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ENTERED ACCORDING YO ACY OF CONGRESS IN THE YEAR 1872 BY STREE?P 4 SMITH, IN TH OFFICE OF THE LIBRARIAN OF CONGRESS, WASHINGTON, D,

Proprietors,

 

 

THE WIFE SCORNED, AND THE DRUNKARD’S

NEW YORK, OCTOBER 14, 1872.

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Three Dollars Per Year. .
Two Copies Five Dollars.

ENEMY EMBRACED.

No. 49.

 

 

/ GRAND TEMPERANCE STORY.

 

-LIFE’S PERIL:

Oo

R,

| THE DRUNKARD’S WIFE

 

 

By E. Z%. C. JUDSON,

 

 

Author of OUT OF THE DARK, BUFFALO BILL, RED DICK, &e.

CHAPTER I.

The chili wind of a December evening drove a drift of
hait-like snow. against the window. panes, while Anna
Zone stood and watched for the coming of her young hus-
band in the pleasant city nunsion, which had been her
father’s bridal gift... For her husband was only a clerk in
that father's importing house, unable when he won her
love and asked for hér hand te own a house, and expect-
ed if the boon he asked was granted, to have to board, or
at best torenta’small dwelling. For he knew that Mr.
Byart Evaris, her father, was a cautions man in all finan-
cial oullays, and he expected no dowry with his bride, if
judeed he wo! her. He was surprised, when, on his wed-
ding day, the deed of the house with alt its new, well-
chosen furniture was placed in his hands, and he was pro-
fuse in his grateful pledges to be. werthy of her and the
kindness of her father.

She was an only and a petted child, the idol of a father,
whose love was allcentered on her when her mother pugs-
edaway, and he had but one question fo propouad when
his consent to the union was asked: “Will it make my
child happy 2”

Eaward Zane, an orphan, had been reared in his count-
ing-room, and had won his good opinion by his: uniform
attention to his business. his faithfulness to duty, and his
appurently excettent habits.

But enough of exptanation. The story wilt weave its
Own web fast enougt. :

“What can keep Edward so late?” said the young wife
in nervons soliloquy. “He should have been here two
hours ago. Bridget is fretting because the juices of the
meas ure drying out, wtiile she Keeps it warin, and the
potatoes, which she delights to see so perfect, are spoiling
she says. Ah—a ring at the door-bellf Itis not he, for
he carries 2 hitch-key!?

An instant later, a young-looking gentleman, whose garb
Was justenoagh out of fashion to teil that he was a clergy-
man, entered, leading a child, lovely even in its rags—
for it was wretchedly dressed—a femate child of not over
six years, if indeed so old.

“My good Mrs. Zane, will yon do mea great favor?

. cried this genUleman, without even pausing to pass the
usual salutatious of ap acquaintance.

 

“Certainly, Mr. Talmage—as my father’s dearest friend
and as our pastor, your wishes will always: meet my
prompt attention.” ‘

“It is this, Please take care of this. poor little waif on
poverty’s icy river till morning. I found her weeping in

the street just now. She has lost her way, and when.ask- }

ing’a policeman to show her where her grandparents lived,
he brutally threatened to take her to the station-house as
a vagrant. Lam to lecture in Newark tliis evening, and
shall be late for the train, as itis. So TI have not-time to
hunt up her home for her to-nig¢ht, but I will in the morn-
ing, if you will kindly keep her tilt then.?? >"

“JT will, most cheerfully, Mr. Talmage. How good of you
to bring the poor thing here!” ‘

“Net goodness—only @uiy, my dear lady. And now
goou-by, little one, till morning. This good lady will feed
you, and keep you warm, and then, | will come to help
you, find your home, and to brighten it, may be!”

Tine gentleman was gone the next second, for he had
just time to get the seven-and-a-quarter train to reach his
appointment.

The lidy took the hand of the little girl, and white she
pressed back the brown, curly hair from her white fore-
head, she said gently:

What is your naine, little pet?!’

‘Nellie, ia’am—least that's what grandpa and grand
ma caliine. But tie man we rent our cellar of, when he
gets me to go an errand sometimes, calis me ‘Nell, you
beggar’s brat.? But Pm no beggar, ma’am—l work so
hard. I pray for rain every night, so it will be muddy
and [ can sweep the crogsing.’ When the- policemen don’t
drive me off, I get a whole handful of pennies, because I
keep where I sweep so clean it will never spoil the shine
of anybodv's shoes, : :

“Poor thing! You are to> young to workt?’

Oh, no, matamt If 1 didn’t work, we couldn't pay
rent for our celar—a whole dollar a week it is; and then
grandpa and grandma must eat. They’re old and weak.
Grandpa used to make toys, and grandma knit stockings,
but they are very old, and they can hardly see now.)

Poor peopiel When Mr. Talmage fluds where they live
I will go and see them, and help them alll can.” :

“Oh, 20, Ina*a2n1— twouldn’t do fora One lad y like you to

 

 

come where I live. There are bad people there who would

rob you, and maybe kill you for the nice clothes you wear,

or the rings on your fingers—wicked, wicked people. They

drink gin and they swear till I feel cold all over to hear
hem./

A heavy step at the door interrupted this conversation,
and the next instant a young man of fine figure, expres-
sive face, and manly look, hurried in.

“My dear husband—my own Edward!” eried the lady,
as she sprang to her feet and met him with a loving kiss.
“Why are you so late? Dinner has becn waiting over
two hours.’?

“Anna, my darling, when you hear the news I have to
tell, you will not chide for my delay. But what brat is
this you have here?”

“Oh, Edward, do not speak so harshly of the child!’

“Oh, ma’am, I’m used to being called a brat. Don’t
scold the nice gentleman for éhaé,’’ said the child, earn-
estly.. “If Lonly knew where to find grandpa, I wouldn't
oy here. I know I’m not nice enough for such a grand

ouse.”?

“You are, you poor carling, you aze/” said Mrs. Zane,
tenderly. “When my husband knows that Mr. Talmage
brought you here, and asked me to keep you til morning,
so thet hecould help you~ find your home, he will not
speak unkindly to you.’?

“No. no—that Talmage is always doing something of the
kind. But I ought not to be unkind even to a dog just now.
I told you, my little wife, ihad news! Sucisnews! You
would not guess it in a lifetime!”

“Then please save mea lifetime of bother by telling
me!’’ said the young wife, with a smile. . “You must be
quick, for Bridget is putting the dinner on the table. Hear
the dishes clattert She is out of patience, for her potatoes
are spoiled.’ .

“Well, darling, make one guess}?

“T was not bornin New England, dear—I am_ not good
at guessing. But to please youl willtry. Father has
promoted. you to a better clerkship—head-bookkeeper,
maybe.” >

“Hal hat A clerkship, indeed’? and the young man
laughed scornfully. ‘Promoted! Why, if there’s any
promoting to do, I think Pll promote Aim/”’

“Edward, what is the matter? Surely you have not
been drinking!’

“Well, no—not much, though I did have to crack one
bottie of wine with Count Valentin, to whom I totd the
news. I’m to join his club, you know. But I'l) tell you
the news, darling. I’m a méttionaire!s

“A millionaire, Bdward? Surety you are crazy. or the
wine you drank with that unprincipled adventurer has
made you wild!”

“Onprincipled adventurer?’ cried the young husband,
angrily. “Anna, you inust never speak ofa friend of mine
in that way!??

“That Valentin is no friend of yours, Edward... Father
says he isan adventurer without honor or character. And
I could teil you more—but I do not wish you to get into
trouble with him, as you would, if you kuew what I might
teli you! Do not quarrel with me on és account!”

Tears filled her eyes while she spoke.

The hot flush faded from his cheek and brow as he saw
the tears, and he spoke more gently:

“Forgive me, Anna—I was wrong to speak harshly to
you. But my good Iuck has made me wild, Ido beheve.
L will tell youofit. My uncle in California, of whom yon
have heard me speak as the richest man on the Pacific
Coast, died last month, leaving me all his property by wilh
In lands, mines, stock and money it amounts to at least
sixteen or eighteen millions of dollars, so the lawyers
write who have his property in charge, and they have re-
mitted me a-targe draft to enable me to close all business
I may be in here. and to go on aud take possession. Isn't
that good news?!

 

 

“7 don’t know, Edward! We were very happy and com-
fortable before. You had a large salary, your own house,
and only work from ten o’clock in the morning to four in
the afternoon!” ; j

“Salary and work. Never speak of such. things again
tome. As the count says the very names are vulgar, and
they shock me!”

‘Deeg father know of this?) asked Anna.

“Yes—he was in the counting-room when I got the letter
and opened it. I was so astonished I hardly Knew what
I was doing, and I believe I gave.three cheers and a tiger
right. there!’

“Oh, Edward! Did it not grieve you to hear of the death
of your uncle ?”’

“16 would, if he hadn’t made me his heir. As it is, I
think the old codger died just at the righé timet?’

“Oh, Edward—lI never heard you speak 80 lightly before
—it seems so wrong!”

‘“There—there! Don’t go to preaching dear! We can
get that free every Sunday. But hark—the dinner bell is
ringing, and I’m as hungry as I used to be whén I was
poor.”’

Laughing, the young husband led the way to the dining-
room, whither his wife followed, leading little Nellie by
the hand. f

“Please, ma‘am—con’t ask me to eat at the table—he
won't like it!? said the little girl trembling. ‘I'd rather
have a piece of bread in my hand and go where he cant
look so cross at met”?

The tender heart of the lady was touched, but she knew
the child could not eat where cold looks would chill her
appetile and terrify her heart, so she said to the servant:

“You need not wait on the table to-day, Bridget. Take
this little one down into the kitchen and give her a nice
wart supper??? :

“Paith I will mum—for I was a child wanst myself,
widout much to warm the heart in met?

Ana Bridget led little Nellie away white Edward Zane
was carving the meat, and grumbling ont that it was dry
as a bone.

Anna made.no reply. Buta sickly sensation made her
heart beat heavy, and she fett that the sky of her wedded
life was all at once overcast with a cloud she had nc: even
dreamed of till it came.

Seeming completely oblivious to her presence, not even
observing that she did not, in truth, could not eat, Zane
hurried through his own dinner, and without waiting for
dessert, rose from the table.

“Surely you are not going out this evening, Edward?’
she asked, a3 she saw him return tothe dining-room with
hig hat on. :

“T surely am! he answered, curtly. “A miltienaire
has some privileges, has he not, even if he is married! I
join the Count Valentin’s Club to-night.’

“Oh, Edward!”

It was all she said, as he turned on his heel and strode
away. But the tears trickling down her cheeks spoke
more than words coukd say.

“Bridget came up, wondering that so: titthe had been
eaten and her niece dessert Was untouched, bul when ste
saw that her mistress had been weeping she seemed to
know that there was a cloud where she had seen sun-
shine always before, and with wnusually respectful: tact,
she turned away without saying anvthing which might
add to the sorrow of a heart that had ever been Kind to
her.

“Did the little girleat her supper, Bridget? asked her:
mistress, in a kindky tone.

“Faith she did, ma’am—but first she said a bit of a
prayer. Ineversee the like in a wee bit of a crater hike
her.’

“She ts a good child, Bridger, and has been brought up, b

poor as She és, to thank Goad for His blessings. Were
we allas good, there might not be s0 many shadows in

 

our paths. Bring her to me inthe sitting-room. I will
try and fix up a dress for her, for it may be late betore
Mr. Zane gets home.”’

“Shalt I sit up wid ye, ma’am, till he comes ?”’

‘You need not mind me, Bridget. I shall make up a
bed on the sofa for the child, and I will keep awake with
my work.?!

So Bridget went after the little one, and Mrs. Zane
went:to the sitting-room\to cut up a dress of her own and
make it up for the child.

The little one was Soon with her, and Mrs. Zane, while
measuring her for her dress, drew from her all thé story
the poor thing had to tell. It was not much, only such as
thousands in our own great city can tell. She never had
known the loving care of her mother. She didn’t be-
lieve she ever had a father, because she never heard her
grandparents talk of him, though they often spoke ofand
wept about her mother. They said her mother was not
dead, but she had gone and left her, a baby, to their
care, and now they did not know surely where she was.
Twice since Netlie lad been able fo go about they had
geen her, dressed ever so grandly, in a splendid carriage,
but she did not, or would not, know them, though the
carriage almost ran over them while they caiked out her
name.

Neltie and her grandparents had hard work to keep
alive it seemed, for the rent took almost all the money
ghe could get, and they never ate meat—only bread and
sometimes a Hftte soup when she could get a bundle of
wood to cook it with. Five cents would buy bones and
scraps at the buteher’s stall, and “it would last so long,”’
the poor child said. :

While Anna was thus working and talking, her father
came in.

“Bdward not here?) he asked, as soon as he entered.
“¥ hoped to find him sobered down a little so I could tatk
to him.”

“He has gone out to join a club,” said Anna, sadly.

“A cinb? Whatciub? LEhope not one of these politi-
cai mobs made up of creatures who once crawled in the
gutters, or hung about the wharvest””

“7 don’t know what kind of a club, father—f only know
that the vile wretch who insulted me, Count Valentin, is
at the head of itf!

“Then it isa gambling clab. The man must be crazy!
This must be stopped, or he will soon be as characteriess
as the cur you spoke of. It isa ptan to rob and ruin him,
if he has been induced te join a club which will counten-
ance that feltow. I witt ake you from him if he dares to
make auch tow and vile assockations!"?

“Father!

“What, child—what?” cricd Mr. Evarts, alarmed at the
sudden palior of her face.

“Rdward is my husband!

“J know it, my child, and for the firat time I must say I
am sorry for it. When I came in I saw traces of tears on
your cheeks. And now I know that he has caused those
tears.

“On, fathert Ihave been weeping over the pitiful story
of this tittle child, which your friend, Mr, Talmage, brought
in from the street this afiernocn, asking me to keep her
ti} morning when he would try to find for her the wretch-
ed bome where her graneparents tive. She was lost.”

“Please, matain, ors is not such a wretched home as

some!” said Netie, earnestly. “God is there, for grandpa
prays to Him every night before he lays down and again
when he gets up in the morning’?
. “Bravely spoken, little girtt™ said Mr. Evarts. ‘The
house where prayer is heard cannot be alt wretchcdl I
will join Mr. Talmage in hunting up your home, and per-
haps tnake a better one for you to-morrow.”

“Phank you, sir, but ours is as good ag we can afford.
The cellat isu’t very damp, and it’s warm ip winter and

I dop’t need fire like upstairs rooms.’!

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

THE NEW YORK WEEKL

 

 

 

 

Y. tate

 

 

“A damp cellar for such a
too.bad!? said the merchant, sadly.
morrow. And now I'll go home. lz
see him at my counting-room to-morrow.’? ;

“] will, dear father, but do not speak unkindly to him.

is high-spirited!’
Fee to associate with a common gambler. But for
your sake, child, I will be as gentle as I can in my remon-
strances.. Even without capital I intended to make him a
junior partner in my house on the first of January. : But

 

 

young face and form? Itis
“We'll see to it to-
Tell Edward I must

now—with’all his inheritance I would not hayé him un-;

less he foreswore such associates. The mercantile man
who trequents a gambling-house is lost! Good-night, my
daughter—Heaven shield you. Tell Mr. Talmage when he
calls, to draw on my purse freely to help this little one
and her grandparents.” (aye

“T will, father. Good-night,"? :

The young wifeturned to her sewing again with a
lighter heart. Her father would not speak unkindly to Ea-
ward for her sake, and he might succeed in turning him
from danger. Atleast she would hope so.

CHAPTER II.

“Count, lend meacentury. I’m broke.”

“Certainly, Mr. Bludge, but do, for Heaven’s sake, use
more select phraseology. The expression ‘broke’ shocks
me. Say anything that is not vulgar. Here is a hundred
dollar treasury note. May if multiply in the land of Faro,
whither I know it is bound.”

The slender, sleek-faced, mustached individual .ad-
dressed as count, was the Valentin alluded to in our‘first
chapter, one of a class often found in our great cities—a
man who cameno one knew from where, representing
himself to be an Italian count.

The other, coarser in style and manner, with side whis-
kers as well as mustache, was a professional gambler or
“Dlack-leg,”? known to the fraternity as Barnabas Bludge.
‘He was like most of his class, keen, conscienceless and
daring.

“You seem in a happy sumor to-day, count,’? said
Bindge, as he pocketed the bank nofe.

“There you are again, my dear fellow, with your shock-
ing vulgarity. When you say humor, you put me in mind
of eruptions. Say that Iam in a happy frame of mind, and
you'll be three-thirds right. By the way, or en passant,
IT should say, what are you engaged in just now???

“Nothing, count, or next to nothing. Ibuck against
fortune wherever I can get a chance.”’ :

“So much the better for me. I need a clever villain
just now to aid me in a petite game I have on hand. ll
use vou if you have no objections.”

“None. count, none if the.game pays.
hand and let. me see what is in it.”

<7 will. You know Edward Zane?’ ° :

“The fellow who won old Eyarts’ daughter after she
kicked you ??

“Rejected, Bludge. . The expression is more refined, less
shocking to the nerves. I mean him. Iam _ going to
ruin Zim and break her heart. I tried to win her hand
before her marriage’ with him, her love or honor since.
T have been foiled, disdainfully repulsed. I want reyenge.
Ilis rnin and hers alone will satisfy me.” ae

But show your

<A clerk on acouple of thousand a year isn’t ‘worth®

ruining without vou can make him @ successful forger, as
we did young Ketchum.” Z =e :
; “Edward Zane is worth near twenty millions of dol-
“lars.”
<Count, are yon drunk or crazy ?”?
<Neither, Mr. Bludge, neither. Edward Zane, as you
_ will.learn from the papers to-morrow, is the sole heir by
vill of his uncle, just deceased, in California, the richest
man in that land of fortune and favor.”
“You astonish me. If thatis the case he is worth look-
ing to. Does he drink? Can one get him drunk?”
«He imbibes occasionally. He might become inebriated
under proper management’? .
«Fond of the other sex ?”” :

ee

wooing.”! ‘ >

<7] don't care. Wecan manage him hetween us. What
do you say to haying the help of Stella Hayden, for she is:
as keen as the keenest in planning out work???

“She is already in it on her own account, as J learned
accidentally to-day. and I think if Wwecan induce her to
join forces with us we can succeed with double rapidity.’

“Good! She’ll do whatever I wish. I happen to have
a hold.on the lady which places her willin my. power.’’

“Excellent.
a fast.one, and his fortune shall fill our coffers.” ..

“Millions, yon say???) ~~ Sena:

“Yes—twenty, at-least.”?

“Fat! fat! What picking he'll be!” *

“‘Corpulent, my dear fellow—or plethoric. Fat is shock-
ingly vulgar. Where are you going now?’ ie

“Down to Ann street, to test my luck with Sam Selden,
the ex-elegante.”?

<“Poh! they play dollar checks there. Vulgar, very.
Let game go to-day, and go with me to see Stella Hayden,
and lay out a plan of campaign.”

‘Allright, if you'll stand the champagne.
on Stella without I feel like drinking.” ¢

<Imbiding, my dear fellow—or. liquidating the debt of
thirst. The term drink is vulgar. These temperance lec-
turers use it. and horses drink, you know. Gentlemen
only imbibe.? :

“Oh, thunder! You're too particular.’

<You can’t be, if you wish to please the ladies.’? —

‘/ Well, if we are to oo to Stella Hayden’s, let’s be on
the move. T hate to dally on the street—men: know me

‘too well. J’ve helped to cheat’so many fools at. keno,
lately, that I feel as if every man I met would cry out,
‘Robber! when he saw me.”?

“Poh! You are nervous. There is Ben Locust, the
head of the Policy business, who can count his thousands
of ruined men and womén where you can’t count ten.”’

“True. But the class hé works on are poor, hand-to-
mouth people, and toruin them is nothing. My game
has been among men-clerks, office-boys. and the like.
But the duse take the difference! Ben and 7, will boil in
the same pot in the next world.”

“Occupy the same pew, why don’t you say? You will
persist in such vulgar expressions.’

<I can’t help if, count; so you talk your way, and T’ll
run my jaw-tackle in mine. Come on, now; for if you
know Stella’s hours, you'll not find her in the Fifth Ave-
nue crib an hour from now—she has business in Christie
street then.?? a‘ :

Never call

“In Christie street!—that horrid lane where cruel butch--

ers divel]? 5 '

She tells fortunes there under another name.”’
“How is it possible, when she owns and oversees 2

fashionable millinery shop on Broadway? Besides, T un

derstand, she is organizing a ladies’ gambling club, of)

which I am to be offered the tutorship.” ©

«She is capable of doing all.that, and more.
most remarkable woman of the age we live in. Her
whole aim is to amass.a fortune for some purpose. She
makes money in everything she touches; and is as utterly
unscrupnions as to the means as you or I would-be.” -

“Softly, Mr. Bludge. softly. Do not think that I would
condescend to anything vulgar to make money. I would
never soil my hands by labor, for instance.”?

“Should you get five or ten years at Sing Sing for re
freshments, you’d have to come to that.’

“Perish the thought! I would commit feto-de-se first!”

“Well, follerin’ the sea is hard work.” f

“Tdiot! Tused the Latin term for suicide. I would as
Boon g0 to Sing Sing as to become:a nasty, tarry sailor.”

<‘Well—I’m not so particular. Butthere 1s no danger
of either of us going while we hold the political influence
we do. While we have judges, lawyers, and the City
Fathers hand and glove as we do, we are safe! But here
we are—Stella’s crib is natty, isn’t itl? ; i

<WJer mansion, you vulgar fellow—her mansion,” said
the count, indignantly, as the two ascended the marble
steps of “a brown stone-front” in the Fifth avenue, whith-
er they had been walking while the foregoing conversa-
tion was passing.

She is the

CHAPTER III.

<‘Bleven o’clock!’? sighed the sad young wife, as she

laid the little dress, finished, upon the sewing-machine,
which she was not too proud to use, and then. she went

and tucked the warm shawl around the little guest for |

wiiom she had made a nice bed on the sofa... ‘Eleven
o’clock, and Edward stil! absent.. Never before has he
been away at this late hour without I was with him ata
party or atthe opera. Lam sorry that he has inherited
a fortune, for with it, I fear, will come heart-breaking sor-
row to me!’

She went. to the center-table, where, amid albums, an-
nuals and the NEw YORK WEEKLY, lay a copy of the Holy
Bible, took it upsand began to read... ..~ i

In it she surely found comfort, for another hour passed
before she rose from the table. ' erie

The iron tongue of the great clock on, the neighboring

church slowly tolled the hour, and then she was startled.

' by aloud outery on the street in front.of the house.

Trembling, she rushed to the front window, fearing
that her husband had been assaulted by some of the
thieves, or drunken “roughs,’? who prowl in gangs about
the city at such late, hours.

“Police! PoLIcE!”? she heard a man shout, as she
raised the window.

“Thank Heaven itis not my husband’s voice!’ she said,
and then she saw near a gas lamp, a genteely-dressed
man, whose head and face were bleeding. It was he who
cried for the police.. While she looxed, one of the blue-
coated guardians of the peace. approached the stranger.

“Whats the matter wid ye?’ he inquired, roughly, as
he came up. 5 ss

“T have been. knocked down and robbed of my money,
watch and breastpin!”? cried the man. ‘The ruffians just
walked around the corner—hurry to arrest them!”

“Who made the likes of you my boss, I'd like to know!”
cried the policeman, angrily. ‘‘I know my duty, I reckon.
If you’ve been robbed, you’l! be wanted as a witness—so
come along wid me!”? : 2b

e Why don’t you try to.arrest the thieves ?” é

‘Sure ’m not afool. They carry shootin’-irons and
Knives, and I don’t git a thousan? dollar a year jest to be
snob et ye see. So come along, or I’ll club the head off

i Why [ve done nothing that I shonld.bé arrested!”

Yes you have—yon let yourself be robbed, and you
hollered police and disturbed the peace of the city. ‘So
come along wid me quiet, or Ili make veut =

“But the thieves—they'll get away!??

“Then there’ll be no expense in tryin’ ’em!”?

“Ts it not your business to arrest such men ??

“Not withont they come willin’.
detectives. They get all the rewards and can afford more
risk than we who patrol. Come along asy now, and Ill
not be hard in my charge on you!”

Mrs. Zane heard no more, for the stranger seemed to
feel it necessary to yield to the stout-built and well-armed
policeman, for he passed on with him.

The next instant, she saw two men approachinge—one
she felt sure was her husband; the other she thought she
tecognized as the detestable Italian, Valentin,

 

“Of that sweet Wife of his who would not listen to my | celig Lan glen yous ee

With her assistance. we'll make his career ‘

| smell of the gutters.”

We leave that to the’

=e

The first walked unsteadily and was evidently assisted

by his companion.
_ “Oh, merciful Heaven—it is Edward, and fearfully intox-
icated!? said Anna Zane, as the two passed beneath the
glare of the street lamp. ‘Aud that wretch, Valentin, is
his companion!”? E

The next moment, she saw them ascending the door
steps, and heard the beil in the hall ring violently.

_ She hurried to open the door and found ler husband
there, alone. Brazen in iniquity, the count had not yet-the
hardihood to face that young wife, after having brought
her husband to the beastly condition in which she would
find him. ee Ee ee ’ {ee
“RHdward—Edward, do comein! It is after midnight!”
she cried, as she found him seated on the door-stone. |?

“Yes, we—we won’t go home: till—till morning, an’?
day-light doth peer!” stammered:the drunken man, with-
ous trying to rise. a Ne S :

“Kdward, dear Edward, please come in!’ 1 ee

“Yes—Stel—Stella, I'll take *nother glass. You're a@ gay
ole gal—here’s your health!? j :
— “Stella? Whatdoes he mean??’ said the wife—shocked,
dreading she hardly knew what. . poet

“Millionaire now—do as like. Have wine—’nother
bottle! Say, count, what’s trumps ?—hearts, eh)? °°

“Oh, it wil? be a broken heart!
come in!’?

Now the hands of the young wife were on her husband’s
shoulder, and the light from the hall lamp fell full on both
their forms.

He raised his head, and his eyes red and heavy fell on
her face. It was so ghastly white that, drunk as he was,
he seemed to know or feel the wrong he was doing. Stag-
gering to his feet, he muttered:

“Why, itts Anna, sure as I'ma man—'tis little Anna.
An’ this is my house. Thought I was somewhere else!
Nev—mind—ney mind, l’m millionaire now, an’ it’s all
right—all right!”

With a heavy lurch he staggered forward, and fell at
full length in the hall. :

Anna Zane closed the front door, and then with all her
Wwoman’s strength exerted lifted his limp body and drag-
ged it.up to his chamber. :

She managed to lay it on the bed—she could do no more
—then sunk to her knees sobbing as if her heart were in-
deed breaking.

And was it not enough to break her young heart? Her
husband’s manhood lowered, his promises forgotten, his
honor darkened by falsehood!

How many husbands, while I pen these lines, are for-
getting over the maddening glass the loved ones who
weep in neglected homes, while they are sailing along that
fatal stream which bears them toward perdition, temporal
and eternal!

Oh, for words strong enough to curse, till it withered
the traffic which breaks hearts, soddens brains, and car-
ries dark misery on its very breath!

When day dawned and the sun arose, that yoting wife,
who had not even lain her form down to rest, rose from
her:knees by the bedside of him who slumbered in sottish
stupor, and went down to the siftting-room, where little
Nellie, bright-eyed in her innocence and beauty, was fully
awake and losfin wonder, as she gazed at the beautiful
pictures on the walls and the rich ornaments on the
marble mantel-piece. _

“Did you sleep well, little one?” she asked.

“Thank you.

 

   

couldn’t find-mes?” :

“well, darling, Mr. Talmage will be here by-and-by,
and he will help you to find him, I will dress you now,
and then ring for Bridget to get you some breakfast.”

“Oh, ma’am, you are so good tome. ll put you into
my prayers every day, if you’ll Jet me.”

“You may indeed, darling, for I need prayers if any one
does. Come—here is a new dress for you.’

“For. me—this nice dress for me, ma‘am?’) cried the
like.it.?7.

“Yes, dear. Iam glad you

~ Oh, so much, ma’am; but I'll never dare to wear it

where llive! They’ll take it from me, and sell it for gin,
like they did the warm blanket a good missionary gave to
grandma to keep her warm 0’ nights.”

“My poor child, Mr. Talmage and my father will have
you and your grandparents moved into a better home, I
hope, before the sun of this day sets. Let me get this
dress on, and then Bridget will wash you and comb your

hair.”

“Thank you, ma’am, I can do that for‘myself. I've had
to this good while, for grandmacan’t comb her own hair
now. Ido-itforher. How she’ll miss me this morning!
i am so afraid they’re hungry. There wasn’t but a little
piece of bread left when I went out to carry a basket for
Mr. O'Ballarat away up town. ‘Twas doing that I got
lost. He is the man we rent our Cellar from, and he sells
gin overhead of where we live!” +

“While the artless child thus rattled on, Mrs. Zane was
putting on her new dress, and now, haying finished, she
rung for Bridget. : i

“Oh, ma’am, Sure it's sick ye are!’’ cried the servant,
as she entered the room. ‘‘You’re white as a spirit, and
the eyes are sunk im your head till they look black as the
night.”

“Never mind—I’m only weary, Bridget.
waiting for Mr. Zane.”? :
“The brute to kKape an angel like you up and waitin’!”?

“Bridget! Never—never dare to speak.in‘such.a man-
ner of my husband, or I shall certainly discharge you!”

“Oh, misses, don’t spake that way to me as would die
for you. But I couldn’t help breakin’ out to see you suf-
ferin’, and fale what did it!” : un

“I know you meant well, Bridget, and I excuse you
this time. But you must remember that Mr. Zane is my.
husband, whatever he does. Gentlemen, now-a-days, do
many things which we have fo be blind to.” :

“Faith, yowre right, ma’am; but if we’re blind, we
can’t be deaf to the voice of rason, can we ?””

Mrs. Zane made no reply, but told the girl to take Nellie
down, wash her, Comb her hair, and give her breakfast.

“Shall I bring you nothing, ma’am ?”

“You would have hard work to do that, Bridget. You
can bring me something. A cup of coffee—that is all.”

And Mrs, Zane tried to smile, but failed in the effort.

Isat up late.

 

<=" CHAPTER IV.
Jt was a tumble-down looking shell which Phelim
O’Ballarat occupied in Baxter street, a wooden building
that had not felt paint for fully half a century, with but

but as he rented out ali-but the bar-room, where he sold
his ‘“‘fineimported” gins, brandies and whiskies, all made
close at hand, he cared little about repairingit. =

“Mr. O'Ballarat needed no sign when he stood in his own
doorway... Hlis’six feet of muscular humanity was top-
ped with # head of the bull-dog order, his face purple with

the tints produced by the beverages which he used as well

as sold.
On the morning following the day when the events oc-

curred already noted in our story, Mr. O’Ballarat was
standing in the doorway of his den, talking to a woman
of his own class, who had peor. trying to borrow ten
ts to invest in a policy ticket. :

S enee Mister O'Ballarat, it’s the luck J’ll have, for I
dramed of two black cats and a white mouse, and that
manes twenty-one I know. Lind me tin cents jistand V’H
pay ye that and the owld score when [draw me number.”

“Divilthe bit, Miss Flaherty—divil the bit! Didn't I
let ye have a quarter when you dramed you’d seen me an’?
alderman ridin’ wid the ‘mayor in a gowlden carriage!
divil the cint of that have I got yet, and yer owin’ me for
six bottles of gin, three pipes and four quarters: of
baccy.”? ;

owt I know it, Phelim dear, and can’t ye be asy,

standin’ there as straight as a steeple and as bloomin’ as
a holyhock in the garden. If ye’ll not lind me the tin
cents, jist trate me for the love of the ouldsod we both
were born on.” : :

“Divil the bit, I say, till ye pay me what ye owe now,”
replied the ungallant ‘Phelim.

“What d’ye want now, ould man?” :

The last question was addressed to a very old, but in
spite of his thread-bare clothes, respectable-looking man,
who crept up the broken stairs from the basement or cel-
lar of the house, and now stood with bent form, partially
supported by a cane in one hand, while he rested the other
on a.coal barrel by the door. _ :

“Tf you please, my little Nellie, my dear granddaughter
—have.you heard of her to-day? She went on an errand
for you yesterday and we've not s¢en her since.”

“Divil take the brat! What is she to me?”

“She may be nothing to you, sir, but she is all the world
tous.” é

“Well, thin, there she is, comin’ this way with a swell
cove a leadin’ her by the hand. Maybe he’s ‘got money
and will want a taste of my old Bourbonto take away the

“Oh Nellie—Nellie darling—where have you been? we
were so afraid you had got lost or stolen!’ cried the old
man, tottering forward to meet the child, who came, led
by the friendly hand of Mr. Talmage.”

“Twas lost, dear grandpa, but this kind gentleman
found meand took me toa nice-lady who kept me all
night and gave me a nice new dress. See, Thave it on.

And here is a basket full of bread-and meat and cake for

you and grandma—and this gentleman is going to take
you to a nice new home away from the damp, nasty cel-
fare? :

“wWhat’s that you're sayin’, ye brat. Wud you lave
these nice quarters before the year is ont? Vd like to gee
you doit. It’s on a door ye’d be carried, I’m thinkin?!’
cried O’Ballarat, angrily. i s als

“My good friend, you will oblige-me by standing aside
‘while I visit this child's grandmother,” said Mr. Talmage,
seeing the huge form of the landlord and rumseller plant-
ed directly in his way. i

“Stand aside? Is it that yon mane, and me on My own
property. Stand ‘aside for the likes of you, indade!”?

“Yes—for I wish to get out of this foul atmosphere as
soon as I can.” =

“Sooner than you like, maybe, for if I give one yell to
the Dead Rabbits, they'll not lave a rag on ye ora bawbee
to jingle in yer pockets. Maybe, though, ye’ll behave like
a gintleman and trate the crowd!” }

For a crowd of ragged, blear-eyed, wicked-looking men
and women had closed in around the party. ’

“Never —I despise strong drink and those who use it, or
sell it!” said the brave Christian gentleman, turning with
an undaunted face toward the people, who glowered on
him as fiends might look upon a saint.

“At him, byes—at him and strip off his fine feathers!”
cried the angry Jandlord. ‘“Tache him what Baxter strate
‘is!”?

“Hands off, vile raggamuffins!” shouted a lively littie
man, well but plainly dressed, who came rushing to the
spot. “Know you no better than to offer violence to the
minister of God? Off to your dems, before my friend
Judge Dowling gets here with a squad of police!”

The crowa, more alarmed perhaps by the name just ut-

 

tered than anything else, did scatter in a hurry, while
Phelim Q’Ballarat slunk away into his den to fortify

Edward—Edward, do}

Yes, ma’am—so nicely, <But I dreamed |
that grandpa was looking for me, and crying because he

|brotiier’s head and flew tothe other, calling

‘hopes of Heaven upon thy innocence!

few panes of glass, but plenty of rags in the windows,

himself with another drink before he renewed his war-
fare. :

‘7 thank yon, Brother Merritt, for your timely interfer-
ence!”? said. Mr. Talmage, warmly, as he grasped the
hand of the new-comer. “I do believe those wretches
would have obeyed the wishes of the uunprincipled wretch
who has fled:into his groggery.””

‘Ves—niost likely they would have pitched into you!”
said the brave little man, himself a minister, ‘but I was
on hand, and like David of old1 would have smitten the
Philistines right and left, But the weapon of Sampson, a
little jaw-hbone; Gid just a8 well you see’ And now what
more €an I do foryou, for 1G Know youare on some good

/mission or you would not be here 2%) ; ‘

“Thank you—I wish\ to remove a couple of old people
And this little girl to apartments which Mr. Evart Evarts,
has kindly given free for their use in one of lis houses in
@ GOod locality.” «4 Te

_ “He is a good man and atrue Christian. I Will gladly |.

help you—but hark!—hear that terrible cry! |

and-sée if I can save life!’? / | i#
“And the good dittle man rushed into a shanty near at

hand, from whence came the fearful cry of ‘“anurder,”’

shirieked out shrilly ina woman’s voice.

ie {T0 BE CONTINUED!}

O’Connor’s Child;
Ce OR, THE

HARP OF INNISFAIL,

By John F, Cowan,

Author of THE PATRIOT SPY OF BRANDY:
WINE, THE BROKEN DAGGER, ete.

[*O’?Cennor’s child,” was commenced in No, 45. Back numbers
can be obtained from any News Agentin the United States.]

CHAPTER XI.

A TERRIBLE RECOGNITION.—THE ACCUSATION AND AR-
REST. : 2

Prince Desmond rushed toward the prostrate form with
drawn sword. eg Ae

“Who is this? How know youthathe is the mur-
derer?” he cried, glaring downat the disordered, mo-
tionless figure. a

“My lord, I know him not,’ said the forester. ‘‘Who-
ever he behe isthe murderer. Wolf-fang and Sango
caught the scent,and ran him down. - They’re never
wrong.” By

“Come!? thundered Desmond. “Turn the carrion that
we may see his face.’?/, ) 4 - :

The garments that covered the body were torn and
muddy from béing dragged through the underbrush, and
Black Murtangh, instead/of using his hands, turned the
man rudely Over with hig foot until the light of the torches
fell upon the face. :

Theangry, gleaming.eyes of the brothers dilated with

I must go

 

 

2

 

 

 

tions, as threatened to sweep the former favorite fr
face of the earth without the form or Bouene OL atrial

The prisoner had been thrust, unheard, into one of the
dungeons of the castle. The king was infuriated at the
sight of the body of his son. The scene at the banquet
rose before him, and fed the flame of his passion.

He recollected how the murdered youth had accused the
prisoner of treason, and-how that prisoner spurned the
chee and left the castle while wnder arrest by the royal

rc > ee in + oh

All these things incensed itim, and fatherly grief wag
tumed to tiger-like rage when he‘lieard of die gnaniious
ea (of his daughter—his favorite—at ithe scene of
_ The body of the royal/youth-was laid in state: the, pal.
“ace crane ath be any What had’so. Miele wden a
‘scene of rejoicing and festivity w gedinto a1
of mourning. Hinak ” / . clientes oe , pase
For three days the funeral solemnities\ were held.
‘then, aniid the weeping of relatives and: Poincavan aud
the solemn chanting of the priests and harpers, thie
of the-young prince was taken from the palace and borne
through the army, which was ranged in two lines withre-
versed arms and draped banners, extending from the
castle gate to the monastery of Cona, where, after the
performance of solemn mass for the dead, it was lowered
ae the royal vault and shut from the light of the world

orever.

During all these days of wailing and solemn

prisoner was left to gloomy and distressing reflections in
his cell. He was forgotten in the general trouble; or. re-
membered only \ ve execrated, for the facile people like/
sheep that'trot in the beaten track, followed the fashion-.
able idea. It is much more pleasant to find Opinions, like
the cut of our garments, ready invented for our adoption
than to think them out ourseives. :
_. Through the narrow grating near the ceiling of his cell
‘he could catch a glimpse ‘of asmall spot‘of tlie azure sky,
with its fleecy floating-clonds,-in the daytime, and.at night
some star looked down at him with its cold, glittering
eye, seeming the unpitying emblem of his fate,

By raising himself up he could see a lonely corner of
the castle court, bounded by the gray walls on which the
shadows went-and came—his only chronicle of time.

The roll of drums, the ring of an occasional bugle from
the camp, the rattle of arms, and the gruff voice of the
night watch Calling the hour, were the principal sounds
that broke in on his torturing reflections. =

But occasionally he had bitterness added tohis thoughts
by hearing some lounging soldier in ‘the castle yard
‘making calm comment to.a comrade on “the strangeness
of a gallant knight being guilty of .assassination.. But
these-vexations were lightened by the pleasing thought
that she, whose voice and opinion were the breath and
‘tight of heaven to him, spurned the idea of his guilt—had
defended him, and openly avowed her love in his hour of
tribulation. *
~ What..ill not the power of love effect ?

The darkness of the cell disappeared before the angel

Y jured up by these thoughts, and the memory
Child, set at defiance the power and anger

 
 
  
 

Az

  

 

 
  
  

   

feasting.the

   

Me: was eager to learn of the fate of the princess, whom
he ladast seen white and cold as a snow-wreath in the

astonisliment, aid a, simultaneous shout_of horror arose Fhands of the black-vestured nuns, but he could hear no-

One heart-rending shriek and Eya O’Connor let fall her
his name
‘aloud. :

It was indeed Connocht Moran.

IIe was torn by the dogs and covered with earth and
blood, while his clothes were so stained and disordered as
to be unrecognizable. His face was bloody from a blow
inflicted by the club of the forester, but he was not dead,
as they had imagined; for at the cry of recognition from
the crowd, and the shriek of the princess, he started up
and gazed around him in bewilderment.

“Oh! no, no, no! Jt cannot be. It is a falsehood!??
cried Eva O'Connor, turning frenziedly upon the gaping
‘forester, ‘‘Kiendish man, you have sacrificed him to an
error! You and your fellow brutes have killed him—sold
him to death!”

‘Pardon, my princess, pardon!"’ cried the man, casting
himself abjectly on the ground and groyeling before her.
“Pardon! I did not know——~”? "Sails

“Away, away! wretch—murderer!? she exclaimed,
spurning him with her foot. ~ :

“Where.amI? What. means this??? gasped. Moran,
staggering with difficulty to his feet. a

“See, -Connocht, see!?? exclaimed the princess, wildly,
pointing to where the corpse of her brotherlay. ‘‘Conrad
has been murdered—they accuse you of the deed!’?”

“Gracious powers!’ cried’ the wounded man, stagger-
ing aghast. ‘*What horrid dream is this???

“It is no dream!’’ cried Desmond, savagely, ‘‘but dread
reality!” :

“One moment—one moment!’’ gasped the accused man,
in a bewildered manner, drawing his hand across his
bloody brow. ‘Ilow—how came Lhither? I was inthe
woods—attacked by savage beasts—in the darkness.”?

“Behold the savage beasts?’? said Desmond, pointing to
the bloodhounds. ‘Behold the victim whose murderer
they sought!” =
“Conrad murdered, and by me!

You cannot believe it!”
“How come you here, close by his bloody corse? How
is your trail discovered by the hounds? Their instinct
never lies. And—ha!” cried Desmond, springing toward
where one of the dogs was whining, and snatching a glit-
tering object from the grass. . ‘‘How comes this bloody
weapon here? Behold! your name is graven on the haft
—the couched-winged falcon forms its ornament. How
came this lying near the scene of murder?” bk

“Alas! I-know not, prince!’ said Moran. ‘It is a mys-
tery—I drew the dagger on the beasts. Butit cannot be.
You surely cannot think I did this horror!” ease

“Pray Heaven you clear yourself of it,’ said Desmond,
sternly. d ae

The young man gazed around wonderingly at the sol-
enin, grief-stricken faces and af the princess, who was
sobbing bitterly with her face bariedin her hands.

“And do alt,’? he said, sadly; ‘do all condemn me?
You, too,. my princess ?’’ ne :

“No—no!? cried Eva, in a thrilling tone, rushing and
throwing herself upon his breast. ‘Never! never! My
I knew of this!

You aremad to think
it.

The-prophecy is fulfilled!’ —

“What prophecy ?”?

“The prophecy of the Lady of the Glen. We arein the
hands of fate. She is never seen but an-O’Connor dies.
Lo! Conrad lies in death. She said that°danger was
around thee, that the ax of the executioner was hanging
o’er thy head. Behold! my brothers charge thee with bis
death}?

“They dare. not!’ cried Moran, fiercely.
of hell! A stratagem! A lie!’?

“Whatlie? What stratagem? Is that a stratagem?”
cried Desmond, savagely, shaking the blood-clotted dag-
ger in the face of the accused. ‘Is that gory corse a lie?
For shame, prevaricator. What brings thee here? How
comes this modesty-unmindful woman embracing thee
beside her brother’s corse?, Was it not by appointment?
Did not my hapless: brother to-night before ‘disturb your
shameless tryst??? * :

“Brother-——brother!’? cried the princess.

“He who says it, lies!’?- shouted Moran.
or peasant, I’ll carve it on his breast!”

“Soldiers!’? cried Desmond, quickly, as the young man
rushed toward him, ‘seize and disarm that man.”

With the rapidity of a whirlwind the men-at-arms
threw themselves upon the wounded man, and held him
helpless.

“Desmond O’Connor,’’ he gasped, ‘thas thy spirit of
manhood fled before the spirit of malice?”

The eyes of Desmond flashed like lightning, and his
hand sought his sword, but he restrained his passion,
and turned toward his brother’s body, saying:

“Man! murderer! thou 2eré a knight deserving worthy
death, but now my blade would honor thee too much. I
leave thee to the execttioner. To the castle dungeon—
away with him!’

“Brother! brother! mercy!’ cried the princess, wildly,
throwing herself appealingly before him. :

“Weak, worthiess woman!’? he said, angrily; ‘‘do not
dare to call me brother!’

