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The white man was like a lion at bay. The hoe became a terrible weapcen in his hands, and he beat down a score of his enemies, cne after another, that seemed marvelous to the howling Indians.

A Romance of the Indian War of 1638.

White Lightning;

OR THE

SCOUTS OF CONNECTICUT.

By WILLIAM A. SINCLAIR,
AUTHOR OF “GRAY-HAWK, THE HALF-BREED,”’ Etc.

[White Lightning” was commenced in No, 18. Back num-
bers can be obtained from any News Agent in the United States.]

CHAPTER IlI.—ConrINvED.

“St. Iago!) said the dwarf, as he gazed at the rigid
face which seemed locked in death. ‘Is he not dead?
See, here is a hurt we did not netice—on the head.”

“A bruise, in truth,’ replied Ahama, after examining
it, “nothing more. His head must have struck a rock
when he fell back so heavily in the swoon.: Fortunate,
too, for my purpose, as but for that additional shock his
consciousness must ere now have returned. But hurry
down and bring up his gun, and his mantle, and my staff,
which I left.”

Mashwit, with a huge puff from his great lips, which
toid that his labor had not been light, hurried away. He
had scarcely left the cavern when Sassacus groaned
heavily under the momentary pangs of returning anima-
tion, opened his eyes, and raising himself on his elbow,
gazed wonderingly about. him.

He was lying on a bed of skins, cured with the
hair on—skins of the wolf, the bear and the panther, for
at that date many of those fierce animals roamed in the
forests of ‘‘Quon-eh-ta-cut,”’ er “the long river?)—hides of
animals trapped and slain by the cunning of Mashwit.

Above the prostrate chieftain rose the imposing throne
of Ahama, and upon it in solemn silence sat that dreaded
personage, the light of dancing and colored flames flick-
ering weirdly upon her green-tinted visage, her brilliant
black eyes gazing sternly at the bewildered chief.

She wore her flowing robe of green and white, and
upon her head a tall and triple crown like a tiara, covered
with numberless spangles and bits of mirrors, which—re-
flecting the lights of the many flames burning in the skull
—supported dishes, seemed a pyramid of living fire.

The untutored sachem believed indeed that her crewn
was of consuming fire, by which not a hair of her head
was singed.

The ghastly whiteness of the interior of the cavern, and
the-deep, black recesses far behind the throne of Ahama,
and the moving of phosphoric skeleton shapes amid that
gloom, a dull and dismal moaning like that of some great
animal in pain, and the many inexplicable and unheard-
of things he saw, as well-as his presence, he Knew not
how, in their midst, made the brain of the Pequot reel
with wonder and terror.

Had he for a single instant suspected that all he saw
was mere jugglery devised by the cunning and skill of
man, he would, in the wrath of insulted dignity, have
flown with unarmed hands at the throat of Ahama.

But of the truth he had no suspicion. He had never
intended to venture within the White Cavern, of whose
dread terrors report had said much more than one of
his pow-wowe had been within this place of horrors since
Ahama had become its tenant. But not one had ever
entered it of his own accord, nor could tell how he had
entered it, nor how he had left it.

They had told that they had awaked from a deep sleep,
which had begun somewhere in the forest near Mache-
moodus, under circumstances which threatened no peril,
but promised undisturbed slumbers, such as the Indians

 

often indulged in upon beds. of leaves when wearied in
the chase, and no enemy suspected to be near—awaked
to find themselved where the sachem now found himself,
inthe White Cavern, prostrate before the throne of
Ahama They had told, too, that at the end of her inter-
views with them, she made them drink of a cup that put
them into asleep from which they had awaked to find
themselves again in the forest at the base of the haunted
mountain.

Therefore Sassacus, in beginning the ascent of Mache-
moodus had resolved to go no further. than to the base of
the steep below the entrance of the cavern; to hold con-
verse there with Ahama, if she would; and, if she would
not, to return as secretly as he had come.

His disaster in the ravine had already beaten down all
thought of resistance to the power of Ahama. His pre-
sencein the cavern made his soul as timid as that of a
young girl in a graveyard at midnight.

He regretted . bitterly that he had ventured upon the
mountain, and felt that in desiring to hold converse with
supernatural beings he had placed himself at their
mercy.

But with all his terrors he remembered that he was
Sassacus, King of the Pequots, and assuming an erect
posture, he folded his arms across his chest and stood
before Ahama with a proud though respectful mien.

‘Does the Sachem of the Pequots know where he is???
asked Ahama, coldly.

“He knows where he is,’’ was the reply.

‘He was brought hither by the spirits which are the
slaves of Ahama.’? ’

“Sassacus does not Know how he came hither. He is
here,’ replied the chieftain, with a firm voice, but witha
shudder at his heart.

“He fears death.”

“Sassacus never can fear to die. If he fears death it is
not for himself, but for his people, already in danger of
being broken up because of the rebellion of Uncas, the
Mohegan, and the enmity of Miantonomah and Canonicus,
the Narragansetts.”!

“If Sassacus were to die, is there no chief to take his
place? There is Mononotto.”

‘“Mononotto is a great warrior, but he is weak at the
council fire. He is ag rash as he is brave and faithful.”

“It is true. There is no warrior like Sassacus. He is
wise in asking the aid of the Sister of the Storms. He
has long resisted the desire of his nation to make war
upon the English. He is a king, and all his nation obey
him. Has he changed his mind, and does he desire to
raise the hatchet against the palefaced race, which has
already made firm footholds upon the river hunting
grounds of the red men? Sassacus has at last scented
danger in the air, for he has seen the palisades and the
smoke of the white invaders at the five strongholds they
call Saybrook, Hartford, Wethersfield, Springfield and
Windsor. They are but the pioneers of thousands who
will comeif the red men make no effort to destroy
these’?

“Sassacus knows all this,” replied the chief. ‘But if
he destroys these more will come from Massachusetts,
where already they are like the leaves of a tree, and from
beyond the sea, where they are as the sands of the shore.
The Pequots area great nation, but not as they were.
They were many years ago driven from the north-west by
the Mohawks, and though we are still a great nation, it
would be like emptying the sea with one hand to make
war on the English.”

“Has not Sassacus tried to unite all the tribes of the
red men, from the French settlements in Canada to the
Spanish settlements in Florida, in a great and extermi-
hating war against all the pale-faces ?”

“He has had such adream,” replied the sachem, in a
mournful tone. “It was but a dream. The red man is
doomed, Sassacus might have made lasting peace with
the Narragansetts, and Hved to see the English driven

 

from the land which “they call New England, but a pale-
faced powwow, one Roger Williams, sung asweet song
in the ears of Miantonomah, and Canonicus, and all the
Narragansetts, and the Nehantics, are in league now with
the English to make war upon Sassacus. The father of
Sassacus had already made a treaty with the English, but
two years ago the pale-faces slew him, and because his
nation in turn slew Captain Stone and John Oldham, at
Block Island, John Endicott, of Shawmut, and Captain

Gardiner killed and wounded several of our young men.’

Sassacus has done all he could to keep peace with the
pale-fuces. He can do no more. His nation demands
war. Indeed, the Pequots have already begun the war,
though no war has been declared. Sassacus sees the war
he can no longer prevent. There has been an evil spirit
at work among his people. An evilspirit that in the dead
of night cries out ‘Make war on the Yangese! Kill and
burn the pale-faces.’? My warriors have heard the cry, but
never have seen the one that speaks it. Our young men
Say it is the voice of the Great Spirit urging them to keep
no treaty with the English. The voice is heard often, and
has been since Ahama began to dwell on Machemoodus.
Who utters that voice? Sometimes it roars from the
rocks at day-dawn, and then again from the fields as the
sun goes down.
Spirit, or the voice of Hobbamocko the Evil Spirit, or the
voice of Yataanit.the Spirit of Fire, or the voice of Muck-
achuckwand the God of Distress? Does it forbode good
or evil to the nation of Sassacus? It was to ask Ahama
this that he has said ‘Let Sassacus speak with the Sister
of the Storms.’”?

“He has done well,’? replied Ahama, who knew well
the utterers of the cries so mysterious to the Indians.
“Ahama cap tell bim the truth only. Ahama is not the
priestess of the Evil Spirit—but of Kiehtan, and holds
Hobbamocko under her heel. The Great Spirit 1s angry
because Sassacus does not hurl all his strength upon the
English. Let Sassacus fear not Uncas nor Miantonomah,
nor the English, and Ahama will be his friend and ally.
She will scatter cowardice and confusion in the councils
of his enemies, and bid the spirits of earth, air, fire, and
water fight only for him.”

“The Spirit of Fire is the friend of the English, for they
have guns, of which my people have few. Can Ahama
give the Pequots muskets and powder and ballt’’

‘“Kverything. Begin the war. Have no fear.”

We need not detail this interview in full. Its result
was that the desultary attacks which Sassacus had hit-
herto frowned upon should be made relentless and exter-
minating war upon all the English settlements.

As yet no formal declaration of war had been made by
either party, yet many violent acts had been committed
on both sides. Both English and Indians hesitated to
launch out into declared hostilities. The Pequots were
a powerful tribe, and the white settlers of Connecticut
were few in number. The latter were not sure the Sa-
chems Uncas, Miantonomoh and Canonicus would hold
to the treaty they had been persuaded to make by Roger
Williams. Sassacus, knowing well the character of his
great rival and rebellous Kinsman, Uncas, was well
assured that he and the Narragansett chieftains, Canoni-
cus and Miantonomoh, would gladly see the Pequots reduc-
ed to despair, and aid in their destruction. Therefore, the
far-sighted Sassacus had frowned upon the desire of his
warlike sagamores and sannups (the latter being warriors,
but not chiefs) as he hoped the war might be delayed
until the well known jealousy between Uncas and Mian-
tonomoh might lead to a war between the Mohegans and
the Narragansetts, when he, Sassacus, might unite all
against the English.

There can be no doubt that the same grand scheme of
combining all the Indian tribes in an extirpating war
upon the white men was a dream of this grand sachem
of the Pequots, as it was in after years that of the great
Metacomet or King Philip, of Tecumsoh—“‘the crouching

Is it the voice of Kiehtan the Good !

 

Panther’’—of Weatherford or Gray Hawk, and of Ponti-
ac of the West.

Yet Sassacus finally precipitated the war which his
secret. thoughts feared, prompted by a hope of super-
natural aid, and as bearing upon the action of our story
we quote as fellows from Governor Winthrop’s Journal of

“About this time the Indians were much frightened
with Habbamocko (as they call the Devil) appearing to
them in divers shapes, and persuading them to forsake
the English.”?

Ahama and her cunning ally and servant, Mashwit, had
terrified the Indians into hostility against the English by
their skill in jugglery and ventriloquism, and the grand
sachem became 2 mere instrument in the handsof Ahama
for the furtherance of her own plans and purposes,

The terms of the alliance between Sassacus and
Ahama had scarcely been agreed upon, when Mashwit
bounded into the cavern; and notlong after the sachem
departed to return to his people at Mystic.

CHAPTER IV.
THE UNHEEDED ALARM.

Near the hour of noon, in the month of April, 1687, a
horseman riding along the western part of the Connecti-
cut River, a few miles below the village of Wethersfield,
on reaching the crest of the hill, halted and gazed toward
a thicket of pines half a miie away.

This person was he of whom Mashwit had spoken so
bitterly, and called Captain Archibald Agrané. As we
shall often see him again in the continuation of this story,
we will not now pause to describe him further than to
State that he was a young man, less than thirty, of pow-
pie and athletic frame, armed only with pistols and
sabre.

He had nearly ridden past the thicket of pines, leaving
it on his left, when his keen eyes, ever Vigilant, detected
something amid the thicket which caused him to draw
rein abruptly, and fix his gaze sharply in that direction.

“Wal? he muttered, after a moment’s observation. ‘In-
dians! The thicket is fall of them! They are on all fours
creeping. They are therefore upon some treacherous in-
tent. They are doubtiess Pequots, and mean to attack
first the workmen in the fields, and then the village. Do
they see me ?”?

A moment after he imagined that he had been seen,
and that those in the thicket hoped he hau not seen them.
The dusky forms, which he had barely discovered a mo-
ment before, vanished from his sight. Bat his quick and
experienced eye had already counted more than a hun-
dred ere they seemed to sink into the earth.

Flashing a glance toward the other side of the river, he
Saw the sparkle of the bright noon-day sun upon many
glittering objects which he rightly judged to be the swing-
ing breast-plates of polished metal then coming in to use
among such tribes as had had dealings with the Dutch
traders from New York, or at the Dutch fort then near
Hartford.

These gleaming objects were in view but an instant,
and Archibald Agrané knew that their wearers had van-
ished into the woods, no doubt to approach the village in
a different quarter from that intended by thosein the pine
thicket, probably to attempt a surprise of the small gar-
rison at Wethersfield fort. :

Intending to give an alarm, even though it should prove
false, he drew one of his pistols, and aiming it in the di-
rection of the distant village pulied trigger.

To his:surprise and chagrin only a flash in the pan fol-
lowed the colision of flint and steel; and this was the
result So unexpected from a weapon which had never
failed him before that he uttered alow exclamation of
sae eres and returning the pistol to his holster, drew an-
other,

“If there are Indians in that thicket,’? he thought,

 

as he cocked his second pistol, “certainly they mast
— seen that flash and smoke—yet there 1s no. stir
ere.

So saying he drew trigger again.

Again only a flash in the pan, and a small cloud of
smoke blown away by the lazy mid-day breeze.

With a second ejaculation of surprise, Agrané began an
examination of the faithless weapon.

“Good Heaven!’’ he said, as he examined; “the pistol
had no load init. Nor has the other. Yet I loaded both
carefully this morning. There isa traitor, then, in the
village. But I will have time to look more nearly at that
thicket, and if the savages are still there, ride back in
time to warn the people in the fields and the garrison be-
fore the other party can attack.”

All that we have related had transpired in-a few mo-
ments, and having resolved to make sure of the course
taken by the Indians he had no doubt he had:seen in the
ee he put spurs to his horse and galloped boldly to-
ward it.

To reach it he was forced to leave the marrow and new-
ly-made road he had been following, aad cross a large
field. In doing this he again saw the glittering of the
sunbeams upon the breastplates and ornaments of the
party of savages on the eastern bank of the river, and,
that they were pushing forward at great speed.

“I shall have time to alarm the village,’* he thought
and still holding his way toward the thicket.

He had arrived near the border of the latter, whem a
hundred savages sprang to their feet and discharged-a
volley of flint-headed arrows at him. They made no out-
cry, however, as was their usual custom on. letting: fly
their arrows, with which they hoped to strike down the
bold Englishman as quietly as possible, lest the whites in
the distant fields near Wethersfield might be alarmed: and
escape to the village and its defences.

Several of the missiles hummed and hissed’ about the
ears of the horseman, and no. less than three struck his
breast and remained sticking im his coat of buff. He
Snatched his sword from its scabbard, brandished 1t over
his head as if with a last effort to stund on his defense,
and then sank down upon his horse’s neck, his face hid-
den in the animal’s flowing mane, and his sword still in
his grasp, but with hand and arm hanging Gown 80 that
the point of the weapon rested on the ground.

Seeing this. one of the Indians, evidently a chief, left
the thicket and began a wary approach toward the horse-
man, intending to secure his scalp and weapons, and, if
possible, capture the horse, an animal of recent arrival in
New England, and much desired by the aborigines,

Believing the rider mortally wounded, if not dead, and
eager to secure the horse, the savage fixed all his atten-
tion upon the animal, ard slowly approached him, while
his companions in the thicket, admiring his daring in at-
tempting to capture a brute so strange to them, gazed at
him with dilated eyes.

It was important to the purpose they were upon that
the horse should be taken or killed; for his return without
a rider toward tlie village would be apt to give cause of
alarm to the whites in the common farm of the settle-
ment. But the horse, far from evincing any sign of af-
fright at the condition or posture of the rider, remained
quiet, cropping the scanty herbage at his feet.

Fearing to startle the horse by a show of numbers, the
chief, before leaving the thie set, uttered some quick com-
mand, which caused his couwrades to remain where they
wee mere spectators of the great deed he expected to
perform.

Nearer and nearer came the savage, with a slow, light
and wary step, grasping the handle of his tomahawk with
a firm clutch, but with no intention to raise it from his
side, untess this great animal, of whose nature he knew
very little, were to charge upon him.

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side toward the thicket and the approaching! Savage,

while the form of his rider, as if dead or dying, seemed
ready each instant to fallto the ground, and to be kept
from falling only because of the support of the stirrups.

“Hal? said the savage, with a grin of triumph, as he
grasped the bridle near the bit with his left hand.

“Ha )? cried the Englishman at the same instant, as he
thrust his sword under his horse’s neck, deep into the
breast of theqwarrior, the keen, doubie-ed
ing into the tof:

The Indian-Utre:
prise, reeled ba
ily—dead !

But ere the I

     
    
    

    
    

threw them aside a
A low wall of; nd LO A :
as the savage felt ‘@ hundred dark forms and fier
faces, painted to the hideousness of Indian warfare,
rushed toward the fallen man. :

They were amazed that a white man had slain so fa-
mous a chief as Nataquash, the cousin of Sassacus, and
siain him by stratagem. In sncl,.encounters as they had
hitherto had with the English, they had found the white
man trusted wholly in his open, fair-dealing boldness, as
if he scorned to use the cunning, so commen a feature of
Indian warfare, or at least as if ignorantof itsuse.

So amazed were they for a time that all clustered
around the dead chief, one of the most renowned of their.
tribe, and a favorite Kinsman of their Grand Sachem, and
stared alternately at the body and then at each other, as
if wholly at a loss what todo, :

‘Who is he that has cut down the Tall Pine ?)? demand-
ed. a-chief,; the-commander of the-party. ge pe’

“He is a great warrior,” replied an Indian, who had re-
cently played spy in the five English settlements. ‘

«Has he not at.a single blow slain the- cousin of Sassa-
cus?” said the other. “Of course he is a great warrior !
A blind dog, like Totomet, can see that!”

To this Totomet, the spy, made answer:

“Totomet is no blind dog. He saw many-things in Py-
quag (Indian name of Wethersfield), and he heard many
things. The white warrior has fought the great Powhat-
ans in the country the Haglish call Virginia.. He has ta-
Ken the scalps of Accohanocks:and the Accomacs on the
shore of the Chesapeake. Tetomet was there many moons
ago. The father of King Sassacus sent Totomet there be-
fore any white man ever trod the land of the Pequots. I
heard at Pyquag (Wethersfield) that the Powhatans called
him who has at a blow-cut' down the Tall Pine, the White
Lightning.’ :

“Ha? exclaimed the chief, turning quickly upon Toto-
met. “Totomet has lied. He told Sassacus and the sa-
gamores that White Lightning had left Pyquag.”’

Totomet was nota Pequot, but an exile of a more north-
ern tribe, a Wampanoag-—a tribe which afterward became
famous under the ruleof Metacomet, or King Philip. He
was held in no repute by the Pequots'except for his ability
482 Spy.

Ile was used to being called dog, and liar, and squaw,

* and therefore showed no resistance at the scornful words
and contemptuous manner of thechief, who indeed was
no less a chieftain than the fierce and famous Mononotto,
a half brother of Grand Sachem Sassacus, the most faith-
fui and devoted of allthe sachems, sagamores and san-
hups of the Grand Sachem. :

“White Lightning had departed from Pyquag when To-
tomet was there,’ replied the spy. “Just now Tetomet
was too far away to warn the cousin of Sassacus that the
manomthe horse.was White Lightning. Totomet, had
not reached the pines when the blow was struck.??

“He is gone to the hunting ‘grounds of the dead Pe-
qnots,”? said Mononotto, with a sad and fierce gaze at the
stiffening corpse ofthe sagamore. “The homes of the
English shall burn for him, and the scalps of many white
men shall swing in the smoke of his squaw’s wigwam.””

Turning to his warriors he detailed four of them to
take charge of the body, and though now hopeless of sur-
prising the white
on rapidly with: caution at the head of his braves.

i \hibald

       

 
    

   
  

 
  

  

Meanwhile 4 \grané had lost no time in spur-
‘test route through the forest and fields
ae village, where he knew. several
working—for at that day the wives

and females of the settlers often labored with the hoe, the |

ax and the plow atthe side ofthe men. . -

Although the village had been in existence as a settle-
ment only since 1634, when the first settlers from Water-
town, Mass., erected their huts on the Connecticut. where
the Wethersfield prison was afterward built, its existence
of less than three years spoke loudly of the energy and
increasing prosperity of its people, The common farm of
the village, to which every settler was obliged to devote a
portion of his labor, though each one had his - own indi-
vidual farm, was about three miles from the fort, or pal-
isade, which inclosed several houses.

It was toward this farm € in Archibald urged his
steed, for he was aware that were there, or at least
that they were there a few hours before when he was in
that quarfers\ i138 ei 4 Sse pe reer

Tt was his purpose first to alarm those, who would then |

have, asshe be ample time to reach the shelter of
the stout pal rhich encircled the village li
and then to ‘on to put the village in o
expected altack—that is, expected by him, but,
knew, totally unexpected by any one else from
to Saybrook, except at Hartford. ee ae

Archibald Agraué arashe knew, was a native of
Jamestown, Virgini tliest recollections beginning

with the remempbr. lidhood in that place;
. experienc fare while in the Vir-.

   
 

   

  
      
 

  
  
  

 

       
     
  

  

   

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though Wethersfield was far
was the chief seat of the turbulent
parently a little exposed to attack,
few days had his fears excited; and

laughed at his. repeated warning i
‘lief that the Pequots we

 
   

merciless war upon |

Business connecte
‘oolony had called hi
this attack of thy
that business and ¢
‘turned to Wethersfield: bi
“had formed during firs

-of whom we have. heard t
turously under the name of!
Thus as the Virginian rode
fields and newly-made roads, a) Imes alot St-
tangled paths, his heart was filled with alarm, not only
for the unsuspecting settlers, but especially forthe fair
girl to whom his troth was plighted, and who had pro-
mised to be his wife that year. :

The sisters, Rosalie and Clarina, he knew sometimes
strolled in the woods and along the banks of the river,

‘both being ofa daring and adventurous nature, despite
the many warnings he-had given them; and though he had

‘parted with them’a few hours before, and they had stated
that it was their purpose to remain at home until near
sunset, at which hour he had promised to return from his
scouting for miles: around the village; he was now cold at
heart with a fear that they-might have ventured forth.

‘He could by a different route from that which heowas
pursuing soon reach the:village, and learn whether the
‘maidens were there within the security iof: the palisades;
but were hetodo so'the people in the farms above would
certainly be burst in upon: by the’ band of savages he had
encountered. it ; co
|, Phere was a moment when a high sense: of duty to:the
greater number was about to yield to the:craving ofa
-lover’s Selfish affection in the heart.of Archibald Agrané,
and he groaned aloud as he spurred on‘in hot haste while
‘this bitter struggle was foughtin his soul. i
- “If Rosalie has ventured forth,” he thought, “I:cannot
aid her; I cannot even warn-her, uniessby chance I come
‘upomherinherramble. If Lride to the village and ‘find
her there, my heart would be: in great joy and shame.

JJoy in finding her there; and shame in having left these
in the field to their dreadful fate.??

»As he thought thus, his horse reached the crest of an
elevated: place, since called: Rock Hill, and at one: time
called Stepney. He reined up for a moment, and threw
many a keen.and eager glance around. For on the east-

 
 
  
 
  
      
   
   

  

ern side of the nobleriver he saw that glinting and gleam- |

ing of breastplate, head-band, and armlet of a long line
of dark and rapidly moving objects, passing just then
overa@ plain in a valley devoid of tree or sirub; armed
Savages, he knew, In single fileas they always marciied,:
speeding onward, one ¢lose upon another with, the long,
leaping pace of the red man as he hastens to surprise
his intended prey.

‘He was too far away to count them; even had he dared
pause long enough, but he knew there were hundreds of

, them, and they were taking a course which would lead
them opposite to the valley, on its side which the river
alone protected, and he knew the river could be easily
.erossed:in the many dark. and long objects which he
could see were being carried by the Indians, and which
he:knew were canoes, each capable of containing from
ten to twenty, warriors.

Looking toward the southwest—toward where the
town of Worthington now is--he saw some movement.on
the crest.of @ hill which caused him to draw a small
field-glass frem his pocket, and direct the instrument
thitherward, (a ;

ie gazed butan instant, only. long enongh to be assur-
ed that-he had.seen a third party or band of the great:
force, which he now had, ne doubt, was about to be
hurled-upon Wethersfield.

He understood at once that it wasno suddenly-conceiv-
ed movement of a few hostile or dissatisfied savages, nor
simply of one smal tribe, but of some tribe which num-
bered its; warriors, at least, by hundreds, or of some.
powerful sachem whose rule was imperative over several
gubordimate tribes.

“Those in the thicket of pines were true Pequots,” he
thought, .‘‘The savage I slew was Nataquash, the cousin !
of Sassacus, the Grand Sachem—I saw kim near Say-'!
breok Fort some weeks ago—his immediate followers are, |
of course, picked warriors of his own tribe. I judge that
those on the other bank are Pyquags led by their Sachem
Sobeage, who recently threatened the people of Wethers-
field, And these on the fills in the southwest are proba-
bly a body of Podunks, who are tributary -to Sassacus.”

it fashed upon his mind that atthe same time these
bands were advancing upon Wethersfield other bands
were atiacking Rartford, Windsor and Saybreok, and
perhaps all the English settlements of the Plymouth
Colony in Massachusetts. .Heknew very well. that it had
ever been.in, the power of the Indians were they. to
abandon for a time their owm wars and jealousies, and
unite as @ race, to extermihate Ghe. whites wherever they
had gained a foothold in Ameni¢a, and to cheek the pro-
gress of Huropean civilization for many years—even for
acentury, :

A thrillof horror and alarm rashed through his ming

   

2d point dart- |

  
 
     

the fields as they labored, he moved |

like a wall; |

as he remembered the latent power of the thousands of
the aborigines, and the tottering feebleness of the few
white settlements. He had long had in his own brain a
theory and policy of warfare im the power of the savages
to use—the policy of national combination—and he had
long feared some powerful and sagacions Chieftain, such
ag fame said Sassacus was, might seize upoa i
the whites to inevitable desolation. _ ed
ad he known that a mind so vindictive and‘sel ‘
‘tha io f Machemoodts, was
e been ever

 

   
     
          
 

  

    
   
 
     
     

 
 
 
  

ty and war
children t
eto the field. ¥ maa y

Hoping t and het sister were
the village, and yet with a strange foreboding that “they
were rambling somewhere in the woods, he rode swiftly
on to alarm the jaborers.

The great field in which. theys ‘worked. was skirted on
the north and west by a heavy, forest growth, aud-on-the
eastit was bounded by a large swamp,— marshy ‘and |
grassy. ; ew aS e

Thosein the felds,Some thirty in number, including
the women and-children, were working, chatting and
laughing, anda few of the more pious orof those who
desired to be so esteemed, were singing a Puritan hymn
as they toiled, when a woman called ont in a shrill voice,
heard over all the field: =e

“Hal See! “Yonder comes’a horseman along the Rocky
Road! . How he vides!’

‘Ah, itis our handsome Virginian, Capt. Archibald,’
said another woman, a merry damsel with a laughing
eye and a coquetish smile. .

“Yea, but he is an ungodly man, and I have heard him
use strange oaths; nay, 1saw never aught that one of
godly mind might call handsome in the man,”’ remarked
a stern-browed, swarthy-faced young man, the jealous
lover of the last speaker.

AS is ever the way with workersina field when their
attention is suddenly called from their labor, there was
now an instant cessation of work, and all eyes were
turned toward the coming horseman, who wasstill more
than a mile away, riding at breakneck speed. It was
known that the rider should be no other than Capt. Arch-
ibald Agrané, as the four horses belonging to the com-
munity were theninthe field, and only the Virginian
possessed a horse of his own, asuperb white stallion,
easily recognized at that distance.

“Nay, Hli Bascomb,"’ said the damsel with the merry
eye, ‘che uses. no oaths.

‘Did I not hear him. say to thee, Eunice Sheldon, ‘By
St. George, thou art a beauty!) What was that but an
oath, and what right had he, a stranger among us, to say
such words? replied the jealous lover, who feared he
was far from being of So goodly.an exterior as the envied
Virginian. : é

“One may praise beauty the world over,’ retorted Eu-
ei a pout. “But why rides he like one gone
mac : ‘

“We is ever trying to affright us with his stories and
fears of the ¢owardly savages; and perhaps he thinks he
has seen one in the forest,” said Bascomb. ;

“Truly,’? said another, who had_ seen and envied the
smiles cast upon the Virginian by Rosalie Swain, whose
favorhe had sought invain. ‘Yea, he is coming to cry,
‘Wolf,’ like the miscreant in the fable. Or he rides in
that style to show the speed of his horse.) :

“To work, yei@lers in the Lord’s vineyard!” roared a
voice from another part of the field, for thus had the de-.
vout of the village named this common farm. © ‘

The men, obedient to the command of their elder, at
once resumed their labor; but the women and children
continued to gaze toward the swift-coming ride
tremendous speed was each instant bringing

‘See,’ said one, “he is waving his hand.?? —

“Yes. He seems to point first one way
other. Itis very strange.” &

  
 
   

 

   
   

 
     
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
  
  

Savages are upon us.”? Le z TES
“Said I not so?’ remarked Bascomb, with a grim smi
around his fine, thin lips.
him a great fighter of the Indians! Boo!”
young Puritan, whose heart was that of a lion inits cour:
age, began to. cleave the soil with his hoe as carelessly as
if no Indian wasin the world. 2 A
“Back! Away! Losenot a moment!” shouted Captain
Archibald, reining up his panting horse at the road edge
of the field, and not thirty paces from some of those with-
init. ‘The savages, in great force, are not far away, and
ta pie is about to be attacked from both sides of the
river. : Py x a
A thrill: of great terror paled the face
and children, Every mother there uttered a low cry.
a smothered shriek of sudden dread—and snatching up
her most feeble child, began écipitate flight for the

  
   

the women

 

all of the children moved hurriedly and in disorder in the
Same direction, while Captain Archibald groaned in his
heart, and thought: pees LPP , ect
“She is not here! Rosalie isnot here, and something
tells me she isnot in the village.” es sae
But seeing that not @ man of the ten that were there
joined the women in their flight, he again shouted: -
_ “Men, lose no time! Ah, had you. heeded 1
never to venture a yard from your houses
might give some of the savages & surprise

   

my council

 

harmed we

  

 

 

try to make a stir in the world, that one may be famous.
But we are not men to be scared because one wh
fought AB Virginia may be. Kiswas*, the Pequot ¢

 

 
 

  
   

  
  
   
 
 
 
  

 
  

ag tied
age—

eemly it

aid to be brave, to break in upon the
e in, and affright. wo ‘

 
   
  
   
 

somb,
t to strike #]
Boo!

  
  
  
     

now. | :
dreds of Pequots and their allies will
utes be upon you. Ihave seen them. I have met them.
See these rents in thebreast of my coat. I havejust slain
Nataquash, the cousin of Sassacus,’’ and pausing no long-
er Captain Archibald put spurs.to his horse again, and
galloped inthe direction taken by the fugitive women
and children, but again shouting so as to be heard over
all the field: “The Pequots are coming! In Heayven’s
name, [beg you fly?” Dae ¥ u whee’
Then changing his course that he might’notrun over
the fugitives before him, he spurred into another road, a
meré foot-path, that he might most speedily reach ‘the
village and set at’rest' that fear at his heart. which: told
himchis betrothed, the beautiful and devoted Rosalie, was
not there, ;

    

CHAPTER. V.
THE PURITAN’S FIERCE COMBAT.

The.ten men in the field, and three women who had
not followed the others, remained silent for & moment,
their eyes turned after their friends. :

Bascomb was by no means the oldest man there, for
four of the others were gray-haired, though of that vigor-
ous Vitality 80 prominently a feature of the pioneer set-
tlers of New England, and indeed so characteristic of
their enterprising descendents to this day. © But Bascomb
was aman of influence because of his greater wealth,
his general intelligence, and great strength and daring.
Among the young men of the settlements he was a lead-
er, and had found noone equal to himself in athletic
feats until Archibald Agrané arrived at Wethersfield.

Perhaps the sterling good sense of the young man might
have overcome the chagrinhe had felt in being van-
quished in all feats of strength and agility by the hand-
some stranger from the Virginia colony, had he not con-
ceived a groundless fear that Eunice Sheldon, the maiden
with the merry eyes and coquetish smile, had seemed to
hold Bascomb in less esteem since Capt, Archibald had
called her beautiful.

“Who is he that we should be frichtened like hares be-
cause he has seen Pequots?’’ said Bascomb, when one of
the older men spoke of leaving the field. ‘We know
very little about Archibald Agrané, except what he him-
self has told us. Heis motof our sect. He comes from
Jamestown, that home of refuge for broken-down gentle-
men and shattered cavaliergs. He keeps to himself the
business that first brought him to Wethersfield, and no
doubt he has returned to spy out the fairest of our
maidens for his prey. Did not Totomet, the Wampanoag,
the friendly Indian who has. traveled so much, hint to
me that he had seen this same Archibald Agrané in com-
pany with more than one of those lawless and murdering
buccaneers, the pirates of the Spanish main? Ay, did
he; and I judge the stranger has gained much, if not all
that gold he seems so plentifully supplied with from
traffic with these pirates, evenif he hath not himself been
of them.”?

“But Capt. Agrané himself warned us to beware of
Totomet, whom he said was driven, from the Virginia
colony as a spy,'’ remarked one of the women, placing
her hand upon the arm of her husband, who was in doubt
whether to fly or to remain. ‘Come, Caleb, my heart is
full of fear.”

“Ay, 80 it is ever with the women,” said Bascomb.

“All that the Virginian says is gospel to them. As for
me, I am not afraid of the savages, and I remain.”

#0 Saying Bascomb resumed his work, and nearly all
followed his example, though the man called Caleb and
his wife hurried away, the latter saying:

“Is if not better to be laughed at if it be a false alarm,
than to stay, and be slain, if the Virginian has not lied?’

Then three more of the men, after a brief consultation,
also departed, leaving Bascomb and five other men and
two women in the field, still laboring in obstinate defiance
of the waruing they had received.

Seareely half an hour had passed after that warning
had been given when swarms of painted and screeching
Pequots burstin upon the field’ from each of its four
sides, leaping and brandishing their weapons as they

 

* Kiswashad lived a long time at Saybrook Fort, and could
speak English quite well. From the commencement of the war
he was'a spy upon the settlers,;and was a bold and conniving
savage .—Gardiner,

 

eee eee sinensis

heming | €

der, whose }

“Said Inot so? And they call

And with this contemptuous ejaculation the sturdy |g:

 

 

| be thrust upon him, with lingering de:

   
  

road which led to the village. Nearly all the females and | pow

“Captain Agrané,”? interrupted Bascomb, “it is well to |
| riors. ui

 
    
  

 

h'} purpose, as he neared Mononotto, who had thrown aside

hurled themselves toward t',e center, near which the eight
whites then were. J
“Oh, Heaven!” ser_amed the two unfortunate women,
as they beheld the Gavages rushing toward them.
“Ont death be @pon your head, Bascomb!? screamed
One of them an her agony of fear. “We were warned,
nd your. Flonsy has destroyed us!’ and casting herself
ees, she began to pray that Heaven might re-
Yesoul, for she had no hope of escape now.
Save thee, Betsy Griswold, or die wi
é the repentant Bascomb: ‘Heaven
(ae pride that Nardened my hea i

 

 
 
  

 

    

é stranger.) j
d say no more. ere a shower ofSharp,;
ded arrows fell upon the little group, wounding every
and laying low in instant death oneOf them. —
p were at the mercy of the savages, for they tad
ir fire-arms in “their homes, in= scorn of the oft-
ated advice of the stranger from Jamestown,-and

oi

      

tS

 

       
  

co
Pequots, led by the keén-eyed Mononotto, perceivingthat
the whites had notife-arms, and well aware of tteindes-
perate courage at close combat,even though the settlers
‘were armed only with hoes and axes; encircled them at a
safe distance, and jeering at their helplessness, shot at
them with their arrows and hurled their tomahawks at
them. :

A, few among the Indians were armed with guns, but
mone were used; for Mononotto saw that the bloody. busi-
ness could be done without “recourse to gunpowder, and
so scanty was the Pequots’? supply of the latter at that
time thatnota shot was fired.

Two more of the whites sank down under the storm of
arrows, and the others rushed in a body toward the sav-
ages, who were between them and the village road.

Both of the women had fallen: Bascomb liad endeay-
ored to shield _ Betsy Griswold. with his own body, but.so
murderous were the shaftsfrom a hundred rapidly used
bows, that his efforts were in vain, Tne unfortunate wo-
man fell upon her face, and Bascomb, believing her to be
dead, rushed to deal what blows he could ere he should
be slain.

He bristled with arrows. His shoulders, back, and
breast were wounded in scores of places. His face was
lacerated and bleeding. Yet no vital organ was touched,
as herushed forthe nearest savages, brandishing his
heavy, sharp hoe as heswung the long tough handle
around his head. He lost sight of his surviving compan-
ions ina moment. Swarms of savages, howling and fu-
rious, encircled them with glittering knives and toma-
hawks, war-clubs and arrows. Mach settler died hard,
but died speedily, and the scalps of all were being tossed
in the air, while Bascomb still kept those about him at
bay. The savages desired to take him alive, to reserve
him for their tortures.

It was Bascomb who had personally affronted the saga-
more Sobeage, from whom the Wethersfield settlers had
purchased the land they were upon; and the vindictive
savage had asked that, if possible, Bascomb should be
taken alive. Sobeage was not with the savages. now
surrounding Bascomb, but they were aware of the Py-
quag sachem’s desire, and wished themselves to accom-
plish the capture.

But the task was fullof peril... The white man waslike
alion at bay. The hoe became a terrible weapon in his
han@s, and he beat down a score of his enemies, one after
another, with a power of arm, swiftness of stroke, and
precision of eye that Seemed marvelous to the howling
Indians, who tried to strike him down.

“He must die! Pagusett will kill him!” at length ex-
claimed a tall Pequot, who was armed with a musket, as.
he threw himself into the living circle around the Puri-°
‘tan, and leveled the death-dealing weapon at the white
man’s breast. Pics ae

Not five paces were between the warrior and the-set-
tler as the former drew trigger. The powder in the pan
was wet, and only the sharp, harsh click of flint and steel,
and useless sparks of fire, answered the pressure of

the finger of the savag

  

10
1

ate the hoe of the settler came

was terrifit, and its effects horrible. The eyes, the nosey
and even the teeth of the unlucky Pequot were dug from
his face by that mighty s

 

upon his Knees, deluged in “his

y Socket of the hoe now crushed in

gun fell from his hand, and his

s ‘into the furrows made by the plows of
lag aided to slay. See

» and on every side of him, Bascomb.

ment of agriculture which in his hands

     
 

 

/Swung that imp:
had become a ter

 

   
     
  
 

   

ble instrument of death and wounds.
His face, pale‘and streaked with blood, was more fear-.
inspiring than an rp the uots had ever con-
fronted. His eyes usually a 1e unclouded sky,
were like burning coals in his espair. He had
discovered that it was the desir savages to take
him alive, and he knew that the most dreadful and ex-

   
    
  
  

cruciating tortures that Indian cruelt

 

levise would
1 1 f rdy. relief,
‘were he captured with'an hour’s life in See

Though wounded in many places, he had
vital hurt; @ the Pequot fell Bascom!

   
   

   
  
  
  

 

rd, $ un, snatched the bullet LY
‘powder-h om the dead gayage, and ch d with
the spee eaping panther at the chief o e party,

the fierce Sachem Mononotto, second in ran!
only to Grand Sachem Sassacus. ca ;
_ Hitherto the sachem, who was also a great war-chief as
well as council leader, had not raised his hand in the
slaughter and combat, except to give emphasis to some
command. te was sure of his prey at the moment his
‘War-Whoop gave the first signal of onset upon the unfor--
tunate settlers. ‘He now rushed forward to take part in
the capture or death of the single champion whose prow-
ess seemed to put to scorn all the strength of his war-

- Mononotto was armed with a gun and a war-|

|club, and both knife and tomahawk were in his belt, |
| But the gun wasa new weapon to him, as it was to near- | Pere
ly all the savages; nor had he attained a skill in its use} An

that made it as deadly a thing to his foes as the strong
bow he had used till this day. od
He fired on the white manas the latter charged upon
him, and it was the first gun-shot thathad been madein
the fleld. Its roar and echo reached the ears of those ot
the village, three miles away; but its aim missed Eli Bas-
comb, and its bullet piercea the brain of a huge savage,
who was in close pursuit of the white man. <
. While rushing upon-Mononotto, the quick-fingerea Pu-
ritan, expert in the use of the weapon he had snatched
from the ground, thrust out the damp powder of the pan
| with his thumb, and primed as he ran. But changing his

his empty gun, and was rushing forward with upraised
club, Bascom) darted upon an Indian boy near him, and
grasping the urchin by his belt, swung him-aloft, intend-
ing to use him as a shield against the arrows of a party
between him and the village road.

The urchin, not ten years old, was the eldest and favor-
ite. son of Mononotto; and had,for the first time,’ accom-
panied his father upon the war-path.

(To be continued.)

“TRUE-AS LOVE".
COULD MAKE HER

BY A NEW CONTRIBUTOR.

-“True as Love Could Make Her” was commenced int No. 1. Back
numbers obtained from all news agents in the United States.

* CHAPTER LI.
NEARLY LOST.

It was Adelaide’s custom to go for an early morning
walk, and it was a custom to which she owed much of her
freshness and beauty.

There were other young ladies in the district who, like
herself, made early visits and received early visitors,, so
it was no matter of surprise when Miss Millard appeared
at the breakfast table m walking costume, and announced
her intention of calling on a few of her friends.

‘7 may be more than an hour,’ she said, ina tone that
implied that she mignt not be gone much longer.

The girl could not utter a deliberate falsehood, and did
not like to practice an equivocation; but her regard for
Percy made her do the latter on this occasion.

“You will pardon me, my dear Mrs. Wilson—I have a
call to make.”

