as

t+ 0+
MAKING aie vspgieelectige

One of the two men palin at the corner of
the street wore a broad grin.

“What’s the jqke, Tom?” queried the other.

“Well, you know old Sam Wearybones—him
that hasn’t done any work for twenty years?’’

“¥eg,’”

“He’s
and can’t
all nonsense;
But, all the
his bed.’

“Can’t see anything to laugh at in that.
serious for his wife.’

“Ah! the joke comes in with
says she can’t afford to have him there idle,
so what do you think@she’s done? Why, she’s
packed him all around with eggs, and turned him
fate a inkibater! And they do say that he
brings off a very nice brood of chicks every
three weeks !”’

taken on a new lay. Says he’s ill,
leave his bed. The doctor says it’s
that he’s as well as ever he was.
same, they can’t get him out of

It’s

his frau. She

-sand.

253 feet high each.

“words,

 

 

HELPFUL “PALKS 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,

Waukeenah, Fla.—The first photog-
rapher, it generally admitted, was Thomas
Wedgwood, an Englishman, who in 1820 produced
what was cénsidered the first picture by the ac-
tion of the sun on paper or metal coated with
a chemical preparation. About 1590 a scientific
Italian named Porta invented the first photo-
graphic camera—a darkened room to which light
was admitted through one small hole in the win-
dow-shutter, so that when the sun shone brightly
a faint inverted image of the landscape outside
appeared on the white surface of the wall within.
This became known as the camera obscura. The
first actual photographie copies of writing were
obtained in 1727 by a German named Schultze,
and others, like Scheele and Charles, carried the
investigations still further. But to Wedgwood be-
longs the honor of being the first to produce pic-
tures by the action of light on a sensitive sur-
face. He and Humphrey Davy carried on suc-
cessful experiments in 1802, and Wedgwood pub-
lished a paper on the subject. Daguerreotypes,
so called after their French inventor, Louis Da-
guerre, were produced in 1839 The first sun-
light picture of a human face was made by John
W. Draper, of the New York University, in 1840.

LESLIE,

is

Y.—An excellent con-
crete mixture, for pavements, cellar floors, etc.,
made thus Combine one part of Portland
cement, two and one-half parts of clean, sharp
sand, and five parts of broken stone, the stone
about the size of a hickory-nut. The important
thing is to have the sand, stone and cement thor-
oughly mixed. Spread on a clean board platform
the desired quantities of stone, sand and cement,
and let two men turn it over four times; at the
fifth turning one man, with water-pot, should
sprinkle on enough water to wet the mixture;
then pack solid four inches thick over a solid
well-drained surface covered with furnace cinders
about four inches deep; tamp lightly to bring the
water to the surface; trowel the surface. smooth.
The finishing coat should be one inch thick of one
part cement and one and one-half parts of clean
Smooth carefully and protect until it

J. R. Scuuzty, Buffalo, N.

is

hardens,

W. T. CorBetT, Oswego, Kan.—The Yellowstone
National Park occupies a rectangular area in the
northwestern corner of Wyoming, overlapping
Montana on the north and Idaho on the west by
strips of land two miles wide. The park meas-
ures fifty-four miles from east to west and sixty-
two miles from north to south. Its area is about
8,350 square miles. The Yellowstone Park forest
reserve, occupying a strip twenty-four miles wide
adjoining the park on the east and ten miles on
the south, is reaHy an addition to the park, and
increases the area to 5,500 square miles, The mean
altitude of the park is 8,000 feet. Several peaks
are 11,000 feet high, and two are 12,073 and 12,-
The United States Geological
Survey explored the Yeliowstone region in 1871,
and in 1872 Congress made it a Federal reserva~
tion. The forest. reserve was added by presi-
dential proclamation in 1891.

OLup SOLDIER, West Peru, Me.—We coincide
with your opinion that Uncle Sam cannot be too
generous with the old soldiers who imperiled
their lives to save and perpetuate the Union. As
the pension laws now stand, a veteran soldier or
sailor, on reaching the age of sixty-two years,
irrespective of physical disability, entitled to
a pension of $12 a month; seventy years, $15 a
month; seventy-five years or over, $20 a month.
Section 4702 of the United States Revised Statutes
provides that the widow shall receive the same
pension paid to the husband at the time of his
death; but it is to be discontinued should she
remarry.

is

W. T. WARBURTON, Parkville, Mich.—The ex-
pression “Tell it not in Gath’’ comes from
David’s lamentation over ‘the death of Saul and
Jonathan.. In II. Samuel, i. 20, it reads: “Tell
it not in Gath; publish it not in the streets of
Askelon.” Gath was one of the royal cities
of the Philistines, to which David, on two occa-
sions, had fled from Saul. The meaning of the
as he used them, was: Do not tell of
Saul’s death and Jonathan’s in a place where
the news will cause rejoicing. The words are
used now as an equivalent for ‘‘Do not spread
the news abroad.”

W. T. RoMERO, Quebec, Canada.—The Domin-
ion of Canada was established in 1867. The
law known as the “British North American Act,”
providing for the-voluntary union of the whole
of British North America, was passed in the
year above named, The Act of Confederation
went into effect on the ist day of July, the same
year. In 1870 the province of Manitoba, in
1871 that of British Columbia, and in 1872 that
of Prince Edward Island, were added to _ the
confederation.

K. R. Reynoutps, Morgantown, Ind.—To re-
move grease-stains from bocks or paper, place
a piece of clean white blotting-paper over the
grease-spot and press with a hot iron; repeat
this process several times. The mark will soon
disappear. If it is obstinate, rub with spirits
of turpentine. The hot iron should melt the
grease, which in turn should be absorbed by the
blotting-paper, and eradicated, without resorting
to the turpentine.

JERMYN, Leesburg, Ohio.—It is impossible to
make anything like a close or reliable estimate
of the cost of the Revolutionary War, authentic
data being unattainable. According to some au-
thorities, the expense to the American colonies
was about $135,000,000, and to England the
cost of the war exceeded $500,000,000, besides
the loss of 50,000 soldiers and the American col-
oniés,

Portageville, Mo.—The mael-
strom of Norway is a tidal eddy between two of
the Lofoten Islands, off the coast. It caused
by the rush of the tide through a narrow fiord,
and while not ordinarily dangerous, it becomes
extremely so when wind and tide meet. The
exaggerated accounts of early writers, however,
gave it a worse name than it really deserves.

J. M. MARTENSE,

is

L. G. ADAMS, Roneyville, “Ky.—The lines
quoted are by George MacDonald, and appear in
his ‘‘Phantasies.’” They are here given:

“Alas! how easily things go wrong!
A sigh too deep, or a kiss too long,
And there follows a mist and a weeping rain,
And life is never the same again.’’

MELVILLE, Brooklyn, N. Y.—The Tilton-Beecher
ease ended, after a trial of six months’. duration,
on July 2, 1875. The jury were out nine days,
and disagreed, standing nine to three.

Hiram TuRPEL, Riverside, Cal.—A letter writ-
ten to you last January has just been returned.
Please forward your correct address,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

a

 

amie

 

By OWEN

MAS TERS,

uthor of “One Impassioned Hour,” “Olyda’s Love Dream,” ‘‘The Heir of Avisford,”
Pe “A Fortune Lost and Won,” ‘The Fronmaster’s Daughter,” ete. —-

% <

- (“Tae Woman Wuns” was commenced in No. 40.

35a

CHAPTER VII.—(Continued.)

The river was crowded with craft of every
onceivable sort, when the motor-boat cut its
way through the harbor. =
_A_half-score of men were loafing about the
landing-stage—fish-eyed, drink-besotted brutes—
—the spawn of convicts. Curiously they eyed the
strange boat, and longingly they gazed_upon its
ee and upholstery, and other evidences of
EWealth. <a ee
~Hatterick and Nolan alighted, and the loafers
backed away. ig SSRs ; See
- “What orders, cap’n?” asked the boatswain.
“Get a dozen miles down the river, and wait
-a while’’” He looked at his watch. ‘Midday
now. Be feady at three, prompt.”
 "Y wouldn’t mind going with you,

Carson. : a3
“Be satisfied to do my bidding,” Dick an-
: “Don’t forget that Carey knows
- are with me, and the cable may be

Mr. and his face turned
livid with fear. = 3

_ Hatterick and Nolan climbed the stairs and
stalked away. The master was leading; the
“Man was following, joyously alert, his heart

leaping, his blood tingling.

_mewsboys were shrieking

- Mossdye. —
_ Reserve ~yourself

In the wider and more populous thoroughfares
; their wares. -The
posters flamed with news concerning the great
old-mine at Dead-horse Drift. — : ;
_ Hatterick bought four or five of the leading
dailies, and turned smilingly to» his henchman.
- “We will lunch at the Melbourne Hotel, and
digest the plot. Then I will call upon Lord
There will be no fighting there, Paddy.
for. the crowd at the Monmouth.
Nature’s weapons! eae ee az :
They entered the public dining-room of the
fashionable hotel, and while the waiter was ful-

| filling the order given to him, Hatterick read the

: boomed.

flaming news about the mine, with its startling
_double-column head-lines, The Red Reef Mine
was a dead failure—the worst fiasco upon rec-
ord, considering the way in which it had been
p0OomMEeE A two-hundred-foot lead, which had
eost a fortune to drill, had ended in—nothing!
Time and again had the miners’ hopes been
dashed. It seemed that they had been following
a will-o’-the-wisp for many weary month Se
feather of gold—a capful of ore—sure p ise
of millions, and all ending in—ngthing!
money had -been poured into it like a flood—

the money of thousands of needy shareholders,

=  ~gtairs to the second floor.

 

and all the time the thing had barely paid its
assessment. But the promoters and principal

shareholders were wealthy and honorable men.

_ the onus

hey had dipped into their pockets, and taken
of the disastrous. speculation upon

_ themselves. They had recouped the confiding

public to the tune of five hundred thousand
~ pounds, and in the future would exploit the mine

at their own risk and expense.

All honor to Sir

_ Eis Carey and Lord Mossdye! ~~ | S
> Dick Hatterick laughed scornfully. —

ty

- “man. 2

When the waiter came he pressed a piece of
gold into his hand, and questioned him. /
~ “Lord Mossdye has a suite of rooms here?”
“Yes, sir.” =e ee
“T should like to meet this philanthropic noble-
I have letters of imtroduction, my good
fellow. Ah, is Lady Mossdye—I mean —"”
- ‘The man was shaking his head, and Hatterick

- paused.

= “No, sir; her ladyship is in Europe.’

guished; he became wrathful.

~ ond floor.”
ian ee

Se Sk Waboricke heart sank for an instant.

“-he = said. He was disappointed—an-

“Get out,” he snapped. —

_ The waiter. hesitated, doubtful of Hatterick’s

= 2

meaning; then he cast a furtive glance around,

and murmured:

“Lord Mossdye is in the writifig-room, sir, sec-

lunch immediately became distasteful,

and the captain pushed his plate away.

: “can’t eat. he
_ Girectors of the Gold Reef, and congratulate, bim

don’t spoil your meal. I

“Stay here, Nolan ; ‘
to interview one of the

I am going

upon his finance.” : 5 : a
He left the dining-room, and mounted the Wide
The

was at the far end of the corridor, and immedi-
ately facing him. His steps made no sound on

the thick carpet, and he was inside the chamber

-pefore its only occupant was

aware of another

_ presence,

aie

4} his buibous face growing fiery
_— face.
: : the Monmouth Hotel last night,”
2 tion of your
in England.

— tory of the great swindle.”
= changed from red te dark purple.
~~ lentless eyes of Hatterick
_ shakily.
"thief !”

_ ‘Lord Mossdye was standing at one of the win-
dows, and staring down into the teeming street,

. a big, bull-necked man, with a bald head, around:

‘which was a fringe of grizzly hair. Between the
fingers of his right hand he held a half-smoked

_ Cigar. ; :
Hatterick kicked a chair out of his way, and

- Lord Mossdye turned with a start to see in front

of him a man whose eyes were blazing hatred. _
“Yell!” he exclaimed. ‘‘Damme, you gave me
quite a turn, sir! It isn’t the thing to knock an-
other man’s furniture about.” is} :
He glared uneasily at the nerceer ee straiiger,
red.
‘Who the devil are you, sir, and why do you
me like this?” 7
I am Black Hatterick.

I Jeft. my name at
was the cool
am hereto express my apprecia-
kndness to the poor shareholders
Mr. Dareall has given me the his-

rejoinder.- “I

for breath, and his face
The fierce, re-
seemed to burn into

Lord Mossdye gasped

his very soul. . ost : 2
-- *We have, done our duty, I hope,” he said

y don’t you~ say Christian duty, you
: Hatterick smiled bitterly. “Pray don’t
~ touch the bell—I mean you no harm, Lord Moss-
dye. I was curious to see the titled puppet of
Sir Ellis Carey—the man who has tent his name
to infamy—the/ chief of the biggest -clique of
swindlers and murderers in Brisbane!”

“You are an outlaw!” snarled Mossdye. “You.

i have taken your revenge upon Sir Elis for ESV,

the law.”

_. know what you mean.
 jice!” His eyes gleamed, his pendulous under-
-. lip quivered.

ing on air.

to the man.

ing his daughter to me, and you are wanted by

_ Hatterick appeared to be unmoved.

- } hold the trump card,” he continued coolly.
- Lord Mossdye sprang erect. : ;
- “Where is my wife?” he almost screamed. “I

I will summon the po-

He mistook Hatterick’s sudden
pallor for fear, and clutched at him with furious
BU A : Seat
‘My wife—my wifes! I haven’t seen or heard
of her since the wedding-day! You have stolen
ther! You hoodwinked her father. You shall
not hoodwink me. Help here!—help! help!”
- A great joy surged into Hatterick’s soul. He
shook himself free from his frenzied assailant,
and spun him into a chair—livid—-gasping-

- Hatterick quitted the room like a man walk-
‘He met an attendant in the corri-

r: :
“Lord Mossdye has heard bad news,” he said
“Go to him; I will send a doctor.

He’s in a fit or something.”

hs said. ‘‘Now for the Monmouth Hotel.
- pay for that damage we did last night.

| Monmouth. -

had been seized with apoplexy.

“He looked into the dining-room, and beckoned

Eo to Nolan. Hlectric bells were ringing insistently,

nd the manager was leaping up the stairs.
Lord Mossdye, the generous and noble-hearted,

Nolan,” the captain
I wish to
I’ am
you,

“We can do no good here,

afraid that matters are rather tame for
put there’s a song in my heart!” =

Nolan said nothing. He was used to his mas-

r’s vagaries. “

They left the fashionable thoroughfare for the
narrower streets, and walked smartly to the
As they mounted the steps to the
porter gave a startled

-

front entrance, the hall

3 ery, and glared balefully at Hatterick. —

- night!” he roared.

““You are the man who put me to sleep last
p ; . “We'll have it out now or
-Tll egt my hat!”

He*fiung off his coat, and Hatterick smiled.
He gripped the man by the shoulder, and shook
him_ gently. > " ;

-“T like pluck,” he said, “but I don’t want to
hurt you again.” . a
A flashily dressed man emerged from the of-

_ fice, scowling .and swearing.
“Wh

p?’ he growled. “I’m boss here!”
x I am

t 7s and your -cutthroats forced
_the business end of a gun. There

gold. payobere near your mine!”
eyes bulge ie aa

sir,” said}

Good |

writing-room |

- Robins,

'haps some ship has rescued the poor fellows.

Back ntmbers can be obtained of all newsdealers.)
: :

lowed. He clapped his hands, and four. burly
rascals rushed from the bar, somewhere behind
the »silice. “Collar ’em!’’ he ordered.. ‘‘Plug
em !”?- .
Then Paddy Nolan became electrified. His
time had come; his face shone with joy, and his
iron fists smote the enemy with the speed of
lightning, and the force of a~ piston-rod. The
-ruffians were beefy and beery, and feil one upon
the other, battered; bruised, and bleeding. a :
“Good-by, landlord,’ Hatterick said pleasantly.
“Nolan, my lad; this is no place for us. Come!”

~

CHAPTER VIII.
THE WRECK OF THE “PRINCE GEORGE.”

- Dick Hatterick was subject to fits of deep de-
pression, and during these spells he hadn’t a
civil word for anybodyy For three whole days
he had been wandering about the island, his arms
folded over his breast, his eyes turned to the
ground, and a scowl on his face. &

“You’ll take no notice of him,’ Rube Oddie ad-
yised Mr. Carson, “and he’ll come round by and
by. If he isn’t.up to his ears in devilment, he’s
as grumpy as a_ bear.” .

Rube was right. On the morning of the fourth
day, Hatterick wore a less lugubrious coun-
tenance, and he graced the saloon .with his
presence when the breakfast-belt rang, instead
of feeding in the seclusion of his stateroom. =

“Nolan,” he said humorously, ‘‘where’s my
morning paper? TI prefer the London Telegraph,
and I‘ particularly wish to see the shipping-news.
Mr. Dareall should be well on his way to Eng-
land how, as it is nearly two weeks since we
deposited him at Sydney.” ts
- “Yes, sir,’ Nolan answered. “The papers are
not always reliable. We shall have to get the
wireless installed,-if we're to know how the
world’s wagging.” — :

“T am bothered about Robins,
tain continued. “It is just possible that he was
unable to charter a steamer. Paddy, I think
we will cruise around the fortress to-day in the
motor. Will you come, Mr. Carson? . This idle-
ness is getting into my bones.”

“T shall be delighted,’ Carson said. “The
crew have- been busy painting and generally
overhauling the yacht, while I could do little but
moon about and look on.”

“Oh; there’s no luck at aH,” grumbled Nolan.
“Here I’ve been praying that a band of savages
would attack us, and there doesn’t seem to be
a cutthroat within a thousand miles.” -

The motor-boat was launched, and a very tame
sort of cruise began. They ran out five or six
leagues, and ran back again; then they started
round the island, and Mr. Carson was_ struck
with its forbidding aspect from the sea. Nothing
but barren and cruel rock springing out of the
water hundreds of feet into the air.- :

“No wonder it’s uncharted,” he said, “I be-
lieve it’s a mere eruption of modern times, and
will one day disappear as swiftly -as it came into
being.” a .

There didn’t seem to be a breath of air when
the boat was halted. The sea was like sheeted
‘glass, and the heavens were of the palest hazy
blue; the sun was sizzling hot, and glowed like
molten metal. - :

“J think we’d be more comfortable ashore,”
Hatterick remarked. ‘‘The heat of the sun bores
into one’s brain.” ;

“Hold on, sir; I’m fishing,’’ roared “Nolan.
“Holy smoke if it isn’t a bottle of Bass’ ale!’”

It was an ordinary pint bottle with the name
of “Bass’’ blown on the body, corked, and sealed
with a dab of red wax. Nolan held it up to
the sun, and discovered that there were papers
inside. -
““Cap’n,” said he,

too,” the cap-

his levity gone, “it is for
you’ to open this. A message from the dead,
sir,’ he shivered. “I opened one once that [I
picked up on the coast of San Salvador, and
misfortune followed me for five years!”

“You had better tell that stuff to Rube Oddie,”
frowned his master. ; ;

Hatterick knocked off the head of the bottle,
and found a sealed enyelope bearing these words:

BOTTLE PAPER,
FROM CAPTAIN JOHN
TQ ANYBODY.

ROBINS

“God! gasped Hatterick, his face paling. “It’s
from Robins,’”’ he added; “wrecked, possibly. Lis-
ten.” :

From the envelope -he took a half-sheet of
note-paper which contained the folowing re-
markable message: -

‘Longitude 180° W. Latitude 45° N.
“August 20th, 1906.
“From schooner Prince George, Captain John
merchandise, London, to Malay Archi-
pelago. Wrecked off uncharted island. Send
help at once. Island barren, no water; ‘salt
marshes, mangrove trees, and scores of savage
baboons. Twice attacked by Malay pirates in
proas. Beaten them off, but they are returning
in greater numbers. . Crew only number twenty-
five. Malays are coming in hundreds. Fifty of
these bottles thrown overboard, and we pray to
Heayen that help may come soon.”

For a-few moments neither Carson nor Nolan
could speak. This was a bottle romance of an
ideal type—terrible, appalling!

