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Nf. ORR perm 5 teeny an BLUR PRON Tin

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

a yerHert

 

 

 

Vol. XIX.

 

STREET & SMITH,
No. 11 Frankfort St.

NEW YORK, MAY 5, 186

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No. oe

 

—=

 

 

A TRIBTUE.
BY EMMA EGGLESON,

We motas strangers yesterday,
The sun was smiling soft and warm,
But in the east a rising cloud
Foretold the coming of a storm;
To- day the sky is dark with gloom,
While slowly falls the winter rain,
Like music on a pearly shell,
Thrilling the heart with passion’s pain.

Frion fs ofan hour! Oh, ig this life
So’far beneath my spirit’s dream
That only one brief stormy hour
Can bathe our soulsin friendship’s stream ?
In after years shall we forget
This wayside meeting passed away,
Or will some sad and sweet regret
Bring back the visions of to-day ?

We part to-morrow! May the sun
Gleam brightly ina tranquil sky,
And cast a halo round tho hour,
80 that remembrance cannot die,
May strains of every pleasant song
That kindred voices love to sing,
Cluster round this day of storm,
And bind it ‘neath love’s silvery wing.

——+16++—_____
THE

SILVER SHIP:

The Bloodhound of the Caribbean !

here neinnirnetn i ameenemmstatn nh
A SPANISH-AMERICAN STORY.

BY LOUIS LEON:

{Back numbers of the ‘Silver Ship; or, The Blood-
hound of the Caribbean,” can be obtained from
every News Agent throughout the United States, ]

CHAPTER XVIII,

THE SILVER SHIP’S PILOT.

The gate opening on the castle grounds wat
unlocked as Ruy and his friends reached it,
and they had no difficulty in effecting an en-

_ trance. The building was dark and grim, its

doors locked, its windows closed.

Ruy sounded the heavy knocker, but no one
appeared to admit him, or answer the sum-
mons,

The visitors were notin the mood to wait,
but dashed in the heavy door with a crowbar,
and rushed into the dwelling with flashing
torches and excited cries.

They went through the spacious drawing-
rooms, parlors, and library, but saw no one.
They called aloud, but no one answered. A
thorough search was then instituted.

In the room opening on the court, where
Tolet had been placed by Nerle after her re-
capture, they found a ribbon, which Senor
Leol caught up with a joyful exclamation, and
declared to belong to his daughter,

But Iolet herself was not there.

A tray, laden with untouched delicacies, was |

placed on the mosaic centre-table, showing
that the room had been recently occupied.

“Iolet, has evidently been shut up here,”
observed Ruy. ‘She has probably been re-
moved to a more secure place—perhaps a dun-
gson, et us search the upper part of the
castle next, and then descend tothe vaults un-
derneath,’’

They searched the first floor thoroughly,
and then ascended the front staircase.

“Here is the room she occupied when I
rescued her,” said our hero, atlength, pausing
before the door indicated. ‘The door is
locked,” he added, trying the latch. «“Per-
haps she is in here now.”

They burst in the door, but no one was in
the apartment.

Ruy crossed the floor, and flung open the
door of an adjoining closet, and then uttered
an exclamation of horror. :

“What is it?” cried Senor Leol, rushing for-
ward. Oh, Ruy, have you found her?”

The question was echoed by his comrades,
who crowded toward the closet.

A strange scene met their gaze.

On the floor of the closet, with her long
black hair flowing around her, with her ghastly
face upturned, terrible in its deathly beauty,
lay the woman who had so proudly called her-
self ‘The Pirate Queen,”

A slit in the waist of her silken robe, just
above the heart, revealed aghastly wound, and
showed the cause of her déath,

“Thank God,” ejaculated the old hammock-

sf maker, ‘it is not Iolet!”

The body of the woman wag dragged from

i, its concealment, and various conjectures were
~* made in regard to her. Ruy terminated these

by saying,
“This woman was the wife of Callocarras,

 

 

 

“IN ONE OF THE DAMPEST OF TAE DUNGEONS, THEY FOUND A

MAN'S SKELETON,

ENTERED ACCORDING TO ACT OF CONGRESS BY SIREEL & GMITH, IN 1964, IN CLERK’S OFFICE OF DISTRICT COURT OF UNITED STATES FOR SOULHERY Disratcr oF NEW YORE.

 

ans = = RS :

AROUND WHiCH STILL LAY 4 CHAIN!”

 

 

 

boys. She released me from the schooner, and
Taccompanied her here. She assisted me to
free Tolet, and declared her intention of re-
maining in my sister’s place, in order to have
an interview with Nerle. She must have died
by his hand.”

As popular as Nerle had always been with
the inhabitants of Isla Grande, there was not
aman present at that moment but regarded
him with shuddering horror, as a being who
had sold himself to the Evil One.

The revulsion in the public feeling was com-
plete.

They laid the woman’s body on 2 couch,
covered it with a linen sheot, and then went
out, resuming the search.

The towers, the chambers, the dungeons, all
were searched, but not a sign of Nerle or Iolet,
or any of the servants was found.

In one of the dampest and closest of the
dungeons, they found a man’s skeleton,
around which still lay a chain, one end of
which was fastened to the wall.

The kitchen and dining saloons were visit-
ed, all without result, and the search was soon
finished. No one was seen. |

“They have deserted the castle, boys,” said

Ruy, when they were again ‘in the large front.

hall; “they have carried off Tolet—perhaps
also Yola! ‘They may have gone off to the
schooner, but to make all sure we will search
the adjoining islands. Six of you had better
go for boats for that purpose, while the re-
mainder of us go to the monastery!”

This was agreed to, and on leaving the cas-
tle, the party divided as proposed, Ruy, Senor
Leol, and five additional men, going towards
the padre’s residence.

Arrived at the monastery, they found the
old housekeeper abed and asleep, but soon
aroused her and thoroughly searched the
building, but to no avail. The old woman
was much frightened, but could tell them
nothing about her master or Yola, save what
they already knew.

They then hastened towards the village, in
a state of the wildest alarm and excitement,
On the way there, as they were passing near
the sea, they found a villager bound to a tree,
gagged and helpless, and quite exhausted with
his endeavors to set himself free, He was
speedily restored to liberty, and hastened
to tell his story. Ho had been up that
way to his nets after dark—had encoun-
tered a rough-looking stranger, who seem-
ed to find him in the way, and had mad
him prisoner; and he had then seen the stran-
ger seize Yola Lasso and bear her off to a
boat, and thence take her to the schooner
which had been seen off the shore, By the
time this story was told and commented upon,
the whole party reached the village, rejoining
their fellows.

‘There is no doubt that Yola is in the hands
of Callocarras,” said our hero, when he had
received their report, and repressed his an-
guish by a powerfel efiort. ‘Perhaps Iolet

also! Nerle is closely connected with the
pirates. If we cannot save the girls, we can
at least notify the galleon of the intended at-
tack upon it. I will go off to her now!”

“Tush!” said one of the men cautiously;
‘there is a boat coming ashore now! Iét may
be pirates !”

Hyen as the men placed themselves on their
guard, they heard the plashing of oars, and
the next moment heard the sound of voices,
as a couple of men landed.

The men advanced in a body to the beach,
flashing their lanterns and soon recognized
the new comers,

They were Count Regla and Captain Ro-
mero,

“Is Don Ruy Leol here?” asked the Count,
anxiously, as he met them; “I have been
down to his father’s cottage to sco him, but it
is all shut up and I thought he would be at
the village.’’

Ruy stepped forward.

“Ah!” said the count, with a look of reliof,
and beckoning our hero aside. ‘You have
seen the pirate, Don Ruy ?”

**Yes, Senor, and have been aboard of her,”
replied our hero. ‘The schooner belongs to
Callocarras himself, They intend to aitack
you——"

The Count uttered an exclamation,

‘You have been aboard of her?” he re-
peated.

Ruy bowed, and sketched his late visit to
the schooner, adding: :

‘They carried me off in order to deprive
you of a pilot-and have you at their mercy.
They have a couple of confederates on shore
here, Senor Nerle—”

‘Senor Nerle!” interrupted the count.
“Why, he called upon us at the galleon this
morning! I thought him a gentleman and
treated him as such. He told me he owned
the castle on the cliffs.”

“He does,” replied Ruy. ‘We have all
been deceived in him, He is nothing more
nor less than a spy of Callocarras. He visit-
ed you for the purpose of ascertaining your
resources, defenses, etc.”

The shade on the count’s face deepened,

“It is fearfully dark,’’ he said. “Do you
think you could pilot us out safely, Don
Ruy?”

‘Yes; I think I could!”

‘Then let us go to the galleon as quickly as
possible. I want to get out under cover of
darkness and give the pirate the slip. I was
intending to go to Spain, but now havo de-
cided to go to Cuba, and there get under von-
voy of aman of war. ‘he instant the pirate
sees that we are gone, he will look for us on
the route to Spain and we shall thus avoid
him!”

“A good plan!” commented Ruy. “it is the
only way by which you can get rid of Callo-
carras!”

While the count had been conversing, he

 

had not failed to notice the anguished expres-

sion on Ruy’s countenance, and the wild anx-
iety in his eyes, and he now inquired the
cause.

Ruy explained.

‘Your betrothed,” repoated the Count, with

jemotion. ‘Your name, Ruy—-a wicked priest

in the case—and a mystorious ward! Strange
—strange!’’

He paused a moment, and then continued:

“Tl use all my influence to have you put in
charge of a war-vessel at Havana, to search
for the pirate. You know all the turtle islands
hereabouts, and that knowledge might prove
very useful in the matter. We could then or-
ganize a general hunt, You can’t do better,
Don Ruy, than to go with us, What do you
say 2”?

Ruy saw that he could do nothing by re-
maining at Isla Grande, for the pirate would
of course carry the girls far away, if he had
them in his power, and he agread to the pro-
position,

“I have thirty men on board,” said the
count, ‘‘but would like to engage more. ‘Will
you use your influence, Don Ruy, to have
them go with us?”

Ruy assented, and his eloquence, combined
With the liberal pay offered by the count and
the noble appearance of both the owner and
commander of the galleon, induced a score of
stout and active youths to volunteer their ser-
vices. Senor Leol offered himself in any ca-
pacity, and was engaged as a sub-officer, much
to his satisfaction, he declaring that he could
not rest while both his children were gone,
and that he should feel better to fight for the
rescue of his daughter, instead of leaving it to
be done by others.

The youths who had volunteered took their
leave of their friends, and the whole party
then went off to the galleon in boats, some of
which were brought ashore by attendant
friends,

The night was now black with gloom anda
fitful breeze was blowing, the precurser of one
of the frequent August hurricanes, such as
they had had the night before,

‘‘We have barely sufficient wind, Don Ruy,”
said Captain Romero, as the count, our hero,
and himself stood side by side on the deck.
‘You have a hard task before you, but it will
be better to go down on the rocks of thig chan-
nel than to fall into the hands of the terrible
man they call the Bloodhound!”

Not alight was on board the Encantadora,
the countess herself Sitting in profound dark-
ness in her luxurious cabin, with every sense
on the alert to catch the few faint sounds that
came from the deck—and there was nothing
to indicate to unfriendly eyes the position of
the galleon.

Ruy gave his command in a low and distinct
tone, the anchor was raised, the sails set, and
Ruy took his place forward to guide the ves-
sel through the narrow and tortuous channel,

The count and Captain Romero stood beside

 

him, watching the breakers on either side, in

breathless suspense, but neither venturing to
break the silence.
The anxiety of the countess at length be-
came intolerable, and flinging a shewl over
her shoulders, she came noiselessly out of her
cabin to her husband’s side, and stood, encir-
cled by his arm, in the same horrible sus-
pense, expecting every moment to hear the
crash that was to announce their doom.

But all this while Ruy stood at his post,
with a keen and watchful eye, seeing nothing
bat his present duty, and giving his com-

|mands in calm and deep tones. The perils

were many, Owing to the treacherous nature

|| of the wind, which several times died out in

dangorous moments; but Ruy’s knowledge of
the channel, the aid he received from the

f | lights ashore, and his ready ability and self-

possession stood him in good stead. Once or
twice it seemed to every observor as if the
galleon would strike on the reefs guarding the

i, |ebannel, and even Captain Romero and the

count more than once held their breaths in
expectation of such a catastrophe; but at
length Ruy assumed a more upright position,
and breathed a sigh of relief.

The sound of the breakers was no longer in
their ears, but behind them and growing rapid-
ly more indistinct.

The unearthly light of the glittering foam
in their wake showed the observers that they
had passed the channel in safety, at the same
moment that Ruy said:

“We are through the worst of our dangers,
and have left the channel behind us, Now for
Cuba!”

The count grasped Ruy’s hand and pressed
it warmly as he replied,

‘‘We owe you our lives, Don Ruy!”

Captain Romero also shook hands with our
hero, and the countess, Sharing her husband’s
interest in him, although she could not dis
tinguish his features, and had not yet seen
him, also pressed his hand with a grateful fer-
vor, and thanked him in terms. that, coming
from such a queenly and lovely woman,
thrilled Ruy’s heart witha rare and strange
power.

The galleon swept on in her new course to-
ward Cuba, and for an hour or more they
watched anxiously for some sign of the enemy.
“We are safe!” at length ejaculated Ruy. -
At that same instant, Captain Romero, who
who had been scanning the scene with a pow-
erful glass, uttered an exclamation and pointed
in the direction from which they had come.
They beheld the ghastly outlines of a schooner,
and asingle thought arose in chorus to ail
their lips: — ce ge

“It is the pirate!”

CHAPTER XIX,
THE CHASE,

The piratical schooner was indeed there! ..
She was moving, under easy sail, in thé
wake of the Silver Ship, and only afew lengths
distant. There was no light on her deck, no
signs of her crew, and not the slightest soand
came from her. Still as death, and barely out’
lined against the lowering sky, she looked
more like aspectre than a substantial vessel.
An involuntary cry of anguish came fro
Ruy.
“Yolais there,” he said, in answer to the *
count’s inquiring glance, “If we fight, we
rain death upon her. If we run, we leave her
to her fate.”

The count understood this horrible anguish,
and pressed the hand of the young pilot in si-
lence, ‘at a loss how to console him.

“It’s risky business, count, to carry sail
with such asky,” said Captain Romero; ‘but
we must try it, We have not had a fair
trial of speed with the schooner, and it is pos-
sible that we may beat her.”

The count nodded assent, but in a way
which showed that he had no hopes of escap-
ing the schooner in that manner. Captain
Romero proceeded to carry out his proposition,
and ina few moments the galleon was in fall
flight, under the fary of the rising tempest.
“Let's see how the movement is answered, *
Don Ruy,” said the count, ‘We will watch
the schooner.

Glass in hand, Count Regla went aft, sta-
tioning himself near the wheel, and bestowed
along and earnest scrutiny upon the enemy.
He saw no signs of life about her, heard noth-

 

 

ing, but he knew from the increased bulk of
her canvas, asa whole, that additional sails
had been set, and he was not surprised to. see
her maintain her exact distance from. the s
chase, ‘ « Be
“‘She’s well handled, Don Ruy,” he finally
ejaculated, with a glance at the sky. “We

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

may as well save our spars and sails; we shall
not outsail her.”

Captain Romero approached at this moment,
and this conviction was shared by him.

The darkness which now had come over the
scene would have been terrific on land, but
the agitation of the waters left on their surface
@ phosphorescent glare, than which nothing
more ghastly can be imagined. In this weird
glow toiled the galleon, pressed down on her

side by the strength of the continually in-
~ Oreasing wind, under the immense cloud of
canvas she carried. :

The fact is, count,” said Captain Romero,
with some bitterness, “the schooner can keep
us in sight easily enough, owing to‘our size.
Iam going tochange our course, but Ihardly
hope to avoid the eyes fixed upon us.”’

He suddenly changed his course, reducing
his sails so as to present the narrowest possi-
ble’ surface to the pursuer, in the hope of
creeping out of her gaze; but the galleon was
hardly settled in her new course when it was
seen that the schooner had made a correspond-
ing change, and was coming on as silently and

grimly as ever.

‘*He sees us!” said the count, quietly.

And now there was asudden gust along the
sea, which threw up the caps of the waves in
@ white foam, and impelled the ga'leon through
the waves at arate of speed that was terrific.
The blackness of the sky increased, its face
being covered with serried masses of jagged
and fiercely rushing clouds; but still that
phosphorescent glow lighted up the akysses in
which struggled the pursued and the pursuer,
and presented the ghastly outlines of each ves-
8el to the watchers on the other.

‘We shall have to shorten sail, captain,”
said Oount Regla, after a thoughiful pause,
‘‘Make all secure against the coming blast,
and then return to me,”’

While these movements were in progress,
Riuy scarcely lifted his eyes from the outlines
of the pursuer. The thought that Yola was
in the hands of the pirate seemed to paralyze
his whole being.

“Could we not fight the pirate, Count Reg-

la?” he asked, with a choking sensation at his
heart.
“Yes, we might,” was the reply; ‘but fight-
ing is our last resort. The schooner carries
twice a8 many men as we do, is easily man-
aged, presents a small mark, and can run
when she pleases. We shall fight, of course,
when it comes to that, butit is clear that every
advantage is on the side of the pirate.”

‘And even if we should gain a victory,’’
said Ruy, ‘we could not rescue Yola. If ren-
dered desperate, our terrible enemy would not
scruple to kill her,”

The connt endeavored to mitigate the har-
rowing reflections of our hero, but what could
he say? There was no possibility of ignoring
either the peril of Yola or that of the galleon.
Captain Romero soon returned, reporting that
he had prepared against the gale, as well as
an attack, and that it only remained to see
which of the two vessels would best weather
the storm.

In an agony of grief, which we will not at-
tempt to describe, Ruy paced up and down
the deck, watching the pursuer.

‘One thing is certain,” said Captain Rome-
ro to the count, “the pirate cannot come
alongside in this tempest.”

‘And another thing,” answered Count Reg-
la, ‘*ho will not be likely to open fire upon us,
and so run the risk of sending us to the bot-
tom. He knows that we are loaded with sil-
ver,” he added, ‘‘and he will not imperil it if
he can help it.”

With the increased fury of the gale, Captain
Romero was called forward by a subordinate,
and the count conversed a few moments with
Ruy. For a moment the attention of all con-
cerned was distracted from the pursuer, and
when the glances of the count and his friends
were again bent in the direction where she
had last been seeu, she was gone.

‘Ts it possible?” said. Count Regla, bring-
ing his glass to his eye.

As surprising as the fact seemed, a long
scrutiny confirmed it; the dim outlines of the
schooner were no longer visible.

Again there was a lullin the tempest, as if
the winds were weary, or as if they were gath-
ering strength for a wilder display of their fu-
xy; an ominous hush, and the galleon rolled
and pitehed heavily upon the huge billows
the storm had already called into being.

And now that the waves no longer broke in
sheets of foam against one another, the ghast-
ly light emitted in their fury was withheld,
and a darkness like that of Erebus came down
around the vessel, and hung upon the waters,
and gave to the roar of the sea its full horrors.

‘When we are done with this lull,” ob-
served Captain Romero, ‘‘we shall see trouble.
There it is,” he added, almost in a shout,
pointing to the northward, ‘Dios mio! It
is upon us!”

As he spoke, a stream of the hurricane, in
_one of its wild evolutions and gyrations, came
down upon the water with a sharp rush and
roar, and tore along its surface, not a hun-
dred yards from the galleon, upon which it
seemed to be directed by some evil genius of
the wind, A wall of white foam was lifted
high in the air at the base of this wind-col-
umn, and the next instant it burst around the
Silver Ship, the wind and sea blended to-

gether in a rushing mist, and beating her
down upon her side, with the roars and wails
of ten thousand furies.

*“‘We must go before it,’”’ said Captain Ro-
mero to-his employer. ‘Now is our time!”’

He took advantage of a moment in which
the stream of hurricane seemed to turn on
itself, and eased off the galleon before it. The

\e9 next instant the wind-column took her in its

encircling pressure, and she was borne away
helplessly where it willed,

And now, from the midst of this abyss of
darkness, a light suddenly flashed upon the
gaze of the watchers, from a point about a
mile to the windward,

~ A vessel evidently,” said Count Regla,
“but can it be. that of our enemy? Would he
show a light?’

Before an answer could be given to the ques-
tion, a second light was seen beside the first,
and it was noticed that they both had a swing-
ing motion, like that of a couple of lanterns
suspended in the shrouds of a vessel,

“She nears ts!’’ said Ray. ‘It must be
our enemy, and he must be conscious of our
presence!”

Half-e-dozen additional lights sprung up
around the first two, revealing the two masts
of a schooner, and if was then clear that the
lights were aboard of the pirate and that she
was coming.

And now, with the approach of the lights
seen from the galleon, the watchers, began to
trace the outlines of the ropes and cordage
among which they were hanging. Other lights
were joined to them, with powerful reflectors
placed behind, until the entire deck and tig-
ging of the pirate-schooner wore a vivid glare.
On she came, with sails all closely furled, with
only one man visible, and he at the helm.

‘My God! she is coming directly for us!”
cried Captain Romero. ‘Will she seek to
board us or to run us down?”

And now the gale seemed setting into a
fierce stream of wind in which the two vessels
were being driven helplessly over the sea. It
licked up every piece of canvas that was not
closely fastened, and twisted off the topmast
of the galleon in their long plunges, as if they
had been pipe-stems.

And now the voice of the ship’s carpen-
ter fell coldly upon every ear—with tho re-
port that the galleon had sprung a leak; but
he was unheeded.

And now the winds and the waves seemed
to combine against the galleon, the first striv-
ing with her rigging and the last with her hull.
At one moment she appeared to be hurled al-
most out of the water, on the crest of 2 mad
billow, and the next she was plunged down
into a black gulf of waters, ag though she
would never moro rise,

And now the schooner was so near that her
every rope and spar under the lights which
had been flashed in her rigging, were revealed
with glaring: distinctness. She showed no
sailin the wind, no broken spar, no sound
of excitement or confusion; but preserved
the same silence and grimness which she
had before shown. Another moment, and
the commander of the schooner was seen, in
the glare of the lights, to come out of the cab-
in and advance to the bulwarks amidships,
with a figure under his arm. A covering fell
from a huge lantern, which had been lashed
in the foreshrouds, and a broad glare of light
descended upon him and his weird-looking
vessel,

And now that the schooner was so near, so
clearly seen, she seemed to advance upon the
galleon with a speed that was supernatural.
The eyes of all aboard the Silver Ship were
fixed upon her, and the hush of awe and ex-
pectancy kept every tongue silent. On came
the infernal-looking craft, under its bare poles,
and with the water rolling upin a wall of foam
before her prow, and roaring and hissing un-
der the fury with which her light hull was
driven through the waves—on, with her lights
glaring, and with that silent figure clasped to
the breast of its commander.

“OQ, my God!” cried Ruy, leaping upon the
bulwarks of the galleon, as the. girl in the pi-
rate’s arm strove with him, raised her head,
and sent a piercing cry over the waters, ‘‘it is
Yola!” 8

There was no time to say more.

Clasping her form in his grim embrace, asif
making her a protecting shield, the pirate
chief leaped into the shrouds, under the glar-
ing lantern, and fixed his gaze upon the help-
less galleon. His huge form seemed to ex-
pand to giant size, as he shook his clenched
hands toward it, and a hollow laugh broke from
his lips, On he came, rushing along the wake
of the galleon, and only turning aside sufii-
ciently to admit of passing in safety. On he
came, with mocking gestures and triumphant
laughter, mingled with the cries of his cap-
tive, and in another instant he was borne
alongside of his intended prey—so near that
they could see the gleaming of his savage eyes
and hear his chuckles of delight as he shouted:

‘Well met, Ruy Leol! Well met, Count
Regla! Ihave the lovely Yola here, and shall
soon have those millions of silver! Mine! all
mine! I swear it, or my blood shall mingle
with the waters beneath us! Adieu till the
morning—then we meet!”

And then the schooner swept ahead of the
Silver Ship, and a general cry of excitement,
grief, and horror arose from the galleon’s
decks. Unheeded were the cries of the car-
penter, who was still dancing about and ery-
ing that the vessel was sinking;. forgotten
were the wild billows and the howling blasts
still sweeping the sea; and forgotten were the
millions of treasure in the hold of the doomed
ship. For, with the screams of Yola still ring-
ing in their ears, and with that terrific specta-
cle. driving on before them, the observers
could hear nothing and think of nothing but
the terrific cry with which the pirate chief had
left them; ‘‘Adien till the morming—then we
meet!”

CHAPTER XX,
THE PREY,
The schooner swept past the prow of the
Silver Ship, and the cries of Yola ceased to be

heard, she being borne below. The lights
were removed from the pirate’s rigging and

 

extinguished, and the darkness that succeed-

ed seemed all the more terrible by. contrast
with the recent illumination.

away to the leeward, and then the spectral
outlines of her hull and spars faded out from
the view of the watchers.

‘*Thank Heaven!” exclaimed the Countess
of Regla, who had remained at her husband’s
side, despite the tempest. ‘‘She’s gone!”

The gale now being at its height, its roar
was such that she was obliged to speak ina
high key, and place her lips close to the
count’s ear.

“Gone?” the latter repeated. ‘She hag
gone only to come again. She will certainly
be with us in the morning, as threatened,
Meanwhile, she will not for one moment lose
sight of us. Shs can see us without being
seen, she’s 80 smail—so bare!”

‘But she’s scudding before the wind, light
as afeather, and gaining on us——’”’

‘She will not go far,’’ interrupted the count.
“She will lie to at intervals, and wait for us,
She knows that we ere clumsy, and must con-
tinue this course comparatively helpless.
Nay, with such a craft, manned by such a nu-
merous crew, the Bloodhound can sail around
us a.dozen times before morning. No, no—
he will not lose sight of us!”

‘Then there’s no hope of our escape?”

‘None. That terrible being does not de-
ceive himself. Just so certainly as that poor
girl is in his hands, just so certainly will he
have our silver—our lives! I foresee what
his course will be in respect to our capture,
and am sick at heart!”

The countess sighed, wiping her tear-wet
face. She had been terribly moved.

“Poor Yola!’’ she said. ‘Our young pilot
is greatly to bo pitied. What a blow her cap-
tivity is to him!”

‘*Yes, it’s horrible,
can to console him!”

They. advanced towards Ruy, who had not
once spoken since the voice of Callocarras died
away on his hearing, He zemained clinging
to the bulwarks, deathly pale, and completely
erushed in spirit by the fall realization of
Yola’s peril and misery. Senor Leol had
joined him, endeavoring to comfort him, but
had not been able to inspire him with any
hopes respecting the captive. The truth was,
Ruwy’s clear perceptions had already told him
the same sad story which had come to the
count’s understanding—that there was no
present help for her!

‘Our hearts bleed for you, Don Ruy,” said
the countess, pressing his hand. ‘There's
no mistake, I suppose—the captive is really
your betrothed?”

Ruy replied affirmatively, and a pause suc-
ceeded, partly owing to the difficulty of con-
yersing in such ascreaming tempest.

Captain Romero had comprehended the re-
port of the carpenter, and gone \away with
him.

“There is a matter, Don Ruy,” said the
count, after a thoughtful pause, “that we
shall discuss with you when an opportunity
offers, The more we see of you the more we
are drawn to you. For certain reasons we
have been struck by your appearance and con-
duct, and your very name is a tie. Bat we
will not now intrude upor your grief. Suflice
it to say that we are your friends, and that
we will stand by you to the last moment.
Ah! see there!”

The schooner was again visible, lying to a
little off the course of the galleon, and appa-
rently waiting for her to pass. In fact, the
instant the Silver Ship had again taken the
lead, the pirate fell off before the wind, under
& fragment of sail, which looked like a dusky
wing, and again followed her prey, thus mak-
ing a complete circuit around her,

‘‘A vulture does not circle around its prey
more surely,” said the countess. ‘You said
truly, querido mio—the eye of the enemy is
upon us!”

They continued watching the schooner un-
til she had again passed near the galleon, and
was fading out of sight ahead of her, and then
Captain Romero reappeared to report on the
leak.

“The ship is strained a little forward,
count,” he declared, ‘‘and I find that she has
taken in some water, but the leak can be kept
under by a moderate use of the pumps, I
doubt not, and may be effectually stopped at
daylight, when the gale has abated.”

He added that he had put working parties
at the pumps, and was now intending to make
another effort to give the pirate the slip in the
darkness,

‘Very well, captain,” responded the count.
“Do what you think best. We will leave you
in fall possession !’’

He took Ruy by the arm and drew him and
the countess away to the cabin.

The efforts of Captain Romero to escape the
enemy were so fruitless that we will not linger
upon them. It is enough to say that every
movement of the galleon was foreseen and
provided for, and that the schooner, now visi-
ble, now invisible—at one moment ahead of
her prey and at another behind her—contin-
ued to move as she pleased about the doomed
vessel,

All the night long the Silver Ship contin-
ued to be tossed helplessly on the waters, the
storm raging furiously for hours, or till near
day, and then beginning to abate. With the
breaking of day, the count and Ruy were on
deck, looking at the schooner, which was still
in sight. There she was, about a mile to the
windward, with reefed sails, and with her deli-
cate spars outlined against the gloomy sky—
all as safe and uninjured as though she had
spent the night in her land-locked retreat near
Isla Grande.

“The wind will give her no further trouble,”
said the count, bitterly. ‘She will now run

We must do what we

 

down tous. The pirate will make your be-

For a few mo-,
ments the dread visitant. was visible, driving

 

trothed, Don Ruy, one of the means of our
capture!”

“Shall you fight him, count, or will you
surrender ?”

“That depends upon the circumstances un-
der which he approaches us,"’ was the reply.
“I may say, however, that I shall not imperil
the life of your betrothed. It is hard to lose
our wealth, but its loss can bear no compari-
son with the loss of such a life; “Since the
pirate, in having such a captive, wields a ter-
rible power over us, it would be neither brave
nor wise for us to resort to acts of despeya-
tion. We will do all we can, in accordance
with humanity, and leave the rest with the
great Master of life, Keep your eye on the
schooner, Don Ruy, while I say a few. words
to the eountess.”

Proceeding to the cabin he found his wife
pacing the floor in a state of great anxiety,
She had neither slept nor rested during the
night, although she-had shown a quiet firm-
ness worthy of herself.

‘The Bloodhound has indeed scented his
prey,” said the count, folding her to his heart.
‘You must prepare to see him. First, re-
move these jowels, lest they invite the sword
of some lawless pirate.”

The countess calmly removed her diamond
ceinture, rolling it up and putting it in a large
casket, and then took the jewelled sprays from
her purple-black hair, the rings and bracelets
from her hands and arms, and placed them
beside the splendid belt,

‘Shall I have to fling them into the sea?”
she asked. ‘If Senor Nerle was a spy for
Callocarras, he has doubtless made a report
on my jewels, Can I hide them?”

