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

FRANCIS S. STREEY®,
FRANCIS S. SMITE,

THB HUMAN HEART.
BY FRANCIS 8. SMITH.

hou knowest the heart, oh, Father!
And only Thou canst know
Its trials and temptations—
Its silent, secret woe.
No eye can scan its working,
' Great Spirit, save Thine own!
Its innermost recesses ~
Are known to Thee alone!

Thou knowest the heart, oh, Father!
The lines of baleful sin

Will seldom mark the human face
E’en while it lurks within.

And there are those whe walk the earth
From all suspicion free,

Who, when thy jewels are made up,
Will have no’part in Thee,

Thou knowest the heart, oh, Hat¢hert
Thou all its faults can see!

And Thou wilt read it truly,
And jadge it tenderly.

And many a mourning sinner,
By man despised and bann’d,

May, when his deeds are reconn’d,
Be found at Thy right hand.

Thou knowest the heart, oh, Father!
Thou King, all. Kings above!
And we may safely trust Thee,
For Thou art Love—ali love!
Qh, glorious truth! Oh, solace!
How vain were human bliss,
If only man could judge us,
And there were no world but this!

ABNER HOLDEN'S
BOUND BOY;

—— OR, ——_.
Rhe Peer Reliatien.

By Horatio Alger, Jr.,

Author of “RAGGED DICK,” “FRA NK’S CA RM-
PAIGN,”’ “MARK, THE MA TCH-BOY,”
“LUCK AND PLUCK,’ “ROUGH
AND READY,” etc., ete.

[*‘Abner Holden's Bound Boy’"*was commenced in No. 21. Back
Nos. can be obtained from any News Agent in the United States. ]

CHAPTER V.
THE ENVELOPE.

Herbert woke up early the next morning, and a feeling

of sadness came over him as he reflected that it was his
last morning in Waverly. New scenes and new experi-
ences usually have a charm for a boy; but Mr. Holden’s
disagreeable smile rose before him, and the prospect seem-
ed far from tempting.

The family had hardly risen from breakfast when the
sound of wheels was heard outside, and directly a knock
was heard at the door. :

“It?g Mr Holden,’’ said the doctor, looking from the front
window.

Presently Mr. Holden entered. After some conversation
With the family, he said: — ;

“I guess we must be going, as we have a long journey
before us.” :

The whole family accompanied Herbert to the road.
After kissing Mary and Mrs. Kent, and shaking the.doctor
cordially by the hand, Herbert jumped into the wagon.

Just before the horse started the doctor handed our hero
a sealed envelope, saying: :

‘You can open it after a while.”

Herbert felt that he had parted from his best friends, and
his eyes filled with tears. __

“Don’t blubber, -boy,’? said Mr. Holden, coarsely.

Herbert was not weak enough to meit into tears at an
unkind word. . It roused his indignation, and he answer-
ed, shortly: ee et :

‘When you see me blubbering it will be time enough to
speak, Mr. Holden.” :

“Tt looked a good deal like it, at any rate,’ said Abner.
“However, ’m glad if 1 ammistaken. There’s nothing to
cry about that Ican see.”?

“No; perhaps not,” said Herbert; ‘‘but there’s some-
thing to be sorry for.”’

‘sWell, what is it???

“Dye left my best friends, and I don’t know when I shall
see them again.” : :

‘Nor I,” said Mr. Hokden. ‘But I think it’s high time
you left them. They were petting you, and making too
much of you. You won’t get such treatment as that from

”

“T don’t expect it,’’ said our hero.

‘That's lucky,’? said Abner Holden, dryly. “It’s well
that people shouldp’t expect what they are not likely to

et.??

They rode along in silence for a few minutes. Then
Abner Holden, thinking suddenly of the envelope which
Dr. Kent had placed in Herbert’s hand at parting, and
feeling curious as to its contents, asked him why he didn’t
open it.

EB onnisé I didn’t think of it before,” said Herbert, who
then decided to open the envelope out of respect for Dr.
Kent. On opening it, he drew out a five doliar bill, and a
few penciled words, which were as follows:

“DEAR HERBERT:—I would gladly give you more if I
had.the means. I hope you will use the inclosed money
in away way that may be the most serviceable toyou. You
must write to me often. Be a good boy as you always
have been, let your aims be noble, try to do right at all
hazards, and may God bless your efforts, and make you a
good and true man! Such is the prayer of your affection-
ate friend, GEORGE KENT.”

Herbert read these lines with emotion, and inwardly re-
solved that he would try to carry out the recommenda-
tions laid down. His thoughts were broken in upon by
Mr. Holden, whose sharp eyes detected the bank-note.

“Five dollars, hey?” he said. ‘‘You’d better give it to
me to keep for you.”’ :

“Thank you, Mr. Holden. Ican take care of it myself.”

“Dr, Kent no doubt intended that I should take care of
the money for you. You’d better give it up without fur-
ther trouble.’ :

“Why didn’t he give it to you then?’ demanded Her-
bert.

“He supposed you would give it to me.”

Mr. Holden’s object in wishing to get the money into his
own hands was two-fold. First, he knew that without
money Herbert would be more helpless, and more in his
power. Secondly, as he had agreed to supply Herbert
with clothing he thought he might appropriate the money
toward this purpose, and it would be so much of a saving
to his own pocket. Perhaps Herbert suspected some such
design. At any rate he had no intention of gratifying Mr.
Holden by giving up the money.

“Well, are you going to give me the money??? blustered
Abner Holden, taking out his pocket-book, ready to re-
ceive it.

‘No, said Herbert.

“Yow il repent this conduct, young man,” said Holden
scowling.

‘“T don’t think I shall,’’ said our hero.

Abner Holden hardly knew what to do. The money was
by this time safely stowed away in Herbert’s pocket,
where he could not very weil get at it. Howeverhe hada
plan for getting it, which he resolved to put into practice
When they stopped for dinner.

CHAPTER VI.
ON THE WAY.

As they approached the tavern, where they were to dine,
Myr. Holden inquired:

“Do you feel hungry, boy?”

“Yes, sir,’ retarned our hero.

“So dol. Ithink I shall get some dinner here. You can
get some too if you like.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Oh, there’s no occasion to thank me,” said Mr. Holden

 

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dryly. ‘I shall pay for my dinner, andif you want any
you can pay for yours.” *

Herbert looked surprised. As he had entered Mr. Hol-
den’s employ, he supposed of course that the latter would
feel bound to provide for him, and it certainly seemed
mean that he should be compelled to pay for hisown din-
ner. However he was beginning to suspect that his hew
employer was essentially 2 mean man.

“How much will it cost??? asked Herbert at length.

“Thirty-seven cents,’’ was the reply.

It must be remembered that this was in the day of low
prices, when gold was at par, and board could be obtained
at first class city hotels for two dollars and a half a day,
and in country villages at that amount by the week. | Her-
bert hardly liked to break in upon his scanty hoard, he felt
that he must have something to eat. Besides he remem-
bered one thing which fortunately Mr. Holden did not
know, that in addition to the five dollars which Dr. Kent
had given him, he had the ten dollars sent him by his uncle,
and not only that but a little loose change which he had
earned. So he decided to take dinner.

AS we have intimated Holden had a reason for being
pleased with his decision. Both went. into the tavern.
There were two or three loungers on a settle who gazed at
them curiously. One of them appeared to recognize Abner
Holden, to whom he said, ‘‘Who’ve you got with you?”

“A boy I’ve taken,’’ said Holden shortly.

“A pretty smart looking boy. Where’d you pick him
up ?”?

“Over in Waverly? He’s got some pretty high notions,
but I guess Vil take ’em out of him in time.”’

“Yes,’’ chuckled the other, ‘‘I warrant you will.”

Herbert could not avoid hearing what wassaid. He was
not frightened, but inwardly determined that he would do
his duty, and then if Mr. Holden saw fit to impose upon him
he would make what resistance he was able.

“Sit down there, and Vl go and order dinner,” said
Mr. Holden.

Just then, however, the landlord came in, and greeted
Abner Holden, whom he appeared to know.

“¥ want dinner for two, Mr. Robinson,’’ he said. ‘I’ve
got a boy here who is bound tome. And hark you, land-
lord,’’ he added, in a lower voice, that Herbert might not
hear, “he will pay you for his dinner out of a five dollar
bill which he has with him. You needn't give back the
change to him, out to me.”

“Yes; I understand,’ said the landlord, wimking.

“T prefer to keep the money for him. He has refused to
give it up, and this will give me a chance to get hold of it
without any fuss. If he kept it himself, he’d be spending
it in some improper way.”

‘Just so. PH attend to it.”

Now our hero was gifted with pretty sharp ears, and he
caught enough of this conversation to understand Mr.
Holden’s plot, which he straightway determined should
not succeed.

He opened his pocket-book to see if he had enough small
change to pay for his dinner, without intrenching upon
his bill. There proved to be a quarter and two half dimes,
amounting, of course, to thirty-five cents. This would
not be quite sufficient.

- must change the bill somewhere,’’? he said to him-
self.

Looking out of the tavern-window, he saw the village
store nearly opposite. He took his cap and ran over. It
occurred to him that. he might want some paper and en-
velopes. Ascertaining the price, he asked for twelve sheets
of paper and a package of envelopes. The parcel was
done up for him, and in payment he tendered the bill.

The clerk gave him back four dollars and eighty cents in
change. He put the money in his pocket-book, and the
paper and envelopes in his jacket-pocket, and returned to
the tavern well pleased with his success. Mr. Holden was
in the bar-room, and had not noticed the absence of our
hero.

Dinner was soon brought in. Herbert surveyed the
viands with satisfaction, but he soon found that he stood
& poor chance with Abner Holden; that gentleman being
a very rapid eater. However, the supply being abundant,

Herbert succeeded in making a satisfactory repast.

“Now,” said Abner Holden, his eyes twinkling at the
thought of our hero’s coming discomfiture, “‘we’ll go and
settle our bill.”

“This boy wants to pay for his dinner, Mr. Robinson,”
said Abner, significantly. ,

“How much will it be?”? asked Herbert.

“Thirty-seven cents.’

Herbert took out of his vest-pocket a quarter, a dime,
and two cents, and handed them over.

 

To say that Abner Holden looked amazed is not sufti-

 

sap

cient. He looked disgusted and wronged, and glared at
Herbert as if to inquire hew he could have the face to out-
rage his feelings in that way.

“Where did you get that money ?”’ growled Abner, with
ascowl. “I thought you had only a bill.”’

“Oh, I got that changed at the store.”

“Flow dared you go over there without my permission?”
roared Abner.

“¥ didn’t think it necessary to-ask your permission to go
across the street.”

“Well, you know it now. Don’t you go there again
without my knowledge. Did you buy anything at the
store???

Herbert told him the extent of his purchases.

“Humph!? muttered Abner, discontentedly.

He proceeded to pay his own bill, and in a few minutes
got into the wagon and drove off rather sulkily. Herbert
saw that Mr. Holden was disturbed by the failure of his
little plan, and felt amused rather than otherwise. But
when he reflected that he was going to live with this man,
and be to a considerable extent under his control, he felt
inclined to be sad. One thing he resolved, that he would
not submit to tyranny. The world was wide, and he felt
able to earn his own living. He would give Mr. Holden a
trial, and if he treated him with reasonable fairness he
would remain with him; but he was not going to be any
man's slave.

A few hours brought them to their journey’s end.

“Ig this where you live, Mr. Holden?’ asked Herbert,
looking about him, and observing that the entire place had
a very untidy appearance.

“Yes, and Pm glad to get home. Jump out and unhar-
ness this horse. A man will come for it to-morrow.”

Herbert did as directed. Then he took his little trunk
from the wagon, and went with it to the back-door and
knocked.

CHAPTER VII.
HERBERY FINDS A FRIEND.

The door was opened by an elderly woman, rather stout,
Who acted as Abner Holden’s housekeeper. Though de-
cidedly homely, she had a look which impressed Herbert
favorably.

“Come right in,” said Mrs. Bickford, for that was her
name. ‘Let me help you with your trunk. You can set
it down here for the presént.. So you've come to help Mr.
Holden??? she added, after a pause. “What is your
hame???

“Herbert Mason.’

“I hope, Herbert, we shall be able to make you com-
fortable.”?

“Thank you,” said Herbert, a little more cheerful as he
perceived that he was to have one friend in Mr. Holden’s
household.

“Has Mr. Holden generally kept a boy ?”’ he asked.

“Yes, he calculates to keep one most of the time. The
name of the last one was Frank Miles.”’

“Was he here long ?”? asked Herbert, in some curiosity.

“Well, no,’”? said the housekeeper, ‘‘he was not here
over a month.”

‘“Didn’t he like the place???

“Well, no, he didn’t seem to like Mr. Holden much.

Herbert was not much surprised to hear this. He would
have thought Frank Miles a singular sort of a boy if he
had liked Abner Holden.

“Have any of the boys that have been here liked Mr.
Holden ?’’ he asked.

“I can’t say as they have,” said Mrs. Bickford frankly;
“and somehow they don’t seem to stay long.’

At this moment Herbert’s employer entered the room.

“Where is Herbert to sleep, Mr. Holden?” asked the
housekeeper.

“Up garret.?

“There’s the small corner bed-room in the second
story,’’ suggested Mrs. Bickford, who knew that the gar-
ret was not very desirable.

.“T guess he won’t be too proud to sleep in the garret,””
said Mr. Holden. ‘Shall you?’’ he continued, turning to
Herbert.

“Put me where you please,” said Herbert coldly

“Then it shalt be the garret. You can take your trunk

up now. Mrs. Bickford will show you the way.”
_ On the second landing Herbert saw the little bed-room
in which the housekeeper wanted to put him. It was
plainly furnished, but it was light and cheerful, and he
was sorry he was not to have it.

They went up a narrow stair-case, and emerged into a
dark garret, running the whole length of the house witb-
out a partition. The beams and rafters were visible, for
the sloping sides were not plastered. Herbert felt that he

 

RESTA

 _—

his pocket-book,

might as well have been in a barn, except that there was
@ small cot bedstead in the center of the floor.

“T declare, it’s too bad you should have to sleep here.
Mr. Holden isn’t very considerate,”’ said the housekeeper.

“J guess I can stand it,” said our hero, ‘‘though I
should rather be down stairs.” :

“ll bring up the trap and set it before you go to bed,”’
said Mrs. Bickford.

“The trap!” repeated Herbert, in surprise.

“Yes, there’s rats about, and I suppose you’d rather
have a trap than a cat.’

“Yes, the cat would be about as bad as the rats.”

Here Abner Holden’s voice was heard at the bottom of
ue stairs, and Mr. Bickford hurried down followed by our

ero.

“T thought you were going to stay up there all day,”
said Mr. Holden. ‘‘What were you about up there?”

“That is my business,”’ said Mrs. Bickford, shortly.

The housekeeper knew that she could readily obtain
another situation, and did not choose to be brow-beaten
by Mr. Holden, who was guite aware of her value, and
the difficulty he would experience in supplying her place.
With Herbert, however, it was different. He was bound
to him, and therefore in his power. Abner Holden exult-
ed in this Knowledge, and with the instinct of a petty
tyrant determined to let Herbert realize his dependence.

“You may go out, andsaw some wood,” he said; ‘‘you’ll
find.the saw in the woodshed.”?

Herbert thought Mr. Holden was losing no time in set-
ting him to work, but he had resolved to do his duty, un-
pleasant as it might be. Mrs. Bickford, however, said a
word in his favor.

“Pve got wood enough to last till to-morrow, Mr. Hol-
den,” she said. ‘‘It’s likely the boy is tired.”

“What's he done to make him tired, I should like to
know??? Then turning to Herbert, he said:

Go out to the wood pile at once.”’

“Mr. Holden,’”? said the housekeeper, seriously, after
Herbert had gone out, “if you want to keep that boy, I
think you had better be careful how you treat him. He
is high-spirited, and will work faithfully if he’s treated
well, but he won’t allow himself to be imposed upon.”’

“How do you know that?”

“T can read it in his face. I have had some experience
with boys, and you may depend upon it that I am not
mistaken.’?

“He had better do his duty,” blustered Abner, ‘‘if he
knows what’s best for himself.”

“He will. do his duty,’ said the housekeeper, firmly,
“out there is a duty which you owe to him as wellas he to
you.”’

‘Don’t I always do my duty by my boys, Mrs. Bickford ?”

“No, Mr. Holden, I don’t think youdo. You know very
well you can never get a boy to stay with you.”’

“This boy is bound to me, Mrs. Bickford—legally
bound.”

“That may be, but if you don’t treat him as he ought to
be treated, he will run away, take my word for it.”

“Tf he does, he’ll be brought back, take my word for
that, Mrs. Bickford. He’ll have to stay whether he wants
to or not.”

CHAPTER VIII.
THE GHOST IN THE ATTIC.

After working two hours at the wood-pile, Herbert was
calledintotea. There wasno great variety, Abner Holden
not being a bountiful provider, but the bread was sweet
and good, and the gingerbread fresh. Herbert’s two hours
of labor had given him a hearty appetite, and he made a
good meal. Mrs. Bickford looked on approvingly. She
was glad to see that our hero. enjoyed his supper.

Feeling tired, Herbert by eight o’clock went up to his
garret-room, and undressed himself. An instinct of cau-
tion led him to take out the money in his porte-monnaie,
and put it in his trnnk, which he then locked, and put the
key under the sheet so that no one could get hold of it
without awakening him. This precaution proved to be
well taken.

Herbert lay down upon the bed, but did not immediately
go toskeep. He could not help thinking of his new home,
and the new circumstances in which he was placed.

Meanwhile Mr. Holden had not been able to keep out of
his head the five dollars which he knew Herbert pos-
sessed. He was a mean man, and wished to appropriate
it to his own use. Besides this he was a stubborn man,
and our hero’s resistance only made him the more deter-
mined totriumph over his opposition by fair means or
foul. It struck him that it would be a good idea to take
adyantage of our hero’s slumber, and take the money

Accordingly, about eleven o’clock, he went softly up the
attic stairs with a candie in his hand, and with noiseless
steps approached th: bed. Herbert’s regular breathing
assured him that he was asteep. Abner Holden took up
his pants, and felt for his pocket-book. He found it, and
drew it out with exultation.

But his joy was succeeded quickly by disappointment.
The pocket-book proved to be empty.

“Curse it!” muttered Abner; ‘‘what has the boy done
with his money?”

It was at this moment that Herbert, his eyes possibly
affected by the light, awoke, and he discovered his em-
ployer examining his pocket-book.

His first feeling was indignation, but the sight of Abner
Holden’s disappointed face amused him, and he deter-
mined not to reveal his wakefulness, but to watch him
quietly.

Next Heiden went to Herbert’s trunk, and tried it, but
found it locked.

“T wonder where he keeps the key ?” was his next
thought.

He searched Herbert's pockets, but the search was in
vain.

“Plague take the young rascal!’ he muttered, loud
enough for Herbert to hear.

Herbert now turned in bed, and Abner Holden, fearing
that he might wake up, and being on the whole rather
ashamed of his errand, and unwilling to be caught in it,
went down stairs. ‘

Ashis employer. might possibly find a key that would
unlock the trunk, Herbert thought it prudent, daring the
next day to carry the money about with him.

He hardly knew whether to expect a visit from Abner
the next night, but formed a little plan for frightening him
if such a visit should take place.

It so happened that he had in his trunk a fish-horn,
which had been given him by some one in Waverly. This
he took out of the trunk before retiring, and hid under his
pillow. It was about nine o’clock when he went to bed,
but by considerable effort he succeeded in keeping awake
for an hour or two.

About eleven o’clock Abner Holden decided to make
one more attempt to obtain possession of Herbert’s
money. He took his candle, and removing his thick-soled
shoes, which might betray him by their sound, erept
softly up the narrow stair-case.

But Herbert heard him, and moreover was warned of
his visit by the light’ of the candle which he carried. He
plone his eyes, and awaited his coming in silent expecta-

on.

Abner Hoiden looked toward the bed. ‘i

“The boy’s sound asleep,” he thought, with satisfaction.

He set down the candle on a chair beside the bed, and
began to examine our hero’s pocket-book once more. But
it proved to be empty as before. In the pocket, however,
he found a key—the key, as he supposed, to Herbert’s
trunk. It was not, however, being only a key which Her-
bert had picked up one day in the street, and kept. He
re put itin his pocket with a view to mislead his em-
ployer. 1

That gentleman uttered a low exclamation of satisfac-
tion when his fingers closed upon the key, never doubting
for a moment that it would open the trunk.

Leaving the candle in its place, he rose from his recum-
bent position, threw the pants on the bed, and went round
on the other side to try the key.

He got down on his knees before the trunk, and had in-
serted the key in the lock, or rather had made an ineffee-
tual attempt to do so, when suddenly the candle was ex-
tinguished, and a horrible blast on the fish-horn resounded
through the garret.

Now Abner Holden was not a very courageous man. In
fact he was’ inclined te superstition. He knew that he
was engaged in a dishonorable attempt to rob a boy, who
was placed in his charge, and that it has been said ‘‘con-
science makes cowards of us all.” It must be admitted
that it was rather calculated to affect the nervous to find
one’s self suddenly in the dark, andat the same time to
hear such a fearful noise proceeding from an unknown
quarter.

Abner Holden jumped to his feet in dire dismay, and
without stopping to reflect on the probable calise of this
startling interruption, ‘‘struck a bee-line’’ for the stair-
case, and descended quicker probably than he had ever
done before, narrowly escaping tumbling the entire dis-
tance in his headlong haste. Herbert had to stuff the
bed-clothes into his mouth to keep from bursting into a
shout of laughter.

“JT thought I heard a frightful noise last night soon after
I went to bed,’’ said Mrs. Bickford, at the breakfast-table.
“Didn't you hear anything, Mr. Holden ???

“No,” said Abner; “I heard nothing. You were proba-
bly dreaming.”’ *

“Perhaps | was. Didn’t you hear anything, Herbert ??

“T sleep pretty sound,” said Herbert, quietly.

Abner Holden watched him ag he said this, and was
evidently more perplexed than ever. But that was the
last visit he paid te the garret at night.

CHAPTER IX.
SPITFIRE,

It would be hard to tell what Abner Holden’s precise oc-
cupation was. He had thirty or forty acres of land, but
only cultivated enough to produce supplies of vegetables
for his own table, and grain for his horses. He kept
four cows, and he had at this time three horses. He had the
Yankee propensity for “swapping,” and, from time to
time, traded horses, generally managing to get the best of
the bargain, for he was tolerably sharp, and not much
troubled by conscientious scruples about misstating the
merits of his horses.

But about two months before Herbert came into his em-
ploy, he had himself been overreached, and found himself
the possessor of a horse, of excellent ontward appearance,
but blind of one eye, and with a vicious temper. He ac-
cepted the situation with a bad grace, and determined as
soon as.possible to ‘‘trade” the horse to another party.

' One day, about a fortnight after Herbert’s arrival, a
gentlemanly-looking stranger knocked at Abner Holden’s
door. The call was answered by the housekeeper.

“Tg Mr. Holden at home ?”’ he inquired.

“Yes, sir,’’ was the repty.

‘J should like to see him.”

Abner Holden soon made his appearance.

“Mr. Holden,” said the stranger, ‘Iam in search of a
good family horse. I am told that you have some animals
for sale, and called on you, thinking I might get suited
through you.”’

“You’ve come to the right place,” said Abner, glibly.
‘Pve got just the animal that will suit you.’

“Yt should like to see it.’ ,

“He’s in the pasture how. If youdon’t object to walk-
ing a short distance, Iwill show him to you. I feel sure
he will suit you.?’

“Very well. I will go with you.”

“This way, then.’?

The two walked down a green lane at the back of the
house, to the entrance of the pasture, where the three
horses at present comprising Abner Holden’s entire stock,
were grazing leisurely. : LS.
Now, it happened, that of the three the blind and vicious
horse was much the best looking. He held his head erect,
had a graceful form, and was likely to attract favorable no-
tice at first sight. : ;
Abner Holden paused ata litthe distance, and pointed
him ont.

“What do you think of that horse, Mr. Riehmond?” he
said.

“A very good-looking animal,’’ said the stranger, with
aD approving glance. ‘‘But I must explain that I want
such an animal as my wife can drive. It is absolutely ne-
cessary thathe should be good-tempered and gentle. If
with this he is handsome and of good speed, all the better.
Now you know what Iam in search of,can you recommend
this horse of yours?’ Te ‘
“Yes,” said Abner, confidently. ‘He will just suit you.
J did calculate to keep him for my own use, but I’m rather
short of money, and I shall have to let him go.”’

‘You say he is gentle???

“Oh, yes; as gentile as need be.”

“Could a woman drive him???

“Oh, no trouble about that,” said Abner.

‘sAnd he has no serious defect ?”?

“No.”

‘Well, that seems satisfactory. I like his appearance.
He would look well in harness. What is your price?’’
“Two hundred and fifty dollars, cash down,’’ said Ab-
ner. ‘‘That’s too cheap. He’s worth a cool hundred more,
but I got him cheap, and can afford to sell him cheap.”’
The horse had cost Mr. Holden just a hundred and ten
dollars, and at this price he considered himself decidedly
taken in; but this he did not care to mention.

“Two hundred and fifty dollars!” mused the stranger.
“It is a little more than Tintended to pay. Still, ifthe an-
imal is what you describe, I don’t know that I shall object

 

quietly from his pocket-book while he was unconscious.

on that scere.”’

 

 

 

 

 
me a alec SRO Lie et

Nae
i ssa

 

 

 

 

 

HE NEW YC

 

RE

 

BEBLY.

 

 

 

 

on Ar Dee

 

 

 

“You had better take him,’’ said Abner.
best bargain you ever made, I’ll warrant.
down, I suppose ?”’

“Of course.”’ :

“Phen shall we say it’s a bargain?”

“Not quite yet. Ill take till the afternoon to think
about it.” : :

“Better decide now. The factis, Mr. Richmond, I ought

“It'll be the
You'll pay cash

not to let the horse goat that figure, and I may change my

mind.” ae we SS ye

“T think I shalltake your horse, but \I have agreed to
look at another, and must see that first.? .

Whar??? *\.. \aie :

“Tt belongs tO a Man

“Sam Nichols?7\"

“J pelieve so.”

“T wouldn’t advis
him.” ‘ ij

“Why not??? |

“He's a regulaifsharper.
he says.” es .

“Thank you for that caution. Iwill be on my guard.
But I promised to.take a look at his horse before deciding.
if I don’t come to terms with him, and I don’t think I
shall, I will come round some’ time this afternoon, and
make a bargain with you.’

