A ROUSING DETECTIVE STORY,

By NICHOLAS CARTER,

 

‘Phe Criminal Link,’’

Entered According to Act of Congress, tn the. year 1902, by Street & Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Was®agton, D. C.

INGENIOUS AND MYSTERIOUS,

BEGINS NEAT WEER.

 

 

OFFICE.

 

 

“New York, Océ

 

 

ober 25, 1902.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

PROLOGUE,
“Yeou Tom, git off that hoss’ back!
land’s sake, Sdlly!
keep me waitin’?

For the
How long air yeou goin’ to
Yeou Tom, leave that whip
alone ! Sal-ly! Oh, here yeou air. That’s a
good girl, Sally. Naow, Sally, be sure yeou
don’t let Tom git into any mischief while I’m
gone. Yeou Tom, come away from that wheel!
If that hoss was to start, where d’yeou s’pose
yeou’d be? Sally! Tom! Sally, he’s under
that hoss’ legs! Tom, yeou wicked boy, come
out o’ that! Tom, you'll be the death o’ me
yet. As if I hadn’t enough to worrit me ’thout
him a cuttin’ up his didos. Sally, put him in
the settin’ room, an’ shut him up till I get back.
No, put him in the garret, where he can’t hurt
nothin’.’’

And Miss Abigail shook Tom first, and handed
him over to his sister afterward.

“Tf you please, Miss Abby,” said Sally ear-
nestly, “I will look after him and keep him out
of mischief if you’ll only let him stay with me.
He’d be so lonely in the garret.’’

“Wa-al, let him stay daown, then.
have no trouble with him, for I can’t
I’ve got enough on my mind naow. Poor Mandy
dead, an’ the funeral to-day. An’ what I’m to
do with so many children, an’ me no more fit to
take care of ’em than a naked savage. [I don't
know. For I s’pose I’ve got to bring Mandy’s
baby hum with me. Phil Denton’s no more _fit
to bring it up than—than I am. Poor Mandy!
That’s what comes o’ marryin’ a photographer.
I told her so when—Sally, turn that hoss’ head
so I can git in. For the land’s sake! Tom, git
off that fence. Do yeou want to scare the life
out o’ me, as if yeou was in a circus? Naow
be a good girl, Sally, and don’t let him kill him-
self fore I git back. Git up, Dick!”

Dick, so to speak, got up and carried Miss
Abby on the way to Rockville, where her only
sister, Amanda, lay dead; and five-year-old Tom
and ten-year-old Sally. were left alone in the old
farmhouse, the one to extract what joy was to be
had out of life, and the other to keep watch
and guard over him to see that he neither killed
himself, set fire to the house or barn, nor did
any other of the vdrious things which to. his
limited vision seemed fraught with happiness.

It was probably quite true, as Miss Abby  her-
self had admitted, that she was no more fit to
bring up the children—two orphans without a
shadow of claim upon her, except that they were
helpless and homeless—than a naked savage.
But perhaps if the naked savage of her imagina-
tion had been possessed of as generous and kind
a heart as hers; he would not have been as
nearly disqualified as she seemed to think.

She was gaunt of frame, and sharp and voluble
of tongue—an ideal New England. spinster—but

But don’t
stand it.

 

day?”

Tom won, and he was happy

 

 

 

 

Pate

Se
SNC ala ad
ee

Zs

 

 

Perhaps if he had known the consequences of winning he would

‘1 thought

have been inclined to curse the day he ever crossed a horse’s back.

THE COUNTY FAIR

By NEIL BURGESS.

her life was fuller- of
another whose voice was
ners were gentler.

At this particular time
and nervous than usual,
brunt of the illness and
deariy loved sister, and
mentally worn out.

And now that Amanda was dead, there was the
new care of the little girl, not yet two years
old. She had such a poor opinion of the father
that it never occurred to her that there was any
other course open than to take the motherless
child under her roof, little as she thought of her
own ability to take care of children.

Rockville was a straggling but thrifty little
village, snugly ensconced among the rugged Ver-
mont hills, and so far away from the hum of a
busier life that it seemed to be in another world.
It had its one general store, which was also its
post office, and there were exchanged not only the
tangible things of the world, such as butter,
eggs, and the like, but the intangible and more
absorbing matters which are covered under the
word gossip.

At the end of its one street, and standing in
forlorn loneliness, was a little cottage, remarkable
for its blue-curtained skylight, and for the legend
which was painted in startlingly white and fanci-
ful letters:

PHILIP

sweetness than many
softer and whose man-

she was more excitable
for she had borne the
death of her only and

was physically and

DENTON, PHOTOGRAPHER,
TINTYPES TAKEN.

Horses and Cattle a Specialty.

Philip Denton was not a practical man, and
never had been. He had married pretty Amanda
Prue on hope, and lived on hope for the most
part ever since the marriage. It had been a poor
way to live, but the two people had been happy,
nevertheless, contriving to live after a fashion,
even on so poor a thing as hope—but then it
was always seasoned by love.

At first Philip had let his ambition take
and his wife to Boston; but fortune was not kind
to them there; for Amanda, after the birth of
little Abby, was never strong, and nobody seemed
to care for Philip’s tintypes; so he yielded to
her patient longing for Vermont and took her
there, not to live, unfortunately, but to die.

And now he was 2 broken-hearted man. There
lay his wife, dead—the only person who had
ever been able to look beyond the worldly weak-
ness of Philip Denton and see something, not
merely. to love, but to respect. She was dead
among her friends, but not among his, and he
was doubly alone. There was only little Abby
left to him, and she almost killed him with her
innocent prattle of her dead mother. But he sat
alone with her, rather than go into some of the
other rooms where he would hear tke kindly

him

| of it as helping him—perform the last

; her friends,

 

meant but jarring remarks of the neighbors who |

had come in to help Miss Abby—no one thought
sad of-

fices, and to help entertain the friends who came

| from near and far.

Of course they all pitied him, but they sym-

| pathized with Miss Abby, an arrangement which
| suited both of them:; for as much as he preferred

to grieve in solitude, in the same degree ,she
preferred the old-fashioned plan of weeping among
and listening to what they had to
offer in the way of consolation or comment.

“The Lord knows best, Abby,” said Miss Betsy
Tucker. ‘Maybe she’ll be happier where she is.”’

“T hope so, Betsy,’ sniffed Miss Abby; “I
hope so; but she was the only sister I had.”

“It’s what’s. got to come to all on us, Abby. I
wouldn’t take on ef I was yeou. She knowed her-
self the end wa’n’t far off, an” was prepared fer it,
as much as anybody can be.”’

“T know it, Betsy, an’ I know it wa’n’t jest the
same as if everything was easy fer her here.
Philip’s a good man as ever was, but no more
fit—goodness knows why she ever married him
when there was plenty. others hanging ‘round
jest ready to pick from. And her as gentle all the
time as an unborn lamb. It made my heart bleed
many’s the time, Betsy Tucker, to see that child.
And there’s that baby—what’s to become o’ her?
Of course I’ll take her hum with me, but I ain’t
no more fit than a wild injun to She was
always a good sister, Betsy.”

“I know she was, Abby. Why, it’s only last
week I was sayin’ to Otis, ‘Otis,’ says I, ‘Abby’s
goin’ to miss Mandy’—didn’t I, Otis?”

“So ye did, Betsy,’ drawled Otis, wiping a
sympathetic tear from his eye, and casting a
glance full of commiseration at Miss Abby, who
simpered a trifle in the midst of her grief even,
for Otis had been showing her marked atten-
tion for nearly five years now, and. it was
naturally embarrassing to have others witness his
tenderness.

“Very kind, I’m sure,” said Miss Abby.

“I feel pesky sorry for Philip, too,’’ drawled
Otis.

But the remark was not precisely a success,
for while no actual demur was made to the senti-
ment, the women present only cast up their eyes
ard sighed, as if with difficulty repressing the
opinion that, after ‘all, he had himself to blame
for a great deal of what had happened.

A dead silence of several moments’ duration
followea the remark of Otis, and he was shifting
from one foot to the other in protesting uneasi-
ness, when one of the women, with a melan-
choly shake of the head, said, suggestively :

“fe wa’n’t Vermont born, was he?’’

“Daown Boston way,’’ answered Miss
mournfully.

“Ah, I thought
other.

“Seems to
Betsy Tucker.

“tfe’ll miss Mandy,” said another.

“Ah-h!’? was the general chorus.

“Looks as nat’ral as if she’d only gone to
sleep,’ suggested one of the ladies presently, as
if it had occurred to her that the conversation
was tending from the business in’ hand

“Tooks more es she did es I remember her es
a gal,’ sighe another

“Byverybady expected great things of Mandy,
then, she was so purty and had more eddication
than some.”

“Ah-b !”’

‘Wa-al, anyhow, Abby, you ain’t no cause to
reproach yourself. You was a mother to her.”

Abby,

he wa’n’t Vermont,’’ said an-

sort o’ lack ambition,’”’ said Miss

 

* : }
she was a good sister,’ sobbed Miss |

soft, insinuating voice, at this juncture, and with-
out looking around they all knew it was the un-
dertaker who was speaking. “Will you drive
Miss Abby and your sister over, Otis?”

“Of course I will,” drawled Otis, bashfully.

“Yeou’re very kind,’ simpered Miss Abby.

Some of the neighbors remained at the cottage
and put it in order, so that when the bereaved
husband returned he should find it as cheerful
as might be under the circumstances.

If they had left it as it was he would not
have remarked it, for his eyes were shut to every-
thing material in his passionate grief for his
wife. When he came back from the cemetery he
asked for little Abby, who had been taken in
charge by one of the neighbors, and would have
shut himself up in the cottage.

But in this he reckoned without Miss Abby,
who had had Otis put her down at the cottage,
and who entered the little sitting-room to find
him hugging little Abby to his heart in a
paroxysm of loneliness.

It was more than Miss Abby could bear, and
she incontinently dropped into a chair and wept,
perhaps for the first time, for pity for the be-
reaved husband and child.

“Don’t, Abby; please
huskily.

“T can’t help it, Philip,’’ and the good spinster
sobbed more unrestrainedly. ‘It breaks my heart
to think o’ yeou and Mandy’s child left all alone.”

Philip stroked little Abby’s hair, but said
nothing. Miss Abby cried a little more, and then
wiped her eyes with an air that seemed to say
that the time for crying was past,
action come,

“But, there,’ she said, in her brisk way, ‘the
Lord’s will be done! Git yeour things and come
along to the farm with Abby. Come, yeou dear
lamb! Come, Philip! Yeou can think o’ what
yeou’re goin’ to do afterward.”

“Thank you, Abby. You are very kind; but I
think I’d rather stay here.”’
“Stay here! For the
What air yeou thinkin’ of? Yeou must not think
on it for a minit. Besides, if Abby is goin’ to
stay with me, it'll be better for her to come right

away.”

“Stay with you, Abby?’

“Yeou don’t s’pose I’d let her go among stran-
gers, do yeou? I should think yeou’d know me
better’n that.’’

“Why, of course, Abby, I never doubted your
kind heart.” 4‘

“Then come

“No, Abby,

don’t,”” said Philip,

land’s sake, Philip!

along.’’
I will stay here
you kindly, just the same.”

“And Abby’ll go with me
hind? ’Twouldn’t be nat’ral, Philip.”’

“No, Abby will stay with me. I eouldn’t be
parted from her now for even a night; she is all
that is left to remind me of Amanda, and she
is doubly necessary to me.”

“Yeou don’t mean—yeou wouldn’t
the time. Yeou don’t mean that?”

“Certainly, Abby. I couldn’t let
from me.”’

“Why, Phil Denton,
o that child!”

“TJ am it’s father,

“But yeou ain’t
Philip.’’

‘“‘“Ah, don’t argue with me now, Abby.
say any more than that she must stay with me.

right
to-night. Thank

and leave yeou be-

keep her all

her go away

yeou

Abby.”

its mother, and can’t be,

and that for |

 

 

| hev
| of injured innocence.

{
ain’t fit to take keer | You can’t never let a feller alone.
la suspectin’ me o’ doin’ somethin’,

I can’t t ehia then said, apologetically:

maybe you would take me with you.”

Amanda would rather have it so, and that alone
would be enough to influence me. I thank you
heartily, Abby, and I know how good you are, but
I must keep Abby with me.”

“Then come along yourself. This ain’t no place
for yeou, either, if it come to that.”

“No, let me stay here for this one night. It
will be the last.’

“For goodness’ sake, Philip, what do yeou mean
by that? Your last!”

“Haven’t I told you that I was going to the
eity with Abby?’’

“Wor the land’s
with that child!
stark, starin’!’’

Philip neither denied nor assented to this
opinion, but wearily wished his kind but eccentric
sister-in-law would leave him with his grief.
But this Miss Abby would not do until she had
exhausted every argument in her reach. She
even went so far as to offer to have him come
to her farm and work on it; though, as she said
to herself. at the same time, he’d be about as
useful as little Abby there.”

Philip, however, was obdurate, and would only
promise that if the time ever came when he
found himself unable to take proper care of the
little thing, that he would send her to Miss
Abby. For the rest, he said he had made up his
mind some time before to go to New York.

And Miss Abby, finding that he was not to be
moved, first berated him, then cried over him, and
finally insisted that he should let her give him
what spare money she had. He would have re-
fused that, too, but that he found she would be
very much grieved, so he took it as a loan, and
she bade him good-night and drove away crying,
an exercise which she continued at intervals dur-
ing the evening, after she had eaten her supper.

The next morning the stage carried Philip
Denton and his little daughter away from the
village of Rockville, and Miss Abby, and Sally,
and Tom waved after them, as the stage passed
the farmhouse, whatever thing was most available
—Tom’s banner being a certain undergarment of
Miss Abby’s which had been laid upon the grass
to bleach, and which Miss Abby, when she had
recovered from the sight of the receding stage,
snatched from his hand with a wild shriek, before
she sank, almost fainting with mortification, into
a chair.

sake! Yeou go to the city
Yeou’re crazy, Philip Denton—

CHAPTER I.

THE RACE COURSE AT THE COUNTY FAIR.
“Sally, did yeou get them milk pans scalded
and wiped?’”’

“Yes, Miss

“Then go
things, for
Tom ”’’

“ere I am, Miss Abby.”

Miss Abby turned and saw Tom sitting demurely
in a chair, his hair carefully brushed, his face
clean, and his best clothes on. ‘ She eyed him
suspiciously, and exclaimed, sharply:

“For the land’s sake, Tom Greenaway! What
yeou been doin’ naow?”’

“What hey I been doin’?”’ cried Tom, in a tone
“F ain’t been doin’ nothin’.
Yeou’re allus
yeou are.”

said Sally, half in-

Abby.’
right upstairs and put
there ain’t no time to waste.

on yeour
Where’s

“So yeou air, Miss Abby,”

dignantly.

Miss Abby pursed her lip and looked at her,

“There, there! Don’t say no more. Run up-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

~s

 

stairs, Sally, and, yeou, Tom; I'll give yeou a

eee to spend at the fair if yeou can keep
‘it up to be So good as this till we git there.’

“Thank yeou, Miss Abby,” said Tom, but there

was more dismay than hope expressed in his face.

Five years had gone by since Tom had waved

a white, bifurcated garment after Philip Denton,

but the only change on Rockbottom Farm seemed-

to be in the growth of Sally and Tom. Miss
Abby seemed hardly a day older, and this ayes as
on that day five years ago, she seemed to be de-
voting most of her spare time to scolding Toh.

But for all his injured air, Tom was used to it,
and, if the truth be told, did his best to deserve
it.
the business of his life to plan ‘and execute mis-
chief, keeping Miss Abby in a constant state of
terror, and every day making it clearer to her
that she was totally unfit to bring up children.

And yet she would not have known how to get
alofig without the little raseal, and if she had
been given the choice between losing Sally, who
never gave her the least bit of trouble, or Tom,
who gave her nothing else, it is likely that she
would have found it hard.to decide.

And Tom, on his part, though he so tormented
his kind-hearted benefactress, loved her dearly,
and would have stopped at nothing to do her a
service. He would even have been good if he had
been able, but he was not. It seemed as if he
was overcharged with animal spirits, the only
vent for which was in teasing Miss Abby or his
sister Sally, now just budding into a charming
maidenhood.

Miss Abby disappeared up the
Sally, saying to Tom as she did so:

“Go git Dick hitched up, Tom; we’
by the time yeou git around.”’

“Yes’um,’’ said Tom.

But instead of going out to the barn to do as he
was bidden, he crept to the foot of the stairs, and
bent his head as if to listen, muttering to bhim-
self as he-did so:

“By gosh! I’ll bet I’ve lost that quarter.”

And presently there came a sudden scream
frem Miss Abby, followed by ane of sympathy
from Sally. and then a succession from both in
chorus. In spite of the lost quarter, Tom could
not help laughing outright, though he had his
band over his mouth to drown the noise of his

mirth.

“It was that Tom, drat him!”
him in Miss Abby’s voiee.

“Ob, Miss Abby, it might ’a got up here it-
self,” pleaded Sally.

“Might ’a got fiddlesticks!’ answered Miss
Abby. angrily, ‘“‘but I'll make him smart for it,
see if I don’h”’

“Ugh! the nasty thing? Miss
Abby.

wf ‘ain’t afraid on it,” nancwered Miss Abby, “but
it. might ’a given anybody a start. J wonder I
didn’t faimt clean away.” c

Tom chuckled and ran..softly out to the barn
to put Dick to the two-seated wagon. When he
drove up to the house he found Miss Abby and
Sally waiting on the front porch.

“You'll let me drive, won’t yeou, Miss Abby?”
he said, in his» most ingratiating tone. ,
“T’ll let yeou git daown from that ‘wagon,’

answered—Miss Abby, grimly.

“What. for?’ demanded Tom, with rather over-
rated innocence.

‘“‘Beecause yeou’re goin’ to stay to hum, that’s
what for.”

“Stay to hum, Miss Abby?” cried Tom, really
scared now.

“Stay to hum?” repeated tender-hearted Saily.

—“Stay to hum’s what I. said, an’ stay to hum’s
what I meant. . Git daown, sir—git daown,” and
Tom, recognizing a tone in the voice that was not
to be disobeyed, climbed slowly out of the wagon,
taking care to get out en the side away from
Miss Abby.  “Ain’t yeou ashamed of yeourself,
Tom Greenaway? Puttin’ a frog in the toe of
my stockin’—if I must say such a word out 0’
the house—-and most scarin’ me into a fit! I
s’pose -yeou think it’s funny. Wa-al, I'll give
yeou a chance to enjoy it. Sally, git in that
wagon. Yeou’ll stay to hum, Tom Greenaway.
No fair for roe sir, this year.”

“‘Pléase, Miss "Abby. * began Tom.

“Not a word!”

“Oh, Miss Abby,” pleaded Sally,
“won't you excuse him this time?
sot on goin’ to the fair.’

‘An’ my foot was sot onto ae frog,”
Miss Abby, grimly.

“Please won’t yeou flog me, “Miss Abby, ‘stead
o’ makin’ me stay to. hum?” whimpered Tom.

“Tf yeou don’t hurry into the house and take
off them store clothes, I'll give yeou a floggin’,
too. I'll learn yeou to put frogs into my stock-
ings. My stars *n garters!’ she went on, in-
dignantly, as Tom, making a wide circuit to
avoid her -; preptening hand Sprang _ into the
ewow —“E*? o Solo Th
see if { don’t. There'd ey 7 sce tone for him,
wouldnt it? He’d play his pranks on Solon
Hammerhead, maybe. Yeou Tom, = yeou hear
what I say?”

“I don’t care,” answered Tom, rendered alto-
oe reckless by the magnitude of his punish-
men

“Very well, sir; I'l! see Solon Hammerhead at
the fair, an’ Th speak to him or my name ain’t
Abigail Prue.”*

“Oh, yeou wouldn’t, Miss Abby,’ sobbed Sally,
a had never seen the good lady so angry be-
ore

“Hush, Sally Greenaway! For the land's sake!
do yeou think I’m goin’. Tom, I want to see
yeou daown here in yeour old clothes ‘fore I
budge a step; and if yeou don’t hurry I'll find a
way to make yeou. Naow, yeou be smart!”’

As Tom knew Miss Abby could be very energetic
when she was roused, and she was so evidently
roused now that he ceased to dawdle as he had
been doing, and threw off the good clothes and
— the old ones as rapidly as he could.» And

they .were on he went downstairs and
Sulkily Vesoertan himself to Miss Abby. '

“T hope this’ll be a lesson to yeou,” said Miss

Sen climbing into “the wagon and taking up the

stairs after

ll. be dressed

came down to

Don’ t tech it,

half-erying,
His heart’s

retorted

“Please, Miss Abby, won’t yeou let me stay hum
with a begged Sally, through her tears.

“For the land’s sakes! No.” And Miss Abby
slapped the reins on Dick’s back and gave them
a pull or two in woman fashion, as if she were
fishing instead of driving, and the wagon rolled
off; leaving Tom behind with wet eyes and a re-
bellious spirit.

He watched the wagon until it was out of the
lane and cut out of sight, too. Then he burst into
a passion of tears, in the midst of which he gave
vent to the fury of his soul in a series of destruc-
tive kicks at the paling fence of the garden.
Then he stopped crying as suddenly as he had
begun, and pulling out his jack-knife conimenced

to whittle one of the palings.

0 Bind me to Solon Hammerhead! I'll bet atie

Don’t know how to

won't. Tll run away first.
I wonder if she thinks I’m goin’ to

_ take a joke.
stay here all day? Well, I won’t. See if I do.”

But it was with Tom as with many an older}

person. It was easier to vow and declare and
“protest than to do. He was sure he would not
stay at home, but he was quite unable to see
what he was going to do instead, and his im-
potence made him, as it usually does everybody
else, sullen.

He sat down on the grass and played a dismal
-game of mumble-the-peg by himself, his mind
constantly reverting to the tyranny of Miss Abby,
the hardships of himself, and the necessity of
righting the wrongs from which he suffered. -He
quite forgot the exquisite joke of the frog “and re-
membered only his punishment.

But it is very likely that all his rebelling and
repining would soon have worn themselves out in
service, if something had not occurred which
presented to him a most delightful way of at
once indemnifying himself and of having a capital
joke. As he played, he heard a rattle of wheels
on the road. me looked up and across the fields
to the road. ‘There was Otis Tucker in his -old
chaise—Tom knew it and the horse as he knew
his own face.

Tom’s mind was very active, particularly for
misehief, and he sprang up and ran down the
lane as fast as his legs could carry. him, intending
to cut off Otis before he should pass the gate. He
knew the habits of Otis, and was sure he would
pull up a little before passing. Indeed, he had
seen Otis peering out the side of the chaise, try-
ing, no doubt, to discover if’ Miss Abby, whom he
was still devotedly attentive to, had gone yet.

He must have seen Tom as the boy ran down

the lane, for he drew up at the entrance, just as
Tom reached there. He leaned forward and looked
at Tom, who, panting hard, laid one hand on the
shaft and waited until he had recovered breath
before he should speak.
“Mornin’, Tommy,” drawled: Otis.
- “Good-morning, Mr. Tucker.”

“Miss Abby gone yet, Tommy ?’’

“Yes, sir, an’ I had some work to do, an’ so I
stayed behind. I PhowRhe maybe yeou’d take me

with yeou.”
--“Sartain, Tommy, sartain. Git in.”
said the per-

“Tf yeou don’t care, Mr. Tucker,’’
fidious Tommy. “I'd like to go back and put on
I'll wait,’ said the

my eras, clothes.”
Go right along, Tommy.
-natured and unsuspicious Otis. ‘Don’t
rry.
, Tommy, who was anxious not to overtake
ts ee Abby, walked leisurely back to the house
and changed his clothes once more. It had al-
ways been Tommy’s motto to take care of to-day
the morrow take care of itself, and that
he did not give Miss Abby’s wrath more
consideration now.
. horse peas at the fair had always Ween
which he looked forward to from one
to inae pa he imitated with

beooatag Pate the in<t

under the s

During all those five years he had made it|

ead,

 

 

 

 

tervening year as he could find opportunity. He
was devoted to horses and to riding, and the one
part of his farm work that he did well was taking
care of Dick. If he had missed the racing he
would have grieved over it for the whole year.
And now, for the chance of seeing it, he was will-
ing to brave Miss Abby’s anger, with even the
possibility of being bound to Solon Hammerhead.

He lingered as long as he thought neeessary
over his toilet, not usually so prolonged an
operation, fastened up the house, leaving the key
pp, aS was customary im such ¢ases,
and saunte back to where even the patient
Otis was wondering why he did not come.

He stepped into the chaise, begged that he
might be allowed to drive, and took the reins, as
happy a boy as could be found in Vermont; for he
was going to the fair in spite of Miss Abby, and
the time of reckoning was at least twelve hours
away; for he would take good care to keep out
of Miss Abby’s way during the day. And now,
tco, he could appreciate once more the joke of
the frog. :

Tom had a fancy for fast driving,
well known to Otis, but on this day, to the sur-
prise of the worthy man, he drove as deliberately
as any old farmer. The fair grounds were reached
at last, however, and Tom drove triumphantly
through the gate, chuckling to think how he had
got to the fair after all.

“There’s Miss Abby, naow,” exclaimed Otis, as
Tom.drew up to tie the horse in a stall under a
shed. ;

Tom looked quickly, and there certainly was
Miss Abby, attracted by the voice of Otis, and
looking directly at Tom with a stare not unlike
what might have been expected of the famed
Medusa. Tom, however, was not turned to stone.
He did for one brief moment lose his presence of
mind, but he quickly recovered it, and slipped out
of the carriage and lost himself in the crowd,
leaving Otis to explain the phenomenen of his
appearance.

“For the land’s sake, Otis, what did yeou bring
that boy for? Where is he? Wa-al, why don’t
yeou speak, Otis Tucker? Tom Greenaway !
Sally, did yeou see where he went? My stars ’n
garters, Otis Tucker! Yeou' re a nice one to
bring that boy here when

“Why Miss Abby S
wilderment, when
short. .

“Well, there! the day ain’t long ‘nough to find
aout from yeou. Let him go. I was more’n half
sorry iore I got here that I hadn’t brought him.
For the land’s sake, Otis! how yeou air dressed

$92

up!

“Tf it comes to that, Miss Abby,’’ answered
Otis, in his slow way, ‘‘yeou’re fixed up pretty
slick yeourself.’’

This exchange of compliments put the good
lady into an excellent humor, and she went off
by the side of Otis to see the sights of the fair,
always: the same, but always equaily thrilling in
that faraway corner of the country. And Sally
walked with them, reconciled to enjoying the fun,
now that Tom was there and Miss Abby was no
longer angry with him.

Tom, however, had no other idea than that he
would be hunted down, and, if caught, con-
demned to dire punishment of some -sort quite un-
known te him; for, in truth, he had never been
much more than threatened, and each time that
he feund himself in trouble he was in greater
distress to know what his punishment would be
than he would have been had he definitely known
it.

which was

in be-
snapped him up

drawled Otis,

“Miss Abby

He knew pretty well where Miss Abby and Otis
would be likely to go from choice, and he knew

how to avoid those places; but he also was well conc, © : Atle

aware that his penchant for horses was known,
and that if he was searched for it would be near
the race course.

There was one part of the race course, however,
that they would not be likely to go to, and that
was at the stables where the horses which were
to. pace were kept. These were sacred precincts,
where only the very ho
were permitted to go; but in his extremity Tom
determined to make the attempt to gain an
entrance and also an asylum there, —

There were a great many boys as well as men
gathered around the gates.opening to the stables,
and all of them If ing to get inside; but prob-

same audacity; for, “having made up his mind
to get in, Tom seized the first opportunity and
slipped past the gatekeeper with an air of be-
longing inside.

Once in, fortune seemed to favor him, for he
saw a man holding a blanketed horse by the
head, looking around for somebody.

“Want me to hold him for yeou?”’
Tom, as bold as brass. -

The man looked Tom over from head te_fopt,
and then answered:

“I want him walked, but he’d get away from

demanded

“Naw, he wouldn’t,” answered Tom, scornfully,
and went straight up to the animal and took a
pe Ae hold of the rein, and patted the creature’s
neck.

“You'll do,” said- the man, and giving minute
directions how the horse should be walked, he
went back into the stables.

Walking a horse may seem like very uninterest-
ing pastime, but Tom was well enough pleased
with it, for it was easy for him to see that he
held a veritable racer by the head, and; moreover,
he had not been long im the paddock before more
and more horses were brought in and led around,
and he began to hear the merits of the various
horses discussed by the boys and men.

A-great deal of the talk he could not under-
stand, for it was mixed up with oaths and stable
slang, which made a language as incomprehensible
to him as if it had been Greek; but all that re-
lated to the horses and their chances in the races
was a pure delight to him.

He walked not only that horse, but the man
who had given it to him found him so willing
and so intelligent that he gave him another and
another to lead around the paddock, until at last
Tom could have dropped from sheer weariness.

But now came the relief.of the racing, and
from the stable yards an excellent view could be
had of it, the horses being all put back in the
stables while the running was going on.

Then the dripping horses were brought in and
had to be rubbed down. Tom was now in his
element, and, without waiting to be invited, took
off his jacket and entered into the work with such
zest as to call forth several encomiums from the
man who had employed him toe lead the horses.

‘No flies on you, are there, sonny?’ he said to
Tom. :

“No, sir,” answered Tom, looking over himself
in good faith, and thereby causing a great shout
of laughter.

“Well, never you mind, sonny, you know what
to do around a horse, anyhow. Can you ride?”

“T should say so!”

“What d’ye weigh?”

“Bighty-seyen pounds, sir.”

The man turned with a slight nod of his head
to another man standing not far away, and re-

weeciving an answering nod from him, went on:

‘Ever ride a race?”

“No, sir.’

“How d’ye know you can ride, then?’

“T didn’t know yeou meant a race. I thought
yeou meant just a ride. I can ride any horse
yeou want to bring me.

‘Gan; eh?” and the man walked away and
took the other man by the arm, whispering in his
ear, “What d’ye say, Sam? Isn’t he just the
chicken we want?”’

“T don’t see how; he wouldn’t know how to pull
the brute.”

“That’s just it. He can ride well enough—l
can see that from the way he goes about a horse;
but he can’t ride a race, and he’d pull a horse
without meaning to, don’t you see?”

“Maybe you’re right. Better’n putting one of
the regular boys up to it and having to make a
aiyvy. <0 ry it."

The man returned to where Tom stood, having
finished rubbing down, and said to him :

“What's your name?

Tom was on the point of giving his right
mame, when a suggestion of prudence came to
him, and he answered, quickly:

“Tim, sir.”

ork Lakh would you like to ride
races to-day

“Oh, yes, ais ‘if I could, but I can’t ride well
enough for that.”

“T guess you can.
suit of clothes on.”

It seemed like the realization of the wildest
sort of dream to Tom when he found himself in
a pair of knee breeches, top boots, and a green
satin jacket and cap. He was dreadfully
nervous, and assured the man, whose name he
discovered was Charlie Porter, that he would
never be able to ride properly. Charlie, however,
reassured him as to that, and made so light of
it that he presently grew more confident, and be-
gan to feel that perhaps he would be able to do

in one of the

Come in here and try this

it.

“T’ll do the best I can,

“Do just as I tell you,’
you will be all right.’

And forthwith he began to instruct him in such
a way that if Tom carried out his instructions he
would be sure to lose the race, though no one
listening, unless he was an expert, would have
guessed it.

When the horses were brought out for saddling,
and Tom showed his nervousness by the way he
tried to help, the two men winked at each other
and smiled. It was a foregone conclusion that
the boy would lose the race for them. And it
was still more certain in their minds when they
saw how little able he seemed to control the
horse
Tommy

anyhow,” said Tom.
said the man, ‘and

weighed in,

mounted the horse, and

rsiest of the countrymen

Tode out into the track. It seemed to him that
all the blood in his body had rushed to his eyes,
for. when he tried to look around at the cheering
crowds of people lining the track, he could see
nothing but a blur of white and black.

he recovered his presence
readily than the men who had mounted him on
the horse had any notion that he could. For
reasons of their own they wished the horse to
lose the race, and they were so confident that he
would, although he was thé favorite in the bet-
ting, that they had arranged it so that they
would win vastly more if he should lose than they
could by his winning.

For a little while the high-spirited horse did
pretty nearly as he pleased with Tommy, and
tore around the course perhaps a quarter of a
mile before Tommy could pull him up; but he
did pull him up, and by that little tussle with
him became his master.

He rode him quietly back to the starting-post,
and held him in readiness for the dropping of the
red flag. Tommy had drawn fourth place, but
he was so little used to any such thing that he
could not take nis place, and after a deal of bad
language .rom the others, and from the starter,
he was finaliy told that the start would be made
without any regard to him, whereat Tommy was
very much relieved.

There were several false starts, as there usually
are, but the flag finally went down, and off went
the horses all in a bunch. Tommy then tried°to
remember what Charlie Porter had told him, but
for his life could not. All he could remember
was that he was to hold back for the first part
and not ride out until he reached a certain spot,
but where that spot was he could not remember,
so there was nothing for him to do but do his
best, and that he did.

He stood in his stirrups as he saw the others
doing, and all together they went around the
first curve. Tommy began now to feel all the ex-
hilaration of riding a racer. Such an easy, long
stride, such an effortless recover, he had never
experienced before. The pace to him was like
flying.

They passed the three-quarters post, and now

some of the poorer ones began to drop out.
Tommy held his place in a little bunch just be-
hind the two horses which had taken and held
the lead from the start. At the half-mile the
leaders began to fall back to the little bunch, and
one of the horses by the side of Tommy began to
forge ahead:
_ Then was the time Tommy wished most that he
eould remember what his instructions were, but
for the life of him he could not. However, what
was best for the horse by his side might be best
for him. At any rate, he would try it.

