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OFFICE No. 31 Rose &t.,
P. 0. Box 2734 New York.

Vol. 34.

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New York, August ai; 1879.

FRANOGIS 8. SMITH

 

Three Dollars Per Year.

 

 

 

 

11 TAP | ch ed
oe Li

Te ketenes

hurchyard Betrothal ;

OR;

COALS OF FIRE.

By Mrs. GEORGE SHELDON (Bertha Allyn.)
AUthor of “Nora, the Irish Charity Scholar.”

 

 

} circumstances; how much more then will she
despise me, an entire stranger, for binding her
tome insuch a way. My lord—Uncle Ralph, I
cannot doit. What right have you to ask it of
me?” concluded the young man, almost passion-
ately.

“Boy! boy! what right? Ah, the right of one
who loves you better than his own life-blood,
and because you, and you alone, must inherit my
title and wealth; though I swear, if you refuse
!to obey me, they shall go to that low-bred vil-
lain, your cousin, muchas] hate him. Reginald,
my boy, come sit beside me, and [’]l tell you the
sad story of my life; then see if you can refuse

CHAPTER I.
THE PROMISE.

“Promise me, Reginald.”

“Bat, uncle, it is such an unheard of proposi-
tion! She isso young and] have never even
seen her; and to solemnize such an event in such
& place—it is horrible!”

“Boy, tell you I am dying; before another
dawn ishall have ceased to breathe. My will
is madé—there it lies, and the moment you give
ihe your word I will call the witnesses and sign
it. Refiise to do as I desire,” and here the old
man half arose .from his pillow, his white face
darkeniiig, his sunken eyes gleaming, and his
thin, livid lips fiercely compressed—‘“refuse to , me.”
do as I desire,” he repeated, ‘‘and you shall bea} The above conversation occurred in a large
beggar, with my curses to follow you all the days of | and airy chamber of a hotel, in a small village
your life,” a few miles from Paris.

 

 

“Calm yourself, uncle; I have not yet re-; The sick man was upwards of fifty years of
fused,” returned the young man, gently foreing
the hoary head back upon its pillow, then ad-
mg? “But why do you wish the sacrifice—I can
call it nothing else—to be offered on that one
spot?” Why not have it performed decently like
other folks? If a girl loved me ever so well.
she would shrink from wedding me under such

'older.. He was powerfully built, and in health
had been a fine specimen of the hale and hearty
Englishman. His hair and beard were gray, al-
most white, his head was finely shaped and well
developed, his eyes sharp and piercing, moving
| restlesslv in their sockets, as they followed with

|

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an anxious, almost fierce expression, the move-
ments of his younger companion. His nose was
sharp and straight, while his mouth, with its
thin aristocratic lips, was amarvel of decision,
and the expression which now rested there, told
but too plainly, that his willregarding the ques-
tion under consideration wag unalterable.

The young man was about twenty-four, tall,
well formed, carrying a finely-shaped head
proudly upon a broad, manly pair of shoulders,
He had a bright but kindly-beaming black eye,
a Roman nose, and a mouth remarkable for its
sweet and gentle expression, and which would
have been regarded effeminate but for the square,
decided chin beneath, from which flowed a fine
silken beard of glossy black. He had been ner-
vously walking the room, but now at his uncle’s
command he sat down by his bedside, taking |
one of the thin, trembling hands, which lay out-
side of the coverlet, and which was fast becom-
ing cold and lifeless, in hisown strong, warm
ones.

 

 

 

 

1 Her
et

 

 

 

 

“PATHER!’ SHRIEKED THE WRETCHED GIRL. “OH, GOD! NOT THAT!”

other woman should ever usurp her place in my
heart or home, and so I have lived a lonely and |
almost unloved man, excepting the affection
which you have given to me.”

“She gave her heart and hand to my dearest |
friend, Lord Herbert Montagne, and though it |
was like the bitterness of death to me, yet, 1|
calmly gave her to him, knowing it was for her |
happiness; and while not loving he
him more for the affection and tenderness which
he showered upon her, and which made her joy
on earth.

“When their little one was given to them—a

‘game woman with a love that will never give

| thus cement anew our friendship, and in the

r less, Lloved
| the Lady Alice would have any choice in the matter,

| although since, I have sometimes questioned the wis-

|

place to another. You will have your boy, I my
little girl; now let us betroth our children and

future unite with them our estates, which will
form a magnificent fortune when they come to-
gether.’

“Reginald, my boy, I knew such things were done
every day; I did not stop to think whether you or

dom of the act. Bethat asit may I consented, and
| we both bound ourselves to the contract.
| Ralph,’ continued my friend, when that was done,

bright little girl, her mother’s counterpart—their | ‘there is one thing more I wish to ask of you. It may
cup of happiness was apparently full. But only | seem a peculiar request, yet Iam going to make it,
for a time did they enjoy it, for her ladyship , nevertheless. You and I may not both live to see the

suddenly sickened and died when the little Lady
Alice was but a month old.

“Only a few days before, my brother, your
father, had written me from India that he had
lost his wife some three months previous, and
that his own health was rapidly failing. He

 

His face was overcast with perplexity and
doubt, and even distress; and though his man-
ner was respectful and tender, he did’ not raise
his troubled eyes to those of the invalid, who
scanned his countenance with an eager, anxious
gaze,

“Reginald.” he began, “when I was of your
age Lloved a girl beautiful as an angel; ah, she
was an angel, with her wings only hidden for a
time,”

An expression of pain here crossed his features,
and tears glistened in his sunken eyes. After a
momer‘’3 pause he went on:

ra: %nown her from a boy, and she had
ever i: calcd me with the greatest kindness, and
thus ail unsuspecting fanned to a flame a love
which she could never return, To love once
with me was to love forever, and when one day
Itold her of my affection and asked her to be-

i come my countess, she was greatly surprised and

; begged me to come to him immediately, and in

! case 1 did not reach India in time to see him

| alive he bequeathed you to me as my own. You
, were then six years old. ‘
“T made immediate preparations for the jour-

last sad ceremonies of my lost love, and perform
one duty, that was a visit to my friend and suc-
cessful rival. I found him heart-broken, and
we talked long and fondly of his lost one. I told
him of my love for his wife, how I had sought
her for my own, and how I now doubly grieved
over her death and his loss.

‘‘He regarded me in astonishment at the reve-
lation at first, then he grasped my hand, and ex-
' claimed :

‘Ralph Rutherford, you are a noble man,
| more worthy of her than I was. How could you
give her to me so uncomplainingly, and still
keep me as your friend? Most men would have

 

ney, only remaining long enongh to attend the

| age, although disease made him appear much ; deeply pained. She had everregarded me asa ‘regarded me as an enemy for winning one whom

dear friend, nothing ‘more, and kindly thongh | they loved.’

firmly refused me, telling me that her heart was | “During our long and earnest talk, I informed
| : .

another’s. | him of my proposed journey and of your father’s

 

“Boy, I tell you the blow well-nigh dethroned legacy. At this information, he brightened vis-
my reason. I vowed I would have her, and her ) ibly, and said:
only until death should claim us both—that no! ‘“ ‘Come, my friend, wo have both loved the

 

 

| consummation of our desire; if either of us is taken,
| that will leave the ehild of one of us alone in the
world. Should I die first, and before Alice reaches
maturity, [consign her to your guardianship. Should
| the reverse occur I will take Reginald; and I insist
| that just as soon afterward as their ages will allow,
| their betrothal be solemnized over our grave, to be im-
| mediately followed by the marriage service whenever
| you choose. Should you be the first to be called, I
shall feel that then and there, by your new-made
} grave, I shall have fulfilled my part of the contract ;
and should I go first, I wish my daughter to give her-
self to the man of my choice above my ashes.’
i “It wasastrange request, Reginald, and I confess
I did not like the idea of it even then, but in his sor-
'row and trouble, with his heart in the grave of his
| wife, I could not refuse him, and bound myself to
that also.”

“T do not suppose either of us gave a thought to
the fact that you would then be capable of judging
for yourselves, or that you would have a mind and
preference of your own. LT have never seen him since
I clasped his hand that day, and with tears bade him
‘farewell.’ You know you and I have been wander-
ers ever since. But I gave my word—that is enough,
and it rests with you, Reginald, whether I keep or
break my promise.”

The sick nan lay back exhausted as he concluded,
yet with his restless eyes eagerly searching the
gloomy face xt his side.

“Unele, I do not wish to upbraid you, but it is &
heartless custom, this betrothing innocent children,”
Reginald Rutherford said, indignantly. “Supposing
your father had pledged you to some one whom you
did not love—had never even seen, of whose character
you knew absolutely nothing, and insisted on your

 

 

 

 

 
 
 

   
  
  
   
   
 
  
 
 
  
  
 
     
      
  
    
        
     
   
   
 
   
 
    
   
   
    
    
     
  
    
   
  
  
   
   
    
  
   
   
   
    
   
  
    
    
  
  
  
   
    
  
   
   
   
   
    
  
    
   
  
    
 
    
    
     
  
  
  
  
  
  
 
   
   
    

 

  

  
 
  

  
  
  

  

   
  
   
  
   
   
    
 

 
  
 

  

  

  

  

  
   

  

  
  

  
  

 
 
 
 

 
  
  

 
 
 
 

  
 

 
 

  

 
 

 
 

  

 
 
   
 

   

  

  

 

   

    

   
  

  

 
  
  
 

   
 

 
 

  
    

  

i you, my boy?

 

 

 

 

fulfilling the contract when you reached manhood,
do you notthink you would have rebelled against
the marriage, loving the Lady Alice’s mother as you
did ¢”

Count Ralph Rutherford started as if a mortal pain
had seized him, and a spasm of agony contracted his
fine features, showing that the old love yet lived, and
that the question had struck home. But it soon pass-
ed, and the thin. paledips came tog * withthe old
expression of decision hew knew so

well. 4 , Ky
kept before

   
  
   

 
  

“Boy, boy, one’s word of honor must
everything. IfT could but have liyed long enough
to have reached England, and brought you two Ei
gether, and you eould not love each other, then per
haps his lordship and T could have arranged matters
differently. Butit is too late, too late. I cannot go
back upon my word. You must either wed Alice
Montague, or my title and wealth all go to my sister’s
vagabond son, Arthur Vincent. Yom'’ye seen him;
we met him at Baden-Baden, and, you know what he
is,

“Yes, unele.”

“You know also that Thave power to choose my
own heir, having no children of my own, and the title
goes with the estates. Iknow that Lord Montague
intends to hold his word, tor I had letters from him
some three months ago, asking if i were not time to
bring you two together.”

“Why not give me time now, uncle, to try and win
the Lady Alice? I promise you I will do my utinost
—the contract would not then seem quite so arbi-
tary,” pleaded the young man earnestly.

“No, no; you must stick to the contract, and that
said ‘immediately upon the death of either of us, pro-
vided you were old enough.’ You are twenty-four,
she eighteen, and the sooner it is over with the bet-
ter for both of you. Boy, win her after marriage !
Say, Reginald, will you choose wealth, honor, and a
beautiful bride, and save my reputation—it is my last,
my dying request—or will you prefer beggary and
your own way ?”’

There was silence in that sick chamber fora long
while.

The sunlight stole in through the large bay-window,
making the room cheerful and home-like; but to the
young man, to Whom the world had’ heretofore been
so bright, it seemed as if a‘sudden gloom had fallen
upon his life.

He was mortified, startled, indignant at the revela-
tion to which he had just listened. He had never
been told of the arrangements made for his future
until this hour, and his whole manly nature rose up
in rebellion against the shackles with which he found
himself so suddenly bound, Not only on his own ac-
count either, for he was of a nature that gould sacri-
fice, suffer, and be silent. He could not endure even
the thought that he must bind a young and beautiful
girl for life to him, when her heart, perhaps, had
already been given to another, or who, st all events,
would probably rebel at the idea of being driven into
a marriage with an utter stranger.

“Reginald.” said the sick man, faintly, “decide
quickly, for the sands of life are running low.”

Still silence! and the ormolu clock upon its marble
shelf, ticked its seconds of fleeting time into minutes,
which were indeed: fast telling the hours of his life,
as Count Rutherford lay watehing with almost
pe thine anxiety, that sad, troubled face at his bed-
side.

At last Reginald Rutherford raised his proud head,
and with one shapely hand sweeping back the masses
of rich, raven hair, which had fallen over his fore-
head, now wet with great drops of perspiration, he
turned his white face and firmly-set lips full upon his
uncle, and said:

“Unele Ralph, your title and wealth I know are not
to be despised, but for these alone [would not yield
one iota. Against human happiness, I consider them
naught in the balance. But as you seem to look to
me to sustain your reputation for truth and integrity

—as you make it your last, your dying request, fully |

persuaded that Lord Montague still holds you to your
pledge, I will consent upon one condition.”

“And that is?” he demanded, deeply agitated.

“That the Lady Alice does not object.”

“She will not dare,” whispered the dying count.

“T shall insist upon knowing her mind at all events.
Tf her heart is preoccupied, and she is to be made
miserable by this union, I will never consent. Iwould
saerifice everything pertaining to myself, rather
than rnin the life of a young and innocent maiden.
Unele Ralph, [ know you have been father and mother
both tome. [owe all I am, or ever hope to be, to
your kind care and faithfulness. I love you more
than I have ever been able to prove to you, and be-
cause of this affection, I give you my word, that I
will do as you desire, providing, as I have said, the
Lady Alice willingly weds me.”

“Bless you, my boy!” cried the old man, tears
welling again to his fading eyes; ‘‘you have ever been
kind, obedient, and a blessing to me, and now this is
all I can ask before I die. I would I could have lived
to. see you and Alice, the fair-hain child of my lost
love, man and wife, but God wills it otherwise, and I
must submit. Now you may call the lawyer and the
others. But atay—one moment,” he added, hastily,
as his nephew half arose to do his bidding.

“What is it, Uncle Ralph?” j

Count Rutherford grasped both hands of his ‘boy,’
and looking eagerly into the noble face, which was
still white and set from the contlict of his emotions,
and with a world of tenderness in his voice, asked
huskily: :

“Reginald, you said if the Lady Alice’s heart was
preoccupied, you would never consent—if she is to be
made miserable, you will not wed her. How is it with
i hed not thought of it before. God
forgive me! Are you to be made miserable as I was
—do you love some one else?”

The count’s voice rose into a shrill cry as he asked
this question, and all the desolateness of his own
youth rushed over him, and he forthe first time re-
alized. that he might dcom his nephew to a tate even
worse than his own.

“No, no, dearuncle. I haver yet met the woman
whom I could love well enough to make my wife, al-
though I have met many who were both beautiful
and good. Set your heart at rest on that score, but it
is the principle of the thing that troubles me; my
whole nature reyolts at these compulsory marriages,
where the feelings of the parties most interested, are
neither consulted nor regarded.”

“T am afraid itis not right, but it’s too late now.
There is one thing more. The weather is so warm
you will have to leave me here awhile; but when it
gets cooler, take my poor old bones back to Ruther-
ford. But do not wait long about the imarriage;
write immediately to Lord Montague, and have that
business oyer as soon as possible; for my will says
you are not to come in possession until the day of
your marriage, unless Alice refuses; in that case it
is all yours, and you are free to do as you like.”

“Very well, sir, I will regard your every request,”
returned Reginald Rutherford, gravely.

“Now call them,” commanded the sick man, impa-
tiently, and turning wearily upon his pillow.

Reginald rang the bell, telling the servant who ap-
peared that his lordship was ready for his man of
business.

He left the room, but soon returned with the law-
yer, physician, and two other men.

Pen and ink werein readiness, and Count Ruther-
ford, after being bolstered up with pillows, grasped
the pen firmly, writing in bold, plain characters his
name at the bottom of the document which his law-
yer placed before him.

The others followed his example, the dying man
watching with eager interest while they did so; then
sinking back exhausted, he motioned all but his
nephew to leave the room.

He lay panting and weak upon his pillow, gazing
with fond and loving looks upon the one on whom he
had centered the hopes of nearly twenty years. His
lonely, hungry heart had gone out to the orphan boy
from the first, and he had devoted his life to him;
now that life was fast ebbing out, and he Knew it—
knew he was looking his last upon the face he leved
best on earth.

All through the day he failed, growing weaker, his
breath coming fainter, and Reginald Rutherford
never left his side.

As the shades of night dropped lower and lower,
the count began to wander in his mind, now bab-
bling of the scenes of his boyhood, now.of the hopes
centered in the faithful one who watched over him;
while ever and anon the name of Alice Montrose, the
one love of his life, was breathed with a tenderness
and reverence which showed how deep and true had
been the affection he bore her.

Just as the rosy dawn came slowly creeping into
the east the weary life went out, and Reginald Ruth-
erford was alone with his dead—a strange depression
upon his soul, a fearfuland doubtful looking forward
into the future in his heart such as he had never ex-
perienced before.

Three days later, and the body of Count Ralph
Rutherford was laid to rest in the quiet cemetery
pon neseee with the unpretentious church of the
Village.

After all was over, Reginald resolutely set himself
about the duty which lay before him—dispatched let-
ters to Lord Montague acquainting him with the sud-
den sickness and death of his uncle, also with his
wishes regarding the future of himself and his lora-
ship’s daughter; intimating, at the same time, his
own willingness to comply with whatever arrange-
ments he might choose to make,

This done, he wearily awaited the issues

CHAPTER If.
on, GOD! NOT THAT!

The distance between Liverpool and London by
rail is over two hundred mile.

About half way between these two
cities there stands a pile of buildings massive
imposing in appearance.

It is situated upon an eminence, and can be ap-
proached by three different roads, all beautifully
graded, and sweeping in graceful curves over hill,
through vale and forest, and skirting the vast estate
ot Lord Herbert Montague.

The main road, which leads from the busy village
of Montague, winds around by the side of a beautiful
stream, past thrifty little farms, which are kept like
gardens surrounded by their neatly-trimmed hedges
and upon which live the tenantry of his lordship.

At the entrance to his private grounds is a delight-
ful porter’s lodge, almost enveloped in the luxuriant

important
and

 
 
 
    

    

 

|

 

|
|

}

 

; eenth year of her life—the pride of her fond father’s

smiling at the dismay depicted upon the faces of her

the battle as best you can.”

Familias is absent.”

| standing

who has presided over the huge gate for more than. a |
third of a century. |

Passing this, a scene of enchantment and bewilder- |
ing beauty bursts upon the view. |

Numberless paths diverge from the maim avenues,
sweeping right and left, and leading past artificial
lakes, With now and then a beautiful cascade burst-}
i } i : 8,and 80 skill-
rp into the be-
nothing to de

   
  

  

 
    

  

tempting the weary to rest in thet ade; pa
of brilliant flowers in fanciful designs lie beyond
the bright sunlight, while everywhere gleam stat
in marble and bronze.

The carriage road or main sayenue sweepsin a
sort of semicircle, and comes out upon the highway
again about a mile below, where there is another
porter’s lodge. :

The villa or residence of Lord Montague stands
about midway of this circle, is rather ancient of
structure, but on a scale of grandeur commensurate
with the owner’s wealth and position. Its propor-
tions are immense, ahd comprise an almost endless
number of apartments, all richly aud tastefully fur-
nished. 7

So mueh for Montague, where dwells in princely
splendor the last lord of the race, with his only
daughter.

It is a week since the scenes in the death chamber
of Count Rutherford occurred, and while Reginald
Rutherford sits alone, gloomily brooding over the
unknown but deeply-dreaded future, and waiting for
the reply which shall seal his destiny, a group of gay
ladies and gentlemen are gathered upon the smooth
lawn at Montague.

Ainid all the loveliness which surrounds them, and
in the bright sunlight which peeps in upon and plays
about them through the net-work of foliage, which
shields them from its fiercer rays, there comes to
them no thought of death, or care, or trouble; not a
shadow to warn them, or at least one of them, of the
cloud so rapidly overeasting and darkening her
hitherto azure sky.

There are six ot them-—-three ladies and as many
gentlemen, and they are deeply interested in a sharp-
ly-contested game of croquet.

Suddenly there emerges from the spacious hall of
the villa a servant, who leisurely proceeds down the
marble steps and approaches the group.

Advancing to the tallest of the ladies, he says, re-
spectfully but in a low tone:

“My lady, his lordship desires your presence in the
library as soon as convenient.”

She was very handsome, Her hair was of a golden
brown, and clustered about her small head in rich
Waving masses. Her eyes were @ deep blue, large
and liquid, and fringed with long, dark, curling
lashes, and when the delicate lids were lifted, they
seemed like pools of water whose depths were fath-
omless. Her nose was aquiline, her mouth small and
dainty, yet in moments ot deep thought there was
great strength of charcterin the expression of the
thin, aristocratie lips. Her complexion was clear,
almost wax-like, with a delicate roseate flush upon
the smooth cheeks, which paled or deepened ac-
cording to heremotions. For the rest, she was tall
and graceful as a young elm, though her head was
set witha haughty grace upon a pair of sloping
shoulders, and her hands and feet were small,

Such was Alice Montrose Montague in the eight-

heart, the pet and belle of the society in which she
mooved, and regarded by even the servants of her
household with a love and reverence, beautiful as it
was rare.

She turned with gentle courtesy to the servant as
he sport pausing in the act of striking her ball, then
replied, kindly :

“Very well, Ellis—say to him I will come directly.”
Then, with a sharp, sive stroke, she sent the
ball flying through two wickets. In an instant more
it had hit the stake and was out.

“That was hardly the fair thing todo,” she said,

artners ; “but Ihave amessage from papa, and must
eave you, Sir Arthur, and Lady Augusta, to fight out

And, with a ceful little bow, she turned, and
walked, with the air of an empress, toward the villa.

Entering the library, where Lord Montague awuit-
ed her coming, her face eee ete flushed by the
heat, she sank into a chair, and taking the dainty hat

  
  

from her n to fan herself withit. —
“Well, my lordly papa, what is it?’ she asked,
brightly and play 3 :
His hip, &@ somewhat stern-looking man, after

the old Roman . regarded her with a look of al-
most idolatrous love, yet there was a pang of doubt
in his heart as he thought of the perhaps unwelcome
message he had for her. foe en

As he did not reply to ner remark, she looked up, a
little surprised, and said:

“Ellis said you wanted me, papa.”

“Yes, dear; I sent for you toconsult with you about
a levine great importance which I have just re-
ceived.’

“Of groat importance!
honor.”

And she laughed musically, for never before had
she been consulted upon aught excepting her own
pleasure. ma

His lordship smiled in sympathy, as he contemplat-
ed that bright head and beautiful face leaning so la-
zily back, and so clearly outlined against the rich
purple of the luxurious chair in which she sat.

“When does your friend, the Lady Augusta, leave ?””
he asked, anxious to put off the evil as long as pos-
sible.

“The day after to-morrow, and her brother, Sir
Arthur, also.”

“It is well; and we can excuse ourselves to our
other visitors,” said Lord Montague, half-musingly.
“Excuse ourselves!” exclaimed the Lady Alice,
opening in wide surprise those liquid eyes of hers.
“Yes; we have ajourney to take, which must be
accomplished as soon as possible.”

“A journey! Ah, theletter! I forgot entirely abont
that important business,” she said, the amused smile
again rippling over her lips, adding: “Surely, papa,
if there is anything very urgent, you can excuse your-
self, while I will ask the Lady Augusta to remain
longer and help me entertain our friends. I doubt
not, Madam Gurney will keep us in order, and see to
it that we do not get too wild, even if the paler-

Really, papa, you do me

Ah! how he dreaded more and more to tell her; but
it must come, and the sooner the better.

“T cannot go without you, my dear. The business
I speak of concerns you more than me; and we must
start as early as the day after to-morrow.”

He paused a moment, with knitted brow, then went
on, somewhat hurriedly :

“You have heard me speak of Reginald Rutherford,
the nephew of my dearest friend, Count Ralph Ruth-
erford, and also of the contract which I made with
him when you were but an infant.” n

Yes, she had known of it, for ever since her child-
hood her father.had talked of Reginald Rutherford,
whom she was to marry when she grew, to woman-
hood; but it had never seemed anything but a dream
to her tilithismoment, Hitherto, Reginald had been
but a myth, a dream-knight, to laugh at, and jest
about; but now he suddenly became the real man,
the ogre, the “beast” who would claim the “‘beauty,”
and forever mar her future.

She was sitting haughtily erect now, all the roseate
flush gone from her cheeks, the white, heavily-
tringed lids drooping over those wondrous eyes, and
hiding the workings of hersoul. Yet there was an
ominous compression about the lips, a little uplifting
of the haughty young head, and an icy dignity about
the slight figure, that did not look very’ promising
to his lordship.

She was a veritable Montrose in face and form, but
though it had never yet been severely tested, bis
lordship knew thatin strength of will and force of
character, she was a complete Montague.”

“You heard me, Alice?” he said, as the silence be-
came embarrassing.

Yes, Sir,” |

“You are also aware of the nature of that contract |
and its obligations ?” |

“Yes, my lord,” a slight shudder running through |
the willowy frame, a quivering of the drooping lid,
and a cheek like marble.

“Well, my daughter,” proceeded Lord Montague,
uneasily. ‘Count Rutherford is dead—diedin France
aweek ago quite suddenly, and, according to my
promise, that contract must now be fulfilled.”

He paused—there was no reply—still that icy
silencé. ‘ :

“T have letters here from Reginald Rutherford—
who will be Count Rutherford the day he marries
you—stating bis willingness to abide by his uncle’s
wishes and promise at as early a date as I choose to |
name,”

“He will be Count Rutherford the day ke marries
me? How willit be if he does not marry me?” asked
the Lady Aliee, with a curling lip.

“He will be plain Reginald Rutherford, and—a beg-

”

 

 

 

gar.
“Indeed, he is wise certainly thento desire an early
day.”’

“Shall I send for the voune man to come and make
your acquaintance, or shall I take you to him at once
waiving all ceremony and sentiment, and have the!
marriage performed without delay?’ asked his lord- |
ship ignoring his daughter’s last cutting remark. |

“Surely, my lord, yon are arranging the matters of
a life-time with asystematie coolness that is sur-
prising,” returned the indignant girl, rising and
before bim with haughty defiance, and
sweeping hima scornful look out of her glorious
eyes,

Do not be sareastic, Alice, and remember that my
word of honor is pledged,” he said, sternly.

“But, papa. I protest against this inhuman sacri-
fice,” she cried, passionately, and with a gesture of
abhorrence. “You know nothing,’ she went on,
speaking rapidly, ‘‘of this Reginald Rutherford—nay,
to go back to the very beginning, you did not know
what kind of a man he would make, whether an up-
right and honorable gentleman, a fool, or a knaye;

 

 

and yet you solemnly pledged to give your only child

 

THE NE

him from her with such force that he
a chair from which he had arisen a few moments

 

+--+

W YO

 

care for my happiness, my lord, that yon insist that
in the very pride and bloom of my youth I bind my-
self, perhaps to drag out a miserable existence, or, at
best, to have a mere spirit of toleration for one who
me

Sent to inarry under such circum-

   

nding
seks a

 
  
    

like an
flaming scar eye
detianée, while thé s
tiercely Glasped b
tually livid. .. a

Lord Montague regavded her in ee od
silence. He began ize the determined and
spirited character with which he had to deal, and
was meditating upon the wisest course to pursue.

Finally he said; — ¥ ¥

“Alice, the man you are to marry i§ neither a knave
nor a fool, and he ¢s an honorable and cultivated gen-
tleman, as I am convinced not only from the tone of
his own letters, but from the repeated statemeé

 
    

—

    

s of
his unele regarding his uniform: obedience, kinduess
and devotion to him from his earliest boyhood.”

“A fine spirit of independence he must have withal
to abjectly obey a command to lead an unwilling
bride to the altar,” interrupted the Lady Alice, with
intense scorn.

“He will nod lead an uifwilling bride to the altra.”

“My lord, the nates must be stronger in
will and character than TZ he must win me; I will
never wed the slave of another,” she returned,
proudly.

**Lady Aliee !’’

“My lord,” in icy tones, her blazing eyes fixed full
upon his.

“Tinsist upon the fulfillment of my pledge, or
henceforth you are no child of mine,” and the steel-
like glitter of his eyes almost transfixed her, as she
ae therein her doont; yet even then she did not
yield.

“T would rather be a beggar and choose the man I
could love than wed a kingdom in such a way,’ came
coldly from the white set lips, While not a inuscle of
the now snow-like face quivered.

Lord Montague ignored entirely this statement,
saying in an intlexible Voice:

“We start for France the day after to-morrow. I
desire that you have everything in readiness by that
time. You ean take yetr companion, Miss Gilbert,
along for company, so that you will not be too lonely,
and I will make your excuses to our guests.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

~“My daughter, I do not understand you; do you
accede to my wishes ?” asked his lordship somewhat
doubtfully, as he regarded the beautiful creature,
who, with lifted head, and dilated nostrils, looked
like a hunted stag at bay.

“T do not, sir!” rang like clarion notes through the
still room.

* Alice, beware !””

Then with a passionate gesture, in which was
blended defiance, love, and despair, she cried:

“My lord, [have ever been an obedient daughter.
Your will has ever been my law, and I have loved
you as few daughters love their father; but you have
given me a stab to-day, which will be long in healing.
1 know [am not of age, anu [ will obey you in every-
thing that is reasonable; but Iwill nol be driven into
a imarringe, the thought of which I detest—ZI will not
submit to be bartered like a slave.”

They formed a striking picture that father and
daughter so defiantly facing each other, while on the
face of both was written inflexible resolve. Both
were of the hue of death, and each knew that the
other would rather die than yield; yet a flash of ad-
iniration lit up the old lord’s face as he recognized
the true blood and grit of the Montague race in the
reckless daring ef his child. But it passed in an ip-
stant, and,in tones husky with rage he demanded:

“Lady Alice Montague, is that your ultimatum ?
Do you still refuse ?”’

“Utterly.” 3

“Then hear me; and you have too much of my own
spirit not to know that [mean what I say. Listen.”

He bent his lips close to her ear and whispered a
moment, his very frame shaking with the passion in
his soul.

She lifted her hands in sudden agony, and pushed
ell back into

=

ore. r
“Father!” shrieked@the wretched girl. “Oh, God!

not that!”

CHAPTER Tif.
Soon AT A STRAW.
She lifted her clasped hands one moment to Heaven,

asifimploring aidin this hour of bitter trial; the
next she had thrown herself upon he C4 er

    
  

    
  
 
 
  
 
 
  
 
 
  

CCS

e@ AVE MY name ¢ ed. Yo shall go back
to the convent at Paris, 1y body shall go into
the tomb ofits fathers, my estate to thecrown. 2
swear it !”

A a moan agaiir @seaped her, atid then she
gasped: : ;

" oh Montague a suicigé! Oh, Heaven? not that!”

“Better that than living to dishonor my solemn
oath.”

She knew he meant it, but oh, it was so hard to
realize it!

Her head fell forward upon her clasped hands, and
she lay there more hopelessly wretched than can be
described. ;

She knew now that she must yield, she equid not
become her father’s murderer; and yet to submit was
like rending her soul from her body.

Five, ten minutes passed, and she did not move, so
locked was she within her own thoughts.

She looked backward over the bright, beautiful
past, athwart the sunny sky of which no cloud or
shadow had ever flitted. Never before had these
two wills clashed. She had ever been the petted
darling of the house—be, the fond and idolizing
father. Now, how like a mountain had risen this
barrier, and all in a single moment as it were.

And the future® A shudder convulsed her frame
as she thought of it.

Whichever way she turned, it was like a dreary.
blackened waste—the fair fabric of her life destroyéd
by a single blow.

She knew that further argument was useless—the
sentence was passed, and it only remained for her to
say whether it should be life or death.

In those ten minutes it seemed as if she had turned
to stone, as if her light, happy heart had died and
turned to ashes; and, when at last she looked up, his
lordship was startled at the wan face, the cold, stony
look in her eyes, and the calmness born of despair
with which she spoke.

“Very well, my lord, take your lease of life.”

“Bless you, my child—yon will do as I desire ?”

“The lord of Montague must not fill a suicide’s
grave.”

' Again that convulsive shudder shook her frame.

He made a gesture of impatience at her reply. He
knew he had taken an unfair advantage of her, and
was ashamed of it.

“Better that than the other condition I told you,”
he said, grimly.

She rose from herknees andturned to leave the
room.

Suddenly she stopped, came back to his side, and
said:

‘My lord, I should like to read Reginald Ruther-
ford’s letter, if you have no objection.”

“Certainly not. But Alice, love, do not let us be es-
tranged; your old father still loves you, even if for
once he has given you severe pain,” he pleaded, his
voice husky with emotion.

Something in her despairing face cut him to the
heart.

“The letter, if you please,” she replied, tersely, and
repelling him by a wave of herhand as he would
have taken her to his arms.

Her heart was too deeply wounded to forgive even
him then. That a mistaken ideaof honor could be
more to him than the love and happiness of his only
child, was too keen a stab to be readily healed.

With a deep sigh Lord Montague turned to his desk,
found the letter, and passed it to Lady Alice.

The writing was, bold and free, and she was invol-
untarily attacted by it, even before she had reada
line.

It was courteous and to the point. It ran thus:

“My LORD OF MONTAGUE—Hionored Sir: I write to ac-
quaint you of the sudden death of my dear uncle, Count

Ralph Rutherford. Asyou know, we have been traveling
upon the Continent several years, but we were on our way
back to Rutherford when he was suddenly attacked with

a virulent fever, which rapidly burned his life away. He
died three days ago, and was buried this morning. I am |

more desolate than I can express, and am not equal just
now, with my sorrow and fatigue from watching, to the
task of writing you the full particulars of his sickness. It
is with a feeling of delicacy that I nowspeak of a subject

which during the last few days has caused me much anx- |

iousthought. I refer to the contract which was made be-
tween yourself and my honored uncle some eighteen years
ago. I write thus early after his death, according to his
wish. and will merely state that, as he made it a polnt of
honor that the contract be immediately fulfilled, I hold

myself in readiness to abide by its decree at any date you |

may Choose to name—provided your daughter, the Lady
Alice Montague, has not already bestowed her affections
upon another, and the marriage be not obnoxious to her.
Most sincerely do I regret that we did not meet during
my uncle’s life-time, that I might at leasthave striven to
secure the respect of one whom a strange providence has
seen fit to confide to my keeping for life.

“With kind regards to yourself, and my most respectful
compliments to Lady Alice, I am very truly yours,

“REGINALD RUTHERFORD.”

“Well?” questioned his lordship, as she thought-
fully refolded the letter.

“Tf there were fewer points of honor, so called,
and a little more heart in the world, there would be
less misery,” she said, bitterly.

“Tt is a very fine letter in my opinion. T shall be
very proud of him as a son-in-law.”

“My lord, he makes a condition regarding this mar-

riage.”

 
 
  
   

 

 

Flow eagerly she grasped at that straw!

“Yes, he is very honorable about it, and seems will-
ing to release you,if the warriage is repulsive to
you. Shall I tell him that it is, or that love some you
one else ?’’ he asked, glancing up with a threatening

   
     

im seareéhingly a moment, and she

She reg@
Ould not vélease her, it Reginald Ruth-

knew that

   

 
  
 
  
 

el] him hing from me.” !
ké a ae ue, my daughter.”

seemed £0 €

e forth?

e,my lor@ You have made your eondi-
¥Imake Wine. [await your commands,
bbey them thus far.

Way youl arrange; I even submit to the
yard betrothal; in fact, it now
i fittest place after all in whieh to pledge

‘hat are dead,” and asmile whieh had in it all
the bitterness of Gé@ath flitted over her wan fuce.
“TI will take this man’s name upon me,” she went on,
“but further than that, you nor he are to expect
nothing from me, for I will not be trammeled with
the presence of one for whom I have no love, no, por
even respect, if he can stoop to sucha measure to gain
his title.”

“In other words, you mean me to understand that
you do not intend to live with your husband ?” ex-
claimed the lord, wrathfully, his face crimson with
anger,

: a you choose to putitin that way, I do not ob-
ject.

“You are much
shall return immediately to Montague, and Count
Rutherford, your husband, will return with us. You
will be introduced to our friends as his countess, and
I shall take pains to entertain them as they will ex-
pect on such an occasion. You are very
Alice, and if yeu persist in your present conduct, you
willincur my deep displeasure,” returned Lord Mon-
tague, sternly.

“Spoke
The re

‘and she
“Hear

child’s hatred ?”

* Alice, it will not, it cannot be as bad as that.”

He spoke hurriedly, and with evident emotion.

“T tell you, if you wed me to this man against my
will, I shall hate you both,” she whispered, fiercely.

“No, no!’

“Tam a Montague.
roneve a@ willful injury.”

“My child, why will you not be reasonable? I
doubt not you will in time come to esteem and even
regard with affection Count Rutherford, as I am sure
he will regard you, if you make yourself at all agree-
able to him,” replied her father, firmly but kindly,

A mocking smile gleamed for an instant in her eyes
and upon those rigid lips.

“My lord, may I consider this interview closed ?”

The frigid politeness of the request made him wince
rose up Within him,and holding out his
begged:

arms, he

coldness.”

“But not a muscle of that beautiful face relaxed.

The stately Lady of Montague inclined her haughty
head just a trifle, then replied, icily: ;

“My lord, if you have done with me, I crave your
permission to retire. Dinner will be served in half
an hour.” «

“You can go, my child,” was the sad reply.

He arose and Jed hertothe door, but before he
opened it, he gathered her close in his arms, passion-
ately kissing her pale cheeks, with lips that quiv-
ered with pe 5 ty emotion, and when he re-
jeased her and let her outinto the hall, there were
tears upen her face which had not flowed from her
own eyes.

burned her, then passing swiftly up the grand stair-
case, she sought her own suite of rooms.

Lord Montague threw himself again into his chair,
and groaned aloud.

His heart seemed bursting with the thought that
he had lost forever the love of his idolized darling.

But he, too, was a Montague. And who ever knew
one of the race who would not rather die than yield ?

The degree had gone forth.

Lady. Alice Montague should be Countess of Ruth-
erford!

up the stairs, another door, in the rear of the library,
was Cautiously opened, and a dark face, with gleam-
ing, snaky eyes, peered forth.

ae sweeping glance showed that the hall was
empty.
A slight girlish figure glided stealthily out, closing

 

 
 

door noiselessly after her, and then she, too, sped

* the second story and disappeared.

ehind the library was a small room, or rather al-

\ eind stiparetod from it by heavy curtaius of pur-
vet.

wn out, commandingya delightful vigw of the

side of the park, and here were La
pees and a tew choice flowers which
nd.

y Alice’s
she loved

busied with his papers, and here she would sit for
hours with her books or embroidery, forming a pretty
picture, framed in by the graceful arch, with its royal
curtains looped back, and heldin place by their heavy
golden cords.