Mr. Holden thought it was hardly polite to urge him far-
ther. With a renewed caution as to dealing with Sam
Nicholes, he let him go. :

‘*Well,”? thought Abner, after he was gone, “it’li be a
pretty good thing if I get rid of Spitfire (ne had named
him thus) for two hundred and fifty dollars. He’s a bad-
tempered brute, and blind into the bargain. But I’m not
bound to tell him that, and so spoil my trade. I’ve put a
flea in his ear about Nichols, and I guess he'll be back
again.”

The prospect of making a good bargain made ‘Abner un-
msually pleasant and good-humored, so much so that Mrs.
Bickford regarded him with surprise. He ‘voluntarily
asked her if she did not wish something at the store, vol-
unteering to bring home whatever was needed.

“What’s come over the man?” thought the housekeeper.
“It’s. too good to last.) .

she was quite correct there. Mr. Holden was naturally
crabbed, and fair weather with him was the exception
rather than the rule. On the.present occasion it did not
last many hours.

Abner Holden went to the store, but made other calls on
the Way, 80 that he was three hours absent, and did not
return till twelve o’clock, the usual dinner hour in his
household.: pe

Meanwhile Mr. Richmond, his caller of the morning, had
been to.see Sam Nichols, and inspected the horse he had
for sale. He didn’t altogether like its appearance, and,
moreover, he was prejudiced against him by what he had
heard from Abner Holden, and came away without effect-
ing a purchase.

“I don’t think I can do: better,» he reflected, ‘‘than to
take that horse of Holden’s. Let me see, it is only half
past ten,.I shall have time to go up there this morning. I
might as well settle matters at once.”

Accordingly eleven o’clock found him again in Abner
Holden’s yard. ~ :

- Herbert was. out in the yard, engaged in splitting wood.
_ “Is Mr. Holden at home?’ inquired the stranger, paus-
ing. ye ott
“NO, sir.” :

“Will he be home.soon ???

“Yes, sir, [think so. Heonly went outtothestore. He
ought to be home now.?’

“Then I think I will wait.

    
  
  

 

med Nichols.” _

 

you to haye anything to do with

 

You ¢an *tdepend.on anything

i Iwas here once before this
morning.. I was talking with him about buying one of
his horses. Ifyou can spare the time I would like to have
yeu'go out with meto the pasture, and I will take another
look at the one I saw this morning.”!

“Certainly, sir,” and Herbert, driving the ax into the
block upon which he had been Splitting, prepared to ac-
company Mr. Richmond to the pasture.

They reached the bars dividing the pasture from the
next field. Spitfire was cropping the grass just on the
other side. : :

“There,” said the stranger, pointing him out, ‘‘that is
the horse I was looking at.”

“That one ?” repeated Herbert, in a tone of surprise.

“Yes; he is a fine-looking animal.”

**¥e-es,’? said Herbert, hesitatingly.

“Wowever, I don’t so much care about that as for his
being gentle. I want him for a family horse—such as my
wife may drive without fear while I am away..’

2 0 Mr. Holden tell you he was gentle?” asked Her-

er a

“Yes. He recommended him highly for that, and told
me he had no serious defect.” Ee ahi

“Are you sure this is the horse?’ asked Herber
» “Certainly; Iam not likely to be mistaken init
pose it is all as he says?” dan

Herbert was placed in a perplexing position. - He knew
that if he told the truth he should incur Abner Holden’s
anger, but his conscience revolted at suffering the stran-
ger to be taken in, and thus, perhaps, exposing his wife to
serious danger. cg

“¥ am afraid I cannot confirm what Mr. Holden says,”
he answered, reluctantly. ‘‘The horseis very ill-tempered,
and is blind of one eye.” :

“Ts it possible? Then I have had a narrow escape. You
have done me a good service, my boy, in telling me the
truth, for'I am myself unused to horses, and should have
taken’ the animal on your employer’s recommendation.
Accept this acknowledgement of my indebtedness.”’

  

isup-

He would have placed a: five-dollar bill in Herbert's |.

hand, but our hero firmly refused to receive it.

‘T have only done my duty, sir. I cannot accept money
for doing it. Thank you all the same.”’

“Perhaps you are right, my lad. If I ever have a chance
to serve you, don’t hesitate to. let me know it.”

“There'll be a storm if Mr. Holden hears of this,”
thought Herbert. ‘‘ButI could not do otherwise.”’

 

CHAPTER, X.
THE CLOUDS GATHER

At twelve o’clock Abner Holden returned home, still in
good humor. As he did not anticipate another call from
his expected customer until the afternoon, he made no in-
quiries. , mie

“Perhaps he won't Rear about it,’ thought Herbert;
and as hé did not wish'to have any trouble with Mr. Hol-
den, he hoped it might prove so.

Abner was so elated’ at the thought of his good bargain
in prospect that he could not keep it to himself.

“Dye about sold Spitfire, Mrs. Bickford,” he said to the
housekeeper. then ;

“Sold Spitfire! Who wants to buy him ?”

4‘A man that called here this morning.
think he wants him for?” ‘

“‘To break his neck,’’ suggested the housekeeper.

“We wants him for a good family horse, for his wife to
drive,’ and Abner Holden burst into a laugh. :

“Perhaps he’s anxious to become a widower,” said Mrs.
Bickford. :

“No; the fact is he thinks the horse is gentie.”’

‘You told him so, I suppose.’?

“Of course I did.”’ :

“Knowing it to be false.”.

“Shut up, Mrs. Bickford. You know all is fair in
trade oo1g a ae bint j

“No, Ldon't. Mr. Holden. To my mind a lie’s just as
much a he in trade:as in anything else. I suppose the
man trusted to:your recommendation.’

“Suppose he-did. 1 got cheated on the horse, and I’ve
gotto get rid of itsomenow. As it is I shall makea hand-
some profit.’? > -

‘Well, Mr) Holden, all I can say is, I am glad I haven't
got as:tough.a conscience as you have.”’

“You don’t know anything about business, Mrs. Bick-
ford? hat O1ak Oto

“Well, manage things: your own way. I ain’t respon-
sible, but 1 pity the poor man if he buys Spitfire.”

“Sodo I,” chuckled Abner. ‘‘That’s where you and I
agree, Mrs. Bickford.” :

Herbert listened in silence. He was disgusted with the
utter disregard of fair dealing exhibited by Abner Holden,
though’ he was not surprised at it. He felt glad that he
had been the means of saving Mr Richmond. from being
oyerreached, though he knew very well that Mr. Holden’s
rage would be furious when he learned what had interfer-
ed with the trade. He did not feel under any obligations to
reyeal his own agency in the matter unless direct. inquiry
was madeof him. In that case he would manfully stand
by his acts. :

“pm expecting the man this afternoon, Mrs. Bickford,”
said Mr. Holden, ‘‘and shall stay round home to see him.
When he comes, call me.at once, and mind, not a word
about Spitfire.”’

“Just as yousay. I wash my hands of the affair.”

“Washing your hands won’t do you any harm,” said
Abner with a laugh at what he supposed to be a-witticism.

Mrs. Bickford took no notice of hisremark. It was not
quite easy to say why she remained in charge of Mr. Hol-
den’s household, for certainly she had no respect for her
employer.» However, he didnot meddle with her in her
department, or if he did, he got the worst ofit, and it was
perhaps the independence which she enjoyed which led
her toremain in the house. Knowing Abner’s character
she was not particularly shocked at this last evidence of it,
but went about her work as usual, with scarcely a thought
of vwehat had passed.

Abner Halden sat at the window, and looked up the
road, awaiting anxjously the appearance of the customer.

“T hope he'll bring the money with him,’”’ he thought.
“qd like to have matters: all arranged to-day; before he
smells arat. If I get the money once in my hand, he may
scold all he pleases about the horse. It won’t disturb my
rest.” 2

But the old clock in the corner kept ticking—minute
after minute passed—and still the stranger did not appear.

‘He can’t have struck:a bargain with Sam_ Nichols,’
muttered’ Abner apprehensively... ‘If he has, it’ll be a sort
of swindle on me. Maybe Nichols has been telling him lies
about me.??

Abner waxed so angry over this supposition, that, al-
though it was merely conjecture, he already began to con-
sider in what way he could ‘come up with’? Sam Nichols.

“That money would come very handy,” thought Abner.
“There’s a horse worth two of Spitfire [can get for a hun-
dred and fifty, andthat would leave mea hundred. I wish
he would come.”?

He looked out of the window, and not content with that
went out of the front door, and shading his eyes with his
hands, looked up the road. But he could see nothing of
Mr. Richmond. Abner began to fear that hehad lost his
bargain. : :

“T guess I'll put on my hat, and goround tothetavern,”’
he said to Mrs. Bickford. ‘Ifthe gentleman I spoke of
should call while kam away, just send the boy round after
me as quick as possible.” : ;

“Very well.’ i

Abner Holden waiked hurriedly to the tavern, determin-
ed. to bring about aibargain which would be so. desirable
for him if it were a possible thing. He must'.and would.

What do you

get rid of Spitfire, however many falsehoods he might have
to tell. What was truth in comparison with two hundred
and fifty dollars! Suppose Spitfireshould run away with
the stranger’s wife, aud break her limbs or even her neck,
it was everybody’s duty to look out for himself in this
world. f ; &

Thus reasoned Abner Holden. There is. no particular
need of my commenting upon the fallacy of this reasoning,
Since it is not likely that.anyone.of my young-readers will
sufliciently admire his character to be im any danger of
being led into imitation of it. *

At the end of a very few minutes Abner stood on the
piazza of the tavern, a little Out of breath with rapid
Walking. :

‘ks Mr. Richmond still here?” he
lord, anxiously: ee \

“Yes; but he means to leave in five minutes.”

e@2)). tae jk a5

inquired of the land-

 
    

« “T want tosee’him on particularebusiness, I wish you
would send up, and ask him to come down.”

“Very well.”?

“William,” said the landlord, summoning his son, “go
up and tell Mr. Richmond that Mr. Holden wishes to see
nim. :

“You don’t know of his having bought a horse of Sam
Nios do you?” asked Abner, ‘nervously, of the land-
ord. :

‘No; Tama sure he has not.”?

Abner felt somewhat relieved by this. As long as he
Was still unprovided with a horse there was still a chance
for Spitfire. He resolved, if necessary, to abate something
from the rather high price he had demandeéd-in the morn-
ing.

Mr. Richmond followed William down stairs.

“You wished to see me??? he asked, glancing toward
Mr. Holden: :

: 2h o8 about the horse you were looking at this morn-
ing.

a concluded not to take him,” said the other,
coldly.

“You didn’t buy of Sam Nichois, did you ?””

“No, his horse didn’t suit me.??

“You haven’t any other in your eye, have you?” asked
Mr. Holden. :

SONO.??

“Then hadn’t you better look at mine again?” he said,
persuasively.

“It would be of no use.??

_ ‘If the price is any objection,’ said Abner, insimuat-
ingly, ‘I don’t know but I might say a leetle less, though
the animal’s worth more’n I ask forit.”? :

“It isn’t the price that stands in the way, Mr. Holden.”

“What is it, then? Sam Nichols hain’t been slandering
me, I hope. If he has, I’li be even with him.”

“Spare your anger against Nichols. He said nothing

him.??

“Yes, I did. I felt it my duty to caution you, so you
might not be overreached by him.”

“You preferred to overreach me yourself,” said the
other, quietly.

Abner started and changed color. :

“What do you mean ?”? he said. ‘‘Who told you I want-
ed to overreach you 7?” 3

“Why, this is the way the matter stands. I asked you
for a good family horse, such as my wife might drive with
safety. Didn’t you understand me so?”’

“Of course.”

‘And you tried to sell me an ill-tempered brute, blind of
one eye, for an extortionate price. Can you deny it?”

“Somebody’s been telling you a pack of lies,” said Ab-
ner, hoarsely.

“I don’t think they are lies. I have every reason to
think they are true. By the way, what is the animal’s
name ???

“Spitfire,’? said Abner, rather reluctantly.

“A good name for a family horseé,’”’ said Mr. Richmond,
sarcastically.

‘Where did you learn all this??? demanded Abner.
‘“Who’s been slandering the horse ?”’

“I got my information at your piace, from one who
ought to know.’

A light dawned upon Abner Holden’s mina.

“Herbert told him,’? he muttered to himself. ‘‘That
cursed boy has spoiled my bargain, and he shall smart for
it.

In a furious rage he retraced hissteps homeward, breath-
ing threats of vengeance dire against our hero.

‘ (To be continued.

fs E = a oe ;
FRUSTRATED ELOPEMENT.

 

BY MAUD) ALLEN,

 

 

Any one, passing the residence of Mr. Charlie Seymour,
the handsonie young ‘‘squire,’’ and his sister, the pretty,
blue-eyed Bessie, the belle and pet of the whole town, be-
tween the hours of one and two in the morning, might
have been astonished to see, at that unusual hour, a close
carriage. and the muffied figure of 4 man standing a short
distance from the gate, screened by a clump of Aowering
acacias; still more so, had they listened to the gentleman’s
interesting soliloquy, which we will take the liberty to re-

at.
eer Halk past one!’ he muttered, examining a geld watch
py the aid of a match. ‘Time she was here. Confound
it! Itis a dused bother, this running away! Why could
not that fastidious brother of hersbehave himself? Run-
ning off to New York to find out all about me, for which I
don’t thank him. Luckily, the blue-eyed Bessie believes
my version of the story instead of his, ‘Faint heart ne’er
won fair lady,’ and if I can once get safely married to the
fair Bessie, ’ll make the money fly as Sure asmy name is
Le Grange.’’ :

Just then a female figure, heavily ana closely vailed,
came swiftly down the walk, to the carriage. Le Grange
sprang forward, and attempted to embrace her, exclaim-
ing: “My darling Bessie!’’ :

But she waved him off, and said, in a low, indistinct
whisper: :

“Hurry, Willie, or my brother——”’

Nothing loth to leave the premises, he helped her in the
carriage, Jumped in himself, and drove off at a furious
pace; but before he had time to make any inquiries, she
leaned out of the carriage window, apparently to take a
farewell look, then exclaimed, still in a low whisper:

“Qh, Willie, stop! I dropped my bundle! Do stop and
get it for me! I cannot go without it.”

Le Grange obediently checked the horse as soon as pos-
sible, but not. until they were some distance from the
treasured package.

“T will hold the reins,’’ she said, as he sprang out.

She watched him until he had nearly reached it, then
gathering the reins firmly in her hands, she gave the horse
a smart blow with the whip.

As the maddened creature plunged off at a terrific rate,
she leaned out of the window, and with a low laugh, said,
in 2 subdued tone, yet loud enough for him to hear:

“Good-night, Willie!” leaving our would-be elopist
standing stupefied with astonishment, with only that mys-
terious bundle to console him. :

The occupant of the carriage, after letting the frightened
animal continue his speed for some distance, checked him
at last, and getting out, soothed him into submission.

“Now let me get this female toggery off, and Vll go
home and see how my sister gets along.” ,

He rapidly divested himself of the dress, shawl and
bonnet, disclosing Mr. Charlie Seymour, minus a coat and
hat. Taking the horse and carriage into a neighbor’s
yard, where he knew it would be safe, he went home, en-
tered the house, and reached his room without disturbing
anyrone: @fo: : : :

The next morning Bessie was late in coming to break-
fast, and her face showed marks of recent tears and a
sleepless night. Charlie kissed her tenderly, and inquired
if she wasill. She said she had a severe headache, which
was very true. He urged her to drink some of the fra-
grant coffee; then commenced a lively conversation,
maintaining the most of it himself.

Let us return once more to the events of the past night.
Bessie was quite unaware that Charlie had discovered the
proposed elopement by the accidental finding of a note,
and had, unknown to her, turned the hands of her tiny
bronze clock back nearly three-quarters of an hour. So
when she supposed it tobe half-past one, the time ap-
pointed, it was really after two, and the carriage had come
and gone. When her clock intimated the time set, she
had stolen out of the house with a beating heart and sun-
dry misgivings ; but on arriving at the place, no one was
there. She waited there for what seemed to hera long
time, but her lover did not make his appearance. At first
she feared some accident had detained him. “But then,”
she argued, ‘he might have sent a messenger.”

She finally grew indignant, and returned to her room,
and threw herself on the bed in a passion of tears. But
before she went to sleep she hai quite made up her mind
that he was a worthless deceiver, and that it was lucky
for her that she did not care any more for him than she
did.

The next morning, as she took her customary walk, she
espied her truant lover directly in her path, and deter-
mined to show her utter scorn of him. He saw her at the
same time, and being loth to give up so rich a prize so
easily, came forward with the intention of seeking an ex-
planation of her conduct of the night before, as he never
suspected that it was other than Bessie.

But Miss Bessie gave him the ‘‘cut direct,’ and did not
even see him, although she passed within ten feet of him.
Chagrined at this, he left for New York on the next train,
muttering anathemas on the whole sex, and sad to relate,
he did not even stop to pay his hotel bills.

In a very short time Bessie came to the conclusion that
she never had cared for her admirer, and it was only the
opposition she received that made. her imagine she did ;
and she thanked the fates most fervently that something
had prevented Le Grange from keeping the appointment,
thus saving her from a lifetime of misery.

A few weeks after this, Bessie and her brother were sit-
ting at breakfast, and Charlie was busily conning the
morning’s payer.

“T say, sis,’? he said, suddenly, ‘‘do you remember that
Le Grange that was up here from the city, and disappear-
ed so suddenly a few weeks ago?”

Bessie’s flaming cheeks testified that she did, but she
said calmly:

“Yes, I remember. What of him???

“Jt seems that some of his rascalities have been found
out. He has been arrested and found guilty of forgery
and stealing money from his employer; besides, it appears
that he hada wife and two children all the time he was
here.”

“Oh, Charlie! What a narrow eseape I have had!
you eyer forgive me?”

Can

 

And then and there she made a fuil confession, saying
in conclusion:

against you, though I believe you warned me against

 

osc se

‘“T shall thank Heaven every day of my life that some-
thing detained the villain that night.”

_“Bessie,”? said Charlie,‘‘what would you say if I should
tell you that your brother—who loves his sister dearly,
and regards her happiness above all things—was instru-
mental in his disappointing you ???

“T’should bless him every day of my life,’’ replied Bes-
Sie, fervently.

So then Charlie told her of his masquerading on,that
eventful night, and Bessie—the witch—laughed heartily at
the wretch’s discomfiture. : i

A short time afterward she became acquainted with a

ee

manly, honorable fellow, who, of course, fell in love with |

her as a natural consequence. Bessie soon discovered the
meaning of “true love,” and, after their happy marriage,
had many 2 laugh over her elopement extraordinary.

“ABNER HOLDEN’S BOUND Boy” is of such a moral
character that itmight properly grace any Sunday-school
library. Indeed, many of Horatio Alger’s stories are now
tobefound among the works recommended by pastors
for the instruction of youth.

 

Wrestling Joe.
THE DANDY OF THE MINES.

By Ned Bunitine, (#. Z. C. Judson.)

Author. of LITTLE BUCKSHOT, BUFFALO
BILL, ete., ete.

 

[“Wrestling Joe” was commenced in No.8. Back Nos, can be
obtained from any News Agent in the United States. ]

CHAPTER LXIII.
* Maggie turned a grateful look upon the masked presi-
ent. :

 

“Oh, sir, if you will only let me speak—if you will but let
me show all these people who and what that man—
Twenty-six, or Henry Champe—is, you may punish me
with death afterward!”

Her look, her earnest tone, had an effect all over the
room, for there were murmurs audible to the ear from
every side, and the tone of these was notangry. Her face
wore no sign of evil—even the sorrow-marks had passed
from it in the months of contentment she hadexperienced
since escaping from the toils of the monster Champe. She
was almost beautiful—at least, very interesting in appear-
ance,

Champe saw that a tide of feeling was turning in her
favor—he felt that it would but strengthen this if he per-
sisted in showing his enmity, and he would do best by
keeping quiet and running his chance of getting her into
his power afterward, if she was set free now.

So he kept quiet while the president replied to her.

“My. Champe is not on trial here. What he may have
done to you, or any one else, is not beforeus. You haye a
gentle, innocent look, which evidently prepossesses nearly
all who are present in your favor. But in releasing a
man, or rather in aiding him to escape, before trial here,
you have laid yoursely liable to trial and punishment.”’

“But, sir, he was innocent of the charge which was
made against him. He was not a robber—not a member
of any wicked band!”?, . :

“Then he should have remained to proveit. He would
have had a fair trial here.’

“Oh! no, sir. Henry Champe was ready to swear falsely
to bring him to death. He had witnesses ready to perjuse
themselves as well. There they stand. Look at them.
There are no masks on their faces. Look—look, guilt
speaks in blushes on that man’s cheek!’

She pointed to Blinks as she spoke.

“Anger, you she-devil—anger makes me flush up!’ said
the pirate.

“Silence all. We will once more ask this young girl—
her name has not been given——”’

“Maggie Alvord, sir!” :

“We will ask Maggie Alvord, then, distinctly, what de-
fence she has to offer for having aided a prisoner of ours to
escape ??? ‘

“Only this, sir—I knew him to be a good man, whose
life bad men would swear away. I could not bear to think
he should perish, when I might save him! If Ihave done
wrong it is not my heart that tells me so.”? _—

‘What shall be done, gentlemen, in this Gase?’’ asked
the president. ‘‘We are ready to hear suggestions.”’

“T move that she remains confined in his place until he
is arrested, for he cannot escape,’’ said Champe.

“ “Nuniber Twenty-six has personal feeling in this mat-
ter, and his motion will not be listened to. If another
member had made it, the chair would entertain it, and

| with a seconding, put it to vote.”

~The motion was not made. If Champe had friends
there, none were. bold enough to back him in his enmity
to the young girl.

The president smiled.

’ “Has Qur prosecuting: officer nothing to say? he con-
tinued. 53

“Only this—true men donot waron women! This girl
has acted bravely, if in error, and we should respect bra-
very where it is not connected with intentional crime.”’

A burst of applause followed this declaration, and poor
Maggie knew that the danger which menaced her had
passed away.

“Go, Maggie Alvord,” said the president. ‘You are
free. Butnever again run such arisk as you have run
this night. I appoint number Seventy-six, a chivalrous
gentleman, to escort you safely to your home. The wit-
nesses not needed, can retire.”’

“Who'll give me blanket for make big lie, as pale-face
there promise,”? said the Indian, pointing to Champe,
whose voice had made him recognizable. :

There was an evident commotion all over the room,
dangerous to Champe, but the president gave it no chance
to germinate—he cried out:

“Remove those witnesses, and we will proceed. to the
trial of the guards for permitting a prisoner to pass—or,
in other words, for palpable neglect of duty.”

“J?ve been here long enough,” muttered Champe, and
he turned to leave with the witnesses.

“Twenty-six will remain!’ said the president, sternly.
“There has been too much personal feeling shown on his
part to allow him to leave here until that young girl has
been escorted safely to her home. He will hereafter be
more prudent, or he may find inquiries instituted into his
general character, which will not be agreeable.”

Champe sat down, though every nerve quivered with
hate and anger.
supposed he had, and there was an evident feeling against
him not only in the mind of the president, but in the minds
of many of the members.

Had that poor girl been permitted to tell all her sad
story, Henry Champe might have found his way of exit
from that room by the plank that jutted from the second
story window, and on the rope that dangled overhead.

CHAPTER LXIYV.

There was more haste than ceremony in the manner in
which Captain Blinks, Bill Pentecost, and the Indian were
conducted out of the rooms of the Vigilance Committee.

As soon they were outside, they were left to go where
they pleased.

“This is a pretty. piece of infernal nonsense,” said
Blinks, angrily, as he paused to decide where to bend his
steps. ‘What do you think of it, Pentecost ?’’

“That Champe has made a fool of himself. If he had
held his tongue, the git] would have had no sympathy.”

“That’s so.. By Neptune, she looked handsome, though.
She shall be mine beforea week sweeps by. That is as
geod asif twas sworn to. Which way are you bound,
Fish Eagle ?’’

 

‘Me wait and make pale face give me blanket, all same |

like I make big lie for him!’? said the Indian. _

“Well—here goes for Kangaroo harbor and some grog
and grub!’ said Blinks. ‘Come Pentecost—Champe will
join us there. After that I must go aboard!”

The pirate passed on, and the Indian was about to go in
another direction, when, Maggie exchanging a glance of
intelligence with him, passed in company with her escort.

The next instant a woman approached the Indian, and
said in a low tone: :

-“Plase, Mr.-Injin, my mistress bade me ask you if Mr.
Carroll was in or out of throuble yit. She can’t go to the
thayater nor anywhere else for thinkin’ of it!”

“Your mistress, La Belle Oreana??’

The Indian spoke low, but plainly. _ ‘ :

“Howly Saints, he talks like a Christian!’ said the as-
tonished woman. ‘Yes. Sure, Mr. Injin—she’s my mis-
tress, and better niver broke the bread o’ life!”

“Tell her Don Eduardo Carroll is safe, and that the truth
and faithfulness of a woman saved him!” said the In-
dian. :

“A woman? It’snotmeself that is afther thinkin’ she’ll
like to hear that, sure. One woman don’t like to have
another doin’ that, that she’d like to do herself. But Vl
take the word to her. Good-by, Mr. Injin. Ye’re not
handsome sure, but ye’re not half so badasIhad ye in
my mind!’ i

Bridget hurried’ off to tell her mistress the little she
knows, and the Indian again turned to go. But the voice
of Champe reached his ear, and turning in the lamp-light
which shone in front of the door, he saw him come out,
his face black with rage long constrained. é

“Where’s Blinks and Pentecost1” he asked, rushing up
to the Indian.

“Other pale faces gone to wigwam to drink fire-water!’!
said the Indian.

‘And the girl—which way did she go??’

‘Sov

The Indian pointed out the direction in which Bridget
had just gone.

“That way—how long since ?”’ ‘

“Not three breaths. What pale face calls one minute!’’

“And alone ???

“Yes—man tell her to go, she safe now!”

“Good! Ill show her how safe she is!’? cried Champe;
with a hateful laugh, and he rushed away up the street.

The Indian followed swiftly, for he knew there would
be fun if Champe overtook Bridget Maloney.

And he did. Before the good-hearted Irish woman had
gone three hundred yards up the poorly-lighted street,
Champe was close behind her. :

“Pve got you now, youshe-devil!”’ he cried, as he threw
his arms about her waist. ‘‘Utter.a loud cry—one scream
for help and ll cut your throat from ear to ear!”

‘Hands off, ye black thafe o? the world!’ cried Bridget,
tearing herself away from his sudden grasp. ‘‘Hands off
from 2 dacent woman, or I’ll scratch yer two eyes into
oneV

“Thunder! it is not Mag!”’ cried the astounded gambler,
springing back. :

“No, Pm none of yer Mag’s nor your hags either, ye

He had not the power there that he had-

 

ould scalawag!* So be off wid ye, and take that for a
memory!’

