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ENTERED ACCORDING TO ACT OF CONGRESS IN THE YEAR 1870 BY STREET & SMITH, IN THE OFFICE OF THE LIBRARIAN OF CONGRESS, WASHINGTON, D. C.

 

 

 

 

 

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Vol. XXVI.

FRANCIS S. STREET, ;
FRANCIS §. SULTH, } Proprietors.

NEW YORK, NOVEMBER 24, 1870.

 

THE WHAPON OF SONG.
BY NATHAN D. URNER.

I talked with my Soul in the gulfs of Thought,
When my heart beat wild, like a wounded bird;
But my Soul was distraught, and in vain I sought,
By subtle reasoning, word on word,
To prove that patience must bring revenge—
That Will must triumph and Fate must change,
With the settled purpose and strong,
That watcheth and waiteth long,
Armed with the Weapon of Song.

Oh! Erebus-black were the dungeon-deeps—
Those cavernous glooms of Thought’s domains,
Where Memory wakes, but Conscience sleeps,
Where I talked with my Soul in chains—
Where I bathed the wounds her fetters had worn,
And kissed from her lips their fruitless scorn,
Swearing she yet should be strong,
Frecd from malice and wrong,
Through the Godlike Weapon of Song!

Clanked the fetter and rang the shriek
From myriad dungeons around our cell,
And fiends, in orgies no tongue may speak,
Danced by our door in the dance of hell;
TillI broke the ice of my horror and fear,
And hissed to my Soul, with an oath and a sneer,
“Coward, remain with this throng!
Rot in thy fetters as long!
Let rust thy Falchion of Song!

“Cloaked in thy robe of prideful sin,
Lost in the chains of a sensuous world,
Thine own creation these depths wherein
I find thee now by thy madness hurled!”
Then a thrill shot over the wild, wan face—
A thrill of the old-time strength and grace,
And my Soul, with a hand still strong,
With a fire that had smoldered long,
Clutched at her Weapon of Song.

On the jeweled scabbard the diamonds shine,
Though the blade is rusted away from sight;
But I know that my Soul has the power divine
To clutch and tug till it leaps to light—
Till it flashes abroad, a falchion of flame,
To win for its hero a deathiess name—
Till fallen are those who belong
To the legions of malice and wrong,
By the Heaven-forged Weapon of Song!

Gold-Dust Darrell ;

OR, THE

WIZARD OF THE MINES.

By BURKE BRENTFORD,
Author of “SQUIRREL CAP,’’ ETC. ETC. ETC.

*Gold-Dust Darrell’” was commenced in No.1. Back numbers
can be obtained from any News Agent in the United States. ]

CHAPTER lV.
A BEARER OF BAD TIDINGS.

Nearly two months after the events narrated in our last
chapter, a pleasant party of three were seated in the
comfortable drawing-room of Mr. Elhanen Dashwood, a
gentleman of moderate means, living in a retired but
elegant quarter of New York,

The principal figure of the party was that of Mr. Dash-
wood himself. His features bore a striking resemblance
to those I have described as having belonged to his bro-
ther, Major Dashwood, of California. But he was portly
of frame, and generally more genial in appearance.

The others were his two children—Dora, about eigh-
teen, and Clarence, three or four years her senior.

Dora Dashwood was a beauty, who would have cap-
tured thousands of masculine hearts in any tropical
country in the world. Blue eyes, genuine goldeti hair,
and a sweet expression of gentle vivacity, illuminated a
countenance whose gracious blonde beauty was. almost
perfect; and her soft, just matured form was also instinct
with grace.

Her brother, Clarence, was a handsome young fellow,
wearing the uniform of a midshipman in the United
States navy, and displaying reckless frankness in every
lineament of his open face.

it was “steamer day” of the California mail, and all,
especially Miss Dora, were impatiently awaiting the post-
man’s ripg at the door-bell.

“T tell you, puss,’’? said her brother, ‘‘they can’t have
had time to assort the mail at the post office yet, and even
if there is a letter for you 1

“Kven if there is!’ cried Dora, indignantly. ‘‘What
mail in the past three years has failed to bring me a letter
from my Griffith Craig, or papa ore from Uncle Law-
rence ?”?

“J don’t dispute that Griffith is the mave you most sigh
for, my dear sister,”’ continued her brother, with provok-
ing composure. ‘Il merely wished fo remark, before your
wise and very prudent tongue interrupted me, that it
will be fully two hours before the postman can bring us a
letter—that is, if there 7s one.”

“There you go again, saucy. If there zs one, indeed.’

“Neither your uncie nor Griffith has failed to write us
for along time,” said Mr. Dashwood, smiling. ‘I scarcely
think they will fail us this time.”

At that moment there came a ring at the bell.

‘That means letters from California. 1 am sure of it!’
cried Dora, springing from her seat.

But no, the servant brought in a card.

“The gentleman is waiting below,’’ she said.

The card read:

Peer eee eons cesses cesooseesneseerees ®

HAROLD WICKLIFFE,

CALIFORNIA.

@rerereseseseve Comer ro eewseersesveceee

“Ob, he must be here to bring us news before the mail,”
cried Dora.

“Show the gentleman up,’ said Mr. Dashwood; and
they all arose to receive the visitor, who entered a mo-
ment later.

He was a singularly handsome man, both of feature and
presence; but his mien was extremely sad and sorrowful,
as he advanced to Mr. Dashwood, with extended hand.

“Aganold and intimate friend of Major Dashwood—
excuse me the agony of this unenviable mission—I should
say of the Zate Major Dashwood,” said he, “I take a
mournful pleasure in making the acquaintance of his re-
latives.””

“The late Major Dashwood !” exclaimed Mr. Dashwood,
Starting back, while his children also grew very pale.
‘Do you bring tidings of my brother’s death, sir?”

“I see that I cannot do it—it isa aduty I cannot, cannot
fulfill!’ exclaimed the gentleman, apparently overcome
by emotion, and sinking into a chair.

Dora’s face was already buried in her handkerchief.
Mr. Dashwood and Clarence were also strongly moved.

“Well, sir, tell us all,” said the former, gravely, and
with a quivering lip. ‘Heaven alone knows how we all
loved him, my brave and noble brother! But he was al-
ways so hale and strong that—that we hoped he would be
spared to us for a long, long time.”

He paused, overcome, while Dora was sobbing bitterly,
though her brother’s comforting arm was around her.

At jength Mr. Dashwood continued:

“Pray go on, sir. Of what disease was by dear brother
@ victim? I think I can bear the particulars.”

“Excuse me, sir,’’ said the gentleman, still displaying
considerable emotion. “This young lady and gentleman
are your children, I presume ?"? a

“They are.”

“Often, often have I heard the lamented major speak of
them in terms of the deepest affection,” exclaimed the
other. ‘But do you not think I had better communicate
the particulars of this event—sadder than you can dream
of—to you alone, sir?”

“I thank you, in the name of my children, for your con-
sideration for their feelings, but I think we had better
meet the bitter blow together, sir’?

 

 

 

 

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THE CROUCHING FORM OF THE INTRUDER AFPROACBED WITHIN

“So be it, then; but I undertake this melancholy task
with the utmost reluctance. Major Lawrence Dashwood,
the best friend Lever had in tne world, died no natural
death. tie was murdered.”

“Murdered 1?

They all started to their feet, at the mention of the
words.

Yes,” cried Mr. Wickliffe, fiercely and passionately;
“slaughtered, assassinated—foully, cowardly, basely mur-
dered ! and by him whom he loved and cherished as, and
even calied, his own son.”

‘Merciful Heaven, sir! whom can you mean???’

“I call you to witness, sir, that 1 proposed to spare your
children—at least Miss Dashwood, this blow.”?

“His name?’ almost thundered old Dashwood.

d oy fue murderer of Major Lawrence Dashwood is Griffith
raig.’

Dora withdrew the handkerchief from her. face with a
convulsive effort. The tears had dried upon her cheeks,
but her lovely face was pale as marble.

“is false! ‘Tis a black, bitter lie!’? she almost
Pec ea “God in heaven knows that what you say is

alse.

Mr. Wickliffe cowered under her pointing finger, and
then sinking again into a chair turned away his head.

“Quick, Clarence! Catch your sister! She is fainting !””
exclaimed Mr. Dashwood.

When. the bearer of ill tidings looked up again, Dora
Dashwood was reclining in her brother’s arms In a state
of unconsciousness. A wild, strange light leaped into
his handsome face and fine eyes as he gazed upon the
marble beauty of her perfect countenance, and his fingers
twitched nervously; but when he turned to the proprietor
of the mansion his face was once more expressive of
naught but sympathy and grief.

“Do you recognize this ring, sir??? he said, stretching
out his hand, which was small and white, and upon the
little finger of which sparkled a costly seal ring.

“Yes, it was my brother’s; and he often told me that he
would sooner lose his life than part with it.”

‘Probably with the premonition that he was soon to
die, he gave it to me in San Francisco on the day before
his death, bidding me, as lL loved him, to bear it to you,
should anything happen to him.”

He drew the gem from his finger and placed it in Mr.
Dashwood’s hand.

“Lawrence was not given to premonitions or supersti-
tions of any kini,’? muttered the latter, looklog at the
ring in a doubting, dreamy way.

“Here,” said Mr. Wickliffe, drawing Some newspapers
from his pocket and handing them to the other, ‘‘are the
accounts of this terrible misfortune, as reported in the
California journais. Your own papers will be rife with
the particulars to-morrow. I remain in the city for some
time, Mr. Dashwood, and if you will permit me, I will call
upon you again in a few days, when time has somewhat
moderated your present grief.’

The bereaved man bowed, and merely touched the
small hand extended to him; and with another flashing
giance at Dora’s pallid face, the Californian bowed him-
self out of the room and withdrew.

“So far, so well,’?? he muttered, as he again stood upon
the front stoop of the mansion, drawing on his gloves.
“T must alter my tactics somewhat, however, respecting
this story of the major’s secret Spanish marriage, and
little Inez being his daughter and sole heir. Caramba!
what a beauty this Dora Dashwood is! If I could possess
her, with only a portion of her uncle’s wealth, 1 would
willingly give old Don Diego the go-by. But we shall
see.

He hailed a passing hack, and was driven rapidly
away.

In the meantime Dora was carried to her chamber, and
a physician summoned; and Mr. Dashwood and Clarence
composed themselves as well as they could to read the
newspapers which Wickliffe had left them.

There it was before them, sure enough, in legible print,
each paper agreeing substantially in the account of the
murder and the arrest of the assassin.

One of the journals, which appeared to be a little less
Sensational than the rest, after detailing the finding of the
body in ‘‘a deep defile, called Eagle’s Pass,’ by the sher-
if’s posse,, and the arrest of the ‘‘conscience-stricken
murderer” on the spot, ‘‘with the reeking club in his hand,
blood upon his person, and every other circumstantial
evidence to confirm his monstrous crime,”? concluded as
follows:

“The prisoner is now under a strong guard inthe Pla-
cerville jail, as the indignation against him runs so high
that it is feared an effort will be madeto lyncn him be-
fore his regular trial can come off. Some of the prominent
members of the Vigilance Committee, whom we have
met, also bear a dark and moody aspect, which bodes
little good to the prisoner.

“The latter, of course, maintains that he is innocent,
but his explanation (which he afforded one of our report-
ers, who visited him last evening in his cell) of the dumn-
ing circumstance under which he was arrested, was, that
he and his benefactor had journeyed together as far as
Placerville, on horseback, from Sacramento. At Placer-
ville, on account of the prisoner’s horse being greatly fa-
tigued, (and thus far his statement is supported by the
tavern-Keeper,) the major proceeded on alone, it being
agreed that the other (Craig) should follow in an hour or
so, or aS soon as his animal should be sufficiently re-
freshed. :

‘After the major’s departure—scarcely half an hour,
indeed—the tavern-keeper casually mentioned that there
was a deep defile on the road to Auburn, known as Ea-
gle’s Pass. This information appeared to excite young
Craig most strangely. Although his horse was sltill
greatly jaded, he would listen to no advice, but instantly
mounted and followed the road taken by the major.

 

 

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“The prisoner's explanation of his having resolved to
folow his companion 80 quickly is aqueer one, He says
that, while they were passmng througW Rosas, they met a
man called Gold-Dust Darrell, who was friendly to them,
and moreover a ventriloquist; and that. after they had
quitted him, a shrill voice (which he ascribes to the ven-
trilogaism of the said Darrell) iad called in their ears to
beware of the Eagle’s Pass, as danger and death awaited
them there. Neither the major nor Craig (according to
the prisoner’s account) knowing of any such place, regard-
ed itas a joke of Darrell, and rode on. But, upon Craig
learning of the existence of an Hagle Pass, after the Ma-
jor had ridden on alone, he had a premonition of danger,
and, mounting, rode in hot haste tolook after his bene-
factor. Hefound him murdered in the Pass, and was
kneeling, horror-struck, at the dead man’s side When he
Was surrounded by the sheriff’s posse.

“This isall very well forthe prisoner, but the question
is, whether any sensible jury can be made to see itin the
same light. The best argument which the prisoner has
in his favor is that he had everything lose and nothing to
gain by the death of Major Dashwood, who had been his
generous benefactor, but upon whose fortune he had no
legitimate claim whatever; but this argument is weak
enough.

“The respectability and immense wealth of Major Law-
rence Dasuwood render his sudden and violent taking
off doubly impressive. * * * Welad always supposed
that the lamented Major Dashwood was a bachelor, and
that, upon his decease, his vast property would fall to his
relatives in New York, where he leaves a brother, a
nephew, and a niece. But it seems that we have erred in
this supposition. We are credibly informed that, some
time in 1835, Major Dashwood contracted a secret mar-
riage in Texas, with a Spanish lady, the daughter of Don
Diego de Marino, the present wealthy landed proprietor
in this and adjoining counties. The wife is long since
dead, but there was a daughter, the Senorita Inez de Ma-
rino, who has ever since lived with her grandfather, For
some unexpiained reason, Major Dashwood would never
acknowledge the marriage, and the haughty old hidalgo
has always been too proud to press the claims of his
grandchild, even to bear her father’s name. She will
now, however, comein, of course, to her deceased pa-
rent’s vast estate.”

Father and son looked at each. other in silence, after
the perusal of this account. At length they were aroused
by a shrill cry, and, turning, beheld Dora standing in the
open dooroftheroom. She had recovered from her faint,
and, silently descending the stairs, had heard every word
as it fell from her fathei’s lips,

“Do you believe it?” she shrieked. “Guilty, or not
guilty? Whichisit? Tell me! teli me!??

They rushed toward her; but the deathly pallor again
overspread her face, and she once more fell inscnsible
into their arms.

CHAPTER V.
A VOICE IN THE AIR.

_ A dense crowd covered the single decent pier which
jutted into the Bay of San Francisco from the low-built
wharves of the city itself. Large bodies of men also
thronged the neighboring streets expectantly, and their
glances were invariably cast seaward,

The cause of this gathering would have been apparent
to a stranger, freshly dropped in its midst; for a majestic
Ocean Sleamer Was moving in fiom the sea.

This arrival, which happened only once in a number of
weeks at the period of which I write, was always a great
event on the coast. Friends were waiting to encounter
friends. New, untried adventurers to the gold-fields,
were stretching their necks trom the steamer-guards, in
the hope of meeting some familiar face in the wild,
strange land.

The landing was effected, the gang-plank was thrown
ashore, and, as the passengers began to stream from the
decks, a chorus of voices saluted in hearty iriendliness
from. the docks. Taere were many welcomes, many
cheerful meetings, and those who had no friends pressed
boldly through the crowd.

But there was one group among those newly arrived
that appeared to meet no acquaintances in the new
land, and which instantly attracted general attention,
from the fact that one of their number was a lady. Her
vail was down, and she leaned timidly upon the shoulder
of the most elderly of the gentlemen accompanying her;
but it scarcely needed that she was both young and
graceful to draw all eyes upon her—lady visits were so
few and far between at that time.

There were three gentlemen in the party; and one, who
appeared to be thoroughly at home in the new surround-
ings, and guided them swiftly through the throng, to one
of the very expensive coaches near by. They all entered
except the man who had acted as their guide. He seated
himself beside the driver, and directed the latter to drive
at once to the principal hotel.

Here, also, was a great crowd. Jt was almost dark
when they alighted at the entrance.

“This way, gentlemen,’ said their guide, making an
avenue for them through the press; Miss Dashwood must
be very tired, and I will hasten your business at the office
with all dispatch.”

The elder of the gentlemen had just registered the
names at the desk, and was still bending over the book,
when a sharp, incisive voice rang directly over their
heads, as if its utterance had come from the high ceiling
directly above tnem, with the shrill clearness of a
clarion:

“Was not one victim enough, that this fiend should
bring the brother of the murdered man as afresh victim
to his shambles ?”

Mr. Dashwood and his son started, and Dora clung to
her father’s arm in superstitious terror. There was a

 

 

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general commotion, and every one in the crowded room
seemed startled, if not awe-struck—all except one, and
that was “Mr, Harold Wickliffe,” as he had registered his
name upon the book.

He clenched his hand, and a spasm of passion contorted
his face. It vanished instantly, however, as Dashwood
exclaimed:

“How very remarkable, Wickliffe! Whence could that
voice have proceeded ?”?

“TI really cannot say, and scarcely think it worth our
while to be alarmed at it,’ returned the other, laughing.
“I suppose there are fools who.can play us silly tricks
here, a8 well asin New York. But come, you have two
chambers and a little parlor engaged; 1 will accompany
you up stairs and see that you are comfortable.”?

Without having their uneasiness greatly moderated,
they went with the crowd up the one broad staircase, and
thence along a single, wide gallery, escorted by a servant.

There was also a throng in the gallery. As they were
about entering their apartments, Dora, who had raised
her vail, again started nervously, and clung to her father’s
arm, as two dark, treacherously beautiful eyes were fast-
ened upon her,

It was but one look; a single flash, but it seemed to
pierce her brain; and then the owner of the eyes—a slen-
der female, with a black mantle thrown over her head,
and leaning upon the armof an aged man—passed by,
and vanished.

“Why, I thought there were no ladies living in this
dreadful country !? exclaimed Miss Dashwood. *That
person gave me a most remarkable look.”’

“You are nervous from your long voyage, my dear,”’
said her father, as they entered the rude, but not uncom-
fortabie little sitting-room which had been set apart for
them. “But in a few days 1 will hire acottage somewhere,
and you shall be exempt from any sort of rudeness.”’

“That will surely be your best plan, sir,’? said Wickliffe,
as the party were seated. “I will call upon you in the
morning, when I suppose you will have more definite
plans for the future. How soon ghall you proceed to
Placerville?”

“As soon a8 I can get a lawyer, I shall at once proceed
there, and look into this trumped-up will they talk about,
I believe it is a lying swindle from beginning to end, and
sball not be long in proving it.”’

Mr. Dashwood spoke with heat.

“Bravo |’) cried Wickliffe; “‘my acquaintance with old
Diego, will enable me to help you greatly. But do you
really believe that Major Dashwood was never matried in
Texas ??)

“If it was otherwise, would I have undertaken this
voyage at my age? Would I have suffered my delicate
daughter to have accompanied me, as she has done???
cried the old gentleman, pettishly. ‘‘l now,’ he contin-
ued, morecalmly, ‘“‘have reason to believe that my brother
married a Creole lady in New Orleans, but there was no
issue. The wife died in giving birth to a child, a boy, and
the child itself was stolen away by its Mexican nurse, and
murdered.”?

There was a momentary pause, and then all started, and
looked at each other, with superstitious awe; for again
that clarion voice resounded through the chamber in
which they were sitting. It seemed to come from far
away, and yet sounded among them distinctly, as it ut-
tered the words:

“The child was not murdered; it lives! Beware the
assassin of its father !”

“What can this mean? Is the house haunted?’ cried
Dashwood, while Dora turned very pale, and clung to her
brother’s side.

“By Heaven, I must see to this!’ cried Wickliffe, start-
ing to his feet. “Some rascal is playing you a villainous
hoax, and he shall be attended to.’? And then he added,
laughingly: ‘Perhaps the younger Mr. Dashwood would
like to accompany me about the Golden City, and see
what it is like !”’

‘No, Lthank you,’ said Clarence; and Mr. Wickliffe,
politely bowing, went off by himself.

“} don’t know what to make of this fellow,’’ said Dash-
wood; “yet he is extraordinarily good-looking, and be-
haved like a gentleman during the entire trip.”’

“TI never have liked him,” said Clarence, frowning.
“Uncle Lawrence may have given him his signet ring,
and all that; but as we passed through the crowd below,
I saw upward of a dozen men shrink from him, with
fear and loathing; and they also seemed surprised at our
party being so officiously accompanied by him.’

‘Well, well, we shall see,’ said the father, ‘The whole
thing of our coming here so suddenly is strange and
eventful enough.” ae

Dora made no comment. By a sort of tacit understand-
ing the name of the unfortunate Griffith Craig (of whose
present existence they were even uncertain) Seldom pass-
€d their lips in lier presence, And, to tell the truth, dur-
ing the long voyage from New York the fascinating Wick-
liffe had not, failed to make an impression upon her. It
was not passion—her entire nature would have shrank
from the thought with loathing and scorn. But shecould
not but confess to herself that, in his presence, or even in
his proximity, she was under the partial control of a tre-
mendous intellectual magnetism, which she feared, and
yet which, by its intervals of absence, caused a dull blank
in her lifeand energies, like the sudden plucking away of
a poison flower, whose baleful breath had been the un-
natural sustenance of a painful life.

The party had dined upon the steamer, and Dora now
wishing to rest, and, his father having settled down to
some sherry and a cigar, Clarence concluded that he
would move about the strange and uncouth city, upon a
tour of observation.

The large lower saloon of the hctel was still thronged
with men, smoking, drinking, and chatting.

At the further end, the indefatigable Gold-Dust Darrell,

 

with his good man Grizzly, was amusing a motly crowd,
and Clarence was naturally attracted to the spot.

Grizzly Dave sat in a chair behind the little table, and
directly beside his master, who was discoursing in his
usual cheery strain.

“Now, gentlemen,’ said Darrell, placing his mght hand,
which contained an egg, on his complacent assistant’s
bushy head, ‘‘while you are making up your bets on those
three little cards there, I purpose to stand this egg upon
its smaller end, with the right royal mug of my aristo-
cratic friend here as a base of operations. You see, it is
a very difficult thing to do, even if this stately skull were
level, instead of convex—though I believe that Dave’s
head has always been considered level, which may ac-
count for my doing the trick at last. Still, it 7s difficult,
for, no matter how nicely you stand the egg upon its
pointed end, it will fall over. I don’t think any man in
the crowd can make the snowy hen-fruit stand upon the
pointed end.”’

“Nor you nuther,” cried a huge miner, with a curious

grin.

“What'll you bet?”

“Walf an ounce.’? E

“Put up your money—so! Now, gentlemen, this is the
way to make the hen fruit stand upon its smaller end.’’

The exhibitor squashed the hard-boiled egg down,
crushing it half way, and showed witha grin that then,
pees it stood perfectly upright upon his assistant’s

lead,

A roar of laughter followed the accomplishment of the
simple trick, and even the big miner laughed good hu-
moredly as he handed in the money he had lost.

“That trick is not original with me, gentlemen,’ con-
tinued the lively Darrell. ‘It was invented by an ances-
tor of mine, old Chris. Columbus, of whom you may have
heard. After Chris. had picked up this continent out of
salt water and returned home to tell of the big thing he
had found, some jealous old blokes at the hash-board
said that any one else could have done the same thing by
simply sailing westward till the dirt stopped him. Old
Chris. then illustrated by this egg trick that it was easy
enough for any one to discover America after he had
shown them the way.

“Now, make your bets on the monte pasteboards. Now
you see the picture-card and now you don’t. Who'll bet
an ounce on the picture-card? Allright! You turn the
ace of diamonds, and of course give in your dust.

“Come, Dave, old fellow, let’s amuse the gentlemen
with something unique. 1 will show them something
which always awakens sad recollections in my breast,
from the fact that it was always a favorite with the no-
blest white man who ever lived in California, as well as
the finest gentieman who was ever fouliy murdered by an
unarrested assassin. Of course, I allude to poor Major
Dashwood, the victim of the Bagle’s Pass tragedy.”’

Clarence Dashwood started in utter astonishment at
hearing these woods. As he did so a tall, slender man,
wearing a huge slouched hat, which almost completely
concealed his features, passed rapidly by him and out of
the crowd, with a muttered execration.

Darrell’s words, though spoken lightly, and with appar-
ent carelessness, also created excitement among a hum-
ber of his auditors.

*Unarrested assassin!’ repeated a dozen voices,
“Why, Gold-Dust, isn’t Griffith Craig still in Placerville
jail?”

“Y wasn’t speaking about Griffith Craig, but about the
murder of Major Dashwood,’? was the imperturable re-
ply. “And it’s my thinking that Craig will never be
hung as long as honest Jack Hayes is sheriff of the law.’?

“Then I reckon the vigilance boys will bave something
to do with it!) muttered two or three men, moving out
of the crowd, with darkening brows.

Clarence did not wait to see by what piece of jugglery,
or foolery, Gold-Dust Darrel was about to restore the
good humor of thecrowd. His mind was troubled and
ill atease. Yet he did not feel in a humor to at once
communicate to his father what had occurred, and there-
fore wandered out of the hotel into the strange city.

He was entirely alone, as he was spassing through the
broad hotel entrance, yet, as he did so, a shrill whisper
sounded distinctly in his ear:

‘Itis no spirit-voice which, sounds a warning to you
and yours, but that of a faithful, singularly gifted
friend. Grifith Craig ts innocent. Distrust the man
Wicklifge.as your utter foe.”

The young man wheeled quickly about, the trouble on
his face deepening as he did so. There was no one near
him, and save the crowd about the exhibitor at the far
end of the saloon, the long hall was almost deserted.

“JT once thought,’?? muttered Clarence, as he passed out,
“that such mysteries belonged solely to the old countries
of the world, but they seem to have been transported
even to the newest and remotest West.”’

He passed out upon the crowded street. His sailor’s
life had made him acquainted with many gay and curious
scenes. He had threaded the great marts of Europe, and
dreamed among Eastern bazaars; but there was enough
that was strange and unfamiliur in his present surround-
ings to interest him deeply. Jostled by fierce-looking
sailors, chattering Chibamen, and laughing, swearing,
noisy adventurers from all quarters of the globe, he
passed in and out of the dazzling gambling palaces, the
great saloons, where men drank fiery beverages like
water, and other places of vicious pleasure, until a late
hour, when he returned to his hotel—for he feared his
father would be anxious regarding his long absence.

The main. hallor saloon of the notel was kept brilliantly
lighted all night at that period; but, with the exception
of the drowsy clerk at the desk, and two or three waiters
lounging near it, the hall was now completely deserted.

Stil feeling disinclined to go up Stairs immediately, he
lounged carelessly on through the hali. It was much
longer than he had thought, and, after crossing the space
which had been occupied by the exhibitor and his audi-
ence, he was surprised to see the hall, after making a
sharp turn to the left, continued on to a depth of nearly a
hundred and fifty feet. A number of small card-rooms
opened into it from either side, and at the further end
opened a window, through which the sea-breeze blew
refreshingly.

He was about.to, proceed to this casement, when he in-
stinctively darted behind one of tie rough, square pillars
of the hall, as he saw the crown of a hat appear above
the window-sill, on the outside. He had no sooner Con-
cealed himself, and looked anxiously out, when he saw
the figure of a man pass cautiously and noiselessiy
through the window.

The figure was the same as that of the stranger who
had passed by him, with a muttered curse, when the ex-
hibitor had spoken of the murder of Major Dashwood.

With breathless interest Clarence watched him now, as
he advanced crouchingly up. the passage, peering now
into this door and now into that, on either side. At
length he paused, drew something from his breast, and
entered one of the doors.

Hardly daring to breathe, though wholly unarmed him-
self, Clarence advanced on tip-toe, and looked into the
little room.

The first object that met his gaze was the slumbering
form of the garrulous trick-player. He was stretched at
full length on a rough lounge, with his hand still grasping
a newspaper, which he had probably been scanning when
sleep overcame him. There was something careless and
manly in his repose, and his little box of apparatus was
standing at his side.

The crouching form of the intruder, whose slouched
hat still concealed his face, approached within twelve
inches of the reclining man. He then knelt upon one
knee, and leveled a cocked revolver at the sleeper’s fore-
head.

Clarence tried to cry out, but his tongue was chained
as by a nightmare. He was utterly mute and motionless
with horror; and yet, with dilated eyes, knew, or felt,
that he must be the witness of a most treacherous mur-
der.

The careless features of the sleeping man did not move,
The tube of the revolver was within an inch of his brow;
the steady finger of the assassin was upon the hair-

trigger.
CHAPTER VI.
GOLD-DUST DARRELL DEEPENS IN MYSTERY.

We left Clarence Dashwood standing in the lonely pas-
sage, rooted and voiceless with borror, and yet gazing
upon the murderer and his intended victim. The tube of
the revolver was within an inch of the sleeping man’s
brow, the steady finger of the Villain was upon the hair-
trigger, when, just as the motionless watcher expected to
see the flash and hear the explosion which were to launch
a soul into eternity, the eyes of the sleeper sprang wide
open.

They were queer eyes—small, gray, piercing, and ser-
pent-like, witn tiny jasper rings around their pupils,
which dilated as their gaze was intensified. Not a fea-
ture of the reclining man changed, though it was evident
that he took in the perfect nature of his peril at a glance;

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

' peasts of the field, flee before sweeping flames; but a
- Jone hunter ‘dashes into that one bare isle of safety, and

 

 

not a muscle twitched; he only gazed and gazed. The
effect upon the would-have-been murderer, however, was
most mysterious. é

At first he remained in his kneeling attitude, as if pet-
rified, with his finger Still upon the trigger of the leveled
pistol. Then he quivered all over, like a leaf in the wind,
and the weapon dropped harmiess by his side.

Clarence, wrapt in wonder at what he saw, managed to
retreat, without being observed, behind another pillar,
whence ne could still look into the room where the mys-
terious, silent pantomime was transpiring. :

The strange eyes of the reclining man still remained as
glitteringly infmovable agthose of a snake; but’ How hes
stretched forth'his hand,while the forna of the other quiv-
ered as if in an vil, all-potemt spell. , \) : ©

Darrell smiled, avid, spoke, in alow voice, but in one as
distinct and vibrating)asthe throbbing of catgut.

 

 

 

coming; I saw you coming along the}

“J knew you were coming; C
beach while I was lying here. Laythat pistol at my feet.”

The man did so. | oe ee a

“You have another im your breast, and a bewie-knife at
your hip; lay them both at my feet1? ES iy

The man searched his ¢lothing, produced the weapons,
and did as he was bidden}

  

enj-and, as he obeyed, Clarence,
from his hiding place, strove to look under the heavy hat,
and see the face beneath; but he could not.

The smile remained upon Darreil’s lips, but, as he
gazed upon the being who appeared to have suddenly
become his slave, his eyes contracted suddenly, like
those of a cat. :

“Listen |? he continued, in the same low. tone, though
sharper, more incisive still; ‘I know you well, though
me you know not. Perhaps as an intellectually of utter
evil, you have not your mate on earth; but-my powers
are superior, inasmuch as their aims are to the noble and
the good. Your past—vile, unutterably, wicked, as it
has been—is as an open book to me. | will recall an
episode of its initial villainy to your memory. The scene,
a blazing prairie; a dying woman, just breathing from
a hundred stabs, with her two children, a girl and a boy,
in a small oasis of the sea of flame.” :

For the first, a groan escaped from the lips of the
mantled ruffian, and his frame shook spasmodically.

“Wizard! sorcerser!’? he gasped, huskily.

“Heed me. The tall, dry grass vanished like tinder
pefore the waves of fire. Herds of buffalos, antelope
and wild horses, flocks:of wolves.and. hares; all. the

hears from the murdered woman’s lips their tale of blood
and horror. This is enough for you to know at present.”

The ruffian was cowering before him, as with super-
stitious horror. : j

“Listen! Allyour attemps upon my life and against
my purposes are known to me—were known to me even
at their inception. 1 know your schemes at present, and
shall defeat them.all. If it were fit that I should now
take your life, I would do soas I would that of a scorpion
—a tarantula. But I bide my time. Begone!” 5

The man needed nota second bidding, bat turned, and,
drawing his heavy sombrero still closer over his face, fled
along the passage with a noiseless step.

@larence saw him leap through the window, by which
he had gained admission, and then, filled with mystevi-
ous dread by What he had seen, he also went rapidly
down the passage and entered the grand saloon,

He had turned into the main hall, and was fully two
hundred feet away, when that same shrill whisper re-
sounded in his ear, saying:

“Return to. the little chamber where you saw me lying;
you will meet @ friend.”

He'turned with the rapidity of thought. But even the
servants had vanished now. Only the clerk was at his
desk, and he was asleep.. He was alone.

Still uncomfortable and uneasy, Clarence retraced his
steps, and stood at the open door of the little chamber.
Darrell was upon his feet; had just lighted a cigar, and
advanced to meet him, with extended hand, and nothing
but'genial kindness beaming from his eyes.

“J knew you were looking and listening to what just
oedurred here, and I meant that it should be so,’’ he said,
smiling. ‘It was my voice, which you have several times
heard so mysteriously; and, in truth, its only mystery is
a natural gift—that of ventriloquism. Will you have a
cigar ???

Glatence scarcely comprehended what he heard, but
the gentleman’s manner and entire air were so unassum-
ingly persuasive and eloquent, that he seized and pressed
the proffered hand with earnestness.

‘2 know your mission, and that of your father, to Cali-
fornia, perfectly,” he continued. ‘I think it was unwise
to bring your'sister along; but it may turn out for the
best. You ‘will have® innumerable difficulties, pass
through many ‘perils; but in me you will all have a friend
as devoted as he is powerful. Do you believe me?”

“JT do, with all my ‘soul.’

“Tien do not say a word to either your father or sister,
or to any one, what has transpired, or mention that you
have made my acquaintance. Do you promise?”

“Oertainly, sir, if you wish it; but would it not be best
that my father should know something?”

“It would not. It would be for the worse. Good-night,”
again extending his hand.

‘4 beg your pardon,” said Clarence, taking the hand,
and speaking somewhat timidly, for, frum what he had
seen, he could nothelp still investing this man with su-
pernatural powers; “but would it be too much for me to

ES

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gigs

Indians and miners out there,’’ said he. “Who is he, and
what is he making so much fun about, Wickliffe ?”

But the individual addressed had suddenly disappear-
ed to the rear of the boat,

“They call him Gold-Dust Darrell, or the Wizard of the
Mines,’? said lawyer Lancet, apparently uneasy at hav-
ing devolved upon him the task of saying so many words.
“He is a card-trickster, a sorcerer, . mountebank, and
everything else. Butthey are moving this way, and you
can judge for yourself.” i

The cheery exhibitor, followed by his burly assistant,
bearing the magic box, and surrounded by a large crowd,
among-whom. were-anumber of Indians; moved up from
the bow of the boat and paused, as if by intention, al-

guard occupied by the Dashwood party
Pand others. » A kia a
“Grizzly, my boy, what shall wedo to amuse the noble

 

‘How would a pappoose-pirouet-do, by way ot variety.’”

“There are three squaws here, each one witha young
one,?? growled Grizzly Dave, turning and ‘surveying the
dusky Members of the throng, among whom were seve-
ral flat-nosed Squaws, with babies strapped, or rather bun-
dled upon their backs’ ‘Come out here.gals, and swing
your moccasins,’ he contintied, beckoning to them.

They shrank back still deeper into the crowd, and be-
gan to chatter angrily together. But at an authoritative

spect by all the savages, their stoical lords compelled
them to acquiesce.

Four of them stepped out/and stood, stolidly and glum-
ly enough, in a row, while the curious crowd formed a
ring around them. athe

“Now, Dave, give them the jig-tap on the toe, of each
moccasin with the magic wand, and set them going.’

This order was obeyed by the assistant, with a long,
slender wand which he carried, and with a dexterous
slight-of-hand, almost imperceptible from its rapidity,
Gold-Dust dashed the magic powder into their nostrils.

“Now, shuffle your shanks, my pretty ones !?

The powder appeared to act like electricity.

_With a single wild shriek of savage mirth the four la-
dies of the forest sprang into a grotesque dance at a bound.
The wondering babes on their backs set up a dismal and
outlandish howl of dismay, at being thus suddenly dis-
turbed, which rose above even the shrill laughter of their
mothers. The latter, at length becoming fairly frantic,
snatched the little ones from their buckskin wrappings
and tossed them, again and again, high in the air, catch-
ing them, as they came down, like India-rubber doll-ba-
pies.

_The babies bawled helplessly, the squaws danced and
yelled uproariously, and the white bystanders shrieked
with laughter; though Miss Dashwood was white with
2 Has lest the brains of the little ones should be dashed
out.

The dusky husbands of these unseemly Terpsichoreans,
however, were shocked even out of their traditional com-
posure. They sprang forward, and grasping their squaws,
strove to hold them down; when the struggles between
the two parties, the one under the influence of the pow-
der, and the other nerved by offended marital decorum,
made the scene even more ludicrous.

At length the magician, by another feat of slight-of-
hand, set the matter to rights, and comparative order was
created out of confusion.

As, followed by his assistant, he passed abaft under the
upper deck, he threw one keen, comprehending glance
above at Mr. Dashwood and his daughter, which both no-
ticed, but could not understand.

It seemed destined to be an eventful day on board the
Sacramento steamer.

in a little while after the bay was crossed and they were
just entering the mouth of the river, a number of fierce
shouts attracted the attention of every one forward. The
pinioned man had burst his bonds, and was seen strug-
gling desperately with his captors.

Miss Dashwood shrieked, and buried her face in her
father’s breast. The crowd on the lower deck surged for-
ward. Everything was in the wildest confusion. Pistols
and knives flashed around the struggling giant, but he
seemed to evade them as if by magic, and at length,
with a single great bound sprang from the boat into the
river. :

Oneof the “committee,” flinging off his belt, with its
garniture of heavy weapons—except a Knife, which he
held between his teeth—sprang overboard after him with.
out an instant’s hesitation.

The wildest excitement prevailed. It was increased to
the highest pitch, when the steamer, Which had instantly
stopped her engines, swung round, and disclosed the two
men sinking together, but locked in cach other’s arms,

They disappeared almost in an instant, and the boat
almost touched the waves with her starboard gunwale,
as the passengers leaned over, watching the troubled
waters.

“They are both gone!’ cried a number of voices.

“No; there is something coming up!’ cried several
more,

It was a man’s head. And in a moment the owner
showed his face, spurting the muddy water out of his
mouth.

“Chuck us a rope!” he cried in a sturdy voice.

This was done, and he was pulled on deck, dripping
like a seal, :

“There floats the other one!’ cried a voice.

They all looked again into the river, and the floating

 

ask you something about Griffith Craig ?”

“He isinnecent. All will be well in the end. Good-
night.”?

Olarence looked once more at him as he stood there,
quiet, confident, smiling; and then retraced his steps like

one in a dream.
CHAPTER VII.

UP THE SACRAMENTO—TERRIBLE TRAGEDY.

Mr. Dashwood remained several days in San Francisco,
consulting with a legal gentleman, a Mr. Lancet, to whom
he had been recommended by his New York lawyer.
This gentleman was a slow-going, reticent man, who
counseled considerable delay, to which, however, the im-
pulsive old gentleman would not listen for a moment.

Mr. Dashwood had sent Clarence to Placerville on the
morning after the event narrated in the last chapter
for the purpose of hiring a cottage; and now, upon re-
ceiving a letter to the effect that this had been done, and
that a well-appearing native girl haa been engaged to act
as Miss Dora’s maid,he decided upon proceeding thither at
once, and having an interview with Don Diego de Ma-
yrino.

The legal Lancet reluctantly consented, and, accompa-
nied by Dora, they proceeded to Sacramento by the bay
boat.

Dora had recovered from the fatigue of her long voyage,
and was now looking very charming, and in excellent
spirits. -

Patter boarding the boat, much to their surprise, they
were joined by Mr. Wickliffe. They had not seen him
since the night of their arrival at the hotel, and he ex-
plained his days of inattentiveness by saying that he had
been upon a visit, in their behalf, to old Diego, whom he
represented aS very crusty, and unwilling to grant an in-
terview.

“But, of course, that he will be compelled to do,” said
Wickliffe, smiling.

“Of course he will, and shali!? cried the irascible old
gentleman. “I'll teach the old greaser the difference be-
tween meum and teum—I’ll teach him that, because he
wears a blanket and knives in his boots, he is by no means
@ whute man’?

“Papa,” asked Miss Dora, simply, “why do they call
the natives greasers?” :

“Well, to tell the truth, I can’t say, my dear,” said
Dashwood, laughing at his own pettishness of the moment
before, while the others also smiled. ee

They noticed that the handsome face of Mr. Wickliffe
had grown decidedly haggard since they had last seen
him, and those few days had made him appear much
older and more care-worn. The manner of Mr. Lancet
toward him also struck Mr. Dashwood as remarkable.
The former appeared to shun, fear, and hate Wickliffe at
thé same time, and grew unusually reticent while in his
presence.

Wickliffe was, as his wont, respectful and yet assiduous
in his polished attention to Miss Dashwood. Her father
was not over-observant, or he would have marked the
strangely complicated impressions which this man’s pre-
sence and conversation made upon his daughter. She al-

_ most invariably turned her face away from his keen,

beautiful eyes, but her features were singularly mobile
and expressive (now of interest, now of anxiety, but
never of pleasure,) as his smiling lips dropped their pol-
ished sentences in a voice that was strangely musical.
When he was away from her side, in some distant part of
the boat, ler features would instantly become calm and
self-possessed, but with a dull, vacant expression, as
though something not joyous, not pleasurable, by any
means, but necessary—had gone out of her being. When
he returned, she instantly became restless, but more ani-
mated.-?*** ashes

An awning covered’ ‘the little upper-deck, which they
occupied, with a number of others, and they were looking
over the railing at the motley crowd on the broad, open
main-deck below. * In one corner, were quartered a num-
ber of horses, whose frequent rearings and plungings
occasioned considerable confusion in the crowd.

In another portion, were  half-a-dozen stern, bearded
men, armed to the teeth with pistols and knives, and
having in their midst a great, brawny ruffian, whose arms
were pinioned with stout thongs, and whose countenance
was evil in the extreme. ;

“Who are they?) asked Miss Dashwood, turning to the
lawyer, aS perhapsthe one ‘miost likely to know.

“Perhaps Mr. Wickliffe,” said’ the man of few words,
witit a peculiar emphasis upon the name, “can tell. I’ve
seén several glances of recognition pass between him and
the piniened man down there.”’

Wickliffe turned one glance, swift and hatefulas a bul-
let, upon the speaker, and then instantly recovering his
equanimity, replied, laughing:

“Phe fellow has good enough cause to remember me,
Miss Dashwood, for 1 gave him up to the authorities in
the San Joaquin mines last year for a piece of a villainy
he:committed there. He is now in the hands of those
members of ‘the Vigilance Committee. He is said to
have committed a murder at the French Creek mines
some timeago. They seized him at Benicia last night,
and I presume they are iow taking him up the river to
get.evidence against him.’

Dora Dashwood quickly turned from the contemplation
of the surly group, and her cheek paled and lip quivered
at the mention of the ominous word, ‘‘Vigilance Com-
mittee;” for the recollection rushed upon her of that wo-
ful night when she heard her father read to Clarence the
accounts of Griffith Craig’s connection with the mur-
der of her uncle.

Her father had heard the conversation, and now saw
anda guessed the cause of her emotion. He instantly
sought to divert her thoughts.