Under the glance of the doctor’s widow's grave gray
eyes, Adelaide colored involuntarily, and went out to
ayoid.a second look.

Something in. the girl’s manner made Mrs. Wilson sus-
pect that all was not right, and she had an undefined fear -
that went toward the truth.

ae minutes afterward Arthur started to catch the
train. :

It: was arranged that his mother would stay for the day,
and he was to return. to fetch her inthe evening. He
would not neglect his business, and remain at Penge dur-
ing the day.

Feeling rather slighted that he had seen $0 little of Ad-
elaide in the morning, he walked to the station alone. Mr.
Millard’s brougham had been offered to him, but he de-
clined it. i f

He saw’a lady some distance in advance of him,.and by:
her walk he recognized Miss Millard.

“Yes,” said Arthur, for the hundredth time, “she is
like Frances in the grace and dignity of motion—the proud
carriage of the pretty head. Isee the girl now as she is,
free and unaffected, for she does not know that any one
is looking. at her—and so her style is natural.”

They were in a quiet country lane, and they were the
only persons there.

Adelaide was deep)in thought.. He saw her take some-
thing from her bosom, and then her head was bent as if
she were reading. Hesaw her press something to her
lips, and a momentary faltering in her walk told him that
she was touched by ia strong emotion; and. he thought,
with some bitterness, that the letter she had kissed was
from Percy—the emotion was evoked by her love for him.

Miss Millard looked: back, smitten with a sudden. fear
that she may have been seen; but-a bend in the lane and
a hawthorn bush hid.Arthur from her sight, He, howev-
er, could see her, and he-saw something. flutter to the
ground, ‘

it was the letter. She had mistaken a stiff fold in her
silk dress for the pocket, and so dropped it.

Arthur picked the detter: up. It was open, and: the
words were so few that he could not help reading them at
a glance, Hadthey not flashed at once upon his-sight,
—— have folded the paper without looking at a syi-

But that single glance told him the truth. »Adelaide
was going to the station—to her fate, it might be....With

 

 

 

| telling the driver of his to follow hers.

 
   
   
  

ry to the common. custom of the early settlers,:The | -

€ co le his fat
down upon his painted face like a thunderbolt. - The blow |

  

ke of desperate Eli Bascomb. |

his heart began to quicken. She was going to the station,
he was sure; and the result proved that he was right. Be
stayed a little distamce behind, so as not to be seen; but
he measured time and distance so well that Adelaide was
seated in hercarriage when he reached the platform. He
sprang into the first:compartment ie came to, aud the
train moved-0n.as héedid'so, J

When they arrived in Londow and left the train, Sepa

her for'an instant. She took @ cab, and he took another,

 

x

| Percy had apartments near Eaton square, and thither

‘Miss Millard went. Arthur, never losing sight of her, saw

i jiouse, and his heart shook with agony at the
ought of her peril—a girlin her innocence and loveli-
ss placing herself at the mercy of an unprincipled man.
had the deepest faith in her, he would have
ouse and taken her.away immediately.
ing rapidly the downward way, Sinking deep-
as he tried to drown remembrance—lad his
moments of reflection. He had hardenedhimselfinto’a
belief of Fanny’s falsity, and his new passion for Miss
Millard made him seek-sélf-extenuation by keeping up
that belief. In his inmost soul he knew what he would
not admit—that Fanny’s fault was, at worst, an indiscre-
tion, not=a erime.

Falkland; whose life had been: governed /by no moral
faith or religious feeling—ne- who-had‘sought nothing but
pleasure, no’ matter what the sacrifice and “where the
shame, turned sternly and in hard judgment from the
girl whose error was such a slight one. Sometimes tie
was touched by remorse; sometimes he longed to go to
her with forgiveness, and see her countenance light up
with more than beauty under the tenderness of his ca-
ress; But.-then. the remembrance ofthat kiss would
come, and With it the killing thought that she had loyed
another.

So the days wore on—remorse weakening, doubt
strengthened; and all the while the passion for Miss Mil-
lard grew more irresistible. ‘She will be happy with
me,” he would say when conscience troubled him, ‘in
spite of the world, and 1 will be faithful to her.’

He sent letter after letter, with the deliberate purpose of
getting her into his power, and then tempting her to
leave England with him, He felt sure thatif shé came
to him his pleading would prevail, and that rather than
part forever she would give up home, and friends, and
Kindred—trust everything tothe honor which he had
not. ;

And the poor girl came. He heard the cab stop, and
then heard the timid voice inquire for him in the hall.
He looked at himself in the glass, threw into his face the
saddest expression he could give it, arranged his dress-
ing robe with its most graceful effect upon his handsome
figure, and then sat down, leaning his forehead on his
hand. :

The servant tapped and he said,
purposely given for Adelaide’s ear.

“A lady to see you, Sir,’? said the servant. —

And he answered:

“Let her come in.’?

There was the same tone—the tone of one forfwhom the
world had nothing left.

Miss Millard entered, pale, wistfnl, expectant; feeling
that she had done wrong, yet impelled by her love to think
she had done right, in a moment, and with a glad cry, he
had clasped her in his arms.

“Adelaide, my darling. Oh, 1 knew you would come.”

He could not Suppress the thrill of wicked exultation
in his voice; “but to Miss Millard’s innocent ear it was a
thrill of love, and she kissed him—her eyes full of tears
while she kissed him, and never fell purer tokens of purer
affection upon a baser traitor’s lips. : :

‘And now. that we have met, we will not part,’? he
said, seeking his advantage, while her heart was full of
emotion. ‘You will. come with me, Adela—you will not
doubt me. You will trust to my love—my honor, in spite
ofthe world, in spite of falser friends—in spite of
those who. have wronged me.?? ee

The poor girl could say nothing. The tenderness in his
Voice, the pastion in his face, the closer grip of his arm
overpowered her. She didnot knowin what shape he
had done wrong—why or wherefore he was in danger.
She was away from. home—with him alone, and, infiu-
enced by his presence only, the temptation was too pow-
erful, :

“In France,’? he said, “you shall be my wife; and till
we reach there, you shall be to me as sacred as a star.
It is happiness enough if I may see you—kiss your hand—
hear you speak. You will come, Adela—you will not
leave me.°? ; "

The man was acting, but it was the acting of nature.
He calculated the effect of every word, though every word
came from the passion in his soul; and when his eager
glance sought her eyes for a reply, he read: there an agony
of emotion that told him he had triumphe ‘
-She could not say ‘No,’’ thoughshe thought of home,
of-her mother, and, strange to-say, of Arthur Wilson.
She almost wished that some one would come to save her
in this time of passionate trial. Yet there was a wish
against that wish. To part forever from Percy was todie.

Percy. left her for a few minutes, returned dressed,
stifled Ls appealing gaze with his lips, and led her down
to the cab, : : oF

   
  

“Come in,” in a tone

 

  
  

they went. x

The true and faithful guardian was.near. Fortunately
for Arthur’s purpose, they were strangers to each other,
so Percy had no knowledge of the grave young gentle-
man who stepped into a hansom at the end of the street
just as he handed Adelaide in.

And they reached the station. Adelaide, faint from a
conflict of emotion, did not lift her eyes, but clung te
Percy’s arm, feeling that this step oncé taken he was her
| world for evermore. The tickets were procured by Percy,
}and the train was at the point of starting. He had her
in the carriage fh hina—the door locked, and her head
resting on his shoulder; the guard gave the signal, and

I imself—“Mine, mine!)? — co
~ And sh early lost. Arthur, blocked by a rush of
‘passengers, could not get his ticket, nor break through
the crowd. He heard the signal given for the train to
start, and then he scattered the people right: and left. in

    
 

    

his passage to the platform. He had not intended to let
Percy go so far, but it was too late to prevent him now. —
Arthur went without his ticket—the train was in motion;
and the guard, just getting into his own van, said:
“Too late, sir.?? : MN orgs ;
But Arthur caught the hand that-would have closed the
door, and sprang in after the guard. <

 

life'a

ind death.?? - aS Ee me
There was no time to expostulate with or turn him out.

for Arthur at the first station they stopped at. The train
was an express—they were at Dover by mid-day.

Then, in front of the pier that ran down to the brink of
the sea, stood the mail packet waiting for the passengers
by that express, and Percy—his heart throbbing with sin-
ful joy was leading his victim to it, when a heavy hand
fell on his shoulders, and a grave voice sald:

“Mr. Percy Falkland, I believe.’

He turned white with mingled fear and rage, looked
at bo grave and?noble face, and then said, ferceiy:

‘Nog ay ‘
Adelaide uttered:a little cry,
She had begun tofeel her peril. :
“Permit Ine to doubt you,’’ was the cool reply; and \Ar-
thur, the stronger and the better of the two, drew Adela
to him, and whirled Perey away witha quick. force that
sent him reeling. .“lnever struck a) man in: anger“yet;
but, on my soul, if you attempt to touch this poor dnno-
cent child; I will strike you down!)

The tone was low, so low that it attracted no attention,
but the eye was resolute, and the gentleman a picture of
manhood.s He had involuntarily thrown his arm round
Adelaide’s shoulders, as if to shield her from the tempter,
and she, very faint and’ trembling, clung: to him) not
knowing what to do, or what say.

“I thought to spare you the bitter truth,” said Arthur,
very gently. ‘But, my poor girl, this man is married;
Bear it bravely—look at him, and come back with me, and
thank Heaven that I came in time!)

half of fear; half! of joy:

 

CHAPTER LII.
“SAVED,

Percy did not know the gentleman who spoke to him so
quietly. Arthur had been careful not to mention his own
name till he felt that Adelaide was safe; and when he felt
that she was safe, he said:

“Tam Arthur Wilson, Mr. Falkland; and [should like
to have a few words with you.”

Miss Millard admired him for his quiet manliness. Per-
cy hated him for being there; but he looked at Adelaide,
and found that she still remained with Arthur. |Percy-no-
ticed that from the moment Arthur said, “This man is
married,’ Adela did-not even look at him.

The man felt it bitterly. He was disappointed in his
passion—in his ‘sinful love, He felt it the more bitterly
when he learned the name of the gentleman who had
come between him and the beautiful girl: who might have
been his victim.

He looked at Mr. Wilson, but the glance was returned
With a sad and quiet dignity that put away his anger for
the moment. He felt saddened. He was not-utterly bad,
and perhaps, in his secret heart, he was glad that the
girl was: saved from him. But then came. the savage
thought:

‘This:ig the man who: kissed my wifein the passage—
thisis the man who took Frances from me—this is the
man who takes Adelaide from me.’

“Mr, Falkland,” said the clear and temperate voice of
Arthur Wilson, “‘there are some things I should like to
explain, if you will tell me when and where I may see
you.

‘When and where you please.??

Arthur smiled.

“The matter is grave, and we must be dispassionate.
The honor of a noble woman is involved—the honor of a
good man is involved, too.??

“Who is the good man?) sneered Percy.

“Yourself, Mr. Falkland. 1am patient: with you because
[sympathize with you. Iknew that, at the outset, when
you married Fanny West, you had good intentions, and I
Know that these intentions have, to some extent, been
broken by me.

“Yes,” said Percy, sadly; “they have.”

“When we return,’? said Arthur, touched by the tone,
“I will explain everything; but, at present, my care is
for thisdady. Come back with me; or follow me. Here is
my card, and you will know where to-find me; but this
poor girl must not be missed from her home,??

It was in Percy’s heart to quarrel with the gentleman
who had taken possession of Miss Millard. Her hand was
on his arm now. ‘She clung to him, and would not look
at Percy. Innocent as she was, his rascality made her
turn from him, and it made ‘her grateful to the man who

 

 

such aman as Percy Falkland no fair and innocent wo-

had saved her.

man was Safe. Arthur thought that, and the beating of |

she was in the midst. of a throng he did not lose sight. of }

 
 
  

“To the railway. station for Dover,” he said. And on

“Never too late,” he said. ‘It isa matterof more than.

— SBE

 

“Mr. Wilson,” she said lowly, ‘will you take me
home ??? :

He smiled upon her tenderly, ignoring Perey’s pres-
ence.

“Do not fear, Miss Millards the train returns within ten
Minutes. Weshall#be im Bondon by three, at Penge by
four; and your absence will not have been noticed.”
“But the shame,’’ said Adelaide. cannot tell a false-
hood, Mr. Wilson; and what will they say when they
know what-T have done ?”? 3

“Det me tell your father the whole truth,’ he said,
gently, “He may blame, but he will forgive. Come.

Then he turned to Perey, :

“Mr, Falkland,” s ;

“Sir.?? 2 i &

“Tam sorry for you. Tam sure that you are sorry for
your Own badness, Why not do an aecbof grace? Return
to the girl who- as becn true’to you in spite of every-

i Mi wd will forgive you. I forgive you.”
said Percy, bitterly. A
ideArhur, with the quiet dignity that quite over-
the other—‘‘I pity you; for you are the victim of
amisconstruction. Therenever lived a truer, nobler wo-
man than your wife. Go™back to her; acknowledge her;
give her some recompense for herlong time of suffering.
Be a man in this case—be simply yourself. ‘Iam suie you
are not so bad as even you would wish to seem.”

Arthur gould not have dealt with Percy in a better way
had he tried. He spoke frankly, freely, and with that
quiet dignity thathad its weight, in spite of Percy’s dis-
like tohim, ©

Percy felt that it was useless to contend with sucha
man. There was no violence in his bearing. He had told
the truth, and by his bearing it was certain that he had
told the truth, Percy knew it, and believed it in his soul,
but he would not let himself be convincea.

“This man took Fanny from. me,?’ he thought. . “This
man has taken Adelaide from me, too, and she clings to
him as though she had never cared for me.” ‘
Arthur and Miss Millard were moving away. Percy
followed them. He could not go till he had tried his
power once more. :

‘Adelaide!’ he said.

There was no reply, She went on with Mr. Wilson—
ce face quite calm in its beauty, though it was very
pale.

“For the last time,” he said, still fodowing, ‘‘speak to
me, Adelaide. Don’t believe him. Choose now—come
With me, or we part forever.?? ieee

Arthur glanced.at him over his shoulder. Miss Millard
did not speak. Her head rested on Arthur’s arm, and she
knew that she had been saved. The danger, strange to
her innocence, was known to her fear. At the very worst
she had not imagined Percy so bad as hie was. Theinsult
to her faith, the outrage to her love crushed out both;
and, though the pain was great, the woman, true to
the beauty of a woman’s nature, determined to forget
him.

Mr. Wilson would not make a scene. His very quietude
had quelled Percy, or the irregular temper would have
broken out, and there would have been a quarrel that
both must have been sorry for. Percy had courage, and
had not conscience made a coward of him, he would not
have given Adelaide up so easily.

“You are Mr. Wilson,’ he said, savagely.

“Yes?

“Where can I find you?”?

“You have my card. In the city from ten to four; at
home always after the latter time; and, believe me, I
would rather meet you as a friend than an enemy.”’

Percy muttered an impatient oath. The fierce and flery
temper of the man was all pent up, and it was ready to
display itself, as it would have done, except that he, like
Arthur, respected the proprieties, and would not make a
scene.

The boat was just about to start, and Falkland had a
tigerish rage within him. But for that stately gentleman,
who treated him-go coolly, he would have been on that
boat, and Adelaide with him. He was stricken down in
the very moment of his triumph.

He followed Arthur and Miss Millard into the train for
London. Though he knew that he had lost her, he had a
desperate wish to say something to her—a desperate wish
to do something to Arthur. There was no danger in him,
but he thought there was for the time.

Miss Millard had been thinking deeply. She thanked
Heaven for having sent her a protector, and she shudder-
ea when she saw into what an abyss her infatuation might
‘have plunged her, The truth, the knowledge of Percy’s
villainy was a fearful shock. She had loved him very
dearly. Z Z :
|! But he fell from the pu
instant that Arthur said,
eyes were opened. Stron
the knowledge that he ha
she could bear. ee

In the time that passed from the moment when Arthur
first spoke.to Percy, Miss Millard wasina dead calm—
stunned, as it were; though her soul was surging with
emotion, she could not speak when Arthur put herinto
‘the train and took his seat by her side.
poe white to the lips, and every nerve in her body

a

Arthur expected what would happen. He spoke to her

 

  

 
 

 

     

  
   
  
   
  

2e of her heart from the
man is married.” Her
3 was her affection for him,
da another was more than

 

ze

 

in alow and gentle voice. -
“Miss Millard.?? “ ae

The poor girl looked: at him with beseeching eyes, and
then fell slowly forward,inadead faint. She fell into
Arthur’s arms, her fair hair falling in a golden shower
over his shoulder, her white arm dropping helpless round
hisneck. Had she been a baby, he could not have gath-
ered her to him with more respect and tenderness.

At one of the stations he sent the guard for some brandy
as a restorative, and forced it between her lips. The pow-
erful stimulant revived her, and brought back her senses;
buf she could not at first: dismissthe idea that she was
still with Percy; and the idea recurred to her with dread.
. “You are going to take me home,” she said, remember-
‘ing the whole truth. “But—oh! Mr. Wilson! what will
they say to me??? <= : HES):

“Much, was the grave reply; “but it is better to bear
their reproaches than your own. Think, my dear Miss
Millard, you retur ome with “me, stainless—pure; and
had I not been in time, you would, in less than another
hour, have been going across the Channel in the power
of Mr. Falkland.” ania

Adelaide dropped her head, to hide the crimson fiush
onher cheeks.. — ;

- Arthur took both Ner hands in his own.

“very friend I have will turn from me,” she said.

‘Tshall not, Miss Millard. I will be your friend—more
than your friend, if you will let me.??
| The kindness overcame her, and she wept.

 

   
  

 

 

He was

4 \ ; : { glad to see those tears; and he was glad that while she
A sovereign satisfied the guard, and he procured a ticket | w

wept lier forehead rested on his shoulder, and she did not
shrink from the arm that held her to him.

“But to think that Mr. Falkland could have so deceived
me,” she sobbed; ‘‘and I-loved him very much.!”

“Forget him, as you must. Heis not worth a second
thought. Wretched as he has made you, you are happier
than the poor girl he has. left.in pain. and poverty—unac-
knowledged, desolate—the poor girl and her child.”

Miss Millard began to be interested, and Arthur, wisn-
ing to make her forget her grief, told her the story of
Fanny’s life,as farashe knew it. He was quite frank
with her. He told her of his deep love for Fanny, and all
that had happened. =

“And you are like her,”’ he said, in conclusion; “ag pure,
as trusting. ‘I could love you ‘for her sake, Miss Millard,
and [do love you for youy own.??

“Mr. Wilson.’? $ :

The tone was grave, surprised, reproachfui, but not
pained, He smiled down: into her eyes. ;

“tis true, Miss Millard—Adelaide, “May I call you Ad-
elaide ???

“Yeg,)) : ‘

“Do you think you could ever care for me ?)?

The question went to the depths of her heart, and she
found that the grave and handsome gentleman by her
side had a large place in those depths.

She was not a coquette ora hypocrite. An infatuation
for Percy had filled her mind, but there haa grown a re-
gard for Mr. Wilson that merged very easily into love.

kindly aid'she could not have gone back even had:she re-
pented at the last moment, and ‘tefused to accompany:
Percy on what would have been a fatal journey over the
short sea distance between Dover and France. The
shame would have kept her away, and left her in Percy's
power. :

But with Arthur Wilson by her side, Adelaide felt strong.

He who had rescued:iher from dishonor made the return
home simple, and her soul, turning from Percy, went te-
ward Arthur in confidence and affection.

“Do you think you could ever care for me?” he asked
again; and she answered, with a sigh:

“Jam not worthy of you, Mr. Wilson.
think of-meafter this 2”

“Knowing the entire truth, I can only think that one
who-has loved a bad man so well, can love a good man
better.?? :

“But you could never respect me.”

“I can love you, and do. Andif you give me leave to
be your guardian, I can tell your father that you’ are
mine, and he will not be angry with you for this indiscre-
tion. Shall it be so ?”? :

Her look was an assent. He drew her to him closely—
gently, and held her to his breast. He saw, by the tran-
quil-happiness on her fair face, that he was loved at last.

“Will you kissi'me ?? he asked,

For reply, the pretty mouth was upturned to him, and
her lips returned the pressure of his. Fanny was not for-
gotten in that moment of deep joy, for he thought:

“She is like Frances~as good, as true, as beautiful—
and she is mine, the more that 1 have saved her.”

Adelaide lay inchis ‘arms quite quiets that broad chest
was a refuge for her; the love that made it heave and fall
asafeguard for her happiness, She locked her hand
tightly in.his, and, trusting to him entirely, was prepared
to face her father without fear or shame.

Percy was in «the train—six carriages behind them—
alone, asithey were; but they were happy, and he had the
demon of disappointed passion in hissoul He saw them
alight, when'they reached London. Hesaw them enter a
cab together, and what stung: him most bitterly of all
bas that Miss Millard never once looked at hini or for

Arthur and Miss Millard were at Penge by five in the
afternoon. ' Adelaide had been missed, and much anxious
inquiry made for her; but’ they were far from’ suspecting
her peril what it- had been. “Mr. Millard was consider-
ably surprised to see his child return with Arthur,

But Arthur did not‘leave him long in doubt. He meant
to have no secresy; leave nothing to be: explained; so he
answered Mr. Millard’s look ef inquiry by saying:

“You are surprised to see us return together ??

“Tam,” smiled Mr. Millard, “I qwas’ not aware you

What can you

 

 

went together, nor did I think Adela intended to be ab-
sent so long.”

 

 

 

He had saved her, and she was grateful. But for his-

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Adela had retired, leaving the two gentlemen alone.
They entered the breakf: ist-room, and Millard saw, by the
gravity of Arthur’s face, that he had something to tell,

Mr. Wilson went quietly. into @ eizcumstantial. account
of the whole matter, beginning with Miss Millard’s jour-
mey.to the station, and lis own suspicion of her. purpose
when he saw her in London.

Millard heard him dumbly.” “Wretched girl,’’ lie said,
augrily, “she has ruined her reputation forever.”

He started up to ring for her, but Arthur caught. his
arm.

“Not an angry word to her, Mr..Millard; not.a.word to
anyone but, Mrs. Millard, Remember this—since Adela
left your-roof this morning she had been ip, my company.
The world. can say nothing. ”

“But ijt ig sure to be Kuown—and What will people
think?’

“What ‘they please. . It, wilh not matter fo you,. her
father, or to me—her husband”, :

“Mr, Wilson?

ses,” Baid Arthur, with ath anquil smile, “Adela has
promised, and I shall take her in perfect faith... I will not
permit, a doubt to be looked—even here, ..Tue, rashness
that induced her to take that step grew out of ler love
for a bad man; and Surely she who could Jove a. bad man
so Well can love a good one better.’

“You are a generous fellow,” said the stock-broker,
taking his hand. “I-ao not see how Adela can ‘help lov.
ing you, and I'am sure that you will never reproach her.??

Nor permit hier to be’ reproached. And it is settled—
Adela is to be my wife.”

“] give her to you gladly, Mr. Wilson. I can say no
more, except to tliank you for saving her from that rascal},
Falkland.”

“But I saved her for myself,” smiled Arthur.
see all men are selfish, alter all.”

“So you

 

CHAPTER. LUI,
OUT OF THE RIVER,

It was on the aay that Fanny went out to complete the
sacrifice of her young existence to the man who had al-
ready caused her so much misery that Arthur rescued
Adelaide from Percy Falkland.

Old Bill West, going home after a fruitiess search for
for work, found Fanny absent, and was disappointed.
He had taken great pains to keep the truth from her,
fearing that she would be troubled if she knew that ne
was out of work.

So he and Jem went out every morning at the usual
time, and returned in the evening at the usual time, as if
they "had been at work. They kept up the innocent, Z00d-
natured artifice for some days.

On this evening when they returned, old Bill asked for
Fanny, and was told by his wife that she had just run
out, but not for long, as the door was left open.

Just then baby woke up and began.tocry. Mr. West
lumbered up stairs instantly, and took the little one from
its cot. He quieted it by a walk toand froin the room,
and in that walk he saw the letter on Fanny’s table.

“Mother,’? he said, lumbering down again, with the
letter in his hand, and vaby on his shoulder, ‘‘you “had
better look at this. Little All's got: me so tight round the
neck, that I can’t deit myself. De

Mrs. West opened the folded paper,.and spelled the
words out slowly. Her look frightened the carpenter. He
saw her tremble and fall into a chair... Stricken witha
terrible fear, he said:

“What's the matter, mother 2”?

“Oh, William! Our poor girl’s gone to make away with
herself |??

The carpenter witha white calm on his face, put the
child down, and read the letter for himself. He got up
without a word, and calling for Jem, went out. ~

He was so accustomed to have Jem trudging by his
side, that he felt stronger for Jem’s company; anda few
brief words, as they’ went along, told the lad ail: And
dem swore a terrible oath, that if anything happened to
nis sister, he would burn the Falklands out of house'and

ome.

They searched for Fanny every where; walked, London.
through, and West would have inquired of the police if
Jem had not suggested that the police would not know
Fanny from any one else. They went on their hopeless
errand, lieavy-heartéd, “desponding, and midnight’came
before their tired footsteps took them home. -

There were no tiding there. Jem went out again—
alone; and bythe meresb chance: went toward Westmin-
ter priage.? Sy) 19 16d 1 oi) oa

/Had he been five minutes “sooner he might: have seen
and saved his sister; but it was fated they were notto
meet just then. Jem passed. over the bridge, while Fanny
atood at the bottom.of the steps...

A yous wokman, out for the night, because, being out
of EDN ne: sould ‘afford: no lodging, stood leaning idly

r the ite when, glancing by chance toward the
sever! sie Ww he ‘pale face of Fanny in the moonlight,
and instantly Suapecting her intention he ran to ‘the
steps. i (aie +142 fitz

“Some poor girl going to drown herself, he thought.
“(Got no home, perhaps, like ~s or tired of life. | I hope I
shall notibe too late.” %

But he was. Fanny, startled by. his footfall, and de-
termined to carry out her purpose, uttered a last faint
prayer, and threw” ‘herself into the river. ‘The tide was
running strongly, and it took her away in a‘moment.
The young man sprang after her, wee of the danger
to himself.

i ee he said, as he plunged in.
D

The cry startled. a few solitary passers-by, a policeman,
the proprietor of a baked potato can, and Mr. Percy F alk:
Jand, returning at the moment from one of his haunts of
dissipation. The policeman could not swim—the man
with the potato can would not run the risk of losing his
property, and Mr.:Falkland had drunk too, much. to. care
whether a woman was SAU ied not. He was ina.
state of savage callousness and pitied no one.

The waitnite tanOW itt the river had to do his noble work
alone. Fanny sank once, and the second timé he had to
dive after-hers~ He»caught- her, and made forthe steps,

“A woman drown-

though L e heavy pia tried their best to drag him |:

back, “would not have Gained, fe poqung had not the
Pe rcerat ables there to. help hi him

,“‘Poor gifl !’ said the young ate «Lam ‘afraid it’s all
over with her. Put Herdown gently, policeman—as gently

as you Me

they. t—th young a beste
her hea sii kee tl ‘s Mpoligerian hold ig 18 lg
her thee; an er ih fat trangeé c ight

mastered his eration so that he could te ne
“Js she dead ?’%\y oy 3
“Quite dead, r thing “said the workman. “She
struck her head as ae were ms and the first aS eee

the rest. axliiw ai ie
m “CHAPTER. L.,
EN THE HOSPITAL.

Percy went on thus, in his present state, sai his na-
ture was changed. by. the influence.of drink..and:the fiery,
sense of disappointment. He felt a savage. gladness
mingle with remorse when the man who. had taken Fan-
wy from the water said she was quite dead.

He, was released, ab. last... The, poor girl,.would.no long-
er be'a burden to him. The nature of the man was so
changed that’ hey was Pay the:tragedy had not: taken
place befores; I Nothing i is 80 remorseless, as, disappointed
fove. © —

A crowd soon colested round poer Fanny, and oneby-
stander, having inquireddnto the case, suggested an im-
mediate removal to the;hospital, »; His "kindness was of a
jractical turn. He called a ‘cab, and paid the fate..

The young man who had taken’ Fanny from the water
would not leave her. He lifted’ Fanny into the.vehicle,
and supported Nerjin his arms throughout ‘the briefjeur-
ney. And jast asthe cab was about to start young Jem
West arrived.

“Anything the matter?! he asked, with A ageg yg of
the truéh. MLA

One of the bystanders, a man who had oe 80 much of
the sin, and suffering, and misery.in the world, that, noth-
ing came strangely to him, ‘answered:

“It’s only a woman drowned herself. Lots of thém do
itnow. Moré than are ever found, by ten to‘one.”

Jem looked intothe cab. -It-was: ‘moving; but he caught
sight of the white face and dripping. hair. He gave a low
ery in his agony, and said: 3

“lig my sister!—it’s Fanny!’

He ran after.the cab, and was at the: hospital as soon.
The hospital attendants were prompt, and kindly strove.
Tney took Fanny into the ward at once, leaving ee the
policeman, and the young man in the lobby.

One of the night surgeons, hearing the poor lad sob so
bitterly, went and spoke to him encouragingly,

“I do not think she.is quite gone,” he said;
there is a spark of life we can ‘bring her to.
wait here and learn the result.”

“Thank you, sif?sobbea Jem. ‘Father and I. went
looking for her everywhere, and when I found, her, she
had been and drowned herself.” :

The surgeon gave him a sympathizing glance. He
thought he could read ‘the story—the old. one.,

He turned then to the young man. |

“It was you who brought the girl out—was it not?”

“Yes, sir. Isaw her go in, and [tried to bein time. I }
hope ft have been.)

“What is your name ???

“William Gibson,??

“And what are you?)

‘A stonemason by trade—out of ‘work, just now. I hap-
pened to be on the bridge, because I had nowhere elsé.to
go.)

The doctor put his hand into his pocket, and gave him
five shillings.

 

iis

 

 

 

“and, if
You may

“You are a brave fellow,” ue said; “and I hope you |

will get on.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Jem was too much absorbed in his own grief to have
thought yet of thanking his companion; but he went to
William Gibson now. .

«“T haven’t been able to say anything to you yet,” he
said, choking down @ sob; ‘‘but you know how I feel.
Whether poor Fanny lives or not, you did your best to
save her; and we are not so hard up but what we can
do something for you.”

“Let’s hope for the best,’ said Gibson, kindly. “You
gee she wasn’t three minutes in the wi uber, and these hos-
pital doctors can do almost anything. 1 don’t'think she

was quite gone.”

The young man spoke against his own conviction, but
he deserved pardon, since the motive was a good ‘one.
Jem began to hope, and he looked at Gibson gratefully.
Presently the surgeon came tothem. He smiled in an-
swer to the wistful glaace, and Jem asked, eagerly:

“How isit, sir?’ °

“Your sister is safe, my man; but she will have to stay
here forsome days. She is very feeble, and inclined to
be delirious.”

“Let me see her, please ???

“Tt Is against the rules,” said the surgeon,

But dai negel so earnestly that a reluctant permis-

ft
i

 

sion was given, and the Kind-hearted gentleman con-

ducted him tothe ward. Poor Fanny lay in bed, her face

as ‘white fs the sheet that was folded down, her chest
ising faint!

: Tn waned aH his. emotion, and kneeling by the

bedside, passeduis arm gently round Fanny’ 3 neck,

“Fanny,;?! he said, kissing her, “speak tome—there’s a
dear)?

No answer came.

‘its me—Jem—you know; your brother Jem. Dospeak
to.me.”?

Her eyes unclosed then. She tried to smile, but was
too weak. © He Kissed her again,

“Mother shall come to-morrow, and bring baby. Would
you like her to?”

She.moved her head jin assent. The surgeon, careful
not tolethis patient beexcited, drew Jem away.

“You may come‘again,” he said, “and her mother may
visit her in the’ afternoon, but no more must be said now,
You see she is doing well, You will have her at home in’
legs than a week.”

oThank ‘you, sir,,and bless: you... When I get in. work
again, I'll pit Something in the hospital box every time L
pass.?

The surgéon smiled, and patted him on the shoulder.
He liked Jem’s good and simple idea of gratitude.

Jemleft the hospital, Gibson with him. He offered Gib-
son a bed, but it was refused.

“There’s be trouble enough in your home to-night,”
said the masion, “and a stranger won't be wanted there.
{can get a bed ata cotfee- shop; 2 and if youdon’t mind I
Will give you @ look up in a day or two.’ ”

It was the first night’s rest he had fer nearly a week.

(To. be Continued). “
ool gl sags g ETE an eee
SKATING SONG.

 

BY M. J. A. KEANTY

Screw on your skates, my merry mates,
The lake is smooth andnice,

And longs to feel the touch of steel
Uponits breast of ice.

Screw tight and fast, for time slips past
No longer let us stay.

fest ev’ry strap, that no mishap
May stop us on our way.

 

Now side by side, away we glide
Like birds on swiftest wing
Now right, now left, with movement deft,
In cireles round we swing.
Now in and out, we skim about
In. angles, carves and lHnes—
Skaté over skate, we emulate
The birds o’er yonder pines.

Now hand in hand, in line we stand;
And now away we go—

With jest and song, we fly along
Mid banks of virgin snow:

The cutting wind we leave behind,
The orifice we've. pass’d;

The station, too, Now looms in view—
Elurraht Meira here.at last.

Now back we'go.w. ith movement slow
The wind is all before.

We now strike out, and hear the shout
Of skaters near the shore.

With ice and steel beneath, we feel
Like birds or flying Men—

Now left, now right, with all our might—
Bravol we’re back again.

ates Gata

ID.A’S HIDDEN SIN

\By FRANCIS A. DURIVAGE, |

AtTHOR OF Sara THE OUTLAW,” “CONRAD THE
ONVICT,?’ ETC., ETC.

 

 

“Tpa’s ‘Hippen Sry”? was commenced in: No.17.. Back numbers
can be obtained trom any News Agent in the United States, ]

CHAPTER VIUII. .
THE HOUR AND THE MAN.

There ig a narrow, dark, thoroughfare leading to the
waterside from a by- -street not far from. the Tower of
London. called Lion Lane; and. the last house on the teft-
hand side as you go toward the river is a wretched inn of
the poorest description, but rejoicing in the highflown
title of the Golden Lion. ‘The roof is all overgrown with
rank, green mosses and leaks badly; the floors are sunken
and uneven, and one room that projects over the river
threatens every moment to sink into it. There are few,
if any, lodgers at the Golden Lion, but generally a good
many customers Of an evening in thetap-room.

One of the habitual frequenters of this queer, out-of-the-
way place was an old Jew, who bore the rather queer
name of Moses Moss.

The old man lived in the neighborhood, in .Lion: Lane,
in fact, lived by himself, and, to judge by his greasy, tat-
ered wardrobe and the meagerness of his purchases at
‘the butchers and the grocers, was miserably poor. What
he did to pay his ’smalb way. nobody exactly knew., A
night rarely passed without his. ealling at the Golden
Lion, where he paid for, and drank a pot of’ beer, and
smoked three or four pipes of tobacco.
‘was his nightly allowance, but he would indulge in
‘stronger potations,, though within certain reserved limits,
when he could do so at another person’s expense.

_. But those who were willing to spend’ afew shillings on
his entertainment in the hope that generous libations

‘would thai his reserve and lead him to satisfy the curi-

‘osity his strange ways and enigmatical existence excited,
“were most wolully.takemin, ©.»

. Moses was’grateful almost to servility for favor shown
himy and would drink his entertainer’s health and long
life with praiseworthy fervor, but at the very’ first’ ques-
tion hazarded for the purpose. of drawing him out, he
would shrink into, his shelland be as,taciturn as William
the: Silent.

One night, not a great while’ after ‘the scene recorded
‘in the lastchapter, Moses came to the Golden Lion, seem-
ingly in unusual spirits, and asked for the use of a private
room, for he wanted to, receive a gentleman on business.

The landlord, Jack Crawford, told. him he» could have
the Green Room—so called from the color of'the wall pa-
per—which was an apartment that projected over the riv-
er, and where he would be perfectly retired. -

Moses ordered: candles, beer, spirits, pipes, and tobac-
co;-and when the landlord opened his eyes. in astonish-
ment at this unheard-of patronage, aoe a3 him, Coie
tially’ and exultingly:’

“My friend pays for all.??

The fact. was that Moss, who was not tha poor, desti-
tute:mamhe wished to appear and succeeded in passing
for-in the quarter where he lived, had that morning met
a young man in the city: ‘who had yun away some months
ago inhis debt, ~~

The Jew cormered the: young man, accused him of being
a swindler and.fugitive, and peremptorily demanded the
payment oi his debt then and there.

The young’ man took no offense at. the Jew's language
and pressing demand. He said that he ‘had been to'sea,
as he ener find nothing to. do on shore; he had been paid
off, and had reserved. the money for nig Creditor, but did
not them have it about him; that.he could not get it. till
evening, but that then he would bring: the money tothe
Jew’s lodgings in Lion Lane.

‘To this Mr. Moss demurred, for he allowed no stranger
to penetrate his mysterious den, for reasons of his own.

The young man. then. proposed. meeting Moss at. the
Golden Lion, adding that he would stand treat, to com-
pensate the Jew for the trouble he had given him.

To this last proposal Moss joyfully acceded, and named
the hour of meeting.

He half doubted that his debtor would keep his word,
and yet there: was something so frank and straightfor-
ward about the young Tellow?s manner that he thought-le
might trust him.

And he was not disappointed. ‘The hour came, and the
man. Moses was ou.,the lookout for him, and showed
him-up into the Green Room, which looked. as cheerful as
two tallow candles could annie a dark, dingy, moldy, low-
studded room. ;

The Jew rang a bell, w hich. was to be the signal for the
waiter to bring in. the ‘peer, spirits and tobacco,

anxious to-see who dt was that exhibited such unwonted
generosity to the oid Jew; for Jack Crawford ‘had ‘in-
structed’ him to look to the "stranger for lis pay, and to
collect it when he delivered the refreshments. But, as if
purposely, the young man .seught to baffie the curiosity of
the waiter, for he turned away: from him when he enter-
ed, ang kept his head averted when he handed him the
money, including a @ouceur for the attendant himself.

But he forgot that he sat directly opposite the looking-
glass, and did not notice that.the waiter’s sharp eyes

were fixed upon the mirror.

Mr. Moss himself got up and locked the door.

“There’s such alot of prying rascals round,’ he said,
‘as he resumed his seat. “‘Now, young man, we'll squaré
accounts. Business before pleasure is my maxim.?’

“And mine, sit, said the young man. ‘Short accounts
make long friendships.”

“You have not always acted up to that principle, my
‘young friend,’ said’ Moses. “However, least said is soon-
est mended,”

It was an intrinsically small amount. that the young
man now paid over to the Jew, but to the latter a penny
looked as big as Cartwheel, while a guinea fairly eclipsed
to sun itself.

The Jew tried to slip the money into a leather pocket-
book, which he took from a pocket in his vest, without
letting his young friend see that. it was a well- filled one.

They then fell to on the refreshments—disposed of
‘the beer and began onthe spirits. For once in his life,
the Jew ‘was. rather incautious, and in a short time the
young man though he perceived that he was under the
influence of liquor. Therefore, he became more un-
guarded in his importunities to the old. man to indulge
freely. Moss’s suspicions, lulied for a moment, revived.
He watched the young man, and once or twice thought he
‘detected him in pouring away his own portion of the drink.
Was the fellow, while keeping sober himself, trying to
get him drunk? From the moment this thought occurred
to himshe resolved not to taste another drop, but betook
himself obstinately to his pipe.

Tue young fellow did not urge him, but kept pace with

 

A pint of beer}

.| —No one else noticed it—and:he stooped,

i

The, waiter, curious like ali his class, was. particularly |

‘tion, a touch of pity and of sorrow.

| peril.

his smoking, pipe for pipe,
snatches of songs, and he had a
. Af last, he said:

“Come, Mr. Moss—it’s time for. honest folks to bein
bed. One more glass of toddy—I insist. See; I’ve mixed
it for you myself.”

‘Well, then, if you insist,’ said Moss,

But at the momeiit of putting it.to his lips he hesitated
and set down the glass untouched. He had noticed a
strange: smelk in’ ve liquor, and had no doubtit was
hocussed. But he was too wary to betray his suspicions.

“Not. one drop more,’? he said, “No use in making a
fool of myself: -[: have had enough for to-night.”

He rose and moved-to the door, but péfore he could
reach it,,a muscular hand had griped his throat Another
hand tore ‘his precious pocket-book from his vest: Wild
with: furyand despair,-he grappled the robber in tura,
putting forth a strength only extreme desperation could
have lent him:

His) assailant had but one hand. to defend himself, for
he knew: that if he relaxed his:‘hold upon the Jew’s throat
for @n instant, the house would rimg with cries of robs
bery and murder.

Tne.old man fought desperately; he tore the assagsin’s
face with his long nails, he kicked:at ‘him with his hop-
nailed shoes—he alk but fuiled aud mastered him.

Tien ‘suddenly a small Knife flashed in the robber’s
hand—a sharp, deep gashin the Jew’s throat, andallwas
over Withhim.: He fell,/but in the:death-grip and: dying
struggle, victor and victim came down together. ‘The
rotten flooring of the old» roomgave way Funder their
weight, and they fell together on the bed of ooze, slush,
and offal among the piles that supported the tottering
wing ofthe dilapidated house.

Among the occupants of-the tap-room that night, quiet:
ly smoking his ‘pipe, but noting every face around nin,
and everything that was said and done, was our acquaint:
ance, Dick Varney.

He was on duty that night. He had “spotted’’ a man
and “shadowed”? lim to the neighborhood of Lion Lane,
and there he had lost- him, So, as the best thing he could
do. under the circumstances, le betook himself to. the
Golden Lion. His man might drop in there in the course
of the evening. At any rate, as it had begun to blow and
rain, there was shelter till the weather cleared.

The Green Room, where the tragedy we havé just de-
scribed occurred, was hot overhead, and owing to the
flapping of window-shutters, the peals of thunder, and
the clattering of the rain on the shingle roof, the sounds
of the deadly struggle going on aid not reaell the tap-
room. But the heavy fall, so different. frgm. all other
noises, so peculiar and startling in its character, did make
itself audible.