He gave his horse his head a little, and, like
the noble beast he was, he answered the signal
and took his place alongside the other. Then
Tom noticed another horse coming up on the
other side of him. The leaders by this time had
gradually fallen behind, and by a turn of his
head Tom saw that there were only three of them
any longer in the race, and they swept on to the
quarter-post with constantly increasing speed.

Now was the real race, and Tom felt a thrill
of exultation as he rounded the curve into the
home stretch, and s a straight track before
him. H dor saddle, for he could no
longer urge the while standing in the
stirrup

of mind much more

me riders were plying the

If dropping behind ever
m that the man had told
ould not be sure, and he
longer, for the noble
y under him that there

wn the stretch, and the
pad begun to crowd him

he was a full length

heart went right up into
his, throat, for hx ney what that meant. He
must go on the outske now and lose a full
length, for it would. be useless to try to push
through. ;

But could he win the race now? He could hear
the shéuts-of the crowds now, and he determined
to win, if the thing vere possible. He let him-
self fall behind until he could turn and get on the
outside, and then he cilied on his horse with a
little cry, not daring to lift the whip.

The horse responded to Tom’s call, and, as if
he had not been running before, stretched him-
self out and came upon the flank of the second
horse. He overhauled him, and was. only a neck
behind the leader. ‘It seemed to Tom that. his
herse scarcely touched g@e ground, and he no
longer had joubtvo? -winning.

“Hi! hi he ind like a whirlwind swept
up, and held » with the leader.

Only a’ few strides Moré. and Tom, with a ’sud-
den instinct of how to help his horse, began to
ride him out in approved style. It seemed to
those on the grand stand that Tom actually lifted
him past the leader,

Tom won, and he was happy. Perhaps, if he
had known the consequences of winning, he would
have been inclined to curse the day he ever
crossed: a horse’s back.

TO BE CONTINUED,

ahead of him

i < ee

Stella Rosevelt

2

THE TRANSIT OF A STAR,

By Mrs. GEORGIE SHELDON,

Author of “Sibyl’s Influence,’ ‘The Lily of Mordaunt,’”
“The Forsaken Bride,” ‘‘Brownie’s Triumph,”
“Queen Bess,” ‘‘That Dowdy,’ etc.

»

&
(“STELLA ROSEVELT’’ was commenced in No. 49.

numbers can be obtained of al! newsdealers. }

Back

CHAPTER XIII.

A GLAD MEETING.

Back and forth every day from Yonkers, pa-
tiently and uncomplainingly, went Star Gladstone
to her school, glad to pursue her studies and
music at any cost or sacrifice.

This occupied nine long hours of five days in
the week, and, weary as she was upon her re-
turn, she always devoted what time she could to
the white-haired old gentleman who watched her
depart with a sigh, waited eagerly for her re-
turn, and who brightened so visibly when she ap-
peared.

One day, after school, Star had an errand at
a music store, and was detained so long by the
slow movement of the clerk who waited upon her,
that she was obliged to hurry with all her
strength to catch her train.

She entered the station breathless, just as the
last bell rang and the cars began to move.

Hoping to overtake it even then, she ran for
it, her small feet barely touching the ground
as she sped over it. She reached the last car,
put forth her hand to lay hold upon the railing
and spring upon the steps, when a firm grasp
upon her arms from behind rendered her efforts
fruitless, and a deep, rich voice said:

“Young lady, pardon me the liberty I take, but
that is a very dangerous experiment.’’

The train was gone. Mr. Rosevelt would look
for her in yain when it came in, but Star could
not regret it, although she had exerted every
nerve to catch it, for she would know that voice
mo matter where she heard it; and, with a vivid
flush leaping to her cheeks, her pulses thrilling
with excitement and delight; she turned quickly
to find herself face to face with her whilom
compagnon de voyage—aArchibald Sherbrooke!

His face lighted brilliantly in an instant as
he recognized her, for, although she had changed
somewhat during the past year, growing loyelier
than ever, he had never forgotten those starlike
eyes, those waves of soft, golden hair shading
her forehead, nor that sweetly smiling, scarlet
mouth.

“Miss Gladstone!’’ he cried, putting out his
hand to her. “I had no idea whom I was saving
from committing such an act of imprudence
when I saw you about to leap upon that moving
train; but I am doubly glad now that my pre-
sumption prevented you from doing anything so
rash, and gave me this unexpected pleasure.’

“IT am glad, too, for I am delighted to see
you again, Mr. Sherbrooke,’’ Star said, heartily
and frankly, as she gave him her neatly gloved
hand, and, looking straight up into his hand-
some eyes in a way that testified to the sincerity
of her words.

“IT know it was imprudent to try to leap upon
a moving train,’’ she continued: “but there is
some one at home who is always disappointed if
I do not return at a@ certain hour, and so I was
anxious to catch it. However, another leaves in
a half-hour; and, indeed, I am very glad to have
met you.”

How ladylike she was! With what perfect self-
possession and grace she.greeted him, notwith-
standing the wparkling eyes and the flush which
had leaped to her cheek told of inward excite-
| ment.

She was the same, and yet not the same;. she
had developed wonderfully since that morning
when he had parted from her on the steamer.

Her hair was still of the same beautiful golden
hue as the lock which she had severed for him,
and which he still treasured; her. eyes were the
+same heavenly blue, her smile as bright and

 

Still it was a proud moment for Tommy, and }

 

 

 

sweet, but there was an added; indescribable
charm about her that made her tenfold more
lovely in his sight.
“Thank you,” he said,
greeting; ‘“‘and now, if
hour before another

in reply to her hearty
you have only
train goes, let.us make the
most of it, and find a seat in the waiting-room,
where we can compare notes on the last ten
months.”

He led the way to the ladies’ room, found a
comfortable chair in a corner. for her where
they could talk undisturbed, and the half hour
slipped by before they had any idea that it was
time for Star to go.

“There is my train,’’ she said, suddenly start-
ing up, as the first bell rang; ‘“‘I must not miss
this one, or Mr. Rosevelt will surely think some-
thing dreadful has happened to me.’’

“Mr. Rosevelt!’’ repeated young
in surprise.

“Yes; is it not singular? We met as stran-
gers on board the steamer, and, after all, we were
coming to be inmates of the same house, and did
not know it.”

“Yes; it is strange. He was a fine-appearing
old gentleman. I trust that he has recovered
from the effects of his exposure at sea.’’

“Not entirely, and I fear he never will,” Star
answered, with a sigh. ‘“‘His health is not very
good, and his eyes trouble him exceedingly at
times. They were injured by the reflection of the
glaring sun in the water while we were in that
open boat. We are excellent friends, and he
watches anxiously for my return every day.’’

“Do you come to New Yerk every day?’
companion questioned.

‘Yes; I am attending a seminary in Brook-
lyn, and for the present go back and forth every
day. But, see,” she added, pointing to the clock,

“there is only one minute more, and I must find
a seat.”

He assisted her to enter and conducted her
to a seat. Then, extending his hand, he said,
smiling:

“Tf you come to the city
hope to see you again.”

The ever-ready color leaped to her cheeks
again, more at the look he gave her ‘than at
his words.

She was upon the point of giving him her ad-
dress and asking him to come out to Yonkers
to see her and Mr. Rosevelt, but the train started,
and she was obliged to leave her invitation un-
spoken.

He had only time to lift his hat,
and leap upon the platform, before
was under way.

Archibald Sherbrooke not only hoped to see her
again, he did see her many times after that, for
he contrived to be at the station on some pre-
text or other, or overtake her on the way thither,
every day for nearly a week, and he was always
greeted with a glad look and smile. Every day
she grew more beautiful in his sight;. every
day his eyes told her so, and these chance (?)
meetings grew very sweet to them both.

“You must come out to Yonkers, some day,
and see Mr. Rosevelt,’’ Star said, upon one of
these occasions.

“There, I declare, we have found so much
else to talk about, that I have not:even told you
where I live,’ she said, laughing.

‘“‘And-I am invited out to see Mr. Rosevelt,.am
I?” he asked, with a twinkle of mischief in his
fine eyes.

“Yes,” Star.returned, demurely. “I know he
will be very much pleased to see you—-indeed, he
said so when [f told him of our meeting. He

Sherbrooke,

her

every day, I shall

dart away,
the train

remembers how good you were to him after his!

rescue.’’

“Thanks. Then I shall certainly avail myself
of your invitation, and go out to see Mr. Rose-
velt some day very soon,” he said, with a grave
bow; but his eyes told her that she would be
the star to attract him thither.

“You say he remembers what transpired on
the steamer. Do you remember, too, Miss Star,
how you told me at parting that I should always
be your friend—that you would never forget
me?’

Star’s glorious eyes drooped, and the quick color
rushing upward, stained all her fair face to those
soft yellow curls on her forehead.

“J have not forgotten,’’ she murmured, softly.

“Neither have I, as perhaps this will prove
to- you,” said the young man, lifting a tiny
locket which hung from his watch-chain, and,
touching a spring, held it up before her.

It contained nothing save a tress of shining
hair, and Star knew in an instant to whom it
had once belonged.

Like a flash, she remembered the cameo that
he had given her as a souvenir, and a choking
sensation came into her throat.

She knew by the way he was looking at her—
by the way he had asked her if she “remem-
bered’”—that he was wondéring if she had kept
his gift as he had treasured that lock of silken
hair.

There was not a piece of jewelry about her
person, and he had remarked that fact the first
time he met her there at the station.

Every article of her toilet was as dainty as
it was possible to make it with her limited re-
sources, and she looked every inch a lady; but it
was not usual in those days to see a young girl
of her age without the glitter of gold or tinsel
somewhere about her.

“You have kept it all this time,’ she said,
searce knowing what to say from embarrassment,
while she wondered what she ought to tell him
about the cameo.

“Certainly I have Kept it all this time. I urged
you to give it to me, and you do not suppose
I was going to cast it lightly aside, do you?”

“Perhaps not,’ she answered, with downeast
eyes; “but I hardly thought you would keep it
in—in such a way; and—oh! Mr. Sherbrooke, I
have lost that lovely little cameo that you. gave
to me.”

She looked up at him now, and he noted the
troubled, even pained expression that was in her

eyes.

“Lost.it!’ he repeated; and, although he did
not intend it, his face clouded, whether from
disappointment or some other feeling she could
not tell.

She could not bear that he should know how
she had lost it, and she felt that she was guilty
of no untruth when she explained its absence
thus.

“Yes,” she returned...“‘Please do net think.that
I did not prize it, for I did, more than I can

tell you, and I hope even yet to be able to re-.

cover it.”

He did not reply, but his face had grown grave,
almost severe, and she imagined there was some-
thing of constraint in his manner at parting with
her.

She felt that he was hurt by her seeming
carelessness or indifference for his costly little
gift, and bitter tears kept welling to her eyes all
the way home.

“T will have it again. I will go to Josephine
and demand it. She has no right to it, for it is
mine; and if she will not give it to me, I will
appeal to Mr. Richards,’ she said, indignantly,
to herself.

“IT could not bear to tell him how I lost it,’’
she thought, with rising color. ‘‘I do not wish
him to know how I have been treated by my
mother’s relatives, or how bitterly I have been
disappointed in my hopes since coming to this
country. But,” she added, with firmly com-
pressed lips, “it will not be so much longer. In
a little while I shall be independent of them all.”

She little imagined how soon she would be
independent of them, or how it would be achieved.

This was Thursday—she had first met young
Sherbrooke the previous Friday, and there had
not been the slightest cloud to mar their inter-
course until now, though they had met almost
every day—and Star went home feeling somewhat
sad and depressed.

But the next morning her sadness disappeared
when Mr. Rosevelt told her that he was feeling
so strong and well that he would like a change,
and he proposed to go to New York and call
upon their young friend.

He had given Star his address, and when she
left for school on Friday morning, it was ar-
ranged that Mr. Rosevelt should go to town that
afternoon, and’ she would meet him at Mr. Sher-
brooke’s studio after school, and they would re-
turn together.

It seemed, however, as if everything went
wrong for our young friend that day. Her mind,
usually so keen and active, refused to work with
its accustomed vigor, and she was listless and
almost inattentive, much to the surprise of Pro-
fessor Roberts and her other teachers.

Her thoughts were playing truant, and half
the time were far away in that artist studio
where Mr. Rosevelt was visiting.

When the hour came for her to join them, all
her listlessness departed, and she was her own
bright self once more; and when, in answer to
her gentle knock upon his door, Archibald Sher-
brooke opened to admit her, he thought she had
never seemed so lovely before.

He had begun to realize that the feelings with
which he regarded her were something deeper
and stronger than mere friendship called for—in
fact, he knew that he loved her more dearly than
any other object on earth, and that his heart had
not really been his own, if the truth were
known, since that day when they had parted
on the steamer; and he had that morning come
to the conclusion that the time should not be
far distant when he should tell her in words of
the emotions she had awakened in his heart.

“This is a pleasure that I had not anticipated
until about an hour ago,” he said, with a bril-
liant smile, as he took her by the hand, and
led her into the room, where she found Mr. Rose-
velt reclining comfortably in a luxurious chair.

“And this,’ Star said, looking around her
with a long-drawn breath of delight as she noted
the many beautiful paintings hanging on the

half an |

 

walls, which I had not antici-
pated.’’

‘Ah! then it is my

‘is a pleasure

work which shall give
yeu pleasure, rather than my society, as I had
presumed to fiatter myself,’ the young man
said, ruefully, and making a comical grimace,
although nis eyes were looking down into hers
with an expression which made her tremble.

She laughed, while a lovely color leaped to her
face. But she tried to hide her embarrassment
by retorting, archly:

“T suppose I must be polite, and affirm that I
expect to enjoy both; but, really, Mr. Sherbrooke,
although I knew you were an artist, I had no
idea that you painted such delightful things.”

“You give me more credit than belongs to me,”
he answered, smiling; “but wait until you are
rested, and then [I have something in particular
to show you.”

“Oh, I am not weary. Let me look now, if you
please; we have only an hour, you know;” and
she began. to move about the room, examining
with no uncritical eye the works upon the walls.

The young artist kept by her side, telling her
the subjects of the paintings, and relating many
incidents connected with them.

At length they came to a corner where there
stood an easel, upon which there was a picture
covered with a green cloth.

Mr. ‘Sherbrooke removed the covering,
saying? $

‘This is the picture that I particularly
to show you?

It was quite a large painting, and represented
a young man and maiden standing on board a
steamer, while silver-tipped waves and a deep
blue sky formed a charming background for
their youthful figures.

The former stood in an eager attitude, with
one hand extended, a smile on his handsome lips,
a gleam of wistful admiration in his honest
brown eyes, while his companion seemed to be
elipping a tress from a massive braid of shining
golden hair that hung over her shoulders.

The fair young girl was a faithful representa-
tion of Star as she had appeared on that day,
which they both remembered so vividly, and in
the act of severing that lock at his request.. She
stood with drooping eyes, a flush on her cheek,
a half-smile on her beautiful scarlet lips, a shy
and modest grace in her posture, while her slen-
der fingers daintily held braid and scissors.

Archibald Sherbrooke watched her as she gazed
upon his picture, his heart in his earnest glance;
while Star, although her eyes were riveted as if
fascinated upon the familiar scene, could not
say one word regarding it.

He had made her very, very lovely, with that
sheen upon-her hair, those soft, bright curls lying
low upon her forehead, which gleamed beneath
them like purest ivory; with those half-averted
eyes, in which the iris was just discernible, so
richly blue,

* *

simply

wished

“As if the sky let fall
A* flower from its cerulean wall;”’

with her delicate hands in their pretty act show-
ing to such advantage, and her slight, willowy
figure so gracefully posed—so lovely that she
eould not help the conscious blush whieh mounted
to her temples, nor the quick heart-throbs which
stirred the lace upon her bosom; for something
whispered to her that his hand had lingered
fondly upon that picture, as if over a work that
he had loved.

“What do you think*of my work; Miss Glad-
stone?’’ he asked, gravely, and breaking the
silence which was becoming oppressive to him.

“Tt—it is very—correct, I think,’’ she faltered,
with averted eyes and deepening color.

An anxious gleam shot- into his eyes
reply.

“Have I displeased you by putting it on
vas?” he asked, earnestly.

“N-o,” she returned, somewhat hesitatingly.

“TI fear I have,” he said, still more gravely
than before. ‘Do not hesitate to tell me if you
are offended, and I will obliterate it with one
sweep of my brush.’’

His eye was full of pain, a deep fiush burned
on his cheek, while there was a thrill in his low,
earnest tone that set her pulses bounding afresh.

She glanced up at him, smiling slightly.

“No, I am not offended,’’ she said; ‘but I’m
afraid I appeared very foolish that day to offer
you a tress of my yellow hair.”

“Have I made the picture he
asked, quickly.

“No; you have made it altogether too beauti-
ful,’ she answered, earnestly, and then was cov-
ered with confusion at having admitted so much.

“Thank you,” he said, brightly, his face clear-
ing. ‘I could not do that, if I had spent twice
the time I did upon a; and’’—bending nearer to
her, and speaking in a tender tone—‘it is a pic-
ture that I painted for myself alone; no one has
ever seen it before; and I shall always keep it.’ “g

He covered it carefully with the cloth again, as
he ceased speaking.

“These are not nearly all my work,” he said,
as she turned to look at some others; “‘they are
the united work of an old artist, ‘our master,’
we call him, and of three of my friends—com-
panion artists. We have been traveling together
during the last tem months, and these pictures
are some of the. results of our pilgrimage. We
are to return now in a couple of months, having
spent our year in America both pleasantly and
profitably, I trust. We had to make our head-
quarters somewhere, so we took this room as a
sort of studio, and thus putting our work alto-
gether, we manage to make quite a respectable
display.”

“T am glad to have seen these pictures,” Star
said, “and to know they are all the work of my
countrymen. I wish, however, that I was going
back to England in a month or two,” she con-
cluded, with a sigh, and a tear springing to
her eye.

“Do you?’ her companion § asked,

“Then you have not. become weaned from
native land?”

“No, indeed,’ she said, earnestly.
dearly “as ever, and if f-live~TI
some day to my home.”

The young man bent toward her, an eager
light in his eye; his lips parted as if he were
about to speak, but Mr. Rosevelt, from the op-
posite side of the room, suddenly addressed some
remark to him, and he was obliged to turn his
attention to him.

at her

can-

appear so?”

eagerly.
your

“T love it as
shall--go back

CHAPTER XIV.
“EET ME DEPICT YOUR FUTURE.”

Before Mr. Rosevelt and Star left him, Mr.
Sherbrooke ‘arranged a little pleasure trip to
Coney Island for the following day.

“T suppose, to-morrow being Saturday, you
will have no school, Miss Gladstone?” he said,
with an appealing look at Her.

“No; but I have a music lesson at nine,”
answered, doubtfully.

“Could you not arrange to postpone it
once?”

“T think not; the hour is engaged for me,
and if I am not there, I lose it. I should hardly
like to do that, for I must make the most of my
time this year.”

Star said this last more to herself than in
reply to him. She wanted to go—oh, so much !—
and yet felt that she ought not to lose her
lesson.

“Well, an hour’ will not make much differ-
ence; you will be through by ten. It will not
be too tate for our excursion then, and that
will give us the best part of the day. The sail
will be delightful, and we will come home by
moonlight. I speak for to-morrow, as I am to
leave New York next week for a while. I think
you will go, Miss Star??? Mr. Sherbrooke con-
eluded, questioningly.

“J think I should enjoy the trip very much, ¥
Mr. Rosevelt here interposed. ‘‘We’ll say ‘go,’
little girl, for we have had no holiday this sum-
mer. Yes, yes, Sherbrooke, thank you, we will
accept your invitation,’ and Star will, I think,
bé willing to shorten her lesson a trifle, so that
we shall be able to leave the city by half-past
ten.”

Yes, Star said she would do that;
matter once decided, her face brightened,
her eyes glowed with anticipation.

She had not had a holiday that summer, as Mr.
Rosevelt said; indeed, no one had planned a
day’s pleasure for her before since she came to
America, and the thought of this little excursion
was very gratifying to her. A whole day spent
in the company of Archibald Sherbrooke would
be a “‘red-letter day” to her; and so, with thrill-
he pulses and bounding heart, she took leave
of him and went away with Mr. Rosevelt, to talk
about it, to dream about it, and, girl-like, to
plan how to make herself as charming as pos-
sible for the occasion.

As for Archibald Sherbrooke
down after his guests had departed,
his ,jpoughts to have their own way.
“She is as lovely as a dream,”
watching her from the window, as she tripped
lightly along by Mr. Rosevelt’s side. “tT did
not think when I started for America that I was
coming to meet my fate; but so it proves. Unless
I can win Star Gladstone’s love, the remainder
of my life will not contain much that will be
worth living for. She is as pure as a lily, beau-
tiful as a veritable star; and yet there Is some-
thing that I cannot quite understand about her;
there is a reserye, an occasional Sadness. that
seems strange in one so young, while once in a
while she lets fall a word which makes me
fear her life is not as bright as it should be.
There is something of a mystery, too, about Mr.
Rosevelt. How sort of ‘seedy’ and neglected he
looked to-day, and I judged, when I met him
before, that he was a man of abundant means,
and without a care, pecuniarily.

“How startled my fair one

she

for

and the

and

himself, he sat
and allowed

he murmured,

icoked when [I

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
oe dumpy legs, and his broken English—who scarce

not connected with music before—bubble over

 

 

 

 

Vol, 58- No. %

THE: NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

 

 

showed her my picture,” he went on, with a
luminous smile; “and I really believed that she
realized something of the tenderness that I have
put into it.”

He arose and went over to the easel, and, re-
moving the cloth, stood looking at the lovely
tbe with a world of affection in his handsome

es.

“My glory-crowned Star,” he murmured, “I
began to love you the moment that you fell ex-
hausted into my arms when you were rescued
from the hungry jaws of death, and I will spend
my life in winning you if need be. I have seen
no other woman your equal during all my so-
journ in America least, no one who has so
moved my heart: “I know of no one in all
amore whom [I should care to win for my
ride. ;

“Star Gladstone! It is a name symbolical of
her nature,” he Said, unconsciously repeating
what Mr. Rosevelt had once told her, “or I am no
adept in reading character. She will crown my
life with light, and bring gladness and beauty
into my home, if I can win her: and I think
I am not mistaken in believing that I read the
sequel to my own love story to-day in her blush-
ing face and shy, drooping eyes.” :

Saturday came, and at an early hour Star
awoke, and arose to see what the morning prom-
ised, and to prepare for the anticipated pleasure
of the day. ‘
The sun rolled up from the east without a
cloud, its light, a dusky red, tinging all the
earth with a rosy hue—a sure harbinger of a
hot, dry day, and just what Star of all things

_ Most desired. %
- “Why? does curiosity question.

Because her one best dress for summer had
been a simple white lawn, which her own fair
hands had fashioned in the most dainty manner,
and she had nothing else really pretty to wear.

“Tf I cannot have embroideries and laces, I
can at least have ‘ruffles and tucks, for they cost

nothing but time and patience,” she had said to
. Miss Baker, when the question ‘how it should
be trimmed” came up for discussion; and ruffled
and tucked it was, in the most artistic manner.
She ran downstairs to practice for an hour,
aiter.which she went to her breakfast, and con-
fided to Mrs. Blunt the fact that “she and Uncle
Jaco " were going to have a holiday—her throb-
bing pulses warned her not to mention the third
member of the party, lest she should betray more
than she cared to—and that good woman re-
marked. with characteristic emphasis, that “if she
wasn’t glad of it, she was much mistaken, and
hoped she’d have the best time in the world;
she'd certainly had precious few good times
since she came there.’
- This duty over—for she did not feel right to
be gone the whole day without telling some
member of the family of her intention—she re-
turned to her room to give her attention to that,
for oncé with her, very important subject for

~~

costume, as if he regretted that he was no longer
young.

“T want you to let me go in just half an hour,
for this is to be a holiday,” Star said, as she
removed her hat and gloves.

“Der frdulein shall do shust vat she pleases—I
can refuse her notting to-day; but,’’ he added,
assuming a businesslike air, “‘let her mind dot
she keep her fingers right and der time goot.”

Star settled down at once to her work with
such earnestness of purpose that she really out-
shone herself, executing her brilliant and diffi-
cult exercises in a way that would have done
credit to the composer himself.

“Verra goot—excellent goot! Der heart is
glad, her hopes are bright, and der work is well
done. Miss Gladstone, in six months I teach
you notting more; you go to Germany—to Italy,
to study,’ he said, his face beaming with satis-
faction at her proficiency.

Star thanked him with her brightest smile for
his praise, and then left him, with a light heart;
and when she reached the place appointed as the
rendezvous by Mr. Rosevelt and Mr. Sherbrooke,
this latter gentleman also thought her the fair-
est object he had ever seen, and knew that, as he
clasped her small hand, his eyes were betraying
ant old, old story of which his heart was so
uli.

The sail down the river was even more charm-
ing than they had anticipated. The day was
perfect, the air being just cool enough to be ex-
| hilarating, while our trio of friends were in a
mood to enjoy everything in the way of pleasure
that might present itself.

They reached the island about noon, when
Mr. Sherbrooke, ordering a carriage, they drove
directly to Manhattan Beach Hotel, where they
partook of a sumptuous dinner, and thus forti-
fied, sallied forth to enjoy the beauties and at-
tractions all about them.

A couple of hours were spent in visiting the
different objects of interest, and then Mr. Rose-
velt said that he should be obliged to give up
and take a rest.

So Mr. Sherbrooke ordered a room for him at
the hotel, and he went to “take a nap,’’ while the
young man, with a feeling of exultation that
now he should have Star all to himself, took a
carriage for a long drive upon the beach.

For miles and miles they drove over. the
smooth, hard road, both in their happiest mood,
ang giving themselves up to the enjoyment of the

our. :

Every moment spent in Star’s society only
served to entangle our young English friend more
securely in the meshes of love’s net; while she
began to realize that the world would never be
quite the same again to her when he should be
gone and no prospect of their meeting again.

“He is going away next week,’’ she kept say-
ing, again and again to herself, while a chill
pain gnawed at her heart. “‘How can I bear to
have him go, and feel that I may never see him

 

consideration—her toilet.
She arranged her shining hair with great care.
It was her glory, and Archibald Sherbrooke had

made it appear such in that picture which he had |

shown her yesterday, and which she now re-
membered with crimson cheeks and glowing eyes,
as she brushed those shining strands until they
gleamed like burnished gold. She then wove it
into one massive braid, as she had worn it that |
day which neither of them would ever forget,
and tied it a little way from the end with a
fresh, delicate blue ribbon.

_This done, she donned the spotless white dress,
with a broad belt of blue and its great bow on
one side, and fastened a simple knot of the same
at her throat, but heaving a regretful sigh as she
thought of her precious cameo, and wished she
could have had it to wear to-day. Then she tied
a pretty chip hat, with its mull trimmings and
bunch of forget-me-nots, over her golden head,
and blushed rosy red at the vision of loveliness
that looked out at her from her small mirror.

_. Taking her roll of music, and throwing a
fleecy shawl over her arm, she ran downstairs |
with a light, springing step, intending to go to
the lodge for a word with Mr. Rosevelt before she
went to the station.

“Where are you going, miss, rigged out in that |
_Sstyle?’”? was the rude query that saluted her ears |
as she came out upon the veranda, and stopped |
@ moment to fasten her gloves.

Looking up, she saw Josephine sitting at one
end of the porch, and half-hidden by the luxuri-
ant growth of vines climbing the trellis.

Her radiant face clouded; it seemed almost like
an omen of evil to have her anticipations of
pleasure broken in upon thus.

“IT am going to New York to take my music
lesson,’” she answered, touching the roll under-
neath her arm. a
“Do you always. dress yourself out like that
to take your music lesson? Perhaps you are
trying to strike up a flirtation with Professor
What’s-his-name?” sneered the haughty beauty.

Poor Star glanced down at her offending dress,
an indignant flush rising to her cheek.

The entire cost of it had been less than what
Josephine was accustomed to pay for even a
pair of shoes; and yet she knew, without being
told, that -the gay belle, with all her expensive |
trappings, had never looked half so fresh and |
lovely as she did at that moment.

Josephine realized it also, and her heart was
filled with bitter envy and malice.

“Go back upstairs and change your gown,”
she continued, angrily, without giving Star an
opportunity to reply to her taunting remarks.
“You have no business to go to the city, dressed
as if you were going to a party.”

Star’s small head came up like a flash of
light; her eyes darkened and glowed with a sense
of wounded pride and injustice.

She stood still a moment, her scarlet lips com-
pressed until only a narrow line of red was vis-
ible; then, in a calm, clear, but very decided,
tone, she said:

“You have no right to lay such commands
upon me, Miss Richards, and I shall not obey
you!”

“You insolent beggar! What do you mean by
answering me in this way?” began the aston-
ished girl; but Star had glided down the steps,
and was walking with a proud, elastic step down
the avenue; consequently, her rage was expended
upon the empty air. 3

; But she was fairly. startled by the exquisite
loveliness of the young girl. She had never seen
her dressed with so much care before, and had
not dreamed of having such a rival in her own
dwelling.

Mr. Rosevelt was standing on the porch of the
lodge when Star came along, and he, too, mar-
veled at her exceeding beauty, saying to himself
that he had never seen her so brilliant and spir-
ited before. °

And, indeed, he had not, for she never had
been so thoroughly aroused before during all her
residence in Mrs. Richards’ family.

; “Good-morning, Uncle Jacob,” she said, bright-
ly, as she saw him-standing there, and her in-

_dignation immediately began to subside.

What was Josephine Richards that she should
- allow her to mar all the pleasure of her own
holiday ?—that she should drive the happiness
from her heart, the sunlight from her face, when
_she was going to spend long hours of delight in
Archibald Sherbrooke’s presence? :

Nothing, save a coarse, rude girl, devoid of
feeling ‘or refinement; and with a resolute effort
she drove her from her thoughts, the smile re-
turned to her red lips, the light to her eye, as
she ran lightly up the steps and stood beside
Mr. Rosevelt. Beda alos

“How well you are looking,’’ she said, gayly.
“I just ran down to’ see if you were all right,

and to jog your memory about our little celebra-
tion to-day.”

_ “You did not need to do that, Starling. I am

as eager as a schoolboy for my day of pleasure,”
he returned, with a fond smile, adding: ‘But
how dainty you are this morning. I shouldn’t
wonder if our artist friend would be wanting to
ee the picture of a ‘star’ one of these days,
e ” a

Star blushed and laughed lightly. "

She could have told him, had she chosen, that
it was already painted. F

But she only charged him playfully to make
himself look as young and charming as possible
if he intended to be her escort to Coney Island;
then, waving him a farewell, she tripped away,
with a smile on her lips, a song in her heart.

He stood and watched her out of sight, mur-
muring, with something like regretful fondness:

“My bright Star, somebody will want some-
thing more substantial than a painting if you
are one-half as attractive in his eyes as you are
_ in mine.”

The little German professor of whom Star.
took music lessons rubbed his small fat hands
with delight, his face dimpling all over with
smiles, when she came like a ray of light into his
room.

“Ach! but der frdulein should have been called
Miss Gladheart,’’ he said, regarding her, admir-
ingly. “She is as bright as der day, as fair as
der morn; she is like a flower dot is newly
bloomed.”

Star laughed merrily.

; It seemed ludicrous enough to her to hear this
fat little man, with his bald pate, his red face,

 

ever was known to express a thought that was

thus unexpectedly with sentiment.

“Oh, Professor Schwab, you overwhelm me!”
she cried, gayly; ‘‘and I’m almost certain that

your compliments will degenerate into a veritable
scolding before I have been here fifteen minutes,
for I fear I am not in very good order to-day ;
my head is full of pleasure.” = #
“Pleasure is good now and then; it is made
outh,” the professor remarked, with a sigh,

n

| brooke, and my aim is to prepare myself for a

again? Oh, England, my home! my home!
Would that I also could go back to you!”

So intense washer longing for her home, so
keenly did she regret this parting, which she felt
was inevitable, that the tears sprang into her
eyes, and a deep sigh came welling up from
her burdened heart.

“Miss Star, why that doleful sigh?’ exclaimed
Archibald Sherbrooke, in surprise.

Star started, and, looking up, found her com-
panion’s eyes fixed upon her with grave ques-
tioning.

She colored vividiy, fearing he had read some-
thing of her thoughts. Be

“Did I sigh?’’ she asked, evasively.

“Yes; and I did not like the sound of it, either.
Are you tired of driving? Shall we go back
and try something else?’’ he asked, only anxious
to give her pleasure.

“Oh, no; this is delightful,’ she answered,
quietly. “I fear I have been guilty of rudeness
if I have given you the impression that I am
not enjoying every moment of this lovely day.
‘Do you know, Mr. Sherbrooke,’’ she asked, with
a smile that had a tinge of sadness in it, ‘that
I am indebted to you for the only real holiday
that I have had since I came to America?”

He regarded her with surprise.

“Ts it possible?’ he asked. “I fear, then,
that you have not had a very happy life during
the last year, or else you. are working too hard
over your books.”’

She feared she had betrayed more than she
ought. She did not want him to know how hard
life had been made for her. She was too proud
to complain of the ill treatment, the coldness,
and even dislike which had been her lot, where
she had expected to find only kindness, love, and
sympathy. i :

“JT -have been working pretty busily,’ she an-
swered, as if that were all. “I am anxious to
graduate this year, and I have to apply myself
rather closely with my music and other duties.”

“Why are you so anxious to graduate this
year? Why not take more time, rather than
run the risk of injuring your health?’ he ques-
tioned, gravely.

“IT am going back to England some time,”’’ she
said, her eyes kindling, “‘and the sooner I can
complete my education, the earlier I can go.
I have my own future to carve out, Mr. Sher-

teacher.” S

“Your own future to carve out!” he cried,
greatly surprised. “I thought you had friends
here who were to care for you always.”

