Haat ee

*185Q00W |

 

 

 

 

FRANCIS S, STREET,
FRANCIS S. SMITH,

 

a

 

\ Proprietors,

Soa

 

ENTERED ACCORDING TO ACT OF CONGRESS IN THE YEAR 1871 BY SYREET & SMITH IN THE OFFICE OF YHE LIBRARIAN DF CONGRESS WASHINGTON, D. C

 

 

 

Three Dollars Per Year.
LERUS i Puvo Conies Five Dotlers.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Romance of the Indian War of 1638.

White Lightning;

OR, THE

SCOUTS OF CONNECTICUT.

By WILLIAM A. SINCLAIR,
AUTHOR OF “GRAY-HAWK, THE UALF-BREED,” ETc.

{White Lightning’ was commenced in No, 18. Back num-
bers can be obtained from any News agent in the United States.]

CHAPTER V.—(Continued.)

Parental tenderness and fondness for their children, we
are told by history, were ever pre-eminent traits in the
character of the New Emgiand tribes. Especially were
such feelings marked in that of Mononotto, in many other
respects one ot the fiercest of the Pequots. Sassacus had
no children, though several wives, and Mononotto, of the
blood-royal of the tribe, and second sachem, was next
heir to the Grand Sachem, and after him, this child of ten
years, whom the desperate white man, battling like a
wounded tiger against a host of foes, now heid up as a
living shield.

“No harm Me-un-wey-han !? shouted Mononotto, the
instant Bascomb grasped the infant warrior, and throw-
ing down nis club.

Me-un-wey-han, in the Pequot tongue, literally translat-
ed into English, means *“Sun-and-Mvon,’’? and sach was
the name the Pequot sachem had given to his adored son,
to express his boundless all-in-all affection and hope for
the boy, whom he hoped was some day to be like Sassa-
cus, Grand Sachem of his warlike race.

“No hurt child of Mononetto !? repeated the chief, more
terrified than tf a thousand tortares were at his vitals.

“No hurt Sun-and-Moon !” cried all the savages, imutat-
ing their chief, and casting down their weapons, and
lialting abruptly.

Nor was it strange that they did so for what to the read-
er may seemso trivial acause. Their pow-wows and
Paniese* had foretold that were Sun-and-Moon to be
harmed in his first battle the tribe would soon be de-
stroyed; but that were he to be present at the first great
attack upon the whites, and escape without a wound, for-

 

*The counselors of the Indian kingsin New England were
termed The Panicse. These were not only the wisest, but the
largest and bravest men to be found among their subjects. They
were the immediate guard of their respective sachems, who
made neither war nor peace, nor attempted any weigoty affair,
without their advice. In war and allgreat enterorises, dan-
gers and sufferings, these evinced a boldness and firmness of
mind exceeding all other warriors. To preserve this order
among the Indians, great pains were taken. The stoutest and
most promising boys were chosen and trained up with peculiar
care inthe observation of certain Indian ritesand customs.
They were kept from all delicious meats, trained to coarse fare,
and made to drink the juice of bitter herbs until it cansed vio-
jent vomiting. They were beaten over the legs and snins with
sticks, and made to run through brambles and thickets naked,
to make them hardy; and, as the Indians said, to render them
More acceptable to Hobbamocko. These Paniese, or Ministers
of State, were in league with the priests, or pow-wows. To keep
the people in awe, they pretended, as well asthe priests, to have
converse with the invisible world, and that Hobbamocko often
appeared to them.

Among the New England Indians, the crown was hereditary,
always descending to the eldest son. When there was no male
issue, the crown descended to the female. Sassacus had no
children. Mononotto was his half-brother. The blood-royal
was held in such extreme veneration that no one was considered
an heir to the crown but such as were royally descended on both
sides. There were many petty sachems, tributary to great sa-
chems like Sassacus, The sannups were the yeomen and com-
mon warriors of the tribes.

{The Paniese are men of great courage and wisedome, and to
these alse the thé devil ajfpeareth more familiarly than to
others, as We Conceive, miketh covenant with them to pre-
serve them from death by wounds."— Winslow's Relations.)

 

 

 

 

tune would grant.the Pequots, under the future reign of
young Me-un-wey-han, the undisputed sovereignty of all
the Algonquin race, including even the fearea Mohawks
ofthe Northwest, and the utter extermination. of the
whites, both English and Duteh.

In the confusion caused dy the furious and prolonged
struggle of Eli Baseomb, the boy liad been separated
from the body-guard of sannups appointed to shield him
from all harm, and so chanced to be in reach of the des-
perate settler.

“Ha ! cried Bascomb, halting and still holding tne boy
over his head. ‘Have I the son of bloody-minded Meno-
notte in my hand? Ay, even him that Totomet said was
to be some day Grand Sachem cf your accursed tribe !
Have I your Sun-and-Moon in my grasp?’ he added, with
a grim smile, as he held the urchin aloft and glared defi-
antly into the faces of his many foes. “Halt! If any
painted devil of you stira hand or foot, I will dash the
young serpent’s head upon this stone.’

“No harc Me-un-wey-han ! again cried Mononotto, in
his broken Eagiish. “Bascomb a great warrior—he no
kill pappoose.”?

“He is no pappoose,” replied Bascomb. ‘eis 2ayonng
chief. You are going to kill me. I will Kill him firs.

So saying, he began to swing the boy around as Ifabout
to dash him against a great stone near him.

A houd cry of horror burst from the superstitious war-
riors, They believed the fate of their tribe depended upon
the welfare of the endangered boy.

“Kuglisman po hurt Me-un-wey-han, Indian no hurt
F Ascomall! cried Mononotto, with upraised and open
hands,

Perceiving the great advantge he had gained, Bascomb
placed the boy under his left arm, and said:

“Have you slain all who were with me? By the Lord of
Gideon, if you bave not spared Betsy Griswold, whom I
tried to save, and who is my mother’s daughter, even my
oem I will cut the throat of this woll’s whelp if L die for

‘“‘Are the white squaws dead ?”? demanded Mononotto of
his followers,

“The scalp of one is here,’ replied a Pequot of great
stature, Weose name and fate are recorded in history, for
he was beheaded in New Haven in 1639 for his slaughter
of the whit-s, “The scalp of the otner would be here
too,” continued this chief, as he struck his hand upon his
belt, “but for the wife of Nepaupuck, who had asked hin
to bring her a white sqnaw to gather her wood,’?

It was the famous Pequot chief, Nepaupuck himself
that spoke. And having spoken this in his own tongue,
he made a gesture to his immediate sannups.

Bascomb, who knew very little of the Pequot tongue,
felt a pang of horror and remorse as he saw the tall sav-
age strike the reeking scalp that dangled in his belt of
wampum. The long hair, dark and glossy, he knew was
the hair of a woman, and his sister’s hair was Hke the
blood-stained locks before his eyes.

He knew that his own life depended upon his treatment
of the unresisting and territied urchin he held fiercely
clutehed under his arm, yet he was so wrought upon by
remorse for the pride and jealousy to which he ha@ given
way.in not heeding the warning of Captain Agrané, that
he was ready to throw away lis life rather than escape to
face Robert Griswold, the husband of his sister, if that
sister were dead because of his pride.

“If a redskin tries to get between me and yonder road,”?
he said, flercely, and raising the gun as if about to strike,
‘} wiil beat the boy’s skull to bits,?? a

“Warriors go no there,’ replied Mononotto, quickly.
“Gone to get white squaw. One notdead. What if squaw
be Bascomb sister ?”?

“Then Baseomb will make terms to free this boy un-
hurt,” said the Puritan, whose smarting wounds seemed
to give him no pain, so boldly did he confront his enemies,
with a score of their jagged arrows of flint bristling from
his buckskin shirt which was wet with his blood.

“What terms Bascomb have?’ asked Mononotto.

“First, no motestatioh on my return to the village.”

“Indian give that? ,

‘Second, my sister to go with me if she can walk,”

 

 

 

a

ee ee Li
Eg PLE

ge
Wee

Z
gee
f

Zo ti

See
gy
Zs

Zee

OTe
Yi

MZ
Ln
Wz;

oe
IE:
ee
ego)

Reese ene
cage

The next instant the great head of the

“Indian give that,?? said Mononotto, eager to receive
his son unharmed.

“Third, my sister to be carried by some of you if she
is badly hurt, or ifshe is dead.”

“She ne dead,” replied Mononotto, after a word with
Nepavupuck, to whom the mame and persons of all the
Wethersfield settlers were known. ‘‘Mononotto grant all
white man ask. Now white man let Me-un-wey-han go.”

“No,’? repHed the wary Puritan, “I keep the boy till
allis safe. Andi make another condition,” he added,
thinking of the misery his pride and jealousy had caused,
and desiring to do all he could to redeem his fault. “The
boy dies by my hana if you fai] to see me and Betsy Gris-
wold safe inte the palisades, with the four horses and the
oxen, and all that you have taken alive here, and the
bodies of the dead of my people. Then will I give up to
you your son unhurt, if. a

“And here he paused. ‘

‘White man say if!) cried Mononotto, not liking this
pause. ‘Mononotto, no like any if.’

“If Mononotto will withdraw from all attack upon
Wethersfield, taking all his warriors with him, and make
no war upon the English for five years—the boy to remain
in Wethersfield or Saybrook fort all that time as a
hostage.’

A demand so great caused the blood of the haughty
chief to boil with rage, and his eyes flashed fiercely as he
glared at the Puritan.

“Decide!” cried Bascomb, again threatening the life of
his captive.

‘Hal’? whispered Nepaupuck to Mononotto. ‘Say yes to
the white man. Before the sun rises twice we will have
Me-un-wey-han back. The young chief is very cunning,
and he will escape.”

And knowing that Bascomb would not understand him,
he spoke in Pequot to the boy.

The young chief, replying in the same tongue, said:

“Sun-and-moon has eyes like the mole. He will dig out.
Hisears are keen, Heis @ fox, arat, a snake, a bird, a
fish. He is not afraid. He will get away from Py-
quag-——__

“Hold your jabber, you young heathent’? cried Bas-
comb, giving the boy a painful squeeze. “I}l have no
imp like you plotting z

“Red man say yes to all white man ask!” exclaimed

A tr iaeacgtes in alarm at the savage gesture of the Pur-
an.

“Then say not another word in your Satan’s lingo, or I

 

brain himt?

 

7 =
a ine Nero

=P

“No hurt son of Mononotto!” roared that warrior. ‘‘Sis-
ter of Bascomb not bad hort. Warriors take her all right
—red man do everything Bascomb say.’’

And having said this, the chief began to give rapid or-
ders to those near him.

CHAPTER VI.
THE PERIL OF THE SISTERS.

While Captain Archibald Agrané was speeding on his
purpose to alarm the village, and to learn if she whom
he loved was there, two beautiful maidens, totally un-
suspicious of danger, were rambling through a long
stretch of woods two miles from the settlement, along a
narrow and winding path not Many rods from the west
bank of the river.

This path led toa tog hut, erected two years before by
the first attempters of a settlement in that vicinity. The
site and hut had afterward been abandoned by those who
first selected the place, but of late had been occupieé by
an old and partially demented woman, named Mrs. Beerd-
lee, though generally called by the settlers ‘Wild Martha.??
She had appeared at Wethersfield a few weeks before we
see the two maidens, Rosalie and Clarina Swain, on their
way to the hut.

She was a stranger to all in the village, but the sisters
remembered that they had seen her in Boston when they
tarried there after their arrival from England, whence
their father, Abraham Swain, had emigrated in 1635.

A few days after her arrival in Wethersfield this wo-
man, whose mind seemed as unsteady as that of a child,
and who yet, in many respects, was of a very obstinate
character, rejected the shelter of the homes proffered to
her as an unfortunate stranger by many of the charitable
settlers, and selected for her abode the deserted hut in
what was then called the Maple Grove.

It was her custom, after she had thus withdrawn her-
self from intimacy with the settlement, to visit the village
once a week, to procure such necessaries of life as her
simple wants seemed to demand. These visits were al-
ways made on the fast day of the week; nor until of late
had a week passed, since she had settled at the hat, that
had not seen her tall, gaunt form and gray head, with its
mass of long, disheveled hair, moving about the village,
as she procured here and there a few articles of food she
needed.

There were many of the settlers who refused to believe
that Martha Beerd!ce—which she had satd was her name

—Wwas crazy. It was not believed by any that her mental’

 

ee RETR soe

LE

See
Ge

fs

r AL
CIS Gs

\

\
\
S39
S

~

dwarf, with its shock ef grass-green bair and its horrible face, peered in.

condition was perfect, yet there were many who said she
had much more sense than others imagined. . Still, as if
by common consent, the settlers had given her the name
of ‘Wild Martha.”)

Her ever-present vacant smile, her harsh and homely
Jeatares, ever in grotesque and rapid motion from some
affection of the muscies of the face, her incoherent mode
Of speech, her apparent inability te give any account of
herself, or why she was in America, her strange desire to
live the life of a hermitess in an olé hut whem comforta-
ble shelter and care were offered to her by the charitable
settlers, and her manner of wearing her hair streaming
wildly over her face, and several other peculiarities, cer-
tainly gave cause fer the tithe by which all spoke of her.

Two weeks had passed sinee this woman had been seen
in the village, and the purpose that had led Rosalie and
her sister forth on this fatal day, was'to see if she were
dH, and perhaps no little curiesity to see her place of
abode, or rather in what manner she lived, for they had
been to the spot before Wild Martha dwelt in it,

They had no doubt they could visit the strance woman,
and return in time to meet Capt. Archibald, as had been
agreed upon when he rode forth in the morning,

They were both girls of remarkable, though of different
styles of beauty; twins, apparently seventeen or eighteen
years of age, and with many features of close resemblance.
Rosalie, however, seemed to be the elder, and was taller,
and of @ more stately mien than her sister; and though
both had dark eyes, those of Resalie were as black ag jet,
and compared with her sister’s, seemed as daring and
self-reliant as those of a courageous man, They were’
clad in the simple, coarse garb common among the
maidens of the village, and yet each was gifted by nature
with a beauty and grace of form and movement that
would atagiance have made these twe remarkable
among a multitude of the fairest of their age, no niatter
what might be the garb of those around them.

The hair of each was a crown of beauty, and felling
wealth of glossy heavy curls from brows broad, high,
and a8 spotiess as new-fallen snow. But the curis of
Rosalie, like the color of her glorious eyes, were as black
as the ‘fash-buds of spring,” while those of Clarina were
of the dark bright brown hue of the ripe chestnut, as Was
the color of her soft and melting eyes.

The day was singulariy genial and beautifal, and.all
nature around them was fresh and radiant with ap-earty
spring, but there was naugit there so fair and jovely as
these two pure and angelic-hearted girls in their-charm-
ing wealth of heakh, beauty and virtue.

 

 

 

 

 
 

SMD RS MA

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

mS Ee oy

 

 

2

 

 

 

t

 

 

 

 

They each carried a small basket filled with food and
such dainties a8 their village home afforded, intended as
a gift to the strange and unfortunate being of whom they
knew nothing except that she was an old and mentally
afflicted woman, aud of whom they feared thatshe might
be too ill to leave her lonely abode.

“We are not far from the hut now, Clarina,’ was the
first of their conversation which we quote, said Rosalie,
as they drew near to @ large rock, which, jutting over

fi view. ~ ,
ou know. 5
d€ Clarge rock, which We named:
Castle Dangerous, because we had a fall in climbing over
it, J hope we shall find poor old Mrs. Beerdlee not so ill
as we feared.” Wide ee

“Tp is strange she hag not visited the village for so long’:

   
 
  

  

 

 

 

a time,’? continued Rosalie, in agrave tone, as they |

moved ouward with their arms encircling each other's
waist. And it was in this loving and mutual embrace
that these two fair and glorious beings mearly always
moved when they waiked together; and seldom was one
Seen. when the other was not near. ‘And is it not strange,
too, as we have said to each other a hundred times, that
this mysterious old woman, of whom no one knows any-
thing, and who seems to know nothing cf herself, has
been seen by us before she came to Wethersfield, at Water-
town, where we remained but a few months; at Boston,
where we remained but a few weeks; at Southampton,
in England, where we remained but a few days; at Win-
chester, where we lived a year before we went to embark
at Southampton for this wild country; and at Reading,
in Berks, where we were born ?”!

“75 may be mere chance, Rosalie, and yet it does seem
very Strange."

“Tt is, indeed,” said Rosalie, emphatically; ‘‘as if we
Were to be taunted by the mysterious old woman all our

_ lives, no matter where we may go.’’

“Yet she has never seemed to look at us as if she had
ever seen us before. You know she has never made any
reply except to shake her head, and say, ‘Martha Beerd-
lee never saw you before she came fo Wethersfield,’ when

' we have spoken of having seen her. But then she is weak

in mind, and has no power of eas left, perhaps. We
never were near enough to her tospeak to her until she
came to the village, a few weeks ago, all alone, they say,
from Boston, through the wilderness and snow. Whata
tramp she must have had! No one but a crazy person or
an Indian would dare do such a thing.”

“Yes, that good man, Roger Williams, who visited us
last month, journeyed in the winter of last year, alone,
through the bleak wilderness, from Boston. to the place he
called Mount Hope. Butthen heisa man, and had rea-
son to doso. But why does this old woman, whom we
cannot but pity, haunt us?” :

“Ip is only accident, perhaps,’’ said Clarina. “She ap-
pears never to notice us more than she does the other
maidens.” :

“J think she does. “Her awful eyes, which she ever
keeps rolling and darting glances everywhere in a va-
cant way, were fixed very keenly upon us yonder in
Watertown, and in Boston, and in Southampton, as if to
make sure she had found and recognized some one she

- had. seen before, and, indeed, had been hunting for,”?

“Hunting for us???

“At least that was the impression made at the moment
upon my mind,’? replied Rosalie; ‘al the moment my
eyes met hers—she staring at measif to make sure I
was, and you were, the same she had stared atin the
same way the first and only time we ever saw her in
Reading, years and years ago, and as she did at the other
places since. Lintended to speak with Archibald about
it. You know she was not here when he first came from
Jamestown.’?

“Very true. We must persuade him to come and see
Mrs. Beerdlee, though ! do not see that it will do any good,
for the old creature is very shy and silent when any one
asks her a question. I do not know that weare not doing
@ very venturesome thing, Rosalie, in coming to see her
alone. Beside, Archibald warned us not to be bold in
leaving the village, as the Pequots, he said, have been
hostile all the winter. How he loves you, Rosalie, and
how you are blushing.”

“He cannot love me more than Iiove him, sister,’ re-
plied Rosalie, promptly, though her fair face was charm-
ingly flushed as slie spoke. “And is there no one who
loves this sly little sister of mine, and who is ardently
Joved by her—eh?” added Rosalie, with a playful pinch
of her sister’s cheek with the hand of the soft arm that
encircled her. ‘Oh, isn’t William Haydon a name alto-
gether lovely?" :

And here Rosalie, enjoying the blushes and confusion
of her lovely sister, laughed merrily, until the woods and
rocks around were joyous with the silvery sounds.

The sisters had passed the jutting rock by this time, and
the hut of the crazy hermitess was in plain view at the
distance of quarter of a mile, the path being straight and
open from the rock to the hut, through an immense grove
of maple trees. But instead of climbing over the rock,
they had passed arouni it, and were some ten paces from
it when. the laughter of Rosalie filled the air.

Had they climbed up and over the rock, which was
some twenty feet in hight, quite steep and flat on the top,
they would have come upon the crouching form of Mash-
wit, the dwarf of the Haunted Mountain.

He was there as they approached the rock, and had
glared down at them with eyes that gleamed with demo-
niac joy as they passed around If at its base.

Had they looked up as they made the circuit, they would
not have seen him, for he was lying flat upon his breast,
his head and face hidden by a dense tuft of grass and
fern through which his glances were darted, his short legs
drawn up under him, and the elbows of his long arms
reaching above his back as his large hands were spread
out flat upon the rock on either side of his high shoulders.

The dwarf iny thus as the sisters passed below him, in
the extraordinary posture he always assumed when about
to make one of those enormous frog-like leaps for which
he was famous. :

 

 

Hie had not expected to have the good fortune to en-
counter the sisters alone in the wood, and so far from the

vulage. He was on his way to be near the settlement
when the intended attack should be made, to watch for
a chance to capture them, for h d the promise
of Ahama at. Machemoodus, ' ne of them
for a wife, Mashwit, if we Mee
‘was now in the vicinity |
schemes of his mistress, a)
come into the view: of the!
of their approaching voice
might be coming would p
stead of climbing over it, bi
ground, and waited. —
‘Po his jo €

       
 
 
 
 
  
  
   
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
  
    

 

d recognized the beauti-

 
 
   
     

     

Ao. ow | of
ing, Rosalie, in coming to see
hat the “her? meant the old
eserted hut, 4

{they would fiud there. Had he
bove remark of Clarina, he wopld
powerful, ungainly yet active body
anging tock, with one of his terrible leaps,
etween the unsuspecting sisters witha

a on the forms of each that would

have dragged the: ‘the earth, where he would have
pound them ere either could have recovered from her
surprise, or the sudden swoon. of terror into which no
doubt so terrible an attack would have thrown them on

  
   

grasp of each |

 

theinstant. Misa ean

There was a moment when the intended leap could
have been made successfully, for Mashwit knew his pow-
ery and had fixed upon the spot over which the sisters
were to pass, and over which they really did pass.

But just before passing over it, and even while the
crouching dwarf was hardening the tough muscles and
sinews of his agile limbs to prepare for the leap down-
ward, Clarina’s words told him whither they were going,
and he remained motionless as the rock he was upon.

“Alone, and going to see her!’’ muttered Mashwit.
“10! Rosalie for me! Rosalie shall be mine!"

And the next instant it was that the place resounded
melodiously with the sweet and silvery laughter of. the
peautiful Rosalie at the conscious blushes of her lovely
sister, and the two passed on teward the hut, in innocent
and gay conversation upon their lovers.

“Hol? thought Mashwit, raising his green-haired head
for’an instant, and glaring after them. ‘I might laugh
too, I think. Iwill, by-and-by; my laugh will be a roar.
St. Jago! how like a queenof beauty she moves! How
her tall and graceful figure sways and bends likea reed
in the breeze, asshe stoops a little to aid the other one
over that fallen tree! Hyes like stars—I wish she had
looked up but for an instant as she passed, that 1 might
have felt the fire of those splendid eyes melting my heart
vatil my veins had danced with blood of life softened to
plood of love. But I have seen those eyes—gazing at me
in pity and horror. Hol the pity that was in them made
me love her, and the horror that was in them made me.
hate her. No, ‘twas that faultless glory of beauty that
made me love her—that face of a queen with the beauty of
the angels! Ho! Rosalie for me, though the other one is
beautiful toe. Why not both—hal why not both? These
red rascals of Indians have aS many wives as they like—
why not Mashwit? Hat why mot?! muttered the dwarf,
rising to his knees, rubbing his great hands briskly and
wistfully togetier, and glaring after the maidens. ‘Why
does ANama hate them, or wish to have them in her pow-
er? That mystery hurts my rest. But she shall not harm

 

 

. Rosalie—glorious Rosalie!’

And with a spring he launched himself into the air,
coming down upon a heap of dead leaves near a great
fallen branch of atree, with no more noise than would
have been made by a leaping panther, and then from be-
tween the forks of the broken branch glaring again after
the sisters, : ; f

They had heard the sound he made, and turned their
lovely faces quickly toward the rock, wondering what had
caused the noise, and Clarina nota little startled. They
did not see the dwarf, and he knew very well they could
not, because of twigs and boughs in the way, with masses
of dead leaves atill clinging to them. es

“A dead branch of some tree fell, no doubt,”’ remarked
Rosalie, aftera moment's pause. “You are too easily
startied, Clarina.’? ; j

“On, 1 thought it might be the rush of some savage
after us.”

“Have we not always heard that the savages never give
warning of their coming,’’ replied the more courageous
Rosalie, “but creep upon their intended victim like the
cowardly beasts they are? Aud Totomet, the Indian, told
us the other day only the Pequots were hostile to the set-
tlers, and they only to the people at Saybrook.”

41 did not like Totomet,”’ said Clarina, who was tremb-
ling—anud indeed the poor girl, far less: daring than her
darker-cyed sister, had been exceedingly nervous ever
sipce they nad-left the village. “Archibald and William

   

Lowe turn |.

 

of Rosalie and Clarina |
! oe at

|} the door of the hut. &. ;
‘| She struck the door smartly with the so
‘little fist, making it rattle and shake on its hinges, heavy |

“minutes since he had been within |,

both, you know, told us they feared the Wampanoag was
aspy. Art sure, dear Rosalie, that the noise’ was not a
beast—a panther, or a bear, or some of the dreadful ani-
mals we have heard are in this country?”

“Bears and panthers there are in America, no doubt,”
replied Rosalie; “but none have been seen within many
miles of Wethersfield since the settlement began to fill
up. Don’t tremble so, dear Clarina. See, weare.only a
few paces from the hut.?’ a Se
“And how stilleverything is around it—and the door is
closed—and no smoke rises from its chimney,” said the
timid Clarina, clinging more closely to her sister.

 

Eh! » GHAPTER VIP
THEY GO INTO THE HUT.

The hut of “Wild Martha,” near which the sisters stood,
Was a Small, square structure of logs. The rude building
was about twelve or fifteen feet square, and to the eaves
not ten feet high. The roof was pointed, and made of
slender trees laid Closely together, the whole vovered with
several layers of bark, which thus sheltered the single
room beneath. There was but one door, of heavy plank,
rough-hewn and held together by two transverse planks
nailed across them on the inner side, the door when
opened swinging outward. Nor-was there more than one
window, small and square, cut through the thick logs on
the side Opposite the door. t

A great, square and unshapely chimney of stone, the
cracks filled with clay, was built np against one end of the
hut, and within the hut ended in a large fireplace almost
as wide and high as the room itself.

The ground before the door showed that the lonely ten-
ant of the place if not then within the hut, had not long
been away, as afew of her tattered garments were spread
as ifto dry, upon tne Jow bushes near, and ata spring
which welled from a rock near the hut, was a bench, upon
which was a tub, and near the bench a fire with a pot
upon if.

But the Spring, the bench and the fire were behind the
se that Clarina, did not perceive them when she
spoke. s

“She may be behind the hu,’ said Rosalie. ‘Let us go
peed and see. Oh, why do you tremble so, dear sis-

err

“IT do not know,’ replied Clarina, in a whispering
voice. ‘I feel chilly with fear ofsome great danger.”

‘Indeed, there is no danger to be feared from an old
woman like Mrs. Beerdlee,’”’? said Rosalie, as they passed
around tothe rear of the hut.

As their forms disappeared from his sight the lurking
dwarf sprung upon his hands and feet, in which posture
he resembled @ beast.far more than he did @ man, and
ranon allfours like @ bear toward the hut, until be
reached a great tree nof ten paces from the closed door.

There he crouched behind the trunk of the tree, with
the patience, cunning, and vigilance of a cat waiting for
a chance to spring upon two unsuspecting mice.

The sisters passed clear around the hut, without seeing
anything of Wild Martha, and came on around to the
front again.

“She cannot be far away,” said Rosalie, ‘for she has
been washing at the bench not long.since, and the brands
on the fire are not half consumed,’? :

Just then a deep groan within the hut, and Clarina
grasped her sister’s waist in increased terror, saying,
With lips that had become white in an instant:

“Oh, did you hear that?”

“A groan? Yes. Iam afraid the poor old woman has.
taken ill while washing.’

And aS she spoke Rosalie made a step toward the door.

“No! nol’? almost screamed the timid Clarina, holding
her sister back. “Do not go in.”

“And why not?” exclaimed Rogalie, insurprise. “Why
what acoward you are, Clarina. There; you heard an-
other groan?’

“Yes; 1 heard it. But don’t, oh, Rosalie, don’t go in.
Something tells me we ought to run away irom this
place,” replied Clarina, shuddering. “Oh, I wish we had
not come, or that we had asked William to come with us,
or that we had waited until Archibald returned from his
scouting. Let us go back.”

“But, think,’? pleaded Rosalie, willing to pacify her be-
loved sister by yielding, and yet eager to aid the misera-
ble old woman, if aid she wanted; “‘the poor old woman
roe pe in great suffering. The aged are often sudden-
y i. ;

“Oh, help me, good péople, whoever you may be,”
groaned a female voice in the hut. ‘

“There; she calls for help,” said Rosalie, almost angry
with her sister. ‘*Come—why do you hold back???

“Sister,*?: whispered Clarina, whose face was now as
pale as the petal of a white rose, and whose eyes, dilated
with terror, were now directed toward the large tree be-
hind which the dwarf was hidden. ‘Artsure those words
were spoken in the hut?’! ;

“Am I sure those words were spoken in the hut?’ ex-
claimed the amazed Rosalie, in aloud, clear voice of won-
der, aS she paused to stare at her sister. ‘Good Heaven!
where else could they Nave been spoken?! :

“Behind that tree! Behind that tree!’ whispered the
trembling Clarina, as she pointed with one pale hand at
the covert of the dwarf, and clung to her sister with the
other. “It sounded tome as if the words were spoken
from that tree, or behind it.” : 2

“Again the words echoed with the merry, silvery laugh
of Rosalie Swain, and she made itloud and ringing to
soothe the fears of her timid sister,aad repeated. the
words she had just whispered, mockingly:

«Behind that tree. It sounded tome asif the words
were spoken from that tree, or behind it.’ Oh, Clarina,
when heard we that trees could speak? Itis only in
es ee ‘they tellusthat. Come; do not beso ab-
surd, Seis :

' Mashwit, cunning devil, squatted behind the great tree-
trunk,:-heard and understood the struggle that was going
on between mysteriously arous fear and charitable
boldness, and muttered so t hick Ethiop-like lips”
quivered with his unspokenrage. Eee oN

“Now should I rush out and strangle the rabbit-heart-
ed wench for the keenness of her ears and shyness of her
soul. But while I strangle her. the other may get away,
and I know Rosalie—glori R —has the fleetness

ah e wil ound. l’ve seen her

he Wampanoag, and

   
 

    

  
  
  
  

 

    
   
     
     
  
   
     
  
   

  

 

 

[ im 1 Tot cover ground like
adeer. «4 i tout nov e Rosalie, the other
| may gota for. Clarina ¢ ke the wind, even.
faster than Rosalie, and Ali me capture both,

‘or never should I have for a wife one.
_ “Do you stay here, then, Clari

Rosalie, in her clear and calmeéstt
that. her sister’s fears might be pu
_ No, nol. If you will goin, I wi
salie,’”’ replied Clarina. | BRR a Oe, lO
» “Then come on, and: have no fear that the free will walk

, While I go in,” said
and laughing, too,

    
   

to flight.

ing to you, dear Ro-

|in after us,’ laughed brave Rosalie, as she advanced to

 

side of her:
as it:-was, and called outin ad cheery voice: dik

“Art there, Mistress -Beerdiee?  Art.ill? May we open
thy door, good woman? We are’ Rosalie and Clarina
Swain, of Wethersfield, and we are come from the vil-
lage, not having seen thee there for two weeks. May we
open the door??? Beg HOES gS Sta <3) 7g ths
To this was no reply, except a groan as from within...
. “Poor woman! she is indeed too, ill to speak,’ said Ro-
salie, and laying her hand upon the rude door-handle,
which was simply abroad, short strap of leather nailed
at.each end to the wood.

“Onl? said'Clarina. <‘‘Are you going to open it.”

“Of course. The. groan did not Come from the tree,
did “it, dear??? replied Rosalie, pulling the heavy door

wide open, so that it swung clear back upon its hinges on
the outside; and remained open.

At oneend of the interior of the hut was a rude bed-
stead, formed of stakes from whicli the bark had not been
stripped, and on this was @ coarse pallet of leaves and
corn-husks, ;

Covered by tattered and disordered bedding, with a
ragged blanket over all, was something that appeared to
be a human form, and amid the darkened light of the hut
the eyes of the sisters were first fixed upon the bea.

“Poor creature!’ said Rosalie. “Sick and unable to
move! Poor creature}’? ;

She moved softly toward the bed as she spoke, with the
arm of the trembling Clarina around her waist, and un-
able tosee theface of the person she expected to see,
drew aside the blanket and then the bed-covering.

“Good Heaven!) she exclaimed the next instant.
“There is no one here!”!

Even as she uttered these words of wonder the heavy
door was closed from the outside with acrash and jar
that shook the stout logs of the hut, and ere the startled sis-
ters could spring to it, there came a second crash against
qe closed door, and a dull thump upon the ground near

t.
Mashwit, seizing the opportunity, had rushed from his
covert, closed the door, lifted a great stone that was near
and cast it down upon the ground, so that its weight held
the door closed against all force that those within might
be able to use. 5 ;

The terrified Clarina sank ina swoon the instant her
hands encountered the firm immovable resistance to her
person as she and Rosalie sprang against it to force it
open.

The terrified girl, her timid nerves already greatly task-
ed by the many fears that had been mysteriously oppress-
ing her, exclaimed ere she swooned:

“Oh Heaven! we are in the hands of the savages!’

Rosalie, of more resolate nature, flew toa heavy stool,
that formed nearly half of all the rude furniture of the
hut, dragged it across the earthen floor, and placed it un-
der the single small window, intending to mount upon it
to look out, for the opening was too high from the floor
to permit her to look forth easily without something to
stand upon. a

But even asshe was raising her foot to’stand upon the
stool, she heard a clambering noise on the outside, under
the window, and the next instant the great head of the
dwarf, with itsshock of grass-green hair and its horrible
face, was thrustin. i ’ :

“Oh, my Heaven!’ cried Rosalie, recoiling, for. the light
of the sun piercing through a crevice in the roof of bark,
beamed across and through the otherwise dark room, and
shone fair upon this terrific face which she had seen but
once before, but which had often glared at her when she
knew not that any one was near.

The hideous dwarf of .Machemoodus had been within
the village but once since the arrival of Abraham Swain
and his daughters; but he had often been near it, and
had spied much abontit, and had in ambush of wood or
fleid glared at the ripe beauty of the maiden as. she stroil-
ed at times, with the powerful protection and presence of
Captain Archibald near her. Once, within the palisade
which encircled the fort, Rosalie had seen the dwarfas he
performed some of his feats of Jeapinug to gain. the favor
of the settlers while he spied about, and she had cast a

 

port. Ithad chanced that Captain Archibald had enf

carried her to the squalid bed of Wild Martha, and placed

open and crossing.the threshold, bat pushing the door |

 

 

@

a

 

 

 

glance of mingled pity and horror upon the hideous, gro-
tesque face and monstrous form—a glance that Mashwit
had not forgotten. But having cast that glance from her
glorious eyes the stately beauty had passed on, little sus-
pecting that the foul-faced thing she had seen but for an
instant. had in that instant recognized her and the fair

girl Who was with her, asthe two maidens whom Ahama,

‘the Green Witch of the White Cavern, had sent him to

    
  

find, if he could, in Wethersfield.
The elders of the settlement, grave and austere men,
had not liked the looks and imp-like antics of the myster-
ious dwarf, whom they verily believed mus!
in league with the powers of darkness, S0.
malign of visage and shape was he, and had en h
from the Village in haste, and warned himof fire and
fagot if ever they should see him there again., =
But the dwar?, infatuated by the beauty of Rosalie, had
lurked for days in the woods near the place, his mis

Ahama, at Machemoodus impatient for his return and te-
ered

the village the day after the expulsion of the dwarf, and

f s

dwarl, ang
when the latter again saw Rosalie she was with the tall

 

   

 

fand formidable-looking stranger from Jamestown, and

the dwarf, enamored almost to madness though he was,
had not dared. place himself in her way while she was
thus powerfully guarded. :

Rosalie, therefore, at first glance of surprise and terror,
did not recognize the hideous face as it glared down
upon her from the window of the hut; but believing it to
be the horridly painted face of some fierce savage of the
woods, recoiled to the other side of the room, exclaiming:

“Oh, my Heaven! God.aid us!”

“Hot hol!’ croaked Mashwit, as he grinned, and lolled

one his long, red tongue. “1 have caught my bird of
Aden |?
. “Oh Heaven!’? thought Rosalie, a3 her eyes, fascinated
by horror and fear, stared at the terrible face. “Itis the
fearful creature they drove from the village a few weeks
ago. They called him ‘The Toad,’ and Totamet said he
was the servant of some dreadful being who lives on the
Haunted Mountain the Indians ‘call Machemoodus—a
woman rumor says is a witch—the Green Witch of the
White Cavernt”

A settler named Leonard Chester* hal once returned
to the village, after being lost in the wilderness for several
days, and had told that he had seen during his wander-
ing a woman of terribie and strange aspect on a mountain
that had groaned and trembled under histread. That he
had discovered @ strange cavern, from which he had
fled, pursued by that woman with a green face, and had
with great peril escaped with his life. Hence the report
at Wethersfield that.a witch lived on Machemoodus, and
ence the name by which report spoke of her—the Green
Witch of the White Cavern.

The mind of Rosalie Swain was bold and resolute by
nature, yet had not escaped being somewhat imbued with
the superstitions of the day, anoong which fear of witch-
craft and sorcery, and places haunted with evil spirits
were not the least.

“TI shan’t hurt thee, my pretty trembling dove,”’ croaked
the triumphant dwarf, whose great head nearly filled the
small window. And with great difficulty thrusting in one
of his long arms, he extended a huge hand toward the
shuddering maiden, and added: “Oh, Rosalie Swain!
starry-eyed Rosalie, how I love thee!”

“Oh, mercy! This monster with the green hair and Sa-
tan’s face, says lre loves me, and he has me caged like a
bird in the snare of the fowler,’”? mentally exclaimed the
terrified girl, not daring to move, for the armof the dwarf
seemed in her terror to be growing longer and longer.

But at that instant there was a distant yet fearfully dis-
tinct sound of fierce voices filling the air with savage
yells, plainly audible at the hut. :

“Ilo! does my charming bird of Eden hear that?” asked
the dwarf. “Thered devils of Mononotto and Nepaupuck
are playing havoc and scalping in the farms of Wethers-
field now., You and that pale-faced one at your feet are
very lucky.??

“And why? asked Rosalie, not knowing what.to say.

“Hol were you in the fielad—hear the war-whoops—and
that was a white woman’s scream—were you there, not a
mile hardly from this hut, your scalp would soon be drip-

ing in the belt of a Pequot, Oh, the red devils are up at
ast, and will swoop upon your English homes like hawks
on dovecotes,” roared Mashwit, as if the fact highly
pleased him... ‘‘Iiear those whoops! there is a music in
them tome, You never heard me whoop, did you? Oh,
no! I can out-yell the loudest of them all, but I won’t
just now, as some might come this way. And you are
mine—you two—captives of my bow and spear, as your
long-faced elders would have it. You are lucky, for the
Pequots, and the Podunks, and the Wangunks, and the
Pyquags, and the Pettiquags, and the Hammonassetts,
and the Mattabesetts, and who can name all of the tufted,
scalping hounds of the bands Sassacus has set in motion,
will soon have Wethersfield, and you too, had your good
luek noted you to stroll this way.??

“Then the great chief, Sassacus, has attacked the people
of Wethersfield!’ exclaimed Resalie, in increased terror,
for she thought of heraged and white-haired parents, and
of the many beloved friends she had parted from scarcely
two hours before, and of her lover also, who had ridden
forth alone that morning. 5

“Ay, hath Sassacus the grand-sachem!’? chuckled the
dwarf, “He hath not the Narragansetts with him in this
war, nor the Mohegans of the rebel Uncas, nor the ras-
cally Nipmucks of the upper rivers of the Pequot River,
nor the aid of the Mohawks. But he has a force enough
to squelch the English as @ man crushes & toadstool un-
der his heel. Five thousand warriors ang twenty-five
sachems, and hundreds of sagamores, are pledged to
great Sassacus, And what can your few hundred English,
men, women, and brats, do against Grand-Sachem Sagsa-
cus? Youarealllost! You are alllost!? ,

“Too true, too true! Heaven help us alll’? sighed Ro-
salie, ag.sne bent over her sister, just then showing signs
of returning consciousness. “Oh, Clarina, dear one!
would to Heaven that our prayers had persuaded our:
father never toleave England. Buthe would co he
would gome!? ; oe a

And raising the now hysterical Clarina in her arms, she

   

her tenderly upon it, saying:

  
 
 
 
  
  

 

. “Better the ragged bed than the
earth, my poor, darling sister. Heay
our extremity? 25 4) © tf
- And drawing the stool near to th

her-sister’s side, striving to calm. |
for Clarina had a her eyes, and t
face glaring exultation down upon her
Don’t ery, m! birdies!” et
“Yam your n che }

 
 
 
     
      
  
      
  
  

, SXou, my. Ch Ol &
varel’! replied Mashwi
and Bagi oF his hug

,and rich, and
ith @ leer of his frog-like eyes,
lubbet lips, the smack sounding
l-crack in that hut: ‘But Lil

  
   

almost a8 ‘loud as CK
come in, and talk'm: y Hees )

» So saying, his ugly visage appeared from the win-
dow, and the maidens knew he was hastening around to
enter at the door, Ae eG i

é

 

   
 

my lovely ones.”

 
 

 

-* The tradition is, that Mr. Chester, who was one of the first
settlers of Wethersfield, having some business to perform in the
south pant of the township, which was then a wilderness, be-
came lostain the woods. Being missed, his neighbors went in
search of him, making noises in the woods, and uttering lamenta-
tions: Atter a lapse of several days. his neighbors found hivyon
@ mountaiz' ix Berlin. townsbip, which has ever since been
called Mount uamentation. Mr. Chester’s tombstone still exisis
at Wethersfield. The strange device upon it, by some, has been
believed to:be a representation of some demon, which accord-
ing to the legend of the times, appeared to Mr. Chester while he
was in the wilderness.—Z/ist. Coll. Conn.
(To be Continued).

PO ——

DOESTICKS’ LETTERS.

DOESTICKS ACTS AS PILOT ON A UNION FERRY BOAT.

Thad often watched with great admiration the easy way in
which the ferry boat pilots make their living, and wished I could
get a chance to go and do likewise. They seem to take things
$0 easy—nothing tode but smoke cigars, whirl round a big cart
wheel, and jingle a littl: bell to have theservant in the base-
ment of the beat bring up more cigars and fresh hot whiskies
when the ola ones were used vp. Then there they. are, elevated
far above the heads of their fellow-men, wilh asplendid chance
to admire all the beauties of the scenery, and interchange pleas-
ant greetings with their fellow-pilots on.other boats;-and, in
truth, all things seemed tq go So pleasantly with them that T felt
a strong desire to try fa serve ny country and do ‘good to my
fellow citizens after the same fashion. ‘

I knew of course that the pig wheel made the boat go, but
then [ knew also that the engine down in the bowels of the ship
did allthe hard work, ana that what the pilot had to do was
just to keep watch thatthe big wheel had plenty of grease on
it, and to talk down through the speaking-tubes and tell the
man in the cellar how to steer her, so she wouldnt run into
anything. Iknew TI could grease that big wheel, and turn it half
round occasionally to see how the old thing worked, andcould
yell to the steerer to go right or left, or to stop, and do it just
as Well asanyone. I wasn’t quite certain as to whether I conld
smoke cigars all the time, and that point troubled me alittle. I
soon thought if it were a regniation of the company that the
pilot should have a cigar in his movth all the time he was on
duty (and no one ever yet saw a pilot on duty without a eigar),
that I probably could get used to it after.a while, and soI de-
termined to apply for the situation. f pe

I had some powerful friends in the paar and they said it
would be all right without doubt, but that Id better try it n day
or two with another pilot alongside of me toset me straight 1f I
didn’t understand exactly all about the tides and ice, and things
at the first go off. : f

Of course, § was sure I knew all about the tides, which are
those big rcd things anchored in the stream to show where the
channel is. There was, however, one thing that troubled me
somewhat, but I thought I’d find out about it on the sly and not
own up my ignorance to anyone, and that was, I had noticed
that the current of the river seemed to. change—sometimes the
water ran up and sometimes down stream—I supposed, natural-
ly, that there was some regularity about it, and that probably
the water had its regular days for going in either direction; that
it doubtlessran up on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and
down on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays; or perhaps it ran
up inthe day and down in the night, or possibly up for one
week and down for another, but was convinced that however it
might prove to.be, I could master so simple a thing as that ina
little less than no time. ‘

Well, I agreed to their proposition to ride for a day or two,
with another man to oversee me, just as a mere matter of form.

The eventful day arrived, and I climbed up into the pilot
house with O'Leary, one of the oldest pilots on the river. My
firstsurprise was when Iasked O’Leary where the cigar barrel
was—he stared at me and cidn’t seem to know what I meant,
and L learned then for the first time that the Union Ferry Com-
pany doesn’t furnish its pilots with cigars, but that they have to
provide them out of their own scamy wages—I determined not
to say anything more, nor ask any other questions for fear of
exposing some other point.of ignorance, but so Keep my eyes
open and learn by observation. It was a cold morning’ and 1
listened eagerly for the welcome jingle of the beil which should
send vs up cur hot toddles from the underground bar-room.