She loved to be near him, and he delighted to have
her there, often lifting his eyes from his writing
to let them linger fondly upon the bright scene.

To-day, for some reason, the curtains had not been
drawn back, and Lady Alice and her father did not
know of that slight figure crouching upon the floor
among their folds, the dark bright face peering
through a crevice, the snaky eyes noting every move-
iment, reading every expression upon those white
patrician faces, while the quick cunning ears caught
every word of their thrilling interview. ye

Had they but known of that treacherous presence,
the future might have held forthe fair Lady Mon-
tague some gleams of hope!

(TO BE CONTINUED. }

_->- os

The Terrible Drea

 

Mohawks under Theyandanega, had built a large fire and
around it they danced their wild dances, brandishing

they boasted of their deeds in war.

The chief himself did not join in the ceremonies, though
he had lighted the fire with his own hand, for none but a
chief could kindle and make it sacred in their eyes. He
stood apart, with folded arms, looking at them with
haughty indifference, and now and then glancing at the

to stop the nummery when it went out of sight.

For the chief was an educated man, and superior to his
tribe in their whims, fancies, and superstitions. But he
knew that to preserve his influence and popularity he

to old customs and beliefs.

The moon was nearly out of sight, and the dance of the
warriors was taming down, their noise less noticeable
when the chief heard some cry, far up in the forest.

He could not distinguish what it was; in fact, he cared

enemy near to cause extra vigilance. Or at least he
thought so. Hundred of times he had heard the pauther
vell and the wolf howlLin the same forest: it might now be
either of these; what was itto him? The din of the war-

 

 

riors dance and song made it indistinct to his ear.

But further away on the other side of the lake, in the
great forest of pines. there was one who listened to and
trembled at every strange sound.

It was poor Jessie. On her ear the first terrible yefl had
distinctly fallen, and afterward she had heard the cry of
O'Meara, though she did not know who uttered it or what
was its meaning.

When the Indians returned to their camp after the moon
was down, she saw the solitary guard that had been left
for her protection, speak to the chief and point up toward
the forest whence she had heard the cry. But the chief
seemed to treat his information, if he gave any, as not
worth notice, and then Jessie herself forbore to tell him
what she had heard, though she wanted to doso, for she
was alarmed.

Girty was evidently very near; he had persistently fol-
lowed her all this way, and the fiend who called himself
her cousin was with him. Jule De Bon Ceur had not been

  
  

victim to the villains. s
that she would leave the belt under her couch of spruce
boughs as he desired, if she wanted tosee him.

 

| All that night long she listened to the mournful sighing

murmur of the waves on the little lake, and the rattling
dash of a cascade on the stream near which they camped.

She could not sleep. Yet it was not fear that kept her
| awake—there is, there must be a magnetic intluence be-
tween those who love, whichis felt whenever they are
near, even though they know not what it means.

to rise early and eat.
march through the old Indian Pass into the Schoharie val-
| ley. and rest that night upon the river.

| _ Thus, alittle after sunrise, they were on the march.
| Purposely, Jessie delayed her preparations so as to be last

| to leave the camp, and was rejoiced on looking back when !

| she knew that every Mohawk was on the march, to see a
| tall and well-dressed warrior, gliding from tree to tree, ap-
| proaching her lodge in the deserted camp.

| She knew now that Jule De Bon Coeur was alive, and
had not fallen a victim to Girty’s murderous hand as she
feared.

Theyandanega and his warriors movedon at a fair pace,
and stopped to take arest and noonday lunch where the
trail ran between two high hills—sneuntains they would
be called anywhere but in a land of mountains like this.

With his own rifle the chief killed a fat buck that came
leisurely down the ravine to drink ata little stream, and
this, with trout, and some ducks and _partridges,

tuous meal.

While they were cooking ¢
stranger to the Mohawks, came boldly yp, and cutting a
| slice of deer-meat, began to cook it for himself.

2

 
 

er wo ; - ;
‘replied, passionately : hf
Your lordship has settled that already. You need |

age her beyond endurance, |

I submit to this mar- |
Tikes methat |

.
: > |
mistaken there, my lady, for we |

willful, |
“How willit be, my lordif you incur your only |

The race was never known to ,

asif stabbed with a knife; then all the father-love |

“Alice, love, come to me—do not kill me with your
i

She brushed them impatiently away, asif they |

As the last flutter of Lady Alice’s dress disa oo

-om, this -aleove a ye bay-window had been |
Ke

3 |
It was her favorite resort when her father was

2
By NED BUNTLINE,
(“The ’Terrible Dread” was commenced in No. 31.
Back numbers may be obtained from all news agents. }
CHAPTER XLV.
THE FIGHT.
On the Knoll east of the little lake Utsayantha, the

their weapons over the flickering flames, while in song |

moon fast Gescending in the west, ready to give the signal
}

must at times yield to them, and allow the masses to hold |

little, for he was now on his old hunting-grounds, with no |

seen by her for four nights, and she feared he had fallen a |
To satisfy herself she determined |

| of the wind through the tops of the great pines—to the |

When morning came Theyandanega caused his warriors |
Ke told them he should make a long |

which they had before, made all they needed for a sump- :

i eating, & young Indian, a |

 

 

a, &

 

Trembling for his safety, Jessie recognized Jule Def
Copur. 1
‘Theyandanega looked keenly at him, but not until]
had apparently satisfied his hunger did the Moha
chief approach or speak to him. But when he had eag
and drank from th heré all slaked their thi
then the chief, eyi rom head to foot, asked him
|e Mohawk tongue who he was and where he «©
rom, :

 
  

  
  

wh tongue, the Seneca, or in Engi
and you,” said the stranger. ,

Seneca wear ds wrought by]
yed chief. 3
there. She is beantj
said the other, co
ng glance of the J
ake moccasins

   
 
  
 
 

_ satisfied,

neue perfectly.

red brother go? Heis alone
B next asked, 1

pwn I expect to put more ff

ile the Mohawks danced om

‘i in y pert. ‘5
old battle ground last night the Sene@a was in camp y
| by. He heard the noisé of the medicine drum an@
| Went to see who were there. But*beforé he got neg

| Mohawk camp he found another camp. In it were
| bad white men, who had come from the great river toy
| Sunset, and with them was a band of bad Schoharie]
dians, who held a council to lay wait for the Mohaw
the march and to kill them when they were not re

for ’

 
 
   
   
 
    
  
  
  
  
  
 

  
   

  
 

| tight.”

“Hal The Schoharie dogs? I know them well.
| = lay on my trail?” ©
| “Yes. But I have four friends who follow and

; them, They will give a signal that I shall know,
we are near the hiding-place of the enemy. I will g
| with you till then.”
“Good! But why does the Seneca help the Mohay
‘‘Why does one panther help another? He will noty
with a wolf, or foul his claws witha skunk. The mé
the six nations are brothers. The Schoharie Indiang
not good men—they shall make meat for the car
crow !" 4
| All this time Jessie had not dared to exchange af
with Jule, nor he with her, but she heard his wa
kuew that there was danger abroad, and he would
till it was met or averted. ;
The Mohawks now moved on—not as before, in
file, but four abreast, as the chief had learned to dof
the English, so that his force was massed and rea
concentrated action, 4
The chief walked just ahead of Jessie’s horse, and
stranger walked close by his side. Few words ¥
| spoken, but the Indians moved steadily, almost swiftly
Iivery gun was loaded, every knife and tomahawk
in its belt. 7
It was now late in the afternoon. The trail led thra
a deep ravine, which seemed not far ahead to
tersected by another gorge, cutting across it at
angles.
“Let the woman be sent more to the rear,” saidi
Seneca. ‘We are coming to the place which the Sef
| ries painted in their talk. Hark! do you hear that @g
No bird makes that cry in sunlight.
warns me to be ready for the fight.”
| Theyandanega quickly told Jessie to dismount,
| gave two warriors special care of her alone. They ¥
to keep back out of the fight and under cover. 7
Then going to the front, he scattered his warriors t
full width of the ravine, telling them in low tone
drop, take cover, and fight their best, when attacked
moved on. 4
Suddenly, as they came close to the intersecting gg
| two sharp, loud rifle-shots were heard, seemingly)
down in that gorge; these were followed by two or ¥
| moré, and a series of sharp wild yells. 4
At the same time, close in front of the Mohawks, @
ingly alarmed and confused, a body of Indians sprau

It is my triend

and began to yell and fire.

 

In an instant every Mohawk had taken cover be
rock or tree, and while the voice of their leadeg
londer than a bugle-call in his wild battle-cry,]
opened a deadly fire upon the enemies, who were
selves surprised instead of being the surprisers. j

Evidently they, the Schoharies, were attacked
rear, for again the double ritle-shots rang out, and {
after cheer came from throats not savage in their 1

“Fight, you red devils, tight !—we're hemmedin!
Girty, himself, springing torward to head his allies.

“Don’t kill that wretch—keep him to roast
shouted Jule to the Mohawk chief. “Charge with mm
their scalps are ours!” i

The Mohawk saw the Seneca dash on, his rifle —
his back, but a gleaming tomahawk in one hand, ;
in the other. 4

“One-ka!” (Forward!) he shouted, and he followe
| by the side of the lion-hearted stranger. On cai
braves, with terrible yells, and the Schoharies,
more than decimated, turned to fiy. * s
| But, as Girty said, there were more foemen in thei
‘and death came in a leaden shower from that dire
es ! e, or not one
who stood loadii
ALeara cowered ;
g to show him the way, he fairly dragge
i through the bushes, into alow vault or crev
, in the rock, through which a dozen bleeding
| were ug. 3
| O'Meara scrambled after, and then, while othe
and fought, and struggled, to reach the same
| a. the Mohawks poured in upon them, slay
an he

 

         

       
     
  

 
 
   
     

 
  
 
 
    
       
 

     
         
 
  

    

   

          
   
      
 
  
  
  
   
 
  

        
  
       
    

   
    
  
    
  

 

     
 

       
   

   
  
 

   
 

  
   
  

| Now came a new surprise. With clubbed guns,
' death at every blow, four white men came swee
, the rear of the terror-stricken Schoharies, who,
| in a helpless mass toward the cavern, offered lit
resistance.
} It was now 2 massacre, and not a fight.
| utes. Ald v ver, and a few
those ° hi ough the
| through open beyond th@ hill, and wa
| out of reach. Was almost night late to hope
_ low the fugitives with success. }
| Brant, or Theyandanega, now had ‘time to look
who had both warned and helped him.
His brow had darkened when he saw that h
from white men, but it darkened still more when
, De Marsanne, who wore his uniform.
| “You are French!’ he said, sternly, looking att
| Who leaned, pale and bleeding, on his gun.
;_ “Yes, he is French, Massa Cap’n Brant; but
| bestest master I've ebber had since dem Frene
stole me from ele Massa Johnson.” ‘

It was old Chloe, beige up the rear, who
Theyandanega recognized her instantly.

“Lam not on duty, and am but a private
now,” said De Marsanne. “If you are the great
| Theyandanega, of whom I have so often heard,

fear to throw mg tp on your generosity and hon
, other three are English—two of them scouts in
glish service. One is Captain Jack, the Black Huw
**He has taken many scalps. He is a-great’
me look at him,” said Brant.

Captain Jack stood out. R

“Yon are covered with blood.
the chief. ig

“No. It is the blood of your enemie
| in your defense.” :
; es ga Jack pointed to De Marsan
stand.

In an instant Brant bent over the we

“Water!” he cried, to old Chiee—“wat

Tearing a silken scarf from about
chief washed and dressed a dangerous f
thigh, barely missing the femoral] artery
| with a compressor, e and over the w
two more wounds, one in the arm, the o
before he either looked at or spoke to ¢

Then he said to one of his people: P

“Bring up the lady and her horse. tmust e
till we get down to the valley to camp.” te,

Jule De Bon Cceur now helped to lay De }
and he whispered to him, in French, to be
appear to recognize the lady. Then he hut
her, to give her asimilar hint, and to prey
him whom she was now to meet.

Brant, in the meantime, turned to Captain J )
he knew only by the fame of his exploits, and
the battle—of the timely warning, the attack
which had confused the Scoharie Indians, and
even Girty, with all his courage and audacity.

He was thus talking when Jessie rode up, her
by one of her guards.

“There is a@ wounded officer, too weak to wal
next Camp, young lady. If you will permit, w

‘him on the horse behind yon and let him ride.
our own wounded to carry and help along, and we
strong-handed !” j

| “Heis welcome toride. I can walk if it need b
Jessie. 1
‘‘No—he can steady himself by your form !” said

Jessie trembled to “he he would be so near, yé

         
  
   

    
  
  
  
 

  
   

 
  

In a few
2 Mokawks fol!
They had @

  
   
        
   
   
  

   
 

   
 
 
  

   
  
 

   

   

  
 

 
 
 

 
 
 
  
  

 

  
 
  
 

   

  

 

 

117

the palpitation of joy ch shook her slender fon

The colonel, very faint, heard her voice) and
head, Their eyes met, and each tried to lobdk strats
wonderingly on the other—but had Brant been off
picious nature, he could have read recognition «
even in the fleeting glance. 1

But he did not; he had his wounded men to look
he only told Captain Jack to go on with his friend
Mohawk guide to a spring a mile down the valley
he would soon arrive with all his band. |

Captain Jack lifted the colonel on to Jessie’s ho

he animal, rather restive was S® uneasy the colo
forced to press his unwounded arm about her slende
to save himself from falling.

Oh—to him there was elysium in the touch. To he
all her maiden modesty, a feeling she could nev
described. ;

He did not, dared not speak, but he felt no paing
wounded as he was, While she was 80 near. a

Now with Jule De Bon Coeur on one side, Captai
on the other, Lawyer Manson, Lois and Chloe in 18
they moved on toward the camping-ground in the ¥

And Brant remained only long enough to
wounded—the dead, Indian-fashion, were allowed
care of themselves assisted by foxes, crows, and W

“Are you wounded very badly ?” whispered Jessi
colonel, as his wounded arm encireled her waist,

“No, sweet lady, not dangerously at any rate, f
have lost a good deal of bDloodand am very weak. I
one wound from which I shall never recover!”

Jessie trembled again. She thought she understé
but was not sure. ;

“Was it inflicted by the Indians or that fiend, |
she asked.

“Neither!” said the colonel. “I have but little
now to speak, may have less hereafter till we are f
all restraint. Your eyes, dear lady, gave the woung
hand alone can sooth. but never healit. You have!
to the very sources of my life with the keen a
love!” /

Jessie could not speak. But her heart fluttered §)

 

 

  

   

| Was sure he heard its rapid beatin
“You do not hate me for this avayal? I have l¢
post, left duty, all behind me to e » to Save you !""

“Hate vou? I never did.’ she whispered. “I cani

more now. Whois that elderly gentleman with you

“Lawyer Manson, from Ireland, who has come

the ocean to find you and carry you back to claim)

lands, a princely castle, and a heritage fit only for

, if might make a queen’s dower! I will eall him
introduce him.”

At a sign from De Marsanne, Manson closed up, ff
walked very slow though on horseback, and Jessie
troduced. 4

“An O'Meara in every feature! Your people wil
and hail you at the first look,” he raid, as he scan

| lovely features of Jessie’s face. 4

Lois, poor Lois. had all this time sighed in vain for
of recognition, and his heart throbSed with agon
saw her smile on others without one look for. hi
| how seeing the Black Hunter, Jessie’s theughts 1e@ >
| to those Who had been so kind to her. ‘

 

 

 

 

   
 

         
           
       
   
         
          
  
  

 

“Bray

The y'
ward, a
“« Here
ae cal
and bre
De Bon
They
ing out
Liftin
ing him
Jack tu

But
blushin
magnet
frame.
Nigh’
rived, a

in half
Old C
known
to the
mostly
Inan
the wl
seemin.
reserve
“You
to De}
wound,
t |

brothe
ing.”’
wt ey

“Gertr

The}
himsel
trom th
kind ot
with al
lead.

and the
ing ino
know, t
old Chi
the cro

“It cs

“He ¥
sence 1

Let us
and th
she co
poison
as pool
; se¥ ca
‘Carry ¢
“You
ly. SR
the he
Kuoll,
you go

  
 
       
  
  
    
  
  
   
   
 
 
  
  
 
  
  
 
 
 
     
  
   
    
     
    
  
    
    
    
       
      
   
 
  
 
  
 
   
 
     
  
  
  
  
     
     
 
  
  
    
  
  
  
     
    
   
     
   
      
       
  
   
 
 
    
   
   
 
     
   
   
     
   
     
    
    
   
    
     
 
    
    
      
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
 
    
   
    
     
    
      
 
 
   
     
  
 
    
     
 
      
  
      
  
 
     
      
    
   
   

  

       
  

 

  
     
  
 
 
   
  
       
    
 
 
   
    
     
   
 
  
      
          
     
   
       
    
   

 

 

 

 

ete The young scout blushed like a child, as he stepped for-
De Bor ward, and said for himself :
| “Here—but I thought I was forgotten !"
intil he } «J can never forget your kindness, or that of your father
lohawk : and brothers !"’ said Jessie. “I knew you were near; Jule
l eaten De Bon Ceeur teld me so just now!”
thirst, They now reached the spring—a beautiful fountain gush-
him in ing out with mill-power force from under a great rock.
e came ifting De Marsanne from the horse, and tenderly plac-
; ing him on a ae knoll under a great maple tree, Captain
sDglish, Jack turned to help Jessie off.
But Lois had anticipated this action and was again
by the ’plushing, for he had touched her hand and form, and the
| ‘magnetic thrill sent every pulse bounding through his
autiful, frame.
coolly, Night was falling when Theyandanega, of Brant, ar
he Mo. rived, and soon, by his command, cheerful camp-fires rose
ins like in half a dozen places, and his braves went to cooking.
Old Chloe at once assumed her prerogatives, for she had
for the @ known Captain Brantsince his childhood, having belonged
; to the family of Sir William Johnson, in which he was
ne—yet i! mostly reared through childhood. |
i In an hour the camp assumed a more cheerful aspect, for |
re than §@ the whites all clustered together, and Theyandanega,
on the —“s seeming to consider them as guests, unbent from his usual
1p near Ff. reserve.
and he ii ? “You are too badly hurt to be left without care,” he said
learthe | te De Magwsanne, after he had a second time examined his
eretwo @ wound, and improved on the bandages, “and I think the
toward FF great English Father, Sir William Johnson, would blame
arie In- me for releasing you. But were you well, I would bear
iwkson /* his blame, for one good act deserves a likereturn. If
eady to | your friends, as well as you, promise to stay with me till I
} ; have seen Sir William, you shall be treated as friends and
lL Will § | brothers, aud no guard shall hinder your going or com-
} ing.”
watch “J will promise for all,”” said De Marsanne. “As you say,
, When Iam notable to go, and they weuld not leave me.”
ill stay “Then I am centent,”’ said the chief.
And he bade those who were putting up a shelter for
hawk? 7 Jessie, to make another for the wounded colonel.
ot play Ff They all supped together, and Brant did the honors of
men: of - eamp with the grace of a Christian gentleman—that
ans are which afterward in England so astonished the court
cartion and its noble lords and ladies, who had read in Campbell's
x “Gertrude of Wyoming” about “The Monster Brant.”
a look _
Se ag CHAPTER XLVI.
d stay O'MEARA’S LAMENTATIONS.
. single The half-breed Schoharie Indian—Good Peter, he called
do from himself—who was the means of saving Girty and O’Meara
ady for from the massacre that involved nearly all his band, was a
i kind ef sub-chief, and now that the head chief had fallen
ind the j a all but about a dozen of the entire party, he took the
S were ead.
ftly on He allowed them no rest, for he felt sure the Mohawks,
k loose bent on their extermination, would take their trail when
; daylight came, and he hurried the band on over hill after
hrough 7+ hill till even Girty was tired, and O’Meara, sinking down,

 

 

“Brave Captain Jack, where is Lois?” she asked.

 

 

said he could go no further, not even to save his life.

. be in
t right It was long after midnight when they ha!ted to rest, and
as they had then walked for some miles in the bed of a
aid the small stream to hide their trail, Good Peter conclu that
Schoha- they might rest, till the day dawned, in safety,
at owl? They had no food, and indeed cared for none. Excessive
pmdi—he fatigue deadens hunger. ;
Tired as he was, O’ Meara had no thought of sleep.
nt, and This last disappointment rankled in his bitter nature,
y were @? and he felt the more keenly because Girty took it so coolly.
. “It seems as if every fiend from below worked against
3 to the us!” he said.
ones to @ “The red tiends on earth did a big share of the work to-
ed, and 4 day,” said Girty. “Do you kuow who it was that attacked
a | our rear and broke up all our well-laid plans?”
gorge, t “No—it must have been another band of Mohawks, I
ly well | suppose.”’
r three A i ““No—they were white men and some from Fort Duquesne
a i were in the party. Jule De Bon Caur, the half-breed scout,
seem. 9 } was in front, and I saw Captain Jack, and Lois the scout,
rangup | | and the Lawyer Manson, with Colonel De Marsanne fight-
: } ing in our rear. How many they had with them I do not
behing 7 | know, but { saw and knew all that I have named. Even
er rose 4 } old ae a big club, was fighting like a mad wolf in
vr, the : | the crowd.”
e thes : y : : “It cannot be. How could De Marsanne leave his post?”
| “He was sole master there, and could give leave of ab-
in the @ sence to himself—besides, Jove never stops to question
i cheer duty.”
1 or : ~You think he is in love with my cousin?” ‘
‘yelled 4 | “T know it, and so do you.”
? : ; “Did you see her to-day?”
ae | i “No. I had, I would have put a bullet through her
ne, and | heart, if I never made another shot.” 3 }
; ] “Y wish to Heaven you had seen her then. What can we
now at | i do now?”
a pistol { “Nothing. These Indians are all cut up—they have lost
1 | four-fifths of their band. The Mohawks know we have
Miclose — | been ov their trail, and De Marsanne is with the girl. It
me his _ i is not likely he will leave her now.”
already — 4 “Phat’s comfortable to think of. The lawyer, Manson,
’ “= it has told her before now, who she is and what her heritage
irrear, 7 { is. lf she can reach Ireland before me, my cake is
E i | dough. There will be no chance forme at all. I ceuld
us will | } not get a guinea from my baukers, if they knew she lived.”
ing his | } “They inust not kuoew it till you draw all you can raise.
amd not i There is uo use in our fooling any longer on their trail.
ad Girty Let us make our way to PhiJadelphia and get ahead of her
cerent and the lawyer. You can then draw your money, and if

 

   

she comes toa city like that,if you can’t get a dose of
poison into her cup, or a knife through her heart, you are
as poor to plan there as you are to help Eppireee here.”
_ “Tecan plan wel enough anywhere, if I had only men to
carry out my plans.”

“Your own cowardice foils them,” said Girty, impatient-
iy. “Night before last I would have stabbed that girl to
the heart in her camp while the Indians danced on Battle-
Kuoll, for I know she had no guard. But when I started,
you got scared at a panther’s scream, saw your own shad-
aw, and caled me back, hallooing so loud that I knew the
Mahawks must have heard you.”

“The shadow that scared me was flesh and blood.
not feel” his devilish e¢lutch = my throat? Could you
not see the mark of his demon fingers?”

“Nary mark.
there is no use growling about it now, it is your own loss,
if you did spoil my chances.”

“JT know that to my sorrow.
that hill?’ he

«MNO; you see the morning star through the tree-tops on
hill’s crest. I'm glad day is so near.
D

ofticer ' what to do.” 4
i o- “The Delaware heads in the lake we passed yesterday,
Bis de7 “does it not?”

Injuns —
re, ands

 

 
     
       

“Then let us go back there and follow the river down to
ee

 

It would make us three hundred miles of hard

 

an | travel,
Iiobie v auice the distance one-half shorter across the coun-
mee ; make it, then, only so a go safely and quickly.
irl is to foil mé at last, 1 want to getall the money

 

 

 
    
  
  
        
 
     
  
    
      
     
 
       
 
        
 
 
  
  
 
   
     
    
   
   
   
 
        
     
      
  
   
   
     
  
        
  
  
  
   
       
      
      
     
     
 
    
    
    
  
     
         
     
    
       
 
    
      
     
   
  

for we would have to walk almost all the way.

 

n hand while L have a chance.”

is sensible.”

ow it; and, if you say so, we will start East as soon
ight enough to travel.” ,
ht, [am more than willing. Iam sick of follow-
il with allthe luck against us and for our ene-
ne at last. and the Indians did not seem at all dis-
when O'Meara gave each a piece of gold, taken
from his belt, and the two white men signified

YS

7 or ee &

Did I | the French fort—he
I tell you it was your own shadow. But | uncle is.”
Is that a fire on the top of | crossed that girl’s trail.

We can decide | country ?”’

 

 

WW YORK WEEKLY.

 

 

such—had been insulted, moved on to the river, hardly
speaking all the way.

“TI shall report the young fool to his uncle!” he said, and
that was the only allusion he made to the event, that day.

It lacked two hours of cong 4 when the party em-
barked in the canoes, which had been hidden in a dense
swamp near the river.

The chief sent his horse by a single Indian overland to
his house.

They now moved pleasantly and rapidly down the river,
but the colonel and Jessie was no longer together. The
canoes were small, and only a single white person was al-
lotted to a canoe.

Thus Jessie was placed in that steered by the chief, De
MarMnne in another, Lois in a third, and so with all the

arty.

* De Marsanne, though yet very weak, knew that his
wounds were healing, and he hoped, that when released
by Sir William Johnson, as he had no doubt he should be,
he would be able to travel with Jessie to Pennsylvania.

 

' CHAPTER XLVIII.
A NEW ALLIANCE,

Guy Johnson rode on till he came to fhe clear fountain,
where the party under Brant had encamped, and there he
washed the mud from his person. But he was angry still,
and he rode on so fast that only his most fieet-footed men
kept up with him, while many lagged behind.

At noon he was in sightof Utsayantha, and while he
was looking at its waters dancing in the sunlight ahead,
he saw two men, one dressed as a hunter, the other in citi.
zen’s garb, coming from a northerly direction.

Riding on, he intercepted them, while a dozen or more of
his Mohawks came up, thus preventing escape or resist-
ance should they prove to be enemies.

“Who are you?” asked Guy, abruptly, in his ill-temper.

“Men!” said Girty, just as abruptly, for his constant ill-
luck had made him almost desperate.

“T can see that,” said Johnson. “But where from, and
whither bound?’ p

“From our last camping-ground, and bound for the next,”
said Girty. :

“Speak the gentleman fairly, Girty,” said O’Meara. “He
is not an enemy.” :

“How do you know that? Speak for yourself,” said the
surly scout.

“We are travelers, sir,” said O’Meara, “going to Phila-
delphia, when we strike a trail that leads south-east.”

“So! You don’t belong to the party we met with Brant
this morning?”

“Was there a girl along?” asked O'Meara, eagerly.

“Yes; a pretty bit of flesh and blood she was, too. I be-
lieve I'll turn back and take her out of their hands.”

“Do—do, and you'll make the best thing you ever did,’”’
said O’Meara. “I'll give a hundred pounds in gold for that
girl’s scalp.”

“Her scalp?) What do you want her killed for?”

“Tt is enough that I have good reason for it.”

“Humph! You'll not get me to kill her, though I'll make
her mine before I’m a moon older.”

“Let us go with you!” cried O’Meara. “I'l! make it
profitable to you.”

nen for yourself,” said Girty, in alow tone. ‘‘Do you
think I’ll go where De Marsanne is?”
“Who is De Marsanne?” asked Guy Johnson, his sharp
ears catching the name in spite of Girty’s caution.
“The French colonel from Fort Duquesne, at the head of
the Ohio. He is with the party you spoke ante

“Ha! Does Brant know who he ist”

“T think not, or he’d carry his scalp rather than his body
along,” said Girty. “Jule De Bon Ceeur, one of the Cana-
dian half-breeds, is another of the party.”

Spies—every one of them!” cried Guy Johnson. This is

 

a ae muddle. IfSir William finds out what Brant is
doing, he’l have him swung from the gallows tree. I be-

lieve I'll turn back at once. Can you prove that these
men are what you say they are?”

“Yes. They dare not deny it!” cried O’ Meara.

“T saw an old negress with them that used to belong to
my uncle—where did she come from?”

“From Fort Duquesne. She was the colonel’s cook
there,” said Girty.

“Then the proof will be easy. I’ll turn back, and report
to my uncle. You two men shall go along.”

“Then let us be so disguised that we are not known to
De Marsanne und his crowd until their fate is sealed,”
said Girty.

“That can be arranged,” said Johnson.

And much to the disappointment of his Indian allies,
who had come to hunt, he took the back trail at once. He
made a rapid march, passing the battle-ground just before
night, and camping at the spring beyond.

Their rations were quite scant, and the Indians were in
ill-humor; but Guy Johnson was as fearless as he was
hateful in his disposition, and he paid no heed to their
murmurs. :

After a scant supper, he sat down on a rock near the
camp-fire, and calling Girty and O’Meara to his side, de-
manded a full account of the other party.

Girty was reticent, but O'Meara, seeing in Johnson a
spirit kindred to his own villainous nature, made a full
statement. He told who he was himself, claiming his title,
boasted of his wealth, and said that the lawyer, Manson,
had been his enemy across the water, and had come over
to persuade this girl to go back and contest his rights.
For that reason he wanted her i out of the way.

“T’ll keep her out of the way if I ag her once in my pos-
session,” said Johnson. ‘My uncle has a keen eye for
beauty, and is not very scrupulous about how he gets hold |
of it. He may be my rival in'the strife, but I’ve thwarted |
him before, and I can again.” {

“T care not what becomes of her, soshe never crosses my |
path in Ireland,” said O’Meara. “As to old Manson, he
must die at any rate.” {

“That can be effected without trouble,” said Johnson.
“The French colonel aud the half-breed are spies, by the
rules of war, and will surely swing, for my uncle holds all
power here. The hunter, Captain Jack, will be er to
dispose of, for he has served the king.”

“Yes; but of late he has been in friendly intercourse at

ang the young scout with hin.” “_

“That may make it gé hard with them. We will
when we get to the fort on the Mohawk, where my

 

 

“Curse ’em! if it is ever in my power, they'll all be wiped
out!” said Girty, bitterly. ‘I’ve had no luck since I
Everything has gone wrong.”

“Your luck will change now,” said Johnson. “I'll take
you into my service, if you will. You know the Northern

“No one knows it better, and I care ‘not who I serve, if I
am well paid.”

“Then serve me, and you shall have no cause to grum-

“I will, but first I must close up accounts with this man
who owes me a round sum.”

Girty pointed to O’ Meara.

The latter felt that there was now achance of dodging
the claims of Girty, but he was too cunning to make his
thoughts known. So he merely said:

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bt 13 Outfit free. SHAW «& CO.. Augusta, Maine.

 

T Pays to sell our Rubber Hand Printing Stamps. Cir-
culars free. G. A. HARPER & BRO., Cleveland, O.
W29-6 e. 0. W.

AGENTSLREAD THIS. —

We will pay Agents a Salary of $100 per month and ex-
penses, or allow a large commission, to sell our new and
wonderful inventions. We mean what we say. Sample
free. Address SHERMAN & CO., Marshall, Mich.

W

 

3

 

 

Louisiana State Lottery Company.

This Institution was regularly incorporated by the Leg-
islature of the Statefor Educational and Charitable pur
poses in 1868, for the term of Twenty-five years, to which
contract the inviolable faith of the State is pledged, with a
capital of $1,000,000, to which it has since added a reserve
fund of $350,000. IT NE 2 SCALES OR POST-
PONES. 111th Monthly Grand Distribution, New Or-
leans, August 12th. 1857 prizes, total, $110,400; capitals,
$30,000, $10,000, $5,000, etc. 100, tickets, two ($2)
dollars; halves, one ($1). dollar. Apply to M. A. DAU-
PHIN, P. O. Box 2, New Orleans, La.; or same at
319 BROADWAY, NEW YORK.

FREE TO ALL.

FLEETWOOD’S

LIFE OF

 

-—y

 

WOMEN WOULD VOTE.

 

for the diseases peculiar to her sex. Dr.
of its eurative power.:
IOWA CITY, Iowa,

March 4th, 1878.
Dr. R. V. PreRcx, Buffalo, N. Y.:

.

 

“They'll be all right in time.”

“T’]l see they are,” said Girty. “If you try to cheat me
of my own, the girl may make a better paymaster.”

Oo’ Sears smiled and looked at Johnson.” He read the lib-
ertine in every lineament of the young man’s face, and
he thought that she would never escape his fiendish

ower.

; Johuson now entered into along talk with Girty about
Canada and the border forts. The young man was wildly
ambitious to make an expedition on his own account, so as
to win promotion and gain favor with the king, and he be-
lieved, under Girty’s guidance, that he might make some

|

 

8 another ay. :

Peter gave them some advice regarding their route,
them what passes in the Catskills to avoid, for the
fish and Mohawks often took these passes on their

‘to favorite hunting and fishing grounds on the Dela-

nd + y
1 and O'Meara departed, going off in a

on. ;

 

CHAPTER XLVII.
GUY JOHNSON.
andanega sent out hunters and fishermen early on

ring after the battle, and soon they brought in
nd trout enough for breakfast and to last the entire
1 ="

was spent in cooking and eating, and then the
chief broke camp and started for the Schoharie
here he had canoes hidden, two hours’ march dis-

* had been gone but an hour, Jessie and Colonel De
anne riding the horse, as they had done the night be-
henalarge party of Indians, with a young white
their head, were seen on the march in front, com-
rard Brant’s party.

knew them evel when they were a mile away, and
Captain Jack, to whom he paid most attention of

Guy Johnson, a nephew of Sir William, who is go-
mahuut over inthe Delaware Valley, He has a band
people with him, He spends all his time hunting
hing. He is wild and dissipated, and his uncle is
have him out of his way.”

. 2
ed Marsanne and Jessie heard this, as well as the rest,
@e Pk (noticed, too, from Brant's expression, that he did not
as | to like the young Englishman.
d ie a short time, riding at the head of his Indian band,

ru) Johnson cameup. His face told both his character
to ; bits. Mis lips were thick and sensual, his eyes red
es 5 1e effects of drink, and his face showed the effects
Ww ; y a wild debauch.

fa! who have we here?” he eried, as he rode up to the

ie, of which Jessieand De Marsanne were the center.
el We tives, eh, Brant? I'll give you a new rifle and a

 
     
      
   
   
    
  
 
   
    

for that girl, I will, by Jupiter!”

sy are not captives, and if they were, itis not for you
sult them,” said Brant, angrily. “Goon and mind
yusiness, and I'll mind mine.”

m minding my business, Red Impertinence? Come,

taken a fancy to that girl. What'll you take for her?”
wll get a broken head if you don't look out!” said

 
 
  

Heyday Whose fighting-cock are you?’ said the
r, contemptuaously.

Fou’ll soon find out, if you feel my gaff!’ said Lois,
hing his knife.

!
)
bold and successful forays. |

Girty encouraged him in this, for he knew that he never
could serve the French again, that the Shawnees would
now be his deadly enemies, and he might have a double
chance to be revenged on De Marsanne should the latter
escape the doom he hoped to fix upon him.

Johnson talked with Girty and O’Meara till after mid-
night, and then all dropped asleep by the main pomp res

In the morning the Indians were sullen, and would not
leave the camp-ground until meat had been hunted for and
killed to serve for breakfast.

Then the head men of the party insisted on going on the
hunt they started for.

Guy Johnson told them to go if they wanted to, but to go
without him. He was going back to the Mohawk.

They said, and truly, that game had all been hunted
away trom there—they wanted to kill and dry venison for
their women and children during the coming winter. They
had started for this, and did not want to go back empty-
handed to be laughed at.

Guy Johnson told them to go, he would join them by
and by at their hunting-grounds. :

This satistied them, and the Indians headed once more
for the hunting-grounds, where game was plenty, while

Johnson, with O’Meara and Girty, started by themselves
to follow Brant and his party.

Arriving at the river, Johnson left his horse, hobbled so
it could not stray far, or would not from the grass on the
rich river bottom-land, and taking a canoe trom its con-
cealment, launched it on the stream.

“We're but a day behind Brant. If we make good use
of our paddies, we'll get in almost as soon as he,’’ said
Johnson, when they started. “If I wanted to, I could get

1

sufferer. Physicians could afford me no relief,
In my despair I commenced the use of your Fa-
vorite Prescription. It speedily effected my en-
tire and permanent cure, _
Yours thankfully,
Mrs, PAUL R. BAXTER.

Correspondence.
AND CONTRIBUTORS.

 

GOSSIP WITH READE

Paul Fairweather, Kasson, Minn.—l1st. Robert Fulton,
the pioneer of steam navigation, was born in Little Britain,

American.
attaining his majority went to London to study under Ben-
jamin West, remaining withhim several years. He after-

becoming interested in the question of the propelling pow-

er of steam, patented a number of useful inventions, among
them a mill for sawing marble, a machine for spinning flax
and making ropes, an excavator for scooping out the chan-
nels of canals, a submarine torpedo, and valuable canal
improvements. On his return to the United States in 1806,
he planned a boat for an engine he had constructed abroad
by Watt, and in the following year the Clermont was
launched. In subsequent years he built larger vessels,
with improvements in boats and machinery. He died in
this city February 24, 1815. 24. When it was finally de-
cided to build a railroad acrossthe country to the Pacific,
acts of Congress were passedin July, 1862, and in July,
1864, providing for a subsidy in United States six percent.
gold bonds at the rate of $16,000 per mile of railroad from
the Missouri river to the Rocky mountains, $48,000 per
mile for a distance of 300 miles through the mountains,
$32,000 per mile for that portion between the Rocky and
Sierra Nevada mountains, and $16,000 per mile for that

 

in ahead of him, for he'll go slow up stream after he reaches
the other river, With his deep-loaded canoes.”

“Let us get ahead and surprise him,’ said O'Meara.
“Your uncle will then know who Brant is bringing, and
they will have no chance to prejudice him in their favor
before our story is heard.”

“Right. We will keep on without stopping till we reach
the Mohawk, and then leave the canoe and go up over-
land. We can make better time by several hours,” replied
Johnson.

Girty plied a good paddle, and O'Meara blistered his
hands with his over-exertions, and they sped swiftly down
the Schoharie.

They made such good time that they reached the Mo-
hawk very soon after Brant had entered its waters, and
that night they passed on in sight of his camp-fires before
they took any rest themselves.

«We will get in almost a day ahead of them,” said John-
son, when they paused to take a hasty meal from a brace
of partridges shot by Girty.