“ook, my child, at that ridiculous fellow among those

body of the desperado—though never more to be a pri-
soner on earth—with the Vigilance man’s poinard driven
to the hilt in his breast—the only memento of the terrible
contest which had taken place beneath the sea. ates

The boat continued on her course. Miss Dashwood had
fainted at the ‘first sight of the struggle, and did not
finally recover until they reached the Sacramento wharf,
whence slie was conveyed, though very feeble, to the
hotel. The next day, however the journey was resumed,
by stage-coach. At night they reached Placerville, where
Clarence was anxiously waiting to welcome them.

{To be Continued. ]

 

THE

Conspirator’s Doom;

OR THE |! wlanie a

LOST HEIRESS OF LATYMER.
A Tale of the Days of Elizabeth.

By EVELYN ASHBY,

Author of **Lhe Illegal Marriage ; or Cecy Mor-
gan’s Trials,’’ ete.

 

~—

(‘The Conspirator’s Doom’? was commenced in No. 50. Back
Nos. can be obtained from any News Agent.in the United States.]

CHAPTER, X.. «+»
DR. PARRY ATTEMPTS THE ABDUCTION OF VICTORINE.

Sitting in one of the alcoves of the club-room at Hack-
er’s tavern were two men, in semi-military costume, who
appeared to be Waiting for the arrival of a comrade or
friend. Slowly sipping their wine, they lounged about in
their chairs with a kind of indolent nervousness, and now
and then talked for a few moments with each other.

At length one of them rose from his seat and turned
toward the window.

‘You limp a little yet, I see; how is your leg ?””

“Very nearly well, Captain Oscar. I scarcely feel it ex-
cept after sitting for some time.”

“You are lucky, Nick; such a wound would have laid
me up for a year.” . Cee

“J dare say. So it would me if I kept myself steeped in
liquor as you do. Do you ever draw a@ sober breath?”

“Youre a nice one fora preacher. Vl wager you
drink twice as much asI‘do. Jt would kill mhe to drink
as you do—and yet you try to preacli to me.”

“Only to show you that it isn’t in the quantity taken,
but in the capacity of the man. Now you Know very well
that you can’t drink without being the worse for it, and
you ought to have the courage to resist.”’

“Tf I never did anything worse than drink, Nick, I
should feel myself a happy man.”

“That is always the reply, Captain Oscar; but that
doesn’t answer the question. You drink when you know
it ruins you, and because you haven’ the courage to re-
sist. That is cowardice. And when cornered on it you
are ‘thankful you do nothing worse,’ or ‘wish that you
did nothing worse.’ ’ Well, a man who goes into villainies
deliberately, and for the sake of gold, is not one to
preach.’

Captain Redmond knew that he was guilty of great
cerimes—knew that he had led, and was leading, a lawless
life; but nevertheless he despised weakuess even in
crimes. He looked with disgust upon the man who had
to steep his brain in liquor to carry out a plan which his
brain had previously conceived.

As bad as he was, the master had true courage, and
despised weakness in any formin aman. He looked out
of the window while Captain Oscar drank in silence, but
presently returned to iis seat.

“Nick, there was one thing about that night which I
never could understand,” said Captain Oscar, “I knew
you had a hand in it as soon as L heard the story; but——”

“But what? In what do you find a mystery?”

“When the guards came upon you why did you not
give the alarm, and call on us for help?”

“Was it not better for us all as it was?”

“To be sure it was better; but then, few men would
have dared to attack so many single-handed.”’

“Chut! when one knows what ought to be done the
mere fact of numbers is nothing. It should not influence
him unless there may be a question of prudence. In this
case prudence told me that your fellows would make so
much noise that an army would be down upon us in no
time.”

“So you attacked them alone ?’’ ek

“No, I had Parry with me.’ The captain did not heed
the shrug of his companion’s shoulder. ‘Besides there
were only a dozen of them, and we got them separated
easily in the action. Ah! hum?!’ said Redmond, stretchi-
ing hislimbs. ‘I wonder where Parry is?” :

Again he turned to the window, but ere he reached it
the door opened to admit the spy. The latterlooked cau-
tiously around the room.

‘Are you alone, Nick ?—that is lucky.” ,

“Only Oscar there; and I believe he has dropped off to
sleep. We have been waiting since noon.”

“7 have been preparing the villa; she must go there
this very night. Have you told him?” asked Parry, point-
ing to the sleeping soldier.

“Only that we had work to do; but have you arranged
all with the dame?’

“As faras necessary. They will walk by the Thames
this evening. You should wait as long as possible—until

 

 

 

assembiage?’? askéd Darrell) moving briskly abont.’

“had Succeeded, and it was safe, |

sign from Darrell, who appeared to be held in great fe-|

i ar Pine ee

they start back, [mean—then bring her to the villa as
quickly as possible. Who goes to take charge of dame
Rachel ?””

“You, I suppose; can-you not?”

“IT must be at the villa. Take one of the men. — Here is
some gold, Nick, in case of trouble; but you need have no
fear... Take your old name of Bravo, and no one will know
you.

“But the pardon; have you ze

“Have Iseén the queen? Yes; you need have no fear.
alte has promised to give you a full and free pardon

oon. .
Captain Redmond, or. Nick Bravo, as he was known. in
‘London, looked keenly into Parry’s eyes, but the latter bore
Aus gaze/mnflinchingiy.. His treachery was not-Shown ‘to

 

 

the man who was ‘bartering his honor with him.) Parry

‘had not yet been able to see her majesty, and éven/sliould
he succeed in getting an audietce, it was. not his: Inten-
tion to ask.a. pardon forthe former pirate. It might
be that he wonld be better away when the proposed plot

‘at least, to have some
way Of disposing of the man Who must, per force, know
all of his schemes, | | pees .

For a few moments they.¢onversed together,in low,
tones, while Captain Oscar was Shoring im his chair.-Bra-
vo shook him vigorously when Parry had gone.

“fhatis the worst of such men as these,” said Bravo to
himself; “they must drink, even wlren-they know that it
ruins them. One never can depend upon them.?’

Captain Oscar slept on while Bravo stood in deep rev-
ery over him. This time he shook still. harder:

“Come, come, man. Sapristi. Will you sleep all day?”

“What is the matter, Nick? Oh, I believe Dve been
asleep.” Has Parry been in?”

“And gone long ago. You're a sound sleeper, Captain
Oscar, Whatever else may be said about you. Come, we
have some distance to go now. Where is Casper Brett?”

Captain Oscar found the man in the tap-room, and to-
gether the three men started for the suburbs of the city.
ea gave his commands toeach ere the cottage came
in sight.

“No violence now—understand me; and on no account
let your voices be heard, You, Casper, must use force
enough to keep the dame from screaming, but- no more.
Keep your masksclose, After leaving the dame at the
cottage, you can go home, Casper, and come to Hacker's
to-morrow.”

They were now within sight of the cottage gate, and
had carelessly lounged into a close-grown hedge to con-
ceal themselves until the dame came out.

Full of enthusiasm in the cause he had espoused, and
burning with ardor to serve the maiden who had
made so deep an impression upon his heart, young Henry
Percy rode out toward the cottage. He had taken two
servants in case of necessity, and just as the sun was
Sinking, passed the cottage gate.

He saw nothing of Victorine, nor were there signs of
visitors. Riding by some half a mile, the young man
turned, and, leaving his menin aclump of willows, not
far from the river, he himself walked forward to inspect
the cottage. Scarcely adozen steps were taken when he
sawthe two ladies come from thergate. He stepped be-
fiind the line of willows,

It was evident that the two females were about to take
the path to the river. This would bring them very near
where he was then standing, and stepping outto see that
hig men were hidden, his eyes unconsciously wandered
toward the cottage.

At thatinstant he saw the three men, half stooping,
running along the hedge which lined the main road
from the city.

“Those fellows are after no good,”’ he said to himself,
scrutinising them closely. ‘See, they are peeping over
the hedge at the women. [am glad that I came—indeed
it is fortunate, for I cannot be mistaken in the actions of
these fellows.*’ ;

It was not long before his fears were fully realised, and
he saw the three men crouching behind the hedge at the
end of the path down which the women were walking.

So intently was Percy watching these men that he for-
got the women, but was recalled to himself in time by
the voice of Victorine.

“How beantiful are these English twilights, aunt; and
one sees nothing like this in France.” ;

“The English twilights are very beautiful,’ replied the
dame, but with a tremor in her voice.

“And see the city youder—how peacefully it lies in this
soft light. You are trembling, Aunt Rachel; what is the
matter ?”?

“Nothing, dear, the air feels a little cool.’

“Do you feelitso? Ido not—O, heavens !””

The exclamation was half acry, for the maiden had
turned at the sound of a tread behind them, and now saw
the three men approaching. They were but a few yards
from the spot where Perey was lying when the villains
came up. The women paused, and -Victorine clung to
her aunt in terror.

“An! my pretty dear,’ said Bravo. with a laugh; ‘I
have been seeking you everywhere. Come, my fair one,
a prince has fallen in Jove with you, and sent me to bring
you to him.’? '
r ae me strength to resist,’? Vietorine prayed,
“pushed away the hand which was reached to

 
  

“Leave me, sir; do not touch me. Help, O! heaven
help |? she cried in Gespair; and hastily breaking from
the grasp of the villain who held her, she ran with all
speed toward the river.

Throwing a mantle over the head of the dame, Casper
Brett seized her in his arms, and ran up the path.

lt took but’a moment for Bravo to seize his victim.
“Help! help! For the love of Heaven save me,’ Victo-
rine cried, with all the strength of despair; but Bravo
had covered her face, and was holding her struggling
hands, when Percy rushed from his covert, followed by
his men.

With one blow he laid Captain Oscar upon the ground.
Bravo was now alone. He dropped the maiden instantly,
and attempted to draw his sword, but they were upon
him before he could use it, and it fell from his hand as he
turned to struggle with his assailants.

Nearly fainting from terror, Victorine had started to
run, but was again seized, and finding herself unable to
resist longer sank down upon the ground.

“Spare me sir; what have I done 2

“Hush! I came to save you--I am Percy.”

“Percy! kind Heayen, my prayer was heard,” and
leaning back upon his breast, the reaction was so strong
that all consciousness left her.

Meantime Bravo had struggled with his captors, had
thrown them off one after the other, and with a bound
sprang through the willows before they could stop him.
But Bravo was not one to leave his weapon behind,
While they followed him througi: the willows, he sprang
back into the road, and once more felt the good blade in
his hand. . é

“There are but three of them, and I will ‘revenge Cap-
tain Oscar’s wound,’’ he said to himself. ‘Now then,
hounds, come on,’ he cried aloud, placing himself in an
attitude of defence; but it would do no good to fight now,
and with the speed of a deer ne once more sprang through
the willows and ran toward the city.

“Are you hurt, dear lady,” Percy asked; ‘shall I not
carry you?” ,

“Q no, lam not hurt; Ican walk. O, where is Aunt
Rachel? Poor aunt, what can have become of her? Do
see if she can be found,”

‘Do not fear. We will find her soon. Where is Philip?”
he asked of one of his servants.

“He is with the horses.”

“Call him here; and, John, you can take the horses to
the cottage gate.”

“Poor aunt! O, sir, do not forget her.
find her now.”

“T will not cease until she is found, dear lady; but first
let me take you to a piace of safety.”

“Take me home, please. Good sir, how— she hesi-
tated, and seemed to think deeply. ‘Did you know of
this—this: 3 r

“Of this outrage upon you? no; but [ had reasons to
suspect some who Visit the cottage secretly, and came to
learn’ thé cause." Pee

‘Visits our cottage secretly! 'O, sir, you are in error.
No one visits us in any secret manner.” >

“You know of no one, l am ‘sure;*but there are bad
meneverywhere. Ah! here comes Philip,’* said Percy,
as an immense stag-tiound bounded to his side, and came
close for a caress. For oneinstant the noble brute gazed
calmly from one to another, and seemed to comprehend
the situation. Standing upon the’ ground Philip could
easily thrust his nose into the maiden'’s face, and® this he
did tenderly, at the same time raising one paw toward
her.

“We will make friends with you—do not fear him. He
loves you already, | perceive; and you will find ‘him a
worthy friend.” t

Philip opened wide his great black mouth, making the
maiden shrink from him, and again held up his paw as a
token of amity.

“He is your friend, and is practising the graces he has
been taught to prove it. Henceforth he shallbe your pro-
tector. Philip, you behold your mistress.”

For the first time they now thought of the man who had
been stricken down by Percy’s sword. It was growing
dark, and even when the mask was removed the features
could be indistinctly seen.

“Ig he dead ?”’ asked Victorine, in a whisper.

“His heart beats Still; but he has a dangerous wound.
I hope he may live. My men will come for him later.”

“Thank you, good sir; whatever his crime he has been
punished for it. Do not leave him here to die. But I
had forgotten poor aunt. O, let us search for her!’ She
covered her face with her hands, and muttered a prayer
for the safety of the dame.

“Put Philip on the track,” Percy ordered, and taking
Victorine upon his arm started forthe cottage. The little
hand trembled violently as it lay upon his arm, and once
more he offered to take her in his arms. Maiden modesty
made her shrink from this, and she mustered all her
strength for the walk. But she was very weak.

They had gone but afew yards ere Philip ran by them
with his nose to the ground, and giving vent to the low
sniffing whine which marks the well-trained stag-hound
when-on scent. They followed him quickly to the very
gate of the cottage,

“Your aunt is safe at home.
in 7

“J pray heaven that she may be safe,” said Victorine,
scarcely above a whisper, and entering the yard they
walked up to the porch.

The door was unlocked. Pushing it open with eager
expectancy, Victorine led the way into the room where
the light had been seen, but both paused upon the thres-
hold in surprise Sitting at the table, with a pile of gold
before her, sat dame Rachel; and so much absorbed was
she in counting it over that she heeded not their entrance
until they stood before her. She quickly threw her arms
over the gold.

With an anxious look the dame rose from her seat.

 

Let us try to

 

See, the candles are burn-

 

“My child, my dear, you are safe. O, how did you es-

 

open field to enter by the rear.

 

 

he save you?’?

“We did, aunt. He saved me by perilling his own life.
Good sir, how can we thank you enough for so great a
service,”’ said Victorine, trying to look up to his face; but
her eyes fell before his, while her cheek seemed burning
with blushes.

“To have saved you from annoyance and danger is re-
ward enough. But how was your rescue effected, good
dame ?”?

“| escaped from the villain who held me. JI was getting
gold for a reward, t0 aby one who should find my dear
child here, O, Victorine, how Z
embracing the maiden. em
~Rercy dropped his eyes.in,
cerity of the dame’s speech’
nothing then, and prepareil to depart.) \\ /) |

| You will have a strong protector in Philip, dear lady)?
he said-to) Victorine, at the door;.‘‘depend upon him.
B it I will still further guard you until this: mystery can
be solved. |My men-shall be near you; do notfears)

/ God reward you, sir, for this kindness toa maidénlike
me. O, why have I foes—what harm have done in the
world that these men should wish to injure/me.?, /) —

“That we may soon learm. You are young-and have
the beauty which tempts bad men to try and lure you
into thelr power... PerhapSyou may be troubled no
more.

She understood him then, and, witha cheek burning
with shame; bade him adieu. Thatshe was intended to
be the victim,of some heartless libertine, Percy did not
doubt, and riding homeward he vowed to Gefend her
until the man who/should be her protector, returned. to
hear the story of her wrongs.

While he was at the cottage his servants had gone for
the wounded man, having roused some cottagers who
ee ae half amile away. But he was nowhere to be

ound.

“His companions have returned for him,’? said one;
“for this must be the place.”

“To be sure it is, John, and here he was lying. Hold
the torch. See! here is the pool of blood.”

“And here is his Knife,’ replied the other, raising a
dagger from the ground.

Taking this relic of the encounter, the men returned to
their master; who, after paying the cotters for their
pea and leaving the trusty John on guard, rode on to

1e city.

 

  

 

 

 

CHAPTER Xi.
LADY ANNE WARDOUR WARNS VICTORINE OF THE CON-
VERSATION IN THE PALACE,

Until near morning Parry waited at the villa for the
arrival of Victorine, and the first gleams of morning light
were pouring through the lattices ere he gave up all hope.
That Bravo should fail in his allotted task had not enter-
ed his head. :

Without pausing for sleep the spy mounted his horse,
and, pashing him into a gallop, rode up to the cottage.
Daylight was fast approaching. For a moment he halted
before the gate, and was about to dismount, when & man
sprang from the hedge a short distance below, and stood
quietly in the road.

“Defeated!” muttered Parry to himself; ‘some ene has
Mes of the affair; but I will have her yet in spite of
them.

He rode on to Hacker’s, leaving the man standing in
the road without farther scrutiny. In one of the rooms
he found his agents. Lying upon a pallet, surrounded by
servants who were bathing his wounded head and ad-
ministering stimulants, was Captain Oscar.

The blow that had laid him low sank into his skull,
leaving him alive barely, but wholly unconscious. Stimu-
lants had revived him somewhat, so that his heart throb-
bed stronger, but his breathing was still stertorous and
heavy.

“So, so, this was it then; I imagined——.” Parry
paused at a signal from Bravo, who, nodded toward the
servants. ;

“Yes, indeed,” said he; ‘Oscar got into a brawl, and
had his pate cutfor his trouble. He is too quick for street
quarrels when his sword hand is clumsy from drink.”

“Is it serious ?”?

“Serious enough, the surgeon says—he has but just now
left us. Casper and I nearly broke our backs bringing
him here.”

All this was said for the benefit of the wondering ser-
vants, but Parry soon took Bravo aside and learned the
truth.

“And you have no idea who it was, Nick ???

“Not the slightest. You should know that better than
J. But for making a noise, and drawing attention to the
cottage, I would have avenged the blow which struck
him down.”?

“You were right, Nick—you are seldom prudent, but
this time I commend you.”

“You are wrong—I am always prudent where prudence
is necessary.”?

Bravo was right. He was a man endowed by a high,
unerring courage—a quality which raised him far above
his fellows—a quality which would have made him great
had his life been good; and one which now made even
his baser acts seem heroic. He was a strange mixture of
the noble and the peasant—a peasant ennobled by this
one quality of courage, and lacking the early training
which might have made him good and great.

«Where prudence is desirable I possess it, master Parry,
and I have the courage to run away when it is necessary.
Can you understand thas? Perhapsnot. Don’t you know
that it often requires more real Courage to run than to
fight?”

“T can’t argue the point, Nick—what is to be doné now?
Can you manage ”

“To get the maiden for you? Certainly I canif you
wish; but you had better wait a few days, I think. And’
Iwas going to say: you speak of my prudence, was it
prudent for you to speak of this maiden as you did at
dinner yesterday? You toast her as the belle of London
—you are overheard by some young blood, he follows and
watches, and defeats you to take the fair maid himself.”

“Do you think that was the cause of it??? asked Parry,
absently.

“Of course I do.’? :

Parry did not dispute the belief, although he know very
well it was not true. That Sir Christopher Hatton
had left men to guard the girl, he fully believed, and was
now running over the names of his followers to think
which could have betrayed the plan.

He went into the club-room alone, and for an hour sat
in deep thought, evolving a course of action for the fu-
ture.

“J will go to the queen at once,’’ he said, at length; ‘I
will force myself upon her, and 1t will be strange if I can-
not win her. And Burghley too—it would break his heart
to lose Latymer.’?

For a short time he talked with ‘Bravo, telling him that
nothing should be done immediately, and leaving money
and orders, the spy leftthetavern. He was nearly down-
hearted. At every turn he seemed to be defeated. Money
was growlng scarce with him. As yet. her majesty had
not noticed his report of the Catholic plot, and he had to
force it upon her attention.

“The crisis has come,’ he told himself that evening, as
he started for the cottage; ‘‘the crisis has come, and now
or never must I strike the blow.”

Even in the twilight he saw aman lying under the
hedge near the cottage gate, and knew Well that he was
set there asaspy. Parry rode on fora half-hour and re-
tarned to the city.

A few days went by, and at length his plans were ma-
tured. He was ready now to strike the blow which would
give him fortune, and with this fortune he would be able
to strike again lor a noble name and estate.

He had not been at the cottage since the night of the
attempted abduction, and now made his way through the
A deep growl fell upon
his ear as he stood by the back door, and he heard the
heavy steps of a dog trotting through the hall. Dame
Rachel had a suspicion that Parry was there.

“How that great beast frightens me,’? she said, as
Philip began to run aboutthehall. ‘Do take him to your
room fora time—1l have a headache.”

“Come, good Philip,” called the maiden; ‘come, sir!??
But Philip showed no inclination of leaving the door be-
fore which he had placed his massive body ready to give
a warm welcometo the intruder, whoever he might be.
He knew that there was a prowler about, and tried his
best to tell his young mistress that he had better remain
to watch that door. :

More than once he paused on the stairs as she dragged
him away by the collar, to look behind, and to give a low
warnifg growl; Once in her own chamber Philip placed
himself before’ the door, and lay with his nose to. the
crack, ready to give warning.

Unsuspicious as she was, and lacking the deep impres-
sions of age, the young girl did not connect Philib’s warn-
ing with her former dangers, and now gently chided the
brute for his unsocialability. But he knew his duty, and
remained to guard the door, pausing now and then to
gape over his shoulder in token of affection.

“What beast is that?’ asked Parry, as soon as he was
safely within the room; ‘‘how did he come here?’

“It is a magnificent animal, Parry—a Scottish stag-
hound, with a chest as deep and broad as yourown. He
could lay his paws upon your shoulders easily—but I am
afraid of him. Heis like a baby in her hands, however.”

“But whence came this animal you praise so highly,
and of: which you are yet afraid?” :

“Young Henry Percy gave it to her, the night he
brought her iome—you know when I mean.”

“Percyl”? exclaimed Parry, starting back in his sur-
prise. ‘Percy? are you sure it was he, dame???

“Was he not here with me for anhour?’ Did he not see
me Sitting at this table counting ” She paused sud-
denly, and Parry looked up inquiringly.

oW ell—go on, counting?” :

“Counting my gold. 1 did not see them until both'stood
in that door.”

«And it was Percy who saved her! and he saw you ap-
parently unconcerned, counting your gold! It is well I
had determined to'act, for you would have forced me to
Lt.?

“How could] tell that he would bring her back here, I
thought she was with you then,” said the dame, begin-
ning to cry. ~— . ;

“Well, couldn't you have waited until morning before
counting your gold? A nice mess you’ve made of it. You
made him Suspect'you, and so he has kept a watch here
since.’? i

“T did the-best I could.”

Parry had spoken with irritation and anger, but of
what use when this weak woman was 80 ready to throw
herself at his feet and take even blows from his hand.
What wonder that he believed she was his slave, ready to
do his bidding.

“The best you could!’ he sneered the words back at her,
and was silent for a moment, then spoke in kinder tones.
He could not do without her; it'woald do him no good to
strike her; what had he but to make the best of her follies,

“If she had the least particle of strength,’ he thougnt

 

 

 

eet

AR. | Ses?

terrible). said the dame,:

thought, as he felt the insin.
Id manner; buthe could say
e:\ | eee | am

 

“she would be invaluable to me; but she is the weakest
of all weak women.”?

He spoke more kindly to her and waited until she had
grown calm. It was a great surprise to him to bear that
the maiden had been rescued by Percy, and he wished to
get at the whole truth.

Little by little he drew it from the dame and learned of
the visits that had been paid by Percy, of. the dawning
love between these two which tiey could mot conceal, of
the rescue and subsequent guarding of the cottage. It
was Clear to him then that another antagonist was added
co the number of those.already in arms against him.

oe“ Listen, Rachel,” Ive said presently, “listen to me. You
seem £0 )

aveno.idea of the stake for which we are play-
ing—you are like'a child. _Couldn’t you try to have some
decision for ohce, and keep her secluded for a day 2?”

“T will do the best I can, Parry.’? /)

“Thebest you can! how you irritate me by talking in
that way. I begin to think that you are in league witn
Sir Christopher; or perchance this Percy has bribed you
with his goid. At) seems to me that ifjyou were really with
me in (iis affair/you could manage better.’

_ There was an/ugly gleam in dame Rachel’s eyes asshe
listened to this, but she’said nothing, —

“She-is iyyour charge—you have avsolute control over
her, why then do you not exercise it when it will be
So much to your advantage ?? LE.

“To my advantage, Parry? to your’s rather. Tell me
now, once for all, whatyou mean to do by me ?’?

“Do by you? what a question? Have Tnot told you
that our interests are one? Once put me in possession
of this éstate and you shall share it with me, and I will
make amends for all the past |’?

'*Will you do that??? she asked quickly.

se ‘ 7

The little fool,” Parry said to himself, “how her face
brightens Over that promise Of course 1 will,’’ he
added aloud; “I will do all that even you may desire from
me.

“Will you swear it???

“I swear it if you wish.”

“Thatis gooé. 1 am a weak woman, Parry, and one
who has been deeply wronged by you. It was you who
destroyed my life, my hopes, my all: it was you who bent
my mind from truth and made, meacriminal: Hear me
out, I have a little more to say, you have made me what
lam, and I haveno refuge but in you. My youth is gone,
I have no position, 1. have no hope but in you. » You have
sworn to be just to me, and I believe you once more.
Make me what you will—a deeper criminal if you wish,
but keep your oath to me or it may go hard with you.”

“Why, Rachel, what is the matter with you? :What
have you got in your head now?’ asked Parry,.alarmed
at the sudden change in her manner. He had. never.be-
fore seen So much force in her, Cone :

“Nothing is the matter with me. “I do not chose to act
as your tool any longer, only to be deceived ‘in the ‘end.
You have swarn to act honestly by me+very good! » Now
I will do the best I can for you, and; test you, fer the last
time. You give me gold; I take it because it may be of
service to me; but do you think that I would do all this
for gold alone?” '

He had fallen intoa revery, losing the meaning of the
concluding words, but roused hiniselfat the mention of
gold.

“Certainly you shall have gold.. I will pay yout well.
Keep her under your eye for the next two days; have her
here day after:to-morrow evening and you shall have a
hundred guineas,’’.

“Ab! one hundred!’

“Yes, one hundred.’”? He did not observe the scorn
with which she repeated the words. “The girl must go
with me at once. Sir Christopher returns in three days,
and he must not find her here.
dame??? :

“T understand you. I will do my best to keepmy part of
the contract.’ j pel i

Very calmly she listened, to. his instructions, and once
more slie seemed the meek, docile woman who had been
his slave for so many years. But there isan end to all
human endurance, and @ point ‘at which evena worm
will turn upon its tormentor.:  ’ 4407 : :

No sooner had he left the cottage than the dame threw
herself upon the floor, grovelling in her own abasement,
and vigorously clutching her hands in her hair.

“What a base creature k have become,’ she:cried toher
own heart, ‘and yet what, escape is there for me but
through him. For him I forfeited all claim upon the
world, and now I must cling to him even through crimes.

 

 

 

Crimes! No worse than those of tlie past; but her inno-

cence and virtue Shows me how vile I am:

‘And such is the fateof woman. We are raised ‘to the
skies or dragged down forever. Once more I must trust
him. Once more 1 must believe the man who has soften
betrayed me. :

“| will take his gold. He thinks that I 1@¥eit. So I
do; but only as an instrument of revenge shiould he again
play false with me. But once more.1 trust-him, even so
far as to join him in torturing an innocentchild, But yet if
he harms her, his head shall pay the forfeit.)

Even the weakest of human beings are dangerous. at
times, and the very weak dame Rachel was now in a
dangerous mood. Human nature shows many strange
inconsistencies. How often do we. find the strong and
great possessed of petty foibles that would seem ill in
eyen the lowest and weakest; and how often do we find
in the weak temporary gleams of greatness. Not once in
a century do we find a perfect hero; but human nature is
made up of strength and weakness, of vascillation and
decision, of good qualities and had qualities, anomalies
united id one heart, the general nature being directed by
culture-—perhaps by chance.

Many a man has lived in poverty/and want, compelled
by 1orce of circumstances to do small actions which he
loathed, who had the heart of a prince; many ‘a prince
has lived whose soul was unworthy the body of a peasant.

When morning came dame Rachel had lost the resolu-
tion which had animated her the day before, and was
once more the weak, complaining, vascillating, capricious
woman.

Breakfast was over; Victorine had finished her work in
the garden, with Philip by her side, and was about retir-
ing to her room, when Lady Anne Wardour’s carriage
stopped at the gate.

With an exclamation of joy, Victorine sprang down the
walk, holding Philip by the collar, and was violently.
thrown into Lady Anne’s arms, as related in the first
chapter. :

“She las come again,’? said dame Rachel to herself, as
she peered through the lattice; ‘and how can I prevent
them from meeting. Icannot. Yet will I do my best to
prevent anything confidential. They will come in here
for their talk, and I shall not leave them alone.”

But in this calculation the dame was mistaken. Lady
Anne knew only too well that dame’ Rachel would watch
them closely, and her communication was for Victorine
alone,

-“How excited she grows,” thought the dame as she
watched her niece; “something unusual has occurred,”
and stepping to the door, she called them in.

In a few moments Victorine came rushing into the hall,
and, without a word, ran to her room. Without pausing
to adjust the hat and mantle which she had seized, the
excited girl returned to the door, and ‘gave a hurried

ood-by.

. It wa in vain that the dame pleaded and questioned,
she could get no information, no satisfactory solution of
Victorine’s agitation, and at length she was forced to see
her run away with speed that defied pursuit, to be foilow-
ed by Lady Anne’s carriage. ee

“J¢ will be the loss of @ hundred guineas to me unless. ’

she returns by the morrow,” the dame tjad said, as she
turned into the cottage, defeated by her niece, and dis-
comforted by Lady Anne’s last words.

Giving directions to the one aged domestic about house- ©

hold affairs, the dame went to her own room, and care-
fully fastening the door behind her, took out her store of
gold.

give me revenge for the past if he'again plays me false,
and to provide a home for my declining years.”’

Sinking into a revery over her precious-store, dame ©

Rachel lost all count of time, and was surprised when
roused by a deep growl from Philip to find that the sun
had already sank in the west. With another growl Philip
sprang tothe door. A carriage had drawn up at the
gate, and a tall, dark man, of haughty bearing was des-
cending from it.

“Sir Christopher, as 1 am alive,” exclaimed the dame;
“what evil genius brought him to-day ?’’

She hurriedly went down the walk to call ‘away the
faithful sentry there, and to receive the cool greetings of
her lord. :

“Where is my niece?” the baronet asked, as he glanced
about the room. ae

“She has gone to ride with a court-lady, ‘Sir Christo-

her.’?

' “With a court-lady ? with whom, pray?” : 4

“Lady Anne Wardour. Indeed; Sir Christopher, I tried
to keep her. I told her you would not be pleased; indeed,
it was against my uy

“Hush! dame. Granted it was not by your wish, but
how do you account for this acquaintance? , How long
has Lady Anne known my niece?”

“She has been here Often, Sir Christopher, and f dia
not know how to prevent it. And many more besides
have called since that affair.’’

“Since what. affair, dame??? ;

‘¥You’ve not heard then, Sir Christopher ?’?

‘Jt ig no matter whether or not il have heard; what. is
your sory ?”’ :

“He must have heard all, and that brought. him here,’
the dame thought; and believing this she dare not equiy-
oeate. The story seemed to produce no; efteet upon her
hearer.

“And you know nothing more, dame Rachel? You do
not know who were the instigators of this attempt? Was
it the work of Neville?” ;

 

“] haven’t an idea about it Sir Christopher—not one. .

T only know that I was much frightened, but escaped,
and that young Percy rescued her.’

Sir Christopher Hatton scrutinized her keenly fora
moment, but learned nothing from it. He was puzzled .
to understand the motive of this attempt to abdnet, Vic- -

torine.

“She is too weak to lie about it without detection,” he .
thoughts “and I presume she tells the truth. Pshaw! how
could anyone get aclue? It is some gallant struck by;

her pretty face. I must speak with the girl hersel{,”’
Without a further word Sir Christopher rose and turned
to the door.
“Tell my niece that I shall see her to-morrow,’’ he said
over his shoulder, a8 he walked out of the hall. A mo-
ment after his carriage was rolling toward the city,
“Another great lord at the cottage,’? said a peeping
neighbor; “depend upon it there is something wrong
about that maiden. Yet could ever a heart, like hers
harbor a thought of guilt? If I do. not find out this
mystery, ’'m mistaken in my abilities, that’s all.” g

(To be continued. }

Do you understand, -

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THE WARNING.

 

BY CELIA G. SCOTT.

It was. in the busy day-hours,
In‘a moment's pause from.toil,
When across the Cares absorbing,
And through the harsh turmoil
Came the thrilling tones so solemn,
Speaking to. my inmost soul—
“Arevyou ready? are.you ready?”
Solenin as the funeral-toll.

Not '& hiiman‘form was tiear me
Which the human eye could see,
Yet I feli the hush so quiet,
And T felt Him near to me;
Very humble and so grateful
Rose petitions to my lips,
“Father, keep me ever ready,
Let not earth my love eclipse.”
Oh, why:is igin our toiling
We so sdldom do discern
flim who walked ’mid His disciples
‘As the One from’ whom to learn
Lessons truest, safest, surest,
For all phases of career—
While His grace is promised to us,
Better tous than our fear?

Lady Juliette’s Seeret,

Of ‘(Peerless Cathleen,’? Scheming Madclon,??
‘ ** Lady of Grand Court,’? and ** Rose of
es Kendale,’? &c., &c.

 

 

[“Lady Juliette’* was commenced in No.43. Back numbers can
be had from News Agents throughout the country.]
, (CHAPTER XXII.
( eae Thou art not honest; or,
If thou imelinest that way, thou art a coward;
Which hoxés honesty behind, restraining
-> - From Coursé required. SHAKESPEARE.

““Biorence, why have you becn so unkind to me?” in-
quired Lady Juliette.

Dinner*was over, and the two young ladies were stand-
ing out upon the balcony, looking into the garden.

« “] was unkind to you for your good,” replied Florence.
“Y consider that young man, Mr. Fernandez, a very im-
proper, person, that is to. say, improper to introduce into
a house as instructor of beautiful young ladies. He is
too handsome, too presumptuous, too insolent. I have
conceived a very great disiike and distrust for him, I
assure you,”?

- Juliette leaned her beautiful arms upon the baicony, and
looked musingly upon the rich flowering shrabs which
twined their fragrant boughs in and out.among the fine
iron-work. we °

“] think you are rather unjust,’ said Juliette, after a
pause, “For my. part, I rather take an interest in the
Schoolmaster.?? ;,

“You meed: not tell: me that,” cried Florence, with a
bitter little laugh.  ‘“Do-.you know, Lady Juliette Cadette,
that you are on the high road to fall passionately in love
with this miserable adventurer. He is handsome, and
tall,and strong. Why, in the name of pity, do you not
persuade: the colonel to engage him as footman? He
would look remarkably well in the crimson and gold
livery-of the Philoertsons, and if once you saw him hand-
ing: about the vegetable dishes, and drawing the corks
from the wine bottles, all your dreams of romance would
fade into smoke.”

“Florence, you are very bitter,’’ returned Juliette; ‘but
since you persist in seeing things in this absurd light, we
will, of course, discontinue the lessons. As to my falling
in love with anybody, banish the thought from your
mind. lam going to remain alwaysunwed. The doc-
tors say now that the bullet. which injured poor Sir Gnild-
ford will cause him to be bent nearly double for the rest
of his life, should he ever rise again from his bed; which
is not at/all ‘likely. I would have done anything rather
than, marry him. But now that fear is removed, com-
pletély removed,” she added, speaking in a tone of relief,
“T assure youl amas truly vowed to celibacy as if I had
taken @ nun’s vail.”

Juliette spoke with such emphasis that Florence stared
at her with some surprise,

“Any one would think you had secretly entered some
religious order, little one,’* she said. “But please to re-
member, that although you would never be so mad as to
dream of marrying the village schoolmaster, you might
Still encourage him in ridiculous hopes; you might get
yourself talked about; you might, in short——”

Here Florence paused; she hardly knew how to contin-
ue her lecture. :

At this moment came the sound of voices in the draw-
ing-room.
Sg their wine, and were now seeking the society of the

adies.

 

aiyt

 

Florence, eager upon all occasions to escape the society |

of Mapleton, hastily pleaded a return of neuralgic pains
in her head, and retired to her own apartment. }
Juliette remained with Mrs. Puilhertson while the foot-
men were handing about the coffee and confectionery.
Suddenly one of the footmen announced the Reverend
Joseph Upperton. Another moment, and the pompous
vicar had entered the drawing-room. i
“Lhave to apologize for being such a late visitor, Col.
Philbertson,”’ said the vicar. ‘But 49
Here he glanced at Mapleton.
* There was nobody to remark or comment upon that
glance since the shrewd Miss Random had retired, but it
was certainly a glance fraught with a meaning.
The vicar accepted some coffee, and humbly paid his
respects to the haughty Mrs. Philbertson. But all the

 

while Mapleton watched him with uneasy glances, At
length the ex-tramp started to his feet.
“T want to consult you, Mr. Upperton,” he said. ‘‘You

have good taste, I believe, in church windows, and I am

going to put in some painted windows to a fine old liouse

of mine in Scotland. You said you would show me some

designs, but I rather want your opinion on some of my

oe Perhaps you would not mind walking into the.li-
rary.’?

And the vicar and Mapleton left the room.

In the library the gas was burning, and the fire had
been lighted, since the evening had been rather chilly.
Mapleton took the precaution to lock the door before he
opened his mind to the vicar.

‘.“You got my note?” asked the ex-tramp, “and thank
‘you very much for coming So punctually.| Mr. Upperton,
i may as well say at once though, that stained glass. win-
dows have nothing whatever to do with my sending for
‘you here this evening. Ihad a long conversation with
‘you, you know, the other day, Mr. Upperton, and 1 came
to the conclusion that you were a sensible man—one who
would not suffer fine notions to stand seriously in the
way. of your interests.”’.

The vicar coughed and smiled hypocritically.

“T always wish todo my duty, Mr. Mapleton,’’ he
began. The ex-tramp interrupted him brutally.

**No, you. don’t,” he’ said: “that’s all very fine. You
‘can talk that way if you like to the curate, but it does not
adofor me. Let duty goand hang itself if it likes. Let me
tell you that. Colonel Philbertson and myself are as one,
our.interests. are the same, I have but to speak and
Straightway he does as I desire. Colonel Philbertson has
‘@ great deal of power, his interest is so great in certain
quarters that church preferments come easily to his hand.
icould make you a dean With an income of six thousand a
year, in place of your six hundred, in less than six months
if I choose, and I will choose if you will only oblige me.”

The vicar’s'eyes twinkled, and he rubbed his fat hands
together slowly. The six thousand pounds glittered as a
‘Wall of gold before his imagination. What would not
the vicat have done to have earned that princely revenue.

“You have only to speak, sir,?? he said.

‘Well, look here,’ cried Mapleton, “let us come to the
point:at once. You have a fellow in the village, a school-
master; Ihave reason to dislike and detest fim, no mat-
ter why. I met him abroad some time ago. I believe he
as dishonorable, dishonest. I want to have him sent out
of the-village, 1 want to have his fad name sent after
shim, I want to have him degraded and incapacitated from
ever holding up his head again among his fellows. All
this sounds very terrible, but I ama manof.a strong will
and I want it done.” :

'. The-vicar rubbed his fat hands tegether.once more.

There was a sort of power in Mapleton, an energetic
fashion of bringing things before his hearers, and pre-
senting them ina graphic and foreible light, which per-
fectly astounded, while it completely convinced the vicar.
He knew that Colonel Philbertson was.aman-of wide in-
fluence both in court and in camp; he believed that Ma-
‘pleton was, as he stated he was, the bosom friend of the
iproud.colonel; lie had faith, then, in the promise of Ma-
ipleton, and he believed that the six thousand.a year, and
the dean’s hat, were boons which he might win for him-
‘self; if he strove to please the colonel’s friend; so the
‘Nicar rubbed his fat hands together, smiled down at his
Jeather polished boots, and then looking up at Mapleton
Said bluntly:

« “When. do you wish this done ??
. “At once,” replied Mapleton, ‘‘at once.”

“But I must have a.clue to go upon,” said the vicar.
©“¥s there not enough?” cried Mapleten, “in this last
affair, of the robbery, and the attempt to murder Sir
Guildford Owen? Have the watch or the money been dis-
®overed? Then the tramp whom he deseribes.so graph-
scally, dias anybody. seen him? Depend upon it, the young
buffian és the culprit in this case. But < know the diffi-
calty in bringing home the evidence; it is.almost impos-
sible,” added Mapleton, hastily; ‘therefore, I should only
use those suspicions as an excuse. Can't you wateh, and
briag home some other charge?”

Tike viear rubbed his hands more aiowly than before,
and looked down at’ his’ polished beots. A very ugly
ae was on his dips.

“I have great cause to be dissatisfied with this youn
man lately,” hesaic; “and Iehall only se acting nam >
sense of duty in doing as you propose.”

Mapleton interrupted him with a coarse laugh.

‘Sense of duty, my good fellew,”. he cried; “that may
do very well in the pulpit, but it won’t do with me. ‘Tell
the truth, that you do it from the sense of money, sense
of the value of six thousand a year. Let us shake hands \
on it, for it‘is'a bargain; and nowy let us hasten back to
the drawing-room and the ladies, You must take a glass
of wine, and talk a little about stained-glass windows in
the drawing-room before you leave.*?

The vicar followed Mapleton to* the drawing-room,

 

ESLER IE IIE i

Colonel Philbertson and Mr. Mapleton had,

There he talked about stained windows, and drank his
glass of wine, and afterward he took his departure.

It was a fine night, but Mr. Upperton. had driven over
in his. Carriage; he was a pompous man, and disliked
going on foot. Surely, the Fates were against Fernandez
on this evening.

When the carriage entered Allonby, it became, evident
that something was the matter with the wheel, and just
as the vehicle arrived opposite to the “Three Oaks,” the
wheel came off, and the vicar was forced to alight. Na-
turally he walked into the inn; naturally he walked into
the bar-parlor; a small, cheerful fire burnt there. The
sound of song and laugiiter, and the jingling of glasses,
greeted his ear; and there, surrounded by some of the
convivial spirits of the country side, certain rakish young
farmers, who thought more of attending steeple-chases,

country On highly-bred horses (which they had not the
means to pay for)—young men whom mothers of growing-
up daughters dreaded to see enter their homesteads,
young men who drank and gambled, and sowed their wild
oats generally all over the country-side, at once to their
own delight and. disgrace—surrounded, we repeat, by
these choice spirits, sat Fernandez, the supposed studious
recluse. Me had just. commenced the relation of some
story, of adventure that had befallen him in the mountains
of.Spain., 7 ;

The vicar paused in horror, for the young man. related
the;tale in a dieny. spirit, and with wild energy. The vicar
stood aghast behind the shadow of the door. Everybody,
even the landlady and the bar-maid, were so intent upon
the history that nobody noticeda'the appearance of the vi-
car, half-crouching behind the doorway...

The. story came to.a.close; the young farmers clapped
their hands and applauded with uproar. They ‘ordered
in another bow) of brandy-punch, and. one of them said,
turning to Eugene: ea

“Mind you come over to Laylands to-morrow; that’s
my home. I’ve got no one to say me nay; I am master
there... No father, no mother, no wife. Wecan drink and
smoke till allis blue, or any color you liketoname. My
200d fellow, I wish I had known you before.”

The speaker was a very. reckless, very good-natured
young bachelor, but was going fast on the, short but ex-
citing journey to the dogs. . He was tall and handsome,
and ruddyrof aspect.

forward, and stood inthe midst of the riotous little as-
sembly like @ death’s head at the wine.

the vicar, in a sepulchral tone.

Eugene had drank some of the brandy. punch; he was
not in the slightest degree intoxicated, Lut he was ex-
cited, exhilerateéd, his fiery spirit was awakened and alert.
He had made up: his mind, it will be remembered, to
leave the vicar without notice, and he was exactly in the
humor to defy conventionalisms—nay, to defy the vicar
himself ifneeds were.

