Enterea According to Act of Concress, in the Year 1874, dy ‘Street & Smith. in the Office of the LXbrarian of Congress, Washington. D. 0. Proprietors. VoL XXX, STREET & SMITH mae. 27, 29, 31 Rose Si., 0. Box 4896, New York. Three Dollars Per Year. Two Copies Five Dollars. (FRANCIS S. SMITH. No. 1. FRANCIS 8. STREET, AN AUTUMN IDYL. BY NATHAN D. URNER. I met a maiden in the wood, Ger eyes were soft and brown, And from beneath her scarlet hood The golden curls fell down; But the soft brown eyes were filled with tears, And I said: “My little maiden, Pray, why those tears ? what secret fears Have thy gentle spirit laden ?” “O, these are the days of ghostst” said she; “The brown leaves are drearily flying; And ever to me, from nook and tree, The saddest voices are crying. Through the drift of the dead leaves flying and falling Forever to me they are crying and calling.” “In the great forest, dim and gray, No longer roam,” I said, “But mingle with thy comrades gay, And toss thy golden head. List to the shouts of the harvest-home, Bright ribbons and scarfs are glancing; The girls and their swains whisper love in the lanes, And the dancers prepare for the dancing.” “Nay, the wraiths of the wood are sweeter,” she said, “Than love in the lanes or the dunces; There is that in the air—here, there, everywhere— Which my spirit wholly entrances. Through the hemlocks, and firs, and the oaks, and the beeches, It beckons to me and forever beseeches,” She passed into the gleoming wood, With solemn mien, but kind, And, guided by the scarlet hood, I fotlowed on behind. She paused beside a group of graves, Within a haunted hollow, Where shapes of mist held solemn tryst, And, turning, saw me follow. “Ah, me!” she sighed; “but you do right well Such watch upon me to be keeping, When I seek but the hosts of tender ghosts O’er the graves of my kindred weeping. In the dim November they gather yearly; Is it strange that I meet them and love them dearty ?”’ I left her in the weird, gray wood, And my cheek was flushed with shame; But ever before me the little bright hood And the brown eyes, glimmering, came. And with harvest shout and jocund song In vain the winds were laden, Fer my thoughs were away in woodlands gray, Where knelt the little maiden. ———__—+> + tee DREAM-WOMAN. A Mystery in Four Narratives. | By Wilkie Collins. INTRODUCTORY NOTE.—The original version of this story was published some years since in England in ‘‘House- hold Words.” In the present version—written for my public reading in the United States—new cliaracters and new incidents are introduced, and a new beginning and ending have been written. Indeed the whole complexion of the narrative differs so essentially from the older and shorter version, as to justify me in believing that the rea- der will find in these pages what is, to all practical intents and purposes, a new story. The story as I print it is con- siderably longer than the version read by me in America; the limits of time in the case of a public reading render- | ing it imperatively necessary to abridge without mercy de- yelopments and incidents which are essential to the due presentation of a work in its’ literary form. WILKIE COLLINS, FIRST NARRATIVE. A STRANGE MAN, ‘Hullo, theret ostler!) Hutlo-o-o.!)? | “My dear, why don’t you look for the bell?” “I have looked—there is no bell ?? “And nobody in the yard. How very extraordinary! | Gall again, dear.” *“Ostier! Hullo, there! ostier-r-r!’? My second call eclioes through empty space, and rouses | nobody—produces in short no visible result. [ am at the end of my resources—I don’t know what to say or what | to do next. Herel stand in the solitary inn yard of a} slirange town, will two horses to hold, and a lady to take care of. By way of adding to my responsibilities, it so happens that one of the horses is dead lame, and that the lady is my wife. Who am I—yon will ask. There is plenty of time to answer the question. Nothing happens; and nobody appears to receive us. Let me in- troduce myself and my wife. I am Percy Fairbank—English gentleman—age (let us gay) forty—no _ profession—moderate politics—middie higiit—fair complexion—easy cliaracter—plenty of money. My wife isa French lady. She was Mademoiselle Cio- tilde Delorge—when I was first presented to her at her father’s house in France. I fell in-love with her—lI really don’t know why. It might have been because I was per- fecily idle, and had nothing else to do at the time. Or it might have been because all my friends said she was the very last Woman whom I ought to think of marrying. On thesurface, I must own, there is nothing in common be- tween Mrs. Fairbank and me, She is tall; she is dark; se js nervous, excitable, romantic; in all her opinions, she proceeds to extremes. What couldsuch a woman see inme? Whatcould I seein her? I know no more than youdo. Im some mysterious manner we exactly suit eaclyother. We have been man and wife for ten years— and our only regret is, that we have no children. I don’t know what you may think, Z call that—upon the whole— & happy marriage. 50 inuch for ourselves. The next question is—what has brought us into the inn yard? and why am 1 obliged to turn groom, and hold the horses? We live, for the most part, in France—at the country house in which my wife and I first met. Occasionally, by way of variety, We pay visitsto my friends in England. We are paying one of those visits now. Our host is an old college friend of mine, possessed of a fine estate in Somer- setshire, and we have arrived at his house, called Farleigh Hall, toward the Close of the hunting season. On the day of which lam now writing—destined to be a memorable day in our calender—the hounds meet at Fairleigh Hall. rs. Fairbank and 1 are mounted on two of the best horses in my friend’s stables. We are quite unworthy of tle distinction, for we know nothing, and care nothing, about hunting. On the other hand, we de- light in riding, and we evjoy the breezy spring morning and the fair and fertile English landscape surrounding us on every side. While the hunt prospers we follow the hunt. But when a check occurs—when time passes and patience is sorely tried—when the bewildered dogs run hither and thither, and strong language falls from the lips of exasperated sportsmen, we fail to take any further in- terest in the proceedings. We turn our horses’ heads in the direction of a grassy lane, delightfully shaded by trees. We trot merrily along the lane, and find ourselves in an open common. We gallop across the common, and follow the windings of a second lane. Wecross a brook, we pass throngh a village, we emerge into pastoral solitude among the hilis. The tiorses toss their heads, and neigli to each other, and enjoy it ag much as we do. The hunt is for- gotten. We are as happy a8 @ couple of children; we are Fitts Vn a i H WA SS , \ i | (i NEW YORK, NOVEMBER 9, 1874. LT Ph i ty A Ha \S She came closer— A S ik NN Ny ANY ‘ SN SN HHA AMI i i} " WHA actually singing & French song, when in one moment our merriment comes toanend. My wife’s horse sets one of his fore-feet on a loose stone, and stumbles. His rider's ready haud saves him from faling. But, at the first at- tempt he makes to goon, the sad truth shows itself—a tendon is strained; the horse is lame. Wihatis to be done? We are strangers in a lonely part of the country. Look where we may, we see no signs of & human habitation. There is nothing forit but to take the bridie-road up the hill, and try what we can discover on the other side. I transfer the saddies, and mount my wife on my own horse. He is not used to carry a lady; he misses the familiar pressure of a man’s legs on either side of him; he fidgets and starts and kicks upthedust. [| | follow on foot, at a respectful distance from his heels, leading the lame horse. Is there a more miserabie object on the face of creation than a lame horse? I have seen }lame men and lame dogs who were cheerful creatures, but I never yet saw a lame horse who didn’t look heart- broken over his own misfortune, For half-an-hour my wife capers and curvets sideways | along the bridle-road. I trudgeon behind her; and the | heart-broken horse halts behind me. Hard by the top of | the hill our melancholy procession passes a Somerset- shire peasant at work in a field. I summon the man to approach us; and the man looks at me stolidly, from the middle of the field, without stirring a step. I ask at the top of my voice how far it is to Farleigh Hall. The Som- | ersetshire peasant answers at the top of fis yoice: “VYourteen mile. Gi’ oi a drap o’ zyder.” I translate (for my wife’s benefit) from the Somersetshire | language into the English language. We are fourteen miles from Farleigh Hall; and our friend in the field de- sires to be rewarded for giving us that information with a drop of cider. There is the peasant, painted by himself! Quite a bit of character, my dear! Quite a bit of charac- ter! Mrs. Fairbank doesn’t view the study of agricultural human nature with my relish. Her fidgety horse will not allow her a moment’s repose; she is begiuning Lo lose her temper. “We can’t go fourteen miles in this way,’ she says. ‘*Where is the nearestinn? Ask that brutein the field!’ I take a shilling from my pocket and hold it up ino the sun. The shilling exercises magnetic virtues. The shil- ing draws the peasant slowly toward me from the middie of the field. Linform him that we want to put up the horses, and to hire a carriage to take us back to Farleigh Hall. Where can we do that? The peasant answers (with his eye on the shilling): ‘*At Oonderbridge, to be zure.”’ sure.) “Ts it far to Underbridge?”’ The peasant repeats: “Var to Oonderbridge ?’—and laughs at the question, ‘Hoo-hoo-hool’? (Underbridge is evidently close by—if we could only find it.) “Will you show us the way, my man?” ‘*Will you gi’ oi a drap o’ zyder?” I courteously bend my head, and point to the shilling. The agricultural intelligence exerts itself. The peasant joins our melancholy procession. My wife is a fine woman, but he never once looks at my wife—and more extraordinary still, he never even looks at the horses. His eyes are with his mind—and his mind is on the siil- ling. We reach the top of the hill—and, behold on the other side, nestling in # valley, the shrine of our pilgrimage, the town of Underbridge. Here our guide claims his shilling, and leaves us to find out the inn fut ourselves. I am coustitutionally a polite man. I say “Good morning” at partiig. The guide looks at me with the shilling be- tween his teeth to make sure that itisa goodone. ‘‘Mar- niu!’ he says, savagely—and turns his back on us, as if we had offended him. A curious product, this, of the growth of civilization. If I didn’t see a church spire at Underbridge, I might suppose that we had lost ourselves ou a savage island. Arriving at the town we have no difficulty in finding theinn. The town is composed of one desolate street; and midway in that street stands the inn—an ancient stone building sadly out of repair. The painting on the siguboard is obliterated. The shutters over the long range of front windows are all closed. A cock and his hens are the only living creatures at the door. Plainly, this is one of the old inns of the stage-coach period, ruined by the railway. We pass through the open arched door- way, and find no one to welcome us. We advance into the stable-yard behind; lassist my wife to dismount—and there we are in the position already disclosed to view at the opening of this narrative. No bell to ring. No human creature to answer when I Call. I stand helpless, with the bridles of the horses in my hand. Mrs. Fairbank saunters gracefully down the length of the yard, and, does—whiat all women do, when they find themselves in a strange place—she opens every door as she passes it, and peeps in. On my side, I have just recovered my breath, I am on the point of shouting for the ostler for the third and last time—when I hear Mrs. Fairbank, suddenly call to me: “Percy! Come herel"’ Her voice is eager and agitated. She has opened a last door at the end of the yard, and has started back from some sight which has suddenly met her view. I hitch the horses’ bridies.on a rusty nailin the wall near me, and join my wife. She has turned pale, and catches me ner- vously by the arm, ‘Good Heavens!” she cries; ‘look at that!’ I look—and what do I see? ; see a dingy little stable, containing two stalls. Inone (At Underbridge, to be t stall a horse is munching his corn; in the other a man is lying asleep on the litter. A worn, withered, woe-begone nian in an ostler’s dress. His hollow, wrinkled cheeks, his scanty grizzled hair, his dry, yellow skin, tell their own tale of past sorrow-.or suf- fering. There is an ominous frown on his eyebrows; there is a painful nervous contraction on‘one side of his mouth, I hear him breathing convulsively when I first look in; he shudders and sighs in his sleep. Itis nota pleasant sight to see, and I turn round instinctively to the bright sunlight in the yard. My wife turns me back again in the direction of the stable door. “Wait! she says—‘‘wait! he may do it again.” “Do what again?’ “He was talking in his sleep, Percy, when I first looked in. He was dreaming some dreadful dream. Hush! he’s beginning again.’ Llook and Hsten. The man stirson his miserable bed. The man speaks, in a quick, fierce whisper, through his clenched teeth: “Wake up! wake up, there! Murder!" There is an interval of silence, He moves one lean arm slowly until it rests over his throat, he shudders, and turns on his straw; he raises his arm from his throat, and feebly stretches it out; his hand clutches at the straw on the side toward which he has turned; he seems to fancy. that he is grasping at the edge of something; I see his lips begin to move again. 1 step softly into the stable; my wife follows me, with her hand fast clasped in mine. We both bend overhim. He is talking once more in his sleep —strange talk, mad talk, this time. “Light gray eyes,’ we hear him say, “and a droopin the left eyelid—flaxen hair, with a gold-yellow streak in it—all right, mother! fair white arms, with a down on them—little, lady’s hand, with a reddish look round the finger-nails—the knife—the cursed knife—first on one side then on the other—aha, you she-devil! where is the knife?” He stops and grows restless on a sudden. We see him writhing on the straw. He throws up both his hands and gasps hysterically for breath. His eyes open suddenly. For a moment they look at nothing, with a vacant glitter in them; then they close again in deeper sleep. Is he dreaming still? Yes; but thedream seems to have taken anew course, When he speaks next the tone is altered; the words are few, sadly and imploringly repeated over and over again: “Say you love me! I am so fond of you! me! say you love me!”? He sinks into deeper and deeper sleep, faintly re- peating those words. They die away on iis lips. He speaks no more. By this time Mrs. Fairbank has got over her terror. She is devoured by curiosity now. The miserable crea- ture on the straw has appealed to the imaginative side of her character. Her illimitable appetite for romance hungers and thirsts for more, Sheshakes me impatiently by the arm. “Do you hear? Thereisa woman at. the bottom of it, Percy! There is love and murder in it, Percy! Where are thé people of the inn?’ Go into the yard and call to them again.’ My wile belongs, on her mother’s side, to the South of France. The South of France breeds fine women, with lot tempers. J say no more. Married men will undcer- stand my position. Single men may need.to be told that there are Occasions when we must not only love and honor, we must also obey; Our wives. I turn to the stable door to obey, and find myself con- fronting a stranger, who has stolen on usunawares. The stranger ig a tiny, sleepy, rosy old man, with a vacant, pudding face, and a shiping bald head, He wears drab breeches and gaiters; and a respectable, square-tailed, an- cient black coat. I feel instinctively that here is the land- lord of the inn. ‘ “Good-morning, sir,’’ says the rosy oldman. “I’ma little hard of hearing. Was it you that was a-calling just now in the yard?” Before | can answer, my wife interposes. She insists— in a shrill voice, adapted to our host’s: hardness of hiear- ing—on knowing who that unfortunate person is sleeping on the straw; ‘‘Where does he come from? Why does he say such dreadful things in his sleep? Is he married. or single? Did he ever fall in love with & murderess? What sort of looking woman was she?, Did she really stab iim or not? In short, dear Mr. Landlord, tell us the whole story !”’ Dear Mr. Landlord waits .drowsily until Mrs. Fairbank has quite done—then delivers himself of his reply as fol- lows: “His name’s Francis Raven. He’s an Independent Methodist. He was forty-five year old last birthday. And he’s my ostler.. That’s his story.”’ My wife’s hot Southern temper finds its way to her foot, and expresses itself by a stamp on the stable yard. The landlord turns himself sleepily round and looks at the horses. ‘tA fine pairof horses, them twointhe yard. Do you want to put ’em up.in my stables??? I reply in the afirmative by a nod. The landlord, bent on making himself agreeabie to my wife, addresses her once more: “Pm going to wake Francis Raven. He's an Independ- ent Methodist. He was forty-five year old last birthday. And he’s my ostier. Tiat’s his story.” Having issued this second edition of his interesting nar- rative, the landlord enters the stable, We follow him, to see how he will wake Francis Raven, and what will hap- pen upon that. The stable-broom stands in the corner; the landlord takes it, advances toward the sleeping ostier, Say you love and coolly stirs {he man up with the broom as if he was a wild beastinacage. Francis Raven starts to his feet with acry of terror—ilooks at us wildly, witha horrid glare of suspicion in his eyes—recovers himself the next moment, and suddenly changes into a decent, quiet, re- spectable serving-man, “I beg your pardon, ma’am. I beg your pardon, sir.”’ The tone and manner in which he makes his apologies are both above his apparent station in life. I begin to catch the infection of Mrs. Fairbank’s interest in this man. We both follow him out into the yard to see what he will do with the horses. The manner in which he lifts the injured leg of the lame horse tells me at once that-he understands his business. Quickly and quietly, he leads the animals into an empty stable; quickly and quietly he gets a bucket of hot water, and puts the lame horse’s leg into it. “The warm water will reduce the sweliing, sir. bandage the leg afterward.” All that he does is done intelligently; all that he says, he says to the purpose. Nothing wild, nothing strange about him now. Is thisthesame man whom we heard talking in his sleep? the same man who woke with that cry of terror and that horrid suspicion in his eyes? I de- termine to try him with one or two questions, “Not much to do here?’ I said to the ostier. ‘Very little to do, sir,’* the ostler replies. “Anybody staying in the house ?”? : “The house is quite empty, sir.’ “J thought you were all dead. hear me.”? “The landlord is very deaf, sir, and the waiter is out on an errand.” *“Yes—and you were fast asleep in the stable. often take a nap in the day-time?” The worn face of. the ostler faintly flushes. His eyes look away from my eyes for the first time. Mrs. Fairbank furtively pinches my arm. Are we on the eve of a discov- ery at last? I repeat my question. The man has no civil alternative but to give me an answer. The answer is given in these words: “T was tired out, sir. You wouldn’t have found me asleep in the day-time but for that.” “Tired out,eh? You had been hard at work, I sup- pose ?’? ‘No, sir.?? “What was it, then??? He hesitates again, and answers, unwillingly: “T was up all night.’ “Up all night? Anything going on in the town?” “Nothing going on, sir.” “Anybody ill?’ ‘Nobody ill, sir.’ That reply is the last. I will Icould make nobody Do you Try as I may Ican extract noth- ing more from him. He turos away and busies himself in attending to the horse’s leg. Lleave the stable to speak to the landlord about the carriage which is to take us back to Farleigh Hall. Mrs. Fairbank remains with the ostier, and favors me with alook at parting. The look says plainly, ‘Z mean to. find.out why lie was up all night. Leave him to me.” The ordering of the carriage is easily accomplished. The inn possesses one horse and onechaise. The landlord has a story to tell of the horse, and a story to tell of the chaise. They resemble the story of Francis Raven—with this ex- ception, that the horse and claise belong to no religious persuasion. “The horse will be nine-year-old next birthday. Ive had the shay for four-and-twenty year. Mr. Max, of Un- derbridge, he bred the horse; and Mr. Pooley, of Yeovil, he built the shay.. It’s my horse andmy shay. And that’s their story!” Having relieved his mind of these details, the landlord proceeds to put the harness on the horse, By way of assisting him, I drag the chaise into the yard. Just asour preparations are completed, Mrs. Fairbauk appears. A moment or two later the ostler follows her out. He has bandaged the liorse’s leg, and is now ready to drive us to Farleigh Hall. I observe signs of agitation in his face and manner, which suggest that my wife has found her way into his confidence. I put the question to her privately in a corner of the yard. ‘Well? Have you found out why Francis Raven was up all night ?? Mrs. Fairbank has an eye to dramatic effect. Instead of answering plainly, Yes or No, she suspends the interest and excites the audience by putting a question on her side. “What is the day of the month, dear??? “The day of the month is the first of March." “The first of March, Perey, is Francis Raven’s birth- day.’? I try to look as if I was interested—and don’t succeed. “Francis was born,’’ Mrs. Fairbank proceeds, gravely, ‘fat two o’ciock in the morning.”’ 1 begin to wonder whether my wife's intellect is going the way of the landlord’s intellect. “Ts that all??? 1 ask. “It is not all,’ Mrs. Fairbank answers. ‘Francis Raven sits up’ on the morning of his birthday, because he is afraid to go to bed.”? “And why is he afraid to go to bed?” “Because he is in peril of his life.’ “Ou his birthday ?'? “Qn his birthday. At two o’clock in the morning. As regularly as the birthday comes round,” There she stops. Hus she discovered no more than that? Nomore tlius far. 1 begin to feel really interested by this time, I ask eagerly what it means? Mrs, Fairbank points mysteriously to the chaise—with Francis Raven (hitherto our ostler now our coachman) waiting for us to getin. The chaise has a segi for two in front—and a seat for one behind. My wife casts another warning look at me, and places herself on the seat in front. The necessary consequence of this arrangement is, that Mrs. Fairbank sits by the side of the driver during @ journey of two hours and more. Need I state the result? It would be an insult to your imtelligence to state the | result? Let me offer you my placein the chaise. And let Francis Raven teil-his terrible story in his own words. SECOND NARRATIVE, THE OSTLER’S STORY. TOLD BY HIMSELF. It is now ten years ago since I got my first warning of the great trouble of my life, in the Vision of a Dream. I shall be better able to tell. you about it if you will | please suppose yourselves to'be drinking tea along with us in Our little cottage in Cambridgeshire, ten years since. The time was the Close of day, and there were tliree of us at the table—namely, my mother, myself, and my mother’s sister, Mrs. Chance. These two were Scotel- women by birth, and both were wicows. There was no other resemblance between them that I can call to mind: My mother had lived all her life in England, and had no more of the Scotch brogue on her tongue than I have. My Aunt Chance had never been out of Scotland until slre came to keep house with my mother after her husband’s death. And when she opened her lips you heard broad* Scotch, I can tell you, if ever you heard it yet! As it feil out, there was a matter of some consequence in debate among us that evening. It was this: whether E should do well or not to take a long journey on foot the next morning. Now the next morning happened to be the day before my birthday; and the purpose of the journey was to offer myself for a situation as groom, at a great house in | the neighboring county to ours. The’ place was reported as likely to fall vacant in about three weeks’ time. I was as well fitted to fill it as any other man. In the prosper- ous days of our family my father had been manager of a training-stable; and he had kept me employed among the horses from my boyhood upward. Please to excuse my troubling you with these small matters. They all fit nto my story further on, as you will soon find out. My poor mother was dead against my leaving home on the morrow. “You can never walk a back again by to-morroy it will be that you will sh birthday. You have nevé your father’s death. I don a day longer, my son—on! For my own part I w couldn’t abide the notion of make all the difference. So There and all the way s says. ‘The end of rom home on your ap yet, Francis, since Moing itnow. Wait being idle; and I m one day might Might take time fork,” I says— “Consider how long I have I t fail won’t f “and don’t ask me to put o£ you, mother. Ill get back by” to pay my last sixpence for a li My mother shook her head. 7 “T don’t like it, Francis—I don? There was no moving her from t& and argued, until we were both at a in our agreeing to refer the differen inother’s sister, Mrs. Chance. ; While we were trying hard to conVi® Aunt Chance sat as dumb as a fish, st thinking her own thoughts. When to her, she seemed as it were to wake Upee “Ye baith refer it to my puir judgmen her broad Scotch. We both answered, ‘‘Yes.” Upon that, my Aunt Chance first cleared and then pulled out from the pocket of he® of cards, : Don’t run away, if you please, with the nog was done lightly, with a view to amuse my me. My Aunt Chance seriously believed tha look into the future by telling fortunes on the. did nothing herself without first consulting 4} E She could give no more serious proof of her itu my welfare than the proof which she was offeriig how. I don’t say it profanely; I only mention the fact—the cards had, in some incomprehensible way, got themselves jumbled up together with her religious convictions. You meet with people now-a-days who believe in spirits work- ing by way of tables and chairs. On the same principle (if there zs any principle in it) my Aunt Chance believed in Providence working by way of the cards. “Whether you are right, Francis, or your mither— whether ye will do weel or iil the morrow, te go or stay— the cairds will tellit. Weare a’ inthe hands of Proavi- dence. The cairds will tell it.” Hearing this, my mother turned her head aside, with something of a sour look in her face. Her sister’s notions about the cards were little better than flat blasphemy .to her mind. But she kept her opinion to herself. My Aunt Chance, to own the truth, had inherited, through her late husband, a pension of thirty pounds.a year. This was an important contribution to our housekeeping—and we poor relations were bound to treat her with a certain respect. As for myself—if my poor father never did any- thing else for me before he fell into difficuities—he gave me & good education, and raised me (thank Heaven) above superstitions of all sorts. However, a very little amused me in those days; and I waited to have my fortune told, as patiently-as if I believed in it too! My aunt began her hocus-pocus by throwing out all the cards in the pack under seven. Ste shuffled the rest, with her left. hand, for luck; and tien she gave them. te me to cut. s*Wi’ yer left hand, Francie. Mind that! Pet yer trust in Proavideuce—but dinua forget that yer luck’s in yer left hand!” A long and roundabout shifting of the cards followed, reducing them in numbér, until there were just fifteen of them leit, laid oué neatly before my auntinu a half-circle. The card which happened to lay outermost, at the right hand end of the circle, was, according to rule in such cases, the card chosen to represent me. . By way of being appropriate to my situation as a poor groom out of work, the card was—the king of diamonds. *“T tak’ up the King o’ diamants,” says my aunt. “I count seven cairds fra’ richt to left; and 1 humbly ask a blessing on what follows.’?> My aunt shut her eyes asif she was saying grace before meat, and held up to me the seventh card. I called the seventh card—the queen of spades. My aunt opened her eyes again in a hurry, and cast asly look. my way. ‘The queen o’ spades means a dairk woman. You'll be thinking in secret, Francie, of a dairk wonian ?”