“It’s the twelfth of September now,’ Hatterick
said, “three weeks since the message left Robins.
It shows how erratic the tides are—only one of
the fifty bottles to be seen. Three weeks! ae
-not——”’ :

“We must,’ Nolan interrupted, scenting a fight.

“But the question of water?” asked Mr. Car-
son. ~

“Robins isn’t the man to sit still. A’ well
could be sunk when the ship’s supply was ex-
hausted. And as the hold of the Prince George
was filled with provisions and ammunition, he
would put up a good fight.” :

No more time was wasted in talk. The motor
skimmed back to the barbor, and the entire crew
-were summoned to general quarters. Then Hat-
terick read the bottle paper aloud, and the ex-
citement was overwhelming. Men grinned and
glared into each other’s eyes with the ferocity
of tigers. They clenched their horny fists, and
panted to be at hand-grips with the enemy.

“Order!” thundered the captain. ‘‘Quiet, my
lads.” He waved a chart above his head. “We
are within two days’ sail of Captain Robins—a
few hours less if we put the Swallow at her
best speed. ‘Every man Jack’ of you must go;
our stronghold can take care of itself.”

The men cheered frantically ;, there were none
to be left behind. Oh, this would be a glorious
picnic—if they were not too late!

* * * * * * =

In the pitiless heat of the sun the crew of
the Swallow swarmed to the ship, over the deck,
up aloft, down below, officers, sailors, engineefs,
and firemen. Her smoke-stack vomited an inky
cloud, and soon she was forcing her way through
the shoaly bay, sown thickly with mines, any
one of which was capable of blowing an ironclad
to smithereens. :

In the Jate afternoon a breeze sprang up from
the northwest; up went the white sails, flutter-
ing, bellying, straining at the stays.

The sun dropped over the ocean, red as blood;

ple, crowded with a myriad eyes. The breeze
freshened with the night, it sang in the rigging,
and sported with the flying waves. ‘

While Dick Hatterick paced the bridge, Rube
Oddie was faithful to his post in the pilot-house.
The old sailing-master had a genius for guiding
his ship with unerring instinct to any point in
the great world of waters. 5

Hatterick had given himself up to dreaming
the last few -days—dreaming of Brenda, but in
his heart was a bitter hatred of her father for
the part he had played in separating them.

The favoring winds were maintained on _ the
morning following,. and all day. The Swallow
swept onward, like a joyous bird, bent upon ma-
‘king a new record in her dash to the rescue of
the captain and crew of the Prince George.

And now every heart was leaping. Soon after
dawn of the morrow Rube Oddie declared that
they would be within twenty leagues of the
wrecked vessel. ;

Mr. Carson had spent many hours with Hat-
terick. e was a companionable man, with a
well-stored mind, and a real affection had sprung
up between them.

“Captain,” said he,
about these latitudes.
‘of October the weather is all that we can desire,

“T have read a ‘great deal

~ Hurricanes, storms,

 

earthquakes, and eruptions.”

S:

the sky lost its indigo, and darkened into pur-}

From April until the end

but afterward the heavens open, and an ava-
sade a -}lanche of water comes down.
r hat,” he bel-

Then we shall be

“Quite true, Mr. Carson...
the enemy must rest a

‘+ put out of business, and
while,”’ : :

“Meaning Sir Ellis Carey?”

“Yes. Whom else could I mean?
is only against the oppressor,”

Mr. Carson hesitated; then he spoke:

“I am almost sorry for the part
played.” :

Hatterick glared at Him.

“Half his money has gone; his prospects are
ruined, and» there is the shadow of a Nemesis
above him. If Mr. Dareall speaks Cap-
tain Hatterick, don’t you think that we have
punished him enough? Remember that he is the
father of the woman you love.’”

An oath leaped from -Hatterick’s throat, and
he gripped the other’s arm until it seemed that
the bone must be crushed: The pain was agoni-
zing, but he did not wince,

“What's the matter with you?’ sneered the
captain. ‘“Sermonizing? ‘’Tis only noble to be
good!’ Forgive your enemies, and keep on for-
giving while they kick you from pillar to post.
Suffer patiently, pray fervently, and sing psalms.
Our convict has become a ranting parson. Get
off the bridge, and to h— with you!”

He let go his grip of Carson’s arm, took two
paces forward, and swung round again.

“Forgive me,’ he said. ‘‘I am an unmannerly
bully. I wonder that you can let up on Carey.
¥or years he treated you :worse than a mangy
deg. He got hold of your secret, and preyed
upon you remorselessly. But you will please
yourself, sir, and I believe you are doing the
right thing. You look happier, anyway!”

“At last,” Carson answered, ‘‘I can clear my
name. I have sacrificed myself for a younger
brother—a consumptive—the apple of his moth-
er’s eye. I read of his confession and death in
the newspapers which we bought in Brisbane.”

“JY guessed it all along, Carson—TI’ll gall you
by that name for the present. Now your future
is bright, and you feel: hetter toward all men.
That accounts for the milk in the coconut!
Wait until I see a gleam of. sunshine, and
then 2 ;

There was no sleep for any man aboard the
-Swatiow that night. Those who were not on
duty discussed the probabilities of the morrow
in eager whispers. A htndred things might have
happened since the Prince George had been
wrecked. - Just over a score of men.to oppose
a vast army of Malays. And if the treasure
had fallen into the hands of these desperate cut-
throats—the ammunition, the provisions, the
coal! The men gritted their teeth, and if ever
they prayed it was then, andthe prayers that
went up were not for the salvation of the Malay
pirates!

Morning dawned, and the hours crept slowly
along, although the Swallow was fiying onward
at a speed of nearly twenty-five knots. The
captain and the sailing-master were minutely in-
specting the chart.

“We are in the identical waters now, sir,”
Rube Oddie growled, ‘and Cap’n Robins is
either out in his calculations, or that -barren
island of his has gone under!” :

At that very moment the lookout reported that
there was a small blot against the sky-line, but
it was impossible to make out what it was. Sev-
eral powerful glasses were: brought to bear. upon
the spot indicated, and when the lookout shouted
“Land ho!” the excitement became almost mad-
dening. . .

Haiterick stood on the bridge, a spy-glass to
Biers and the crew hung on every word he
said. :

“Land, my

My hand

I

lads, and it tallies with Captain
Robins’ description. Dense trees growing down
to the water’s. edge—mangrove, I’ swear. A
flag is flying on some rising ground—British !”

“Hurrah!” thundered the crew.

“Proas, my lads, scores of them, staked to the
shore. The -Malays are in possession of the
island. Heavens! we are too late!” .

A frenzied yell went up to the blue~ heavens.

“Clear ship for -aetion,’’ ordered MHatterick.
‘‘Al} hands to general quarters.”

Down came yards and sails; ammunition was
whipped up from the magazine, and the guns
were uncovered. ;

In a twinkling the men were stripped to the
waist, crouching, waiting, eager for the fight.

When sighted, the island was about ten miles
distant; it was less than three now, and the
Swallow slackened. speed. These were strange
waters, and might abound with submerged reefs.
Carefully she was maneuvered until within gun-
shot of the shore, and the lookout uttered a cry
of pleasure. A white man was in a tree di-
rectly under the waving flag, and signaling.

-- “Just in the nick of time! Hurrah!”

‘Who are you?” signaled Hatterick.

“Captain Robins. Only twelve of us left. A
thousand Malays: in possession.. We are behind
breastworks holding them off: with. guns. They
have no guns. The devils haven't seen you yet.
You are shut from view by trees.’’ >

The signaling ceased for a minute, and_ the
Swallow crept nearer. All at once Captain Rob-
ins spoke again.

“Wire a heayy gun, for Heaven’s sake! They
are making ready to charge our defeses, and
we shall be butchered under your noses!”

“Crack !” went the six-inch gun, smashing one
of the proas to match-wood. Then followed a
perfect fusillade from the smaller cannon.

The result was electrical A-swarm of men
burst from among the trees, and ran down the
beach. They plunged into the water, and scram-
bled into the proas, their cruel weapons flashing
in the light of the sun.

“Hold fire!’ commanded Hatterick. ‘Let them
get well away from land, and then——” He
laughed like a_ fiend. “No quarter for Malay
pirates and murderers !”’

Flash—craek !

Fire and death spurted from the Swallow’s
guns. Five-and-twenty of the crew, armed with
rifles, blazed away until less than half of the
proas were left afloat. These were flying in
wild disorder in every conceivable direction—
followed by ripping, tearing shot from the heavy
metal,

The order to cease firing was given. Half a
dozen boats were lowered, and the captain, with
half of the crew, put off to the island to succor
their hard-pressed countrymen.

“And what a sight the poor fellows presented!
Hollow-eyed, emaciated, dirty, and in rags. Pain-
fully they limped and dragged themselves down
to the beach, weeping tears of joy.

“Only twelve of us left,” Captain Robins said.
“Two kiNed by the Malays, three by baboons,
and the rest by fever.” :

He sobbed pitifully.

“Cheer up, lads,’ Hatterick said,
soon have you to rights.”

The sick men were conveyed to the Swallow,
and cared for under the direction of Mr. Car-
son.

In the meanwhile Hatferick and his men ex-
plored the island, and eame across the dead
bodies of some fifty Malays, who had been killed
by the besieged Britishers. Taken altogether, it
was an evil-smelling place—a vast salt-marsh,
excepting one small hill, which Captain Robins
had fortified. Within these fortifications were
the stores taken from the wrecked Prince
George. The ship itself was discovered close in-,
shore, but burned down to the orlop deck, and
completely submerged. Captain Robins had fired
the wreck to save the treasure from the maraud-
ing hands of the Malays. All the guns,- ammu-
nition, and a vast amount of provisions had
been carried to the hill on the island. During
the week following all these things were carried
to the Swallow. .

“Ror a week we were unmolested,” Captain
Robins told Hatterick, “but were busy with a
herd of infernal baboons. Then a few Malays
turned up, but cleared off again. I knew that
this meant reenforcements. We got short of
water, and started well-sinking. Nothing could
we get but black, foul-smelling water, and little
enough of that. Then the Malays came again—
as thick as flies, but you know what cowards
they are. We fought them off with the guns.”
“He buried his face in his hands. “It was ter-
rible—night and day, day and night! Just
imagine it, sir, if you can!”

“And now?” Hatteriek said gently.

“Tt must report to Lioyd’s agents. If you could
land us at Melbourne or Sydney ?”’

“Any port you like to name, captain—but in
my own time. Any news from home?”

“Ah, I had forgotten. I’ve got a letter for
you, sir. Your man at Castle Idwal gave it to
me.’ He fumbled in the breast pocket of his
jacket. ~“Here it is.” ;

‘He held an envelope toward Hatterick, grimy
and frayed, but the bold, flowing writing on the
face of it shone clear in the sunlight, and Dick
felt the hot blood surge to his brain.

“Brenda!” he murmured. “Brenda!”

With fingers which shook
he took the letter, and growled at his own weak-
ness.

Not until he was alone did he open it,
then in the seclusion of his own stateroom.

This is how it read:

“My DEAR Dick: I am
practically a prisoner. For months I evaded
my father, but he discovered me masquerading
as a school-teacher, and compelled me to return
here. Against my will I was forced to church,
and made to go through the ceremony of mar-
riage with that odious creature, Lord Mossdye ;
but I eluded him an* hour afterward, and _ will
die before acknowledging him as a husband. I
am wondering if the marriage can be set aside,
and hoping that he will die soon to save fur-
ther trouble! If this. ever reaches you, I wish
you to know that my father is going to Australia
in the Majestic, by way. of-the United States, to
see about a gold-mine, or something. I want you
to beware of him, as he is setting the long arm

“and we'll

and

at home again, and

 

have

in spite of himself}

 

RB

of the law in motion against you. Dear old
Dick, I am so unhappy, but-in spite of every-
thing, I love you just the same as ever, and

shall until death. BRENDA.”

Hatterick locked the precious letter in his safe,
and walked on air.

“Yes,” he decided, “after I haye visited my
dusky people, I will land Captain Robins at an
Australian port, with all the pleasure in the
world!”

_ TO BE CONTINUED.

— 8 ©

STELLA’S TWO LOVERS.

=
CHAPTER I.
A SERIOUS MISUNDERSTANDING,

“Where have they gone, Stella?’’ asked the
younger of two girls, lazily swinging backward
and forward in a rocking-chair,. of her sister
standing at the window in the sunlight of a
bright May afternoon.

“Across the Common,’’ was the
pose they are going on the pier.’

“How Many times does that make this week?
Why do you allow it, Stella?”

“Beeause I’m not going
either Owen or Alma.”

“IT remember—she takes care that we shall
—that she exacts every privilege, and entirely
forgets the small amount of politeness due to
us.”’

The girl in the

reply. ‘I sup-

to interfere with

window—Stella Lawford—
looked round with some surprise at her sister.
“Why, I thought you liked Alma!” she said.

“So I do; to a certain extent. I admire her
‘cheek,’ her selfishness, .and—well, yes—her
beauty. She beats you, Stella, and you know
you are. pretty.”

“She is lovely,” admitted Stella, with the ghost
of a sigh. “If she only were not such a dread-
ful flirt 29
_ “Flirt!” echoed Josie, getting up and stretch-
ing;~“she is _omnivoroys where men are con-
cerned. All. the officers—artillery and infantry,
it’s just the same—are smitten with her; the
only wonder to me is that she should prefer
Owen in such a wealth of choice.’’

“What do you mean; Josie?’ There was a
warning note in her sister’s voice. ‘“‘She doesn’t
care a straw for Owen.’’

“Of course she doesn’t, but he——” She
stopped as she met Stella’s eye, laughed a little,
and bent over to pick up a Persian kitten from
its nest on the bearskin rug.

“What are you talking about?’’

There was no answer to the question, for the
door opened and Major Lawford, the girls’ fa-
ther—a tall, grizzled man, in a loose velveteen
coat, and with a half-smoked cigar in his hand

put his head into the room.

“Helo, girls!’ he began, ‘“‘where’s Owen? I
want him to take a message back to the barracks
for me.”’

“He’s out with Alma, father.’

“Hh? What a—confounded nuisance! Why
on earth do you let him dawgle about with her
like that! One would think he was engaged to
her and not to you, Stella, the way they carry
on; and I don’t want to go down to Portsea my-
self. I won’t allow it, Stella, if you do. I
won’t have them talked about all over Southsea.”

He had come into the room, and was trying
irritably to puff. his cigar alight again. Stella
went over and put her hands coaxingly on his
arm, while Josie. regarded the scene from the
hearth-rug.

‘“‘Papa—don’t be rash. It’s all right. Owen
may be a little dazzled by Alma, but that’s all.
Please don’t say anything, dear, fer my sake.”
She ended with an affectionate kiss on her fa-
ther’s rugged cheek, and the major, who adored
his elder daughter, subsided with a grunt and
then a smile.

“Well, manage it your own way; but mind—
I won’t have you played with, Stella, and tell
him, when he comes in, I’ve a message for the
colonel.’’

After dinner that evening the scarcely uncon-
scious disturber of harmony, Alma _ Luttrell,
who had been restlessly fanning herself with a
great feather fan, suddenly threw it down for
the kitten to play with. ‘“‘The heat in here is
unbearable, Stella. I must get some air in the
garden,” she said,. and, without further apology,
he ai out through the open window and onto the
awn.

Stella, Owen, and Josie were at the piamo
working at some trios in a rather desultory
fashion, and it was more of a relief than other-
wise when a servant came and called Stella
from the room on some household business. © Af-
ter a moment or two of impatient wandering up
and down, Owen decided to follow Alma into
the garden, which the moonlight was making
more attractive than the brightly lit drawing-
room.

“You’re unsociable to-night, Alma,’ he be-
gan, glancing admiringly at Miss Luttrell’s love-
ly profile.

‘And so are you! What do you mean by
leaving Stella—to say nothing of Josie?’ :

“Stella’s attention is distracted by household
cares—and, besides, your days here are num-
bered now, aren’t they?’

“They are, but never mind me; let’s- go back
to the house, or Stella will be jealous.’’

“Jealous!” The idea amused Owen immense-
ly.. ‘*There’s nothing of that sort about her—
she’s a true-hearted girl; but do you really want
to go in?~-All right.”

They turned slowly back,
entered the parlor. It was
Persian kitten, who lived on the bearskin most
of the day and night. Alma ‘sauntered over to
the open piano, -followed by Owen, who leaned
over her shoulder as she idly turned the leaves
of the music on the stand.

Suddenly he exclaimed: ‘Hold. hard, Alma,
there’s a caterpillar on your hair!” He put
out his hand as the girl gave a little scream,
and gently extricated the insect from the soft
mass of hair. As he did so, laughing and bend-
ing over her, while she smiled back at him with
uplifted face, Stella opened the door at the far-
ther end of the room. She saw them, but they
did not see her.” °

“There! Now I deserve a
heard, and turned and fied.

The evening passed, but Stella did not appear
againz Josie and the major did, however, and
the former imparted the information that her
sister was not feeling well, and was not co...ing
down again. .

* * * * *

The bright, breezy morning air was blowing
into Captain Amory’s:room at the barracks, where
that young officer sat at breakfast, whistling
softly a bar.or two of one of last night’s songs.

Presently his orderly brought in papers and
letters, and departed .with his master’s break-
fast-tray.

One note, addressed to “Captain Amory,” was
seized and opened first, for it was from Stella.
He had hardly read a couple of lines before he
sprang up and rushed to the bell, pulling at it
impatiently till his servant appeared, breathless
and open-mouthed. :

“I’m in a devil of a hurry to go out.
my things ready?”

OY 68,0. 8ir.”* ,

Owen plunged into his bedroom, and within
a quarter of an hour was tearing into Southsea
as fast as a hansom could carry him.

But when he reached The Laurels, as Major
Lawford’s house was called, the servant told
him Miss Stella was ill, and that no one was at
home, and though he said he would go in and
wait till he could see Miss Lawford, the girl, with
a scared look, told him Miss Stella was in bed,
and it wouldn’t be the least use waiting. ;

Meanwhile poor Stella lay sleeping heavily,
after a night passed in weary misery of aching
head and heart. She had written to Owen. in
the earlier hours, releasing him from his. en-
gagement, for, after the little scene at the piano,
of which she had been an involuntary witness,
the idea of marrying him was impossible. He
belonged to Alma now, and should be free to love
her; she had been fatuously blind not to_ see
what every one else had seen, and babbled about
for weeks, probably.

The major was furious when he was told, and
could hardly be persuaded not to rush off at once
and “have it out’ with Captain Amory, or to
be civil "to Alma. That young lady, however,
left them the next day, not altogether ignorant
of the cause of the broken engagement; and
within a week of her departure the major took
his daughters off to London on a visit, and The
Laurels: was shut up and deserted.

* * *

and presently re-
empty, even of the

kiss, Alma!’’ she

= *

Are all

* * * *

“T met Doctor Shaw coming from the station
this afternoon, Josie,’ said Stella, crossing the
lawn to where her sister was stooping over a
bed .of geraniums, snipping away some withered
leaves.

“Did you? That’s the fourth time this week,”
said that young lady, straightening herself.
“Why didn’t he come in with you as usual?”

“Why? Well, I believe—I didn’t ask him, to
tell the truth. I was in a hurry to get to work
on those dresses.” Stella spoke with such evi-
dent unconsciousness that Josie inwardly de-
cided that what was obvious to every one else in
the household had not yet dawned on her sis-
ter’s perception—to wit, that Doctor Geoffrey
Shaw, the clever young ‘general practitioner”
of Stanfield Magna, was very much in love with
the elder Miss Lawford.

“Aly right, sissy, we'll go in, then. Thank
goodness, papa’s away—he does hate ‘finery’ so!
Did you match the ribbons?”

7 use

 

“Splendidly! Stanfield Magna has no business
street. Now, all we want is fine weather, and I
think we shall get it. I hated garden-parties at~
Southsea, but I am actually looking forward to
our festivity here. Where’s my - work-basket?”’
Stella ended, beginning to hunt about the room,

“Ah! I wish I were back in Southsea,” sighed
the younger girl, picking up the dress in course
of construction, “but you and dad seem happy
here—fancy being happy in Little Stanfield !—
so my feelings won’t count.’’

“Happy! repeated Stella
her sister. ‘‘Because I try
your sake and father’s, do
get?’ *

“No, no! I didn’t mean to hurt you,
said Josie, with quick remorse, “only you’ll ad-
mit that life here is not exactly exciting.”