“Mr. Upperton, Mr. Upperton, Mr..Upperton,”’ said
Fernandez, mimicking the solemn tone of the vicar,
and addressing the reverend gentleman in the same ad-
monitory tone of reproof which had been used toward
himself. ‘

There was a pause and a hush in the bar-parlor. Every-
body was. astonished; the vicar was perfectly over-
whelmed.

‘“Insolent and audacious profligate,” said the vicar;
“circumstances of your past career have this day come
tomy knowledge. I did not, indeed, purpose to have
told you all in the presence of your boon companions.
But understand that your character is at stake; and
though permitted to go free, you will be placed under tle
surveillance of the police for your connection with the at-
tempted murder and daring robbery of Sir Guildford
Owen. You shall never enter the sclioolroom again.
The money that is coming to yon will all be monop-
olized in paying your debts, The surplus I shall re-
Serve toward the money which you owe me, for you
have not painted all the pictures which { required of
you. You will go out penniless and characterless,”’
here the vicar raised his fat forefinger and pointed
at the schoolmaster, ‘‘and you will be watched on all
sides; so that at the first slip you will be cast into prison.
aeoies ruined for life, young man, youare ruined for
ife.

All the pent-up fury which Fernandez had nursed for
months against the tyrant vicar arose in raging flames at
this insult. He sprang to his feet—teeth and hands
clenched, and eyes sparkling with fire.

CHAPTER XXITi.

Love sweetens sugarless tea, |
And makes contentment and joy agree
With the coarsest boarding and bedding;
Love that no golden ties can attach, :
But nestles under the humblest thatch,
And will fly away from an’emperor’s match
To dance ata penny wedding. [THomas Hoop,
fis

Then Fernandez found voice: ‘a he

“Your life and works,” he said, ‘‘are @ fine illustration
of the doctrines which you preach from your pulpit on
Sundays. So this is your Christian spirit, Joseph Upper-
ton!l—it teaches you, does it, to insult the lowly and tram-
ple upon the fallen? You are about to turn me out pen-
niless and characterless. Instead of feeling humiiiated
by the évilwhich you are about to practice, you stand up
there and rejoice in it; you stand up and applaud yourself
like the Phariseein the parable. Iam to go out of Allon-
by to-morrow, with base suspicious tainting my name.
You have hurled at me dreadiul insults })cre in the pres-
ence of this assemblage. Probably f stand convicted in
their eyes ofeverything thatis base-.or Iam only the
village schoolmaster, while ali that you say appears sa-
cred in their eyes, for you are the rich vicar of Allonby.
Yet, disgraced, beggared, ruined, as you think me, and
as lam, perchance, I still dare te tell you the truth; to
say to you that your priestly robe covers &@ multitude of
presumptuous sins,

“You are tyrannical and purse-proud; you are of those
who strive to enter into kings’ houses, and love the upper-
most reoms at feasts. You seek gold and gail, fine
equipages and fine visitors. You are like the ricliman in
the parable, there is no pity in your hard heart for any of
those who suffer, Itis not so with your good curate, Mr.
Clenham. His life is one system of self-denial and seif-
sacrifice; his heart, full of love and pity, bleeds and _ suf:
fers for others’ woes; he is always in his place as a Chris-
tian priest, praying in cold hovels by the side of dying
paupers, gathering the little children about his knees that
he may teach them the way to Heaven. He denies him-
Self fashionable clothing, and even nourishing food, that
he may have more to give to those who are ragged and
hungry. Heisa true disciple of the Great Master, whose
message is peace andiove. But you—you are a wolf in
sheep’s clothing; you are a@ self-righteous Pharisee; you
are a hypocrite!”

Fernandez had spoken rapidly; his angry words, barb-
ed and, pointed by pungent truths, stung the self-love of
the vicar to the quick. He turned pale with rage; he cast
a look of deadly spite atthe audacious young man who
had dared to speak to him thus boldly and in the face of
so many assembled witnesses.
¥ woe shall repent this,» he said, ‘you shall repent

shis.!?

And then the vicar walked away. The wheels of his
carriage had been hastily doctored by a man whom they
kept on purpose for such emergencies attached to the
staff of the Three Oaks,

Fernandez did not seat himself/again in the little bar-
parlor; he noticed that a coldness had crept over the little
assembly, a coldness toward himself.

“It-is the way of the world,’ thought he.

Those who had been willing and anxious to claim him
for a boon-companion half an hour before, now shrunk
eae hearing him proclaim himself beggared and
ruined.

Fernandez spoke no further words. He walked out in-
to the night, giving first a parting bow to the landlord
and landlady and the assembled guests.

He found his way home to Honeysuckle Cottage; he
went in and relighted his lamp. Then he began to pack
up his worldly goods and chattels. He would fain have
taken his departure before the break of day, but he felt it
was necessary to remain either to receive the money that
was become due to him, or else to inform his creditors
that such monies were due, and to give them written
orders upon the vicar.

Fernandez was in a miserable frame of mind; there
seemed no room in his heart for faith, hope, or charity.
His love for Juliette assumed now more the dimen-
sions of a tragic and overwhelming passion, which had
begun in mockery and could only end in despair or
death. His friendship and admiration for Mr. Clenham
resolved themselves into a species of surprise and curi-
osity. The curate’s gentleness, patience, and Christian
fortitude were surely mere anomalies in this wicked
world, where everything was so sadly out of joint; such
goodness was only thrown away. As for hope and self-
reliance, Fernandez was destitute of both on this unhappy
morning, when the chill autumn daybreak found him
seated before his little table, his elbows resting onit. His
packing arrangements were complete; there remained
for him now only te give those written orders upon his
vicar, to give a boy sixpence to wheel his baggage down
to the station, and then, having booked this same baggage
and sent if off by luggage train, to put himself into walk-
ing trim for his pedestrian journey of one hundred miles
to London.

.. When his debts were all paid, Fernandez would possess
but five pounds in the world. He did not wish to spend

one of these precious gold pieces on a railway journey.

His two boxes, one containing books and another clothes,

together with his pictures, of whick he had not many,

could all be sent to Euston Square for a sum 4 little under
three shillings,

The morning grew brighter, the sun came out and

gilded the anéumnal foilage, the air was bracing, and

sweet withthe fragrant odors of ripened fruit and late

blowing flowers. Fernandez walked ont into the garden.

The alr had a magical effect upon his jaded spirits; the

universal love, which in realityrules the earth, spoke to

his heart in a message of peace. His spirit grew subdu-

ed; he felt though man may be vile, Heaven 1s goods he

acknowledged «his Own impetuosity, impatience, and

other shortcomings.» Ile seated himself upon a little

garden chair, placed beneath the branches of an acacia,

whose leaves were fast turning to gold under the glowing

fingers of autumn, then he covered his eyes with his

hands, and iears, which he would rather have died than

any one should have seen have seen him shed, trickled

through his interlaced fingers.
A step sounded on the gravel path behind him,. for a
belt of trees formed there a tiny shrubbery about taventy
feet in length, where a one might pace up and down, if
so disposed, sheltered from the heat on a-summers aay.
Fernandez started when he heard the footsteps. He
hastily dried the tears which he considered so unmanly,
and then stood up waiting, wondering, meanwhile, who
it was that had entered his iandiady’s garden at seven

 

 

 

 

o'clock on an autumn morning.

betting, driving about in smart traps, or scouring the |

iS name was Jack Layland, and
his farm was called after himself, Tien the vicar stepped |

“My. Fernandez, Mr. Fernandez, Mr. Fernandez!” said’

The figure came out into the sunlight. Fernandez
turned hot as it approached him; his eyes flashed scorn
and bitterness. Still, he never forgot the courtesy due
toa lady, and he bowed deeply to Miss Florence Ran-
dom. ;

The brilliant belle was so plainly dressed that it would
almost seem as though she had crept out stealthily from
the great house thus early, and was anxious to escape ob-
servation—a black silk skirt, along gray waterproof, a
large straw hat. The rain of golden hair was hastily
thrust into a net.

Florence was excessively pale. She approached Ffer-
nandez, who continued to regard her with an eye that
flashed indignant anger and half-amused surprise. Flor-
ence looked at him earnestly before she spoke. She
grew still paler, and her voice trembled a little when she
Said:

“Mr. Fernandez, you are going away ??

“That is so, madam,” replied Fernandez.

“You have been dismissed by the vicar, whois an arch-
hypocrite, and odious suspicions are Cast upon you?”?

“You speak truth, madam, in every particular,’ re-
pee Fernandez, in a manner a little more courteous than
before.

Fiorence looked down at the gravel, and Fernandez
wondered at the now deadly pallor of her countenance.

“You are ill, madam !"’ he cried; “pray be seated. Let
me bring you some water.”’

Florence mastered her agitation by a great effort.

“Pray do not put yourself to any inconvenience,” she
said; coldly; ‘and’ pray do not attribute my Visit this
morning to any motives save those of philanthropy.’?

Fernandez stared at her in blank amazement. :

“To what other motives, madam, could I possibly attri-
bute it?! he asked.

The pale Florence instantly became crimsom as a June
rose; she looked up at him with anger flashing for a mo-
ment in her fine eyes. But she read nothing on the
Statuesque face of Fernandez save an innocent astonish-
ment. Whatever motive it was that had brought her out
so early to seek him, it was not guessed by the school-
master.

The color faded away again, and Piérence continued:

“Last night, after the vicar left you, he returned to Ma-
berly; he came in desperately excited, brimfull of spite
and anger. Hesaid something mostunpleasant had hap-
pened, that he should be obliged, to-morrow, to dismiss
huis schoolmaster, if not imprison him, and he thought it
only right to come and set himself wellin the opinions of
the chief persons in the neighborhood, or else evil reports
might be circulated about him, and he might be called
harsh. He said that he had entered the inn of the ‘Three
Oaks’ to get a man to mend his carriage-wheel; he found
you in the bar in a fearful state of intoxication. You
were singing a blasphemous song in chorus with some of
the worst characters in the neighborhood. He mildly ex-
postulated with you on the impropriety of your conduct,
when, starting to your feet, you attacked him with a ti-
rade of the lowest and most insolent abuse. You were
almost inarticulate from drunkenness, and were only re-
strained from laying violent hands upon him by your fear
of those present. He went straight, he said, to the police
office, to try and get a Summons which would force you
to keep the peace. He came up tothe colonel, who is a
magistrate, and asked him to grant a warrant for your
apprehensioa, as you were & dangerous character.

“The colonel hesitated; some fear, [know not what,
seemed to hold him back. He said he should take until
to-day to consider. Mapleton, that wretched miscreant
whom you know, and I know, to be the murderous as-
sailant of poor Sir Guildford Owen, joined in with the par-
son in wishing to have you sent at once to prison. ‘The
colonel, however, was firm in holding out until to-day.

“The spiteful vicar chuckled over your poverty. He
said that all the money that was due to you, you owed for
food and rent, and other things; he said he should’ pay
your debts, as he had the right to do, and not give you the
money. Idonot tell you these things, Mr. Fernandez,
for the purpose of annoying you. I am -sure you will ac-
quit me of such base motives. Will you believe me when.
l say that I alone, of all those present, felt for you any
sympathy or kindness?—I alone believed that you had
been misjudged, and that the saintly hypocrite was utter-
ing misrepresentations, if not falsehoods? Lady Juliette,
whom you honor and admire so excessively,’? here Flor-
ence scrutinized the face of Fernandez—“Lady Juliette
expressed horror and disgust at your conduct; you pass-
ed out of her good graces forever when once the vicar
eerie you were a drunken ‘brawler in a public-

house.’

Florence closed her handsome lips firmly after once
they had given utterance to these cruel words. Her fine
eyes were fixed inquiringly upon the face of Fernandez.
The red, angry blood had mounted to the very roots of
his hair. Florence could not see the expression of his eyes
for they were cast down, but his lips Worked convulsively.
It was some time before he spoke. ‘

Florence watched him, and read his secret. She had
probed his suffering heart to the very core; her own face
flushed, and her own heart beat.

“The vicar is a Villain !”? said Fernandez, at length.

“But Juliette is a saint, is she not??? asked Florence,
mockingly—‘‘a saint, although she was so ready to con-
demn you on the bidding of a man likg@Upperton, simply
because he is rich and you are poot— it is noble, is it
not? Thatis a carrying out of the Christian doctrine she
preaches so sweetly! Asad pity—is it not, Mr. Fernan-
dez?—that there should be so much preaching and so
little practice in this fanny world of ours.??

“If Lady Juliette believed,” said Fernandez, ‘that I was
a drunken brawler, She—she did right te‘despise me.”?

“Exactly so,’ retorted Florence, bitterly; “it would be too
much to expect @ woman, a highly-bred lady and a sancti-
monious saint all in one, to feel any kindness or pity for a
sinner. Itis true, the Christian religion tells us that we
should; but then who cares for the Christian religion now-
a-days, where actions are concerned? Words are all very
well. Yes, Lady Juliette has a right to despise you, for
you are poor, andin trouble, and condemned by the rich.”

Fernandez stared at Florence in amaze. .Her bitterness
against Juliette, her solicitude on his account—what did
all these mean? Some faint conception of the truth en-
tered his mind, but he drove the thought away again as
unworthy to be entertained by aman of sense. Highly-
born and rich English ladies probably had an independa-
ent, odd way of patronizing their inferiors, and Florence
meant to patronize him, and was jealous lest Lady Juli-
ette should wish to do the same, both of them regarding
him, meanwhile, in the light of a mere lacquey or subor-
dinate. 3

‘“T have come here thus early to see you, Mr. Fernan-
dez,”” continued Florence, ‘‘that I might have an oppor-
tunity of telling you who are your friends, who your en-
emies, and who your mere despisers.. For your friends, I
am afraid the list begins and ends with one—myself."?

Fernandez bowed to Miss Random, and this time there
was neither mockery nor satire inthe obeisance. ‘She
wished to be his patroness, that was very evident. He
was poor and friendless—could he do otherwise than be
thankful to this gracious and beautiful woman, who con-
descended to interest herself in his misfortunes?

“You are very good, Miss Random,’ he said, ‘very
kind and good, and Iam very grateful.”

They were the first gentle words which the-poor, proud
schoolmaster had ever spoken to the fashionable, haughty
belle. The fine eyes of Florence softened, anu a faint
flush dyed her pale cheek.

“T desire to be kind, Mr. Fernandez,” she said; “but 1
desire above all things to be useful. Iam not come here
to ask you to fly away from the fear of being arrested;
on the contrary, remain here, and let them shut you up
if they like. When you are brought before the magis-
trates on the petty charge of using threats to the vicar,
you will be allowed to call witnesses as to character. I
will come, Mr. Clenham will come; and more than that,
1 will state that your accuser is in league with a man who
attempted to assassinate Sir Guildford Owen. You can
swear positively that the ruffian whose hand you bit in
that deadly struggle is none other than Mapleton, the ex-
tramp, and Ican swear that the same man, in the dis-
guise of a vagabond, robbed Lady Juliette and myself of
a five-pound note, when We were left in the carriage in a
lonely lane, Some weeks back, the servants having taken
each one of the horses, and ridden offin contrary directions
in search of a blacksmith to mend the broken wheel.”

“! cannot understand all this,” cried Fernandez. “It
takes one back to the middle ages to find a highway rob-
ber received on equal terms at one of the houses in the
Connery sitting down every day to dine with lords and
ladies. :

“The young nobleman,” said Florence, ‘who was at Ma-
berly when Lady Juliette returned, left two or three days
ago, very much in love, Il am sure, with her beautiful
ladyship. When you speak of lords, I supppse you mean
him; when you speak of ladies, I conjectrfre you mean
Juliette. But l assure you that I, untitled as I am, I feel
considerably lowered in being constrained td-sit down to
table with this monstrous ruffian.”*

“Certainly |’? cried Fernandez, eagerly.

“And I particularly wish to have him exposed and con-
demned,’’ said Florence, energetically.

“It is only just that such a wolf should be given up to
justice !? exclaimed Fernandez. ‘But I have no wish
myself, Miss Random, to figure in a police court. I shall
notrun away, but I shall not wait long to give my ene-
mies a chance of ruining me. I very poor, quite triend-
less, a foreigner, and I have not much faith in the justice
of your English law, as administered by country magis-
trates.

Florence looked thoughtfully upon the ground.

“Perhaps you are right,’? she said. “Meanwhile, Mr.
Fernandez, do not say that you are poor so long as you
have a—’) she hesitated—‘‘friend,”’ Said Florence, boldly,
“willipg and able to help you. If you choose to go to
London, go, and accept from me a hundred pounds, which
will make you independent for the present, while you are
establishing yourself as a teacher of languages. I wiil
write to all my friends and recommend you. When the
winter season comes on you will dv capitally. It is im-
possible for you to get on if you cannot give a good ad-
dress, so you must take expensive apartments. When
your money is expended you must let me know, and I
will send you more.”

It cost the preud Florence a great effort to speak thus.
She changed color from red to white, and from white to
red 5; her voice was low and broken ag she uttered the
last words. “

‘Truly the patronage of these English ladies is extra-
ordinary,” thought Fernandez ‘to himself. Then he

hastened to speak.

‘‘Madam,’” he said, “your generosity does you honor ;
but even a wretch, abject as myself, has his own code of
honor, his faith in which he would fain live and die.
Thanks, madam, a thousand thanks for your generous
offer! but it; would be’as impossible for me to accept it as
itwould be for me to rob you by violence or craft of your
gold.) Tam escaping now from the hateful thraldom of
the self-righteous priest of this parish, anu iewould not
willingly place myself under the silken reir evex cc a

Florence winced at the word charitabie, and turned
very pale.

“T love liberty,” continued Fernandez, “and though I
have every faith in you that you would use your power
generously ”

Florence bowed to him haughtily—one had nearly said
angrily.

“Though. I have every faith in you,’’ repeated Fernan-
dez, ‘‘that you would use your power generously, I must
be excused for wishing to become free and independent.
A thousand, thousand thanks for your noble offer, but |
must decline it.” ‘2

The face of Florence flushed hotly, she set her teeth
hard, an unpleasant light came into her eyes ; she was
desperately enraged—nay, the haughty belle was con-
vulsed by a paroxysm of fury.

‘« Independence !”? she cried, with a laugh of bitterness,
‘when you will have first to pawn your clothes, then
your books, to buy your daily bread. Independence ina
great cruel city like London, where every man will shut
his door in your face if he knows you are poor. You will
be under the heel of every one. You will be cold and
hungry. You will be the slave of your landlady because
you will not be able to pay your rent. Is all this better
than owing a little common courtesy and gratitude to a
woman who has wished to befriend you? Gothen, Mr.
Fernandez, go in your hateful pride. You are an un-
whipped cub, whom the world will speedily lash into hu-
mility. Adien! lam no longer your friend. You have
met all my kindness with a systematic scorn. But fear
not, you shall never again be persecuted by my’ at-
tempts to curbyou by what you term a silken rein; you
will find the chain.of poverty galls far more sorely.”’

Then Florence walked away, uttering a peal of laughter
which was remarkable fer the bitterness and the pain
which rang througli its silvery sound.

Fernandez stared. after her in amaze.

‘Extraordinary creature !’? he said, ‘! generous and
noble in her way, no doubt, but tyrannical and exacting.
Ah, I would not be in your power, fair dame-—no, not for
twice two hundred pounds,”

{To be continued. }

£15,000 Reward!
DEAD OR ALIVE!

By Prof. Wm Henry Peck,
Author of ‘Siballa, the Sorceress,” The Fortune-Teller of New
Orleans,” ‘Ihe Stone-Cutter of Lisbon,” *‘Harold’s
Hate,” “‘Wild Redburn,” etc., etc.

CHAPTER XXIX.
THE TEARS OF A HAUGHTY WOMAN.

After a moment of this deep silence Jules said, ina
hollow, harsh voice, and with a bitter laugh:

“At least I may rejoice that I have not falien alone,
madam. You may harden your face as you like, Julia
Sanders, but I know you feel this blow as keenly as 1].
Ha, madam, I do not think you have any thing to win
now, and that you wonld rather remain the wife of that
milk-and-water old foo], David Sanders, than try to palm
yourself off as the wife of penniless Jules De Cressy!
Know that Jules De Cressy can never sink so low as to
admit that you are or ever have been his wife !”?

To which insult Julia, replied with a curl of ber pale
but defiant lip, and a flash of scorn from -her beautiful
eyes.

But the earl now addressed her in a tone of calm re-
spect, saying:

“Madam, I have heard something of your history from
Mr. Sanders. Your father was a distant relative of my
mother, and you are therefore, no matter how remotely,
my kinswoman—and as such havea right to my kind
consideration. This is not time nor place to speak of the
past. Ido not doubt that you.are the lawful wife of this
evil man, and if only to save your sullied name—sullied
by him—lI am at your service to prove in the courts that
your marriage with him is valid. Ample means for your
support a8 a lady, aS & connection of the De Cressy fam-
ily, shall be placed at your disposal 32

“My lord,” she interrupted haughtily, “I thank you for
your proffer of charity. Allow me to decline it. Since
that poor wretch deserted me I have managed to take
good care of myself.”

‘‘You forget your son, Julia,’’? remarked David.

“My son will live only to avenge his mother, David
Sanders, upon that man, who shall be declared his legiti-
mate father in the courts of England, and

A cry of horror rang up there suddenly from the great
entrance hall below, whither the old porter had hurried
to answer the clang of the vestibule bell.

There was’an instant hastening to a hall which over-
looked the main hall of the house, a circular gallery, and
leaning over the balustrade of this gallery David and
Storme, first there, looked down.

There was a group of Men in the hall below, clustered
around and evidently carrying some heavy body among
then,

Aman, several paces in advance of this group, and evi-
dently its leader, looked up by chance, and David recog-
nizing him, said: .

“Ah! itis Col. Hark Renfroe.”

“Ay, and the mannearest him is—yes? Bombs! Au-
guste Basant!? said Storme, darting along the gallery
and hurling himself, as it were, down the broad staircase
to the hall below.

Renfroe did not suspect the purpose of this tremend-
ously leaping mass of strength and rage, nor recognize it
as'‘Childeric Storme, until the smuggler grasped him in
his arms, lifted him over his head, and saying:

“Rascal of a forger! I have tracked you down!’ and
hurled him at the advancing group.

Then out flew one of the smuggler’s fists as quick as
lightning, and down went Auguste Basant, half-dead, ina
heap against the wall. All done in the twinkling of an
eye.

vere man terrible |? roared Basant, crouching, cower-

ing, glaring in terror from the floor, and in a spasm of
trembling. ‘The man terrible! one blow !—uglh! and |
am down !?

The body of Hark Renfroe had struck down two of the
advancing group, and created great confusion among the
six or eignt men that. composed it, but the violence of the
shock held him motionless and stunned ‘until Storme’s
fierce hand had clutched his perfumed locks and half-
dragged him to his knees—where Storme held him, witha
grip like iron, saying, hoarsely:

“Tam Storme! lam Hayland! I have found my wife!
T have found my chila—tle child you bribed that accursed
Frenchman to destroy!« What mercy do you expect, as-
sassin ?? vy

But the earl was now at his side, saying:

“Cousin Childeric, let him answer for his crimes to the
law. Remember your promise to me.”?

“My promise was that I would not harm Jules De Cres-
sy, my lord,” replied Storme, whose blood was up. ‘I
could readily forgive Jules De Cressy, whose lie and in-
tended villany were the conception of the moment—but
this villain has been at his work for years. - I have sworn
to trample his heart ashehas trampled mine. Hark Ren-
froe————””

“Robert ! my husband !’? here exclaimed Orania, spring-
ing to him and throwing her arms around his neck. *‘Oh,
dono murder! Stain not your hands—the hands of my
husband—the hands of our little darling’s father—oh, stain
not your soul with murder !?? ;

“Right! always right!” said Storme, yielding to the
entreaties of his wife. ‘But let them be bound.”

_ “By what right shall any man bind me??? demanded
Renfroe, now on his feet, but still in the grasp of the
smuggler.

“Ten Thousand thunders!” here roared Basant, who
had made no effort to rise from the floor, but who was
staring at Lord Barland. ‘Ah, impossible!’

“It is true, traitor,’ said the earl, who had recognized
the brutal captain ofthe Alta Monta in this French bravo.
“Tam he who was Sir Childeric De Cressy. ‘Here, men
of the Hall, bind these two men. Who is the man you
are placing upon that settee, my friends?”

This question was addressed to the persons who had
been admitted by the old porter, and upon whose en-
trance with their burden the oldman had uttered that
cry of horror of which we have just spoken,

One of the group, the landlord of the Oressy Arms, re-
plied, ina loud, excited tone:

‘It ig the body of Mr. Jerome. He is dead.”’

The words reached the ear of the pale and hanghty mo-
ther, who, as they were spoken, was at the head of the
great stairway. With a shriek of bitter anguish, she
rushed down the stairs, and tried to force her way to the
corpse of her son. '

“Better not look at him, lady,’ said one of the group,
a rough but kind-hearted villager, as he threw himself
between her and thebody. ‘Not just yet, lady. It be’nt
a sight for a mother.”

“Out of my way! You said it was the body—oh, heaven!
—of Jerome! ofmyson! Let me pass!’ she shrieked, and
with furious strength she thrust the man aside,

Her wild eyes fell up the lived face of her beloved dead,
in the center of whose broad forehead was a small blueish
wound, from which much blood had flowed over the
handsome, Apollo-like face.

She knelt, she pressed her lips to lips whence all life
had fled. Her wailing cries filled the hall, each wild ex-
clamation a shriek.

“Cold! Dead! Jerome! Pride of my soul! Dead! My
boy! My son! My darling! Oh, heaven!’

Then up on her feet, fierce and desperate as a tigress
facing the hunters that have slain hercub. With eyes of
flame, with gestures of rage, of hate, of revenge desired.

“Who killed him? Who? Answer me! Who killed
my son? Who???

But all were silent. Those who knew dared not con-
front this furious, bereaved, half-mad mother, ;

Her glance fell then upon the face of Hark Renfroe,
who, with Basant, was held by the iron hands of Captain
Storme,

“Hark Renfroe!” she screamed, glaring at him, and
he dared not lift his guilty gaze to her fiery stare. “You
killed him! You hada hand inthis deed! You plotted
it if your accursed hand did not doit. Fiend! Assassin!”

She flew at him, drove her nails into his cheeks, tore
the flesh of his face, would have torn his eyes from their
sockets but for rescuing hands that dragged her from him
instantly.

“Thousand thunders !”? muttered Basant, trembling.
“The man terrible isa lamb! It is a woman terrible that
is a tigress enraged,”’

“Who k:ted Jerome?” again screamed Julia, again on
her Knees by tlic corpse. “Who???

“Not J,” roared Renfroe, smarting from his lacerated
face. “lt was Rob MacMaurice.””

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

lady mobile and Charitable as yourself,”

“Why; who is he?”

 

“A Scotch gentleman,’ replied Renfroe, sullenly,
‘who horsewhipped Jules De Cressy to-day in the main
street of the town; and Jules De Cressy told Jerome that
if he would fight Rob MacMaurice, and kill him, Jules
De Cressy would recognise Jerome as his son and heir in
the House of Lords. 1 see Jules De Cressy is looking
down at us—talk to him,-and not to me, for it was he who
instigated the duel.” 5
Julia sprang up, and glared up at the pale face of Jules,
as he looked down trom the gallery above the hall.

“You plotted this murder, did you, Jules De Cressy 7”?
she cried, stretching her hands toward him. ‘My boy
fought for you—his coward-hearted father! He died—he
is dead ! Redeem your promise in the presence of the
dead, Jules De Cressy !. Confess that. he was your son. ~ I
was his mothers I demand it in the presence, in the name
of the dead! You will not! Oh, base man! Brute that
you are }? ,

“Really, madam—if your son—in fact—that is—I would

say—it is none of my doing—I did not kill Jerome,”
stammered Jules, as he stared down with guilt in every
feature.
“He was your son, and you knew it. when you forced
your quarrel upon his Nand |” she hurled back, with wild
vehemence. ‘You feared. him—you hated. him—you
knew he was your son—you wished he was déad—yon
plotted for his death, you did! you did! base, unnatural fa-
ther ! May my curse, and the death of this murdered boy—
your assassinated. son—cleave to your soul, and ring the
doom of the damned in your tortured brain forever ! for-
ever, Jules De Cressy ! forever !??

Her shrill shriek rang wildly throughout the great man-
sion.

Then turning her hot eyes from the pale and: shrinking
villain, as he clung trembling to the balustrade above,
she knelt again by the side of her dead Jerome, and, sob-
bing in speechless woe, laid her wet cheek upon the broad
breast, whose young and ambitious heart was stilled for-
ever. ts 2

Jules De Cressy hurried away from the’ gallery, and
flying as if pursued, rushed into a hall thatiled to,his bed-
room. But one pursued him; and that one was Salva
Rivasi, his valet. , Sone

Rivasi had heard all, understood all. “He had his own
interest to protect. He overtook Jules, darted past him,
wheeled and confronted him, just under a large bronze
lamp that rested in a bracket affixed to the wall.

“My lord!” he began, as Jules started back amazed...

“My lord, I and you have something ”

“Tam no lord )? snarled his master, and gnashing his
teeth. “Iam nobody—I am nothing—or soon shall be !
Out of my way.”

‘“sHo! you are nobody !”? sneered Rivasi, and still stand-
ing in the way. ‘You admit that,l;you are no lord, no
baronet, nobody! Well, you are my debtor—you owe me
something—lI have your draft :

“It is not worth more than the: paper it is written
upon,’ hurled Jules back, fiercely. ‘Iam ruined. Iam
a beggar—if I dare live to face beggary. Out of my way,
dog |? ; Cti8
tie grasped the collar of the valet and strove to thrust
him aside. ; ’

“A beggar, are you!) said Rivasi in Italian, angriiy.
“T let no beggar shake me. Beggar, you have often
cuffed me. Take some of your cuftiing back, beggar!”

So saying, Rivasi dealt his late lord several sounding
slaps in the face, making him stagger to the wall, where
Rivasi held him with one hand and buffeted him in the
face with the other.

“J make thus, my beggar lord, your grand toilet,”
sneered the vindictive Italian. ‘I curl thus. your, mous-
tache—so l—to make a Slight fierceness, my beggar-lord.
I put on 4 little fine rouge to give yousome color in your
sallow cheeks—so and so-as you sets toy ikea, bigh
color—my beggar-lord. And I take my pay, With this on
your ears—right and left.” Dae ar

And crowding his late master against;the-wall the Ita-
lian began astorm of slaps and blows upon his ears, just
as Kinmore staggered toward them, hiccuping with
drunken gravity. }

“Well, put in Jocko of Naples. I’ll see
fair play.”? ;

Kinmore had been left to himself, when the clamor of
the bellin the library had aroused the -wonder of all in
the house. Both Rivasi and Marks had hurried away to
learn the cause of the disturbance, and during the pro-
gress of events as has been described, he had awaked
from his heavy drunken sleep and issuing forth from his
apartment, reeling, staggering and still very drunk, came
up in time to see Rivasi cuffing Jules De Cressy. : :

“Well, put in Jocky Rocky of Naples!’ he said, balanc-
ing himself as best he -could near the pair. ‘‘‘Lay ‘on;
MacDuff!’ »? i

But the presence of Kinmore as a witness of his dis-
grace at the hands of his valet, aroused all the vindictive-
ness in the heart of Jules De Cressy, who darted from the
grasp ofthe Italian, snatched the heavy lamp from its
bracket, sprang at Rivasi with the nimbleness and fero-
city of a weasel, grasped the valet’s throat with fingers of
steel, and beat him in. the face with the lamp.

In an instant the valet’s face was bathed in his own
blood. The fierce courage of the slight-built Englishman
was more than a, mageh for the burly Neapolitan.

“GokdYor Vereton! cried Kinmore, forgetting for the
moment the true name of Jules.. “Five to one on Vere-
ton Cressy de Jules de Clarence—or—curse me! TI forgot
his name! ?’Rah for the little one! Look out for the for-
eigners stiletto, John Bull?’ ‘ :

Rivasi was now upon his knees, actually beaten down,
with a jellied face, striving to avoid the rapid and tre-
mendous punishment he was receiving, and astounded
by this unexpected exhibition of strength and courage in
a man he had always believed an effeminate coward.

“Saint Beatrix!” gasped Rivasi, as he drew his dag-
ger. “He means to kil me!” :

“Yes! to kill you, dog!’ snarled Jules, avoiding the up-
ward and backward thrust of,his valet’s stiletto, and
dashing the lamp with fearful effect against- Rivasi’s
temples. ‘

The dagger sprang from Rivasi’shand. He sank down
dead. The last furious blow had beaten in his skull.

“You've done for him, Vereton,’’ said Kinmore, reeling
nearer, and clinging to the bracket of a lamp that was
burning near the door—the door that opened into the
ante-room of Jules De Cressy’s bed-room, ‘You have
cooked his fish!?

“But not yours,”? cried Jules, now a madman in’ his
thirst for vengeance upon all his enemies, and especially
upon this man who had. treacherously made him the
lawful husband of Julia Sterlington. “I have not settled
with you, traitor—Ned Logan!’ exclaimed Jules, as he
sprang upon the drunken man and beat him to the floor.

‘Don’t murder me, Veretof!’? shouted Kinmore, as
Jules snatched up Rivasi’s dagger, and raised it over
him. ‘Don’t murder me!’

(To be Continued.)

 

 

Baste him.

DOESTICKS' LETTERS.

BOYS IN THE COUNTRY.

 

 

The great trouble about taking your boys into the country is
that your boys carry city mannersinto the country, and then
at the end of the Summer they bring back country manners
into the city. Both of which are inconvenient. Extremely so.
And expensive. Especially to the loving Parent—and more
especially to the loving He-Parent, for, be it known to all you
unmarried ones, who are yet ignorant. of the ins and outs of
married life, that it is the He-Parent who must pay all the bills.

To give you a slight idea of how things go, perhaps the history
of my own young youth may not be uninteresting—the said in-
sect,—meaning thereby that boy of mine, is an animal about
ten years old, be the same a trifle more, or'a very little less.

Last April [took him into the country. He had never seen
the country before, and had no more idea where country-pro-
duce comes from, than if he had neyer heard of a country.
For instance, the day after. we arrived at. our rural home, I
found Trumps, with another young hopeful of his own age,
also from the city, busily engaged in shaking an old dwarf pear
tree that had been dead for five years. I asked what they were
doing—they said they had seen two chickens fly into the tree,
and they were trying to shake down some hen’s eggs.

Next day they climbed into the elm tree with a big basket to
pick potatoes, the country boys having found out their greenness,
and having told them to do so. , :

Under direction of these same country boys, Trumps (my boy)
and Young Hopeful, spaded five feet deep into the ground. i
search of sweet apples, which hey had been told they woul
find there, just_as they had seen the potatoes which thé men
were digging the day before; then they climbed, under the
saine direction, several old hickories and black oaks which they
had been persuaded were raspberry and blackberry trees, and
they expecred to find the berries all ready picked. and nicely
put a baskets, as they had always scen them ‘in the city
markets.

Young Hopeful had brought out an old brass-pistol, with which
he was persuaded he could do wonders against the game in the
country—théy were sent to the frog-pond for quail, and, they
watched last year’s crow’s nest more than four hours, expect-
ing to see wild turkies fly out of it. t

This sort of thing couldn’t Jast always, however, and their
city wits soon came to their aid, and in less than a fortnight
they knew better than to plant the beans again, if they dia
seem to come up wrong-side-up—they didn’t any longer look on
the hazlenut bushes for ripe pumpkins in May, nor did !they
shake the old willow in the corner of the yard, and hold.a
sheet under, expecting to catch new potatoes. It didm’t take
inem but a week to cure them of chasing the sheep, in order to
get fresh cooked mutton chops for lunch; andin four days they
learned that it was of no use to run after the pigsin the hope of
picking fresh briled beefsteaks off of their ears.

hey soon found that berries don’t grow on the ends of rail-
fences, and they didn’t have tobe laughed at, but just once
before they stopped pulling the cow’s tail to pamp milk out of
her, and trying to squeeze cream ont of her horns—they soon
stopped looking for cows’ nests to see if they laid cheeses, as
the hens laid eggs, which even the way they: had been told
cheeses came into existence.

No sooner, however, had they got over these absurd notions,
than they became more mischievous than ever. As soon as
they found out where the apples veally grew, where the berries
actually were to be found, and where they could get green corn
and melons without climbing trees after them, there wasn’t a
day for three weeks that both these youngsters didn’t require at
least half a pint of cholera drops cach, to save him from dying
of cramps, etc, Yet, no sooner would they get well from eating
green apples, than both would make themselves sicker than
ever eating greener plums, when laudanum, camphor, and red
pepper had saved them from a premature death, and a half-
length coffin by plums, then they would be saved with the
greatest difficulty from a sudden death by devouring unripe
sans ies under the erroneous idea that they were eating water-
melons.

However, we gol them safely through the season, and finally
brought them back to the city. They brought back about three
bushels each of toads, stuffed frogs, snakes, and all sorts of
reptiles and animals, alive and dead, including two Weasels,
and five squirrels alive, and a pole-cat, dead and stuffed, but
preserving all its original life-like odoriferousness.,

The free ideas they had formed in the country about other peo-
pies’ fruit they imported with them tothe city. .In the country
they could jump into a man’s orchard and pick up all the apples
and pears they pleased ang no one would say a word.

Very well at half-past eleven o’ciock last night I was called
up by a policeman, whotold me thas 3oth boys were in the
station-house for helping themselves irom several apple-stands
in the street.

Imust go and get them out. ——__ Despairingly,

» K. CHILANDER DOEsTICKS, °

P. S.—I have just bailed them out. . eS

 

P. P. S.—I have just licked them both till my arm is so tired,
I can scarcely sign my name as Yours, 0 KP. D.

 

 

 

sens

 

 

 

 

 

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THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

emdeeien

 

 

 

 

eee

New York, November 24, 1870.

POO

 

Taras

 

 

ane AAR RRARARAAL
The Terms to Subscribers:
One Yoar—sinGle COPY os. ieee cee ess owe ties Three Dollars.
«  ““ Four copies ($2 50 each)..... save euey Ten Dollars.
“pus 1 Bight:copiest.....0..: dee cndev seeks Twenty Dollars.

Those sending $20 for a club of Eight, all sent at one time,
will be entitled to acopy rrer. Getters-up of clubs can after-
ward add singie copies at $2 50 each.

The NEw YORK WEEKLY is Printed at PRESTON’S

Great Press Room, 27 Rose street.

 

 

 

Choice Stories to Come.

 

We recently announced a series of fine stories—some of
which have been already commenced, and the others will
follow in rapid succession, and they will in turn be fol-
lowed by
THE FLOWER OF SUDA; A Tale of the Cretan Revolution. |

By Mr. and Mrs. Leon Lewis. This is the best story by
far which these writers have ever written,

CARLOS THE TERRIBLE; or, The Sign of the Triple Cross.
By Ned Buntline. This is one of the most powerful,
thrilling, and exciting stories of Ned Buntline’s pro-
lific and versatile pen.

THE INJURED HUSBAND; or, How Did Lady Neville Die?
By Helen Corwin Fisher. One of the most interesting
stories that has ever appeared in the N. Y. WEEKLY.

THE HIDDEN SIN. By Francis A. Durivage. A story
which has not one dull or uninteresting line in it from
beginning to end. :

MABEL LEIGH; or, The Mistress of Hillmore. By Hero
Strong. A delicious story of love and jealousy—a
story that every lady will read with unalloyed delight.

Wuy Dip HE MARRY HER? By Annie Ashmore. Astory
which surpasses ‘‘ Faithful Margaret”? in the thrilling
intensity of its interest.

THE GOLDEN WOLF OF GENOA. By W. Howard Macy.
Those who read this gentleman’s two first stories—
“The Banker of Chicago,’ and “The Locksmith of
Lyons”—will find in this story the same rapidity of
action, the same wonderful invention, the same vivid
description, and the same strong portrayal of men and
women, with an increased command of plain, forcible,
and terse language.

ABNER HOLDEN’S BOUND Boy; or, The Poor Relation. By
Horatio Alger, Jr. This is a story of everyday life and
everyday romance, told in an enchanting style by an
author who has no rival in relating the troubles and
struggles of poor boys who have their own hard battle
to fight in life.

 

The above are but afew of the many SPLENDID STORIES
which we shall publish within a very short period. We
think our readers will acknowledge that no literary paper
in the world prints so varied, so excellent, and so many
stories as the NEw YORK WEEKLY.

THE LADIES’ WORK-BOX.

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

a ) PAP 4

“For ’tis the mind that makes the body rich; © *
And as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds,

 

 

oil colors in tubes, palette, knife, brushes, oi!. Grecian
and other varnish and turpentine.

The Italian method is nearly the same as the Grecian,
which is as follows:

ist. Procure a frame one inch larger than the engraved
part of the print.

2d. Cut the print the size of the frame, then make a
stiff paste, and spread it thickly on the frame.

3d. Place the print face down, sponge it gently with
water, then press the frame firmly down on it, leave it
until entirely dry, (not near the fire), and it will become
even and tight.

4th. Pour sufficient spirits of turpentine on the back
to moisten it well, then putting on the Grecian varnish,
rub it thoroughly with your stiff brush, and continue to
apply until perfectly transparent; after leaving it twenty-
four hours, if white spots appear, repeat the process.

Lastly. Place it face down, where it will be free from
dust, for three days.

This is a merely mechanical style of:painting, and can,
like Opaque Painting on glass, be done by those who have
no decided genius; hence it should be cultivated as an
amusement, a beautiful pastime, refining to the senses,
and calculated to create a love for art, in its more eleva-
ted forms.

—_—_—__»>-@4______

A DAY DREAM.

BY M. EDESSA WYNNE.

 

 

Oh, let the charmed dream go on—
Break not its bliss, I pray—

So long the years have worn around,
So cold has been each day.

Now that the sun is up at last,
And floods a cloudless sky,

Now that the roses bloom again,
In slumber let me lie.

Oh, take your icy hands away,
Ye specters of the past!
Your frozen breath I wil} not feel
Your spell around me cast.
Instead, a rosy fingered joy
Shall stand and smile en me,
And the warm atmosphere of love
My robe of peace shall be.

Icould not see the Father’s hand
Was only raised in love;

T could not lift my thoughts from earth
To realms of truth above.

Yet He forgave the groveling soul
That turned away from Heaven,

And smoothed away its bitter pains,
And made its pathwayseven.

Ithank thee, Lord, for sorrows past—
For trials yet to come—

I know life’s devious, thorn-strewn paths
Will lead me safely home.

T thank Thee for the rosy light
That heralded the dawn;

Oh, help me, Lord, to thank thee still
When all that light is gone!

 

THE ROMANCE OF HISTORY.

ANNE BOLEYN.

BY LAWRENCE LESLIE,

 

 

In the old churchyard at Thorndon, in the county of
Essex, England, the curious traveler is shown a humble
grave, lying in the dark shadow of the moss-grown wail,
where no ray of sunlight penetrates, and no footfall dis-
turbs the solitude. On every hand are. pretentious
sepulchers and imposing marble, sacred to the memory
of aristocratic dead. The shadows of these weather-
stained monuments fall upon the lowly grave beside
them, even as the blight of royal love once fell upon the
huinble heart, which new slumbers so quietly heré. Be-
neath that uniuscribed stone, for. not a line or a letter
marks tne cold marble, lies all that was mortal of Eng-
land’s beautiful but unfortunate, Queen Anne Boleyn.
The head which once wore the jeweled crown of the
Empire upon which the sun never sets, has, for more than
three hundred years rested 1n this lonely grave, without
a line or letter to tell aught of the pomp of her royal
station, or the misery of her dreadful fall, and terribly
tragic death. J

It was a bleak day in November when we madé our
visit to this resting place of the dead.. Dark clouds were

 

So honor peereth in the meanest halt.”

