a | BREEN Ca ) leg pee oa it » GN Ve SY / Be A oe LG \ Ga % : m\ as wn : STREET & SMITH, No. 11 Frankfort Sr. Selected, HYMN. BY THORPE BEALE, Jesus, on thy breast reclining, T await thy holy will ; Hushed be every sad repining, Every anxious thought be still, Oh, how blessed! Here to wait thy loving will! Weli thou knowest my heart’s deep craving Something in thy fields to do, Where are whitened harvests waving, Aud the laborers are few. Yet ’tis better Here to wait thy loving will, Helpless, I can only love thee, Or can suffer for thy sake; Yet thy “banner” is above me, In thy arms sweet rest.I take, Oh, how blessed Thas to wait thy loving will. Let the suffering and the falling, Tender Shepherd, all bo thine; Let the wanderers hear thee calling— et them know thy voice divine And how blesse “Tis to wait thy loving will! o oe sr ByMisMaryKyle Dallas. Author of ‘Cora Hastings; or, The Rebel’s Daughter,” : “The Bride of Death; or, The Toll-Gate Mystery,” otc., ete, een CHAPTER I A STRANGE OCCURRENCE, Twelve o’clock. The silvery tongue of the time-piece rung the hour, and one of four men seated ata card table ina handsomely furnish- ed apartment looked up and counted the strokes aloud. ; ‘“‘Midnight,’’ he cried. ‘Well, well, there was atime when I had never seen the face of the clock at this hour, and only heard it strike from my nest under the blankets—that was when Ilived with my old uncle in Orange county; nine was my bed time then—ha! ha! ha!” “Hal ha! hal’? echoed two of his com- panions, as merrily as though there were no such joke in the world as an early bed time. And one of them, a pussy, red-faced fellow of forty, arose, and sauntering toward the chan- delier, twisted a piece of paper, applied it to & jot of gas and lighted a fresh cigar. ‘I never went to bed before midnight that I can remember,” he said, ‘since my mother died, when I was a baby; and the old man was uncommonly fond of me from the first; so at four years old I used to be perched on the table with my wine and water in a china mug and my paper cigarette, and sat there all fhe evening. J never had any chance to bea milksop, so it’s no oredit to me if I ain’t one.”’ ‘‘Well,” said athird, ‘‘my mother, God bless her !—she’s been in Heaven, good old soul! these three years—used to think the old boy made his appearance when the clock struck twelve, and never gave mo a chance to see him while I was a little shaver. Come, Charl- ton, it’s your deal, old fellow.” ‘Mine ?—ah, so it is!’ said the red-faced man, sauntering to the table again. ‘Give me the cards. Barbour and I are beating you to-night, Rothwood,” ‘‘No wonder, when Brent is his partner,” said Barbour; andthe man who had counted 4 the strokes of the clock looked up with an 3 oath and a laugh, ‘Whew!’ he cried. ‘Well done! I defy you to say I don’t play according to Hoyle. Sew $2 50 PER YEAR, Invariably in Advance. No. 9. * ENTERED ACCORDING YO ACT OF CONGRESS BY STREET & SMITH, IN THE CLERK’S OWFICE OF TAY DISTRICT COURT OF UNITED STATES FOR THE SOUTHERN DISTRICT OF NEW YORE ye “IT WAS THE FORM OF A WOMAN, YOUNG AND EXQUISITELY BEAUTIFUL.” Who could play with such ecards as you've dealt to-night?—not a trump the last time as I’m a living man.” ‘Rothwood has had good hands enough, but he’s confoundedly stupid to-night.’’ ‘What's that?” queried the fourth of the sey eyes and hair, and features with which it was almost impossible to find a fault, start- ing suddenly from a reverie into which he had fallen, and passing his handsome hand across his forehead. ‘‘Did you speak to me, Brent?” ‘No; I spoke of you,” replied theother. ‘I said you were stupid to-night, and so you are, If you were not rich enough to defy the first, and sensible enough to escape the last, I shoud say you were either in debt or in love, you are so down inthe mouth, What ails you ?” Rothwood made no answer, but heaving a great sigh, left his seat and began to pace the room with a firm and regular tread, biting his lips and knitting his brows impatiently. “T am out of sorts,” he said; “I have been all day. By Jove, I helieve that men commit suicide without being much deeper in the blues than I have been for the last twenty-four hours. Confound it! I wish I .were one of those honest countrymen you laugh at, earning my bread by the sweat of my brow, and lying dewn and rising with the sun. They are happier than I am—happier than you are—for their simple lives are innocent and their con- sciences atrest. I wish that I had had a mother like yours, Barbour, and that I had one now.” “Confound it! you haven't murdered any- body, have you?” queried Brent, ina fright- ened voice. ‘‘What do youmean by falking of conscience in that way, like—like—a last dying speech and all that sort of thing?” ‘You've been going it a little too fast, Roth,” said Charlton, sapiently, as he shuf- The old man talke way before he had his last attack of delirium | tremens. Come, cheer up! What have you} to trouble you ?