At Jast, to my intense satisfaction, ‘O'Leary rang the jineling
Httle bell, but it so happened that just at that instant the boat
»xstaried—the hottoddies didn't compwp, and presen ly, by aserics

fof guarded questions, [ leatned that there was no bar-room on

‘stepped out by the rear door.
|he found Hank trying to rob-him, and Hank thought he’d
4 get him in a scrape by calling him Joaquin.

4 the back way, too?”

 

the boat, which of course explained everything; you sec, the

boat started just as the bell rang, and it got off before the boy
had time to gu ashore and produce the drinks.

I noticed that O’Leory looked a little mad, and after we had
got over to New York and the passengers had got off he jerked
the’ bell viciously; and now, by a strange coincidence, just the
same thing happened that occurred before; the instant the bell
rung, the boatstarted, asif the engineer had a spite against us,
and was determined that we'should be teetotalers, even if it was
for one day only. gg : cue

Icouldn’tsee the speaking-tubes to tell the steerer how to head
the boat, so I concluded that he had some lookout where he

| could see for himself. “I'noticed, however, that besides the jing- |
ling bell; there was a heavy gong, which the pilot pulled at”

whenever he. wanted more coal puton. I observed also that he
hada cord which ran to the steam whistle, and that when we
were about to meet another boat he would whistle a few times

in a'playful sort of manner, which I supposed was amere sea- |

a way of saying “good-morning” to your friends.
At last O’Leary got tired of ringing the little bell so often and.
sete o drinks, so once when we were on the ‘Brooklyn side
he said if I would stay in the pilot-house a few minutes he would
go ashore and geta todd:

AS soon as he wa:
bring me something warm also, so I jingled away. -

To my utter surprise, the instant I P ulled the bell-rope the boat
began to. move, and O’Leary was still on shore. on

i was a little taken aback at first, but on an instant’s reflection
IT thought I might as well show them then as any time that I
knew what I was about. f

So we run out of the slip just as O'Leary came rushing down,
wildly yelling for the boat to come back. I suppose the engineer
didn’t hear him, at any rate he didn’t go back, and I took hold
of the big wheel and began rolling it over first one way and then
the other, just a8 I had often seen pilots do, in order to keep the
machinery free and in good working condition. Tomy utter
astonishment nosooner had we got out of the slip than the boat
began to zigzag about in the most curious manner-—one minute
she would head up stream, then across, then down, then u
again; in shert, she acted like a crazy boat—then, of course,
saw at once what had become of all the toddies that O'Leary
had rung for—the steerer had drank them all, and was'now too far in-
toxicated to do his work. However, I stuck to my place manfully,
resolved to keep the machinery free if moving that big wheei
forward and back could do it. One of the otherferry boats was
coming toward us, sol - whistled a few times asa friendly greet-
ing, and fo my surprise he changed his course and_ran directly
toward our boat—he just missed us by a hair-breadth, and: went
on, shaking his fist at me, and swearing he would have ny life.

By this time the passengers were gathered on the front plat-
form of our boat, and ali yelling at me like mad, and I went out
of the pilot-house and tried to explain to them that the steerer
was drunk, but, before I could get half through my speech, the
boat struck against the -pier with a-fearful. crash—everybody
was thrown down, and several persons had theirlegs broken
and were otherwise hurt—the boat itself was smashed badly,
and Ithought she would sink. I at once, with great presence of
mind, leaped off onto aship lying near by, anda@went ashore.
The rest ot the passengers were got ashore in the course of an
hour, after some other ferry men had gone aboard and got the
boat into the slip.

While Iwas standing on the dock, expecting to be applauded

 

 

for having stuck to my. post so manfully, to my astonishment I>

was arrested and taken to the police office, all the passengers
following me and acting asif they wanted to hang me on the
nearest telegraph pole. I never wasso surprised in all my lite.
They locked me up, and the ferry superintendent madea
charge against me for having done all the mischief. :
_ And eleven people have threatened actions against me for in-
juring themselves or their friends. y :
sif IThadn’t worked hard and stood bravely at my post of
duty, working that big heavy wheel backward and forward till
Thad to jump for my life. Iclaim your sympathy, Mr. Editor,
and that of every honest man.
Indignantly,
. K. PHILANDER Doxrsticss, P. B.
P. S.—Somebody has just told me that my theory of the tides
was incorrect—that the big wheel was to steer the boat with—
that the little jingling bell was for the engineer to start the ma-
chinery, and not to bring bp hot toddies—that the whistle was
to tell other boats how to steer, and on which side of them you
want to pass—and that—well, in fact, that I didn’t know any-
thing at all about piloting a ferryboat. ee es eS be?”
i; K. Ate. g Ps Bs

WRESTLING JOE.
THE DANDY OF THE MINES.

By Ned Buntiine, (5. Z.C. JUDSON,) ©
Author of ** Buffalo Bilt,’ “Titile Buckshot,’
Soe ete,, etc. :

 

[Wrestling Joe,’) was commenced in No. 8. Back Nos. can be
obtained {rom any News Agent inthe United States. ] :

. CHAPTER LIV.

The raised hand of Wrestling Joe, with the keen, terrible
knife in it, was falling swift as the lightning’s lurid flash,
and the life of Henry Champe was not worth a second’s
insurance, whena land came even more swiftly down
upon the wrist of the furious athlete, and the Knife was
not only turned from its aim, but shook from his grasp.

“That man is mine, and he must live until the Fourteenth
day of March!? said a stern voice, and as Joe tore him-
self loose from the grasp upon his wrist, Champe turned
to see that now his life had been saved by Hdward Car-
roll. Rane

“Curses on your head, how dare you interfere with him
whom I have sworn to slay!’? cried Joe, wuld with rage,’
and he drew a revolver from his be]. ;

“Fire on ge and account to her for what you have
done!” said Carroll, calmly, and he stood firm before the
up-raised weapon of the wrestler, f

“Heaven! I cannot kill you!” groaned Joe, and he
turned to look for Champe again. Sen 4

' The cowardly ruffian had fied, and: with him went the
pirate, now his constant companion. = $

But where was Joaquin, whose name was on every lip.
Was he indeed in.the room from which Champe and Blinks
had rushed, shouting lis name? Ifso, he had notharmed
Johnny Austin, for that gentleman now came out from
hig private chamber with an unrufiled countenance,

“smoking a cigar as peaceably as if he was all alone in the

world, ’ ee nee eae
“Where is Joaquin? Where is the bandit? asked a
hundred eager voices, as Johnny stepped from his ciam-

~ «Phe gentleman who sought to play a fair game with
Hank the Bully, and caught the latter cheating, has
He lifted the stakes, when

That was a
humbug, for the gentleman was playing out here for an
hour before he wentin there, and there are plenty here
who have seen Joaquin, and who would recognize him in
an instant, if he was really to come among us.’?

“That isso!” said the sheriff, who.had hurried forward
on hearing the report that the bandit-wasin the house.
“But why did the gentleman.you allude to leave, and by.

 

   
    
  

“Because when he lifted the stakes, Ha
gravbed for him. We puta ball trough the cheek o
friend and told Hank he’d put one through him, if th
had come. Hank ran-for help, and shouted out the dame
he did, and I advised the strangerto go.” ss

“You're sure that it was 706 Joaquin ?”? é

“Amiafool? Would Tletslip a chance to make full a
hundred thousand dollars in reward ?”) said Austin scorn-
fully.

That was a sufficient answer, for the crowd turned

back to their gaines again, while Austin himself invited’

the sheriff to “imbtve.”? » 7
“Wold on,” said the official. ‘If Joaquin’is not here—

one of his band is. This is Mr. Brown, who escaped me

when I tried to arrest him and another of the party when

we all know Joaquin wds here.”

- And he pointed to Hdward Carroll, who met his gaze,

with a look of cold and haughty contempt,

i “You'll go with me, sir,’? continued the sheriff. ae
“Searcely, sir, without & writ of arrest,’” said Carrol,

still smiling. “I know  this‘is rather a lawless” country.

But lam an American citizen, know my rights and mean

to maintain them.’?

“Weill see, sir!” cried the sheriff, angrily. “i’min
duty bound to arrest any suspicious person, and I shalt
arrest you.”

“Ror what???

: “That is my business. So come along.’

“fT will not! And you lay a hand on me at your peril!”

The sheriff glanced around him. He saw plenty of men
whom he well knew would back him. He saw only that
one, blue-eyed, pale-faced, brown-haired stranger—arin-
ed, it is true, but only that one to oppose him.

“Again lL say Surrender and come with me!’ thundered
fhe sheriff.

“Again I vefuse!? replied Carroll, in a low, firm tone,
and he laid his hand upon the butt of his revolver.

“Sheriff, Pil go bail for that man!’ cried Austin. “I’ve
seen him before, and 1’m sure he is all right. Now, let

him go, and we'll both go before the Alcade in the morn-
ing.”

“Hell go with me now,” said the sheriff.

“Not without he chooses. [hate him as [hate no other
man on earth, but I will vouch for this, that he is an hon-
est man,’’ cried Wrestling Joe.

“Tne noblest work of God, as Shakespeare wrote one
thousand years or less ago,” cried Fred Bellows, ranging
up by the side of Joe, who had stepped near to Carroil,

‘Tf itmust come to resistance, here is where [ also
stand,’’ said Austin, and he moved to Carroll's side.

The sheriff looked annoyed. ‘He knew too well what
Johnny Austin was, to care to force a rupture with him.
Always quiet and smiling, there was not in all the town a
man so utterly fearless, so thoroughly desperate as he,

“Gentlemen, all, E thank you for your proffered aid.
Now that this officious officer sees that I have the power
to resist, and friends who failing to bail, would aid me
in that resistance, I will go with him of my own accord.
For on examination I can show as clean a record’ as any
man upon this coast.”

These words were followed by action, for as he spoke,
Carrolt walked deliberately up to the sheriff, and added:

“Move on, sir—I will go with you.’?

“You need not—you need not,” said Austin. ‘“L will be
your security.”

““} thank you—but I prefer to go.”

“Do not—do not, for Hank Champe is on the Vigilance
Committee,”? said Wrestling Joe, earnestly.

“Thanks, for your second interference in my favor, Mr.
Caruthers,’ said Carroll, with a coldbow. “I do not fear
Mr. ‘Champe’s power in that Committee. Again, Mr.
Sheriff, I say that having surrendered, lam ready to go
with you.’

The sheriff was but too glad to get his prisoner so easi-
ly, and he at once retired with him,

.“Ejike that man, and wil! go his security in all that is
asked in the morning,” said Austin, addressing Joe, as
Carroll and the sheriff went from sight.

‘lis worst enemy and mine would have been ont of the
way if he had not shook the knife from my hand,’* said
Joe, gloomily. “Why he should spare Ifenvy Champe an
hour, or make me spare him, is more than I can under-
stand.”

“If you mean Tank Champe, itis a pity he staid your
hand, Andit the Vigilance Committee have anything to
do with tis new arrest, you may be sure Hank will do
his best to swing the brave fellow.”

“Phen we niust watch to avertsach ation, sried Joe.
“For though Fiuave’a cause to hate that man, LT would not

was off the boat 1 thought I’d ring for the boy to.

ae

see him made a victim without cause. It would haunt
me to my dying hour.”

“One word,” said Austin. ‘7s he a friend of Joaqnin?

“He knows Joaguin, even as I do, and I think in the
better days of that man, befriended him.”

“Then,” said Austin, “the Vigilance Committee had
best beware what they do, For Joaquin 7s in town.

“Tt was he who wounded the friend 0 1

“Yes, and could have slain Champe but would not.
But speak. low, no one else here must Know it.”
“They shall not from us;’? said Joe. “I am glad he
“escaped,”

 

   
  
  

 

 

 

oe CHAPTER Ly.
- “What infernal Juck!” growled Henry Champe, as fol-
lowed by Blinks, he hurried into @ favorite saloon, kept
‘by the well-known Yankee Sullivan, a iew moments after
/the two Veft Austin’s place. “My large diamond and
twenty ounces gone.”’ es

“your large diamond? You seem to forget Hank
Champe that 7 furnished youthe jewel that you mourn.
Your big diamond went when Joaquin made that aul at
Manteufels.”? ~ -

_ “Well, didn’t I buy this one of you?”? :

“Yes—on credit, and as itis not paid for, rather think
the loss will fall on me,’ said the pirate, bitterly, as he
took aseat ata tablein a corner of the reom, where no
one else sat. :

“Oh, Pl pay you, and I'll not only have that diamond
back, but his head beside, and treasure enough to freight
your beautiful brig.” '

“The Malek Adbel can hold a good deal, Hank, and
half. a cargo of dust or coin would so enrich every soulon
board that they would never be good for anything till
that was spent or gone in some way or other. Your true
pirate is never worth anything as long as wine, women,
and treasure are in his hands. He fights best when le is
poor.”?

“Then we ought to fight now, or Pat any rate, for once
more I’m flat broke.” :

“Well, lve a little left in the locker—while there is
anything there Ill share it with you. But lews have
something to drink. Um as dry as & herring. Hi—
waiter!”

A servant answered the captain’s call.

“Hot. rum,and. let it be noz’-nor’west—d’ye hear?”
cried the seaman. ,

“Yours, sir—Wwhat shall it be?” :

“The same asthat forthe captain, only a little more
northerly, if possible,” cried Champe. “1 could drink
melted lead to-night.”

“JT had to take it cold,’”? said the captsin, removing the
blood-stained handkerchief from his wounded cheek,
where he had held it to check hemorrhage. ‘All that
wonder is that. he didn’t shoot at you instead of me; for
it was you whom he caught putting up the cards.)

“He spared me for some one else,’’ Said Champe with a
shudder. ‘Ned Carroll claims me.”? : E :

“Yes; yet me saved you from the knife of Wrestling
Joe. Curse me if I can understand the man.”

“J do but too well, and if you are with me on the Four-
teenth day of March, you witl, unless | get him out of the
way beforehand. Al! here comes our liquor.”

“How is it—full nor’-nor’west?” asked the captain, as
the waiter put the grog down. d :

“Yours is nine parts rum to one of water, and his is ali
rum,’’ said the waiter.

“Good. There’s an extra ounce for what you’ve done
now and can do again when you see our tumblers
empty.?)

“Thank you, sir.”? vie gah pe

“Stiff grog on hulls like ours, that can stand it, is worth
something,’’ said the captain, benignly, as he sipped his
liquor. “Whatis the game now, for we may as weil make
our plans right away.” Hs

“The game willbe to get men enough on shore to make
a clean sweep of those we want out of Our way and those
wemean to take with us, atonce. Tvat done, we will ar-
range for the Joaquin matter. I’ve got another trusty
man to join him, so that we can track him down. A Mext-
éan this.time, who hates him bitterly, because Joaquin
cut him out if a love affair, years ago. Those Mexicans
never forget.’’ i

“what is he—a land-sharkorasea crab???

“He was a ranchero, then a guerrilla, now he is a rob-
ber and my tool and spy.” ‘2 : "

“Well, look out for him. J never trust anything that is
blacker than Tam. ‘There comes one of your friends.”

“Yeg—it’s Bill Pentecost. lLet’s ask him over here. He
isa trump ina full hana of pictures.”

Champe beckoned to the gambler who had just come
in, and asthe latter took a seat, he ordered drink for
him. :

“Pye news for you, Hank,’’ said the gambler, as he took
his seat,

“What is it, Bil?”

“phe sheriff just took a friend of yours out of Johnny
Austin’s—that’s all.”

“A friend of mine—what for?”

“Belonging to the band of Joaquin.”

“What—has he got Eusebio, the Mexican?

“No, but he has got Ned Carroll.’ f

“Ved Carroll? And on that charge. By all that shines
I’ have him now. He shall have a trial, short and sweeé,
like a Dutch gal’s kiss, and hang. [ll put the work up
in the Vigilance Committee. Both of you must be ready
to swear that you were with mein the fight on the Yuba
when Joaquin killed all my party, and saw Ned Carroll in
the front of the fight, and saw him rob men when you
and Twere hid in the bushes alterward.’” —

All right,’?: said Blinks. “Though £ was off Santa
Cruz about then I reckon.”?

“And fT at Ragged-Shirt Canyons but that makes no dif-
ference,”’ said Pentecost. ‘One of my stock can swear
to anything but the truth.”

“Thats afact. Imever knew your old man to tell the
truth but once,” said Champe, with a laugh.

“When was that??? asked the other gambler.

‘When he lost hisarm in that skrimmage at Nashville,
when we were all trying to kill Ned Carroll. He owed me
fifty dollars, lent money, and they had just told him lock-
jaw might setin and take him off, I asked him to pay
that fifty. He said he would if he lived a week. And he
did. But I can’t loiter here. If Ned Carroll is in the
sheriff's hands, I must set the Vigilantes to work and fin-
ish the job. Whenhe is out of the way there 1s nothing
on earth that IT fear! But while he lives a mortal terror
continually lurks‘in my soul.”

“Well, put out-and set your committee to work. They’re
quick in trying Vve heard, and quicker yet in hanging
when the trial is over.’ : f

“That’s true. So, good-by fora little while. Ill meet

yourat the oon crib by the water-side as soon as the
thing isfixed. Of here if you'll stay.”
* Champe now hurried away, but Blinks ealled for two
more nor-westers and a pack of cards. ‘For,’? said he,
“time ig precious and we shouldn’t wasteit. Whatshall
the game be ??

“Square eucher, at a dollar a corner, if you say go, just
to xa an hour oertwo till Hank comes back,’’ was the
reply. ik i

ot

 

 

CHAPTER LVI. ee

«Where is Don Eduardo?” asked Joaquin, on reaching
the interior of his well-hidden hill-side rendezvetis, ~~

“He went out, an hour since, saying that he would go
and look for you. He was afraid you would walk into
‘some trouble in a town where you were not 80 well post-
ed as he,” replied a Mexican named Fusebio, who had
shown an almost singular attachment for both Carroll
and his chief. ‘I asked permission to go with him, but
he refused and said he had rather go alonel”

“Did he change his dress; put on any disguise??

“No, senor.. He onty put fresh caps on his revolver.’”

“7 feel uneasy about him. Yet heis brave and prudent.
IE need rest, or [ would go out and Took for him.”

“May not I go, senor?’

“Thou, Husebio? Even ‘more a stranger in the city
than 1?” ‘

“So much the more safe, for me, Senor. tis not likely
I will meet any one to ask me questions I should not
answer,’? ‘

“True—mosttrue. Youcan go, Husebio. But havea
care. Not only the Vigilantes, but another strong organi-
zation is bent on our destruction.”? :

‘Kear not for lack of care on my part, senor,’” said the
Mexican, and drawing his sombrero down over his eyes,
he threw his serape over his shoulders and, passing the
sentinels, left the place.

‘Quick, Francisco, quick, and follow thatman! Wateh
his every motion, but remain unseen. When hehas come
back return and report to me in private.”

And as this, his most faithinl and trusted hHeutenant
hurried off on the track of Eusebio, Joaquin said to an-
other trusted man:

“Husebio shows rather too much anxiety to: serve me
and my friend. If either of us hud done him some great
favor, this might be accounted for. As it is, L do not
like itl?

Joaquin was truly a reader of character, one of a class
that it is difficult to deceive, even though they can eon-
ceal suspicion on their own part as well as discover
treachery in others. Such men are rarely beaten in the
artful trickeries of life..

Francisco was not twenty yards behind the Mexican
when he went forth, yet the latter had no thought that
he was followed, or even suspected by Joaquin. If such
had been the case, he would not have bent his course
carelessly thence toward the plaza as he aid.

When Eusebio entered the saloon of Johnny Austin, he
asked in very fair English if there was. a gentleman
named Champe anywhere around, addressing a gamopler
| Who stood behind &@ monte table.

Even as he asked the question a man wrapped like him-
self in a dark serape, with a slouched hat drawn weil
over his eyes, passed within afoot of him and went to
the next table in the room.

‘He was here, an hour or two ago.. £ reckon you'll
find him at Yankee Sullivan’s, for he haunts that crib
inore than this,’*said the gambler.

Eusebio thanked him, turned and left the place. And
like his shadow, the man who had passed him while he
asked the question, now passed out close upom his heels,

 

“Glorious news, boys—glorious news!’ cried Champe,
as he hurried upto the table where blinks and Pentecost
were engaged ateucher. ‘I’ve go’ Ned @arroll fast. He
is in the hands of our Committee. He will be tried at
sunset, and take a dance on lemp by moonlight before
twenty hours go by. Isn’t that high?! 5

“Yesg—if the trial comes off. But why delay tilh the
sunset of to-night?! ; :

“Because the chairman of the Committee has some
work on hand to keep: him. busy tillthen. We said he
would work things to suih me if hehad that: time allowed.»
Ah, there comes my Man Eusebio. Wt draw a screen upi
} and then we'll have some wine, He never drinks oar
flexy drinks.?? ee :
Champe.drew oneof the large, moveable screens, which,

»

 

 

fio -ceiioe eR 2

 

   

 

 

me 1
, |
~4.
: -
Le
a)
«
i,
nl ae
x”
va
PH
.
4
*
«+
x
+
» 4
es
~~
x

a yw
»
a
» « ’
~-
™~
r x
= «i
&
ae
fs

aa

oo

a

 

 

 

At V
Yr ¥
Ah A
a »
9 e
» a
ott \~
' ~
he et
ETP

 

 

 

 

 

_& bottle of claret, beckoned Eusebio to take 9 seat.

‘which he had Jaid to insure the conviction and hasty ex-

“> place quietly, unknown, as he came.

‘events as that which has occupied the previous. chapters.

that Jast night in her @ressin’ room,’

.an half hour before she sent me here.”’

. ative tone.

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   

 

 

 

 

 

 

= ee es Sn — — eee Ce EN ESAS ae = , 58 a SRT = as i cae a sain a3 ;
oa Poe a e .
es
speeare:
eS 3 Aye Va :
= = aig = = eee Saracen - a aacainaieeieaaaea a Sa

Gre found in almost every saloon, up before the table
where his party sat, placed another chair, and calling for

“How goes matters, amigo—what brings you here?”
asked Champe, as the Mexican sat down.

The latter glanced uneasily at Blinks and Pentecost.

“These are my friends, and true as steel. I have no
Secrets from them,” said the gambler. “Speak freely.
You have left Joaquin lately.” — :

“Yes, I have come to find out where his friend, Don
Eduardo Qarroll is.”

“Hal hal Hel find out before another day rolls around.
But he must not know before then. Else he would at-
tempt, ay, perhaps succeed, in a rescue.”

“Then Don Eduardo is in danger?”

“No—he is out of danger. He is inside of strong walls
with forty pound of iron on his wrists and ankles, To-
night he’ll have @ dance with hemp above and air be-
neath.?? er, ;

“Ah-—have the Vigilan

“Yes, Eusebio—yes. .
outof my way. Now
put hands on him???

“Yes—if you have plenty of men. But his treasures
are not here, and you.want them, when you get him.”

“That's true,” said Blinks. “We want more than the

fes got him 2?
is cared for and will soon de
ut Joaquin, is he where we can

  
 

reward when we get im, and he must have an immensity |

of treasure if he has Kept half which he has taken, by all
accounts.’? :
“Where is the treasure?” asked Champe.

 

“Somewhere in the Contra Costa Mountains, east of
San José. I have heard him and a confidant of his, one
Francisco, talk of the Forge, and a cane in the Peak, and
there I think he has hidden the most of the gold. Itisa
stronghold, where he thinks that no one can either sur-
prise, or take him.” ;

“Then we must hold back a while.
to this place?”?

“No—but there is where he will retreat, when he leaves
the city. His horses are on a ranche but three miles away,
kept by one of his men, and when he leaves the city he
Will ride at once to those hills. I heard himsay so to this
Francisco.” aot 3

“Well, until after you have seen that hiding-place, and
learned where he keeps his treasure, we will not spring
our trap upon him. Has he many men here?”’ t

“A hundred all told |’?

“And all true, do you think?”

“All but myself. And were he the Jeast suspicious of
me my life would not be worth asking for,”

“nen be cautious. And now return. Say that you
heard Carroll had left the city, gone to the mines, or
make up.any story you like to jull the suspicions of your
chief until Carroll swings. After that he may rave. We'll
fix Wrestling Joe, and when the time comes Joaquin’s
head is my last, best card. When] can hand that ever,
there will not be a berth in California worth asking for,
from goyernor down, that I can’t get.”

“With the rewards and the treasure, we'll be too rich
to care for anything less than a crown !”’ said Blinks,

Kusebio drank. his wine, and then rose to go.

_ “There is no need of my seeing you again at present ?”
he said to Champe.

“No; not until after you have gone to the mountain
rendezvous of which you tell us. Carroll will be out of
the way inside of twenty hours. After that, I care for
nothing soimuchas to learn that which you must find
out. While you are doing that Blinks and I have a little
gametocarry out, whici will occupy our minds and time.’?

“Then, adios for the night, senor.”?

“Rather Jor the morning, Eusebio. Be on your guard,
for if Joaquin suspects you, that will be the end of you
and our planus, :

“d knoiy, it, Senor. But le does not. Ie trusts me in
everything. If he did not, it wovld not bel that he wouid
send in seateh of his absent friend,”

“True, Busebio. Make the mogt.of your chances.”

The MeNican passed out from behind the screen, not
noticing that a man, breathing softly ag if he were sleep-
ing, Sat with his head bowed on a table close to it.

This man sat still until the Mexican went out, and for
some time after, hearing Champe talk over the plans

You have not been

ecution of Edward Carroll. ;
Then just before the dawn of day he rose and left the

as CHAPTER LVII.
Pretty well tired with excitement as well as from lack
ofrest, Wrestling Joe, Fred Bellows and Pepito slept un-
tila late hour on the day following the night so fall of

And it was full noon when Maggie woke them to partake
of a breakfast, which she had kept until as she declared
it was scarcely fit to eat. Mr. Gilroy lad risen hours be-
fore, and left for the theater.

When Joe rose, and the morning paper was put in his
hands, he read the account, already alluded to, of the
finding of the mutilated body of the broker, Jason Hill.
But there was no account of the arrest of Edward Car-
roll. For some special reason that had been kept out of
the paper. Therefore he knew not what bad been deter-
mined on by the sheriff, or whether Carroll was now
free or still under arrest... In truth, now that he was free
from excitement he did not care. : :

After their ablutions, the three men sat down to a de-.
licious breakfast, for Muggie had taken pains to make it
appetizing, and Many a compliment did she recdtahia.
fore it was over, ;

Then foliowed along rehearsal, foras Joe and Frea
were special in their performances, they could as well re-
hearse at home as in the theater. puerta

While this was going on, or father just as it was com-,
ing toa close, Maggie introduced a visitor. It was'a fe-
male, too, and one of whom the loving girl did not feel
any jevlousy; for ler beauty was not attractive, Inshort,
it was. Bridget Maloney, our sturdy heroine, who bad
acted so valliantly when her mistress was attacked the
night before.

She stood in mute admiration gazing on Joe and Fred
as they closed an actin rehearsal by taking twostatuesque
positions, and when they resumed their natural postures,
she vented her feelings in words.

“Faith, Dve seen men, monkeys and nagers, but man
nor woman never looked half so nate as ao you gintle-
men, when ye’re playin’. Sure an’ I tould me mistress

“Your mistress, woman? Who is she?”
 ““AgSif yer honor didn’t know. She is either an angel
or close kin to the breed of ’em, and I’m not the only one
that thinks so, by the notes, and posies, and showers of
red gould she gits.” :

‘Who are you, my good woman and what is your er-
rand here?) asked Joe, now turning his attention fully to
his vistor. :

“WhoamI? Well, that’s a fair question, and no in-
sult at all, atall, 80 ll answerit. i’m Bridget Moloney
for long, and freckled Biddy for short. I’m from County
Armagh, and that’s over the deep blue say, so it is, as [
knew to my sorrow by comin’ over it, Andif you'll rade
this bit of a letter, you'll know by the writin’ whosent me
here, and she’s the Swatest mistress a girl ever had; and
i'd die for her, 80 IT would.”

Joe hurriedly opened a letter which she handed him.

“From lone,?? he exclaimed, aloud; ‘‘and—Heavens,
how can she have learned this? If it be true, something
must be done and thatin ahurry, for much as [hate
that man, he must not perishin that way. ForlI know
he is not guilty of any connection with Joaquin’s band.’

“Explain yourself, please,’’ said Pred.

“Why this note informs me that Edward Carroll is in
the hands of the Vigilance Committee, where through a
mockery of a trial his conuemnation is sure, and without
help speedily reaches him, he will be executed. And she
expects meto.help him. Well, she shall not be disap-
pointed. Bridget, goto your mistress and say that her
wishes shall be carried out, even if itis at the peril of my
life.” :

‘sANl glory to yer honor for sayin’ that, though [ don’t
Know what itis she wants ye to do. Buat’twould be next
thing to goin’ to Heaven to serve. her, so as to win the
bright smiles she howlds in store for them she loves.”?

“Por them she loves /”” said Joe, with a sigh:

* Sure, sir, and lm thinkin’ that barrin’ the: babbee,
and he’s swater than honey, she hasn’t. muchto love,
Leastwise, she acts that way. Every letter she gets she
puts to the fire, and niver a man has darkened our door
but the manager manthat come wid a pistol for her last
night, except a wee bit of a boy that brought her a note

“She does love the boy, then?” said Joe, in aninterrog-

“Faith, sir, itis aigher worship, (’m_a-thinkin’. If she
don’t break the first commandment by it, ’m all wild wid
the folly of belavin? it.”

“Thank Heaven for that, if no more !’ said Joe, earnest-
ly. “And now, Bridget, take these two ounces for your
trouble, and go back to your mistress with my answer. I
will save her friend, or perish in-the trial 1”

“Sure, sir, it is the Kind words I’}l be afther takin’ wid
me, but not the gould, Gould is good forthe poor, but
kind words is better sometimes. I’m sure I’ve pienty of
both now-a-days, for the mistress is fulloft’em when she
spakes. They drop from her lips iike dew from Heaven
when the ground is dr7 and the flowers wilting. Good-
by, sir, good-by. It’s Bridget Maloney that thanks ye all
the same as ifshe took yer gould, and hopes ye may live
forever and have tin thousand auats and lovin’ cousins to
howld wake over ye !’?

Bridget was off after this, Joe turned anxiously to I'red:

“What shall we do? Ifheisin the hands of the Vigil-
ance Committee, and they areas powerful as represented,
‘how can we save him?”

“LT do net know. Austin spoke up likea man for him
last night,??

“Yet Austin might not be able to do anything. If Joa-
quin has force enough in town, he might rescue him. But
af that was done, it would but prove what they are now
falsely putting upon him. 1 know not what.to do.”

“Pepito knows, He ‘will get a horse, and watch, and
when they »ring Don Eduardo out, he will ride like a
devil right amoug them, give the horse to Don Eduardo,
and tell him to go.”

“You would only be killed for your pains, and he too
would be shot down before lic could get away,” said Joe.
“Some ether plan than that is necessary.»

“And that plan must be a speedy one, for itis not likely
they will wait long, especially if that wretch Champe isin
the consultation, as her note indicated,’’

“Whatcan be done? Maggie, you are full of invention.
Can you not study out something to help us?”

“If you know where he is, cannet he be let out before
he is condemned, by strategy? Cannot some one take his
place in prison, changing clothes with him?

“Yes; and be sure to die in his place, too. Oh, if we
could tind Joaquin new, he might aid ia this matter 17

“Joaquin is here!” gaid a low, deep voice, and a man,
too well disguised to be recognized as Jeaqguin, walked in

 

at the door, which Bridget had left ajar.
(To he continued.)

UF KATIE WERE MY GRIDE.

 

BY JOSEPH ¥. DE WITT.

This toast I pledge for one whose love
Has been a Heaven to me—

‘A Paradise within a waste—
A jewel in the sea,

Chaste as an éver-gleaming star,

Fair as the spring-flowers are,

Pure as the stream that winds afar
Adown the valley side—

Oh! life would be all happiness
If Katie were my bride!

Meek and gentle, no child of art
Nor: vain coquette is she,
To trifle with a.trusting heart,
And seatler misery 5
But free from every sin and blight,
True as the day is to the night,
And lovely as the crystal light
That glistens o’er the tide—
Oh! life would be all happiness
If Katie were my bride!

Then here’s a health to one whose love
Has been a Heaven tome—
A twinkling star when all was dark—
A jewel in the sea!
May Gare or sorrow touch her not!
And may il be my future lot,
In some sequestered, fairy spot,
“ Where the bright sunbeams hide,
fo dwel! in love and happiness,
. With Katie for my bride!
ete OS gg

TRUE AS LOVE
COULD MAKE HER

“True as Love fould Make Her*was commenced in No.l. Back
pumbers obtained from all news agents in the United States,

CHAPTER LV,
PERCY'S REPENTANCE.

Jem went bume with his sad’ story, and found his pa:
rents sitting up forhim., He could see that his mother
had been crying. and there was a dimness in the eyes of
Mr. West. Both jooked at him with a glance, half hope-
ful, and the rest Gespairing; and Bill West, ih a tone that,
more than the look, showed despair, said:

“Well, Jem,’ :

“TJ have seen hes father.” ,

“Where?” e : :

“Why, she tried §p drown herself, and now she’s in the
hospital. LI passed over the bridge once and did not see
her, and when came back, they had just taken her out.”?

The carpenter clasped his hands and bowed his head.
His lips moved, whether in prayer for his child or male-
diction on the head of the man who liad driven her to the
deed, if would be hare to say.

“Let Heaven déal with him ag he deserves,’ said West,
solemnly. ‘1 say no more than that.” :

“Yes, | found her,’ said Jem, Some tears coming back
as the scene recurredto him. ‘There was her face in the
corner of tile cab, whiter {han death, and all her wet hair
dripping, round it; and \.hen they carried her into the
hospital, she looked just like dead; but I waited and
waited—talking to the you jg chap that bronght her out;
and somehow he cheered me up, and the doctor came at
last.?? vin

Mrs. West laid her-hand .m the Jad’s arm, and peered
into his face. :

“Jem, she said, with he; soul in her voice, ‘tell me
the truth, Don’t hide anything. Is Fanny living?”

“She is, mother, as true as I’m here.’’

“Then they’lLlet me see her. They won't deny her own
mother,”? :

And she was preparing tc start, but Jem stopped her.

‘Its against the rules. The doctor told me that her
mother might see her to-me row afternoon. He wouldn’t
let me stay more than a minute with her, and they do
take care of her, can tell you. They had given her
brandy and things, and there was a nurse sitting up with
her. The doctor said she would be home. again in less
than a week.”’ ;

He did not, tell them of jhe other troubie that threat-
ened Fanny—the being tried for attempting self-destruc-
tion. The poor old couple were smitten too heavily al-
ready. tee bpeste 3

They had little sleep t\at night. The morning found
them veary with tears and waiting, yet there was some
comfort sn the thought that Fanny was not quite lost to
them. In thé afternoon they went to the hospital, and
were allowed to see her; but fever had set in, and the in-
terview was necessarily a short one.

When Bill West looked at the wreck of his beautiful
child—heard her muttered. incoherence—her sad tears
and sadder laughter, his heart filled with bitterness
against the destroyer. Had Percy and the carpenter met
tuen, the gentlemanly. builder would have been humbled
before the rough eloquence of his father’s sometime work-
aman, » a

 

 

1. It soon became known jathe neighborhood and in Lam-

beth. Young Bul West told Fred Crosby, Fred told Emily
White, and it went round to a whole crowd of friends,
who went to effer-sympathy.

Fred Grosby and Emily were thinking about getting
married now. The young carpenter was putting money
away to buy the house with, and Emily was as wisely
busy making stores of household linen and replenishing
her wardrobe, so that extra expenses should not come
upon them too early at the outset. .

They had no troubles. : Fred grew fonder of her every
day, and she had always been fond of him. They saw
Mr. Palmer once—and only once. We was prowling atter
Emily again; but, seeing Fred with her, he was wise
enough to withdraw, and keep out of their way in future.
Fred’s suggestive look warned him that it was the safest
course to take.

Percy, stricken with ,emorse, when the morning came,
sent for his father, and made arrangements to leave the
country. He had seen, as he thought, Fanny lying dead
before him, and the sight so haunted him that he longed
tobe away. He had plunged so deeply, and for such a
length of time into a wild career of dissipation, that his
nerves were unstrung and his senses blunted. But the
keen agony of repentance came to him goon, ,

He was at Dover, after a feverish, restiess night. Every
fiber in his body trembled under the influence of reaction
from the previous day’s excitement. It was as well, per-
haps, that something occurred to check him in the way
he was going. He was losing self-respect; growing mor-
ally degraded; drinking hard; mixing with the. worst
company; doing the things that brutalize a man, make
him a misery to himself, and a scourge to society.

But the sight he saw on the foot of the bridge sobered
him. He took suadry bottles of soda-water, dashed with
brandy, to cool his feverish throat, and steady his hand;
and he tried to think over what had happened. The
events of the previous day had startled him by their
rapidity,

There was the visit from Miss Millard in the morning,
the passionate scene between them, and their flight. The
pursuit by Arthur Wilson, who came upon Percy in the
very moment when his prize seemed safely in his grasp.

Then the return home, when Percy, tu.drown his dis-
appointment, had plunged into an orgie. Drank and
gambled; sang and talked in a way that he had the grace
to be ashamed of now.. Then the walk home, while his
brain was reeling, till he came upon. the group with a
drowned woman in its midst. A drowned woman—that
oman his Wife, and.she was dead, for the man who had
tried to save her told him so.

Reflection came to him by degrees. The first was mir-
rored in his mind, and he saw each incident of his love-
story. Hecould remember, as well as if it were but yes-
terday, his first meeting with Fanny in the building yara,
and he recalled how he had followed her—how he had
seen her sweet face reflected in the milliner’s window
when she was looking at the bonnets. ge

And then the next day: their visit to the National Gal-
lery; the ride to Richmond; the boat on the river; the
dinner at the hotel; their love scene in the quiet of the
golden twilight.
the flush of her new happiness—how different from the
fair, pale girl he saw Stretched on the pavement—as he
imagined—dead. ; 4

Yet scarcely three years had elapsed since they first
met. Their history, with its many incidents of joy and
trouble, extended over no longer a time, and his heart
smote him when conscience told him how much he had
made Fanny suffer more than she deserved.

“if she had been indiscreet,’”? Conscience asked him,
“what could he say of his own conduct in regard to Miss
Miliard 2’!

He remembered Fanny in all her beauty and her cares-
sive love, and he could have wept in remorse of soul. He
would have given worlds now to recall her from the
death he had driven her to—but it was too late.

“Jt is too late,” he said, in agony; ‘‘and I think this
morning there is not @ more miserable wretch on the face
of the earth thanlam, Go where Lmay, do what I will,
the memory of that poor girl will haunt mel’

Mr. Falkland the elder did not delay in going to his
son. He started immediately upon receipt of the letter,
aud was at Percy’s town apartments in the afternoon.
The merchant was shocked at the change in his son’s ap-
pearance. ‘

He was touched, too, by the subdued air with which
Perey received him—the guietude, almost humility, with
which. Percy teok his hand. Tre elder Falkland’s first
thought was that Percy might be in trouble about money
matters. He hoped it wasso. Theold man was fond of
his son,in spite of his stern temper, and wished for
nothing better than a chance of displaying his affection.

“} want to go back to Germany, father, at ouce; or you
mast find me work elsewhere. 1 don’t care how far away
it is; the farther the better.”

“Is anything-wrong, Percy?’

“Much. I have killed the truest woman that ever lived.
I am as guilty as if 1 had poured poison down her throat,
or driven a knife to her heart; and I want to get out of
the way to forget it, I must work, so that I may not think
of if.” ;

“Telli me what you have done ?’?

“J pave told you. I saw poor Fanny last night lying on
the stones—dead. Heaven forgive me for my callousness!
but I was drunk, and something had happened in the day
that made me turn against her; but Lihought of it this
morning. My poor girl-—my wife!” om ;

“Your wife, Percy?”

And how beautifal she had looked in-

“Ves, he said, sadly. “She was my wife. She was too
beautiful, and proud, and pure to be anything else. And
1 Jovea her to well to wish to make her anything else bat
my wife.”

He paused fora moment, took out his handkerchief,
and pressed it hard into his eyes. Tnen he turned upon
his father almost fiercely.

“Sometime I think it was all your fault.?

“Mine 2?

“Yes, yours. Wasit not through you that] kept my
marriage secret? Didn’t Ihave to go away, and Jet the
poor girl live as ifshe were in shame! If she had been
with me, as slre ought to: have been, she would not have
been at the mercy of other men, or in the way of tempta-
tion. -I should have had no cause to be jealous.” ;

“But you had cause ?””

“Don’t say a word against her,? said Percy, with so
much suppressed bitterness that the old man looked at
him in fear. “I see now that I was a fool—a brute. She
was aS pure as the stars thatshone last night on her dead
face, and I only wish that she were living that I might
show her how much I love her still.”

“The Wests never knew that you had married her???
salu Mr. Falkland.

“Never. The poor girl took an oath never to reveal the
secret, and shé kept her promise far too well. Even when
I discarded her she kept the promise.’? :

“Well, my son,” said the builder, with a sigh of re-
lief, “it cannot be helped now. It wasarash and ill-
advised marriage, and the end was sure to be unhappy.
How did you see her?”?

“Dead—in the street.
river.”?

“And you are sure she was dead 2?

“Quite. . L know it too well now.”

Secretly, Mr. Falkland was glad to hearit—the more
glad since he knew that they were married. Not even to
have seen the poor girl brought back'to life and Percy
happy, could he-have reconciled himself to the associa-
tion with the Wests,

“What can we do for them?’ he said to Percy. “The
poor people must be helped. Isuppose the allowance had
better be settled’on the child.’? ;

“Yes; that must'be done. And I was thinking, father,
it would be best to get them outof England—the whole

They had just taken her from the

a Icannot .endure the idea of meeting any of
rem. % E
“Nor J,’ said Mr. Falkland. ‘How shall we ar-

range it.”?

“Give them a.coupleof thousand pounds, on condition
that they emigrate. We have a right to do something for
them, and we can afford it. Get them right out of the
country. Let us’ have done with them forever.”

“And the child ?°

“I do not want to see it just yet. It shall be cared for,
but I cannotJook at it, Tshoula fancy it was looking at
me'with its mother’s eyes.”

“Two thousand pounds is a good deal of money,” said
the merchant. “Still to get rid of the whole lot, I should
not mind. They are sure to go. They can get plenty of
land in the colonies, and being hard-working, industrious
people, may make a fortune. Yes;it shall be done. Our
solicitor shall call upon Westin the course of a day or
two and arrange with him.”

‘It’s the best way,” said Percy; “but not a hundred
limes two thousand would repay them for the loss of
their daughter, nor for the loss of my wife—the poor girl

‘that I drove to the river.”

 

_ CHAPTER LVI.
ON THE WAY TO REDEMPTION.

Percy stayed only to make a few hurried preparations
for departure, and then he went away; but not to Ger-
many orto work. The elder Falkland rightly judged
that, after his career of dissipation and excitement, the
conscience-stricken man did not require the oppressive
brain toil of superintending the contract at Hurse Casel
or elsewhere. It was rest he wanted—rest and change
of scene,

He went from England a haunted man—the dreadful
picture of that poor, pale girl on the stones forever before
his eyes. He was an altered man—chastened by remorse,
quieted by sorrow. as 4

He shunned the evil coiripany that he had seen so much
too much of—until lately, and the old time yearning for
a good life came upon him once again. Ile thought of
what his life might have been had Fanuy been with him
—the tranquil repose of the home of a working gentle-
man, with the sweet figure of his wife by the hearthistone,
and little children playing at hisknee,

He saw what he haa lost by want ‘of ‘moral ‘courage—
to unjust doubt and

what he had caused by giving way to” U
unholy passion; and the reflection nearly drove! him to

despair. ; ; Saat,

Like a drunkard suddenly redeemed by str Het if pur-
pose; like a sinner changed in a mom fit by tile grace of
Heaven, and brought back to piety—he Bw nd Wyss in-
to which he had plunged, and trembled | with. the horror
of the sin yet upon him, even while he repented, He
might have gone on stultifying himself—seeking forget-
fulness in fast life, drink, and gaming, and Wworse—till
quite lost, and swift death, or madness, or imbecility came
upon him; but when reflection came to him he looked
back in repentance, and saw all the eyilhehad done. The
terrible lesson of his life was his redemption, but he wrung
ue hands when he thought what a price he had paid
or it. ee '

“T almost wish I were dead,’ he said, in agony, many
and many a time. “I cannot think how Lever spokesuch
bitter words to my poor girl. She was so pure, so pa-
tient, so full of love for me, and she even sacrificed her
life at last,?”

In those few days when first repentance came, he look-
ed older by ten years. ‘The builders .gentiemanly son
would not have been easily recognized by itriend or boon
companion. There were deep lines in his face, furrows
in his brow, and a few silver threads in his hair, and he
looked delicate and thin, thoughtful and worn.