? Whien a nian has been out of place for ‘more than three mouths his mind. isn’t troubled much with thinking of women—light ordark. lwas thinking of the groom’s place at the great house; and I tried to say so. My Aunt Chance wouldnu’t listen. She treated my interruption with contempt. ‘*Hoot-toot! there’s the caird in your hand! If ye'ré no- thinking of her to-day, you'll be think- ing of her to-morrow. Where's the harm of thinking of a dairk woman! Iwas aincea.dairk woman myself, be- fore my hair was gray. Haud yer peace, Francie—andg watch the cairds,’? I watched the cards asI wastold. There were seven left on the table. My aunt removed two from one ena of the row and two from the other—and desired me to call the two outermost of the three cards now left on the tabie, I called the ace of cluvs and the ten of diamonds. My Aunt Chance lifted her eyes to the ceiling witha look of devout gratitude which sorely. tried my mother’s patience. The ace of clubs and the ten of diamonds, taken together, signified—first, good news {evidently the news of the groom’s placel); secondly, & journey that lay before. me (pointing plainly to my journey to-morrow}}; thirdly ane lastly, @ sum of money (probably the groom’s wages!) waiting to find its way into my pockets. Having told my fortune in these encouraging terms, my aunt declined to carry the experiment any further. “Eh, lad! it’s a clean tempting of Proavidence to ask mairo’ the cairds. than tire Cairds have tauld us noo. Gae yer ways to-morrow to the great hoose. A dairk woman will meet ye at the gate, and she'll havea handin getting ye the grooim’s place, wi’ a’ the graitifications and pairquisites appertain- ing to the same. And, mebbe, when yer poaket’s full 0’ mony, ye’ll no’ be forgettin’ yer Aunt Chanee, maintain- ing her ain unbleemished widerhood—wi’ Proavidence as-, sistin’—on thratty punds a year!” I promised to remember my Aunt Chance ¢who had the, defect, by the way, of being a terribly greedy person after money), on the next happy occasion when my poor empty pockets were to be filled at hast. Thisdone I looked at my mother. She had agreed to take her sister for unypire between us—and her sister had given it in my favor. She raised nv more objections. Silently, she got on her feet, and kissed ine, aud sighed bitterly—and@ so beft, the room, My Aunt Chance shook her head. ‘doubt, Fraucie, yer puir mither has ba’ a heathen ovtien of the vairtue of the cairdst'! ether, my ea and daylight the next morning ont Be Liooked back at the cottage as I opened the ee gate. Atone window was my mother, With her hand- Kerchief to her eyes, at the other stood my Aunt Chance, holding up the qreen of spades by way of encour aging me at starting. 1 waved my hand to both of them in token of farewell, and stepped out briskly into the road. It was then the last day of February. Be pleased to remem.- per, in connection with this, that the first of March was the day, and two o’clock in the morning the hour of my birth. - Now you know how Leame to leave liome. The nex thing to tell is, what happened on the journeys I reached the great house in reasonably good time Con sidering the distance. At the very first trial of it the: prophecy of the cards turned out to be wrong. ‘The per- son who met me at the lodge-gate was not a dark woman —in fact, not a woman at all—but a boy. He directed me on the way to the na en offices; and there again the Iset forth on my jour- cards were all wrong. © ncountered, not one woman, but three~and not oné Of the three was dark. I have stated that I am not superstitious, aud have told the trath. But I must own that I did feel a certain fluttering at the heart when 1 made my bow to the steward, and told him whiat business had brought me to the house, His answer completed the discomfiture of Aunt Chance’s fortune- telling. My ill-luck still pursued me. That very morn- ing, another man had applied for the groom’s place, and had got it. I swallowed my disappointment as well as I could—and thanked the steward—and went to the inn in the village to get the rest and food which I sorely needed by this time, ; Before starting on my homeward walk, I made some in- quiries at the inn, and ascertained that I migat save a few miles, on my return, by following a new road. ur- nished with full instructions, several times repeated, as tothe various turnings I was to take, I set forth, and walked on Lill the evening with only one stoppage for bread and cheese. Just as it. was getting toward dark, the rain came on and (Ne wind began to rise; and I found myself, to maké matters worse, in’® part of the country with which I was entirely unacquainted, though I guessed myself to be some fifteen miles from home, ‘The first. house 1 found to inqtife at, was a lonely road-side inn, standing on the outskirts of a thitk wood. Solitary as the place looked, it was welcome toa lost man, Who was also hungry, thirsty, foot-sore and wet, The landlord was Civil and réspectabie-looking; and the price he asked for a@ bed was reasonable enough.’ I was grieved to disap- point my mother. But there was no conveyance to be had, and I could go no farther afoot thatnight. My wear- ness fairly forced me to stop at the inn. {may say for myself that I am a temperate man. -My supper simply consisted of some rashers of bacon, a slice of home-made bread, anda pint of ale. I did not go to bed immediately after this moderate meal, but sat up with the landiord, talking about my bad prospects and my lane ran of ill-luck, and diverging from these topics to the subjects of horse-flesh and racing. Nothing was said either by myself, my host, or the few laborers who strayed into the tap-room, which could, in the slightest degree, excife my mind, or set my fancy—which is only @ small fancy at the best of times—playing tricks with my common sense. Ata littleafter eleven the house was closed. I went round with the landlord, and held the candle while the doors and lower windows were being secured. I noticed with surprise the strength of the bolts, bars, and iron- sheathed shutters. z “You see, we are rather lonely here,” says the landlord. “We never have had any attempts made to break in yet, but it’s always as well to be on the safe side. When no- body is sleeping here, J am the only man in the house. My wife and daugiter are timid, and the servant-girl takes afier her missuses. Another glass of ale before you turn in?—No!—Well, how such a sober man as you comes to be out of place, is more than Ican understand for: one. Flere’s where you’re to sleep. You're the only lodger to- night, and { think you'll say my missus has done her best to make you comfortable. You’re quite sure you won’t have another glass of ale?—very weil. Good night.” @t was half-past eleven by the clock in the passage as we went upstairs to the bed-room. The window looked out on the weod at the back of the house. MK locked my door, set my candle on the chest of drawers, and wearily got ready for bea. The bleak wind was still blowing, aud the solemn, surging nioan of it in the wood was very dreary to hear through the night silence. I felt strangely wakeful. Lywresolyed to keep the candle a-light until 1 began to gros ar quite myself. I we pointment of the by my long wal face the prospect ¢ to the dismal moa Sleep stole of closed, and [ fel _my mind by my disap- J was worn out in body he two, I own I couldn’t ‘in the darkness, listening n the wood. was aware of it; my eyes hout haying so much as andle, Ember was a faint shivering ud my siumbers—the pain woke ent I passed from a state of fulness— my eyes wide open—my as if by a miracle. ‘down nearly to the Jast morsel.of fed wick had just fallen off, and the lent, fair and full. f the bed and the closed door I saw n. The person was a woman, stand- ‘ith a knife in her hand, f a. Iy.courage.to_confess it—but the ~ iiwas struck speechless with terror, 1) es on the woman; there the woman nife in ler hand) with her eyes on me. ord as we stared cach other in the face; ‘after a litthe—imoved slowly toward the f vhe bed, Ifullon her face. A fair, fine woman, with Ken hiair, and light gray eyes, with a droop felid. I noticed these things, and fixed them before she was quite round atthe side of the out saying a word, without any change in the jess of her face, without any noise following her he came closer and closer, stopped at the bed- head, ifted the knife to stabme. I laid my arm over my-throat to save it, but, asl saw the blow coming, I threw my hand across the bed to the right side, and jerked my-body over that way, just as the knife came down like liglitping.on the mattress within a hair’s breadth of my shoulder. SMy eyes fixed on her arm and her hand—she gave me time to look at them as she slowly drew her knife out of the bed. -A white, well-shaped arm, with.a pretty down iying lightly over the fair skin. A delicate lady’s hand, with a pink flush round the finger-nails, She drew the knife oul, and passed back again slowly to the foot of the bed; she stopped there for a moment ‘ooking at me; then she came on without saying a word, without any change in the stony stillness of her face, without any noise lollowing her footfall—came on to the side of the bed where I now lay. Getting near me, she lifted the knife again, and f drew myself away to the left side. She struck, as before, right into the mattress, with a swift downward action of her arms; and she misse.] meas before by a hair’s breadth. This time my eyes wandered from her to the knife. lt was like the large clasp-Knives which laboring men use to cut their-bread and’ bacon with. Her delicate little fingers didnot hide more than. two-thirds of the handle; 1 no- ticed that:it was made of buckhorn, clean and shining as ‘the blade was, and looking like new, For the second time she drew the knife out of the bed, andsuddenly hid it away in the wide sleeve of her gown. That done, she stopped by the bedside, watching me. For an instant I-saw her stauding in that position—then the wick:of the spent candle fell-over into the socket. The flame -dwindled to a little Olwe point, and the room grew dark. A moment, or less if possible, passed so—and then the wick flamed up, smokily, forthe last time. My eyes were Suilltooking for her over the right-hand side of the bed when the last flash of light came, Look as I might I could see nothing. The woman with the knife was gone. “ZL began to get back to myself again. I could feei my heart beating, I could hear the woful moaning of tle wind in the wood; I could leap up in bed, and give the alarm before she escaped from the house. ‘‘Murder! Wake up there! Murder!? ” ; Nobody ansivered to the alarm. I rose and groped my Way through the darkness to the door of the room. By that way she must have gotin. By that way she must haye gone out. The doar of the room was fast locked, exactly as I ha left it on going to bed! For.a moment I stood Jostin amazement. Then, hear- ing a voice outsile, I opened the door. There was the landlord, caming toward me along the passage, with his burning-candle in one hand and his gun in the other. aga And it was nothing at first; 1 brought this on my- se He stopped exhausted, Ailcen could not find it in her heart to gee the news to him which she feared would kill him out- right. He had won her by force, and was keeping her against her will, but if there was a pure vein in his nature Aileen had touched it, He loved her so deeply and so mournfully (ior love which is not returned is but a sorrowful thing), that he would willingly have died to hear her say she was his wife. 2 Presently he noticed something strange about her appearance. He asked, nervously: “Where have you been, Aileen? Why is there such a light in your eyes, even while you are weeping for me? Why are you dressed 1 these strange cloties ?”? $ So she gathered up courage, and gently, kindly broke her tid- ings to him, showing no-heartless joy, but, on the contrary, ex- pressing all the sympathy she could get her heart to feel for him, In stricken amazement he heard her, tears standing in his hee low eyes; then he burst out passionately, with a groan of despair: “and is this the end of all? Gan you leave me to die, ertel Aileen? ,Have you no pity—no pity for me f” He seized her hand and covered it with miserable kisses,. then, feehing the whole force of the situation in one stunning bigw, he cast it from him, turned his white face to the wall, aud sau no- more, Aileen returned to her two protectors, who had heard all, with: her eyes red with weeping. Iph was waiting most anxiously on the outer balcony for the result of the luterview. She stepped out to. him, and said: “IT would willingly stay with Mr. Rochester untii the last, for F fear he is really dying, but my sister 1s also dangerously ill, and my duty takes me to her bedside. You had better telegraph at once tor Zolande, so that site can be here to-morrow.” “And madame is going to leave her husband to the care of a servant f’ interrogated the valet, respectfully, but firmly. She looked at lim. steadily while sue answered: — “You have been a faithful ally of your master throughout,, Ralph, but you will find he no longer wishes this deception to be: kept up. Inever was your master’s wife, even by mairiage, and’ eon woman who ever should have been his wite is Zo- ande. - Having thussilenced him, she left him. And Ralph ‘took her advice, and so immortal a thing 1s woman’s love, that Zolande answered the summons in flying haste, and taking her piace by Pte ere ot hens man who had wronged her beyond all nope of mortal forgiveness, except a woman’s, she brightened the Dark Valley by her devotion. ‘ CHAPTER XXX. The “Dying Confession of Christabel Snowe,” which the mur- deres3 had put in Véra’s hands, to be found by the first discover- er of her dead body, was an actual record of ali the sins of Madame Blaze, purported to have been written just before she committed suicide; and the suicide, slie declared, was decided on ‘from shame and remorse at her past life. ’ ; The papers which she scattered over the bed just before leavin the room, were letters irom many of her victims im past times, private papers relative to rascally business done for enscrupu-' lous employers, sinister notes, written in cypher, and signed) “Christabel,” which contained hints of Poon laging, or dabblings 1n political say NGtes a photograpn | gine taken. apparently by an artist in Vienna, with the words “Christabel Snowe” written beneath it. : : it was now quite evident what had been Madame Blaze’s scheme in playing the “Good Samaritan” tothe triendless girl. She had given her a name which was notorious throughout all Europe; she had so loaded her with benefits that wlien the time came to cut her off from all who knew ler Vara should be to go; she had got her victim tomake that resolution in such haste that she should leave no trace behind her, then, having’ lost her to the world, she had given her the fatal death-cup, scattered around her the proofs of sin, put a “confession” im her hands and leit her to carry into her dishonored grave the oblo- quy of the living Christabel Suowe. But there was still another page in this infamous record of, crime. The adyenturess having, as it were, buried herself with allher @ ce on her back, must have planned anew and brilliant career for herself and her guilty Raite od: She mast be even now reigning in unsullied splendor with her ill-gotten gains of the past ten years to back her; and where? ‘ : Tracing back the story of the Sweet Sisters, and the story of Kenelm, and the story of Shane and Katty, and tle fate of Denis—all Guillamores—all presumedly driven away, banished or dead, the irresistible conviction seizes one that the clever Madame Blaze is now snugly ensconced in Clairmarais, as the Chatelaine, the sole legatee ot Gracediet. For this end, to be helped to it by Vara’s signature to an inne- cent-looking will, Vara the last Guillamore known to be livi or within reach, for this end had the arch-plotter worked wi: heart, hand, money, brains and skill. Her army of agents had doubtless kept all partsof her com- plicated machinery working while she intrigued like a second Wolsey in petticoats, She had sent one agent (her husband). to murder Denis Guilla- more ashe was about arriving home with the good news of the sisters’ heirsbip. 3 She had sent asecond agent (Geoffrey Rochester) to steal away) one sister, marry her forcibly, and be rewarded with the prom- ise of a fortune to keep her out ot the way. ; She had sent a third (De St. Cyr) to attach himself to Kenelm, the brother, and by slow and imperéeptible poisoning to sap away his lite without arousing public comment. She had herself taken the other sister, and by a steady system which even the victim herself should never. suspect she had stolen the life drop by drop. from her veins, first by causing her to sleep ina chamber hung with curtains saturated with Paris : green and atter that by filling it with hyacinths of every s cies, aplant which few people are aware to be a singulariy dead! poison when inhaled by night, : She had sent an agent (again her husband) to stir up the White-boy Society at Ballycreenan against Shane and Kathleen Guillamore, so that they should burn the hut and the owners in it. Foiled by the brother and sister’s unaccountable escape, Kat- ty had been torn from Shane’s side on board ship, aud’ sent te jail, to be lost sight of strangely enough when Frank Armar had: taken her home to his mother. Shane had jumped overboard. ~ An agent (again Captain Blaze) had gone to Clairmarais, reek- ing from the murder of Denis, and the razing of Shane’s hut, to murder the old French steward, and put one of the plotters’ gang in his place. Mademoiselle de Fleury’s story revealed thislastcoup. «| But all had not gone as smoothly as had been planned. Theré’ had been weak p. bridged over, and the bridges had broken, | hence the demolition of the plan. 5 Kenelm Guillamore, when first seen (at the opera) had turned , out to be the one man she had ever loved; also, he had found his. sister, .These wére weak’places in the plan. + She had shut the doomed one out of her heart (ifone so so ruthless, so treacherous, so hy itical, ld be said wo tee | C cou said to hays # heart.) and had befooied and iied him with exhaustiess ad viele - ne! . / 4 5 ¥ ener Flt (TO BE CONTINUED.) Rocky Mountain Sam. By Burke Brentford, {Rocky Mountain Sam’ was commenced in No. 42. Back numbers can be procured of any News Agent in tne United States.] CHAPTER XXVIII. BAFFLED AGAIN. The outside of the lodge was already growing lurid with internal conflagration, yet still the hoarse voices of men in conflict is rem within, while the dark forms of the warriors could be seén dancing around it in horrid glee. +‘Lower the grapnels, and tear away the roof!’ cried the protessor. {Phe captives are within, There are other lives beside Big Horu’s to be saved.” In the terrible emergency, Sam and McGuire forgot sheir wounds-and weariness as if by magic. The balloon was now Stationary, about thirty feet from the ground. Each of the men began to cast out the grapnels, and to rar away the light materials of the lodge roof, piece by jece, ‘ The actual flames were as yet inyisible, but they had already wn a large enough aperture in the roof to enable them tosee he forms of the combatants by the lurid glare, and to distinguish sig Horn prancing and striking out among bis enemies with ap- arently undiminished vigor, when a door at the back of the odge, which tlicy had not seen before, was_burst open and Fire- foot, bearing the half-fainting form of the Prairie Blossom and followed by Fayaway and several chieftains, rushed out into the open air, where for a few moments they all paused as if overcome by sheer exhaustion. At the same instant’ Rocky Mountain Sam lowered a strong rope, With a loop at the end, into the burning lodge and sung out at the top of his lungs: “Put that under your shoulders, pard, quicker’m ——! The jig’s up for the present.” Big Horn, who was probably so near ‘exhausted as to comply with this advice without reluctance, did as he was bid with some difficulty, and, by the combined exertions of his comrades, was drawn up out of the environing flames and into the car, but not before he had administered a few parting kicks among his foes With his bladed feet. i As soon as he was assisted over the side he sank into the bot- tom of the car, completely exhausted for the time being, the bloodhound licking up the bluod with which his clothing was drenched, and Mewanee has‘ening to remove lis heavy fighting- cap.and to bathe his brow with some water, which fortunately chanced to be near at hand. The tired warrior opened his heavy eyes, and they rested tenderly upon the gentle form of the maiden—if such a nature ag his could be aware of tenderness, But now the voice of the old professor called the rest of the party, abl to action. : “Make a lariat, Sam,” he cried. ‘‘Firefoot is preparing to run ‘his captives off into the gorges. We may get a chance to switch up Mis® Mollie out of his reach.” Rocky Mountain Sam watched his oppor and by a dex- terous cast of the lariat, which he had prepared, dropped the noose directly over Miss Mollie’s shoulder. | p ate your arms, an’ don’t be afraid, Miss Mollie,” he cried out. x She obeyed him with the rapidity of thought, and, before the captors by whom she was surrounded could recover from their astonishm Was spirited up into the air and over the sur- face 0 ¢ far above their heads. Fayawe ed a scream of delight and clapped her little hands, an ndfans gave.a yell of rage. The renegade made no quan ood irresolute for a moment, as if paralyzed by the sudden coup which bade fair to baffle all his schemes in an instant, en, as those aboye were rapidly drawing Miss Mollie up toward the car, and as Sam _ was continuing to call out to her not to be frightened, Firefoot drew his revolver fiom his belt, and leveled it with bent brows and steady hand. “What! would you shoot her, ye blatherin’ coward ?” cried ont McGuire, indignantly. But the real intention of the renegade was soon apparent. Crack! went his pistol, the tightened line wassevered by the bullet midway between the car and its swaying burden, and Miss Mollie, with a piercing shriek, fell into the lake. “Shell be drowned, sure! On, the blackguard!” groaned McGuire. Big Horn had staggered to his feet, and was looking, over the side of the car, as Sam cocked his revolver, and, expressing his emotions merely by the gritting of his teeth, leveled it at the renegade witii an aim that had seldom been known toerr. But the creat hunter placed his hand upon his wrist. “Be you dog goue Crazy, pard ?” said lie, sternly. “See! thar’s 2 couple on ’em in the water arter her already. Bad as Firefut is—an’ [reckon thar’s wus’n even him—what would be ihe gals Sate of efi to the redskins alone? Put up your barker.”’ Sam returned his pistol to bis belt with some reluctance, though he could not see the force of his comrade’s rude reason- Three stalwart Indians had sprung into the lake at once, and, as the locality of the accident was buta few yardsfrom shore, a ae a ere a Miss Mollie was dragged out and landed high and dry almost be- fore she thoroughly realized the fact of her immersion. Faya- way was at her side in an instant, and it was evidentthat she had suffered nothing more than a severe fright. Sam, undismayed by the failure of his first attempt, was rapidly preparing another lariat, when the: elewents of nature, which had thus far betriened the brave rescuers so steadily, preved inauspicious. The moon, which, though low down iu the west, had thus tar vouchsafed them her uninterrupted light, was suddenly obscured by drifting clouds; and, when she again illumivated the scene, Fireloot and his party were seen just dis- appearing into oue of the gorges. “It’s to0 bad!”? groaned the professor. “To have the object of our search almost within our grasp, and then to lose her this way, drat it! It’s powerful Rard luck; but there’s no help for it. Our gas is nearly exhausted, and we must be mighty spry in poking out for another capyon, where a New supply can be found, As the balloon rose grandly out of the deep canyon into the upper air, the first signs of the coming dawn began Co streak the sky above the eastern peaks. By the time it was broad daylight, they were’ so fortunate as to find’one of the best cunyons for them peculiar purpose that had yet been discovered. It wasrather shallow, and broad aud fertile, with innumerable columns of gas issuing from one corner, while the surface of the remainder was delightfully turfed and wooded, witha stream of pure water dashing through its verdant bosom. Upon landing, they first occupied themselves with cleaning their clothes from the bloody marks of the recent encounter and bathing in the clear stream; Mewauee retiriug some distance into a cottonwood grove, where she busied herself in erecting a littie leafy lodge for her individual shelter while the party should remain in camp. It was found that, though none of the party had come forth unseathed, all of the wounds that had been reeeived were of a superficial character, which tome would heal with but little aid; Big Hori’s were the most severe, but, after his bath in the stream, he seemed to think no more of them, and chatted away with Mewanee in her tribal dialect, as if he were really building tor himself certain future dreams in which Indian fighting and buffalo killing would play but a second part. The professor built a fire; Sam_ returned to camp, a‘ter an hour’s hunt, with the carcass of a fine, young buck on his shoul- der; and by high noon they ltad eaten aud drank their fill, and were ready to enjoy a well-earned repose. It wus agreed that they should defer any further voyaging un- til the following day, when it was determined to set out iu search of the renegade’s more remote fastness, of which Rube Tenyck had made mention, and which they hoped the experieuce of Me- waunee would enable tuem to find without great difficulty. CHAPTER XXIXx. THE FIR THICKET. Our friends were considerably refreshed an hour after day- break. Sam shota fine young elk, which furnished a bountiful repast, aiter which the party entered the balloon, which was headed toward a fir-grove indicated by Mewanee as the locality of one of Firetoot’s stronghol . The current proved favorable, and the deep valley in which the fir-grove was situated soon came in view. The balioon slow ly descended, and was anchored at the edge of the grove. Yhe valley was more like a hole in the wall than anything else, it was so thoroughly surrounded by towering cliffs of black and jagged rocks, and the Indian maiden had spoken truly of the na- ture of the grove. The firs constituting it were of tolerably even hight, 1nd had interlaced their tops so densely and inextricably tovether that, at first glance, it seemed that it w uld be impossi- L.e for any one, descending trom above, to pierce them. Indeed, if there was an encampment underneath, it could not be seen, so impenetrable was the gloomy shade, and not the slightest sound of life, not the upcurling of a smoke-wreath or the barking of a dog, to indicate that there was any habitation underneath; the entire grove covering an irregular spaceof about fifty acres. But Mewance insisted that there were a number of rooney somewhere below, and offered to descend, enter the forest, dis- cover its precisa locality, and to come back to report the same. This proposi'ion was at first warmly objected to by all, but per- haps for dil:z:ent reasons. Her huge lover did not wish her to incur any risk that might be much better incurred by experienced hanters like Rocky Mountain Sam or himself; while the others secretly suspected that this might merely be a ruse by which the Indian maiden hoped to rejoin her people, in spite of her profes- = of preterence for the society iu which she then found her- self. ‘ But at length the girl’s carnest entreatics overcame their ob- jections, und she was permitted to descend. ‘ne balloon was about thirty feet from the ground, but she went down the rope that was let down for her, hand cver hand, with the agility of a squirrel. She looked like a yvcry dryad of the woods, as she stood for an instant at the foot of the rope. her light, graceful form being set off to its best advantage in its pic- turesque costume, and her young, artless face vpturned toward the down-looking gaze of her rude lover, and then she vanished like a sunbeam under the dense shadows of the wood. She was gone so long that Sam, Teddy, and the professor began to exchange significant glances; but Big Horn’s faith in the fair absentee never for an instant wavered. She returned presently with » smile upon her face. She made an eager, happy sign with her ittie hand, and then ran up the ee almost as nimbly as she had descended it. he had Giscovered tie lodges, and was prepared to guide the balloon to a spot directly over them, and explained the length of time she had been gone br saying that she hy hung around the camp in hopes of obtaining an interview with Fayaway, in which she had at last succec.led, finding her alone, at a utile apr of water in the woou, u¢ some little distance [Fo - camp. Her first attempts to draw her into conversation — decided. fail- ures, on account of the mad and unre jealousy of Faya- way, who persisted that in her, Mewanee, y Mountain Sam had iound a new flame; Lut when at length tue real state oi the case was forced upon her—that Mewanee was the prize, not of Sam, but of Big Horn—she allat once became serene, and the Indian maidens, though of different tribes, had d and hug- ged as sisters. ¥ : Fayaway said that her mistress would be éverjoyed and filled with new hope to again leara of the near presencé of her friends. Fayaway was certain that, could the balloon be anchored direct- ly over the village, and a passage forced through the tree-tops, there would be but little difficulty in effecting the release of the captives, inasmuch as Firefoot and all his followers were so con- fldeut of the security of their present retreat, that they passed most of the time in sleep and rest, while the prisoners were but slightly guarded by the squaws, who were quite as sleepy and lazy as their lords. “Thart what d'ye think of that ere?” triumphantly roared Big Horn, when he had finished translating, bit by bit, as it was given to him, this truly valuable fund of information. ‘Arn’t shea brick??? And with wat, for the first time, he folded Mew- a in bis mighty arms and administered upon her lips a sound- ing kiss. ; ““Mewanee has indeed proved herself not only faithful to the core, but a most valuable aily,’’ Said the professor, “It now re- mains to be seen whether she can direct us to the spot directly over the village. Teddy, my man, cast off the anchor.” This was accordingly done, and in a few moments the Bir-ship was floating softly over the forest, the car almost brushing the pointed tops of the dirs. ? Mewanee looked‘over tho side hesitatingly, but at length as- signed a spot as béing the rigit one, or very nearly 80, and the balloon was accordingly anchored there. It was decided that