Old Jack Crawford started to his feet, and cried out:

“There's: a row going on:in the Green Room! The Jew
and his friend are fighting over their cups, Joe.”

This was the waiter., He and the landlord and one or

telling stories and singing
very good voice.

‘two others) went toward the room whence the strange

ane had proceeded. Of course: Dick Varney went,
00

The landlord tried the door, and found it locked. He
called—-there was no answer.

“V’ve..a great mind to force the door,’ he said:
mostilikely they’re drunk and have tumbled asleep,
I.never new Moss intoxicated, and lve known him a
dozen years.”?

While the landlord deliberated, Dick Varney acted. He
put his shoulder to the old rotten ‘door, and forced it. off
its hinges.

They all entered, and to: their astonishment found the
room empty, the candles burning low, the wicks sputter-
ing in the grease.

An article | ying on ‘the floor canghi Dick Varney’s eye
picked it up,
and put it in his pocket unobserved by the others,

Another articie was seen and secured by the landlord.
It vee a knife, with an accusing stain upon the blunt
blade,

oThis ds for the inquitch,?? he said. ;

The party moved forward, and suddenly stopped. cAs
yawning black chasm in the middle of the floor came;
near proving a trap tothem. Yarney took up one of the
candles; and shading it witlhhis diands, peered down in-
to the darkness, though the flaring of the fame in. the
foul fetid air would have bafiled any Vision less acute
than -his lynx eyes.

‘IT gee something below there,”’ he said in alow, hoarse
voice that thrilled the nerves of his auditors.
go down and 1look,.’”

The party left the room, w

“But

went down stairs, Joe, the

‘waiter, stopping a moment for a lantern, then out. into

the gusty wet night. Stumbling and sliding down a dark,

slippery bank of mud, \strewed with refuse bits of, wood,

too much saturated with ‘water. ever to make fuel, with
broken glass bottles, with dead cats and dogs, and other
rubbish, they came upon something—a dark ‘motionless
mags—that looked at first to be a heap of greasy rags hud-
died together and stranded by the tide.

But Dick. Varney, who had the strongest nerves of the
whole party, took-the lantern from Joe’s hand, and threw,
its fall light on the heap, and then the landlord cried out.
as he gazed on the staring but stirless yellow face:

“It’s poor old Moss. He’s fell threw the floor: and killed
hisself—the end of a drunken frolic.”?

“You forget the knife, friend,’’? said Varney... “And
look here—look at that wound! his is murder.

They were all rough, hard men—the spectators—and
had seen ugly sights in their day, most of them; yet, they.
felt a culd shudder as they: looked upon the dead man—.
and mingled with their fear and awe, was a gentler emo-
Most of them had
gibed at Moss when he was alive, but now there was not

‘one of them who had -an evil thought of him. “They only
‘saw the remains of a fellow- creature torn instantly from

the world of living men by a deed of ruthless. violence.
- ‘de must not liethere,)’ said.the detective. . “The next
tide would carry him off. We must take him in doors.?}
“Not into my house,’ said the landlord, who had all.an
old sailor's superstitions. - . “Lts ll luck to have a murdered,
man in the house.’?

‘Where else then?” asked the detective. ‘He came Ha

| his deathin your house.”

“He doesn’t go into my house,” said Crawford.

“The body shall be placed in ‘the room where the deed
was done,”’ said Varney.

“Who says what shall be done in my house?” asked the
landlord, with rising temper.

“Richard: Varney, the. detective... Disobey.me. at, your
Come, my friends, lend a. hand—vwe’ll mo him
instantly—the tide is rising.” ...

Reluctantly and shudderingly’ they took “up: their: ‘sad
burthen, climbed ‘the bank and the wickety stairs, and
placed if on the table in the Green Room, that same table
at which the murdered man, had so lately bat full of life
andienjoyment. i
ot What sort of a man was this who passed the evening
with him ?) asked the detective. «—

“fT don’t know—I didn’t see him,” answered the land-
lord, sullenly. ay Le

“aT gee him,” said Joe...

Varney: took the waiter, aside.

«Would you know him again if you were to sea aa 22?

‘Ay, master, anywheres,”” :

“You think you could RWearto him ??”

“J could swear to. him.’
“Welland good.”?

«“But-he won't never be catched,?? sald the waiter.

“That is your! opinion’ fo asked Varney, witha Senate
smile.”

WAY, master—don’t you think so: 9 ,

The detective vouchsafed no reply. It was useless #6
try: to pump Aim when he had made up his mina to EoD
his own counsel. ;

    

a

CHAPTER Tx, j is
MR. VARNEY EXHIBITS AN INQUIRING MIND.

‘Since his quarrel and. parting with Ida, Lewis Allerton
was a changed «man. He looked: ten years older... He
never smiled—he was silent, absent-minded, and grave
beyond his years. ‘The color had faded from’ his cheeks,
and the light from his eyes. Everybody noticed the alter-
ation except his father, and. no one.cared to direct the old
man’s attention’to the ‘fact for fear of distressing him, .

The artist workedas steadily as ever, but hisfancy had
folded her wings; and‘his inspiration had ‘ceased. He
found. it impossible to execute an ‘original design, and
begged his employers to assign him to mattet-of-fact work,
drawing. buildings, street-scenes, and the like.

Thus it happened that he was ‘sent to the scene of the
murder, the last London sensation, to sketch the room
where the deed was committed, the spot where the body
was found, the victim, everything, in short, connected
with the assassination, that was capabie of pictorial illus-
tration. In his present morbid state of mind this work
suited him well.

He was standing outside the Inn, giving the last touches
to a view of the Golden Lion, when some one tapped him
on the shoulder. He looked up and recognized Varney.

“Morning, Mr. Hallerton,”’ said the detective. *‘Draw-
ing’ the old boozing-ken, 1 see. Well, I declare—that’s
natarel’ as’ life. Let me look: at your book, @ minute.
Well—yowre quite a dab with the pencil.
make a strait markinmylife. Ay—and here’s old Moss
—poor.old buffer! Youve hit him off to.a dot,”

As he returned the sketch-book, he looked the artist.in
the face, and was shocked to observe his, paleness.

“What's the matter with you, Mr. Hallerton ? This kind
ot work isn’t making you sick—is it?”

“T-am very far from well, Varney.”

“You stick too elose to your work. You ought to.take
more air and exercise. See how heartylam. I wish
you were in the force.”

To divert the conversation from himself, Allerton asked
if anything new had come out about the murder,

“No,” replied the detective. ‘You know the coroner's
verdict—death from awound in the throat, made by a
knife or other cutting instrument, by aparty unknown.
You know that alarge reward has been offered for the
detection of the criminal, but as yet he hagnot been dis-
covered and arrested.’

“No arrest???

“No. 7?

“No suspicion as to the culprit?”

“J didn’t say that—but mark my words, Mr. Hallerton
—when the party who did the job is arrested, I shall know
it. Oh! bythe way, what’s become of the ‘party by the
name of Ida Werner? Lcalled at her house in a friendly
way, but Mrs. Douglas told me she had left without giving
her new address—left very suddenly too, though she had
just paid a month’s.rent in advance, Then I bethought
meof you. 1 should like werry much to see the gal,
Where can I get speech of her???

“J am the last person in the world to give you any in-
formation of. Ida Werner.’’

“You don’t mean to say that you won't tell because
you're jealous of me?» I’m a married man, my. boy.”

“I know nothing whatever about her.”

“Why, [thought all along you were sweet on her.??

 

“7 have done with her forever.”

“Give me your ’and, Mr. Wallerton,” said the detective?

Yet}

_ We must \

T never could }

| kerchief:in: ‘his breast-pocket.
haps you will introduce me to Mr. Waldorff.””

/hasn’t been home.

“ey congr rotataee Pole do upon my word. “the e oe apy by
1t.7? }
“And I too,?? said Allerton, while a frown darkened his
face == tee if you are & friend of mine you will never so
much as mention her namein my presence.”

“T’m sorry I totiched a raw spot, Pm sure,’ said Vat!
ney. “And I must apologize, too, for leaving you ofa
sudden—for my time is very precious—Dm on duty—
sharp! Good morniug, Mr. Hallerton.”

Mr. Warney was particularly anxious to see Miss Wer-
ner, fof reasons of hisown. But he was not so unsophis-
tice ited as to roam the streets of London in the hope that
tie He chance to meet her. Jie never worked without
a clue

He liled at onde to the shop’ in the strani Whete his
female detective, “a'party by the-name- of Fanny,” had
once before struck the young girl’s trail.
woman could not give hitn the address of the semptress
since she had left Mrs. Douglas, but added, however, that
Ida Was to ‘bring sorte Work that evening, and tivat ‘she
would then ask her for her residence;

It was not exactly by chance that’ Mr. Richard Varney
was lounging at a@ print-shop window at the very moment,
when, in the dusk of the evening, Ida Werner, having
transacted her business atthe milliner's, was hurrying
homeward through the Strand. He had been waiting for
her, and though he did not turn his head, he saw ier
coming, and contrived to meet her accidentally,

He paused, affected: great surprise and pleasure at
— her, and then turned and walked: a with
rer.

“You're just the very identical young lady I wanted to
seé,’? said the detective. “I called at yout ‘use -this
morning anad’tT found you'd moved, and they couldn't tell
me where‘you hung out. Iwas just going to ‘ask Mr.

of yours—but you've spared me the trouble.’ By the.way,
ow is Hallerton? I’aven’t'seen him tor a Jong while.”

“Ida evidently winced at the Name, and her voice fal-
tered} as she replied: ‘

A is sometime since I have seen the gentleman my-
self.”?

“And very creditable to you, my dear,’ said the detec-
tive.’ “You are alone'in the world; and youveannot ve
too heedfal in your conduct.” Now its hardly safe tor:you
to be out alone so late. Have you no one to er your”?

“No-one, sir,?? she replied sadly.

“Phen it’s very lucky you met me.
lodgings.”

“J won't trouble you, sir—it’s'a great ways off, dirt then
+l hardly care to let any one know low humbly TI am
housed.’?

“It's a disgrace to you, my child, said the detective,
with marked emphasis. ‘No’ one need be ashamed of
yonest poverty.”

‘Whatever I ana, sir,” answered Ida—“at' least I can
say that i’m honest.”

“There's a whopper!’ thought the detective.

“T really must insist that yon won’t take the trouble of
going home with me.” But if she was anxious: to dis-
miss him, Varney was equally resolved not toube shaken
off, and continued pertinaciously at her side.

“You said you wished to seeme, sir. Was . ‘merely to
make a friendly call, or business?”

“Both, The fact is, however, lve got a job: for you. Tb
learn you embroider handkerchiefs very nicely.’)s

“¥ have found them quite saleable, sir.’?! <0

“J want one with my cipher in the corners! Not: a plain
letter V., do you understand? But.my two initials, Ri
Y., all surrounded by sunflowers and sphinxes, and lilies
of the walley, and hother classical hornaments, such as
you know how to figger‘hup. I want two dozen of then.”
' “Two dozen, sit!?

“Two dozen—nothing shorter.
/pense.”!

| - “df you-ean give me your idea exactly, sir—L wilh un-
idertake the work gratefully. My needle is my ae
| pendence?’ i
| osDve gote pattern, miss;which Pll show you when: we
| get home.??

a So there wasno shaking off Varney now, and Ida’ had
‘to'make the best‘ofit. No wonder sie was ashamed to

Ll take you to your

I don"t eare for the ex-

| house in’ a'miserable street. What was called the parlor,
‘into which she ushered:him, was alow, dark den, fortun:
ately’ very feebly ilaminatea by a. smoky oil lamp.
They sat'down oma‘ haircloth sofa.
“Now, my dear,’ said the:detective, ‘il show you the
| patter: n—and I want you to embroider me two dozen just
like ’em; same quality—only my initials in the corner.”
He took a handkerchief from: his breast pocket, and’
‘placed itimher hand. The moment her: ‘eyes rested on
'the corner'’she shook like a leaf.» - a5
“Where did you get this??? she asked.2 ss S05 &
“T bought it at a pawnbroker’s shop. It looked Jike
some work of yours I'd seen,’ and took my famcye Isv:it

| your work?

“It is my work,’’ she said, still agitated and bewildered,
“Then you know of ‘course what name them initials
stand for?’ asked the detective, following.up his line of
! peor Wn sharply, before'the girl could recover testi ae
of mind. t
“What name? Christian Waldorff.”’
“You Know the name to be Waldorff?"?'
“T should know my own name,” said Ida,
“Are you not a party by the name of Werner?”
“T beg pardon—TI thought you knew—I thought J mu
/mentioned—Werner was not my real name—only te
porarily assumed. . Excuse me, sir, 1 am not teas we i

/—-my head is giddy.”

“Shall bring the bell?” ; : i :%
“No—I shall be better presently. I think you: ead
something about my working some handkerchiefs for you.
You willleave the pattern with me???

“Not by no manner of means, miss, or madam, which-
ever you are,’’ answered thie detective, securing the hand-
“Butoif I wait here, per:

“T have not seen him for somedays,” replied Ida. ‘He
And oh! sir!’ she added, bursting in-
to tears, ‘if you could only tell-me anything about him, I
should be so grateful. “When you first showed me that
handkerchief [ thought you had: got:it:from him:: Ddidn’t
think Christian would have pawned my. — = alas!
alas! he has been very careless lately.’

‘‘Careless!’? thought the detective. SY: es, ‘very-careless,
it*was’ careless of. him to: ‘cutthe old Jew’s: throatiand
leave him: out:o’ doors’ where-anybody could: find him.
Careless'too to drop ‘his: marked lunneileerehigs wee £
Jound tion the very spot of the murder.??.:

This was what he thought, what. he sat@ wast: 5
“{ mustibe going, ma’am: Yowre in such trouble about

 

/Mr. Waldorff that PU make it my business togind him,

you may esperd sige its a ay sees ee Vu tell nit
he’s wanted,”

‘TI shall be so grateful ” said: ‘da,
tive’s hands © YikiQuit & AAW oid

“Pdon't know writes 66 make of: that party,” cone
the detective, as: he left the house*toy Make: certain ar-
rangements he had projeeted: “She' seemsto beigreen,
and does some green things, butishe must: bea deep one,
Confesses to having sailed under false colors.: A married
woman, yet sweet on Lewis Allerton! She’sa bad lot.
Her husband may be dh the house—yet iasJike as nothe
isn’t. This woman may know something.of the murder—
again she may know nothing. But whereithe henbirdiis
the mate can’t be far off. =o Caristian oe i. chink
vrs ‘gat yout sai % 9 ‘

CHAPTER ee Ott :
THE APTLU RED: cae

“Tday ssckisd habpiaitiaie? Va arney’s. suspicions, was. cwalia
ignorant of: Christian’s’ whereabouts. Notwithstanding
His: assurance that ‘he must) keep-himself secluded fora
time, yet, very Shortlyafter their change of lodgings, he
went out freely, and finally absented himself for days.

Night after nightIda sat up working and: watching: for
him. He‘had well. said: that sher: needle would Have ba
earry double. aif i

Tolling nineteen hours out of the twenty-four, seeing
no-one but her poverty-stricken landlady, and reading no
newspaper, she: was also ignorant of theterrible’ erime

which was just then the talk of-all:London:

it was near: midnighton the day of her meeting: with
the detective, when a series of raps on the front)door an-
nounced the joyful news of the wanderers ‘returns: This
signal had been preconcerted between them.

She flew down the Stairs, admitted:Christian, and threw
herself into his arms, sobbing with joy:

“J am'so glad, Christian,” she said; ‘‘that I can’t-find it
in my heart to ask you why you were'so cruel ‘as to stay
away: from me so.long without giving Ine ‘any tidings of
you.

jolasping the. dotee-

stairs.’? j
They occupied two rooms; wretched:as they were.
When: the doorwas closed. on them, and Ida had a

chance to see Waldorfi’s face, she was shocked to find

him look so wild'and haggard.

“Are you unwell??? she’asked, anxiously. :

*‘No, but I’ve been working hard.’

“T90 hard, Christian.”

“And you look pale and overworked, Ida.
shall both have time to rest on the voyage.’

“The voyage! What voyage???

“Whiy, from Liverpool to New York.”!

‘J thought you disliked America.”

“That was when I was‘out of funds, but Pve been
lucky lately. I met a man—alimost aceldentally—who
took a great liking to me, and ehgaged me to go’ to New
York to take charge of a store for the sale of his goods on
commission. He isa Manchester’ mannfacturer, and has
made mea large advance. Thisshows I’m telling you no
story this time,’? and he pulled a handful of bank- notes
and coin from his pocket.

He laughed strangely as he chinked the gold and
rustied the notes in his hand before returning them to his
pocket, lt was a laugh with very little hilarity in it.

“Faith,’? he said, “this windfall came justin time. 1
was literally penniless—for in my searchfor work I had
spent all you gave me atonefellswoop. I met acreditor,
and had to satisfy him.
oe knew you must have been in great distress,” said

a.

“Knew iti

Bat we

How did you knowit?” exclaimed Chris-
tian. ‘You haven’t been at your old jealous tricks follew-
ing me about. I forbade you doing that.

“Don't be angry, dear—I knew you must be suffering,
or you wouldn’t have pawned the handkerchief I worked

for you.”
“The handkerchief! cried Christian. “I did not pawn
it—I lost it. What do you Know about the handkerchief?

Tell me all, and instantly.”
He seized her arm, and looked fiercely into her eyes.
dt gentleman showed it to me.”
sow here 2%)
Sheree.
“Have you been receiving gentlemen in my absence ?”
“Icouldno’t help it, Christian, This was a person I had

 

the name-of idais a badiot—’m morally convinced Of

But the shop- |

Hallerton about you—knowing he was a particular friend:

| the outer

show where she lived, forit was in a wretched lodging- |

ing hi

“J have been to Liverpool, +) hie said; “but let’s go up :

.| diseases in use.”

‘coming to arrest him, resistance would be

| Why commit apother’ crime and so
The handkerchief was only a. sing

‘then he had but te ts:

known betare. and awaited me to do Rens abi: ct ‘eli
ne met me in the street. and insisted on. egearting me
Lome?

“When? when? Speak quick ced.
graspi ae her arm.

“This evening—just after dansk

CAM > He?" His name?”

“Richard Varney? 4

wy" Sidonee uttered a cr ‘y of rage rant

“That man? he said.

“Do you kiow jim ??

“Not by sight—but by name..
bad as it might’ bes
chief?"

“eT told you; he ssid he bought #t.atia See poker’ 8.7?

“She villain lied, But or Bs all that passed? He
merely wanted you to do some oe ae if, eh? You
didn’t tell himalt wassyour work.) «o

“To be sure I did—why not???

“Oh! you. worse than fool! But what. more? “Answer
me one question. End, he ask YOU neha Rome theinitials
GW. stood for 24°:

“We didi? - vekeres
»o HAndyouwtokl Jnima 21? yi te

Me had, now risen,to his, feet, and een. ! glaxiag at her
as if his life depended on her ausiver... ...,

“7 told him,’ she answered, wondering pt the emotion
exhibited by Waldorff.

He clenched his fist and raised it ds if he were abont to
strike her dead But, his muscles relaxed, his ara drop-
ped, and a lock of terror siicceedett to his fury.

“What dis the matter with jouy Christian?’ asked, Ida;
“what have done?” .

“Simply this, wretched woman, ” answered the man?
“you have betrayed mepi- —

“E don’t understand you, Chris jan,’? faltered Ida.

“E will make it plain,” replied Waldortt.

“That man to whom you biabbea is’ a, detective—the
Hebe of the pack at Scotland-yard—and he jound that

handkerchief where I must Mave dropped it—in the room
of a public-house... J missed it, and L, knew Lmust lave
drooped it there.??

“And why did you not go back for if?"

“Why ?—only fora trifie, laa. .
been a murder; do you mark me? amuréer committed in
‘hatroom. Two menshad passed the pening there—one a
rich old dew—the other The
Jew was murdered for his money—and I am alive. Do
you understand me now?!

ida was; wild with horror.

“You—you—Christian Waldroff. 4
: are a murderer and you have betrayed me to the gal-
Ows

With.a piereing shriek, the unhappy woman fell heavily
to the floor..

Christian beKeved that he had stain her with a %
he had slain his other victim with a knife, but tie has
tine to verify the fact—tor mufiled footsteps WwW
on the stairs, and they drew néar the door.

| He was armed, but if, as’ he feared the off

tian, Ss ‘still

Ghris

  
 
  
      

  

trol ie

a

hibcsnada al isnbt 20
Did hesay where'he got. the handker-

 

 

                            

 

YOre an
ais?

   
  
    
 
 
  
 
   
 
   
  
 
 
   
  
 
  
   

then. he was not so agitated but that he ¢
SUrE

 

je
and he might escape. . For a mon
would surrender peaceably, sa ink

 

  

EY

 

his chances before» the: law. .-Bet the eon of
guilt impelled him toa di scant course ght was
moore inviting. :

He stole to the wind - A leap
might land him. in ng.a limb;

vairto yedian alley-
way, ancthe nig#:s favorable ‘to his pur-

pose.

was &

Whatever he =: restian Waldroff was
brave as ste! Hieless form, of, Ida—
something : wesperate spring into

sat to speak to you a minute.
3

2 i to. 6 men: “who were sro
i her.
y strode forward, and beat a harsh stm-

in the entry &
Richard Va

mons witlhis cane upon the panels.) 01 00) 4

“Open,” he-cried, “in the name: of the law... |,
As he was disobeyed, he kicked the door open with his,
foot, and strode in, followed by the ouuer otlicers of the

lawand: ‘by the landlady.

The first. object. that met. his. sight. was. the prostrate
form. of Ida, ...

“Has the villian: ‘killed his’ ‘partner *” was. his first
thought. i bila [Sven ons

» & brief examination,: “however, showed; him, ‘lias, she
was living, and he directed. the Jandlaay t to: apply. Le CPEDG

per remedies and revive her.

Then he glanced into the inner room. It was empty.

| The open window, however,. betrayed. the course the fugi-
| tive had taken. 4

“The bird has flown,’” he said. “No matter—he can’t
range far.: He’s had: his labor’for his’ paims.) 9.9 74

At that. moment a, pistol-shot was. heard... Shows. fight
—does he ?’’ said the: detective. Bu hope x none of the boys
are hit.”

Before long: the door of the outer room opened, and two
officers came in, jeading, Christian eer With his arms

|pinioned.. He was pale but self-possessed.

. ns I treated thus?” he vic Badelh aaa reas
elfitorVarneyi <u &

“A mere matter of, business, * a ate detective. oy
am obeying orders. Ihave a ‘warrant for tle arrest of
Christian ‘and Ida Waldorg. What have you ta Say for
yourself ??”

“Nothing,’?. replied Christian, speaking, oud, 80 that
Ida, who was restored ‘ to: consciousness, might hear and
mark what he said. “<A prisoner under’ arrest is not
bound to, answer asylable, J suppose wwe. are charged
with some offence. We are innocent. It is for you.to,
show cause.”?

“What did you ran away for eisked’ —_* il si a

SLdeny that lranvaway.) beens
ai aid, you. fire, on. me, for”, asked. ‘one. of ‘the
officers.
el took you fora rogueawhen you latléd'me'to stop in
the dark ue If 1 had seen your face I should have re~

ained.of the same opini
De tare words,”? said IR fay antboritattvely, as the
official: was Preparing toreply. en im along. fr 299 9G
: Cee aa oan ae < 1 8
jal w ind ¢ to put, onl er, bons
t) aa ean Te Tp enoug
f ih Spryeake eS eel dneroonpioiehe meson: the detestive to
himself. “But Vil soon have ’empundersock and key?!

it was very late when the prisoners reached. the. Place
of detention where they Were to pass the. night.

“Eat obo Continudlt. y 100° To Ya say BALL

{13 ue aie oe Od Eau!
NBII Be SW RSo5Ssim

“Mr. Joun Appleton, Hamilton. Sau ane,. Nd. 5 Writes uss

““T have fully tested all’s: ama, an
find it the best articlein’ Dr. Com mar leavers used. Tt has
cured my, wifeywhen her, phy, pcre i nf ughtshe had Consomp-
TION, and also one of my heighbors he “ther Bieias® pe
she was Pass medical aidy? : 4

VICK S,.

iGOR8 YISF Biss TS

eget GUIDE
ee

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ae : JAMES VICE, ‘Rochester, N.Y.

wl9-2t Tio baa 1 Hisiod Jagcs ba

 

 

 

 

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WM. DEERE! Wil DEERE!
Tf Win. Deere will call or address Charles Willson, he will hear
of something greatly toobis advantage.
CHARIS ih, WILLSON, J Deluyan Hou: ey Albany, N, Y.

 

 

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Sold by all Drurgists. 18 2t

 

 

Only because there bad ;

 

  

 

 

 

 
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Fee ee earner ete ee

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DPA

Reese

New York, March 23, 1871.

 

 

 

 

The Terms to Subscribers:

One» 2ar—single copy .............000...-2+.. Three Dollars.

Goo TWO CODE ieccict eo secscss oes cs have Dollars:
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3 NEW STORIES
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Have been carefully revised for early publication in the

Wew York Weekly.
“Why Did He Marry Her ?”

By ANNIE ASHMORE,
Author of “FAITHFUL MARGARET,” “BEAUTIFUL RIENZI,”
and “THE BRIDE ELECT.”

Abner Holden’s Bound Boy ;
OR,
THE POOR RELATION,

By HORATIO ALGER, Jr.,
Author of “Luck AND PLUCK,” “RAGGED DICK,” “BEN,
THE LUGGAGE Boy,’? etc.

Carlos, the Terrible;

OR, THE

SIGN OF THE TRIPLE CROSS,

By NED BUNTLIN: 5,
Author of “BUFFALO BILL” and “WRESTLING JOR.”?

a 08

 

 

 

 

 

 

. One ig @ soul-absorbing iove story, fall of thrilling
Scenes, and marked by the chasteness of expression and
vigorous diction for which ANNIE ASHMORE is so justly
renowned. a

The second illustrates the eventful career of a friend-
Jess, but high-spirited boy, whose pride and manliness
prevent him from cringing even to a formidable and re-
lentless enemy, who pursues him with a life-long hate.

The lastis an exciting historical romance of Spain
during the reign of Philip the Second. The incidents
are novel and exciting, the action rapid, and the pilot en-
trancingly interesting, being entirely diferent from any-
thing Mr. JUDSON ever wrote before.

———_>-2-+_—__

In Memoriam.

Our gifted contributor, Alice Cary, is no more. After
& long-continued iliness, and suffering inexpressible, she
passed away from our midst on the morning of Sunday,
February 12th, and her mortal remains were laid at rest
in Greenwood Cemetery on the Tuesday following.

No writer of this generation was heid in more loving
consideration than Miss Cary. Hers was one of those
rare natures whose very presence diffused an influence
like sunshine; and, had she never written a line, earth

 

“must have been better for her living presence.

But gifted with the poet’s power, by it she immeasura-
bly enlarged the sphere of her influence, and in all the
length and breadth of the land became, indeed, a Wel-
come Gueri, : : :

It is fair to assume that few poets of the time touched
80 many hearts, or aroused in the popular mind so much
downright consideration for the poet’s mission; certainly,
no writer of verse was more acceptable alike to editors
and seaders. 3

The announcement, then, that the chords of her lyre
never more will thrill to her touch—that never again will
her strains of song come to us save as an echo—will cre-
ate profound regretin the bosoms of all whose heart-
guest she has been, and send tears to the eyes of those
whose precious privilege it has been to know her in a
personal relation.

Like many of our most successful writers, Miss Cary
was born.and bred in the West, and grew up amid in-
fimences well calculated to develop in her that strong in-
dividualism and self-expression which ever must charac-
terize the successful thinker and writer.

Living in ‘the vicinity of Cincinnati, her first composi-
tions were given to its press. Their beauty, their fresh-
ness, and their flavor of the woods and fields, at once di-
rected attention to the author, and her name very soon
was spoken ofin admiration by metropolitan critics, who
could not long Jet the poet remain in her distant and se-
cluded home, She wrote of these early years:

“The poems I wrote in these times, and the praises they
won me, were, to my eager and credulous apprehension,
prophecies of wonderful things. * * * * The voices that
ame cheeringly to my lonesome and obscure life across
the mountains how precious they were to me! Among
the most cherished are Edgar A. Poe and Rafas W. Gris-
wold .??

@Whus lured from her .childhood’s home, the poet, along
with her gifted sister, Phoebe, found her way to New York
in 71850; and thereafter the great city became her dwell-
ing-place, each year brimging to the sisters a steady in-
creage of fame, and widening that circle of acquaintance
which long since became memorable in literary circles.
Around her, in her pleasamt.city home, gathered all that
was best and most notable in art and letters.

Alice Cary wrote freely, and almost uniformly well,
scattering her poems widely through the religious press,
the magazines, and the popular weeklies, and they. were
equally well received by ali. A collection of these contri-
butions would fill a large volume; and few, of all she has
written, would an editor care to.discard from the volume.
Each was significant—was pervaded with a feeling, and
alive with athought, which, expressed in her pains-tak-
ing but always exquisitely modulated verse, both pleased
and impressed; and she will live in fame less from any of
her several volumes of prose, from any‘one poem or se-
ries of poems, than by the almost uniform tenderness,
sweetness, truth, and love of the Beautiful which per-
vyades all she has written, either in prose or verse,

¥or the Nsw YoRK WEEKLY she wrote often, and al-
ways with charming acceptance; and among the very last
productions of her hand, written from that bed of pain
froma whence the Good Angelis at last removed her, was the
poem given in our issue of February 23d (No. 15), entitlea
“Second Sight’’—so fullef music and pathos that many
a reader has put it away in his or her album of good
things. And we have the mournful pleasure of adding
that in .our hands are a number of her contributions
which have not yet seen the light, but which. we shall
present in due time.

Many are the tributes paid to her memory. Gathered
at the funeral service over her body, in the “Church of
the Strangers’’—-a church for those who are strangers
in a strange city, and which her labors and devotion had
helped so much to build up—was a great concourse of
publishers, authors, artists, and divines, and others to
whom she was personally endeared, and from whose
tongues dropped such expressions of regard and regret

 

 

 

 

 

ceive; and more than one touched those lips so cold in
death, as that solemn procession passed, for one last
leok, the casket enshrining the dead.

“A woman who could stand up for her rights without
arousing the animosities of others; who was 2@ philan-
thropist, wihhout either cant, affectation, or bitterness;
who wrote many true poems, but lived one sweeter and
truer than she ever wrote—such was our universally be-
loved Alice Cary.

May He that giveth His beloved peace, give us who
Knew that beautiful life the grace to imitate it,

A DREAM OF WARNING.

BY BERO STRONG.

 

 

 

Mabel Wharton was twenty-two; an heiress in a small
way, a beauty, and @ general favorite. On the morrow
she was to be married to Paul Montgomery, a young man
of good family and large fortune, who wa8 most devoted-
ly in love with her.

Everything had gone on very smoothly. There had
been no lover’s quarrels, no jealousies, no misunder-
standings, The wedding-dress fitted beautifuily—the vail
was long, and the bride-cake was done toacharm. The
wedding presents had arrived in liberal relays, and were
bengeaine and costly enough to satisfy the most ex-
acting.

Still, a8 Mabel stood before her glass, taking down her
hair, it was a very rueful face that she saw reflected
therein, What was the matter she could not have told.

Why she should think more of Edward Harwell in his
lonely prison cell, than of Paul Montgomery, her waiting
lover, was a mystery to her.

Perhaps her nerves had been in some degree shattered
by the cruel tragedy which had occurred in her family
Some two years previous, but why on this night, of all
others, she should be haunted as she was, by the face of
her brother’s murderer, she could not explain.

George Wharton had been assassinated ina very secret,
mysterious way—one dark night in winter—and. for a
long time all efforts to discover the nanrderer had failed.
At last circumstances poinied to Edward Harwell. The
clue was followed up, and the crime charged upon him
was proved to the minds of the jury. He was respited
from the scaffold, and sentenced to imprisonment for life.
He had been in prison now nearly fourteen months,

Harwell was the son of a poor book-binder. By trade
he was @ carpenter, and before being charged with this
crime he had borne an excellent character. He had pro-
tested his innocence with manly dignity; had accepted
his fate with brave submission, and when the time came
for him to enter his gloomy prison-house, he had gone,
with the step of a hero, and with no sign of faltering.

Mabe! had seen him in court, and though her heart was
fired with indignation against the murderer of her broth-
er, she could not help the wild thrill of sympathy which
ran through her as she met the deep, serious eyes of the
prisoner.

To-night she seemed to see him again—just as she saw
him then, and when she tried, with loyal heart, to think
of him so soon to be her husbang, iustead of his face she
saw Edward Harwell’s!

She did not love Mr. Montgomery—that is, she did not
feel in any respect as she had imagined she should when
she should bein love. She was conscious of no quicken-
ing heart-throb at his approach; she never thrilled at his
touch, or shirked at his compliments. And yet, she ex-
pected to spend her lifetime with him. When she thonght
of that she was troubled, but she always solaced herself
with the remembrance that people did get on, somehow,
and of course, they should.

She went to bed at last, but she tossed about uneasily
for a long time before sleep came. When it did come her
slumbers were disturbed and unrefreshing. She woke
sometime past midnight in a cold perspiration. She had
had such a strange dream!

people and looked at a gallery. On the fatal platform was
a man with the sheriff’s rope around his neck. She looked
again—and @ sharp shudder of dread ran through her,
for it was Paul Montgomery whom she saw!

She woke in such a terrified state that she got to the
-door to speak to her mother, and then recoliecting that
her conduct would cause surprise, shecrept back into
bed, and covered her head in thé sheets,

Again she slept, and again was the dream, or vision,
before her. She woke a second time frightened and
trembling, and after a long time of wakefulness she siept
for the third time, and again was the dream repeated.

When she woke the third time, her mind was clear.
She recognized these dreams as a warning from Heaven!
She rose and dressed, and went to her mother’s room,
and in a steady voice announced her determination to
break with Paul Montgomery.

There was a fierce and stormy scene, but Mabel was
firm asarock. They might kill her, if they pleased, but
never alive would she become Paul Montgomery’s wife.

ao would she give any reason for this strange de-
cision. :

Her parents labored with her in vain, and at last gay
it up in despair.

Montgomery was informed of the turn affairs had taken,

fied many women into compliance with his demands.
|Not Mabel. She continued fixed—and so the wedding

was folded away, and the bride’s cake did not. feel the
touch of the knife. . — , i

There was amore than nine days’ wonder over the
affair; some insisted that Mabel was developing incipient
insanity, and others asserted that Montgomery himself
had broken the match, |

And no one but Mabel knew the faets in the case.

Montgomery, mortified and. angry, sailed for Europe,
to escape the scandal; and Mabel was banisied to the
country for the season. 5 ;

A year passed, and Mabel was allowed to return home,
but she seemed to have lost all taste for society, and re-
mained in strict seclusion.

Meanwhile, Montgomery had come home, bringing with
him a handsome, stylish wife, who at once took her place
as a leader of society.» ;

Point Gunpowder Works exploded. Six poor fellows lost
their lives, and several Others were fatally tnjured.

A few days after the accident, one of these injured men,
James Marley by name, sent for Mabe} Wharton. .

Mabel was surprised, and so were her friends, for not
one of them had ever known aught of this Marley. Mr.
Wharton accompanied his daughter in her visit to the
dying man, whom they found lying very low in one of the
company’s tenement houses. :

There was a magistrate by the bedside, and two other
persons—all of whom had been summoned by Marley.

Marley himself was a frightful looking object, with his
burnt and blackened face, his sightless eyes, and the fear-
ful leer upon his countenance, which not even all he had
suilered of change could quite obliterate. .

He addressed himself to Mabel,

“I sent for you,” said he, “to doan act of-justice. I
Wanted to speak to yon because I was gure that you had
suspicions of Paul Mohtgomery. You believed that ne
murdered your brother, and on that account you mitten-
edhim. How you came to find out anything about it,
beats me; but I think youdid. Now, my man’’—to the
magistrate—“git aut your tools, and write down what I
say. And what I say, I say of my own free will. Nobody
has wormed itout of me. With my own eyes—the eyes that
cursed gunpowder tore out of my head the other day—I
saw Paul Montgomery shoot George Wharton. They quar-
reled, came to blows, and Monigomery shot him. I hau five
hundred doilars for keeping the secret.. | swore Edward
Harwell into prison, and now I will swear him out again.
I have got so near the other country that 1 see the biack-
ness of the pit at my feet, and with that and Heaven’s
judgment before me, I swear that this is the trath!’?

He signed the paper presented to him’ with a feebly-
scrawied cross, and when Squire Ranson took the pen
from his fingers they were stiffened in death.

Of course everybody experienced a great shock when
told of Mr. Montgomery’s guilt, and of course the officers
oS occas were on his track at once. But he. outwitted
them.

By some unknown means he had obtained aclue to
Mariey’s confession,and when the sheriff reached his house
to arrest him, he found only a dead man, with: an empty
bottle by his side, labeled jaudanum.

Harwell was released, and people lionized and made a
hero of him to such an extent that he was giad to get out
of tewn and escape it all.

Mabel sought him, and asked his forgiveness in behalf
of her family. They had wronged him deeply, though
unwittingly; and Mabel made a very graceful pleader.

Never mind the rest.

Both were young and ardent. Harwell wasa noble
fellow, and Mabel wasatrue woman. If they married
each other and were happy, in spite of fate, who shall say
it was not the best thing they could do?

— OS
How a Family Became Blind.

There lives a family in Dorchester County, says a Cam-
bridge, Mass., paper, every dark-eyed male member of
which for the past fifty years, has gone blind at the age
20 to 25 years. Those with blue eyes escape the terriple
affliction. There is atradition about this singular cir-
cumstance which we lay before our readers:

Some sixty years since, so goes the story, a beautiful
black-eyed girl of 20, from some Gause or other, lost her
eyesight. Her misfortune brought penury and want
with it. Being reduced to beggary, she was wont to go
about asking alms. During one of her journeys she
visited the neighborhood in which resided the ancestors
of those who are now sightless. Instead of her helpless
condition exciting, as it should have done, a feeling of
Sympathy, she was treated with ridicule by some of the
younger member of the house her evil star had led her in-
to. Two of the boys, a8 a matter of mere develtry, took
her out, promising to conduct her toa place where plenty
awaited. Instead of giving her safe conduct, they carried
her into a Swamp and Je!t her. It is said that she cried
out, beseeching them to put her on the public road, but
they heeded not her lamentations. Finding herself about
to be deserted among the tangled brush wood, she turned
her prayer to a curse, asking her Maker, in her revengful
anguish, to punish her betrayers by making their off-
spring for seven generations as helpless as she was. It
is said that she wag found dead in the swamp, having
perished from hunger and cold. Whether the tradition-
ary part of it be false or true, it is assuredly a fact that
the male offspring of the family referred to, lose their

 

 

as it falls to the lot of but few of earth’s creatures to re-

sight as indicated, Hundreds of persons in Dorchester
Oounty will verify ic.

 

She thought that she stood amid a vast concourse of |

and he put himself into such a rage as would have terri-.

day passed, without any wedding—the beautiful dress.

A little after thelr appearance in L——~, the Crown |

ee Sa

 

 

é 5 eeD

THE LADIES’ WORK-BOX.

[A department designed especially for ladies, wherein will
be answered all questions which may be asked by cor-
respondents, relating to fashion, the different styles of
dress, combination of colors, needle-work of all kinds,
the arrangement of the hair, etiquette—in short, any-
thing of especial interest to ladies.]

When we were young, and lived in the country, it was
considered necessary to have but two bonnets or hats a
year. Now, our children declare that four loves of hats
and bonnets must be provided. The only unanswerable
reason for the extravagance, is given by a little one of
ten, as she wisely asserts that “bonnets are so much
smaller now, than they were when you were young, that
young ladies. must have two to be equal to the one of the
old fashioned style.”

We have seen some of the new hats for March, and are
glad to know that straw, which has been somewhat cast
aside, will again be in favor. Nothing is neater than a
pretty straw hat, trimmed with a few flowers, and bows,
and loops of ribbon. Fancy straws of all kinds are being
‘prepared. A very stylish bonnet, gipsy form, is of fine
English straw, and trimmed with blue velvet, black lace,
and white flowers. Some are exceedingly tasty, with
clusters of white daisies, intermingling with red carna-
tions and long grass, Another gipsy has a fluted brim
lined with rose-colored silk. A twist of broad black yel-
vet round the crown, with bows and ends at the back,
and a large rose, with spray of leaves and buds on one
side. Round hats too, are fashionable, but a little on the
order of those: worn by gentlemen. Some are trimmed
with a band of ribbon, either black or in colors, with
fringed ends, and a bunch of flowers, with green foliage,
and long grass, on one side. Lace bonnets, with flowers
in front, and lace lappels, and long trails of flowers in the
back, are worn in full dress, but are more expensive and
not any prettier than the others mentioned.

We notice that lace vails are again coming in style. The
only way they can be worn with the hat of the period, is
to have them large, and square, and throw them loosely
over the hat, as one woulda common gauze vail.

For the benefit of many of our readers who will recog-
nize the replies to their questions, we give the names and
prices of some of the most popular dress-goods:

For mourning purposes there are black lusterless silk,
in all grades, from $1 50 to $3 00 a vard; cashmere from
$1 50 to $5 00; Henrietta cloth from $1 00 to $2 50; crepe
cioth $1 00 and $2 00; black empress cloth from 50 cents
to $1 00; merino trom 65 cents to $1 25; Krench and Eng-
lish bombazine from $1 50 to $3 00; Buffalo brand alpacas
from 50 cents to $1 00. In second mourning materials we
find striped silks, gray or white, and black, $1 50a yard;
Japanese silks 75 cents and $1 00; micado silks $1 00;
grenadines from 40 cents to $1 50a yard. In colors, we
find the grisaille gros grain, inchecks and stripes, $1 50
a yard; also the japanese at 75 cents and $1 00; and the
micado, which is very pretty for suits for young ladies, at
$1 00 a yard.