And he went away. a wanderer, followed by the phan-
tom that would not Jeave him. He saw it in his sleep; it
was with him in his reveries; it came to him suddenly in
the midst of Other scenes—always the same sad beanty of
that plaintive face upturned to the night sky—paffiied—
placid—dead, ° ‘

It haunted him so that he was taught to pray Heaven to
forgive him’ for having wronged her so; and he had
strange fancies, in which he wondered whether, if he were
to pray very earnestly, Fanny would be’ given back to
him from the grave.

He went to Paris, but the city was too gay—he wanted
quiet. He tried other cities, but they were all alike. He
had. to make his home at a hotel, hear the hateful talk of
strangers, whose sole business was pleasure, He could
get no repose—such as he wanted. — told

Then he returned to England, but not toLondon. He
sought a sequestered inland town, where he would not be
bored by the too familiar sight of grand hotels, silken
company, and glittering dinner tables. He was sick of
the small Balshazzars, and the feasts that were Balshaz-
zar-like, except for the writing on the wall. His shattered
nerves and agonized heart madé him sick of everything
that was not peaceful. oe ae

It is strange to see how the most hardened men turn
when in suffering, to the religion they neglect when they
need no solace—how they cling to it while’ the ‘suffering
lasts, as the sick man clings to the doctor, whom He for-
gets to pay when health is restored. Percy, purchising
some fancy articles in a shop where the Bidal press hela
its place, with small extravagancies in the way of pretty}’
useless trifles, read a few lines in an article on the’ first
page of a religious paper—wanted to read more, so bought
the paper, and took it with him.

Probably in the whole course of his lifetime, except
when at school or college, he had never read more thana
stray chapter of the Bible. He thought the study of re-
ligion 2 good thing for women and children, but rather a
“weakness in men. Until he was tried in the crucible of
soul pain he did not know how much solace there was in
the glory of the Creed.

He read the journal through, frem the first page to the
last, and it gave a new tone to his mind. It soothed him,
gave him a better and more peaceful state of feeling; it
turned his thoughts into himself, and showed him what
he might have become for bad—what he might yet be for
good. And on the last page he saw this— 4

“A home is offered, on moderate terms, to a gentleman
of Christian principles—Adadress, the Reverend Mr. Wil-
son, Caswell, Westmoreland.’

“In the house of aclergyman,” he meditated, “I should
find peace there. Learn, perhaps, to bea good man, if he
came to know me and had patience; and 1 wonder if he
poe when he knows what a wretched, world-worn thing

am.

He acted on the good resolution at once. He would not

wait to senda letter, fearing that in the interval of delay
other letters might be sent and another chosen. There
were other advertisements of the same kind, but he set
his mind on this one.
_ He went down to Caswell, and found the house easily.
A little girl directed him, for the Reverend Mr. Wilson was
known to children, as good men are. It was a pretty gotliic
house, with the village church by its side; a range of fer-
tile meadowland in front, and God’s quietacre behind. It
was altogether a place of rest.

“Yes,’) he said, as he stood under the porch, the green
leaves and the perfume of jessamine and twining roses on
the trellis-work each side of him, ‘‘there is the sweetness
of repose here.” a

The door was opened by a Servant, whose calm and
cheerful countenance told of kindly treatment in the
household. Wer very voice was different from the voice
of eae Servants, no nervousness, no trouble in it, as she
asked:

“Who did you please to want, sir???

“Tne Reverend Mr. Wilson.??

‘Will you step in, please ???

“Thanks,’?

The girl ushered him into a cosy room on the left hand
of the house—an old-fashioned apartment, witli heavy car-
tains, heavy farniture, and some rich oi! paintings on the
walls. There was a store of books in well-preserved vel-
lum binging—books of the past—books of the present—
books of the courlly days of Addison ana Steele, and
books of the time when Sir Walter Scott, cast a new spell
over the literature of the world—books selected by a
scholar, every one.

Perey was amusing himself with one of those things
seen in the days of our grandmothers—an album of varie-
ties—scraps of verse, rare and curious flowers, feathers of
birds, small, engravings; sketches in ofl, water, pencil,
and pen and ink, birthday impromptus, ete., when Mr.
Wilsen came in, fresh from the garden, evidently, for he
put his spade on the mat outside, and a pair of leather
gloves on a table in the hall—a quiet, unaffected gentile-
nts with the instinct of his sacred calling strong withio

lim.

“Mr. Wilson?!’ said Percy, encouraged by the smile that

 

greeted him,
“wYeg tr .

‘Percy handed the reverend gentleman his card.

“I saw an advertisement respecting a home—such a
home as I want and feel I should like.”?

“And 80° you came down,” smiled the clergyman.
“Well, I daresay we Shall agree. My. housekeeper wil) ar-
range the terms with you, and we had better see how we
get on together for a month.”

‘| think I could stay for ever,’ said Percy, with a deep
sigh. “I have not seen a place so quiet within my recol-
lection. You will require references ?’’

The minister looked him up and down.

“No. Itake you in good faith, and if you deceive me
the sin is yours, not mine.’

Percy bowed.

“When shall I see the housekeeper???

“Mrs. Morton will conduct you to your rooms presently.
During your stay here -you will consider yourself one of
the family.”

“With pleasnre,??

“We have prayers at eight in the morning, and in the
evening we have readings, in which you can take part if
you care to. There is the Bible’—and he jaid his hand
upon the great book on the table-—“and, there are the
stories told by the men whom the Bible taught to write;
for it is one of my fancies,” he added, with a smiie, “that
the Book has been the chief teacher of literature, the crea-
tor of poet, historian, and novelist.’?

“It never occurred to me,’ said Percy; ‘for, I regret to
say, I have not been a deep thinker; but I can easily agree
With:you now.’?

“Yes, in my impression, it inspired Milton, taught By-
ron to write ‘Childe Harold,’ gaye us the glowing pages
of Walter:Scott, the tender pathos and gentle satire of
Dickens, the exquisite depth and kindly humor of ‘hack-
eray; and Shakspere was no heathen player, or he could
not have given us an Opheliu‘and.a Desdemona, or such
sweet creatures as Cordelia and Rosalind.??

“You have not made the Scriptures your sole stady, Mr.
Wilsom?”?

“All these are Scripture indirectly, Mr. Falkland; rivers
of human divinity from the sacred ocean.’? ‘

“J am glad I came here,’? said Percy, taking his hand.
“Tama child as yet in the way J should like to go; and 1
shall not find too stern a teacher’?

“Do you require teaching ?’?

“Very sadly.”

‘Well, then, you have Heaven, and this book, and na-
ture; and my humble efforts, under grace, are at your ser-
vice most earnestly.’ .

The Reverend Mr. Wilson saw what kind of man he had
to deal with, and he did his spiriting gently. He rang for
the housekeeper, and she conducted Percy to his room
—a small apartment with a snowy bed, white curtains at
the window, green trees waving outside, and the pure
breath of country air coming in, i
“f want to arrange terms,’ said Percy, taking ont his
purse, “if you will tell me, please.’’ ‘

He was himself surprised at the change that had come
over him—the gentleness with which he spoke.

The terms were moderate fora gentleman of means—
eight pounds a month for everything. He placed a five-
pound note and three sovereigns on the table, and then
felt that for & month at least that quiet home was his. .

 

CHAPTER LYVH.

BY THESBBDSIDE.
When Percy was gone, the elder Falkland remembered |
his instructions, and, Outeof respect for the sorrow of his
son aud for the misery caused to the Wests, he proceeded
toact upon them. He instructed his solicitor, Mr. Brad-
ley, 10 see West, and offer him the two thousand pounds
on condition of emigrating.
He did not take Bradley too deeply into his confidence.
The marriage of his son with Fanny was still a sore
point. with him; it was known to few as yet, and he did
not wish thefew to increase. _.
“The girl dead,” Falkland thought, “and the whole
family out of the way, Peicy will come back and marry a
lady, ag he ought to have done at first.’
The solicitor was naturally,curious to know why such
an immense sum of money was to be offered to a work-
ing family, and Falkland made a desporate effort to tell
Mm. ERR is
“You see, they had a daughter,” he said, abruptly; “a
girl who got into trouble with my son, and she drowned
herself. That’s the whole of it; and I-want to make the
poor people some recompense.??
The lawyer .was &@ man of the world, and the incident
was commonplace enoughto him. He had arranged a
great many delicate matters of that kind, but he had not
dealt with the parents of girls who drowned themselves,
or with men who paid so liberally as Falkland did. In his
experience, girls did not drown themselves. The broken
heart lived on content with a small income, till it grew
worldly and reckless with the rest; and if the good life
turned into an. evil.one, the girl herself was to blame.
Such is the philosophy of man in reference to woman-
kind. on ‘
“I had better see. this Mr. West in person,’’ said Brad-
ley. ‘Will. he comehere, or shaliilgotohim?? | j
“I had rather you went to him. The fact is, the poor
girlis now lying.dead, and I want to be as kind as1 can,
to the people. Tellthem they shallhave a thousand
pounds 10 start with, and the second thousand when they
arrive out. They must go to the colonies.”
“Or America, I suppose ?”? é -
“No. America is not far enough away. They must go
to Australia, or somewhere like that. The money will be
placed in your hands, Bradley, and J leave you to deal
with them.?? ; ie

Mr. Bradley dealt with them by going that same day to
the terrace in Camberwell tosee the. carpenter, The
blinds were down and the house was qniet. The lawyer
felt for those poor people whose life had care enongh in
its toil without the sorrow of seeing their. children led
astray. He asked to see Mr. West alone, and Mr. West
saw himin the parlor, with its neat furniture and the
piano, on which still stood a vase of faded flowers gath-
Hea from the garden and placed there in their bloom by

anny.

**l am instructed by Mr. Falkland to make an arrange-
ment with you,’ said the lawyer, going to the point at
once, and glad that he had that subaued old man to deal
with instead of some revolutionary, independent Briton,
such as he had drawn in his imagination; ‘he wishes to
make you:a handsome recompense.”’

“Yes; I've heard of that before,’ said old Bill, bitterly.
It was ‘recompense’ when they took my child away; re-
compense when she came back again, with shame and
sorrow on her pretty face; recompense and recompense
for everything—-as if such, recompense could give her
back to me.”? — oe : ;

Mr. Bradley heard him through in silence. It was not
his business to discuss the morale of the case; he had
simply to make an offer of money.

“Mr. Falkland thinks you would do better in the colo-
nies,’? he went on. ‘'He suggests. -

‘7 daresay, and much obliged to him. He would like
to get us out of the way, and haveit aliforgotten. Thank
you all the'same, sir, but wedon’t want his recompense
nor his advice. What’s done can’t be undone; and we
have got to bear it.”

“Hear me out,’”? please,’? said the solicitor. ‘He re-
grets as deeply a8 you do that the sad affair had such an
unhappy termination. You are, of course, aware that
you have no claim upon him ??

“T don’t Know, and I don’t want to know,’’ was the
sad reply. ‘I was a good and faithful servant to him for
more than thirty yeas. I’ve nursed Master Percy many
atime when his father used to live at the house in the
yard, and Tnever thought they would serve me like
this.?? :

“Iris hard to bear; but Mr. Falkland desires to lighten
‘the burden as much as he can. Yon have a large family,
Mr. West.??

“No more than I can keep, please the Lord.”

“You have sons.”

‘The best lads going—sensible and strong enough to
hold their own anywhere.”

“Well, then, see what agood thing it would be for
them if, instead of remaining ‘here in England, where
where work is always uncertain, you emigrated to the
colonies, where you can have forty acres of land for each
of them, and a grant of, perhaps, two hundred for your-
self, with the money Mr. Falkland proposes to'give you.
What do you think of a thousand pounds, Mr. West?”

It was 2 sum Mr. West had never dreamed ‘of possess-
ing, and he pondered over it. He knéw what a help it
would be to the boys; but he clung to the old land that he
knew so well—the localities in which his children had
been born and reared,

“A thousand pounds to start with,’ said Mr. Bradley,
wondering that the carpenter did not close eagerly with
an offer which must, to him, have appeared magnificent;
‘and a second thousand when you are Settled, a8 you
may require it. With such asum, Mr. West, and the help
of your stalwart sons, it will be your own fault if, in five
years, you are not a rich and independent man.” ‘

“It would be a good thing for the boys,” said old Bill;
“and if they went, we should all go, for I shouldn’t like
to part with them; neither would missus.”

“And you must admit, Mr. West, that, considering the
elder Mr. Falkland was in no way to blame for the wrong
committed, he treats you in a very generons spirit.”

“Yes, sir. He does his best, and it’s more than I ex-'
pected of him; and somehow, since this thing’s happened,
1 don’t care so much for England as f used to. I used to
think I should Jike to live and die in Lambeth; and then
when I came here 1 never wanted to move ayvain. But
the neighbors got to know, and J don’t like to be looked
at going in and coming out.”

“A very natural feeling, Mr. West; one that does you
credit. Then 1 may tell Mr. Falkland that you accept luis
offer, and are prepared to start soon ?”?

“Yes, sir. If we go at all, it may as well be soon.
There’s the boys to be taken from their situations, and
Bill to resign the fire-escape; and, altogether, it might be
done in @ month.”

“Then, Mr. West, a thousand pounds will be placed at
your credit—a check-book supplied you for the Loudon
and Colenial Bank.’

“What does that mean, sir ?’? i
“Tt means that you will have a letter of credit from th
London branch, so that when you arrive out you can draw
the money just as if you were liere. *Of course, you would
not think of taking such an immense sum witn you on
board an emigrant ship, at the risk of being robbed of it.”

“No, sir, I like the other way best. And tell Mr. Falk-
land, please, that I don’t bear him any ill will, and that I
hope Mr. Percy will be sorry for the wrong he done me,
and be a better man for it.”

“JT will teli him all-you say, Mr. West.”

“Thank you, sir.

“Good afternoon.”?

“Good afternoon,” said old Bill, holding out his brewn
hand, which Mr, Bradley, out of respect to’ the two thous-
and, just touched with his delicate fingers. *I should

 

 

like to be, more grateful, if l could; but, you see, ‘1 can’t
help thinking ofthe poor girl? § ©) 5 »

The solicitor went away, reflecting. He had looked at
the peor so long from the peor 0ué honest point of view,
that he was surprised to see an almost worn-out work-
ing man think more of his child than such a sum of
money. ie : ;

“T have known a father sell his child, a husband sex
his wife, for less,” he said; “and here is a working man
who would rather be poor with his daughfer than rich
without her.? . e

By a curious circumstance,—a delicacy on the lawyers
part, and a reluctance on West’s to say more than was
necessary Of the matter,—it was not mentioned that Wan-
ny still lived. Hach had spoken of her in such terms as
left anyone who thougnt her dead open to retain the im-
pression; so, when Bradley went to Falkland to tell lim
the result, and Falkland saia—

‘rhe girl is really dead 71

Bradley answered—

“Yes,’? in perfect faith. | ' ae

‘Wt is a large sum te give for Percy's folly,’? said. Falk-
land, “But the money will be tng ultimately, and he is
only making just reparation. It will be a long, time be-
fore he is a happy man.’ i

When old Bill told his family what had occurred, they
were delighted, and the elder Falkland came in for much
praise. They had the justice t @ that the builder was
doing his best to atone for Pert

  
    
 

| Wrong.

“Tnere’s nothing I should lke bet e aid young Bill,
‘if Susan would go with me. if she won't go, I
don’t.” : ee Bees :

“That's wrong, Bill,” said West, ‘If your consin Sue
cares for you, you could not have a better way of trying
her. A giri who loves a man will go with him anywhere
and everywhere, Stay at home, and you wili ouly bea
fireman, with a pound or thirty shillings a week all your
lifetime; go abroad and you will-be a rich farmer, with
your own sheep and oxen, and a horse to ride. Sue
isn’t selfish, she will marry, and go with you.’’ é

“But if Sue would rather have me at home on a pound
a week, and be content??? _ 39 ;

“It's a good feeling as far as it goes, but it’'don’t go far.
A pound a w2ek won’t keep a family of children, and
that’s to be thought of.??

“You are right, father; that’s the way to 100k at it.’

And so Bill made up his mind to go with Susan, or
without her, d wF% . ee.

Arthur was at home with his mother in Paxton-street
when Mrs. Wilson received’ a letter. from Mrs. West, in-
forming her of what had taken place, The spelling was
bad, and the letter was written with thick ink and a brit-
tle steel pen, but the pathos of the mothers heart showed
throughout, ees TH Ye *

Mrs. West wrote at Fanny’s request. - Poor Fanny
yearned to have her kindly friend near her in this hour of
need, She felt that the calm power of Mrs. Wiison would
give strength to her, and she wanted the clasp of that
kind hand in her own. She wanted the quiet earnestness
of voice that always reassured her,

“Write to Mrs. Wilson, mother,’”? Fanny had said, faint-
ly, when Mrs, West made her first visit. ‘She was so
kind to me, and I should so much like'to see her.’?

So Mrs. West wrote to the best of her abilitys; She had
never had much time for reading or writing since she
married, She had never known what it was to’ be with-
out a baby in the house, and the only Jiterature slie could
indulge in, was Lloyd's paper, which Bill West read. to her
through his speétacies every Sunday morning.

it was, perhaps, twenty yearssince Mrs. West had taken
her pen, in hand, and in twenty years her spelling and
caligraphy had not improved; yet the tender soul speke
inthe scratched and spattered writing and the broken
sylabies: 4 ¥ otad dead

“DEER MRS, WIESON:—My pore Fanny, who. isin the
horspitel, asked me to rite te you fore you to cum and se
her. Inead nott tel you that her trubble ae Mr.
Percy Falkland, becorse you no it, but she had a letter
from him, and wen she had it she went out and tride to
comit suicide in the river, because her pore heart was
broken,'pore girl, and 1 hope God will forgive him, thovgn
Ll must not say a wurd agaist him, for though hees bro-
ken her heart she love® him a8 mutch as ever, which wee
who have husbands of our own Can feel for ler; so, if
you Wil, pleese to cum.—From your grateful and obedient
servant, CAROLINE WEstT?!!

Mrs. Wilson read that letter; and if she smiled, it was
not at the writing, but in sad sympathy with the writer.
She would not tell Arthur yet; he wasso happy in hisnew
found joy.

She took a cab and went to Camberwell. Mrs. West
opened the door to her. Arthurs mother took the poor
old lady in her arms, and kissed her in kindly pity. ©
“We must go and see our darling,” she said; “and take
baby to her.. Is this the day?” i
Mrs. West sobbed an affirmative.
could have cried too, but she felt

ahs

Arthur’s mother
her own strength

  

| of soul was needed to support the un! ght, humbie wo-

man who could not so well bear the trial.

Mrs. Wilson said but little, though she felt much more
than she cared to say, as yet. She knew better than they
did the ordeal that Fanny would have to go through when

The simple-minded carpenter and wife were not aware
that Fanny, by. attempting snicide, had made herself
amenable to the law.

They went to the hospital in Mrs. Wilson's cab; old Bill
West carrying baby, and Mrs. Wilson keeping the hand of
Fanny’s motner locked in hers all the way. Some talis-
manic influence on'the doctor’s widow’s part gained so
large a@ party admission to the patient. Doctor Wilson
had been well known and respected at the institution, and
his widow was received with every courtesy.

The kindly honse-surgeon took care to have the ward
cleared when they entered, and there was mo interruption
to the sad view. : ; ial Vola neuter elo
“ Mrs. Wilson’s heart ached when she went to the bed-
side; and, lifting Fanny’s head to her breast, said:
“Frances, my poor girl—my darling!”

She spoke the more tenderly, for, having exchanged a
few words in private with the surgeon, and he had told
her that, though they had done their best, the poor girl
was not out of danger yet.

The lithe group by the bedside saw it when Fanny
stretched out her faint arms for her baby. The stricken
heart was well-nigh broken, and she felt that death would
have been a mercy. 4 5

‘(To be continued.) ta ie
we a eee ae

Our Knowledge Box.
A FEW PARAGRAPHS WORTH REMEMBERING,

QUESTIONS ANSWERED AND INFORMATION WANTED.—
Leonidas.—We know nothing of the person named. See answer
to A. B. C..”? and others, in No, 8.....; Dave Crocke,—1. Nitrate
of silver, common salt, each thirty grains, cream of tartar,
31-2 drachms, Mix, moisten with cold water, and rub on the
article to be silvered. 2. Pat into‘a erucible ‘two pounds of
lead, and when melted throw in one Nebo tin. Wher heat-

 

   

    
   
  
  
  

ed by a hot iron and apphed to tinned iron with powdered rosin
it acts as a cement or solder.’ There 18.0 Yy one general
office. Vhe others are branches, and a Hed:

JI. C. D. C.—To Krxgep House PLants Wr
old bed quilt, put it on the fleor, and
in the center. Set a stand over thein, and
over the top. If any of the pjants are :

2 Sf Beye se
Pine Sake” a
phe its gother
bd thoraanit up
sensitive’ to the

e

cold, @ newspaper pinned aroused them w 2 bean additional
protection... 2... Willie Addis and Tinker.—We expnot .isterm
GUS sc. Aljred.—To Stain Woop A MAHOGANY » bait to-

Ml } » ba
gether Brazil-wood aml alum, and betore at ies ane l to the
wood a Jittle potash is to be added to it.’ A suit Varnish for
wood thugtinged may be made by dissoiv sy in oill of
turpentine, m:xed with a small portion of linseed or, |
no recipe for the other color asked for, buts
lowing for ebony-black. Steep the wood f
in Jukewarm water in which a ye at 2

4

  
   

toen put a handful of logwoed, fy sInto a pinto

and boil it down. to less than half'a it. Hea dite indie o is
added, the color will be more beautiful... Spread ailayer of his
liquid quite hot on the wood with a pencil, which willgive .*a
violet color. When. itis dry, spread, on another fay oni dry it
again, and give it a third; then boil verdigris at aisc ie in its
own vinegar, and spread a layer of it on the wood; when it is
dry, wet it witha brush, and then with oiled chamois’ skin.
This gives a fine black, and imitates perfectiy the color of
ebony....-. Okie,—Accept our thanks for your suggestion........
Thunder.—See Nos. 12 and 4..;.... Reader.—See No. 48........ Red
Bill.—Lemon juice and salt,......J. £7. S.—Take. warm baths fre-
Quwentl yw... ay. 1 aa pen oor sell you..... .. Md, W.'C.—OnIL-
BLAINS.—A0D OUnC of white copperas dissolved in a quart of wa.
ter and applied to tl affected parts, before the biains break will

You Bett.—l. To Mix MusTaRD FOR THE Tapir. Take mustard
three parts, salt.one part, mk with hot water. In the opinion
the flavor. 2. Glycerine.’ 3. SarsaPaRi.ua is a root, and comes
root are communicated to water, cold or. » but are impaired
by long boiling... Mary Emma.—We think ‘they. will. ....Post-Of-
Jjice.—Redness of the nose is sometimes caused by a torpid liver.
In such a case some active medicine may prove beneficial.
| Bathing the face in warm water helps some persons afflicted as
youare. ‘Try it....P, 8. P.—Pickirep Saumon: Clean the sdimon
well, but donot sealeit. Boilin water strongly salted, some
cocks say a brine strongrenongh to bear an egg.) Then orain

until next day, To one qhart of the water in which the salmon
was boiled—of* whieh, there should have been only just enough
to boul it—allow two ae of the best vinegar, one ounce of
whole black pepper,

mace. Boil these in a closely covered Kettle. When the pickle
thus prepared is entirely cold, pour it over the salinon. Cover
closely, and it will Keep for months... Not for Joe the Fourth.—
You will find a general answer to your question in our reply to
“A, B. C.,” and others ‘in No, 8, but in’your case we would ad-
vise youto ask the same questions of a physician....J.—Yes....
Vushti.—Three-fourths castor oit; one-fourth spirits of anrmonia.
Sufferer.—Cotp Fret.—Bathe ‘your ieet in cold. water every
nigot just before reMelNE Then rub them with a coarse towel
till they are in a glow, Oo this for a week or two and you will
no longer complain of cold feet.,....Jokn 7 Reilly.—FRost-b1t-
TEN Fert.—Rub them well with kerosene oil...... Poughkeepsie.
-—Ether will remove the stains fromthe Empress cioth, aud
benzine will elean your kid gloves. Apply with a sott sponge.
Tom Thumb.—\. See answer to ‘A. B. C.,” and others in No. 8.
2. Salt and water, 3 We cannot tell you......J0e.—See No. 9..
A Suferer.—l. We know nothing of the ¢fficacy of the urticle
advertised. 2. See answer to “Diamond,” in No: 14. 3. We
cannot say..... Meee Unfortunate.—Consult a physician. Delays
are dangerous.......... Lawson.—Suck a lemon or two every
day......6. D. BE. X.—\. Work bard all day.. 2. We cannot tell
VOW. geese W. H. J. S.—1. Lave your face in spirits of wine.
2. Wash your hands in warm water, and uve glycerine soap...

Norrisiown.—See No. 50.......,..4. X X.—Use a little mercurial
ointment. You can procure it of any druggist...... W.—No....
ontague.—To Cure Catrarru.—The following recipe is recom-

mended: Split half a pound of yellow dock root, and dry it in
an oven; take four ounces each of dried dDiood, root and scoke
root, one ounce of cinnamon and half an ounce of cloves, pow-
der them all fine, and mex well together} use it ds snuff eight or
ten timesa day, ano sweat the head with an infnsion of bem-
lock boughs, brandy and camphor. Four a little camphorated
spirits in the hot water, to cause perspiration. ..... Queer Cuss.—
Your deatness may be Caused by wax in the ear. If so, saturate
some cotton with glycerine and place it in the ear. Resew
every day till the wax softens, and then eleanse the ear with

 

castile soap and water......J. Mf. M.—Chew charcoal occasion-
alliig gy u Boise. —Pat in alittle rosin. ..... W. D. M.—See Nos.
an a

 

 

from the warm Jatitudes of South ene bie Rigor virtues ef the.
204

she recovered; and she meant to save her from it, if pos-
“sible. - “ , I

prove efficacious. \ If applied afterward it might result 1m seri. |
ous injury. Glycerine, when chilbiains first appear, 13 often |
used very beneficially...... girues nalhpep, your feet: warm.:4.... §

of many a small quantity of the essence ot cayenne improves —

it; when done, wrap itinadry cloth, and set itin a cool place —

e grated nutmeg, und adozen blades of |

nt secant

patties oa

sites

Ham

STUN SRM

Kent cen

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

aS a ae eR

 

 

 

PADD,

 

New York, March 30, 1871.

RAN

 

 

 

The Terms to Subscribers:

     
 

-eiich.
ressed to
& SMITH, PROPRIETORS,
‘No. 65 Futton Street,'Ni"Y: (Post-office Box No. 4896.)
FITS BE we 44

 

j The New YorxKk: WEEKLY igs Printed at PRESTON’S
‘Great Press Room, 27 Rose street.

NEXT WEEK!
| Abner Holden’s Bound Boy,

0.

 

 

+.

m Oe 9

“THE POOR RELATION.
_ ©. By HORATIO ALGER, Jr.

Mr d yor has achieved @' brilliant reputation as a
writer of juvenile stories, and his “Ragged Dick,”
“Mark the Match Boy,” ‘“* Rough and Ready,” “Ben
the Luggage Boy,” ‘‘Frank’s Campaign,” ‘Luck and
Pluck;” etc., etc., have not only hada very large sale,
but have been pronounced by critics of high reputa-
tion as unequalled in the epecial field which they
ocsupy. They are so life-like and effective, and their
Aélineations of character so admirable, that they
_haye been read by all ages with equal delight, hay-
ing the rare power -ofvinteresting the old and the
“middle-aged, no lees than the young, for whom they

“were specialy written. :

_ . The new story which Mr. Alger has written for us

 

which have won him the reput:ition which he enjoys.
Our réaders can scarcely fail to become interested in
the brave young herd, and to sympathize with him
in his resistance. to the tyrannical taskmaster. whose
signal discomfiture they will enjoy. Their curiosity

becomes his friend in need, They wiil rejoice in his

the rich rela‘ ions, who.stand coldiy aloof, b
| We contid ently predict that _
: oy “pa er ‘4 s : s 3
Abner Holden’s Bound Boy
_-will-add to Mx. Alger’s® already hgh reputation, and
satisfy our readers that, in adding his name to the
list of brilliant writers’ whose best efforts grace the
columns of the Naw Yorx Wxrxuy, we have merited
n fresh proof of our determina-
W YorK WEEKLY the best paper

peal tad
+597 ie

 
   

:

 

| BY WILLIAM H. KEAL,

 

number of our correspondents ‘iS’ directed, was written
by a gentleman who has traveled. through the region

' Statements made therein ae
» These fields, which have of late attracted considerable
attention, Pip slnoied to the north of the Cape Colony,
beyond the nge River, and contiguous 10 the Free

| State and Transvaal Republics, .
Public notice was first..dra to them in na 1868,
when several diamonds.of. value were found. These were

« fowarded to. London for disposal, and a gentleman (named
Gregory) was sent out by a banking firm (Emmanuel) for
_ the purpose of giving a description of the geological for-
mation of tle country, where they were stated to have
been fonnd., His.report was’ adverse, his opinion being
that from the nature of the country diamonds could not
be found 1 aah Gallia that, if found there, they must
have been ‘pince there by designing speculators, whe
were fully aware nto. Done Manas they would eventually
fall, or that they had beén pic up by ostriches farther
up in the interior of the country, and dropped by them.
Both these theories were scouted by the Cape public at
the time. Diggers arrived fecnd alt parts and the tract of
country, which was-formerly a ing wilderness, never
trodden by man, save Mow and then by a few of the wan-
dering native tribes, became: a scene of bustle; numbers

of canvas tents and wooden.sheds now cover the Space,
and from the latest) advices (Jan. 4,71) it would. appear
that there are at least from 7,000 to 8,000 persons congre-
gated there, ‘with constantly mcreasing arrivals; the ma-
jority have come from Cape Colony and the neighboring

republics, many from England and Australia, anda few
from America, - -

The two principal parts. of the colony where vessels
touch are Cape Town and Port Elizabeth, and even in the
colony itself cons

erable’ discussion exists as to which
is best. Both have its advantages and
ages; but ,on the whole the Journey from
g [ : Sidered preferable en the ground of
‘comfort. venience. The distance is abont 656 miles.
~The int anSport Company dispatch spring-wagons,
beautifully fi ip, Weekly from Cape Town, and guar-
antee to. form the journey in nine days at acharge of
£15.12.0, the company supplying substantial food, but
muking a@ reduction to parties who prefer furnishing their
o yn provisions. One hundred pounds of luggage is
2 Jowed each passenger and one shilling per pound extra
Charged exceeding that weight. In addition to this con-
yeyance wagons, drawn by mules, leave the city at inter-
vals ofafew days, The route by Pert Elizabeth is some-
what lesa than that via Cape Town, but the means of ob-
taining transport are not su frequent.

Your readers are probably aware that a dispute exists
as to whom the fields belong—the Free State Republic, the
Transvaal Republic, (recently, I believe, recognized by the
American governient,) and the native Griqua chief, Wad-
erboer, being claimants. The matter is at present under-
going investigation, though it is generally admitted that
the decision will be rendered in favor of Waterboer ; and
as he and his tribe have already solicited British protec-
tion, it is not unlikely that the diggers will be under Brit-
ish goverment. Pending this decision, however, 2 British
Commissioner, Mr. John Campbell, has been appointed
Jor the fields, to watch over the interests of British sub-
jects. . He arrived there on the 13th Dec., 1870. The Free
State authorities some time previously dispatched a mag-
istrate there, but he was unceremoniously ferried over
the’ river Vaal, and would most certainly have been
ducked into it were it not for the presence of some bet-
ter disposed persons. Both the republics are settled by
Dutch people, and rivalry naturalty exists. The diggers
are, however, quite able to protect themselves without
extraneous ai

The principal stations at the flelds are Klip-drift, Victo-
‘Yia, Priel, Good Hope, Hebron and Gong-gong. They em-
brace an area of tilty miles. The climate during the
summer months, 1s very sultry. Fever is then very prev-
lent, aad water bad—the most suitable months for dig-
ing béing from March to October. The soil is sterile ex-
cept in the immediate néighborhood of the Vaal River;
stunted bushes, reeds, and here and there large spots,
pertectly destitute of vegetation, predominate.

There isimo doubt: but, that numbers of diamonds are
found, although not more than are reported in the colo-
nial papers, where sonleare evidently enumerated twice,
and oftener. kt appears from, Custom House statistics re-
ceived by me, thavduring the year 1869, 141 were shipped
from Port Blizabeth alone, valued at. £7,405;.and during
1870, 5,661, valued at £124910—making a total of 5,802 for
the two years, at a valuation of £132,315—this statement

ve ne valued at £11,500 (‘Star of South
$tiall Parcels; in ten weeks from
242 worth of diamonds were
fortnightly mail steamers.
f the numbers found; many
ich are not made public by
the finder safety. Searching for these
| precious stones is purely a lottery. In a letter which
reached me recentiy, dated; Victoria ‘Camp, 12th Novem-
ber, 1870, the writer says; ‘‘I: have now been here two
months, and ree nly found one diamond 13-8 carats,

worth about £5--small compensation forthe hardships a

fellow hasto. go through. I shull probably remain here

abont two years, although this is by no, means a lively
place. * * *) There are about eight thousand here, some
make fortunes but the majority get next to nothing. You
ho doubt get the Cape newspapers and the long account
of Diamond News. You must not believe all—they lie

Mostinfernally.”’ This \etter is from a person in whom

the fullest confidence can be pluced, and is confirmed by

reports from other sources. Individuals, after working

 
 
    
  

=

   
 

  
 

 
 
  
   
   
  
  
    

 

forravdodaeayes sland by
nis will conve “som ne

are no soni discovere
i

     

 

    

 

GhelWear single copy: fi0l. se 2. ai scsceves Three Dollars.
SNe STEW O COMES SMA oe MUU id Five Dollars.
ses © Potircopies ($2 CWSlCh Ae ts. siete Ten Dollars.
1h bots ae Tia cae pases Twenty Dollars.
: Those cendine darn Eins all sent at one time,
“willbe ontifled to’a yFRUE »/Getters-up of clubs can after- |

will be found no less spirited and effective than those ;

will be-excited by the mysterious forest ranger who |

final prosperity, due to his own exertions, and not to,

Diamond Fields of South Africa.
{The following article, to which the attention of a large |

' Rimself, and can therefore vouch for the truth of all the |

for months, often find nothing; some barely clear ex-
penses, while a few, perhaps one in two hundred, make
fortunes, 2

Fortune is very fickle, and nowhere is this better illus-
trated thanin digging for diamonds. Instances are nar-
rated of parties about leaving their claims in disgust who
have been prevailed upon to try dgain—they have taken
the advice and been successful. Particularly was this the
case with a Mr. Wheeler, a farmer or dam-builder in poor
circumstances, who had risked his all. He had moved to
the fields with his sons—stout, weil-built men, They had
worked untiringly, but without any success, and had de-
cided to leave, being thoroughly disheartened. At the last
moment a 56 carat turned up. Mr. Wheeler is now in Eng-
land. Similarly with others, several parties who have
incurred expenses for an outfit have returned deeply in
debt, relying upon charity for support to reach their
homes. These cases are not exceptional, but of frequent
occurrence.

In nearly all cases where parties have clubbed together,
dividing expenses and sharing profits, success has been
attained. The ‘‘Natal” party, for instance, composed of
about fifty individuals, have found diamonds to the
amount of about £150,000, amengst them one of 150
carats. ;

Many parties start with the idea that if they are not suc-
cessful in searching they can try their hands at working.
This is a mistake. At present it is extremely difficult to
obtain employment, and, if procured, one shilling .or
about twenty-six cents is received as remuneration for a
day’s labor. A properly organized company is, however,
being formed in London, under the title of the “South Af-
rican Diamond and Mineral Company,” with a capital of
£50,000 in 50,000 shares of £1 each, for the purpose of
working these fields; and when the company is in opera-

| tion, which may bein a very short time, there will cer-

tainly be a great demand for labor, and the unlucky ad-
venturers would then be able to take advantage of it.
Provisions are very high, the whole trade being in the
hands of a few individuals, and supplies have to be
brought from Port Elizabeth or Cape Town. Parties ar-
riving at the fields should have at least £10 at thelr dis-
posal to commenee with. i

The greatest good order prevails, and every assistance
is rendered to new comers. The diggers have established
an executive.council, elected by themselves, and presided
over by a president (Mr.S. Parker). Only one case of
murder has been reported and one of theft—in the former
instance no clue has been obtained to the murderer,
though robbery was the cause of it—in the latter the cul-
prit was ignominiously drummed out of camp, and in-
formed what he might expect if he returned.

A paper has been started called the “Diamond News,”
published weekly, and giving an account of arrivals and
departures, number of diamonds found, etc. Meetings
have also been held to obtain subscriptions toward build-
ing churches. Everything looks favorable at present on
the whole. Gambling is carried on to some slight degree
but there is a fear that this mania will increase, especially
if veterans from California and Australia reach this Gol-
conda. For the accommodation of miners a branch of
the “Standard Bank” has been established, where ad-
vances can be obtained on diamonds.

In conclusion I would add that the voyage from New
York occupies from seventy to seventy-five days,

_ HO
A New Petty Purloiner.

Nothing gives us greater pleasure than to supply co-
temporaries with new ideas; but we like to have our el-
forts appreciated and acknowledged. One of the obscure
sheets has a maniafor imitating the NEW YORK WEEKLY,
We can’t issue a poster, announce a taking title of a forth-
coming story, nor even make a typographical error in our
columns, but this petty concern rushes out a weak copy.
This persistent imitation is very complimentary to the
undeviating excellence and great popularity of the NEw
YORK WEEKLY; but the obscure sheet attempts to spoil
the compliment by claiming its paltry imitations as grand
original emanations from the wonderfully weak heads of
its proprietor—thus adding the sin of falsellood tothe
contemptible meanness of plagiarism. Ifthe proprietors
of the petty purloiner will send to the NEw YORK WEEKLY
office we shall willingly furnish them with a few fresh
ideas of the way in which honest, enterprising men suc”
ceed in business; and at the same time give them a copy
of a commandment which they appear to have over-
looked: “Thou Shalt not steal.”

Next week we shall give our nev friends a good puff.

THE LADIES’ WORK-BOX.

fA 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 ayrangement of the hair, etiquette—in short, any-
thing of especial interest to ladies.] :

Every season we read articles condemning the extrav-
agances of the time. Our grandmothers declare that it

 

 

 

to our grandchildren, that we were never allowed to
ter an examination of various works on habits and cos-
able woman as far back as 1631 shou!d have possessed as

much money as the father of the ‘girl of the period.”
Read, for instance, the following ' complaint of a lady’s

serving man, which he calls a “catalogue” of the devices

which he is commanded to provide: _

“Chains, coronets, pendants, bracelets, and ear-rings, »
Pins, girdles, spangles, embroideries, and rings, .. .
Shadomes, rebatacs, ribbands, rufts, cuffs, falls, . ,
Scarfs, feathers, fans, masks, muffs, laces, cauls, —~
Thin tiffanies, cobweb lawn, and fardingales, “7 > ~ !
Sweet sals, ryles, wimples, glasses, crumping pins, ©.
Pots of ointment, combs, with poking-sticks and :bodkins,
Coy fes, gorgets, fringes, rowels, fillets, and hair laces, ©
Silks, damasks, velvets, tinsels, cloih of gold, :
Of tissues with colors a hundred fold,
But in her tyres so new-fangled 1s she
That which doth with her humor now agree,

To-morrow she dislikes, &.

Then follows quitealong description of the fickle
changes of my lady’s taste, which tend to show that his
mistress did not differ much from our fashionable fair
ones of to-day.

Among the pretty garments for this season, we have
noticed a walking-suit of a kind of changeable material,
very prettily trimmed with black and white velvet, and
fringe. The underskirt 1s trimmed with one row of
fringe, headed by one row of white veivet, one row of
black, then another of white. The waist and over-skirt
are cut in one, and forms asimple tight-fitting, long
basque, open down the back from the waist, cut in long
points, which are theu tied together. Open shawl-shaped
sleeves, Waist trimmed to simulate a small cape, and
to match the skirt. This formsa very stylish suit, and
should be worn withahat trimmed with black and
white. .

For an over-garment, for out-door wear, the postillion
paletot of ladies’ cloth, or any light Cloth, is pretty and
simple. It can be cut from any half-fitting sacque pat-
tern. The front is loose, and the back half-fitting, and
slashed up the center, and at the sides. A bow and ends,
ora gimp ornament, is at the top of the opening at the
back. The sleeves are coat shape, cut open five inches in
the back. It will take one yard anda half of cloth, or
three yards of black silk, to make this sack; if would also
be pretty made of alpaca, to match suit of the same.

The sleeves of both cloaks and dresses are now so
much open, that it is necessary to have under-sleeves of
some description, to wear with them. ‘A pretty sleeve is
of white lace. The gathered cuif is framed in ruffles of
narrow black guipure. Another of white muslin has a
double cuff, formed of box-plaitings of muslin and black
lace. Black ribbon rouleaux.

A pretty bow of black silk 1s formed of four loops, with
two pointed and fringed ends.

“Emmie Sherwood B.’?—Long overskirts will be worn.
It depends upon the material; if your blue dress is pop-
plin, then trim it with satin, '

“A dmirer.’’—For mourning materials see our last week’s
“Work-Box.”? Flounce your dress, bind the flounces with
black silk, or the same material as dress. Have for street
wear the paletot described in this article.

“Mrs. Annie Burke.’’—Any druggist can furnish you
with tragacanth. This is inthe form of white or yellow-
isti Semi-transparent flakes, of great toughness, Steep a
piece of this in water, then boilit, until it acquires. ine
consistence of ordinary gum, Dilute as much of this as
you think you will need, and you will find it excellent to
stiffen silk, crepe, and other choice materiais,

“G, M.’—No, you cannot be very much so. ‘‘Five boys’!
are certainly enough to subdue all the surplus strength of
mind you may have had. We hope these boys will be
“strength”? to their mother, when she needs support.

‘Reader.”’—Joan of Arc wore points with a kind of
ie over them. Wesee her represented with a full suit
of mail.

“Carter Jack.’—Nothipg will curl the hair without in-
juring it. Pompadour style, that is the hair combed back
from the forehead, over a roll, is now in favor, and is
very becoming to round or full faces. Yes, black barege
will be'worn,-but notsomuch as the silk grenadines,
which material is cooler for summer. You write plainly.
For chilblains, stew pieces of the common cactus in lard,
and apply to the affected parts, and the reiief is sure.

“M. Grohey.’’—We are sorry to keep you waiting, but
please remember, that even if we receive your letter ask-
ing a question, just five minutes after our ‘“‘Work-Box”
has gone to press, we Cannot answer your question until
the next week. For evening wear it is considered more
stylish to have your dress en train; still many of our
}fashionable ladies wear short dresses to receptions and
parties,

You say you are a brunette, very fair, with black hair.
Then black will be very becoming to you, contrasting in
the most perfect manner with the complexion. All the
shades of dark brown are suitable. You can wear Claret,
dark russet, and crimson. Dark blue, green, or violet-
white, particularly in the evening, will be most becoming
to you. Gold-color or maize will also be suitable. . With
red, which also suits you, can be worn gold, white and
gray, orange, green, yellow, and black.

“Mrs, Bennet.”’—A trail dress las the underskirt two
yards long, which is trimmed with a flounce half a yard

 

deep in, the back, and graduated to the front. Three
raiues are set in to the bottom of the founce, and thre,

was not so in their young days, and we, in our time, say’
have such expensive articles when we were young. Af-
tumes, we have decided that the husband of a fasition-'

 

    
  

standing ruffles are; oove, with insertion set between,
with rows of bright biue velvet run through. The front
is trimmed all the way up. The overskirt very much
puffed in the back, with revers front and back, filled in
with rufiles, insertion, and -velvet to match skirt, with
wide velvet bows and long ends, trimming revers. Waist
square neck, with postillion back, Marie Antoinette sleeves,
finished to match skirts. A Swiss tunic is trailed in the
back, with apron front, and is circular shape. It is puffed,
and has insertion set in. ‘he apron is trimmed all around
with wide lace, a piece of insertion and puffs nine inches
deep, extend around the trail, whichis finished with fluted
ruffles. Sashes from each side, loop up the back to form
a panier. Long scarfs, attached from the shoulders,
form the sash. The front is square with bretteles to the
shoulders.

“Lina.”’—The costumeof a page consists of a pair of |

fall trowsers and a tunic nearly reaching the knees. The
Scotch costume is pretty—a bright plaid short dress, a
black velvet waist, a scarf fastened on the shoulder, and
tying at the waist, on the other side, plaid cap, red stock-
ings. I think you will fancy this more than the other
dress.

ee es oe

A RESPONSE.

Written on the Receipt of the New York Weelty’s ‘Rose Card.”

 

BY CLIO STANLEY.

 

Softly the sweet winds come and go,
All in the summer weather;

And down in my garden the lily-bells,
And violets bloom together!

And under my window a fragrant Rose
In the sunny air abiding;

When winter winds are blowing wild,
Can I find my flowers hiding?

The sweet breath of the violet blue,
Died in the chilly morning;
But the roses’ blush was deftly caught,
“My wee room °tis adorning!
You may sing in praises, sweet and clear,
Of buds the spring disclosés, ©
But Lenvy not your happy mood,
While I've my pictured Roses !