And yet, who does not acknowledge the*influence of
dress? A proper regard for the prevailing style is neces-
sary to protect one from a certain notoriety which the
adoption of a peculiar costume is sure to create.

The favor, with which the simple, neat, and comfortable
business suits have been received by the fashionable
world, gives us hope that when

; “These remnants
Of fool and feather, that they gotin France,
With all their honorable points of ignorance
Pertaining thereunto,”

fave been consigned to the rag-bag, American genius
will invent something with an eye only to comfort, which
will be universally adopted by the entire sisterhood; until
such time, we will give to our readers weekly suggestions
of the prevailing styles. ;

This week we have something new in dresses. One
walking suit of heavy gros ‘grain had short skirt with
wide band of biack velvet at the bottom of the skirt,
above it three narrow ruffles of silk band and headed with
velvet—then another row or band of wide yélvet—over-
skirt trimmed in the same manner, long and open in
front, with puffs in back and sides., A short sacque with
quilted lining of silk, and revers in back and sides of
velvet, completed a very handsome garment.

A blue silk which lies before us has three narrow ruffles
or flounces of the silk trimmed with black lace, and
headed by a standing frill of the lace, is a beautiful
dress. The over-skirt differs from any we have seen, and
is composed of four graduating flounces—the lower one
being a quarter of a yard wide, the narrow one at the
top, and all trimmed like ruffles in the skirt. This dress
should be worn with black velvet basque, trimmed with
thread laces, and black velvet hat, with blue and black
plumes, and corn colored flowers. A gold chain and
locket enameled with blue gives a handsome finish.

In speaking of morning dresses, we will answer Edna
Leighton’s question. A pretty robe is made of soft brown
cashmere, and trimmed with fold of silk a shade lighter.
In shape it is long sacque, the most simple way a morn-.
ing dress can be made; pockets and belt of the silk, coat
sleeves, neat collar, and a blue ribbon at the throat com-
pletes the toilet. : 1999

In dressing hair chatelaine plaits are still.in favor, in

clusters of curls. The'front hair is frizzéd or curled.
. For Maud Ashleigh as she has light: complexion, and
blue eyes, we fancy a white dress of tarlatan, trimmed
with flounces bound with blue silk.  Overskirt of sulk with.
plaiting of the tarlatan around it. i

For the hair 2 diamond aigrette will be very stylish. °:

E. W. It depends something upon tie agéiof the wearer,
for elderly ladies loose cloaks ‘are the most’ fashionable.
Young gitls wear jackets and basques. While for ladies
from twenty-five to forty, itis a mere matterof fancy, and
even then it depends upon the style of lady to be suited;
for a tall, slender person, we think a loose garment the
most graceful.

Large and long overskirts will be worn all winter.
Quite a number are open in front, while others have
aprons.

In the matter of furniture, the mohair lasts longer than
“reps,”? and is in the end most economical.

Next week we will tell you some pretty patterns for
pen-wipers. Thank you for your kind words—we will try
and please you.

Alice make your beaver cloak in a plain sacque, and
trim it with heavy passe mentirie. Large buttons, and
cord for fastenings.

A merino dress can be made with two flounces, bound
with silk same color, but different shade—a plaited frill of
silk above the top flounce.

Overskirt pointed in back and at each side, with
ruffle of merino, finished by band of silk.

Will some of our friends be kind enough to tell us for
“Gussie”? how to make raised work on canvas,

We have asked those who make it a businegs, but they
say it is as much an art, and requires the genius of paint-
ing.

Alpaca ranges in price from 45 cents to $1.50 per yard.
Lizzie can get good quality for 80-or 90 cents; will answer
other questions next week, when we procure informa-
tion. :

Miss M. E. W.—The materials used for Grecian paint-

sweeping across the heavens, nearly obscuring the sun-
light, which fell in straggling fitful rays upon the old
church spire, and the chilling wind made mournful music
among the oaks and locusts, whose leaves were falling
from the autumn frosts. Over broken headstones, and
through the tall tangled grass we made our way to the
grave where beauty and royalty have lain so long “un-
wept and unhonored.”? ,y

The gloomy day, the lonely spot, and. the historic
memories which they awoke, filled the heart: with mourn-
ful regret, and we remembered how wisely it was said,
“Put not your trust in Princes.”?

Anne Boleyn was born in Norfolk, England, in the year
1510. She was of illustrous parentage, if not strictly
noble blood. Her fatuer, Sir Thomas Boleyn, had enjoyed
a high degree of royal favor under the reign of Henry
ViI.; and was connected by intermarriage with many of
the proudest families of.the realm. His services to the
Henry VII.,secured to him the friendship of the son of that
Monarch, Henry VIII.; and when he ascended the throne
he received the most substantial evidences of the royal
favor. ' [ ;

In 1524, when Mary, the beautiful sister of Henry, was
united in marriage with Louis XII, the young, beautiful,
innocent daughter of SirThomas, Anne, then but thirteen
years of age, was named by the English king as one of
the maids of honor to accompany her to France. For six
years the young girl resided in the French capital, pass-

cial and moral infiuences which characterized the French
court in that licentious age. If she came out of the fiery

and when, a few years after, she should have been strong
and firm, the poison inhaled with the pestilential air of
that court, niade her giddy and weak.

In 1532, England declared war against France, and the
English residents in Paris hastened homeward; among
those who were thus recalled, was Anne Boleyn. Soon
after herreturn she made her appearance at court, and
first attracted the notice of the lecherous monarch.

At this period she was twenty years of age, tall, and
somewhat slender, but with a well-rounded figure, and a
carriage of remarkable grace and dignity. There was.an
indescribable beauty and freshness in her complexion,
her mouth was exquisitely small and intensely classic,
while her smile had in it great sweetness, and a most be-
witching power. Her eyes were brown, bright and beau-
tiful, and seemed to respond instantly. to every emotion
of the soul within, and possessed a magnetic power which
charmed and captivated all who came within the circle of
their, influence.; Her education had been liberal, and
years of association with the best-bred people of Kurope
had imparted a gracetul polish to her manners, which
greatly enhanced her,personal charms, She was unri-
valled in the gracefulness of her attire, and the fertility
of her genius in devising new patterns, made her a great
favorite with the court belles, who soon came to regard
her,as the very, glass of fashion.

Such. was Anne.Boleyn when she first met the lustful
gaze of the bestial English king. She had previously won
the hearts-of,two noblemen, and one of them, Lord Per-
cy, son of, the Duke of Northumberland, had declared his
/passion; and was received with much encouragement.
‘he king was captivated by her many charms, and though

‘|. he was then,a,husband, he determined. to make. her his

prize. She received his first offerings of, friendship some-
what coldly, when heissued an order commanding both
suitors for her hand in honorable marriage to cease their
visit, and relinquish their hopes, and Lord Percy was soon
after forced into an unwilling alliance.

For a time the young girl mourned her lover, but the
numerous marks of favor she daily received from. his
majesty, acting upon a disposition naturally vain and ca-
pricious, gradually healed the wounds of disappointed
love, and she inclined a too willing ear to the flatteries of
the royal gallant, who conferred upon her the appoint-
ment of maid of honor to his queen, Katharine of Ar-
ragon.

This lovely woman was a daughter of Ferdinand and
Isabella, of Spain, a mild, devout, sweet-tempered crea-
ture, 10 whom Henry had been married in the year 1519,
thirteen, years previous to the time of which we now
write. Her married life had not been one of happiness.
Her husband had hardly led her away from the altar
when he grew neglectful, and offered his smiles and flat-
teries at other shrines, while his patient, neglected wife
had pined in silent sorrow. He had for years been grow-
ing restive under the restraints imposed by the marriage
relation; and though his numerous amours proved how
little he cared for the sacredness of his vows, he was
anxious for more perfect freedom.

The presence of the fair maid of honor increased the
intensity of his discontent, and he firmly resolved to rid
himself of a woman whose virtuous presence was a con-
stant rebuke of his shameful inconstancy and neglect.
By cunning and craft and bribery he succeeded after a
long conflict in banishing her from the palace, and ob-
tained from the servile judiciary and corrupt church a
partial nullification of his marriage. So soon as his law-
ful wife had been driven forth from the shelter of his
roof, he laid violent seige to the heart of the fair girl
whose beauty had captivated his reason, and she, poor,
weak, giddy creature, became his victim. For a time tne
fallen woman maintained a wretched intimacy with the
royal libertine; but it soon became evident that only mar-
riage could conceal the extent of her indiscretions and
secure legitimacy to her offspring, and on the 25th day of
January, 1533, they were privately married.

As yet the decree of divorce from Katharine had not
been confirmed, but on the 23d of May following, Cran-
mer rendered the judgment which pronounced the mar-

 

ing come in sets which cost from $7to $10, and consist of

riage with Katharine void and the issuej illegitimate.

ing from girlhood:to maturity, under ‘the deleterious so- |

ordeal without absolute ruin, it was not without blemish;

Three days after the king’s marriage with Anne was
made public, and on the first of June she was crowned
Queen of England. The ceremonies were marked by
more than usual splendor, and as the brilliant royal pa-
geant moved slowly from the palace at Greenwich to the
Tower, where the coronation services were performed, it
was greeted with the booming of caunon, the blare of
trumpets, and the huzzas of the fickle populace. The
beautifal young queen passed proudly along in the royal
carriage, bowing her thanks to the thoughtless rabble
Which was charmed by her beauty and grace. Three
years after she passed over the same road in a convict’s
cart, on her way to the scaffold. :

For a time the young queen was happy. The splendor
of her new station, the pomp which constantly surround.
ed her, the notes of adulation and flattery which ever fell
upon her ears, and the passionate fondness of the king,
all combined to make her forgetful of her past folly, or of
her predecessor, who was slowly grieving her life away
in Kimbolton Castle.

But the crisis of her fate was rapidly approaching.
The ardor of hier husband began to cool; his brutal nature
was not consistant with fidelity; having deserted one
wife, and broken her heart, to make way for the beautiful
Anne, it was not to be supposed that vows, however
sacred, could control his vascillating passions. A new
idol claimed his devotion, and from that hour the wife
was discarded, and her fate fixed.

Jane Seymour, one of the maids of honor, was the
object of his new passion, and their intercourse soon be-
came so shameless that the young queen could not con-
ceal from herself the terrible truth that she no longer
possessed the king’s affection. Her grief was intense, and
resulted in the premature birth of a male child, on the
29th of January, 1586. Henry was thrown into a terrible
rage at this event. He had long prayed for a son, and
that the object of his hopes should be sacrificed to what
he termed her ‘‘devilish jealousy,” threw him into a fear-
ful passion. From that hour his hatred for her was
implacable, and he followed her without remorse, and
she found rest only in the grave.

A long and severe illness foliowed the discovery of her
husband’s dishonor; for, in her infatuation she had be-
lieved in his faithfulness, and when she recovered, she
was not slow to discover that her influence was at an
end. In her distress she withdrew from all the gaities of
the court, and passed her time in the most secluded parts
of Greenwich Park. Here, in solitude and tears, she
would spend whole days together. What thougths, what
memories, must have swept over that soul once so cheer-
ful, in those moments of anguish. Her desclation seemed
complete; warned by the malice exhibited by the king,
the courtiers dared not express sympathy for her, even
though they grieved at her misfortune. Her old mistress,
Mary of France, the only one who could have rescued her
from the terrible fate which was pending, was dead, and
among the thousands who once gathered around her—
with professions of fidelity and friendship, none now
remained. No iiving creature was there left whom she
could confidently say loved her. Her own family, those
to whom she was united by every tie of blood, were her
bitterest revilers; and nowin the hour of her utter
wretchedness, she looked in vain for any refuge from the
shafts of calumny and detraction, which fell so thickly
around her.

When it became evident that the king had wearied of
the once fascinating, and still beautiful woman, and was
anxious for some pretext to sever the bonds which fetter-
ed him, his satelites launched forth numerous rumors of
the gueen’s unfaithfulness. Rupidly did these reports
spread, everywhere prejudicing the public against the un-
happy woman, and greedily did the king catch at the ray
of hope they presented, and called upon a subservient ju-
diciary to invest the rumors with the prestige of a formal
ee having as its object the death of his wretch-
ea wife.

A committee of the Privy Council was secretly appoint-
ed to examine the subject, and make their report. The
queen’s own father, Sir Thomas Boleyn, and her former
lover, Lord Percy, were members of this commission, and
joined in the declaration that there was cause to believe
her guilty of incontinence with five persons, among them
her Own brother, the Earl of Rochfort.

No sooner had the committee made their report, than
all the alleged criminals, excepting Anne, were thrown
into prison. An effort. was made to conceal these pro-
ceedings from her, but her quick perception enabled her
to discover that the dreaded crisis was rapldly approach-
ing, but there was no avenue for escape.

In view of her probable fate, she called upon her chap-
lain, Mathew Parker, and gave him some instructions in
regard to the education of her daughter, afterward the
celebrated Elizabeth, and charged him with the perform-
ance of certain other trusts when she should be no more,
and then calmly awaited her fate.

She had not long to wait.. On the 2d of May, while she
was seated at her dinner-table, the domestics informed
her that a gentleman without wished to speak with her.
She desired him to wait until the meal should be: con-
cluded; but he refused, and forcing his way by the serv-
ants, came into the dining-hall, unannounced, and with-
out further ceremony informed her that she was a pris-
oner, ;
She looked at him a moment in silence, a look of inex-
pressible anguish passed over her pale features, and sink-
ing into a chair, #pe bowed her head, and a few tears stain-
ed her cheek. Jessovering herself in a moment, she re-
marked to the Of Ger:

-“I suppose it is lhe King’s pleasure; but I am innocent
of wrong-doing. | am ready to go,” and followed him
to the Tower, where she was confined in the same cham-
ber which had been occupied by her on the night of her
coronation; two’yéars before.

As her prison doors closed upon her, the unfortunate
queen seems to have lost her fortitude and gave way to
the most vielent grief. Her terrible agony seems to have
impaired her reason, and she would sometimes laugh
wildly, and declare that no more rain should fall in Eng-
land if. she were put to death; and then rail loudly against
the other prisoners for charging her with crime. Then
again, she would sit in silence for hours, seemingly un-
couscious of ali that was passing around her.

In the meantime preparations for her trial were being
pushed forward with indecent haste. Every expedient
was resorted to, to procure evidence to warrant her con-
viction. She was surrounded in prison with lady spies,
who, by impudent questioning endeavored to glean some-
thing from herreplies which might be used against her.
Her every word was watched and listened to, and even
her prayers were notea, hoping that they might afford
some expression which could be tortured into a confes-
sion of guilt.

As time passed, her agitation subsided, and when the
day of trial came she was perfectly calm. On the 10th of
May her alleged paramours were tried. convicted, ana
sentenced to death. Her brother, the Earl of Rochfort,
defended himseli eloquently, but was convicted on the
testimony of his wife, who swore that she had once seen
him kiss; the'queen. Upon this evidence he was con-
demned to death, though it is difficult to see why a man
may not kiss his sister, even if she be a queen, without
being a criminal.

The next day the queen was placed in the prisoners dock
to plead tothe same charge. She took her place at the
bar, without any visible emotion, and entered the plea of
“Not guilty.” ‘Such was the feebleness of the testimony
against her, amd the eloquence of her defence, that her
conviction was at one time thought impossible. But no
earthly power could save her from the wrath of one who
was never known to show mercy; and, after a brief con-
sultation, she was pronounced guilty and sentenced to be
beheaded, or burnt at the stake, as the king should direct.

The execution was ordered to take place on the 19th,
the king at first declaring that she should be burned, but
afterward changing his savage determination on the in-
tercession of her old lover, Lord Percy, who still retained
the memory of his old affection.

At the appointed hour she came forth to meet her cruel
fate. She was arrayed with all her usual elegance ana
taste, and her subdued, melancholy expression imparted
more than wonted beauty to her features.

She came forward, leaning on the arm of an attendant,
and as she first caught a full view of the dreadful prepa-
ration for the execution, she drew a deep sigh, and a few
tears for a moment dimmed the luster of her bright eye.
But the weakness was only momentary, and she soon as-
cended the s¢affold with a firm step and with perfect
composure.

She spoke cheerfully to those about her, took an affec-
tionate leave of her attendants, and, turning to the exe-
cutioner, announced, with calm and cheerful intrepidity,
that she wasready. Her dress was partially removed,
the fair throat made bare, and thestern executioner stood
ready to perform the last act of his horrid office. It had
been a strange caprice of Henry that she should be be-
headed Wig @ Sword and not with the ax, as usual,
and an exectNioner from Calais, a man of rare skill in
his blood calling, had been imported to deal the fatal
stroke. Arie, itis said, refused a bandage, and tradi-
tion records that the pleading tenderness of her eyes dis-
armed the professional butcher, until, casting off his
shoes, he stole sofily behind the fair victim, and delivered
the fatal blow. The lifeless trunk sank heavily to the
ground, while the head was seized by the beautiful hair
and held up aloft by the executioner. :

It has been recorded by one romantic writer, that when
thus held up to view, the eyes and lips were seen to quiv-
er, and the former to regard with mournful tenderness
the body from which they had been so rudely severed.

The body was immediately removed, thrust into an old
chest, which was brought from the Tower, and buried
with indecent haste in an adjoining yard, without any
religious ceremony.

A few days after, the body was secretly removed by a
few friends, chief among whom was her old lover, Wyatt
and deposited im the grave where they now lie. :

The harsh, relentless hatred of her husband followed
her to the last. He pushed forward the preparations for
the execution with ill-concealed relish. No pity, no sympa-
thy,no reiic of the once ardent love touched the heart of the
cold, cruel despot. When the hour of her execution ar-
rived, he dressed himself in his gayest garb, mounted his
favorite horse, and with servile attendants around him,
waited with impatience for the sound of the gun he-had
ordered fired at the moment of her execution to tell him
that the lovely form which had so often slept softly on
his bosom was but a mutilated mass of gory clay. Asthe
welcome signal came booming down the wind, he ex-
pressed his satisfaction, and giving the rein to his steed,
he dashed off to Wolfe Hall, where, in three days after,
he took another wife, in the person of Jane Seymour, the
treacherous maid-of-honor, who had robbed the gentle
Anne of her husband’s affection.

—— FO
Sas~ A “bottomless hole’? has been found at the north-

ern end of Biue Hill, Nevada. One explorer descended
to the depth of 200 feet without finding any evidence of

  

  
 
   

 

its termination, The walls abound with stalactites resem-
bling coral,

AIRNEE'S LOVE STORY.

BY HELEN FORREST GRAVES.

 

“Airnée! Airnée!*?

Carlton Strong, lying lazily among his pillows, heard
the sweet French name lisped over and over again in the
musical words of his little half brothers and sisters. It
sounded strangely sweet and familiar to him—he scarce
knew why; the first name he seemed to remember among
the unreal sounds and vague echoes of the dim world of
brain fever, out of which his spirit had just struggled,
into only half consciousness.

The sunshine lay softly on the carpet, mellowed into
the hazy gold of September—the vine-leaves stirred idly
at the casement, and the litile children, playing on the
lawn outside, called ‘‘Airnée! Airnée!’? and chatterea
their incorrect French sentences like little parrots, ex-
perimenting on a newly-gained power of speech.

Who was Airnée? and what did it all mean ?

He could remember the name—it was common enough
in the south of France; and almost without the effort of
volition the pencil of memory showed him again the pic-
turesque old chateau on the blue slugglish river, its towers
half hidden in blossoming chestnut trees, with the old
comte smoking his cigars among the stiff box borders of
the garden, and the comtess, working on her everlasting
lace pillow, and pretty Airnée de la Lagardere sitting by
his side under the honeysuckle trails, trying to pronounce
after him the hard English syllables, with crimson pursed-
up lips, and turquois blue eyes, of smiling wonder. Yes;
that was why it sounded so familiar in his ears—because
of Airnée de la Legardere. And wearied with even the
mental toil of recalling even these trifling circumstances,
the young convalescent sank once more back among his
pillows, closing his languid eyes, and drawing a long
sigh.

Presently his stepmother entered—a pretty, plump,
little matron, almost young enough to be his sister.

“How are you feeling now, Carleton #’ she asked softly.
“Do the children disturb you with their clamor? I can
easily send them into the south garden, if they do.”?

“Not at all,’ Carleton answered. “I like to hear their
merry little voices. You have hada terrible night with
me, mamma. I didn’t mean to be such a burden as this
when I came nome for a week’s visit, before starting for
Alexandria, and the source of the Nile.’? :

“Your father and I were both very glad to have you
here, Carleton, during this sickness,’’ said Mrs. Strong,
laying her cool hand softly on his still throbbing forehead.

“You area jewel of a little mother,’ the young man
answered, ‘“‘and Ill tell you how grateful I am, when I’ve
a littie more energy. But whois that I hear the children
calling ‘Airnée,’ out there? some little playmate???

“Oh no P? said his stepmother, smiling; ‘‘it is a French
governess I engaged for them in New York, last month.
lt’s so important, you know, that they should acquire the
correct accent while they are still young. Does the light
in your eyes dazzle them? perhaps I had better draw the
curtain closer ???

And Carleton fell asieep in the semi-darkness of the
shaded room, and dreamed of seeing Airnée de la Legar-
dere dressed in a peaked paper cap, with bells on her
wrists, and ankles, dancing a minuet for the amusement
of the three little Strongs.

“What makes me think so much about her !’’ he asked
himself, when he waked up once more. “It was a de-
lightful month Ispent upon the peaceful shores of the
Degonne—and I remember fancying that she cared for me
a little, in a girlish sort of way—but of course I knew
that this powdered and bewigged old comté would never
allow his granddaughter to marry a plain untitled Ameri-
can like myself, so there was an end ofthat. Yet I would
like to see this Airnée of theirs—her voice has a strangely
familiar accent to me—but then all these French. giris
have sweet, low voices, like cooing doves, and a dainty
way of pronouncing their syllables! It can’t be possible
that Airnée dela Legardére is transformed into a gover-
ness, at So many dollars per month.”’

Yet that self-same afternoon, when the children bound-
ed through the hall, with quieter footsteps, following
them across to the schoolroom, our hero twisted himself
into a position as undignified as it was uncomfortable, to
catch a glimps at the tace of their unknown companion,
half expecting, he knew not why or wherefore, to see
the blue eyes which had shone’ along the snores of the
peaceful Degonne, the yellow hair which had rivaled the
amber sunshine of Southern France.

“Pshaw !? he ejaculated, bouncing back among his
pillows; ‘‘itserves me right for being such an unmiti-
gated fool. She’s as much like my Airnée as Red Riding-
hood’s grandmother might have been.

llis Airnée! Ah, but she had never been that—except
perhaps in one or two impossible and unrealizable day
dreams, which had been forgotton—very properly, long
ago! And the figure which followed the children into
the schoolroom was tall and spare, with a knot of red-
brown hair secured on the back of the head with a pro-
digious comb, and a skin hke yellow parchment. Airneé,
indeed! It seemed there were Airmées of one age as
well as another.

And so Mr. Carleton Strong, quite unaware that he had
only seen Dorcus Jones, the upper nurserymaid, was
driven perforce from the citadel of his semi-sentimental
musings, and took refuge in reading novels and planning
out the plot of a grand epic poem he had fully resolved
to write, in the coming period, “when he bad, time.”
Alexandria and the sources of the Nile must be post- ;
poned, now, for a little while, until he should be stronger
and better able to endure the various fatigues of travel.
But the beautiful vineyards and silent meads of the south
of France—they were not so unattainable, and somehow
our hero felt as if he should marvelouly like once more
to see the Chateau on the River Degonne, and the be-
wigged comté, and the countess, who seemed so insepa-
rable from her lace-work, and Airnée, with the bird-like
voice and the turquoise blue eyes. Dear little Airnée—had
she really been fond of him? And what would she think
of his going away so suddenly, and remaining so long?
He certainly ougnt to have written to Airnée, if it had
been only one line.

It was a radiant September afternoon when first they
allowed him to walk out upon the lawn, where the asters,
and dahlias, and other brilliant autumn flowers nodded
their crests of flame and gold along the borders, and the
blue haze hanging like a dream over the beautiful indis-
tinctness of the far-off landscape. He breathed in the
scented air with a feeling of luxury, as he sat himself
down ona rustic garden chair. The long confinement
within the four walls of one room had taught him a bet-
ter appreciation of all these things now.

As he leaned back, filling his lungs with the wine-like
air, something rustled softly over the grass just beyond
him—something slight, and small, and elastic, like a
young girl's figure.

He started. Was he ina dream, and standing once
more on the banks of the Degonne? for that was surely
she in the white dress, with the bit of blue ribbon tied
round the slender throat, and the sunny hair shining as
if threads of actual gold were braided into its luxuri-
ance.

“Airnée |? he cried, rising to his feet. ‘‘Mademoiselle
Airnée |!”

And as she turned her face to him he saw that it was
actually Airnée de la Legardére herself.

“Am I dreaming?’ he asked, eagerly; ‘‘or, if not, how
came you here???

She colored, and answered, in the soft, murmurous ac-
cent he knew so well:

“T am the the nursery governess of Madame, votre belle
mere. Ihavethe honor to teach to your little brothers
and sisters the French language.”’

“Did you know that I was here???

She nodded:

“Yes, I knew it.??

“And you never came to me !)?

Airnée de la Legardére’s lovely head drooped.

“My grandparents are dead,’’ she answered; ‘‘my for-
tune has passed to the male inheritors of the house of
Legardére. I am a poor governess now, not the young
demoiselle of the chateau. Could 1 know that monsieur
would care to renew the acquaintance now?’

“airnée,” he exclaimed, ‘‘could you think so vilely of
me ?? i

And Airnée could only answer by a burst of tears,
which made her lovely eyes look like blue flowers in a
soft spring rain. :

“Dm afraid you’ve tired yourself by going out on the
lawn this afternoon, Carleton,’ said his stepmother, with
a troubled look at the young man’s glowing cheek and
glittering eyes.

“Not a bit of it, mamma, I assure you; but—l’ve been
engaging myself to be married.”?

“Carieton !)?

“Indeed, Iam speaking the truth.??

“But to whom ???

“To your little French governess.”?

And Carleton Strong told the whole story.

“The darling little creature !? sobbed his stepmother,
who was of rather an enthusiastic temperament. ‘I?ll
make her a white silk dress, and give her a wedding my-
Self, Such as. the Comte de la Legardére’s granddaughter
ought to have.”?

And so, instead of going to Alexandria, and the sources
of the Nile, Mr. Strong went on a wedding-tour with Air-
née, and enjoyed ita great deal more.

~ ——_——__>9-+________

To Correspondents.

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS. —
Ambition.—The course which you propose is the best which you
can take, under the circumstances. In writing to the lady’s
mother mention the names of personsto whom she can refer for
information concerning your character, etc........ . B. S.—Ist.
It will cost you in the neighborhood of $200 to get to Portland,
Oregon. 2d, We are not aware of .what are the chances for a
young man in Portland. It is not in our power to learn the state
,of business in every town inthis country. 3d. You will find in
books of travel, reports to Congress, etc., full descriptions of the
soil, climate, and products of Oregon. The works can be found
in any public library.......... A Constant Reader.—The affair is a
notorious quack concern. If you are sick, why do you not go
to a respectable physician instead of foolishly spending your
money with quacks and humbugs?.........4. H.—We must pos-
itively decline advertising places of business in this column....
L. S. Knight.—\st. We have never heard of the firm before, con-
sequently can give you no information concerning it. 2d. Your
peamansiyp would not be an obstacle to your obtaining a situa-
tion as bookkeeper...........Joe Jones.—The probability of your
obtaining information as to the landing of any person in this
country in 1733 is very slight indeed. Perhaps if you know the
port at which such person landed, you may find the name in the
old records of thetown. As the United States had no existence
as a nation at the time, you will find no record of those arriving
in this country in 173% Dyolf M. Lliw.—1st.. You will find
the matter explained in any arithmetic. 2d, Your writing is
good and plain, but it Jacks the ease necessary to the writing of
a bookkeeper..........Jnvalid.—Ist. Your mode of life will have
more to do in effecting a cure than any medicine you may take.
You must refrain from tobacco in all its forms, from coffee, from

 

the morning. You should also take a cold water bath three
times a week, and take out-door exercise regularly. Of course
if you wish to be cured you must drink no intoxicating liquids.
2d. Many of those we denominate as “quacks” belong to the
class about which you inquire. If you want medical advice
you should gotoa physician who has studied anatomy and
understands the effects of medicines on the system. If you
wish to commit suicide we know of no more certain way inan
the continued swallowing of the cure-alls of humbugs and ig-
norant charlatans........ Young Canada.—We cannot advise you
what business to follow, as we know nothing of your tastes,
capabilities, or position in life. You should seek the advice of
those who are ee acquainted with you, and who have a
knowledge of the peculiarities of your charaeter and your pros-
pects for success in different branches of business......... Land-
wehr.—Ist. Get married at once. 2d. See answer to ‘Invalid.’
OSs Gees Franklin Mack.—1st. The inventors of‘the seraphine and
melodeon are notknown. 2d. The gentieman has been married
twice. 3d. Cooper’s best sea story is named ‘The Pilot.” 4th.
Robert Burns was the author of “A man’s a man for a’ that.”?
You will find the poem in any collection of his writings. 5th.
Yes....scee0, Jones.—The name ‘Oscar’ signifies “bounding war-
rior,” and “Oswald” signifies ‘‘Power of God.”..............
Bookkeeper.—ist. The maker of the note would be liable for the
amount. 2d. You write a good hand..... coor Elwood Fisher.—
We do not know where the gentleman is now located in busi-
NGSS S565. es . D. F.—1st, You can remove the warts by burn-
ing them with caustic. You can purchase the caustic at any
drug store. If the warts are large enough, tie a silk thread
around them, draw the thread a little tighter each day for four
or five days, and they will be killed. 2d. Your penmanship is
poor. It is too much of a scrawl. ith a little care you would
soon write a good band..........- TT nko. —T ie new post-office in
this city was commenced in the latter part of last winter.......

NV. J. S., Lebanon.—It would be useless to forward, as we could
not use the story ....0:.....4. A Mother.—Cowardice is natural to
some constitutions, and can only be overcome by the strongest
power of the will. A man who has moral bravery can over-
come physical cowardice. The story which is told of an officer
of the English army, at the battle of Waterloo, illustrates the
power of the will over the body. He was observed during the
fight to be very pale. A fellow officer said: ‘‘Why, captain,
your face is blanched—you’re afraid!” ‘True,’ was the an-
swer, “I am afraid, and were you as much afraid you would
run away.’’ Little can be done by others to aid the natural
coward in overcoming his cowardice. He must depend upon
himself. Let him freely place himself in positions of danger,
determining with all his will not to give way to the natural in-
stinct to runaway fromit. Familiarity with danger robs it of its
terrifying power. Timid horses are led up to and allowed to
smell and examine anything from which they have shied. This,
simple as it may seem, cures them of theirfears. It isthe same
with boys. The boy that has never been in a fight fears a blow,
but let him be forced into half a dozen.fights and his terror of a
knock down falls way from him. 2d. You myst compel the boy
to gointo company. Most youths are bashful, and the only cure
for their bashfulness is the mixing in society. A boy that is
bright, sharp, and full of liveliness in the company of boys will
very often exhibit an opposite character when thrown into the

company of girls. Let him associate with girls frequently, and
he will soon Jose his fear of them. He will discover that they
are not such terrible beings as he supposed....... eee. A, Holli-
day.—\st. The city of London, Engiand, is the largest civy in
the world. 2d. The four largest cities in the United States
are New York, Philadelphia, Brooklyn, and Baltimore.........

Lover of the New York Weekly.—\st. If the young people are de-
termined to aid the poor of your neighborhood, the only course
for them to pursue is for each to do his or her utmost to make
the exhibition a success. Let there be no petty bickerings, no
miserable little jealousies, no struggles for promisent pcsitions,
careless whether or not such prominence will aid or injure the
objectfor which the exhibition is given. Where the proper
spirit is shown, it 1s seldom that a charity appeals in vain to
Americans. But where they see selfishness the moving power
of those haying the management of the charity, they are apt
to look with suspicion upon the whole affair. 2d. As you failed
to state what kind of an exhibition you intend getting up we
cannot give you any hints as to how it should be conducted. 34.
You wi 1 find hints, on custume in the ‘‘Work Box”...... Camilla
Catherwood.—You should get a book on “Etiquette,” and give it
thorough perusal. You can procure such books in almost any
bookstore..... ....F..H. Richardson.—|st. The word ‘‘author” is
properly applied to either a male or female writer. 2d. The
“Peerless Author” is a woman.......... Excelsior Joe.—The ‘‘Rose
of Kendale” was written by the “Peerless Author”’...... J. J.D.

Flowers.—All quacks of the worst kind. You should seek the
advice of an educated physician. The fellows you name are
without education or honesty.....-... H. E. Stanton.—From what
our Jady friends say, we judge that none of the machines are
worth much .... ....Foolish Boots.—lst. If you make inquiry of
a shoemaker he will inform you what will ve the style, or shape
of dancing boots this winter. We are not posted in the secrets
of the cordwainers. 2d. Do you imagine that’we can turn this
coiumn into an essay on ‘The Art of Conversation?” _Wecan’s

GOit3. 2356 x Edna.—Your style of penmanship is good, but too
small. cos ccc. Harry,—Josi Billings’ lecture, on ‘“Milk’* is his
own property, and we would have no more right to publish it
than we would have to - publish one of Miss
Evans’ stories which had been eopy-righted. As
‘Josh” has delivered the lecture twice. in New

York you had an opportunity to listen to it. If you didn’t take
advantage of the opportunity offered, that is yourloss. He will
deliver the same lecture in different paris of the country dur-
ing the present lecture season, and we advise all who enjoy
quaint witto hear the discourse ‘‘Milk’?.....John J. McClymond.—
Lecturers do not have to take ‘out licenses...... Etéquette.—My.
M. did nothing at all that any ~ would not be likely to
do in like circumstances; but Mr. R. exbibited m his conduct
the very worst manners, If Mr. M. had been guilty of a slight
breach of etiquette, a well-bred man wonld not have noticed
it; but Mr. R. acted as though he had been grossly insulted, and
in turn insulted the unintentional offender. Mr. R. may regard
his course as that which a gentieman should take. We think
few gentleman would agree with him......... umb.—¥e8...
Old Penn. Veteran.—ist: When you have found the land which
suits your purpose, go to the land office for the district in which
the land is situated and have it eniered—the entry will cost you
from $10 to $15. The land will cost you no more. At the end
of five years, if you can show that you have cullivated the land
and have lived on it during that time, you will receive a patent
for it from the United States Government. 2d. You write what
would be a good hand were it not back-haoded; your spelling
is correct, and your punctuation passable, 3d. According to
Lippincott’s Gazetteer, China has a_ population of 387,632,907.
4tn. Of course it would be right fora man to learn a trade at
twenty-two, or any other age...... Senex.—Ist. The name the la-
dy usesis her proper one. 2d. We’ must) respecttully decline
furnishing the addresses of contributors to inquirers...... Louis
Cruise M.—We cannot judge from your letter as to whether you
possess, or not, the talent which in time would make you a
writer of fiction. You may be able to write an excellent letter,
but may not have the invention to construct a plot, the imagi-
nation to conceive nor the power to portray passions and char-
acters, nor the command of language to give life and beauty to
your writings...... Brotherly Love.—1st. You can forward the ti-
tle of the book to the Librarian of Congress, accompanying the
title with a dollar, and you will receive a. receipt of the record
of the title. 2d. We cannot tell what you should receive for
your book. We doubt not but that the puvlisher would be satis-
fied to pay you a fair per centage on the sales. 3d. Your being
a boy would not make the slightest difference in the price..... :
Cannuck.—Should the story, on examination, prove suitable, we
would acceptit. Wecan give no idea of its value until we have
read its... 2:52. J. R. B.—You have done all that lay in your
power to right the wrong.’ Rest just where you are. Take no
further steps whatever.” You are in no way responsible for the
deception which is being practiced onthe man. If he never
discovers the injury which has been done to him, he will proba-
bly live happily. He would not regard that man as a friend
who would inform of his wrongs.. We have known of seyeral
instances where officious individualsinterfered, and we have
never known the person whose “eyes they opened” regard them
with other feelings than those of dislike. This is one of the few
cases in which “ignorance is bliss,”’.......... Young Widow.—Do
not. marry the man under any consideration. Were you married
to him he would abuse you, would render your life unhappy—
probably beat you. He is a cowardly dog, and deserves horse-
whipping for the threatening language he has used. Should he
continue his threats appeal to your nearest male relative for
protection. If he cannot protect you, appeal to the courts. You
should not permit so mean a wretch’ to annoy or trouble you
for an hour...... R. Schloch.—ist, The claim was just, as the firm
named owned the copyright. 2d. The circulation of the New
York WEEKLY is, in round numbers, 300,000...... A Scalp Hunter,
—lst. We have in hand, and hope to publish at an early date, a
story by Capt. Mayne Reid. ‘he story is named “rhe Lone
Ranche,”? and Capt. Reid @eclares that it 1s not’ surpassed in in-
terest by anything which he has ever written. 2d. Tne maga-
zine has stopped. 3d. The steamship Great Easiern is 680 feet
in length, 82 1-2 feet in breadth, and 58teetindepth. 4th. Hand-
writing excellent.......... A, Knight.—We have several times
called the attention of our readers to the firm which signs itself
James Fisher & Co., a company which claims to manufacture
*“‘queer”’ (the thieves’ slang for counterfeit money). This com-
pany assures the persons to whom it writes that the counterfeit
bills are in eyery particular as good asthe veal, and that the bills
are furnished in packages or $500 for $60, $1,000 for $100, $2,500
for $225, and $5,000 for $400. The company is particular in re-

that the postal authorities open the letters and return the moui-
eyto the boobies who forwarded it to theswindlers. Now, these
fellows send no ‘‘queer.”? They may up a brick ina nice pack-
age, or fill a box with sawdust, or some equally valuable mate-
rial, and that is all the poor fools receive for their $50, $100,
$225, or $400. We do not feel much sympathy for those who can
be swindled by this trick. An honest man cannot be induced to
circulate counterfeit money. Still, we do think that there
should be some law for the punishment of rascals of the James
Fisher & Co. stamp.......... C. A. Cross.—ist.. Phonography 1s al-
most the only system of short-hand now in use. 2d. That we
cannot say. 3d. A knowledge of grammar, command of lan-
guage, rapidity in writing, and readiness to comprehend and
describe anything which comes under his eyes.......... W. A.—
The address of the Postmaster General is ‘tHon. J. A. J. Cress-
well, Postmaster General, Washington, D. C.”.......... Artist.—
Gustave Dore is not a New York artist. He isa Frenchman,
and lives in in France........:.. A, B. C. D.—\st. The militia re-
ceived no bounty, nor are they at all likely to receive any. 2d.
No. 3d. It is the place of the genetleman to salute a lady ac-
quaintance first when meeting her in the street. 4th. A gentle-
man could travel in Europe for six months for from $2,000 to
$2,500 in gold. 5th. Penmanship scarcely up to the bookkeep-
er’s standard......... Red Douglas.—The sketch headed ‘A Strug-
gle for a Crown” did not claim to be astory at all. It isa ro-
mantic incident from history, excellently told, true in every
particular. You may not be aware, but it is no less true, that
two persons writing histories of the same country detail exactly
the same facts, in different language. No one ever accuses ei-
ther of plagiarising from the other, unless one has copied the
other’s mode of expression and philosophic deductions..........
The following MSS. have been read and accepted: “Autumn
Leaves,” ‘Skeleton Leaves,” “The Joys of Home,” and “Grand-
ma’s Old Star Quiit.”....The following are respectfully declin-
ed: ‘The Faded Flower,” “Unearthed,” ‘Neglected Fowers,”
‘For Athiests,”? “The Approach of Winter,’ and “Beautiful

Thoughts.”
MARRIED.—On Thursday evening, Oct. 13th by the Rey.

W. H. Reed, Jennie R. Forbes to W. H. Sturgis.

The bride will be recognized by many of our readers ag
an accomplished young lady, who, under the name of
Rebecca Forbes, has achieved within a very few years an
enviable reputation as a writer of fiction. The bride-
groom is the present postmaster of Greenpoint, a veteran
of our late war, and a gentleman who is held in much
esteem by all who know him. The matriage is in every
way a fit one, as it unites beauty to bravery, intelligence
to intelligence, and varied elegant accomplishments to
untarnished integrity. If their happiness be commen-
surate with their own deservings or the wishes of their
friends their voyage of life will pass without a ripple to
mar its pleasaunce.

—__—__—_—_—__>-0+_____..

THE EXHIBITION DRILL of the scholars of the Weston

(Conn.) Boarding School was a great success—the boys

evolutions which speaks well for the efficiency of the drill
master, Capt. Flint. Gov. English, Mayor Ely, B. O. Per-
rin and many other eminent citizens, were present at the
exhibition, and they unanimously complimented Mr. Jar-

vis, the principal of the school, on the skill in arms dis-
played by the boys, their healthy leoks and manly bear-
ing. All who were present felt that the high reputation
which the Weston Boarding School bears, aS @ Seat of

 

late and indigestible s&ppers, and you should not go to bed till
you feel sleepy, and jump out of it the first time you awake in

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A PLEA FOR LITERARY WOMEN.

 

BY JENNIE STOVIN.

 

Oh, tell me not, pray, that a literary woman
Never makes a good daughter, a sister or wife.
I will write you this poem, then flatter myself
T shall alter your minds for the rest of your life.
Why, men have their bowie-knives, daggers and swords,
Their cannons and pistols, their canes and their rifles;
They can talk of their honor, and use their fine words,
Then slay their antagonists merely for trifles.
But women, the fairer and gentler sex,
Usurp not by force such defense as you men!
Deny us not, then, our sole weapons, and vex
Our poor hearts by the loss of our tongues or our per.
I have known many girls speak of literary women
As things to be dreaded—as objects to blame;
But I’ve generally found they were shallow and silly,
And scarcely knew more of our poets but name.
Ihave heard them prociaim it ‘a sad waste of time”
When a woman, for bread, has scribbi’d a sonnet—
Then, turning aside, spend the whole of the day
In discussing the shape of a “duck of a bonnet.”
And if they should happen to glance at a book,
Or an ode that’s been writ by a feminine friend,
They will shrug their white shoulders and feelingly hope
“That she will not arrive at poor Sappho’s sad end.”
Do they ever reflect that their fabrics of gauze
May give lovers heart-throbs—and envy to some?
But fashions are transient, and so is the cause,
And no blessings are left for the future to come.
Will women remember that poetry may bring
To the heart of some sad one a dawn of repose,
As medicine and cure by the skillful are drawn
From the delicate leaves of the small damask rose?
So if ever you think that a literary woman _
Must have ink on her finger and care on her brow,
I will réad you a poem, then show you the writer
SearchIng vainly for either—false critics I vow;
And then you'll agree that a literary woman
Can make a good daughter, a friend or a wife;
Pll appeal to your senses, unblinded, unbiassed,
And alter your minds for the rest of your life.

TRUE AS LOVE
COULD MAKE HER

BY A NEW CONTRIBUTOR.

“True as Love Could Make Her’? was commenced in No.1. Back
numbers obtained from all news agents in the United States,

COAPTER III.
TEMPTATION.

Falkland took the boat to shere in time to nave a lei-
Surely ramble with Fanny before the dinner hour. They
lingered by a gate in the old park, under the golden sun-
shine, and Percy talked to her in a tone of dreamy ten-
derness, very pleasant to her heart. She had never
passed a happier day.

They dined in a cozy room overlooking the water, and
dessert was served on a table near the window, by Per-
cy’s desire. He tempted Fanny with deliciously enticing
wines, and rattled on with gay, poetic sentiment till the
golden twilight came. Fanny was waited upon like a
princess by @ smart chambermaid, who confused her by
too much assiduity, and when they left a whole regiment
of waiters bowed them out of the hall.