With a cry, she spraug to her feet, and drawing -herself
up in queenly dignity, she fastened her flashing eyes
upon him. vai |

“These words to me?” she cried. pica

“What better dost thou merit?’ cried Desmond, : fierce-
ly. ‘‘Have you not stabbed the honor of our race by keep-
ing shameful trysts:at midnight in the forests? Shall not
the name of Eva O'Connor be whispered as a scandal
through the land??? ives i

“No, by my sainted mother—never! never!’’ she cried,
thrillingly; but the next instant ‘her up-raised hands
clenched, the’ flush of indignant shame fled from her
cheeks, leaving them as white ag snow, and, with a con-
vulsive cry, a mingled sob and shriek, she fell heavily.to
the earth. :

The nuns and Theresa rushed toward her lifeless form,
but ere they reached it, Black Murtaugh, with a cry of
agony, had raised her head upon his knee, and his big,
hot tears fell plashing. upon her white face. :

“Oh, God! Oh, God forgive me!” he sobbed. “I have
killed her, and she saved: my child! Ay, ye may. whine,
Wolf-fang, ye may sorrow, Sango, but ye cannot mend

your evil work!’’
CHAPTER XIV. - ‘
TOMBS FOR THE DEAD AND TOMBS FOR THE LIVING.

The nuns lJifted the insensible form of. Eva O’Connor
and bore it to the comvent, while the princes and their
companions, bearing the corpse of Conrad and conduct-’
ing the prisoner, returned in gloomy .procession to the

astle. ‘ i
“ Great was the consternation created in the royal abode,
and throughout the encamped army, when the word
spread that Prince Conrad had been murdered by Sir
Connocht Moran. te gi Dayal :

The soldiers, who idolized.the gallant young warrior,
flatly refused to believe the tale, and all sorts of theories
were adopted to explain away the ugly features of the
case,

But young Conrad was a favorite, too; the fact of his
assassination was undeniable, and some one must have
done it. d i ping

Who? i e

Why, who more likely than the man forced to banish
himself on account. of the boy’s persecution. Then, as
was, and is, and ever will be usual, the inconsistent pop-
ular mind swung like a pendulum to the other side, and,
first in weak defenses of the accused and vaguely ex-
pressed doubts, followed by abstract remarks upon, the
terrible effects of anger and jealousy; then in whisper-
ings of the atrocity of the deed, the unaccountable pres-
ence of the princess at the spot, and so forth, and so forth,

“Tt is a work

“Be he prince

‘as lief believe the barking of a dog that calls

‘| his doom.. Speak! speak!

| from the eritire assemblage: Bees a 3 ae

E pe NM : thing. The kind-hearted old seneschal had come to visit
“ > py 2

j aoe er! Connocht Moran\ The~ Faicow him once while the surgeon was dressing his wounds,
PIE, ~{| @Qvonderfal humanity, that makes men whole’ to drag

them to the gallows, as they fat beeves for slaughter); but.
though the old man spoke pityingly, and with tears in his:
eyes, of the death of his young master and the trouble of

come again. (

A strange retainer, a beetle-browed, silent man, born
surely for ajailer, was placed upon his door and scowl-
ingly attended to his wants, but, to all answered only in
negative monosyllables. — . ; \ j

‘From all these things a sad depression, against which
his brave spirit battled in vain, fell upon the young war-
rior.. A feeling that he was prejudged—that the ears-of

over but the last grim pageant and the fatal stroke.

The Princes Brazil and Desmond, his brothers-in-arms
‘—with whom he had frolicked in childhood—dared tor-
rent and steep in youth—and@ rode through bloody fields
in manhood, ignored his being—they came not near him.
With aera suspicion was guilt, and Jove had turned to
hatred. ; : ‘

So easily is the milk of human kindness soured.

He heard by the gossiping soldiers opposite his grating,
that. a solemn treaty, offensive and defensive, had been.
entered into by King O’Connor and the Bruce, and that
the warlike Scot was soon to join his forces to lead them
once moré against the English. ; .

The heart of the young man fell at this news, at the
thought that the green banners soon would flout the sky,
while he lay here, cut off from glorious deeds, or worse,
perhaps should fill a felon’s grave. He remembered his
engagement to bear arms with Bruce, and his spirit re-
belled at the thought that he, too, believed lim guilty of
assassination and left him to his fate. OP)

“Yet, why,’ hereasoned, ‘should he, a stranger, waste
a thought on one when every friend has fied. Oh, false
conclusion!
‘mong strangers, ’tis arrant lunacy to look for dole or
mercy from the hollow things called friends.”

‘Even on the minute the unlocking of the door was
heard—Bruce entered, and the young man’s heart thrilled
to the manly grasp that said more fhan words.

“Courage, my gallant friend,’ the chieftain said; ‘‘this
cannot last long. °Tis but a mountain squall that. soon
blows by. Yet believe me that I sorrow for this wrong—?’

“Fhen, my lord,’? said Moran, with @ proud tremor in
histone, ‘‘you, for one, do not believe-——” ©. (isc

“Believe the devil!’ cried Bruce, warmly. I would-
the moon a
thief! , ARAN eet

“Thank Heaven an@ you for that!’ said the young man,
with a voice choking fromthe fullness of his heart.

“Hey! never grieve, my lad,” satdthe martial comforter.
“You will soon be out of this. Many’s the charge we'll
ride together yet. Tut, man, thisis but such mishap as one
may meet in hunting—coolness and courage bear you oyer
it. ‘The first you must attain, the second no one needs to
hint to the Falcon Knight.”? ‘

“My lord,’ said the young man,
tain’s hand, ‘‘my -héart<is full;
to thank your kindness. Forgive
have made me-proud and happy,
than a gitl Tam honoredin your
that all the rest——" = ae

“Tut, never spi

wringing the chief-
I have no words
my agitation. You
and yet lam weaker
trust—the welcomer

peak of them!” interrupted Bruce. “Tis
prejudice, ‘tis foolishness that reason will cure when the
anger dies alvay. Give them time—give them time.”’

An impatient jingle of the keys by the jailer interrupted
him, but after one angry glance at the man Brace resumed
speaking in alow, rapid tone: + ~

“Be not afraid, Sir Connochit, I’m your friend, and
what man may do I'll do, if danger threatens. There isa
truthful side to this affair and we must view it—there is
a murderer—we must find him out. I will consult with
you on my return, though, by my faith, you Irishmen are
devils in your whims. Why, man, the favor of seeing

ou thismminute, has cost,me hard beseeching, and there’s
that scowling wretch that: looks like \Satan’s adjutant
jingling the parting signal before we’ve hada word.”?

“You go—-—"?

“Not far, norlong. I take escort and ride to Aughrim.
My squire remains: behind to watch your cause, and let
me hear of it, ifmeed be, quickly.’

“My generous lord, how can 1 e’er repay——”?

“Be of good heart, my lad. That is the coin to pay in.
Fere thee well. I must be gone.” °

He held out his hand and the prisoner grasped it grate-
fully, speaking his thanks with broken fervency. As
Bruce was about passing from the dungeon a word from
Moran called him back.

“My lord, but one addition to your kindness,”’ faltered
the prisoner. (_—"

 

 

 

“Y would ask if—of——

Bruce spared his confusion by drawing close to him and
whispering: '

“The princess is at the convent still. She has been ill,
but is recovering. Farewell!) ~~

“Oh, thanks, my heart’s best thanks. Farewell!’ cried
the prisoner, wringing the friendly hand extended to,
him; andasthe door closed with a clang upon the re-
treating form of the generous Scot he threw himself on
his little prison pallet with a heart filled with the hope
and joy arising from the assurance of friendship and love.

 

CHAPTER Xv.

IN THE HOUSE OF OUR LADY—SISTER BREDA—THE
RECLUSE.

When Eva O’Connor recovered and opened her eyes, she
found herself lying upon a soft couch in a darkened room,
and, at first, in her surprise at the surroundings she
imagined she was alone, but starting up on her elbow, to
survey the place more closely, she heard a cry of joy and
founds.herself caught inthe embrace of; the. faithful
WFheresa. is é

‘Where, Theresa, where am I?’ she-asked,),: | :

‘dn the House of Our Lady, my princess. But, oh, I am
so rejoiced. you are recovered; I have watched you like a
corpse. Ithought your mind would ¢ome, that I would
never see-your-eyes again.” = vodeu) a

“My poor—my good Theresa!’?;murmured Eya; then
with a sudden start sheadded:, ‘Bat why are we here?
Why is this place so gloomy? Go, draw that curtain. Let
me see the light.”’ eG}

The-.girl hastened to the casement and drew the curtain
aside, letting the yellow sunlight stream into the room.
The sudden influx of light almost blinded them for the
minute, but the princess gasped suddenly, with .a. quick
shot of returning memory:

‘Wal girl, twas not so bright as that. °Twas but the
horrid glare of torches and the ghostly robes of nuns—and,
now I, mind me, we are in the conyent. Why did you
bring me here? Why did you let me stay till day, or if till
day, why till the sun rose high??? ;

‘‘Alas—alas, Myelady! Zen days have passed since'you
were carried hither.?’ 3

“Ten days!’ almost shrieked the princess. ‘Zen days!
Oh horror! they have killed him since. My absence seaied
Lives he, or ishe dead 2?”

“Your brother, daughter, has been buried,” saida cold,
measured voice in the shadow by her side, in tones that
fell like ice upon her heart, : ;

She started with affright, and saw: the stately, black-
robed figure of a nun, standing at the head of the.bed like
a statue. i . : fia

The eyes were wildly bright, the face was perfectly color-
less, and rendered still more ghastly by the effect of her
white head-band and gorget.

Her appearance in the room had been so sudden and so
noiseless that the princess would have shrunk from her
with an undefinable fear, butfor the greater fear that lay
at her heart. y

“Sister,’? she cried,

 

 

it whispered itself into courage to Jaunch aut boldly into
such a storm of hintings, and assertions, and exaggera-

“Speak, jn i i
done with him ?? peak, jn Mercy, — neNe they

the knight, he seemed uneasy and reticent, and did not |

merey and the world were shut against him—that all was |

Commend me. to the desert—cast my lot-|~

ek Will kill him if Tbe not therel?

‘

“They have laid him, daughter, in the royal vaults.”

“You torture me,’’ exclaimed the princess. ‘‘You know
I mean not brothers—murderous brothers—my heart asks
for a dearer than a brother.”’

“Mean you the murderer of your brother ?””

“Weis no murderer!’ cried the princess starting up.
‘It is a falsehood, a.base invention—a trick of malice!
Nay, sister, do not-—-do not turn away. Call him what you
will, poor, injured’ man, but tell me where he is,”

‘We isin the castle dungeon, ‘awaiting trial for his
bloody deed,” answered the sisterin the same stern, frigid
way. The princess started angrily and said with heat:

“Sister, it ill-beseems one ofsyour garb to speak thus
meréilessly. Methought that in such house as this all
passions of the world were laid aside—that here resided
chatity and loye.?? .. (Bt) / gis. |

‘My daughter speaks deliriously, she knows not what
she'says,”? Said the sister, (with a \strange gleam of the
eyes that ning Ther she had somewhere seen before.

  

 

Then, turning to Theresa, she said'sternly, “Why did you
draw the curtain, know you not the sunlight injures her?
Close it again.” ¢ is

 

 

  

BX
s, ‘‘I beg of you, sis-
gannot live in dark-

is 5 pegs

“No,nol? exclaimed, the prince
ter, do not so. I love; the light, f
ness!"? i. Py om

And truly with her wealth of golden hair and her pure
face rendered even whiter by her illnéss, she did seem a
being made to sport in the sunshine and enjoy the free
breezes of heaven.

“Come! come, Theresa! help me up!’ she cried, “t
must away :??

ihe waiting for the help she asked she sprang
from the bed, but her sickness had so weakened her that
she reeled and fell heavily upon the rushes that bestrewed
the floor ere either of her companions could catch her.

The nurse was first to reach her, and bending her state-
ly form she raised her as if she had been an infant and
laid her on the bed again. eS

‘Rest, child, rest,” she: said: in-a-more:-kindly. -voice
than she had yet used. ‘You are unfit to go.’?

“TI tell you I must, I will go,’? cried'the princess in all
her» willfuloweakness, struggling against the firm but
kindly grasps of the attendants. ‘Let me away! They

. \

   

 

Thus she struggled and raved, until worn out, she fell
helpless and passed off into a deep sleep.

When she awoke Theresa was not present, but the nun
wae sitting by the bedside holding her pulse between her

gers.

From beneath her fringed lashes Eva long and earnest-
ly examined the stern face and bright eyes, and the
longer she looked, the stronger became her first vague
Impression that she had seen the face somewhere before,
but where or when she could not determine. Slie asked
herself if it could have been at the palace or among the
cottages, for at both places the holy sisters were frequent
visitors. But she was forced to repudiate the thought.
She knew all the Visiting sisters almost by name, and
this one, certainly, had never been among them.

_ Still the remembrance haunted her—a faint, shadowy
idea that floated before her likeadream.

“Sister,’? she said, abruptly, after a long serutiny.

The nun started suddenly and dropped her hand.

“My child, I thought you had been sleeping,”? she said;
and suddenly, an idea that the voice, too, was familiar,
flashed into Eva’s mind.

It had not struck her in her previous conversation.

‘What would you say, my child 2”? asked the nun, with
& penetrating look, for she had noticed the gaze of in-
quiry, the struggle of memory upon the face of the
‘PYINCESS, ee: doe " :

Have I not seen yousomewhere before?”

“Neyer,” answered the. sister, in a firm, decided voice,
at the same time that her eyes seemed as though they
would burn into the soul ff the questioner. ‘Never, it is
impossible!” 1
- “Strangel’? said. Eva, for the flery gleam of the eyes
made the fantastic memory float. more vividly before her.
“Pray tell me, sister, what is your name ??? _

“Dhey call me Sister Bredas! qe

‘What!’ cried the princess, in astonishment. ‘Can it

be! Breda, the Recluse Nun!”’.

“The same,’? said the sister, with a grim smile of satis-
faction at the surprise of-the maiden. ‘I entered these
walls before;<thy birth; they’ve been a tomb to Breda
since—a tomb since then!*? she repeated musingly.

The princess gazed at the strange devotee in astonish-
ment, and at length said hesitatingly: oe age
“Sister, ‘pardon my many questions, but I desire to
know whois the Lady of the Glen, that walks the woods
at night? 2 i
-. Sister Breda started with a stern, almost savage frown.
“Why, simple child,”? she said, ‘‘show—what should I
know. about these people’s fancies?’ He se
“It was. no fancy; I have seen her, sister. ‘Twas she
that led me to the Fairy Well: She spoke in words of
prophecy—she knows the innocenceof Connocht Moran.
Oh, Ivpray thee, tell me, Sister Breda, for thou, they say,
are deeply skilled in Knowledge;is this lady an appa-
rition—an unearthly visitant—or-is ita delusion anda
snare? If spirit, tel me how to sammon her, that Imay
know the worst? if mortal, I must find her, for she alone
can save him!? ere . ae
‘‘Maiden, princess,’ said Sister Breda, in a low, husky
voice,. grinding the words slowly between her teeth.
“How should know such things? Can earthly knowl-
edge compass the unknown ?. Why ask you this of me?”
With this She arose and gazed defiantly at the princess,
who, shrinking before her piercing ¢yes, said:

“T am impelled to do it. me

 

2 secret power seems to

 

 

So
tell me—that—you-——"?, Z
“Girl! Girl! -Bewarel? exclaimed the nun; and, as if

 

_fired*by the threatening tone, the princess cried rapidly:

“Your eyes are like to hers, your stature is the same,
and when you speak that word ‘beware,’ her very voice
rings Im my ears...She disappeared upon the Convent

| slope, and here I meet you in the convent walls.”

“Silence! Silence, girl, you rave!’ hissed Sister Breda,
with subdued passion, her eyes glinting like those of the
mountain cat preparing for the spring.

But this agitation only the more excited the curiosity
of Eva, and she cried appealingly:

“Oh, Sister Breda, by thy hopes of Heaven, I conjure
thee explain this mystery! Has it all been a juggiing
pretense?. Does Conrad’s blood lie heavy on they soul?
Speak, I will not betray thee; heis gone, we cannot bring
him back, but save, oh save the other! Thou knowst
that he is guiltless, let not a double murder damn thee!”?
During this speech the pale, set face of Sister Breda’
writhed with all the fury of malignant hate, and fear, ana
cunning. It was demoniac in its expression, and Eva
O'Connor shrank in affright before the clenched hands
and compressed lips of the wild figure, that looked more
like a corpse in which a fiend had taken residence than
like a human being, much less ‘a saintly nun.

The woman bent over the shrinking girl, and her
livid lips moved as if she would have spoken, but her
paroxysm deprived her of the power of utterance; her
breath escaped in spasmodic gaspings, and, with a threat-
ening gesture of her clenched hand, she turned and left
the room, disappearing like an angry ghost.

The strange, wild whirl of thought aroused in the mina@
of Eva O’Connor was broken by the entrance of Theresa
announcing the prioress, and that dignified lady appeared
the next moment.

In the kindest and most respectful manner, she in-
formed the princess that it was the will of her royal father
that she should be detained at the convent until! he or-
dered otherwise. : ;

appeals, but they were all useless against the mild firm-
ness of the prioress. She found from her that Connocht
Moran was to be tried for the murder of the prince on the
following day, and, amid her frenziéd protestations that
she must be there, she told the’ whole scene of the entice-
ment.to the haunted well, the apnearance of the Lady of
the Glen, and. the: prophecies to-which she had listened.
She dwelt also.on the fact of the resemblance of voice ana
feature which Sister Breda bore to the apparition.

The prioress listened wonderingly to this relation,
Dut did not seem to credit it, rather looking upon it asa
phase of the delirium in which the princess had lain since
the fatal night. But when Eva’pressed her suspicions of

display of passion, the venerable lady gravely shook her
head and smiled.

‘““oTis more than a quarter ofa century,’ she said, “since
Sister Breda’s foot hath pressed the earth outside these
walls. She avoids contact with the outer world—she is
the bride of Heaven. Nothing but study and devotion fills
her mind. The clerks..of: the monastery are not more
deeply learned than she, For her wondrous knowledge
of the healing art hast thou been intrusted to her care.
Thou art mistaken, daughter, This apparition and these
revealings of the magic fountain must be machinations of
the Evil One. Pray for strength to guard against their
pace Thy fancies wrong the Sister Breda. I will call
ler,

She drew aside the heavy curtains that covered the
door through whichthenun-had disappeared, and what
was the surprise:of Eva O’Connor, on looking: in that di-
rection, to see, by the Jight ofthe cresset, the Sister Breda
kneeling in a small oratory beyond, with her white hands
clasped in) prayer, and. her tear-streaming face raised to
- face of the Madonna that beamed angelically above
er.

“See, daughter!’ exclaimed the prioress. ‘Behold the
saint thou wrongest.”? ;

Sister Breda, at the voice, started to her feet, made a
reverential obeisance to her superior, and came forwdrd
into the room. :

Eva O’Connor could scarcely trust her eyes that this
gentle, humble, patient being could be the same Sister
Breda, who, a few moments before, had stood above her

glaring like a maniac, racked by all the worst passions of
human nature.

here, hath strange imaginings about thee.”

. Alas)? said the nun, in a mournful, musical voice that
fell upon the heart of Eva like the luring song of the si-
ren. ‘‘Alas! she dreams.
these fantasies will leave her.” :

“Nay.,but in good sooth this story of the specter and
the well is wondrous strange. Hast thou heard aught of
it?” asked the prioress.

Sister Breda was leaning with one hand raised against
the window-casing, the light struggling between the
nearly-closed curtains, failing with ghostly effect upon her
marble features. |.

The eyes of Evaand Theresa turned toward her, and at
the instant remembrance of the figure with snowy face
and raised hand seen in the moonlight gleam in the for-
est came upon them both, and both gave expression to it
by a half-exclamation:

“T-have heard, good mother,” said Sister Breda, speak-
ing rapidly as : to hinder some anticipated remark of the
girls; “I have heatd that when the Princess of Brefny,
Dervorghal -)

 

 

‘Hal’? interrupted the prioress, “the worthless woman,
whege guilty lave brought woe on Erin.¥ :

At this the princess fell into a storm of reproaches and .

Sister Breda, and spoke of the late scene and the nun’s.

“Sister Breda,” said the prioress, “our dear daughter,

With her returning strength.

 

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Sreda’s eyes Mashed, and a frown fitted across her palé
face, but She continued calinly, not heeding the interrup-
tion: 1 : : :

“When Dervorghal was torn from ,Dermod’s.arms hy
the monarch, Roderick O’Connor, this maiden’s ancestor,
she was dragged to Connaught and anearcerated in tiis
convent, Here she. died, two centuries ago.’ She: died
impenitent,’? continued Breda, and there’ was*a strange
tone of sneering irony in her speech. -‘*Whatever wrongs
she had done to man—she viewed them not as sins against
her God. In her weak nature she thought herself the in-
jured one. She felt that God had planted love in human
hearts—that man, for selfish ends, possessed no right to
erush it. That each young soul was, or should be, the
mistress of its. choice. She held that her father did a
grievous sin ’gainst Heaven and nature to force her from
her youtliful love, and wed her to a gray-haired dotard;
an she righted that wrong by flying to the man ‘she

oved,’?; . .y

“Sister Breda!? exclaimed the prioress, in a tone of as-
tonishment and -reproof. . "Sister. Breda, you advocate
immioral deeds,’? fo at

“Holy mother,’ said the nun, in a smooth, calm: tone,
“T give not these idéas as ny Own, I but portray another's
thoughts.’? 1

“They are dangerous thoughts, especially for the ears of
youthful maidens,?’:said the prioress, severely, for she
had noted the glowing look with which the Princess Eva
listened to this assertion of the supremacy and freedom of
love, “This misguided woman died two centuries ago—
how can you claim to know. her thoughts ?”

“Much more than half.my life lhave spent within the
cell in which: she livediand:died, There, Jong years ago,
I found her written thoughts and her recorded curse.”

“Ter curse 2% . : :

“‘Ay, holy lady.. Brooding on wrongs, imaginary if you
please, had seared her soul, and long captivity had stoned
her heart. The dew of Heavenly grace fell not to soften
it, the light of truth fell. not.upon it. She died no saint,

Zevengeful, human, did she passaway, breathing through
frothing lips her fervid prayer for vengeance—leaying her
curse recorded on her prison walls.??

*“‘Horrible! And that Curse was——”

<“‘On King Roderick, her captor and imprisoner, and on
his race forever!”

The tone in which this sentence was said was dreadful
in its caluiness, contrasted with the concentrated passion
that burned in the eyes of the speaker.

Those eyes were fastened upon the wondering blue orbs
of the princess, and, as iftheir baleful light had blasted
the fair, frail ower, Eva O’Connor fell back on the pil-
lows wilh a gasping sob.

Theresa hastened to her, but the nun went on in the
same icy manner, not appearing to notice the effect of
the words upon the girl.

‘oTig said the curse still works——”’ :

‘What! after the elapse of two centuries?’ said the
prioress.

“What are centuries and cycles to the perpetuity of
evil?” said the nun, with & ghastly smile. ‘They say
this specter, this Lady of the Glen, is the spirit of Der-
vorghal. She revisits the scenes of her latest troubles;
she walks abroad on her mission of vengeance; and dis-
may and death assail the house ’gainst which her curse
was sped.”?

She ceased and stood cold, pale and calm, no sign of
passion save the gleaming ligit that'seemed to leap and
scintillate in her eyes like a reflection of the fires within.
A terror of this strange being seized upon Eva O'Connor.
She could not free her mind of the idea that there before
her stood the vengetul spirit of Dervorghal, deceased two
centuries ago. ; X

The prioress discountenanced. the story as a fanciful
tale, and recommending sleep and quiet to the princess,
she left the room. Sister Breda still stood with one hand |
raised to the curtain, like a statue gazing stonily down at
the bird in the toils. :

At last Eva O’Connur opened her mouth to address her,
but the sound died upon herlips, and she but held out lier
hands appealingly. The same sardonic laugh that she
had heard on the dreadful night at the weil, smote on her
ear, and the nun disappeared through the door before
mentioned, the heavy, dark curtains falling close’ behind
her.

Then the native energy of Eva O'Connor leaped to life,
and she sprang up excitedly:

“Tt is useless, Theresa,’ shesaid. ‘They will not listen
tome. Father and brother—prioress and nun, all are
against me—all work fer his death! I must escape this
place to-night!”

[TO BE CONTINUED.]
age

The Cheated Bride;

NG fg fe
WON SE YA ae

By Mrs. Helen Corwin Pierce,
Author of “CURSE OF EVERLEIGH,” “IN.
JURED HUSBAND,’ “WHOM DID LADY
VIOLET MARRY?” ete.

{The Cheated Bride” was commenced in No. 29. Back num-

bers can be obtained from any News Agent in the United States.
: CHAPTER XLIV.

It was the evening succeeding the morning on which
the villain Cheeny had held that conference narrated in a
previous chapter with his two confederates, Clever Dick
and Mrs. Griff. The gloomy isolation and bleakness of
Rylands seemed deeper gloom and bleakness this evening
than usual. The wind was high, and the sea-culls beat
the face of the cliff outside the windows of Perdita’s room
with their storm-betokening wings, and screamed wild
notes of warning in the young girl’s ears. She heard
them, and shivered now and then, and put her hands to
her ears with a movement of weariness and irritation. ~

The girl’s young face was drawn and white, her eyes
siad a roused, intent expression, like some wild creature
driven to bay. She was listening. with her head slightly
inclined, her soft, dark hair pushed back with both hands
—listening asif more than. life depended on what she
should hear, es 2

Cheeny and his two sub-villains had just gone away,

and the manner of the three had been So strange and puz- |)

zling that Perdita’s keen senses were ail on the alert to
discover the meaning of it. That some new developmert
of treachery and wickedness was at hand she felt confi-
dent.

Cheeny had been uncommonly civil, and had stayed a
much shorter time than usual, but his 1ace had worn an
expression of concentrated and deadly menace that al-
most made even her bola. heart stand still. |The others,
Loo, she had observed, regarded her with half-sulky, half-
seared Jooks, as though some fate was in store, at the
contemplation of which even-they shrank affrightead,

But few words had passed—very few, indeed. :

She had risen at their entrance, with Georgie, as usual,
pon her knee asleep, and, putting the child upon the
bed, had come back to meet her unwelcome visitors,

As she stood before the fire, its light upon her steady,
pale face, Cheeny had come forward and said, in a low,
but distinet voice, these strange words:

<‘Perdita Lorne, I have come here to make a statement to
you in the presence of these witnesses,’ pointing at Griff
and Clever Dick. “In the presence of these two, I teli
you that by the law of Scotland you are this moment my.
wife.”?

Perdita threw back her spirited face. Her lovely dark
eyes shone with indignation. She was about to speak,
when Cheeny, drawing a step nearer, said again:

<‘Answer me, in the presence of these witnesses, do
you not, of your own free will, choose me, Nathan Chee-
ny for your husband ?¥ :

Perdita smiled in scorn.

<i] do ” ‘, ;

<‘wot,’? she had formed her lips to say; but before that
concluding word could pass her lips, Cheeny had flung
his leftarm round her anid covered her mouth tightly
with his right hand, holding her so that she could not
50 much as struggle. :

“Are you satisfied ?? the wretch cooly asked of Mrs.
Griffand Clever Dick. : :

“Tams she said it plain enough,’ spoke Mrs. Griff. —

<‘And you?’ turning to Dick.

<‘Yes, I heard lier,’? answered he, beginning to make a
sidewise movement toward the door, and looking vastly
uneasy under the angry glitter of Perdita’s passionate
Oark eyes.

“She said she'd take me for her husband, of her own
free will, didn’t she?’ persisted Cheeny. ‘“Remember, I
did not touch her till after she had said the words, ‘7 do,’
in answer to my question, whether she would take me for
her husband? Did she say it or not?” j

«She said it, of course,’’ Clever Dick answered sulkily.
“J heard her say it. “She’s your wife as sure as law’is
law.*?

“You hear,’’ said Cheeny, bending an ominous and
terrible glance upon the helpless girl.

Perdita could only look back at him, but her eyes were
Like two darts of flame. —

<‘You can go,’? said Cheeny to Clever Dick and the old
woman. i

Wot til they had left the room and the door was closed,
Mid he release Perdita. "

The two—Perdita and he—stood looking at each other.
Perdita’s breath was coming quick, her heart was beating
fast. Her cheeks were dyed deep with the flush of anger
and excitement.

Uheeny on the contrary was white and seemingly calm.
His lip curled in mockery as he faced her.

«You are my Wile,” he repeated. ‘Will you believe me
now ?”?

Perdita lifted her shaking hana.

<‘You will have to prove it,’ she said, in her. clear
tones. Take care that when you try it, the dead do not!
rise to bear testimony against you. You never come near
me but I see the poor, beautiful dead woman who cas
your wile, rising up between us. “1 wonder that you do not
see her yourself. I should think you would be haunted '
tyith the clasp of that cold arm round your neck, and hear
the drip of biood always, day and night, sleeping or!
waking.” { E U

The daring girl looked inspired asit were, as she utter-
ed those terrible words. Her eyes glowed as with super-
natural light, and a sort of radiance that seemed almost
unearthly, shown from/her pale, young face.

Cheeny looked as if he were freezing with horror. He
was for the moment paralyzed with fright, his eyes start-
ing nearly out of his» head, an icy sweat breaking out
upon his forehead. It was some moments before he could
break the awful spell that had,fallen upon him.

He muttéred a curse at last; a horrible, blood-chilling
oath, his lips ashen, his features convulsedy«~--- 2.

‘Will you give it up??? he questioned, in a hollow voice,

 

 

“Will you promise not to try to thwart me any more,
either now,or hereatter 2?” : rf

Perdita laughedin-her anger, and daring; laughed in
mockery and defiance, i

“You know I will not. Jf I could put a halter round
your neck this moment, 1] would, you know I would.
But. 1 live in hopes,” s

“Take the, consequences then,’ and he dashed ont of the
room With a howlof rage. .

The consequences:

These words were what Perdita was pondering upon.
This was how the brave girl’s face was white and drawn
withanxiety, why she listened with all. her power, and
grew. irritated when the screams of the sea gulls or. the
Whistle of the rising wind came in to deaden those other
sounds for ‘which her ears were strained. She had: no-
ticed that the usual,amount of fuel had not been brought
-her, also that her Jamp had been left untrimmed. She
oe bein darkness in‘an hour: more, perhaps. What

1en 9

She put out the lamp first. Then’she carefully drew out
the brands from the fire that they miglt not consume so
rapidly, Light, she felt, was, her best. friend now, after.
God and herself, :

She went to the door and listened intently.

Grizzle slept outside she knew, and he was the only
creature she absolutely seared in this horrible place.

She thought sometimes of that. frightiul alternative
with which Cheeny had threatened her when she first
came‘ to Rylands. She even compelled herself to con-
sider/how she should behave in case ‘any such dreadful
emergency should arise. How should she defend herselt
ageinst this most horrible creature, who feared nothing
but.Mrs. Griffs terrible whip, to whom the ghosts of mur-
dered wives could by no possibility be made to appear.
| «Perdita had'congratulated herself more than once on
the facility With which she could arouse the supernat-
ural terrors of her persecutor and jailer—Cheeny.

Listening at the door, she after a long time fancied she
heard stealthy footsteps approaching it, and her heart be-
gan:to beat faster. The sound of the steps was followed
by that.or a voice—Cheeny’s—uttering low threats,

‘| Then the voice and the steps retreated, the voice threat-

ening still, and accompanied ,by the swirl of a many-
lashed whip through the air, dar ;

“J should like to know what.it means,’ thought Perdita.
“Can it be-possible that he tried-to come in here, and
Grizzle would not let him?”

Involuntarily her hand fell upon the handle of the door,
and. she tried it to assure herself that it was fast. Nota
suspicion had entered her mind before that. it was not.
With horror she perceived that it yielded to her touch—it
was not-locked. The key fell with a sharp, ringing sound
as the doorswung slightly apart in her hand, and at the

erture. Jiis red and fiery eyes were, fixed upon her, his
hot breath alinost swept-her cheek. 3

Even then, startled and horrified as she was, she did
not Jose her self-possession, but made an effort to re-close
the door, casting at the same time one wild giance around
for something with which to bar it against him; but the
key had fallen in sueh a way-as.to hinder her an instant,
and in'that instant Grizzle had flung his huge shape for-
ward and burst into the room,

At the same moment Georgie awoke, filling the air with
his childish screams, and Perdita heard Cheeny’s voice,
Shrill with horror, cry out: ~ aT =

“Great Heaven! I forgot the boy!

She had not forgotten the child. Wer first movement,
when she saw the idiot coming, was toward the bed, up-
onewhich she threw herself, and dropped the curtains,
clasping Georgie in-her.arms, and, hushing his cries me-
chanically, while expecting every moment that the mon-
ster would attack her.

Georgie’s faith in-his intrepid young protectress must
have been marvelous, for no sooner did he feel her arms
about him than his terrors seemed: to yanish, and he
dropped off to sleep again, childlike, while Perdita’s heart
was still throbbing wildly. :

Some moments: passed, and nothing happened. There
was 4 movement in the apartment of some kind, but that
Was all; it did not approach that part of the room in
which the bed was.

Perdita ventured at last to pull the curtain aside very
gently and Jook out. She could scarcely believe the’evi-
dence of her senses. Grizzle lay stretched upon the floor
before the fire, his sole desire, seemingly, to. get warm,
In less than,ten minutes more he was.snoring at the ut-
most capacitwof his ponderous lungs.

The courage of the girl rose. Now, if she-‘é6nld have
been willing to leave Georgie , She might herself have got

4 out of the room unharmed. The door still stood ajar, pre-

vented from closing entirely by the key, which Jay yet
where it had fallen first.

Perdita turned her eyes upon the pretty sleeping child.
She loved him fondly. Wehad fallen asleep with both
little hands clasped upon her arm to keep it in place
around his neck, almost as though, poor babe, he had
feared she might be tempted to leave him.

Perdita made her resolve very quickly.

Gently loosening those soft little fingers she slid noise-
lessly from the bed; and with one eye on the huge figure
before the fire, proceeded to make up alittle bundle of
clothes for the child, ..

Though the door stood ajarshe was secure from obser-
vation by Cheeny and his confederates, they having been
driven into hiding partly by their terror of the idiot and
more by their fear of the cruel horror they supposed was
being accomplished. Cheeny had indeed been faint-
hearted when he remembered the child, but the others
had dragged him away. with them, coldly reasoning now
that the ugly affair was fairly entered upon, that the de-
struction of the child with Perdita would help divert sus-
picion from them, When the time for an investigation of
the circumstances should come. P

Atthe very moment when Perdita, having contrived to
get Georgie and herself safely out of- the room witnout
waking Grizzle, was putting the key carefully and slowly
into the lock of the door outside preparatory to fastening it
on him, the three wretches who had conspired at her de-
struction were watching each other with scared and ashy
faces, and listening with all their ears for any sound
from below that might tell how their horrible plans had
prospered. :

“Ttalways makes him worse when any one is afraid of
him and screams as the boy did,” observed Grif, ina
sepulchral whisper.

Cheeney shuddered. “The man had been shaking like a
leaf from the moment he heard Georgie’s cries of terror.

Clever Dick flung an.oath at the old woman, for ‘‘a
fool for lack of sense,’? whichis what makes most fools,

Mrs. Griff couldinot be quiet, however.

“My, buthe’s awlul still,’ she muttered again; ‘and
that’ means mischief again. I never knew him: be so
when he was 100se Without he had some uncommon ugly
trick brewin’ in that big head of his’n.”?

Clever Dick swore at her again

“We couldn't hear nothin’ up. here no way, and the
wind. blowin’ like that,’ he said. ‘‘Where’s your hot
dyops, old woman? I’m gettin’ dry.”

Mrs. Griff thus reminded - produced a basket and took
out of it a large decanter and some glasses. ‘There were
some eatables in the basket too, but they were none of
them hungry.

“There’s that front door,” suggested Clever Dick, sud-
denly; “if the young woman should get away from us after
all, it wouldn't surprise me. She’s a clever one.”’

“She couldn’t get fur then,” snarled Mrs. Griff; “‘how’s
she going to get'the gate open ?””

“But that ain’ locked neither. How’d anybody git in
to resky ws ifit was???

Mrs. Griff started to her feet.
the land lays,” she said.

“If you dou't look sharp old Griz wilt lay you,’ Clever
Dick observed, with a forced laugh; “you can’t take a
light for fear he’ll see you, and if you goin the dark you
may run onto him afore you know it. Ile’s got eyes like
an owl, you say yourself.”

Mrs. Gritf shivered uncomfortably. She did stand in
/wortal terror of the idiot—but after hesitating a moment,
she went outside the door of the room they were in, and

stood listening.
A i CHAPTER XLV. |

Georgie behaved remarkably well. THe was a wonder-
fully sensible and precocious child, and ‘seemed to think
if he was with Perdita, nothing else was of any im-
portance. Wien, therefore, he was waked by her wrap-
ping her own cloak. about. him—she, had preyiously put
on his stockings and shoes. without rousing him—he
cuddled his litle head down upon her shoulder obedient-
ly and Jet her carry him noiselessly out of the room, with-
out uttering a sound. She guarded his eyes, however,
from the sight, of the monster before the fire. Outside,
she put hin down while sheJocked the door of her prison
upon tis enemy, and exultantly transferred the key ‘to
her pocket.

Then she lifted Georgie again. He was very tiny and
slight, or she could not have carried him. ;

The hall was very dark, but Perdita in her excitement
and hopefulness, did not think of that as she walked
steadily forward toward the door she remembered so well
as leading into the small court yard’ outside. It was six
weeks since slice Came through it last. . ,

Her greatest fear now was lestshe should not be, able
to getit open. But fortunately for her, the three villains
above stairs had left it unfastened'as a measure needful
for their own safety.

AS Perdita, rejoicing, pulled it open, the storm which
had been so long threatening burst in a flood of rain and
a wild crash of wind and thunder. The Jightning fairly
blinded her. “She shrank back involuntarily, and the
wind and rain beat in at the open door after her.

At that monient she heard a door slam somewhere in
the house, and looking back beheld her three cnemies
standing half-way down the stairs, Mrs. Griff at their
head, with a lamp in her hand. ;

Perdita only looked once and the wind put out the lamp
“While she was looking. ‘

At sight of herenemies Perdita, terribly startled, hesi-
tated no longer, but plunged at once out into the storm.

“Im going to see how,

arms, the thick ‘cloak foldediover his face so that he could
neither see the lightning nor feel the wind and rain.
scarcely dared ‘hope that the gate was like the door left
unlocked, but she darted toward it, protected from the
wind somewhat by the high wall of the court, and guided
by.the-flashes of lightning. ;

She.reached the gate and tried it. It was not fastened,
but she could not moye it. “With the child upon one arm
she was not strong enough.

A. thought came to her. Why had she not taken the
key from the inside of the front door and locked that upon
the outside as she had the one where Grizzle was?. She
turned back’ daringly and’ impulsively to do so now, but
it Was too late. Mrs. Griff was already in the doorway.
She saw her by the flare of the lightning, and at the same
moment Mrs. Griff saw Perdita and screamed after her in
a crazy manner. : :

"Phe stony-visaged’stony-hearted old woman was fairly

 

Wild at thought of losing her prey after all.

same instant she perceived the face of the idiot at the ap-.

‘ment.

:_ As she hastened onward she held Georgie close in her |,

She’:

 

Perdita wheeled again and dashed at the gate. y

She put Georgie down segardless of his cries nowy, for
the cloak falling Open.the child was frightened.

Perdita seized the gate with both hands and wrenched
atit with all her might. Jt yielded a little and a lif-
tle more, but not quick enough to have enabled her to
get through before Mrs, Griff could reach her had not
that excited personage slipped on the wet stone steps and
fallen full length. ;
_ Perdita saw it as she bent forGeorgie. Shehad a flash-
ing glimpse of Cheeny and. Clever Dick too, ail coming
tearing through the rain, and wind, and. darkness, never
stopping to pick up Mrs..Griff, who had not. stirred, but
pitching wildly after their escaping victim.

Perdita caught. her breath sharply as. she saw how des-
perate her chances were, how. nearly hopeless the possi-
bility of escape, with Georgie in her arms, at least,
she would not give up, and she would not leave the child.

Clasping him close, she rushed through the gate, and
forward once more on the precipitous mountain road,
Surely in this darkness, she might evade her pursuers.
Quitting the road she turned to the right, and rose as fast
as she was able, burthened as ‘she was,

The pursuers—Cheeny and Clever Dick, running bare-

| headed in the rain and wind, were too close behind her

not to discover the evasion. They turned also, Cheeny call-

ing after her to be careful, or she’d break her neck in

a hole she was not looking’ for—there were plenty
uch.

Perdita only ran the faster. j

“There is nothing of the sort, or he would not have told
me,’’ she reasoned very shrewdly; “he would rather I
broke my neck than not.??

However it was too unequal a race to last long. and Per-
dita had not got start enough to hide herself from her
pursuers in the darkness, She heard them very close
behind her, they would be upon her in another moment,
and suddenly sitting down upon the wet ground she drew
the large dark shawl she wore over her head and bent
down oyer the child. In this position she'cou!d scarce be
distinguished from the ground, even in the full play of the
lightning, and Cheeny and Clever Dick whose eyes were
not looking for her in exactly that shape, and whose speed
was under too good headway to be instantly checked
mechanically avoided the supposed obstacle and tan past
her some distance, before they discovered that she ‘had
suddenly disappeared. Perdita had meanwhile started up
again the instant they had passed her; and ran back to-
ward Rylands. She had not gone yet more than a hundred
rods away from it, and her pursuers would scarcely be
likely to Jook for her in that direction.

The heart of the brave girl bounded with renewed hope
as she ran toward Rylands instead of from it. She had
noticed while she was wrenching at the great iron gate
that there was an inside fastening which looked as if she
might manage it herself, and she remembered that in the
elimpse the lightning had given her of Mrs: “Griff, the
housekeeper had seemed to’ lie very still. Perhaps she
was too badly injured to move without assistance, As she
ran, she heard Cheeny and Clever Dick shouting to each
other in the distance, and the shouts sounded fartyer and
farther away.:: :

Perdita's/ eager eyes fairly glowed in the darkness, as
she shot into the courtyard ouce more, Georgie'stillin Fer
arms. Risking the chance Of Griff being there, she felt for
the fastening of the gate, and then dropping Georgie once
Te upon the ground she pushed the stout boit to its
place. é

Cheeny and Clever Dick might try their united strength
against it now. It could not be opened from the outside.
tee she caughtiup Georgie again and turned toward the

Louses: i }

The storm hadnot at all slackened, yet. Wind, rain,
thunder and lightning, all were in full play still, and by
the blaze of the Jatter she. saw what made her bold,
warm blood turn chill and stagnant for a minute,

It was the fornvof Mrs. Griff, lying upon the stone steps,
just where she had fallen, The face was downward. °

Was she dead? 4)

Perdita thought nof. ;

“She’s too wicked to die,””? reasoned’ the young girl, in
her quaint fashion. ‘She's probably ina swoon, and the
sooner I get-inside where it’s dry, and get the key turned
between us, the better tor Georgie and me.”

She suited the deed to the word, mounted the steps and
entered the house once more. ; é

The key was in the lock, and there were in addition
stout bolts, as to the gate. Having secured these, the
weary girl turned’ toward the stairway down which her
enemies had come when they discovered her on the point
of escapingtheme.4 of of 3% 1 i 3

Reasoning after herusual clever fashion, she guessed
that beyond those stairs was what would be particularly
acceptable to her and Georgie just now—a warm room.

She saw the glow of the fire before she was half way up)
The villainous trio in their‘haste to secure her had left:
wide open the door of that room, in which they had been
lurking, waiting for their wickedness to be accomplished.

Perdita uttered a sigh of heartfelt thankfulness as she
entered, and letting Georgie down at last, closed, and
sea this doorin its turn, before she would sit down
herself. : ,

There was a possibility, she knew, that Grizzle might
have been let out of the room in which she had left him,
and anyway she felt safer with the door fastened. 2

The chamber in which she now found herself was a bare
and desolate place enough, but there was afire in it and a
store of fuel. There were some wooden chairs, a bed and
atable. On the table was a basket, which upon-exami-
nation, proved to contain a‘couple of cold-baked fowls, a
large loaf of bread, some pies, Some jam, some pickles, a
little pot of butter and materials for making ‘tea. The
last, Griff had, ‘doubtless; provided for her own refresh-
A decanter‘and glasses stood. near the basket,

Georgie, having thrown off his cloak, was standing in
his shoes and night-dress, Staring with wide and shining
eyes at the treasures which the light of the fire disclosed.

“Georgie ’aint some!” he eagerly suggested.