One of our principal houses has just opened a new and
elegant stock of plain, colored silks, in the cameo shades.
This is the most fashionable color of the season, and cen-
sists of many shades, commencing with the darkest
shade, and graduating down to a tinted white, forming
most elegant contrasts in color. The opal shades are pe-
cuiiar, and beautiful tints of various colors, in elegant
qualities of silks, and have never before been offered for
sale. These are expensive, ranging in price from $2 50
to $10 00a yard. Ladies who intend to purchase cheap
materials, would do well to buy those before looking at
these rich silks.

‘“Magegie.’—Get an English straw hat, and trim it with
black velvet,, white daisies and trailing sprays of grass.
There is no more stylish way of arranging the hair than
in curls. You might, if your hair is thick, arrange it in
oe braids: and curls, according to descriptions given

efore,

“Afhlicted.”.—Don’t eat butter, wash or bathe your face
three or four times a day in pure cold water, and then
rub thoroughly with a harsh towel. We have known that
method to remove pimples.

Curls are still worn over the forehead—-some ladies are
foolish enough to cut a lock of their front hair short, and
allow it to hang over the forehead.

“Nellie.’—Zcru linen will be trimmed with white, or
black and white guipure. Plain linen suits, with braid,
or black and white striped cambric. Batiste, with black
and white guipure, and silk pipings or narrow folds.

' “Bride.”.—The newest ornaments for bridals are made
of prepared Danish fish-scales, fine twisted silver wire,
pearls, and crystals, and are suitable for balls and weda-
dings, as they form ornaments for the hair, as well as
brooch, ear-rings and necklace.

“Anxious.’’—Don’t be ashamed or afraid to go to work,
if you lose ‘‘caste,’’? you will gain something better—
respect. Don’t “think” any longer—this is the difference
between thinking and doing: ‘It is not what people eat,
but what they digest, that makes them strong. It is not
what they gain, but what they save, that makes them
rich. It is not what they read, but what they remember,
that makes them learned. Itis not what they profess,
but what they practice, that makes them righteous.”
When you commence working remember this—frowns do
not attract, but smiles and kind words will make and
Keep friends. ;

“Miss Kitty.’—Mrs. Grant, the President’s wife, dresses
| very elegantly on all social occasions. At the time of her
last appearance before Lent, at the Washington Monument
Fund ball—she was attired in a white silk dress, with a
rose-colored brocade court train, trimmed with a band of
pink ostrich feathers, low corsage, with a fallof white
|point around the neck, headed witha narrow band of
ostrich trimming. A pearl necklace encircled her neck,
and from her ears, and’on her neck, diamonds sparkled
be Pe an Pink and white flowers were fastened in

er hair. : ;

“Annie.”’-—-The best way for you to do is to go to the
ehurch and be married in costume du voyage, have the
carriage in waiting, and go directly tothe train. Itsaves
all unnecessary: delay and trouble, and this method has
become very popular as well as very fashionable of late.

oO
» To Correspondents.

Gossip wits Reapers anpD CoNnrTriBvrTors.—
A eben highest rank in the U.S. Army is that of gen-
eral; the next is heutenant-general. The former office is held
by Williain' Tecumseh Sherman, and the latter by Philip H.
Sheridan. ‘2d. Midshipmen, after graduating, receive a salary
of $800 while.on sea service, and $000 while on shore duty or
leave...... Cc. M. S.—I\st. We cannot give descriptions of the per-
sonal appearance of our contributors. 2d. Captain Mayne Keid
was born in the north of Ireland in 1818, and was educated for
the church, but his love of travel cause’ him to relinquish the
profession, and in 1838 he came to the United States, where he
engaged in hunting and trading for a period, during which time
he traveled over nearly the whole country. He afterward set-
tled at Philadelphia, and devoted himseif.to lterary pursuits.
On the breaking out of the Mexican war he joined the army,
and participated in a number of engagements. He commanded
the forlorn hope at the storming of Chapultepec, where he was
| severely wounded. After the ciose ef the war he left for Europe,
intending to join the Hungarians in their. struggle with Austria,
but the insurrection was quelled before he reached there. He
Temained for anumber of vears in London, but for the past few
years has resided in this country. He has written a number of
very popular books, among which are some interesting stories
for boys. We have at present in our possession one of his stories,
which he pronounces the best he ever wrote, and which we in-
tend publishing soon. 3d. We donot know where you could
procure the completion of the work...... R. Q. B.—Watches pre
said tohave been invented at Naremberg, Bavaria, in 1477,
although it has been stated that Robert, King of Scotland, had a
watch about 1310....... Rose of Kendale.—The papers will cost 66
cents...... -Index.—Hight does not make a man, by any means,
and the fact that your betrothed is not as tall as yourself is no
objection whatever to your being married to him....... V. -
mon,—Ist. There are several dealers in thiscity who can give
you allthe information required onthe subject of postage
stamps. We cannot make this column the medium of corres-
pondence on business or other matters. 2d. Yes....Girl Maggy.—
ist. Get a friend who is acquainted with the young lady to in-
troduce you. 2d. “Wrestling Joe” will not be printed in book
form. 3d. See “Knowledge Box.”...... Coin Collector.—There are
a number of dealers in old coins in this e:ity, but we do not know
the address of any....... Anxious Reader.—Ist. Candidates for ca-
detship at West Point must be qualified to pass an examination
in an ordinary course of English education. 2d. The allowance
to cadets is about $350 a year, including rations, which is eqiva-
lent to being boarded and taught for nothing. 3d. We think
there is no restriction as to hight. 4th. The Superintendent of
the Academy is Brevet Major-General E. C. Upton...... ecorge
paint Pi only Castle Thunder we have any knowledge of
was the building in Richmond used ‘by the Confederates as a
prison during the war........ Mike.—Cousult a physician,... ....
Hasby.—You were both wrong. The wedding ring is placed on
the briGe’s finger during the ceremony—neither before nor after
eee Sir Mortimer Duvan.—I\st. Very plain, but not what iscalled
a business hand. 2d. The proper stage costume for a club-
swinger isa tight-fitting silk shirt and breeches, long hose and
gaiters or Jaced boots. 3d. We cannot say, but soon. 4th. Eat
ape ualy, at the evening meal, and do not retire until you are
sleepy. Bathe frequently, and take plenty of open air exercise,
and when you go to bed, lie on your right side. Follow these
rules, and you Will have no difficulty in sleeping soundly........
Beard.—We know of no, way of removing the beard without
injurious effects. Why not allow it to grow, if it is so_ strong
that you are compelled to shave DOREY every day? In that
case you would have no trouble of this kind, and your personal
appearance would, no doubt, be greatly improved, for there is
no denying it that a full beard isan ornament to a man, and
most men who can raise one feel proud of it. Aside from this,
it is a protection against disease in various ways, both in throat
affections and certain kinds of business, where one is apt to in-
hale dust of any description. Instead of wishing to be rid of a
growth of this description, you should feel thankful that you
are blessed so much more abundantly than others of your fel-
low-creatures....Stella.—Prepare your MS. and send it to the
editor, with a letter giving your name and. address, stating the

 

price of your article, and sending stamps to pay return postage

in case it should be rejected. All communications of this nature
are considered private and confidential....Gold-Dust Darrell.—
Ist. We do not know why you did not get your paper, as you do
not say whether you are a ‘mail subscriber or purchase of a
newsdealer. If Of the latter, it was probaoly the fault of the
agent. 2d. We do not know of any Senator Cox. There is no
such name in the list of U.S. Senators... Wrestling Joe.—You
are mistaken in regaxd to the number of sons born. unto Adam
and Eve. After the death of Abel and the departure of Oain to
the land of Nod, Eve gave birth to another son, who was called
Seth, from whom Noah was descended.... Baron Joke.—Ist. The
pubiication is illegal. 2d. and 3d. See ‘Knowledge Box.’ 4th.
It would be difficuit to say, there are so many different classes
of literature. 5th. James Fenimore Gooper, the novelist, was
born at Burlington, N, J., Sept. 16, 1789, but soon after his birth
his father removed to New York State, ina comparatively un-
setiled region. At the age of thirteen he wassent to Yale Col-

Jege, but left it before finishing his studies, and enlisted in the

U.S. Navy asacommon sailor. At the end_of two years he
was promoted tothe rank of midshipman, and subsequently to
that of Heulenant. In 181 he married and soon after resigned
his commission. A few years after, while reading a novel to his
wife, he remarked that he could write a better one himself,
to which she replied: “You had better try.” His first
work, ‘entitled “Precaution,” was not considered .a success
either by himself or his friends, and was. not acknowledged by
him. for many. years. Three. years after this the “Spy” was is-
sued, which was the beginning of his very long and ‘successful
literary career. He died at Cooperstown, N. Y., Sept. 14, 1851.
6th. Frederic Marryat, the English novelist, was born in Lon-
don, July 10,1792. He entered the naval service at fourteen

 

years of age, and participated in fifty engagements, in one of
which he wasseverely wounded. He was noted for his cour-

age, having on several occasions leaped overboard and rescued
drowning shipmates, for which he received_a medal from the
Humane Society. In 1829, his first work—‘‘Frank Muldmay, or
the Naval Officer”—was published, in which many ot his ad-
ventures are related. Numerous other works followed in quick
succession, all of which were very popular. They are mostly
tales of adventure, which are often of the most ludicrous char-
acter. He also published a code of signals for the merchant
service, which were adopted by several countries: He made a
tour of the United States in 1839, an account of which is given
in his “Diary of America.”?” He died at Langham, Norfolk,
August 2, 1848...... Frank Flushing.—See reply to “A. B. W.”....
Lafayette.—Ist. We have not only a great many readers among
ministers of the gospel, but have several contributing to our
columns. 2d. See ‘Knowledge Box.”...... A, Vernon.—The per-
gon is liable to arrest for desertion, but under the circumstances,
the only penalty would probably be a few months’ confinement
in some fortification........ Hope.—See ‘Knowledge Box.”......
Hudy.—We may reprint “Nick Whiffies” in time, butits publica-
tion was too recent to admit of it at present.......... Nelly Bly.—
MS. for publication should be written in a distinct hand, on one
side of the sheet, and each page numbered. The size of the pa-
per is immaterial, but foolscap or letter is generally used. It is
not necessary that the pages should be tied or sewed together,
though it would be safer...... Lilly Linden.—Let the ic man
go, end congratulate yourself that you are well rid of sucha
fickie-minded snob...... Inquirer.—Ist. A quack. 2d. Very good.
Sade VWesie 8 Black Horse.—Iin the sentence quoted “deep” is an
adverb, and qualities ‘‘engraven.”...... Admirer.—ist. The real
name of the correspondent is not required to secure an answer
in this column. 2d. Joaquin 1s pronounced ho-a-keen, the first
two syllables nearly run together, or almost wahkeen...... R.
H. 0.—“The Child-Bride” is by the author of “True as Love
Could. Make Her.”’.......... Interested Reader.—A correspondent
writes as follows, from Elmwood, Peoria Co., Iitinois: “I have
no doubt there are many-poor men in the East who would come
West if they could be sure of finding employment. I would say
to those wishing work to come on. This is as beautiful a farm-
mg county as there is in the State, and wages for farm hands
range from $18 to $25 a month, with board and washing. Fifty
men can find employment here now.” This is undoubtedly
trug of many other places in the West......Hercules.—The papers
are out of print........ Cc. P. V.—Lime is made by burning lime-
stone, shells, etc., in a Kiln, the heat expeliing the carbonic
acid, and leaving behind the caustic substance usually called
quick-lime. The chemical name 1s oxide of calcium..........
Lone Star.—ist. Write to the publisher of the book, and he will
inform you as to what werks are necessary to complete the
study. 2d. There are several systems of learning languages,
which are good as far as they go, but to acquire a correct pro-
nunciation, it would be necessary to have a teacher. 3d. he
bookseller will furnish the works. 4th. We cannot tell you the
price of a manikin. Write to the authorities of a medical in-
stitation........ John Pendue.—ist. We have not the space to ex-
plain the game of whist. See ‘‘Hoyle’s Games.” 2d. We can-
not procure the information required until the census returns
are published. Minneapolis, Minn., is a rapidly growing city,
and has a number of saw-mills, the lumber business being very
extensively carried on. 3d. The words are pronounced blond
and brunet..... _Pandora.—Act as your conscience and judgment
dictates, and join the church, the doctrines of which you think
will lead you to Heaven, and live up to the creed adopted......
C. Sherwood writes from Jonesville, Mich., as follows: “Having
read your paper, the New Yorx WEEKLY, and taking an inter-
est in it, I would like toexpress my opinion of it. I think itis
the best weekly paper published, and Ihave read most all of
them. ‘Wrestling Joe’ is as good a story as you ever had in your
paper, with the exception of one published about seven years
ago, entitled ‘Owen the Convict.’ I wish very much it could
be republished, and in saying so I express the views of a num-
ber of my friends.”? The story mentioned may be ees,
but we cannot say definitely when....Wilie J.—We know
nothing of the individual....Kearney Cade.—The_ steamship
Arctic, while on her way from Liverpool to New York onthe
27th of September, 1854, came in collision with the French
steamer Vesta, during a heavy fog, off Newfoundland, and sunk
in a short time, over 300 lives being lost...... C. H. White.—The
income of authors varies, some barely earning a livelihood,
while others acquire wealth ina tew years... .Tippecanoe.—Ist.
The trouble arises from a humor of the blood. Consult a phy-
sician. 2d. Saint Anthony’s fire is erysipelas. 3d. The delay
arose from difficulty in receiving and arranging the large num-
ber of accounts, many of them not coming to hand until a late
day. 4th. We do not feel competent to give medical advice.
Persons should consult a physician, who, after ascertaining the
the symptoms of disease and condition of the patient, will pre-
scribe the necessary remedies and treatment. 5th. Yes.........
R. H. Benbaker.—The American News Co. will furnish you a
price list of the works... . Wilton.—We should prefer the South-
west to Florida, the soil being much better adapted to the rais-
ing of farm products, and the climate more agreeable, as a
whole....Zézzie.—Ist. Send us foll address, and the catalogue
will be forwarded. 2d. See ‘Workbox.” 3d. We do not know
the lady's address....4. B. W.—Ist. Write to Jos. S. Wilson,
Commissioner, General Land Office, Washington, D. C. 2d. The
only expense to persons entering land under the Homestead
Law are the Register’s fees, etc., which amount to some $15 or
Pt h,—We cannot say, as we have no knowledge,
whatever ot the standing or qualifications of the gentlemen.
2d. See “Knowledge Box.” 3d. We know of no work of the
Kind. Consuit a dealer in paints, oils, etc....Katie-—You can...
J. H. Scharpsic.—ist. The stories will not be published in book
form. 2d. We know of no other work of the kind...... ce.
Anderson.—Ist. Our engravings. are designed by one of the best
artists in the country, who has_ made the peculiarities men
tioned a subject of study. 2d. It is impossible to carry out the
idea suggested. 8d. Send them along, and if accepted they will
appear in a few weeks. 4th. We have no recollection of any
such writer. 5th. We think they are different stories. 6th. We
cannot furnish photographs of our contributors. 7th. The titles
have not been announced. 8th. The population of Salt Lake
City is about 23,000, we think. 9th. No. 10th. The papers are
out of print. llth. We cannot furnish complete volumes. 12th.
The parties are husband and wife. 13th. Doesticks resides in
New York. 14th. Itis the gentleman’s real name. 15th. No.
16th. Very good exereise. e Know of no better. 17th. Brook-
lyn and New York have separate municipal governments.......
Dark Unknown.—\st. It is impossible for us to name any particu-
lar locality in the West for a young man to go without knowing
his business qualifications. The kind of business that would be
successtul in one place would be a failure in another, and vice
versa. For mercantile pursuits the lines of the principal rail-
ways would be best. For farming: purposes a short distance
from a railroad or navigable stream would be the best, if it was
intended to send the produce to market. 2d. We know nothing
of the place except that it is one of the many new towns which
have grown up within a few years. 3d. The climate of Min-
nesota is a very healthy one, and the winters are very severe.
4th. There are many opportunities in the South also for young
men with small means —The stories will be com-
menced as soon as possible...... D. E. Stainback.—The story is
out of print.:...: Norwich.—1st. Persons entering land under the
Homestead Law are obliged to remain on it five years to secure
a clear title, which is furnished by the government atthe end
-of that period. 2d. The settler may choose his own location.
3d. Unless the necessary preliminary steps are taken the land
may be claimed by other parties. 4th. a to Jos. 8. Wilson,
Commissioner, General Land Office, Washington, D.C. 5th.
A single man, twenty-one vears of age. has the same right to
enter Jand asif he were married..... Timothy. Dobbing.~Ist. A
resolution may be amended without the consent of the mover
of the original motion. 2a, We cannot say, but soon......Colo-
rado Jim.—ist. The second marriage, while the first wife was
living, was illegal; and as the parties were not married after
her death, all the children by the second wife are illegitimate,
and have noclaims upon the father’s property, unless it was
willed to them. 2d. In this State, if a man lives with a woman,
and acknowledges her as his wife publicly, she is considered as
legally so. 3d. In case of aman dying intestate, leaving chi)-
dren by a first and second wife, each chiid is entitied to a like
share...... Wm. Davis.—See answer to ‘Dark Unknown.”......
Bad Dickey.—1st. The business is considered a good one, as most
all engaged in it become well todo. 2d. Wedonot know what
a situation of the kind is worth, but presume it is a good one.
3d. Very good.......... J, H. R.—If you have any knowledge of
stock raising, Texas would be a good place to goto ...... Dick.—
Ist. “Three times five are fifteen,’ is correct. 2d. Lucifer
“matches were invented in 1829, by John Walker, a chemist, at
Stockton-upon-Tees, England. 3d. We have no record of their
doing so. 4th. The custom of sending Valentines is a harmless
one, if we except the vulgar caricatures, which are a modern
innovation. 5th. Fair. 6th. “Abner Holden’s Bound Boy” will
be the next story commenced after “White Lightning.”..:.....
F. F. O'R.—\st. Lawyers frequently have papers copied by per-
sons outside of their offices. 2d. Yes........ rapper.—Ist. Mink
are usually caught in a box-trap or dead-falls, 2d. See ‘‘Know]-
edge Box.” Among the fur-bearing animals are the mink,
beaver, otter, muskrat, etc........... W. W.—Ist. The best route
togo to the South Atrican dianzond region would be by way of
England. 2d. The district is from two to three hundred miles
from the seaboard. 3d. We cannot say what the expense would
BG: 3. Nihil Dixi.—We have no knowledge of the parties......
Jack Shellbark.—We cannot do anything with one chapter of a
story. The first of it may read well, and the balance be good
for nothing. Send the whole of it or none... ....F. C. K. Truce.
—The metre is correct, but otherwise there is little in it.........
Cal Nodle.—lst. We are not at liberty to disclose our contributors’
names. 2d. Write to the American News Co. 3d. Bookkeepers
in this city receive from to $5,000 per year.......... Loda.—
Ist. See “Knowledge Box.”’ 2d. “‘Wild Bill’? resides in Kansas,
3d. Have nothing to do with the individuals named....¥F. H. D.
—Ist. President Grant, on retiring trom his’ present position,
will have no connection with the army. He is merely com-
mander-in chief by virtue of his office as President. 2d. It has
never been definitely ascertained who Cain’s. wife was—at least
we have never found out. . We cannot say when. 4th. We
don’t know the gentleman. 5th. Ask some friend who has had
experience. 6th. The Prince Imperial of France was born
March 16, 1856. 7th. Mr. Judson is engaged to write exclusively
for the New York WEEKLY. 8th. We know nothing of the firm.
9th. Middling. 10th. Mercury in some forms is very poisonous.
It is also used as a medicine in the form of calomel or blue pill.
llth. The young gentleman was not very gallant in refusing to
escort the young lady home, and she is perfectly right in snub-
bing him. 0. i Scumptious.— See ‘Knowledge Box.” 2d.
Yes. 3d. Adams’ 1s the only one we know of..... .. Bert.—We
have never heard of the establishment...... as ‘analler.—Ist.
A small Gordon would be the most suitable. . We do not
Know the price. 3d. A few hundred dollars, depending on the
varieties. 4th. Nothing but experience will teach you. A man
cannot learn a trade by reading any more than he can Jearn
teswim. 5th. See “Knowledge Box.” L. BE. W.—We do
not know anything of either of the gentlemen, nor can we ad-
vise you as to any course of treatment. Why not go to a first-
class hospital and consult the physicians? It will not cost as
much as.an ordinary physician would charge you....Hayscales.
—A ma&stiff or bulldog—or if you want one to make a noise in
the house, a small terrier—would make a good oe Either
kind may be purchased of a dog-fancier...... Potosi.—We do not
understand what you wish to know......Hannerly.—We have
not the space to give a description of the fortifications of New
York harbor...... W. W. A.—A- “dead beat”: is a person who
makes a living by sponging on his acquaintances..,.C. Mariner.
—The story will be republished as soon as we can doso.........
Romeo.—We cannot find the word...... &. ¥. Z—An aquarium
is made of a water-tight glass box, with an epen top. Gover the
bottom with an inch of clean sand and a little gravel, also some
‘stones, and a few fresh water plants. Leave it a week for the
plants to vegetate. A few tresh water snails may be put in to
keep down the fungous growth. Minnows, stickleback, shrimp,
small lobsters, hermit-crabs, eels, and star-fishes thrive best.
The vegetable growth obviates the necessity of changing the
water daily, while certain of the fish named feed on the decom-
posits vegetable matter, thus retaining the purity of the water..
ip Van Winkle.—The answers are written as soon-as the letters
are received; but the New York WEEK.y, on account of its large
edition, is put to press two weeks in advance of publication day,
-and consequently that length of time elapses before the answers
appear... ...... WV. D.—The letter never came to hand. ‘The ob-
ject in registering a letter is to trace it more readily in case of
its being lost or stolen, and also to prevent it falling into other
hands than the parties for whom it is intended, who have to
give a receipt for the letter.......... Frank Hill.—ist. We know
nothing of the parties further tnan is stated in the advertise-
ment. Write again. We cannot furnish bound volumes of
the New York WereExty. 3d. Fair.......... J. M. P.—The note is
payable where the goods are purchased.,........The fullowing
MSS. have been read and accepted: “It is Never Too Late to
Mend,” “Mother,” “Why Will Y Remain Unmarried,” ‘Tne
French Girls Carrier Dove,” “My Darling,” ‘Life’s Fadeless
Flowers,” ‘Frank Newman’s Victory,” “The Phantom Regi-
ment,” “If Katie Were My Bride... ........... The following will
appear in a mammoth monthly soon to be issued from this of-
fice: “Sister Bianca,” “Swiggle’s Story,” “The Robbers’ Doom,”
“Strong-minded Women and Weak-minded Men,” “On the
Mountains,” ‘‘Cradje and Coffin.”. -........ The following are re-
spectfully declined: “I Think of Thee,” “De wadrops,” ‘Pleas-
ures of the Seasons,” ““Memory’s Tyranny,” ‘Lines to a Repro-
bate,” “Alone,” “The Chambermaid’s Story,” ‘A Valentine,”
“The Prison Walls,” “Bereaved,” “My Story,” “To M. W. V—,"

 

“A Mother’s Prayer,” ‘“Lover’s Leap.”

——— >

ERRATUM.—By the transposition of five lines in the
first chapter of “White Lightning,” in No. 18, an annoying
blunder was made. They were placed near the close of
the fourth column, their proper place being after the

 

thirtieth line in the fifth column of the tirst page,

 

 

 

 

kas A wonderful pocket-book is in the possession of
Col. Job Stout of lowa. It was made of pig skin, dressed
by one of the pilgrim fathers, and manufactured into its
present state by himself. It was from the back of the
first hog slain by the colonist. A forefather of Col. Stout’s
carried the pig-skin wallet through the French war and
the Indian, and was shot beside the brave Gen. Wolf on
the bloody hights of Abraham, in September, 1759. The
pocket-book, containing some English coin, found its
way back to the right family, and held nothing but Eng-
lish coin and Bank of England notes until the Revoiu-
tionary War. Gol. Stout’s grandfather marched with it
on his person to Canada with Gen. Montgomery, It was

Trenton surprise; and when peace was declared, contain-
ed two thousand dollars Continental currency, most of
which its present owner retains. In the late internecine
war, Col. Job Stout carried the pig-skin wallet through
several engagements, and when he fell at Richmond, the
historical wallet of pilgrim pig skin was perforated with
bullets and saturated with blood. The Colonel’s coat is
now on exhibition at Indianapolis, riddled by forty bul-
lets. This wallet has been in use one hundred aud ninety
years.

ka A correspondent at Messena, N. Y., states that on
the 28th of January, a remarkable ice block occurred in the
south channel of the Long Sault, raising the north chan-
nel about fifteen feet and making the water smooth and
still. The water rushed between Barnhart’s and Sheek’s
islands and the Canada shore, sweeping everything before
it down the Milleroche, the water being so high that it
swept Robinson’s carding mill and the oat mill, and slao
the ferryboat at Massena, away with the ice.

kay Among the implements found in the possession of
two burglars when arrested in Norristown, Pa., was a
crowbar jointed so as to admit of being folded up and
carried in an ordinary-sized satchel. When extended to
its full length, 1t was nearly six feet long, and when the
joints were covered with stout rings, the implement was
a powerful lever.

Ba A Hartford paper, which certainly must believe in
the‘efficacy of nailing an old horse-shoe over the door to
Keep away witches, tells its readers that if any of them
have somnambuilistic tendencies, a pair of steel scissors
placed under their pillow will certainly keep them from
indulging in any nocturnal wanderings.

kas A paper, recorded in Lowell, Mass., leasing certain
premises to a lady during the term of her natural life,
provides that she shall pay a certain rent yearly, and
shall quit and deliver up ‘‘the premises to the lessor, or
her attorney, peaceably and quietly at the end ofthe
term.’?

kas- In the Capitol there is an aggregate of 688 spit-
toons, of which 148 belong tothe hall of the House of
Representatives, and 48to the Senate Chamber, while 497
are distributed through the committee rooms and along
the corridors and galleries.

uae There are two brothers, twins, living in a Massa-
chusetts town at the age of seventy-eight years, who
learned the house-carpenter’s trade together, married
sisters, and have always lived together.

ka A New Orleans juror made an excitement in the
Criminal Court the other day by publicly announcing that
one of his colleagues bad attempted to bribe him. The
accused was sent to jail.

4a In Mobile, Ala., a man married recently his seventh
wife, a Mexican, having previously been united respec-
tively to a German, French, English, Dutch, Irish and
American woman, all of whom died. :

An eccentric citizen of St. Louis died recently and

run away with his wile. One of the last things he said
was, that he never forgot a favor.

kas A railroad thirty inches wide and eleven miles
long, is to be builtin Greene County, Tennessee, at a cost
of $20,000. Therails are of wood, and tobe stripped with
iron.

ka The Germans at Indianapolis rejoiced over the fall
of Paris by making a. pretzel large enough to feed 100
men. It took a barrel of flour and over 100 pounds of
salt. : :

Ba A white child has been found among the Alaska
Indians, supposed to be the daughter of the captain of
the ‘John Bright,’? which was wrecked on the coast about
two years since.

kas The steam plows used in the United States are
made in England, and imported at a cost of about $10,000:
in gold each.

8a In Allibone’s Dietionary of Authors, which con-
tains the names of 75,158 distinguished writers, there are
810 Smiths, 180 Joneses, and 180 Browns.

aa A Texan lost a valuable horse, and telegraphing to.
a neighboring town to arrest the thief, received the la-
conic reply: ‘‘Horse here; thief hung.’?

ka Solubie glass is coming into use in Europe for wax-
ing floors, and is found to answer the purpose admirably.

a= In East Granville, Mass., 100,000 toy-drums were
made during the year 1870.

kas Nine hundred car-loads of slate were shipped from
Poultney, Vt., in 1870.

ga An English manufacturer has lately filled a war
order to make a million quinine pills in a fortnigh t.

Bas> The largest number of books taken from the Bos-
ton public library in any one day is 1,856. :

aa Seventy-three thousand horses were slaughtered
and eaten in Paris during the siege.

Sa Sweden has more than a thousand miles of railroad
in operation. $

ka As early as 1787, a canal-boat was built of iron in
Willey, England.

Do You Want to Laugh ?

IF SO, READ THE

PHUNNY PHELLOW!

, NOW READY.

The irresistible ecomicality of the contents will cause the me-
lancholy to become cheerful, the grave joyous, and the good-
humored to laugh as they never laughed before.

Besides a varied list of ludicrous illustrations, embracing hits
at prevailing customs, sarcastic political cartoons, etc., the
Prunny PuEtLow contains a diversified collection of humorous
reading matter. The following are a few of the

ARTICLES IN THE CURRENT NO.

HINTS FOR SENSATIONAL PREACHERS.

THEN AND NOW—THREE WEEKS AFTER
MARRIAGE,

A DOMESTIC TRAGEDY.

A THOUGHTFUL WIDOW.

A DELIGHTFUL OLIMATE.

THE INNOCENCE OF CHILDHOOD.

“A YARTHQUAKE COULDN'T DO IT.”

A NEW CATECHISM.

LEGENDARY LORE,

MARY McTODD, OF NEVADA.

INGENUITY IN A TIGHT PLACE,

MY WEDDING TOUR. By Neri C. Has-
TINGS.

SONG OF THE BROADWAY SQUADSMAN.

A CALIFORNIAN OBITUARY.

A WOMAN’S WOE. 6s

THOMAS TWOMBLEW’S BLUNDER.

THE BOGUS JOUR PRINTER. By Ma-
GLUEN.

BAITING OXEN.

INATTENTION REBUKED.

A ORUEL OUTRAGE.

o ENTERTAIN YOUR GUESTS CHEAP-

A OHAMPION OF SHORT SKIRTS.

AN HONORABLE NAME.

THE HOUSEKEEPERS TRAGEPY.

THE WRONG NIGHT-GOWN.

GUGERTY’S DREAM. By Tm.

THE SCHOOLMASTER ABROAD.

ALL ABOUT A PIG. By Copa Anna Sucrz,

SOFT-BOILED AND SCRAMBLED.

A SAFE CREDIT BUSINESS.

A SLIGHT MISTAKE,

A CONFESSION.

ANOTHER “DIG” Al’ DEMOCRACY.

THE MEANEST MAN. By F. G. S.

HONESTY REWARDED.

AN UNTERRIFIED WATCHER.

PHUNNY PHELLOW PHACTS AND PHAN-
CIES.—Fifty-five pungent paragraphs, narrating
the comical events of the world during the past

 

 

 

‘

month.

EVERY NEWS AGENT SELLS

The Phunny Phellow,

Price Ten Cents a Copy.

 

The PHUNNY PHELLOW is issued every month, and is
mailed {o subscribers at the low price of Owe Donuar A YEAR.

Address ali Letters to

 

PHUNNY PHELLOW OFFICE,
_ No, 55 Forron Srruwtr, New York City.

 

at Stillwater; ferried the Delaware at the memorable ©

left in his will $1,000 to a man, who, ten years before, had ~

 

 

 

 

 

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HYDRAULIC RHYMES,

 

BY JOSEPH BARBER.

«On Bacchant themes the elder bards
Discoursed in strains of fire,

_And with the Grape God’s wild cananis
Profaned the classic lyre.

‘But now there ripples o’er the string
A music more divine;

-Of tea our water-poets sing,
And not of Teian wine.

With canister and not with grape
The wise man battles care.

“The canon best for-every scrape
Is, ‘From strong drink forbear.”

For blasphemy comes of the Bin,
While gentle as a lamb

‘Is he who shuns that-source of sin,
And cottons to the Dam.

"Nopers, in praise of -wine and beer,
Fine speeches make, no doubt,

‘But if true eloquence you'd hear,
Then let the water spout.

Whe rivers sing a peaceful song
While rushing through the hills,

‘But naught save clamor joud and long
Gomes of the silent Stills.

Then fill the goblet to the brink
With Father Adam’s ale

And never step, to take a drink,
Beyond the temperance pale.

‘Keep old Port Ararat in view,
And Noah’s port-wine drouth;

Nor.make—whatever else you do--
A-port-hole of your mouth.

 

THE

CHILD-BRIDEs

OR, ——

The Wite of Two Husbands.

By the Author of “TRUE AS LOVE COULD
MAKE HER.’

 

{“The Child-Bride” was comménced in No. 16. Back num-
bers may be obtained from any News Agent im the Union.)

CHAPTER X.
IN BITTERNESS OF SPIRIT.

Talbot Grey went nome heavy enough at heart, and:
finding no relief in the fact that he had no one but him- 4
He was a brave } A :

Is it understood, meantime, about the Selwyn business ?””

self to blame for his heart’s heaviness.
man, and honorable, as the world goes, but he had
thought it alittle thing to desert a confiding girl, and then
coelly ask her to forget him. True, he was not quite one-
and@-twenty when he did s0, anda man of that age has
more passion than conscience, as a rule.

Miriam had taken him very literally at his word. “Try
to forget me,’’ he wrote to her; ‘I will never stand in the
way of your future, and you may be happy with some
one. more worthy of your love.’? And she had done so—
notin the spirit of his advice, but being faithful to him
till she heard that he was dead.

‘*{ must look my destiny quietly in the face,’ he pon-
dered, as he went toward his father’s house. ‘I have no
Tight to.compromise the girl—no right to make my pres-
ence here a peril and a disgrace to her. I was a weak
and cruel rascal when I wrote her those letters, and I am

anished for it now. it’s hard tothink that my beautiful

iriam, my sweet child-bride that was, is spending her
honeymoon with another man.”

The Indian soldier did not spare himself. He had been,
48 he said, 2 weak and cruel rascal, and he had the moral
heroism to.confess it—he had not even been constant to
her when hewas away; that uncommon virtue was never
muuch trouble to handsome Lieutenant Talbot Grey. He
vad said often, with his lazy, cynical smile, that no wo-
man could charge him with deceit. He kept within the
strict line of veracity in saying so, for he never promised
anything.

Much of his present deep, reproachful feeling was,
doubdtiess, due to the change in Miriam’s fortunes. Mir-
jam, in Miss Bond’s humble cottage, with her plain gray
dress and her untrained style, was a different creature to
the silken-robed, dank-eyed beauty in Sir Henry Selton’s
splendid mansion. Taibot could picture her vividly—pic-
ture how queenly she would look in costly raiment, with
her full and supple length of figure, her magnificent bust
and. graceful head. She would wear her title right
ae he knew, and as he pictured her his soul hungered
for her.

“Fortune throws herself at our feet when we are too
young to know what she is doing,” he reflected, bitterly;
“she gives us pearls, and we crush them as if they were
worthless glass; but she has her revenge in the days that
come when we can see what they were worth, and know
that they are lost to us forever.’

Talbot knew what sacrifice he had to make. For him
the future was a blank. He dared not marry. The most
hopeless of all things lay before him—the purposeless
existence of a rich bachelor, as he would seem to the
world.

He went to his father’s house. The man, whom Sir
Heary, in his patrician pride, termed a half-bred country
squire, had a well-appointed home—a stately mansion,
fitted in excellent taste, and surrounded by a sweeping
stretch of garden, pasture, and orchard. The half-bred
country squire was a man of ancient family and more
than ancient pride. j Z

Talbet went home, but felt little pleasure in going. Ry-
lands had lost its charm for him since the bright-eyed
beauty of his youth had gone from it. The somber-
prowed man who entered Rylands Hall, with the bronze
of an Indian sun upon his cheek, was very unlike the
gay and gallant lad who had left it six years ago. |

He kissed his mother anda sisters, grateful for their tear-
ful welcome, but he met his father with umemotional re-
serve. He talked of his voyage, of his soldier-life, his
comrades, and the country; but told in his passionless
way it all seemed singularly uneventful.

A man whose soul is engrossed by the memory of a lost
love does not tell good traveling stories.

- You donot think of going back, I hope?’ said the
elder Mr. Grey, when Talbot had been at home some days,
and the two gentlemen sat over their wine, assisting con-
versation and reflection by means of a fragrant cigar.
“You will exchange ?’?

Talbot moved his head slowly in the negative,

“No, fathers I shall return.”

“But in your last letter, Talbot. a

“Yes; I know,’ he gaid, “I could exchange, or sell out,
and I meant it then; but I must go back.’?

“Jg it trouble?—debt? You need not be afraid to tell
me. I have never been illiberal,”

“You will find something like ten thousand pounds still
in the hands of my agents,” said Talbot, as he adjusted a
cushioned stool comfortably under his right foot, “and
that does not look like debt, As to trouble, I don’t know;
it may keep me out of trouble.”

“Then I wish you would be kind enough to put me out
of suspense by explaining.”

Willingly. Do you remember that little girl about whom
there was a row when I was home from college???

“The girl who lived in the village. Medhurst, I think
her name was. Surely you have forgottea that’?

“That! Yes—that gentlemanly indiscretion, or dis-
graceful Ziaison, whichever you, as a justice of the peace,
@ member fer the borough, the father of a family, and a
moral man, may please totermit. But you see it was
nothing of the kind.”

“What then ??? :

“Miriam was the mother cf my child, and my wiye.”

My. Grey rose like an old lion. Stately figure and pale,
firm face towered down upon his son.

“You may as well sit still,” said Talbot, through a
cool gray ring of smoke. “She is out of my way, and
yours too.” 2 :

The old man sat down with a sigh of relief.

“Dead 2?

“Oh, no. Simply married. We made a little mistake,
father. She was not a village girl—she wasalady. Give
me credit for my taste in that. She was the daughter of
agentieman, and the protege ofa baronet. She wasa

‘lady, and is sonow more than ever—Lady Miriam Seiton,
at your service.”’

Lighting another cigar, the soldier filled his father’s
glass and his own, and settled himself in front of the
fire with as much comfortable unconcern asif he had
been tatking of a stranger. :

“Why, Talbot,’ said Mr. Grey at length, ‘it is ruin to

ou.??

: “Pardon me if I fail to see it. The mere fact of having
gone through a ceremony with a gir}, who, supposing me
with good reason to be dead, married another man, is not
likely to have much effect either on my spirits or my con-
stitution.”

“But you cannot marry.’

The young man broke into a short, cynical laugh.

“Ido not know. Mine is the case that the law never
contempiated. There was a private wedding between a
girland a voy. The girl saw an announcement of the
boy’s death in the Times, and, very naturally, having the
opportunity, found solace for her grief in another man
and a title. She was not to be blamed, particularly as the
hero of her youth had, in the kindest manner, suggested
she had better forget this juvenile folly, and act as
though it had never been. We cannot charge her with
bigamy; for what she did was done without guilty-know-
ledge on herpart. Wecannot apply for a divorce. The
same plea of ‘without guilty knowledge’ applies to that
case.’

“Anti to you???

“No. For, anomalous as it may seem, [ have a wife still
living, until Sir Henry Selton may choose to get a divorce,
which he never will. Rather a complicated affair—is if,
not? However, if he were to have the marriage dissolv-
ed, she would fall to my mortal lot—a consummation
which 1 do not think you devoutly wish.”

“Ruin! said Mr. Grey, again. ‘‘What a barrier in the
Way of your future! What a madman you were!’

“Most of us are at that age madmen, fools, or rascals;
and E would as soon be one as the other. But you are cer-
tainly a stoic, father. { expected at least the parental
malediction, the closing of the shutters, and the ances-
tral door, With me outside. I was prepared to be cut off

 

 

4-with the inevitable shilling, after a fiery speech ending
‘J with ‘Go, degenerate boy!

man, reproachfully;: ‘and ‘your ditter levity is very pain- ;
4 ful.??

lof feeling.
| Heaven knows how dearly! -Miriam—my Miriam! What
|-was it, father, but your wretched pride, that made me

‘| soldier’s voice.

‘] She is my wife.

| 8tances must determine———!

 

 

Henceforth I have no son! 7”!
“You have wounded me terribly enough,” said the old

“Bah!?? said Talbot, for the first time showing a touch
“What mustit befor me? I love the girl—

hide the truth at first, and .act like a Villain right
through ?””

“What can we do, Talbot?’

He could make ne ether answer to the anguish in the

“Yes—what can we do? Havel the right, if I had the
inclination, to go to. an honorable man, and say to him—
Ker child is my child. I married her,
and was too great a coward.to.acknowledge her’? And
rif I did so now—if I tore him frem her, and she cared to
come back to such a dastard—could I take her?—could J
accept the sacrifice??? :

“It is a bad business, my boy. But we must talk of it.
iu.a calmer spirit. Let us take.legal advice.’

“Take legal demons!” said Tabbot, with a bitter laugh.
“Do I want the woman whom.1 lost through my own cow-
ardice, atter she has been another’s? Be it distinctly un-
derstood, | do not intend to:interfere with her happiness.
I nold her blameless.”

“Well 9?

“You are thinking what is.to become of our house when,
its lagt male hope is condemned to a certain sort of celi-
bacy. I answer, ‘I have two -sisters. Give them the,
money you would have given me—give me what you
would have given them.? ”

“That would be one thousand a year.”’

“More than I shall require,” said the young man, sadly.
‘I have little use for it.” é

He. passed the wine, and after.a,pause put his hand on
Mr. Grey’s shoulder.

“Father,” he said, gently, “I know. this pains you, but
What canIdo? There is the future, and in some far dis-
tant period to come there may be a change—a way out of:
this. Till then, will you let me have my own way ?”!

‘Yes, my son.’

“You would do much rather than,part with me?!’

“Yes,” said the father, very eagerly indeed. ‘1 would |
do anything.”

“Then you will do this—give up the Hall?’

“T had intended to. What else?’

‘Discharge the old servants—every one. I was report-
ed @ead, and I must be dead to the world. It is for her
sake. Itis ajust sacrifice. Let me be known to you by
word and letter as Selwyn. It is my second Christian
name, and the one you were most fond.of in my boyhood.
As Mr. Selwyn, I can stay near you; as Mr. Selwyn, I
can enter a.home regiment, if you like; but I have no
bent for the service, and would rather be with you.”

“My boy!?? :

“Heaven knows what may come of it. Sometimes I
feel bad and cruel; swear inwardly at the weakness which
makes me think continually of her. At others I feel re-
signed to a life-long passive sacrifice of self. Circum-

ba

“Try change of scene, with genial, pleasant friends,
and think calmiy over what has happened.”

“Tam going to stay at the Colchesters,” said Talbot.
“T brought Frank home, and the poor lad clings to me.

“Yes,??

