~ A CAPTIVATING NOVELETTE, ae EXTREMELY PATHETIC, By GRETA GREVILLE, _ f ' 3 APPEARS NEXT WEEK e < Entered According to Act of Congress, tn the year 1908, by Street & Smith, tn thé Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washingion, D. C. zr ye eee : Vol. 63. 79-89 oe aia New York. New York, June ai, 1908. eee ae, RAIN ON THE ROOF. guar coset 3 ate a en eee a =e = : voted mother, a kind, if not an affectionate, wife ; a 2 Se eee : ~ ‘ SS eta Ba eF cas reas ° bets Bit a woman regarded as a Christian and a philan- thropist. Yet, prompted by her selfish ambition, ; = fe eee ee de Fe she could do this terrible deed, tear an infant ares = : aa ‘ : Le : ee : ote ; : : 5 oe . from its mother’s bosom, and blast and ruin that When the humid shadows hover : er 5a SS ; ‘ fe AS : Z : 4 Be mother’s a ao and not feel compunction of 5 Ps ae axe : ee eS ss : ‘x é oe conscience. ruly, pride and Self-love are hideous Over all the-starry spfieres; ener ee eS m ee Te ~zhp Z : aasipna Pee And the melancholy darkness : i te ee a eo ie He = ~ gee When at last 0 old house became silent, its 5 eerie - - é ; SS = Beg : : * 5). mistress arose, drew r dressing-robe close nd Gently WCEP s TH Fay tears, y 2 SS e Le = oe = ae Be BR ee . ee aie hee ARE was ine ieee hci one What a bliss to press the pillow ay Ry : as abe Canoes WS ei. ZARA rapped softly, and Judith opened the door. ss . : ee SOs : Re é : ' Mrs. Montraville entered, closing and locking ge- 9 : . 8 . Of a cottage chamber bed, ‘ : eS ste Sz : : EB ‘ i E . the door behind her, and went straightway to the And to listen to the patter 1 i ae = oe eee e Ba i oy hy gee: i cot where the stolen child lay. A pretty, chubby, Of the soft rain overhead! . : ‘ : ; za mi! : 2 . yerone babe, —_ a face whose Fo second eatures were an exact counterpart of its father’s. Every tinktte Br. the shingles ‘ ; grey eS : : : B ar cae : ss a. 2 PMA) RS ~ An ugly expression drifted over the lady’s tace ; : if, Wee Ge ere ses So ae eS : woe Ss i 4 4 ? } as she looked at the sleeping child. She turned Has an echo in the heart; : ae os si : ZF ee. ee ee ee eehcige > ae aH OP HEN ee : S x ee toward Judith, taking her purse from : [a ‘ ; 3 Se. es Ka : See ae : i at ? Br vi 7 ey ue ler pocket. Anda thousand dreamy fancies we : = Vise nea. A xe Dian SE, Yeh ae pet Wi) | “Judith, I have strong motives for what I am Into busy being start, BE ss er Ae: 4 ; SES ie fioetere SO INE ECO aT eS Pn vi cine You think me merciless and cruel, no ‘ rt ee e SS = y, SAD i ak SaaS INN PB LI / ~ doubt, but there are cases which require desperate And a thousand recollections AF go = : tee ADO LD were Mie eee yorss é Rae (rT s a means. The woman from whom we took this Weave their air-threads into woof, S. SSeS a ae j ; Oe ¥ Dei ss vi aS q Bi Hy / . child is a depraved, base creature. She entrapped ; oe ’ : 4 ; WAN { y’ : S : 4 t p= my poor brother into an illegal marriage, and As {listen to the patter —y ah 3 LE eee (Nes Piper Ue 3 leo Qh ag — caused him to be disinherited by his uncle. In Of-the rain upon the roof. . 5 aM tpn PE Ri \ } Aura A : v AS } ie % : _ , WV visa EY Me short, she ruined his life, and, more than that, : i mn, fb ; Z_ V1? a Leh Z z ; i: in (VY was false to him. She is not worthy to train Now in memory comes my mother, ee Se Ss Sf, iy wy iy pe “ \ sya i eed APLAR satay Y Ke Se - oS child, hence I take it gm my oo oe : ; } ty oy He P eee j , ‘ for. reasons of My own, desire to keep this As she used, in roe agone, s = Wy Hit Pe iss PEAS SEN TENE ‘ a Sig x = eae matter a profound secret, even from my own To regard the darling dreamers eh CS : , =genn a Tek a 4 <- et : family. ; ; eee ; ye . pare if 4 WR ARS ae —— —— “To-morrow, under pretense of taking the child mm: C fi ‘ z x Gi 7 . m Ss Ere she left them au the dawn; a . a ESTAS, oe i j & Cea eS , SS vee ; back to your daughter, you shall take it to Lon- So I see her leaning o’er me, / Wy Say SEE ss pez Me SEY ae ee eee | don, and. give it-to the keeping of the matron re is refrai 2 hoa Lf pea See ; ; : E SIEh Hi eet of an institution for foundlings; I shall see that As : list to this refrain é : = 5 : EL Ae if : : aK ae koe it is well cared for, and will meet all expenses. Which is played upon the shingles 5 ; a Me Ne «oa Nyt z a4 ; . x4 Ease Fs at ees However, I shall prepare a letter to the matron, By the patter of the rain : / Lf Z pe s : \ = se ease toes : which you are to deliver with the child. The ; es. —— household here, and all others with whom you s 3 . 2 : a : ; = j AS : Z c “ Ste i RY ; spe f your journey, are to believe that you Then my little seraph sister s ae - . ie : SS eet speak 0 rn ; _ tha ) J - 2 ; : om f- s 4 = % = : y ; Sie, » : o to London to visit your sister, who is ill.. To With the wigs and waving hair, en a3 ee secs, i . = : ‘ 4 ——— SS ee NS ia : avoid detection, instead of going by rail, you shall ee ;: one es PY EE Pores Hf SASS ah) AN = f — FSA RK ere ; § be sent in my private carriage; and Johnson, who And her star-eyed cherub brother 2 <= LEG Ey : STH HH ANS : MY YG i ia Sie ; BY ee Naat i ot fortunately is deaf, shall drive you. It will be an A serene angelic pair— —_ 3 S ? PSs 1a i S 5 “ff ; Lec : CNA re SANE , easy matter to conceal the child, and if it cries . Pe . : ae SAE BRL i hap { , = , | on the road, he will not hear it.” Glide around my wakeful pillow, ae : SAS Be TE RSS : J j fa Ee Se ia y . Gy Judith, listening intently, smiled a grim smile. With their praise or mild reproof, SS SLA te ece/ ANN XY Ys a a ‘ cee gtk have laid. an excellent plan, my lady,” ; ; : = : 7 SS eg iy RR =A J y f Py = = ~ My} ‘ she said sullenly. As.I listen to the murmut 3 Soper 11/11 (MR NS tC my , Ss = : : “Yes, because I dm anxious to succeed. You Of the soft-rain on the roof. = ioc Ff Nt | SS ony / 7 ° a 2 > are willing to obey my instructions?” : aN : Mae Ze} oy : = x Y ae SS ae YZ : 3 “T am willing, madam !’’ . And another comes, to thrill me WJ EET ; SSS mdf 7 Ao ae WAZ k : : “Very well. In this purpose you will find ‘ ‘ Seer ; 2 : . SL ips JE pe ee Uy i double the sum [I promised you—not fifty, but With her eyes delicious blue; \ ; : 3 | pp th Pes Ser . i i : yes : : ‘ we 3 . - : Be & Z = hy, : sg ———— “Her BNA 4 File. ¢ ' / ~ one hundred pounds in gold. It is yours. -Now And I mind not, musing on her, : f ' + ms may); Bs SE é : SZ = : : ‘2 / f ay Sy you will be able to help your daughter, as you ? wy é LZ Gs - rs ny Yi a BY COATES KINNEY. Sa : ‘ s aiid ‘ MS; ; e a : YZ = aa : P seemed so anxious to do some time ago. Ef believe That her heart was all untrue: Wabate 4) ~ Wie per ra \ie Ze) Z ee Ne Pil fash I have ‘said all that is needful; in the morning ft remember but to love her AAt vat! if B fs WW I will’ see you again. You understand the course With a passion kin to pain, Fri Saat And my heart’s quick pulses vibrate {Om NA oa | i A¥Z-: i LW PS you are to pursue? Very well. Now, one parting ey , hs athe aOR I i Zi, = = SWAY 7, word. If you break your oath, and betray me, you fp : 2 , / a Ul Hy 4 s , . : ¥ SO ‘ : and yours ee ee it till the latest hour you sy eR i aeg Z Y RRS = = BA hat fv) . " live. Good night!” To the patter of the rain. INOS ee Y/ Wy Sips YT DD NYY Say c = Ey , A ! y “Good night, my lady,’ said Judith, as she f } f . > aK YZ : iy / 4 Y took up the purse, which was heavy with golden ‘Art -hath naught of time or_cadence coins. That can work with such a spell Mi : Lat a ‘i y ) ° ‘ aa} i ail) iy f Fn v, TT In the soul’s mysterious fountains, Se QA NG Ht iF \ VAY pes RRP Ay TON Li ee CHAPTER IX. ie Tee << ~ : | a 4 Whence the tears of rapture well y 4 H/ ; ~ fp vy $ A SECRET BETWEEN TWO. As that melody of nature, , P e te Vj Toward noon on the following day a closed car- That subdued, subduing strain ; ge 2 riage, containing Judith eae and her tn tear x baw 8 5 : 2. : oe . ; charge, rolled Londonward,:. through the Kentis Which is played ePon the shingles , hop-fields, and at about the same hour Mrs. By the patter of the rain. Crushed in heart by her sad loss, she presently seated herself on a low mound of earth, and gave way to ‘her agonizing thoughts. Montraville, driving out in her little pony-phae- Z ; . ton, stopped at old Jean’s cottage to inquire for —— her brother’s wife. Seeing the phaeton at the gate, Jean came hob- a child with her. But bear in mind,” she added, |to free himself of her, and now, while he is off] bling out in great haste. * as she walked away, “if she has the effrontery | in India, here she comes to me for help! She “Well, Jean, and how are you to-day?” in- to come here again, you must close the door in| certainly had a child with her this morning. quired the mistress of Creedmore kindly. her face.’’ Whether she has lost it or not is more than I can “Bad enough, my lady; bad enough, I tell you : & Jane hastened away to eall Thomas, opening | say.” —that stiff in my joints with the rheumatism p>] her black eyes wide, and Mrs. Colonel Montraville “Tost it, indeed!’ cried Jane, with a toss of} that I can’t bend, and in a rack of pain day and ‘ went back to the drawing-room, leaving her|her scarlet ribbons; “I’ll wager she has thrown] night, and obliged to spin, and spin, or go with- out bit or drop to keep my soul and body to- brother’s wife shivering in the doorway. it in the lake to be rid of it.’’ “What was it?’’ demanded the colonel, ar- “Oh, we must not be uncharitable, Jane,’’ said | gether.” OR, ranging his chessmen. her mistress piously. ‘“‘When Thomas comes, ask “Your condition is rather serious,’’ said Mrs. “Oh; a poor, half-witted creature with a pretty | him about the matter, and be sure to-’inform* me. Montraville, when the old creature paused from face, who fancies she has some claim on me, bée-} See that Colonel Montraville’s coffee is ready at} want of breath ; “TIT am sorry for you, Jean. Here cause poor Roydon once admired her.” eleven. You may go now.” is some change to buy a good, warm gown for @ Sister Jose ha’s Char e The, colonel shrugged his shoulders. Jane curtsied and: withdrew, her black eyes glit-| the cold weather, and if you will send up to 2 “You will have your hands full if you take up| tering with eagerness as she ‘flew down-stairs to} Creedmore, I will instruct the housekeeper to all Roydon’s old flames; their name is legion.| confide what she had been told to her fellow| give you all the broken victuals, if that will help I must have a nap now. Call me at eleven sharp,} servants, for pretty Jane, as her mistress knew, ]| you any.” Clara, and order for me a cup of coffee; I must}! was wholly incapable of keeping a secret. The old crone bowed her gray head to the catch the London train at midnight. We are Mrs. Montrayille put her velvet slippers on the} earth, clutching the silver pieces in her skinny off to-morrow, and Heaven knows when I shall} fender, and opened her novel, but for once her} hand, and pouring blessings upon her benefac- By Virs. SCHUYLER MESEROLE, see home again.” favorite author failed to interest her. Her cheeks | tress. = i ae oe ee. Re a lounge, and with aj were feverish, her eyes restless, her mind ill at The lady waited oer wet until the outburst t7 ee . FECCCH ; bee . *, 2 | look of immeasurable relief, his wife went to}ease. She kept listening intently to hear the} of gratitude had expended itself. Author of The pe $ Bride, ne Unknown Suztor, Will She Win: eee ys oa: ; i ; child in the nursery red but ha overwearied -*Jean,’’ she began then, rh eee well-preserved yar? »? 