“Yes, darling,” gravely responded Perdita, slicing a leg
of the fowl for him, and then spreading him also a piece
of bread with jam, before she tasted: herself, though she
was nearly famished. 5

Georgie dropped down upon the floor, with ‘his hands
full, in supreme contentment. ; ay

Perdita laughed as she cut some of the: chicken for
herself. :

“It looks as if our friends had prepared to make a night.
of it, don’t it Georgie?’ she observed: sportively, and
then taking the basket upon the floor, she sat down be-
side the child and proceeded to make the first. ‘‘decent
meal,’’? as she phrased it—that she had had for six weeks.

“Is dood |) responded Georgie, emphatically, with his
rosy mouth full. — . ete A ‘ sii

Perdita had replenished. the fire.when she first entered,
and the cheerful blaze diffused a light anc warmth that
was as comforting asithe food. She was drenched to the
skin by the rain. .Georgie:had fared better, thanks to her,
though his clothes, which she had brought away in the
bundle, were all wet.

Having satisfied their hunger, and got warm and dry,
Perdita examined the Wedding in the room, and found it
to be quite clean, a factof which she had stood in some
doubt.. She brought it and spread it upon the floor
before the fire, and she and Georgie lay down upon it.

Before she yielded to the drowsiness that was weighing
down her eyelids, Perdita looked at her watch. -1t was
only twelve o’clock.

“Clever Dick will conelude I’m cleverer than ever,’
she murmured sleepily. ‘Mrs. Griff may come to, enough
to unlock the gate, but she wont get tne door open,’? she
added, and was asleep. aie

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

ee

Buffalo Bill’s
LAST. VICTORY.

,CHAPTER XLVIL.—(CONTINUED.)

“One hundred thousand dollars,’ said Overton, prompt-
ly, “for the freedom of those two girls, myself and the
negro Ben!”?

“whew! Bill lied to me. You've got the spots, swre ?”

“If you mean the money, yes, where, for this purpose,
I can command it!”? .

“You could have it paid into a man's hand, in the bor-
der settlements, Wherever he named and you went, quiet,
so nobody but him would be the wiser?”

“Yes, Ihave no doubt of it!’

“Stranger—I can do you a turn, and Ican do it twenty-
five thousand cheaperthanhe. Ican get you out of here—
and the gals too, for [know a secret passage, There’s only
Bill and me and one other man knows of it, and that
‘other man is about past. knowing anything—tfor ’twas
him they brought in dying justnow. Heis shot through
the throat and he can’t speak!" i

“can trust you?’ asked Overton, eagerly.

“You've got too. You can’t help yourself. And I’ve
got to trust vow too, for the cap told me he cleaned you
out of all youhad on you. Butllooked in your eye out
there by the fire, and there isn’t any die in it!”

“Thank youl"? } : 5 :

‘“Jm not talkin’ for thanks—I’m talkin’ for money!
I’m sick of this kind 0? life. ‘I haven’t been treated ‘fair
anyway. Tiley made me cap’n and then broke me, be-
cause I wouldn't go down to the railroad and run trains
off. But that isn’t business. Swear that if: Tl get you
clear youll give me seventy-five thousand, good money!”

“J will, on my sacred honor and by my soul!”

“Well, I s’pose that is as good as an oath. The next
thing is the plan to get you out!” iy <

“You understand the girls and the man Ben are in the
bargain!” : ‘

“Yes—and there’s the trouble. I could get you offfrom
here in twenty minutes. But that Lize is as sharp asa
ferret.. Bill knew what he was about: when he told her to
look out for ’em!”?’ FSGS LSI GES Os 7

“J will not move without them!’ ” oe

“rphere’s but ore other way—and'T hate to do that. But
there isn’t one in.a, hundred of them that wouldn't, if
they had-the chance!) 20 sics . :

“Wouldn’t do what?).asked Overton.

' “Hush! Don't spéak’so loud!’ If’twas known we were
talking here and about this, we'd be burned alive. © What
I was thinking of, was the letting of your friends in here.
If I did, onr fellows would have to git, or go under.
then, you and the girls would be safe enough, so safe that
if you wanted to go back on me I might whistle for my
money!”?

“JT have sworn that if you help me and the other three away,
you shall have it!””

“T might cet killed, as I surely would, if Bill Harkness eculd get
one sight of me, and then I’d be where money wouldn’t do me
any good. I want to.get out'in the world and live honest once
more—and J can’t do that without money |’ eee

“Why not go out, have an interview with Buffalo Bill, show him
Wo to get in, and then stay where you will be sate!” urged Overs

on, . :

)

But}

And |

“Pd be as safe here as there, if the party was in, and safe
Tell never do tor Bill Harkuess to Kiaee wifile he ioe ee is
done this. Ife must be snuffed out first thing: Haye you any-
thing to write with?” %

“Yes—a pencil aud.memorandum book!’

“Then write a note to Buffalo Bill, telling him what I will do
and what he can do! Vilgétit to him. After that, you go and
sit'down where he told you to sleep—keep cool and be ready to
help yourself when others are ready to help you! ‘Here is a yre-
yolver—keep it out of sight,till you need it!”

' at a !” said Overton, rejoiced once more to have a weapon in
vis hand. i

“And be quiet. Don’t let Harkness, should he come down from
above, see that you’ve got a bit of hope. He is keen, and if he
suspicions anything the whole job is gone up; for he could block
the secret passage just as easy as he did the pass out there.”

“Do not fear for my betrayal, by look er word. I will be appa-
renMy asleep, should you return, but wide awake enough to do
any duty which comes up.”

“Allright. Trust me now, asT trust you.” :

The man took the hasty note which: Overton wrote to Buffalo
Bill, and in another second he wag out of sight.

Overton, placing the treasured revolver in his bosom, now went

by Harkness as his sleeping-place.

Here he sat down, and drawing his hat well over his brows,
watched, as calmly as he could, the faces of those sweet girls, the
comic looks of Ben, and the mingled expressions. that came and
went on the face of the creature Lize, for it would be an insult to
the sex to call her woman,

And he waited—for what, he could hardly tell. If the man,
| whose name even he did not know, for it was so unimportant he

had not asked it, was faithful to his promise, in a little while his_
friends would be there, able and willing to rescue andl protect
those who had suddenly become the objects of his dearest interest.
He had not spoken more than twenty words to Lottie, and never
a word to her sister, yet his whole heart had gone out to her, and
he felt as if he would rather die with her there than to live and
leave her behind.

He could see her beautiful, intelligent face, with the flickering
light of the fire, now making it a glory, and then leaving it in
shadow; her eyes, despite all this trouble, so full of womanly ex-
pression, telling that no matter where the soul is, its mirror is the
eye—and he felt asif he could worship her,

He—who had ever been termed by the fair ones in his own city
so cold that beauty could not captivate or love soften the ice of
his nature—was now in love.in. the fullest sense, and it had all
commenced in the ‘beautiful handwriting” of the note picked
up days before:

A. noise from men advancing attracted the attention of Overton
now, and he turned, to see Bill Harkness coming toward him,
leaning on thé arm of one of his men.

“Dve been Ait, stranger, and have lost alittle blood; but it is
nothing bad—only a flesh wound. I staid too long before I had
it:seen to,” said the robber, as he sank down near Overton on a
pile of buffalo robes. . Then, turning to the man who came with
him,-he said; “Hunt up Dolph Lowell, and tell the cuss to go up
above and watch them fellows, or some of ’em will climb the cliff.
They’re the sharpest:crowd I’ve ever had dealin’s with. There’s
one fellow there that shoots the closest I ever knew.”’

“Texas Jack, I expect, isthe man you mean,” said Overton.
“He is the only man on the Plains that can beat Buffalo Bill, and
that is enough to say he can beat the world.”

‘opwas him: that hit me, and I didn’t think they could see a
square inch when I’crept up where I could see what they were
doing, for they seemed to be holding some kind of a palaver; but
IT didn’t get my head out before a ball. raked my shoulder. Jeff
Perkins is dead. He got an ounce ball through his neck while he
was in a tree. They’re wide awake; but when it comes daylight
well have a fair show—we can pick them olf till they’re sick of
staying around here.”

The man who went for Dolph Lowell came back and reported
that he couldn’t find him. : sic

“The lazy cuss has gone to sleep, I suppose,’’ said Harkness,
“or hid away somewhere. Since )e.couldn’t becaptain he hasn’t
wanted to be anything. Goupaboye yourself, Jake Durn, and
look to the boys. Alter I’ve had my wound dressed and taken a
nip to bring the life back I'll try and crawl up again myself. I
wish it was daylight—we’d, make that crowd sick thenina
hurry.?”

The man called Jake Durn now hurried away and the robber
called Lize over to dress his wound. ,

She did this with a speed and skill that told she was used to
such work, and after the wound was dressed she brought a bottle
of liquor to Markness. :

“Stranger, alter you,’”’ he said, ashe proffered the bottle to
Overton, ‘

“Thank you—I don’t drink,” said the New Yorker.

‘Don’t drink whiskey ?” cried Harkness, in surprise.
drink whiskey and come from. New York? Why, I thought ’twas
nat’ral born for a Yorker to drink. I never knew more thana
dozen Yorkers in my life, and I met them when the railroad was
building, and they just swilled it.” a

“Tam proud to be an exception—so don’t wait for me,” said
Overton, blandly.

“well, Dn beat! said Harkness, as he raised the bottle and
took ‘‘a pull” that was ample for both had Overton been a
drinker. Pe

“Hark! What was that??? said the robber.
thing clash.” *

“T’saw a horse kicking out over there,” said Overton, whose
heart throbbed wildly now, for ke had recognized the clatter of a
saber against the rocks. rs

The robber appeared to be satisfled, and he called out to Lize
to get him a bite to eat to keep that torty-rod whisky from going
to his head. :

The woman cut him off .a huge slice of venison from a roasted
haunch and wasin the act of handing it to him when her eyes,
looking back into the gloom, flashed like-those of an angéred
tigress, and she screamed:

“Bill, we're betrayed! Look—the soldiers!”

“Kill them gals!” shouted Harkness, as he sprung to his feet,
leveling his pistol at Overton, who, with his revolver out, was on
his feet just as quick. : 2

Overton, hearing the ery, ‘kill the girls,” had sprung between
them and the woman, and Bill Harkness following his body with
his pistol fired at the second, the. woman Lize turned, and his
ball, instead of hitting Overton, pierced her body.

In a second, with a terrible cry, Buffalo Bill sprung forward,
and asthe woman fell Harkness, turning to meet the onset, re-
ceived a crushing blow from the knife of the daring scout which
sent him reeling to the earth, while the cavern, filled with sol-
diers, Sioux Indians ind scouts, rung with rapid shots as the rob-
bers came rushing ont to defend their stronghold.

“Up above—up above and wipe ’em all out, now your hand is
in!” cried Steve Hathaway, who knew the route to the top of the
cliff.

“Praitor, your place is below!’ cried Bill Harkness, raising up
with a dying effort and firing his last shot, for as he saw Steve
Hathaway fall he dropped back witha gurgling death rattle in
his. own throat. -

“He wasn’t the traitor!” yelled the woman Lize, who had crept
up to Bill in her dying agony. “There he stands!”

‘And she wrenched the revolver trom the hands of the dead
man and fired at Dolph Lowell just as he, seeing his danger, ley-
eled a gun at her and fired...

Both shots were sure, and while Overton rushed tothe girls to
see that they were unharmed, he saw the man fall who would
liave held a seventy-five thousand dollar claim on him.

But if was Wiped out now.

. Yet the fight was not all over. The men who were above, hear-
ing the shots below, rushed down in a_body, thinking to take the
soldiers from the rear, while they supposed Bill Harkness and
others had them in front.

But they reckoned beyond their knowledge. carer

They were received, as brave Captain Meinhold wanted to re-
ceive them, hand to ‘hand with saber andrevol ver, while Red Leaf
and. his braves, BUFFALO BILL, and Texas Jack-last, but uot
least—with battle shout, and whoop, and. yell, went through them
as fire goes through dry grass. , ’

Tt was ‘Buffalo Bill’s last victory,’ for he Jed the daring charge,
and it was complete. ; ‘ i

The robbers, asking no quarter, fought, but they fought without
heart, and while few fell on the vight side, the bad men were com-
pletely ‘‘wiped ont,” to use a phrase so often conveyed in Western
parlance. ‘

When the light of another day shone on the earth, men were
busy clearing out the narrow road that led fron? the cavern; but
all of these men belonged to the command of the brave Meinhold,
| and were directed in the work by the gallant Lieutenant Lawsen.

Overton was now happy.. He could talk to rescued Lottie all
that he wanted to, and. he had found out from her own lips that
it was she who wrote the “beautiful handwriting.”

Ben, too, was in what ‘he termed “‘de sebenth hebben.” Tis
young mistresses were free, he had heard that his old master was
alive and getting well, and he was out of the hands of bad men.

There was not # great deal of; plunder, in the place, except in

arms and horses, and these were indeed quite a capture,

CHAPTER XLYII.

“T wish that Buffalo Bill was back!” said the commanding of-
ficer at Fort McPherson. ‘The report that Indians are thick be-
tween here and the Loup is not agreeable. It seems to me that
if they are not checked in time, we’ll have a general Indian war
thissummer. The red fiends are getting very bold, and, should
they make a raid upon the railroad, the country. would haye a
shock which would make the Peace Commissluoners rather un-
popular.”

While he was thus speaking to the post adjutant, an old man,
pale and feeble, leaning on a staff, approached.

“Ah! Mr. Herbeson, Iam glad to see you able to.come out. We
are looking with hope forthe safe return of your daughters, for it
is full time the command we sent out reported.” .

“Thave hoped till hope seems a mockery,” said the old man.
“My sons are dead, and sometimes, when I think what may have
happened, I wish almost that I knew my daughters were dead
also. Then I could bow my head to His will, and go to my grave
conscious that I had nothing to live for.””

“Look—look, general!’’ cried the post adjutant.
Buffalo Bill rides like that!”

A man, with his long hair flowing out in the sunlight from his
bare head, waving a big white hat in his hand, sitting hi& horse as
if he and the animal were one, came like the wind toward head-
quarters.

At the same moment a cheerful bugle-call came from toward
the Platte.

“Company. ‘B’ iscoming in!” cried the adjutant.

“What is the news ?” cried the general, hastily, as the scout rode
a before he dismounted. “What is the news, Captain

ody ??

“Victory, sir—victory over the worst band of robbers the coun-
try was ever cursed with, nearly three hundred horses-captured—
Red Leaf and his band, with Dove Eye, gone back to Spotted
Tail’s camp satisfied, and-———”

“My daughters—you don’t say a word about them!” groaned
old.Mr. Herbeson. ‘Are they dead—or worse ?”

“Theyre alive and well, old gentleman, and as happy as queen-
bees!?? cried the noble scout.

Quito iit him up—the old gentleman has fainted!’ cried the
general,

He had fainted from sudden and excessive joy, and not till his
daughters were there in person to assist, did he fully come back
to his senses and to a realization that there was yet happiness in

‘Don’t

“T heard some-

“No man but

| store for him. ;

By this time the general was receiving the report of Captain
Meinhold, who had not only done the country the great and effi-
cient service of breaking up a dangerous band of desperadoes
but had so well managed the care of his command, that it came
‘back efficient in men and horses and ready for immediate service.

So ready, indeed, that only two days afterward, when a band of
Indians came down from the Loup and stole horses from near the
fort—Co. B., with the brave Meinhold and Lawsen in. charge, and
BUFFALO BILL and TEXAS JACK as scouts and guides, followed
them up and taught them such a lesson as has checked horse-
stealing in that vicinity ever since.

Tam about done with this story, and ready to take up the NEXT
OF THE SERIES—“TEXAS JACK, the Hero of the Loup.”

But before closing I must say that Mr. Herbeson gave up all
idea of going to the far, Far West, after he had enjoyed a little
private conversation with his daughter Lottie and M1. Overton.

Just as I am about writing jinis—a bird whispers to me that an
engagement ring is worn upon Lottie’s fore-finger—that it is a
diamond cluster, and as we know Mr. Overton is very fond of
diamonds we may infer—well—that this story has come to a very
happy END.

{Ned Bunitline’s great Western Story of ‘MOUNTAIN ToM,”’ is
now in the artist’s hands for illustration. It w1ll soon be com-
menced. }

OUR KNOWLEDGE BOX.

A Few Paragraphs Worth Remembering.

La Correspondenis asking questions of this Depart-
ment are particularly requested to. address them to us
ona separate slip of paper, indorsed ‘For the Know!l-
edge Box." i ‘

QUESTIONS ANSWERED AND INFORMATION WANTED.—
LTitile Brave.—WHITE BEER.—Boil enough ale wort,’ preferably
pale, for one’ barrel, with’ three handfuls of hops and fourteen

pounds of hulled oats, until all the soluble matter. is extracted
from the latter, Strain, and when lukewarm add. two pints of

 

yeast, and, when fermenting briskly, bottle in strong stoneware

5 ’

bottles,.,,,,Betd.—We cannot explain it to you.......4 Stranger,

back to the place where a heap of blankets had been pointed out

swer all questions to

—No....,.Key No.—Wash your face in strong cologne water, and
avoid rich: food. The bieod may be impure... Sulphur, as reeom-
mended’ in the Medical Department, may help you. Read a few

tkomiimbers. 2... 2. . AL W.—We do not give recipes for any-
thing’ that will intoxicate..... _G. D. B.—For PRINTERS’ INK see
NOSE oo. ss Mass.—Superfiuous hair can be remoyed, but it will
grow again; but all depilatories are dangerous, because they con-
tain arsenic..... G. W. Z.—1. Soak your corns in very hot water,
and with your finger nails you will generally be able to extract
them, 2, Apply lunar caustic to your warts..... .Artist.—l. Pur-
chase a book on painting. It will help you very much. 2. Yes...
Dahmer,—Consult a.dealer in gold fish........Q. U.-Yes.........
Crawford, Huntsville, Ala.—GLOSSY SHIRT-BOSOMS.—A great deal
depends upon the ironing. A little white wax is a great improve-
ment to the stach. Much obliged for your remark: ‘We can’t do
without the NEw YorK WEEFKLY in Huntsville”.......Eclectic.—
Powdered niter..... Tronsides.—SHINY FACE.—Wash your face in
es and apply toilet. powder, ....... Old Reader.—We cannot
aid you.....J. #. McD.—The process requirés skill and experience,
Consult some one in the business...... C. HH. M. L.—l. Powdered
a will remove freckles. Youcan get it at the druggist’s. 2.
i se dumb-bells, 3. There is nothing that will prevent the hair
ay Srowing again. .... +++ Poter.—Shave frequently..........¢
ea ones ts ols Raisins will produce the desired effect. 2. No

pe.... .f C. A.—Sour milk will remove sunburn. We are glad

you have found so ny. good recipes” in this column. We an-

1¢@ best of our ability.... . E. O. Hi
i. Burnt cork. and 3. We do not nde aiapriabert a
wishes “ a recipe for making bluing bean Arcam ure
WiSHES © a rec p r making bluing to put.on firearms,” and also
one for “ nicke plating for the same use”..... John the Terrible.—
Castor oil and brandy........Haidee . Byron.—Bathe your face in
cold water as frequently as conyenient.......Lucinia.—No......
Blonde.—No....R. H. C.—To kill roaches use pulverized borax... .
H. R.—We cannot aid you, Which we very much regret, as you
say we have given ‘satisfactory answers to hundreds. of inquir-
ing minds,” and that you have found “a number of valuable
recipes in the NEW YORK WEEKLY, which excels every other pa-
per published.”........H. PB. C, J. M.D. M. and A, F. H.—Blister
the places where the ink marks are, which will cause new skin to
BTOWnv0.5.. +. Ded hl dake sulphur, and wash your face in
alcohol, 2. Put a little camphor in your hair oil, °3 Powdered
niter will remove freckles......... Spero and N.C, F.—We cannot
aid you........B. B.—l. There are depilatories which will remove
superfluous hair, but we cannot advise you to use them, for the
contain arsenic. Besides the hair will grow again, 2: Avoid all
excesses. 3. Too numerous to mention....... Weeping Willow.—
Try bread crumbs......Crack_ Shotand B. A. A.—We cannot hel
you..........Edward Love.—l, CHAMPAGNE CIDER.—Good pale
yinous elder, one hogshead, proof spirit (pale) three gallons, suear
fourteen pounds, Mix, and let them remain together in ‘a tem.
perate situation for one month; then add orange-flower water.
one quart, and fine it down with half-a-gallon of skimmed milk.
2. See No, 37 for’a recipe for Scotch butter candy........ Minnie.
—We think not.:.... eet. We A. N.—Bathe in coldswater......,.
Baltimore Harry wishes a recipe to give butter a rich, yellow col-
or—something that is harmless.....B. P. Z.—They are commonly
first soaked in weak alum water for a few hours to harden them
then drained, and dried, and packed....::.False Heir.—l. To PRE.
SERVE APPLES.—Pare and core the apples, and drop them into
cold water. Make a sirup.of half a pound of sugar to every pound
of fruit; clarify it by mixing the white of an egg to every two
pounds of sugar betore it goes on the fire; boil and skim it, and
drop in the apples. Simmer slowly till-the. fruit is clear. Then
take out the apples_and boil the sirup until it is rich, and pour
over the fruit. Add the peel of several lemons (cut in rings and
boiled.a few minutes in clear water) to the sirup after the fruit is
taken out. 2. TO PRESERVE PEARS.—Pare the truit, leaving the
stems on, and put into cold;water. You may remove the core, or
not, as you please. Make a sirup of a pound of sugar and half a
pint of water toevery pound of pears, and boil with some lemon
peel or green ginger. Putin the fruit and cook until clear, and
let the sirup remain. over the fire until thick. 3. To PickLE
GREEN TOMATOES. —Slice thin on a cabbage-cutter, sprinkle with
salt, and let them stand six hours. Drain off the water, and press
out the remaining moisture. Cut, salt,.and drain some onions in
the same way, and put into the jar alternate layers of tomatoes,
onions, sliced green peppers, Spices, anda little brown sugar, in
the proportion of a teacupful to every gallon of tomatoes. Pour
cold vinegar over them. About one-fourth of the pickle shoula
be onions..... Drees NV. L.—See “Medical Department.”...........
Q. Rius P. D. Q.—No........ .Abigail P. and P. M.—Consult some
one in the business. It requires experience to doit........ Harry
R.—No..........W. H. B—We do not understand your question.
Please re-write it.:.2..27ra@ Diavolo.—l. A teaspoontul of salt to a
third of a basin of water. Use night and morning. 2. We know
nothing concerning the Institute named..... L.—Get twenty cents
worth of larkspur, put it into a pint of alcohol, and use it’on the
head and body freely.......... Conygectioner.—Unless you wish to
make a large quantity it would be cheaper to purchase it..,......
Anxious Inquirer.—No recipes of practical value...... R.K
any printer...

.—ASK
.. A Young Mechanic.—1. Consult a physician. -
Wash your face in alcohol. 3. Shave frequently. 4. Arnica. 5.
You ask for an imvossibilitv. 6. Commit something to memory
every day....../. A. W.—We'cannot tell you...... Anger.—No...
Bob Rushton.—See No. 28 for a recipe for colored fires.......... ‘es
Domestic.—Only an experienced personcan make it. Asrecipe
would be of no practical value to you..... Brooklyn.—We do not
recollect it...... Red Dick.—Atter it is done you will be very glad
tohave it undone, Wegive recipes nearly every week for re-
moving all such marks...... Peter Boyer.—M. SOYER’S PREPARED
MUSTARD.—Steep mustard seed in twice its bulk of distilled yin-
egar for eight days, then grind the whole to paste in a mill, put
itinto pots and thrust a’ red-hot poker into each of them... :.. A
Constant Reader.—Apply > glycerine to you. hands. It will soften -
them..... Acid.—Lemon_ juice as recommended in this depart-
ment is harmless. It will whiten and soften the skin........ E.
H. G.—We cannot tell you...... Adelaide.—}. Your sleepiness will
wear off in time. 2. Salt and water will improve your eyes..... i
J. R. 6.—1. Diluted spirits of: ammonia will aid you. 2. Castor
oil, bay rum, brandy and cantharides will promote the growth of
the hair......Rose Glengyle.—l. We know nothing of the-cosmetic
to which you refer. 2. Powdered niter is recommended to re-
move freckles..... ...A. B, C—See answer to “Domestic.”......
James.—Powdered niter will remove freckles........ A. LZ. S.—Use
on ‘your hair castor oil and brandy...... G. I, D.—Marble can be
nicely cleaned by a solution of salts of tartar and warm water.
The quantities are a teaspoonful of the salts to half-a-gallon of
water,........2ennie.—We cannot aid you.......... Drowsy Tom
Walker.—No recipe of practical value...... Spot.—l. Tannic acid
is recommended for perspiring feet. 2. Wash your face in diluted
spirits of camphor...... ftough and Ready.—See No. 36 for various
OTS sf, co Vininer.—We do not give recipes for anything ubat
will intoxicate...... Knight Templar.—We do not like to advise in
such a case. Follow your own judgment.......... Patience.—Put
a little white wax in your starch...... M. K.—It must be the work
of time. Partake ot food containing the most starch and sugar
cesses Maud Quirk.—Wash your face in strong cologne water... , -

Medical Department.

CL. F. and Wm, Laughlin,—Consult a physician.

Materia Medica.—We cannot inform you.

J. Wright.—Use diluted spirits of camphor.

Thos. Reid—The following, which is strictly applicable to your
case, appeared im No, 41 of the NEW YORK WHEKLY. We repub-
lish it as you say it is not convenient for you to get back num-
bers: ‘‘Bathe night'and morning in cold water and keep your
thoughts off the subject. Avoid late suppers. Be regular in your
habits. Let your diet be simple and wholly free from spices of
every description. Mingle in cheerful company. Attend theatrt
cal performances that please the ear more than the eye. Rise
early and take a great deal of exercise, if possible, during the day
and early in the evening, In bed he on your right side—never on
your back. Let the covering be light. Don’t be discouraged if
you don’t get wellin a week ora month. Perseyere and relief
from’suffering will eventually crown your efforts. 2) We cannot
name any particular physician. There are. a great many excel-
lent ones in the city. Apply to one in good standing—a regular
family practitioner.”
~ Barry Sullivan. — To: CturmE CATARRH. — The followine
recipe is recommended: Split half. a pound of yellow dock
root, and dry it in’an oven; take four ounces each of
dried blood root and scoke root; one ounce of cinnamon and half
an ounce’of cloves; powder them all fine, and mix well toecther:
use it as snuff eight or ten times a day, and sweat the head with
an infusion of hemlock boughs, brandy and camphor.. Poura
little camphorated spirits in the hot water, to cause perspiration

A Dreadful Sufferer.—aAs we have said ina. previous number,
indigestion or dyspepsia, is wery difficult to cure when of lone
standing. Those afflicted With 1t must practice great self-denial
in eating, both in regard.to what they fancy and the quantity
they eat. Asa general rule certain meats are more easily digest-
ed than vegetables, unless the latter are extremely Well cooked:
Mutton and boiled rice are both capital articles tor dyspeptics
but the first should be very. nicely roasted, and the latter boiled
till very soft. Avoid gravies and pastry. | Use butter sparingly.
Never touch a pickle. Rare roast.beef, if tender and jucy, is
among meats the next best thing to mutton if we except venison
Boiled milk and rice, or bakzd apples are relished by most dys-
pepties. Drugs will never eure dyspepsia.. ~The more medicine
you take the worse off you will be. One thing you must ayoid,
and that is overeating. Endeavor to rise from the table not quite
satisfied, and in a quarter of an hour orso you will thank yourself
for not eating more. Masticate your food well; take your time
at every meal; and, above all, have company, if it be possible, at
your table. Cheerful conversation isa capital assistant to good
digestion. It is, of course, utterly impossible to lay down rules
for all persons to follow with corresponding results. Some food
which agrees with one dyspeptic will disagree with another, but by
closely watching what we eat, and its effects, we can soon’ ascer-
tain what is good for us and what isnot. Take all the outdoor
exercise you can. If compelled to remain indoors use dumb-
bells. | Bathe in tepid water when you immerse the’ entire per-
son. Ordinarily use cold water.

. <> + @>
PERSONAL.

Alice writes from New Orleans: “You will excuse the liberty I
take in penning to you these tew lines, but I cannot resist the de-
sire to tell vou how I admire your valuable paper. Ihave been a
constant reader of the NEw YORK WEEKLY for over two years,
and I believe it to be the best paper ever published. Among your
unequaled authors it is almost inipossible to have afavorite. [have
gained mugh valuable intormation from your ‘Knowledge-Box,?
The New YORK WEEKLY has this advantage over other papers—
it instruets while it amuses its readers.”

Ht, A. Dunbar writes from Charlestown, Mass.: “I have taken
the New YORK WEEKLY but a short time, and I must say it is
the best paper I have ever read. ‘Lhe stories are all splendid, but
Uncle Ned’s and Burke Brentford’s I like best.”

Donald writes from Leayenworth, Kansas: “All the boys
around these parts think that the NEW YORK WEEKLY is the bes&
paper going. We like such stories as ‘Dashing Charlie,’ ‘Buffalo
Bill,’ and ‘Red Diek.’. We are all Western boys, and we like to
hear about our own bully boys. Tell Uncle Ned to write some
more soon and hurry up with “fexas Jack.’ You will neyer lose &
cent on your paper in this country, you bet, if you keep up West-
ern stories.” That’s the kind of talk we like to hear. - Look out
for “Mountain Tom,” Col, Judson’s next Western story, to be
followed by ‘‘fexas Jack,” the facts having been placed in the
Coltonel’s hands by the hero himself, and the completion of which
only awaits the appearance of the scout, from whom we are
promised a visit in person.

Mrs. G, A. F. writes from Baltimore: “I have read your most
valuable and delightful paper since the publication of ‘Faithful
Margaret,’ and am anxious to express my appreciation of it. and
wish you all success. “Mrs. M. A. Fleming and Mrs. Holmes are
my favorites. I think ‘Wedded, Yet No Wife,’ one of the most
beautiful stories lever read; also ‘Edna’s Debt? was delightfukk
When shall we have that long-promised story by Mrs. Holmes,
‘Mildred, the Child of Adoption ?? I am sure most of your friends
are anxiously watching for its appearance. I hope the circulation
of your excellent paper will soon reach to 500,000.” ‘‘Mildred, the
Child of Adoption” will be commenced just as soon as existing
arrangements will permit.

Wm. Dickinson writes from Philadelphia: “TI have been a con-
stant, reader of the NEw YORK WEEKLY over two years, and I
take this occasion to say I shall continue to read it, with pleasure
and profit. Ido not think 1 could do without it. Ihave taken
several other papers, but none suited me so well as the New
YORK WEEKLY.”

G. L. writes from Dayton, Ohio: “I am very much pleased with
the NEw YORK WEEKLY, and wish you would publish it twice a
week. Iam so anxious to get it Ican hardly wait with patience
from one week to another. Iused to take three weekly papers,
but I got tired of them and thou ht I would try yours. I was
saying to my husband I thought would take the New York
WEEKLY till Ldie, and he likes it as well asI do. Iam waiting
patiently for Mrs. Holmes’ story, Mildred, the Child of Adoption,”
never having read it. I have read all the rest of her books, as we
have a circulating library here, and eyery one of her books are in
it. I will read every word with pleasure.’

A Welshman writes from Renovo, Pa.: ‘Having been a sub-
scriber for your paper for several years, I take pleasure in prais-
ing it above all other papers (some of which I occasionally take).
A great many of your readers praise this and that author, but for
my part, they are all good in their way, Yet, when it becomes
necessary for me to come down to dots, (vulgarly speaking) my
favorite author is Horatio Alger, aS he portrays the clouds and
sunshine of a poor boy who is left triendless in this wide world of
ours, and who, by persistent integrity, reaches the highest pina-
cle of worth and usefulness... Long may Horatio Alger live, to de-
pict the fortunes of any poor boy who is thrown on the world
homeless and without natural guardians, and likewise long may
you live toconduct a paper which aims to show the path by

 

 

which a poor boy may rise to renown and affluence—yes, and to
independence,” *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

ah Aosrnith EBAY BEAN

 

 

 

 

 

> ie gt
@

 

 

 

 

 

Over 300,000.
WE WANT BY NEXT SPRING 200,000.

 

 

NEW YORK, OCTOBER 14, 1872, »

 

 

aed

New York Weekly

CIRCULATION OVER

319,000
THE DOCUMENTS,
“Which Nobody Can Deny!”

-The following certificates will-satisfy any person that
the New York WEEKLY has an actual circulation of
319,000 copies.

Certificate of the American News Co.

THE AMERICAN NEWS aie
New York, Sept. 12th, 1872.

To whom it may concern:

We sold three hundred and ten thousand three hun-
dred and ninety-six (310,396) copies of the NEw York
WERKLY, No. 46, published this present week.

SINCLAIR TOUSEY, President.

Certificate of M. Gorman.
NEw YORK, Sept. 11, 1872.

* Lhereby certify that I have printed Three Hundred and
Nineteen Thousand (349,000) copies of the NEw York
WEEKLY this week. M. GORMAN,

: Supt. of J. T. Preston’s Press-room.
Sworn to, this lith day of September, 1872, before me,
CORNELIUS R. DISOSWAY,

Notary Public C. and C. New York.

 

 

THE DUTIES OF MOTHERS.

The Rey. Dr. Gregg, of Texas, recently preached at the
church, corner of Lexington avenue and Thirty-sixth
street, selecting for his text the words, ‘Is it well with
the child,” taken from the fourth chapter of the Second
Book of Kings, xxvi. verse. In a clear and forcible style
the reverend divine described the natural affection exist-
ing between the parent andthe child—an affection so
strong and enduring that it ignores all sacrifices, disre-
gards all adverse opinions and criticisms, and is strongest

-and brightest.even in the presence of shame and disgrace.

From the time that Rachel wept and would not be com-
forted, becouse of the loss of her child, down to the pres-
ent day, in every race and in every land, it has been rec-
ognized as the tenderest of loves, and instinctively sug-
gests the idea of its Divine origin. Earth cannot present
a greater picture of desolation than the affliction of a
mother over the loss of her child. To her mind the uni-
verse is worthless beside the remains of the dead, and no
sacrifice which the imagination could call up would be
too great if its resuscitation could be procured. Yet how
few mothers prepare theirchildren for the dread uncer-
tainty, for the terrible trial which follows dissolution. To
enable him to meet the struggle of this life is her constant
solicitude, and in her every action she exhibits her pur-
pose. But where does she manilest her anxiety in regard
to his spiritual welfare? The worldly-minded mothers
never endeavor to influence his course of life with a view
to his eternal salvation. They desire, indeed, that he
should be regarded by men as of good moral character,
but they fail to educate him in the true Christian doc-
trines which will render him acceptable in the sight of
God. They co not consider the words of Christ, “What
will it profit'a man to gain the whole world if he lose his
immortal soul?” but in securing his success in life they
see the fulfillment of their maternal obligations. 1t was
lamentable to witness the education of the young in our
days. It was the education of the mind, not of the soul—
education to fit for this lifeand notfor the next, This
Was a thought for virtuous mothers beside which all
others were of no importance. He counseled therm to see
that the education of their children were based ‘upon a
Christian foundation, and that no matter what else was
neglected, that this should be faithfully attended to. Thus
would they best serve their children and themselves, and
{fulfill God’s purpose in imposing upon them the holy obli-
gation of maternity.

 

_ A Story for Boys.

An exciting Indian story, entitled ‘‘(CHIPMUCK, THE
WYANDOTTE, by SANDY GRISWOLD, will be commenced
week after next. Every chapter is filled with lively inci-
dents, strange adventures, and thrilling combats. Our
young friends will be delighted with it, while the more
reflecting reader will be deeply interested in the vivid de-
scriptions of the perils peculiar to border life.

_ OS

OCTOBER.

BY BERTHA ALLYN.

 

There are some days So lovely that they seem as if the
Great Creator had intended thein as especially set apart
to beauty and peace. They are still, calm, restful days,
to which all the toil, and care, and bustle of the busy
world seem wholly unsuited; and the shrill whistle of the
engine, the constant whirr of wheels, andth e ceaseless
tramp, tramp, of passing humanity grate harshly on the
ear, making one long for the tranquil solitude of the
gorgeous, though dying forest, where he may indulge in
the dear memories of the past. Visions of his childhood,
so bright and fuil of joy, the hopes and aspirations of
youth, and dreams of future grandeur, power and happi-
ness, all mingle in one sweet picture beneath the witching
influence of a glorious autumn day.

Such days as this October ushers in, and some one has
beautifully said, that they are the

: “Crown jewels of the year;
They i eyare amid her tresses bright like gems,
All safely set in gold.”

All the richness of departed summer seems concen-
trated in this royal month, which, clad in festal robes,
and crowned with matchless hues, reigns a peerless
queen—queen of the tribe of twelve.

Come with me this autumn day. Banish every cure—
take nature’s friendly outstretched hand, climb yonder
sunny slope, and view the landscape so passing fair. At
your feet behold a thriving village, nestling in peaceful
security at the foot-of its native hills, whose sides and
summits smile and glow witha thousand varied hues;
the winding river sparkling on between its verdant
banks, seems like a silver thread embroidered on nature’s
fair attire; the mottled pastures, with their vermillion
dyes and ragged, moss-grown rocks, add new beauty to
the scene; and the clustered cottages, so iresh and white,
speak of taste and thrift, while here and there the heaven-
ward: pointing spire tells that nature’s beauty-giving God
is not forgotten. The song of birds, the low of the dis-
tant cattle, and the chirrup of the frisking’ squirrel} fall
upon the ear, while above and over ull is the deep blue
vault of Heaven, flecked at intervals with fleecy, flying
clouds, and the sun looks down in his golden splendor,
bringing, with a glowing radiance, all the lovely scene.

“A thing of beauty is a joy forever.”
. And we never weary of gazing upon the matchless
works of the infinite Creator, who is ‘sculptor, architect
and painter, all in one,’ and whose wisdom, power and
love shine forth from lofty hill and Jowly dale, waving
forest and graceful plain.

—___>-04+___—_.

NEw YORK, Sept. 16, 1872.
Messrs. STREET & SMiTH:—In reply to numerous in-
quiries I beg the favor of saying threugh your paper that
Tam at present busily engaged upon a new story for the
NEw YoRK WEEKLY, to be entitled “THE WESTERN
Boy.’ The favorable reception which has been accorded
to ‘Braye and Bold,” ag well as to “Abner Holden’s
Bound Boy,” by your army of young readers, has afforded
me great satisfaction. Just returned from the sea-side, I
take the earliest opportunity to acknowledge their kind-
ness, and to assure them, one and all, that I shall spare
no efforts to make ‘The Western Boy” welcome at every
fireside in the land. Ifthe circulation of the New YORK
WEEKLY continues to inerease at its present ratio, there
Will be few homes in any section of the country where it

may not be found, a welcome visitor.
Yours, faithfuby,
Horarto ALGER, IR.

pMany ideas from the **

 

BY NATHAN D. UORNER.

Breast-high amid the golden grain,
In a vision of light I have seen her,

The darling of sun, and wind and rain,
My beauteous, bright-haired gleaner.

The sickle in her small, brown hand,
Gieams like a fairy saber;

It seems that all the teeming land
Rejoices in her labor.

The clover-kissing zephyr speeds
Across the fields to woo her,

The sheaves their bright and bearded heads
Bow down and whisper to her.

Like Ruth, in fields of Holy Writ,
She.stands in simple beauty

Her tender eyes and features lit,
Lamp-like, with holy duty.

Afar in the valley gleams her cot,
A river near it shining;

Fair fields are ail around the spot,
And roses o’er it twining.

And thitherward at close of day,
When the reaping all is over,

My little gleaner takes her way
With neither friend or lover.

Is it but in dreams that flash and fail, _
IT have seen this picture golden,

Or cheated am I by the sweet love-tale
Of Ruth in the grain-fields olden ?

I know not, but sometimes its beauty and rest
Steal over my heart so sweetly,

That busy brain and yearning breast
Are charmed and endeared completely.

Perhaps tis the gleam of a future bright,
Where, in goldener fields and greener,

Among the sheaves of a harvest of light
Awaits my little gleaner;

Where, drawn by the ties of a mystical love,
Two lonely lives may be plighted,

To move through fields of glory above,
Forever and ever united. :

THE LADIES’ WoORK-BOx.

A department designed especially for Jadies, wherein will be an-
swered all questions which may be asked by correspondents re-
iating to fashion, the different styles of dress, combination of
colors, needle-work of all kinds, the arrangement of the hair,
etiquette—in short, anything of especial interest to ladies.

 

 

 

Correspondents to the Ladies’ Work-Box will do us a great
favor if they will confine themselves strictly to such matters as
are indicated in the heading of this department. If they wish
to indulge in any commendatory remarks concerning our stories,
or to ask for any information which more appropriately belongs to
any other of our departments, will they have the kindness to put
the same on a separate slip of paper so that it may be handed over
to the person to whose department it belongs ? Communications
to the Work-Box are growing so rapidly as to render this neces-
sary.

“op. D. J.C.” asks “if it is fashionable to have two
looking-glasses in the parlors, there being two rooms."’
Yes. Any quantity of mirrors are now used in some of
our parlors. They stand on mantels, are in furniture, and
cover sometimes the entire ends of the room. Mantel
glasses range in prices from $30 to. $150. Pier glasses,
which are much taller, but not generaily so wide, cost
from $50 to $200.

“Mary J..”—For your wrapper use pattern 2060—price
50 cents. We are sure you Will likeit. Itis a circular to
be worn with a belt, and can be trimmed.in any manner
you prefer.

“Wsther K.’?’—Serges in all the rich colors will be usefal
for winter wear. French poplins, too, come in beautiful
shades and are cheaper than the Irish materials, the latter
costing $2 25a yard, and the French ranging from $1 25
to $1 75. The Peake Bands of black alpaca and mohair
still continue in favor, and as there is a decided improve-
ment in both luster and fabrics of the ‘Beaver’? and
“Buffalo’’ brands, this: season they will be, if possibie,
more popular.

“Martha Deane.’’—A black dress takes best in a picture,
or if you have no black suit, any dark dress will answer
the purpose. Light dresses take white, and spoil the ef-
fect of the picture. For a girl of fifteen use pattern 2251
—price 20 cents. This is a four-gored skirt and hangs
nicely. The Russian polonaise, No. 2281, price 20 cents,
will be handsome for the overgarment.

“A, B.’—You cannot be very stout if you only measure
36 inches bust and 23 waist. We call 26 and 40 pretty
good size. Perhaps you would like the polonaise with
deep side forms, and no puffing. That has the effect of
making the form slight. The pattern is 2306—price 25
cents. Why not use the National dress trimming upon
your alpaca suit? They will save you the trouble of niak-
ing your trimmings, and look much better than cheap
fringe or velvet. You write very prettily.

“Pink Snowdrop.”—Have your walking-dresses to just
escape touching the ground; there is nothing more dis-
gusting than to see a handsome dress cleaning the dirty
sidewalk, and it is very awkward to attempt to hold up
your dress, particularly if you have anything elsein your
hand. You are, however, quite young enough to wear
your dress just to reach the tops of your shoes.

“Susie Athol.’—If you get a pretty shade, the blue pop-
lin will be very handsome, but don’t trim it with black—
use a blue silk, as near the color of poplin as you can get;
put it on in puffs or ruffles. If you have enough of the
poplin, trim with ruffles of that, bound with the blue silk.
You can also trim the polonaise with biue fringe, if you
like better. You will require from eighteen to twenty
yards to make and trim a suit. Polonaises will be tash-
ionable, for at least two or three more seasons. Wear a
corn-colored bow with your blue dress, or you can wear
rosge-color with it, if the shades are right. If you wish to
wear your black silk now it will be more stylish made
with overskirt or polonaise, but if you have sufficient ma-
terial without altering the skirt, you can add to your
waist a postillion peplum, which is worn with plain,
full skirts. The price of the pattern is 15 cts., and it re-
quires only about three yards of material to make one.
Plaids will be very much worn this season, and also
bright colors. So you need not cast aside your dress.
The bright skirt will look pretty with black polonaise.
You can get either a gored sacque, or a jacket pattern for
16 cts. For married ladies, bounets are worn more than
hats, still it is a matter of taste. The heavy part of the
ring should be next to the hand, and the lighter part to-
ward the fingers. :

‘“‘Agnes.”.—According to our taste colored napkins
should be only used after eating fruit, still they are used
by people of fashion out of the city for tea. In New York
it is more convenient for families to dine at six, and have
a light Junch in the middle of the day, hence napkins for
tea are not much in use.

“A, F.’—We have sent you a catalogue of fall styles,
and hope you will be able to select one’ that wil! please
you. <A very pretty polonaise pattern is 2,322, price 30
ets. It is open in front, and rather plain, while the back
is full and graceful; tight waist, and trimmed with
ruffies. We think the polonaise a very useful garment,
besides being very stylish and becoming.