**You will send away the old servants, drop oid connec-
tions—answer no inquiries concerning me?”

“‘Y will do all you wish.”’

“Heaven bless you, father!’ said Talbot, earnestly. ‘I
Know that I have disappointed you bitterly, but who can
tell ‘what return I may be able to make for your kind-
ness? There is one thing; I never loved you half so much
as I do now.?”?

 

CHAPTER XI.
GEORGINA. i

Mr. Ravel and Frank Colchester left the Southampton
hotel on the day after Grey started for Rylands. Frank

proceed with his journey, though Archie ordered a longer {
rest,

_ “Tt will fatigue you,” said Archie, “and then you won't
look very bright when you get there.” ae

“Yes, 1 shall, and feel bright too,” said Frank. ‘You

cannot think how I long to be with tnem again. Dear
old Georgie, too! Have you seen her since I have been
away?) ‘
, “Once or twice.” eee.
| It was evident, by the assumed indifferent tone, that
ee Si neee had not made much impréssion on Ar-
chie. f

“What do you think of Grey?” eo.

“He seems a good, soldierly kind of fellow, and I dare-
Say I should like him as an acquaintance.’

“Grey was very kind to me on the voyage,’’ said Frank
—‘“‘the kindest, most gentle-hearted fellow in the world?’

“Rather somber, isn’t he???

“That's his trouble.”

“Trouble? So he has a trouble. What is it like???

“Something that happened a long time ago, about a
girl his parents would notlet him marry. She went to
grief, you Know, and he is so sorry for it pew.”

“Went to grief, eh? Isuppose that means he ruined
her, and left her to her fate. I thought he had a little bit
of that business about him. Break a girl’s heart, and
then do the remorseful, tit he marries somebody else,
and settles down respectably.””

“You are saying bad things of my friend, Archie.”

“Am 1? Well, then, I won’t. He is no worse than most
fellows, and some day he may repent of his sins; get hold
of a woman who will be a regular Tartar.”

“And serve him right,” he was about to add, but res-
pect for Frank prevailed, and he said it mentally.

“We shallsee him ina few days,” said Frank; “and
you can form a better opinion of him. He will not stay
at Rylands long.”’

“Rylands—Rylands ?”? said Archie.
where Miriam came from.”?

“Who is Miriam? An old sweetheart of yours???

“No—worse luck!? was the honest reply. ‘The love
was allon my side, Frank, my boy, which is rather an
unfertunate thing when you mean it. She is my aunt,
or something of that kind. Sir Henry Selton is my moth-
er’s cousin, or step-brother, and that system of relation-
ship always bothers me.”?

“What has Sir Henry Selton to do with it?”

“Depends upon the way of thinking. Not much, very
likely, according to your view, but a goed deal according
temy mine. He’s her husband, you see—that’s al.’

“And you were in love with her???

“Yeg,”? ”

“Then Ishould have run away with her had I been
you,’’ said Frank, seriously. :

“Disreputable young Giovanni! smiled Archie. “A
nice teacher you would be for a simple youth like me.
The sooner I place you under the paternal roof, and my-
self out of the way of your demoralizing influence, the
better, I think. No, Frank. There are some women born
to uphold the pure dignity of the sex, and Lady Selton is
one of them.’? :

The lad’ lip curled incredulously. India isnot the best
training-school for European morals. Young military
men would not be the best pupils if it were.

Tney went to Lincolnshire together. Frank’s home was
in that famous county of fens and hunting-men—an old-
fashioned, commodious, square-built, rambling house;
ugly enough outside from an architectural point of view,
but very comfortable within; and it was not far from one
of Sir Henry Selton’s seats.

Mr. Colchester had a tolerably large family; Georgina
and Frank being the eldest. Georgina wasa tall, impetu-
ous, handsome, brown-eyed girl, with free and easy man-
ners that would have been startling in a London drawing-
room, and were glorious down there. Shesang well, rode
magnificently, had a keen sense of the ridiculous, and
was very sympaihetic. And hers was a great loving
heart, which she had never parted with for a day, in spite
of several interesting young curates, and a multiplicity of
Lincolnshire squires, who entertained unchristian feelings
toward each other for her sake.

She had her pets, but they were not of human-kind:
big, lumbering dogs, whose rough gambols would have
frightened ordinary young ladies, but in which she de-
lighted; and horses who winnied at her footstep, though
in the Colchester stables there were some that the most
practiced groom had to approach with care; but Georgy
Colchester’s fearless spirit quieted them, and her kindly
hand made them dote upon hex,

Frank was her favorite brother. He had been of deli-
cate health all his lifetime,and perhaps that had drawn
him closer to her.

When Frank arrived with Mr. Ravel, she met him with
a storm of affection, and said the voyage had made a man
of him; all the while that there was a sharp pang in her
heart, for he had changed very sadly.

No one told him so; all took their cue trom Archie, who
was wonderfully cheerful upon the alteration the air of
England had made.

“But the voyage hearly knocked me over,’’ said Frank.
“IT should never have pulled through if it had not been
for Grey.”

And then he went on to expatiate on Grey’s goodness.
Grey was the best fellow in the world. The youth grew
so eloquent on the subject, that if Miss Colchester had
any hero-worship in her nature, Frank’s description of
the Indian soldier must have stirred it.

A man of less even disposition than Archie Ravel might
have taken umbrage at finding himself put in the shade
by Talbot Grey; but Archie had not a bit of selfishness
about him, and, moreover, he was not in love with Geor-
gina. He liked her, as he liked all good women, in a Che-
valier Bayard-like manner. He would have been a knight-
errant when knight-errants were in fashion. If is doubt-
ful whether the Knight-errant would be popular in these
days. He was a general lover, after all, and a general
lover is not esteemed highly, no matter how fearless and
irreproachable he may be.

“Georgie would make a Capital wife if a man had the
good fortune to be born without nerves,” he had said to
himself, whenever he found his heart beating more rapid-
ly in the bold and brilliant beauty’s presence; ‘but I do
not care for that tempestuous kind of lady. She makes
the piano rock when she plays; she makes my brain rise
when she sings; and I have had to hold my breath when
she has gone flying over gates and ditches on the most
intractable brute in Christendom. I should like something
a litule quieter myself.”

But this indifference changed during the first days of
his present visit. The daring horsewoman and dashing
player came before him in a new character. He saw her
gentler moods—saw her a8 a devoted nurse and sister—
subdued in voice and footstep—womanly and pensive.
Altogether he began to feel anxious to see how Mr. Grey

“Let's see—that’s

| saviour of their boy.

4% were close and intimate friends from the outset.

was better already. The air of Bngland seemed to give,
him strength, and the wish to be at home urged him toj

 

 

would be received.

Very warmly, very gratefully indeed; if a sincere and
genial welcome could have made the Indian soldier less
somber, his handsome face would never have worn a
shadow at the Colchesters. ‘They looked upon him as the
Georgina had heard over and over
again, with tears in her big brown eyes, of his never tir-
ing, patient tenderness, throughout the long, tedious
passage home.

And when he came, just as Frank had described him, a |

tall, dignified, and rather stately gentleman, with asingu-
lar charmof manner, Miss Colchester was conscious of a
feeling which curate er squire had never been able to in-
Spire. It was the germ of love, sown at first sight, and
such a germ once sown does not take long to ripen.

Talbot wrote a letterto Frank some days before he
made his appearance at the Lincolnshire mansion.

“T have an odd request to make,” he said, ‘and I hope
your friends will not think it strange. Things have hap-
pened since I left England which make it an imperative
necessity I should live incognito for some time, for how
long | cannot say. The name I have chosen is Selwyn,
my second baptismal. WhenItell you that this is done
with my father’s consent you will be satisfied that I have
no sinister motive.”

Frank showed the letter to his father, Georgy, and Ra-
vel. The latter looked thoughtful over it, but Mr. Col-
chester accepted itin the simple faith of an honorable
motive.

“In any name,”’ he said, “it does not mattertous. He
is the man who brought my boy to me, and there is al-
ways a welcome for him here,’’

So Talbot came down and was received as Mr. Selwyn,
but they never could grow quite accustomed to it; they

| had thought of him as Talbot Grey, talked of him as Tal-

bot Grey, and that was now fixed upon their minds. Be-
tween Selwyn and Grey they got confused, and he was
as frequently addressed by one as the other.

He became Georgina’s companion constantly. eon

albot
Grey was fond of womanly companionship, and this
soothed him, though his heart was: sick and sore. The
time idled pleasantly away. Two or three months in that
old-fashioned comfortable country house did much toward
making oblivion for whathad passed. It was sweet with
bitter sweetness to’ know, as he soon began to know, that
there was a splendid woman, with nearly twenty thou-
sand pounds, waiting for him to speak the word he dared
not utter.

“Fettered,’’ he often repeated, savagely; ‘tied to a wife
who Gan never be mine. ‘his is the woman I should have
waited for. Here is. the free and generous nature that
would have made me happy. So much joy and beauty in
my grasp, and I dare not grasp it.”?

Archie took a good-humored survey of the game, and
stayed on, He had been tempted on more than one oc-
casion to run away—to levant, aS he expressed it; but
Mr. Celchester had taken @ strong liking to him; and Ar-
chie himself began to feel a warmer regard for Grey than
he ever thought possible. Besides, there was Frank to
stay for. Love in any of its steps, unspoken even, and as
incipient as it may be, is a selfisn and absorbing passion.
First, the common bond between Georgina dnd Mr. Grey
drew them together, and when together they seemed only
to think of each other.

Rayal would have gone had it not been for that. He
took a second place while the Indian soldier was there.
Georgina, trying to be impartial, made the effort palpa-
ble. Mr. Colchester liked Ravel, but felt most grateful to
Grey, and paid him most attention. He must be very,
weak in soul, or deep in philosophy, who can find plea-
sure in being made the recipient of another man’s prai-
ses, and Archie had to endure it like a martyr.

“Yes, he’s a capital fellow,’? said Mr. Ravel, when he
had listened for an hour or so to @ eulogy on Frank’s su-
perior officer. ‘‘He’s no end of a hero, and everything
that a soldier and a gentleman should be. It’s a good
thing you think so.”

“Why ?? asked Mr. Colchester.

“Because he and Miss Georgy are getting up a tolerably
good imitation of the thing which generally precedes an
engagement—holy wedlockK—babies—etcetera.”?

“T have not noticed it,’ said Colchester; ‘‘but should
not be sorry ifit were so. He will not have the field to
himself though.”

Mr. Ravel i ired why.

“We had a gentleman down here two yearsago. He

| tvaveled with Selton’s people, when that good-natured
Inisanthrope was sufficiently good to honor us with his

presence—an Irishman by birth, about six foot two, broad
shonidered, strong as a lion, gentle as a lamb, in holy
orders, too. He has asmall living about a dozen miles
from Herefordshire, in the shire, rather, and about a dozen
miles from a place called Rylands.”? :

“Where Grey comes from.’?

‘Ig it? Well, this fellow, a8 fine and scholarly a gen-
tleman as youever saw, by the way—Mr. Arthur Morice
his name is—swore as fairly as a parson could swear, that
my Georgy should marry him.’?

“Ts he poor???

“At present. But he has good expectations, solid tan-
gible expectations, Ravel, though you smile. He made
love to Georgy on a grund scale. He would not take an
answer then. ‘If it’s yes,? he said to her, ‘I would not
marry you just now, andif it’s no, I wouldn’t believe
you. I'll wait ten years for you, and I will come in two
years time, and you will not be married then, Miss Col-
chester.’? :

“A decent specimen of Hibernian assurance, that.’

“Georgy could not forget it. She came in raging, stamp-
ing her feet, and saying she would not put up with it,
There was Morice behing her, carrying her parasol, which
I do believe she had thrown at him with tne pleasantest
smile possible. Of course, I saw what was the matter.”

Mr. Colchester smiled at thé recollection. .

“How did it end?” :

“Georgy told me before him what he nad said, and he
stood there, nodding approval when she was right, cor-
recting her whenshe was wrong. Ithought the little
vixen would have slupped his handsome Irish face, but
it aan Ae good-tempered that she cried with vexation in-
stead. :

“What did you do???

“Let them have itout. It was the most novel love-
making you ever saw. Georgy is perfectly ungovernable
when her temper is fairly up, you know, and her doings
are not always orthodox. She caught one of the grooms
kicking her favorite horse, and she gave htm a horse-
whipping that scarred his face for many a day.’?

“Wrong te let her do it,’? said Archie, gravely.

“My dear fellow, I have no means of awing her. She
gave the man a five pound note next day, and would not
let me discharge him. However, she abused poor Morice
till I really felt for him. Helet her goon right to the
end, and then told her he Knew she did not mean a word
she had said.”

**Cool,’?

“St was. ‘I will wait ten years for you,’ he said, ‘I
would wait forever, Miss Georgy, but I fear it’s too old
we'd be for each other, aud remember that every year as
it goes will teach you to know me better. Every year
will leave some little heart soreness behind it. Every
girl, as beautiful and amiable as you are, is sure to have
one sad and terrible experience in her life-time, and alter
your turn has come and gone perhaps you will be glad to
think of me.’ They were his words, spoken in a way she
was not likely to forget.”

“Does she ever think of him now ??

“Hard to say. Ihave only to mention that he will be
here this month, and she bites her lips vengefully. One
thing in his favor is, that Grey isthe only man who has
made : the least impression upon her since he went
away.”

Hye has my dest wishes,’’ said Archie, quietly. ‘Mr.
Morice, poor or rich, is the man forme. I am very fond
of Georgy, though I get more hard words than kisses, to
put it figuratively. A girl with her fine frank nature
wants a man with a genial, healthy tone of mind. Not a
somber, brooding, grim, morbid misanthrope—but there,
Iam talking of a friend.”

“And telling the truth of him, too.
some trouble.’? - :

“He need not carry the shadow of it with him. I, no
more than you, would not saya word either way; but I
hope, for his own sake, Mr. Artour Morice will put in an
eee before Georgy thinks too much of Talbot

rey.

Perhaps he has had

 

CHAPTER XII.

The elder Mr. Grey had given his son good advice when
he told him to seek genial companionship and change of
scene. Their etfect was visible on Talbot as the time
wore on. Life did not seem so blank. The future did not
seem so hopeless while the idle days went pleasantly in
Lincolnshire.

“¥ suppose I could get a divorce under the circum-
stances,”? he pondered frequently, during the quiet rides
and drives, when Georgy was his sole companion; “and
perhaps it would be the better way to explain everything
while there istime. But then the public scandal would
be bad for her, poor girl, and Sir Henry might never care
for her again.”

Translated in another manner, his thoughts might have
read: .

“~The public scandal would be bad for me too, and
Georgina might not care for &man who behaved as I,
did.??

He returned to it bitterly as the time for Lady Selton’s
return drew near. Thelove which had come baexk to him
in this cosy house was at best a fitful feeling, like home-
sickness, or remorse, or those remains of weak hours and
suly sentiment that make the cheeks of men and women
tingle sometimes with a sort of Savage angry shame.

The love which had come back to him was on the wane,
and the thing he chiefly regretted was that-he had ever
married Miriam. He anathematized himself for the sen-
timental folly, and wondered how he could ever have
committed it.

Mr. Grey chose to believe himself desperately in love.
Genuine, manly love this time, and, as it often does, the
faith made the tact. He discovered to his own satisfac-
tion that Gedrgina was exactly the woman he siiould
have waited for. She was brilliaft, young, beautiful, and
dashing; she came ofa fine old family, was well-con-
nected, and had twenty thousand pounds,

And but for that one error of his boyhood—it was as-
tonishing to see how juvenile he grew in his own estima-
tion when he looked back at himself at that period—but
for that one error all these might have been his. Between
him and the Lincolnshire heiress there stood nothing but
an oblong slip of paper, being the statement of a mar-
riage performed at a little country church about a dozen
miles from Rylands, in Lincolnshire.

The time for the Irish clergyman’s visit, and the time
for Sir Henry ana Lady Selton’s return, approached to-
gether. Hach piece of tidings had its influence on Talbot.
He heard of Mr. Arthur Morice as he grew familiar with
the household. Georgina’s younger sister, Annie, a blithe,
loving maiden of sixteen, midway between her lingering
affections for dolls and her dreams of ideal sweethearts,

 

ae THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #e> 5

ns

EET REIL SST ELEC EE OT OIE EY TE

 

 

made him painfully aware of the place the coming gen-
tleman held.

Sitting over their cards one evening—Archie could en-
joy an old-fashioned game at long whist with no, better
partner than the little girl in question, thougn he had a
steady opponent in Mr. Colchester—the coming Visitors
were discussed with more freedom than the art of getting

 

} the odd trick is supposed to admit.

“Georgy will be so glad next week,” said Annie, inno-
cently putting a trump on the trick which her partner,
Archie, had already taken. :

“Aud why should Georgy be glad?’ inquired Ravel,
while Georgy sat on thorns, and the Indian soldier bent

| his brows more sternly on ‘Annie than her childish prattle

warranted. 4

“Why, of course, everybody knows he is coming on pur-
pose to marry her. They have been sweethearts ever 80
long—havn’t you, Georgy, dear?’

Georgy, with her face on fire, suggested that children
ought to be sent to bed at a proper time, and not sit play-
ing cards like little old women.

Mr. Ravel had the taste to see that Annie had touched
delicate ground, so he kept her attention engaged for the
rest of the game. He was by no means surprised when
Miss Colchester left the room—still less surprised when
Talbot followed her. c

Georgy had gone into the library, under the pretext of
searching for a book. She knew by instinet that Grey
would follow her, and with what purpose. She felt that
the time had come when he ought to speak, if he meant
to speak at all. Silent lovers—men whvu sit and look love
without even touching by a word upon the subject—make
women suffer terribly in their pride.

“Can I help you?” he asked, as Georgina’s large white
arm went soaring upin search of a book on the dingy
shelf far out of herreach. ‘What is it you want? The
‘Mirror’—the ‘Tatier.? What quaint old things they are,
with their bits of scandal, and their grandmothers’
Stories! Will you have this?’

“Anything will do, Mr. Grey.*? :

Their hands met as he gave her the small volume. He
placed it on the table, and their hands remained together.

“Tam not sorry that lam going away next week, Miss
Colchester.”?

“I am—very sorry.”?

“Don’t think me a brute for saying that I am not, and
pardon me for saying I do not think you have been quite
Kind in keeping me so long in ignorance.”

“OF what???

“The position the expected visitor holds here,”’

“Really, Mr. Grey, I am surprised at you! To take
notice of a child.. I wish he were not coming—l do.
great, uncouth, audacious Irishman! I hate him?’

Such a vehement protestation of dislike was not a good
sign in Mr. Grey's sight, though he let it flatter him for
the present. He knew that a lady’s hatred always be-
gins or endsin love, :

“T should lixe you to be frank with me, Georgina,” he
said, lowering his voice to the deep and tender pitch that
gives a promise of sweet and serious words to the listener,
“for I want to say something to you before I go—some-
thing that may affect my future—yours too.”

“I always have been frank with you, Mr. Grey.’

“Call me Selwyn, please, now more than ever—I want
ee to forget. Or, better still, call me Talbot. Will

ou

She looked an assent, but did not speak. For once in
her life, the daring horsewoman, the brilliant Lincolnshire
beue, Stood mute, pale, and timid, in the presence of a
man.

That man shut his eyes willfally to what he was doing.
He thought of Miriam, and spurned the thought with an
inward execration. Why should she be a hopeless fetter
e eed drag him down forever? He might as weil

e dead. -

“Sit down, Georgy,” he said, in the deep and tender
tone she liked to hear; “‘sit down, and—better than your
book—let me tell you a story—of a friend of mine, say.’?

He stood behind her chair, his hand upon the back of
it—so near that her hair swept his hand, and his fingers
almost touched her sculptured shoulder.

“It will show you how a man’s life may be wasted fer
want of a good, brave woman’s help,”’ he went on; “how
a single error done in England will cling to a whole ex-
istence, and put him beyond the pale of hope. Do you
think it will interest you ?”?

“Yes, I think so; but 1s it very sad ?)?

“That you shall judge. This friend of mine—a boy, at
home from college on a holiday—met and loved, or
thought he loved, a village girl—pretty, to do her justice,
clever, as it seemed to him, beyond her station; a mere
child, too, and not very kindly treated by her friends,
Cahn you imagine how such a girl, so circumstanced,
would work upon a very young man’s sympathies?’

“Very easily, and, perhaps, designedly.”

“What a pitiful villain 1 am,” he thought, with perfect
justice, “‘to excuse my own paltry cowardice by painting
Miriam in such alight as this! It would be the oldest
story in the world to tell you how they met,” he went on;
“how, at the end of six months, his father, to’ prevent
what would inevitably have happened—for my friend was
an honorable man, and at the age when men do not study
social differences, or the fitness of things—his father, to
prevent this, sent him abroad, instead of letting him re-
turn to college—sent him abroad for six years.”

“And the poor girl ?”? ; ea

“He was faithful to her,” said Mr. Grey, in spite of the
inward monitor, which, in Gistinct silence, kept reporting
him a coward at the back of his brain. ‘He did not for-
get the tie between them, or what was due to her, and he
returned to find that she had become another’s.’”

“Then she could not have loved him.”’ i

“Heaven knows! Itis sohard to say. Perhaps she
lost faithin him. Perhaps she was tired of waiting. But
it made him a somber, disappointed man. You see, the
saddest part of it was that there had been a rumor of his
death, which she believed, or affected to believe.”?

— gave himup. But whatof the man she mar-
ried ;

“] think she had told him everything; and that gave my
friend—whom I want you to pity, Georgy—a very painful
task. He thought he had no right to let his want of cour-
age at the outset be a source of trouble to her. While he
was supposed to be dead, her husband could trust her,
and be happy. If it became-Known that he lived, you can
comprehend her position. So he resolved to sink his own
identity, and go into the world resigned to his fate, feel-
ing that he was not worthy to be loved again.”

The miserably egotistical, hackneyed, sentimental story
had its effect. Man is never so self-abased, and conscious
of his self-abasement, as when he knows that he is im-
posing successfully upon a woman’s credulous affection.
He had told Georgina part of the truth, so perverted that
it became worse than entire falsehood.

What hesaid about thetie which bound him tothe wo-
man who, supposing him dead, had married another man,
was just suggestive enough to carry its worst and foulest
Meaning to Miss Colchester’s sinless mind. She lived in
a village district, and knew what such things meant, and
it struck her that Mr. Grey’s friend—being perfectly aware
that the friend was himself—was too keenly afflicted with
sentimental baseness. Of course, the poor girl was to be
pitied, but there was an end of it.

“And what became of your friend?” she inquired.

“He kept his determination, till he met a noble-hearted,
beautiful lady—the very ideal of his riper years—met her
to deplore the fatal fact most bitterly.”

“He was not a brave man, Mr. Selwyn.’

“Not Georgy |’

“He was nota brave man,”” she said, looking straight
into his face, ‘‘or he would have told her the truth, asked
her to be his wife, and given her his faithful promise to
be true to her to the end of his days. Why should he let
the village girl come between them, when she had made
herown choice? It was not fair to the lady whom he
loved, and who, perhaps, loved him.”

“Georgy” he lifted her from the chair, her great eyes
flashing joy into his, for she knew what was coming—‘“I
have been telling you my own story. Did you know it?”

“T guessed it.”

“And you will take that promise—be my wife? Oh, if
you knew whatl have suffered, thinking of this hour.
You will be mine?”

While her lips were murmuring assent into his, while
his arm encircled her neck, and he told her that she was
his first and only love, memory went back some six years
or so, to the little church in Hertfordshire, where a poor
young minister, with a gentle countenance, pronounced
the nuptial benediction over a childish bride, whose large
dark eyes haunted him even at this moment.

The papers hext morning announced the return of Sir
Henry and Lady Selton to their town residence; but that
was nothing te Mr Selwyn. On thinking the matter
over In a reasonable way, it was better to let the tact drop
entirely.

“f[ have never seen the child, after all,” he reflected,
‘and her ladyship is the most fitting person to take care
of it. Iwill let her retain her position undisturbed, and,
on second thoughts, 1 would rather not see lier.”

“My uncle Henry is back, I see,’? said Mr. Ravel, over
the breakfast-table. ‘We are sure to have him down for
the hunting, Mr. Colchester. Not that ze hunts. He has
a Chesterfieldian idea that it is a thing a man ought todo
once, just for the pleasure of saying he has done 1t.””

“And he has a lovely young wife,” putin Frank. “Ar-
chie was in love with her—ne told me so.”

“Hold your tongue, you young reprobate.”

“So you did.”

“Who was she?” inquired Mr. Talbot Selvyn Grey, with
languid interest.

“The daughter of a military Surgeon,’’ answered Archie.
“Sir Henry adopted her and married her as the best
means of taking care of her. She had been jilted, or badly
used, by some paltry young scoundrel, and, by Jove! the
fellow lost atreasure. She is a peerless lady, and a king
might worship her.”?

Mr. Grey looked at Georgina, and smiled. That smile,
love interpreted, said to her:

“You are my peerless lady, and what would the wor-
ship of a king be to mine?”

(To be continued.)
—_———_—_—_—__>--@—____—.
Attention All!

 

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approbation of the public.

TWO SEASONS OF LOVE.

 

BY NATHAN D. URNER.

a;
It was not when the Winter bleak
In silence cold and white reposes,
But it was when the Summer’s cheek
Was glowing like her glowing roses,
That her hand in mine lay earelessly,
And her eyes on mine played fearlessly,
And her bell-tones rang out sauoily:
“So warm is the season,
Love cares not for reason,
Alone she can flow.”
Go, willfal one, go!

' Il.
It was not when the Summer fanned
With perfumed wing the drowsy dingle,
But it was when the Winter's hand ;
Had made the windmill’s long ears tingle,
That her hand in mine lay cheerfully,
And her eyes on mine dwelt tearfully, .
And her voice was a lost wind, sighingly:
“So cold is the season,
Love listens to reason,
Her pulses are numb.” ee
Come, penitent, come!

 

 

THE

PHANTOM WIFE.

By Mrs. M. V. Victor,
Author of “WHO OWNED THE JEWELS,”
“THE DEAD LETTER,’? “FIGURE
BIGHT,?’? ete., ete.

 

 

(‘The Phantom Wife’ was commenced in No. 12. Back Nos.
can be obtained of any News Agent in the United States.

CHAPTER XVII.
MRS. RUNNEL’S STORY.

“Well, afew weeks ago, about four, I began to notice
that Mr. Gillan acted queer, or that he had something new
on his mind. My own daughter was away to the convent-
school, and I s’posed Mrs, Laura was there, too—that was
the story given out. Now, though 1 aint hired to do noth-
ing on earth but keep company with), Mrs. Laura when
she’s to the chateau, yet 1’m too much Of a Yankee to let
things go to waste as they would if I didn’t look after
them @ little. ;

“Well, the first thing I noticed was Vittals missing from
the store-room of which I kept the key—tie nicest things
picked out—birds, jellies, cake, fruit, preserves. After a —
few nights I was bound I’d catch the thief if I had to set
up all night. I didn’t know as there was another key as
would fit that lock; but somebody must have one, an’ I
took it on me to find out who; so | boldly locks myself up
in that there very store-room and hides behind the sugar-
barrel, with a lot of soiled. tablecloths over my head, so L
wouldn’t be noticed, and there I scrouched till my legs
were in a cramp, and 1 was most asleep—’twas after
twelve, for I looked as soon as I had a Chance, when, sure
enough, there came a Soft step, and a light shone under
the door, and a key was put in the lock, and who should
step in, as sly as a cat, but Mr. Gillan himself!

“Good Lord! says I to myself, ‘don’t the man git
enough toeat?’? He had asilver tray in his hand, and he
went to work, as neat and nice as a girl, and placed a cold
supper on it—a slice of roast chicken, a roll, cake and
sweetmeats, and a glass of eau-suere, as they cal) it, and
went out with it, softly fastening the door after him.

‘Hal’ said I, ‘he has a boarder!’ but who or what you
may reekon puzzled me.

‘“‘ As soon as I dared I let myself out with my own key;
just as I got into the passage I sees his lamp going round
acornerin theupper hall. Icrept after him. He didn’t
make no more noise than @ mouse; nuther did I. I kept
a@ good ways behind, where it was pitch dark, so if he
looked back he couldn’t see me. He turned and twisted
through all them curious crooks and turns of the old
building, which it is enough to scare anybody to stay in,
it is 80 Spookey, and finally went into a great long room
which nobody scarcely ever entered, for there was noth-
ing to take ’em there but a lot of musty old curtains on
the walls instead of the winders, Which somebody must
have wasted a lot of time a covering over with needie-
work, but not in this generation. aE :

“IT looked through the crack of the door an’ I saw him
set the lamp and tray down in a window and take an
enormous great key from a certain place behind them
curtains, and unlock a door, and take up the lamp and
tray again, and go in an’ shet the door. I made out that
it must be a small room in the second story of the tower.

“My heart was in my mouth. I didn’t know no more
what to think than a fool—only I knew he had got some-
vody shet up there 1 :
_ “T was dreadful ’fraid to resk it—Gilian isn’t a man I’d
like to make mad—but I felt as if I couldn’t stop there;
so I went along into the room, making my way by the -
windows, through which the stars were a-shining, not
Knowing what minute he might open the door and come
outonme. I kind of trusted to his lamp’s being a poor
one, that I could get behind the curtains when I heard
him coming out; so I stole on, my heart like a chunk of
ice with fear, till I came to the door, when I Stooped and
peaked through the key-hole.

“I saw the light, and I saw him, an’ I heard him talk-
ing, low and soft; but I couldn’t make out a word. Once
or twice the other one spoke. It was a woman! And
from bein’ coid I turned as hot as a poker when | thought
it sounded like Mrs. Kilpatrick’s voice. Still, I was no
ways certain. Idon’t think he staid more’n ten minutes
and then I heard him say, as he came toward the door—
‘You'll tire of this sooner’n you think,’ in a threatening
tone, like, and 1 scud about half-way down the room, and
got behind the hangins jest in time, as he came out again
looking as black as a thunderstorm, and went along out
and on to his own room. “3 ne

“[ noticed that he took the key with him this time
swinging it in his hand as he went. 1 was sorry, for vd
made up my mind to use it. :

‘As I knew he’d be wakeful for some time at least, I
thought best to do nothing that night. 1 recollected that
he had told Paul he should go to the village the
next day to give the priest some advice about the repairs
on the church; so I decided to take that opportunity to go
pela to the galery and me through the key-hole of the

wer-room and ask ‘was there any body th
to get out and couldn’t?’ 7 ——

“I waited and watched the next forenoon for Mr. Gil-
lan to start for the village. I believe he saw something
in my eyes when I asked him what hour he’d have lun-
cheon; if he did, he didn’t let on, but went oft about
eleven o’clock, and I watched him untit he got beyond
the gate, and was walking down the road. Then 1 went
up-stairs and tried to find the gallery; but 1 took the
wrong passage at first. At length I got in the right one,
and looking about to see that none of the-servants was in
sight, I hurried along and soon stood in the great, barren
room. I stopped a minute to reflect if 1 was really. doing

t.

“I didn’t want to meddle with what didn’t concern me
but I could not reconcile what I’d seen and heard the
night before, with the idea of honest proceedings on Mr.
Gillan’s part, 1 knew he hadn’t enough moral principle
to be discovered 1f you should search for 1t with a magni-
fying-glass. I was dead sure that he was playing jailer
to some poor creature. I didn’t think much of Mrs.
Laura, though the voice had reminded me of hern, be-
cause I supposed her to be safe at the convent. To tell
the hull truth, d had a letter from Mary the day before,
speaking of Mrs. Laura and saying she sent her regards
tome. So how could I think of her as the prisoner ?”’

Kilpatrick had long ago reseated himself, and was lis-
tening to Mrs. Runnel’s story, without movement or
word, his head resting against the back of his easy-chair,
his dark, intent eyes fixed upon her countenance. She
paused, after the unconscious earnestness of her last
question; each read the eyes of the other for a moment,
then Kilpatrick made a motion with his hand, and the
woman continued: :

“Certain thatI was but doing my duty, I moved on
again, when J heard the door from the passage open, and
looking behind me, Isaw Mr. Gillan, who come forward
with that disagreeable smile of his, :

‘“« ‘Have you any especial object in visiting this gallery ?
he inquired, in his smoothest tone. I saw all ina flash
that he was on his guard, and that his going off toward
the village was only a feint to induce me to betray my-
self. ButI didn’t finch. 1 looked him innocently in the
face, and said that as had nothing else on hand, an’ it
was time for spring cleanin’, I was goin’ over the house
to see what rooms needed puttin’ in order,

‘‘*You needn’t tech tis,’ he said, still smiling as sweet
as honey. ‘Why, Mrs. Runnel, it would ruin it to clean
it. It would be like a sign-painter tryin’ to repair an old
master’—them were his words, though what an-old mas-
ter is 1 don’t know—‘you need give yourself no trouble
about this partofthe chateau. When! want it overhauled
Iwill let you know’—as polite as punkin-pie, but | felt
he meant it as an order for me to keep away.

“1 went to my own quarters feeling very mean and very
unhappy. I was more convinced than ever that there
was mischief brewing. For three orfour days he and
me was like a cat and a dog watching one another. Not
that a word was said, or that the servants suspected any-
thing. Finally, one day, when le was at dinner, I run
up to that gallery-door and it was locked. So downI
come, and by this time, bein’ intolerably uneasy, I asked
him that evening if I might start, the next morning, to
visit my daughter at the school. He said he couldn’t
think of sparing me, though there was nothing particke-
ler for me to do. Then I took matters in my own hands,
and started without. his permission.

“I got to the convent next day; and the first question,
Mary, she asked me was:

‘* ‘Are they married yet?’

‘“*Who? says I.

‘Mr. Gillen and her,’ says she.

“Isn’t Mrs. Kilpatrick with the nuns? says I.

‘No,’ Says she, ‘she hasn’t been here this long time.
He told me they were going to be married the day after I
left, mother.’

‘Then what on earth has become of her?” says I.

“‘O, mother!’ says Mary, bursting out a-crying. ‘If you
won’t say anything to the nuns, I’ll tell you. He’s got her
shut up in the tower-room. She was there all the time I
was to home last, and I knew it, but he let her out the

 

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rlage certificate, and I thought it was all made up between
them. You go right back and tell him J say siie’s there,
an’ ifthe don’t let her out you'll Gall in the officers. She
don’t want want to marry him, mother, and he’s trying
vO Comipel her to.’

“LT came back as quick as the engine would bring me.
My mind was inja dreadful state; but one thing I meant
todo, and that was) to-give that scamp. apiece of it.
When [ got out.at the. village there Was he at the station
With a carriage, jast asif he knew what train would bring
me, and he helped me in.as gentle as a lamb, and asked,
With great interest—‘iow was’ Mis. Laura?’ When was
she coming homie?! e The carriage-door was shut by this,
and we were drivingoon; so, as no; one ‘could hear us, I
broke out: ‘You know.I went.on 9 fool’s errand, Mr. Gil-
lan. You can tell me,a. great deal better than I can you,
how she is.’ a

“isn’t she at the convent?’ he asked, uneasily.

‘(Is she in the tower-room? I replied, tauntingly. ‘I
aint afraid ef you, Mr. Gillan, an’I’m going fo sift this
Matter to the hottom. I'll have'an ‘officer in the house
before nighti” > & ;

“Phere is nomeed: to calh ‘any officer,’ he said, in a
trembling voice... ‘1 will give more than you would know
Where Lauru is. I hoped she was at the school.’

“I turned sharp on him, and looked into his black eyes.
i then percalvettttint he was really troubled; that he had
& Wild, haiited Took, that his hands shook and his face
Was yellow-pale. *

«<Who was it you were takin’ vittals to, in the tower-
room, night after night?’ J asked. : ‘ :

“(You played the spy, did you?! he cried, flushing, his
black eyes snapping. Tire next mitiute he cooled down, ;
and began to laugh...‘Goodaieavens, Mrs. Runnels,’ says
he, ‘did you suppose | had madame shut up there. You
must have been out of your hee You as as not as
mo _ proper.as some of. your New England youn
me | Oi or my lady frienag hat aris came out to ia
me, 2’ [knew Yow would not-countenance her, I dia
the honors of the place myself. She kept her room, the
few days slie remained, and. was gone last week. If you
don’t beleve it you.can .go up to the mysterious room
and examine for yourself. Madame Laura left the cha-
teau the: Same @ay ‘with your daughter, and I have not
had a line from her since. supposed those devout nuns
had quite got possession of her. If she is not at the con-
vent i. cannot imagine where she is, unless she has gone
back to America.’ She has held no communication with
the sick man attheinn. Ihave already made sure of
that. I tell you, | would give a fortune to know’—he
gnashed his teeth together as he spoke, and I felt more
uneasy than ever.

“¥ could see that he was worried; I did not fully believe
the'story about the lady friend, yet I could not dispute it;
and J saw that he was in an awful state, for some reason.

“AS soon as we got tothe chateau 1 went right up,
without stopping to take off my things, and sure enough,
the gallery door'stood open and the little room, too, I
went in and took a good look at it. There was a little
furniture in it, showingit had been lately used.. But the
occupant was gone. Iwent all over that great spookey
building, into every spot where I could get, even the cel-
lars. ‘Idid net find Mrs. Laura. Idon’t know what’s be-
come of her. There's a dreadful weight on mind,
Sometimes I think Gillan has killed lier, in a fit of pas-
sion, because she held out so long against marrying him.
Pm certain he’s in trouble—either she is dead, or he don’t
know where she is,’ I don’t'like to callin the officers in
a strange countr Tike this, and I don’: Know what to do.
f thought I'd co LO you, sir’? :

_ “Tam glad you:

   
  
  

 
 

lid. Bat I cannot tell, all in amoment,
~ There are many things not yet clear

‘not stay another moment—he is afraid I
will Come to you, [can guess... 1 got off this evening while
he was at his desk busy writing his letters. If he misses
me it will be just like him'to,, follow and watch me, You
look as'if you would faint away, Mr. Kilpatrick. Villeave
you this minute, and I’li contrive.some way to deat from
you to-morrow, or to send you word. Oh, Lord, J wish
we’d none of us ever set foot in this foreign land. I never
could bear them French.” ;

She tnrned up her nose as if France in general,was re-.

. Sponsible for the crimes and disasters of the Gillans.

“I must go,’? she added, pulling her vail down. :

bhe next momens she was going down the stairs; but}

just as she stepped off the little porch of the inn into the
darkness of the night, a smooth voice said to her:

“Shall ise dr ome, Mrs. Runnel? There are ghosts
between ie nd tle chateau.) te ee
“Mr. Gillan” she éxclaimed

   

2 pete Fees Oe EGER Aa 4) Cade e ; =
inal te eeringly, and. they, walked together in
i: eae Ta fevtetue i ry j

feriwo fe CHAPTER, xvuL
o8 BINDING VAY REY: ;

“There ts nota liwng soul, except ourselves, who
dreams that you are in this building.”

After Yepeating this over twice or thrice Laura burst into
hysterical laughter. The idea was very absurd that in
this nineteenth century, in a civilized and peaceful land,
a lady could be imprisoned in a tower, and kept there at
the will ofan enemy. Her cousin could not mean all that
his threat implied. Even if he did, it would be quite easy
for her to liberate herself. . When Mary had been her jailer,
she had remained more to avoid a scene with Gabriel than
because she felt that she could. TOL ERCADC ee aig

“Nothing could be easier,’? she thought, now that she
was really determined to getout, “than to climb up to the

“windows and call the first servant Who might be out on
the tower side of the house.”

As soon as she had'so far recovered from the effects of
her swoon as to be able to catty out her design, she
pushed the table under a Window and climbed upon it. |
By this means she could just get her eyes on 4 level with the
sill: She put lier pillows on the table and thus gained a
few inches more which enabled her to look down upon
the neglected flower-garden which occupied that part of
the grounds. She saw not a living creature; and she was
well aware that sometimes for days no one came to that

sideof the chateau. There was no glass at all in the win-
dow, which was narrow and long—a mere slit in the thick
stone wall, guarded by iron bars passing up and down,
imbedded, at each end, in the solid masonry.

She stood, for hours, hoping that some one might
chance to visit the garden—when not looking into the
garden, gazing off at the lovely blue sea, melting and
sparkling in the'far distance. Her thoughts were not all
upen the prospec of release. She recalled Gabriel's
confession of how shamefally he had deceived Mr. Kil-
patrick, and she said to herself that she too might have
been the victim of treachery, as well as her husband.
The bare possibility that she had been deceived by those
who ha@'an interest in making her believe that George
had repented marrying her, filled her with such a passion-

- ate desire to fiy to nim, to fling herself at his feet, and
hear him! say ‘whether or not she had had just cause for
leaving him, that'those cold stone walls which shut and
pees her away from him, grew every hour more intoler-
able. ey

-Of course she had but to promise to’ marry Gabriel, and
she could walk forth where she pleased; but she was not
one who could lightly break tier word, and sle knew that
her cousin would exact: from’ her a’ solemn’ and binding
oath. ase! yc Ur ae

Almost wild asshe grew, pondering her own situation,
and the probabdiity that Mr. Kilpatrick would leave the
village before-she had an opporiunity to see him, she pre-
ferred to run the risk of Gabriel's repenting his rash and
criminal conduct, or.of her effecting her escape by her

own efforts, to making him any promise which she would
be obliged, afterward, to break. She thought it ali aver,
looking off atthe free, fair sea, on whose bosom’ she
longed to be, returning to the home and’ the country
which she had forsaken in a phrenzy of rash despair.

Avout the middle of the afternoon old Pierre came out
into the garden with his spade, poking about among the
shrubs, and breaking up a little ground.’ He was the
gardener, old’and feeble, like many of the servants of the
chateau who had spent long lives there with the former
master. Laura shouted and shouted to him, thrusting
her scarf through the bars and shaking it; but Pierre was
deaf as'a pest, and never lifted his head from lis work.
Had he looked and beheld the scarf, he would not have
recognized it from a bit of ivy vine, at that distance, for
his sight was no longer of the best,

Nightcame on; weary with standing on her perch so
long, she climbed down from the table which she pushed
to. the center of the room, aS she wished to conceal her
hopes from her jailer.