—y fled the cards, ‘‘Ti ed just that | and a favorite with the girls, Harry, I envy you!” | “Do you? Wise judges are we of each | other!” said Rothwood, beneath his breath, | quoting half unconsciously the words of| Claude Melnotte, and pacing the floor with- | out a pause, while Charlton dealt the ecards | with a deft celerity only to be acquired by | constant practice. “Are you coming, Roth?” cxied the dealer, | as he finished his work By the Lord | “Not to-night. I’ve played enough,” said Rothwood, tossing back his hair, and bursting into a forced laugh. ‘Come, let’s have some punch, and make a night of it; and while it’s | brewing, let’s go below, and see who are ‘there.” party—a handsome fellow of thirty, with gip- { ‘Anything todrive away the blue devils,” cried Charlton, sweeping the cards into a heap, and in a moment the waiter was sum- moned, the order given, not for punch only, bui for asupper which would have satisfied an alderman, and the four men were on their way down stairs treading over a rich crimson- hued carpet, so soft that the heaviest footfall made no sound, and soon stood within a splendidly fitted up bar-room, glittering with cut glass, and furnished with crimson velvet sofas, magnificent chandeliers, and large, showy pictures in burnished frames. The. house was a sort of hotel, patronized - by men who had plenty of money, and were fond of wasting it. Thefe were lodgings within, suited to the most luxurious, and rooms to let for the even- ing, where private parties might indulge in card or billiard playing. Now and then a professional gambler or a hero of the prize ring might be seen upon the premises; and very often candidates for city offices enter- tained their friends in one of the long dining rooms, The place was never quite closed, and liquor never out of reach to those who could pay for it. At the moment when the friends entered this bar-room, it was vacated, save by a bar- | keeper, and a party of men who were putting on their overcoats to depart. One, a heavy- featured young man, very much in liquor, was boasting of his sobricty, and appealing to the bar-keeper to witness that he could | ‘‘walk a crack.” ‘A meh ibasn’t drank too much when he can ‘walk 2 crack,’ has he, Jenks ?’’ he said, with the wisdom of a young owl on his fea- And the bar-keeper answered : ‘Y’m not sure, sir; for I never heard a gen- tleman propose to ‘walk a crack’ until he had taken a glass more than was good for him.”’ This the youth took in great umbrage, and, clasping his fur collar about his neck, with tipsy indignity left the room, banging the door violently behind him. In a moment he was back agair e, and nearly sobered with fright, ‘My God!” he eried. ‘Come out here, you fellows! I’ve killed somebody, I expect; some- body that’s lying here on the step in the snow. | Come and look, all of you.” His words brought those within the bar- room to the door in an instant. Throughout the evening a heavy snow had fallen, and streets and steps were white with jit. One drift was heaped against the wall of the house on the right hand of the door, ob- literating the edge of the step entirely, and on this lay outstretched a motionless and ap- | parently senseless form, over which the newly- risen moon, struggling through the fleecy clouds which veiled the sky, flung a faint and sickly radiance. It was. that of a woman, jyoung and exquisitely beautiful. Her head modelied like that of a Grecian statue—her black hair, unconfined by pin or comb, lying in heavy masses of unusual length upon the snow. A wide, black cloak, such as old-fash- oned English women sometimes wear, was buttoned about the throat, and, falling open, revealed a white night, robe, belted at-the waist and trimmed with rufiles of delicate lace. Shoes, it wore none. Its feet were bare, and shone in the moonlight, like pol- ished ivory; and the rigid position, closed lids, and frozen features, were those of a corpse, Involuntarily those who gazed held their breaths, and felt a strange sensation of awe creeping over them. There was dead silence for a moment, then a sudden clamor of voices. ‘‘Who is she ?” ‘Where did she come from?” “She is in her night-dress.” ‘What magnificent hair!” “Is she dead?” ‘‘Who hurt her ?’’ The crowd talked, and failed, as usual, to act, until one, who stood behind within the lighted bar-room, stepped forward, with the words, “Good or bad, gentlemen, it’s a woman,” he said; “and I, for one, think this is no place for her to lie. Make way, if you please.”’ And Rothwood—for he it was—forced. him- self through the group of men, and, stooping, { lifted the insensible form from the ground and | bore it in his arms from the outer coldAnto the warm bar-room, and there he laid it down upon one of the crimson sofas, folding the | cloak about the white-draped bosom. But, as jhe did so, he started violently, the blood | |vashed hotly to his face, and he muttered a/| | low cry—almost a wail— ‘Ti is Winnie Hall!” he cried, in a voice of horror. ‘‘Gracious Heavens! i¢ ig Winnie Halli!” “Do you know her? Who is she?” cried several voices, iu one breath. But Rothwood made no answer. Bending | over the woman, he gathered back the tangled masses of dark hair from the face, and looked upon it earnestly. ‘Will some one call a doctor?’’ he said. | ‘Quickly; she must not die, if human aid can save her.” The men looked at each other; one of them winked sagaciously and whispered to his neigh- bors. : ‘One of Roth’s new. fancies, I take it;” and the bax-tender replied carelessly, ‘“There’s a medical man next door. Tl ring his night- bell,” and sauntered out in an indifferent man- ner. In a few moments he returned with the doc- tor in a long, flowered dressing gown, with a stove-pipe hat stuck on the back of his bald head, as though some one had thrown it at him fram behind. “Whew!” he cried as he touched the wrist (of the patient and flung the cloak back from | the shoulders and throat. . “A drop of wine here, unless yor want the girl to die. Might as well though, Isuppose— woman of the town, its pretty clear—devilish good looking, too ——.” ; A hand upon his shoulder and a clenched fist within an inch of his face interrupted the- sentence, ‘Utter those words again at your peril!’ cried the deep voice of Rothwood, ‘She ig ay; DUre as yonder falling snow—a lady born and bred, without one stain upon her life or . soul. I swear it before the God who made me!” ‘‘And here at midnight, in a New York bar- room, in her night-gown, and with no other woman near!’’ said the doctor, by no means discomposed. ‘My good Don Quixotte, you don’t look inexperienced enough to be taken in in this way, though the: girl’s face is in- nocent; but then God help her, she’s very young.” ‘I know her well,” cried Rothwood; “and though it is impossible for me to tell how she came here at this hour and in this attire, I am certain that she is pure and good, and that if any man here thinks or speaks of her as he would not have another man speak of his sis- ter, he does a foul and cruel wrong.” He waved his hand imperiously as he ceased speaking, and bent over the young face, over which a faint color was slowly stealing. ‘She is coming to herself, I fancy, doctor,” he said. “Yes; but let me tell you she would have been dead in half an hour-if you had not found her whén you did. Alittle more wins-— not too much—there, her eyes open.” And in fact the large brown eyes slowly un- closed, and the white hands clasped them- selves upon the polished forehead. ‘‘Where am I?” whispered a voice musical as falling water. ‘Who are you? Oh, Fam afraid! I am afraid !” Rothwood bent over her, ‘Do not be ashamed, Miss Hall,”’ he said, ‘You are with friends, No harm shall come to you,”’ At his voice the young girl drew back, covering her face with both her hands, and seeming to shrink in terror from the kind glance bent upon her. ‘What was it the woman said ?”’ she whis- pered. ‘Beware of him. Ah, yes, I remem- ber. Beware of him, for he is a villain!” The flush of fever was on her cheek now, but it was not so red as that of Rothwood, and into the handsome eyes of the young man came a vindictive gleam, which changed the whole expression of his face ‘and made him look for the moment like a beautiful fiend, He was not angry at this girl, however, for he soothed her as best he might, and turning toward the bar-keeper asked him to have a cab called, tossing a handfull of change to the boy who did his bidding, and bending over the couch again as a mother might bend above the suffering child, “Can you come with me?’ he said to the doctor, when the vehicle was at the door. "Ft SS AH Seo ies —) ‘She will be ill after this exposure, I have 10 doubt. She is in a high fever now, and I think delirious.”’ The doctor nodded, went back to his. own ‘ dwelling for an overcoat to replace the hastily assumed dressing-gown, and followed Roth- wood, who, without a word to any one, lifted the young girl in his arms and bore her close- ly wrapped in the dark cloak into the cab. The driver stood_at the door. Rothwood ut- tered a word in a low tone, and the vehicle drove away, leaying the spectators grouped upon the snow-covered steps, staring after it with all their might. “A queer start,” said Charlton. ‘Roth has taken leave of his senses, I be- \ lieve,” said Brent, and the gentleman who had winked before nodded thrice and said sagaciously, “The question is this, gentlemen: Is he only gammoning us, or is he gammoned him- self?” | Meanwhile the carriage rolled on through the snow, Rothwood supporting the young girl in his arms, and listening breathlessly to the delirious,words which fell from her burning lips. Now clinging unconsciously to him in her terror, she spoke of dead men lying in the churchyard, and cried that they were beckoning her to the dark vault under the black cypress. Then she talked of the cold snow as though she were still straggling through it, and at last babbled tnceasing of a woman, a strange woman whose face was hidden in a veil. ‘‘Why do you follow me?” she said, waving some imaginary form from her. ‘I did your bidding, did I not? I have never spoken to him since,” and at these words, Rothwood ground his teeth and muttered between them what sounded like a threat. CHAPTER II, In about an hour the carriage stopped at the door ofa respectable dwelling in Bleecker street, and the driver alighting, opened the door. “Number —,” he said, and Rothwood alight- ing, requested the doctor to watch over his charge, and hastely ascending the steps, rang at the door. Many minutes elapsed before it was opened, and when at last the bolts were withdrawn, a timid voice called ‘‘who is there?” before pro- ceeding any farther, | “Only I, Mrs. Oliver,"* replied the applicant, ‘Ralph Rothwood. Don’t you remember me?” “Goodness, Mr. Rothwood! Well, who would have expected to see you at this time of night?” and the door opened, revealing a plump little woman, past sixty, in a nightcap and large shawl, who first put the lamp she carried down on the hall table, and then shook _ hands with Mr. Rothwood. “y ep pore you've just come from a journey,” sho