“It’s as bearable here as anywhere else,’ said
her sister, with a sigh.

The garden-party of which they had been

speaking went off as such functions usually do—
with tennis ad infinitum, gossip and flirtation to
a little extent, the intervals being filled up with
refreshment, beginning with claret cup and its
adjuncts early in the afternoon, and ending later
on with tea.
‘ The two girls had gone alone, the -major be-
ing in town on business;-.and owing to this fact
they left rather earlier than most of the guests,
Josie escorted by an Oxonian youth—they were
not many miles from the classic city—and Stella
with Geoffrey Shaw.

The younger couple
grounds before they
others, disappearing

sadly, looking at
to be cheerful for
you think JI for-

sissy,’’

had scarcely left
shamelessly deserted the
over a stile into a path
through the woods which would bring them to
their destination in about double the time it
could be performed by road.

“Just look at that!’’ exclaimed Stella,
laugh. “Ii that child isn’t beginning
already—and she is only seventeen!”’

“Ah! she’s a New Woman,” observed Geoffrey,
not at all sorry to have his companion to him-
self, “and they don’t believe in letting the grass
grow under their feet—not even in a flirtation.’’
Then he wondered, looking down at the sweet,
rather pensive, face beside him, with its clear,
pale oval, and steadfast gray eyes, if he dared
venture yet to tell her how much he loved her.
She unexpectedly helped Him out of the difficulty
by presently saying:

“TIT want to ask you. something, Doctor Shaw.
Do you think I should be suitable for a nurse—
a hospital nurse, I mean?”

“You!’’ he exclaimed, looking at her
prise. “Why?”

“Well, I should like to be one, and I think I
am strong enough.”

“Why?” he repeated, -still incredulous;
cuse me, aren’t you happy at home?’’

“Yes,’’ she replied, with a little hesitation.
“It is not that, only I should like to be of some
in they world.” :
think you are
here. You are a companion
sister, and you have
all miss you.”

Stella smiled somewhat sadly.

“One’s place is so easily filled, you know.
the most, one is only missed a little while,
even that unless some one’s personal comfort is
concerned,”’ she added, with a bitter little laugh.

“What a gloomy view! You don’t expect me
to endorse it? Isn’t it within the bounds of pos-
sibility that I, for instance, may miss you?”

He looked keenly at her, his heart beginning
to thump uncomfortably. She returned the look
quietly enough, though her color rose a little as
she met his eyes.

_“T believe. you are a true friend,” she said
simply, and then stopped, her lip quivering, for
what she read in Geoffrey’s glance reminded her
—alas! too painfully—of the love that used to
speak so plainly in Owen’s eyes.

“More than that,” he said, taking her hand,
“more than that, Stella, for I love you, and
long to make you happy, dear—you must surely
know that! Tell me so—tell me that you will
try to love me at least a little!”

He had controlled himself and spoken
enough, but Stella stopped him,
tressed.

“Oh, don’t go on—don’t! Did you
that I was engaged to—to some one,
he’’—she gasped—‘‘he jilted me?”

“Yes, I heard,’ he replied quietly, an omi-
nous gleam in his eyes, ‘‘and if I knew the brute

“Hush! He did not love me, and it was quite
right!” she interposed, flashing a look of some in-
dignation on him.

‘At least I should be thankful to him that he
has given me a chance. Oh, Stella, you cannot
eare for him! Give me the right to love you-—
no one could give you purer, tenderer devotion,
believe me.”

He still held her hand
eyes resting affectionately
them, it was hard to refuse—hard to resist the
love and adoration they expressed. She had
lost so much, and hers was a nature that yearned
for tenderness and affection as a flower for sun-
light. Could it be possible that this was real-
ly a true-hearted, unselfish lover, one who would
give her faithful and unchanging devotion? She
knew her heart was not his, but women love to
be loved, and——”’ :

“But if I do not
you very much,
you.
“Stella,

the

with a
to flirt

in sur-

“ex-

“T should that already, and
to your father and

made friends who would

At
not

quietly
tremblingly dis-

not know
and that

tightly clasped, his
on hers. Meeting

like
love

care for you—I do
Doctor *Shaw—but I don't

I

my wife.’’

“Ought I to marry you? But if you are con-
tent, I will try to make you happy.’’

“More than content, my heart’s dearest,”
whispered tenderly; ‘‘more than content.”

And so Stella promised to marry Geofirey
Shaw.

let me love you. want you to be

he

CHAPTER II.
‘you CANNOT ,WRONG YOURSELF AND HIM

About six weeks later,
close, hot August afternoon, the London express
dropped half a dozen or so passengers at Stan-
field Magna Station, which was also the junction
for Little Stanfield, a mile or two farther on, on
a single branch line. One of the half-dozen, a
young* man in a light, loose summer suit, after
making some inquiries of the station-master,
caught up his satchel and went off down the
white, dusty road leading from the station, pres-
ently turning into a shady lane with high, lux-
uriant hedgerows, now masses of briony and
white and pink blackberry blossom—a lane evi-
dently not much frequented by vehicles, partly
from its narrowness, and partly, too, because of
its many twists and turns.

About a quarter of .a mile along, however,
turning one of its bewildering bends, he saw a
pony-carriage coming toward him. As it drew
nearer and he could see the occupant, he stopped,
stared, and said something sharply under his
breath, then drew back into the hedge to let the
carriage pass. The girl who was driving looked
up.

* ‘Owen !”’
voluntary
pony.

“Stella!” He came forward, trying to look
into the half-averted face. ‘So you are here,
and I have found you at last!”

‘We are living here,” she said,
ly. “I do not think I can stop now; I am late.
Are you staying here?’ with a glance at the
satchel he carried. She had controlled herself,
but it was an effort, for her heart was beating
quickly as she felt Owen’s eyes resting on her.

“T am on my way to stay with a friend at
Little Stanfield—Doctor Shaw,’ he said briefly.

“Oh! with Doctor Shaw,’’ she gasped, in a sort
of helpless distraction.

“You know him, then ?”’

y?

toward the end of @

and an in-
stopped the

A startled exclamation
pull at the reins that

almost cold-

he asked half-suspi-

Alma?” she questioned, with sharp
abruptness, still not looking at him, for she felt
her eyes might betray her.

Owen took the reins from- her hands and leaned
forward. ‘‘Your pony is a treasure, no doubt, but
if you are not careful he will bolt—if you hold
him like that. I want to talk to you, Stella;
you did not give me a chance that day at South-
sea——”’

“You forget,’’ she said, her hurried
showing her agitation; ‘‘you forget,
the reason!”

“It was a mistaken one—on my _ honor it
was! You thought I cared for Miss Luttrell I
never even thought of such a thing, and I c&an-
not imagine why you should—but let that pass
for the moment. She amused and flaftered me,
I grant, as that sort of girl does, and I am
only human, Stella, and*a man; but that I pre-
ferred her to you, that I regretted—oh! it cut
me to the heart to read your letter, dear!”

If Stella had doubted the sincerity of the
words, she would have read their full confirma-
tion in the ardent tenderness of the gaze that
met hers as she slowly and half-fearfully looked
at him.

“Why do you tell me all this now?”
presently, in a helpless sort of way.
not engaged to Alma? We heard you

“Mhere’s not a word of truth in it!” he cried,
his handsome face flushing angrily. “I never
asked her to marry me, and, what is more, she
is engaged to our adjutant.”

Stella looked mutely at him
two. Then, very softly, “I am
you—very sorry. I ought not
appearances of listened to chatter. TI ought to
have given you a chance of explanation. It
was unfair—but you wiil forgive me now, won’t
you? It is all past and over, and I—I am very
sorry !’’ she said again, in a toneless voice. :

Owen caught her hands in his and pressed his

>

breathing
or ignore,

she said
“Are you
were.”

for a moment or
sorry I wronged
to have believed

 

| lips to them with passion.

“Porgiye you! It is for you to forgive me;

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

~own—and I know—that your love is

have met again;

“ gagement !”

but you. do—do you not?

we will forget all these miserable months. of
separation; let me try to make up-for them, if
I ean; and—tell me you love me.once more—
tell me,’ in an impassioned whisper, drawing
closer to her. :

“Oh, don’t, don’t,’ she eried, frightened and
trembling. ‘It’s all’ over—don’t talk to me -of

love!” : ; g
“Wh Of what else should I talk?
I convinced you that I never loved

Haven’
Alma ?’”’ ;

“Yes. Oh, yes! I believe it; but it’s not
that. It’s all over!” she repeated wildly, strug-
gling with her tears.

Owen looked at her, distressed. and ade

y don’t “forgive?” he said sadly.

1 ata not think you were that sort of

t. Oh, can you not believe me? But—

but how could I help thinking you had forgotten

me—that you would marry Alma? And, think-

ing “that, I—-I have promised to marry some

one else!” she buried her face in her hands,
and burst into weeping. ¢

“Stella

She yet on sobbing, and for a moment Owen
could find no werds to express his thoughts.
Then, in a voice that was strained to affected
calmness, he asked:

“Who is it?” e

“Doctor Shaw.’’

“Good heavens!
Shaw! There is a_ fate
into a mirthless laugh.

“Look here, Stella!
You can’t marry. any man but

Stella, darling Stella,

not?

Geoffrey.
He burst

It is not possible!
in this!”

You ean’t. marry him.
myself. You
still mine;
you cannot wrong yourself and him by becoming
his wife.”

“He knows I do not loye him,” said Stella,
from behind hér trembling hands.

“But he does not know that you
one else?” :

“T—Owen, I cannot have you talk like this.
I have promised to marry Doctor Shaw, and
I shaHN keep my word.” She raised her head
and looked at him, her lips still slightly quiver-
ing. “It is hard to say that I am sorry we
but I was beginning to forget
—at least the pain was wearing away, and now
I shall have to begin all over again!” She
turned away lest he should see the wistfulness in
her eyes.

“You shall not marry him, “Stella. ”

“Good-by, Owen. If by chance we _ should
meet again during your visit here, I know you
will be honorable enough te—to remember that
I am Doctor Shaw’s promised wife.”

“They looked at each other steadily for a mo-
ment. Then he groaned impatiently. ‘‘You have
the right.to ask it, and you have my promise.
And w, Heaven help us. both!”

Stella drove on, half-blinded with tears, and
her old lover tramped savagely off to his destina-
tion.

Geoffrey Shaw’ and he had been in India to-
gether, and had met again by ehance a few weeks
before in London. The result was the invitation
to Little Stanfield—a visit that had an omi-
nous beginning.

During the week of his stay with Geoffrey
he twice met Stella, though he avoided, almost
too carefully, any possibility of such encoufiters.

Their second meeting had been a trying one
to poor Stella. In spite of all her efforts to for-
get Owen, she found it next to impossible, and
her present ‘knowledge that she had wronged him,
and ruined her own happiness, was especially
hard to bear. She began to be physically. and
mentally depressed.

Josie found her in a paroxysm of tears in her
room, an hour or so after this second ordeal, and,
after coaxing, comforting, sympathizing and
scolding, went away impressed with the neces-
sity of doing something—she was not sure what
—to help her sister. :

-“Fortune—or chance—favored her next morning
most unexpectedly.

She had persuaded Stella not to come down to
breakfast, and, when that meal was over, as she
was lazily deliberating whether to go and read
in the garden or do some much-neglected indoor
work, she saw Geoffrey coming up the path.

“Hello, mademoiselle!’’ he called, as soon as
he caught sight of her. “Come along here for
Be minute! If Stella’s thére, she’s to remain! I

love some

‘want you.’

Me. ends some mysterious signs, indicative of
profound secrecy, and Josie darted out.

‘‘There’s a man round the corner by the gate
with a- Yorkshire terrier that beats any pup I
ever saw. I want to give it to Stella.”

“Oh, no, don’t!” was the unexpected rejoinder,
made with curt incisiveness.

“Why, in the name of common sense?”

““Because—oh, send the man away,” petulantly.
“Stella does not want dogs.”’ :

“But she does want one—and she gould take
ft as a present from me.””~

“No, she wouldn’t—I mean—she doesn’t want
to be bothered; she’s not well.”

“Not well! ‘What's the matter?” i

“Oh, a thousand things—one of them’s heart
complaint!”

“Heart complaint!’’ echoed Geoffrey, too as-
tonished to notice Josie’s Manner, “T never
heard she suffered from that!” ~

“Well, she does, and I’m going to tell you, if
I die for. it. I can’t, bear to see her misera-
ble.

“Don’t say anything * you may be sorry for,
Josie,” said Geoffrey quietly, on whom a light
was breaking.

“She’s my sister, and I can’t see her suffer,”
said the girl, half-weeping. ‘‘She told you, didn’t
she, that she had been engaged: before she met
you, and that she—she did not love you?”

“What has. that. to do with it?’’ came the
short reply. ‘‘Has she commissioned you to say
this to me?”

There was an indignant flash from Josie’s eyes.
“No! She would die sooner than let you know.
But I woh’t have her miserable, and so I tell
you that she does not love you, but that she still
loves the man she was engaged to.”

“~The man who jilted her?”

“He did not,’°~ was the angry retort. “Ap-
pearances were against him, I own, and Stella-be-
lieved them because—beca use both papa and I
were mistaken and made mischief, and we urged
ber to give him up. He never - thought of—
the other girl, and she is going to Marry an-
other man—a Man she was engaged to at the
time, though we did not know it.’

“Oh! Well?’ Géoffrey’s voice was hard, but
a storm of anger and jealousy was raging within
him.

“They met again lately,” the girl went on,
half-frightened now at her own temerity, “by ac-
cident entirely, for neither knew where the other
was, and—and—oh! can’t’ you see that Stella
will break, her heart if she loses-Owen again?”

“Owen!” almost shouted Geoffrey. “Ts Owen
Amory. the man?”

“Yes,” said Josie. ‘And he’s going away to-
morrow. He has been noble and honorable. He
bas done his best to avoid seeing Stella, as you
know, and only twice—by the merest accident
~—they have “met. And he is going away to-
morrow for her sake. He loves her- too much
to be dishonorable, and—and ** she broke
down hysterically.

Geoffrey caught her arm and drew her quickly
out of sight and hearing of the house to the
farther side of a thick laurel hedge.

“Now, Josie, let’s have this out! You
fertain he loyes her, and she him?” he
manded, fixing eyes of such keen scrutiny on
that Josie inwardly quaked.

“T am positive!” she answered decidedly.
am sorry it hurts you, Geoffrey, but your
fering is not to be put before my sister’s,
I want you—-I beg you—to break off the
She. looked imploringly at him.

“Give her up!” lflaughed Geoffrey bitterly.
“You forget I did not win her too easily. Is
not this rather rough on me? Is what I feel of
no importance?” -

“You will get over it, but she would not, this
time. Be generous, Geoffrey—oh, be generous!”
She clasped. her hands entreatingly.

Before he could reply, the sound of wheels
along the road, stopping directly afterward at
the gate, announced the advent of visitors. There
appeared first the vicar, then “his. plump wife,
and finally an equally plump daughter, going to-

ward the house.

“T must go,’’ q@aid Josie hastily. ‘‘Stella is
not down yet. Good-by; and oh, for her sake
She laid her

be unselfish and do what I ask.’’

are
de-
hers

“Ty
suf-
and

en-

~ hands imploringly on his arm and looked up with

bright, tear-filled eyes; then ran round through
the kitchen-garden to the back of the house.

Later in the day, after an earlier dinner than
usual—for Stella had succumbed to a _ severe
headache—Josie was again alone, wandering up
and down the lawn among the flower-beds and
watching some thunder-laden clouds over the dis-
tant valley -toward Oxford. Presently turning,
she was aware of a small boy liftin¢ the latch
of the gate, and on his™nearer approach saw,
with more agitation than she liked to feel, that
he was Doctor Shaw’s office-boy, and that he
held a note in his hand.

It was meager when she opened it, but tersely
satisfactory.

“You have left me no course but the one you
insist on. At least I cam be as honest and hon-
orable as the man she loves, and I yield my
claim to him. A letter will come for her later.
I shall go to town to-morrow, and remain away
as long as-I can. I have had a talk with Owen
—he remains.”

That was all, but the contents more than
satisfied Josie. ‘After a moment or two of hesi-
tation, she went back to the house and up to her
sister’s room.. 7

“And if you knew,’ emphatically remarked
«the. same POE lady a Hay or “= afterward,

great,

f watching while any

 

#

E NEW YORK

 

talking over affairs with Owen,
what a scene there was with her at first, you’d
wonder I am alive to tell the tale. But she saw
in the end that her Quixotic nonsense abgut
keeping the engagement was unnecessary—under
the circumstances,” she laughed. “‘AH I. want
to impress on you is that I have been your
good genius or guardian angel, and you must
live up to that!” e

“You!” said Stella, stealing up ‘unobserved,
and pulling her sister's hair. ‘“‘My opinion is
see youre in’ love with Geoffrey Shaw your-
self.’

If she was not, it is

“if you -knew

remarkable that only a
month or two after her sister’s wedding that she
and the doctor should have been married in
London, where Geoffrey had: lately installed him-
self in an old-established practise. But as both
matches were exceedingly happy ones, it can
only be surmised that Stella’s guess was, after
all, correct.

—— el

LOVE AND MONEY.

-By MARIE CONNOR LEIGHTON,

Author of **The Peer’s- Masquerade,” ‘Hush Money,’ etc.

(“LOVE AND MONEY” was commenced in No, ll. Back

numbers Can be obtained of all 1newsdealers.)

CHAPTER CI.

IN THE HOSPITAL WARD.

With a feeling as if his whole life were Crum-
bling to dust and ashes around him, Robert
Cardross left the works, and started on foot for
the hospital. The thought of Eveline Mayne and
his agonizing fear for her had put everything
else out of his mind. He had forgotten Silence
Wilder and her threags as completely as if she
herself had never exis@ed, and as if her fierce,
strange words had never been heard by him in
reality, but only in a dream. What did any-
thing else matter, when his love lay, as he be-
lieved her to lie, on the awful border-land be-
tween this world and the next?

Might she not cross that border-land before he
reached her side?

“T ought to have had the car ready to drive
round in,’ he thought. ‘“‘Yes, even if I kept it
waiting all night.” *

Still, the distance to the hospital was
and he *was walking fast—-very fast.
~Half-way up the High Street_ he met one of
his managers, returning home-after spending
the evening with some friends. The man ven-
tured to speak to him, detaining him for a mo-
ment.

“T beg your pardon, sir, but I’ve be@n think-
ing that if you see the poor young lady, Miss
Eveline Mayne, when she recovers consciousness,
as they tell me she hasn’t done yet, couldn’t you
ask her if she say anything happening, or any-
body lurking about, on that dreadful night? You
see, sir, she might have seen something that
would give us. a clue to the wretches that did

the ugly job!”
roused himself out of the

Robert Cardross
agony of his suspense in order to answer the
rfght. In the mo-

man.

“Yes,” he said; “you are
ment before she cut the wire, Miss Mayne might
very well have seen or heard something which
would give us a clue to the scoundrels who were
planning murder and déstruction. Yes, if at any
time I find her well enough to be questioned, I
will question her.’’

He: did not say that he was going to her now,
and that this night might be the last on. which
any question might be put to her.

As he hurried along the rest of the way to the
hospital, he told himself that the manager had
been reasonable enough in suggesting that Eveline
Mayne should be asked to give any information
that she possessed which would lead to the iden-
tification of the men who had instigated this
latest and most dastardly attempt at the destruc-
tion of the Cardross. works.

He knew well how much and what complete
information she could give if she chose; and she
should give it, if by any means he could per-
suade her to do so. She-should give it, if only
in order that he might avenge her.”

“Tf she dies—if she dies, the infamous wretches
shall pay!” he told himself, clenching his hands
in the depth of his anguish. ‘They shall pay!
It will be all. I shall have to live for then!’ _
~The hospital ward which held his treasure. was
as hushed as if nothing more than usual were
happening there. And—well, perhaps it was noth-
ing more than usual, after all, that the wings of
the Dark Angel’ should be hovering very “elose
over one particular bed.

He went to this bed where his treasure lay.
The hateful representative of the police was
there, as always, on guard,
life remained in the beauti-
ful, crushed body. The doctor and the nurse
were there, too. -The former came forward and
spoke to Robert Cardross.