At twilight he camein with the first meal he had
brought her that day.

She ate; for she was famished, and the desire to be pre-
pared for emergencies warned her not to waste her bodily
Strength by fasting. :

Knowing that ne had offended her beyond forgiveness,
Gabriel attempted no conversation. He sat by the table
looking over a mewspaper’ while she ate; when she had
finished, lre opened the door into the gallery, weirdly illu-
minated by arising full moon, and told her that as he did
not wish her healtt: to suffer by this confinement any
more than was wwavoidable, she had the freedom of the
gallery for au hour, always provided she made no rash
outery—in the meantime he would put her roomin
orderat ie =e

Bewildered by the cool, overmastering manner with
which: he Carried out his plans, Laura went out into the
dim, long apartment, pacing up and down past the row
of moonlit windows, gazing now atthe glorious night
out-of-doors, now at the ‘fantastic shadows of the mol-
dering tapestries: She did not fail to try the door which
led out into the passage, though she expected to, and did
find ivlocked. Sie might have pounded onthe thick
panels, abd Have cried out, in the hope of bringing some
one to her relief, but she realized that at the first attempt
she would be dragged back into her prison, while the
chances were only onein a thousand that any person
would be in that vicinity, even if the muffled walls and
sullen oaken door gave passage to hercry. So she wan-
dered up and down with folded arms, making no effort to
escape, getting what momentary pleasure she could out
of the fresh air in the great room, and the lovely pictures
of night outside.

In about half-an-hour Gabriel joined her promenade,
keeping step with her step as easy, as self-possessed as if
he were doing the politest, pleasantest thing imaginble.

“You will find Fam quite a lady’s-maid,’’ he observed.
“Mary Runnel could not have tidied up your room more
satisfactorily.”

She made no reply, and they walked on and on and on
together, now’ up, now down the glimmering row of
casements'in Silence.

Through the bright moonlight, through the dark
shadows they fitted to ana fro. Ghosts could not have
been paler nor more voiceless than they bot were, Yes,
his face was a8 white as hers; for the straitin which he
had placed himself as well as her was too difficult and

dangerous for hini to regard itdightly,

  

 

 

As. he walked’ by her side witha soft and measured
stepgstealing long’ glanceyat her pate. troubled face-—

<
G
nd

which was turned fromhim in offended’ pride—his ex-
pression was that of the cat, satisfied that svoner or later
the bird°would drep trembling at his feet.’ a

Althougl she never once met his ‘eyes, Laura’ felt it—
felt the intense magnétism of his wrll—his fixed, implaca-
ble purpose. It seemed to her as if she were doomed to
walk “foreverin that quaint and ancient gallery beside
this man, whom she feared. "

The calm world of light and silvery beauty which she
Saw “lying outside, was like the life which ‘she jhad re-
signed, and which could be hers nevermore; the dark,
mysterious gallery, with its smell of moid-and its whis-
péring tapestries, was like the life which. henceforward
must be hers, '

She felt that, after all, she should marry Gabriel; ag if
she were tangled body and soul in’ a web. “Lhe shadowy
Knights and ladies on the faded hangings seemed jibing
and pointing their fingers at her, saying in whispers,
“She will marry hini! she will marry him’? .

Could it be that she was going mad?

Suddenly sie paused in her slow promenade and drop:
ped at his feet. The moonlight ‘frond the window before
which they stopped fell over her, adding by its “melan-
choly lustre to the effect of her uplifted hands; ana her
wild, white, beautiful face.

“Gabriel! Gabriel! let me go! You-wowld not wish to
wed with an insane woman, would’ you?” I shall be driv-
en mad, I know.” . A

“Better you, insane, than any other woman, sane.’?!?
“JF promise you never to ‘betray what lias passed ‘be-
tween us—to treat you with outward respect—to give you
half, or-all, my propeyty, if you will only cease to 'perse-
cute me,’! i ie

“Will you promise to Make no attempt to see Kilpatrick
—to let him return undér thé: same’ impression as that
under which he came, to his own’ country, ‘while you re-
main in this with me? Will you marry me, asthe dispen-
sation enables you to do, and make me happy, and keep
these estates together, as they should be kept, and work
with me to restore the family of Gillan to its ancient
splendor???

“Never! never!"? : :

“The hour is up,’ he said, consulting his watch.

She arose from her knees, walking back, without a com-
pulsory motion on his part, to her prison. There was no
use in appealing to eyes like those; she must bide her
time; she must be cunning; iff nécessary—sly and watch-
ful, like her enemy. Usha BOs

“Good-night, sweet cousin, and pleasant dreams.”

She gave a curious look about the oom when he had
left her. It struck her as so ludicrous that Gabriel, indo-
lent and dainty beyond description, should play the part
of maid, that she Smiled; after that the tears came, and
she had a good, comfortable cry.

Then she went to bed and slept all night, for she was
exhausted: “oes &

The next morning Gabriel brought in ‘a spirit lamp that
she might make her own tea and coffee, and provision
for more than one meal. He added a few little conve-
niences to her room, and left a supply of reading-matter,
and a bouquet of hot-house flowers purchased at the vil-
lage. Again he gave her liberty to walk an hour in the
gallery. When he spoke, it was softly and kindly; butthe
cruel look was never absent from the watchful eyes. This
day she made no appeal to him. It could only humble
her dignity, and be ineffectual,

She did not make much use of the books and magazines
he had brought her, that day. She had something else to
do. She clinibed to her perch at the window; she wrote
more than one brief message, descriptive of her situation,
and flung it down, in the hope that the breezes of heaven
would ally themseives to her cause, and carry some of
them to the notice of Mrs. Runnel, or the servants; she
fastened her scarf'to one of the iron’ bars and allowed it
to float outside; she watched for old Pierre, and when he
came she called and shouted until she was hoarse.

That was a long day—longer than the first.

At evening Gabriet brought her some fresh provisions, |

and she took another promenade in the galiery.. He re-
marked to her that he had’some frouble in waiting upon
‘her without attracting observation; as if he expected she
would sympathise with himin that difficulty. « (+

‘That night she was feverish and: rested)little. ‘She
dreamed of the blue sea; which she:had made ‘ her com:
panion through the day. ryod. nid Hig :

The third morning, when Gabriel came in, he laid be-
fore her, without remark, all the little motes she had writ-
ten and dropped from the window.) > :

Her heartigrew like lead when she saw them—the tears
sprang to her eyes. ig ¥Ol

-He brought with him some tools and some wide pine:

‘boards, which awaited him in the gallery. |

After Laura had.'breakfasted, he lighted'a lamp, at’
which she we red, until she saw him bring in hammer;
naus and boards. He climbed on the table and: drew lier
scarf in, flinging if to her ‘with a ‘gallant bow.« Then he
Celiberately nailed.up the three windows; and; as‘she sat’
there, and saw the light of: day excluded from her drear.
prison, her breath cameiin gasps; and she felt suffocated:
with a deadly oppression over her chest. :

However, asihe’-had nothing. to occupy his time that/|

ny he told:her she might take two hours in the gal-
CHY 1 12Rk aA Ee

In .order'to avoid him and his cruel look, she'took a
book, pretending to read it, as she paced to and frolikea’
peumeel. Te took another and sat in the window and
Tead.io sige al wail) a bien “ted i ap @iiix

That day sheishuddered when he turned the key upon’
her, Without was spring sunshine, fields growing green,
the glistening sea; within was four gray walls dully illu-
minated by a lamp. That dayshe read and read, and
could not have enough of reading—for she dared: not
think: for fear her-reason would not bear the test, .

This was the first of a horrible procession of such days:
She could not have dreamed how much that open window
and that glimpse of theiblue sky and: the blue sea had
been to her, until; she, was) deprived of them. She was
tormented by nervous sufferings—she was filled with mor-
bid apprehensions. ‘

It occurred to her that seme time’ Gabriel, growing an-
gry because she would not yield, might go away to Paris,
and never come back.) Or some accident might happen
to him—he might die suddenly; and:she would sit there
in thatawful room, and wait for him till her lamp burned
out, and her feod was gone, and she starved to death in
the dark, ‘ Vy ot ck id haaranae

Yet ever, after the brief respite. in: the gallery, before
the\prison-lock again enclosed her in sunless horror, when
herjailer renewed his question, her answer remained
steadfast. ‘ ‘3 | docs ait bed

She thought.of the husband she had wronged, and had.
strength to hold out against temptation. Beat

Meantime it was not easy for Gabriel to. guard. and at-.
tend upon the wantsof his prisoner. He was obliged, to;
‘use excessive caution. rad jaw

Although surrounded only by a half-dozen. careiess,ser-
vants, withno one but Mrs.. Runnel whom he really fear-
ed, le was yet in constant danger of ‘attracting attention
to his maneuvers. . {t became necessary for, him to bring,
in supplies at: night. Still he could)always visit the gal-)
lery oncea day, aud give Laura her hour, or two. Some-
times, before her. eyes, he would bring im letters which
she recognized as Mary Runnel’s to her mother, and care-
fully unsealing the envelopes, without defacing them,
take out the letter and replace it. with one of nis own
concocting—with the purpose, as she easily guessed, of
keeping from Mrs. Runnel the fact of her not being at the
convent.

Then he would look at his prisoner. and smile.

He loved this creature whom he tortured. It made him
miserable to note the growing wildness of her expres-
sion, the sunken shadows beneatlt the eyes, the startled,
nervous Manner, the whitening complexion. And yet he
gloated over these sigus that she must soon surrender.
He took a strange pleasure and. interest in the difficulties
of his position. The charm of the thing grew upon hin.
He had told the good priest to go on with the church re-
pairs, as Madam, like, Other ladies, when she found she
was really to be married, felt it, imperative to pay.a. visit
to Paris, and spend several weeks shopping and patroniz-
ing dressmakers,. The jolly father had no doubt. that
madam would do credit to herself in her trousseau,, After,
this lie, Gabriel liked to meet the priest, and chat,with him
about madam and Paris, there was.s ha Cul ous;eXcite-
ment and satisfaction in feeling «tl ee had fooled the
father, and that he had the, lady safe ‘ander his thumb’,
in that tower-rocm. ie Be aintads Of

If there was danger that, the -prisoner’s brain might
show some weak. spot under the strain put uponit, it was
actually true that.there was far more danger of the jailor
going insane. His heart began to. warm with secret joy
to think of what he was doing, If he meta stranger on
the high-road, he was tempted to lay a finger on his arm
and tell him that he had a beautiful lady shut up in that
old ivy-grown tower yonder. Like one who has commit-
ted murder, he was constantly tempted.to accuse himself.
He liked to think of his, prisoner. He enjoyed nothing
better than overcoming the small difficulties which lay in
the way of properly providing for, her. .He was fascina-
ted by his new occupations |, |

This.effect of his own wickedness upon himself was not
singular, though curious. -It;was one of the dangersrun
by those who break loose from moral discipline to follow
“the devices.and desires of. their.own hearts.’?. The more
he indulged the. spiritof persecution and, tyranny, the
more in love he became with his work. At this period he
became doubly dangerous to the peace of the helpless
woman he held in bondage; and it is not strange that she
felt him so, and was constantly on her guard: ‘

Her real trials and her more serious fears became un-
bearabie. More than once she resolved to kill herself with
the small pocket-knife which she carried. She-feit the
power of his terrible will closing in upon her.”

On no day did she wholly abate some feeble attempt. to
escape. If she had beenin the famous iron-chambersuch
attempts would hardly have been more‘hopeless; dike the
hapless victims of that chamber, she felt: the walls closing
down and around en every side—not, in her case, real
iron walls, but the scarcely less tangible oppression to
which she was subjected.

She had spent a great deal of time examining the door
which we have before mentioned, as leading out of her
room up into the higher stories of the tower. Of massive
oak, studded with iron knobs, and bolted with an im-
mense lock, it was madness to think of making it avail-
able. Yet she spent hours each day looking atit, and
trying to shake or stir it with her feeble hands, Again
and again she returned fo the contemplation of that door,
simply because it was a door, and there was nothing else
to look to, é

With her scissors she had once nearly loosened a pas-
sage into the gallery, where she purposed to hide behind
the tapestries, sneuld she succeed in getting through, and
slip out at the open door, in the dark, a3 Gabriel slipped
in. Bat he had discovered her work and brought mortar
and repaired it.

One day, immediately after her jailer had left her to re-
furn no more untit such our of the evening as he could

 

bring her food unobserved, her wild, anxious, .restless
eyes fell upon a Square of the stone floor, a little different

 

from the other squares, and directly under the door lead-
ing up into the tower.

Mary Runnélhad spread a carpet'down before her mis-
tress: was forced into becoming un inmate of the room;
but there was a space of a foot’s width running around
the edge which was not covered by this carpet, so this
stone lay-exposed in the hard, cold floor.

In an instant Laura was down on her knees examining
it. © It appeared as firmly cemented to its fellows as any
of the’others. Nevertheless, there was a mosaic about an
inch square, of the same stone and Color, set closely in the
center of this. Laura pried at this’ setting with her scis-
sors, and it flew'up, and there, underneath, Was a little
iron ring. - Surprised, breathless, hardly knowing wiiat to

hope for, she tugged at the ring with all herstrength, and:

the whole stone come up, and there, underneath, lay a
huge iron key, She comprehended tiat it belonged to the
tower, and with a cry of joy, fastened upon it.

Yes, it fitted the massive lock! After two or three efforts
she'succeeded in turning it in the rosty wards, and the
bolt’ flew back. Two or three more exhausting efforts,
and’ the ‘heavy, narrow door, moved on its long silent
hinges, and she found herself at the footof a flight of
winding, precipitous stairs, and beheld a glimmer of the
holy sunlight déscending upon her head.

She remained staring up a little while, and then she sat
down to rest herself, and to calm her throbbing heart.
She felt that she was about to escape!

(Yo be Continued.)

WRESTLING JOE.
THE DANDY OF THE MINES.

By Ned Buntline, (LE. Z. C. JUDSON,)
Author of “Buffalo Bill,?’ ‘Litile Buckshot,??
etc., ete,

 

 

(‘Wrestling Joe,” was commenced in No. 8.. Back Nos. can be
obtained from any News Agent in the Unitéd States. ] ‘

CHAPTER L,

Pepito, the dwarf, emerging from a door in the rear of
the theater, hurried to the front in time to observe the
two villains, who were disguised as Chinamen, make their
exit with the crowd. Wrapped ina dark mantle, and so
diminutive that he would only be taken for a child, if no-
ticed at all, he struggled on through the crowd, close at
their heels, until he saw them enter a large bullding, de-
voted, like many others, to the various purposes of an
eating, drinking, and gambling house.

He followed ‘into this, close upon their heels, and saw
them pass on through the crowd already inside, until
they reached the lower end of the room, where, near the
bar, in one corner, there was a table partially hidden by a
screen. ;: ‘

At this the two men took @ Seat, and Blinks, in broken
English, imitating an educated Chinaman admirably,
called for whisky.

Pepito planted himself against the screen, within a few
inches of where Champe sat, ready to catch every word
which should fall from the lips of either of the men—for
it must be a low whisper which would not reach his ear

ahrough the thin painted muslin of the screen that hid his

form from them.
“You know that man Gilroy, who js one of the mana-

i gers of the theater, you say ?’’ said Blinks, as he filled his

glass from the bottle before them.

“Yes, and the fellow Bellows, who used to be his bar-
keeper. Both are my enemies.”

“That is,bad.”

“How so? Why will it interfere with our plans?’

In this. 1 would rather buy that woman ont of the
hands of the managers than take her by force, when there
is so much excitement in town.’

“Blinks, with all the men you have to back you, dare-
devil as you are, this looks rather light. It looks as if
you wanted to back out of your agreement with me. If
you do, say so, and ll go the game ona lonehand. 1
haye a few friends left, as you can see, if you'll drop

‘through the sporting cribs by-and-by.”

“Tam not going back on you, Hank; but this city is all
astir—the Vigilance Committee is a wide-awake party
and strong.” — eee

“Yes, and Iam onit. How I got there few know, but
Lanv there, and thous can know all their plans, and be
\ready to turn them from reaching you or your men, no
matter what occurs.” ata ety
| “Well, we will carry out the plan. That Tennessee
(weauty —Mag, a8 you Call-her—is to be mine from the
start.” ae mer 5 Soe q eo
Tiaras gf > HOE f ! : ;

_ “And the singing woman, too, when you have humbled
her pride.” j

i

7 4 ’

“Yes, that is the progtamme.” ciel
“And Tan to, help you put that Ned Carroll and Wrest-
ling Joe und ‘the sand,” ; '

  
  
  

“Yes, and that littie devil, Pepito; and now that they
are here, | i Oe ach ‘his’ pet, Fred ‘Bellows. - When they
are all ou he way, tle women will have no one to
ask-a question about them. Hush! Do you see who is

Kul CD Oe

“Why, the two managers, with Wrestling Joe and Fred
Bellows. If we could fix the drink they’re about to
ppat rw, the ‘theater would hardly ‘open’ to-morrow
night.” as ee
_ Wecan do as well. Keep quiet, and, when they leave,
we Will follow. The night is.dark, we both carry knives,
know how towuse theme Four quick blows in the back,
and that much would be done.,”’

Pepito breathed hard. We had heard every word and
yet had not moved from the spot. But now heturned to
see if the two managers, With Joe and Fred, were really
at the bar. en

As he did so, tired with standing long in one position,
he staggered against the screen and parilally pushed it
over against Champe. , gee

The gambler, ever suspicious, sprung to his feet, and
glancing around the screen, saw tne face of Pepito, be-
fore the dwarf could turn to hide it, if, indeed, lie wished
fodoso. = ' : : id

“Nevill You've’ been listening,’ he hissed, and he
reached out his hand to grasp the little man, °°
“Yes; Pepito heard all, Bully Hank. Big coward, who
yOu hot try to kill Pepito and Wrestle Joe now, eli?”
And: springing back, the dwarf threw off his ‘mantle
and showed that along, Keen dagger wa glittering in
his ‘hand. eee

A revolver was out from under the blue frock ina

second, and poor Pepito seemed doomed, as its barrel
pointed down at him, but abounding leap from Wrestling
Joe placed him beside the dwarf, and the pistol was
stricken from the gambler’s hand at the instant of its dis-
charge, sending the ball harmless into the floor.
_ And, ere a word could be Spoken, or a breath breathed,
Joe planted a fearful blow in the face of the supposed
Chinaman, which staggered him back on Blinks, who was
rushing to his side. :

“Away, lank! We're double-banked—away with me,
and wait for chances!” cried the pirate, and drawing
Champe with him through a rear door, Blinks wasin an
instant out in the darkness.

“What in thunder are you quarreling with Chinamen
for, Pepito?” ‘asked Joe, who had been too muci: excited’
at the danger of his protege to notice either the looks or
the words of the man who had pointed the pistol at his
head.

“Chinaman a heap,” said Pepito, indignantly. ‘‘Pepito
would think your fist would know Bully Hank’s head, for
it has felt it before!’?

“Hank Champe? Were not those Chinamen who just
rushed out of the back door???

“Ask girl Maggie, when you go hume, what’ we both
saw at the theater and howshe scared a Chinaman by
saying fourteenth of- March soon come. Pepito followed
hem Chinamen here from theater, heard ’em plan now
they was to kill Carroll, Wrestle Joe, Gilroy and Bellows,
Pepito too; nd then take girl Maggie and La Belle Oreana
all’ for themselves,’ Then they saw Wrestle Joe and his
party come in’and say hush. Pepito turned to look, he
tripped against screen and you know the rest.”

“Well, Pepito, you are a true friend and a nobie little
man. Weallowe youa debt of gratitude. But we will
be on our guard against this fend Champe and his asso-
clates.’ The two were well disguised, must confess.’?
“Girl Maggie knew them the moment she put-eyes on
his face,”? said Pepito.: “She hates Bully Hank all same
as Pepito.? :

“The poor’ girl has’ cause. And ere long I hope her
wrongs will be avenged. And now, Pepito, tell us all you
heard.” 3

Pepito called the guartette into the corner, and related
every word whieh had reached his ears.

“Tt does not seem that they have any definite plan
formeéd!’? said Joe, thoughtfully, after Pepito had con+
cluded his narration. “All that we can‘do isto watch
and wait. Mr, Gilroy, will you do me a favor???

“You Know thatT will do anything in my power, sir,
for you.””

“Go to La Belle Oreana, give her this small revolver,
and tell’ her that the wretch Champe is still in pursuit of
her. I know she will defend her honor even as her life!”

“J will go with your present and message, though I
know she is already armed, for 1 saw a case of pistols on
her table when she sung for me before.”

“Tell her this revolver has been carefully loaded by my
hand—it will not miss—and tell her that I shall watch
for her safety, even though I may not live myself to see
ler once more safe in her distant home!’

“J will bear the message at once.’

“Then I will go home with Fred and Pepito, for Mag-
gie will be painfully anxious till we come!” said Joe.

CHAPTER LI.

When La Belle Oreana reached San Francisco, and de-
termined to make an engagement there before leaving
the country, she knew that even greater perils for alone
woman would surround her in the great city, than those
which had so annoyed her in a smaller place. That there,
agin all great cities, stupendous villanies were backed
Dy waa, and that she could not be too careful of her-
self, i

Eschewing all male protection, though fully aware that
unseen guardians were caring for her safety, she looked
about for a good female servant and found one, who, if
not as refined and handy as a French waiting maid might
be, was at once brave, sturdy and faithful.

This: was Bridget Malony, who had come all the way
from County Armagh to make her fortune in the new
country, and who was delighted to find a mistress willing
to give her one hundred dollars a month in gold for her
constant attendance, 3 .

For rehearsal, to the theater and from. it, carrying the
boy Indice in herstrong arms, Bridget. went with her
mistress, scarce ever an instant out of her sight, and

fore one table and the
At last he paused

cards,

when Oreana lay down to rest at night, the pallet on
which Bridget slept was made up close in front of her
own couch. 2 :

On this opening night, LaBelle Oreana was detained
some time in changing her dress, and when she left the
theater there were but few people passing along the street,
for almost all who had not sought their homes had
droppéd into the gambling dens or drinking places.

This was a relief to the lady, for she was ever in dread
when ‘she stepped abroad, Knowing that the place was
full of bad and lawless men, who were but too prone to
commit outrage on the helpless and defenseless.

Tey had not far-to walk, and carriages were not com-
mon then, therefore one was not deemed necessary.

‘The lady; wrapped in her mantle closely, moved swiftly
on, With Bridget by her side; and, as Indice had asked to
walk, he ran between them, holding a hand of each.

Suddenly, on turning a corner, they were met by two
Chinamen, who were hurrying in an opposite direction,
one of’ whom ran ‘full against the stout form of Bridget,
nearly upsetting her. ;

Oat by tliat, ye onmannerly haythen!” cried Bridget,
and she brought the mana slap under the ear’ from the
flat of her band, which must have made hinvsee stars.
“Gant you! travel ‘widout runnin’ over “a Christian, ye
omadhoun?” * : ; :

“Oursée her, she hits hard? said the man, staggering
back, while his companion, catching a glimpse of the
lady’s face, exclaimed: :

“Welre in luck, cap, we're in luck. It is La Belle Ore-
ana. Aboard she goes, now or never.”

In & second the lady recognized that voice—she knew
that Hank Champe was before her; and as he threw his

strong, brutal arms about her lithe and slender form, a

scream of terror from her lips broke the stillness of the
night.

At the same instant Champe strove to smother her eries
by thrusting her cloak, wet with the slow-falling rain,
into her mouth.

“Keep the other woman off, cap!’ he shouted, as he
strove to dash along with Oreana.

But Captain Blinks had received a second well-planted
blow from Bridget, which sent him into the middle of the
street; and now the brave Irishwoman sprang upon the
miscreant who held her struggling mistress in his arms,
and who had succeeded in stifling her cries.

Grasping the plaited tail of hair, she tried to jerk the
Chinaman over, but, to her horror and terror, off came
tail, hair, and all, and the heathen pressed on ata speed
which would in an instant have left her out of sight, had
not a@ man dressed as a sailor sprung before the fleeing
wretch.

“Halt, unmanly dog, and let that helpless woman go!’
cried the sailor, sternly; and he clutched Champe by the
arm, wheeling him fairly about.

Yhis gave Bridget the chance to reach him, and the
next second her nails were clawing into the bare face of
Mr. Champe so furiously that, to save himself, he dropped
his intended victim, and turned upon the woman who
was tearing into himlike a mad tigress.

He turned with a knife in his hand, but it was snatched
from his hand by the sailor, who threw it far away in the
darkness, as he said:

“Devil, itishard to spare you, but the Fourteenth of
March comes soon. Begone !)’ ;

With a shriek of terror Champe fled away, Blinks fol-
lowing fast, while the stranger, turning to the lady, said
in a low, Kind tone: ?

“Madam, you are now safe. Proceed toward your lodg-
ings, for friendly eyes will keep watch till you get there.??

He did mot wait for thanks, but moyved.on while Brid-
get, re-arranging her disordered dress, cried oup:

“Howly Saints, but isn’t this nice work. 1’ll bet the
crater will have a pisoned face to look at when he sees if,
for I dug deep wid my nails into it.”?

“You are a brave, noble girl, Bridget, and with your
help and that of that stranger, Ihave escaped a fearful
peril. Come, Indice; come, my poor boy—you need not
cry. Mamma is not hurt.”

“The Howly Saints be praised, ma’am, that ye are not.
And then that wasn’t.a haythen Chinaman at all, at all?”

‘“No—it was a villainous gambler who has persecuted
me before.”? ari

“A gambler? An’ f’what’s that, me swate mistress ?7’

“A man who by tricks and cunning steals a living from
his fellow men.”? re

“Och, the bla’gard. May the ould divil run away wid
him and the likes of kim! Let’s be gittin on home before
we meet more of. ’em, ma’am.?’ s

At the, door of her lodgings the lady met Mr. Gilroy,,
who brought the weapon and the message from Wrestling

Joe.
_ The lady turned pale, when she took the weapon in her
han Sines 4 Bot a: Say

“iad this been with me afew minutes ago,’’ she said,
“a human life would have been sacrificed. Tell him I
have been in peril, but my brave .Bridget aud a stranger
foiled the villain who assaulted me. Henceforth 1 will
‘be prepared.” ’
' She then invited Mr. Gilroy to enter, and told him the

particulars of her recent adventure.

- “That man, Champe, must go under,”’ he said. ‘‘He is
not fit to live. But I do not think he will dare attempt to
molest. you again. If, he crosses my path I will shoot him
down like a.dog.”’. .

“Your honor will know by the token Ileft wid my fin-
ger nails, on the face of llim,’’ Said Bridget. ‘Shure,an’
he’s as purty as a pig wid the masles I’m thinkin’, wid.a
scald or two of hot wather thrown in.” aig Mam

Gilroy laughed heartily at Bridget’s droll idea, and left,

 

: CHAPTER LI.

A new excitement for San Francisco—new only for one
fearfui peculiarity. For dead men were so frequently
found in the streets after the darkness of night was fol-
lowed by day, that it had become a standing joke to ask
—“‘how many for breakfast, to-day.’

But this case was peculiar, A man known to many as
a broker, named Jason Hill, whose conduct had been ex-
cellent since he had been in business in town, and whose
habits were regular, had been found in the street dead,
and with the marks of fearful atrocities on him, asif he
had been tortured to death in a horrible manner. His
tongue had been pulled out by the roots, his eyes seared
out with a hot iron, his ears filled with molten lead, and
then a dagger. lad been thrustinto his heart, That ali
these tortures had been inflicted while he was living. was
but too certainfrom the convulsed appearance of his
features, and the fact that the very nails on his fingers
had been buried in the palms of his bound hands in the
intensity of his suffering. ; eit &

Where this. had been .done, or by whom, no one ap-
peared able to conjecture, and his mostintimate acquain-
tances seemed entirely at a loss to place suspicion on any
one—at least, they made no attempt so to do.

Robbery had not. prompted the cruelty, for the man’s
watch, purse and jewelry were Still om the body.

An inquest was held and the Vigilance Committee took
note of the matter, but that was all that was, likely to be
done about it. ai

Only the manner of this man’s death created excite-
ment, and the wonder was who could be 80 fiendish as to
perpetrate the cruelty. : 3

None bat Joaquin or his savage band, it was thought,
and. now the Vigilance: Committee were, taunted with
neglect of duty, and the talk was that Joaquin must be in
town.

An. extra,session of this body was called, increased re-
wards offered for information, the patrolling force in-
creased and new measures taken in the detective line.

And where was Joaquin all thistime. Wemust go back
tosee. We have seen by the result how one traitor suf-
fered, but it was not a traitor to him, and in the death of
this man, Swinton, it was only justice long deferred.
Joaquin, after carrying out his aim of exposing Swin-

ton to the vengeance of those whom he had intended to

betray, and proving to that association that he knew of
their plans concerning ‘jlimself, caused his men to sepe-
rate and return in such manner to their main rendezvous
as not to attract attention, and then in his disguise as a
miner, with the red dirt.on his rough mining clothes as
if he had just come from the upper Claims, he sauntered
into the great saloon of Johnny Austin.

A shaggy brown Wig and a rough yellow beard nearly"
ce, jaated’ his costume well, and the

covering. Dis, f l

slouétied hat 6a é So far over lis brow that his greatest
peculiarity, ae Hashing eyes, were too much shaded to
be Very noticeable,

._Santtering in as if le was looking (or a place to pass

time in, more than for Epa ty te Stoppéd first be-
> tal ‘then ‘before anotiter, looking at, but

not venturing into any of the games.

before a faro. table, where a very
heavy game was going on, for several prominent sporting
men were “bucking” against the bank. This was safer
at Johnny’s than anywhere else, for it was known that
he would have a square game or none at all. ;
‘Here Joaquin paused, and after watching the run of the
cards fora few moments, he pulled outa great canvas
bag from under his rough red shirt, and taking from it a
large roll of Mexican doubloons, counted off twenty and
jaid them on a single card—the dce—which had already

lost once.,

The dealer seeing the game miatle, began to pull the

and in a moment the ace won, The doubloons
were doubled, of course, : :

Joaquin did not lift the stakes,” but? fet’ “tném ‘remain |

when the dealer again began to draw, and soon the ace
came out against the bank once more.

The. dealer and banker glanced at Joaquin now, for the
man who had eighty doubloons laying in one pile, was
worth a glance.

With his arms folded over his broad chest, the supposed
miner stood and waited for the game to go on.

“Thunderl? said a man.by his side, an old player.
“Yon’ll not risk the last ace in the deal on 2 pile as big as
that, stranger?”

“J will, and shall win!?? said Joaquin, in @ firm, confi-
dent tone.

The deal went on, and Joaquin did win, having now
over twenty-five hundred dollars in hand from an invest-
ment of three hundred and twenty. :

‘Jupiter and Mars! but you're lucky, stranger!’ said
the gambler who had spoken to him before. sowhat d’ye
say to a game Of euchre or seven-up? Come! I’ve a snug
cabin close at hand, and some old rye that’ll make your
eyes snap.”’ :

“J'}) talk to you after my luck turns here, 1 think Pl
break the bank,’ said Joaquin, quietly. ‘I’ve had big
luck in the mines, and { don’t see why 1 shouldn’t hold it
here.”?

“It has @ lock that way,’ said the other.
my dimes where you bet, at any rate.”’ :

Joaquin did not bet again until a fresh deal was called.
Then, as before, he laid not merely the sum he had already
won, bat that and one hundred ounces, as_he told the
banker, in good dust, on the ace again. The dust was
weighed and found right, before a card was drawn, and

“TH lay ont

 

then there was a moment of breathless interest. For even

 

URE ee!

 

in that day of utter recklessness; men were seldom seen

to lay down gold in such @ Careless way as this miner did.

The dealer cried out, “The: gamesis made!” and com-
menced to draw. Nearly halfthe cards were out, some
winning and some losing, for the ‘bank of against ‘it. be.
fore the ace, on Which so: great 4 stake depended, was
seen.

When itcame, the banker and dealer at once cried out:

“Our game stops. The bank can’t stand that man‘s
luck!” For Joaquin had won again.

“Cowards! Had Lyour pile Pd fight fortune all nignt,”

‘said Joaquin, in a contemptuons tone. “Ell run the bank,

if you are afraid to face my luck.” 4

_ “Let hint have the bank!” cried three or four at once,
for they, as oid gamblers, had no “belief ‘that as banker
he could win, whose luck had rumagainst the bank.

“He can’t have the bank!” said Johnny. Austin, coming
forward himself, ‘‘but if he wants to buekon his luck, he
may go higher than he has yet. There is no back down
where I play, while there is an ounce’ in my hand or in
the hands of my friends!

“Pi not play against you!’ said Joaquin; and he turned
his back to walk away. .

Austin almost held his breath when that voice fell on
hisear. He hadrecognized it.. The miner and the man
who had bought his horse were one and the same. He
knew it in an instant, and that the same was tne terrible
JOAQUIN.

The man for whom rewards were offered all over the
country, rewards which would out-weigh his body in
coined gold.

Austin was, for one of his profession, the truest man,
In manhood’s noblest sense, that.ever trod the earth. He
would face death with a smile, expend his last dollar for
a friend, assist an utter stranger when in need, but never
would he do a dastardly or cowardly act.

And to set the five hundred men then in his saloon on
that one man, which he could do, by but pronouncing his
name—to speak the word which would, mst culminate
in his death then, or on the gibbet afterward, he woulda
not. He deemed it beneath his mark of manhood.

But when the miner walked away, with! his gold once
more secured about his person, he quieély followed him
and watching his chance when they were separated from
others, he said in a low tone:

“Others might recognize you, who will not do as I do—
give you a friendly warning and advise you to leave a
crowd 80 large as this, with your lucky winnirgs.!’ >

There was no Start, nota sign of alarmin Joaqttin, as
he replied: . ;

“] knew what you were so well, that I did not try to
change my voice when I spoke to you, as 1 could Nave
done. Joaquin holds his life in his hands, and has no
fear of death. He is looking for some enemies that were
amongst those who first drove him into crime, or he
would not be here. Fear not. that any act of:his, or those
whom he commands shall injure you, or one beneath
your roof—but look—there comes @ devil whom I must
watch. An hour.ago, I balked him in one game—I. will
balk himin another yet. Keep your own counsel and see
me teach him something!””

“You mean Hank Champe, who is there by the door?’

‘eVes{??

“Well do what you like with him. Thereis nota meaner
curse on the coast than him to-day. But he holds a high
head and has influence with them who do not Know an
despise him asI dé. But he careful, for if you are recog:
nized you are Jostl’! ;

“Fear not forme, brave man! I have faced death in
a hundred shapes, and when it comes, indeed, I shall
smile contentedly and meet it. Now watch—I' will get
‘him into a game!”? A

The bandit staggered on toward where Champe was
standing, and in @ thick voice as if he had been drinking,
said: :

“Dye got more luck than any other he in all the crowd—
broke the bank and backed ’em all down. I’m king pin
of the party!” ,

“In luck, eh, strange?” said Champe, against whom he
staggered. anv iee

“Yes—the biggest kind. Beg pardon for running agin
ye, but I’ve swallowed too much pison, I guess.” oe

“No matter—can you play seven-up ??? pie ee

“Me—me play seven-up? Id like to see the man that
can beat me at it fora thonsand ounces.”

“Thave no.such pile to putup. But l’ve got the biggest
diamond in the place 4nd a small pile of coin. Wil go the
whole on the best three out of five games.”’ ee ae

“Good! I’m in—but what do you put your diamond up
at?? : ss Cera:
“Well, say fifty thousand dollars; but you'll not win.
I’m high on old sledge,?? Sit ae

“We'll see. Let’s have a private room. I don't like to
play with 4 crowd at my elbow.” * ns :

“You.can have my private chamber for an hour, gen-
tlemen,’’ said. Austin, ‘‘and I'll see the game played,
though this mining gentleman 1s 4,Stranger to me.” ‘

“Blinks, youll come with me, will you not?” said
Champe, turning to a very good-looking man, with fine
form and heavy, black whiskers, dressed in fashionable
style, who stood near. : 5 : :

“Of course I will. I like to see big games played,”’ said
the other. ;

The four now adjourned to a room in the rear of the
main saloon, which Austin kept for his own private use,
and as a lodging room. ;

 

t

CHAPTER LII.

According to egreement, Gilroy after visiting La Belle
Oreana, to give her the message and ‘the pistol sent’ by:
Wrestling Joe, went to the lodgings occupied by the latter
to report.

Joe, who was engaged in a rehearsal scene with Fred
Bellows, was so anxious to hear from her that he at once
suspended business, and waited to hear Gilroy’s state-
ment. ae His : i

When he heard of the recent peril of the lady, and that
the villain Champe had attempted a fresh outrage, his:
anger knew no bounds. ft

“That dog must ‘go under!” he said, bitterly. ‘*He has:
been spared too long. Iwill hunt him up and ‘slay him
before I sleep! He was disguised as a Chinaman. : No
matter what is his disguise I shall know him, for the eyes
of hate like mine can pierce all disguises.”

“He will not trouble her again to-night at deast!? saidi

Gilroy. ‘It isnot likely, if you go out, that you will meet.
him.”? : : i
“Yes. Heis such an inveterate gambler that he wilh

come—we will find him!” ta . 31 '
“Shall we go as we are,/or in Some questionable shape,
some garb of deep disguise— vy, : Lares
“We'll go as we are.’ want no disguise with him. 1h
have let him live too long!’ said Joe, impatiently, seeing
that Fred was about to launch out in a stage speeuh.
“Have with you then, armed, equipped, and ready for
the dread events of war!’ said Fred, taking: up ‘2 belt
which held a revolver and knife. SHAS i as Si :
“Me go too!) ‘said Pepito, who! had@:-been a listener to
all that was said, though his eyes had been fixed om Mag-*
gie’s dreamy, beautiful face. , wi tf

be in some game or other wherever he is. Come, Fred,

 

“No—you stay here and look ont for Maggie," said Jor.

‘Mr. Gilroy will stay also—the spare bed ‘oom is at his
service. If is not likely that Fred and lwillreturn before
dabreak.” é ing ;
| “You may never return!’ said Maggie, tearfully... “Ob,
please leave that bad, dangerous manto the law, which:
will surely reach him some time!”? ;

‘Neither law or justice will ever reach him without iti
goes hot-handed from some oné whom he ‘has wrouged!’”
said Joe. = : ‘ ; yb

“Yet he dreads the fourteenth of March and Mr.:Car-:
roll more than all other perils,” said Maggie. 9.) 2900

“Mr. Carroll would not wait fora particular day if hes
meant to kill him!” saidJoe, witha sneer. ‘‘I wishito hear
nothing of him. Come, Fred—come and see if we can’t
find him.”

“Where first?) asked Fred. i

“To Johnny Austin’s, thatis the biggest-place in town.
If he isn’t there we’ll go. to Yankee Sullivan’s, and keep»
on till we do find him.”? { is :
“Allright, my lord, I:wilkattend you.’?

The two friends now went out.
the clouds through which the moon threw down its light,
making the water inthe ay to: theeast look all silvery
agit. danced toa gentle breeze, and Fred grew poetic
again as his eyes turned that way. «+ f

But Joe impatiently told him to hush his nonsense ana

to come on.

“Well, it shall be so,?? said Fred.
and eager forthe fray. Ring up for the battle scene.”

The two friends were soon inside of the great saloon,
passing on among the people with their glances wander-
ing over every form. .

Table after table waspassed untilthe entire room was:
gone over, and there was no sign of Champe.

“Not here. We will goto Sullivan's, and keep on till
we do find him,”’ said Joe, in a tone of disappointment.

“Why have you not asked if he had been seen here???
said Fred.

“know no-one here to ask. You know I’m not ac-
quainted with the men he herds with. Ah—that voice—:
T neard his curse, 1 know I did.’

“Yes—yes—and there goes a pistol shot—it is the rear,
of the saloon!’ cried Fred, { '

“JOAQUIN! JOAQUIN! look ont for him!” yelled a man at.

the top of-his voice, as le rushed into the saloon from an
inner door.
it was Captain Blinks who spoke, and the blood stream-
ing from his face told that he was wounded, ’
“Joaquin! Joaquin! take him—take him!’ cried Champe
himself, rushing in at the same door, and his face was
white with terror. ‘“Heis in there—he is in there}?

“And you are. where Z want you!” cried Joe, not heed-

ing the excitement on every Side, as he rushed toward
Champe with a gleaming knife up-raised in his hand.
The gambler had turned'to point at the open doorway
which he had just rushed through, as Joe with this cry
rushed upon him, and there seemed no chance for him to
avoid the vengeance now hovering dark above him.

(To be continued.)

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| to the business. Boys and

“ron, anda copy of The Peop

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ORDINARY ADVERTISEMENTS. .0......06. $@ per line.
ADVERTISEMENTS (with Cuts).....-...-...$G per line.

 

 

 

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w2-13t.

 

 

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w49-13t. |

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Translated in English, and imported by é :
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SURPASSES ALL OTHER FASHION PAPERS.

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w5-6teow 41 South Eighth St. Philadelphia.

 

UPTURE, ABDOMINAL WEAKNESS OR CORPULENCY.—
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CABLE SCREW WIRE
BOOTS & SHOES

ARE THE

est in the Market.
SUPERIOR TO EITHER SEWED OR .
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IMPERViOUS TO DAMPNESS. WARRANTED NOT TO
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They have been thoroughly tested, and give universal
Satisfaction,

 

 

 

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article in New York, will be supplied by addressing MAR
TUCKER, office'of the New YoRK WEEKLY. 13-tf.

 

 

BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU SAY.

 

BY MRS. M. A. KIDDER.

Think what you will of others,
Tfina kindly way;

But, in your intercourse with men,
Be careful what you say.

The bitter words once spoken
You never can recall;

The hame and characier you blight
May not survive the fall.

AS you would have another
That passed you on your way

Do unto you—so do to him—
Be careful what you say!

Choke down the rising passion—
The jealousy or spite;

Resolve thatif you speak at all,
It shall be for ‘the right.

y
It may seem harmless pleasure
To blight'a friena’s fair fame;
So, in the pastime you indulge,
To you be all the shame!

Think what you will of others,
Ifin a kindly way;

But; in your intercourse with men,
Be careful what you say !