Bridget reached his @heek with the flat of her hand so
suddenly, and so heavily, even as she spoke, that he stag-
gered off for a yard or two and nearly fell.

“Woman or no women, PUehaye blood for that!’ he
cried, and he drew his knife as quick as he spoke.

He had neither time or chance to use it. It was stricken
from his hand by some one from behind, while a stunning
blow under his ear, from the butt of a pistol, laid him
senseless on the ground. S : :

“Howly saints—it’s the Injun!’ said Bridget, in surprise.

“Yes—go home! ‘You'are safe now!’ said the Indian.

“Faith, it’s me that'll be afther thankin’ you, Mr. Injun,
for what you’ve done, but I’d be safe froim the likes o’ him,
barrin’ his knives and pistols, ony time.o’ day or night
either! Sure I could wallop him as I would a donkey,
wid my flathands. But ’twas kind of you, Mr. Injun, and
Til tell my mistress how yeu did it, suge!?, } Bins

“Well—co home. Keep a good watch, for her’ While
this man lives she is in danger. J would like to kill him,
but his life belongs to another. The fourteenth ef March
is not far away!” “9

A groan told that the words had been overheard by the
gambler, who was coming back to consciousness. Bridget
moved on and the Indian left also, in another direction,
not recognized by Champe.

 

CHAPTER XLV.

“Saved, and by a woman’s faithfulness!’ ;

This was the ejaculation which burst from the lips of La
Belle Oreana, when Bridget brought her the message sent
by him who was disguised as an Indian.

“Yes ma’am—them were the very words!”’

‘What woman?” asked Oreana, almost fiercely. ‘‘What
woman has interest:in him. to save his life, and how. did
she do it?”

“Faith ma’am, I don’t know a word more than I've
tould you!”

“You were not in the prison?”

. “No, ma’am, only foreninst it!’’

“Did you see any woman ?”?

“Yes, ma’am, while I stood a waitin’ to see the Injun or
some one else, to tell me what you bade me find out, a
purty girl, a young one wid a pale face and eyes that
looked like they’d been swimmin’ in tears, went by me!”’

“Who was with her? was it Edward Carroll? Speak
quick!’

“Sure, ma’am, I didn’t know who ’twas.
Mr. Carroll that you’re spakin’ about!’’

“True—true—was it a blue-eyed man whom you saw
with her 2”? j

“No, ma’am, his eyes were black and bright, and his
hair too, and curly almost asa nagers. He was as tall as
a-gate-post, and as thin as a shadow!’

“Tt was not him!’? said Oreana, and she breathed more
freely. ‘‘But I must learn the particulars. If he has so
acted as to free me—if he has, then once more can I turn
to—ah, what now ??’

Her words had been interrupted by a boy who stood be-
fore her, with a note in his hand.

“From Mr. Gilroy,” said thelad; ‘‘and he bade me hurry,
ma’am.’’

“Oh yes—yes, in my agony I had forgotten the theater.
J will be there in a few minutes. Hasten, Bridget—my
dresses are in the basket. Run my lad, and tell him I am
onthe way.”’ :

The boy hurried off, and La Belle Oreana throwing on
her hood and cloak, took Indice by the hand, and while
Bridget took her wardrobe for the evening, the lady placed
the revolyer inher bosom which she had received the
night before.

“He is free—he is free! Oh that he would now go where
peril will not hover around him all the time,’ she mur-
mured, as she went on.

When Oreana reached the theater, she found the mana-
gers tremulous, for the audience had become much excited
because she did not appear at the time marked on the
programme.

A report that she had been abducted by Joaquin had
got afloat in some way or other, and not until the lady
herself came forward, could the audience be quieted. The
managers had in yain assured them that a temporary
faintness had merely delayed her appearance.

All was right, however, when she did come. She was
pale, and not in as fine voice as usual, but this made the
plea.of illness only seem the more true, so. she secured
iullas much applause as ever, proving what.a hold she
had gained upon the affections of the public in that short
time. : 2

As soon as she retired to her dressing-room, after her
first Song, she sent for Mr. Gilroy.

“T know, madame, what you would ask,’’ he said, as
soon’ as he saw her earnest, inquiring look; ‘‘and I am
happy to say that Mr. Carroll is free from the hands of
those who wished to take his life.”’

“Ves, sir, [know that. But how—how did he get free ?”’

“JF do not know, precisely—I have no doubt Mr. Caru-
thers can tell you, if)you will permit me to send him to
you”?

“No—no, sir—I cannot, and will not, hold any commnu-
nication with him.” . :

“Why, ma’am, he is the most gentlemanly man——”’

“T know it, Mr. Gilroy. I know him better than you or

JT don’t know

fany one else can—but I cannot, will not, see him. But

tind out these particulars, please—how my—how Mr. Car-
roll, I mean, escaped. J heard that a woman helped
him!’ :

“ery likely—I know one who is just good enough and
braye enough to risk her life for——ah, what is the matter,
ma’am. You are ill.”

“No—no—a spasm, that is all!
loves Edward Carroll 7”?

“Loves Edward Carroll? Why, excuse me, ma’am, I
didn’t say any woman loved Edward Carroll. I couldn’t
say 80, for I didn’t know it. If this girl or woman loves
any one, it isn’t him, it is Mr. Caruthers with whom she
lives!”

“Mr. Caruthers! This woman lives with him? Oh,
Heaven—is there 4 man on earth that is not false and
faithless!’?

“Thunder and Mars!’ crid the manager, alarmed at the
excitement exhibited by the lady. ‘Every word I say,
every way I turn, I seem to make matters worse. I jump
into the frying-pan find it too hot, and jump out into the
pre!” <

“So—Mr. Caruthers has a—a female living with him?”
said the lady, growing more calm.

“Well, yes—she kéeps house for him and his friend Bel-
lows and the little dwarf. She is a poor girl whom he res-
cued from/that. villainous gambler Champe. But as to
love, or anything wrong, I know there is nothing.”

“Very well, sir.) It is nothing tome. You will oblige
me if you willenot mention our conversation to any one.
{ willonotmake'a fool of myself again, or permit myself
to become excited without a cause. I am glad to hear
that Mr. Carroll is safe,—and—and that Mr. Caruthers is
—comfortably situated.”

Mr. Gilroy seliloquised as he passed from her presence.

‘Well, well,’ said he. ‘Bless me if a woman isn’t the
hardest book to read that ever was laid before a thick-
headed loon like me. I can’t make this one out, at any
rate: She can’t be in love with either Carrol or Caruthers,
for she will not see or speak to either one of them. But
I'll be blowed sky-high if I don’t believe she is jealous of
both of em, and jealousy without love caw’t be. Pm non
plussed, aS old Wessell, my school teacher, used to say,
when he couldn’t make head or tailofasum. Caruthers
never will talk about her, though I know he knows all
about her. And she says she knows him better than Z do
—better than any one else can! Well, it is a mystery.
One of them strangenesses that will come up in life, which
mortal man can’t account for.”

CHAPTER LXVI.

Joaquin, in his Indian disguise, after seeing Champe re-
pulsed by. Bridget, and giving him a temporary quictus
when the wretch was about to use his knife, hurried to
the quarters where his men were.hidden, supposing that
he would find Edward Carroll there.

“where is Don Eduardo??? he asked of Francisco, in
presence of all, as he entered the outer apartment.

“He was here, senor, but on learning that you were ab-
sent, he went out again.”’

“Did he leave no message ?”?

“Yes, senor. He took a disguise from your wardrobe,
and changed his appearance. Then he asked particularly
how you were dressed. J whispered in his ear the man-
ner of your disguise. He said he would go and look for
you. If you came back before him, you would find him,
or & messenger would find him, at the theater, most
likely.”

“CGaramba ! Has he just escaped from almost certain
death to again expose himself? It is very foolish. I wil
go and look for him. Keep the men ready for aciion i
needed.”’

“Yes, senor.” : :

“Busebio; you can go with me if you desire.
ing to look for Don Eduardo.”

“Tf you please, senor, i have been sick all day, and do
not feel able to go,’ said the man in a low, faint tone.

“Then of course you are excused. I will go alone.”

Joaquin had spoken in his softest, kindest tone. But
one man there beside himself and that traitor knew what
the treason was, and the last was completely blinded by
the very manner of him whom he intended to betray. .

A glance toward Eusebio left the eyes of Joaquin, as he
passed Francisco in going out. The latter understood it.
And when, twenty or thirty minutes later, Eusebio on
pretence of going out to get some medicine, with permis-
sion left the quarters, Francisco himself followed him.

Who is this woman who

 

J am go-

 

The audience grew more and more pleased in the thea-
ter, as the performances went on. Wrestling Joe and
Fred Bellows in their parts seemed te attain to even more
than usual excellence—the stock company were inspired
by the applause and did their best, while La Belle Oreana,
wild with an excitement which seemed almost unnatural,
following so close on illness, sung in her second and third
pieces as she had never sung before.

The theater, well filled in the early part of the evening,
became crowded at a later hour. Many of the members
of the Vigilance Committee, which had adjourned, came
in, and at a late hour, Champe, Blinks, and Pentecost, all
three excited with drink, entered and forced their way to
a standing position not far from the stage.

Wrestling Joe and Fred Bellows were on thestage at the |

time, and both saw and recognized the gambler. Indeed
they could hear his muttcred comments on their looks and
on their acting—comments far from. complimentary.
But words from a drunken man are seldom noticed, and
with only a ‘hush?’ of remonstrance from some one near
him, Champe had his way.

Now, with a change of scene, La Belle Oreana. came on
for the last song of the evening. Asshe reached the front
of the stage, while deafening applause made the theater
tremble from base to dome, her eye met the basilisk glance
of the gambler. She turned white and trembled. Per-
haps she remembered when her child was held at the

verge of the precipice—she turned very pale and trembied.

“she sees and knows me,’’ muttered Champe, turning
with a triumphant look to Blinks. ‘I'll throw color into
her white cheeks when I have her in my power as I will
within a week.” /, ie Ce ee

“One week and‘Mareh fourteenth wilh dawn!” said a
low, deep voice, close, very close to him. y

The gambler sprung back as if he had been bitten by a
serpent, and-with terrorin his eyes glared on every’ side.
Nota form orface could he recognize. Rough men, mi-
ners, mostly, who had come «in late, were in the crowd,
who stood there. - ae

It. might be amistake. He
heard the words, and again
who, as the applause was less
mence, \ fen

Suddenly her eyes gleame
saw Some one or something
The/gambler caught the glance—he followed its direction,
and \then=close to him he saw a pair of gleaming blue
eyes 80 fixed upon her face that they seemed to see noth-
ing else. Bee |

on how his black heartleaped! y For he recognized now,
in spite of all disguise, the fornt of himn-whom he hated
more, and dreaded more than any other man on earth—
than all his enemies combined. ee

Yes, Edward Carroll was there, almost within reach of
his arm, “And but alittle way beyond, he saw the fierce,
vindictive face of the Indian To-ton-tee. And yet beyond,

 
    
   
 
 

nght he had imagined he
ooked toward the singer,
ng, seemed ready to com-

  

nearer the doot, with an anxious look bent toward him,

‘Eusebio the Mexican was standing.

Champe saw all of this at a glance, and half drunk as he
was, he became sobered in @ moment. What should he
do? His first impulse was to shout out Carroll’s name
and have him at once arrestcd. But with bitterness he
thought of the manner in which he had been treated by
the Vigilance Committee, and he would not aid them now.

No—in the close vicinity of the Indian whose services he
thought-he could buy, another plan rushed to his, mind.
Pretending not to recdgnize his enemy, he determined to
watch his every moyement—to put an assassin on his trail
and thus end him and all fears for the coming fourteenth
of March at-once. es

Oreana began her song. Her. voice was low and falter-
ing. Evidently she was becoming illorfaintagain. Then
rallying, she sung loud and clear once more, until closing
her song the thunder of applause was deafening.

And those blue eyes never left her face all this time. In
a wrapt expression of devotion,,as the enthusiast gazes
on the picture of a saint, that look was bent’like a soul’s.
utterance on her face and form.” ~*"" ie

All this Champe saw with eyés apparently averted, anc
his heart gloated over ‘the thought: }

“JT will kill him and possess her!’? : {

The curtain fell, andthe audience began to leave the
theater.

Bidding Blinks, Pentecost, and the half-dozen men with
them to go and wait for him at Kangaroo Harbor, Champe
devoted himself to following Carroll. Managing to catch
the eye of the Indian, he beckoned him to his side.

‘T have work for Fish Eagle!” he whispered. ‘Work
which shall make him rich!” Y Dik

‘More big lie?” asked the Indian, witha dubious shake
of his head.

“No—work with your knife.
leave me!”’

“I shall stay close by pale-face!”’ said-the Indian, and he
took good care to keep within an arm’s length of the gam-
bler.. For now he saw that Carroll had been seen and re-
cognized by his enemy. The’ Indian ‘only wondered that
he did not try to cause his open ‘arrest. There was some
deep meaning in the way he acted. ...To find it out would
be easiest, by being ready to appear anxious to work for
him. ee

So the Indian moved on close beside Chanipe, and Euse-
bio vanished out of sight, for: he saw no chance of com-
municating with his employer without coming in contact
with one who would know him instantly.

So, not dreaming that Francisco was within a dagger’s
length of him, Eusebio moved out.of the theater and out
of the range where Champe and his Indian friend must
pass. ; ‘

And thus, when Champe reached the door, his spy was
gone from view, and now he could devote all his attention
to Carroll alone.

“Keep closeto me—do not separate!’ he said to the
Indian, in a low tone, and passed on.

Follow me, and do not

 

CHAPTER LXVII.

“What's the matter wid you, swate mistress? Is it sick
| you are?’ cried Bridget Malony, when they reached their
lodgings after the theatre was closed. ‘Your eyes ldok
wild, like the say wid storm-flashes on it, and your cheeks
are all aflame wid redness.’’ ij

‘Tm sick at heart, Bridget-sick of man’s perfidy!”

“Sure, ma’am, I don’t Know what ye call perfidy—but
the men.are all born divils! I’m sure of that! Will you.
,have some tay, ma’am, before you go to bed ?””

‘No, no! Undress Indice and get him to sleep as soom
as youcan. Iam going out!’’ :

“Out, ma’am—out at this time of night ?”?

“T said so, and I always mean what I say!’ ies

“The good angels be wid us, but I belave she’s goin?
crazy!) said Bridget to herself,-as she prepared the boy for’
bea, an easy task, for the little fellow could-scarcely keep:
his eyes open.

The girl was not long in doing this, but she had to ar-
range his couca beside the bed of his mother. When she:
laid the little fellow in it, glancing lovingly down on his.
placid face, she murmured a prayer for Heaven to bless
him, for he had been too sleepy to say his own prayer, as
he almost always did.

“Sure an’ isn’t he a pictur’ now, wid his lily-white face,
only tinted wid red on the cheeks, and the bright hair
framing it in!. Maybe there angels that are purtier, but,
its doubtin’ itlam! The mistress should be proud of him,
and she is ay )

‘‘No—I shall hate him—I shall hate him!’

The words came fiercely, vindictively, strangely from
the lips of that sleeping child’s mother—so Strangely that
Bridget sprang to her feet with a cry of alarm. ee

“Sure—sure ma’am its mad ye are to spake so of th
beautiful boy that loves you so!”?

“T believe I am going mad, Bridget. But come, good
girl, come. JI am going out and you must.go with me!??.

“7, ma’am, and leave the boy all by himself???

“Yes—no harm will come to him while-we are absent.
I must satisfy myself on one point. I cannot sleep if I do
not! I shall go mad indeed if Ido not learn whether my ,
suspicions are well-founded. If they are—if they are——”

“Well, ma’am ?” 3

“Then I will know what to do, and not until then!
Come, put on a hood and cloak. See, I am armed with
dagger and pistols, and if assailed this night, woe be to
him who lays a hand upon me. Come, girl, make haste!
You must guide me}? \ ;

In a few moments Bridget was ready. She knew her
mistress too well to attempt remonstrance, though she,
hated to leave the dear child alone, and also to. go out in
the dangerous streets at that hour. “ae ‘

“Do you mane to go far, ma’am ?’ asked Bridget, at the
door, where her mistress stood, hooded and cloaked.

An answer came, but it was not from the lips of her mis- ,
tress. It was from aman, who, witha dozen more be-
hind him, had halted just as the lady opened the door to
come out. j

“Further than her own will would take her!’ cried this
man, as he sprung upon the lady, so suddenly that her
arms could not be raised, or she have a chance to release
herself from the cloak in which she was closely muffled.

“Men, gag and bind that servant, and, pitch her, into
the house,’ he added, as with giant strength he lifted Ore-
ana from the ground, and with one hand close,over: her
mouth hushed her attempt to scream, ie

The men, apparently used to quick obedience, had;
Bridget gagged and bound in a few seconds, and throw- .
ing her on the fioor inside the room, as directed, they now
followed their leader, who moved.on rapidly, trusting: his
burden to no other arms. ; :

La Belle Oreana, terror-stricken though she was, did
not lose consciousness. She was not sure, but she thought
she had heard that stern, hoarse voice before somewhere.
It was not the voice of Henry Champe, though. She felt
sure of that. And who else would dare an outrage like
this ? '
She tried to move her hands so as to reach the pistol in
her bosom, but the man, whose arms so rudely pressed
her form, said in a low tene: ES

“Keep quiet, lady, or it will be the worse for you.’ Any
attempt at escape Will end in ‘your death. Iam not a tri-
fler in such matters.’’ ; Si as : ;

He was hurrying on as he spoke ; and as her head was
muffled in her hood, she had no idea whither he was: go-

 

 

 

ing, but she heard the sound of dashing water in a little
while, and knew by this they must be near the harbor.
Then she felt the chill of the wind'as it swept over the

~waters which she heard, and heard him who carried her
gon ask of those following him :

“Where is the boat? “Was it notJeft at this pier?”

“Yes, sir; but the crew may have been frightened off
with it,” replied aman. ‘There is no boatherey”

“Curses on the luck! Ifthe boat was here'she’d be. safe
from all chances of rescue in twenty minnteés. © Look from
pier to pier for our boat, and if she is not found, ‘take’an-
other—any one which will enable'us to’ gebott with.2? \

‘‘Ay, ay, sir,’”? came from the mouths of three or four

en.

And now her captor allowed Greana
feet. Ww ef
“Breathe not a loud word, lady; or you die!" Be quiet
and you shall not be harmed,’ said the: man ina low tone,
go stern that she knew he meant all he said.

‘where are you going to’'take me, and whoiare you?”
she asked, as firmly as she could, but remembering: his
threat-she spoke very low. ‘

“T am the friend of one who loves you. You can soon
ask questions of him.” :

“One who loves: me would not resert to outrage to gain
an interview with me, or use force to take me from my
home,’’ she said. : :

“we'll see. Hark, I hear him coming! Yes, thats his
voice. He little dreams that I have his prize in my4
hands.”? ‘ i HOU i’

Oreana trembied from head to foot; for she heard a yoice
which she knew but too well. ,

It was that of Henry Champe.

(To be continued.)

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ee se Se a

“‘“CARRISE BELLE.??

“ele
BY MRS. SOPHIA PP. SNOW.

Once a little seraph
Strayed from Eden’s bowers,
Tn its wanderings earthward
Sought this home of ours;
Like a welcome sunbeam

 

Tt upon us fell; ;
And the little stranger
We called “Carrie Belle.»
Every day we loved her
With a fonder love,
Sent to link us closer
To the world above.
Tow she blest our household
None but.us can tell,
For akin to angels
Was our Carrie Bei!e.

Brighter than the dewdrops,
Fairer than the flowers,
Lovelier than the song-birda,
Was this bird of ours!
But ere long a shadow
On our pathway fell—
Robed in snowy garments
Lay our Carrie Belle.
Up in Heaven, one morniag,
In the white-robed throng,
Rang out ‘‘Hallelujahs,”
Praise in sweetest song,
For a little seraph
Back had come to dwell, |
And the shining angels
Calledit “Carrie Belle.”
Oo 4

Phantom Wife.

Mrs, M, V. Vietor,
CHAPTER XXII.
THE LADY’S GHOST ON THE BRIDAL EVE.

The blue skies of June hung over Kilpatrick Castle. It
was a year since that dark cloud of disgrace had settled
down upon. it—the flight. of theyoung wife. People long
ago had set down her misconduct to the French blood and
bringing up, of the woman. Her disappearance was a
sensation of the past; it was not.expected that she would
ever reappear in this country; and such friends as still re-
membered Kilpatrick at all wondered if it was not about
time for him to return. to society.

Immediately upon his return from abroad that gentle-
man had caused an obituary notice to appear in the prin-
cipal New York papers.

“DrED.—In Paris, France, April 6tn, Laura Degraaf, wife
of George Kilpatrick, after a brief illness, of typhoid-
pneumonia.’’

The large number of his acquaintances had seen this an-
nouncement, while a smaller-number knew of his visit
abroad at that time, and of hisreturn, in poor health,
shortly after. The usual comments: were made on the
wife’s unworthiness, the: husband’s devotion, how fortu-
nate it was that she was dead, how strange that he should
still seem to mourn for her, etc., etc.

But a cold blast from the grave had dispelled the cloud
of Spates and again the blue-sky smiled over Kilpatrick

astle,

If ever skies were to sniile, if ever winds were to whis-
per sweetest “airy nothings,”’ if ever the flowers were to
burst forth in most exultant bloom, the birds to swell
their little throats with melody ever again about that deso-
late home, this was the month and this’ the occasion; for
there was to be a wedding—such a wedding as isa pleas-
ant sight to men and argels—a tnion of youth, beauty,
hope, and love.

One might almost read, by just driving along the quiet
road and looking over toward the handsome country:
place, that it.was haunted by a pair of lovers. The flower
garden, the fountain, the summer-house, the arbor, porch
and portico, and vine-wreathed window, the breezy hall,
the shaded waiks had an air of Eden breathed upon them
and lingering over them; fora pair of true lovers, both of
whom were pure of life and earnest of heart, flitted from
one sweet spot to another. They were happy, with a per-
fect right to their happiness. :
The tire-women sat in a pleasant chamber, making the
dainty bridalgarments. One of these was Mary Runnel,
not entirely cured of her longing to bea lady, and not
free from a dull heart-ache given her by the fine gentle-
man across the sea, but trying to do her best, and very
uiet and industrious.

Although she. did not like the Runnels, for reasons of
her own, Mrs. Marshall was glad to avail herself of their
services, while preparing for her daughter’s marriage,
Mrs. Runnel had resumed her abode in the cottage,
which had stood just as she left it from the tine of her se-
cret desertion of it until her return. Oncemore standing
over the ironing-table in that homely little Yankee house}
her experience as housekeeper in a French chateau ap-
peared to her like ’some-extravagant dream, far away and
unreal. She could hardly credit that it had ever been,
Only two things made her realise it for the fact it was—to
take along, loving look into.a stocking-foot,half-tivled with:
louis-d’or, which she had garnered up from Gillan’s brib-
ing liberality, and to note the crape’on her employer's hat
when she met him on her errands to‘and fre.

1a
HS

The

 

 

| toward me.

She always shrank and shivered when she ‘saw that
badge of mourning. In the midst of the festal prepara-
tions which occupied so much of every one’s thoughts and
time, the sight of that black band, and the pale, smileless
face beneath it was as startling a contrast as the presence
of the traditional skeleton at the banquet.

Not that there was anything ghastly about Mr. Kilpat-
rick. He was kindness itself to the bride-elect. He de-
sired the wedding to be as gay and liberal as the prospects
of the youthful couple. All that he asked was for others
to forget that he had any cause for grief, and to be as hap-
py as he was sad.

His manner was much less repelling than before he went
abroad. Then he was armed at every point to repel sym-
pathy. Now, though sad as death, he was gentle, and
thoughtful sf all whose interests had a claim upon his at-
tention.

Mrs. Marshall watched him with furtive eye, said noth-
ing, but cherished delicious hopes. This tender melan-
choly wasa mood much more pliable than that haughty

there would be only himself and her in the great house,
and he would begin to feel the need of her. She doubted
not that before Christmas came with its home-associations,
she should be the wife of the-:man she had so long, so ten-
aciously, so almost hopelessly. desired,

Meantime, as the day of the marriage drew near, Mrs.
Runnél closed her cottage and staid altogether at the cas-
tle, at the request of Mrs. Marshall, who required her ser-

| vices in many directions.

The ceremony was to take place in the parlor of the
castle, in the evening, and was to be followed by a recep-
tion. There was to be an elegant supper, music and danc-
ing.

The evening before the all-important day, Caroline went
down into the flower-garden to meet Eli as he should come
through the fields and into the garden—his nearest and
usual route’ from his father’s house to this. He was a
little late, which made the rose-bud bride-to-be pout, al-
beit she was the sweetest of girls. If one cannot be a
trifle exacting at this crisis, when, pray, Will she dare be?
The gentlest maiden puts on imperial airs at this most
regnant period of her rule. '

Eli dared to be late! to keep her standing by the fountain
full ten minutes! Now, Carrie knew that some duty con-
nected with the great event of to-morrow doubtless detain-
ed him, and that he was twice as impatient as herself; but
she pouted precisely as much as if she had some substan-
tial grievance. It was a very pretty mouth when it pout-
ed; so Eli thought, creeping up, as she stood with indig-
nant face turned away from the oit-trodden path, and kiss-
ing it very softly and very suddenly.

“You are late, Eli,’’ said Carrie, blushing at a salute to
which she had not yet become accustomed; ‘‘and you—
are pale!’ she added, in surprise and concern, for, when
Eli, so florid and healthy, lost his color, there must be some
2ood reason for it.

“Am I? I can scarcely credit you,’’? he responded, awk-
wardly, and trying to laugh over if, but unable to conceal
his embarrassment.

“You are. Something has happened—I can see that!”

She grew a little white herself; her fear took the shape,
instantly, that something was going to separate her from
Eli.

“It is nothing rerious; nothing at all serious, Caroline.
I received a shock—a surprise. But it is over.”

He spoke lightly, drawing her hand through his arm and
beginning to walk up and down the moonlit garden. She
looked up earnestly into his face which still bore traces of
recent and powerful agitation.

‘Are you going to have secrets from me?’ she softly
inquired. :

‘“No—yes, of course not! Secrets from you, my darling!
never! But this—you see—was out of the usual way. Itis
not what you might call a secret—and I don’t like to
trouble, and perhaps frighten you, when itis just as weil
for youto know nothing

“Ah, yes, I see,’’ interrupted Miss Jealousy, flashing out
like one of the fire-flies about them, this is a peculiar
secret, therefore not to be confided. I suppose their will
be hundreds of them soon!”?