“TJ am afraid there can be no doubt that the
change is for the worse, Mr. Cardross,” he said
sympathetically. “I thought I had _ better let
you know early. I have also informed Mrs.
Mayne, and have asked her to bring the Vicar of
Newlands here with her, as J understand he is a
great friend of Miss Mayne’s, and she might like
to see him if she recovers consciousness before—
before the end comes.’’

The last words fell like a knell upon Robert
Cardross’ heart.

“Then you think she is dying.’

The doctor looked’ at him quickly. Did he sus-
pect that the interest which he took in-the pa-
tient was somewhat keener than that which the
owner of a great industrial hive might be ex-
pected -to take jin a girl of considerable social
position, who. had been injured on his prem-
ises? .

*T will not say that definitely as yet,’ was his
reply. .‘“‘I should not be justified in expressing
a. definite opinion now. But the next hour. will
show beyond a doubt whether she is to Live: or
die.”

Robert Cardross breathed sharply.

“Js everything being done that can be done?
I mean, I hope -that there is no money being
spared. Mrs. Mayne, being a widow, you have
perhaps not troubled her about some ‘things that
you would have asked a man to look after. If
there should be any difficulty of the kind—any-
thing to be done about which you do not like to
trouble a lady—I hope you will consider me as
standing in the place of—df a brother to this un-
happy girl who is suffering here. «Perhaps there
is time yet to summon other specialists? Surely
money—unlimited money-—can do something ?""

The doctor shook his head.

“TI am afraid not, Mr. Cardross. ff she shoul
get through to-night, there will be some hope that
something may be done; but for to-night we can
do nothing but simply. watch her closely, and
hope for the best. Look! She is opening her
eyes. She sees you, and knows you. The effects
of the last dose of morphin are passing away.
She is beginning to feel the pain terribly, too.
You can see it by the~strained look on her face.’

The nurse in attendance was leaning over
Eveline Mayne, moistening her dry, hot lips.
When she moved away from the bedside, Robert
Cardross crossed over to the white, sweet face.
It had become so waxen white, that loved face,
that -the sight of it wrung his- heart.

“Eveline!” he whispered, very softly, very ten-
derly. ‘‘Eveline!”

The doctor and the nurse had both moved a few
yards away, and he was alone with her—alone
and face to face with her conscious self for the
first time since the awful night when the terrible
and unforeseen thing had occurred which had laid
her here, cruelly injured and helpless.

“Eveline!” he whispered again. ‘Oh, how can
I tell you what I feel—wh iat love, what pity,
what deep, deep gratitude? But for you I might
not myself he living now. Even if I had still
had my life, I should almost certainly have been
fatherless, and should also have been lamenting
the deaths of many of my workmen!

“You have saved us all. Your courage saved
us. You were so brave! And you eared nothing
for yourself. You risked everything—arrest and
injury and a thousand horrors—for our sakes—
my father’s and mine. You risked all this, even
though we bore the name which you hated and
scorned—the name of Cardross!”

There was a pause. The emissary of the law,
rigidly keeping guard at a little distance, had
gone to sleep—or, at least, appeared to have done
so. So far as Robert Cardross could judge, he
and the woman he so passionately loved: were as
good as alone together. He spoke again, bending
his dark head down nearer yet to that sweet,
waxen-white face:

“Tell me how I can thank you for all- this—
for my father’s life, and my own, and so many
others! Tell me what I can-do for you! Say
one word—only one word—and [I shall under-
stand! Ah, you do not know the joy it is to me
to see your eyes open upon me again with recog-
nition in them!

“During these days, when you have been only
half-conscious, and have looked at me. without
knowing me, I have suffered so much—so much!
I have not slept for nights, but have walked up
and down the workshop, thinking of you, and
yearning toward you, and praying that you might
be given strength to bear your torturing pain, and
might come back into my life. Yes, I have
prayed night and day—-I, who have prayed so
little in all my life before! Ah, speak one word

~

not

never to give up

 

2

 

to me, if you can! Let me hear your dear voice
again! Give me just one little word!”
““Robert— Robert !”’ ‘
The faintly murmured words were like heaven-
ly music~-to him. He saw her trying to move
her hand, so that it might reach and touch the
one of his which rested on the edge of the bed.
He took that white, wasted, waxlike hand, and
clasped it desperately in his; for might it not be
Heaven’s will that after to-night he should never

-elasp it?

“Do you shrink. from me still in your heart
because I am a Cardross?” he asked her, speak-
ing again in a deep whisper. “Do you, who saved
Michael Cardross’ life, hate me still because I
am Michael Cardross’ son?’ ;

“Hate—hate? No—no! I love—I lJoye——

“You love me?” he panted, his breath coming
quickly. And then a touch of bitter sadness came
into his voice as he added: ‘Yes, I know you
love me—in away. I taught you to love me
when you thought I was only” Pee ree. the work-
man, and you have not forgotten at. But for-
get now that I was eyer Boheme Look in my
eyes, and tell me if you Jove me as Robert
Cardross. Say ‘Yes’--only ‘Yes’—and you. will
change the whole face of the world for me!”

He felt her burning and trembling hand nestle
closer into his, while she lifted her shadowed
eyes to his with an wnspeakable joy and. devo-
tion shining through the anguish of bodily pain
which they expressed.

“Yes!” Her. voice’ intoned
than uttered it. “Yes!”

He drew his: head back a little,
might look at her more searchingly,
read in her eyes whether or not he had heard
her aright; for a chilling fear was upon him
lest he should be mistaken, and she should not
actually have uttered that word which he had
implored. her to speak.

Ah,,yes, she had spoken it! He had made no
mistale. She had made her confession of love
for him in his own true character, and her eyes
were repeating that magic word “‘yes’” even now—
mutely repeating it, as they were lifted to his
with a whole world of trust and yearning in
them. And his own head bent lower again.

“My darling!’ he whispered. “My darling!
So you love me at ast for who and what I
truly am? You will not send me away from you
any more because of the name that I bear?”

“‘No—ah, no!’’

Very faintly she

2

the word rather
so that he
and

spoke, and yet very passion-
ately, while still her eyes looked up ‘devotedly,
longingly, into his.

“Thank Heaven for that! Thank Heaven you
did not save my life only in order to make it
worthless and barren! Oh, my heart’s dearest
my one treasure! You are mine now as you have
never been mine before! In your pain, you have
given your heart and your life wholly to me at
last!”

There -was silence for a few moments. Then
Robert Cardross -asked: “My poor darling, why
do ‘you tremble so? Is-your pain very great?’’

She smiled at him bravely, but he knew she
smiled through keen agony.

“Yes, it is very hard to bear. If it gets any
worse, I—I do not know how [I shall bear it at
all.. Am I going to die? Or shall I get bet-
ter? I must be going to die, or you would not
be here at this hour of the night?”

A choking sensation agitated Robert Cardross.

“T hope you will live, my darling,’’ he an-
swered her, in & shaking voice. ‘‘You have been
in great danger, but this night is the turning-
point. When it has passed you will be safe. But
these are crucial moments, in which you must be
very careful; so you must not tire yourself with
speaking. You will need all your strength to
bear the pain. The nurse will give you some
more morphin presently. Ah, how I wish I
could bear your cruel pain for you!’’

His*own heart was wrung as he saw her fea-
tures contract, and drops of cold perspiration
pearl out upon them. He watched her in silence
for a few moments, and then into his eyes there
came a new and fierce sternness. He had half-
raised himself, and now he bent low again.

“Byeline, there is something I wish to ask
you. Will you tell me the names of the men
who planned that. last outrage? . Tell me whose
hand was at the back of it!”
~“Surely—you—know?’ she murmured, with a
catch in her breath. “You know only too well!”

“T believe I know,’’ Robert Cardross returned.
“Every man at the works believes he knows. But
I want to hear the name or names from your
own lips, here and now, so that I may be sure.
Will you tell me?’’

She tried to move

“No—no! I cannot

“But you. know.- I am certain that you
When you gave the warning to my father
must have known not. only what was going to
happen, but also .whose. hand was behind the
threatened calamity. Tell me now, Eveline
for the love .of Heaven, tell me! The danger
to the works is not even yet over, and ‘it must
be guarded against!”

“No Again her breath came quickly
and painfully. ‘I cannot tell you the names! [
—I must not! It would not be right! You—
must—forgive——”’

Then the terrible bodily
enduring seemed to lodge
she could say no more,
it was to murmur:

“Robert, love, can this
ing to me?”

““Death—death? No

Up to this moment Robert Cardross had been
as oné who felt himself powerless before a great
and paralyzing horror; but now, suddenly,- the
strength and mastership which were natural to
him rose up in him again, driving away de-

spair.

“No, no!’’ he repeated confidently. “Death
shall not come to you, my. darling! My love
shall keep it from you—-my love for you, and
yours for me, and our great hope of happiness.
You are so young! ~ You must live! You shall
live! The pain is terrible, I know, but it will
pass. And then a happy life will be before us.
Eveline—Eveline, you must fight hard against
your _weakness, for my sake. Say to yourself
over and over again that you must live for me!
Fight hard, my darling, for loye—for happi-
ness !” .

“Yes—yes, I will fight!’ she murmured back,
smiling bravely, although, in spite of herself, a
moan broke from her with the words, as the
increasing pain tortured her almost beyond the
limits of endurance. ;

He took out his handkerchief and wiped the
beads of suffering from her forehead.

“Love !’’ she whispered, after a moment. The
whisper was so faint that he had to stoop yet
lower to catch it. “There is something I want
to say to you.”

“Yes, darling. What

“You are not angry with me for refusing to
tell you the names of these men who are guilty
of these outrages? You see, in my first grief for
my father I made myself the partner of these
men in their purpose to ruin your father. and
everything connected with him.» They are actu-
ated by. a relentless vengeance against him—at
least, one of them has—though I do not know
what the injury was which demands to be wiped
out in blood and destruction. II made my vyenge-
ance a part of theirs, for i cnew
to what lengths they would go—so I cannot turn
against them now. I-——I have been a stumbling-
block in their way, instead of helping them, so
the least I. can do is—is_not to betray them.
You eomprehend ?’’

“Yes, I comprehend!’’ Robert Cardross had
clenched his hands quietly as he stood in the
shadow. “‘I comprehend! ~But it is hard! There
is so much to pay back—so much! The lives
of those poor fellows who. died in the first out-
rages—the misery of the widows and orphans
they have left behind them—and every pang
that you are suffering now

“You must leave it to God,”
joinder from between | the girl’s white lips.
says He will repay.

But the strong man’s hands did not unclench.

“It is only the weak who can really entrust
vengeance to Heaven,” he said, with a fierce ring
in his subdued voice. ‘‘As for me, when I look
at you as you are now, I want to strike, and
strike hard, even vindictively !”

Again her features were contracted
guish; and once more her eyes told
there was something more that she
say.

“Love, if I° die, you will tell
you not, that I forgive them?

They did not know

her head to shake it.
tell you!’

know.
you

she was
so that
spoke

which
throat,
she next

that

pain
in her
When

be death is com-

9

iste

came the re-
“He

with an-
him that
wanted to

will
their
do-

these
It was
what they

men,
not
were

9

mean the workmen who hurt he
said mechanically.

“Yes. They were doing their duty.
been maddened to. frenzy, so that they—they
hardly knew that I was.a woman. You must
not blame them. And—and they had heard me
speak so much against you and your father—
long ago—that even when they knew me, it was
no wonder that they took me for an enemy. © So
that, even if I ‘die, you must forgive them, Rob-
ert. Will you promise to do so?”

She saw a convulsion pass- over his
featured face. :

“If you die, I might
all that the world will
answered her. “It would not matter to me then
whether I could bring. myself to forgive them
or not. But you are ngt going to die—my soul
tells me so. You are going to live for me—for
leye—for long, long years of joy!

But he saw that for the moment the pain’ which
she was suffering was overmastering her.

“Is the doctor here?’’ she faintly asked. “TI
want him to give me something—something to
relieve this pain. It is killing me! Will you
call him—just for a moment? And then—let me

you*

They had

strong-

for
he

as well be dead, too,
mean to me, Eveline,’’

might |

 

WEEKLY.

 

so much!
give me a

hold your hand again.
Oh, ‘call him—ceall him!
sedative !”’

Robert Cardross’
when, Berne
ful .medical man

Give 9 the
could he, when

That helps me

Ask him to
hands had not yet unclenched
instantly to a sign, the watch-
came quickly to the bedside.
thought of vengeance? How
he saw this girl, whom he loved
so well, in the worst, awful crisis of her suffer-
ing, with her face changed and convyulsed, and
the soft, fair tendrils about her brow damp with
the dews of anguish?

No—no! ie could not! He would make
those’ who had been the cause of this suffering
pay for it in this world! Then, if by and by
they should meet with Heaven’s punishment, too,
it would stiH not be too much—no, nor half-
enough.”’

Another moment,
done its work. The
smoothed themselves,

and the blessed sedative had
anguish-wrung features had
the beautiful ~eyes had
closed again, and the troubled, spasmodic breath-
ing became calm and even,
“Ts she in very great danger,
He had hardly dared to put
yet -it' had to be put
“Yes.”

doctor?”

the question; and

CHAPTER
THE TURN

Yes, the sedative had done its
“Ts she in very great danger,
Cardross asked, looking, with
heart, at the still, white face

The medical man nodded

“Yes, Mr. Cardross. It is useless to hide the
truth from you. During this hour she is in very
grave danger. But there is hope. She is young,
and has such a splendid constitution !”

Something in the doctor’s look or tone would
have conveyed to any other than Robert Cardross
himself that he was wondering why this man of
great social importance and _ colossal wealth
should be waiting and watching here at midnight
by the bedside of a girl who was supposed to be
to him no more than a friend, yet whose slight-
est moan of pain surely sent an answering pang
through his frame.

But Robert Cardross heeded not what
thought, nor what any one else might think.
was conscious only of that dearly loved
lying there, helpless, in the narrow bed, and
of that lovely white face, with the gloud of
soft, fair hair about it, resting against the pil-
low. And he continued to wait and watch, still
shutting his eyes to that other figure that waited
and watched also—the figure of the representa-
tive of the law.

He had forgotten when,
had spoken to her of living
was practically a prisoner in the hands of the
police, on a charge of murdér. He had forgot-
ten that, as soon as she should be strong enough
to rise from this bed, the Law would claim her
as its prey.

Well, let it claim her, since it must. do so!
But it should not hold her. She was his own
now, and he would release her from the grip of
the police. He would use his wealth to investi-
gate this case of the murder of Denbigh Waltérs
to the uttermost, and would wring the heart out
of the mystery.

“She, who is my affianced wife, shall not re-
main for long under the ban of this horrible sus-
picion!”’ he told himself confidently.

He waited at his post of love, watching the
ministrations of the doctor and the nurse, as
the minutes crawled on. And at last Mrs. Mayne
and the Vicar of Newlands came in.

‘the poor little butterfly woman was
ble state of helplessness and despair.

“Oh, Mr. Cardross, I am so glad you are here!
I didn’t think I could bear to be here, and so I
brought the housekeeper—Eveline’s old nurse, you
know—along with me, as well as the vicar. It
was so dreadful to have a clergyman asked for!
It seemed as if she must be very dangerously
ill! She is not, is she? She is not going to die?
Oh, tell me she is not going to die!”

The doctor shook his head doubtfully.

But Robert Cardross lifted his face, with a de-
fiant challenge to Destiny stamped on its every
feature. .

‘No,’ he dared to say confidently,
going to die. TI tell you that,
tor will not do so yet. She is
live for .me!”

Not only Mrs. Mayne, but the others who were
present, heard the bold words clearly. Then he
spoke in a lower voice, for Mrs. Mayne’s ear
only:

“Just now, while she was conscious for a lit-
tle while, Eveline forgave me my name, and
promised herself to me,’ he said proudly ‘And,
if you accept me as her affianced hust and, will
you let me. take some of the responsibilities of
that position, and act for you at this crisis?
She has no male relatives to. come forward and
help both her and you, and this trouble must
weigh very hardly upon you. Will you not let
me lighten it by taking at once the place of pro-
tector and helper, which is surely now, mine by
right ?’’

Mrs. Mayne burst into tears-of gratitude.

“Lord Topham said ae same thing to me only
a little while ago,” she faltered out. ‘tHe offered
to help me, and I wae his offer. But, of
course, if she has engaged herself to you, you
have the right, and he has not!”

Mven in her grief she was adding inwardly:
“And, besides, you are worth a hundred of him;
because, although he has a title, and is fairly
well off, as titled men go nowadays, he isn’t to
be mentioned in the same breath with the son and

heir of Michael Cardross!’’

But aloud she did not give utterance to these
worldly sentiments. She only said:

“Do what you think right. You need not even
trouble to consult me. My nerves are broken
down completely, so that I really don’t think I
could bear any more worry. I know that every-
thing you do will be for the best, and I only
pray that the dear child may live to reward you
by making you happy.

“Tt is a great thing that she should
come her hatred of the name
always used to say that she
than marry any man bearing
felt that time would bring her round, and I
simply cannot tell you how glad I am. If, in-
deed, she lives to marry you, and is free to do
so, she will be a very fortunate girl. But when
I think that she is under arrest for murder, I
feel as if she might as well be dead!”

It was five o’clock in the morning when, after
long hours of watching, Robert Cardross led Mrs.
Mayne away. from the hospital ward, and out to
her carriage, which was waiting at the hospital
entrance. She was followed by the vicar and by
Eveljne’s old nurse, who was weeping tears of
gladness, and murmuring words of thanksgiving
to Heaven.

For Eveline was

“She
her to

CIT.

OF THE- TIDE.

work.
Robert
in his
beloved.

merciful
doctor ?’’
anguish
of his

he
He
form

a few moments ago, he
for him, that she

in a pitia-

“she is not
although the doc-
going to live—to

have over-
of Cardross. She
would rather die
that name.

going to live!

is going to live simply because you
live, and because it would break your
heart if she died,’” Mrs. Mayne said, with con-
viction. ‘“It.is just as I have always said—that
you Cardrosses are the luckiest people on the face
of the earth. If you want a thing, you always
get it, no matter what it is.

“Tf anybody else but you—poor
instance—had been going to marry
would never have recovered. I am as sure of
that as I am that I am a living woman. But,
because you want her—you, Robert Cardross-
she comes back from the very brink of the grave.

“Tt have not the least doubt now that you will
get her off this murder charge, somehow, and that
everything -will soon be as right if nothing
had ever gone wrong. I. should be at all
surprised if three months from this date saw
you married to her—although it will take her a
good deal more than three months to get even
half-well, after the injuries she has _ received.
Well, good night, Mr. Cardross! I suppose it is
useless to ask you to come back and spend what’s
left of the night at Newlands? Where do you
sleep when you stop down here at Birkdon? At
the works, I suppose?”

“Sometimes, and sometimes [
I am going to the hotel now.
near morning for me to go out to Newlands.”

The hotel, which he had spoken of as ‘the
hotel,’”’ was a very large and luxurious place
indeed, where it often suited him to put up.
He made his way there now on foot, having
seen Mrs. Mayne’s carriage drive off down the
street.

He walked with a firm, elastic tread through
the dark and deserted streets of the town. So
great was the flood of joy and ¢hanksgiving in
his heart that he felt as if he walked on air.
His face must have revealed his feelings, for even
the sleepy night-porter looked at him with some-
thing like amazement as he-entered the hall of
the hotel.

He went up-stairs at
was always kept ready
should need -it. On the silent first-floor landing
he was startled by a tall, black figure, that
emerged suddenly from the shadow.

“Silence Wilder! You here? What,
en’s name, does this mean?’’

The tall, gaunt, phantomlike
his question by another:

“Is Eveline Mayne dying?’’

“No. The change has come,
better. She will live!”

Ah!”

want

Topham, for
Eveline, she

as

not

go to the hotel.
It is really too

once
for

to the room which
him, in case _ he

in Heav-

woman answered

but it for the

is

Something in her voice as she breathed this one
little exclamation cast an instant shadow over
his joy™ He made a restless movement.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. almost
sharply. ‘Why have you _ not pope back to
town? Surely it is very strange that you should
be staying here alone in this nokalies Ore a girl?’’

a aoe A curious, mocking expression

But [.

 

638—-No. 44

gaunt features. “I am
that I am only a girl
sense of being unmarried. Otherwise I
much a woman of the world. I can
myself quite well. You need not be
me. Besides, are you not staying at
fo hotel, too—you, who consider yourself as,
to all intents and- purposes, my brother? What
better protection could [ have than your pres-
ence under the same roof that shelters me?”