 

WHICH DID HE LOVE?

BY HELEN FORREST GRAVES,

 

 

The melancholy November twilight, bereft even of the
red glow of sunset, made the little cottage iook even
drearier than its wont; the fire smoked sullenly, and re-
fused, with a persistency peculiar to fires in the autumn-
time, to burn; the one lamp shed a sickly circle of radi-
ance round the room, and Millicent Grey sat with her pret-
ty head languidly drooping on one hand.

“T wish I was dead!’ said Millicent. ‘Do blow the fire,
Dolly. Do you want me to be choked to death with this
horrible smoke ?”” f

And patient Dolly, her younger sister, went obediently
down upon her knees, to try and coax the sputtering em-
bers into something like light and warmth.

These two sisters, left all alonein the world, were quite
unlike as sisters often are. Millicent was a beauty—a ripe,
rose-cheeked, diamond-eyed beauty, with a profusion of
golden curls, lips as red as sea-cora], aud a complexion all
snow and carmine; while Dolly was a Cinderella born—
rosy indeed, and not unpleasant to look upon, but that was
all. Nature had pw all the dainty touches and delicate
lines on Millicent. Millicent was a queenly damask rose,
y hue Dolly was but a homespun field-daisy in the garden
0 Ca

“My health will certainly break dewn with this tedious
sewing and odious housework!” wenton Millicent, fix-
ing her eyes steadfastly upon the little spirals of tlame
which were beginning to twist and braid themselves round
the logs of wood, asif wheedled into brightness by Dolly’s
breath. ‘I shall die young—but why shouldn’t 1? No-
bony cares for me /? :

Dolly jumped up, her face crimsoned with enacting the
part of bellows, and her brown hair powdered with fiakes
of ashes, and threw both arms about her sister’s neck.

“You shall not talk 80, Milly, darling! JZlove you—Jcare
for you!” : or:

“Domwt choke me!’ tartly responded Millicent. “You
are such @ great, rough creature, Dolly; arid”’—with a
half scornful survey of her sister—‘‘I do believe you grow
plainer every day! There’s one comfort, Dolly,’”? the ther-
mometer of her spirits suddenly rising a dozen degrees or

‘so, “I shall marry one day, and get out of this hideous

treadmill of work, but you’ll bean old maid forever.” .

Dolly looked rather discomtited. re en ees fF

- “But why shouldn’t 1 be married too?” she ventured,
somewhat timidly, to ask. ee a

“Because you are so dreadfully homely, child—isn’t that
reason enough 7”? on ‘

“But homely people do get married sometimes.”

“You never will, cliild,’? said the elder ‘sister, with a
gesture of disdain. ‘So there’s no use in wasting any
more words about it. Why don’t you get supper, instead
of standing there, when you know Il am perishing for a
cup of tea??? :

As Dolly went humbly about her domestic avocations,
hiding in her own breast the poisoned arrows of her sis-
ter’s words.

“ “Some people have all the luck,” sighed Millicent, as
she sat warming her pretty feet on the hearthstone, never
once thinking of offering to assist her younger sister.
“Now the man that has brought Thorntow Grange is our
second cousin, old Mr. Ellis says—only our second cou-
siun—and them he’s going to live in a perfect enchanted
palace of a place, and we sewing by the day in a shirt
shop. .1t’s a disgrace, J say.”’ eae
. “But you don’t expect him to divide his wealth with us,
Milly?” laughed Dolly, as she set a homebaked loaf upon

| the table, and proceeded to slice off sundry layers of

cheese.

“1 “It would only be just that he should,” said the elder
sister, sullenly staring into the fire. :

“But,” began Dolly, checking herself on the instant, as
a Knock sounded at the door.
“IVs old Jenkins come bothering about the rent again,”

'sdid Millicent, impatiently shrugging her shoulders,

“Tell him we havent got it, and won’t have it before
the Hirsh of next month, and send him about his busi-
ness. : ‘

The petulant burden of her speech was distinctly andi-
ble to thé néw comer, as Dolly opened the door, thereby
letting in a keen rush of November wind.

“But lam not old Jenkins,” he observed, good humor-
edly persisting in making his way in. ‘1 am your cousin,
Sidney Grey.”?

. Millicent jumped up, coloring as scarlet. as the few
leaves that yet lingered on the old maple tree without.
Doily stood staring in mute amazement.

He was a tall, well-looking man, of about thirty, with
a heavy brown beard and brilliant hazel eyes, where the
sparkles seemed to deepen when he spoke or laughed.
He apologized for his unannounced appearance, as he
seated himself, at Millicent’s somewhat embarrassed in-
vitation. . He had heard, he said, that his cousins lived in
the vicinity of the place he had just purchased, and as it
was natural enough to wish to know® one’s relatives, he
had availed himself of the very fine opportunity to intro-
duce himself to them.

Millicent who had grown gracious on the instant,
smiled, and assured him that no such elaborate apologies
were necessary.

“And,?? she added, sweetly, ‘we shall be charmed to
make the acquaintance of your wife, also.”?

“That will be quite impossible,” he answered, gravely.

Millicent slighty drew herself up.

“Because,” he added, “f happen to possess no such
charming appendage. 1’m an old bachelor, Cousin Mill.
cent.”? i

Millicent laughed and blushed and looked more beau-
tiful than ever in her confusion. And when Mr. Sydney
Grey, after having remained to partake of their simple
meal, took his leave at. last, the three had become excel-
lent friends.

“Isn't he delightful 2? cried Millicent, as the door closed
behind their guest. And then, with a sudden overshad-
owing of the radiant brow, she added, ‘‘And to think
that we have got te go back to shirt-making to-morrow
again.’ ; :

‘Millicent,’ said Dolly, coming close to her sister, “‘sup-
pose—iniud, now, I’m ouly supposing ———”

“Well?” impatiently interjected the elder.

“If he should fallin love with you, Milly, and marry
me you are beautiful, you know—wouidn’t it be
nice ;

‘“‘Nonsensel’? said Millicent—but she glanced compla-
cently toward the little glass between the windows as
she spoke. ‘Stranger things have happened though,”?

And she brushed out her golden curls more carefully
than ever, the next evening, und tied through thema
blue ribbon which was exactly the colorof herown
eyes. :

pone don’t wantto look like a fright, alzvays,” she
said, with a comscious laugh, us she cauglt. Dolly’s eyes
fixed questioningly upon her.

Sydney Grey seemed decidedly disposed to cultivate
the acquaintance of the two sisters who lived in the little
brown cottage under the maple-trees. He caine fre-
quently to see them; he took thei up to the Grange, ask-
ing their advice upon more than oneof the improve-
meuts projected there, and soon established a friendly
rapport between the two households,

And so theautumn leaves began to be hidden under
the white robe of the December snows.

“What are you sitting so silent and glum for?” asked
Millicent, one night, of her sister. ‘You promised to fix
over uty brown alpaca dress. I haven't a thing fit to
wear, if Cousin Sydney should come to take me to church
to-morrow.”? j

Dolly .started up, self-convicted of egotism and indo-
lence in the extremest degree.

“i was only thinking, Milly,” she faltered,

“Of what, [should like to know ?”

“Of how very lonely it will be here, when cousin Sya-
hey has taken you away to Thornton Grange.”

Millicent laughed,

“He hasu’t asked me yet, you little goose,” she said,
tossing her beautiful head.

“But he will; L know he will,” almost sobbed Dolly.
“You are 80 pretty, and no one ¢an help adiniring you;
but I shall be all alone, Milly, tell me one thing; cousin
Sydney does not quite dislike me, does he ?”

“I don’t suppose he thinks about you, one way or the
other, child,” said Millicent, somewhat impatiently,

“If you would only let me come to Thernton Grange,
and live with yon,” pleaded Dolly, “I would be useful,
and try not to make much trouble, and—and 2

 

 

“There, don’t cry, and make your nose red,’’ said Mrlli-
cent. “Of course that’s quite out of the question. Syd-
ney don’t expect to marry the whole family.”

And she went off up-stairs to her own room, leaving
poor little Dolly quite wretched.

She was crying softly all by herself, when all of a sua-
den, @ hand was laid lightly on her shoulder.

“Dolly, what’s the matter ???

And she looked up full into Sydney Grey’s kind, sympa-
thetic eyes. z

‘Nothing,” she faltered, “‘only—I’m so very, very mis-
erable.”

“Miserable, Dolly??? Mr. Grey sat resolutely down be-
side her. ‘Now you shall tell me all about it.”?

“T can't,” sobbed Dolly.

“You can, and you shall, Dolly; don’t cry. Every one
of your tears goes like a knife to my heart. Dolly, don’t
you know that I love you?”

She looked at him, in mute, increduious surprise.

“flove you!” he persisted, “and I want’ you for my
wife.. Will you come and be the mistress of Thornton
Grange?”

“But,” cried Dolly, uncertain whether she could rightly
trust her own ears, “I thought it was Millicent!”

“And Iam quite sure that it was'you, and only you, my
little demure Dolly.” its"

And this incorrigible second cousin would give Dolly no
peace, until she owned up, ‘fair and square,”? that she
loved him.” :

Millicent. came down stairs justin time for Sydney to

{ claim her congratulations.

“She has promised to be my wife,’’ he said, proudly.

“But you are to come tothe Grange, too, Milly,’ said
eager, forgiving little DoHy. ‘‘Sydney says he will not
separate us, and you: are to have that big south room,
with the bay windows.” i :

And Millicent listened, scarcely believing her own sen-
ses. But it was. all true, nevertiieless. Cinderella had
won the prince, but she would not be happy until Milli-
cent had kissed and congratulated her.

“You are a good little thing, after all,’’ said Milly.

“She is a pearl!’ asserted Sydney. And he was right.

-CHARLEY'S. DILEMMA.

BY LEE TRASK.

“Why, Charley,’ asked, ‘‘what is the matter now?” as
my friend, Charley Brent, entered my office, and threw
down his hat with the peculiar sling that I always knew
indicated some mental disturbance, ‘“‘what has gone
wrong with you this time??? :

“O, ’m if another scrape,’ he replied, with an at-
tempt at pat resignation that was quite absurd.

“What kind of scrape is it,—money ?”’

“Money, no—its girls, hang ’em, I believe they were
made just to torment a man’s life out.”

“Why what have they been doing now?”

“What they’re always doing—mischiey of course—I
wish they were all as ugly as Medusa, and then a fellow
might have some peace.” haw

“Well, but do tell me what this is all about???

“Why you Know I’m engaged out-and-out to Lilly
Arnold.” : ,

“No I didn’t know it before.”

“Well then, ’am, a regular cut-and-dried engagement
—ITlove Lilly and she loves me, parents willing, aunts,
uncles, cousins all ditto—but you see, New Year’s day I
made heaps of calls, and the women would have me
drink, whether or no. Champagne, whiskey, egg-nog,
and every conceivable make-a-man-drunk-mess, that you
can think of. So when I made my last call, I was kind
of—kind of—not tipsy, Will,”” he said, very gravely,
noticiug my look of incredulity, “I think that I have too
much self-respect for that, but I will admit to being
slightly set-up, My last call happened to be upon Nell
Blair, and she you Know, is just the neatest specimen of
female beauty that ever walked,”’

; ae know nothing about it, I never heard of her
efore.?

“Well, she is 1 tell you, the most unique pattern of girl-
hood you ever saw, great big black eyes, and hair to
match, curling in little ringlets all over her head, red
cheeks, and the kissingest lips. New Year’s night she
was rigged out in a way that made her fairly dazzling,
and you know we werealone, and she did look so all
killing pretty, that I lost my head, and swore I loved her,
and only her, and asked her to marry me, and confound
it,all didn’t she say yes? So here I am engaged to two
girls, so what in the name of everything that’s proper am
ito do?

“Migrate at once to Utah; you shameless follower of
bekuighted Mormonism.”’

“Don’t tantalize me, Will, but help me out of this
scrape.” :

- “How am I to do that, I would like to Know ?”’

“Why, go back with me at once to Earlville. ar ~ .ake
Nell Blair off my hands; you'll fall in love with uer just as
sure as you see her.”’

“But if she is so wonderfully captivating, how is it that |
you prefer Lilly ? Supposing that I should be contrary and
fall in love with her? ¢9-95

thee Will, 1 couldn’t stand that—but say won’t you
come??? |” t Sia ae

“Yes, Vl go,” I replied, as a wicked thought came in-
to my head; “I agree to the arrangement.”

“To fallin love with Nell?”

“Sertaiply; 1 consent to victimize myself upon the altar

 

 

 

‘of friendship.” pp

So the next day I went to Earlville, with my friend,
who took me at-once to see Nell Blair, anid 1 found that his
account of her beauty had not been exaggerated. She was
the most bewitching litte brunette imaginable, aud she
looked so running over with fin and mis@hiel, that it was
thoroughly infectious, and in @ few momeints we were
well acquainted. After sitting a short time, Charley got
up, saying, ‘‘Miss Blair, l am going to leave this young
gentleman in your hands, I hope that you will take good
care of him.” -

“Certainly,’) she replied, “I shall be most happy to do
go, but where are you going???

“QO, [have an engagement that i must keep. I shall
have to excuse mysel!,”” stammered Charley, looking very
conscious and sheepish, * you will pardon me, I hope.”

“Of course,” she answered, with a charming little toss
of her head; “good evening.’

As soon ag he had left, she turned to me and said:

“Mr. Weston, I want to ask you something a little
queer, may I?”

“Certainly, Miss Blair,” I answered, “what is it?”

“Does Charley Brent think that he is engaged to me ?”)

“Yes,” said I, “he does.”?

“And does he think that Ido not know of his engage-
ment to Liliy 2”?

“f imagine so.) ”

At first a look of annoyance stole over her face, and
then she burst intoa merry laugh, and I as heartily
joined her,

‘“Now,’? she continued, blushing and hesitating a little,
“did he want you to come here and take me off his
hands?” Here I am afraid that 1 looked sheepish in my
turn, for after staring at me pitilessly for a few moments
she went off into another burst of laughter that didn’t
prove contagious to me, however, this time. ‘Well,’ she
exclaimed, sgaucily, “Iam glad that he didn’t choose
some disagreeable, homely fellow anyway.’? I made a
bow, feeling very much pleased and flattered.

“Tam going to tell you now my version of the affair,
Mr. Weston; Charley told his. He was very drunk that
New Year’s night, although he did not get anything in-
toxicating here. Father told me that I might have wine,
if I wished 1t, but [ refused, because I think it is very
wrong indeed to tempt young men to drink. I tried to
make all the other girls promise not to have any, but only
aiew agreed to my request. Ido not see how women
cau urge men to drink, when they Know that many of
them do it against their wills, because they think it is un-
gentlemanly to refuse a lady.” «

“Miss Blair,” I answered, feeling surprised and de-
lighted to hear this gay and laughter-lovmg girl expfess
such sentiments, “you cannot imagine how much [ res-
pect and admire your principles, and if all ladies felt as
you do, I am sure that there would be less intemperance
among men.”

“Thank you,” she said, as the glorious color rushed to
her dark cheeks. ‘I was going to tell you about this very
silly affair. Mr, Brent came here very drunk, and offered
himself te me, Isaid yes, just to give him a little lesson,
for I knew that he was engaged to Lilly, and would feel
cheap enough when he came to his senses. And now I
am going to counter-scheme a little—I want you to fall in
love with Lilly.” :

“OQ, but I cannot possibly do that,’ I exclaimed very
earnestly, oS

“Just in fun, you know,”’’ she pleaded, that lovely blush
coming again. SoI promised to pretend that I was des-
perately smitten with Miss Arnold who would be there
at Nelly’s the next day, and after making an outrageously
long cali for a first one, I bade the young lady good-even-
ing, giving her hand @ very lingering pressure before I
left, for, to tell the truth, 1 had done just exactly what
Charley prophesied would be the result. I was desper-
ately ia love with the little brunette, but when I came in-
to my room the next morning bright and early, evidently
anxious as tothe result of his experiment, I affected
great indifference and said, ‘“‘Miss Blair is certainly a
very pretty girl, Charley, but you know admire blondes.”

fle looked quite crestfallen, as he said, “You're not go-
ing to disappoint me now, Will; I thought Nell would
suit you exactly, but she improves very much upon ac-
quaintance—you should hear her sing.” As soon as he
left me, I went to fulfill my engagement, and found Miss
Arnold wits Nell, as the latter had promised. Ske was
an exceedingly pretty blonde, with a pure, sweet face,
which to my mind, however, could not compare with that
of the ever-changing Gark-eyed beauty. “Remember your
promise,’? Nell whispered, as she introduced me to her
friend. “Why, there comes Mr. Brent,’? she exclaimed
aloud, glancing out of the window. I seated myself by
the fair Lilly, and commenced a low, earnest conversa-
tion, engrossing her attention so entirely that when Char-
ley entered, she could do no more than bow; He gave
me & quick look of suspicion, and was about to seat him-
self upon the gide of the lady. when Nell called him off to
show him something in the other room, and with evident
reluctance he followed her, casting back anxious glances
at me and my companion, which I pretended to be alto-
gether unconscious of. Iexerted myself to be very en-
tertaining and agreeable, but I must admit the unflatter-
ing truth that Miss Arnold answered very such at ran-
dom, as if she hardly knew a word that I was saying,

“Iam afraid,’ I said, “that Mr. Brent begruages me
the privilege that I am now enjoying.”

. “OQ, L don’t Know,’ she replied, blushing. “Most gen-
Memes are quite satisfied when they are enjoying Nell’s
society.

nette is very beautifal, certainly, I rejoined, “for a bru-

cecemecrors. Pama

“The most beautiful girl I ever saw’’—with a slight sigh,
for Nell was talkin now Very earnesthy, and playing of
the engaged air with amusing accuracy, although I am
afraid 1t was not at all appreciated by Charley. Site
would occasionally giveme a glance so full of suppressed
mirth that it was with great difficulty I restrained my
laughter. But my conscience began to reproach me a lit-
tle, for I saw that the veritable fiancee was feeling quite
concerned. Finally she rose to take her leave, and I, as
a matter of course, offered my escort, but Charley’s sharp
eyes had kept close Fe Ee ee Oe eat from _ his
companion, he strode across the room, and drawing Miss
Arnold’s arm through his, said, “Thank you, Will, I will
see this lady home myself; she will not wish to trouble
you. drteenins,' Ded a scckss
“Trouble,” I exclaimed, “do not call it by that nanie.”?

“By any name you please then,” he answered, now
thoroughly out of temper. “Miss Arnold will not require
your services.”’ Sab Shia te Ws a ae era EA

The moment they. were out of moeing, we gave vent to
our mirth, which was increased by seeing Lilly’s: little
head going in that peculiar way which always denotes
considerable excitement in’the speaker, and we could un-
derstand very well, that she was explaining her late
somewhat false position. © ’ od

“Do you think he has been sufficiently punished?’ 1
asked. akon. /

“I do not know about that. It does not seem tome a
very severe punishment to allow him the privilege of my
society awhile. Is it such a terrible penance?’ al

“A penance,” I answered, “that I would be willing to
submit to all the rest of my life.” Cs

She lowered her dark eyes at my earnestness, and
looked so lovely with the long lashes resting on her glow-
ing cheeks, that I arose involuntarily and seated myself
beside her. ee, : :

“Don’t you think that. I deserve a reward for following
out your orders a I did?” ~~ ; :

“In what way? What orders do you mean?” she in-

uired. :

. “Why, in trying to be agreeable to Miss Arnold when
I would so much rather nave been in Charley’s place.

“Many gentlemen would have considered it a great
privilege to enjoy for awhile the exclusive attention of
the beautiful Lilly.” ae, ; aan

“Not with Miss Blair so near, an2 yet so unattainable.

“Ah, Mr. Weston, you are a flatterer.”’ See

“Not atalls but don’t you know, Nell, that I have been
doing just exactly what Charley asked me to??? :

“What was that?” ee

‘Have you forgotten already?” I asked, putting my
arm around her. She did not resent my boldness very
seriously; but shaking her little finger in my face, said—

“So you want to take Nell Blair off his hands, really
and truly, do you?”

‘With all my heart.’’

“Hadn't you better wait awhile, until you know me
better? I have so many faults."?

“And so have l’—and I did what most young men
would have done under the circumstances. _

I did not see Charley again, from which circumstance I
knew that he was seriously offended; but I was not
much disturbed about it, feeling quite sure that it would
all come out right, as it did. I returned here, after lav-
ing exacted a promise from my darling to write to me
the'very next day. ‘The letter reached me at the time ap-
pointed, and in it she said :

“Mr, Brent has just been to see me, looking very much
embarrassed and rather foollsh. After numerous apolo-
gies, he informed me that he was under the influence of
liquor, (news to me, you know,) New-Year’s night, when
he offered himself, and that he must, in consequence, re-
tract all that he then said; whereupon I gave him a long
lecture upon drinking, that he listened ‘to very meekly.

“ ‘Now, Charley,’ I said, ‘I wish you would promise ne-
ver to take anything of the kind again.’

“ 4] have already promised Lilly,’ he replied. ‘It was the
condition upon which she granted her forgiveness. But,
Nell,’ he continued, ‘were you really serious when you
said yes ?? Bei

«Not any more than you were; but I was in earnest
when I said yes to Mr. Weston, yesterday.’

“J wish you could have seen his face, _

“ Why,’ he stammered, ‘I thought he preferred Lilly.??

“sAbout as much as you @id me.’ — mF

‘sThen you two were playing a trick upon me?’

“Yes, I didit to punish you for asking him to take me
off your hands.’ Will, dear, I hope you will never regret
that.” e

And I never did.

FRANK NEWMAN'S VICTORY.

BY JAMES G. LA ROE, JR.

 

 

 

“Let him be wherehe is, Tom. A big drunken beast—
he would not thank you for you help,’?? aud so saying,
Will Benson lookea with contempt on the apparently
senseless figure, which his friend was striving to raise.

“Very true, Will, but have a little mercy. Evidently he
has been on the road all night, and that isn’t conducive
to health, as you know.” :

“Pshaw! as if his life were of any good to him! A curse
to his wife and child, it were better for them if he had
died long ago,” and as Will Berison said this with much
bitterness, he moved a few steps further on.

“That’s all true enough; but Frank Newman was a
noble man once, and our schoolboy chum. Let’s set him
off the road and in some quiet nook, where all the village
can’t see him.”’ ne
_ “That’s all nonsense; it’s an old story with him. He
has no shame; why should you have for him?” and with
this argument Will Benson persuaded his friend to go off
with him. :

For full a minute Frank®*Newman lay where he was;
then he got up slowly but with a brain perfectly clear,

“Great Heaven, but it is too true. What a humiliation,
and from Will Benson, above all others! Yes; l am a
beast, but not aster to-day!”

There was a resolute expression on his bloated face
as he bathed itin a friendly brook by the roadside. Then
having brushed the dust from his coat, he proceeded on
his way, bitterly thinking. :

He had heard every word that was spoken by the
voices which had awakened him out of his drunken sleep.
Shane kept him silent until they had gone out of hearing.
He walked along, bitterly thinking, as I have said. Olden
memories were aroused within him by the trathful words
of Wili Benson. a

He had been happy and respected once. Of course, rum
had done all this for him. What .canitnotdo?  — —

“Ti it were only myself? But he haa to bring poor Nel-
ly and our child in. Poor Nelly! She has been so true
to me tnrough all my wickedness! You‘might have
béen Will Benson’s wite, but you took me. And to think
how I’ve treated you!’ at

With this recollection the big man sobbed. ~~

He was passing the village store when he bethought
himself of buying something to take home for breakfast.
He knew he had enough money about his person, and
he went in and made his purchases.

The next minute he was out on the road again, mov-
ing with a swilter pace toward home. He entered his
house almost on a run. Saas

A meek woman, With tears in her eyes, and a baby on
her lap, rose up to greet him. Nota look of anger greet-
ed him, but one of pity; and that look cut him terribly.

“T don’t deserve it, Nelly... You know what, Will Ben-
son called me? What Il am—a beast. But, before Heav-
en, Nelly, 1 won’t deserve that name after to-dayl’’ and
as poor Frank said this he threw the eatables on the ta-
bie, and went up to his beautiful young wife. aes

“Oh, Frank!” she could only sob, as she saw le was
perfectly sober. : a

What need is there of telling you the rest of that
meeting—when one woman learned of ‘Frank Newman’s

Victory’???
ere enh eit
Children’s Rights.

There’s plenty written, and more said about the rights
of nen and women, but nobody says anything about the
rights of children.

They are scolded and snubbed from morning till night,
and every body in the house seems to think they have a
right to vent all their surplus spite upon them.

In some families dogs and cats are kept on purpose for
the ill-natured members to Kick and put out. of doors
whenever a cross fit takes them, but in most families the
children answer every purpose of this kind.

Ifthe cook burns the bread she immediately declares
al] chiidren are a nuisance, and forbids one of us to show
our faces in the kitchen again for’a month.

Then, if Sarah Jane’s beau fails to come at the appoint-
ed hour she always asks nia if the children cannot be put
to bed, although why we are to blame for her disappeint-
ment is more than I can tell. ‘

But the worst of all abuses of chiidren’s rights is when
they are forbidden to turn the parlor chairs bottom-side
up to play horse with, and driven in disgrace from the
library because they were found playing soldiers and
throwing small books at each other from behind breast.
works of larger ones. And only yesterday the seamstress
boxed Anna’s ears when sie was trying on her dress,
because the dress wouldn’t ineet on the back.

But she gave us all ten cents to. buy candy with, if we
wouldn’t tell mother, and -we think she knows more
Svan the rights of children than anybody else in‘ this

ouse, a

Guess I’m a writer, now. owt

P. S.—I suppose mamma would say Va no right to
take her copying-paper to write to the newspapers on,
but I say it’s children’syrights to get what ‘tnéy want
without asking for it, if they have tried asking, and’ it
doesn’t work well. » CHICK-A-BIDDY.

4a> The bankers of Fall River, Mass., excite the cu-
pidity of pedestrians by displaying in their windows,

 

nine silver bricks, from Nevada, worth $8,000.
Las ereietieahedertloc
[NDIAN STORIES WANTED. Several Indian

- stories are Wailea inimediately. Nick Whites and
his Dog Calamity must be the leading characters in all of them;
and it is indispensably necessary that the hero and his dog be
continually the victims of “condemned diffikillies.”? The model
of the stories required will be found in the back numbers of the
New York Weekty, in which the genuine work originally ap-
peared. We would pnblish the original story were we not afraid
that Messrs. Srrerr & SmivH would have Us arrested for theft;
but as fear of the jaw prevents us stealing what does not belong
tous, we hope to evade Jegal responsibility dy resorting to a

 

 

———$$———L ee

bea we will steal the ‘hero, and place him in:new “con-
Gemned difikilues.” Address all manuscripts to en
LACKF@OT QUEEN & CO.,

 

New York WrEEELy Orrice,

 

 

 

technicality that conld only originate the brain of a patish

 

Sots cs:

eRe mee

 

7%

3a

Se
 

SS a ae =

ee

po ee

 

 

 

 

a
THE LORD’S PRAYER. «

 

BY C. W.

Our Father, Thou art to all that live

The source of life and goodness art,
And we so low, how dare we claim,

Like children, place within Thy heart?
Are we Thy children? ‘May we reach

“The ‘Army List’ will tell you that there is no such
hussar as Lieutenant Selwyn; though there 1s a Lieuten-
ant Talbot Selwyn Grey.”

Mr. Colchester bit his lip. ;

“It was an oversight on my part to mention it; but you
will respect his wish, Morice ?””

The clergyman consented gravely. He felt a natural
delicacy in saying what he felt. It would have looked
like rivalry on his part. 2

“Has your Mr. Selwyn been married before?!’ he ia-

 

 
  
 

“T see that.”

“So I thought to take a new identity—begin a new life.
The secret of our marriage is only Known to you and those
who will never recognize the Village girl, Miriam Med-
hurst, in the beautiful and, as I near, accomplished Lady
Selton. I was fond of her, but notasIlove Georgina.
Are both our lives to be sacrificed for the one error of my
youth?”

“It is very sorrowful |” ‘

‘What good can be done by revealing our secret?”’ urged

me THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. =>

 

 

 

 

tocome to me. Ishall write to his parents at Rylands,
and ascertain how far this is true.??

Mrs. Digby trembled. Was the brave gir! going to dis-
appoint her after all—act out her simple duty, and give
up her position as coolly as a waiting-maid would resign
a situation ?

“As to the man Miller,”? Miriam wenton, “‘he will have
to repeat his statement before a solicitor, who will be
sent to him at once. My course isclear. I must see your
Mr. Selwyn, and if I identify himas the man who was my

 

 

WIFE AND I.

 

BY HRS, M. A. KIDDER.

We have climbed the hill together,
Wife and L.

We have braved the wind and weather,
Wife and I.

And while God’s bright sun shines o’er us

The highest end of life that’s given? quired. Talbot. ‘I appeal to you, Mr. Morice. Georgina’s happi- | husband, I must leave Sir Henry to deal with him.” We will tread the path betoupits)
To glorify the Eternal Name, “Now? ress depends, like mine, upon your generous silence, so “But, my dear Lady Selton, consider the exposure, Without either frown or sigh.

Then be with Thee whkoart in Resta

  

“Nol? said Frank, repeating his father; ‘‘most certainly
not. He would have told me if ke had been.”

does Sir Henry Selton’s andhis wife's. There are four
lives that you can make wretched with a word—will you

when all could be settled so quietly.” _ :
“Settled, and quietly!” said Lady Miriam, with a bitter

We have ever been forbearing,

Hallowed, oh, Father, be Thy nanve; “Ig he not a Herefordshire man?” speak that word ?? smile. “Shalll’ecome the prey of an old proftigate’s Wife andI. |
So holy that no mortal tongue “Yes; he came from Rylands.”” “Never |? valet and you, M:s. Digby? Be at your mercy, and have Mostly for each other caring,
3 “Singular,”’ observed the clergyman. “Thank you! thank you, from my soul !? the refusal of ev zry fresh extortion answered by a threat? Wife and 1.

May dare to breathe but reverently
In sacred speech or sacred song.
Dark night and death brood o’er the lands
Where Liberty ne’er found a home,
Speed Thou the holy, cause of right,
The while we pray Thy Kingdom come

They did not ask him what was singular, and he said
no more. There might be many reasons why Mr. Grey
preferred to be knowu by another name. Ie was still a
very young man, and, perhaps, did not care to tell Geor-
gina that he was a widower. Some men havea peculiar
vanity in that respect.

“I dare say he has told Georgy that she is his first love,”

“But do not forget,” said Morice, as the other wrung his
hand, “should your secret become known to another, the
risk to Georgina would be terrible.”

“Frow 2?

‘In the event of Sir Henry Selton’s death, his widow
would be your wife, strange as it may appear; but such
isthe law. 1It would be much easier, under the present

Let me thank you for the information you have given me.
It will enable me to end suspense the sooner.”

She rose and touched the bell, intimating that there
was no more to say.

Mrs. Digby could not utter a word. She had made so
sure of her prize—made so sure of mastering the haughty
girl at last,and Miriam had driven her back to her old

Were there clouds? we quick dispelled them;
Were there tears? how soon we quelled them;
Quarrels ever passed us by, GE

Wife and I. 5

We have loved our children dearly,

Whip. will te done, O1; th, he thought; ‘and does not want the fact of his early | circumstances, to obtain a divorce now.” position with scarcely an effort. Wife and I. Pas
: a ‘ a = es aoe i . fe marriage known.” ‘Talbot shrank from the thought. When the woman was gone, Miriam rose and looked at We have watched them growing yearly,
8 tis in Heaven by angels fair, Archie came in, gun on shoulder, and a whole troop of} ‘It would be such a bitter blow to Georgina. Sir Hen-| herself, The measured heave and fall of the diamonds Wife and I.

Till “‘veace on earth, good will to men,”
Lie angels’ song, shall fill the air.
“Man shall not live by bread alone,’’
But by each word that Thou hast said.

vat cats °g 4 and Selwyn has no time for anything less sublime than] “It is a difficult and painful matter to deai with,” said | on her brow. Wife and I. ii A
ible ts Bete eet a nee love. We can shoot over Selton's” ground. It ougit | Morice, ‘‘but I will do this for you. Do not hurry ow the “Lady Miriam Seiton now,’’ she said to herself. “Count. ee
Give us this day our daily bread. to be well stocked, for he has not hada gun fired there | marriage with Georgina, and I will endeavor to en for | ess . re gon ee et 5 an S at a can- ae
A BL Ie for years. Used to do the used-up business—misanthrope, | you a dispensation from the original union—it can be done | not live long. nd shall I give up for him—for him :
Forgive our debie as we forgive y P . . whose love was nothing better than a passion which THE

Our debtors; yet how slow are we
Debts to forgive that are but naught

Compared with those we owe to Thee,
Without Thy aid we’re sure to fall;

Be Thou the guide of every thought.
The way is dark—hold Thou our hand~

Unto temptation lead us not.

Deiver us from evil, that
We'from Thy love may never stray;
And make us Thine for Jesus’ sake,
Unto the bright eternal day.
With saints and angels we shall join,
And with them sing Thy praises then,
For Thine is the kingdom and the power
And glory forever and ever. Amen!

 

 

dogs at his heels. Hemet Morice cordially, evidently

seeing, at the first glance, a man after his own heart.
“Glad somebody has come who will do a little shooting

with me,’’ hesaid; “Frank isn’t quite up to the mark,

you know—while he was a bachelor.’

‘“‘And marriage cured him?” '

: or It would have cured any one in the way he
OOK it,

And poor Archie sighed.

“That's for Lady Miriam,” said Annie, making mischief
with the utmost innocence.
was in love with the lady who married his uncle.??

“A very bad arrangement indeed,’ said Morice. ‘Then
you knew her before the marriage ?”?

“No—that is to say, I never saw her till I went to Sel-
ton’s house. Her father and he were old friends; uncle
often grew pathetic over old Jack Medhurst, as he used
to call him.”

“Medhurst?” repeated Morice. ‘Then, that was Lady
Selton’s maiden name. Do not think me too curious—
was her ladyship born in England ??? ?

‘India. But she was brought up at Rylands—Grey’s
place, by the way—Selwyn’s, I should say.”

“J dare sa@y that is where I have heard of her,” said
Morice, in as indifferent a tone as he could assume, “my

“Just fancy, Mr. Morice, he

ry Selton may live for forty years, and why incur such a
terrible exposure on the remote chance of his decease?
Reinember, Mr. Morice, the secret came to you quite by
chance; why not act as if you had never known it?”

privately.”’

eee coming to Georgina’s knowledge???

“*Yes,??

The question showed where Selwyn’s love was strong-
est. He did not mention Miriam.

“Would Sir Henry Selton have to be consulted ?””

Morice answered in the affirmative.

“But you may leave it to me,’? he added, with a sigh.
oh see you love Georgina, and her happiness is my chief
care.

He went back to the house then, not quite satisfied with
the soldier, but wishing to help him for Georgina’s sake.
He had not made the promise without experiencing pain.
He could so easily have acted differently. A hint of the
truth would have ended Mr. Selwyn Grey’s chance, and
left the way clear for Morice himself.

But the clergyman, much as he loved her, had nothing
of the spaniel in his nature. The woman who deliberately
showed preference for another might go to that other
and welcome for him.

“Not that I wish to tear her from my heart,’? said Mo-

figure to him with a strong and loving arm.
you are too young—the light in your eye is too sunny.

on her fair white breast told how deeply she was moved.
She walked with a slow, stately tread, past the long
glasses, which reflected the soft silken flush of her dress
—reflected the diamond circlet which sat like a coronet

would not stand the test of six months’ wear ?’?

Dangerous thoughts these to come. Ambition was an
evil monitor to one so beautiful.

As she went to and fro, glancing at herself with the
pleasure a splendid woman feels in doing so, she caught
some new and strange expression in her face—soul-gleams
which troubled her. There were shadowy thoughts in
her brain, shaping out one resolve, one purpose.

Never to be less than Lady Selton. Always to be Sir
Henry’s wife.

The baronet came in and stood smiling at the doer,
pleased at what he took for his young wife’s pride in her
own beauty. The gleam went from her countenance in-
stantly, and she went to him with a sweet smile.

There was always a little of the old childish abandon in
the way Miriam caressed her husband.

“Ten years later you will make a magnificent study for
the ideal Lady Macbeth,” he said, drawing the supple
‘SAB present

With God’s blessing crowned completely
Have our blended days flowed sweetly;
May they do so till we die, i .

 

Injured Husband;
How Did Lady Neville Die ?

By HELEN CORWIN FISHER.
AUTHOR OF ‘‘WHO DID LADY VIOLET MARRY?” “Tite
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 XXIt.
The anxiety and suspense, the harrowing doubts and

THE parish being near.” rice. “I would rather keep her there. I will do my best | Were you trying just then how wicked you could look, my | suspicions that would intrude themselves, wore upon Sir
Then the conversation changed, and as it took a confi- | for him; but he is not married to Georgy yet.’? : Miriam ?? Angus horribly. He scarcely ate, drank or slept. His
Cc H J i D =B R J Dp We dential turn, Frank sustained a fair share of it. Accept-| Sir Henry Selton brought his bride back to the nzouse in| ‘Was I looking wicked ?”? eyes were like nearly burned out fires, with watching for
g ing Morice as a friend of the family, the invalid spoke | Clarges street when the continental tour was ended, “Rather Siddons-like, I must admit. The sort of look | ner who did not come. A sickly and fatal despair began
OR. without reserve of his idol—Grey; his approaching mar- } The fashionable world took it hard at first Mat one of its | one could imagine she would have had when putting the | to creep over him. He ceased to discuss the probabilities
2

The Wife of Two Husbands.

of “TRUE AS LOVE COULD

By the Author
MAKE. AER.?*

 

{“Phe Child-Bride” was commenced in No. 16. Back num-
bers may be obtained from avy News Agent in the Union.]
CHAPTER XIII.
REV. ARTHUR MORICE.

‘When Talbot toid Mr. Colchester what had pagsed, that
gentieman did not evince much surprise. An indolerg
and easy man, he was very willing to accept his son’s

riage with Georgina was discussed finally.

“I do not want it to be hurried,’? said Mr. Colchester;
“J should like them to kuow each other a little longer be-
fore affairs are finally settled.”

“There seems to me to be a general feeling against
my friend,” said Frank—‘“a sort of douvt—because he
does not wish to be known. I know the reason perfectly

r well.??

“Then I wish you would tell us,” observed his father,
feelingly.

‘It’s very simple. There was some affair between him
and a girl before he left home for India, and she did not
use him well; perhaps he had not used her well at the
outset; but he came back, fully intending to do her jus-
tice, and he found out that she had disgraced herself.
That is the simple story of it.” ;

“How disgraced herself?”

richest men should have taken his own p7yutege to wife—
a penniless girl, who might as well have dropped from
the skies for all that was known about her.

Miriam won her way, however. Her beauty charmed
the men, and the most envious of her own sex felt the
power of her nature. Friends—or those who take the
place of. friends in society—gathered round her by de-
grees. It was soon forgotten that she had ever been any-
thing but what she was.

Miriam began to forget it too.

The girl had an inborn pride—an inborn love of luxury,
which began to develope as she grew accustomed to her
position. She liked the splendor of her home, the hom-
age given to her tile, the courtly grace of her high-bred
husband. The old Ryland days were like a dream to
her—a dream which she would fain have found oblivion
for, had it not been for the yearning instinct that made

giad you do not have her here.
visitors. I like my quiet, happy days, sweet; they make
us belong more to each other.”

dagger in Cawdor’s hand, and telling him to clear the

way to a throne.’
Strange to say, the same idea had occurred to Miriam.
“Come,’’ he said, playfully, “there it i again. Have

you had unpleasant visitors ??”

“Mrs. Digby.”

“Your pet aversion! I thought vou had declined her???

“Yes. But she persisted.??

“Urged by necessity,” said the good-natured baronet.
“Well, we must not be too hard on the erring. But lam
I am glad we have few

Miriam loved the courtly gentleman dearly, and in the

passiouate kiss she gave him now, there was an almost
tirm resolve never to give him up.

“And I will tell him nothing,” she said, mentally, as he

of the coming trial with his lawyer. He seemed even to
have yielded to the most unhappy forebodings concern-
ing its results, to succumb to his fate as it were. One
day Upsden came into Sir Angus’s cell with a look of
Studied gloom, and gat down, casting compassionate
glances at his client.

Sir Angus sprang to a rapid conclusion.

“You have seen her,’ he cried, “at last.”

“Yes.” Upsden took his hand. “She isnot worthy of
you, my boy.”

The proud and sensitive young lips quivered,

‘Tell me,” he gasped, a feverish hectic nsing in his
wan cheek.

“She knows everything, and leaves you to your fate,”
spoke Upsden, in a low voice, and averting his face, over
which was creeping the crimson hue of shame.

Sir Angus cried out in a ringing, angry voice:

———

 

comrade for what he seemed, and he seemed all that
could be desired. :

“Yes, if Georgy loves you, you are welcome to iner,”? he
said, when Talbot had been, through the usual course of
Taptures and protestations. ‘I think you are an honora-
ble man, Mr. Grey, and you will be kind to my gir), I know.
Have you written to your father?” :

“Not yet.” ‘i

“You think he will approve your choice ??

“T am suye he will.” ,

“Wave you and Georgy exchanged sonfidences 2”?

‘“T have told her everything!” said Grey, with the faint-
est tinge of color rising; “and you know my position.’’

“On, yes. ButI did not refer to that. Weare both, un-
doubtedly, rich men, and I like you for your own sake, as
wellason poor Frank’s account; but did you tell her why
you have assumed a name?!)

“Yes.)?

“Which, of course, you will drop?”

“From the day of my marriage, Mr. Colchester. The
reasons that made me take that name were very grave
and serious.” |

“But if these reasons still exist-———”” -

“If you believe me to be an lionorable man, you will
trust me,” said Talbot, gravely. “There are no secrets
between Georgina and myself.” ©

“Well, Talbot, Iam satisfied,’ said the gentleman, sup-
pressing a sigh. He did not like his daughter’s love to
begin with the faintest shadow of niystery uponit. ‘Do
not be in too great a hurry to take Georgy from me; and
when youdo, never forget that she has been, perhaps, too
muci: indulged.”

gave her his arm down stairs. ‘It would only turn his
great love into pained and gentle pity.” :

Miriam was one who could not go back in anything.
She would never have been happy as the wife of a poor
man. She resented Talbot Grey’s return to life with an
angry sense of wrong. She never could think of those
cold, selfish letters he had written without a strong feeling
of bitterness. As a girl, she had loved him; as a woman,
she would not have chosen him.

“And he does not care for me,” she thought. ‘He nev-
er really cared for me, or he would not in the first few
months of his return have engaged himself to another.
Why did he return ai all, if he has but come to wreck my
happiness so 800n ?)”

She wrote to-Archie Ravel, at the Colchesters’, mviting
him to town at once; and Archie was prompt in respond-
ing. He had grown rather tired of watching what he
termed the eternal game of spooning, as performed by
Georgina and her suitor. : :

“I shall not be away more than a week,” he said to Ar-
thur Morice; “aud I hope to see you here when I come
back. The Seltons are coming down, and I expect we
shall have a jolly time of it.”

Frank did now wish 4rehie to go. The youns seldier had
hot made muci progress since his arrival. ‘Vie reaction
did him good; but when the effect of the reaction passed
there was a relapse, and those who loved him best could
not hide from themselves the sad truth that his days were
| numbered,

Mr. Ravel went straight to London, and to Clarges
street, and met acordial welcome from Sir Henry. Ar-
chie was more reserved, but quite as genial, with Miriam,
now that she had attained the dignity of wifehood.

“By running away with some baronet or other, and so
losing one of the best fellows that ever lived.?’

“Another link,” thought Morice; “I begin to see it now.
He married her secretly, while he was under age, and re-
turned, intending to acknowledge her. It is the old story.
There was the temptation of a title, so she kept her secret,
and accepied it. Grey may not know bui that she is dead.
Poor fellow! I pity him now.”

her long to see the child whose little robe aud tiny shoes
were in the shabby trunk up stairs.

They lived very quietly, the baronet and his wife. Sir
Henry did not encourage idlers—women whose sole talk
was frivolity and scandal, men who came to stare at his
wife and covet her secretly.

Act as he would, however, there were some irrepressi-
bles whom he could not keep out in the cold—some who
would creep into the sacred corners of his fireside, and
persistently refuse to see what insufferable nuisances
they were.: General Gunter was one of the first to call
and tender congratulations—a wintered satyr, whose very

Mr. Morice found plenty to ponder over in the secret he | presence was an outrage to a woman’s purity.
had discovered. It placed him in a difficult and a de- Then there was Mrs. Major Digby—not quite so faded
licate position. So far as he couid see, Talbot Grey—or* as before—pretty, bland, and bright, faultless as ever in
Selwyn, as her chose to call himself—was in no way to | dress, artistic as ever in making up. She called to see
blame; he rather deserved the pity which Morice in his | her darling Lady Selton, and was refused admission.
Charity, was so willing to give him. “Lady Setton presents her compliments to Mrs. Digby,”

“Hard as it is, 1 must hold my peace,” he said, after | said Miriam, in her polite little note of denial, “and begs
much seli-communing. ‘This Sir Henry Selton is an | to inform her thatshe cannot in future receive one whose
honorable man, and the girl who so basely deceived poor | veal character is no longer a secret to her.”