 

1 ee

Injured Husband;

How Did Lady Neville Die?

By HELEN CORWIN FISHER,
AurHor or “WHO Dip LADY VIOLET MARRY?” “THE
UNLOVED WIFE,” THE CURSE OF EVERLEIGH,”
“WOLF OF VIGNOBLE,” ETC,

 

{“The Injured Husband,’ was commenced in No. 12.° Back
numbers may be obtained from any News Agent in the Union.]

CHAPTER XX,

The precautions taken this time lest Sir Angus should
escape again were severe Cnough to make up for any pre-
vious laxity.

His. wounds were dressed, indeed, but he was kept
chained to the wall through all the phases of the fever ana
delirium that set in, in consequence of the neglect: of is
hurts and the subsequent exposure and excitement.

When he came to his senses after long weeks, aiid lay
weak a8 an infant, the Chain was Still there, and stayed

 

never to be effaced. :
. Meanwhile, the chain upon his soul was leaving dead-
lier scars.

He saw no one save the old man who was the keeper of
the Stone House, and from whom no form of entreaty, ad-
juration or threat could extract a syllable. He might
have been deaf, blind and dumb for all consciousness he
gave of any presence save his own. He might have been
a wooden man for all emotion he ever displayed.

As strength slowly returned to Sir Angus, and with it
memory, he récalled distinctly every incident-of that fate-
ful evening with that adored and adoring wife, whom the
lies and machinations of a villain had drivea into the
temporary ‘insanity of giving drugged wine to the man
she beliewed false to her.

He remembered her in her sea-green dress, with the
opals shimmering like mermaid’s eyes on her lovely white
neck and arms, and the soft, bright curls framing the
pure, Sweet face, ~~ :

He remembered, and groaned with sick longing to see
her one moment, and shuddered with horror of her the
next. For, putting one thing with another, his. reason
always forced him -back to tne one conclusion that he
owed’ all this horrible imprisonment to ‘her. Who-else?
He had not an enemy in the world that he knew of, at
least not.one enough 80.to do him s0 heartless an injury
as this.

That period in which he had lain a‘seeming corpse in
the secret council chamber of the Twelvé, was, of course,
a blank to him, but the resurrection from that temporary
death, the waking in one af those terrible padded cells of
the Stone House, was fresh in his shuddering recollection
as yesterday. 3

Then he remembered how'he had feigned weakness to
disarm caution, and finally, with the lainp left to light his
cell, set fire to the wall a little before his keeper came to
bring his afternoon meal.

Then came therush past the momentarily paralyzea
keeper, and his escape past the bloodhounds in thé ‘yard
to the street. a

Hatless, but free, he had dashed along the street, been
Stealthily pursued, and twice forced to fight for his life in
the vile and muddy purlleus of that quarter in which he
was, and then to dodge and hide for hours before he coula
get away.

The villains had followed him atadistance after he
reached that decent: portion of: the city, in which they
dared not attack him, and Felice had Jet: them in.

“That last scene under his own roof, where Madame Re-
vere and Felice had stood by hounding. on his enemies,
came back to him now in vivid and horrible reality.

Who were those enemies? How came Madame Revere
and her French maidin league with them? Or had he
dreamed it? Was he dreaming still? What was that
about his wife being dying? Perhaps she was dead by
now.

He groaned and tried to look at his right: hand which
was ch atneo: but he was still to weak to liftit, or to turn

imself, mn

There was only the still bare room to look at, and the
feeble lamp burning its dull ray above his head,

Where was'he, what had he done to be consigned: thus
to a living death?

The time seemed interminable, terrible. It was like a
horrible nightmare to him, banished so suddenly from the
light of day, chained mysteriously to his iron bed, ana
immersed in the gloomy sjlence of his tomb,

In his misery and despair, he sometimes wished he
might die. ‘

But more courageous thoughts came with: increasing
strength, dismal as his situation was, and calculated ‘to
inspire the most frighful imaginings and forbodings.

: Hope was not yet dead in his, young and sanguine
eart.

He tried to eat, though his taste revolted fromthe coarse
food brought him, and as his strength grew he gave no
signs before his keeper that it, was so,

He was a good gymnast, and chained though he was, he
contrived to.go through such exercises as would. develop
and strengthen his muscles, and keep his joints from get-
ting stiff,

lamp placed quite out of lis reach and trimmed once a
day by his jailer. The lack of windows was partially sup-
plied by ventilators which furnished air tolerably.

They had:taken from him his watch and his money.
He had no way of marking time but by his keeper’s com-

bing and going. Watching carefully, he discovered when

his door was opened, at ‘certain intervals, a faint twilight
beyond it. This he ‘concluded was daylight, and so was
barely able to discern when it was day and when it was
night... But. fe had mo possible, means of ascertaining
whether he had: been in this den weeks. or months.

One morning his jailer went away and Jeft behind him
an old rusty palrof scissors with which he had been trim-
ming the Jamp.

Sir Angus secured ‘them with a smothered cry of exul-
tation, and. bastened to hide them.in a crevice he had
found in the padding of the wall beside his bed.

 

Presently ‘the galler came” back in a great flurry, and

   

hay

there till it made scars on that Innocent and knightly arm:

BRL Hye

 

 

 

tf
?
e
2

&

 

 

searched Sir Angus and his room’ with wonderful care
and anxiety. Le att
Sir Angus resolutely maintained the same dejected air

of his face. ‘

,fhe keeper. went away again puzzled, but made ex-
cuses to dartin oftener than usual, and unexpectedly, for
several days,

Sir Angus was prepared for that, however. Hard.as it
was, With his aching heart bursting to be free, he never
went near his treasure tilla week had passed, and the
keeper had become thoroughly satisfied that lie had lost
the missing scissors Somewhere else,

The first thing Sir Angus did then was.to take the rivet
out of his precious windfall, which was easy enough by
prying it on his chain. Then he made one.of. the blades
do duty on the other, and manulactured a sort, of file.

He had to search for the rustiest link and the one most
worn, and he started and ran and hid jis tools .at every
sound.
he got in the daytime,

It took him three nights’ slow and patient work before
he severed one link, his:scissors blade being.so.old, and
such a lame substitute for that which it. represented,

He adjusted the -chain: then, So as.to conceal what he
had been about, and waited for another night to attack
the door.

His plan was to get off the hinges, because he knew it
would be hopeless trying the lock, the door being secured
beside that by bolts. Je discovered that once free of his
chain, he had only to take alight run and abound and
he could reach the lamp. Je took it down from its perch,
and proceeded to heat his best scissors blade and what
was left of the other in the flame, holding them witha
fold of his blanket. The hot blades he pressed gently
into the casing of the door beside the hinges, and work-
ing obliquely, by midnight had so loosened one hinge
that it was an easy matter to force it off with his hand,

His heart began to beat. He pulled the door ’a little,
and saw that though there were two more hinges only
one would need be burned off. The other would be easily
wrenched away. Mis tools were so badly worn, however,
by this time, that it took him three hours to make half
the progress on-this he had on the other. “But when he
had got so far, the purchase already obtained by remov-
ing the first enabled him to force the second of The last
hinge he made short work of, ia /

The corridor lay before him, though wrapped in thick
darkness, and all was still. ~ i
He stepped back an instant longing for some weapon.
But there was none, unless he wrenched off an iron from
his bed, and it would not do to risk the noise that might
make,

The lamp, however, was of iron, and taking that in his
hand both fora guide and a weapon if needful, he stole
forth with his heart in his mouth, but his Audrey apd
liberty in his heart. : c gee, ©
_ The corridor terminated in a longer passage, and that
stopped in a little room like a sentry-box. : Sil
Upon the wall of this room, looking about him for some
egress from it, Sir Angus discovered hanging, a suit of
clothes, worn some, but complete even to the hat. His
own clothes were only the remnants of the same which
had been nearly tern off him the night of his first attempt.
to escape from this den. ~ :
He hesitated a moment, and then setting his Jamp
neon swiftly donned the sult he had so strangely stum-
ed on.
“Tt may serve as a disguise should I meet a foe, and
will make me less conspicuous in the street,”’ he thought.
A door opposite the one by which he had entered led
from this little room, but to his dismay it was locked.
He stood looking back, and hesitating about searching
for some other means of exit, when chancing to put his
hand in a pocket of his new clothes he discovered a bunch
of keys there, and after eagerly trying several found one
that fitted, :
There was another narrower passage beyond this room,
and this passage he recognized. It was the one he had
escaped into before. He thought himself safer now with-
out the lamp—burning at least—and accordingly blew it
out, and clenching it about the slender part for a weapon,
he proceeded cautiously, groping his way.
He felt brave as alion now, strong and agile as he was,
and with only the old keeper to bafile inside; and without
his chain he knew he was more than a match for him.
There remained only the bloodhounds outside, the fast-
enings of the great door, and the gate of the courtyard.
ue the door and the gate were protected by a clang of

ells. : S

He paused and looked about him. He was not afraid,
in his youth and strength, of the keeper himself, but of
the various enginery of mischief at hiscommand. That
there was some sort of a man-trap in the vicinity of the
door, he knew, because he had barely escaped it before;
but he was pretty sure that this trap was so arranged
as to oppose ingress rather than egress. mt

The door was closed by a stout bar across it. He re-
moved that without noise, and listened. Nosound. Then
he very slowly swung the door. Butcareful as he was,
the bells clashed loud enough to wake the,Seven Sleep-
ers. Not an instant then waited he, but dashed through;
but had presence of mind enough, even then, to avoid a
suspicious-looking plank, which indeed concealed the
lurking trap he feared. ee

1t was by this growing faintly light, and he could just
discern two dusk moving objects ina remote corner. The
gate was nearest. He sprang for it, and at the same mo-
ment the dogs, without barking or growling, bounded to-
ward him. : :

He heard them, and saw that he should not have time
to undo the heavy bar whith shut it, so he gave a despe-
rate leap and caught at one of the sharp iron spikes with
which the gate was mounted. He missed, in the obscuri-
ty, but touched the ground like a ball, ana was up again
with a bound. Hecaught, this time, by one hand, and
swung there-a moment, with the bloodhounds below,
leaping at him, and making his breath come quicker than
the leap had.

Desperation lent him strength, and he had twisted him-
self almost up in spite of the plunging and snarling of
his canine enemies, when snap, crack, the rusty iron
picket he swung by broke short off, and he fell flat.

The dogs were on him in @ flasn, as he lay; too quick

fought with feet and hands, and discovered, to his joy
and amazement, that they were both nvuzzled. They
were stout fellows, however, and were using him very
roughly, when a low whistle sounded, and both darted
away. }

Without stopping to solve the mystery of this whistle,
Sir Angus bounded to his feet, and made another leap
for the top of the gate, caught, drew himself up, and
swung down outside.

His hat being a soft one, and rather tight for him, had
kept its place through all. ;

He ran a few steps after he touched the ground; then
seeing he was uot pursued, dropped into a swift walk, and
keeping a sharp look-out, made for the more decent part
of town as fast as he could go.

Now and then ‘he looked behind ‘him, because he had
been followed the other time, and presently, as he turned
two corners pretty near each other, he discovered that
an exceedingly seedy-looking individual had done the
same. f ‘

Be doubled and come out on @ cross street, and looking
back, saw the seedy man again. But as it was quite day
by this time he merely walked on now, looking for a po-
liceman.

A minute more and the man whipped ahead-of him, and
was out of sight.

That off his mind, for long confinement, and thestrange
misfortunes that had befallen him, had made him sensi-
tive beyond his wont, hesuffered himself to begin to
wonder what awaited him at Saville House.

Even inthe excitement and joy of being free once
more in open day, he was almost afraid to approach, lest
some new calamity should assail him) and as he came
‘Near, his breath began to come quicker, he panted for air,
and his emotion almost choked him,

At this moment, with his foot almost upon the'step of
his own house, a hand was laid on Dis left shoulder. He
looked up with a violent start, and another hand struck
his right shouder. He stepped backward, and a third
man seized him round the waist, while the two first
slipped handcutis upon him before he had | discovered he
Was surrounded. It was of no use to struggle now. He
was fast in a worse trap than any he had escaped from.
The men who had taken him were detectives; and they

 

His call had no windows, but was lighted’ by a smail.

arrested him as leader of that notorious band: rascals
known as the Fatal Twelve. .

The blow which wicked Claude had lield in reserve, in
a case of extremity, had fallen at last.

 

CHAPTER XXI.

Sir Angus was like a madman at first. The shock and
surprise were so terrible. He fought and struggled
against his captors desperately. But they were too many
and too strong for him. He was soon mastered, ana
borne away to a cab, livid with rage, and gnashing his
strong white teeth.

He grew calmer presently, dnd asked one of ‘the men if
he knew whether Lady Saville was in town.

He half feared the man was going to tell hilti Audrey
Woe Ghee and Waited in & suspense Of agotty as he hesi-

ated,

The man answered at last.

Lady Saville was not in town.. She had gone with Lord
peune and his aunt-toone of liis lordship'’s country
seats.

A pain almost as sharp as the other had been shot
through Sir Angus’s heart. cea

“Lord Neville?’ he said, inquiringly, —

‘“He’s playing sharp,’’ remarked one of the other
licemen, knowingly; ‘pretending he ‘don’t know
Neville is his old friend, Mr. Claude Revere.”!

Sir Angus turned cold. If he had ever ‘really expe-
rienced the pangs ofjealousy in connection with his beax-
tiful Audrey, they had been on Claude Revere'’g account;

po-
Lerd

country seat at such a time as this,

He turned to the man who had first answered him.

“f don’t know.and I cannot imagine how Mr. Revere
has become Lord Neville,” he said; and something in that
haughty. young face touched thesoul he questioned.

‘You are Sir Angus Saville?” the man asked, respect-
fully, and with an accent of surprise and compassion.

“You have arrested me as Captain of the Twelve,” Sir
Angus answered, with a Sad-and scornful smile, SOY OS a1
am. Sir Angus Saville.”

“Then you are Lord Neville’s cousin.”

Sir Angus stared, then he laughed bitterly.

“NotI. Claude Revere, or Lord Neville, heis no cousin
of mine.” :

“Ana madame, your mother.’?

“Madame who 2”? almost shouted Sir Angus, in’ ‘his
Surprise, :

“Madame Revere.”

 

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” the young

he had worn all along, aud kept the new-born hope out. },

He worked mostly at night, taking. what sleep.

and too heavy to be thrown Of instantly, though he}

and here was he become a Jord, and she Visiting at his’

oi-the month this is 2”?

“It is the 14th of September.”’

Sir Angus turned and. looked at him as though he
doubted if he spoke in earnest. ;

“Bo you mean what you say?”

“Certainly Ido. It is the 14th day of September.”

Sir Angus’s pale face grew a shade whiter,

“See here, my friend,’ he Said, “far frum being a Cap-
tain of the Twelve, I believe I have been the victim—the
prisoner—of that infamous band for the last three months,
1am no more one of them than youare. I have been, as
it were, buried for three months. Will:you kindly tell
me what has happened in that time—to—to Lady Saville,
I mean ??

He spoke wildly, and his voice broke on the last word.

The man looked away. He believed his prisoner to be
& Villain, The papers. had been full of ugly rumors con-
cerning him, during the late great Neville investigation;
but it was such an interesting young face—so handsome,
and high-bred, and sad, thatin a sort of vague sympathy
he answered’ him.

“1 don’t know much myself. I'll get you the late pa-
pers ifyouJike. They’ll tell you, may be.’?

At the station house Sir Angus was searched, submit-
ting to, the indignity with white and quivering lips, which
had remonstrated in vain. ;

But as the search brought to light some very singular
articles, to be found in a gentleman’s pocket, and as these
were evidently portions of a rogue's kit, his indignant as-
sertion of innocence, his Strange explanation of how he
came by.the garments in which the suspicious articles
were found, went for little.

His account, too, of his abduetton, the drugged wine,
the escape and recapture, all sounded too improbable for
belief. :

At the examination before the magistrate appeared Sir
Charles Rutger, and Mr, Norris, both gentlemen of un-
doubted position, and identified the prisoner as one of
six who had waylaid and robbed them six weeks before,
a few miles out of London... One of them had given the
notorious Chief of the Twelve @ flesh-wound on the
temple, and torn off his mask.

Both swore to the wound, the scar of which was yet
discernible, and a crape mask was among the things
found in searching the unfortunate Sir Angus.

Sir Angus listened to all thig with his face growing
whiter and whiter, and his eyes glittering dangerously.

The magistrate, noticlng his clenched hands, signed to
two policemen, who instantly stepped one each side ‘of
him.

Sir Angus smiled contemptuously.

“Tam not a ruffian,”’ he said; “and though I should like
to see every one of these rascals’ bones broken, I have
no intention of soiling my hands with them at present,
Sir Jocelyn?’—to the magistrate—“can I send a note to
Mr. Urswick ?””

Sir Charles sneered audibly at this request, and was.
Sharply reproved by Sir Jocelyn, who continued severely
to the prisoner:

“You will not mend your case with such subterfuges as
this. You canmot be ignorant that Mr. Urswick abscond-
ed some three months since: under peculiarly disgraceful
circumstances.” i

The unhappy young man stood overpowered with
anguish and amazement.

“Am I dreaming or mad ?”? he ejaculated at last.

“I think you .are neither,” the magistrate said, with
angry dignity, “though you and your associates have
battled English justice so long, it is, perhaps, not singular
that you are overcome at even a foretaste of it.??

Sir Angus turned a heavy look on him. ‘

“Can send a letter to my wife—Lady Saville—whom I
have not seen for three months?’

“You can send a letter; but unless Lady Saville has less
spirit than I imagine, your letter will comé back to you
unopened, a8 such an insult should.’

Sir Angus fairly gasped for breath at this thrust.

Then he drew himself up with a certain knightly air,
and his dark eye flashed, as he said:

“I don’t think it will come back to me, sir.
permission I will write.’?

He was remanded for trial, and in the interval had am-
ple time and opportunity to possess himself through the
public prints of the details.of one of the most exciting
stories that had warmed the soulof public gossip for
years. Hethus learned for the first time the romantic
fact of the theft of the two children from Neville House,
and that he himself was one of them. Also that Madame
Revere claimed to be his mother. As he read on, cold
beads of perspiration broke forth upon his white brow,
and a chill horror seemed to possess him. :

He saw himself stripped of friends, belied and made
outcast, without the chance to say a word in self-defence.
He saw himself a criminal, prejadged, and condemned
with the life of a convict facing him inevitably, unless a
righteous God interfered to save him from his enemies.
AS he beheld himself blackened and calumniated on
every hand, as he searched in vain among the papers he
had had brought to him for one line in his defense, as the

With your

word from her, rage, horror, and despair, in turn, took
possession of his sou). c

It was a week, before he could calm himself enough to
sift the newspaper stories, and extract the main facts in
their proper connection. But when it was done, it was
like having the Key to a terrible riddle, and his gloomy
eye Penien, and his heart throbbed wildly with a desper-
ate hope. : ee)

“I believe I could beat these villains at their own game,”
he said, behind his teeth. Oh tae

After carefully reviewing tlie whole of this’ gigantic
mystery, which had:in three short months, bereft him of
fortune, wife and friends, and cast him into prison upon
a vile and criminal accusation, Sir Angus succeeded in
separating the one great problem into four complications,
as follows:

First Tangle.—Lady Audrey Saville was (according to
the papers and Madame Revere) an heiress, left a ward
of Salaris Urswick, who had wickedly appropriated her
inheritance to his own uses, and when threatened with
discovery and punishment, had entered into a conspiracy
with his adopted son, Sir Angus Saville, to marry the
wronged girl, secure her fortune, and then disgrace her,
and divorce her, that they might divide the money be-
tween them, and Sir Angus marry another woman.) |

Second Tangle.—More than twenty-one years before, a
woman called Felice Delon, had (according to the papers
and madame again) partly for purposes of revenge, partly
with the hope of aggrandizing*herself in the future, sto-
len from Neville House, the infant heir of Neville, and
Madame Revere’s child, also a babe.

Four years after this theft, when the children had
grown beyond the positive recognition as it wassupposed,
even of a mother, Felice had mysteriously conveyed: to
madame a child’ which she was led to believe was her
son. :

Twenty-one years later, he who was’really ber son,
having had the truth revealed to him by Felice in a mo-
ment of remorse, had bribed the woman to silence, and
presented himself to bis mother with the propositicn that
she should-swear to~his identity. as her nephew, the
long missing Lord of Neville; and so assist him to obtain
possession of the title and estate.: «

Madame’s lofty soul rejected so base a proposal with
scorm, and her joy at: finding her own son awas turned
to anguish at the discovery of his false and ignoble na-
ture. i

Then suspecting that-he who passed as her son—Claude
Revere—was the true heir, she taxed Felice with the fact,
and obtained an acknowledgement to that effect,

To a soul like madame’s, concealment of the truth now
was impossible, and accordingly she revealed :all to
Claude, who thereupon entered at once upon the neces-
sary legal steps to secure lis own: se

The woman Felice having been compelled to testify, and
madame having sworn that'she had always known. that
Claude was not her son, and that she had at once identi-
fied Sir Angus as such by a birthmark on his left arm, the
‘rest Was easy.

Claude Revere had become Lord Neville without con-
test, and had taken possession of the immense rents, and
the enormous accumulated revenues of the same. He
had become’ from ‘a private ‘individual, a peer of the
realm, and the richest man in the Three Kingdoms. i

Third Tangle.—Lord Neville had behaved with the ut-
most generosity, declining to pursue or prosecute his
cousin Sir Angus, protecting and caring for his innocent
wife, when her husband forsook her, and appropriating
‘at once a magnificent income to his aunt—Madame Re-
vere. :

The papers of the day succeeding Sir Angus’s arrest,
spoke of Lord Neville, Madame Revere and Lady Saville
in terms of deep sympathy and compassion, alluding to
the husband of the last as having been discovered to be
the Captain of the Fatal Twelve, in whose haunts he had
been lurking the past three months, instead of having
fled the country as was supposed.

Sir Angus placed under the head of each complication
the Ves it contained ‘to his knowledge as follows: é

LIBS IN THE FIRST TANGLE, i

Lady Audrey Saville was Salaris Urswick’s own daugh-
ter; therefore she could not have been an heiress and his
ward, and he could not have misappropriated her inhevit-
ance.

There had been no conspiracy between him and his
adopted son Sir Angus. He had in fact been displeased
atthe marriage. SirAngus worshiped his wife, and far
from conspiring ather disgrace, would have staked his
soul on her truth and purity. !

Sir Angus had never entertained even a passing fancy
for any women but the one he had married, and if fate
had deprived him of her, the Jace of woman would have
become hateful to him: ,

i LINES IN THE SECOND TANGLE.

Felice Delon had never revealed to Sir Angus under any
circumstances that he was one of the children stolen. from
Neville House. . He had never bribed her to conceal such
a fact, and had never made any proposition or revelation
Whatever to. Madame Revere. Hence she could. not have

rejected such, or been overcome with anguish at the in-
famy of one she was.strongly ready to belie, if he was her
son,

venga

ame had seen and testified some emotion atsight of it, he
had imagined at his one interview with her, but she had
assured him coldly immediately afterward, that she was
in complete ignorance as to his birth or parentage.

LIES IN THIRD TANGLE.

Lady Saville’s husband had: not forsaken her; and hav-
ing no occasion ito prosecute. Sir Angus,. Lord Neville had
show no generosity in abstaining from doing'so.

SUSPICIOUS CIRCUMSTANCES.

First.—Felice Delon, the woman alleged to have stolen
the tio children from Neville House, was Madame Re-
yere’s matd, and still remained with madame.

 

SECOND.—Lord Nevilie, far'from according to the man
he called his cousin even ‘the charity of silence, had tra-

 

 

man sait, contemptuously. “Will you tell me what day

days wore on‘ and brought neither Lady Audrey nora}

 

 

duced him to the public ear in the most infamous manner.

THIRD.—Madame Revere, who pretended tiat Sir An-
gus was her son, had proved lerseif his bitterest enemy,
and was enjoying a magnificent income trom the man she
had sworn was hermeplew, while the man she ealled gon
languished in prison under a-criminal accusation.

Sir Angus pondered these circumstances, and paced his
prison in an excitement of surmises. which were,too near
the truth to be trusted tothe enemy, his lawyer secretly
was, for Lord Neville nad the: man already in his pay, and
the shrewd suspicions which Sir Angus had airived at
only sealed his fate the more inevitably. For every rea-
son now Claude, the false lord, would newer dare let Sir
Angus escape the doom-he had prepared for him.

Sir Angus once folly alive to the peril of his position.
had lost no time in securing counsel. His lawyer, a young
and rising man, had.at, first displayed great zeal and
promptness in working up hisease. It was he who had
discovered that Felice, far from having been sent. away in
disgrace a8 would have Seemed natural, was a greater
favorite than ever with Madame Revere, ;

“Tt is true that Salaris the Jew has disappeared,” this
man said to Sir Angus. ‘His magnificent house is closed,
‘though I am told it will be reopened soon for the oceupan-
cy of Lady Saville.” a

Sir Angus’s melancholy face lighted, oo

“You must see my wife, Upsden,”” he said, “and béseech
her to come tome. She has.never been allowed to re-
ceive my letters, depend wpon it; and it may be in her
power to give us important information.”

Upsden slightly shrugged his shoulders, _

“You still persist, then, in believing that your Wife is
not concerned in the conspiracy against you,?”

“T could swearit,” said Sir Angus, with a smile of love
and faith. ;

‘In spite of the drugged wine which was the beginning
of your misfortunes, and which she herself administered
to you 909 i : : at

The young man’s countenance fell. wiser

“T cannot account for that, itis true, but lam sure if
Willbe explained,” he said—“I am confident it will be
explained.”? j

The following week the lawyer brought word that he
had seen a superb carriage in front of the residence for-
merly known as that of Salaris the Jew. |. isi

‘““ady Saville has doubtless arrived, and I will call im-
Mediately upon her with your permission.”? ;

“By all means,” exclaimed Sir Angus, eagenly. “Why
did you wait?”

“You forget that Iam a stranger to her ladyship.”

“And you require a line fromme. Thatis true.
itis. Now fly, my one friend,’ .

Sir Angus spoke with -indeseribable emotion, and
awaited the return of the lawyer ina stale of mind that
can ‘be imagined. bie jai iL 4
He walked the floor of his cell constanuly,,and, by the
time Upsden returned, had worked himseM inte such a
fever of excitement that he could scarcely speak. ..,
‘Lady Saville declined positively to see me,” Upsden
announced, without looking at Sir Angus. , ;

- The young man sank upon a chair, and covered his faee
with his hands. nies hagtin

But presently he lifted his head again, and, though his
face was frightfully pale, his trembling lips were smiling.
“It was not she who refused to see yeu,’ he said, in, ac-
cents of conviction; ‘‘others did thatin hername. Mad-
ame Revere, without doubt, is with her. You must
watch for her when: she goes out to drive, my faithful
Upsden, and make bold to approach hercarriage. Lam
satisfied in my:own mind that she is either compulsorily
detained from me, or else is kept in ignorance of my
situation.?? OSE 28}

Upsden smiled, but. in a manner to fill the soul of the
still trusting husband with frightful misgivings; but he
promised to endeavor. to see Lady Saville, as proposed.
He indeed made ostentatious pretense of going tothe
Park to watch for my lady on the fashionable drive.
Little did his miserable and tortured young Client sus-
pect how falsely he spoke, when he repeated over and
again’ that’ Lady Saville had not made her appearanc
yet. He saw her nearly every day. ;
(To be Continued.) id
FUN FOR THE MILLION.—The lovers of wit and humor will
read with aching sides the current number of the PHuUN-
NY PHELLOW. The illustrations are so droH that the con-
temptation of them would bring a grim smile to the vis-
sage of a patient in the most trying stage of the fever and
ague; while the reading matter is so provocative of up-
roarous laughter that its effect cannot but influence the
‘suspender market, and cause a scarcity in the supply of
buttons. The contents of the PHUNNY PHELLOW are
published in another column. '

Here

 

— Our Knowledge Box.

A FEW PARAGRAPUS WORTH REMEMBERING.

 

QUESTIONS ANSWERED AND INFORMATION WANTED.—
Dauber and.James Rooney.—To Paint Magic Lanresn’ Sipxs.—
The colors used are those which are transparent, such as the
lakes, sap-green, Prussian blue, distilled verdigris, gamboge,
&c., ground in oil, and tempered: with. mastic varnish, Copal
varnish . may be used im the dark. shades. Draw on paper the
subject you intend to paint, and fix it at each end of the glass;
trace the outlines of the design with a fine hair pencil in strong
tints in their proper colors, and when these are dry, fill up in
their proper tints; shade with black, bistre, and vandyke
brown, as you find appropriate..:... H.—Pepper. is the besf.....
Babylon.—Yo Seay Fruits Cans.—A correspondent gives a
method of closing tin cans, which, he states, completely obvi-
ates the usual difficulty of unsealing. He says: Take one pound
of rosin and a tablespoonful of Jard and melt them together,
the lard rendering the rosin less brittle when cold. After fill-

 

Sir Angus had a birthmark on: his left arm, and mad-

ing the can with fruit, place the tin cap in position, then take
a piece of strong muslin, larger than the opening. in the can

smear one surface with the melted rosin, and fit smoothly an

accurately over the tin cap; when cool smear the upper sur-
face of the muslin withthe rosin. The can is readily opened
with the application of hot water. Glass jars, it is stated, may
be sealed in the same way. The above method has been tried
for several years, and it is asserted, has effectually preserved
the canned fruit from the air, while allowing ready access to
the contents of the vessels...... Susie McKellar.—It is good.......
Query.—GLUE TO UNITE StEEL.—A Turkish recipe used to fasten
diamonds and other precious stones to metallic surfaces, and
which is said to strongly unite even surfaces of polished. steel,
although exposed to moisture, is as follows: Dissolve five or
six bits of gum mastic, each of the size of a large pea, in as
much spirits of wine as willsuffice to render it liquid. In an-
other vessel dissolve in brandy as much isinglass, previously
softened in water, as will make a two ounce phial of strong
glue, adding two bits of glue ammoniac, which must be rubbed
until dissolved. Then mix the whole, with heat. Keep itina
phial closelyistopped. .When itis to be used, set. the phial in
boiling ;water....2..... Moses—Keep the head cool........... z
Bully Hank,.—PRickty Hrat.—Apply magnesia to the parts af-
fected... {..James F. C. and Yan ga-Schoo-tack.—Tannine.—Skins
may be tanned with the hair on by taking two parts of saltpeter
‘an tone of alum by pulverizing them well together; then spread
the skin carefully, fur s:de down, and before it has dried apply
the mixture evenly, with a small quantity of water, being care-
tulto. touch every part in sufficient quantity to wet the surface
thoroughly after it dissolves; double the flesh side, and roll it
up closely; put it in a cool place out of the way of the frost, and
letitremain tliree or four days, perhaps ‘more, according to °
thickness; then unroll, and when it gets nearly dry, with a dull
knife remove the fat that may adhere in spots, and a little rub-

bing will make it pliabie and fit for use.........4. #1. 0. U.—
SHon OrmENT.—‘his cement is made of gutta-percha, Venice tur-
pentine, shellac, caoutchone, and liquid styrax.......Carolina,—

How TaE Cuinuse Cook Rice.—The Chinese process for boiling
one pound ofrice is as follows: Take aclean stew-pan, with a
close-fitting top; then take a clean piece of, white muslin, large
enough to cover over the top of the pun, and hang down inside
nearly to, but notin contact with, the bottom. ‘Into the sack so
formed place the rice, pour overit twocupfuls of water, and
put on the top of the stew-pan, so as'to hold up the muslin bag
inside, and fit tight'all round. Place the pan ona slow fire, an
‘the steam generated from the water, will cook the rice.. Hach
grain, it is stated, will come out of the boiler as dry and distinct
as ifjust taken from the hull. More water may be poured into
the pan if necessary, but only sufficient to keep up the steam
till the rice iscooked. The pan must not beheated so hot as to
cause the steam to blow off the lid...... Joe.—Get up earlier......
Beatricé.—ENGuisah PLum PuppinG.—A stale brick-loaf of baker's
bread, grated; ten eggs, half a pound of sngar, one pound of
suet, one cup of molasses, two pounds of stoned-raisias, one of
currants, two ounces of citron, one teaspoonful of cloves, one
of cinnamon, one nutmeg, a glass of brandy, and one of wine.
Boilin'a_ cloth six hours. Serve with sweet sauce....:.Capt.
Church.—To Macz ArtiriciaL Honty.—Mix eight pounds of re-
fined sugar and two-thirds of an ounce of alum in one pint of
pure Sout water. Add tg one pint of alcohol fiye drops of. oil of
roses. Four tablespoontuls of the alcohol and ON of rose mix-
ture is sufficient for eight pounds of honey...... Kittie,—Yes.....
Flora.—CHARLOTTE Russe.—One pint of cream well beaten, one
gill and a half of wine, four egzs, yolks and whites beaten
separately. Beat five tablespoontuls of sugar with the yolks,
half a pint of milk, and half an ounce of isingjass or gelatine
simmered together till the gelatine is dissofved. Then mix with
this, first the yolks, then the whites of the eggs, then the cream,
and set it aside to stiffen a Httle. When it ts cool, pour it into a
mold which you have previously lined with sponge cake; and
when it is stiff, put it on a plate, and grate sugar. over the top.
Biakeley.—To Join Leap Pirrs.—One end of the pipe should be
enlarged with a large instrument, and then scraped perfectly
bright; the other end should be slightly contracted, and like-
wise scraped; after placing the small within the large end, fill-
ing the cavity with solder, it may be made very strong by wind-
ing a rag made of seaweed around the pipe immediately below
the jomt, and pouring on melted solder, which should be
smoothed over with a soldering iron,....:.....Zady Valeria.—To
Remove. Stains.—Those of grass, grape-juice, etce., may be re-
moved from white garments by dampening the spot and holding
it over the fumes of-a lighted sulphur-match...... F—VYes. oi...
R. W P.-—How to Cook Satmon.—If it is salted salmon, wash
the fish in two or three waters, and then put it to soak for
twelve hours. Some housekeepers prefer buttermilk to water
for freshening salted fish. If you wish the salmon broiled,
clean it well, and cut itinto round slices, about an inch and a
half thick; dry it thoroughly in a clean cloth; rub it over with
sweet oil or thick melted butter, and sprinkre @ little salt
over it, especially if the ‘fish hasbeen weli freshenea; put
the gridiron over clear, clean live coals; whem it is hot,
wipe it clean, and rub it with butte?, oil, or lard; lay the salm-
on on, and, when one side is done, turn over carefully and broil
the other, (It may. be cooked nearly as well in dn oven, in a
buttered pan or dish.) Serve with anchovy, lobster, or shrimp
sauce. ‘To Bow SALMON use enough water to cover thésalmon.
‘When the water boils, skim it (if the salmon needs salt, add it to
the water). Wash theflsh well, and putitin, boiling gently if the
meat be thick. Salmon requires almost as much boiling as meat.
The thickness is more to be considered than the weight, Fifteen
minutes boiling to a pound of fish; ten pounds of full-grown sal-
mon willbe done in seventy-five minutes. Serve with lobster,
shrimp, or anchovy sauce. The thinnest part of the fish is the ,
fattest. Another fashionable mode of serving salmon isto divide
the large part of the body in three parts; boil; dish them in a Une,
and pour over them Genevoise sauce. The skin is not removed.
GeNzEVOIsE SAvor is thus made: Cut into very small preces enue
ounces of the lean of a well favored ham, and put them with
half asmall carrot; four cloves, a bladg of mace, tvo or three
very small sprigs of: lJemon-thyme and parsley, and competing
_more than an ounce. of butter, in a stew pan, simmer peare.
hour, then stir in a,tea-spoontul of flour; stew. slowly weiline
minutes longer, and pour in, by degrees, a pit of good. ol Ing
veal gravy, (beef will do.) and Jet the sance again award =
nearly an hour. Strain it off in a clean sauce-pan. and W yen 1
boils, stir in a wineglass ‘and a half of sherry or madeira, fop.
tionals) two tablespoonfuls of lemon-juice, a little ee aited
salt, if needed, and a tablespoonful. of flour, smoothiy mixes
with two ounces of butter. Give the whole 2 boll; pour-a por-

 

tion over the fish; and send the remainder +o table in a hot tu-
Teen. This sauce is also'served with trout.

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

sian sees

Sa

 

 

 

 

3

——

THE WIND.
BY ELLA WHEELBR.

There are strange, weird sounds in the wind to-night,
As backward and forward it takes its flight.

Strange, weird sounds in the hidden wind,
As it blows and beats at my window blind.

There’s a sobbing sound of a soul in pain—
The rattle and clank of & prison chain—

The voice of a loved one far away—
The song of a spirit freed from clay—

The woful wail of a sin-stained heart—
The sighs that are breathed when lovers part—

A voice that weepeth, ‘“‘Untrue, untrue!
The hearts that are connstant are few, are few !""—

The clash of steel on the battle plain—
The notes of a long-forgotten strain—

The groan of the fallen, the dying shriek—
The soft, low language that lovers speak—

The laugh of a fiend that’s wrecked a soul—
The shout of a pilgrim who's gained his goal.

These are the sounds in the wind to-night,
As backward and forward it takes its flight.

Sounds of sorrew and sounds of mirth,
That it hears and mimics through all the earth.

And over it all there comes to me,
- From this mystical wind that I cannot see—

Avoice that weepeth: ‘‘Untrue, untrue!
The hearts that are constant are few—are few!”

Re eee

TOO LATE TO SAVE HER.

A TEMPERANCE TALE.
BY JANE GRAY SEAVER.

It was scarcely eight o’clock of a July evening, but
night had spread her sablé mantle over the earth, and
the heavy clouds had shrouded the millions of dazzling
brilliants which seemed to be shedding the tears that fell
in rapid rain drops on the splashed and sodden path, as
I took my way across the fields to Dayton farm.

‘Muriel had come home, and was dying, so said the mes-
senger, and wanted me tocome. I could not refuse the
poor, dear creature, for she had been my earliest and
Gearest iriend, and now she was dying—yes, dying! for
the love of one who had proven himself unworthy of the
Sacred charge of such’a ‘pure’ and confiding being as
Muriel Dayton: ee » 4 :

Ab! I knew it would end badly, and I never shall forget
the creepitig, chilling sensation, which ran through my
frame, even to my finger-tips, when Muriel in confidence
told me of her'engagement to Denmouth Willingham.

Muriel Dayton was by far the prettiest girl in all Ell-
wood, her dark, auburn hair hung in careless curls over

‘her faultless shoulders, whilst naught but truthfulness,
faithfulness, and purity of soul, spoke from the depths
of her heart through her large, soft, hazeleyes. She was
the only daughter, too, of Farmer Dayton, who was well
to do in the world, and had taken great pride in rearing
his daughter a lady. ‘Better far as the sequel will show,
‘that she had Known only what we girls were taught in
the village school. ae ’ i

Two years previous to which we write, Denmouth Wil-
linghani had come to Ellwood from the city to spend a
few weeks, as he avered, to improve his health, though
for that matter he looked robust enough, save that the
seeds of dissipation were to an impartial observer seen
ie be indelibly stamped upon his otherwise handsome
face. He .

-Muriel Dayton had just returned from boarding-school
a finished young lady. Denmouth Willingham soon be-
came the lion of Ellwood, and was the favorite beau of
nearly every girl in town; butit was soon patent toe all,
that Muriel’s handsome face, and superior accomplish-
ments had outrivaled all other competitors for the heart
and hand of the city beau. And one day near the end of
summer she came to me, with her beautiful face radiant
with the joy she felt, and told me of her engagement to
Denmouth Willingham.

And so one bright morning in early fall, just as the trees
had begun to put on their autumnal dresses, they walked
up the aisle of our little church, and there, hand-in-hand,
knelt before the altar, and were joined together in holy
wedlock, by our dear old minister, who had baptised us
all in infancy. And, onthe following day, the happy
couple left Ellwood, carrying with them the blessings of
all to their city home.

Weeks passed and no tidings came to Ellwood of them.
Letters were sent to the address In the city, given by the
bridegroom, but brought no return. And so one day
Farmer Dayton donned his Sunday suit, and started for
the city, but returned again within a few days, with his
shoulders a little more curved, and his once straight, tall
form, slightly bent forward, and his good, benevolent face
looked so sad, that no one ventured to ask him of his
success, as he stepped out of the cars at Ellwood, and
plodded on homeward.

“No news, wife,’? he said, to Dame Dayton, as she bent
over the little wicket, her eager countenance asking for
the knowledge her tongue could not frame into words.
“No, nobody ever lived there by the name of Willingham.
It’s plain enough he has passed himself off under a false
name,’? he added.

“But why don’t our poor dear write if she has been de-
ceived,” broke in Dame Dayton;. ‘she knew we wouldn’t
desert her.”

’ “Well, well, wife, we can’t tell why she didn't,” rather
‘impatiently returned Farmer Dayton.

And so wearily dragged on the months with the lonely
old couple. Yes, they were now really an old couple—not
that they numbered years enough to make them so, but
since the loss of their only darling, their hairs have
whitened within a few months, what it would have taken
years to accomplish under ordinary cireumstances. But
time, the great soother of all ills, had been his daily rounds
for nearly two years, and had somewhat soothed the ach-
ing hearts at Dayton farm, for the good souls had learned
to say, ‘‘Thy will, not mine, be done,’ and had bowed
submissively to the chastening rod. But now, to-night,
this very night that l was. wending my way to Dayton
farm, and justas the good dame had cleared away her
tea-table and put things to rights, and Farmer Dayton had
taken the old family Bible upon his knee, good old Chris-
tian that he was, to read his usual after-supper chapter,
and whilst the rain pattered omniously against the win-
dow-panes, and the cat purred lazily upon the rag-carpet
infront of the old-fashioned fireplace, the kitchen latch
was carefully raised, and a feeble moan reached their
ears. :

“Oh, father! mother! let me in to die,’”’ it moaned, and
then something fell heavily upon the floor. :

“Oh! wife, Heaven has at last answered our many
prayers,’ cried Farmer Dayton, as he bent over the inan-
imate form of one whom sorrow had so greatly changed
as scarcely to be recognized by her own loving parent.