said. ‘Dearme! I was afraid to open the door. I didn’t know but it might be burglars, though to be sure one of my boarders, Mr. Snow, sleeps with a revolver under his pillow. Comein, do; there’s a room all ready on the second floor.” Rothwood took both the old lady’s hands in his. *T have not come to stay to-night,” he said; *put I have a great favor to ask of you.” A favor!” cried Mrs. Oliver. ‘Do come in and tell me what it is,” and she led the way into the front parlor and seated herself upon a sofa, | Rothwood sat beside her. ‘JT think youtold me that all your rooms were . not full, Mrs, Oliver?” he began. ‘Doar me, no,” replied the old lady, “I wish they were. Tompkins has gone to Albany, and Mrs. Jones and wife keep house, so I’ve too good rooms empty, at least.” S*Would you like another boarder ?” “Certainly, if it was a good one.” ‘The person I alluded to would be some trouble on account of ill-health, but you should be well remunerated. You see that carriage at the door? A sick friend of mine is inside. Can you at once make a room ready at your own price? I shall make no objection.” : : “A sick gentleman!” cried Mrs. Oliver. ‘Poor dear. Of course I couldn’t send him away at night, especially as you say he is responsible.” “Ff will be responsible for all debts this person may incur,” said Rothwood, ‘‘but dear Mrs, Oliver, this is not a gentleman, it is a lady!” “A lady?” Mrs. Oliver started back indignant. A lady, at this time of night, alone with you, andill! Oh, Mr. Rothwood, how can you insult me 90—-a respectable person, with only her char- acter to live upon. Jtakea woman into my house at midnight under such circumstances. Vm ashamed of you,” Rothwood put his hand upon her arm. *Tt does not look well, Mrs, Oliver,” he said, “but this is a good and pure young lady as any upon earth. Ihave no proof but my word, but you will believe that, I know. I found her lying in the snow insensible an hour ago, and have brought her here simply because she is so pure and virtu- ous, and you the proper guardian for one like her. Why, Mrs. Oliver, there are hundreds who woud rer her were she the wanton you suppose her e.” j “But why not take her to her own home?” “J do not know it.” Or send for her friends ?” “7 fear she has none.” “Oh, Mr. Rothwood, I’m afraid you prevaricate. How could a respectable young lady be found ly- ing in the street at midnight ?” ‘How she came there I do not know,” replied Rothwood. “But L[amsure she is as good as she is lovely. Mrs. Oliver, you once had a daugh- ter; remember her, and show kindness to this girl, ag fair and virtuous as she could have been.” 4 The old lady’s eyes filled with tears. “Pq like to do it,” she said, “but, dear me, we livein such a world! If it was found out I’d Jose Miss Snoggins and Mrs. Green, and all the other ladies, ‘They wouldnt believe she was good if I would. Besides, gentlemen are so wild now-a- days. If you at only prove she was what you represent her, I'd try to do it, but——” ithout a word Rothwood strode toward a stand, upon which lay a large family Bible. On this he placed his hand. ; Z “Listen, dear lady,” he said. “By this holy book I swear that this young girl whomI have brought to you for shelter to-night, is as pure a8 woman can be, and that Ihave no motive in my actions which I should blush to own. I callupon God to witness that what I have said is true. Doi you believe me now, Mrs. Oliver?” é ‘Believe you—oh, yes,” replied the old lady; ‘I would not dare to doubt an oath; butif my ... boarders should——no matter,” she broke off, “I } Wor’t turn an innocent young woman from my f ©. door, even if Tlose them'all. Bring her in, Mr. Rothwood. Thaves small room ready, bed and all. Poor soul! is she very ill?” “T fear so,” said Rothwood. ‘God bless you, Mrs. Oliver! You are not showing kindness to an unworthy object.” © He left the house, and in a few moments soft steps went up the stairs toward theroom assigned to the stranger by Mrs. Oliver. A white bed dainty and tempting, stood in its midst, and upon it the two men laid the slender form in its black cloak. As they did so the folds fell back, and eZ} Mrs. Oliver exclaimed, ‘Why, she’s in her night dress, and her feet are bare! You said you found her in the street.” 4 “J'1] vouch for that,” said the doctor;. ‘and in Ue dress, too, as if she had just risen from her ed.” “Soshe has!” cried Mrs. Oliver, bending over the unconscious girl, who layin a feverish stu- por, with her eyes half open. ‘How stupid men are, even when they are doctors! Don’t you see she has the brain fever? Look at her eyes and skin! Itis the brain fever, and in the delirium she hag got up and wandered off, knowing no more what she was doing than a baby. She looks as good and as sweet as an angel, and here was I agoing to turn her away from my door, like a wicked, heartless old creature as I would have been. Nicely she must have been taken care of! What is her name, Mr. Rothwoed ?” ‘Winnifred Hall,” ‘“That’s odd, but pretty. And you don’t know with whom she has been living lately ?” “J donot. I have not seen her for six months.” Yet you took upon yourself to vouch for her character,” said the doctor, with a sort of sneer. “T did and do.” “<7 would not; she looks pure, but there are women——” Rothwood’s face was crimson, his hands clench- ed, his eyes gleamed. “Ingult her and you insult me!” he