Big Horn should make the descent, as be- fully to force and cut his Way through the green floor of boughs and foliage. His preparations were very simple, and were soon complete, Masking his face with a stout strip of cloth to protect it from the sharp-pvinted fir-boughs, with apertures for his eyes to look through, and filling his belt with his stoutest hunting-kuives—the use of a hatchet being impracticable on account of the noise—he tied a strong line , connected with the car, about his waist, pro- vided himself with another line with which to communicate with the ground when he should have made his way to the lower limbs, and then Jet himself cautiously over the side of the car. Making a slight misstep at the start, he suddenly disappeared with a plange under the sea of foliage, but presently they heard him stirring just below the surface,and knew that he was ameng the hard boughs, cutting his way down foot by foot. He soon found that the task he had Jaid out for himself was not so difficiilt as the foliage of the tree-tops had suggested, inasmuch asthe boughs grew less closely together. Still he had work enough to doin cutting his way dowa. But the knife in his strong hand lopped off branch after branch as though they had been willow twigs, and he made the descent foot by foot. One of the principal inconvenieuces he had to deal with was the wildcats which peopled the grove in prodigious numbers; but after stabbing several of them the others kept a little shy, though making a most horrible din all around him. Once, just before reaching the lowermost branches of the tree he was working upon, he encountered a worse customer thanacatamount. An ominous growl and the sudden gleaming of two terrible eyes in the foliage-gloom apprised him of the presence of a pantuer. He had just time to swing himself behind the trunk of the tree to avoid the animal’s spring, and the next instant, with @ yell, its body waslaunched across the tangled intervening space. But beiore it could recover the hunter reached trom behind the tree-trunk and finished its career witlr one biow of his heavy knife just behind the shoulver. He secured the body among the he had_ lopped off—inasmuch as its crashing falltothe ground would have been an intimation to the enemy of his operations. So, working slowly and_ steadily, surrounded by wild beasts, and most of the time enveloped in more than semi-gioom, the hardy hunter at last founc himself among the very Towermost branches, and enabled to scan the.ground below. He found that the shrewd Indian girl’s judgment had been at fault but a mere trifle, as he had come out but a few yards away from the lodges, which he could plainly see, with now and then the form of an Indian squaw inoving in and out : Not knowing how to communicate with the captives, he waited foraJong time without getting any signof them, and in the meantime having his other line ready, with a noose at the end, to drop at the needed moment. Atlength, to his great joy, hesaw Fayaway pass out of the lodge nearest tohim. He gave along, low whistle, or cat-call, like the whistle of a bird. She paused, listened, and was then passing on, when the whistle was repeated again and again with such persistency as to attract her attention to the tree oc- ‘c by the hunter, ‘hen, when she saw the looped line dangling from somewhere up in its dark recesses, she seemed to tuke in the meaning of the situation at a glance, and running under, looked up. [TO BE CONTINUED. | ———-—>-~ , PLEASANT PARAGRAPHS. _‘7IE BACKSNAPPER PAPERS—No. 12. _ Mrs. Backsnapper Relateth How Ike Forney Warped her an’ her Ole Man—An Odoriferous Remedy. My old man had been gruntin’ and growlin’ for some- time. Fust he had a dretful cole in the head; then misery in His stummick; then a double-geared pain across the small of his back; then he imagined he had a tape-wor- ruin; then he b’ileved he was consumpted; then he had a little breakin’ out, an’ he’lowed he had the small pox; then he gut the misery in his lower bowels, an’ finly he swore he was gittin’ hog cholera. I bonesetted him; Linjun turniped him; I smeared him slippery alluin bark; I made him gargle winegar an’ in- ingyin juice, an’ I biue pilled him in hoss doses, At fust I tried a womitin’ of him, but he strains so wen he womits. Wonst lie strained so guslt daru hard thet he ongeared his liver, and it stuck out of his mouth; but with Wonnerful presence of mind, I grabbed up the per- tater-imasher an’ rammed it back agin. My ole man says to this day if it hadn’t ab been fur me he would ah loss his liver, He kep on gruntin’ ontilone day I said thet we'd better go to Frogsboro to see a wravelin’ doctor, who said thet he could cure anything from a ring-worrum to the wust consumpted case, So my ole man, Zachariar, geared up on’ we putt orf fur Frogsboro, where we foun’ the doctor at the Bald Eagle tavern. He was very perlite, an’ tole us to take cheers an’ all thet sorta thing. Arter we had gut cleverly settled, he indercated thet he was ready fur business, At fust Zi¢hariar was a little flustrated, but arter he wiped his forrad an’ blewed his nose he commenced to tell the doc. how he felt. i tare the doc, hitched up a cheer ’long side o’ hissen an’ said: “Stick out yer tongue.” Then the doc. pulled out a big bull’s-eye watch an’ felt his pulse. Then he sliook his head, and said: “Bad, bad! How long hey yal bin in this yer condition, Mister Backsnapper?”” OP: ing the one whose great strength would enable him most success-, branches—as indeed he had carefully shelved all the branches ; THE NEW YORK. WEE Then my ole man said he “lowed it was nigh onto three month, Tien the doc. tole hiin to run out his tongue agin; then he luoked et that bull’s-eye watcl. Then he ask my ole man if he had apy soreness. Zachariar tole hin: he had, * Then the doc. took his thumb an’ bored an’ punched his bowels, liver an’ stumimick, almos’ hard enough to punch aholein him. Zachariar grunted as though he wasa bile ali over, Tlren he tole Zachariar to stick out his tongue agin, an’ he =a eyes the same as alore on thet bull’s-eye watch an’ Salds oe Backsnapper, air you troubled much with wind?’ My ole man said wonst he was jioein’ corn, an’ a sud- dent wind come up an’ carried away a barn. “Slo, suo!’ says the doc. “I’m not aspeakin’ of your gush dern cornfiei’? wluds; l’mspeakin’ about yerself; thet is Wind on yer stunimick an’ so forth?” “Ol, nouin’ to speak of,”? says my ole man, “without I eat somethin’ thet don’t agree with me’? “liu, hu-ach,’’ granted thedoc. ‘Now stick yer tongue out agin—lup her clean down to yer fift® ves’ button.” Then my oe mau run his tongue out like a flicker, ontil I thought his eyeballs would drop out. Then the doc. looked down his throat an’ allat wonst he gin a yell. “Great God! Man—Backsnapper 1 mean—thur’s alive frog iu yer stummick!? : “Ou, oh, Ouch!’ yelled Zachariar. “I felt him turn aroun’. Ouch! Heavenly Faather-aa! help mein this yer extrinity,’? groaned Zachariar. . Et this I] gut skeert. 1 didn’t Know but what the gush dern thing might be tryin’ to diga hole to git out of him. “Tut, tut!’ says the doc. ‘‘Pacerfy yerseif. I kin knoek the daylights out o’ that creetur in seven weeks.”’ “Kin yeh, kin yeh??? snorted my ole man ajumpin’ up almos' on top of him, an’ catchin’ him by the han’, “In course I kin,’’ said the doc, “Wal bow, doc.,’? says Zachariar, ‘‘I’ll gin seyen dollars an’ a-half, an’ a bushel of taters as soon as ye knock him. Why, Miranda Alliquippa, how fortinet it is thet we come tosee the doc. Why, l might ah took med'cine for a dog’s age an’ ’twouldn’t done any. good; an’ bom by the gush dern thing would ah scratched all the coatin’ off of my stummick. Horse powders wouldn’t.stop him. Ouch! he juss jumped to tother side.” : “Mr. Backsnapper,’? said the doc., ‘I don’t charge yeh a cent ontil l cure yeh. Now here is some bussfattum pow- ders. | Yel: must take three on em a day-a half hour before eatin’. : “This thing thet I now gin yeh, tied up in alittle sack,- with sirings to it, yela want to tie around yer head so that the little sack lays right across yer nose. This thing is only to be tied.on o’ nights wen yeh go to bed, an’ mus’ be kep’ on all night."’ Jest as we was about to go, he says to me: “Mrs. Backsnapper, I see that yel air threatened with lockjaw. Here air some pijls; take one afore each meal, an’ let ’em lay on your tongue abouta minute afore swol- lerin’, am’ these powders, j st take one a day. Say nothin’, Say nothin’,’? says the doc., ‘‘but foller my d’rections, an’ come agin in about six weeks.”’ Thet gush dern little sack, or bag, wot my ole man had to tie across his nose 0’ nights, was somethin’ wot beat me. It was the gush derndest smellin’ stuff—jest like the pills he guv me to take—ihet I ever smelt. At fust wen we went to bed, it didn’t smell so strong; but after layin’ across his nose awhile it gut warmed up, au’ it smeli——heavens! Zuchariar could harly stan’ it. Fin’ly, before I could git to sleep o’ nights I was obieeged to put a patent clothes-pin ou. my nose, anu’ the Lord oney knows how Zachariar stood it. Wonst he riz up in bed an’ said: “If thet frog Kiu stan’,this ongodly smell he couldn't. He’d rather die a nateral death then to be stunk to death, an’ he’d be dam if he’d stan’ it any longer.” Nex’ day a feller kim aroun’, an’ Zachariar tole him about the med’cine he was a-takin’, au’ fiu’ly got him to take a sniff of the night bag. “Why, you gush dern fool,”? says he; ‘“ihet's nothing but Limberg cheese!’’ Tie hull thing busted like a flash ontome. Come to fine out, it was this gush dern Ike Furney who played the doctor on Mean’ my oleman. Jess for a2 momentthink on it, Mr. Barberry—a cliuuk of thet good for nothin’, stink- in’ stuff, a-Stinkiu’ yerself to death by inches, wen noth- in’ in the worl’? was the matter with Zachariar buta gath- erin’ of too much bile. 1 also foun’ out thet them powders was nothin’ but brick dust an’ pulverized gravel-stuus, My ole mau is jest a-iayin’ far thet dod dern Ike For- hey... gr . " DAN’L BARBERRY. Droli Scene in Charch. An Ohio correspondent describes a funny scene which occurred in a church in Bucks Township a few Sundays ago. The church had been undergoing repairs lately, and among other improvements was acoat of paimt upon the ws. This was followed by a coat of varnish, which had the effect of making everything shine. 3 It had been applied so late im the week that it had not be- come so hard as it ought before tle seats were put to use. They were taken possession of, however, by the congregation, and no inconvenience was experienced until the clergymau motioned for his hearers to rise to receive the benediction. Instantaneously everybody tried to stand up, but they fouad themselves glued or rather varnished to their seats, A spasinodic effort. and then a jerk brought the astonished worshipers to the perpendicular; but what a sacrifice of Sabbath day apparel. Samplesof silk, lawns, ealico, broadcloth, and cassimeres, were lett as souvenirs of the tenacity of varnish used in beautifying the church. q We apprehend “the good work o*%reat joy” spoken by the preacher in his benediction fellon a stony ground, and will not produce any great amount of good fruit. . A Sociable Governor. i Governor Powell, of Kentucky, Wasnever an orator, but his conversational, story-telling and social qualities were remark- able. His great forte lay in establishing a personal intimacy with every one he met, and in this way he was powerful in elec- tioneering. _ _ He chewed immense quantities of tobacco, but never carried the weed himself, and was always beggtinvg it of every one he met. His residence was in Henderson, and in coming up the Ohio past that place, 1 gentieman overheard tie following character- istic anecdote of him: A citizen of Henderson coming on board fell into conversation with a passenger who made inquiries about Powell. “He lives in your place, I believe, don’t he ?”* “Yes, one of our oldest citizens,” ‘ “Very sociable, ain’t he ?” “Remarkably so.” x “Well, [thought so; I think he is one of the samaorlable men ITever met in my life—wonderfully sociable. I was introduced to him over at Greyson Springs last summer, and he had_ not becn with me ten minutes when lie begged all the tobacco I had, got his feet up in my lap, and spitali over me—remarkably soci- able Starting the Cart. “Give me a bid, gentlemen—some one start the cart—do give me a bid, if you please—anythmg to start the cart!” cried an excited Yankee auctioneer, who stood on the cart he was en- deavoring to sell. “Anything you please to start it.” “If that’s all you wants, I'll start her for you,” exclaimed a broad-backed countryman, applying his shoulder to the wheel, and giving the cart a sudden push forward, tumbled the auctioneer over the side. By the time the fallen auctioneer had regained his feet the countryman had started too, A Cautious Husband. A-mild-mannered man was wandering about the streets of Nevada City, inquiring for an officer. When asked what he wanted with an officer, hesaid: ‘Well, I came homé this morn- ing land found that there is another man living with my wife.” He was asked how long he had been ony from home, and he said: “A little over six years.” He was told that a good many changes might occur in six years. “Yes, I know that,” said he; “but you see I ddém’t altogether like things as they are, and I want to get the man arrested and see how mutters stand.” { A Cool Costume, Susan Jane must have been scantily dressed when she was looking out for her lover and sang: # “Hell come to-night; the*Wind’s at rest, The moon is fall and fair; I wear the dress that pleased him best— A ribbon 1n my hair.” Kindness Rewarded. A victim of the flowing bowl got on a Norfolk horse car in Bos- ton, recently, and refused to pay his fare besides behaving other- wise disorderly. The conductor was about to eject him when a well-known aud respected physician entered, and by great effort succeeded in Keeping the wan quiet and paid his fare, At North- ampton street the inebriate got out, and as he was leaving the car he turned to the doctor and remarked, loud enough for all to hear: ‘‘I see you are agood man, sir (hic). You know what il is (bic) to be staying drunk yourself!” GiB, SOULE, To P. P. ContripuTors.—R. S. S.—“A Whipped Monkey” will appear in the Phunny Phetlow....The following MSS, are accept- ed: “High Singing,” “An Amphibious Monster,” “That Little Game called Euchre,” ‘Badly Sold,” “A Big Bunion.”...... The tollowing are respectfully declined: “The Catand the Dog,” “Cats and Rabbits,” “Yankee Outdone,” old, “Why I Went to ‘Lection,” “Never Ask Questions,” “How He was Caught,” “A Sausagean Ode,” [TEMS OF INTEREST. nay The sagacity of a dog was lately exhibited in a remarkable mauner, at Glasgow, Scotland. A pet canary had escaped from its cage during the night, and the next morning a fayorite cat was discovered with her eyes intently fixed on an object under achair. Following up the clew the owner of the lird found thata fine terrier of his had seized the feathered treasure tenderly in its meuth, and was een it from the threatened attack of the cat. It was quickly given up, sound in limb and voice, gar “Old Charley,” a celebrated Confederate war- horse, died lately in Texas. His owner, anne Friend, pur- chased him in 1862, and all through the war he did hard duty, participating in nearly every campaign in the Southwest. t the end of the war he was the only survivor of sixty horses be- longing to Captain Friend’s pear: It is calculated that he must have been ridden over 12,000 miles. aa Bryan Waller Proctor, better known as ‘‘Bar- ry Cornwall,” died in London, lately, in his 85th year. At the age of 25 be produced a small volume of dramatic sketches. His tragedy of ‘‘Mirandola” achieved great success, Mr. Macready playing the principal character. His ‘English Songs” were very popular, sae The Liliputian Zouave drummer boy of Lon- donderry, N. H., though in his eighth year, weignus only 23 pounds, He is 37 inches in hight. He is represented as well- proportioned, and possessed of gvod intellectual faculties, He is naturally looked upon, wherever he appears, as a great curiosity, aax A mortgage for thirty millions of dollars has lately been placed on record in Reading, Pa. It was given by the Philadelphia and Reading Coal and Iron Company to the Phila- delphia and Reading Railroad Company. It took 23 days—work- ing in business hours—to copy it into the Mortgage Book. rae Sergeant James Davidson, who served for over fifty years in the U. 8. army, died recently at Fort Consti- tution, which he had had charge of for several years. He was the oldest enlisted man in the service, serving in Florida and Mexico witl: distinction. n@- While in a dentist’s chair in Boston, lately, haying a tooth extracted under the tnfluence of chloroform, Churles Linscolt, a freight conductor, aged 34, suddenly died. A medical examination showed that his lungs were diseased. se A woman living in Southern Asia has given birth to twins nrited by the skin covering the lower portion. of SEND YOUR ORDERS. Josh Billings’ SPICx-BOX. STREET & SMITH, Publishers. 27, 29 and 31 ROSE STREB™. THE ART OF DINING AND OF ATTAINING HIGH HEALTH; with afew HINTS Og SUPPERS. Together with ANECDOTES OF DINING. 1 rol. Exquisitely printed on tinted paper, bound in eloth, bevelled edyes, black and gold, gilt top. A sumptuous ornament for the drawing-room table. Price$1.50. Single copies sent to any address, postage paid, on receipt of price. Address ROBT. M. DE WITT, Publisher, 33 Rose-st., N. Y. 47-4e0w. 20 SHEETS OF CHOICK. MUSIC, $1. A choice selection of Vocal and Instrumental Music, by Strauss, Lizt, Thomas and other popular Authors, Any ten*muiled for $1. Send Stamp for Catalogue, Address,’ BENJ. W. HITCHCOCK, Publisher, w46-10 No. 355 THIRD AVENUE, NEW YORK. N. SQUIRE, 97 Fulton st., N. ¥.—Watches, Fine e Jewelry, and Sterling Silverware, first quality, and sold on gee Se profits. Every article guaranteed, Diamonds a specialty. GENTS WANTED.—Men or women. $34 a week er $100 torfeited. Valuable samples free. Write at once to 26-52 F. M. REED, Eighth St., New York. de ay de PER DAY at home. Terms Free. DO I O $2 GEO. STINSON & Co., Portland, Me. Address wil9-ly A double-barrel gun, bar or front action locks; warranted gen- uine twist barrels, and a good shooter, or no sale; with Flask, Pouch and Wad-cutter, for $15, Can be sent C. D. with privilege to examine before paving bill. Send stamp for circular r ob Ive &SON, Gun Dealers, 238 Main st., Cincinnati,O. $350 A MONTH SURE TO AGENTS everywhere. 10 best selling articles in the world. Address J. BRONSON, Detroit, Mich. 46-13. OR SALE, IN HOLBROOK, L. I., A FARM, 20 acres, two-story house, 5 rooms, and barn, free from in- cumbrance; price $1,250; worth $1,500. Also 8 fine lots in Wood- side, 3 miles from the City; $250 each. w52-2 A. McCOTTER, 142 Fulton street, N. Y. - —Your name beautifully SOLAS oo coker rrarecee cna fit pe ete. C. W. KNIGHT, Providence, R.I. Lock Box 874. w52-2 ANTED—A Good Span of Farm Horses, in exchange for four fine luts in a flourisiung village worth ee A. McCOTTER, 14% Fulton street, New York. w52-2 STEINWAY Grand, Square and Upright PIANOS. SUPERIOR TO ALL OTHERS, And universally acknowledged to be the Standard Pianos of the World, Having been awarded the First of the Grand Gold Medals of Honor: WORLD'S FAIR, PARIS, 1867. LONDON, 1862, Prices as low as the exclusivé use of the best materials and most thorough workmanship will permit. Every Piano Warranted for Five Years, ‘ BaF ILLUSTRATED CATALOGUES. 16 Beekman street, New York, or R. A. TEN- NEY, 64 Lake street, Chicago, Ill. wo50-4 oT HE C L OPE A Wonder- A d i 4 °” ful Little Musical Instrument, ou which you can piay any tune, Imitate the noise of Animals, or the song of Birds. About nine inches in length, made of Galvanized Metal, Price 25 cts., or 3 for 50 cts., post-paid. Address R. G. Costar, Box 423, Elizabeth, New ia Invested in Stocks and Gold pays $10 TO $100 200 per cent..a month. Send _ for particulars. TUMBRIDGE & CO., Bankers, 3 Wall street, N. Y. “PLAYS! PLAYS! Home Amusements. ‘Send for a Catalogue ot 17,500. seer beer FRENCH & SON, 122 Nassau St, N.Y, The BEST PAPER! Try It! The Scientific American is the cheapest and_ best illus- trated weekly papet published. Every number contains from 10 to 15 original engravings of new machinery, novel inventions, Bridges, Engineerfng works, Architecture, improved Farm Im- lements, and every new discovery in Chemistry. A year’s num- Cans contain 832 pages and several hundred engravings. Thou- sands of volumes are preserved tor binding and reference. The practical receipts are well worth ten times the subscription price. Terms $3 20a year by mail, including postage. Speci- mens sent free. May be had of all News Dealers. Pp ATE s{ obtained on the best terms. Models of new inventions and sketches ex- amined, and advice free. All patents are published in the Scien- tifle American the week they issue. Send for Pamphlet, 110 pages, containing laws and full directions for obtaining Patents. ddress for the Paper or concerning Patents, MUNN & CO.,, 37 Park Bow, New York. Branch Office, cor. F and 7th streets, Washington, D. C. w50-4 FREE SAMPLE to Agents.. Ladies Combination Needle Book, with Chromos. Send stamp. 45-13. DEAN & CO., New Bedford, Mass. ASONIC.—WANTED. F. A. M. as AGENTS for the mag nificent IDhustrated Work, with Premium Chromo The best chance ever offered, Send for Descriptive Catalogue and terms. REDDING & CO., Publishers of Standard Masonic Works, 7314 Broadway, New York. w49-6 7 G6 AGENTS’ PROFITS PER WEEK. ‘ e Will prove it or forfeit $500. New articles just patented. Samples sent free to all, Address W. H. CHIDESTER, 267 Broadway, New York, 66/7HE\HE MOSLEM O24 ACLE,”—An Oriental Mystery, wonderful, unique, pleasing! Price only 10 cents, post free. Address, 1-2t TOM. H. STARK, 2'°75 Main street, Louisville, Ky, 180 PER WEEK cuaranteed to agents on a newly patented article—Steam Washer—salable as flour. For Circulars address wl-4t R. LAWYER, Patentee, Pittsburgh, Pa. TUTTERING.—DR. WHITE, of the U.S. Stammering Institute, is permanently located at 133 East Twenty-ninth street, N. Y. Best references. No pay untilcured. Call orsend for circulars. NDREW RR, BROWN, SOLICITOR OF PATENTS, P, O. Box 92, Washington, D.C, w1-2t "are AMERICAN SECRET PACKET.—a mode of SECRET CORRESPONDENCE Learned in Five Minutes, and unequaled by any yetinvented. Key and all complete fur- nished for 50 cents. Address TIBBALS & GROOMS, New Haven, JULES VERNE, “THE MYSTERIOUS ISLAND,” bd £ author, is commenced in this week’s “BOYS’ OWN.” News- dealers everywhere sell it for FIVE CENTS. NGRAVERS’ BOXWOOD, MAPLE, MA- hogany and Pine. Types, Presses, Inks, Bronzes, Impos- ing Stones. VANDERBURGH, WELLS & CO., 146 Fulton and 16 and 18 Dutch streets, New York. Complete Outfits for Printers, wil-4t eow LASS, MARBLE & SNOW-FLAKE CARDS 15samples sentfree. B. E. STRONG, Gerry, N.¥. wi-2t 2 Beautiful Magic Transfer Pictures and Five wonder- ful Puzzles sent for 15 cents. Address THORPE & CO., 136 Ontario street, Cleveland, Ohio, Mammoth Monthly Reader, The MAMMOTH MONTHLY READER ior November (No. 9) is now ready, It contains 56large columns of cilioice § cants. the backbone. At last accounts all concerned were doing weli. reading matter. Terms: 50 cents per year; simgle copy, am a i 1 fy cy d and not wear , =e ; = : out! LEWIND =WATGH Sold by Watechma- a By mail 50 cents, J. BIRCH, 37 Maiden Lane, N. Y. wol- IMMENSE SUCCESS GARDEN ADJOINING Hon. A. T. Stewart’s Garden City NEARLY ALL THE LOTS Upon the First Map Have been Sola Map No. 2 is Ready with Immediately surrounding The New and Elegant Depot oe GARDEN CITY PARK. AS AN ADDITIONAL. AND NOVEL ATTRACTION To aid its rapid growth, a contract has: been! maxle for Ten Two-Story Dwellings, . To be built at once, which will be PRESENTED BY DRAWING TO FHOSE WHO - Purchase Lots upon Map 2. For Full Particulars see Maps, and GO EXAMINE THE PROPERTY. GUIDE TO PURCHASERS. Be at Store 35& Third Avenue at 9 A. M., togo with our Sales: men and examine the property. Ladies shown every courtesy. Maps containing full information mailed on receipt of stamp for postage. Persons residing out of tliis:eity can select from our Map- and enclose us $5 per lotin a registered letter, or P.O. Order and we will forward a contract for the lots selected! Address “BENS. W. HITCHCOCK, 355 THIRD AVENUE, NEW YORK. N. B.—Those whe prefer to pay in full:at once will be allowed 5 ee discount; and receive warranty deeds immediately. w t. 7 OO % 22s, to Agents, 54 new articles and: the best FAMILY PAPER in America, with a Family Journal, 300 Broadway, N. ¥- w49- Zi adies‘who want a blooming complexion use CONSTANTINE’S ‘ PERSIAN HEALING PINE ‘aR Soap for Toilet and Bathing: purposes, It prevents Baldness, removes Dandruff and Pimples. —~ Catarrh, Piles &Salt Rheum. Svoid by Drugyists & Grocers.. w49-4eoWw THE NEV AND COMFORTABLE. remedy for ruptures now adopt- ed by all well-informed persons. Itis worn hight and day with- out any discomfort;: yields to every motiom. or position of the body; can never become displaced by the hardest exercise: or severest strain; and soon-effects a perfect and permanent cure. No person in the whole country will now wear any of the- wretciied metal springs, iron hoops, fingey-pads, wire spring: etc., after he has once seen: the new Klas A tew unprincipled dealers, unabie to sell springy name “Elasuc Truss,” and scll worth gus elastic and “Band” trusses to ign avoid all.such impostors. THE incorporated in 18¢7, send their adn a low price to all parts of the coun uest. Principal office No. G8S BL Braneh Offices; No. $29 Tremont str Fourth street, Cincinnati; Nu. 1,202 phia; No. Pennsylvania avenue, 415 East Water street, Milwaukee, ame principal cities of the Union. q CREEDMOOR LA CREEDMOOR LAWN is twelve miles? city*of New York. STEWART'S CENTRA ROAD OF LONG. ISLAND passes through th fire Belts,” bo- . Itis well to erty, which lies midway between the ce ELEGANT VILLAGE of FLUSHING AND STEWART’S GARDEN CITY, and is within five minutes’ walk of the CREED- MOOR RIFLE RANGE, The lots are exceedingly ai- tractive in every respect. Some of them are within one minute’s walk of one of the Schools,. while CHURCHES, STORES, &-¢, ARE CONVENIENTLY AT HAND. CREEDMOOR LAWN forms a part of the old and pretty Village of Queens, noted for its handsome dwellings, its wealthy and respectabie inhabitants, and for its great healthfulness. The Lawn Lots are all on the most attractive grade; the streets, care- ae made, are adorned with hundreds of silver maples. ‘IF YOU WISH A HOMIE, and every man should have some portion of the earth’s surface to call his own, you cannot find a. more healthful and desirable spot for the money, or twice the money asked for these Lots. : TO THOSE WHO WISH to INVEST SAVINGS, SECURELY and ADVANTAGEOUSLY, THREE IMPORTANT FACTS ARE MENTIONED: Ist._The title of these Lots is perfect. 2d.—They are free and clear of Mortgages, Taxes, and ali Incum- brances. — 3d.—They are not owned by any society, or corporation, or firm, but are the property of one man of wealth and responsibility. The value of property on the westerly end of Long: Island is every year increasing, and with great. ra- pidity. This arises from legitimate causes, such as increased railroad facflities and. numerous other im- provements, and the vast growth of the metropolis, which now spreading out to the north, will next span the East River, and, stretching eastward, ere long will include within its limits Long Island City, Newtown, Flushing, and Creedmoor. A new appropriation has just been voted by Con- gress for continuing the remowal of the Hell Gate obstructions, a work, when completed, that will be of inestimable advantage to Long Island. The Blackwell’s Island Bridge, across. the Hast River, will be another great improvement, haying a direct influence upon the value of the Lots here offered, All wanting Lots are invited to accompany the Agent any day, at One o’clock, free of expense, to inspect this property. PRICES AND TERMS: Lots generally ~ - - -- $100 each Corners “ ~s=-== [50 «© Clinton Avenue Lots- 150 * 66 66 Corners 200 * Payable in installments of $10 per month, er part eash and balance on mortgage for two years, A dis- count will be made where all cash ts paid. For further partieulars apply to PAUL C. GRENING, Agentfor Creedmoor Lawn No. 504 THIRD AVENUE, wis Corner 34th street, N. Y. CITY PARK, | Sm. Mas on ee sete 650 More Lots | $15 Shot Gun! O arene ree ae ey cee dhidlennesn - aceon onic oa ate Le Atak wh at ae Aa aa oe z ue PPAR Ree eee ee NEW XORK, NOVEMBER 9, 1874, PAPAL Ler” OD mm Terms to Subscribers : AAA One Year—1 copy (with Chromo)..$3 | One month......... 25 cts, eee BR QODIES. ..<- Pw ae'nt > Ae 5| ‘wo months........ 50 cts. iret ae at i ceentee tate aee 10| Three months...... 75 cts. ‘ree GUN Neb esetaneeh 20 | Four months........ $1 00. Those sending $20 fora Club of Eight, all sent at one time, will be entitled to a Ninth Copy Frrx. Getters-up of Clubs can after- ward add single copies at $2 50 each, a ‘A Chromo will be sent only to those sending $3 for one year’s subscription. , Specimen copies can be seen at every post-office, drug store, and news agency throughout the Union. IN MAKING REMITTANCES FOR SUBSCRIPTIONS, always procure a draft on New York, or a Post-Ofice Money Order, if possible. Where neither of these can be procured, send the moe, but al- ways in @ REGISTERED Leiter. The registration fee has been re- duced to eight cents, and the present registration system has been found by the postal authorities to be virtually an absolute pro- tection against losses by mail. AW Postmasiers are obliged to register letters whenever requested to do so. ; n addressing letters to STREET & SMITH, donot omit our Bow Number. By a recent order of the Post-office Department this is absolutely necessary, to ensure'the prompt delivery of letters. ALL LETTERS SHOULD BE ADDRESSED TO STREET & SMITH, Proprietors. 