They did not go early. They sat at the open window,
and the cool, fresh breeze came in. They were quite
alone, and even the sound of passing footsteps fell softly
on carpeted passage or stair. Percy ordered tea at dusk,
and sighed as he gave the order for the gas to be lighted.

‘It is like breaking a Spell,” he said, ‘‘for this is the
dreamer’s time—the lover’s hour. Do you wish for lights,
or shall we remain as we are for a little while?”

“As we are. Itis very quiet—very pleasant, this.”

Soit was. The first faint stars were twinkling. There
Were moonbeams slanting like shafts of silver in the
stream; and now and then a boat glided past with no
more noise than that made when the water rippled un-
der the measured sweep of the sculls. The beauty of the
hour ana the scene lent a purity to her face that woke the
better part of Percy’s nature.

‘“Pleasant,’? he said, “pleasant as a dream, I wish it
were to last forever. It seems a pity to go back to the
dull reality—to separate you and me, and have all the
finer fancies wakened now trampled out of us before we
meet again.”

Miss West said nothing; but his words had their effect.
She did not know how to answer him. The fear of being
incorrect or commonplace held her silent.

“We live in fetters,” he went on. ‘Our every action
and impulse is guided by the code conventional, and we
must do nothing that it does not sanction. We are gov-
erned by the laws of a society that, after all, is none too
good for its own discipline. There is a beaten track to
tread, and we must tread it or beware of that terrible
creature, Mrs. Grundy.”’

“Who is she??? Fanny asked, in the innocence of her
heart. ‘I never heard of her before.”

Mr. Falkland laughed.

“She is the mysterious leader of ‘they sayers,’ Fanny.
The lady with the hundred tongues of flame and venom.
She will find us out by-and-by; she will question your
discretion and speculate as to my intentions—thinking
that because we find innocent pleasure in each other’s
company I must have intentions.”’

He touched upon a point tnat had troubled Fanny
gravely. What were his intentions? A pleasant, harm-
less flirtation—or would he, in defiance of the wide gulf
that divides the rich and poor, ask her to be his wife ?

“We live in fetters,”? he said again. ‘‘We are victims
of convention. The thing that is and must not be dis-
obeyed. It makes a Draconian law, and measures out
our existence; teaches us how we must live, no matter
what our inclinations are. It will give you, in time, Fan-
ny, to a respectable young journeyman carpenter, on six-
and-thirty shillings a week when in full work, and semi-
starvation, with an unlimited supply of small children,
when work is not to be had. It will compel me to marry
some pretty doll, who can struggle through a French
novel, torture a piano, and dress to be looked at—a mere
feminine nonentity, whose idea of home is a house full of
fine furniture, and who would be less my wife than Mrs.
Falkland, the mistress of my residence. Such a fate is
in store for me, Fanny. I shali be chained to such a wo-
man, and be obliged to seem happy while I dream, per-
haps, of this quiet evening—this sweet. té@te-d-téte by the
river with you.”?

“You could avert such a fate,’”? said Fanny, with a pain-
ed feeling at her heart. ;

“How ?)?

“A man is independent; a woman is helpless. She ex-
changes one state of dependence for another—a one
state of labor for another. It is very likely that it may be
as you say with me. I shall be glad to escape from the
workroom by accepting the respectable young carpenter,
and as much as he may chose to give me of his six shil-
lings a day.”

“Don’t talk of it, for goodness’ sake; it is sacrilege. I
would rather run away with you myself, and. risk the
chance—-almost the certainty, of being cast off by my
father.’

“He would think himself disgraced by such a thing—
would he not?” asked Fanny, witha slight curl of her lip,
yet with a cold pain.

“T believe hé would give me his malediction in the or-
thodox style, and he would never repent of it either, You
would never be more to him than tne daughter of his
foreman. Your intelligence, your beauty would go for
nothing while your fatiier wears a white jacket ana car-
ries a tool basket at his back.”?

“You need not remind me of these things,” said Fanny,
a little coldly; “they are miserable truths that I feel quite
keenly enough.??

He drew the curtain half across the window, and went
to herside. There was passionate, suppressed fervor in
his tone as he said:

“You love me, Fanny, as deeply, as fondly as I love you,
Iam sure of it, You will not answer. You will not tell
me so, or if you answer it will be to say that we have seen
so little of each other—that this is only the second time
we have met.:?

“You forget, Mr. Falkland,” said Fanny, with a touch
ofirony, though she trembied under his glance, “ours is
merely an innocent pleasure in each other’s company, and
you have no intentions.??

“Little, lovely witch, you quote my own words to tor-
ment me for my sins. imust have you, if I risk more than
ruin.”’

He had her in hig arms before she was aware of his in-
tention, and left a burning kiss on her lips.

The day bad not been spent fruitlessly. He had tested
her character, sounded the depths, and found her pure-
minded and high-principled. The faults she had arose
from want of training. She went into danger unthink-
ingiy, because she did not know where danger existed.
Her peril was great with Percy, for she was strongly in
love with him; and he, asking himself what he should do,
whether the affair should end with this day’s meeting, whe-
ther there should be no despairing of this fierce, feverish,
expectant joy, that was a temptation to him, would he
drop the intercourse from the present time—kKeep out of
her way and forget her, as he had forgotten a hundred
others?

No. He was seriousiy in love with her. It was not a
good love—passion had quite mastered him, and it urged
him on to any sacrifice. He dared not breathe a word
except in perfect honor, for fear of losing her at once and
forever, and he could not give her up.

“Is there no way by which we might be happy?” he
asked, sitting by her side. ‘No way by which we might
have many such days? Yousee we must meet secretly,
Fanny, for your sake a8 well asmine. If my father heard
we were together, he would dismiss yours at once, and
do all in his power to injure him, I am sure—and we
should quarrel, J should, perhaps, leave home. I would
rather risk it than lose you.”

“We had better not meet again, Mr. Falkland; it cannot
come to good.”

“You had better not say so, unless you want to come to
harm. Swiftly as the day has gone, it has been an age of
pleasure tome. Hour by hour I have been losing myself
more hopelessly. I would not let you know you have ac-
quired all this power, if I were not sure that it gladdened
you to know it. Yesterday I planned this holiday for
pastime, the mere enjoyment of a pretty girl’s company—

 

 

 

with the zest of novelty added in the Way we spend our
holiday. To-day I feel as if we have been lovers for years;
and, if I were free, I would ask you to be my wife at
Cs?

owand repent it ever afterward,’”’ said Fanny, quietly.
She could be calm when she saw him moved. “I have
heard of such things before, Mr. Falkland. A rich and
educated man with a poor, untaught wife. Your friends
would sneer at me—you yourself would tire of me.”

“A man does not marry for his friends.”

“But he must study them. Look at my family connec-
tions and yours,” :

Percy winced. She was trying him hard.

“A man does not marry his wife’s family connections,
Fanny.??

“But he cannot separate her from them forever.”

“He would not wish to, were he kind; but these things
find their level. Families are divided in the natural way;
the sons marry, and the wives agree pleasantly to detest
each other with the bitterest cordiality, and so keep the
brothers separate; the daughters marry, and the hus-
bands disagree. The entrance of a stranger into any
family isthe entrance of an element of separation and
dissension. A man’s private circle nearly comprises
much of his wife’s as his own family. The safest and
most pleasant friends are strangers.”’

“A very selfish idea, Mr. Falkland.”

“T don’t know. Strangers meet and are drawn to-
gether by sympathy. ‘There is no obligation in their lik-
ing; they are not expected to be enraptured with each
other as persons are between whom there is a tie of blood
or marriage. Their friendship lasts the longer for being
untrammelled, and, if broken, it is broken with little
pain. We, for instance, if married, could live out of
town—at asafe distance trom our family friends. The
length of the journey would test their affection, and they
would not come often.”

“The difference between us is too wide,” said Fanny,
thoughtfully. She could picture what kind of treatment
her.working brother would receive from Percy’s friends.

“We will think of that afterward,” said Falkland,
pressing her hand. ‘Let us be happy while we may; it
is a weakness to leave the golden present, and look for
coming shadows.”?

They went back to town late in the evening. Both were
reluctant to leave the cosy apartment by the quiet starlit
Yiver. Percy planned other excursions before they
parted—afternoon amusements and evening strolls in
places where there was no danger of his being recog-
nised. He was more deeply in love than ever; his pas-
sion placed him at her mercy.’

Fanny grew very tired of her home. The maternal eye
was too sharp for her; the domestic arrangements did
not leave her sufficient liberty of action. She had to in-
vent pretexts for going out so frequently at unusual
times, and her mother began to grow suspicious. Once
when Fanny was going out in the afternoon to meet Percy
in the old place of rendezvous she ran against Fred
Crosby in his working dress.

Poor Fred had been treated coldly of late. She would
never go for a walk withhim. He was quite amazed in
the present instance to see her sweep past him with her
eyes fixed in a directly opposite direction. She would
have gone on without giving him a chance of speaking, had
not the lace trimming of her mantle caught on the point
of an umbrella that an eccentric old gentleman, in rusty
black, carried under his arm.

A smart young draper, whom a long course of counter
training had endowed with a certain sort of grace, was
the first to offer assistance, but Frea coolly pushed him
aside, and extricated Miss West. She had to thank him,
though her cheeks were crimson with annoyance.

“Thank you, Fred,’ she said, not taking his hand. He
had been at work,and it would have soiled her gloves.
‘T am in such haste.”

“You generally are when you see me,’ said Crosby,
sadly—‘‘especially lately. If you want to break it off, and
have got somebody else, why say so, and I will bear it;
but don’t treat me like this for no case whatever.”

“Break what off??? she asked, almost sternly.
ig nothing to be broken between us, I am sure.’?

“Then you are avery altered girl; for I know every-
body thought it was all right with us, andl know you
understood that. was what was meant. It isn’t right,
Fanny. You ought to have behaved better to a fellow.”

Fanny went on with a gesture of impatience, and Fred

made no attempt to stay ner. He was proud in his way;
and the handsome young carpenter knew that he wasa
favorite with the girls of Lambeth. But there was only
one Fanny West. :
Singularly enough, when he reflected on the time that
her coldness began; he remembered the scene in the
builder’s yard when Fanny first saw Percy. The younger
Mr. Falkland associated himself in some way with Fan-
ny’s absence from home this morning.
“T wonders where she’s going, and who she meets?”
Fred thought, with a want of regard for the Lindley Mur-
raylan rules that were prevalent in the district. ‘I have
half a mind to see.”?

lt did not strike him that he was doing anything mean
or wrong in following her. Fanny might be going to
meet some one from whom she was better away, in which
case it was clearly Fred’s duty to interfere.

“T don’t think muchof that Emily White,” he medi-
tated; ‘‘she’s flighty, and I don’t like her style. Them
two girls goes out together a deal two often lately, and
perhaps Miss White isn’t too good an adviser.”?

There was no love lost apparently between Fred and
Emily. She called him old sobersides, and said she would
as soon keep company with an undertaker’s mute. Se-
cretly she liked him better than he was ever likely to
know.

Emily White had been the innocent scapegoat, to a
great extent recently. Fanny was out nearly every day
at some time or other, and Fred Crosby began to marvel
at the pertinacity with which his offers to meet them
were rejected,

“Ten to one,”’ he said, as he followed Fanny, “it’s some
half sort sort of swell she’s met with Emily. If itis, and
I see him, he shall have a bit of my mind.’’

Fred did see him. There was ahansom cab outside
the Gallery in Trafalger Square. It had just driven up,
and Crosby saw Percy Falkland spring from it as Fanny
approached. He saw them shake hands, enter the vehi-
cle, and they whirled past him as he stood on the curb-
stone, motionless with astonishment.

They saw him. Fanny shrank back into the corner.
Percy muttered an execration.

“Did he see us, do you think ?”? asked Falkland.

“TY am afraid he did.”

“Confound him! But he will not dare say a word ‘for
fear of leaving his work. There would be the deuce to
pay if he did.”

“I do not think he would say anything.’ said Fanny.
‘He is avery good-natured young man, and would not in-
jure me.”’

Things were coming to a crisis now. The elder Falk-
land had accepted a contract fora great engineering
work on the German borders, and Percy was to superin-
tend it. He was a good linguist and a clever engineer, and
the work was to commence soon.

He had already hinted at a quiet marriage, to be kept
secret from their friends. Fanny was very tired of her
humble home, with its humiliating cares and labor. She
was negligent too, and Mrs. West scolded her well for it.
Fanny’s pride suffered severely at her mother’s hands.
No one sympathized with her in Falkland-row.

“There are plenty of facilities now,’ said Percy.
“Marriage is an easy civil ceremony. I have only to
register Our Dames one day, and then appear with you
three weeks hence at the office of the registrar. There
are no old-fashioned formalities of banns and licenses;
in fact, Fanny, we are almost married.”

Miss West looked at him in wonder.

“See,’? he said, producing a printed slip, ‘here is the
copy of the registration. 1 went for it this morning.??

To Fanny it was a mystery that such a thing could be.
There was a contract of marriage before her eyes; her
name coupled with his, and obtained without her know-
ledge. They were to appear within one-and-twenty days
at the office of the registrar, 4

“There

 

CHAPTER IV.
GONE.

Fred Crosby did not mention what he had seen. It
Was a cruel blow to him; but his chief concern was Fanny
West. He knew young Falkland’s character, and looked
upon her as lost already.

He did not return to work that day, and was severely
talked to by old Bill West in consequence. He did not
care—he could not; he was so disappointed, so despair-
ing. For the first time in his life, Fred haunted a tavern
from mid-day till night, picking up any idle associate
who was willing to drink with him, and seeking refuge
in the worst solace open to him.

Most people have a little world of their own—a small
circle round which they revolve with the regularity of
the earth’s motion. Fred had certain haunts where he
was in the habit of meeting certain of his mates—taverns
in which friendly clubs and harmonic meetings were held.
It is odd and hard that the poor man can neither benefit
nor epjoy himself without giving profit to the publican!

Fred being out of temper with Fanny, himself, and the
world, stopped away from his usual haunt and went a
little further off. He was seen by a neighbor, who told
Mrs. West, and Mrs. West told her husband.

Old Bill went down to the Red Lion, and found Freda
Crosby leaning over the bar with a glass of ale in his
hand. He was rather confused when he first saw West
but he soon recovered himself. :

‘Have some ale with us, Mr. West ?!? :

“) make it a rule to drink at home.
all the same. I came in just in time.
with you.”

“He’s come to take you home,” said one of Fred’s boon
companions. “Go with him, like a good little boy.’

“Perhaps if you was a little more at home, and a little
less here, your wife and children would look the better
for it,” said ole Bill West. ‘It’s very well for you, with
plenty of beer and ’bacca, talking about politics and
never thinking of the little ’uns at home. l’ve seen such
as you before to-day.”

The man was silent.
laugh was against him. -

“Now, lad, you are coming with me. There’s some-
body at home, f dare say, you will be glad to see.”

“Not Fanny?’ said Fred, expectant. ;

“Never mind who. You come and gee.
she say to see you in this state?’

Crosby crushed the glass into fragments on the counter.

“Why, she wouldn’t care a bit—not she. She may come
to worse with my betters. But ”

“Hush, now. The drink’s talking, Fred, or you would
not say such things. Now, come along.’

He partly persuaded and partly pulled the young man
out. Tne cool air sobered Fred, and he put his hand to
his brow as if to collect his thouglits. He had not gone
twenty yards with West before he heard a familiar foot

Fred, thank you
I want a few words

West had hit him home, and the

What would

 

 

step behind him,

 

3 YO H K

It was Fanny going home.

“Mr. West,’’ he said, with a sober earnestness of tone
and manner that startled the foreman by its suddenness,
‘just go on in front a bit, and let me follow on with
Fanny. Ihave a word or two to say to her.??

West went on; remarking to his daughter that “it was
rather late for her to be out.” She was pale, and trem-
bled with the fear that Fred had told of her.

He had been drinking, but she did not know it,
though she saw a strangeness in him. The quieter phase
of intoxication was unknown to her.

“T suppose,’’ she said, her lip curling, ‘‘you have told
father everything.”

“Not a word, my girl,’? he answered, more in sorrow
than anger. “Iam not one to make mischief. I hope
your own sense will keep you in the right way; for you
must know that he can mean you no good.”?

“T cannot talk with you on this subject,’ she said,
haughtily. She had begun to adopt Percy’s style uncon-
sciously. ‘You have no right to speak to me about it,
Mr. Crosby.’

‘““*Mr. Crosby’,’? he repeated, bitterly. ‘It used to be
Fred before you got your head turned in the work-room,
and went cut with those dressed-up images. It’s a bad
finish to your folly, this going out with your father’s
master’s son. I meant you well, Fanny. I shall not bea
journeyman all my life. There’s my father’s shop, and
he’d be glad for me to go now.”’

Miss West smiled in derision, ay if she could care for
the master of a workshop when she was nearly married
to a gentleman. : :

“fam sorry you think about me,” she said, to soften
him. “I thought we were friends merely, just as you
might be with any other girl. I always thought you
cared most for Susan Brooks or Emily White.”

“Emily White,’ he said, impatiently. ‘‘Whatis she or
Susan to me? Susan belongs to Bill, and Emily White
might goto Jericho forme. I wanted you, Fanny, and
you only. You know that very well.”’

“T am very sorry, Fred. Iam, indeed,”

“What's the use of being sorry? Why not give up
thinking of Mr. Percy? I would look over it even now.”

“Thank vou,” she said, sarcastically. ‘I don’t think I
‘shall require your forgiveness. I am my own mistress,
Mr. Crosby. You can make mischief at home if you like.
l shall leave if you do, that’s all.’?

“As if I would,” he said, reproachfully. ‘They shall
not hear a word from me. But I will save you if I can,
in spite of yourself.”

“That means that you will play the spy.’?

“No; butI will talk to Mr. Percy.”

“And be discharged,’? she sneered.

“{ intend to discharge myself, so that I may talk to
him,’ he replied, with a resolved composure that alarmed
her. ‘I have a good character, Fanny, and there’s plenty
of work. There’s my father’s shop at any rate—so I am
quite independent of Falkland. He shall know what I
think of him.??

“And 1f you say a word to him, I shall never speak to
you again. How can you be so mean, so ungenerous? I
am ashamed of you!’

“I hope you will never have reason to be ashamed of
yourself,’? he said, with asigh, and then Fanny took her
hand from his arm. They were at her father’s door, and
she went in without saying good night,

“Where’s Fred?’ asked her father.

“Outside. I hope he will stay there.”

“The lad is a little wrong to-night,” said West; “but I
believe it’s your fault. You shouldn't play with a good
heart, my girl.”

“T don’t want him nor his heart either.”

Fanny, like too many young ladies of her kind, did not
show the most amiable side of her character at home.
She went straight upstairs, and did not come down again.

“Never mind ner,” said West. ‘Come in, my boy. You
will make it up to-morrow.”

To his surprise Fred Crosby stood in the doorway
with his face toward the street, and the sleeve of his
jacket to his eyes.

“Why, what’s the matter?” asked the carpenter, readily
touched at the sight of sorrow. “She will be all right,
by-and-by.””

“Not she,” said Fred, dashing his tears away. “I was
first a fool to be played with when she had nobody else,
and now I care nothing.” :

“Come in,”? coaxed West. “I will bring her down.”

“It’s nouse. I have seen more to-day than I shall tor-
get in twenty years. I don’t care for anything. I am
jast about broken down, and don’t care what becomes of
me.

He strode away almost sobbing. Old Bill West followed,
trying to persuade him to goin; but Fred went straight
to his lodging, and had his simple grief out vy himself.
He sat nearly all night with his elbows en his knees and
his chin between his hands, smoking a pipe rather for
the sake of having something to grina between his teeth
than for solace. He went to work in the morning, and was
regular throughout the week, but on the Saturday he gave
warning.

Two days before his time was up, Fanny disappeared,
leaving a note behind to say that she was married and
with her husband, but she could not give his name yet.
They were not to make any attempt to follow or find her;
it would be useless, and only have the effect of sending
her further away.

There. were wretched days of search and wretched
weeks of anxiety at the house in Falkland row. ‘The car-
penter was bowed with shame and sorrow; his wife wept
bitterly night after night, and both surmised the worst.
Fanny was their pride—their pet. ane) Said they could
never look honest people in the fag# again. Young Bill
West swore thatif he ever found the villain he would
have his life. ;

Fred Crosby did not say a word when he heard of it.
A savage calmness seemed to settle on his face, and he re-
gistered a mental threat against somebody. He shook
hands with his mates and old Bill West-at pay-time on the
last day of his stay at Falkland’s yard.

“She may as well be gone for ever as for a day,’ he
said to the foreman; ‘but stil] I will find her for you, Mr.
West. Whoever has taken her away shall do her justice.’

 

CHAPTER V.
SUNSHINE,

Fred Crosby was an altered man from the time of Fan-
ny’s disappearance. He grew reckless, and would absent
himself for days from his lodging; he drank hard, and
broke into the little store of money he had saved when he
thought Miss West would marry him.

He did not attempt to get work for a week or more, but
hung about Falklaud’s yard waylaying Percy, watching
and following him, in the hope of finding out where Fanny
was. Fred had no doubt that the girl was with the build-
er’s son, but he could not discover the hiding-place.

Percy baffled him. He was on his guard against Fred,
and led him many an unsuccessful chase. He generally
went away in a cab, and for a few times Fred followed
him in another. But the contest did not last; the young
carpenter proved it too expensive. The rich man found
it easy to defeat the poor one when money was the only
weapon necessary.

Percy was very kind to old Bill West, sympathized with
him most feelingly, and offered to assist him in the search.
West was touched to the heart by his daughter’s conduct.
He had to endure the sneers of uncharitable neighbors,
who said “it was just what they expected. Girls who
went flaunting about, dressed out in that way, were sure
tocome to harm. They were not a bit surprised. It all
came of poor men putting high notions into their child-
ren’s heads,’? etc,

“Five-and-twenty years,’ said the carpenter, with much
emotion, “have I held up my head in Falkland-row,
working hard to bring up my family honestly, and giving
them—me, and missus, too—the best example. It was a
cruel thing, whoever did this wrong to a poor man’s
child, and I hope the Lord will punish him.!”

Falkland winced at that. The rough old man’s solemn
wish fell upon him like a cloud, and he was troubled by re-
morse,

“But how do you know she has been wronged?” asked
Percy. ‘Did she not say she was married ?””

“Yes, she said so; but, if it's true, why don’t she bring
her husband home, if she is not ashamed of him? No,
sir; she’s a@ wretched, Jost girl, and the man who has
made her so is @ rascal—a cruel rascal. Don’t you think
he must be???

“Well, if it is‘as you think, he must be,’ said Percy, se-
riously. ‘‘But my own opinion is that your daughter is
too good a girl to have fallen into error.”

Old Bill shook his head.

“Do you ever hear from her?’ Falkland inquired.

“Mother day a letter came, telling us she was happy,
and we were not to fret about her. She sent us a five-
pound note, with her love; and there it is put away, be-
cause we could not send it back, she putting no address,
you see, sir. Where’s she to get five-pound notes, if she
comes by them properly ???

‘From her husband, I should say.’’

“He’d have to be a rich man to give her five-pound
notes to send home. And what rich man would marry a
child of mine? !f he is all right, why don’t he come for-
ward like a. man, instead of stealing her away like a
sneaking thief? I wish Icould find him. Old asIam, I
would break every bone in his body, if I got six months

or it!

“Six months would be a very moderate punishment for
breaking every bone in a man’s body,’ said Percy, with
& Suppressed smile. ‘I should not judge too hastily, if I
were you, Mr. West. Take the girl’s word, and believe
the best. There may be circumstances that prevent the
acknowledgment of his marriage.”

“Then it ought not to have taken place—ii it has taken
place. How can she be happy if her husband is ashamed
to own her?”?

“Your's is the hard matter-of-fact view, Mr. West,
Young people do strange. things, you know, for love is
not the wisest teacher in the world. Now, I have a friend
who has married a poor girl—just such @ girl as Fanny.”

“And run away with her???

“Yes. And he will be obliged to keep it secret till his
father dies, for fear of being disinherited.’’

‘More shame for him. It’s a pretty thing for a young
gentleman to marry and be wishing for his father to die.
It’s sinful, I call it!”

“My friend does not wish for his father to die,’ said
Percy, provoked into a smile at West’s sturdy obsinacy.
“It is only a matter of prudence to keep the secret.?’

“Is it @ matter of prudence to give the poor girl’s
mother and father the heart-ache, make her little sisters
cry about her, and her brothers ashamed of her? Lama
poor man and a plain one, Mr. Percy, and perhaps I give
offence, but to me it seems a wicked thing.”

“There may be no wicked intention, West.”’

“But then itis intention, whether or not. Look at our
case, and wnat it has done for us, All the gossips in the
street point at mecoming out and goingin. Iam ten
years older ina month than I was, and my missus has

 

got no heart for anything.??
‘fam sorry for you, West,”? said the young man, sin-

 

 

cerely; ‘‘but I must say you take it too heavily. You had
better believe the best. Accept my view of it, and wait
for the day to come when she can tell the truth.’

The old man only shook his head in reply. He could
not see anything to hope for.

Percy was sorry for him. In the first glow of his own
happiness he could feel for the misery he caused the
workman, though he wondered at West taking it to heart
so keenly.

“One would think such people would be satisfied with
the knowledge that she is well and happy,’’ he meditated,
“I thought the five-pound note would set them at rest,’
with the hope of more.”’

He smiled then, as if greatly amused.

“Virtuous poverty is not all stage clap-trap, it seems.
This sturdy old Briton is as honest as the most conven-
tional lover of honesty could wish. But what a father-in-
law, if ever I have to make myself known !””

The builder’s son had plenty of liberty. He was allowed
town apartments, and a liberal income. The elder Mr.
Falkland was satisfied if he saw his son and heir at the
family residence near Penge once or twice a week. Percy
pleaded the necessity of study and the facilities offered
by the metropolitan societies. As he displayed continual
improvement, Mr. Falkland was contented. ;

A cab took Percy from the yard to a pretty semi-
detached villa near St. John’s wood. Fred Crosby was,
as usual, on his track. He was leaning against a lamp-
post, with his hands in his pockets, and he scowled bit-
terly at his latemaster’sson. Percy gave him a moment’s
regretful thought. He knew the cause af the change in
the young carpenter. Fred had been dissipated ever
since Fanny’s disappearance. He hated the rich with all
his might, talked of them as the oppressors and destroy-
ers of the poor, and would have made one in any wild
political scheme for the abolition of things in general and
the establishment of a democracy. :

Fanny sat at the window watching for her husband.
He had taken every precaution to prevent discovery, and
they lived there as Mr. and Mrs. Percy. They were very
happy as yet. Fanny knew nothing of the sorrow at
home. Falkland made up pleasant fictitious conversa-
tions, which he related to her as having taken place be-
tween himself and her father. He represented that the
old man was perfectly at peace concerning her, that he
accepted his explanation, and believed all would come
well in the end.

The villa was luxuriously furnished. There were books
and music, and works of art—everything to cultivate the
inherent taste of the workman’s daughter. She spent
her time wisely when Percy was absent; taught herself to
speak with purity and elegance, to play and sing, so that
she might be fit for her position when the time came that
he could acknowledge her.

She rose to open the door for him; met him with a kiss
of welcome, and they went into the drawing-room hand
in hand. Percy had been a better man since he married.
He lost the taste for the wild and questionable pleasures
with which he had passed away his evenings before. He
could not quite keep from them; but Fanny was in bliss-
ful ignorance of the fact that the fair young husband
whom she so adored passed many an hour in reckless
dissipation when she thought he was at Penge. She had
unbounded faith in him; the first seeds of distrust were
not yet sown.

One old, uncomfortable proverb was falsified. in his
case. He had married—urged by passion into haste—
but repentance did not come. Had Fanny been less
sensible, they would have been wretched; but she made
herself a companion for him. He could converse with
her, and not be wearied by a tedious ignorance or want
of sympathy. She cultivated tastes that assimilated with
his own; was Careful to suppress those that he considered
reprehensible in any degree.

There were little errors of speech to be corrected, slight
solecisms that offended his ear, and he taught her to avoid
them. ‘She was a willing scholar. Love made him a
gentle monitor, her a gentle pupil.

He found that the tie did not fetter him, and so he
never worried. Henever saw her brow clouded: never
heard her tone complaining. He came and went when
he chose, and’she let him go in perfect faith; welcomed
him with pleasure. Sometimes, when he looked into the
future, he was eager for the coming of the day when he
could claim her before the world. The only unpleasant
things in the background were the carpenter father, the
not over-refined mother, the carpenter brother, the boy
at the cheesemonger’s, and the boy giving away hand-
bills at the cheap clothier’ss Percy contemplated with
horror the possibility ofrunning against a juvenile broth-
er-in-law with a basket of eggs and butter on his back.

“I might find something better for them to do,’ he
thought, when the remembrance troubled him. ‘But
there is plenty of time to think of it. The future can be
left to take care of itself.”

The fear of being found out lessened as time wore on.
He grew more Careless, and took Fanny about with less
reserve. Occasionally he was seen with her by his ac-
quaintance, and they rallied him about her, putting their
own evil constructions on the association. He had to
laugh with them, and s0 accept the unmanly imputation
that disgraced him.

Fanny knew nothing of these things. She had the villa
for her home, and only Perey for company. Her re-
sources were lier books, her music, and the small con-
servatory that was exquisitely filled. There. were times
when she longed to see her parents, and the old place in
Falkland-row, when she pictured the familiar tea-table,
with all its loving associations, and wished herself with
them. But she had to check the wish for Percy’s sake.

There was one haunting: fear—the hour of approaching
separation. The time was drawing near for Percy to
Start for the German borders with his gang of artizans, to
carry out the contract undertaken by his father. He had
hinted at attempting to smuggle her over with him; but
recently he had grown cool upon his own projection—
there was the risk, he said. :

(fo be Continued).

 

WHO

Owned the Jewels?

OR, THE

Heiress of the Sandal-Wood Chest.

Mrs. M. V.. Victor,

Author of “THE DEAD LETTER,”
“PIGURE EIGHT.”

es

PART Il—THE BARON’S JEWELS.

(‘Who Owned the Jewels’? wascommenced in No. 49. Back
Nos. can be obtained of any News Agent in the United States.

 

 

CHAPTER II.
A TERROR TAKING SHAPE.

It was some three weeks after the crisis in Mr. Cather-
wood’s affairs had been triumphantly passed, owing to
the assistance received through Oliver Grey. The family
had returned to their house on Madison square. The
banker was making money from the misfortunes of others,
since the confidence inspired by the manner in which his
bank had stood the run upon it was the means of throw-
ing far more than the ordinary amount of business into
his hands.

Camilla was more than ever convinced that a Cather-
would could not getinto serious trouble. If she wanted
money she was quite confident the skies would open and
rain it down. They had done so, to serve her father. At
least, quite as much of a miracle had happened.

A penniless artist had come forward with a magnificent
loan, which he still refused to receive back, but insisted
should be put out at interest for the benefit of her cousin
Ethel. Should her father ever again be on the point of
failing it would not surprise her to have Mrs, Dill, or the
man who put in coals, step up and offer a half million of
doliars! It was, really, not strange that the Catherwoods
were puzzled and astonished alike by Oliver’s having the
money to lend, and by his insisting that he had hela it in
trust for Ethelda. When they wanted to be grateful and
to pay him a bonus, after the fashion of brokers, he had
refused both the thanks and the bonus, repeating that he
had come into possession of some trust-money for Miss
Ashleigh, and that the loan must-be repaid to her; and
that he deserved not the least consideration in the mat-
ter beyond that accorded to any mere agent.

They could not half believe this, and yet there was no-
thing else offered as a solution of the problem. The result
of the atfair was, that Ethelda received and laid away in
her jewel-casket a certificate of deposit of a hundred
thousand dollars, on which she was to draw interest at
the usual rates. To have means of her own, to dispose of
as she pleased, was a gift of the fairies to her—she could
never believe in its reality, look at the wonderful certi-
ficate as much as she might. It was a relief to no longer
feel so utterly dependant, and a source of pride and plea-
sure that her efforts to save her uncle had been effectual.
Eyer since that day of harrowing suspense, when he had
tottered on the brink of bankruptcy, and she had caught
him back, he had treated his nlece with a great increase
of affection. ;

His health was Very much shattered by the excitement
of those days; he remained at home a great deal, and
Ethel was more like a daughter to him than his own child,
as she hung about him with aifectionate assiduity, happy
in the chance of tending his little ailments. Perhaps
Camilla would have done as much had she found the
time. But Camilla was busy. Every moment was pre-
engaged. Upon Mr. Catherwood’s. young and_bril-
liant heiress society made a thousand demands. There
was shopping, and the dressmakers, before she could ever
begin her serious duties of making and receiving visits,
and going out of evenings. It is true that Ethel was
not slighted; she had her full share of fashionable dissi-
pation; but she was not made foraleader. It was Camilla
who selected their dresses, ordered their hats, and decid-
ed where they should or should not go. Sothat Ethel
gained a great many quiet hours to pass with her books
and her uncle, while her cousin could find no leisure. _

Mr. Scranton was away off on the western prairies, with
George, and a party of young Canadian bloods, hunting
buffaloes, through the gorgeous October weather—sweep-
ing lixe the wind, over immense plains, sleeping in tents,
broiling bison-steaks at the end. of sticks, admiring the
grandeur of the scenery, longing and fearing a tilt with
the red skins, and enjoying life with a relish more piquant
than it had ever before been spiced with.

Mr. Lytton had been urged to join the expedition; but
he was too dainty for such rude exposure to sun and rain,
and afraid of Indians; he foresaw an opportunity of
pushing his suit with Miss Catherwood in the absence of

 

 

Cr

CRIA EOE

his English rival; so wisely concluded to remain at
home and act as the beauty’s cavalier. She would need
some one in the absence of her brother.

Mr. Scranton had quite urged Oliver to make one of
their company. George had also insisted upon it, growing
angry, and declaring that Oliver’s conduct, of late, was
unaccountable—mysterious, obstinate, and unfriendly—.
when he found that the artist was earnest in his refusal.

Oliver greatly desired to go. The romance and wild
character of the expedition suited his tastes; there was a
fascination in the pictures drawn by his fancy of the
broad prairies and wide horizons of the West; but he had
resolved to withdraw from association with those whose
means were so much larger than his own.

He csuld only go, by making a raid upon the box of
gold still left in the chest; and whenever he went there
to help himself to this ample fund something more power-
ful than his own wishes drew him away. Always, when
he thought of Camilla’s conduct, he would say to himself
that he would use the gold—would allow the belief to
spread that he had received a fortune, by will, from some
relative—and would dash out into extravagant expendi-
tures which should convince all who had slighted him
that he was an equal on their own ground. ce

And yet he could not touch the money. Believing it to
have delonged to Ethelda Ashleigh’s grandfather, honor
prompted him to go to her with the whole story, confess
and make restitution. It was only because he was not
quite certain of her claims, that he dallied and delayed
as he did. There seemed to hima sort of poetic justice
in making a former Catherwood’s fortune save a present
Catherwood from ruin. So far, he was satisfied. As
for the rest, he felt inclined to wait, Knowing thatit was
in his power at any time to give up all to Miss Ashleigh
and himself to come out as a man of wealth. oe

However, this was not all which prevented his going
out West on the grand buffalo-hunt.. Things were not
going so smoothly as he could wish in the little
family of which he wasa member. He could but notice
the grave anxiety expressed by Wiil’s demeanor; the
traces of frequent tears on Leora’s cheeks, which grew
paler with every week. é

He felt that a harrowing fear was wringing the hearts
of these two children; and he could no more desert them
in their wretchedness than as if they were his brother
and sister. .Poor Mrs. Duleth remained about the same;
a little stronger, on account of the cool weather, an¢
much happier for the change and variety afforded her by
her friendship with the young artist; and, as yet, entirely
unsuspicious of the disastrous termination which tnreat-
ened her union with a man who had commanded her es-
teem and love despite his ill-success in the battle of life.

Oliver, keen as well as kind in his observations, saw
the whole movement of the tragedy playing in the small
household. Weknew what dread filled the affectionate
hearts of the son and daughter,—worse still, he knew
they had good reason for that dread. It came slowly
but certainly upon his conviction that Mr. Duleth was in-
sane. That his brain was giving away under the long
strain and pressure of care and poverty, rendered more
fatal by many sleepless vigiis passed at his wife’s bed-
side, and his ten long years of anxiety for her.

It was pitiful! It was most sad and pitiful! The artist’s
own eyes would fillas he noted Leora’s wistful, tender
glances constantly watching her father—her almost wild
jooks when Mr. Duleth would do or say something which
she felt must betray his situation to this comparative
stranger.

Yet shehad no reason to doubt the artist’s sympathy.
She did feel his presence in the house a great comfort;
besides, she dared not dismiss him, since the money paid
for his board went so far toward supporting them and
providing her mother with necessaries. But, oh, it was
hard! How could any but his own children know to what
torture their poor, patient father had been subjected, be-
fore his mind—so noble, aspiring and delicate—began to
totter and tremble in the blasts of adversity like some
crumbling tower shaken bv winter winds?

Oliver thought it would be better for all parties to have
the subject fully discussed between Leora, Will and him-
self. But as long‘as they hung back he did not like to
introduce it. He saw that Mrs. Duleth had not yet per-
ceived her husband’s condition.

So harmless and quiet did Jonn Duleth appear in his
eccentricities that Will was not troubled by fears. of per-
sonal violence; neither did Mr. Grey see any reason for
constraining this gentle and inoffensive person who only
betrayed his insanity by an occasional address of look
and wandering of speech. If they had considered him at
all unsafe they would have prevented his visits to his
wife; but this perfectly helpless woman lying there on her
bed still smiled and welcomed her husband, unconscious
of danger to herself.

Only one of all these watchers was afraid. That was
Leora. Since the day when the glowing eyes had laughed
at her over the crucible she hau watched her father, as @
cat watches a mouse, and she had learned to be afraid.
Not so much for herself as for two others—her mother
and Mr. Grey.

lt was a wearing, wasting, terrible thing, this constant
surveillance over her own father! No one dreamed of it.
They saw that black shadows lay about the sweet, brown
eyes; that the habitual droop of the tender mouth grew
sadder; that the eyelids were stained with tears, and the
young cheek paler than its wont; that she seemed weary
and drooping over her task. But none knew how, in ad-
dition to the burdens of the day, there were sleepless
vigils every night—long, wakeful, dreadful hours passed
in keeping guard over the welfare of others. For Mr.
Duleth, who had occupied a hall bed-room near his wife’s
ever since her becoming bed-ridden, deceived all in the
house, except his daughter, as to his hours of rest. He
would go to bed at 10 o’clock; and when the other in-
mates slept would rise again, uress himself, go down to
his office, or wherever the mood prompted, with noise-
less tread, and cunning, shining eyes, and there, through
lovg hours, remain restless, and plotting strange conceits,
until, at three or four o’clock he would creep back to his
room—and not till then did Leora ciose her eyes.

Ah! she had watched him, listening at key-holes, striding
up and down the halls with long, hyena-like, but silent
steps, opening doors, closing them—going through
strange performances in the office—and she grew horri-
bly afraid.

An insane person requires but little sleep. Leora,
young, and with the labor of the house and the care of
her mother devolving upon her, required a great deal.
These unnatural vigils were sapping her strength more
than she realized, although conscious that her endurance
was taxed to the utmost.

She Knew that if she confided her task of watching to

| others they would at once propose that Mr. Duleth should

be sent to an asylum. She had not yet learned so to fear
him as to make this suggestion welcome. Such a time
was to come; but now love fought every inch of the
ground to that hated last resource.

Ifit had been herself who was in danger she would
have died before she made a sign; but her father ap-
peared divided between her mother’s room and Mr.
Grey’s, in his midnight prowlings.

That he meditated personal harm to either she had no
proof. Through the day he was unusually devoted to his
wife; his solicitude seemed to Leora, whom anxiety made
suspicious, too great to be natural;j to her it foreboded
something sinister and concealed.

The fact of the artist having in his room the brass-
bound chest accounted for Mr. Duleth’s constant attempts
to enter it at night. He was possessed by strange fancies
about the chest. His disappointment at the disappear-
ance of the treasure for which he looked had doubtless
assisted at the catastrophe of his overthrown reason;
therefore that the chest should enter into his mad specu-
lations was to be expected.

Mr. Grey was in the habit of locking his door when he
retired, so that Leora felt less alarm for him than for her
feeble mother, to whose room her father had always free
access.

Night after night the madmanicrept to the artist’s door,
listened, turned the handle, picked at the lock and re-
tired, baffled. He never made the least sound during
these stealthy visits. Twenty times at least Leora had
followed him into her mother’s chamber, and found him
standing by her bed, gazing at her with lurid, glittering
eyes. li it happened that Mrs. Duleth was awake, he
would speak in his most gentle voice, say “he thought he
heard her calling him,” and retire. If she were asleep
he would stand twisting his restless fingers and moving
his soundless lips, undreaming that his faithful child stood
at the crack of the hall door watching his every gesture,
filled with dread, yet not certain that she had real cause
for fear.

From these excursions he invariably descended to the
office, where he kindled a fire in the furnace and busied
himself for hours with labor, which resulted in worse
than nothing, since he wasted large amounts of costly
chemicals, trying fantastic experiments. ;

There was a little slide opening between the kitchen
and the office, formerly used for taking away dishes from
the dining-room. This slide Leora had arranged so as
to allow her a glimpse of her father’s proceedings. She
could follow many of his movements, but not all; since if
she opened the slide too far his lynx eyes would be sure
to detect her. Here she stood through many a chilly
autumn night, for it was usually on his way up-stairs to
bed that he paid his visit to the artist’s door; and she,
ever dreading that some time he might find it unfastenea,
and enter, never relaxed her vigilance. It was not so
much that she thought her father would injure Mr. Grey,
as that she knew there would be some mortifying scene
of excitement, if not violence. She felt that it was the
chest which so infatuated her father’s imagination; many
times she resolved to ask Mr. Grey to take it away; and
still, sensitive and shy, to a fault, she put it off,

Sometimes all this weary night-work would seem to
her a dream—a night-mare, when her little breakfast
ready, Mr.Duleth came down among the first, fresh, smil-
ing, perhaps in one of his besttalking moods, carrying
himself so well that a thrill of her old pride in him would
return. Atthis time he talked miuch less about the
baron’s jewels and the family’s expected fortune, than he
had when his insanity first began to show itself.