“Eglantine.’—Basques and overskirts will be worn
this winter, so if you have many dresses to make, it would
be well to vary the style, and have some with polonaise
and others with basques and overskirts. As we have
already given some stylish polonaise patterns, we will
suggest overskirt No. 2,352, price 25 cts. This garment
has an apron front and long, wide sash ends in the back,
which are tied simply in a loop. The effect is elegant
when upon a graceful form; a stylish basque to match is
2,326, price 20cts. This is trimmed to simulate.a vest, and
has a skirt aud tabsin the back. Thesleeves are half-fow-
ing. It can be trimmed with lace and velvet, or ruffles.
A bridal dress of white organdie muslin should have the
skirt tlimmed with one deep and three narrow flounces,
or you can flounce to suit your own taste. Make demi-
train. The waist have puffed, and trimmed between the
up and down puits with pretty Valenciennes edge. Make
sleeves in the same manner to the elbows, and finish with
a ruffle edge with lace. Make overskirt after pattern 2240,
price 20 cents, which is very suitable for thin materials,
and trim to match skirt and waist. For traveling dress
get a silver gray, brown or slate-colored poplin, serge, or
satine, and make after some of the patterns of polonaises
already described in this, article, with the addition of a
circular or cape after pattern 2310, price 10:cents, and
then you will have a complete suit, which will last you
Guring the fall, and also for winter wear, if you line the
cape with flannel or waterproof. Your bridal vail should
be fastened on to your head with a wreath of orange
flowers. For hat, do not have it trimmed with white,
but use any becoming color in silk or velvet, either black,
or brown, or drab, anything to look well with your suit.
With your white dress wear white slippers or gaiters. For
traveling use black shoes by dil means,

“Katie Blue.*’—You have rather a scant pattern of ma-
terial to make a fashionable suit—only thirteen yards;
still it can be done by economy in cutting and trimming
with silk, for the material is well worth handsome trim-
ming. Cut your skirt after pattern 2207, price 30 cents,
for which you will require seven yards of your poplin.
For overgarment use 2348, ladies’ basque polonaise, price
25 cents, which will take the rest of your material. Trim
the skirt with four or six narrow flounces of silk as near
the shade of poplin as you can get it, while the polonaise
may be ornamented with about two narrow ruffles of the
silk. Make after these directions and you will have an
elegant suit, which will be very becoming if your com-
plexion accords with your hair.

“Delia.’—You can find no better protection for your
dresses than Goodyear’s rubber shields, Large sizes can
be had at 50, 60 and 76 cents a pair. Some are as expen-
Sive as $1 per pair, but the others will answer the sume
purpose.

‘Mary La Ross” says her little girl has reeeived so
ork-Box” in regard to Dolly Vur-
den colors,-that upon seeing the sunset clouds richly tint-
ed with many hues, she asked if they were not ‘Dolly
Varden clouds.’ She isa bright ehild.

“Miss L. GC. Harmon.”—The crown perfumes bear the
trade mark of the ‘“‘crown” upon the label; and the stop-
per of each bottle is made in the form of acrown, so there
is no mistaking the genuine article. You shonld be able
to procure the Kind you wish in Qharieston, but if you
cannot, we will with pleasure fill your order for you. Of
the new perfumes we can recommend, the “Wild Flow-
ers of India,” “Crown Bouquet,” “Hawthorn Bioom,”

 

and “Meadow Queen.” These perfumes are distilled with

the greatest eare from the natural flowers, and differ en-
-tirely in odor from any ever offered to the public. We are

,| Sure that you will like them.

“Mrs. C, T. H.—In the catalogue sent, you will find all
the new garments for children’s wear, during the fall and
winter. . After you have examined the styles, if you de-
sire any more information in regard to dressing your little
ones, we will with pleasure give it to you.

“Jannita.”’—If your hair is too short to “do up” we
think it wouid look well either crimped.or curled, or you
can wear it plain.

“Juanita.’—It is said that a mother may clip the eye-
lashes of her child while it is very young, and by so doing
increase their thickness, but we do not recommend a trial
of the absurd practice. Profuse perspiration does whiten
the complexion, but you must be very careful not to ex-
pose yourself to even the air after perspiring, for you will
tan easily when your skin is tender from the effect of ac-

tion. :

THE LAST OFFERING.

BY JANE GREY SEAVER.

 

 

 

It was a simple offering, but a beautiful one, and little
Chariley’s large blue eyes were filled with big dew-drops
as he whispered, holding up a lovely, half-blown, white
ieee around which were placed fragrant geranium

eaves.

“Mamma, I des want to put dese nice fowers in Mitter
| Beachem’s hand.”

There were hundreds of dollars worth of. flowers scat-
tered in profusion over the elegant casket which held the
mortal remains of Paul Beachem, the beloved friend of
almost every person present. But not one of the costly
and artistic wreaths were, in the estimation of those who
witnessed the affecting scene, 10 be compared in its value
to the simple and affectionate offering of the noble-hearted
little fellow.

“T des want to put it in his hand my own self,” he again
whispered; ‘but I’se fraid. Mamma, do wid Charley?’
ue Blended, asa big tear rolled down the manly little
cheek. OS ag

“Yes, darling, mamma will go with Charley,” replied
the parent, striving in vain to repress the tears which her
little son’s appeal had brought.to the surface. And so,
clinging tightly to his mother’s hand, the little fellow
stretched himself to the very tips of his toes that he might
the better be able to reach over the side of the casket
and place his little offering in the hand of the deceased.
It seemed almost as though the muscles of that clay-cold
hand contracted that it might the more securely hold the
child’s offering.

“Will Mitter Beachem always teep Charley’s fowers ??’
Wwlepered the little fellow, a8 his mother led him back to

lis Seat.

“Yes, my darling,” replied the mother; “he will always
hold them in his:hand just as Charley put them.”

“And will he have them- when Charley see him next
time ?”” still queried the juvenile mourner—for the bright
little fellow had listened attentively and treasured up the
remark8 just made by the Rev. Mr. Elder, who had said
during his discourse, making @ slight gesture toward the
inanimate form before him:

“This form will rise again, and you will see him again
in aes BESS, inthe flesh, as you have known him on
earth.

It wasasad funeral, one of the saddest I ever wit-
nessed, from the one fact, that there was not a single rela-
live of the deceased present; nor had there been a person
present during his last illness who was bound to him by
the ties of consanguinity; nota relative into whose ear
he could whisper his last wishes. But, notwithstanding,
he was not the less kindly treated. And perhaps on this
very account the sympathy offered was more genuine than
on other oceasions it would have been.

Paul Beacham% life had been wrecked by love. Five
years previous to the time of which we write he was be-
trothed to Eveline Graham the daughter of a wealthy
Boston merchant.

But. when Charies Graham learned that his daughter’s
affection jor Paul was likely to prove disastrous to the
matrimonial prospects which he had in view for her, for
Charles Graham had solemnly decreed that his daughter
should marry wealth, and Paul was not rich except in vir-
tues, his rage knew no bounds, and forthwith sought an
interview with the lover and informed him that he could

and forbade him to ever again enter his house.

Paul Beachem was an honorable man in-every sense of
the word, and immediately wrote .to .his beloved Eveline
that she must consider their engagement broken, as he
could never marry into a family where.lie would not be
received with open arms.
wrote in conclusion, ‘‘I can never love another, and shall
cherish your image in my heart to my last moment of
earthly existence; and your name, darling, shall be the
last to pass my lips in life. Adieu! adieu! forever! my
darling Eveline.”’ ;

And so it had been forever on earth, for they never met
again. But Paul had lived true to his love, and although
five years had passed since he ha: penned that last letter,
-hehad never ceased to love her as fondly as of old, and as
he had averrea it would be, her name was the last he ut-
tered on earth.

“Eveline! Eveline! come nearer,’? he whispered, grasp-
ing the hand of a friend who sat at his bedside; ‘‘come
nearer, itis growing so dark. Oh, Eveline—Ev—e—line
—Ev——,”’ and with the’name of his beloved half-uttered
Par. Beachem closed his eyes in death.

But how had it been with Eveline? Had she remained
true to her love? ‘No, far from it. Shehad married within
afew months after her engagement had been broken off,
toa wealthy man. But whether she was happy or not
we cannot say, but the sequel will prove that she at least
remembered her old love.

Eveline Graham had gone to Europe on her bridal tour,
where she had remained, or rather she had spent the five
years of her married live traveling in foreign countries,
and during her last year abroad her husband had met
with an accident which had suddenly terminated his
earthly existence.

The widow had remained but afew months after her
sad experience when she came on to Liverpool and took
passage for New York, with what hopes and anticipations
we will not say. But we will take the liberty of stating
that she had receivéd soon after the death of her husband
the news of her father’s death.

Arriying in New York, she took a carriage and drove
to —— Hotel, where she had learned from letters recently
received from friends, that Paul Beachem made his home,
also that he was in ill-health. It was quite early in the
evening when she reached the hotel, and after having
registered her name, and been shown to a room, she
made inquiry for Paul. And the reader can better judge
of her terrible disappointment and‘anguish than pen can
portray it, when told that Paul Beachem had breathed his
last within the past half hour.

Paul had not.been in vigorous health since the day on
which he gave back to Eveline Graham her freedom. But
he had tried to brave it out, and to rise above that fell-de-
stroyer, Consumption, who had stamped his fatal seal in-
delibly upon his countenance.’ But the sweetest consola-
tion.to his friends was his hope in a blessed hereafter; for
Paul Beachem was a Christian, and was ready and will-
ing to die. He even at the very last, as had he all through
his iliness, prayed to die, saying: ‘‘Death has no terror
for me.”? Ah! would that we could all say with Paul
Beachem, that ‘death has no terrors’’ for us. How often
do we hear people say that they do not care to live. But
when the Almighty calls for them, how few are found
with their “Jamps trimmed and burning.” But Paul
Beachem had gone down while still in the glad morning
of life, verifying the assertions of the poet, ‘‘Death loves a
shining mark, a signal biow.”? God had seen fit to trans-
plant the tree in its beauty toa more congenial clime, to
bloom immortal, not subject to decay. And closing his
eyes, he whispered: :

“J trust in my Redeemer for the resurrection of the
dead and the life everlasting.”” Gao eee

Reader, were I writing fiction, I would not end this
little romance se sadly; but, alas! my story is in every
particular true.

-_—_——_>-e+___ ‘
To CORRESPONDENTS.

Ra Correspondents desiring information through
the different departments, will please place the questions
for each on different slips, as this will avotd the use of
the same letter by the conductors of the several columns,
and Jacilitate the answering, thus proving a convenience
to both themselves and us.

{The answers to all questionsof the nature of recipes and rem-
edies, wilt be found in. the department headed ‘‘Our Knowledge
Box.”’ All matters relating to the fashions, whether of dress,
manner of wearing the hair, etc., will be answered in the ‘‘Ladies’
Work-Box.”? Those of our correspondents who find some of their
questions unanswered in this department will bear this in mind.
Questions of a personal or business character will be answered in
the department. headed ‘‘Personal.”*] ;

[We are in receipt of numerous letters every week, on various
subjects, in which, the writers desire an answer by mail, which it
is impossible to prs. Questions of such a nature as cannot be
answered through the various departments will not be noticed.
Many others desire their questions to be answered in the next
issue after writing. This is also impossible, as our immense circu-
lation compels us to send the paper to press two weeks in advance
of publication day, consequently none of the questions can be
answered under two weeks, and the majority of them in not less
than three, and even then some of them may be crowded over to
another issue for want of space.}

has GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS.—
Sandy Jim.—Iist. In 1853 Russia demanded from the Turkish gov-
ernment certain guaranties relating to the Greek Christians of Tur-
key, which the Sultan considered almost equivalent to an abdica-
tion of his own sovereign rights, his refusal to.comply with which
led to the war known as the Crimean war, England, France and
Sardinia taking sides with Turkey, on the ground that the exist-
ence of the latter empire and the equilibrium of political power in
Europe were endangered by Russia. The: seige of Sevastopol
lasted. about eleven months, when the works were carried, the
Russians retreating to the fortifications on the southern shore of
the harbor. The war wag terminated by the treaty of Paris, in
1866, Russia losing her naval propenderance in the Biack Sea, on
which Sevastopol was a strongly fortified’ naval station. 2d:
Frances d’Aubigne, Marchioness de-Maintenon, was the mistress
and atterward the wife of Louis XIV. of France. She was born
in 1636, and in 1651 married the:comi¢ ‘poet Scarron, who taught.
her several languages. On the death of her husband, nine years
alter, she was left in straitened circumstances. The king finally
entrusted the education of his children by Madame de Montespan
toher, In 1674 he purchased the estate of Maintenon for her, and
in 1685 privately married her. On the death of Louis she retired
to St. Cyr, an institution she had founded for poor girls, where
she died in 1719, 3d. The war with Abyssinia was caused by the
refusal of King Theodore to release a number of British subjects,
consisting of a British censul and his attaches, several missiona-
‘ries, with their families, and a number of artizans who had been
induced to come td the country in the service of the government.
The king deemed that he had been slighted in hisintercourse with
the British Gavernment, and held the prisoners as hostages for a
a recognition of his dignity as @ sovereign, Tho latter
nally had to resort to arms te procure their release, which was
successfully accomplished, by the expedition under Sir Robert

 

 

 

never sanction his daughter’s marriage with a poor. man, .

“But, Eveline, dearest,?’: he-

«atid THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. ==

 

Napier, King Theodore being killed in an engagement. 4th. If a
person should shoot and killa burglar caught in the act of steal-
ing, the coroner’s jury would be likely to bring in a verdict of
justifiable homicide, and that would.end the matter........ Mary
and H. R.—We cannot make engagements with new contributors
at present....... Fireman.—\st. ‘Mose?’ is the name of a charac-
ter, representing a New York fireman, played by Mr. F. S. Chan-
frau with great success a few years ago. 2d. The reports trom
the South African diamond mines vary so materially that we
think it unadvisable for a person to take so long a journey on an
uncertainty. While a few, comparatively, have been fortunate
in their quest of gems, a large majority have’ been disappointed,
and would gladly return to their homes could they secure suffi-
cient to pay their passage. 3d. The trip to Africa costs several
hundred dollars, and is most direct by way of Liverpool.........
Bayonne.—Ist. The NEw YORK WEEKLY may be bound for about
$3 per volume. 2d. One year is sufficient for a volume. 3d. We
do not furnish covers or bound volumes...... Tel.—We cannot.
Hee Point Judith.—I\st. See “Etiquette: Department.” 2d. We
cannot tell. 3d. Good....::....Stick-in-the-Mud.—I|st. Goldsmith
Maid, owned by Henry,N, Smith, trotted a mile in 2:16 3-4 at Mys-
tic Park, Boston, in June last.. This is the best time on record.
The fastest pacing time on record is one mile in 2:141-4, made by
Billy Boyce, under saddle.’ The best running mile is 1:42 3-4,
made by Alarm, at Saratoga; on the 17th of July last: 2d. We do
not know who is the wealthiest man in the United States. 3d:
The NEW YORK WEEKLY office is at No. 55 Fulton street. 4th.
Horace Greeley was born at Amherst, N. H., Feb. 3d, 1811. 5th.
Opinions differ, the same as they do with regard to all politicians.
6th. We cannot tell you, as the shipping is done by the ‘news
companies....... Buffalo Bill.—We can furnish all the numbers of
the present volume of the NEw YORK WEEKLY. The postage
will probably be trom fifteen to twenty cents, payable at the of-
fice where the papers are delive T. B. C.—The Fifth Army
Corps took no part in the “Seven Days’ Fight” before Richmond
in 1862, being composed of the troops comprising Gens. Banks’
and Shields’ divisions, and commanded by thé former...:.;......
Eugene Leonard.—Gen. Ulysses S. Grant was born at Point Pleas-
ant, Clermont county, Ohio, April 27, 1822; Gen. William T. Sher-
man at Lancaster, Ohio, Feb. 8, 1820; Gen. Philip H. Sheridan at
Albany, N. Y...... .- Lake Sailor.—The lady served youright. A
man who will get Grunk and make the name of his lady-love com-
mon bar-room talk is unworthy her love and respect. However,
as you repent your folly, write to the lady and tell her the pledge
you have taken, asking her forgiveness tor your past misconduct,
with permission to renew your addresses after a sufficient proba
tory period........ G. H. Boodler.—ist. Apbly to dealers in gz
tackle and mechanics’ tools. 2d. See “Knowledge Box.”’...... mn
Joseph Sohn.—ist If you are at a loss what to present your sister,
send her a draft, and let her select something which will be of use
in commencing housekeeping. We can scarcely suggest anything
to send such a distance, most useful articles being, more or less
bulky. 2d. See ‘Etiquette Department.””.......F GC. W.—We are
not at liberty to give the proper names or addresses of otf con-
tributors..... Leclair.—Never having heard of the individual, we
cannot say whether he has been to college or not..... Old Reader,
Adams.—There are institutions of the kind mentioned at Dans-
ville, Attica, and Glen Haven, all in New York State..... Rhino.
—If a citizen, yes...... Star Miner.—See reply to ‘‘Fireman.”.....
J. T. Monroe.—ist. ‘Upward and Onward” will cost 42 cents. 2d.
Classes are taught telegraphy free of charge at-Cooper Institute.
......D. T. L, —We know nothing of the individual........ Long
Strike.—London has an area of 122 square miles, and a population
of 3,251,804. Peking, China, area 27 square miles; population
estimated from 1,500,000 to 2,000,000. Yeddo, Japan, area 128
square miles; population estimated at 3,000,000...... Henry H.—
Andre is a French name, and is pronounced on-dra....Tom Neak.
—lIst. See “Knowledge Box.” 2d. The battle of Waterloo com-
menced on the morning of the 18th of June, 1815, and continued
until evening, the whole allied line moving forward about dusk,
the French being completely routed, with a loss of 26,300. The
total loss to the victors was 23,185. 3d. Archimedes was the most
celebrated mathematician and mechanician of antiquity. Among
other things he discovered the method of ascertaining the specific
gravity of various substances, Many fabulous accounts are given
of his inventions, but they are mostly deemed within the range
ot possibility. At the taking of the city of Syracuse (212 B.C.), the
detense of which he had aided by various mechanical appliances,
Marcellus, the commander of the Roman troops, ordered that his
house and person be respected. He was slain, however, by one of
the soldiers while engaged in solving a geometrical problem......
J. Tomkins.—It is impossible to answer the first question until
the census returns are printed. The others there are nc means of
ascertaining...... ¢C. 8S. M.—“The Golden Wolf of Genoa’ will cost
$1.20... T.—See reply to ‘‘Henry J.” in ‘Etiquette Department...
M. J. A.—Benjamin Franklin was born in Boston, Jan. 17, (O. S.,
Jan. 6.), 1706, and died in Philadelphia, April 17, 1790...... Henry.
—Horace Greeley was never nominated as a candidate for Gov-

  

ernor of New York State........ V. D. P. St .—The “Charity
Grinder Papers,” by Mary Kyle Dallas, were published in Vol.
XXI. of the NEW YORK WEEKLY............ G. B. BE.—Iist. “Nick

Whiffles” was republished about five years. ago, but is now out of
print. 2d. You will have to make the arrangements for the lec-
ture with the gentleman himself, it being entirely a private mat-
terns... Fannie.—“The House of Secrets” is out of print. Wecan-
not republish it at present...... Trish,—Your young lady friends
are a trifle superstitious, or else they are making fun.of you. We
will face all the bad luck that wearing a ring with an opal setting
is supposed to bring it anybody chooses to present us with one.
It is on a par with the superstition that it is unlucky to have a
cross-eyed woman look at you, or to meet a black cat. Just tancy
what an unlucky man he must be-who marries a cross-eyed wo-
man or keeps a black cat............ Young Curiosity.—\lst. Bal-
moral is accented on the second, and Arabic on the first syllable.
2d. Were business conducted on the basis of dollars, dimes, and
cents, our currency would be the most easily reckoned of. any in
the world. It is the adherence by many dealers to the old style
of shillings, in order to make a half cent in giving‘thange, whieh
renders it-difficult for foreigners to reckon....... Branford Point.
—Ist. Diseases of the eye are treated at the New York Ophthal-
mic Hospital, 387 Fourth avenue, and at the Eye and Ear Infirm-
ary, 216 Second avenue. If your means are too limited to meet
the.expense, you will be treated gratuitously. 2d. Long Island
City is directly opposite New York city, and embraces Astoria,
Hunter’s Point, and several other villages, 3d. We do not.......
G. H, W.—Ist. July 22, 1850, oceurred on Monday; July 21, 1848,
on Friday. 2d. Century calendars are usually on sale by station-
ers, and are frequently published in almanacs. You may find
one in the Philadelphia Ledger Almanac for 1871........ Justice.—
The question is one for your guardian to decide. The amount
should be guaged by his necessities, with a proper regard for his
appearance in society, leaving a margin tor amusements, 2d.
Rather small. 3d. Men have attained nearly their full stature at
the age of eighteen vears. 4th. The society of intelligent and re-
spectable people of both sexes should be courted by young men as
@ means of moral and intellectual improvement. 5th. There is
no record of the introduction and manufacturer of the first paper
boxes. 6th. Your step-mother cannot dispose of the property
which is willed to you. The wording of the will determines what
she is entitled to, and she can claim no more. 7th. Write to the
American consul.......... S. £, B.—lst. Parties going abroad be-
fore starting usually purchase letters of credit from a banking
house on their agents or foreign bankers at piaces they propose to
visit, which are cashed on presentation. 2d. The gentleman has
two daughters........ O. P. K.—1st. Yes. 2d: See No. BBR ak ole
V. M. F. H.—1ist. The quotations cannot be traced toany particular
individual. They are as common as “braye asa lion,” or any
other comparative expression. 2d. Anglo means English, the
Anglo-Saxon race being the decendants of the early Saxons who
emigrated to Britain. The name is derived from the village of
Anglen, whose population were called Angli, in common with a
large portion of the natives of south Britain. 3d. Inquire of a
bookseller. 4th, There is no such chemical preparation named in
the United States Dispensatory. 5th. See “Kowledge Box.” 6th.
See ‘Etiquette Department.”? 7th. Any time after twenty years
of age. 8th. We do not know who composed the “Fat Nine.”
9th. No. 10. The gentleman is an occasional contributor.........
Young America,—lst. Ned Buntline is the nom de me of Col.
E. ZC. Judson. 2d. The Mohawk river has a direct fall of 70
feet at Cohoes, about two miles from its junction with the Hud-
son. 8d. The American News Company is at No. 119 Nassau
street. 4th. See ‘Knowledge Box.” 5th. Read works of a moral
tone........S. a. Kiersey.—We do not know whether the paper is
still in existence........... HM. B—s.—We do not know the lady’s
address........ J. J. C.—I\st. See “Knowledge Box.” 2d and 3d.
Ask a bookseller. 4th. It depends upon the number of lessons re-
ceived forthe amount, 5th. A pawnbroker cannot dispose of the
articles until the expiration of the period for which they were

=

-pledged...... Ossic.—ist. A dealer in musical instruments can tell

pou better than we. 2d. It isa matter of opinion as to who is the
est organist in the world. Wedo not think itis the one who
erforms several hours a day immediately under our window.

. See “Knowledge Box”’....... D. P.—‘“‘Carlos the Terrible” will
cost 84 cenits...... Messerve.—The U. 8. steamer Arctic, of the Col-
lins line, was sunk off the “banks of Newfoundland on Sept. 27,
1854. She came into collision with the French steamer Vesta,
during a dense fog, and went down in a short time, over 300 lives
being lost....... Robert Rushton.—lst. Algebra is a sort of univer-
sal arithmetic, in which numbers are represented by letters, and
the reasoning@ carried on by symbols. It is very useful in de-
termining difficult mathematical problems. 2d. Brown’s Gram-
mar is the most complete, and the one in general use. You can
master the study without a teacher, but would progress more
readily with one..... Constant Reader.—Connecticut and Rhode
Island each have two capitals. In the former the Legislature
meets alternately at Hartford and New Haven, the odd years at
Hartford. In Rhode Island the Legislature holds its regular ses-
sions at Newport, in May, and an adjourned session at Providence
in the following January.... .. A. W.—Mt. Aconcagua, a volcano
of the Chilian Andes, 23,915 feet in hight, is the highest mountain
in South America; Mt. St. Elias, in Alaska, 17,¥80 teet, the highest
in North America, In the United States proper, Fremont’s Peak,
ot the Mountains, 13.570 feet in hight, is the tallest.........
e .—We will consider the matter......... Boy Reader.—We
will furnish the numbers for six cents each......R. H. C—Yes....
@, L.—We cannot give the translation..... LL. F. L.—The follow-
ing are the facts in regard to the Declaration of Independence, in
brief: On the 11th of June, 1776, Congress, which met at Philadel-
phia, appointed a committee, consisting of Thomas Jefferson,
Jobn Adams, Benjamin.Franklin, Roger Sherman and Robert R.
Livingston ‘to dratt the document, which was written by Jeffer-
son and approved by the other members of the committee, only
a word here and there being changed. It was submitted by the
committee on the 28th of June, and during the debate which fol-
lowed, about one-quarter of it was cut out, principally the portion
relating to the slave trade. On the 4th of July, after some dis-
cussion in Committee of the whole, the President, John Hancock,
resumed the chair, and Mr. Harrison, of Virginia, stated that the
committee had agreed to a Declaration, which they desired him
to report, The Declaration was then read and adopted, all the
members present, except Mr. Dickinson, ot New York, signing it.
Some days after it had been passed and been proclaimed at the
head of the army, Congress ordered that it be engrossed on parch-
ment and signed by every member, but it was not until the 2d of
August. that it was completed by the signatures of all the mem-
bers. This parchment copy is still preserved in Washington, the
original copy not being in existence. We cannot ascertain who
read the Declaration on its adoption, but presume it was the
clerk or secretary..... .. ator.—Benjamin Greeley, the great-
great-grandfather of Horace Greeley, came from Nottingham,

or four generations the family have lived in New Hampshire
where Horace’s father, and also his grandfather, we EI wane
born... U. T. S.—Ist. See “Knowledge Box.” 2d. “Wild Red-
burn” and “Copper and Gold” are outof print. 3d. The fare to
Winsted, Conn., is from $4 to $4.26......... Luey B.—Probably the
affair has been magnified by your friends. Ascertain to whit ex-
tent the flirtation was carried before doin: anything you may re-
pent... Dexter.—We know nothing of the circumstances fur-
ther than related by the author....... Jas. H. Wentworth.—We do
not republish our serials in book form.......... Herrimac.—ist. In
the game of “seven up,” the jack counts immediately on being
turned up by the dealer, Where it is in one of the hands it counts
aiter low, in the order of high, low, jack and game. 2d. Neither
wins on a call... George.—The loss of a leg will not intertere
with your learning any trade where you are not obliged to be on
your feet or moving round—such as jeweler, com positor, engraver
on wood or metal, bookkeeper, tailor, shoemaker, draughtsman,
etc......#inine Eddte.—All musical compositions are written in a
particular key, which is ascertained by the signature. The natu-
ral scaleis the key of C, and has neither flats nor sharps. Eye
other scale must introduce sharps and flats to bring the semi-
tones into their proper places. Every scale and piece of music,
however, must have a signature, which is always formed at the
beginning of the scale. This signature decides which notes
throughout the piece are sharpened or flattened. For example.
the key of G has one sharp, which ig placed upon the fifth line.
Thus, it will be noticed that in the key of G the one sharpis F
and the next note is G, which makes it the key of G. The key.of
D has two sharps, F and C. The key of A three sharps, F C and
G; and So on up to the key of 'F, which bas six sharps, F, C, G, D,
Aand E. The note next _to the last sharp indicates the key. In
six sharps, the last sharp is E, and the next note being F, the key
isin F. The flats, instead of going from, one note to the next
highest, go from one flat tothe next Mwest. For example, the
key of A }.as four flats, B, E, Aand D. The next lowest to the
last flat, D, is A, therefore it is in the key of A flat major. In two
fiats, B and &, it isthe key of B, B being the flat next lowest to B.
The key of F has one flat, which is B flat........ Q. Q@.—No........
Kintieu.—ist. There are fifty-two numbers of the Nsw _ YORK
WEEKLY in each volume. 2d. Yes...... Reader, N. Y.—By

English method of numeration a billion is a million of millions,
and a trillion a million of billions, each denomination betng 2
million times the one preceding. By the French method, which is
used in nearly all the Continental nations and also in the United
States, a billion is one thousand millions, a trillion one thousand
billions, each denomination being one thousand times the pre-
ceding..... Henry.—ist. Yes. 2d. The fare from New York to
Omaha is $41.80...:.. P. Lewis.—There is no such periodical in the
latest-prinied list......@. B. Donaxin.—See reply te “Dexter”...
Patchwork.—I\st. We cannot say, if not stated in the Story. 2d.

 

 

 

We should suppose it would haye the effect of causing it to cease

England, in 1650, and settled in Massachusetts. For the last three |

 

singing entirely if persisted in for any length of time. 3d. See
“Work Box.” The following MSS. have been accepted: “The
Velvet Cloak,” “October.” The following will appear in a new
mammoth monthly soon to be issued: “Evils of Intemperance.””
The fillowing are respectfully: declined: “The Victim,” ‘The
Dying Child,” “Dora’s Lever,” “Deluge No. 4,” “Oh, Stay the
Tide,” ‘‘A Martyr,” ‘“‘Advice- to Boys,” “The Form I Loved s0
Well,” “The Battle-field,” “True Fame,” “Only an American
Girl,” “Regret,”’ “To the Moon,” ‘‘Midnight Musings,”

 

ETIQUETTE DEPARTMENT.—JU, H. B.—The prompt reply of tne
lady, with the tone of her letter,:in which she mentions the kind-
ness received at your hands, and hopes for a renewal of the ac-
quaintance so abruptly terminated by her departure, would seem
to indicate that she was pleased to receive your letter, and to an
impartial observer cannot be viewed otherwise than as an en-
couragement for you to write again. In the event of a doubt,
however, you should ask her if it would be agreeable to continue
the correspondence. : :

"Point Judith.—\st. Your trouble is purely imaginary, and the
result of being excessively bashful and timid in the society of
ladies. This is probably understood by your lady friend, and the
repetition of the invitation to call, as well as the cordial manner
in which it was given, was to relieve you of the idea that it was
merely tendered through politeness, or that she was offended be-
cause you neglected to call in response'to her former invitation.

Constant Reader, Baltimore.—For information in regard to
py ceremony performed in church, see reply to “Ed. L.,”
in No. 44 ‘

Daisy Deane.—There being a bad feeling existing between your-
self and thé groom, we think it would be unadvisable for you to
attend the wedding, notwithstanding you have received invita-
tious from the bride and her mother. If it was merely a party
previous to‘the marriage, in which he was an invited guest the
same as yourself, his presence should not be allowed to interfere
with your attendance, nor your enjoyment while there. :

Henry J.—Never whisper in company, or call attention to the
peculiarities of other guests by remarks or by pointing them out.
Remember that you are not perfect yourself, and such conduct
renders you more amenable to the censure of well-bred people
than do the defects of others you may be making objects of rid-
icule or ungentlemanly remarks.

A FRIEND IN NEED.

BY HARLEN E; WARD.

 

 

 

“Oh, Mr. Randolph, you cannot set our goods outdoors,
and in this freezing weather! Be merciful, | pray you,
and let us have a chance to find another home!’
The landlord frowhed darkly on the poor, young wife
and mother, whose hands were clasped in supplication
as she knelt before him. ~

“You cannot find another tenement,’’ he scornfully re-
plied. ‘‘No, Agnes Fletcher, your husband is known too
well asa drunken sot, who spends each cent he gets for
liquor, for you to get in anywhere. Better go to the
poor-house, where you must finally bring up, than to try
to struggle any longer.” :

“T cannot go to the poor-house, Mr. Randolph—indeed
I cannot!” sobbed the poor woman, appealingly. ‘Just
another day, sir. O say that you will grant us this
delay!”

“Not one hour,’? said Herman Randolph, ‘sternly.
“Officer, you see these goods—now do your duty.”’

And he coldly walked away, while the iron-hearted
constable piled all the scanty furniture out in the snowy
street.

Let us briefly take a retros

Five years—only five short years—before, Oswald
Fletcher had led to the altar the beautiful Agnes Wilson,
promising solemnly to love, cherish-and protect his bride,
till death should part them. eee ce

Two bright years passed swiftly, and it was not until
after the birth of little May, their first sweet darling, that
Mrs. Fletcher noticed any change in her husband. She
Knew that once he had been noted for his convivial
habits, but having fondly dreamed that he had quit his
cups forever, the fell blow struck with still more crush-
ing force.

All efforts to reform him had proved fruitless—all the
prayers of a fond wife’s breaking, heart, and all the tender
innocence of little May—and he had swiftly trod the
downward path until to-day it was as the hard-hearted
landlord had said—Oswald Fletcher was known to bea
miserable sot.

Standing out there in the street, by the side of the
shapeless wrecks of her furniture, Agnes Fletcher thought
of all this, and is it any wonder that for a moment her
heart, patient and long-suffering as it had been, grew bit-
ter against the man whose failure to perform his solemn
vows had brought this ruin upon her?

“He does not care for us,’? she murmured, ‘‘neither for
me nor little May, nor baby Alice. 0, if there were no
drop of liquor in the world! Why do they make it, know-
ing as they do the misery it brings?”

How many stricken hearts have wailed that same sad
cry, and yet the work of death goes on! And it will go
on ‘so long as men can mar God’s image by degrading it
beiow the level of the brute—jfor gain, for paltry gaint

“On, God! God of the homeless and defenseless! take
us to Thyself, me and my starving babes! For us there is
no more hope. He who should be our protector is now
entangled in the tempter’s snare—we must starve or else
become dependent on others’ alms, even for our daily
bread. Take us now, oh Heavenly Father, ere yet deeper
woe shall come upon us!"? - :

And as this bitter prayer was uttered, a man came reel-
ing up the street, stopping and gazing on the picture
when he was opposite, in a dazed sort of way that was
pitiful to see. Putting his hand to his head, he came over
to where the woman stood, and touched her on the arm.

She turned upon him fiercely.

“Oswald Fletcher, behold your work!”’.she said. “Look
on the ruin you have wrought, and tell me wasit well—
was it well that you should win me from a happy home,
to starve my heart for love—my children for bread? Oh,
Oswald, I have loved you—but when you promised onee
to love and cherish me, I never thought that it would
come to this.”’

‘Agnes,’ he cried, appealingly, “have you no place to
go? Are all the neighbors’ hearts so cruel? Can you not
find a refuge, even for one night, until I can secure a
house for you ???

“No, Oswald; and if there were you would not do it.
Everybody knows you, Oswald. They know that nothing

keep you up—you’ve drank so much no one will trust you
now. No; to the alms-louse we must go, and you—Heaven
help you!”?

Oswald Fletcher sank upon his knees. a

‘Hear me, Agnesl’? he exclaimed. ‘I swear to you
that from to-day no-taste of rum shall ever pass my Hps.
I have been a sot—an idiot—but never again shall it be
said that for liquor: Imeglected you or my children.”

And never heeding the doubting look she cast upon him,
he turned and hurried away—hurried to the counting-
room of good Friend Amos Perrin, before whom he pre-
sented himself.

The merchant, who was seated at a desk, looked up at
his approach, and then, as he beheld his visitor, looked
down again in silence.

‘‘May I speak with you in private, sir, a moment?’ asked
the inebriate in trembling tones, after: he saw that his
presence would not be recognized.

“Art thou not ashamed to come here, after what has
happened ?”’ said the Quaker, looking up.

“T have a favor to ask of you,’ said Oswald Fletcher,
slowly. ‘My wife and children are turned out of doors—
IT come to ask you if you will let me have a tenement, and
take me in your employ again ?”’ ‘

“T cannot: trust thee. Thou wast a faithful clerk, but
since thee took to drink—well, thou knowest what §F
mean—I cannot take thee back.”?

“But I have sworn never to taste another drop of
liguor.”? ey

“That thee has done before. Thy oaths in that respect
are valueless—tice does not keep them.”’

‘But I will keep this one!’ he cried, dospairingly. “Oh
how can I reform if every one turns from me and refuses
to lend a helping hand. Believe me, Mr. Perrin, for in you
lays my only hope. If you refuse to aid me, Jam lost.”

‘Amos Perrin raised his spectacles and looked at him.
Something in his tones arrested his attention, and when
the Quaker saw the light in his visitor’s eye, he arose
from‘his seat, coming slowly forward.

“Oswald Fletcher,” he said, slowly, ‘‘dare I believe thee
means as thon hast said. Yes, after all, I wwé#ld believe;
but if thee fails to keep thy pledge, thee need not come
to me again. Yea, verily, this time the house is thine,
and thee may come to-morrow to the counting-room and
occupy thy olden place. Thee needs pecuniary aid as
well ??? j

‘My family are nearly famished,” was the Jow rejoinder.

The Quaker took a ten-dollar note from his pocket-book
and gave it to him.

“Thou seest by this how much I trust thee now,’’ he
said, significantly. , :

“God bless youl”? sprang impulsively from Fietcher’s
lips, but Amos Perrin had turned to write an order to
his agent for the house, and did not heed it.

That night the heart of Agnes Fletcher tlmrilled as it had
never thrilled for years, when salely in Friend Perrin’s
honse her husband renewed his vow never to taste of al-
coholic drinks again. And when day after day he still
‘Kept sober, and went to his place in the counting-room,
bringing home his wages each Saturday evening, hope
once more grew strong within her.

And that hope was never wrecked. Oswald Fletcher,
sustained in his good: purpose by Friend Perrin, never
drank again; and in process of time he grew quite pros-
perous, and bought the cottage which had been his refuge

when his, feet were struggling from the miry clay.

But he cannot forget that scene upon the street, and
even the sight of the poisoned cup now makes him shud-
der. May it be so forever!

 

 

 

3 GREAT STORIES

BY

3 Different Authors.

This week we commence a powerful story by the great
favorite NED BUNTLINE, entitled, “LIFES PERIL; or,
THE DRUNKARD'S WIFE.”? Week after next, a2 new In-
dian story, by SANDY GRiswoLD, ‘“CHIPMUCK, THE
WYANDOTTE,” will be placed before our readers. Then
Mrs. M. V. VicToR, whose admirers are legion, will dis-
play her entrancing power as & novelist, in a new and
briiliant society story, entitled, “CARESSING A SNAKE;
or ‘lr WIDOWER'S PERIL.’ :

‘Puree great stories, by three popular authors, entirely
different in seene and character, and to be commenced
almost simultaneously. This is variety which our readers

 

 

will appreciate.

 

can reform you, and that it would be useless to try to’

 

 

 

 

 

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THE SOURCE OF THE NILE.
SUGGESTED BY DR. LIVINGSTONE’S LETTERS.

‘ BY JOSEPH BARBER.

 

Is it worth while
On-the trail of the Nile
To spend of hard cash such a duse of a pite—
Piacating with bribes
Fierce and turbulent tribes,
To whom Livingstone man-eating instincts ascribes,
And strewing Saharas,
"As hot and as bare as
The plains of Gehenna, with festering corses
Of Arabs, and negroes, and oxen, and horses?
_ If the blacks do not wish
White men’s spoons in their dish—
Not even the spoon of a pious old mish—
Is it wise to provoke
Such cantankerous folk,
Arousing their horrid desires anthropophagous,
At-the risk of being fried,
Fricasseed, stewed, or pied,
To delectate and tickle the native esophagus?
Dr. Livingstone, sir,
One would think you’d prefer
Retreating in time from the horrible Nemesis
That whoops on the track
df he doesn’t turn back)
Of the white-skinned intruder on African premises.
Besides, what’s the odds
Where the pluvious gods
The ‘Infant Nile” suckle, and foster, and dandle?
What good would it do,
Should your guesses prove true—
Would the game, do you think, ever pay for the candle?

Old Herodotus thought
That.he knew to a dot
The source of the stream, though of course he did not—
His yarns being, alas! to speak vulgarly, ‘“‘rot;””
And yet his niistakes
About mountain-fed lakes,
And his blunder of several degrees in location,
Did no harm as they stood, °
And T can’t see much good
That is likely to come of their rectification.

While the generous Nile,

Like a jolly old file,
Causes Egypt and Nubia with harvests to smile,
Their Blackamoor millions befriending,

What matter to man

Where the river began
That thus flows on in glory unending?

 

(The right to Dramatize the story of “A Wonderful
Woman” is reserved by the Author.]

A Wonderful Woman.

By Mrs. May Agnes Fleming,
{Who Writes Exclusively for This Paper.]

Author of WEDDED, YET NO WIFE, THE
HEIRESS OF GLEN GOWER, ESTELLE’S
MUSBAND, LADY EVELYN, BARONET’S
BRIDE, MAGDALEN’S VOW, WHO WINS.

 

“A Wonderitul Woman” was commenced in No. 34. Back num-
bers can be had from any News Agent in the United States.

PRR Eo Td.

CHAPTER IX.
SIX YEARS BEFORE.

“And is it the road to Torryglin their honors is axin’? af-
ther?) Arrah! get out o’ me road, Murty, an’ I’ll spake
to the quality meself. Torryglin is it, yer honor’s spakin?
av??? said Mr. Timothy Cronin, landlord of the popular
shebeen, “The Little Dhudeen,’ in the town of Ballyna-
haggart, County Fermanagh, Ireland, pulling off his
caubeen and making the quality a low bow.

The Earl of Ruysiand and his daughter sat in their sad-
dies before the door. It was drawing near the close of a
cloudy, chill, autumn afternoon. The wind was rising to
asteady gale, and overhead spread a dark, fast-drifting,
threatening sky. ;

“Yes, Torrygien,” hislordship answered, impatiently;
‘how many miles between this and Torryglen, my good
fellow ??

“Bix, av yer honor takes the road—three, maybe not.so
much, av ye take the mountains.”

“The mountains—but I don’t know—— ”

“Shure, ye can’t go asthray—it’s as straight as the nose

_ on yer henor’s face. Crass the Glin there beyant—the

pees before ye so plain a blind man cudn’t miss it.

in turn to the right and crags the sthrame, whin ye get
to Torry-balm-an ——

“But, my good man,” cried the eari, still more impa-
tiently, ‘I don’t know your confounded ‘sthrames’ or
‘Torrybalms,’ and we’ll go astray to a dead certainty if
we take this winding bridie-path you speak of. The
mountain lakes and streams are flooded beside, they told
me in Enniskillen—the way you speak of may be shorter
butdangerous.’’

“Sorra danger!’ said Timothy Cronin, disdainfully.

@, ‘Yer bastes will take it in the clappin’ av yer hands. But
if yer afeered, yer honor—an’ shure it ‘ud be a thousand
pities to haye the purty young lady beside ye belated,

sure there’s a dacent boy here that'll convoy ye a piece o?

a roaa an’? welcome. Mickey—Mickey avic—come

here!’

- Mickey came—the ‘‘dacent boy’’ of Mr. Cronin’s eulogy
—a sivipling of perhaps five-and-forty summers. Mickey
was smoking a little black pipe, and gave his forelock a
pull of respect to the gentry. ;

“This is Mickey, yer honor—Mickey McQuiggan—as
soople a boy a8 any in the town lan’; knows ivery fut av
the road bether thin his prayers, an’ goes over it aftener.
It’s Torrygitin that’s wantin’, Mickey—an’: shure this is

the lord himself—an’ ye’ll take thim acrass the hills and

_ Torrybahn afore nightfall, an’ good luck to ye.”

“Come on then, my man,” the earl said to Mickey, and
flinging the landlord of the ‘Little Dhudeen’’ a crown
for his civility, the guide, barefooted, his pipe still in his
mouth, skipped ahead with the fleet-footed rapidity of a
peasant born and bred on the spot, the two equestrians
following at a tolerable pace.” 1 ;

The scenery was wild and picturesque. Here and there
athatched cabin, with its little potato garden—the only
sign of human habitation—purple and russct moorland,
towering cliffS and black beetling rocks. Away in the
distance the roar of mountain torrents, swollen by recent
heavy rains, and over their heads that black, heavily
drifting sky, threatening another down pour.

“By Heaven! Oecil,” the earl exclaimed, looking up-
ward at the frowning canopy, ‘the storm will be upon us
before we reach Torrygien yet. What a fool I was not to

i remain at Enniskillen, until to-morrow,” ;

; “Only three miles, he said, papa, and we have surely
ridden one of them already. As for the storm, a wet jacket
won't hurt either of us, and l suppose they will give us a
good fire and a hot dinner when we reach the house.”