27, 29 and 31 Rose St., N.¥. P.O. Box 4896 The State of Trade, Circulation of the New York Weekly. There is a great deal of discussion going on as to the state of trade—what it is, what it has been, and what it is going to be, and as to the causes of all the facts about it that exist or are supposed to exist. Those who expected that speculation would be lively this Fall are disappointed, but it does not follow that the country is any the worse off for that reason. Ex- travagant speculation has often created general financial embarrassment. But those who expected that everything would go to ruin this Fall were also mistaken. The business that is done, ifit be less large, is safer, and rests upon amore substantial basis. suffers from any general stagnation, we may point to the fact, as one proof that times are not so bad as anticipated, of the great and constantly increasing circulation of the NEw YORK WEEKLY. In periods of distress people are compelled to deny themselves, net only costly, but also low-priced indulgences. They say at home instead of going to the theater or the concert; they walk instead of riding to and from their places of business; they stop their newspapers. The enormous and stéadily gaining distribution of the New YORK WEEKLY shows that there is no such pressure as that to which werefer. Even during the dull summer months, when similar papers were drooping, the circulation of the NEw YORK WEEKLY held firmly; and now, as for years past, it leads the press of America, and will at no very distant day circulate more copies than any other journal in the world. eG arin HINTS TO RAILWAY TRAVELERS. Do not get on the train till it is just ready to start. Then atand on the steps and talk with your acquaint- ances till the last minute. You may never see them again, and it is highly important that you shall say all you can think of to them. People who are getting on board the cars in a hurry, Will like to crowd around you, and step by you, and over you, and get their ribs against your elbows and Carpet bag, and bark their shins on your dressing case, and tear their lace flounceg.on the point of your umbrella. Of be thankful for the privilege. : 8, put yourself in position in well back and stand still three pul you for the best seat. All ou, do hit them against the filmy ' the Jadies, and knock them ail e no business to wear such flimsy y and be sensible, and wear stovepipe your seat, fix yourself therein, and turn at to it for your baggage. ted in tfaveling ever puts his baggage in hose things are put int0 railway cars solely The company never expect any body*to a yourself out on the seat to your fullest extent, and look over the newspaper. Eat peanuts, and pitch the shells out of the window in the next seat. Whatif the wind does cause the shélls to fly back in the face of the lady who sits there? That is no affair of yours. She has no business silting therel Women should be at home, sewing on buttons, and attending to things generally. Peanut shells are perfectly harmless, and nobody can complain of having them flung at them. Have your ticket packed away in the innermost recess of your pocketbook—you might lose itif it were not— and keep the conductor wailing five minutes while you fish it out. E , ; : Railway conductors are insulting sort of fellows, and should be made to wait. It teaches them their place. Ask everybody on the train about the next stopping place, and then Gall the conductor and ask him. It will show the people that you are not to be swindled, When you reach your journey’s end you get out into the aisle in the way of all those who want toaiight, and stand there while you button up yourcoat and put on your muf- fier. Take your own time. Let the conductor shout “Smithville! All out for Smithville!’ till he is hoarse—let the frantic fireman ring the bell till reason totters on her throne—just you take your time! You have paid your money, and you have a right to stand where you please! When you do begin to get out, stop on thesteps of the ear and talk with the various hackmen who solicit your patronage, in regard to the price of board at their hotels, and if any gentleman asks you to step down and let a lady pass, give him to understand that you can attend to your own business. ; If you follow these rules closely, every one will be pleased to see you on the train, and the company, if it be at all a reaSonable one, will doubtless give you a free pass. KaTE THORN. — GAIL HAMILTON.—This popular writer contributes to the NEw YORK WEEKLY an entertaining article on ‘LADIES AND GENTLEMEN A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.” It will be published next week. USEFUL HINTS FOR THE HOME CIRCLE. The complexion may be improved by the use of eaimeal, which contains a small amount of oil that is good for the skin. The hands may be made soft and white by wearing at night large mittens of cloth filled with bran or oatmeal and tied closely at the wrist. A lady who had white, soft hands, confessed that she had a great deal of housework to do, and kept them white as any idler’s by wearing oatmeal mittens every night. A French physician expresses his preference for lemon juice, as a iocal application in diptheria, to chlorate of potash, nitrate of silver, perchloride of iron, alum or lime water, He uses it by dipping a little plug of cotton wood, twisted around a wire, in the juice, and pressing it against the diseased surface four or five times daily. Yo detect copper in pickles or green tea, put a few leaves of the tea, or some of the pickle, cut small, into a phial with two or three drams of liquid ammonia, diluted with one half the quantity of water. Shake the phial, when, if the most Sere of copper be present, the liquid will assume a fine blue color. Earache may be relieved in this way: Take a piece of sait perk, say an inch or more long and half an inch square, cut down one end to fit the ear, and insert it, taking care to have a4 piece too large to slipin. Tie a handkerchief to keep it in place. A simple remedy for neuralgia is horseradish. Grate and mix it in vinegar, the same as for table purposes, and apply it to the temple when the face or head is affected, or the wrist when the pain is in the arm or shoulder, . It is said that inflammatory rheumatism may be eured by bathing the parts affected with oil and saltpeter—halt- an-ounce of pulverized saltpeter in half-a-pint of the oil. White mustard seed, swallowed whole, will relieve constipation: Tar and sweet oil, thoroughly mixed, will make boots water-proof. No one should fail to peruse the sketches of LIEUTENANT MBbRRAY, one of which appears every week. They are insiructive as well as pleasing; and so, also, is his new story of “MEZzZONI THE BRIGAND,’? which will be com- menced in No. 3, As all interests are connected, and as each’ jshelf where the ribbon boxes were ra ms EMRE The ‘Indian Way. General Miles’ well-organized expedition, now in. the very heart of the Indian territory, is doing much toward impressing these bandittti of the prairies with a proper respect for the authority of our Govern- ment. The mistaken leniency toward the savages has been the cause of sufficient bloodshed, and the time has come to apply a more decided and vigorous policy. Commissioners of moral suasion, however eminent for virtue and piety, are useless against these savages. The Quaker guns, with which the Chinese filled their embrasures to repulse the British invaders, were not more useless with their voiceless, wooden mouths, than are these emissaries of moral suasion among the nomadic Indian tribes, Motives ol humanity have hitherto influenced the policy of the Government in its relation with the In- dians to a far greater extent than is usually the case with civilized nations, where their material interests come in contact with the conditions of savage life. Our Government has instituted and exercised a pro- tective policy toward the various tribes. Bxertions have been made to win them from their savage life, and lead them to practice the arts of civilization. Great and constant labor has been bestowed in this direction, and large expenditures have been made to further the purpose, with, perhaps, as much suc- sess as the Indian nature will admit, But an Indian is an Indian after all, and the name is buta synonym for treachery, Those people who have read the Leather Stocking Tales sympathetically, and who believe all Indians to be brave warriors, who are constantly seeking for something noble to do, have substituted romance for fact. The Indian, as an Indian, is an unmitigated nuisance. Disgustingly filthy, with an intellect hardly superior to that of the beasts, and instinc- tively treacherous, bloodthirsty and remorseless. Uncertain in his pledges of faith or friendship, he is a constant terror to the white settlers upon the bor- der, and a never-ceasing annoyance and expense to the general government. Gratitude isa trait un- known to the breasts of these savages,and their only delight is the war-path. The Indians have a wholesome terror for cannon of any calibre, and General Miles has both Gatling and Parrott guns with his command. , In the last action reported at the department, the Parrott gun threw shells among the Indians, one of which, en- tering the body of a horse, blew both animal and rider all to pieces, and so demoralized the savages that it closed the fight by causing their retreat. This fall campaign against the Texas savages will put an end to their bloody raids upon the whites for a period at least, for they have already been made to suffer serious loss in life and property. In the battle referred to, five hundred Indians were attacked and dispersed, and seven villages were destroyed by our troops, who are atill en- camped in the midst of the hostile territory, near the Red River. SUSY'’S TEMPTATIONS. BY HELEN FORREST GRAVES, The closing hour had come in Fitz & Delatour’s great Broadway fancy store. One by one the girls had tied on their bonnets and gone home—Ella Laurie, with her china- blue eyes and crepe-yellow hair; Anna Dickerman on the arm of the young printer, who always waited for her out- side the door; Minnie Carstairs, in the Paisley slfww! she had saved her wages for so many years to buy, and all the rest, scattering in various directions like birds to their nests! And only Susy Temple remained, putting away the rolls of ribbon she had taken down to show some Ca- pricious young damsel, who had not seemed really to nae oad what she did want, and had finally gone away with- out purchasing six cents’ worth. ; If these gay young girls could only know the useless trouble they gave, Susy thought, as she languidly fastened the ends of the rainbow-colored ribbons and put them up in their several boxes, Susy Temple was only eighteen—a fair, slender little thing, with shy, brown eyes, bright rippled hair, anda skin as delicate as the pink-shaded petal of an auemone —aud, moreover, Susy was, as it were, in her novitiate as yet. She had only been at Fitz & Delatour's for six months, and it had seemed to her the longest six months in all her life. How longingly she looked back to the years on the old farm—the rustling of chestnut boughs, the toss of falling leaves, the clear whistle of the russet- breasted robin on the old stone wall. But these days were past now. They were very poor, and Susy’s motier was a widow, dependent on her daugh- ter’s exertions for daily bread. No more day-dreams nor delicious glimpses into the region of ities—only hard work for the future. ; ‘ **] wouldn’t mind it so much,’? Susy mused to herself, “if We could only meet our expenses.. And there is tle rent unpaid, and mother’s warm winter shawl not yet got, and 80 many things that we need. Oh, it is very, very. hard to be so poor!” se Hy Aims As she turned, with én imperceptible’ sigh, to the high nged, and, as she did so, she perceived, with a slight start, that the key was still in the cash-drawerl “Mr, Carlton cannot have gone home yet,’? she thought, “but I am almost sure that lsaw him go. How came he to forget the key ?”? Noiselessly, Susy drew the drawer open and glanced guiltilyin. It was full of crumpled bank-bills, smaller notes, and piles of nickels; it seemed to Susy as if she pert had seen so much money together in all her life be- ore. : “Ohl? she murmured to herself, “if it was only mine— if only I could have one of those ten-dollay bills it would be so much—so much to me! And Mr. Delatour would never miss it, for all the girls say that he has more money than he Knows how to spend!’? + And the quick billows of temptation rolled up over the strand of Susy Temple's soul as she stood there gazing upon | what seemed to her such boundless wealth. For one instant only, then, with a sort of sobbing sigh, she resolutely closed the drawer again, and went back to her ribbons, Half-a-minute later, Mr. Carlton, the cashier, came back with a hurried step, and Susy, as she stood with her back turned to the desk, could hear him turn the key in the peel and drop it into his pocket among the other eys. “You are late!’? he said, good-humoredly, as he turned away. ‘Make haste, or old Miller will lock you in!’ Susy smiled faintly as she answered: “JT am just through now! I won't detain Miller an in- stant!’? Five minutes afterward she was walking through the chill November streets, her shawl drawn closely round her slender frame and her face concealed behind the blue vail she always wore. “IT used to think it would be so fine to live in the city!” she pondered, as she walked along; ‘‘and when Joal Browning used to see me home from singing school, I was so cold and proudtohim. I said I never would be a farmer’s wife—but I don’t think Joal half believed me, somehow. IfI could go back now to that peaceful haven!”’ “Tf? Ah, how full this world is of ifs! ‘What nonsense!’ said Susy, resolutely to herself. ‘As if we could bring the past back by a wish or a thonght. Iam here in New York now, and I must work for my daily bread, from morning till night, until I grow old and bent over like old Miss Lacy, who trims the coiffures at Fitz & Delatour’s. Poor old Miss Lacy,’? Susy added, with a little sigh, half mournful, halfamused. ‘Qne can hardky fancy that she was ever young, yet I suppose we all have our springtime once.”’ $ It was quite dark when she entered the shabby-genteel, respectabie old house where she and her mother occupied the third floor, and fluttered noiselessly up the old stair- way, whose carpet was altogether a thing of the past, s. Temple was sitting alone before her fire in the twilight, her white, wrinkled hands crossed on her lap, and her silver hair shining in the flickering blaze. And, as she entered, Susy’s quick instinct told her that all was not as usual with her mother. “Mamma, have you been ill??? she exclaimed, hurrying nervously across the floor, with a strong, apprehensive tremor at her heart. “Th, child? No—why what should have put that idea into your head ?”? “But, mamma,’? Susy threw aside her bonnet, flung the shawl half across the floor, and knelt on the hearthrug beside her mother’s chair, with her hands clasped over its arm, ‘“‘something has happened!’’ “What a little witch it is,’ said Mrs. Temple, with an unsuccessful attempt at a laugh. ‘Mamma,’ pressed Susy, breathlessly, ‘‘what is it??? ‘What do you guess, child?” “Has the landlord been teasing you again about the rent? Why didn’t yousend him to me ??’ she asked, in- dignantly. * “Now you are jumping at improbabililies, child—the landlord has not been near me.”? ‘“Whatis it, then? Mamma, don’t keep mein suspense.”’ Mrs. Temple smiled with conscious pride as she smoothed down her daughter’s wavy hair. “You have had two offers of marriage to-day, chila— What do you think of that ?” Susy rose to her feet with crimsoned cheeks and wide open eyes. THE NEW YORK ~~ “Mammal”? “But lam in earnest, Susy. Joal Browning was here this afternoon, and will call this evening for your answer.” “Joal Browning!” The pink shadows stole softly to Susy’s cheek, and a scarce perceptible smile tarried round her lips. ‘oes he remember mie still 9”? “T don’t know whether he does or not,’? said Mrs, Tem- ple langhing, “but he says if you won’t be his wife he shall never marry atall! He has bought the Hanken’s farm and joined it on to his own, and he’s fixed up the old house, and—— But, dear me! here lam forgetting all about the other offer. You would never in the world guess wiio it is, Susy!”? “Who? asked the gir), faintly. “Mr, Delatour!”? “Not our Mr. Delatour ?”” “No one else, Susy,’’ said the mother, with a little thrill of complacent triumph in her voice. ‘He has fallen‘in love with his own liltie shop girl, it seems, and, like an honorable gentleman, he has come first to her mother to ask permission to pay his addresses to her!? “Mother! gasped Susy, ‘it can’t be possible!” “But it is possible!’ said Mrs, Temple, ‘‘and it is noth- ing more than the truth}? “But Mr. Delatour is rich—he owns a _ brown-stone house, and a cottage at Long Branch, and keeps a car- riage!’ “I know it—and you have always sighed for plenty of money, Susy. You will haveachance to realize your dreams now. Itis for you to choose which of these two suitors you will seleot!”? Susy was silent—to her it seemed almost like the se- quences of a’ bright, impossible dream, that Mr, Delatour, of the firm of Fitz & Delatour, had fallen in love with “Well, daughter, which is it to be??? asked Mrs. Tem- ple, watching the changes in her daughter’s face with fond maternal pride. And, at the self-same moment, the door opened and a tall, gentlemanly young fellow, with clear, frank eyes, and forehead square and open as asilab of marble, entered, Susy went to him, with changing color, and placed her hand in his, “Joa”? ‘ “Susy, are you going to be mine?” he asked huskily. “I know I don’t deserve you, but——” “I have chosen, mother,” Susy said, turning to where Mrs. Temple sat; ‘‘I will be Joal Browning’s wife!” So she put away the second temptation that had assailed her that night—the strongest, most overpowering that she had ever Knewn; wealth and Inxury against the silent, tender promptings of her own heart! i “| will be Joal’s wife,” she repeated, softly—and the blessed healings of a great peace came upon her soul! And Susy Temple never once had occasion to regret her choice—for is not love’s light shining softly over one’s pathway in the world better than the reflected glimmer of ascore of gold mines? THE JOSH BILLINGS SPICE-BOX. | The Grashopper iza Burden. The grashopper iz a flippant bug. ; They cre born of eggs and are an inch and a quarter in length when they git ripe. They are hatched out, git their growth, and die off in 75 days. This iz bizzness, and shows that they have enterprize in a hi degree. . What they are good for iz a prize konundrum, but the evil they sumtimes do iz equal to a famine, I hav seen every green thing on the face ov the earth for 50 miles in circumference et up bi them, and millyuns ov them besides starving to deth. I hay seen the air filled with them like a shower of sand, and nothing but stone fences proif against their destroy- ing appetights, ; They travel on the jump, and fill the heavens with their song OV ruin. They are a consuming fire, and no power ov man kan stay their journey. One grasshopper iz a mizerable item, but when sum edikt ov heaven marshalls them in countless legions they are an appalling terror. To be et up bi grasshoppers, to be consumed bi muske- toes, or Mangled bi a mule hay allwus ben the three deths that I have dreded. . But az mutch as I fear the dedly grasshopper I had rather face a mile square of them ali alone in the month ov August, I had rather cross the Newark marshes bi moonlite in July when muskeeters are in their consumate glory, or even fondle the sportive mule than to hav a nuze- paper kritick, who writes for 12 dollars a week, git after me. Oh! it iz awphull to hav the laurels ov years torn from ones forehead, and trampled in the dust, and be anni- hilated for life, and perhaps eternity, bi the scathing fury ov the nuzepaper kritick, who writes for 12 dollars a week, aud pays the highest cash price for his clam gruel. This iz purely awpliull, ‘ This beats mules, grasshoppers, and muskeeters just az eazy az sticking a thistle intu yure finger. |. THE TURTLE DUY. The turtle @uy iz one size anda liaff smaller than the common barn pigeon, ov a pale brown complexion, anda blak ring around their necks. WEEKLY. a stinger allwuss hot and reddy for the lazy, and for thoze who poke their noze into their bizzness. ° THE CROTON BUG. The Crotons are dirty blak kussess, without enny pedigree, and ov no more use, az i kno ov, than an extra fly in a plate ov soup. They hang around wet and damp places, and are all the time either going in or comeing out oy every crack in that naborhood. Thare iz no beginning nor end to their number, and if yu bore a hole with a gimblet, enny whare near a plug basin, the next day the Croton bugs will be az thik around it az tho a new 3 cent gin mill had just been opened thare, What they liv on no natralist knows, or dassent tell, and yu kant git rid ovthem enny more than 1% kan git rid ov the flies out ov a fresh empty sugar hogshed by killing them all off. They are always on the move likea pissmire, but what they are about or would like to hav they kant even tell themselfs. Crotons are one ov the luxurys of civilizashun, so are pikpok- ets and prize fighters. Thare ia a powder advertized ‘‘for sale bi all respektable drug- ists,’ which they say will klean the croton bugs all out ov the house in4 days;iam nogambler, but i will giv the powder 7 anys. and bet on the bugs. ; hare izonly one way to git the crotons out of a Nu York house, and keep them out, and that iz to burn up the house, and let a strong north east wind blo the ashes down the bay. But we kant hav extreme civilizashun without we take croton bugs with it, and enny quantity ov other luxurys also just about az pestiverous, , BELOVED CONTRIBUTORS: We intend to publish before the next comet, ifit don’t come to uick: “Betsy Ransom,” “Crow, “Gen. Custar,”’ ‘Brown read.” We have been obliged to reposein the bosom of our waste basket: “Dave,” “Gipsey,” “A. R. B.,” “Gim_ Potts,” “Needle,” “Not Any,” ‘Rag Doll,” “Nut Sakae “Old Man,” “Spotty,” “Maple Sugar,” “Little One,” “Grand Ma,” “Olid Dog Tray,” “How is this tor High,” “‘B. A. S.,” “Turnip,” Gazelle,” “Stone Fence,” “‘Moze Ketcham,” “Billy Goat.” THE LADIES’ WORK-BOx. THE PURCHASING AGENCY CATALOGUE.—Owing to many changes and reductions 1n prices, we have been forced to defer the publication of our New Purchasigg Agency Catalogue unti] the present time. All orders now received wiil be filled at once. It will be sent to any address, prepaid, on receipt of ten cents, “Mrs, L. Q..’—So many of our correspondents ask the question: ‘How much will it take to make a polonaise ?”” a query we Can hardly answer unless we’know the exact style of the garment to be made. Five yards will make a plain, short polonaise, and for the more elaborate styles from 8 to 12 yards can be used in the construction. ‘The best way for you to do is to get your pattern first, and then buy the material and trimming, for upon each of our patterns you will find an illustration of the garment as it looks when made and trimmed, full directions for putting it together, and the quantity of material necessary, also the number of yards of trimming. No mistake should be made in using these patterns for the directions given upon them are so definite that even a child should be able to follow them. j “Mrs. Ciara Ex B.’'~Make the cloak for your little boy of waterproof, pressed flannel or cloth. Ifyou make of warm material, such as beaver cloth, or some soft all wool cloth, make a double-breasted sack; for lighter goods, a sacque and cape will be the best. Pattern 739 is about as neat a style as we can have for a boy just commencing to walk. The price is 25 cts. A velvet cap with ear tabs Will look pretty, or you can get a felt hat, orturban. Make his best dress gabrielle or sack, if the material is while, if colored or plaided, a Scotch suit will be very warm and comfortable. Something new for boys of from one to four years of age is pattern No. 3,533, price 25 cents. - The suit consists of skirt, underwaist, and a short half-fitting jacket. The latter has a dart in front, the portion back of the dart being cut deeper to form a tab. The coat sleeves have cuffs to correspond with the collar. The fronts are decor- ated with rounding pockets and the garment closes with buttons and loops of cord. The underwaist is plain and closed. at the back. The skirtisin two pieces, the front gore being plain and attached at each side in an ordinary seam, While the plaited piece consists of a long straight strip wilh the plaits all laid one way. The suit can be made of almost any kind of fabric. It is Ree tear diag- onal stipe, trimmed with star braid. A white Marseilles suit may be trimmed with black velvet or left plain, “Maria T.’’—Get a French felt hat, have the wide rim rolled at the side, bound with velvet, and faced under- neath with crimson silk; surround the crown with highly- tinted Autumn leaves in & wreath and have a full ostrich tip confined at tle back under a veivet bow, floating gracefully under the curvature of the rim. “Mrs, Jane Gorham.’—It is quite remarkable that the present styles are alike adopted by both young and old, the gir! of eight years of age being dressed like its grand- mother of forty, Still there are ladies who, like yourself, desire something rather plainer than the average fashion- able garment, and for ali such we will ehdeavor to give a few quiet designs. Among them is a basque peculiarly adapted to the completion of a neat suit for middle-aged ladies. The front is deep and rounded, and is adjusted by darts, and cross-back-seam, while the back is fitted by a center-seam and side-backs. Our model was made of drap d’ete, and trimmed with silk and velours. A wide band of velours, edged with a doubie piping of silk, trims the skirt, and passiug about the neck ontlines a deeply- pointed collar. The neck is further ornamented by a lace ruffle inside a silk piping. The stylish-looking coat-sleeve is quite small at the wrist, and is encircled by two bands matching that of the skirt. The front closes its full depth with bound button-holes and velours-covered buttons, aud afancy clasp secures the closing atthe throat. Black cashmere made up as described and trimmed with a bias band of velvet will make a stylish finish for a suit of the They allwuss travel in cougles, man and wife, or sweetheart = lover, idon’t know whitn, and never are seen 10 foot asun- er. . std They are az free from guile az a yung oyster; they are too in- nocent to liv in this worid, andiadvise them all to quit it the fust good chance they kan git. The turtle duvs are aliwuss making luv to each other, and if thare iz haff the fun iu sparking that they say thare iz theze duvs are az phull ov bliss az they kan hold. , Az kruel az man iz bi natur and edukashun, az fond az he iz oy destruckshun, inever knu one kold-hearted enuff to harm a sure duy, andi thank: them all for this tender streak in their souls. : J Enny man who would deliberately load up a gun and shoota turtle duy would fire upon an infant in the kradle. _... THE: KATYDID, The katydid iza kind ov green grasshopper about 2 inches in length, aud az phullov ? usick az a hand-saw that iz being | filed. During the month ov August.they are in the hight ov their glory, and sitting on the limbs ov the trees fill heaven and earth with their melody. | ‘ : _ They sing from sunsett until half-past four o’clock in the morn- ing, and then hang up their fiddles. * ae weet Their song iz ot oral, but instrumental, and iz did bi rubbing their wings together. The song that they sing izslitely monotonous, after -hearing 500 ov themi say for six hours konsekatiff. “Katy did,” yu feel inklined to ask «them politely to change the tune and senti- m em ett ent. I would not banish one single song from this world; i would rather hay everything set to musik, let the ofvl bellow, the buil- frog bawl and the parrot skream, butiwould simply suggest that if the katydids would be kind enuff to variagate—say once a week—with ‘“Jordatvis a hard road to travel! beleab,” or the “Star-Spangled Banner,” they would do me a lasting favor. Ionly make this suggestion out ov the goodness oy mi heart and hope the katydids won’t get mad about it and quit singing altogether. ae ; THE CROW. I hav written sevral 7. popular obituary notisses ov the crow, but find thatihav stated a deal about them that wasn’t true, and hav lett unsung a good deal that waz so. , _The crow, phisikally considered, iz about the size ov. two wild pigeons and iz az blak and brilliant az a piece oy pattent leather, They are az cunning az @ tombs lawyer, aud just about az mutch ov a ded beat. — Yu kant ketch oneinatrap, and they will smell a gun, that ain’t even loaded, klear akrost a 200 aker farm. Morally konsidered, the crow haz areputashun that iz badly out ov repair, but for the korm and other cereals they steal they make amends by the awful they consume. Departed hore, extinkt sheep, ded cow, and destroyed pig are Soete the awful chat te crow are sweet upon, and save the un- ertakers menny a poor job. Yung crow are handy to tame and edukate, but after yu hav got him thoroly edukated it will take two smart constables to keep him out ov mischief. They will steal just-for the excitement ov the thing, i hay known them to steal an old horse shu, that want worth enny thing, and lug it away down to the lower eud ov the garden. A tame crow and a tame injun may be a moral triumph on the face ov it, but when yu cum to examine the other side ovit, yu wiil find yu have drawed a blank. i If all the crows and injuns in the world were tame and edukated yu could bid farewell to all other employments, and spend all yure time, and tallents, watching and studdying the kKussid krit- ters. It ae mistake to meddle with instinkts ov enny kind, yu kant eradikate them, and yu kant improve them without making them wuss, re learned or litterary fellow will tell yu this, if yu ask him politely. : Crows assemble in the fall oy the year, ten thousands ov them in council, and appoint their officers and deakons for the follow- ing year. o 4? this re caukuss rezolushuns are passed, daming the farm- ers up-hill and down for puttiag up skare-crows in the kKorn-flelds, plans are laid for future stealing, and each crow swopping wives with another crow, the grand convenshun bursts, and the crows fily away. Thus ends this crownollogy. . THE CANARY BIRD. The canary bird iz a little yellow pi@kage of grace, and buty, and musik combined, and are az [full ov song az the fust tin w Ssellaboy baz , They are born, liv, and die in a cage prizon, bat still they sing all the time. If yu think they are kontented and happy, just leave the cage door open, and see how quick they will-bid yu adew. God never made anything yet to be happy in a cage. If ihad the power I would lift the latch to every cage in the world, and let bird, beast and imfonster go free. Man iz the only cage animal thare 1z, and he ought to be ashamed, and iz to blame for the fakt. 4 THE HUNNY BEE. * The hunny bee iz about 10 times the size ov the hous fily—i never meazured them—they won't stand still long enuff, but i think i hav got their dimenshuns about right. lf ihay made’a blunder in this matter‘i am reddy to repent and be forgiven for it. _ They are az bizzy az a type-setter on the NEw YORK WEEKLY, in thoze countrys whare hunny iz skarse, but whare sweet meats are a drug they wont work at all. I dont kno az we kan blame them for this, for if beefsteak lay hot and well buttered bi the roadside all the time, and bivalves were running around on the haff shell, peppered and salted, ery- ing ‘‘Who'll eat me ?”