Grey muy be a good and true woman henceforth if left It was a bojd step to take, but it did its work. Miriam
alone. One thing is certain—whatever I may say can do | was perfectly aware that the woman was merely an ex-
no good,” tortioner. :

He was strengthened in his resolution tobe silent when Mrs. Digby took the note, smiled sweetly, went to the
he saw how deeply Georgina loved her suitor. She seem- | general’s house, and venned a small epistle, which ran as
ed sorry that Morice had come, but was very kind to him. | follows: :

He met Selwyn as genially as he met the rest, but his “Tt was neither Wise nor kind to send such a letter to
geniality was not reciprocated—with the Indian soldier, | an attached and faithful friend. Iwill call to-morrow,
a man who had once been his rival was rival always. His | and you must see me for your own sake.” :

chilling politeness to Morice was so marked that the irish- Miriam did see her. She had expected a different
man determined to put an end to it. reply, and theone she received was suggestive of a

“I will never believe it. Tell me her words.
words.”? ‘

The lawyer hesitated a moment, ;
“She closed my lips before I could utter a syllable.
‘You come to me trom Sir Angus,’ she said; ‘I decline to ©

hear one word, I have no husband.’ ”’

Upsden felt the hand he grasped grow cold, as he ut-
tered these cruel words.

Sir Angus did not speak again. There was a strange
quietude in his manner from that hour. He never men-
tioned his wife again to Upsden.

Soon now his trial came on.

In the prison Sir Angus had been permitted to’ be with-
out handouffs; but when they took him out to convey lum ;
to the court-room these were again put on. it

The unhappy man’s pale, high-bred face flushed deeply
as he suw he was to ride in an open carriage, exposed to
the curious and vulgar gaze of the rabble which already
lined the streets outside the jail. os

But, recovering himselfinstantly, he took his seat with
a sort of haughty grace, and sat with flashing eyes that
never turned to right. or left, till the officer in charge,
touching his shoulder lightly, said, in a voice of real re-
gret: a
“it is most unfortunate, I am really sorry, but we are
about to meet Lady Saville. Prepare yourself, sir.”

Sir Angus started violently, and his falcon glance was
instantly turned upon the approaching equipage, with a
sort of hungry eagerness impossible to describe.

The carriage, an open barouche of the most elegant de-
scription, had but two occupants.

They were the new Lord Neville and the young incom-

Her exact

 

CHAPTER XIV.
AFTER THE HONEYMOON.

 

eth

 

 

 

 

Grey pressed his hand—a silent promise better than
words at the moment. Grey felt sure that his suit was
Safe. Even if Miriam should hear of his existence, she
would Keep the knowledge from her husband; and at the
worst, he was absolved from the consequences of his
early marriage by the mere matter of time. He had been
absent for many years; the briveof his youth had become
the wile of a baronet. How could he be expected to flad
her after so greaf a changein her destiny?

Mr. Arthur Morice came down soon. Colchester wrote
to him at the last moment to tell him.ef Georgia's engage-

‘ment; and so the blow did not fall upon him too suddenly.

The sanguine-hearted Wishman did not despair when he
read the details.

“They have known each other but two months,’’ com-
mented the Herefordshire clergyman, ‘‘and he was her
prother’s friend and nurse on the way from India. Is it
likely that I will give up my two years for a man who has
known her only eight weeks, when I am sure she likes
me??? : :

“If it were any one else, I should be sorry,’’ Col-
chester had written; “but Lieutenant Selwyn has
been very good to our boy, and [like the man for himself.
I know you too well, Morice, to think that this affair will
keep youaway. ‘There is the same welcome.”

The word before Selwyn had been written through by
the writer’s pen; but the two long-tailed consonants re-
mained, and between them it was not difficult to trace
the letters which made up the name of Grey.

“Lieutenant Selwyn,’”? repeated Morice; ‘Lieutenant
Selwyn—Grey Selwyn, as it would have stood. I have
heard the name, or something like it, before, 1 am cer-
tain.”

We pondered for some minutes, keeping his finger on
his heavy brow, as some thinking men do when in
deep thought. The vaguely-familiar remembrance woulda
not come to him. :

Burit happened that on this very morning—the morning
of receiving the letter from Lincolnshire—he had to mar-
ry a young couple from one of the adjacent villages; and
the sight of tne ponderous old certificate-book assisted his
recollection. Looking over the leaves, as clergymen do,
almost invariably, before the commencement, or after
the termination of each ceremony, he came upon what he
wanted—an entry of a marriage between Talbot Selwyn
Grey, of Rylands. son of James Selwyn Grey, gentleman,
and Miriam Medhurst, daughter of John Medhurst, mili-
tary surgeon.

It was one of the first ceremonies he had performed,
and the fact of its being done by special license brought it
more distinctly to his mind. He could recall the scene—
a tall, slender, handsome boy, aud a dark-eyed girl, on
whom he himself had looked with tender pity. |

“And what if this should be the same?” he said, men-
tally.

To satisfy another doubt, he opened the ‘Army List,’ and
looked for the name of Selwyn. There were several Sel-
wyns—a general, a major, and two or three captains;
there was a multitude of Greys, from ensign or cornet
upward; but the names of Grey aud Selwyn were only
combined in one instance—that of Lieutenant Talbot Sel-
Wwyn Grey.

Wana ae all, what have I discovered that I should
trouble about??? he asked of himself. ‘‘Perhaps @ mere
coincidence of name. Or even if it be the same man whom
six years ago I married to a pretty child, is it clerical or
gentlemanly of me to hunt up his history because he is
engaged to a lady I want myself?”

And thinking that he had taken some very unnecessary
trouble about a trifling matter, the Reverend Arthur Mo-
rice dressed his elegant six-foot-two of grace and muscle
ina dark-gray traveling suit, kissed his sister, who kept
house for him, patted the dogs, and took second-class for
London, en route for Lincolnshire. ;

Morice was no canting, saintly divine, to take the pulpit
with him everywhere. His was a healthy, Christian creed,
full of hope, courage, charity, and pleasure. He did not
hold his chin up as if the starch in his clerical tie had
made it tender. But for the calm and thoughtful eye,
and a certain sweetness in the frankness of his face, the
fellow-travelers, wito were thawed by his geniality, would
not have taken the stalwart gentleman for a pastor of the
Church.

His first and most enthnsiastic welcome was from
Annie. That little lady fairly leapt into his arms, and
nearly stifled him with kisses. He was a man whom all
ghildren loved, It seemed as naturalin him to be their
fricnd and playfellow as to be the companion of his
seniors. :

Mr. Morice had not been in the room ten minutes before
Annie, having taken entire possession of him, informed
him that Georgy had got another sweetheart. Mr. Col-
chester, watching to see how he would take the intelli-
genee, was surprised and pleased to see him smile.

“What will 1 do?? said Arthur Morice, with comic grav-
ity; “break my heart, Annie, or wait for you?”

“Wait for mel? was the ready response. ‘It would be
mice to have such a big sweetheart. You are bigger and
handsomer than Mr. Grey—Selwyn, Iimean. You know,
we must not call him Mr. Grey, although 1v’s his uname.”

“Annie!” © aS :

“Well, so you did tell me I was not to call Mr, Grey Mr.

it Mr. Selwyn. :
aaa e tee : aon for sinking his own name,” said
Mr. Colenester, “which you, as al old friend of the fam-
ily, will respect ?””

ToMost certainly! But these secretsare difficult to keep.
You, for instance, cannot forget that he is Frank 8 friend
and coinrade, and, therefore, a military man?

“Welle? &

 

“I perfectly understand your sentiment,’ said Morice,
having purposely chosen an' opportunity for speaking
with the soldier alone. ‘You think that IJ, bearing in
mind the hopes I once entertained regarding Miss Col-
chester, might, knowing the existing engagement, have
shortened my visit, or stayed away entirely.”

“I cannot présume to dicbate a ceurse of action te you,
Mr. Morice.”’

“Still, that is your feeling.” :

‘Tt would never be expressed, even if it existed.”?

“You do not meet me in a friendly spirit, Mr. Selwyn,”
said Morice. “I heard of the engagement before I came
—I have shown no sense of disappointment, made no at-
temp at rivalry.” . :

Selwyn’s proud lip rose.

“There never can be such a thing as rivalry between
gentlemen.” :

“Truly; for it is our mutual duty to study the lady, and
Miss Colchester’s preference is so marked as to leave no
doubt; but she is still very dear to me asa friend, Mr.
Selwyn—so dear that, were Las sure of your power as I
am of your wish to make her happy, I would gladly join
your hands,??

“In my favor ???

“Yes, in your favor}?

The clergyman placed such an emphasis on the repeated
words that Selwyn turned and looked at him, and they
stopped, facing each other.

“You are an old friend of the family,’ said Selwyn,
after a pause, Guring which he was trying to see if the
other had a hidden meaning; “that and the sacred nature
of your avocation, gives you a right tospeak in a manner
which would otherwise be quite unwarrantable.”

“Unwarrantable quite, as you say,’ said Moriee, in his
deep and quite voice; “but in this case it.is a matter of
conscience—it is the very nature of my avocation which
has made my task one of more than ordinary delicacy.”

“T do not understand.”

“Because I love Miss Colchester—because I believe that
but for youl might have won her—self-denial and self-
sacrifice become a stronger duty with me.”

Selwyn’s manner softened as the young minister pro-
ceeded. There was no aifectation of sentiment in accent,
word, or earnest tone,

“But by the merest accident—a common series of coin-
cidences, such as might happen every day—I have become
acquainted with a sad and serious story, Mr. Selwyn.”

“Whom does it concern ???

‘Need you ask ???

“1 certainly may wonder what you are leading to,” said
Selwyn, hoping to the last that his secret was safe.

“Yet, if you met me here irankly—took me into your
confidence—l coulda and would willingly spare you the
painful details,”

Selwyn’s heart sank, but he responded boldly—pride
would not let him throw himself on a rival’s mercy.

- “Please explain.”

“Six years ago,”’ said Morice, with simple severity, “I
married the man who is now before me toa young girl,
at my own church in Herefordshire Ly

“Well 2?

“I find you now, under an assumed name, engaged to
@ lady who is very dear to me.”

“Well?”

"T want you to tell me what has become of the girl you
Were married to. I should suppose from your anxiety to
marry again, that she was dead, but I happen to know
that she lives, and is the wife of another.”

“Of whom ???

“Sir Henry Selton, a relative of Mr. Ravel’s.”?

“And you have told this story here,” said Selwyn, bit-
terly; “taken advantage of my misery to further your own
purpose ??

“No,” was the gentle answer; “I have said nothin g, for
T wanted to hear from you—wanted to hear the whole
truth—and it is my fervent hope that you will tell me.”

Subdued by the gentle tone, and finding that he was
raucely Bt the other’s mercy, Talbot Selwyn Grey held out

lis hand,

‘7 have wronged you,’ he said,
me.”?

“Indeed, I do, tf it is as i suspect.)?

“T caine back, thinking to find her true,” said Talbot.
brokenly, “though I had not used her kindly. Still I
hoped; I had letters from home, telling me that she had
left the village—letters so worded as to throw the gravest
doubtsupon her eonduct. I tried to forget her; but the
old love came back with my return, and I resolved to find
her—to rescue her from sin if I found her. I went down
to the old place, even before 1 set foot under my father’s
roof or grasped his hand.”

“Loving her still 19

“And pitying her—blaming-myself,?

“Did you hear the truth then 9”

“Yes! She was taken away by an old friend of her fa-
ther’s, @ good and honorable man. While with him, and
when she had been with him some years, she saw a notice
of my death in the Times,”

“And so, believing you dead, she married her guard-

 

“but you will pity

 

ian???

“Yes?

“A sad and serious case.”

“What can 1 do, Mr. Morice? ¥ toox what 1 thought
would be the wisest course; she still thinks me dead, is
happy witharich and titlea husband, whe would be
broken-hearted were she torn from him, and since I have
known that she is another’s the old love has quite left me.
You see the position. She has forgotten me by this time—

 

rouse not, perhaps, care to return to me, evenif | claimed
er. <

 

danger.

The major’s relict did not show her hand at first. Ex-
perience had taught her that the girl whom she hed known
in the old, unhappy years was not to be frightened into
anything.

“Tam afraid I have bad news for you, dear Ladz Sel-
ton,”? said Mrs. Digby, with an unconscious sneer as stie
uttered the title. ‘‘I did not want to come, for I was sure
I should not be welcome; still it is my duty to warn

ou.”?
: Miriam met her visitor with calm and chilling dignity,
and stood looking her full in the face, watching to see
What new wickedness would come with smooth, soft
words ana pretty, treacherous smiles.

“You know, dear, I often stay with the general,’’ the
major’s widow wenton. “lie was such a good friend to
poor Digby, and now that he is old, and wants nursing
now and then, I feel that I cannot be too kind to him.”

Her ladyship smiled a sarcastic assent to that.

“And you Know that the general changed his man-
servant lately. Bings, who had been with him for years,
married, and took a public-house, or some such absurd-

-{ity. The new man was a soldier, just come home from

India.”?

“What on earth, Mrs. Digby, has the general’s man-
servant to do with me?”’

“Thatis where it isso dreadful and so strange. 1 hope,
indeed, for your sake, that there is some mistake; but,
you see, when the man came, the general was not weil
enough to see him, and left me to make the arrange-
ments. I asked him for his references, and you will nev-
er guess whom he named)?! :

Miriam began to havea vague curiosity, mistrust blend-
ed with it.

“Some officer in the regimeni, perhaps,” she said, care-
lessly. :

“Yess twol??

“Indeed !??

‘An Ensign Colchester—a friend of Mr. Archie Ravel,
as you can easily ascertain by inquiry. . By the way, dear,
I had the pleasure of traveling over the channel with that
handsome, suvly-looking fellow. Did he tell you?”

“We have not ‘imet since he ieit France.”

“Really! 1 wonder he has not been here before, so at-
tached to you as he was. However, the man gave En-

sign Colchester as one reference, and I am afraid you will.

never guess the other.’? i

“YT cannot offer the faintest conjecture.’’

Mrs. Digby could not suppress the wicked smile this
time; her blue eyes gleamed as she dealt out the words:

“Lieutenant Grey—Talbot Selwyn Grey—of Rylands.
He is alive, and has been in England three months, and J
have seen him!

CHAPTER XY.
THE PRICE OF THE SECRET.

Miriam’s proud face blanched when she heard that.
Sne had been so long accustomed to think of Talbot Grey
as dead, that to be told he lived was as if he had risen
from the grave.

“[mpossible!” she faltered.

“Indeed it is true,” said Mrs. Digby, with hypocritical
sympathy. “I saw him myself when I was staying with
Miss Bond. He did not come in his own name, but in-
troduced himself as Lieutenant Selwyn. I knew at once
that he came to inquire for you.”

“And you told him what had become of me ?’?

“No; for I did not suspect who he was then. The gen-
eral’s new Man servant had not applied at that time; but
one morning, when Gunter and I were talking of you
and Sir Henry, linadvertently wondered whether this
Mr. Grey who had returned from India was related to
your first husband.”

“Yes 90 : :

“The man—James Miller, his name is—did not seem to
take much notice at the time, but he listened very atten-
tively to our conversation, and a few days afterward he
gave notice to leave.” .

A mute gesture asked her to proceed.

“The general requested me to talk to the fellow, as he
suited very well, and, being an old soldier, understood
the ways of a military man. He would not tell me at
first, but I coaxed him—these common men are so easily
coaxed, you know—and atlast he told mehe knew
something which would bring him at least five thousand
pounds.??

“rom whom ??

“From you. He said so plainly, and you would really
have pitied my distress when I saw my imprudent talk
had placed you in his power. And he argued the point,
and well, in his rascally way.”

“What did he say ?””

‘He said thatit was worth trying. Of course, you
know best whether it would pay you to keep him quiet;
but he wanted to go to Australia, and set.up with his
father, who is in a large business there. ‘The‘lieutenant
does not know what has become of his wife,’ he said,
‘and does not want to, for he has taken the name Selwyn,
and is engaged to be married to Ensigu Oolchester’s sis-
ter.

“Can you prove this?”

“Not so easily ag you can, my dear Lady Selton. You
have but to ask Mr. Ravel. He has been staying witli
Mr. Grey at the Colchester’s, in Lincolnshire.”

Miriam merely inclined her head. She could not afford
to show the least emotion before this woman. The tidings
had chilled her heart, buat the shock was over, and now
she was quite calm.

‘§ must thoroughly inquire into it,” she said,

“If Mr. Grey is living and in England his first duty was

I want to be near him.
quaintance, as they are near neighbors.”

} dent Pierce, in the cemetery of Concord, N. H.

 

“When the old earl chooses to have his ashes deposited

in the ‘storied urn,’ he said to the baronet, “the Dalles-

ton coronet will be worn more royally than it was ever
worn before, eh, uncle ?””

‘It ought to be an imperial tiara,”’ said Sir Henry.

“When do you go down to Linconshire ?”?

“In the course of a week or two.”?

“You know the Colchesters?”?

“Slightly. It was years since I was there.”

“The boy, Frank, is my particular friend,’ said Archie,
“and the poor fellow is not long for this world, I fear. So
I wuppose you will make their ac-

“With the more pleasure as you can introduce them.

Have you had a fall house?”

“Not very. A military friend of Frank’s, and a clergy-

man. Looks more like a life-guardsman, I must say. I
never 8aW amore muscular son of the church.
fellow, too. He was sweet on Georgy.”

Asplendid

“Who is Georgy ?? Miriam inquired.

“Miss Colchester; Georgina—a Di Vernon sort of beau-
ty. Can sing a hunting song, take a five-barred gate,
play a game at billiards, and I don’t think she would mind
a cigarette. She has thrown the church over for the
army |?

“You are quite a gossip, Archie ??

“I thought it might interest your ladyship. You must
see Selwyn when you come down. He is the kind of fel-
low who ought to wear along cloak, and keep his arms

folded—somber, mysterious, a haunted eye,—a long beard
on bis face, and something fearful on his conscience. I
should not be at all surprised to find him stalking about
in his sleep, muttering, likea second-rate tragedian, ‘Iam

er-haunted er-by a crime-er the mem/’ry of er-deed of ber-
lud pursues me,’ and so on. He looks like it.”?
Sir Henry and Miriam laughed at Archie’s mimicry.
‘And his name is Selwyn?’ she said.
“That is the ame he goes by, and I suppose a man may

go by any Bame he pleases—it’s a free country so long as

you pay your way. From India he came with Frank, the
iriend of his youth. He met Georgina, he spoke to her,
he loved her—‘their sympathetic souls’ celestial fire’—I
forget the next line,but I know it ends with ‘sire’ or

‘4yre.? Anyhow, it doesn’t sound polite.??

Sir Henry had business at the House later in the even-
ing, and Archie took Miriam to one of the theaters. They
talked at leisure between the acts.

“Morice is the better man of the two,” said Archie, af-
ter some conversation on the subject of his visit; “I think
Georgina’s lot would be happier with him.*?

‘“Morice!’?

“Arthur Morice. He has a little church in Hereford-
Shire—he does not depend upon it. I believe he is an
Tristaman.”?

Miriam remembered the name perfectly. It was written
on the certificate which she kept in her little shabby trunk,
and she was not likely to forget it. :

a this Mr. Selwyn? That is not his name, you
say :

“No. In confidence, belle Miriam, his name is Talbot
Selwyn Grey, and I don’t think he is a good catch. He
comes from the Park House, Rylands.”

“You must introduce me,” said Miriam, as the music
began and the curtain rolled up. “I think 1 kuow him.”

“Do you, though ?”?

“Yes; and’’—she laid her jeweled hand on his wrist,—
“will you, dear Archie, remember as a favor never to
mention his real name before Sir Henry.” ;

foci and most beautiful of aunts, you have but to
speak.

“And,” she added, gravely, but with a smile so sweet
that every masculine heart in the boxes ached with envy
of Archie, “contrive to introduce us when we are alone.”

“Oh, most certainly. But I say, what does it mean,
aunt? Love’s-young-dream-duys of yore, and so on?!

She smiled, and quieted him with her hand. The stage
drama’ went on, but Miriam was thinking of the drama of
her own life. It was by lar the stranger,

(To. be Continued.)
Remember!

Remember that when you take your first glass of that
which intoxicates, you enter upon a road that leads to
destruction! Remember that once aboard the car of de-
struction, you move on with lightning rapidity, and that
it is immeasurably easier traveling down hill than up!
Remember that drunkenness begets beggary, and ram
and starvation walk handin hand ! Remember that fiends
will laugh when you add your name to the long list of
drunkards! Remember these things, and turn from the
path of destruction before it is yet too late—before the
serpent that is coiled at the’ bottom of the glass arises
and strikes you, sinking his poisonous fangs deep down
Into your very soul—before he coiis his‘ horrible, slimy
length around and around your: heart, crashing out all
that is good, and instilling instead, all that is degrading,
all that is base, that which will ‘bear you steadily and
mercilessly down, down, until at last—struggle as you
may—you are brought fo a drunkard’s grave |

—_—_—_—__>-9<_-__.

4a5~ A monument of Italian marble on a granite base
has been recently erected over the remains of ex-Presi-
Tt is fif-
teen Jeet in hight, and bearg the simple inscription:
“Franklin Pierce. Born November 23, 1804. Died Oc-
tober 8, 1869.7?

 

parably lovely Lady Audrey Saville. Both were richly
dressed, and his lordship certainly was in wonderfal
spirits, his chiselled lips smiling constantly, his azure eyes
sparkling with sapphire light. Lely

As they drew nearer, Lord Neville made some remark
to his beantiful companion, which seemingly directed her
regards to the approaching Carriage.

The soft antelope eyes were lifted languidly, rested a
moment on the excited face of Sir Angus, dropped to hig
manacled hands and then with a slight but perceptible
shudder, Lady Audrey drooped back among her cushions,
without having signified by somuch as a flicker of the
snowy eyelid that she even recognized her husband,
Even that aristocratic little shiver might well be ascribed
2 He sight of his handcuffed hands rather than of him-
self. # ;

“Audrey! Oh Heaven! Speak to mel’? hoarsely ejacu-

lated Sir Angus. But the stately equipage swept unheed- -

ing by, a cruel smile glittering on the fair, handsome face
of his lordship, and he bent his head toward the lovely
one beside him, with a more rapt deyotion than before.

Sir Angus would have flung himself out of the carriage
but for the officers beside him, and the dark despair that
took the place of the former passionate eagerness of his
countenance smote even the hearts of his escort.

The eyes of Sir Angus’s counsel, Mr. Upsden, searched
his client’s face eagerly as they mef.

“He has seen her,’’ he muttered to himself.

Cruel Claude had contrived this meeting between hus-
band and wife, with diabolical craft..

Itis not necessary to dwell upon the details of this trial
though it was far from uninteresting, being the great sen-
sation of the day.

The prisoner was young and handsome,
@ banished prince, as he sat there erect and tall, his
gloomy eyes set in a strange stare that few understood,
because they did not know that he had just met the wo-
man he adored, smiling in the face of the man he hated,
and turning with a shudder of terror and abhorrence
from him.

The prisoner was a nobleman, the cousin of a noble-
man, and was charged with being a leader of that most
mysterious and terrible band of robbers, The Fatal Twelve.
No wonder the court-room, and the streets outside for
squares, were crammed with excited people, crowding
and pushing fora sight at so interesting and terrible a
man.

Nothing had been spared that was necessary to make the
evideice of his guilt crushing, overwhelming.

Sir Angus sat through it like a statue carved in stone.
A gray pallor had overspread his manly and intelligent
face, and his fine eyes were set and cold, like those of one
in a trance. ‘i

Only when the verdict was rendered, a violent tremb-
ling seized him, and an unearthly fire seemed to light in
his large, dark and gloomy eyes. He turned this glance.
upon the judge as he rose to pronounce sentence.

Death to this wretched man would have been welcome.
But it had not been proved that he had ever taken life,
and so, desperate villain as he was supposed to be, his
Sentence was only penal servitude sor life.

The judge stood a full minute afer he had pronounced
Sentence, expecting the condemned man to speak, and
watching the livid contraction of his features in a species
of fascination.

iivery eye in the court-room followed that of the judge,
and at Jast some words did break from those writhing
lips, words so terrible, so blasphemous, that a groan of
horror followed them in the throng about.

‘There is no eternal justice, since such monstrous wick-
eduess is permitted to triumph, and the innocent are left
to perish,” Sir Angus said, lifting his hands, and seeming
to hurl curses with them.

Then he fell back lke a corpse, and gave no more sign
than one, as they removed him. ;

A man who, mounted on a blood horse of remarkable
swiftness, had been waiting since the opening of the trial,
wheeied his animal at the first announcement of the ver-
dict, and the crowd giving way but slowly before, even

‘| those trampling hoofs, he was still struggling to get free,

when the prisoner came forth, half led, half supported,
by his escort, :

This man, who was Vance, Lord Neville’s valet and con-
fidential servant, glanced askance at the prisoner, whom
a certain air of grandeur still distinguished, notwithstand-
ing his fallen state, and ghastly look.

“Poor devil,” he whispered to himself, with a grain of
compassion; “I wonder what he would make it worth to
me, to tell him tie truth.” :

Then, finding himself on the outskirts of the crowd, he
set spurs to his horse and never stopped again till he.
came to that magnificent mansion, which had belonged
to Salaris the Jew, but which was inhabited now by those
whom alone in the whole world, he had reason to consider
his bitter enemies. Lady Audrey Saville was nominally
the mistress of this palatial residence, but she remained
mostly in her own apartments. Madame Revere, and he
whom she now called her beloved nephew, Lord Neville,
ruled everywhere else, and ordered everything as the
chose.

Madame’s exultation and triumph, as she swept in gore
geous state through the halls of the man she had feared
and hated twenty-one years, were beyond description.
She had chosen for herself a suite of rooms superbly fur-
uished before, but to which she added every costly and
beautiful thing she could imagine, either for luxury or
adornment, Her boudoir was a miracle of art and beauty,
and Madame herself sat in it, arrayed like a queen, when
Vance was announced.

Lord Neville, who was with hey, started up from a pur-

 

He looked hike ~

 

 

 

 
 

 

SRI et

se AAU OR:

ha lip at ett Uae

ogni

Ne AEE

Pee Dy

08) TRE A BUR

 

 

1

)

:

‘

¥

£
&:
€

 

¥
%

f

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ple velvet chair to go and meet his messenger, then be-
thinking himself, sat down again, and waited for him.

“Well? he questioned, with hoarse impatience, :

“Convicted, my lord,’’? Vance said, in a low Voice.
“Sentenced to penal servitude for life.”

Lord Neville turned away, that his servant might not
read the joy that shone on his Wicked face at this an-
nouncement.

Madame had the grace to cover her face with her lace
hanakerehief, and pretend to sob.

Vance withdrew after & pause. Then madame uncoy-
ered her face, and Lord Neville turned round.

Silently they looked at each other, madame’s eyes fell
first, and asingular pallor crept over her beautiful face.

“You are pale, madame,’ Claude said, with a faint
sneer.

“T was thinking,’? madame said, In a scarcely audible
voice, “how terrible it would be, if he who has just been
sentenced to penal servitude for life, partially through
my instrumentality, were indeed my son.!?

Lord Neville frowned angrily.

“Madame, you are fanciful,’ he said; ‘come, take my
arm, and let me conduct you to Lady Audrey’s apart-
ments,”?

His first words on entering showed how their relations
had changed since we saw theni together in Lady Saviile’s
drawing-room, in St. James’ Square.

“My dear Andrey,’ said the young man advancing,
eagerly to her side, and taking her little snowy fingers in
his own, while his eyes met hers with almost reverential
tenderness, “are you feeling well this afternoon? Iam
Sure you look better every day.”

“I am very well, my lord,’’ she said, with a smile of in-
describable sweetness, but her large eyes retained their
pensive expression.

‘‘Are you well enough to hear a piece of news which
Will afftict’ your tender -ieart, Dut which it is necessary
you should hear from those whoJove you first???

The soft brigit eyes watched him with languid inquiry,
the small proud head slightly bent. :

“Sir Angus Saville is convicted and sentenced. He
will never trouble you more,” Lord Neville said, waten-
ing her with a thrilling gaze, and still’ holding the iittle
White hand firmly in his.

; A long, tremulous sigh struggied up from Audrey’s
osom.

“Tam sorry for him,” she said, in alow voice.
I to go and gee him???

“Would you like to do so?”

“Not if I could be spared such a duty by another going
in my place.” : 2

Claude’s handsome face, which had expressed a mo-
mentary terror, lighted at once.

“Dear Audrey, Z will go if you will permit me.”

“J shali be but too greatly obliged, my lord,” Lady

 

“Ought

- Audrey answered, calmly, and then withdrawing her

hand, which Lord Neville had retained, her pensive eyes
sought Madame Revere, who came forward with her
handkerchief to her face, and sat down near Lady Audrey.
Lord Neville at once quitted the room.
‘It is perhaps needless to say that he did not go near Sir
Angus, though he pretended to do 80.
. ‘That night a sealed letter was brought to Sir Angus.
The jailer had been heavily bribed to deliver it. It con-
tained only these words:

<‘Wickedness shall not always triumph, nor the inno-
cent perish.: Repent, my son, and the God whose justice
thou bast dared impugn may yet forgive thee.’

Sir Angus glanced at the words without their meaning
penetrating his for’ the time stunned brain. One only
thought was burning in his*soul, one memory alone re-
mained te him. The wife he worshiped had denied him.
What remained ?

But he folded the letter again, mechanically, and hid it

in his bosom,
CHAPTER ‘XXII.

Madame Revere affected a great attachment to Lady
Audrey. In proof thereof she had transferred to her her
own maid Felice. If Felice was in réality a spy npon my
lady, she officiated in that capacity quite inoffensively so
far a8 Audrey was concerned.

Six months passed, a year, and in ali that time the vigi-
lance of Felice, of madame, of Lord Neville, had not once
relaxed, but Lady Audrey seemed unconscious of it.
Steps had been rapidly taken to secure her a divorce
from her unhappy tiusband, and so great was the sympa-
thy in her behalf, so glaring the offenses of Sir Angus not
merely against society, but herself, that it seemed a doubt
could not exist as to the result.

Lord Neville waited patiently and fondly, well satisfied
that the bride he awaited would repay all and any delay.
Lady Andrey refused to quit Saiaris’s house, therefore
Matiame Revere and his jordship remained there with
ae ‘Ithad been a year of seclusion from society to all

ree. me

“Madame Revere and Lord Neville chanced both to.be
out atthe same time one day. It was the first time in
twelve months that Lady Audrey had been so nearly
alone. Felice remained, to be sure, but Felice was only
@ servant, and could not well accompany her mistress,
should she take a fancy to ride or walk Out as she did.

At eleven o’clock Lady Saville rang her bell, and or-
dered her carriage.

Felice actually turned pale—it was so unusual that her
mistress should propose to ride without being urged.
Felice ventured to suggest that madame had gone out.
Would my lady wait her return?

“Certainly not.?? :

Felice remonstrated. She had done so sometimes.

Lady Saville silenced her with au imperioas look, the
slight altercation calling an unusual color into her lovely
Wan cneek.

Lady Saville sat alone upon the velvet cushions of her

“elegant barouche that day, and many a fiscinated and

enraptured eye watched the beautiful girl wife, whom
‘all Knew as worse tian widowed, as she slowly traversed
‘the length of the Row with that preoccupied expression
‘in the dark liquid orbs that dwelt on no face of them all
cordially.
‘Arrived at the termination of the park, her coachman
driving slowly, Audrey took fromthe folds of her dress
atiny note which was concealed there, and glanced at it.
It contained the followiug words:
sn the name ofthat God whois the incarnation of
‘yastice, and whose eye is never closed, Lady Saville is en-
treated to bein the Park at twelve the first day she can
bé there with no other company than her coachman.
‘At the boundary an old man will ask alms, and make a
-request of her. If she hopes foran opportunity to re-
deem the past, let her comply with this request. If she
refuses to come, one soul shall spend the few days left
him this side of eternity in praying for justiceto Him
whois a rewarder of the evil as well as the good.”

My lady’s dark eyes rested on these words with a trifle
jess than their usual apathy, and, as her carriage rolled
smoothly along, she even glanced with Jonguid curiosity
this way and that, as if in search of some one,

Suddenly she signaled the coachman to stop. She saw
an old man standing under a chestnut tree by the road.
He was bent and wrinklea, and he hobbled toward lier
eagerly, his old hat extended in his shaking hand.

Lady Saville dropped a piece of gold onir.

A pair of piercing black eyes were lifted to her face.

“Are you Lady Saville?’ a voice still mellow and mu-
sical asked:

“J am.??

“Phen you have a gentle heart, aad will not refuse the
prayer of a dying woman.”’

My lady eyed him curiously.

“Who is this woman? she asked.

“Siie ig one who loves you.’

‘Lady Saville smiled incredulously.

“ doubt that,’ she said; “but Ll am curious.
go.’

The ola man, with an agility that would scarce have
peen expected of him, mounted beside the couchman at
my lady’s order, and having given him an address, the
carriage roHed swiftly on.

When it stopped, Lady Saville, without an instant’s
hesitation, followed: the old man within. [t was in a
dingy but respectable quarter. ;

They mounted one flizht of well-worn steps, and enter-
ed aroom entirely bare of furniture. Crossing this, the
old man stopped at a door and asked:

4Are you afraid ?’”

‘Lady Audrey smiled scornfally, and threw up her small
heads ¢—

“Come then.”’

Y will

Audrey obeyed, and he closed and boited the door be-

hind them. ;

~+There is no sick woman then?” my lady said, with u
lift of her eyebrows as her glance swept the room. ‘But
I did not expect it.’?

fer companion drew his bent form erect, took off a wig
oflong white hair, and fixing a keen and penetrating
glance upon her, asked: ©

“Do you know me???

Lady Saville shook
narrowly.

~T am Zeno, Salaris’s confidential servant. Now do you
know me???
~ Lady Saville shook her head again.

The man’s Jewisa features contracted, and he grew

“pale as death:
” <'My lady,” he said, in a voice of agony, ‘try to remem-
ber me; so much depends upon it, your own happiness,
and the lives of those who Jove you and to whom you owe
love--Saluris, Lettice, your husband.

+] owe them nothing,” Lady Audrey answered, in a
tranquil voice. “I have even forgiven them my Wrongs.’’

“Your wrongs, my lady? Will you tell me what they
were?” the mun suid, with an evident attempt to be pa-
tient. .

“j] don’t know why I should not. Salaris stole my in-
heritance, and Lettice Was hired to keep me out of the
way of knowing or claiming my rights, When there
arose a probability of me coming for my own and meking
them troubie, Sir Angus was sent to inatry me and se-
cure the property. 1 believe the intention was to disgrace
me—ruin me—that Sir Angus might be divorced and mar-
ry another woman.” i

it is impossible to give a just idea of the cold, still scorn
with which Audrey spoke. Zeno watched the pale,
haughty face of the peerless girl in an anguish that bead-
ed his forehead with. great drops of moisture:

“My lady,” he said, most solemnly, ‘some one has lied
to you. There is not one grain of trath in all that you
have just said. Salaris is your father; Lettice is his wife,
and your mother; and Str Angas not only worships you,
but 1s incapable of a dishonorable action.” .

‘ bee looked at him, shaking her graceful head
W1Ys. 03

“What you tell me is impossible’ she said.

“Impossible?” repeated Zeno, Bfting hands and eyes
to Heaven, “God of my tathers, hea her! My lady, this
moment your husband languishes in tixe dungeon to which
he has been consigned by these very people who belie
him soto you. Your father; your mother—Heaven alone
knows what has been doue with theml!?

her head. The man watched her

 

Hs earnestness, the solemnity and profound sorrow of
lis manner, impressed Audrey. She looked at him
thoughtfully.

“Do you say your name is Zeno ?’ she asked, presently.

“Oh, my lady!’ cried the man, ‘I was head footman
at the house of Salaris, my master, and your father. I
have @ sacred, a solemn message to you from your father.
Try to remember me, my lady—do try to remember me!’’

“T want to tell you something, Zeno. I meet ‘people
every day who seem surprised when I do not remember
them. Madume tells me I was very ill about a year ago,
and that my memory was affected by that illness,”

Audrey’s sweet face grew paler than its wont as she
spoke, and tears rose to her large eyes.

Zeno started.

“J have heard of such things,’? he said, wonderingly.
“But surely you remember your husband?—you remem-
ber Salaris??

My lady burst into tears.

“} remember my Scottish hills. I remember my hus-
band when he came wooing me there—my handsome
husband—and how liloved him. The rest they have told
me.

“And lied to you,’ muttered Zeno, hoarsely. ‘I see—
everything has worked into their hands,’? The man’s
voice shook with the intensity of his emotion. ‘And the
French school, my lady—you remember that, too, and
how you hated it, do you not? You ran away, you know
—you put on asuit of boys’ clothes, and stole away in
the night, and came to your husband. You can’t have
forgotten how he laughed, and scolded and kissed you
allin & breath. Zremember how he came out to me with
the tears of joy in his handsome eyes, and shook me by
the hand—I was a sort ef confidant of his, you know—
and said he to me: ‘I’m glad she’s run away, old fellow.
It’s more than Ivan do to live without her any longer.’
Oh, my lady! and whiere is he now ?”?

Lady Saville was white as death.
. “Heaven help me!’ she said.
word.” —

Zeno stood up. Suddenly he seemed like one inspired.
He flung back his long black hair, his dark, piercing eyes
glowed as he spoke.

“Have you forgotten the beantifal house Salaris gave
you and your husband—the rich furniture, the costly
adornings, the carriages, the servants—why, the very
dishes you ate from were of gold, and, when you chose,
you wore diamonds that a princess might have envied
you. And they tell you Salaris wronged you!”

My lady only moistened her white, dry lips without
speaking.

“Al! my lady,” Zeno resumed, ‘‘you were very beauti-
ful—you Were young, you were courted, you were gay,
you were. willful and wayward, and always doing wild,
whimsical, strange things, that drove Sir Angus and Sal-
avis beside themseles, and made the London folks run af-
ter you the more. But suddenly you, always fuli of such
charming vivacity—you, so frank and impulsive, became
gloomy, reserved, petulant. My lady, have you forgotten
now you followed your husband down to Castle Des-
mond, and stabbed yourself there before his eyes???

Audrey sighed heavily.

“Riven that,” she said, in a hollow voice, ‘‘madame
has told me. Iwas mad with jealousy, she says, and I
have the scar here. But tomeitis as thoughit had
not been.”?

Zeno came nearer,

“Have you forgotten,’) he said, in deep, slow tones,
“the night of the ball at Lady Mountain’s? You wore yel-
low satin and. magnificent yellow topazes on your neck
and arms, and you left the ball with Claude Revere, and
went toa celebrated garden, and you fancied you saw
your husband there with Lady Lucia Desmond ay

A shriek burst from Lady Saville.

“It is enough,” she cried, wildly. ‘I remember, oh,
yes lrememler. He was false to me. I heard him ar-
range with her to fiee, and I gave him the drugged wine
the next night.”

My lady’sistender form quivered with passion.

“{ was unformed—I was ignorant, was 1? I did not
know the world? ButI watchedthem. They thought the
little. Highland girl had only her pretty face, did they?
Zeno———’’ My lady stopped and looked at him with
bpurnihg eyes. ‘That night in the garden I] made # solemn
vow. Ivowed solemnly that as he had cheated the sim-
ple child he had taught to love him, he should be cheated—
that ag he believed me at his mercy, he should be at
mine—that as my wrongs were, my revenge should be.
And then——-”?

“My lady, then?’? said Zeno, calmly. :

“I kept my vow,’’ Lady Audrey replied in a low voice.

“Yes, you kept your vow,’ Zeno repeated, in his deep
slow tones. ‘You gave your husband drugged wine, and
betrayed him worse than Delilah did Sampson. You de-
livered him over bound soul and body to a ruthiess and
vile enemy—you sent that proud, high, chivalrous soul to
whom dishonor was unknown, to a shame so infamous,
that it. would have slain a courage less sublime. You
doomed the man you pretended to love—him who was &
king among men, stainless and pure, to herd with felons,
and clank a chain the rest of his days. Yow stand here,
blooming, beautilul, rich, happy. Hehas no home but a
dungeon, and his heart is broken.”

“J can’t remember a

 

 

 

Two hours passed before Lady Saville came out of the
room into which she had gone to visit the pretended sick
woman.

She had notlooked so like her old self in the whole
twelve months gone, and yet there was a something in the
depths of those large black eyes, an expression on the
pale, perfect face that had never been there before.

; Hee held her little hands in his a moment before they
parted.

“Ohild,” he said, it is a consecrated errand upon which
thou goest now. To punish the guilty is as much an ob-
ligation as to save the innocent, Be thy father’s daugh-
ter, patient, subtle, suve. When the time comes to
strike, may the God of Salaris strengthen thine arm,”

Audrey bowed her beautiful head a moment, while he
spoke. Then she lifted it, with an air at once prond, re-
morseful and determined. «

“One week from to-night, Zeno, await me here.’

My lady’s coachman had sat allthis time like a statue,
as immovable and patient.

He betrayed no surprise now, as he beheld his mistress
descending the steps with such changed looks. Her
cheeks were flushed, her. eyes scintillated, as she ran
down the stairs, sprang into the low .carriage without
assistance, and in an impatient, imperious voice ordered
him to drive home. :

Felice was watching.

She had done nothing but pace the floor for the last
two hours, and now at sight of Lady Saville she ran out
upon the marble steps to meet her.

Her cruel, cat-like eyes interrogated that lovely face
withan alarmed expression, and as my lady passed in
without so much as looking at-her, she said, to herself:

“Something has happened. She has seen some one
that she ought not to have seen. {must find out from
the coachman where he has been.”

“Where did I drive my lady to?” said the coachman,
who was that faithful fellow Mack. “The usual road,
and afew miles beyond. Did we stop anywhere? At
several places. My lady has a kind heart, and she went
to see several poor people.’

“No one in particular?’? questioned Felice, suspi-
ciously. §

“Allin particalar, miss,” said Mack, withayawn. “I
grew tired of it long before she was through. Who
knows how many of these wretches tell the truth.”

Felice returned to the house. ‘But she waited in vain
for my lady’s bell to summon ler, a8 usual, to dress her
for dinner, till at last, making an excuse, She Went and
knocked at the door of her apartments.

There was no answer, and she tried the door gently.
It was locked.

Madame Revere and Lord Neviile did not return till
late in the afternoon, and they received Felice’s intelli-
gence, each very differently.

Claude, flushed with the success of his"plans hitherto,
and full of faith in lis present hopes, smiled at the French
woman’s anxiety.

Madame, on the contrary, sent for the coachman, and
questioned him Closely; then she went herself to Lady
Saville’s door, and Knocked, as Felice had done. Lady
Audrey’s voice answered at once clear and distinct.

“] wish to be alone, madame. Itis the anniversary of
the trial and condemnation of my husband.”

Madame could not control a shiver of surprise.

Lord Neville turned pale when she told him.
laughed afterward, and insisted it was nothing. :

Felice went again tomy Jady’s door at bea-time, but
wasagain sent away peremptorily, my lady required no
attendance and would have none.

“It means something, It must mean something,” Fe-
lice went away muttering.

Lady Saville meanwhile had changed her carriage-dress
for a wrapper of white merino, bordered with a heavy
embroidery of scarlet roses. Her little feet cased in white
velvet slippers, also embroidered with scarlet, rested on
a cushion of satin damask. s

But he

It was written in the clear, clerical hand of Salaris. Au-
drey had been weeping; the tears were still in her large
starry eyes.

The MSS. was her father’s legacy, conveyed to her by
Zeno, aud it-corroborateu all which that faithful ser-
vant had told her, besides telling her much more. She
learned from it that salaris and Royce Ferguson were in-
deed her parent(s, and that Lettice. and Royce were one
person. She learned’ what bitter misunderstandiug had

of tire circumstances under which they had become hus-
band apd wile, loved cach other passionately. She learn-
ed the strange mystery ol.Lady Neville’s death, the theft
of the two children, the accident which had. revealed to
Royce alone which was the true Lord Neville.

It was a wonderful and terrible revelation which these
pages made to-Lady Saville:

“My poor, wronged Angus,?? she murmured, shudder-
ing; “to think that vow should ‘be at the mercy of the
saine cruel hand that stole your gentle mother’s life.”

For Audrey in view of all the facts had rapidly come to
the conclusion that her husband was the true heir, and he,
who was called Lord Neville now, an impostor, a wicked
wretch who, not content with defrauding his cousin of
his inheritance, and thrusting him to a felon’s doom,
sought also to obtain for himself nis wife.