6 , ya, ”) e cou see e light of the lantern which ]| little fellow slept well. face as serene as a May sky, “there was a wom- Roderick’ s Quest, Thrice Married, ete, Thomas carried crossing the park. She Gatthed ‘the window, too, for the return} an in the neighborhood last night, who professed “They have gone,” she said under her breath;}of Tnomas and his lantern, and after a while it| to have lost her child. Thomas said, if I don't a never thought she’d come here for help. It{ came, flaring through the darkness. mistake, she was ill, and had been sent to your is lucky not one of the servants recognized her; Mrs. Monitraville returned to her seat, and was} cottage.” and fortunately Colonel Montraville goes away to-{ apparently deeply immersed in her novel when “So she was, madam; they brought her here night. It was a risky job to undertake, but it} Jane came in. last night, stone dead, as I thought; but Ginny P : 5 was important. If my boy, my darling Harry, “Tf you please, mistress!” Braxton, the brewer’s wife, was here, and she CHAPTER VIII. ing it open, made her way in; and, recalling | is twelfth baronet of-his line one of these days, I “Well, Jane?” poured hot milk down her throat, and_chafed A HEARTLESS WOMAN . | her reception a few hours before, she turned her}{ shall feel more than compensated for my trouble.” “Thomas has returned, and he says they | her limbs, and revived her in no time. But how eat : oa steps toward the servants’ quarters. i At the same minute, from the nursery window, | couldn’t find the child; of course, because,’’ added} she did carry on!. Such screeching and crying Meanwhile the night fell, and the raw mist A pretty parlor-maid, with scarlet ribbons in Judith saw the lantern in the grounds below, and| Jane, with a knowing toss of her head, “there}| for her baby my ears never heard!” changed to a chill rain, which, beating pitilessly her black hair, answered her hurried ring, and| caught a glimpse of poor Marie’s wild, woful} was none to find. And the woman fell down in ‘Where is she now, Jean?” inquired the lady. on poor Marie Montraville’s face, roused her at} Started back at sight of her white face, fancying | face. a fit or a faint, and they carried her to old “Gone, madam, clean gone—the Lord knows last from the ~-deathlike swoon into which she she Saw a ghost. ‘Poor soul! poor mother!’’ she said, ‘‘wander-| Jean’s cottage.” where. It was close to midnight when we got had. fallen. Marie rushed after her, and caught hold of}|ing about in the darkness in search of her stolen “They did well. Poor creature! I feel sorry | her quietlike, and Ginny makes a bed’ before the She raised her throbbing head and stared about | her garments. : : child, and here it lies! If ever there was an} for her.” hearth, and coaxes her to lie down, and gets her in utter bewilderment. The darkness was dense, Oh, for Heaven’s, sake, pity me, help me! Ij unpardonable sin in God’s eyes, this is one, and “T don’t see why you should, mistress! She} to swallow a drop or so of hot liquor. I was and a moaning wind drove the yellow leaves hith- have lost my child, my little baby that never slept | God’s curse will follow it; but I am bound by] doesn’t deserve sympathy.” just sinking into a doze, when there comes 4 er and thither in rustling drifts, and tossed the] @ night out of my bosom; it is out in this dark, | an oath, and dare not open my lips. But come “True enough, Jane, but we mugt pity even} great puff of wind and rain down the chimney, trees overhead into all sorts of fantastic atti-| rainy night. Let me have a light to find it.| what may,” she added, with a sudden outburst| the wicked and undeserving. Go and order Colo-| and up the critter starts, and falls to screeching tudes. Oh, for the love of Heaven, help me!”’ of passionate tears, turning to the cot where the] nel Montraville’s coffee. I must wake him now; | like a Bedlamite. The poor creature could not determine where “Poor soul!” said the girl; “you must be stolen child lay asleep, ‘I will never harm a| it is eleven.” sr OH, - my baby ! my little baby! out in this she was, or what had befallen her. For one brief} ©T42¥; how could you have lost your child?’ hair of your head, you poor, wronged, little When ‘the colonel had sipped his coffee and| wild wind and rain!’ minute she fancied that she had died, and was I was ill, and sat down under the hedge toj nestling; and it will go hard with me if I don’t | bidden his wife good-by, and been driven off to “And away she goes, out at the door, and out awakening in some other state of existence, and rest, and fainted; when I came to my senses my find some means to restore yon’to your own be-j{ the railway-station, Mrs. Montraville went up to into the wind and rain, and we haven't set eyes then, piercing through the mists that hazed her child was gone. Oh, please let. me have a light. | fore I die.” : her own chamber and summoned Jane. on her sence ; though Sally Pritchet, the tinker’s brain, came the memory of her infant. If I do not discover my child it will die fe Ze “Jane,” said Mrs. Montraville, as she seated “Jane, I must ask a favor of you to-night. I] wife, told me, as she went by, a bit ago, they With a cry of terror she tlasped her empty We had better speak to mistress, hadn’t we?’ | herself beneath the chandelier, with a volume want you to assist me in disrobing. Judith is in arrested her this morning and took her to the arms over her desolate bosom. _ suggested the girl to the nursery maid who joined | of Balzac in her hand, “when: Thomas returns, }the nursery with her daughter’s child; the mother j Magistrate's office.” % “Oh. Heaven, where is my child?” her; ‘‘the poor creature is certainly mad. inquire concerning that wretched woman, and ask] is quite ill, and I advised her to bring the in- _ Mrs. Montraville’s cheeks, usually the hue of a Only the moaning wind.’ the drifting ion vew. anid Mrs. Montraville was in the drawing-room} if she found her child, and let me know. I should fant here. ripe peach, grew ashen white as she listened, but dripping rain answered Hor: She put her hand playing chess with her husband, her own children} not like her to perish in the cold, but she is Goodness me, mistress, what a thoughtful| when she spoke there was no tremor in her voice. to her hot, aching head, and tried to’ remember. sitting about her in a happy circle, when Janej|a creature I never care to. see. You are a} person you are,” said Jane, as she proceeded to “Poor creature! I expected to hear of her ar- Her thats i Crasdinare Biel wha tits “Monira- appeared. 4 : ; discreet, close-mouthed girl, Jane,” continued the brush out the lady’s abundant blond braids, | rest. : : aa : se ville’s erie winnle ‘tute: tek What. ‘sllowod If you please, mistress, there’s a poor woman lady — confidentially, and {I will tell ‘you who | “there are not many like you.’ Jean looked up with twinkling eyes. Like her ad h id ardani But She: br ah baby out here who must be crazy; she says she has} she is, but you. are not to speak of it to your Her mistress laughed. class, she was. an inveterate newsmonger, as fond a - = he hath ane oe “ak aDy-} lost her child, and wants a light to enable her| fellow servants,” “Judith is a good soul, and she is fond of} of a bit of scandal as she was of her chimney- a s ad a ae whoa mt st ad tha ati she sat} to hunt for it.” “No, indeed, madam, not for worlds,’ replied} her daughter, and I like to oblige my servants} corner and pot of beer. Ret Wier aa a. pe et og er nS at distressing}. Mrs. Montraville’s cheek whitened under its} Jane, her black eyes glinting with curiosity. when they please me. How nicely you handle “Indeed, my lady?” she said inquiringly; “why, “Oh -myehild oie darling—Montraville’s little coat of rouge, and her jeweled hand shook as she “Well,” Jane,” said her mistress with an ag-}| my hair, Jane. I may have to lose Judith for a} what has she done? 3 E baby—-where are you?” she SHied oie in and was about to move one of her chessmen. grieved air, “T had her here as governess once, week or so. She was telling me to-day that her Mrs. Montraville shook her head sadly. unclasping her empt a ethie , asping ‘Oh, why do you disturb me, Jane? Couldn’t}a French girl;.you may remember.”’ only sister, living in London, is dangerously ill, “Ah, Jean, she has done enough for me and Then growin Pelantta i her thvribtal teneot you have spoken to Mrs. Hampton ?”’ Jane’s face brightened at a sudden remem-}and I suppose she will want to go and see her.} mine. You don’t know, perhaps, that this miser- and pain she Tanne emote’ the lance sited Mrs. Hampton is ill and in bed, madam.” brance. : If she does, I Shall promote you to her. position} able creature is the woman who caused MYyy DOOT along the. hedgeside tearing Roe poor navies with Very well; I will step out and speak to the “IT do, indeed; I thought I had seen her face} temporarily. You will not object?” brother to be cast off and disinherited by his the brambles hye . a poor creature, Hxcuse me a few minutes, Charles. }] before; she’s Miss D’Antoire, mistress.” “Oh, no, indeed, ma’am; I shall feel highly} uncle. Then, by her base_ treachery and infi- oe No, no, children, remain where you are.” “The same. I thought a good deal of her at} honored,” delity, she drove him out of England! He’s off in Crushed in heart by her sad loss, she presently Still white, still shaking in every limb, she} one time; she seemed to be a quiet, modest girl; “Very well: I will let you know to-morrow.| India, and if he loses his life, this woman will seated herself on a low mound of earth, and gave} passed out. Marie met her in the hall, her hag-}| but when my brother, Captain Montraville, came} Now bring my dark dressing-gown, and you may}|be answerable. She is not his wife, Jean; Cap- way to her agonizing thoughts. Her deep de-} gard face full of entreating agony. to Creedmore, she showed her true character. She} go. MHere’s a shilling to buy some fresh ribbons} tain Montraville did not marry her, the whole pression was noticed. by two strangers who ‘Bor Heaven’s sake, madam, let me have a] suceeeded in entrapping him into some sort of aj for your hair.” thing was a miserable sham.” chanced to be wandering in her vicinity. But} light, and bid your servants assist me. I have] mock marriage, and for a few weeks they lived Jane retired in a glow of delight. “Bless my poor soul! and have they arrested spa 8 gre on without questioning her. lost my child. You saw it in my arms to-| together as man and wife. It was this unfortu- “My mistress is one in a thousand,” she said,! her for that, my lady?” cae the di aati the Habe as Marie arose she} day——" nate connection which caused the trouble between] expatiating on her good luck in the servants’ “Dear me, m0, Jean; how could they? A vile saw * oe istance the lighted windows of Creed- “Silence !’’ commanded the lady sternly. ‘“I}| Captain Montraville and his uncle. And would} hall ten minutes later. woman may wreck 424 ruin a man’s life, and the more Park. Ht shoes. = Judith _ville’s letter. She pulled down her silver-rimmed _ It will be christened in the bears. child was. gone, -. taking them with her to_ Paris. -- by~ her. --frailty, and her husband’s? I have to go home.” - and a THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. a it in the pond; put that is too ter-| - rible }~ : ; z aa : : Jear brought her skinny palms together with a sharp report. ee “PH wager my head it is so,” she cried shrilly, “and that is why she screeched and went on so, It is the way of women like her— for it, or be shut up in prison all the rest of : her life. Sally Pritchet’s gone down to the magis- -.trate’s office to - goeng, too.” a learn more of the case, and I’m _A look of satisfaction dawned in Mrs. Montra- a seeks she had accomplished the object of her call. a = ? _“I-sincerely hope the horrible story is wholly _ false,” she said, gathering up the reins and touch- ing the pony with the lash of her silver-mounied | *J felt anxious about it, and drove by, it. may be as well; the law is just; let it-deal with | hoping to see the poor creature. However, her aceording to her crime. Good-by, Jean. Don’t forget to send up to Creedmore twice or} thrice a week.” j a -- “Thank you, thank you, my lady! I sha’n’t forget, you may be sure. Ah,” she continued, as the -pretty. phaeton whirled away, “what a sh One might search all England and net find her equal.” eee : _ Mrs. Montraville drove home to Creedmore in time for luncheon, but before the wet, dismal day closed, Marie Montraviwe had been formally ex- --amined by the magistrate, charged with the mur- der of her child. : a . _. Wild and wan with pain and terror, she stood before her accusers, dumb, utterly unable to utter a word in her own defense. — ae ae “She is guilty, of course,’ said the spectators, regarding her deathly face, “Only look at her~’ _ There were witnesses, too, to condemn her. The gardener at Creedmore swore to having seen her go toward the pond with the child in her arms, and a short time after she returned to ~Creedmore, begging for help to assist her in find- looked as guilty as could be,” said giving her evidence, and enjoying “And she velop, “as white as a ghost, and shaking in her There is no doubt-of her guilt.” : _ The magistrate seemed: to agree with Jane, “fer he committed the culprit to the county jail for trial at the monthly assizes. _ -‘Fhrough the rainy twilight she was conducted abither, and securely locked up in a chilly, dismal kk. : gee gp At nearly the same hour the closed carriage which had conveyed Judith Joyce to London drew up before a large building known as an institu- tien for foundlings. : ~ Judith got out, and rang the bell, her little & charge securely hidden under her ample cloak. A tidy girl answered the summons, and led the “way into the building. : : “Sit here,” she said, indicating a chair in a comfortable little reception-room, ‘“‘and I-will call the matron.” z Judith sat down, and the girl disappeared. Left to herself, Judith at once released the infant from its abundant wraps, and put a _ well-filled bottle to its little mouth, which was hunting hungrily _ for sustenance. i : : 3 “Now, my little one,” she said, laying her cheek 3 against the babe’s silkenghead, “I am about to give you up. But if Heaven will help such a wretch as I am, if you live, my poor baby, and I live, at- some future time, I will try to atone for this awful wrong which I am doing you.” The baby was engaged at-its bottle in stolid indifference, and just then the matron appeared. Judith looked at her sharply. chapel,. but no one outside this place will ever know what name it You understand?” —_ “I understand,” replied Judith, blank conster- nation in her face. See a : “And you are still willing to give the child = to our keeping?” “¥ 2. “Very well; I will keep this letter, and if ever you care to inquire concerning the. ehild, we shall recognize you.” = : - She turned and touched the bell. minutes the tidy girl reappeared. _ ere ee. _ “Take this child and give it into Mrs. Mason’s charge. It appears to be a sturdy little fellow; I don’t think it will be troublesome.” | The girl took the babe and went tripping out of the room. Rising to her feet, Judith looked after her in dumb despair, the hope of that future atonement she so earnestly desired to make dying in her heart. The child was lost to her forever. She was on the point of rushing after the girl when the matron addressed her. — “I beg your pardon, but I have a waiting en- In two gagement, and am forced to bid you good eve-] ning. You may rest satisfied that the little one will be well cared for.” : “Good evening,’’ echoed Judith, and, scarcely conscious of what she was doing, passed out of the room, and out of the house. : fo The carriage still waited beyond the postern gate; the night had fallen, and the gaslights flared drearily in the'rainy darkness. She went on mechanically until she had passed the gate; then she looked back. Lights twinkled here and there over the dark front of the building. Where was the child?” 