? i would like to see the man yu could hire to thrash out rye that waz wet in the bundle for 10 shillings a ay. Hunny bees are bilt with a sting, which is quicker than a ghost when a good bizzness chance offers; byt i never knu one to use it just for the deviitry ov the thing. Theze little workers travel about five miles a day during the sweet seazon, and bring their hunny home stuk onto their legs. It thare iz a lazy one in the hive he gits lynched at once, Lynch law iz the hunny bee’s justiss. Man stole this code from the hunny bees, just az he haz stole pretty mutch everything else he haz got.. Killing oph the lazy may Jook a little tuff, but after ali thare iz sumthing like mercy 1n it, for it iz the only way known az yet to put an end to their torments. E Hunny bees hav a queen, but never a king, this iz a grate kom- pliment to the sex, and iz an argument for * Wimmin’s Rights,” which the beleavers in this doktering ate welkum to use without giving me kredit for it. The hunny bees are the only nation i kno ov who hay allways had a queen for their ruler, and who hay been more prosperous, and hav existed longer than enny people we Kno ov. same. Black silk, garnitured with lace and gimp is hand- some. Empress cloth will look well ornamented with a band of the material corded with silk; alpaca may be trimmed with a shirred ruffie; and serge bordered with worsted fringe, are all desirable materials. “Mrs, L. M.”—A becoming bonnet to nearly every face is made of white felt, and the rim, which is the widest at the front, is bent slightly toward the face and bound with velvet. The Grown is surrounded witha flat velvet band, overlaid nearly three-quarters of its length with a wreath of blossoms, and closed at the back with a handsome bow. A width of iilusion, three-and-a-half yards long, is thrown gracefully above the crown Lrimming and is con- fined at the side by a bouquet matching the flowers of the nh. : “Tallulah.’—Itis never any trouble tozanswer such questions as you ask, and even if our friends do not wish to inake purchases here it is well for them to be posted in regard to Brice. * We @an get you an opera, chain to cost from $80 to, $150.: Very: pretty ones. can be bought for $40 and $50: Neck chains and lockets, or crosses, cost jrom $25 to $75; very handsome ones range as high as $125. The jet necklaces’ come in all qualities and for all prices, say from $5 to $50. Wecan get very pretty ones for $8 and $10. ‘The rage for them will not last long, so we can scarcely advise our friends to go to much expense to purchase such ashort-lived accessory. Still we con- fess they are at present very stylish and dressy. The chain bracelets cost considerably more than the bands, and you cannot get even a pair of rather light ones for less than $35 or $40. Heavier ones cost from $75 to $200 a pair. Now about the “boy.’? By all means put him in short clothes atonce. In November you have Indian summer in your climate, and you can take advantage of those warm days and, change the clothes, for it will be cruel to keep tle little fellow in long, unwieldy garments until spring, and besides:ye cannot gain the strength he certainly will if his little legs are free. His little cousin of the Work-Box, who is seven days older than ‘‘Byron,’’ is already in short clothes, and has been for @ month, and she actually seems to appreciate her freedom, for she jumps and kicks as if she knew all aboutit. Never mind the “long, white cloak, embroidered; get some colored flannel, and makea or sacque, just long enough to cover baby’s feet, and have a cape to it, and it will an- -gwer every purpose, and be of far more service to you than the garment which can be so easily soiled. For short dresses make little saeques, or yokes, and full skirts. Such small children ought never to have belts, for it is impossible to tell what size tlie waists will be. “Angie B.”—A pretty way to arrange the hair is to part it in the middle, wave it slightly, and then draw it loosely back. Place a coronet braid across the head and support it by a Spanish comb; the back hair should be combed up and the ends formed into two loose, long finger puffs to fill the back opening of the comb. The short hair in the back of the neck is curled. Another way is to havea cable coil of soft hair with round sides, and filled in with a broken mass of short curls. In the center a Spanish comb may be worn. : “Florence Annie R..—Upon your pattern you will find full directions for -making and the ‘quantity of material you will require. Yes, your dress would be very hand- some trimmed as yousuggest. No, we have not seen one garnitured in exactly the same manner, but you could not have a more stylish skirt than ope made after your de- scription. “A Young Mother.’*—Sorry we cannot oblige in the mat- ter, which certainly seems small to you, but remember we send out thousands of patterns, and if we exchange for one we must for all, and we could not afford to employ hands forsuch a purpose. Your baby is just the right age to put in short clothes—six months old. By all means do so be- fore the cold weather comes on. You can put him in col- ored dresses, but don’t you think young babies look better in pure white. “Merino can be trimmed with braid, or em- broidered. For his head geta fur or knit worsted cap, with ear-tabs. We can get caps to costfrom $1.50 to $5. “Mrs, Jennie R.’’—Any pretty little white dress will be suitable for baby to wear to have her picture taken in. The only suggestion we can make is that you must not comb baby’s hair too smoothly on her little head, for it makes a much prettier picture to have the cbild’s hair a little rum- led. . “Texas Girl.!’—Trim the skirt of your black silk suit with narrow flounces. Make an overskirt and basque, and trim them with guipure lace and passementerie heading, or if you have enough silk you can trim with ruffles of the ma- terial. To arrange the hair, see answer to ‘‘Angie B,’’ Old ladies can wear cloaks, capes or shawls for outside gar- ments. Wecan get you a good long braid to cost any- where from $8 to $20. Straw, felt and velvet hats are most appropriate for this season. Almost any shape is fashionable, 80 you can try on the different styles and se- lect the most becoming. Yes, coronet fronts are quite as much in favor as ever. ‘‘“Medora.’’—Certainly, we will send yon any desired ar- ticle from a paper of pins to acarriage. Write direct to the NEw YORK WEEKLY Purchasing Agency. We are constantly filling orders, and were it not for want of space, we would publish some of our letters received in acknowl- cdgment of some purchases made byus. Itis very seldom we fail to give satisfaction. At any time we can serve you command us, “Lucy A. S..—We are sorry we cannot serve you in such a matter, but there is no demand for hair in New York. There isso much imported hair in the city which is really superior in length and color that no ene will buy the American hair, unless it happens to be exactly the 1 luy the hunny bees bekauze y are allwuss bizzy, and hav shade a customer wants, and that shade is notin the mer- chant’s stock. PASSING PARAGRAPHS. — The Kings County Grand Jury has reported the Pen- itentiary to be so excellent an institution that we might expect that people would throng the criminal courts and ask to be sent there. But the fact is, well as the Peniten- tiary is kept, everybody who stops there is very anxious lo get away. — One of the daily papers says that at a Central Park restaurant they charge $2.50 for three sandwiches, two cups of coffee, and a glass of milk. At this rate the park ought to be self-supporting. — A case for the Cruelty to Animals Society—shooting the bull’s eye at Creedmoor. — The Fitch-Sherman wedding at St. Aloysius’ Church, Washington, was the most sensational affair of the kind since the Thumb-Warren wedding at Grace Church, New York. — The new Arctic territory discovered by the Austrian explorers is called Francis Joseph Land. Settlers are not rushing to occupy it. — What becomes of all the people who can read books behind their backs blindfolded? As soon as they have traveled the rounds of the newspapers they disappear and read no more. The latest one is reported from Kins- man, Ohio. Another kinsman, her father, tells about her. H. D. Perkins is his name. j ings escape the lottery laws? Some of the cooks think there ought to be a training school for mistresses. — The heaviest score of the Irish team—their hotel bill. — A’High Church party—the builders of the St. Nicho- las Church at Hamburg. It is six feet higher than Stras- bourg Cathedral, and the highest in Europe. — The other Sunday, while all the Wall street bulls were at home where they could do no mischief, a herd of Texas bulls were let loose in New York. The daily of people would soon have set them wild. — The police object to wearing their uniform when off duty. If they always wear it they will be less likely to disgrace it. 7 — A fiitch of bacon—Shakespeare, according to the New York Herald. ty-two years of age, says that His hands are ‘empty, but clean.” Bt gsi ' — Fire Marshal Durkee, of San Francisco, has published some suggestions as to how people should act in case of fire. Among other things, he says, “Keep cool.’? That’ — A question for the Sportsmen’s Association: Is play- ing euchre for a turkey a violation of the game laws? _ United States 800 paper mills which produce $75,000,000 worth of paper per annum. The paper-money mill at Washington produces more than that in a few months, — An event in “high life’’-—the appearance in the city of St. Paul of ayoung man eighteen years old, who isseven feet long and four feet wide. ‘ — Captain Rogers, of Marshfield, Mass., “who drank from a pool in South Carolina during the war,” has had “an animal five inches long’’ taken from his stomach. Some captains, who drank from a glass during the war, had them bigger than that. — A cat show was recently held at the Crystal Palace. The cat-alogue contained 350 numbers. — The London water supply is over one hundred and. twenty-seven million gallons a day. All of it is filtered and a good deal of it adulterated—with whisky. — The only unpleasant prospect about Prospect Park— the tax-payers’ prospect of having to pay for it. — The advertisements announced that Weston was per- forming his ‘‘unparalleled feat.’» Certainly they were un- paralleled feet by the time he gave up. — A grim-visaged individual, wearing a long coat and . white cravat, called upon a Boston real estate agent, and informed him that it was his intention to speculate. He had found it hard to deal with men in such matters, and thought that widows usually sold their property on more favorable terms tothe purchaser. He asked the agent to give him a list of the farms offered for sale and owned by widows. The agent thinks that that clergyman would have no objection to marry a farm, and would consider a widow a trifling incumbrance. — Professor Swing has resigned his pastorate at Chica- go. The professor wanted more Swing than the old-fash- ioned Presbyterians would give him. ' Moulton made a “statement”? of him. — The Mrs. Oates Opera Company has been performing at the West. Itis suggested that Oates ought lo give a good deal of spirit to “‘The Bronze Horse.” ~ — Mile. Albani takes her name from the city of Albany, where she formerly dwelt, and is naturally regarded as a Capital singer. } — A member of the police force of New York is known as Daniel Webster. In respect to his name he ought to be a “great ex-pounder’—that is, if he ever was free with the club. ase — Aman was-brought up before Judge Bixby the other day charged with carrying brass knuckles. He ought to have been madea conductor with a punch-bell on the Third Avenue Railroad, where he cou'dn’t “knock down.” — The friends of Clara Perl consider her a gem of a singer. . car’ , — The,imprisonment of Count Von Armin suggests that he has been for some time a [Bis]marked man. — The Seventh Regiment recently celebrated its semi- centennial in brilliant style. It isa little more than half as old as the Fourth of July. ¢ — The prison at Long Branch was recently reported without a single occupant—a sure sign that the season was over. «- ins — Clubs are trumps in London just now. A newspaper correspondent says a new.one is organized nearly every day. nae — The skull of a human being was recently found near Osage Mission, Kansas, imbedded in @ solid rock. How did it get there ?—that’s the question. ve — The Chinese theater managers in San Franciscd ob- ject to the ordinance requiring places of amusement to close by midnight, The legitimate Celestial drama lasts fora week. They condensed it to suit the eon of the country, but they say it will be fatal to the ca of art to ring down the curtain before two or three o’clock in the morning. we ,i Great Sale of Trotting Stock, The admirers of trotting horses, or those who de- sire to purchase well-trained. stock, should nd the special sale by Mr. A. H. Taylor, on Wedne Oct, 28, at Central Valley, Orange Co., N. ¥.° that day will be sold, without reserve, a large num- ber of thoroughly trained horses, comprising Ham- bletonian stallions, brood mares, yearling stallions, by the renowned horse Florida (of which Mr. Tay- lor is the owner), as well as several promising colts, the get of such famous roadsters as Volunteer, Aberdeen, Edward Everett, American Star, Henry Clay, and other thoroughbreds, Mr. Taylor is an experienced horseman, and is admitted to be one of the best stock-raisers in the country; hence his sales are always well attended. A pleasant feature of these sales is the exchange of opinions on turf topics, by the old “sports who assemble around Mr, Taylor’s horsepitable board, to discuss the whole- caoet viands so generously dispensed by the genial ost. “) » nr r — Conundrum—How do the Industrial Exhibition draw- . — There jsa training school for cooks in New York. | papers called them mad buils. If they had been never , so tame, the uproar created at their heels by the crewds . — An example for the “unwashed: Kossuth, at seven-: depends upon how near you are to the fire. ti — A newspaper paragraph says that there are in the — Another lost little Ross boy—Ross. Raymond, since | | ata te ABE ind unt Rid alii . ONION EVERMORE ! BY MICHALL SCANLAN. {Written on reading an account of the Union and Confederate soldiers traternizing over the graves of their dead comrades.] We fly our banner to the breeze, The old flag of our land, We gather ’neath its sacred folds With ready heart and hand, We fling black hate unto the winds, As did cur sires of yore, Our motto “God and Liberty! And Union evermore!” Too long we’ve banished native love And nurtured foreign hate; Too long has Peace, a beggar, sued , At Freedom’s grim war gate— A Swing ope the temples of our hearts To Union as of yore, One God, one land, one starry flag Of freedom, evermore! We fought red fields of victory, Where brothers were the foes, We sowed black seeds of bitterness, And reaped our crop of woes. The dead have fraternized in love Upon the other shore; And by their sacred graves we swear “We're brothers evermore!” Where wild Missouri sweeps along In glory to the sea; Where Hudson rolls its silver tie, Less rugged but as free; When wild waves shake their foamy manes On gray New England’s shore— ~ We strike our hearts to liberty And Union evermore! Then fling aloft that starry flag, God bless its every fold, Who does not feel his soul leap out To see its stripes unrolled? Oh, by its treasured memories, And He whom we adore, We shall be true, dear flag, to you And freedom evermore! THE WICKEDEST Man in the Mines; oe OR, THE MYSTERY OF G0RMSBY RANCH. By Mariposa Weir. - [“Phe Wickedest Man,” was commenced in No. 50. Back nuin- be obtained from any News Agent in the United States. | CHAPTER V1IJ.—(CONTINUED.) The sound that elicited this exclamation was a peel of harsh Jaughter proceeding apparently from the gatekeep- r’s hut. ” “Phe Skeleton’s got company to-night,’ said the black- smith, ‘for lll qualify that there was at least two voices in that guffaw.” F As he spoke the sound of merriment was renewed, and afew seconds afterward a ciear, full voice was heard singing. The distance was not so great as torender it difficult for Seaswold and his companion to catch the words: “Och! whisky’s the life an’ the sow! of a man. Jil drink it an’ drink it as long as I can. Tf the says was made of it—good luck to the sight! It’s meself would be swimmin’ from mornin’ till night.” “Thavs McBinter,” said Gaston. ‘He and the Skeleton are takin’ advantage of the old man’s absence to havea carouse, and lreckon when them two choice spirits git together iv’ll be a despritone. Fortune couldn’t hey done es ee noon, wanting to get to the house.”? “The little old man and the tall woman ?”? “Yes; and she’s a charmer!” exclaimed the Skeleton, in an unctuous voice. ‘As to the old gentleman, it was as much as I could do to keep him out without breaking his neck. He was as ferocious as a cock-sparrow in the mat- ing season, and was bound to fightit out with me. If it hadn’‘t been for the woman I should have had to do him an injury.” “Gormsby must have known them at the East. pect they’re relatives of the girl” ‘And she’s sick,too, I understand,’’ said the Skeleton, with a peculiar inflection of the voice that made Seaswold start and shudder. “Yes; but with a difference. She’s pining for liberty, like a caged bird. She won’t be taken in the other way until she’s married the hunchback, and the estate is set- Ued up. At present the old man is anxious about her health, and is looking for some young girl as a compan- ion for her; some one full of animal spirits, and not old enowgh or smart enough to plot.” The conversation ceased, and the lights in the cabin were extinguished. A moment afterward the two men issued from the door opening upon the inside of the in- closure from the rear of the cabin. The one, tall beyond the normal stature of man, and attenuated to. such a de- I sus- he caught sight of them. They,were here again this after- matter. it.? Seaswold shook his companion’s hand with energy. ‘“You’re a noble fellow,’? he replied, ‘‘and are entitled to my full confidence. You shall haveit. You will then be satisfied that I have good reason and right to interest myself in what you call Gormsby’s mystery.” “T won’t say that I don’t feel any curosity about the bizness,’’ interrupted Gaston, ‘for the fact is that Ido. But I don’t want to pry into your secrets, or to make ita Stipilation that you must tell me anything you'd rather Say nothing about as the condition of my helpin’ you.’ ‘I think I understand you perfectly,’? returned Seas- woid. ‘But there is no reason why I should not explain to you the nature of my connection with the matter. In- deed I should have done so when the subject was up last night, had it not been for a certain morbid feeling which makes me averse to confidences of this sort. Besides, to speak out the plain, blunt truth, I was brought up in cer- tain narrow conventional notions which would have caused me to shriuk from the idea of making a confiden- tial friend of a man who toils with his hands for a subsis- tence. How silly those notions are, and how uureal the artificial distinctions they recognize, I never fully realized until I came to Qalifornia.”” You said you had, and I'ye took your word for since, I have persisted in the attempt to trace them, and it was not until a few weeks ago that I found that they were here in the neighborhood of Dicers’ Flat.*? “You have seefi Mrs. Dawne, the handsome lady who has been on the Flat for some weeks?’ said Gaston. “Does her face remind you of anything??? “Yes,” repiied Seaswold; ‘lam now Satisfied that she is the New York cousin of Alice Gormsby whom she came from Hudson to visit.’? “Well,” returned the blacksmith, ‘‘Lhere’s a certain look they have in common, though the one seems so sad and mournful-like, and the other has the air of a woman that never knowed sorrow or trouble. And now, Mr. Seaswold, I’ve got an jdee.”’ Seaswold did not reply, and Gaston proceeded: “It's that deserted, ghostly cabin yender thet puts it in- tomy head. It’s four year ago last spring sence the cry was spread that gold had been struck in the gulch over there in the rear of the place; and then it wasn’t a week before tt was all torn up and ruined. Now there ain’t any gold on Gormsby’s Ranch, unless maybe a quartz ledge or So on the rise back of the house. But that makes no dif- ference. We can jest set the rumor afloat that its been struck rich on the old man’s grounds, and a hundred Skeletons and McBiuters’ won’t stop the swarm of pros- Gaston laughed his peculiar Jaugh, but made no reply, and Seaswold proceeded: / Saved by Her Blood,.—The doctor, with staring eyes, was crying: “The mad dog! he’s tearing me to pieces !’’ pecters that’li overrun the ranch.” “Pye had the same notion myself,” said Seaswold, * 2S SSS] oe 6S SS SS \ \ us & Kinder turn than this.’ After, a pause of a few seconds the singer struck up again with another stave of his bachanalian ditty. Then followed a colloquy, frequently interrupted by laughter. When the voices of the speakers were raised above the ordinary pitch, asin ultering an oath, or a lively excla- mation, the two listeners could catch the words, But this was all. : é ; “are you much of an Injun? asked Gaston of his com- nion. eer think I’m Indian enough,” answered the other, ‘to make an advance upon the cabin yonder, and get within earshot without giving the alarm, and that’s what I mean todo, I have a notion that the taik of those two ruffians over their drink might contain something that would in- terest me.’’ “{ was thinking the same,” said the blacksmith. | “There’s the moon jest touching the rim of the mountain. A winute more and she’ll be out of sight; then we’ll scout up to the cabin.” Gaston examined the caps of his revolver, and no more was said by either until the moon had disappeared. Then the two proceeded with the utmost caution toward the hut. It stood at the edge of the trail and was set imto the fence in such a manner that one-half of it was within the enclosure, while the other half projected beyond it. There were two doors, one in that portion included by the fence, the other just outside thefence. In the front of the structure, that is the side toward the road or trail, short, stout, well-conditioned, and with a cynical “leer ir- radiating his strong and sensual features, followed close in the track of the Skeleton. As soon as this curious pair had gained the distance of twenty yards from the cabin, Gaston and his companion scaled the fence ana cautiously followed in their footsteps. Five minutes’ walk brought them to the brink of a ravine skirted by a dense growth of oaks, buckeyes, manzinita, and madrono. Through the bottom of the canyon tinkled a little stream, here whispering softly as it made its way through a bed of juxuriant, huge-frouded ferns, and here laug gleefully as it precipitated itself from level to level in a series of miniature waterfalls, —- On an open space beside the brook a grave had been dug, and on the mound of earth thrown up beside it the Skeleton placed his lantern. He then produced a flask contents offered it to his companion, who declined it. “The sooner we get through with the job the better,’ said the Skeleton; “‘itisn’t such an agreeable one that I want to linger over it.’? ; a. : “Well, then,’ said McBinter, “help me bring the cada-., ver. It’s too heavy a load for one.” So saying he led the way to a thicket a few paces dis- tant, from which the two returned bearing between them something enveloped in a coarse blue blanket. there was no door, and no window except an aperture eight feet from the ground, that by its size and shape sug- gested the idea of the loophole of some backwoods for- tress. The larger windows by which the cabin was lighted were all in the rear, or those portions of the sides that wereinside the fence. One of these side windows was open, and from the angie formed by the fence and the side of the house projecting beyond it into the road, the two exvesdroppers could hear every word spoken within, though the character of the conversation seemed to have changed, and the voices of the interlocutors had sunk to agraye colloquial pitch, as if for the moment they were engaged with some serious subject. i “Gome, Mac, there’s no use of any nonsense with me, you know. How do you suppose it was done?’ The voice was most peculiar. It was one of those harsh and sinister ones suggestive of cruelty and authority, that strike terror into prisoners, that are capable of over- whelming the innocent with the terrors of guilt, and of eons accused Frans into the confession of crimes which Whey never Committed. “How it was done?? answered another voice, smooth and insindating, with a tonch of jatent drollery in it, and barely a sufficient trace of the brogue to indicate the Mi- jesian origin of thespeaker. ‘How it was done? Surely ye don’t mean to hint a suspicion that there was any foul practice in the case, or that she came to her end other- wise than bya naturaldeath? There was nothing sudden about it. lye been Jooking for the unfortunate creature’s decease any time these two mounths,”? The blacksmith saw-his companion start, and laid his hand upon his shoulder just in time to prevent an excla- _Mation that would have betrayed them, “Your looks and your tones mock your words,’ said the Skeleton. ‘Whata queer contradiction you are! No wonder you couldn’t succeed asa Jesuit. You mock every one, including yourself. Youlie, and proclaim that you are lying in every turn of your eye and every line of your face; and you tell the truth in such a manner that every one believes you are lying.” ’ “Youre right,” returned the other. ‘The difficulty is that I never could be serious. I’m Loo healthy for it. yu admirari is not only my creed but my nature, and it makes me as incapable of reverence and fear as of won- der. The grown man whio can feel either is morbid some- where, in nerves or brain. But this is odd talk for the pair of us. Shall I give you another song, or will you have a prayer for the good of your soul?’’ and he com- menced chanting or intoning a Latin. prayer, imitating the clerical monotone so perfectly, though with just enough of exaggeration to produce an indescribably ludi- crous effect, that his grim companion burst into an un- controllabie fit of dissonant laughter. “Save your prayers for the present,’ said the skeleton, “and patter them over the grave. Halal And the fools call him the Wickedest Man in the Mines! I know aman (if he isn’t the devil) who has a better be to the title.’ “You flatter me,”? said McBinter; ‘‘and yet l’m not so modest as altogether to deny the justice of the compli- ment. Brains should count for something, our friend iss ng of a bungler.’? : now thatthe moon’s down,’ said the Skeleton, re yas well attend to our little job. Where is the the chapparal within a half-dozen yards of the hole,” said the other. “There is no danger of any of those greasers being prowling around?” - “No; lve taken eare that they should jiave a powerful allowance of whisky, and they’re all royally drunk by this time,?? ifita S ; ae did the old man want to put her out of the way or a 4 “She was getting too much attached to the girl. He suspected that she was planning an escape,”’ “If he suspected that, no wonder that her health failed,’? said the Skeleton, with a laugh that chilled the blood of the listeners; ‘‘and no wonder her case proved incurable.’? X : “As the old mam is situated,” answered Mc Binter. ‘there was no other course for him. If she was plotting against him in the citadel, she was smart enough to be dangerous. As to sending her out into the world, know-, ing what she did, that would be certain ruin.”’ an 80 the only thing left was to send her to a better world. “Exactly. Self-protection is the first law of nature.”