“Now, Carrie, who would ever think of 77owr——””

“But, indeed, Iam alarmed about you, Eli. You look
really ill. And you refuse to tell me what is the matter
with you. Perhaps‘you regret!”’

“Regret, Caroline?’ =

“T9-morrow,’’ she conéluded; then laughed at her own
absurd’ supposition. Ree

‘Since you have said that, you shall hear my little
story. I keptit back for two reasons; | didn’t wish you to
be worried, nor to think me quite a fool.”

When he had said that much, he walked on in silence,
her bright face upturned in eager curiosity, wondering
why he should hesitate, and why he should grow pale
again at the mere thought of what he had to tell. They
walked quite down to the hedge, turned, and paced slowly
back. yi

“Well?” again queried Caroline.

“Vou remember the ghost I once saw at the stile, or,
rather, the living image of a woman at that moment in a
distant country 7’

‘Yes, very well, Eli.” ;

“T saw her again to-night, standing in the same spot,
looking over to the turrets of this house, just as she looked
that night.”

“Saw Laura ??* exclaimed his listener, under her breath,
clutching his arm more tightly.

‘“Tdid. If everI saw a human being in this world, I
saw Mrs. Kilpatrick standing by the stile, as came out of
the wood.” ie

“But she is decad—and buried:”’

“How do you know that???

“That's a Strange question to ask, Eli! How do I know
it? Ihave heard all the particulars a hundred times.”’

“T have been thinking it over as well as my sudden ex-
citement would allow me, Carrie, darling, and it has oc-
curred to me, as the only solution of the mystery, that Mr.
Kilpatrick might very naturally have an object in giving
out that his wife died abroad—but that she is not dead,
and has secretly followed him back to this country.”” |

“You do great injustice to my dear uncle if you think
him capable of such deception, Eli. Alas, no! there is no
doubt about her loss, or that he mourns for her as
sincerely as ever a husband mourned. Mrs. Runnel told
me all the circumstances of the death and burial—my own
dear mother told me the same. They were all present at
the funeral. No, no, no, Laura Kilpatrick sleeps, far
away, in her lonely grave in Bordeaux!”

‘Then the dead desert their graves and walk.”’

“0, Eli, how can you talk so? Youmake me shudder.
{ did not dream you were so superstitious.”

“Superstituous!”’ a little disdainfully. ‘‘Do J look like
it, Carrie? I think you will seldom find firmer nerves ora
less excitable fancy than mine. You sometimes complain
that I lack imagination.’’ :

“T know, Eli, that you are just as brave and sensible as
amancan be. Thatis what surprises me. You are the
last person to see spirits.”’

“It és strange,” consented her companion, musingly.
‘or the first time in my life I know what it is to feel, as
you ladies say—nervous. I confess that I was shaken out
of my self-possession this time. I came out of the woods,
by the path which I follow always in coming to you. The
light wind that was blowing rustled the leaves, so that any
slight noise which I may have made in walking over the
mossy path could scarcely have been noticed. She stood
by the stile. Her bonnet was in her hand; her profile was

e. The moonlight struck full on her face. She
stood motionless, her eyes fixed on the chimneys and bat-
tlements of your house where they rose to view above the
trees. Isaw a gold chain glimmer on her neck, and her
bosom rise and fall, as she gazed. She did not impress me
as a disembodied spirit—it was too much—too much like
a creature of flesh and blood.”

“So it may. have been, Eli; and yet not haye been Laura
There may be living woman in this world who resemble
her, and in the evening, it would be so easy for you to be
mistaken!” :

“But the attitude, the figure, and the expression!
wild, sad, longing, intense expression!
strange woman be standing at the stile?
she come from—where go to ?””

‘T confess [ do not understand it.
in frightening me, Eli.

‘T warned you.”?

“Which, of course, only made my curiosity the more
burning! Jam punished for it, Eli, by being made to feel
so uncomfortable. Though why Ishould fear my sweet
Laura dead, any more than living, is of itself a mystery.
Did you speak to her, Eli?’

“I did not. I got behind a tree and watched her. I
thought, if, there is any discovery to be made, it had bet-
ter be made by me than by some one who had not the
wisdom, or the inducement, to hold his tongue. I had her
under my observation for at least fifteen minutes. She
wore a long, loose, white dress girdled at the waist, and a
gold watch-chain, as I havesaid.”

“It was her funeral-robe,’” whispered Caroline, with a
shiver. ‘She was buried in a fine white linen-cambric
dress, and the chain was left upon her neck, becauseit was
one which she always were. Mrs. Runnell told me so.??

There was no accounting for it, upon any theory, much
less upon any basis of facts Known to the two.. It was
useless to continns Ciscussing the subject. Caroline, who
had not seen the apparition, inclined to consider it a
spirit, driven by the unhappy circumstances of its destiny,
to haunt the spot dearest to it on earth, Kilpatrick and
Mrs. Runnell, too, had told her the one truth that it was
the belief that her husband did not love her, and not her
fancy for her cousin, which had driven poor, mistaken
Laura away. Carrie had always been very skeptical as to
all such appearances; but the weight of evidénce was
great in favor of this one. Many times the servants had
ae re Such an apparition; and once before, Eli had seen

That
Why should a
Where would

{. You have succeeded
See how I tremble.”

The young man, who had seen, and at his leisure the
novel visitor,,still 7evé that he had beheld a living woman,
and that woman, Mrs. Kilpatrick. It was only the little
facet that Mrs. Kilpatrick was dead, and had been buried
by her friends, which conflicted with this impression!

erie you pass her on the stile?” asked Caroline, after
& While.

“No; while I reconnoitered, she turned and glided away,
going, as before, along the path which leads toward the
cottageon the back road.”

‘Why didn’t you follow her?’

“I did, a short distance. She perceived me, I think:
for, as the moon went under a small black cloud. sho dart.
ed into the wood, and I lost her.’? 1

“Darted into tie moon, it is just as likely, "said Carolinc
solemnly. : :
SHY, oueht we to tell him 2?

“I do not see the necessity. No, darling, let it’ pass, as
afoncy of/mine, if youwill and can. I should not have
told you, had you not been a little jealous of the spirit,
Carrie! And now Fam jealous, lest it absorb too much of
your thoughts. Twant them all, on this evening of all
evenings, sweet.’
Yuen

 

_ The lovers walked, a little while, to and fro, in the ealm

reserve which she had once striven to break down. When:
Caroline was married, and. gone to a home of her own,’

 

moonlight. They were absorbedin each other, yet neither
could shake off a haunting influence which made each
start and turn at the whisper of a rdse-tree murmuring in
the evening breeze, or the sight of a dark shadow hover-
ing under some wind-swayed vine. : :

Presently they met Mr. Kilpatrick, walking alone in the
garden. He passed them with a smile and playful greet-
ing; but they had surprised a different expression upon
his face—one of such lonely grief that the tears sprang to
Caroline’s eyes at seeing his attempt toseem to share
their joy. i

“Poor uncle! 1 know how itis. All this company, mer-
riment, and confusion only make him more sad. I do
wish something could be done to cheer him up.” _

‘J think he will find consolation, after a time, in your
mother’s society, Caroline. Did you never think of it?”

‘“Never!”?

Lowell was too quick of apprehension not to have read
Mrs. Marshall’s passion for Kilpatrick long ago; hefhought
it natural that she should have grown fond of her friend
and benefactor; and, since Mrs. Kilpatrick’s death, had
rather hoped the two would ‘‘make a mateh.”’

“Mark my prediction, Carrie, that they will be man and
wife before this year closes.”’ : :

“It may be,’ she replied, after reflecting some little time,
“but I never even dreamed of the possibility before. It
will be a good thing for poor mamma, now that I a

She hesitated, and her lover filled up the blank with a
kiss.

“We must go in,’ murmured the bride-elect; ‘“‘they will
think us selfish, and 1am afraid we are. The house is fuil
of company, Eli.” é aoe :

“Oh, dear, and I sucha country-bumpkin, Carrie!’

“Just what I am proud of,” she whispered, and thus
sweetly encouraged, the young fellow—who could have
faced a regiment of hungry bears, or a field of new-made
hay before a shower, with steady nerves, but who inwardly
trembled before a bevy of city-bred young girls—mustered
courage to be introduced to half-a-dozen pretty and strange
young ladies, and to say something to those whom he
already knew.

These charming creatures were not without their doubles
of the other sex; as is usually the case in a country-house
numerous guests had arrived on the day preceding the
wedding-day; little groups fitted about the moon-flooded
porches; there was singing and piano-music in the parlor,
and a general air of festivity all over the great stone ‘‘cas-
tle.’? Up-stairs two or three large rooms were filled with
bridal finery, not only the bride’s, but the vapory drape-
ries of the brides-maids.

In one of these chambers Mary Runnel sat by an open
window, too tired to make a motion yet toward going
down to peep at what was transpiring in other parts of
the house. No matter how much time there may have
been for preparation, there is always an immense hurry
and flutter'on.the day before a wedding, if it istobea
company affair.

Mary had tried on dresses, basted, ripped,. took in, let
out, tied sashes, arranged head-gear, all day long, until
her brain was in a confused whirl of flounces, ribbons,
blue silk, orange-flowers, tarletan, and white vails. She
was glad to get rid of the pretty but tiresome ladies who
had clustered about her, and to rest herself in the cool air
of the window before attempting to go down and have
some tea.

There had been a grand dinner at six o’clock; but she
had nothing to do with that; her duties were entirely in
the dressing-room; her mother, however, had sent up
a plate of chicken and a meringue about seven, and she
was thinking of slipping down for her tea.

Over-exertion of the body is apt to depress the mind.
Mary, sitting there, gazing out at the moonlit gardens, felt
the hot tears rushing to her eyes. She did not ask herself
whether it was envy, or asense of her own want of com-
panionship, which moyed her. The young ladies all seem-
ed so gay, and to have so many admirers, it was hard that
she, as pretty and as young as any of them, should sit
apart. She knew, very well that she could have had many
an honest farmer-boy ‘‘dead in leve’”’? with her; but she had
looked higher, and this longing for something beyond her
present station was strong upon her this night.

There were several couples walking about the paths, and
flitting out-and-in the shadows of the trees below® so that
she paid no particular attention to one figure which she
had observed glide under a large pine and remain there
for some time, until she was startled by a whizzing noise
and rush of air, and heard a small stone fall, inside her
window. She looked about on the carpet until she found
it, with a strip of paper wrapped snugly about it.

She leaned from the window and read by the light of the
moon:

‘Mary, darling! Iam here on business. Will you meet
me at midnight, in the south summer-house?. I will keep
you but a few moments. I wish to ask you a few ques-
tions about some people whom we know. Say nothing of
my being in the neighborhood, please, sweet little, stub-
born little Yankee pink, and you shall receive your reward
from eyer your admiring friend.”

No need of signing his name.
ting perfectly.

She knew the handwri-
It was Gabriel Gillan’s.

CHAPTER XXIV.
THE VACANT COTTAGE TENANTED.

Driven from the house by the laughter, merriment and
music so poorly in consonance with his own feelings, Mr.
Kilpatrick wandered about the grounds like a @isconsolate
Spirit. Unwilling to cast the lightest shadow on the enjoy-
ment of his guests, he had yet found it impossible to con-
tinue in the midst of the mirth and feasting, so heavily did
associations of the past weigh down his heart.

Only three years ago.fe had been the happy, the
idolatrous bridegoom, wooing to his breast the most faith-
ful and purest, as well assweetest woman in the world.
So he had fondly dreamed—and now! what a black gulf
lay between him and those sunny times.

Surprise, horror, despair, almost madness, these he had
endured; and, althOugh he had recently been made aware
that the woman whom he had so trusted was not guilty
of any crime but want of faith in him, yet a man cannot
suffer what he had suffered, and ever renew the. careless
happiness of former years. Besides, he had only learned
of his wife’s fidelity in season to complete the wreck of his
hopes over her grave. He was a broken and over-wearied
man, as he walked among his.flowers that night.

Mrs. Marshall had observed him leave the house; she had
been secretly fretted at the melancholy which he could not
conceal, and had whispered to herself in passion and
scorn:

i “How long is he to go mourning for that little French
fool??? ‘

For days the hope had been growing in her mind that
Caroline’s marriage might suggest to him the propriety of
their own. Not one word had he ever said to her. on the
subject; the only advance he had ever made had been in
that letter, during his sickness at the French inn, and it
was evident he considered that subsequent events
had cancelled that. She had, therefore, to take the matter
into her own hands. She was not the person to give up to
any slight obstacle so near the goal of success. She re-
solved to address Kilpatrick as iftheir engagement was a
settled thing, trusting to his keen sense of honor to prevent
his attempt to deny it.

“What better opportunity than the present ?””

She too, sauntered into the garden, When he returned
upon a certain walk he found her sitting on a rustic bench,
and as he came opposite, she moved so as to allow him to
take a seat beside her, which he rather reluctantly did.
With his usual courtesy he would not betray this reluct-
ance to her. Yet he felt, instinctively, that she was draw-
ing him into a net, and that it. would be better for him to
run away than to linger there.

“T suppose you are very tired, Edith.”’

“Do I look so?’ turning her fresh, bright, handsome
face to his, looking softer and better than belonged toit, in
the moonlight,

“No, indeed. -You look almost as bright as Carrie her-
self.”

“Why not, George?
as full of hope.”

He picked at the green leaves beside him. Not knowing
what to say, he stumbled upon the wrong thing most
beautifully: St :

“What do you hope for, Edith, that is so sweet at your
time of life 2”

“For love,’? she answered, passionately; ‘for love and
joy—to be ‘mated with an equal mind’—things which
were denied me in my youth. 1 shall be younger to-mor-
row in heart, George, marrying you, than when I stood at
the altar with the man I never loved. Ah! weare not too
old to. be happy, George. There are years'and years of the
richest portion of life in store for us yet. Since the hour
when Lread your letter, promising some day to consider
my claims upon you, i have never doubted that we should
be happy yet.??

“But, Edith, you must know that Iam a broken-hearted
man. Why do you waste yourself oa me? Love some
man who can return your love. Lam afraid you willtire
of my monotonous mood. You are full of life and anima-
tion—I am but a wreck.”’

“From the years of my earliest girlhood you have been
the ideal shrined in my heart. You will never be displaced.
That. you are sad and downcast, weary and worn, only
makes you the dearer tome. To-might, George, you must
speak the word. Are we to part?”

‘Why part, Edith? My home js yours always—you
know that.”

She smiled a litile bitterly as she said:

“You surely, if you. will only reflect upon it, must see
that I can no longer make itso. Carriéisgoingto.a home
of her own. You are a widower. I can stay as your wife,
but otherwise I shall haye to abandon youto Mrs. Run-
nel’s tender merey. She can keep your house and mend
your linen. I—I—can go .away—and Mye—somewhere.”?

She began to cry at this. dreadful picture, making her
companion feel that he would bea brute to allow her to
go prey after the long years she had passed under his
roof,

“There, there, Edith! don’t cry and don’t go away. You

all have everything your own way. Since you consider
ib necessary, you shall have the protection of my name,
But I cannot play the lover, Edith. You will not expect
it?” anxiously,

“I will make all the love,” she answered, blushing and
laughing, ‘This is theday of woman's rights, and I ought
to have the right to make you as happy as possible. That
isailask. And to commence right away,” she added,
in a lower tone. ‘

“You would not desire unseemly haste, Edith 2”

“Tt is not.as if—you had been living with her at the time
she died.’!

She had-hard work to utter the sentence, but she had
made up her mind, and she said it.

“Have everything yourown way. Perhaps the sooner
tho better,’ rising from his seat as he spoke.
ae eee night, at the same time, with Carrie and
r ;

“I would prefer that it should be privately—say the Sun-
day coming. Let the young people get away first. We
dy not wish to take anything Jrom their enjoyment. They

My heartis as warm as hers, and

 

 

rule here, at present. But on Sunday, if it suits you,
Edith.”

He offered his arm, she took it, and they returned to the
house. It was curious love-making; but ‘‘when a woman
wills, she will, and there’s an end on’t.”’ 5

“dow pretty you look, mother,’’ cried Caroline, running
forward to kiss her, as Mrs. Marshall re-entered the gay
parlor; ‘‘doesn’t she, Eli?’

“She looks as if she had been rubbing her cheeks with
red roses,’’ answered Eli, gallantly. ‘Now Isee, Caroline,
how itis that yow are so pretty as you are. What did I
tell you 2” he asked, in a whisper, with a significant 100k
at Kilpatrick and her mother.

“I believe you are right,”? the daughter whispered back,
‘but it seems incredible.”?

Kilpatrick turned a Scrutinizing look upon the lady on
21 eae e8 heard encomiums on her beauty passing

A Thi have studi gi so lit-
tle had his thoughts Ha apon eee ghpecinaa nee

“She is handsome enough; but I Wish she had not forced
herself upon me,”’ was his unflattering reflection.

As soon as possible he got away from her, and’ the chat-
ting, fluttering company and, siek at heart, betook ‘him-
self to the quiet of his own room. 3

It was nearly eleven o’clock when he escaped, but the
merry young people were not yet inclined for sleep; the
doors and windows stood open, the moon hung high in
the zenith, the flutter of white dresses gleamed on the
piazzas, the sound of song and laughter kept the birds
awake in the rose-vines under. the windows.

Mr. Kilpatrick, closing his door, flung himself into an
easy chair. With his head thrown back, his face covered
by his hands, he sat and sighed, and thought, and regret-
ted. Life was wearisome and burdensome to him.’ He
compassionated Edith for wishing to share it with him.
He would not even look out upon the lovely night, but
wheeled his chair about, as ifto shut away the sweet se-
renity of thé outer world. The languid warmth of the
June night overcame him; but whether he slept, and sleep-
ing, dreamed, he was not sure, but he felt a warm breath
in his hair, and a light, light touch, as.of Laura's lips,
upen his forehead. : t

Wrapped in the heavenly. ecstasy of this dream, he did
not stir; it appeared to him as if her soul had descended
from the lustrous sky and entered into his chamber, and
was hovering about him with caressing Tove.

He had often prayed that such a thing might be; and
now, it was. : ee :

For the world he would not have -broken the blissful
spell. Her breath was trembling:in ;his hair, hero spirit
was seeking to make him feel her presence.

A sigh! hark! cs 3

His hands fell down from before ‘his face, he raised him-
selfin his chair, there was a glimmer anda movement in
the dark room before him. . The pale face and bright eyes
ofa man stared at him. Presently he saw that he was
staring at his own image dimly revealed in the pier-glass
in front of which his chair was placed. 3 ;

But there was something else.

The open window, reaching to the floor, shone in the mir-
ror, an oblong of light; and in the center of that light stood
a woman’s figure, in a trailing robe of white, and with
clasped hands. He could only make ont the conteur;. the
features were, of course, in shadow; but the figure was
enough! :

It was the phantom of his dead wife! so life-like, so tan-
gible, standing there, leaning toward him with. those
clasped hands, as once before Caroline had seen it, that
with a. loud ery, he started to His feet and sprang to
clasp it. 4

AS he sprang it vanished. He rushed to the balcony—
nothing there but the placid moonlight and the whisper-
ing vine-leaves. : :

“Why did I stir?’ he complained to himself, ‘if I had
kept perfectly quiet she might have staid a Jong time.
napa my wife, sweet spirit, Laura, come back, come
back! j

Vain the low, pleading cry from the depths of his long-
ing heart. The vision had fied, for that night and time.
There was a sound of ¢areless laughter and of pleasant
good-nights wafted up through the open windows; then
of closing doors, and Jight footsteps seeking the chambers
above—but Her footstep and her voice had passed away
from earth, and this phantom of a dream had faded, leay-
ing him to watch in vain for its return. He remained
wide awake many hours, but nothing preternatural again
appeared,

(fo be continued.)

KEEPING A GOAT.

Did you ever keep a goat, dear reader? I have, and I
come to the conclusion that it is an exciting kind of
SEAR PERG, to say the least, and profitable, to one’sneigh-

orst i

Having taken a cottage, with three-and-thirty acres of
lawn, woodland, tilage, and pasture attached, 1 bethought
me that a ‘‘playful kid’? would. look pretty om the,said
lawn, tethered to a stake, .eating his fill of cloyer, and
greeting me with a loving cry whenever I went that way.
Accordingly the playful. kid ‘was purchased. My’ friends
looked on and said nothing. .There were plenty of ‘Ah!
Itold you so, sir!’ when I began to make mild and touch-
ing complaints some weeks after; but not’ a word at the
time, mind, you, nol.a word at the time! When do friends
ever give you a Warning in the right place, by the way?

Well, the kid came—snow-white and innocent-faced,
with cunning little horns and hoofs, and the most lamb-
like expression of cuuntenance! The eord and stake were
ready, and lifting the little dear out of the lumber-wagon,
the man proceeded to tether it; and then the kid hited up
its voice, and wept! The poor thing missed its mother,
and made it manifest in a way that deafened and nearly
erazed me. The L n neighbors begamto flock in, —

“T heard the noise, and I thought one of the young,’uns
sartinly was killed!’? said an old lady by way of explain-
ing her wmexpected appearance. “Then I ran ont’ and
counted ’em, and they was allright, and I couldn’t find
nary & pig stuck in gate, anywhere, and se I kindo' con-
cluded that the rumpus might be over here!”!

“But what am I to do?” I cried, wildly. ‘That horrible
howling will drive-me mad!”

“Get the mother,’’ said a farmer, standing by, “and if
that ere animile don’t bust her biler a hollerin, afore the
old nanny arrives, you'll find she'll be all right.*? :

A deputation, headed by me, started off instantly on a
five-mile journey for the horned mother, and brought her
back in an hour’s time. We heard the voice of the mourner
three miles away, aS we returned. © But the moment she
caught sight of the placid, horned face looking down at her
from the lumber wagon, all was silent, and the little
wretch leaped and skipped for joy. :

So, instead of one goat, I was saddled with two! For
no one could hear that wailing and howling of despair
and live. : :

Resigning myself to my fate, I had mother and child
stabled comfortably together, allotted a part of the iawn
for their pasture, gave orders as to their food, drink; «&c.,
and thought there was the end of it! Bless you! It, yas
but the faint beginning!

The first day of their sojourn they ate up half an um?
brella, the, mop, and a pair of rubber overshoes.«: The
next, Madam Nanny carried a new crinoline all about the
place on her horns, and reduced it to fragments. On the
third, she: laid ‘‘the girl” prostrate on the lawn ‘and
danced over her. On the fourth, she got into the pantry,
and ate up three loaves of sponge cake. On the fifth, she
tossed the cat, and worried the dog, and scared the horse,
so that they both ran away.’ On the sixth, came down
to take my usual afternoon drive, and lo! and behold, no
drive could be had, because Madam Nanny had eaten. the
carriage straps off, and was just beginning upon a sixty
dollar harness, when she was discovered, and taken away:
On the seventh, she did a deed. so. awful, that.I have no
heart to record it. I shall never venture to whisper it,
even to my dearest friend, till a year and a day have gone
by—then I shall rehearse it in the columns of the New
YORK WEEKLY, and you willall be as wise as I am now:

Why didn’t I get rid of her, you will say? Ah, why!
The manwho sold her, knew better than to take her
back.

‘She always was in mischief, and I expect she always
will be!?? he said, when J entered my complaint. ‘Youll
never be able to sleep in your bed, till you tie her up. She
knows too much !—that’s allthat ailsher! But I ean’t take
her back again! That’s—not for Joseph’—thatiis!?

Icame home to the lady who ‘‘knew too rauch,’? and
favored her at some length, with my views en the subject
of her enormities. She heard me placidly, winking, and
chewing her cud the while. She was tied up; and once
in three days she generally breaks 100se, and does all the
mischief she can, before she is captured. Her dauchter
follows faithfully m her mother’s footsteps. I had a stable,
with a ‘parlor’? attached, made for them. ~They ate the
hinges off the latticed door, and were free. I ordered a
yard made in the open air, and in two hours after they
were put in, they had burrowed under the fence, and were
“cavortin around,’’ as the boy expressed it, when he came
to tell me. JI had them tied on the lawn with ropes, and
they cheerfully ate them in two; I tried chains, and they
broke them as fast as they were bought. Nothing wilt
hold them; nothing can confine them; and nobody can
ever catch, or control them in any way—excepi me!

Ah, there is where they have me! The horned villian-
esses know the weak part of my character too well! They
utter a little joyful cry at the, sound of my voice alone:
they cat out of my hand; they lie contentedly at my feet,
ifI sit on one of the lawn benches and read. They never
stamp.and shake their horns at me; they strain and pull at
their tethers to follow me, and. cry like babies if I go. out
of sight; and in the wildest stampede of fun and liberty,
after every one'on the place is out of breath, with running
and chasing after them, I am summoned from my study, as
the last resource, and the two wicked little white monsters
come to my feet, on the instant, with a look of adorable
innocence, and Surrender as prisoners of war, to my hand
alone! To every one else, 1 doubt not, they are horned
nuisances! But they love me—they obey me, and 1 am
won by the honest flattery, I confess. The hand of my
protection stretches far and wide above Madame Nanny
and her child, and woe’be'to him, or to her, who seeks ta
harm even a hair of those glossy, snowy coats.

To-day, in dire despair at the breaking of every rope and
chain, however strong, I have had them tumed loose into
the pasture and woodland, thirty acres in all. Of course
they will get into. some awful mischief. Iam prepared for
it. My next neighbor’s name.is Brown. I am expecting
each moment, as I write, to be called dewn to meet Mr.
Brown, and listen, more in sorrow than in anger, to his
energetic story of ‘What them -air goats have been and
gone and dene!”

>< _____

Mrs, F. R. Howarp, of Brownsville, Tenn., says: ‘I
havea Grover & Baker’ Sewing Machine that Thave been
fSewing on for fourteen years, which is stil in perfect or-
der and 23 good as when new,??

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE N

 

 

eae

NEW YORK, APRIL 18, i871.

 

—~

 

 

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Beggary as a Science.

Something very singular to class as a science, you Say,
yet in New York, to our certain knowledge, it has been
magnified into an art, and many of its adepts have grown
tich, and now hold plethoric bank-accounts derived from
its profits. ;

We will proceed to illustrate: During one of the most
bitter days ef the past winter, we entered a fashionable
restaurant up-town. Two elegantly-dressed ladies were
bending, actually in tears, over a little bare-footed boy,
not over five years old, all rags and tatters, whom they
had found with hands extended, and crying in the streets,
the minute before. _

He had the same “‘old story”? to tell, he had it by heart,
he had told it fifty times that day—‘‘father’s gone, moth-
er’s:sick, and little sister’s dead in the house!’

The ladies—Heaven bless them even for believing him
thus far, warmed him over the heater, had food brought
to him, and tried hard to find out where he lived, so that
they:could carry comfort where want—as they thought—
existed.