The mockery in her voice was sharp id of-
fensive. And again Robert Cardross moved rest-
lessly and uneasily.

it was one of the

2 Wilder that she

of. making people
any case, why
her now. Do yDu know
in the morning?”
bent her head.
know,” she answered
repetlent smile momentarily
“tT have been waiting up on
eoming here. I do not need
accustomed to turning night
your father’s house, although
guessed it. Besides, wanted
of your dear Eveline Mayne.
live, you say?”

“Yes.”” Robert Ca
ly and defiantly.
going to live,
Ah!’

significant

her colorless
Robert Cardross
able.

The nameless uneasiness and equally nameless
fear remained with him when he had gone to his
own room, and was trying to shut the black-clad,
phantomlike woman out of his thoughts, even as
he had shut away her bodily presence. And,
worn out though he was by the ordeal of sus-
pense through which he had just passed, he yet
could not find sleep, but started up from his bed,
and began to walk up and down the floor, ask-
ing himself if it were possible that even the craf-
tiest malignity could contrive to work any harm
to Eveline Mayne as she lay, tenderly watched
and closely guarded, in the hospital ward.

Closely guarded! Yes, far too closely.
ly, at least, the representatives of the
watched closely by her, would see that
came to her?

“Tt must be that

over her hard,
Robert Cardross,

flitted
afraid,
in the
am very
i after

raid for

things

had

about Si-

strangest i
the fac-

had always
uneasy:
are you he
five

up so late?”
that it is

him quietly, while a
distorted her
the chance of
much sleep. I
into day, even
you have
to have a
So she going

face
your
am
in
never
report
to

¥

is

bold-

she

lifted his
Heaven’s ble
live for me!

xrdross
“Under
and to

head
ssing,

is

little
lips
feel

exclamation came quietly
again, and again it made
perturbed and uncomfort-

Sure-
who
harm

law

no

woman’s African look that
fills me with distrust of her,’’ he told himself
“After all, what can she do, poor, blind creature
that she is? Nothing—nothing! She has al-
ready done her worst against my darling in this
matter of the murder charge. She cannot do
more !”’
But his
less. The
continued
aside.
The

uneasiness
dark face
to haunt

grew upon him, neverthe-
and gaunt shape of Silence
him, and would not be put

next morning -he looked in vain for any
sign of her. He did not question the hotel peo-
ple about her movements, but went to the works
as usual, supposing that she had already gone
back to London. Her-ways were very strange.
It had always been useless to count upon them.

He heard good’ news of Eveline Mayne in the
morning. She was better than she had been at
fiv' o’clock. Yes, she would __ live According

he evidence,~she was certain to live What
would it matter if her recovery should be slow—
if, indeed, she should have to bear upon her
body, for many years to come, traces of the in-
juries which she. had received for his sake, in
order to save him, from the frenzied hands of
his workmen.

She would only
lovelier and the sweeter.

He did not go to see her until
but all through the morning his pulses had been
throbbing faster at the thought of her, and all
life had taken on a color which it had never
possessed before. His suspense was over, and
she had forgiven him for bearing the name of
Cardross, and had consented to let him give her
that name for her own.

She had been in great pain when she had
consented. It might be, indeed, that she had be-
lieved she was going to die, and that she would
therefore never be called upon to keep the word
that she had given him But he knew that she
would keep it now.

She would keep it
before her, and the prospect of many, many
years to be spent by his side. Ah, the delight
of those years, if only Heaven would grant them!

Where was her craving for vengeance now—
the powerful motive that had once led her to de-
nounce him and his father in fierce and bitter
words spoken to their own workmen?

Had it passed entirely out of her heart,
it only sleeping, to wake again later
no! It should never wake to come
and him!

It was this cray
answerable for this
during now. For if the workmen
dross works had not regarded her as an enemy
Ofgetheir master’s, they would not have rushed
upér her with the virulence which they had
shown. As it was, when their hands had bruised
and crushed her, they had very nae had
in their minds that recommendation to “look for
the woman,’ which had once, been written in
startling words on the great main gates of the
works.

Yeu;

be the lovelier in his: sight—the

the afternoon,

with life opening again

or
on?
between

was
No,
her

which
she was en-
at the Car-

ying for vengeance
suffering that

was

the
But
She

she had of
great millionaire,
she had forgiven.
had_forgiven—for love’s sake!

As always, his heart beat wildly as
near the place where she was. Never in all the
time since he had grown to manhood had it
throbbed so for any woman before. There could
be no mistake about the reality and strength of
this love which he felt for her. To cross the
threshold of this hospital ward, in which she lay
white and suffering, was to him like crossing the
threshold of Paradise

He wondered if she would be
upon him, or would be sleeping,
ful white lids down over her
then suddenly anxiety sprang up
For he saw that there was some
her, as well as the representative
and that that some one else was a
elegantly and expensively clad in

Silence Wilder! With a sudden,
apprehension chilling his blood, he hurried for-
ward. Obeying some instinct which he could not
have explained, he walked very softly—-even more
softly than it was his custom to walk—through
this place that was sacred to pain. He saw that
Eveline was awake, and was talking with Si-
lence. They were, indeed, talking so absorbedly
that neither of them had as yet noticed his ap-
proach: neither the sick girl with her sight,
nor the other with her sharp ears.

Robert Cardross thought he could read
darling’s face a tender pity for this woman
she looked upon as more affiicted than herself.
And quick indignation rose up within him at the
thought that Eveline should give her pity so
mistakenly. By what right had Silence Wilder
come here to speak with her?

They were not friends Silence,
never in all her life before directly
who, as it seemed, had accounted
in her hopes and fears for her own
whom she had hated for so long with so
jealous a hatred. Why had she come here
bedside now? Was it to feast senses
ingly on the bodily suffering of young
ture who had innocently taken away from
that which she wanted most in life? Or
it for some even worse *and more terrible
pose?

He remembered
that her little exclamation
he had told her, in reply
Eveline Mayne would live.
he had felt instinctively
her sitting here by his
rushed back upon him,
fold

He saw
girl and

paid for her fierce hate
and she was paying still
That was everything.

he drew

awake to smile
with the beauti-
heavenly eyes. And
in his heart.
one else with
of the police,
gaunt woman,
black.

unaccountable

in his
whom

indeed, had
met this girl
for.so much
future, and
fiercely
to her
gloat~
crea-
her
was
pur-

her

the

suddenly the ugly significance
“Ah!” had held, when
to her question, that
And the alarm which
when he had first seen
beloved one’s edside
intensified a hundred-

lean down closer
put her hand gropingly
Eveline put forth her own hand
Another moment, and that small,
hand would have been clasped in the
skinned palm that had been extended
take it; but Robert Cardross’ eyes, doubly keen
now, had caught the gleam of something that
looked like a tiny gold pin clasped the
fingers of the dark-skinned hand, and, springing
forward, he reached the bedside in time to wrench
Silence’s arm away from contact with loved
one.
The
the tiny
clasped

her uffering

saw
sponse
wasted
a , dark-
to find and

bety

his

that
had

such
hand

anch was

Silenee’s

the wre
which
floor

suddenness of
gold object
dropped to the

She stooped to pick it up
his own hand before she
though her sense of hearing
her the exact spot. where it

It was what he had
gold pin.

“Give that back to me!’
him, in a low, hoarse voice. ‘It is
brooch-pin. I know you have it in
Give it back to me instantly!”

“No,” he answered her, examining
closely. He had seen in an instant
of it was not clean. “I shall
back until I have handed it ov
fessional man to examine.”

“To a ?”* she asked,
ery.

jeweler?
“No; to a
A disagreeable
Wilder’s lips
“He will
to tell you
dross,”’ she

be had it in
seize it, al-
evidently told
lropped
to be—a

But
could
had
had

expected it small

demgnded of ?

Silence
simply a
your hand

the pin
that the point
not give it you
er to some pro-
in pretended mock-
professor of
little

chemistry.”’
laugh broke from Silence
be a
on

have to
what is
retorted.

very
that

expert scientist
pin, Robert Car-

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

The

 

 

 

_Vok 63 aN. 44

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

 

 

. She ‘spoke with, seeming coolness : hie: he saw
that the whole expression of her haggard face
- changed.
She sat down again by Eveline Mayne’s bed-
ie. But his voice reached her, stern-and cold.
I am sorry to have to say, Silence, I cannot
you stay here. The bedside of Eveline Mayne
efor. youse—*
So you would prevent me from show-

ee Sethe: and friendliness for a girl who has j

‘done so much for you?” ~

. “You have not come here to show sympathy
and friendliness. You came here to bring to
pass yourself that which Fate ~had decided
hould not be. You came here to take the life
hich Heaven in its mercy has spared. If I had
not come in here now, the woman whom I love

~ would, at this moment, have been dead—and dead

. in the bed toe hear him.

-by_ your act.
-He had spoken in too low a voice for the girl
And, answering him in

And now—go!

_ the same voice, Silence Wilder said:

“Tf go now, Robert Cardross, it will be to
iss from your life forever as your cousin and
riend, but to eome back at some future time as

De you choose that I

Soe “You can do whatever you yourself choose to

. I do not fear you.”
me well t Let it be war between us, then
m-us two who- were made to love each
shall begin with the exposure of your
. -I will make Swale tell his ugly~ story.

‘The, world shall at last know Michael Cardross

for the

man he is. Do not think that I have

anything to fear from. you which will keep me

silent. You are as powerless to harm me as you
are to defend yourself against me. ~ Remember
this, and remember when the evil hour comes

hg you will have brought it upon yourself.”

- somber figure.
than before.

Her face expressed malignant hatred as she
turned it im.the direction of Eveline Mayne, and

: _ then. glided away down the ward.

- Rebert Cardross stood looking after her tall,
Then he held up the little gold
- pin and scrutinized its point even more carefully
a Ed “We
oe elose- serutiny.

shall see!” he said to himself aloud, after’
“We -shall see!

~~ CHAPTER ‘Cri. a
: ROBERT CARDROSS’ WARNING,
Michael Cardross drove, that same day, to the

office of a well-known private detective agency,

and
“The | principal eame promptly enough. when he

asked to see the principal.

heard the name. of. the person who was inquir-

ing for him. - it was not often that they had the
“ehance of doing business with such a client as

the great Mr. Cardross.-

pe.

\.was supposed to have = died

The Steel King entered upon his business at
once. He had sat down sideways in a chair and

was. playing restlessly with his cane and gloves

as he spoke.-

'“T have come to you for help in a very™pe?
culiar situation. Thirty years ago a certain man
in a lonel¥, God-
eRe: part in the heart of Queensland, Aus-
tralia. Until the past few months I never had
the slightest doubt that this particular man was
dead. This was greatly to my regret, because
it was—and is—to my interest that he should be
living. It is so greatly - to my interest, indeed,
- that I am willing to offer a very heavy reward to
any one that can prove to me that he lives.”

He paused. The .eminent private detective

- modded, to show that he had followed the mat-

"oe with pérfect understanding up to the present
-moment. Michael Cardross resumed: .-

_ “A month or two ago the idea first came to me
that this man was not. dead, but living. I hap-
‘pened to go to the Creseent Club, St. James’, one

-night, and there I saw a person so exactly. like

-him—or, rather, so exactly like what he would
be, allowing for the differenee made by time—
that at first I had not the slightest doubt that
it was he. When I spoke about the matter, how-

_ever, to a man who has a distinct interest-in my

- nervously with his gloves and cane.

slightly altered voice.

or seemed to be going to do so.

and caught fire at once.

saw my man again!

reflection in a looking-glass.

- continuing to believe him dead, I was told that it
could not by any possibility have been himself
whom I had seen, but only some one very like
him. JI could. hardly bring myself to believe
this, and yet the—the evidence of his death had

ats ‘been. so- overwhelmingly strong that I did. believe
. .. Then the other night T saw him

with
him

exclaimed. the private aateetive:
isis quickening interest. ‘You. saw
again?’ = : : i
_ The Steel King nodded. He was still playing
-“Tt was in Victoria Street,” ‘he went on, in a
“T was in a motor-car. I
was just turning out of Ashley Gardens into
Victoria Street, when. my car collided with an-
other that was just turning into Ashley Gardens
_ The collision
was an ugly bit of business. My car was pretty
badly damaged, and the other one was smashed,
I had been thrown out,
but not seriously hurt, and when I got upon
my legs again and looked | about me, I saw-a fel-
low who had been’ flung out of the other car
picking himself up. I looked into his face and
There was no mistaking
him that time, because I saw him by the glare
of the flames of his own car, which was already
a at a rate that lit up the whole street.
There was absolutely no possibility of mistaking
him. I knew him as well as I know my own
And, what is more,

he knew me! He showed that he knew me !”

‘The detective nodded again.

~

alive should be known to -you?”

_-when he disappeared,

~ number of it until too late. —
had been taken to the hospital senseless,

=

 eheap one or an expensive one?

“Yes?” he. said.
ou that is a very important point.
‘happened next?”

‘I spoké to him by his name. «I never have
known his full name, but only that of Silas.
Whether this was his Christian name or his sur-
name, I cannot say, for I never knew; but, any-
how, the name affected’ him when I spoke it, for
he quickly hurried away. Literally vanished—
do you understand? Went off like a_ startled
hare, leaving his burning car and his half-dead
eer and everything else. Went off in a
ac. ‘
“That means, does it, that for some_ reason
Sit does not suit him that the fact of his being

“If you are sure he knew
And what

Michael Cardross. nodded affirmatively. ‘

“That is exactly the case,” he said. “‘I can’t
quite see why he should not want me to know
that he is living and not dead, but it is clear that
_he does not. And luck seems ‘to have helped him
~to keep up the mystery that night, for, in spite
of everything that had happened, he did _ not,
leave behind him the faint-
est clue to his identity. His car was burned to a
cinder, and no one had thought of taking the
His chauffeur, who
died
before he recovered consciousness. Every effort
r made to get information about him failed com-
letely. I have never heard of him from that
our to this. And now I have come to you to
“mow if you can heip me.”
“Certainly -I can help you, Mr. Cardross:”
he detective spoke with the most perfect con-
fidence in his own ability to deal with such a
Matter as this. “This is not an out-of-the-way
ease at all. It is, indeed, rather ordinary. In
the first place, I should like to know what sort
of car this was that he was in. Was it a
And are you

- gure that he himself was the owner of it?”

he Steel King rose from his chair and began
to walk up and down the floor, with his firm,
rather heavy, tread. His every movement, —as

- well as his whole countenance, expressed uneasi-

ness.
- “So far as I was able to judge in the shock of

the whole business, the car was a very expensive

- pounds.

‘my oath that he was the_owner of it.

~ 88 I have said, I know that this

”” was the answer he gave to the first of the
ut to-him. “It was a large, luxurious
ust have cost at least fifteen hundred

And I am pretty certain that he was

the owner of it. I cannot tell you why I am cer-

tain; but there were-indications. I could take

That is
mother thing that nonplused me. I should have

expected the man I am looking out for to be

as poor as a church rat. Certdinly it seems
almost impossible that he can be rich. And yet,
man was my
man, and I am as good as certain that the mag-
nificent car that he was in belonged to him. As-
suming that it did belong to him, he is more than

a man in ordinarily comfortable circumstances.

He must be positively wealthy. And, if he is

Seeking, it is surely remarkable that I should

ae have come across him before in the course
’ my social life.’

The detective. looked as if his brain were busy

at” work.

“Excuse me, Mr. Cardross, but unless I have
been misinformed as to your habits: of life, you do

not go out much into society.”

mitted.

tasteful to me.

_ *Well—not very much,” the Steel King ad~
“As a matter of fact, I am still,» before
all other things, a working man—ah engineer
and a financier—and ordinary society life is dis-
I cannot waste my time at it.”

“Ah! I thought so. And this means that
this man whom you want -to trace might, if he
is wealthy, have moved in the same social set
as yourself for years without your ever coming
face to face with him. This is the’ more likely,
as you do not know his full name. I gather, in-
deed—please correct me if I am wrong—that
he may moving in society here in London,
a a. name which is not known to you at
a

“That is. certainly - -possible,” the Steel King
admitted. “It is even quite likely. Ana now the

stion is, what do you think I had better do?
sbeee ae 0 ae a renege

e

heavy reward—five tho”’sand pounds or _ there-
abouts—for a man answering to his description.
How does this idea strike you?’’

The detective. looked at him for-a moment with
more than usuai keenness, Then he asked: |

“Are you good at portrait-sketching, Mr. Car-
dross? Could you, do you think, make for me a
fairly accurate sketch of this man?”

“Give me a-pencil and paper and I will try.”

The pencil and paper were supplied, «and
Michael Cardross, laying aside his cane and
gloves, sat down at the baize-covered table in the
middle of the room, and began to draw the out-
line of a human face. ~

FO BB CONTINUED.
- a
= 0-9 -

The Lady of Lyndhurst.

By Mrs. KATE CHRYSTAL.

(“THe Lapy or LYNDHURST” was commenced in No,
83. Back numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers.)

CHAPTER LI.

MAX, | =

“Oh, that it were possible ,
After long grief and pain,

To find the arms of my true love
Round | Ine once again.”

And he told a

The bright Morning minutes wore away. Once
Janet opened the door, but beat a speedy retreat
at sight of the stranger with Ethel.

He told her all—all'that Kerston had told him,
all that Clarinda had made him do.
~*Poor thing!” the girl said, gentlest pity only
in her voice, ‘the taint which marred her moth-
er’s life must be her heritage. or she never
would have done so cruel a wrong as that.”

Eleven.

With fullest explanations he gave her the let-
ter. Kerston had given to him.

What a marvelously clever forgery the other
had been! This writing seemed to her no more
familiar than had that. She read it through
while Ross stood at the little window and looked
absently at the canary-cage and geraniums in
the casement across the -way. A sob startled
him. He turned quickly.

Every line perused she was kissing the creased
and crunipied pages, her hot tears falling like
rain,

ax believe. you, I believe you! Oh, my dear
one, how’ could I ever have doubted you? For-
give me—forgive me!” :

For a moment Ross was distressed.

Janet was passing the window without. He
beckoned her. Im a little while she came in.
She went up to the girl, put her stout pink
gingham arms around her.

“There, there, Miss Ethel!
ter than the way. you’vé been o’ late. _There,4
there! I know how it is myself.. There ain’t
nothing does folks so much good sometimes as a
downright miserable cry!”

“Oh, ['m not in trouble, Janet, not now. I’ve
had such good news. And I’m happy, so happy.”

But she was still, through sheer weakness,
weeping tempestuously, hysterically.

Twelve!

It jangled out from the little Dutch clock on
the wooden shelf, by courtesy the mantel.

Long after Ross remembered the room, the best
roonr with its ugly brilliant’ carpet of Paris green
and Chinese vermillion, its hair cloth chairs and
sofa, its framed portraits of the royal family, and
Joseph telling his dream, and its unesthetic
bric-A-brac, consisting of pink glass vases and
china dogs, with Bartholomew Andrew’s bank in
the place of honor.

“How foolish I was!’ t

Ethel rose, laughing through
sparkling on her lashes.

Janet disappeared, coming back in
with her son and heir in her arms.

And now,” Ethel had said, turning with flush-
ing eheeks: ‘and outstretched hands: to Campbell.

“Max

Pirst, y
ston.’

“We are going out,”
| Janet Harris, Mr. Campbell.
kind to me!”’

“Now, Miss Ethel!’’ deprecatingly, and curt-
sying to the grave-looking gentleman before her.
“You won’t go out without waiting until I get
you up a. bit. o’ lunch.”

“Tunch !” Ethel laughed, a gay, sweet laugh
that recalled her old mistress to Janet, and made
her brown cheeks glow with pleasure. “We are
living on air, Janet! Or, rather, let me speak
for myself only. Sunshine is my food to-day,
and it is agreeing with— ~me.’

“That it is, miss!’ mystified, but admiringly.

And soon after they went out together, and
when, a few days after, Janet found ten gleam-
ing sovereigns in the baby’s bank, and Ethel
had honestly denied them, she dedicated them
rightly to the gentleman with the quiet ways,
and somewhat sad gray eyes, who had played
with the little lad that day before he left the
‘best room.”