She colored, but answered, gravely:

“T should not be content to pass my life here.
I shall stay only long enough to complete my ed-
ucation ; then I shall go back to my own country
to teach.”

He understood her; he saw, even though she
would not confess it, that her life since coming
to America had not been a happy one.

He saw now, as he looked down into her face,
so fair and beautiful, what he had not noticed
before, she had always been so bright and ani-
mated when with him.

There was a wistful look in her eyes, lines of
sadness about her sensitive mouth, that told him
of a heart yearning for love and finding only
husks to feed upon. 7

She was going to be a teacher, she said; she
was bending all her energies in that direction,
and was Working, he felt assured, far beyond her
strength. : 3 :

She did not look fit to fight the battle of life
alone; she was slender and delicate, although
he felt that, in spite of her fragile appearance,
there was an element of strength in her char-
acter which would overcome every obstacle which
it was possible for a human being in her posi-
tion to overcome. j

She had “her future to carve out,” she had
told him. What did she intend that future to
be? What were her bopes, her aims, her plans?
Surely, not to teach always. ;

Ah, if she would but learn to love him—if he
could win her, it would be very different from
the wearying, dragging life of a teacher.

Before he was hardly aware of his intention,
his heart had overleaped every barrier, he bent
toward her and said, in a low, earnest tone:

“Star, I love you. Let me depict your future
for you.” : . f
TO BE CONTINUED.

<->

Items of Interest.

A Russian is not considered of age until he is
twenty-six.

So keen is an elephant’s sense of smell that he
can scent a human being at a distance of a
thousand yards.

The pigmy camel belongs to a species found
only in western Persia. It is only five feet high,
and snow white. ;

Some of the spiders found in Javanese forests
spin webs so thick and strong they are like silken
cords, and have to be cut with a knife.

A druggist in Denver has invented a novel
porous plaster. Applied to a lame back, it.
soothes the sufferer, and in a little while the
pain crawls out through the holes.

Some fishermen on the Dee, in Scotland, pur-
sued a royal sturgeon and chased it onto a
sandbank. It weighed over 200 pounds and
measured 8 feet 8 inches in length.

Germans seem to be more eager for collegiate
education than the people of other countries. In
Germany one man in 213 goes to a _ uniyersity ;
in Scotland, one in 520; in the United States, one
in 2,000, and in England, one in 5,000. .

A pleasant cure for dyspepsia is announced by
Dr. Benjamin Andrews, of the University of
Nebraska. He enthusiastically declares that in
seven cases out of ten ice cream will certainly
cure dyspepsia and strengthen the stomach.

A doctor of Gothenberg, Sweden, claims to
have discovered a process of changing milk into
a fine flour that afterward, through solution
in a sufficient quantity of water, may again be
transformed ‘into true milk, with all its ali-
mentary qualities.

Emile Rathermelle, a peasant woman, has
just died at Salcine-des-Sus, Roumania. Her
age was 131 years, the figures being fully sub-
stantiated by documents in the possession of her
family. For the past ten years she had lived
entirely on milk, being toothless. a

A bright four-year-old ‘boy in Liberty, Mo.,
saw his mother, Mrs. Hunt, oiling her sewing
machine. He asked her why she did it. “‘To

.turned to the lawyers

 

keep ig Py ie ear ag she answered. Soon
ar

 

 

 

at Star’s bright face and dainty

afte e heard the baby crying, and Paul

had poured oil in its éyes, nose, mouth and ears.
She asked him why he did it and he replied: “To
keep it from screaking.”’

_ One of the most crooked rivers is the Jordan.
In covering a distance of sixty miles, for that
is the length of a straight line drawn on the
map between the Sea of Galilee and the Dead
Sea, it runs two hundred and twelve miles be-
cause of its many windings.

Tongue-reading is a recent fad in Paris.
Everybody is studying the tongue-marks. It is
asserted that a big tongue indicates frankness; a
short tongue, dissimulation; a long and broad
tongue, garrulity and generosity; a 4 narrow
tongue, concentration and talent; a short, broad
tongue, garrulity and untruth. The man with
a very short and narrow tongue is a liar of true
artistic merit.

A new type of steamship, with four propellers,
has been constructed in Hamburg. The vessel
is flat-bottomed, with a short keel in the center
and two false keels forward, and one propeller
is placed between the forward keels, another just
before the rudder, and the two others at the
stern. It is claimed that such a steamer, 300
feet long, would make the trip from Havre to
New York in four days.

A professional diver says that one of the
strange effects of diving is the invariable bad
temper felt while working at the bottom of the
sea. As this usually passes away as soon as the
surface is reached, it is probably due to the
pressure of the air affecting the lungs, and
through them the brain. The exhilaration and

good temper of the mountain climber is a contrary
feeling, from an opposite cause.

THE INTERLOPER:

OR,

A Divided Household.

 

By Effie Adelaide Rowlands,

Author of “So Like a Man,’’ ‘Brave Barbara,” “A Girl's
Kingdom,” ‘A Kinsman’s Sin ’ “A Splendid Man,”
“4A Woman Scorned,” etc., etc.

__ {Entered according. to Act of Congress, November 18, 1902, by
Street & Smith, in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washing-

ton, D. C., under the title of ** For Love of Anne Lambart.’’}

(“THE INTERLOPER”’ was commenced in No, 37.
numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers. )

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CHAPTER XXXIV.
CONCLUSION,

Sir Patrick was asleep when Markley and his
son left the hotel, but David had written a few
words for him, telling Simei what was passing.
It was true that SirfSs.-.% wss—uo longer
very strong; he had pasiid ““tseugh so much to
agitate and to weaken hin * ne needed all the
rest possible.

If his heart could only have been solaced about
his other boy, he would have been, compara-
tively speaking, happy; but, grateful as he was
for the sudden introduction of another new life
into his, and quickly as he had learned to love
David, it was but natural that his heart should
still yearn over his son Angus, and there was
a thrill of excitement through his heart now as
he realized that Pavl Markley had probably
found some clew. :

His valet gave him’ 4 batch of letters while he
dressed. Sir Patrick made this hotel his head-
quarters when in Loadon, and ail his corre-

spondence was forwarded to him there.

He read these letters while he sipped his cof-
fee. There was one forwarded from Prude Ab-
bey which caused rb some surprise. It was

<

written by a lawyer ‘Minsterly,-a man whom
he knew very well, ds: who negotiated certain
business for him. This lawyer wrote to tell-him
that a certain Joseph Evans, a prosperous trades-
man in the cathedral town, had died just re-
cently, and had left him a legacy as a token
of gratitude for kindness shown by Sir Patrick
in the early days of his career.

The notion of receiving money in this fashion
amused Sir Patrick. He remembered the man
perfectly, and he read on to the end of the
lawyer’s letter with some interest.

The solicitor gave Sir Patrick a few details
about the dead man, and added that the bulk of
his property was to be left in charity, only a
legacy being bequeathed to a kinsman of his, a
man who was working as a porter on one of the
railways. f :

Acting on the spur of the moment, Sir Patrick
sent a telegram to Minsterly. Of course, he had
not the smallest intention of accepting this
money, and this was the gist of his message.

The morning wore away, and he was still
waiting patiently for David to return, when his
servant brought him a telegram.

It wa
sterly,- asking Sir Patrick if he would communi-
cate with the London branch of the firm. Half
in a fit of restlessness, and in some impatience,
too (Sir Patrick was a bit of an autocrat in his
way, and somehow the fact of a legacy from a
tradesman upset him), he determined to go forth-
with to this firm of solicitors.

Now it so happened that Will Evans had re-
flected on his wonderful good fortune, and on
going through the letter again had discovered
that he, too, could communicate with the London
office before taking the journey to Minsterly. He
asked for a short leave, and, dressed just as he
was in his reugh corduroy, he made his way to
Lincoln’s Inn and sent in his name. He was ac-
corded the favor of an interview almost im-
mediately.

The lawyers made clear to him the contents
of his cousin’s will, and they were touched a lit-
tle by the man’s simplicity, for instead of grum-
bling, as another more worldly might have done
at the fact of so much money being left to char-
ity, he seemed overwhelmed with the news that
he was to receive no less than a sum of two
thousand pounds. In fact, it took his breath
‘away! He, a working man, who had scarcely
ever seen the sum of five pounds together, to be
so rich; but his heart leaped.as the realization
of what this meant came to him, and he turned
to go, with his face flushed.

Just as he was. leaving the room a clerk
brought in the name of Sir Patrick Joslyn, and,
indeed, Will Evans almost jostled against Sir
Patrick on his way out. Instantly he recognized
the other man. He turned and followed Sir Pat-
rick.

“I beg your pardon, sir, but may I speak to
you?’ he asked, hurriedly. They were inside
the solicitor’s room, and as Sir Patrick looked
at him one of those present introduced him.

“This is Mr. Evans, who inherits a legacy from
his cousin, the deceased Mr. Joseph Evans.”

“Ah!” said Sir Patrick; ‘‘then you are the
very man I wanted to speak to,” for while he
had been driving from his hotel it had occurred
to Sir Patrick that the easiest way of disposing
of his legacy would be to pass it over to the
other legatee, the railway porter.

Will Evans looked at him in some surprise.

“Did you, sir?” he said. ‘Well, I’ve been
wanting to see you. May I shut this door?”

Sir Patrick looked at him kindly.

“If there is anything I can do for you,
me,’’ he said.

“Well, it’s this way, sir,” said Will Evans.
“A little while ago a poor, sick man fell into my
hands. I thought he were going to die, and J
didn’t like to leave him in the streets, so I took
him home, and there he is now; and, begging
your pardon, sir, it’s because of him I wanted to
speak to you.”

Sir Patrick sat down. ‘

“Why?” he asked, in a slow voice.

“Because,” said Will Evans, “he’s just the
very image, sir, of that there young gentleman as
was with you two nights ago at the station, and
it seems to me as my lad might belong to him

or
His head
whirl

“Repeat what you, have
in an agitated voic

WillgEvans repeated it.

Sir Patrick drew a deep breath.

“Take me to your home,” he said. Then he
who were present. “By
a miracle, or by God’s help,” he said, “I believe
this man will give back to me my lost son. I
came here this morning to ask you to arrange
something about this legacy, but we will let all
business stand for the moment; I can think of
nothing but that there is some one in this man’s
house that bears the look of my son.’’ .

It was a strange experience for Will Evans to
find himself driving in a hansom with a man
like Sir, Patrick beside him, and though there
was so much to please and excite him the thought
of losing his companion oppressed him, yet when
they reached the humble place where he lived
he did the honors of it with a dignity that woul
not have disgraced Sir Patrick -himself.

tell

rose. seemed in a

said, man,” he said,

-ready he had given Sir Patrick a full aécount of

an answer from the lawyer at Min-'

 

“You'll let me go in first, sir,’’ he whispered.
He was back again almost immediately, with his
finger on‘his lip. ‘‘He’s sleeping,’ he said. Al-

all that had passed these last few days, and he
had impressed upon his hearer the fact that
sleep was what was most required.

Sir Patrick stepped softly into that small, low-
roofed room. From where he stood the face of
the sleeping man was clearly seen. The first
sensation was one of chill dismay and sorrow,
then came the reaction. Slipping out of his
heavy coat, and giving that and his hat to Will
Evans, the father moved to the bedside; he knelt
down beside it, took one of the wasted hands in
his, and bowed his head over it. The touch
roused, but did not wake, the sleeper. Sir Pat-
rick knelt for a little while, then rose, and held
out his hands to the humble man watching him.

“This is my boy, Angus,” he said. “He has
been lost to me; I have counted him as dead.
There is some terrible story to be told. When
last I saw him he was happy, bright, handsome,
a mere lad; I see him now the wreck-of what
he was; yet he lives! He has been given back
to me! My friend, what shall I say to you for
all your goodness ?’’

“Say naught to me,
his simple way; “say ail to God! I have done!
nothing, leastways not more’n I would ’a done
for any creature, but I’ve got very, very fond of
him; I don’t know what I'll do without him.’’

“It is too early to make plans,’’ said Sir Pat-
rick, who was strangely calm, “but, if possible,
you shall not be divided.”

“But you'll take him away from here,”’
Will Evans. “Yes, that you’ll do,
what he wants.”

Sir Patrick’s hand was stili left in that. rough,
work-stained one.

“Yes, he must be moved from here,’ he said—
his eyes were riveted on that worn sleeping face
—*‘‘but,”’ he looked into Will Evans’ face and
smiled for an instant, “you must come with him;
I wiil take no denial.”

* “

sir,” said Will Evans, in

said
and that’s

* * * * “s

Had ne been alone, David might have shown
mercy, as he certainly felt pity, for the wretched
woman who crouched at his feet. He knew now
how right Markley had been, that this woman,
who had played such a bad part in his own life,
and who had shadowed the life of the girl he
loved, had it in her power to tell what had passed
in his brother’s life also.

As he stooped to pick her up, Markley put him
aside.

“Leave me to deal with her,” he
and listen.’

He stood and addressed the woman. ‘‘Rise,”’
he said; “you have been tracked here, and I |
have some questions to put to you. This is not
Angus Joslyn, but a man who has a score to set-
tle with you, all the same.’’

After a pause Brigida rose;
swept back to her.

“Ask your questions,” she said,. ‘‘but
get no answers do not be surprised.”

“TI think you will answer me,’’ said Markley,
quietly. ‘There is much at stake, not for your-
self alone, but for Lance Ardale, the man you
have come to meet; the man,” said Markley,
eying her narrowly and. hazarding a bold step,
“you imagine you love.’

By the swift change in her face he knew that
he had hit on the right spot.

“If you desire to shield Ardale,
yourself, you will tell us quietly and quickly
what has become of Angus Joslyn. I know a
little about your history. You thought him a
young fool rolling in wealth; he was fool enough
to be caught in your het; like othérs, to lose his
head; he thought you a divinity. It is such an
old story, and boys are so easily deceived. He
linked his life to yours.”

“He married me,” said Brigida, quietly.

David started, but Markley remained

I suppose
while to become his
rate?”

She laughed, and sat down by the table, resting
her elbow upon it.

‘“‘He was a fool, as you said, and he bored me!
Then,” with a shrug of her shoulders, ‘‘there
had been some mistake; the money was not his,
but his father’s. I tried to shake him off. Im-
possible! {I told him in plain words that I
wanted nothing more to do with him, but he
stuck like a leech. He followed me everywhere.
I escaped abroad; hid in a small Normandy
village. There were other reasons why I did
not wish to remain in London.”

“I can imagine them,” said Markley, with his
inserutebie—snille. Co an ee

“He found me in this village. I am not a
patient woman, and when I saw that he was fol-
lowing me like a dog, I whipped him as dogs are
whipped. One night’’—her defiance went a little
—‘‘we had a scene. It was out on the cliffs,
and, wearied by his reproaches, I thrust him
away from me. He fell!’’—her voice was hoarse
now—‘‘the cliff was steep, the sea high
Though I searched myself, nothing was seen of
him. - So”’’"—she laughed a hard laugh—‘if you
want Angus Joslyn, you will know where to find
him. He belongs to the sea!”

David turned and went out of the room; he
could not breathe in her presence.

This was the woman with whom Anne had
lived, his fair, sweet, beautiful girl love. This
was the woman who had desecrated Anne’s home
—his brother’s murderess!—an adventuress! a
woman without a heart, perhaps without a soul!

He went down the stairs, and he passed out
into the street. How long he was pacing up and
down he never knew, but after some time he saw
the door open, and Markley came toward him.

There was a look of anguish in Markley’s face.
He drew a deep breath, and took off his hat.

“Come,” he said in his abrupt way, “we must
get back to your father. My dear chap, I have
run up against lots of queer people, but that
woman is about the worst I have ever encoun-
tered. There is only one thing to be said for her;
she must be mad!”

“What is she going to do?” asked David, in a
low voice.

Markley shrugged his shoulders.

“Heaven knows! She has cut herself adrift
from Sir Arthur Lambart. She is living for
Lance Ardale to come back to her. It is a
curious thing, but a woman, however bold, reck-
less, heartless, and strong, has always one weak
spot. From her own confession she treated
Ardale like dirt; now she lives only for him.”

“And what of her brother?”

“Cardella, or Del Erigo? The very mention
of him brings poison to her lips. They are not
brother and sister—just two adventurers, who
have worked together, worked and failed. _ She
has confessed that you were followed for a long
time before Erigo spoke to you that night. Your
marvelous resemblance to the man who fell over
the cliffs struck them as being useful. They
knew that your brother was supposed to be only
missing, and as your father was prepared to
spend money like water, they thought it would
be a good business if you could be utilized to
draw that money. The rooms to which you were
taken that night were rooms which had been
occupied by your brother; the clothes that were
given you had been his. It was a home that he,
poor fellow, had prepared for his wife, hoping
to install her there, and then break the news of
his marriage to your father.’’

‘All this is nothing,’’ said David, in a low
voice; “the only fact that I can remember is
that my brother is dead. Markley, how are we
going to tell this to my father?”’

* * * * *

As the hours passed, and her father made no

sign, showed no longing for knowledge of his
wife, Anne’s heart grew more tranquil.
+ After Mrs. Darter had gone she wandered
about, thinking over all the good soul had told
her. It pained her very much to hear that
Lance Ardale was suffering, and the knowledge
that he craved for some kind word from her
touched her. She felt that she understood now
what must have really passed between him and
Brigida. Though she knew that he had not been
what the world calls a good man, still he ap-
pealed to her; then, as was only natural, her
thoughts drifted to that other man—the man
she loved.

As she walked restlessly to and fro in the old
hall, she painted to herself a picture of her love
story, and she confessed to herself. that her
heart had been drawn from her by the very
first notes that had escaped David’s throat that
bygone summer evening. It was such a strange
story, with none of the conventional points about
it; yet Anne’s love was, if possible, all the
greater on this account.

It was growing late, and David had sent no
message; she did not know whether he would
come, as he had said he would. She almost
feared that she would not see him till the mor-
row. She remembered with tenderness all that
was passing with him, the! knowledge that he was
her equal filled her with pride; not that her love
would have been touched, but because that she
knew it- made the pathway easier to him.

Suddenly, as she was mounting the stairs to
go back to her father’s room, she heard the
sound of wheels, and she knew that her lover
was drawing near.

In her white robe, one of her old gowns, ‘she
went to stand in the entrance, and as the cab
stopped and David alighted from it she held
out both her hands to him.

“Welcome, dearest,’’ she said. She drew him
in and closed the door, and there alone they
stood for a moment, resting in a quiet embrace.

“T cannot remain long, my darling,’’ said
David, ‘but I have so much to tell you. I
could not rest till I had come.”

said. ‘Wait

her old. spirit

if you

and to save

un-

you thought it worth your
wife. Why did you sepa-

* s

 

said Anne. She led him into

L 1 and put him into her father’s
favorite chair. He could not speak for a time;
he could only look at her.
_.“Ah! my princess,” he said, half sadly, ‘“‘this
is what I have always pictured you! This home
belongs to you; it is yours; but seems to
divide us.’’

“Does it?’ asked Anne. She stood beside him
and stretched out her hand. “If this divides ua
she said, “then I will gladly Say good-by to it.
You must not even think such things, she went
on quickly. “We love—surely that is enough?
Now tell me all that you have to tell me.”

“It is a fairy story,’ said David.

With their arms linked, they paced to and fro,
while he gave her the story of the day; of the
strange yet simple way in which his father had
found his brother, and of the great, great hap-
piness that filled his father’s heart, marred only
by the fear that Angus, though restored when
almost on the yerge of the grave, would never
be anything but a wreck of his former self; and
then he spoke of Brigida.

“She has gone out of your life
Said; “‘you must try and forget her.
A shadow fell over Anne’s face.

“T am not thinking of myself,’ she said, “but
my father! What if he should never forget?”

“Then he will have to be told the truth,” said
David; “and the truth is that the woman he
married not his wife, but the wife of my
unfortunate brother.’’

“You are not going to
Anne said, as he turned to look at the clock.

“I am going back to Westport to-night,’’ he
answered her. “Markley and I are staying
there. It is very far away from you, my
dear one, and are on the lookout for Car-
della.’’

Anne shivered.

“Why do you want to find him?” she asked.

“To punish him,” said David, “if for nothing
else but for his treachery to you.”

“Oh, let him go,” said Anne; ‘‘I-am safe now.
Let him go! Back in my old home with you, my
dad and I—I can face all that comes. I want
no revenge, no punishment.”

David kissed her lips many times, and then
she let him go. They would meet again on the
morrow, and after that on many morrows. There
would be others to claim him—his father would
need him; his newly found brother would need
him; but Anne was content, for she knew that
his heart would always be with her.

*

“Tell me all,’’
the inner hall

it

forever,” he

IS

leave me so soon,”

not
we

* * % * * ba

Markley wasted a.couple of days at Westport;
he exerted all his mental energies to trap Car-
della. .Brigida had given him the information
that the man had intented.to cross to the Con-
tinent from Westport, but as the boats only
ran three times a week, they had been in ample
time to prevent Cardella from traveling by this
route.

They traced him to the town. He -had not
been long in turning Brigida’s jewels into money.
He had also stayed at one of the hotels, but all
at once they lost track of him; he had not left
by train or by boat. Markley refused to have
police assistance. He wanted to deal with the
man first.

“You shall give him a good horse-whipping,”
he said to David, “and then we will hand him
over to the police.”

David only smiled.

] Now that Anne was safe,
and that the outlook

was all golden, unshad-
owed save for the sake of her father’s illness
and his brother’s condition; animosity had no
deeper roots in: his heart than in- hers. But
Paul Markley was as eager to catch the man
as a cat is to catch a mouse. He had before
his eyes the face of poor Angus Joslyn as he had
seen him carried to the train, accompanied by
his father and by honest Will Evans.

He remembered, too, how David Lister had
looked that night in this very same town, when,
through Cardella’s infamy, the young fellow had
been reduced almost to starvation, and he had
no pity-for the man. But after a while his pa-
tience gave out.

“I am going back to town,’”’ he announced ab-
ruptly on the evening of the second day; ‘‘will
you come with me?”

David shook his head.

“No; I must be near Larchington. Anne needs
me. Her father is better, but she has one great
grief, which is in itself, too, a happiness. Though
he will live, Sir Arthur’s mind is blighted; he
can remember nothing except the old days. He
never speaks of his wife; he only wants his girl
—his ‘little Nan.’ I agree with the rector,”
added David, ‘‘that this is the best thing, per-
haps, that could have happened; but Anne loves

him ~so"-much—shecannot-squite. see with” our

Markley nodded his head.

“Well, you go your way, which is love’s way,
and I will go mine. Truth to tell, Joslyn, that
woman’s face haunts me. [I feel I must go and
see what is passing with her.’’

* * * a *

It was not until long afterward that
learned the story of Brigida’s end. It was her
husband who told it to her as they sat one
summer evening on that portion of the beach
which belonged, as private property, to Larch-
ington. David told it to her very gently, told
her how when Paul Markley had reached those
lodgings that night, he had found Brigida sitting
by the table as though asleep, while beside her
was an open telegram, which the landlady of the
house had _ received from the cottage hospital,
stating that Lance-Ardale was dead,

Gently as he put it, it was not possible for
Anne to hear that this woman, who had been so
adored by her father, should have passed away
from life in such a tragic fashion; yet it did not
surprise her, for, evil as she knew Brigida to be,
she knew also that she was a woman of strength,
and that when such a woman found herself beaten
death would be preferable to life, and so she
would easily destroy herself.

The young husband and wife did* not dwell
too long.on this sad matter, but they talked of
many other things as they wended their way
back to Larehington. There was always the ro-
mance of Angus’ fate to be talked over, of the
wonderful charity and kindness shown to him
by those simple Normandy fishing people, of his
marvelous rescue, and of his strange yearning to
cross the seas back to his home.

“And to think that you and he
been together that night; how strange
sometimes !”

Then David laughed.

“Anne,” he said, ‘‘do you know,
Markley has fallen in love.’’

“T saw it a long time ago,”
murely. “Lucy’s quiet little ways have com-
pletely fascinated him. I am so glad! I should
like all the world to be as happy as I am. Dear-
est, I think I will run on now; dad will be
going to bed, and will want me.”

“Go,” said David, tenderly.

He watched her run from him with the swift-
ness of a bird, and he strolled on in the moon-
light, deep in thought. Not even yet had he
grown accustomed to the wondrous change in his

existence.

“Barely a year ago,’ he said to himself, “I
was homeless, friendless, penniless; now I have
father, brother, wife, friends, riches, and happi-
ness. Is it strange that sometimes I doubt this
all?”

He paused in his walk close to the
down which was the path to the caves.

“Tt was here that she came to me first, like
the angel she is. Shall I ever forget my first
feeling as I looked upward and saw her face?’’

Almost mechanically, David turned his way
through the undergrowth down to that old cave.
Halfway, he paused and struck a light.

“Certainly our love was cradled in romance,”
he mused, and then he bent forward, and a
strange expression swept across his face. Has-
tily striking another match, he descended still
further and peered into the cave. A huddled
figure lay on the ground.

With a heart that beat nervously, David ad-
vanced, bent over this figure, and then recoiled.
It was a dead man he was looking at, and
wasted and awful as that dead face looked, he
recognized it in a glance the man for whom
Markley and he had sought, and sought in vain.

There must have been some terrible destitu-
tion, some terrible experience written in those
few months; he saw before him a ragged and a
forlorn creature. What had passed with Car-
della would never be known; he must have been
reduced to the lowest depths before death had
come to him.

Anne’s husband turned, and moved
with a fast-beating heart. There were tears in
his eyes. He was so happy himself, he could
not look on such a sight unmoved, and, bad as
the man had been, and richly as he had deserved
punishment, there was something pathetic in
the fact that he had sought a last haven in this
old place.

“T shall not tell her yet,’’ David said to him-
self; ‘‘she has gone through so much, and she
suffers so much .about her father—bravely as
she bears it—that I must wait before I tell her
this. To-morrow she leaves with her father for
our visit to Prude Abbey. I will make some
excuse to remain behind, and, with Mr. Melville’s
help, give that poor fellow all the care he now
needs.”’ f

When he reached the house, Anne was
ing for him.

“How slowly you have walked!’ she cried, as
she nestled close to him. ‘Dad is asleep, and
the rector is here for a game of whist.’

“The night was so beautiful, I did not care
to leave it,’ David answered, as he held her to
him; “but we must go in. Come, dearest!”

THE _ END.

* *

Anne

should have
life is,

I believe

said Anne, de-

incline

upward

wait-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

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PRINCIPAL |

} The County Fair (Serial)........- ei Neil Burgess
: A Just iirohas. (Serial)....Effie Adelaide Rowlands
~ Plain Mrs. St. John (Serial). .-..----- Bertha M. Clay
Stella Rosevelt (Serial)........Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
~ Driven from Cover (Serial) ....-..--. Nicholas Carter
‘The Interloper (Serial) .....Effie Adelaide Rowlands
eee TERRA M Eon pera we ees 3s we == xa aN Sepe
Why They Quarreled Pires ies Sea cee Max Adeler
An Aggravating Misunderstanding....-.. T. H. Seott
For Better, For WipRBG oS ek co ne

Weatihatessi5. 2, soe. ee Se Harkley Harker

The Mutual Friend........-...- Bette Josh Billings

-_ A Newepaper Editor. ..........--....----. Kate Thorn

Pleasant Paragraplis........--.--. Charles W. Foster
pS RS lg et og ee _..Mrs. Helen Wood

Items of Interest, Correspondence, ete.

det

Senate “p OEMS carted . See ,
“The Path of Love,” by L. A. Paul.
“Tney Are Not Lost,” by Richard Metcalf.

 

 

A FIRST-CLASS DETECTIVE STORY,

Ingenious, Mysterious, Exciting.

A story of concentrated interest, based on

a most ingenious plot, and bristling with dra-

matic events, will be commenced next week,
: under the title of

THE CRIMINAL LINK:

’

: Out of the Dead Past.)

_ By NICHOLAS CARTER,

| Author of “Driven from Cover,” “The Chain of Evidence,”

“Behind a Mask.” “The Old Detective's Pupil,”
“Run to Earth,’ eic., ete.

Old and young will certainly admire this
cleverly constructed narrative. It is full of
action, and surprises are numerous; it is

-eaptivatingly written, and the plot is so art-
fully managed that its solution defies guess-
work,

— —— oe

OVERWORK. :

Everybody is aware that when the brain or

muscle is overtasked by excessive labor serious
and often fatal results ensue. Still,
be borne in mind that what is overwork for one

| person may be nothing but wholesome activity

for another. Various causes may have lowered
one’s natural powers of endurance—lack of sleep,
exhausting excitement, sedentary habits, an un-
_ due accumulation of fat, a weakened heart, or
~ other organic disease. In all competitive sports

it is dangerous for the contestants to ignore

such physical differences. Determination and
excitement may help to win a temporary victory
at too great a cost. It is well known that ath-
- letes are peculiarly liable to heart disease, and
as a class are short-lived. Lately this subject
has been carefully studied by medical experts,
and the general conclusion reached is that the
system becomes weakened by long-continued la-
bor and exhausting fatigue. The effect, in short,
is somewhat like what takes place when the
eliminating organs of the body are debilitated
or diseased, causing a retention of poisonous
waste. In occasional periods of overwork the
resulting fatigue informs the person that rest is
absolutely necessary; and if the hint is taken,
rest restores the system to its normal state by
a speedy elimination of the injurious elements,
as poisons received from without are eliminated,
and serious results are thus avoided. In more
prolonged fatigue there is a rise of temperature
—a manifest feverish condition. In still more
evere exertions there are distressing changes
in the bodily tissues, as well as in the action
of the heart, the blood-vessels, and the kidneys.
This is the case in persistent and long-continued
hysical or mental activity, in the incessant
urry and drive of business, and life at high
pressure, especially when these are associated
b poor living and insufficient sleep.

i ©

_ MISTAKES. —
‘emption from mistakes is not the privilege
Ye when our

it should.

‘pa
w

 

*

BY RICHARD

The look of sympathy, the gentle word,

Spoken so low that only angels heard;

The secret act of pure self-sacrifice,

Unseen by men, but marked by angels’ eyes—
These are not lost.

The happy dreams that gladdened all our youth,

When dreams had less of self, and more of truth;

The childhood’s faith, so tranquil and so sweet,

Which sat like Mary at the Master’s feet—
These are not lost.

 

Vol. 58—No. %

 

 

 

THEY ARE NOT LOST.

METCALF,

| The kindly plan devised for others’ good,

So seldom guessed, so little understood,

; The quiet, steadfast love that strove to win

|
|

Some wanderer from the ways of sin—
These: are not lost. ;

Not lost, O Lord! for in Thy city bright

Our eyes shall see the past by clearer light,

And things long hidden from our gaze below

Thou wilt reveal; and we shall surely know
These are not lost.

Watchers.

By Harkiey Harker.

“TJ am ashamed to ask it, but will you watch
with father to-night?’

“Indeed, I Will. You should not hesitate to ask
so humane a deed,’’ was the ready response.

“True: but it will be the second night you
have sat at father’s bedside this week, and it
seemed almost presuming on good neighborship.
You must know, however, before this, that you
are the favorite watcher in the whole village
when any of the residents are sick.”

And in due course of hours that favorite Chris-
tian, of all the many Christians in the little
valley hamlet clustering round the white spire of

‘a Christian church, was in my father’s sick cham-

ber. Indeed, I have just left them, promising to
come up and sleep; but sleep I cannot till I tell
the world about this good neighbor.

He is a blacksmith, working daily at his forge.
Would you have thought that? He is no trained
nurse, such as in the great cities are nowadays in
popular demand, and for whose training I myself
have contributed both talk and money. No; this
blacksmith has only nature’s own training. I can
remember him ever since I was a lad, as the hand
most skilled and eyer in request when in any
household the hands of the kindred group began
to hang down with exhaustion of vigils too long.
Then the people used to say, “Send out for
watchers. We must. We can endure no longer;”
and the blacksmith came first, oftenest, and last.
Well paid? No; he never was paid a dime; his
pay was, is, the lasting loyalty of a certain New
England village I could name, and the loving rec-
oliection of all the youth who have strayed from
that valley into now every part of the world. His
image rises up before us as the impersonation and
living voucher for a religion whose purity was
once declared to be ‘‘to visit the widow and the
fatherless in their affiction, and to keep one’s
self unspotted from the world.”’

What a difference between city life and village
life in times of sickness in the family. City life,
with its ever-changing neighbors, where one does
not even know the party next door; where you
hire and buy nearly every service which an in-
yalid has; where your child may be sick for days
before the only people whom you could call neigh-
bors, living away across*miles of brick and mortar
uptown or down, may know that your home is
invaded; where no man must dare to fall sick
out of “office hours” for the doctor, and, of all
times, not after midnight. Village life, where to
be smitten is to be hailed with helpers, even more
than one can set to work in brotherly love,
whether by night or by day.

What a difference between the hired nurse, also,
whom you secure from the training school, or by
following the showy card whose printed direc-

tions are left with and by the attendant physician,

highly suggestive of mutual percentages; and this
gray volunteer of old campaigns against the army
of our pains, who works from love and sweet
‘compassion, whose advertisement is the common
fame of reverent gratitude.