‘Instead of hiding them, you had better
put them in the keeping of Ruy Leol,” said
the count. ‘The pirates will not suspect him
of having them, and it is possible that he may
escape. In that case they would be a fortune
tohim. We owe him our lives, you know,
love!” :

‘You are right, husband. I feel in him the
deep interest you experienced in him at your
first meeting. Please call him.”

Ruy was summoned, the jewels confided to
his keeping and concealed on his person, and
a few less costly ‘ornaments were left care-
lessly on the table.

‘If we die, Don Ruy,” said the countess,
“consider the jewels a present from us!"’

He pressed her hand respectfully and re-
turned to the deck, followed by the count.

A goneral buzz of excitement had now
arisen on the deck of the galleon, for the
schooner was approaching rapidly, with the
most of her sails set, and her crew swarmed
at their stations, all ready for action. Sud-
denly, while all was bustle and preparation on
the Silver Ship, Callocarras came out of his
cabin, bearing Yola in his arms, and in an-
other moment had lashed her to the foremast.

“You see, Don Ruy?” said Count Regla,
with an air’ of sorrowful resignation. ‘The
villain makes your betrothed his shield, as I
have foreseen and expected.”

The preparations of Captain Romero for a
desperate fight were paralysed by this move-
ment, and a general cry of horror arose from
the galleon’s decks. Nearer came the schoon-
er, with the wind falling and the sea growing
calmer, and she was soon within easy hail,
when she rounded to, and Callocarras shouted,

“We hope you will not fire upon us, Ruy
Leol. You might harm your best friend.”

His hoarse voice rang over the water with
startling distinctness.

Ruy reeled as if smitten a terrible blow, and
became as white as a corpse, his nostrils di-
lating, his eyes flashing, and his bosom heay-
ing convulsively with his awful emotions.

his eyes—so near that he could mark the ter-
ror and anguish written upon her pallid fea-
tures!

“Base and contemptible miscreant!’’ ex-
claimed Count Regla, ‘There are some men
so wicked that they are best left to the Great
Avenger, and this is one of them. Have no
fear, Don Ruy—we will not fire!”

The critical moment of the galleon’s fate
having come, her crew thronged around the
count and Ruy, excited and expectant. By
the count’s desire, Captain Romero addressed
them briefly, showing them the terrible ad-
vantages of the pirates, and advising and
commanding a quiet surrender. The facts in-
dicating this course were that Callocarras
would surely murder his captive, in case of
resistance, and that he was not likely to kill
his prisoners, if they made no resistance,

‘‘And so,” concluded the commander, ‘as
the least of two evils, we will surrender. The
count will not be entirely beggared by this
event, and if we escape with life there will yet
remain a career before us—-an opportunity for
vengeance!”

(To be Continued.)

CaEStieor:

The Neglected Warning ;
OR,

TRIALS OF A PUBLIC SCHOOL
THACHER.

THE

By Mary Kyle Dallas.

CHAPTER LI.—(Conrinvep.)
ROTH WOOD’S STORY,

‘In this, at least, she has told the truth,” said
Rothwood. ‘“Sheis my brother’s wife. I remem-
ber well the day when he first brought her home.
It was a day tobe marked with black in the his-
tory of my life,

“My brother was more than twenty years older
than myself—a tall, powerful man—who led the
life of a gentleman farmer, and had some money
at his command, which he wasted in improve-
ments, which horrified the old-faghioned farmers
about him, and which, somehow, were seldom
successful in his hands, whatever they were in the
hands of others. ‘Old bachelor’ he was celled in
our family, and old bachelor he seemed destined
to be, for at forty he was yet unmarried.

 

“At that time business or pleasure, I forget

There was his betrothed, immediately before | us

 

 

which, took him to New Orleans, and there he
tarried, week after week, month after month, to
the astonishment of his ‘friends, who considered
him a stay-at-home body, who would not willing-
ly have exchanged his farm for all the pleasures
of all the world besides,

‘He was absent nearly a year. Toward the
last of that time, we received a letter, written has-
tily, and ina manner.which renderedit. difficult
of comprehension. Something was intended, but
what—save that he would be home at 4certain
date and would bring somebody or ‘somethin
with him—that the house was to be cleancd an
freshened throughont, and large fires kept every-
where, and that our sisters (married all of them),
an old aunt and myself, were to be in readiness to
receive him, and—who or what could not be
guessed at. ie
| “A joke,’ said one. ‘It is some dog or sheep,
probably.’ ‘A friend,’ said another—‘some South-
ern gentleman.’ ‘Perhaps he has adopted a
child,’ suggested a third. And my sisters, with
visions of their own offspring before their eyes
hooted the idea. Why should he do such a thing?
The very idea was preposterous!

‘So we waited, and the time appointed—the
week before Christmas—came and passed, until
it was Christmas eve—a cold day, with high-piled
snow upon the ground, and not a path to be
seen, whether one looked toward the village on
the right, or the woodland on the left.

"Ho must come in sleigh or not at all,’ wo
said. Andif he came not that day Christmas
would pass without him, Soat dusk the women,
anxious and impatient, gathered about the win-
dows of the great parlor and looked out toward
the spires and roofs of the village.

“There they stood until the sun went down, and
the round yellow moon arose in the clear winter
sky. All in the distance was silver with her light,
or black with shadow; but about the homestead
it was red, for every shutter was flung wide opea,
and every room glittered with light and fire.

“We men, my brothers-in-law and myself, sat
near the parlor fire, smoking (by generous per-
mission) each a fragrant cigar, and looking ai the
women clustered together at the panes—my statc-
ly aunt, in her black satin and lace cap, in the
midst; the two elder sisters in matronly robes of
purple and green color, the youngest a bride, in
white, with glossy green leaves and scarlet ber-
ries twined in her hair. She was kneeling, her
forehead touching the glass and her eyes strain-
ing themselves to peer into the shadows.

“Suddenly she started up with a glad cry.

SA sleigh!’ she cried; ‘I see a aleigh!—I’m
sureIdo! There! now the moonbeams catch the
horses’ heads! Itis brother Oliver! Iam sure
it is brother. Oliver!’

“In araoment we all declared that sho was
right, and soon the jingle of the bells came to us
through the still night air.

‘The sleigh came our way to 4 certainty, andin
a moment the parlor was forsaken and we were
all out in the broad hall, the door wide open,
waiting to welcome Oliver.

“The sieigh came to the gate and stopped; E
was beside it in an instant, and there was Oliver,
who greeted me in the tenderest manner, with
something of excitement unusual to him. Then
he turned toward the sleigh and litted from it a
woman wrapped in furs, and taking her hand led
her up into the brightly-lighted hall and stood
amongst those whose joy was now mixed with
astonishment,

** "My wife,’ he gaid, and not a word more, and
she dropping her furs from her splendid shoul-
ders, stood before them in all her exquisite beauty.

‘* ‘He told me he would surprise you all,’ she
said. ‘You scarcely expected his wife, did you ?’

‘They were scarcely glad to see her, The
marriage of a wealthy bachelor brother is seldom
hailed with joy by his relatives, but they were
ladies and greeted her ag ladies should. The
men, I think, judging by myself, were too en-
tirely overwhelmed by her beauty to think of any-
thing else,

Here Rothwood paused and covered his face
with hig hands, The story was hard to tell.

‘‘Winnie,” he said, sadly, “youll hardly care
for me when you know what a weak rascal £ have
been. Perhaps you will turn your back upon me
and leave me to myself.”

Winnifred did not answer, but she put her
hand upon his shoulder softly, and kept it there
as he went on.

‘Her name was Aurelia,” continued Rothwood,
‘and we knew nothing of ‘her even when she had
been amongst us for a long while, save that she
was the daughter of a Southern planter. That
evening we knew not even this; but we could sce
that Oliver adored her. He sat beside her, and
as if against his own will his hand sometimes
rested on her beautiful black hair. She was a
brunette, with cheeks of pure crimson, and teeth
white and even as a row of pearls. But to de-
scribe her as she was would be impossible, The
description would as well portray a hundred other
women,

“She was twenty-one; my brother forty odd
and old looking for his yeara. My firat thought
when I saw them, side by side, was, how did he
win her? She married him from no romance; f
knew that very soon. My youngest sister, the
bride, said so openly when they had left us later
in the evening together in the parlor.

‘She married Oliver for his money,’ she said;
‘I’m sure of it; and I dislike her; I always will
and always must. There is no affinity between

‘Except that she is beautifal,? whispered the
young bridegroom in her ear, and my elder sister
overheard it. “Ihe Rothwoods are not an ugly
race,’ she said, ‘but don’t compare such a bons
fide beauty to any of us. The only fault you can
find in her face ig one that has nothing to do
with feature or color. But I’d rather have my
sister the homeliest dowdy under the gun than to
look like that’ woman |’

** ‘Why ?? queried the speaker’s own husband;
and she turned on him a little sharply.

** ‘Because she looks neither chaste nor trae,”
she said; ‘and little Martha Brent, who can just
read and write, and knows enough of good breed-
ing to courtesy to the minister, and nod to her
acquaintance,and whose hands are red and rough
28 & Washerwoman’s, would have been welcomed
by me as a sister-in-law, with better grace,
Though Oliver’s wite is beautiful, accomplished,
and fitted for a court, sue'll lead poor Nail a -ter-
rible life, I fear !?

“The others did not ‘contradict this assertion,
yet the men were thoroughly fascinated.

“Christmas time passed merrily enough, despite
the regolutions of this feminine cabinet council,
But all invitations to tarry longer were refused;
and by the next evening the house was empty of
its guests. My aunt, Oliver and his wife, and my-
self alone remaining,

“My aunt had been our housekeeper, and Oliver
evidently expected that this state of things would
continue; but in a week, the old lady gave warn-
ing of her intention to seek another home. She
should reside in future with my sister Margaret,
she said, who had several small children, and
really needed her, :

“Oliver felt hurt. Imuch guessed Aurelia felt
very glad. She told Oliver so in her own coaxing,
childish way when my aunt was fairly gone.

“ IT never felt like the mistress as long as she
was here,’ she said. ‘She ruled things with a rod
of iron, AndifIlooked from the window, or went
out into the garden, she had something to say
against it. Ishall be happier now!’ And Oliver
kissed her, and said, :

“Then it is best so, Aurelia.”

“JT wish my aunt had remained with us. Inever

would have had this story to tell if she had done
80, for she was ® watchful woman, keen of eye
and true of heart. Winnie, the worst is close at
hand.
“My brother kept within doors during the win-
ter, and we were seldom alone together; but as
spring came on, his farm occupied him once more,
and Aurelia and I were often for whole hours
alone. Sometimes, at his bidding, I 1ode out with
her, or drove her where she wished to go. Oliver
approved of it highly.

ane @ younger brother of him, Aurelia,’ he
said.

“A younger brother ! I was but one year young-
erthan bis beautifidl wife—at least, I was old
enough to fallin love with her; and, Winnie, I

fell in love with her, madly, passionately, desper- ,4 zy
ately. A love based only on her beauty, for I did Z RY i

notrespect her, and knew sho waa not good. ,
“Iwas not so bad at first as to think of telling (Ay
her so. My brother's wife would have been ss- AS

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

a

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ame ———<

 

ered. But, Winnie, soon I found out Aurelia that
loved me, and thet Oliver was less than nothing
toher! My wife! my darling, Winnie! remem-
ber I was nothing but a boy !

“Tlook back upon that time and wonder what
enckantment was over me. Oliver was infatu-
atetl; he was blind to his wife’s every fault—blind
also to the change in me—for I, guilty as I was,
dared not!look him in the face. I shrank from
mesting him, and wondered, knowing how Aure-
lia had looked into my eyes and leaned upon my
bosom, how she could meet him with so frank a
smile an hour atterward, Over and over again I
vowed to leave the country, and reproached my-
solf with my own sin in locking with lover’s eyes
on my good brother’s wife, Bui I was not strong
enough to do what I should have done. I tarried,
and the die was cast.

‘My brother, eager in the pursuit of some new
invention—plough, or churn, or Heaven only
knows what—left home and stayed away for a
week. During that time Aurelia showed me more
of her heart than she had ever let me see before.
it was a dangerous ordeal, She tempted me, as
the serpent tempted Eve, and the woman Adam,
So it came to pags that I said to her one night,
when she had let me kiss her over and over again,
and sat with my arm about her waist on the cool
verandah, f

** “J wish wo were alone together on some little
island, where Oliver could never find us. Wa
should be so happy, should we not?

“And she answered, ‘If he could find us our
happiness would vanish indeed, Ralph. Iwould
not care if Oliver never came back again. It is so
sweet to dare to sit thus,’

“}'had had something of honor and truth left
in me, but it vanished then. I uttered some wild
words; what they were I know not; but I asked her
to fly with me—to leave Oliver and home and all
things else, and she sank into my arma, and I
fancied myself happy. Happy! I was the most
miscrante and wicked creature under Heaven save

erself,

*“T was not as rich as Oliver, but I was not poor,
and she knew it. I know enough of her now to be
sure that she would never have done as she did,
had her act entailed poverty upon hergelf.

“That night she prepared herself to. leave the
old homestead, where she had not been mistress
one year. She packed up all her costly dresses
and jewelry, and what ready money had been lett
with her, and at midnight we unbarred the doors
and fled. A train of cars ran past the village,
and we took the early morning train for Philadel-

bia.

‘There is no need of téiling you in detail the
events of the following months. So we traveled
on together, over the United States, and up at
lagi to Canada, There in Quebec we settled down
for awhile, and there I first caught a glimpse of
the demon thas possessed her.

“Our life became one series of: bickering and
contention, She was, I felt convinced, no more
constant to me than she was to Oliver; and more-
Over, sho drank wine enough to uneettle her
brain and throw her into oo of ingane
xageattimes. Her beautiful face was generally
flushed scarlet; and her step, stately as a queen’s
by nature, often unsteady. I sickened of her,
and as she passed for my wife, was often put to
shame by her,

“Then began another phase of our life. I grew
cold. Itreated her with neglect and indifference,
and she reproached me as her betrayer—as a fiend
who had Jured her from her husband’s home—I,
who had not dared to utter one word of love to
hor had she not encouraged me,

“TI went away and left her, and she followed
me. On theroad she fell ill, and sent for me, she
Said, to see her die, To this hour Iam not sure
whether she was really frightened by, her sup-
posed danger into a sort of repentance, or feigned
the mood in which I found her; but she was gen-
tle and loving, and wept over our sin, and was
more beautiful than ever, and my jealous doubts
of her—she seemed to prove without foundation—
and her dissipation, the vain effort to assuage the
grief caused by my coldness, and I pitied her, and
stayed with her, and became her slave once more;
and when she grew well we started on our way
southward, for the doctor said’ that the cold cli-
mate of Canada would kill Aurelia,

‘Travelling southward we passed within a few
miles of the place whence we had fied a year
before, and pausing at ahotel were delayed by a
storm. A farmer, an old friend of Oliver's, hap-
pened by evil chance to stop there also, and he
saw as, and flow with the news to my brother,
who had searched far and wide for us in his
wrath without avail.

*‘In the morning, without one word of warning,
he arose before us like a ghost. In that year his
hairhad grown gray. It was black as a raven’s
wing when he brought Aurelia to the homestead,
and there were deep lines in his forehead, like
those on the brow of a very old man.

‘**T have found you,’ he said, ‘and may God for-
give you, forl never can. I would not believe it
until I had seen you together. But now I am
convinced, as I might have been before if I had
not been half mad, Yet I have hoped some
strange coincidence had been at the bottom of
all, that you were at least not together—my wife
whom I so loved and trusted, and Ralph, who
was to me what Benjamin was t» Jacob. You
may judge how foolishly I hoped against hope,
when I tell you that my willis yet unaltered, and
that all I have remains divided between my wife
and my brother Ralph. I'll have that mistake
rectified to-morrow,’ my brother continued, after
apause. ‘You shall have nothing torejoicein at
my death but my curse, and thelaw shall free me
from that woman! After that let me die soon,
You, the two whom I loved best of all on earth,
have conspired to make me wretched, and’ the
very fact that that love is turned to scorn is the
bitterest part of all my anguish.’

“Then, a3 though the whole tide of bitterness
rushed across his soul, he stretched out his hands
toward Aurelia, clasped them to his forehead, ut-
tered a cry of agony, and dashed out of the house
like a madman, leaving me horror-stricken, re-
morsefal, and self-scorned, beyond what I had
ever been before,

, ‘When he had been gonea few moments, Aure-
lia litted her head and looked at me.

“I wish we could manageit so that he could
never alter his will,’ she said. ‘After keeping it
80 long, it will do him no good to destroy it,’

‘I looked at her in horror,

“*Would you touch hig money after so dis-
honoring him and grieving him?’ I asked, and
she langhed in my face,

“Would I? To be snre I would. Td take
money whenever I could get it, and from any
one.

“T would not touch enongh to buy a loaf of
bread if I wero starving,’ I said, and she turned
on her heel and left me,

“The rest of that day I never went near her,
I wandered away, keeping as far as I could from
all human beings, and slept at night under a
tree on the soft grass, At dawn I awakened,
and led by some strange impulse, made my way
toward the feighborhood of our old homestead.
I wanted to see it once more, and the little grave.
yard where our dead lay. I longed to. seo Oliver,
and to tell him how all this sin had been broughé
about. Sometimes I thought of Killing myself
at his feet, and with my dying breath praying
him to forgive me; at others I contemplated
hanging myself in the orchard, whereI might
be found and known.

“But as I came into the village, I found it
alive with unusual trouble for that early hour, or
indeed for any other. People were running to
and fro with anxious faces, and talking in groups
atthe corners. To one who was a stranger to
me I addressed mysel?,

“What has happened? I asked, and he an-

, awered: ©.»
.. Avery dreadful thing, sir; one of our most
influential townsmen, Mr. Oliver Rothwood, has
been murdered—shot through the heart as he was
going through tho woods last night. .They’ve
just taken his body home, andit’s the saddest
sight I ever saw.’

“I waited to hear no more, but rushed awa: kK
and found myself in a few moments by the id
of the couch on which Oliver lay. He had been
shet through the heart, and must have died al-
most immediately after receiving the wound, so

a v4 they said; and I gave up to my grief and remorse

GS

Without restraint.

oe pene neighbors who knew me did not wonder,

Was a terrible time for the prodigal’s return—
& fitting punishment for me,

“My sisters were sent for, and I saw them
again. They treated me with the scorn I de-
served. If expected nothing else, I only crept
away to a quiet corner, and waited to see the last
of my wronged brother Oliver.

“Atthe funeral I stood apart from all others,
and listened to the words spoken above his grave.
The old clergyman spoke of his virtues and his
trials, and of his sad and sudden end. [ felt al-
most as though he would denounce me as his
murderer.

‘When the sod was over him I left the spot, and
went far away, hoping never to see Aurelia again,
for the sight of my dead brother's face had made
her hatefultome! IJ heard how she came to the
homestead after the will was read, and took pos-
session of the portion of the estate bequeathed to
her by the unaltered will. I would sooner have
died than have received my portion. I wrote to
my brother’s lawyers saying 60, and by means of
the letter Amelia traced me. From this time she
kept sight of me. :

“I do not know why she gold the homestead.
Perhaps leading a lonely lie, where no one would
associate with her, was nottober taste. She
converted her property into ready money, and
came to New York, where she squandered her
meansinthe most riotous living. Every little
while she would seek meocut and endeavor to
draw me to her once more. She eyen urged me
to marry her. But the time when her smile could
charm me was past forever,

“Meanwhile, she so waste] her ample means
that in a few years she was absolutely poor. Then
she began to come to me for money, which I al-
ways gave her, and to adopt the gloomy costume
in which you have always seen her.

‘‘And I lead a wild, bad life, and tried to drown
my remorse, how vainly only Ican ever know !

“When I first saw you, Winnie, you were little
more than a child, but your presence seemed to
thrill me. I watched you—you grew in beauty
and in goodness. I knew I wasnot fit for you, yet
I said, ‘I will win her ifI can!’ and to win you I
strove, hoping to become better, meaning, as
Heaven is my judge |

‘How Avr la discovered this I do not know.
But on that evening when she came to us in the
ponsepHonerss and tookme aside with her, she
said, ;

‘* “Ralph Rothwood, you are going too far! I
have always told you you should never marry an-
other woman, and you intend to wed this girl! It
shall never bel I have & power over you of
which you little dream! The day of your mar-
riage shall be the signal of your death! Your
life is in my hands! I can hang you if I choose !’

‘I laughed at her, and bade herleave me. To
rid myself of her I denied the truth, and she
made her usual demand for money, and left me.
pe she followed us, and you know what came
after,

‘Her life to-day is as bad as a woman’s life can
be; and, knowing her, as I do, I feel sure she in-
tended you greatharm. Yet still, her words were
always these,

***¥You shall go free, unless you marry her!
When that comes to pass, tremble at my name!
I will be revenged !’

‘On the eve of our wedding I learned her in-
tehtions more completely. She met me on Bresd-
way, and walked beside me until we reached
my hotel, Once there, she would enter, and
when alone, she said to me:

‘You are about io marry, Iknow it; I am cer-
tain of it, Now listen—go surely as you put the
ring ba that girl’s finger, so surely will I hang
you. can fix Oliver Rothwood’s murder upon
you, and I will do so, as I live,’

“At that moment I felt that she spoke the
truth, and knew my danger. Yet I oped to
evade her, and fancied that even to this woman
so foula falsehood would seem hard. I might
have known better. Sheis utterly bad--utterly
without truth, and subtle as Satan.

“You know all now, Winnie. I lie here in pris-
on—perhaps I shall dis a felon’s death; and it
may be that I deserve one; for, though blood is
not upon my hands, my guilt is great, and you
despise me now—perhaps will leave me never to
return. Yet I have loved you, Winnie, truly,
purely—and your name shall be the last upon
my lips. Pray for me, darling, even if you loathe
me so that you can never bear tolook on mo
again, and say to one thing I was true at least—
my love for you!”

innifred had grown pale as death while this
strange story was being uttered—she grew paler
now. But she drew nearer to Rothwood, and
placed her hand upon his head.

“It is not for me to judge,” shossid. “Iam
but a frail human being tike yourself. Awoman’s
duty alone is mine, I am sg OUT wife, Ralph, and
in your hour of anguish and peril it is nota wife's
part to turn coldly from you. I will keep my
iaarriage vow, and never leave you or forsake you.
Tn good repute or evil repute I have promised to
be true, and only death shall part us.”

The prison doors had closed behind her with a
crash, and she was out in the open air once more
before Winnie quite understood the meaning of
what had been told her. Then came a mingling
of emotions—erief, pity, anxiety;
no change in her affectionfor him. She thanked
God for that, even while she wondered at it,
When she thought him pure and good—when she
never dreamed that his sin had been what it had
proved itself to be, she had cared go little for him;
now in his misery she clung to him, she felt that
she must never turn from him, and with every
hope of future happiness fast fading, yet felt that
as his wife she could have beenso happy.

“Can he be saved? Can he be proved innocent
of this crime?” she said. ‘“‘Alas! alas! I fear
not! That womanis suro of her position. Her
proofs are such as cannot be doubted by judge or
jury, or she never would have gone go iar—never
—never |”

With pale face and trembling limbs she hurried
along the street, hardly eincing at those who
passed her by, until she brushed against a tall
figure, and stumbling, absolutely fell into his
arms! Confused and ashamed, she looked up to
apologize, and saw the face of Mark Graham!

A sudden impulse—afterward she believed itan
inspiration—impelled her to seize him by the
arm, and cry,

“Oh, Iam glad thatI have met you! You are
gagd on are noble—you will forgive and aid
me! {have no friend in all the world but you !
Be my brother! Help me to save my husband |”

“Your husband ?”

One moment a dark flush overspread Mark’s
face, the next he turned toward her with a look
which she never forgot.

“Thank you,” he said. “I will try to merit your
good oginion. If I can help you—your husband—
in this hour of trial, I will do so, for your sake |
But he has many friends, and I am neither rich
nor es Why do you fancy my efforts can
ava

“Something tells me you can aid him,” said
Winnie, ‘Iam sure you can. It is strange that I
should come to you, remembering what has hap-
pened, but Ido it without a doubt. Come home
with me and I will teil you all.”

They went together to Deacon Grant's dwelling
aiter this, and he sat beside her in the shady par-
lor, and there listened to Rothwood’s story.

When it was done, he bent his head upon his
hand, and pondered.

“Murder will outl” he said. “I believe that
that is the truest proverb ever spoken or written.
The very precautions men take to hide their
guilt brings it home to them. This woman may
have murdered her husband with her own hands.
If so, there may be means of proving the fact. I
will go to the spot_ where the murder was com-
mitted, and with God’s help I may discover the
truth, even though go many years have passed
away. But, Mrs, Rothwood, all that I miay hear
may only serve to convince others of your hue.
brnd’s guilt. Ido not believe that his hands are
stained with blood. Yet appearances are against
him. You know that, I suppose ?”

“I know it,” she said. “But Mark, my generous,
forgiving brother, sinful as he hag been in other
things, Ralph Rothwood’s soul is clear of thia
great crime, and God is very merciful! Ho ean
prove the truth, and you, it may be, are Hig
chosen instrument |”

“God grant it may be 80, Winnie,” giiq Mark,
and there was a quiver in his deep-toned voice,
“God grant it may be so. I pray that you may be
happy yet. My strength, my life, are at your ser-
vice. ‘lo serve you I would die!’ God knows this
life is worth little to me now; and, it is not much

 

to say I”

but amidst all | piy

 

He paused—a spasm passed across his mouth
—he wrung her hand, and turned away, 2

“Even if you do not hear from me,” he said,
“know that Lam busy about this work, If any-
thing can be done I wilido it. If any result is ob-
tained, I will gond you word at once, Pray for me
Winnie.” :

“I hardly dare to pray for myself. I am hold-
ing a demon down with both hands now. A de-
mon that whispers, ‘Be unjust! All have not
acted justly by you! You have been injured—be
revenged |”

“Good! noble! Oh, Winnie, I'll strive hard to
merit half those praises ! Harder than you can
know or guess; andI shall never merit them—
never, unless God helps me greatly!” He was
gone.

And Winnie sobbed as she had not sobbed for
many days—the tears did her good.

But despite hope or prayer she was very anx-
ious, very troubled, sometimes quite despairing.
Counsel were engaged, but even they had little
Heb Pe The proof on the other side was tremen-

ous.

Daily she saw Rothwood, who hailed her pres-
ence with joy, and seemed happy even in his
prison when she sat beside him and reposed her
head upon his shoulder; and he no longer turned
away the serious words she tried to speak with
carclose though not unkindly jests. He listened
how intently. He questioned her of things which
had never interested him before, and a new bond
was formed between them. Leading him Heaven-
ward, Winnie drew nearer herself, and there was
a new light in her eye and a new tenderness in
her smile which made her more beautiful, even
though her cheek grew paler and thinner with.
anxious vigils. ;

And so the time of the trial approached, and
still she heard no word of Mark Graham,

| CHAPTER LIL.
THE TRIAL

At laat it wanted but one day of the trial, and
there came to her a slip of paper in a small en-
velope, on which were scribbled, as though in
great haste, the words, : -

“A clue is found; do not think too much of it,
nor too little. Lhope! Until'a few days since I
have despaired. 1t cando no harm for you to
hope also. : Marx,”

Winnie kissed the little slip of paper, and
folded it against her bosom. It was the first
gleam of sunshine that had fallen onthe dark
pisture of the future, and she treasured it as a
wiser treasures his gold.

Yet the trial was so very near,
be done? She trusted in God.

The trial began next day. The court was
crowded. Rothwood, with every eye upon him,
stood where the sunlight from a window near at
hand kissed his black curls and glittered on the
waves of his silken beard. His cheek was 3
thought palor—bis eye somewhat less bright; but
he neither quailed nor faliered. A murmur ran
through the crowd—a murmur of admiration,
He did not look likea man to commit murder,
People said so, and a reporter finding in this an
excellent opportunity for a fine paragraph, scrib-
bled down,

‘‘The prisoner at the bar is a remarkably fine-
looking man. A fine hero for this tale of love,
jealousy, and murder. His face, strange to say,

could anything

proof that a man ‘can smile and smile, and be a
villain.? So great is the power of fascination
possessed by this murderer, that his bride, a
young and beautiful girl, evidently believes him
innocent,”

But even the reporter’s busy pen faltered for a
moment in his interest in the scene before him
as the judges were assembled upon the bench,
The lawyers took their places and the trial drew
close at hand, When informed that he had the
right to challenge the jury, Rothwood glanced
over the men before him with a keen eye, and
singled one from amongst them. As he did so
the black veiled woman moved eagerly in her
seat in the witness box; and Rothwood sent a
glance that way as though he understood the
movement. Winnie fancied she understood it
algo,

The jury was empaneled, the District Attorney
opened his case. As might be expected he
proved, in the brilliant words he uttered, that the
prisoner at the bar was the very basest of men,
the one of all others most likely to commit a
cruel ‘murder. The one of all others who. had
motives and provocation for such an act. It was
his duty; what he stood there for; people knew
that, but he influenced them nevertheless, and
they were better prepared to listen to the wit-
nesses for the prosecution.

The first was the veiled woman. She came for-
ward, put back her sable veil, showing that face
80 beautiful once, so altered now, and kissed the
sacred volume offered to her. :

Then she stood waiting for the questions, They
came, and every ear was bent to listen to the re-

“What is your name?”

“Aurelia Rothwood.” :

‘In what relation did you stand to the de-
ceased ?”

“JT was his wife.”

“Were you living with him when he died?”

‘No; I had left him more than a year,”

“Under what circumstances.”

The head never drooped; the eye never fal-
pres. No woman’s shame tortured that cold

Teast.

“T left him with his brother, Ralph Rothwood,”
she said.”

‘The prisoner at the bar ?”

écy es 22

“You eloped with him ?”
“T did.”

fae remained with him ?”
88.

“Did your husband know with whom you had
gone?”
“T am sure of it.”
OWh 22

‘‘He followed and discovered us. Some one
told him where we were, and the morning of the
day of his murder he stood before us.”

“What passed ?”

“He reproached and threatened; Ralph re-
proached and threatened also. They quarreled
violently; each swore to take the other's life,”

‘That is a. falsehood,” cried the Py fonts “and
you know it well, Aurelia Rothwood.”

“Silence,” screamed the crier,
tioning proceeded. :

“What was the conduct of the prisoner after-
wards?” ,

‘He was moody and abstracted, and said over
and over again that he would put an end to his
brother’s life; that they could not breathe the
same air. Then he went away and I never saw
him for many days. This was on the day of the
murder, In the morning, Oliver Rothwood wags
killed late at night,” :

‘Should you have supposed the prisoner medi-
tated any violent act when he left you?”
es 2

and the ques-

*Did he speak of such intentions?”