What a pity to chill the charity of their noble hearts by
@ “revelation.’? But the writer had to do it.

On the same block sat a woman of middle age, witha
fine, healthy face and a strong, healthy body, with a
warm woolen shawl over her shoulders, and another
wrapping a sleeping, fat, healthy baby in her lap.

Before this woman, who sat on the steps ofa house, was
a basket, and her bowed head, nearly covered by another
shawl, indicated her position as a mendicant, as well as
her basket and extended hand. Behind that woman,
piled up and hidden by her shawls and warm clothes,
were the shoes and stockings—good warm ones, too—of
four children, who were then beggigg, barefooted, at dif-
ferent stations in her sight; and as fast as they made ‘‘a
raise’? from some charitable giver, they ran to deposit the
same with their ‘‘banker’’—the woman just described.

We had seen this thing work just about as iong as we
could. We went to the policeman on the corner, and
spoke of it. Hesaid he knew it all—the woman was an
old hand, and if we would report it at the station-house,
orders would be given to break up the imposture.

We had nottime to goto the station-house, but we
“itched”? for the children and told them to get their shoes
and stockings and put them on—the thermometer was
12 above zero that day; and then we ‘‘made’’ for the
woman in their company—she was not the mother, we
think, of any except the babe in her arms—and told her
we would have her locked up if ever we saw those chil-
dren in the street barefooted again.

It had the desired effect. You can see the woman and
the children on the same ‘‘beat’’ any day, but they are not
barefooted now.

This is one of the illustrations of the science of beggary.
We may give more another time.

Ot

‘it is Never too Late to Mend.’’

Charles Reade, in a novel with the above title, gave such
a, faithful exhibit of the cruelties practiced in the reforma-
tories of his own country, that England immediately set
about improving her prison laws. Statistics are valuable
as far as they go, but plain, practical statements are what
‘we need in these days, to excite in us anything like pity or
sympathy for our misused brethren.

We need to have our national iniquities set before us,
occasionally by those who have been behind the scenes,
and know whereof they affirm; and New York might pat-
tern after Boston in the matter of reforms, without run-
ning any risk of attaining too high a degree of moral
excellence. wi ]

I never visited a prison. Itseems to me the refinement
of cruelty to gaze upon these social outcasts as if they were
so many caged beasts. a

They may deserve hanging, every one of them, but I
question if this public exhibition has anything but a hard-
ening effect upon them; and where it is continued day
after day, as itis at Auburn, it is but reasonable to sup-
pose that a convict, with any trace of humanity left in him,
would long for the gallows as the only possible way of
escape.

The prisoners dislike it, rebel against it, but without
any hope of redress, and the result is aloss of natural
pride, and a.recklessness that gives no promise of reform.

I recently read an interesting letter from Boston, giving
an account of a “Saturday night” in the State prison,
and no one could read it without feeling that good seed
had been sown in:such unlikely soil.

Our prisoners are not, as a general thing, from the low-
est strata of society; ignorance is not shrewd or cunning
enough to devise the plans which these men failed in ac-
complishing; and a simple story read to them, or the man-
ifestation of interest from those who are not mere philan-
thropists, may lead their minds into more healthy chan-
nels, and be a talisman against Satanic suggestions.

The devil is m these men, and he must be got out some-
how. Not by blows, or curses, or a supply of literature
severely good, or severely bad.

The man who has touched the immoral extreme, cannot
be jerked into the realm of righteousness, without being
in great danger of a rebound.

These elastic consciences are not to be relied upon; but

many have turned fromthe error of their ways even at the
eleventh hour, and there is always hope even for the vilest
sinner.

Leaving them to themselves is giving them up entirely
to Satan, and a release from captivity is but another and
better.opportunity for more daring exploits.

The man that is by natural instinct a rogue is far more
@angerous than the one who becomes so through the force
ef circumstances, and it is upon the latter class that refin-

img influences will have the most effect. Where shall we
begin our reforms, and who will take the initiative? Pray
for these who have fallen on slippery places, that the par-
don of God may be to them of more account than the pardon
from an earthly court of justice, and do what you can to-
ward improving their mental condition, for the mind is
the vestibule of the soul, and if that is full of rubbish how
can we expect to find any intelligence in regard to right
or wrong, or any sense of moral accountability.
—_ Ot
Stealing Without Skill.

If an “honest man’s the noblest work of God,”’ it follows
as a natural sequence that a dishonest one is the meanest
of created things. Of all dishonest men the plagiarist is
the most contemptible. He hasn’t the pluck of the burg-
lar, nor the skill of the pickpocket: but he combines the
worst qualities of both. One of our new imitative cotem-
poraries empleys a man of this character. He filches the
ideas, nay, the very expressions of a NEw YORK WEEKLY
writer, and with astounding effrontery puts his. name to
the diluted staff, and calls it ‘‘original.’? Were he expert
enough to use the materials so skillfully as to impose on
any reader, we might feel angry at the petty fellow; but
he is such a wretched botch that we are only amused at
his audacity, and astonished that a publisher can be found

 

 

BE CHEBRFUL.

BY H. ELLIOTT M’BRIDE.

 

 

Ag you toil and journey onward
Through this wilderness below,
Let your heart be warm and cheerful,
Do not wear a look of woe.
Man was never made to grumble,
Growl, and push, and scowl, and fight;
All his actions selfish, churlish,
And his maxim, “Might is right.”

Some such men we see around us,
Caring for themselves alone,
Bearing grievous, useless burdens,
Reaping where they have not sown.
Why not break the iron fetters,
Cast the burdens all away ?
Laugh and sing, be glad and merry,
And rejoice through all the day.
“Alaek! alack!” and ‘“Well-a-day |”?
“Troubles, troubles all the time!’
So we hear the grumbling people
Spin their worn and gloomy. rhyme.
Oh, this useless, sad complaining!
Rise above it—crush it down!
Be ye cheerful, kind, unselfish—
Worthy of a golden crown.

TRUE AS STEEL.

BY FRANCIS A. DURIVAGE.

 

 

 

A family council was held in the great hall of the Mar-
quis di Torricelli’s palace at Rome, on the evening of June
20th, 1848. Besides the master and mistress of the palace,
many relatives were present, including Cardinal Vicario,
brother of the marchioness. This family council was con-
vened to decide on the fate of the daughter of the house,
the beautiful Agnes, one of the loveliest and most accom-
plished girls in the Eternal City.

She had been betrothed to Count Giulio Montalto, a
gallant youth, not without fortune, and an officer in the
Pope’s Guarda Nobile, or Noble Guard. But on the very
eve of the marriage, a spy of Cardinal Antonelli, perhaps
a rival, charged him, with or without grounds, with some
offenses, and it was decided to demand the count’s resig-
nation and sword as an officer of the- Guarda Nobile, and
to place him under the surveillance of the police.

Giulio cared little for the loss of a service in which he
would not have remained much longer, but his degrada-
tion involved a much more terrible blow—the loss of his
adored bride, for the Marquis di Torricelli cancelled the
engagement, forbade the count his house, and ordered his
daughter to forget that she had ever known him.

But Agnes continued to meet her lover by night under
the black shadows of the arches of the Coliseum. There
they renewed their vows. They pledged each other to
eternal fidelity, and invoked Heaven to bless and sanction
the union of their hearts.

But although they deemed themselves alone, there, was
a secret witness to their interview, the police spy who
followed Montalto like his shadow, and who reported his
discovery to the parents of the unhappy girl. Though
they did not indulge in noisy reproaches, their indigna-
tion was profound, and their action was severe. Agnes
was confined to her apartment, and was so closely watch- ’
ed that she found no means of communicating with her
lover, and family council was convened to decide upon her
fate.

It was resolved to place her in the Convent of San Syl-
vestro, a Franciscan establishment, in which the rules are
the mildest of all the Roman nunneries. There, secluded
from the world and its temptations, her mind.could be
worked upon until, forgetting her errors, she would be
led at last gladly to embrace a holy vocation, to take the
black vail, and become one of the virgin sisterhood.

Upon pretense of visiting the convent on some other
business, Agnes was conducted there, and it was not till
the next day that she found she was a prisoner, and then
her despair was extreme.

By degrees, however, the feeling passed away, and she
gathered courage. To disarm the suspicions of the supe-
rior she feigned to be resigned and to listen with interest
to the arguments in behalf of a life of holy seclusion
which were addressed to her not only by the superior, but
by the humbler sisters, all of whom were animated by a
sincere desire to make a new convert.

Secretly, however, she was all the time planning the
means of communicating with her lover. In the fortress
of the convent she finally found a friend, a woman with a
woman’s heart, who conveyed a note to Montalto, assur-
ing him of undying love and fidelity, and through the
same medium she received an answer. This correspond-
ence was kept up, and Montalto implored Agnes to find
some means of meeting him. Visitors were permitted to
call on the noviees, in the presence of one of the sister-
hood, but Montalto, constantly watched by the police, was
excluded from this privilege.

At last, moved by the despair of the poor girl, the por-
tress revealed the fact that there was a subterranean pas-
sage, dark, dismal, and narrow, which communicated
from the cloisters with the outer world. Would Agnes
dare essay it? Yes—she would brave death could she but
meet her lover once more. The portress undertook to
procure a disguise, but not tntil Agnes had solemnly

all the entreaties of her lover to leave it forever.

manded this course. She knew that she could not be
gally united to Montalto at present, and there was no
secure and honorable hiding-place, to which he, watched
as he was by the police, could consign her, until more aus-
picious days arrived. If she could only see him and speak
Ate him, at rare intervals, her seclusion would be toler-
able.

At last the time came for making the experiment. At
the dead of night, attired as a peasant girl, she left her
cell, was conducted by the portress to the opening of the
dark passage, and with a courageous heart anda prayer
to Heaven, began to grope her way, placing her hands on
the slimy walls, and pattering on the rough and slippery
flagstones which paved the passage. At last she emerged
into a purer atmosphere, and was clasped in the arms of
Giulio, who was completely disguised. Of course, he
urged her to fly with him, but he had no plans for their
future, detection would be certain, the disgrace of dis-
covery overwhelming, and her pledge to return was para-
mount. Their interview, was brief, and Agnes herself, cut
it short, promising to meet Giulio again.

The success of this nocturnal enterprise induced the
brave girl to repeat it, and at last the lovers came to de-
ride the idea of detection.

One night, however, a terrible incident occurred. They
had wandered far from the convent, and suddenly a
thunder-storm broke over the Eternal City almost without
awarning. The rain came down in torrents, and the old
ruins were shaken to their foundations by the roar of
Heaven’s artillery.

Giulio only regarded the storm as a natural occurrence,
but Agnes beheld in it a special manifestation of divine
wrath. Montalto did his best to reassure her as they took
refuge from the drenching deluge under an old Roman
arch. ‘

At last the storm cleared away, and they hastened back
to the secret passage. But to their horror they discovered
that it was no longer passable. ,

The turbid flood that poured along the gutters had
forced itself into the passage-way, and the retreat of
Agnes was cut off. She stood a moment in despair. The
awful consequences of detection stared her in the face;
she would be thought to have disgraced herself and her
family, and a stain would rest forever on the scutcheon of
the Torricellis.

escape. She compelled Montalto to leave her, and imme-
diately hurried to the palace of her uncle the Cardinal,
whom she roused from his slumbers. Vailed and dressed
as a peasant-girl, she was not recognized by the old stew-
ard to whom she declared that she came on a message of
life and death.

To the cardinal she made a full confession. He was
astounded, shocked and angry, but he decided to save her.
Calling his carriage, he drove with her to the convent.

There he told the terrified superior that he had received
orders to search the building, having been assured that a
man had introduced himself in disguise. He directed that
she and all the sisters should remain in their cells while
he and the portress made a search alone. When the sis-
terhood had retired, he brought Agnes, more dead than
alive, from his carriage, conducted her to her cell, and,
after she had resumed her black Franciscan garments,
carried away with him her disguise, first assuring the
lady superior that the report which brought him thither
had proved groundless, and probably originated in the
malice of one of Antonelli’s spies.

He was preparing to consign his unhappy niece to a con-
vent of a stricter rule, and to arrest her lover, when public
events rendered it impossible to execute his plans.

Rome was declared a republic—the pope fled to Gaeta,
and Garibaldi, with his red-shirted heroes came to the aid
of the insurgents. ‘

Giulio Montalto, the trusted friend of the Italian liber-
ator, received a command, but his first act was to release
Agnes from the convent of San Sylvestro, and place her
with her family.
the pope, and so their persecuted daughter became, by
this sudden turn of events, the betrothed of a republican
leader, and their protrectress against the possible violence
of the enfranchised masses. Of course, in the midst of re-
volution, there was no time for marrying or giving away
in marriage—but the lovers looked forward to a speedy

| closed round the Eternal City in overwhelming numbers.
Night and day their siege guns thundered in a fiery circle,
breaching the walls and cutting down the heroic defend-
ers of the young republic. Victory declared for the heay-
ist artillery and the heaviest battalions.

In vain did Garibaldi and his crimson-shirted followers
perform deeds of valor worthy of the heroic ages. Beside
the Italian hero, Montalto fought with valor equal to his.

lover in this hour of supreme peril.

dier, and led the red band into the fire.

 

mean enough to print the peurile imitations, ©

France.

 

 

promised that she would return to the convent and resist

This Agnes: readily consented to—and her honor. oe
e-

Then it was that her desperation suggested a way of

The Torricellis were partizans of

jon.
Alas! further trials were in store for them. The French

Agnes, too, had her share of the danger and giory of this
brave defence; for no power could separate her from her
: Attired as a vivan-
diere, she hovered near him, brave as the Maid of Zarago-
za, undaunted amid the rattle of small arms and the ex-
plosion of shells. Once, in a sortie, she caught up the flag
of the republic when it fell from the dead hand ofa sol-

All these heroic efforts were in vain; but not until pro-
longed resistance became suicidal did Rome capitulate to |-

 

 

Garibaldi himseif refused to surrender. In @ square of
the city he gathered the remnant of his heroic band. It
was from his own lips that [ heard, modestly narrated,
the thrilling story of what happened then.

“Comrades,” ‘said he—‘‘let all who prefer freedom to
slavery follow me!’?

if l remember rightly, there were but about two hun-
dred of his followers, survivors of the heroic band of the
“Defender of Rome.”? But to a man they decided to stand
by him. Montalto was among them, mounted on a fleet
charger, and behind him sat Agnes, her arms clasped
about his waist.

Following the fiery lead of Garibaldi, they dashed out of
the city gates, and, incredible as it may seem, cut their
way through the splendid cavalry of General Regnault de
Saint Jean d’Angely, and found freedom in the mountains.
On that occasion Montalto and Agnes saw death face to
face, and smiled. They might die—they expected to
perish—but what of that? they would die in each other’s
arms. |

But they escaped unharmed, and finally reached Sar-
dinia in safety. There a priest united them; Garibaldi
joining their hands, himself, like them, aS TRUE AS STEEL.

A DUELIST PUNISHED.

BY EMERSON BENNETT.

 

 

Under the old Bourbon dynasty, before the Revolution,
the French nobility were emphatically a privileged class—
privileged to think themselves demigods, and all other
human beings on the face of the earth their inferiors.
The Revolution in a great measure grew out of this arro-
gant assumption and swept off large numbers of these
aristocrats; but those it did not kill it only hardened. At
the Restoration they returned more haughty, and insolent
than ever. The moral of blood might warm succeeding
generations—but it was lost on them.

At a celebrated café in Paris, frequented by military of-
ficers and men of rank, a nobleman of the old regime ap-
peared soon after the restoration, and made himself
famous in a very short time. He began his new career by
picking a quarrel with every officer he could meet who
had served under Napoleon. Ofcourse a duel was always
the result, and the Marquis de Brabant was always the
victor. Nor did he wound only—he always killed his
man. ‘

“The dead snake is always one less for the nest,’’ was
his favorite aphorism.

He was a tall, gray-haired, gray-bearded, black-eyed,
savage-looking fellow—a splendid swordsman and a dead
shot—though the pistol was then rarely used.

One after another of Napoleon’s veterans fell by his
hand, tili at last he became such a terror that only the
bravest of his foes could be induced to visit the place of
his resort at a time when he was known to be there, and
he had as regular hours for his bloody business as the
judge of any court. At first he had from one to five duels
on hand for his regular morning ’s work in the Bois de
Boulogne, but toward the last they had dwindled down to
only two or three per week. Then monsieur, the marquis,
began to make his irritating boasts.

“T am growing rusty,’? he would say, with ayawn. “‘I

have sent so many of these plebeians to the devil, that the

race is becoming extinct, and I shall die yet of ennut, for
want of a subject to practice on. As a farmer prays for
rain during a drought, sodo.I fora man with courage,
enough to face me.”’

One day, when this fighting nobleman was sitting in the
café, surrounded by a few of his confidential friends, to
whom he had been making his customary boasts, and de-

ploring the sad state of the altered times that did not send
him enough victims to keep his handin, a young, pale,
slender fellow, in the undress uniform of a lieutenant, en-
tered the place, and seated himself at a table that chanced
to be vacant in the vicinity of the redoubtable marquis.
He appeared to be a stranger, for no one recognized his
features; and as he carelessly picked up the bill of fare,
and began to peruse it in a leisurely way, he seemed of all
persons present not to be aware of his danger. Some of
the more timid shuddered as they saw the fighting noble-
man fix his deadly eye upon him, as the serpent does
when about to strike.

“Fortune favors monsieur, the marquis, with a new cus-
tomer,’’ facetiously remarked one of the sycophantic
friends of the great man.

The nobleman shrugged his shoulder, twisted the end of
his grizzly mustache, and replied, with a sneer:

“Hardly worth the trouble, though perhaps better than
nothing.”

With this he quietly rose, stretched himself in a lazy
way, yawned once or twice, and, deliberately walked over
to the. young man, snatched the bill of fare out of his
hand, and threw down his own cardina contemptuous

manner.

“Hither the Bois de Boulogne to-morrow morning, at
daylight, young jackanapes, or a present exit into the
street from the toe of my boot!’ the marquis growled,
with a fierce, menacing look. :

“Oh, the Bois de Boulogne, by all means, monsieur, the
Grizzly,’ said the young man, in a bland tone, and with
a peculiar smile, as he rose from his seat, lifted his cap,

and made a low bow; ‘‘and pray don’t be late, my poor

old superanuated, or I shall have the disagreeable neces-
Sity of posting you as a coward!”

“Isolent scoundrel!? roared the marquis; ‘‘I-——”’

What more he would have said was checked, by seeing
the hollow tube of a small -pistolin a direct line with his
eye, and a young man standing behind it, who looked as
if he might be careless enough to let it go off, in case it
were loaded. wri ;

“The Bois de Boulogne, to-morrow morning at daylight,
and, the usual weapons of gentlemen,”’’ said the blaad and
smiling stranger.

He again lifted his cap, with a polite bow, turned on
his heel, quietly walked out of the café, and disappeared.

It is needless to say that the nobleman was astonished
beyond measure, and his toadies confounded. Such
audacity was a marvel; the raging lion bearded in his own
den! ;

‘we shall never see him again,’’ was the opinion of all,
the marquis included.

The affair was the subject of much speculation through-
out the day; and the next morning at daylight the marquis
had a number of his friends on the appointed ground—
though not one believed, before he reached the place,
that the pale, slender, little lieutenant would be visible.

They were mistaken, however. The young man was
there, quietly waiting, with only a single friend as a com-
panion—a man much older, larger, and stronger than
himself—but, like him, wearing the faded undress uniform
of a lieutenant.

The business of the meeting was quickly arranged, and
the small swords crossed quickly. Monsieur, the marquis,
expected to settle the whole affair in less than thirty sec-
onds from thattime. But he didn’t. Fire flew from the
clashing steel, and rapid thrust and lightning parries were
made on both sides. As the contest grew hotter and hot-
ter, the enraged nobleman for the first time in his life
found himself overmatched. With all his skill, strength
and quickness, he was unable to touch his adversary,
while he felt himself pricked more than once. He pressed
hard upon his foe for a time, and then was compelled to
retreat. For five minutes he fought as he had never
fought before, and then suddenly found his sword-arm
disabled by a fearful gash. He was now at the mercy of
his slender little foe, and he set his teeth hard, expecting
the death-thrust. It was not given.

“That for Colonel Devigny,’’ said the lieutenant, with
his insolent smile and polite bow. ‘Go home, monsieur
the grizzly, get your arm healed, your stagnant old blood
rejuvenated, and then we will meet again.”

With another low bow to the astounded and discomfit-
ed nobleman and his friends, the lieutenant quickly took
the arm of his second and walked away asif nothing had
happened. :

Great was the astonishment of the nobleman’s friends
at the wonderful skill and prowess displayed by the
young, slender stripling of a stranger, whom nobody
knew, and the affair created great discussion and excite-
ment in certain circles. The hero had spared his foe in
order to meet him again. Would he? Many doubted,
but time would show.

Time did show. No sooner was the arm of the mar-
quis in a condition to be used, than the little lieutenant
appeared at the café, and, walking up to the astonished
and mortified nobleman, said, with his usual bland smile
and bow:

“Monsieur, the grizzly, is expected to appear at the
same place in the Bois de Boulogne to-morrow morning
at daylight and take another lesson in fencing from his
superior.”’ :

“J shalll be there, young jackanapes, never fear!)
cried the marquis, half choked with rage, and looking as
if he would like to murder the slender, blue-eyed lieuten-
ant on the spot.

The latter again smiled, bowed and walked quietly
away, humming a tune.

There was a large crowd present the next morning;
and beside his former second, the young stranger had
some half-a-dozen of his own friends there.

The dueling scene was much as before, except the mar-
quis appeared to be less confident and more on the defen-
sive. The result was the same—a disabling of the sword-
arm of the nobleman, and the escape of his adversary
without a wound.

“That for Major Labou,”’ smiled and bowed ‘he lieuten-
ant. “Take my advice, monsieur, the boaster, and leave
Paris, and hide like a coward, for there is fatality in the
number three.’

‘Devil!’ hissed the vanquished and mortified nobleman,
grinding his teeth in rage, as the young man walked off
with his friends.

In a couple of months from that time the third meeting
took place, having been brought about in a manner simi-
lar to the second. Again, in spite of all he could do, the
marquis was wounded in the sword-arm, and for the
third time found himself at the mercy of his foe.

“Twice before have I shamed and humbled you, in re-
venge for the death, at your hand, of two of my frlends,”’
now spoke the man, in astern, menacing tone, and with
a deadly gleam in his clear blue ‘eye. ‘(A man like you is
not fit to live on earth. Bon jour, monsieur the pest!’

With this he plunged his sword into the heart of the
marquis, who almost instantly expired.

The young hero proved tobe the son of Colonel Devigny,
and cousin of Major Labou. He was not an officer him-
self, and had only assumed the military costume for the
purpose of provoking a quarrel with the Marquis de Bra-
brant at the café. At the time of his father’s death, who
fell by the hand of the marquis, young Albert Devigny was
one the best swordsmen in France; but tomake sure of the
man he then wished to destroy, he practiced almost con-
stantly, with the best teachers he could find, till he
thought himself able to master his foe; and then followed
the scenes we have related.

It is needless to add that young Devigny became the

 

 

 

 

 

nobility, who ever after gave him a wide berth, or treated
him with the respect due to his courage and skill.

 

THE LADIES’ WORK-BOx.

{A department designed especially for ladies, wherein will be an-
swered.all questions which may be asked by correspondents, re-
lating 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.]

We wish to impress upon our friends two import-
ant facts in regard to the present styles. Comfort is the
first consideration, convenience the second.

Our modistes imperatively declare they cannot impart
grace to the forms they robe, unless perfect ease is allowed.
Tight waists contract. Nothing contracted is perfect or
graceful, therefore Queen Fashion decrees that large
waists shall be worn.

Last year an effort was made by the leaders of the demi-
monde to lengthen the skirts of walking-dresses. It was
not a “‘success;’’ but few of the really fashionable ladies
adopted the street-sweepers, which were neither neat,
elegant nor convenient. For carriage costumes they are
not only allowable but appropriate, but only short skirts
will be worn for street use this season.

A few hints and suggestions in regard to making waists
and skirts, we are sure, will be appreciated by our friends
who do their own dress-making.

Waists are cut to fit the figure naturally; shoulders
shorter, with the seam on the shoulder, not behind it. The
side seams are a little toward the back, not directly under
the arms, while the side-forms are placed close together
at the bottom, and curved, but not carried too high, nor
should the darts be too high, as this will spoil the style.
Let the waist be of a natural length. Jaunty basques, in
various stylish designs, are very much worn. The favor-
ite is the plaited postillion back, with a pointed or waist-
coat-shaped front. Vests and waistcoats are now used for
house wear, and when a vest is not used, the trimming
is arranged to simulate one. Bodices for house and full
dress, are often open, and either square or heart-shaped.
The French or blouse waist is still in favor for thin wash-
ing materials. Grenadine and gauze are made plain over
silk lining.

Skirts of walking-suits just touch the instep in front,
and are only sloped enough toward the back tomake them
hang gracefully.

House dresses for afternoon have the skirts a few inch-
es on the ground. Those for dinners and receptions are
trained sometimes as much as three yards, but usually
from one yard and a-half to two yards. The walking
skirts are not so much gored at the top as they were last
season; they usually have three full widths at the back,
one gore on each side, and an apron. The back is gath-
ered, the front and side gores are in shallow plaits;
when there are no plaits the top of the gores and apron
must be curved out to fit, and held full in swing as there
will be no appearance of drawing. :

Skirts are not lined throughout, and the facing must
be of light foundation, and only caught at the seams; they
are not bound with braid, but a hem is formed of the ma-
terial, about an inch and a half deep, upon which is sew-
ed a braid, flat on the under side, leaving only an edge
below. :

Evening dresses have skirts frequently cut in points, or
leaves on the bottom, bound with a heavy circling of the
material. and a plaited flounce of white Brussels net
placed underneath, which keeps the points from spread-
ing, and produces a pretty eifect.

The sleeves this season are very graceful; many are
made flowing; the sabot shape is popular, and coat sleeves
are cut and sewn in like a man’s. For trimmings, full
bias pufis are used, which are very becoming to slender
ladies. For thin materials ruffles are used.

The duchesse sleeve is a loose coat sleeve, open on the
outer seam, with the trimming carried around, and is
used for house wear. For evening dresses the Marie An-
toinette is in favor. :
Overskirts are worn, and are long, straight, and very
full, and looped gracefully in soft, heavy folds. There is
no rule by which one can loop a tunique, the material
making a decided difference. Soft goods, such as cash-
mere, hang gracefully, and can be plaited regularly in ar-
tistic folds. Poplins and other stiff goods hang best when
looped from underneath by tapes. Overskirts are made
with and without aprons. Slender ladies should wear
larger apron fronts, catch up more plaits, and have them
higher In the hips, than are required for a stout lady. The
opén tunics decrease the apparent size, therefore should
be worn by stout ladies.