Only when he was alone with Leora he would pour in
her ear a wild, absurd, ever-changing story, filling out the
blanks with mysterious smiles and vague hints; by means
of which she made out that he had at last discovered the
secret of transmuting ironinto gold, and that he only
wanted the great ruby brought from the Orient by the
Jew, and purchased by the agent of Baron Duleth, to
enable him to manufacture diamonds as large as pid-
geon’s-eggs, out of charcoal. He told her, over and over,
that she would soon be the richest lady in New York;
always, however, ending his glowing picture by asking
her if she would not, for her father’s sake, try to get the
great raby from Mr. Grey. ©

The poor child tried to answer his smiles with smiles as
gay, and to be interested in his marvellous tales of com-
ing splendors; telling him, coaxingly, that Mr. Grey
knew nothing about the great ruby, and that it was not

 

the baron’s chest at all, which the artist had in nis room.
To these assertions of his daughter, John Duleth would

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‘Teply by an indiscribable sly look, which meant more

than she could believe it did. :
And now, late in November, there were strange doings

‘In the mad assayer’s laboratory. Leora had long wonder-

“ed how her father kept himself supplied with chemicals,

which he so lavishly wasted every night, some of which
she knew were expensive. ‘

Now, every night, two crucibles were placed on the
intensest fire which the chemist could create, and their
contents subjected for a long time to the heat. From
both came strange flames—blue, green, and brilliant
white, so that the spy was constantly in fear that the
experimentor would burn himself and the house, and
-choke himself on noxious gases, which she sometimes
inhaled through the crevice where she stood guard. But
crazy a8 may have been some of the combinations made
by the mad chemist, and dangerous beyend what he in-
tended, it became certain to Leora, that each night, in
one of the'crncibles, giimmered a molten mass which had
all the appearance of melted gold—the other appeared
always to contain fiuid 1ron. What piqued her curiosity
almost beyond endurance was that when the hour arrived,
apparently for blending the two mixtures, the rest of the
operations were carried on in a corner removed from her,
range of vision—nor could she provide any loop-hole or
key-hole by which she might witness the final result of all
this bubbling, flamingand stewing. It usually consumed
about three-quarter’s-of-an-hour, during which sounds of
hammering, very soft, as of a small hammer carefully
used; the clinking of metal, the opening and shutting of
drawers, etc., took place, always in regular order; fol-
lowed by a putting in order of the office, and finally, by
her father’s creeping silently to the artist’s door and
thence, to bed and sleep. :

One morning Mr. Grey came to breakfast, silent and
pre-occupied. He just bowed to the family-group, but
volunteered none of his usual pleasant conversation.
There was a black cloud on_his frank face betokening
unmistakable displeasure. Leora saw it, and her heart
sank low. Nervous and worn-out, her bloom fast fading
under a strange, unhealthy blight, tortured by fears and
conjectures, which she bravely kept to herself, it was
more than she could bear to See Mr. Grey in such a mood.
He, their sole reliance, their only friend! Could it be
that her father had done some inexcuseable deed, despite
her vigilance? If so, surely Mr. Grey must see, must un-
derstand that—that he was not responsible.

As she handed him his second cup of coffee, he per-
ceived how her fingers trembled, and seeking her eyes,
saw that they were fullof tears, and meeting his with
such a look of pain and beseeching, as melted his anger
atonce. He made an effort to resume his usual friendly
manner, but it was evidently an effort. On the contrary,
Mr. Duleth was in one of his most delightful humors,
chatting on about an astronomical lecture reported in the
morning paper, and himself deliveriog a little lecture, as
agreeable as it was instructive.

After breakfact Mr. Grey returned to his room. Leora
Went about her work with a heavy heart. She wondered
what had occurred to displease the artist. She was not
left long in suspense, for her father went out fora walk
about ten o’clock, and he had no sooner gone than Mr.
Grey tapped at the kitchen door.

“Come in,” answered’ Leora, who was putting away
the flowered china’’she had washed, and whe turned, on
tip-toe, with her hand on the shelf above her head, as he
entered. Tne artist perceived the rounded outlines, the
attitude of a Grace, the delicate color springing to the
cheek, however the man was pre-occupied: He was
vexed and troubled; but it was not this young creature’s
fault—of that he was sure.

**Is your brother in, Miss Daleth ???

“Yes, Mr. Grey; he is in the office.’?

“May I cal) himin here? I-wish to consult you both
about something whieh has occurred.’! _

“Certainly,’? said Leora, and began to tremble,

The artist called Will from the adjoining room, and
then said:

‘“T have been robbed—in this house.”

*Robhed??? Will quickly asked, his girlish. brown eyes
expressing his surprise; ‘tof what, sir???

“Of money—gold.’?

“Wow? When? Nota large amount, I trust???

Before he answered, the artist directed an observing
glance at the girl, she had sank upon a chair, and her
face had grown ashen.

“Over forty-nine thousand dollars,’ he said, addressing
himself to Miss Duleth.

Still she said nothing; she only grasped the folds of her
dress'in her convulsed fingers and stared at him.

“I did not think you had so much money,’ said Will, in
dlunt astonishment.

“That is the worst of it, Will. The money was not mine.
ITheld itin trust for a friend. And I shall never, never
be able to repay itif it is not found. Come up to my
room, both of you, please, and I will show you where it
was kept. It must have been taken during my absence
in the day-time, for at night I always keep my door
locked. In fact, I usually take the key with me when 1
go out also. I was imprudent to keep the gold in my
room, I suppose; but this neighborhood is so quiet, and,
as I say, Ltake the precaution to lock up when I go out.
But come.’

-They followed him up to his room.

“The chest !?? Leora murmured; as he appreached and
opened 't, bidding them look in.

They a.d so, and saw inside the chest a smaller box, of
common pine wood, marked on the cover, *'$50,000, gold.”
Oliver raised the lid, and in the bottom lay five littie rolls
containing a hundred dollars. each—all that was left of
the fortune which had crowded it.

He had not gone to the chest for weeks until that morn-
ing. As he lay in bed, his glance resting on the chest, it
had occurred to him thatthe money-should be drawing
interest for somebody’s benefit, instead of hiding its light
under the bushel of the antique chest; acting upon this
wise Suggestion of his tardy common-sense, when dressed
he! went to take a look at the box, and found it—empty!—
save the five little rolls, whose presence only made the
absence of the rest more conspicuous.

‘It may have been gone a month, for all I know,’ said
Mr. Grey; ‘it is about that since I took my last look at
the stutf.. It’s a pest, anyhow! and I’m not certain but
what I should be glad to be relieved of the care of it.’

The light manner in which he affected to take his loss,
did not bring the color back to Leora’s face.

“You do not think any of us took it?» spoke Will Du-
leth, straightening himself, while his eyes flashed.

“TJ must think so,’?

The boy and the young man regarded one another;
there was combat in their looks; Leora saw her brother
raising his arm, while his cheek grew white, and throw-
ing herself upon his neck, she burst into tears.

‘Father must have done it, Will.” .

“Pather! commit robbery? Leora, what are you talk-
ing about???

“Not when he is in his right mind: He would die of
starvation sooner. Oh, Mr. Grey, you believe that, do
yon not?!

‘Yes, I do believe it, Miss Duleth.””

“But we all know the state he has been in of late. It
is useless to deceive ourselves or others. It would have
been better if we had discussed it freely long ago.  Per-
haps, then, this would not have. happened. Oh, Willie,
Willie, what shall we do???

She gave way to such a storm of tears and sobs, she
trembled so, her whole appearance gave evidence of such
acute distress of mind, the two were now dismayed.

“Don’t, don’t, Leora,’? whispered her brother, smooth-
ing the hair which broke over his shoulder as she clung
to his neck.

But she had been too sorely tried for too long a time to
ao herself at once when the floodgates were once

own.

*“Can’t you do something to stop her?’? asked the boy,
with an appealing looksat the artist. ‘I never saw my
sister give way to her troubles like this before.”’

Oliver took the poor child, trembling convulsively, in
his arms, so Strong and firm, sat her on his knee, laid her
head against his breast, kissed her forehead.

“Jyeora, I. am your brother. Your cause and your
father’s cause is mine. I made them so long ago. Don’t
let this accident trouble you any more than asif Will haa
lost the money. I know that your father is not responsi-
ble for his acts. There, there, there, stop crying, my
poor sister. Perhaps we can find the money. Itis hard-
ly possible he can have made way with it.’’

At this suggestion Leera raised her drooping head. It
was sweet for her to rest her aching, dizzy brow on that
broad breast—sweeter than the artist knew—O that she
could rest it there forever and be at peace! But sucha
solace was not for her. They must hasten, before Mr.
Duleth’s return, to search the office.

Leora remembered the crucibles and their nightly con-
tents, and took a little hope. The money might have
been—doubtless was—melted up; but it would be found,
and the gold could be re-coined.

 

CHAPTER III.
TWICE LOST.

The three descended to the office together. Leora 2x-
pected to discover the missing treasure, in one shape or
another, almost immediately, But she and her brother
ransacked the apartment without making any discovery.

Every drawer and box, bundle, bottle, and shelf was
examined. The furnace, the coal-scuttie, the threadbare
carpet—nothing escaped their anxious scrutiny.

“He may have secreted it in his own room,”’ said Leo-
ra, atlast. “J will run up and 1ook.??

She was gone about fifteen minutes, returning with
empty hands.

“It must be in the house,’ she exclaimed. “I hope
and pray he has not taken it away.”?

Oliver, who had taken no active part in the search, now
had his attention attracted to one of the crucibles. A
small bit of yellow substance ingrained with iron was
fastened to a rough spot on the edge of the vessel.

“This is gold,” he said, scratching it with his knife.

All gathered about the crucible with interest. Just then
& Shadow fell across the floor; Leora, who faced the win-
dow, looked up. Her father stood in the area bending
down and peering through the glass at the group within;
he was laughing, and his eyes shone with the crafty light
which had lately come tothem.

“Father is watching us,’’ she whispered, terrified, she
hardly knew why.

Mr. Duleth darted from the window and came in. His
motions were apt, now-a-days, to be abrupt.

“Well,” he said, coughing, ‘all of you trying chemical
experiments this morning ???°

_Leora and Will looked down; they had not much expe-
rience in disguising their feelings or motives. Mr. Grey
met the laughing eyes, glitterime with a certain cunning
triumph, with a look which mastered them, making them
flicker and waver. - ;

i ade were looking for something I have lost, Mr. Du-
eth,

“Lost? Lost? Don’t lose time in trying to avert the
inevitable. What we lose in this worldwve never find. I!

®
ws” SC

you have anything you prize. Mr. Grey, hold on to it with
the grip of death. Tne trouble with me has been that my
hands have lacked nerve—they never held on to their
own. But they are growing stronger,’? he murmured,
holding out his long, thin fingers, and working them.

“I admire your philosophy,.’’ said Oliver; “but how
about the money which has disappeared from my room ?
an you tell me whom to suspect of the robbery ??

‘*T can.

“Will you tell me, then???

The madman, turning, pointed his bony finger at his
questioner.

“The robber who stole the jewels from the body of Bar-
on Duleth.? ’

It was the artist's turn to be disconcerted; he bit his
lip and his color hightened. However, he managed to
respond:

' “f know that it was not he who took my money. Iam
not to be trifled with, Mr. Duleth. I shall dislike, very
much, to bring a police officer into the house, but I sup-
pose it must be done. The sum I have lost is larger than
I can afford to let go. But before I bring a detective, I
wish you would do what you can to find out if it ig stillin
the house.”

_ ‘I have wasted a lifetime in search of the unfindable.
Never mind your loss, Mr. Grey. Ishall-‘soon be rich, and
then I can give you everything you desire. Ionly lack
the ruby, and that I shallhave within twenty-four hours.
If the skull and bones would only stay buried where we
put them, Will, all would go well. But they confuse me,
walking about of nights, and watching me through the
slide. Always, always at the slide.”

He rubbed his hand across his forehead several times,
as if to clear away the cobwebs from his poor brain.

Oliver saw that Leora grew suddenly white, and sat
down in a chair to:prevent her failing limbs from giving
way. He did not Know, until she told him later in the
day, how she had watched her father through the slide,
supposing herself utterly unsuspected and unseen.

It dismayed her to discover thaé all this time the insane
man was aware of her observation, only clothing her in
the mold of a ghostly visitant.

“J shall never venture to do it again,’? she thought.

“Where do you Keep your great riches ?”’ asked Oliver,
coaxingly.

Mr. Duleth answered with a laugh.

Some one rang the area bell.

“Leora, the grocer has brought a half-dozen of quails.
Wave them broiled for dinner. Your mother said she
would like one; and don’t forget the toast—a slice under
each bird,”?

His daughter went out to attend to thegrocer. Mr. Du-
leth was growing extravagant in his orders; the grocer’s
basket was full of expensive dainties,

“Does my father pay for these when he orders them ?”?
she felt constrained to ask.

“Don’t know for certain, mum, butthink I heerd him
tell us to make out the bill at tie end o? the month,” an-
swered the boy.

The Duleths had always been so punctual in their pay-
ments, so scrupulous not to exceed their means, that this,
coupled with the knowledge that they had a good-paying
boarder, made the tradespeople willing to trust them,
Leora was apprehensive that her father, in his insane
projects, was making extravagant bills, to be: paid when
he should have found the baron’s ruby, or dare some oth-
er mad feat—either this, or he was paying for these things
with money taken from Mr. Grey. Either horn of the ai-
lemma looked sharp enough as she contemplated it.

After she went out, the others tried in vain to draw Mr.
Duleth into making some revelation. It might be that
he suspected their object; at allevents, his lips were seal-
ed. He would not even converse on indifferent subjects,
maintaining an obstinate silence, affecting to be very busy
with a microscope, until the artist withdrew, baffled.

Oliver returned to his room and sat down before his
easel. He took up his pallette and’ prepared his paints,
more from the force of habit than because he felt like
work.

“I do not see what is to become of them,’’ he reflected.
“The man grows madder every day. Iam confident that
he should be removed to an asylum. He might be cured,
with proper treatment. His insanity is the result of long,
slow, insidious fever—the fever of trouble and constant,
harrassing care—not only a struggle against want, but
long vigils by the bedside of that patient sufferer up-
stairs. : ‘

“What a mockery my treasure-trove has proved to me,
after all! The only good thing it has done is to save that
selfish aristocrat from a failure which has overtaken bet-
ter men. I should have allowed him to break up. Why
should not Camilla tagte the cup of bitterness so freely
given to women more worthy? That poor little girl down
stairs!) [ should have given the money to her. There it
would have been appreciated. By Heaven! I believe I'll
doit yet! I have no actual proof that the treasureshould
bemade over to Miss Ashleigh. The name, ‘Ethelda‘—
thatis the strongest link in the chain of coincidence.”

He drew from his vest-pocket the lovely miniature which
he had taken from the ashes of some lover’s heart, open-
ed the case, repeating the name ‘“Kthelda’’ to himself,
dreamily, many'times, unaware that Leora Duleth had
come softly in through the open door, without knocking,
because she did not wish to. attract her father’s attention,
who still remained in the office underneath.

She saw the jeweled locket, caught a glimpse of the [air
face and sunny curls, heard him repeat the name of one
of those young ladies whom /he sometimes: mentioned as
his friends, while the sharpest of ali the sharp pangs of
that wretched day pierced her to the heart.

She turned and stole out again. She had not courage
left to talk with him as she desired.

“The coincidence is strong,’ muttered the artist, re-
turning the locket to his bosom. ‘It has convinced me—I
own, I have nodoubts. Still, Miss Ashleigh is already ben-
efitted to the full extent of her needs; she was poor, and
she is made independent. This fortune came to me in a
way which really constitutes it mine. But 1 loathe the
thought of making use of it for myself. It would make
this family happy; that is, as happy as circumstances now
permit. It would enable them to place.the father under
the wisest cares to surround the mother with every lux-
ury; it would raise that poor child from drudgery to the
place for which her fine qualities fit her. As for me, I
will go to Italy. One needs not to be rich in that land of
the gods. I wish I understood more of Mr. Duleth’s ra-
vings about buried treasure. it seems he and his son
must have had@ some positive information as to a chest
with treasure being hidden somewhere along the coast.
It appears to be atradition in the family. Why have I
never inquired into it? It would be strange—would it
not ?—if, after all—but such a coincidence is most prob-
able! Still, I will ask Miss Leora, the first opportu-
nity, all about the legend of ‘The Baron’s Jewels,’ which
has taken such strong hold of her father’s diseased fan-
cy.. It is singular about the ruby! He talks a great deal
about aruby. I believe lll just take a look at my jewels,
now 1 think of it, and remove them from here this yery
afternoon. If Duleth has been in my room, during my
absence or while I was asleep, enough time to convey
away that quantity of gold, he must be slyer than Luciter.
I will deposit the gems with the firm who purchased the
others. It isreckless of me to keep them outside a vault.’?

Taking the precaution to close and lock: his door, he
went to the desk, in a snug compartment of which, un-
der double locks, rested the little harmless-looking box
so rich with glittering contents.

It was with some sense of relief that he found the stones
still in their place; he had not been without fear that they,
as well as the gold, might have been tamperea with.

They were all in their places, springing out upon him
their marvelous glory aS he removed the cover. The
great ruby burned in their midst like the sun amidst his
planets. There was a fascination in their beauty which
made the artist gaze long upon them, turning the box in
his hand to catch the light in various directions.

“J will give them to Leora,” he'said; ‘they will bea
handsome dower when she comes to marry some worthy
fellow.

He put them back with care, covered the box with old
paper, re-locked the compartment, re-locked the desk,
and the door, as he descended to dinner, fully intending
to place the jewels in the vaults of the diamond merchant
before the day passed.

But while he was at dinner, George Catherwood called,
only two days home from the Wesi, and bubbling over
with brilliant descriptions of his late expedition. He
spent two hours with Oliver, and when he went away
took his friend with him.

“Camilla particularly requested me to ask you to dine
and spend the evening. She complains that yon have
not called since we went away. Besides, I have a mag-
nificent set of antlers which I brought back to grace your
studio. I want you to See thern.’?

And Oliver, forgetting all about the jewels, accepted
the invitation. George was not a man to neglect his
friends; nor to readily forget the important favor which
Oliver had done the family. That Oliver objected to any
reference being made to it did not, inghis opinion, lessen
the fact that there was an obligation; he was warmer
than ever in bis manifestations of friendship.

“I don’t understand at all about your remaining in
Locust Place, living as modestly as ever, when you have
money to give away,’ said George, as the two walked
leisurely along toward Madison Square, ‘l wish you
would tell me, really, Oliver, whether some old uncle has
made youa millionaire. I half suspect you of being ro-
mantic enough to try to win my sister on the strength of
your merits alone—as they do in novels—when you are
rich, if you would but confess it. Eh? Have 1 guessed
right? If so, l advise you to give up the plan. Camilla,
like other women, likes too well what money buys to al-
low her heart to get the better of her judgment. But if
you have means to sustain her in her present position I
don’t mind telling you that I like you full as well as any
of her suitors.”

“Not even excepting Lord Lytton?” asked Oliver.

“You despise him because he is a dandy,”’ said George,
laughing; ‘yet Lytton has some good qualities. He is
thick-skinned and equable, while Camilla, you know, is
rather fiery.”

“T like a girl of spirit.’?

Oliver might find fault with the lady, but he did not
desire others to do so, :

George shrugged his shoulders.

“He is as deep as ever,’? he commented to himself. “I
wish he would be reasonable and tell us about his pros-
pects.”

There was quite a large dinner party at Mr. Cather-
wood’s. Ilowever, the guests did not assemble until
some time after Oliver's arrival, who wernt with George
to hisroom to look at the antlers and other trophies of
his hunt over the prairies. The ladies were dressing and
would not be down before six o’clock. Oliver, who had
dined after the fashion of Locust Place, had ample time
to recuperate his appetite fur the seven o’clock banquet
of Madison Square,

If he was not hungry when that hour had nearly arrived
and he descended with his friend into a drawing-room

 

ablaze with lights, sweet with flowers, and brilliant with

well-dressed people, it was because by anticipation of
the meeting with Camilla had overwhelmed every other
sense and feeling.

He had fought with himself for weeks—had kept away
from her—had said that he never would again betray to
her one sign of her power overhim. He had persistently
dwelt on her bad qualities, determined to find her less
loveable; and he really expected when he entered her
presence to perceive that she was not so beautiful, nor in
any manner so enchanting aS his imagination had once
painted her.

Not so beautiful! Those deep, dark eyes, that dazzling
smile—well, if they had Jost any of their power.to beguile
and attract, they regained it the moment his eyes met
them. As well struggle when once in the vortex of the
whirlpool! Oliver struggled no more. Down the slip-
pery walls his soul spun smoothly with a swift motion
that was like rest. As she gave him her hand in greet-
ing—just thelightest touch of her velvet finger-tips—Miss
Catherwood saw her triumph, smiled, and rested content
on her laurels.

The haughty artist had remained away so long that she
feared pique had become real indifference; but one look
told her differently, and she was Satisfied. Her coior
never fluctuated; her lip was calm, her tones clear, her
welcome polished and well considered.

It was only when he turned to Ethel that he saw the
heart on her lip, the soul in her eyes, and heard in her
tremulous voice assurancé of an interest which should
have been more flattering to him than it was.

Mr. Scranton was near, talking with a guest of the
house, but his observation was fixed upon Mr. Grey and
Miss Ashleigh as they met.

“They do not greet like lovers,*? he thought, ‘and she
tells me he has not once called since their return to the
city. Hither there is a quarrel between them, or—Miss
Catherwood has deceived me.”’

He did not like to think so ill of his charming hostess;
at worst, it was a tribute to his vanity that she should
think enough of him to wish to mislead him; but his af-
fections were too earnestly fixed upon the tair object
which had first attracted them for him to brook any mis-
takes. With him it had been a case of love at first sight.
However warm his acknowledgment of the superior
claims of Miss Catherwood, his heart always turned back
to the lovely, modest, Sunny-haired cousin.

“I should be a happy man if I could take her back to
England with me,” he thought, continuing to regard her,
after the artist had paid his compliments and made his
way to where Mr. Catherwood and another gentleman
were criticizing a new picture. “Something troubles her
—there are tears in her eyes. O, dear! why cannot I walk
Straight up to her as my feelings prompt, and ask her the
cause of them.”

After they were all seated at table he observed the
same constraint in Hthelda’s manner. He managed to
obtain a seat by her side; although Camilla had arranged
differently, desiring to give a zest to the banquet for her
artist-lover, by bestowing particular attention upon Mr.
Scranton.

Mr. Scranton was himself the one who thwarted this
pretty plot. He was becoming earnest in his suit, and
not to be delayed by trifles. He expected to leave, very
shortly, for hisown country, and he meant to give Miss
Ashleigh the privilege of accepting or refusing him before
he departed. He is to be excused if he could hardly
credit that a poor artist, however gifted and interesting,
xo prove a successful rival to a gentleman in his posi-
ion.

As for Oliver, he hardly did his share, as an acceptable
guest, at the chatty, pleasant table. He divided his time
between staring at the portrait, cn the wall opposite, ef
Robert Catherwood in his youth, and stealing long glances
under his lashes at Oamilla, seated in state. When he
was not absorbed in Camilla, he was trying to make out
the identity of the boyish face in the frame before him,
with the manly features he had seen perish like the vision
of a dream in that strange coffin sepulchred in that hol-
low-sounding chamber of the sea. The brilliant tittle-
tattle of society sparkled about him unheard. Occasion-
ally he met Kthel’s blue eyes wistfully reading his grave
countenance, when he would make an effort to shake off
the glamour of the picture, only to sink deeper into reve-
rie. Helived over the brief weeks he had spent at the
Poplars, while he sat there, trifling with the viands.

The sparkling bay, the dripping cavern, the sloping
lawn, the sunny days and fragrant nights—the beautiful
women whose presence had been tothe time what the
perfume is to the rose—the curious episode of finding
the chest—what he might have made himself had he ac-
cepted ‘the goods the gods provided’’—that it was not
A late, still, to make himselfi—this was what engrossed
him.

‘It is not too late,’? he thought, with tumultuous beat-
ings of the heart; ‘two-thirds of the treasure is yet mine.
Dwill use it, to advance my cause with her, and with the
world. Imight bearuler. I will be! I am weaker than
a fool not to take advantage of my luck. Camilla Cather-
wood half loves me—she will love me entirely—shall say
so. I will become her husband—Mr. Catherwood’s gon,
George’s brother. I will stand on the top round of the
ladder. . I must have been under a spell to so long delay
to enter into my heritage. To-morrow I will bid farewell
to Locust+place—take rooms in some fashionable quarter
—diddle a cane—become an amateur-artist—‘just for the
pleasure you know’—and marry Camilla a year from the
day she refused me.”?

“See how the yours gentlemen desert us,’”? laughed Mr.
Catherwood, as shortry after the ladies had retired from
the table Mr. Scranton and Mr. Grey begged their host to
excuse them and followed after. ‘‘At their age the smile
of the ladies is brighter than the sparkle of wine. Wait
until they are as old as we are!”?

Directness of speech. and purpose was one of De Vere
Scranton’s Characteristics.

As he returned to the drawing-room with the artist, he
saw Ethelda standing’ close near a small table contem-
plating a white lily floating in a silver bowl of water.

‘She is a lily herself,”? he thought, feeling more than
ever the charm of her goodness and sweetness, and real-
izing perhaps for the first time, that if obliged to relinquish
his desire of making her his wife, he should return to his
home a discontented man.

Oliver strolled to the piano and began playing wild
chords upon it. He wanted to attract Camilla to him, but
her soul was as impervious to his music’as a duck to a
shower. She chatted with a matron about the latest style
of making up carriage-dresses, while the strong, impas-
sioned pleadings of her lover spoke to her through the
sweet voice of the instrument, vainly calling her to his
side. Finally, with a crash of the keys, which startled
everybody, he left the piano and betook himself to a book
of drawings. ,

All this time De Vere stood by Ethelda, quietly convers-
ing. He saw her breath quicken and her bosom heave
while the artist played; he saw the pitying look she cast
upon poor Oliver, when he plunged into the engravings,
with Camilla still talking of the fashions, vouchsafing him
not the slightest glance.

“He loves your beautiful cousin,’? he whispered, trying
her.

“Yes, he does. I pity him so. Camilla cannot appre-
ciate him, It seems to methac she takes pleasure in tor-
menting him.’’

“If it were you, you would treat him more kindly.”

De Vere did not intend to be ungenerous; but the sight
of her interest in another, pained and annoyed him.
Kethelda blushed; but recovered her self-possession, ana
said, gently:

‘-T trust I shall never trifle with any one.'?

“Dear Miss Ashleigh, | know you will 10t,’*? he said,
carried away by his emotion. ‘‘You will not trifle with
me! LIloveyou. You have given me no encouragement
to do so; but I could no more help it than I could stay the
impulse which urged me to visit this far land, for ne other
purpose, it would seem, but to meet my fate. The hour
in which I met you, on board that sultry little steamer, I
felt that here was the sweet girl, low-voiced, pure-browed,
who would make me happy could I win her for my wife.
All that I have learned of you since but deepens my first
impression. Jam afraid,’ he continued more hurriedly,
“that another has captivated your young fancy by the
charm of his gifted and original mind. This would make
me sad, for your sake, as well as my own. His face is
turned in another direction, and, a character like his, al-
though interesting, is not always fitted to enjoy domestic
happiness. You turn away from me, Miss Ashleigh. Be-
heve meit is no light honor I do you when I ask you to
become my wife. You are the first woman I have ever
asked to take that place. I have admired many, but I
have only loved you!”

Sweet, sweet words to an orphan like Ethelda! She felt
them, melting in music, sink into her heart. Oh, why
could they not have been spoken by those other lips?
Then, indeed, they would have filled her with unspeakable
joy instead of this doubt and regret.

Unconsciously, before answering, she sent a wandering
glance in search of Oliver, His gaze was on Camilla, as
he bent over the drawings, pretending to be engrossed by
them. From that dark face, stormy with passion for an-
other, she looked up at the earnest, honest eyes of the
man who had just offered her a hand, heart, and fortune
which few girls would care to refuse. She saw where
safety lay—where peace, repose, if not happiness, might
be found; she was sorry to wound and disappoint a gen-
erous man—yet she could not promise to Jove him.”

“T know you do not love me yet,?’ he hastened to add,
seeing herabout to speak. ‘Ido. not ask it—only that
you will promise to try.”

She smiled sadly.

“Such a promise is @ poor return for all you give me... I
do promise to try to love you; but I tell you, truly, that I
shall have to grow into such a feeling, if it comes at all.
And I would do no man the injustice of marrying him
without loving him.”’

“Then you do consent +

“To nothing—nothing in the way of a promise or an
engagement, Mr. Scranton, except that J will consider
what you have said and search my heart for a response.
Truly, 80 much love has not been given me that I can af-
ford to throw yours away. Yet you would not expect me
to marry you for the sake of your name, or the pleasures
and honors of my station as your wife? You would pre-
fer me to gay ‘no’ to doing this.’?

“A thousand times prefer it,” he answered, smiling into
her clear eyes. ‘I want you love, Ethelda. My wife
must ove me. Butl am willing to give you time—since Z
can't have it otherwise.” .

“QO, Mr. Scranton, I’m afraid I shall disappoint you.”

“Have you studied that specimen of aquatic plants long
enough?” cried Camilla, shaking off the fashions and the
lady who discussed them, and approaching the two who
had hovered too Jong over the silver bowl.

“7 never grow tired of lilies,” replied _Mr. Scranton.
“This isa lovely one; I was just telling Miss Ashleigh how
much like her it was.”’

“And which did you intend to flatter—my cousin, or the
flower???

“The flower, Miss Catherwood. <A fair flower is an ex-

 

 

guisite thing, but a perfect woman is ‘God’s best gift to

‘T told her about how things was, and she seemed mighty well

 

 

man.’ If He would give me this one, I should be well
content.??
‘Indeed? Am I to wish you joy then, sweet cousin

Kthelda shook her head, with an appealing glance at
Mr. Scranton; but Camilla did not nonce ite ecutive
movement; she kissed Ethelda, lightly and coldly, on her
burning cheek, and hovering around ine room, like a but
terfly, settled presently beside Oliver, who had no reason
the rest of the eveving, to complain of neglect. r

(To be continued.)
<I —__—___.

Pleasant Paragraphs.

THE RUGG DOCUMENTS, NO. 24.

BY CLARA AUGUSTA.

Them steers that Iswapped Bill Weaver’s mare fcr, T-7e sold
to Tom Hatch, and got seventy-five dollars for em, which was
just twenty-five dollars more’n I ixpected to reseave. Jf
shouldn’t have let Tom cheated hisself so, but_ he’s the biggest
speckelator this side the Rocky Mountainz, and allus takes the
advantige of evry body ina trade; and I thought mebby he’d be
pleased to find that he was smart enuff to cheat hisself.

Jonathan felt bad about the mare. He sed he was sorry my
temper had got the better of me so that I was possessed to sei]
her! He insists upon it that all my deceases is owing to my
temper. When I have the rhumatis, he sez it’s my temper set-
tles into my jints. If Ishuld have the small-pox to-morrer
he’d say that.it was only my temper broke out. :

He’s a terrible onappreciating man! Jonathan is! He haint
no sympathy with the finer commotions of my soul! It’s a
sollum thing to be mated for life toa man what haint got no
communication with yer spirit—to be onunderstood all the days
of yer life, and never be able to git at the sensibilities of yer
pardner’s nature, only through the mejium ef pork and beans
and plum pudding!

But I haint.a going to be cast down about it! Not by three
chalkz! Ishould be asmart female to make myself onhappy
because Jonathan Perkinz is no better than he’d ort to be!
Thank the Lord! I’m in full possession otf my facilties, and I
guess I can manage to get along, and let him stay to home and
smoke and eat all there isin the house. That's just what he
likes to do.

_ After I'd got back from Niagary, I felt kinder onsettled like—
just as if I hadn’t seen all I wanted to. Going out there seemed
to set me out to go somewheres else.

Ive heerd a sight about the White Mountais, and I've allers
wanted to go there. But things never seemed to work jest right
for me to go, ‘

I wanted to see for myself. Folks lie sonow days that you
can’t depend on nothing. Even the allnynach has got into the
fashion, for last Thursday it sed—‘“‘Cool and windy”—and my
soul! it was by all odds the hottest day of the season! It was
so hot that I had to put on myshort gound-and ‘pull off my
shoes and stockings: and Parson Powell cum. rite in and
ketched meinthat trim! I never felt so cheap in my life; Pd
have craweld into a knot hole if there’d ony been one laying
round handy!

I didn’t dare to go to meeting the next Sunday,.for fear he’d
think of my bare feet and short gound rite in the sarmon!

We had a kicking heifer that ’d calkerated on selling, but she
fell into the well and broke her neck short offand nobody
wanted to buy her. If I could have sold her, [should have had
considerable more money to bear my expenses than I did have.
I concleuded to sell two cheeses, and as cheese is pritty high I
got ten dollars for both of ’em.

When. I come to look into my pussI found that I had one
hundred and two dollars, and two twenty-five cent scrips, and
a silver three cent piece.

There warn’t nothing special to hender me from going, only
that Niece Mary Jane Harker had took it into her head to git
merried about Thanksgiving time. I was opposed to it. I
don’t think it’s a gud plan for young folkz to merry till they’re
shure of a house, and a place to keep a pig.

But then opinions differ, and Mary Jane has been dreedfully
tuk with Andrew Giles for full two year. He lives over to the
Ridge long with his pa, and they got acquainted to singing
skule. He used to treat her on apples, and spruce gum, and
come noise with her nights, and that’s enuff to make a foolof
any gal.

Rhére haint many beaux in this place. The war took off a
good many young men, and Pigeon Holler is as bare of ’em as
a bean vine is of beans along the latter eend of November.

There’s only two onmarried men for two miles around, and
one of them has got the delirious tremendous so bad that when
he drinks a cup of tea he spills the heft of 1¢ all over his shirt
front; and tother one is seventy-five years old, and goes with
two canes!

I’m thankful I’m married, if I have got a poor stick, for if I
warn’t I should have to exercise my inginuity terribly to find a
pardner here, I guess. :

I’ve talked to Mary Jane like a father, but it haint no use; her
mind’s made up, and allI can do is to keep carm. She haint
got no ma, and I feel as if I'd ort to help fix her out.

As I sed before, there was only one thing to hender me frem
going on my tower, and that was this—Mary Jane had piecened
up a comfortable, and it would take as much as six pound of
cotton to put into it, and as cotton is higher than the moon, it
would cost a good deal to git it.

I had some waste cotton out in the wood house chamber, the
would be jest as good asnew, if twas only carded over, but it
would take a powerful spell to card it, and I knowed I never
could do it and go to the mountains, too. .

While I was a thinking of it over, in come Mehitable Stubbs.

 

pleased. She sed she’d been a wanting the dreadfullest to take
that tower for a long time. She’d got a niece’s second cousin’s
brother’s widder, by the name of Jones, that lived to Sandwich;
and they'd visited her time and agin, and allers invited her
powerful to make ’em avisit. And Sandwich wonld be rite on
our way.

“But look here,’ sez I; “‘that cotton’s got to be carded.”

“Land o’ pity |’ sez she; ‘‘take it along in that kivered basket,
and take yer cards and card it as you go along. Youll want
something to attendto. You know what the poit sez—

“Satan finds allers sumthin’ still for idle folks todew! I'm
a going to braid arug out of rags, and that will be full as bad
work as carding cottin’. :

This was aright smart idee, and we decided it rite onthe
spot. We’d set sail jest a week from the next day.

Jonathan was hoppiu’, but I told him to keep cool, or I’d have
a dirvoise. Ana he went out into the barn and took to shellin’
beans, and talking to hisself.

1 got me @ new gound, and had it ruffled clean up as high as
there was any ground-work to sew a ruffle onto, and when it
was done I looked exactly iike the wimmin folks in the maggy-
zine with it on. :

Mary Jane let me have her new hat that had a peacock’s tail
feather into it, but shecharged meso much not to jam it, nor
wet it, that afore I got through with it I wished 1t in Jerryko.

It was a splendid day that we sot sail. Tne air was carm and
clear as new cider, and the wind blowed jest.enuff to keep you
from swealing. Ihate to sweat! it takes the stiffening out of
everything so.

It was dreaaful weather to tan ye, though! I got five freckies
on the bridge of my nose, and though I've washed ’em in butter-
milk and lemon jace, they don’t budge an inch!

Mehitable and I agreed not to take much baggage, and I don’t
think we did, considering we was wimmir. folks, and Hitty was
in the markit—being an old maid.

I had my red bandbox, and my blue bandbox, and my kivered
basket with the cottin‘in it, and my cards, and a satchel of
turnovers, and an ambrillar.

Hitty had a valise, with her tother gound and fixings into it,
and then she had apot of squirrel jelly and a couple of pounds of
butter in with the clothes, tor she wanted to carry something to
the Jones family that we was a going to visit. She had a good
sized carpit-bag, and a green paper-box, and a parasol. She sot
out to carry her pet dog, Ginger, but. he was bright enuff to git
hisself shot the day afore we started, so that ixpense and trouble
was saved her.

We went across Lake Winnepeseogee in a steamboat called
the Chickronynay; and they have the nicest: biled onyuns that
ever you seed, on that boat. One of ’em will scent you fora
week. As soon.as we got onto the boat we went on deck, and I
took out my cards and went to carding, and Kitty she lit her
pipe, for she’s an awful smoker, and weut to work en her rug.

I'd carded quite a little heap, and laid it down on the floor,
when all at once there come a puff of wind and sent it sailing
rite into the water! Istarted after it as fast as I could travel
and I was so much in airnest that I didn’t notis:a nice stylish-
looking female woman that was a standing in the way; and the
fust thing I knowed I was alying flat on the deck with one foct
hung into about sixteen yards ot ruffles and things, and she was
ascreechin’ murder and clinching the arm of a red-faced man
who happened to be standing there handy. Poor gentleman!
Tactully pitied him. His face was as purple as Ellen Sophier’s
new calico gound.

Mehitable she came to the rescue, and we soon had things
rite agin. But the coiton was gone! I got Hitty to set down in
front of me so’s to ketch all the cotton that sot out to take wings,
and I went at it agin lively. Everybody in the boat gathered
round to see the sight. You would have thought Hi.ty and me
was a circus.

IT had all my boxes and things rite ‘longside of me, and a big
red bandit hakercher tied over my hatso’s the little winds of
cétton needn’t settle onto it.

We got to Center Harbor a leetle after dinner time, and found
astage all ready and waiting for us. We grabbed our baggage
ard streaked 11 for the back seat. z

A little pale-faced, slim-legged chap sot hisself down aside of
me, and scrunched the turnover that I had in my pocket for a
lunchin all to smash!

‘You'll have to spread yer handkercher over yer lap when I
git to carding,’’ sez I, ‘or them nice black trowserloons of yourn
will be ruinated.”

He drawed hisself off, and looked at me through a little
double-barrelled spy-glass, and sucked the head of nis cane at
the same time. ‘

“Git up there !’’ sez the driver to the hosses, and there was a
suddint jerk that sent me head fust rite into the back of a fat
man onthe next seat, and made him yell out ‘toh! enuff to
split the universe! :

Then followed a great rumbling—a cracking of straps—a
bouncing of trunks, a rattling of glass windes, and we was off.

But I’ve got all my paper used up, and shall have to harness
up the old mare and go over to the corner to gitsome afore I
can write any more.

So good by for the present.

SIGNS OF THE TIMES. :

A young man was employed by the Young Men’s Christian
Associaiion to go out West and write religious passages on the
rocks of the rivers and other prominent places. On one rock
he wrote, ** What shall I doto be saved ?”? Some one seeing it,:
wrote underneath, ‘Use Spooner’s stomach bitters.” The first
young man_ passing by there again and seeing this advertise-
ment, thought thatif he could he would get square with him,
So he came toa rock on which was painted, ‘‘Use Spooner’s
stomach bitters,” and underneath he wrote: ‘‘Prepare to meet
thy Lord.” A Goop TEMPLAR.

: ‘THE MINISTER AND THE PAINTER.”

An old church, not a thousand miles from Brooklyn, was
being newly painted, renovated, &c. E

One day the pastor entered it, to see how the men were getting
along. He thought: he heard one of the painters whistling
“Yankee Doodie;” so going up to the man he said. “My _ good
man, can’t you whistle something better than that, you know
you are in a church now, and thatis not a proper melody.”

“Oh, sir,” said the man, ‘I only know that and another one.”

“Well, whatis the otherone??. :

Hereupon, the painter began whistling, “Home sweet home,”
and keeping time with his brush. But the minister having an
eye to business, and thinking the church would never get
painted at that rate, he told the painter he had better go on
with “Yankee Doodle,” which was a lively air.

THE MUSTARD PLASTER. k
A boy at a college who was suffering from a violent headache
and who believed it was affecting his brain, was advised by a
friend to go up to the infirmarian and obtain a remedy. Up he
went, and down he came with his neck all bandaged up. “What
is the matter?” was his friend’s inquiry. ‘‘Whatis the matter?
Why.the old fool put a mustard plaster on my neck for a pain in
the head. He might as well have clapped iton my toel? “It
would have been far better, in fact,” replied his friend, “as
your brains are more likely to be found there than in other part
of your body.” TESTIS.

J. Ruag PERKINS.

THE PLATE.
A minister was stopping at the house of a rich family, The
lady of the house told all the servants to be exact in bringing
him everything he wanted. One of the servants, however, fore
got this injunction, and when the minister was eating his dinner
she pence him a piece of pie in her hands, “Mary,” said the
lady, ‘whenever you bring anything toa parson you should
bring it ona plate. Now go and potish his boots and bring them
up to his room at four o'clock.” ‘The servant brought the boots
up at the appointed. hour on a plate. .‘‘What’s this for?” said
“Please, sir,” said the dame, ‘thé lady told me I
The joke was too
TESTIS,

the minister.

should bring everything to you oma plate.”
good for the minister to keep to himself.

A FAIR BET. a

The other afternoon, as the train was wizzing from the depot,

a tall, slim stranger, rather rustic looking, was seen giving it

chase, amidst the yells of the spectators; of course human

nature had no chance to win the race, and in a few minutes

 

 

Spiration and disappointment. Suddeuly facing the crowd, he

deliberately drew a well-filled pocketbook, and exclaimed: “PR

Just bet twenty dollars thar aint a man in this crowd can catch

that train.’ Larry O’GaArr,
A MELON-CHOLY MISTAKE.

In our town there lives a fellow whois the scourge of the
whole neighborhood, and goes by the nickname of Jury. Last
week he, in company with some others, made a raid on the
watermelon patch of a neighbor of mine, who had picked all his
melons that day, and left a lot of citron to ripen. Jury thought
these were melons, so he and the rest of the gang stole about
twenty of them, and .took them halt a mile to divide them,
when one of the boys cut one, and they discovered their mis-
take. Citron has been the by-word ever since. Munsrinx.

e THE WRONG BOX.

In the Seventeenth Ward of our city there was an Irishman
appointed on the police. The first time he went. on duty the
lieutenant gave him some keys for the fire-alarm box, and told
him if he should see a fire toopen the box and strike tne alarm.
Be was on duty a few hours when he rushed in.and exclaimed,
“Liftenant, do yese want to make a fool of me? I tried the kay
and it wouidn’t fit the box.” The lieutenant said, “Come and
show me the box.”” And the Irishman took him to a Jetter-box!

Buss,

 

 

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LL Sey a de on the skin—removing freckles and tan, and very genial in its a “Therefore Lhope. to es for the rest of my life un- | torest, leaving the pleasant spring-path —alone wrth tts de $
Alaughable burlesque on the old-fashioned Farmers’ Alma- ee eae HS Jady of taste can afford to be without What roses are born inthe valley? recognized, and to be blessed by that happiness which a Fo be continued.
} nack, giving weather prognostications, advice to farmers and oe e Bloom. Price 50 cents. 838 Broadway, N. Y. What rivulets shine 1n the breeze? woman who may dare to love may command,
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e. D : ;
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#4 Elegantly printed, with lots of comic illustrations, paper | youthful freshness. and softening it into a life-like ‘glow. Price Nor starlight alone has the moun ain; unexampled fidelity, who can rewardit but Heaven!” 4 a s e i
4 cover. Pri¢e'25 cents. 50 cents. Mailed free on receipt of price. Address The valley smiles also in beams, Sne ceased, and with tears streaming over her lovely A Singular Dream, Affording anInteresting
Ra Copies of this exceedingly rich, rare, and racy little comic geet Braulvae © - And tenderly mantles the moonlight face, the lovely princess thought of those noble friends Reminiscence of the Elder Booth.
work will be sent by mail, free of postage, on receipt of price, 25 Pier 3 O'er roses, and forests, and streamas. who had died for her; and in her yearning gratitude, Tt lder Bootl, 740 éftne 1 btotl iv that
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e NEW YORK WEEKLY, _Desertions, etc., sufficient cause. No publicity. | No charge re aa See o a Oh, to see them once again! name who have appeared on the American stage, was a
w2-tf. &$ Fulton. Street, New York City, || Until obtained.’ Address M. HOUSE, 78 Nassau st. [w30-13teow BX SURO See man of most eccentric character. This peculiarity is fully

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ORDINARY ADYWRTISEMENTS. sep seces «tb ses $3 per line.
ADVERTISEMENTS (with Cuts)........-.---$6 per line.