Many readers will recall his coming “just after
shutting up shop;’’ the utter relief that his

cheery and kind face brings in, the evening direc-

tions carefully given, ‘‘this once in two hours, this

once an hovr the spread of homely fare at hand
ni

for the midnight lunch; the last word to the in-
valid, telling of the good watcher’s presence; and
then a spent and unbraced casting of one’s self to
repose, as if the weight of worlds was cast from
off a weary heart. You awake many times in the
night, and always with a guilty start, but always
reassuring yourself with the grateful recollection
of the faithful watcher whom you can trust—yes,
him you can trust. You dream that you hear
the voice that has so often been of late louder
than alarms of bugles, though but in fact as
whispers are; yet, starting up, you think of the
watcher whom you can trust, and sleep again.
You dream of medicines, and cordials, and touches
of the pillow for the sick man’s ease, of draughts,
or dead air in the sufferer’s apartment, and of
countless weighty charges which your waking
mind has borne, so that you labor harder in your
sleep than in your conscious moments; till at last
you open your eyes upon the darkness and catch
the streaming rays of the night lamp, yes, falling
full across the watcher’s wakeful form—and him
you can trust. As the gray morning breaks and
battles with the smoking lamps of night, you

}
i
}

 

creep with slippered feet and crouch down shiy-
ering by the freshened fire, at this good watcher’s
feet, and hear the history of some hours, weight-
ier to you than the volumed chronicles of ancient
kingdoms. And how he tells you of the mo-
ments; all the loved one said, how oft he turned
his face with smile, or frown, how ran the fever
and the pain, and how looks the future.
Well, blessings on the head of such as
the gift of this sweet helpfulness to man.
all the many shapes that human charity may take,
there is none kindlier. There is no welcome to a

goodly deed that is so hearty, for the recipient
hearts are tender, tried, and ready to receive.
There is no guise of benevolence that is so rare,
and hence, like every costly thing, precious from
its rarity. Not one in many, very many, has the
princely endowment to command our confidence
in that sacred sentinelship which kinship lays
first on kin; but ‘‘there is a friend that sticketh
closer than a brother.’’ Not a few earnest souls
are heard, in these philanthropic days, asking,
what shail we do to help and bless our fellow-
man? Some can endow a college, found a hos-
pital, open a public library, adorn the people’s
pleasure-ground with relics from old Egypt,
brought with lavish skill across the seas, send a
ship to the North Pole to open hidden secrets unto
man. And some cannot. Some can write a book,
or strut on a platform to preach a theory of kind-
ness. And some would not if they could. But
why not learn the secret of turning a sick man’s
pillow and trimming the lamp of his care? Why
not educate the hand to skill in dropping the exact
measure of a sick. friend’s elixir, to brace the
eyes against the drowsy gloom of midnight hours,
to hear and with a soft answer turn away a sick
man’s wrath of agony, or to listen undismayed tc
his groan or groans, sitting and serving compe-
tent and alone? Whe-kmnows, till you try, what
gift of good is even-4m you? And the field for
such exploits of gentle’ knight-errantry is every-
where at hand. ThéyLord said: “I was sick and
ye visited me. Whoso giveth a cup of cold water
as a disciple of Mine, why, amen! He shall not
lose his reward!” .

The reader and writer, though we have never
seen each other’s face, fully understand each
ether now, for we were both once sick, low down
with a fiuttering breath, and near to death. lt
seemed to us, then, that no one could serve us
like mother, wife, or daughter. We clung to that
dear friend; we would not suffer the gentle, will-
ing servitor out of sight, though we knew half-
dimly, that we were sucking the very life-force
from that true heart like thirsty springs. We
had, at lucid intervals, a vague fear that she
would wear out quite, and, dying first, leave us
to the eare of others. Yet we were too childish
to be self-denying.

have
of

There was no other hand like
hers to rearrange the buming couch or touch the
part that pained us. There was no other voice
that did not grate with torturous growls, so
seemed it; no other foot that did not tread_like
mammoths on the quakitg floor. And yet we
ought not, no, we ought tot to lie there and see
such spending of a fond Bfe all for us.

Then came the skillful watcher, like the black-
smith of the village. ‘The first five minutes man-
ifested the master workman ‘at this lofty craft.
To feed us was not to strangle us. We saw that
at once. To meve across the room was not to
incite rebellion in every chair or other mad movy-
able within the chamber. To medicine us was
not to anger us with useless questions, or enter
upon needless parley. To move us was not to
clasp us in an iron vise, nor gingerly to leave us
practically unaided. He knew how to answer a
question upon some other basis than that a sick
man is necessarily a knave or a fool. He knew how
to keep silent tongue at times—rare gift! At times
he would let us quite alone, not even asking if we
did not want something, or if we felt better now;
but, silent, observant, ready within call, let us
quite alone, with our own strange thoughts and
struggles of mind, to God and His angels.

He ever wore the smile of hope—but never the
smirk of a false cheer. He seemed to know when
we were trying to pray, and dropped his head in
silent sympathy. Hence,. so unobtrusive and so
true his piety seemed, sometimes we said to him,
“Pray aloud for us.” He did, God bless the man!

The Mutual Friend.

By Josh Billings.,

Thare ain’t no more diffikult place to fill, and
none which more people are anxious to git into,
than the posishun of mutual friend.

To fill the place well a person must hav most
of the good traits ov human nature. They must
be kind and konsiderate, they must be cunning
and honest, they must hay nerve and kaushun,
and be able to keep a sekret inviolate, even if it
burns like a red-hot potato. t

Most people are mutual friends more out ov
vanity than friendship, and ne one ov good sense
would accept the possishun from choice.

| too often only the malice ov

About one haft oy all the troubles in sosiety
are cauzed bi the folly ov mutual friends, who
either hav sum end ov their own to reach, or luv
to be the heros or heroines ov sum soshull mud-
dle.

I am oppozed to skrimmages ov all kinds, but
think I would rather hold the coats ov enny two
men, or the bonnetts oy enny two wimmin, while
they fit their dilemmas out on that line, than to
be their go-between, and try to rekoncile what iz
one party pitted
against the folly ov the other.

A Newspaper Editor.

By Kate Thorn.

“So easy to be an editor!”

We hear the opinion promulgated very often.

It seems to be a very generally entertained idea
that all an editor has to do is to write a few
lines now and then; issue orders to the ‘‘devil;”’
go to theatres as a deadhead; be invited to all
the balls and parties, without cost, and live on tke
fat of the land.

“Bditors always wear good clothes, and have
white hands, and are acquainted with all the
leading politicians and big-bugs; and they can
say just what they please about anybody, and
who is to help himself?’

Now, we have never been an editor, and we
don’t hanker after the job. We have no lusting
after the fleshpots in that Egypt. We have seen
too much of life behind the scenes. We know too
much of the life one leads as the editor of a
popular paper. —

Is his office a sinecure, and a happy, peaceful
sinecure, at that? ‘Well, we guess, not very!

You want to be an editor? Well, why not try
it? If you want to be in the condition of trying
to please everybody, and of succeeding in pleas-
ing nobody, there is nothing better for you.

Everybody finds fault with the newspapers.
The taste of all creation is to be catered to; and
we are got up on such a plan that “what is one
man’s meat is another man’s poison,” in a lit-
erary as well as a literal semse.

One man likes political intelligence; and if
there is anything said against his party, he ealls
the editor a liar, and wishes he could meet him
out where he could get a chance to give him a
piece of his mind!

Then, there are other men who care for only
the financial intelligence, and they want to know
who has failed and who is sound; and if the
paper gives the firm of Brown & Co. as solvent
to-day, and Brown & Co. fail next week, then the

| editor of that paper is held responsible, and his

veracity is called in question—just as if a_news-

iS editor knew who was going to fai) next
Again, there is a class who want to read about
crimes and murders; and what is the
4 when murders are not perpetrated

 

page, editor |
Though,

to be sure, there is an epidemic of them most
of the time.

Then some people want to read columns about
the coal miners’ strike, and how they continue to
exist on air and glory while the mine owners eat
big dinners, and discuss methods of starving the
poor miners into submission.

“Such a dull paper!’’ said a neighbor to us, the
other day, flinging down one of our city dailies;
“not a single murder or scandal of any descrip-
tion in it! I guess I’ll pay six dollars a year for
such a paper as that!”

We ventured to suggest that perhaps nothing of
the kind had occurred for the editor to chronicle,
and our neighbor looked at us with ill-concealed
contempt, and snarled out:

“Well, he might pitch into Pierpont Morgan and
give him rats for endeavoring to control the af-
fairs of the business world! That would be better
than nothing! A man who subscribes for a paper
wants to get his money’s worth, somehow. But
these newspapers are a regular swindle.”

Mrs. Smith, an old friend of ours, wants to
read the marriages and deaths. She wonders why
on earth editors do not print all of them all over
the country; it would be such interesting read-
ing; and tell what they died of, and how old
they were, too. She thinks it is a positive wrong
to people who subscribe fo# a paper, and pay for
it, not to know what people die of. And some
editors never put that in! ”

Miss Angelina De Swasey wants more poetry.
Poetry feeds the soul and inspires the spirit, and
——and——-makes one feel so—so—so—well, so sweet
and exalted! She wonders that editors do not
have more poetry, and she sends her paper a
sonnet to ‘‘The Mild-Eyed. Moon,” and in the next
issue reads the editor’s opinion of the precious
effusion, é

“A mere mawkish, sentimental mass of tom-
foolery, not fit to use for gunwadding to shoot
anything but a monkey whose brain had been
softening since the creation!’ and she is ‘‘mad”
clear through, and the editor has lost her _friend-
ship and countenance for all time.

Pegute: have an idea that a newspaper is or-
ganized to give them, and their affairs, gratuitous

 

puffs—that is if they subscribe for the paper. A
year’s subscription entitles them to ten dollars’
worth of advertising space in the columns of the
paper.

Somebody gets up a fair for the church, or for
some private enterprise, and the editor of the
local paper must advertise that, and give it a
puff afterward. That is how he gets his free pass.
He must give five dollars’ worth of advertising
space for twenty-five cents’ worth of strawberry
festival.

Mr. Robinson coneocts a cordial, warranted to
cure all the ills that flesh is heir to, and several
ills beside, and he presents a bottle of it to the
editor of his paper, and enjoins it upon him to
take it, according to directions, and report in his
paper. What does a man want with medicine
for cholera morbus, or neuralgia, when his worst
physical trouble is corns on the toes? And when
he does not even know the doubled-up sensation
which cholera morbus gives to a mortal.stomach?

But if he does not puff the cordial, there is war
in the camp of Robinson, and he sends the editor
a terse note, which reads:

“Stop my paper! A. ROBINSON.”

And he thinks, with immense satisfaction to him-
self, that that will squelch him, if anything will.

Editors are often sued for libel—sued for tell-
ing the truth! For in many cases of that kind
the very worst thing he could say about the party
in question would be the truth!

Sometimes they are threatened with cowhid-
ings, and we have known of one editor who was
treated to a coat of tar and feathers, simply be-
eause he said in his paper that Mr. So-and-So,
the leader of the opposition party, was a liar, a
gambler, and a drunkard! And it was just as
true as anything you can find in Holy Writ, only,
perhaps, it was one of those cases where “the
truth is not to be spoken at all times.”

Editors are expected to give free copies of their
papers to all friends who drop in. “A paper is
nothing, of course—might as well give them away
as to sell them for old paper! An editor ought
to be pleased to think anybody wants one.”

So you might argue about a dealer in anything
else. You might go into a hatter’s and ask him
for a hat; he ought to be pleased to think you
noticed him enough to want one of his hats.

But the most trials an editor has are inflicted
upon him by people who want to be “writers.”
It is a very widely-conceived idea that it is the
easiest thing in the world to write for the papers,
and everybody entertains a private opinion that
if he should try he could write as well as any-
body.

And to the distress of the editor, a great many
do try, and, of course, are put on the list of
“Declined with thanks,’ and if there is anything
in the world which will make an embryo Shakes-
peare, or Dickens, indignant, it is te have ~<his
gushing maiden attempts “‘Declined with thanks.’’

He looks upon the editor who does it as a con-
ceited idiot, who is afraid of a rival, and he feels
savage enough toward him to cut his throat, fig-
uratively, or smother him under a pile of contri-
butions “‘Déclined with thanks.”

We might spin this article out indefinitely, for
an editor has many other tribulations not men-
tioned here, but we forbear.

 

 

: (CORRESPOND
Ss HELPFUL TALKS WITH
OUR READERS.

 

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

L. W. FITZGERALD, Chicago, Ill.—The letters
of Junius originally appeared in the London
Public Advertiser between Jan. 21, 1769, and Jan.
21, 1772... The wife of Sir Philip Francis affirms
that her husband’s first gift fo her after mar-
riage was an edition of Junius, which he bade
her take to her room, keep from sight, and
never to speak on the subject; and he made a
posthumous present to her of a sealed copy of
Taylor’s ‘Identity of Junius’? found in his bu-
reau. From time to time a number of circum-
stances have come to light which seem to prove
almost conclusively the identity of Francis with
Junius, whose letters directed against the min-
istry will always command admiration for their
lucid phraseology, beauty of metaphor, pungent
sarcasm, and bitter invective. At various times
efforts have been made to identify Junius with
Sergeant James Adair, Colonel Isaac Barre, Hugh
Macaulay Boyd, Edmund Burke, Bishop John
Butler, Lord Camden, Lord Chatham, Lord
Chesterfield, John. Dunning (Lord Ashburton),
Philip Francis, Edward Gibbon, Henry Grattan,
Sir William Jones, John Horne Tooke, Horace
Walpole, John Wilkes, and many others, but the
authorship in question has been more generally
ascribed to Sir Philip Francis than to any other.
According to Macaulay, ‘‘the case against Fran-
cis, or, if you please, in favor of Francis, rests

‘on coincidences sufficient to convict a murderer.”

A. R. TISSINGTON, Los Angeles, Cal.—Fraudu-
lent butterflies are prepared in large quantities
in Paris and London, and are sold to collectors
who desire to possess specimens of all kinds. The
method of producing them is ingenious. It con-
sists in spreading with a camel’s hair brush
very thin mucilage over the wings of ordinary
butterflies, and then sprinkling over this cer-
tain delicate metallic powders of various colors.
By this deft manipulation a very common but-
terfly can in a short time be made to resemble
one that is extremely rare. The fraud came to
light through an alleged specimen of a red ad-
miral, the fly so widely noted for its brilliant
red and white hues. Sometimes the white specks
turn blue, and a specimen in which this trans-
formation has taken place is regarded as a great
rarity. The dealer knew this, and naturally his
red admiral had many blue specks. Unfor-
tunately for him, the purchaser was suspicious,
and, by the use of a magnifying glass and a
damp brush, quickly discovered the fraud.

Henry T. Hanrorp,- Cedar Creek, Texas.—
There are 1,750 submarine telegraphs, and their
aggregate length is almost 200,000 miles. The
cost of their construction is estimated at $275,-
000,000, and the number of messages annually
transmitted exceeds 6,000,000. The land tele-
graphs, combined with the submarine lines, ag-
gregate 1,180,000 miles, while the length of
their single wires or conductors is about 3,800,-
000 miles. The total number of messages an-
nually sent is about 4,000,000,000, or an aver-
age of more than 1,000,000 each day.
marine cable to connect Canada with Australia
is now being laid at the joint expense of Canada,
the Australian commonwealth, and the United
Kingdom. It has already been completed from
Vancouver, B. CG., to Fanning Island, a little
north of the Hawaiian Islands. A cable runs
from Australia to New Zealand, a distance of
more than 1,000 miles; and another extends from
Australia to the French colony of New Caledonia,
800 miles distant. ‘

B. K. Harprr, Central City, Ill—The wombat
of New South Wales and South Australia is a
marsupial animal, and is there generally spoken
of as a pouched rat. In appearance it resembles
a little bear. Some of the natives class it with
the badger, because of its burrowing habits. It is
two or three feet long, plump, with a thick coat
of long, grayish-brown woolly hair. The head is
large, wide, flat, and rabbit-like, with apper lip
cleft, and small eyes and ears; legs short and
nearly equal, and the feet five-toed. The tail
about half an inch long, nearly bare. The wom-
bat is easily domesticated, and has three or four
young at birth. In the mountainous districts of
Australia its flesh is preferred to that of all other
animals. _ to

is

A sub-

 

W. Va.—Frangois
joker of France,
that “One-half of
other half liveth.”’

G. L. Swayzn, Central City,
Rabelais, the great practical
was the author of the saying
the world knoweth not how the
At one time, being at a great distance from
Paris, and without money to pay his hotel bill
or his fare, he made up three small packets of
brick-dust. One of these he labeled ‘‘Poison for
the King,” another ‘‘Poison for Monsieur,’ and
the third ‘‘Poison for the Dauphin.” They were
placed in his room, where the hotel servants
would see them. Of course the landlord soon
heard of the packages of poison, made a com-
plaint to the authorities, and the supposed
poisoner was at once arrested. The secretary
of. state had him hurried to Paris under a
strong guard. This was just what Rabelais de-
sired, and when his practical joke was under-
stood, the authorities laughed at the stratagem.

ANITA, Mowersville, Pa.—A “crossroads
burial’ refers to a custom followed in England
many years ago, in regard to the interment of
suicides. In the middle ages-the bodies of sui-
cides were not admitted in consecrated ground.
They were, accordingly, interred at the junction
of two crossroads, where crosses were generally
erected. These spots were considered naturally
consecrated, and next in sanctity to hallowed
ground.

T. W. HARRISON, Readfield, Me—From time
immemorial the peacock has been considered a
royal bird. It is mentioned in the Bible, in I
Kings, x. 22, and also in II Chronicles Ix. ax
This beautiful fowl originally came from India.
In many parts of Asia and Africa it is found in
a wild state.

A. R. G., Dallas, Texas.——No premiums on
the dimes of 1841 and 1854. P

WHY THEY QUARRELED.

BY MAX ADELER.

She was a lovely young thing, bright, and fair,
and gentle. Poor Snyder met her a couple of
years ago at the seashore, and engaged -himself
to her.. Then he had to go to South America on
business, and he was taken down with a fever.
He heard nothing from her, nor she anything from
him, because the war down there interrupted mail
communications. But each was faithful to the
other, although she had developed, during his ab-
sence, an unexpected enthusiasm for the study of
medicine, and, in fact, was taking a course of lec-
tures at the Woman’s Medical College.

Of course she was overjoyed when he returned
home, and that evening,.as they sat together upon
the sofa in the parlor, her younger brother, who
was concealed beneath the sofa, heard the follow-
ing conversation :

“No, Algernon,” she said, “I did not dream
about you. I thought of you while awake. But I
rarely dream. My ganglia and brain molecules
are always quiescent during slumber.”’

“Oh, certainly, of course,’’ replied Algernon,
as if he were a little uncertain as to her meaning.

“And when you sent your telegram, announcing
your arrival, my ventricular contraction was so
accelerated that I nearly fainted. Possibly this
may have been due to the fact that my grief for
you subjected me previously to anorexy, but my
joy soon enabled me to become analeptic.”

“Do I understand that you were somehow feel-
ing bad? I don’t exactly—that is, when you refer
to ventricular contraction. In point of fact, your
meaning, darling, is not absolutely clear.”

“Why, dear, extreme emotion of any kind, you
know, always affects the heart, which is an
azygous muscle resting on _ the diaphragm,
and. .

“You mean that your heart beat with joy?”
said Mr. Snyder.

“That is the vulgar,.not. the.scientific, way of
putting it. You see, dear, I had just got home
from the lecture, and I was putting a wen in a
bottle of alcohol, which -

“A what?”

“A wen. The lecture was upon
and, after I had taken full notes and tied up
eight veins in an amputated leg, I put in my
pocket a wen, cut out by Professor Bickers, and
came right home.”

“You don’t mean to say,’’ observed Mr. Snyder,
with a dazed look, “you don’t really mean to say
that you are fond of that kind of thing?”

“Why, yes, darling. Didn’t you know I am
studying medicine? I declare, I forgot to telk
you.”

“Going to be a doctor? Horrible!”

“Now, I hope you won’t object to it! It will be
so nice for you to have a family physician right
in your house—won’t it? If you are sick I can
bleed you, or if you break your arm I can cut
out the bits of broken bone. I can bleed splen-
didly. Won’t you let me practice sometimes on
you?”

“Certainly not!’’ said Mr.
alarmed.

“Of course, when we are married, I will keep
my skeleton in the office, if it is disagreeable to
ou.”

. “Then you have an additional skeleton, have
you?” inquired Algernon, anxiously.

“Yes, darling; but of course if it is in the of-
fice, it needn’t worry you.”

“Hadn’t you better put it in the parlor,” asked
Mr. Snyder, sarcastically, ‘‘and fix it so that I
can dangle it by a string? I am so fond of
playing with old bones. Who did it belong to?”

“IT prepared it from the remains of a patient
who died from cerebro-spinal meningitis. The
case was an intensely interesting one. I wish I
could get another one.”

“You might, maybe, poison me for mine. Then
you could put two skeletons in the parlor, on
two strings.”

“Algernon, you are cruel. You do not ap-
prove of my fondness for medicine. But need I
love you less because I know the name of your
ribs?) Why should my affections be decreased by
my knowledge of the construction of your carotid
artery and of the best remedies for functional de-
rangement of the liver?”

*‘Love,” said Mr. Snyder,
with ribs and livers.”

“And then I could teach you so much that
would be instructive. Now, I'll bet you a quart
of paregoric you have no idea of how to make
a diagnosis of fatty degeneration of the heart,
have you? I am making a wax model of a fat
heart, and when it is done I will explain it to

ou.”

” “That would look nice in the parlor, too. An
average jury would regard such, an outrage as
affording a sufficient ground for a divorce.”

Miss Glipin began to cry.

“JT did not expect such treatment as this,” she
said. “J thought when you came home you
would enter into my plans with enthusiasm. I
was anticipating pleasure in showing you my
eight carbuncles, two wens, and an eyeball with
cataract, preserved in bottles; to say nothing of
the wax models I have made of eleven kinds of
sores.” 6

“T should enjoy looking at such treasures very
much,” said Mr. Snyder, calmly.

“No, you wouldn’t; and I don’t believe, if we
marry, you will let me have a few beds for fever
patients in the upper rooms of the house. I had
counted on that, and upon arranging a sort of or-
orthopedic hospital for bow-legged children. But
it is all over. My dream. of happiness is past!”

“Passed off with the bow-legged children, did
i Tt

“T will not be insulted, sir!’ said Miss Gilpin,
rising. “It is a far nobler work to straighten
a bow leg than be
woman.”

“Madam,” said Algernon, rising, “you may, if
you please, devote your life to straightening legs.
I decline to join in the business. I loved a fair
young woman, full of girlish innocence. I came
back to find her engaged in bottling wens, piekling
deranged livers, making wax models of ring-
worms, betraying a hideous fondness for bone-
felons, thirsting to bleed me with a thumb lancet,
and coveting my skeleton. I shall never marry a
woman who loves me merely for my skeleton.
We must part. Adieu!’

Mr. Snyder went to the door and opened it. He
turned to take one last, lingering look. So did
Miss Gilpin. A moment later they flew into each
other’s arms, and Miss Gilpin said: :

“Do you know, sweet, that kissing is merely a
contraction of the ovis articularis muscle, this
way?”

Snyder did not answer, but the boy under the
sofa says he seemed to comprehend, for he con-
tracted the ovis articularis muscle several suc-
cessive times, with an air of relish.

But the boy may have lied. They are married
now, and I know that Mrs. Dr. Snyder has an
office full of bottled specimens, and her husband
makes no objection, at least to the fees which
she earns by her practice.

aneurisms,

Snyder, becoming

“has nothing to do

insolent to a defenseless

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

Vol. &38—No. 2

—

 

3

 

A JUST REVENGE.

By EFFIE ADELAIDE ROWLANDS,

Author of ‘*The Interloper,”’ ‘A Girl’s Kingdom,’’ ‘‘A Woman Scorned,”’
‘‘Brave Barbara,” ‘‘So Like a Man,’ ‘‘A Kinsman’s Sin,’’ ete.

Copyright 19002, by Street & Smith.

("A Just REVENGE” was commenced last week.)

CHAPTER Iil.
THE MESSENGER AND THE LOCKET.

Nigel Burlington had left his mother’s house
early in the morning following that wet night,
but, early as it was, he found no trace of the
eircus.

The sun was shining gloriously. It was a
lovely morning; the serene beauty of the sky
seemed to make more prominent the traces of
disorder that existed where the circus had stood.

The roads were still wet and heavy, and the
heavy wheels of the trucks and caravans had
ground deep lines in them.

Nigel turned and went back to breakfast with
a sort of reproach tugging at his heart.

He had not been ablé to forget that girl. She
had haunted his sleep, and when he had dreamed
it had always been to recall that picture of her
standing like some priestess by the magic globe;
and then at times her troubled, tear-laden voice
would sound in his ears, and he would thrill
with indignation against her. assailant. But
though he was of an imaginative nature, he was
also practical, and he resolutely put aside the
remembrance of the night before as he ate his
breakfast and talked as cheerfully as he could to
his mother.

Mrs. Darcy Burlington would have been.a
fairly good-looking woman had she taken any
pains witn herself, but fretfulness and habitual
discontent showed themselves not only on her
face, but in her method of dress.

She was a woman with good points, but she
had allowed prejudice and jealousy to swamp
those good points far too often. Now her face
was set, and her lips had a hard, thin line as she
sat and listened to her boy talking of his plans.
He had only run down to spend a day or two with
her before going north to take up the manage-
ment of one of the numerous houses that com-
posed the most successful firm of Burlington &
Sons, merchants. :

The fact that he was so happy, that he seemed
absolutely satisfied with his position, that he
never gave a single thought to the military career
he had abandoned, spoke of nothing to his mother
but bitterness.

She would have liked Nigel to side with her
against John Burlington’s wife, and the young
man little realized how the fact of his open ad-
miration and friendship for Enid deepened the
bitterness in his mother’s heart.

Much as he loved hef® it was with real relief
he left her.

He arrived in town about tea time; the rain
and the storm was a thing of the past, and Lon-
don had its gayest, sunniest aspect.

Lady Burlington was in the house when he
arrived. Nigel had not expected to find her there.

“I thought you would be engaged three deep,”
he said, as they shook hands.

ER eg eee you were coming?” she answered

m.

A fiush rose to the young man’s face. He
was touched beyond description, for nothing could
exceed the tenderness and the tactful kindness
dealt out to him by this beautiful woman. It was
as thougn she wanted him to feel that she realized
she had usurped his place, for before her marriage
Nigel Burlington had been the acknowledged heir
of his uncle.

They sat and chatted easily together, as a
brother and sister might have done. Indeed,
there were times when Nigel found it difficult to
believe that his uncle’s wife was not a girl, and
yet, according to her own confession, Lady Bur-
lington was a woman of thirty-six years. _

Lady Caroline Beamish came in for tea, and
one or two other people dropped in.

Nigel found himself watching Lady Burlington
with new admiration. No one was more graceful
than she, no one more refined.

Now and then their eyes met, and it pleased
him to feel that there was such a real bond of
sympathy between them.

Otfer people might doubt Lady Burlington’s
love for her husband, but not Nigel; he knew
that his uncle was dearer to this woman than
words could express.

The visitors flitted away by degrees; they
had moved out on te the terrace, and Nigel was
giving all his news, when a servant brought Lady
Burlington a note. There was a smile on her
lips as the man drew near, but as she took up
that letter Nigel saw that her face suddenly
turned very white, and that her hand shook.

With true delicacy of thought he rose, turned
and strolled away.

The servant passed out of the room, also,. and
Lady Burlington was alone. ;

She sat for a moment with her hand pressed
over her eyes; then, with a shiver, she tore open
the letter. It was dated from a hotel in London,
and contained a few words written in pencil,

“JT am here. I must see you. I need a large
sum. I have done my best to try and spare you
this, but the demand is imperative this time.
Unless you desire the whole thing disclosed, you
must pay this money. I shall expect you some
time this evening.”

The letter was signed ‘‘Amy Saville.”’

For the space of a few moments Lady Bur-
lington stood like a woman turned to stone. Only
that morning a prayer had escaped her lips that
nothing might come to spoil her happiness, to
divide her from her husband’s love. Now she
knew how impotent was this prayer!

Of late she had grown tranquil. The sorrows,
the darkness, the unutterable pain of the old days
had been soothed into a kind of fictitious forget-
fulness.

The distance that separated herself from her
mother, the knowledge that silence had been
bought, had all helped to give her calm; but
now this was snatched from her, and as she
stood surrounded on every hand by luxury and
wealth, and the evidence of a man’s untiring de-
yotion, her heart was like ice in her breast; she
_ hardly dared look inte the future!

* * cd * * * * .

The order was given to move the circus at
about five o’clock in the morning.

As she heard the tread of the horses approach-
ing, the girl, who had been crouching on the
floor of the caravan, looking with anxiety that
was not unmixed with tenderness at the old
woman who had lain in a kind of stupor ever
eee she had been brought there, rose to her
eet.

She dreaded the movement, for her instinct
seemed to tell her that the woman was very ill.

By this time she had grown accustomed to
watching her mother sleep heavily through all
sorts of discomfort, but this heavy sleep did not
seem to her such as she had been used to see.

It was more than drink this time that had
produced. that curious stillness.

She opened the door a little, and let im the
sweet, fresh morning air; she was very weary,
but sleep was far away from her. It was only
in such @ moment as this that she found peace
in her present existence, and even the tender
solace of nature was spoiled by the sound of
curses and rough words, though truly the patient
beasts that drew the heavy vans had little need
to ee whipped or cursed, they did their work so
well.

But it was better to sit with the door open a
while and let some air pass into the narrow,
confined space.

All her life she had been accustomed to air;
it was as much to her as food, and after a while,
when the line of caravans had droped into their
places, there was something rhythmical and
soothing in the plod of the horses’ feet on the
damp earth, something picturesque in the glim-
mer of the gilded tops of the earavans shining
in the rising sun.

On one of the horses that drew their van a
black man was astride, and he crooned to him-
self as they went along, making a musical sound
that vaguely pleased her.

He was one of those whose duty it was to follow
Madame Cleopatra into the ring and carry that
wonderful table upon which was set the crystal
globe.

The strange light which mystified the village
audiences proceeded from a small piece of candle
placed within the hollow of the glass. The girl
whose task it was to gaze into that ball was
conscious of the trickery, yet was conscious also
of the strange power which she possessed; the
power that gave her the right to draw secrets
from that globe; though she knew full well that
this strange power was not natural, but was
transmitted to her by the woman whom she had
been taught to call her mother these two weary
years. ?

Her mind drifted back, as it always -did in
moments of solitude, to her earliest recollections.
She saw before her always the arched roof of
the convent schoolroom, or the pleasant gardens
with their happy throng of laughing children.
There was indeed a vast space between dainty
little Vera of the convent and Zuleika the circus
girl. Once she was roused from her thoughts,
and stole back to look at the sleeping woman,
but Madame Cleopatra had turned a little on her
side, and when she had paused for a moment or
two the girl went back to her seat.

The black man riding just in front of her
leoked at her now and then in a tender sort of
way.

He was not a young man, but he was exceed-
ingly useful, doing more and costing less than
any other man in the show.

The road lay through some beautiful country,
and as they passed along a high-wailed garden,
the black stood in his saddle and plucked some
plums from a heavily-laden bough.

He offered them to the girl with a smile that
showed all his white teeth, and she took them,
though not without hesitation. Indeed, she al-
most refused them, for the influence of her con-
vent life ciung to her, and even the theft of a
flower seemed a sin. But she liked this old black
man, and she knew that she would give him
pleasure when she ate the fruit; besides, it was
very acceptabie. But she shared it with him.

The route was a long one to the next stopping
place, but they managed to get there before the
town was awake.

Zuleika was sorry that she had left Milton-on-
Roude; that kind stranger seemed to her a link
with the life she had lost.

When they stopped, little Mrs. Norton came
running to speak to the girl.

It was a relief to her to see Zuleika. She had
half prepared herself to find that Spravka had
already claimed the girl.

“Well, dearie, and how are you, and how is
oe Poor dear, I expect she’ll feel bad to-

ay?’ ‘

Zuleika took the hand of the little acrobat.

“How good you were last night,’’ she said. “I
shall never forget it.”

“Good?” said the other; ‘“‘why, what did I do?
I only wish that ** Then she paused; she
could say no more. She looked at the girl half
nervously.

“Can’t you get out of this?’ she asked; ‘“‘can’t
you persuade the old lady to leave this tour?
You know what.I have in my mind.”

“Oh! I wish we could,’ said the girl,
ing her hands, and for a moment her white
face was dyed with color. ‘You don’t know
what it would mean to me to be quiet somewhere.
I—I have been tempted more than once,’ she
said, in a low voice, ‘‘to leave it, but I did
not—lI dare not leave her.’’

“Why not?’ said little Sara Norton, half de-
filantly. “Folks have got to think for them-
selves in this life, and she don’t do her duty by
you, my dear, and that’s the truth.”’

“Oh, hush!” said the girl; ‘‘she
mother 2

Sara Norton

clasp-

is my
leoked at her. Not once, but
very often, she had puzzled herself to under-
or how such a mother could have such a
child. :

There was not a scrap of resemblance between
the two, and, though Madame Cleopatra had aged
herself prematurely by drink and reckless living,
she seemed far too old to have so young a child.
But by this time Sara Norton had learned the
wisdom of asking no questions, and she was well
aware that in her profession domestic life ran as
a rule in a dramatic form.

If she had not been fully convinced that
Zuleika’s obedience to her parent was absolutely
sincere, she would have become irritated by it,
but there was such simplicity, such childlike
faith, in this obedience, that, common-grained as
she was, the other woman respected it.

“Well, my dear, we all know our own business
best, I suppose,’’ she said. “I know Id never
stay if I had to put up with all you have got to
put up with—not I! Well, come across and have
a cup of coffee with us.”

“JT don’t like to leave her,”’ said the girl.

“Is she sleeping?’’

“Yes; she has not moved for a long time.”

Sara stepped quietly into the van.

The tall woman's figure lay there, quietly;
they had not removed her gown, and the tawdry,
shabby garment looked rather pitiful in the
clear morning light.

Little Mrs, Norton bent over and looked into
Madame Cleopatra’s face, then she roused herself
with a sort of jerk, and drew back, with a sud-
den movement.

“Run, my dear,” she said, in an excited voice;
“just run and find Jim, will you?”

The girl look at her, startled.

“Is—is anything the matter?’ she asked.