‘“Divil fear thin, but they willl’? muttered Mr. McGuig-
gan, ahead, ‘‘sorra hate I’m towld thim English does but
ate and dhrink. Lashins o’ whiskey every hourin the
twinty-four ay’ they plase, an’ beefand mutton ivery day
ay? their lives, Fridays, an’ all. An’ it’s the lord himself
Pm conveyin’ and his daughter; troth, but she’s a purty
eraythur, too.”? y

“Papa,” Lady Cecil said wistfully, “is it possible people
really live, and eat and sleep in these wretched hovels? I
have secn poverty before, but never such poverty as this.”?

“They are litthe better than savages, my dear, and as
might be expected, live in a semi-savage state. The scen-
ery is wild enough and grand enough at least. Look at
those black beetling cliffs crown with arbutis and holly.
If we were artists, Queenie, we might paint this, and im-
mortalize ourselves.”?

The barefooted guide, leaping lightly along in advance,
listened to all this with mingled emotions of amusement
and indignation.

“Thim English is quare,’? Mickey always said medita-
tively afterwards; ‘‘whiniver we passed a nate bit av’? a
¢abill wid a lock av’ praties or oats in front, it was ‘Tare
and ages! papa, did ye iver see the like ? Bedad, they must
be mighty poor hereabouts intirely.’ And thin whin we
kem up the glin where there wasn’t hilt nor hare av’ house
or garden, nothin’ but the big black rocks an’ the moun-
tain heather, oh, faith! ye’d think it was in Dublin Castle
she was. ‘Glory be to God, but isn’t it iligant out an out?
she sez to the ould lord. An he called us savages—be
gorre, he did! Savage tnagh/ It’s little he knows about
itt: Shure there isn’t wan o’ thim cratures that hasn’t
grain or praties growing, and maybe a pig.”?

“fhe storm is coming,” Lady Cecil cried, as a great
drop splashed upon her upturned face, and the hills shook
with the sullen roar of distant thunder. “You were right
we are in for a wetting after all.” 2

“How many miles to Torrygien now, my man?’ the earl
ealied anxiously.

“Betther then wan an’ a half,” respond i ide:
“an’ troth ye’ Ketch it! Dye hear that sar yet gece
mountain lakes spoutin, an’ whin they do that. be me
word, there’d danger in crassin thesthrame. Ap)? ye must
crass it to get to. Torryglin this night. A chiie eud do it
dhry shod in the hate o’ summer, but now—bedad! I
hope your bastes is good shwimmers, or yell niver see
the other side. There’s a current there that wua carry an
army 0’ men over, an’ a fail to back it thirty feet deep,”

“Then, what the devil!” cried the earl angrily, “did that
rascilly landlord mean by saying there was no danger,
and recommending this wuy? Why did he not permit ug
to take the high road as we intended? It might have been
jonger perhaps, but at least it would have been safe.”

‘Paix, thav’s true for yer honor. Shure a short cut any-
where’s always the longest way in the ind. Troth, me-
sels thinkin’ the high-road wud have been the shortest
cut this blissid night. And there’s the sthrame for ye
now, and _ be gomenties, it’s rearin’ like mad!”

Mr. MoGuiggan paused—Lord Ruysiand and Lady Cecil
drew up their horses aghast. A foaming torrent crossed
their path swollen to the width of a river, rushing over
the rocks with the fury of a cataract, and plunging wildly
over a precipice thirty yards distant,

 

 

 

 

 

‘There it’s for ye,” said Mickey, stolidly; ‘an’ if ye’re
afeerd tu cross, troth there’s nothin’ for it but jist turn
roun’ and ride back to Ballynahaggart. An’ meself’s
thinkin’, conshideren’ the bewtiful young lady yer lord-
ship has with ye, it’ud bethe wisest thing ye cud do.
Shure ye’ll be dhrowned intirely, wid the rain and the
lightnin, except in case that yer horses can shwim it. An?
faix meself has doubts av that same.’?

The rain was falling now in drenching torrents, the roar
of the booming thunder and the rushing waters all com-
mingled in a dread diapason; the wind was howling a
gale among the hills; “from crag to crag the living light-
ning leaped;’’ and before them, barring farther progress,
poured madly by the rushing, solemn, furious river.

“What shall we do, Cecil?” the earl asked, with the
calm intensity of despair. :

“J don’t know, papa,’? Lady Cecil responded; and in
spite of the danger and the disagreeableness generally,
there was a smile on her lips as she watched Mr. Michael
McGuiggan standing amid all the sublime, savage gran-
deur of the scene and the storm, his hands in his tattered
corduroy pockets, his little black pipe in his mouth, scan-
hing the prospect with calm philosophy. ‘lt may be
dangerous to go on, and yet one hates to turn back.’

“Im cursed if I turn back!’? muttered the earl, savage-
ly, between his teeth. ‘Do you come with us, my man,
or does your pilotage end here ?”’ ;

“There it’s for ye,’ responded Mickey, dogmatically,
nodding toward the river; ‘‘take it or lave it, but sorra
shooaside will I commit this night. Av yer bastes wor
Trish now,” looking with ineffable disdain at the thorough-
breds ridden by the earl and his daughter; ‘‘but— Oh,
wirra! wirra! there they go, and, av Providence hasn’t
said it, they’ be dhrowned afore me eyes!’ :

“Oome on, Cecil!” the earl exclaimed; ‘‘our horses ‘will
doit, and every moment we. spend hereisa moment
wasted.’

He seized her bridle rein, and the animals plunged head-
long into the flood. Lady Cecil sat her horse as though
part of the alimal, and grasped the reins with the strength
of desperation.. Both she and the earl strove to head
their horses against the boiling current, but, after the
first plunge, the terrified horses stood amid the seething
foam asif spell-bound. Lord Ruysland, his teeth set,
struck his own 2 savage blow with the whip. He sprang
madly forward, leading the other in his wake. The foam
hissed in their faces, the rain poured down in slanting
floods, the wind nearly tore them from their saddles, and
over the frightful scene the double darkness of night and
storm was fast settling down.

“Courage, Cecil—courage!”’ the earlshouted. ‘We will
ford this hell of waters yet!”’

But as he spoke a fallen tree, hurled down by the roar-
ing violence of waters and uprooted by the wind, struck
Lady Cecil’s horse full across the flanks. The next in-
stant she was unseated, and with along, wild cry was
tossed like a feather in the gale down straight to that
awful precipice below.

No mortal help, it seemed, could save her. Her father
made frantic efforts to reach her and head the current,
but in vain. Near, nearer, nearer to that frightful, hissing
chasm, to be dashed to atoms on the rocks below. In
the midst of the waters the earl sat his horse, white,
powerless, paralyzed. _

“Oh, God!” he cried, ‘‘can nothing save her???

Yes; at the last momenta wild shout came from the
opposite bank, a figure plunged headlong into the river,
and headed with almost superhuman strength toward
her.

“Oling to the tree, for the love of God!”’ shouted a voice
through the din of the storm.

Through the dinof the storm, through her reeling
senses, she- heard that cry and obeyed. She caught the
whirling tree and grasped it with the tenacity of despair
for a moment; another, and she was torn away, was held
with iron strength in the grasp of. astrong arm. ‘There
was a last, desperate struggle with the surging, roaring
flood—a struggle in which both she and her rescuer were
nearly whirled over the chasm. Then, in the uproar and
the darkness, there came a lull; then the tumuit of many
voices in wild Irish shouts; then she was lying on the
opposite bank, drenched from head to foot, but saved
from an awful death.

“Hurrah! shouted a wild voice. ‘‘Long life to. ye,
Misther Redmond! Shure it’s yerselfis the thrue war-
rant for a sthrong arm andasthout heart! Begorra!
though ye war near it! Upon me sow}, there isn’t an-
other man in the barony but yerself cud av’ dun it.”

“Oh, stow all that, Lanty!”? answered an impatient
voice, as Lady Cecil’s preserver gave himself a shake
like a water-dog. “‘I’ll hold you a guinea it’s the English
lord and his daughter on their way to Torrygien. Were
they mad, I wonder, to try and ford the torrent in this
storm? See how he breasts the current—he’s down—no,
he’s up again—now he’s gained the bank. By the rock
of Cashel! gallantly done—a brave beast! Lanty, if you
can do anything more for them doit. I’m off.”

He bounded away in the rainy twilight with the speed
ofayoung stag. The peasant addressed as ‘‘Lanty”
looked after him. 4

“By the powers, but it’s like ye and all yer breed, seed,
and gineration, to go to the divil tosave any one in dis-
thress, and thin fly asif he was afther ye for fear ye’a
get thanked. Oh, but it’s meself that knows ye—father
an’ sen—this many aday well. God save your honor
kindly.”

Lanty pulled off his hairy cap.

“Troth, it was a narra escape yer honor had this night
an’ the young lady. Oh, thin, it’s.a sore heart ye’d have
in yer breasht this minit av it hadn’t been for the young
masther.’?

“That gallant youth,” the ear! cried, flinging himself
off his horse. ‘‘I never saw a braver deed. Cecil—Cecil,
my darling, thank Heaven you are saved! Oecil, my
dearest, are you hurt?”’

He lifted the golden head and kissed the wan, wet face.
In all her sixteen years of life, Lord Ruysland had never
fally realized how he loved his only child before.

She had not fainted. The high courage of the peer’s
daughter had upheld her through all. She half raised
herself now, and smiled faintly.

“Not hurt, papa—only stunned a little by the fright
and the whirl of the water. And you, papa???

“Tam perfectly safe, but—good Heaven! what an es-
capeithas been. In five seconds you would have been
over that horrible gulf. Why that lad has the heart of a
very lion! the most gallant thing I ever saw done. He
risked his life without one thought, I verily believe. A
brave lad—a brave lad. And he has, as far as I could see,
the air of a gentleman, too.’?

Lanty overheard, and looked at his lordship with su-

preme disdain. ;
“A gintleman, is it? Faith he is that, an’ divil thank
him for it! Shure he’s the O’Donnell—-no less; an’ ivery-
body knows the O’Donnells wor kings and princes afore
the time o’ Moses. Gintheman, indade! Oh, thin it’s
himself that is, an’ his father an’ his father’s father afore
him. Wern’t they kings o’ Ulsther, time out o’ mind, and
didn’t they own ivery rood an’ mile av the counthry ye’re
travelin’? in the days o’? Henry the Highth, till himself
wid his wives an’ his black guarden tuk it from thim an’
besthowed it on dhirty divils like himself? My curse an’
the curse o’ the crows on him and thim, hot an’ heavy
this night!”

“Indeed.”’ said the earl; ‘and who are you, my good
fellow? A retainer of that kingly and fallen house, I
take itl?

His companion gave a second polite duck of his hairy

cap.

Fim Lanty, yer honor—Lanty Lafferty, avit’s plazeen
to ye—called afther me grandfather on the mother’s side
—God ‘be good to him, dacent man! I’m Misther Red-
mond’s own mah, an’ it’s proud an’ happy I am to be
that same ??

“You like your young master, then ??

“An? why wouldn’t Ilike him? Is there a man or baste
in the County Fermanagh wudn’t shed ther last dhrop
for the O'Donnell. More betoken there isn’t his like for a
free-handed, bould-hearted gintleman from here to the
wurruld’s ind. But, arrah, why nade I be talkin’—sure
yer honor Knows for yerself.”?

“1 do, indeed, and I honor him the more for flying to
escape my gratitude. Butas we are to be neighbors, I
perceive, I insist upon our being friends. Tell him itis
my: earnest wish—that of my daughter, too—that he
shall visit us, or permit us.to visit him. He need not fear
being overwhelmed with thanks—I feel what he has done
too deeply to turn fine phrases... <A brave lad anda gal-
lant! And now, if you'll guide us to Torryglen, my good
fellow, you'll do us a last great service.”?

“Pil do that wid all the ‘veins,’ cried Lanty Lafferty;
“it’s ao distance in life from this. Faix, it ud be a thou-
sand pities av the purty crathur beside ye got cowld, for,
upon my conscience, it’s more like an angel she is than a
young woman.”

Torrygien lay nestling in a green hollow amid the rug-
ged hills and waving wealth of gorse and heather. A
trim little cottage set in the center of a flower garden,
and fitted up within and without with every comfort and
elegance. The earl’s valet and Lady Cecil’s maid had
gone on in advance, and glorious peat fires. dry gar-
ments and a savory dinner awaited them. For Lanty
Lafferty, he was regaled in the kitchen, and when, hours
after, he sought out his young master, he was glowing
and flowing over withthe praises of ‘‘the lord’? and his
daughter.

“Oh, the darlin’ o’ the worruld! Wid a tace like roses
an’ new milk, an’ two eyes av her own that ud warm the
very cockles av’ yer heart only to JooK at, an’ hair for ail
iver ye seen like a cup o? cotfeel’?

“Coffee, Lanty ?”? %

‘Ay, coffee—an’ wirra! but it’s Httle av’ the same we
get in this house. Shure I had a beautiful cup over there
beyant an hourago. Like coffee—not toosthrong, mind,
an’ with jist a notion o’ crame. That’s its color; an’,
musha, but it’s as purty a color as ye’ll find in a day’s
walk, An’ whin she looks up at ye—like this now—out
o? the tail av’ her eye, an’ wid ashmile on her beautiful
face—oh, tare.an’ ages! av’ it wudn’t make an ould man
young only to look at her!’

The young O’Donnell laughed. He was lying at full
length on the oak floor—before the blazing peat fire—in
one of the few habitable rooms that remained of what
had once been the ‘‘Castieof the O’Donnell.”?” He had not
troubled himself to remove his wet clothes—he lay there
steaming unconcernediy before the blaze—a book at his
side, the ‘‘Iliad;’—a superb specimen of youth, and
strength, and handsome health.

She appears to have made an impression upon you,
Lanty. So she is as handsome as this, isshe? I thought
So myself, but wasn’t sure, and I hadn‘t time to take a
Second look before his lordship rode up, and I made off.”

“An? wudn't it have been more raisonable now, and
more Christhin-like, to have stood yer ground? Whin an
O’Donneht niver run away /rone danger, arrah! Where’s
the sinse av’? phowderin’ away like mad ajther it? Shure

he wanted to thank so did the illigant young cra-
thur hersilf.”” 3e,:ane gant young

 

“The very reason I fled, Lanty. I don’t want their
thanke—I don’t want them, for that matter. What are

<x THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. =>

S

 

 

 

 

 

ee

they coming here for? What attraction can they find in
our Wild mountain district that they should risk their
necks seeking Torrygien? It is to be hoped they have got
enough of it by this time.”?

“Troth, thin, masther darlin’, but that ould lord’s a
nice, quiet, mighty civil-spoken gintleman; and he does
be sayin’ he wants you to call and see him, or give him
an’ the fair-haired colleen lave to Come up here an’ call
on ye."? :

“On me—cail on me!” The young man-(he was two-
and-twenty or thereabouts) looked up with a short laugh.
“Oh, yes, let him visit O’Donnell Castle, by all means,
See that the purple drawing-room is swept and dusted,
Lanty, and the cobwebs brushed from the walls, and the
three years grime and soot washed from the windows.
See that the footmen wear their best liveries and put on
their brogues for the occasion. Come up here! Upon my
life, this lord’s daughter will be enchanted with the splen-
dors of Castle O'Donnell. Lanty, if they do happen to
call, which isn’t likely—and if lL happen to be in, which
also isn’t likely—tell them i’m up in the mountains, or in
the moon; that I’ve gone to Ballynahaggart, or—the
devil—that I’m dead and buried, if youlike. I won’t see
them. Now be off.’?

And then Mr. Redmond O’Donnell went back to the
sounding hexameters of his ‘‘Iliad,’”’ and tried in poetry
to forget; but the fair, pale face of the earl’s daughter
arose between him and the page—wet, wild, woful, as he
had seen it, with the fair streaming hair, the light slender
form, that he had ciutched from the very hand of death.
And she was coming, this haughty, high-born, high-bred,
English patrician, to behold the squalor, and the poverty,
and the misery of this heap of ruin called O’Donnell Cas-
tle, to make a scoff and a wonder.of Irish poverty and
fallen Irish fortunes. :

“ll not see them,” the youth resolved, his handsome,
boyish, open face settling into a look of sullen determina-
tion. ‘I don’t want their visit or their thanks. Ill be
off up the mountains to-morrow, and stay there until this
fine English lord and his daughter leave, which will be
before long, I’m thinking.. A week or two inthis savage
district wiil suffice for them.*?

But still the fair tace haunted him—the novelty of such
a neighbor was not to be got over. He flung the Iliad
away at length,and going out on the grassy plateau,
looked down the valley to where the cottage lights twink-
led, far and faint, two miles off.. And, from her chamber
window, ere she went to bed, Lady Cecil Clive gazed up at
the starlit sky, and the ruined towers of what had once
been agreat and mighty stronghold. The storm had
spent its fury and passed, the autumn stars, large and
white, shone out, the fresh hillside wind blew down in
her fair wistful face. It was asad fate, she thought—the
last scion of a kingly and beggared race, brave as a lion
and penniless as a pauper, dwelling alone in that ruined
pile, wasting his youth and best years: amid the wilds of
this ruined land. :

‘Poor fellow!’? Lady Cecil thought. ‘So young and so
utterly friendless!—too proud to .Jabor, and too poor to
live as a gentleman—wasting his life in these savage ruins!
Papa must.do something for him when we return to Eng-
land. He saved my life at the risk of his own, and so
heavy a debt of gratitude as that must be paid.”

 

CHAPTER X.
AN IRISH IDYL.

On very small things hinge very great events.

A horse minus a shoe changed the whole course of Red-
mond O’Donnell’s life—altered his entire destiny. He
neither went to the mountains nor the moon, to Ballyna-
haggart nor the——dark majesty of the Inferno. He staid
at home, and he saw the Earl of Ruysland and the Lady
Cecil Clive. :

It happened thus: Going to the stables next morning
to saddle his favorite mare, Kathleen, he found her in
need of the blacksmith’s services. Lanty led her off, and
returning to the house, the young O’Donnell came face to
face with his English visitors.

He stood for a moment mute with surprise and chagrin.
He had not dreamed in the remotest way of their coming
so soon, or so early, and—here they were! Escape was
impossible; they were before him; and by birth and train-
ing, by race and nature, the lad was a gentleman. He
took off his cap, and the young: mountaineer bowed to
the earl’s daughter like a prince. Lord Ruysland ad-
vanced with extended hand and his sweetest smile.

“Ah, Mr. O'Donnell, you fled ingloriously before me
yesterday—not like an O'Donnell, by-the-by, to fly even
from gratitude. No—don’t look: so alarmed—nobody is
going tothank you. You saved my daughter’s life at the
imminent-risk of your own—a mere trifle, not worth men-
tioning. Cecil, my dear, come and shake hands with our
young hero of yesterday—ah, I beg pardon! I promised
to call no names. Mr. Redmond O'Donnell, Lady Cecil
Clive.”

And then two large, soft eyes of ‘liquid light”? looked
up into his, a little gray-gloved hand was given, a little,
soft, low voice murmured something—poor Mr. Redmond
O’Donnell never knew what—and from that moment his
doom was sealed. Sudden, perhaps; but then this young
man was an Irishman—everything is said in that.

He flung open the half-hingeless, wholly lockless front
door, and led the way, with some half-laughing apology
for the tumble-down state of O'Donnell Castle.

‘Don’t blame us, Lord Ruysland,”’ the young man said,
half-gayly, half-sadly; ‘‘blame your own countrymen and
confiscation. We were an improvident race, perhaps,
but when they took our lands and our country from us,
we let the little they left go to rack and fuin. When a
man loses a hundred thousand pounds or so, it doesn’t
seem worth his while to hoard very carefully the dozen
or so of shillings remaining. Lady Cecil, will you take
this seat? We can give you a fine view, at least, from
our windows, if we can give you nothing else.*?

The earl and his daughter were loud in their praises.
It was fine. Miles of violet and purple heather, here and
there touched. with golden, green, or ruby tinges, blue
hills melting into the bluer sky, and deepest biue of all,
the wide sea, spreadmg miles away, sparkling in the sun-
shine as if sown with stars. '

They remained nearly.an hour. .The young seigneur of
this ruined castle conducted them to the gates—nay, to
the two huge buttresses, where gates once had been—and
stood, cap in hand, watching them depart. And so, with
the sunshine on his handsome, tanned face, on his un-
covered, tall head, Lady Cecil bore away the image of
Redmond O'Donnell.

You know this story before I teli it. She was sixteen
years of age—he had saved her life, risking his own to
save it, withouta moment’s thought, and like a true wo-
man, she adored bravery almost above all other things in
man. She pitied him unspeakably, so proud, so poor, so
noble of birth and ancestry, a descendant of kings, and a
pauper. And hehad an eye like an eagle, a voice tender
and spirited together, and a smile—a smile, Lady Cecil
thought, bright as the sunshine on yonder Uister hills.
It was love at first sight—boy and girl love, of course; and
the Earl of Ruysiand, shrewd old worldling that he was,
might have known it very well ifhe had given the subject
one thought. But he did not. He was a great deal too
absorbed in his own personal concerns about this time to
have much solicitude about his litle daughter's affaires
de coeur. Lady Cecil had pitied Redmond O’Donnell for

one herself. Through no fancy for the country, through
no desire to ameliorate the condition of the inhabitants,
had my lord come to Ireland. Grim poverty had driven
him hither, and was likely to: keep him here for some
time to come.

His life had been one long round of pleasure and ex-
cess, of luxury and extravagance. He had come into a
fortune when he attained ‘his majority, and. squandered
it. He came into another when he married his wealthy
wife, and squandered that, too. Now he was over head
and ears in debt. Clive Court was mortgaged past all re-
demption—in flight was his only safety; ahd he fled—to
Ireland. There was that little hunting-box of his among
the Ulster hills—Torryglen; he could have that made
habitable, and go there and rough it until the storm blew
over. Roughing it- himseif, he did: not so much mind.
“Roughing it,’ in his phraseology, meaning a valet to
wait upon him, all the elegancies of life transported from
his Belgravian lodgings, and a first-rate cook—bnt there
was his daughter. For the first time in her sixteen years
of life she was thrown upon his hands. At her birth, and
her mother’s death, she had been placed out at nurse;—
at the age of three, a cousin of her mother’s, living in
Paris, had taken her, and brought her up. - Brought her
up on strictly French principles—tanght her that love
and courtship, as English girls understand them, are in-
delicate, criminal almost; that for the present she. must
attend to her books, her music, her drawing and em-
broidery, and that when the proper time came, she would
receive her husband as she did her jewelry and dresses—
from the hand of papa. Papa came to see her tolerably
often, took her with him once in awhile when he visited
his friend and crony, Sir John Tregenna; and she was
told if she were a good girl she should one day, when
properly grown up, marry young -Arihur and be Lady
Tregenna herself, and queen it in this old sea-girt Cornish
castle. And little Cecil always laughed and dimpled, and
danced away and thought no more about it. She had
seen very little of Arthur Tregenna—she was somewhat
in awe of him, as has been said. He was so grave, so

wise, so learned, and she.avas such a frivolous little but-
rtertiy, dancing In the sunshine, eating bon-bons, and
singing from morning till night.

Her first grief was the death of the kind Gallic-ized En-
glish woman who had been her second mother. Her
father, on the eve of his Irish exile, went to Paris, brought
her with him, and her.old bonne Therése, and for the first
time in her life, little Lady Cecil met with an adventure,
and became a heroine.

* “{ wonder if he will call upon us?”’ she thought now, as
she walked homeward through the soft autumn noonday—
the personal pronoun of course having reference to the
young O’Donnell.. ‘He did not really promise, but I think
—I think he looked ag though he would like to come. It
| Would be pleasant to have some vnc to talk to, when papa

Bally—the town with the unpronouncable Irish name.
How very,.very poor he seems; his jacket was quite shab-
by; his whole dress like that of the peasantry. And such
a tamble—down place—only fit for owls, and bats, and
rooks. Papa, (aloud) vou have a gweat deal of influence,
and many friends in Enghnd—could you do nothing for
this Mr. O'Donnell? He seems so dreadfully poor, papa.”
The ear! shrugged his shoulders and laughed. ‘My tittle,
unsophisticated Cecil! A great deal of influence and many
friends! My dear, | have not influence cnongh to keep
myselt out of the bankrupt court, nor fricnds enough to
enable me to stay: in England. Do you think I would come
to this confounded, half-eivilized land, if T could stay away?
Poor, indeed! Your Mr. O’Donnell isn’t half as poor as I
am, for at least I suppose he isn’t very deeply in debt.”
His daughter looked at him in sheer surprise. ‘And
you are, pupa? . You poor? Poor!’ she tried to compre-

 

hend it, shook her head, and gave itup. ‘‘Talways thought
you were rich, papa—I always theaght English peers had

being a pauper, without in the least dreaming she was}

is away, and he tells me he will be away a great deal at.

 

 

more money than they Knew what to do with. How
can we be poor—with servants, and horses, and plate,
and —. :

“One must have the necessities of life, child,” her father
broke in impatiently, ‘‘as long as they are living. One
can’t go back to primitive days, and live in a wigwam,
or in a rickety rookery like that. I wishto Heaven one
could—l’d try it. I tell youl haven’t a farthing in the
world—you may as well learn it now as later; and have
more debts than I can ever pay off from now to the crack
of doom. I don’t want to pay. While I’m in hiding here
I'll try to compromise in some way with my confounded
creditors and the Jews. Poor, indeed!. By Jove! we may
live and die in this Irish exile, for what I see,’’ the earl
said with a sort of groan.

A little smile dimpled Lady Cecil’s rosebud face, a happy
light shone in her gold brown eyes. She glanced at the
little cottage nestling in its green cup, myrtle and clematis
Climbing over it, at the fair fields, daisy spangled, at. the
glowing uplands in their purple dress, at the rugged tow-
ers of the old castle boldly outlined against the soft sunny
sky, with a face that showed, to her at least, the prospect
of an eternal Irish exile had no terrors.

“Very well, papa,” she said, dreamily; ‘suppose we
do? lt’sa very pretty place, l’m sure, andif we are
poor jt surely will not take much to keep us here. While
Ihave you and Therese and my books and piano, £am
content to stay here forever.”’

Her father turned and looked at.her, astonishment and
disgust struggling in his face.

“Good Heaven! listen to her! Content to stay here!
Yes, and live on potatoes like the natives, and convert
the skins into clothing, to go barefooted and wear striped
linsy-woolsey gowns reaching below the knee, talk with
@ mellifluous North of Ireland accent, and end by marry-
ing Lanty Lafferty, I suppose, or the other fellow, Mickey.
If you can’t talk sense, Cecil, hold your tongue!’

Lady Cecil blushed and obeyed. Marry Lanty Lafferty!
No, she would hardly do that. Butoh, Cecil, whence
that rosy blush?. Whence that droop of the fair, fresh
face? Whence that sudden rising in your mind of the
tall figure; the bold, flashing eyes of Redmond O’Don-
nell? Is this why the Irish exile is robbed of its terrors
for you ? :

“No, no,” the earl said, after a little, as his daughter
remained silent. ‘Well get out of this howling wilder-
hess of roaring rivers, and wild young Chieftains, and
tumble-down castles as speedily as we can, Ihave one
hope left, and that is’”,—he looked at her keenly—‘‘in you,
my dear.’? e

“T, papa ??

“Yes; in your marriage. What’s the child blushing
at? Ina year or two you'll be old enough, and Tregenna
will be back in England. Of course, you know it has
been an understood thing these many years that you
were to marry him when you grew up. He is perfectly
ready to fulfill the compact,.and certainly you will be.
You have been brought.up in a way to understand this.
Tregenna is rich, monstrously rich, and won’t see his
father-in-law up a tree. Igive you my word heis my
last hope—your marriage with him, | mean. I will try
and compromise with my creditors, Isay, and when
things are straightened out a bit we’ll go back to Eng-
land. You shall be presented at court, and will make, I
rather fancy, a sensation. We will Jet you enjoy yourself
for your first season, and when it is over we will marry
you comfortably to Sir Arthur Tregenna.”’

And Lady Cecil listened with drooping eyelids. It
seemed to her allright—French girls married in this ju-
dicious way, all trouble of loye-making and that nonsense
being taken off their hands by kindly parents and guar-
dians. She listened, and if she did not say so in words
said in effect, with Thackeray’s hero, Mr. Foker, ‘‘Very
well, sir, as you like it. When you want me, please ring
the bell,”? and then fell into thought once more, and won-
dered dreamily if young O’Donnell would Call that even-
ing at Torrygien.

Young O’Donnell called. The little drawing-room of the
cottage was lit with wax lights, a peat.fire burned on the
hearth, a bright-hued carpet covered the floor, tinted pa-
per hung the walls, and pretty, sunny pictures gemmed
them. It was half drawing-room, half library, one side
being lined with books. A little cottage piano stood be-
tween the front windows—Lady Cecil sat at that—a writ-
ing-desk occupied the other side—his lordship sat at that.
Such @ contrast to the big, bare, bleak, lonesome rooms
at home—their only music the scamper of the rats, the
howling of the wind, and Lanty’s Irish lilting.

The contrast came upon him with a pang of almost
pain; the gulf between himself and these people, whose
equal‘ by birth he was, had not seemed half so sharp bé-
fore. Lady Cecil, in crisp, white muslin and blue rib-
bons, with diamond drops in her ears and twinkling on
her slim fingers, Seemed _as far above him as some “bright
particular star,” etc. He stood in the doorway for a
moment, irresolute, abashed, sorry he had come, ashamed
of his shabby jacket and clumping boots. The earl, with
peh in his hair like some clerk, looked up from his pile of
papers and nodded familiarly. :

“Ah, O’Donnell—how do? Come in. Been expecting
you. Very busy, you see—must excuse me. Cecil will
entertain you—-give him some music, my dear.’?? And
then my lord went back to his papers—bills, duns, ac-
counts, no end—with knitted brows and absorbed mina,
and forgot in half a minute such an individual as O’Don-
nell existed.

Redmond went over to the piano; how bright the smile |-
of girlish pleasure with which the little lady welcomed |

him. ‘Would he sit here?—did he like music?—would
he turn the pages for her ?—was he fond of Moore’s melo-
dies?”? In this brilliant and original way the conversation
commenced.) . .

“Yes, he liked music, and he was very fond of Moore’s
melodies. Would she please go on with that she was
singing??? It was, ‘‘She was far from the land where her
young hero sleeps,’’ and the tender young voice was full
of the pathos and sweetness of the beautiful song.

‘He lived for his love, for his country he died,” sang
Lady Cecil, and glanced under ker long, brown lashes at
the grave, dark face beside her. ‘Robert Emmet must
have looked like that,’ she thought; *‘he seems as though
he could die for his country too. I suppose his ancestors
have. I wish—I wish—papa could do something for him,
or—Sir Arthur Tregenna.’?

But somehow it was unpleasant to think of Sir Arthur,
and her mind shifted away from him. She finished her
song, and discovered Mr. O'Donnell could sing—had a
very fine and highly-cultivated voice, indeed, and was
used to the piano accompaniment. :

“J used to sing with my sister,’? he explained, in an-
swer to her involuntary Jook of surprise. ‘She plays
very well.” :

“Your sister! why I thought——”

“YT had none.
is, too—I rather think you would like her. Jam quit
sure,’’ Mr. O’Donnell blushed a little himself as he turned
this first compliment, ‘‘she would like you.”

“And will she come here? How gladIam. Will she
come soon? Iam certain I shall like her.”

Redmond shook his head.

“No,” he said, ‘‘she will not come here at all—never, in
all likelihood. She isin America—in New Orleans, living
with her grandfather. A Frenchman, Lady Cecil.’

“A Frenchman! Your sister’s grandfather???

“Yes—an odd mixture, you think,” smiling. “You
see, Lady Cecil, when my father was a young man, he
fought in the Mexican war under General Scott. We are
a fighting race, I must inform you—war is our trade.
When the Mexican war ended, he went to New Orleans,
and there he met a young lady—French, and a great
heiress—a beauty too, though she was my mother. Well,
Lady Cecil, she fell in love with the dashing Irish trooper
—her friends were frantic, and she eloped with him. A
romantic story,,is itnot? He brought her here—it must
have been a contrast to the luxury of her French home.
Her father refused to forgive her—returned all her letters
unopened, and here she lived seven years, and here she
died and was buried. I'll show you her grave some day
in the churchyard of Ballynahaggart. I was six—Rose
one year old. Her father heard of her death—not through
mine; he never wrote or held any communication with
him--and he relented at last. ‘Came all the way over
here, nearly broken-liearted, and wanted to become re-
conciled. But my father sternly and bitterly refused. He
offered to take Rose and me, and bring us up, and leave
us his fortune when he died; but still he was refused. He
returned to New Orleans and three months alter Father
Ryan of Ballynahaggart wrote him word of my father’s
death, He had never held up his head alter my mother’s
loss. 2

“They sent us both ont there. Young asI was, I re-
sisted—all the bitterness of my father had descended to
‘me; but I resisted in vain. We went out to New Orieans,
and now I look back upon my life there as a sort of in-
distinct dream or fairy tale. The warmth, the tropical
beauty and the luxuriance of my grandfather’s house,
come back to me in dreams sometimes, and I wake to see
the rough rafters and mildew d i ii of the old castle.
Istayed there with him pati ‘was nineteen, then I re-
fused to stay longer. He h
shortened my mother’s life by his cruelty—I would not
stay a dependent on his bounty. It was boyish bravado,
perhaps, Lady Cecil, but I felt.all1said. JI left New Or-
leans, and Rose, and came here, and ane I have been
running wild, and ae the savage you find me. But
I like the freedom of the life in spite of its poverty; I
would not exchange it for the silken indolence and luxury
of Menadarva, my Louisianian home. And here I shall
remain until an opportunity offers to go, as all my kith
and kin have gone before me, and earn my livelihood at
the point of my sword.”

Lady Cecil listened. She liked all this; she liked the
lad’s spirit in refusing for himself that which had been
refused his mother. Not geod sense, perhaps, but sound
chivalry. {

“You will go out to India, I suppose,” she said; “there
always seems to be fighting there for those who want it.”

The young man’s brow darkened.

“India?” he said; ‘no. No O’Donnell ever fought un-
der the English flag—I will not be the first. Yeurs ago,
Lady Cecil—two hundred and more—all this country you
see belonged to us, and they confiscated it, and le{t us
houseless und outlaws, The O*Donnell of that day swore
aterrible oath that none of his race should ever fight
for the British invader, and none of them ever have.
I shall seek service under a foreign flag—it doesn’t mat-
a amtee so that it is mot that of your nation, Lady

ecil. °

Lady Cecil pouted—said it was unchristian and unfor-
giving, butin her heart of hearts she liked it all, and
wished, with Desdemona, that Heaven had made her such
& man. Redmond O’Donnell hingered until the earl
yawned audibly over his mnsty accounts, and the httle
ormolu clock ticked off half-past ten, and walked home-
ward under the moonlight and starlight, feeling that the
world had suddenly peautified, and this lowly valley had
become a very garden of Bden, with the sweetest Eve
-Uhat ever smiled among the roses.

That first evening was but the beginning of the end.
The visits, the magic, the duets, reading—the walks ‘‘o’er

Oh, yes I have—very jolly little girl Rose.

‘despised my father, and.

 

the moor among the heather,” the rides over the autumn
hills, with Redmond O'Donnell for cavalier, the sketching >.
of the old castle—the old, old, old, endless story of youth
and love, told since the world began—to be told till the
last trump shall sound. :

Lord Ruysland saw nothing, heard nothing—was as un-
suspicious as though: he were not a “battered London -
rake” and a thorough man of the world. His impecuni-
ous state filled his mind to the exclusion of everything
else, and then Cecil had been so well brought up, etc.
The child must walk and ride, and must have a com-
panion. Young O’Donnell was a beggar—literally a beg-
gar—and of course might as well fix his foolish affections
on one of Her Majesty’s daughters as upon that of the
Earl of Ruysland. -

He was awakened suddenly and unexpectedly from his
dream and his delusion. Seven weeks had passed—the
ides of November had come—the chill autumn blasts
were whistling drearily over the mountains. He.was ©
Sick and tired to death of his enforced exile; affairs had
been patched up in some way, a compromise effected; He
might venture to show his face once more across the
eee In a week or two at the farthest he would

He sat complacently thinking this over alone in the
drawing-room, when the door opened. Gregory, his .
man, announced ‘Mr, O’Donnell,’?? and vanished.

‘Ah, Redmond, my lad, glad to see you. Come in—
comein. Cecil’s up stairs. I°ll send for her.” __.

But Mr, O’Donnell interrupted; he did. not wish Lady
Cecil sent for—at least just yet.. He wished to ‘speak to
the earl alone. ‘

He was so embarrassed, so unlike himself—bold, frank,
free, as he habitually was—that Lord Ruysland looked. at ,
him in surprise. That look was enough—it told him dll. .

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

>

A Silver Brand;

OR, THE :

Secrets of Schwarzenberg.

 

By Charles T. Manners,

Author of “OCTAVIA’S PRIDE,” “THE LORD
OF LYLE,” ete.

[‘‘A Silver Brand,”? was commenced last week. Ask any News
Agent for No. 48, and you will get the first chapters.]

CHAPTER IV.

The young Count Roderich met Aubrey in the hall.

“My father wished me to show you. the library. He is
sure you will be interested in some of the old parchments,
and the collection of illuminated missals is rather rich, I
believe.”?

_ “Then he has recovered,’ exclaimed Aubrey, exceed-
ingly, relieved to hear it. “I was extremely alarmed about
lim. :

“Without occasion. He is subject to these sudden in-
dispositions, and recovers almost instantaneously. He
will meet you at dinner,” returned Roderich, but he did
not quite conceal a gloomy frown that crossed his frank,
expressive face. \ i

He brought forth the richly illuminated manuscripts,
and devoted himself earnestly to his guest’s entertain-
ment, and the latter could not help feeling both flatterea
and grateful. All the while, however, the words of the
cold, sardonic voice he had heard in the picture gallery
haunted and puzzled him.

Was there really a secret motive for this generous hos-
pitality bestowed upon a stranger? He resolved to keep
sharper watch of every look and gesture interchanged be-
tween father and son—especially now that he was able to
detect a nervous trepidation in young Roderich’s counte-
nance whenever hemet his inquiring eye. This secret
consciousness in @ measure destroyed his enjoyment of
the treasures of literature and art scattered so profusely
before him, and he was relieved when the door again
opened and the baron himself reappeared. He came in
with a light, elastic step, smiling so brightly that Aubrey
half suspected he had dreamed the scene in the picture
gallery. .

“I am rejoiced to see your lordship recovered,” stam-
mered he.

The baron waved his hand with a lordly gesture.

‘Do not speak of it. It was but a momentary attack.
I am quite well now. I trust my son has looked after
your entertainment, and has not permitted you to weary
of the place. Vo you find aught of interest among the

-parchments? There are some worth a round sum of gold

among the connoisseurs. If you have not found them, I
must hunt them up for your benefit.”?

Perceiving the gentleman’s determination to ignore all
remembrance of his illness, Aubrey Dalberg quietly fol-
lowed his lead, and gave his undivided attention to the
parchments. .

“One would need many weeks to explore among such
rich treasures,*’ he said, with a smile, presently lifting his
head from out the depths of the parchment case.

“Why not take weeks, my friend?’ said the host; ‘be
sure that you may claim a warm welcome for that time.’’

Aubrey turned to answer lightly, and was aware of the
young count’s eye fixed upon him with an eager, watch-
ful expression—something more and deeper than the call
of common hospitality demanded.

“Nay,” replied he, in a low, constrained voice, ‘‘while I
cannot doubt the pleasure and profit of such a stay, I
see the impossibility of its occurrence. I have made all
may arrangements to leave Germany next week, as well
as secured my passage home in the Havre boat the first
of the ensuing month.’

Count Roderich walked off to the stained-glass window,
and stared forth gloomily. Wasit the reflection of the
ruby glass that so reddened his cheek and forehead?

His father’s face flashed over with some quick gleam
that seemed pleasure or triumph.

“All the arrangements made, my dear Dalberg. You
don"t mean that they are all made beyond the possibility
of change ?”? :

“Why, not beyond the possibility certainly, your lord-
ship. But Ihave secured my passage, looked after: my
Benen and made every needed arrangement. Count

derich can tell you that I was almost at a loss to give
the time require for this little journey to Schwarzenberg,
lest it should hinder me from the prompt start on Mon-
day next.’’

“Tam sorry. I should be so well pleased to keep you a
long time as my guest. Then we must let no moment
slip by without doing our best to entertain you. There
are a few moments before we shall be summoned to diti-
ner. Are you interested in coins? ill. you look over
this. case, while I go to see that my orders have been
carried out??? :

And the baron pointed to the glass casket which rested
on the costly Mosaic table at his right hand. :

Aubrey proceeded toa prompt examination, and the
baron beckoned his gon, and they both left the rooma
moment, and stood withoutiin the little ante-chamber be-
tween the library and the hall.

After glancing sharply about him, to see that no eye
was hear to.observe, the baron bent closely to Roderich,
and whispered: ‘ :

“You do not guard your face. It’s shame and guilty
confession will ruin all.” :

“I cannot help it, He is so frank and confiding. I feel
ee Judas,’ returned the young man, through his set
eeth.

“Simpleton! Would you risk our last hope for a wo-
manish scraple? Think upon all that depends upona
successful carrying out of this plot! Besides, what real
harm will come to him?’ hissed back the father.

The gloomy cloud lifted from Roderich’s face for a little.

“True, ought to find comfort in that remembrance.
You will not allow any real harm to touch him. You will
make his captivity pleasant—you and Theresa. I must
not forget that. But my whole soul revolts from these -
Bue Rea aes crafty ways. I was not meant for a vil-

Ns : ’
“You are not myson. But you are fitted to takea
grand and noble place. Such a placeas a Schwarzenberg
should always find. See to it that you make that place
ready.”?

And the baron laid his hand heavily on Roderich’s
shoulder, and looked down gravely into hts face.

The young man’s eye slowly kindled, he stretched out
his hand to grasp the other’s, while he spoke fervently.

“You are right, father. It is my work, and I must not
shrink from it.?? oe

“Go back to him, while I speak a word to .Theresa.
Her part is scarcely less important. I thank fortune the
youth has such a noble, winning manner. It will ve less
difficult to assume such warm friendship. Go back.
And remember to guard your face more carefully, espe-
cially if he—the arch enemy, is at hand.’

Roderich nodded and turned back slowly to the library.
Halfan-hour afterward the whole buiiding echoed with
the summons to dinner. Roderich turned to his, Ameri-
can friend with a warm’smile. :

“Come, now, my dear Dalberg, to the dining-hall. To
give due honor to you, and to please himself also, the
baron has given orders for all the state plate to be brought
forth. And the reason why you have not yet received a
welcome from my sister is owing to the same fact. For
he required of her a toilet such as would be becoming had
we for guests the most honored members of the royal
court. You will at least give us credit for offering alldue
courtesy to. an American citizen.”

“Indeed to confess the truth, such kindness is over-
powering,’ returned Aubrey. -“If only I represented
either the genius or the ability of America I might accept
such honorable treatment with tolerable composure. But
when I know how humble and insignificant and ordinary
my position really is——”’

“Nay,” interrupted the young count, “are you not all
heirs presumptive to the throne of power—you enviable
republicans? But truly it is yourself we honor. You
know how I took to you from the first moment I met you.
Be assured that no guest has entered beneath this roof
for many and many aday who has awakened such earnest
and sincere interest as you have done.”?

There was no opportunity for Aubrey to reply, for
while he was speaking Roderich moved on, leading the
way across the hall where the dimness of twilight was
wrapping shadowy cleuds about the banner-hung walls.
A blaze of light from a pair of folding doors now flung
widely open:at the end of the hall illuminated the way
for them, and Aubrey perceived half-a-dozen richly-liv-
eried servants moving excitedly to and fro within, as if
busy still over extensive. preparations,

Roderich’s eye burnt brightly and there was still a hot
flush upon his cheek. He drew Aubrey gently toward a

 

second door and led him into a small but sumptuously-
furnished parlor. é

 

 

Ve

mre

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SES
eee ee

 

The baron was there in elaborate court costume, and
beside him stood the graceful figure of a young and hand-
some woman, her costly brocade robe trailing its glisten-
ing folds halfway across the floor, herglossy, brown hair
restrained by a band of shimmering jewels, her fair throat
and arms likewise scintillating from the diamond gleams

ircling’ Zems.

ore GuupMtany the Lady Theresa, Mr. Dalberg. Our
American friend, dear: Theresa. “J trust you will be glad
to aid us in making his stay at Schwarzenburg agreeable

him,??
torite Lady Theresa turned a bright, welcoming smile
upon the young gentleman, while she replied, in a clear,
musical voice, in excellent English:

«Indeed, Mr. Dalberg, my prejudices—and they are not
apt fo be few or small—are all in your favor. We were
educated here to admire all things that pertaia to Amer-
ica. ITamright happy that my dear father is at last per-
mitted to entertain one of its worthy sons.’

<7’ can only be sensible of my unworthiness of all. this
generous kindness,”’ faltered Dalberg.

The baron smiled gayly.