Plain trimmings are greatly admired, but flounces and
rufiies are far from being abandoned. If more than one
flounce is used on a skirt, they are arranged so as to over-
lap each other; then but one heading is required.

A pretty way to ornament a skirt is to have the lower
flounce quite narrow, the second about twice as wide; cut
the second flounce in points, scollops, and leaves on the
edge, and let it slightly overlap the under flounce.

The dresses are rufiled nearly to the waist. The ruffles
look well when put on with a cord; they should just meet.
Some of the most tasty lawn and organdie. dresses we
have seen are fiounced in this manner, the edge of the
flounces being trimmed with valenciennes lace. The ex-
pense is not very much, as this lace sells at fifty and sev-
enty-five cents a piece of twelve yards.

“Rose of Carleton.’”?—There will be no impropriety in
sending the valentine. General description of overskirt
above. If you wish white, swiss would be pretty, or you
can use a kind of Mustaine, a material something on the
order of crepe or grenadine. Silk will make a handsome
black overskirt; if you do not wish to go to so much ex-
pense buy the Otter Brand alpaca, which is exquisitely
fine, and has a rich silken luster. You write a neat, pretty
letter. :

“Ida May.’,—You are not too old to wear your hair flow-
ing unbraided down your back. Many girls never think
of confining their hair, except at home, for comfort.

‘Minnie Thorn.”,—You can get a pretty imitation coral
set for that price. Tan is healthy, let it wear off, or wash
your face in sour, or butter-milk. Will write you by mail
and answer other questions, as you have sent your full
address, and some of your questions are hardly appro-
priate for the ‘‘Work-box.”’

“S, A. B.—Yes; children can wear fancy colored shoes.
In last week’s ‘‘Work-box’? we gave directions about
stiffening such material.

Children’s dresses are plainer than they have been. A
plaid dress needs only bias bands of the same material.
Let two bands, about an inch and a half wide, encircle
the skirt, and with two others form an apron front. The
polonaise is trimmed to match. Coat sleeves, with three
rows of the trimming. The pattern of the polonaise con-
sists of six pieces: half the front, half of back, side four,
skirt, and two sides of sleeve. :

“School-girl.’?—Make your calico with a Spanish flounce;
have the waist blouse or French, and trim it with ruffles
of the same. Finish the neck with a double ruffle, and
have the sleeves half way loose to the elbows, and flowing
to the hand.

“Bisie.’—A pretty overskirt has a short round apron,
falling from under the fronts, which are very short, the
high looping in the back drawing them very far apart,
forming adeep point at each side; the back is very long,
pointed, and very much putfed. e

«“Maddie.”’—Black silk or poplin, would be appropriate,
or you can wear a blue underskirt. You may use your
own pleasure in regard to the waist. If you intend hay-
ing a sacque or basque, then let the waist be like the un-
derskirt, and the sacque of the silver gray poplin. Trim
with fringe or folds of satin.

Other questions will be answered next week, as our
friends have given us something to find out, which will
require a little time.

 

 

TO CORRESPONDENTS.

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS.—Ira J.
Disbrow.—This correspondent sends us the circular of William’
Lewis & Co., No. 59 Cedar street, New York, offering | to sell coun-
terfeit money for about ten per cent. of its face. Hardly a week
passes but weare in receipt of letters of this kind, with a request
to give the matter publicity, inorder to caution any of our read-
ers whose cupidity may be aroused by the apparently tempting
offers made by such scoundrels asthe firm named. The parties to
whom the letters are addressed are cautioned to avoid the post
office, and transact all their business by express. The reason for
this is because the postmaster has stopped their letters on various
occasions, and returned their money to the poor fools who have
been led into the trap by their own greed. The difficulty in con-
victing these swindlers lies in the fact that they do not deal in
counterfeit money, nor do they have any in their possession; and
they are well aware that their victims, rather than appear against
them, and confess to their own dishonesty, will pocket their loss,
the only equivalent for their money being a box of sawdust or
some equally valuable material. There certainly should be some
way to stop this infamous traffic, as it is not only a swindle, but a
great annoyance to many honest people, who are the recipients of
such circulars. The police authorities apparently make little or
no effort to break up the business. Indeed they are not noted for
displaying much energy or vigilance except in cases where induce-
ments in the shape of large rewards are offered. To be sure,
a strictly honest person cannot be injured by concerns of this de-
scription, but no one has a moral or legal right to tempt his fellow
man to commit crime, and some way should be devised to rid the
community of such scamps....J. Soldner.—ist. There are many
objections to the form suggested, with but the one advantage.
2d. We will compare them, and attend to the matter. 3d. The
amendment was pasces July 15, 1870, as a portion of the Army
Appropriation Bill. 4th. We may.......... Reasoner.—We should
say it was very improper, and her betrothed would be-justified in
objecting to a continuance of the correspondence....... xX. T. C=
There 1s a medical college for women at 102 East Twelfth street.
We know of no institution of the kind where instruction is given
SPAN rs ee Gates J. F. St. John.—We advertise nothing of the
kind if we are aware of it, but cannot always discriminate.......
Happy Nigger Joe.—ist. Good. 2d. The population of New York
city, according to the first enumeration, is 926,341. The second
enumeration increased it about 17,000. 3d. Brooklynis a separate

i P.

 

city. 4th. See foot of ‘Pleasant Paragraphs.”........ . Henry.—
The institution is the best of its class, and the firm, we believe,
are reliable........... Pitt.—We did not have the work............
M. O.

. Smith.—You might succeed in time, but it would be years
before you could make a living at this style of writing....... Tom.
—Steel engraving is probably the most remunerative....... Jame-

son.—Iist. Platinum is a metal resembling silver, and is the heay-
jest of known substances. It is used principally in chemical ex-
periments. It has been of late years used by dentists for plates
for artificial teeth; pans and alembics for concentrating sul-
phuric acid are also made of it. 2d. The Dominion of Canada has
its own mint. Business.generally is conducted on the system of
dollars and cents, the same as in the United States........ Wm. A.
Yong.—Prince Albert died Dec. 14, 1861, over two years subsequent
to the visit of the Prince of Wales to this country...... S. Smythe,
—All prices, according to the merit of the contribution...........
Amateur Chemist.—lst. We cannot say. 2d. Consult a chemist.
: H. T. F.—Write to the authorities of the
institution, at Ith ; A. T. Perry.—\st. Send full ad-
dress, and we will forward the papers, 2d. The papers from the
commencement of ‘‘Who Owned the Jewels”? to Jan. 5, will cost
keaton as Mabel Dudley.—We may, but cannot say when......
E. F. Lanadhof.—\st. We have never issued a daily. 2d. The high-
est price which gold reached during the late war was on the llth
of July, 1864, when it was sold for 285...... Robert Pittis.—The only
boat race which took place between the Harvards and Oxfords
‘was on the Thames, Aug. 27, 1869, the latter winning. Time, 22:20.
Young Subscriver.—ist. The Mormons in Utah occupy United

wa
bo

 

 

idol of the Bonapartist faction, and the terror of the old

| Buckshot” 78 cents. There is no story named “Wild Bill....J. K.

 

dividuals living under Territorial government. 2d. The number of
Confederate troops surrendered at the close of the Rebellion was
174,223. In addition to this there were 98,802 prisoners of war who
were released from Federal custody. 3d. Our rates of advertising
are $3 per line for each insertion. Cuts, ete., are charged double
price. 4th. Yes; but much easier with a teacher.....J. C. Howell.
—All business is transacted with writers under their proper names.
U. S, A.—Ist. You can commence criminal prosecution against the
parties gion have sufficient evidence on which to base an indict-
ment. . You cannot enter the house unless you have a writ
from a.court, which you may obtain by representing that you be-
lieve your wife is detained against her will. 3d. You cannot ob-
tain a divorce for desertion, in Ohio, for lessthan a period of three
years. 4th. We think your best plan would be to get the advice of
a lawyer.....- Sassacus.—It depends upon what kind of business
you propose going into. Good farm. lands may be found in any
part of the West...... .. Sam. H. Williams.—ist. There have been
several building associations of the kind in this city; but we can-
not say whether there are any at present. A number of them
have proved to be swindles, and we would advise you to be careful
how you invest in this way. 2d. Your penmanship is very good—
quite equal to the average of copyists. 3d.-One or two errors in

your orthography..........- J. B.—Cease using tobacco...........
Justice.—See reply to “Young Subscriber.”...... Hard Nut.—it
probably arises from straining your voice...... B. C. B.—It can be

cured. See ‘Knowledge Box.”......£. W. Smith.—Elhanan is a

Scripture name. He was one of the captains in David’s army,

and in a battle with the Philistines slew the brother of Goliath.

See second book of Samuel 21, 19. The name is mentioned several
times in Samuel and Chronicles... .Marion.—lst. Lands on Long
Island may be sold for arrearages of taxes. 2d. Your father may
ascertain by inquiring at the county tax office. 3d. See ‘Knowledge
Box.” 4th. The lady, as it is optional with her whether she shake
hands or not....@. #. M.—Clowns use suet and prepared chalk to

whiten the face, the suet preventing the chalk from rubbing off
easily... .J. E. B.—The sketch will be published in our mammoth
monthly. The last sent will appear in the NEW YORK WEEKLY...

Sylph.—We know nothing of the individual....4. J. By.—Send
tothe American News Co., 119 Nassau street....J. S. M.—The
specimen sent us is defective in many respects. Youshould read
a work on metrical composition....Chimney Top.—Ist. General
Grant was the first who held the rank of General in the U. S.
Army. The rank of Lieutenant-General was first held by General
Washington. 2d. Good.. W. L. A.—We know nothing of such a firm
.. Bouquet.—Very few persons take corrections in their grammar
kindly. Probably if you make the necessary suggestions in a deli-
cate way, your friend would see how ‘ridiculous such speeches
sound and would endeavor to improve in her style of conversation.
W. S. Reader.—Ist. The engagement ring is worn on the fourth
finger of the left hand. 2d. Seal rings, worn by geen, are
generally placed on the little finger of th- eft hand....4 Constant
Reader.—ist. We cannot say whether’ ie Anncke Jans case will
ever get through the courts.We do not _ink it will benefit the heirs
much if it does. 2d. The five-cent piece now in circulation was
issued in 1865. It is made of a composition of silver and nickel,

and is worth about three cents...... Kittie O Neil.—It is not.......

D. B. T.—1st and 3d. Write to the American News Co. 2d. George
Washington’s great-grandfather, John Washington, was an Eng-
lishman, and emigrated to Virginia about 1657. 4th. Fair........

Tau-ga-schoo-tack.—There are several dealers in second-hand books
in Nassau street, in this city, but we cannot give the address of
BY sss H 35 e News Dealer.—W. A. Gildenfenny, Pittsburg, Pa., will
furnish you...... Wrestling Joe.—We cannot say......omeo.—We
have not the space to print the code of railroad signals. <Any rail-
road man will give you the information..... _M. V. Covert.—Your
subscription expires with No. 25, Vol. XXVI......Centerville P. 0.,
Bucks Co., Pa.—You did not send your name with the letter. Our
terms are $2.50 a year for clubs of eight, and an extra copy to the
getter-up of the club...... Samuel Rhoads.—Ned Buntline wrote a
novel called “Red Ralph,” but there is no sequel to it......... os
Fiddlesticks.—Ist. Eight thousand ems is a fair average, including
distributing and correcting, for ten hours’ work...... Mrs. C. M.
Murphy, Union.—You did not give the State in your letter. There
are thirty-four post-offices named Union in the country..... Mrs.
L. L. L. G.—We would not advise you to send the girl to any in-
stitution of the kind except as’a last resort, as it would bring her
in contact with some very depraved characters...... Gold-Dust.—
ist. A few hundred dollars would be sufficient. 2d. We do not
know of any place of the kind, though there are plenty, no doubt.
3d. Yes J. Mahon.—ist. Ventrlioquism can be acquired by a
person who is a good mimic, and has a correct ear for distances of
sound. We published quite a lengthy article on this subject a few
weeks since. 2d. “Buffalo Bill” will cost 72 cents, and “Little

—The operation has been frequently performed successfully. We
cannot say what it would cost.... Wraster Joe.—We know nothing
of the company whatever. As the enclosed circular has no sig-
natures, we would advise you to be careful in your dealings with
themes W. J. H.—Send to G. P. Rowell & Co., 41 Park Row,
for Gunn’s Index...... Anxious Inquirer.—We ‘should judge trom
your letter that you are dyspeptic, not consumptive by any means.
‘Air and exercise will benefit you. In the meantime, you might
consult your friend, and he will probably aid you... .0’.Donoue.—
The gentleman is a reliable physician...... Reader.—We know ot
no hospital of the name in this city...... Temperance.—We kuow
nothing of the preparation. See ‘Knowledge Box”......D. W. C.
—Ist. There is, at the corner of Broadway and Thirticth street.
2d. You might, by advertising...... Westward.—ist. We should
think it would. 2d. We cannot say. 3d. The climate is mild, i:
timber is not very plenty in that section. 4th. We cannot ».)
what is the price of land. 5th. The Missouri is navigable for 1ai,..u
steamboats some distance above Omaha...... Joseph Dunn.—The
nickel cents with the eagle on are worth no more than the other
issues. The story of silver being in them is a humbug............
Black Ivory.—\st. If there is no just ground for their opposition,
you should try to conciliate them. If that fails, seek the advice of
some person of good judgment, who is familiar with the circum-
stances. 2d. Act as your conscience dictates....... Foolish Joe.—
Ist. See reply to “A Country Lad.” 2d. It may after a lapse of a
few years...... R. A, T.—Ist. Vessels are sailed against the wind
by hauling their sheets flat aft, bracing their yards sharp up, and
tacking to port or starboard as necessity requires. 2d. The for-
ward sail is called the jib. 3d. Topsail....... Laura.—The money
has not been received at this office.... Wholesale.—Ist. We cannot
say, but should not like to invest much in them. 2d. Three cents
is the lowest, except for drop letters....W. F. Hyer.—The papers
are all mailed at the same time. The trouble is with the P. 0.
authorities. We will send the two in one wrapper hereafter, as you
prefer it...... Billy Wayne Right.—lst. The warmest place in the
U. S. that we have any record of is Fortress Monroe, the average
temperature for the year being about 59 degrees. 2d. We cannot
say which city in the world has the longest street. 3d. The assess-
ed value of property in the city of New York is about $800,000,000,
though it is actually worth much more. 4th. Among the import-
ant commercial cities of the world may be mentioned New York,
Liverpool, London, Havre, Hong Kong, San Francisco, Yokohama,
Bombay, Calcutta, and others. 5th. A person can travel around
the world in 77 days, by taking the following cities in their respect-
ive order: New York to Havre, Marseilles, Alexandria, Cairo,
Bombay, Calcutta, Hong Kong, Yokohama, San Francisco, thence
by Pacific R. R. to New York..... A Country. —Mrs. Holmes is
at present engaged on a new serial, which we shall commence as
soon as completed. . Scale Man.—“The Sister’s Crime” was finish-
ed in No. 16, and so marked........ George Merwin.—Yes
Lilia B.—It ig immaterial. You could address him as ‘John
Brown,” ‘Dear Friend,” or “Dear Sir,” or simply “Sir,” which is
rather formal between friends....M. A. K.—¥our composition is
poor and your measure is faulty. .....JamesMegowan.—We cannot
furnish the list desired.... .G. W. Hoskins.—Ilst. In 1760 the jegal-
rate of interest in Great Britain was 5 percent. In 1839 all re-
strictions as to rate were abolished. 2d. Mary Kyle Dallas. 3d.
It has not been announced. 4th. The name of “John Chinaman”
was first made use of in a letter to the managers of Drury Lane
Theater, London, in 1819. 4th. The most warlike and trouble-
some tribe of Indians are the Blackfeet. ‘In regard to the authors
and stories named we refer you to future issues of the NEw YORK
WEEKLY...... Charles Percy.—Our list of paid contributors is full.
foe Knowledge.—It is impossible to say which daily paper in the
United States has the largest circulation, several claiming to
head the list. 2d. Yes. 3d. The patrons of each paper claim that
it is the best. 4th. Horace Greeley is the leading editor of the
Tribune. 5th. There are several, the one located at Poughkeepsie
being considered very good.......... C. H. B.—Iist. We believe the
publication is suspended, as we have not seen it for a long time.
2d. Consult a physician known to be reliable. Do not let any
false motives of delicacy send you to a quack, as he will charge
an exorbitant price and do you no good. 3d. It depends on t
merit of the article...... John F. Smith.—ist. We have little faith
in the science, although there is probably something in it.
Fair. >: Out of Work.—We do not know what the rate of wages
is. We think it varies from $2 to $4 per day, according to the
skill of the workman.......... Jim.—\ist. Good. 2d. Apply at the
office of one or more of the companies...... Dotty.—We cannot
add to our list of paid contributors........ Stephen Gridiron.—ist.
Get a mutual friend to introduce you. 2d. Go more into society,
and you will soon overcome your bashfulness........ B. F. Roth.—
ist. We know nothing of the parties. 2d. Judging from the num-
ber of advertisements for men of your trade, we should think you
would have no difficulty in obtaining employment. .+.............
William Udell.—ist. “The Flower of Suda” will be commenced
as soon as possible. 2d. We cannot give the address of the pub-
lishers of the Liverpool Directory. 3d. As you do not know the
date of your uncle’s sailing, nor the name of the vessel, or the
port for which he sailed, we do not ‘know how you can ascertain
his present whereabouts..... .W. Nelson.—We expect to com-
mence a temperance serial soon. We have on hand a large num-
ber of sketches of this description, which we shall publish as fast
as our space will permit...... C. Thomas.—We do not publish in-
vitations of the kind, as we think .correspondence brought about
through advertising is almost invariably productive of injurious
results...... Cc. J. C.—We have no knowledge of the firm...... Lily
Lee.—We have no room for more paid contributors...... M. J. A.
Keane.—The poem is in our possession. We cannot say when it
will be published...... Newton.—We have never tried them, and
cannot say. Consult a physician who is known to be reliable. ....
N. Robeson.—The story is out of print...... T. G. Sloan.—See arti-
cle in No. 20, headed ‘‘Diamond Fields of South Africa.” We shall
publish other articles on this subject, written from personal obser-
vation and experience...... New Jersey Fannie.—Write to H. Van
Aernam, Commissioner of Pensions, Washington, D.C...... Jaco-
bi.—We cannot say. Write to the Interior Department, Washing-
Bon, DeoGs. West Newton.—The proper way would be to say two
Arbor Vite trees or plants...... M. G. R.—1st. No. UMAR ee
Caspangle.—lst. The legislature only can change your name. 2d.
No legal right. 3d. We do not know the address, 4th. The Presi-
dential receptions are merely matters of courtesy and custom.
5th. We have never seen the work, and cannot say...... E. A.
Kavanagh.—Iist. Consult a theatrical agency. 2d. The informa-
tion desired is rather out of our line. A horse trainer could prob-
ably tell you. 3d. “Buffalo Bill”? will cost 72 cents, and ‘£15,000
Reward’ $1.08. 4th. See ‘“Knowledge Box.”......d. Short.—Not
that we are aware of....... T. S.—Send your MSS. along........
Vivian R. D.—I\st. We cannot say. Consult a physician. 2d.
Carrie Conklin. 3d. It depends on how close the application is,
and whether needed exercise is indulged in during the day. 4th.
Consult a bookseller...-.... A, L. Raleigh.—The adherents of the
principal religious denominations, as far as can be ascertained,
rom the last census, may be classified as follows: Roman Cath-
olics, 3,312,500; Methodists, 1,255,115; Baptists, 1,109,926; Christians,
550,000; Presbyterians, 496,487 ; Congregationalists, 278,362; Luther-
ans, 297,633; Episcopalians, 200,000; Reformed Dutch, 211,068;
Free-Will Baptists, 362,600; ‘Universalis $, 200,000; Jews, 350,000;
Unitarians, 150,000; Fritnds, 100,000; Cumberland Presbyterians,
112,987; German Reformed, 110,600; United Brethren, 108,122.
There are several other sects, some of them having many church-
es and large congregations........ The following SS. have been
read and accepted: “The Unseen Home,” ‘To A. B. M.,” “To-
day,” “The Lily,” “The Waif’s Mission,” “Don’t Do It,” “A Word
to All,” “A Word to Moderate Drinkers,” “The Mason Band
Ring,” “‘Alice Cary,” “‘Remember Thy Creator in the Days of Thy
Youth,” “Penitence,” ‘The Two Oaths,” “On the Bridge,”
“Spring Breezes,” “Compensation” ‘Com of Spring,” ‘En-
couragement,” ‘Elfin’s Dream,” “‘Trifling Incidents and Great
Results,” “Rich and Poor.”........ The following will be published
in a mammoth monthly soon to be issued from thisoffice: ‘‘Fail-
ures,” “Ob, Well I Remember,” ‘Lines Addressed to H. C.” ‘A
Sister’s Devotion,” “Gertie Howard’s Lover,” “An Adyenture of
dan,” ‘‘Squire Glieber’s Story.”...... The following are respect-
fully declined: ‘‘The Drunkard’s Daughter,” ‘At my Mother’s
Grave,” “Submit Yourselves,” “Parting,” “The Power of Strong
Drink,” ‘What I Love and Put in Practice,” ‘The Gabin Home,”
“Life,” “Patience Rewarded,” ‘‘The Bird of Paradise,” ‘Child
hood,” “Waiting,” “Stanzas,” ‘Jottings by the Sea,’’ ‘‘Man’s
Geriert Temptation,” “Love and Prudence,” ‘‘The Companions,”
anzas,

WEEK AFTER NEXT

We commence a New Story, entitled

‘‘ Why Did He Marry Her ?”

By Miss Annie Ashmore,
Author of ‘Faithful Margaret,” ‘Bride Elect,” etc.

EAI

 

 

It is a peculiar love story, so artistically constructed that
the reader is kept in doubt until the last chapter, unable to
guess ‘‘Why did he marry her ??—whether for love, money

 

.... Young
States Territory, and are subject to the laws the same as other in-

or position.

 

 

 

 

 

 

(fst Ete SE

 

    
  
 
  
 
   
 
  
   
   
  
  
  
  
 
 
 
   
 
 
  
 
   
 
  
 
   
   
   
   
 
  
  
   
  
  
 
 
   
  
 
 
  
   
   
   
 
  
  
   
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
  
   
   
  
  
   
   
 
 
  
  
   
    
 
  
 
 
   
 
  
  
  
 
   
    
     
  
 
  
   
  
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
    
  
 
  
  
   
  
 
   
  
   
 
 
 
  
  
   
   
  
 
  
 
  
 
  
 
    
 
 
 
 
 
   
  
  
 
 
 
     
 
 
  
  
  
 
   
  
 
 
 
  
  
 
   
       
  
  
 
 
   
   
   
  
 
  
  
 
   
     
 
  
  
     
  
  
 
  
 
   
    
     
  
      
 
 
  
     
  
   
  
    
  
  
    
    
  
   
 
 
 
  
  
 
  
    
   
  
  
   
  
   
 
  
   
   
  
 
 
   
    
   
  
 
 
  
  
 
 
  
 
 
  
   

>»
be
~~ *
I
a”

~*

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

APRIL.

BY NATHAN D. URNER.

 

 

Come out of thy cloud, O, thou spirit of tight,
That peepest through pattering rain,

And, tipping the high-sailing swallow’s wing bright,
Barely lightest the window-pane! ;

There’s a gold-dusted vapor above and between,
And the rain, with a musical sound,

Is weaving the air with a dubious sheen,
And whispering hope to the ground.

There’s a stir on the river, and covert, and lawn,
And a stir on the glistening lake;

The forest revives, and, with many a yawn,
The gnarled old monarchs awake.

The snake is alert, and the door-mouse unrolled,
The rabbit skips over the lea;

The vane on the belfry is gleaming like gold,
And the shower still speckles the sea.

All nature is rife with a murmur of growth,
With a melody tender and sweet;

Whether shower or shine, or a union of both,
Not less is the gladness complete.

Sweet April! a benison falleth to earth
With thy shine and thy tremulous rain;

Ah! could’st thou but woo from his darkness and dearth
The spirit of man in thy train!

The Child-Bride;

OR, THE

WIFE OF TWO HUSBANDS.

By the Author of TRUE AS LOVE COULD
MAKE HER.

 

 

{The Child-Bride” was commenced in No. 16. Back numbers
may be obtained from any News Agent in the Union.]

CHAPTER XIX.
THE BEGINNING OF TRIAL.

They left Frank with his father and went down; both
gentlemen were silent for some time. Archie was deeply
pained; he did not for a moment believe that Miriam was
guilty, but his chivalric affection for her suffered when he
learned the nature of the tie between her and Grey.

‘What do you think of the story we have just heard ?””
inquired Arthur Morice; ‘is it not terribly circumstan-
tial?”

“Terribly circumstantial, but nothing more,’’ was the
reply. ‘‘Remember how poor Frank began. He had a
man and a woman arranging to obtain possession of a flat
morocco case.’?

“VERY

“JT happen to know that Grey—of course you know that
Selwyn’s real name is Grey ?”’

“T do.”

“Well, then, this woman, whoever she was, knew he
had such acase in his possession, and that it. contained
five thousand pounds. Now, what would Lady Miriam
Selton want with money, when Sir Henry only yesterday
afternoon gave her a banker’s book with a separate ac-
count opened to her credit for twice the amount? Do you
know, Mr. Ravel, the exact nature of the tie which exist-
ed between Lady Miriam——”’

“And Grey—no. I thought they were old sweethearts,
perhaps, but nothing more. I was sorry to hear what
I did; but, after all, she could not have been more than a
child when he deceived her.”’

“He never did deceive her; she was his wife.”

“is wife!” e

“JT myself married them in my own little church not a
dozen miles from Rylands.’?

In an instant there flashed to Archie’s mind that scene

when Miriam was overcome at the breakfast-table, when
the name of Lieutenant Grey figured in the obituary of
the Times.
. “Married,” he said; ‘if that were known, appearances
would be fearfully against her, for she went to meet him
yesterday, | know. Others knew it, too, and it would
serve no purpose to deny it; but I donot for a moment
think she struck him.’’

“Weigh the motive—think of her words.
rather one of them should die.”’

“Words gather importance by their application to Mir-
jam. The most commonplace observation might seem to
have asinister meaning if a similar event followed it. She
said nothing that a woman of high spirit would not have
said under the circumstances.”’