“Go and find Jim,’’ repeated the other; ‘I
want him.”

As she was alone, Sara Norton sat down on
the seat near the door, and trembled.

“Dead!” she said to herself. ‘‘Poor old soul!
And Spravka’s killed her, just as sure as if he
had put a knife into her. Dead! What’s going
to become of the girl?”

It was not only Norton who came back, but
the manager. He was not disposed to be in a
good temper with Madame Cleopatra.

He recognized fully the value of her perform-
ance, but, to put it in his own words, “he was
sick and tired of her goings-on,’”’ and he. re-
garded Zuleika as being very useless since she
could do no other turn.

Sara Norton looked into her husband’s eyes,
and made a significant gesture with her lips;
then she put her arms about Zuleika’s waist.

“You must come with me,’ she said. But the
girl paused, and looked up at her.

In the fresh, clear sunlight one saw how
pretty she was, how delicately made, and what
a purity of spirit dwelt in her heart.

“Sara,’’? she said, ‘‘tell—me—is—is she ill?”

“Yes, dearest; she is ill!”

“Then I must go to her.”

Sara drew her back. ‘

“No: you cannot do any good. Your mother is
beyond help—she is dead. They will look after
her.”

The girl’s face worked; then she flung up her
hands and covered it.

“Cry, dear,” said Sara Norton; “your heart’s
just too full.’ But there was not much oppor-
tunity for Mrs. Norton to give consolation. This
occurrence had upset the manager altogether.
He came, storming and raging, as if the poor
woman had chosen to end her life simply to
spite him.

He was so rough that Zuleika shrank from
him. It meant endless worry for them, of course.
There would have to be an inquest, and it was
such an unlucky thing for a show.

The news spread through the troupe, and one
and all were. startled, and some were sorry, and
with them all there was the same feeling—that
Ivan Spravka, the lion-tamer, had hastened this
catastrophe.

Strange to say, Spravka was absent. He was a
very independent man, and sometimes he would
choose to disappear for a couple of days at a
time, and no one would dare to remonstrate with
him when he returned.

It was arranged that the dead woman should
be carried to the mortuary attached to the work-
house. Sara Norton gave shelter to the girl,
not without an uneasy feeling and some remon-
strance from her husband, but she had not the
heart to leave Zuleika alone. And there, shut up
in a caravan, the girl sat through the long, hot
day. The shock of her mother’s death had pros-
trated her. She was unable even to think co-
herently. From where she was, she could hear
the band playing for the afternoon performance ;
she could hear the shouting, the laughter, The
hot sunshine poured down mockingly, as it were.
When night came it was still hot. Sara was a
little uneasy about her charge, who seemed
feverish. There had been many
the daughter of the dead woman, but Zuleika
had been unable to answer any questions, and
so she was left alone. :

Jim Norton had given up his place to her,
good-naturedly enough, and was early round to
inquire the next morning of his wife as to how she
wax

“She seems better,’ Sara said, “but I shan’t
let her budge, she’s so white looking. Jim, has
Spravka said anything about her?”

The boss

“Spravka’s never turned up. is

 

 

inquiries for ],

going off like
right enough.’’

“T wish,” said Sara Norton to herself, when she
was alone, ‘‘as there was somebody belonging to
her, for what she’s going to do, I don’t know.
Looks as if that fine bully was a bit afraid of
what he did. Perhaps he’ll leave her alone.’’

Toward the middle of the day the girl was
well enough to sit up. She seemed to realize
her position only too clearly now.

“Sara,’’ she said once, ‘‘what shall I do? I—I
have not a penny, and Mr. Rogers won’t let me
stay here. Oh! Sara, where shall I go?”

“Don’t fret, dear,’? said the other woman, ten-
derly ; ‘‘don’t fret.’’

There was silence for a_ time,
broke.

“YT suppose, dearie, there wasn’t anything of—
of your mother’s that could help you; I mean,
that you could turn into money?” she asked, hur-
riedly.

The girl shook her head, and then started, and
leaned forward.

“Yes, there was one thing—a locket, with dia-
monds—TI think she wore it always—but I only
saw it once—by chance. I—don’t know whether
it—is on her now. She told me that it was a
Iocket that had belonged to my father, and that
it-would never leave her unless

“Unless what, dearie?’’

“Tt was so strange,’ said the girl, in a low
voice. ‘‘She—she was not quite sober, and so I
did not give much importance to what she said,
but afterward many a time I have remembered
and wondered what she could have meant. She
said, Sara, that there was only one person who
had the right to claim that. locket, and if ever
that person brought it to.me, I should know that
that person had the right to claim me, too, and
that I must never dispute that claim.”

Sara Norton felt cold. The scene of the night
before, with the Russian’s cruel, triumphant face
clearly visionead, rose before her eyes; words
trembled on her lips, but she did not speak them,
and at that moment her husband called her, and
she left the van.

* > * * * * *

The evening performance of the second day
was in full swing, and the girl sat at the open
door of the Nortons’ caravan. She hada tired,
bruised sensation upon her. In the afternoon
people from the town had sought her, and asked
her all sorts of questions. She had given such
information as she could, but she knew so little
Close and narrow as the caravan was, she clung
to it, for after this night she would see it no
more, she must find shelter for herself. Sara
would have kept her, but the manager had given
orders, and his orders must be obeyed.

With the grief—and there was a grief for the
loss of that strange old woman—there was the
bewilderment of a young, immature nature at the
thought of complete separation and independence,
and there was fear, too. Left alone, penniless,
how could she protect herself from all who would
harm her? A dark, evil, handsome face rose
again and again to torture her.

She was frightened—frightened !

She had fallen asleep, when some one knocked
on the door and roused her with a start. She
put her hands to her heart and recoiled. But
a@ woman’s voice spoke, and a woman’s figure
stood on the steps.
“You are Zuleika,
this woman.

The girl murmured she knew not what,
heart was beating so wildly.

“Don’t be afraid,’ said the woman, gently; “I
have come to help you—I have come to take you
away from here.”

Zuleika shrank back in the shadow.

‘“‘No—oh, no!’ she whispered. She glanced
about her. If Sara had only been near!

The woman held out her hand, and spoke very
gently.

“You don’t know me; but I know you, and I
come from those who know you, and have the
right to care for you. See! do you recognize
this? It may convince you that what I say is
true.”’ -
The moon was riding serenely in the sky; its
clear beams fell on the woman’s hand, and re-
vealed a large, oval, gold locket, upon which glit-
tered a cross of splendid diamonds. ’

The girl gave a gasp, and then drew forward.
“Yes, yes—I know it—-I kaow it; she wore it!”
She broke off, and looked intently into the
woman’s face.

‘Who are you?” she asked. “Are you honest
—do you mean really to be kind? Oh! don’t de-
ceive me. I am wvyery, very unhappy; I am
quite alone; I—I need friends.”

The woman bore herself in a stolid fashion.
She spoke with a slightly foreign accent; she
had the air of a peasant, and was quietly garbed
in a long gray cloak and a bonnet, with a veil
such as a nurse would wear.

“T am honest. I come from friends; does not
this locket tell you this?”

The girl pressed her hand to her brow.

“J don’t know,’’ she said, faintly. ‘All is so
strange; but—you look kind, you speak kindly,
and to-morrow I shall’ be left quite alone.’”’ She
paused, and looked into the woman’s face. “I—
will go with you. Yes—I will go,” she said, in a
stifled sort of way, after that long pause.

“That is well,” said the woman. “Have you
a cloak, a hat? Then come; give me your
hand; I will lead you.”

It was swiftly done, and they walked away to-
gether.

The whole of the company were gathered to-
gether in the tent for the last great group
of the spectacular performance. Only the beasts
saw them go, two figures passing swiftly through
the line of animal caravans, and out through
the ragged partition to where, in the roadway
beyond, a cab stood waiting; and, as if to aid
them in their silent departure, the moon was mo-
mentarily. eclipsed behind a passing cloud.

that—but he’ll be back to-day

which Sara

the clairvoyant?” asked

her

CHAPTER IV.
THE PRINCE’S DISCOVERY.

It was a great disappointment to both Sir John
and Nigel Burlington when a message was brought
by Lady Burlington’s maid to say that she felt
too ill to join them at dinner.

She had been lying down when Sir John had
arrived from the city, and he had refrained from
disturbing her, for Enid was not a strong woman,
and the burden of social life, combined with the
lassitude caused by the heat, seemed to her hus-
band to tell upon her very quickly. So he had
stolen away, although it was a great deprivation
to him not to be greeted by her lovely smile, and
to feel her-arms about his neck. But, deep in
conversation with his nephew, for whom he had
a great affection, and with whom he had a great
deal to diseuss—for Sir John had not relin-
quished one scrap of interest in the splendid
business which had given him and his family
such wealth—he tried to forget this disappoint-
ment. There was a bond of sympathy between
the two men; they seemed to have been drawn
eloser since Sir John’s marriage. It must be
confessed that Nigel had never really cared for
his idle, luxurious life as an officer in one of
the smartest cavalry regiments. It might have
been a different matter had he remained a soldier
till this story opens, for the reproach of being
useless and idle had been entirely swept away
by the marvelous bravery and endurance dis-
played by the flower of England’s army in the
field; but the change in his position had come
before that time. It goes without saying that the
young man had volunteered for the front when
war had been declared, but he had been pre-
yented from seeing active service by an accident
that occurred to him in the hunting field, and
which had stretched him on his back for months;
indeed, he was not absolutely recovered from this
et.

. No one but himself knew how mortified and
sad he was at not being able to take his share
with many an old comrade. It had been Enid who
had shown him that there was as much hard
work for him to do at home as out in the field.

“You have to go to school again, remember,”
she said; ‘‘you -have everything to learn. You
have to fight your mother’s prejudices. You will
have to gradually take upon yourself the burden
that Sir John has carried so long. Now, is not
this work? ‘There may not be so much honor
and glory attached to it; but to me, knowing as
I do all that lies in front of you, the future looks
hard enough to satisfy even you.”

It was no wonder that Nigel Burlington loved
this woman whom his uncle had married. There
was scarcely another creature in the world who
seemed to him to possess such supreme sympathy.
His feeling for her had nothing of passion in it.
Her care for him was so gentle, so maternal,
that he gave her the devotion of a son or a
brother.

When he saw how disturbed his uncle was by
the news that Lady Burlington was not very well,
the young man roused himself to sweep away that
anxiety.

“T think she is so wise to rest,’”’ he said; ‘“‘the
heat has been excessive all to-day, and as she is
going out later, a few hours’ quiet in her room
must do her good.’’

For Lady Burlington had also sent down word
to say that she intended to go to the opera
later, and probably to a ball also.

Sir John could not eat his dinner, however,
without a word with her.

She did look strangely pale. He thought she
must be suffering; her manner was nervous; he
almost imagined that he saw tears in her eyes.

“Why not let us have a quiet night again?” he
said; “why go out at all?”

But Lady Burlington closed her eyes with a

 

swearing about it, I can tell you——queer-like his .

shudder.

“Dear one,” she said, “we cannot think of

ourselves always. You know how Nigel loves
the opera, and I have promised to chaperone
little Maude Denham to a ball to-night. Her
mother came in this afternoon and begged me
to look after her. She is obliged to go into the
country.”’

‘“‘Well, why not let Nigel go to the opera, and I
will remain with you?”

Lady Burlington caught her breath in a sharp
way.

“No, dear,’’ she said; “‘I—I won’t hear of it.
Now, go down and have your dinner, and then
drive to the opera. The carriage can be ready
for me here about ten or half-past; I promise you
I will be there to hear the last act.’’

Sir John went away reluctantly, and it would
have given him a sharp pain could he have
known with what real relief, an hour later, Lady
Burlington’s maid brought up the news that Sir
John and Mr. Burlington had driven away.

“Now you can leave me,” said Lady Bur-
lington. “I am sure you would like a little air,
Briscoe; I can do without you to-night. If you
leave everything out, I can dress myself. Oh,
yes, I can,’? Lady Burlington added, almost ir-
ritably; ‘‘or if I cannot, your sewing-maid can
come.”’

The maid lingered.

“Sir John asked me to be sure and look after
you, my lady,’ she said.

Lady Burlington forced a smile to her lips.

“Sir John is too anxious. I can look after
myself, Briscoe. Did you not tell me,” said Lady
Burlington, as if a sudden thought had come
to her, “‘that your mother was coming up from
the country to-day ?’’

‘Yes, my lady,” said the maid, and her face
colored. ‘‘I—I thought I might have gone to see
her after I had dressed your ladyship to-night.”

“Go now,” was Lady Burlington’s command.
“YT assure you I can dress myself. You know I
am a very independent person. “‘Stop!’’ She
held out her hand; there was a five-pound note
in it... “Give this to your mother from me,” she
said.

The maid turned, and there were tears in her
eyes. She was so excited with this gift, and
at the thought of a free evening, that she did
not stop to reflect that her lady seemed very
unlike herself.

The moment she was gone Lady Burlington
roused herself, whipped off her dressing-gown,
and, with trembling fingers, dressed herself in a
plain tweed coat and skirt.

She glanced at the clock as
had barely a couple of hours in which to execute
her errand and be back, change her dress, and
join her husband at the opera; and, moreover,
after all this, there was a risk, and, worse than
that, there was that sickening realization of de-
ceit which was so abhorrent to her.

She loathed herself for this deception,
yet she could not act differently.

While there was life in her body she must
stand forever against the door that held the-secret
of the past. If she had only been brave! If
she had only spoken and told all! las, alas!
it was too late now!

Chance favored her, for the great house was
almost empty as she crept out of her room. She
had reckoned upon this. She knew that most of
the servants would leaye the house as soon as
their master had gone, and those who remained
would be in their own quarter, yet she glanced
about her nervously enough as she passed through
the hall.

It gave her a chilly sensation to feel that she
was creeping away like a thief through that very
entrance which, only an hour or so ago, had
opened so proudly to receive her.

There would be a difficulty, too, in getting
back again, but she had provided herself with a
latchkey from her husband’s dressing-room, and if
she was observed she would make some excuse,
She left the house without observation.

The evening was beautiful. The light lingered.
She wished that it had been darker, but, dressed
as she was, with a thick veil about her face, she
felt that she was secure. For who among her
friends would dream of looking for her in the
street on foot at such an hour? And yet she
should have known that, simply as she was
dressed, there was an air about her which marked
her out as different to the majority of young
women and girls who were passing to and fro;
her carriage, the perfect cut of her clothes, the
proud bearing, and the burnished gold of her hair,
caught the attention of more than one.

She chose to walk. It was like going back to
those old, miserable days of the past, to find
herself alone in the streets, jostled carelessly by
any one who passed her. She felt as a queen
might feel who was deposed!

Her way lay through a fashionable square to
a street leading out of Bond street.

The shops were, of course, all closed,and tha
carriages rolling past swiftly spoke of all that
gayety over which she now reigned as a queen.
Pausing once to cross a street, a closed auto-
mobile passed swiftly by her, silently, mysteri-
ously. She shivered as she saw it go, for she
recognized it. It was Prince Borinsky’s electric
automobile, the most perfectly-appointed of its
kind in London.

It had passed her so quickly that she had not
been sure of its owner being in it. But she
calmed all fear as she recalled that she was prac-
tically disguised. “‘Of all men to suspect, he is
the last!’’ she said to herself.

But Borinsky’s eyes were very sharp. He
gave orders to his driver to go slowly, and
through an aperture at the back, he watched Enid
cross the street, and walk hurriedly in the direc-
tion of the hotel.

His eyes glittered as he followed her move-
ments.. Others might be deceived by that close
veil and that somber garb; he knew her too
well; he had studied her lines too thoroughly.
He could have drawn her picture from memory.
It was certainly John Burlington’s wife, alone
in the street at this strange hour!

To be quite sure, however, he had his vehicle
brought to a standstill, and he leaned forward
and watched her till she disappeared inside the
hotel.

“There is some secret; this shall be my
chance!’ he said to himself then, and once again
his eyes glowed. He gave the order to be driven
to the opera; though he was already sure, he
wanted to make assurance doubly sure. It was
one of the nights in which Lady Burlington had
her box at Covent Garden.

Prince Borinsky sauntered into the big theatre,
stood in the aisle, and looked eagerly toward the
box belonging to the Burlingtons.

Sir John’s fine head was outlined clearly against
the dark background, and Nigel Burlington was
sitting apparently lost in delight with the music.
With a smile on his lips, Borinsky walked
round and knocked at the door of the box. Sir
John received him, as he received all men, with
warmth and courtesy, but there was a_ sudden
sense of aversion on Nigel’s part as he acknowl-
edged the introduction to the Russian.

“Sq that’s Borinsky,”’ the young man said to
himself. ‘Looks a bit of a bounder for all his
wealth and/his title.”

Prince Borinsky was full of regrets about Lady
Burlington’s indisposition, but, after a few mo-
ments, he took his leave.

Sir John said something kind about him, but
Nigel Burlington did not respond.

He had a vague feeling upon him that he had
met the man before, and yet he could not exactly
recall where, but all at once certain indefinite
thoughts that had been floating through his mind
all through the day, shaped themselves into
form, and he saw before him not the splendid
opera house, with its glitter of people and jewels,
but that rough and rude circus tent, with the
girl’s figure standing like a spirit of purity in the
darkness, and then he remembered sharply that
he traced a kind of likeness between Prince Borin-
sky and the man in whose grasp he had _ seen
that girl struggling. Such a thought did not
increase his liking for the prince.

“J should say one was about as much a brute
as the other,” he said to himself, and once again
he reverted to that sense of uneasiness that al-
most amounted to self-reproach, in that he had
not remained to offer some definite assistance to
that girl.

- “Of course,’ he said to himself, as he listened
to one of the most celebrated voices swelling
through the large house. ‘‘Of course, I know I
could not have done very much; still, I might
have done something. Poor little soul! She was
so frightened for me. What a pretty creature!
I wish I could forget her, but she haunts me!”

* * * * * * *

Madame Cerise hurried from the arena to her
tent. She was eager to turn herself into Sara
Norton again, and more eager still to carry some
good news to the girl who was growing dear to
her. She ran up the steps, calling Zuleika hy
name, and had a sudden sense of: disappointment
as she discovered the girl was absent.

“Where can she be?” she asked herself. ‘She
don’t care for going about by herself. Perhaps
she got tired of sitting here. I must hurry and
look for her. I know she’ll be glad when I tell
her what I’ve made the boss do. I expect he'll
find her useful, after all, and if I can give her
a lift any way I will. She'll just stay behimd
till they’ve buried the poor old woman, and then
she can pick us up.”

Sara had barely got out of her stage dress
when there came a sharp knock at the van door.

She opened it a little, and then drew back with
a sudden exclamation, for Ivan Spravka stood

there.
“What do you want?” little
He looked

woman, sharply.
Spravka showed all his fine teeth. i
picturesque and handsome in the moonlight,
“Stow that, Sara, my girl,” he said. “You

she did so; she

and

inquired the

 

know what I want.

she’s got to come with me. She’s had two days
to herself, and now I want her. If she wants
to cry over the old woman, she can cry all she
wants with me.”’

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” re-
torted Sara, “but if it’s Zuleika you want, you’d
better go and find her; she ain’t here.”

As she spoke, she finished fastening her dress,
and threw open the door. “See for yourself,”
she said.

Spravka looked keenly into the narrow place;
there was an ugly scowl on his face, and an ugly
oath escaped his. lips.

“You think you’ve tricked me, I suppose,” he
Bet, PARSER his teeth. ‘Well, look to your-
self!

Sara Norton grew pale.

“As there’s a God above us,” she said, “‘I know
ho more where the girl is at this moment than
you do! [ thought she was here. She has been
with me these last two days, and she was here
when I went into the ring. When I ran back,
five minutes ago, she was gone, and I was just
going to look for her. Now, that’s the solemn
truth, and you’ve no need to threaten and to
curse.”’

The
gesture.

“If she’s anywhere near, I’ll find her. If not,
by ! it will be you or your man who will
answer for this!”

Sara broke into tears.

For her own sake she hoped Zuleika would be
found ; for the girl’s sake she would: have re-
joiced to hear she had escaped. She was both
frightened and disappointed. She had been so
happy, running back a few moments before.

The news that the girl was not to be found
spread like wildfire, and Spravka’s rage was the
common topic. The company all supported Sara.
It was a chance to lash out at a bully, and they
took the chance.

Then a witness appeared on the who
exonerated Sara. This was one drivers,
who stated that as he had been carrying some
water across the road, he had seen two women’s
figures emerge from the circus and get into a cab.
He further stated that he had at once recognized
old Madame Cleopatra’s girl, but as he had imag-
ined that she had been summoned by some one
. authority in the town, he had not spoken to

er.

Ivan Spravka heard all this in sullen silence,
and then, with a terrible look on his face, he
turned to find the manager. An hour later it was
given out that Spravka had left. the troupe. The
manager appeared glad to be rid of him, for,
clever and daring as his performance was, the
man was so savage, so irritable, and there was
so much bad feeling about him, that he was best
away. He had sold his lions, and carried off his
few possessions,

“Gone for good this time, and means to find
that girl!’ said Jim Norton to his wife. ‘Poor
devil! I pity her-when he gets hold of her!”

And Sara’s heart grew cold as she listened, and
she shivered as she thought of the delicate crea-
ture whom she had grown to love so truly, alone
in Spravka’s power.

For what hope.could there be for Zuleika? How
could she escape Sprayka? Sara had quickly
imagined a reason for the girl’s disappearance.
She told herself that the girl must have suddenly
resolved to take her fate in her own hands, and
in Spravka’s absence had determined to run
away. That she should have gone without a
word signified to Sara deep thought for herself.
How easy would it be for such a man to track
and follow the runaway! And what would the
girl’s future be but misery?

Little did Sara Norton imagine the strange
step the girl had taken; and not even in her
wildest imaginations could she have realized the
alarming circumstances that were to surround
Zuleika. If she could have known in what a
cruel, subtle grasp the life of this young creature
was henceforth destined to be held, she would
have rejoiced to have kept the girl in the old
groove, even with the danger of Spravka’s brutal-
ity hanging over her!

TO BE CONTINUED.

lion-tamer turned away with a savage

scene,
of the

AN UTTER MISTAKE,

BY SEPE.

“Madge, the governor says it’s about time we
thought of being married.”’

“Why? asked Madge Wynne, without looking
up from the initials she was penciling on a hand-
kerchief with a view to embroidery.

“Oh, well,’ said Charles Elton,.a little awk-
wardly—“he "says “that he and “the “meter, don't
you know, .were married when they were years
younger than we are!”

‘What of that?’ asked his betrothed, sharply.
“Oh, nothing—of course!’’ replied her fiancée,
lamely. . ‘‘Only he says we ought to be thinking
about settling down.” i
“As if we hadn’t thought of it,’’ remarked the
girl, with scorn.

‘Well, of course, we have thought of it,’’ said
Charlie; “but somehow it doesn’t seem to have
been an ever-present reality with us’’—with a
grin. “The pater grew quite excited, you know,”
added the young man. :

**All I can say,’ said the girl, ‘is that to he
married just as one has joined and paid a big
subscription to the Scarlet Runners would be an
unmitigated nuisance. If you were a cyclist,
Charlie, like everybody else, you would see how
annoying it would be.”

“IT shall never be a cyclist, Madge; the bike
isn’t built that would carry me,’’ replied Charlie,
stretching his six-foot-two. ‘‘Besides, there are
always plenty of fellows to look after you.”
Madge touched up the tail of the ridiculous
letter she had just drawn—a letter which would
have done duty for any in the alphabet—and
smiled a complacent little smile.

The young man standing before the open windew
looked out upon the garden with a somewhat care-
worn expression on his countenance.

“What am I to say to the governor?” he
asked, after a pause, looking toward the in-
dustrious figure at the table.

“Say—about what? Oh, yes—our marriage, I
recollect !’’ answered Madge, carefully outlining a
distorted ‘“‘W’’ bearing a strong family resem-.
blance to “M.” “Oh, say—say—oh, put it off
somehow, Charlie; it would be such a bother just
now !”

“So it would,’ assented the ardent wooer—
“just when I have bought a boat and joined the
Tritons, and you hate the water, you know,
Madge.”
“‘Wmphatically !” with de-
cision.

“But I shall have to tell him something,” said
Charlie, helplessly. ‘‘He has talked it over with
Mrs. Wynne.”’ °
“Put it off,” said Madge, concisely—‘then we
can enjoy ourselves all the summer, and I'll set-
tle with Grannie.”

“Till Christmas?’’ said Charlie, tentatively.

“Good gracious, no!’’ responded the girl. ‘“‘And
lose all the dancing and fun while we are moon-
ing about idiotically somewhere! Here, I’ll tell
you what to say—tell your father that we have
decided to wait until the spring!”

The careworn expression vanished from her
suitor’s face, and he heavedea sigh of relief.

“All right—I’ll tell him before dinner, Shall
I fetch you as usual?’

“Tf you like,’’ replied Madge,
haps you had better.”
“Good-by, then,’’ said Charlie, and he went off,
leaving Madge to finish the ‘‘W’’ in peace.

“Grannie, dear, Charlie has just been talking
about our marriage,’’ said Madge, an hour later,
taking the bull by the horns, if anything so
ferocious as a bull could be mentioned in relation
to the dear old lady, who was of a type fast dis-
appearing, for she possessed soft, silky white
curls and that delicate pink-and-white_ skin that
speaks of fresh aire and cold water. Grannie
looked up rather apprehensively.

“Well, dear, I am sure the young man has been
very patient.”

Madge laughed.

“You see, grannie, you dear, romantic old
thing, neither of us wishes to marry just now; I
have just got my new bicycle’’—there was mild
disapproval on grannie’s face. ‘‘Oh, yes, grannie,
of course you think it horrid, but, if bikes—TI
mean bicycles—had been invented when you were
a girl, I.am sure you would have had one!”

“Never, my dear !’’

“Well, at any rate, grannie, I’ve got a new
machine, and I’ve paid the season’s subscription
to the Scarlet Runners—and a very dear club it
is” said Madge—‘‘only one must keep it select;
and then, you see, Charlie has just bought his
boat and joined the Tritons. Here is the position
—I hate the water and Charlie won’t bike—I
mean’’—hurriedly, for grannie would not tolerate
the faintest approach to slang—‘‘he won’t ride,
and—and—well, there it is!”

“And cannot you give up your bicycle to please
your future husband?” asked grannie, with digni-
fied displeasure.

“Oh, grannie, why, Charlie would think moe
mad! He wouldn’t give up his boat for me, ’m
dead certain of that, and, as for myself, I would

yes’—with energy—‘‘I would rather give up
my engagement than my bike—cycle TT

“My dear !’—with horror from the curls.

“Well, grannie,” said Madge, in an aggrieved
tone, looking a little—a very little—ashamed of
herself, “it was different, you know, in the old
times: women had so much less to think of then
that they could indulge in the gratification of
looking after their homes, you know, and being

responded Madge,

serenely —“‘‘per-

 

Just tell her I’m here, and }

perfect mistresses. In the present day,” went

 

 

 

 
’

atedabcriticeneian te citi tities tena tauioitlntn senate eign tie

betaine

 

 

saeernenemntnnennsane nani tne wenn tnt

» partneyts ia Ashes a

ri

—so exclusive,

-bers

~ body—Nell

 

 

 

 

THE NEW -YORK

 

Vol, 58—No. 2

 

on Madge, growing eloquent, “there are so many |

interesting things that we can do that it seems

quite a pity to tie oneself down to a house and go
to_a lot of bother over servants and ali that !’” She
paused, vaguely conscious that there was a good
deal of disapprobation in the fair old face bowed
over the ivory knitting needles. ;
“My dear,” said the old lady, very gently, “you
speak of house and servants and the duties of a
mistress, but you appear to give elittle thought
to the fact that you are to spend your life in the
society of the one man in the wide world whom
you have chosen for your husband. I can assure
you,” declared the sweet old lady, while the deli-
eate rose tinge deepened in the fair, wrinkled
cheeks, “that my mind was so full in my courting
days of the great blessing Heaven had bestowed

. on me in giving me the love of a good man that |
such trifles as those of which you speak could find |

no entrance.” .

somehow grannie had struck a chord that vibrated
uneasily in the girl’s nature. She rose, shaking
out her skirts.

“That was all very well in those days, gran-
nie,” she said, with an affectionate kiss, “but
times have altered since then.

I am sure that |

 

both Charlie and I are quite contented with our}

lot; but, in my opinion, it is a great mistake to

be too fond of one’s husband—a great mistake !’’ |
—and Madge departed to don the costume of the |

club, the members of which, having assumed the
title of “The Scarlet Runners,”’
feminine logic, chosen to array
brown.

themselves in

little difficulty in getting together a sufficient
number of members to justify themselves in be-
coming a club at all. However, by means
Vigorous canvassing in various directions,
society had been brought
number of twelve.
self. and was

the

looked upon with

had, with true |

| spelling mistakes.
Madge wriggled uncomfortably on her chair;

“Tt would be just the very thing for a young

ladies’ paper,’’ she said to herself, with a little | ton’s sisters, but it was by no means the last.

laugh, as she strung the fanciful incidents to-
gether, “only Dr. Hyde is not a very
figure for a hero of romance.’’ Nevertheless, she
found herself looking forward to his next visit
with a good deal of interest.

and of long duration—certainly longer than would
be expected of a physician who had a big round
of calls before him. Grannie’s dark eyes, which
had lost none of their keenness, saw a good deal,
more of what was going on than did the actors in
the little drama themselves.

Char..e Elton was then camping out on
banks of the Taunton.
thoroughly, and, in obedience to the
of his betrothed, confined himself to occasional
letters, chiefly remarkable for their brevity and
In his fiancée’s view the for-
mer quality more than condoned the numerous
orthographical faults, and, as Madge never men-
tioned his existence, the doctor remained blissfully
unconscious that the daily intercourse to which
he found himself looking forward with so much
eagerness must inevitably come to a possibly bit-
ter end.

And Madge? Well, that young woman, as
studied frum behind the knitting needles, pre-
sented rather a puzzling problem to the observant
grannie, who found her little brusqueries and in-
dependent airs toning down in a manner as un-
expected as it was charming. The bicycle, too—

the
He was enjoying himself

| that hitherto much-belauded means of locomotion
| —-was relegated to a much lower place in its own-
The Searlet Runners were a very exclusive set }

in fact, that they had found some | 3 ;
| things,’

of |
up to the respectable |

It thought a good deal of it- |
intense disdain |

by all the girls in the neighborhood who had not |

been asked to join it, a fact which
lighted® the distinguished dozen.
Among the gatherings of the

greatly

—and these teas were held
house ef one of the members.
other meetings—‘‘committee

They
meetings,’

,

de- |

elub were tea ;
parties—réunions to which they were very partial | -
once a week at the |
alse held
they |

styled them—at which they made a number of |
impracticable rules, only to rescind them on the}

next occasion.
ness, however,
“clauses”
themselves

and taiked
and ‘‘resolutions,”’
airs.

learnedly

the house of a prominent member
friend, a pretty, de

age. The house was
of the elnb di
Girections, most of them electin
on the fawn. The Scarlet unners,
sternly limiting their club te members of their
own sex, showed an agreeable willingness to al-

They made a great show of busi- |
about |
and so on, and gave}

er’s estimation.

“After all, .grannie, bicycles are dangerous
remarked Madge, reflectively, as she
looked ruefully at the sticking plaster star that
still decorated her forehead.

“That is no new sentiment, my dear,” replied
grannie. “I have made the observation at least
a thousand times.”

“Dr. Hyde dislikes them extremely—not, of
course,” continued the speaker, hastily, ‘‘that his
opinion would have any influence upon mine.’’

“Of course not, child—-why should it?’ said
grannie, placidly. And there was a long silence.
But on the next day, as Dr. Hyde, softly sing-
ing to himself ‘‘My love is like the red, red rose”
—a similarity not observable to ordinary eyes—
came slowly across the lawn, a little figure
wrapped in a soft white silk shawl emerged from
a seat under one of the copper beeches, and
Madz who, in a new and extremely becoming
morning gown, had been watching for the doctor’s
coming for the last two hours, saw the two pace

| up and down among the trees and finally sit down
This day in early June they were having tea at |

Madge’s bosom |
cate-locking girl of her own |
a large one, and the mem-|
persed themselves in various |
to have their tea |}
although |

low the degenerate male a place at their weekly |
tea parties, and consequently there was no lack |

of attentive eayaHers on this particular day.

“Do try to get away from all these people,
Madge!’’ said Nellie Forrest.
something.’ Her fair, delicate
and her eyes were unusually
therefore scented a mystery in the air.

‘J.et us go into the rose garden, Nell,”’ she said,
in her usual outspoken way. “Go away,
and I are going to talk
Amd the two disappeared, in spite of threats of
eavesdropping on the part of their deserted
swains. :

Now,’’ said Madge, the two girls being safely
ensconced in
earwiggy arbor, “what are you going to tell me?”’

“At last, at last, Madge, father has given his
consent to our marriage!’ said Nellie,
her hands tragically. “Really, we began to think
he never would, and there were times when I

face was
bright.

under the beeches, where they engaged in what
Was apparently a most absorbing conversation.
When the doctor went away he did not hum the
fragment of song which had marked his coming;
if he had been inclined to music, he would prob-
ably have chosen the “Dead March.” Grannie
looked after him with wet eyes, while Madge,
puzzled over his altered manner and ultimately
went to bed with a headache.

‘The doctor lived in a big, handsome, dull house.
All day long the chimes from a neighboring

|} church tower seemed to vibrate through the rooms.

“T want to tell you |
flushed |
Madge |

It-was the kind of house that loudly called for
life and motion—it needed the rustling of women’s
garments and the patter of children’s feet to make
it cheerful. And so thought the doctor as he

| looked out of the study windows across the lawn
| upon the river, which, sparkling in the sun, was

every- |
secrets !’? |

dotted with the boats of August holiday-makers.