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Farmers’ Alminax
FOR 1871.

 

 

Mme. Demorest’s Stocking-Suspenders.

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Mme. Demorest’s Lily Bloom,

_An excellent Toilet Preparation for imparting asoft and bril-
liant expression to the complexion, and Hygienic in its effects

 

 

 

® e yo
Kighting Mire
WITH FIRE. This may be good policy ona blazing prairie, but
it will not answer with the fevered human system. Irritating

 

 

   

  

 

 

 

   

Use none but

 

 

 

A very convenient and efficient method of holding up the
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No

LSad AHL

 

BY WILLIAM ROSS WALLACE.

 

There is light on the brow of the mountain,
But not only there isa glow,

For a radiance also is laughing
Upon the sweet landscape below:

The vale's not forever in darkness,
It, too, has a beam on its breast;

The noon sparkles o’er it full glory,

Not only Humanity’s highest
Are crowned by the spleador divine:
The humbiest in life have their portion;
The valleys with mountains have part,
There is Heaven’s own sunlove and starlove
For att—if there’s. only a heart.

 

except by my gratitude—I dare not return
whose imperial prince I have insulted.
“My fate would be a melancholy one were I to be dis-
covered. I would most probably be pronounced insane,
and placed ina sort of honorable captivity for life; having
disgraced my name, and station, by my unparalleled
folly; as it would be, termed. This captivity would not
last long; I would soon be removed by some private. as-
sassin; for the Imperial Crown Prince is as vindictive as
he 1s unscrupulous; and he would ill brook theslur I had
dared to cast upon his proposals. The Diamond Collar,
which has caused such disaster, is now in the possession

to Germany,

CHAPTER, XXX.
GERRY ENTERS LIFE AND PERRY LEAVES IT.
Viounna was in gala. dress. 5 SAL
The huge gates were thrown wide: the beings in green were
bowlng incessantly to the ground as grand carriages passed be-
tween their ranks and crunched up the gravelly drive between
the marble statues, which were garlanded with spring flowers,

Blood, which he knew not was behind him. The thing that he
knew not of sped after him, with untaltering purpose. :
Nearer yet—and appahng sight—the unconscious man strides
but a pace before that speetral form of Murder in whose-con-
vulsive grasp the Notched and knotty stick is upraised.s
The fatry screen of half-opened leaves drop between us and
the sight—the breeze floats by, odorous with all things young
and budding, cool and green—the baby-buds, and the melted

about them all is whispering—whispering “Death !” a‘
The man who crept by here a minute,ago comes bounding
‘back, as if from the gates of hell. He covers his Cain’s face with
his band—with his hand, which is dyed with crimson; he
stumbfes over the stones, where he late sprang with unerring
step; lke leapsup again, and headlong flies into the pathless

 

 

illustrated in the incident we have to relate. He was a
great actor, and im his prime the greatest living delineator
of the part of Richard 1. In this character, particularly,
both in Hngland and the United States, he won exalted
fame. He went on the stage at a very early period of his
‘life, and in Londom drew equal crowds, with the elder
Keen, who was then in the zenith of his powers and repu-

 

streamlets speak of a thousand new-born lives, but something .

 

ines i , i vi y ribbon. i i rork fe d at tl v
medicines exasperate and intensify all complaints of the stom- tied with white ribbon. a : tation. In New York he performed at the old Bowery
ach or the bowels. Never take a drastic evacuant for indiges- ont os Me “y desniniest ee Te leona en od cutee Theater (where all the great actors of the day then appear-
tion or constipation, Administer instead Tarrant’s Errervus- l f \ , { 9 steps to receive the wedding guests. MESS Stoves Soot on the! ed), and later at the Park Theater, where it may be said
| ip uit Ate adconont muds hen on ena Nesuoc ett OX ANS “SHEEP Ie Lamon Ouai Gerry was marrying old Grantham after all. Poor doomed | that he closed his career. We say closed his career, for
f : i i : AND : — e Gerry! during an engagement of this house he met with an acci- - i
eee eee OLD BY ALL DRUGGISHS SOUPS ASD BEEF TEA FOR THE MILLION. _ Snore ware over forty OF hemi” And she joct nineteen! visetenwall ce whch forever afterward incapacitated him from do,
; : : years over forty of them! And she just nineteen! etch mod ; i reaki j :
re Strengthening Nourishment! Economy in housckeeping!! LIE- CHAPTER XXIX little girl! ‘ ; ; peers | ing Justice te his parts... This was the breaking of Ws pese
BI@S COMPANY'S EXTRACT OF MEAT. the aainé hit ie : ‘And how bravely she keeps up appearances among her six by a blow that he received on itfrom the fist of Tom Flynn,
j Othe HOUSHHOLD MAGAZINE ceived the highest prizes at Paris, Havre and Amsterdam, and PRINCESS FREDERICA TELLS HER STORY, bridesmaids. : also an actor of the old time, which gave bis speech a dis- -
fi | D contains in every number ona comulete that issupplied to the British, French, Russian, Prussian, and | The last adjuration of the poor felon had been read, and |_, Here’s the groom’s gift; you must wear it,” complacently | agreeable nasal sound, and‘utterly ruined him for the prac- :
| ww ; aaafit cs prize story vaiued at $10. Forty page: of other Governments. None genuine without the signatures ol | Porqg Edgar, ‘alone exeept for Gretchen, was kneelin observes Miss DeRos, holding up a pearl-gemmed locket with | tice of his profession. He remained on the stage, but he ;
{ other matter. keariy $1. Sold by News-dealers at 10 cts. pe. copy. Baron Liebig, the inventor, and of Dr. Max VY. Pettenkofer, de- ona art & | the ogre’s face inside. was ne the same man:
I Srlendid Premiums. $500 cath to be awarded for prize clubs. legateon, every jar. : ; humbly before the princess whom he had aspired to wed.) ‘An, poor victim, thatisadmirably. done! The bride snatches Been ee : Balti t he took t
\ Specimen copy five. A ldrese S. S. WOOD, Newburgh, N.Y. MILHAUS’ SONS, Company's Agents, 183 Broadway, New | She had drifted far beyond his reach, he teared, and he | the locket from her, gazes: in |the minature’s eyes a moment. He owned a place near Baltimore, where he took grea
; E 2 w2-13t York. For sale everywhere. : i eDisteow | contemplated the presumption of his hopes with shame. | and witha little face made up like an infant over a baby, she | (light in the cultivation of vegetables, which he took to
™* ed e « : tae But he was scarcely thinking of himself then, with ‘the | Kisses.the locket.a dozen times, mumbling over it: the city market. He migtit be seen in the market during
; . ee Sohne aE FOR PENTA es AE BR history of the noble man who had died ringing in his fantasy darling old fellow! You delightful, good old John! the day selling his vegteables, and at night in Richard, or i
EV ed Buntline, ping Paper, &c.’ "Prices, $3" tose. Prieca designe sont free. ears. ; ; aoe ee actaetis’ bevlans sho! mace mocten es the smiles, the aie aa ‘evenndeet bed i ie prints ahd Hineaee
i Agents wanted. Liberal inducements. SMITH, HALL & CO., Actuated by the same loyalty whicln inspired the lady’s | blushes, the tears, the love-lights of the bewitclung creature. audiences that ever assembled in the principal baltimore
i (Cou, E. Z. C. JUDSON,) 66 Courtlandt St., New York. w48-6ceow personal attendants to suffer for her. sake such griefs and fang then when the:sacrifice was:complete, and she turned in TEAC, poste vd acre Wetnnedt toed Par he eur Suie le
{ i i i 4 ze dangers, Lord Edgar was only anxious to throw himself | the chureh and looked into, her husband’s face, what exquisite- My : ‘ ve i ss :
! Will delivet-his CHOMANGYs FASCINATION, OR. SOUL- | in ae dead akon place, rac to guard her interests, ly sihatatea Joy was ae from: every radiant feature, his entire jong. At one time he BO Ee inn a York
‘ Dk TAD myc 1 larming. 400 pages; cloth. Full instructions to use this j ry - nd when they signed the register, and the bridegroom | and Philadelphia on alternate nights, making thejourne
: ele ree AT ee AT RIOTIC LECTURE, power over men, or animals at will, how to Mesmerize, become Se ee ine Whi already shown that she was | Shawied a broad “John. Re ttle Veer in| Caen sic aay cities..after each poponansee. Tom
i ~ : see ig rance, er Writing Mediums, Divination, Spiritualism, : ape: ee ’ QS | roguish side glance: iim, she scribbled a dainty ‘Geraldine | 7 rate i
_ . TheOld Bell of Liberty. [tis Ringing Yet,” | phiiosophy ot Oiene aca) Bee Wate secant HOP thie passionless and frivolous heing which the restric- | Grantham, Viscountess,’” close up to it,.and then slipped her lit- | S/ynn always traveled with him, to see that he played ° no :
; S 5 phy a reams, Brigham Young’s Harem, ey, ene ’ , Pp 7 pp rank th from his eccentricit d did
In the large Hall of Guide to Marriage, &c., all contained in this book; 100,000 sola. | tions of a court so often produces. Her vivid sensibility, | Ue hand into his arm and stepped back, to let the witnesses pranks on the managers from his eccentricites, and’ did 4
ot Can_be oblained by sending address, with 10 cents postage, to | her energetic nature, and above all, her tender heart, had | sign; leaning against her great, burly Jolin as proudly as if she | Not give way to his inclination for the bottle. !
$ 1 Ne T. W. EVANS & CO.. 41 South Highth St., Philadelphia. Pa. | broug} hrough th rm aliti thought him the best man in the world. We return to the date of his last engagement at the Park i £
ASSEMBLY BUILDINGS. ; ee tf.eow rought her through the pomps and formaiities of a royal And when the stately wedding breakfast was over, and the | Theater. One night there was a great commotion ‘“‘behind
~Ul. . i i y . nat] é j A a fj Zz
Ss. W. <p . phi : 5 breeding with scarcely any deterioration of those quali- | triumphant father had said all that was elegant and appropri- ” sed for Richard Li
Corner Tenth and Chestnut sts., Philadelphia, { ties which had made her so charming to those who sus- | ate, and the simple-hearted bridegroom had answered with the EHS Site te AM NOR TILA Ai amd vt ea ere Pi) cane
ie x ¢ 7 Oo a Wy es j ye
ON WEDNESDAY EVENING, NOY. 30th, 1870 $10 MADE F ROM 50 CENTS ° feed ee os ee, : conte natural eee c ee of pe ae ee enor had ee eit ik a tages Tae wae eovtiat hehe Meee
. ? : ; eyond that majesty which became her so we is fu- | brief and incoherent speech on the part of the bridemaids, ap ite ee s : Feith .
Single Tickets, 50.cénts. Tickets admitting a Laa Call and examine something urgently needed by everybody, wires princess was Recrery respect as. enchantingly sim- | When amidst cheers and smiles and bewitchingly saucy dimples | the music to begin, when it was discovered that Boovh
4 ’ . admitting a Lady and | or Samples sent (postage free) for fifty cents that retail’ easil 2 } . i iden: and her | of the bride, the golden knife had been struck into the heart of | was notin the Theater. Simpson, the manager, was in
. Gentleman, 75 cents : Soe : 1 Y | ple-minded as the most artless village maiden; and her deakh : : BAL Gs 7 :
) : + 60 p for ten dollars. Address R. L. WOLCOTT ; ? the majestic wedding cake by the new vicountess, and she had lation, for he knew the eccentric ways of
: ’ ; F , the wildest trepida , for he y
Tickets for sale at. F. A. North & Co., Music Store, 1026} w45 13teow 181 Chatham Square, New York. | Batural generosity of temperament soon swept away the | vanished with her bridemaids and: the winsome Lady Jernyns- | Booth, and the prospect of having to disapoint such ‘an
cs gt Chestnut street, or at the door onthe night of the Lecture. barriers which Lord Edgar was beginning to place be-| ham to prepare for “going. away”’—who, I insist on hearing, , i

 

SOMETHING GRAND

The Annual Shakespearian Almanac for 1871, is now out.
Three. Million copies of this Almanac will be given away, and in
order that the distribution may be made as rapidly as possible, I
should deem it a favor to send, i

 

A GRAY OFFER.
HORACE WATERS, 481 Broadway, N. Y., will dispose of ONE
HUNDRED PIANOS and ORGANS, of first-class makers, includ-
ing Chickering & Sons, at Extremely Low Prices, for Cash, or will
ge $4 to $20 monthly until paid. Instruments to hire.
w49-

 

tween his hopes and his love.

“My lord,’? said she, looking upon him with a sweet
and very touching air of confidence, ‘‘you are my only
champion now. Come andsitby me while I explain to
you the reasons of my forsaking my court and concealing
myself in England. These sad disclosures trouble and
confound you, and it is but right that i should make you

faces of the

could insinuate that her happiness-was a pretence?

By all the truest, aeepest loves that ever burned, I swear the

bride was happy!

See them drive away in their grand chariot, with the four

white horses in silver harness, and floating wedding favors,

bound for a ¢ontinental trip. The spring sunshine lights up the
pair with adelicate radiance. Her eyes havea

happy upward look, such as humility wears, who seeks for

=

audience was not at all pleasant. He ran to Booth’s dress-
ing room, into the green room, and everywhere, but no
Booth was to befound. Atlength he encountered Flynn,
who was in almost as great a fright. .

“Where is Booth ?”? demanded Simpson.

“Heaven only knows,’”’ replied Flynn, with a groan.
“He escaped from me while 1 was asleep. I don’t think

 

prepaid, ten or fifteen copies t6 ONT BE WITHOUT IT! “GODKY’S LADY’S BOOK RE.

CEIPTS.” Epirep sy S. ANNIE FROST.
The work of thousands of busy fingers, and published at the | }
thousands request. Price $2.00, Sold_everywhere, or mailed
free on receiptof price. S, STODDART & Co., Philadel-

i EVAN
phia. A good chance for Male or Female Agents. w49-4t.

something to admire in all;. his have that deep, protecting gaze
of love, which watclies for the needs and weaknesses of its ob-
ject, waiting to help: them,

She-glorles in her strong, brave,.honest husband; he wor-
ships his fairy bride.

“Do you think you'll ever rue to-day’s work, Gerry?” asks the
viscount, mischievously. |

She flushes up; quick tears glitter in her eyes; she hides'them
on his-shoulder.

“Oh, what a horria little goose ve been!” she cries. ‘‘Are
you quite sure yowhaye forgiven me, John ?””

he’ll play to-night.”

“Mr. Flynn,” thundered the manager, ‘the must play.
The house is one of the best of the season, and I cannot
afferd to disappoint them. You must find him. Mean-
while I will make an excuse, to gain time, and keep the
music going.” oe
Tom Flynn, a tall ,heavy man, never moved an inch, to
the astonishment of the manager.

“})m afraid to go after him, Mr. Simpson,”? said Flynn.’

truly my friend, when you have been so faithful.”

The knight flushed deeply at this proof of her trust in
iim. He placed himself beside her, and listened atten-
tively to the disclusures of thisextraordinary lady,

“My course has been.a fatal one, and has brought
death upon those who tried to assist me.

“My parents, the Prince and Princess Holstein, of —-—,
died ten years ago, and I was educated by my guardian,
the Grand Duke of D , living most of the time at the

atly person who will judiciously dis'ribute them in his locality.
One of its main features is the parley or courtship between
Richard the Third and Queen Anne. This portrays, as nothing
else cap, man’s villainy and, woman’s weakness. The illustra-
tions fairly talk. Address Dr. O. PHELPS BROWN, 21 Grand
Street, Jersey City, N. J.

ROYAL HAVANA LOTTERY

$390,009 in Gold drawn every 17 days. Prizes cashed and infor-

 

 

ANTED.—5,000 AGENTS TO SELL: THE NEW EDITION
of Captain Glazier’s popular work, entitled Tur Captur:E,
PRIsON-PEN AND Escarr. Sold by Agents only. Most ‘liberal

 

terms offered.

Se ee ae

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

mation furnished. Highest rates paid for doubloons and all kinds
of Bgid and silver, TAYLOR & CO., Bankers, 16 Wall St., N. Y.
w2-13t.

 

i HISKERS, MUSTACHE or HAIR warranted to grow on
mau or boy in 21 days or money refunded. Sent tree for
50 cents. Address
E. H. COLVIN, Hadley’s Station, Ilinois.

Agents! Read This!

7E WILL PAY AGENTS A SALARY OF $30 PER WEEK
and expenses, or allow a large commission, to sell our new
and wonderful inventions. Address e
w2-3m. M. WAGNER & CO., Marshall, Mich.

Wise AGENTS —At $95 per month to sell my patent for

making Apple Butter without apples or cider. It costs
only seven cents a quart, and can be made in thirty minutes,
Send 10 cents for sample, particulars, and toinsure employ-

ment. Address ?
G. GEIIR; Shermansdale, Pa.

 

 

w2-4{.

$25
S6 A WEEK paid agentsin anew business. Address SACO
NOVELTY CO., Saco, Me. w47-52t
Ga o> 7O A MONTH with Stencil and Key Check
wey

Dies. Don’t fail to secure Circular and. Sam-
ples, free. Address S. id. SPENCER, Brattleboro, Vt. [w47-26t

 

A DAY! 40 new articles for, Agents.

1 Samples sent
vree. H. B. SHAW, Alfred, Me. 7-13

w47-13t

 

 

 

25 A WEEK SALARY !—Young men wanted as local and
’ traveling salesmen. Address (with stamp) t
w2-l3t. R. H. WALKER, 34 Park Row, N., Y.

 

5 00 {) AGENTS WANTED.—Samples sent free with terms
IV to clear from ake $10 per day. Two entirely new
Address

articles saleable as flour.
N. H. WHITE, Newark, New Jersey.

w2-2t.

 

EN AND WOMEN wanted to sell our New Books—Dr. Hall’s
; “Guipe Boarp,” “How WomEN CaN MAK» Money,” and
other Illustrated Works. Sené stamp, stating experience,
.E FISK & CO., Springfield, Mass.,
McKINNEY & MARTIN, 1308. Chestnut street, Philadelphia,
Pa., Publishers. w2-4t,

S “STAR SPANGLED BANNER,’ a Rich, Rare, and Racy
8-page, 40 column Paper, nearly Ledger size, full of Sketches,
Poetry, Fuo, Wit and Humor, Makes a speciality of Exposine
SwinpLers; 200 ‘shown up” in 1870; millions of dollars saved.
it gives a new $3 Engraving, 19x24 inches,
“PIONEERS. OF AMERICA,”
to each subscriber, and it is only 75 centsa year. Specimen for
stamp. Address ‘STAR SPANGLED BANNER,”
Hinsdale, N. H.

Linden Park-—Staten Island.

BEST INVESTMENT IN THE WORLD!

Charming Homes for the People!!
Lots $60 and upwards; payable $10 monthly,

500 ALREADY SOLD.

30 cents saved daily will pay for a $100 lot in 12 months.

FREE EXCURSIONS every Monday and Thursday.

Send for Free Tickets, Maps, etc., to office of Linpen Park
Lor Associaton, 37 Park Row, World Building.

Orders by mail will be promptly attended to. w2 4t.

 

 

 

WINDLEDOM VENTILATED—Rascality exposed. The

 

 

Demorest’s Gem Souvenir,

130 pages, bound in red and gold, gilt edged.

Just issued the third number of’a brilliant: little annual, un-
usually attractive for giftsand decorating Christmas trees, etc.
it is embellished by a Boquet chromo, a fine portrait of Mile.
Nilsson, the Queen of Song, Mr. and Madam D2morest, and nu-
merous other cuts and illustrations. It also contains poems by
Alice and Phebe Cary, and, Jean Ingelow, and very many
Choice scraps from writers both witty and wise. In its enlarged
form, beautifully bound in crimson and gilt, the Gem Souvenzr is
five cents each, 50 cents per dozen, or $3.00 per hundred in quan-
tities.

Sent free by mail on receipt of price. :

Single copies Send 2 cents extra for postage. Address

W. JENNINGS DEMOREST,
$38 Broadway, N.Y.

 

Fs NOVEMBER No. of DEMOREST’S MONTHLY is superb.
It contains a beautiful full-length portrait of Mile. Nilsson in
concert costume; a large lithograph plate of Fall and Winter
Cloaks and Dresses, Tennyson’s beautiful poem the Miller’s
Daughter, elegantiy illustrated, new Music, worth more than
the cost of the book, and many other attractive features. Dem-
orest’s Monthly ror Nov..1s truly gorgeous. Yearly only $3, with
valuable premiums worth from 2 to 10 doliars to each subseri-
ber. Address . ; W. JENNINGS DEMOREST,
: 838 Broadway, N. Y.
Single copies 25 cents, mailed free.

 

JMime. Demorest’s Mammoth Bulletin of
Fashions.

A large and elegant plate, containing complete models of fall
and winter styles.tor ladies.and children, indispensable to every
head of a household as well as every dressmaker, elegantly
colored. Price $1, accompanied by full directions, descriptions,
and information concerning: the ‘detail of the wardrobe, all in-
cluded in this book, ‘What to Wear and How to Make it,”
which is sent with the Bulletin, post free.

Address Mme. DEMOREST,
838 Broadway, N. Y.

what to Wear and How to Make It.

This is the title of a book of instruction on dress and dress-
making, published by Mme. Deimorest at fifteen cents. Dress-
makers and Jadies generally will find in this manual much
useful information, and complete instruction in every depart-
ment of Jadies’ and children’s dresses, Itis issued semi-annually
and sent free of postage. Address Mme. DEMORKS!Y,

; . $38 Broadway, N. ¥.

 

Fail and winter edition now ready.

 

A Magnificent Premium.

A large and beautiful book, that ought to be in every house
and family. “How to Writ, How To TAtx, How 10 Brnave,
AND How To Do Business,” a complete epitome of just what
everybody wants,to; know. on each, of these most important. sub-
jects—600 pages, bound in cloth and gilt. Price $2.25. This
splendid, almost invaluable book for home improvement, will
be sent as a. free gift toevery person who sends a year’s sub-
scription to Dimorxst’s MonrHty MAGAZINE at $3, and the post-
age on the book, 24 cents.. Address

W. JENNINGS DEMOREST, _
858 Broadway, N.Y.

Mme. Demorest’s Combination Suspender
and Shoulder-Brace:

These useful and comfortabie articles relieve the hips and sus-
pend the weight ot the skirts on the shoulders, and, at the same
time, they are so arranged that they incline the shoulders back
and the chest forward, giving a very graceful and diguified po-
sition to the body—conducing to comfort and health, besides be-
ing very convenient and durable. Every lady should wear, and
no child should be without them. Ladies’, $1, Children’s, 75
eents, Mailed free on receipt of price.

 

 

 

Address R. H. FERGUSON & CO., Publishers
138 Bleecker St., New York City. ” -ww46-13t

$20 A DAY toMALE & FEMALE

iene to introduce the BUCKEYE $20 SHUTTLE SEWING
MACHINES, Stitch alike: on both sides, and is the only LI-
CENSED SHUTTLE MACHINE sold in the United States for less
than $40 to use the celebrated Wilson feed. All others are in-
fringements, and the seller and the user are liable to prosecution
and imprisonment. Ourrir Free.

ws-lyr Address W. A. HENDERSON & CO., Cleveland, 0.

IVORCES LEGALLY OBTAINED FROM THE
Courts of different States. No publicity. Advice free.
w47-13t FRED’K T. KING, Counselor-at-Law, 363 Broadway

 

 

OSALINE, or Solid Perfume, put up neatly in cakes;
to be simply rubbed on the handkerchief. Sent,
post paid, for 25cents, or 8 cakes for $1.00. Address,

 

D. DEFEREST, 64 Fulton street, N. Y. w48-4t
USE THE BEST.

LORILLARD’S
“CENTURY”
CHEWING.

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“YACHT CLUB”

SMOKING.

3w40-13t,
° per Month guaranteed. Sure pay, to all
$1 00 oo 2 5U ambitious men and women selling our
world-renowned Patent Silver Mould White Wire Clothes Lines.
Business permanent. For full particulars, address the Girarp
Wrre Mitzs, Philadelphia, Pa. w2-4t €.0.W.

 

 

 

Our Knowledge Box.

A FEW PARAGRAPHS WORTIL REMEMBERING.

 

 

QUESTIONS ANSWERED AND INFORMATION. WANTED.—
Maggie.—We cannot find the recipe to which you refer. Can’t
you remember the number or date of the paper?....Principie.—
To Take Ink Stains Out or WaLNut.. Put atew drops of spirits
of niter ina teaspoonful of water, touch the spot with a feather
dipped in the mixture, and on the ink disappearing, rub it over
immediately with a rag wetted in cold water, or there will be a
white mark which will not be easily effaced........ Alfred Town-
send.—To Cian Coat Cotisrs. Coat collars become soiled by
coming in. contact with the hair, which -is naturally oily, or is
by some made so RepAolaly. This slight greasiness upon the
collar gathers fine dust, and the two together form a mixture
disagreeable to look upon and difficult to remove—especially if
allowed to accumulate and harden. It isbest to clean the coilar
frequently. Very strong alcohol, or benzine, or ammonia may
be used. In either case do not work near a lamp, for fear of ac-
CIDONIBs 55 gies Foc J. Hamilton Bentham.—See No. 39..:.......055

Alexis,—To MAKE GRAHAM MurFFins.—Take six cups of Graham

meal, two cups of flour, two teaspoonfuls of salt, two-thirds ofa

cup of molasses, one teaspoonful of soda, mix with sour milk.

Bake in muffin rings........ Belle Brandon.—Tincture of iron is
usually recommended as a tonic, but iron taken as prescribed

in the following recipe is said to be better than any thing else

of that description: Take the scales from the anvil of a black-
smith’s shop, which have fallen from the iron while in heat,

powder them up as fine as possible, sift it through a fine vail of
cloth of any kind, then mix it with honey or molasses, (just as
the patient wishes,) then it is ready for use. ‘Take three times

a day, just betore meals, about as much as will lie on a tea-
spoon........ Rudolph.—To CurE CONSTIPATION OF THE BOWELS.—
Eat plenty offresh vegetables, drink a glass of water immediate-
ly after rising in the morning, eatslowly, and masticate the food
well, ayoid salt meats, and salt fish, and take one tablespoonful
of suiphur every other night upon retiring..... -Pax.—Diet......

A. Perry.—To Stain Woop. We have no recipe for what you
request, but give the following for ebony-black: Steep the wood
for two or three days in lukewarm water, in which a little alum
has been dissolved; then put a handful of logwood, cut small,
into a pint of water, and boil it down to less than half a pint.
If alittle indigo is added, the color will be more beautiful.
Spread a layer of this liquor quite hot on the wood with a pen-
cil, which will give ft a violet color. When it is dry, spread on
another layer; dry it again, and give ita third; then boil verdi-
gris at discretion in its own vinegar, and spread a layer of it on
the wood; when it is dry rub it with a brush, and then with
oiled chamois skin. This gives a fine. black, and imitates per-
fectly the color of ebony. To Srain Box woop Krown hold the
work to the fire, thatit may receive a gentle warmth; then take
aquafortis, and with a feather, pass it over the work till it
changes to a fine brown. Then oil and poiish it....7%it—Yes....
H. R,—See Nos. 28 and 42....... 0. W. E.—Y. See No. 48. 2.
Haré@ly. Practice, however, will soon improve it...... tdd<
¥. M. E. C.—Blister the place, and keep it raw for several days.

Then apply sweet oil and let itheal. New skin will then grow,
and the old marks, as a consequence, disappear......J. F. W.—
To CLEAN STEEL AND Iron.—Take an ounce of soft soap; two
ounces of emery; makeinto a paste; then rub the article for
cleaning with wash-leather, and it will give a briliiant polish.
-sos. A Reader of the New York Weekly.—See answer to ‘Ger-
trude,’* in No. 41....... Jack Gosh.—We cannot inform you........
Alpha Beta.—All the information we have on the subject is con-
tained in No. 44.......... Country Reader and Book K+eper.—Yo
CiuAN MArsiw.—Cover the stains with fuller’s earth, or plaster
ot Paris; and when dry brush it off. Another way is to take
verdigris and pumice-stone, well powdered, with lime newly
slacked. . Mix with soap lees, to the consistence of putty. Put it
in a woolen rag, and rub the stains well one way. Wash off with
soap and water. Repeat, if the stairs are nol removed.........
A Reader and M. E! ‘D.—To Maxx Tomato Gatsur.—Take half a
peck of tomatoes, wash and slice them; put them in your pre-
serving-kettle, and let them stew gently until quite soft, but do
not stir them. Strain the juice through a sieve, and. pour: it
back into the kettle, Add twenty-four. cloves, half an ounce of
allspice; half an ounce of mace; salt and cayenne to your taste.
Set it on the fire, and Jet it boil until reduced to half the original
quantity. |The next day strain out the spice, and to every pint
of juicegadd half a gill of vinegar, and bottie for use:.........
Discouraged Youth —Your blood needs purifying. Take sarspa-
THA: ek ne.. - -Hxperimental John.—We. would: advise you to: con-
sult some one who is familiar with the operation. It will save
youtime and labor..........2 Mrs, Madden.—l. Try coal oil, fol-
lowed by soap'and water. 2. Use lemon juice... 2.00.2... Hunki
Dore.—See No: 38:...20.... . E. D. W.—You will find a recipe
for yeast powders in No. 32....... Carry Wymans.~k, No. 2.
We cannot tell you. 3. Avoid late and hearty suppers 4 Much
depends upon the size of the boy. Some boys are stronger at

cloves: 2. Yes....000... Plumber.—Inquire of some experienced
workman in the trade. He will be able to give you the practi-
eal knowledge you require........ Constant Reader.—Corrosive
See 1 ounce; muriate of ammonia, 2 ounces; water, l
pint.

 

sixteen than many at twenty... ........ Bookkeeper.—l. Oil of

my friend and companion. She was passionately attach-
ed to me, and no more fervid and impulsive creature
ever lived. To accuse her of crime was like throwing },
mire at a star.
“When my education was finished Christiana was elect-
ed to be Mistress of the Wardrobe in my service, and
while I lived at court she was my attendant. :
“Count Von Schloss, who loved her, wasa brave and
irreproachable courtier, and I very gladly gave my con-
sent to thelr betrothal. They were tenderly attached to
each other. Never were there two more completely
formed for each other, Alas! that I should have been
the unhappy cause of their separation !
“Righteen months.ago, four princesses of the principal
houses of Germany and Austria, | among them, were pre-
sented to the prince imperial, who was about to-marry. 1
had the misfortune to attract his favorable notice, and he
named me to his ministers as the lady whom he desired
for his wife.
_ “It is impossible to describe the horror with which I },
heard that this brilliant destiny had beey. reserved for
me. Of abhandsome and youthful exterip, his imperial
highness was all that was vicious and cfuel at heart, 1
could not contemplate such a monster of dissipations as
my husband withont paroxysms of despair. I would
gladly have exchanged my princely rank with any beg-
gar throughout the principality, to purchase her freedom
of action. fwas aware that his Hnpérial hignnéss tad}
already contracted a Morgantic marriage with a lovely
and talented lady from Bavaria, named La Motte. I could
not satisfy myseli that a prince had any better right to
marry two wives than his subjects had, and { determined
to fly from a degradation which seemed inevitable. :
“My friend, Christiana, was as shocked by my threaten-
‘ed fate as myself; she agreed with me that escape was |
preferable, and she volunteered to arrange all forme. I
did not know then, nor until after her death, the sacrifice }
which this generous and beloved lady made to serve me.
She affected to have felt no reluctance to part with her
lover, Von Schloss; 1 now know that the separation broke
both their hearts.
“The baroness arranged a scheme which was as skill-
fully carried out, as it was daring, and which covered up
all traces behind me. She announced that Fhad fallen ill
of a malignant disease, which was then raging at Brit-
gen, and sent for two of the imperial court physicians: to
attend me. They came to thepalace at Briigen, and were
just in time to witness the death of a person who was in
the state-chamber.of the Princess Frederica. This person
was @ vagrant who, deeply infected with the disease, had
come three Gays previously to the palace begging for
alms. The baroness, with great ingenuity, resolved that
she should take my place, and represent my corpse. Tne
court physicians had never seen me; the disease was so
infectious that no one dared to.visit the chamber, where
the body waslaid out; and the features were so frightfully
disfigured, that no lying in. state could be attempted.
“Amid the general conSiernation of the whole country,
and the grief of those who had planned for me such an
illustrious destiny, the vagrant was buried in. Princess
Frederica’s tomb, and Princess. Frederica herself, re-
mained hidden in a chamber of the palace, with only
Gretchen, the baroness’s maid, for an attendant. Chris-
tiana did not dare to approach me for nine days after the
death of the woman, lest she should bring me the*infec-

pleted the preparations for my escape. Carlstadt, the

chamberlain, and Gretchen, were the only attendants we

admitted into our confidence. We managed to reach |
England in perfect safety; and then I cut myself oft for-

ever from that station in which I had been threatened

with such misery, and hoped to find happiness in my land

of exile, as @ private lady. -

“YT had furnished myself with enough money to tive on.
for some time, but I carefully refrained from taking my
own jewels. To my consternation, upon our arrival in
London, the baroness confessed that she had provided me
with the celebrated diamond collar, with which’ my mo-
ther’s portrait had been taken.
been unabie to consent that I should escape from all the
distinguishing marks of my prineely birth, and had weak-
ly included these jewels with my effects, hoping to see
me wear them yet.

“Tf was impossible to send them back without risking
discovery, and I was forced to retain themin my: posses-
sion, j

“This one act of folly of my faithful Christiana’s, effect-
ed her own destruction and all my subsequent dangers.
When the court jewels were missed by the Grand Duke of
, who had been my guardian, and it was found
that the Baroness Christiana had vanished, the vilestsus-
picions were heaped upon her. It was stated that she
had assassinated me at the instigation of the crown
prince’s subject-wife, Madam La Motte; had then poison-
ed Madam La Motte in order to escape detection, and had,
then robbed the treasury of my jewels and fled. “

“The grand duke resolved upon a secret search, and
sent two German officials to arrest the Baroness Eber-
stein. By what means they learned that we were in
England I Know not, but they traced us thither. Step vy
step they followed us, and we were forced to fly from city
to city in order to escape them. More than once Gretch-
en’s shrewdness saved us, when an actual dis¢éovery would

 

and Christiana and | thes ats. But in the midst of
our perils, I perceived that: dear Christiana was woe-
fully changed from the dauntiess and courageous creature
that she had ever been.. Her spirit was broken, her
health decayed; she quicklg,faded away, even in my ag-
onized arms, In less thaif/a month from the time in
which I frst discovered: her altered ‘appearance, my
Christiana was dead. Alt she was my first sacrifice; she
died in serving me.. She had heard of her ruined name
in Germany; of the death of her lover, which was caused
by her desertion and supposed crimes, and it broke her
heart. . Generous to the end to her hapless princess, she
forbore to tell me how fatally my flight had wrecked her
prospects. ;

“When the baroness died [had a photographer in to
take her likeness, that I might ever have a remembrance
of my dearly loved companion; and then Gretchen and I
were forced to look alter our own safety, and to flee from
the city.

to. losing the traces of my nationality as quickly as pos-
sible, ;

“Tt is useless to tell you all Thave suffered. My acutest
pangs have been caused by the deaths of my dear friends.
One by one they have been taken away, and I often feet
inclined to curse myself. aS their murderess. 1 am the
most unfortunate of women; oh, why was I born a
princess, without a princess's ambition ?

“Gretchen lias been my most faithful guardian, through
unspeakable sufferings. Saw you ever a uebier circle of
friends than Iliave had? I, who can never reward them,

 

palace in Briigen, with Baroness Christiana Eberstein as “Quite, my darling.”’ *

strictly truthful, my
choice of a wife; ba

miserable.”’ '

and not grumbling angel!
by every rascal who knows his age!’

generous and magnanimous as my blessed old dear!”

ding lilacs wave their incense over them; the tender grass
spreads an emeraid carpet for them;. the hedgerows are starred
with primroses, and through fairy. by-lanes these two h
people: pass from their wedding day into the life which waits for
‘them, and gai

‘Toasts were being drank, and’speeches made; the gues.s were
speeches, for which of late he had become rather noted.

force
and that Lord

~

tion. When all danger was over, she joined me, and com- |

The imprudent lady had }

have been inevitable. She. acted the lady of the party, |

“J took the name of Mrs. Ingoldsby, and applied myself }

“And that yowll never remember my foolishness?”

“Except to thank it for my good luck,” responded he.

“Thats. pretty of you to say, John, dear; but you must be

pose old koy.. You have made a yery bad
indeed; and:you must not seek to blind

anybody by calling a misfortune like that good luck.”

“Ill risk it, Gerry. She’s not suchia bad little bargain when

she came tosee me and make me: happy when I was ill and

* “How could Dhelp it?: You were-such a.poor, dear, suffering,

“Rather an old angel, my darling, ch?”

“Hold your tongue, sir! I won't. have my husband maligned

“My own Jittle wife! Ian hardly believe it, Gerry.”
“But lam, John, and I wish I was one quarter as good and

So they prattle in their hearts full of happiness, and_the bud-

appy

aily they face the battle-together.

The wedding guests still lingered round the wedding feast.
not fialf tired of the occasion yet.

The Ladies DeRoss were amusing themselves with goading
the Honorable Pe-segrine into some of his cynical, savage

Queer stories were going about Tyrrol’s persecution of the
pian’ niece, and it was generally supposed that she had been

“T cannot understand you. Explain, Mr. Flynn,’ cried
the manager,

“Well, L-will,”? returned Flynn. The fact is, Mr. Simpson
I’m a thorough believer in dreams. My father and mother
believed in them, and they taught me to do the same
thing.”

“Out upon your dreams,” exclaimed the manager.
“What have they to do with Mr. Booth’s absence ?” :
“Hear me,” said Flynn quietly, “and you will know. - I
told you I was asleep when Booth stole atvay ‘from me.’
Well I then and there dreamed that he had'left me and@
that I followed him to-a pot house, where we hada’ fight,
and I broke his nose. Now my dreams always'prove true.
I'm afraid to go after Booth, for fear there will be a fight,
and damage done to him.”

By this time the audience began to clamor for the play
to go on.

seuiuian to that,” said the manager, “and'stop:this idle
talk about your dreams. Find Booth in’ ten minutes or
perish in the attempt. I will go meanwhile with an apol- -
ogy to the audience.”

The distracted manager dashed: away, and Flynn'-was
left alone.. Time was deed precious. ' Flynn almost in- -
voluntarily found himself leaving the rear of''the Theater
by the short alley extending from Beekman to Anmstreet. .
“H}1 go,?) muttered Flynn, “but hang me if ,'I hike it...”
He turned into, Beekman street, and
along Park Chathamstreet. Goin

- ‘short distance

 

to leave. Kynliffe beeause-of his: nt attentiqns:
Edgar Berney had followed her as protector.
The bishop’s hasty journey “‘abroad on. business,”’ too, had been
the theme of many speculations.” A rumor had reached Kyn-
iffe in some-way concerning him that very morning, and Elea-
nor DeRos. was determined to see whether it was true or not.
“J wouldn’t have mentioned it before the bride for the whole
world,” said she, with a mal.cious glance at their gloomy look-
ing groomsman;. “but my maid told me to-day that there was
mourning: ever at poor Bishop Thouvenal’s.” A
Tyrrol grew sallow and haggard as he listened; ‘his deep eyes

devoured her face with a hound-like glare.
“

What’sithe mourning for!” he asked, huskily. _
“Mrs, Bonhill has been apprised in-some mysterious manner,
that the bishop is dead. It is likely a mistake, my dear Mr.
Tyrrol; why should you look so thunderstruck over it? eb
thought you and the bishop were not good friends. Surely his

. death need not trouble you.”

Tyrrol rose, and hastily left the: table. So blind was he, that
he jostled against a waiter who was between him and the door.
He looked at the man with a vacant stare, slightly recollected
himself, and returned to the back.of Miss De Ros’ chair.

She was looking over her shoulder-at him, with half dismayed i
but maticiousinterest. Her twosisters were also-gazing at him,

“Are you sure of what you say 2?" said Tyrrol, hoarsely, “Ex;
cuse me madam, it is probable that your maid has been, mis-
taken.”

‘Mistakem?™ echoed the lady coldly; ‘‘well, perhaps so. The
houskeeper is in mourning, however, and the palace servants
have been dismissed.” : ;

Tyrrol straggered from the room, as if he had received a stun-
ning blow.

He groped about in the hall for a few minutes, the waiters
rushing hither and thither, thought he was intoxicated, and
made way for him, with furtive: grins of delight at each other.
He went into the conservatory,,and from thence, without look-
ing to the: right hand: or the Jleft,into the garden. The breeze
was fresh: and cool; he held back his head and drank it in dike
one in a fever. y :

His blood-shot eyes raised to: heaven, shrank and quailed be-
neath the sun’s: beams, as if they had-met the eye of the
Avenger of Blood. He clenched his hand and smote himself
upon the forehead, asiif he would shatter the brain which bred
such fancies. His white glove split across the knuckles, and
the lurid rays of that ruby ring, which he had placed on the.
finger of the woman who had escaped his love, met his glare.
He had insisted upon weaning it upon his own hand, with a,
forlorn infatuation which was insane. : ae
The sight of it maddened him now. | It burned ‘into his sight
like the eye of the Avenger of Blood coming nearer. He tore
off his gloves in shreds, scattering them as he strode through
the ganich bed, and scrambled blindly over the budding shrubs;
and when he had got the ring off, he crushed it into the earth

| open-mouthed.

| with his heel.

fie went down the hundne@ marble steps without looking be-
hind him; every moment his pace quickened,, As he passed:

| over the ornamental bridge his eyes caught the glancing of the
river which slid beneath,.and the smouldering fires of frenzy

ole into their gaze. aad
oe looked about him fearfully: he looked up‘to the shining:
sky;’down atthe shining. rivers! behind at the pleasant garden;
before at the winding walk. which beckoned him.on by its ,seli--
tude. ..; : se eae :

There was too much light! Kere/for'so dark a‘deed; the.sky.
would tell of it, the depths would jrefuse ‘to. hide him,, the
hedges would whisper it to the shores; jot f

And why should he throw that gift away? Life was sweet—
wassweet—even though semorse should blacken it,—surely life:
was better than déath ! : een : ;

He began to run, as if the Avenger of Blood were at his heels.,
When he came insight of ‘the gate-holise, which guarded'the,
approach of pedestrians, he paused, and looked) at it, stupidly.)
e slowly put his hand to his head; itywas bare; he looked: at,
his garments; they, were, those. of the wedding festival, .He
tried to compose his convulse features;, they twitched:in spite!
of him, re af s i

He walked slowly tn'to the door of the pretty Moorish.mosqne,
‘and looked in. Theoelusteting ivy which swathed the: windows
datkened the rooms his eyes were dazzled with the glare jot
day, and coniused with »elots. of blood, which seemed! to. swim
in a mist before them; bul, surely he saw two men standing im
“the middle of the room? Yes, for they were talking: together.

“Tt don’t think you can see him to-day, my lady cause: it’s.
Mis§ Tyrrol’s wedding-day,and he's got something else: to.do,.
Tm’ thinking; tham to, speak to the Nkejof you.”

And by
anes he gazed upon, better, He saw the old gate-keeper: turn~
ing his. face to: the door. and nudging the other mani’s. elbow
with a whispered, “Bless us! here he is himself. Now, say yous

y, man.” 3
Bue. the other man did. not look: round: he went’ out at the
other door hasti!y; and the gate-keeper came forward .pulling
his torelock and mumbling: his surprise at ‘‘youag master’s ap-
pearance.’” é ees Bie i

“Give mea hat, will you,” said Tyrrol, in his hoarse voice,
“T came out farther than 1 intended, without one.”