2 : : A feeling of desperate remorse filled her soul. She was answerable for the child. What if at some future day she should meet the miserable mother, what should she say to her? That her lost as irretrievably as if she had thrown it in the turbid river. . ; Mad with accusing guilt, she started back, de- termined to reclaim the child, but she had not passed the gate when a sudden thought restrained _. her—a thought of her own: frail daughter. Her only child, a beauty, and “even more vain and frivolous than she was fair. Years before she was a pet and a protégée of Mrs. Colonel Montravile. She abandened her mother’s cottage and -went to live at Creedmore. The gay life and fine company, and the flattery of the gentle- men who came down to Shoot, soon turned her silly head. : She was betrothed to the head gamekeeper, a}. worthy fellow; but she became tired of her old life and her old love, and, beguiled by the flat- tering tongue of young Lord Beauharnais, she met him in secret, and was on the eve of fol- lowing him to Paris, when Mrs. Montraville dis- covered the -secret. She discovered more, that Lisbeth had stolen her diamonds, and intended : The valuable in the possession of the stones were found 5 “she at once confessed her miserable girl, and guilt and her shame. S : x Her mother was in- despair, but Mrs. Montra- ville took the affair in hand. : : “Hold your tongues, both of you, and permit me to manage the trouble. I won’t have you punished for your theft, at least not now, and -Vll find a way to be rid of Lord Btauharnais. The wedding shall go on, and so long as you and your mother please me, I will keep your secret.’ They were glad enough to consent to be ruled The wedding took place, and the game- keeper never knew aught of his pretty bride’s and Mrs. Montraville forgave the theft of the diamonds. e : - Judith recalled it all, standing there in the London fog. Her daughter was a happy wife and mother; how could she blight and ruin her life 2 And then, there was her oath, solemnly sworn on the Bible! She could not, she dare not defy Mrs. Montraville; the child must go. Slowly she ttirned away from the gate and approached the waiting carriage. She was on the point of getting in, when she heard the postern gate click, and, turning, she saw a hooded figure coming from the foundlings’ home. Moved by an instantaneous impulse, she turned back, and, meeting the figure just in front of a flaring lamp, she recognized her as the pretty, tidy girl who admitted her. } ute both stood silent, and then Judith said: For a min- ‘My dear, will you tell me your name?” he girl smiled pleasantly. “Certainly. My name is Martha Remick.” “Yom don’t remain at the home at night?” “Sometimes I do; but mother is ill now, and “Ts your home far from here?” “No, indeed, only a few squares.” “will you let me walk with you for a litthk ” continued Judith, laying her hand n the girl’s arm; “I want to talk with you?” — Martha flashed a keen glance at Judith, but ‘she answered cheerfully: — a “Certainly; but yeu will find the walking dis- agreeable. How the wind drives the rain! We are going to have a wild night. Perhaps: you are a stranger in London; if so, you are wel- come to my home. I can give you a cup of tea) -comfottable bed, although I am poor.” . “Thank you kindly, but I am ‘not a stranger; es in Lambeth Street, and I am: to-night. I want to talk with you > home. You have lived there She ought to swing | “Almost ten years, ma’am.” “It is a desirable. treated welt?” —* “They are, indeed; they hardly miss mothers, they are cared for so tenderly. It is a nice place, ma’am, and Mrs. Denvers, the matron, is a fine woman.,’’: xe “T am glad to hear it;..one- naturally feels anxious after leaving a baby behind.” : _ “True, ma’am; but you may make your mind easy. Your child will be well cared for.” _For a minute they walked on in silence, then Judith continued: 536: “That may be, but it goes hard to part with one’s child forever. Martha, according to the rules of the institution yonder, I shall. never know the child I left there to-night, not as long as I live.” : : se : . “That is so, ma’am, and it seems hard, but it is the rule.” : : “And no one ever breaks the rule?” = “Never, ma’am.” ey : Again there was silence as they made their way through the driving rain. At last Judith spoke, drawing something from her bosom, _“Martha,” she said, slipping something into the girl’s hand, “take this; it is a ten-pound note, ‘and in return be good and kind to my poor little baby; and—and—when they give it a name, for the sake of Heaven’s mercy, my good girl, tell me what that name is.” : 7 The girl came to a sudden halt. - “It would be against the rules; I should lose my place,” she answered. | “No, for it should never be known; I will swear to keep the secret in my own breast.’’