“It is a miserable thing to be a confirmed
bachelor, after all,’’ said Dr. Hyde to himself;
and then ne fell to dreaming of what his home
might have been like if he could have brought

| a certain brown-haired, gray-eyed young woman

a very picturesque and decidedly |

there as mistress. Her decided little speeches and
energetic ways, which amused him so, would have

\ brought light and life into the sleepy old dwell-

elasping |

was positively afraid that Jim would do something |

desperate’’—lowering her voice in an awe-stricken
whisper—‘he really talked of suicide, he was so
miserable.”

Madge glanced through an opening of the holly
hedge which allowed a view of the garden they
had just left. Nelttie’s lover was plainly visible
in the gap—a burly, not to say corpulent, young
fellow with a crop of curly but aggressively red
hair—the very last peérson fitted by nature to
play the role of a lovesick-and despairing wooer.

“Well, it is too bad!” said Madge, half laugh-
ingly, half seriously. ‘‘Now, I suppose, you will
desert the-club and go honeymooning, and all our
fine plans for excursions this summer will come
to nothing!” :

“Oh, what could the club—or fifty clubs—mat-
‘er?’ ocrisa Nels, enthusiastically. ‘And

deed! Just fancy what you would feel if it were
your marriage! To think that we shall see each
other every day of our lives and never be parted
any more!” exclaimed the girl, her bright eyes
filling with happy tears. ‘And after all this
weary time of waiting, Madge!
say something? But there, I am very selfish,
dear. I wish you were to be married at the same
time, and -

“For goodness’ sake,’’ exclaimed Madge,
a very real shiver, ‘don’t wish dything of the
kind!
alloyed satisfaction to the prospect of spending the
rest of my life in the

Charlie, nor, I am equally sure, does he. In fact,

ing where tue servants spoke in whispers and
moved about with a quietness that sometimes
actuaily made him feel nervous; but And the
doctor, in the bitterness of his thoughts, feil to

abusing Charlie Elton, whom he had never seen |

in his life, and went so far as to dub that young

| man a “lout,’’ which he certainly was not.

{
{
}
|

— you-)-what bulky volume in one hand.
ought to be more pleased, Madge—you ought, in-

|

,

“Miss Wynne, sir!’ The dreamer turned
quickly and faced a very nervous and frightened-
looking Madge. .

The dream influence was still strongly upon
him, and he failed to adopt the manner of dis-
tant reserve he had worn as a defensive armor
since grannie’s confidences. He came forward to
meet her with a glad welcome in every line of his
face.

“This is good of you!’’ said he, taking both her
hands in his, regardless of his wise resolution
made one morning*not so very long ago, and re-
gardiess, also, of the fact that she held a some-
“Tt is a long
time since we met,’ he went on. He found the
girl’s silence rather embarrassing, and was bliss-
fully ignorant of the reason. The fact was that
the usually self-contained and collected Madge

! was engaged in a painful struggle to keep back

Why don’t you}

with |

her tears.

“Let me find a nice seat for you,’’ continued the
doctor, becoming suddenly conscious that he was
holding the neat little glove a most unconscion-
ably tong time and dimly perceiving the emotion
in the girl’s face and manner. ‘‘There is a nice

| seat under that old tree’’—opening the large win-

I am sure I do not iook forward with un- |

sole companionship of |

I expect we shall bore each other dreadfully if we |

see too much of each other.’’
Nellie looked wistfully at her friend.
“Are you really in earnest, Madge?’

asked. . “‘Because, if you are, I

she

dow—‘‘and [I will
Are you alone?”

“Yes,” said Madge, gaspingly. “No, thank you,
I do not want tea; I am alone.. I wanted to
bring this book back; it is one that you lent me;

have some tea brought out.

| and—and—I wanted to come by myself, because

| —because,”’

she went on, desperately, ‘“‘you have

|} never been to see me—that is, of course, I mean

shall begin to |

think that you have not yet found the right man, |

after all.’’ °

» “Well, as to that,’ replied Madge, somewhat
snappishly, ‘‘considering the fact
and I have been engaged for the last five years,

| Madge,
| very abrupt manners sometimes.
that Charlie |
|} thought you

and have had ample opportunities of making each |

other’s intimate acquaintance, we are
likely to have:made a wrong choice.

not very |
The truth |

is, Nellie’—speaking with great earnestness— |

“that all this stuff about dying for each other and
being unable to live without constantly seeing

| der;

each other is simply romantic rubbish. Charlie |

goes his way—I go mine.

We shall continue to |

do so when we are married and be no doubt quite |
as contented with our lot as you and Jim will be|

with yours.”

“Perhaps,” said Nellie, softly, “but I am glad |

that neither Jim nor I think of it in that way,
Madge.”

“that all the talk of undying devotion
nonsense. A quiet, reasonable affection is a right
and proper thing, but anything beyond that is an
utter - mistake—yes’’—emphatically—‘‘an utter
and complete mistake!” ‘ :

“Tt is a thousand pities, really,” soliloquized
Madge, an hour or two after, as she sat erect and
graceful on her bicycle, spinning smoothly along

| good time of it that summer.
‘ S | out they had been reduced to a state of existence
‘Well, I repeat,” said Madge, with decision, |
is sheer |

|
|
|
}

|

grannie—for so lone that I was afraid I had done
something to offend you. I know,” continued poor
frightened by his silence, “‘that I have
Grannie is al-
taking me to task about them, but I
understood ” And she broke
down, and there was silence between them.

The doctor turned his face toward her, and
then Charlie Elton was forgotten. The girl who
thought ‘that kind of thing utter nonsense’ was
half crying, half laughing on the doctor’s shoul-
and the doctor, ordinarily so sensible, was
murmuring all kinds of idiotic endearments into
her ears and generally comporting himself like a
loyesick lunatic.

*

ways

* = * * a *

In their own opinion the Tritons had a very
In their camping

which conclusively proved how little man really
needs here below. It was quite touching to see
how the party resigned itself to smoky tea and
muddy coffee when there was no woman upon
whom to throw the blame for these unsatisfactory
beverages. Eee

They enjoyed washing their own plates and
dishes and partook of their badly-cooked food
from off them, serenely oblivious of the fact that

the road to Haverhill—‘‘a thousand pities that’ the utensils had not been cleaned with the skill

Nellie can’t say half a dozen sensible words!
What nonsense she does talk! Why, she regards
Jim as a demigod, and the prospect of ordering
his dinners for probably the next thirty or forty
years she looks upon as a ghmpse of Eden!
Such rubbish! Thank Heaven, I ry

There was a crash, an instant’s wild confusion,
in which road, hedges, and an approaching high
dogeart, were all inextricably jumbled up and
gether; then the white road seemed to rise up and
smite her in the face, and Madge knew nothing
Pe 2 * * % * *

“Grannie, am I very seriously hurt, do you
think?’’ And Madge turned her head stiffly in the
direction of the window, where grannie, somewhat
tearful and flurried, sat watching the departure
of the trap containing the doctor.

‘No, dear,” said the old lady, coming forward,
“though I will not deny that I was terribly
frighténed when I saw you brought into the house
in such a terrible condition.”

“The doctor found me, did he not?” asked
Madge.

“Yes—Dr. Hyde. Most kind and attentive, too,
he has been. I am extremely sorry that we did
not know him before. If you had not happened
to meet him when you were going to Haverhill
on that day, I trembled to think what might have
happened to you.”’

“He is a remarkably ugly man,’ said Madge,
musingly, recalling the rugged face and short,
broad-shouldered figure of her medical attendant.

“He is a remarkably kind man,’’ said grannie,
reprovingly ; and Madge, moving as much as her
bandages would let her, resigned herself to sleep.
But it was not grannie’s intention that Madge
should sink into slumber. ‘‘My dear, don’t you

think that we ought to let Charles Elton know of

your accident??” asked

“Oh, if you like!’’ said her granddaughter, in-
differently. ‘‘But, really, I do not know why he
should be told! There, by all means, tell him,
grannie, if you think it necessary! But mind—
I do not want him to come bothering here!’’ said
the patient, with a sudden access of energy. ‘‘Send
my love to him, and tell him that I am getting

she.

_ on all right”’—and Madge composed herself to

sleep again. -
.But sleep would not come, though the girl lay

- quiet while grannie penned a long letter in her

neat, clear handwriting, using the pretty, formal
irases that she had been taught in her girlhood
were the proper ones to use on such an occasion,
and taking great pains to allay the young man’s
anxiety, for the possession of which she gave him
a great deal more credit than he deserved.
> meanwhile, made sleepless by the pain
- from her various wounds and bruises,
herself by conjuring up an imaginary his-
f the doctor whose acquaintance she had

|

and scrupulous care demanded. The senior
Triton—Terry Turfington, a jolly fellow of some
two and thirty—-was Charlie Elton’s great friend
and. the owner of a fine place up the river—a
venerable mansion of the story-book type, long,
low, and rambling, with gardens and lawns ap-
parently without end.

So it came to pass in the beginning of July of
that eventful year, that the Tritons moored their
| boats among the trees about three milés from
Turfington, and, having pitched their tents on the

| banks of the river, settled down for a season.

One day, Charlie Elton, while washing up the
breakfast things—for which purpose he was at-
tired in a dirty and tattered blazer—saw coming
down the road on the other side of the river
a fairy-like figure, mounted on a brilliantly shin-
ing bicycle. The young man’s curiosity being ex-
cited, he drew as near the riverside as was con-
sistent with careful precautions against discovery,
and watched the proceedings of the newcomer.
The Taunton is not a wide stream at any point,
and in this particular spot is not many yards
across, and so, the unseen Charlie—feeling
ashamed of himself for doing so—had a very good
view of the little lady, who stood by her ma-
chine, looking across at the tents on the opposite
bank. She was exceedingly good to see, being
dressed in white from boots to hat ribbon; a mass
of artistically-coiled golden hair of the fluffy
description framed a Dresden china complexion.
The more Charlie realized her prettiness the
farther that astute youth retreated into the
friendly shadow of the bushes. The entire party
being out of sight, the place appeared deserted,
and the little lady on the shore looked exceed-
ingly perplexed.

“She must be one of the fellows’ sisters,’”’ said
the spy to himself. In this surmise, he was per-
fectly correct, for in another instant Terry Tur-
fington appeared on the bank a few yards lower

spring from?’’ Whereupon Charlie Eltom beat a
hasty retreat to his tent, emerging thence five
minutes later, a perfectly sgotless young man, in
the very newest and most correct thing in blazers.
Terry and the little visitor were seated in the
boat, evidently awaiting the arrival of a third
person, for both were watching the long, tree-
shadowed road that leads to Turfington. ;

In a little while, Charlie, still keeping out of
sight, saw the object of their expectant gaze.

In the far distance appeared a bicycle, which
progressed in a most woefully wobbling and er-
ratie manner, sometimes making a violent swerve
to the right, then an aimless plunge to the left.
Notwithstanding the eccentric course of the ma-
chine, the rider maintained her seat, and, at last
dismounting, stood revealed as a very hot and
much disheveled girl of that interesting age when

 

 

the young person seems principally composed of
hair and stockings. : ae

‘Se eat!

injunctions ;

down, and shouted: ‘‘Hello, Fluffy! Where did you.

4

|

suitable }

\

|

 

| child 1”

al é ; | listened enraptured to the
Dr. Hyde's visits to his patient were numerous |

} that,

That was Charlie’s first sight of Terry Tees

e
passed a delightful time during those hot July
days. He was to be seen floating lazily down the
stream in the soft gloom of the gathering twilight
or lounging in the shadows of the trees, while he
little French songs
which Fluffy Turfington—-whose name, by the way,
was Ada—sang to a mandolin. Maud, the younger
sister, it may be mentioned, read surreptitious
novels or wrote poetry in a ca.efully guarded
notebook. :

Fluffy had only lately returned from her
French school, and had all the eaptivating little
ways that girls seem to learn better in a French
school than in any other place. She was the
very antipodes of Madge, as Charlie Elton found
himself continually reflecting with a certain spice
of regret. In one respect, indeed, she resembled
that young lady—she was an enthusiastic bicy-
clist. One day she declared that it was a pity
Mr. Elton did not ride, whereupon that perjured
youth, whom no persuasion of his lawful proprie-
tress could ever induce to mount a machine, actu-
ally took ‘private lessons in the art, and—to
Charlie’s intense secret vexation—was discovered
by Terry wobbling along a shady road supported
in his-very uncettain seat by the stable boy from
the village inn, who was encouraging him after
the manner of his kind, and panting frightfully
under his endeavors to keep the big fellow from
lurching into the ditch.

Curious to relate, Fluffy abjured her pretty
white ribbons and wore blue—Charlie had ex-
pressed his fondness for that color—and the young
man deserted the society of his fellow Tritons in
a shameful manner, and elected to roam along
the banks of the river in-search of forget-me-nots
— Fluffy had declared that the forget-me-not was
her favorite flower. And at last Terry, who had
all along been safe in the knowledge of Charlie’s
engagement, of which Fluffy was ignorant, took
that young lady to task in the blundering and
brutal manner characteristic of a man when he
has a particularly delicate task to perform.

“TI say, Fluff,” he said, “I don’t think you
ought to go on flirting like this with Elton—you
wouldn’t like it if you were Miss Wynne.”

‘‘And what has Miss Wynne—whoever she may
be—to do with my actions?” inquired his sister.

“Well, of course, you know that they have been
engaged for ages!’’ said Terry.

“T knew nothing at all about it, and I’m sure
{ don’t care a straw for either of them!” replied
Miss Turfington, her cheeks paling. “And I think
of all bears and brutes, brothers are the
worst!” added the girl, vehemently, with wrath-
ful alliteration, while Terry stood aghast. “I wish
I had never come home from school, and -"
And she rushed away, while her brother stood
still, too much amazed at the result of his good
advice to add another word to it.

And poor little Fluffy, with yearnings after a
watery grave or some unknown poison sharp and
swift, went, with red eyes and white face, down to
the water’s edge, and there found Charlie indus-
triously seeking for the bouquet, which he gath-
ered for her morning and evening. He saw the
trembling lips and swollen eyelids, and, having
demanded, with tenderest concern, the why and
wherefore of these evidences of grief, it came
about—-well, things went as they have a trick of
doing in such cases.

So it happened, when the September moon was
flooding the world with her yellow light, that two
conscience-stricken and remorseful people, divided
by about forty miles of country, sat down to write
each to the other a letter than was written with
much self-upbraiding and dire foreboding, and
which was read the next morning by each recipi-
ent with the wildest demonstrations of satisfac-
tion. In both cases the writers offered treasures
of friendship and expressed boundless regret for
seeming faithlessness, while praying to be re-
leased from an engagement which each now knew
had been “AN UTTER MISTAKE.”’

Plain Mrs. St. John.

By BERTHA M. CLAY,

Author of “Lady Dorothy's Romance,” ‘Dora Thorne,”
“The Lost Lady of Haddon,” ‘Thrown on the World,”
“His Wife's Judgment,” etc., etc.

(*PLAIN Mrs, St. JoHN’ was commenced in No, 52,
Back numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers,)

CHAPTER IV.—Continued.

“That’s safe,’ muttered Yates to himself, stroll-
ing slowly back to the house.

He watched the company narrowly as they
trooped into the drawing-room after dinner that
evening. At his own request, he had dined alone
in the library.

Very lovely did Molly look that night, attired
in a costume of purest white; her exquisite neck
and arms bare, she might have been a Grecian
statue, suddenly endowed with life. Laughing
and talking, the gayest of the gay, no one but
the detective noticed the look of anxiety in her
beautiful_eyes, nor observed the deadly pallor
which from time to time crept over ‘her as she
glanced in the direction where he sat.

“Oh!” thought Molly, “will this
evening never end?”

At the farther end of the room, half-shrouded
by the heavy velvet curtains, sat Dora, and by
her side her now constant companion, Rex St.
John. 2

A swift pang shot through Molly’s heart as she
noticed the pair. With a quick movement, she
turned to the piano to hide her tears; she was
instantly besieged with entreaties to sing.

“You must ask Dora,’’ she answered.
not sing to-night.”

“Dora does not need to be
lady, coming forward. She looked very hand-
some, and in her curious bizarre kind of dress
made a striking contrast to Molly. Her deep,
somber eyes were glowing with a sort of unholy
luster, her face paler. than usual, looked almost
as if carved out of ivory, so colorless was it.
Except for the crimson, full-lipped, mocking
mouth, she seemed to stand before them as an
embodied spirit of evil.

“Oh, yes, I will sing,’’ she was saying, in her
low, penetrating voice. ‘‘You have never heard
me? No; when Miss Carew sings, I do not.”

Sitting down at the piano, she ran her white
fingers in a masterly manner over the keys, and
began, in a low, but most wonderfully sweet
yoice, that most passionate of all passionate
love songs:

long, long

“TI can-

urged,’”’ said that

“T arise from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low,
And the stars are shining bright.
I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet
Hath led me—who knows how?
To thy chamber window, sweet.”

Instantly every sound was hushed; the listen-
ers remained spellbound, entranced by the mag-
ical power of that wondrous song; the passion-
ate fervor of the singer seemed to carry them
away with the rest.

A hot wind of passion seemed to pass through
the room; one heart was scorched and seared by
it. Molly knew to whom the song, burning with
love, was addressed, and she felt pained and
disgusted at so public an exhibition of an af-
fection which was, as far as she knew, yet un-
sanctioned by an engagement.

Strangely enough, none of the company present
asked for a repetition of Miss Charteris’ singing.

Bebe Compton’s low-toned remark to her neigh-
bor pretty well summed up the general feeling,
“A beautiful voice, but not exactly drawing-room
style.”’

CHAPTER V.
A DREADFUL MISTAKE.

One! Two! Dora counted the hours as they
boomed out from the clock in the stableyard.

Up and down, up and down the room she paced,
looking with her pale face and glowing eyes like
a beautiful fiend waiting for the destruction of
some human soul. Her lips moved rapidly, but
no sound issued from them; her foot fell so
noiselessly that only the silken draperies drag-
ging over the carpet broke the stillness of the
apartment.

Presently she softly threw open the window,
and leaned out into the silent, frosty night.
Overhead myriads of stars burned and throbbed
in the dark vault of heaven; below, the only
sound was the rushing of the river through its
rocky bed. She leaned far out into the darkness
and let the keen, cold air play on her heated
temples. ‘

Hark! A low knock! In the overstrained
state of her nerves Dora could hardly control her-
self sufficiently to give the signal to enter.

The door creaked on its hinges. Dora stag-
gered back; to her fevered imagination it seemed
as if a disembodied spirit were advancing across
the room toward her. She who feared neither
heaven nor hell, cowered, abashed before the ex-
ceeding purity of the vision which came and stood
before her, stern and righteous anger in her face.

“Molly!” cried Dora, shaking herself free
with a powerful effort from her superstitious
fears. “What on earth is the matter? For
goodness’ sake, do not look at me like that,

{

;

 

“T saw the light under your door,’’ said Molly,
quietly. “‘and, as I wished to speak to you, I
thought this a favorable opportunity.”’

Dora glanced at her quickly; a subtle sense of
something changed in Molly’s tone and manner
bade her prepare for war.

“Will you-not sit down? No? Then I will
also stand for this important communication.”
She spoke mockingly, a slight smile curving her
red lips.

For a few seconds there was silence. Molly
flushed uneasily, and plaited with nervous fingers
the embroidered trimming of her dressing-gown,
while Dora watched her embarrassment with ex-
ultant eyes.

“It is very painful to me,’’ began Molly, hur-
riedly, “to say this, but I must. You must leave
me and this place at once.”’

Dora started as if she had been
quickly recovered herself.

‘““Leave you!’ she echoed.
rew, are you mad?”’

“Not at all,” answered Molly, coldly; “I re-
peat what I say. Do not force me to be more
explicit.”

“Oh, I see.” Dora laughed insolently. “A
little jealousy, I suppose. Let me warn you,
Miss Carew. You will not be one step nearer
Major St. John; if I leave, he leaves also.”’

The blood rushed to Molly’s face at the inso-
lence of her tone and manner.

“You forget yourself, Miss Charteris,’ she said,
coldly, ‘“‘when you speak to me like that. Major
St. John is nothing to me;-but I repeat, you
must leave at once!”

“Major St.John is nothing to you,’ repeated
Dora, slowly, looking her steadily in the face
with her deep, somber eyes, her red lips slowly
curling into a bitter, malignant smile. “You
are right; Major St. John is nothing to you
further than that he despises you. Yes, you, the
all-conquering Molly Carew, are beneath Major
St. John’s contempt !’’

So malicious and evil did she look as she
leaned toward Molly that the girl instinctively
drew herself away, with a half-alarmed move-
ment.

“Ah!” hissed Dora, “you are afraid; you be-
lieve I would think little of killiing—killing with
my own hands—a dozen such as you; nor would

but not now, not now; I am going to start
fresh: I am going to be a good woman for his
sake, for my Rex, for my king!”

Molly shuddered as she looked on her
glowing and transfigured with passionate
This was no acting; this was love such as. almost
frightened Molly to contemplate. She was no
coward, but it crossed her mind. to wonder
when she had clearly shown that she knew the
depth of Dora’s infamy, her life might not te the
penalty.

“It is for him,’ she whispered;
never survive the dishonor.”

stung, but

“My dear Miss Ca-

face,
love.

“he

was wrong just now when [I said Major St. |

er
if,

j
could | 5

John was nothing to me,’”’ she said, quietly. ‘TI

for

is,

once loved him very dearly; and the
of that love, past and gone as it I come to
you to-night and tell you that by morning you
swear to me never to see him again.”

“Take care!’ said Dora, a-dark frown gather-
ing on her brow; “I am not to be played with!”’

“Nor am I,” answered Molly, firmly;
foree me to be explicit.

St. John would care to marry a thief.

Unless: you

leave Lexford Grange before eleven to-morrow, I}

will proclaim to every one who stole the dia-
monds.”’ s

A low cry escaped Dora’s lips, and then she
stood, silent, facing Molly.

It was a strange scen the heavy hangings so
dark and somber making a shadowy background
for the two figures as they stood in the leaping
light of the fire.

No sound broke the
breathing, as she stoc
ing by her sides, her
awful expression of bafiied
been stricken into stone so motionless was she.

Suddenly, the unnatural restraint she was
ting upon herself gave way; with a low
intense suffering, she dropped on her

WS e455)
Molly’s

ness, but Dora’s

7 her hands
livid with the most
o

e
re

ery
knees
feet.

“Spare me!’ she cried, her voice hoarse
broken with agony. ‘“‘I own I took them, but
was desperate. If you have one ray of pity iz
you, spare me! Don’t, I beseech you, send me
away! See, I pray, I beg of you as abjectly
as the veriest beggar in the street. I love him
so utterly, so hopelessly, that it will kill me if
you send me away. You talk of love, you! Bah!
Your love compared to mine is as the summer
breeze to the roaring tempest; your poor, half-
hearted love is nothing—-nothing in comparison
to such love as mine, -You talk of. your wrongs;
I tell you again, they are nothing to mine. Ah,
he has spurned me from him, and I, like a poor,
faithful dog, have crept back again and licked
the. hand that struck me.

“You do not even know what I mean when I
say, ‘I love.’ Not for a moment, not for a few
paltry years, does such love as mine last; it can
outlive time itself, outlive disgrace, contempt,
dishonor! You think I am a bad woman, but I
can be faithful to my love, could never
be, and I count it fidelity to bide by him
good “and evil, to forget his faults, to put
unkindness behind my back, to remember
his goodness, and to love him always—always!
Her voice sank to a low whisper, and the tears
streamed down over her white face. *“‘Have pity
—have. pity!’ she moaned, stretching out im-
ploring hands toward Molly, who stood motion-
less, a fiercer anger stirring her pulses than she
had ever before known. <

“Wor shame!” she said at last, her voice
choked with emotion. “You forget yourself, Miss
Charteris. I will not withdraw my orders; you
must leave here by eleven to-morrow.”

Slowly Dora rose from her beseeching attitude,
and stood before her.

“Ts this your last word?”
ly, her face white to the
and bloodshot.

“It is!’ said Molly, briefly.

“Then,” said Dora, raising one hand to en-
force her words, “‘as surely as you have shown no
mercy, neither will I; as you have answered my
entreaties, so will I answer yours, and the fault
be upon your own head. When you see me again,
you will pray that the day you saw me first had
never dawned! Now, go!”

Shaken and trembling, Molly
room, and dawn was peeping i
before she closed her eyes i

As soon as the door closed upon her
Dora threw herself hopelessly on the floor. Long,
long she lay there, while a. very demon of fury
seemed to possess her; turning her white fingers
in among her long, disheveled tresses, she writhed

in
his
only

she

she demanded, harsh-
lips,

her eyes sunken

her own
window

egained

risitor,

in agony; broken sentences escaped from between |

her clenched teeth; she was one demented.
Spent at length by the violence of her
she lay for a while perfectly motionless,
moaning a little from time te time.

Presently she rose, and tottered to a chair
In the last two hours a terrible change had
passed over her; she looked. old and haggard,
with sunken eyes and hollow cheeks, and as she
raised her arm and pushed back the overhanging
mass of hair, it was patched and streaked with
gray. ‘

The dull shac of the winter morning were
slowly disappearing before the first faint ap-
proaches of daylight, as a tall, dark-robed figure
sped noiselessly down a back staircase and.out
into the chill, damp air. It was Dora. Once
she turned, and looked back at the house she
had forever quitted, and then passed rapidly on,
and was lost to sight among the trees.

There was tremendous excitement next morn-
ing at the discovery of Miss Charteris’ disap-
pearance.

Every one eyed Major St. John with great
curiosity to see how he took her departure; but
Rex St. John’s features might have been cast
in bronze, so utterly expressionless were they.

“No,” he answered, caimly, in answer to in-
quiries, “I did not know Miss Charteris intended
to leave, but I have no doubt that she had a good
reason for it.” His eyes fell on Molly as he
said these words, and the girl involuntarily
winced under the stern inquiry expressed in his
look. :

Two hours later he also was gone; and Molly,
kneeling in her room, sobbing as if her heart
would break, remembered Dora’s words, “If I go,
he goes, too.” ‘It all of no use!’’ Molly
eried, despairingly; ‘I tried to save him, but
he would not be saved!’’

as
2
only

es
i
ri

is

CHAPTER YI.
MYSTERY.

was ablaze with lights, for
to-night Sir John and Lady Stantial entertain
the notabilities of the county at their annual
fancy dress ball. Carriage after carriage roil
up the stately avenue in quick succession, and,
depositing their burdens, roll away again.

A motley crowd streams through the great hall
and suite of magnificent apartments. Harlequins
jostle queens, kings and columbines waltz gayly
together; Hamlet, forgetting his melancholy,
flirts outrageously with Miss Muffin; and Ophelia
foots it merrily in company with an Indian
brave. Everywhere are banks of flowers and
moss, while colored lights transform the rooms
into fairyland.

‘Where is Molly?” asks Lady Stantial; as the
evening wears away, and she misses the Queen
of Hearts. 4

Bebe Compton, who is passing, attired as a
saucy little middy, hears the inquiry. ‘‘Oh, she
ran upstairs a few moments ago; her shoes hurt

Lexford Grange

her,’”’ she answers.

sake |
| dition,
3 orni ; sation
must put many miles between you and him, and |

labored | }
hang- |

age. She might have |

put- | {

and |
I |

passion, |

 

; | quietly, “by a very bad, des
“vou | j
I do not suppose Major |

\ pared to hear my proposal styled ‘an insult,’

| Lady

 

 

“Can Molly be ill?” half
hour later.
“T have
promised
quiries.”’
Sir John,
conversation
“What is
to another?

her aunt, an

asks

not seen
partners

and her

her for a long time,
I with in-

im
are besieging me

she addresses, breaks off in a
to answer and calm his wife’s fears.
it that is being whisperd from one
Why does Bebe’s saucy face grow
pale? And what can Felicie have to say to her
that she comes into the ballroom?”

‘John, there is something wrong!” gasps Lady
Stantial. Bebe has taken her hand, and is trying
to lead her away.

From one to another of the guests the whisper
spreads:

“Miss Carew

“Tt is impossible
in his rage.

. But, impossible or not, it is a
gone, as completely and mysteriously
had been spirited away.

Cloaks -and shawls are hastily sought, car-
riages ordered, and in less than an hour the ball-
room is emptied of its occupants, each and all
of whom have gone homeward, with wonder and
commiseration in their hearts.

The members of the household
at each other in stupefied
relates for the hundredth
Miss Carew’s room empty
open; a ladder against the
exit had been effected, and a white satin shoe
on the path proves that she had descended the
ladder presumably in very great haste.

“T cannot make it out,’’ cries Crumbs, tramp-
ing up and down, in his agitation. ‘‘I could have
sworn she did not enough to run off with
him or any one. I convineed there is foul
play at the bottom, and that Miss Charteri
had something to do with it. MQPIl find her
my name what it and prove to
body that has been the yictim of

Major St. John, who was
quietly left the room at this juncture.

Lady and Sir John Stantial were in the study
together; Lady Stantial, completely overcome by
the shock, seemed unable to do anything but
moan and wring her hands. Sir John was
quickly filling in telegraph forms and consulting
“Bradshaw.”

A tap at
they both
up in the vain
come of the fugitive.

It was Major St. John en
fully closed the door behind him.

‘T must ask you to pardon this

seeing the surprised e3

‘but I feel it my J
ittle information which
I your niece’s disappeara
as little delay and few
he proceeded to é
Dora and himself on
and how they had seen
with a man, a total
Major St. John—but whom
Captain Houghton.

“You have been utterly dupe

whom

is

gone !”’
9?

says Sir John,

are left
amazement.
time how she f
and: her ndow
wali shows how

wi

care

am

isn’t
isi t

she

1S,

present at the ball,

the door aroused them. ‘Come in!”
eried, simultaneously, looking eagerly
rain hope that some news might have

who entere care-

ible,
between

eon

him—

to be

ver-

John,
Cap-
tain Houghton does not ex
dressed my poor niece on
was a total stranger, who
whereabouts of Lexford Grangs
we have no idea. As [I have
as well tell you that Miss
house as she did by my niece’s orders, as she
knew her to be concerned in the jewel robbery,
and wished to spare her the disgrace arrest.”

“Fool that I am!” aned Major
“to be duped by such woman.
now; I have been in ;
blind fool! 1}

inquired the
e, what’ purpose
gone so far, I may
Cha left. this

of

oe St

g
a
tool

perhaps
t a subject,
tricked in that,
to find her, for

enter upon
I had been
world ,
once !”’
once

me
loved you
searcely
your lette
outrage!’’ gasped Major St.
‘ arn the reason why
should be thus stigmatized.”’
“Avowa ” cried Lady Stantial.
“Certainly,” replied Major St. John, with dig-
nity. ‘I offered her an honest heart, and a true
and deep devotion. I received no answer, and
therefore concluded my attentions were unwel-
come to Miss Carew; but I was hardly pre-
as
your niece was good enough to inform me it was.
i offered her a good name, a fair income, and
my deepest, warmest affection; and to have them
flung in my face was an insult.”
“There has been
Stantial.
hurriedly
my niece.
insult !”’
It ran

( >

avowal of

>

some dreadful mistake!” cried
“This’’—crossing the room, and
producing a letter—‘‘is what reached

I think you must own it savors of
@

thus:

“T am exceedingly sorry that you have so mis-
construed my manner as to imagine that I re-
gard you in any light but that of an old friend.
My affections are already engaged in another
quarter; and even were that not the case, I
am compelled to tell you that [ could never
regard you as other than a friend. Your be-
havior on the terrace last evening obliges me to
take this step, as I feel that until I have made
my meaning clear, we are both in a false posi-
tion. I am leaving England shortly for the
seat of war, and possibly we may never meet
again, so I ask you to think of me as kindly as
you can, and believe that if I have injured -you

has been unwittingly.

“Yours truly,

“But this not my
ejaculated Major St. John.
see it now; that woman changed ;
remember now, I put no name at. the beginning
ot either. This’’—opening his pocketbook and
giving Lady Stantial a paper—‘‘is a copy of ‘the
letter I sent your niece.’’

“Oh, my poor Moily exclai
tial, as she ran her eyes over the letter, which
contained a frank and manly avowal of love,
eouched in terms of unmistakable earnestness;
“you have both been most cruelly tricked This
letter Miss Charteris produced addressed to
her.”

“Oh, Heaven!’ shouted
to his feet; “‘was t
What an utterly blind
it may be too late!”
hands and groaned aloud.

Acecustomed to action, he did not long allow
his grief thus to overpower him, but, crushing
it back, entreated Sir John, who had been a silent
witness of the scene, to allow him to do
thing toward clearing up this terrible mystery

Sir John gladly~ consented, and together
proceeded to thoroughly search the 4 ins
adjoining bedroom occupied by the miss
in hopes of finding some clew, however sma

As Major St. John stood in t pretty,
hung room, his heart swelled wi
saw strewn around on every side tok
Molly’s toilet; a tiny pair of pea
broidered slippers lay tossed upon the rug;
silken and arrangement was thrown
the. bed; on the table were the bracelets
but a few hours. back, pressed her warm,
arms; the igs which had decked her pretty
fingers, all spoke with much eloquence of the
departed mistress, gone hopelessly, utterly—but
where? Only the echo through the empty rooms
answers, where?

“It is no use waiting said Sir John;
with a deep sigh. ‘‘We can only wait. I’ve tele-
graphed to Scotland Yard, and to all the stations
along the line. Now we had all better get off
to bed, and try and get little sleep if we
can.

The major. assented, thinking, as he sadly bade
him good-night, how old and worn he looked,
how those few hours’ anxiety had broken and
aged him.

By the morning detectives from Scotland
were on the spot, but failed to ‘find even
smallest clew from which to work.