“Good! I'll havea noose made tor De Marsanne’s neck
and that sneaking cur Jwe De Bon Ceur. Inever could
abide him. He hated me, and hate was a poor name for
what I felt toward him?” said Girty.

 

on, Guy Johnson, before you get yourself in trouble,”
rant. “I am chief here, and | care no more for your
ysnephew than I do for askunk! Goon, I say!
The yan profligate laughed in his face, and reined his

» directly across the path by which the horse of Jes-
ad to go on.

  

ye Ts rant put his hand on his tomahawk, but there was one
i ; cer and quite as cool as he.
jit as Captain Jack, who caught the two reins of John-

  

horse pont back of the bit, and with his gigantic
gth he backed him so suddenly that he reared and
ver into a marshy spot by the side of the trail, dump-
he rider nearly head-first into the mud. .
laugh broke from even the Indians of Johnson’s par-
he young man rose covered with slime and mud,
ery of alarm broke from Tessie’s lips as she saw the
aged youth draw a ce from his belt.
rant bs ng forward now, literally wild with anger.
aise but one of your cowardly hands,” he cried, ‘and
lbrainyou on the spot! Goto the brook and wash
‘self—you look worse than a hog!”
inson, shamed by the universal laugh, and feeling that
nunute made him more ridicuious, snatched the
e he haddropped, sprang ou his horse, and rode on.
as he passed Baie he swore a bitter oath, and cried:
know where Brant will take you, and I'll possess you
f it cost me my life !”
ad not Captain Jack caught the rifle of Lois, as the
el was dropping to a deadJy aim, Guy Johnson had
r boasted more, and as it was De Marsanne told him
no coward thief like him could ever touch so fair and
» a flower even with a gloved hand.
t Guy Johnson did not want to run more risks, or
t more mishaps. Hé got outof sight and range as
Ras he could. ;

  

 
 

  

 

    

 

  

 
 
  
  

 
 

  

 

‘ant, angty that his guests—for he treated them as |

Onthe third morning after Guy Johnson and his two
new mates left the Schoharie valley, at quite an early
hour, the trio of villains reached the headquarters of Sir
William Johnson, the king’s agent and general for the Six

Nations. i

The baronet was outin front of his house, or fort, as it
Was called, witnessing the drill of a company of Highland-
ers recently sent over to him to aid in the war against the
French and Canada Indians. suds

Ah, back so soon, om 1 ee are these with you?’ cried
Sir William, as Guy advanced,
Reelin is Sir Rirehard O’ Meara, of Treland. The other is
his guide. They have important information for you, for
which I have come with great haste, knowing you should
hear it before you were imposed on by Captain Brant and
those who have fooled him!”

“Brant is too open-hearted to ever deceive any one, and
too keen to be imposed on himself,” said Sir W illiam. y

“Youmay think so, Sir William. Yet, even now he is
less than a day’s journey off, coming up the river, a Cana-
dian half-breed scout in his company, and what is still
more strange, a French colonel, late commandant of Fort
Duquesne on the Ohio!” i

“He brings them as captives then?” |

“No, as friends. The scout carries his arms, and walks
about as free as I do. Brant let the colonel ride his own

west of the latter mountains. In addition to this subsidy,
the same acts of Congress gave to the railroad companies
undertaking the work twenty sections (12,800 acres) of

land for each mile of railroad puilt, or about 25,000,000
The first act of Congress provided that the
Government subsidy of bonds should constitute a first lien
upon the road and its appurtenances, but it was found that
the money arising from the subsidy would not secure the
Congress therefore released the
first lien of the Government, and empowered the railroad

acres in all.

completion of the work.

companies to issue their own bonds or debentures at the
same rate per mile, and to secure their payment by a first
mortgage upon their property, 3d. South America does
not offer any advantages to school-teachers from the
United States.

B. W. J., Jersey City.—As youare so anxious to get fat,
you should weigh yourself from time to time, and thus
ascertain whether the food you are eating is adding to your
flesh or not. Banting. the substance of whose system we
have frequently published, found that for him sugar was
the most productive of fat. Tihe ate five ounces of it he
inoreased one pound. Another experimenter, speaking
from his own. knowledge, declares in favor of suet as that
which fleshed him most rapidly, Another authority says
that milk, especially when taken fresh from the cow, is
superior to anything else. If one ean drink three or four
yints of it aday, an increase of weight isas certain, and per-
vps more certain, than by swallowing cod-liver oil.
Starch, in the form of arrowroot, sago, tapioca, or farina,
is equally lauded by others. To be avoided are pickles.
vinegar, highly-spiced food, sour wines or frit, acid
vegetables, ete. One thing should be borne in mind. It
is not the quantity but the kind of food that is demanded,
If an article be diffienlt of digestion, it will prove of pos-
itive injury, no matter how much you partake of it. In
other words, whenever the stomach has to labor with the
food put intoit, it detracts just so much from the nutrition
which would otherwise attend it. Other causes of lean-
ness should be avoided, such as irregular hours of rest or
for meals, eating between meals, anxiety, worry, over-
work, and severe exercise,

John T. Butler, Boston.—The contest between the Moni-
tor and the Merrimack oceurred on March 9, 1862, in
Hampton Roads, Va. After a briefcombat the Merrimack

was disabled and forced to return to Norfolk. On the
previous day the Merrimack had sunk the U.§8. frigate

 

horse till he took to the canoes.”

“Incredible! I cannot believe it.
been deceived!” ‘ :

“Of course he has. I do not charge him with any treason.
But the others are spies, and should be so dealt with!”

Brant must have

 

“They shall have but short shrift, if sueh be the case. |

| Come into my quarters with your friends, and 4 will talk
} with them.”

(TO BE CONTINUED. }

Cumberland, and she destroyed the Congress, and was
| srefore rit i atch for the Monitor. The speedy
therefore thought a match i P j
| victory of the latter therefore proved a great surprise to
| the officers of the Merrimack. The Merrimack was origin-
| ally a wooden frigate which had been scuttled and sunk in
the harbor of Norfolk. The Confederates raised her, cut
down her sides, and converted Jier into an iron-clad ram,
which thoy called the Virginia, although her original name
continued to be genearlly used.

.

os

Se

Were the question admitted to the ballot, and
women were allowed to Yote, every woman in the
land who has used Dirt Pierce’s Favorite Pre-
seription would vote it t be an unfailing remedy
Pierce
has received hundreds of grateful testimonials

Dear Sir:—For many months I was a great

Lancaster county, Pa.. in 1765, and was therefore an
He early exhibited talent as an artist, and on

ward adopted the profession of civil engineer, and besides

 
     
     
    
      
  
   
  
     
   
   
   
    
   
  
   
      
   
     

M. A. B., Newark, N. J.—Feathers are prepared by ex-
posing them to the sunshine until perfectly dry, and then
beating them to remove the dust and loose dirt. When
carelegsly collected and dirty they may be cleansed with
lime water; or still better. With a weak solution of bi-
carbonate of soda, or with water containing a little chlo-
ride of lime; after which they are rinsed in clean water
and dried as before. Old feathers are purified and cleansed
in the same way.

A. @. D.—Betore being able to write poetry worthy of
publication, you will have to learn the rules which govern
metrical composition. A very useful work for all who de-
sire to acquire a correct and graceful style of expression,
in either prose or poetry, is “Parkers Aids to English
Composition,” which we will forward to any address on
receipt of $1.25.

Nellie Ann, Green Bay, Wis.—Ilst. The name under
which the story is published is the nom de plume of the
author, andfor that story the writer preferred the as-
sumed name. 2d. Both Mrs. Mary J. Holmes and Mrs.
May Agnes Fleming still write exclusively for the NEW
YORK WEEKLY.

J. M., Jr., Philadelphia.—lst. The best trotting record
for one mile is 2:13 1-4, made by Rarus, at Buffalo, N. Y.,
Aug. 3, 1878. 2d. Goldsmith Maid’s best time, 2:14, was
made at Mystic Park, Boston, Mass., Sept. 2, 1874. She
trotted in harness, with a running horse at the wheel, ina
match agaéast the record of 2:14 3.4,

Parole.—Daniel O’Leary made his record of 520 1-4
miles in 139 hours, 6 minutes and 10 seconds in a “‘go-as-
you-please” contest, held at Agricultural Hall, London,
May 18 to 23, 1878. After the first fifty miles, which he

wo,
walked and ran, he confined himself entirely to walking.

J. W. M., Morristown, N.J.—As a general thing, per-
sous do not increase in stature after eighteen or nineteen
years. There are exceptional cases, however. The ay-
erage height of men is about five feet eight inches; of
women, four to five inches less.

A Constant Reader, Mattoon, D1.—To make bluing for

 

 

 

drunken man, and approaching the stack, he depos
ited a large bottle in the straw and went on.

He was bo sooner out ot hearing than we were
hunting for the bottle. It was soon tound, and its
contents emptied upon the ground and replaced by
water. The liquor being colorless, no one could
perceive from the appearance the change pro-
duced.

We again secreted ourselves to await further de-
velopments. It was not long until we listed the re-
turn of Andy with some one bearing him company.
He had evidently invited a friend to enjoy a banquet
that beautiful moonlight night, and that friend had
accepted his invitation.

As they came within ear-shot we could hear Andy
praising his liquor in language not quite so beautiful
and correct as that used by Falstaff, but we have
reason to believe fully as earnest and convincing.

“Bob,” he said, “it’s good old white whisky, fresh
from the still. No darned amber or fishberries, but
the rale stuff, pure and unadulterated.”

At this juncture Andy produced the bottle from the
straw.

“Gaze on it, will ye?
it up for inspection.

His friend smacked his lips,as much as to say,
“Oh, worm of the still, sting me!”

Then Andy, drawing the cork, generously offered
his friend a drink, with the same noble expresion
upon his face which we only see exhibited by honest
landlords while carving roast beef. His friend point-
ed the base of the bottle at the moon with the care-
ful, meditating wisdom of the chairman of a return-
ing board.

“Gurgle !”

It was to all outward perception an honest gurgle
—in fact, I will be responsible for the assertion that
it sounded real, but the friend took the bottle from
his lips and examined it, quite as much as te say,
“There’s toomany colored votes in this.”

He tasted it again. He turned to his friend; there
was murder in his eye.

“This is water, you condemned fool!’
claimed.

See that bead!” and he held

he ex-

 

clothes, take one ounce of soft Prussian blue, powder it

add a quarter of an ounce of oxalic acid. A teaspoonful
is sufficient for a large washing.

A Subseriber, New Bedford.—lst. We know nothing con-
cerning it. 2d. Food which contains much starch and
sugar sometimes has the effect of adding to one’s weight.
Try it.

Rip Van Winkle, Brooklyn.—lst. If one physician fails
to improve your condition, try another. We cannot rec-

ommend any particular one. 2d. For constipation, fresh
figs mixed with a little senna will often prove efficacious.

Gus, Wyandotte, Kansas.—To preserve natural fiowers,
ete., dip them one at a time in melted paraftine, withdraw-
ing them quickly. The liquid should be just hot enough
to maintain its fluidity.

Dick.—1ist. In its
2d. Soitis reported, and so he claims.
know to whom you refer.

present form in the spring of 1858.
3d. We do not

shaving in a weak solution of borax and water.

Old Sub, Troy.—Yes, to this extent, that after awhile
you will not be able to get asleep readily without them.

R. A. B., Pleasant Mt.—Neither of the stories named
have been published in book-form.

Charley R., Rockville.—The gilt will wear off in time no
matter how well the work may be done.

Irene Rose.—No.

The following MSS. are accepted: “Which,” “A Bad
Case,” “Superior People,’ ‘References Required.” “A
True Dog Story,” “A Mail Car Mystery,” “Thou Shak Not
Steal.” The following are respectfully declined: *‘ Alas!
That She is Not for Me,” “The Rest of the Story,” “A
Midnight Run,” ‘A Reproach,” ‘Answer to Weman,”
“Love and Luck,” ‘‘Pepperoll Holler,” ‘Life and Pleasures
are Fleeting,” ‘‘Deceit—Conceit,” ‘“Tryst—A Legend of
the Blue Mountains.” ‘‘Rosa Chillingly,” ‘“‘Temperance or
Intemperance,” ‘*Mind,”’ “Fall,” “Banged Hair,” “Aunt
Mehitable’s Soliloquy,” “The Music to Blame,” ‘The
Wooden Leg,” ‘Rose Street Mystery,” “How Beautiful.”

ETIQUETTE DEPARTMENT.

P. M. C., Athens, Ga.—1st. Persons who accept invita-
tions te stop at the houses of friends or acquaintances,
either in their ¢ity homes or at their country seats, should
try to hold themselves at the disposal of those whom they

 

walk, you should acquiesce as far as your strength will
allow, and do your best to seem pleased by the efforts
made to entertain you. 2d. As a rule host and guest are
quite independent of each other from breakfast until
lunch. After that meal the guest is bound to make him-
self as agreeable as he can to the company, and to behave
in all respects as if he were a visitor. 3d. If anything
goes wrolg during the visit one should seem not to see it.
4th. 1f children are fractious no remarks concerning their
t must be made. 5th. Your friend’s friend may be
you do not care to be intimate with, but witha
act you can always keep people at a distance with-
urting their feelings. 6th. A guest should always as-
A What are the usual hours of > , taking meals,
tiring, and then conform scrupulously to them.
shours are sometimes given on a card left in the
chambers.

mry St. James.—1st. A lady cannot take the arms of
two gentlemen, nor should two ladies take each one arm
of a gentleman, “sandwiching” him as it were. 2d. Gen-
tlemen do not smoke when driving or walking with ladies,
nor on promenades much frequented. 3d. When a gen-
tleman is introduced to alady both bow slightly and the
gentleman opens conversation. 4th. It is the place of the
one who is introduced to make the first remark. The rea-
son for this is so evident that it needs no explanation.
5th. A gentleman must not shake hands with a lady until
she has made the first movement. 6th. It would @x-
cessively rude and underbred not to give his hand instant-
ly should she extend her own. 7th. Our American gen-
tlemen are not as much given to handshaking as English-
men are.

Mrs. W., Aberdeen, Miss.—lst. All slangisvulgar. It is
a great mistake to suppose that slang is in any way witty.
It lowers the tone of society, and the standard of thought.
2d. Religion is atopic that should never be introduced
into general society. Like politics, it is a subject danger-
ous to harmony. Persons are most likely to differ, and
least likely to preserve their temper on these topics. 3d.
To listen well is almost as great an art as to talk well; but
it is not enough only to listen, you must endeavor to seem
interested in the conversation of others. 4th. A gentle-
man precedes a lady passing through a crowd; ladies pre-
cede gentlemen under ordinary circumstances.

Willie.—l1st. A gentleman in paying a morning or even-

 

    

 
 
  
    
 
 
   
 
 
 
 
    

Le

o

with a friend, or any unusual attenlion, without delay.
3d. As the seat of honor in a boat is occupied by the stroke
oar,it is etiquette for the owner of the boat to offer it to his
friend, should he be arower. 4th. In boating parties, one
gentleman should always stay in the boat, and do his best
to steady it, while the others help the ladies to step in it
from the bank or landing.

A. Warner.—i1st. When the young lady comes in to the
store where you are employed, it is your duty to wait on
her; if she bows to you when you meet her on the street,
you should lift your hat and also return the bow, but
should you be invited to a party, and the lady is present,
you should not presume upon the slight acquaintance you
have with her, to speak without seeking to be tormally in-
troduced. 2d. After you have been formally introduced
to her it will rest entirely with the young lady, whether
the acquaintance shall be continued.

Laura, Portland, Me.—1st. Suppression of undue emo-

 

disappointment, or of selfishness in any form, is a sure

mark of good training.
you can make up your mind to b
animating, as well as animated.
mirth, but it does demand cheerfulness and unselfishness,
and you must help to make and sustain conversation.

2d. Persons in mourning regret that a recent bereavment

usual black edge that customs ordains, it speaks tor itself,
and needs no other explanation.

> @<

Pleasant Paragraphs.

sufficient interest for general perusal.

minor defects will be remedied. }
White Whisky.

impress u

being, stil

of my existence.

lived an old toper, whom we will call Andy.

fellow was wont to spend his week’s wages for

celerity.

den treasure.

Andy coming back, singing loudly in the excess ot
his happiness, having imbibed freely.

straw-stack.

 

and put in a bottle with one quart of clear rain water, and |

|
A Constant Reader, New York.—Wash your face after |

are visiting. Ifthey propose to you toride, to drive, or |

ing call rises successively upon the entrance of each lady
in the family, but does not rise a second time if the ladies
are passing in and ont of the room, unless he has some
reason for doing so. 2d. Acknowledge an invitation to dine

tion, whether of laughter, or anger, or mortification, or

2a. Do not go into society unless
e sympathetic, unselfish,
Society does not require

Henry.—\st. It is quite as important to answer invita-
tions to opera and theater parties promptly, as it is to an-
swer dinner invitations immediately after receiving them.

prevents them from accepting, or if the note-paper has the

{ Most of our readers are undoubtedly capable of contrib-
uting toward making this column an attractive feature of
the NEW YORK WEBKLY, and they will oblige us by send-
ing for publication anything which may be deemed of
It is not necessary
that the articles shonid be penned in scholarly style; so
jong as they are pithy, and likely to afford amusement,

Although years have come and gone, leaving their
on MRmemory as well as upon my whole
I the events of a few hours on one July |
night will never lose their distinctness while life
lasts, nor ever cease to loom up as one jolly period

In the neighborhood of the home of my youth ae
F This

whisky, which he would hide near his home, in
order to secure his morning nip with ease and

It seemed that my father’s straw-stack was the
favorite bank of deposit for his circulating currency,
and one evening a party of boys, including myself,
repaired thither, resolved to await the return of
Andy from the village, fully confident that we would
have the romantic pleasure of discovering the hid-

The moon was about one hour high when we heard |
The road he was traveling passed directly by the

As Andy drew near the place of am-
bush he became quiet, assuming allthe sly air of a

   
    
   
 
     
    
  
  
    
 
    
 
   
 
    
   
  
    
  
   
    
   
 
  
   
   
   
   
   
    
   
     
 
 
   
 
 
   
   
      
   
  
    
    
  
  
  
    

“Wh-a-a-at?” gasped Andy, the ghost of one of his
former drunken smiles withering away upon his
lips. ‘‘Let me see.”

He tasted. How pale he grew!
looked!

Then slowly and silently pouring the water out
and breaking the bottle, they wended their way
homeward. No dew of heaven ever fell softly upon
two more disappointed mortals. Nor did the kindly
moon ever beam her silyery' rays upon such sorrow-
stricken countenances. DRUG.
A Little Dutch Raven.

Vonce upon a mitnight treary, vile I vas so trunk and
veary

Cbindebns a glass of lager, dat I couldn’t tind mine toor,
Vile I staggered, nearly falling. Suttently dere vas a

 

How sad he

calling,
AS 9 some one loutly calling, calling at mine front house
OOF ; 4

Tis te olt woam, I muttered, calling at te front house toor,
Only dis, and noting mote.

Bresently my soul grew stronger, staggering den no lon-

ser,

“Gretch,” said I, or “Gretchen, truly your forgiveness I
implore; _ f

Put te fact is I vas falling, ven so gently you come call-

ing, . 4 f
And so faintly you come calling, calling at the front house
toor
Dat I vasn't sure I heart you,’’—here I opened vide te
toor—

Tarkness dere, and noting more.

Teep into dat tarkness peering, long I stood dere vonder-
ing, fearing, :
Downers tinking toughts no Dutchman efter tared totink

pefore ;
Put te silence vas unbroken, and te stillness gafe no token,
Of te olt woman, who hat just spoken at te front house
t
Den
te

oor ;
I staggered, and-—a broomstick knocked me flat upon
tloor— ;

Merely dis, and noting more.

“Hans Schmitt!” said she, ‘‘trunken rover! Haus Sehmitt,
if trunk or sober,
I vill whale you until you’re sober—'till your so sick and
sore.”” 4
Den she whaled me mit dat broom ’till [ tought I hat met
my tocm. .
“Vill you get so trunk to-morrow?—vill you stagger in te
front house toor?
Vill you {tell me—-vill you stagger in te front house toor?’
And den I said, ‘‘Nefermore !” Cc. W.F

A New Way to Punish Rogues.

Colonel Meadows Taylor, a British officer in India,
narrates an interesting incident concerning the ras-
sally flour dealers of that country. He was beset by
hundreds of pilgrims and travelers crying out against
the flour-sellers, who not only gave their customers
short weight, but adulterated the flour so abomina-
bly with sand that cakes made of it were utterly ‘un-
eatable. The colonel determined to punish the cheats,
and this is how he did it.

“T told,” says he, ‘‘some reliable men of my escort
to go quietly into the bazars, and each buy flour at a
separate shop, being careful to note whose shop it
was, The flour was broughi to me. I tested every
sample, and found it full of sand as I passed it under
my teeth. I then desired all the persons named in
my list to be sent to me, with their baskets of flour,
their weights and scales. Shortly afterward they ar-
rived, evidently suspecting nothing, and were placed
in a row on the grass before my tent.

* ‘Now,’ said I, gravely, ‘each of you is to weigh
out two pounds of your flour,’ which was done.

***Ts it for the vilaetien ?” asked one.

‘No,’ said I, quietly, though I had much difficulty
to keep my countenance. ‘You must eat it your-
selves.’

“They saw that I was in earnest, and offered to pay
any fine I imposed.

“Not so,’ I teturned; ‘you have made many eat
your Tope ens should you object to eat it your-
selves ‘

“They were horribly frightened, and, amid the
screams of laughter and jeers of the bystanders,
some of them actually began to eat, sputtering out
the halfanoistened flour, which could be heard crunch-
ing between their teeth. At last some of them flung
themselves on their faces, abjectly beseeching par-
don;’ and so, with a severe admonition, they were
let off. No more was heard of the bad flour.”

It is a pity adulterators in more civilized communi-
ties cannot be served in the same way; pure food
would be the rule, if the concocters and venders of
vile make-believes were liable to compulsory con-
sumption of their own wares.

Dip Him Again.

In the town of Aurora there lived an old sinner
named Jake Lampert, whose greatest fault was lying.
He could tell more lies, and believe them himself,
than any other man living. Jake had a brother who
was a deacon in the Baptist church. and who was for-
ever preaching to Jake about his lying.

One day Jake told his brother that on the night be-
fore he had seen a vision, which had deeply impressed
him as to the necessity and importance of piety, and
that through this vision he had ‘‘got religion.” On the
following Sunday the minister, Jake, his brother, and
the congregation, went to the river, as Jake had ex-
pressed the desire to be baptized.

It was in midwinter, and there was ice on the
river. Soa hole was cut in the ice, and through it
Jake was immersed. When they pulled him out,
Jobn, Jake’s brother, asked him if it was cold. In
the height of his zeal, Jake said no, whereupon John
said to the minister:

“Brother Flint, dip him again, he lies yet.”

A Delicate Compliment.

A woman in a Kansas Pacific Railroad car sat fac-
ing aman who, with one eye at least, seemed to be
aaa tixedly at her. She became indignant, and
said:

“Why do you look at me so, sir?”

He said he was not aware of having done so, but
she insisted.

“T beg your pardon, madam, but it’s this eye, is it
not?” lifting his finger to his left optic.

“Yes, sir, it’s that eye.”

“Well, madam, that eye won’t do you any harm.
It’s a glass eye, madam—only a glass eye. I hope
you'll excuse it. But, upon my soul, I’m not sur-
prised that even a glass eye should feel interested in
so pretty a woman.”

The explanation and the compliment combined put
the woman in a good humor.

Pungencies.
Many people overtacks themselves putting down
surpets.

A St. Louis foundry had a sensation last week,
causpd by trying to melt a loaded cannon. Tt made a
good east, though—it cast every man in the building
out through the sheet-iron root in less than a jiffy.

Why are Cincinnatians like fleas on a hog’s back?
Beeause they go over the “Rhine” to have their
sport.

What a delicious fragrance must linger about Har-
riet Beecher’s toe.

“T digin vein,” muttered the miner, when his ex-
plorations for coal were attended with success, “and
yet Ido not dig in vain.”

A Minnesota preacher is so far advanced in his pro-
fession, as to be able to make the eyes of a potato
succumb to the influence of the ‘drowsy god.”

It was a Kentucky school marm that pointed out to
her highest arithmetic class, a lot of hogs rooting in
the strect, as ‘fan example iv square root.” We sup-
pose that if one of the “rooters” had made its way in-
to a billiard hall, and swallowed a cue, she would
have pointed it out as an example in “cue bruit.”

R. BURDET?I LOOS.
Economy Essential.

A new seryant is being engaged, and his master
points to the livery worn by his predecessor, saying:

“You are just about the same size, and the suit will
fit you nicely. Try to be as careful of it as he was.
Look at those trousers—he wore them ten years.”

+ | An Eloquent Hand.

The following sublime paragraph is from one of the
latest fashionable novels: ‘With one hand he held
her beautiful head above the chilling waves, and
with the other called loudly for assistance.”

   

  

  

  

  

  

 
 

   

  
 

  

   
  
 
 

  

FAo.

  

  

  

  

 
 
 

  

 
 
 

 

   
        
       
    
  

|
le

 
  
      
      
    
   
      
     
     
   
   
     
      
    
    
 
   
     
 
    
     
      
     
   
      
    
   
      
   
    
   
      
    
      
     
 
 
   
      
      
      
    
    
    
      
  
   
  
     
   

.

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

NEW YORK, AUGUST 11, 1879,

mane Good as a Gold Mine.

The Alaskan fisheries offer a rich and almost limit-

PDARRO oe’

leas field for enterprising fishermen. The waters
along the coast teem with fish, chiefly cod and hali-
but. Captain White, of the United States Revenue
Maurine Service, while sounding south of Kodiak,
threw out twenty lines, each with four or five hooks,
baited with Puget Sound clams. In two hours his
crew caught two hundred and fifty codfish, averaging
thirty-five pounds each. Two fishermen named
Thomas Bache and Henry Richard, at Kodiak, within
a period of six months, caught, salted, and sold,
22,000 cod. The success of these two men shows
what may be done by others. The fisheries of Afas-
ka are comparatively new, and extend over avery
wide range. Wm. 8. Dodge, the Mayor of Sitka, who
has spent several years in Alaska, states that ‘the
whole coast, from Portland Canal in the south to the
Polar Ocean in the north—embracing, including the
islands, 26,000 miles of sea frontage—is a grand
reservoir of fish, sufficient to employ thousands of
men in supplying the demand constantly growing,
and soen to increase immensely by the peopling of
Washington Territory, Oregon, and California, and
the embryo States now upbuilding all along the great
continental highway from the West to the East, as
well as the Sandwich Islands, China, and Japan.”
It is said that that most delicious fish, salnon, is so
abundant in all the rivers of the North Pacific tuat
itis only eaten by thuse who cannot get what they
consider better. There are many populous sections
. of the country east of Alaska where salmon is still
considered delicious food, and where the high price it
eommands makes it almost a luxury. & is evident,
therefore, that the euterprise which discovers an
economical method of conveying salmon from Alaska
to the markets where it is in great demand, will be
rewarded by rich profits.
>-o~<

BIG BROTHERS.

We have received a message from 2 little girl, ask-
ing usto give the “Big Brothers” some attention,
and our young friend has treated the subject so much
better than we could have done, that we give her
leave to talk, and lay before our readers her letter
verbatim :

“DEAR MR., OR MRS., OR MISS KATE THORN?

“IT don’t know whether you are a mister, or a mrs.
or an old maid! 8am Jones says you are an old maid
because ot are kinder sour about some things and
some folks. Ma says she guesses you have got a man
of your own, or else you’d never know so much
about the way men folks cut up.

“IT don’t know whether you are an ol4 woman that
Wears glasses and caps, or whether you be a young
woman that wears your hair on the top of your head,
and your bonnet on top of that, like the cupola on
Mr. Hall’s barn—but I want you to say something in
Mr. Street’s paper about little girls’ big brothers. I
think they ought to have something said about them,
I think they’re just hateful! They always call me a

oung one, and 1f I put my hand on any of their

Xes, Or canes, or things, they say to ma, ‘Do take
that young one out of the way!’

“Now [ don’t want to be called a young one! It
ain't respectful, somehow. And Fm eleven years old
and my hairis as long as anybody’s, and I’ve got
ruffies on my dress just like grown up folks, and
sometimes I get Aunt Sallie’s comb, and do my _ hair
up on top of my head, and I look as old as Annie
Simpson, and she’s had two beaus for as much as a
year, but one of them has gone back on her, and ain't
I glad? tor she’s a stuck-up thing, and always speaks
to me like this: ‘Hallo, little girl!’ and I don't like it.
I wish the other fellow would court some ether girl,
I guess I should be glad!

“T’ve got two brothers. One is named Fred, and
the other 1s named Albert. Both of them has got
mustaches, or think they have. I don’t think as they
do. You have to get dreadful near them, and have

wiul good eyesight to see any bairatall. Fred says
it is because it is so light-colored. I offered him my
bottle of boot-bronzing to black it with, and he pulled
— s, and told me to run away, and play with my

olls.

“Fred is courting a girl; that is, he is trying to, and
he’s awful particular about how he looks and smells.
He uses such a sight of perfumery. I asked him to
put some on my handkerchief, but he wouldn’t. He's
real stingy. He makes me run up stairs after his
collars and neek-ties, and things, and I have to
seratch his head, and find his sleeve-buttons, and
hunt up his slippers, and carry love-letters to Mary
Ann Brown—tnhat is his girl—and he won’t give me a
cent to buy gum with! .

“Albert ain’t any better, He’s just about the same,
only more 80, if anything. He ain’t got any girl, but
he wants one When girls come to our house to see
sister Minnie, whois eighteen, and has got a watch,
he puts on airs enough to make you sick. You ought
to see him! And he uses such large words—real
dictionary words—and rolis his r-r’s like a French-
man, with table-cloths to sell. And he plays on the
piano, and sings such love-sick songs, and turns his
eyes up to the ceiling just as our dog Rover did when
he was ina fit. Iset out to throw some water on
him one day to see if it would bring him out of it—
that is the way we used to do with Rover.

“When Frea harnesses up his horse—I want to go to
ride sometimes—I think it looks nice to see a little
girl out riding; but Fred always says he can’t
bother with young ones! He’s in a hurry! And
when he goes tochurch Sundays he won’t let me walk
beside him, nor go with him, and hold on his hand
when it is icy. nd once I caught his coat-tail to
keep from falling, and almost brought him rightdown
on his back, and Elen Gray and Lucy Price saw i
and giggled right ous, and he was somad! He like
to have snapped my head off!

“T wish, now, I had pulled him down. It would
have served him right, cross old thing! When heand
Albert have company—young men company—and
they sing, and play on the violin, my big brothers
won’t let me come inthe room. But I’ve peeped
through the keyhole, and seen them smoking pipes,
and drinking stuff out of long-necked bottles. Fred
said, when I told of it, that it was nothing but sweet-
ened water, but I don't see what they putit in bottles
for. Ma and I always have oursin the yellow pitch-
er that was my great-grandfather’s. Once I smelt
Albert’s breath, and it was just, like the smell of the
stuff that macleans her black silk dress with, and
that’s gin; and I told him so, and he said I wasa bad,
naughty girl,and when I died I should goto the
place where the weather is warm. I s’pose he meant
Florida. And he said he’d been using gin for the
toothache, but I watched my chance, and looked in
his mouth when he gaped, and his teethare just as
sound as ma’s new ones, and she bought hers not a
month ago at Dr. Dorsey’s.

‘When Fred gets set down beside Mary Ann Brown
when she comes over here, he hates to have ne come
in and sit down with my dolls. I show them to Mary
Ann. She likes to see them. And she pats my head,
and calls me a nice little girl But he makes up faces
at me behind her back, and tells me he'll give me five
cents torun away and play. And sometimes I run
away, but he never gives meany five cents. And
sometimes I creep back kinder soft, just to see how
folks act when they are courting, and I saw him kiss
her right in the mouth once, and she yelled out, ‘Oh,
Fred! I'll scream! I vow I will!’ and I expect he bit
her, but she didn’t scream! If she had,ma would
have come, and Aunt Sallie, and I guess Fred would
have caught it then.

“Oh, I could tell you heaps and heaps of things
about my big brothers, but you would be tired of
- hearing it. But big brothers are afraud. They ain’t
no good to their own sisters. ‘They are just as sweet
as can be on other fellows’ sisters, but precious little
do they care about their own. The’d see them run
their legs off to wait on them, and never so much as
buy them a stick of candy, or a cent’s worth of pep-
permints, And they like to play tricks on our dolls,
and paint whiskers on their dear little faces, and tie
wrapping-twine round their long hair, and spill
cigar ashes on their beautiful little bonnets; and
they'll lug off all our pretty pieces of broken crock-
ery that we play keeping hotse with, and upset our
doll-carriages, and laugh at us when we have fune-
rals over our dead kittens, and put icicles down our
backs, and spill us off from our sleds, and call us
young ones, and they are hateful generally. And if
you’ve got any big brothers, Mr. Thorn, or Mrs.
Thorn, or Old Maid Thorn, I’ll bet a cent you don’t
take any comfort with ‘em, or you didn’t when you
were a little girl. And I want you to give them a real
good talking to,and make’em ashamed of them-
selves—there!

 

 

“So good-by, sheet tt aim

ge PSS

OSS Rive

‘| press my feelings.

but the idea of an unarmed boy being thus left tw the
distraction.

proceeded to barricade the door, when a thought
flashed across my brain.
me so long? The carrier pigeon that I had just re-
ceived from Uncle Toby !—I would release, with a

it passed from m
the direction of Uncle Toby’s. The message read as

masked burglars. Come immediately.

flight when the robbers reached my door and tried to

door, and with my personal efforts to prevent them
from entering, I had improvised a barricade that
promised to resist all attacks made against it.

exasperated the fellows to such a degree that they
poured forth threats of vengeance Bapon me.

my longer remaining in that position.
fired through the panel of the door.

lawn below.
to me that, while torture awaited me if captured by
the robbers, there was cortain death in a leap from

 

BY FRANCIS 8. SMITH.

Dear girl, this world is beautiful,
With all its doubts and fears,
And sad mishaps and miseries,
And bitter, bitter tears.
For after all the good in life
Is greater than the ill,
And we by courting sunshine, may
Be happy if we will.

Astronomers who read the stars,
And not a planet miss,
Have demonstrated that there are
Far greater worlds than this—
Worlds that are peopled like our globe
This may be true, but still
This planet suits us, and we may
Be happy it we will.

I taste the nectar of thy lipa,
Kor stars I read thine eyes—

Let those who court philosophy
Seek rapture in the skies.

There may be belles and beaus above
Who feel love’s magic thrill,

Well, what is thattous? Wemsay
Be happy if we will.

With all my heart and soul I hope
The nymphs and youths celestial
Enjoy themselves as fully as
The boys and girls terrestrial
I envy not their transports,
Let them take of joy their ill—
This world is ours, and we may
Be happy if we will.

> @—~< ——_____—_--

A MESSAGE THROUGH THE AIR.

BY E. T. TAGGARD.

It was a lovely night in the month of August that I
sat on the porch of old Uncle Toby’s house, not yet
entirely recovered from the impressions made by a
glorious sunset which even then left its foot-prints
upon the clouds that hovered in the western sky.

My horse stood at the gate already saddled, await-
ing me, butI was determined not to leave Uncle
Toby's house untill had carried my point, and be-
ing his nephew, [ had enough of the sare old blood
in my veins to make me as persevering as he was
obstinate.

“Uncle Toby, I must have that bird.”

“Wa’al, neffy, ask ine for anything else in the house
except that, and it is yours.”

“I don’t want anytuing else, Uncie Toby, but that
you must give me.”

“Wa’al now, neffy. you Know that ere carrier-pigeon
took the first prize at the county fair.”

“Which fact will only make me prize it dearer.
Come, now, Uncle Toby, be generous.’

“Waal, boy, the bird is yourn. You always had
your own way with old Uncle Toby.”
To say that I was delighted would but faintly ex-
The bird was a beauty, as may
easily be imagined, and as I bid old Uncle Toby good-
night, and mounted my pony, with the cage in my
nand containing the prize I so dearly coveted, I drove
home withalight heart anda brain filled to over-
flowing with plansin which the bird’s speed would
be tested. Numerous valuable prizes seemed already
to be within my grasp as I reached home, and having
stabled my horse, ascended to my dark aud lonely
room.

I was but sixteen years of age at the time, and on
the night in question I was the sole and only occu-
pant of my father’s mansion, the other members of
the family having gone onasummer trip to the
mountains, leaving mein charge. My room was on
the second floor, overlooking the road, and thither I
had taken my bird, where in my solitude I could
quietly adwire its beautiful proportions.
Extinguishing my lamp, I sat by the open window,
contentedly smoking my pipe and enjoying the cool
breezes that swept across the lawn laden with the
rich odors of the flowers, when my attention was at-
tracted to some dark objects that appeared to be ap-
proaching by the road that led past our house.

I listened intently, and above the whispers of the
summer breeze [ thought I could detect the hum of
whispered conversation,

Et was no unusual occurrence for tramps to pass our
place at that hour, and tiie circumstance caused only
wripple of curiosity to arise in my bosom, until I
heard a latch of our gate lifted, and distinetly the
tread of many feet fell upon niy ear.

I was 80 surprised and startled at this unexpected

 

the door-steps, and I knew from the splintering of

to force an entrance into the house.

By the light ot a dark lantern, which they carried,
I discovered that they were six in number, and ali
wore heavy black masks the more effectually to pre-
vent recognition in case of discovery, Then my
voice came back to me. andthinking to make up for
my youtatul years in the volume of my voice I yelled
out, in thundering tones:

“Hello! What are you doing there?”

The dark lantern was closed hike a flash, but yet I
could distinctly define the dim outline of the robbers
as they stood like dark shadows in contrast with the
white balcony beyond. For aanoment the stillness
of death ensued, when I received a reply, uttered in
tones I shall never forget, and with an emphasis that
clearly indicated a purpose to carry out whut was
threatened *

“Tsay, youngster, just you take in that head of
your’n and keep that baby mouth closed or I'll blow
the top of your head off!”

The sharp click of a pistol followed, and you can
rest assured that I needed no second warning, What
should Ido? Iwas at least half a mile from the
nearest neighbor, but the house was surrounded and
escape was impossible. There was certain death in
the very attempt itself. >

The shot-gun Ah! that was a goodidea. I would
get the gun and defend the mansion to the bitter end.
The shot-gun I had left in the parlor 80 as to have it
within reach during the long hours of the day when
tramps were as thick as huckleberries, and I had for-
gotten to bring it up stairs that night. My mind had
been so much absorbed by my Carrier-pigeon that I
had ineautiously overlooked the making of my usual
preparations for self defense.