? “What's the use of this secrecy? Why not let it be known that she had taken sick and died ?”” “Tug one of the old man’s idiosyncracies. He,gave out that é had gone to Gomorrah to be doctored and nursed. We don’t waut to have the people know that she died on the place, or that she is dead at all. There might be some risk Of a post-mortem. By the way, have ye an idea what it is that has started him on this last debauch ?”” “No; unless it’s those people who have been spying about the place Jately. He was a good deal shaken when ‘“Lev’s drop her in and have done with it,’? said the Skeleton, as his companion made 2 movement to deposit the burden beside the grave. * so,’ returned McBinter. to le an old sweetheartinto this hole without one farewell look at her face, albeit itis not as prety a face to look upon as when our loves were young. ‘ The Skeleton growled his disyust at this delay, but yielded to the whim of the other, who unfolded the blank- -et.and exposed the face of the corpse. McBinter took the lantern and threw its light upon the features. “How soon these Mexican women grow old when they once begin to age,” he said. ‘Four years ago she was as slim as a birch, and hadn’t a wrinkle in her face. Now she’s positively obese, and her features are gross. How bright those heavy eyes were once, and how sweetly those faded lips could kiss! iss?—faugh! I’ve seen enough. Her human uses are done, and her best use now is to nourish the roots of the manzanitas. ‘Little Pajariba’ I used to call her, and she must weigh near two hundred, Good-by, Riba! go enrich the forest soil, and Jend a bright- er red to the bark, a livelier green to the leaf of thy fa- vorite tree.” Ashe spoke he covered the face, and with a vigorous push rolled the body into the grave, The action was so sudden that the Skeleton started at the heavy thud of the corpse striking the bottom of the “D’ye think Pm going pit. g “Where's the ‘shovel ??? he asked, after a few Seconds’ ause. we “In the bushes yonder,” said McBinter, “but hold; I'll do that office myself;’? and fetching ashovel from the thicket, he commenced filling the grave, while his com- panion produced his pipe, and having filled and lighted it, looked on, smoking in meditative silence. CHAPTER IX. SEASWOLD UNBOSOMS HIMSELF, AND TELLS HIS STORY TO THE BLACKSMITH. McBinter having filled up the grave d trodden it smooth, scattered the superfluous ear among the neighboring thickets, and then strewed it with leaves and o rns, j “That’s well,’’ said the Skeleton, witha hideous laugh; “the Greasers have a notion thatthe ‘Tan is in the habit of burying treasure about the rangh, and if they should notice any traces of your work, they would besure to play the resurrectionist, without meaning it.’ At this moment the deep, strong ying of a dog was heard from the direction of the house. None but an ani- mal of uncommon size and pliysic wer could have produced so formidable asound. |» —_ “There must be something wrong,’’ said McBinter. “That is Old Terror’s bark, and he Hever gives voice ln the premises.”? vig that way unless there are intruders o “Go and let him loose, then,’ said the Skeleton. will fare hard with the trespassers if the big savage gets after ne, I would sooner fight a grizzly than that hound. i BS iui McBinter took the lantern, and, followed by the Skele- ton, walked off at a rapid pace toward the house. . “Tvs time for us tobe going,’? said Gaston. “They'll probably let loose the dogs after us.”’ ; “Very well,’ returned Seaswold, “let ihem come!’ “You’re not afraid e dogs,’ said the blacksmith, “neither am I; but if w ve an excitement here to-night and put them on their rd, it willinterfere with our operations in future. It alm’t our policy to make these fellows suspicious,? _- “You are right,” Assented Seaswold,; and the two started off toward the road, They were-nomé too soon in their retreat. Just as they were Climbing the fence, an enormous hound, followed by several d of smaller size, burst from the fringe of chaparal tint ‘concealed the spot where the Mexican woman had been buried, and rushed toward them, bark- ing furiously. “We're in big luck,’’? said the blacksmith, as they drop the road and took up their way toward the Flat ataround pace, “If we had had to kill the dogs, the thing wouldn’t hey blown over for a month; as it is, these fellows will think it’s nothing but a false alarm.”’ Whien they reached the spot where the deserted cabin of the ruined ranchero looked gloomily down upon them from’ its stilts, like some great spider, the blacksmith paused and seated himseif upon a boulder beside the trail. “Let us rest here a minute,’’ he said. Seaswold, without replying, took a place near him. He perceived from his companion’s manner that he had some- thing to say which he considered important to be said. “Mr. Seaswold,’’ said Gaston, after a brief silence, and speaking with more seriousness of Inanner than was usnal with him, ‘so far I have asked you no questions, and you have given me no explanations, I said I would help you if you had apy Jegitymit call to meddle with this gree as to suggest most palpably the appropriateness of| ‘The girl whom Gormbsy detains yonder, sub ected to his popular nickname, carried adark lantern. The other, from his coat pocket, and haying taken a draught of its. unlawful restraint, is related to me by blood. e were playmates as children, and grew up together. When 1 ‘was eighteen, and she a few years younger, we fancied Bhat we were in love, and actually had a sort of engage- ent of marriage. She was left an orphan at the age of sixteen, with no near relative except a female cousin not much older than herself, and Gormsby, who is her uncle. He was named as her guardian in her father’s will.?? “Her father, I should say, must hev been a smart judge of humar natur,”’ interrupted the blacksmith. ‘It’s like appinting a hungry wolf guardeen over a fat lamb.” “Her father and Gormsby were brothers,’? resumed Seaswold. ‘But they separated and went different ways when they were young men. msby went South, lived awhile in New Orleans; afterward ‘he went to Galveston, and brought up in California. But he always ybup a correspondence with his brother, and his letters probably produced a much better impression than his personal presence would have done, for le is full of crast and Pn i Ae i pee “ Gormsby’s su entaction in the matter. Within six yeeks alter his er’s death he made his appearance in Hudson, the town in which he had lived, and imme- diately assumed charg: his niece and the business of the estate. He concei a violent dislike toward me, and gradually put an end to the intimacy that had existed since childhood between my cousin, as I had been ac- customed to call her—she is in fact a second cousin—and myself. He removed. her to a country seat, some seven miles from the town, where he kept her in a seclusion al- most as strict as that in which she now lives. About two months after his arrival from California I received a letter from my cousin, which she managed to have conveyed to me by bribing a servant. The tone of it was sad, and it seemed clear that she was not only unhappy, but that she stood in mortal fear of her guardian, and even entertain- ed dark suspicions of some evil purpose of his with refer- ence to her. She wrote among other things that he lad been endeavoring to persuade her to visit Cali- fornia with him, remain: only long enough to enable him to settle ‘up hig affairs there, when he would return with her, This proposition she had steadily refused. ‘Ina few days,’? she added, (‘she was to go to New York with him, accompanied by a female servant, to visit the cousin I have mentioned, who had recently been married and was keeping housein that city. At the close she spoke in such a foreboding way of this jour- ney that I resolved to go to New York by the same boat that took her, and without having any communication with her or Gormsby, tosee that she was taken to her cousin’s. For something in one or two of the expressions she used caused nie toinfer that she had a vague fear that her guardian had a plan to smuggle her off to Cali- fornia against her will. Accordingly, on the day that had been fixed for her journey I was in waiting at the steam- boat landing an hour before the departure of the Albany boat. A few minutes afterward acarriage drove to the landing, from which descended Gormsby. my cousin and her maid seryant. The party went aboard, and I fol- lowed them unnoticed. It wasa magnificent summer night, and I paced the promenade deck smoking my cigar and enjoying the beauty of the scenery until we passed West Point. Then I retired to my: stateroom for afew hours’ sleep. I Knew thatthe boat, unless there should be an accident, would. arrive at her landing in New York before daylight, and as the stoppage of the engines inva- riably awages Pas, Texpected to be up in time to watch the eee of my cousin and her guardian. I lay down in my berth without removing any portion of my cloth- ing, ino yr that I might lose no time on the arrival of the boat; But the excitement of my mind kept me wake- ful foralong while, and when at last I slept, my slum- bers were sound that when I awoke it was broad day- light, and I found that we had been at the pier for more than an hour, aud that a large portion of the passengers had already gone ashore. I was not long in ascertaining quae the party in which I was interested had been among he earliest to leave the boat. Though I knew the maiden name of the New York cousin whom Alice Gormsby was to visit, I did net know her husband’s name, and conse- quently had no means of tracing the persons I was in search of, Isaw from the papers that the Oalifornia steamer sailed the next day. I went on board an hour on. ap 7 © A “Yes, a very mubecquent at and that supplied the motive lance for the appearance of Alice or her guardian. Butl watched in vain. When the bell warned all but passen- gers ashore I was the last manto quitthe steamer. It was not until the next day that it occurred to me that Gormsby might have taken passage for California by sail- ing vessel. Looking over the advertising columns of the newspapers I saw the announcement of the sailing ofa clipper ship for San Francisco on that day. “On repairing to the office of the agent, I found that the vessel had sailed several hours before; and, upon fur- ther inquiry, I ascertained that three persons whose de- scription corresponded to that of Gormsby, his niece and the servant, were among the passengers. I was now sat- isfied that Alice’s foreboding had proved true, and that her guardian had by treachery or force carried her off to California, “But, as the clipper would not reach San Francisco until long after I, by taking the next steamer, could arrive there, I accordingly returned to Hudson and made my preparations for sailing for San Francisco in the steamer leaving New York on the Ist of the next month, being just fourteen days later than the sailing of the clipper. I embarked according tomy plan; but, although I had purchased a through-ticket, I found such a state of things existing on arriving at the Isthmus that I was delayed there a month betore securing passage on the other side. There were thousands of passengers with throughi-tickets waiting there for a chance to get a passage, the connec- tion on the Pacific side being imperfect. “While thus detained at Panamal was taken down with thefever. When at lengih I recovered, after a protracted illness, I was obliged to take passage for San Francisco on a sailing-vessel. I arrived there fifieen days after the clipper carrying Gormsby and his party had made the port, and all traces of them. were lost, The inquiries I instituted satisfied me that the persons I was in search 'of had left for some place in the Southern Mines, Ever id the girl's father leave any property”? asked Gas. | before the time of. sailing and watched with patient vigi- | ‘and in default of something better, I may try to work it.*? “The fact is,’? said Gaston, ‘‘thatin the early days the ground about Gormsby’s place was so well prospected that it might be hard to make the boys believe that there’s any gold there. But, if the game’s worth playing, there are Joafers enough ’round the Flat could be bought up for a ten dollar piece, and whisky free, to go onto the grounds with pick and spade just as ef they did believe it.” “One thing Iam fully resolved upon,’ said Seaswold, as they rose and resumed their walk toward the Fiat, “and that is that before the set of another sun I will see Alice Gormsby face to face, and hear her own story from her own lips? © 6-9 Gen ~ “Ohalk out your plan of the campaign,” said the black- smith, and you ken count on me as a raw recruit enlisted for the war.*’ The two bade each other good night at the blacksmith’s ~ With an agreement to meet at noon the following aes: 3 ; . (TO BE CONTINUED.) ——______ Saved by Her Blood; ‘OR, THE DUNGEON OF TREVYLIAN CASTLE. By Grace Gordon. {“Saved by Her Blood”? was commenced in No. 51. Back Nos. can be obtained of any News Agent in the United States.] CHAPTER Vil, A beautiful cottage, surrounded by a pleasure garden, rich in fruit and flowers, on the shore of the bay of Naples. The cottage belongs to the Count Ramouski;. and his wife and children, two lovely little girls of seven and eight years, are seated in the cool shade of a garden room, the windows of which are formed like glass doors, and open on a balcony raised a step or two above the closely- shaven lawn, which looks like a carpet of green velvet, in- terspersed with small flower plots, glowing in scarlet, pur- ple and orange below the morning sun. 4 The garden room, in which the countess sits, while her little girls play with their dolis, is furnished in pink and green brocade, over which, on the chairs and sofas, are drawn covers of thin, puffed muslin, making the whole: look as if a profusion of crushed roses formed the seats. The walls are literally covered by pictures of great beauty, and mirrors which reach from floor to ceiling. There is no carpet, but its place is beautifully supplied by a flooring of polished black oak, richly ornamented by elaborate patterns of arabesque, in straw-colored satin wood, The room is one where neither expense nor art have been spared to make it of perfect beauty; roses and richly- ly-tinted lorias, with their great, waxlike crimson and pink flowers growing on the balcony, lean in through the open windows, lavish of their perfume. The broad expanse of the beautiful bay of Naples lies in placid calm below the windows, from which you can see ‘the ships go out, and the ships come in,’ bearing the flags of all nations. . The beautiful Countess Ramouski sat looking up into her lord’s face, her dark hair and eyes setting off the bril- liant color of herlips and cheek, as they contrast well with the simplicity of her morning dress of white muslin. “IT am going from home to-day, Eugenie,’ said the count, “I have just received a letter from the Russian Ambassador; he wishes me to go with him; his secretary is ill, and he is at a loss fora linguist; soit is possible I may not return until to-morrow.’? “We will find the time long until you return,’’ was his wife’s reply. ‘‘Since we have been here your presence seems tobe as necessary to the children as to myself. You will be back to dinner to-morrow ?”? ‘tat present I see nothing which could prevent me.’? As he finished speaking he kissed his children, bidding them good-by, and taking his wife’s right hand in his own left, he led her out to the balcony, where, unconscious of re seen, he encircled her with his arm, kissing her ondly. A moment more and he was out.on the lawn, stooping down to pick a handful oflarge red roses, which he flung on the balcony at his wife’s feet, and crossing the lawn with long strides, he mounted his horse, which a servant held at the gate, Eugenie Ramouski did not see the red roses, nor the beloved one who having thrown them as a gage d’amour, was waving to her a parting hand as he took his horse’s bridle from the servant. , She stood looking, with staring eyes and ashen-pale cheek, ata large man, dressed in sailor’s clothes, who, with slow, lounging step, was passing the iron fence of the lawn. And whose brown, weather-beaten, yet hand- some face was turned to hers, his large, black eyes speak- ing to her own more eloquently than words ever spoke. As he lounged so leisurely by the garden rail he never for a second relaxed his gaze. “He holds her with his eye,” and, with the swiftness of lightning, it brought before her mental gaze all the thrilling joy, all the in- tense misery of the past. All the bright, warm sunshine, ay, and all the deep, dark shadows Of the old life were wrapped around her like a funeral pall. She stood looking at the man with parted lips and a heart which almost stayed its beating. ; He stopped opposite the baicony, leaned his arms on the top of the railing, and smiled!—the smile telling plain- ly of surprise, pleasure, recognition, lighting up the brown face, and striking dismay unutterable into the heart of the trembling woman to whom the smile was addressed. She closed her eyes for yelief from that scathing sight, er be leaned for suppor nst one of the pillars of the alcony. e. “Good heavens! can it be possible 9”? she mentally asked herself. ‘Does the sea give up its dead? It is most surely he, and what am 1? Oh! that there was some deep grave made for me, where I could lie down as dead and cold as stone.”’ Out atthe gate her husband saw her ashen face, the NO 17 x 3S 9- ) TE and leaping from his horse he was by her side in a mo- ment, “Eugenie, my love, what ails you?” he asked, in an anxious voice, as he put his arm-around her and disen- gaged her arms from encircling the pillar. Her reeling heart was sick and trembled with fear, which the presence of her husband, his touch, his words, only increased sevenfold. She opened her eyes, and involuntarily they sought the face of the man who siill leaned on the garden rail. He lifted his sailor hat as if to cool iis head. He held it up for 2 moment, and a profusion of almost black, half-curled- hair fell on his forehead, : The sight of the handsome, weather-beaten face, with its wealth ofdark hair, was more than she could bear, and sick with acertainty of thedoom which was hanging over her she sank almost fainting into her husband’s arms. Oourt Ramouski saw his wife’s eye as it sought the face of the man whom he now observed for the first time leaning on the garden rail, and at once attributing her agitation to fear of the stranger, he called out: ‘What do you want; fellow? Moveon.” °* At the same time he motioned to the servant who held his horse to see that the stranger did as he was bid. The servant walked the horse to where the man stood, spoke to him, was replied to, and spoke again. The man turned round, and sauntering in the same leisurely manner as he had approached the cottage, took the way leading to the beach. ~ : Had Count Ramouski seen the look of horror on the face of the servant—an old and faithful domestic, who had followed Eugenie from her Irish home—as he saw and spoke to the sailor, it would have given him food for’ thought until he reached the ambassador’s palace—per- haps excited a jealousy which only lay latent in his bosom, because there had never been the shadow of a cause to excite it. The count led his wife into the garden room, and placing her on a sofa, Said, with a smile: “How. silly of you, Eugenie, to be frightened by that man. Heisevidently a British sailor, and most likely stopped attracted by the flowers of his own country yor have so profusely decked the lawn with. He is a decent- looking ‘man, and certainly, for his timeof life, hasa handsome enough face to win him weleome from a coun- trywoman, instead of causing fear, I must go now, Bu- genia,” he continued, looking at his watch. “It will take hard riding for metoreach the palace in time, and you know the ambassador is a martinet.”? , He stooped over her and kissed her cheek as he spoke. Both cheek and lip were nearly as white as marble. She half-turned away her face, but lifting his hand to her lips. — covered it with kisses, as she did so saying to her- selfs *.- “Perhaps it is the last time Ishall touch this hand, which is dearer to me than life.” The count gone, his wife listened until the last sound of his horse’s hoofs had rung on the hard road, and then rising from the sofa she tottered to the window, looking out on the garden with wild eyes, dreading, yet desiring to see again the face’ which she feared had come to turn the glad stream of her life into the waters of Marah. He was there again, nearer the garden gate than before. * She knew he was looking for her, that he saw her face as it peered out between the Jace curtains by the glass door, He lifted his hat with a pleasant smile, asif he knew he was recognized and we!come, and then he opened the gate and sauntered up the drive. Eugenie crept with slow, unsteady step back to theseat she had just quitted, a dark. mist swimming before her eyes. She leaned down on the arm of the sofa, and hid her face in the pillows. GUL Her heart seemed as if dead within her bosom, her spirit powerless either to think or feel. Her flesh turned cold and crept as if a terror from the unseen world was upon her. “Madame,’? the word was spoken by Lovell, the old - domestic before mentioned. His voice was -low and subdued, as if he knew he was the bearer of evil tidings. Eugenie turned her head on the pillow so as to look in the man’s face, which was as pale and troubled as her - own, ; “Madame,” he repeated, ‘there i8 a man in thehall - who desires to see you.”? : Og “Who is he, Lovell ?*? 46.7). EGG The man did not answer for a second or two. The question was repeated, and thus urged he stammered out: . : “He says his name is Neville. He looks like @ brother of one who we know is dead long ago.”” “Lovell, he had no brother.” She spoke the words as if she were sealing her own doom, and then she added in a firmer voice, as if nerving herself to meet her fate: : - ‘Take the children from the room. And, Lovell,’’ she- added, “send him here, and wait outside the door, close to it, while he is here.’ 2 Eugenie raised her head from the pillows, and sitting with her cold hands clasped together awaited the man’s entrance, a8 a culprit may be supposed to await the flat” of the judge who he knows is to doom him to an ignomi- nious death, ; As thesallor entered and came toward her, her fram shook as if under the influence of an ague fit. He came up to where slesat, smiling with a pleased ee Puttlug his large, brown hand on her shoulder, he said: : phd» “Bugean.”? a : His voice trembled just a little, as if the word had brought with it a conviction that. perhaps he might ee be welcome. He spoke hier name with an effort, like ohe he was unaccustomed to, putting the acce wrong letter, She drew back from the touch of his ha haughty, indignant air. The voice reassured her. It did notsound in like the one she expected to hear, like life from the grave. She tried to still the be her heart and speak composediy as she asked: “Who is it that addresses the Countess Ramou ceremoniously ?”? : The man did not answer her, but tried totake] which she promptly resisted his doing. Hero happy home, it must be done—she would go, but she would go alone. This large, brown man was not the boy with the fair face she had loved so fondly, of whom she had dreamed for eight long years, all the time thinking he Jay beneath the billows of the deep sea. She summoned all her courage to her aid, and ina voice, the clearness of which astonished hersell, she said: “Who are you??? “fam your husband, Harry Neville,’’ was the reply. It was the answer she expected, what she had been waiting for him to say since the moment he entered the garden room. She had mentally repeated the words over and over. Yet now that they were said they made her blood run cold, her heart stop beating. She had, almost unknown to herself, all the time been hoping against her own conviction, that the strong-built, sun-burned man before her, so terribly like, yet so un- like the lithe, tall boy with his fair skin and girl-like com- plexion, whom she had loved so wildly more than twenty years ago, would say: “Tam Harry Neville’s cousin, or his uncle.’ But now the words she had repeated to herself so often Within the last half-hour were said—said in a hearty tone by that coarse, common-looking man, with his large, handseme face, and beautiful, Neville eyes. She could not answer. the man, could not even think. For some moments life was a biank. She was only con- scious that some terribie misfortune had fallen upon her, blotting out her name, her very existence from her pre- sent life. ; She was recalled to herself by the sailor taking her hana in his, saying: : “Poor Harry’s ring is still on your finger. Itold you before he put it on that it would never come off.” She drew her hand slowly away from his. If she had needed confirmation of his being the one he said he was she had it now. He had repeated words spoken more than twenty years before, with no one present but herself and child. : {i ‘Where is Harry ?’’) she asked in a choking voice. As she asked the question, the thoughts her own words ° suggested came as a drop of sweet comfort in the bitter ~ cup she was doomed to drink. . : She would have her boy to cling to; the one she had loved and thought of all those long past years, as the liv- ing think of and love the dead. She had never been able to love those golden-haired, blue-eyed Russian girls as she had loved that dark-eyed boy, and now that she would have him once more, her lot would not be all bitterness. She had plenty of time for thought. The man answered not, only sat looking on her. Her own eyes were fixed on the sapphire ring as it sparkled and shone on the hand she had withdrawn from the sailor almost at the same moment he touched it. ; * She raised her eyes to his face, and repeated her ques-° tion, with an impatient gesture: “Where is little Harry ?”? The answer came at last. ‘ y ‘‘Poor litte Harry was drowned in the Royal Albert.’’ It seemed as ifeach sentence the man spoke was des-’ tined to cast her deeper into the sea of despair, where his face had piunged her the first moment she looked upon it. Poor Eugenie! The lithe, bright sailor boy changed into a large, coarse, heavy man, whose very clothes spoke of low, common proclivities. Her baby boy who, for a few brief moments, she belieyed restored to: her, buried again in the deep sea. Her handsome Russian husband, whom she loved with a love ‘passing the love of wo-: man,” torn rudely from her heart, her fair girls following their grand, titled father, What was. there in.this world for her to see? The man put his hand again on her shoulder in a half- kindly way, asif he knew the woman shrank from his touch, as if he now realized that she was far above his rank, one 80 different from him in every way as to seem almost of a different order of being. She moved away from under his hand. She was almost callous as to what became of her; yet, even now, when she realized so fully how her fair lot was changed, she could not bear the contamination of that Jow man’s touch. The man saw that she loathed him, shrank from the touch of his hand as if it were pollution. He cared not for that, It might further the purpose for which he came, yet he tried in his coarse way to comfort her. “Don’t cry that way,’ said he; “I dare say you have other boys. I have lost more children than one myself.’ He spoke without thinking, and as soon as the words ba uttered, he would have recalled them were it possi- e. “What do you say of your other sons?!’ asked his com- neryous way in which she clupg to the pillar for support, panion, raising her face, and looking full into his eyes as she spoke, ath “7 said that some of my other children were dead,’’ was the reply, given in & hesitating manner, as if pedteared the impression his words were likely to make, 28 ; “You are married to another, then 2"? said Eugenie, scanning tis face with a Courage Surprising to herself as she spoke. i wel “I am,’? was the curt reply. dl “If 30, What brings you here?) Why did you not seek me out twenty years ago?’, “¥ Gid so. 1 have tried to find you out ever since the wreck of the Royal Albert, But it was iimpossible to hear anything of you.” ; “Why did you not go to Ireland, to Colambre Castle, whence you look me?” : ; “4 did, butit was them too Jate. You knowI had not too much money to spend in followiug you through the world. ILlost my lieutenancy by going to Cape Coast in Search of you while my ship was under orders for Ludia. I was then obliged to, ship on board a merchantman, aud it was only when l could find a ship bound for Gulway that i seized tire opportunity of running down to Coiambre to find out if you was there. When IL, went there the old louse was chock full of my own country foiks. A London brewer hua leased it for ten years, the old servants was all off, nobody Kuew nothing about you.”’ How terribly the low pliraseology in which his language Was couched grated ou the reflued aad sensitive eur Lo Which it was addressed. “And now,’ she asked, ‘“‘when you are married to another, aud that other woman has borae children to you, What is your purpose incoming here? You do not Waut two wives?” “No,” replied he, with perfect good humor, ‘‘butI like my-first wile the best. Besides, you are my wife, the other is Ouly an accident. I wouldu’t have married her oOuly L reckoned you was dead.”’ . The souud of his owu voice gave him courage, and he added: «J suppose you like your first husband best, too.” “If you are Harry Neville, which, against the evidence of my eyes and ears | fancy I must believe you are, you are so different {from your former, self that I would not. willingly touch your hand or exchange words with you; and as to living with you as your wife, 1 would not subinit toguch a humiliation for any thing this world has to offer.” Tue sailor’s black eyes flashed fire as she spoke, and he raised his cleuched hund as if he meant to strike her, but she neither quailed vor shrunk uuder the ordeal. He controlled his anger. It was not to obtaln posses- sion of the woman he came, but.to make merchandise of his right to her, and he answered in a tone of Couiposure;: “1 can force you to live with meif I please to do. so, for ou are my lawful, wedded wife. Here's our marriage ines that you sent from Kuglaud when Harry was born, for fear you might die aud the proof of his legitimacy would be lost,” He produced the paper as he spoke, taking it from an old, greasy-luokiug pocket-book, which he drew from his bosom. Sviled ag it was Hugenie recognized the pocket- book as one she had given to Harry Neville. a He noticed the look of recognition, and added: “have never parted from the certificate nor the pock- et-book with your picture init that yougaveme. Ifyou dislike me as you say, it would do me little good to force you to live with me; but if} give up my right to your per- Son, you must pay me for doing it,” ; The mau spoke coolly and deliberately, as if he were Making a bargain for a horse or a dog, “What do you mean by paying you? What do you want?” **] want you to give me a thousan’-pun note down on the nail.”? A thousand pounds! Hugenie’s heart sickened as she listened. Where was she to get a thousand pounds? Neville mistook her silence for surprise at the smallness of his demand, anu he hastily added: : “A thousan’-puu note down on the nail, and a hunder- ul note every year, sent regular to my cabin ashore. fhere’s the name of the place, aud my name, too It’s little enough hush: Mower Agr & countess to pay for leave to live in a fine house like this, instead of the flat above Jim Skelion’s beer shop.” As he spoke he threw down on the table a coarse card, on which was written, in a cramped hand: “Mr, Harry Neville, Esq., care of Jim Skelton, first door round the cormer to Hoar’s war!, Luunun.!? Her breath came faint aud quick, and her clieek red- dened with shame as slie looked on the card of the man Whom she had left her uucie’s house in ‘the miduight to follow, aud whom she had almost worshiped for five ' years, and she said, in her heart; “Would that t had gone down to the bottom of the sea in the Royal Albert wath my child!? <‘L have nol a thousand pounds in the world,” Eugenie said, with a look and voice of dismay. *Don’t tell me!’ he replied, in a serious, business-like way. “A lady with all Luis fiuery about her! Tuis wasn’t bought fur nothing.” ( Tie coltage and all it contains belongs to my hus- band. i am quite unable to give you money--I have noue.’ “Then, by the dickens! your man’ll have to-stump down the brass! Vil not muke a preseut of my wife to Count Ramouski, or any ether cussed Russian. If he Wants to keep you he’il have to pay for you, and it’s Gused cheap, too. A thousan’ pounds for a flue woman like you—dirt cheap, I cali it—and he has had you these ten or twelve years Jor nothing.” His.:unuer became so fainilar, his voice so boisterous and Gourse wit he spoke unrestrainedly in the low slaug O Wisc eB Was uccustumed, that if Kugenie lad pos- fi lie asked she Would lave freely given it to p for a day. : ; Bh aud chain cost five huudred pounds—vwill ” said Eugenie, taking off her walch set with petty littie thing. VU lake itin part-payment, SGunt, in money value, to & hundred pounds. . Bhe ‘Of this, aud how useless it was to offer theni thoug ee home, that the child had been playing in the outer corri- dor of his mother’s apartments in the evening; and when the woman who had charge of him went to put him to bed he was not to be found, nor was he seen again. Sir Raiph’s solution of the mystery, connected with the child’s disappearance from a corridor which had uo out- let save through the window of a locked room, Was that the child had fallen over aud been killed, and to save themselves from blame the servants had tied a stone round the neck of the body aud thrown it into the lake, He made no inquiry, he was pleased Lo be rid su quietly of one, who in the years to Come, it was possibie, might give him trouble. To Sir Ralpl’s importunities Ethel’s reply was always the same: “I will live and die here rather than in the queen’s pa- lace as your wile.”? “Well,” said Sir Ralph, ‘if you do not choose to be- come Lady of Trevylian Castle you may live for ninety years, but you shall die in this madhouse and be buried among the unclaimed dead. If you are not mad before five years pass over your head it will be the one instance in the history of a woman being able to resist the influ- ence of the mad men and mad women among whom she lives. With your nervous temperament, before a year you will be @ gibbering idiot, mouthing and mumbling among the rest, raving wilh freuzy and Kuockiag your head against the wall the half of your time, the other half crouching on the ground and wailing With maudlin sorrow,” “Even so, with such a fate before*me I will never bear your name, never with my will come near enough to you to permit of your touching my hand or polluting my cheek with your breath.”? “Bravely said,’ replied Sir Ralph, grinding his teeth as hespoke. ‘“We'llseeif youholduut, Do you kuow what Le Straps are? Those gentle measures which wise men like myself sometimes deem necessary to be taken wilh contumacious damsels.”? Ethel shuddered as the man spoke, she did not know exactly what he meant, but she had heard cries of agony since she had been an inmate of that house that told her there were instrumeuts of torlure there, the use of which would make the stoutest heart quail. It was but a second of weakness. She thought of her husband. “Since the moment she looked in Sir Ralph's eyes, a3 he came out from the spring panel, and noted the guilty, terrified look of his ashen face, she felt sure her husband lived, and in some mysterious manner connected with that panelin the wardrobe was in Sir Ralph’s power, Steeled and strengthened by these thoughts, which would have unsetiled the brain of many stronger than herself, she replied: “Thave prayed to the God whom I serve every night since i came here, and He is able to deliver me out of the burning, fiery fdrnace, and ‘though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him,’ , Sir Ralph sought an interview with the doctor to whom the place belonged. “I do not see any improvement in the temper of the young woman 1 gave into your cliarge; she has béen here now three weeks. 1 told you if you brouglit her to terms in that time I would give you five inndred pounds. Now look here, L'll tell you what, if you can get her to agree to what 1 propose by next week Dil make it a thousand, You had better put on a straight waistcoat, and give her a dose Of the lash to stir her up.’ The doctor was an unscrupulous man, but he was also acautious man. He kuew that such things had been found out before, and had been the ruin of the perpetra- tors. It was a great bribe. He would consult his wife, who was an able coadjutor. 2” * * * * % * “IT wish, Bessie, you would give me a glass of brandy. I feel desperate shaky and cold like.” Grindwoodto his helpmate, who, in the comfortable warmth and confusion of her own dirty parlor, sat darn- ing the docior’s gray worsted socks, while a stew of fresh beef and onions simmering on the fire gave a strong odor to the apartment, and at the same lime promise of a sav- ory supper. “Now, then,”’—Mrs. Grindwood always prefaced her words by now theu—‘you do look white ike. 1 hope Lo gracious you're not going to take oneo’ them tremens turns,” was the reply of his better-half, as she looked in- quiringly in the doctor's face. “Notlikely. I ain’t been drinkin’ hardly a drop for a month, ’cept what a man like me must drink in the way of business. That's capital stutf,’’? continued the doctor, smacking his lips; ‘‘it does me good already. Ye keep a good horn for yer own use, at auy rate.” “Now, then! shut up. Good or bad ye never lets the bottom o’ the bottle get dry afore ye turu up yer own little fiuger over’t twice for my once.” “I may take a glass more thau ordinary the night, if I the yellow-haired woman here three weeks ago.”’ “Now, then!’ replied the woman, in ‘a Sarcastic tone, ‘is that the blow of a fellow that promised you five hun- dred pounds if you would make the woman willing to marry him??? : eee “The very man,’ By this time the doctor had filled a short black pipé full of coarse tobacco, with which he was solacing himself, filling the room with its fumes, while he sat just in front of tlie fire, his heels resting on the mantel-sheif. “Now, then,” said the woman, layiug down the gray, worsted sock in herjap and looking at her husband with a grave expression, as if sie doubted his sanity, “ye’re easy made believe. How can you be sure He's got five hundred pence to give? There’s more wind than wor- ship in your long-legged lubber.” ¥ “f Know he’s paid me up to the mark already, and ifI try the straps and lash her up a bit he’ll nave Lo pay the money down afore the work’s done,”’ ; tomarry her Jd never thought o’ mentiouin’ sicha To night, and give her a touch or two just for a taste o° what-the soldiers get when they desert, and tell her if _Way. The words were ee late in the evening by Doctor 1 close wi’ the offer I got from the gentleman that brought > late, from bei “Maybe ye could, but he would only have to blow his Whistle, and all thie bulldogs would be ou you in five mninutes.”? “if the bulldogs are worth the name of men, they’il help:me to keep the old scoundrel from lashing a woman, aud such a quiet creature that never speaks a word, and 80 pretty, with her fair hair.” o Tne young man struggied to free himself, but the girl clung lo him persistently. “Lom, Tom,’’ urged she, ‘don’t go now. It takes quite a While to pul On Lhe SLraps; and he’s drunk, aud muybe he’tl not be able to fasten tuem., At any rate, he’s not at ler Gell yet. Lleur to his feet; he’s at the back of the house yet. “The old villain! I’ll leave this house to-morrow, and Ili go up to Loudon and inform on him. I would have left before now aud informed on him, only that ne was your father; I’ve seen enough of his ways,” ‘He's not my father, Tom,” said the girl, inan agitated voice. “Old mammy, who died this morning, told me he’s not. My mother was sent here by a man who said he was her brother, and the doctor used her awful ill, and she died the day I was born, and she gave this ring to inanimy, aud mammy Kept it ou a string round her neck for fear any One would see it, aud she gave it to me this norning.’? As Fan spoke she showed the young man a broad gold ring, tied to a faded piece of ribbon, which she took from her boson, : “Oh, T'om,’? she continued, with a little sob, “old mammy told me such terrible things they did, the doctor aud his wife both, to my mother. Dll go away with you awuy time now, and be giad to go.” ; “Tl go Lo-inorrowW; and an hour after Ill come back or——”’ A loud sound as of some heavy body dashed on the floor, accompanied by smothered cries of terror, interrupted the young Man, Who at once started off in the direction from Which the sounds came, Lhe girl following, but keeping at a little distance on the side of the passage where the light from the weak night lamps fell dimmest. Directed by the cries, Tom entered the passage tothe cell where Ethel was confiued. The door was wide epen, the brass Caudlestick, with the candle flaring and gutter- ing, with a long, black-burut wick, placed in the door- y Inside he beheld the doctor curled up in one corner of the cell, with distended nostrils aud staring eyes, wild with dread, crying out in low, muttered tones, as if afraid of being heard: “The mad dog! the mad dog! he’s tearing me to pieces.’’ (TO BE CONTINUED.) A. Mad Marriage. “SUCH A MAD MARRIAGE NEVER WAS BEFORE.” ’ Taming of the Shrew’ : By Mrs. May Agnes Fleming, Author of WEDDED, YET NO WIFE, A WON- DERFUL WOMAN, A TERRIBLE-SECRET, NORINE’S REVENGE, ete., ete. [A Mad Marriage” was commenced in No. 39. Back Nos, can be had of News Dealers iu the United States and the Canadas. ] PART THIRD. CHAPTER 1.—(CoNTINUED.) She sits alone this evening as usual—she is always alone now. She accepts no invitations— she receives no visitors. But there is a visitor, for her to-night, however, a tall gentleman, at whom Marie, the maid, casts glances of admi- ration as she nounces him. Crystal rises bewildered, from ie window—she has not caught the name. Under the light of the chandelier her visitor stands, and a great cry of amaze and de- light fills the [Clie “Terry!” shecries; “oh, Terry! Terry!” She rushes forward, and fairly flings her arms around his neck. She is so utterly lonely, so homesick and desolate, poor child,and Terry is the big brother who has always been so good to her—nothing else. : His face flushes under the swift caress. Then she recollects herself, and lets him go, and puts back her loose, falling hair in blushing confusion, “I—_it was so sudden, and I—I am so glad to see a face from home! Sit down, Terry. When did you come, and how are they all?” er fingers lace and unlace themselves nervous- ly. Her lips tremble like the lips of a child about to cry. She has grown nervous and hysterical of i so much alone with her misery, and the sightof Terry has unnerved her. “All well,” ‘he answers cheerily; “at least I’ve not been dewn at the Vicarage, but I hada letter trom Lindaa week ago. I told them I was going to cross over and look you up, and they sent no end of love and all that.” Then there isa pauge—a painful one. Thecolor «es THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #e— ‘house with his glass—she shrinks tremblingly farther from sight. Terry, too, draws back—Terry, whose face Wears a look Crystal has never seen it wear before. The curtain rises onthe second act. Lord Dynely's doubie-barrels turn from the people to the players. She is on the stage once more—his opera-glass devours her. He lies back and stares immovably all through the act, When at its close ioud plaudits rivg through the house, lis primrose-kidded hands applaud tothe echo. She comes—floral showers, aS uSual, rain upon her. Crystal does not look at her now—her fascinated eyes are riveted upou her husbund. Shesees him lean forward, a smile on his handsome, excited, flushed face—sees him take a little bouquet of fairy roses and geranium leaves from his bullton-hole and fliugil tothe actress, Crystal gives i little gasping cry of sheer physical pain as she sees, She formed that litule bouquet—she pinned it into liis buttun- hole as she kissed hiin good-by four hours ago. And now the actress lifts it—lifigit from amid hosts of others, presses it to her lips—flashes one lightning glance at the fair-haired Englisiiman in the box above, and disappears, “You stand well with the Felicia, Dynely,” one of the party, a compatriot of Eric’s, says, with aloud laugh. ‘She selects your bouquet from all that pyramid. Lucky beggar! We poor devils stand no chance against such a curled darling of the gods.” The third act finishes—the golden witch dies at the stake, singing her wondrous funeral song. The play is over, ‘And I'd’ like to be the one to fire the fagots, by-—,”” Terry grinds out between his set teeth. ‘hen he leans over and speaks to his companion. ‘Are you tired, Crys- tal? You look pale,’ he says—so gently he says it. She is more than pale; ler very lips are colorless; but she lifts her grateful, hopeless eyes, and repeats the old, foolish formula: “On, no, thank you.” ; “The ‘Golden Witcel’ is finished. There is a grand new ballet—do you care to wait to see it?’ he asks again. “T will wait, Terry, if you please.” ; She does not care for the ballet; she will not see it at all, very likely; but Eric is yonder—her Eric—her lius- band—her lost darling; and while she can sit and watch him, this place is betler than any other in Paris, But presently Eric gets up, leaves his box, and goes away. There is rather a long interval belore the ballet. People chat, and flirt, and laugh, and discuss the play aud Felicia, and presently there isastir, aud a bustle, aud a sensation amid them all. Every glass in the house turns to one box as the cur- tain rises and the great new ballet begius. Terry and Crystal look, too. : In that stage-box the star of the night sils. Madame Felicia, iu elegant full dress, ablaze with diamonds, lies back in her ciair, wielding wu fan with the grace of a Cas- tillian donna, and listening, with a smile on her perfect, lips, to the whispered words of the man who bends over her. He stoops so low that his blonde hair mingies with her jetty tresses. The little knot of fairy roses nestle in these same ebon locks; and the tall cavalier who bends SO Close, so devotedly, is Eric, Lord Dynely. Crystal can bear no more. With a great sob, she turns to Dénnison, and holds out her hands. ~ “Oh, Terry,’? the poor child says, “take me home!’! He does not speak a word. Herises, wraps her cloak around her, draws her hand within his arm, and leads her out of the theater. In ‘the fiacre she falls back iu a corner and hides her face from the pitiless giare of the streets. No word is spoken all the Way—what is to be said? Both know the worst No man can give this crushed heart comfort now. ‘ He conducts her to her own door, still dead silent. There he pauses, takes both her hands and holds them iu his stroug, frieudly clasp, while he looks down in the drooping, heart-broken face.” “Keep up heart, little Crystal,’? he says; ‘I'l fetch Eric home in an hour.’? She lays her cold cheek down for a second on the warm, true hands. “Dear old Terry!’ she says, softly. Then he lets her go, aud the velvet-hung door closes behind her. CHAPTER II. “LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI.” And this is howit has ended.- Only five weeks married—five weeks, and he has wearied of her al- ready—a newer, more brilliant beauty has won him from her side. Terry has known it would come— known it from the first, but not so soon—good Hea- ven! not so soon. He takes his way into the street, the hottest, flercest wrath he has ever felt against any human being, burning in his heart against Bric Dynely. Howshe has changed—what a pale shadow of the lovely, happy fate she took to the altar last New Year’s day. hat a pitiful, crushed, heart- broken look the sweet, childish eyes wear. If she could have loved him—if he could have won her—if Eric had never come between them, how happy he could have made her! He would have made her life so blessed, she would have been all his own in time, beyond the. power of any man to come between them, With asort of groan he breaks off. His she is not, his she can never be. Eric must return to her or she wiil die—the whole story is told in that. ““He shall return to her,” T says inwardly, setting his teeth, ‘tor I will know the reason why.” He does not pause a moment—he hurries at once to the theater. The ballet. is but just ended—the has faded out of her face, and it looks bluish white against the crimsone#l, velvet back of Se hair. Good heavens! ‘Terry thinks, with a thrill of ain and anger, how changed she is! how thin, “Bric is well, T hope?” wil “Oh Seach “Is Eric not at home?” he ventures after that people are pouring forth, but nowhere among them does he see Eric. At length in the crowd he espies a man he knows, one of the four who first entered tomary curt greeting, “Show are you?” Hage Ti “Dm look if for Eric,” Terry responds, plunging at once. ~ his Subject. “He came in with you, Cn eee death would have been preferable to that. She was geet, deeply and truly grateful, and gave Mr. ennison carte blanche to come and go as he pleased from henceforth forever. It was a privi- lege for which royalty itself was sighing just then, but with the dull insensibility that had always char- acterized him in these things, Dennison treated it and her with the calmest, utterest indifference. He liked her asa dancer, but asa woman, and in pri- vate life, not any, thanks, Terry did not go in for dancers. In short, Mr. Dennison would not be num- bered among her victims, would not Jose his head for her; and madame saw and laughed good-na- turedly, and gave it up and respected him accord- ingly. It would bea refreshing novelty to have a masculine friend, a friend pure and simple, who would never be a lover, and so she liked Dennison as honestly, as amore honest woman might, and still kept her doors open to him. He came at times to those pleasant, post-opera suppers, where the cleverest painters, the most distinguished novelists, the handsomest actresses in London were to be met, and was ever warmly welcomed. He had known she was in Paris—he had not met her for seven months, but he had not had the faintest intention of calling upon her here. And now he was whirling along rapidly to: her rooms. Of hig welcome from her, at all times and in all places, he was sure; his welcome from Eric was much more to me point just at preset; and of that he was not at all sure, “Hang her!” Terry thought, with an inward growl; ‘hang all such confounded little pirates cruising in honest waters, and raising the devi wherever they go. Still if one goes there at all, one must be civil, I suppose.” Civil, accordingly, Mr. Dennison was when ushered into the gem-like drawing-room of Madame Felicia, A chandelier, blazing like a mimic sun in the frescoed ceiling, made the room one sheet of golden light. The walls were lined with mirrors, the win- dows hung with satin and lace, the air heavy with pastilles. Half-a-dozen elegantly dressed and excep- tionally handsome women reclined in every species of easy chair, with attendant cavaiiers bending above them. On alow fateuil reclined the great Felicia herself, robed ina billowy cloud of translu- ‘cent white. Asarule she affected costly moires, stiff brocades, heavy velvets; to-night crisp, white gossamer floated about the perfect form, richest lace draped the perfect arms and shoulders, dia- monds and opals glittered and glowed about her, and pale, perfumy, yellow roses nestled in the dead- blue blackness of her hair. By her side Lord Dyne- ly sat, gazing at the dusky, languid, slightly-bored, warmly-lovely face, as if he could never gaze enough. All started and stared as the new comer was announced. Unknown to all but two—most un- looked for by them—Terry yet advanced with that ease that the utter absence of all vanity, of all self- consciousness, gives, “T only reached Paris to-night,” he said, ‘‘and un- orthodox as is the hour, I could not resist the temp- tation toeall. It is| seven months since we met, madame, and you will recollect that in your good- ness I hold permission to visit you in season and out of season.” , ; Quite a lengthy and diplomatic speech for the speaker, but he had prepared it in the fiacre. When one deals with serpents one must be subtle. The yellow-black eyes turned upon him, a light of real pleasure in them, she half arose and held out her hand. She was cordially pleased to see Terry. “Mr, Dennison knows he is always more than wel come—one does not easily forget such service as he rendered. How very nice of you to call. Let’ me introduce you to Lord Dynely; but you know him, perhaps ?” She looked doubtfully at his lordship. Know him ? Surely! for on Lord Dynely’s face an unmistakable scowl has arisen. sf “What the devil brings you to Paris, Dennison?” he bluntly demands; ‘‘when did you come ?” ‘“‘To-night, mon cher—hayve you not heard-me say so? Delighted to see me does he not look ?’ Terry says gayly, turning to madame. / aren are you stopping ?” Eric asks, still with scowl. occasion, my lord.” Then there is a pause. The two men look at each and suspicious on Eric’s part—stern and resolved on Terry’s, Eric is the first to turn away, with a shrug, and a slight contemptuous laugh. “John Bull is ubiquitous! Go where you will he crops up when you least expect him. It is one of the great drawbacks of our civilization.” “Was monsieur at the Varieties to-night ?” madame asks, coquettishly. She is not French, but she affects the French language as she affects French cookery, French toilettes, and French morals. ‘I have had that pleasure,” Terry responds. btlie buck and edge, and laying it on’ the |” “Put th ft ow worn. h llid? But he 45 NO Menti with him he is seeking, and he makes his way to him | “Madame is irresistible in all things, but she out. P + : e on that quiet woman? Ww n, howpa - U : Oo mention St pate a L 35, ° Bra: ees Fs ; Kigdit “4 at the straps ] nd touch 1 the | of her looks, he only asks in a edsort of | 2nd taps him familiarly onthe shoulder, — | does herself in ‘La Sorciere d’Or.’ . Shall we see you Tifted it up. | Tite’sight put him in better humor. ai 6 Oa nself Shak eke o'tee Deland us te eet voice tall ~ : i *Boville, old boy,” he says with the Briton’s cus-|} in it at the Bijou next London season ?” oe Felicia laughs softly, and glances up from “under you paid a confounded lung price for it, | tying <. e Mr j » a Ty: * F Sas ied Pie ie g. pe aS as EOD Gale r. Boville looks over his shoulder and opens:two | her black lashes mely’s gloomy face. ph aah PP HART APTA a Path WES SPINS He , Now, then, it’s getenl risk, zon ages £9 make Ke He es Sis it th formula are sleepy-looking eyes. ‘oR “An—vwho raoea Next Totdon sensor —it be- la } 1 : ‘o’ yer mouey or ye’ll never Louch a brass farthin’ o’t. . vs ; 4 |) “Wilaty Dennison! what, Terry! you here! thowist j “tw r i ? 7 x c as eas ro Pe weotld, ea the ay “Tilinake ail that fair and. square atore J fluish. Givé Again one 8 silence. Lane ae ® Good one ou were at-Aldershot. Awtnlly gad to see Toul eral i Fol 2 ae Ea wat tke ge rhe 1038, DEODENS an Stamily, would | ug another caulker. Lthink L'il put the straps on her | for making conversation, and silence is little, t +} ¥ Dapp rtwo? One may be Crystal’s forte. a thousand miles away from your bleak fogs, and asterly winds, and dull phlegmatic stalls by that ‘IT honor the Louvre with my patronage on this other—one straight, level, searching glance—angry - oe ren bs a ae the rapacious, unscrupulous man. © »¢.) fsheulnot ulake up her mind to marry she'll get more to- | uneasy pause. ni ab ti Mon ami, how sulky you look,” striking Dy- “Coie, harry up," paced bee aritls. insolent seruills adenine # “No,” she answers, her eyes fixed on the rings | Where is ‘he new ” , __ ‘| nely’a blow with her perfumed fan. ‘As you say in rT arity. ye Sit lt g, bl ¢ pide dh @)\ “But what are ye goin’ to git for’t.. Mind I tell ye it’s a| she ig unconsciously twisting ‘round and round;|, {‘Y¥esy te came jin with me,” Boville says, with a| your country—a penny for your thoughts.” y 46 Jim Walker afore that ugly Russian wi’ his bea back, or if don’t, faith maybe Iillose my wat you your good place.”’ Kos .oe Eugenie sickened with shame asshe heard the ey pulous, low man, whom she both loathed and feared, Couple ler With tuimsel{ im a Scheme to deceive, if not de- fraud, the noble man she both loved and honored. How much she loved him she never knew till now. “Ail the jewels | have in the worid do not amount to one lrundred pounds,’ said Eugenie in a voice which suunded hollow with despair. “Well, you know bes. You either come wi? me, or give me the rhino, Vin indifferent which. 1lt’s regular mean to back oul and expect me to take six hunder for a thousau'; howsumdeaver, if this watch is yours, it’s mine; Lil put that in my pocket anyhow, and keep it Sale for you till you Come iome Lo Jim Skeiton’s flat.’’ A tup at the door was followed by Lovell, wito said: “A persou OL business wishes to speak wiih you, my lady.’ ; “You know, Lovell, l can see no one just now.” ° Eugenie spoke as if it wereagreai effort to utter the words. “My Jady, itis one who has explained his business to me, aud itis most urgeut,’? : : Eugenie raised ber eyes with a pleading look to the servant's face. ites “My lady, saving your presence, it is almost imperative that you see him.” . ; She rose with a languid air, as if her limbs would scarcely Support her, aud crossing the hall outside the gardea-reoin, entered arecepliond Clumber on the other side, As the countess entered, the faithful servant shut the door, and putting a bank receipt for five hundred pounds in her haud, suid: f “My lady, tiis is money [received from your honored uncle; will you condescend to keep it for me?” “Ou, Lovell’ Sie could say no more. Had the old man not placed her ou a seat sue Would lave fallen fainting at lais feet, oe *“] had better pay the man, wy lady, and send him way.”? : Lovell took the bank draft from -her unresisting hand, and. going into the garden room placed if in tuat of Neville. He took the draft, looked at it, turned it over in. eVery direction, read every word, and saw thatit was payabie at Glyn’s, London. That wasall right, but he had his douvls as to the Maine ou the back. “Whose mame is this?! said he, readings Lovell.’ Who is tnat?? “The name of as good a man as yourself,’ was the re- ply. “df you do not fiud it honored, write to the house of Rothehiid’s nere—l warrant they will pay it.” “If Lhas’s it they'll pay it mow?’ said the sailor, inquir- ingiy. SGoxteknly they will.” The satior turned on his heel, and was out of the cot- tage aud half down. the drive in a few seconds. “Whe is your master Coming back?’ asked he of the servant, Who stood watching uutil Le should see him pass the gate. “Not till 4e-morrow.”