Ethel wore no veil as she went along the street
with Ross. Whom did she fear now? She was
the daughter of an honest gentleman.

Once or twice her companion looked at her
with wondering eyes.

Was that the white-faced, weary woman “he had
come on to-day in the park, that radiant, smi-
ling, girlish vision?

Even in the lawyer’s
lowed her. How joy had changed her.
glow of a rose-heart was in her cheeks.
eyes were like dusk stars.

Mr. Coppleston entered.

“You wished to see me, sir?”

Just then Ethel turned from the winddw.

That face! :
~ He staggered back with a quick ery. Out of
her past again—out of her grave again!

“Lady Lyndhurst!’* huskily.

“T am Ethel Lyndhurst!” in ther -sweet, piiak
voice. “Did I startle you? Am I,-then, so like
my mother?” .

“So like !’’

Hanything is bet-

the tears still

&

mement

he eat “we had better see Copple-

“This is
been’ so

she told Janet.
She has

‘office his gaze still fol-
The
Her

he repeated, struggling to regain
breath .and reason. ‘‘You are your mother over
again. I would’ have known you anywhere.
Brow—eyes! the same trick of smile and speech.
All your mother. My dear child,” he came for-
ward and grasped her hands, shaking them fer-
vently, ‘it does my heart good to see you!”

But suddenly he dropped her hands, and_ fell
back with a blank, bewildered face, and inartic-
ulate murmur of recollection.
_ “What is it?” asked Campbell.

“If you are Lady Ethel Lyndhurst, and you
are!?? he cried, ‘‘who, then, is shé?”

CHAPTER LI.

AN IMPORTANT WITNESS.

The day of the trial Dogsberry was all agog.
Dogsberry court-house was crammed with horror-
hunters, attracted by the peculiar interest of
the case. Many Londoners were present, and all
county people of note.

After Clarinda’s departure Mrs. Glendennon.
had consented to Dollie’s eager Satta ee to go
over to the Towers.

She sat near_her son now, such a stately old
dame, even in this awful hour. The blunderers!
she told herself fiercely. To think for a moment
her Max could be guilty of crime like that!
The white head crested itself more proudly, as
though her soul tided a fresh wave of indigna-
tion. Across the way were a group of friends,
among them Mrs. Maher, for once very grave
and sorrowful-eyed, Alec Barron, Dollie very
sweet to see, for all the poor, tear-reddened eyes,
and Colin Ingelow. Major West, decidedly against
his will, had been subpenaed as witness for the
prosecution.

Seated with a number of legal luminaries
and notables was one to whom the others seemed
to deferentially refer.

‘Who is he?’ Dollie whispered Alec.

“Coppleston. The great Mr.° Coppleston, of
London.” = ; os

And the great Mr. Coppleston, of London,
watched the trial throughout with intent and un-
flagging interest,

A very strong case, indeed, had the crown.
Through the bright morning hours the battle
went on. There was half an hour for lufich, then
the crowds, augmented, reassembled more dense-
ly than. before.

The keeper and ‘his wife were sworn, and told
their story. Of the gentleman who had waited
at their house for the hour to keep an appoint-
ment near-by; Dollie, Mrs. Maher, and Alec, all
were obliged to confess having heard Max Glen-

non assert, ‘‘Later you shall. answer to me!”
Then they were permitted to step down, and
Jackson’s testimony was in order. A terrible
knocking had roused him just after twelve on
the night in question. Had opened the door to
Mr. Max. He was apparently in a state of in-
tense excitement, and splashed with mud. Miss
Kerston had come down-stairs to speak to him.
No. He had not overheard any of their con-
versation. He. stepped down, and Major West
was called.

Very reluctantly he gave his testimony. Pre-
vious to the night in question Mr. Glendennon
had been for several days staying with him at
the Mount rar see

-

 

 

_two reasons he had no wish,

-had come a furious. knocking at

| concourse,

 

ey that. night =

had retired early. How early? Oh, perhaps half-
past nine. They were both fatigued. Didn’t
know how long they had slept when his friend
awoke, arose. Excited? Yes. He had» thought
, be had heard the voice of one in trouble calling
Phim. A superstitious fear had taken possession
of him, and he had insisted on riding over to
the abbey. Whose voice had he fancied he
heard? here demanded the .counsel for the prose-
cution. _West hesitated. He would rather not
answer. -He must. Well, that of the lady .to
whom he ‘was engaged. When had he left the
barracks? About a quarter or half-past ten,
perhaps. And he had returned? Near two.
What did he say—-what remark, if-any, did he
then make?

Again a pause, a painful hesitation. How might
this’ be construed?

He was sworn to tell the truth, and the whole
truth, he was reminded. “What did Max» Glen-
dennon say on reentering his apartment?

“Tt’s all right, West. Most people would call
me mad to do such a thing. But I’m satisfied.’

“There was a hoarse stir and murmur-at the
words. The major vacated the stand, very red
and distressed-looking indeed.

How rigidly still~ Max sat—-had sat so _since
early morning. His elbow rested on a’ small
table beside him. His head was bowed on his
supporting hand.- Through all these weary
weeks he had been singularly apathetic. Death!
the word had no terror for him. Life had more,
for was not Ethel dead? For his mother’s sake
he would live; and not to be hounded into a dis-
honored grave—not that! But apart from these
no longing for the
world beyond “his prison walls. Hope, energy,
ambition had perished, leaf and root.

-It was almost three o’clock Very dark were
things looking for the prisoner... Without was a
clear, sunshiny spring day, sweet- with scent of
primroses and early violets, already ablossom in
the country lanes.

“We haye now to produce
a@ very important witness,’ said
pous voice of the crown’s counsel,
Ethel Lyndhurst!”

He ,opened.a door behind him, motioning to
some one therein.
~ The crowd below surged
and e¢raned their necks for
lady—referred to.

Who was she?

the testimony of
the dry, pom-
“that of. Lady

hither and thither,
a glimpse of the

What had she to do with it?
Dollie, Mrs. Maher, the major, Alec, all
leaned eagerly forward. Even Max lifted \his
haggard young face with the first betrayal of
interest he had yet shown.
She came out and into
elegantly attired little lady. She wore a car-
riage costume of trailing bronze silk, with rich
marabout trimming, a dainty capote of vari-
hued and besparkled tips, and a barbarous, if
bewilderingly brilliant, display of diamonds at
ears, throat, and wrists.
Differently dressed, but in
knew her. That gliding walk,
face, those light, glittering eyes,
that pale-yellow ‘hair!
One whisper thrilled through
“Clarinda Kerston!?

the witness-box; an

a moment they
that small waxen
those vivid lips,

the court-room:!

CHAPTER LIII.
MAD!
“My thinking of her on the music’s strain,
Or something that never will be expressed,
Had brought her out of the grave again,
And brought her back to my breast.”
—MEREDITH.

: * :

What did it-all mean? Those who knew her
best looked at each other blankly.

She swept them all with her
smile till her glance’ rested on Max.
met. In his so heart-siek and®* weary,
amazement, in hers triumph and a sudden dark-
ening.

She nodded

slow, strange
Their eyes

lawyer who had
made a short, set

patiently to the
summoned her. He rose and
speech. The witness those present had probably
only known as Clarinda Kerston. Her claim to
the estates of the late Lord Lyndhurst had been
proved valid, her identity established. ~ Having
been resident at the abbey for some time—cov-
ering the night of the murder—she would give
her evidence, however much against her will, in
the interests of the law, and to further the ends
of justice. ,

She nodded approvingly - he sat down. Then
she began speaking in sibilant, mesmeric
voice.

For a while the facts declared were previously
known, consequently unimportant.

On the night of the 25th of February there
the door of the
abbey just as the clock struck twelve. She had
risen and gone down the stairs. Jackson had
opened the door and gone away. Max strode up
L0<her.z < ‘

“Inda,’ he had said hoarsely, “shall I stay
here or had I better go away? Which is safer?
I’ve murdered a man! I decoyed him to the
bridge by the old Kent road, and flung him
through—-Ross Campbell !’’

Such a sensation as there was. at that moment
Degsberry had never beheld. A growling, excited
murmur arose from the crowds. Max’s friends
sprang erect with exclamations of denial and
horror. Max himself alone sat quite still, star-
ing at her with wonderment pure and simple
only in his eyes.

Most damning testimony. Ah, for scorned love
surely this was a grand revenge!

“Tt is true!’? her voice rising sharp and shrill
over the clamor of the crowd. ‘‘I will prove it!
When I went wp-stairs I found, standing in the
hall, by the banisters, awakened by the knock-
ing, Ethel Esmond; she whom he was to have
married on the morrow. She had heard every
word.. That night she fled. Now are you con-
vinced?”’ She flung out her right arm tragically
-toward the prisoner. “Ross Campbell is dead,
and Max Glendennon murdered him!”

But chiming in as her voice sank, so clear at
its very close, the calm tones rising, there was
no opportunity for a demonstration between, Mr.
Coppleston spoke.

“Is he?’ coolly.
ask that the dead man be. permitted
for himself !’’

He beckoned to some one in the crowd, a low-
capped and.muffied figure. He came up ao the
spot where lay the bright patch of sunlig re-
moving the disguising cap, and turning oe his
high coat-collar. A ghost! A tenant of the
grave! Consternation amounting to terror
seized every soul there.

He spoke. His words dissipated fear.

“IT.am here,” with grim humor, “to testify on
behalf of the prisoner !”’

. And then he wheeled swiftly round to Max,
who had risen, and was regarding him with a
face of incredulous delight.

“T ask your pardon for my words when last
we met. Shake!”

He held out his hand, a very
human hand indeed.

“Thank Heaven!”
his in it.

Alec sprang on a chair.

“Three cheers!” he cried,
and his victim!”

And right heartily went up a hoarse,
triple roar from a thousand throats.

Clarinda? She crouched down in a corner of
the witness-box, for the time being in this in-
tense new excitement quite forgotten.

Silence restored, Ross was sworn. Still stand-
ing by Max, his thand closely clasped in his, he
gave his testimony. As he was strong, he was
proportionately merciful. For he said no word
which could giye those present reason for be-
lieving that the accident at the bridge was other
than an accident, and that occasioned by his own
stupidity.

“In conclusion he would ask,’ he said, ‘‘that
papers bearing—though indirectly, en the -case
in duestion—be read! Many of you remember,
and those who do not are familiar with, the
celebrated sensation of many years ago, the
Lyndhurst theft and assassination !”

The hand holding his closed on it more firmly.
Mrs. Glendennon turned toward him her sight-
less eyes. : °

Mr. Coppleston rose. He took the papers re-
ferred to from his breast pocket. First he read
the letter left by Ethelbert, Lord Lyndhurst, to
his daughter. Then, in an easy, impressive
manner which chained the attention of the great
he read the dying statement of one
Griffin Kerston,

“And now,” he ended,
the letter confessed to herein was substituted
for the one J have just read. It was an in-
famous relation of crime, purporting to be writ-
ten by Lord Lyndhurst. The motive for such
deep-laid and deliberate malice is beyond our
power to conceive.’

Bewildered grew the faces of judge and jury.
That or the crown’s counsel was a study as he
glanced from Coppleston to Clarinda and back
again She had come to him privately, offering
her evidence, and, she had been his strong card.

‘And allow me?’ to present to you now,” said
Ross Campbell, leading forward a figure: which
had hitherto sat veiled, and unnoticed in the
background, “a robbed, deceived, and most
cruelly wronged lady—Lady Ethel Lyndhurst!”

She flung back her veil and stood before them.
The sunset streaming in through fhe window
above swept over her beautiful Santhera face a
rosy tide.

If the excitement had been intense on
bell’s appearance, it was delirious now.

“The dead alive! were graves disgorging?
Shrieks, sobs, hysterical laughs eut in the air.

“I’m not so sure of that. I
to speak

palpable. and

Max murmured, and placed

“for the murderer

erazed

‘Jet me explain that

_Camp-

densest -

Mrs. Gliendennon rose trembling, unconscious of
the reason of the outburst. Max stood with
hands upflung and eyes that devoured her mo?
tionless, speaking no word.

The truth, the whole truth,
the truth! They had it now.

It was useless to attempt to quell the tumult.
Over it rang Alee Barron’s strong young voice.

“Lady Ethel Lyndhurst! then who is she?”

He pointed to Clarinda crouching down, down,
ghastly -with terror. .

The dead, the dead! they were too strong for
her. They ‘would not lie quiet in their graves.
They had come to haunt her.

Every .eye in the packed building was turned
on her scorning, horrified, condemning.

But even as Barron pointed toward
every voice ebbed, the words died on
his hand dropped.

For she had sprung erect
round and round on them all.
vacant look .there was in her
was a faint foam on her lips. And she was be-
ginning to sing, lifting her silken skirts to dance
to the tune, piouretting, and clapping her gloved
hands with many an airy gesture, as she had
been used to do in her old concert-hall days—
an extravagant drinking-song that she sang.

Max had not taken his eyes off Ethel till now.
He moved a step forward, protestingly, as a few
muscular officials surrounded the. box. They
were none too soon. There was a brief, furious
struggle. They secured her, tying the frantic
hands—such small hands to be so strong, and
with diamonds all asparkle on her. slender
wrists. Her song changed to shrieks.

“Hereditary!” an old doctor present
“Latent, but developed by a_ shock.’

But even after they had taken
voice came back to them, chanting again~ that
wild refrain. It echoed along the bare corri-
dors, shrill, eery, discordant.

The crowd, awed, dazed, excited, surged out
into the sweet spring sunset, all the ecalm air
shuddering to the one awful word on every lip,
in every. heart——

“Mad!”

and nothing but

and
lips,

her
his

and was looking
What a queer,
eyes! ‘And there

said.

her away her

CHAPTER LIv.
THE LADY OF LYNDHURST.

“What's
it do?

I am thine and thou art mine,
new.

Take a kiss from me,;*thy man!
begins!

‘All is made afresh for
wins!

An August night. And» how still
One can hear the little fountain
rosery laughing away to itself. And
perfumes load the air with fragrance, heliotrope,
pink, geranium, verbena. And under the clear
white moonlight what a picture is the old house
bedded in such bloom. The grim, gray towers,
half smothered in ivy -and dog-roses, —Jight
streaming from its wide-flung doors, lights
gleaming in its quaint fantastic windows.

It is too fine a night to stay within, so they
are all out on the spreading lawn which is the
pride of Lyndhurst Rest. They are visiting here
just. now, all our old friends, and a gay party
they make, Mrs. Maher, Major West, Alec Bar-
ron, and Dollie.

In the housekeeping regions,
and Janet installed, and their
is a source of constant and
on the part of Bloss.

Ross Campbell is here, too, although he sails
next week for America. And he is happy. He
is generous enough to be that because of her
joy. Just now he sits with Mrs. Glendennon un-
der a branching cedar—such a glad-hearted old
lady she, for all her bent form and snow- white
hair, in ‘‘the peace that came at last.

“No, she won’t wear her title,” she was say-
ing, with a loving smile, ‘‘though, as the daugh-
ter of an earl, it is hers. She will _be nothing
but Mrs. Glendennon. Her husband’s name is
honor enough for her,- she says—young Mrs.
Glendennon.”’ ;

“Have you heard or, do you .ever hear any-
thing more of Clarinda?’ he asks.

“Didn’t you know? She died last month, poor
thing. She was always a frail little cfeature,
and mad, I believe, from her birth. Everything
that could be done for her was done. Yes,”
shaking her head sadly, ‘‘just as she was taken
that day from the Dogsberry court she remained
to the end.’

Silence for a while.

“Max’s book is an
said.

"Her face lit up. é

‘Yes, .so every one says.
the criticisms.’

For the great naive! began by him long ago

and but. lately with fresh vigor and interest com-
pleted, has achieved a magnificent and unpar-
alleled victory. To-day all London is raving
over the brilliant author.
, ‘“May-——they were married in May,’’ refiective-
ly. “Two months they have spent in Naples.
Dear, dear, what a long time it seemed, and
how glad I was to get my arms around them
this morning again. Dear, dear!”

“Max has been offered a consulship abroad,
has he not?”

“Yes; but they will remain here for the win-
ter and leave in the spring. What a paradise
Pallinelli has made of the Rest during their
absence.’”’

“It is the most beautiful home
he answers warmly.

“Whatever are you
Glendennon, as _ that
laughter reaches her.

“T am telling West here,’ sauntering over to
her as he answers, ‘‘about a trick Colin Ingelow,
Devine, and I played on you abbey folks one
night last autumn.”

“What was that?’

“Oh, it. came to» nothing. We thought it
would be considered supernatural, and evoke
much controversy in consequence. But our pret-
ty little scheme fell fiat, for I never heard a
soul speak of it later. Why—it was a beastly
wet night, too—we climbed up in that rickety
old tower near the abbey and rang Berthold’s
bell. We waited a good while, but as it didn’t
seem to startle any one very much, we rang it
again, and then went home disgusted.”

“Indeed I remember. Oh, you wicked boy!
Dollie, how shall we punish him?”

‘“‘He- shall -go and get me some
promptly.

“T don’t know what ‘kind you like.
with me—you, too, Bloss,’ as that young
slipped her hand in his.

“Me, too!’ decides Bloss ;*

go.
Maher,

the world my lass, my love? what can

life is sweet and
Now the song

and the brave heart
—INGELOW.

us,

the air is!
over in the
a thousand

too, are Thomas
pink-cheeked baby
ecstatic adoration

immense success,’’ Ross

Dollie has read me

in England,”

Mrs.
merry

saying, Alec?’ calls
young gentleman’s

roses!”

Come
lady
and away the trio

Mrs. sitting on a garden-chair, with
Major West stretched’ on the sward at her feet,
looks after them.

*“How exquisitely blue Beremene
remarks admiringly.

“Not half .as much as ‘this shade—what. is
it, anyway ?—becomes you!” touching her pretty
shimmering gown of aqua-marine, all cascaded
with [Irish point.

And she is looking very sweet, this shy lit-
tle widow, with all that soft lace at her bosom,
and the long-stemmed cloye-pinks thrust through
her belt, but though well she. does know it, she
gives him a reproachful blow with her fan.

“Now, Major West!”

“Isn't it a pretty name+West?”
upright, as though just here and now, for- the
first time in his existence, does the thought
strike him. “West!” in reflective admiration.
“There is something so refined, so indefinitely
descriptive rather—of sunsets about it. Now, I
never could like Maher, do you know,” adjust-
ing his eye-glass as though imparting some ex-
traordinary and startling information.

“Couldn’t you?’ demurely.

“No. And I suppose you resigned a charming
maiden name for it?” interrogatively.

“No, with a dubious: pursing of the pretty
rosy lips; “I can’t say I did, My name was
Flanigan.”

“Oh !”’

A silence. Mrs. Maher
a carnation, and that- with no daudable
botanic information in view.

change, you know’’—regard-
ing his liege lady with eyes-earnest for all their
jesting, “you try West—Mrs. Major West.
would that sound?”

Mrs. Maher’s hand is lying on her silken lap.
Major West very quietly and determinedly ap-
propriates it,

“T think,’’- hesitantly, ‘“‘very nice!”

“Do you?” eagerly. ‘Will you take it, then?”

The saucy blue-gray Irish eyes laugh down on
him.

“T suppose I must!”
tion. ‘And you, too—just to get

And even as she speaks down the wide stone
steps and out on the vast, smooth lawn come
two figures, a man tall, strong, broad-shouldered,
gold-haired, with a splendidly poised head and
dashing, handsome face, and a long, fair, mili-
tary mustache; and a lady—such a lovely, and
winsome, and graceful lady as she is, to be
sure: She is -laughing and talking to him as
they come over to the little group under the
cedars. She wears no cumbrous silk or satin,
but mull, snowy, soft, and clinging, which trails
in light and sweeping folds over the short grass.
Around the proud throat is a necklace of flash-
ing diamonds, from which depends a locket of
red Venetian gold. At the white bosom is a
huge cluster of purple- red jacqueminots.

“Ah, here you are!’ she cries gaily.  ‘“‘We
were wondering where you had all wandered!”

pr

Dollie!” she

He sits bolt

”

deliberately dissected
end of

How

with a sigh
rid of you!’’

 

fits.

of resigna-s

“How beautiful she is,’ Max tells himself for
the hundredth time to-night as he looks at her.