My lady’s faultiess face burned with indignation and
shame as she thought of the yéarshe had spent under the
same roof withthe enemies of herown and her husbanad’s
house; and then, as she remembered the solemn, righteous
and terrible oath to which Zeno had bound her, her. great
eyes dilated with a wild, high zeal and enthusiasm, and
lifting her little white hand, she shook is till thejeweis
upon it flashed again, while she repeated:

“Oh, ldo swear M: never to. know rest or weariness,
till that vow is uccomplished.”’ :

 

(To be Continueg,

‘

She had been reading a MSS. which lay on her knee.

separated these two, who, notwithstanding the singularity |

 

HIDDEN SIN

CHAPTER XI.
SWIFT. JUSTICE.

The hour arrived when Christian Waldorff was bronght
before the Criminal Court, to be tried for his life, charged
with the murder of Moses Moss.

Among the privileged spectators in the crowded court-
room was Lewis Allerton, who, a3 a great favor, had been
furnished with a seatin the bar, commissioned by his em-
ployers to make drawings of the accused, of the judge,
and jury, and the court-room. Though he was not ignor-
ant that Ida was the partner of the supposed murderer,
stillhe hoped and prayed that he should not see her, as
lie learned that she had been released from arrest.

Witnesses were introduced to prove the incidents of the
murder, the preseiice of a stranger at the Golden Lion in
the room with Moss, the finding and appearance of the
body. The surgeon who made the autopsy gave his evi-
dence.: The knife which corresponded to the fatal: wound
was produced and identified.

Richard Varney testified to finding the handkerchief,
marked with the initials of the prisoner, in the room
where the deed was committed, and then, to the distress
of Allérton, Ida—the woman le had once so fondly loved
—Ida appeared in the witness stand—Ida, summoned by
the prosecution.

lie could not avert his eyes from her, and as she turned
her pale, wan countenance in his direction, she recognized
him—a faint cry parted from her lips, and she was forced
to cling to the rail of the witness-box to keep herself from
falling.

After a silent struggle, she mastered her emotion, and,
raising her eyes to Heaven, scemed to pray for strength.
Her face. beautiful even in its pallid hollowness, with its
almost Madonna-like expression of purity, favorasly im-
pressed all who beheld her—all but two men who knew
that she was false as she was fair—Richard Varney and
Lewis Allerton. ;

| After ample time was allowed her to recover her self-
possession, she gave her name in a low tone but yet dis-
tinctly audible, such was the hushed attention of the
whole courtroom.

“My maiden name was Ida Waldorff, but 7 am the wife
of Lewis Allerton !?

Allerton dropped his head on his breast. Asecret which
he had once longed to avow proudly, was now 4 brand of
shame upon his brow..

Richard Varney; the detective, was thunderstruck.

The next question that Ida had to answer was this:

“wae relation do you .bear to the prisoner at the
bar? :

“Tam his sister,” she replied, and sank to the floor In
a fainting fit.

She was humanely removed fromthe court-room and
given in charge to a woman in attendance.

Allertov heard only the last words she uttered. Iis
Occupation was gone—he could do no work; his brain
reeled, and 1:¢ made his way out of the room, frantically
endeavoring tc get the officials to permit him to see his
wife.

The prisoner's counsel rose and asked the prosecuting
attorney’ what he proposed to prove by the witness last
called. *

The reply was that he would show by her evidence that
the initials on the handkerchie: were those of Christian
Waldorff; that she had given the handkerchief to her
brother, and that he habitually carried it about him.

“If we admit these facts,” said the prisoner’s counsel,
“will you spare this poor girl the torture of a recall and
an examination ???

“Yes; if the court and the jury have no questions to
ask her.”

The judge decided that the witness might be excused,
and anoflicer was sent toinform her that her further
attendance was dispensed with.

Scarcely recovered from her fainting fit, she heard this
message, barely comprehended it, ana bowed her thanks,
She was then left alone in the private room to which she
had been removed.

Not long alone—the door opened, and Lewis Allerton
fiew toward her. She opened her arms to receive him,
but he sank at her feet, clasping her hands and bedewing
them with tears. :

She raised him gently, kissed his forehead, and made
him sit down beside her. Even at that awful moment,
when her brother’s fate was hanging in the balance, a
feeling of joy, for which she afterward reproached her-
self, sent a glow through her frame. True, love, such
as hers, is a shield against the cruelest strokes of fate. °

‘ida, said Allerton, ‘can youever forgive me for
doubting your honor and truth ?””

“You had been Jess than a man had you not suspected
me. Idid, indeed deceive you, Lewis, but only on
immaterial points and that to shield the secret of another.
But appearances were against me—an oath, a vow—a
secret sealed my Hps. I had to choose between a brother
whom I swore never to forsake, and a husband I never
should have married, because [ could not give him all
my confidence. You know how [struggled against my
love for you and your importunities; you know how I
tried to dissuade you from this secret marriage—to wait
and hope—but I could not witness your despair or resist
the promptings of my own heart. The irrevocable step’
was taken. But now, Lewis—now, when we have met
-again—now, When @nameless horror threatens to de-
throne my very reason, I will speak out as I longed to
speak before.’ :

Lewis, holding her hand in his, listened attentively.

“My family name, you now know,” Ida resumed, after’
a pause, “is Waldoril, not Werner. My parents are wor-
thy people, married late in life, and still living at Hanau,
in the Rhine country. f ‘had no-sister,andmy-whole
heart went out to my young brother, the wretched youth
now on trial for his life within a few feet of us.”

She paused, covered her face with her hands, and
sobbed; then, mastering her emofion by a heroic effort,
she resolutely continued her narrative.

“You see how handsome he is even now; judge what
he must have been as @ youth before sin had set its mark,
upon his forehead. It seemed asif the good fairies had
robbed the violets for the color of his eyes, and woven the
sunbeams into golden curls for his brow. Then his smile
was angelic. Then, too, he was brave as steel. As he
grew up, he excelled in all athletic exercises. He was a
strong swimmer, a swift runner, 2 bold leaper, and an
unerring shot. But he misused his gifts. When he was
a mere youth, J, who was his confidant, knew that he
used to stealaway on moonlight nights into the forest,
and thatthe Count von Edelberg's game suffered from
his skill. :

“The Count von Edelberg was astern old man, feared
more than loved by his tenants ana his vassals. Had he
suspected that Christian was a wildschite (wildshooter—
what you call poacher), it would have fared hard with
him, for you know the German forest laws are terribly
severe. As it was, he always looked on Christian with:
an evileye. Christian asked to be made a jxgerin his
forest-corps; the Graf vefased, and I think, alter that,
Christian became more reckless than ever. But the young
countess took particular notice of Christian. Minna von
Edelberg was far younger than her lord, who was indeed
vld enough to have been her father. ‘Lhe daughter of a
proud but penniless noble, she was sacrificed to the old
count from motives of interest. Little did he gain by sell-
ing hig daughter—for Hugo von Hdelberg was almost a
imiser, counting evety kreutzer that left his hands. Itis
said, indeed, that though the Lady Minna lived in state,
her allowance of money was niggardly, and that she Se-
cretly sold her needlework to supply her private needs.
Sat with thas hard-earned money she was liberal, and
many a gold and silver coin did she bestow on Christian.

“Christian was. bot attentive to his books, and yet he
was so quick that he gathered an immense amount of
information, intuitively, one scarcely knew how. When
he grew up, he became disgusted with the poor prospects
offered by his native land, and resolved to push his way
in the world—to'try England first, and then, perhaps
America. The thoughts of parting with him, when he
was resolute on going, was death to me, and T resolved
to share his fortunes. Our poor parents were, of course,
averse to parting with both of us, and wanted him to
go alone. What could J do in England? I would starve.
Bat { had my needle. The countess had been very good
to me as weil as Christian, and taught me all the mys-
teries of embroidery, the one accomplishment in which
she excelled. Once, in a moment ol confidence, she con-
fessed to me that she should have been happier as a
needlewoman than a titled lady. She was certainly as
poor for all the pomp that surrounded her. .She opposed
Christian’s projects, but in vain. When she learned that
T, too, was determined to cast in my lot with him, and to
go whithersoever he went, she, contrary to my expecta-
tions,"not’ only applauded my resolution, but made me
gwear that I would never forsake him—that I would be
his guardian angel—at once a sister and @ mother—
though he was younger than myseli—that I would even,
if need be, sacrifice my life and happiness for him. You
see to what an extent he had fascinated her. I was no
less infatuated. My whole being was wrapped up in¢his,
The countess made a heroic effort and raised a consider-
able sum of money, with which we departed from our
native tand, taking passage at Antwerp for London.

“We had picked up some knowledge of Huglish at
school before leaving home. In a few weeks our in-
credible application pave us a suflicient command of the
language. Then lemployed my needle advantageously,
and my hand#vork soon came to be known and to com-
mand good prices. Christian, too, promised to turn out
fairly. He was steady and industrious, gave lessons in
German, translated letters ‘from nglish into German,
and seemed to be Jaying the foundation for respectable
guecess in life. Alas! those quiet, happy days came to
un early end. Christian fell into Dad habits which he
could not long conceal. He grew idle and dissipated,
neglected his engagements, and alienated his patrons.
Soon, to use his own words, London became too hot to
hold him. Qe had a@rank, gambled, and got into debt.
Ile had borrowed money of me under various false pre-
tences, so that I, too, was embarrassed. Then he formed
the project of going to California, where, as he said, a
pauper might become a millionaire, by scooping up the
dust of the valleys. ‘He wanted me to write to the Coun.
tess von Edelberg, for pecuniary assistance to carry out
his project. I consented to do so, only on condition that,
if she should send funds, they should remain in my cus-
tody until he was fairly on shipboard, to which he readily
consented, for he had the Californta-fever then, and
would agree to anything. He had infecte:l me, too, by
his enthusiasm, and J saw a golden future before both of
us, for I was to join him when he was established in the
new world. Then we were to come back to Germany
like the good fairies of children’s book and lift our pa-
rents from poverty to affinence.

“I wrote to the countess,” continned Tda; “but, alas,
it wasin her power to send us but very little money. It

IDA’S

 

fell upon me to make up the deficit. Nightvand> day I
worked as J had never worked before and never Cun work

again. I gave my very soul and life to the task, butT ac-
complished my end. When Cnristian left me, he took
away with him my little all, but yet he left me with hope,
for I half believed his solemn oath that he would redeem
his character, aud that he would never more bring sor-
row on the gray hair of his parents or on me.

“The ship sailed; but the consequence of my exertions
was a fit of sickness, which exhausted tle mere’ trifie of
money I had reserved to myself. Before I was enabled to
work I had become indebted to a hard-hearted landlady,
who turned me into the street in the middle of a raging
storm, telling me that unless I brought the money I ney-
er need show my faceto her again; and hinting, with ter-
rible meaning, that with such @ face as mine I never need
want money in London. é

“You know what followed, Lewis, on that dreadful
night. You know how [fied from you because I loved
you—you know how I refnsed your hand, because I could
not then confide to you my story, nor tell you of the wick-
edness of my brother, and my fears of bringing you into a
disgraceful connection. You know I only yielded to your
entreaties to marry you and to keep the marriage secret
till your father’s prejudices had been overcome, when it
seemed that your life itself depended on my consent. Oh,
that Ihad refused you to the last! Oh, that I had not
closed my eyes to the warning visions Heaven sent me!

“In the midss of our stealthy happiness, when I was
beginning to look forward to a blissiul future, Christian
suddenly appeared, and confirmed my worst suspicions.
Tle had broken all his pledges; he had plunged deeper in-
to guilt. Then I remembered my solemn vow—my oath
—earlier than my marriage vow—in which I pledged my-
self to stand or fall with him—my brother. I gave him
shelter—I swore to keep his secret, to shield him and
support him. My brother, like a spirit of evil, rose be-
tween me and my husband. If was oath against oath—
duty against duty. Iclungto him. You followed us—
you believed that 1 was false—a lost one—concealing a
paramour. You would not even hear me speak and par-
tially undeceive you. And now, more than alli feared
has come to pass, and the world knows that you—you,
the good, pure, true and honorable, are married to the
sister of a murderer |”? :

“Hush, Ida, hush! He may be proclaimed innocent.”

“No matter; he will always be a marked and branded.

man. A verdict of not guilty does not always satisfy
public opinion. But he will not escape—he will die upon
the gallows; and I shall be pointed out as the sister of a
murderer, and ag the wretched woman who gave up her
own brother to the hangman.”

“Ida, L conjure you to be calm!’ cried Allerton. ‘‘Dis-
miss these horrible fancies. If the worst happens, you
know that you are guiltless. We will go.to other lands.”

“Not to Germany—I can never look my parents in the
face. Will they not have a right to say, ‘fda, what have
you done with your brother 2)?

Here the sonnd of many feet was heard upon the stairs
of the court-house, as the multitude poured forth from the
trial-chamber to the street. Was it a recess or was it all
over ?

A sheriff's officer, with whom Allerton was acquainted,
looked in at the door. He was very grave, and beckoned
to the artist. Allerton went to meet him.

“Tg it all over??? he whispered?” ,

seYes. 2 ne ;

“And the verdict?) ” ; =

“The testimony was overwhelming. The waiter ofthe
Golden Lion swore point-blank to the prisoner’s identity.
The knife, as well as the handkerchief, was proved to be
his. Hewas found guilty of murder in the first degree,
and has received the sentence of death.’

The last words, though spoken in the lowest whisper,
reached the ear of Ida, whose senses were preternatural-
ly Sharpened by the agony of expectation. With a wild
cry she threw up her arms, and only tlie lightning speed
with which Allerton sprang to her side saved her from 2
terrible fall on the stone floor.

“Get a carriage directly,” said Allerton to the officer.

“That I will,” replied the man. ‘An!? he muttered, as
he descended the stairs, ‘“‘there’]l soon be two deaths in
the Waldorff family. That woman will never outlive the
hanging.”

Allerton lifted his wife. into the carriage, and she par-
tially revived as they droveto his house—for he was re-
solved to put an end at once toall further concealment.

“Father”? was his abrupt announcement, ‘I bring you
& daughter-in-law. You nvust be kind to her, for she is
the most sorely tried of women.”

While Cherry, completely softened and subdued, at-
tended to poor ida in Allerten’s room, the young man told
his father her whole story in simple and affecting lan-
guage. :

Contrary to his expectations, the revelation produced
no storm. At first the old man was completely over-
whelmed, but when he took in the magnitude of this do-
mestic tragedy—when he measured the heroic struggles,
the cruel trials, the overwhelming afiliction of this poor,
tortured, true-hearted and innocent girl—his better na-
ture woke within him—he burst into tears and fell upon
his son’s neck ina mood of tenderness which he had
rarely exhibited in the whole course of his life.

When we consider his narrow-mindedness, the invete-
racy of his prejudices, and the hight of his pride, we must
adinit that, in accepting the inevitatle, aud voluntarily
promising that no word of his should add to the inevita-
ble misery of the young and unhappy couple, his conduct
was little short of heroic.

But the house was sadder than a house of death. A
great gloom pervaded it. Ida hovered between life and
death—between reason and insanity; and though the
physician who was summoned encouraged hope, yetit was
questionable whether she would not be happiest in her
grave.

\ ' a

CHAPTER XII.
THE CONDEMNED-ORLE AT NEWGATE.

It was through her unshaken confidence in the justice of
Providence, that Ida was enabled to rise from her sick bed, to
assume a divine smile of resignation, and to feel assured that
she could go through every trial yet ii store for her with the
firmness befitting a Christian woman.

Not until fully convinced of the completeness of her restora-
tion tostrength and resolution, did her-husband venture to in-
form her thatthe unhappy prisoner had sent a message, desiring
an interview with her.

“I was prepared for this,’ she replied—“‘I will go.”

“But you must permit me to accompany you.”

‘assuredly, Lewis. Nothing but death shall sunder us. We
have now no secrets from each other, and wherever I go,
whatever. trials I endure, you must help me to bear them.”

But for his strong arm to rest upon, Ida would have sunk as
she passed through the gloomy portals of Newgate prison,
moved through the silent corridors, and stood at last in the con-
demned cell, where, in the rays of:sickly light that’ filtered
through the bars of a narrow window, Christian Waldorff,
heavily fettered, sat on the edge of an iron bedstead.

terrible struggle shook the frame ot Ida before she could
advance, and with streaming eyes and faltering voice, greet her
unhappy brother. The clank of his chains, as:‘he folded her
form in a cold embrace, sent a death-chill to his heart.

“Phis, Christian,” she said, making a painful effort to speak—
“is my; husband.”

: Las the criminal, glancing at Allerton, but not offering
his hand.
asituation, but I can’t help it. The sudden disclosure of an
relationship in court would have startled me, only just then I
was thinking of my own neck, as you may well imagine, so the
announcement did not produce the proper effect. i vive you
joy, sir; may she bring youas much happiness as she has brought me!”

Lewis could not forbear saying: “she had certainly struggled
as woman never dia to secure your happiness.”

“Phe poor girl has worked very hard for me!’ Said the pris-
oner,

“What can I do for you now, Christian? Willyou permit me
to pray with you?” asked Ida.

“No—thank you! J have done with preaching and praying,”
replied the hardened young man. “No, dear sister, I sent tor
youto thank you for my death sentence.”

“Oh! Christian, do not kill me!” cried Ida.

“Unhappy man,” said Allerton. “You know that it was your
own voluntary act that brought you to this pass. She all but
killed herself in your service. She gave you her all, and would
have shielded your life with her own.”

“By one stupid act she undid alll” retorted Christian, savage-
ly. *When the handkerchief was shown her she told: whose it
was, and that was the key to the whole mystery.”

“LT suspected nothing,” said Ida—“I knew nothing of the ter-
Ae sget Even had it been otherwise, what could 1 have
one

You could have lied,” replied the prisoner.

“T could not have uttered a falsehood.”

“True enough—I leaned upon a broken reed—or rather on a
spear that pierced me.”

“Ida,” said Allerton, firmly—'‘it is useless to prolong this in-
terview.” :

“Have you no message for our unhappy parents?” asked the
agonized young woman.

‘*None 1”

“Ts there nothing I can do for you?”

“Ves. ”

“Tell me what it is.” ;

“Bring me a swift but deadly poison. Let me escape the
ignominy of the gallows.”

Ida shrank from him in horror.

“You say that Il have slain your body—do you wish mé to kill
your soul??

“Will you bring me what I ask?”

“T cannot, Christiah.” :

“Not as the sole condition of my forgiveness.”

“Not for the world itselt.”’ :

“Then begone!” said the wretch. “And bear with you my
curse—the curse of a brother, and it shall work you evil till it
haunts you into the grave. And mark me! if spirits can return
to earth—the spectre of your murdered brother—murdered by
your own doing, shall haunt you at bedside and table till your
sleeping and waking hours shall be such a horror, that you will
seck escape in the suicide, the means of which your cruelty
denies to me, your victim.” :

Fortunately a portion of this horrible curse fell on an insensi-
ble ear, for Ida had fainted, and before the savage had com-
picted his anathama Allerton had borne her from the cell.

OHAPTER XIII.
A SECRET DISCLOSED,

A most painful duty devolyed npon Allerton and Ida, the task
of intormiug the parents of the latter of the overwhelming
calamity, which had fallen on the family. It was hopeless to
believe tliat the truth cou:d be concealed from them. The news
penetrates the most solitary nock, and the publicity of the trial
would insure its dissemination throughout the loeal papers all
over the continent.

But to address such a tale of horror directly to the old people
was not to be thought of.
write a statement of the tragedy addressed 10 Father Gregorius
the parish priest of the village in which the Waldorffs lived,
and to implore him to impart the facts to the aged coupie in a
such a manner as his long experience and Christian charity
should suggest.

Allerton first wrote the letter carefully in English, and then
translated it into German from Ida’s dictation, and dispatched
it to its destination.

By return of mail he received an answer. It was in German,
but he knew enough of that language to be able to read it slow-
ly by the help of a dictionary, aud he determined to master its
contents before showing it to lda, as it might possibly contain
passages not intended for her eye,

The priest wrote:

“RespxcTteD Sir—I have received your honored letter, reveal-
ing to me the fate of the unhappy Christian Waldorff, and gry-
ing me a pamfat commission lo execute witich. I accepted un-
murmuring as L do all the tasks imposed by ny profession and
my duty to my Master.

“Bearing this burthen on my shoulders, Tsonght the humble
cottage of the Waldorffs.. I prepared the aged couple as weli as
I could for the dreadful news I had to communicate. Of course
they wers horror.stricken when I told them all, but: not so over-
whelmedas T anticipated. There was something in the firm-
ness with which they heard me. that surprised even me, who
Knew well their entire submission to the will of Providence. It

“J am sorry to make your acquaintance, sir, in such.

Finally the unhappy pair decided to |

 

 

was a firmness that we cannot expect from weak human nature
in the first moment of terrible affliction,even though the suffer-
ers have the cross to iéan upon. Z

“phen it was that they revealed to me a secret which
they bade me convey with all speed, and with their choicest
blessings to. their long-suffering, long-tried, darling Ida. Chris-
tian is not their son—Ida is their only child. This will litta load of
agony from the heart of the poor girl, whose sufferings have
been'those of a martyr. She has done more than her duty to
the unhappy young man now under sentence of death; and if
her evidence, though not volunteered by her, has unconsciously
contributed to his punishment—yet, Jet her remember that no
ties of blood bmd her to the sinner. The name of Waldorff is
pure and unsteined—he who has brought s0 much misery to
her and hers is not of her blood and race.

“Ida’s parents send you their blessing, and hope that you
will come to them as soon as possible. ‘Tell Ida that I bless her,
and pray for her. More cannot write for am summoned to
the death-bed of the Count von Edelberg.

“Faithfully your friend, GRuGORIUS,
“Parish Priest of Landfeltin Hanan.”

Allerton hastened to Ida’s room and placed the letter in her
hands. Whenshe had read it, she fell upon her knees and
poured out her thanks to Heaven tor having spared her the lite-
long memory of having been an unconscious agent in a brother’s

death.
Then she threw herself into her husband’s arms and wept for.

joy.

Still, she was far from happy. She bad loved Christian a3 2
brother, and, if her feelings toward him, especially since that
terrible in erview at Newgate, which revealed the extent of his
depravity, had changed somewhat, yet her gentle nature could
not divest itself of sympathy and pity for an erring fellow-be-
ing over whose young head a fate so horrible impended. &

But the sentence of the law was never Carried into cxeention.
By some means—what means was never known—the criminal
managed to procure a knife, with which he severed the jugular
vein and was found one morning dead in his ceil. ;

By great exertions and by special favor, Allerton succeeded’
in saving his lifeless remains from. the surgeons, and at his ex-
pensa, the body was privately buried in a suburban cemetery.
The stone which marks the grave is inscribed:

“CyRIsTiAN | * + * ¥ *
"Died suddenly ———Aged 27 Years.”

Some days.after this last act of charity had been performed
Allerton and"Ida went to Germany on a visit to the Waldorfis.

The joy of the old couple, both hale and hearty in spite of
age and of their troubles, was unbounded, and they welcomed
Lewis as their son-in-law with true German cordiality.

For a week they were beseiged with visitors, and Lewis was

exceedingly gratified to find that his darling was universally .

beloved*nay, almost idolized in her old home.

The old priest. with whom the young Englishman had corres
ponded became his tast friend. :

Ida learned’ that the old Count von Edelberg was dead, and
that his widow was quite ilband saw no one. She was, there-
fore, much surprised when, one morning a carriage from the
castle stopped at the cottage door, with a message from the
countess, saying that she had sent the carriage tor Ida—for her
alone—the countess desired to be remembered to her husband,
and would take the earhest opportunity to receive him also.
But to-day she wanted only Ida.

Mrs, Allerton was driven rapidly to the castle, and shown at
once into the countess’s bedroom, where she beheld the lady
reclining, but so worn and wasted that she hardly recognized
the beautiful woman she remem bored so vividly.

Jda saluted the lady respectfully, but the countess beckoned
her to her bedside, and then,thro wing her arms round her, kissed
her, and blessed her.

She then asked Ida to give hera few drops ef a cordial, which
stood on a round table, and having drank it, dismissed the at-
tendant and they were alone.

CHAPTER XIV.
: THE LAST MYSTERY EXPLAINED,
“Dear Ida,” said the countess, “I am‘the most unhappy of

s
women.””

“T only learned the death of the count, madam, since J ar-
rived in Gerinany,”’ replied Mrs. Allerton. ¥

“Ktis not that which affects me,” replied the countess. “EL
married him without love, and he was a harsh and eruel mas-
ter, rather than a husband tome. But he recognized his mis-
conduct on his death-bed, and I forgive him. Yet it was not
his treatment that afflicted me. What would have been his
treatment of me had he known that in marrying me he took to
his arms a dishonored woman!”

“You! honored lady!—you, to whom I always looked as @
pattern! You canvot make me thimk wrong of you.”

“Youlmust hear me, Ida, and believe me, for my hours are
numbered and no woman ever calumniates herself, You. per-
haps, know that my youth was passed in a poverty greater than
even yours—for my father was‘a ruined noblo—and it was some-
times harder for him who had tohide his embarrasments than
fora peasant to get bread. Of course I was less watched and
less guarded against evil associations than other girls of my
rank. Fond of the sports that befitted my age—particularly
fond of dancing, I gratified my tas:e without the knowledge of
my parents. If the young Countess Minna had not clothes to
appear at the archduke’s ball, she was dressed well enough to
dance on the green at a shooting-festival; and what mattered
it to me provided I couid circle in the waltz, whether I rested
onthe arm of a forestergr that of a royal chamberlain?

“Your mother had been a lady’s companion in our family be-
fore her marriage. My parents did not object to my visiting
her occasionally—I think I was even sent there at times when
we were most pinched that I might get plenty ‘of black bread,
cheese and milk. Ah! how I enjoyed those Visits! ‘

“TI must shorien my sad tale. I met clandéstinely a young
man named Mark Reindorff—peasant-born, 1t istrue, but hand-
somer than many a noble, and he seemed to my girlish inexperi-
ence to be as loyal and true as he was handsome. I was trom
the first prepossessed in his favor. Isoon loved him, and ended
by idolizing him.
my family and go with him to America. I consented to all

and he gave me specious reasons Jor keeping the marriage

secret until we had left Germany. . We married, Ida—and then
—then he abandoned me-—disappeared and I-could learn no
trace of him. Judge how my guilty secret weighed on me. I
couldn’t tell it to my parents (it would have killed them) or they
would have killed me. About to become a mother, I sought the
only woman in whom I could confide—your own dear mother

—she saved me, and my child was adopted and brought up as

her own.” ‘
“Christian ?” ;
‘““Yes—now you know why I sought every opportunity to see
him—why I aided him to the extent of my ability—why, with
a mother’s selfishness, I made you swear to devote your whole
life to him, to sacrifice even life itself, if need be, in the cause
of the child who was dearer 1o me than existence, but whom I
could never avow.”’ ee
“But Christian’s father—your—your husband, madam?” ©”
“T know the thoughts that is passing through your mind. But
do not think that, though abandone. and though pressed and
commanded by any parents, to accept the hand of the Count
von Edelberg, I consented: till I learned the tate of my un-
worthy husband... That fate was tragic enouch. He was a
wildshutz and was shot by the count’s feresters while in the act
of poaching. After that event, hoping, by selling myself to the
count, [ might obtain the means notonly of making my parents
comfortable, but ot educating Christian, I consented to the
second marriage. You know how that turned out. I had mar-
ried a miser—my parents lived and died poor—I had to toil for
the little money I bestowed on my unhappy child—and now
the: weal lett me at the last hour by the dying count comes
00 late.
When the countess was silent, Ida said, with a faltering voice:
“You do not ask me what has become of Christian?” x
The countess fixed her mournfnl, but resigned eyes on the
tear-bedewed face of her young friend, and said: 4
‘Because Iiknow all. Ihearditfrom the lips of a holy man,
who deemed it hisduty toinform me. Yet do not think that
fatal story killed me. Thesecds of death were implanted in my
frame before, and the sands of my unhappy life will soon run
out. Ithank Heaven that I haye been spared to see you to
thank you, to bless you for all that you were through long years
to that unhappy child, born in secrecy and inheriting a jather’s
guilt and a mother’s weakness. Heaven, in making up the
last account will weigh the circumstances ugainst the crime.
“But, oh! dear Idal truest and best of women, forget not my
story—look atthe fruits of secrecy and decelt—sce that your
children err not as I have done. Teach them, above ail, moral
bravery and frankness. Sorrows we must alt bear—shame is a
voluntary burthen. Adieu, my best of friends! Bear my love
to your husband! May youand hebe happy! We may meet
again—butif not! do not forget me. And now, Ida, kiss me
goodby!”?

Ida kissed the pale lips of the countess and withdrew, after

summoning the attendant. She lingered, however, long enough
to ascertain that the invalid was in 10 immediate danger. But
oe aiterward Minna, Countess von Edelberg, breathed
ier Jast.

With pompousrites the reniains of the unhappy lady were
committed tothe grave, most deeply mourned, however, by
the poor and lowly, by whom she was better known than by
pe epee and who loved her as much as they detested her late
husband. Z

When the will was opened, it was discovered that, with the
exception of a few trifling bequesis, she had Jelt one halt of
the princely fortune she had just received from the count, to
the church, and the other “to my beloved youny friend Ida Al-
lerton, wife of Lewis Allerton, as a slight recognition of her in-
valuable services tome and mine.” <A desire wag also express-
edethat Ida and her husband should occupy the chateau.

As the councess was the sole representative of the fainily there
were no relatives to dispute the executiun of her dying wishes,
and no one could deny that her wealth had come into possession
of those who well deserved it.

If anything could add to Ida’s happiness, it was her joy at
being able to enrich her husband. They took possession of the
chateau, but Ida’s parents could not be prevailed upon to live
there with them; nor could they alow their old dwelling to be
demolished, only consenting that it might be repaired. The
repairs, however, with additions ordered by the Allertons, made
ita comfortable, and even luxurious abode, and there the old
people continued to live, while visits were daily exchanged be-
tween the castle and the cottage.

No reluctance, whatever, was felt or expressed by the Senior
Allerton when invited to live with his children. Of course,
there was no place like London, but equally, ot course,a Ger-
man castle was preferable to a London lodging-house. He
boasted a great deal of his son’s marriage to a great German
heiress, and it wassingular that he came to the conclusion that
he had brought about the match himself.

So he went over to Germany, and took up his abode in the
chateau. He and the Waldorffs got along together admirably.

nae. on board a Rhine steamer, Allerton heard a femaie voice
exclaim:

tMr. Hallerton! I do declare !’*

Allerton turned and recognized Cherry in a very tasteful
gray traveling dress, x

Bearing her no animosity, and having adopted foreign man-
ners, Allerton kissed the lady on both cheeks.

Her sudden flush of color showed that she was not rouged,
and her smile that she was not offended.

Turning to Mr. Tompkins, the ttle cockney we met at Kew,
she said, with an assumption of matronly dignity:

“My ?usband, gir.” ‘

“ah! ow are you, baron? Delighted to meet you!” said the:
little man.

“Vm nota baron,” replied Allerton, “though Ilivein a ba-
ronical castle.” He added: “If it doesn’t interfere with your
arrangements, I shall be very happy to receive a visit from
you, and I’m sure my father and my wife wiil be delighted to
see you. My carriage will meet me at the next stopping-place of
the boat, and Pll drive you home with pleasure.”

Of course Mr. and Mrs. Tompkins were delighted. Allerton
thought he could do no less to show that he bore ho malice to
either of them, and to atone to the little cuckney forthe rough
usage he gave him in Kew Garcens. :

Yompkins never get,over that hospitality. Not a man he
knew in London but was compelled to bsten to his account of
his visif to his ‘‘friend Baron Hallerton, of Castle Edelberg, in
Hanan,” for he persisted in ennobling the arust.

Mr. Richard Varney, who has figured somewhat largely in our
narrative, still continues the practice of his profession. Wesaw
himself ourselves in 1867, in Paris, whither he had gone to keep
an cye on some of the London swell-mob, wio visited the Great
Exhibition with an eye to business.

ida. and Lewis are as happy as they deserve to be, The latter
does not jead an idle life, for beside the care ef his estates, the
exercise of hunting, and the practice of art, in which he has
pot to eminence as a landscape-painter, give him ample occu-
pation.

H¢ has not lost his love for his native land, which he annually
visits, always accompanied hy his charming wile, but he is no
less warmly attached to his adopted Germany.

THE END.

[ANNIE ASHMORE, author of Faithful Margaret,’
“Bride Elect,” and other popular stories, will soon com-
mence a new story inthe New YORK WEEKLY, envilled
“Why Dippin MARRY ler? It is a peculiar love story,
80 artistically constructed that the reader is kept in doubt
until the Jast chapter, unable toguess “Why did hemarry
her ??!--whether for love, money, or position.]

 

 

 

 

 

He persuaded me to marry him, to abandon

 

 

 

a

~

vw.

 

.
|
i
f
{
i

ii ii lianas callie ils

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

~ ~
” . «
4 s
> +
tS +

 

  

ag) ‘ |
K
, »
1 ©
ig a
» OR
eS 4
)
tow
\ ~
ym ae
a

 

 

  
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
   
   
 
  

SS RAE BRIO E

  

 

 

 

 

4

}

pe amr

 

a GPT a re aD | Ove aN trees

 

 

pee cy

EERLY.

 

 

 

eee

ADVERTISING RATES.

 

ORDINARY ADVERTISEMENTS.....+.-+.-- $3 per line.
ADVERTISEMENTS (with Cuts).............$@ per line.

 

 

 

 

Mr. L. F. DouGHERTY, Covington, Ky., writes us:

“My wife was suifering with a very SEVERE COLD and
{TERRIBLE COUGH. She had tried several remedies recom-
mendéd by her physician, but without any benefit. At this
time I was advised by a friend to get her a bottle of
Dr. Wm. Hall’s Balsam for the Lungs, | did
So, and before sue had useu the whoie vottie, she was
completely cured.”

ONDERFUL COMBINATION !
§ KET MIRROR AND PIN CASE. The-Hallowell (Me.) Satur-
day Gazette says: “Probably no other invention in the world
from size, shape, variety of daily uses, durability and price 1s So
fitted for the pockets of all. It is worth the price if only te ex-
‘amine asa curiosity. The parties are entirely responsible.” One
sent free for 25 cents, or three for 50.cents.
: E. C. PAGE & CO.
wi84t

Boston, Mass.
FREE

TRY SAMPLES OF OUR GREAT ONE DOLLAR
WEEKLY. Tne GAZETTE, Hallowell, Maine.

 

 

 

ATCH FREE.—GIVEN GRATIS to every live man who will
4 act as agent in a new, Jight, and honorable busines: pa:
$30 a day sure. No gift enterprise; no humbug; no money want:
ed inad uate. Address L. C. Kennevy & Co., Pittsburg, Pa.
wi8 4t

 

RESH GARDEN AND FLOWER, FRUIT, TERB, TREE

’ AND SHRUB, AND EVERGREEN SEEDS, eoepaid by

Mail. 25 different packets of either class ter $1

classes $5.00. Catalogues gratis. Agents wanted. Seeds on

commission. *"-B. M. WATSON, Plymouth, Mass.
wi9 4t :

 

FIFTEEN DOLLARS A DAY. AGENTS WANTED. TEN
NEW ARTICLES. Address, with stamp, WM. H., LEONARD,
Agent, 32 NEWARK AVENUE, Jersey Siry, Ne dy wi8 3t

quality furnished by L. 8. METCALF. 117 Hanover

0 St., Boston. Send for circulars. w18-4t
TVORGES LEGALLY OBTAINED FROM THE

Courts of diferent St»tes. No publicity. Advice free.
wi75t FRED'K I. KING, Counselor-at-Law, 363 Broadway.

PH NEW WILSON
is Under~Feed Shuttle

SWING MACHINES!

$25 cheaper than
any ouher!
For Simplicity, Durabili-
ty and Beauty they stand
aunrivalied ! For STitcH-
InG, HEMMiING, TUCKING,
FELLING, Quilting, CorD-
ING, BINDING, BRAIDING,
GATHERING, Gathering &
sewing on gathers, they
are uncacelled ! :
For particulars address

Wilson Sewing Machine Co.,

AGENTS WANTED, Cunverann, 0, or

Sr. Lovis, Mo.
\ JANTED—AGENTS ($20 per day) TO SELL THE Celebrated
) “Home Shutue Sewing Machine.’? Has the under-feed,
makes the “lock-stitch’’ (alike on both sides), and is fully li-
censed. The best and cheapest Family Sewing Machine in the
market. Address JOHNSON, CLARK & Co., Boston, Mass., Pitts-
burgh, Pa., Chicago, Mil, or St. Louis, Mo. w65l-i

0 YOU WANT BUSINESS, Profitable, Pleasant, and Honor-

able, at and near home, to occupy your whole or spare
time? Itissuitable for both sexes. if so, address J. N. RicH-
ARDSON & Co., Boston, Mass. w51-52t.

(Ge Nena Oats, CH NSTER COUNTY MAMMOTH
| Nand ALSIKE CLOVER. Sample packages SENT
tee a ae aiso a copy of the AMERICAN STOCK
N. P. BOYER & CO., ele
wiT-

more men can engage profitably in the STENCIL and
KEY CHECK BUSINESS. Tools and stock of the best

 

    

 

FREE to all Farmers;
JOURNAL, by inclosing stamp to
burg, Chester Go., Pa.

Agents! Read This!

ws WILL PAY AGENTS A SALARY OF $30 PER WEEK
and expenses, or allow & si commission, to sell our new
v ‘ulinveutions. Address :

and eo M. WAGNER & CO., Marshall, Mich. _

DM ONTH with Stencil an Key Check

oD land Q f

Ga e> -P Dies. Dont ruil'to secure Circular and Sam

ples, a ep SUdLORS. M. SPENCER, Brattleboro, Vt. {w47-26t
A GREAT OFFER,

HORACE WATERS, 481 Broadway, N. Y., will dispose of ONE
HUNDRED PIANOS and ORGANS, of first-class makers, includ-
ing Chickering & Sons, at -Katremely Low Prices, sor Cash, or will
take from $4 to $20 mouthly unui paid. Instruments to hire.

w49-13t,

 

 

GREATEST INVENTION OF THE AGE.

wiedgod by all who have used it to be the best pen made
seine bie asin ! Wilt not corrode. Sixty lines wrilten
with one pen of ink! Wil outwear a dozen best steel pens. Put
up in neat slide boxes. SOLD ONLY BY AGENTS, and for this
reason any energetic person can realize $200 per month. I rofit
over 200 per cent. Two sample pens, 10 cents; two boxes, 50
ecnts; five boxes, $1; twelve boxes, $2. vddress :

V4-11t. WESLERN PUBLISHING CO., Pittsburgh, Pa.

 

ae ~~ MEDIKONES.

A Book sENT FREE containing a newly-discovered eure for
many diseases without taking Medicines, Of interest to all.
Address Drs. Weis & STELL, 37 West 2lst street, New ay ae

If FREE.—Speciimen copies of the

Dag PAME <ICAN WOKKMAN,

i bor Reform Paper in America. Address,
sneer ne eas WORKMAN CO., 37 Cornhill, Boston.

PREE MASONS ATTENTION !—The MASONIC RITUAL, Kour
Mates BO cents. Address RiTUAL CO., 75.Gold street, N.Y.
wi7-lm 4
$150 A MONTH! EMPLOYMENT!
EXTRA INDUCEMENTS!

ium HORSE and WAGON tor Agents. We desire to

pest agents for aterm ofseven years, to sell the Buckeye

$20 Shuitlé Sewing Machines. It makes a stitch alike on both
sides, and 1s the best low priced, licensed machine in the. world.

W. A. HENDERSON & CO., Cleveland, Ohio, or St. Louis, Mo,

at euaegS

7O UIE WORKING GLASS.—We are now prepared to fur-
nisi classe» with constant employment at nouias We wlio
of the time or for the spare moments. Business new, ae And
profitable. Persons of either scx easily earn from wae ty ‘ 3 pet
evening, and a pgoportional suin by devoting theit W Be e : oe
to the busiuess. Boys and girls earn near ly as muc ee nes
foaat ali who see tins notice may send thei address, and of .
business, we Make this unparalleled offer: To such as are HO non
satisfied, we will s2nd $l.to pay for the troubie of writing. ean
particulars, & valuabie sample which will doto commence an

‘on, and acopy of The ‘People’s Literary Cet oe ol
largest and best fauaily newspapers pub lisheds uth oe see
mad. Reader, ifyou want permanent, proftitab ew or nadie

13-13t. EC. ALLEN & CO,, Augusta, MAINE.

a ave

1du6

USE THE “VEGET*BLE | PRAY
PULMONARY BALSAM.” L370
~The old standar | remedy, for Coughs, Colds, Consumption.
Nothing better, CUTLULR BROS., & CO., Boston. w5-24t

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

GREAT SUCCESS! *
THE IMPROVED EMPIRE SEWING MACHINES.

Speedy. noiseless, and durable. Sold on accommodating terms.
Liberal discounts to Agents. Apply for Samples and Cond:
ditions to Empire S. M. Co., 294 Bowery, N. Y. wi-ly.
$225 A MONTH) by
E CO.
BOSTON, Mass., or ST. LOUIS, Mo.

GENTS WANTED the AMERICAN
KNILTING MACHIN
w51-26t.,

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

 

“Pun Lirrhe Cuurcn AROUND THE Corser” —A Ballad. Words
by James Cooper—music by Arthur Percy. Publishers, Wm.
A. Pond & Co., 547 Broadway, New York.

Map MoNKTON; AND OTHER Stories. By Wilkie Collins. Pub-
lishers, T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia. Here are
more of the popular stories of the very popular auther. Com-
plete in one volume. It is called a great book.

Franx Spencer’s Rute or Lire. By John W. Kirton. Pub-
lished by The National Temperance Society and Publication
House, New York. This isa capital little work, illustrating the
importance of integrity and temperance.

Laws or Fermentation. By Rey. William Patton, D.D. Pub-

lished by The National Temperance Society and Publication
House, 172 William street, New York. This volume: presents
-the matter of Bible temperance an® the wines of ancient days
ina new light. The laws of fermentation are explained, and a
large number of statistics are given, proving the existence of
unfermented wine in the olden time.

Tax Mystery or Epwin Droop; 4np Master HomeHReY’s
Guiock. By Charles Dickens; with portrait and autograph of
the author. Publishers, T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia.
This is the last volume of a new ediiion of Charles. Dickens's
works, just completed by the publishers named. It. is called
‘Phe People’s Duodecimo Edition, Illustrated. Each volume
is printed on fine white paper, from large, clear type. Tiose
who have not read Dickens’s last work have now an opportuni-
ty of seeuring a handsome copy, with the addition of Master
Humphrey’s Clock. :

Tux PuorogRarsic Wortp. An Illustrated Monthly. Devoted
to Photography. Edited by Edward L. Wilson. Publishers,
Benerman & Wilson. Phila. The first number of this well-
printed. periodical contains a fine picture and biographical
sketch of that remarkable gentleman Mr. Geo. W. Childs,
whose very. able management of the Philadelphia Ledger and
princely liberality as “4 citizen have combined to make him
famous the world over.

Tuy Sxavep Packer. By T. ‘Adolphus Trollope. Publishers,
T; B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia. The power of this

‘novelist 18 most fully manifested in his Italian tales; hence the
one before usisamong the most interesting he has ever written.
The hero figuresin the Italian war of 1848—1849. The entire
plot of thestory ds skillfully, yet naturally developed. Some
novel characters are introduced im it; and many of the scenes
are truly dramatic:

ERASIVE TABLET, POC--

$ paying

CHILDHOOD.

 

BY MISS En WENBORKH,

 

Childhood, happiest boon beneath the sun!
{hy sorrows are but few, and soon are done,
Like to the rose that blooms in summer wind,
They fade and leave no trace behind,

4 time of innocence and love;

A glimpse angelic given,

Bow down, oh! sinful heart! and try

Like them to enter Heayen.

Logg acts:
THE
PHANTOM WIFE.
By Mrs. M. V. Victor,
Author of “WHO OWNED THE JEWELS,??

CTA DEAD LETIER,’? “FIGURE
LIGHT,’ ctc., ete.

 

 

(‘The Phantom Wife” Was commenced in No. 12.. Back Nos.
can be obtained of any News Agentin the United States.

CHAPTER XIX.
ONLY TO LOSE IT.

Laura’s limbs trembled and she felt weak, not only
with the great effort of forcing open the. long-disused
door, but with the excitement of the great hopes which
had burst upon her. She remained some time in her lit-
tle rocking-chair, recovering her composure, and reilect-
ing upon what course to pursue,

She felt that she must be as cautious as her jallor was
subtle. She must thwart his cunning, if possible, with
equal cunning. She had no. reason to expect a visit
from him forat least six hours. Still, it would be best
to be on her guard against a surprise.

Therefore, when she had a little recovered her strength,
the first thing she did was to replace the stone exactly
as it was before, except that she retained the key which
it had covered, and to obliterate all traces of its having
been interfered with. .She then entered the staircase,
and pulling the heavy door fo, locked it, so that if Gabriel
should visit her prison while she was engaged in her ex-
amination of the tower, he would have no clue to her
whereabouts, nor be able to conjecture how she could
have escaped.