“Not at the moment of parting; but his faco
had such a strange look upon it that. went down
upon my knees and prayed him not to injure
Ralph, whom he had injured enough already,”
Again the voice of the prisoner rang through
the court.

“That woman is perjuring herself; every word
she utters is a lie!” ; :
The evil eye of the woman turned upon Roth-
wood. He metit defiantly. The sea of faces in
the court moved as though stirred by a strong
wind. Something in the prisoner’s voice awakened
general sympathy; sympathy almost always ac.
corded to truth—inevitably to comeliness and an
earnest manner by a multitude. Winnie felt her
eyes moistened, but her heart sank. One who
could thus unblushingly commit perjury could
bring the most innocent man to the gallows.

The whole system of trial by jury is, after all,
based upon the eee that most men are
honest and fear God. In dealing with a liar the

‘law falls powerless, for in a court of justice an

oath must be believed, and false oaths and bribed
witnesses have robbed many a man of his life,

“This cannot be permitted. I hope your hon-
or,” said counsel for the prosecution, turning to
the judge, ‘if timid lady witnesses are to be

 

bullied in this way, we might as well close the

ig amiable; his mien gentle—in faot he is a living,

case. Goon madam; don’t be alarmed; don’t be
deterred from speaking the truth, the whole
truth, and nothing but the trath, by the brutal
conduct of the prisoner.”

“So he left you with threats of vengeance?”
“Yoa sir,” replied the timid lady witness, cast-
ing down her eyes. “It grieves me to say so, but
he threatened Oliver Rothwood’s life.”
“Had he weapons with him?”

‘He always carried a revolver.” :

True for once, at least, Rothwood, like many
men, always wore weapons about him. A pair of
exquisitely mounted pistols had been taken from
him before he was committed to prison,

‘And he did not return?”

"No, I did not see him for many months.”
‘After beguiling you from your husband's
home, he deserted you.”

‘Pray, did he provide for you 2”

§*No, sir.”

The lawyer groaned,

“Have you seen him since?”

“Once or twice. I discovered his intention of
marying an estimable young lady, and felt it my
duty to warn her of his character. It was all the
reparation I could make for my past folly.”

**Did you at that time suspect the prisoner of
the murder of his brother ?’: é :
“No, I feared, but I had no positive suspicions
until met old Martin Jay,”

-“This is entirely unprecedented,” interrupted
the counsel for the defendant, scarlet with indig-
nation.

His opponent smiled,

“You may take your seat, madam,” he said to
the lady. ‘“‘At least for the present,” and the wit-
ness let down her sable veil and left the box.

Martin Jay was the next person called; and on
him Rothwood turned a searching eye. He looked
upon a stranger; no old time memory arose at the
sight of those hard features and that time-worn
frame.

Martin Jay’s appearance did not prepossess be-
holders in his favor. He had & Villainous face;
his eyes glancedfartively about him, never meet-
ing those of the person who addressed him; his
head would have afforded a singular study forthe
phrenologist—a bad head altogether; in figure he
was spare and bent. Hig dress was a rough green
baize jacket, with horn buttons, and inexpressi-
bles of dark blue, patched more picturesquely
than becomingly with red flannel. He stared
about him and fingered the railing of the witness
box in a restless, abstracted way.
ie He was sworn, and then began the usual ques-

jong.

“What is your namo?”

‘Martin Jay, sir.”

“Where do you live?”

“In ——, sir, on the Rothwood property. I’ve
lived there twenty years.”

“What is your occupation ?”

“I do odd jobs, sir. But I have my shanty free.
Mr. Oliver Rothwood put me in it,”

‘Why 3”

“Out of charity like,
kind gentleman.”

‘Do you remember the day of the murder?”

*T do, sir; I’'d not be likely to forget it.”

‘When did you last see Mr. Oliver Rothwood 2”

“That morning, sir. He rode past my door, and
says he, ‘I found them at last,’ says he, and I
knowed he meant his brother and the missus,
He didn’t come back agin; but thatday I seen Mr,
Ralph Rothwood in the woods, hiding like among
the trees, and felt there was mischief brewing.
When it was night I looked out o’ my door, and
saw Mr. Ralph running past at full speed, fright-
ened like. It made mo trimble,”

“Why were you frightened ?”

‘Cause there was bad blood between "em, sir,
and I thought harm might have happened. Mr.
Ralph was very hasty.’

Ralph Rothwood turned his peering eyes full
upon the speaker, as though he coul i have pierced
him through with a glance. But Martin never
met any one’s eyee, and the look passed unre-
marked by him. The lawyer went on.

‘What did you do after this?”

“I stayed to home, sir, until they found the
body in the morning. Then I went into the
woods, and under a great tree, among some au-
tumn leaves, I found a pistol—one o’ them six-
shooters—and I knowed it in a minute, and took
it home——”

‘Knew the pistol?”

‘Yes, sir. it was Mr. Ralph Rothwood’s, for
I'd seen it often, and more betoken it had his
name on it in gold letters.”

‘What did you do ?” ;

“I kept the pistol and gaid pos. I was
afeared to make trouble—an old man like me—
until the other day, I was took sick, and says I
my conscience won’t let me rest easy with such a
secret on my soul, So Iwent for the missus and
told her all—for certain sare Mr. Ralph did no
good with that pistol as he left behind him,”

‘Ts the pistol in court ?”

Yes, sir.”

The revolver was produced. It was a dainty
little weapon, mounted with silver, and Winnie,
with a shudder, recognized it as the ct te par
of one which Rothwood had once exhibited to
her. »It was handed to the jurymen, who exam-
ined t and read the tiny letters each in turn.

“You may go,” said the lawyer; “I have noth-
ing more to ask you.”

But the counsel for defence insisted on a cross-
examination of this witness. .

“Mr. Jay,” he said, peering into the old man’s
face with his sharp eyes, “‘can you tell me why
you kept so burdensome a secret so long?”

“Vos, sir. I was afraid to speak,”

“Why did you tell it at last.”

‘Me conscience bade me confegs, sir.”

“Your conscience had been quiet a good
while.”

s‘It had, sir.”

‘Why did you choose Mre. Oliver Rothwood for
ja confidante?”

‘She was Mr. Oliver’s wife, sir.”

‘How did you know where to find her?”

**T knew sbe was in New York, sir.”

“And her address ?”

‘*Yeg, sir,”

‘How ?” .

‘Well, how do you know where any one lives,
sir? I couldn’t say.”

You're sure she didn’t hunt you up.”

“Of course, sir.” :

*‘How much were you paid for coming here ?”
“Paid! Well, sir, taint fair to an old man like
me; that’s only his character.”

The opponent of the questioning lawyer here
interposed.

**There appears to be a regularly laid plan for
intimidating our witnesses,” he said, “Iam sur-
prised that gentlemen should think it necessary
to pursue such a course.”

. It would be well if some witnesses could be
intimidated,” said the lawyer. ‘However, we
have no need to resort. to such means to prove
the innocence of our client. Mr. Jay, you may sit
down;” and the old man retired to his seat.

The next witness was a domestic in Oliver Roth-
wood’s family, a middle-aged woman of respecta-
ble appearance for one in her station. Sho testi-
fied with some asperity to the elopement.

“She had expected as much. Master Oliver
was Wild, and Mistress not what she ought to
have been. Master never suspected, though
everybody else did, and took it dreadfully to heart
when he knew they’d gone away; his hair grew
gray in a month or so, and he took no pleasure in-
anything. It seemed to her that he searched for
them; anyhow he was away from home for weeks
together, and the servants said so. ‘When was
it Master found them out?’ ‘About a year from
the time they ran away,’ she believed, ‘Neigh-
bor Glenn came over and ‘had a talk with him,
and going away met.ber,’ ‘Well, Margery,’ said
he, ‘’ve given friend Oliver some news of the
runaways; I met that scapegrace Ralph and his
wife at Frank’s hotel last night, and she had said
she always thought it, and half an hour after.
wards Master Oliver rode away post-haste ands
she never saw him again, that is, alive.’ She
knew he went after. Master Ralph, and she al-
ways thought it came to blows between them.”
Waen informed that she mast not allude to her
thoughts, the good woman replied “that she had
sworn to tell the whole truth and would do it,
lawyers or no lawyers, if the Lord spared her
breath.”

The next witness was Mr. Oboediah Frank, the
proprietor of the small country hotel, a fat, lo-
quacious old gentleman, who, when questioned
as to his identity, informed the jury that he was

He was a mighty fine

 

J. F,
023,24 THE

commonly called Obe, by his intimate friends;
and that he bought the hotel of Phil Buster, who
was afterwards ehot by accident when out a gun-
ning. Heremembered the prisoner well, though
*twas some time ago, and he had more color, and
was younger as they all were. Folks naturally
grew older with tims. He stopped at his house
with a very handsome lady, that he thought to
be his wife; but, goodness, if you asked to gee
the marriage certificates of every couple that
stopped at a hotel, they’d laugh at you. They
staid at the house only a few days; but folks re-
marked on the lady’s beauty; seemed to have a
temper of her own, too, but ladies generally had,
He remembered the day of the murder well. It
seemed the day before to him, but. *twasn’t found
out until next morning before daylight. That day
a stout gentleman, with gray hair anda handsome
face, if it hadn’t been so stern, rode up on horse-
back and asked for Mr. Rothwood. The couple
wore eating breakfast, and he showed them iuto
the room, but he pretiy soon found out that there
was something amies. Betsy Jane, the chamber-
maid, would listen; she wasn’t encouraged, but
Mrs. Frank liked to hear news, as was natural,
and Betsy Jane dia hear enough to know thatthe
lady wasn’t the young gentleman’s wife bu§
tother’s.

Hearsay evidence was not admissible. Well,
they must excuse him, but it was all hearsay evis
dence after all. He told them whathe saw just
as Betsy Jane told him. 2

The elder gentleman rode away in a terrible
passion. After awhile and pretty soon Mr. Ralph
came out, all excitement, and walked away. He
took the same road, and seemed to have some<
thing on hismind, He fancied at the time the
young gentleman meant to do something despers
ate, S

He went over to see the body. Thewound was
in its head, as if from behind.

“Did he know of Mr. Rothwood’s having @ ré«
volver? O yes, two; he shot a bird for a bet with
them once. He couldn’t swear to them. They
were a pair mounted with silver.

Mr. Ralph was a very pleasant gentleman, and
good as far as he saw to the lady. He hoped he
knew ’twasn’t his fanlt that he was witness.

This witness was remarkably fond of talking,
and sat down reluctantly.

There were many other witnesses summoned.
One who had lived near the Rothwoods and visit-
ed there; some who had met Oliver on the morn-
ing of bis death; some who had encountered
Ralph. They had little to say, but that little waa
allagainst him. If not a murderer, he was at
least in a murderous mood, and had been seen
lurking in suspicious spots. Even Winnie, feel-
ing so certain of her husband’s innocence, could
not but see how plainly the evidence so linked
peed must prove his guilt to strangers’
minds.

The prisoner knew it also. His heart beat fast.
His eye rested on the fair face of his wife, never
before so beautiful to him. Thoughts of his past
lite flitted through his mind; thoughts of what he
would strive to be were he permitted to live. He
was no coward. Death did not much affright him;
but such an ignominious and audden end must
indeed be terrible.

And Winnie—what would the world say to her?
The wife of afelon! How would it use her?—
and how would she remember him when his name
was her disgrace? Heloved her so. He longed
to live to be cleared of this charge for her sake,
Truly his sin had met with a terrible punishment,
for he could see no way of escape. His few wit-
nesses could prove nothing save that thoy liked
him, and that they did not believe him guilty.
Strong man though he was, Rothwood would
have given much to lay his head upon Winnie’s
bosom and weep like a child as the thoughts came
pouring over him.

Meanwhile the witnesses for the defence were
being called. What they had to say was said.
Not much. It had no weight with judge or jury.
Sonte rather fast men took their oaths that Roth-
wood was the best fellow anywhere, and greatly
prejudiced the sober-minded jurymen against
him by so doing. An old nurseof theirs declared
that a sweeter tempered child than little Master
Ralph never lived, nor a better tempered man;
that he wouldn’t kill a mouse, let alone his own
brother; and that he was to blame in nothing
and never could be,

A faint effort was made to prove that he had
been seen elsewhere on the night of the murder,
but it failed entirely; and only went to prove cone
clusively that whatever he had been doing he
| slept out of doors that night in the very woods in
which his brother’s lady had been fouhd in-the
morning. It seemed a helpless case. The judge
looked very grave. A murmur ran through the
crowd. They evidently thought the handsome
prisoner guilty at last, and now there was no
more evidence to be heard.

The last witness was heard and the judge was
about to sum up the evidence, when a strange
bustle was heard without and some one brought
a little slip of paper into court and handed it to
Rothwood’s counsel. It was read, and the gen-
tleman turned with beaming countenance toward
the judge: i

‘*Your honor,” he said, “two new witnesses have
arrived, at the very last moment; I trust the jur
will find reason to change their opinion, which
ean read plainly in their faces at this moment
when I have produced them.”

He whispered a word to the man who had
brought him the note, and in an instant every
eye was turned toward the open door by which
two strangers entered.

(To be Continued.)

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8

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kia, | eh ORES. Felt Sole United States Agent

 

 

 

er,
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TO CONSUMPTIVES. —

A preacher of the Gospel, having cured his son of Con.
sumption in its worst stages, after being given up to die by
the most celebrated physicians, desires to make known the
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hose afflicted with Coughs, Colds, and Consumption and
he will send it free of charge to all who desire it and wil
forward him their address.

ap7tf. Address DR. UNCAS BRANT, Box 3531, W. ¥,

JUST PUBLISHED.

ABRAHAM AFRICANTS I.

His gecret life, as. revealed under mesmeric influence.
LINCOLN (NEGRO) CATECHISM,
wherein the excentricities and beauties of despotism are
set forth.
SONGS AND BALLADS OF FREEDOM,
Sieben Seicents oo scenes of this :
g th nest collection of songs ever published. 3
PRICE, 15 CENTS HaGH. For sale by all Deve Agents. Wey
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AMERICAN NEWS CQ., 126 Nassau st., N.Y.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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RLY. @icbeccsox-

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

ANOTHER GREAT STORY

BY Ate
MRS. MARY J. HOLMES.
Next week we shall commence the publica-
tion of another great story from the pen of

MRS. MARY J. HOLMES.

The story is entitled
Dtier ce Vashi bes:
OR,

DORA’S LOVE.

A BOLD SOLDIER “GIRL BOY.”

The Washington Republic is responsible for
the following interesting story: Doctor Mary
E. Walker, who is well known to many of our
citizens, writes us from Chattanooga an ac-
count of a singular case of female martial
spirit and patriotic devotion to the flag.
Frances Hook’s parents died when she was
only three years old, and left her, with a
brother, in Chicago, Illinois. Soon after the
war commenced she and her brother enlisted
in the sixty-fifth ‘Home Guards,” Frances
assuming the name of ‘Frank Miller.” She
served three months and was mustered out,
without the slightest suspicion of her sex hay-
ing arisen. She then enlisted in the ninetieth
Illinois, and was taken prisoner in a battle
near Chattanooga. She attempted to escape
and was shot through the calf of one of her
limbs while said limbs were doing their duty
in the attempt. The rebels searched her per-
son for papers and discovered her sex. The
‘rascals respected her as a woman, and gave
her a separate room while in prison at Atlanta,
Georgia. During her captivity she received a
letter from Jeff. Davis, offering her a lieuten-
ant’s commission if she would enlist in their
army. She had no home and no relatives, but
she said she preferred to fight as a private sol-
dier for the stars and stripes rather than be
honored with a commission from the ‘‘rebs.’’
About two weeks ago she was exchanged. The
insurgents tried to extort from her a promise
that she would go home, and not enter the

 

 

thou didst even now say, in the midst of burn-
ing tears, ‘‘not my will, but Thine, be done.”
See, pride standeth apart; peace is radiant; a
welcome guest.

So then, courage, courage heart; the glori-
ous sun waits beyond the storm. Say no
more, “how long, how long?’ As we “‘rea-
son together,” behold another good, a rich
and royal good. Thou art believing and trust-
ing a father’s hand! Thou art on the very
point of being willing to take even the dregs
of the bitter cup; and let patience have its
perfect work, so that thou mayst be like the
king’s daughter, all pure and perfect within.

Be calm—thou art being cared for! Re-
member that “afflictions spring not forth of
the dust,” and that “He doth not willingly
afflict, nor grieve the children of men.”

Be patient! He will yet lead thee by green
pastures and beside still waters.

: Laura Exuzr,
$B beep ees
A FEW RATIONS.

Those who assert that this war is waged
solely for the liberation of the slaves, and
maintain that the Southern Confederation are
only fighting for their liberties, and defending
their homes from Northern invasion, must be
suffering slightly from aberration of mind. At
least we think so. In the volume of inspira-
tion we read: ‘‘Let your moderation be known
unto all men,’’ And we are of the opinion
that the North have acted on this principle.
And while we have felt the deepest commiser-
ation for our sick and suffering prisoners at
the South, we have not retaliated, nor in mo-
ments of exasperation committed outrages
from which humanity recoils.

But this isa subject for future considera-
tion, Our army of volunteers elicits the won-
der, and without much exaggeration, we may
say, the admiration of the world. But, we sin-
cerely hope, the war is of short duration. The
Sonthern population are driven by want nearly
to desperation, and are eager for the restora-
tion of peace. Before the expiration of the
present year, we hope to see our manufactories
in operation, and fields now desolate in prepa-
tion for abundant harvests. We trust the
leaders at the South will give the matter due
deliberation, and seeing that a separation of
the Union is impossible, and the success of
their cause hopeless, they will lay down their
arms, and the Fourth of July be held in com-
memoration of the cessation of hostilities,

In conclusion, we cannot help thinking that
if some of the officers of the Northern army
had thought less of their decorations and the
remuneration they were receiving, and. more

 

‘service again. ‘Go home!” she said; ‘my | of their duty to their country, the war would

only brother was killed at Pittsburg Landing, have been at an end long since,

and I have no home home—no friends!” Dr.
Walker describes Frank as of about medium
height, with dark hazel eyes, dark brown hair,
rounded features and feminine voice and ap-
pearance. Dr. W. is well versed in human
nature, as wellas anatomy, and she. believes
that justice to the young woman in question
yuires that she should be commissioned a
dtenant in the army. ‘The doctor also
aes that Congress should assign women to
, - duty in the army, with compensation as well
‘as colored men, averring that patriotism has
no sex. Whether the President will commis-
sion Miss Hook as a lieutenant, or Congress
will draft Mrs. Walker’s countrywomen into
the service we know not, but we are certain
that the ‘‘Doctor” is thoroughly in earnest,
and that the story of her new protege is an in-
teresting one.
meen» + I} b-4 -ipmmcnrenenmemnenmenennast

EMPLOYMENT OF WOMEN IN FRANCE.

The ‘*Englishwoman's Magazine” contains an
article from which we take the subjoined ex-
tract, believing that it may interest our Ameri-
can lady readers. ‘“‘The employment of women
in France is rapidly extending in all trades
which require neatness, taste, or delicacy of
touch. The law there forbids workmen to strike
unless they can obtain leave from the govern-
ment on showing good grounds of complaint;
and the government does not consider the in-
troduction of women sufficient cause for a-
strike, nor will it permit of threats, violence,
or combinations to exclude them. On the
contrary everything is done to encourage the
employment of women. For instance, the
Empress causes the decoration of china to be
taught in the girl’s schools under her control,
and personally bestows prizes on the best
pupils in the art. A school, too, with work-
shops attached, has been established for the
purpose of teaching girls various other trades
well suited to them. It is, evident, then, that
unless we follow the example of our neigh-
bors, and encourage the employment of wo-
men, every trade which can be affected by
foreign competition must speedily be taken
from us. Duty and interest are therefore co-
incident. It is our duty to obtain for women
the means of earning an honest livelihood,
and, in the long run, it will prove our inter-
est also.”

    
 

—_—_—_—_+40++—____-
TAKE COURAGE,

Back, tears! and courage, heart! these dark-
ened skies shall clear. Say not so shudder-
ingly, that sorrow’s bitter bowl is brimming
for thee, every drop thy own. Be still, poor
yearning heart, thou art not forgotten; look
up, look within, and thou shalt see a good
already vouchsafed or possessed.

Bethink thee, poor heart, time was when
thou hadst no desire for the companionship of
gentle patience. Thou saidst in thy pride,
“to be patient under heaped up woes, is to be
mean spirited—I will none of it.’’ Thou didst
struggle, and resist, and suffer—all was tur-
moil, every throb was anguish; the crimson
tides were like rushing flame,

Hs, Behold, now; meek-eyed patience has the

§ seat of honor in the soul! Thou lookest long-
ingly at her soothing hand; thou art more
than willing to yield to her whisperings, Ha,

Suz.

 

- > re
A WORD OF WARNING.

Our neighbor, The Leader, winds up an ar-
ticle on stock-jobbing in Wall street, in the
following sensible manner: ‘‘For a greenhorn
to speculate in Wall street, at present, is just
as foolish as to play euchre against three West-
ern blacklegs, with a confederate standing be-
hind your chair and telegraphing what you
have in your hand. Do you understand that?
‘Ah!’ you say, ‘but Mr. Soandso made a for-
tune the other day, and I know three or four
people who have doubled their capital.’ True;
but do you know any one who has lost? We
suppose not; and yet somebody must lose. It
is a great deal like the lives of children in Sun-
day school libraries. You may read plenty of
biographies of good boys and girls who died
young; but you won't find any biographies of
wicked boys and girls who did not die young.
The successful are like the good—they are
celebrated. ‘The losers are like the wicked—
one does not hear of them. And yet you know
there must be losers.

‘When a man wins a thousand dollars on a
bet, some person or persons must pay that
amount, So, when a man wins a thousand dol-
lars in Wall street, some person or persons
must pay the money. Now, who pays it?
Sooner or later, the greenhorns, Your friends
may have been lucky enough to win, but some-
body’s else friends must have been unlucky
enough to lose. You may, perhaps, be lucky;
but, as we said before, the odds are dead
against you. Stand by, if you like, and watch
the game. Read the money artickes in the
newspapers. Have your eye upon the new
companies just getting ready t6 work mines
and things—the said mines being in other peo-
ple’s porte-monnaies. But don’t let them sink
a shaftin yours. Be wise and virtuous, and
you will be happy when Wall street totters and
falls.”

THE SHADOWS AND LIGHT.

BY LILLA C. WILLIAMS, 4

 

 

 

 

My life began among the shadows. They were
the canopy of my very babyhood. Shutting out
all the light and sunshine that makes childhood
beautiful; making life, up to womanhood, a
dreary march. Poverty was the bane of my exis-
tence, andit seemed toeat up, like a slowcan-
ker, everything but the hard, bare reality. Our
old homestead was brown and weather-beaten,
standing out onthe strong soil a tangible evi-
dence of our starved life within. We lived away
up among the White mountains ; their snow-cap-
ped tops standing like time-frosted heads un-
covered in the presence of the God of heaven.
On every side, stood a formidable belt of forest,
trees that completely shut out every vestige of
human life, except our little village, standing at
the foot of the rocks, based mountain like, a
thing of life, that had successfully defied every
effort of the rigid climate to freeze outits vitality.
Here my life began, and here I lived throughout
my saddest and darkest hcurs. At fourteenI
knew, comparatively, nothing of the great world
beyond. My actual knowledge of things material
was bounded by almost the smallest circle be-
yond the limits of the little village of C——.

My father, his grey hairs whitened by the with-
ering blight of sorrow; my mother, but the shad-
ow of a woman; my blue-eyed sister Ruth, and
myzelf, were the only occupants of the great
rambling house that was our home. My fathers’
was a spirit to drink in griefand disappointment,
silently and uncomplainingly, until the heart
would cease to beat beneath its burden. And
such seemed to be his destiny, for every cup of
joy that he passed to his lips was dashed down

 

or turned to bitterness. We had a brother, but
following the impulse of a wayward disposition,
he went to sea, just when he might have been a
staff to old age, and when he again entered the
family circle, it was to die; and he now sleeps be-
hind the little church. It is a comfort to know
that he lies where we can visit his narrow home,
and did not realize our fears of an ocean burial
that courted him so many years. With his death
every hope that my poor father cherished died al-
so. From the day he pillowed Charley’s beauti-
ful head on his breast, and saw his face settle into
its last repose, ‘the never smiled again.” Between
him and my mother there existed little sympathy.
Her attractions disappeared with her youthful
beauty ; and when old age came with its accom-
paniments of poverty and sorrow, she was the
heaviest clog in the wheel that was crushing him
down. There was enough for her to bear, God
knows! but beating against the prison bars of
fate, was but wearing out the chain without the
hope offreedon. Thus we were living on from
year to year ; but the heaviest cloud was hover-
ing in the future, and it threatened to settle on
our desolate household in imperishable black-
ness. Some years previous. being pressed by
debt, my father had mortgaged the home that
sheltered us, with its few stony acres, to the
owner of ‘Wilber Mansion,” a great cumberous
house in the outskirts of the village, and now he
was coming home froma tour of years in foreign
lands, to settle his business at C——.

Cato, the old house-keeper, had related the fact
that day,and my poor old father seemed perfectly
paralyzed with the thought that we would soon be
homeless. Ruth and I were up stairsin our room.
We had been weeping, and I was leaning against
the little window, looking out, trying to peer into
the portentous future, my heart filled with bitter,
rebellious thoughts. Ruth’s elastic nature was
the first to subside into calmness, and she nestled
to me like a wounded bird seeking protection be-
neath my stronger pinion.

‘Don’t cry, Katy dear; Iam sure there will be
some way for us to get along.”

‘Some way!’ the simple words touched the
rock that concealed the hidden fountain, and the
bitter waters that slow years had collected gush-
ed forth.

“That has been the course of my life. I have
barely lived since the hour of my birth. The
waves of a stormy sea ever, ever beating against
me, burying beneath their depths everything
within my grasp but a barren, hopeless life ;
with a fairy land pictured in beauty hopelessly,
beyond, clothed with my wildest, fondest dreams,
ever mocking me with visions of what life might
have been, I could bless the hand that would
push me down, down, beneath the waves, and let
me diea least. I have never had a wish realized,
and this antagonism is sinking me in hell, and I
had better never have been born.”

“Oh! Catherine, how can you ?”

I pushed Ruth from me, and she gunk to the
floor, looking at me with the most helpless sorrow
pictured on her face. Wearied more than relieved
by my wild out-burst, I sank down by Ruth and
rested my head on her lap, while she soothed my
brain with her little hands, her warm tears fall-
ing on my face. We were silent, and on the wings
of memory Irevisited the chambers of the past,
not all cheerless, but few enough bright threads
in their dark woof. And was it true, the old
homestead must go? Its cold, silent walls were
uninviting enough to a strangers gaze, but they
were our all. Every association of the past was
connected with them. Here, in this little room
had Ruth and I crouched alike, when the summer
breathed, and the winter winds howled. Here
we had studied, and dreamed our wild, romantic
dreams. I have said that I was unsophisticated,
but I had had glimpses enough of the life I was
destined to fill to make me chafe like a wild beast
chained. Going from the living present to the
dead past—dead, but living to me, green with un-
dying momories—five years hence lcame to the
time when I erected my altar on which I sacrificed
my first offering to the God of ambition. The
earth was clothed in a glittering sheet of snow,
and the morning air was reverberating merrily
with the echoés of the school bell,

Robert Hawton was a hard student, and a de-
votee at the shrine of fame. Self educated, he
knew no motive but ambition. Driven from the
college walls by necessity, he had found our moun-
tain nest, and attracted by its seclusion and
healthy atmosphere had commenced a winter
school. That winter wasthe wheel that turned
me to the leading star of my life. My father had
an extensive library, a relic of better days; hence
Robert Hawton was a frequent visitor at our
house. He aroused every latent attribute of my
soul. Ireverenced,nay! almost adored him, but
there was no warmer sentiment. I would as soon
of thought of loving the wild eagle that waved
his wings in beautiful gyrations between me and
the sun. He went back to college in the spring,
but the impress of that short term was stamped
on an immortal soul. Stopping at the dingy lit-
tle office, some months after we had returned to
our old, quiet days again, there was handed me
the daintiest snowflake of a letter for my father.
It was a ladies hand, drawn in the most delicate
characters I had ever seen. I was filled with un-
bounded curiosity and hastened home.

‘You are my father’s second cousin,” said the
lady, ‘“‘and. although I have never seen you, I en-
tertain for you the highest respect; and if you will
but bid me welcome to your mountain home I
will be content to die.”

Soit was arranged to receive the little invalid.
Our accommodations were not very ample, but
Lenora was an heiress, and would bring her own
furniture. Her uncle came with her, for she was
an orphan. After her room was fitted up, and the
little frail form lay among the crimson satin
cushions, it seemed to me like afairy’s bower. I
envied her her wealth and beauty; but her simple
faith was the anchor that buoyed me up until I
was planted on the rock above the waves. ‘Love-
ly beyond conception, born to wealth, and seem-
ingly all the heart could wish, yet Lenora Baset
was dying ofa broken heart. She had loved and
was betrothed to a man, whose face, as I saw it in
its tiny frame, was the most beautiful I have ever
seen. But her own sister, a girl of regal beauty,
allured by her fascinations, her gentle sister’s lov-
er, and Nora had forgiven them their wickedness,
but was dying slowly but surely. When thesum-
mer flowers faded she bid us adieu, and we laid
her among our household graves. The rosy teet
of day had faded in the west, and the winters
moon was up looking dim and cold. I was numb
with cold, and Ruth was moaning in an uneasy
slumber. I awakened her gently, and we crept
into bed. Themorning was just dawning when
I was startled by mother calling me. There was
something in her voice that made my heart stand
still, Icrept down stairs shaking with terror,
with Ruth clinging to me. Our mother sat by
the bedside looking with stony eyes at the still
form before her, the habitual expression of settled
despair on her paleface. His hands peacefully
folded on his breast, and with the look of a
wearied child sleeping, our father lay dead be-
fore us. His tired spirit had sank beneath the
yoke imposed on him, and his feet had wandered
at last to the home where ‘‘the weary are at rest.”
A low knock at the door broke the stillness, and
to my mechanical invitation, the door slowly
opened, and Mr. Wilber entered, his hands filled
with papers. He seemed petrified with surprise
for a moment, then seemingly touched with pity,
the mortgager silently withdrew. I remember
but indistinctly the events of the days that fol-
lowed. The rain was falling the day we followed
our father to the grave, and the patter of the fall-
ing drops seemed almost cheerful, as it broke the
awful calm that seemed to have settled on every-
thing.. As we were returning home, Mr. Wilber
walked beside me and said something about set-
tling business, as his lawyer was in haste to return
to the city. Itold him to come to the house the
following day. After that the roof that covered
us was no longer our own, but we were left in pos-
session for the present. Three weeks had elasped,
and I had written to Mr. Hawton and obtained
sale for our library, and he had kindly made the
arrangement for me to enter one of the schools in
Boston. I wasio start on the next morning. I
had been to the grave yard, for the last timesoon,
It was a sad parting with those sleepers. ‘There
lay the little hands that had first led me away
from a sullen despair; and there, peacefully
resting now, lay the only parent I had ever loyed;
and there, his wandering ended, lay my only
brother. Itseemed’as if their spirits were hov-
ering near, whispering in the winds my hopes

 

and fears for the future. I hearda step behind
me, as I was climbing down the rugged path, on
my way home, and turning hastily, Mr. Wilber
stood before me.