? “Not till to-morrow,’ repeated the fellow. ‘Whew! He gave a low whistle and a cluckling lauglt, saying to huuself: ‘May be Vll come back to bid her ladyship good-by afore 0. ; Ig na rhe CHAPTER VIII. A week from the day in which Ethel encountered Sir Ralph coming out from the spring panel, she was tie oc- cupant of a padded cellin Bethany Hospital for the in- Sane. Every Gay of the past week she had been subjected to the importunities of a manshe loathed with her whole soul. Of her child she knew nothing, except that she was torn from him in the midnight, and hurried off to the place of naisery in which she now dwelt. Sir Ralph had twice visited her, eact time offering to release her on Condition of her giving ber promise to mar- ry hina the very day he took her from the cell, promising that then her child should be restored to her—a promise which, like himself, was false tO tue gore. At the time he made lt he knew no more OF witere the child was thau she Gid hersely, hed known Dotuilg of him from the day he Went wilh Ethel to the madlouse. All he knew was what he had been told when he came out, and the ship high and dry; I want to spell name ; i “ “Patrick Comes) tas hank over your neck all your days. aud | td a great risk. Ifoneo’ the bulldogs find ye out he'll keep What's le goin’ give you?” by “Oue thousand pounds,’? was the reply, the doctor ‘| speaking in asolemn tone and pausing between each word, telling to the woman's practiced eur that the nian was haif-drunk, a state in wich his usually ferocious dis- position was made doubly so, and she shrugged her shoul- ders with an uneasy gesture as she said: “Now, then, if you put your beauties on her and give her a taste of your lash to-night she'll need somebody to turn her in ler bed to-morrow; shell not be apt to do’t herself. If ye’re sure o’ tle thousand pounds it’s a good price, but it’s a great risk.” ‘‘J’m sure enough, aud Vil risk it,’ the man replied, in a surly, determined tone. ‘The bulldogs are all abed but Somerset Ton. He's but a young un, and it’s easy throw- ing dustin his eyes. He never saw the straps—wouldu’t know what they wereif hedid see them. Vil risk it. One thousand pounds is no joke. Curse her, She deserves it to set her up, the hussy. Why don’t she marry the man right up, an’ no trouble to anybody ?”? he doctor, who had now taiked himself into a brutal fit, started up as he spoke, aud taking up a greasy brass candlestick, in which was. stuck to one side the half ofa tallow candle, he litit at the barof the grate, and was about to leave the room, when he espied a girl lying agleep onasofainthe other end of the apartment. Pointing with his forefinger toward the girl he said, in low tones, to his wile: “Fau’s there; she couldn’t hear, could she?’ “Now then, what put that in your head? She’s as sound asatop. Be off to your work; I'll ’rouse her, and she'll be in her bed afore your back from lockin’ the doors.”! “Fan! Fan!” the woman called out in a loud voice, as her husband, armed witha great bunch of Keys, left the room. Fan rose slowly to her feet. Sle had not been asieep, bat had been for the last half hour listening with horror to the Words she understood ag well as the Woman to whom they were addressed. : : he reaiembered but too well the bruised, broken mass of flesh aud blood which mammy, the old nurse, had taken her into @ Cell to look at before it was huddled into a nameless grave, only two montiis ago. > She had several times seen and spoken to the fair-haired Woman Whe Was Dow to be subjected to the same treat- ment, perhaps ‘td dig WRder it, as the strong man had done. The girl ruse with a sleepy alr, stretched her arms aud yawued as if yet but half awake. “Give me my supper,” said she, addressing the woman, who held out a plate full of sewed meat toward her with- Out speaking. Faun took the plate and began eating, while she stood by the fire, looking vacantiy at the blazing coals, ,her thoughts intent on the fair-laired woman, “Now then! take your supper to yourown room, and lock your door. Father’s in one of his tantrums to-night, so you'd better keep out of his way.” Fan left the room, muttering under her breath: “tl clear out of this house, and his way too, as quick as | can; maybe he’il take Lhe straps and the Jash to me some day if I don’t marry some old fellow. I wonder where Tom is,” said she, as she reached the door of her room, still speaking to herseif with bated breath. ‘ She stood for a second or two, listening to the heavy sound of the doctor's footsteps as he went tramp, tramp, along & passage in a distant part of the house. She fancied she heard her own name Called from the other end of the pasSage in which she stood. She listened intently, and again heard the word “Fan”? pronounced in a low voice, ; It was the work of a moment to lock her room door, put the key in her pocket, and scud along the passage in the direction of the voice titat called her. “Oh, Tom!’ said the girl, rushing into the arms which were siretclied out to receive her, ‘father’s off to the west ward to put the irou straps on pa pretty girl that came in two or three weeks ago, an #®s guing to lash her when they’re on.”? : : “The old villain!? exclaimed the young man; ‘‘I’llsoon putanendtothat. Is that the way he cures people of being melancholy mad? Let me go,” continued’ he, try- ing to disengage himself from the girl, who clung to him go as to prevent his jeaving her. ; . “You mustn't go just now, Tom,’ said the girl, speak- ing in an earnest voice; “he would murder you.” “Murder mel do yous “couldnt manage him? “he is dining out. It—it is a bachelor party. He could not takeme.” 4. ' “And what business has he at b now?” rises to Terry’sJips, bw She is going to say somethin. sitive color is coming and @ Ree that she finds hard to 8% out at last hurriedly. eae “Terry! I wish you would take theater to-night” : “Crystal!” Oe toe “Tothe Varietes.. I—I want to go. Imust go!” She lifts her eyes to his; and they flash for a moment. “I have wal to go all this week. Will you take me to-night?” He sets his lips. She has heard then. He asks no questions—he makes no reply. « “Don’t refuse me, Terry,’ she pleads, and the sweet lips tremble. “You nover did refuse me anything—don't begin now. I want to go—oh, so much! I want to see—that woman.” The wifely hatred and jealousy she feels for ‘that woman’ are in the bitterness with which she ronounces the two words. It is hard to refuse er—but Terry sits silent and troubled still. “T would do anything for you, Crystal,” he says at length; “‘but this—is this best?” < “I want to. go—I will go,” she says, passionate- ly, turning away. “I did not think you would refuse, Terry Dennison.” ; “T have not refused, Crystal,” he answered gently, “Ofcourse I wiiltake you, with pleasure, since you wish it. There is plenty a too. While you get on your mantle and PIE will go and secure a box—if one is to be had.” She gives him a grateful glance. “You were always g to me, Terry,” she repeats softly. He sighs to himself as he leaves her. So changed! so changed! and she is as dear to him as ever. The hottest anger he has ever felt against any living man, he feels to-night against Lady Dynely’s son. f She dresses without theaid of her maid—dresses hurriedly, and stands allready as Dennison re- appears. b “Tt is all right, Lady Dynely,” he says in his cheery voice; “by great good luck there was one unoccupied box, and I got it. Our fiacre is at the oor.” She slips her gloved hand within his arm and goes down; she is trembling with nervous excite- ment, that he can feel, She has never seen this beautiful, wicked actress, who has charmed her darling from her—she has never dared speak of her to Eric; and he has never offered to take her anywhere. He may be angry when he hears of this—she has no intention of concea it from him—but she must see her, she must. She must look upon the face fair enough to take the bride- sreen from his bride before the honeymoon is at nd. atthe house is full when they reach it—a glittering horse- slioe of faces, and toilettes, and gaslight, and perfume, and the fluttering of fans. She sinks into her s@at and draws back behind the curtain. The play has begun, and “La Sorciere @Or,” in her dark, insolent, triumphant beauty, and dazzling raiment, is on the stage, electrifying the audience by her passionate power. Crystal looks at her and turns sick, sick at heart, sick with despair. Yes, she is beautiful—terribly, brilliantly beautifnl—insolently, demoniacally béauliful, it seems to her. Her voice is like silver, ler eyes like dusk stars; and Eric worships beauty in all things, and this woman—this is her rival. She turns away in sick, mute despair as the curtain fads. What power has she to hold him against a glittering enchantress like this. At that moment a parly of gentlemen enter the box opposite; she gives a quick, gasping cry—one of them is her husband. : i He has been dining and wining, evidently. His fair, girl’s complexion is flushed—his blue eyes glitter with chelor parties represses it. ‘sees—the sen- é me to the ly is altogether the spooniest fellow! faint, weary little laugh. ‘‘Where’s he now? In much pleasanter company, dear boy—driving home with Madame Felicia. Intoxicating creature that— eh, Terry? And weally, ‘pon honor, you know,” lisps-Mr. Boville, raising his white eyebrows, ‘‘Dyne- Give you my word, never saw so——” ‘““Where does Madame Felicia live?” Terry growls, with a flash of his eye, cutting Mr. Boville’s drawl suddenly short. The slow, sleepy eyes open again. Mr. Boville looks at Mr. Dennison with a curious little half smile, But he gives Madame Felicia’s address readily enough, and watches the big dragoon out of sight with a shrug. ‘Is Eric to be brought toe his senses, and is Terry deputed to do it, I wonder?” he thinks. “if so, then Terry has quite the most difficult task before him that heavy dragoon was ever called upon to do,” Yes, Terry was going to bring him to his senses— going to bring him to his wife; and, without a mo- ment’s hesitation, he hailsa fiacre, gives the address, and is whirled away through the noonday gaslit brilliance of the botlevards. ‘‘There’s to be a supper, no doubt,” he thinks. “Is not Felicia famous wherever she goes for her after- theater suppers? Well, Fortune stands my friend this time—i hold-the open sesame to her doors, and, though I have never availed myself of it before, by Jove! Iwill tomight.” His mind goes back to a certain day two years be- fore, when he had in all probability saved Madame Felicia’s life, or at least what was of equal account to her, her beauty. It was the old story of runaway horses—the lady rescued in the nick of time. Mad- ame’s passion for spirited ponies had, on more occa- sions than one, placed her pretty neck and graceful limbs in jeopardy—on this occasion the runaways had become altogether unmanageable, the reins had been jerked from her hands, and with heads up and eyes flashing, they had rushed madly along. The gates of a great park ended the road—if those gates were open madame still stood one chance, if they were closed—she shuddered, intrepid little Amazon as she was, and sat still as death and white as mar- ble, straining her eyes through the whirlwind of dust as they flew along. The park came in sight— the gates—good Heaven! the gates were closed! It was just at that moment Terry Dennison, on horse- back, came in view. He took in the situation in an instant. To attempt tocheck the horses in their mad career would have been useless now; they would wrench his arms from the sockets before they could be stopped. He galloped up, hurled himself off his horse, and, with the agility.ofacircus rider and the strength ofa latter-day Sampson, lifted the lady sheer out of the carriage. The horses went headlong at the closed gates, shiveri the fraik heton to atoms, and Madame Felicia fainted quiet- y away.in Lieutenant Dennison’s arms. That was the story. Terry never made capital of it, but the actressdid, She was profoundly and greatly grateful, and to show that gratitude, made every possible effort to captivate her preserver and break his heart. For once she failed. Mr. Denni- son was invulnerable. All her cajoteries, all her fascirfations, all her beauty and chic, fell powerless onthis big dragoon’s dull sensibilities. He saw through her, and laughed at her quietly in his sleeve. What the duse didthe little, gushing dancer mean making eyesat him? Terry wondered. He wasn’t an elder son; he didn’t Keep an open account at Hunt & Roskell’s; he had never given any one a diamond bracelet in his life. She knew it too—then what did she mean? It was madame’s way ot show- ing her deep gratitude to the preserver of her life— simply that. But for Terry she would have been smashed to atoms with the phexton, her beauty ruined, her symmetrical limbs broken, her occupa- passionate excitement, He leaus back and siweeps the tien gone, She shuddered when she thought of it; - t ey are worth much more—I was thinking of you,” he answers rather bitterly. ‘ ‘Lord Dynely does me too much honor. Judgin by his tone they must be pleasant. May Iask what? “] was wondering if there will be any Madame Felicia to enchant the sleepy British stalls of the Bijou next season. I was wondering if by that time it will not be Her Excellency, Madame La Princesse Diventurini.” , She laughs a second time. His angry, jealous tone, which he cannot concealif he would, amuses her vastly. : “Who knows?” is her airy answer; “such droll things happen! I amnot sure, though, that it would be half so pleasant. They are announcing supper. Mr. Dennison, will you, giveme yourarm? Lord Dynely, the most delightful of men, the most gallant of gentlemen on ordinary occasions, yet falls a prey at times to what I once heard a countryman of his call the doldrums. And I cannot endure people who have the doldrums!” She laughs once more, softly and musically, and shows dazzlingly white teeth. She is a trifie vulgar, this peerless Felicia—her most ardent admirers ad- mit that. She smokes, she drinks a great deal of her own champagne—she has eyen been known to swear at times. But she laughs well—it is one of her most telling points—languidly, sweetly, and very often. What hernationality is no one seems exactly to know. English she is not—French, Italian, Span- ish, German, she is not. There are people who hint at Yankee extraction; but this madame herself de- nies, furiously and angrily denies, She has never crossed the Atlantic in her life, and. never, never will. She hates America. The lazy, topaz eyes flash as she saysit. She will mever play in America in her life. : The ruby velvet portieres were drawn aside, and they filed in by twos into the adjoining dining-room. Here too the light was vivid as noonday, and beneath the mimic sun of gas a table glittered thatwasa vision. Tall epergnes of frosted silver, filled with rarest hot-house flowers, slender glasses of waxy camellias from the greenery of a duke, rarest, cost- liest grapes, peaches and pears. There was a brief pause in the gay humof cx versation as they sat down. Felicia’s cook was chef of the first ‘water—his works of art were bet appreciated by silence. For her wines—was’ no’! —nothing finer were to be met at the table of impe- rial royalty itself. Presently, howarer e first lull passed, gay conversation, subdued lang sallies, brilliant repartees flashed to andfro. Per- tess herself was least clever. ; not to be surpassed—as.a beauty s) peer—as a brilliant, a witty conversationali was nowhere, She ate her delicate salmis, Asa ances she was softly at the gay sallies going on around her, and watched ood Dynely, her vis-a-vis, witha mocking sat, like herself, almost entirely sifent through all the bright badinage going on around him, his brows bent moodily, drinking much more than he ate—a sort of “‘marble guest” amid the lghts, the langh- ter, the feasting and the flowers. » Terry’s sudden coming had completely upset him. Something in Terry’s eyes roused him angrily and aggressively. What business had the fellow here? What business in Paris at all? Through the unhol glitter his wife’s face rose before him as he had le her hours ago, pale, patient, pathetic, The tiny knot of roses she had given him gleamed still amid the blackness of Felicia’s hair—Felicia, who, lying back, eating an apricot, seemed wholly engrossed now by her conversation with Dennison. The broad band of gold and diamonds on her perfect arm hlazed in the light, Only yesterday he had given it to her, every famous cellarin Paris laid under contribution ? ~ hter witty . haps of all the clever company assembled, the hos- owas without _ her famous clarets and sparkling Sillery, laughed — smile inthe languid depths of her topazeyes. He - pitt jl, . an wets and now she had neither eyes nor ears for any one but this overgrown, malapropos dragoon. sa ‘*2ion ami,” Felicia said to him, with a malicious laxzgh, as they arose to return to the drawing-room, ‘vou remind one of the tete de mort of the Egyptians —wasn’t it the Egyptians who always had a death’s- head at their feasts as a sort of memento mori ?—and the role of death’s-head does not become blonde mer. Fora gentleman whose honeymoon has not well ended, that face speaks but illy of post-nuptial 0 73, !? d yah, let him alone, madame!” cried Cecil Rossart, @ tall, pretty, English singer, with a rippling laugh. “You know what the poet says—what Byron says: “ For thinking of an absent wife Will blanch a faithful cheek.” *‘His lordship is thinking of the lecture her ladyship will read him when he returns home.” “Tf late hours involve curtain lectures,” cried Adele Desbarats, shrilly, ‘then, ma foi! milor should be well used to them by this. To my certain knowledge, he has not been home before three in the morning for the last two weeks.” “Let us hope my lady amuses herself well in his absence!” exclaimed Miss Rossart, flinging herself into a Louis Quatorze fauteuil, and rolling up a ciga- rette with white, slim fingers—'no difficult thing in our beloved Paris.” Eric glanced from one to the other at each ill- timed jest, his blue eyes literally lurid with rage. Dennison’s face darkened, too, so suddenly and om- inously, that Felicia, not without tact, saw it, and changed the subject at once. ! “Sing for us, Adele!” she cried, imperiously, lying luxuriously back in her favorite dormeuse. ‘Mr. Dennison has not heard you yet. Have you heard Mademoiselle Desbarats, mon ami ?” “Ty hayé not,had that pleasure, madame.” The vivacious: little brunette went over at once to the open piano, and began to sing. The others dis- persed themselves to smoke and play bezique. Ma- dame’s rooms were Liberty's Hall itself. Lord Dy- nely leaned moodily across the piano, a deep, angry flush, partly of wine, partly of jealousy, partly of rage at Dennison, partly of a vague, remorseful an- ger ab himself, filled him. For Terry, macame Cleared away her billowy tulle and laces, and made room for him beside her, with her own enchanting smile. , - Immediately above the piano—immediately oppo- site where they sat, a picture hung, the broad yellow glare of light falling full upon it. It was the picture that had created the furore last May in the Academy. ‘How-:the Night Fell.” *. *T-haye always had’a fancy, madame,” Terry said, doubling his hand and looking through it at the painting, ‘that the woman in that picture is ex- cessively like you. I never saw you with such at expression as that—I trust I never may ; still the likeness is there, and.a very strong one too, Do you not see it yourself?”: » “Yes. Isee it,” madame answered, with a slow, sleepy smile. . s “IPs odd too, for Locksley—Caryll I mean—never saw you. Iasked him myself. He had a dislike to Lneicne ting it seemed, and never went near the ijou.ts ; The slow; sletpy smile deepened in madame’s black eyes, as they ed themselves dreamily on the picture. “He never went to the Bijou—never saw me there? You are sure of that ?” “Quite sure. Told me so himself.” “Ah! well his dislike for theaters and actresses is natural,enough, I suppose, considering his past un- lucky experience. Quite a romance that story of his; is it not? Is she alive still ?” **No,” Terry answered gravely; ‘tdead for many years. Killed in a railway accident in Canada ages ago.” The sleepy smile has spread to madame’s lips. She fluttered her fan of pearl and marabout with slim jeweled fingers. “Mr. Locksley—I mean Caryll—promised me a companion picture to this. I suppose I may give up all hope of that now. I really should like to make his acquaintance; I have a weakness for clever ople—painters, tere authors—not being in the east clever myself, you understand. No, I don’t want a compliment—there is no particular genius in being a good dancer. For the rest,” with a faint laugh, “my face is my fortune. Where is Gordon Caryll now ?” ' She spoke the name as though it were very familiar to her—with an undertone—Terry heard but did not comprehend. . | “In Rome, with his mother.” ‘Does he ever come to Paris ?” . ie “He is expected here almost immediately, I be- eve, re ‘“Ah!? she laughs, ‘Well, when he comes, Mon- sieur Dennison, fetch him some night to see me, Will you?” : : *“Ifhe will come. And when he hears you have - wished it, Iam quite sure he will,” says Terry. - There isa pause. Madame’s eyes are fixed, as if fascinated, on the picture beyond. “I presume, after Mr. Caryll’s first unlucky matri- monial venture, he will hardly thrust; his head into the lion’s jaw again. Ihave heard a rumor—but | can hardly credit it-—that he is to De married again next May,” “It is quite true.” “To a great heiress—to that extremly handsome Miss Forrester I saw so often with you last season in the park??? Terry bows, Ho does not at all relish France’s name on, Madame Felicia’s lips. “It is a love match, I suppose +o “‘A love match, madame.’ She tears to pieces a rose she holds, watching the scented leaves as they flutter and fall. “But there is a great disparity of years. She nine- teen, he almost forty. I wonder”—she says this sud- denly, fiashing the light of the yellow-black eyes elecfrically upon him—‘*“if the first unlucky Mrs. Caryll jvere not dead, only divorced—if Miss For- rester would still marry him ?” “Tam quite sure she would not,’ Dennison re- sponds; ‘but there is no use speaking of that. The woman is dead—dead as Queen Anne—was killed in a railway accident, as I say, and a very lucky thing too for all concerned.” 4 There is a flash, swift and furious, fromthe black eyes, but Terry does not see it. The ringed hands close over the pretty fan she holds with so savage a clasp that the delicate sticks snap. **See what I have done!” she laughs, holding it up; ttand Lord Dynely was good enough to give it to me only yesterday.. Well—it has had its day—he must be content.” She flings the broken toy ruthlessly away, and looks up at her companion once more. ‘Does Miss Forrester accompany Mr. Caryll to Paris in this expected visit ?” ' “They all come together—his mother, Lady Dynely (the dowager Lady Dynely I mean), Miss Forrester and Mr. Caryll,” Terry answers, uneasily, longing to change the subject but hardly knowing how, | She smiles a satisfied kind of smile and is silent. Her eyes rest om Lord Dynely’s moody, sullen face as he stands by the piano, heedless of the song and the singer, and she laughs. ‘Your coming seems to have had a depressing effect upon your kinsman. By the by, he is your kinsman, is he not? He was in the wildest of wild high spirits before you entered. Is this romantic Mr. Caryll not a relative also ?” “A second cousin. You do Gordon Caryll the honor of being interested in him, madame,” Terry says, brusquely. fadame laughs again and shrugs her smooth shoulders. “And you are sick of the subject! Yes, he inter- ests me—one so seldom meets aman with a story nowadays—men who have ever, at any period of their existence, done the ‘all for love and the world- well-lost? business. Shall we not call over poor Lord Dynely and comfort him a little? He looks as though he needed it. Tres cher,” she looks toward him and raises her voice, ‘‘we will make room for you here if you like to come.” ‘“*T shall make my adieux,” d.Dynely answered shortly. ‘You are being so well entertained, I can see, that it would be a thousand "pities to interrupt. It . one o’clock and quite time to be going. Good night, e turned abruptly away and left them. Again madame laughed and shrugged her graceful shoul- ders at this evidence of her power. “What bears you Britons can be!” she says; ‘how sulkily jealous, and hovwy little pains you take to hide it. Why did not your Shakespeare make Othello an Englishman? What, mon ami!—you going too 2”? “For an uninvited guest have I not lingered sufil- clently long?” Terry answers carelessly, and then he hurriedly makes his farewells also, and follows Eric out, He finds him, still standing in the vestibule, and lighting a cigar. The night has clouded over,.a fine drizzling rain is beginning to fall, but Eric evidently means to walk, The distance tothe Hotel du Louvre is not great. “Our way lies together, old boy,” Terry says, link- ing his arm familiarly through Eric's, “sol cut it short and came away.” a4 Drs q.. =— * ‘What an awful cut for Felicia,” Hric retorts, with an angry sneer. ‘Let me congratulate you, Terry, on your evident success; I never knew before,that you went in for that sort of thing.” “If by going in for that sort of thing, you mean flirtation with danseuses, I don’t go in for it,” is Terry’s reply. “If I did I should certainly choose some one not quite old enough to be my mother.” “What do‘you mean ?” Dynely asked, savagely. “J mean Felicia, of course—thirty-five if she’s a day. Oh, yes, she is—lI’ve heard all about her. She wears well, but she’s every hour of it. And the most dangerous woman the sun shines on.” “T wonder, then, you fling yourself into the jaws of the lioness,” Eric retorts, with another bitter sneer. “You make a martyr of yourself with the best grace possible—make love com amore as though you enjoyed it, in fact.” “J didn’t come to see Felicia,” Terry says, quietly. “T came to see you.” Eric’s eyes flashed fire. Dennison stopped him. “Wait one moment, Dynely,” he said, in the same quiet, resolute tone. ‘You are angry, and excited, and jealous. Jealous! faugh! of such a woman as that! Do you know that your infatuation for her—your neglect of your wife—is the talk of Paris—the talk of London?—for in London it reached me.” ’ A furious oath was Eric’s answer as he wrenched his arm free. “And you came after me as my Keeper, as a d-— spy!” he cried, hoarse with passion. ~ “TI came after you as your friend, as hers,” Terry answered, his own eyes kindling. ‘‘Itis early days, Dynely, to eglect your bride—to leave her there, utterly forsaken and alone, to break her heart in solitude, while you fling gifts in the lap and sit at the feet of a Jezebel like that. I do not set up as your keeper—as any man’s—but I will not stand by and see her heart broken, her life blighted, while I can raise my voice to prevent, Eric! Eric!-if you had seen her as I did, three hours ago, pale, crushed, heart broken—” his voice broke, for a moment, he turned away. ** ‘Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife!” My wise Terry, my virtuous Terry, my pink and pattern of all morality, did you ever hearihat? You're as munch in love with Lady Dynely as you ever were with Crystal Higgins. lI only wonder you took the trouble to come. Would it not have been pleasanter to have staid behind and soothed her sorrows with your pathetic and pious conversation ?” Terry looked at him—at the flushed, furious face— at the blue eyes lurid with rage, in wonder—almost in horror. *Good Heaven!” he said, “is thjs Eric? If any other living man had said as much, or half as much, I would have knocked him down. But I see how it is; that devilish sorceress has turned your brain. Well—she has turned stronger brains, but she shall not make an absolute foolof you. Eric! dear old man, I’m not going to quarrel with you, if I can help it. You don’t know what you are saying. I pro- mised little Crystal to fetch you homeinan hour. It?s awfully lonely in that big hotel for her, poor child, and she was never used to being alone, you know.” ; His voice softened. ‘‘Ah, poor little Crystal!” he thought, with a great heart-pang, ‘if your married a” begins like this, how in Heaven’s name will it end!” “Sol? Eric says between his set teeth, “shesent you after me, did she ?—a naughty little boy to be brought home and whipped! Perhaps she also told you where to find me ?” “She told me nothing—nothing, Eric, and you know it,” Terry answers, sternly. ‘‘Is it likely she would discuss her husband with any one? It wasn’t difficult to find you. The very street gamins could have told me, I fancy, so well is your new infatua- tion known. Eric, old fellow, we have been like brothers in the past, don’t let us quarrel now. Keep clear of that woman—she’s dangerous—awfully dan- gerous, I tell you. She has ruined the-lives of a He turned to speak, but score of men—don’t let her ruin yours, Don’t let her break Crystal’s heart—Crystal, whose whole life is bound up in yours. Pity her, Eric—poor little soul —if you have none for yourself.” Again Eric laughs hoarsely and long. ‘*Hear him, ye gods and men! Terry Dennison in the role of parson! Is your sermon quite finished, old boy ?—because here we are. Or is this but a pre- lude to a few more to come? How well the patron- izing elder-brother tone comes from you—you, of all men—the dependent of = mother’s bounty. She comes to Paris next week—what fine stories you will have to tell eee be ee eae you can prepare together. t me tell you -once and Tor all, Dennison,” he says, white wt h an; er,’ his blue eyes aflame, “Ill have no sneaking or BD ing on my actions—I’'Vl be taken to task by no as ive, least of all by you! Let there be an end of this at once and forever, or by —— you'll repent it!” Then he turns, dashes up the wide stairway, and Terry isalone. ug (TO BE CONTINUED.) The Accused Wife. By the Author of **Drifted Asunder.’’ [“The Accused Wife’ wascommenced in 45. Back Nos. can be obtained of any News Agent in the United States.]} ~ CHAPTER XXIV. $ ‘~pqE STORY’S TOLD,” Cla¥a did not find the business of the theater nearly so unpleasant or so harassing as she had anticipated, The girls mostly led a hard life, having many of them to help to support parents or litle brothers and sisters, and one who shared the room in which Clara was to dress was a widow with two little children, one an infant, the other a toddling thing of three years old, whom she was highly delighied as having “gotin’ to be the tiny Cupid to Clara’s Venus.