Felicie was confronted by her amiable
Mr. Yates, and forced to confess
her story, of Molly’s night excursion, also
had wrung from her by cross-questions that she
had given Miss Charteris the key of the back
staircase, which that lady had not returned.

Nothing more could be elicited; no one
seen any conveyance which was specially notice-
able. But, then, that was not very remarkable,
as so many had been at the Grange that night.

The detectives had to own themselves thor-
oughly baffled, and departed again without having
accomplished anything.

Silence and solitude settled down on the old
house. As month after month passed away,
bringing no news of Molly, a profound sadness
seemed to wrap Lady Stantial round and close
her in. No one ventured to mention the miss
ing girl’s name in her hearing, as it agitated and
distressed her too much. Sir John grew daily
grayer and more worn. The once hospitable man-
sion was almost empty and quite desolate; the
corridors which’ had resounded with laughing
voices, now only echoed to the footfall of the
housemaid as she dusted the unused rooms. A
profoynd melancholy had fallen on the place,
and the two old people waited and in

a R.
letter to
“Good

is

med

med Lady Stan-

as
as

the
ever
1 I’ve
hid

major,

such

his

springing
treachery?
and now
face in his

here
n,

Tr
rie

here
rich
across
which,
white

lace

here,”’

ere,

a

had

Alig

watched
the midst of the silence, through the tender, joy-
ous spring, on to the gorgeous, glowing summer,
for that which never came.

Major St. John and poor Molly’s
mirer, Crumbs, had lavished time

devoted ad-
and money

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

seated.

 

 

 

Vole 58—No. 2

on the search, but all to no purpose. Molly had
vanished as completely as if the grave had
claimed her. eS ;

_. The days lengthened into weeks, and the weeks
‘into months, and no trace of her had been dis-
covered. From time to time Rex St. John, or
Crumbs, paid a flying visit to the almost de-
serted Grange, only to come away grieved and

more silent, more aged.
; reese could just know. where she is before I
‘S die Lady Stantial once said to Major St. John.
“T am dying slowly, I know; I feel as “if. my
existence were rapidly approaching a termina-
tion. If God would but show me that she is safe
_ and well, I could die content.”
But it was not to be; as the long spring even-
ings lengthened into summer, it became evident
-all that she was slipping away from them,
and as the long, hot days drew on, and all the
jand lay basking in the sun, even Sir
John saw that the end was very near. It came
just before the dawn; those watching her af-
firmed that the listening look, which had seemed
of late graven on her features, passed quite
way, and a great joy lighted up her face; so she
ed peacefully out into the great unknown
d, and the poor old man was left alone and
= itary, with his terrible. sorrow, in the great
ouse.

. The subject of Miss Carew’s extraordinary dis-

appearance had died a natural death among the
_ surrounding families; some ill-natured people in-
sisted that it had been a preconcerted affair,
and that was the reason for the Stantials’ silence.
time, something else arose to occupy the pub-
mind, and Molly dropped completely out of
the minds of the circle in which she had once
_ feigned as queen. :
es TO BE CONTINUED.

_ DRIVEN FROM COVER

| ~ Nick Carter Among the Moonshiners.

ae

 

By NICHOLAS CARTER,

_ Author of “The Chain of Evidence,’ “Behind a Mask,”

: “Man Against Man,” “The Old Detective’s Pupiti,”
“Bun to Earth,” etc., etc.

(“DRIVEN FROM COVER” was commenced in No. 45.
_ Back numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers.f

CHAPTER XIX.—Continued.

“Now, Mr. Jones, one more question, if you
please,’ said Nick. ‘“‘De you know where the
still is located which this gang was operating
four months ago?”

Jones quickly shook his head.

“J don’t, sir,’ he replied. ‘“‘I reckon only the

gang themselves know that.’’ x

“Yet they have been in this business for
some time.”

“So it’s said, sir.’ 5

“TI have learned that Colonel Cooley is the
-Inan who has effected the sale of their wet goods
in various cities,’ added Nick. “That business

| dis what occasioned his periodical disappearance

from these parts.”

. “*Pears to me, Mr. Carter, you know it all.”

“That is a part of my business, Mr. Jones,”

said Nick, smiling.

“Well, sir,” and Jones laughed,
_you’re well up in your business.”

_ Nick bowed his appreciation of the intended
compliment. , ‘ ;

Then he added, grimly: 7

“But my present business, Mr. Jones, is to
elean out this gang of law-breakers and rid
the community of them for good and all.”

“Well, sir, I hope you will.’

“Yet I understand that many of the people
about here are rather favorably disposed toward
the scoundrels.”

_“Y reckon that’s right,

“I reckon

sir,” Jones admitted.

- “You see, sir, many of ’em drink more or less,

and the gang buy their good will with liquor.”

“I infer that it would not be an easy matter
to raise a reliable posse of men here, for the
purpose of running down and raiding this gang.’
_ Jones dismally shook his head.

“I don’t reckon you would get much support,
eit,’" “he repiteds ss eS ; ; oe
_ “Well,” said Nick, rising, “I anticipated that
lack of enthusiasm among your citizens, and
have overcome the difficulty.”
i “HOW 80; sir?” .

: “By bringing my own force of
the blunt rejoinder.
“Detectives !’’ exclaimed Jones.
“State revenue agents, with whom I have
- been in communication,” said Nick.

“Whew! You do mean business!”

“You'll find that I do.”
“Where, are the agents, sir?”

“Camped back in the woods a piece,” replied
Nick. “I was not sure just when I should be
ready to begin this man hunt. It depended upon
=< but that doesn’t matter much. Now, sir, how
goon can you be ready to place yourself at my
command?”

“How soon d’ye want me?’ demanded Jones,

“Can you be ready in thirty minutes?”

“Mounted a

“T reckon I can; sir,”’ said Jones, promptly.

“Very good,” said Nick. ‘I will return at the
end of that time with four of my officers. I
shall want you to conduct me to Sandy Magee’s
place by the shortest route.”

t “Tll do it, sir,” said Jones. “But I reckon
it’ll be all my head is worth, unless you corner

men,” was

\

the whole gang.” — :
nA eee. what I shall do, Mr. Jones,

and you shall be well repaid for your services,”

said Nick, with convincing assurance. viens

“JT reckon that’s good enough for me, Mr.
Carter,” cried Jones, quickly.

Nick turned and vaulted into his saddle.

“Make ready at once, then,” he cried. “I will
return in thirty minutes.”

Then he wheeled his horse and galloped rapidly
be of the stable yard and up the dusty turn-
pike. 4 a :
_ Jones hastened into the house, eager to make
his preparations. _—

: No sooner had they disappeared than a third
‘party made his appearance.

_ he laziness of a Southern darky is proverbial.

This third party issued from the top of the

iow, near which Nick Carter had been

ted. ee
t was Jerry Cain’s ace of spades, the negro

With his white eyes looking like saucers in
his black face, he slid down from the mow, on
which he had been stealing a sleep, and with his
pare black legs moving as never before, he left

the stable by a back door and headed across lots
“for the tavern. -
- It was then close upon nine o’clock in the

P'. ‘morning.

; _ CHAPTER Xx.
Lee A CLOSE CALL.

the former have to contend, and the vigilance
and desperate determination of the latter, par-
- ticularly in the Kentucky belt, are too generally
known to need more than passing comment.

And the method adopted by Nick Carter to
overcome the difficulties, and effect the arrest
of the men guilty of crime in and about New
York, is so apparent that it speaks for itself.

~~ Yet the part played by brave Chick Carter
was far more bold and desperate than a super-

- ficial consideration of it would suggest.

- Colonel Tom Cooley. was perfectly right that
morning when,
- periences with the young hero, he roundly de-
UME rOGs) ne a

“He’s a sandy cuss! Too sandy a_cuss to be
cooling away his time round New York City!
 That’s why I brought him down here, boys,
| along with me. It’ll be a cold and raw day when
we can’t find use for a man like Tim Driscoll.

_ Sandy isn’t the word for the way he did Nick |

Carter on that cellar floor.” aa eles eid
-“T’d a darned sight sooner he’d left Nick Car-
er to me,” growled . Bill Floyd, through his

bushy beard. “I haven’t forgot that he was in
with: the cursed ferret who did my Ned._

swore I’d have “Nick Carter’s head, and I’d a

- had it, too, if ‘t’adn’t been for your sandy cuss
and his doings.”
“He might have had yours, instead, Bill,” said

- @ooley. “I’m not sorry, for one, that he’s well

out of the way.” Ps

-“T am, and thet’s where we differ!’ Floyd
tly answered.

his occurred while the gang at Sandy Magee’s |

| Na breakfast, and it then was nearly ten
Pelpek. f) itt ki .
The place was a small wooden dwelling, well
among the foothills. © , Ps
The clearing round about it comprised less
than an acre, with the dark green woods on all

nd only. a rough, narrow road leading

| ment we possibly

commenting upon his own ex- |

lof the gang being already in the _ saddle,

 

3

—THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

nomen

the shelf near by lay half a dozen large revol-
vers. :

Magee’s wife, a slovenly young woman, was
hovering between the kitchen and the partly-
cleared table.

In the doorway of a barn outside, Jim Dowell
was engaged in grooming a horse, while on the
green sward, a few feet away, both idly smoking,
lay Chick Carter and Sandy Magee.

Chick had arrived there with Cooley two days
before, and they had been joined the following
morning by Dowell and Bill Floyd, accompanied
by both Madge and Kate Kelly, neither of whom
had yet risen from bed. ,

This reunion of the gang had been celebrated

/with late hours and much drinking the previ-

ous night, which in a measure explains their
tardiness that morning.

Owing to the inadequate accommodations in
the house, Chick had volunteered to sleep in the
stable both nights, to which willing assent had
been given.

_Chick, however, had had an object in this.

It had enabled him secretly to make a night
tramp to the settlement, to drop the letter
which Nick that morhing had received, and which
had disclosed to the great detective the precise
situation. ere :

All of this, with its possible contingencies, had
been prearranged in New York, and really formed
the basis of their great plan. :

“T say, Jim!” abruptly exclaimed Magee, tak-
ing his pipe from his mouth and turning on his
elbow to look at Dowell, ‘‘d’ye know how long
the kunnel means to hang around here?” ;

Jim Dowell’s haggard face betrayed signs of
mental anxiety and dissipation. He had not

found it agreeable to feel that Nick Carter was |

on his track. He threw the brush and curry-
comb from his hands, and growled in response:

“Hang round where, Sandy?” -

“Round my place?”

“T don’t know.” :

“T’'ll have to stock up with grub, if it’s to b
very leng.”

“On the contrary, Sandy, it will be very
short,” said Colonel Cooley, at that moment
emerging from the back door of the house... “We
shall leave here this morning.”

Chick had pricked up his ears.

Here was a contingency by which he feared
that Nick might be misled.

Save in so far as their plans went, he had
no means of. knowing where Nick was then
located, nor how soon he would receive the letter
sent in care of Jones.

Chick knew by experience, however, that Nick
was never behind time.

Magee rose to his feet. :
“Which way are we going, kunnel?” he asked.
“T’m not meaning to drive you out, you know.”

“I’m well aware of that, Sandy,” Cooley agree-
ably rejoined. ‘“‘But here,in your place we are
too near the settlement. All I am waiting for
is the women. Let ’em sleep a bit longer, and
then we’ll rouse them up and be off.”

“Which way, Tom?’ asked Dowell, approach-

ing. :

“We will go over to Floyd’s and stop there
for dinner, Jim, and then strike for the moun-
tains.”

“Not the still?”

“Yes; that is just where I mean,” nodded
Cooley: ‘The locality offers the best. conceal-
( can secure, and concealment
is what we need for a time, at least.” :

“That’s true encugh.”’

“We can fix up tolerable accommodations in
the cave, and lie low there for a month without
the slightest danger of discovery. If we have
the women with us, and let Floyd and Magee
remain at their own homes, the devil himself will
not be able to locate us.”

“JT recken you are right, Tom.”

“And I can keep an open ear for anything
wrong, kunnel, and give you warning,’ sug-
gested Magee. F

“That is precisely what I want you to do.”

“Oh, IH do it right enough.”

“When that New York affair has blown over,
and I think it is safe to do so, we will resume
operations at the still, and begin the old busi-
ness,’’ added Cooley. ‘“‘Just now we are well
supplied with money, so there’s really no need
of rushing things. A safe concealment for Jim
and myself must be our first consideration.”

““Do I go along with you, colonel?’ asked
Chick, with a very decided interest in the con-
templated move.

“That rests with you, Driscoll,’
“You may, if you wish.”

a guess I will then» I’ve got no other place in
mind.” ¥ <

“That settles it, then. I will find employment
for you when the time comes for our getting
down to work; and if you serve us well, we
will do as well by you. In case you decide——”

“Oh, I say!” Magee sharply interrupted, throw-
ing down his pipe. ‘‘Who the devil is this?”

Chick leaped to his feet, and the eyes of
every man were turned in the direction Magee
Was gazing.

Through the trees intervening between them
and the road, a horseman was approaching at the
top of his speed. i

“By Heaven! It’s Jerry Cain!” cried Dowell,
in a moment.

“You're right, Jim!”
“There’s something in the

Chick felt to make sure
volvers were on his person.

He could only conjecture
curred.

If his letter had miscarried, or if Jones had
proved treacherous, the young detective could
very plainly see his probable finish.

“Within half a minute Jerry Cain had arrived
on the spot, and his mission was quickly dis-
closed.

“Howdy, boys!’ he cried, without dismount-
ing, and with a familiarity that declared his
friendliness for the gang. ‘‘You must up stakes,
and get out!”

“What's wrong?’’ demanded Cooley, instantly.

‘“‘There’s a posse of revenue men on your track,
and they’ve learned that you are here.”

“Revenue officers!’’ thundered Cooley, scarcely
able to credit the information.

And Nick Car-

said Cooley.

exclaimed Magee.
wind.”
that both of his re-

“That’s what I said, colonel!
ter’s at the head of ’em!”

“Nick Carter!” S

“You heard me, colonel.’

“But how do you know this?”

“Got it from my young nigger, Sam,” Cain
hurriedly explained, to the consternation and ex-
citement of his hearers. ‘“‘Sam heard Carter and
Jake Jones talking the thing over in Jake’s stable
less’n an hour ago.” ;

“What did he hear?’ démanded Cooley, with a
countenance as dark as night. :

“Nigh as the brainless little nigger could tell
it,’ replied Jerry, ‘“‘Carter had a letter from
some state revenue ferret, and five of ’em are
coming here, with Jones to guide ‘em. Carter
knows you’re here, colonel, and that Jim’s here,
too. Sam heard him say -so, and the hull posse
are now on their way here. I came at once to
warn you, but I reckon I’m not more’n a
quarter of an hour ahead of ’em.” :

“By ——! this beats me!”
fiercely. “Has Carter fooled us again,
tracked us here from New York?’

“Tm 4 if it don’t look so, if this covey
tells the truth,” growled Chick, to whom the

eried Cooley,
and

question had been addressed.

-“You’ll find I’m telling it,” said Jerry, bluntly.
“In that case,’ cried Dowell, ‘we have no
time for fooling about here.’’

The apprehension with which he spoke, and

| which was plainly reflected in his pale features,

--'The constant warfare between revenue agents
and illicit distillers, the difficulties with which

roused Colonel Cooley to the need of making an
immediate move. —
- Wheeling quickly about, he

One of you take

manded:

“Saddle our horses, boys!
those ridden by the women, and conceal them in
the woods yonder. Hide their trappings under
the hay in the barn.”

-*Don’t the women go with us?”
Dowell. a 5

“By no means!

sharply com-

demanded

They must remain here, and
keep out of sight. You, Jerry, ride back through
the woods, and return to your inn. These ferrets
must not see you, nor suspect we have had
warning.”’ ;

“T’ll look out for that, colonel.”

“Have you told us all you know about them?”

“All I could get from Sam, for sure.”

“Be off, then, at once!’’

Jerry Cain needed no second bidding. He in-
stantly wheeled his horse, and dashed away to-
ward the woods, in a direction opposite from
the road. ;

Although considerable excitement now prevailed
every man of the gang knew what to do, and did
it with a will. sen

At the end of five minutes their hurried prep-
arations f6r departure had been made. rs

The five horses had been harnessed, and those
yidden by Madge and Kate had been concealed in
the woods. .

Cooley had informed the women of the situa-
tion, and instructed them to remain concealed
in the woods. :

Cooley had informed the women of the situa-

| tion, and instructed them to remain concealed,

should inquiries be made at the house.
As he came down to mount his horse, the rest

he

called Magee’s wife to the door.
“Tjisten to me, Jane!’ he commanded, sharply.

' “Yes, sir,” cried the woman, promptly.

“And make sure that you follow my instruc-
tions to the very letter.” 2 ?
-“T’1l do what you tell me, colonel.’’ eh cs
. you to throw these revenue officers off

,’ said Cooley, with impressive vehe-
I here, and question you,

what might have oc- | ti

re
—

you must betray no suspicion nor alarm. Re-
ceive them precisely as if you knew nothing of
them or their mission.”

“F reckon I’m equal to doing that, colonel,”
said the woman, with a sharp flash of her low-
ering eyes. ‘What must I tell ’em, sir, if they
ask questions?” .

“State that we left here with our women more
than an hour ago, and that we may be found
at Floyd’s place.”

Res BE es ;

“Give them directions as to which roads they
must follow in order to overtake us, or to find
Floyd’s house. This will impress them with your
veracity.”

“T can do all of that, colonel.”

“See, then, that you do,’ cried Cooley, vault-
ing into his saddle. ‘And mind that you do no
more nor less.”

“But what. the devil’s the sense in going to my
place,” cried Floyd, ‘‘and in leaving word for ‘em
how to follow us?’’ ,

“There would be no sense in that, Bill,”
sharply answered Cooley, turning in his saddle.
“But I have no idea of going to your place. We
will send Carter and these cursed revenue dogs
oif in that direction. As for us, we'll head
straight for our concealment in the mountains.”

er Heaven !”’ cried Dowell, in accents of re-
lief, “‘that’s not so bad !”’

“There we can lie low for a time,’ added
Cooley, fiercely. ‘“‘Or, should they run us down,
we can ambush them in one of the ravines, and
drop them to the last man.”

“Shore, we can!’ growled Magee.

“Get away, then!’ cried Dowell,
“We are losing time.’’ é

Cooley snatched up the reins from the neck
of his horse, and commanded, sharply:

“Have your guns ready, boys, in case of need!
And now, follow me!”

He gave his horse the word, and the entire
party—five in number—dashed out of the clear-
ing, and took the road by which Jerry Cain had
lately arrived.

“Isn’t there a chance o’ running into the
cussed dogs by taking this road?’ demanded
Floyd, as they went. ‘‘Jerry said they weren't
fur behind him.’’

“We'll not follow this very far,’’ shouted
Cooley. -“‘We’ll take the road that crosses this a
half-mile below here. If we can make that before
they sight us, they’ll go straight on to Magee’s,
and that’ll give us a long start on ’em.”

“That’s the stuff!’’ yelled Dowell, who seemed
very anxious to escape a fight. ‘Let out, Tom!
Let the cursed horses go their limit!’

With their rifies in hand, the gang now rode
on at a rapid gallop along the shadowy way. |

The woodland road was sufficiently wide for
only two to ride abreast.

Dowell crowded his horse up next to that of his
half-brother, and these two led the way.

Floyd, who was maintaining a conversation

with Sandy Magee, rode side by side with him.
: This arrangement naturally forced Chick to
ride alone, and behind the entire gang, not one of
whom had yet thought of him with the slightest
suspicion.

This order of
letter.

It placed him out of observation by the gang,
unless they turned in their saddles, of which
there was no frequent liability.

The young detective, who had overheard all
that had been said, had already Shaped his plan
of action.

He now knew that Nick must be comparatively
near, and well supported by men whose resolu-
tion and daring needed no comment.

To show Nick the way was now of paramount
importance, and Chick had decided that this
would prove dead easy. 3

Having no rifle to carry, he was free to use
-his hands, and he was comparatively safe from
observation. ‘

“With a stub of lead pencil he hurriedly
wrote upon a leaf of the notebook which he in-
variably carried:

“Nick—-The gang has been warned by Jerry
Cain of your pursuit. It is now half-past ten.
The tang comprises Cooley, Dowell, Floyd and
Magee. No suspicion of me. They are heading
for the mountains. Follow this crossroad in
that. direction. Then track us by the leaves
from my notebook. I will drop a crumpled leaf
now and then, and two at any point where we
diverge from the straight road. Crowd us hard
and force a fight. I have both of my revolvers,
and if you can approach us I will seize a chance
apd attempt to hold up the whole gang until
you come up. : CHICK,”’

This having quickly yet cautiously been writ-
ten, Chick tore out the leaf and tied it securely
in one corner of his handkerchief.

It hardly had been accomplished when the
erossroad came into view. ‘

Chick held the folded handkerchief in his left
hand and drove with his right.

“This way, boys!’’ shouted Cooley.

And he and Jim Dowell swung into the cross-
road to the right. ;

In the near distance the dark mountain range
loomed up in plain view.

In another moment Floyd and Magee had
turned to the right. ;

As Chick made the turning, he quickly dropped
behind him the handkerchief and missive,
squarely in the middle of the road from which
they were diverging.

_One backward glance assured him of its loca-

impatiently.

riding suited Chick to the very

on. :

The linen had spread in falling, and it now lay
like a white square on the dark ground, and
could not possibly escape the observation of any
person Wee along: the road.

That Nick Carter would imstantly suspect its
significance, Chick had not the shadow of a
doubt.

The gang in advance had observed nothing of
this.

They were riding at breakneck speed up the
crossroad, eager to turn the curve at the end
of the half-mile stretch that lay before them.

Chick rode a hundred yards, then tore out a
second leaf and dropped it in the middle of the

road. ;

Then he felt and made sure that his revolvers
were safe in each hip pocket.

Just eight minutes later, at the head of a
posse of mounted men, each of whom. was armed
to the teeth, Nick Carter arrived at the cross-

road.

“Halt!” he suddenly cried, and reined down
his horse. :

“What’s up?’ cried Jones, who was riding
beside him. ;

“Nothing is up!” said Nick, dryly.
thing is down.”

He had sprung down from his horse, and was
hastening to pick up something from the road.

“Pshaw !”? cried Jones, impatiently... “It’s only
a dirty handkerchief. Some fool has dropped it
from his pocket.”’

“Do you think so?” said Nick, returning. ‘If
‘Iam not mistaken, Mr. Jones, we shall find that
it was a very wise fool who dropped this bit
of linen.” ‘

Nick had already felt the crumpled leaf of
paper tied in one corner.

To remove it, and spread it open and read it,
was the work of but a few moments,

His resolute countenance lighted as if a ray
of sunlight had suddenly fallen-athwart it,

“Just as I imagined!” he cried, proudly.

“What is it?” came a chorus of voices from
his mounted companions.

“A line from the hand of one of the brightest
and bravest men in this business!’ cried Nick.
“Listen, and I will read it.’

He vaulted into his saddle, then turned and
lefaced the men crowding behind him.

With a voice that rang with pride and ap-
proval, he then read the missive Chick had writ-

“But some-

ten.

A shout of genuine admiration echoed the last
word. :

“Phree cheers for Chick!” yelled one of. the
more enthusiastic of Nick’s hearers.

But the detective instantly checked this

demonstration. :

“Silence!” he sharply commanded. ‘Cheers
might be overheard! Say, rather, six good men
for Chick, and as many ready rifles!”

“Ay, ay, Nick! That’s right!’

“Tt is now twenty minutes of eleven,’’ cried
Nick, quickly consulting his watch. ‘‘This note
was written but ten minutes ago.”

“The gang cannot be far in advance of us.”

“And they will think we have gone on to
Magee’s,” -cried Nick. “They will slow down
when they think themselves well out of sight.
Ready, every man of you! We should overtake
them within a half-hour. Follow me!”

CHAPTER’ XXI.
ONE AGAINST FOUR.

The climax of the situation which had evolved
from the daring shrewdness of Nick and Chick
Carter did not oceur until nearly noon.

The pursuit had then been maintained for
thrice the interval anticipated by Nick,

Nor had the fact that they were now closely
pressed escaped the observation of Colonel Cooley
and his gang of law-breakers.

Nearly an hour before, from the summit of
one of the hills they had climbed, they had dis-
covered the posse of revenue officers in the val-
ley they had just crossed.

Their flight had been resumed with augmented
speed, and twice Colonel Cooley had taken diver-
gent roads in the hope of throwing his pursuers
Ol his; track oe

But at each Chick had craftily odropped the
telltale tokens which showed Nick the way.

__ Just before noon the gang again breathed

 

their reeking and jaded horses on the summit of ©

 

a hill, and within tw&ity yards of the mouth of
a narrow defile leading toward a sharper rise of
the rough country.

The eyes of every man were instantly turned
back over the read by which they had made the
ascent. ;

Suppressed bitterness and hatred burned in
every glance, and desperation marked the flushed
and heated features of one and all.

For those of Chick craftily reflected sentiments
corresponding with those of his companions.

There still was a growth of scrubby trees ob-
securing the landscape.

Above the tops of these, however, plainly vis-
ible in the midday sun, there appeared a quar-
ter of a mile away a moving cloud of dust, clearly
indicating the nearness of Nick Carter and his
followers.

“Good Heaven!” roared Cooley, with a sudden
outburst of passion, “is that devil endowed with
clairvoyance? In the name of all that’s now
awful, how has he managed to follow our every
turning?”

“Tt beats me, kunnel!’’ cried Magee, nervously
fingering his rifle. ‘I can’t make it out!”

“Nor I!’ cried Floyd.

“Mebbe the hoofs of our hosses have given us
away,’’ suggested Chick. ‘‘Could not that be the
case ?’’

“Tt might be.’ ;

“By Heaven !’’ put in Dowell, with a -half-sup-
pressed groan of anxiety, “this horse of mine
will not stand this racket much -longer. I say
we'd bettér take to the woods afoot.”

Cooley glanced at Dowell’s jaded animal, and
the truth of his half-brother’s words were not to
be denied.

The leader’s bearded features grew black with
a sudden resolve.
‘““Woods be d
to end this flight,

fight !”’

“That’s what I
Magee, eagerly.

**? he eried, fiercely. “If we’re
it can be ended only with a

say, kunnel!’ cried Sandy

“T say, meet ’em here, and

give and take to a finish!”

“What do you say, Floyd?”

“Them’s my sentiments, too, colonel!”

Colonel Cooley did not ask concerning Chick’s
sentiments.

Flashing another glance in the direction of the
rising dust, he cried, sternly:

“We'll meet *em, boys! They’re less’n a thou-
sand yards behind us now, and the time is down
to minutes.”’

“Give us yer orders, kunnel

“Shoot at sight, and shoot to kill!’
Cooley, with bitter vehemence.

“No need o’ saying that, kunnel.’’

“Dismount, every man, and lead your horse
well out of the road,’ cried Cooley, suiting his
action to the word.

“They will think we’ve gone over the hill, and
will follow,’ he hurriedly went on. “We can
drop back of the brush yonder, and give ‘em a
volley before they discover us.”

“Haste, then! haste!’ pleaded Dowell, who was
white to his lips. ‘‘For God’s sake, don’t let me
be taken !’’

“Not alive, Jim, my word for it!” answered
Cooley, with a loyalty to his kin that was really
commendable. “Now make for the brush, boys,
and stand ready to drop ’em! Pick your man
in order, and make sure to empty his saddle.”

“Leave Nick Carter to me!’’ growled Floyd,
fiercely, as they ran. ‘I'll drop no other!”

“We shall be yours, Bill,” cried Cooley. “Now,
into the brush, and line up! Bill at the head,
and then pick your man in order! Don’t waste
a ball! And shoot to kill! Round with you!
They’re almost here!”

So, indeed, they were.

Already the furious clatter of the detectives’
horses over the rocky road could be distinctly
heard. :

Chick Carter, in ostensibly complying with the
desperate move adopted by the moonshiners, had
governed himself to the need of the moment.

The exploit he was about to venture was one
from which ninety-nine men in one hundred
would have shrunk with utter dismay.

It was far less than an even chance that he
would come out of it alive.

But Chick was not a man to lie down and sleep
in the arms of ordinary danger. :

That his face was as stern and hard as flint
or that he held a drawn revolver in either hand,
gave the gang no intimation of his actual design.

As they ran to the line of low brush, which
was less than twenty yards from the road, Chick
fell a few feet behind them.

In a moment, in response to Cooley’s com-
mand, they turned simultaneously and almost
in a straight line, their idea being to pick their
mark at the revenue officers in corresponding
order.

But when they turned, giving them a shock
which for the’ moment held them powerless, they

w?

cried

beneld the rigid figure of Chick Carter confront= |} ~~“

ing them, a revolver in each hand, and with his
blazing eyes seeming to cover every man.

At the same time his clear young voice rang
like a trumpet in their ears, as well as in the

ears of the mounted posse then sweeping up the |

“1}] kill the first |
gan! Fy

road behind him.

“Not a move!’ he shouted.
man who moves a finger or lifts his
never miss my aim! One move and I'll fire!”

It was a situation to have quelled even the
boldest.

Though every man in that row of moonshiners |
held a rifle, each realized that to raise it but a/|

hair meant instant death.

They stood nonplussed for an
that instant sealed their. fate.

Chick’s cries had reached Nick’s ears.

With a shout he wheeeld his horse from the
road, and dashed toward the brush.
“Follow!” he yelled to_ his
“Cover those men with your guns!”
The posse swept after him like demons hot for

blood.

The weapon of every man was at his shoulder.

Before Chick himself fairly realized it, Nick
had leaped from his horse and was standing be-
side his associate, and four weapons instead of
two covered the unnerved and dismayed men in
the brush.

“Drop those rifies!’”’ thundéred Nick.
them, or I’ll order these officers to fire!
them!”

With a frightful curse Colonel Tom Cooley
dropped his rifle into the bushes at his feet.
This was quite enough for the others,
every weapon fell to the ground.

“Now throw up your hands!”
commanded.

Four pairs of hands went into the air.

“Dismount, men! Disarm these fellows!”

In less than a minute it was done, and the
gang was in irons. 5

Then Nick demanded sternly:

“Which man of you is Bill Floyd?”

“JT am, curse you!” cried Floyd, with an awful
frown. ‘‘Why do you ask?”

“Merely to say to you that I have come to get
your head, as invited!” said Nick, in tones by no
means to be described.

Then. he wheeled round to Chick and seized
him by the hand. 3

“Good boy! Good boy!” he simply cried, but
the voice of the man spoke volumes.

Cooley now seemed to take in the full extent
of the strategy by which he had been duped and
run down.

With a terrible oath, he glared at the man
he. had known as Tim Driscoll, and hoarsely de-
manded:

“Who the devil are you, any way?”

Chick laughed grimly.

“TI am Nick Carter’s assistant, and proud to
say it, Colonel Cooley,” he replied. “If you
look back along the road, you will see the scraps
of paper by which he has tracked you.”

Cooley made no answer.

But the look he bestowed upon Chick conveyed
a threat of dire vengeance at some early day.

But it was never executed. Cooley, Floyd and
Magee, all three, cooled off in a very marked
degree during five years in prison, and when
they emerged they were not inclined to resume
hostilities.

For the crime he had committed in New York,
Jim Dowell received a life sentence, and he may
to-day be seen behind prison bars.

The two women who had been the associates
of these men fled to the West immediately after
hearing of the capture, and the authorities made
no attempt to locate and apprehend them.

So far as Nick Carter knows, they are in hiding
to this very day. F

Floyd and Magee were tried and convicted in
Kentucky, and there served their time.

Cooley, Dowell and the Calvins, however, came
before the New York court, by which they
promptly received their just deserts.

It had taken Nick Carter nearly six months
before the curtain fell on the last act of the stir-
ring case, but Nick truly felt that the time had
been well expended.

instant, and

companions.

“Drop
Drop

and

Nick sternly

THE END. ®

——— +

THE ART OF BEING AGREEABLE.

The true art of being agreeable is to appear
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and something friendly in her behavior it con-
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| THE PATH OF LOVE.

BY L. A. PAUL,

My feet ,have wandered into pleasant places,
Where love looks out from every blade of
ze grass;
- And God’s sweet flowers lift up their happy faces,
- To give me smiles of welcome as I pass.
The grand old trees stretch forth their arms
» to bless’ me, “ewe aera
And singing birds thrill to me from above;
b | While summer’s softest winds pause to caress me
‘— And bring me tender messages of love.

Even the low weeds’ so scorned and slighted—
~ Return the sympathy I give to them!
_I praise their homely worth—and uninvited
They bow their heads to kiss my garment’s
S SJpeniy :

Folded within the heart of each glad morning
Are beauties old, and yet forever new;

I drink the glorious splendor of their dawning
As thirsty blossoms drink the wayside dew.

I may not revel in the costly splendor
} — That they possess who kneel at Mammon’s
Se shrine,
- But the most perfect gifts God’s love can tender,
-  _Home, health, and untold happiness are mine.

_ |. My woman’s heart can ask no greater blessing,

| No sweeter lot than that~vouchsafed to me;
| life’s hours in loving and caressing
little child that prattles at my knee.

I revel in the wealth of beauty =
_ That greets my eyes around, below, above;
And think how pleasant is the path of duty,
When all the way lies through the path of

IOVS : = :

An Aggravating Misunderstanding.
ae ay a. ak Beorr. 3 Eee

I am one of those rare creatures who are given
to early rising—I mean abnormally early rising—
and especially does this trait in my character
assert itself when I am rusticating. I love to be
up and out while there is still a crispness in the
gir and flower and leaf are bespangled with dew.
Many the strange sights and sensations that
I hav en and experienced in these early morn-
ing hours, when all creation wakes with hum
and song.

One little incident into which this “getting up
with the lark” led me is worth the telling.