> ~- “Take back your money; I won’t be bribed for doing wrong.” i “Tt went be doing wrong, Martha, but right. No, I won’t take back the money; you~ shall keep it, and when you tell me the Cchild’s name, I will make it as much more—yes, three times -“more, and you can put it by, and keep it fer your marriage-portion.” Martha’s dark cheek flushed and her bright eyes glistened. She hesitated, the bank-note still in her hand. ; ‘T shall be married at Christmas,” softly, “and my younger sister will -place at the home,”’ “Then keep the money,” said Judith eagerly; “thirty pounds will be a snug little-sum for your wedding-day. Oh, Martha, my good girl, don’t deny me! Where will be the harm? Ali I de- sire to know is the baby’s name, so that his poor mother may have a chance of recognizing him in the future.’ ; - : “Then you are not his mother?” . “No; his mother is a poor, wronged creature, and she will break her heart with grieving if all clue to the babe is lost. Oh, Martha, don’t -re- their she said take my will be doing a righteous deed, and God will re- ward you. When you marry and have children of your own, you will forevereregret if you part this poor mother and her babe forever.” Martha’s red. lips quivered, and her bosom swelled with emotion. “Well,” she whispered softly, “I- will promise; ‘but you ean take back your money. I’! do as you wish for nothing.” fe “Nay, I won’t take it back; keep it as my ‘present for your wedding-day, and Heaven pros- per and bless you. Now tell me, when shall I see you again?” ; “One week from to-night, at the postern gate.” _ “Very well—shake hands, my good girl, and don’t fail me.’’ 2 They parted in the rain and darkness, and Judith returned to the waiting carriage and drove to her sister’s dwelling in Lambeth Street. A week thereafter, just as the clock at the foundling home was striking eight, the postern gate clicked, and Martha» Remick came out and began to peer about her with impatient eyes. “T expected to find her here before me,” she said, pacing up and down under the murky Lon- don sky. “I hope she won’t keep me waiting.”’ “TI am here,” said--a voice at her elbow; “I have been here an hour. My good girl, how are you, and how is my poor little baby?” : ; _ ‘Well, both of us. For myself, I never had a day’s sickness, and baby bids fair to take after -me?* he thrives lke a little pig.” -. “Here is the remainder of my bridal gift, Martha,” said Judith, slipping a folded bank- note into the girl’s hand. ‘‘I wish I was able to make it ten times as much. Now, let me hear my child’s name. He has been christened, I suppose ?”” : : ““Yes, he was day.” ox Aaa Nis DAIMee = “You will never betray me?” “Never, on my soul!” — § Martha put her red mouth close to Judith’s ear. - . oe : “The name,” she said, “is Dudley Kent.” - No need for Judith to write it down; the name would live in her memory till her dying day. Greatly relieved, she cut short her stay in Lambeth Street, and returned at once to Creed- more Park. The drawing-room was full of vis- itors on the afternoon of her arrival, and she only had time for half a dozen words with her mistress, as the latter was coming down from her toilet. “Well, I see.” “All safe, my lady.” “How did you leaye your sister?” “Much the same, madam; her health is. very poor,”’ , ~ Ah, that’s a pity! here for a month’s visit, air would invigorate her. ter was settled, I hope.’’ “Yes, madam; I followed your. instructions, and here is a receipt from the matron to show “that she receiyed the child.” - “Very well. You have proved yourself a good and faithful servant, Judith; you shall not lose your reward.” ; Crushing the receipt into her pocket, Mrs. Mon- traville, in full dress, dark-blue moire, diamonds, and old point, swept down to greet her waiting guests. “ It was the particulars of poor Marie’s cusation. “Arrested?—for thé“murder of her child?” re- peated Judith, with a great thrill of guilty re- morse. ‘‘Poor friendless girl! How did they come-to bring such a cruel charge against her?” “Because she showed her guilt,’’ answered Jane pertly; “any one could see it in her face; and didn’t Hastings see her go right down to the pond with the child in her arms? Of course she threw it in; that’s the way of such as she; they become enraged at their own sin, and take spite on their own flesh and blood. guilty, and I only hope the police Will catch po christened in the chapel on Mon- Judith, you are back again all safe, You must have her out Judith; our country That other little mat- from talkative Jane that Judith learned arrest and ac- “Catch her?” said Judith, with a stifled groan; ae you teld me she was locked up in “So I did, but she escaped on Tuesday night, and disappeared.” | “Escaped! How could she do that?” “The Lord knows. The keeper left her all Tight when he took in her supper, only she looked daft, and begged and prayed him to let her out to find her baby. of the bars were filed and broken, and she had contrived to get away. Of course, she had help; the ‘keeper ought to suffer, I think, and the authorities ought to offer a reward for her cap- tures? “Oh, Jane,’’ cried Judith, with a stifled groan, “how can you be so cruel? - Let the poor créa- ture go.” “T hope they’ll catch her, and hang her, too,” said Jane, her black eyes glittering fiercely. And on the morrow her hope was realized, so far as the catching went, for poor Marie was found, hidden under a hedge, only a few steps from the spot where she had lost her child. Fol- lowed by a pitiless, hooting crowd, she was hur- ried back to prison, and locked in a lower cell, from which escape was impossible. For weeks she sat on her pallet of straw and ate her coarse food, patiently and uncomplain- ingly awaiting