‘We consider ourselves the best judges of that, my ex-
cellent young man. And now pray give your arm to my
daughter, and let us answer the summons to dinner.”

Zn another moment they were entering the magnificent
dining-room, whose great chandeliers were all aglow with
light, ‘casting their crystal shimmer down upon the richly-
appointed board, where the daintiest china and the
shining silver flashed back the radiance till the eye almost
ached with excess of brightness. Aubrey could not in-
deed have imagined anything more brilliant or gorgeous
liad a royal party been present. The magnificent silver
dishes, the rich perfume of the wreathing flowers, the
savory odors of the tempting viands, the crowd of ser-
vants in their rich livery, the grand-looking old baron in
his lace ruffles and court suit, Roderich, handsome and
noble, opposite, and the beautiful, stately woman beside
him, her diadem of precious jewels corruscating rainbow
flashes at every movement of her head. No wonder the
young man’s brain was half-turned and he was unable to
fully realize that he wagin the midst of an actual and
living experience. ‘There came, however, a little inci-
dent. to prove that-it was not entirely visionary.

While they were yet setting themselves into the luxu-
rious seats, there came ‘the sound of a slow and firm step.

The waiters Jost their Stolid, impassive Jook, and
glanced at each other, and then toward the baron in sharp
inquiry: The next instant Herr Von Schubert's tall form
and cool, calm face appeared at the doorway.

Once again a deep, sullen. read poured over the Baron
Valentin’s face. .Herose up inhis seat, his eye flashing’
ominonsly, hishand outstretched. But immediately the
latfer fell heavily to his side.

«What matter? an wnbidden guest may bring good
luck!"? he muttered.» And then he spoke aloud, authorita-
‘tively, to the chief waiter. :

“Lay another cover. And bring afifth chair—Herr Von
Schubert will grace our festive board with his august
presence.”?

Von Schubert bowed still in that cool,; formal fashion,
which is more irritating to a nervous mood than the most
provoking speech. }

“Indeed, my lord. baron, I did not imagine you would
slight the. august individual whom my humble person’
represents at Schwarzenberg Higchts. And therefore I
came hither when the unusual preparations gave me to
understand that a banquet was to be given in the Ameri-
can gentleman’s honor. I have no doubt the butler forgot
;0 deliver your request for v7; presence.”

The baron gnawed impatiently at his under lip ere he
made reply. But the Lady Theresa interposed her clear,
sweet voice: .

“One may well be pardoned for forgetting a little item
of-etiquette.at such atime.” Methinks the old Schwar-
zenberg heir-looms must themselves rejoice to see the
light once more. Herr Von Schubert, will you take the
seat at my left, and epjoy the unusual sight of festivity in
the old walls?”

“Thanks, fair lady,’? returned Yon Schubert, gallantly.
And throughout the prolonged entertainment that fol-
lowed: he devoted himself to the girl, notwithstanding her
own sweetest attentions were bestowed upon the Ameri-
can.

“I {rust your brother is improving, he said, as they
rose at. length. :

‘‘Alack, poor Stephano! I’m afraid it is the contrary,”
returned she. ‘He was naturally anxious to join nus
here, and to claim the acquaintance of Mr. Dalberg. He
made the attempt to leave his couch, and fainted. I fear
Hee it will be long ere he is free to come and go about the
house.

“Tt must have the physician here again,’’ spoke the
baron. ‘Stephano has neglected himself too long. Iam
sorry that hewill miss your acquaintance, Mr. Dalberg.
Must you really leave us to-morrow ?””

“7 think it is really imperative. Iam the loser that it
should be so,’? replied Aubrey, ‘‘especially when I. should
enjoy another sunset irom those glorious Hights.’’

“Why not have it?’ suggested Roderich, carelessly.
“There is a charming moon. Andit would be no great
hardship to ride away just before midnight. You would
gain the same starting hour from the city.”

“Tow pretty it would be! Ishonld like it of all things,”’
responded Aubrey. ‘I think it would be something to
remember all a life time to ride from hence under a mid-
night moon, through the silence of sleeping towns.’’

“JT should like it myself, What says my father and Herr
- Von Schubert?’? responded Count Roderich, playing with

the golden spoon lying on the pearly rim of his coffee
cup.

The baron shrugged his shoulders carelessly.

“If matters naught to me, since lam not asked to brave
the chilland damp of the night air. Boys will be boys I
suppose. I confess [have lost my sentimental admira-
tion for moonshine.’ :

“Might I accompany you?’ smiled Lady Theresa, ad-
dressing her brother, but looking at Aubrey.

The latter colored a little with sheer pleasure... Had the
wine and the brilliant lights given him an ‘intoxicating
thrill? He was inclined to believe himself already halfin
love with the beautiful woman. He gave her his arm,
and she accepted it, although Von Schubert was offering
his. The latter turned away, 4 satirical smile on his lips,
while a black frown crept over his forehead.

The baron followed the youthful pair with approving
eyes. He and Roderich exchanged a swift and meaning
glance, and both. hastened to the Jittle parlor whither
Lady Theresa directed Aubrey’s steps. The lady sank
downinto the pile of velvet cushions which formed a

' tete-a-tete sofa. Her companion pulled forward a Turkish
ottoman, gay with gold embroidery, and placing it at her
feet, sat down there. Theresa fixed upon him her daz-
zling eyes,

‘Well done!
that your countrym
Dalberg.”? j

“Let me always prove the contrary,’’ returned helight-
ly, marvelling the while at his own ease and fearlessness;
“though Ido not indeed remember my native land to-
night. I. seem to be in the midst of an Arabian Night
vision.’

“Do you think me an enchanted princess?’? she asked,
fanning herself -coquettishly, and with every movement
of the supple white wrist sending a scintillating rainbow
from the diamond bracelet. i

“Hnchanting, certainly,’’ replied he, with another gal-
lant bow. :

“Hnough for you to buckle on armor for, and do battle
with dragons and evil spirits??? she pursued, with an
earnest look in her eye of which he became dimly con-
scious.

“Beyond question, for one uxder the spell,’ he an-
swered. ia .

A low, fluttering ‘Sigh jarred the silver chorus of her
laughter.

“Bring me my guitar yonder, and you shall have a Ger-
man song before the others come.’ she said, hastily. ;

Aubrey found the daintily carved plaything, and laid it
across her Jap. Somehow it seemed to add the finishing
touch to her loveliness as she bent her graceful head over
it, and Jet her white fingers fall lovingly to the strings. It
was plain to see that the Lady Theresa loved her guitar,
and made a fond companion of it. The long-lashed eye-
lids drooped low upon the brilliant cheek while she sang
in a rich and thrilling voice a weird, wild ditty, not a
word of which could Aubrey Dalberg interpret. He only
knew that it held some syren call, against which a pas-
sionate soul rebelled and wailed: He drew along, long
breath as the last note died away. Another, deep-drawn,
until it was nearly a sob, responded. It was not the
singer, and turning he beheld Von Schubert.pale as death,
but with a fiercely-flashing eye, leaning against the door-
way.

Without a look at the American he pressed forward and
demanded, in a low, stern voice:

“My lady, was the song for him, or——”

He paused and looked back to her startled eyes with a
growing, wistful tenderness, ‘‘or, ‘Lady Theresa, was it
meant for me ?” :

For an instant Aubrey was sure that the woman quailed,
and was shaken by some inward spasm, but the next ‘he
put away the fancy, for her face grew icy, and haughty,
and she answered proudly: :

“Tt was for hin. Herr Von Schubert, certainly it was
for my father’s honored and invited guest.’?

They slander who would persuade me
n are stiff andcoldin gallantry, Mr.

room, and took up his position amidst the draperies of
the window. The lady did not look that way again until
after the baron and his son had joined the group and the
conversation had become general, when Aubrey. detected
a swift glance, as quickly withdrawn, flaming, it seemed
to him, with anger and some wild dread. Nothing, how-
ever, could exceed her gracious condescension to himself;
but, somehow, the spell for him had been broken. She
might still dazzle, but could no longer enchant. Never-
theless, he spent nearly the whole of the next day in La-
dy Theéresa’s company, wandering here and there among
the picturesque beauties of the beautiful isle, and listen-
ing with charmed ear to her melodious speech. :

“Tow wondrously perfect is everything here!’ he said,
ina low, but éarnest voice, when, from the topmost crag,
tvhich gave to his admiring eyes the whole lovely scene
around and beneath, they waited for the rich rose hues to
gather‘in the purpling west. “I think I shall look back
upon this experience as the one spot without a flaw. I
thank you all so heartily for your hospitable kindness!
Lady Theresa, I shall love to remember Schwarzenberg!”

She turned toward him those large, bright eyes, and the
bitter smile with which she had been watching the pa-
cing sentry below, faded off beneath some strong and
deep emotion which prompted her to cry, abruptly and
passionately: seas

“No, no! You will hate it iike all the rest! You will
learn of the curse which turns its beauty into dead ashes |,
—its palace walls into prison bars.”

Aubrey Dalberg stared at the lady in deep amazement;
but before he had gained the power of speech she had re-
covered her self-possession and spoke imperiously:

“Forget what] said, [ believe I was out of my senses.

 

three gentlemen mounted the grand staircase.

Von Schubert bowed, and walked slowly across the | again.

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

Bayo ge
Sees
yen

et
SI

 

 

 

 

See! the crimson banners are hurrying to add their bright
hues to the golden glories of the dying King of day. Watch
the swiftly changing hues, ‘the wondrous shaping of those
shifting clouds. You are right. There is no other spot
on earth so beautiful as this.”

“It is well the Lady Theresa should believe it,” spoke
& cool, deep voice.

The girl's cheek crimsoned. Hastily turning, she spoke,
sharply; : .

“The Honorable Herr Von Schubert is at hand. We
might have anticipated’ it. No idle word at Scliwarzen-
berg Hights escapes so keen an ear. My dear Mr. Dal-
berg, pray forget, when you recall our charming home,
that it has its spy and eavesdropper.”

“My lady is ungracious.. I was leaning here beneath
the tree when you. and your Companion came hither,”
returned the imperturbable Von Schubert. :

She made an impatient gesture, and dropped her white |

hand upon Aubrey’s arm. i

“Let us move on. I cannot: breathe here.”

And Aubrey accompanied her.

“Pardon me,’? he said. “I cannot help perceiving how
disagreeable the man is, It isa marvel tome that your
noble father tolerates his presence:here,”’

Lady Theresa forced back the bitter smile and tried to
answer indifferently.

“There are many marvels in the world, they tell mo. I
know that we have enough here. Something you know,
is due to my father’s position, and I assure you it is that
alone which deters him from driving this spyfrom our
midst. He.is beside a man of greatinfluence at court,
and has jound close favor with his-royal higlness, so that,
for his master’s sake, he commands deference, however
he may forfeit it on hisown account. Pray let us dismiss
him from our thoughts. Yonder is Roderich. Iheard
him giving orders for extra care for the horses that the
midnight ride to-night may not be a lJaggard one. Is it
really so important that you do not miss.this particular
time of departure ?”? :

Again there was that earnest; searching look that puz-
zled him so, which he had noticed inall three of them.
Questioning secretly its meaning, he answered carelessly:

“Yes, ohyes, if is very important.” s

Her color faded. She dropped ‘her eyes to the ground,
and stood working her hands together nervously.

“Would it work any serious harm to your happiness, or
your fortune?” persisted she, ‘if you failed???

At which he laughed lightly. :

“Nay. I think it could hardly make so serious result as
that. Nevertheless, [must go. And having witnessed
this glorious sunset, Iam ready.”

Her face was turned now, and he did not see its look of
intense relief. Inafew moments after, the baron sent a
servant to call them in.
banquet, at which Von Schubert appeared, as cool and im-
perturbable as before. Toward its close, naturally enough,
the faces of the conipany grew pensive.

“Who shall say whether we ever meet again?’ said the
Baron .Valentin, as he took the slender crystal glasses
from the silver tray the butler brought him, and filled
them, one by one, diamond-beaded to the brim. ‘Well,
this ig a dreary world at its best. My young friend, it
would comfort me greatly if you would promise to come
hitherward again.’

Aubrey was deeply touched, and his own heart sad-
dened beneath the thought. Never again to behold those
grand old walls—the generous, hospitable host, the bril-
liant daughter—the brave and gallant Roderich. The
very remembrance came like an icy blast to a July blos-
soming. /

“J should only be too thankful to believe it likely,” re-
sponded he. i

“Were then Jet us pledge to the hope of renewed ac-
quaintance, and brighter fortune,” said the baron,

All rose, and all slowly drank the wine, all but Von
Schubert, who, by some oversight, had not been furnished
with a glass. The butler hastened to remedy the mistake,
but the gentleman, seeming not at all disturbed, waved
him back. Then there was a general movement from the
room. Lady ‘Theresa, however, laid a detaining hand
upon Aubrey’s arm.

‘Stay!’ said she; ‘Lf want you to respond to a toast of
mine. You alone. Drink with me, ‘Confusion to the
spy! ” :

low her eye glittered, butif Aubrey had paused to no-
tice, he would have seen that her cheek was deadly pale,
and that her hand shook as she herself filled his glass and
presented the tiny bubble of emerald tint to his hand.

He drained it at a breath, laughing gayly as he sat it
down. And they both passed out and reached the draw-
ing-room almost as soon as the others. | The baron came
forward to brush a fallen rose leaf from her dress.

‘Ibis done!) whispered she, scarcely above her breath.
He gave her hand one quick, convulsive pressure, and
flitted back to Roderich, with whom he exchanged a sin-
gle meaning glance. ’

The latter sauntered to the window, looked out for a
few moments into the gloaming, then turned round:

“By my faith, I had forgotten my promise to Stephano.
[ told him I would bring Mr. Dalberg to the poor fellow’s
bedside, that at least he might at least receive an intro-
duction. There is half an hour yet. Whatsay you, my
friend, shall we go??? kf

“By all means,’’ returned Dalberg, courteously.

Von Schubert looked on carelessly till Theresa took up
her guitar, when he came.a step nearer to her chair.

“] will accompany you also,’’ said the baron, and the
Aubrey,
somewhat puzzled to find that he could scarcely lift his
feet, and that a Strange drowsiness was creeping over
his eyelids. ; fi

Half an hour after, possibly a few moments beyond,
three gentlemen came down stairs again. beg,

“We are a little late. The horses ] see are waiting,’?
said Roderich, in aloud and hurried voice. ‘Make your
adieux quickiy, Dalberg.”?

“Te has spoken his to me,’’ said Lady Theresa.  ‘‘Let
me keep those last words for our parting speech, Mr.
Daiberg, I will sing you mine.’’

And she, touched her lily fingers to the strings and
broke into a fierce, high lament, full of wild pathos and
passion.

Dalberg moved his hand in farewell to Von Schubert,
shook the baron’s hand warmly, flung some silver to the
waiting servants, hurried down the steps, leaped into the
saddle, and in another moment the. two horsemen were
cantering down the avenue in the moonlight.

Von Schubert followed to the door and watched them
off. One of the sentries stepped forward and presented
arms.

“Tt is allright, your honor? Weshalllet them go un-
molested ?’? he questioned.

“Allright,’? replied Von Schubert, still leaning there
and following the receding figures. But, as the man re-
turned to his beat, he passed his hand slowly across his
forehead, and muttered:

“All wrong, rather! think Iam losing my wits. I
thought I scented a ploé, but I have lost it entirely. The
American has: come.and gone. Ihave kept close and se-
cret watch over every word he has spoken with them, or
they with him, and there was no treason, or commissions
given. My agents will look after themin the city. But

something in that girl’s eye tells me I have been ouwt- |.

witted.”” :

He went back slowly. andsullenly. Tire Baron Valentin
Was sitting at the window, with a grave, tired look on
his face, and his hands ,crossed listlessly upon his Knees,
His daughter was still singing, but the wail of the parting
hymn had changed into a glad peal of triumph.

Von Schubert bit his lip angrily as he looked at her.

“Well,’? said she, a certain nervous excitement lending
sharper tone to her voice; ‘‘this act is over, most noble
Von Schubert. I suppose we ought to thank you that ycu
have permitted us to play itout. You can lock up the
stage properties again, and turn down the lights.”’

While she spoke, she unfastened the costly Schwarzen-
berg jewels from her forehead, bared her arms, her fin-
gers, flung them allinto a glittering heap, made a mock-
ing courtesy, and swept away.

“You are cruel, and wantonly so,’’? returned Von Schu-
bert, fiercely. ‘‘Youknow that you might wear what you
please every day of your life, were it not that I am re-
sponsible to my royal master.”’ oy

Her bitter laugh floated back again for sole reply.

“And my prison life begins again!’ said the baron,
gloomily. ‘‘Perhaps you are right, Von Schubert; per-
haps youare bound to obey your master’s commands,
and do not know how to do ft gently. I confess I have
believed it a congenial task; but it may be I am wrong.
One ig not apt to love the hand that bars the door of lib-
erty, though it be only a hireling’s, Let it pass: My poor
‘Stephano waits for me in his sick chamber.”

Von Schubert summoned @ servant. The jewels were
carefully restored to their casket, and the latter placed
Where the massive family silver brought forth for the
banquet was already being stowed. The grim iron keys
were given into Von Schubert’s keeping. He shut his
lips together fiercely, as he took them, and strode away,
muttering:

“This task of mine growsirksome and fretting. I hated
the baron with 4 deadly hatred, but it melts before this
wild, mad love which his daughter has roused. ft shall
not be. I will not fail of one tittle of ny trust.”

And hestretched out his hand and struck flercely, as at
some visible opposing force.

« “She has gone to the sick Stephano,’? he muttered
“Better so. As she said, the play is ended, and
the American gone. Thank Heaven for that!”

If he could’have seen into Stephano’s chamber, where
at that moment Baron Valentin and his beautiful daughter
met; with white, scared, and yet triumphant faces. For
there, upon Stephano’s couch lay a pale figure, motion-
less but for the long deep breathing of a trance—the work
of a powerful drug—and it was not Stephano’s face that
rested on the pillow, but that of Awbrey Dalberg!”

CHAPTER V.

The clouds shrouded the pleasantZsunshine, and it was
a cold, gray Sky which looked down into those luminous
blue eyes, as the prisoner paced to and. fro along: the de-
spoiled roof, something like a montli after the visit which
had wrought such desolation to the mid-air garden. She
was deadly pale still, but her eye burnt with even bright-
er InSters and her.graceful form had not bowed nor
pined. :

“Tt passes my belief,’ whispered Seippel to Lisbet, his
wife. ‘I thoughtit was tending the plants and the pleas-
ure she had with the flowers that kept ‘my lady’ alive,
and prevented her going crazed with her trouble.”

“Al! but itis a wonderful deal of spirit she has, Seip-
pel. What a proud. woman she must be, and how
strong!’ answered Lisbet, rocking herself drearily to and
fro. ‘I’m sure I’ve often like to lose my own wits with
the lonesomeness and horrors here. Oh! what must it
be for her? Poor soul! my heart almost died inside my
breast the other day when she went down on her knees to
me, and asked me, if I had a woman’s_ heart in me, to
help her escape, Oh! it made me sick to turn away.
Seippel, Seippel! what will be done to us for helping in
this thing ?” “

Then came another sumptuous,

 

 

 

 

 

“You know, Lisbet, I’m sore enough about it without
Your harrowing my mind overit. And you know it isn’t
the pay, nor the fear even of such a powerful man, that
hinders my lending help to the poor, persectited creature,”
returned Seippel, in a grumbling, reproachful voice.

“Yes, 1 know,” replied the woman, flinging’ her apron
over her face and moaning. “I know it—woe is ‘me, I
know it too well! He ‘holds our boy’s life in his hands.
Our Konrad would be shot for a deserter the moment we
failed of this horrible trust. But, oh! I think the poor
lady's bright, agonized eves Will haunt me to my grave.
He is a terrible man. Oh! Seippel, what will become of
the country when he is king?”

She dropped her voice toa whisper, and even then
looked around shrinkingly, as if fearing the very walls
would repeat her words. :

“The Lord only knows,’! sighed Seippel.

_ “And the Lord only can prevent,’? added Lisbet, look-
ing upward. ;

_ “You might go up and sit with her a little, Lisbet. Oh!
it was @ sore stroke to take away the flowers. Foolish
and worthless things they may seem tous, but it was
plain she made allher joy out of them. Whata hard
heart he has! It made me cringe to see the jeering look
he gave her, standing there with all the pretty beds dug
up and the vines torn down.” .

“And the crucifix. too. Only think of the sacrilege!’
echoed Lisbet. “Poor Han’s teeth chattered half that
night for fear something would come to punish us all for
such a thing. Oh! dear, I don’t want to go. What can I
say or do? Nota single word of comfort! And she would
rather have her own thoughts. -I hope the book you left
{ook up her mind. Don’t ask me to go, Seippel, for she
will fall to begging my help. I had almost a mind to tell
her why we couldn’t. But Iwas afraid in some of her
angry talk to him she might let it out. How she will talk
to him! Ah! she has a wonderful spirit.””

_ “Hark!” exclaimed Seippel, starting to hisfeet. ‘There
isthe horn, Heis coming again. Alack, alack! poor
lady, what next must she bear?” 4

Lisbet sprang up also, looking about. the room nervous-
ly. Without they heard Han’s clumsy footsteps crossing
the paved court-yard in equal trepidation. d

Up above, upon the roof, where tie hapless prisoner
still chose to spend the most of her time, the sound of the
horn came likewise and gave its warning. But there was
no craven fear upon that pallid, spirited face.

“Tam glad for once \ that the tyrant ‘and villain is at
hand,’? she -murmuted. ‘Now. I shall. solve ‘the few
doubts I cherish. Iwill learn his plans thoroughly, and
then—and then.’?. The silvery voice deepened with a
solemn thrill. ‘Then, skies, you must open me amiracu-
lous flight; or earth, you must rise in earthquake throes
to take me down!* There isa musé to all things, and
eepetate as it may be, I must find the way for my es-
cape!

She paused and looked over to the rapidly-approaching
horsemen, three in number, and smiled proudly and
haughtily. ;

“He comes expecting me to cower at hisfeet. Hethinks
these four weeks alone without my flowers have broken
my spirit. Ile hopes to find- ime weak, worn, wasted, an
abject Slave. Ah, he does not know the indomitable spirit
in this weak body. If there were nothing else my hatred
of him would feed-my energies’ and keep me alive and
strong. He could not wring. from me.the hiding-place of
those papers, though he kept me upon the rack these fif-
teen years that have gone like ahorrible nightmare, He
could not win my consent to become his queen though
the proudest. throne in the wide world. claimed him for
its lord. It is something of triumph for me to make him
see and feel it.” :

She swept across to the chair which stood unsheltered
where the lovely bower had been, seated. herself, care-
fully smoothing out the folds of the long, black robe, and
clasping the ebony cross which was suspended from her
neck by a jet rosary in her slender, white fingers, she as-
sumed with wonderful power a calm, composed smile,
and waited for the summons she knew would come.

“My lady, my lady, his royal highness desires your pre-
sence below,’’ spoke Seippel, faintly.

“Tell him I am enjoying the broad and boundless pros-
pect of the changing sky above me, and can desire no bet-
ter employment,’’ returned she, carelessly.

The slighted visitor was waiting below. He gave an
angry exclamation as the message was delivered.

“What, untamed yet! Do you mean that she has found
some other pleasure to console her for the loss of the
garden?’ he demanded of Seippel, sharply. ‘‘Has she
been in good spirits, enjoyed her food, and kept, up her
obstinacy ?”? ‘

“Indeed, your royal highness, I have seen little
change. Where she was wont to be tending the flowers,
now she stands and looks up curiously and wonderingly
to the shifting clouds.”?

‘“Incomprehensible!”? muttered the angust visitor, play-
ing neryously with the mask which he had thrown upon
the table. ‘The woman’s nerves are made of steel. Do
you know if she disturbed at all the package of letters I
left with her. Speak, dolt! and not stand mumbling.”?

Poor Seippel’s eyes fell beneath that ireful glance, and
his knees trembled.

“J cannot tell more than this, your highness. I found
her in a dead faint that night you left, and the papers
were scattered around her.”?

The evil eye giittered with savage joy.

“T thought so. I have found the vulnerable spot at last.
This is but an attempt to keep up a show of bravado,’’ he
muttered. ‘Well, since the mountain will not come to
me I will condescend to go to it,”?

And with an exulting beliefin his speedy triumph he
mounted the rude stairway and came out upon the dreary,
despoiled roof, where the Lady Pauline sat with the regal
air of a queen upon herthrone. The graceful head never
stirred from its stately poise, the calm eyes kept their
quiet watch of the somber, shifting clouds.

“Good day again, my lady. It seems I find you in good
health and spirits. Ready, I trust, for a rational consulta-
tion, and a graceful acquiescence to the proposals which
are still open to you.” :

She turned her head slowly, and looked at him with
those glittering blue eyes full of superb scorn.

“If you have anything to say, I can listen, I suppose,
but it seems unlikely that it can be of any importance to
IM6,?) 49

Tt angered him almost beyond endurance that he could
not move her from that scornful composure. He knit his
forehead, and gnawed impatiently at his lip before he
said, with a sarcastic accompanying laugh:

“I hardly supposed your ladyship was so securely in-
trenched. You are satisfied with your happy position,
your luxurious castle, your unbounded privileges, it
seems. You do not miss even the flowers. Happy stoic!’

“You are furious because you do not find me heart-
broken and abject. Man, man, will you never learn that
your poor spite has no power to kill!—that your cowardly
cruelties fail of their deepest intent? You destroyed my
flowers, but the sky is left above me, and my ‘own inno-
cence and integrity fill and console and comfort my heart.
These are beyond your reach!’”? she answered, proudly.
“Go, leave me in a happier kingdom than you Will ever
know.” :

“Peryerse creature! will you never be taught prudence
and wisdom? Do you mean. that there is no happiness
jiu my power to grant you?’’ he asked, fiercely.

“In your power—but not in your will. It is so useless
to ask it, that'I do not waste.a thought upon it,’ she re-
turned, calmly. :

“You have read the letters,’? he said, abruptly; ‘‘have
you no word to say in regard to the girl? I have brought
the picture again. Perhaps this time you will condescend
to ask for it.” f :

He took a painted oval of ivory from his pocket as he
spoke. She turned her face away with aswiff movement,
and fora moment there was a desperate struggle for
calmness on the quivering features. The voice was a
little husky, and thus did not fully betray the hungry
longing that was in it as she stretched out her hand, and
said:

oY es,
you.”

He smiied bitterly, and seemed about to refuse, but
some second thought made him drop the miniature into
the delicate, outstretched hand. :

She brought it slowly within range of her vision, shad-
ing with her other hand her averted face from his obser-
vation. |

Brutal and pitiless as his nature was, he wasa little
awed by her manner, and refrained from gratifying his
curiosity by a change of position.

At first the delicate pencilling and soft tints swam in a
dizzy haze before her, but in a few moments the mists
cleared and the lady looked down into the sweet, inno-
cent, fascinating face depicted there, with yearning, de-
vouring eyes. She forgot, for once, the gloating tyrant’s
presence.

A deep, passionate sob shook her frame, a tender, holy
joy flashed into her eyes, ruffled her lips into softened
smiles. :

“Oh, my own, my own!’ she exclaimed.

“You acknowledge the truth then? I expected you
would accuse me of imposition in the matter. ‘So that
pathis clear. I think, myself, any one would be insane
to deny the likeness,’’ exclaimed the prince, exultantly. -

Lady Pauline started asif a bombshell had exploded,
and turned to him with a shudder.

‘You are here still! Oh, I forgot. I forgot anything so
foul and deadly could help slinking away before the sem-
blance of such innocence and purity!?’

“Yes, she looks like innocence itself,’ he answered,
mockingly; ‘“‘and they assure me that sheis everything
pure, and refined, and dainty. She has been fed on high
ideal notions, and has a spirit sensitive and high-strung.
How think you she will enjoy reigning as the mistress in
the Von Schrodter halls?”

“Von Schrodter!?? repeated the lady’s ashy lips, ‘‘what
has she to do with that evil, brutal race who have always
disgraced the lowest scene they entered? What has she
in common with the enemies of lier father’s house?”’

“JT forget that you have been, secluded from a knowl-
edge of the world’s movements, fair lady. It is right I
should give you information. The Von Schrodter’s have
managed to win my royal father’s favor—through the
growing weakness of age and mental debility, you will
say; but quite as much, I assure you, through my quiet
influence and skillful plotting. Sebastian, the present
heir,.is asad dog, ladmit. He carries the family vices
with a higher hand than has ever before been seen. But
there isa dash about him, and an imperious wilfulness,
not to callit temper, that few dare to withstand. So he
goes where he will. Iwon’t swear but that it might be
different were the old Schwarzenberg family represented
at the court. But they, you know, are in disgrace. Do
you remember the oath I took fifteen years and more
ago? Iswore theirruin and disgrace—root and branch!
Well, it looks like it certainly.”

And here he laughed long and fiercely.

The lady clasped her cold hands across the picture, and
looked at him with wide, distended, horrified eyes.

“Are youhuman?” It seems to meno mother’s milk

J will look at it. That much I will accept from

ever nourished a thing so flendish,’? she gasped.

But he only laughed the louder.

“Tama king’s son.: What more is needed! And the
king is old and feeble. The flickering light of his life may
go out any moment—and Iam the throne’s heir.”

“Heaven help the poor distracted land then!’ ejaculated
Lady Pauline, solemnly. j

‘Bult to, go back to the interesting topic under discus-
sion. “I wanted just such a husband for this fair young
maiden, my ward, you understand. Sebastian Schrodter
even exceeds my desire. If Thad time I wonld detail
some of his gallant exploits. How many homes: he has
despoiled, how: many duels fought. | What. depths: into
the liquor chest he can go at a single carousal. What. ill-)
luck it is for’ any churl to comé¢ in ‘his way when: once
stimulated by the brandy he tosses off. as freely as water,
It is an admirable list of favorable qualities for any pur: |
pose, if 1 had time to tell them all. Well, L have already
the King’s permission to marry the ward} have kept so
secretly that no one out of my confidence dreams of her
existence, to marry her before she is introduced at court,
and Sebastian Schrodter will ve the happy: bride-
groom." . )

The lady sprang up, quivered 2 moment, and ‘then fell
down at his feet, raining hot tears and catching tempes-
tuous sobs, ;

“Oh, Iam conquered, I am conquered! For her sake
I will supplicate. You are, you must have a spark of
humanity in your heart. Hewrme! Forego this, spare the
innocent heart, the high soul revealed by that angelic
face—give not this pure girl to such an evil wretch. Send
her to me, and let us die here in solitude together, fore-
going rank, fortune, an honored name, And I will forget
all ether wrongs, I will forgive you. I will even thank
you.

The words came as if they were choking her. The Iong,
stern calm hitherto imposed with his presence once
broken ‘up, it seemed that she had lost all control, and
she wrung her hands, and shuddered, and wept hot floods
of scalding tears, and implored pitifully.

‘Hear me! Oh, hear me!”?

He watched it all with a ‘pitiless smile,a triumphant eye.

‘At last!’ he cried, exultantly. “I knew I could reach
you at last. So you condescend to implore my ‘mercy,
you who all these years have disdained to speak a singte
civil word tome. Very. well, fair lady; you know my
terms. You will reveal the hiding-place of ‘those papers,
and you will accept my suit?”

She sprang to her’ feet, strengthened again by her in-
dignation.
_ “Monster! Oh, horrible, horrible monster! I was mad
indeed to.think:anything could move your’ flinty heart.
You knew before you asked that those conditions were
both impossible. Not even tospare the living will Iso
infamously ‘wrong the noble dead.. Away! Iam fitly
punished! I will supplicate only for Heayen’s help!’ she
cried, wildly.

How those blue eyes blazed; what fiery wrath flashed
across them. Whiter her face could not have been had it
been dead.

Even this hardened sinner quailed for a moment in her
presence.

“Lady Pauline,’ he faltered, ‘your trials have turned
your brain. It isnot so terrible a thing I ask.”

She waved him back sternly. P

“Get thee behind me, Satan!
word in your presence!”’

And the white lips closed,-shut together with a.Jook
on them that seemed to defy even brute force to unlock
their seal.

With muttered curses the prince withdrew, glancing
apprehensively toward the darkening sky.

“T have no time longer, even for the sake of torturing
her. I must be back by ten in the evening, for the court
Jete, and if the weather lowers it will require hard riding
to doit. The king must not miss me nor that cursed spy-
ing minister suspect my visits here.’

He hurried down the stairs, growled outa few angry
directions to Seippel, resumed the black cloak andthe
mask he always wore upon these secret visits, called the
ruffian attendants who journeyed on such deeds always
by his side, armed to the teeth to defend him against the
constantly-feared and well-deserved assassination this
coward heart dreaded, and in an hour was gone.

The Lady Pauline stood on the roof. with the miniature
in her hand and both arms stretched Heavenward.

“Oh, merciful and all-powerful, hear me! help me! Only
from Heaven can help come!’

While she stood thus with those wild, agonized, be-
seeching eyes searching the gray clouds she became
aware of a black speck sailing slowly from out the clouds,
it seemed. In her wrapt, intensely-strained mood she
was ready.for anything, even a miraculous intervention.

“What is it—a bird sailing hitherward?. Oh I will trust
myself to his fearless wing. Anything—anything—no
matter. how desperate!’? she murmured,.and scarcely
breathed, while the speck broadened, deepened, and came
surely nearer. geet
i Suddenly she clasped both hands with a low sob of ex-

asy.

“I know, I know! Seippel was telling his wife last week
about the eccentric eeronaut who is experimenting with
balloons in the neighboring town, . Mother of Mercy send
him within call of my voice—within: signalling view!"’

And then she fell on her knees, and remained thus with
head thrown back, and wrapt eyes never leaving a mo-
ment the black sailing object. Pe

Half an hour's time solved her donbts. It was the bal-
loon certainly. She saw it now distinctly, made out. the
form of the little car hanging to the gay-colored globe,
could count the flags, even.

She sprang to her feet, ran hastily to the trap-door,
closed it, and shot the strong bolt into the socket.

Then she seized the white scarf that had been wound
about her head, and waved it frantically, but without an
audible cry, Blessed fortune that kept Seippel and his
wife two stories below her! that made sure, no shouting
crowds would draw their attention.

She was fairly wild with the dawning of hope; she was
deadly sick with the fear of disappointment.

Nearer and nearer it sailed, majestic indeed as a glid-
ing ship upon the ocean of ether. Now it was overhead,
and so close she could see the zronaut bending down cu-
riously and looking at her, 5

She stretched out her arms impioringly. She made
frantic gestures. She went through an eloquent panto-
mine to express her desires. The tears poured down her
cheeks, the wild sobs shook her frame. A deadly despair
crept coldly over her. He did not comprehend, or he
would not heed her. The balloon was going—going fast.

There was but one last chance, ;

She sprang into the chair, stretched up, her hands, and
cried shrilly :

“Wait, oh wait! Come and save me}?

Stillit seemed sweeping on. The upraised arms fell
stiffly, agroan of heart-rent despair burst from her over-
laden breast. Once again she fell down senseless,

But this time Seippel did not find her, for the bolted
door precluded his approach. She revived, however,
slowly and feebly, and was able presently to sit up, and
stare around her. The balloon was but a speck again on
the other side.

Her hitter tears relieved the fierce pain at her throat.

“A little longer,” she murmured, ‘‘a little longer will I
trust in Heaven’s mercy, but oh, it seems asif the skies
also were deaf to my cry and insensible to my misery.”

If she could only have looked into fhe seronaut’s home
that evening and listened while he said to his wife :

“T saw a strange sight to-day, fraulein. You know the
gray, gloomy louse in the cleared hollow in the midst of
the forest? Isailed over it to-day, and there was a wo-
man on the roof, 1 woman white and beautiful as the
marble Madonna at the cathedral. She seemed wildly
agitated, and appeared to implore my help. I could not
descend, and I don’t think I made her hear, but her
sweet, silvery voice still rings in my ear. She called
“Wait, oh wait! Comeand save me!” She looked un-
happy enough. The next time I will be ready to descend
and see what tt means.”

[LO BE CONTINUED.]
—_____—_>9-4—________.

THE INGRATITUDE OF WOMEN.

BY JOSEPHINE POLLARD.

Iwill not. speak another

Women as a class are astonishingly ungrateful. Accus-
tomed to receive fayors, they thoughtlessly ignore the
claims of courtesy, or common civility even, and accept
what they cannot include among their rights, with an in-
difference that is not lost upon their brethren.

Woman is- weakening her influence in many ways,
despite the sounding brass and tinkling cymbals that
would indicate the dawn of anew era in her existence,
and in no way more than by this want of recognition of
services rendered. :

She enters a crowded car with the expectation that all
men will rise todo her homage, and with no consider-
ation in her heart for those who have been toiling all day,
or standing for hours before the wearisome desk, flounces
into the vacated seat, with not so much asa bend of the
head by way of acknowledgment for the kindness.

“Thank you,.’? seems to be an unknown partiof speech
in the grammar of many women; words that have
dropped out of their vocabulary. ‘

This ingratitude is daily and hourly increasing, and the
wonder is not that so many women: may be seen stand-
ing in uncertain attitudes along the center of the cars, but
that Mien ever yield to the demand upon their courtesy.
And itis a noticeable fact that elderly gentlemen are. the
first to rise, men who have not forgotten. the old chivalric
days, which is sufficient evidence that the present gener-
ation proposes to stand shoulder to shoulder in all social
contests.

The person who stands between you and any discom-
fort is entitled to yonr gratitude, no matter what the col-
orof hisface orthecut of his garments; and it is not
enough that down in the depths of your heart‘is a recog-
nition of the service rendered—you owe it, to yourself,
your benefactor and the world at large, to give some ex-
pression to your appreciation. i

These habits formed in early youth become as second
nature to us. Let the child understand that it is entitled
to nothing without saying’ “thank you,’'and it will soon
learn to lisp the Sweet expression of gratitude.

The minority, who innocently suffer for these sins in-
dulged in by the majority of their sex, make a strong and
earnest appeal in favor of a reform movement.

Let not the ingratitude of women pass into a proverb,
to the everlasting shame of the nineteenth century, nor
the advance we have made in civilization, science, arts
and agriculture, be more that counterbalanced by a lack
of civility, courtesy and: consideration for our fellow-
creatures, \ ;

If ‘inan’s inhumanity’to man makes ‘countless thou-
sands mourn,’’ then certainly any defection on the part

THE WATERING-PLACE.
BY MRS; oM. «A. KIDDER.

I stand upon no sandy shore,

i hear no wind:tossed breakers roar,
Or leap apace;

But sitting at my window here,

I see the graceful creatures near
Their humble watering-place,

These are not maidens sweet and fair,
Or dashing beaux with perfumed hair,
That come and go,

But equine beauties at the brink;
They duck their pretty necks to drink
The clear and crystal flow.

This pleasant watering-place is free
For beasts of high or low degree
To quench their thirst; _
Yet oft I see the prince-bay grand
Behind his meaner brother stand—
Here last ofttimes comes first.

I’m thankful, on my bit of land,
That I have this sweet view at hand,
What else I lack—

That my pallid vision may descry
This iron fountain, never dry,
For thoroughbred or hack.
The priceless water, good as gold,
The flowing water, clear and cold,
A grateful feast.
Open the river’s magic door,
Give us a thousand fountains more,
For man and beast! .

9

Lady. Leonora
OR, oat
THE. EA PAS Bo i.
* By Carrie Conklin,

Author of “THE CHILD-BRIDE,” and oTRUE
AS LOVE COULD MAKE HER.”

(“Lady Leonora’? was commenced in No. 27. Back Numbers
can be obtained trom any News) Agentin the United States. ]

CHAPTER, XLI.
MCDONALD’S/ EXPIATION.

The quondam poacher: had.-not Jeft Springbourn yet.
He had never for a moment relinquished the desire that
had made him so base a traitor to his friend; but Corinne
was true.to. herself and toher womanhood, in spite of her
infatuation, It was a weak nota guilty love. ~

Madelen was her safeguard. © The girl’ tended her new
mistress with a vigilant pertinacity that never left her an -
instant in McDonald's power, and exasperated him the
more because he could take no measures against her. |

McDonald was not unconscious of the peril that men-
aced him at each momentof his stay in the quiet town,
but the restless demon haunting his soul would not permit
him to arrange a definite course of action.

“But for that meddling girl,’’ he thought, with an oath,
peaeeane would have been mine ere this. I must get rid
of her.

It was a determination more easily arrived at than ac-
complished. Madelen met his artifice with womanly tact.

The beautiful equestrienne knew her danger. __Bitterly
had she reproached herself for the rash step which com-
promised her fair fame and made her, though innocent,
seem shameless. She would gladly have left McDonald,
but dared not hint or attempt it, lest, driven to despera-
tion, he should insure his own triumph and her hopeless
degradation.

Corinne was very brave, she did not shrink from the
truth of her position. Hers was a sterling honesty that.
despised the transparent sham of ignorant, false modesty

“Simon,’?? she said, when aiter many promises that
they should start for abroad and be united in wedlock, he
had once more broken his word, *‘why keep me here, so
that each day 1 seem to be worse?’

“Tt is a pleasant place, my countess,’? he said, passing
his arm round her pliant waist, and holding’ her tightly,
though she strove to put his arm away, ‘‘and we are hap-

“T am not happy, Simon.”

“Why, darling?’

‘Why!? and her glorious eyes flashed fire at his care-
less Insolence ‘Did I lose all self-respect when I loved
you?

“Fhope not, Corinne, my lovely tigress, as you are
when angry. I wish I could quench these silly scruples.”
‘snd make a wanton of me, McDonald ?”” ;

“Harsh words from such sweet lips, my beautiful. I
would teach you to love me, that is all.’?

“Have I not proved my love ?”?

“Like a fair disciple of old Plato, who was a hypocrite,
believe me. What strength is there in that affection
which will risk nothing till treated by a legal form—that
can only bind our hands and yet leave hearts unfettered?
I thought you despised such trammels, Corinne!”

“My mother loved my father dearly, and he wasa man
of honor.’? : f

“What does that imply ?”? :

“He married her, and,” she added, abruptly breaking
from him, “I must be your wife, or we part to-night.”

“Corinne,’’ he said, reproachfully, ‘‘have'l.offended ?”

“You have. I am no school-girl to be cajoled: by so-
phistry. Lured into an abyss, tempted to a brief dream of
delirium, the waking from which would show me myself
shadowed in terrible infamy.”

“You do not mince your words, my Corinne,’ he said.

“J have seen the world, Simon—heard itspeak in terms
that have left no doubt of its meaning, and if speak with-
out reserve it is because we may understand each other
better. If women were taught in girlhood to look boldly
at the truth, and not to affect an innocence of knowledge
phat cannot exist, there would be fewer left to misery and
eerprne.? ‘i

“Don’t smile at me in that way. George Gambert loves
me better than you do; he is a better. man than you and
he never dared look or speak in such a way. Heaven help. -
me if in choosing you I have done unwisely.”? :

“Come here, Corinne, and sit down.”

‘NO? ‘

He rose, and taking her hand, led her back to the couch.
He looked with tender deprecation into her eyes and kiss-
ed her dewy lips.

“My glorious Corinne, no wonder Antony let an empire
go if Cleopatra were halfso beautiful. I love you more
amadly every lour.’’

«Love me less madly and more wisely, Simon.”

But though she spoke calmly, her whole frame trembled
at his touch. He felt the thrill and exulted inwardly.

“What would. you have me do, Corinne ???

“Take me away from here; they think me your wife.” .

“So you are in the sight of Heaven.”’

“Ay; but it is not sworn atthe altar. There is a charm
and sanctity in the simple, hallowed words that make such
love as mine doubly sacred. How. sweet it must be to look
back on the past and see no shame. Those who have
never fallen can never know the unembittered happiness
known by those who have wedded pure.*?

“Unanswerable logic that, my Corinne, and you urge it
upon meas though I hada thought less than reverence, a
passion-less pure than purity; surely if I am content to
live like this, to worship you and know no sweeter reward
than to clasp you to my heart and kiss your lips, you are
content too.’

“Tf it were true—and you know it is not—Simon, I could
not be content while each hour of our companionship sets
a wide gulf between my gcod name and me.’?

He winced. :

Corinne’s brave, uncompromising honesty staggered
him. She met him fearlessly on his own ground, and left
no specious sophistry or argument to urge.

“To-morrow morning,’’ he said, rising and imprinting
another caress upon her warm cheek, ‘‘we depart for the
continent, and then Corinne shail be my bride.”

“Whither you please, Simon; anywhere with you. And,
recollect this: I entrust my happiness to you, knowing
that you are not rich.’*

“Notrich. Ihave a full purse and an unlimited order
ona French banker.. We are rich, my Corinne.”

“We are better poor, Simon, than rich with the wages
of sin. Ihave plenty of money, and when that is gone I
can work for more.’ 5

‘ . CHAPTER XLII.
THE LION-TAMER REAPPEARS.