- Tt happened over a year ago, when I was
spending my summer vacation near Millton, on
the Maine coast. I was sojourning at a rural
boarding house, in which were several boarders.

One morning, while out for an early stroll, I

made my way to a cliff overlooking the sea.
_ While contemplating the beautiful marine view,
 @ church clock at some distance rang out the
hour of six. It was at least half a mile away,
and I wondered that I could hear it so distinctly.

The next instant I started violently and faced
round, for a woman’s shrill, penetrating voice,
coming from a @istance, had called: .

“Murder! Murder! Murder! Oh, he is going
to kill me!” ee. See

Out to sea and over the hills inland the white

| mists lay, but straight before me I could see the

grassy undulations that stretched to the right of

‘my position, at a considerable space close to the

beach.

—
——

| mischievous: gleam

 

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

there could be no doubt fat this girl was not
only alive, but quite uninjured.
‘There was but one course open to me—that of
abject apology. So when I could speak rationally
began : ss
“IT am afraid my actiéns are most incompre-
hensible to you, Miss—-er—er .’ She looked
down at her shoes in studied silence, and so I
went on. ‘“‘But—er—well, the fact is, I thought
I heard you call out re i
“Call out!” ;
“Yes—indeed, I’m sure you did—at least, that
some one did! ‘Murder! Murder! Murder!’
some one called, and—it was awfully stupid of
woe, of course, but I thought I saw that fellow

strike you.”

She laughed merrily.

“Tt certainly was rather stupid. Why, that
was Jack—my Jack!’—-and again she looked
down and flushed demurely. ‘I don’t think he is
likely to strike me—at any rate, not just yet,
you know !’’—this almost sotto voce. ‘But I won-
der what you could have heard and seen! And
you ran all the way from the cliff to rescue me
from a horrible death? It was very, very kind
of you, and I thank you very much—dquite as
os as—as.if you had not been mistaken, you

now.”

“Oh, it is too generous of you to say that! It
is so good of you to forgive me for—er—for this
intrusion upon you.’’

“Not at all! It really was very kind of you,
you know—perhaps more than kind!’’—and she
raised her eyes, and for a moment our glances
met.

I started. What was it lurking in those blue
depths? Was it amusement? Was it mischief?

But the next moment the girl lowered her
eyelids, and the flush in her cheeks deepened a
little. - She did not turn away, but stood there
poking the grass with her shoes. She made a
most charming picture. I moved toward her.

“I say—look here—now really did you call?”

She turned away, not at-~all haughtily, I
thought, but so very evidently to intimate my
dismissal that, after once more apologizing, I

bowed and left her. ;

But all the way home and for several days

| afterward I thought and thought and thought of

this strange little incident, and especially of the
in those biue eyes, and I
wondered if I had been tricked. Had she been

jlying there laughing under that Tam-o’-shanter

at my mad race?

Well, the explanation of it all came a few
days later.
_ §$taying in the same boarding-house as myself
was a pretty little girl with whom I had become
rather chummy—a fellow is apt to do so at these

-times—and one day when I was with her she re-
ceived a ietter from a friend of hers who was
staying in Millton,

saying that she was taking
part in some amateur theatricals to be given in
a public hall for the benefit of some local charity.
She enclosed some tickets.

My companion, of course, explained it all to
me, and—naturally enough, perhaps—we went.

It was a rather poor show. The amateurs had
rade a singular selection, for the piece was an
old-fashioned lurid melodrama crammed with
incident. But my companion’s friend, a ‘Miss
Nora Payton,” according to the programme, had
a big part, and was really good in it.

Gradually the plot was worked up, and in due
time the third act was reached. Here we were
evidently in for something supremely sensational,
for the programme gave the scene as:

~ “Night—on a lonely moor.” :

Up went the curtain and on came my com-
panion’s friend, flurried and frightened looking.
A few ruminative sentences—not remarkable for
their originality—-were uttered, and then a man
entered, young and heroic-looking.

Voluble talking followed, at first passionately
loving, then passionately angry. And then came
this astonishing incident.

The girl threw up her hands tragically. The
‘man stepped back and put his hand into the
breast of his coat.

“Murder! Murder! Murder?” the girl shrieked.
“Oh, he is going to kill me!’’—and her shrill
voice echoed back from the end of the room.

The man raised his hand above his head and
plunged a stiletto into the breast of the girl, who
dropped instantly at his feet.

It was exactly the scene that I had witnessed
from Hunton’s Cliff.

Thank goodness, my companion found this
part of the play so avsorbing that she had no
attention to give me, for I flushed to the very
roots of my hair! [I put on my glasses and
looked searechingly at the man, who was now
slinking off the stage. Was it ‘Jack?’ It was
‘impossible to say. The girl now lying dead on
the stage I could not see.

- What happened after this point in the play I
haven’t the least idea, and never had. The only

 

} For a moment, as I looked eagerly, frantically

around, I could see no living thing except a soli-

tary gull wheeling here and there and some in-
distinct figures on a country road, but then my
eyes fell on a sight that made my heart leap with
fear and horror. ;

On one of the grassy knolls—the most distant

but one, it seemed—were a man and a woman.
They were both dressed in dark clothes and were
far from distinct; but I could see that one was a
woman, the other a man.

They were now about a yard apart, and the
woman’s arms were raised in tragic gesture.
Then I saw the man slowly raise his right hand,
Something that he held in it glittered in the
slanting sun rays. The Next instant he had step-
ped up to the woman and—how distinctly I seem
to have seen it all!—-had plunged what was evi-
dently a weapon into her breast.

She sank instantly to the ground. © Great
heayens! Had she been murdered before my eyes?
_ Until now I had stood horror-stricken, footed
to the spot; but as the woman dropped and the
man also sank down—probably gloating over his

_ victim—I suddenly awoke to the full conscious-
ness of what I had seen.
I could hardly see the two now—they only
made a blur in the rounded curve of the knoll;
but, without the least thought of what I intended
to do, I tore madly down the slope. ,
On I raced, gasping from my efforts to main-

~ tain my speed up the short but stiff ascents, for |

I am not an athlete, and a rapid run over such
ground was no light matter to me. ;

I had but one idea in my mind—to reach the
spot where the-woman lay, perhaps already dead,
et dying for want of aid. é
_ and-yet I remember distinctly thinking once
how madly the birds were singing, how peaceful

it all seemed, and what a blot vile man made |.

upon the sweetness and serenity. a
_ But I raced on, and each time I breasted a
knoll I strained my eyes eagerly for a sight of

the two people in the terrible tragedy. And each

time I looked the woman lay as she had lain be-
fore, and the man still remained beside her.
! Now he had risen and was evidently
about to leave the scene. I was getting near;
perhaps he had observed me! — eas
The brute! How I should like to have my

- fingers at his throat, choking the life out of him!
What effrontery—what audacity! With an air

of exaggerated courtesy he had lifted his cap

and was bowing to the prostrate form. hen,

Ee, e ran quickly across the

oe Eee rae Millton.

a aba  cuvliek: ny almost exhausted powers for

i . But I must go to the woman first;

_ perhap

aN

3 and Tc
a sim

to her... ca F ;

was only the last dip between us now,

see her plainly. She was dressed in

+ ie gown—hblue serge or something

of that kind—and a cap or Tam-o’-shanter coy-
ered her face. She was lying quite still and rigid,

and the thought of what I might find under that

Bye: filled me with horror.

Re I banished the squeamish idea.

Utterly spent, disheveled, hatless, perspiring
and panting violently, I sank down by the side
of the prostrate form. I was about to remove
the cap from the face when I received a shock
which rendered me for the moment powerless.

_ The cap was thrown aside, the girl sat upright,
and I found myself looking, not into a face pallid
in death, but into the bright, cheery face of a

maiden with rosy cheeks and laughing blue eyes!

“Oh, what is it?’ she exclaimed.

_ And there'I knelt, or crouched, or lay—Heaven
only knows what !—still panting like a primitive

_ steam-engine, and unable to utter a word.

Could ever any man have looked a greater

“What is it?” she said, again. ‘Are you ill?

nat is the matter?”
“T—-]—_I—_ I” It was no use—lI had

nothing to say. I couldn’t tell her I had seen
murdered—she was so obtrusively alive!
Have you been running? Are you ill?” She

ASRS risen now and stood looking down at me;

- she was a mere girl. “I think I had better go to
the nearest farmhouse and get some water for
you—would that do you Pes :

_ But at this my scattered wits came back with
rush—as they often do—and I motioned to her

to stop. — ;

“No—please don’t!” I gasped.  ‘“If—you—
li—excuse me two—minutes—I shall be—all
ight. I—am-—wind-d-ded !” Me
be for two minutes there we were, she stand-
I. lying on the grass, gradually recovering
my breathless condition. b

- was absolutely dumfounded. TI didn’t

y what to think. There was not a shadow of

d heard a woman cry out ‘‘Mur-
stinct! _And I had seen

Why, confound tall}

hand! There could be
look up 1

‘meadows |

t that he should escape maddened “lovely.”

might be still alive, and I could be

 

things I remember are the uproarious applause
that greeted the conclusion, a pair. of laughing,
mischievous eyes looking at me over the foot-
lights, and my companion saying:

“IT must stay and speak to Nora and con-
gratulate her! Isn’t she clever?”

_I-was not loath to remain, and so in due course

IT was introduced to ‘‘Miss Payton’ and her fiancé

—‘‘Mr. Lugard—the horrid murderer!”

Miss Payton gave no sign of recognition, and
the two girls chatted on.
owtie did that murder scene just splendidly,

ora!”

“Did I? Well, so we ought to have done, for
Jack and I have rehearsed it no end. Do you
know, we actually got up at five—five!—one
morning when Jack had to go to Machias on
business, and rehearsed it in a lonely spot near
Hunton’s Cliff. And I shrieked ‘Murder!’ so
loudly that I really believe I could have been
heard at Millton.” gst

Once again the mischievous gleam was in the
blue eyes as they met mine.

I laughed—rather uneasily.
laughed also. |

“You have a penetrating voice, Miss Payton,”
I said. “I hope you will allow me to congratu-
fate you on your performance. I think I can
honestly say that I have never before met a lady
in private life with such marked histrionic
ability !”

Jack Lugard

FOR BETTER, FOR WORSE.

About three years ago I was one day sauntering
in Washington Square, New York, and stepped in
at Signor Fernando’s studio. I found the young
artist busily at work upon-the likeness of a lady,
and after our first cordial greeting, he returned
to it, saying that he expected her that afternoon
to examine his progress.

I soon became interested in the growing face,
not because of its beauty—for it was the face of

a woman at least forty years old—but because of

its singular repose, and the tender look of chas-
tened suffering in the large, expressive eyes.
“Fernando,” I said, “that is a very attractive

| face.”

“You should see the daughter of this woman.

Ah! she is an angel!”

-“T am speaking of the mother. I think her very

“She has the loveliness of completed suffering ;
her face is a history, not a calendar; that is the
secret of her attractiveness. Her daughter is a
living poem and picture.”

“You speak like a lover.’

“T am one.”

“Does she know it?’’

“Who suall tell her? I might as well love
some bright particular star, and think to wed it,
as love and hope to wed Bertha Anstiss. She is
Bernard Cope’s heiress.’’

“And you are——”

“T am a poor artist.
sand dollars a year.’

He dropped his head, and went on with his
work in nervous haste. Presently I heard a
rustle of silk, a sweet, low voice, and a little,
rippling, musical laugh. Immediately Fernando
was at the door, and bowing low, as he held it

I make about three thou-

}open for the two ladies who entered.

The elder was clothed in black silk, unrelieved

by anything excepting a little foam of rich white
lace and the dull glitter of some jet oranments.
The younger had on a dress in which pale violets
and cream color were exquisitely blended. The
face of t elder was the face of one who had
suffered and conquered; the face of the younger
was the face of a sinless, sorrowless child, who
unsuspectingly had grown intg womanhood. The
mother’s hair was nearly white; the daughter’s,
a pale golden frame to a little oval picture of ex-
quisite beauty.

_I did not wonder, when I: saw the girl, that
the artist should feel utterly hopeless in regard
to his love. But before their visit was over I
had changed my opinion. I noticed Bertha’s shy
glances at the handsome artist, and her bright
responsive blushes whenever Fernando’s luminous
eyes met hers. I saw, in fact, that she was just
as much in love as he was, and that all the two

hearts wanted was one flash of intelligence to in-

troduce them to each other.

I became a visitor at. Mrs. Anstiss’ house, but,

beyond a certain mental and artistic sympathy, |
our acquaintance did not ripen, quickly. The

 

winter passed, and the summer sent one hither

and another thither. I went to the seaside, Mrs.
Anstiss and Bertha to the Catskills, aad being in
town for a day in July, I found that Fernando
also had gone away. Under such circumstances
many pleasant friendships are dropped and never
renewed again; and I was almost in this danger
with regard to the artist and the Anstisses. The
fact was, I was going to be married, and my mind
was full of my own love affairs, with the at-
tendant cares of upholstery and millinery.

But one day, as I stood in front of a store, a
gentle hand touched me, and a pleasant voice
said: “Good-morning,” as frankly and quietly as
if we had met but yésterday. It was Mrs.
Anstiss; yes, it was she, though I might have
passed her twenty times and not known her, so
greatly was she changed.

She looked as if ten years had dropped away
from her life, and had that indescribable air
about her toilet which says, “I dress for love,
and not for fashion.”

Another astonishment awaited me. A hand-
some man, who might be fifty years of age,
ceased giving some directions to the coachman,
and approached us. Mrs. Anstiss introduced him
to me as “My husband,” and then, with a cordial
invitation to call on them, she passed down the
steps and into the waiting carriage.

This was not the end of my perplexity, for i
was certain I had seen Mr. Anstiss before; and
his grave, sad face haunted me so persistently
and worryingly that I threw aside my own in-
terests a while, and tried to remember when and
where I had seen those pathetic eyes and that tall,
noble figure. Somehow my mind would connect
them with Fernando’s studio; ‘but that, I soon
concluded, was sheer nonsense. With the excep-
tion of a few young artists and a few ragged,
wretched-looking models, I had never met any
men there.

I permitted two or three days to elapse, and

then went to call upon Mrs. Anstiss. It was a
cold, wet day, but Bertha and Fernando were
making sunshine for themselves in the. usual sit-
ting-parlor, and I was asked by a servant to see
Mrs. Anstiss in her own room.
_1 followed her to a large upper chamber,
luxuriously furnished, and she met me at the
door. There was a little table spread before the
fire, and, as I do not pretend to be insensible to
the comforts of good teas and cold chicken, I re-
garded the table with approbation.

I do not know what influence of the dreary
day, or of the cosey room, or of her own mind
ruled her, but she was evidently inclined for con-
fidential conversation, and from one topic to an-
other we fell gradually into those predisposing
to personal matters.

As the twilight deepened we became more and
more earnest and solemn, and I was scarcely as-
tonished when, after some preliminary remarks,
she told me her story. She said:

“T was born in Philadelphia, of an old and rich
family. I do not remember my mother, and my
father also died when I was very young, leaving:
me and my fortune to the care of my half-
brother, Bernard Cope. He was much older than
I, and, with loving and honest integrity, he strove
to be both father and brother to me.

“We loved each other dearly, and nothing
darkened our affection, until I met and loved
Arthur Anstiss. You see how handsome he is
even yet; judge, then, what he was twenty-four
years ago. That he was extravagant did not
alarm me. [ thought myself able to control and
reform all the weak points in his character; and
the fact that I was largely right in this supposi-
tion has been one of the bitterest drops in my cup
of punishment and regret.

“For his nature was so noble, so responsive
to good, so eager for some purer and higher pleas-
ures than those which were deluding and de-
stroying him, that I am quite sure, had I trusted
to Heaven and to my own highest instincts, I
feat have raised him even to his own high

eal. x

“But we were no sooner married than trouble
began. ‘It was my fault. I was exacting to a
ridiculous degree, jealous of every moment of
Arthur’s time, and would not suffer him to be
absent from my side an hour in peace. Love’ soon
frets at such authoritative restraint; quarrels
and reconciliations followed each other quickly:
and then, alas! quarrels, when we made no apolo-
gies, and which were not followed by reconcilia-
tions. 5c :

“The home which we had furnished with such
promises of a happy and peaceful life became a
scene of constant bickering, recriminations, tears
and complaints. All this began in such little
things that I am ashamed to recall them. He was
five minutes later than his promise; he met an
old friend and went to dine with him; he forgot
some duty, or gave it pettishly when pettishly re-
minded of the omission; he neglected some slight
commission—such trifles as these were the be-
ginning of years of. misery.”

“Such little things!” I exclaimed.

“Ah, my dear! but they opened a wide door
for far worse ones. By and by he began to stay
hours behind his promise—to stay all night—to
stay away with some old friend for days and
weeks, without any ceremony but the bare intima-
tion. of his intentions. I rebelled, protested,
scolded. He shrugged his shoulders, smiled—I
remembered, .when ‘too late, how wearily and
sadly—and left me alone with my quarrelsome,
unhappy temper. “

“Children came to us, a beautiful boy and a
pretty, bright girl. Arthur was very fond and
proud of them, and strove hard to atone for his
neglect. But instead of accepting the present
love, I was continually poisoning the happiest
hours by regret for the ones he had wasted, and
by doubts of his future intentions. Believe me,
dear, you may wear away a love as strong as
death by such a course. So, Arthur, meeting no
loving response, fell gradually back into his old
habits and associations.

“Then money began to fail; we became em-
barrassed, and my brother refused us all further
help. When this took place there was a bitter
quarrel. My inheritance had been left in Ber-
nard’s absolute direction and disposal, and Arthur
began to doubt whether I had received my just
rights. He talked of an investigation by the law.
I went farther; I passed my brother on the street,
and forbade the little children, who loved him so
dearly, to speak to him.

“At the end of five years we had to give up
housekeeping. In another year we found it im-
possible any longer to preserve even the outward
semblance of our former state, and Arthur said
we must go to New York.

“Even then, had I been patient and helpful,
I might have saved myself and my husband, but,
though I promised much and he promised much, I
could not subdue myself to conquer his weakness
by the humility of love.

“We left Philadelphia clandestinely; no friend
wished us ‘God-speed,’ and my brother was still
unreconciled. The little money we had was soon
spent; we passed from one to another, always
sinking a little lower, until at length a day came
when we had neither money nor home—unless I
could have made a home in the miserable empty
oe which was now the flotsam of a wrecked
ife. :

“I did not lack the energy and the ability to
have done this, but I lacked the will. I sat
gloomily down in tearless, sulking indifference,
and scarcely heeded either the crying of my chil-
dren or the reproaches and promises of my hus-
band. For he vowed, even then, he would
abandon all his evil ways and work hard if I
would trust him once more.

“IT can see him yet as he stood humbly before
me. I just raised my eyes and glanced scornfully
and incredulously at him.

‘He went angrily out, and did not return. Late
at night a note was brought to me. It was
Arthur’s last word of regret and farewell. He
begged my forgiveness for his share of our mis-
taken life, and, for the rest, he hoped I would
go back to my brother Bernard, to whom, he said,
he had written in my behalf.

“That was all. I was really ill now—fell from
one long faint into another; and in the midst of
my anguish Bertha came wailing into the -world.

“For a long time I was quite dependent on the
pity and charity of my poor neighbors; and when
at length I was able to rise and look the world in
the face again, I scarcely knew which way to
turn; for my brother had been written to over
and over again, and no answer or help sent in
response; and either teaching or plain sewing
was my only available resource.

“After many weary days I found a position as
assistant music teacher in a third-rate school.
I only got a bare pittance for six hours’ labor a
day, and had to give that up when little Arthur
and Alice took the scarlet fever.’’

“‘And they died?’’ I asked.

“Both died within twelve hours of each other,
and even little Bertha was long ill. In all these
long hours, when I stood thinking and watching
between two worlds, : you may be sure my sins of
every kind were brought to my remembrance.
When [I turned back from my children’s graves
into the world again, I trust I turned back a
different woman. I took up life’s hard task in a
better spirit. ,

“One spring night I was taking Bertha for a
walk up Sixth avenue, in order to let her see the
bright lights and gay store windows. Suddenly
a gentleman stepped before me,
hand upon my shoulder, cried out:

“ ‘Alice! Alice!’

“It was my brother Bernard. He had come to
New York immediately. on receiving Arthur’s
last letter; but Arthur had forgotten to put my
address in it. He did not find me, though he had
looked _ long and spent much money in seeking
me, He had then returned to Philadelphia, sought
me there, and, failing also, had come back to
the metropolis. eine s ;

“Well, I never again knew what it was to

and laying his]

 

have an unegratified want, or to miss a loving
care for every hour. I hope, I believe, that I
valued these blessings now at their true worth.
Bernard and J spent many happy years together,
and for many of them made every effort to trace
my lost husband. In whatever wild land hope-
less men were wont to go, we advertised for him;
but in vain.

“So Bertha grew to womanhood, and we were
happy. On her seventeenth birthday we deter-
mined to have our pictures painted, and a chance
remark sent us to Signor Fernando’s studio,
where I also met you. One day, just as we were
leaving the city, we called there to ask him to
visit us during the summer. He was busy on an
historical painting; but as we entered, dismissed
his model and put aside his brushes.

“The model took his hat sadly up, bowed to
Bertha and advanced to the door. As he passed
us, he glanced at Bertha, and, being detected,
made a movement of apology and went on. It
was enough—I knew him.

“With a rapid movement, I placed myself be-
fore the door, and, stretching out my arms, cried
out, passionately:

“ ‘Arthur! dear Arthur, forgive me!’

“Fernando, with delicate divination and tact,
withdrew Bertha to an inner painting room; and
there we met and knew each other again.”

“He had suffered, also?”

““‘Who can tell how much? He had been in
Australia; he had been rich and become poor;
he had gained much and lost everything; he had
been in captivity to savages and been ship-
wrecked; he had known the extremes of poverty
and sickness. When I found him he was earning
a scanty living as a painter’s model, or in any

‘of those ways which the humblest poverty alone

discovers.”

“And now you are: happy?”

“Yes, indeed! Heaven has given me the op-
portunity I have been praying long for. Yet, re-
member, because of my foolishness, I have begun
to be happy twenty years too late.”

“About Bertha?’

“She knows all.”

“Are you pleased with her choice?”

“Fernando has given me back my husband. I
may well give him in return my daughter. I am
content.”

“And now, my dear, I have told you my story,
because I heard you are going to marry, and I
feared perhaps you did not consider how holy
and solemn a state it is.”

I kissed her tenderly and went silently home.
Henceforward I had higher thoughts about mar-
riage than such as centered in upholstery -and
millinery matters.

PLEASANT PARAGRAPHS.

BY CHARLES W. FOSTER.

UNDERSTOOD HUMAN NATURE.
Editor Bazoo Bugle—‘‘Go a little easy on Col.
Gore this week. In fact, I think we’d better try
to—er—smooth matters over somewhat.”
Assistant—‘‘Has he made any threats?”
Editor—‘No, he hasn’t said a word.
what worries me.’

A COLD WORLD.
Tramp—‘‘Please, mum, have you any cold
vittles?”’
Housekeeper—‘I am very sorry to say, sir,
that everything is hot.’”’ - (Slams the door.)

THE BEST PLACE TO LAND.

Friend—“Suppose there should be an earth-
quake here. Your new sky-scraping building
would be the first to fall.”

Builder—‘‘Y-e-s; but we’d land on top.”

ORDERED IT RARE.

Waiter—‘“Here you are, sir! Porterhouse
steak rare—that was your order, I believe.’

Guest—“Hum! It isn’t long since this beef
was killed, is it?”

“II s’pose not, sir.”

“No, can’t be very long.
warm.’’

That’s

I see it is still

HOPELESS.
Adorer—“Won’t you try and love me?”
Boston Girl—‘I fear that I could never love
a man who says ‘try and’ instead of ‘try to.’ ”

UNCLE JOSH DEFEATED.

Lawyer—' Well, my young friend, your Uncle
Josh determined that you should be a farmer, or
get nothing from him. He did not leave you a
cent of money, but he willed you his plow, culti-
vator, mowing machine, thrasher, portable saw-
mill, stone crusher, road scraper, and stump
puller.”

Young Scribbler—‘‘All right, I’ll sell them.’

Lawyer—‘“‘He has provided against that. You
cannot sell, or even rent them. You must use
them yourself.’’

Young Scribbler—‘‘Very well. I will.’

Lawyer—‘‘On the old farm?’

Young Scribbler—‘“‘No; I'll write a play and
use them on the stage.”

A CARELESS CITY EDITOR.
Reporter—‘“‘That’s a nice way to make an as-
signment, isn’t it? I’m ordered to get up a
column of ‘Slaughter Statistics.’ ”’
Friend—‘‘Well?”’
Reporter—‘‘Well, I don’t know whether I’m
to write up the abattoirs or the grade crossings.”

NOT OUT OF MIND.

Husband (off for a journey)—‘Do you often
think of me when I am gone?”

Wife—“Indeed I do. It takes me a week te get
the smell of smoke out of the house.”

NOT MR. BLINKERS.

Domestic (tremblingly)—‘‘Oh, please,
burglars in the house.” f

Mrs. Blinkers (reassuringly)—‘‘Most likely it’s
Mr. Blinkers just in from the club.”

Domestic (positively) ‘No, mum, it’s bur-
glars. They hayen’t stumbled against anything
at all.”

I hears

APPROPRIATE.
Mrs. Winks—‘“‘When is Miss
marry the count?”
Mrs. Binks—‘‘On Monday.’
Mrs. Winks—‘Oh, of course.
known. Monday is bargain day.’’

HE MARRIED HER.

He (after the honeymoon)——‘‘Why did you at
one time talk so much about being afraid that
some one would marry you for money?”

She (a smart woman)—‘‘Because if any one
did marry me for money, it would be such a ter-
rible mistake, you know, because I haven’t any.’

He—“‘Oh—um—-yes, yes, of course.”

MR. BULLION LIKED COMFORT.

Friend—‘‘What in creation induced you to buy
that enormous apartment house? It has never
aid.’
E Mr. Bullion—‘‘My wife liked the location, and I
wanted a flat there.”

“You could live there easily enough without
buying the building.’’ :

‘Yes, but I couldn’t boss the janitor,’’

NOT UNGENTLE.
Wife—‘‘How do you like the cake?”
Husband—‘‘Um—-what’s it called?”
‘Sunshine cake.’ 4
“Very nice; but, if I were you, I’d not try it
on such a cloudy day, next time.”

BABY SLOW TO LEARN.

Young Mother (to herself)—‘I don’t see why
it is that baby doesn’t talk better. He’s very
backward.”’

Same Mother (five minutes afterward)—‘Did-
dee ittee tootsie wootsie waken up, zee tunnin’
ittie pettie, so he was.’

FOUND AT LAST.

Employment Agent—‘‘How does your wife like
that girl I sent her?”’

Mr. Upton—‘‘That girl must be an angel
straight from heaven. She’s been with us a
week, and my wife hasn’t made a complaint.’

Hardcash to

I might have

SELECTED PLEASANTRIES.

a

A Drvotrep CovuPpLE.—Mrs. Hartt—‘Yes, I
have no doubt there are unhappy marriages, but
really I cannot understand how they are possible.
Now, there’s George and I, we are so devoted.
He says he could not exist without me, and I’m
sure I live only for him.’’

Mrs. Greene—‘‘You really are to be congratu-
lated, both of you. By the way, how leng have
you been married?”

Mrs. Hartt—‘‘Just a week day after to-mor-
row.’’—Boston Transcript.

THE FATHER’S RETORT.—Fond Mamma—*TIsn’t
baby getting big? Just see how solid he is!’

Papa—‘‘He does seem solid this morning, and
it’s remarkable, because he appeared to be all
‘holler’ last night.”——Philadelphia Record.

TYPOGRAPHICAL ERROoR.—First Officer—"What’s
the chief in such a bad humor about this morn-
9?

Second Officer—‘‘'Why, a morning newspaper |

 

Vol. 58—No. 2

unintentionally referred to him as ‘Thief of Po-
lice!’""—-Ohio State Journal.

THE Son’s ConsEecTuRE.—It is not difficult to
guess where the small boy in the following story,
which is told by a Salisbury paper, gets his
breeches:

A Salisbury man bought a new set of false
teeth.

“Papa,’’ asked his young hopeful,
you goin’ to do with the old uns?”

“Throw them away, son.’’

“T’ll bet,” answered the youngster, after a brief
period of meditation, “‘that you have ’em cut down
for me.”—Kansas City Journal,

THE AUTOCRAT SATISFIED.—‘‘Well, I’ve got the
plans for my new house all finished.”

“Got them fixed to suit you, eh?”

“Oh, no; but the architect says he
fied with them.’—Philadelphia Record.

Too CautTious.—‘‘I have the greatest confidence
in Dr. Slocum as a physician,” said one of the
doctor’s patients. ~‘“‘He never gives an opinion
till he has waited and weighed a case and looked
at it from every side.”

“Um-m!” said the skeptical friend. ‘“That’s
all right if you don’t carry it too far. There have
been times, you know, when he’s been so cautious
that his diagnosis has come near getting mixed up
with the post-mortem.”—Youth’s Companion.

Businy OccupPiep.—‘Has Cholly any occupa-
tion—does he condescend to work for money?”

“Oh, yes! He’s courting Miss Millyons.”’—
Detroit Free Press.

“what are

is satis-

THE REAL FRET.—‘Do your debts worry you?’
asked the Sympathetic Guy.

“What I owe other people?” said the Willing
Spender. ‘Well, I should say not. It’s what
other people owe me that bothers !”—Cincinnati
Commercial Tribune.

AS THE SWEET Girt Views It.—Bertha—‘I
guess it’s going to be a match between Harriet
and Charley.”

Constance—*‘So?’’

Bertha—“‘Yes. Harriet to-day spoke of his
stuttering as a slight hesitancy in the enuncia-
tion of words.’’—Boston Transcript.

>~e~

ii

A
EDITED BY MRS. HELEN WOOD.

By special arrangements with the manufacturers,
we are enabled to supply the readers of ‘‘The New
York Weekly’’ with the patterns of all garments
described or illustrated in this column at TEN
CENTS each. When ordering patterns, please be
particular to mention the number of the pattern
and size wanted. Address Fashion Department,
one New York Weekly,’’ Box 1,173, New York

ity. :

FASHION NOTES.

Not a few of the newest evening waists have
soft, transparent folds going around the figure
with horizontal lines of lace insertion showing
between. Others, for fuller forms, are in surplice
effects, with the scarf ends daintily embroidered
as a finish; and for the Junoesque type are the
revived pointed bodices finished with closely fit-
ted darts in the old manner, but cleverly draped
in slightly bloused style in front, and in close
clinging fashion at the side above the straight-
fronted corset, to give the effect of length and
slenderness.

Sash knots are often big bunches of narrow
ribbon with the ends cut to a point and little
bows near the tips. Some of these have ends
from a few inches to a foot or more in length.
If the ends are long they should fall to the hem
of the skirt and be in different lengths.

White cloth hats are considered very desirable
for bridesmaids. They are trimmed with lace
and flowers. But these should be accompanied
by the all white gown, which seems to be the
favorite one for this purpose just at present.

Flounces on elbow sleeves are shaped so as
to avoid any gathers at the joining and are
usually two or three inches narrower at the in-
side seam of the sleeve.

Bath robes of madras or a material that has
the same appearance have stripes of color with
white. The robes have the regulation pockets
and belt.

Men’s pajamas come in small figured materials
like old-fashioned calico more than anything
else. Funny things they are, but rather attract-
ive.

A yellow pongee gown with yellow and white
embroidery, and a tucked white silk vest and
front of skirt, is artistic in the extreme.

Tucked yokes and collars studded with nail-
head steel beads are seen on many new costumes.

Petticoats of lawn with billowy ruffles of lace
are all the rage.

Cg In ordering patierns be sure to give size and number

No. 2929—LADY’S WAIST.

Two backs are given with this pattern, also
two sleeves. One sleeve is long, and is cut with
upper and under portions, and the other sleeve
is a full puff
that ends at the
elbow, and is fit-
ted with an in-
side seam only.

The waist, which

fastens at the

back, has a fit-

ted lining, which

may be omitted.

A deep, round

yoke forms the

upper part of the

waist, and to

this is joined

the tucked front

and the gathered

back. The full-_.

ness about the®

waist is drawn

in by gathers,

and the front

droops modishly

over the belt.

The collar is

just a plain,

smooth - fitting

stock that may be omitted when the waist is
worn on dressy occasions. The tops of the sleeves
are covered with material to match the yoke,
the sleeve caps thus formed helping to give the
long-shouldered effect, which is a feature of the
season’s styles. The pattern is-cut from 32 to
40 inches bust measure. Size 86 requires 1%
yards of 42-inch material, with 1 yard of 2i-
inch contrasting material.

No. 2913—LADY’S SQUARE YOKE
SACQUE.

This dainty garment is made of lavender and
white challis, trimmed with Valenciennes lace
and ribbon. The upper portion consists of a

o short yoke with a.
straight
edge.
portion
ranged
plaits
tached to the
yoke; if prefer-
red, the material
may be gathered
at the top  in-
stead of being
plaited. The
sacque is cut with
a high neck and
a standing collar,
and the pattern is
perforated for a
V - shaped neck,
which is finished
with a deep col-
lar of the ma-
terial. The sleeve,
which is roomy
and comfortable,
is bell-shaped at
the wrist and
gathered a t the
shoulder. Alba-
tross, nun’s veil-
ing, pongee, Jap-

India silks, and light-weight flan-
nels will make up prettily after this model. The
pattern is cut from 32 to 40 inches bust measure,
Size 36 requires 4 yards of 32-inch material and
2% yards of lace.

(All patterns published in ‘‘The New York
Weekly’ will be sent to our readers for 10 cents
each. Address FASHION DEPARTMENT, ‘‘New
York Weekly.’’)

DRESSING

lower
The lower
is ar-
in box-
and at-