“Sit down, Miss Barton ;” he seemed flurried,
and out of breath. ‘‘Miss Barton, I want to tell
you something, and it will be as void of superfiu-
ities as the palm of my hand,”

I signified my assent.

“T have known you from childhood, Miss Bar-
ton, and I have always liked you. Ihave known
your family for many years, and your good father
there,” motioning toward the white tomb stones
gleaming in the light behind us.

"Yes sir.”

I but dimly comprehended him.

‘It may seem: improper to speak of this 80 s00n;
but marriage is as solemn asdeath. Miss Barton
will you be my wife ?”

He had said this in a jerking, spasmodic way,
and at the close, took my hand timidly, and then
stood looking into my face. It seemed a long
time before I felt that I could speak. Crowded
into all those few minutes were all my dreams of
ambition and bright ‘hopes of the future; and
standing in the light, way out beyond the shad-
ows, was my ideal love. Comparing the man be-
Sy Pe with this being of imagination I mental-
y said,

“T would rather die;” and my lips uttered
the thought aloud. ‘I would rather die.”

I dropped my hand, and stepped back; the
expression of his face changing slightly, taking
on its habitual lazy one. Aman born to wealth,
with but a medium intellect, he was the personi-
fication of sleepy, kind hearted, goodnature. His
hand alone was between my mother and sister,
and abject poverty ; and I did not wish to offend
him, So, in my childish, passionate way, I told
him something of my future prospects. He, at
conelusion, merely asked me if I would ever
change my mind, and become his wife. With
woman’s instinctive foresight,I knew that I would
TT I answered ;

“Nol

Thad been at school a year, had received a
diploma, ‘and had a situation as teacher, engaged
in one of the city schools. Iwas going home on
a visit before commencing my labors. Ruth’s
letters had been subdued, disconnected things,
which had been less apparent, because I had been
so much engaged.

One night one was handed me, and I tore it

open with rekindled interest. Ruth began in
her pleading way. She ought to have told me be-
fore, and would have done so,but mamma forbid,
saying to take me by surprise. She was married
to Mr. Wilber, and mamma concluded, in her
scrawling hand, that Ruth had made “such a
grand match,” and hoped I would come and see
them at the “Wilber Mansion.” Miserable, farce!
LT saw through itallnow. That was the cause of
Ruth’s reserve, and why no word had ever been
written, encouraging me to come home. They
were always ‘getting along so well,” and ‘‘Mr.
Wilber was so kind.”
Poor Ruth! gentle and submissive, she had
yielded to the guidance ofone who should have
been her shield. But perhaps she would be hap-
py after afashion yet. After a self conflict I con-
cluded to go home, as was myintention. It wasa
cold, blustery night, that I arrived atthe grey olé
mansion that was my sister’s home. The par-
lor looked warm and cheerful. Mamma was trigged
out, and looked gayer and younger than I did.
She welcomed me with quite a show of feeling.
Ruth looked like a wild bird caged, and was
afraid to try to escape. The whole truth was
written on her little sad face ; but I held her in
my arms, and whispered reassurances of my love.
Hugh Wilber took my hand and looked enquir-
ingly into my face ; but there was nothing there
that he could read. He sat by the fire that
night and smoked, with his feet on the mantle-
shelf, and whistled to his dog, then snored in
his stupid slumber. Isat by the fire long after the
rest had retired, and the dying embers seemed to
weave themselves into prophetic visions. I had
fought with the shadows, and passed them fold
after fold, until the light that ever glowed beyond
my reach, was beginning to gleam on my path,

4 QP ep

PRAIRIE. BLOSSOMS.

BY EFFIE BRUCE.

GONE.

Within the gilded walls of his mansion, wealth
watting away with its golden breath a jarring
sound, or afoul gustof air from his downy couch,
with soft hands lovingly wiping the death damp
from his palid brow, with eager fingers holding
the rich wine to his stiffening lips, hoping to re-
call the fleeting breath for a little longer, with lit-
tle golden-haired cherubs clinging to father’s par-
alyzing arms, he passes away, and the widow
shrieks the sad wail of the children of earth, he is
gone! Oh! God! heis gone! What matters it
in that moment that she has a marvelous portion ?
What matters it then that he has left her dia-
monds and gold? The pang of woe forcing the
wail from the lips of the widow leaning over the
clay of the millionaire, but accords with the groan
of her in the lowly cottage, bending over the pau-
per. She had pledged her wedding ring at the
pawnbroker’s, passed through the dreary night
by his bedside alone; straining her aching eyes
over the sewing that was to bring in the money
for that medicine, she had _ baffled her anguish
striving to earn a penny. Little three year old
‘Mary had carried the pure, sparkling water in the
only tumbler, to the bedside, and held it in her
chubby hands to the invalid’s lips ; little Johnny
had strove to split wood and gather chips, and
had also dropped the dime a kind stranger had
given him, into mother’s lank pocket book; ban-
ishing all the thoughts of the confectionary from
his little mind, had even cast a contemptuous
glance at the old woman at the corner who sold
the tempting molasses candy and peanuts,
Father was sick, and Johnny was helping moth-
er; but the toiling, striving wife, the little rosy
cheeked Mary, with her busy, pattering feet and
willing fingers; manly Johnny, with his self de-
nial and his childish feats, must yield to the
ghastly rider of the pale horse, and the pauper
widow realizes that the last gasp has struggled
through the clammy lips of her husband, as she
peeks he is gone! gone! Oh! my God! he is
gone

There’s a man gone! says the soldier, in the
heat of the battle, as, with smoke-begrimed
face, dauntless eyes, and unflinching heart, he
takes his place in the proper rank, where his fal-
len brother stood. .Aman gone! He didn’t know
him |! Aman gone! why, it was his old comrade,
his old friend James ; they had been boys togeth-
er; how many times they had swam that old
creek together, and trudged the road to the little
school housein the grove, building air castles as
they went along, glowing with anticipation, and
their eyes bright with hope.

A man gone! why, it was the only son of a
widow! her trembling old arms clung to him for
support, her old heart had doated on him. Her
Charley gone! She had strove to keep him with
her; other mothers could spare more from their
bright home circles; she had only the one! Spare
him to me, my bleeding country, she cried, let
the cup pass from me,my God! But that was not
to be, and she had gazed upon her soldier boy in
his new uniform—smothering down her grief and
letting a spark of pride light up her poor, dim
eye. Yes, her boy was brave and strong, and
good; he would be sure to rise step by step;
what might he not be yet ? And letter after letter
feeds her hopes, until the last one, with that
cruel death blow, listened to withthe hands clasped
over the poor, wrinkled brow, with the gray hair
streaming, and the poor heart breaking, the aged
brain turning, while a sympathizing neighbor
reads the letter from Charley’s colonel.

Gone! gone! the death knell of affection,
sweeping from mother’s hearts over little lonely
graves; from the lips of desolate orphans over
dreary coffin-lids; from the lisping tongue of the
prattler, stroking the sprouting blades of grass
on its father’s grave! Gone! gone! the little
word which expresses so much, from the hour in
artless child hood when we téar a picture book, or
break a toy, or loose sight of the gay butterfly
we have been chasing, untilit utters the wild an-
guish of the human heart in the midst of the bat-
tle of life,as we close the eyes of our heart’s idols
and follow them to the tomb.

 

 

 

HA! HA! HAI!
PHUN! PHUN!! PHUN II!

NOW READY,

THE PHUNNY PHELLOW,

Universally admitted to be the most original and

most entertaining Comic Journal published
on either side of the Atlantic.

The number now ready is full to overflowing
with rich, rare and racy matter, both pictorial and
letter-press.

A perusal of its pages is always attended with
the most uproarious laughter; but the present
number will not only wreath the faces of the most
melancholy and demure with smiles, but will
cause those over whom Momus wields an infiu-
ence to indulge in such irresistible guffaws and
hearty cachinnations, that their chests must ex~
pand at least three inches with every laugh, and
perhaps compel their vests to rip from the com-
motion of good humor which has been aroused,

Among the illustrations may be especially men-
tioned the first page, illustrative of the

First of May in Richmond!
Gen. Grant invites Jeff Davis to vacate the pre«

mises, by order of the owner, one Uncle Sam,
Another rib-tickler is the large

Double-page Illustration |

Showing up LINCOLN’S NEW SERVANT GIRL |

in the person of

MISS GRANT, FROM THE WEST,

who finds it necessary to make a general clearing
up before she can commence work properly.

This picture will provoke roars of laughter from
anybody possessing the slightest relish for the
ludicrous. The likenesses are beautifully pre-
served, the grouping is very artistically done, and
the general effect of the picture is irresistibly
funny.

The last page also contains an original gem in
the shape of

THE WANDERING MINSTREL ;

of the discharged Commander-in-chief, an indi-
vidual whose name it is unnecessary to mention,
inasmuch as his likeness will be instantly recog-
nized. /

Then we have a mirth-provoking representa-
tion of

UNCLE ABE AND HIS BOOTBLACK,
BILL SA WOOD.

Together with about forty other illustrations,
including the following:

EXPRESS,
A FREE AND INDEPENDENT CITIZEN,
A MERE CHILD,
A FAIR BARGAIN,
A DANGEROUS TOPIC,
FARTHER OFF—BETTER FRIENDS,
THE PUDDING DID IT,

A CASE OF DYSPEPSIA,

HAIR DRESSING IN 1864.

Among the letter-press articles will be found

the following original contributions ;

THE SHOEMAKER’S LAST WILL.

A RAT ELEPHANT.

A TRIFLING MISTAKE.

AN IGNORANT LAWYER.

A STARTLING REVELATION.

THE WAY TO ATTRACT CUSTOMERS.

A PARODY FOR THE PERMISKUS.

AN ELEPHANT ON A SPREE.

SINGLE BLESSEDNESS—A SHORT PATENT
SERMON. BY DAVID DRY, F. BR. 8S.

THE RESULT OF A’ MEDICAL MISTAKE; or,
A Dys-ine Patient SAVED FROM PEATH.

THE SHERIFF—A POEM. BY WINDENGAS-
SER, D.B.

VIRTUE IN HUMBLE LIFE; or, Tue Poacu- -

ER, THE PENITENT, AND THE PRAISEWORTRHY IN-
Fant. A Thunder-and-Lightning Drama, in
Three Acts.

THE POLICEMAN AND THE COOK.
THE MISERIES OF A HUMOROUS WRITER.

SIR PHELIM O’FLAHERTY; or, Tam Rewarp
OF AN In1isH HERO.

BALLAD OF LITTLE BILLER,

THE GREENVILLE FAIR.

THE CONVERSATION OF PEDESTRIANS.
DEAF AS A DUMPLING.

PREVENTION IS BETTER THAN CURE.

DEATH FROM EATING HARD-BOILED EGGS, |

MILES O'REILLY ON THE “NAYGURS.”
THE WORLD DELUGED WITH DEVILS,
RED HAIR AT A PREMIUM.

A MUSICAL HERRING.

HORACE GREELEY A GALLOWS BIRD.
TO THOSE WHO USE TOBACCO.

YOUR MONEY OR YOUR LIFE.

SPLIT HIS BREECHES.
CONSCIENTIOUSNESS NOT REQUISITE,
AN IMMENSE DOUGHNUT.

THE RESULTS OF SCIENCE.

RULES OF A MODEL BOARDING-HOUSE,
A CONTUMACIOUS HEN, —

DISAGREEABLE EFFECT OF CUCUMBERS ON
A THIEF.

Besides an innumerable amount of Squibbs,
Quiddities, Oddities, Jokes, Conundrums, Side-
splitters and Mouth-expanders.

aw The PHUNNY PHELLOW is now ready, &

 

 

    
 

 

 
Ses,
ts

  

 

 

   

 

 

 

MORNING PRAYER.
BY MRS, SARAH A. WATSON,

Father, let the morning break
Sweetly on my soul to-day,

And the minrtrel breezes wake
All my soul to melody$

Help me to forget my load,

Journeying on thy heavenly road,

Though the heavy folds of mist
Half the morning’s glories hide,
Ere by noontide sunbeams kissed,
They will climb the mountain side,
Walking, Father, in thy sight—
s‘At eventide there shall be light,”

if my path should lie to-day.
Amid darkness, amid gloom—
If, in groping for the way,
I should fall upon the tomb
Of some cherished hope long dead—
Let thy love still beam o’erhead,

If the skies should melt in rain,
And the clouds obscure the day,

When the sun shall shine again,
Lord, above my onward way

Let thy bow of promise shine,

And a perfect faith be mine,

Let me walk serenely, Lord,
Leaning on thy arm of might,
Trusting in thy holy word, :
Through the gathering shades of nights
Be thou with me, Lord, to-day,
Journeying on the heavenly way.

ADELINE, THE TEMPTED;
The Sudden Marriage.

[Back numbers of ‘Adeline, The Tempted’”® can be ob-
tained from every News Agent throughout the United
States, ]

 

 

CHAPTER XI,

A NEW LIFE.

A bright summer has faded away. A winter of
unexampled sterility and rigor has succeeded it.

That, too, has swept over the face of the fair
earth, leaving not the most shadowy trace behind
jt to hold contest with the laughing spring, which
has succeeded the iron-boundicy season.
pn And so twelve months have passed over the

ead of Adeline, Marchioness of Bulstrode.

She is paler than she was, and there is an air of
sadness and dejection upon the young face which
was a stranger to it even at that period of great
suffering when she seemed to stand alone in the
wide world, and hope belonged not to her,

The scene is one of the most brilliant saloons in

Bulstrode House.
. The early spring has not yet exhibited warmth
sufficient to dispense with the use of fires; and
mingling with the sparkling coal in the ample
grate odoriferous wood is burning, sending
through the vast extent of the palatial apartment
a faint perfume, which seems to steal across the
senses like a pleasant mist.

And in every nook, and in every corner, there
are fair flowers that have stolen a march upon the
summer season, and have condescended to bloom
in alltheir vernal beauty, to flatter the senses of
the sons and daughters of luxury.

It is near the evening. One of the French win-
dows is open. The soft south wind puffs its way
gently through the casement, slightly swaying to
and tro the Venetian blind that shuts in that
abode of luxury from the curious eyes without.

Long, slant gleams of golden light pervade the
room, shedding a new, rich, and rare beauty upon
Objects sufficiently glittering in themselves to look
fair and beautitul, without such adventitious aid.

There is a couch drawn close to that open win-
dow. Adeline reclines upon it,

The poor, rich Marchioness.

Poor in happiness, poor in contentment, poor in
all that really constitutes the heart’s wealth; and
yet lapped in golden luxury so far as regarded
those external possessions which those who have
them not look mistakingly upon as almost the ele-
ments of a state of beatitude.

Her hands are clasped over her face. She is
either sleeping and moaning in her. sleep, or her
waking thoughts are full of bitterness and woe.

It is an anniversary.

How long that day has been coming round!
But, at length it corresponds in time of year and
date to that on which the Marquis of Bulstrode
first looked into her eyes, and, with tender praise
of her young beauty, and joy at his heart that he
was once more restored to human feeling, made
her what she now was,

A peeress.
ue richest peeress on the golden scroll of no-

ility.

But how changed she was!

Where are the soft outlines of that girlish face?
Wuere are the surprised, eager-looking eyes, only
blurred for a time with tears, wrung from suffering
that would pass away like a dream ?

She was still young. She was still beautiful.
But it was not the same youth and the same
pare which had made her the Adeline of former

ays.

And now those slant rays of sunshine passed
away. A cooler wind swept through the open lat-
tice. There is a slight rustle of the heavy silken
hanging over one of the doors of the apartment.
A gaudy French clock strikes the hour of seven,
and then, with little piping and carol-like sounds,
the pretty toy plays a few bars of a lively measure.

The room darkens. The twilight of that brief
April day sweeps down over the fair earth like a
cloud, and then Adeline is conscious she is not
alone, and she knows who is her visitor; for she
is, at that hour, and on that day, to give an audi-
ence to the man who has held her in his thraldom
like a caged bird for those weary twelve months.

Joseph Julian darkens the bright apartment
with his presence. The voice jara upon her ears.

‘Adeline |” ;

She shudders.

‘You are here,” :

“Itisthe hour. Listen! Punctuality is one o
my virtues; although, perhaps, in me you may
callit by another name. Listen!”

There was an unusual stillness in the streets,
and the last strokes of the hour of seven could be
heard distinctly echoing from several church
steeples.

‘“Marchioness, you remember this day twelve
months since; and I have now to ask you, have I
kept my compact?”

“Go on,” said Adeline, faintly. ‘What is your
wish now?”

“This day twelve months since I made you Mar-
chioness of Bulstrode. You then fretted in your
gilded chains, and, taking but a short and limited
view of the humanity with which you were sur-
rounded, you cast away the glittering fortune you
had won; but I watched over you and bestowed
upon you the rare privilege of retrieving a mis-
take—of retracing a false step.”

“No more—no more!” cried Adeline. ‘What is
“Hear me out.” '

your will?”
Adeline clasped her hands over: her eyes again,
and seemed to listen.

When the wild, romantic love, which made
you disdain your present state and dignity, was
rooted from your heart, you made of me one re-
quest. Do you remember it?”

: I do—I do”

It was that for twelve months you should be
left in peace, in obscurity, and almost in solitude,
in order that no atom of respect for him who had
made you 80 great and go noble should be omitted
in that year of your widowhood. I consented,
and I ask you now if I have kept my word?”

You have; and yet”

“Yet what?” 5

“T gave you all, I surrendered to you power
over all my possessions. You have been lord and
master here, Joseph Julian,”
“It was the agreement. Iam scrupulous to My

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ous grief have passed away, a new career opens to
Adeline, Marchioness of Bulsirode. Have you no
ambition ?” =3

“Alas! Thad. The ambition to be loved—the
ambition to be happy—the ambition to be humble,
obscure, and at peace—at peace!”

‘Delusions! delusions!”

“Yeg, delusions all. HaveInotfound them so?
Joseph Julian, even now how gladly wouldI give
all this state and all this wealth to be as you once
found me, a poor, destitute girl, without home,
friends, or food, and yet holding that priceless
pe in her heart, the consciousness of being
ovad.’

"Depart, gloom—depart, shadow! You are
nineteen yearsofage. Marchioness of Bulstrode,
I have told you I will not play the niggard, and
there is not a luxury that earth, sea, or air can
offer you, that you may not command. Shake off

be ablaze of light, and awaken all its drowsy

Adeline, live! For this that you call life is a sort
of vegetation, like slow-creeping moss upon @
ruined wall. Live, I say! Assume the almost
regal state to which you are entitled! Itis a sin
—a sin such as your heart even would acknow-
ledge--not to scatter broadeast about you the
golden shower which would irritate many a bar-
ren heart. You may do a world of good. The
wealth you held is held in trust; to hoard itis to
play the part of an unjust steward. Do you un-
derstand me, Adeline? I ask you, by the memory
of him who for a few brief hours loved you, and
made you the grand almoner of all his vast pos-
sessions, to rise up and fulfill the wishes of the
heart which slumber in the grave. Behold!”

Adeline half rose. Something of the ferver
which the words of Joseph Julian depicted found
an echo in her breast.

There was a flush upon her brow—a quiver of
her lips.

What folded paper was. it he handed to her in
that dismal twilight? She could not read it.

“It is a testament,” he said; ‘and it is signed
‘Bulstrode,’”

“From him?”

Yes; from the late Marquis. I found it
amongst his papers. Itisaddressedtoyou. The
heart that indited it was full of love, although the
hand trembled that penned it,”

“I cannot read it. There is darkness in the
room.”

__“Oh, we will have light; and Bulstrode House
shall blaze out again in all its own magnificence.”

Julian clapped his hands.

With a bright flash, by some unknown means to
Adeline, the pendant lustre from the ceiling, with
its forty glittering lights, was all ablaze,

He clapped his hands again.

A soft, subdued crash of music sounded through
the palatial residence.

Adeline had involuntarily shielded her eyes from
the bright light; but now her ears were charmed
by the gentle dulcet sounds of that music,
‘“Whatis all this?” she said,
mean ?” :
“Tho Marchioness of Bulstrode requires light,
by which to read the message of affection from
her deceased husband.”

“But those sounds ?”

‘The Marchioness of Bulstrode’s private band
have it in command to usher in the coming night
with melody.”

Adeline looked about her. The vast saloon in
which sne sat had never looked so gorgeous and
so beautiful.

She opened the folded paper with trembling
hands. She strove to read it, but for a few
seconds the characters seemed as if they eluded
her observation, and a strange fancy crept over
her that they were not intended for her eyes.
‘Another time,” shesaid. “I cannot—I seem
as if I dare not read this paper now.”

“T pray you do so—it isa duty.”

Adeline tried again. She pronounced the words
faintly as she read them:

‘My dear child, all coldness, all harshness has
passed away.”

She looked up in the face of Julian,

“To whom is it addressed?”

“To you.”

be payt .

“Nay, look at the superacription—ttrn the
paper over.” Oty :
She did so.

‘To the one I love best.”

These were the words at the back of the paper.
‘You see—you comprehend,” added Julian.
‘He calls you his dear child; and what were you
bane child compared with him? Read, Adeline,
read!

She continued to read the paper with a feeling
of dread and doubt:

‘Do not be a niggard of my wealth. . Enjoy it;
and spread around. you allthe good that such
enjoyment must bring to thousands. Dispense it
with a liberal hand, and fear not—so earning the
love and blessing of him who has passed away.
“BULSTRODE.”

‘J will obey him,” said Adeline. “If this be a
voice from the grave, or’ but a false echo, yet I will
obey it. To hoard this wealth which has been
given to me will not bring happiness, while to dis-
pense it may perchance divert——”  -

Julian would not let her finish what she was
about to say. He caught atthe word “divert.”
“Tt will!” he cried, ‘it will divert a thousand
gloomy fancies; and while light music, gaiety,
and company will chase grim despair and sadness
from your heart, you will scatter about you many
a blessing. Let Bulstrode House be the gayest of
the gay. Trust to me for all arrangements. We
will congregate here sparkling crowds of the high-
est and the noblest—even royalty shall tread
lightly in these vast saloons. Next week you are
presented at Court; the week after you give a
ball—at once the wonder, envy, and admiration
of the season; while your cousin, Mr. Joseph
Julian——”

“My cousin ?”

“Certainly. It will still the voice of scandal,
and crop off some of the heads of the, hydra. de-
traction if we seem to be related. Therefore, I
say, your cousin, Joseph Julian, will, as a kins-
man, and inmate of Bulstrode House, help to do
its honors; your opera box shall be the best, your
equipages shall outshine royalty, your diamonds
daze and dazzle the multitude. This is the com-
mencement of the London season, Adeline; when
it closes, there shall be sufficient talk to last the
winter through of the magnificence and glory of
Bulstrode House and its fair mistress.”

There was a bright glow on Adeline’s cheek.

*T may succor distress?” she said.

You may.” é

“I may stretch out a helping hand to struggling
genius ?”

‘You may-—you may.”

“T consent. Do with this vast fortune what

| you will, Joseph Julian. Let it descend around

me in what showers it may, I heed not if it.all be
scattered; and yet—oh, forgetfulness—torgetful-
ness!”

Of what?”

The past. If I could purchase that. One
drop of those fabled waters of oblivion, that leave
the heart fresh and new, obliterating from it all
the stains of past suffering and past regret.”

Julian laughed.

A sparkling goblet,” he said, “of such a
draught were welcome to those lips as the first
rain-drops to the parched traveler in the’ arid
desert. I, too, have something to forget,”

Vou 9

He turned and looked at her. The expression
of his face was something awful; but it quickly
passed away, and he laughed loudly and boister-
ously. Then checking himself by a sudden effort,
he bowed with infinite grace, as he said,

‘Pardon me, Marchioness; I was vulgar for the
moment. What is it you would fain forget?”

‘Nothing,”

SAh 1?

“It was a foolish speech, and I rather want
something to remember.”

‘And that ?”

“Joseph Julian, can you tell me aught of—of—
Frank Anstey, and the—the——”

“The fair girl he married? Oh! they are well,
thriving and happy. If you remember, he was
pale, and there was a look of sad reflection in his
th but all that hag passed away. I saw

im——

**You did?”

 

“Yes; and his smiling bride. Twelve months

word; but now that those twelve months of decor-

this lethargy of the soul, Let Bulstrode House }

echoes with the sound of happy music. Live, |

“What does it }

 

 

have lent fresh sparkle to his eyes,”

“No more! Iam content that he—he is well
and happy. I will play the part of Marchioness
of Bulstrode, even as you would wish me, Joseph
Julian. This day ends the widowhood that I
held sacred to the memory of some one who holds
80 high a place in my esteem. I will be what you
wish. I will do what you say; and perhaps—per-
haps I may not even have time to be unhappy.”

“More music!” cried Julian. ‘More music,
Marchioness! You will be as some fair butterfly,
bursting forth in beauty and in glory to dazzle all
beholders. Moré music! Throwthe doors open!
Your arm, Marchioness. We have alittle party in
the next saloon. Your arm, Marchioness. . Din-
ner waits only to be lentanew charm by your
gracious presence.”

 

CHAPTER XII,

CHANGE FOR THE MONEY-CBANGER,

“Country air, my dear sir; carefnlly selected
diet. Ishould recommend game; and let what
wine you use be the very finest quality—old and
dry. ‘This is early spring, too, and I cannot
answer for the life of the patient in so precarious
a climate as this. I should recommend Maderia;
there are some charming situations at Punchal.
But remember, everything of the best. Game for
solid food, and old dry wine in moderate quanties,
but often repeated. Cheerful society, too, is a
great auxiliary in such cases. In fact,my dear
sir, nothing must be spared upon the. patient.
Hem! a delightful spring day. We willcall again
on—let me see, this is Wednesday—suppose we
say Friday.” .

Dr. Oleaginous, the great Court physician, drew
on his faultless kid gloves, and looked bland and
smiling in the face of Frank Anstey.

Poor Margery lay on a sorry couch in the one
little sitting-room of the miserable broken-down
house of the money changer. She was pale and
wan. The blood had fled from her cheeks. The
light of health no longer glistened from her eyes.

Frank Anstey bowed. He compressed his lips
until not a particle of color remainedin them. He
could not speak. His heart was too full for utter-
ance.

Dr. Oleaginous satisfied himself about the fit of
his left hand glove. He smiled and coughed. An
aristocratic, slight, fashionable cough, and then
he looked hard at Frank, as though he would have
said,

“Well, you have forgotten something.”
And so Frank had. The fee!

With a start and a fiush of color, he took from
his waistcoat pocket, with a trembling hand, the
sovereign and the shilling, wrapped in paper.

“Certainly, Maderia,” said Dr. Oleaginous, as
he held out his hand, and let the fee drop into it,
rather than took it. ‘Certainly, Maderia—and re-
member the game, You quite understand me,
Mr. Anstey ?”

“T do, sir.”

Frank’s voice was hoarse and husky.

Dr. Oleaginous had got on his rignt-hand glove,
and then he glanced about him.

The room was 80 poor. So sad and weak an ai-
tempt at gentility was manifest in all its arrange-
ments. :

The physician coughed again.

“Good day, Mr. Anstey. I hope we shall find
ourselves better on Friday. Ah! Tobject tothat.”

There was a wail of aninfant. Margery strove
to hush the babe, which up to this moment had
lain sleeping on her breast.

‘An experienced nurse,” said Dr. Oleaginous,
as he slowly settled the little finger of his right-
hand glove, ‘tan experienced nurse, Mrs. Anstey,
at any cost. Madeira, game, very old wine, and
an experienced nurse, and plenty of cheerful
society. Keep the mindamused. Good day, Mr.
Anstey.” :

“Good day, sir.”

‘ Frank’s voice was more husky and hollow than
efore, :

The fashionable physician’s carriage stood at
the door of the humble, old, ricketty, broken-down
house. The tall, sleek horses pawed the ground
impatiently. ;

Slowly the physician .descended the ricketty
staircase, and he mused as he went.

Dr. Oleaginous was not a bad man, but he was a
conventional man. He had been brought up as a
physician; his business was to take fees, and give
advice. But he was a man of the world, likewise,
and he had seen the threadbare black coat of the
young husband, and in his glance round the
apartment, he had noticed the terrible struggle to
keep up appearances.

He paused a moment at the door. He shook
his head.

“Tama humbug,” he said, ‘a rank humbug!
Maderia, game, and old wine for those people who.
find it a hard struggle to provide themselves with
the commonest necessaries of life. Tm ahum—
No, I’m not. The advice is good—correct in every
particular. Ihave done my duty; and that young
man, with his sick child of a wife, has done his
duty—for he has paid my fee, and here it is,
What did Icome into the world for but to take
fees? But still, if I take this one, may everlast-
ing——Well, well, there’s no occasion for strong
language. Mr. Anstey! Mr. Anstey!” -

“Sir

‘A word with you.”

Frank came dreamily down the stairs.

“Mr. Anstoy, I conduct my business in my own
way. Sometimes I prefer my fees as I go on, and
sometimes at the end of the case. You under-
stand me, sir? On this occasion, I prefer them at
the end of the case; so take your guinea, sir, and
don’t be contradictory.”

Another moment and Dr. Oleaginous was off.

Frank Anstey looked wistfully at the guinea as
it lay in his palm, ‘

“The last!” he said.

Slowly he took his way up stairs.again,

‘Margery! Margery !”

There was no answer.

He crept softly intotheroom. She slept. The
young child and the young mother,

Then Frank Anstey wrung his hands. He was
no longer observed, and had no longer occasion to
play a part.