“But if she met him without her husband’s knowledge
—if Sir Henry did not know of his existence—and the mo-
ment of desperate temptation coming, might not the
thought have presented itself, that if this man were dead
no one could take her from her high position? Lady Mir-
iam is a woman of strange nature,’

Archie shook his head. :

‘You speak more like a lawyer than a clergyman,” he
said, gravely, ‘‘forgetting the obvious truth that she could
not have committed the deed alone. No woman’s hand
dealt the blows which broke his wrist and battered in his
forehead.”

“Wad she an accomplice ?”?

“Had she? Had Lady Miriam? No! But was there
not the woman who talked with the man about the flat
morocco case, and promised to be near to help him in case
of need ?””

“T gee you have something that is not incompatible with
her innocence.

“The more I think of it, the more I believe her quite sin-
less. Let us make it a matter of intentions, Morice. We
keow the groundwork of the mystery,”?

EVES gs

“Wher Miriam married my uncle she thought Grey was
dead, I myself wanted to marry her, and she told me
franky that she was not free—told me as frankly that
she were she would gladly be Sit Henry’s wife if he were
to ask her. It was after this,’ he went on, ‘‘that she saw
the announcement of the lieutenant’s death, and she mar-
ricd the baronet, as you are aware. I am certain it was
with no other motive than pure love—pure, grateful love.
Grey—I say it gently—had not used her well. He burden-
ed her young life with a secret—left her to bear affront,
shame; and itis not in human nature that she should
have grieved very deeply for him,”’

‘Well!”?

“T want you to notice a point now which may throw a
light upon the mystery as we go on. Before the marriage
took place—before she heard of Grey’s supposed death—
Miriam asked me to find out what I could concerning Mrs.
Major Digby. I shall not be surprised if we find that
sweet lady concerned more deeply than wethink at

resent.?? :

_ “What did you discover ?”?

“That she is simply a Shameless woman whom society
would long since have kicked out had it dared.’?

“How dared???

“My dear fellow, if the matter were not so grave, I could
smile at your simplicity. The members of society live in
so large a glass house that no one ventures to shy a stone
for fear of getting a heavier one in return. ‘Be as charita-
ble as you please; they say there is some virtue in the
worst of sin, and it is a saying to heartily subscribe to.
Anyhow, Mrs. Digby, though well known, is tolerated
from a sort of Christian charity and prudence.”’

“What had she to do with Lady Miriam—Miss Medhurst
then, or Mrs. Grey, rather ??’

“General Gunter had introduced her’ as governess and
tutoress, chaperone, et cetera. You understand the posi-
tion. A handsome baronet of forty or so could not under-
take the guardianship of a beautiful girl without some such
person.”? :

“Sir Henry was not aware of her character?’

‘No. Not that it would have mattered if he had been.
She had excellent references, and you know the easy-going
philosophy of fashion—the virtue of to-morrow covers the
sins of yesterday.”

“Why do you dwell so much upon this woman ?”’

“Because I think she found out Miriam’s secret, and
wished to trade upon it. Miriam, by finding out hers,
kept her in check. The point I wish you to seeis this: it
connects the woman who knew her ladyship then, with a
man who knows Grey now.’?

. ‘What man?’

“Miller—General Gunter’s valet. It is more than sus-
pected that there is a liason between the old general and
Mrs. Digby, and it was the general who introduced Mrs.
Digby here as preceptress to Miriam. Do you begin to
see?”

“It is very complicated.”

“As yet. But supposing that this man, Miller, a dis-
banded soldier, and not of the best character, recognized
Grey under his assumed name, mentioned it to the gene-
ral, and the general mentioned it to Mrs. Digby, she would
see the value of such a discovery, and determine to trade
upon it.”

“Go on,’ said Morice; ‘I am keeping careful note of
what you say.”’

“T want you to. Now, Mrs. Digby knew, as I did, that
Grey had a large sum of money with-him in that flat mo-
rocco case. Miller—for J saw him in the act of listening
—may have overheard the appointment made between
Grey and her ladyship. Does not that link them with
the two whom poor Frank heard speaking first ?”?

“Let us be just!’? said Morice. ‘In the face of what
Frank said we must not prejudge them.’

“Let us be just, and prejudge no one,” said Archie; “but
to me it is almost clear. They, I believe, knew that her
ladyship and Grey were going to meet, and for what pur-
pose. This money he had was to be used by her for the
purpose of purchasing secresy for a time.”

“Whose secresy ??? 3

“That of those who knew their secret—Mrs. Major Dig-
by, and perhaps the general, perhaps Miller.”

‘Wt ig a supposition; but there is much in it.”

“Very much,” said Archie, surprised at his own lucid
view of the mystery. ‘‘Now for the rest; supposing that
the first two were Mrs. Digby and Miller, their knowledge
of the appointed interview would account for their pres-
ence there. They lingered about on the watch for Grey,
to take the money before he saw Miriam. In that they
were frustrated, perhaps, by her appearance at the same
moment.”

‘And for the last—what Frank heard?” .

“The second two were Lady Miriam and Grey, undoubt-
edly, and it is more than possible that Grey did forget him-
seli to the extent of wishing to kiss in farewell the woman
who had once loved him very dearly; beyond that no gen-
tleman and soldier would have thought of going.??

She would

 

 

 

 

“But the struggle ?”’

“He gave her ladyship the money and she left him—gave
it to her with a proper sense of honor, so that Sir Henry’s
wife should not have to go to her husband for the price of
his secret, and because then— 1

“phere, I do not think you can go further, Ravel!”

“To the very end. Then this man, Miller, or whoever
it was, stole up silently and attacked Grey: two swift and
heavy blows would have dealt such wounds.”’

“put then the woman who st&bbed him 2?”

“That dagger was meant for me,” said Ravel, quietly;
‘Gt was my cloak Grey wore when he went to the appoint-
ment, and that vicious little tigress hates me bitterly. I
know the whole story of her shameless life, and I tell you,
Arthur Morice, the woman who has no shame has no
mercy. Iwas near the chapel within five minutes of the
time the deed was done, and she saw me.”’

“Then the cloak would not have deceived her!’

“J wore the fellow to it; Grey and I are nearly of a hight,
and in the thick of that wretched mist it was easy to mis-
take one for the other.”

“This may be true,’’ said the clergyman, thoughtfully;
“still it is but a hypothesis.”

“Tt is my deliberate opinion; so much so that, were it
not for the exposure, I would have them both arrested
this day as surely as you and I, Arthur Morice, are in this
room, and their victims are dying up stairs.”’ ;

“But even accepting your theory,’ said Morice, “the
danger to her ladyship is terrible; see how suspicious it
looks. She married Grey years ago; thinking him dead,
she marries her guardian, a baronet. Grey returns under
a feigned name; she gives him an appointment unknown
to Sir Henry, and in a lonely place; he is found there near-
ly dead!’ :

“SEERCL

“what is the inference? She dreaded the exposure—
the loss of position, rank, riches, and either planned and
executed, or assisted in his destruction. I tell you, Ravel,
it would go terribly against her.”’

“I know it would,” said Archie, with a heavy sigh;
“there is much trouble in store for the poor girl, I fear.”

“His title would be no shield to her,’? Morice went on;
‘Gt would rather supply a motive on which she would be
judged, condemned.’’ f

Archie shuddered.

 

“Help me to save her,’’ he said, grasping the young |

minister’s hand. “I love her, Arthur Morice, so well, that
I would give my life to her, and I say it with our sober
nineteenth century meaning in the words, on my soul.
As I hope for a hereafter, I believe Miriam to be a pure
and sinless woman!’

“May she prove so!”?

“Were she proved otherwise to all the world, that would
be my faith. I have seen her daily, know every phase of
her nature, and to the very core she is brave and true.”

In spite of what was almost a belief to the contrary,
Arthur Morice was impressed by Axrchie’s heart-felt con-
victions.

“J will act with you in any way you wish,” he said,
‘ut I fear her ladyship will be in danger. The case does
not rest with us; such a tragedy as this is sure to bring
the truth to light, and then her safety will depend upon
the course of action taken by the elder Mr. Grey.”’

Archie saw the truth of that.

“Has he been sent for???

“By the doctor’s advice he was telegraphed for two
hours ago.”’

“And an old man, with an only son in peril, will not be
merciful,’? Archie said. ‘‘Poor Grey, Iam sorry for him;
I did not think when I passed him with a jest that I should
see him next on the point of death.”

“Should a full inquiry be made nothing will serve her
ladyship but the truth,’’ said Morice, ‘‘and you could not
do better than give your theory to whoever may have the
case in hand.”

“T will do so.
happened yet.”

“The Seitons ?””

Archie answered in the affirmative.

“Do you think they need telling ?”

“That ungenerous doubt,” said Mr. Ravel, in sad re-
proach. ‘I begin to think you churchmen take the stern-
est side of mercy.”’

“It is our duty to be just.”

“And merciful.”

“When mercy is needed.”’

. “It isneeded most by the most guilty. Give Miriam
your sympathy, your pity—mercy she does not require.”

He left then to break the sad tidings to his uncle and
Miriam; he was sure she knew nothing yet. Her face
was very pale when helast saw her, but it bore no
trace of the terror such a knowledge would have left
upon it. %

He rode back to Sir Henry’s house; the hour was late,
and he was tired, weary with heaviness of heart. When
he arrived the doors were bolted and the shutters closed;
no word had reached them yet to break the peacefut sleep
of the inmates.

Sir Henry had retired for the night, but the servant who
admitted Archie summoned him.

“Have you had any news from Mr. Colchester?’ Archie
inquired before he sent him with the message.

“No, sir,’”? replied Palmer; ‘‘Sir Henry thought you
would stay there for the night, or | would have stayed up.
Tam sorry if I kept you waiting.”

“No, my good fellow. Tell Sir Henry | want to speak
to him please; knock very quietly.”’

Palmer—one of those faithful, docile servants which are
sometimes, though rarely, found, perhaps because good
ymaasters are scarce—did his business quietly; Sir Henry
knew his knock, and came to the door in a dressing-robe.

“What isit, Palmer?” .

“Mr. Ravel, if you please, Sir Henry; he wants to speak
with you. I think it is particular.”

Knowing that his nephew—the most considerate of all
good fellows—would not have had him roused without
strong reason, the baronet went into the library, where
the fire was still burning, Palmer, detecting signs of
trouble in Mr. Ravel’s usually tranquil countenance,
placed a decanter of brandy with the accessories on a side
table—a piece of unasked thoughtfulness for which Archie
thanked him.

“well, Archie,’ said the baronet, ‘“‘I gave you up whien
the clock struck ten. We were sorry you were not with
us; Miriam sang her sweetest songs this evening.’’

‘Poor girl!’ sighed Ravel, involuntarily.

“Ts anything the matter ?”’

“The worst! Colchester’s guest, Selwyn, was picked up
to-night at the old chapel nearly dead, his wrist broken,
his forehead battered, and a half-a-dozen wounds in his
back.”
¢ The baronet turned very pale. _

“Selwyn! Who could nave done it?”

“That we have to discover.”

“But the motive ?””

“He had a large sum of money—the five thousand
pounds I told you of—and it is gone.”

“Did he not see those who attacked him ?”’

“We do not know; hehas not spoken since he was
brought home. It is doubtful whether he will ever speak
again.”?

“Poor fellow!”

He tried to speak calmly, but he Was so unnerved that
Archie filled a glass with brandy for him. The baronet
drained it to the last drop.

“We had better not tell Miriam to night,’ he said, ‘‘she
is sleeping so peacefully.”’

‘May she sleep so always!’’ and Archie wrung his hands.
‘Tt will be sad news for her in the morning.’

The baronet looked wistfully at his nephew, as if he wish-
ed to say more, but the words died on his tongue.

“Good night, my boy,” he said, “‘it has upset you, I see;
would you like Palmer to stay up with you?”

“No, thank you, uncle; I will stay here till I am tired,
but sleep seems very far from me just now.”’

Sir Henry went back to his room with slow and sorrow-
ful tread, and he entered asif he walked on sacred ground.
A shaded night lamp stood by the bed, and Miriam lay
there in her tranquil beauty; surely a lovelier and fairer
creature had never fallen to man’s lot.

He knelt by the bedside and prayed, then leaned tender-
ly over the pillow.

“Forgive me, Miriam,’’ he said, aS even in slumber her
white arms twined round his neck, and her lips returned
the pressure of his; ‘‘forgive meif for a moment I wronged
my true-hearted wife—my pure, peerless Miriam.”

I wonder if they have heard what has

 

CHAPTER XX.
MRS. DIGBY IS VICIOUS.

Sir Henry broke the news very gently to Miriam. Nota
word was mentioned till she saw Archie in the morning-
room.

“T did not know you were here.” she said, accosting him
with her customary kiss and smile of welcome. ‘‘Were vou
hiding away all the evening, or did you come in late?’

“He came late,’ Sir Henry answered for him; ‘the was
detained by something that happened at the Colchester’s.
An accident, did you not say ?’’

The baronet’s glance implored him not to say how seri-
ous the matter was. Archie took his cue.

“A very bad one. Mr. Selwyn was severely hurt by some
ruffians, and he is now very ill.”

“When was that???

“Yesterday evening, at sunset, or mist-rise—for it was
more one than the other. The poor fellow was sadly ill-
used.

“He is not seriously injured, [ hope,’’ Miriam said—‘‘not
in danger!”’

‘“Imnocent!’’ thought Ravel; “innocent as the Sabbath
which has begun, I am sure!??

“One never knows how these things end,’’ he said, gen-
tly; ‘‘we shall know more by-and-by. Iam going over in
the course of the day to inquire.”’ :

No more was said. Archie could not understand why
Sir Henry wished to hide the truth from his wife.

“Tt must be that he thinks it would pain her,”’ the young
man reflected; ‘‘for he can have no idea who Selwyn
really is.’? 3

Miriam did not attach much importance to what she had
heard. Shespoke of it regretfully and with pity, as she

Lavould have spoken had ittaken place to any gentleman

hom she knew ever so slightly. She wentto church as
usual, and as usual saw Mrs. Major Digby, as pretty and
devout a little hypocrite as ever made a young curate’s
attentions wander from his discourse.

Mrs. Major Digby attached herself to the Seltons on
leaving church. She had so much to say to her sweet friend,
she would not be shaken off. Society suffers something by
its artificial politeness—the persistent female bore must
have her own way. Sir Henry wasa martyr to his own
cold: courtesy and amiable ill-temper. The widow would
go with them to the door; and as she had left her own
party, what could he do but ask her to luncheon ?

“The vixen would amuse me at any other time,’ he said
to himself; ‘‘but she is a nuisance at present.’’ 5

Mrs. Digby was serenely conscious of that, and gloried
init. If others chose to be delighted with her, she pleased

 

with gracious pleasure; if they made her feel she was a

-| face.

torture to them, she was still pleased, and tortured them
the more.

“Let me come and heip you dress for luncheon,’? she
said to Miriam; ‘I have so much tosay to you. Ours is
such a sad house just now, and my little pet is so trying.”

“Whois your littie pet?’

“Annje. The child isa perfect torment! Ifit were not
for my sweet temper, and—this in confidence—the very
handsome salary I get, I would do myself the pleasure of
boxing my pet’s ears, and throwing up the engagement.”

Lady Miriam said she thoroughly believed her.

“Such a sad house!’ said the widow again, when they
were in the dressing-room. ‘“‘Sit down, dear; your hair is
so tumbled.’ :

Miriam was too keen of instinct to sitin front of a glass,
and have that woman’s sleepily bright blue eyes on her
So she stood up with a hand-glass, and arranged
her own hair, her tall figure taking her out of the range
of Mrs. Major Digby’s vision. And Mrs, Major Digby hated
her.

“Such asad house, sweet!’’ she repeated; ‘‘of course,
you have heard of the dreadful thing! Poor young Mr.
Colchester is not expected to live the day through, and the
doctor has given Mr. Selwyn up!”

Miriam turned so suddenly upon her that she cowed.

“What ?? 3

“It is true, dear! They brought him home, you know,
drenched—a dreadful sight!—his arm broken, and his poor
head beaten in! And no one knows how it could have
happened, except that he was seen talking to a strange
lady just where they found him. And he had lost five
thousand pounds when they brought him home!”’

“Tell me the truth, Mrs. Digby,” said Miriam, sternly.
“Drop that childish manner for the present, and let me
know what really has taken place. If you will give me a
choice, I prefer your spite to your folly. Iknow you hate
me, but you must not play with me now!’

“T hate you?’ laughed the widow, lifting her brows;
‘well, my dear, I suppose I do, truthfully—we all hate
each other, more or less. You are younger than I am—
prettier than I am—hbetter off than lam! You have a sta-
ble—an opera box—diamonds—a powdered eoachman—a
coronetted carriage—handsome footmen—and a titled
husband! You have alli tried to get fifteen years ago,
and would have got had it been in the market. Yes; I
hate you from the bottom of my heart, and nothing would
give me such exquisite delight as to put this tiny foot of
mine on that proud neck of yours, and humble you to the
dust—dear Lady Miriam!”’

Lady Miriam smiled calmly down from her splendid
hight upon the supple little tiger-cat. There was venom
in the suppressed undcrtone—venom in the small white
teeth and parted lips—venom in the subdued glitter of the
eye! Every word was meant.

“T know you would,’’ said Miriam, with something of
the pride that men feel in the consciousness of mental and
physical superiority over a malicious rival; ‘‘and some day
I shall thank you for it aftera way of my own. You would
ruin me if you could.”’

‘“Would—shall, perhaps—could now; but it does not suit

me. I'am going to be your best friend, and save you! It
is quite out of any one else’s power.”’

“Save me???

“You! Imperious as you are, you are worth money to

me. I have to buy a position, and Sir Henry can afford
to pay for it. Your ladyship sees how very frank I am.”’

Miriam simply listened, knowing that now the flow of
venom was let loose it would run while it lasted, and Mrs.
Digby interested her; the most charming and accom-
plished woman of her time had never revealed so much of
her real character before.

“You are a brave woman!’ said the major’s interesting
relict; ‘‘bold, ambitious, successful; and you have no idea
how much I have helped you. You would not think it of
me—me, so fair and fragile by comparison with you.
Who out of those who saw you some years ago would
have thought that the hali-grown, uncouth, almost ugly
village girl would have been Lady Miriam Selton, and
with po distant prospect of being the Countess Dallas-
ton ??

“Pardon the question, Mrs. Digby—but have you been
drinking ?”?

The widow laughed. :

“As we do—you, and I, and the rest, who are so shocked
if we see a gentleman overcome. My dressing-case, like

ours, contains its tiny flagon of distilled brandy; our gen-
lemanly druggists have some preference and another
name forit. Ihave my eau de Cologne, which you and I
know is more a stimulant than ascent. I have the many
little medicines we require for our nerves; and, like the
rest, I never permit myself to have low spirits. But
drinking—to forget what I want to think about—no! I
saw Mr. Grey. I knew him at Rylands when he came to
your Aunt Dorothy to inquire for you. I was your friend
then, Lady Selton. He thought you false and abandoned,
till I told him how tenderly you loved—how faithful you
had been to Mr. Grey, till you heard he was dead! I
moved his heart to pity! It is true!”’

“What was your purpose ?”?

“T knew what he would do. In the natural way of
things, he would change his name, let you remain in ig-
norance of his reappearance, and marry again; then I
should have two dear friends.”

“And play the extortioner with both.”’

Mrs. Digby continued, in graceful mockery: \

“You baftied me for a time with your stubborn temper;
but I waited patiently. WhenI heard that you and he
were here so near together, my heart rejoiced--I knew the
denouement must come soon. I came down to watch the
farce. It is so easy fora person of charming address to
find a home in the house of a bachelor _or widower, with
a ward or daughter to take charge of.”

“She must have some daring scheme in hand to begin
the game so openly,’ thought Miriam. ‘‘There is mischief
in her, I am sure}”’

So there was. Every fibre in her graceful body quiver-
ed with it.

“T knew you were a bold, brave woman,’’ Mrs. Digby
went on; “byt I did not give you credit for the courage
you must have had to get rid of a strong man in that way.
You had him invited here; arranged for him to meet you
at the chapel with a sum of money; and murdered him!
If it were not so very wicked, [ could admire you.”’

The lurid glow in Miriam’s eyes. the leopardess-like step
she took, made the pretty tiger-cat crouch again. Mrs.
Digby ran to the fireplace, and took possession of the bell.

“Tam afraid of you!’ she panted. ‘Iam acoward, and
you frighten me when you look like that; but if you come
near me, I will scream, and ring the bell, and say you
wanted to strangle me—I will!”

“Tell me,’? said Miriam, in a whisper, ‘‘is he dead ?”

‘““Ag dead as seven stabs with your Indian poniard—the
pretty inlaid toy I have so often admired on your dressing-
table—are likely to make him. You had better burn the
sheath, for the weapon is found, and people may know
whom it belonged to.’’

Miriam went to ter dressing-table. The sheath of a
deadly toy her father had sent from India—blue velvet,
gold and pearis—was there, empty! ,

“You took it!’ she said, hoarsely. :

‘T! Why should I??? The wicked langh made Miriam
shudder. “I had no inconvenient husband to come be-
tween me anda coronet. I didnot steal out of my house,
vailed and cloaked, to visit a strange gentleman in a lone
place. I can obtaina flat morocco case, containing five
thousand pounds, without, killing a man for it!’

In spite of Miriam’s high courage, the utterly wicked
disposition of the woman appalled her. She stood on the
brink of an awful precipice. :

“You see your position,’”’ Mrs. Digby said, lowering her
tone for want of breath. ‘Talbot Grey’s father will be
here to-morrow. You may be sure he will bring the best
detectives with him London can supply—bloodhounds,
who will hunt you down with the more alacrity because
you are nobie prey! It is I—only [—who can save you!”

“How ??? said Miriam, to gain time: she was at the
mercy of the tigress, and coulddo nothing without time.

“Give me the money Talbot Grey gave you—you meant
it for me, I know—and it will remove one important bit of
evidence against you.’’ :

Miriam unlocked a drawer mechanically, and took out
the morocco case. Mrs. Digby opened the case, counted
the notes, and put the case in her breast.

“You are safe,”? she said. ‘Leave it with me. Ifyou
had to trust to my mercy, it would do you little service,
for I would give as much as this to see your proud spirit
broken under the prison scourge; but you are rich, and I
must have money. It is to my interest that you are Kept
free from suspicion.?’

“What can you do??

Miriam began to see there was power in the woman’s
nature, after all, though it was evil power.

“Fix the guilt on another. I havea man so entirely at
my mercy that I could hang him like a puppet if he dared
disobey me! My way of life has not been like yours, Lady
Miriam. I have had to fight it inch by inch, cringe and
fawn, and wait my time—supplicate even the grey old
profligate who led me into sin, and was my ruin, I wait-
ed my time, and tt has come !”” :

“If you can save me from suspicion for a time,’ said
Miriam, ‘‘you will find me liberal enough.”

“You need not fear. Ifyou had not made me hate you
so, you would not have found a truer friend; but, friends
or foes, your interests are mine. That is the luncheon-
bell. Let us put on our company faces and go down.”’

And quieting herself by a singular effort of will—the
effort of one laboring under intense mental excitement—
she went to the glass, smoothed her hair, and settled her
features.

‘Dear Lady Miriam,’ she said, with a startling affecta-
tion of sincerity, ‘‘they will be waiting for us. You are
very pale; but they will know I have been telling you bad
news !?

During luncheon, though the tragedy at Mr. Colchester’s
was talked about, neither Miriam nor Mrs. Digby betrayed
more than an ordinary sympathetic interest in it. The
widow was a past-mistressin the art of table-talk; and
eyen the London men,who knew her and her history, con-
fessed to themselves that she was a charmingly audacious
little adventuress.

She found an opportunity te see General Gunter’s valet
in the course of the afternoon. The man was a tall, not
unhandsome fellow, of three or four and thirty. He had
short black hair, small keen dark eyes, heavy brows, and
a determined mouth; but he could not keep his face steady
before Mrs. Digby—he was half afraid of her.

‘“Miller,”? she said, ‘I want you to goa journey.”

“Yes, madam.?? :

“To London—to the Bank, in fact. You will take this
case and this letter, and bring back what is giyven-you.
I may as well tell you thatthe case contains bank-notes to
a large amount; the numbers I have taken.”’

“Yes, madam.??

“You will bring back other notesand gold, equal in
amount to these. You need not let your eyes sparkle, for
you cannot steal a penny of the money. You will not be
lost sight of from the moment you leave this house till you
return; so you had better earn fifty pounds honestly than
risk your live in the hopeless attempt to take more !””

 

“You may depend upon me,” said the man respectful-

ly. “You pay well for what you want done, and more
than that, [don’t think you are so angry as you were at
what I said.’ ;

“Never mind that now. Very much depends upon how
you serve me, and I want aman like you, with courage,

| address, and good appearance, to serve me faithfully.

Here isa time-table. You will take the trains I have
marked. There will be those on the platform to see that
you do take them. Any attempt to get away will lead to
your arrest.”

The man bowed and said nothing; but he saw she meant
every word.

_ “Should they question you at. the bank,’’ she said, “‘say
simply, that you are General Gunter’s valet—that he is
staying here, and that you are sent. by Lady Selton.
There will be those near who can substantiate what you
say if necessary, and so long as you do your duty no trou-
ble will come.’ :

“You may depend upon me, Mrs. Digby,’’? he said’
again. ‘“‘IfI had not more than the common feeling of a
servant for, his mistress, I should not have done what I did
for you. Still, you are right, perhaps, in being on the
safe — Five thousand pounds is a temptation to a
man !

Cecilia Digby knew she could trust him. The touch of
her hand, when she gave him the letter, sent the blood to
his brown cheek. The influence ofa woman—even of a
bad one—is very powerful over a common-minded man.

He was true to his trust. Whether Mrs. Digby had him
watched er not, he thoroughly believed her, and he was
back at the appointed time with the money—two thou-
sand pounds in gold, three in smaller notes.
ce old wicked smile played on her lips asshe thanked

im.

“I promised you fifty pounds,” she said, ‘‘and here they
are. Did you have any trouble?”

“Very little. They read the letter, and just asked memy
name and where I came from; then they gave me the
money just as it is. They shovel sovereigns up by the
score, and count them by weight there.”’

“T promised you fifty pounds,” said Mrs. Digby, in a
quiet tone; ‘‘and now lam going to give you a hundred
and fifty more.”?

ae man muttered something about not wanting so
yauch.

“With this advice,’? continued Mrs. Digby, counting out
the sum in small notes, ‘‘that youleave England with the
least possible delay, and never set foot in it again!”’

“What for???

“Lieutenant Talbot Selwyn Grey’s father has arrived,”’
she said, deliberately.

“Well—he does not know me.’?

She put her small strong hand on his wrist.