her trial. She never murmured, never eyen protested her innocence, never shed a tear, or in any way betrayed the keen pain that consumed her soul. It was noticed that when the winds roared and the rain beat against her barred windows, she became violent. At such times her eyes would glow, and her cheeks flush, and her slender hands would clutch at the rusty bars with a frantic force that almost threatened to break them, and her piteous cries and prayers would be heard a vast distance. “Oh, let me out! Let me go and find my child; my tender little baby, out in all this wind and rain!” But the stern arm of justice held her close until her day of trial came. It was a short one of necessity, for the witnesses were sfew and had but little to say, When all had been said, the evidence was not deemed sufficient to convict the prisoner, and there was some hope of her acquittal, when one of the prosecuting counsel suggested dragging the pond. The idea was caught up at once; a.force was gathered, and the pond was dragged. Strange to tell, the de- caying body of an infant was brought up. “What did I tell you?’ cried Jane exultantly, rushing in, eager to be the first to tell her mis- tress the wonderful news. After hearing it, Mrs. Montraville fainted in her chair. . _ This evidetite of the miserable mother’s was deemed conclusive. There was no need for further dissertation; she was convicted of the crime of infanticide, and sentenced, ‘with extreme Jeniency, to five years’ confinement in a penal colony. There was no appeal, for in the wide guilt world poor Marie had no friend to aid her; and place for babies? They are fuse; say that you will do this favor for me; it She- is surely On Wednesday morning some | 2 in a few days after her final conviction the sen- tence was carried into effect. From her window Mrs. Colonel _Montraville watched the carriage which bore: her victim to her doom, a cold glitter in her. eyes, an awful | sense of guilt im her soul. ; “TI searcely anticipated such ‘complete success as this,’’ she mused. .‘‘Poor Roydon is free again now, and there is but one Hfe between my noble boy and the heritage he so richly deserves!” - TO BE CONTINUED. THE ACCUSED WIFE By CARRIE CONKLIN, Author of “Hearts and Diamonds,” “Love and Warfare,” “The Sleward’s Trust,” “Helena’s Redemption,” etc. (“THE ACCUSED WIFE” was commenced in No. 28. Back numbers can be obtained ofall newsdealers.) — CHAPTER XLI. LOTTIE SAYS “NO.” It was some time before Lottie -could compre- hend, when she onee more woke to conscious- ness, where she was, or how she came to be lying on a clean bed, with the terrible hunger and thirst of the past few awful days assuaged, and a feeling of rest in all her limbs that made her present state seem Heaven after all she had gone through. Something -moved her, and she looked up to see the woman who had come to her before— a very angel of brightness she looked—and she bent over her again, and told her with tears in her eyes that she was safe. And Lottie tried to get up, to move her limbs, to speak, but only found that all strength was gone, and that she had no more power to speak or move than a new- born infant. - “Don’t try,’ said the woman, with tears in her eyes. “Poor thing! poor thing! Drink this!” and she pressed some wine to Lottie’s lips; and the cordial gave her strength tc speak and feebly ask where she was. “On board the Overyssel,’ was the answer. “No, not an English ship’—mi reply to.the ques- tion Lottie tried to frame—‘“Dutch; but I’m Eng- lish.« I’m Captain Blokzel’s wife. I’m so thank- ful I’m-on board. I’ve seen a many shipwrecked people, but never anything like this. It was Heaven’s mercy we saw you when we did.” Lottie further learned that she had slept full four-and-twenty hours, and that her campanions in misfortune were rapidly getting better. Clarke was recovering the most slowhy, perhaps because he had endured the longest. She heard, too, that the Overyssel- was bound to Valparaiso from Ba- tavia. ~She was a large trading-ship, and had been to Acheen first, or in all probability she would never have been near the scene of the wreck of the Polaris. Lottie could only feebly wonder when _ they should get to Valparaiso, and what she would do when they arrived at that remote seaport. She Was penniless and alone in the world, and the awful peril she had come through had made all other discomforts seem light in comparison. But the time came when she was strong enough to be taken on deck, and to meet the four other pale specters who had been the companions of her danger. They greeted her with tears. They were weak and spent yet, though rapidly recov- ering. Then Lottie began to think of her position. She was indebted to the captain’s wife for the very clothes she wore. She had not a single her own—no home, no article she could call friends. The pitiless sea had swept away all. With her returning strength came sorrow for her lost friend, and terror for the future; and but for Clarke she would have sunk into pitiable de- spondency. : _“J wish I could cheer you up he said to her the fourth day deck. “It’s an awful thing for be left alone in the world like this; but you’ye got your life—that’s something; isn’t it?” “T ought to be very thankful,” she said, with a quivering lip. ‘I’m wicked and ungrateful, I know; but it all seems so dreary.” “Tt does, my poor lass.” 4 “But it’s as bad for you,” Lottie-said. “No, it isn’t} a“ma n rough it.