‘Madeira, game,” he murmured. “Old wine,
cheerful society. or she is lost. Oh, heaven! what
a fate is this! Do I destroy all who love me? Is
Adeline happy? And is this poor young heart
fading away? I will speak to him again—the old
man. He must have money—he cannot be so
poor, A money-changer! The very sound has a
golden tingle with it. I willspeak to him again—
again, while she sleeps. Margery! Margery!
poor Margery! TI have not loved you as I ought,
but as bounteous heaven is my witness, I have
loved you as I could.”

Slowly he crept down the stairs again. Old
Pennycost reclined in an easy. chair in the back
parlor.’ He seemed to sleep, for his head rested
on his breast.

There was a wild tumult in the heart and brain
of Frank Anstey. For twelve months he had re-
spected the ol: man’s word, and believed in the
old man’s protestations of poverty; but now,
urged by feelings that would find utterance, he
oy in tones of passionate grief and expostula-

ion.

*Sir—Mr. Pennycost—I did not deceive you—I
did not deceive Margery! You knew that I was
poor, penniless, homeless, friendless, or wherefore
should I have become to you what [I was? But
now hear me, sir. I know it is the custom of men
like you to have hidden hoards—to affect poverty,
in order that you may dazzle your own eyes in
secret with a contemplation of heaped-up gold.
Sir—Mr, Pennycost—it is not for myself I speak
—it is for Margery, your own child. I call upon
you, in the sacred name of human affection, if you
have gold, to pour it forth lavish as water from a
stream, and save her.”

The old man did not speak.

‘Awake! awake, sir! I have never used this
tone to you before, but you shallhearme. Heaven
forgive me if I do you an injustice, but I think
you must have gold. Mr. Pennycost, I demand it
of you for the sake of Margery, and the young
life, too, that is bound up in hers. Iam a desper-
ate man, sir, and I must speak ag I now speak.
Mr. Pennycost, answer me.”

He shook the old man roughly by the arm.

Some accidental puff of air made its way into
the dingy room. A blackened old blind, that had
clung for half a century to the begrimmed window,
gave way from some sudden impulse, and fell flut-
tering to the floor. :

The last rays of the April sunshine of that fair

day gleamed into the room. They were a few
rays spared from the flood of glory that streamed
amid the crimson hangings and profuse gilding in
the saloon of Bulstrode’ House.

The hour was the same as that at which Adeline
had declared her intention of distributing with a
liberal hand the wealth which the old Marquis
had placed in her possesssion.

Alas! what a contrast! Could she imagine for
one moment that Frank Anstey was imploring aid
to save his young wife and child from destitution
and from death ?

And now, irate at the oe indifference of
ne old money-changer, Frank turns again toward

im.

“Mr, Pennycost, this indifference——”

He pauses. He clutches atthe table for sup-
port. One glance at the old man’s face was suf-
ficent. There was no voice there to reply to him—
no heart there to be wrung by his reproaches.
No brain to meditate upon the appeal made to.its
feelings. Deathhad already stepped into the
money-changer’s abode; and old Pennycost had
passed away in the midst of his afternoon slum-
ber, calmly and gently, without a pang.

“Gracious Heaven! he is no more, and my last

words were those of reproach. Nay—not so, for
he had passed away from us before they were well
spoken. Whatisthis? A written paper?”
. Close to the old man, on the table by which he
sat, were writing materials, and an ancient ebony
desk, at which old Pennycost had been wont to
keep his accounts. pee

A acrapt of writing-paper lay upon it, with some
neatly illegible characters scrawled, in the old
man’s hand, diagonally acrogs it. 4

Frank Anstey stepped to the window, and with
difficulty deciphered the writing:

‘Main CornperR: Lam yon ruin. I had nothing
to come away from Rotterdam, and that nothing
is gone less and less. I am von ruin; and ven,
mein childer, you take all, you take nothing but
von blessing of von old ruin. PENNYCOST.”

Sadly and silently, Frank Anstey looked upon
the still form of the old man.

The communication between them had been
ever of a kindly character; and now that he had
passed away, leaving that declaration behind him
that it was not from want of feeling or generosity
toward those about him that he had abstained
from lavishing gold upon them, there came to the
mind of Frank a bitter sense of depression.

He had done the old man aninjusticethen. He
had thought harshly of him. And he had spoken
more harshly still. Into the deaf ear of death he
had poured reproaches.

Bitter and repentant, indeed, were those mo-
ments that he now spent alone with the dead.
But Frank Anstey’s mind was of too reasonable
aud logical a character to cherish the delusion. for
long that he was to blame.

And, at all events, there was a something that
exonerated him from all charge of harshnegs or
haste in the matter.

It was not for himself that he had spoken. It
was for Margery—for the child of the old man,
who, by his parsimonious and somewhat mysteri-
ous mode of life, had engendered the idea that he
had hidden treasures.

But all that passed away now.
dream. ‘

Not, however, until he had fully awakened to
the reality did Frank Anstey feel how strong a
hold upon his imagination the idea had taken,
that at the last extremnity—when the worst came
to the worst—old Pennycost would produce some
cherished source of gold, and banish want, with
all its attendant miseries, from the humble dwel-
ling.

“Heaven help us!” he moaned
can help us now!”

But there was the shop. There was the little
grimy window; and lying beneath it were the few
articles that denoted the business carried on
therein. '

An old, battered teapot, that looked like some
family relic, but yet it was surely silver. Some
wooden bowls, the chief contents of which were
sand, but on the surface of which lay, as if thrown
with prodigal munificence, some foreign coing.

And then there was the confused heap, in one
corner of that window, of shreds of gold lace,
faded bullien tassels, cruet tops, a battered snufi-
box, and the thousand and one articles that make
up the window show of whatis called a gold and
silver refiner, i.

Surely these things were worth something.

With a bitter pang, Frank Anstey told himself
that he was heir at law to the stock in the old
money-changer’s shop.

He crept out of that dismal back parlor which,
since death had taken up his abode within it, had
seemed to put on an air at once solemn and awe-
irspiring, and by the dim, fading light of evening,
he glanced at his possessions. His fortune.
Those miserable articles in the window of the
money-changer.

He directed his attention to the bowl containing
gold coin. There were only seven pieces, but so
artfully bestowed above the sand, that they pre-
sented to careless eyes a confused heap of the
precious metal,

A small folded slip of paper lies beneath them.
Frank Anstey cannot read it, for the light has
faded away, and.aconfased fitful sort of glare
come through the window-panes from a distant

amp.

That lamp is just lighted in the Oxford Road,
and burns bright and dull alternately, in imitation
of a revolving beacon.

Then Frank Anstey closed the shutters of the
old shop. He thought he ought to have done so
before, from respect to the ol@ man who sat in
the gathering darkness of the back parlor; and so,
when all was fast, he procured alight, and casting
one more glance upon the still, sad looking figure
that sat in the old chair occupied by Pennycost so
many years in his life, he unfolded the paper he
had found in the wooden bowl.

There were but few words upon it, and they
were in the handwriting of old Pennycost. These
were likewise in his peculiar phraseology and
orthography.

‘*Von swindle. Plated on von copper.”

Frank Anstey dropped the paper. The seeming
gold coins were valueless.

Was the battered tea-pot a snare, and would it
turn out to be tin? Were the shreds of gold lace
and bullion tassels oxiv yellow delusions? Were
neo silver coins in their peculiar bowl only

ea,

Frank Anstey would not have been surprised to
have found the whole stock in the shop fade away
in this manner from’before his eyes, like fairy gold
that turns to leaves in the hands of some un-
authorized and luckless possessor.

But his investigations were cutshort. He heard
a wailing cry from above. Then his own name
was pronounced,

“Frank! Frank!”

_ Margery was awake. To what a terrible revela-
tion had she aroused herself! What a task was
his to inform her that they were now alone in the
world, without a hope. But it must be done.

One more glance he took into the back parlor at
the still form he had thought so harshly of in
life, and now regarded with a kind of veneration
in death.

“Tt was not for myself,” he said, “it was not for
myself I spoke. I would well have borne pain,
misery, want, and even destitution; but poor
Margery and the little one, youunderstand? That
they should have a care or want, unmanned me.
It was for them alone—-for them alone.”

He spoke to that silent image of humanity as
though his words could still reach the cold heart
and senseless brain. He seemed to think that he
must excuse himself, even to the dead money-
changer, before he crept up those miserable
stairs, to tell Margery she was fatherless.

Then, with the light held above his head in his
trembling hand, he slowly took his way to the
young mother and the helpless babe.

“Frank! Franky? :

“I come, Margery! Icome, dear Margery. I
come!” :

It was but a

“Feaven alone

omnes

CHAPTER XIIt,
A DEATH AND A MYSTERY.

Frank Anstey hastily made his way up-steirs,
and yet he paused at the top of the flight.

How was he to inform Margery of the catas-
trophe that had occurred in the back parlor be-

 

low? In what words was he to inform her that
her fether was no more, and add to it the direful

terl

 

intelligence that the dream of obtaining pecuniary
succor from him had faded entirely away?

Well might he pause.

But the voice called upon him again,

‘Prank! Frank!”

‘JT come! ITamhere!” |

He entered that small scantily furnished cham-
er.

There was a dim light burning in it now, and ag

the teeble rays fell upon the face of Margery, he

saw that she was strangely excited, and that some~

thing like her old color had visited her cheeks.

“Ob, Frank!” she cried, “what isthis? What

is this? Can it be true?”

His heart failed him. For a few seconds he
had no voice with which to speak to her.

She had divined, then, that her father was no
more; and yet, how it was possible that the
knowledge could have come to her, was beyond
the imagination of Frank Anstey to conceive.

He stepped forward and folded her in his arma,
He wished to let her know that she was not utter-
ly deserted; and when he could speak to her it
was with the only words of comfortthat suggested
themselves at such a moment.

They were something like those words used by
Hamlet’s mother when suggesting a less extrava-
gant show of grief for the death of the majestic
King of Denmark.

“Tis common, Hamiet—all that live must die,
Passing through nature to eternity.”

‘Yes, Margery, he has gone from you—but there
are compensations, and indulgent heayen, when
it snatches away from us one whom we love,
ee still to fill up. the void in the poor

eart. ’

Then Frank Anstey saw the bewildered look of
Margery.

She did not understand him.

There was no mystery, then—no wonderful
means by which she had acquired information of
the death of her father, so recent and so strangely
sudden, with no human eye to note his dissolu-
iton, but that of the young husband and father,
who had certainly not communicated the sad in-
telligence.

But Margery has a folded letter in her hand.
It is that which has attracted her attention, and
brought the strange light to her eyes, and the
color to her cheeks.

: ae Frank—read!” she said. ‘Can this be
rue ?”

The light was very dim in that poor chamber,
but as with one hand clasped around her he looked
over her shoulder at the letter she held in her
trembling hands, he saw that it was in the hand-
writing of old Pennycost.

“‘Mrtn Curip: Tell your husband that as you
are yon Marchioness, you will be von great lady
with much moneys, and great honors; and this is
from PENNYCOST.”

Margery half turned round, and looked in the
face of Frank Anstey. He was paler than usvai,

“What does this mean, Frank? What can my
father intend? How can Ibe aMarchioness? It
is not possible; because, if such had been the
case, and you had had great rank and great
wealth, we should not, could not have been——”

Margery glanced about her. She meant to say
“ag we are,” but it was not necessary to utter
the words.

And then Frank turned paler still, as he clasped
her closer to his breast.

‘Margery! Margery! there is a seeret, a secret
that would not have made you happier to know.”

“But I should know—I ought to know. Oh,
Frank, Frank; where there is a secret there is not
perfect love, for love in one of its true conditions
is perfeet confidence. What doesit mean? You
willnot tellme? You hesitate still, and I see
trouble on your brow. Then I willlearn it from
him. Father! father!”

Margery made what noise she could, stamping
with her little foot upon the floor.

Tt was a signal old Pennycost was wont to an-
swer by speedily making his appearance from be-
low when he heard it.

Alas! it now fell upon ears deaf to all human
sounds.

“Hush, Margery! Hush! Iwill tell you ail,
but it will not be for your happiness. It is true.
Leok about you—look at these thin and fluttering
hangings--look at the poor appointments of this
room. Do you see anything glittering, great, and
noble about them? Is the sparkle of a coronet to
be found in any of the dim recesses of this cham-
ber? And yet, Margery, yet you are a Mar-
chioness.” ‘ ‘

She uttered a little scream. She shook with
emotion, Then she clasped her hands over her
eyes.

“Say it again! Say it again, Frank! Fora
marchioness must be rich and great. Father!
father! come hither! He says I am @ mar- ©
chioness|”

Again she stamped upon the floor.

“Oh, forbear, Margery, forbear. You know not
what you do. How strange this is,”

“What Frank ?”?

“This resemblance to the course of human ne2-
ture—smiles and tears, but more tears than
smiles.” ;

“But Tam a marchioness!”

“Yes, Margery; and at the moment when your
heart is full of the excitement of a new joy, Ihave
tidings for you that will fill it with griet.”

“No! no!”

Margery glanced upon the little sleeping form
upon the couch. ~

What great grief could come to her while, with
regular inspirations, that young existence slept
the sleep of health?

“Your father——”

Then an alarm seized her,

‘Your father is no more; but you are a mar-
chioness !”

Margery looked stunned, bewildered. Her father
had been much to her. She knew she had been
the apple of his eye, the cherished treasure of his
heart’s core; and strange, wayward, and grasping
as had been the old money-changer, there was no
bright gem, or mountain of light, the treasures
of the world could have exhibited to him, for
which he would have exchanged his Margery.

Frank Anstey was rather alarmed at her sudden
silence.

Grief is like anger, all the more bitter when it
can find no ready expression.

‘Remember, Margery, remember,” he cried,
“Tam with you and this ether one, who should
be, and is, dearer still.”

He led her to the couch. One glance at the
fair face of the slumbering infant was enough,
and Margery’s surcharged heart was relieved by a
flood of tears.

Then Frank Anstey, with a conviction of the
philosophy of supplanting one direful image by
another of more pleasant hues, spoke to her
gently and cheeringly.

_ ‘It is the course of nature, Margery, and the
time willcome when you and I will pass away;
and if we do so as peacefully and gently as your
father, surely all will be well. I thought him
sleeping in his usual chair below; but it was the
long sleep that knows no waking. Remember,
though, that you are a marchioness; and believe
me, that I kept this secret from you, not to abate
by one ray any sunshine that might fall upon
your heart, but because—because——”

‘Because what, Frank?”

Because it left us poor as ever; and, perchance,
with the superadded pang that we might have,
been otherwise.”

“But how is it? How could it be?”

“Margery, you know—that is, I have darkly
hinted to you—that there was a time—a time, be-
fore I knew what wealth of love resided in that
gentle and innocent heart of yours—when I was
dazzled, dazed, bewildered, and scarce master of
myself, like some poor somnambulist who walks
to his. destruction, I believed in the love of
another.” .

Margery shuddered.

“J know! I know!
now ?”

She clung to him. It seems as though she
thought he would slip away from her; and that,
by the mere hint of the possibility of some other
attachment, she should find that she grasped but
an unsubstantial shadow, that would leave her
lone and desolate. — i

He understood her.

“Yes, Margery; yours only, and for ever!”

She clung still closer to him, and sobbed bit-

 
  
 
 
  
 
 
   
  
 
 
  
 
  
  
   
  
 
 
   
   
  
  
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
   
 

She spoke faintly.
You did tell me. But

 

y. f
“The dream has passed away. It wasadream

 

 

 

 

 
 

,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

of light and of love, and it brought with it all the
bitter experiences of human existence. Nature
deceives us not, even in her most capricious
moods; and when warmed by the sunshine, we
know it is by the glorious rays that proceed direct
fromheaven. But human lips can wreath them=
selves in smiles, and yet deceive,”

“Not always, Frank.”

“Not you, my Margery—not you, my. Mar-
chioness! But let me tell you. The false love—
the ane meteor which I mistook fora true

. light—has left my heart for ever.”

Bis voice faltered as he spoke. | 3

“And in its place there has arisen a pride—s
pride, perchance, as false as the light that led me
into darkness. Oh, Margery! Icannot tell you
all; but that false love, which for.so long I held to
my heart, and believed in and worshiped, basks in
the prosperity that should be yours. Ask me no
more—ask me no more! Oh, this struggle be-
tween the past and the present. Margery, I
thought your father rich; I thought that he had
hoarded concealed wealth, and that it was not
necessary I should wring my heart by asserting
my right to that which is mine own.”

“Frank!

‘sy Margery |”

“7 do not understand. you.” '

The look that she cast upon his face was so full
of ingenuous simplicity—of bewildered: innoesnce
—that Frank felt it necessary to be more explicit
upon a subject regarding which he had rather
thought aloud than spoken.

‘Margery, my father was Marquis of Bulstrode
—an aged man of many prejudices, and violent,
stormy passions; and I was young, and wanted

-that discretion which could separate the dross
from the gold in hig character. We quarreled,
and I became an outcast. He was proud; and if
he left me nothing else of all his greatness and
all his vast possessions, he left me that.”

Frank Anstey drew himself up to his full height,
There was a flash in his eyes, and a heightened
eoler in his face.

‘Yes, he left me that.”

How like the old Marquis he was. The very
tone and manner.

Margery shrunk back and trembled.

‘And go, being an outcast, the idea feund a
home in my heart that I would make a position
for myself, for youth is strong in its credulity, and
believes in the world, andin high desert, and in
the rewards of conscious merit and ability. I
scorned the wealth wltich was denied me, but those
are dreams, and have faded away before the prac-
tical realities of the great scramble of existence,”

‘And your father has wealth?” —

‘Tmmense,”

And we?”

Margery glanced about her.

‘Hear me out, dear one, She, the one—she—
her of whom I spoke—the false light—the blind-
ing meteor—she has all,”

“Again, Frank, I do not understand you.”

“It is an old tale, Margery. Alas! that it
should be socommon. She loved, or affected to
love, the poor, discarded son; and then, by some
sirange accident—I know not how—placing her-
self in communication with the wealthy tather,
she became higs——”

“His wife?”

‘His Marchioness! And then, in the pride of
my heart, I would not condescend to claim that
which was mine own; but, mingling tegether in
ene expression of scorn and disdain, the deceiver
and the wealth for which she had deceived me, I
have permitted both to sail down the stream of
time together, waiting for that mortal retribution
which will surely come,”

‘Alas! alas!”

‘Weep, Margery, weep! The little one sleeps.
Come, dear one, it will comfort you. Creep down
these stairs with me, and assure yourself how
gently he has passed away, whom, _at times, we
have almost thought harshly of, thinking that ho
had wherewithal to give us when it was not so.
Read this, Margery. Itis another message from
your dead father.”

Tearfully, and with many sobs, Harney read
the scrapt of paper which Frank Anstey had found
in Pennycost’s cesk. That scrapt of paper which
declared the entire poverty of the old money-
changer.

She did not speak, but hiding in the breast of
her apparel both those mute messages from the
dead, Margery, leaning heavily upon her young
husband’s arm, accompanied him down those
narrow, creaking stairs, that led to the shop, and
then to the room at its back, where so sad a sight
awaited her. ;

‘He did love me, Frank; oh, he did love me.”

“There cannot be a doubt.”

“And we judged him harshly?”

‘We are but human,”

Oh, but one word—one look !”

“Be calm, Margery; it is better as itis, When
death steals thus gently over the senses, he comes
not to appal the imagination, but as a minister-
ing angel, to waft us from the gross realities of
this world to the pure airs and gentle sunshine of
immortality. Be calm, Margery, be calm!”

They went silently through the darkened shop,
and the small light that Frank Anstey carried
from the room above, cast both their shadows in
strange fantastic grouping upon the bare and
grimy walls. ‘

‘You can bear the sight,” he whispered,

‘He loved me.” Ss

‘Prue, Margery, true—and death is not terrible
to look upon in those we love.”

The door was gently opened.

How silent and reverent we are, when silence
and reverence are needless. How careful of any
stray sound, when nothing but the blast of the
Archangel’s trumpet will be sufficient to reach the
deaf ears. :

“Look! There, on his chair where he slept of
7 afernee Look, Margery; so calm, so peace-

a

Frank Anstey held up the light. He supported
her with his left arm, for he felt that she must
need support.

There was a moment’s silence, Then a look of
incredulous astonishment,

The chair was empty!

CHAPTER XIV.
MIDNIGHT AT BULSTRODE HOUSE.

Not on tho hearth, where he might have fallen
during some of those mysterious changes which

take place in the physical system after death, was

old Pennycost to be found.
Tn no portion of the room—awakening from a
- swoon thai looked like death, but had been simply
suggestive of it—was any vestige of the presence
of the ‘money-chenger,

The still form that Frank Anstey had looked up-
on with a pang of regret had utterly and entirely
disappeared, leaving not the slightest sight or
sound to solve the mystery. :

A strange awe crept over Frank Anstey, What
could it mean? 4

“Margery, what is this?”

*Tt is not death!” i

Margery spoke with a full feeling of relief, “She
could no longer believe that her fatherwag no
more. She began to doubt the evidenceof Frank
Anstey’s senses, and to believe. that amid the
darkening shadows of that evening, he had only
fancied the sight he had described to her, which
had had no real existence. i

Then Margery clung to Frank Anstey’a arm
eloser and closer still, for to her young and ex-
cited imagination there was something both mys-
terious and terrible ia this disappearance of her
father,

“What doesit mean? Speak to me, Frank—
speak to me!”

‘Alas, I know not!” s

‘Tell me again that you saw him here in life,”

“I did, Margery; and likewise in death.”

‘And then—and then ??

Frank shook his head,

“I know nothing more, Margery, but that I came
to you to tell you, as gently as I could, that the
Destroyer has been here, and that all hope had
vanished of obtaining that succor from your fa-
ther we 80 ee oe in pee ote

“Tt cannot be; it cannot be!” cried ry.
‘eis here still. Father, father! spare !
This ig not Kind! Speak tome! speak to me! It

we is eruell”

Margery’s voice rang through that silent ana
deserted abode. But ‘there was no reply to it.

wl, Lhen she shudderingly crept closer still to Frauk

4 Anstey.

‘‘Atone! alone!” she said. ‘We are all alone
now !”

‘Not alone,” he es gently. ‘Notalone,
while we both live, while we both love, and while
this house is still hallowed and sanctified by the
presence of one whom we willlook upon as a gift
from Heaven 1”

“Ibis true! it is more than true! Forgive me
that I repined; and if Iam not quite happy,
Frank, it is the wayward nature of your Margery,
and not the fault of your loving heart.”

She flung her arms about him, and held him
closer still.

Poor Margery! She seemed to dread that he
likewise would disappear from her like the exhh-
eee of the morning, and leave her desolate in-

eed.

A long and careful search in that old dwelling
only confirmed them both in the truth that old
Pennycost, the money-changer, had certainly dis-
appeared.

They then ore up-stairs, gazing in each other’s
faces, like scared children, terrified at they know
not what.

It was surprising the blank desolation of the
house now that the old man had gone from it. A
preternatural stillness. seemed to be about its
chambers, and although old Pennycost had glided
about the dismal, dark dwelling quietly enough,
yet how that he was gone one-half of its life-like
existence seemed to have fied with him.

The child still slept. And Margery and Frank
sat by the side of its little cot, hand-in-hand; and
by the flickering, waning light of the single candle
wey conversed together, in sad and whispering

ones.

“We are so poor, Frank !”

"So very poor !” he sighed,

‘Shall we want ?”

Prank shuddered.

“No—no—nol Not want. Surely I have arms
and hands with which to work, and will to use
them |!”

“But, Frank——”

“You pause, Margery. What would you gay ?”

She pointed to the cot in which the child was
sleeping.

Frank Anstey felt that she made some sort of
appeal to him, bat what it was, or why she made
it, he knew not.

“Speak, Margery. Let me know your heart's
wishes.”

‘Tor that dear sake ?”

‘Yes, Margery, for that dear sake.*

“Not for me.”

“Ay, Margery, and for you. Welcome any toil,
any endurance, any degradation; and from it I
shall pluck high honor and distinction, because it
is for you.”

“No, Frank, you do not comprehend me, You
are a gentleman.”

“A gentleman without the means to live. Ob,
Margery, Margery! briefly calculating that which
we possess, it may be jthe value of half-a-dozen
meals to come, or less, or perchance a little more;
but I seem agif I heard a knocking at the door,
and that the visitor had « terrible name.’

“What name, Frank ?”

‘Destitution !” :

“No, no! It must not—cannot be! I am
thankfal for that. I seem as if I could speak to
you more freely.”

Tho light had burnt ont, and Frank and Mar-
gery were in darkness. Darkness, with the ex-
ception of a faint metallic glitter that came in at
the window from a street lamp.

‘Why can you speak to me better in darkness
than in light, Margery? Is it because our fate
and prospects are dark and clouded over, and
you can sée no light in the time to come ?” ’

“No, Frank; but Iam about to try your heart;
Tam about to make war upon your feelings. I
put on armor like the knight in the old picture
below, who is about to attack the dragon.”

‘I do not understand you, Margery, AmI the
dragon ?”

“No, Frank; but there is one in your heart, and
its name ig Pride.”

Margery spoke quickly, now, as though she
feared an interruption.

“You are a gentleman—a noble—a marquis !
You say your father is no more. Of course, he
is no more, or you would not be a marquis. Is it
poe that he died hopeless—helpless ? That

6 left nothing willingly or unwillingly to you, his
only son? Is there nothing you can claim, Frank,
as your own? Think—oh, think, and then think
again! Itis not for myself I speak; but for you,
and one dearer to you than yourself! You hear
mo, Frank, but you do not reply to me. Is it
pride, or the deep sense of injury, or—or what
else is it that keeps you from the assertion of a
right, if right youhave? Frank, speak tome, I
can feel you tremble, but you do not speak.”

“Margery !”

“That is well, Yes,I am Margery, your Mar-
gery! Yours ever, and ever, and for ever |”

‘She knows it not—she knows me not! As
plain Frank Anstey she believed I loved her; and
now, in the midst of riches and splendor, she ex-
ists with possibly the canker worm at her heart,
which deprives existence of all its joy.”

Or possibly forgetting you, Frank ,and basking
in the sunshine of a prosperity for which she

bartered alove that were the whole world one |}.

emerald ts

Margery could not continue. She only clung to
Frank, and wept convulsively.

Then he spoke to her ealmly, and with tones of
deep affection.

Yes, Margery, you are fighting the dragon, and
its name is Pride. I have left her all, holding to
my heart the idea that I was heaping coals of fire
upon her head, and that the time would come
when, happy and PronDenotas I could meet her in
some of those gilded saloons of high aristocratic
life, with you, my Marchioness upon my arm,
showing her what she might have been, and leay-
ing her then to the enjoyment of the empty Ca8-
ket, while we wore in the fullness of our happi-
ness the rich gem of joyful, contented existence.
Then I meant that she should see how she had
exchanged the substance for the shadow.”

Alas! alas

“It is alas, my Margery !”

*Dreams—dreams, Frank |”

“Yes, Margery, the dreams of a young heart un-
schooledin tho great world, and taking Romance
forits Mentor.”

“But now, Frank ?”

‘Margery, you have slain the dragon {”

She uttered a cry, and flung her arms more
closely about him.

“T will assert my right. Beshe happy or mis-
erable, my duty lies plainly before me. Iam the
Marquis of Buistrode, and such properties and
pe ous asIcan claim by that right, belong
tome |”

Yes, Frank, yes—oh, yes !”

*l will be common-place and practical. Rest
this night in peace, my Margery; and to-morrow,
be assured, that I will take some steps as you say
—not for myself, but for you and for this fair
treasure.”

Margery wept more gently upon his breast.

The clouds that had seemed to be rolling over
the future were stirring and scattering, like the
mist upon a mountain-top, through which thesun
of a new day is darting a thousand golden beams,
making even the uncertainty and obscurity ra-
diantly beautiful.

eee eee

Adeline is alone. Itis midnight at Buletrode
House. Midnight!

She has yielded to the solicitations of Joseph
Julian, and on the morrow a new life is to com-
mence. Alife of glitter, of fashion, extravagance,
and, possibly, of dissipation.

Cards are issued to the elite of the aristocracy
for an entertainment at that Bulstroge House, the
gorgeous magnificence of which had been the
theme of every tongue.

The romantic marriage of the late Marquis—
his death even on the altar steps—the year of pro-
found seclusion which his young widow had ob-
served—the exaggerated reports of the boundless
wealth of which she was possessed—a!l combined
toinvest an entertainment at Bulstrode House
with the most abundant charms of novelty and
curiosity.

The mystery, too, that surrounded Adeline’s for-
mer position was 2 never-ending theme of gossip-
ing conjecture. No one knew who or what she
was; and, for allthe great world could discover,
she whom they were prepared to welcome into the
ranks of the peeresses of England, might have

 

dropped down from the moon into Berkeley

 

 

 

 

Square, to wed the old millionaire Marqnis, an?

to leave him dead at the very altar.

And was Adeline happy? No, never happy.
But was she happier? Did she look forward to
the glare, the glitter, the music, the Mashing
lights, the diamonds, and the soft hum of polish-
ed conversation which would fill her saloons on
the morrow, with any feeling of gratification ?
No, no, a thousand times, no. In the solitude of
that magnificent chamber which waa sacred to her
own repose, she sat and thought until thought
became a pain.

, ‘Happier, happier far,” she moaned. s*Hap-
pier far had I been in the poorest lot that fortune
could have placed me, with fis love to make it
beautiful! How cruel he hag been! He would
not listen to me at the church porch when I could
have told him all; and then when I would have
sought him, and, in a few words,convinced him of
my truth and boundless love, he had precipitately
raised up a barrier between us we neither of na
dare attempt to cross, and then ho has scorned all
help. Ihave striven to lavish money on him; I
have sent jewels to her whom he calls his own; I
would have given him all—and there is nothing
rich or beautiful in Bulstrode House that I woul
not have bestowed upon him. And how have all
my efforts been met? By scorn, scorn—nothing
but scorn. Icannot help it. Oh, Frank, Frank |
let me hope that you are happy; but the light of
joy has passed away foreyer from the breast of
your Adeline |”

She started to her foet,

There was a dull, heavy sound in the house, as
of some heavy object falling.

An undefined sense of alarm took possession of
Adeline. At that hour of the night, Bulstrode
House was usually so calm and still that not the
slightest sound cisturbed its serenity, Well she
knew that, with the ample means in his posses-
sion, Joseph Julian had, during the twelve months
of her seclusion, kept high revel in another house
he called his own. What could the sound mean?
Adeline strove to reason herself out of any fears,
but the effort was in vain. The sound had come
from the room immediately below her, and that
was one of the suite of drawing-rooms which were
to be thrown open on the next evening to the
fashionable crowd that would besiege them. But
all was stillagain, What should she fear? Her
full complement of servants was in the house.
Oh, it was nothing. Some accidental noise. Par-
haps the fall of some flimsy bit of gilding, or glit-
tering decoration ill put up for the ensuing enter-
tainment. eee

Adeline was getting more composed.