.The masses of dusky hair, caught through
with an arrow of gems at the back of the small
head. The pure, pale cheeks just dashed with
rose; the sparkling teeth; the rose-red lips; the
great luminous midnight eyes.

“Oh, Mats—Mats! does ’oo
did?”

And here
with horror,
legs would. carry

“No!” declares
holding her above his upturned,
“T doesn’t, What did Alec do?”

“Dis !?? Very gravely and deliberately she
lustrates his shameful conduct by
her rosebud of a mouth rests on his. ‘‘An’ when
Dollie said, ‘Don’t! ’oo ought to be samed of
’ooself!’’. her excitement growing intense at the
recollection, “he did it two times more!”

Dollie and Alec came in sight as rises an
roarious shout of. laughter, and cries of
Bloss !”’

“T don’t care!’
ing at once
who has

know what Alec

Miss Blossie
running as fast
her.

Max, swinging

comes
and

breathless
her short

quite
as

her aloft and
laughing face,

il-
stooping till

up-
‘Bravo

ealls Barron, defiantly guess-
the betrayal of Dollie’s .wee duenna
outrun them, “if Dollie says it’s all
right,” Se

And Dollie laughs and blushes so deliciously
they surround her ina moment with gay raillery,
and congratulations, and caresses.

But soon Max and Ethel slip away
happy group and wander away down
of chestnuts.

Mrs. Maher points
dense astonishment.

“Look there!’ she
months married!”

They hear her. . Max, with his
his wife, looks back over his shoulder
Young Mrs.

from the
an avenue
out with air of

them an

cries, ‘‘and three whole
arm around
and laughs,
L Glendennon turns back, too, a lovely,
radiant, smiling face. Then they are lost in
the shadow of the chestnuts.

For a little space they walk on in silence
sweet for speech. How that nightingale is sing-
ing overhead! the mad melody of its song is
flooding all the forest aisles. Were ever roses
abloom fragrant as these at her bosom? And
what a good world it is after all—what dear,
good old world! ,

A recollection
aloud.

She looks

too

a

comes to him, and he laughs

up questioningly.

“Tt was just thinking,’ he
speech I made once. I said
or on earth could conquer my
from me my heritage.” “

“But it was not just, dear———”
with gentle earnestness.

“Most unjust,’ with
I did not think so
lawful though, it
all the same.’

Ob, the sweet,

“*Because——_”

“Of ‘Love, love,
quotes in answer,

There is a long silence in the branches above.
Before them lies a lustrous pathway. The night-
ingale has sung her heart out, and silent.

A bold little breeze springs up. stirs the
soft lace at her bosom and ruffles perfumed
hair of the lady of Lyndhurst.

Max bends his handsome head,

says, “of
nothing in
hate—could

a rash
heaven
wrest

she begins
kiss

Had
have

a
then.
would

“put
however
vanquished

and laugh,
it been,

been

dark, lifted eyes.

love, my child!’” he lowly

is
It
the

“It’s we two, and we two, and we two for aye!”
murmurs passionately.

Such a tender, lovely face she lifts
the moonlight, chiming in softly:

“*All the world and we two, and Heayen be our
stay 1 ”

5

he
to him in

THE END.
t+ 9+ >

HIS MOTHER’S LETTER.

John Travers was
applied for a place
lawyer, who had
had no references.

The lawyer glanced ‘him
foot.

“A good face,” he thought,
ways.” Then he noted the new
boys had appeared in new clothes—saw the well-
brushed hair and clear-looking skin. Very well,
but there had been others here quite as cleanly ;
a tee glance showed the finger-nails free from
soi

“Ah!
thought.

Then he asked a
John answered

“Prompt,”’

s fifteen years old when he
in the office of a well-known
advertised for a boy, but he
over from head to
‘fand pleasant
suit—but other

that looks like thoughtfulness,’ he
few
directly.
was the lawyer’s
speak up when necessary.”

“Let Me see your writing,’ he added

“Very well; easy to read and no
now ;what reference have you?”

The. dreaded question at last.
fell. He had begun to feel
success, but this dashed it.

“T have not any,’’ he said slowly ;
a stranger in the~city,’

“Can’t. take a boy without
the rejoinder, and as he spoke
sent a flash to John’s cheek.

“T have not references,” he
tation, ‘‘but here is* a letter
just received.”’

The lawyer

rapid questions, which

thought; ‘he can
aloud.
flourishes ;

face
of

John’s
some hope

“Tm almost

references,” was
a sudden thought

hesi-
mother I

said with
from

took it. It was a short

“My DEAR -SON: I want to
whenever’ you get work, you
work your’ own. Don’t go into it, as some
boys do, with a feeling that you will do as
little as you can, and get something better soon;
but make up your mind you will do as much
as possible and make yourself so necessary to
your employer that he will never let you go. You
have been a good son to me. Be as good in
business, and I am sure God will bless your

efforts.””

“H’m,”’ said the lawyer, reading it over a
second time. ‘That is pretty good advice, John
—excellent advice; I rather think I will try you.”

John has been with him six years, and last
spring was: admitted to the bar.

“Do-you intend to take the young ‘man
partnership?” asked a, friend lately.

“Yes, do; I could not get

John.”
And John the best reference he
ever had was good advice and honest

praise.

letter.
remind you that
must consider that

into
along without

always says
mother’s

——~e G
A man who shows anxiety to tell all he knows

at every opportunity is almost certain not to
knew all he tells,

 

 

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"SPRING Be "THE ‘HEART,

—————

BY BERTHA ALEXANDER GARVEY.

28 uatah: of green So ‘neath the — caw” and

a

S _Dalrymple——” —

_ tickling an elephant with a feather.

< bare, a 4 <
A smell of fresh mold on the mild southern air,
A twitter of bird- song, a flutter, a eall, a

_ And though the clouds jower, and threaten, and

- fall—

‘There’s” spring in my heart!

a gate the ine branches” their beauty of form.

The tempest has blasted with frost and with |

’ storm ;
But deep in the earth's bosoti, hid “aath: from
eo =the. enil, e

: Like the flowers of hope, no winter ean kill.

There's spring in my meats

“The beds all respond to the sun’s warm caress,

~ With _fragrance and featase.
2 Sbless::

- What care I for "Time's hoary = on my head?

|The years cannot claim me, ‘nor youth be all. fled
"i ‘While ee in my heart. :

_ JOHN ALLEN’S STRATAGEM,
By FP. L, DACRE.

John Allen climbed the ee steps of Miss
Ethel Dalrymple’s fine residence; and paused
ete in the portico. He leaned against one
_ of the columns, and wondered if it were -pessi-
ble to beat a retreat without being detected.

- No; the inner door opened, and he was facing
the sedate and elderly butler, whom he had
- known from boyhood.

“Grand morning, Jenkins,” said he.

“Tt is, indeed, sir.’ The butier was regard
ing him with compassion. -

What’s the time, Jenkins?” :
_ “Half-past- ten, sir’ ~

“Early, by Jove! | My seoothtinent with Miss
- He fumbled for an ivory- -bound
°

-note-bo
“Miss Dalrymple is in the morning-room, sir,”

the butler said gently. J
- Jehn Allen sighed, and pressed a hand to his

throbbing temples. The tired eyes, the moist
brow, and the pallor of the comely young face
told a dreadful story. Drink and dissipation.

“If I might suggest a- brandy-and- soda, sir?”
Jenkins said in an undertone. “You are ill.”
'-**Jenkins, you are an angel of mercy. I was
a fool to come until I had pulled myself ‘together
a bit. I'll slip into the library and help myself.
Don’t let Miss Dalrymple know that I am here.”

But the butler preceded John Allen, and poured
out the antidote with a niggardly hand. Then
he replaced the decanter in the sideboard, and
turned the key in the lock.’

“It’s a thousand pities that you came here last
evening, Mr. Allen,” Jenkins~ said gently.

Allen flushed painfully.

“Tt have a vague reuembenupe of it—I must
bere; been mad ; but fs the last time, Jen-

ns ES

cod am afraid: so, sir.” :

Allen gulped down the brandy: eo
held out the glass to be replenished.

“No, sir,” the butler said.

ok insist. To a man as far gone as Tt am
the suspicion of brandy you gave me is like
Repeat eS

and

dose, and I shall be as steady as a rock.
_Jenkins- a

“¥est pirt**

* eee by all that I’ hold gor that not.
‘another drop will I touch as long as I live. You

know that we Allens are a stubborn lot, and]

“never break an oath. You were my dad’s most
trusted servant for twenty years, Jenkins.”

“Yes, Mr. John.’ :

The butler broke down completely, and turned
‘to the sideboard to hide his quivering lips.. He
refilled the glass, and while Allen was in the
act of drinking, the slender figure of a ae
was framed in the doorway.

“Just as I feared,” she said hopelessly, and
yet there was scorn in her voice—in her clear,
dark eyes. She motioned to the butler to leave.

the room, and then resolutely faced John Allen. }-

A wave of guilty color swept over him—it.
seemed to rise from his wery feet to the roots

~ ef his: hair—and he stood: upright, ee one.

as though the earth were heaped over

the church wil

e —

d:

“Bethel!”

She turned her face from him with a shudder
of disgust.:—

— “Don’t approach ‘me: I loathe the odor which
clings to you—brandy and- stale tobaeco. It
reached. me in the other room, and I knew
that you were here. John,’ her voice deepened,
“TJ am quite decided that all is at an -end be-
tween us. You were here last evening; you in-
sulted my friends; you were drunk——mad. I
will not marry you; I do not respect you, there-
fore I cannot love you. John, this is- my final
good-by

; “Ethel,” ” he pleaded, “we have beeri sweet-
‘hearts for a long time. Give me another chance.
I have sworn neyer to touch drink again.’

She glanced at the half-emptied glass at his
elbow, and smiled with bitter scorn.

“Ethel, you do not understand. Give me an-
other ¢hance. I admit that my conduct has been
bad, and I hate myself for it.” He walked over
to a French window and threw it open. Hisg
brow was hot and moist.
a coyple of months—Jim Flowerdew is: making
a trip to Egypt—and-I will’ come back a new
man. You can trust me this time, Bthel. e,

“Please go,’’ she faintly answered. ~ Gh eats

He drew himself up resolutely.
~ “Yes, I will go; and I won’t even touch your
hand or kiss your face. The odor from me has
fouled this room. One word, Ethel.” ~

“Good-by,” she said tremulously. “3

me oma: leave England to-mo row for eight
weeks,” he said. “And in the end 1 will ‘Prove
that I can be a man.’

“He went away, and next morning Spined- his |
friend, Jim Flowerdew, at Shoreham. Flower-
dew was ten years older than Allen, a man of
-jeisure,-a scientist, a

days in the Mediterranean aboard a fine
steam-yacht. So in the conipanionship of this

man, and a select party of friends, the. work of |.
reformation was begun, and at the end of two]

months John Allen was a different being. His
skin was tanned, his eyes were bright and alert,
and his movements electric..

Happy and confident, he strode in the direc-
tion of Ethel Dalrymple’s big white house. The
blinds were drawn down, but the sun was_bril-
liant,. and, ah, the song of the sea was gladsome
and free!
He ran up the marble steps, and Jenkins
“opened. the doo? to him—a very quiet and sad
Jenkins it was. He conducted John Allen into
the reception-room, and drew up the blinds.

ree are looking _ remarkably well, eir,” he
said

“And I am feeling remarkably well,”’ answered
John boisterously. “Good gracious, Jenkins, don’t
“tell me that Miss Dalrymple is abroad!’

“Worse than that! She has gone altogether,
and everything is to oe sold,’”’ the butler qua-
vered. Then his emotions overcame him, and

ore aa he handed John Allen a paper. ‘contain-

several
bine ‘pencil.
And this is what Allen read:

‘Dead to the world! As much as” though the

- coffin-lid had elosed over her sweet young face—
er fair

head—was the beautiful Ethel Dalrymple, who,
one sunny morning, amid all the superb pomp of
the Catholic Church, became the bride of Heaven.
— “Surrounded by priestly. dignitaries, adorned as
a bride for the marriage-feast, with the per-
fume of flowers blended with the odor of incense,
with the solemn peal of the organ resounding
through choir and nave, the young aspirant took
‘upon herself the vows of poverty, chastity, and
obedience, and forever renounced the world. From
the silken dalliance of ease and luxury, she

~paragraphs heavily scored with a

sprang to put on the Armor of Righteousness.

uiet years, perhaps, the- bride of
wait-for her release, until the
_ bridegroom—Death—shall claim her for a bright-
er sphere. When soft breezes sigh through sum-
--mer’s noonday radiance, when thick on the con-
vent roof the snows are rte in the moon-
Hight, she keeps her vigil—dead o the world!”

“A full half-hour passed before Allen moved.
tre appeared to be completely dazed, and his
brain. throbbed like the beat of a drum. He
raised his eyes and saw that Jenkins was stand-
ing near; then he laughed hollowly.

“J deserve the very worst,” he said;
why should the life of that angel be- sacrified ?
Where is this convent?” He referred to the
printed pees his lips tightening.

“Jenkins,” he continued, “TI am going ; I don’t.
I to. take this lying down.’

“No, sir,” Jenkins answered hopefully.

cer. + Ce ear ak se wos *

The blue skies ‘and garish sunshine of. ‘autumn
had changed to the fogs and gloom of Novem-
An early winter was Bow. the and, with
iting winds, sleet, and slush.

Some weeks earlier a stranger. Bad arrived at
le vi sa BRE “as” hee Aid not

“Wor many

~

*

Lgvels confidence 5

“T will go away for}

pees who lived half} —

; “put

Vol. 63—No. 44

 

 

care ape tite ‘eirtaine offered by the one and
ort tavern, he obtained quarters in the house
the local: builder and plumber.

He called himself an artist, and said that his
name was John Allen, He owned a magnificent
‘automobile, which was the wonder of the “natives,
and spent money with the freedom of a prince.

The plumber was a shrewd man, and he soon
observed that the whole of John Allen’s energies
and interests were centered upon the gloomy
eae of the convent on the moor, thiles and miles
awa

“if ‘you want pictures of that place, Mr. Al-
len,” said he, “I can find you some_ photo-

started | guiltily,

graphs. ra

John Allen but
head, with a faint smile. : :

: “Photographs !” he echoed... “Too eoldly me-
chanical: Mr. Bilton, I am something of an im-
pressionist.’’

#T suppose, ” Mr. Bilton suggested, “that you
hayen’t hit upon the right atmosphere yet. I
oS the Mother Superior hasn’t warned you
°

He glanced slyly at his lodger, and the lodger
oo to the fact that Mr. Bilton knew some-

ng

shook his

was continued in John Allen’s sitting-room, at
the invitation of John Allen himself.

_“Y-was bound to speak, sir,’ said Mr. Bilton,
“*because inquiries have been made from the con-
vent. -I hold the contract for repairs, and have
-|to make an inspection” every three months. I’ve
‘been there to-day,’ he added succinctly.

John Allen was silent for _a while; then he
told the plumber his story. To the mind of the
_|-practical Mr. Bilton it was pmsaic tomfoolery,
from end to end.

- “So the young lady did it in a

7: fit of temper,”
he said.

.~“And you’ve been mooning around there

| for weeks to no purpose, except catching a thun-

dering bad cold. Chance of seeing her? - Bosh!
Perhaps she’s a sight better off now.”

“PH never believe it until I hear her say
so,” Allen retorted.

“You'll never have the chance to hear her
voice again,’ the plumber said. “Not on the
lines of your pantie. e 3

“What am I do?” Allen groaned. “There’s
no law in the lane to help me.” ;

“Quite right, young man! H’m! Now, look
here. What about being a plumber’s. mate?
Black your face, put on blue overalls, and shoul-
der the tools. We can potter about the convent
for a day or two, and you Might have a dozen
words with the lady.’

- Allen’s face flamed and “paled@; his brow © be-
came moist. —

“Mr. Bilton he began ee

“Don’t offer me _ bribes, 5 the aikihos: inter-
rupted; “but you area rich man and a gen-
tleman.
lady’s-maid—you’ve
That’s enough.”

The next day John Allen stood under the
ten-foot walls of the conyent in the character of
a workman. His hands and face were begrimed ;
he was attired in soiled overalls;“his head was
covered with a cap, the peak of which was
pulled over his eyes.

The magic. gate was opened, and he and Bil-
ton went through.

They tinkered about the convent outside, and
at last Bilton discovered that there was some-
thing wrong with the heating-apparatus, the pipes
of which pane along.a corridor leading to the
chapel. -

“Keep your eyes skinnéd now.’ said he to Al-

len. “The nuns often come fer sean here.”’
_ John Allen heard-the solemn measures of the
impressive mass; he pictured the acolytes swing-
ing the glittering _Censers ; in his mind viewed
the clouds of incense.

All at once he became aware of the presence
of many veiled nuns, with downcast eyes, and
his: heart surged up into his throat. Bareheaded
he stood in an embrasure, and rudely he stared
at the faces of the holy women as they passed
mutely by. All unconsciously he breathed the

>

seen my daughter, Alice?

| name of Ethel time and again—until it seemed

that he was rewarded by the flash of a pair of

est coward,

He made one step forward—a sob in his
throat; then he dropped irito the seat of the em-
brasured window, and listened dizzily to the tap-
ping of@Bilton’s hammer. -

“T have seen her!” he thought. ‘I am “sure
-of it—I am sure of it! Oh, Ethel—Ethel !”

The name passed his lips, and, oh! the
.ecstasy of the answering whisper: ~ :
“John—ZJohn !’’ rai
He sprang to his feet, and pressed a dozen

nun. 3 a
ese e * _* * * *
That same night John Allen passed through

the magic convent gate, with the aid of keys

which may have been provided by Bilton.
Upon the stroke of twelve a window opened,

and therefrom he assisted a nun to escape. A

big automobile was waiting under the walls,

and in this the lovers were soon speeding away.
The convent authorities say that Sister Ethel
had not definitely taken the- veil. ~

seaes ie PARAGRAPHS.

BY CHARLES W. FOSTER,

egies

NOT IN THE TREATMENT.
Visitor (at lunatic-asylum)—‘I see you give

amateur to

;_ they bring them with

your patients photograph-outfits
amuse them.”

Superintendent—‘‘No
them.”’ :

IN A PROSCENIUM-BOX. x

Mrs. De Rich (listening to new prima donna
at the opera)—‘“‘Isn’t she splendid?” ~

“Mr. De Rich (wealthy manufacturer, enthusi-
astically)——“‘Just grand! She’s worthy of a
place pioneeias of Patti in my soap-advertise-
ments: es x

WILLING TO WAIT.

Miss De Rich—‘“Now, my love, 508 must ask

De. Poore—‘‘Oh, Let’s
wait.”
“T do not object to a long eneagemeet, if it
is your wish, but how long?”
“Um—er—how old is your pa?”

A NICE TIME.
Miss Tiptop—‘‘Did you enjoy yourself at the
opera last evening?’’«
Miss Westend—‘‘Oh, awfully. Mr. Blatherskite
fs- the. most *delightful uncoghbrpiestt rr 9e I ever. at-
tended a musical performance wi

I’m in no “hurry.

MISTRESS AND MAID.

Mrs. Slimdiet (boarding - house
“What have you in this pot, Bridget?”
|. Bridget (who is trying to clean the old lamp-
burners by boiling them)—“Plaze, mum, thim’s
‘th! ould lamp-tops. They waz no use at all, at
all.’ 3

Mrs. Slimdiet—“Well,
plenty of seasoning.”

AN AVERAGE REVIVAL.

Visiting “Clergyman—“I am told that there is
a great religious revival in this town.’

Resident—‘“Yes, indeed. We have had three
fairs and suppers in aid of the Church fund, and
every time the hall was crowded—just jammed.”

“That is glorious! Did you realize largely
from them?”

“Well, no; we didn’t make anything. You
see, we had to give folks the full worth of their
money, or they wouldn’t come.’

SPRUCING UP.

Mr. Gotham—‘‘It is time for us to start for
Mrs. De Avenoo’s—but, ahem! Don’t you think
you ought to spruce up a little?”

Colonel Kaintuck (of Louisville)—‘‘Oh! ah!
Yes, certainly. Just wait a moment, until I
take a fresh quid and-reverse my cuffs.”

‘
keeper) —

don’t forget to put in

- SELECTED PLEASANTRIES.

A Smart Boy.—Employer—‘Did you tell Mr.
Boreham when he called that I had gone to
Europe?”