The old mah went away and brought out a white straw: hat;
his best one.

“What did that fellow want with me?” asked Tyrrob.

“A place, I think, sir,” mumbled the gate-keeper; and Tyrrol,
forgetting to Hsten to him, walked away.”

The gate-keeper stood in the door of the pretty: Moorish
mosque, gazing after his young master as he: Went into. the
woods. ,

There was a green and pleasant path opposite the gates of
Vionnna. , 4 i

It wasstarred with violets, with primiroses, with daisies, It
was over-arched with the glistering bows of the lady-birch,
whose buds were casting off their russet sheaths im a crimson
shower. The levely spring grass ‘looked to Peregrine Tyrrol
showered upon with blood; he sped jover: it, with clenche
hands, and disappear

the pleasant path, , nee

Tt listened with loudly beating heart and bated breath. ‘It
ghded after the sounds of swift steps; and imits eyes was some
thing Horrible. It, crouched under the long arms of the silver
birches, and. lifted.a jagged and motched stick from the moss.
It weighed it in its hands, and tried its strength, and scanned it
with its stealthy eyes. lt glided after the sound of-swift steps,
and the gay spring breezes came from the face of the fugitive
to the face/of the pursuer. It ran over the springy mossy it
crept over the stony grounds it often stood still ‘to listen. | When
it first saw a white hat moving among the leaty boughs, it

the heavy stick, and sprang on again.

 

Nearer; nearer. ; : ad
The fugitive never looking back, fled from the Avenger of

shy . ‘ si *

2

 

 

this. time Tyrrel’s eyes were. beginning to, decipher |

ed. ; i
Something else bounded out of the depths of the forest ‘into |

threw itself flat on the ground and panted. Then it weighed |

iurther, rk-Row to Chathamegoul. Theres ke-discovered
making a speech to a laughing and cheering audience of
individuals, many-of them ‘in the same condition.. Flynn

arm said:
“Oome away.
is overflowing.”’
These words were hardly out of his mouth, when Booth

power upon Flynn. <A terrible struggle at one@.ensued. .
The table was overturned, chairs were upset, and Booth
seized the throat of Fiynn with the grasp of an. enraged :
maniac. Hlynn, as,he'stated afterward, was so suddenly
and dangerouslyasailed that he hardly knew what:hedid,:

'In a moment of amger and desperation he struck Booth a.
powerful blow, when the latter fell senseless to the floor .

in an instant Flynn ‘bethought him of his dream, and bent
weeping over the prostrate Booth. His nose.was com:
pletely flattened.

“You shave broXen bis nose,” said a bystander...

“Ol, Heaven!'oh Heaven!” exclaimed Flynn.in agony. .
“He is ruined for life. Richard will be himself no more.” -
He could:not bear the sight before him any Jonger, and.
rushed from the place. He went back to. the Theater,.and.:
told :ithe sad story, which as may be imagined, caused. a.
great sensation among the performers. Another.actor was -
now: Substituted to read the part of Booth, but many of the
audience left the Theater. Assistance was-.also sent to
Booth.. Eiynn never forgave himself for what he did, but
Booth did not blame him. Booth’s great career was over
however; from that hour. Flynn lived for many years.-in .
New York.. ie became totally broken down in purse; and

‘street. .
—_—__—__>9+___—__——..

Church Thoughts...

I: stood: this morning in the old burial, ground. of St.
Marks.chureh; the leaves are just beginning to fall: from..
the trees,. and present a variegated and.autummnal appear-
ance.. Few things are more pleasing.to me than,to. visit
the old: chwrehes and burial grounds of New Yorkj-and ;
read the inseriptions upon:the tombstones, of ‘the early
‘Settlers.of our great and grand city. | Ibinspires onetwith .
‘a feeling of holy awe and reverence; it reminds of itime’s .
‘Swift flight to eternity, and: admoniskes us that itis time
‘to prepare for the great and. aw!nl change that awaits us.
‘St,. Marks is one of the oldest churebkes in New York;,and
‘one-off the few which stands in iss-original tenement,
‘which feature is one of, great interest. The pulpit is at,
_present supplied by the very able and eloquent:Rev. Hd-
“ward ® Flagg, D. D., who has beem a faithful laborer in.

 

forty-five years of age, he has .almeady organizediiand es-.
‘tablished three churches, and after having seen’each one»
in. a flourishing condition, has.left the already matured:
and imerative work to. Others, amd gone forth again to'the.
‘uneultivated fields, to. sow the seeds of unrighteousness,
fou-which we trusthe will reap.@ rich harvest-in, due time...
Another pleasing: feature of:St. Marks is the grand ‘old,
‘organ, which shakes the very.foundation. ofthe: old édi- .
fice with his solemn and grand old'voice.. Where'is:the..
‘heart that will not melt befone the solemm.peals of ‘the
‘chureh organ? Where the man, the woman, or the child
feven, who does: not feel’his, or her soul refreshed and,
'sanétified, whilst: listening. to: the heavenly ‘peals? The
Fold organ uneartiis the past, sweeps away the long settled .
| dust from off the old volumes, and’ burnishes ‘anew. their
‘old mouldy covers, and: brings before us. the. dearly be-
‘loved and absent ones, but not in their originad form.”
We dream @ half-sad; sweet dream, in whith we com-.
‘mune with them) in ‘Heaven; and we imagine ‘we hear
' their dear Voices. mingling with the strains of ‘the old or-
gan, and we feel that, we never wish taJeave the old sanc-.
ituary; we clase our eyes, and peal after peal comes.forth
from. his voluminous throat, and shakes the very earth,
beneath onr feet. Presently the loud peals grew. softer,
and softer, antil they die away in a moan just as.the man,
of Godin surplice: enters the chancel, 3 :
Our lips:move and. we follow him;mechanically, for our;
hearts have already soared to Heaven, and we are still;
dreaming 4, halfdelicious heavenly dream—we are happy,
oh, so happy! What.a pity that we must go forth again.
and mingle: in the cold, selfish, and;wicked! world. Oh,.
the church is an, earthly paradise, It is: an asyJam in.
which: we can, rest the wearied brain and ease the aching:
heart..: Dear reader, have you ever felt’ that your very
soul had’ been crushed with sovrow? Haye you evel felt
that a strong and lasting fortress of grief had been erect-
ed between yourself and happiness? And have you them
been wicked enongh to hati-believe that God had taken
pleasure imthus’ afflicting you? And did your own evil
heart tenapt you to shut yourself up in your room on
Sabbath morhings and curse Him for the cbastenisg in-
ad of going to His holy sanctuary, and kneeling before
is slirime, ana blessing, and thanking’ Him for not hav-
ing laid the hand of affiction more heavily upon you?
~ Shoald this be your present case, 1 bee shat on Sunday
next. you will proceed to the house of God, and ‘listen to
the grand old voice of the organ, and 1 grant that you
i issue forth from the holy sanctuary, if not really
happy, with a subdued spirit, and a sweet dream of an
evethasting triumph. JANE GRAY SEAVER.

 

 

see eo en psa
ag Plum wine is the latest novelty in Wisconsin.

feaea
Mr. Booth in a maudlin condition, standing by \a.table..

approached him in haste, and putting his hand on Booth’s «

Simpson is nearly crazy, and the--house .

exclaimed, ‘Hands off,” andthrew himself with all his .

finally diediof cholera in the public hospital in..Center -

‘his Master’s vineyard for many years, althoughnot'over.

 

PseUK loadin) fan AAA,

2

Oy SELES

 

EASIEST.

paren are Mae ADs aban he eG

we os

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

aoe

 

 

 

 

«os THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. ==

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

—=

PLL WAIT AWHILE LONGER.

 

BY MRS. M. A. KIDDSR.

 

fil wait awhile longer
Before I despair,

Before I sink under
My burden of care;

Night cannot last always—
There must be a morn.

So ll watch for the daylight,
And watch for the dawn.

Pll wait awhile longer,
To-morrow may be

The brightest and fairest
Of morrows to me.

The birds may be'singing,
The blossoms may start

In bloom and in beauty—
Be patient, oh, heart!

Pil wait awhile longer
Before I give up;
I'll drink if it may be
The dregs from the cup—
Still watching, still hoping,
Still longing for day;
T'll wait awhile longer—
And waiting, I'll pray.

WILL SHE BE TOO LATE?

BY GUY AVENEL FORESTER.

 

 

“Only two more weary days, and then again I shail be-
hold him,’ murmured the Countess Von Autenrieth, as
she paced up and down her elegant boudoir, listiessly,
dispiritedly, as though it were a heavy task to live and
preathe. “But two more days and he will return to me.
Yet, oh! the hours pass so slowly, so slowly.”?

She paused in her walk before the marble mantel, and
leaning her fair white arms upon it, watched the little
bronze clock ticking so monotonously, neither hurrying
nor retarding its face, caring naught for human weal or
wo. ;

“But four more revolutions of this pointer, yet even
that seems aneternity. It is as if the nearer the time ap-
proached, the slower dragged the moments. Ah! ’tis ab-
sence proves the heart’s affections. My love has increased
ten—yes a hundred fold since we parted. And he has
been but amonth away. Heavens! it has been a year—
a long and weary year tome. Then, it seemed as though
removed from him I could not live, yet herelam. But
what a dull and empty farce is life—my life at least. Balls,
dinners, receptions, the opera, and court. I envy the very
peasant girl as I see her in the streets, looking so cheer-
ful and happy, free to roam about where it pleases her,
while I am tied down to one routine. -I go through with
it al; but there is such a void, a feeling of something
wanting in my heart.”

As she stood there, her jeweled hands clasped impa-
tiently, her gaze turned wistfully upon the little timepiece,
the Countess Renee looked fair, very fair. Her hair, black
and glossy, rippled away in heavy shining waves from
her white forehead, and was bound in one massive knot
behind, while soft. pearls, intermingling here and there,
relieved its somber gloom. Her dark eyes, dull and lan-
guid now, yet revealed within their slumberous depths
that which told that excitement could bring the needed
sparkle. Her robe was of rustling, rose-tinted silk, while
a long train of dark crimson velvet, bordered with silver
lace, fell from her faultless waist in heavy, graceful folds,
according well with her tall, stately figure, and royal air.

*, Leopold, my Leopold, return to me—your loving
Renee,”’ she continued, then sinking into a chair-covered
her face with her hands, and for a moment wept. bitterly,
as though her heart were breaking. But soon rising, she
impatiently dashed away the tears, exclaiming: “Shall I
—I whom men Call ‘The icy countess’—appear before my
guests with red eyes, and tear-stained face? No; I will
not weep.”

At this moment a low Knock sounded upon the door,
and a servant, in a gorgeous livery of velvet and gold,
entered, With a low bow, he extended to her a richly
chased salver, on which lay a letter.

“From court, my lady,” he said, as she took it, and then
Withdrew.

The countess glanced at it carelessly.

“From court? Some order concerning the next recep-
tion, I suppose,”’ and tearing off the envelope, she read
the first few lines.

As she did so, her whole demeanor changed. She
clutched the paper firmly, with hands as cold as death. A
corpse-like pallor came upon her anguished face; a wild
look of horror filled her staring eyes; and shudder after
shudder shook her frame. ;

And well: might she tremble, for the cruel letter told her
that: her idolized husband, Count Leopold Von Aaten-
rieth, would, on the twenty-seventh day of October, at six
weclool in the evening, be beheaded for the crime of hign

treason; Mbhe-w~nlic square of the city-of Pesth.
When she had fimsneu;wucavs.ay, ose wy foxes,

ment gazing blankiy at the letter—the terrible letter—as
though its meaning was not quite plain to her.

It was such a shock!—had.come so suddenly! Five
minutes before she had been joyously expecting iis re-
turn to her; and now—tuis !

“Death 1?

“She trembled as the fearful word fell from her pallid
lips; a ‘dizziness stole over her making her faint and sick.
But the wretched woman shook off the feeling.

“The twenty-seventh, at six o’clock !’’ she exclaimed,
hoarsely. “This is the twenty-sixth, and’’—glancing at
the clock—“‘it is already five! Merciful Heaven! I have
but twenty-five hours to save him in, and it is one hun-
dared and forty miles to Pesth !?

With frantic energy she pulled the bell.
Stantly appeared.

“The carriage,’’ she cried, her eyes glaring excitedly,
4and four of tle strongest horses! Quick ! a life depends
upon your speed |”?

The amazed servant hurried off to do her bidding, while
the countess frantically walked the room, her heart bound-
ing furiously as she thought of her husband’s peril.

A few moments passed, and she was told that the car-
riage was ready. Gathering her long train upon her arm,
and snatching a cloak from a chair, she quickly descend-
ed the grand staircase, passed through the marble-floored
hall, and came out upon the court-yard of her palace. The
footmen in livery stood ready to mount the equipage, but
she waved them off with an imperious gesture.

“This is for busiaess, not pleasure—I need you not,”
she said, and entered the carriage, calling to the coach-
man: ‘Io the palace of the empress—and as swiftly as
the horses can be made to go!’

The man plied his whip with vigor, and the four spirit-
ed animals dashed through the streets at a fearful pace,
astonishing the quiet citizens, who turned and locked
after the equipage with wondering eyes.

Inside, the countess sat, pale, and terrified, hoping—oh,

A servant in-

80 ‘earnestly !—for success, yet fearing that her work

would be in vain.

Would she be able to save him from death—and death
for high treason? What did this fearful intelligence
mean? Surely her husband—her Leopold—had_ never,
never been guilty of that dreadful crime.

“There is some mistake,’’ she thought. ‘He is far too
loyal. He cannot have plotted against the throne. It is
the work of an enemy. But if pleading can save him, he
shall live. I will kneel at her feet. I will implore. Oh,
Heaven give me words to touch her heart;’? and the
countess sent up a silent prayer for help, in this her
supreme hour of need.

At last—it seemed an age to the trembling occupant—
the coach drew up befure the Imperial palace. Waiting
for no assistance the countess sprang out, and rushed 1n-
to the building.

“The empress. Where is she??? she gasped, pausing
for an instant to question one of the guards.

“Countess,” was the reply, ‘‘the empress is nowin the
council-chamber. She cannot be seen.’

“But 1 must see her. It isa matter of life and death.”

“Tt is impossible.’

*] will see her. Stay me not,’ cried Renee, as she flew
past the astonished man in the direction of the designa-
ted chamber.

A moment she stopped before the door to still her heart,
throbbing with mingled fear and love, then opening it,
she entered quickly, and sank with clasped hands and
tear-dimmed eyes at the feet of the empress, who half
rising signified her displeasure.

‘Mercy, mercy,’? groaned the wretched supplicant;
‘mercy, your majesty!’?

“What means this?’ queried Maria Theresa, turning to
Haunitz, who occupied a chair at her right-hand. :

“Your majesty,’ replied the prime minister, ‘if this be
the Countess Von Autenrieth, and I believe it is, it means
that her husband is to be beheaded to-morrow at. Pesth,
and she supplicates your majesty to pardon him.”

“Her husband! Count Leopold Von Autenrieth! And
why is he sentenced to death ?”?

“High treason, your majesty. Your majesty signed

' the warrant a few days ago; but, through some mistake,

the news was not sent to the countess until to-day.”

‘J remember now. Countess, I cannot pardon high
treason. I would gladly save iim, but he must die.. The
welfare of the empire demands it.’?

‘Oh, your majesty,” screamed the unfortunate wife,
beautiful at any time, but doubly beautiful now, in her
distress: ‘‘spave him, Ibeseech. Heis my all, my only
love. “If he dies, 1 die too. If it pleases your majesty,

you can doit, and can save a heart from desolation.

Spare him!’

“Countess, it cannot be,” was the chilling reply. ‘Had
it been for any other cause he was to. die, it might be
possible, but treason—never !”” i

“He has been misguided—there is some awful mistake,
For the love of Heaven—for the love you bear. your dead
husband, ‘give him his life. He has been faithfui—oh,
how faithiul—to you, and I know, ! feel in my heart.that
heis innocent. Pardon him! Pardon! Pardon!

Breatnless, the countess groveled in, the most abject
misery at the feet of the empress. /

“It is true he has been very. loyal to me hitherto. Are
you sure that the proof is. perfect?, I would destroy no
man’s life without a just cause,”’ turning to her counsel-
ors, who, with the exception of Kaunitz, were looking in
astonishment at this outpouring of the woman’s heart,

“The case has been as thoroughly examined as was
possible in so short a time, your majesty, and if isscarce-
ly probable there is anything wrong,” replied Kaunitz, as
sve and as calm as though nothing unusual had hap-
pened.

| cy.’”

portant place, that called itself a town.

 

“Yet there might be,’? murmured Maria Theresa, be-
ginning to relent, “and I have never had a suspicion,
even, against him before.”

“Oh, your majesty,” cried .the countess, the spark of
hope, almost extinguished, beginning to revive within
her tortured bosom, ‘‘at least reprieve him until he can
be proved guilty. All this may be the malice of some
enemy. The good have always enemies. Andif he has
erred, your majesty will see that he can appreciate mer-

“Enough,” saia the empress, with a determined wave
of her hand. ‘“Kaunitz, make out a full pardonjfor the
Count Leopold Von Autenrieth, and 1 will sign it. Count-
ess Renee, I have decided to give your husband a free
pardon, such is the confidence I begin now to feel in his
imnocence. I trust that he will appreciate the act, and
show that he does so by keeping, in the future, from
everything which can sully his name, or vast any shadow
upon his integrity. Ihave always had the greatest faith
in him. He has been a wise counselor and a sagacious
adviser tome. I signed the warrant in haste, or should
have looked more searchingly for the truth of the mat-
ter.

Renee Von Autenrieth could but stoop and kiss the hem
of the empress’ robe, so entirely overcome by the sudden
revulsion of feeling, as, for a moment, to be speechless.

“But, countess, I fear you will not be able to save your
husband. The courier, with the death sentence, must
have reached Pesth by this time, for the execution is to-
morrow.”’

“Your majesty, my carriage stands at the entrance to
the palace. I shall not waste a moment, and hope, by
the ‘an of God, to reach the city before to-morrow
at six.”

“Pray Heaven you may,’’ fervently responded Maria
Theresa. ‘

The pardon was handed to her, and when the royal sig-
nature had been affixed, the countess received the pre-
cious document, and clasping it closely to her bosom fled
out of the palace and reéntered her carriage which still
waited at the gate.

“To Pesth,”’ she commanded the coachman; ‘‘do not
spare the horses, and strive to reach the city before six
to-morrow evening.”

The man stared at her in surprise, as though she were
a lunatic, and began:

“But, my lady, it is

She interrupted him:

“Joseph, your master is to die at that hour, unless I am
there to save him.
Need I say more ?’’

17

 

No, if was enough; for the count was dearly loved, nay,
worshiped by all his servants. He plied his whip with
vigor, and the horses started off with the speed of the
wind, while the countess leaned back upon the seat and
prayed that she might reach Pesth before the awful deed
was done. But, oh, she doubted! There were many
things to delay her. The horses could not hold out at the
rate they were going—she might be unable to obtain
more—the carriage might break—she thought of num-
berless events to prevent her. The fact. however, that
the road was an excellent one, hard and level almost as a
floor, was in her favor.

She took out her jeweled watch and opened it. Half
past six. Heavens! she had but twenty-three and a half
hours, and Pesth was at least one hundred and thirty-
pens miles distant, That would be nearly six miles an
nour.

“Surely we can go as much as that,’? she thought, and
a little comforted, was carried on past farm houses, fields,
orchards, and towers until Joseph told her that the horses
could hold out but for a few miles more.

“Then we will stop at the next inn and try to obtain a
fresh relay,’ replied the countess, and in a short time,
with a great flourish, they drew up. in front of a little
building brilliant with lights, with a swinging sign which
proclaimed to all men that it was the ‘King’s Golden
Crown.’

The bustling landlord hearing the clutter of the horses’
hoofs and seeing the splendor of the equipage drawn up
before his door, came out bowing and smiling with de-
light at the thought of a noble guest. Renee leaned from
the window and eagerly questioned him as to whether he
knew of four norses near at hand which she could
secure.

“JT have four horses at your service,’ replied the obse-
quious landlord; ‘but they're not so good as these, and
two must be shod before they can go.”

She dropped back and groaned.

“And how near is the blacksmith’s shop?" she in-
quired.

“Tt ig just behind the house, and y

‘‘Then shoe the horses immediately. Not a moment is to
be wasted. Hasten, O hasten!”

The man hurried off to do her bidding, while Renee in
an agonizing state of suspense thought of the precious
time she was losing.» Every moment was one less. Sup-
posing she should be too late! The headless body of her
husband, all gory and ghastly, came up before her. She
shuddered and closed her eyes as if to shut out the awful
sight, but still it tormented her. She imagined it all—
oh, so vividly! Her Leopold marching between a guard
of soldiers—ascending the gloomy scaffold, hung with
black—the executioner, all masked, and holding in his
hand the fatal ax—the last prayer—the laying of his head
upon the block—and then the cruel blow, the blow which
would sever that beloved head, and send it all dripping
with blood down to the basket below! Jt was too fearful,
and she fairly shrieked with dread as she pictured that
final scene.

Then came the landlord with the four horses—good,
common animals, but in no way to be compared with her
own—and they were soon attached to the carriage. She
gave him asum of money, with which he might well be
content, and at length started again. Then looking at her
watch, she found that she had been delayed fully three-
quarters of an hour, and her heart sank low within her
bosom.

And so, through the weary night they rolled on. Now
dashing through the quiet street of some little village,
anon rattling over the stony thoroughfares of a more im-
Occasionally
stopping at someinn to change horses, Joseph rousing
the sleeping inmates with thundering raps, then a great
bustle and hurry with the harnessing and unharnessing
of horses, and then the drive off into the night again.

At last the morning dawned, clear and bright, and they
were sixty-five miles on the way. But again the horses
were giving out, and noinn appeared in view. So they
drove on, on, on. Joseph lessened their pace, until they
were going but little faster than a walk, for to have kept
the horses on at the former rate would have been to kill
them.

When Renee had given up to despair, a little wayside
tavern came in sight, and they soon drove up before the
“Wild Boar.”? But to her hurried inquiries the landlord
shook: his head. ‘No he had not four horses, nor even
two for that matter.”

A group of workmen on their way to the fields were
congregated before the house, and to them the heart-
broken woman appealed.

“O, my friends,’ she cried, ‘‘can none of you aid me?
Hear my story. My husband is to be beheaded in Pesth
at six o’clock this evening. Iam on my way to save

 

I have the royal pardon with me.

 

 

 

 

 

him. Ihave the Empress’ pardon here.
O will you not help me ?””

For a moment they were all silent, but as a new-comer,
a better dressed than themselves, joined them, they
cried.

“O, here is Fritz. Fritz, let the poor lady take thy horses,’

“Not {,”’ said Fritz gruffly. ‘I’ve other use for my
horses.”?

The stricken woman heard the words and flew to him.

“Aid me,” she cried wildly, ‘‘O, aid me. Here is golg.
Here are jewels,” and she tore the pearls from her hair,
her arms, her bosom. ‘‘Take them. I give them willingly.
Only pity my distress,’’ and her eyes, bedewed with tears,
looked appealingly to him.

The man eyed greedily the priceless gifts held out to
him, and avarice conquered every other feeling.

““Well,’’ he said, sweeping them into his pocket, “I'll get
the horses for.you,’? and walked away.

So after another half hour they started once again, and
were whirled onward till four in the afternoon, and then
saw by the the signs and tol! gates that Pesth was still
twenty miles distant.

A change of horses at the ‘Twenty Mile Inn,” and then
began a fierce struggle between time and death, and death
seemed about to win for at half past five there were still
eight miles to be gone over.

Renee’s tortured brain seemed réady to barst, and her
heart almost ceased to beat, as, the nearer they drew to
their goal, the nearer came the dreadful hour.

“O, that I may bein time,” was her constant prayer.

And now they were in the suburbs.

“Faster, Joseph, faster,’’ she shrieked in agony, as the
hands of her watch pointed to five minutes of six.

The man. lashed the horses fiercely, and they bounded
on with lightening speed clearing ail obstacles, disregard-
ing every hindrance.

The Countess looked breathlessly from the window up
the long vista of street, and saw where it ran into the
Public Square. She saw, too—oh, horrible sight—the
scaffold and the surging masses of people around, and as
they came nearer she discerned His noble form.

She drew the precious paper from her bosom, and waved
it wildly, Screaming, ‘Pardon. Pardon.?’

Alas! they heard her not:

“O, Joseph, Joseph. Faster. Lash them. I must not be
too late,’’ and the man goaded the quivering animals to a
still quicker pace.

And now she sees the glittering ax raised on high, and
the wondering crowd divides to make a passage for the
frantic steeds. Again she waves the paper, and again she
shouts, “‘Pardon.’’ Then the executioner’s hand is stayed,

Will you not;

 

WILL SHE BE TOO LATE? AGAIN SHE SHOUTS “PARDON !) THEN THE EXECUTIONER’S HAND IS STAYED,

and she clasps her rescued husband fo her breast murmer-
ing, ‘‘Vot too late!” while all the people madly cheer and
toss their hats high in air.

O, what a rejoicing was there, and what enthusiastic
shouts went up for the woman who had so bravely saved
her husband’s life, and for her lord, snatched from the
jaws of death.

She had striven nobly, and she had won.

 

After a vigorous examination, it was proven beyond a
doubt that the Count Leopold Von Autenrieth was entire-
ly guiltless of the crime with which he had been charged,
and that the whole affair was the well-laid scheme ot two
other noblemen, high in position at court, and jealous of
the rising fame of the count.

They were punished as they deserved.

“THAT COUNTRY BOOR.”

BY HANNAH HOPPER.

 

 

 

“Isn't it foo bad, mamma. Iam so vexed,’ said Laura
Wilson, petulantly, throwing down a letter which she had
use apne “That country boor! what shall we do with
him

“Leave him to take care of himself,” said the young
lady’s mamma, placing one slippered foot above the other,
and looking with pride at her fat, jeweled hands. ‘Such
people always come around whien they are not wanted,
but we, cannot afiord to give him any of our attention or
time.

“But what shall we do with him?” persisted Miss Laura.

“Give him over to my keeping,’’ said Laura’s twin-
sister, Alice. ‘Ill agree to take care of him, if you will
let me have my own way. As for Mrs. Alden’s, party, I
don’t wish to attend it any way, and will be glad enough
to get an excuse to stay away.”?

“For once your oddities are of some use,”’ said Laura.
“Tf you will only take John Drummond.off my hands, I
shail be delighted; but remember, papa is exceedingly
Sensitive concerning his friend Jonathan’s son, and you
must Keep on the right side of him, and not allow him to
mistrust that any of us are ashamed of him.’

“Ashamed of him! 1 don’t know what anybody need
to be ashamed of himfor. I suppose he has as good right
to his country dress and ways as we have to our city no-
tions,’’ said Alice, drawing a crimson thread of worsted
along the carpet for the white kitten to play.with. ‘Your
notions are really laughable, Laura. I wouldn’t be such
a slave as you are for the world.”

“I am not a slave, I just work for my own good. How
am I ever to marry a man Suitable if I give my attention
to country boors, and ignore fashion as you do?”

“I don’t ignore fashion, when it agrees with common
sense, but I wouldn’t give myself s0 much uneasiness as
you do for every suitable man in the country.”

“However could twin-sigtets be so unlike? said Mrs.
Wilson. ‘Alive you will #ever marry, and it is your duty
to assist your sister, and not be forever tormenting her
With your odd notions.”

“] don’t see how I can help it, mamma; Laura is so
afraid of every thing which doesn’t belong to her set, and
seems to think of nothing bu marrying a rich man,” said
Alice. ‘I think it is so foolistany way, that I should burst
if 1 never could mention it.”

‘Now, mamma, you see just how I have to be torment-
ed,’’ said Laura, petulantly. ‘I do think it’s a shame for
Alice to say such hard things to me.”?

“T think so too,” said Mrs. Wilson; ‘‘but do stop now,
and let us talk of the party. I nope you will look your
best, Laura, for anew ‘lion’ isto play a conspicuous part;
the richest and finest man to be found in the city, so Mrs.
Grill told. me.”

‘Yes, I have heard all about it,” said Laura; ‘‘and un-
less Isabel Deer is there I shallhave norival. My dress is
really magnificent.”

“Iam glad of that. Ireally wish you could secure the
prize,” said Mrs. Wilson. “Jc isn’t often, you know, that
one finds a very wealthy man who has all the beauties of
heart and,mind which are so often found where there is
no wealth. Do your best, Laura. You will be sure to
like him, if what Mrs. Grill told me is true.?’

“Tam glad John Drummond is off my hands. He will
be here to-morrow night. Do you remember what a little
red-headed greenhorn he used to be? This is the first
time we have heard one word from him for a dozen years.
Isuppose he has been plodding on the farm, growing
more awkward and green every day of his life.’

“I believe I shall like him,” said Alice. ‘Iam tired of
lady-killers and useless young men. If only a man will
do some good in the world, I honor him.’

 

 

sna

“Horrors!” exclaimed Mrs. Wilson, sitting upright in
her luxurious chair. ‘Alice, don’t let me hear such re-
marks from you again. I am actually alarmed that you
will culminate your peculiar notions in marrying a
clown.”’

“Give yourself no trouble on my account,” said Alice,
laughing. ‘Only a moment ago you said I would never
marry, and I am inclined to think that assertion the most
probable.”’

“OQ, dear! I am tired of such nonsense,” said Laura.
“Come, Alice, do put my hair in curl-papers. No one will
bein to-night. It isso terribly stormy.”

 

“Your ‘rustic’? has arrived,’’ said Laura to her sister,
the next day; ‘‘but I cant see him to-night, and you must
come up as soon as possible to help me dress.”

“Yes, I will,” said Alice, merrily, as she ran lightly
oe the broad stairs, and met John Drummond in the
parlor.

A tall young man rose to greet her, a little awkward,
perhaps, yet after all with an air easy and affable. He
had a large quantity of very red hair and whiskers, so
overwhelming in their abundance that Alice could think
of nothing else as she gazed upon him, and she found
herself conjecturing why he didn’t cut off a large portion,
and not make such a startling appearance.

“Tam Alice,’? she said, as she shook hands with him.
‘‘Mamma and Laura are preparing for a party, and there-
fore send their regrets for not meeting you to-night.
Father was called away by business this morning, and
will not return until to-morrow. He expressed much
sorrow at not being here to welcome you. lamvery glad
you have come; but I should not have recognized you
from the remembrance | have of you twelve years ago.”

John Drummond smiled, and in spite of the red hair and
whiskers Alice felt that there was a power in his blue
eyes which she seldom saw in a handsomer face.

“T did not expect recognition,’ he said, in a voice which
seemed rather unnatural, and not particularly sweet, ‘‘for
twelve years make many changes. I remember that your
sister had blue eyes and golden hair, and that you were
darker, and 1 remember many little incidents which oc-
curred when we played together, and I feel far from being
among strangers.”’

“We are not strangers; we are friends,’’ said Alice, and
now the ice was broken, and a pleasant conversation was
commenced, and an hour sped away as if on wings.

“Miss Laura wants you,’ said a servant, at the door,
and excusing herself for afew moments, Alice ran up to
her sister's room.

“O, Laura,’’ she said, enthusiastically, really he is the

 

You ought to
It is like reading the most fascinating

most charming conversationist I ever saw.
hear him talk.
book.”?

“O, nonsense!) said Laura. “Now, Alice, don’t you
think my hair droops a little too much? Please place this
rose-bud about there. Isn’t my dress lovely’? I believe 1
never looked better than I shall look to-night. Let me
wear your diamond cross, will you?”

“Of course; yes, wear anything you like; but before you
go, you must just step in and see Mr. Drummond. It will
seem so much more friendly. Do, Laura, please.’’

“Why, yes; I'll say ‘How do you do?’ to him, if you are
so anxious. Don’t this lace look bewitching on my
arms ?!?

“Youll break all the hearts in the drawing-room, be
assured of that, Laura; but I can stay here no longer. I
said I would be gone only a few moments.”’ ;

“Well, go then, and entertain your ‘rustic,’” said
Laura, 80 pleased with her personal appearance, that she
felt uncommonly good-natured.

“You'll call in to the ‘parlor and see him, won’t you?”
said Alice, with her hand on the door-knob.

“Yes, Viltake a peep at him. Iam glad enough you
agreed to entertain him, and we were not obliged to take
him to the party.”

Alice and John Drummond were soon conversing to-
gether again, and it was not long before Laura looked in
upon them, looking as beautiful as a pretty face, frizzes,
curls, ruffies and lace could make her. She had expected
to meet a “clown” with red hair, but was wholly unpre-
pared for the overwhelming amount of red hair and
whiskers which met her vision. She actually started,
visibly curled her lip, and stepped back toward the door,
and when her sister introduced her to the young man
she bowed very coldly, refused to take the offered hand,
and with some sarcastic remark swept out of the room.
Alice followed her with her face crimson with mortifica-
tion.

‘You treated him shamefully,’ she whispered.

“Such a bear deserves no politeness, I am disgusted
with him and you, too,?? Laura replied in atone suffi-
ciently loud for the young man in the parlor to hear and
understand,

“O, don’t,” said Alice, ‘he will hear you. Go on;mam-
ma, is in the carriage already.”

The evening passed very pleasantly to Alice, for John
Drummond could play and sing beautifully, and Alice
listened to the soft cultivated tones of his voice as he
sung some touching melody, and wondered why she had
ever thought his voice harsh or unpleasant. At ten he
bade her good-night, and the lingering clasp of his hand
sent such a thrill to her heart as she had never felt before.

“Tf only he wouldn’t wear such an unusual amount of
Such very red hair,*’ she said to herself as she was about
to retire, ‘‘he would be charming’? but in her dream she
only: saw a pair of beautiful blue eyes, and heard the soft

‘tones of acharming voice, and in the morning her first

thoughts were for him.

‘“‘Wasn’t Mr. Wayne the most delightful man you ever
saw, Mamma??? said Laura the next day atter the party.
“I do believe he has every accomplishment in the world.
He is a perfect gentleman, isn’t he; and how exquisitely
he was dressed? Isn’t Mrs. Aiden the pest woman to give
@ party in the world?”?

“I never saw you look or appear so well as you did last
night,” said Mrs. Wilson; ‘‘and Mr. Wayne seemed
smitten.”

“I thought so, too,” said Laura, ‘‘and he will call on
me to-nignt. Isn’t Alice the silliest thing you ever
Saw? She is really interested in John Drummond, and he
is positively frightful. Even papa, I know, was disap-
pointed in him, for L heard him say he thought he wore
too much red hair.”

“There is no use in talking to Alice.’ She will do as she
pleases; but really I don’t think there is. any danger of
her being smitten with John Drummond,” said Mrs. Wil-
son... ‘‘He is coming here to dinner this evening.”

“O dear, how long is he going to bore us?’

A week passed away, and Alice had come tothink of
John Drummond as the best and dearest in the world.
Even his red hair was forgotten, and his step and voice
called the color to her cheeks. Laura had thought of him
only to despise him, and had always trea tedhim with
scorn, Mr. Wayne had paid her assiduous attention, and
she was growing sure that he loved her, and was doing
everything In her power to take his heart captive.

‘“Mamma,’? said Alice, one day, as she entered the
private parlor, and sat down near her mother; ‘‘mamma,
I have promised to be John Drummond’s wife.’

“O, Alice Wilson, how could you?!) screamed Mrs. Wil-
son. ‘How could you, Alice; I can never accept him as a
son-in-law—never. That clown! O, Alice, I didn’t think”
you would go so far as this.’

 

conser uRenmes

“He is a good man, mamma, and I love him,” said
Alice, meekly.

“But you shall never marry him,’ said Laura, fiercely,
“I will not have it, Alice. You must.be crazy.”

“I have already promised,’ said Alice; ‘‘and father has
consented.”’

“Of course papa has consented, but I have not, and I
won’t, and I’ll break it up, I will, see if I don’t! Alice, I
will tell him what I think of him this very night, when he
comes to see you.” ;

Alice said no more, but arose and left the room. In
the evening as she sat with John Drummond, her hand
clasped in his, and her heart full of happiness, Laura
entered. She looked angry and excited.

“John Drummond,’’ she commenced, “you are an in-
trusion here, we do not ”

“Wait a moment,” said John, “before you say any
more. Let me spare you all the mortification possible.”
He arose, and in an instant the red hair and whiskers
were gone, and he stood before her.a genteel and elegant
man.

“Mr. Wayne!” shrieked Laura.
what have I done?”

“You have been foolish enough to treat the same man
in reference to his appearance anid position,” said he,
“and every person who wiil not appreciate or honor
merit, in whatever dress it appears, should learn just
such a lesson as you have learned.”

Laura fied from the room, to pour into her mother’s
sympathetic ears her tale of woe, while Alice, bewildered
and astonished, felt her lover’s arms around her, and
heard how he had come in disguise to find 1f possible a
true heart, and had been successful beyond his expecta-
tion.

“It is too perfectly ridiculous,” said Mrs. Wilson; ‘‘but
it is such a relief that Alice isn’t going to disgrace us, as
I was afraid.” ‘

Laura received much sympathy from all the family, in-
cluding John Wayne Drammond himself; and the lesson
she learned made her anoble woman, and years after
Alice was a happy wife, she married a good man, and
lived peacefully and contentedly.

—_——_>-0+____

LECTURE,—In another column our readers will observe
a notice that our contributor, Col. Judson (Ned Buntline)
is to lecture in Philadelphia on the 30th of November, for
the Patriotic and Benevolent Order of Sons of America.
That the house will be filled we have no doubt, and the
audience gratified, for the lecturer is said to excel the
writer, and our readers may from that know what to
expect.

 

*O, what have I done?

Items of Interest.

ka A great storm recently visited San Diego, Texas,
first enveloping all in an impenetrable cloud of dust, ac-
companied by a most terrific wind. In a moment, rain
in adeluge fell, mingled with hail from the the size of a

 

to have killed animals. A quantity of mules, rabbits, and
fowls were killed, and several persons badly bruised by
the falling hail. Nearly every jackel or thatched house in
the town was either blown down, the roof taken off, or
badly shattered, while many of the more substantial
buildings were injured more or less.

Ba Seven thousand pounds of sand, two thousand
eight hundred pounds of soda-ash, eight thousand nine
hundred pounds of lime, and two hundred bushels of coal
are used daily at the. Indianopolis Glass Works, and nine
thousend dozen bottles are turned out weekly, making an
average of one thousand five hundred per day.

kas A Nova Scotia vessel was recently fined £1,400 by
an English court, for cutting a telegraph cable. The ves-
sel anchored off Dover, and while getting the anchor on
board it became locked with the cable, and in order ta
get free from the encumbrance, the captain gave orders
to cut it.

aa A desperate outlaw, who has long been a terror to
Los Angelos county, California, was recentiy shot six
times through the heart, by deputy sheriffs, sent out. to
take him alive. He was in the act of drawing his revolver
upon them when they fired.

Bar A meteoric stone fell into the barnyard of a Santa
Clare, California, farmer the other day, and was so hot
that it set fire to the straw, and sizzled and hissed like
red-hot iron under the water which was thrown upon it
to extinguish the flames.

kas A Texas paper says that the German labor in Texas
takes the precedence, and in the Galveston market their
cotton commands a.cent per pound over others, in conse-
quence of careful handling.

aa=- A colored man has been found by the census-takers
in Williamson County, Tennessee, who represents himself
as being in his one hundred and fifteenth year. He still
enjoys good health, and works on a farm.

4a The railroads in the United States nearly equal in
extent and cost those of allthe rest of the world. As the
close of this year the aggregate length will be nearly if
not quite fifty thousand miles.

ka Newark, N.J., is to have the finest cathedral in the
country, larger than the onein New York, to take twelve
or fifteen years in building, and to be of brown stone and
Aberdeen granite. :

4@- The town of Westhampton, Mass., with only 588
inhabitants, has given 38 of its sons a college education.
Seven of them were named Clark, of whom six were
ministers’ sons.

Sa Asuit involving the sum of $2.59, the price of a
pair of unmentionables, has just been decided at Elgin,
lll The plaintiff suffers a loss of $106, and the county
from $50 to $75.

kas Tennessee is becoming a great potato growing
State, and has a very large crop this year, which is also
of fine quality, the potatoes in some fields averaging a
pound apiece.

ka Two octogenarians, who had been betrothed in
early life, were recently united in wedlock at Galesburg,
lll. In the interval between the separation and reunion,
each had twice married.

4a@- Detroit has a man who cherishes a monomania for
new boots. He has left his measure, within a month, for
upward of twenty pairs. He always orders high-priced
ones, and never calls for them.

4a The new soldiers’ monument, of highly polished
Scotch granite, surmounted by a bronze eagie, has been
erecied on the park at Greenfield, Mass.

4a A St. Louis company is preparing to build a factory
in the very midst of the cotton fields, for the manufacture,
on a large scale, of domestic fabrics and cotton yarn.

4as- In 1828 there were three miles of railway in the
United States, and now we have 48,860 miles, and the in-
crease cannot be less than thirty miles per day.

4a There is in Sioux City (lowa,) a Prussian at work
carrying a hod, who has received a classical education,
and was at one time a tutor in the royal family.

ka A duel between two colored men of Augusta, Ga.,
has just been averted after a correspondence extending
over three weeks, and eight sheets of brown paper.

ka A perfect petrified seal has been exhumed from a
mine near Wadsworth, Nevada, at a point five thousand
feet above the level of the Pacific.

kar Carpenters and masons get fifty four cents a day
in the cities of Sweden, but fifty cents will buy more in
Sweden than five times that sum would in this country.

ea The Acclimatization Society of New Zealand is
buying Californian birds and seeds, frogs from Australia,
pigeons from Africa, and fishes from England.

kas The meat which is seized by inspectors in the Lon-
don markets as unfit for food is not wasted, but melted
into fat, and sold to the manufacturers of fresh butter.

ka In attempting to smoke a twenty-five cent coon out
of a iog, a New Hampshire farmer destroyed $10,000
worth of timber by fire.

kas During recent excavations about a dam, at Exeter,
N. H., an eel was found buried in the dry earth ata depth
of about five feet.

#GS- Maine is to have another colony of Swedes before
the close of the year.

gas At San Francisco, one day, lately, seventeen ships
were loading with wheat for England.

&G> There is cne part of Nebraska where a citizen has
to travel sixty-nine miles to vote.

kar A gray, hump-backed whale, forty feet in length,
went ashore a short time since, near San Francisco.

ga There are eleven female clerks now employed in
the Boston post-office.

£@> Philadelphia boot-blacks lose their license if caught
pitching pennies,

ka= All the German female babies this year, will be
named Augusta, and the boys Wilhelm.

kar A cotton stalk is on exhibition at Galveston, which
contains over three hundred large bolls. ,

ka The purest natural water known is that of Loch
Katrine, Scotland.

4a The yield this year of one man’s orchard, near
Tampa, Fla., will be 36,000 pineapples.

gar In Russia such a thing is never used as a blind or

check-rein on horses.
nas- Upward of twenty young women are studying the-
ology in the United States.

ka> A Norwegian father and mother, with twenty-one
children, lately arrived at Sheyboygan, Wis.

#a= It is proposed to regulate all the clocks in Wall
street, in this city, by electricity.

TO NEWS AGENTS.

News Agents who have but recently com-
menced business and who have not yet re-
ceived circulars from us, will favor us by at

once forwarding their FULL addresses to
this office.

We are about effecting arrangements that

 

 

 

 

.must prove mutually advantageous, and we

desire to have on our books the name of

 

every News Agent throushout the Union.

 

 

buckshot to four or five inches in diameter, large enough’

 

 

 

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