And then the sound came again.

She stepped tothe door and listened, flinging
aside the rich velvet curtains that shut in that
palatial chamber, and, opening its door, she lis-
tened, standing’ in the corridor without. She
Seka the murmur of yoices. They came from

elow.

A dim light burnt in the corridor amid a collec-
tion of rare exotic plants, that made a mimic gar-
den along. its entire extent, and which, in that
dim light, looked as if moonbeams streamed
among them,

Upon the rich and rare carpeting of the corri-
dor Adeline’s footsteps made no sound.

She crept down the stairs, She heard the

ae a necessity,” he said; “the woman was
mai

What woman? Did he mean her, Adeline ?

She paused before sho reached the more mag-
nificent corridor on the first floor. She paused,
and listened, stilling almost the beating ot her
peers lest she should lose a word of what was ut-
ered.

A door was opened, She saw, dimly, the figure
pt & man stagger out of the room to which it be-
onged.

voice of Julian.

“Spray, you are a coward |” cried the voice of | -

Joseph Julian.

“Manage it yourselves,” said Mr. Spray, who
was the person who had emerged from the room.
“Manage it yourselves; it is not in my line. Iam
a good ‘hand at dice of the right sort, and know
how to shuffle a card, with anybody; but when
you come to mur——” ;

“Silence, idiot!” said Julian. ‘‘How dare you
utter such a word, even to the night air ?”

The door was closed.

Spray went muttering down the grand stair-
case toward the hall, :

What could all this mean ?

Adeline felt hot and cold by turns, and the dread
of something dreadful having happened that
night beneath the roof of Bulstrode House came
strongly upon her.

It was some minutes before she could muster
courage to descend the remainder of the stairs,
but then she did so, guided by a long pencil of
light that came again from the door aa it swayed
open, perhaps, the width of half an inch, in con-
sequence of its latch not having taken secuazely.

Then she heard the murmur of voices again,
andthe drawling tones in particular of the man
called Finch. 3

“My dear fellow, that’s always the difficulty,
Find out how to dispose of the kody, and then
hold your tongue, and you may get rid of whom
you please.” ;

*Silenee |”

That was in Julian’s tone.

Then there was a pause. It was terribly broken.
Ayell! No other word can express the sound,
and yet it was stifled almost as soon as uttered;
go, soon, indeed, that Adeline might well sup-

ose that the sound rang out of her own over-
fieatea fancy, and had no real existence,

Ifher life had depended upon it, she could not
have resisted approaching the door.

The crevice was but small, but still, if she were
quite close to it, it might be sufficient to enable
her to gaze through it.

And as she did so, she heard the voice of Julian
again. He was speaking impatiently.

“Hold the light, Finch! hold the light! High-
erup! There, that will do!”

The same strange sound as of some falling
body—it was something like a chair being thrown
over—came upon Adeline’s ears that she had
heard while in her chamber,

“That will do,” said Julian.

CHAPTER XY.
THE FORGED WILY

Closer and closer still Adeline crept to the cre-
vice of tae door. She saw plainly into the draw-
ing-room, There was no appearance of disorder.

Lhe man calling himself Captain Finch was
there with Joseph Julian, and they stood by a
small, round gilt table, on which only one wax-
light was burning.

There was wine upon the table, and some silver
dishes of fruit; but Adeline, at the time, and af-
terwards, could hardly tell herself why she took
such particular notice of the fact that there were
four wine-glasses on the table, in each of which
were the remains of the bright, ruby-colored wine
which glistened in the decanter. s

A glass for Joseph Julian. A glass for Captain
Finch. A glassfor Mr. Spray, who had lefs the
house, beeause what was going on was not exact-
ly ‘in bis line.” And the fourth glass—whose was
that ?

Adeline shuddered to ask herself,

But her attention was soon absorbed by the
proceedings of Joseph Julian, who looked intenze-
ly pale, and yet appeared to be heated as though
he had undergone some great exertion.

‘That is over, Finch,” he said, ‘and we shall
get on better.”

‘You never can depend upon those women,”

“Of course not—of course not! But now, asI
was telling you, I am quite sure that my inform-
ation ig correct.”

“Dreams! Dreams!”

‘No, Finch, “he lives |”

“Stuff, Julian—stuif !”

§°Ah |?

“My good fellow, what’s the matter ?”

“Phe matter ? :
have you taken upon yourself to call me Julian,
and good fellow?” :

“Since,” said Captain Finch, as he coolly lighted
a cigar by the candle on the table, ‘since the lit-
tle affair which has just been concluded. It was
not in Spray: line, but it was in mine, and fellow-
ship in murder, my beautiful Julian, levels all
distinctions !”

“Perdition seize you |”

“Like enough! Will youtake one! I can re-
commend them !”

Since when, you seoundrel, |

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ing and foaming with rage; thea he stopped
abruptly, and burst into a high, excited laugh,

“Good!” he cried. “I rather admire you. for
once in my life, Finch. You are a wonderful deal
cleverer fellow than I thought you. The only pity
is that genius seldom lives long.”

“Keep off |” cried Finch. Keep off! Don’t come
near me with that look in your eyes |”

Joseph Julian laughed.

“Your courage has fled, Finch,” he said; “aud
from the cool, audacious ruffian you wished to ap-
pear, you are willing now again to be the humble
friend of Joseph Jutian.”

“We dare not quarrel now,” replied Finch, in a
lower tone; “‘we dare not quarrel: United, we
may be strong and support eath other; but you
have been arrogant, Julian, and overbearing; the
temptation was too great for me, and I spoke to
you as I have done; but let it pass.”

“Enough—enough! And now let me repoat to
you what I said before. I have ascertained that

é lives 1”

"That is sufficient if you are sure-of it.” .

“Iam sure of it, and he might give us a world
of treuble. A word in your ear, Finch, for I would
not trust what Iam going to say even to the walla
of this apartment |”

“Indeed |”

“Yes, he who I need not name, not only lives,
but is one and the same person with_—”

The name that was utterod by Joseph Julian
was whispered in the lowest possible accents in
the ear of Captain Finch,

Adeline would have given much at that moment
to have heard that name uttered,

And yet the wildest conjectures of her over-
wrought brain never led her for an instant to
suspect what it really was.

Nor was she clear at allin her own mind as to
the identity of this mysterious person mentioned
as ‘‘he,” whose continued existence seemed to be
such an alarming proposition to Joseph Julian.
Whatever the nan.e was, however, that was utter-
ed in the ear of Captain Finch, it seemed to strike
him with so much dismay that he reeled back, and
had to hold by a chair for support.

‘Can that be true, Joseph Julian?” he said, “or
has your imagination only roused up such a spec-
tre to frighten us ?”

“Tt is true.” :

“Without # doubt? Without a flaw in the evi-
dence ?” :

‘With a doubt, and without a flaw.”

‘Then we are lost.”

“Wemightbe. Weare as we were again.”

*I do not seo it. Ido notseeit, All this gran-
deur, allthis splendor will vanish; and we had bet-
ter again, as far as we are concerned, be eating
our scanty rations beneath the wild gum trees of
South Australia,”

“Silence |” cried Julian, as he stamped his foot
passionately. ‘‘Silence! I will have no more of
that. The past with meis dead and buried, and
this is a new life.” .

“Yes, of which we have had a tempting taste
for twelve months, but to have it wrested from us
at once and forever.”

“Not so fast—not so fast! Am I the sort of
man to relinquish that which I have once obtained
possession of ?” ‘

*But he will claim all.”

Tet. him.”

And she will be willing to surrender all -to

im

“Tet her.”

“Joseph Julian, you are more mysterious than
ever. What, in the name of all that’s wonderful,
do you mean to do? Or rather, I should ask,what
can you do ?”

‘Has your ingenuity deserted you? Why, the
poor fool Spray, if he were here, would suggest
some means of overcoming such a difficulty.”
Captain Finch clasped his hands together.
**True |” he cried. “True! Ha, ha! It is but
& ie and I neyer knew that to stand in our
way |”

“And yet, Finch, I do not suggest that as the
best and easiest course.”

*Tndeed!”

“It might be dangerous. Here, in this house,
there were facilities for a work of this night which
we could scarcely expect in the case of this man,
who, if he came here, might be missed, might be
watched.”

‘*T see, I see.” :

Julian poured himself out a glass of the wine.
Finch did the same,

ae careful,” said Julian. “What glass do you
use ?”

They both looked narrowly round the table.

‘This was hers,” said Finch.

‘Are you quite certain ?”

‘Perfectly so. Let it go.” :

Finch flung one of the glasses over his head,
and striking the gilded wall of the galoon, it fell
in a thousand fragments to the floor.

“Look you here,” said Julian, speaking in a
lower tone. “This large gilt cabinet has not been
opened since the‘death of the Marquis. Suppose,
now, upon looking into it, we shouid find his will
drawn -up roughly, as the will of such an eccen-
tric man might be supposed to be; but yet with
sufficient point, clearness, and legal emphasis to
make it thoroughly binding upon all concerned ?
Suppose it dated on the day of his marriage with
that girl who sleeps above, and witnessed by
Richard Finch and Henry Spray ?”

“I begin to see.”

“Ofcourse you do. Suppose it to leave all and
every possession, great or small,to her who an
hour after its execution was to bear his name,
and become the Marchioness of Bulstrode 2?”

Finch looked confused.

“Stop,” he said. “I have heard a good deal
about wills, There might be difficulties.”

‘‘None—if Joseph Julian be appointed sole exe-
cutor.”

“Ah! I seo.” )

‘Tbe answer will be complete to him whom I
will not name; while, acting in an official capacity
it gives me increased power.over the wayward in-
clinations of the Marchioness.”

‘“Bxcellent | excellent!” cried Finch, “It is a
master stroke of—of——”

“Oh, don’t be chary of words. Call it villainy,
if you like 3; or policy, which is the politer term.”

Fan approached the gilt cabinet, of which he
had spoken; and with a skill which betokened
much experience in that line of business, he pick-
ed its lock with what appeared to be only a piece
of twisted wire.

‘What doos it contain ?” asked Finch, eagerly.

‘Old china; but it matters not. Now, Finch, to
work—to work |”

Julian took from a drawer, belonging to a table
in the room, writing materials, and pushing the
decanter, with the ruby-celored wine away from
him, he sat down and mused for a few moments.

“Come, Finch,” he said, “you were wont to
write a clerkly sort of hand; and, if I mistake not,
once spent your dignilied leisure in the practice of
the law.”

“Hang the practice of the law!” exclaimed
Finch. “Look you here, Joseph Julian, for once,
you are not so fullof iinesge and cleverness as
usual. This will should seem to be written
wholly by the old Marquis himself.” o

shee ! true! Can you imitate handwriting
weli?’

“Ii is not one of my accomplishments.”

“Tecan, then, Only show mea fair copy, and
wore the Marquis alive, he would swear himself
to his writing and his signature.”

‘Indeed |”

‘Behold !” added Julian. é

He took from his pocket that identical paper
which he had shown to Adeline as an inducement
to her to spend freely the large income ef the
deceased Marquis.

“Capital !” said Finch.
three minutes |”

Julian looked eagerly over him as he wrote.

Half a dozen lines sufficed to convey from the
late Marquis of Bulstrode to Adeline, the friend-
less and forsaken, the whole of his vast wealth,
without the slightest shadow of an exception, and
to appoint Joseph Julian as sole executor.

‘Now I sign tor myself, as witness,” said Finch 5
“and Spray should be here.”

‘‘T will procure his signature,” replied Julian.
‘And should the person of whom we have spoken
appear here, either personally or by deputy, to
set up the dangerous claim he might, the answer
is here, complete and explicit.”

‘And well done,” said Finch,
pass tho night, Julian ?”

“At the Meadow.”

Finch laughed.

J will have it done in

**Where do you

 

|. Julian strode to and fro in the apartment, fum-

“The meadow ‘that is always green. The

meadow that wants no mowing: The green cloth
Penion sparkle brighter gems than dew-drops.”

1 Pon my word, Finch,” said Julian, with a
ie .,/ OU grow poetical, and adorn a gaming-
able with such flowers of rhetoric, that when I
ped te cones it I shall believe myself en-
z i 2
o2h i fn asic ein employment, at once inno
= Julian blew outthe light as he spoke.

2 hey both made way toward the dues and Ade-
line felt thatif she would escape observation, it
must be by shrinking back amid the shadows of
the corridor. It was too late to take even the
ee ees up the ee and but that those

Ww were pre-occupied about the ine
that had passed, and thinking higuteot ie
vicious excitements and pleasures to coma they
might have seen dimly the trembling figure of
age

ut they passed on. Quickly down th,
staircase of Bulstrode House. ae

Some words, which she did not catch, were
briefly exchanged
Then the outer door was opened and shut, and
Joseph Julian, with Captain Finch, had left the
mansion.

Adeline pressed her hands upon her eyes.

“Yes,” she said, “I am awake. I have heard all
this, and seen all this. But what does it mean?
Has there been a murder? and, if so, what con-
nection has it with this forged will? Or why
should a will be forged to give me that which I
had already ?”

Adeline had never asked herself what was the
precise law upon the subject of her succession to
ee = and properties of the Marquis of Bul-
stroae,

it seemed to her so natural that after becoming
his wife, and knowing, or seeming to know, that
there was no living soul who could claim near
consanguinity to him, she should quietly become
the poszessor of all his wealth, thatthe matter
had eevee assumed a questionable shape in her
mind,

Now it was somewhat confusing. She was not
aware that distant relations of the Marquis had
in truth made applications at Bulstrode House,
bat had been answered by Joseph Julian to the
effect thatthe young Marquis was expected home,
That was a sufficient answer to all such claim-
ants; but it was only by a series of accidents with
which we need not encumber our story, that Ju-
lian became really aware of the identity of Frank
Anstey with the son of the old peer.

Why or wherefore he came not forward loudly
and energetically to proclaim his rights, Julian
could not understand.

The proud, romantic modes of action of such a
man as Frank Anstey were totally beyond the
comprehension of Joseph Julian. -

Just, therefore, in proportion as the young
Marquis slept upon his rights, did he become to
Julian a mystery. A sort of slumbering volcano,
containing within a world of hidden fires; which
might, at any moment, burst into life and activ-
ity, overwhelming with destruction all around it,
But surely he waa safe now. The forged will and
the sole executorship armed him with a power
that even the only son of the late Marquis of Bul-
strode could scarely resist.

But what of Adeline?’ Would she ba content to
lay before Frank Anstey, upon his fully declaring
who and what he was, that cold and inanimate
piece of writing paper as an answer to hig claiua?
No. Julian knew she would not,

But in the depths of his intricate heart there
lay a half-developed plot, to which he had but to
give the touch of life, and Adeline would shrink
aghast from the consequence of opposing his
wishes.

We shall see, A dense bank of clouds is rising
in the horizon of Adeline’s young life. They are
charged with furious storms, and all that has yet
endured—all that she has suffered, wept, and
wrung her hands for—shall seem but as the mere
playthings of the passions in comparison to the
stern realities that are to come |
(To be continued.)

WHAT IT HAS COST YOU.
BY NETTIE VERNON.
Has it become an old, ‘old story, oh, my read-

er, this painful war? Ab! rather woulda pen of
mine write joyful greetings to you to-day, but the

| 8ad spell of war, war, war, broods o’er my ‘gpirit,

and mayhaps the plaintive strain to which my
pen finds utterance will find an echoin another
heart—and ifso, I would bid it whisper of sym-
pathy and love.

Father! mother! the settling gloom of your
furrowed countenance—the more than fervent
prayer which rises from the domestic altar—the
days of sorrow and nights of sleeplessness—the
earnest perusal of the daily sheet—tell me, more
forcibly than words that a son has been taken
from your home! He was young and strong—
fall ofthe vigor of opening manhood, your idol,
your pride! But ye laid him on our country’s
aitar, and to-day he fills asoldier’s graye! God
pity you, aged ones, and be to youa surer pro-
toction,s stronger staffin your declining years than
the noble son, whose loving hands ye had so
fondly hoped should smoothe a path for your
trembling feet though life, and then gently lay
you away in your long, last sleep! Ah! God
pity you in your helpless years, as ye reflect, with
many tears, what the war has cost you!

Fond wife! guard jealously the cottage portal
from rude stranger feet—watch lovingly the ex~
panding “‘bud of promise” now sleeping in thine
arms—teach, ina hushed whisper, papa’s name
to bright-eyed Willie, as he leaves his little drum
unbeat to come and kiss mamma, and ask so in-
nocently what makes her cry—then look out
timidly, falteringly, faintingly, upon the world's
rough path which you must henceforth walk alone
—for the strong hand that would encircie and
shield youis powerless, and the manly echo to
thine one weaker heart-beat is crushed ever-
more

Sad priestess at the sweet altar of home! God

ity you, as with aching heart you realise, O! go
forcibly, what the war has cost you!

Sister! Ah! how can I write of the day when
ye parted! Too well—ah ! too well do I know the
agony of your heart when that darling brother
claimed and gave a last kiss! I know how fer-
vent and affectionate was the pressure of that
hand which had just brushed away (so. hastily) s
tear or two! I know how almosi inarticulate wag
the ‘‘good bye”—and when the bell had rung, and
the shrill whistle sounded as the train moved on,
I know the sorrow that rent your soul as you
turned upon your pillow to stifle those wild, wild
sobs, while he, (a soldier now) bowed his fair
young head with suck emotion, 43 he had never
felt before, and wept alone, while the ears rolled
on—on—on, bearing him away—away—away! I
know how ye have missed him day by day—-the
unspoken, merry greeting at morn—the laughing
jest of almost every house—the song which ye
have no'heart to sing alone—the deserted path
which has led ye on many a moonlit ramble—the
tiny boat which hag never been unlocsed since he
fastened it so securely just im the shadow of that
old gray rock—the vacant room, with pictures of
his own drawing hung around the walls—his un-
strapped trunk closely packed with clothes which
he may never wear again—these, with a thous-
and other things, will write upon your heart the
desp, terribly deep ‘lesson of what the war has
cost you, as to-day you may read his name among
the slain! Oh! God, be very tender, yery com-
passionate with you! e i

Brother! ye were but two, and to-day ‘ one is
not.” Upon Virginia’s sunny plains, within a
grave, fashioned, not by kind and careiul handg—
moistened not by tears of kindred—blessed not
by voice of sacred, solemn prayer—guarded not,
by the eye of love and affection, he sleeps—thy
brother sleeps ! :
Manhood bids thee noi repress the flowing tear
—manhood bids thee not repress therising sigh—

and pity you in she sad hours which will bring so
forcibly to your remembrance the painful proofs
of what the war hag cost you!
SERA ATS
TO CORRESPONDENTS,
Gossip WITH READERS AND ConrRisvrors.—

We have a number o i1MS8S. on hand which will be at-
tended to next week.

 

 

 

with the porter in the hal}, -

 

and while thine heart is yet tender and_ bleeding, -
fain would whisper in thine ear, God guard }

 

Bay
Be
NERDS IAS IEICE AS ha NE

ager SERS

a oe a he aire. a i ape aN ee Bes

 
Pana PK torte See awe HF +

 

 

 

 

 

mee TH

J. H WINSLOW & GO.

S, CHAINS. &¢., &C., &C,
100000 WA CORTE $500,000 ~~ hea
f 2 Dollar each, without value, and
= ew, pu ail yo lenow anal go Gre tG ged,

CMR GREE IES e

Splendid List.

GF ARTICLES TO BE SOLD FOR ONE DOLLAR RACH

180 Gold Hunting Cased Watchos.....c.cceces $15,00 each

GOlE Watched....-.cccccccccccsscccccvececes 74,00 68CN,

200 Ladies’ Gold Watches........css00

690 Ladies’ and Gents’ Silver Watche

$009 Vest and Neck Ch
Go!

Oe ceneccecseveocs

ae
2s
$3

Lava and Florentine Brooches .
6000 Corel, Opal, and Em. Brooches......
8009 Cameo or DePy Saeki ibs caneeineees
8000 Mosaic and Jet Mar Drops...... rrr
= oo and Taos ear Prope: care
oral, Em., an ar Drops...
6000 Gents’ Breast Ping,
8900 Watch Ke
5000 Fob and
£900 Sets ef Bosom Studs
6000 Siesve Butt
088 ion a 7 S..
G08 Stone Bing
6009 cock

020 e008 OSSes OOF OHCOOBDONSEOS

 

os
SSSSSSESSSRSSESS

SEouwienmne
SSSCSSSSSSSSSss sss

S- occccccccecvenecvccsees

 

rats...
5000 Sets Lindieg’ Jewelry.....seccvecsseess
Gold Pi th Silver Mounted Hold-
ae eet £00t0 600cach,
id Pens with Silver extension Cases
mers aed cc bowler ieee oe soetue -«. £00 to 600 cach.

Allof the above list. of Goods will be sold for one dollar
each. Oertificates of all the various articles, stating what
eack ane can have, are first put into envelopes, sealed up,
and mixed ; and when ordered, are taken out without re-
gard to choice, and sent by mail, thus giving all a fair
shance. On the receipt of the Certificate, you will see what
you can have, and then itis at your option to send one dol-
lar and take the article or not. .

all transactions by mail, we shall eharge for forward-

ing the Certificates, paying postage, and doing the business,

#5 cants each, which must be enclosed when the Certificates

ig gont for. Five Certificates will be sent for $1; eleven

Y sib’ thirty for $5; sixty-five for $106; and a hundred
‘or S18.

Agzxns.--Those acting as agents will be allowed ten cents
on every Certificate ordered by them, provided their remit-
tance anzounts to one dollar. Agents will collect 26 cents
for every Certificate, and remit 15 cents to us, either in cash
or postage stamps. Great caution should be used by our
eorrespondenigin regard to giving their correct addregs,
Town, County, and State. Address

‘ iJ. H. WINSLOW & OO.
268 Broadway, New York,

FOR ANY THING YOU WANT.

Send to us for any article you want, or see advertised:
Describe the article, enclose price; the article will be sent,
or any information in regard to price of artieles wanted.

Send three cent stamp. We send articles to all parts of
the country, Send for our circular. Address =

24-1. SPENCER & CO., 84 Broadway, N. Y.

YOUNG MAIDS AND OLD BACHELORS
Should read the exciting story of ST. ROCH; or, MATRI-
MONY MADE EASY, a curious book (fourth edition) con-
taining plain common-sense directions how all may be
suitably and honorably married, irrespective of age, sex,
or position, good looking or otherwise, with g treatise on
the art of fascinating any person you desire, instantly, a
complete scientific experiment which cannot fail. Sent by
mail for 25 cents. Address 1. WILLIAM & CO., Publish-
ers, Philadelphia. mhi7if

 

 

 

And Stuttering cured by Bates’s Patent Scientific Appli-
ances. For (New Edition of) descriptive Pamphlets and
ea, address H. ©. L, MEARS, 277 W. 28d St., N. ¥.

mar3t-

Beauty.—Hunt’s White Liquid
ENAMEL.

Prepared by Madame Rachel Leverson, the celebrated
Parisian Ladies’ Hnamelor. It whitens the skin perman-
entiy, giving it a soft, satin-like texture, and imparts a
feeshness and transparency to the complexion, which is
quite natural, without injury to the'skin. It is also war-
ranted toremove Tan, Freckles, Pimples, Sunburn, etc.
Sent by mail, free from observation, on receipt of pres, 30
conis. Address, HUNT & CO., Perfumers, 133 South Seventh
street, and 41 South Highth street, Philadelphia. 029 tf.

A MAN OF A THOUSAND.
A CONSUMPTIVE CURED.

DR. H. JAMES, a Retired Fiyaicten of great eminence,
discovered, while in the East Indies, a certain cure for Con-
eee A a, Bronchitis, Coughs, Colds, and General
Debility. Fhe remedy was discovered by him when his
only child, a daughter, was given up to die. His child was
cured, and is now alive and well. Desirous of benefiting
his fellow mortals, he willsend to those who wish it the
recipe, containing full directions for oe and success-
fully using this Romedy, free, on receipt of two stamps to
pay expenses. There isnotasingle case of Consumption
that it does not at once take hold of and dissipate. Night
Sweats, peevishness, irritation of the nerves, failure of
memory, difficult expectoration, sharp pains in the lungs,
sore throat, chilly sensations, nausea at the stomach, in-
action of the bowels, wasting away of the muscles.

OCK &
318,am,

 

 

D Cco.,
225 North Second st., Philadelphia, Pa.

A BARE BOOK!

The Veritable Joe Miller outdone by the West-
ern Rail-Splitter.

OLD ABE'S JOKES:

FRESH FROM ABRAHAM’S BOSOM.

Comprising all his issues, except the ‘“Greenbacks,” being
the Jests and Squibs of Father Abraham.
Mailed, pestpaid, by Booksellers and Agents every where.
Price in paper, 35 cts.
f. R. DAWLEY, Publisher, 13 & 15 Park Row, N.Y.
:: Editors inserting this advertisement, and sending
aed copy of their publication, will receive a copy gratis.

 

 

Attention, Company !

CLARE’S ONGUENT, a powerful stimulant, each pack-
age warranted to produce a full set of Whiskers or Mous-
taches in six weeks, upon the smoothest face, without stain
or injury to the skin. Any person using this Onguent and

finding it not as represented (by informing me of the fact) |

can have their money returned to them at any time within
three months of the day ef purchase. Price $1. Sent
Sealed and post-paid to any address on receipt of the mon-
eye Address, a. C, CLARK, P.O. Drawer 118, Albany,
ew ork ap21-l3t

CANCER CURED.

Cancers and Tamours cured without pain or the use of
the knife. Circular describing treatment sent free of
charge. Addross DRS. BABCOCK & TOBIN

f4-3m 27 Bond 8t., N. ¥.

OSBORN’S

CELESZATED PREPARED

IRYR COPFEE

WARRANTED SUPERIOR TO ANY IN THE MARKET. «
Gold at Retail for Twenty-five Cents per pound, by rst
elssa Grocers, throughout the United States,

Bag A liberal Gizcount to the trade,

Pus up only by

LEWIS 4, OSBORN,

Wholesele Denot. No. @B Warren St.. N. ¥.

en ena

i psrcHOuANor.—How EITHER SEX MAY FASCI-

| nate and ae the love and affections of any person
they chooss instantly. This simple mental acquirement
eli can possess, free, by mail, for 2% cents, together with a
Gar: Moni costenaota. " ASurese 8” Wtketviees GOs
OOK. , pt OL, dress, 'T, Md
Publshors, Pailadelphia, ‘028 tf

PUBLISHED THIS DAY,
BRADY’S “MERCURY” STORIES.
SEA-DRIFT:;

OR,

THE WRECKERS OF THE CHANNEL,

BY MALCOLM J. ERRYM.
ILLUMINATED COVER~ILL USTRATED.
“PRICE TWENTY-FIVE CENTS.

— Rm

 

 

 

0,

 

 

 

Mailed free of postage on receipt of price. Dealers are
The eee: tosend their orders di=ect to the publisher of
fhe Mercury” Stories. to insure promptness in the filling
of pee orders. FREDERIC A. BRADY, Publisher,
“lt. No. 24 Ann street, N. Y.

GREAT TRIUMPH.

STEINW AY & SONS, Nes. 71 ang 73 E. Fourteenth St.N.¥.
have boen awarded a first prize medal at the Great Inter”
and wy mpaihece Ge oy powerful, clear, brilliant

t excelis: t
eis ee pnd square pianos.” fe
© ers 269 pianos from ail parts of the world entered
for competition; and the special corre t of
York Fimea pre : 8p! spondent of the New
Megara Stein way’s indorsement by the Jurors isemphaiie,

\ and stronger and more to the point than that of any Euro-
4 | pean maker.”

Ty2.9m,

 

Something New in the
Card World!

Something New in the Card World.
Something New in the Card World,
Kings, Queens, and Knaves Played Out.
Kings, Queens, and Knaves Played Out.
Kings, Queens, and Knaves Played Out,
. Kings, Queens, and Knaves Played Out,
Time for a Change,
. , ‘Time for a Change.
Foreign Emblems Used Long Enough,
Foreign Emblems Used Long Enough.
Nationality Everything.
Nationality Everything.
Union Playing Cards,
National Emblems.
Eagles, Shields, Stars, and Flags,
Colonel in Place of King.
Goddess of Liberty in Place of Queen.
Major in Placo of Jack.

SPECIAL NOTICE.

The American Card Company have the exclusive
right to manufacture the Union Playing Cards, bearing
national emblems, and they take pleasure in being
able to announce that the success of the new Union
Playing Cards is unprecedented in the history of any
article ever produced. ‘The reason for this is simple.
The Union Playing Cards meet a long existing want.
They cater to the spirit of nationality everywhere ex-
isting among the poople of the American republic, In
additioa to the fact that they meet ithe popular idea,
they are the prettiest playing cards made. Each pack
is put up in an elegant card case, suitable to keep
them in when not in use, and these, egain, in dozen
boxes for tho trade,

Roncsewemery

Nothing to Learn!
As the four great national emblema used to represent
the suits in the new Union Playing Cards are as
Familiar as Household Words
everywhere among the American people, the Union
Playing Cards can be used as readily the first occasion
as cards bearing foreign emblems. All one has to do
is to discard foreign cards from his mind and call the
cards as they show—Hagles, Shields, Stars Flags.
Quite Time.
Let Independence
and Nationality
be the watchword.
Encourage Home Manufacture
and
American Enterprise.
Cultivate American Genius,
Develop American Resources,
Use the
American Card Company’s
New Union Playing Cards.

For Sale Everywhere.

The trade cannot be without the Union Playing Cards.
Everybody will be running after them. Everybody
wants them that seesthem. The new Union Playing
Cards will be universally adopted as the playing card
of the country. }

TWO SAMPLE PACKS, IN CASES, WILL
BE SENT, POST PAID, ON RECEIPT OF $1.

Address

AMERICAN CARD COMPANY,
14 Chambers street, or
165 William street,
New York.

THE OLD ESTABLISHED
and only reliable PURCHASING AGENOY, doing business
since 1849. Parties desiring any goods they see adver-
tised, or any information, can obtain it by enclosing a3
a. for circular, to Henry Stephens, 85 Nassau St.
ap2l-

age IF YOU WANT TO KNOW

Man ard Woman, Inside and Out,what the sexes are made
of, and how drawn together, the cause of disease, and ma-
trimonial and social wretchedness, read revised and en-
larged edition of

“MEDICAL COMMON SENSE,?
2 curious book for curious people, and a good book for
every one. Price $1 5v. Sent by mail, postage paid, every-
where, on receipt of price. Contcnts tables mailed free
toevery applicant. aes DE. E. B. FOOTE, No. 1,130
rk.