I thonght I would go down and get it, and actually
opened my bedroom door for that purpose when [
heard a loud crash below which told me as plain as
words could utter it, that the hall door had been suc

cesstully forced, and that the robbers were then ac-
tually in the houre.

I retreated to the shelter of my little room, locked
and bolted the door, a prey to my worst apprehen-
sions. I remembered the cruelty of these masked
men, and I knew that if they did not murder me out-
right they would by binding and gagging so tortures
me as to make even death itself desirable.

Of one thing I was satisfied, that the safety of the
robbers dependeit upon my being secured, and to
achieve that result would be their first object. If I
had a weapon so that I could have made an effort to
preserve my life, would then have been contented,

mercy of these unfeeling ruffians alinost drove me to
I heard their footsteps ascending the stairs, and I

How was it that it escaped

message; it would return to Uncle Toby’s, and I
would be saved, and the robbers foiled in their search
for plunder.

I wrote a message hurriedly, secured it to the bird,
which I placed upon the window-sill, when, after a
moment’s hesitation, it ascended sky ward, and when
sight was flying like the wind in

follows:

“UNCLE ToBy---the house has heen rey six
OB.”

Scarcely had the bird started on its aomeward

force it; but I had pushed my bedstead against the

The prolonged defense I was making incensed and

e. Their
patience became exhausted at last, and a pistol-shot
which grazed my cheek warned me of the danger of
It had been

Irushed to the window and gazed out upon the
The distance was great, and 1t seemed

the window.

What should Ido? The distance to Uncle Toby’s
house was but five miles, which the pigeon must have
covered by this time. But suppose the bird should
not be discovered? Suppose Uncle Toby had gone to
his room for the night, and my inessage would not be
seen and read before morning? The very thought
was 80 agonizing to me that I refused to entertain it.
All this time the fellows were working at the door.
The bolt was forced, and slowly but surely the bar-
ricade was yielding to the power outside. I saw a
masked face peer through the opening thus made,
and the glimmer of the dark lantern from outside. I
could remain no tonger. Death itself seemed prefer-

able to the uncertainty of my fate at the hands of
these desperate fellows. *

I rushed to the window, and, without hesitation, I
jumped. It seemed to me to be a life-time before I

 

We have no word to add. Kate THORN.

Deo

Den,
we

struck the ground, and when I did, I rolled over upon

intrusion that I was momentarily dazed, and before }
I could decide on a plan of action, they had ascended |

wood that they had already commenced operations ti

%

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

DEAR GIRL, THE WORLD IS BEAUTIFUL.

olliersgielicvtpinendieieenaertnibiines

the grass, temporarily paralyzed from the shock I
had reevived. When I attempted to rise, the grip of
an iron hand pressed my throat, and I felt the cold
stecl of a pistol as it was pressed against my soe

To resist meant death. The house was surrounded.
T held my rr while the robber proceeded to bind
me; for whenever I displayed any restlessness that
cold steel was pressed against my head. The only
struggle I made was when he attempted to insert. a
gag in my mouth; but I had to submit, for I received
a blow from the butt of the fellow’s pistol that mul-
pulse the stars that I saw in the heavens a hundred-
old.

Completely disco. raged, I gave myself up in de-
|spair. I resisted no longer, closing my eyes to shut
/ out, a8 it were, the gloomy prospect before me. Some-
what surprised at the prolonged delay of the robber
in perfecting my pinioning, I opened my eyes.

Unele Toby stood over me. Stretched upon the
grass by my side was the fellow who had secured me,
a gaping wound in his head affording an explanation
" ee sudden ending of his attempt upon my
iberty.

A dozen determined and well-armed men were with
him. The masked robbers at first showed a disposi-
tion to resist, but on reflection, seeing the bopiiea-
; ness of any such attempt, they survendered uncon-
| ditionally. At the next term of th. court they were
each sentenced to fifteen years’ imprisonment.

Uncle Toby was making his final round of his
grounds on the night in question, when the rustling
of a bird’s wings attracted his attention. It entered
the pigeon-cote. Uuabie to control his curiosity, and
anxious to ascertain thevedtuse of such a peculiar
proceeding, he procured « ladder, ascended to the
cote, and there, to his surprise, he found that the
earrier.pigeon had already returned, and with a mes-
sage, He read it, summoned his neighbors, and ar-
rived just in time to bag the fellows.

The old bird is @ead now, but while it lived there
was not mouey cnoughin our town to buy it from
me.

 

-_——--—- > 4-4
A Living Curiosity.

The man witha window in his stomach, through
which the process of digestion can be viewed, is liy-
ing in poverty at Oakdale, Mass. His name is Alexis
8t. Martin, and several years ugo he was considered
an instructive curiosity.by physicians and other
scientific men. The accidental discharge of a gun
tore a part of his side away, and left a large orifice
in his stomach. Theedges of this wound refused to
grow together, but a kind of curtain prevented the
food from falling out. The eminent Dr. Beaumont,
who is considered an authority on this branch of
medical science, was thus enabled to make marty
valuable experiments by inserting various articles of
food and closely watching the process of digestion.
Is it not remarkable that the man whose stomach
physicians were, years ago, anxious to fill with the
best food of the land, and who was surfeited with
dainties, isnow so poor _as_to be unable to get the
common necessaries of lifét—

>e~<

THE HUNTER’S OATH.

BY ARTHUR L. MESERVE.

 

 

It was a desolate, fire-scathed seene in the heart of
the forest. Everything which the eyecould rest upon
had been blackened by the red tongues of the flames.
The earth was baked with heat, and every stump
which marked the spot where a forest giant hac
stood, was giving forth a white volume of smoke.
Even the great trees which encircled the clearing had
telt the blast, and the red flames were even now
creeping up their trunks and out among their
brauches,

Only one living thing was to be seenin the midst
of all this mocking waste. This was the form of a
man standing, as motionless as a statue, in nearly the
center of the clearing. Before him was a heap of
sinoldering ruins, upon which his eyes seemed
with a strange fascination.
remained of a settler’s eabin.
The man was clad in the garb of a hunter. In his
belt was thrust a long hunting-knife, and over his
shoulder was thrown his trusty mfle. His age might
have been forty years, 2nd his appearance showed
that the forest had been his home fer a long time.
The mass of blackened, smoldering embers upon
which he gazed seemed to possess for him a terrible
fascination, and for seyeral minutes he had not.

xed
The heap wus all that

 
 

breath, and then he woved to the next.

hunter said in the same tone:
“That is for his wife.”
a fatal

its purpose us the others had. It was

| brought bis surviving comrades to their feet.

up his rifle Another moment and he had sent a bul
with w yell sprang upon him, tomahawk in hand.

a tree,
with his comrades, a knife driven in his heart.
oath of the hunter was fulfilled to a letter.

he el ilo

WHICH CHILD SHALL IT BE?

BY OAK LEAF,

 

 

“Here, wife, is a letter,” said John,

“From rich sister Ellen at C_—.

She writes she’s a widow, and childless too,
And lonely as lonely can be,

She makes us a kind offer, wife,
A generous one, indeed;

And as the times are hard, we'll gladly accept—
But, here, wife, take it and read.”

Her offer was this: ‘‘Dear brother,” she wrote,
“Tf you but one child will spare,
I'l! lavish all my love upon it,
And give it a mother’s care ;
Tt shall know no want that wealth can supply,
And when with my fortune I’m done,
It shall all belong to this child of yours,
As my heir, and only one.”

 

I had read enough, and in terror I flung
The letter upon the floor,

And quickly cast a frightened glance
Toward the children's door.

Then, seeing John’s astonished look,
I smiled at my groundless fears,

And said: “Come, John, and choose her one
From among oui sleeping dears.”

We went together, and stood beside
Onr first-born Nellie’s bed,
And opening half her sleepy eyes.
“Good-night, papa,” she said.
He bent, and kissed her eyelids down,
And smoothed her nut-brown hair,
And murmured low—I caught the words—
“Not you, not you, my fair !””

Next we paused beside the couch
Where alept the father’s joy,

Our second-born, and only son,
Our precious Charley boy.

His sturdy little arm was thrown
High o’er his curly head;

His rosy lips were still apart,
As when his prayer he said.

1 viewed him with a mothe.’s pride,
Feeling his case was won,

And knowing it, when John exclaimed:

“PU not give up my con!”

“Come, then,” said I, “your choice lies here,

Between our baby twins.

I am anxious now to know which one
Your sister's fortune wins,”

 

Their white night-robes were cast aside,
Their pertect limbs disclosing ;

Ah! holy sight! embraced, they lay,
Like cherubs fair reposing ;

The brows that lay beneath their curls
With childhood’s sleep were dewy—

They so alike we scarce could tell
Sweet Lu from darling Louie.

The father gazed on them awhile,
Then knelt beside their cot,

And said: “Oh, God, forgive me
For repining at my lot!

I never realized till now

How rich my treasures were,

 

At length, and as though with
managed to throw off the spell
the tirst word came. txe

turned his eyes therefrom.
a violent effort, h
ha r

  

) 1ife a would
8 Was silent agai

é n fore few momen ts, and then
he broke out with: 4 ae
“Poor Sol, it is all a

: Rt
with you good d wife and
little ones. I guess” ap ee e whole of
ye. It makes me sick to looke yonder.* I wouldn’t

wonder if they burned you all alive. But there is
one thing, Sol, you shail be avenged. I swear it, by
Heaven. Dick Danforth won’t rest or sleep until he
has gone under, or every one who had a hand in this
day’s work has bit the dust.” ;
As he said this, the hunter looked up at the smoke-
darkened sky, as though he was registering his vow
above, and meunt to keep it to a letter. ;
No longer did he remain mactive about the spot,
where the tragedy in which his friends had fallen
had been enacted. *

With a parting glance at the terrible sight before
him he moved away from the spot, following the
trail of the savages, which the flames had not been
able to blot out. Only one thought now filled his
bosom, and this was of vengeance.

His friend Sol Conyers and his family should be
avenged. To this task he had solemnly dedicated
himself, and he would accomplish it or perish in the
attempt

Toward tho big belt of forest through which he had
plunged only a short time before he “i, keeping
his eye upon the trail Once beyond the ravages of

belt, wxth the red flames forming a fantastic wreath
above his head.

He came out with his garments only a littlesinged,
but in person no way harined.

The smoke had blinded him, and for a moment the
trail was lost. But he was not longin finding it
again. He was too used to the business to allow this
to detain hima great while. The trail now stretched
before him plainer than ever, and without loss of
time he hurried away upon it.

From close observation that he had made he judged
that the savages had some three hours the start of
him. He did not believe that it could be more than
this, for he knew that it would not bave taken the
flames a great while to make the headway that they
had done.

There had been no rain for some time, and the
cabin and the field of ripened grain were as dry as
tinder. It had taken but a short time indeed for the
fire to flash over it.

A glance up through the tree-tops told him that he
had some three hours of daylight left to him. He
must make the most ef this, for as soon as the night
Shall fall he could not keep the trail. With long
strides be hurried onward. The trail lay so broad
and plain before him, that it Was impossible for him
to lose 1%. Even the veriest novice in woodcraft
would not have strayed from it.

Slowly the sun declined, and atlast its round disk
touched the tree-tops. A half dozen miles already
lay between him and the blasted clearing. Less than
an hour of daylight remained to him. Unless he
came up with the savages in that time, the trail
would be hidden from his sight, and he might miss
the vengencs he so thirsted for.

But upon it he read signs which told him that they
were not far away.

The sun went down, and the shadows of evening
came on apace. It was s0 dark now thatit was with
the greatest difficulty that he could keep on the trail.
He lost it at length, and try as he would he could not
determine its whereabouts.

While standing thus in uncertainty he suddenly
detected the gleam of a light ahead. His heart gave
a great bound. The hour of his revenge bad come.
The savages were close before inn.

Slowly and cautiously he crept forward. A few
minutes more and he was only a few yards distant
from the spot where the camp-tire burned cheerily
among the trees. From where he stood he could see
dusky figures flitting about it. The time for him to
strike the blows he meditated had not yet come. The
hour for that was when they were buried in slumber.
So he watched and waited. Slowly the moments
went by. Never had he known them to go at such a
laggard pace before. It did seem as though they
never would lie down to rest. , But they did at last.
The shadowy forms disappeared; the fire sank lower
and lower, until at last only a pale light glimmered
ong the trees. The moment for action had come
a as

With his rifle in one hand, and his drawn knife in
the other, he crept toward the spot where the un-
conscious savages lay. A few paces brought him so
near that he could number them. There were five of
them all told.

Stealthily he crept to the side of the nearest one.
Dropping his rifie he raised the hand that held the
knite, while the other he placed above the lips of the
savage.

_ The blow descended, and the redskin yielded up his
life without a sound,

 

 

  
 
    
 
  
 
  
 
   
  
  

the tire, he knew that it would lie so plainly before | 1 used to put up with them generally in _prefer-
dim, that he would have no difficnity in keeping it. | ence to going to a public house. But the day
Boldly, half recklessly, heplunged through the fiery | before Christmas I happened to strike a large

d fear I sometimes have forgot
Who placed them in my care.
‘orgive me, Lord, and, by Thy grace,
_ With one I wil) not part.”

od thus it was a mother’s breast
‘Was spared an aching heart.

“THE BRIDE OF DEATH.

BY U.S. GIDLEY.
°

 

 

The other evening a small circle of us were
talking of the possibility of spirits coming back
to visit the scenes of their earthly career.

Some thought it was possible, while others

thought not. .

Among the number present was a oom mid-
dle-aged gentleman named Brown. e listened
in silence for a time, and seeing that those who
pretended to believe in ghosts were getting
worsted in the argument, he spoke up serious-

—
e

“Well, gentlemen, all yon can say will not

“That was for Sol!” he muttered beneath his

The same fate was meted out to him, while the

Another blow descended, but it did not accomplish

| but a shill cry broke from the savage’s lips, which
In an instant the hunter sprang back and picked

let crashing through the brain of one while the other
The weapon flew past his head, and buried itself in

Another moment, aud the savage lay wAgOe
he

   

 

 
 
    

tones:
servation here. Hist! it is almost time.
are coming. Watch!”
As he ceased sp
clock began ciel the midnight hour.
Before the reverberations of the

took positions on either side of the room.

apparently about fifty years of age, escorting

daughter, and this mysterious gathering was
wedding party.

But where was the bridegroom? Iloeked int

him and did not notice my questioning leok.

mained quietly in the places they
upon first entering the room, then troubled look

away aud vanished one by one.
peared to melt away into the air.

in the center of the parlors.

raised

 

bosom.

ward to the floor, and sank through it from

light ceased to shine and the room was aguin
shrouded in darkness.

I turned to question the old man who had led
me thither, in regard to the strange occurrences.
He, too, had vanished! I was alone. Tremblin
with fright I hurried from the apartment ae
sought my own room.

It was some time before I could compose my-
self to sleep again, but I finally sueceeded in do-
ing so, and slept soundly till merning. As seon
as I arose I went to the landlord, told him my
adventure, and asked for an explanation.

“Just as I expected,” said he. “I told you to
lock your door.”

“And I did lock it,” 4 replied.

“Strange! strange! It’s getting worse every
‘What<do you mean? Please explain.”

"Oh, yes; you want the story. Well, the
simple facts are as follows: What you saw was

beautiful young lady, whose father owned the
place at that time, was engaged to be married to
the man of her choice on Christmas Eve. From
some girlish freak or impulse she named mid-
night as the hour when their vows should be ex-
changed, and the guests were invited to assemble
at that time. They came, the minister came,
and all was in readiness, but no bridegroom ap-
peared. He had proved false at the last moment,
and fled like a coward, sending no word to her
he had so cruelly deceived.

“After waiting a reasorable length of time the
guests sadly dispersed to their homes, and the
young lady, crazed by disappointment and grief,
drove a dagger to her broken heart, and became
the Bride of Death!

“Each Christmas Eve since that time the
tragic scene has been repeated just as you saw it
last night.”

“But how about the old man who awoke me ?”
T asked.

he 18s always present when the shdowy wedding
guests assemble.”

though I have been in that vicinity many times
since, I havealways taken special pains toavoid
the hotel which is haunted by tie BripE or
DEATH.

 

 

>-o<+____-— Ce
Lord Byron hada strong’affection for his Newfound

the poct wrote an inscription of 26 lines for the mon-
ument which he afterward erected over his shaggy
pet’s grave. These lines represent an unhealthy

asshowing how profoundly the hollowness of false
love and vacuous friendship is felt by a passionate
and over-seusitive heart that has once been deceived.
The lines for which Byron has been most vituperated,

 

 

convince me that there are no such things as
ghosts. I ain a firm believer in them, and if you
care to hear it I will tell you why.”

“Certainly, go on!” we all shouted. ‘A ghost
story is just what we want.”

Thus urged. Mr. Brown cleared his throat, and
then began in solenin tenes:

It was in the winter of ’69. I was traveling

in.the New England States on business. The
farmers in that section are a hospitable set, and

village where I could get no accommodations
except at an old, gloomy-looking hotel, which
stood on one of the principal streets.

I didn’t like the appearance of the place, but
asIcould do no better I resolved to submit
graciousiy to the inevitable.

It was night before I had finished my busi-
ness 1n the place, so I was compelled to remain
at the inn until morning. After supper was
over Isat inthe bar-room, smoked several strong
cigars, and read till bedtime.

J retired early—it was barely ten o’clock. The
landlord showed me to my room, which was a
large double bedroom on the second floor, just
across the spacious hall from the parlors of the
establishment.

After my host bade me good-night he turned
back in a hesitating way aad said:

“Say, my friend, 1t is Christmas Eve, and if I
were in your place [’d lock my door, and _ bolt it
on the inside.”

His manner was mysterious. I failed to com-
prehend the hidden meaning of his words, if
they were intended to convey any. So I thought
to turn the matter off with a jest.

“Any danger of St. Nicholas breaking in?” I
inquired, join ly.

“Oh, no, no danger of any kind that I know
of; but as you are the only person who sleeps
to-night in this part of the house, I made the
suggestion merely because I chanced to think of
that fact. Good-night.” And the landlord was
gone.

His words had made no very deep impression
on my mind; nevertheless, before disrobing I
took the precaution to both lock and bolt the
door, 1n accordance with his hint.

I am positive I secured the door as stated, and
that makes 1t so much the harder to account for
what followed.

Soon after the departure of my host I was
wrapped in the arms of Morpheus, peacefully
dreaming of home. I had slept perhaps an hour
and a half, when I was suddenly awakened by
an unmistakable touch on the elbow.

I sprang up in alarm, and gazed about the
room.

The door was open, and a venerable, gray-haired
man was standing by my bedside, arrayed ina
suit of funereal black.

I was slightly startled, as you may imagine.
Before I recovered the wer of speech my
strange visitor broke the silence by remarking,
in a hurried and hoarse whisper:

“Come, get up quick, or you will miss the
sight! Itis almost time! Come!”

Mechanically and withont a word I obeyed. I
arose quietly, threw a quilt over my shoulders,
and followed in the footsteps of the dark-robed
figure as it glided noiselessly from the room.

He guided me straight across the hall to the
folding-doors of the hotel parlors, flung them
open, and entered. I walked by his side until

 

 

and which contain the sharpest sting for the general
herd of critics, are these:

“You, who perchance behold this simple urn,

Pass on—it honors none you wish to mourn,

To mark a friend’s remains these stones arise—

I never knew but one, and here he lies.”

Sie

THEATRICAL companies must pay full rates on some
of the railroads next season, a circular to that effect
having been issued by the Pennsylvania, the Read-
ing, and the New Jersey Central. Hitherto theatri-
cal combinations have been allowed a reduction of
about one-third from regular rates; and as the roads
which have already rescinded the privilege are en-
deavoring to induce other companies to follow their
example, the general abolishment of the customary
rebate will materially injure not only theatrical peo-
ple, but hotel keepers, who usually absorb a great
portion of the profits of traveling entertainments.

al et re iL agai

THERE are few men who are able, or even inclined,
toimitate the practical Christianity of the Rev. W.
Schofield, a Methodist missionary in Anstralia. To
convince the world that he believed the doctrine he
preached, he bequeathed the munificent sum of
£43,000 to aid in advancing Methodism in Australia.
The widow, instead of objecting to the will, and en-
gaging iegal talent to prove that he was not of sound
mind when he madeit, has supplemented her hus-
band’s bequest by an addition of £7,000 of her own
mon¢y.

 

——— + 6 +
IN England it is not illegal to steal the plot of a
story, convert it into a drama, and represent it upon
the stage. Many popular authors ure much annoyed
by this form of theft. The literary pirates do not al-
ways wait for the story to be completed, but invent
a denouement which seems probable, and thus are
enabled to enact their drama before the author has
published the close of his story. It thus happens
that the final catastrophe of a story and that of the
drama are occasionally strangely dissimilar.

—_> @-=<—_+___
WE are almost certain to hear of the fortunate fel-
low who drew the capital prize in the lottery, but
there is little said of the hundred thousand disap-
pointed ones who bemoan their ill-luck because they
failed to win the coveted treasure,
—_—__—__ > e+

It is easy enough to endure the prosperity of a
swindling scoundrel, but his explanation of how he
started in life with only twenty-five cents and a com-
mon school education, is pretty hard to bear.

> @~
QUEEN VICTORIA, on being asked ber opinion of
ladies who wear their hair “banged,” characterised
them as “fringed lunatics.”

 

 

ont ~> @—=<_-

MARKOF.—THE RUSSIAN VIOLINIST. By Henry Gre-
ville. Publishers, T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadel-
phia. The genius of the author is dispiayed at its best in
this well-written noyel—one of the best of the kind we
have had from her pen. It shaws agreat deal 8f dramatic

 

 

 

AG

 

we reached a small, sheltered alcove at the ex-

talent. The volume is very handsomely bound.

.

 
 
 

 

 
 

treme end of the apartment, when he paused,
laid his hand on my arm, and said, in low

“This is just the spot; we are free from ob-
They

saking the neighboring town-

tirst stroke
had died away,a flood of light from some un-
seen source lit up the parlors with dazzling bril-_
liancy, low, soft music came stealing through the
air, and a number of ladies and gentlemen
dressed in the richest garments, filed slowly
through the folding-doors in couples and silently |

Last of all came a clergyman in leng robes —
bearing a book in his hands, and a gentleman, —

beautiful young lady dressed in pure white,
These two latter were evidently father and

my companion’s face inquiringly, but he was in-
tently gazing on the fascinating scene before

For a few minutes the wedding guests re-
iad taken

asound broke the awful silence that hung over _
the place, Presently the forms began to. fade —
some glided |
out through the folding-doors, while others ap-_

he gave one despairing look around, drew —
forth a tiny dagger from soine part of her dress, —
held it up in the light for an instant. while she |
her eyes upward asif in prayer, then
plunged the shining blade full into her snowy —

_ The crimson life-current leaped forth and bap- —
tized her spotless bridal robes with the red sig-
nal of death. She threw up her arms, feii back-

 

The day is b
o’erburde
The way is!
And thick

I fain woul
And near
But still fa
With fev

What is m)
Nor stop
The day gs
Along th
a I hear ino
Ses happ
ai In verdant
i
4 And catk
os Nor may ]
It leads
It bears 0
Breaks |

Oh, doubt
8s 4

° r
began to steal over their countenances, and they — aa _
moved to and fro in confusion, and seemed to be Buty 2
whispering and consulting together, though not _ Weary

 

 

Soon the young lady was left standing alone — .

 

sight, and at the same instant the unearthhy ©

 

merely a rehearsal of a tragedy that took place 4
in this house just thirty years ago last night. A _

 

 

“He seems to be conneeted with the affair in 7
some way,” replied the landlord, **but I cannot |
explain why or in what way; 1 only knew that |

~Lithanked my host for his explanation of the 4
mystery, paid my bill, and departed; and al- |

  

land dog, and when the faithful animal died, in 1808, @

 

mood of mind, but they are not altogether valueless, —

 
 

 

     

 

  
  
   
    
   
  
  
   
  
    
  
    
  
 
  
 
 
    
  
   
    
 
 
 
 
   
   
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
  
   
 
  
   
  
    
   
  
 
  
   
   
    
  
    
   
  
  
  
   
   
 
 
  
  
  
    
   
  
 
  
 
  
   
   
  
  
  
  
   
   
  
  
 

    
   
  
 
   
 

  
  
 

 
   
 

  
ae
~~ .
¥ eee gcunas . Ne wr eae _ diiron ied ee
Fae ORs r as + i y Ke W, }- a a) 7O
| Semis L jo =:
. oe ii © 7
——. —— — a — Te aye ae :
a he paused, * IN RECOMPENSE. gether, proceeding to a pretty gilded kiosk in| The letter was brief, and was signed with the | the girl, putting her cambric tohereves. ‘I call | and thus force him to marry her, and his voice
i said, in low the garden. name of Greggs, Sir John’s valet. you by your title now, because I realize how pre- | was cold and stern as he said :

> free from ob-
it time. They

hboring town-
b hour.
he first stroke
from some un-
dazzling byil-
ig throug
ul gentlemen
» filed slew]
°8 and silently
m.
mm leng robes
& gentleman,
©, escorting a
pure white,
y father anil
thering was a

> YOO

Tlooked into ;
ut he was in-
scene before |
ing leok. i

;

t |

3:
lading alone

ound, drew
tC her dress,
fF. While she
rayer, then
her snowy

hand bap-
ie red Sig- i
, fezi back.
h it from

Suests re-
had
oubled looks
"és, and they
ecemed to be
 thengh not
mung Over
fan to fade
ome glided
e others ap-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

BY E. NORMAN GUNNISON.

The day is hot, and I am faint and dreary,
O’erburdened by the labor and the heat;

The way is rough, and overgrown, and weary,
And thick bestrewn with thorns that pierce my feet.

I fain would rest me in the pleasant meadow,
And near cool waters which are gliding by ;
But still fare on through sunshine and through shadow,

the
With fevered frame, and hot lips parched and dry.

What ismy recompense? Why should I bear it,
Nor stop to lay my burden down?

The day grows late; I may no longer fare it
Along the pathway, desolate and brown.

I hear in other paths the wild birds singing,
See happy pilgrims loiter on the banks;
- In yerdant fields I watch the wild flowers springing,
And catch the laughter from the careless ranks,

Nor may I stay. Why is my path so narrow?
It leads through darkness far beyond my sight;
It bears no song, no twitter of a sparrow
Breaks on its silence. Can it end in light?
taken Oh, doubting soul! wide are thy paths of danger,
And strait and barren that in which you tread;
But by His hand, who was on earth a stranger,
Weary and faint your footsteps still are led.

> @~

 

 

 

This kiosk was fitted up in Oriental style, the
floor being covered with a square of Persian
carpet, surrounded by a border of shaded palm
leaves, a divan being at one side of the room,
and piles of cushions, scattered about in _ profu-
sion. Two or three windows, draped with cash-
mere, lighted the pretty room.

The only European feature about the apart-
ment was the hanging shelves, carved in a rich,
dark wood, and laden with choice volumes.

“So this is your favorite summer-house ?” said
Blanche. ‘It 1s, indeed, worthy of admiration.
You make it a sort of study, I suppose ?”

“Yes, and a sort of general retreat. You have
been in it before?”

“Oh, yes. It is a favorite retreat of Amber.
Some of her books are on the shelves with
yours. Amber anticipates many pleasant hours

ere with you.”

Ralph’s face darkened, but the shadow passed
away almost instantly.

He seated his guest and himself, and directed
her gaze through the open door upon the lawn

and@ the park beyond.

“A very fine view,” said Blanche. ‘‘What a
lovely place is Courtney Hall! No wonder Am-
ber is always talking of what she will do when
she is Lady Courtney !”

“Does she anticipate such an event ?” asked
Te carelessly.

“Oh, i: !. You look surprised, but why should
she not? To be beloved by a handsome—par-

 

Amber, the Adopted;

SCHEMING TO WIN.
By Mrs. HARRIE T LEWIS,

AUTHOR OF

“The Rival Cousins,” “A Life at Stake,” “The

ee en rece

don me—by Ralph Courtney is no ordinary attair.
|] do not blame Amber for boasting of her future
grandeur. She is a very geod girl—very good
indeed. Not very pretty nor good-tempered,
perhaps, but blessed withthe love of your father
and yourself!” |

Ralph was silent and thoughtful.

‘‘Asto her temper,” said Blanche, as if wish-
ing to excuse Amber’s pretended fault, “chow
many queens and other great women have been
bad-tempered! She gives away a great deal of
money—rather indiscriminately, it is truae—but
stillshe keeps giving. And then she has made

he

The contents were to the effect that the bar-
onet and his servant had reached Salerno in
safety, that they had met the brigands by ap-
pointment, that in the midst of their negotia-
tions the soldiers had come upon them and at-
tacked the robbers; that the brigand chief had
cried out that Sir John had betrayed them and
he must die; that the brigand had then delib-
erately shot the baronet, and made his escape
with most of his men, besides carrying off most
of his wounded. Greggs added, with many ex-
pressions of grief, that he should return with
the body of his master immediately—that, in
ee he would be but a few hours behind his

etter.

Ralph read this letter aloud in a horror-
stricken tone, and with an appalled expression ;
and Amber, as pale as death, stood leaning on
the back of Blanche’s chair until he had fin-
ished. Then, with a wild shriek, the girl fell
fainting to the floor. |

It was Jasper who picked her up and endeav-
ored to restore her.

“Take her to her own room, Mr. Longley !’’ ex-
claimed Mrs. George, who was weeping. “‘What
a blow to the poor darling—to us all!” s

She led the way toAmber’s room, and the girl
was laid upon a couch, and her maid summoned
to attend her.
> Ralph shut himself up in his own chamber,
and gave way unrestraitred|ly to his wild grief.

That same evening: Greggs arrived with the
body in charge, and Ralph, attended by Dr. Gra-
hame, the family physician, who had been sum-
moned, descended to the drawing-room to iden-
tify it.

“Ah, yes, it is my father!” exclaimed Ralph,
as his gaze rested upon the discolored yet fam-
iliar-looking face. “What a worn and anxious
expression is on his features!”

“It is Sir John,” declared the doctor, sadly.
“There is no mistaking the Courtney features.
I hoped against hope until now.” ‘

He. looked a littlelonger on the dead man’s
face, and then softly withdrew, leaving the
mourning son alone with his grief,

 

Mrs. George and every servant at the Hall her
fast friends! They all know that she is soon to
be their mistress!’

 

 

ubearth}y House of Secrets,” “The False Heir,” etc.
Was again

ho h ad led [“Amber, the Adopted,” was commenced in No. 36.
CUrrences, Back numbers can be obtained from all News Agents.)
Tremblin

ment an

my-

 

 

CHAPTER VIII.
THE FALSE FRIEND.

pose
ted in do- | At an early hour the next morning after
AS soon Ralph Courtney’s return home, the carriage was
d him my driven to the door, and Sir Joln prepared to take
n. his departure for Italy.
d you to “You will be very tender of Amber, Ralph,”
he said, taking his son aside. “I have been
away from here so little that she will miss me
se every : greatly.”

: “She will, indeed, father.” declared Ralph.

1”? ‘Why not let me go te Italy in your stead? I
‘ell, the one negotiate with the brigands as well as your-
Saw wus soii—+
ok place “True, my son, but 1 prefer you to remain at
ight. A home fur many reasons. My poor brother has
yned the doubtless suffered a great deal among those ruf-
irried to fians, and I must go in person to his release.”
. From The baronet shook his son’s hand warmly, and
al mid- expressed a hope that on _his return matters
di be ex- would be on the footing he desired between
semble | Ralph and Amber.

r Came, i

As he turned away, Amber threw herself into

 

 

  
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
    
   

  

     

   
  
  
 
  
      
  
  

 

 

 

   
 

 

he paused to give her words effect.

Ralph thoughtfully summed up the faults

enumerated by Blanche as belonging to Amber.

irst, and worst, in his opinion, was a sullen
bad temper. Second, a want of delicacy in pro-
claiming to every one that she wasto be the
next Lady Courtney. Third, an indiscrimina-
tive giving tothe poor, doing more hurt than
good. Fourth, making the servants her friends
and dontidants.”

Ralph had no thought of doubting Blanche’s
word. Had he been disposed to duubt her, he
would have been puzzled as to what motive could
actuate such falsehoods.

But he believed her implicitly.

He had seen for himself that Amber was
homely, he believed he had seen her sullen. To
believe the rest was easy.

“Amber will make you a very devoted wife, I
think,” said Blanche, after 2 long silence. ‘She
was quite angry when she left the drawing-
room because you had paid her so little atten-
tion. I owe both you and her an apology for
coming between you, when you must be so eager
to see each other alone. Stay here, Ralph, and
I will run in and make my apologies to Amber,
and send her to you.”

She started up as if about to put her words into
execution, but Ralph gently detained her,

“You are laboring under a misapprehension,”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ol 2 his arms. ; 2 he said, quietly. ‘““What you have said has
loment, “Oh, papa, take me with you!” she sobbed. “I| taken me quite by surprise. Lane not engaged
ito her 17 feel as though something would happen to you | to Amber. I never spoke a word of love to her
, i while you are gone—something terrible ” in my life. In fact, until yesterday I have al-
me the } “Nonsense, my darling!” responded the baro- | ways regarded her as a dear sister, although my
nd the | net, caressing her. ‘“‘Why, whers is all your] acquaintance with her has been slight. Ihave
d grief, j usual cheerfulness? How can ha prey, obh tae been away from home so much that Ll have seen
xecame =| happen to me? I shall go armed_and disguised | little and know less of her character. It seems
when necessary; and, besides, I shall always be | that it is my father’s wish for me to marry Am-
ne the attended by Greggs, my valet, you know. Cheer} ber. She is too young, however, to have her af-
saw it up, Amber. Don’t let my last memory of you be | fections seriously enlisted in the matter, even if
i unpleasant.” : : she were better acquainted with me.”
> me ?” i = Amber struggled to regain her self possession,; Blanche knew better. She knew that Am-
| ee and her tone was calmer as she said : ber loved Ralph with all the strenghth and fer-
fair in — _ “[ wisn you’d take me with you, father. Can’t | vor of a woman’s heart, kut she did not choose
‘annot you manage it? ican get ready in a few min-| to tell him so, | :
¥ that utes.” “You think you will not marry her th
dding i “No, dear, I cannot expose you to eens. ked. . °
: Ralph will supply my place to you while [mj “I shall not marry at allat present, B
tthe |. one!” va : When my father returns [ shalf inforr
ui al- i ; He folded her to his breast, caressing her again | that decision. I shall desire him to alk
times | i and again, and then he turned to Jasper Long- | ber to enter society, where she will d
avoid | @ ley, shaking hands with him, soon find some one to love her better th:
E OF ‘ he greetings were soon over, the farewells | can.” ; '
i said, and Sir John took his place in the carriage,| “I feel relieved to hear that you are in no
and was driven toward Hepney. | burry to marry,” said Blanche. “You should
ound. | Amber watched the retreating vehicle until | have a wife who can understand you, who has |
1808 i the forms of driver and valet, who sat side by | aspirations beyond gaining a high name and
re | & side on the box, seemed melted into one, and |} plenty of pin-money. Amber may become all
mou. } ° -she was aroused from her grief by Ralph, | you anak in time, but if she should not, you
assy rho said: will not find it difticult to gain the affections of
althy As you are left in my care, Amber, I propose | a noble and true woman, I’m yous cousin, you
lesa, you and Blanche and I devote the morning | know, by a few removes,” and she smiled archly,
fal stting acquainted with each other. Jasper | ‘tso I have your interest at heart.”

I sec, retreated to his own room, but he will,| They conversed fora long time, until Blanche
nate j tless, soon join us.” declared that she must run upto arrange her
ived. { ylph. as he spoke, placed chairs for the two | toilet for luncheon.
ited, i ‘Is, and seated himself near them. ‘ As she tripped away from the kiosk, her curls
eral mber was somewhat embarrassed at his frank | floating in the soft breeze, Ralph Courtney

i osal, but Blanche was never more at her | thought.
j se. She led her young host to talk of his uni- ‘How charming she is! Oh, if my father had
i sity and student friends, and smiled when | only desired me to marry her! I wonder if she
j e peat Hane be, had fow feminine acquain- | would marry me ?”
— i tance, and those not atall young. 4 IR IX.
i ©The more hope that I shall captivate him!’ en tae a
i 2 she thought. “I don’t believe he has ever seen BVED, TEDENGS«
| go pretty a woman as IT am. Young gentlemen _The days passed swiftly away at the Hall un-
me i ae, from college are always susceptible.” til two weeks had gone, and still there came no
fect i _ With this idea she exerted all her fascina- letter from Sir John Courtney. Amber, occu-
aad. | tions, talking of her gay Parisian life, of the ce-| pied with her fears for his safety, and feeling
Feat a lebrities she had seen and the places she had vis- | that her presence was unnecessary to the happi-
ee jied, until Ralph had become thoroughly inter- | ness of Ralph or Blanche, spent the time in her
ot sted in her. own room, or with Mrs. George, who exerted
rds The contrast between the two girls soon forced | herself to cheer the young girl.
en- itself upon his mind. At the table, however, Ralph and Amber al-
eir “Amber, with her red eyes and tear-stained | ways met, and the young gentleman was always
. e, satso silent that he thought her sullen, | scrupulously exact in_ his inquiries after her
iy tle knowing how eagerly she listened to every | health. After going through that ceremony he
- ord that fell from his lips, nor what a passion- | considered himself free to attend to Blanche.
at te gaze she fixed upon his face when he was not| It is but just to Ralph to state that he had no
i joking at her. thought of neglecting Amber. The young girl
| ‘Blanche, on the contrary, with her sparkling | said little to him, and had a deprecating man-
| es, her Inxuriant curls quivering with every | ner, as if she would implore him to think well
d, i ‘motion of her little head, her pretty gestures | of her; still Ralph had not become well enough
v. i and animated voice, seemed the embodiment of | acquainted with her to retract his first and harsh
we | loveliness. i judgment of her. ; i
e } Blanche was delighted at the silence and un- Besides, Mrs. George, Amber was quite friend-
i ; ‘ prepossessing appearance of her rival, as she | less, unless we except Jasper Longley. That
nf } mentally termed Amber, but her manner was | gentleman seized every occasion to show her
he _ full of assumed tenderness, as she paused in | friendly attentions, such as were calculated to
d- i : one of her liveliest descriptions, and said : heal her wounded spirit.
d | _“Tdon’t give you an opportunity to say any- Two weeks had tully passed, when one morn-

\ thing, Amber dear. You mustn’t allow me to
monopolize the conversation !”

“IT know nothing of society, Blanche,” re-
turned Amber, gratefully. “But Iltike to hear
you talk!”