“Yes; thank Heaven it is ourown darling Muriel,’’ re-
turned the good dame, as she bent down to chafe the cold
white hands. “But, oh! what—what is this?” she cried,
hastily tearing away the wrappings from the bosom of
the lifeless creature. What is this little bundle so close-

_ ly hugged to the breast of the dying girl? Ab, yes, what

indeed was it? :
wee a darling blue-eyed baby-girl, only a few weeks

“The poor, heartbroken parents raised both mother and

. child carefully, and laid them in their own soft bed; and
. then they discovered how greatly emaciated poor Muriel

was, and so they sent off one of the farm hands to the
Village after the doctor and me.

The poor creature rallied sufficiently to know us all, and
at intervals through the night managed to tell us how
basely she had been deceived, the age of her baby, and to
request that it might be christened Muriel Dayton, and
not Willingham, and then it would be something to leave
Jor her poor, heartbroken parents. And so that same
hight we sent for the good old minister, who had both
baptized and married Muriel; and as Muriel desired it, I
stood sponsor for the little waif, and then the minister
took her from my arms, and laid her into Dame Dayton’s.
. And then we all stood around the bed, and Muriel told
us how her husband had not taken her to such a home as
be had described, but instead to very cheap and wretch-
ed lodgings. Neither was he a‘business man, as he had
represented, but a gambler, and, worse than all else, a
drunkara. t :

Ah! who so well-as the wife of a drunkard knows how
bitterly to curse King Alcohol? And then she told us of

.. her escape from her brutal husband one night, when her

baby was but three weeks old, as he came home beastly
intoxicated, and commenced beating her for some imagi-
nary wrong, when her cries for help had attracted the at-
tention of the other lodgers, who had come to her rescue,
‘and taken her away from him, and cared for her as best
they could, untii she was able to return. to her parents,

’ when they had raised sufficient means to defray her ex-

penses. And then, too, she had written many letters to
her father, begging him to come for her, all of which had
been intrusted to her husband’s care to mail, none of
Which, as the reader already knows, were ever received.
And now, becoming exhausted, she whispered:

“Let me kiss my baby! Where—wnere is the darling ?
i cannot see her. Mother—dear mother—bring—another
candle; this has burned—to—the—socket; it only—flick-
ers. Come nearer—mother—fathers bring—my darling—
cleser. Ah—mother—that music—I see them; they—are
calling—me; but—my—ba———_””

“Her spirit has flown to the’ blissful regions above!”
said the minister, breaking the silence. And then he said:
“Let us pray!” And we all knelt around the death-bed in
prayer, from which we had scarcely risen when a violent
knocking at the front door was heard, whither Farmer

Dayton immediately repaired, to find Denmouth Willing-

ham, in his abject misery, who begged most piteously to
ve allowed to see his wife and child, and avowing his in-
tention to reform, could they but be restored to him.

“Well, come in, then, young man,”’ said the farmer, as
he led the way, wiping his eyes with his red silk handker-
chief, into the very presence of the dead.

“Oh, Heaven, have mercy!’ cried the wretched hus-
band, as he gazed in terror on the cold, white face before
him. “On, my own darling Muriel, come.back to me—
only for a little while—that I may atone in part for the
fearful wrengs I have done thee!’

And the wretched man sunk upon his knees and buried
his face among the drapery that covered the lifeless form
of the loved and lost one, and sobbed aloud. ‘

That he was truly penitent we could io but his
repentance came too late to save poor riel.

The funeral over, Farmer Dayton kindly offered his son-
in-law a bome as long as he would keep sober, thereby
hoping to reform him, in which enterprise he succeeded
beyond his most sanguine hopes, for Denmouth Willing-
ham had Jearneda terrible lesson, and ata fearful cost,
for, to do him justice, he had loved his wife as well as he

nything save um.

coren cone hive passed since we laid Muriel away in the
little church-yard, and nota drop of the accursed stuff
hag ever passed the lips of Denmouth Willingham since,
and a more upright and honorable. man, and one more
relied upon is not to be found in all Ellwood than he.
And will you believe it, dear reader, that for the past three
years I have been his cherished wife, and our only pet is
our darling little Muriel, now ten years of age; and look-
ing the image of our lost one more and more as she grows
older.

Farmer Dayton and his good wife have passed away,
and lie side by side with Muriel.

And so now Dayton Farm belongs to our Muriel, and
we live on the old place; and every evening in summer
my husband takes a twilight stroll. Inever ask where he
goes; but when I visit the church-yard mornings, as I
frequently do,I always finda bunch of half-withered
flowers on poor Muriel’s grave.

Yes, Denmouth Willingham’s repentance came too late
to effect Muriel in thislife, but somehow I fancy she is
happier in the life beyond the grave than she would have
been had he not have reformed.

And now I must close, for little Muriel has fallen asleep
on the lounge, and my husband is breathing suspiciously
hard in his easy-chair, while the oil in my lamp 1s nearly
consumed, and a feeling of weariness is stealing over me.

TRUE TO THE LAST.

BY H. M. B.

Clara Howard stood by her father’s gate, looking down
the road, asif expecting some one; but, in reality, busy
with her thoughts. She looked very lovely, in her dress
of pure white. Harry Benton coming up-the road, thought
90 too, and his heart began to beat quite rapidly, as she
opened the gate, and advanced to meet him.

He was a noble-looking man, the pride of the village in
which he lived. But he was poor; and, oh! how he longed
to be rich, not for his own sake, but for the sake of Clara
Howard, whom he loved with all the strength of his manly
nature. He would have been content to live in the mean-
est hut, if Clara would share it with him; but she was
ambitious, as she again told him this evening, while they
were taking a short.stroll down the road.

“Harry, I do love you, but you Know I could never be
content to stay here all my life; I should only be dissatis-
fied, and that would make us both unhappy. Wait, Harry,
till Ihave seen more of the world, and tried my talents.
To-morrow ileave for the city to test my vocal powers,
and I wish you could be there to witness my success or
failure”? :

“Oh! Clara, I wish you had not so beautiful a voice. It
has made you so ambitious. Why not stay with me? How
can I expect to claim even the smallest share of your re-
membrance, after you enter upon a path which is to Jead
you to fame. When all shall run to do you homage, how
can you expect to remain simple Ciara Howard ?”’

She turned abruptly and left him, as she knew he would
make her unhappy with his pleadings.

She loved him, and hated to leave him; but she was
discontented and restless where she was. She had a very
fine voice, and through the influence of her city friends,
she had been requested to sing at the Opening Concert of
the season.

The concert passed off creditably. Clara was the “Star”
of the evening.

When Harry Benton approached her, he found her
glowing with pride. Again he tried to persuade her to
return with him.

“If you love me, as you say you do, why not please me,
instead of pleasing the world ?”’ ;

‘Harry, 1b is for my own gratification that I do this. I
have talent, and I want to seethe world. Your pleadings
will be unavailing.’?

It was useless for him to remonstrate, for he saw she
was determined. He accompanied her to her carriage,
and returned to his quiet country home most unhappy.
He received a note from Clara the next day, informing
him of her engagement with an opera troupe bound for
Eurove,

From time to time he heard from her; her magnetic voice
had taken all hearts by storm. Her fame was now estab-
lished, and she wrote she was happy. She néver said a
ray about returning to the true heart still waiting for
her. 7

Two years had gone by since she left, and for one year
Harry had-heard nothing of her except through the papers.
At first he wondered why she did not write, but then he had
foretold how it would ali be; so with a sad, aching heart
he started for California—that land of golden promise—
and there, for once in his life, he was fortunate in his un-
dertaking. In three years he returned rich and determin-
ed in bis mihd to,waste his thoughts no longer upon one
who could so easily forget him, |

He was: now residing in the city. One day on going
through one of the principal streets, and happening to
glancé into a passing carriage, he saw a face that sent his
thoughts flying back over the past. When he reached
home he was in a perfect tumult. He then felt that for-
‘getting lis old love was no easy task.’ How could he find
her he asked himself. He must see her. He started up,
seized his hat, and was about going out when the door
opened, and a note was handed tohim. He looked at it
a moment, and as he recognized the handwriting, a deep
flush overspread his face, which instantly receded, leaving
him deadly pale and trembling. He read a sentence or
two, and in short time was belore one of the palatial resi-
dences, in the upper portion of the city. To ring for ad-
mittance, hand in his card, and enter the parlor, was but
the work of a moment. -As he heard the rustle of silk on
the staircase, lie felt who was coming, and his heart
throbbed violently. The door opened, and in came Clara
Howard, more beautiful than ever.

She stopped, he advanced toward her, stretched out his
hands, and folded her in his arms. She only whispered,
“Harry, 1m so weary of the world.’ é .

Reader, there is littie more tosay. Two hearts are re-
united. Ambition has had its sway, and now the way to
happiness is clear. Let it suffice to know that in too
months Clara Howard became the happy and beloved wife
of Harry Benton.

————__>-@<4—______

THE BEGGAR'S CRUST.

BY WILLIAM COMSTOCK.

Sylvanus had been fortunate in all his speculations. He
had succeeded both at-home and abroad. He owned
houses and lands, whole Villages in fact; and being satis-
fied with his gains, he retired from active business, and
took up his residence in a pretty villa onthe banks of a
silvery stream famed in song for its beauty.

Sylvanus had not long been retired from the busy mart,
when a female relative died and left him between four
and five thousand dollars.

“Rivers run to the ocean,’ said the millionaire to his
steward; ‘‘but this time we wili try to change the course
of the stream, and let it go where it is more needed.”

The steward’s eyes brightened. We are prone to ima-
gine that good fortune could never be better bestowed
than when it is conferred upon ourselves. ‘

“IT want you to seek out some deserving man,” con-
tinued Sylvanus—‘‘seme man who is particularly note-
worthy for his good conduct or his generous deeds; and
this trifling legacy—which I reaily do not want—shall be
handed over to him.”

Tnree weeks elapsed, and the steward was summoned
to appear before his employer.

“Have you yet found a man worthy of that legacy?”
demanded Sylvanus. t

‘J have three or four.’ answered the steward; “but for
my life I cannot decide which of them ought to have the
money; they are all good men in their way.”

“Perhaps I can assist. you,’ replied the man of wealth.
“Let us hear who and what they are.”

‘“‘Firstly,’? said: the steward, ‘is Richard Pardon——”

“What! do you mean to insult me, sir? That drunken
beast who spends nearly all his time in soaking up
bad whiskey.”?

“Pardon me, sir,’ said the steward. ‘He has been a
reformed map for the last five months, and he now works
steadily, and earns his two or three dollars per day.”

“Is that so??? answered the millionaire. ‘I am rejoiced
to hear it. Let him continue his labor till he has become
confirmed in his good habits. It would be a pity to tempt
him with a large sum of money until he has given full evi-
dence that there is no danger of a relapse into his former
idle habits. Name another.”

“Farmer Goodwin, sir.”

“A very industrious man, 1 believe. What of him?”
said Sylvanus.

“All the country round he is praised, for, that, when
the poor came into his field to glean at harvest time, he
left about one-third of the wheat behind for their benefit.
It did a great deal of good.”

“Worthy man!?’ cried Sylvanus, warmly. ‘But who eise
have you on your list ?”?

“The other, sir,’? answered the steward, “is Bill Burton,
the young sailor, who ran up a ladder the other night, and
rescued Lucy Darling from the flames, though the roof of
the burning house fell in a few moments afterward.”

“A nable act, no doubt,” said Sylvanus; “but as Lucy
Darling was his darling, and as she will soon reward
Bill with herself, and as her father isa rich man, who
will, I understand, do well by his brave son-in-law, I care
not to interfere. Your Farmer Goodwin, | think, lives up
by the Four Corners,’?

cee ee

“J will take a walk up that way before lon
the part of spy for once in my hire.” Be BA cue

The steward withdrew.

A few days afterward, on a fine day, when the air was
cool and bracing, Sylvanus buttoned up his long surtout,
put on his lat, took his cane, and sallied out upon the
plain, Farmer Goodwin lived abouta mile off. When
the millionaire started on his route, he observed an old
beggar hobbling on ahead of him. He saw this man stop
atahouse and ask aims. He got nothing there. The
beggar stooped at three more places, and was equally un-
successful at them all. Sylvanus could perceive that the
poor man was really suffering for want of food, and made
arma to give him a trifle as soon as he should over-

ake him.

 

 

 

But now the beggar appHes at a small tavern, and the |

good woman of the house hands hima large crust of stale
bread. The poor maa grasped the morsel with avidity,
and sitting down under a tree, prepared to eat the first
meal, probably, that he had had in twenty-four hours..

But just as he raised the morsel to his lips a poor wo-
man and barefooted girl appeared from around the cor-
ner. Famine was visible in their pale and wasted cheeks,
and the little girl looked wishfully at the beggar’s crust.

The poor man sighed, looked thoughtfully and sadly at
his morsel of bread, and then calling the little girl, pre-
sented the greater part of it to her, reserving but a
mouthful for himself.

“Thou hast done better than them all,’ cried Sylvanus
greatly to the astonishment of the poor beggar, who had
not perceived that he was watched. ‘Rise, old man, and
follow me.’ :

The poor man could not at first believe that the man of
wealth had any friendly intentions toward him. But when
he saw the former present a Sum of money to the poor
woman, he doubted no longer.

The beggar proved, on inquiry, to be a very honest man,
who had been reduced by losses to his present condition.

He became the happy recipient of the legacy.

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. PHE TWO SLEEPERS.
BY FRANCIS S. SMITH.

An old man sat in his easy chair,
Where he had sat before,

Day after day, at eventide,
For years at least a score.

The Bible open on his lap—
A smile upon his facc—

And round his brow a lalo shone,
Evolved by inward grace.

He heeded not the little one
Who sported ’round his knee, .

And twitched the tassel of his gown,
And:shouted out with glee,

“Come, grandpa, put your book away—
Tis nine o'clock, you know—

And you must play awhile with me,
Before to bed you go.

“What! won't you play?" the child went on
With disappoitited air,

“You said you would at nine o’clock—

- Grandpa, that isn’t fairt

But never mind—you're tired perhaps—

, And I’m a saucy. thing—

So sit you stili, and I your pipe
Will fromthe mantel bring!”

And yet the good, old man stirred not,
Nor looked he at the child,

Who laid her head upon his book,
Gazed up athim and smiled—

And then she pouted pettishly,
And then began te weep,

And then, tired out, her eyelids closed,
And she fell fast asleep. ;

_ And thus they slumbered tranauilly— .
“@he grandsire aiid the ehild—

And as they sleptit #emed as if
They on each other smiled,

But while the red-cheeked, joyous child,
The sleep of health was taking,

The old man was reposing in

- The sleep that knows no waking.

He had passed away e’en while he dwelt
Upon the sacred story,
And left this sin-embiltered life
For one of brightest glory.
Oh, picture rare? Oh, lesson stern
For heedless man intended—
The wee child starting on the voyage
The grandsire old had ended.

LOVE'S ORDEAL.

BY HELEN FORREST GRAVES.

It was Mildred Avan's wedding. day.

Brides are always beautiful—there is something won-
drously illusive about tulle and satin and orange-blos-
soms—but Mildred was even fairer than the ordinary
wont of brides, with her golden hair and fresh, daisy-like
beauty. And, as they gazed at her flushed cheeks and
dreary, glittering eyes people forgot the gossip that had
been afloat about Hugh Delacy, her old lover, and the
unshaped rumor that Cliff Vernay had bought the young
beauty with his money-bags!

Brides are generally excitable, too, and when Mildred
began to cry among her white-robed bridesmaids, Mr.
Vernay left her to their care, convinced that the tears
were but a bright, brief April shower: i

“Go away,’ sobbed Mildred, ‘‘all of you but Jessie Hill
—leave me alone a little while!” ia

And when Mr. Vernay came into the room adjoining a
little later to get his traveling-cap, he heara Mildred’s
voice talking low and earnestly to Jessie Hill.

“Hush! pleaded Jessie, softly; ‘‘hush! Mildred, you
mustn’t talk so, indeed.”

“But I will,” cried Mildred; “I hate him—I have only
married him because papa owed himse much money. 9,
Jessie! Jessie! I am so miserable!”

Cliff Vernay, standing where he could not help but hear
the passionate words stood there, pale and motionless as
if he had been turned to stone.

Was this the greeting of his wedding day?

Mildred was calmed down and quieted when he saw
her next—a pretty little vision in her gray poplin travel-
ing.dress, with the delicate: pink ribbons and the vail of
floating gray tissue, knotted back with roses selected to
Match her own cheeks.

“Are you ready, Mildred?” her newly made husband
asked, gravely. he
- “Quite ready,” she answered, slipping her tiny gloved
hand under his arm. Wee

And as her soft, merry laugh’ sounded in the doorway,
Clit’ Vernay caught himself wondering of what material
these women were made.

They reached Vernay Hall that evening—a stately man-

sion on a hill, with a background of densely-growing trees,
and a velvet-smooth lawn in front, where statues gleam-
ed whitely through the foliage, and a fountain made mer-
ry music in its violet-edged marble basin. ;

“How beautifal !? broke involuntarily from Mildred’s
lips, ag she Stood on the steps, looking around upon the
lovely sylvan scene, unpurpled by the last pensive soft-
ness of twilight, while here and there a star upheld its
trembling spear of gold in the misty sky.

“This ig your home, Mildred,’’ said her husband, slowly.
“Do you think you shall be happy here?)

“Yes,”’ said Mildred, slyly glancing up into Mr. Ver-
nay’s white, cold face. : : :

She did not throw her arms round his neck. She did
not nestle close to his side, as other brides would have
done. There was something in his voice and look that
somehow intimidated her. -

“Come in-and look at your drawing-room and bou-

doir,’! he said, after a moment’s pause—and she obeyed
him.
They were more like caskets of beauty than mere com-
mon-place, four-walled apartments. While velvet car-
pets covered the floor, white and gold decorations gleam-
ed from the ceilings, ana the gilded chairs were daintily
upholstered in white, knotted with tufts of gold, while
newly-cut roses perfumed the air, and the lace draperies
of the open windows swayed gently to and fro in the
idle fingers of the evening breeze.

“Do you like these rooms?” the husband asked. “I
thought of you, Mildred, all the time that I was superin-
tending their preparation.”

“It ig like fairy land,” Mildred answered earnestly.

“Very well,” Cliff Vernay said, calmly. ‘The house is
yours—my whole fortune is yours—the stately old name
of the Vernays is yours also; and here I leave you to en-
joy them.”

“Dear me, Cliff,” she faltered; ‘I don’t understand

‘ou.

“You have married me in fulfillment of a filial debt.
You have married me for my wealth and rank. I heard
you tell Miss Hill that you hated me. I give you cheer-
fully, wealth, rank, and allelse that may be transferable,
but I do not choose to inflict myself also.’?

“But, Clif——,” began the bewildered bride.

But he only bowed coldly over her hand and was gone.

 

“He will come back,” thought Mildred, when the first
momentary shock was.over. “It isa mere pique—a Whim.
hg will notleave me. thus, and married only this morn-

But it was no pique-on G@liff Vernay’s part; rather a
stern, indomitable resolve. She did not love him; nay,
had he not himself heard her say that she hated him? He
could hold no woman in bondage, unless the heart, too,
were a willing captive.

So he exiled himself from hearth and home, and Mil-
dred dweit alone in the beautiful house where every. sur-
rounding but reminded her the more strongly of his love
and tenderness, and anticipating care.

At these, solitary and alone, the scales fell frem Mil-
dred’s eyes, and she learned how much she had begun to
love Cliff Vernay.

Mr. Delaey called; the strange report of Mrs. Vernay’s.}.

lonely life had reached his ears—but Mildred would not
receive him. Me sent back his card with ‘for the sake of
old times,” scribbled upon it, but Mildred made no re-
sponse.
“Let her have her own way,’’ said Delacy. “I think 1
could have made life a little more agreeable to her, but
+) And Mr. Delacy galloped away under the shadow
of the evergreens, a disappointed cavalier.

Mrs. Vernay wrote soft, pleading letters to her husband, |

but in vain. Cliff never answered them. She could nos
bring her. woman’s pride to the point of saying “I love
ea his man’s obduracy remained relentiess as ad-
amant.

As she was walking through the grounds one-night, she
saw & man’s figure among the evergreens—a tall figure,
which somehow startled her, and made her heart beat
more quickly than its wont. She kept onup tothe house,
and then sent for Crossley, the porter. :

“Crossley,’”’ she said, gravely, ‘‘who is that man I saw
lurking among the spruce trees near your lodge ?””

Crossley scratched his head, and looked puzzled.

“Please, ma’am,”’ he said, “it’s a lodger I’ve took.”

“Fhen send him away at once. I do not. wish you to
have lodgers. I want the park quiet and secluded.”

“Il engage he shan’t trouble you no more, ma’am,
said Crossley, and he kept his word.

It was nearly a fortnight afterward when old Crossley
came up to the house, to use his owh expression, “in a
peck of troubles.’

“J wasn’t to tell you, ma’am,’? he said; “but what's a
poor feller to do, with the poor gentleman clear delirious
with fever, and not a woman about the premises to lift a
hand ?? . 1

“Who is it, Crossley ?? asked Mildred, scarcely compre-
hending the old man’s words. Se

“My lodger, ma’am.” :

“Is he sick? I willcome down to your cottage to see
him, presently.”? : .

“Bless your Kind heart, my lady, and that’s just what I
was wishing youto do,’? said Crossley, ‘‘only he forbade
me ever to jet you know as he was there.”

“Some woman-hater, I suppose,”? said Mildred, with a
faint smile. “I will come this evening, Crossley, and I
will send to Wentworth for a doctor at once.”’

The red autumn leaves were drifting down around the
young wife’s feet ag she crossed the park that afternoon
and entered. the lodge-keeper’s hamble abode. As she
did so, a strangely familiar voice sounded upon her ear.

‘She does not love me, I tell you—she never loved me.
When 1 am dead, tell her that she is free—but not before.”

She was at the side of the couch in an instant.

“Cliff! My husband,’’

He raised himself on his elbow and stared at her
through hollow, fever-shining eyes.

“Not your husband!” he said, hoarsely, ‘“‘only in name
—not in heart.’

_ And once more he sank down upon his pillow, and re-
lapsed into the weary wanderings of delirium.

Oh, the long days and nights of breathless terror and
Suspense that glided by, while Mildred Vernay watched
by her husband’s bedside, not knowing whether he was
doomed tolive or die. Oh, the weary midnights, when,
all alone, she faced her own heart, and knew that if Cliff
Vernay died, she would never Know another happy me-
ment.

‘Merciful Father in Heaven!’ she prayed, on her bend-
ed Knees, “if thou takest him, take metoo. I love him,
Father—Ii cannot part with him—and the moment which
separates us will be worse than the pangs of any death.”?

And Vernay heard her; the soft words ‘mingled strangely
with his delirious fancies, and he lived.

The first day that sense and réason returned to their
temporarily deserted home in his brain, Mildred sat beside
him, her blue wistful-eyes fixed longingly at his side.

“Mildred,” he said; ‘“‘wasit but a part of my fever-fan-
cies, or did I hear you praying that I might live?”

“1 did pray, Cliff; oh, so earnestly!’ she whispered.

“But if I had died, you would have been free.”

‘Sf you. had died, Cliff, my heart would have been
buried in your grave.”

“‘Mildred—do you love me.’!

“With my whole heart and soul, dear husband,’ she
murmured, her head sinking on his breast.

“That was not what you said on your wedding-day.”

“f Have learned the secrets of my own heart, since,
Cliff,’ She answered. ‘Oh, my husband, will yeu forgive
me? Wul you take me back to your love?!

And so the shadow passed away from the two young
lives, and God’s hand lightened their trial for ever!

Pleasant Paragraphs.

[Most of our readers are undoubtedly ca,.Me of contributing
toward making this column an attractive feature of the New
York WEEKLY, and they will oblige us by: sending tor publica-
tion anything which may be. deemed of sufficient interest for
general perusal. «It is not necessary that the articles should be
penned in scholarly style; so long as they are pithy and likely to
ereate amusement, minor defects will be remedied.1]

‘ DER GOOT LOOKIN SHNOW.

Oh, dot shnow, dot goot lookin shnow,

Vhich makes von der.shky out, on tings below;

Und yoost on der hause vhere der shingles ‘vas grow,

You come mit some coldness, vherefer you go; ‘
“Valtazin und pblayin und zinging along, f

_. Goot lookin shnow, you dond cood done wrong.

Efen of you make on some oldt gal’s scheek,

It makes notting tifferent, ofer das shendlesom freak.

Goot lookia shnow, von der glouds py der shee

Yeu vas bully mit cold vedder, und bully von high.

Oh, dot shnow, dot goot lookin shnow,
Yoost dis vay und dot, you make vhen you go;
Fhiyin aroundt, you got matness mit fun,
Und fhreeze makes der noze of efery von;

Lafein, runnin, mit gwickness go py,

Yoost shtobbin a leedle, dhen pooty gwick fhly;
Und efen der togs, dot vas out-in der vet,
Vood shnab at der beices vhich makes on dhere heat.
Der peobles vas crazy, und caddles vood crow
Und say how you vas, you goot lookin shnow.

Und so gwick you vas dhere, und der vedder did shnow,
Dhey shpeak out in dones.so shweeder as low,
Und der shleigh-riders, too, vas gone py in der lite,
You dond c saw dem, dill quite out of site.
Scwimmen, shkimmen, fhlirdin dhey go
Recht on der tob of dot goot lookin shnow.
Dot shnow vas vhite glean, vhen it comes der shky down,
Und yoost so muddy like mud, vhen it comes of der town,
To been valked on py more as dwo hoondret fife feet,
Dill gwick, vas yoost lookin so pleck like der shtreet.

Vell, I vas yoost lookin vonce so goot like dot shnow,
But I tumbled me off, und vag I did go;
Nicht so glean, like der mut dot growed on der shtreet,
I vas shcraped ven der poots off, of der peobles I meet.
Dinkin und sl:worin, I life of I die,
To been shtiff like a mackere}l mit no von to buy.
Vhile I trink me some lager to got a shquare meal,
1 vas afraid von der ghosts mine pody vood shteal.
Got in Himmel, how ish dot? Vas I gone down so low,
Ven I vonce vas.so vhiteness like dot goot lookin shnow ?

Yah, for ee I vas told you, I vas vonce bure like dot shnow,
Mit plaindy of lofe, von mine heart out vas grow;
I dink von dhem efery von, und dhey dink von me too,
Und I vas humpugged mit fhladeries, dot’s yoost vat dhey do.
Mine Fadder, Mudder, Gabruder, der same,
Vas loose me some sympadies, und ferget vonce mine name,
Und dot raskals who comes of me in der tarkness py nite.
Vood gone more as a plocks to got out of mine site.
Der. coat von mine lecks, und poots of mine toe,
Vas not gleaner as doze of dot goot lookin shnow.

It vas gweer it shood been dot dot goot lookin shnow

Vood make on a pad mans mit no vhere no ge;

Und how gweer it vood been, vhen yoost pehindt tay,

Ofer der hail und das vind mit mine pody vood phiay,
Hobbin, shkibben, und me dedt like an eel—
Mine mat vas got oop, nefer a vord cood I shpell.

To been zeen py der peobies, who vas valk ofer der town,

Who vas dickled mit pbleasures, of der shnow vas come down,

I yoost lay der ground’ und gone died mit a woe,

Mit a pedgwildts und billows, von der goot lookin shnow.

CARL PRETZEL.
A LIVE DUMMY.

Before one of our dry goods stores there usually standsa
dummy, with a water-proof cloak on it, indicating that similar
cloaks are for salen the store. It chanced to be ont of its usual
place one day, and a lady was standing on thé spot formerly
occupied by the. dummy.. A boy employed.in the store, while
poste, accidentally jostled against the laay, and thinking that

e had collided with the dummy,’he turned suddenly, caught
the lady by the shoulders and feet, and endeavored to give the
figure an erect position. Discovering his ludicrous mistake, he
exclaimed apologetically: “Oh, excuse me; I tROUEHL yon were
a dummy.” Me AN EyYE-WITNESS.

What rulers of France held the most spirited reign? The

Bourbons. : Ikz,
SUNDAY SCHOOL WIT. _

A deal of wisdom and some wit comes from the mouths of
babes and sucklings. Stories of the bright sayings of very small
children are generally stupid enough, but a fresh one comes
from Springfield, Mass., which contains so much unconscious sa-
tire that it is worth repeating. The superintendent of a Sunday-
school in a suburban town. gives out a chapter of scripture for
the pupils to read, and onthe following Sunday catechizes
them on the result. Lately, after the children had been read-
ing up the first part of the Sermon on the Mount, the-conun-
drum was propounded: ‘“‘Who was persecuted for righteous-
ness’s sake?” when a bright little fellow answered promptly,
“Jesus Christ.” ‘‘Who else?” was then asked, and another smart
lad answered, “Stephen.” ‘‘Who else?” asked the superin-
tendent, when an older boy replied, ‘“‘William Lloyd Garrison.”
“Who else?” was again asked, and a young lady in the infant
class promptly answered, ‘John Brown;” and when the ques-
tion was next put, a fat jad, with apparent confidence in his
correctness, replied, “‘Andy Johnson.” The climax is certainly
one step from the sublime.

A TOUCHING OBITUARY.

A California paper pays the following touching tribute to de-
parted worth: ‘The country will be pained and shocked to learn
of the death of Wm. Dorkin Swottletot, formerly secretary and
confidential bar-keeper to Senator Bottlesot. His age is not ac-
curately known, but he is supposed to have been born too soon
and to have died too late. He will be remembered by all old
Californians as a man famous for the possession of a single vir-
tue; two would have made him notorious, and three, in the
simple and unpretentious civilization of 749-50, would have
caused him to be hanged. He was an active politician, and
some of his escapes were almost miraculous. Having finally
secured the appointment of United States Poundmaster at the
port of Denver, Colorado, he retired from actual honesty, and
passed his days peacefully in the contemplation of piety and
the practice of gain. Having amassed a_ competency, he died.
— is his epitaph: ‘He was a good egg; Satan scramble

m.

AN OBLIGING DRUG CLERK. :
A conceited young man, a native of the Green Isle, is engaged
as clerk in a drug store on Myrtle avenue, Brooklyn. He is in

 

love—with himself, and when business is not brisk spends a
great dealof time in admiring the refleation of his.visage: in
the mirror, stroking his chin, and adjusting his necktie. hen-
ever a pretty female enters the store, he rushes at once to-wait
upon her, all smiles and bows. One evening last week three
girls entered the store, one of whom purchased some medicine,
and as she received it, all three were about to withdraw, when
Miss M———. said,. ““E was told to get some plaster of Paris. I
wonder ifI could get it here, and save the trouble of going toa
paint store.” She approached the clerk, and announced her
wishes. “TI will see,” he answered, and proceeded. to hunt’
around the store. After a short search the ob Ligne young nian
returned to the ladies, saying: “I don’t think we have any
laster of Paris—but we have some excellent porous. plasters.

ould youlike totry one?’ With a haughty glance, Miss M——
responded, indignantly, “No, sir! Youd better try the virtues
of the porous plaster yourselt over your mouth!”

If you desire to see a mad druggist, enter the store he attends,
and ask him if ke has yet tested the virtue of a porous plaster.

RMAN EE,
A PROVOKING CONSIDERATION.

Old John A.,.a niggardly fellow, was erecting a new house for
himself, and among those engaged in its construction, was an
trishman who knew a little about carpenter work, and had
agreed to work for a trifle less than.competent journeymen.
Being urged by his fellow workmen,to.ask full wages, he did so;
but Mr. A. put him off by saying: “Well, well, you go to. work,
and when the work is done, I'll consider you.”” This satisfie
| Pat; but when pay day came he received only the-amount ort. ~
| ginally agreed upon. Swelling with indignation he repaired to _
John’s presence, and demanded anexplanation. The employer
| smilingly told him that he had given him all he-had agreed to,
and was not aware of having raised his pay. “But,” sdid Pat,
“you said you’d consider me.’? “And so 1 do,” said John, with a
‘provoking smile. ‘And so J da.consider you—a darned fool.”? Pat
vacated his employer's presence in a hurry,,and has not been
known to say anything about high pay since. C.M.S.

NEW FOOD FOR HORSES. —
Tn the city of B are located the Iron Works of My. Pratt.
The dforesaid Mr. Pratt having occasion to hire a new driver,
came across a certain Irishman named Jim, whom he engaged.
Jim came the next morning, and at once proceeded to business.
The first thing in order was to feed the horse. Not finding any
feed in the stable, Tim proceeded to Mr. Pratt for information
“Misther Pratt, fhere will Lget the fade for the baste?” ‘Go ta,
the factory, Tim, and you'will find some bran ina barrel near
the door.” Now, on the previous day, the menin the factory
had a barrel of saw dust brought in toclean them hands with,
and placed it beside the barrel of bran. Tim, not knowing tha.
difference, took some saw-dust out to the staple, and mixed, it
with water and salc. and poured itin the trough. The old horse -
merely sniffed at the preparation, but would not eat. Tim-at
once proceeded to the office an@ accosted Mr. P-——. ‘‘Misther
Pratt, an’ sure there’s sumthin the matther wid the ould baste.’! »
“Why, what is wrong, Tim?” “Shure an’ I gev him Ins fade, >
an‘ he just tak a shniff an’ wouldent ate it at all.” “Dees her:
appear to be sick, Tim?” ‘“Divil a bit, your honor, he’s spry.
enough.” “Well, work him till noon and he’ll havean appe-~
tite.’ Tim worked the old horse till noon and took him: to the”
stable, But the animal merely took another sniff and, turmed
away. Tim hanted up Mr. P—— and said, “Shure, your honor, :
an’ he won't ateit yit.” ‘Work him till evening andisee if he
won't have an. appetite.””. So Tim proceeded with his work un-
til evening, when he onee more placed the preparation before —
the horse, and with a similar result. Mach perplexed, Tim
again accosted his employer, saying that, although the animal
seemed so weak as to be almost unable to stand. he still refused ©
food. “Won’t eat yet?” exclaimed Mr. Pratt; “‘there must be”
something wrong.” .The two went to the stable, and Mr. Pratt
put his hand in the trough and brought forth the saw-dust.
“Why, Fim, you blockhead, what do you call this?” ‘Shure an’
it's the bran your honor tould me to git.’ “It’s nothing but
saw-dust. I’ have to buy you a pair of leather spectacles,
Tim, so that you can tell saw-dust from bran.” ~-= ~~ SAIBOT.
CATS IN THE CLOSET. ee
Mr. 8 , of Albany, was very fond of tomato catsup. Ore”
day, not seeing the bottle on the table as usual, and desiring to
use it, he called to Bridget, and asked her, “Is the catsup in the .
closet? Ifso, putit onthe table.” ‘No. says Bridget, “‘there’s: °
no cats up in the closet, and sure there’s no. cats around here,,
only Jink’s cat, and that’s down in the cellar.” HHO. JR.

A’WALKING TRAIN. :

An elderly lady, livingim Central New York, had occasion te
visit some friends who lived in the State of Michigan. When
she had returned home, one of her neighbors.called to see her;
and, in the course of conversation, the visitor asked how she
felt when she was going over Suspension Bridge. ‘Oh,’ she re-
plied, “I didn’t feei a bit afraid, for the cars went on a walk ail
the way over the bridge.’ G. W.. Ririey.

SURE SIGNS OF DRUNKENNESS.

When a man comes home and tries to bolt the door with a
sweet potato, pokes the fire with the spout of a coffee-pot, at-
tempts to wind up the clock with his boot-jack, tries to cut
kindling for his morning fire with a paper-knife, takes a cold
yotato in his hand to light him to bed, and prefers sleeping in
his hal and boots, you may reasonably infer that he has been
making the acquaintance of some very friendly people.

AN AFFECTIONATE SISTER.

With big tears in her eyes, a sweet little Pennsylvania girl of

five summers asked: ‘“‘Will dear little brother Johnny die to-

night, mother?” And when she was assured that the dcctor

thought not, she continued, while sobs choked her utterance:

“Poor Johnny, I wish he would, ’cause then I could have his
litthe white-handleé knife and fork.” . E

To P. P. ContRisutors.—Bill A.—Give us one of your “yarns.” ~
T. L.—In No, 14........ The following MSS. are accepted:
“Larry’s Guess;” “Going it Blind,” ‘Riches and Smoke,” “Bold”
Billy;’’ “Sold for Fun;” “Edgar’s Excuse.”........ The following-
are respectfully declined: ‘How High is That?” “Two Darkey
Hunters;”’ “Making a Minister a Dog;” ‘“Epitaphs and Conun-
drums,” by H. M,; ‘Shoot the Stiller;” “Dutch Weather Proph-
ets;” “A Swift Jackass;” “Good-by;” “Irishman in Chureh,”’
“In Love with Toby;’’ ‘‘Three Pennies;” ‘‘Taking His Part,”
“Superb;” “Thompkins,” “Advertising ;” ‘Going to Mill,” ‘{Pat-
ting Down a Lawyer;” “Honesty ;” “Bad State;” “Stealing
Cherries;’ “Running and Jumping;’ ‘“‘A Dramatic Story;’*
“Hot-Footed Bird; “Bed-bug Story;” “Stubbs’s Obituary,”
“Get Rid of a Relation.”

A KEEPERS STORY.

It was in the year 186—, that important business called
me from the small town of N—— to the City of A——, a
journey of about twenty miles. When about half way
between the two places, arain storm overtook me and
made it necessary for me to put up for the night. Lac-
cordingly drove into a farm yard and requested permis-

 

sion to stay through the night. My request was readily
granted, and after seeing my horse properly cared for,-E
repaired to the house with my host, where &@ warm sup-
per was awaiting us. Four rosy-cheeked children were
seated around the table, besides the matronly looking
mother. :

After supper I drew up to the fire to enjoy a smoke
with my new friend. Asthe man lighted his pipe, L
noticed a deep scar that extended across his hand. On
asking the cause of it, I saw my host and his wife ex-
change glances, and noted a shadow flit across her hand-
some face. After drawing a whif or two on his pipe, he
Said:

“There is a story connected with that sear, that I shall
never forget, and even now as I am sitting here, in safety |
with my dear wife and children around me 1 cannot re-
| press a shudder at what might have been.”

On my saying that I should like to hear the story, he
commenced as foilows: :

“] was formerly a night-watch man in the Insane Asy-
lum over in A——. I had been at my employment about
two years, wlien the incident I am about reiate, happen-
ed. My wife and I had been married about a year, and
she had tried to get me to leave the asylum, and find some
less dangerous employment, as she termed it. I had
laughed at her fears, but as she seemed 80 anxious about
it, I had promised in one month more to do as she asked.
The month had nearly expired; only one more night re-
mained. I had togo on my watch atten o'clock. On this
particular night 1 was seized with a nervous fear of—l
knew not what, but stil I felt that something was about
to happen. In vain Largued to myself that I had watch-
ed there fortwo years and nothing had happened. bus
argue as I would, that shadow still hung overme. I had
three galleries to go through, and on each side of these
galleries were cells in which the patients were confined.
As I passed along I would occasionally see some bony
hand thrust through the grates;or some poor fellow
would rave at me, accusing me of—he knew not what «
himself. As I passed into the third gailery it was with
such a feeling that I could hardly help turning and fleeing
back to awaken some of the attendants; but laughing at
my idle fears; as [ then termed them, 1 resumed my duty,
Passing along I became aware of an uncommon noise in
one of the celis in witich a new patient had been confined. ~
I walked along and looked through the grates, but saw
nothing out of the way, and was about passing along
when ab agonized groan passed from the lips of the man.
on the straw in the corner—he was one of the worst
patients, and we could not vive him a bed to sleep on as
he would tear it into pieces—I immediately unlocked the
door, and passed into his cell. I approached him, leaving
my Keys in the lock. As I stooped over him to see what
was the matter, he sprang to his feet, and before 1 knew
what he was about, planted a stunning blow in my face,
which sent me reeling into the farther corner. The same
time that he struck, he sprang past me through the door,
and before I could prevent him had closed and locked it,
making me a prisoner. Then picking up my lantern,
which I had set on the floor outside, he held it up and
glared at me with his terrible blood-shot eyes, and mut-
tered: 2

“oT know where they put the big carving knife, and
now that Ihave got the keys, I will get it, and death
shall be your portion.’ ”

“Saying this he started off, leaving mein thedark., He
was a large and powerful man, weighing nearly fifty
pounds more than [ did, and in his present state a match
for two likeme. In vain [tried to think of some way of
escape, there was none. The window was strongly grated,
the door, a dozen men like me could not move, I thought
of my dear wife and darling innocent babe, and tears
would come in my eyes in spite of alll could do. What
would she say when I was borne a ghastly, bleeding
corpse to the house. Sometimes 1 would try to hope he
would forget. me, and not come back, but reason told me
better. I tried to pray, but instead of having my mind
on what I said, 1 was continually listening for his re-
turning footsteps. At last they came, nearer and nearer
and as he came in sight,I noticed he carried. a long carv
ing-knife in his hand. As he approached the ‘cell, he ac-
cidentally dropped the lamp, leaving usin darkness. A
faint ray of hope pierced my mind. Could I not dodge
out as he unlocked the door? Nearer and nearer he
came, and at last stopped atthe door.. I could hear him
groping for the keyhole. At last I heard him insert the
key and turn it. Drawing in.a long breath, I_nerved my-
self for the encounter, and as the door opened, I made a
spring at him, and, Providence favoring me, caught him
by the collar. Putting forth one desperate eifort, I
twitched him, and tripping him at the same time, sent
him to the further side of the room. limmediately sprang
out and was locking the door, when he rushed to it, but
finding it locked, reached through the grates and with
his knife struck me across the hand, while I was remov-
ing the key. As he went to draw back his hand, I seized
it by the wrist. and catching hold of the knife with my
wounded hand, wrenched it from him. The next day 1
left the asylum for good, and have never been inside
of one since. We bought this farm, and have lived here
ever since; and now friend you can judge, whether I can
ever look back to that night withont a feeling of horror.’

a
ka California has 40,534 orange trees, 7,851 lemon

 

trees, 25,655 fig trees, 29,000 olive, 41,815-almond, and 39,-
483 English walnut trees.