Broadway, New Yo mh3 3m

SHULTS’ ONGUENT---Rarante? teproduce a

al73t

 

 

 

Moustaches in six weeks, or money refunded. Sent post- :

paid for 50 cents, or 3 packages for $1. Address
mh24-13t C. F. SHULTS, 285 River St, Troy, N. ¥.

INFALLIBLE CURE OF HABITUAL DRUNKENNESS,

Which can be effected even without the Knowledge of the
patient. A most perfect cure can be warranted, by Dr.
HERM. GUNTHER. LL. Box 5306. Price $2 per bottle. For
sale by HERM GERITZEN, 323 Bowery, N.Y.

G. A. CASSEBEER, 191 Bowery, N.Y,

Cincinnati, 6. L. GRanewue, cor. Court & Walnut sts.

St. Louis, Ma., F. W. Sennewa.p, cor. Market & Third sts.

Chicago, Il., W. H. Mutumr, 130 South Well st.

Baltimore, Md., W. Surieacn, 455 Baltimore st. :

Washington, D, ©., H. Mevawsxi & Co., 301 Penn. ave,
ee Ohio, AuG. ScHUELLER, Eagle Drug Store.
24-6t.eow.

BEAUTIFUL SPRING.
BY AUGUSTUS TREADWELL,

Beantiful Spring, with beautiful flowers,
Beautiful sunshine, beautifal showers,
Beautiful tlelds with beautiful green,
Beautiful Spring is a beautiful queen !

 

 

Queen of the seasons, queen of the year,
Queen of cheerfulness, queen of cheer,
Queen of the brooklets, queen of the glens,
Queen of the meadows, queen of the fens.

Hail to thy coming! hail to thy birth!

Hail to thy cheerfulness! hail to thy worth!
Fail to to thy bird-notes! O hear them sing}
Wail! all hail to thee, beautiful Spring!

PLEASANT PARAGRAPHS.

— We have often heard it alleged that our |
Western legislators are less addicted to piety
than potations—that they take a deeper inter-
est in the compounding of exhilarating bever-
ages than in the repetition of their daily
prayers; but the following anecdote, from
‘Charles Raymond,” will forever set all doubt
upon the subject at rest, and proves that it is
hazardous for a man to wager “two to one”
with a person who is possessed of

A WONDERFUL MEMORY,

During the infancy of gome of our Western States,
their Legislatures were nof so polished as they are at
the present day; instead of being composed of mor-
chants, the members were generally farmers. The
schoolmaster was 2 man unheard of in those be-
nighted regions. The legislature cf -—~ was discuss.
ing a question of great political importance. ‘Mr. 4.
Tn the course of his remarks, said something peculiar.
ly insulting to the opposition, denominating them ag
heathens, &e. Mr. B. undertook to reply, and ven-
tured to bet Mr. A. an unheard of amount that he (Mer,
A.) could not repeat the Lord’s Prayer. Mr, A. ace
cepted the wager, the money was Stakod, and Mr. A,
commenced:

** Now I lay me down to sleep,
Ipray thee——”?

“Hold! hold!” exclaimed Mr. B.; “that’s suficient!

Gosh, though, I didn’t think youknew tt!

—— Who will now dare to doubt the piety of
Western men? What a pity those gentlemen
did not adopt the ministry as a profession, as
their knowledge of theology would eminently
befit them for such spiritual duties. What-
ever may be said of our Western brethren, it
is evident that the light of Christianity is not
one of their wants....... The wants of a new

 

contributor, ‘A. J. H.,” are promulgateg in
the following poetical
PROPOBAL FOR A WIFR,

Ye fair ones, attend—I’ve an offer to make you!
In Hymen’s soft bond I am anxious to join;
For better or worse, ag companion, I’ll take you,

Provided you suit me, when, lassie, I’m thine.

I’dhave—let me sée--I’d not have beauty,
For beautiful women are apt to be vain;

Yet with a small share I would think it a duty
To take her, be thankful, and not to complain,

Hey form must ba good, and not moulded by art,
And rather above than below middle size;

Her countenance puzzles my brain to describe,
And eloquent language must How from her eyes.

She raust be well bred, or Ine’er contd respect her;
Good-natured and modest, but not very coy;

Her mind weil informed—the purified nectar
That sweetens the cup of hymeneal joy.

Her home she must love, and domestic employment,
Have practical knowledge of hougehold affairs;
And make ita part of her highest enjoyment
To soften my troubles and lighten my careg,

No fortune Task, for I’ve no predilection
For glitter and show, and the pomp of high life;
I wish to be bound by the cords of effection-—
Can any one fill this offer for a wife?

ii any possess the above requisitions,
They soon can be bound by the conjugal bands;
Please write to me, lassies, you know the conditions,
And banish the grief of one ever at hand,

—— This is a chance for any young lady who
possesses the requirements, and desires an es-
cort to the altar of Hymen. Speak quickly,
for we think ‘A, J. H.”’ will make an excellent
husband... .. Speaking of husbands, it will be
remembered that our friend “‘Gipsey’’ stated
that she desired one; and here is a letter from
@ young man anxious to assume such a rela-
tionship to her. In his communication he ag-
sures us that he will prove

A MODEL HUSBAND FOR “‘Grpszy,’?

Deak WEEKLY: In your last issue, I seo that “ip.
sey’’ in greatly in want of a partner through life. Now
I wonder that such a damsel has gone so long without
procuring that which completes a woman’s happiness
~—a husband; and ithink from what she Says, sunny
hair and blue eyes, I will make her the congenial spirit
she spoke about. My height is five feet ten inches,
weight one hundred and foriy-nine pounds: berides, I
am possessor of the nice little sum of seventy thousand,
Now, Gipsey, contemplate whata glorious life is before
youif you will accept of me, who, be a3sured, will
prove & loving, faithful, and dutiful husband, Further-
maore, Ihave been in bunt of a wife for the last five
years, and have never encountered a damsel that
pleased me as-I think Gipsey would from the descrip-
tion she gave of herself; and I really believe Gipsey is
the one I have been looking for so long in vain, and
now you must hot blast my hopes by saying “No.” I
how await your final decision, and remember that my
fature happiness depends upon it; and with this I sign
my namein hope, HLARRY,

P.S. Lam very desirous of exchanging caries de vi-
site with Gipsey.

— “Harry” should be a little more explicit.
He says heis “in possession 6f seventy thous-
and.” Seventy thousand what ?—dollars or
doughnuts ? Less ambiguity, ‘‘Harry,” on such
an important point, if you desire the hand of
“Gipsey.”.... By the way, “Gipsey” herself
favors us with a communication this week, con-
cerning a

CONTROVERSY WITH SPITEFUL OLD BACHELORS.

T was much interested some weeks ago ina spirited
controversy between two spiteful old bachelors; and
several of our fair lady readers, upon that much-
abused class, designated as old maids. The cause was
s0 ably handled that I remained Silent, satisfied as to
the reguit, The ‘old maids’? were victorious. In
reading an old paper, [founda “‘poem,’’ advocating the
same cause, Which I think too good to be lost; so- I
will send it. The aforementioned old bachelors will
doubtless make sundry wry faces at certain facts con-
tained in this

TRIBUTE TO OLD MAIDS,

Fools still may raise the laugh
-At those who better are by half,
For surely none but fools could laugh
At good old maids,

What cause of scorn is in the state

Of those who ne’er have found a mate,

Or have been robbed of him by fate ?
The poor old maids.

Perhaps they’ve many offers had,
But some were good, and some were bad;
But they dislike to marrisge had,

The dear old maids,

Perhaps they may have lost s lover,

And never could his loss recover,

And rather than to wed another,
Would die old maids,

Some spend their lives in good to others,
Feel for the poor as suffering brothers,
4nd to the orphan act as mothers,

The blest old maids.

u - not aoe us a guess

y. men on them will crack their jests

{n truth ’tis for their interest vee
To scorn old maids:

That girls might hold it still in fear,

Thinking that then they would not dare

defuse them, lest they too would bear
The name, old maids!

* = In attestation of the service you have
rendered a much-maligned class, by repro-
ducing the above lines in their defence, if the
ladies referred to do not make you an honora-
ry member of their order, it will occasion our
astonishment,..... Talking of astonishment,
reminds us of an incident from ‘Jules Pat-
fish, Jr.,” about 2

: AN ASTOUNDED DEACON.

In the city of H—— there resided a worthy deacon,
blessed, or cursed, witha tall, gaunt figure, also with
hands of enormous dimensions. He was strictly pions,
never failing to ask a blessing not only.when his own
family dined, but also at the servants’ meals. On one
cccasion he employed a male servant who was entirely
ignorant of the deacon’s religious propensities, He
made his appearance shortly before the slining hour,
and a8 soon as the bell sounded, the servant started
for the table, and without ceremony commenced de-
vouring the good things. The deacon was horrified,
and extended his hands, saying: “Pause, young man—
pause!’’ The young man addressed raised hig eyes
significantly to the deacon’s upraised hands, and re-
plied: ‘Yes, and pretty good-sized paws I should Bay 1’?

—If the deacon was not a handsome man,
he had some hands, andit would be unprofita-
bie to let him put them in a bag at “a cent a
grab.” His handful would be something more
than a trifle....... Here are a few interesting
and pithy trifles, by ‘‘Josephine Robbins,”
from whom we will at all times be pleasod to
receive such

FRAGMENTS,

WHEN a young lady faints in the presence of a hand-
some gentleman, we think the application of mous
taches to her lips particularly desirable,

Wer know of but one way to stop the clamor of fe-
males for women’s rights. Marry them all off happily,
and they submit with as much pleasure to the require-
ments of the lords of creation as the rest of ug temi-
nines, who openly avow that we value love more than
anything else in this world.

WHEN we hear of a woman who has been for a jong
time intimate with a man of questionable character,
suspecting the motives of another, briefly acquainted
with him, we think she knows the danger of such inti-
macies.

WHEN we hear one married woman blaming another
for wearing ringlets, we think her own hair won’t curl.
WHEN a would-be gentleman smokes in the presence
of ladies, we are suspicious that he has mistaken his
vocation,

You may safely distrust the justice of the opinions of
any man who has no toleration for those of another.

No man who has closely studied the secret springs of
his own heart, will treat with uncharitableness the
failings of his neighbor. :

No matter how much we may pity the culpable weak-
nesses of another, we can beyer respect him for those

 

manifestations,

WHEN an author bores us with a private reading of
his own produetions, we think his imagination exceeds
his judgment, :

teammate

To CoRnREsPONDENTS.—The fellowing MSS. are ac-
cepted: “My Dancing Lesson;’’ ‘ Obadiah’s Court-
ship; ‘*Hymeneal Experiences;” “Olementina Ara
miata Bobkins;” “Drops from a Humorous Vein.’’,..-
The foliowing are respectfully declined: “Letter of
Africanus 3’ “low to Make Whiskers Grow.”®

|OUR KNOWLEDGE BOX.

A FEW PARAGRAPHS WORTH REMEMBERING,

(We have received. numerous communications from
persons who are desirous to contribute to “Our Knowl-
edge Box,’’ providing they are paid for their trouble;
and we here desire to say to all such, that we opened
this department for the benefit of the readers of the
WEEELY at large, and are always supplied, gratis, with
matter enough to make it interesting. We shall be
thankful to all who will furnish us valuable receipts,
eic., and in doing so, they will be benofiting themselves
&s well as us, because for any one item which they may
furnish, they will recoive half-a-dozen in return. ]

QUESTIONS ANSWERED AND INFORMATION WANT
ED.—A Reader desires a receipt for making Mocx Ture
TLE SouP.--The annexed mode gives general satisfac-
tion :—The calf’s head being divided, having the skin
on, the brains carefully removed and boiled separately
in a cloth, if must be placed in a sauce-pan, with
more than enough water to cover it, skim while heat-
ing, let it be parboiled, and then let it cool; cut the
taeat from the head in square pieces, the tongue also,
then break the bones of the head in pieces, return
them into the water in which they have been boiled <
add shin of beef—about three or four pounds, knuckle
of veal, three or four onions, two sm2il carrots sliced,
a turnip also, with black pepper unground, add the
brains pounded, and stew gently five hours; strain,
cool, and remove the fat; take a clean stew-pan, place
init of fresh butter four ounces; add to it, when
fluid, three wooden spoonfuls of flour, stirring it well
untilit browns, some shallots, ora little of the soup
may be added to this, also parsley, sweet brazil, chives,
salt, soy, cayenne, and catsup ; strain before you add
it to the soup, into which you will return the pieces of
meat, and boil it for upwards of an hour; previous to
dishing, halfa pint of Sherry, or Madeira, should be
added, a lemon squeezed into the tureen in which it is
to be served, and when in the tureen, add egg-balle,
twenty or thirty in number......Mrs. Lindsey asks
how to make PoraTo OMELET.—Mix a mashed potato,
or two ounces of potato flour, with four eggs, and sea.
son with pepper, saltand nutmeg. It should be made
thick, and: being rather substantial, asqueeze of lemon
willimprove it. Fry alight brown.

Breer Atamope.—Cut out the bone from the
beef, and convert it with the trimmings, into gravy ;
then stuff the orifice with rich forcemeat. Halt roast
it, and before itis put into the stewpan, lard the top
with dried and pickled mushrooms, adding mushroom
powder in the orifices; then put in two quarts of
gravy from the bones, one large onion stuck with cloves,
and two carrots cut in slices: Whon the beef has
stewed till it is tender, strain and thicken the sauce;
add to itone glass of wine, mushreoms, and oysters,
and sippets or fried paste. Hither the mushrooms or
oysters may be omitied if the flavor of either should
not be desirable, This receipt, although rather expen-
Sive, is worth a trial.

Economica Pir Orust.—The price of butter
has become so high that prudent housewives are be-
ginning to eschew the use of it when a substitute will
answer the purpose. In making pie-crust, butter ig
used by many ; but heveis a mode which will recom-
mend itself on the score ofeconomy. Cut some slices
of beef-suet very thin ; roll it with 2 rolling-pin, till it
is quite soft ; rub it very fine into some fiour, and mix
it with coid water. it is much botter Gone this way
than chopped, and makes a very good crust for any pie
thatis to be eaten hot, or for fruit puddings.

Srrir Peas Sour.—Take three pints of peas,
three common sized turnips, one carrot, and the shells
of the peas. Boil one quart of the largest of the peas,
with the shells or the pods, till quite soft; rub through
a fine colander, return the pulp into the pan, add the
turnips, a carrot, sliced, and a quart of boiling water;
when the vegetables are perfectly soft, add the young
or smaller peas, previously. boiled.

Brrp's Nest Puppinc.—Pare and coreas many
apples as will set in the dish, and fill the holes in the
apples with white sugar and grated lemon-peel. Mix
as much custard as will fill the dish; allow seven eggs
toa quart of milk, and season it with sugar and lemon,
or peach water. Fill the dish quite full, set it into 2
pan with a little water, and bake it one hour.. Servo it
with cold or wine sauce,

Brown Dvz ror Boor-Tors.—Mix in a quart of
boiling water one ounce of saffron, half an ounce of
rhubarb, half an ounce of oxalic acid. When cold, ap-
ply several good coats, and let thetops dry. When
quite dry, damp them very slightly witha sponge
dipped in the above, and polish off immediately, using
a clean brush.

Horserapiso Savuce.—To those using this
eatice, we reccommend a trial of the subjoined recipe,
from Mrs. 8 Voorhees :—Two tablespoonfuls of
grated horseradish, one teaspoonful of mustard, one of
salt, half spoonful of pepper, two tablespoonfuls of
vinegar.

Lotion ror Factan NevRators.—Mrs, §. Voor-
hees, Ithaca, N. Y., furnishes us with the following
remedy for this disease :—One part aconite, one part
chlorozorw, end two parts alcokol, .

ARS

TTEMS FOR FARMERS AND GARDENERS.

Sort For Frowers.—Fow are aware that an occa-
sional change of soil is beneficial to flowers in bud,
though all know how important it is to flowers in pots,
Nothingis better than surface soil froman old pasture,
taken off about two inchegzg deep, ala thrown into a
heap with about one-sixth part of old hot-bed dung, to
partially decay. In addition ‘to this staple item,a smailer
quantity of different matters should be gathered to-
gether for peculiar cases, or peculiar plants. Peat, for
instanca, will be found very useful for many kinds of
plants. This is not, as is often supposed, mere black
sand; buta spongy, fibrous substance from the surface
of bogs and boggy .wastes. Sand should be collected
sharp and clean; the washings from turnpike ditches
are a8 good as anything. Leaf-rnould is best got already
well decayed from the woods. A load or so of well-de-
cayed cow-manure is a good thing for the gardener to
have with him, as all those plants that dislike our hot
summers, 2nd want a cool soil to grow in, prefer it to
any other manure, A small pile of hot-bed manure is
almost indispensable to a garden.

To Mane Hens Lay.—A subscriber says that
hog’s lardis the best thing he can find to mix in with
the dough he gives to his hens. He says that one cut
of this fatas large as a walnut will set a hen to laying
immediately after she has been broken up from set-
ting, and that by feeding them with the fat occasion ally
his hens continue to lay through the whole winter.

To Osrain FLoweRs From BuLBous Roots in
THREE WEEKs.—Put quick-lime into a flower-pot till it
ig rather more than half full; fill up with good earth;
plant your bulbs in the usual manner; keep the earth
slightly damp. The heat given out by the lime will
rise through the earth, which will temper its fierce.
ness; and in this manner beautiful flowers may be ob-
tained at any season.

VARNISH FoR RustioGaRpEen Szats.—First wash
the woodwork with soap and water, and when dry do
it over, on a hot sunny day, with common boiled lin-
seed oil; leave that to dry for a day or two, and then
varnish it once or twice with what is commonly termed
“hard varnish.” If wel! done it will last for years, and
will prevent any annoyance from ingects.

ROLENTIFIC NOTES,

ArtrriciaL Furn.—Mr. Gerhardt, a gentleman
of Philadelphia, recontly exhibited there artificial fuel
and gas material. Thize invention consists in preparing
porous bricks, balls, or otherwise shaped fire-proof
material, which are fully saturated with gas-tar, coal-
oil, or any other hydro-earbon of a similar nature,
These bricks are afterward dried, and used for the pur-
poss of producing illuminating gas or fuel, The oil
having burnt out, the material is used over again; it
leaves No ashes, and preservesits porosity. The use
of fuel that is free from sulphur is of the highest im-
portance in the manufacture of steel, iron, glass, &.;
and itis claimed that this artificial fuel is well adapted
for these purpcses, as well as for other uses, because
the price of manufacture is not so high as the present
price of coal,

New Uses or Jopine.--A new coloring matter,
which dyes silk and wool of a beautiful violet, blue vio-
let, or a red violet tint, has been produced by the ap-
plication of the iodine extracted from sea-weed. It has
long been thought if iodine could be used as a coloring
substance it would be one of the most powerful known.
The patented process consists of mixin g, in certain pro-
portions, the substance called rosaniline with the
jodides of ethel, methyl, or amyl.

Bronzing Inoy-Cxiap Sxurps.—The French are
applying to their iron-plated ships the bronzing pro-
cess which they find so successful in their street lamp-
posts. The plates are first painted, so as to prevent any
galvanic action between the copper and the iron, then
rubbed with black lead, and finally plunged into the
bath, where they remain until the copver is deposited
to the thickness of one-tenth of an inch.

 

TO A LADY DYING OF
CONSUMPTION,
BY FLORENCE MARSHALL,

Oh, very early hath the victor won thee

To share the slumbers of the rayless tomb!

Its chilling shadows as a pall have bound thea,

, Though Heaven’s own light hath pierced the gathereg

gloom!

We know that thou must die, yet hopes. are clinging

With increased fervor to thy wasting form,

Though in our hearts despair thy knell is ringing,
Oh, how we struggle to avert the storm !

With what strange brilliancy thine eyes are beaming,
Lit with a splendor that is not of earth!

Each day thy gentle smile is fainter glezming,

And thy low whispers have forgot their mirth!

For us, without thee, what a dark to-morrow

Is the dim future that before us lies—

Thou in the grave and we the heirs of sorrow,

With sad and lonely hearts that mock disguise!

God grant his presence in the sunless valley

Which thou must tread eve. Paradise be won 5

Around its portals clouds and tempests rally,

But boldly enter, for thy toil is done}

Amnocenswmenenetta> $-¢ 45 > ¢-~elpanmnmmvenmnenng)

ITEMS OF INTEREST,

4a A novel fire escape was improvised one day
last week by a man named Flaherty, who resides in the
second story of a tenement house in Mott street.
There was considerable smoke ia the lower part of the
house, occasioned by the accidental ignition of 2
quantity of straw in the basement, and the occupants
became alarmed,thinking the house on fire, Observing
the smoke, Flaherty thoughtit impossible to descend.
by the staircase, and at once compelled his wife to
place herself on the feather bed, and then rolling her
up In it, with the aid of quilts he tied it securely and then
threw her out of the back window into the yard. By this,
time the fire had been extinguished, and Flaherty d
scended by the stairs, went to the yard, and released
his wife, who was uninjured by the concussion, but
almost suffocated from ner close confinement,

ua Valuable and interesting relics: have been
discovered during the recent excavations at Pompeii.
Three bodies in different tombs were perfectly pre-
servedin form and shape, One, @ warrior, evidently
of superior rank, has ona coat of mail and the usual
armor 2 Roman wore in those times. Of the two others,
one is a lady, whose beauty of form and face is splen-
did—the arms are beautiful—while the remnants of
her drapery are of the finest materials; the last is a
young girl of about fifteen, apparently an attendant.
The coarse texture of her dress is distinctly seep, and
on one of her fingers a coarse ring of lead or tin shows
her love of baubles. The nails are intact, and a pore
tion of her skuil is entire,

4a Nature sometimes plays strange freaks,and
the last one we have heard of is unusually astounding.
A ewe belonging to a farmer in England, recently
brought forth a fine and apparently healthy lamb; but
the day after its birth, the lamb exhibited symptoms
of weakness, and died in afowhours after. The shep-
herd, in order to ascertain, if possible, the cause of its
death, opened the lamb, by makinga longitudinal cut
down the middle of the stomach, when—wonderful to
relate—out rolled another lamb, about the size of a rat,
but perfect with respcot to external appearance,

xa An intelligent jury in Saratoga county,
who recently held an inquest on the body of 2 man
run over by a train of cars, rendered the following
verdict :—“‘Natbaniel Denton came to his death by a
collision with the engine near Simmons’ eressing, of
which we exonerate the epjineer from all blame. But
further, we think the deceased and the evjineer might
have seen each other, and perhaps, yes, very likely,
have saved his life, if the wood pilesworn to had not
have been there.”

’ar A blacksmith performed some work for
the Danes at the Banuewerke, but not getting his pay
before the fortifications were abandoned, he applied to
the German commander for it, after his forces had
taken possession, Marshal Von Wrangel praised the
work, stating that he hoped the blacksmith would soon
receive his pay--from the Danes,

x@e- Those who are fond of Catawba brandy
may be interested ina statement recently made by
responsible vintners in Cincinnati. They declared
that the pure article would cost from five to eight dol-
lars a gallon, adding that there was no genuine article
of the kind in the market--the quality generally sold
consisting of pomace, whiskey, and fusel oil,

aa@- The mother of three children, named Mre..
Serr, residing af Walnut Oreek, near Erie, Pa., the
other day locked up the house, leaving the children
inside, while she visited a neighbor. While the mother
was absent, the house took fire and the children were
burned to death. The oldest was but four years of
age.

aa A sudden addition was made recently to
the passengers on a trip of the express train between
Meriden and Hartford, Conn. A lady gave birth to a
youngster while the train wasin rapid motion ; and it
is thought by the passangers that he will turn out tobe
& “fast boy.’’

a@ The term “boiled brass” was applied to
silver-plated articles, by an Englishman exporting such
merchandise to France, in orderto evade the custom-
house duties. The trick answered for a time; but it
was s00n discovered, and the offender heavily fined for
making a false statement,

us A nowsboys’ lodging-house has been es-
tablished in Washington, and it is amusing to hear the
discussions of the urchins in regard to the future move.
ments of the armies—as the sale of the newspapers is
much enchanced by the activity of our forces.

4@~ An appetite for flies is one of the charac-
teristics of a little girl residing in Illinois, and all her
parents can do will not prevent her from gratifying it.
When the fly season disap pears, she loses the desire
for the insects ; but on its return, she is as bad as
ever.

aw A couple of boots (not mates) were washed
ashore the other day, at Rye, N. H. Each boct con«
tained 2 human foot, and had evidently been in the
waiter along time. Itis thought they belonged to two
of the crew of a schconer lost at Whales’ Back, last
year.

xa> There is a drinking house in Richmond
with an appropriate designation—the “Bragg Saloon,’®
where the visitors are bound to emulate the example of
its patronymic, and re-ireat.

ka The annual productions of Ireland have
decreased to the amount of £14,000,000 during four
years. The product for the year 1839 was estimated at
£39,477,000 ; and for 1863 it was but £26,327,000.

aay The doctrine of miscegenation meets with
little favor in New Jersey, and the Legislature of that
State has passed an act ‘‘probibiting the admixture of
races.””

xe The people of Pittsburg, Pa., are excited
becanse some pork speculators offered for sgle a nume
ber of swill-fed hogs that died natural deaths, They pre-e
fer to feast on the flesh of murdered porkers,

aa The scarlet fever has prevailed to such an
extent in Stonington, Ledyard, Groton, and other
parts of Connecticut, that several District Schools have
been closed in consequence,

Aa The Ohio regislature has approprixted a
million of dollars to prepare the State for defense
against any possible invasion,

xae Three children ata birth were lately ad-
he to the population of Danbury, Conn., by an Irish
ady.

ag Four bears were caught two weeks since
in the town of Altona, Clinton Co.

MIRTHFUL MORSELS.,

Turn “champion” of the skies—Saturn, of
course. He’s the star of the ring, and Vow is his ele-
ment.

Avoid argument with ladies. In spinning
yarns among silks and satins, @ man is sure to be
worsted and twisted. And when a man ig worsted and
twisted, ke may considerhimself wound up, Rte

In tropical climates men live but half as long as
they doin temperate zones, and cats have but four and
a-half lives a piece. ane :
Wuy is a lady whohas bought a sable cape at
half price like an officer absent on leave? Because
she’s got her fur low.

THE young lady who gives herself away loses
her self-possession,

Ir aflock of geese see one of their number
drink, they will all drink, too. Men often make geese »&
of themselves. e
Wuy does a novelist with his manuscript in his
coat pocket resémblea lion? Because be carries his yf

 

tale behind him,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

PSS

sy TE BBE

, ene

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

NO TEARS IN HEAVEN.
BY ETHEL CARLYSLE.

There shall be no tears in Heaven,
God in his holy word hath taught,
And to weary, suffering mortals,
"Tis a sweet, a blissful thought.
Tears are here our daily portion—
Scarce we dream of earthly joys
Ere some ‘sweeping storm of sorrow
Every darling hope destroys. -

War with wide-spread desolation
Shrouds our native land in gloom,
And from east to west there’s mourning
O’er some loved one’s early doom.
Mothers who have wept at parting
With a loved son, young and brave,
Are weeping now with deeper anguish
O’er a soldier’s lowly grave.

Tears are falling—sadly falling!
For borne on every south wind’s breath
Ars the sad, the bitter tidings,
Of some fond hope wrecked by death.
Thus sad tears we’re ever shedding—
They’re our heritage below—
But, thank God! when safe in Heaven,
Tears of grief will cease to flow!

Soon we’ll reach the river Jordan—
Soon we’ll cross its surging tide— -
‘Then all pain and sorrow’s ended
When we reach the other side.
There will be no grief--no weeping—
In that land beyond the skies;
God himself shall, in his mercy,
Wipe the tears from weeping eyes.
Peace, my heart! cease ali thy mourning!
Rest upon the promise given;
_Harthly griefs are only transient—
There shall be no tears in Heaven!

9 Gy 9-4 perenne

THE WIFE'S RETURN.

SCHOOLMISTRESS’ STORY.

BY MARY J. ALLEN.

“Men of different stations
In the eye of Fame,
Here are very quickly
Coming to the same.
High and lowly people,
Birds of every feather,
On a comnign level
Traveling together.”’—Joun G. Saxz,

A was not in amood to appreciate the genial,
fun-loving poet, as I took my seat in one of the
cara of a westward-bound train, on that evening,
in October, 185-.

I had been traveling all day. I was tired and
discouraged, and while the glorious autumn sun-
set deepened into twilight, my thoughts went
wandering back to the great city lying so far be-
hind me—the city which, for three years, I had
called my home, though a poor sewing-girl, with
no relatives and few friends, could know little of
home happiness. :

f had entered Cincinnati a young girl,with high
hopes and a strong faith in humanity. I was
leaving ita tried and tempted woman—clearer-
headed, colder-hearted, with no hopes beyond the
one of earning a comtortable subsistence in the
far Western State to which I was going.

A slight bustle near me, and the entrance of a
train-boy, with lights, dispelled these gloomy
thoughts, and I employed myself for a little while
in studying the yore about me, gradually grow-
ing conscious, as I did so, that I, myself, was
closely watched by a persdn sitting on the next
seat, which had been turned in such a way as to
bring its occupants face to face with me. Both
Were men; and the steady scrutiny with which
one of them regarded me was anything but pleas-.
ant. ‘The very looks of some men are insults, and
I felt my cheeks tingle under the insolent
glances, which seemed to take in every point in
my dress, face, and personal appearance; and, I
felt sure, were taking in my unprotected position
aswell. Iwas not far wrong in this conjecture,
for he leaned forward presently and spoke,

‘Young lady, I see you’re alone. Will you let
me take charge of you till we get to A—— 2”

The tone was even more objectionable than the
words, and I sprang up, distressed and indignant,
resolving to takerefuge in another seat, which
chanced to be vacant. Butthis was. not soeasy.
The motion of the train, going at full speed,
caused me to reel, and I should have fallen but
for the interposition of a friendly arm.

The stranger placed me in the seat T had been
trying to reach, and then crossed over to my tor-
mentor. It was not difficult to guess the purport
of the conversation which followed from the ex
pression of that individual’s face. He looked at
first sullen, afterward ashamed, then got up and
left the car,

“My friend,” as I mentally termed the stran gor
who had interfered in my behalf, was a good-
looking man, of perhaps thirty-five years, with
grave, dark eyes, and the unmistakable air of a,
gentleman. Ag he turned away, I saw the glisten
of a silver badge. This, then, was the conductor,

i had given my ticket to that official a little while
before, without even looking up to see what mane |

nerofman he might be. Now Eturned with a feel-
ing of genuine interest to the little card of dis-
tances in my hand, and read his name, ‘Philip

%. Harrell,”

_How attentive he was to all who needed his ser-
vices; and when, at the next station, a heart-
broken looking lady, with three little children
clinging to her dress, and a fourth in her arms,
prepared to leave the train in obedience to the
rough ‘Come on!” of her drunken husband, Mr,
Harrell’s kindly attention formed a striking con-
trasé to the brutality of their natural protector,
who, on leaving the cars, started immediately for
the nearest dram-shop, leaving his wife and chil-
dren to stand shivering in the darkness, or seek a,
shelter for themselves. They were about to fol-
low him to the miserable grocery, but Mr. Har-
vell said,

‘Madam, if you are a stranger here, let me ad-
vise you noi to go there, tis not a proper place
for you.”