“But, darling, we'll talk of something you do
know about,” said Blanche, winding her arm
around Amber’s waist, and laying her peachy
cheek against Amber’s gipsy face, by the side of
which Blanche looked lovelier than ever. Am-
ber’s looks suffered in proportion,

Amber soon lost all interest in the subject, and
her thoughts turned to her parting with her
adopted father, and her late fears for his safety
returned with renewed force.

Finding that her absence would not be felt by
Ralph, she retired to her own room to indulge in
he griet without restraint. ;

He tears were not all for Sir John, however.
She felt lonely and desolate. Ralph’s manner
toward her was not what she imagined it would

 

eC.

“Why, Amber has gone!” exclaimed Ralph,
starting uF With a pang of self-reproach, as the
door closec behind the young girl. ‘‘I’ll call her

ek

“Oh, don’t!” said Blanche, laying her hand on
his arm. “She always likes to be alone when
she feels cross—I mean
She paused, as if regretting what she had
re but the mischief she had planned was
done,
“Why, I thought Amber had the best temper
in the world,” exclaimed Ralph, in surprise.
| “My father praised her temper particularly.”

‘Sir John thinks her perfect,” replied Blanche,
smiling. “He says she is beautiful too—”

 

 

ing, as the family were gathered at the break-
fast-table, Jasper remarked:

“It seems very singular, Ralph, that we have
heard nothing from Sir John since his departure,
does it not? I fear something may have befallen
him——’

“Oh, no!’ returned Ralph, hastily. ‘“My father
is very cautious. There is no need of anxiety.
He probably intends to return without writing
to us. I should not be at all surprised if he and
my uncle came to-day.”

*‘[ hope he will,” declared Jasper. “I shonld
not like him to fall into the hands of that right-
ly-named Il Diavolo.”

Blanche grew pale, and bent over her plate to
conceal her sudden agitation.

“The second time that name has affected
her,” thought Jasper. “I must look into this,
mystery.”

Blanche recovered her self-possession before
any one besides her brother had had time to re-
mark its loss.

“T have sent over forthe letters this morning.”
said Amber, timidky. “I expect the lad’s return
every moment.”

The sound of her voice had hardly died away,
when the door opened and the letter-bag was
brought in.

lt contained but one letter, and that was di-
rected, in an illiterate hand, to “Sir Ralph
Courtney.”

“Sir Ralph Courtney ?” exclaimed Ralph, in
astonishment. ‘‘There is some awkward blun-
der here. The letter bears an Italian post-
mark!”

Amber sprang from her seat and advanced to-
ward Ralph, her face looking wild and haggard

 

“Ah, yes,’ said Ralph. “Isee!

arden.

 

 

 

er-house,”

Menor

Amber is my
father’s particular pride and pet! In his loving
magination she is endowed with every virtue!) I am sure!”
tut, Blanche,” he added, ‘‘let us go out into the
I want toshow you my favorite sum-| playing a large and _ black-bordered sheet of

as she exclaimed:
“Oh, read it—read it! There is bad news in it,

The gentleman tore open the envelope, dis-

paper, at sight of which Amber uttered a low

Blanche assented, and they left the house to-'! moan.

“No mistaking the Courtney features!” repeat-

ed Ralph, gazing threugh a mist of tears.

bell, ordering Greggs to be sent te him.
The valet speedily made his appearance.

John’s service since

idolatry. ‘ rs

“Sit down, Greggs,’ said Ralph, indicating a
chair. “I want you to give me the particulars
of this sad affair. My uncle—was he not res-
cued? Is he still with the brigands?”

“He is dead, too,” replied Greggs. “Let me
tell you how it all happened, sir. When we ar-
rived at Salerno, we went to a hotel or inn, and
the next day a peasant came with a note for Sir
John, appointing an interview half a day’s jour-
ney distant. Si John disguised himself and
went thither, taking me with him, He took no
money, and I carried the cheeks for security.
We were guided by the peasant to the place in-
dicated—a lonely pass among the hills—and
found the brigand-chief and several of his men
awaiting us there. As near as I could make out
of what was said in their language, Il Diavolo
had got angry at Mr. Courtneyon the way to
the rendezvous, and shot hith d. Sir John
asked to look at the body, and I was allowed to
see it. While he was mourning over it. a band
of soldiers came upand attacked the brigands.
At the very first shot two or three dozen brigands
appeared from behind the rocks and bushes, and
commenced a retreat. Sir John* then turned to
me, and said that gve were in danger and had
better tire. We were about todo so, when the
brigand-chief cried out that Sir John‘had be-
trayed him, and must die. He then shot him
and fled. The soldiers pursued the brigands, and
I went with them, determining to avenge my
master’s death.”

Greggs paused, overcome by the sad memories
of that terrible scene, and then resumed :

“The robbers knew every foot of ground, ev-
ery hole and precipice among those mountains,

The words suggested an idea, and he rang the

He was an elderly man, who had been in Sir
his early youth, and his
love for his master had been something like

suming it was in me to pretend that we are
cousins atall. The world will talk if I remain
here—say all sorts of spiteful things against me
—and it. is better that 1 should go.”

She broke down with a pretended sob.

‘*What has been putting such ideas into your
head, my dear Blanche?” asked Ralph, gravely.
“You know that you are not presuming in calling
me cousin. Itis true that the relationship is not
very near, but suchas itisIshallclaim it. Ican-
not lose such friends as you and Jasper at this
time. My father thought a great deal of you and
your brother, and any one who was dear to him
18 more dear to me. I regard you, dear Blanche,
as a sister.

A shadow passed over the girl’s face, and_her
blue eyes sparkled spitefully under their golden
fringes.

It was evident that she did not want to be re-
garded by Ralph as a sister.

“Ihave another reason for going,” she said,
with assumed reluctance. ‘‘I know I’m poor, and
all that, but I don't like to be made to feel it so
keenly! Amber has lorded it over me ever since
I came to the Hall! I wouldn’t have staid here
a single day if it hadn’t been for poor Sir John!
Amber had complete ascendeney over him—but
excuse me!” she added, with pretended dismay.
“T forgot for the moment that I wa’s speaking of
your betrothed wife.”

““Amber lorded it over my father’s guest!” re-
peated Ralph, in surprise. “She forgets herself
strangely !

“T didn’t mean to complain,” sobbed. Blanche,
‘‘but she was mistress of the Hall, and made me
feel it painfully. She considers me as a poor de-
pendent, and treats me as such.”

Not a doubt of the truthfulness of the lovely
being before him entered Ralph’s mind.

“Please don’t be offended with me,” resumed
Blanche, becoming alarmed at his silence and at
the stern expression of his countenance. ‘‘Amber
may change, you know. She knows that there
isa mystery about her parentage, and, though
she is so young, she has a most overweening am-
bition for rank and wealth. It was that ambi-
tion that made her talk continually to Sir John
about a union with you.”

“Indeed!” returned Ralph, in a constrained
tone, while his face grew sterner as he thought
of Amber. ‘I fear that she will be disappointed,
then. AsI told you some days ago, Blanche, I
have no intentions of marrying any one at pres-
ent.

nance, and she said:

and I will leave the hall to-morrow.
share his home, wherever it may be.”

the effect intended upon her companion.

tressed tone.
you must allow me to act a brother’s part to you.

your marriage. LD
Blanche, with an assumed burst of tears, ‘but I
fear I must decline it. What will the world say?
Amber will be angry——”

rupted Ralph, stung by the allusion, as his com-

that vou give me a brother's right to protect you
by accepting the small sum I mentioned.”

 

but the soldiers did not. ‘The brigands soon dis-
appeared trom our sight among the trees, and we
returned to the the conilict. Se

 

   

a Oia 6 aia,
cured a metallic cottin to bring him home in.
I couldn’t bear that his body should lie in that
land where he met his death, It seemed to me
he could rest better in therold family tomb.”

“But what did you de with my uncle’s body ?”

“When I returned to the scene of the conflict,
sir, it was gone. The brigands had evidently
carried it away with their own dead, not seeing
their mistake in their haste. Of course it was
useless to try to recover it, sir.”

“{t have got the checks and papers here, sir,”
said Greggs, after a pause, producing a packet
ot documents trom his pocket and laying them
beside Ralph. “Sir John’s portmauteau is in
the hall, sir. Are there any more questions you
would like to ask, Sir Ralph ?”

_“{ have nothing more to ask now, Greggs.
| Some time I may wish to question you further—
to hear of my dear father’s last acts and words—
but not now. You may go.”

Greggs withdrew, and Ralph threw himself on

a sofa and sobbed aloud. He had no longer room
for doubt, and he gave himself up to his desola-
tion and anguish.

 

CHAPTER X.
THE NECKLACE.

The funeral was over, and the remains of Sir
John Courtney were laid in the tamily tomb.
The windows and shutters of Courtney Hall had
all been thrown open, admitting the fresh, sweet
air and light in piace of the late funeral gloom;
the servants no longer spoke in whispers, nor
walked in silence, andthe household duties were
falling into their olden grooves.

Ralph Courtney, nowcalled Sir Ralph, sat by
his tather’s secretary in the library, engaged in
looking over Sir John’s papers, as an occupation
wherein to forget for a little time his great
grief. He had takenout deeds and other for-
midable documents, and had finally come upon
a packet of papers, in Sir John’s handwriting,
containing full particilars of allthat was known
of Amber. in substance these particulars were
the same as alreadyrelated to the girl herself
by her adopted father,

‘And so thisis all that is known of Amber’s
history !” he mused, when he had perused them
thoroughly. “lt is singular that my father,
coming from the proudrace of Courtneys. wished
me to marry a girl whose very parentage is un-
known. I wish I could decide what course I
ought to pursue. Shall I marry her for her good-
ness of heart, and in obedience to my dear
father’s wish, or shall |——”

A faint tap at the door interrupted him.

In obedience to his summons to enter, Blanche
Longley glided into the apartment.

She was attired in the deepest mourning,
which set off her dainty beauty to pertection.

“Are you at liberty, Sir Ralph?” she asked, in
a sottly deprecating tone, ‘] wish to say some-
thing to you.”

“Certainly, Blanche,” returned the young
man, gallantly placing a chair for her, and then
resuming his seat. “I shall always be at liberty
when you wish to see me.”

The golden lashes of the girl drooped upon her
pink cheek, hiding from her companiou’s gaze
the sudden glitter of her eyes,

“You are too good,” she faltered, raising her
black-bordered handkerchief to her face. “I
felt so lonely in my own room—so desolate! I
wanted to sympathize with you in your bereave-
ment, and tell you how deeply I, too, grieve at
Sir John’s death, Although I was only distant
akin to him, I loved him as though he had been
my own father. I ieel that £ have lost my best
friend!”

The young man pressed her hand in silence.

“J wanted to tell you how I felt,” resumed
Blanche, in a trembling tone, ‘‘that you may
know that I am not ungrateful for the generous
protection and hospitality accorded to us_ by Sir
John. But I will not intrude upon you longer,
Sir Ralph. 1 have only to bid you farewell !””

Farewell!” repeated her companion. ‘‘What
do you mean, Blanche? Why do you call me
Sir Ralph, instead of cousin? And where are
you going?”

“I do not know wherelam going,” answered

 

 

 

 

  
   
    
 
  
  
   
 
 
 
   

   

 

A look of relief appeared on Blanche’s counte-

“[Lhave but one thing more to add. Jasper
I shall

Her dejected air, her mock humility, produced

“Don’t talk so, Blanche,” he said, in a dis-
“On account of our relationship,

shall settle fiv..undred a year upon you until
2 not refuse to accept it.”
-“T thank vou for your noble generosity,” said

“Amber has nothing to do with it!” inter-

yanion had intended. “The world will never
cow it, either. Prove to me, dear Blanche,

Blanche hesitated, but was finally prevailed
upon to accept the annuity, which she did with
an impassioned grace that appeared to Ralph
like the genuine enthusiasm of gratitude.

“T will try to get Jasper into something,” he
said, thoughtfully. V’ bat is he fitted for?”

“T don’t know—poor. Now!” replied Blanche,
sadly. ‘He was broughy >» a gentleman, you
know. Perhapsif you wou.’ be so kind as to
talk with him yourself, he mi, \t express a pre-
ference for something.” :

“T will do so!” said the yom = man. “And

    
 

  
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
  
  
  
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
  
  
  
 
  
  
 
  
  
 
  
  
 
   
  
 
  
  
  
 
  
  

“My father would have wished me to suit my-
self in the choice of a wife. Ishall never marry
a woman, Amber, whom I cannot thoroughly es-
teem. There aremany reasons why I should not
choose you for a wife, if you will allow me:to
speak plainly. Noman desires to marry a for-
ward, ambitious girl, who is determined to
thrust herself upon him——”

Amber uttered a wild moan of anguish.
“Werwill drop the subject here,” continued
Ralph, his tone softening, and he gave her a look
of pity. “I will be a brother to you and look af-
ter and protect you. You shall have every fur-
ther advantage of education, and you have onl
to express a wish to have it gratified. I than
you for your love for my father, and, shall never
doubt that that love was genuine. In memory
of that affection, which was so warmly returned
by him you may always command me to any rea-
sonable extent.”

Ready to sink to the earth with shame and
mortification at having been se cruelly misun-
derstood, poor Amber clutched her papers, and
with blinded eyes and reeling brain, tottered in
silence from the room.

How little had Sir John foreseen that the love
he had so earefully fostered in Amber’s heart
would so soon prove to her a source of exquisite
misery.

How little had he foreseen for his darling such
an hour of terrible anguish!

“Oh, if Icould only die!’ moaned Amber, as
she crept to her room and flung herself upon a

 

 

couch, ‘Ralph despises me! And I love him
so! Alone—triendless. Oh, must I live any lon-
ger?”
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
>o~ a
THE

SECRET SORROW ;

’

THE ROVERS BRIDE,

By Cousin May Carleton.

 

{“The Secret Sorrow” was commenced in No. 30. Back
numbers can be obtained from any news agent in the Uni-
ted States. }

CHAPTER XXII.
THE FATHER’S REMORSE.

“T would not rudely lift the vail
Of thy unhappy lot—
How can I see thy cheek Ww eave
Thy brow with anguish ught—
When told that all thou held’st most dear
Death’s grasp hath rudely riven.
Oh, may it to thy view bring near
The lasting joys of heaven.”
Morning dawned gray and gloomy over the
old Moor Bianoe. In the subterranean chamber
formerly occupied by Kate, lay all that was
mortal of the young pirate chief. The restless
look that his face re ever worn in life was
gone, and he lay like ore in a deepsieep. The
fair luxuriant locks were brushed oft the high,
white brow, and a haif smile still lingered
around the faultless mouth.
Kate, pale and worn, with eyes dim with
weeping, moved gently through the apartment,
Crouched i a corner, swaying her body to and
fro,and htimming a Cre ay kind of chant to
herself, was poor old Au: Moil. In a few brief
words Kate had told he: all, expecting an -out-
burst of grief for the «ss of her granddaughter,
but she was mistaken~ fier sorrow was all for
her young master; fo: Syra she seemed not to
have a thought.
During the night previous the brig had come
to anchor, bearing :fe body of their young
chief, together with ate and Mondalvi, who
had now succeeded to the command. Kate gave

 

 

 

now, Blanche, that we are on the ‘footing of
brother and sister. you must call me Ralph
again, and say nothing about leaving the Hail.
Nothing can be said against your remaining
here, f shall be absent, looking after the
€ attending to my affairs in London.
| not annoy you, and you will find a
ompanion in Mrs. George, the house-
emain to give grace and beauty to the
anche, and let me feel that I have
to return to when I feel weary of

are not going back to the univer-

“No. My father’s death has changed all my
plans. I shali devote myself to carrying out the
objects of his life.”

lanche gave the desired promise in a flutter
of joy, and he then pressed her hands to his lips,
— as she arose, gallantly escorted her to the
door.

As soon as he found himself again alone, his
former stern expression returned to his face, and
he touched the bell, saying to the servant, who
answered the summons:

‘*Be so kind as to ask Miss Amber to come to
the library for a few minutes.”

The servant disappeared, and soon after Am-
ber entered the room.

She was also dressed in deep morning, but
instead of looking subdued and elegant like
Blanche, her eyes were swollen, and she looked
as though she had wept unceasingly since the
late funeral.

Despite his anger against her, Ralph was
touched at theegenuineness of her grief.

“Sit down, Amber,” he said, placing a chair
for her. “I have been looking over my father’s
papers, and find some that referto you. It_ap-
pears that some time ago he wrote out your his-
tory, or rather all he knew of it, so that in case
of his death you might not be left in ignorance
of all that was known about you. Do you know
anything of your history ?”

“Yes,” replied Amber. “Papa told me all
about it, onte a few weeks ago.”

“T knew nothing of it until to-day,” said
Ralph. “I always supposed that you were a sort
of ward of my father’s. Both of my parents
were very careful to keep the real facts from me
—not, however, lest I should think less of you,
Amber!”

“Did you find the necklace that belongs to
me?” asked Amber. “Papa said there was one
on my neck when the woman brought me here.”

“Oh, the necklace! This paper refers to one,
and tells me where it may be found. ’

He unlocked a small inner drawer of the secre-
tary, and took out a small ebony casket, in the
lock of which was a key.

Unlocking the casket, he drew from a velvet
cushion a splendid necklace formed of square
links of finest gold, set with immense diamonds.
On the clasp were the letters “F.C.” and “E.

}.” interwoven. Inside the clasp was engraven
the date, “Apr. 8, 1841.”

“It is magnificent!” said Ralph, as he handed it
to Amber. ‘You must never part with that
necklace, Amber. There are few like it.”

“KF. C. to E. G.!” exclaimed Amber. ‘Perhaps
those are the initials of my parents and the date
of their marriage.”

“Probably!” returned Ralph. “It may_be
well for you to wear the necklace, Amber, but
you will probably never solve the mystery of
your parentage. Too many years have gone by
for that.”

Amber sighed, and clasped the necklace around
her throat.

“She has a beautiful and delicate hand,”
thought Ralph, glancing at it. “It almost re-
deems her coarse, ugly face.”

He was silent a moment, and then said:

“Take these papers, Amber, they belong to you.
And now let us understand each other. My
father wished me to marry yon, as you know.”

Amber flushed and trembled, while her eyes
shone with a happy light--her fond idolatry of
years showing itself in every feature.

‘He could not answer for your affections nor
mine!” pursued Ralph. ‘Lam not certain that I
shallever marry. At any rate I shall remain
single for some years to come. ButI hope to see
you married to some worthy nan who will make
you’ happy. You had _ better dismiss such
thoughts, however, until you are older. When
you do marry, you shall have a dowry worthy
the adopted danghter of Sir John Courtney !”

There was no mistaking the meaning of his

vords, however delicately intimated, and Am-
ber’s cheeks burned and glowed with shame and
anguish.

‘““[—I—” she faltered. ‘Papa wished——”
Ralph misunderstood her. He supposed that

them to understand in a few words that she
knew his history, and they were at last willing
to consign his remains to herecare. After con-
veying him to the old manor they took their
last look at the death-cold form of him who had
onee been their chief. Before daybreak the
brig was once more far upon the sea.

And now, what was she to donext? Kate

paced up and down the room, and tried to
think.
“Go to Dirritole,” seemed ever ringing in her
ear. But, oh, how could she go?—how couid she
tell the earl the terrible tale?—how teil
him that his eldest son was the dreaded
rover chief ?—how tell him that he had driven
him to this terrible end? AnaA tho couxtess, if
she were the Madeline of hes cousin’s story, how
would she hear of his tragie,;lend? Kate wrung
her hands in hopeless trouble—turn which way
she would, everything seemed dark and gloomy
around her,

And so the day wore on, and noon approached,
Something must be done, Ge sie must—there
was no alternative; and Kate Sidney was not
one to shrink from any duty, however painful
it might be.

Turning to the old negress, who still sat rock-
ing her body backward and forward, and aum-
ming to herseli, Kate said:

‘Aunt Moll, I must leave you fora while. You
will not be afraid to remain here a few hours by
yourself, will yeu?”

“Laws! no, honey, I skeered!” said the old
woman, without looking up.

“You'll be sure to stay here until I return, will
you not?” said Kate, somewhat anxiously.

“Sartin’ I will. honey. Laws! who’s ’fraid
Tain’t skeered o’ ghosts, nebber was, nudder,
t cata go ’long, I'll tend ter things till yer gets

yack.

Reassured by the old woman’s tone, Kate qui
ted the manor; not, however, without first en
tering the great. dreary chamber, where Alicd
had been detained a prisoner. It was empty
A handful of ashes and a half-burnt log yet la
in the huge fire-place. On the floor were scat
tered the various articles left by the earl in hi
haste—but where was Alice?

With a sigh, Kate turned away—everything
seemed to grow darker and more drear the lo
ger she thought of it.

It was growing dark when she came withi
sight of the tall trees and peaked gables of Di
ritole. What strange events had taken pla
since she had left it last!—what wonderful di
coveries had come to light! It all seemed like
troubled dream to her now; but, alas! she cou
not long think it a dream—it was too stern
reality.

Quiet and dark Dirritole ever looked; but
seemed stiller, and quieter, and sadder now thé
ever. There was something almost mournful
the low whine of recognition with which t
shaggy house-dog welcomed her,

With asinking heart, Kate entered the hi
She dreaded to meet unannounced any of t
family, fearing the effects of a sudden supri
As she stood hesitatingly, thinking over wl
plan she had best pursue, the dining-room d
suddenly opened, and the prim housekeey
ee Dickett, made her appearance, brush

and.

As her eyes fell on Kate, she dropped
brush, and throwing up both arms, uttere¢
stifled scream. Well might she exclaim ats
ing Kate before her—so pale, so thin, so sorr
ful-looking—the mere shadow of her former s

“Hush!” said Kate, in a hurried whis
“make no noise. Come with me, I wish to sp
to you.”

Mechanically Miss Dickett followed her.
had always been accustomed to obey Miss
ney; and even now, though she believed it
Kate’s ghost she was following, she did not
sist. Kate closed the door, and turning to
housekeeper, demanded, in an agitated whis

“How is—how are the family? Are the
here now ?”

“Oh, lawk!
your ghost ?”

“Ghost! no—what nonsense!”

“Then hit his you!” exclaimed Miss Dick
“well, I is glad and no mistake. Oh, la
thought l’d never clap my two heyes on
again—so I did.”

‘‘Well, never mind that at present!” said i
impatiently. Can you not answer my
tion ?”

“Well, hit’s all very fine—so itis!” said
Dickett, placing her hands on her sides,
drawing a deep breath, “but sich a place as
ritole’s turned out to be of late, J never
Fust, Miss Halice she goes hoff with 74
somewhere, where nobody can’t find ’er
Then you goes hoff without hever tellin’ no

 
 
  
 
 
  
 
  
    
  
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
 
 
  
 
   
  
  
 
 
  
 
  
 
  
 
 
  
   
  
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
  
  
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Miss Kate, his it you, or hi

 

she desired to urge his father’s wish upon him,

 
 

and then the hearl he takes hisself hoif

 

ee mens amr a ot ae me A ee

 
    
 

cree ©

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
 
 
  
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
  
  
 
 
 
   
 
 
 
  
 
  
  
  
  
 
 
   
 
  
  
 
   
  
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
  
  
 
   
  
  
 
 
  
  
 
 
  
  
  
  
 
 
 
   
  
  
 
 
  
  
 
  
  
 
   
  
  
 
  
 
   
 
  
  
 
 
   
  
  
  
 
  
    
   
  
 
 
  
   
   
 
 
 
   
  
  
 
  
   
   
   
   
   
  
    
 
  
  
 
 
 
  
  
 
  
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
  
 
 
   
 
  

nasty Dublin, which I can’t abide no ways,
*cause it’s so wulger—though I ain't a sayin’
nothink agin his goin’, ’cause he was: allers a
makin’ ’sturbance while he was’ere. "Then Miss
Margie, the imperant little thing, she follers
him; an’ I’m blessed if I wasn’t glad to be rid of
her, allers a takin’ me off. Madame Maria, she’s
allers sick hup stairs, and won’t low nobody to
*tend to her cept tis that nasty old nigger, which
I can’t abide no ways--so i can’t. My lady’ won’t
speak a word to nobody, ’cept that eonceited lit-
tle fturriner, Bess L’Olise, while she was’ere; but
she’s gone, too,’long with Miss Maggie, hoff to
Hireland. Lord Harndale comes streakin’ down
here, and then tears hoff agin like a comet, look-
im’ everywhere cept, [s’pose, in the right place,
for Miss Halice. Andere J’s left like a poor,
hold, singed cat, with nobody to look arter me
if I went to hold Scratch—so there!”

Kate listened impatiently to this tirade, and
now she broke in with:

“You do not mean to say that my uncle and
all are away, do you ?”

“Well, he ain’t away now, cause he’s ’ome!”
said Miss Dickett, “he ’rived last night, and
now you follers him. Mebbe the rest’ll come
bime-by, and things’ll begin to look as they used
TO.

Kate paced rapidly up and down the room for
several minutes, then turning to Miss Dickett,
she said, inquiringly :

“And has no news been received from Miss
Alice yet?”

“Law! no, not so much as a single scrape 0’ a
pen. Hit’s wery curis, so hit his—but deary me!
share hisn’t no ’countin’ for ladies’ notions now-
adays.

This was followed by a significant look, as
though she intended Kate to understand, she
considered her ‘“curis” as well as Miss Desmond.
But Kate was paying very little attention to her,
being absorbed in her own painful reflections.
Could it be that the earl had carried Alice off
with him somewhere else? It must be so; else
how could she account for her sudden departure
with the two servants from the old Moor Manor.
Passing her hand over her brow, as if to dispel
her sad'thoughts. she turned to the old house-
keeper, who stood watching her, with mouth
agape, and said, briefly :

“Go, and inform the earl that I have arrived,
and wish. to see him immediately. Break the
news as carefully as possible, so that it may not
take them by surprise, and make haste.”

Miss Dickett quitted the apartment, and again
Kate resumed her nervous, hurriéd pace up and
down. How, oh! how should she-break the fatal
news to him—how tell him of the disgrace that
had fallen on his honored name? And she, her
aunt, how would she hear it, if the Madeline of
her cousin’s sad story ?—this must be the key to
her seeret sorrow—and how would she learn that
he whom she had loved “so vainly and so well,”
lay now cold and dead in the old Moor Manor ?

“The hearl says for you to walk right up,”
said Miss Dickett, putting her head in at the
door.

Kate’s heart throbbed so loudly, that she grew
faint. Recovering herself by an effort, she ran
up stairs, and entered the room where the earl
and countess sat.

The meeting was a cold one on all sides. The
earl, convinced that she knew of his villainy,
felt particularly uncomfortable, but still not as
he once thought he should at such a meeting.
Since the day when he recognized his long-lost
son in the person of the pirate chief, a marked
and visible change had passed over him. His
hair had grown snowy white, deep furrows were
marked in his forehead, he walked stooped and
feeble, as though a sudden load of grief had been
laid on his shoulders—an old man before his
time.

Convinced that the hand of Heaven was on
him in punishment for his misdeeds, he had re-
solved to seek Alice on his return,seek her for-
giveness, and brave the scorn of the world. To
his surprise and horror he learned, on his arri-
val, that nothing had been heard of either her
or Kate.

Accompanied by Lord Arndale, to whom he
disclosed all, they searched, as they imagined,
thoroughly the old Moor Manor, but all in vain.
No trace of either could be found. And now the
earl, though surprised and rejoieed at the return
of Kate, felt secretly uneasy at the power she
possessed over him.

As for Kate herself, all her feelings of just in-
dignation gave way, as she saw the change the
suffering and sorrow had made in him. She
could only remember that she was about to add
a still greater load to what he already evidently
snffered.

My lady lay back among the cushions, in the
weary, listless manner of otherdays. Nochange
had passed over her, as coldly, serenely beauti-
ful as ever, with the long, black lashes sweeping
her pearly cheeks, and vailing the large, mourn-
ful, dark eyes.

She looked up, and with a faint smile of wel-
come, extended her hand. Kate raised it to her
lips, respectfully; she might have greatly erred
—but had she not likewise greatly suffered—and
sorrow goes far to atone for sin.

There was a moment’s silent constraint on all
sides. Then, determining to learn the fate of
Alice, first of all, Kate looked fixedly up in her
uncle’s face, and said, with brief sternness:

“My lord, before I tell you the business which
brought me here at this late hour of night, I
would first learn what has become of Alice Des-
mond.”

He groaned aloud, and turned away his head.
“Good Heaven!” exclaimed Kate, horror-struck
at the thought which: flashed across her mind,
‘ts'she dead?”

“I know not,” answered the earl, vehemently,
“as God liveth, Iknow not. Whether she is liv-
ing or dead I cannot tell.”

White with fear, Kate stood listening with
clasped hands. She could not doubt his words—
she felt convinced he was speaking the truth.

* “But, why—how—did you not find her that
night in the old manor?” she asked, in a bewil-
dered tone.

“IT did. Ifound out likewise you had been
there; and maddened at the discovery which I
saw must take place, I determined to prevent it.
Ihad found another hiding-place for Alice, but
wishing to be rid of the servants first, 1 took
them to a place of safety. When I returned, the

ld manor was empty. Alice was gone. I know
mothing of her. LIeannot discover her. Whether
he is among the living or dead, I cannot tell.
Arndale is now in search of her. Heaven grant
1e may be more fortunate than I!”

Kate sank on a seat, and covered her face with
1er hands. All was for the moment forgotten,
ave poor Alice. The earl had risen to his feet,
nnd began pacing the floor rapidly up and down.
Suddenly remembering what was yet to come,
<ate took her hands from before her face, and
aid, in a voice that trembled in spite of all her
fforts to render it firm:

“My lord, you remember, you cannot have for-
rotten poor Walter!”

There was a passionate exclamation from the
arl. My lady gave a slight start, her hand was
ivoluntarily half raised, and then dropped
eavily in her lap.

“Forget him! Oh, Walter! Walter!” he ex-
laimed, bitterly. “Speak, girl! what of him?”
“You thought him dead—we all did,” said
ate, speaking very rapidly, ‘‘but we were mis-
ken—he was not drowned.”

He did not exclaim or seem amazed, as she
1onght he would. He only groaned, and wrung
is hands in bitter sorrow.

 

 

 

that relating to Madeline. The dark eyes of the
countess met hers toward the close with a look
of gratitude, as if silently thanking her for her
delicacy.

He listened like one in a dream to the close.
Still he sat gazing in her face with oh! such a
look of utter, utter, hopeless trouble.

“My lord—my dear uncle,” said Kate, touched
in spite of herself by his silent anguish, ‘‘grieve
not! It is better so—he could never he happy
here. Let us hope he is at rest!”

“‘Dead—dead !” he said, slowly. ‘“‘Walter dead.
So young, so fair, so noble-hearted! dead, and
by the hand of an assassin !—dead! and it is
who have driven him to this—I drove him from
home—I struck him—I forced him to become an
outcast on the face of the earth, without where
to lay his head—friendless and homeless, he
grew desperate. And now he is dead! Oh,
Walter! Walter! Oh! would to Heaven I had
died for thee—iny son—my son !”

CHAPTER XXIII.
THE WITCH OF THE MOOR.
“Lady dear! this history
Is thy fated lot,
Ever such thy watching,
For what cometh not,
Still thou seekest on, though weary,
Seeking still in vain ;
Daylight deepens into twilight,
What has been thy gain?
Death and night are closing round
All that thou hast sought unfound.’'—
Landon.

and profound. Kate sat weeping silently, the
earl wrung his hands in melee anguish ; my
lady still sat immovable, gazing steadily on the
floor—a gray shadow, asort of dead whiie, lying
on her pale face.

Starting suddenly to his feet, the earl ex-
claimed, vehemently :

“Why do I sit here? Where is he, lead me to
him. Oh, Walter! friendless and alone, you
have lived, and shall not kindred hands lay you
at least, in the graye ?”

‘*He is in the old Moor Manor,” said Kate, ris-
ing, and ringing the bell, ‘‘we ean reach it in+a
few hours.”

The old Moor Manor! the very name fell like
& curse on the stricken ears of the earl.

“Bring round the carriage, immediately,” said
Kate, to the servant, who entered.

The man hastened to obey. Lifting her eyes
from the floor, the countess fixed them on Kate’s
face, and said, quietly :

“Ring.”

Wondering a little, Kate obeyed.
waiting-maid answered the summons.

“Bring me my bonnet and shawl,” said the
countess.

“My dear aunt!” exclaimed Kate, in surprise
and distress, ‘“‘you surely do not intend to ac-
company us. Do not, I beg of you.”

Without answering her, the countess turned to
the girl, and said, steadily:

‘Bring me my bonnet and shawl !”

The girl left the room to obey. Kate knelt be-
side her, took her hand, and said, imploringly:
‘Dear Aunt Madeline, I beseech you not to go.
Think of the long, uncomfortable ride to the
Moor, the fatigue you must necessarily undergo,
and after ail, of what use will it be? Pray,
pray do not go?”

She did not reply; but fixing her eyes again
on the floor, seemed lost in thought.

At this moment, the girl entered with the
things, followed by Miss Dickett, to announce
the carriage was in waiting.

The countess arose, and motioned the girl to
approach. Seeing she was still determined, Kate
wrung her hands in hopeless trouble and ex-
claimed, vehemently : |
“Oh, Aunt Madeline! why will you persist in |

A spruce

;

‘

|

this. My lord, can you not persuade her to |

sty yr 99?

stay ?” , i
“It is useless,” said the countess, firmly, ‘I |

must go. Come.’ |
She held out her hand. Kate, with a sigh, |
drew it through her arm, and followed by the)
they were whirling rapidly away.
Of what were those three thinking, as they sat
side by side, silent and sad. The earl’s thoughts
wandered back to that wild, tempestuous night, |
afew short months before, when, amid all the
storm 4nd gloom they had approached the fatal
old Manor.
How many and how strange were the events
that had taken place since then. The scene was
almost the same. Outside, all was dark and
dreary ; inside, two women were his companions,
just as they were that night. He almost fancied |
that night had returned. The countess lay back |
in the corner, just as Alice had done; and he al- |
most fancied he saw poor poor, injured Janie in |
the erect figure and stern, sad face of Kate. |
But, oh! how different—how very, very ditfer- |
ent was his errand to-night! His eldest son, his
first born, lay cold and dead in the old Moor
Manor. ;
And Kate—her thourhts were divided between
her cousin and Alice—wandering sometimes to
the wild, passionate quadroon. Poor lost Syra!
What asad fate had been hers. And then Wal- |
ter and Madeline, what a meeting for these two, |
so long and sadly separated! She glanced to-
ward her, but she could read no trace of thought

}

Perchance of one whose blue eyes had once been |
dearer to her than all the world besides, of that |
strong, fearless heart, whose eyery throb had
been for her. until death had stifled its pulse.

They drew up at last before the old Manor.
They alighted,and preceded by Kate, entered
the secret passage that led to the subterranean
chambers.
Here they found everything just as she had
left it. In a shadowy corner lay the. lifeless
body of the earl’s son. Old Moll sat over. the |
fire, still hamming to herself her dreary chant, |
and rocking to and fro in her trouble.
The countess, who had borne up during the |

}
|

journey, nearly sank as she entered the gloomy |

room. She tottered, and would have fallen, had |
not Kate supported her; and leading her gently |
toward the inner apartment, she removed her |
bonnet, and laid heron acouch. The long, black |
ringlets fell in heavy masses over her shoulders,

making her colorless face seem still whiter and

wanner by the contrast, as she lay as still and

motionless as one dead.

Leaving her, Kate passed to the outer room.

The earl stood bending over the lifeless form,

with a countenance of utter, utter despair.

Kate came and stood beside him, and gazed |
dewn.
How calm and quiet he looked, resting there! |
Death had left no ghastly imprint on his coun- |
tenance, the quiet look of repose betokened that !
he had passed away almost without bodily pain. |
Who could dream that the calm, white brow had |
often frowned death to others—and those lips, |
wreathed with a half-smile, Kate could hardly |
realize that she had heard them shout the death- |
ery of his countrymen.
The earl pushed back the fair, bright locks, |
almost faneying he slept. The eyelids were
closed so naturally over the blue eyes that it was |
hard to realize he wasindeed dead. But the
heart would never throb more—the deep, dark |
eyes would never open again.
“He eannot be dead!’ exclaimed the earl,
wildly. ‘‘Walter! Walter! Wake! it is your
old father who calls! Oh, Kate! will he not
speak again ?”

 

 
  
 
 
   
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
  
 
 
  
  
 
 

“He lived, my lord.” went on Kate, huskily, |
but driven to despair, he—he—” her voice fal- |
red,
“Became a pirate! I knowit! Iknowit! 1|
10w it!” he broke in, passionately. ‘“‘He dis-
raced his name, he has brought shame on his
mily, he has whitened iy hairs, and brought
e€ with sorrow almost to the grave.”

“My lord! my lord!” said Kate, rising, “speak |
tthus. Whatever his crimes may have been,
b has atoned for them by death. Your son has
ne before a higher tribunalthan any of earth,
be judged.”

‘Dead! Walter dead!”

te seemed stunned, bewildered, dizzy, like one
uck by some sudden blow. He reeled into a
it, and sat gazing vacantly itito her face.

And my lady—a shadow, like the shadow of
ath, had fallen on her white face; her arms
y heavily by her side, as though the power of
6 had been suddenly stricken from her heart.

‘How? when? where did he die?” asked the
1, brokenly, looking in Kate’s face, with a
k of hopeless bewilderment.

riefly, in a voice choked by tears, Kate re-
edall, The story of her capture—of Syra—
her jealousy—of his tragical death—and his

 

 

“Oh, my poor, poor uncle!” said Kate, com- |
passionately, “you cannot deceive yourself.

> batter as i : Rotter > sg ie te ; 4 . : strong of his age,it is true, but no match for the
IS potter as it as: | Better she should me thus, | seen there before. Muttering to herself, she fol- | burly raffian who with drawn knife was looking

than live to suffer by the hand of the law.”

The earl groaned in his anguish, and wrung |
his hands. Then sinking into a seat by the
bedside, he took one of the cold hands in both |
his, and continued gazing steadily and mourn- |
fully into the face oi the dead. j

Kate moved noiselessly through the apart-
ment, now whispering afew words of consola- |
tion to poor old Moll, who still sat on the floor |
clasping her knees with her hands, and droning }
drearily to herself—now gazing pityingly on the |
earl, and again flitting softly into the inner |
room, where the countess lay. She seemed not |
to have moved from the position in which Kate |
had laid her. An involuntary feeling of awe
stole over her as she gazed into that death-like
face,

She looked like a shadow herself, -too,
ing silently among shadows. So sad, so pale, so
care-worn, she looked very different from the

happy, careless Kate Sidney of a few months |

before.