Corinne’sy unselfish, devoted generosity touched even
Simon’s depraved heart.

“T shall be fallen very low indeed, Gorinne, when I let
the woman I love work for me.?) :

“You will be fallen lower if you, keep the
crime.” 5

“Tush! man has but one life to live, and he Mapst make
the best of it.’ ‘ :

“Having but one life to live,’Simon. a brief life, a brief
prelude to an eternal hereafter, men should not make the
worst of it; I must have my way in this. I should not be
happy ifa penny of that money were spent on me.’”’

“Took at me like that, Corinne, andlam_ poverless.,
Ask what you will, I. can but consent,”

“Then go at once and arrange for our departure
morning.’ :

“See, I obey; so for an hour, adieu.” ;

He strained her to himina close embrace and left the
chamber. His treacherous countenance changed before
he had crossed the threshold. :

“Tf there is virtue in a soporific,’’ he muttered, “my fine
lady will be less proud before the hour of; our departure.
Ican read her mind; itis fuliof doubt, and wavers be-
tiveen her fear to love me and her desire to leave me lest
I wrong her. I have tamed prouder women. To make
her mine only by the quill, old-fashioned tie of wifehood
would be to destroy the charm of her wild love.”

The cold-hearted libertine who had deliberately de-
ceived his friend went out, as deliberately plotting to de.
ceive Corinne. When he returned to the hotel he carried
a small phial filled with a powerful drug in his waistcoat

ocket.

E Ashe passed the. stable gateway by the side of the
hotel he saw a man .crguching by the wall in the attitude

reward of

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actually draw tears from the eyes of angels,

charity, must have an equally serious effeet; if it does not |

of a mendicant.

He was apparently bowed with age, and
wore a tattered cloak, ’

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the mendicant; ‘Ihave waiked along way, and am very
tired.”?
McDonald was rarely generous, but being elated with
anticipated triumph, he flung a shilling to the beggar.
“Thanks—thanks, good sir.?? 4
Had not McDonald entered the Springbourn Hotel with-
out looking back, he would have been Startled by the
chanwe in the aspect of the man who had solicited alms.
The mendicant cast away his tattered cloak, and with
it went his apparent age. A tall, majestic form stood out
grandly in the gateway. : :
<‘4t last! he muttered, with a lurid, quenchless fire in
his gaze; “and TI kept my fingers from his throat! It was
a mighty struggle; but not to wreak my vengeance before
her were to lose half my revenge.” Y any
And with something tigerish in the lithe elasticity of
his walk, the seeming mendicant went into the hotel. and
hired an apartient for the night. It was near sunset
then. : : 4
His apartment was over Corinne’s bed-chamber, and
to and fro on tiie carpeted floor he paced hour after hour.
McDonald went to his room, opened the wine cupboard,
and poured the contents of the phial into the decanter
which contained Corinne’s favorite liquor. Ie ‘smiled

* like the villain that he was.

“Stratageml after possession,’ he said; “and this will
not fail.’ i ; :

If Corinne had been warned by the mistrust which had
grown of late, she would have noticed and interpreted
the evil on his features during’ dinner-time; but his osten-
sible acquiescence liad calmed. down her misgiving.

Corinne, pressed by him, drank: more than her-accus-
tomed quantity of wine, and detected no alteration in its
flavor. Madelen, who was less a servant than a conipan-
ion to her, drank with her,

After dinner both were oppressed with an unconquera-
Hle drowsiness. Corinne, after fighting in vain against
the coming lethargy, was compelled to retire. Madelen
went with her.

So suddenly did the subtle drugs absorb their faculties,
that hardly had they reached their chamber ere they sank
upon the bea. McDonald noticed, witha flush of vicious
triumph, that they had neither nerve nor thought enough

‘to lock ‘the door.

“Mine!? he saidy ‘‘minel?

«“Madelen,’? murmured Corinne, faintly, ‘I feelstrange-
ly sleepy.» Am I pale?? ;

“Very pale, madame,’ said the faithful girl; ‘“‘and lam
strangely sleepy, too. Are you not well?”

“1 do not know, Madelen.. Can you lock the door? All
is not right. Ihave a presentiment, Madelen. Try and
rouse yourself, for my sake.”?

A thought of evilfound its way through her. numbed
Senses, andishe half rose. The effort was her last before
total uncénsciousness ensued. <

“Madelen,’? she said faintly—‘‘Madelen, there is dan-
ger; Lam surethereis. Try to lock the door. ‘LT eannot
rise.”? y

She fell back slowly. Madelen caught the contagion of
dread, and brave in her devotion, struggled against the
overpowering desire to remain passive. She rose, and
felt’ her way blindly. «Her eyelids lowered, as though
pulled down by Jeaden weights, . ;

She staggered to find the key;. grasped at the chairs and
bed-curtains for support, and finally, unable to reach the
lock, she fell across the threshold, guarding the way with
her senseless body—/faithsul to. the last.

McDonald heard her fall... He was drinking deeply to
stimulate his evil soul, that he might not falter in his
dark purpose; but when he heard the French girl fall, he
relinquished his drink. i

Rising to his feet, he passed his hand dizzily: across his
brow. Hecouid not think of the monstrous sin intended.

But passion overpowered his better nature, and his
senses swam in a drunken whirl as he stole toward the
chamber door., .He pusted it.

The resistance of a heavy, yielding form told him what
the obstacle was: He obtained a partial opening, and saw
the form of Madelen. :

“Curse her!’?) he said savagely, and caring nothing
what injury he might inflict, he applied his utmost force
to the panels, and Madelen rolled over.

He stooped to lift Madelen out of the way. He rose; his
gaze set darkly, dangerously on the beautiful equestri-
enne, and he took two steps toward her.

Then he stopped. A heavy, powerful hand took him by
the shoulder in a grip of iron.

**Ah, here, old friend,’? and the music of the deep-toned
yoice rang with awful mockery. ‘How. kind of-you to
take so much care of my poor girl. Jam grateful, very
grateful.”

McDonald could have shriekedin terror, but that his
terror stifled itself by its very intensity. There was death
in the haggard, swarthy cheek;) death in the, burning,
sunken eye; death in the nervous grasp that shifted from
his shoulder to his throat.

<George Gambert!? he whispered, hoarsely.

<Your old friend, George. Come, give me your hand,
Mac; your hand—see, I give you mine.”

Iie released McDonald’s throat. The poacher reeled
away half-suffocated.. George Gambert laughed. It was
the laugh of a murderer. '

McDonaid looked round fora way of flight. Gambert
stood before the doorway, his eye on Simon’s throat—
again his nervous fingers twining and playing together.

1g tliis your bridal-chamber, Mac—that Corinne’s nup-
‘tial couch, oris sue lostin love, and this a place of foul
dishonor?. ‘fell me, and the truth—a lie will ayail you
nothing, since you are to die.”

“7o die? Merciful Heaven!??

“I hope you may find it so,’’ said Gambert, grimly; ‘‘you
are going soon to there oy elsewhere.”

The wretched’ culprit shuddered in every vein; there
was no hope,no mercy for him—he: was held powerless
in the leonine grip of 2an who was mad witha venge-
ful thirst.

<Gambert,” he said—“‘Gambert, on my soul, by the sky

above us, by the great Power we must meet at judgment,
LI have not harmed Corinne—lI swear it.”
« And a dying man should speak truth. Beside, my old
friend, Mac would not tell a lie, nor bea traitor, nor ruin
a goodand innocent girl; le is all honor, nobility, a gem
of manhood, an example of kingly honesty. What a pity
such a man should have to die.”

“Gambert, surely you are not going to kill me ??

“Tam. Have you spoken truth ?”? .

“As l have a soul to pray for.’

“J did intend to strangle you like a dog; but, since I
see you are not telling a jie, you shall have the chance of
dying like‘a man. Come with me.”

“whither?”

“Shall I drag you out, or will you walk? ‘Come!’

Overpowered by the lion-tamer’s irresistible will,
McDonald prepared to follow him meekly.

George Gambert’s grip was again fastened on his throat.
George Gambert paused to look back upon Corinne; some-
thing of the old fondness was in face and voice.

*Poor girl—poor Corinne,” he said. ‘‘Come and gaze
upon lier, Mac—see what you have made her; shame in
early age, and that is a deep line on her brow. So glad,
s0 beautiful a creature she was; so fizm—so fearless in her
taintless pride; and see—a devil—how she lies there, ru-
ined in soul and body.”

“Gambert, on my oath——? »

“Swear it in Hades—she is unpolluted, you would say
—ut‘can she ever be to me what she has been? Nog all
the oaths youmight swear—not all the bitter tears she
may weep, could give me back the Corinne of my dream.
Corinne—Corinne! my lost, my beautiful Corinne!’

The poacher turned his face away as well as he was
able, as Gambert stooped and touched Corinne with a
caressive lip—a great sob shook him through—a tear glis-
tened and fell on her cheek. -

Then he turned as fierce and grim again to McDonald.
He spoke no more. His giaut’pressure impelled McDon-

“ald onward, out of Corinne’s chamber—out of the hotel—

out of the quiet town, and into a dark, lonely by-lane.
Every feature of the place fixed itself indelibly on Mc-
Donald’s mind; the deep wheel ruts, the green overhaug-
ing hedges, the wide, weed-grown, stagnant ditches, and
the broken gate, hanging loosely on its rusty hinges. It
was a dying man’s photograph of his last surroundings.
‘“Now,?? said Gambert, once more releasing his captive,

. there, under the solemn sky, the starlit canopy to which

one dead face will be turned upward, ere we part we
fight our battle; foot to foot, hand to hand—without a
Weapon, without-a witness. Are you ready ??

And-Gambert, waiting, bared his powerful arm,

“Are you ready ?”?

“Gambert, Iam praying.”

“The better for the blackness of your soul.”

“Spare me.”?

George Gambert pointed upward solemnly.

“Ask mercy there, and I will say amen.”’

McDonald took a last look at the tranquil night, the
quiet meadow-land, the twinkling stars.
shone through a blue wide rift of cloud, and the fated
man knew in his inmost heart that when the blue sky
closed and the moon was hidden lis ears would hear no
sound, his eyes would be closed in death.

He lifted a beseeching brow. .

“Think of the old times, George.”

The inexorable voice replied:

“Are you ready ???

McDonald raised a feeble hand in self-defense—the
haggard, swarthy face before him lighted up with a grim,
red flush, and one swift, terrific blow from Gambert’s
powerful arm stretched McDonald dead at his feet.

“Expiation,”” Gambert said, with somber quietude.
“RHepiation.” :

{20 BE CONTINUED.)
>@-~<___
RECENT PUBLICATIONS.

THE REIGNING BELLE.—By Mrs. Ann §, Stephens, Publishers
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terprising publishers,

WILD Oats SOWN ABROAD; OR, ON AND OFF SouNnpDINGS
By Theodore B. Witmer. Publishers, T. B. Peterson ¢ Brothers,
Philadelphia. This isa republication of a book of travels first
given to the public twenty years ago. The writer gives a de

seriptive sketch of all the points he visited from the hour t
he Janded in London until he reached Mount Blane. ye

“HYMNS AND MEDITATIONS.” By Miss A. L. Waring. Pub-
fishers, E. P. Dutton & Co., New York. The tone of thought and
{geling pervading this little yolyme is elevated and pure, and we
can commend it without reservation.

New Music. ‘When the Light Waves-Rippling Play.” Words
hy Arthur Matthison; music by J. R. Thomas. Publisher, Hor-
ace Waters, 481 Broadway, New York.

HORACE GREELEY’S MARCH,” as played by Grafulia’s Seventh
Regiment Band. Publisher, Horace Waters, New York,

 

 

The moon,

 

 

T0.A CHILD IN TRE SUNSHINE,

 

BY ALLENNA AUDLEY.

 

Smile, smile rosy lips,
In the.sunshine singing 5
Smile, for merrily old Time
Your glad days are winging!
Like a rose, all dainty-ripe,
Your sweet life shall ripen,
Pill the years, through smiles and tears,
In sunset time shall brighten!
2

8

Leap, leap little feet,
Through the world a-Maying;

Sin has thorny ways, may you
Never bea-straying!

On a primrose bank sit you,
Flower amid the flowers,

Neyer did a sweeter saint
Bud in earthly bowers!

Sing, sing little heart,
Violet-sweet your songs are;

Claiming’ all your happy rights,
Knowing not: what wrongs are}

Faith and hope’shine in your eyes,
Beat in your heart's pulses;

May the God of Love guide all
Your innocent impulses!

 

SNORE Rae .

Midnight Prophecy;

OR, THE
HEIR OF STRATHSPEY TOWERS.

By Mrs, Schwyler, Meserote,
Author of “WEDDED FOR AN HOUR,” ete.

 

(“The Midnight Prophecy”? was commenced in No. 33. Back
Nos. can be obtained from any News Agent in the United States. ]

‘CHAPTER, LIII.
MAGGIE IS MISSING.

Doctor Renfrew drove across from Ravenswold in the
summer twilight, passing the captain and Lady Marguerite
just beyond the park. p SaaS

“Tell Maggie I could not call in as I promised,” said
Marguerite, “itis so late—and be sure and bring ler with
you in the morning.” . :

The old doctor nodded pleasantly, and urged his pony
forward, humming softly to himself, as he meditated:

“That fellow’s face strikes me everytime I see him,’’ he
was thinking, “I must have met. before—yet I can’t re-
member when! <A fine, whole-hearted fellow, and poor
little Pearl loves him. JI wonder if they will marry her to
Brompton? «Shouldn't wonder? And he’s changed ont
of all belief, Brompton, has. J liked him that summer he
stopped in. Northumberland—but. now—pah—his face
makes me sick! It would be a pity to throw pretty Pearl
away on such acad. But that old ogre of a countess has
the whole of em under her thumb, Strathspey and all. I
think I'll sound him on fhe subject, for Marguerite’s sake
L like the child—she’s so like her mother.”

The sun was quite down, andthe golden gloom of the
summer twilight wrapped the old highland home, as he
approached. Ile saw the carriage in the stable-yard, and
knew that his sister and her husband had returned from
‘Perth: :

ownhere’s Maggie?" le wondered, “she’s always onthe
watch for me! Looking at Janet’s purchases, no doubt—
fond o’ finery, woman-like.’’

He smiled grimly inthe gloom, and then
went back to the Strathspey’s.

“Poor Strathspey, if ever a man was fo be pitied, he is—
the sooner death comes to him the better. I knew it
would be so! L wonder what he’ll do with that rascally
son of his—or so-called son? Whatarnufilanly brute he is!
It will be a difficult matter to disown him now, there’s not
a bit o’ proof to begin with—and the other child’s gone,
Bless me, what atangle it. allis! I wonder who’s at the
bottom ofit, and what, it all, means???

He had reached the gate by this time, and the stable-boy
came forward to take bis horse, AS. he stepped down from
the buggy, he saw his sister running down from the house
to meet him. Her face was very white in the semi-dark-
ness.

“Kenneth,” she cried,
Rayenswold 27"

“No! She hasn't been to Ravenswold to-day.”

“Then it’s very strange.” continued his sister;
gone, and none of the’ servants know where—the cook
says she made the queen-cake about three ‘o’clock, and
then went up to her room, and no one’s seen her since.’’

“Oh, she’s out in the grounds somewhere,” replied the
doctor, carelessly. but his face looked pale, and he made
mighty strides toward the house.

“But her room’s all in, disorder,’ continued Mrs. Keith;
“and that trunk’s open, and some of the things are out—
that’s strange!’ : :

The old man made no answer, he pushed his sister aside,
and made his way to Maggie’s apartment. The window
was open, and the suit of infant’s clothing still hung on
the sill, where Maggie had hung the articles in the sun-
shine. The flannel cloak, with its satin lining ripped loose,
had fallen to the floor; and the trunk was open, and tie
jewel-caskets in full view. | ;

Doctor Renfrew stood and gazed about him in utter
bewilderment. What could it mean?

“And all Maggie’s clothing is here, even her hat and
shawl,’ said his sister, coming to his side. ‘‘Kenneth,
what can it mean? Where is she??? .

The old man made no answer. His gray eyes were
fixed upon the torn lining of the flannel cloak.

“What does that mean??? he said, at last, half aloud,
half to himself; ‘“‘what was in there? Some proof of the
child’s identity ?””

Then all at once he turned to his sister, with a white,
awed face.

“There’s something wrong, Janet,’? he cried. ‘My
heart misgives me. Where’s my bairn, my one ewe
lanrb? If harm* befalls her, my gray hairs will go down
in sorrow to the graye. She was all I hadin the wide
world.” ;

He dropped down upon the side of the bed and sobbed
like a child. :

Meanwhile, Mr. Keith, a very shrewd and energetic
man, who had once been a member of the Scotland yard
fraternity, was making investigations. He questioned the
servants, and examined the premises, and found out that
a carriage, a two-wheeled. affair, had been stationed be-
low the house. The prints of the wheels and of the
horses’ feet were quite visible. ;

And when Captain Fossbrooke returned from Ravens-
wold, an hour later, he testified to having passed a vehi-
cle of that description, with a gentleman driving, anda
lady lying prostrate across the seat.

“Who did the man look like?” questioned the doctor;
“describe him!'?

The captain hesitated. ,

“Why, Fossbrooke,’”? cried the old man, ‘would you
keep back the truth in a case likethis? My daughter’s
lite, her honor, may be in jeopardy”?

The captain spoke out:

“Lady Marguerite thought he looked like her brother,
‘Lord Angus,’? he said. ; ;

“And you?” putin Mr. Keith, Sharply.

“T thought so, too—thought so, remember.
all certain.” :

“Tam,then,” replied the doctor; ‘I feared the worst
fyom the .first—that young villain has kidnapped my
daughter. Keith,’? he added, springing up excitedly,
‘there's not asecond to lose—do you put the. best detec-
tives in the country on his track—ana, captain. if you'll
accomipany me, we'll drive back to Ravenswold and see
the earl.’?

By moonlight the Whilom peaceful highlands were in a
whirl of excitement and commotion. Men were gallop-
ing like troopers up.and down the highways, making in-
quiries at every point, and from every individual, and
half-a-dozen detectives, warned by telegram of what had
taken place, were on their way to the scene of action.

Lady Neville- went to bed from grief and shame, the
countess uttered all manner of execrations, and Lady
Marguerite kept her own apartments, in disgrace for hay-
ing so far forgotten herself as fo ride with Captain Foss-
brooke, and in terror for the fate of her friend. a

The earl was awfully worked up, and vowed all manner
of vengeance on his recreant heir, if he really turned out
to be the offender.

“As if,’ so.said Lady Neville, ‘poor Angus were to
blame! Even it the whole thing were true, of course the
shameless girl enticed him to carry her off! For her part,
she had never fancied the doctor’s daughter! And such
ahue and cry as they were making over it. If it were
not for her regard for the countess she would take rail for
London before night.”’

“Wait till the wedding’s over,” suggested the dowager;
‘Jet’s get Marguerite married first—and the sooner the
better.”?

In the hight of the hubbub, Sir Bayard Brompton re-
turned from London, accompanied by-his valet, Leonard.
He found it so awkward to get on without his valet.

But the whole structure of suspicion toppled over with
a crash when only two days after Maggie’s disappearauce
Lord Angus rode leisurely up the avenue to Ravensywold
with as cool and easy an airasif no misunderstanding
had ever arisen between him and his father.

Pearl was on the terrace and espied him first, and flew
to meet and warn him. She loved her coarse, brutal
brother, with all his errors,

“Oh, Angus,’’ she cried, clasping both his hands, ‘I am
so glad you have come—there issuch an awful thing—and
papa isso angry—and Doctor Renfrew has detectives
everywhere. Oh, Angus, you did not do it, did you?”

The young man burst into a laugh.

“why, Pearl, my dear Child,’ he cried, ‘what can
mean? What’s tle matter? Didn’t l dowhat?”?

“Why carry off Maggie, to be sure,’? replied Pearl, in-
nocently; “she’s gone and no one knows where, and they
all say that you took her away.”?

“Child, are you losing your senses.

his thoughts

‘where’s Maggie? isn’tshe at

“she

Iam not at

you

Maggie, who’s

j gone???

“Maggie Renfrew. Oh, Angus, say you did not carry
Tees th is such a terrible thing—l’m sure you didn’t
it.

first, time, perhaps, in all his life.
_ No, Marguerite,” le replied, ‘I did not earry off Mag-
gie Renfrew, certainly; know nothing about her’—and

 

he added, as he saw the earl advancing—‘‘yonder comes

Her brother patted her golden head caressively, for the

 

your papa, as you cali him; you must make my peace with
him, Peart.” "

She flew like an arrow to intercept her father, always
eager to do good. s

“Oh, papa,” she cried, ‘dear papa, brother Angus is
here, and he is innocent; he knows, nothing of Magygie,
and you musin’t be angry with him. a moment longer—
you won’t now please, dear papa ?? : ie

But the earl, put the lovely young intercessor aside, al-
most roughly ana advanced to meet his son. eee.

“Have you dared to Gome into my presence again, sir 7?
he thundered, the very sight of the young man’s face put-
ting him in a passion. : :

“Well, yes, sir, ] have,’ replied Lord Angus, quietly.
‘“Thave come toask your pardon—I was wrong—[am
hot-headed like yourself, Can’t you forgive me, and re-
tract your threat of disinheritance ?” :

“What have you done with Doctor Renfrew’s daugh-
ter?’ questioned the eari, taking no heedof what he
said. ‘

“The duse take Doctor Renfrew and iis daughter too;
what have I to do with her?”

“Didnt you carry her off two evenings ago from Mrs.
Keith's ?? ‘

The young man laughed.

“Upon my word,” nesaid, ‘one would: think your

Highland trip had turned all your brains—every soul I’

meet comes at me: about ‘Rentrew’s, daughter. No, I
didn't carry her off, and didn’) want her. Will that do?”

His bold eyes never faltered. The earl was. staggered,
and stood silent.

‘Well,?? continued the young man, after 2 momentary
pause, “is it to be peace or war between us? Can Icome
in for the night, father??? 5

Lord Strathspey’s: heart thrilled.) The boy had called
him father forso many years. It pained him: inexpressi-
bly ‘to treat hinvill, villain though he knew himito be.

“Not now,?? he said. his voice softening; ‘ride over to
Keith’s first and convince Renfrew. that you know noth-
ing of his daughter; if you are innocent.”

“Not 1,7? replied Lord Angus. .‘‘If he wants to be con-
vineed Jet him come to, me; 1 shan’t bother about him; 111

| go back to Perth since you give me such 2 cool welcome.”’

And suiting the action to the: word, he strode away
toward bis horse. The earl stood gazing after him, with
a bitter pain at his heart. After all his hopes and prayers
for an heir, to be disappointed so, Was alinost’ more than
he could bear.

He remenibered the day when the boy was restored to
him; and how he rejoiced. -How tenderly lie had loved
him, how. carefully he had trained him, through all the
year's of his boyhood, and now, this was his reward. He
was 4 brute, a villian, well-nigh a murderer—and he was
not his son. The earl felt sure of the truth, as he stood
there in the summer twilight, the boy he had reared as
his own was not his son. Yet, when his passion and ex-
citement, were over, it was no pleasant thing to think
even of proclaiming the fact to the world, and disinherit-

ing him; no pleasant thing to do, especially to @ man’

like the earl, hot-tempered and impulsive, but kind and
gentle of heart. :

Lady Marguerite, who had crept to her father’s side
again, was watching his face, and seeing its unutterable
sadness and despair, she stole her soft hand into his, and
whispered: : : :

‘Dear, dear papa, please forgive him! please call him
back!”

The tears filled her father’s eyes, but he shook his head
slowly. Then a sudden thought strnck him. Te took
out his memorandum book and tore olf a blank leaf, upon
which he wrote a few lines.

“Here, Pearl,’? he said, run and give him this, but Iet
him go on—it is better that he should.””

Pearl took the paper, and flew after her brother, who
was on the point of mounting his horse. ‘

‘Were, Angus,’’?. she cried, “papa sent you this, and
he’s not. a bit. angry with you.”

The young man took the paper, and his eyes flashed as
they ran over it. Jt was the earl’s order for a thousand
pounds.

“Much obliged, my dear,’”? he replied, ‘and very con-
siderate of your, ‘dear papa,’ I’m sure; butif he only had
a hintof the purpose this very timely little sum will be
put to, I’m quite sure he’d regret his generosity; but I
thank himvall the same, and bid you good-evening.””

Ile leaped into his saddle.and galloped away, and Lady
Marguerite returned to her father with asad and anxious
look in her dove eyes. Somehow her brother’s sneering
words and ugly looks had disappointed and disconcerted
her.

CHAPTER LIV.
\ THE PLOTTER PERPLEXED.

An evening or two.after the events of our last chapter,
Lady Neville and the countess gave a reception in honor
of Sir Bayard’s return from London. The spacious halls
of the old highland manor were brilliantly illuminated,
and thrown open to receive the elite of the Scottish no-
bility. A very grand affair it turned out tobe, for the
countess had a number of old friends in that vicinity, and
they all flocked in to pay their respects to her; and there
were a number of gentlemen from London, friends of the
earl, who had come to the highlands for the shooting
season. ‘

The old countess was never in her clement unless when
she had a ballon hand, or some bit of gayety, involving
fine dressing and music. With her seventy years, and
her wrinkles and gray hairs; she was still as spruce and
sprightly as any damsel in her teens. '

She wore the very finest of black velvet habits that
night, with laces at her throat and cuffs, yellow, cobweb
affairs, that were in themselves worth asnug fortune;
and one great diamond solitaire in the front of her
haughty turban, that glittered like the morning star.

Captain Fossbrooke was in waiting at the foot of the
wide, black-oak stairway, to escort the countess to the
drawing-room. The handsome captain was always on
the alert to please and flatter the dowager, and like most
women of her age, she was fond of flattery and, attention.
And it turned out that the captain. got to be one of her
prime favorites. She liked to have him beside her when
she drove out, and no one could please her at.a game of
chess as he did; and he made her sketches of all the
choice bits of landscape around her old manor, and made
himself so charming and agreeable, so entirely necessary
to her content and happiness that she would have re-
signed almost any, of her pet: indulgences sooner than
have given up the captain. 3

“Id give one half my fortune,’? she said to Lady Ne-
ville, as they were dressing for the reception, ‘‘if Bromp-
ton wasa man like Fossbrooke. «It would be some conm-
fort to leave one’s wealth and title in his hands then.
But of all the num-skulis I ever met, Sir Bayard is the
prince. I don’t wonder a bit that Marguerite doesn’t
like him.”? ‘

Lady Neville settled the folds.of her mauve silk medita-
tively, her delicate brows. arched in. weil-bred surprise.
If she had dared to speak severely to the countess, it was
in her heart to do so.

“My dearest countess,’? she implored, ‘I trust you will
not encourage Marguerite.in her foolish fancies—the poor
earl has trouble enough as it is--I wouldn’t have it come
to his ears that Marguerite was. thoughtless enough to
drive with Captain Fossbrooke, on any account. The
idea, an earl’s daughter, and a common soldier! and
Lady Neville put her jeweled perfume-bottle to her deli-
cate nostrils, as if the comparison sickened her.

The old dowager rattled her jeweled stick in a fury.

“7 drive withiFossbrooke,”’ she retorted, angrily, ‘and
you know I do; so don’t say too much.”?

“My dearest friend, I really meant no. harm,’ cried La-
dy Neville, in alarm, and willing to make any concessions
to conciliate the:countess.. “i like Captain Fossbrooke
myself; but very young girls are so unwise you know,
and so apt to be fascinated by handsome, military men—
and Pearl ——” i

“Pearlis pledged to marry Sir Bayard,’, put in the
countess, ‘and she’ll marry him. She’s not the girl to
break a promise.’?

“TL domt know,’ replied Lady Neville. ‘I shall feel re-

Jieved when the wedding is over. JI wish it could take

place to-morrow.”

“Tet’s have it then,’ said the countess. What's to hin-
der? Nothing but Strathspey’s silly notion that the mar-
riage must take place at that old rat’s nest, the Towers,
The trousseaw’s all in readiness, and awaiting my order
—suppose We order it here, and have the offair over.”

Lady Neville meditated, She was unspeakably harras-
ed on account of the earl’s movements, aud her one hope
of salvation lay in Pearl’s marriage. If the alliance with
the Countess of Mortlake should slip through their fingers,
their prestige and position would be forever lost; and
rather than lose caste inthe London world, rather than
be compelled to lower her haughty head in the eyes of her
aristocratic friends, Lady Neville would have sutfered
martyrdom. Shewas growing uneasy in regara to Mar-
cuerite. Her growing interest in Captain Fossbrooke, and
the dowager’s increasing fancy for him, and the captain's
cool insolence, together with Sir Bayard’s unaccountable
peculiarities, worried Lady Neville beyond expression.
She never knew an hour’s rest. If by any mischaneée that
foolish child should entangle herself to the captain, the
disgrace would be eternal. <All the pride of the whole
Strathspey’s race seemed to center inmy Lady Neville.

“JT cannot tell,’ she replied, after five minutes’ retlec-
tion, “whether if could be managed or not. J only know
that [ wish it could. There isno telling what may trans-
pire in afew weeks. Angus isin such a lamentable state
of mind, that he does not know one hour what he will do
the next. Tle hinted at not returning to the Towers
at all the other day, but going from hereto London, and
if Marguerite conimences the London season unmarried,
shell never be Sir Bayard’s wife.”

-“That’s true,’’? replied the countess, “and all the man’s
own fault—what can make him such adolt? The Bromp-
ton baronets were always clever men—always, and he
used to be sprightly once. I wonderif he-can have lost
his reason ?”? :

‘Don't you think you are prejudiced against him, my
dear countess??? asked Lady. Neville, ‘‘he seems tome as
clever and agreeable as most gentlemen.”

“Te does, eli? Well, I’m glad youw’re suited, and I’m
gladder still that Strathspey’ doesn’t notice him. If he
did the marriage would soon be sei aside. Men know
how to read each other, and there's some hidden page in
Sir Bayard’s life that holds a terrible secret. I can see
that much, even through my goggles. But he’s a Bromp-
tor and that covers a multitude of transgressions—lI
don’t care to see my own name brought down. I won?t
disinherit him, though I’m pretty sure he deserves it.
But Vil telk you what I will do,’? she added, after a mo-
ment’s reflection, tapping at her gold snuff-box, “1m an
old woman, and the grave’s not far ahead, ane I like to
have my conscience clean whéenIcan. Do you know,
Lady Neville, J can’t sleep now 0? nights for dreaming of
Marguerite’s white face? It haunts me. This marriage
will break the cbild’s heart.”

Lady Neville, stately in her mauve silk, listened in}

haughty silence,nota quiver of feeling or pity on per
cold, cruel lips.

 

“Tt haunts me, I say
“and Llike the child—and Ill teil you what 1) do, Pll give
her one-half my fortune and Sir Bayard the other half,
and if they don’t choose te marry they can let it alone.
What do you say to that??

“T have nothing to say,’? replied Lady Neville, hangh-
tily, ‘if your ludyship. sees fit to cancel the engagement,
now that it has been made public, and the settlements ar-
ranged, and the weddiug-day ainounced by the press,
well and good.”?

The dowager brought her cane down with angry force.

“Who wants tO break the engagement??? she stormed.
“Pm not the woman Lo eat my own promises. I’m sorry
for the girl, that’s all. Itis @ pity to marry a pretty crea-
ture like her against her will. Lhoped she might Jearn
to like Brompton, but she never will. However, yon are
her own flesh and blood, you and Strathspey, and if you
say Jet the wedding go on I’m content. But I won’t bear
the blame—I wash my hands clean of the whole affair.
Tell the earl so, and ask him what’s to be done,?? p

“T will speak to him aboutit,” said Lady Neville, rising,
“and we will abide by his decision.” " ;

“So we will—so we will,’ echoed the countess, seizing
her cane and leaving the chamber.

At the foot of ‘the great stairway Captain Fossbrooke
awaited her. A handsome, courtly gentleman, graceful
and self-possessed, with a simile and voice that were irre-
sistable. Ile held a dainty cluster of mountain piuks of a
very rare species in his hand.

~“Tremembered hearing your Jadyship express a wish
for some;”? he said, as he proffered them; ‘and T gathered
these on the very summit of the cliffs, if you will honor
me by accepting them ?”?

The old countess was excessively pleased and flattered.
She accepted the blossoms, nodding and smiling, and set
them in the creamy laces dn her breast. |

“Now,?? she said, with a delighted chuckle, ‘I shall
excite {he envy of half the women present. Shall we
go in?)?: at

The captain had offered her his arm, and now he paused
irresolutely, glancing toward the glitteriug drawing-rooms
beyond. :

“The guests are just beginning to come,”’ he ventured;
‘if your Jadyship would have the goodness to give me
five minutes’! audience—the green-house is unoccupied—
and—”?

“Tive minutes’ audience?’ interrupted the countess.
“Wor what, Ishouid like to know? What can you have
to say to me??? é

The captain smiled his irresistabie, winning smile and
led the way to the green-house.

The countess sat down under the shade of an aloe,
pushed back her goggles and crossed her withered hands
onthe jeweled knob of her cane. :

“Now,” she demanded, ‘what is it??? Me

The young soldier faced: her boldly, and without ‘em-
barrassment. :

‘Lady Brompton,’ he said, ‘I am going to tell you a
secret.”? : ; ° ,

“Out with it, then,” ejaculated the countess.

“And Iam going to do more,” he added, with that cool,
Winning, graceful boldness that was his chief charm; “‘f
am going to ask you to help nie—to be my friend.”

The dowager sat like'a sphinx, leaning on-her staff, not
a'sign of interest in her wrinkled face and twinkling gray
eyes.

“The secret first,’ she said; ‘‘let me hear what it is.*?

“T have ventured to:‘love Lady Marguerite Strathspey,”
said the ‘captain,-his arms folded across his stalwart
breast; his fine face all aglow with emotion.

“You have, eh??? grunted the countess.

 

“And, continued the dariug young solder, ‘‘she loves:

me in return.”

“And pray, Captain Fossbrooke,” cried ‘the dowager,
‘whatisit tome? ‘The Harl of Strathspey is the person
who-can help you, if he will.”

“T think the Countess of Mortlake is even more potent
than the: earl,”? returned the ‘captain; ‘‘at any rate, I
would sooner enlist her sympathy in my behalf.”

“That you are not very likely to do,’? replied the ‘old
woman, With @ wicked snile.

“Do not discourage me at the very outset, I implore,’
continued the young man, facing her again with that win-
ning smile in his brown eyes. ‘Il flattered myselt that I
was not only a friend, but a favorite with your ladyship,
and 1 cannot believe you will refuse to help me.” -

The countess laughed outright. His graceful daring
and conceit were amusing. The captain laughed, too,
but it was evident that he was deeply in earnest. f

“T Jove Lady Marguerite,” he went on, ‘and Sir Bayard
Brompton does not love her, and she never will lové him.
Now, my dear countess, I appeal to you as a woman—a
wife—is it well to force a lovely young thing like: her into
a marriage that is utterly distasteful. to her? Sheis
gentle, obedient, angelic—she will do whatever her friends
command; but, in Heayen’s name, do not command her
to marry aman she detests.”” i

“You arenot very complimentary to the baronet,’ in-
terposed the countess; ‘‘and. he is my kinsman—did you
know as much??? j

“JT know: that Sir Bayard Brompton is your kinsman,”’
replied the captain, with a peculiar expression; ‘but it
isn’t my habit to deal in compliments, or in detraction.
JT have nothing to say of the baronet—I only know that
Lady Marguerite is miserable, and that 1 love her.”

sAndavhatdo yourwant of me?’ cried the countess.
“Come te that point, will you???

“TI .want, you to help me. If I have not been misin-
formed, it was owing’to your Jadyship’s influence that the
existing engagement was contracted. Now, I want you
to reconsider the matter, and persuade the baronet, and
the earl, and all parties concerned, that it will be infin-
itely better: to: give Lady Marguerite to me—in short, I
want youto help metowinher’?  _

“You-ask me to disown my own kinsman, and help you
to make the young Countess of Mortlake your wife 7”

“J made no reference to property or titles; the baronet
is welcome to everything, save Lady Marguerite herself—
lL only ask for her.”?

The countess stared at him over her goggles fora full
minute. :

“Well, young man,’ she said, at last. “I must say that
your impudence surpasses anything and everything 1 have
ever encountered. Who and what are you, ptay ?”?

“A gentleman and a soldier,’? replied the captain,

uietly. ;
: “And you aspire to the hand of an earl’s daughter, and
she piedged to marry a baronet 7”?

“T love her!” é :

There was a lofty grace and sublimity about the man,
and everythiug he did and said, that won tie old countess
in spite of herself. : ‘ Ai}

“Well,” she said rising, and getting her cane in place;
“Tm nota heartless womanu—l confess that I’m sorry for
you, and for Marguerite too, but I can’t help you. Lord
Strathspey and his sister would see Marguerite in her
grave before they’d marry her to you.”?

“T think the Countess of Mortlake might win them
over,”’ suggested the captain.

“Pogsibly,’? said the dowager, “if she chose to disin-
herit her own kinsman, and endow yeu with'all her pos-
sessions—that she won’t do.??

“That I do not ask, but I do ask, entreat you, for Lady
Marguerite’s sake, do not force her into this marriage.’

“Don’t.ask me anything more—take me to the drawing-
room, will you?”
~ Captain Fossbroke obeyed, giving her his arm in silence
and conducting her fromthe dim silence of the green-
house, into the brilliant glare of the crowded drawing-
room. :

As they departed, from the dusky gloom beyond the aloe
tree, the figure of a man rose up, and glided through the
green-house with a noiseless step. Under the swaying
arch of illuminated evergreens, above the great gate-way,
he paused; and the twinkling tapers revealed the face of
Sir Bayard himself. An awful faceit was to look upon,
deathly white, and distorted with passion; the light, rest-
less eyes glowing with a kind of phosphorescent fire.

“It is he,” he muttered, in a hoarse, unnatural voice,
“it must be! Curse him! I thought he was done for. Did
that knave, Leonard, play me false, I wonder? Bat I won’t
be foiled—I won’t lose everything at the last moment! Ili
do the work myself-this time, and do it right.”

He crept on, with a sinuous, serpent-like motion,
through the gates, and out under the stately oaks that
shaded the park. And, as iffate willed it, just a step or
tivo beyond, he met his yalet. He was stroliing leisurely
along, with a cigar between his teeth, and a smoldering
fire in his Moorish eyes. Without parley or explanation,
the baronet seized him by the collar.

“You played me false, you Villain,’’ he cried in a hoarse
whisper, ‘you lied to me!}??

Leonard wrenched himself free, and faced his master
with a scowl. :

“Tied about what ??? he demanded.

“About Sir Bayard Brompton,” replied the baronet, his
lips growing white as he uttered the name; ‘‘you said you
did the job right, safe,”’ with a significant gesture.

“Who says I didn’t?” demanded Leonard. ‘I did do it,
and I want my reward, that’s more!”

“You didn’t complete your work,’ continued the baro-
net, “he’s rere, alive—and he'll supplant me yet.”?

The valet staggered back, and grew white with terror.

“Sir Bayard here?” he ejaculated. <I tell you he’s not
here!: He was dead, DEAD, DEAD—he's not here!”

“Then some one is, who bears a strong resemblance to
him,’ replied his master, ‘and he must be got out of the
way, and that quickly or the game’s up. I shall marry in
tivo months, and come into possession, if all goes well—
and youll bave your ten thousand pounds by Christmas—
but this man, whoever he is, is bent on defeating me. He
must disappear—how shall we manage it?”

Leonard gnawed at lis black mustache in silence. *

“Tshan’trun the risk of hanging for nothing,’? he
grumbled at last. “I want some show for my pay.”

“You shall have it,” replied the baronet, ‘the day, the
hour, it comes into my hands. What more can I do?”

“Pay me some now. You can do it--you’ve got mo-
ney.” ‘ -

The baronet could not deny the fact. He had money.
Twice, since his engagement with Lady Marguerite, had
the generous old countess replenished his purse; and lie
was not an extravagant man. He loved his gold for its
own sake, not for whatit brought him. It hurt him sore
to part with it, but his present necessity was dire.

“Tow much do you want ?? he asked.

“Three hundred. pounds, at once.

“You shall have it to-morrow morning.
to be done?” :

“DIL see’? nodded the valet; ‘first of all, I must get
my eyes on this man. How can 1?”

The baron meditated.

“Come with me.” he said; ‘‘vou can stand on the ter-
race yonder and look through the window into the draw-
ing-rooms. When l.make an signal you will see hin.”

The valet followed him and took his position on the ter-
race, while Sir Bayard made his way into the glittering
drawing-room. Atthe monient of his entrance the music
begun with a crash; and at the very head of the set stood
Captain Fossbrooke with Lady Marguerite on lis arm,

Now, what’s

a ; o

* went on the queer old countess,

Lady Marguerite, radiant in pale, shimmering siik, frost-
ed with finest lace, her golden hair wreathed with rose-
buds, her sweet, girlish face all aglow with happiness.

The baronet made his way down the long room till he
was opposite the terrace window, then he made his sign,
and Captain Fossbrooke whirled away, with his lovely
partner, tothe mazy numbers of a Strauss’ waltz, all un-
conscious of the deadly eyes that watched him.

[TO BE CONTINUED. ],
a

ITEMS OF INTEREST.

4as- Chevalier Peter de Claussen, inyentor and improy-
er of machinery for lace-making and cotton-spinning,
died recently, at ‘an advanced age, at the City of London
Lunatic Asylum. His inventions were exhibited and at-
tracted much attention at the Great Exhibition, and were
largely patronized by the trade, and ‘he was on the high
road to prosperity, but unfortunately his pecuniary af-
fairs became complicated, resulting in,bankruptcy to the
extent of upward of £70,000, This calamity affected his
brain, producing insanity, and necessitating his confine-
ment in the asylum. . : 3
BS Remarkable stories are related of the marvelous
instinct, amounting almost to reason,shown by rats in
avoiding the snares set for their destruction. The follow-
ing singular instance of thisis related:to have recentiy
occurred in Chicago: In a house where the rats had been
vel'y. troublesome traps had long been set, but to no pur-
pose. Finally some of the family deterniined to watch the
trap. It was cunningly set.- Soon’a young rat appearea
and was about stepping on the fatal spring, when .an old
rat rushed to the rescue, seized the indiscreet juyenile by
the tail, and dragged him off to his hoie.

kas On the 2ist of August last, Mrs. Timothy Bradlee
of Trumbull county, Ohio, gavebirth to eight children—
three girls and five boys. They are all living, and are
healthy but quite small. Mr. Bradlee was
years ago to Hunice Mowery, who weighed 273 pounds on
the day of her marriage. She has given birth to two pairs
of twins, and now eight more, making twelve children in
six years. Mrs. Bradlee was a triplet, her mother and
father being twins, and her grandmother the mother of
five pairs of twins.

 

Conqueror, situated on the Normandy coast at Benneville,
was put up at auction the other day, and knocked down
for a mederate price.‘ If was there that the redoubtable
soldier planned his schemes of conquest, and a French
paper says: ‘‘The Hnglish coasts, which he sniffed from
there, though they, were ludden irom his eye, perpetually
excited his appetite.”? In later days the chateau was
used as a prison by Richard Coeur de Lion. Under Fran-
cis J. it was a hunting-lodge; anduow dt is a ruin.

ka The European journals announce the death, in her
102d year, of the Manquise:de Cornimont de Bellefon-
taine, at her chateau tn the. Vosges... The deceased was
lady of honor to Queen Marie Antoinette, and owed her
preservation, at the time of the invasion of the Tuileries,
to the devotedness of ‘a Swiss, who rolled her up ina
packet of linen, and afterward concealed her in his house
for several days. She left France. at«that period, and did
not return until the reign of Charles X. Her husband was
for a long time the king’s aide-de-canip,

xa The Rev. Thomas Binney, an English clergyman,
attacks the modern practice of clergymen wearing beards
and mustaches. He puts’ his principal objection thus:
“While beard and mustache. interfere with distinct utter-
ance, impeding clear and effective speech, both together,
or even one orthe other separately, obstructs the play
and expression of the mouth, and thus hides and hinders
the manifestation of feeling.”

sar It is said that in Germany, after‘the 1st of May,
there will be but one executioner. He will reside at Ber-
lin, and receive two hundred dollars for each execution.
A similar system prevails in France, and her executioner
recently returned (o Paris, after having made a tour of
the provinces, during which he dispatched a number of
criminals under sentence of death.

xa A distinguished Italian engineer has just been ar-
rested for poisoning no less than eighteen persons, among
whom were his father, brother, wile, and children. It ap-
pears that he became involved in financial troubles, and
thought to extricate himself by the property of his rela-
tives which he should inherit. } ‘

ka The arbitrators at Geneva have awarded to the
United States $15,500,000, to be paid in gold by England
within one year, for losses sustained by the acis of the
Alabama, Florida and Shenandoah during the late War of
the Rebellion.

the age of 105 years. Diana Mingo was her name, and
Africa her nation. As a matter of course, she was on in-
timate terms with General Washington, and the personal
friend of Lafayette. 1

kas- By a vote of 13 to 4, the Louisville School Board
sustains the use of the rattan in sehool.
@

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Jeast three times a year. This is necessary to avoid mistakes in
printing extras for persons who have removed or retired from the
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4, ROUGH AND READY; or, Life Among the New York News
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Yattered om Series.
_A continuation of the Ragged Dick Series, to be completed in
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Three Vols. in Box. Priee, $1.25 per vol.