She understood, and turned her white, agonized
face toward him.

“Ob, what shallT do? Ihave no place to go!
I know nobody here. We are strangers in a
strange land.”

“Don’t be alarmed, madam. There is a board-
ing-house near by—that two-story frame building
that you can see just there with the lights gleam-
ing out. It’s a respectable place, and—ah! there
is Mr. Green now!” as a plain, farmer-like man
made his appearance. “Mr. Green, here is a lady
who will stop at your house to-night. Her hus-
band has gone to Brady’s, and you will please
send over there in the morning and let him know
where his family is. Keep up a good heart, mad-
am; I trust everything will come round right to-
“morrow,” and lifting his hat with a courteous
good-night to the sorrowful woman, he was gone,

I think the mother’s heart shone from her eyes
as she looked after him with a fervently uttered,

“God bless you, sir!”

“Charleston! Fifteen minutes for supper!”
shouted the brakesman, an hour later, as he threw
open the door and closed it again with a bang.

Losiantly all wag contusion, while Mr. Harrell’s
voice at my side inquired, ‘Will you allow me to
escort you to supper 2?”

I thanked him, but declined, saying that I

didn’t care for any supper.

“Let me persuade you to come and have a cup
of coffee, ifnothing more. You are tired, and it
wili refresh you.”

He spoke kindly, gently, as a brother might
have done, and I knew that some hot coffee would
do me good; sol laid my hand on hig arm and
went with the rest.

At midnight we reached C__, where I bade
farewell to my gentlemanly protector, and re-
paired to a hotel to wait for morning and the ar-

% vival of Mr. Reulison, who resided some five miles
s outside the city.

Many years before, when Mr. Reulison was a
poor mechanic and my father a prosperous mer-

chant in a small town in Ohio, they were warm

friends. Afterward, when success came to bim
and death and poverty to us—when he had be-
come a wealthy farmer in the fair State of his
adoption, and I, the last of my father’s family,
was compelled to ply the needle for my daily
bread, this true friend sought me out and wrote,
saying that he would procure a situation’for me
as district school-teacher, if I desired it, at the
same time offering me a home in his own family.

It is needless to say that I thankfully accepted
both propositions. I did not anticipate any plea-
sure from pe journey, norfrom the new life upon
which I was to enter when I got to the west. Sor-
row and that pitiful struggle for a mere subsis-
tence, which makes go many women in great
cities old, and hard, and stern, had rendered me
gloomy and morbid, distrustful of men and women
alike. But, some how, after that dreary night
ride, which a stranger’s thoughtful attention had
made actually pleasant, I sank to rest, weary
enough, itis true, but more hopeful than I had
been for many a day. And the next morning, as
I stood before the mirror for a final survey of my
simple toilet before descending to breakfast, the
polished glass reflected a happier face than I had
ever thought to wear again. The frosty air was
bracing and healthful; the mellow October sun-
light seemed a blessed augury of brighter days
in store for me.

In the genial atmosphere of my new home, and
the heartsome warmth that surrounded me there,
past shadows were soon almost forgotten. It
was pleasant indeed to haye my wishes consulted,
and to be treated in all respects as a daugh-
ter by Mr. and Mrs. Reulison, who could not
have received me with more cordiality if I had
been in very truth their own child. My new em-
ployment suited me. It was hard work—called
into active play every energy of mind and body
which I possessed; but the new sense of freedom
and independence which it gave amply compen-
sated for all.

Mr. Harrell had told me that he was acquaint-
ed with Mr. Reulison and his wife, so I was not
surprised to find him at the farm-house one even-
ing when I returned from school. I was glad to
see him, and offered my hand as to an old ac-
quaintance. He took it with some words of cour-
teous greeting and a smile that brightened his
grave face like sunshine, and for the first time I

He talked well, too; in an easy, unembarrassed
manner, that was irresistably attractive; and long
before the evening was over I owned to myself
that I liked him thoroughly.

At parting he told Mr. Reulison, in answer to
some questions, that he had resigned his situa-
tion on the railroad, and was now engaged in a

} different business.

‘In that case your evenings will be at your own
disposal and we shall hope to see you often,” said
placid Mrs. Reulison. Mr. Harrell thanked her,
and said something about esteeming it a privil-
ege to come as he bowed and withdrew.

To my mind no man who is no\ essentially a

course, without betraying that fact in some way.
The outside polish may be ever so charming, but
some unguarded look or wordor tone will inevita-
bly betray the coarseness if it exists. Judged by
this test Phillip Harrell was the truest gentleman
I have ever known.

He was an especial favorite with Mr. and Mrs.
Reulison, and came often to see us; while I—
words can never tell what he grew to be to me.
Always courteous and friendly, he never flattered
me, never sought to monopolize my time or at-
tention, seldom paid me those gallant compli-
ments which younger men were so ready to offer;
and yet one glance of his dark eyes was more to
me than the highest praise of any other.

But I guarded my secret well. Iwas a woman
—too proud to betray any preference for one whom
I firmly believed cared nothing for me. This feel-
ing grew too painful at last, and I resolved to go
away—out into the world again; and one day,
when this worse-than-useless passion had died out
utterly, I could return to the place and the friends
I had learned to love so well.

An opportunity of doing this soon presented it-
self. An old schoolmate of mine, Edith Turner,
with whom I still kept up a correspondence, was
teacher of drawing in a seminary for young ladies
at Chicago, Just at this juncture she wrote me,
saying,

to, You were a proficient in the old days when we
were room-mates at Mrs. Hadyn’s, and I should

you come ?”

A letter of acceptance was written and dis-
patched, and I prepared to leave the only place
in the world that seemed to me like home. I gave
myself no time for reflection or regret, but work-
ed on with feverish haste; hoping, I scarcely
know why, that Mr. Harrell would not come again
tilll wasreadyto go. He didnot. It was the
evening before my intended departure, and I sat
alone in the sitting-room, putting .the finishing
touches to my preparations for the morn. A
murmur of voices came from the kitchen, where
Mrs, Reulison was washing the supper dishes. I
knew that she and her husband were talking
about the stranger lady, whom the stage-driver
had left at our door, a few hours before, saying,
that his passenger was too ill to proceed any fur-
ther. A well-bred, lady-like woman she seemed.
Beautiful, too, in spite of the deathly pallor of her
face and a few.lines of care about the otherwise
perfect mouth. ,

A physician was immediately summoned, who
decided that his patient was laboring under some
intense mental excitement, prescribing absolute
quiet and powerful. sedativef as the best means of
preventing the fever, which he feared might au-
pervene.

She was asleep at last; and after softly closing
the door of communication between her chamber
and the sitting-room, I proceeded to answer a
knock which I felt sure announced the coming of
Philip Harrell. :

I was not mistaken. The man I had so longed,
and yet dreaded to see, was before me, holding
both my hands in his as heinquired after my own
health and that of my friends, adding, with a
glance at my trunks, which stood there, packed
and corded,

“Itis true, then, that you are going away ?”

‘I believe it is,” Treplied, smiling up into hig
face that he might not guess what it cost me to
say that.

“And you were going without letting me know.
Was that kind of my little friend ?”

I did not speak, and he encircled my waist with
his arm, and drew me toa low seat beside him.
I did not resist; I could not. Everything was ior-
gotten in the thought that we were about to part,
and I might never see him again.

‘When are you coming back?” he asked,

‘T cannot tell, Itis very probable that I shall
never return.”

I felt, God forgive me, as if those words were
setting a seal to all my hopes of happiness in this
world and the world to come.

‘You will be a happy wife, and perhaps, before
we meet again, with no room in your heart for
those who love you here.”

His voice was low and sad, I had not thought
thai he cared so much for me,

‘Why do you say that?” I asked.

“Because you are just the woman to make the
happiness of some good man. Others can see
this as well as an old man like me; but, my child,
no one will ever know how hard it is for me to
give you up.” :

“Why are you doing it, then?”

He drew me suddenly close to his heart and
kissed me passionately. :

“God bless you for those words, my darling,
my darling! And yet I have no right to hear
them, If you knew all_—”

“Tell me,” 1 whispered.

He did tell me, and with my head on his shoul-
der and my arm about his neck, that he might
knew how fully I trusted him, I listened with
breathless interest while he told me of the fair
young wife he had wooed and won in his early
manhood, and who, after ne short year of wed-
ded life, brought ruin on herself and dishonor on
her husband by eloping with a villain.

There was murder in the injured man’s heart
when he discovered it, and for weeks he followed
on the track of the fugitives, forgetting that ‘“*Ven-
geance is mine—I will repay, saith the Lord.”
Tracing them at last to Cincinnati, he arrived
there only to learn that both his guilty wife and
the companion of her flight were dead—swepi off

 

by that fearful scourge, the cholera.

thought what a handsome man Mr. Harrell was. |

gentleman can mingle long in free, social inter-_

“I have more pupils than I can possibly attend |

be delighted to have you for an assistant, Will!

 

“I sould not go back,” said Philip, in conclu-
sion, ‘‘to meet the hollow sympathy of some of
my friends and the open sneers of others, even
though the disgrace which had fallen on my name
was caused by no act of mine. So I dispatched
to settle up my business, and became a wanderer,
For years I have been travelling up and down in
the world—anywhere, everywhere, for change of
scene and occupation; always seeking rest and
finding none, till I met you, my ——”

“Oh, Philip! my husband!”

It was a woman’s voice, sharp with suffering,
which interrupted the unfinished sentence, and
the strange lady knelt at Philip’s feet, her wide
black eyes luminous with a deathless love, her
white hands clasped in prayerful entreaty.

“I have sinned against Heaven and against
you, my husband, but my punishment has been
very, very bitter. I did not die, as you thought.
He did, but I recovered, and I’ve been trying ever
since to find you. I donot ask for a wife’s place
—I have forfeited all right to that; but, O! Philip,
I have waited tem years for your forgiveness.
Will you refuse it now?” :

The last words died away in a whisper. She
had fainted.

Slowly, mechanically, like one in a dream, he
lifted and bore her to a lounge; but his face was
whiter than hers as he turned to me, saying,
“God bless us both!”

Philip Harrell took his wife away that night,
and I never saw Cither of them again.

More than twelve months ago I received a let-
ter, written on the battle-field of Shiloh. Friend,
aout friend, would you know how a soldier can

)

“iy DaRLine—Now that I am dying, it can do
no harm to call you so once more, nor to tell you
what I must say quickly, for my time is short—
that I have loved you to the end. The battle is
still in progress. My men have fought bravely
and are still engaged, but I shall never lead them
again. The surgeon tells me that my wound is
mortal; that I have but afew hours, at farthest,
to live; but I have no fear, for ‘I know that my
Redeemer liveth.’ If I could only see your dear
face once more before I go; but that cannot be.
Tam growing very tired. Good-bye, my darling.
For the last time good-bye, PHILLIP.”

This letter in its worn envelope, soiled and
crumpled from having been carried for weeks in a
soldier’s pocket, I have put carefully away with a
little slip cut from a newspaper. Perhaps you,
my friend, have some such record over which
you have shed just such bitter tears as fell from
my eyes as I read one line of that fearful list:
ao Phillip R. Harrell, —th Regiment,

illed.

My husband is all that any reasonable woman
could ask; tender, patient and forbearing. I have
a luxurious home and three little children who
callme mother. But, oh! this is not the life I
dreamed of once; and sitting here to-night, with
my latest born in my arms, my thoughts go wan-
dering back to another well-remembered night
when a low voice uttered words that I would give
years of my life to hear once more. When dark
eyes looked intc mine—dear eyes that I trust are
now viewing the glories of the upper country.
And one day, when the golden-haired baby on
my breast has grown to man’s estate, perhaps I,
too, shall embark with the grim boatman and
cross over to join my beloved in a land where
‘they neither marry nor are given in marriage,
but are as the angels of God.”

>¢@r

*SHE DOES NOT WISH YOU
DEAD.

BY LONA LEE,

She does not wish you dead—oh, no!

~ But have you kept that trust?

Perchance she’s now heart-sick with woe,
Hor hopes consumed in dust!

She does not wish you in the grave,
Though you may prove unkind;
The love in youth to you she gave .

Around you still entwines.

That love will never turn to hate,
Though you a man to dread;
Truthfully, trustingly she waits—
She does not wish you dead!

Then comfort her—oh, be her shield
In sorrow’s deepest gloom,
And joy to you a crown will yield
Beyond the dreary tomb.
*In answer to ‘Does She Wish Me Dead?” in Wrrx-
Ly No, 15, by J. N. S.
9 penn

HOPE LATIMER’S CHRISTMAS GIFT.

BY MRS. HELEN CORWIN FISHER.

A face fresh and bright as a June rose picked
before the sun. has shone on it; eyes dark and
dewy, and fond as a young wife’s ought to be, and
tender red lips that quivered with feeling as Hope
Latimer hung upon the shoulder of that happy
fellow, her husband, and called him all sorts of
fond, sweet names, emphasizing each with a ca-
ress that in the old courting days would have
crazed John Latimer completely, but which, be-
ing three years married, he received now with
appropriate and philosophical resignation, every-
thing considered. Said John had just got home
from the store, had his tea, and been duly en-
sconced in the most comfortable easy chair that
ever welcomed a man’s wearied limbs, and that
with even more than the usual tenderness, by his
little wife. :

Hope Latimer’s eyes were just ready to fill with
tears as she hovered round him, keeping back of
his chair, lest he should see how agitated she
was.

‘John,” she said finally, with an arm around
his neck, ‘‘I want a Christmas present.”

“To be sure, Pet; you always get one, don’t
you? You wait till Christmas comes, and see!”

“T know John,” with a little sigh, and the soft
lips against his cheek, ‘you always get me some-
thing nice.” j oe

‘‘And it’s to be something nice this time; you
couldn’t guess what, if you spent all the week be-
tween this and Christmas in guessing,” said John,
securing the little fingers that were fluttering
about between his whiskers and his neck-tie, and
he drew Hope round in front of him.

“Why, Hope, what is this? Upon my word,
if you ain’t crying.” *

Hope laughed and dashed her hands across her

eyes: .
vert is nothing,” she said, ‘‘only—only—I want
something in particular this Christmas.” :

“Well, that is nothing to cry about; foolish
little puss, to cry about a Christmas gift!”

“But I want something that you won't be willing
to give me, John, dear.”

“Try me and see,” with a complacent shake of
the head.

“But you won’t; I know you will say no when I
tell you.” -

“Try me and see!” with a firm setting of the
manly lips and a fonder look at his pretty wife.

Hope crept close into his arms and stole her
arm round his neck before she spoke.

“T want to take a little child in Bertie’s place!”

John’s head went up and his color rose.

‘In place of Bertie? Oh, Hope!”

Hope waited, and slowly drew his ear back to
her soft lips. 28

‘Bertie was God’s child, you know, dear. If
God had let us keep her, 1 should never have
thought of this, but he saw fit to take her, and
to-day [ have been thinking how many more of
God’s children there are left in the world, who
are needing the very care and loving that we have
no Bertie to lavish on.” :

Jobn was silent, and he looked a grave disap-
proval. ; .

“You know, dear,” Hope went on, her voice
trembling, and then getting stronger, ‘‘that Dr.
Bay said that if Bertie bad lived she would al-
ways have been larne. There’s a little girl next
door, a year older than Bertie, and she is hurt
just as Bertie was, and worse, and she hasn’t any
mother, and they are sending her to the alms-
house to-morrow—I—I want to take her John,
dear; she looks like Bertie, some; let me be a
mother to the poor little thing |” _ :

‘It is impossible—quite impossible, Hope; ask

me anything but that,” John said; ‘I couldn’t
bear to see another child in Bertie’s place, and a
cripple, too; don’t ask me that!”

but with her large, soft eyes fixed in tender wist-
fulness upon her husband’s face.

Presently John began to talk of other things,
with an effort at lightness, and gradually having
succeeded in drawing Hope into an apparently in-
teresting chat, he congratulated himself upon
having so easily induced the dear little puss to
relinquish her generous but decidedly incon-
venient whim.

He was deceived, however, in supposing that
she had relinquished it. The next morning as he
was leaving she stood on tiptoe to kiss him, and
thus holding him, with her tender eyes upon his
face, she said: :

‘Bertie would have been a cripple too if she
had lived, John, and then, if you and I had both
died instead of her—”

John looked uneasy.

“I should have left money enough to have
taken care of her, thank God!” he said.

“But something might have happened to the
money, too.”

John stooped and hastily kissed his wife, and
went away without reply.

Hope watched him down the street with a heavy
heart. She knew before her husband’s prejudices
on this point, and she had not expected him to
‘yield them readily. Still she was more disap-
pouied than she had expected to be at his disap-
proval, is

Two months before they had lost a little baby
girl, John Latimer had suffered acutely in losing
the child, but he had his business cares to divert
himself with, while Hope sat at home, among
constant reminders of her vanished darling, real-
izing drearily as the days went by, the emptiness
of her arms. '

In some of those tender charities which she
sometimes took upon herself, she chanced upon
this little motherless and crippled child of which
she had spoken to her husband, The very first
sight of the child reminding her, as in its look
and like misfortune it did of her own little one,
touched her to tears, gradually there grew up in
her an eager desire to adopt it. If her husband
would only consent! But he did not seem likely
to do that. She could see that he looked upon
the very idea as almost a sacrilege,

She found time in the course of the morning to
go out to see the orphan, but to her keen disap-
pointment found that it had already gone.

“It had been adopted out,” the woman said,
and that was all she could learn regarding it.

Gone without even a good bye! She had grown
to love the child so already that it was almost
like losing Bertie over again. Dropping her veil
she turned away towards home, shedding tears
as she went.

John Latimer was tenderer than usual of his
little wife that night when he came home, and all
ao the week, but neither alluded to the little
orphan.

Christmas day dawned finally, and John loaded
his wife with gifts. Always lavish, he had never
contrived for her such pleasant surprises as now.

There was a new piano and a set of furs, and
the most charming rocking chair, cushioned with
crimson velvet; and through the day one thing
after another, John ail the while watching his
wife with a half remorseful look of inquiry, as
though he were asking if these did not atone for
his denial of her plea of a week before.

She understood him, and tried to look satisfied;
but her arms were empty and her heart longed
for the child.

As evening approached he erew more and more
restless, and presently he drew her away from the
parlor, up to the aursery, little Bertie’s nursery.
Hope shrank a little, and the tears came into her
eyes as they approached it, but John, with his
arm round her, drew heron. They entered the
childless nursery with solemn step and hushed
breath. Hope kept it as nearly as possible as it
had been when her darling was alive. There was
the little lace folded crib with Bertie’s playthings
beside it. There was a little rocking chair near,
which Bertie’s potent little form had _ often
pressed, and across the room was a child’s bu-
reau, and a carriage with Bertie’s hat and cloak
across it. John Latimer’s eyes went reverently
over each trifle, and then he,turned to Hope.

‘Could you bear, my love, to see another child
in Bertie’s place?”

“She wouldn’t be in Bortie’s place, dear,” Hope
said gently.

John took a long breath.

‘‘Would it make you so very happy to have that
little orphan, Hope? Had you rather have her
a any one of the presents I have made you to-
day

“You're a good husband, John, and your pres-
ents are very beautiful; but—bat—you won’s feel
hurt, dear Hf

“Not a bit; out with it! Shall I send the pres-
ents back where they came from, and give you
that little starveling instead ?”

“Ah, if you would !” Hope said, and it was evi-
dent that she meant it, though she looked half
frightened lest she had “hurt John.”

John winced a little, but he bent his head, and
kisséd her, and then stood softly stroking her hair
with his hand, ;

“Why, you don’t love this strange little crip-
ple ?” he asked.

‘Bertie would have been a cripple, you know;
and she is so gentle and tender, and seems to love
me, and would goto no one so readily asto me.
Yes, I love her, I think, and I think God moved
my heart toward her, and that he would make it a,
blessing to us, doing for her as we should like to
have had some one do by Bertie, if she had been

left so.”
Hope felt it, and drew his

John winced again.
hand down to her lips.
: ‘If you care go much about it, Hope——” John
egan, ‘
Hope brightened, and then her countenance
fell again.
“Never mind, dear, you are very good, but
she’s gone now.. I hope she’s got as good a home
as this, that’s all, Shall we go down now ?—the
door-bell rung sometime ago.”
John suffered her to draw him down toward
the parlor again, but at the door he paused be-
fore opening it, saying, as he turned the sweet
face of his wife toward him,
“And are yousure you had rather have the
child than all of these pretty things ?”
Hope hesitated, but it was easy enough seeing
that she had.
John kissed her again, and opened the door.
In the very centre of the parlor stood the new
crimson cushioned rocking-chair, and smiling
from its depths, stretching up its loving hands to
her, was the child—the child that looked like
Bertie !
If John Latimer had doubted the expediency of
denying his own prejudices for the sake of grati-
fying his wifein a very laudable matter, he was
inclined to yield the doubt now,when Hope turned
toward him, the child clinging to her, and saying
only, ‘‘Oh, John,” laid her head upon his shoul-
der, and sobbed as she had not done before, since
Bertie died. He doubted less and less the wis-
dom of what he had done as the years went on, -
Other children came to them in turn—tfair and
noble children—but never one that was so much
a blessing to allthe house, as the child that
‘looked like Bertie 1”

‘A LEAP YEAR STORY.

BY HELEN FORREST GRAVES,

Itwas a cheerful kitchen, full of ruddy fire-
shine, and frescoed with the soft smoke-tints
that had curled around the ceiling from blazes
innumerable—a kitchen where every vein in the
floor-boards was outlined againstthe ivory white
surface, and the afternoon sunshine came glinting
in among the velvety green leaves of Gracia
Wyatt’s geraniums that filled the low window
seat. And Gracia herself stood at the table, pick-
ing over raisins fora plum pudding with fingers
which could not have been whiter or more deli-
cate if they had been straying over the keysof a
piano-forte, or embroidering on velvet.

She was as much out of place in that little farm-
house kitchen, as a flashing diamond among the
pebbles of a river-bottom, or as aroyal pome-
granate rearing its chalice of flame in a field of
wild daisies—a tall, faultlessly shaped girl with
burnished braids of shining golden hair, and blue

 

The two were silent, Hope crying no longer, |

delicious eyes, asif Heaven’s own dazzling azure
had lest itself among the glimmering net-work of

erlong curved lashes, And then she had a
damask rose complexion, and a mouth like eut
coral, and shy dimples fluttering ever and anon
round her cheeks ; and altogether Gracia Wyatt.
was born to be a queen of hearts, and rule her
subjects With a smile for a sceptre!

She started a little and turned her head, as a
brisk step came trotting across the kitchen floor.
‘Dear me, Gracia |” said the Widow Peck, a tall
thin eee with satumnal vor ay ering
aroun r 4ace Cap-border, and gol ectacle
“what's this book on theshelf?” > »

“It’s a volume of poems, aunt, that Mr. Drew
left here last night!” said Gracia, looking very
earnestly at the bloomy raisin-clusters on the
table, and growing perhaps a shade rosier.

“Do tell! said the Widow. ‘Well, now, it’s
very kind of Mr. Drew—I calc’late he knows how
fond I always was of varses. But how do you
s‘pose he found out yesterday was my birth day?”

‘Really, aunt, I don’t know!”

‘‘He’a a very nice man, isSquire Drew!” said the
Widow, simpering over the volume of poems, “I
always kind o’ fancied him, Gracia, but I do wish
folks wouldn’t talk *bout me and him go’ much,
Yes, you may well blush—it’s awfal embarrassin’!
Don’t you think its high time he declared what
his intentions was? But I s’pose he’s kind o°
bashful, and thinks maybe I wouldn’t hear to
him, because I’m ten year or so the oldest! Good
land! that wouldn’t makeno difference, for al-
though I always declared nothin’ should induce
me to marry again-—”

The stew-pan of dried peaches, which was on
the stove, bubbled over with a great noise at this
stage ofthe Widow’s remarks, and she rushed
precipitately to take it off. And Gracia, taking
advantage of the general confusion, slipped out
of the room, cutting short by this retreat the con-
fidence of her aunt, which would otherwise have
extended half over the afternoon.

The Widow, left to herself, adjusted the yellow
ribbons of her cap, and smiled languishingly at her
own likeness in the little looking-glass between the
windows.

‘‘T see how it is, poor fellow,” murmured Mrs.
Peck, apparently addressing the geraniums in the
window seat. ‘‘He’s bashful—and like as not he’ll
go on to the end of his days a solitary bachelor,
when he needs a wife somuch. He’s gota nice
farm, and a good deal o’ property besides—and
half the gals in town are pullin’ caps for him, It
would be a great shame for such a likely man not
to get a likely wife—it would !”

The Widow nodded emphatically to the gera-
niums.

_ ‘I have it!” pronounced the Widow, giving her
ribbons a triumphat toss. “He never'll muster
up courage toask me—T'll ask him! Ain't it leap
year, ’d like to know? A woman don’t get a
chance but once in four years, dear knows—it’s a
pity if she don’t improve her opportunities, Dear
me, what a strange sensation it gives a body.
Jehiel Peck must ha’ had jest the same queer feel-
in’ the night afore he popped the the question to
me. Poor dear Jehiel! if he could only know
what a capital second marriage [’m going to
make |”

The sunset glowed in scarlet waves of cloud
above the hills, whose wooded crests seemed to
lean against the horizon, and the little farm-
house, in the valley below was veiled in soft opal
shadows, deepening into darkness, where the
heavy cedars threw their canopy of blue-green
shade over the porch. From the window a pleas-'
ant line of light streamed outacross the leafless
currant bushes in the garden, for the Widow
Peck was dressed in plum colored silk, with a new
lace cap gorgeously trimmed with pink ribbon
sbows and artificicial butterflies, and had no idea
of hiding her splendor in the dim softness of
twilight !

“There !” said the Widow Peck, starting up
and nervously arranging her curls; “that’s him;
I knowed he’d come !”

Her quick ear had caught the low click of the
gate latch, and the next minute there was a
knock at the door. i

-“Come in!” faltered the Widow Peck.

_ Andthere entered a handsome dark complex-
ioned man, of about thirty-five, whose bright
black eyes and arch mouth bespoke a sunny
temper, and a disposition where the mirthful
strongly predominated. Harry Drew—Squire
Drew as the neighbors generally called him—was
a bachelor, to be sure, but he had made up his
mind to continue in that state of exile no longer
than was absolutely necessary, and it was on this
very mission he had come to the farm-house this
March evening.

Ifthe Widow Peck could have known it!

“Sit down, Squire Drew,” said the lady, hos-
pitably. ‘‘Nice evenin’, aint it? Things begin to
look quite spring-like. No, Gracia isn’t home this
evenin—she’s gone up to the minister’s; they’ve
got a sick baby there. Awfulsickly the neighbor-
hood is to be sure.”

Mr. Drew did not answer,
the fire in a sort of reverie.
he raised his eyes.

‘Mrs. Peck——” And then he paused.

“I knowed it!” palpitated the Widow. ‘He
can’t get out the sentence, not to save his blessed
lips! Pll help him on withit. Mr. Drew,” she
faltered, playing with her cap strings, “there
ain’t no call for you to be embarrassed. I know
what you're goin to say 1”

“Do you?” he exclaimed, his whole face light-
ing up with surprise aud pleasure. ‘Then——’}
“It’s leap year,” went on the Widow, beaming
all over, ‘‘and so you wont think it so strange if
T avail myself of the—the privileges of the season,
and tell you what a deal I’ve always thought of
you. I’ve been sensible these six months that
you was sort 0’ partial to me, but dear me! these
things ought to be undersood between both par-
ties! It’s a delicate thing fora woman to say,”
smiled the Widow, ‘“‘butit’s gottobe said. Will
you hey me, Harry Drew? Yes orno!”

And the Widow sank back, all tremor and
blushes, into her moreen cushioned rocking chair,
For a moment Harry Drew’s senses seemed to-
tally bewildered by this unexpected declaration
of affection, but it was not long before he recoy-
ered his presence of mind.

*T cannot but feel under great obligations for
your very flattering esteem, Mrs. Peck,” he said,
with the most perfect seit possession ; “‘but, being
arondy engaged, IL cannot accept your generous
offer.”

‘Engaged |” shrieked the Widow.

“To your niece, Gracia Wyatt. And it was to
obtain your sanction to our marriage that I came
here to-night.”

“Walk out 0’ this house!” ejaculated the Wid-
ow, rising to her feet in stony indignation. ‘And
don’t let me ever see your face agin, Harry Drew!
Ill give Gracia a piece of my mind !”

The Widow was talland strongly built; mores
over, she was beligerently inclined, and the very
butterflies on her cap vibrated with wrathful mo-
tion, and Harry Drew, wisely deeming discretion
the better part of valor, withdrew from her infuri-
ated presence !

‘Why, Harry! you here?”

For he had met the graceful gray-mantled
figure in the twilight road, just beyond the wood.
“I wanted to meet you, Gracia,” he said, draw-
ing her arm into his. ‘‘My darling, will you turn
back to the clergyman, with me ?” ;
‘What for?” she asked, wonderingly,

‘To be married.” :

And he told her the scene that had just trans.
pired in the dwelling ofthe Widow Peck,
“Considering her very unamiable turn of mind,”
he said, half vexed, half laughingly, “I hardly
think it would be best for you to braye the im-
pending storm, Gracia; you must never return to
Mrs. Peck’s home and guardianship. Give me
the right to shelter and protect you—to offer you
my home henceforward. Become my wife, dear-
est, and bestow on me the priceless gift of this
little fluttering hand now, instead of threemonths
hence!” And Gracia said,

“Certainly not!” and “what would people
think ?” and finally—consented,

So the old Drew mansion is brightened with the
loveliest mistress whose footsteps had ever waken-

He sat looking at
At length, however,

firmly resolved “never to speak to that ungrate-
ful-minx Gracia again !”

But she has not yet settled on the successor to
Harry Drew, in her good graces ; and every wid- &
ower and bachelor in the village stands in immi- |
nent danger, until the sun has gone down on the
last day of Leap Year.

*

 

 

 

 

 

 

ed the echoes of its wide halls, and Mrs. Peck has ~%