Alas! how cotild she dream, as she did this, that the
very care with which she covered her retreat, might
prove fatal to her?

Shenow found herself on a winding, dilapidated stair-
case, twining up the rough masonry of the tower, lighted
here and there by windows similar to those in the room
below. Intwo or three places the stairs had crumbled
away so that she could scarcely climb to those above; but
she persévered, and after a time came out into a room of
the same proportions as her prison, but not so lofty. It
was not more than seven feet high, and evidently in the
very top of the tower.’ She entered it by an open door
atthe head of the stairs ; but still possessed by a terror
which had become morbid, she pushed it to, ag soon as
she had gained the room, tried her key in the lock, found
that it fitted, and felt doubly safe with two stout bolts
between her and Gabriel.

Panting tor breath, she looked about upon her place of
refuge. ‘Truly, it promised, at first sight, no aid to her in
her trouble. But through the deep and narrow windows,
scarcely more than oop-holes. she could see the ocean
glistening, and the clouds of heayen, and breathe air
untainted by his presence. She felt confident that from
this lofty altitude she could display some signal that
would attract attention and Jead to investigation.

If she did not. succeed the first day, she could try it a
second and a third. Meantime she could keep secret her
discovery, and at the hours of Gabriel’s visits be always
in her prison. She conla spend hours, each day, ia this
airy sky-room, sitting in the narrow window, looking
down upon the lovelyw: uid grown so much lovelier since
she had been shutaway fromit. Sooner ordater, help
must come. She could afford; now, to be patient, and to
defy the man who had@'set_ his overbearing will against
her unswerving resolution. see

If no other chance ofescape occurred, she could make
acord and let herself down from that dizzy hight, It
would take time; but, by husbanding her resources, she
could obtain the material. - Her garments, hanging on the
walls of her room, the stout linen sheets, the napkins and
towels with which she was well supplied, would furnish
her the material for making a ladder of loops or knots by
which she might venture, some clear night, to lower her-
self to the ground.

Laura was a timid creature by natnre; she shuddered
as she thought of this desperate resource, and yet a thrill
of joy ran through the shiver of fear, Any means which
would take her to her husbanad’s feet she would venture
upon. ©, to reach) him, and to hear her sentence from his
lips! :

Cautiously, for fear that Gabriel might be out-of-doors,
and his eagle eye be quick to dart up at her, she got on
her knees in the embrasure of one ef the windows on the
most deserted side,of the chateau, and thrust her head
through the opening. There were no bars here, and, in-
deed, the casement pressed her shoulders on either side
as she leaned out, So narrow was it.

Her head reeled as she looked down the blank wall,
fifty feet, without balcony or break. The nerves must be

‘| firm and the hands steady, that would deseend ‘that pre-

cipice of stone on @ frail ladder of braided linen. She
resolved that. she would attempt it sooner than wait long
for rescue from outside.

The tower was not altogether barren onits outer wall.
In some places it was completely hidden in the rich ivy
of acentury’s growth; it clambered to the’ very turrets,
and waved there, reaching down long, fluttering arms
that kissed Laura’s dark hair as sheleaned out. But the
main stem was{ol the giant vine was at the corner, while
such branches as crept near her window were light and
wandering—not at alito berelied@ on inany purpose of
escape.

She went to the casement on the south, overlooking the
garden. Here theivy was thick and bushy. abont the
lower stories, but branched off in» another direction,.
avoiding the window as it came up.

On the side of the tower over the chateau roof there
was no window. Laura made astudy of the whole thing.
She saw no way of liberating herself except by the rope,
or’a signal; and, on second thought, she abandoned the
idea of the signal entirely.

Ifany one saw that, it would be Gabriel himself, always
on the alert, and it would harm instead of assisting her
cause, ;

No, she must return to her prison, conceal her key,
and busy herself in the manufacture of the rope, working
as speedily as secretly.

In less than three days she meant to be free.

An exulting light played over her worn. features at the
prospect. Once moreshe leaned out, to measure with
her eye the dizzy distance, so-as to make some calcula-
tion ag to the length of rope’ that would be required.
The great key of the staircase was inher hand; and, as
she saw someone coming out into the garden, she at-
tempted hastily to withdraw, her hand camein sharp
contact with the casement, and the key was forced. from
her grasp. 2
_ It fell outside the tower. She heard it faintly jingling
and ringing. down the stones of the wall. At first she
only wondered if it would be seen or heard by the person
in the garden. 2

Then a great cry of horror burst from herlips. She
realized all that the loss of the key meant toher. She
had sealed her own doom, She had locked herself in
that remote and isolated chamber, tlere to perish by slow
and horrible degrees, of hunger and thirst. Fora few
moments she ran wildly about, beating the walls, and the
door. She recalled the tradition of the poor little bride,
Genevra, who had closed upon her own bright head the
fatal spring of the oaken chest. It was a pitiful—pitiful
fate; but not so dreadful as her’s would be; for death
must have come soon; while to her, it would linger days
and days in its torturing way.

As soon as she grew alittle calm, she looked eagerly
out to see who was the person in the garden. Shealmost
prayed that it might be Gabriel. She would call to him,
tell him.ef the accident, and beg him to find some way
of releasing her. ‘The instinct of life was stronger in her
than she had believed. It did not take hera moment to
decide that if Gabriel were there sle would appeal to
him. It would be better to. place herself again inhis
‘power than to starve to death in this sky-chamber. Oh,
she could die—but not by starvation—alone—with not
one soul on earth to know where lay her poor skeleton.

It was only blind and deaf old Pierre down there in the
garden, stooping over his seeds and bulbs. She called to
him, she shouted, she shrieked; but he never lifted his
stupid old head. ;

It was a bright day. Yet for any sign of life about the
chateau it mignt be midnight. This was the duy on
which Mrs. Runnel had gone away to visit Mary at the
school. Gillan, himself, had departed for the village to
be gone some hours. The few servants were all in their
own quarters, except Nannine and Terese, the only two
lively people on tile place, and they had taken advantage
of Mrs. Runnel’s absence to go off on a passing donkey-
cart to spend the day with some friends of theirs.

Old Pierre remained several hours in the garden; but
he never lifted his bent shoulders, nor raised his dim

eyes.

“The earth-worm! the clod!?? murmured the sad being
who watched him with such a desperate vigilance, begin-
ning to sob and moan, as at last he crept out of the gar-
den and ‘went off like a snail.

None of the windows of the tower commanded a view
of the main entrance to the chateau, so that Laura could
signal no one arriving or departing from the house. Uer
sole hope of salvation layin attracting the attention of
some one in the flower-garden, or on the deserted terraces
and lawns lying to the south; and her hope of doing that
was about gone Jor this first day.

She could hardly believe her eyes when she saw the sun
setting over the far-away, sparkling sea, It was after-
noon when she came up here, but she did not expect to
have to face the night sosvon. She was very weary and
thirsty, for the intensity of her mental suffering had made
her feverish.

“How many times? how many times?’ she whispered,
as the golden suu dropped suddenly beneath the glimmer-
ing seamonzen. “Once again, it may. be, or twice, and
then-—

She dropped on her knees before the narrow casement,
lifted her face to the calm sky, and prayed to thé Virgin
to have pity on her, whe was so young, so fult of health
end strength, so unfit to die, with so much to do before
she died—ta avert her impending fate. She confessed
that in this soffering and danger she recognized a merit-

 

 

ed Punishment for her folly and sin in leaving her hus-

"

band, and ‘0, she sobbed, ‘‘she could not die until she
had seen her husband, and begged his forgiveness. If only
for that, she did so.long to live!” And her tears seconded
her prayers. 45

The pink flush of sunset fell around her like a rosy vail
where she knelt... Her rich hair shone under its: magic
touch. Her beautiful face, once so sweet in its expression,
was wan, and wild, and sallow; her uplifted eyes blind
with tears, O, how she prayed !—as human hearts must
pray when the hour of utter helplessness comes.

Thé sunset faded; the dim twilight drewon. Still her
hands were clasped, her tender bosom pressed against the
cold and ruthless stone, She was alone. Only God could
save her! .

Only the “cold light of stars’? now glimmered in that
forsaken Chamber. She sat down on the stone floor, bury-
ing her face in her hands, After & long time she started
up and listened. She heard: some distant sound in the
room at the far foot of the winding stair. Gabriel must
have come in and missed her. What would he think and
do? She stamped on the floor with her feet, and frantical-
ly called his name. It was impossible that heshould hear
her; yet she continued to‘call until worn out.

“He las gone away and forsaken me,’’ she said; then,
quite exhausted, she stretched herseif on the stones, and
with her head on her poor, aching arm, fell asleep. She
dreamed of falling down precipices, of toiling up eternal
stairs, and of trying to drink out. of a runniog stream
which fled away whenever she put her mouth in it.

The next day she passed in one or tne other window.
She had torn off a piece of herdress, which she fastened
outside for a signal; but her dress was gray, and the wall
was gray, and at that distance no one Observed it. She
was very feverish, suffering extremely from thirst. She
was not conscious of being hungry; but she was faint, and
not entirely certain of her own feelings or impressions,
and, along in the after part of the day, she began to find
it impossible to maintain her watch, but kept falling off,
at intervals, bruising herself on the floor. Shewas afraid
that she might tumble from the windows, and had to give
up sitting in them, and take to Kneeling before them.
Her heavy head went down on the sill, and she grew al-
most tow confused to-pray. :

“T deserve it. I brought all this upon myself. But 0,
I do so want to see George again, and tell him how 1
came to makethe wretched mistake which has brought
me to this.??

That night the sun set in clouds, black and gloomy;
twilight Came down without a star; and still, im the ray-
less darkness, she crouched before thecasement, lost in a
heavy stupor from which, occasionally, she aroused her-
self, becoming conscious that the wind was blowing wild-
ly around the tower, shrieking and jeering, as if taunting
her with her doom.

After atime it began to rain. The wind, whitling the
big drops, through the narrow opening, hurled them into
her face. “The coolness and the moisture revived her.
She struggled up, and stretching her hand out, she caught
the blessed rain as it fell, and wet her parched lips and
tongue. Itseemed to her as if Heaven vouchsafed this
slender mercy to her. ‘The piece of her dress which she
had hung outside was dripping; she drew it in and sucked
the water from it until her thirst was satisfied. She felt
stronger, and far less feverish, after this relief. Having
washed her face and hands in the rain, and hung the
cloth out to gather more water, she sank down on the
floor and fell into a deep sleep.

When she awoke, and struggled‘to her feet, and reached
the casement, a hot, spring sun was shining, the cloth
she had hung out was already dried in its blaze, the air
was languid, and the torture of intolerable thirst returned
upon her more fiercely thanbefore. There was a strange
pain in her breast, her eyes were blurred and burning,
and her brain swam. : :

Old Pierre was in the garden looking to see if theshow-
er had started any of his flower-seeds. She endeavored
to shout to him; but her throat was so parched it refused
to utter a sound.

“Dear George,’ she murmured, ‘‘you will never—never
—hever know how your poor Laura perished here alone!”
a dry sob was choked in its utterance, and lying down,
she closed her eyes to love, and youth, and life.

Her powers of endurance had been so Severely taxed by
her prison life, before the accident occurred which had
immured her in this awful, living grave, that she did not
hold out against her sufferings as otherwise she might
have done.

It was only the third day, yet Laura felt that she was

dying. With the bluesky smiling in at the lofty window,
the bright, beautiful earth below her, with the ivy waving
joyously in the sun, and the little birds fluttering in and
out the windows—with Gabriel, and Mrs. Runnel, and
the servants, going about unconscious of her doom—she
sank down on the hard stones of her cruel prison, white
as marble, gasping for breath, and closed her eyes, with
only one clear conception remaining in her confused, cx-
hausted brain, which was, that her husband would never
know how miserably she had perished.
‘fhe little birds, flying in and outon wings as free as
the wind, shhyly eyed this motionless and wasted wreck
ofa beautiful woman, and fluttered about her in trouble
and wonder, as if they fain would have asked what they
could do for her.

And so the sun set forthe third time, and the night
came on, and the great, bright-eyed stars glittered coldly

 

 

CHAPTER XX.
: DISCOMFITED,___

It would» require a strong touch to paint, with words,
the utter astonishment which descended upon Gabriel
Gillan when he admitted himself to Laura’s prison on
the evening after her escape from it, and found it empty.

It seemed. as if only by a miracle could she have been
taken from that tower-room, leaving behind no vestige of
her manner of escapes A thorough examination of the
chamber resulted in no discovery.

The wall, through which his prisoner had once nearly
made a breach, was unimpaired; the door leading up, to
the turret-room was as fast bolted as ever; the windows
were as closely boarded over as before.

Laura was not there, and yet it seemed so incredible
that she could. be: gone, that he went foolishly about, as
people will undersuch circumstances of surprise, looking
in the water-pitcher, and under the bed, and in the table
drawer. : :

Then he went outand reconnoitred the gallery. Since
the day in which he discovered Mrs. Runnel paying it.a
visit, he had-been careful to Keep the entrance-to the gal-
lery locked also, and he had found;it locked, as usual,
when he came to it, thisevening. He gave a thorough
examination to the tapestries, to:make sure that Laura
was hot concealed behind these.

Thenhe returned to the prison-room and sat down by
the table to think it allover. «~ : f

Laura was gone, that was certain, but-beyond that he
could arrive at no conciusion.

Could’ it be that Kalpatrick—absurd! no, that was im-
possible. Mrs. Runnel?—Hal! there was more; reason in
thatsuggestion. Gabriel leaped to his feet. Ile believed
now that he had arrived at a solution of the mystery. He
saw the whole thing at a glance; and now, wiat remain-
ed, was to take the consequences of his cousin's escape,
and consequent betrayal of his unlawful violence toward
her—or to still endeavor to circumvent her and her ac-
complice. ‘

It became his theory thatMrs. Runnel had discovered,
through spying upon his movements, that he was keeping
Laura a prisoner; that she had contrived to hold commu-
nication with her and concert a plan of escape; that she
had either found keys to fit the locks, or taken the im-
pressions of the wards in wax, and had@them made at the
Village; and that, instead of actually staxting for the
pension, on the morning train, She had remaimed_ in the
village and come back, as soon as she learned that he was
out of the way, to release her mistress; when the two had
doubtless gone quietly to the afternoon train, and were
now far on their way to the conventin which Laura had
only to ensconce lierself, to be out of his power, ana sur-
rounded by a cordon of jeaious and powerful friends. In
that case, he might make up his mind that his bold and
dangerous game was ‘played out. Laura might be too
genérous to cause his arrest and punishment; she even
mightnot -withdraw the half of her fortune which she
had given him—but, beyonda that, he need expect no
clemency. ; or

For a short time he raved around ‘the empty room jike
a madman, after the idea of the housekeeper’s inter-
ference presented itself. Le cursed that innocent person
with a fervor which would have hustled her at once into
purgatory, had there been any power In his evil wishes.

The servants Nad already retired to bed, so that he
could make no inquiries of them Which might enlighten
him. He went to Laura’s oom: to observe if any pack-
ing of baggage had been done there. The room was un-
disturbed; her jewel-casket, which he had locked in her
desk, remained there. But that might be because he had
taken the key into his own care during her enforced ab-
sence from her apartment.

Before breakfast, the next morning, he walked down to
the station, and made inquiries there which convinced
him that Mrs. Runnel did go by the early train, as she
had said she would; and thatno person answering Lau-
ra’s description had departed by the afternoon train.

These, facts disconcerted his theory so much that he
knew nof what tothink. He returned to the chateau,
saying nothing tothe servants, forhe felt that he was
placed in a ticklish situation, and must be constantly on
his guard.

He ate his breakfast with apparent relish, joking with
the lively Nannine, whoserved his coffee. Afterward he

returned to the tower-room, and, during the scrutiny |

which he gave it the second time, he discovered the pe-
culiar stone under the door. Wien he raised it, he con-
| fidently expected to find a subterranean passage by which
Laura had got away, and was disappointed at the blank
which met his eye. Not finding the key, he had not the
key to, the use of the little hollow underneath, and was
as far as ever from solving the enigma.

He then bethought him that it would be prudent to
take down the boards which he Nad nailed over the win-
dows, and he did so—also removing the most of the fur-
uiture from the room.

He then went down and had an interview with the old
steward, Without betraying to him half his real thoughts,
heset Paulto spying about ihe “inn, to ascertain the ex-
act present condition of the wounded man, and if any-
body had recently visited him.

After a few hours Paul returned from his errand, bring-
ing no satisfactory information, except that the convates-
cent had not yet been permitted to leave his room, which
was Satisfactory as showing there could be no immediate
flicht of the missing lady ia his company.

Gabriel had then put on the mask of gay unconcern
his features were so accastomed to wear, had ordered a
carriage, anc driven tothe train by which he guessed
that Mrs. Runnel wouid return, if she had really been
to tthe pension,

 

lier inauner, at. their meeting and during what took

over the living tomb of Laura Kilpatrick. 7

place afterward, showed him, indubitably, that she was
as ignorant of Laura’s whereabouts as himsell

Several days passed as unpleasantly as possible. He
did not know: what todo. Mrs. Runnel was.erying half
the time, and asserting her belief that her dear mistress
was fonly: deaith with.: Theservants saw that there was
trouble, but did not know its nature. He telegraphed a
secret communication to the Parisian police to ascertain
if such a lady was to be found in that city. He also tel-
egraplied privately to Mary Runnel to let him know, in-
stantly, lf Laura came to the convent. In the meantime
he constantly spied upon Kilpatrick; to learn if She could
be holding any communication with him. Through all
this, he failed to come upon the faintest clue.

Affairs were in this state the evening on which he fol-
lowed, Mrs. Runnel to theinn. The fact that she held
an interview with Kilpatrick renewed his first suspicion
that she must be privy to Laura’s flight. He believed she
had been shamming. They walked the long stretch to the
chateau together in silence, and together entered. the
sation in which they usually spent their evenings.

The servants had lighted the wax candles about the
long room. » It was quite brilliantly illuminated, as was
the custom, for Gabriel hated darkness. The two came
up to ithe center table together, pausing as by the same
impulse, standing opposite with the table between them.

Mrs. Runnel knew that Mr. Gillan must be angry ; but
she was hardly prepared for the black face which con-
fronted her. lle pulled a revolver from his pocket and
held it in his hand. 3

“You know where Laura is, Mrs. Runnel, and if you do
not tell me—being careful to tell the truth—lI will shoot
you in less than @ minute.” ‘

“Be careful, sir. Z will have yow arrested for threat-
ening my life.’

“Pooh! Yeuare poor—I am rich. You cannot speak
French ; you will not gain much consideration; for I will
have my own story to tell. However, that’s not to the
point. { give you just one minute.”

“Mr. Gillan; I know not where she is.’?

“You do know. Half the minute is gone.”

“Murder me, if you please. Ishall not flinch. [swear
to you, in the holy name of Him who sees us both, that I
do not know what-has happened to Madame Laura, and
that Ican find out nothing.”

The earnestness of her voice, and the calm manner in
which she regarded the weapon pointed toward her,
rather shook his belief again. The minute was up, but
the revolver was not fired.

Furious as he was, he had not expected to carry out his
threat, but had hoped to frighten her into confession.
“Then why were you closeted with Kilpatrick? It must
have been about her.’

“Tt was about her.
where she was.”?

“And did he??? eagerly interrupted Gabriel.

“No. Heis as ignorant as the rest of us,’’

Gillen returned the weapon to his pocket.
few steps up and down, returning to the table.
“YT tell you what-it is, Mrs. Runnel. She has gone to
America. Thesight of that gray-beard husband of her’s
has been too much for her. When he returns home, he
will find her there, meekly waiting for him to put his foot
on her neck.’?

“It may be so, sir; Lhopeitis. She ought never tohave
come away as she did. If Madame Laura don’t come
back before that time, 1’m a going back to my own home
and my own country, when Mr. Kilpatrick does. Mary
may be disappointed, but she must go to.. This French
hole ain’t no place for me to come to, at my time o’ life.
Still, I aint sorry I kept company with that poor young
lady. Py he'll thank me fur it, when he realizes all. So,
there :

“T shall regret the loss of your society immensely,’’ he
replied, sneeringly; ‘‘and what will pretty Mary do for a

I went'to him to learn if he knew

He took a

for you, 1’m sure I have none.”’
The truth was he was quite as anxious to get Mrs. Run-
nel out of the country, as she was to go.
French servants about him, and persons ignorant of his
and Laura’s past history, he shoulu get along a great deal
better. If anything had happened to his cousin that she
never re-appeared to claim her estates, he was next of kin,
and would put in his claims as heir as.soon as it was
prudent. Or, if any charges were made against him, im-
plicating him in her disappearance, the damaging testi-
mony of the only two who knew anything against him,
would not be accessible. ae

“By the way,?? he continued, with another sneer,
“Madame Marshall has arrived upon the scene.”?

“Yes. Il wish she’d'staid to home,’ shortly.

“She and E used to be great friends. She’s a sharp wo-
man. Butif she gets Kilpatrick and I don’t get Laura,
the Fates will show great partiality.”

“} hate her. I wish she’d staid to home,’ repeated
Mrs. Runnel. ‘its my opinionshe made trouble between
himeand her’?

Gabriel laughed, disagreeably.

“T should not be surprised,” he said.

“You two cooked up the whole dish,” she added, sus-
piciously.

“Mrs. Runnel, you seem actually to be cutting your eye-
teeth! Cooked up what dish? Butl’m going tomy study
now, to look over my business papers a little. I’ve about
made up my mind to start for Paris to-morrow morning.
If Laura is not already on the ocean—or if she is not
dead—I feel confident I shall hear of herin Paris. I was
bound she should marry me, Mrs. Runnel, and the litle

fool is running away from me. ‘Tuat is all—positively all.
1 would give up my life to save a hair of her dear head
from real harm. I’ve been pretty decided about this
marriage, because I thought it for her good as well as
mine, situated as’ she was, with mo one, except myself,
who had any interestin her. Wm sorry I pusied her so
hard—but what’s done can’t be undone. If I get her safe
back, you may make up your mind I will let her alone o
the subject of marriage.” ‘

lie seemed very much in earnest—perhaps was, for he
certainly had not contemplated such unhappy consequen-
ces when he sought to intimidate his gentle cousin; and he
was now too seriously alarmed not to have welcomed al-
most any information which should assure him that Laura
was alive and. well. ;

Before he turned to leave the salon the steward brought
in the evening mail—a few newspapers and a letter or
two. i
. Gabriel stood by the table and opened his correspon-

ence. ;

Atter looking at one of the two letters he uttered a cry
expressive of mingled joy and alarm.

“What is it, sir??? asked Mrs. Runnel, quickly. ‘Have
you heard from her ?”?

“Yes; as I gueesed, she isin Paris. Butsheisill.. This
note is not in her handwriting; but itis dictated by her,
asking me to come and bring her home to the chateau.
Oh, Mrs. Runnel, what a relief this is.”

He lJeoked very happy, but the sbarp Yankee woman
would have liked to read the letter for herself. It struck
her that Gillan’s looks and actions: were a trifle hollow
and ‘theatrical. i ¢

She could not, very well, ask to see the letter, nor con-
trive to'get if into her hands. i

Gabriel went off to his study; and by the first train, the
next morning, he started for Paris.

(fo be Continued.)

———- 0-4

Pleasant. Paragraphs.

—Aunt Jerusha’s beauty, we regret to hear, has been tempor-
arily disfigured by a gigantic pimple, which grew so rapidly on
the most conspicuous part of her frontispiece as to make any
observer fancy thatit had taken root in very favorable soil.
The remedy adopted for.its removal by a heroic friend was a
desperate one, and to say the least, must have been rather
“shocking” to the patient.

RUGG DOCUMENTS, No. 32.—By CLARA AUGUSTA,

Yes, thank fortun’! Dve got done painting, and we_,all lived
through it, except black Jim, one of our bestsheep, that killed
hisselt intirely a lapping up:the lead that Jonathan and [scraped
up off from the floor, and throwed out doors. Aid I think, con-
sidering everything, we'd ort tobe thankful that it is as well
with uz as it iz.

Jonathan got a dreadful cold in his diagram and pleurisy, by
sleeping with the bedroom window up o’ night to let out the smell
of turbuntine, and I haint very weil myself in a good many
ways, for that pesky whitewash nigh about skinned me. And
afore that got well, I waz took with a bile! Ever hadone? If
you haint, then you don’t know nothin’ about the trials and
tribberlations of life, and you haint never had any excuse for
swearing.

I don’t wonder that Job’s name has been handed down to an
admiring prosperity, if he was pashunt when he had biles. He
must have beer a dreadful nice, easy. tempered man, and Vl
warrant he allus made the fire cold mornings, and went to bed
first of cold nights to warm the bed. His wife was probberly a
happy woman. :

But I haint no Job. I’m an onpasherent woman when any-
thing ails me, and what with that whitewash and paint I wes
pretty, well decomposed, and when a bile came on the end of
my nose as big asa teacup itfairly upsot me! Tdeclare, I am
ashamed of myself when I remember him I kicked things
round, and slammed the doors, and broomsticked the cats, and
made a rumpus ginerally. ‘

Of course that bile must need come onto my nose, just where

it would be the most seen. Biles on women allus come on their
face. That’s because they’d rather have ’em. anywhere else.
Nothing ever happens as you want itto. And it’s especially the
case that when a good-looking woman has anything disfiguring
it’ a be on her face. . = ;
- aah aa I seed ita coming I wentto poullicing of it, and
soaking it in weak lye. And the more I poulticed it the bigger
it swelled. I put oncatnip, and rhubub, and carrot, and flour
and merlasses, and pertater, and pond lily, and ginger, and soft
soap, and about fifty other things too numerous to set down, ©

Jonathan, to do him justice, seemed tobe right in his ele.
ments. Whether he was anxious for me to git well, or whether
he wanted me:to die, so he could git another wife, I won't per-
tend to say, but he did fly round and spread poultices, and the
washes as if he liked the job. And all the time he was a whist-
ling aS merry as ever you heerd a man that was a going to his
vrandmarm’s funeral when she’d left him ten thousand dollars,
Buthe spread them poultices without ever a word of com-
plaint, and when I seed how handy. he’d do it, X was eanamost
reddy to forgive him for snoring and having corns.

The more 1 poulticed my bile, though, the harder and tougher
it growed, and the further off itseemed to be from breaking.
It began to be the talk of the neighborhood. Everybody was a
calling inand remarking onto it. Old Marial Smith she went
and sot the story a going that Jonathan and I had fell out, and
my bile was_ nothing only where he had pounded me, anda
good many believed it. But it was only them ‘as warn’t ac-
quainted yer Aunt Jerushy, for everybody that knows her
Knows that she wouldn't be likely to stand still and let Jona-
than Perkins, or any other Perkins, pound her nose off. i

I went to see Dr. Stewpill, anihe couldn’t seem to do nothing
forit. ‘He sed ihatitort to break, and that ifit didmt break it
would grow fast to my nose and 1 should be a sight worth going

‘forty mile to see.

I went home and shed some tears. Ishould have shed more,
butI had: some turnovers to fry, andI couldu’t afford the
time.

Mose White: he sed he knowed. how.to break that bile; he sed
he was sartin he could breakitinless’n twenty-four hours.
But though me and Jonathan asked him, he wouldi’t te:l me
nor him,

 

Along toward night, as Twas & setting by the fire a groaning
and vitherin#;Moseliecome in from the -barn with a. bag.of

bd

  
   
  

rich husband? However, if Madame Laura has no use 4

With none but}

corn onto his back, and what did that consarned heathen do
but flirt off the bagiand hit me slap ripe on my. bile...
, Knocked me flat in the floor and bust the bile as easy as you
could bust an egg with a hammer. © :

But wasn’t I hopping! g

tT syle up and took after. Mose ith the broom, and I dunno
but 2 sfould Have been the death of himif he hadu’t ran into
the corn house, and shut the door, and fastened me out.

<I broke the bile, anyhow,” sez he, when went to calling
Pi bad names I could think of—*s broke: the bile, by

And so he did, and I am getting better, though my nose is big
enuff for two noses at the present writing, and the poultices
take away my sightso that lean’t-see to write plain.

no more at present from :
Yourn truly, “ JgRueny P@REKINS.

é i REFORMING  A}QUAKER) “ e4

An aged painter, of the Quaker persuasion, was once called
on to paint a sign tor a stage-proprictor and tavern-keéper liv-
ing in Bucks county, Pa. The device was to be a fine coach-
and-four driven by the proprietor himself, whe remarked that
occasionally he had driven hisown stages. ‘The work was done
admirably, and the proprietor called in to examine it. and see if
it met his expectations. The likeness of the driver’s face was
perfect, but he appeared to be lolling over as if half iuclined to
drop from his box, his whip hung slouchingly down, the reins
were loosely held, and stilt the driver did not appear to be
asleep but had aremarkably good-humored expression ail over
hig ruddy countenance. ‘But how is this? ’ said the proprietor.
“That isnot the way for a driver to sit.” “Doesnt thee get a
little so sometimes?” shrewdly inquired the old Quaker. The
man burst out into a foaming passion, but the painter cooled
him down and agreed that if he would promise te quit drinking

  
 

forever, he would rub out the driver and paint bir e should
be, and:the affairshould be hushed up. It app that the
habit of the man was not generally known on) xe painter

The reformation is/said to have been

and afew other friends. |
The Good Femplars could pat aed

prompt and permanent.
done it more gently.

Bots

   

A MUSK-SCENTED, TALE. *.

New Castle is one of the thriving yeung cities in Western
Pennsylvania. It arrived at that] ‘some two years since,
which turned the seale in the balanee, and the borough died,
the city was born. The honor.and the emoluments ef the first
Mayor were worthily bestowed on Mr. ———, a jovial, joking
lawyer of the new-made city. “One term, however, satisfied
hisambition in that line, and at its expiration he retired from
office with the fullest approbation of the public upon his official
career. Andnowtothe tale: Mr.——— determined to abandon
city life, and to that end purchasedia neat house and five-acre
farm, five miles from the city. His new house is situated on the
banks of the romantic stream, down in the geographies as ““Bea-
ver R.” She banks‘are perforated hike a Colt’s pepper box,
only. this difference, they are somewhat larger. Muskrats manu-
facture these cavities for their exclusive use. The Ex-Mayor
noted the above-mentioned facts, and it at once occurred to his
ingenious and active mind that it would be fine sport to trap a
few of the hol(e)y amphibs. Without further time wasted in
useless cogitation he procured one of those institutions well-
known to boys as ‘‘box-traps,”? and, properly baited, “set” it
wlhiere the rats did most abound. Whatan anxious night was
there,, my countrymen! Such visions as floatéd betore his
sleepingeyes! Dreams of swimming in oceans of musk, com-

      

 

‘ing out and being toweled with downy furs of spohiated, skin-

deprived muskrats. But the lengest day must have an end, and
so must the night of the trapper’s maiden effort in the fur-line.
Soon after the dawn of early day he hastened to the spot where
his hopes were centered.

Could it be possible! What! Three of’em? Yes, there pro-
truding from the crack of the “fall” were three real, unmistak-
able muskrat tails! ‘ .

How toget the rats out was the next subject for consideration;
it would never do to let them out, or attempt to teke them, so
near the water, so he clasped the long box firmly around the
center and lugged, rather than carried it to the middle of a
large field adjoining; then two early neighbors were sum-
moned, and armed with sticks, and gathered ctose around, the
trio stood—sticks raised with dire intent, and the ud was raised f

Not a sound was heard,
Not a muskrat stirred! |

_ Closer investigation discovered three of the coveted
inside the trap—divested of their skins, which latter were un-
dergoing the tanning process under care ot some mischievous
chaps who had first caught the rats in Steel-traps, then skinned
them, then placed the carcasses where our hunter caught them.

On first discovery of the ‘‘sell” our ex-officio used some serip-

tural expressions suitable to the occasion, but soon cooled down

kicked the trap to pieces, and now enjoys the joke weil as
y one, only when touched on the subject he is apt to remark:
ES “DAMUSHRATS.”?
A CO’D I'D THE DOSE.
T dough that borta! flesh is heir
To bady a hard disease,
Add docior’s pills are death ed bills—
Lord! how co’ds bake ode sdeezet
A jumpi’g tooth or achi’g braid
Are ails we ho'd id dread,
But these I dever have, id lieu,
A bad co’d 1d by head!
But we should strive with fortitude
To bou bedeath the blows,
Add ebulate the adciedt Job—
Zouds! there’s by precious doset
0 spe’d one’s tibe ‘twixt ha’dkerchief peatact
Add sduff, is far frob tud. 3
They say Tibe “flies” tis also tru
Thatdoses ofted “rud.?' .
Add with this co’d ’b worryig,
Ada stori’g biseries;
i sobvetibes thi’k by lite will edd
Id ode contidued sdeeze !
_DER SHOE VON DER HORSE OFZ.
Das olf tims yimmens, vat inade troubles of der peobles, und
got humpugse) mit der phladeries of some nine-daited cats on
der shtakxe py Pos'on ond, a goot many years already gone past,
ov ackound of some inderruptions of der pram, vas got some
grafeyards pilt, yoost pehindt, on der frontesbeice of a goot
many feadures vat vas lifund oxist yoo now. Dhey vas, und
adhere memories neider, hate goot reekerlecttons, und vas
pblaindy varm on der mindts of many peobles. Aldough dose
vitchvimmens vas for’more as ein hoondert years been shleebin
quiedly enuff on der shurch yart oud, mitnotso much shtrength
as von kidden, und mit notting of dhere poddy und lecks, ox-
cepbt aboud so much, yot you cood holt poory vell opp, mit von
hant, und a shplid shboon, und efen der magnets, und dhur-
key puzzarts, vas gone long ago avay mit empdy slikins, shtill
more as a parrel of peobles, hafe got some kredules; und vas
more afraid von dhein dedt vimmens, as you gif me dwo tollars.:
Dhey dink dot some times dhey vood come your house pack,
und make you troubles, und der phiace crazy, every tay you
got von dot luck notting goot too. :
Vhen I dink of such humpugsI could so easy of not, lafe recht
on her face of dhem, appreviated loonadicks. I vood radder
hafe a high jashdess of mine nose, dhen to been von like dot
peobles. But der more vat wei lif der longer wei found p
shoopider it oud, aind it. Mit all dot, some peoples vill hate
dhere oxcendricks, und wei dond cood hellub dot anyhow, und
ofer dhem oxcendricks vood been some inshtroomendts to make
em go decent of sociedy ond, and got em contentmendts of
mindf, und been fhree und exhilerated I vood not been der

B.S. W.

fhlames von dot habbiness dherein,
horse off, vhen hung yonce py der door ofer, you got notting

vedder of not, der shor he shall conic, und mak. von der shack-
ass off, dhere vas youet so much fraid on von, as der odder yon.
Now, for inshtine

und makeid of your.own hause, you got efery time phlaindy
habbiness no muatier vat your name vas, hefer vonce troubie
vas come mit you, und your families, und aN on ackound von
dat leedle beice of iron, vat vasround, und so bigger ike mine
left hant. Shtill mit dis shtrong incense, I dond cecd’ pelief on
dot doxology. ‘ ; ; ere :

Make ein foolof a dedt vimmens mit a Shee von a horse off,
dot-vas a pooty goot shake anyhow.
vimmens vat [know me sometings pooty vell apoud, vood gone
died vonce, seek bolicetmans tnd a pull tog, mit eintausend shoes
yood make em notting fraid, [baed you. Now to been sose-
riousness like a.rosen shtorm mine frow she somedimes got some
kredules, vnen I dond know dot, und been foolisliness of me

found a shoe von a horse off, she makes it of der doortob. Poot

soon, qwick, pimeby, wei got troubles, und she makes pineplecik
of mine face, und vhen mine. agravation vas got oop, l make
her qwick der vindow oud, und dhen Ileok me mine eyes oud,
of dot ting, der. shoe, und so qwicker I make him down wei got

clofer feelu oud. Dose vhich dinks mit serenidy, ofer der pene:
fits von dot ignorance, he hafe mine sympudy. «For dhrue I vas
sympady mit sooch peobles, Dose vhich vood sntill clung to
dot hybockracies, vood been ona leedle vhile on der crazy
hause, mit a hedt so full of der insiteout like a post hole. Und
dhey Call dat imbudence of pliss und fools to been vise—dond
it. : coe Car. PRETZEL.
TOO MUCH SHORTENING. in
My Jittle three-year-old niece, having been asked why her
dress was not made longer, said that “the cook put foo much
shortening in it.”? eS) CAPEN CUTELE.
AN ADMIRER, OF ‘WRESTLING JOz." :
One day, whilst walking up the street,
A lady friend I chanced to meet.
She asked, as if she'd like to know,
If I was reading “Wrestling Joe.”

A little farther, and I met :
A well-dressed man with locks of jet.
He whispered to me, mild and low:

* Are you perusing ‘Wrestling Joe i?
Whilst standing there a boy came by,
With roguish twinkle in his eye.

He, laughing, said he'd like to know

If I was reading ‘Wrestling Joe.”

A moment more, another came—

An aged man, both weak and lame.

He asked, while trudging through the snow,
Tf I was pleased with ‘Wrestling Joe.”

Said grandma, in her easy chair,
With snowy cap and silver hair:

* Will some one for the WEKKLY go ?
I want to read of ‘Wrestling Joe.’ '*

The “Phantom Wife’ I always read—
It interests me much indeed;

But first of all, Pil have you know,
My favorite is bold ‘Wrestling Joc.”

The “Injured Husband”’ I like it well—
How much, I have not words to tell;
J love “Girl Maggie” and ‘‘Pepito,” ,
But I'm entranced with ‘Wrestling Joe.”
: Lirtnn Coss.
A LONG DRAUGHT.

suddenly attacked with symptoms of afever. Having a violent
pain in his head, his wife, to afford him relief, was about to ap-
ply draughts to his feet, when he asked: “‘What are you put-
ting them on my feet for?” :

“Why,” says she, “to try and drawthe pain out of your

BD)
H “pe ———1!” says he. “I would rather it should stay where
‘itis, than be drawn the echole length of me.” — _ Lester.
A PRICKLY PAIR. . <

“T am terribly troubled with the prickly heat,”* said a jolly
looking butcher, in the market one day last summer, “And so
am I,’’ responded a fat vegetable woman. “Well,” saida wag,
who was passing, ‘“‘you are the largest specimen of a, prickly,
pair that I have seen since I left Mexico.”

MATCHING FAMILIES.

Two old friends met after a separation of 35 years:
_ “well, Tom,” said No. 1; “how has the world gone with you,
old boy? Married yet?” “Yes,”? said No. 2; ‘d’ve a family you
can’t mateh—seven boys and one girl.” “I can match ‘it exact-
ly,” was the reply; ‘for I have seven girls and one boy.”
: Witt, L.

_P. Conrrisurors. —Pindar.—Direct them as you directed
ate Ser _.. Mrs. L. R.—Thanks!....0. W. Lane.—Your ‘‘Sensi-
ble Boy”? will display his wit in the next number of the Phunny,
Phellow....4: M. B.—Lacks point. Try some droll incident—
avoid unnecessary description—and come at once to the pith of
the story....The follewing MSS. are accepted : ‘Dutchman in
‘Trouble; “Safe Place to Drown;” “No Traces; Barefooted;”
“How Two Enemies Became Friends:”’ “Imitating a Preacher,”
“Not Yet, Jacob.”....The following are respecttully: deptiped :
“Woman's Rights??"*Not Very Active;” “James Nazarus;" (Old
Jokes,” from B. U. 9 ; “Bridget Outwitted 5" “AL Chere aa os
Toper in the Pulpit; “‘Conldn’t Notice;” “Shrewd Boot Mbit.
“Guessed Twice: “Du Tell;? ‘A Nice Vocation;” The oh i
Ache;” “Brass;” “Stole Witticisms,” from Job Sass; Phy up »
by D. B.; “Pair of Breeches:” “A Literal Signatures, ass,
That Boat.’ “Byerlasting Holes; “Boarding-bouse. Pang
ences: “Parsing; ‘A Sick Man;” “Endeavors,” eee ee 6
Old Thing Works?’ “Its a Lie,” “Bully Hank” Balf- ast
Five;”? “New Reading of Old Proverb,” “Chestnut Hunting;

 

“Who Are You?; “Literary Question;” “Over the Bay.”

 

 

SO NTT ee

animals

Gulliver feller to oxtingwish und make pooty qwick oud, der
Dis makes sometings der case tifferent too. Der shoe von der.

troubles of der vitchvimmens, und gobhoblins, und such tings,”

t vonce, dook der shoe ven der horse und -
shackass off, it, makes ‘notling tifferent, vhich o: dbem_ fellers, ~

Ofer some of chem olt’

like eferytings on mine pehindtpack, So qwicker she cood”

troubles enymore, und vas so habby like 2 couble hocks in der’

Atall Yankee, standing six feet three in his stockings, was .

 

Worn,

ees

 

 

RRR eS ORR aR HE

are peer sl

 

Sule ge mena ah rs aR oR

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ZO A SKULL IN OUR SANCTUM*
BY FRANCIS 8. SMITH,

Thon loathsome, grinning, hideous thing
So terrible to view—
Reminder of the dread, grim king!
Is't possible that you
Once talked, and sang; and laughed with glee,
As 1 Go sometimes now,
With signs of pain and ecstasy
By turns upon thy brow?

How didst thou fall? What caused thy death?
‘Werethy lov’d kindred near
To see thee draw thy latest breath—
»» Bhy dying words to hear?
* Or, didst thou perish far from home,
With not a tond one by,
To breathe above your lonely tomb
A sympathetic sigh?

What were thy qualities? and what

’ Thy station in this life?

Didst dwell within an humble cot,

Far fromthe city’s strife?

Or didst thou inthe busy mart
"Day after day appear,

Striving by. every wile and art

' To heap up treasure here?!

Perchance thoti wert
And practicedvatthebar—
Or else, perhaps, & man of war,
With many an ugly scar—
Or, didst thou sail upon the deep
Thy livelihood to gain?
Or didst thou some vile hell-hole keep
Thy base life to maintain ?

Or didst thou strat thy weary hour
Upon the mimic stage?

Or didst thou lend thy mental power
To the historic page?

Or, didst thou play a poet's part,
Andin thy language pure,

Speak hope to the despairing heart,
And’ comfort to the poor?

{cannot tell what thou hast been,
But. know whatthou art—

A loathsome thing whose hideous grin,
Strikes terror to the heart.

, Lalso knoyy that when my soul

The better land flies to,

But 4 few months will onward roll
“Eré I will look like you.

* This poem was published some years since under a nom de plume.

JOHN

HUNTLY'S WOOING.

“T know that you love me, Irene; your eyes have told.
me so a hundred times!’’

The starry, midnight eyes of Irene Carlton looked calmly
and resolutely into the face of the pleading man at her
side. ‘Yes; [love you, John.”

The eyes, fixed so cagerly upon the speaker, gleamed
With @ 100k of passionate idolatry at these words.

“Blessings on you for that assurance, darling.”

_ “Stay until you have heard me out; you maythen alter
your opinion.”

“Go on. Say what you will, you cannot take back
those precious words: You love mel’?

There was a curious mingling of tenderness, pity and
contempt in -Trene’s face, as she listened to the ardent
words. There was a passionate intensity in them that
awoke an answering echoin her own heart. But with all
the powers of her soul she combated this feeling, and
conquered.

“Poer foolish boy, and what is love? Will it warm,
clothe, or feed us??? ;

“No; but it gives the strength, the courage, the energy
that overcomes every obstacle. With you by my side, to
cheer and strengthen me, what might I not attain?”

“You cannot perform miracies. No, John; both poor
and aspiring, it would be the hight of folly for us to
marry.”? f

“Butlam not poor, Irene; I have every prospect of
being able to give you a comfortable home. And how-
ever humble it may be, our mutual love will make it,to
us, the dearest place upon earth.” '

Irene threw up her hands with a deprecating gesture.

“And have you never thought how unfitted Iam, both
by taste and education, to be the mistress of an humble
home? And you, do you think you would look upon me
wit! the same eyes, wereI transformed from what 1 now
am, to the faded, care-worn, ill-dressed woman that I
should surely become???

And.as Irene said this, she glanced down upon the
costly robe, with its dainty appointments, every detailof
which was So arranged asto enhance the effeot of her
surpassing beauty. _

Alook of sorrowful surprise passed over the young
man’s face.

‘You don't understand the nature of my love, Lrene, if
you suppose it would be altered by any change in your
surroundings, or.even in your outward self.”

“You think so, because you have never beentried. My
father and mother married from love, and what was the
result ?—mutnal recriminations and unhappiness. I know
too well the misery of fine tastes and a narrow income,
and ali the petty shifts to keep up an appearance before
the world. How I hate them! I will not entail them up-
on myself,or you. No, John; when you marry, it must
be some one who will throw open to you the opportuni-
ties you need; and I——” ;

‘Here, witether by accident or design, Irene raised one of
her white, shapely hands to her forehead.

As she did.so, John’s eye caught the giltter of a
diamond ring. ; i

His face. paled, even to his lips. Seizing the hand
almost roughly, he turned it to the light.

“That ring?"

‘Irene’s heart beat fast, but her voice was clear and
calm, as she said:

- “Jp is the ring of my betrothal.”