1, TATTERED TOM; or, The Story of a Street Arab.
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4, SLOW AND SURE; or, From the Sidewalk to the Shop, in

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mem OO ND Re

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married six.

kar It is stated that the old chateau of William the ;

* Ra Albany mourns the loss of its oldest inhabitant at

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

THE DRUNKARD'S WIFE.

BY FRANCIS S. SMITH.

Tam dying, Willie, dying,
Death’s dew ison my brow;
Come closer—let me gaze on you,
For you are sober now.
Your eyes beam kindly on me—
Your voice is soft and low—
And your presence brings to light again
The blessed long ago.

®
I’m thinking of the happy time
Ere you and I were wed,
When daily blessings seemed to fall
Like incense on my head—

When great joy filled my bosom,
And my step was light and free,
And you, a bright-eyed, fearless boy,

Were all the world to me.

Oh, how I loved you, Willie!
And I love you, darling, yet—
Your kindness in that golden time
I never can forget.
And I do not mean to-chide you,
When a backward view I cast;
And shudder at the gulf between
The present and the past.

Forgive me, Willie, darling,
If my words have caused you pain
I will not call up memories
Of the long ago again.
But I must speak of the present,
For I have that to say
Which I would have you think of,
When I am snatched away.

Our little boy, oh, Willie,
He is pure and sinless now—

There is no shade of crime or vice
Upon his baby brow—

His heart is free from bitterness
His soul is pure as snow—

Oh, Willie, in the years to come
See that you keep him so.

You have sworn upon the Bible
That you ne’er again will taste

The poison that has ruined us
And made our lives a waste.

' If you keep that solemn covenant

As long as life shall last,

Our boy is safe, and God will grant
Forgiveness for the past.

Come closer to me, darling,

Let me fold you to my breast,
Ere the shadows close around me
And I sink to dreamless rest.

Oh, the weary, weary hours,
And the bitter, bitter pain,
Are lifted from my bosom
And all is peace again.
Iam dying, Willie, dying,
But for me all pain is o’er;
And P’iLlook for you, my darling,
When I reach the golden shore.
God will’d that I should perish
To save you and our boy,
And I go to seek His presence
With an eager, eager joy.

“WHO DID IT?”

BY JOHN B. SEARL.

Two little women sat talking together very earnestly
one afternoon, in a little sitting-room of a little cottage in
a little’village not far from the city of New York. That
their conversation was no mere gossip, but on some sub-
ject of vital importance, was very evident; not because
they talked a very long time without stopping, because
we all know that women generally, and little women
especially, have a reputation for having very lengthy
talks on subjects of no importance whatever. ‘

Nor does our evidence rest on the fact that at certain
intervals of the conversation they looked very carefully
around the room, to see that nobody was near, and then
‘put their little heads together and whispered; for we

now, too, that little women have a reputation for going
through this sort of freemasonry when they are going to
tell a secret they wish everybody to know. But when we
see a little woman stamp her foot emphatically, and say
as emphatically, ‘It shall be done!’ we:must come to the
conclusion that something of importance is either project-
ed or under way; and in this case little women have no
reputation to the contrary at all.

The whole fact of the matter was this: There lived in
the same village a third little woman, who, but a few
years before, had been known as Maggie Fitch, a dear
friend and schoolmate of the two already mentioned, but
but who had been induced to change her name from
Fitch to Weno, and in doing so had changed her condi-
tion from the happy daughter of a respectable farmer to
the miserable wife of a loathsome drunkard. Not that
her husband had always been a drinking man—no, in-
deed, I knew him when he was as fine a young fellow as
ever lived, a member of the church and a teacher in the
Sabbath school. At one time he was very severe on
cigars and smokers, and had been heard to say that it
was his opinion no smoker could be a good Christian.
But after a while he began to smoke, and finally seemed
to believe that no man could be a good Christian unless
he smoked. This was before he commenced drinking,
and while he was paying attentions to Maggie Fitch. The
only place in town where he could get good cigars was at
Logan’s, a drinking and gambling saloon, and at this
place I suppose he tasted his first glass; at any rate, at

the time of the story he was a confirmed drunkard, and it |

was only three years since he had married Maggie.

it worried Maggie awfully when her husband began to
drink—worried her so that she had a fit of sickness, which
hadthe effect of stopping him in his downward career for
awhile; butasshe grew better, he got worse, and not hay-
ing very great force of mind—never dreaming she could
do anything toward reforming him—she finally settled
down as a drunkard’s wife, indulged in a cry very often,
and once in a while she would run over to oife or the
other of her two friends and tell her troubles.

As this brings us back to those two little women, I sup-
pose I may.as well stop right here and tell what I know
about them.

I have called them little women, because I knew of no
expression in the English language better fitted to
describe them. They were neither of them married, and
had both passed the romantic age of sixteen, one of them
ten and the other six years before. The older of the two
‘was known as Isabel Schuyler—the younger by tiie not
very melodious and decidedly unromantic name of Sarah
Jane Brown. Now, aithough Isabel and Sarah Jane were
not married, I would not have you understand by any
means that they were old maids, nor did it seem likely at
the time of my story that either of them would be, for
they were both of them in a very sensible way engaged—
Isabel was to be married to a man two years younger than
herself, by trade a carpenter, by name Harry Spencer—a
young man possessed of good education, fine intellect,
polished manners and a large heart, but unfortunately, as
is the case with most large-hearted people, a very small
pocket-book. But, as I intimated before, this was a sen-
sible match. They were engaged because they loved each
other, and that Harry was not rich did not‘so much mat-
ter to Isabel, for she had not been accustomed to luxury,
put had learned to make cake without milk, and do many
other things that people who are not rich find it neces-
sary. -

As for Sarah, she expected in time to become Mrs. Rev.
R. S. Eldridge—the said. Dominie Eldridge at this time
being stationed in a town some miles off.

Now I have told you all that I know about them, and
will go with my story, before which, however, let me in-
troduce right here, Dr. Straight, the only homeopathist in
our town. Dr. Straight was an old bachelor of filty or

_ thereabouts, and rather queer in some of his ways, as most
old bachelors are.

He always rode a horse, of which he thought more than
of. any patient; so much, indeed, did he think of his
horse, that in very hot weather he carried an umbretla to
keep the sun from shining on the horse’s head, altogether
regardless of his own, which was generally covered with
either a very broad-brimmed Panama or felt hat. Dr.
Straight thought the homeopathists were the only school
of physicians extant. In religion, Ecclesiastical demo-
eracy was his hobby. In general conversation he was apt

’ to be rather blunt in his expressions, therevy making for
himself many enemies. For all his oddities, Dr. Straight
was a good man, and wanted to do right, but if any man
in this world was least calculated to do any thing in the
way of reform, he was the man. And yet, without any
knowledge on his part of the determination of others, he
had selected James Weno as a man to be reformed.

When one of the two litthe women stamped her little
foot, and said, “It shall be done,’ the reformation of
James Weno was also her object.

On the evening of the day on which my story com-
mences, James Weno lef homeand made his way to-
ward Logan’s saloon. It was not yet dark, and on his
way dow he happened to meet Sarah and Isabel, who
very pleasantly said, “Good evening, Mr. Weno,” which
he answered by growling, “Good evening,’’ and passed
on, Seemingly unconcerned; but the very idea of being
spoken to by respectable people, and called Mr. Weno,
brought to his mind atime when this was always the
case—a time not very far inthe past, either. “But he
kept on his way, and was soon at his liquor.

Maggie had put the little one to bed, aud was coming
down stairs, when she heard a knock at the front door,
and going to see who it was, found Isabet and Sarah, ac-
companied by Mr. Spencer.

Maggie was down-hearted, and invited the friends in,
in a very melancholy sort ofa way. They cheered up her
little heart as best they could, and proceeded to tell her
that they had devised a plan for the reformation of Mr.
Weno. What it was they couldu’t tell her as yet, but they
would soon, and then they left.

Human nature is a strange sort of a thing. Although

Maggie had been an easy sort of woman, allowing her-
self to be imposed upon without resentment, and not very
apt to do anything wonderful at any time, and although
the idea of her husband reforming was the brightest
thing of which she could think, an object for which she
had ina way prayed for, yet the idea of somebody else
doing what seemed to be her duty made her feel just a
little jealous, and made her think, and her thinking made
her strong, and determined that she herself would reform
her husband, and that by love. ;

James came home drunk as usual that night, and
seemed very much astonished at seeing his wife up, and
still more so at seeing the teapot on the stove ready for
him. He looked at Maggie, and then at the teapot, in a
drunken sort of way, staggered to the stove, took the
teapot and threw it out the window: staggered to his
wife, took her by the hair, dragged her to the stairs, and
told her to go to bed, and not stay up and keep the tea hot
again to torment him. :

Poor Maggie! this had been her first experiment, and it
seemed to be a failure. She went up stairs, a weak wo-
man again, and cried. She thought over the past and of
the present, but dared not think of the future.

But for the little one in the crib, beside which she was
kneeling, and over whom she wept in such sorrow, Mag-
gie would at that moment have welcomed death.

Next morning she felt strong, and determined to try
again, so she spoke to James pleasantly, and as he went
out to-his work she put her little arms around his neck,
Kissed him, and told him to be a good husband, and felt
happy when she saw a tear-drop in his eye ; then she ran
into the house and had a real good cry herself.

That day James thought of Maggie, and made up his mind
todo better; and great was the delight of his little wife that
evening when he asked her to take a walk with him, in-
stead of going out alone.

Soon her bonnet was on and her arm in his they walked
down the street. ,

Now on this very evening Dr. Straight, bent on reform,
mounted his horse and drove down to Logan’s, expecting
either to meet James or wait at the door until he came.
He dismounted and waited—waited a very long time—
but James did not come; so he remounted and-drove up
the street-just in time to meet Mr. and Mrs. Weno return-
ing home.

He rode up to them, and without noticing Maggie, asked
James very abruptly what he was going-to perdition for.
Of course, James was very much surprised, and wanted
to know what he meant.

“What I want to know is,”’ said the doctor, ‘“‘what you’
are going on in this way for? Never mind; keep on, and
you'll get to Pandemonium yet before you're ready. Keep
right straight on, it’s just before you.”’

Having delivered himselfof this speech he rode away,
much to their relief. :

was his home, and he could not help thinking that there
was something in what the doctor had said; that it was
an unhappy place for at least one.

But._the doctor's noble efforts, and Maggie's wifely ones,

nor even James’ resolution seemed to have any effect, for
next night he went out andcame home drunk again—
pot be surely to discourage Maggie, and it did discour-
age her.
,. But- the two little women hadaplan. It may have
been a little wicked—I think it was, and J think that you
will agree with me, but the object was a good one. For
several evenings James went out and came home drunk,
as usual, and it seemed as though it were useless to do
anything to-reform him.

But Isabel and Sarah determined that the plan they had
concocted shouid be tried. To have the plan work suc-
cessfully, they must have tie co-operation of a doctor, so
they confided their plan to Doctor Straight, and one even-
ing they went over to Maggie’s and revealed their plan.
Maggie was to be very sick, Doctor Straight was to be
called, and Sarah Jane was to take care of Maggie, and
Isabel of the little one. James. would be worried. The
doctor was to say that constant excitement and worri-
ment.had brought this sickness on, andif anything should
excite her now she would surely die. James, if he valued
the life of his wife, must keep sober, at least for the pre-
sent. The doctor was also to caution him that a second
attack would be fatal; James would be scared and would
mot drink any more. After hearing the plan, Maggie
hesitated a moment, and then said:

“T thank you very kindly for yourinterest in me. I ad-
mit Iam wretched and unhappy, and have given up all
hopes of ever being anything else. But although James
does drink, and abuses me sometimes, he is real good in
many things, and [love him now more than the day we
were married. One thing I never will do for any end—I
ever will deceive my husband.”’

Noble little woman!’ She burst out crying, and her
friends left her. Very much to her joy and surprise,
James came home sober, and made her happy by not go-
ing out next night.

As they were sitting together talking, and very happy,
there came a knock at the door. James answered it, and
Doctor Straight came in. Without noticing James, the
doctor said:

“Mrs. Weno, your husband’s a fool and a drunkard.
You’re too good for him, and never will be happy with
him. My advice is for you to leave him. There are plenty
places——"”

The doctor’s sentence was broken here by somebody
taking him by the collar and dragging hin toward the
door. He went out very rapidly,and his Panama fol-
lowed. Very likely he knew how it was he got outside,
but he never told anybody.

For the succeeding two or three nigkts James remained
at home, but on Saturday, he went out in the old way.
Maggie’s heart sank, and she sat down and cried, and she
was crying still when a little while after the door opened,
and James entered, bringing with him a number of pareels,
containing provisions, a pair of slippers for Maggie and
various useful artieles. : :
James Weno never came home drunk again, but it was
a long time before he told his wife that he overheard her
say: ‘“‘I’ll never deceive my husband,” and at that time
had sworft that with all the power of kis manhood he
would resist temptation and crush his appetite for liquor.
He is a fine, middle-aged gentleman new, quite well-off |
in this world’s goods, with & happy wife and two pretty |
children. :

As to James?’ reform, the two little women claim that
they should have the credit, for had they not concoeted the.
plan James could never have everheard it, and Maggie is
perfectly willing they should have it. Doetor Straight
thinks the credit is due him, because he scared James, but
James says it was all Maggie's doings.

MUCH IN LITTLE.

HOW THE EYE IS. SWEPT AND WASHED.—For us to be
able to see objects clearly, it is necessary that the eye
should be kept clean. For this purpose it is furnished
with a little gland from which flows a watery fluid (tears,)
which is spread over the eye by the lid, and is afterward
swept off by it and runs through a hole im the bone to the
inner surface of the nose, while the warm air is passing
over it. It is remarkable that no such gland can be found
in the eyes of a fish, as the element in which they live an-
swers the same purpose. If the eyes had not been fur-
nished with a liquid to wash it, and a lid to sweep it off,
things would appear as they do. when we look through a
misty glass. Along the edges of the eye-lids there are a
great number of little tubes or glands, from which flows
an oily substance which spreads over the skin, and thus
prevents the edges from being sore or irritated, and it
aiso helps to keep tears within the lid. There also are six
muscles attached to the eye which enable us to move it in
every direction; and when we consider the different mo-
tions they are capable of giving to the eye, we cannot but
admire the goodness of Him who formed them, and has
thus saved us the trouble of turning our head every time.
we wish to view an object. Although the eyes of some
animals are incapable of motion, as the fy, the beetle
and several other insects, yet the Creator has shown His
wisdom and goodness in furnishing their eyes with thous-
ands of iittle globes, and by placing their eyes in front of
their heads. A gentleinan who has. examined the eyes.of
a fly says that two eyes of a common one are composed
of 8,000 little globes, through every one of whiel: it is cap-
able of forming an image of an abjeet. Having prepared
the eye of the fly for the purpose, he placed it before his
microscope, and looked through both in the manner of a
telescope, at a steeple which was 229 feet high and 750
feet distant; and he says he could plainly see, through
every hemisphere, the whole steeple inverted, or turned
upside down. .

A SUNBEAM.—The greatest of physical paradoxes is the
sunbeam. It is the most pofent and versatile force we
have, and yet if behaves itself like the gentlest and most
acconmodating. Nothing can fall more softly or more
Silently upon. the earth than the rays of our great lumi-
nary—not even the feathery flakes of snow which thread
their way through the atmosphere as if they were too
filmy to yield .to the demands of gravity like grosser
things. The most delicate slip. of pold-leaf, exposed as a
target to the sun’s rays, is not stirred to the extent ofa
hair. though an infant’s faintest breath would set if in
tremulous motion. The most tender of human organs—
theapple of the eye—though pierced aud buffeted each
day by thousands of sunbeaiis, sutfers no pain during the
process, but rejoices in their sweetness, and blesses the
useful light. Yet a few of those raya, insinuating them-
selves into a& mass of iron will compel the closely knit
particles to separate, and will remove the whole enor-
mous fabric with as much ease asa giant would stir a
straw. The play of those beams upon our sheets of water
lifts up layer after layer into the atmosphcre, and hoists
whole rivers froin their beds, only to drop. them again in
snows upon the hills, or in fattening showers upon the
plains. Let but the air drink in a litue more sunshine in
one place than auother, aud out of it springs thre tempest
or the hurricane, which desolates a whole region in its lu-
natic wrath. The marvel is, that a power which is cap-
able of assuming such a diversity of forms, and of pro-
ducing such stupendous results, should come to us in-so
gentle, so peaceful, and go unpretentious a guise.

WATER TELESCOPES.—The people. of Norway carry in
their fishing-boats a water-telescope, or tube, three or
four feet in length. They immerse one end in the water,
aud then, looking intently through the glass, they are eu-
able lo perceive objects ten or filteen fathoms deep as dis-
tinetly as if they were within a few feet of the surface.
Se, when they discover plenty of fish they surround them
with their large draught nets, and often catch them in
hundreds at a haul, which, were it not for these teles-
copes, would frequently prove precarious and unprofitable
fishing. This instrumeutis mot only used by .the fisher-
mien, but it is also found in the nuvy aud coasting ves-
sels.

—_—_—_——_>-0+-____———

Another .ory of a living hero, entitied, Bra Foor
WALLACE vy Ned Bunuline will follow ‘Texas Jack.”

 

Now James was walking with his wife, and right ahead |.

PLEASANT PARAGRAPHS.

Contributions for this department should be marked
“Pleasant Paragraphs.’

[Most of our readers are undoubtedly capable of contributing to
ward making this column an attractive feature of the NEw YorK
WEEKLY, and they wiil oblige us by sending for publication any-
thing which may be deemed of sufficient interest for general pe-
rusal. It is not necessary that the articles should be penned in
scholarly style; so long’as. they are pithy, and likely to afford
amusement, minor defects will be remedied. ]

THE RUGG DOCUMENTS.
BY CLARA AUGUSTA.

I see plainly enuff that it’s high time for me to be up
and stirring of myself, or everything will go to rack and
ruin!

The way Jonathan Perkins is a carrying on is dreadful
to think of. After he signed them papers which bound
him to keep the peace and be a dutiful and affectionate
pardner till death did part him and me, I naterally ix-
pected that he’d try and walk circumflexly.

I never do undertake to have a comfortable little fit of
sickness all to myself but what sumthin’ or ruther will
turn up and spile it all, And to think that Jonathan
should have been and took my trade right out of my
hands, and gone to writing of these documents hisself,
without my permit, shows that men folks is desateful and
past finding out. i

And he don’t know a simmycolen from a commit, and
I w&xpect his punkteration was a sight to see!

I meant to have kept him there in the hen-house cham-

it otherways.

But of that, by-and-by. :

On the whole, I am glad Serefeeny Leavey has gone!
She’s got dreadful weakish red eyes, as Jonathan sez, and
I think a person is liable to ketch weak eyes by lookin’ at
’em in other folks; though to be sure I allers had my
specks atween us; “YThen‘she scents herself with musk,
and all the dogs in the neighborhood has been round a
sniffing and wagging their tails, all reddy to ge for the
musk rat that they evidently ixpected was a laying round
loose somewheres. -

_ I’ve got another boarder in place of her—a Miss Leavitt,
what acts onto the stage, and can spout whole pages of
Shakspeare without, once looking. on the book.

When I don’t’ have nothing else to do, Iset on the

chamber stairs and hear her. -It’s as good as going to a
circus, or a camp meeting.
, It seems from Jonathan’s own confession that he’s
thought of Seliny Clark fora secont wife! The old hoary-
headed sinner! that is, to say, he would be hoary-headed
if he didn’t wear a black wig!

I’ve give him a small piece of my mind on the subjict,
and likewise I’ve: spoke to Miss Clark about it, and she
was imperdunt enuff to laff in my face, and say that of
course an elderly person, like myself, couldn’t be ixpected
tounderstand the motives of a young girl! Young girl,
indeed! and she with not a tooth in her head, and old
enuff to be her own great-grandmother!

The man that gathers bugs has lost his appetite, and
pined away dreadfully sense Grub put hisself outside of
them speciments of hisn. He sez he wouldn’t have took
a hundred dollars for ’em, and I don’t believe he would,
for there haint a person on the face of the airth that would
be fool enuff to give half of that.

He don’t eat enuff to keep a middlin’-sized grasshopper
in good flesh, and I have to heave the cold puddin’ and
string beans out fo the pig, and he used to be such a bootie
ful hand to eat up all them things clean!

Larst night a sarcumSfanee took place that has shocked
me clean through! I’ve allers Knowed that human natur
was desateful and wicked, butI never could have believed
that some people was so onregenerated as I’ve found ‘em
to be. 1

I declare! if [had beéh @ minister, and tears would
have had apy effect onto, anybody, as ministers’ tears
does, I could have cried a few with all my heart! Speak-
ing of which, reminds me to remark that preachers that
ean ery easy ginerally have more revivals. A good faculty
for crying is a big capital fora minister! It’! fetch round
more young gals and elderly spinsters than all the Bible

' whacking in the world!’ And if I wasa going to give any

advice to the Purfessors of Geological Cemeterys where
they make ministers, I should tell them by aH means to
cultivate the art of crying easy. It’s likely that all the
long-faced, canting kind of folks will say ’m a dreadful
onrighteous individooal for making such a speech, but
them: folks haint never worth noticing no how.

But i was a going to tell you about larst night.
Sometime alter I'd been asleep, with a catnip poultice
on my rhumatiz, and a dreaming of finding a pot of ten
cent pieces buried in old Squire Beaver’s turnip yard,
with a dead span of rats tied to it, I was waked up by
sumthin? that sounded like I didn’t jestly know what.

I got out of bed with diffikulty, for my jints is stiff and
they cracked awfully, and looked out of the winder. It
was dark as: a: pockit, but Iseed a light right out cluss to
that hen house where Jonathan was captivated.

Ina secont F slipped into my clothes, grabbed: my am-
brill and crept out. And when I arriv there what do you
think I seed ? F

Why, Seliny Clark had been and got the long ladder out
of the oarn, and had sot it up aginst the hen-house cham-
ber window and had moented it, with a taller candle in
her hand! I seed'ina minnit what she was upto! She
was agoing to rescue Jonathan!

I stopt that little game to once. :

A little ways off was a pear tree, and grabbing the foot
of the ladder I jist swung it round so that the top of it
felk slash into the top-of the tree and Seliny still a hanging
to it, but she warn’t nowheres nigh the winder.

Such an onairthly sereech as she let out when I boosted
her you never heard: and it brung out the professor of
starology with nothing om bist his shirt and trowserloons.
He ‘is little nigh-sighted, especially by night, and he
never seed me at all. ANI that he had any eyes for was
the light up in the tree.

“Jupiter and Mars!’” yelled ke, jumping clean from the
ground with delight. “A: new plannit! bigger than Ve-
nuz! brighter than Mercury! Bless my soul! what a dis-
eovery! Won't Hannah take back all she’s sed about my
being a blockhead, now? Won't she, though? My name

will have a place in history! I must git my telescope and

have a better view!’

He sot sail for the house on a run, but I grabbed him
and held him back.

“Don’t decompose yourself, Professor,’’ sez I, “that
haint no star! I’ts only.a taller-dip, and lard into it, at
that!’

And jist as I spoke the words, that ladder somehow lost
its balanze and down it cum, and Miss Seliny with it, rite
in among my-Hubbard squashes that I sot such a store by,
and smashed the biggest one all to flinders.

and tell Seliny jist what E thought of her for to be climb-
ing up to folks’ hen-house winders, a trying to seedooce
other folks’ husbands. :
And that imperdent critter lafied in my face, and sez
she: “Dear me, Mrs. Rugg!: how jealeus you are! I did
not know your husband was anywhere round! To tell
the truth I coveted some of: your pears—and came out to
get some.”’ te
“The tawful goodnessl’” sez. T;. “who ever heered the
like? Why, that tree haint' bore a pear for five years, and
good reason for it too, seeing as. the top was. all cut off
and it was grafted into purple plum!""
She looked rather sheepish, and so did the professor,
and I went into the hen-house to see after Jonathan.
I’d concluded to-let him. out, and ealcutated I’d play the
part of the generous but wronged wife, but gracious
airth! when I cum to turn.the key aud open the door, he
warn’t there. i
He had flowed, and left: no trace behind him.

Yourn, truly, J. R. PERKINS.

A Weighty Artilieryman. .

Jim and I were enjoying a thirty-days’ furlough, and in
our travels we happened.to call on an Irishman who had
a son in the “Sixth Pennsylvania Heavy Artillery.”

Jim wore anew coat which he had drawn before com-
ing home. The old man, admiring it, asked: “Where did
you get such a purty coat?’ Says dim: “Uncle Sam gave
It tome.” ‘“¥Yeruncle? ishea rich man?’ Upon being
informed that ‘our uncle’ was in pretty comfortabie
circumstances, the old man inguired if we had ever
‘heard tell’? of his son James,.in the army. “We might
have seen him,’? said Jim. ‘What regiment is he in?
‘He's in no regiment.at all. He’s in the weighty artil-

tery.” JNO. SMITH.
ji fs. Doctor's’ Story.

“The other morning,’ said the doctor, ‘I was called to
vaccinate a girl living a considerable distance from my
residence. I was very busy at the time, and every mo-
ment’ was precious. You may imaginemy disgust then,
upon being shown into thre partor of the house (a rickety
old place, by the way), and informed that I should have
to wait a few moments. I did so, with what patience I
could summon—five, ten, twenty minutes, At the expir-
ation of which time, as E was about taking “French
leave,” a great, sturdy, dirty girl appeared, with her right
arm bared to the elbew... She presented: this for
vaecination, aud was horrified apparently, when I po-
litely, but. with some asperity, informed her that I never
vaccinated om the right arm. She begged that I would
do 80 this time. J was firm, ard, at last, she blurted out

bea half day’s work to clean the other one.” J vaccinat-
ed her on the right arm, aud left. ‘GALE FOREST.

A Good Retort. Zi

One day, when Freddy’s mother had company, she told
him ¢O wash himself and comb his hair nicely. Freddy
disliked combing his hair, so he thought he’d omit it this
time. When his mother eatted him into the parior, she
noticed that -his hair was digarranged:. ‘Why, Freddy!”
she exclaimed, “your hair is not combed.” There was
present a gentleman with a bald head, who heard the re-
mark, and said to the boy: “Freddy, if you Go not comb
your hair, it will not grow.” Fred looked thoughtfully at
the old gentleman a few minutes, and then said: ° guess
you didn’t- comb your hair much whea you were a boy ??

Hocus. Pocus.
Prize Problems.

To persons sending correct answers to the appended
problems, the following prizes will be awarded: A bovely
lady’s sinile, tied wiih ribbon; a square auger, a large
chalk button, and the bung-hole of a barrel,

If a wooden-legged horse ran @ race With an iron lamp-
post, how many onion-skins would ié take to fallen the
shadow of a match ? ,

If three yards of castor oi! cost a. dollar a half-peck, how
many snowballs will t take toget the Delaware river on
fire without scorching the Schuy! kill?

If three inehes of snow make one inch of water, how
Many potatoe peeiings would it take to shingle the reot
oi & Quaker Church with (womainisters in it?

WILLIE B. LIMING.

 

ber till he’d repented of his sins, but Providence ordered 5

| dis day called me de laziest black nigga in de town.
|} was a tinking why we poor niggas was made black and

Iwas mad, and I didn’t hesertate to speak right out }

that “she had wasked that one on purpose, and it would}

A Disgusted Printer.

A convivial typo, who, unlike most printers, is in the
habit ofidisgracing his craft by guzzling beer and other
stimulants, while on one of his jamborees playfully threw
a brick at a poor woman, injuring her severely. He was
arrested, tried, and sent to Blackwell’s Island for sixty
days, where he rendered the State some service by break-
ing stones. On his return to the city, he called at the

ance asked him how he had enjoyed himself at his coun-
try retreat. His face was illuminated by a contemptuous
smile as he answered, ‘‘The only thing I liked about it
was the journey to the place, for the work there was as
Solid as a brick.” SNOOKS.

An Incident of Early Wedlock.
My ma and I we dwelt alone;
She long had been a widow;
We owned a cottage of our own,
With means enough for bread, oh.
My father died ere I was born;
No sister and no brother
Had shared with me life’s rosy morn;
She was my all, my mother.

Till round my heart the spell was wove
Of love’s enchanting measure,

We loved with such entrancing love,
Life seemed one dream of pleasure;

And as the autumn grew apace
That joined me to my idol,

The days slipped by with royal grace
That heralded our bridal.

At last the fateful eve drew nigh,
Our guests were fast assembling;
Clasped in my darling’s arms was I,

Happy, despite my trembling.
The moments fled; at last he said:

‘Tis time that we descended.’””
I took his arm in fond alarm,

And soon our lives were blended.

With meriy feet we chased the hours,
‘Nor did we think of sleeping
Till flaming up the eastern sky
‘ The morning sun came creeping.
All thro’ that day our friends so gay
Kept up a ceaseless chatter,
And if our eyes drooped wearily
They but increased their clatter.

Not till the cool but lovely eve
Warned that the day was closing

Did the dear ones around us leave—
Leave us to our reposing.

A few there were, loved friends and true,
Would Kindly wait after

We bade dear ma our first adieu,
To cheer her with their laughter.

Quite worn for want of proper rest,
“‘Good-nights’? were early spoken,
With head reclined on Henry’s breast,

My slumbers were unbroken,

Till when a sound, I knew not what,
Roused me, I lay and wondered—
Ajthough the day had not been hot—

Thinking perhaps it thundered.

But soon again that fearful tone—
Ah, heart, withhokd thy beating!
Twas Henry! ‘Love,’ I cried, “my own,
My own, my liie,’’ repeating,
Lowly and slowly, still that sound,
Then came a hollow rattling, =,
Still in unconsciousness profound,
While life and death seemed battling.

“Oh, Heaven of Heaven!’ I wildly cried,
And from my chamber hastened,
To the first entrance-way; I tried
And found the door unfastened.
“Henry is dying, girls,”’ I said ;
“Mother, come quick !’’. She rallied.
“Perhaps, ere this, my husband’s dead !’’
Forth from the room we sallied.

Striking a light, we sought the bed,
From whence those sounds of terror
Fell full upon the midnight air;
There surely was no error.
With blanching cheeks my mother bent,
When lo! those tones came pouring,
And with convulsive laughter rent,
‘Alice,’ said she, “‘he’s snoring !”'
“Snoring ?’? Ye Gods! poor innocent!
And I had dreamed him dying;
What with my grief, and shame so blent,
I burst right out a-crying. :
Henry awoke—the girls had fled—
He half arose. I started;
But mother sat me on the bed,
And my intention thwarted.

Searce half awake, perplexed he gazed
From one unto the other;

He either thought us ill or crazed,
Till spoke my merry mother :

‘Alice was frightened. Ne’er before,
In all her fresh, young life, sir,

Heard she a strong and hearty snore,
Fill since she was your wife, sir.

“She flew in anguish for my aid,
Wringing her hands, and weeping;

I hastened where you calmly laid,
And found you loudly sleeping.”’

. ‘Don't look so sadly mortified,

You darling little blessing!’

As Henry drew me to his side, .
He said in tones caressing.

I hid my blushes on his breast,. .
At such an awkward blunder,

That I should thus mistake his rest,
For fits, or distant thunder.

Tho’ years have fled, when teazing friends,
Speak of that bridal evening,

Up to my. brow the blood. ascends,
AndI feel just like leaving. I. L. WHITE.

All Fours..
While passing by two ebon-hued gentlemen, I heard the
following conversation: ‘Look hea, Sambo; my massa
Now

de soles of our feet and de palms of our hands most
white.’”? While the first speaker hesitated the other re-
plied: ‘‘Tell you.what de reason ob. dat is: When de
debbil painted ws we were standing on ali four feet, and
he forgot to paint dem.”’ FLORIAN. SYLVESTER.

Webster and the Appie-Thief..
Many, many years ago, there lived a fine old gentleman,

whose name was Mr. Noah Webster. Though very sim-
pie and unassuming in his manners, yet he was not with-

'out his parts, for he could discount any s¢choolmaster in

the country at'spelling, and beat: him: twevo: one om defi-
nitions.

If Mr. Webster ever felt any pride: over his numerous
victories he never allowed himself to shew it im conver-
gation or otherwise; for, instead of loafing. around the
Streets. and blowing about his. attainments, he remained
at home and worked on his little farm—except when it
rained; then he would go into a back room, where: he
had a work-bench and some tools, and: made spelling-
books; but henever was idle.. _

One day, as-he was hammering away noisily at his
bench, filling out a large bill of spellers: for the Massa-
chusetts legisiature, Mrs. Webster came-to the aoor, and
said:

“Noah, that child of sin, Andrew Kale; is-ia our apple-
tree again: Had thee not better go out and send him on
his way in mortification of the spirit, and, if needs be,
with chastisement of the flesh?”

So Mr. Webster laid down his hammer, put on his hat,
and started for the big apple tree baek of the barn.

The youngster. had got his pockets and. shirt-bosom
well filled with early harvests, and had slid part way
down the tree, when he espied Mr. Webster close-upon him.

Taking in the situation at a glance, he saw that escape for

the present was impossible; so he started up the tree

again, resolving to outwit the old. gentleman, by fair
means or foul.

cowell, welll” said Mr. Webster. ‘How's. this? What
did I telk you the other day? You: must come down from
there now and give up those appples, or I will give you a
flogging—definition: to veat; to sirike; to shake wp; to
knock. down; to put @ head on.”

“T say, old chap, just 2istle that for me, won't yer?”
replied the urchin; and then pushing his. tongue into his
cheek, he gently raised up his left. eyelid, and anxiously
inquired of Mr. Webster if just the faintest tinge of green
could be discovered there.

“You little scallawag!)’ exclaimed Mr. Webster. “Do
you pretend to have the cheek to. buck against me right
on my own grounds, and upon my own apple tree? If
you can’t come down by special request, Pil try the moral
effect of grass.” So he pulled up a lot of grass, which he
pressed into balls and threw up in the tree. But this

‘only made the young Arab laugh the touder; and he threw

an apple core at Mr. Webster, which struck him in the

“eye and pained him qnite smartly.

“HWoity toity!* exclaimed the old gentheman, ina tower-
ing rage, and dancing about. ‘Now I’m right on it, you
bet! Definition: to lay @ wager; to put up the stamps;
to do.a thing for money or marbles; to rope a flat in
on a. sure thing; a put wp job.” And tien pulling outa
stout leathern sling, he petted the boy with rocks, with
such telling effect, that he was fain to baw! for mercy and
forgiveness.

“oTis well,” said Nr. Webster; “come down; give up
the apples, and let this be a lasting lesson to you never
again to steal. Definition: to forage; to confiscate; to
tft things; to hook a thing and get caught atit; toa—”
but by this time the boy had got ont of hearing, so Mr.
Webster wiped his brow, hitched up his pants and went
back to his work.

To P. P. CONTRIBUTORS, —C. D. F. ana R. M. Lamm.—Will ap-
pear in the PRUNNY PHELLOW...... Ketticher S—One of your ar-
ticles is old; tbe other is reserved for the PHONNY PHELLOW......
The folowing MSS. are accepted: “Going the Other Way,”? “One
by Marriage,” “A Promising Lawyer,” “Policeman and Darkey,”
“Deacon Smith,’ “Doctor G.,” ‘“Perrible Tragedy,” “Pious Boy,”
“B. and R.,” “Two Calves,” ‘“Cast-off Ee “Marrying 9,
Stranger,’ “Bob Bracket’s Bath,’ “Snubbed.”.......... The fot-
lowing are respectfully dechued: “George and Sal,” “Gomme to
Heaven,” “Andrew : H.’s Hotel,’*? “Smart Swell,” “Cakes and
Corn,” “Spitting out Brains,” “Lazy Set,” “Stutterer,” “Inta-
tuated,”” “Corats Answer,” ‘Queries,” ‘Tit-for-Tit,” “Saying
No,” “Chicago Musketoes,”? ‘Trapper in Church,” an -old yarn,
“Greeley and Grant,” “A Leap for Life” “No Qne to Blame,”
“Parsing,” “Pecksnifian,” “Digest,” “Not with My Breath,)?
“Fourteen Births,” “Tale-Eater,” “Fat Lady in the Gar,” “Sun
and Moon,” “Casabianca,” “Alarmed,”* “My Cousin’s Beau,”
“Squabbletown Picnic.” “Making Steam,” “To Get Quits,”

 

“Pretty Good,” “Iwo Bootblacks,” “Wrong Time,” “ Au-
drew’a Jake.” * . ee

 

 

printing office where he had been working. An acquaint-,

| changed the complexion of affairs.
| were fully aroused to the enormity of the conspiracy
| which had been carried out, and determined to:seek legal
;, redress.

‘itself.’
. mediately left the country again, and never returned to —

STRANGE CASES OF INSANITY.

THE MARRIAGE OF A MANIAC.

The judicial records of England have furnished a large
amount of strange and romantic family history. Many of
these circumstances have been used in works of fiction.
A divorce case, tried some years since in this country,
presented most astonishing facts of this nature, em-
bracing a singular instance of insanity, and a conspiracy
in relation toa marriage. The details here given .are
drawn from various documents and evidence in the case,

In one of the finest agricultural portions of the West
were two adjoining estates, under high cultivation and of
great value. It was the grasping and inordinate desire
on the part of the owner of one of them to possess the
other in his family, which led to the state of affairs that
occasioned the suit in the divorce court. This person,
Willian Benham by name, had an only daughter, and his
plan was to unite her in marriage to the only son of
another landed proprietor of the neighborhood. The son
was the heir, in his own right, to the property adjoining
Mr. Benham. Robert Tunison, with his son, lived abroad.
There had been a family difficulty about his marriage,
and even after the death of his father he did not return.
His wife died in Paris, and he remained in France for
the education of his son. The care of the large property
at home was left entirely to an agent. (

Now, it so happened that Tunison was under obliga-
tions to Benham. At the critical period of his rupture
with his father, Benham had secretly befriended him in
a way which could not be forgotten. Hence he wrote to
him, when his son was born, thatif the child lived to
grow up, he should marry the daughter of the other, if
he had one. Two years later a daughter was born to
Benham, and he wrote back to the other, accepting and
repeating the contract. Thus far all was fair and honor-
able on the part of Benham.

But as his daughter grew up she showed a very weak
mind, and at length aslight form of insanity was de-
veioped. All this caused great uneasiness to Benham,
and the-evil in his nature began to come out. As he daily
looked over. the far-stretching and fertile acres of the

‘neighboring property, the desire of possessing them for

his daughter became stronger and stronger.

“J will not be baulked in this plan,’’ he said to his wife.
“Though our child has proved first a fool, and is now at
times insane, I think I will be found : bold and cunning
enough to effect my purpose.” aes or

From this.date he began his scheme of villainy. As
matters became more desperate he became more deter-
mined. He wrote repeatedly to Tunison of the intelti-
gence and beauty of his daughter, and in every way
sought to create the greatest interest of both father and.
son in her. In regard to‘beauty he told the truth, for the
girl had nosmall attractions of person. A correspondence
was Originated as between the young people, which on the
part of the maiden was altogether the forgery of her father
and mother. Very often when thelettera were written —
the girl was locked in her room a raving maniac. Por-
traits were also exchanged. - \

Several years rolled by during which Julia Benham _be-
came more confirmed in her malady. Apartments had
been given her, where she was attended: by her parents,
and an old woman, who was idmitted to a share in the
secret plan on foot. The servants were told that she was
an invalid. Having heard ‘so much in regard to her des-
tined marriage, her insanity took a form im which she
constantly imagined herself a bride.

At length the crisis of the long-maturing plan was at
hand. Mr. Tunison was about to return to his native land
with his son, who was also expecting to claim a wife.
Both father and son wrote in Janguage of the greatest joy.

Many and anxious were the consultations of Mr. and
Mrs. Benham and the old nurse. They were almost stag-
gered by the enormity of their own plan when the hour
drew near for its final scenes. But the bold spirit and
giasping disposition of the main conspirator, Mr. Benham,
overruled every suggestion of retreat. }

“Let the marriage, take place,’ he said, ag was. after-

ward proved in court, “and after that I don’t care. There
will be a great row, but we will have secured a great pro-
perty.’?
z On their arrival at New York the father and son were
met with a proposition from Mr. Benham to have the
marriage service on the very day of their reaching home.
He said that it was a romantic whim of his daughter’s.
Although the idea seemed singular the plan was consent-
ed to, and various details were subsequently arranged by
mail and telegraph. }

The happy young man, and his not less joyful father,
hastened onward intheir journey. Atthe same time
hasty preparations were being made in the Benham man-
sion for the wedding. Oostly wedding apparel was pur-
chased, and the poor insane woman was shown these ar-
ticles. ;

“My dearest Julia is to married,” said the old crone,
as she threw an elegant vail over head of the young lady.

“Hal hal hal’? rang out the: wild laugh of the maniac,
as she danced about the. room. ‘Cinderella married a
prince, and so will I. Let everything be the finest. Ha!
ha! ha! a princess don’t mind expense!”

The wedding day dawned. Ah, how happy were the
father andson. How glad and inexorable were the con-
spirators who were to blight this joy forever.

They decked the woman for her bridal. She was as
pleased as a child with all the finery which was placed
upon her, and grew wonderfully calm~and collected.
When she was fully arrayed she looked verry pretty.
When she was led forth to the awaiting. bridegroom he
received her with complimentary and joyful expressions.
It was a private wedding in the evening. The service
was quickly over, and the two were pronounced man and
wife. The action of the bride was altogether:proper. .In-
deed the conspirators .themselves were astonished at .
her conduct. Her father began to have a hope that she
might have:become-miraculously restored. After an hour
or two, however, he noticed . sufficient to induce him to
whisper to his wife and the nurse to lead Julia back toher -
apartments. :

She no sooner reached them than she indulged in a
series of screams, which were heard downstairs. Her
husband could not be kept back, and made his. way to
the room. Whata sight did he see. The quiet, fascina-
ting creature of so short a time before was glaring about
her, and snapping her teeth with rage. She tore off the
bridal vail and the flowers, and trampled them under her
feet. Then she madly threw herself headlong upon the
floor, giving utterance to the most fearful shrieks.

The story went out to the world that Julia Benham, so
long an invalid, had become insane on the very evening
of her marriage. The afflicted husband for some time be-
lieved this to be true. In one night he grew prematurely
se Both himself and his father were bowed down with
grief. ‘

Benham and his wife, of course, secretly rejoiced, ,but
outwardly appeared as deeply afflicted as anybody. But
the old nurse began to falter. When she saw the condi-
tion of the young husband her pity was at last touched.
Then she was overcome with remorse, and finally went to
the father and revealed the whole plot. This at- once
The father and son

The divorce suit followed, in which the nurse
was @ principal and willing witness on the part ef the

plaintiff.

It may well be supposed that the revelations. astounded
the community. Benham found himself.a ruined man in
reputation. Ambition: of gain had terribly ‘‘o’erleaped
A. divorce was granted. The father and son im- |

it. Julia was removed to a lunatic asylum, where she

died in afew months. Benham and his wife lived, se-
cluded and shunned by all. ‘

A STORY OF
THE NEW DIAMOND FIELDS.
Mountain Tom.

This new story, by our favorite contributor

- NED BUNTLINE,

which will soon be commenced in the

New York Weekly,

has been written by him in his summer camp in
the heart of the wilderness, and as usual, it is based on |
facts, and is full of real-life incidents and faithful descrip-

tions tie
OF NATURE AS NATURE iS.

We are sure it will be one of his

GREATEST HITS.

He reveals a new territory, new characters, and
lovely picture of a

Crry OF GOLD,

are as fair as Caucassians, yet. dwelling

 

 

where the people
under a tropic sun. Bee

Mountain Tom, and his odd, but shrewd and brave
partner in travel, trouble and joy,

PHELIM OLAUGHERTY,

are new piciures of life, but we are assured thas they are
not fancy portraits, but real-life men of a good stamp,

The story will come next in our great series of Western-
life novels, and will be closely followed by

TEXAS JACK,

one of the greatest living heroes and scouts in the West,
the friend aud partner of Buffalo Bill.

Cotonel Judson has lost no time, even in his summer
wanderings, but as usal has kept his thoughts on the

NEW YORK WEEKLY

 

and ita ive millions of readers.