muttered between his closed teeth, and the doctor, edging off a little, shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly. ‘There, there,” he said, “I’m a suspicious man; yeu mustn’t take offence. I think this good ladyis right. The girl is suffering from fever; a sort of nervous fever I think—not on the brain. Probably her delirium will pass off before morn- ing. Ifit does, give her this.” He penciled a prescription on a piece of paper, laid it on the dressing-table, ‘Tl drop in in the course of the day,” and made his way down stairs and out into the street. Rothwood also turned toward the door; but as his hand touched the lock he paused and said, in earnest accents, “You will be very kind to her, will you not, Mrs. Oliver?” ‘‘Ag if she were my own daughter,” replied the old lady. ‘But, Mr. Rothwood, tell me—what is this young lady toyou?” - : Rothwood looked at her. A strange smile quiv- ered on his lips, “What is sie to me?” he repeated, mean is she related to me?” **Yes—or partly that.” “Should I have leit her lying in the street be- cause there is no tie of blood between us?” in- quired Rothwood. “God forbid |” said Mrs. Oliver. “T knew you would say that, Good night;” and the door clased after him and he was gone. Good Mrs. Oliver, left alone, turned her whole attention to the patient and proceeded to change her garments, soiled and damp by contact with the snow, for dry and clean ones taken from a wardrobe in the room. The clothes which she removed were of fine quality, and exquisitely made, She laid them on a chair, folded the cov- erings about the now quiet form, and, turning down the light, left her alone, intending to re- turn in a few moments. Mrs. Oliver was a tidy housekeeper, and her first act on leaving the apartment was to take the seiled garments to the attic, where the linen was kept until wash day, hung upon lines in an empty room. As she hung up the petticoat, something struck against her hand, and, examining the garment, she discovered that there was a pocket in it, and in that pocket several articles. These she re- moved one by one. They were a purse, a pocket handkerchief, a paper, folded neatly and slipped into a small case, and a little book with a scarlet cover. Good Mrs. Oliver took these into her possession and went down stairs, curious to examine her discovery. & “Do you CHAPTER III. WINNIFRED HALL’S DIARY. ‘When good Mrs, Oliver made her way back to the room where her patient still lay, she turned the a little higher, drew a large arm-chair to- ward the fire-place, and put on her glasses. Then she inspected her treasure with a curious eye. The handkerchief came first—a plain, hem- stitched one, with “‘Winnifred Hall” written in one corner, ‘‘Winnifred Hall—that is her name, then,” said the old lady; ‘‘so far so good. Isuppose I’vea right to. satisfy myself as to her character, if I can; and though it may be mean, I can’t help it.” So saying, Mrs. Oliver drew the folded paper from its case and opened it, It was nay by a neat engraving, beneath which were printed— “City and County of New York;” and below were these words : ‘ This is to certify that Winnifred Hall has been duly examined, and found qualified, in respect to learning, ability and moral character, to teach a Common School in New York city, and is hereby licensed as a teacher of grade A.” This document bore the well-known signature of the City Superintendent of Schools. “That’s well,” said Mrs, Oliver, with a sigh of relief. ‘‘Teachers are respectable; besides, it apeie of her moral character. Now for the ook,” She folded the certificate, placed it within the cage, and opened the scarlet covers of the vol- ume. It was almost filled with minute writing, in a remarkably beautiful and delicate hand, and on the fiy-leaf were these words: “My diary; begun March 5th, 18—.” A diary,” said Mrs. Oliver. ‘I wonder whether itis wrong to read it? However, folks shouldn’t write their secrets down, if they don’t want them read; besides, I mean no harm to the girl, and now, as I’ve got hold of it, Pll have to finish, if I die for it.” Speaking thus, this true daughter of Eve stir- red the fire, took one look at her patient, who seemed slumbering peacefully, and began to read: “March 5th. A bleak day, a cheerless speci- men of the cheerless month; a fitting one, there- fore, for the beginning of this new diary. My old one I have put away with other relics of the happy past. Oh! how bright some of those pages were. How dark these will be! God help me! God pity me! “Last Sunday they opened the vault where mamma, has slept these three years, to place papa beside her. I cannot write of that. I can hardly bear to think of it. I shall never forget the mis- ery of that moment. The dark branches of the weeping willow dripping with rain—the wet grass —the white tombs rising all around us—the—— Ob! Imust stop, if I would not lose what little fortitude I yet possess. “To-day we are alone in the great house— Aunt Martha and I. How strange it soems that it does not belong to us—that papa was not rich, atter all, Iam sure he did no wrong, but I can- not understand the business details. Enough for me that we are to leave the dear old house for- ever; that the furniture is to be sold at auction, and that of all we once had, only our clothes and an annuity of Aunt Martha’s—such a small one— will remain to us, _ “Ohl I forgot—Auntic’s macaw and poodle are included in our possessions. ‘We are to go into apartments somewhere, and Iam to goto school and study for a teacher; a public school, not a fashionable seminary, like that of Madame Laveur. Ah! how everything has changed. Mamma—papsa—our home—all gone. I can write no more for weeping. “March 6th. -Itis over. We have left home, and, as I looked out of the back window, I saw the red flag floating from our door. Such things are not of real consequence, but I cannot help thinking of the pretty boek-case, and the grand piano, and that sleepy, hollow chair which 69 of- ten held mamma and me both together, while she told me stories of herself and papa when they were young, and of the crusty old uncle— her guardian—who forbade her to speak to papa, so that they were obliged to elope, and were over- taken just as the knot was tied. And those pic- tures—those beautiful pictures, and mamma’s own work-table, inlaid with pearl; and my own retty French bedstead, with its lace curtains, e shall never have anything pretty again. But I could bear that, if fate had only left me papa “We have taken teainthe newrooms. A shrimp tof a girl, who goes home to sleep, does our work for us, and to-morrow I go to school, I shall study hard} for I havea great object in view. Ah! how Aunty groans, to think that I should be so anxious to gain so small a salary as that of an assistant school teacher. “March 7th. Ihave been to school. I like the teacher and the scholars well enough. It is very different from the idle, dreamy first class at Madame L.’s, and, to my se Mek o te eyes, ra- ther comical. Why great gfrls—young ladies should say—of from fourteen to sixteen, should sit a3 though they were made of cast iron, staring straight at the principal, I do not know. Had we stared madame thus out of countenance, she would have elevated her eyebrows and turned away ofrended. Another thing—instead of glid- ing out with a curtsey atthe door, we march, like a battalion of soldiers, to the sound of the piano. I spoke to my neighbor to-day, and was instantly reprimanded. “No young lady must: whisper. Well, perhaps it is best for me. I wasted half my time in talk- ing at Madame L.’s.” ‘Here followed along account of days at school, lessons learnt, prizes gained, etc, With all ef which we will not occupy the reader, though the items interested Mrs. Oliver immensely, and finally came the record, “September Ist. I have been in school just one year and five months, and this morning 1 re- ceived my certificate. How happyIam! At last the way to independence is opened. Nothing to do now butto callon the Trustees and solicit their attention to my application. What a time I had writing it, wording it well, and making ev- ery dot and flourish perfect, To-morrow I begin my calls. ‘Tt is time I should do something. Poor, dear old Aunty is extravagant. She will overstep her income every quarter. No wonder. It was mere pin money—not even used for her regular dresses —once papa gave her all those. And now it roust do for housekeeping. “There are duns atthe door every day, for such paltry sums too, and yet we cannot pay them. “The macaw died last week,and Aunty, who is sentimental, had him stuffed. She could not bear to part entirely with him. That taxider- mist’s boy has paid ug three calls a day ever since, and threatened to seize poor Polly for the amount of the bill. : “September 2d. Suehaday. It is evening— nay, past midnight, and I hardly know how to write what has happened. Such strange, strange things! But I must collect my scatiered senses and begin at the beginning. “J left home with a list of the Trustees’ names in a little book, and started, full of hope and in good spirits. There were a good many names, and most of the trades were represented—butch- er, baker, grocer, brewers liquor dealer. I went from place to place, and met all sorts of men— gome polite, some bearish, but all desponding on the subject of my application. How could I ex- pect a place? What influential friends had 1? It might be years beforeI got a situation. Besides, he—the speaker—had no influence. So it was with each and all, and growing less hopeful ag the day rolled on, and my comforters were more and more like those of Job. I felt quite heart- sick before I had completed my round. It was growing quite dark, and I had some distance to walk before I reached home, and I was hungry and tired; and, to add to my discomforts, a storm, which had been brewing all day, just then burst over the city. “Coming to Union square, I started to walk across it by way of making a short cut toward the street I wished to gain. The square was very lonely, the rain dropped from the tree branches, and I could scarcely see the great equestrian statue of Waghington outside, or the-basin of the fountain with the loose chain about it, and the smooth stone curb brimming over with the swol- len water. It was all desolate and dreary, like my own heart and my own life. It was partly my own fault, for I walked very slowly, as a wo- man never should when out alone after dark; but just then, to add to my distress, a young man, plainly dressed and smoking a cigar, whom I had noticed before I left the street, came suddenly upon me, apprising me of his presence by a puff of smoke in my face, and said, pully: ‘Waiting for some one? won't I do just as well?? The words atartled me and roused me to a sense of my own imprudence, I began to run, but the creature kept ciose upon my heels, and at last he tried to put his hand about my waist. I resisted of course, but he only laughed and held me tighter. *©¢Vou are a pretty gal,’ he said; ‘let’s have a kiss—come now!’ “Oh! how I loathed him. I turned sick with disgust as_he bent his face toward mine, and I cried aloud: ‘Help! help! Will no one help me?” “The brute laughed, but the sound died on his lips as _a heavy blow sent him reeling back into the mud, *¢ ‘Take that!’ cried a voice, ‘and learn that un- til all men are such brutes as you are, it: will be dangerous to insult a lady on the public thorough- fare; and then a tall form strode towards me, and the voice softened this time, cried: *¢ ‘Miss Hall! is it possible ?’ ‘And I, looking up, knew that it was Mr. Roth- wood who stood before me. “J had often met him before in school and at examinations. He took some notice of me from the first, and I had been told he was.the most in- fluential man in the ward. Remarkably hand- some, not past thirty, and the possessor of great wealth. I had often thought of him as one of the fortunate ones—often admired him also, And he was my protector | “The wretch struggled to his feet—seemed disposed at first to show fight, but finally mutter- ed a sort of half apology, and slunk away. “Mr. Roth wood offered me his arm, and we left the square together. “Then he asked me why I was out alone so late, and I told him of my weary day and its troubles, and he laughed kindly in a reasoning sort of way. ‘* ‘You might have spared yourself the trouble,’ he said, “if you had come to,me at first. JZ can give you a situation, and I will.’ * *Youl’ I eried. ‘Oh, thank you, Mr. Roth- wood.’ : ***You poor, weary child, how glad you are!’ he said. ‘Yes, be at case, you shall have a good situation. I have influence enough to do what I choose with the board, and they shali put you in, confound them, whether they like or no. But' Miss Hall, while you have been doing penance at the shrines of Messrs. A., B. and C., have you fasted!? Your exhausted voice and pale cheeks say 80.’ ** *T was too much excited to think of lunch,’ I said; ‘and now I am home.’ : ‘¢*A mile from it yet,’ he said. ‘Come, I have saved you from all sorts of perils; reward me by taking my prescription.’ ¢ “What is it?’ said I. : ‘And in answer he drew me toward the door of a confectioner’s store, which we were passing, and absolutely made me go in; and then, in a little recess, curtained from the shop he summon- ed us such a host of delicacies, and ehatted so gaily that my dreary day was quite blotted from my remembrance. : : “At last. however, remembering Aunt Martha, I said [must go home, and was justrising, when into the alcove where [ sat came a lady, dressed in black, and wearing so thick a veil that her fea- tures were imvisible. She sat down at a neigh- boring table and called for coffee, but she did not her veil. put on my tippet, we turned toward the door, but the lady advanced and put her hand on Mr. Rothwood’s arm, ‘Stop,’ she said, in such a strange, low voice that I startled; ‘I want to speak to you alone,’ “Mr. Rothwood turned angrily. ‘* “Not now,’ he said; ‘I am engaged.’ ‘You must grant me an interview,’ she re- peated; ‘I will not be put off,’ and Mr. Rothwood, growing very pale, apologized for leaving me a few moments and went out with her. “We was back in five minutes, smiling as be- fore. ‘An unfortunate person, Miss Hall,’ he said. ‘A distant connection, and one of whom I am not proud. Itis like her to come just now,’ and mamma, drink it, and I fancied she watched us through |; When I had fitted on my gloves and]. “Ag we passed along the streets between the confectioner’s and my home, I looked over my shoulder more than once, and each time saw the veiled woman following us at a distance.” OHAPTER IV. THE CONCLUSION OF THE DIARY. Good Mrs. Oliver here paused to take another T | peep at the sleeping girl, trimmed the fire again, turned another page, and composed herself to its perusal. “Yes, the woman followed us,” the diary con- tinued. ‘I sat the sweep of her black veil as the wind lifted it; whether he (Mr. Rothwood) saw her also I cannot tell. He left me at the door, repeating his offers of assistance, assuring me that I should have a situation, and a good one, and I- left him, feeling very light-hearted and happy; but as I passed a window on the staircase which commands the street, I glanced through the panes, and there, before the house, her face still covered, stood the woman in black. Why did a vague alarm possess me? Why did I tremble and grow pale? What is she to me, this veiled, mysterious woman? Isit a presentiment which makes her veiled countenance a terror to me? - Aunt Martha sat before the fire. She was vexed at my long absence, and bemoaned her hard lot more than ever. She wanted to know what my nerves were made of? Herg were not cast iron, and even when I told her I was sure of a situation she did not smile. “fo think of my niece teaching a public school!’ she cried, ‘to think of it! I shouldn’t wonder at anything after that. Do you know, Winny, that no lady of owr family ever carried the water to wash her own hands up stairs before? Ah! and auntie heaved a sigh. *¢T’m not so sure that one must be idle to be happy. Ilong to assume my school duties,’ I said. ‘Come, Aunt Martha, look at the silver lining of the cloud,’ but auntie was not to be cheered up, and she sighed over the tea-pot in the most terrible manner. Ah, well! I could have sighed, too, but not at the prospect of re- spectable employment. “Just then came 2 brisk tap at the door, and opening it, I found at the door the little bound girl who lives with the people down stairs. She held a note in her hand, a lady told me to give you this, miss,’ she said, SSA lady? : ‘<¢VYos, miss, a lady dressed in black, with a veil over her face, so that I couldn’t see it. Says she, ‘‘Is there a young lady in the house who came in only a few moments ago?” Says I, “Yes ma’am.” Says she, “Give this to her,” and off she went like a streak of lightening, and I brung it up to you.’ . Thank you,’ I said, and taking the note sat down beside the fire. “T did not dare to open it at first, and my hand trembled like an aspen leaf as I held the en- velope. ‘Another bill,’ said Aunt Martha. ‘Is it the grocer or the milkman this time?’ “sT made no answer, but I opened the note, and as I perused the contents my cheek grew pale. Aunt Martha observed this, and exclaimed, ‘“‘There, now, 1 know it’s the shoemaker! ep show ittome! I’ve seen enough of his bills! “And I was glad of the excuse to keep the strange missive to myself, for these were the con- tents, written in pencil, in hasty characters : *¢ ¢7 don’t know you, but you look good and are pretty. Beware of the man with whom I saw you. Beware of Ralph Rothwood, as a dove should beware ofa hawk. Never meet him again; never speak to him; accept no favor at his hands. Should you slight this warning, God have mercy upon you. I swear by everything that man holds sacred that I speak the truth, and that I have cruel cause to know it. “eT HE WOMAN WHO SPOKE TO RALPH;ROTHWOOD.’ *T git at my desk writing this. Aunt Martha is asleep. WhatshallI do? ‘There is no one to counsel me. He was so kind. He is so charm- ing. Can he be bad? Can he be dangerous? Yet I must believe it. I am very young. Not seventeen yet. The world is very wicked I have been told; and this woman may, as she avers, have cruel cause to know the real character of Mr. Rothwood. Yes, I will avoid him from this moment, all the more because I like bim go very, very much. But who will be my friend now? Where have all my air-castles vanished? Ah, me; but for the thought that there is One in Heaven who pities the fatherless, my heart would sink within me. ‘September 3d. I have done it. The die is cast. Aunt Martha was ill this morning and I went for the doctor. On the way I met Mr. Roth- wood. He offered to be my escort—I declined— and how I did it I cannot remember; but I (oh, what a return for his kindness) signified my wish that we should be henceforth strangers to each other, and that he would make no effort to aid mein my school affairs. I made it plain to him I know, and he left me in indignation. No wonder, Oh, how could I speak such words to him? ‘(Some one has maligned me, I know,’ he said, ‘You act under instructions; is it not so, Miss Hall.’ Z “But I would not satisfy him. I could only thank him for his past kindness and struggle hard to keep back the tell-tale tears which welled to my eyes. And so we parted and I have lost my friend. “September 4th. Auntie is much worse. Tho doctor pronounces her disease the typhus fever. “September 5th. The doctor shakes his heac. He considers Aunt Martha in a critical condition. ‘September 6th—I snatch a moment to write. Poor auntie lies very low. She may not live a week. Oh,my God! Spare me the last one who loves me, the last of all my kin. Am I not deso- late enough already? Must I live alone in the world? Alone! alone! alone! : September 20th. I take up my pen again. She is dead! To-day they buried her. I stood beside the family vault once more, and longed to lie be- side her. Oh! how desolate the room is. Howl miss her voice, querulous as it sometimes was, for she was the last of my kin. The very last!. “September 2ist. - Little Carlo is dead, the white poodle dog my aunt was so fond of. He was old and has pined to death on account of her loss. I never thought to weep for Carlo, but I do. “September, 22d. “I must leave this place. I have no money to pay for the room. The things will be sold. I have been to the trustee again but there is no place forme. What shall I do? “September 23d. How kind he was; how for- giving; Mr. Rothwood I mean. He came to me to-day, offered his aid, and implored me to tell him why I previously refused it, Ididso. He tells me this woman is a degraded creature— wrong in her mind, who perpetually endeavors to malign him, although he has done nothing to de- serve it. I must believe him. I will—and i asked his pardon and accepted hisaid. There is a good vacancy in number —, and my proficiency in music is an advantage. By Monday I shall have a situation, and in my prayers to-night I shall bless Mr. Rothwood. “September 24th, Alas! alas! why was I ever born? Last night I was so happy; to-night so} miserable. This morning I sat sewing in my room, when without warning, the door opened and a lady entered. In an instant I knew her for the same who had accosted Mr. Rothwood that night at the confectioner’s. She locked the door behind her, and advanced toward me. *«