Me : : |
So the hours passed on, and midnight ap- |

proached. Midnight! strange, solemn hour,

L.

There was silence for a few moments, deep |

| she obeyed, and Lady Danemore and the Witch

}
| your relations very warmly, Madeline,”

| Sir Walter Percy’s would not have treated your

earl, entered the carriage. The next moment, |
| black eyes...

‘same low

| disobeyed me?

eee hi 1 ble-like the disgrace you brought on a before unstained |
Nes esto yer that 0 1106, ‘calm, iy al 7 Veattmina ;;name? Have [not kept my vow? Haye I not |
and vailed eyes. Of what was she thinking?| pnrsued you? Have lnot followed you like .

| “She will stay with me,’

| pecially a g00d book for the young to read, for while they

fleet- |

pause to take breath—when ‘the vail that sepa-
rates the living and dead grows thin.
mystic hour, when-all is hushed and still—when
the dark past rises before our eyes with fearful

 

| power, :
There was a sudden noise, as of footsteps
without. Kate’s heart stood still with fear;

i then the door was thrown open, and Mother
| Wail, the Witch of the Moor, stood before them.
| By the hand she held the child Magdalen, who
| stood gazing around with her great, wondering
| dark eyes.

All sprang to their feet in dismay. For a mo-
ment the old woman’s eyes wandered around
the apartment, then rested on the lifeless form
extended in the farthest corner. Going over,
she folded her arms across her breast, and stood
gazing down into the calm face of the dead,
with a mocking smile of triumph on her lip.

“So,” she hissed, at last, between her clenched
teeth, “the farce is over—and.he who left here
full of youth and health, has returned a corpse,
It is well! Said I not, lady,” she added, turn-
ing to Kate with a jeering smile, ‘‘that disgrace
hung over the house of Danemore, and that the
viper its master had warmed into life. should be
the first to sting him. Yet, methinks, there is
one wanting to complete this assembly: Where
is she? where is the Countess of Danemore ?”

Kate’s eyes involuntarily turned toward. the
inner room. The eld-woman noticed it, and
dropping the hand otf Magdalen, she said, impe-
| viously, “stay here.” The next moment, she
| had raised the curtain, and was standing in the
| presence of the countess.
| All had pean so quickly that Kate was be-
| wildered. Now, however, she strove to prevent
| her entering; but she was too late, the old wo-
man was already face to face with Lady Dane-
jmore. ‘Trembling tor the consequences, Kate
darted in after her, Mother Wail stood gazing
on the countess with the same_ bitter, jeering
smile on her face, And the countess, she had
| half raised herself on her elbow, her large, black
| eyes glaring wildly into the hideous face above |
| her, her lips a livid blue; she strove to speak, |
but a choking gasp was the only audible sound, |
to which she could give utterance.
| “How dare you enter Here, wretched old hag?” | CHAPTER XXV.

TOM FINDS HIMSELF IN A TIGHT PLACE.

Tom’s new employer was Oliver Burton. He had
come from New Jersey originally with the intention
of going to the mines, but he was shrewd envugh to
see, on landing in San Francisco, that trading was a
more certain means or getting rich than mining. He
established himself in the city, therefore, bought out

 

instantly! By what right dare you presume to
enter here ?”

“Might is right.” said the old woman, with a
mocking laugh; “did I not dare you once in
your proud halls to foree me out. I repeat it
now, force me out if you dare!”

A gleam of Jurid fire shot from her sharp,
black eyes, as she stood gazing defiantly in
| Kate’s face.
| The indignant blood throbbed and beat in |
| Kate’s heart and temples. At any other time |
| she inight have forgiven her this intrusion, but
| now, forcing herself into the sacred chamber of
| death, with such.detiant insolence, roused her
| indignation almest beyond endurance. A pas-

|

 

 

|

|
|
|
|

} slonate torrent of anger arose to her lips, and it |

was only the recollection that she was speaking |
to an old woman that restrained her.
“Well, why do you not for¢e me out, most an- |
gelic young lady,” said the hag, with a mocking |
sneer, |
“Woman—leave the room,” said Kate, sternly,
speaking calmly, by an effort.
“Shall I, Madeline ?” said Mother Wail, in the
Her only nuswer was an imperious gesture for |

same sneering tone, turning to the countess.
Kate to leave theroom. Surprised and anxious,

 

 

of the Moor were together.

“Your husbands triends don’t seem to weleome
I said
Mother Wail, with a sardonic sneer—wonder if

grandam more kindly.”

“What has brought you here ?” said the count-
ess, hoarsely, keeping her glittering eyes fixed,
as if fascinated, ou the repulsive face of the old
crone.

“A singular question,” was the sarcastic an- |
swer. ‘“‘Why should I not come to comfort my
granddaughter, on the death of herlover. The |
face and form are as faultless still, Madeline, as
when he made a fool of you,” {

Still the tixed, steady gaze of those gleaming |

Sven the callous old witch grew |
y d, whe ring stare.

|
|
|
|

 

      
 
   
 

  
   

     

uneasy und
“Why ha

tion of +
within.
“You
her wh
passionate fier S ’ :
my vow. Come to disclos ;

you have so long deteived, come to let

- ott
in her true colors the viper he has cherished so |

long. Your child and his who now lies dead is
without, and all shall be revealed this night. |
What more fitting time than when all are as- |
sembled beneath the same roof? How little did
you think, Madeline, when you laughed at my
warning, and called me a ‘doting old simpleton,’
that it would come to this! How little did you
dream when you parted from him who deceived
you that this would be your next meeting! Did
I not tell you you would live to rue the day you
Did I not tell you I would follow
you tothe uttermost bounds of the earth to avenge

your shadow overthe world? Have Inot wrung |
your heart? Have Inot held your child for |
years, and refused all your prayers to let you |
see her? HavelInot been avenged? Look up |
and tell me, Madeline!” i

She laughed a harsh, discordant laugh, as she
ceased speaking, but in spite of herself, her eye
quailed before the steady gaze of those mag-
netic black eyes. Notonee did they falter in
their calm, fixedlook whileshe spoke. As Moth-
er Wail ceased, she rose.to-her feet, slowly, and
with calm dignity.

“And this is your errand?” she said, slowly.
“T thank Heaven that the time has come at last.
Go, tell them all; once I feared it, but the time
has passed. J] fear you no longer. Come, I shall
assist you.”

She pushed aside the curtain as she spoke, and
passed out. Little Magdalen stood still where
the old woman had left her, in the middle of the
floor. The countess approached, parted the ra-
ven curls from her broad, white brow, and gaz-
ing steadily into the deep, dark eves, fixed
wary on her face, she murmured to her-
self:

“How like! how like!’

Then, pressing a kiss on the fair brew, she

 

|

 

| raised her eyes and calmly encountered the gaze |

of those around her. |

“My lord,” she said, turning to the astonished |
earl, *‘this woman has a communication to make |
in private to you and your niece. Believe all }
she tells you, it isalltrue. I will watch by the |
dead until your return. Go in there.”

She pointed toward the inner room. Mother
Wail was about to object, but there was a sud-
den flash in the eye of the countess that warned
her she would not be refused.

The earl was on the point of asking an expla-
nation, when Kate, who guessed what was
coming, laid her hand on his arm and drew him
with her.
| Mother Wail turned to follow, first taking
| Magdalen by the hand te bring her with her;
| but the countess interposed, laying her hand on |
| the child’s head.

>

St she said. 4
Mother Wail did not object. There was some- |
thing in the face of the countess she had never

lowed the earl and his niece... Kate drew the

s ° e in . c
curtains, and in silenee seated herself to listen.

{TO BE CONTINUED J}

———— > e-<

 

LIGHT IN DARK PLACES. By Henry S. Drayton. Pub-
lishers, Claxton, Remsen & Haffeliinger, Philadelphia; 8. |
R. Wells & Co., New York. Lessons of practical value |
are inculcated in this well-intended little work. Itises

i

will be interested in the narrative portions of it, their |
minds will be impressed with the importance of being |
| guided and controlled by correct principles. ‘The illustra- |
| tration are by F. A. Chapman.

SUMMER GUIDE TO CENTRAL EUROPE. By Lafayette

1c. Loomis, A. M. Published by the American News |
Company, New York. This little work comprises direc- i
tions for outfit, route notes from New York to Naples, |
| and a vocabulary of words and phrases in English, Ger- |
man. French, and Italian, It will be found an invaluable |
l-book by all American tourists. Price $1. |

 

 

th

Strange, |

exclaimed Kate, passionately ;. “leave the house |
1
|

 
    
  
    
   
  
     
   
     
  
 
 

| not tell exactly how many days I shall be absent.”

You can’t play any of your games on me, boy.”

It must be the whole ornone, and it seemed probable
that tne whole would be taken.

could he conyince
compulsion ?
glar was a confederate of his own, whom he had vol-
untarily admitted into the store?
be suspected that there had been no burglary at all,
but that he himself had appropriated the money,

shorter time than I have taken to record them.
slight as the delay was, it was too great for the impa-
tience of the ruffian.

“vou shall havea taste of this knife.”

BY “‘CRAPE MYRTLE.”

 

And thought is the spirit’s life,

The brain’s invigorating wine.

How true! lor all we learn in life,
Uncrowned by thought, is labor lost;
And golden fruits of knowledge, stowed
In deep and meditating minds,

Can never wither, nor grow old,

Or be dispelled, as winter suns

Efface all tracery of frost.

All study, if unblest by thought,

| Has but a frail foundation stone,

| And hides, at last, its fruitless husks

Beneath oblivion’s darkened wing ;

For present joy, and future good,

And earth's diurnal scenes of change,

And growing minds, rise up and crown

Imperial Thought as learning’s king.

The mind craves nourishment and light,

As noon-day flowers crave the dew ;

Then keep the lamp of learning fed

With shining thought’s exhaustless oil ;

For learning’s field of boundless wealth,

Unsown by priceless seeds of thought,

No matter by whose hand ’tis tilled,

Remains a barren, worthless soil.
———_—__>-@~<—______

THE

Bully of the Village;

OR,
TOM TEMPLE’S CAREER.

By HORATIO ALGER, Jr.

{“The Bully of the Village’? was commenced in No. 33.
Back Nos, can be obtained from any News Agent. ]

 

| &@iman who was compelled by sickness to retire from

active business, and was nowrich. Though oceca-
sionally irritable, he was in the main just and easy to
get along with, and Tom soon got into favor.

Our hero had never worked, but he was sharp and
diligent, and did not need to be told the same thing
| — So at the end of the first week his employer
said:

“Well, Tom, you have been with me a week, and for
a green hand you have done remarkably well.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Tom; ‘I have tried todo my
duty faithfully.”

“You haye. Moreover, I am convinced of your
honesty.”

“You need have no fears on that seore,”’ said Tom,
proudly.

“T have not, and experience shows me that this is
quite as important as a capacity for business. Why,
my last clerk was a capital salesman—knew how to
please customers and influence trade—but contrived
to swindle me out of several hundred dollars in
three months.”

“That wasn’t very satisfactory,” said Tom.

“T should say not. But what I am coming atis

this—I should like to have youremain with me.

| What wages will satisfy you?”

“You are a bétter judge than Iam, sir. What did
you give your last clerk?”

“Twenty-five dollars a week and board.
&
dence, I will give you twenty.”

“That will satisty ime, sir,” said Tom, promptly.

“Then here are your first week’s wages.”

Tom took the money—it may be necessary to say,
in these greenback days, that it was in gold—with
seca and pleasure. It was 10 novelty to him to
1ave money, and considerable of it, but excepting
the three dollars which he had received for carrying
a bundle, this was the first money he had actually
earned, and he felt pleased accordingly.

“Twenty dollars and my board for a week’s work!”
he said to himself. “Now TI really begin to feel that
Iam of some usein the world. It’s a good deal bet-
ter than leading an idle life.”
it may be remarked, also, that Tom had lost with

itle by which he was known at the beginning
this story. Hestill retained, however, the spirit
courage which in his case had accompanied it;
_this was fortunate, for he was in a country
ere at that time the laws had not yet obtained that
ndency which they possess in older settlements.

“sted.
About three weeks after his entrance into the store,
Mr. Burton left the city fora vislt of several days
into the interior. By this time Tom knew enough of
the business to be intrusted with the.sole eharge.

“T shouldn’t have dared to leave my former clerk,”
said Mr, Burton, “but I am sure I can trust you.”

“You can,” said Tom, promptly. “I may not be
able to fill your place, but I'll do the best I can.”

“fam convinced of it. You will sleepin the store;
for, though burglaries are not frequent, there might
be an attempt to open the store.”

“Tos, slr-”’

“You won't be afraid to remain here alone?”

“Afraid!” exclaimed Tom. “I hope not. I should
be ashamed of myself if I were.”

“T shall leave my revolver, and I expect you to use
itif necessary. Do you understand its use ?”’

“Yea Se

“Then I have no further directions to give. I can- |

“Don’t hurry home, sir. All will'go well.”

“Tt’s odd how much confidence I have in that boy,”
said Mr. Burton to himself. ‘‘He says he is only six-

You are a!
green hand, and several years younger, but in con- |
sideration of your honesty, in which I feel full confi- |

time was not far off when his courage was to be | neighbors. Besides I’ve got a revelver too.’

 

Cx 2S
Es
with the rest. Mr. Chawles he goes back to that | dying story. Only one part was kept seeret—| when the great world seems fora moment to | THOUGHT. “Ill get up,” said Tom, in answer t

. o the threat}
corded in the last chapter. yy
“You’d better!” growled the burglar.

the counter. j
“Where are you going ?” demanded the burglar, sq

to consider him simple, 4

“What a fool!” thought the burglar. “I'll preten
to humor him. Yes,’ he said, “T’llleave a note whit
you ean give him.”

“Will you write it now ?” ;

“Of course not. I will as soon asI have the gol
| in my possession.” 4
| “I suppose that will do. Step back, then.” ‘
“What are you going te do?” asked the burglar, j
} surprise, seeing Tom bend over.

“Lift the trap-door.”

“What for?”

**You want me to get the gold, don't you ?”

“Well?”

“Y must-go down cellar for it.”

“Ts it kept down there ?”’ j

“Mr. Burton thought it would be safest there.” 7

“Did he?” chuckléd the robber. ‘Then he'll fing
his mistake.” i

Tom raised the trap-door, and disclosed a staircase
leading down into a subterranean vault. 1

“T can’t see,” he said. “Will youJend me your lan
tern?” referring to the dark lantern which the bur
glar carried. 7

“Oh, that
you,”

“T wish you would,” said Tom.
down here alone,”

“A coward!” thought the ruffian. “All the better
for me. ‘ I thought from his looks that he was a bold)
spirited boy, but appearances are deceitful. A pretty
guardian he is for property.” ;

This was precisely the opinion which Tom desired

 

will be all right. I'll go down with

“T don’t like to go

 

for the suecess of his plan that his suspicion should
be disarmed, and he be taken off his guard. j

The cellar into which they descended was used to.
store goods of various descriptions, and presented to
the glance a confused pile of bales and boxes, ar-
ranged without much regard to order.

“This isa queer place to keep money,” said the
burglar, looking round. ;

“It’s a first-rate place,” said Tom, complacently,
ae nobody would eyer think of looking for it
ere.’

el don’t know but you’re right. Well, where is

under a bale.
*‘So it’s there, is it?” sai
ly.

¢
*‘How much is there ?”’

“There’s a good deal,” said Tom; ‘but don’t take
all, will you? Mr. Burton will be so mad.”

“Oh, no, Vllleave some,” said the burglar mock-
ingly. ‘‘Whata Sere heis,” he thought. *‘Come,
open it. Is it locked ?”’

“There, what a fool I was!” said Tom, in a tone so
natural that it deceived his companion. “I left the
key up stairs. ButI won’t keep youaminute. Vil
go up and get it.”

But for the opinion he had formed of our hero’s
simplicity, the burglar would hardly have suffered
Tom to leave him. As it was hiscontempt made him
teel secure.

“Well, be quick then,” he said.
all night.”

Tom did not answer.

He sprang up the stairs, and the first intimatione
the astonished ruftian had of his design was convey-
ed in the slamming to of the trap-door.

“Confusion !” he muttered. ‘The young rogue has
| outwitted me.” ‘

He sprang forward, but in such haste that he
tripped over a bale, and measured his length on the
floor, dropping his lantern at the sametime. His
teinper by no means improved by this accident, he

“T can’t wait here

 

 

yr SOT!

out he hea

his ¢ompanionto have of him, asit was necessary })

“Tn that little chest,” said Tom, pointing to one 7

lthe burglar, triumphant-

 
    

e reason if stuc

“What shall Ido?” thought Tom, racking his b BS slay Otherwite he D
for some way of escape, | q enki Tom betoe the
An idea flashed upon him. He turned to go behij elay was in ourhero |

rd voies of

picidusly. ; ene here’ the birgla
“For the money. That's what you want, isn’t it} . ojcantic Scot, Wao ¥
asked Tom. ms 3 In the cellar,” said
“Be quick about it. Where do you keep it %” «Can he get out?”
“Mr, Burton will think I took it,” said our hey “Yes,” said Ton, in
who had an object in what he said. “Won't you] information in case tl
satisfied with taking some clothes?” / nade. « There’s v sit
“Don’t be foolish, boy! What can Ido with cloth ‘eee now, perhaps” |
It is gold I want. Come, open the drawer. Where “Where is the (uor
it you keep it?” j “On that side.”
“Will you leave anote for Mr. Burton, saying «Come, then,” sai
didn’t take it?” asked Tom, whe wished the raffla@] jim. What weapons

“A knife, and perh
By this time anoth
“We must have hit
Campbell. “Dhet st
where they, Cais get
The burglar, now ¢
He realized that Tor
and.that his auy sal
away, there world
He conld nob esc
barred by his pars
fence to be stinot
LRCAPC. s
; yi ie wus monmling
round the corner of
«There he is,” sal
Archibald Campb
the ruflian.
“Talt, man: he
“No, ane =
also, was about tec
“ee the Scotch
peril, and there we
the man m the wh
and he uttered a
could recover the.’
“Look out for bi
This made them
distance of six fee
“Come down fro
cormmanding tone
oner. Ti you refu
tol, I will shoot y¢
There was a St
convineed the ruf
“What do yon v
“What should ¥
you up to the 4
* einen to be at larg
e “Tet me go.
have taken nothi
“You intended
“But Lhave no
° agree to leave th
“You cane
omptly. “
Pryeu may rep
“T should repe
any chance of it
Slowly and re
from the fence, ¢
whieh he knew
lowed himself t
“Drop your k
He obeyed wi
“Tal

|
!

—-

ike to sh
“and I will som
aipon't let P
Seotchman. ~
“Fle does not
A crema -
burglar
re thou
«Pi try to get

THI

In spite of |
fell asleep, an
done his duty
occur to him.
he read a pari
ing an accouy,

of in the J».
graph was he

Tt serv

 

picked himself up, and springing up the narrow stair-
sase, trid to raise the trap-door.
But Tom had drawn two bolts which fastened it
above, and, moreover, was dragging a heavy box to
lace upon it, sothat the entrapped person found
imself utterly unable to lift it.”
| “Open the door!” he shouted from below in mingled

)

 

| rage and fright.
:

|

rosperity the old bullying spirit which gave him |

‘I’d rather not,” Tom shouted back in reply.

“Tf you don’t I'll make it the worst for you, you
young villain.”

“You'll have to get at me first,” said Tom in a tone
of aggravation.

The burglar realized that so far from being simple
he had te deal with a boy who was brave and quick-
witted.

“Confusion !” he muttered to himself.
caught here it will rnin me.”

Again he shouted:

“Tli shoot yon through the floor.”

“Better not,” retorted Tom. “It will rouse the

“Tf I am

“T don’t believe it.”

“That don’t alter the fact.”

“Why didn’t you show it?”

an or get at it while you stood over me with
a knife.”

“He’s got meat advantage,” thought the villain.
“I must change my tone.”

“Let me up,” he pleaded, “and I'll go off without
taking your gold.”

“IT don’t mean that you shall,” said Tom, coolly.
“You can’t get at it.”

 

“Why not?’

“Tt isn’t down there at all.”

“Then you deceived nre,”
villain.

“Ot course I did, and would do it again.”

“Are you going to let me out?” demanded the

exclaimed the baffled

 

| burglar, knocking furiously at the trap-door.

“Not till morning.”

There was no doubt aboutit. The burglar had

| been completely outwitted and trapped by a boy.

That was the most huwiliating part of it. If he could
have got at our hero then there is little doubt that he
would have put him to death without’ a moment’s

teen, but he’s as cool and self-reliant as a man of | hesitation. But luckily for Tom there was a good

twenty-five. He has been well educated, too, I judge

from his manners and conversation. I feel fortunate } secured by two strong belts.

in securing him.”

On the fourth night after Mr. Burton’s departure,
Tom wentto bed at his usualhour. His bed was
made up on.the floor, about the center. He was un-
usually fatigued, and this no doubt accounted for his
sleeping sounder than common. Something roused
him at last. At first he thought, in his bewilderment,
thatit was Mr. Burton who had shaken him, but he
was quickly undeceived.

Lifting his head, he saw a sinister face, rough and
unshaven, bending over him.

“What!” he commenced, but the other interrupted
him in a stern whisper:

“Speak low, boy! Make no alarm, or by the powers
above [’ll kill you instantly. Do you understand ?”’

Tom was now thoroughly awake. He comprehend-
ed that this man was one against whom it was his
duty to defend the store and its contents. On account
of the soundness of his sleep, he had not heard him
effect his entrance.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“You ean guess why I am here,
money you have in this store.”

“You had better leave here at once,” said Tom,
having recourse to stratagem. “Suppose my enm-
ployer should have heard you, and come in.”’

“Suppose he don’t!” said the burglar, with a sneer,
“T know as well as you that heis in the country.

I want all the

“He has been in the country.”

“And he is there now. Boy, I can’t waste time. Do
you see this?” and he drew a tormidable knife from
its sheath.

“Yes, I see it,” said our hero.

“You will feel it also,’ said the burglar, “if you
don’t show me where you keep your gold, and be
quick about it.”

“Tom was at his wits’ end. There were eight hun-
dred dollars in gold in the store, and moreover, it

 

was all kept together. If he could have saved the

rest by delivering to the burglar a hundred dollars, |
he would not have scrupled to do this, feeling that in |
so doing he would do the best thing possible, and ob- |
tain Mr. Burton’s approval. But this was impossible. |

He was only a boy—

 

ilown upon him.
Again, suppose he surrendered the money, how
Mr. Burton that he did it upon |

Might it not be supposed that the bur-

Might it not even |

ind trumped up a story to conceal his guilt ?
These thoughts passed through his mind. in a much
But

“Tf you don’t get up before I count three,” he said,

 

 

CHAPTER XXvI.
THE BURGLAR BAFFLED.

Usually Tom slept with the revolver under his pil- |
low. This night he had neglected todoso. Even |
had it been there, however, it would have been as}
much as his life was worth to reach for it, as the}
motion would have been at once understood by the |
ruffian, who stood over him with a knife in his}
hand. |

plank flooring between, and a trap-door which was
But Tom did not feel
pretty secure. There wasan egress from the cellar
at one side. If the ruffian should discoyer this his
peril would be extreme.
CHAPTER XXYVII.
ARRESTED.

The burglar, fairly trapped, gnashed his teeth
with rage. To have been eanght thus by a boy
whom he had despised, increased his rage and hu-
miliation. Besides he was in great peril. Burglary,

and indeed all offenses against property, were
severely punished in this new State. It was a

matter of necessity, considering the elements that
had been brought together, and the freedoin and
lack of restraint that characterized the people. So
the ruffian was fairly frightened. But he resolved
to try the effect of one more appeal.

“Listen, boy,” he called out. ‘Let me out, and I
will not only promise to do no harm and take no
money, but I will give you two hundred dollars in
gold, which I have in my pocket at this moment.”

But Tom was not to be caught by a promise, only
made to be broken.

“That's too thin,” he answered back. “I sha’n't
let you out. You are best off where you are.”

“I’d like to kill him,” thought the burglar, grind-
ing his teeth.

**Beware what you say, boy,” he shouted. “ You

| have me at advantage now, but the time will come
5

when I shall be free. When that time comes I will
kill yon unless you release me at once.”

“T must take the risk,” said Tom.

“Then you won't let me out ?”

“T won't.”

There was no answer, for the burglar, who had
previously decided that he could not lift the trap
door determined to see if there was no other mode of
egress.

Here was Tom’s danger.

There was a door at one side, as already explained.
This had hitherto escaped the burglar’s attention, for
the dark-lantern lighted up only a small part of the
cellar, and left the rest in gloom. Supposing the de’
were found, and being bolted within it conld es!
be opened, and egress obtained, Tom jreald,be7 a
perilous position. The burglar wowld again enter as
he had done previously, and inflamed by anger would
not only take the gold, but perhaps ill ourfero. j

This thought was enough to startle the brayest.
Tom felt that that he must have assistance, and he
took the most effectual way of ealling it bs

He threw open the outer door, stepped into t he
street, and fired the revolver, not onee only buftwice
In the silent street, wrapped in darkness, these tw?
shots were heard with startling emphasis, Neighbor
rushed to their widnows, and called out: 2

“What has happened? What’sthe matter? ;

“Help!” exclaimed Tom. “Come here at once
There’s a burglar in the cellar. Come quick, an
help me secure him.” ‘ a

‘Half a dozen men hurried on their clothes, seize
arms, and hastened down into the street.

Meanwhile the noise of the revolver had been heal
by the trapped burglar also. j

“«“Confusion !” he exclaimed, with an oath, “the ly
is calling assistance. He must be afraid I will °t
out. There must be a door somewhere. I must +
it at once, or allis over with me.”

He had been turning his attention to the wUé
side of the cellar, and this delayed him a little. >ut
finally, with a cry of triumph, he espied the ’OT,
He saw also that it was bolted inside, and infred
that there would be no difficulty i

in opening it But

 

 

 

 

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lowing day }
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for some reason it stuck, oa this giskeenee farther
delay. Otherwise he might have got out in time to
attack Tom before the arrival of help. But the little
delay was in our hero’s favor. When the burglar got
out he heard voices of men speaking with his young |
enemy.

“Where’s the burglar?” asked Archibald Campbell,
a giga antic Scot, who was the next-door neighbor.

“Tn the ce Nar, ” said Tom, in a low voice.

“Can he get out?” i

Oe. said Tom, in a low voice, so as to afford no |
information in ease the discovery had not yet been |
made. ‘“ There’s a side door, and if he’s fonnd it he’s
free now, perhaps.”

“Where is the Gcor?”

“On that side.” :

“Come, then,” said the brave Scot, “we'll nab
him. What weapons has he got?”

“A knife, and perhaps a revolver.”

Ry this time another man had come up. ;

“We must have him if it’s a possible thing,” said
Campbell. “That sort of vermin are best shut up
where they can’t get into mischief.”

The burglar, now outside, heard these last words.
He realized that Tom was too strong now to attack,
and.that his only safety lay in flight. If he could get
away, there would be a chance for retaliation later.
He could ne escape into the street. That was
barred by his pursuers. In the rear there was a
fence to be surmounted. That was the only way of
escape.

He was mounting the fence when his enemies came
round the corner of the house, and espied him.

“There he is,’ said Tom.

Archibald Campbell raised his revolver, and cove
the ruffian.

“Halt, man!” he cried. ,‘Do you surrender!”

“No, hang you!” answered the burglar, and he,
also, was about to draw a corresponding weapon,

yhen the Scotchman, feeling that their lives were in

 

are di |

peril, and there was no time for parley, fired, striking |

the man in the wrist. The weapon fell tothe ground,
and he uttered an exclamation of pain. Before he
could recover the weapon they had rushed upon him.

“Look out for bis knife!’ shouted Tom.

This made them cautious, and they stood off at a
distance of six feet.

“Come down from that fence,”
eommaniding tone,
oner. Ti you refuse, orif you stoop to Jf use that pis-
tel, I will shoot you through the head.”

There was a stern resoluteness in his tone which
econvineed the ruffian that he was in earnest.

“What do you want with me?” he asked, doggedly.

“What should we want with suchas you? To give
you up to the authorities.
men to be at large.” ;

“Let me go.” pleaded the burglar, abruptly; “TI
have taken nothing.”

“You intended to.”

 

“But Lhave not, and I will not—from you. I will
agree to leave the city, and never return.’
“You eannot be trusted,” said the Scotchman,

promptly. ‘We ean make no conditions with you.”

“You may repent this,’ the ruffian growled.

“T should repent letting you go, but I sha’n't leave
any chance of that. Are you coming down?’

Slowly and reluetantly the burglar backed down
from the fence, and with a longing ‘Jook at his pistol,
which he knew it would be death to pick up, he al-
lowed himself to be taken prisoner.

“Drop your knife,” said his chief captor.

He Oueyed with a mé tlignant scowlat Tom.

“Td like tosheathe it in that boy,” he muttered,
“and I will some time.”

“Don’t let him frighten you, my lad,” said the
Scotchman. “You've done your duty bray ely.”

“He does not frighten me,” said Tom, calmly.

A crowd had collected by this time, who escorted
the burglar to the lock-up.

“Now,” thought Tom, as he re-ente1 red. the shop,
“Tl try to get a littie more sleep.’

CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE MAN TOM WANTED TO SEE.

In spite of the exciting events of the night Tom
fell asleep, and slept soundly till morning. He had
done his duty as a matter of course, and if did not
occur to him that he had dene anything heroic till
he read a paragraph in the paper the next day giv-
ing an account of the affair, in which he was spoken

 

of in the most compliment: wy terms, The para-
graph was headed “A Young Hero.”
It served as an excellent advertisement, The fol-

lowing day he had three times the number of visi-
tors and twice as large sales as on any preceding one.
In fact he was kept so hard at work that he was de-
lighted-about the middle of the afternoon to see his
em. »loyer walk into the shop.

7 am glad to see you back, Mr. Burton,” said |

- ‘And Iam glad “to be back,” said his employer.
“But what is all this I hear, nae about an attempt-
ed burglary ?’

“Did you see the paragraph in the morning’s pa-
per, sir?”

“Yea. I See you are reported to have ane like a |
young hero.”

Tom smiled.
© “Tf didn’t know Lhad done anything heroic ‘till 1}
read it in the paper,” he said.

“T like your modesty, Tom,” said Mr. Burton, ap-
provingly. “If the account is correct, howey er, I
must say that you showed a good deal of pluck.
That
‘him.”

“He didn’t think so,” age Tom, laughing. “You |}
have no idea how mad he w I pretended to be a |
simpleton, and that put ine ‘On his guard.”

“By Jove, I don’t believe I
the matter so well myself. Weren’t you afraid ”

“T wasn’t altogether comfortable in mind,” said
fom, “for I wasn’t sure that my plan would work
I can’t say I was frightened.”
fyou had been you ‘wouldn't have been able to
with s0 much coolness. How inuch mone ey was
lere in the drawer ?”’

‘Eight hundred dollars,
‘Is it possible?) You must have been doing a good
trade.”’

“TJ think I have,” said Tom, complacently.
— £You have done as well as if I had been here. I
are that youare rewarded for your fidel-

.

|
j
}

 

‘ Tt is enough if you are pleased,” said Tom.

“No, itisn’t. Such fidelity and bravery as yours
ke rve to be encouraged, for they are rare enough.” |
Mr. Burton went to the drawer and counted “the
joney. It exceeded eight hundred dollars, for Toi |

1 been doing a good trade that day. In fact, it |

|
|
|

— Was close upon a thousand.

He took out a hundred dollars in gold and handed |

‘*Here, Tom,” said he. “I give you a hundred dol-
jars. Tt will show you that Iam not ungrateful.”

“A hundred dollars!” said Tom,in astonishment.
“Yon give it to me?”

‘Yes, L don’ t know but IT ought to give you more.

“No, no,” said Tom, hastily. “You are very gen-
erous. But I don’t think I ought to take it.”
“Then be guided by me and “accept it. I give it to
rou treely. Without you I should have lost eight
mes the amount. You not enly have done your
mty faithfully, but you risked your life in doing
»”

  
 
  
 
   
   
  
 
  
 
  

”

 

a! meepoee I did,” said Tom, “but I didn’t think of
at at the time.”

‘Take the money then, and I hope it may be of ser-
ice to you.

“Thank you, sir. The money will be of servic e to
me, and since you insist upon it, L will accept it.’ |
“Understand, Tom, that in giving you this money, |
dowtteel that I have cancelled the obligation.

 

in, to promote your interests.”
“Phank you, sir,’” si vid Tom.
The consciousness of having done one’s duty faith-

“falls, and having that service appreciated, is certain-

pleasant, and 'Tom went about his duties from this

me with even greater alacrity than before, feeling
that he had made a friend of his employer.

It was eertainly a great change from the character
which he had previously sustained as a bully, and an
arrogant, imperious boy. The truth was thi it he had
heen injured by his prosperity.

When, through circumstances over which he had

nO control, he had lost his fortune, and been reduced

to comparative poverty, he found himself for the first
ime filling a useful place in the world.

ion to oblige, and he was wise e nough to seeit. So

he had improved in a marked manner under the dis-

cipline of adversity, and no longer desery ed the ap-
ec once given him, of “Bully of the Village.’

So far then as his situation went, Tom had nothing

o complain of. Rather he had reason to congr atu
late himself on his success. Coming to California,
wholly without friends or acquaintances, and with
very slender means, he had certainly been fortunate,
and had deserved his good fortune. But he did not
torget that he came to San Francisco with a special
nission, and he had not as yet taken a single step to-
vard fulfilling this mission.
He had promised Mr. Armstrong to Mok uf the
‘derk who had abseonded with so large a sum of
money, and precipitated his downf: ul. All that he
had done to redeem this promise was, to watch the
/persons whom he met, and notice their personal
‘peculiarities, in the hope some day of identifying
Samuel Lincoln.

But as yet no one had been seen, at all correspond-

 

- ing to the merchant’s description.

“What more can I do? What more ought I todo?” |
thought Tom “If [only knew, I would do it. But
it may be that this is really aw ild-goose chase. There
seems as little chance of finding this man as of find-
ing aneedle in a haymow.

Tom was right. He had* absolutely no clew by |
which to guide himself.
of such a meeting? Surely, very little.

Tom began to think he had been altogether too san-
auing inthe matter. He had set about the quest with |
all a boy’s sanguine ardor, forgetting, or rather
ing out of the account, the difficulties in the way.

But unable to tell what to do, he e ontinue d to stay on |

in Mr. Burton’s employment, and in so doing hé was
unconsciously doing the very best thing he could.
One day, about three months after he had entered

said Campbell, in a}
“and give yourself up our pris- |

It is not sate for such |

yas a capital stratagem by which you trapped |

| afterv

| apology !

His new position required courtesy, and a disposi-

He would indeed know this |
man if he came across him, but what was the chance |

> leav-= |

THE

: - = = =
| upon his place, two customers entered the shop, and} ‘I will tell you,”
| expressed a desire to look at some clothing

The spokesman was a tall. thin man, of perbaps
forty. From him Toin’s glance wandered to his com-
panion, and his heart suddenly § Siuve a great hound,

He was rather short, stout, dark- -complerioned, with
a cast in his left eye, and on the back of his left arin

| which was exposed there was @ sear.

yearance tallied with the de-
ing clerk.

CONTINUED.)

>-~3e<___

MY CASTLES.

BY W: Bi

Every point of his apt
scription of the abscon¢
(TO BE

J.

I’m very sad, who once was glad,

My heart is filled with pain;
For castles bright, with love’s delight
I built so high—e’en to the sky—

Are crushed to earth again.

My warmest love, all else above,
For her was deep, sincere ;

With loving kiss I told her this,

While in her eyes I saw surprise
Hiding behind a tear.

From my own hand I took a band
Of yellow gold to place
On hers so fair (beyond compare),
That it might prove the endless love
: She read upon my face.
“ Wiil you, my life, yet be my wife ?”
I whispered soft and low ;
My heart steod still, nor ever will
Again beat fast asin the past,
And never joy shall know.

i
;
{

i

‘I loved you, Will, I love you still,”
She told me, as she kissed
My face so sad, and I was glad.
* But is that all; did you let fail
Some words that I have missed?’

{
f
i
“Tt cannot be,” she said to me,
““A sister’s love I feel
i For you so dear—there, I'll not hear
More. Ease your pain, go try again,
Time all these wounds will heal.”

 

}

So out Igo, heart full of woe,
Broken, unhappy to be;

Wondering why I do not die,

Praying God to heal the pain I feel,
And win her yet to me.

My castles fair were all thin air.
And vanished from my sight;
But I build again, and believe that when
She Knows me more, her own heart’s door
Will open wide—she’ll be my bride,
And both our lives be bright.
—_—-— - > © «4 -

MAD LOVE.

By Ber thas AM. Clay,

Li “THROWN ON THE WORLD,

AUTHOR
ATONEMENT,” ete.
|
|
i
as though her last words had turned Leone to ston
She grew paie even to her lips, she folded her han
| with a hard clasp, her b
erect and dignified—the words dropped slowly, each
| one seeming to cut the air as it fell.
“You call me nobie, Lady Lanswell! you, who did
your best to sully my fair naie—you- eall me your

 

 

“A BITTER

[“A’ Mad Love’ was commenced in No. 20. Baek nam-
bers can be obtained of all News Agents.”"]
CHAPTER LYITI.
“BEHOLD MY REVENGE!”

Even as she spoke the words Lady Lanswell’s heart
sank within her. No softening came to the beautiful

| son’s best friend, when you flung me aside from him

as though I had been of no more Bp than the dust
| underneath his feet’? ..

Lady Lanswell bent forward.

“Will you not forget that?” she s: Lid “Let the past
die. Twill own now that [awas harsh, unjust, even

cruel to you; but I repent it—Y have never said so |

much before—I repent it, and I apologize to you. Will |
you accept my apology ?”’
The effort was so greatfor a proud woman to make,
hat the countess seemed almost to struggle for |
breath as she said the words. Leone looked on in

proud, angry seorn.
“You apologize, Lady Lanswell! You think that a

should have managed | few words can wash away the most crue l wrong one j

woman ever did to another! Do you know what you |
did ?—you robbed me of my husband, of the man I |
| loved as I shalllove no other; you blighted my fair
name. What was I when that marriage was set aside?
You—you tortured me—you broke
slew all that was best in me—and now ail these years
rard you come to me, and think to overwheln
; me with faint, feeble words of apology. Why, if you
gave me your heart’s blood, your life, your very soul,
e even it would not atone to me! I had but one life,
and you have spoiledit! I had but one love, you
trampled on it with wicked, relentless feet! ‘Ah,
why do I speak? words are but sound. No,
Lanswell, I refuse now or at any time to accept your
We are enemies, and shall so remain until
we die!”