- “To whom?)

“To Mr. Parker.’ Le

As John Huntly looked upon the speaker, all the grace
and beauty that had so charmed him fell offfrom her
like a garment, leaving startlingly clear to his mental
vision the poverty and nakedness of her soul.

4 will not ask if you love that old decrepit man, who
has won his wealtli by years of extortion and oppression,
but do you intend to marry him?”

“7 do,?)

Jolin turned towards the door; the look of scorn that
gieamed in his dark eyes was more intense from its very
repression.

“JT cannot wish you joy in such a union, it would be
mockery; still I trust that you will find in it all that you
seek, or expect.” ;

Irene had looked for passionate entreaties and remon-
atrances, but she was unprepared for this quiet, almost
contemptuous surrender of the claims which he had so
eagerly urged a few moments before.

“John |?

“Good evening, Miss Cariton.’?

The closing door left Irene alone with her perturbed
thoughts, Then she realized the worth of the heart she
had cast from her, and what a blank her life would be
without his love. ;

Two years later, Irene was a young, beautiful widow—
ana rich. :

She had borne very patiently the irksome requirements
and exactions of the doting old man, she had called her
husband, and he had rewarded it by leaving her the buik
of his large property.

John Huntly was stillin the place; now arising and
popuiar lawyer, already spoken of as a candidate for the
Legislature.

The struggles and disappointments of life have had
their effect upon his heart and character; that earnest
and thoughtful face looks little like that of the ardent
and impulsive youth of two years ago.

“Why are you going so early? Once you were notin
such a hurry to leave me.”

' Few men could have resisted the glance of tender re-
preach that fell from the beautiful eyes of the speaker;
but though John Huntly listened with the gently courtesy
With which he treated every woman, it produced no visi-
ble efféct upon him. '

“Once? Many events and changes have transpired
Since then,” 2

“True; Ihave been a wife, and am now a widow.”!

As Irene said this, she glanced up furtively through her
long lashes at the impassive face of her companion.

“You do not seem to like to think of those old, and to
me happy days, John,’? she added in a tone of pique.

‘It is better to look forward than backward.”

Irene was silent fora moment, but her thoughts were
very busy.

‘Was he as indifferent as he seemed? or did he hesitate
to speak from the fear of a second repulse? A glance at
the full-length mirror opposite, that revealed her form
and face in all its perfectness, reassured her.

{love to look back upon those days, John; and now
that I am tree, it surely can be no sin to do so. Oold and
indifferent as you seem, I cannot believe that you have
forgotten them, and as for me, as I loved you then——?’?

“Stay Irene—Mrs. Parker! do. not humiliate yourself,
do not pain me by saying more.”

The warm blood suddenly receded from the face, leav-
ing it a8 colorless as marble,

What do—what can you mean ?? she faltered.

“That the past, to me ts past.”

“And to think of all the weary days thatI have so
thirsted jor your love, your presence. You once praised
my beauty, am I less fair to took upon now?”

John fixed his eyes intently upon the pleading tace;
that was lifted so earnestly to his, but it was as an:artist
might gaze upon some beautiful picture.

“] thought you passing fair once; you are far more
beautiful now.’

“And it wili win the old love back again; for you can-
not deny that you have loved me, John?!

“True, but it was not your beauty that wonit That
love died a hard and cruel death, but itis dead, and
nothing can revive it. Had I dreamed that you had any
such hope, or wish, I should have told you of my engage-
ment to Florence Ide, whom I think you have seen. We
are to be married next week.”’

There rose up before Irene’s mental vision the sweet
womanly face, that had not a tithe of her rare beauty.

“And you love her ??

The dark eyes, that had looked so coldly upon her,
grew luminous.

41 love her.”

Summoning pride to her aid, Irene conquered the
deadly faintness that fora moment, nearly overpowered

er.

“Heaven bless you, and her, and make you both very
bappy,’? she said, as she held out her hand te him at
parting. :

‘Heaven bless. you, too, Irene, and make you as happy
as I hope to be.”

Years after, as Mr. Huntly was seated by the fireside,
giaddened by the leving smiles of his wife, and the prat-
ting of children, he read of the death of Irene in a foreign
country; read it with a strange feeling of pity and regret
for the pride that had sundered their pathsso widely,
making her life so loneless and joyless.

THE BLUE HOOD.

BY HANNAH HOPPER.

‘Marian, you shan’t.*?

“‘Augusta, I shall.’’

“Itis odd and affected.”

“It is comfortable and natural.”

“If you are going for comfort, stay at home by the fire.”

“TJ want to combine intellectual with physical comfort.
In short, E want to hear the renowned Reuel Hayden, and
)’m not going to run the risk of another attack of neural-
gia; sol shali wear my hood to church. You Know it.is
becoming to me.”’

“You shall not sit in our pew, then.”

“The pew is as much mine as yours; but then I don’t
mind—I think I would prefer to be seated by the usher—
so don’t fret.”

“TF witl fret. You oughtn’t to be allowed to do it, and IJ
Shall tell father. Iam older than you, and therefore am
a better judge of such things.” ;

“Tell if you wish. I can coax father. You knew it will
be too bad for me not to hear Mr. Hayden, when we used
to play together as children, and when I have heard so
much of his eloquence; and my hoed is so comfortable,
and so pretty, too. Everybody thinks so; and I don’t go
to church to show my clothes.”?

“But you ought to dress respectably. Beside, the fact
that Mr. Hayden will officiate, ought to make you more
careful of your appearance.”

‘Tf he is worldly-minded enough, when in the pulpit, to
notice my clothes, and judge of my worth according to
their style or fineness, [ am wholly indifferent to his opin-
ions. Now, Augusta, do be sensible.”? _
“Well, if you will, you will, that is evident.
you please.”?

“Only 1 mustn’t sit in our pew.”

“Sit where you please. J shall not go.’’
“O, Augusta!”

“You can ‘O Augusta’ all you please; but I will not go
to church with you if you wear that bood,”!

“Then I cannot hear Reuel preach.??

“It is evident twat both of us cannot hear him, unless
you will do as I suggest, and wear a cloud over your ele-
Gant hat until we get to the vestibule.”

-*3t woald ruin it.”

So, do as

ea 0, it Wouldn't either.”

~*It wonldn’t be comfortable, you Know; and my head
has been so bad. My hvod is so soft and warm.”

“Very well; go! and present to Mr. Hayden the com-
pliments of the family, and ask him to call.?’,

“You are proud and unreasonavie, Augusta.”

‘Tam just. We owe something to society,”

“But not our health. Ithink 1 am on the right side of
the question, and I shall go to church; and if you wish
to stay at home because I wear a hood, you can.”

“Do you mean it???

. “Of course, I do.??

“1 can’t give up hearing Mr. Hayden, and I will go with
Emuy, an@ sit-with her; and perhaps Mr. Hayden will not
recognize you; and I'll tell Mrs. Graves it is one of your
whims; and 80, do as you like, Marian.”

“Thank you, Augusta; I will.’ ;

And Marian immediately drew over her abundant hair
a beautiful blue hood, that nodded around a soft, sweet
face, and deepened and softened the glow thereon, and
the blue eyes sparkled with pleasure, and the red purse-
mouth wreathed itself with @ smile.

Augusta, in the meantime, donned a costly and elegant
hat, weighed down with feathers and lace, and the Jiand-
some face wore alook of satisfaction as she viewed her-
self in the glass. She rang the bell then, with dignity,

“What do you ring for?” mquired Marian.

“Go send a word for Emily to call for me.”

**Do ride with me, Augusta.”?

“Tf you'll not wear that hood.”

“O, but it’s more comfortable, and I must.’

“Then you may ride alone.”

“7 can do that easily, but we shall be late.’

“Yes, and everybody will stare at you as you go in.” .
“Let them stare.’? i
“OQ, as to that I shan’t attempt to hinder them.”’

Marian laughed.

What & time we are having over my pretty blue hood,”?
she said. . ;
“Not so much of a time as we shaw have, I fancy,” Au-
guSta said, drawing on her gloves. ,

“Not such a time as we should have, if I should take
another cold,”? said Marian. :

The church was literally packed that day; that is to say,
every seat was filled from the pulpit to the opposite doors,
and all were anxious to hear the young man, who was a
native of their own town, but a non-resident for many
years, and who had gained considerable notoriety for his
eloquence.

Marian was a little late, as she had anticipated, and as
she walked gracefully up the aisle in her elegant furs,
velvet cloak, and the pretty warm blue hood shading her
sweet face, many eyes were fixed upon her, and many
thoughts were suggested as she entered alone the pew of
the wealthy Judge Carr, her father. Augusta fluttered
her lace handkerchief just then and whispered to Emily. -

“Isn't it ashame ?? and Emily whispered back, ‘Yes,
but it is bewilderingly becoming,’ and the handsome
young minister glanced up from the reading of his hymn,
which happened to be about the beauties and glories of
the - other world, and the blue hood and the sweet face
caught his eye, and all at once, and for an instant, it
seemed as though he stood in a bed of roses ’neath a
summer sky; and he glanced again and again, and his
voice grew deeper and more melodious, and the young
ladies were thinking, “Isn’t he splendid ?”’ and the mam-
mas were repeating the thought. But Marian sat with
her hands clasped, and her eyes fall of a liquid light,
while she listenéd to the eloquent words of the young
preacher, and the blue hood, and everything pertaining to
it were forgotten. :

Several times, as she earnestly listened, she met the
dark eyes from the pulpit, and then the tinge grew a
shade brighter on her cheeks and the light a little clearer
in her eyes.

The sermon was closed at last. How short it seemed !
and then followed the earnest, beautiful prayer and the
benediction, and the people began to leave the church,
though many remained to speak to and congratulate the
young minister. Among those who waited was Augusta
Carr, aecked in plumes and velvets, determined to make
agood impression and secure the good opinion of the
wealthy young man, who had ehesen the ministry for his
profession. They were soon chatting like old acquaint-
ances,

“] should hardly have recognized you,” he said. ‘4
hope your sister is well. Il take it for granted she is not
at church.”?

“Not quite as well as usual,’’ said Augusta, evasively.
“Father expects you home with me, A bad cold prevented
him from coming out to-day.’

Mr. Hayden consented, and rode over in Emily’s car-
riage.

The three were chatting happily and merrily together as
they sat in their velvet-lined carriage, when suddenly the
conversation took a turn not altogether satisfactory to
Augusta. With some hesitancy Mr. Hayden inquired who
was the lady who wore the blue hood. Augusta blushed
and nudged Emily, and Emily said something about an
“odd freak,’? and Mr. Hayden opened his eyes wide, and
Said 1t was just the thing for a cold day, and the carriage
stopped just then, the footman opened the door, and Mr.
Hayden aud Augusta bade Emily good-by and entered the
elegant residence of Judge Carr.

Marian divested of her wrappings and blue hood sat
quietly reading before the fire. She arose to greet Mr.
Hayden. Their eyes and their hands met at the same
time, and a strange thrill ran over both. Augusta had
left the room, ana they were alone.

“You were at church to-day,’ said Mr. Hayden, “but I
did not Know you.’

“I should hardly have recognized you,’ said Marian,
“only that I knew ! should see you in the pulpit.” —

“You wore a blue hood ?? interregated Mr. Hayden.

“Yes,’? replied Marian, blushing; “the weather was
cold and the hood was comfortable.”

“Yes, and also becoming,” he said, probably forgetting
he was a minister of the gospel. “But how did you dare
to 80 disobey the laws of fashion?!

e ne obey no laws which are not consistent and bene-

clal.

“But these are very strange notions fora young lady
who has wealth and beauty.”

“Strange because rare, perhaps. If Iam to be a slave,
TI preter a different mistress than fashion. If am to
serve I wish to serve to some good end or purpose.’?

The young minister smiied approvingly, but he said
nothing, for Augusta entered then. :

“Ratner is. ready to see you,’ she said.

He arose,

“I have found the wearer of the bine hood,’’ he said,
and smiling back upon Marian, was led off by Augusta.

“J don’t think I lost anything by wearing my biue hood
tochurcn,’”? said Marian, a few weeks after, as she en-
tered her sister’s room.

“Why? said Augusta, turning about suddenly, and
looking searchingly at Marian.

“OQ, because | won a noble heart by the means.!?

“Reuel Hayden's ??

«“Yes,%?

“Has he ” Angusta choked.

“Yes he has,” said Marian. “You are not sorry, Au-
gusta ?? ee

 

“No, ao, Iam glad. I wi% be giad. Forgive me,

Marian, but 1 hoped he would love me. But it is past,
and lam glad you are so happy.”

‘Dear sister, 1 did not dream you cared for him, if only
I had not worn the blue hood, it might have been you,
not me.”

“lam glad you wore it, Father will be rejoiced, and I
think it is better and safer to be a trifleindependent. But
I never could wear a hood to church.”

“Kven though it won you a noble heart?’

“Not even for that,”

“O, Augusta, how can you be happy ?””

“Tam not, but I cannot refuse to do what society de-
mands. I prefer inconvenience and unhappiness,”?

“Well, then, if you know better, and won’t do better,
there is no use in talking, I suppose.”’

“Not in the least. We are different by nature.
act my way, you yours.’?

“Good night, then, Augusta, lam going to have a sleigh-
ride with Reuel.”’

“And wear your blue hood ?!’

“And wear my blue hood.”

“Good night. Half the girls in town will envy you.”

“May they all find as trne a heart to love them as [have
ee and may I never be too proud to make myself com-
ortable. :

I must

© so : 1 yen ' is
° °
The Josh Billings Papers.
HINTS TO COMIK LEKTURERS.
Comik lekturing iz an unkommon pesky thing todo.
It iz more unsarting than the rat ketching bigzness az
& means OV grace, or aZ a means ov livelyhood.
Most enny boddy thinks they Kan do it, and this iz jist
what makes it so bothersum tew do.
When it iz did jist enuff, it iz aterifick success, but
peg it 1Z overdid, it iz like a burnt slapjax, very tmper-
tinent.
Thare aint but phéw'good judges ov humor, and they
all differ about it.
If-a teKturer trys tew be phunny, he iz like a hoss try-
ing to trot backwards, pretty apt tew trod ou himself,
Humor must fall out ov a mans mouth, like musik out
ov a bobalink, or ‘like a yung bird out ov its nest, when
it iz feathered enuff to fly. : :
Whenever a man haz made up hiz mind that he iz a
wit, then he iz mistaken without remedy, but whenever
the publick haz made up their mind that he haz get the
disease, then he haz got it sure. ;
Individuals never git this tiing right, the publik never
git it wrong.
The publik never cheat themselfs, nor other folks, when
they weigh out glory.
Thare iz jist 16 ounces ina pound ov glory, and no
more, that is, by the publiks steelyards,
Humor iz wit with a roosters tail feathers stuck in its
cap, and wit iz wisdom in tight harness.
No man Kan be a helthy phool unless he haz nussed at
the brest ov wisdom.
Thoze who fail in the comik bizzness are them who hay
bin put out to nuss, or bin fetched up on a bottle.
If a man iz a genuine humorist, he iz superier tew the
bulk ov hiz avjience, and will often times -hav tew take
hiz pay for hiz services in thinking so.
Altho fun iz desighned for the millyun, and ethiks for
the few, it iz az trae az molasses, that most all aujiences
hav their bell wethers, people who show the others the
crack Whare the the joke cums laffing in. ;
I hav known popular aujiences deprived ov all plez-
zure, during the recital ov-a-conik Joktur,just—_bekauze.
the right man, or the right Woman, Want tiiare tew point

} out the mellow places. } .

The man who iz anxious tew git before an aujience,
with what he calis'a comitk lektur, onght tew be put im-
mediately in the stocks, so that-he Kant do it, for he iza
cangerous person tew git loose, and will do sum damage.
It iz a’very pleazant bizaness tew make people laff, but
thare iz mutch odds whether they laff at you, or laff at
what yu say.

When a man laffs at yu, he duz it because it makes him
feel superior to you, but when yu pleaze him with what
yu have uttered, he admits that ya are superior tew him.
The only reazon whi a monkey alwus kKreates a sensa-
shun whareever he goes, is simply bekauze—he is a mon-

ey.
Everyboddy feels az tho they had a right tew criticize a
comik lectur, and most ov them do it jist az a mule criti-
cizes things, by shutting up both eys and letting drive
with hiz two behind leggs.

Humor haz but -phew rules tew be judged by, and they
are so delikate that none but the most delikate kan de-
fine them.

feel the itch ov it.

One ov the meanest things in the comik lektring em-
ployment that a man haz to do, .iz tew try and make that
large class ov hiz aujtence ‘laff whom the Lord never iu-
tended should laff, «

Thare iz sum who laff az eazy and az natral ag the birds
do, but most ov mankind laff like a hand organ—if yu ex-
a tew git a lively tune out ov it yu hav got tew grind

or it. ;

 

In delivering a comik lektur it iz a good general rule
to stop sudden, sometime before yu git through. This
enables the aujienee, if they hav had enatf, tew be satis-
fied with what they hav had, and if they want enny more,
it enables them tew hanker for it.

I know it iz dredful tuff, when a man iz on one end ov
a& stick OV molasses Kandy, tew quit till he gits clean
through; but he musn’t forgit that hiz aujience may not
be so sweet on molassiss kandy az he iz.

I hav got a very lonesum opinyun ov the comik lektring
bizziness, and if I waz well shut ov it, and knu how tew
git an honest living at ennything else, (except opening
clams, and keeping a districkt skool,) { would quit tom-
morrow, and either trade oph mi lektur for a grindstone,
or sell it to the proprietors oy sum insane hospital, to
quiet their pashunts with,

I don’t urge ennybody tew cultivate the comik lektring,
but if they feel phull ov something, they Kan’t tell what,
that bites, and makes them feel ridikilous, so that they
Kan’t even saw wood without laffing tew themselfs all
the time, 1 suppose they hav got the fun ailment in their
bones, and had better let it leak out in the shape ova
lektur.

Bat i advise all such persons to pitty themselfs, and
when they lay a warm. joke, not tew akt az a hen doth
when she haz uttered an egg, but look sorry, and let sum
one else do the cackling,

If i had a boy who showed enny strong marks ov being
a comik critter, if i couldn’t get it out ov him enny other
way, i would jine him to the Shakers, and make him
weed onions for three years, just for fun.

——— Ot

{ANNIE ASHMORE, author of “Faithfal Margaret,’
“Bride Hlect,’’ and other popular stories, will soon com-
mence a new story inthe New YORK WEEKLY, entitled
“WHY DID HE MARRY HER? It is a pecultar love story,
So artistically constructed that the reader is kept in doubt
until the last chapter, unable to gueas *\Why did he mar-

 

ry her? whether for love, money, or position.]

It is dredful arbitrary tew ask @ man tew laff who don’t | $200,000

To Correspondents. —

Gossip witH Reapers anp GonTRIBUTORS. —
Odd Fellow writes as follows: “I have been thinking some time of
writing to let you know what a success the New YorK WEEKLY
is in this village. About one year ago, at the time ef the com-
Mencement of ‘Buffalo Bill,” there were no New York WerEk-
LIES came here. However, I procured a copy, and liked it so
well that I determined to introduce it here. I sent to you for
posters and specimen numbers, which you forwarded. 1 posted
the bills in conspicuous places.and distributed the papers where
I thought they would be most appreciated, and now I have the
satisfaction of seeing a prosperous news stand here, and between
50 and 60 Niw York WEEKLIES are circulated every week to
eager readers. Don’t you think that is doing pretty well for a
commencement? snd with sueh splendid stories'as you are
now publishing, there is no doubt but we shall, before another
year, have 150 or more subscribers. It outshines every other
paper of the kind. The good stories are the cause of it?’ Will
this correspondent send full name and address to this office?....
¢. R.—We cannot say....Duxbury.—The right bank of a river is
the side on the right hand of a person facing its mouth..,,Hub
Larkin.—Iist. United States cein are 90 parts gold, 9 parts copper,
and 1 part silver, or 21 19-42 carats, and the weight of the eagle
is 258 grains. British coin gold is 22 carats, or one-twelfth alloy.
2d. Joan of Arc was about twenty-one years of age at the time
of her death. For replies to other questions see “Knowledge
Box.”’....George Williams.—ist. Shakespeare was the author of
thirty-seven plays. 2d. The Mississippi river proper is 2,900
miles long; from its mouth to the source of the Missouri, its chief
tributary, it is 4,300 miles. The Amazon is 3,550 miles in length;
the Volga 2,350 miles; the Yang-tse-kiang 3,320 miles; and the
Nile, about 3,600 miles. 3d. The latest record we have of the
British navy, gives the number of vessels at 630. 4th. Iron
stoves were first used in Germany during the early part
of the last century. 5th. The Strait of Dover is 20 miles across
at its narrowest part, and 155 miles at its widest. .. Nelly Peters.—
The poem “If Katie Were My Bride” appears in this issue.....,.
W. a. G. and others.—We are much obliged to you for the disin-
terested advice received through you, but we have conducted
our business successfully for several years, and think we are
fully capable of doing so in the future. When we find out that
we cannot do so, we will sell out to somebody that can. In the
meantime, have your letters written on different kinds of paper,
with different ink, and do not post them at the same time from
the same office, and your trick will not be so transparent.......
Curtosity.—There is a town in Middlesex ceunty, assachusetts,
called Newton Centre. That is the nearest we can come to the
names suggested by you, and is probably the place you mean,
the Baptist Theological Seminary being located there..........
Nemo.—The name ‘Bingen is pronounced bing-en, the accent ond
the first syllable...... J. H. F.—The steamer President left New
York for Liverpool on Mareh 11, 1841.. She is supposed to have
foundered during a terrific storm which took place two days
afterward, as nothing has ever been heard of hersince...... C.
£. Carson.—Unless the eye is naturally elearand bright, it can-
not be made so by artificial means without injurious effects.....
J. A. D. A., and others,—We cannot republish the story at pres-
ent. We may do so in time...... B. 0. W. C.—lst.—We cannot
tell without reading if. 2d. Itissoin all kinds of business at
certain periods of the year, and newspapers are no exception.
3d. We cannot say in what number the “Bay Miner” will be
commenced, but soon. 4th. We do not think there is an edition
in paper covers, We have never seen one. 5th. Yes, if they
are worth it. 6th. The Sioux Indians wear buckskin leggings,
a cloth around the loins, and buffalo skin moccasins, with a
blanket or buffalo robe thrown over the shoulders. Occasion-
ally you may see one with a buckskin hunting-shirt on. 7th.
A good six-barreled revolver is worth about $15...... Frank L.
S.—We cannot say when your poem will be published. All ar-
ticles noticed as “accepted” will be published, but we cannot
say definitely when........ H.W. M.—You are right..........
Northern Ohio, Reader.—We cannot give a list of the States in
which first cousins are not permitted to marry. We think there
are only a few, Ohio being one...... Cheyenne.—kst. A natural-
ized citizen may buy and sell real estate, and also make a will.

Write tothe 4merican News Co........ Salaris.—There are
classes at the Cooper Institute where persons may be instructed
in drawing, etc., tree of charge. Have some one of the lidy’s
relatives call there some evening and he can procure all the
information desired as to the other accomplishments...... M. T.
C.—We prestme you could dispose of the land to some broker.
Sop ees Archie Ravel.~Something over twenty-five years........
Johuny.—in case ofachange of guardianship, your present
guardian would have to turn over to his successor an account
of all receipts and expenditures, and the present disposition of
your property. Incase of children being left without a guar-
dian, the appointment is made by the court, and ean be changed
only by it. Im this State, the Surrogate’s Court has jurisdiction
in the case........ A Smart Painter.—ist. We have no knowledge
of the story. 2d. There isno piace inthe country at present
where there is such a collection of hardened characters us over-
run California, during the early days of the gold excitement.
3d. Buffalo Biil’s headquarters are in Nebraska, but ne is sel-
dom at one place any length of time. 4 d 5th. We cannot
say. 6th. A nomde plume. Tth. “One-Kyed Saul” is a trapper
story. 8th. Yes. Qth. Soon. 10th. American Indians, as aruwe,
have no beard, those possessing it being the exception. 11th.
Any work on athletic sports will furnish you with the informa-
tion. 12th. No. 13th. We cannot tell, as the census returns
have not been published. 14tn. A few thousand. 15th. Tecun:-
seh was shot by Col. R. M. Johnson. 16th. We cannot say.
17th. There are several of the name...... Hugh Morris.—We do
not pay. for contributions of the kind mentioned........
J. G. O.—Ist. Read Shakespeare, Scott, Burns, Cowper, Byron,
Longtellow, Bryant, Whittier, Tennyson, and others. 2d. Fair-
fax’s translation of Tasso’s ‘Jerusalem Delivered” is generally
considered the best, though Wiffen’s is preferred by many... ..
Joe Holland.—“Buffalo Bill” will cost 72 cents: ........... A News
Dealer.—i1t is impossible for us to give you the circulation of the
New York dailies. Several of them claim to have the largest,
and one or two claim to circulate more than any two or three
of the others...... Geo. Wood.—The story has not been publishea
in boek form...... Elmo Hartin.—We cannot advertise any one’s
business in this department........ James Wilson.—We are not ta-
miliar enough with birds to tell you the name of the specimen
from a description of its general appearance........ Argo.—You
should not call without an invilation...... W. D. Goodrich.—The
word is “resurgam,’’ meaning ‘I shall rise again.””..:... A Read-
er.—Read history, poetry, standard works of fiction, and the
New YorK WHEEKLY............ Ellen Kennedy.—This young lady
gravely informs us that her weight is increasing alarmingly—
that from one hundred anc forty-five pounds, which was her
usual avoirdupois, she now turns the scale at one hundred and
eighty-six; and worse than all, that her appetite seems to in-
crease-as rapidly as. her-weight- HH, this state of things must]
be as‘appalling to her boarding mistress as il) is to herselt, and.
we advise Elien to at once adopt Banting’s system, > which has
been described in a previous number of the New Yorz WrxeKLy.
as asia oh -Mary Rogers.—The Carmine street fortune-teller is, of
course, like ali of her profession, an unmitigated fraud, who
éartis an casy livelihood by imposing on the credulity of siliy
young girls like yourself....... fate MeCormick.—You should not
tee: annoyed-because you are so short... The best goods, you
know, are done up in the smallest parcels. However, you
might wear high-heeled shoes, and puff your hair up, and that
will give you the appearance of being much taller..........
dt. F. F.—We may republish it in time, but cannot say when.
....dtomeo.—Ist. We have never seen any annual catalogue pub-
lished by the Academy at West Point, and think there is none
issued. 2d. The hours for study and recreation are about the
same asin other collegiate institutions, with the exceptien of
the drilling. The vacations do not occur so often, nor are they
of so long duratiom........ George Grakam.—There are several
beoks ot the kind published. Write to the American News Oo.
ec pla Xeres.—You can join the National Guard at eighteen years
of age. Apply at the regimental afmory on any meeting night.
sees Phito.—The French of congeal is congeler.........Cherokee
Jtm.—Ist. We have no reccollection of the occurrence. 2d. We
do not know of any complaint of the name. 3d. Unlessit isa
right to be secured by actual settlement your claim. is good un-
til the government shall make other treaties. 4th. About
},000,000......... ....California.—Ist. Write te the American
News Co. 2d. The papers wil cost 72 cents......... Vun E. An-
drews.—The papers can be furnished....... A. ¢. W.--fhe lamp-
lighters in this city are employed by the gas companies.........
H. J. A.—1st. The Kansas Pacific R. R. is completed and in opera-
tion to Denver, Colorado. 2d. St. Louis is the fourth city in
the Union, having 312,963 inhabitants. Besion is the sevenih,
with a population of 250,526 Vi .—Send the MS. and we
will reag if,...... Blinn.—The story is out of print....... Jennettic
White.—The gentleman is out with scouting parties almost con-
tinually, and it is impossible to tell his whereabouts at present.
aes Constant Reader.—The cheapest a, to goto Texas would
be to take steerage passage for New @rieans, which would be
$25, and from there you would get toa Texan port fora few
dollars. The climate is very healthy, and workmen of ail
kinds would have no difficulty in earning a livelihood..........
Timothy Rotlingbottles.—We cannot furnisa the papers........ Trish
Dan.—ist. From 200 to 600 pages. 2d. The fighting during the
Revolutionary war did nol extend so far West as Tonnessee.....
White Lightning.—You are probably troubled with the asthma,
or something of that nature. Consulta good physician.........
Cc. Mann.—The sentence quoted is eliptical, the word “ghould”
being omitted between ‘we” and “tavor.”” This torm of syn-
tax 1s aliowed by grammarians to avoid repetitions...... Shortie.
—Bancrott...... Dent.—ist. We cannot say what you will get in
return. 2d. The instructive work is a humbug, as such a thing
cannot be taught...... G. A. R.—We have never heard of a bird
charming a snake, but have read of snakes exercising a species
of mesmerie influence over biras and small animals............
S. G. Peabody.—We exposed the concern called J. F. Williains &
Co. several weeks sinee..,......... H. Free.—The French billion,
which isgenerally used in this country, is one thousand millions

000,000, fhe English billion 1s one million millions (1,000,-

000,000). ......66. Jennie.—Ist. We have no knowledge of the
remedies, but believe they are considered good. 2d. We believe
consumption can be cured if taken in its early stages—otherwise
not. 3d. We have never heaid of the physician....... Wrestling
Athiete.—It is only necessary to distinguish the sentences........
Rk. M. C.—Ist. On being ivtroduced to a lady a gentleman should
raise his hat and bow, at the same time expressing his sense of
gratification at the pleasure of her acquaintance. 2d. Send to
the dealers......... J. C.—We do not know the name of the Post.
Master at Montreal, Canada. A tetter addressed as above will
go as direct as if 1t were addressed to him by name..... aeeee Red
Douglas.—There would be nothing improper in boarding with
the parents ot your betrothed; and it wouki no doubt be very
agrevable and. pleasant to both the lady and yourselr........ Cc.
Jiehvicka.— Wild Bill” is alive, and a resident of Kansas........
Ayafymeng.—tst, “The Bay Miner” has been prepared tor publi-
cation, and will be commenced in a short time. The other sto-
ries numed have been delayed on account cf better ones takiug
precedence. 2d. We have a story on hand, written by the gen-
tleman, which we will commence as soon as possible. 3d. The
MssS. noziced at the fool of tuis column as accepted and declined
are those which have been sent to us for publication, and which,
afier being read, are thus disposed of....... B.—Very good......
Job Sass, Jr.—We have no room tor more paid contributors......
Joe Bardolph.—Our club rates are $250 a year, or a reduction of
50 cents from the regular subscription price...... Bellmare.—IAst.
Write to B. W. Hitehecck, 24 Beekman sireet. 2d. See “Knowl.
edge Box.” 3d. Wedo not. 4th. Write to the American News
Company. 5th. About $25, we shouid think...... Reader.—Ist.
Von Mottke. 2d. Thisis a matter of opinion, and must be judg-
ed by the result, aithough we think the defeated officer the
greatest general. There is a great difference by historians as to
the number of forees engaged, the partisans of eaco claiming
that the army under the command of their favorite way much
inferior in nambers to the other...... High Fack.—\st. In buying
real estate, the purchaser should ascertam if the owner has an
abstract of the tithe. If not, it would be advisapie to have the
records seacned to ascertain if there are any claims against it
or the tile is defective in any way. 2d. ts are generally sold
at so much a foot front, the depth of the Jot of course making it
more or less va:uable. Sometimes plots of ground are sold at so
much a city lot of 25x160 feet. Thus a plot 50x150 feet would be
equal to three city lots, Inthe case mentioned, the price of tha
lot, ag generaily understood, would be $480 M. J. B.—The
poems cannot be found in any single volume that we know of.
The first named wecannot call to mind. ‘Barbara Freitsche”’
is by John G. Whittier, and “Sberidan’s Ride” by T. Buchanan
Read...... Edward Carroll.—ist, The letters P. H. P. mean Past
High Priest, a title used in’ Koyal Arch Masonry. 2d. It would
be perfectly preper to ask the lady to allow you to act as her
escort. #d. The “Rugg Documents” are written by a lady......
Carnival Shoo Fly.—A letter addressed “Baltimore News Com-
pany, Baltimore, Md.,” will reach the parties.. .Joaguin,-No. 2.—
We cannot suy when the stories will be fin shed....4Won-Beltever.
—It cannot be done. Authors have acertain license in writing
fictitious tales of adventure, although in many cases “truth is
stranger than fiction,’’...... Bostonian.—Ist. We have no Knowl-
edge of the concern further than what is stated in their adver-
tisement. 2d. Write fo the superintendent of the institution. 3d
and 5th. See ‘Knowledge Box.” 4th. The laws relating to ped-
lers’ licenses vary in the different States, ifi some of them per-
sons being allowed to peddie goods of their own manutacture
without license, in others certain wares are exempted, and in
others persons ere not allowed to peddle anything without li-
cense. ‘Wells’ Every Man His Own Lawyer” will furnish all
the information desived on the subject....K.—See next No......
Satlor.—We know of no vessels running regularly between the
ports named, though we think you would have no trouble in
shipping on board a‘sailing vessel bound for San Franciseo. Con-
suit a shipping merchant... .Necsdealer.—The engagement ring
should be worn on the fourth finger of the left hand...... Walt-
ham.—You should not be debarred from ladles’ society because

 

you have no intention of getiing mamried, but that does not give

‘} husbands or lovers.

you the right to flir¢ with the sex. If the idea suggesied were to
be carried out ladies would have no maie friends except their
We think it a very good trait for a young
man to be fond of the society of ladies, as. it has a refining influ-
ence upon his manners and conversation which the associution
with his own sex does not give him, and also diverts him trom
sources of enjoyment and amusement which are inmmora!l and
expensive...... Grey Hawk,—It the sketch is acceptable we will
pu lish it......Heuthen Chinee.—It is customary to send wedeiig
caras only to relatives and intimate friends. .. .Snobby Snolkins.—
lst. Band cymbals are made of brass. 2d. Inquire of a dealer
in musica! instruments F. Eliott.—ist. In Connecticut and
Maine itis necessary to record at the office of the town clerk a.
notice of intent to marry at Jeast three weeks before the cere- |
mony takes place, at the end of which time the certificate or —
license can be obtained. In Massachusetts a license can be pre-
cured of the town clerk without previons notice. Hu no other
States, we think, are any preliminary sieps of this kind necessa-
ry. 2d. During the marriage ceremony the lady stands to the -
left of the gentleman. 3d. At the close of the ceremony it is
customary for the couple to remain standing while receiving
the congratulations of their friends. 4th. The usual dress worn
by the groom is a black dress coat and pants, white vest, gloves
and necktie........ Adonis.—lst. We cannot tell you the value of
the coins. It depends m a great measure on the condition of
the specimens. 2d. They bothigo at the same rate of speed.....
Twilight.—A letter sent to Wood’s Museum, Broadway and Thir-
ticth street, would reach the gentleman....... Tom.—Yes........
A. E. K,. A.—Yhe young lady may be a little thoughtless or iin-
pruaent in lavishing her caresses pn other gentlemen, but if you
presented the matter to herin its proper light, she would prob-
ably be more diséreet. It may be that she was only trying to
tease yous.< ce Lottie. —We cannot call the poem to mind just
now. You are at liberty to examine our files if you see fit......
A. Drew.—We believe the concern has closed up...... Attleboro.—
The climate of Minnesota is said te be a very beneficial one for
constimptives, but we cannot say what effect it would have on
a person afflicted with the complaint mentioned....... Eureka.—
Ist. A lottery is not necessarily a swindle. They are carried on
for the purpose of making money, and may be conducted mn a
perfectly fair manner. It is mergly a game of chance, with the
odds largely against you,the simeas in. ether kinds of gam-
bling, but is considered more respectable, and is consequently a
great deal worse; for many who would be horrified at playmg
a game of cards for money, think 11 no harm to invest in a lot-
tery scheme. 2d. Lotteries are legalized in several States. 3d.
We never knew of any one whe drew a Jarge prize, but we
know of a Dumber who have impoverished themsetves in seek-
ingtodoso. 4th. “Edna’s Debt” will cest $2.22°...... ooo hack
Crockett. —Your writing and spelling would need a great deal of
improvement. ...... Wee Periwinkle.—lst. Ash Wednessday is so
called from a custom introduced by Pope Gregory, iv 590, of
sprinkling ashes on the head on the first day of Lent. 2d. Jumes
G. Blaine, the Speaker of the House of Representatives, was
born in Washington county, Pa., Jun. 31, 1830. Could be im-
pred considerably. 4th. Playing cards are supposed to be of
astern origin. They were first usea m Europe during the thir-
teenth century...... Greased Kightning.—ist. Itisout of print. 2d.
No. 3d. We cannot furnish thepapers. 4th. Telegraph opera-
ting isa good business, but there are nore applicants than there
are situations...... Lawrence D.—The estate is liable.tor the aebts.
pes Agent.—Agents selling goods by sample are required to take
out State licenses. The law is not the same in any two Statcs.
See ‘‘Wells’s Every Man His Own Lawyer.”’....Constant Reader.
—By all means inform your parents. If your betrothed is an
honorable man, he certainly should have no objection to their
knowing that he is keeping company with you....Mac.—Yes....
Magnus.—Ist. We think there is no phonographic journal issued
in this country at present. 2d. See ‘Knowledge Box.”..........
Green, —Ist. The first word you will find in Webster's Dic-
tionary. The other you will fintdin any medical work. 24.
Not by any means. Ivis perfectly natural........ Engixeer.—We
have seen the name in_ the dailies, but ‘cannot recollect it just
NOW. Gee Boys.—The danger would depend on what sort of
gaine you went atier and the Jocality chosen.......... C..B.—ist.
Yes. 2d. It would be very difficult to procure a situaticn as
bookkeeper in this city at present... ...Corinthia.—We could not
Say, unless we saw a specimen of your composition.........The
following MSS. have been read and accepted: ‘Was He a Mur-
derer,” “Temperance,” “The Massacre of the Alamo,” “Faith,”
“charity,” “Vigil,” “Prayer,” ‘An Elephant Hunt,” “Edward
Kean’s Talisman,” “Immortality,” ‘“Lord’s Prayer,” “Wow I
Was Cured,” “Eila’s Letter,” “Pedestrianism,” “Other Vani-
ties,’ “Lost Treasures,” “Sunset,” “Social Drinking,’ “A Re-
markable Dream,” “Chased, Not Chasing,” “March,” “Was it
Saicide or Murder,” “Rum’s Doings,” ‘Poor Widows,” “A Plea -
for Working Girls,” ‘Children’s sights,” “A Friend in Need,”
“Holding the Mirror up to Nature,” “What Man Renders in Ke-
turn for Woman’s Offering.” ..........The following will be pub-
lished in @ mammoth monthly soon to be issued: “Girls,” ‘*A
Dream and its Results,” ‘Fred Morgan's. Escape,” “The Tale of
a Stamp,” “Henry’s Love,” “Dueling Extraordinary,” “A Tem-
perance Prayer,’’ ‘‘Margery’s Promise,” “My Little Wife,”
‘soinething’s the Matter With Pa,” ‘“Love’s Exaggerations,”’
“We Know,” “Bought and Sold,” “Let’s Go and Take Some-
things Oo os. The following are respectfully declined: “Boys
Nowadays,” “To My Valentine,” ‘Winifred Holmes,” ‘!he
Old, Old Stony,” “The Harper Boy,” ‘fhe River Side,” “Hec-
tor’s Departure,” “Jack Dell,” “A Tale of the Revokition,”’
“Tom's Place.” “Vale,” *‘True to the Las‘, “Suggestions of Ex-
perience,” “Grandfather Methuseiah’s Story,” ‘Pha Land of
the West,” “A Petition,” ‘A Temperance Story,” “To Suffer
and Be Strong,” “To One I Love,’ “A Mother’s Prayer,” “The
Way the Money Goes,” “To Laura,” “Under the Water,” “The
Lost Baby,” ‘‘Dreams,” “A True Sketch,” ‘Education,’ “The
Departed Schoolmate.” .

Bt

Items of Interest.

nar That hirsute appendage to the upper Np known as /
the mustache has hitherto received homage trom inven-
tors In the shape of spoons and eups so made as to trans-
fer liquids to the mouth without soilare of the hairy labial
ornament. This has been lately outdone, however, by a
device brougiit out in England, and which required the
genius of two inventors to develop and patent it. itis
described as a mustache supporter, and consists essen-
tially of a comb curved or bent into the form of the upper
lip, and @ narrow plate connected to the back or unper- -
forated part of the comb, and situated at right angles to
the comb. When the comb is placed under the mustache
and pressed upwards, it attaches itself to the mustache,
the narrow plate being situated in a horizontal plane,
and constituting a small screen or guard, on which the
mustache is supported in the required position.

4ay The family Bible of General Washington, now to
be seen in Philadelphia, was presented to Washington
by Bishop Wilson, the annotator of it’ and author of
“Sacra, Privata.” .Washington’s autograph is written on
the title page of each of the three volumes. The volumes
themselves, which were printed in Loudon in 1785, are in
a beautiful state of preservation, and are remarkubly in-
teresting, irrespective of their illustrious ownership. In
Washington’s will these volumes are bequeathed to Lord
Fairfax, and by him to John Oarlyie Herbert, Esq., whose
family record appears at length on the blank leaves.

&@- A plan for shortening the sea-passage between the
Bristol and Engtish Ohannels, by the construction of a
ship-canal across the counties of Somerset and Devon,
has been approved by prominent engineers, and is about
to be brought before the public authorities for their sanc-
tion. The length of this canal is to be 58 miles, its width
at the surface 124 feet, at the bottom 31 feet, with a depth
of 21 feet. This would allow all vessels of moderate draft
to pass through from sea to sea.

&a@s- A poor soldier in New Hampshire, who, after three
applications, succeeded in getting $100 bounty, sent at
once $10 to an uncle who had loaned him that amount
when he was in desperate need. A few days ago the
uncle died, and by his will Jeft the almost penniless sol-
dier ail his estate, valued at $200,000, giving as his reason
for so doing that he had many times lent money to his rel-
atives and he alone had repaid him.

aay The ambulance in Paris which is considered the
best is the American. The wounded are under canvas,
but. the tents are not cold, and yet the ventilation is ad.
mInirable. The American surgeons are said to be far more
skillful in the treatment of gunshot wounds than their
French colleagues,

&ay> When boys cry and sell papers and extras through
Geneva, Switzerland, the law forbids them to announce
the contents. Tnere may possibly be the most exciting
news, but the boys can only cry the name of the paper,
and the fact that itis an extra, when they have one,

4a The New York Sun has received a letter from New-
town, Pa., informing it that obscene publications are sent
there from Washington under the frank of Galeb N, Tay-
lor, member of Congress from that district. This is an-
other argument for the abolition of the {ranking privilege.

ka The manufacture of sewing machines in this
country has become so immense, the returns of the differ.
ent manufacturing companies for the year 1870 show that
ame that year nearly halfa million machines were
sold,

The scarcity of coal is greatly complained of
throughout Germany. Thereis alack of practical miners
to take out the coal, and, when it is out, there is great
Jack of railroad transportation for it.

Aas Rochester, N. Y., calls itself the “Flour City,” or
the «Flower City,’’ just as it chooses, for it is unequated in
the country for the extent of its mills and nurseries.

hae The borax deposits in Nevada are attracting con-—
siderable attention. It is stated that they are thickly dis-
tributed over an area of 100,000 acres,

4a In ten years 163,411 Philadelphians have died.
There were in the city 172,615 births and 62,824 marriages -
during the same time. Three sets of triplets and 140 twins
are reported.

4’as> An enraged father in Michigan caught his little
boy by the ear, and whirled him around with such foree
as to wrench that useful organ from his head.

4a@> A Boston paper urges that the names ef the buila-
ers should always be given in reports of fire caused by -
defective flues.

Aas Mrs. Ruth T. Ross, widow of the late Gen. Wm. S..
Ross, was recently unanimously elected a Director of the
Wyoming National Bank of Wilkesbarre.

4a The Vermont Senate had refused, by a vote of
twenty-one to six, to approve the House bill abolishing
capital punishment.

44 - In many places in Maine, the railroad managers
build their railroad stations with halls in the second story
for concerts, dances, and lecture purposes.

“ka The deepest excavation in the United States is said
to be a copper mine near Lake Superior. It is 1,800 feet
deep.

4a A New Haven couple celebrating their golden wed-
ding, exhibited a piece uf cake reserved from their mar-
riage ceremony fifty years ago. ;

4a North Oarolina is going to have an extra large crop
of pea-nuts next year.

Sar Chinamen cost $7,000 a hundred, delivered, in Ten-
nessee. :

Say There are 226 steam saw-mills in Caiifornia, and 117
saw-mills that are run by watcr-power.

fay A Pittsburg man has sued his brother to obtain
possession of the ambrotype picture of their dead sister.

#a5- A household servant in Montreal completed recent-
ly her twenty-first year.of service in the same family.

4a A wooden shoe factory has been started by a Ger-
mau in lowa.

Age Twelve persons died in New Orléans, last year,
who were over one hundred years old.

ke Boston makes about 15,000 pairs of shoe-buckles

 

and rosettes weekly.