New Office-Boy—‘Yes,
had started this morning.”

“Good. What did he say?”

“He wished to know when you'd return, sir,
and [I told him I did not. think you would be
back until after luncheon.’’—Tit-Bits.

ANIMAL Hanit.—Perkuson—"‘I don’t think an-
imals have as much intelligenee as many people
| give them credit for.”

Weigle—‘‘Neither do I. There was a time
when I thought the gray mare that Histler drove
was peculiarly intelligent because she stopped
with him at every saloon; but the other day I
changed my mind when I saw that the same
amount. of intelligence was displayed by HBEET EF
new auto.’ "Brooklyn. Life.

_ A DISAPPOINTED CocKRoACcH.—A story has re-
cently been told in the fleet of an incident which
happened when Admiral Evans was in command
of the Indiana. An old-time bluejacket was at
the mast before Captain Evans, charged with get-
ting food out of a mess-chest outside of meal
hours. | .o pease food for siya aint! is a

sir; f£ told him _you

 

~ mga

 

This conversation took place in the street, and

If there should be an opening for a

dark eyes, and he stood _trembling like the yeri--

passionate kisses upon the blushing face of the

-in need of if.

‘change it,

 

common and aisohe desire on the” part of most
men aboard ship. -
Captain Evans asked the man what the had

| to say, and the men, sizing up the delicate sit-

uation, said:

“Captain, I didn’t take no food outer that
chest. Why, captain, there weren’t no food in
that chest! I looked in that chest, and, cap-
tain, I met a cockroach coming out of that chest
with tears’ in his eyes.”——Harper’s Weekly.

A ConTRADICTORY REPLY.—Commissioner Bing-
ham, of New York, discussing the case of a

policeman found guilty of protecting sambiing-

houses, said:

“The man lied too haively | in defense of his
innocence. He was like a: carpenter employed
last month by a newspaper friend of mine.

“My newspaper friend writes-a good deal at
home, and, his study being next to the nursery,
the children’s noise disturbed him, and he em-
ployed a carpenter to Make the wall sound-
proof between the two rooms,

“‘T’ll fix it all right,’ said the carpenter, con-
fidently. ‘The best thing to do will be to line it
with shavings.’

“He completed the job, then he called the lit-
erary man in.

“ *She’s sound- proof, all right, now,’ he said.

“*We'll test her,’ said the literary man. ‘You
stay here.’

“And going into the nursery he called to the
carpenter in the study:

***Can you hear me?’

“No, sir, I can’t,’ was the prompt reply.”—
Washington Star. ;

THE PARSON RODE ON. —Reverend H. Blank, of
Magdalen Islands, Canada, was on his way to a
lonely part of his parish one Sunday morning.
Nearing the church, he was horrified to see the
son of the family with whom he expected to dine
stalking rabbits with a gun.
= “My boy,” he said, = you know it is Sun-
ay. ;

“Yes,” said James, not recognizing him,
this is a work of necessity.”

“And how is that?” -

““*Cause the parson’s coming to dinner, and
we ’ve got nothing to give him.”

The parson rode on.—Ezchange. -

MERELY A SECOND.——“What. brought you here,
my poor fellow?” the Ghicago settlement-worker

“but

_asked.

”

nee married a new woman,
groaned. ;

“Aha! and she was*so domineering and ex-
Ag esas that it drove you to desperate courses,

sir,’’ the prisoner

“No; the old woman turned up.’’—Philadelphia
Ledger,

~~ + +
THE JUROR’S SECRET.

BY LAWRENCE LESLIE.

Many years azo a man named William Harper
was placed on trial in Essex County, England,
for the murder of Samuel Garman. His reputa-
tion previous to this charge had been that of
an~ honest, industrious man, temperate in his
= kind in disposition, and truthful in char-
acter

The facts developed by the witnesses at the
trial showed that a neighbor in passing a field
discovered the body of the murdered man, who had
evidently come to his death from wounds inflicted
by the prongs of a spading-fork. A fork of that
description, with blood upon it, was found lying
upon the ground beside the corpse, with the
initials ““‘W. H.” cut on the handle, and was sub-
sequently identified as belonging to Harper.
Tracks were also found about the murdered man,
unquestionably made by WHarper’s boots, and it
was further shown that some time previously
there had been considerable ill feeling between
the accused and the deceased. Early in the
morning of the day of the murder, the accused
was dressed in a certain suit of light clothes,
but when arrested a few hours after he was in
black. He denied having~ changed his garments,

‘but upon a search of his house, the missing suit,

all bespattered with blood, was _ found hidden
away in the interior of the straw bed.

The accused brought ‘no witnesses into court,
and when asked by the judge what testimony he
proposed to offer, he replied that he “had no
witnesses but God and his own conscience!”’

On being questioned he made the following ex-
planation :-

He said that he owned a field adjoining that
in which the body was found. On the fatal
morning he went early to his work, and in pass-
ing through the field he saw a man lying near
the path as if dead or drunk, and he felt him-
self bound-to see what the man’s condition really
was, and to offer him stccor if he should stand
On examination he found him in
a dying condition, with two frightful wounds in
his: breast, from which a large quantity of blood
had been discharged. He carefully raised the
wounded man and earnestly endeavored to learn
from him the name of his assailant. The dying
man attempted to speak, but the words died in
a horrid rattle, the blood gushed from his mouth,
and “he fell backward dead.

The shock caused by the sudden death, he said,
was indescribable. He no sooner found himself
alone with the dead than the fear that he might
be accused of the murder took entire possession
of him. In his terror he ran away, thoughtless-
ly taking with him the’ dead man’s fork and
leaving behind his own, upon the handle of which
the initials of his name weré carved, His
clothes, he found, were besmeargd with blood,
and he changed and secreted them, that they
might not be a witness against him, so great was
his fear of being accused of the crime.

This story the aceused told with every appear-
ance of candor, and with the most solemn appeals
to Heaven to witness the truth of every word
he had uttered. True, he said, he had previous-
ly denied all knowledge of the affair, and par-
ticularly denied the changing of his clothing;
but it was not guilt, but a very natural desire
to avoid an admission which would be consid-
ered incompatible with his innocence. False-
hood, he said, had only confirmed the suspicions
against him, and every effort he had made to
conceal his innocent connection with the affair
had only deepened the general conviction of his
guilt! but now he spoke the truth. Of course he
was not believed.

This was all the prisoner’s defense, and the
judge submitted the case to the jury, making a
very strong charge against the accused. He pa-
thetically enlarged on the atrocity of the crime,
and laid no little stress on the positive proof
of guilt, notwithstanding the prisoner’s assevera-
tions of innocence. The accused, he said, had
indeed cooked. gip a plausible story, but in. doing
so he had admitted that he had previously lied,
and thus impeached his own statement. He
charged the jury to pay no attention to» that
statement, but proceed to deliberate only on the
sworn testimony, intimating that they might find
a verdict without. leaving their seats.

Upon this, the foreman of the jury, Edward
Fenn, arose and suggested to the judge that as
this was a-case of life and death, they would pre-
fer. to retire for consultation, and they were
accordingly locked up.

It was about two o’clock in the-afternoon when
the jury went out, and as the case was plain, no
difficulty was apprehended in arriving at a ver-
dict, so the court concluded to sit until they re-
turned.

Hour after hour passed, and nothing was heard
from the jury. At nine o’clock the judge’s pa-
tience was exhausted, and he despatched an
cee for information concerning the cause of the
elay :

The messenger soon returned and privately in-
formed the judge that eleven of the jury had
been for conviction from the first, but the fore-
man stubbornly refused to acquiesce, and in-
sisted, in the face of all the evidence, that the
accused was not guilty.

_ Mr. Fenn was a man of strong mind ata much
persuasive power, while his associates were en-
dowed with these qualities to_a less degree than
usual. They also became alarmed at the pros-
pect of being kept out all night, unless a verdict
was reached, and finally yielded, went into court,
and through the foreman rendered.a verdict of

The judge made no attempt to conceal his
surprise and disgust at a verdict so contrary
to the testimony in the case, and after giving all
of them a severe reprimand, refused to have the
verdict recorded, and sent them back to their
room. The night was spent in endeavoring to
convince the foreman, but no impression was
made. When morning came, the weary men saw
no escape from their unpleasant position but in
agreeing, and again determined upon a_ verdict
of not guilty, and pledged themselves to adhere
to it, whatever the judge might say or think
concerning’ it.

The judge, as expected, was exceedingly in-
dignant at the finding, but he was powerless to
and the accused was discharged.

‘The conduct of the foreman was soon fully
known to the court, and the sheriff was sum-
moned to give any ‘information he could con-
eerning him. The character he gave the man
was so highly favorable that the judge found his

“Not guilty.”

curiosity much excited, and he directed him to

bring the man to his private office, as he was
determined to know what honest reason could
have induced him to struggle so hard for a ver-
dict which was so ‘palpably against reason -and
evidence. -

On_ his being introduced, the judge invited him
into. his private room, and frankly told him that
he felt as eres his conduct on the jury had

pt spe

—

 

 

been without excuse or palliation, but from the
good character which he bore among his neigh-
bors, he was unable to decide that his judgment
had been purchased, and he therefore, as a mat-
ter of curiosity, desired him to give any reason,
if possible, for his singular and apparently un-
reasonable stubbornness. The juryman responded
that he had good and sufficient reasons for the
course he had pursued, and if his honor could
but know them, even he would consider them
valid, and acknowledge that he could not,- as
a conscientious man, have adopted any other;
but as he had heretofore locked them in his
own breast, and was under no compulsion to
disclose them now, he would insist, before such
a revelation, that, his honor should solemnly
pledge himself to keep the secret he was about
to reveal inviolable.

This the judge agreed to, only stipulating that
if the revelations should involve matters of pub-
lic. interest he should be allowed to make any
use of them he chose, should he survive the
other. This was acceded to, and the foreman
made substantially the following confession:

He said that the man who had been found
dead, and for whose death Harper had been on
trial, was the tithe man of the district, and had
that morning called upon him and exacted an
unreasonable amount of tithes, and conducted
himself generally in a most unjust and arbitrary
manner. When remonstrated with he not only re-
plied. with abusive and scurrilous language, but
in his rage had actually attacked him, the jury-
man, with a fork, and inflicted wounds, the
sears of which he exhibited to his lordship. As
his assailant appeared bent on mischief, and he
was. unarmed, he closed with him, and wrested
the fork from his*hands. It was in the struggle
to recover his weapon that the deceased received
the wounds which caused his death. ;

The shock to his feelings on discovering what
he had done, he said he could not and therefore
would not attempt to describe. He was satis-
fied that no human eye had been a witness of the
tragic affray, but his first impulse was to deliver
himself to the authorities. When he considered,
however, how long he would probably be con-
fined, awaiting trial, and how his crops and
other interests would be likely to suffer during
his confinement, he concluded not to do so.

When, however, Harper was arrested for the
crime, he fully resolved to surrender himself, and
consulted an eminent lawyer concerning the mat:
ter. After considering the case in all its aspects,
he was advised to do all in his power to secure
the acquittal of the accused, but if he should
fail to accomplish it, he was then to declare his
own guilt, in order to save Mr. Harper,

Andirectly he contributed freely to the defense,
caused the family of the accused to be amply
provided for, and finally succeeded in getting
himself on the jury, and becoming its foreman.
The rest of the story has been told.

Mr.. Harper never learned who was the perpe-
trator of the mysterious murder for which he
came so. near meeting an ignominous death, or
suspected the cause of Mr. Fenn’s kindness to
himself and family, as he died a few years after
the trial. At his death Fenn adopted two of
the children and_ provided liberally for the
others. ;

Fifteen years after the confession above re-

corded, Edward Fenn died, honored and respected
by the whole community. After his death the
judge made public the facts in this most sin-
gular case, and added another chapter to the
“Curiosities of Crime.” *

——<+o.

Items of Interest.

Philadelphia
ice-cream for
fruit, and is
ing.

A funeral in Tucson, Arizona, was delayed
half an hour while the mourners engaged in a
general fight. The corpse was the only inactive
person present.

has. a new fad—the
breakfast. It takes the
considered nourishing and

eating of
place of
refresh-

The hotel-keepers in Indiana have concluded to
resist the rascality of hotel ‘‘beats’’—the cheeky
gentlemen who carry little or no baggage, for-
get to pay their hotel-bills, and silently steal
away.

To .prevent the smoking of a lamp, soak the
wick in strong vinegar, and dry it well before
using it. It will then burn clearly and give

much satisfaction for the trifling trouble in pre-
paring it.

Among the most Gedchaatene people in the
world are the Swedes and Norwegians. Only
fifteen or twenty per cent. of these peoples dwell
in towns, the remainder liying in rural districts,

earning a good living by cultivating their own
farms.

When
it enlivens

Intoxicants affect men in different ways.
a Frenchman has imbibed too much
his legs, and he desires to dance: a German
wants to sing, a Spaniard to gamble, an Eng-
lishman to eat, an Italian to chatter and boast,
an Irishman to fight, and an American to make
a speech.

Human hair grows
darkness, because of the
light and Sunshine. It has often been noticed
in the case of men employed indoors, with one
side always turned toward the light, that the
mustache or beard of that side grows longer than
that on the other.

Buddhism numbers
herents—fully one-third of the entire human
family. To Buddha, the spirit, a royal devotee
made an offering of 6,480, 320 flowers at one tem-
ple, and at another it was provided that there
should be offered every day 100,000 flowers, and
each day a different flower.

It has long been known that rats carry in-
fectious diseases from one house to another. To
enable him to study sanitary conditions in San
Francisco, _Doctor Blue proposes to use colored
rats, He wants to know whether rats are mi-
grating from one district to another, and, if so,
hew rapidly. So he has ordered a number of rats
to be dyed red and liberated in one district, and
green ones in another. When a toper sees these

better in light than in

stimulating effect of

about 500,000,000 ad-

 

bright-hued rodents he will certainly believe he is
suffering from the D. T.’s,

eH Fe He

 

 

THE LADIES’ WORK-BOX

EDITED BY MRS. HELEN WOOD

 

 

By special arrangements with the manufacturers,

we are enabled to supply the

readers of THe New York WEEKLY with the patterns of all garments described or illus-
trated in this column at ten cents each. Catalogues containing about 800 patterns will be

forwarded on receipt of fifteen cents.

When ordering patterns,
mention the number of the pattern and size wanted. Address
THe New York WEEKLY, 79- 89 Seventh Avenue, New York City.

please* be particular to
Fashion Department,

RASHION NOTES

The favorite tunic, and the one most becom-
ing to the tall woman—is the Russian. | Fre-
quently, the Russian tunic is in-one with the
bodice or coat—preferably, for obvious: reasons,
the latter. It is belted in or the belt-line sug-
gested by plaits, gathering, or trimming. A
visiting toilet of this order shows a blouse
Eton, with square revers buttoned down ‘the
front, brought into a belt and the tunic at-
tached. The tunic is cut away in a_ very
gradual curve down the front to the very hem,
in fact; forming the main portion of the skirt,
disclosing a triangular-shaped panel of the
gown material crosswise tucked. For these long,
sweeping tailored effects there is no more ap-
plicable trimming than the loop and button orna-
ments made either of braid or of bias strips of
silk. Braiding, too, is effective, and has lost
none of its prominence of the winter.

A Scottish® girl,,married in London last month,
had two pages dressed in the tartans of her clan.
The four bridesmaids’ robes were of cream-colored
chiffon cloth trimmed with mother-of-pearl em-
broidery and lace, and their hats were of cream-
colored crinoline trimmed with plumes and pink
roses. The bride’s gown was of ivory duchess
satin draped with old Limerick lace and made
with a long train of ivory brocade garnished with
lace and trails of. white roses.

Violet, blue and pink are the popular waist
colors, and some lavely separate shirt-waists can
be obtained in the tones. The trouble, however,
is that it is too apt to contrast painfully with the
costume. Unless one has a skirt to match a

waist of mauve, blue, violet or pink will seem out +

of harmony with the scheme of the costume. But
that is a point for the individual wearer to set-
tle for herself. -

A bride whose gowns‘are of the liveliest was
fitted a short time ago with a handsome white
cloth suit made with circular skirt and little

 

 

 

tight-fitting cutaway coat. The coat is very
much cutaway so that it flares right from the
bust. It fastens with just one-button upon the
2 angi while the skirts are cut smartly at each
side.

More ‘than one lingerie princess gown and
other washable robes were noted'at a theater re-
cently. These go well with hats of roses and
lilacs; and the summer girl is finding herself
transplanted and looks none the worse for the
change.

Tailored waists are shown quite as much in
colors as in white, but always the coloring is
neutral in tone. Straight lines prevail. There
is one design showing a cluster of nine quarter-
inch plaits from shoulder to waist with a three-
inch box plait down the center front; another has
a plastron yoke outlined with a piping of the
same, and a box plait down the front, and still
another shows an unbroken front and back of
deep plaits. The regular shirt sleeve accom-
panies each of these models. As for materials,
they are firm but fine, and such as launder well.
Linen, as usual, is in the lead.

The princess dress for the street is of walking
length, with wide front panel and snug¥hips. It
is finished with a tall stock, and its sleeves are
half length and edged with embroidery. Over ail
showlders there is the cape effect, without which
no gown seems quite complete.

A woman just returned from England gives
some interesting facts re®orded at recent English
weddings. A bridal gown of white Oriental satin
trimmed with old Brussels point lace had a white
brocade train which was borne down the church
aisle by two little girls, who were also dressed
in white satin. The four bridesmaids wore cream-
colored chiffon cloth frocks with pale turquoise
straw hats trimmed with blue feathers. The bride’s
going-away gown was of cream serge, with a big
brown hat.

 

 

 

 

 

Miscellaneous Apparel for the Young Folks.

2374.—Child’s Dress. The model here illus-
trated was developed in white batiste, the princess
front panel being embroidered, also the arm and
neck bands. The yoke, princess panel and
fiounce are trimmed with narrow insertion, the
sleevebands and flounce being finished with edg-
ing. Five sizes, 6 months to 5 years.
2294.—Child’s Rompers. Blue, red, green, or
brown-and-white-cheecked gingham, plain-colored
chambray, Galatea, or demin are all suitable ma-
terials for this serviceable little garment. Five
sizes, 2 to 10 years.

2397.—Boy’s Shirt-waist, with separate turn-
down collar. The pattern is adaptable to any
washable material and is both serviceable and
practical. Seven sizes, 3 to 15 years.
2370.—Boy’s Russian Suit, consisting of a
blouse with a removable shield and knickerbock-
ers. The material used for this model was slate-
gray Indian-head cotton. The shawl collar,
straight cuffs, and narrow belt are of bright-red
linen.- Four sizes, 2 to 5 years.

-2403.—Boy’s Suit, consisting of a double-
breasted blouse with a removable shield, and
knickerbockers. Natural-colored linen or khaki
cloth are the most suitable materials for this
serviceable little suit. Six sizes, 4 to 9 years.

a In ordering patieris be siiralo pive-size and number,

»

Dainty Indoor Apparel for Ladies and Misses.

1851.—Lady’s Tucked Dressing-Sack,
Dutch. neck and three-quarter-length sleeves.
Flowered or plain white lawn, with the neck
and sleeve bands finished with embroidery makes
this a charming model. Seven sizes, 32 to 44 inches.
091.—Lady’s. Dressing-sack, with elbow
sleeves. This stylish dressing-sack or breakfast
jacket is developed in French-gray dotted Swiss
trimmed with insertion, and an edging of Valen-
ciennes lace. Four sizes, 32, 36, 40, and 44
inches.
1624.—Lady’s Sacque Apron, with high neck
and turn-down collar or Dutch round or square
neck. An excellent model for plain or striped
gingham, chambray, linen, or duck. Four sizes,
32, 36, 40, and 44 inches.
1586.—Dressing-sack for a Miss, with front
yoke and box-plaited back. Dotted Swiss is a
good material for this model, trimmed with in-
sertion and an edging of lace or embroidery.
Three sizes, 18 to 17 years.
1938.—Lady’s Yoke Dressing-sacque, with three-
quarter-length sleeves, and with or. without col-
lar. A delightfully covenient negligee is this
pretty example of pink-figured challis ornamented
with self-colored belt ribbon tied in front. Seven

with

 

sizes, 32 to 44 inches.
All patterns will be mailed on the day the order is réceived.

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