The countess shrank from the passion of her indig-
nant words.

“Youare right in some measure,” she
“T was very hard, but it was for my son’s sake!
believe me, all for him.”

“Your son,”
| the excuse for your own vanity, pride, and ambition.
What you did, Lady Lanswell, proved how little you
loved your son; you parted us knowing that he loved
me, knowing that his whole heart was bound up in
me, knowing that he had but one wis
spend his life with me; you parted us knowing that
he could never love another woman as he had loved
me, knowing that you were destroying his life, even
as you had “destroyed mine. Did love for your son
actuate you then i

“What I believed to be my love for my son and care
ce interests alone guided me,” said Lady Lans-
we

“Love for your son!” laughed Leone. ‘‘Have you
ever read the story of the mother of the Maccabees,
who helped her twin sons to die rather than they
should live to deny the Christian faith? Have you
read of the English mother who, when her fair-h: iired
soldier son grew pale at the first sound of the cannon,
eried, ‘Be bri ive, my son; death does not last one
| minute—glory is immortal.’ I call such love as that

said, sadly.
Ah!

10uld another oppor ‘tunity occur, I shall do what I | the love of a mother for her son—the love that teach-

; es # man to be true,if truth costs his life; to be
brave, if courage brings him death; to be loyal and
noble. True mother-love shows itself in that fash-
ion, Lady Lanswell.”

The proud head of Lucia, Countess of Lanswell,
drooped before this girlas it had never done before
any power on earth.

“What has your love done for your son, Lady Lans- |

well ?” she asked. “Shall I tell you? ‘You made him
a traitor, a coward, a liar !—t hrough your intrigues,
he perjured himself. You made him disloy al and ig-
noble—you made him false. And yet you call that
love! 1 would rather have the love of a pagan
mother than such as yours.

“What have you done for him 2” she coutinued, the
fire of her passion rising—‘twhat have you done for
him? Heis young, and has a long life before him. Is
hehappy? Look at his face—look at his restless,
weary eyes—listen to the forced, bitter k augh! Is he
happy, after all your false love has done for him?
You have taken from him the woman he loves, and
you have given to him one for whom he cares so little
he would leave her to-morrow ! Have you done so
well, Lady Lanswell, for your son?”

“No, indeed I have not!” came with a great sigh
from Lady Lanswell’s lips. “Perhaps, if it were to
be—but no, will not say that. You have noble
thoughts and noble ideas—tell me, Leone, will you
help me?” :

“Help you in what?” she asked, proudly,

The countess flung aside the laces and ribbons that
seemed to stifle her.

“Help me over iny son!” she cried; “he generous
tome. Many people in my place w ould look on you
as on anepemy—I do not, If you have ever really
| loved my son, you cannot be an enemy of mine. IT
appeal to the higher and nobler part of you. Some
| people would be afraid lest you should triumph over
| them—I am not; I hold you ‘for a generous foe.” ’

“What appeal do you wish to make to me?” asked
Leone, quite ignoring all the compliments which the
countess paid her.

Lady Lanswell looked as she feit- —embarr: assed :
it was one thing to carry this interview through in
fancy, but quite another when face to face with the
toe, and that foe a beautiful, haughty woman, with |
right on her side. My lady was less at ease than she
had ever been in her life before, her eyes fell, her lips
| trembled, her gemmed fingers played nervously with
her Jace and ribbon.

“That i should come to you at all, Leone, proves
that I think you anoble woman,” she suid; ‘my
| trouble is great—the happiness of many lives lies 1
' your hands,”

' “T do not understand how,”

 

|
|
|
|

|

iid Leone.

Oe

  

face, no tenderness, no kindliness ; it séemed ston

sautifiul figure grew more:

my heart—you |

Lady |

retorted Leone; “you made your son |

, and it was to |

  

ORK WEhEKL

a

I came a
}

2

 

—

continued the
' are going to Berlin, are you not 2”
| Shé sawa quiverof pain pass over ‘the beautiful
face as she asked the question.

“Yes.” replied Leone; “i have
there.”

“And Lord Chandos, my son, has said something |
about going there too?”

“Yes,” replied Leone; “and I hope he will; ‘he |
knows the city well, and I shall he glad to see a fa-

“You | was just going to Lady Marion’s room when
away, but she did not speak to me.
object of her visit, Leone ?””

“Tt was about Berlin,” she said, in a low voice.

He started.

“Has she been to you about that?’ he asked, I
thought she had exhausted all the remarks she had
to make on that subject to me.”

The green foliage and crimson flowers of a huge
| camellia bent over them. Lord Chandos pushed
miliar face.” aside the crimson flowers so that he might more

There was a nites s silence, during which Lady | clearly see his eompanion’s face.
Lanswell brought all her wit and cont age to bearon |’ “What has my mother said to you about Berlin,
the situation. She continued: | Leone?” he asked.

“Lady Chandos does not wish her husbandto go to “She came to beg of me to forbid you to

|
|

countess.
What was the

un engagement |
Tin

“6

She
you

go.
Berlin. I suppose itis no secret from you “that she says thatif you go, eithe r with me or after me,
entirely disapproves of her husbaund’s friendship with | w ill be a rithed man.’

you?” ‘ “Tt will be most sweet ruin,” he whispered.

Leone bowed her proud, beautiful head. “Lance,” said Leone, “do you know that while

“That is a matter of little moment, to ame,’ > she Lady Lansw ell was t: king to me I went mad—I am
said. quite sure of it. Isaid such dreadful things to her;

My lady’s face flushed at the words. ” did IT mean them ?”

“T may tell you,’ she went on, “that: since Lady “How should IT. know my—Leone, but we will not

| talk about it; never mind what my mother says, I do
not wish to hear it. She came between us once, but
she never willagain. She parted us once, she shall

“no one pleaded for me.” never part us again—never! There can be no harm
“Ido plead for Lady Marion,” said the countess, | in my going to Berlin, and there I shall go—that is,

“whatever you may think of me. She has done you | always w ith your consent and permission.’

no harm; why should you make mischief between “That you have. But, Lance, is it true that Lady

Chandos heard of this friendship she has been very
unhappy.”

“No one cared when I was nnhappy,” said Leone;

her and her husband ?” | Marion does not wish you to go to Be riin, and threat-
“Why did you make mischief between me and | ens to leave you if you do—is- it true ?

mine?” retorted Leone; and my lady shrank as she “Let us talk about something else, Leone,” he said.

spoke. “We have but a few moments together,”

“But I cannot think of anything else,” she
“because my heart is full of it.”

What else she would have said will never be known,
for at that moment there was a stir in the crowd,
and they were separated.

She took home with her the memory of his last look

—a look that said so plainly, “I leve you, and will go
to Berlin for your sake,” She took home with her
the memory of that look, aud lay sleepless through

“Listen to me, Leone,” she anidy “you must help
me, you must be my friend. 17 my son goes to Ber-
lin against his w ifé’s prayers and Ww ishes, she has
dee lared that she will never speak to him or see him
again.

“That ¢ cannot eoneern me,” said Leoné.

“For Heaven's sakelisten, and do not spe ak tome so
heartlessly. If he goes to Berlin, Lady Chandos will
appeal to the Duke of Lester, who has just obtained

said;

»”

aX

Se

t
t

| Marion.

 

for my son the gretaest honor that can be conferred
fon an English gentleman—the Order of the Garter.
| In plain words, Leone, if my sou follows you to Ber-
| lin he willlose his wife, he will lose his good name,
he will lose caste, his social position, his chance of
eourtly honors, the respect of bis own elass... He will
be laughed at as a dupe, as & snan who has given up
all the honors of life te dance attendance on an ac-
tress; in short, if he goes either with you or atte y |
you to Berlin, he is in every sense of the word, ex- |
cept &% pecuniary one, aruined man?’ and my lady’s
voice faltered as she said the words.

“Why not tell Lord Chandos all this himself, and
see what he says?” asked Leone.

Perfect desperation brings about perfect frankness
—my lady knew that it was quite useless to conceal
any thing.

the whole night, wondering which of the evil spirits
had taken possession of her. |

The countess had gone in search of Lady Marion.
She found herin her boudvir—the beautiful room she
had shown with such pride to Madame Vanira.

entered.
“Have you good news for me 2” she eried, eagerly.
And my lady could not destroy the lingering hope
she saw in that fair face.
“Not yet,” she cried; ‘‘but you must be patient,
Marion.”
“Patience
Te il me—you had some plan, some resource,
when you left me—h: we you tried it?”
“Yes, [have tried it,” replied Lady Lanswell, sadly.
“Has it succeeded, or failed?” she asked, ea ge rly.

 

 

 

is so difficult when so much is at stake.
I saw

“Thave said all this and move tO my son, but he “Tt has failea,” answered the countess, dreading to
will not even listen to me.” : see the effect of her reply. t
A scornful simile curved those lovely lips. But, to her surprise, a tender, dreamy smile came

over the fair face.

“Why are you smiling, Marion?’ she asked.

“Because I, too, have a plan,’’ she replied; “fone
quite of my own; and I pray Heaven it may suc-
ceed,”

“Will you tellit to me?” asked Lady Lanswell.

And the fair young wife’s answer was a quietly
Ww hispere ed:

“He persists in going to Berlin, then?’ said Leone,
quietly.

“Yes,” replied my lady, “‘he versists. jn it.’

“Then W hy come tome? If your W sdb persists in a
certain course of action, why come te me ?”

“Because you can infinence him. Task you to be
noble bey ond the nobility of w omen, I ask you to be
generous beyond the generosity, of wome n—I ask
; you to forget the past nd to forbid my son to follow
you to Berlin. You know thé end must be a bad one
—torhbid it. T ask you with the warmest of prayers
and of tears

It was then that Leone rose.in ‘righteous wrath, in
hot indignation, im angry passion—rose and stood,
erect before the woman whe had been her enemy.

“T refuse,” she said. “Years ago T went to you,a
simple-hear te d, loving girl, and fT prayed you, for
Heaven’s sake, to have mercy on me! You received
me with scorn and, contumely, yon insulted, out-

raged, tortured me—you langhed at my tears, you
enjoy ed my humiliation. I told you. then. that I
would have my revenge, even should I fose every-
thing on e& arth to obtain that revenge. Now it lies in
my hands, and I grasp it—TI glory “init! Your son
shall follow me, shall lose wife, home, friends, posi-
tion, fair name, as I lost all years ago at your bid-
ding. Oh, cruel and wicked woman, behold my re-
venge! I repay you now. Oh, God,” she con-
tinued, with «a passionate cry, “L thank ‘Thee that i
hold my vengeance in my hand—tI will slay and spare
not !”
Then she stood silent for some minutes,
by the passiow of her own words.

Late that night, while the London streets were
darkened by the c loud of sin that seems to rise as the
sunsets; while the crowded ball rooms were one scene
of gaye ty and frivolity; while tired souls went from

earth to Heaven; while poverty, sickness, sorrow,
and death re igned over the whole city—Lady Marion,
with her golden head bent,
clasped, knelt praying. There was peace ou her face,
and holy, happy love.

“God hélp me!” she said; “I will put all my trust
in Him. My husband willlove me when he knows.

She prayed there until the sun rose in the morning
sky, and she watched. the first beams with a tender
smile.

“Tt willbe a day of grace for me,” she said, as she
laid her fair head on the pillow to sleep,

 

CHAPTER
“THIS WOMAN SHALL NEVER KNOW.”

Leone stood alone in her pretty eo. -room, the
room from which she could see the hills and the
trees, and catch glimpses of pretty home scenery
that were unrivaled. Ske stood looking at it now,
her eyes fixed on the distant hills, her heart re-echo-

pe g the words: ‘In the grave alone i is peace.” In her

LX.

exhausted

CHAPTER LIx.
USELESS PLEADINGS
“You eannot possibly know wnt 5 you
said Lady Lanswell; ‘‘you must be mad.

rtand mind all was dross, she seemed to have
lost the power of thinking; she had an engagement
to sing in her favorite opera on the evening previous,
hundreds had assembled to hear her, and ‘at the last

ares

”

 

aying,”

 
  
      
 
   
  
  
 
 
  
 
  
 
  
   
  
 

“No, Tam perfectly sane; if I um mad at allitis | moment they were compelled to tind a substitute.
with deligh at the very desire of my heart has | Leone could not sing; it was not that her yoice failed
been given w_WOo you forget when you tram-}-h t to her ine xpressible sorrow, when she began

 

f
|
}
i

to tell Big woes of another, her brain and mind wan-
de off into herown. In vain she tried to collect
herscif,. to savetberself from the terrible whirl of her
b ‘ain. ‘Sure 0 not going mad!” She bent ler
wore to | head on her hands, and sighed det iy. If she could
£. t| but save herself, if she could but tell what to do.
The night before, only afew hours previous, it seemed
to her her heart and brain had been on fire, first with
| jealousy, the n with love, then avith anger. By acci-
| dent, as she Was going to her wardrobe, her hands
it isso | fell on a large, “peautiful copy of the "Bible. She

_. } opened it carelessly, and her eyes fell on the words:

pled iny be Jove eon your teet that
day? Do,

“Thave’
ess. trying
“Then q
be aveng
swore
knees, an
| that you shoulc
| how FE had pleaded in 4

will wring yours, and my only regre

hard and so cold T cannot make you

eotiiit-

 

 
 

) “You‘are mad!” said my ‘lady "qu ite mad.” | “For the wicked there shall be no abiding place,
“No,” sait Leone, “¥ am, Sant put mine was a mad | neither shall a find rest torever,
| love!” : yas what she wanted, and if «she were

wicked she wotle not find it forever more. What
was being wicked? People had behaved wickedly to
her; they had taken from her the oue love that would
have been the stay of her life, they had made her
most solemn vows 8 nothing, the hi *4 been wickedly
treated, but did it follow that she must be wicked ?

“You cannot know the c onse qitences to yourself if
| you persist in this conduct,” said my I: dy, serenely.
“Did you think of them forme when you set aside |
|my marriage with your son, because you did not |}
think me good enough for Sennte ss?” she asked. |
“Lady Lanswell, the hour of vengeace has come, and |
Tembrace it. Your son shall lose ‘his wife, his home,
| his position, bis honors; I care not what she cried,
with sudden re cklessuess. “T care not what ‘the
| world says of me, I will do that which [ shall do, less
| bee aUse I love your son thay because Tf desire to pun-
ish you,’

Lady isn wall grew very pale as she listened,

“Yours is a terrible perenne” she said, gently. “I
wish that you could invent some vengeance that
would fall on my head—andon mine alone, so as to
spare those who aredearto me. Could you not do
this? I would gladly suffer anything to fie my son
and his fair, loving wife.”

“No one spare me me, nor will T in my turn spare,
she said. “You shall know what it means to plead
| for dear life, and plead in yain.”

“Can I say nothing that wilt induce yor to listen to

ime?” said the countess, “will you deliberately per
sist in the conduct that Wil? ruin three lives ?”’

| “Yes, deliberately and willfully,” said Leone? ‘1

| will never retract, never go back, but go on to the

bitter end.”

i And that end meansfnyson’s disgrace,” said Lady

Lanswell.

“Tt would be the same thing if, if me: unt his death,”
said Leone; “no one withheld the hand that struck
death to me—vorse than death.” -

“You have nothing but this to say tome?” said |

uady Lanswell, as she rose with stately grace from |
he r seat.

“No; if I knew ahytling which would punish
| you more, which woulkt more stirely pay my debts,
| which would more fully wreak my vengeance, I would
| doit. As for three lives, as for thirty, [ would tram-
ple them under my feet. { will live formy ven-
geance, no matter w hatit eosts me; and, Lady Lans-
well, you ruined my life. Good-by. The dest wish I
can form is that I may never look upon your face
again. Permit me.to say farewell,”

She went out of the room, leaving the countess be-
wildered oa at and dismay,

“What she s , She willdo,” thonght Lady Lans-
well; “I may say good- -by to every hope I have ever
formed for my son.”

She went away, her heart
hope of any k ind to cheer it.

Leone went to her room, her whole frame tremb-
liug with the strong passion that had mastered her.

| Rest! that v
|

the nerve, I have not the strength—I could never be
a sinner.”

Lightly enough she turned those pages; she saw
the picture of Ruth inthe corn-field—simple, loving
Ruth, whose words have stood the finest love-story
ever written since she uttered them. There was an-
other picture of Queen Esther fainting in the awful
presence of Ahasuerus the king; another of a fair
young Madonna holding in her. arms a little child;
another of the Magdalen, her golden bair wet with
tears; another of a Sacred Head bent low in the
agonies of death. She looked long at that. for under-
neath it was printed—‘For our sins.” Wickedness
meant sin, Standing there, her hand resting on the
page, all the truth seemed to come home to ‘her. It
would be a sin to cause disunion between husband
and wife ; it would be a sin to encourage the husband
of another woman to love her; it would be a sin to
give way tothe desire of vengeance that was burn-
ing her heart away, and these words were so pathetic

—“For our sins.’ She had laid her face on that pic-
ture of the Crucifixion, and burning tears fell from
her eyes over it.

“God have mercy on me,
save me from myself.”

Then she had slept,and here was the morrow, a
lovely summer day, with the golden air all fragrance,
the birds all song, and she was still doing hard battle
with herself, for, as she had said to he rself, hers was
“a mad love—a cruel, mad love.”

And as she stood watching the distant hills, won-
dering if in the blue sky that hung over them there
was peace, a servant once more entered the room,
holding a card in her hand.

“Lady Chandos,” said Leone,
her in here.”

She lookedin surprise almost too great for words
at the little card. Lance’s wife, who had refused to
speak to her, who had disdained to touch her out-
stretched hand—Lance’s wife coming to speak to
her! * ’

What couldit mean? Were the whole
Lanswells coming to her?

The next moment a fair, sweet face was smiling
into hers, a face she had seen last darkened with an-
ger, but which was fair and bright now, with the
light of a holy love.

”

”

she had prayed, ‘and

“ask

wonderingly ;

race of the

heavy ¥ as lead, with no

“What has come overme?” she said; “I no longer Leone looked at her in amaze. What had hap-
iknow myself. Is it love, vengeance, or jealousy that | pened? It was as though a new life, a new soul had
has hold of me? W hat evil spirit has taken my | been given to Lady Marion. And, hush! she was

speaking to her in alow, sweet voice, that thrilled
through the great singer like the softest chords from
an Eolian harp.

heart? Would I really hurt him whom I have loved
all my life’—would Ido him harm? Would T crush
that fs air wife of his, who wronged me without know-

ing it? Let me find out for myself if it be’true.” “You are surprised to see me,” Lady Marion was
She tried to think, but her head was ina whirl—| saying, “yet Ihave done right in coming. All last

night, While the stars were shining, I prayed Heaven
to tell me whatit was best to do, and I shall alw: ws
think that the white-winged angels whom they.say

sarry prayers to Heaven sent meto you, I refused
to touch your hand the other day—w ill you give it to
me now—will you listen to me y”

Leone’s whole heart and soul had risen in hot re-
bellion and fierce hate against the Countess ot Lans-
well—they we a out in sweetest love and’ compas-
sion to her fair-faced rival. The sweet voice went
on:

“T cannot tell why Ihave come to you—some im-
pulse has sentime. Another woman in my place
would have looked on you as a successful rival, and
have hated you. I cannot. The soul that has stirred
other sows eannot be base; you must be noble and
good, or you would not influenc e the hearts and souls
of meu. Oh, madame, I have come to you with two
lives in my hands. Will you listen to me?”

she could not control herself, she could not control
her thoughts; the sightof Lady Lanswell seemed to
have set her heart and Soul in fiame—all the terrible
memory of he r wrongs eame over her, the fair life
blighted and ruined, the innocent vir thood and dawn-
ing womanhood all marred and apoiled! It was too
cruel—no, she could neyes forgive: it.

And then it seemedto her that her br ain took fire,
and she went mad.

She saw Lord Chandos that Same evening; they
metinacrush on the staircase at one of the dueal
mansions, where a grand diiner- a arty preceded a
soiree, and the crowd was so great they were quite
unable to stir. It is possible to be auite : alone ina
great crowd, as these two were now.

Leone had on a dress of white satin trimmed with
myrtle, the rich folds of which traited on the grotind.
They shook hands in silence; it was Lord Chandos
who spoke first.

 

“Tam 80 glad to see you, rie but you are look- The ‘dark, beautiful heud of the gifted singer was
ing ill—you 1 must not look like that. Has anything | bent for a few minutes over the golden head of her
happened to distress you 1” rival. Then Leone raised her eyes to Lady Marion’s

He saw great trouble in the dark eyes raised te his. face.

.
ce,” she said, “you shall speak to

es “Youare trembl
mé as you will, but you shall speak to me here.

Some warm, loving, irre sis stible impulse eame to
her.. She could not hate or burt this fair, gentle lady
whom the countess had putin her piace, ‘and whom

in
1D

‘Te Lady Marion here she asked.

“No,” he replied. ret was to have come with my"
mother, but at the last moment she declined ; I do
not know why.’

She was debating

 

in her own mind whether she

should tell him about his mother’s visit or not; then | her husband did not love; a grea t impulse of pity
she _ cide a it would be better, Tle bent over her. came over her, a sweet and generous compassion
“TI came,” he said, ‘‘in the hope of seeing you. I} filled her heart, 7

~J >
Sue

fis

repeated, clasp-
sure and laying

kissed

“You shall speak to ine here,”
ing her arms round the trembling

>

he ord you say last nigbt that you should be here.”
In a low tone she said to him: .

   
 

 

|
|
|
4

“Your mother has been to see me; talk about dra- | the golden head on her breast. She the fair,
te scenes, we had One. Has she told you about | sad face with @ passion of love. “The re,” she said,
¢ “Lady Marion, if I had wronged yous even in the
“No, > he replied: “she does not speak to me, I am | least, I should not dare to do that. Now tell me what
n disgrace ; my lady passes ne in silent dignity. She! you have come to say. Do not tremble so,” and the

’

.

Lady Chandos looked up eagerly as the countess |

and her white hands |

“y could never be a sinner,” she said; “I have not

  

Ra arms tig ae ned their clasp. “Do not be afraid
0 speak to me.”

“YT am not atraid, for Heaven sent me,” said Lady
“TY know that you will tell me the truth—I
am as certain of that as Iam of my own life. I have
been very unhappy over you, Madame Vanira, for
my husband Seems to have cared more for you than
for me.” P

“Has your husband ever told you anything about
me?” asked Leone, gently. fs

And the answer was:

“No, nothing; except that, like every one else, he
admired you very much.”

“Nothing more?’ asked Leone.

“No, nothing more,”
‘“Phen,’? said Leone to herself, “the secret that he
has kept I will keep, and this’ fair, tender woman

shall never know that I once
wife.”

Lady Marion wondered why ‘she bent down
kissed her with all the fervor of self-sacrifice.

“IT have been. very unhappy,” continued Lady
Marion. I loyed you and admired you! I never had
the faintest suspicion in my mind-against you, until
some one came to tell me that you ‘and my husband
had spent a day on the river together. I know it was
true, but he would not explain it.’ +4

“Let me explain it,’ said Leone, sadly. “I trust |
you as you trustme. Ihave had a great sorrow in
my love; greater—oh, Heaven !—than ever fell tothe * |
loteof woman. And one d: ly, When I saw your hus-
ae the bitterness of ‘it Was lying heavily on me—

said something to him that led him to understand
oo dullLand unhappy I felt. Lady Chandos! he took
me on the river that he might give me one h: appy day,
nothing more. Do you erudge it to me, dear? Ah!
if I could give you the happiness of those few ficet-
ing hours I would.”

And again her warm, loving lips touched the white i
brow. }

“TI understand,” said Lady Marion. “Why did ;
my husband not Spun as you have done? Does he j
eare for you, madame? You will tell me thetruth, I
know.”

And the fair face looked wistfully in her own.

Leone was silent fora few minutes; she could not
look in those clear eyes and speak falsely,

“Yes,” she answered, slowly; “I think Lord Chan-
dos cares very much for me; I know that he admires
and likes me.”

Lady Marion looked much relieved. There could |
surely be no harm in their friendship, if she could '
speak of it so openly.

“And you, madame—oh, tell me truly !—do you love
my husband? Tell me truly; it seems to me that all
my life hangs on your word.”

Again the beautiful face drooped silently
the fair one.

“Tt would be so easy for me to tell you a falsehood,’
said Leone, while a great crimson flush burned e
face, “but Iwill not. Yes, I—I love him. Pity me,
you who love him so well yourself; he belongs to
you, while I—ah, pity me because IT love him.” *
| And Lady Marion, whose heart was touched by the
| pitiful words, looked up and kissed her.

believed myself his

and

 

 

before

 

 

“T cannot hate you, since you love him,” she said.
“He is mine, but my heart aches for you. Now let
me tell you what I have come to say. Yow ere good

| and noble, as T felt you were. Ihave come ask a

| grace from you, andit is easier now that I how you
| love him. How strange it seems! I should Have
| thought that hearing you say you loye my husband
would have filled my heart with hot anger, but it
does not; in sonie strange way Liove you “for it.’

se you love him, mada ime, his interests must be

2-ar to you.

vaEnee are dear to me,’ she whispered. ‘How
strange,” repeated Lady Mation, “that while the
world is full of men, you and I should both love the
same.’

“Ah, life is strange,
cones with death.”
(TO BE CONTINUED.)

A new and exciting émotional story by BERTHA M.
CLAY, author of “A Nad Love,” “A Bitter Atonce
ment,” ete., will soon*be commenced.

” nniv
omy

said Leene; ‘peace
*

> oO
Assassins of saline

Wutil as late as about twe enty- -five years sincg, the
blood-thirsty bands of Thugs, as they are called
in India, carried on their murderous occupation
over the whole length and breadth of the fairest
portion of Hindostan, at whichtime a determined
effort was made by the English government to sup-

ress.the daring outrages of the se religious fanatics,
for Thuggee was quite as much incite d by wild gxelig-
ious devotion as by the natural thieving propens#ties
of the native race, Seconded by the loc al authorities,
the British otticials, after years of extraordinary effort t
and condign punishment, believed that they had al-
most or quite extinguished the assassins known .2

Thugs ; but notwithstanding all the efforts of the
British government, fresh outrages: occasionally oc-
eur, especially in northern Hindostan, where the
Thugs are numerous. The organization of thesesmur-
derers, though of the mosteseeret. character, still ex-
ists . therefore, and calls for tresh and immediate ex-
ertions to insure its suppression. These merciless
and mysterious destroyers are unique, there is noth-

ing similar to them in Any other portion of the globe,
and though in some respects their doings resemble
those of the Italian and Sicilian banditti, yet the mo
tives for robbery and murder are toté lly different ;
besides which no victim is ever ransomed by a Thug.

The first. disclosures to the .world of this’ religious
sect—for the members were bound together by @ sort
of religious superstition—exhibited an extensive, si-
lently-condueted system of destruction heretofore
unthought of, and fora longtime discredited by the
magistrates and civil ofticers of most of the districts
| of ‘India. But persistent effort soon showed how
| deeply and extensively this social pest prevailed.
Thugs were discovere ad in near ly every Village, and
Pinany native officers were found in their ranks se-
cretly aiding them. All worshiped a certain goddess
of destruction, and every murder was considered to
be an acceptable sacrifice to her; all ages and condi-
tion of people were doomed, women only being
spared. The object of these wretches in human shape
was both murder and robbery, which they accem-
plished invariably by one process, namely, strangu-
lation. Their only weapon was a stout, though
small, silk or catgut eord, which was thrown over
their victim’s head, and being quickly drawn tight
about the throat, produced instant strangulation,
The knife or pistol they never used, Some mysterious
belief in this peculiar mode of as&: {ssination™ was uni
versal among them, and no other was resorted to
nor would they ever ‘attack their victim single-hand
ed. Three Thugs were always engaged in the assaulf
upon whoever had been ri upon as a sacrifice to theiy
purposes.

In most cases travelers from other countries are
selected for victims. They are waylaid in some
lonely spot. when three Thugs app@ar; one at
tracts the traveler’s attention by conversation o1
one side, another throws the cord over his head fron
the other side, and the third seizing his legs trom be
hind, throws him on his face, and in two minutes h
is strangled to death. Then “his body is stripped o
all valuables, and he is buried in some secret spo
Sometimes their*tactics are slightly varied, stealing
upon their victim when he sleeps, and the first the
he knows of his dangeris on waking to find a cor
being drawn so tightly about his throat as to suff
eate him. The practice of these vampires is not coy
fined to the land; the rivers of India were former]
infested with bands, some assuming the guise q
boatmen, some that of pilgrims bound to Benares
Allahabad. The travelers are murdered below, whi
some of the gang sing and play on deck. At a sign
given by these that all is clear, the bodies of the mt
dered men are cast into the river. Of course the
are many murders that never come to light, and it
only when some traveler of importance disappea
that inquiry is made.

These secret mprderers have an e mblem whif
they worship, and to which they ascribe the m<«
remarkable virtues. This is nothing more nor le
than a pickax! It is looked upon with the highe
reverence by the Thugs as the symbol of their fait
and the chief object of their superstition. A bel
in omens also constitutes a large share of their ex
duet of life from day to day. So when preparing
one of their murderous expeditions, the auspic
are always solemnly taken, and only it, favora}
will it be earried out. After every asthssinati
they perform a special solemnity. ,If 5 starti
upon an expedition they were to meet a blind m
it would be considered an evilomen, or a woman w
an empty pitcher upon her head, or ifa wolf eros
their path ; and so superstitious are these uncivili:
assassins that they would instantly abandon for
time whatever business they might have in ha
Thuggee cannot be said to prosper as does brigand
in Southern Italy, though one exists in half-sav
Bengal, and the other within the boaste’ preci
of civilized Europe.

 

 

 

 

  
     
    

     
    

      
  
    

 
 

   
      
    
     
     
      
   
 
      
    
       
     
      
 

 
 

  

     

  
  

 
 

 
 

 
             
        
     
       
  
          
    
    
    
      
    

~-o~<--_—____—

CUPID ON CRUTCHES; or, ONE SUMMER
SETT PreER. By A. B. W. (of the Elmwood Ciub.) 1
lishers, G. W. Carleton & Co., New York. The authe
this little book has succeeded in weaving a readable st
to say the least. Init are portrayed characters that
may encounter at any watering-place. Readit. It
while away a leisure hour.

.

WOMAN’S WRONG. By Mrs. Eiloart. Publishers, ”
Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia: There is a great
in this work to commend. It is well written, has a 4g
plot, and the characters are very cleverly depicted.
printed in handsome style on tinted ps aper, and is subs
tially bound,in tan vellum, embossed in gold and blac

DOTS AND DASHES.

 
 

AT NARRAG

 
 
 
 

 
       

 
   
   
  
  
 
 
  
 
   
  
 
  
   
  
 
 
  
     
   
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
  

WIRED LOVE.—A ROMANCE OF
Ella Cheever Thayer. Publishers, G. W. Carleton &
New York. The style of this new ‘summer novel is ¢
original, and the characters #n it are drawn. with skill
will compare with any light reading of the day. The
is neatly printed and bound.

JusT OXE DAY. Published by George R. Lockwoo<

Broadway, New York. Every mother of a family wi

preciate this little book. The heroine may be fou

 

nearly every home in the world. The story is writte
most attractive style, and enlists the heartiest symf
of the reader fro mnt begin nin r to end.

 

 

 

 

 
 
 

 

 

eh

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

NOTHING NEW.
BY MRB.

M. A. KIDDER.

 

“Nothing new—nothing new,”
On the sea or on the shore,
As to perfume, shape, and hue,
Every flower has bloomed before 4
Every billow, ripple, wave,
Leaping up in listless play,
Seems the same that ocean gave
When we journeyed yesterday.

Nothing new—nothing new
In the meadow sweet we find,
Even every drop of dew
Glistens ‘after its own kind.”
Every nestling sings the song
Taught it by the parent birda,
Even as our loved ones throng
Round us with familiar words.

Nothing new—nothing new
As we scan the milky way,
Every star that gems the blue,
Shone upon our natal day.
Sunlight streams, and moonlight gleama,
Storms and earthquakes come and go,
Life, and love, and sleep, and dreams,
Just as in the long ago!

Nothing new—nothing new

As we wanier here and there ;
One thing you forget, say you,

Man's inventions, grand and rare,
See the wonders of his hand

As you travel up and down
Through the iron-girded land—

Grant to him a jeweled crown!
Nothing new—nothing new,

Even man's acknowledged might,
Whatsoe’er his hands may do,

Brings but hidden things to light.
Proves but this, that God imparts

Thought divine, that we may be
One with Him, to do His will

Here and in Eternity.

 

__——_—- > ©

HOW
NED GRADY FOUND his MOTHER.

¥t was the vigil of the anniversary of the discovery
of the Gunpowder Plot, Guy Fawkes’ Day, and the
students of the University of Cambridge, England,
were anticipating rare sport, for on that day the col-
Jegians turn out en massefor a holiday—Junior Fresh-
wen and Senior Wranglers, Fellows, Professors, and
Bachelors, all are on the qui vive for the trolics of the
“Townsmen” with the ‘‘“Gownsmen.”

“Arrah, then, Mr. William! lave thim ould books
and take a turn in the fresh air} sure yer appetite’s
gone élune on account of ’em.”

This wus the exclamation of Ned Grady, the ser-
vant of Mr. William Pakenham, son of the Dean of
St. Patrick’s, Dublin, who was pursuing his studies in
Christ’s College.

Young Pakenham suffered Ned’ s good-natured ad-
vice to pass unheeded, for he was mentally in far dis-
tant countries, conversing with patriarchs and dis-
eussing with philosophers.

Ned looked at him in blank despair of being able to
rouse him from his intens¢é abstraction.

“Och, if I could squeeze a laugh out of him ho’d
come to his sinses,” sighed Ned, soliloquizingly.

A loud knoek at the outer door called him off; he
soon returned, saying that a visitor wished to see
Mr. William.

Ned always distinguished the caste of his master’s
visitors by calling shabbily-dressed applicants ‘‘men,’”’
and those attired comme tl faut “gentlemen.”
“Who wants to see menow ?” said his master. ‘Is
it a man or a gentleman ?”

“Faith, sir, 1t’s neither wan nor the other; it’s only
a Quaker !” replied Ned.

Mr. Pakenham burst into an immoderate fit of
laughter.

“Bhow him in, even though he be an ourang-
outang,” said he, and soon a_ pacific-looking old gen-
tleman appeared, holding in his hand an open letter.
“IT have come from Huntingdon, friend,” he ob-
served to young Pakenham, “to inform thee that thy
domestic is about to be arrested, under a truly serious
charge; he has threatened the life of my daughter,
and the heinousness of his crime is greatly augment-
ed by the circumstance of her never having in any
manner insulted him. The Irish are said to be a
blood-thirsty race, who rove about, like the ancient
Tartars, from place to place, with large sticks, called
shillelahs, in their bands, ready to knock down their
real or imagintury foes.”

“Tam sorry you have had to come so far, and on
such an unpleasant piece of business, sir,” said Pa-
kKenham, ‘and I regret it the more on account of be-
jug au Irishman myself. What witnesses have you
to appear against my servant, sir ?”’

“His own handwriting, addressed to my daughter;
thee can read and judge for thyself,” said the Quaker,
handing him the open letter, which was both a’sten-
ographical and orthographical phenomenon, and ran
as follows:

  
 
    
  
   
   
  
  
  
   
  
  
   
 
  
 
 
   
 
  
  
     
    
 
 
  
 

 

“CAMBRIDGE, ON THE RIVER CAM,
Noy. 2d, All Sowl’s Day.

“Miss RACHIL FENNIL:—This comes hopping to tind ye.
I wint all over the town lookin’ for you, an’ not a sight of
you was there, but I’ll square up wid ye, if I had to go to

Luntingdon atther ye.

“There’s a death justly comin’ to you, an’ you'll get it
from Yours, &c., EDWARD O’GRADY.”’

*“Are you the Mr. Fennil who supplies this college
with butter?” asked Pakenham.

“The same, friend,” replied the Quaker.

In Cambridge butter was at that time seld by the
yard, made into little rolls of a quarter of a yard,
which was the daily allowance of each student.

The wealthy farmers were not too proud to send
their sons and daughters in merket-carts to town
with butter and vegetabley and Miss Rachael Fennil
had on several occasions stopped to collect her
father’s bills at the different colleges.

Pakenham called his servant. —

“Do you deny having written that letter to the
daughter of this gentleman?” said he, looking furi-
ously at Ned.

_ “Deny it, is it? For what and for why would I deny
it? To be sure I did,” he answered, boldly.

“What devil possessed you to do so? You will be
transported to the penal settlements for having used
such wicked threats,” said Pakenham, more in sor-
row than in anger.

“Is that the Jaw here in England, to transport a
poor fellow for payin’ what he owes? Be the beard
of Brian Boroihme, thin what’s good sauce for the
goose is good sauce for the gandher, and you'll have
to follow my regiment, for you wor the very wan that
towld me to write to the young lady.”

The Quaker muttered a very musical sort of inter-
jection. A gleam of sunshine beamed on the com-
prehension of young Pakenham. He read the letter
again, and actually sank on a chair in a paroxysm ot
laughter.

“You'll kill me instead of the young lady,” said he
to his servant. “I see through it all now, Mr. Fen-
nil. We will shortly be leaving for Ireland, and, our
butter bill being due for over two months, I request-
ed of my servant to ask your son or daughter for it,
in order that we might liquidate it without writing
or sending to your house in Huntingdon. I gave him
the money, and I suppose he did not sueceed in find-
ing the young lady who usually comes to collect the
amount of our butter bills. so he wrote to her touch-
ing the debi, and not the death he owed. Is it s0,
Ned?’

‘Bad look to the lie in it, Masther William !”

“Praised be the Lord! Lam glad thou artinno-
cent of evil intentions toward my daughter, young
man,” said the Quaker. “I excuse the mistake whicly
caused me to misjudge thee, and intrude on thy mas-
ter’s valuable time. Good-by, young gentieman.
Faresthee well, friend Edward. Learn that death isa
debt which men only pay to their Creator.”

Mr. Pakenham was preparing a prize essay for the
approaching examination. The composition was to
be written in Greek, and the subject was ‘‘The Origin
of the Hebrew Language,” for which he accounted
as follows: .

“The Hebrew language had its origin in the follow-
ing manner: After the deluge, the patriarch, Noah,
with his family, passed into Chaldea, the first region
that was populated. From thence have sprung the
Egyptians, and afterward the Phenicians, the Ethio-
piars, Greeks, and Latins. In Chaldea, on the other
side of the Euphrates, which joins Messopotamia,
Abraham was born. He was called by God to the

and of Canaan, which was afterward called Syria
Minor. Entirely different from the Chaldean lan-

uuge Was that used by the Canaanites; they used

he Syrian. So both people, not understanding each
other, corrupted both languages, and so confounded
them into one, which is the Hebrew.

“The name ‘Hebrew’ signifies a Pilgrim, or a man
come trom the other side of the river. Abraham
having come from that portion of land on the other
side of the Euphrates, the Canaanites called him the
‘Man,’ or pilgrim from the other side, ‘Hebrew.’
Many Greek and Latin doctors pretend that the He-
brew language descends from Heber, an idiom spoken
before the deluge, but Rabiel Hazer, and Moses Ab-
duc, Aphes Huta, and Simin Sandok, the most ancient
Hebrew doctors, affirm that the primitive language
of the world was lost in the cofusion of Babel, leaving
no trace of its existence. In like manner, the lan-
guage of Noah and the Chaldean became Syrian, and
this again was changed to Hebrew. When Jacob and
the . Twelve Tribes went to Egypt their language
again suffered from their close intercourse with the
Egyptians, and, after the total desolation of Jerusa-
lem, and the dispersion of the tribes all over the
earth, the Hebrew language retained few traces of
its ancient purity.”

 

 

“T can write no more to-day, Ned,” said Mr. Pak-
enbham.

“Arrah, then, Mr. William, it’s myself is proud o’
that same. Shure’tis fending and proving sometbing
about the language o’ the saints that our first father,
Adam, spoke in Paradise—the blessed ould Irish—you
ought to be. Never a hair a Christian ought to care
for the lingo o’ thim out and out haythens that hung
our Saviour.”

“Any news of your motber yet, Ned?”

“Borra a word, Masther William; but she’s me
thoughts be night and me dhrames be day, an’ I'll
walk the world over till I tind her.”

“We shall pass through London on our way home
for the Christmas vacation,” said Mr. Pakenham.
‘Perhaps your search for her there may be attended
with more success.”

“Na be cogelarth, Mr. William, if money, an’ me
heart’s blood can tind her,”

Poor Ned Grady had lost his parents, or rather his
parents had lost him, under truly distressing cireum-
stances. They were both dealers in poultry and but-
ter, and carried on a small traffic between England
and their native country, Ireland.

When Ned, who was their only child, was about
three years old, sper made a voyage to Liverpool,
leaving him and their house under the charge of a
long-trusted servant, who betrayed the confidence
reposed in her by robbing them during their absence,
not only of every article of value, but also of their
son, to whom she was much attached, having brought
him up since his infancy. F :

Before any of the neighbors could miss this un-

rincipled woman, she was far out of their reach,

eaving some letters, written from a ficticious person
in England, as a blind to her real designe.

The desolation of the unfortunate parents may
easily be conceived, the loss of their only child ren-
dering them almost frantic. d

After a fruitless search they concluded to establish
themselves in England, with the hope of finding their

boy.

tn the meantime the cause of all their sorrow _was
quietly living in Armagh, in the North of Ireland.

She succeeded in making little Ned believe that his
father and mother had been lost on their way to
England, and, as she was always kind to him, he
looked on her.as his mother, until he had grown up
to manhood, when she fell dangerously ill, and con-
tessed all to him.

Atter her death ho visited his native place, where
he found no trace of his parents, save that they had
left for England many years before, and were never
heard of since.

Ned’s one absorbing idea and hope was to find his
mother, and for this purpose he had accompanied
Mr. Pakenham to Cambridge. He had advertised in
several papers, offering a handsome reward for the
information, which would lead to her discovery, but
all was in vain.

The fifth of November had arrived, and Mr. Paken-
ham surprised poor Ned in a fit of weeping.

“Hallo, Ned! is it erying you are? You who make
every one else laugh. Come, none of your shand-
moning. We want you, and cannot dispense with
your valuable society.”

The whole town of Cambridge was redolent. with
fun and frolic, and the merriest group to be seen was
that marching triumphantly down St. Mary’s street.
They were made up of scions of Enugland’s noblest
houses. Dean Pakenham’s son, and a gigantic lady
dressed in white, and whose accent betrayed her
Hibernian origin.

“Woild Hoirishwoman!” shouted one of the lookers-
on, a any doors to the houses in that yaw Hoir-
land ?”’

“Niver a doore a graghal,” she replied. “Sure we
flies round the bog, and when we're tired we goes
home be comin’ flopp down the chimbley.”

“Well, I never!’ shouted a dozen voices.

Another troop of students passed them, singing at
the top of their lungs:

~ Alpha, Beta, Gamma, Delta,
Off to Greece for us may hie!
Let us rub, boys, helter-skelter,
Alma Mater’s all my eye.
Ushers now may dress in satin,
Talk of Socrates divine,
Teach the mastiff dog Dog-Latin,
Tell the cat of Cateline!
Magistorum is a borum,
Hic, hee, hoc may make his bow,
We will cry: ‘Hey cockalorum !’
That's the Latin for us now.”

The perpetrator of this most edifying effusion hait-
ed on seeing the Woman in White.

“Chums!” cried they, “the governor won't like to
hear of your being in such confounded low society.
Who is that hag, and why is she dressed in white
this cold day ?”

“Och! sure, if black plazes ye bether, I'll put it on,
and goin mourning for your modesty that’s dead,
and, be the powers, for your poor corpse, that I'll
give to the fishes this minit,” roared the lady in white,
at the same time catcuing the delinquent in her arms
just as if he were but a mere child, and carrying him
to where

“ Graced with many a classic spoil,
Cam rolls its streams along.”

“Bring a pound o’ soap the way that he may wash
himself clane, and put a trifle o’ change in his pocket
to pay Charon,” she continued, addressing her party
that were begging hard for the life of the trembling
youth, who promised to treat all hands to a supper
that evening in case he was spared the much-dreaded
ducking.

“T spare this wanst your hectoring tongue, but, be

me conscience, if ever I catch you saying *boo’ to an

Irish lady I'll spiflieate and palverize you, so I will,’’’

said the Ainazon, whom all soon recognized as Ned
Grady, the servant of Pakenham.

The examination had passed; young Pakenham
gained a prize, not only for his essay on the Hebrew
language, but for several other distinguished sub-

ects.
’ Arriving in London, he gave sufficient time to Ned
to hunt up his parents. Advertisements were in the
Times, and verbal inquiries made in all quarters.

Ned was in a very melancholy mvod as he ap-
proached Saint Paul’s, which towers so majestically
in modern Babylon; he entered, and, filled with ad-
miration at the sight of the stupendous edifice, he
ascended the celebrated whispering gallery.

Being somewhat fatigued, he sat down to rest.

“Oh, thin, mother! mother! where are you
blessed minit?” whispered he, soliloquizingly.

He was startled on hearing aloud voice repeat his
very words, and rushing down stairs he declared that
the “ould fellow” was inside of the church making
game of the people, for all the world like a mocking-
bird!

Poor Ned was innocent of any knowledge
acoustics or of the vibration of sounds,

He next visited the Thames Tunnel, the work of
that sublime engineer, Brummell. Thunder-struck at
the godlike ingenuity of men in constructing this
wonderful passage across the Thames, he lingered,
asking every one hc met whether they knew aught
of his parents.

Of a truth, if man be mean he is also great, a “little
lower than the angels,” for it is evident that. on the
hills, no less than on the plains, on the mountain top,
or under the deep waters, wherever man has a will
he can easily construct a wav. Locomotion is the
great want of the day. and even Alps must not stand
in the way of human progress.

Passing down Fleet street, Ned halted near the
oftice of Punch, the London Charware. A poor old
Irishwoman was seated at an apple stand, and Ned
readily got into conversation with her, reserving for
a grand climateric the sad story of his early life. As
soon a8 he mentioned his mother’s name, the old
woman uttered a prolonged moan; rocking herself to
and fro, she cried:

“May the angels of Heaven comfort ye, poor boy,
but your mother’s in Newgate prison this blissed
minit. Her nameis Bridget Grady, and sheis from
the County Monaghan.”

“The very name!” eried Ned. ‘Arrah, wusha, now,
what did they put her there for ?”

“Och! sure, I believe she’s innocent as the child un-
born,” replied the old woman.

Ned could no longer bear the suspense, but hasten-
ing to Newgate, he implored, in vain, permission to
see the unfortunate prisoner, who was committed for
murder, and not allowed to see any one except the
clergyman who attened the prisoners.

The unhappy Ned sat outside the prison walls, un-
heeding the bitter cold. and actually sobbed himself
to sleep. He was aroused from his slumbers by the
rough voice of a policeman, who, on hearing his story,
promised to procure him a seat in the court during
his mother’s trial, which was to take place the follow-
ing day.

At an early hour the court was crowded, and the
prisoner was sitting in the dock. Witnesses were
brought forward to prove that on a certain night, at
alate hour, they heard cries for help proceeding from
the house of their neighbor, an old lady who liv.d
quite alone with her servant, the prisoner, Bridget
Grady ; that, lifting the sash of one of the windows,
they had entered, and found the old lady weltering
in blood in the lobby, and just breathing her last. On
going into the servant’s room, they saw that she was
pretending (as they thought) to get out of her bed,
and they were shocked at seeing a large dagger-knife,
full of blood, lying near her bedside. As soon as the
police arrived, it was discovered that the old lady’s
watch, plate, money, and other valuables, had been
stolen.

Of course, suspicion pointed at Bridget as the

uilty party, and she vainly persisted in declaring

er innocence. Never was circumstantial evidence
so strong against mortal. She was pronounced guilty,
and sentenced to be hung in a few days.

Just as the prisoner, in reply to the judge's de-
mand, was in the act of declaring her innocence, Ned
started up, shouting:

“For Heaven's sake, lave her go, yer honor!
innocent! *T'was me that kilt the ould lady !”

He delivered himself up, and was placed in the
dock, his mother littls dreaming of her deliverer be-
ing her long-lost child. Reiterating his guilt, sen-
tence of death was being pessed on him when a loud
commotion was heard in the court, and the judge was
unable to proceed. :

“Pardon, my lord judge and gentlemen of the jury,
this interruption!” cried Mr. Pakenham, as he ap-
proached. ‘This man is ny servant, and I can swear

this

of

She’s

 

(7

 

| buith, graysyand othghp9"

‘proved py being washed in water containing pepper.
owe

 

4 re A

 

 

that he is innocent of the crime of which he accuses
himself. Here is an accomplice of the real murderer,
who has been traced to Chelsea, and who has turned
Queen’s evidence Against his partner in guilt, They
quarreled about the stolen property, which the police
have in their.possession here, and which they will
produce, counties with the robbers, Who, having ex-
perienced some opposition from the old lady who met
with such an untimely fate, stabbed her to silence her
cries, and, before making their escape through the
back part of the house, threw the bloody knite into
the room of the sleeping servant, in order to crimi-
nate her. She is a widow, and bears an irreproach-
able character. I became interested on seeing her
name in the Newgate criminal list, and was prompt-
ed in my desire to assist her by the hope of finding
my faithful servant, who has been missing these two
days.”

is the police placed the two real culprits in the
dock, the judge demanded, in a loud voice, that the
soi-disant assassin, Ned, should be properly cared
for, as be was doubtless out of his mind, fancying
himself a murderer.

“He is of sound mind, my lord,” replied Paken-
ham; “but this poor woman is Ais mother, whom he
has not seen since his childhood, and he wished to
die in her stead, without even revealing himself to
her, lest bis confession might endanger her safety.”

“Noble youth!” cried the judge, while a large tear
stood trembling in hiseye. ‘What is bis real name
and place ef birth?’

“Edward O’Grady, of the County Monaghan, Ire-
land, my lord; and his mother is called Bridget
Monaghan.”

The whole court participated in the rapturous
meeting of the mother and her long-lost son. The
judge seized him by the hand, placing on his finger a
valuable ring; the multitude crowded about him to
whisper their blessings and congratulations; and,
holding both his mother’s hands in his own, Ned
O'Grady was borne off triumphantly in Mr. Paken-
ham’s carriage.

The Ladies’ \ Work-Box.

KRdited by Mrs. Virginian Ingram.

“Etta C.," Beston, Mass.—lst. The traveling dress
should, by all means, be of a material which will stand
sun, wind, and rain; and we find nothing more servicea-
ble than the light wool, or silk and wool materials of the
day. Gray or brown is about the best colors to select for
the purpose. By all means let the traveling suit be made
in simple style, as devoid of trimming, or anything which
may prove a resting-place for dust, as itis possible. Let
the hat or bounet correspond. 2d. A broad-brimmed hat
of some kind is indispensable. 3d. An ulster is also very
desirable. Linen and mohair are the materials usually
employed for the uister, but of the two, mohair is pre-
ferabie, as it does not crumple, nor require doing up.
4th. Lisle thread gloves are most worn, and in going
any distance beyond a day's journey, there should be at
hand a supply of linen or paper collars and cuffs,
5th. Dinner dresses are mostly cut with very long,
round trains, and are slightly bouffant on the sides,

with a puffed back, but the fronts are generaily
without tullness. Basques and corsages of all Kinds are
now worn tor dressy toilets, and in almost every case are
open at the neck in pointed pompadour or heart shape.
High-necked basques are deservedly popular, as this style
of dress permits a rich display of materials, and can be
turther embellished by handsome jabots of fine lace.
Among the prettiest dresses, prepared for afternoon re-
ceptions tor saratoga and Newport, are fowlards with ecru
ground, and small olive and blue figures, tiny leafiets,
acorns With stems, and the like. -The small designs con-
taining several shades of olive brown and green, with lines
ot blue, black, and a deeper shade of yellow to bring out
the dark tints. A more elegant design for a princess dress
is of rich striped grenadine, brocaded in a pretty stalk
and flower pattern, with an alternating si... of satin in
the solid color, he brocaded stripe has an open-worked
toundation, and this is its only claim to being called grena-
dine. A very pretty but less expensive dress is made of
French lawn, in a pale, moonlight blue shade. The trim-
ming Consists of a border printed in aclose embroidery pat:
tern, in the darker shades of the color, put on flat, and vor-
dered with Breton lace. The dress Consists of two skirts
and a close-ttving jacket, Which is usually belted in with
ribbon. Narrow sativ ribbons of different shades of color
are used also tor the draping. The skirts are trimmed with
gathered rutties, three on the lower skirt and one on the up-
per, edged with narrow Breton lace. 6th. The white dresses
prepared for alterugon ard evening wear are principally of
two Kinds, thin wool, barege, or gaseline, ana dotted mus-
lin, trimmed with Breton laveand ribbons. Tth. Vhe thin
dhetland wool shawlis What you will require to wear cool
mornings and evenings at eituer of the places. 8th. Plain
black Dutton boots tur ordinary wear; the low-cut shoe,
or the four strapped sandals may be worn in the house.

“Anxious Inquirer.’’—lst. Sugar of lead will set blue
and pink, and is sometimes used for the delicately-tinted
hosiery now in vogue. J» fewdrops of sulphuric acid di-
luted with the rinsing will intensify and prevent browns,
y) tints teem running. This Lat-

    
    
      

. ter Liquid will barn like ive .coal if dropped on the hands
or on Woolens or 5, @faét which it would be well to
bear ae dling it. Beet RSs 5 SRL en in
sett purple, 1 ,and bi wid alum will render green
loss HaBtete tad. 2d. pred linens should be din

exactly the same manner as Colored cottons; but some
shades of them, notably gray and buff, while less likely to
tade, are apt to absorb the alkaline properties of the soap
unsveuly, and becamespotted. This iability may be over-
come by dissolving a spoonful of black pepper in the
washing water. black cambrics anc muslins are also im-
3a.
Al stains, either alkaline or acid, sheuld not be al. d to
come in contact with seap until some neutvralizieg force
has been applied, . 4th: Colored lawns and organdies can
be Washed to look almost as well asnew. But extreme
care is hecessary tosuccess. They must of course be han-
dled very gently, lest they become torn; and, instead of
starch, a solution of guin-arabic should be used to stiffen
them. ‘‘hey should nut be allowed to become thoroughly
dry, but should be ironed on the wrong side while still
damp. We do not promise that some of the very delivate
tints ef orgaudies aud lawus will bear the test of imuner-
sion, but the majority of them will.

“Katie and Emma,” Buffalo, N. Y.—1st. The Frenoh
complexion mask will remove discolorations from the skin
if caused by exposure to the sun and wind, but we are in-
clined to think that moth spots are from an unhealthy
state of the liver. andein that case the cause must first be
removed before any externa] application will do any good.
zi. The mask may be used with or without the lotions.
The lotions are what removes the freckles and tan, but
when the mask is used it Keeps the air from the face, and
causes & perspiration which aids the lotion to effect the
cure. YOu must endeavor to keep the skin perfectly free
from anything that has a tendency to fill up the pores. To

effect a cure one must have patience, and Continue the

use of the mask, and follow the directions closely. We do
not expect that one week or two willremove all the spots
and ica that hav» been for years on the face and
hands.

“Little Dot ’’—There is nothing that will remove super-
tinous hair permanently without causing a scar. The
remedy that you mention that was sold by L. Shaw, and
said to permanently remove superfluous hair, did not do
80, and we had a customer who gave ita fair trial, pur-
chasing one box from us, and one of L. Shaw, but she
wrote to us stating that although it removed it for the
time being, it did not destroy the roots, and that it grew
in again just the same as when the scissors ora tweezers
were used. She also wrote that she would state that it
was perfectly harmless in its effect upon the skin or com-
plexion. The “French Depilatory”’ will remove it for the
time, if allowed to remain upon the face until it com-
mences to pain, and then removed according to the direc-
tion upon the box.

“May Bella.’’—1st. Keep the head perfectly clean, and
use the “Restorative.’’ It does not contain ary heavy oil,
or anything that will prevent your using tre “Aurora.”
It is nota dye, merely a hair tonic for strengthening, and
promoting the growth of the hair, and removing dandruff.

2d. Make your polonaise from pattern No. 6,645, price 30
cents. This model is suitable for washable fabrics, as well
as for those of silk or wool. 3d. Fora bad breath caused
from catarrh we should recommend that you snuff up the
nose, “salt and water.’’ Let the water be tepid, and do not
make it too salt. You can tell if it is so if it causes a
smarting or stinging sensation. 4th. We knowof nothing
better than the “Complexion Mask,” or the Pulcherina,
either of which is perfectly harmless.

“Mra. W.”—You can wear your crape vail draped on the
side of your bonnet to hang behind. It 18 considered a
part of deep mourning dress, but there is so much latitude

now in wearing mourning that you can use your own
judgment aboutit. 2d. Pique or else nainsook dresses,
trimmed with tucked ruffles, can be worn with black
sashes by girls of tweive or thirteen years as mourning
dresses. 3d. For a thin black dress, get square-meshed
grenadine of the kind called canvas grenadine, and trim it
with fine plaitings of the same. 4th. We know of no book
on the etiquette of mourning.

“Carrie.”—1st We Know of no way of restoring the color
to your silk dress. 2d. Puta little ammonia in water, dip
your hairbrushes in quickly. and shake out the water as
soon as possible. Sometimes dipping in bran or in corn-
meal and rubbing two brushes together will cleanse them
withont moistening. 3d. Do not take your guests te your
friend’s house until your friend has called upon them.
4th. The skirts of graduating dresses are usually demi-
trains. 5th. The sailor suit will be pretty for a little girl's
navy blue bunting.

“B. J. H.,” Woonsocket, R. I.—We do not know to what
you refer, but think itis the *“‘A)burnine.”” It was adver-
tised in No. 82 of the present volume of the NEW YORK
WEEKLY. It is for changing hair of any color to the gold-
en-brown color thatis so much admired by some ladies.
The price of the “Alburnine” is $2.60 per bottle; it is m
two shades, light and dark. The NEW YORK WEEKLY Pur-
chasing Agency will send it to yon, or you can send name
and address to L. Shaw, 54 West Fourteenth street, N. Y.
It will cost you the same, whichever way you do.

“George W.,” Worcester, Mass.—ist. The ‘Rose Wine”
is the only thing that we know of that will remove pim-
ples and blackheads. 2d. No, it will not injure the com-
plexion; it leaves the skin soft and smooth. Price per
bottle, $1—sent by express by the NEW YORK WERKLY
Purchasing Agency upon recep: of name and address.
The express charges are paid by the purchaser woen the
package ie :eceived.

 

‘The Great Wonders Around Us.

NUMBER TWENTY-SIX.

BY PROFESSOR RUDOLPH,

THE WONDERS OF THE OCEAN.

We dwelt upon the vastness of the ocean in our last
article, and the reader must have been impressed with
its vast extent, and the great body of water it con-
tains. And now the question startles us:

WHERE WAS ALL THIS VAST BODY OF WATER IN THE
PARLY HISTORY OF OUR GLOBE?

This will be seen to be a far more perplexing and
startling question than at first it may appear, when
we remember that
OUR GLOBE WAS ONCE A HUGE BALL OF LIQUID FIRE.

Indeed, it is to-day chiefly such a globe. We have
proof of this in the volcanic eruptions constantly oc-
ourring from many of the three hundred active_vol-
canoes situated on all sides of the globe, and not
collected at a singe point.

If thus collected, it might seem as if all the heat of
the interior was at a given part of our planet and all
the rest was cold; but now, scattered as they are
around the globe, in equatorial and arctic regions
alike, we are forced to the conclusion that terrestrial
heat is not merely local, but universal. These volea-
noes annually pour out, from one or more of them,
vast rivers of liquid fire, or melted lava, miles in
width and length, proving that the source whence
they come must be one immense reservoir of like
liquid fiery matter. But we have other proof in the
fact that after descending beneath the surface one
hundred feet the temperature, instead of lowering,
aetuully rises, incrensing at the rate of one degree
for every forty-five feet ; so that, with this rate of in-
creased heat, at the depth of about forty-five or fifty
miles the temperature is such that all substances,
even rocks, are melted. Hence, we have torced upon
us the rather unpleasant conelusion that we are
treading upon a mere egg-shell, comparatively, of
only about fifty miles thickness, while all below is a
world of liquid fire. Now there is additional proof of
all this in the well-known fact of the boiling springs
that come rushing up to the surface, often sufficiently
hot to cook meat and eggs, as in the hot sprmgs of
Arkansas, and still more notably, at the Geysers in
Iceland, where, amid the ice and snow of that inhos-
pitable island, these wondrous springs throw up
boiling water to a great height in the air, and with
such force that masses of rock are thrown out with
it. All this clearly proves that our globe is even now,
to-day, chietly a world of hquid fire, with an alarm-
ingly thin crust covering and econtining the raging
tiery elements beneath our feet. ;

Our planet, then, is seen to be, as yet, only slightly
cooled down, and that it waa not very long since, com-
paratively, thatit was altogether, surface and cen-
ter, such a globe of fire.

Now, we can better see the pertinency of the ques-
tion proposed. Where was all this vast body of
water during this reign of fire? Science answers
here with no faltering voice, and the answer is, it ex-
isted in the form of vapor, as a huge cloudy envelope
encireling our entire globe, not as do the elouds in
patches and in thin layers, but as one unbroken coy-
ering, and of a thickness of thousands of miles,
through which no ray of light could penetrate.
Then, when our globe had sufficiently cooled down
this vast cloudy envelope gradually condensed and
fellin heavy and long-continued showers, upon the
same principle that showers fall to-day.

These waters naturally sought the great basins
that had been scooped out for them by the Almighty
hand, and where we now find them.

And now let us look at some of

THE USES OF THE OCEAN.

Some superficial reasoners, disposed to caviling,
and ever finding fault with the order of nature, say
thatitis a ‘‘waste of surface to have nearly three-
fourths of the globe covered by useless water” Let

 

us see. Here is a large area of land needed for agri-
culture. But there ean be no successful cultivation |

of the soil, and hence no food for man, without dew
and rain. The land cannot of itself produce this dew
and rain. The rivers, even if in existence, would not
be sutticisn. to afford them. Whence, then, shall
these dews and rains come ¢

The Creator is wiser than men, as Heis far more

 

 

 

 

 

 

beneficent. He knew that not only ocvasional but
frequent showers and nightly dews would be neces-
sary to produce the fruits and grains that the crea-
tures He purposed creating would require. And so
He in love to them spread owl this vast expanse of
water, instead of gathering it in deep caverns, 80 as
to afford, by evaporation the needed moisture for
dew and showers; and then provided for the trans-
portation of all this watery matter to fields thousands
of miles away. And how beautiful and wonderful
the arrangement!

Who but One infinitely wise could devise such a
plan? Who but One infinitely powerful could
execute it? Ana what is the plan? We see minute
particles of moisture rising from the entire surface
ot this mass of waters, and ascending to great
heights in the air, and there, caught up by the winds,
they are carried on their wings over the arid fields of

earth, and there dropped upon them; dropped, not | the river under any circumstances,” « .

“Much oblige to you, sah, much oblige te you")
said Tom, *‘but I don’t stay in dis yeab place no mo,”
and in spite of all I could do he collected his things’
in a bundle, and thanking me with tears in his eyess
he table, and he

in a mass, with the force of a cataract, but gently
scattering every where, xs needed, the life-giving,
tood-creating rain. Thus, too, the

OCEAN IS THE SOURCE OF RIVERS AND’ FOUNTAINS.

The "clouds; thereby, scattering their waters upon
the mountains and higher regions of the earth, rivu-
lets, brooks, and rivers are formed, and sweet foun-
tains gush from the green bill-side to refresh the
weary traveler fainting by the way. Were there no
ocean we could have no rivers or streams, and no
brooklets to sing their sweet musicin the flowery
mead or shady dell, but all must be silent and dead,
The beautiful siidéw, too, would never robe the earth
in ita garments of purity, rivaling the lilies in their
loveliness; nor would the winter forests be clad in
dazzling gems, eclipsing all the splendors of art by
their refulgent glory; nor would the precious dew
sprean out for us its carpet of diamonds, and emer-
ald, and amethysts, as with adoring heart we inhale
the fragrance of the morning, were it not for the ser-
vice rendered by old. ocean. Ob, friends! let ws
thank God for the sea!

a oe

THE LANDLORD'S STORY.

BY CHAS. kL, HAWLEY.

 

 

During the winter of 1871, while traveling through

the eastern part of Ontario, a terrible snow-storm

made the

‘ roads, for a time, impxssable, and I was
obliged to

emain for several days in P. , a small

 

town lying on the Canada side of the river 8t. Law- |
rence, and directly opposite a somewhat smaller vil- |

lage in the State of New York.

During this time I was the guest of the only hotel
that the place afforded. and was greatly pleased to
find that the iandlord was an intelligent, well-

informed, jovial gentleman, thoroughly acquainted |
| with every incident and circumstance in the history

of that section of country calculated to interest a

traveler, who, like myself, had several long winter

evenings to dispose of.

One of the stories related by my host I recollect
distinetly, ana, in order that you may hear it in near-
ly the same language in which it was told me at the
time, I will repeat, as nearly a8 My memory serves
me, the words of the landlord.

When I built tins hotel, in ’55 I think it was, my
first hostler, or man of all work, was a negro boy
who had appeared in the village a short time before.
When I first saw him he was in a plight, pitiable in-
deed; shoeless, foot-sore, hungry, his clothing (what
there was of it) in tatters, he was a spectacle well
calculated to awaken the sympathies of any one not
wholly indifferent to the sufferings ‘of a fellow-
creature. He was anxious to work, and was more
than willing to do all in his power, in any capacity,
in return for something to eat and wear. As he
peared earnest, honest, and capable, I employed hin,

agreeing to furnish him a good home, provide his
clothing, and give him, in addition, such wages as he

appeared to deserve.

The poor fellow was anything but dilatory in ac

cepting my offer, and for a long time I hadin hima
faithful and most eapable servant. Hovest, indus-
trious, and obliging, he appeared to make friends of
all who came to the hotel. Guests frequently ex-
pressed themselves highly pleased with the interest
he manifested in making everything pleasant for
them, and often when a party of them required the
services of one haying a thorough knowledge of the

country, or wished to be rowed to the opposite vil-
lage, or down the river, ‘“‘Tom” was the available

wan.

Atter he had been with me three or four years we
were visited by two men giving their names as
Thompson and Gordon, representing themselves as

coming from Vermont in search of timber lands, as
well as an eligible site upon which to erect a large
saw-iill, and stating their determination to explore
the country on both sides of the river.

Why it was I cannot explain, but, trom the time of
their coming, I had forebodings that all was not
right. My guests were thin, wiry, dark-faced, and
did net in any respect resemble the Vermont yankee
as I had known him. However, there was nothing
suspicious in this, I thought, as they might have
livedin Vermont only a short time betore coming
here, but, fight against it as I might, I often found
myself watching them with more than usual atten-
tiveness.

On the second day following their arrival, I was
approached by Gordon, Who asked the amount of
their bill, after paying which. he said:

“We wish to cross the river this afternoon, pro-
vided we can get some one who, for a dollar or two,
will do the rowing. There appears to be more or less
floating ice, and we do not care to try it alone.”

I at onee offered to futnish a boat, and suggested
that, for the money, Tom would willingly take thei
to the other sinie as soon as they were ready.

Thompson, who had heard most of what I :
saying, expressed ‘nimseif weil pleased witu the ar

 

 

"or ¥ oY
nad oeen

 

rangement, and everything being in readiness, dusk

 

| found them at the water’s edge ready to push off]

 

 

ap-

 

silicide : a

 

the stream.

I had accompanied them thus far merely as an
of courtesy and to wish them good luck, but it
occurred to me that by going over with them I
attend to certain business in the opposite village
pes eh a journey at some future time for that pu
only.

As I stepped into the boat I noticed an exp
of surprise on the faces of my recent guests, and
moment, in fact, betore [had taken my seat, on
them asked “if [intended to go too,” and upon
saying that I did, and giving my reasons for ha
changed my calculations, the other inquired, rat
sharply, “if Icouldn’t arrange my matters at
other time.”

“Oh,” L replied, “I hardly supposed it would
any difference to you, and so I-——” :

“Yes, but we have special business on the of
aide,” interposed Gordon.

“Then I shall not trouble you after we leave
boat,’’ I answered, for by that time I was somew
Sg and immediately added, “Pull aw

om.”

Tom did as directed, and the long, strong swee
his oars (for he had grown to bea powerful fe
during the time he had been with me) was
placing a goodly distance between us and the Ca
side.

lIthough I could see that my presence was a
thing but agreeable to my late guests, yet we w
soon talking about the probabilities of having a ol
day on the morrow, ete., and I would have thoug
no more of our little difference at the stgrt, hady
my previously awakened suspicions caused me
notice, particularly, everything that was said ap
done by them.

When about two-thirds across the river, Gord
(more to keep up the conversation than anythi
else, I thonahies usked if I had any tobacco, ar
upon being answered in the negative, turned, wi
the same question, to Thompson, who replied that
“had a little Kaintuck.”

Hardly had the words been uttered when a terri
yell, rivaling that of a Comanche Indian, came fre
the boat, followed by a loud splash, and—Tom w
gone!

In the growing darkness it was impossible to d@
tinguish him from a floating cake of ice. Whethi
he had struck one and was stunned, or whether
was held down by one, was equally nncertain, as
answer came from my frantic and oft-repeated, To
Tom, where are you?”

My attention was now drawn to my remaini
companions. For a moment they could not unde
stand the turn affairs hud taken, but when they full
realized the full import of what had oecurred, thé
rage was without limits. Language utterly failed ta
express their chagrin that Tom should have escaped
when they could have seeured him so easily (for ]
now understood the true business of these ‘Sumber
dealers from Vermont,’’ and recollected that, two o£
three months before, a Southern gentleman, upom
seeing Tom, inquired particularly concerning thé
cireumstances under which I had employed him).

Nothing was left for us to do but to reach shore
which we did after a short pull at the oara. Afte
the first burst of angers my confpanions maintained
a dogged silence, and as we touched the shore wer
joined by two other “lumber dealers,” who appeared
to be expecting them. They left me without a worg
and were 800n lost to view. .

As [could not think of returning at night, alone, I
went at once.to the house of a friend to whom I re
lated the whole affair. After talking the matter over
we concluded that we could render Tom no assist
ance that night, and that the best course to pursug
was to keep the matter quiet for a few days and seg
if he would not turn up on the Canada side again.
This was mere than likely, as he was a capital swink
wets and us unconcerned under a boat a8 in one, ger
erally.

On the following morning I crossed the river and
came directly to the house. How to account for my
being alone was a problem that I was called upon to
svlve. ‘Tom would be missed at once. I was conti
dent of that, and whether it was advisable to tell the
whole story at once or to explain his absence in
some other way, I could not decide. If he were still
on the New York side he might be detained by par
ties whom I knew to be in sympathy with my disap
pointed visitors, but once on British soil no harm
could befall bim. Guided by these reasons I de
termined to say as little as possible concerning the
Inanner in which he had so suddenly disappeared.

However, it was not made necessary for Ime to im-
vent some plausible explanation in order to stifle
inquiry, for I entered the dvor of the hotel only to be
met and welcomed by Tom.

Surprised beyond measure I eould only grasp the
honest fellow by the hand and gaze in leek asten-
ishment into his round, laughing tacé. He was the
firat to speak. ;

 
    
 
   
 
    
  
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
   
  
 
 
   
    
  

 

 

  

 

 

 

YOU BID ME SIN
BY PRA?

yon bid me sing }
E’ew while my €
You wonder at m
I tell you that I
But all in vain yo
You cannot mal
The soul feels its
The heart know

You bid me drive
And set anothe
But will that cu
Will that shut |
You speak of oth
I may be very !
Oh, hollow mock’
If you can teac!

To wear his pictr
To think I hear
When he his arde
Ts all the pleas
No words, howev
Can calm my &
I only know my!
I only feel I’ve

7

hurchya

Coals

By George She
A
‘NORA, THE IRIS

“The Churchyard |]
Ask your News ;
in the opening chapte

CE
“y wi

 

“Well, sal,” said he, “I never suppose anything
was wrong With them fellahs till I jes heal dat ar
one word kaintuck an’ then it went right through
dis yeah chile’s head to wonst, an’ I clynb out ef dat
boat an’ heah [I is,” and the way in which Tom
danced around the room was remarkable.

“Well, Tom,” Inow managed tu say, “you are no

  
   

In that room whe

ed, Reginald Ri

more glad thun I am because of your narrow escape, paly

and in the future I shall never expect you to cross

tor what I had done for him, shouldered his puck
and started north to seek a home anew.

“And have you never heard from him since?” Tin”

quired, as the landlord completed his story.
“Ob, yes, When the war closed he went to Chicago,
where he is doing a good business, has five or six

thousand dollars abead, and anticipates no trouble 7

trom Vermont lumber dealers. I hear trom him oe
casionally. He is coming out to see me in the spring.

Josh Billings’ Philosophy.
GUM DROPS.

I dont want to die in det to enny boddy, and Jeast oy
ali to miself, and therefore I am determined to hay a
good time az I trudge along.

_ Revenge iz a silly pashun, life aint long enuff, and
iz too tull ov uncertaintys, for cnny one to nurse
Revenge.

Truth iz just az easy az falling oph from a log, and

 

 

 

}
ls . .
; iz just az simple, and certain too.
| rc °
i Thare are but fu rules after all, but what yu Kan
beat with the exceptions.
Prudence iz the most natral, and the nicest
| necesury ov all the virtews, and yet the lack ov
Prudence iz the spot Whare most ov us Weaken.
| Thare iz one witness that haz been on the stand
| since the kreashun oy man, and never haz perjured
| itseli—conshience !
| .Men allwuss korrupt themselfs fust, before they
|} undertake to korrupt others.
; Extreme danger makes us all common friends, or
| common enemys.
| Laffiing iz no doubt a weakness, but if feels good,
and is healthy too.

The man who will gamble for money on a sure thing
will steal it under the same cirkumstances.

It iz disgusting to think that thare iz no crime that

ges, but what have been committed, and possibly
will be committed again.

“Eternal vigilance” iz the price of gitting a square
deal in this world.

Thare ain’t no man with mother wit and wisdum
enuff to prove that 4 and 2 makes 8, bor enuy one
with book-larning enuff to tell wiat tree will make
shingles by looking at it.

Every.boddy luvs to be praized, and thoze who de-
serve it least hanker for it tle most.

_Ideas are what wins; words kan make blak look
like yellow, but they kan’t change the color.

 

akt akording, and the only difference iz in the size cv
| them.
Learn yrre child to be obedient, and everything
after that will cum eazy to him.
| What.a man kant win with honesty and kapasity
| in this world iz reserved for him in the next.

Short Sermons by Telegraph.

o>
~~

INO.

 

St. John I1.,25: “And needed not that any man
should testify of man, for He knew what was in
man.”

And no greater proof exists that Jesus Christ was
divine.

Where is the man who can understand himself,
much less his fellow % } :

When man was pure, and Godlike, his face was not
ashamed to reflect his every thought; but now his
thoughts hide themselves, until he is unable to re-
cognize them as the product of his brain, and the
property of his soul; but they need not recede from
the Master’s gaze; our minds are to Him an.open
book now, and one day each thought and act of our
life will be answered for in His presence.

TELL E. GRAPH.
| ~~ ---—-———- ---—

SOME one suggested that as only a powerful de-
structive agent could be expected to permanently
settle the potato bugs, it would be well to try the
effect of barber’s breath. The barbers do not approve
of the suggestion, and now either keep their mouths
closed while operating on their custemers, cr chew

Limburger cheese as a disinfectant.

it iz possible tor the malignity ov the heart to sug-

The grate mass ov mankind are like phools, and

  
  
 
 
   
   
  
  
  
   
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
   
  
  
 
 
   
  
 
 
  
 
    
  
 
  
   
  

any times his h
he dreaded futur
1 it had been a w
Montague, and
reply.

Was Lady Alice
arriage, he wo
Ather was even 1
‘dnsent, and that
}What is shel
e hundredth tir
he beautiful wo!

PHis uncle had
Jis fair-haired 4
Ihr she was only
Aw her, and si
\ow, dark-ha
1e so impres
+ it haunted
smile, he re
ch consequ
} jposition we
| aracter beca
‘Had she at
4 oman he cou
., sunny, lo
} be spent in
at length
‘ort he arous
oly broodin
must wed tk
re be an ange
aaracter of
nuddling my
He arose 4
drummed ner
He looked

is waiting”

kee the occup
} A gentlema
by their serv
“The forme

»}l-formed
jyeard were i
dnd his man
The ladies

jark, close-!
Mark vails.

The only:
tween th
ore prou
rect than |
Pa There ap
a ymething
Joung mar
eman eX
assed alo
Boom:

3 ““Whate
Yress alik