“He brought some detectives with him, and they have
ae the loaded end of a broken hunting-whip, covered
wi 19

Miller shuddered.

“My. Grey is dead !” she went on,in awhisper. ‘The
five thousand pounds stolen from him you took to the
Bank this morning, and had them changed for smaller
notes and gold by means of a forged letter; and you said
Lady Selton sent you!”’ .

The disbanded soldier looked at her in dull silence for
some moments, and then the fulltruth broke upon hin.
He muttered a savage oath; but Mrs. Digby did not flinch.

“The swiftest horse in the stable will be your best friend
to-night,’ she said; ‘‘and you will find any climate heal-
thier than the English. You are a man of courage and
address, Mr. Miller, and Iam only sorry to part with you
so soon.

 

CHAPTER XXI.
THE WORLD AGAINST HER.

The telegram which was sent to the elder Mr. Grey
reached that gentleman early on the evening of the Sab-
bath. It was worded by Archibald Ravel, and no words
were wasted. It told him briefly that his son was danger-
ously ill, and asked him to come at once to Lincolnshire.

Mr. Grey lost no time; he went from Rylands to London
by express, and he would have taken a special train to his
destination had not another express been on the point of
starting. Ittook him down at forty miles an hour, and
by evening he stood by his son’s bedside.

Arthur Morice saw him and broke thenews. The young
clergyman was best fitted for the task. No man who had
not the tender strength of the gospel in his soul could have
witnessed the old man’s agony. :

He was astern old man, as most men when old grow
stern to the world. After the first change there was noth-
ing in the hard worn lines of his face to tell how terribly
he suffered. He listened to Arthur, asked to be taken to
Talbot’s room, and stood there white and calm like stone.

“A cowardly and cruel thing,’’ he said, and they were
his first words; ‘‘a cowardly and cruel thing, and I will
hunt his murderer through the world!”

He had not kissed or touched his almost unconscious
son till then. Then he took the pallid hand and kissed the
parched lips. Talbot kissed his father, and much was
shown by his faint smile. But he could not speak; the
er hunting-whip and deadly Indian toy had done their
work.

Mr. Grey wanted to know how the deed was done, and
then he noticed a strange evasive vagueness in the an-
swers. The only lips that could have told him anything
were closed forever.

Poor Frank was dead.

“Don’t tell any one what Ihave told you,” he said, be-
fore he died. ‘‘Leave Lady Selton to her conscience and
to Heaven. For, after all, she may be innocent. You
know I saw nothing.’’

They did not disregard his wish, and Mr. Grey, the eld-
er, tried in vain to get the particulars of the attack upon
his son from those who heard Frank’s dying words.

“T found him on his face outside the chapel,’’ said Mr.
Morice; ‘‘I carried him here. How he came by his wounds
I do not know.”’

Mr. Grey did not press the inquiry; he was aman with
whom action took the place of words, and he telegraphed
to Scotland-yard for a detective. He also sent for his law-
yer.

They arrived together. By a singular coincidence they
rode in the same compartment, and after the fashion of
Englishmen when traveling, scarcely exchanged a word
the whole way. A remark about the wetness of the weath-
er, and a word concerning the dullness of the sky, lasted
them from London to Lincolnshire.

It was not till they alighted at the station and found a
carriage waiting, that they knew each other’s purpose.

The lawyer, a keen and stolid gentleman of fifty, was
about to put his foot on the carriage step, when the detec-
tive touched him on the shoulder.

“Well, sir?) he said, surprised.

“Pardon me; this carriage is sent for me, I think!”’

“Pardon me!” said the legal gentleman, with dignified
emphasis; ‘for me, I am sure.”’

The coachman, greatly amused by the coincidence,
smiled as openly as he dared.

“T was sent by Mr. Colchester to meet Mr. Medwin, a
solicitor from Bedford-row.”’ j

“T am Mr. Medwin.”

‘And Mr. Granger.”?

“From where???

The coachman did not know.

“Scotland-yard,’”’ said the detective in Medwin’s ear.
“You see we are both on the same thing. You have heard
of me, Mr. Medwyn ?”?

The lawyer smiled and shook hands with him. On more
than one occasion he had derived great benefit from Gran-
ger’s services.

They went to Mr. Colchester’s together. Medwin saw
at once that it would beto his advantage to establish a
friendly relation with the detective.

“T suppose we are both on the same business,’ Granger
said; ‘‘there is no need of diplomacy between us, sir’?

“You are right,” smiled Medwin; ‘‘we shall do better
together than by each one working for his own ends. I
hear that young Mr. Grey, the son of an old client of mine,

has been attacked and nearly killed, under peculiarly mys-
terious circumstances.”’

“Then you heard more than I did; until you teld me that
I did not know whether it was petty larceny or man-
slaughter. I haven’t had a case worth speaking of for a
long time,’ he added, reflectively, ‘and I hope this one
will turn out something like.”

When he saw Mr. Grey, and heard from him what had
happened, the detective’s professional instincts were
roused; the case promised to be worth his best attention.

At the first interview only Mr. Colchester, Mr. Grey,
Granger, and the lawyer were present. Granger did not
want to be troubled by too many at a time.

“Let me know what happened, and when it happened,”’
he said, ‘‘and you may leave me to find out how. I like
to have a quiet think over it, without being bothered by
independent witnesses, who will give their own opinion,
You say the gentleman was stabbed as well as beaten,
and he lost a book with five thousand pounds in it. Now,
the thing is, where did he get that money, and who knew
he had it?”

“Jt was sent to him by his agents.”’

“One moment, if you please, sir; why was your son
known here titer another name ?””

“Tt was a fancy that he had,” replied Mer. Grey; ‘‘he did
not wish to be known by certain persons who were not
aware of hisreturn. That question we must put aside en-
tirely.”’

“Boe your pardon,” said the detective, firmly; ‘“‘that
question must not be put aside. A gentleman does not
assume a name for nothing, and there are reasons in rea-
sons. What I mean is this; would those certain persons
have been in his way, or he in theirs?”

“Both, perhaps!”’

“You see, sir, it hinges on this; it was not a regular
hand that did it. He was waited for and surprised, and
was stunned before the knife was used; it is altogether a
clumsy bit of work, and looks to me more like revenge
than anything else.”

‘We will not do or say anything on supposition,’ said
Medwin, who saw that the detective was touching on deli-
categround. ‘Let us hear from Mr. Grey a plain, straight-
forward statement of what has occurred, with such things
as he may have heard since.”

Mr. Grey related what he knew, simply and almost
sternly; he had an angry sense of injury against every one
in the house, for he fancied every one conspired to keep
him in the dark.

“Whether my son lives or dies,’ he said, ‘I will have
vengeance; for if he lives life will be worse than death.
His reason is quite gone—he does not even know me.’?

By the deep agony which broke through the studied
coldness of his tone they could see how terribly he was in
earnest.

He had very little to tell. Just the bare fact that his son
was found by the chapel on that fatal Saturday at even-
ing; that he had not spoken since, except incoherently,
and that a large sum of money had been taken from him.

‘{ know nothing more,” he said, ‘‘and the rest is for
you to find out. Bring the miscreants to light whoever
they are, and you shall have reason to be satisfied with
your reward.”

 

Mr. Granger promised to do his best. He liked the case

 

none the worse for the mystery which surrounded it; there
was the more to find out, and the more glory to be gained
by the discovery. :

He went to work in a very systematic manner. For
several days he assumed the role of a gentleman idler,
and lounged about between the two estates, waylaying
the servants, and by dint of drinking with the men, and
making love to the women, he elicited much information.

At the same time, he had a confederate at work in Lon-
don, making inquiries respecting the conduct and charac-
ter of the young man whom the agents had sent down
with the money. There was nothing to excite the faintest
suspicion.

But the London confederate, working very zealously for
his superior, found out that the whole of the notes had
been changed at the bank by a man who called himself
James Miller, General Guuter’s valet, and who took a let-
ter from Lady Miriam Selton.

In the meantime, Granger had formed acquaintance with
Mr. Ravel, and that gentleman affected a kindly interest
in his success. Archie, who knew so much, dreaded the
idea of the slightest clew being found by this man.

“T have got this, sir,’? said Granger to Medwin, four
days after his advent; ‘and mind you, I never had my
hand in a more ticklish bit of business. I’ve been very
careful in making my inquiries, and what I have found
out is this: Lady Selton knows something!’’

“Lady Selton! Impossible!’’

“Just hear this, sir: I got hold of Sir Henry Selton’s own
man—as close a card as ever a man had to deal with—and
little enough he was inclined to say; but I had him. I
picked out that her ladyship—before she was her ladyship
—came from a place called Rylands, down in Hereford-
shire ??? .

“Well 29

“Well, that’s close to Mr. Grey’s place, and though it
may not seem much to you, there’s something in it to me.
I put it together this way: her ladyship and Mr. Grey were’
in the same neighborhood years ago; that’s a point. Mr.
Grey, under the name of Selwyn, went along with Mr. Rav-
el, and saw her ladyship on the Wednesday morning; on the
Thursday Mr. Grey sends for the money; on the Friday he
gets it; on the Saturday her ladyship is seen to go out
about the time he might have been attacked; and on the
Monday aman takes the notes Mr. Grey had, and changes
them for smaller ones and gold, according to a letter she
sends by him.”’

“Where is this man now ?”’

‘Wait a bit, sir! The man brings the money back right
enough—there’s no doubt of that—and then he disappears
—gives up a good situation, and goes away, which ho man
in his senses would do unless well paid for it. Now, who
was to pay him well, and what for ?”’

“J cannot follow you just yet, Granger. Have you the
letter which Lady Selton sent to the bank?”

comegie?

“Are you certain it was written by her ladyship ?’’
“That’s another point which Iam not going to try to
find out just yet. When people in her ladyship’s rank of
life are mixed up in these cases it is not easy to lay hold
of them. Suppose I took it to her, and said, ‘Did you write
this, my lady?? What easier, then, for her to say ‘No’?
And that man being out of the way, where’s my proof?’’
“What do you propose, then ?”?

‘TJ am going back seven years, sir. This case has been
a long time leading up to, mark my words! This man who
is gone was a soldier in Mr. Grey’s regiment, and by what
I jearn had no great liking for him. He was the very man
any one who wanted to get rid of young Mr. Grey would
have picked out for the job.”

“Why should any one want to get rid of him ?””

“Why should he want to change his name? What did
he want of five thousand pounds? How did it get into

now ?”?

“A difficult question.’’ :
The detective smiled with a conscious sense of supericr-
ity. The elder Mr. Grey entered just then. ;

“Its a plant,’”? said Granger. ‘‘The man was senv away
to.make us think he did it, and so keep the scent from
higher game; andif,he had done it, what was to keep him
from going right away when he was in London, with two
thousand pounds in gold and a heap of small notes about
him? They arranged it very cleverly, but they won’t get
over me like that!”

“Whom do you suspect??? asked Grey.

“First of all, sir, will you please answer this?’ said the
detective. “I don’t want to pry into your secrets, but I

your son and Lady Selton years ago.””

“There was.”?

“Anything,rong?”?

“Most assuredly not.””

The detective looked a little disappointed.

“Well, then, anything which she would not like her hus-
band to be acquainted with?”

“There was a secret between them,” said Mr. Grey;
‘not a dishonorable one, but one which both would have
Kept at any sacrifice.’

Granger laid his hand heavily on the table.

“Mr. Grey,” he said, solemnly, ‘just as sure as you are
sitting there, your son was set upon by the general’s valet,
and Lady Selton paid him for the job, and if she didn’t
have a hand in it herself, I am a blind man! You are
frightened, because she is.a lady of title. I can teli you,
she is not the first by many who has done as bad, or
worse!)

‘Were she a duchess,’’ said the old man, grimly, ‘E

strip the ducal jewels from her throat, and place a rope
there! I purposely abstained from telling you what was
between them, because I would not prejudge her; but I
tell you it was my very thought. She must have recog-
nized him, and she took that way of having him silenced
forever. She thought him dead years ago.’’ {
“And tried to make sure of it this time! If you will get
@ warrant, sir, I will have her ladyship arrested at once???
Mr. Medwin interposed.

“It would not be wise—the evidence is so entirely cir-
cumstantial; and if we were proved mistaken, the dam-
ages would be fearful.”’ : :

“If it cost me half my fortune,’’ said Mr. Grey, bitterly,
“T will have justice. Let her rank shield her if it can!
Lady Selton, Miriam Medhurst,or Mrs. Grey—which ever
she may be found to be—shall be in custody before to-
morrow night!

(To be continued).

 

Tt

Injured Husband;
How Did Lady Neville Die?

By Helen Corwin Pierce,

Author of “THE CURSE OF EVERLEIGH,”
“WHO DID LADY VIOLET MARRY,”
“THE UNLOVED WIFE,” “WOLF
OF VIGNOBLE,” ete.

[The Injured Husband”? was commenced in No. 12. Back Nos.
may be obtained from any News Agent in the Union.]}

CHAPTER XXVI.

Outside the gate, Lady Audrey stopped running, and
signaled a cab at the first crossing, giving the driver the
first direction which came into her head.

It was Cheapside.

From there she took a close carriage, and was driven to
the house in which she had promised to meet Zeno.

She had scarcely any hope of finding him, but she knew
nowhere else to go. She had no other friend in all Lon-
don, that she dared trust in so frightful an emergency as
this.

Keeping her vail well over her face, she left the earri-
age, paid the man and dismissed him.

Walking on till he was out of sight she then turned back
and mounted the stair as yesterday. Was it only yester-
day she wondered? It seemed a week.

She knocked at the door where she had entered before,
then tried it. There was no reply—it was locked.

‘At least, I must not remain standing here,’’ said she,
thinking fearfully of Claude, whom she had left senseless,
perhaps dead. ‘I shall doubtless be pursued, and I know
now how unscrupulous and wicked my enemies are.
Heaven alone knows what my fate would be if I fell inte
their power again.”

In her ignorance, she never thought of applying to a
magistrate for protection, and it was better, perhaps, as
he would undoubtedly have given her up to her foes, if
they had presented tlieir claim in the manner they were
most likely do.

“T must avoid attracting attention to myself,” she
thought, “lest I am tracked.”

Acting upon this, she concluded.not to even ask the
woman on the ground floor, if she knew when Zene was
likely to return.

She found, however, that she had already became the
object of this woman’s curious scrutiny.

The woman on the ground floor, kept a candy-shop.
She was a red-faced, bold-looking creature, and she stood
in her own open door, with her arms akimbo, as Lady
Audrey come down, and there was a look of eager curi-
osity on her face. s

“| wonder if she remembers me?” said Audrey to herself,
thinking of the day before, and involuntarily drawing her
vail closer. To her excited imagination, the woman’s bold,
sharp eyes seemed to pierce her vail like knives.

 

tainly in this dress,’’ thought Audrey, as she hurried away
without looking behind her. A strange irresolution seized
the usually daring girl, aS she thought that within a few
hours at most, the spies of her enemies, or the officers of
justice might be on her track

She had eaten no breakfast, and began to feel faint with
hunger, excitement and fatigue. ‘I will find some place
where I can have breakfast,” she said to herself, ‘and
while it is preparing I can think what I will do next.”

She went into the first respectable looking hotel she

meal. .

While she waited for it, she sat by the window, and
watched the passers, thinking she might possibly see Zeno.
She had the table set near the window, and continued to
watch while she was eating.

Suddenly it began to rain, and at the same moment,
she saw at some distance on the opposite side of the way,
an old man walking with a staff, who seemed like the one
who had stopped her carriage for alms the day before.
She waited, looking eagerly, could it be Zeno, still in his
disguise? And should she run out and meet him? No
that would attract too much attention.
Ste opened her door, and seeing one of the .chamber-

 

 

Lady Selton’s hands? Why is the man hiding himself »

do want to know whether there was anything between -

would drag her from her palace if I thought her guilty— .

“Tam sure I should never dare come here again, cir- .

came to, and asked for a private room, and a good warm '

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

° a 255

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

 

 

 

 

ie crner

maids on thelanding, beckoned to her. She slipped a

piece of money in her hand, saying: _ :

“There isan old man with white hair and astaff coming
down the street, I think he. was once my father’s gardener,
Will you go and ask him to come to me for a moment w?

The girl smiled, and went and did her errand, returning
very shortly with the old man, who was indeed Zeno. He
had instantly surmised that the lady who wished to see
him was Lady Saville and betrayed no surprise. Audrey
dismissed the girl with a brilliant smile and thanks, before
she gave vent to her joy and relief. Then she told him all,
in her eager, impassioned way. — ;

There was a carmine stain on either cheek by the time
she had finished. :

“Something tells me that cruel Claude is not seriously
hurt, and thathe will stop at nothing to get me in his
power again,’ she said, standing with bright, resolute
eyes before the seeming old man. ‘How shall I hide my-
self from him???

“This is a quiet, respectable, and not too. frequented
place,” said Zeno. ‘1 know the landlady, and I will
speak to her about you. You will be safe here for a day
or two, till we can decide upon something ‘and learn the
situation. You were imprudent, my lady—pardon me—to
suffer that bad, unscrupulous man to discover that you had
penetrated his schemes. You should have concealed even
the recovery ofyour memory. You have made yourself bit-
ter and powerful enemies without a cause. It would have
been much wiser to have conciliated these people, and
concealed your discovery of their wickedness, till you had
obtained possession of your father’s vast wealth, all of
which is now under Lord Neville’s control. You will need
money terribly to carry out your designs, and that money
cannot be forced from your enemies, even though it is
your own, short of much publicity and waste of time.
You have, probably, only stunned that rascal with the
blow you gave him. He will live and keep you out of
your own, if he can. Ah! my lady, where will we ‘get
money now???

uct? was looking ashamed and remorseful, for she
felt that Zeno’s reproaches were just, but she smiled faintly
at the word money, and showed him her handful of dia-
monds.

“J have not told you all,” she said, and repeated the
story ef her visit to the study, and the conversation she
had overheard. ; eee

Zeno’s 6yes glowed at the mention of Salaris and Let-
Ieee :

“They are alive, then?” he ejaculated. ‘Thank Heaven
for that.” ,

The faithful servitor eyed the diamonds my lady showed
him doubtfully, and with evident suspicion. He was
almost inclined to distrust both their genuineness and
Lady Audrey's sanity, for repeating a taie which sounded
so marvelous and improbable.

He, however, consented to take two of them, have them
tested, and sell them if he could, returning at night to
Lady, Audrey with whatever news he could obtain for
Her.
A triumphant light flashed suddenly from Audrey’s
black eyes. : : ee

“Tf we live, and Claude Revere lives, his lordship’s day
of reckoning cannot be far off now,”’ she said. :

‘Heaven grant it,’ Zeno said, rising to go; ‘he is a
bold, bad, powerful man, my lady. We cannot attack him
openly.”

“what? not with what we know ?”

Zeno shook his head. :

“We shall have to prove it, and there is only your single
testimony. Would you know the man again who was
with him when you overheard that conversation in the
library ?”” q :

“J did not see him,” Audrey said, disconsolately; then
brightening again, ‘‘but I should know his voice, if I
heard it twenty years from now.”

“Tt'is more than likely, it will be twenty years before
you do hear it again,’ rejoined Zeno, gravely. :

The cloud deepened on the little dark face lifted to him.

“T have been very foolish, very rash and childish, I see
it now,’ Audrey said, ina low voice. ‘‘Salaris, my father,
would want to disown me, if he knew how shamefully I
had trified with those precious interests which he left in
my charge. Ah, Zeno, I think lam not more than half
myself yet. You should have begun on me sooner, my
friend. How did it happen that you let more than a year
go by, before you sought me?” Bee

“My lady, you were never alone. I did seek you, but
you never recognized me. I saw that you were not yeur-
self. There were whispers about your mind having been
affected by“your troubles. ‘I sent you letters by Mack, but
you paid no attention to them till this last. Mack said you
would just glance oVer ‘them: listlessly, and then throw
them down and forget all about them.”

Audrey shivered a little. ‘It must be frightful to lose
one’s mind entirely,’ she said. “How dolseem to you
now, Zeno? Allright? Upon your word now, do I seem
like a woman of sound mind?” *

Zeno replied to the half-whimsical question literally.

“J think you will be all right presently, my lady.” :

Audrey laughed, with a dash of the old mockery and
daring in her voice. Then she said:

*Meanwnhile-our work waits for us. So, Zeno, sell the
diamonds, and bring me back word of how it fared with
Master Claude.”?

Zeno departed. As he passed through the hotel sitting-
room he spoke to the landlady, who knew him well in his
present disguise, and recommended Audrey to her charge
as Miss Lyon, the daughter of an old employer, who would
be in the city a few days, waiting for the arrival of some
friends.

When he came back at night he brought the evening
papers with him.

It had rained all day, a circumstance rather rejeiced at
than otherwise by Lady Audrey, who sat by a low fire
which the damp evening made pleasant. My lady looked
pale and somewhat anxious. j

“The day has been so long and lonely, and 1 have kept
thinkiwg’ and waiting till i was ready to go wild,’ she
said, running to meet Zeno, and searching his face
eagerly.

“His lordship was only stunned by the blow you gave
him,” the Jew said, with a faint, ironical smile, and he
showed her a paragraph in each of the papers he had
brought. :

Audrey’s beautiful black eyes sparkled with anger as
she read, and she raised her small head with a movement
of contempt and disdain.

Bach paper contained a garbled account of the occur-
rences of the morning, in which she was artfully repre-
sented as not merely insane, but dangerous, being liable,
though so little and delicate, to fy at any one like a young
wildcat. A large reward was offered for her recovery, any
information to be sent to Lord Neville.

«Who will believe this?’ she said, striking the paper
scornfully with her white forefinger. ‘‘If he thinks to get
me in his power by so audacious a falsehood as this, he
will find himself mistaken.”

Zeno shook his head without reply, and. looked at her
with a grave commisseration, that she presently noticed.

“You have not told me all,” shesaid. ‘‘There is still
something.”’ i oe

“Nothing, my lady, except that this,’ pointing to the
paragraph she had just read, “is a much more serious
matter than you seem. to imagine.”’

Audrey smiled incredulously, and beat the carpet with
her little foot in an excited and angry manner.

<Jn the-first place,’’? said Zeno, ‘‘Lord Neyille, as he
calls himself, is your nearest relative that the law recog-
nizes, and as such, a Court of Inquiry into your case,
would either Gonsign you to an asylum at once, or give
the custody of. your person to Lord Neville.”

“But lam vot insane.”’

‘Lord Neville is rich and powerful. He can produce
‘witnesses, you Know, to swear to anything he chooses.
Beside thereis that long loss of memory ?<ter your illness,”’

-‘True,” and a thoughtful look came over the haughty
young face. “I cannot remember everything even now.
There is something about Madame Revere and Angus. I
see blood whenever I think of her.” :

‘My lady,’? said Zeno respectfully, ‘“ve must think of
your safety now. Yen thousand times more now than be-
fore.”’

«Do you really think if is more endangered by this?’
demanded Audrey.

“As I told you. In law, this wicked, false earl would
undoubtedly be appointed your guardian if you were pro-
nounced insane by the court. He could take you away to
one of his castles, where no one could interfere. He could
force you to become his wife. The decree of divorce was
granted this very day.”’

Audrey started, and a sharp spasm of pain convulsed
her beautiful features. A flush of hot shame and anger
passed over them. /

“It is one more wrong to be avenged on that infamous
Claude,’”’ she said, clenching her little hands passionate-
ly. ‘Don’t talk of force to me, Zeno. The power is not
created that could compel me to become thé wife, even in
name, of Claude Revere. I would take my:own life first.
Yes, a million times. I will Keep out of his hands if I can,
but if I should fall into them, he shall find mea scorpion
in his grasp.”

«(My lady,’’ said Zeno most earnestly,-“ove.must decide
upon something quickly. All London willbe looking for
you by morning, and the reward offered: isso large that
it may tempt even good Mrs. Glenn down stairs.”’

‘How? She suspects nothing?”

“She might suspect something if her eye once lighted
on this notice of you.”

“True. Well, then, have you anything to propose?’
asked Lady Audrey, her sweet face growing resolute in-
stead of fearful.

“You might go to some friends of mine for a few days.
They live in an out-of-the-way place, and rewards would
not tempt them.’

“To-night |?

‘It would be better to-night, but it is raining.”

“TY am not afraid of the rain. Many a time I have been
soaked with water on my Scottish hills ”?

Zeno’s eyes glistened as he looked at her. He went out
to speak to theYandlady and make an excuse for this sud-

en departure, while Lady Audrey put on her hat. He
came back almost instantly, a wild excitement in his face.

CHAPTER XXVIL.

Lady Audrey stood at the glass tying her hat. She
turned round as Zeno rushed in, and her eyes dilated.

“What is it?” she demanded. z

“They have tracked you already. Thereis a man below
stairs, this moment, questioning Mrs. Glenn concerning
you.

The color flickered a moment in my lady’s bright cheek,
but her looks did not fall. She passed swiftly to the door
and locked it. Z

“Don’t let them in for five minutes,” she said, “what-
ever happens,’ and flashed into a, bedroom which ad-
joined the other room,

Zeno wondered, but resolved to obey literally,

Lady Audrey’s first step was to remove her richly trim-
med walking-dress, turn it, and outiton again wrong
side OUb, a

It was lined with a dark stuif, which, with a knife ob-
tained of Zeno, she slit in long gashes, fill it hung upon
her, literally in tatters. B

There was a cold fire-place in the bedroom, and having
removed her rings, and deposited them with the diamonds
in her pocket, she passed her little white hands one after
the other up the sooty chimney, and energetically be-
smeared her face, her clothes, and even her hair. The
last, she tangled over her face, till Claude himself would
not have known her. gf

“There,’’ said she, boldly, a8 she rejoined Zeno, who
stared; ‘will I do for a street beggar? Look atme well.”

“You don’t loek like yourself in the least, if thatis what
you mean,’’ said Zeno.

“Well, do I look as if I was disguised:
fresh?”

‘Pardon, my lady, what are you going to do—try to get
out of the house in that garb? You can never doit. You
would be stopped for a tramp, a policeman sent for, and
you dispatched to the station-house.”’

“Better that, than to fall into the clutches of those
others; but there is no danger, lam both nimble and swift.
So you go first and wait at the nearest crossing, I will fol-
low speedily. There may be risk,”—as Zeno hesitated—
“but not so much as to sit still, or try to escape in my
proper person.”

Zeno went at last, reluctantly.

He passed the landlady and the man whom he had over-
heard speak Lady Saville’s name, and was conscious that
he was narrowly scrutinized as he went by leaning on his
staff, and bending his head of white hair like an old, a
very old man.

“Good night, Mrs. Glenn,’ he said, in the husky voice
he always assumed in this disguise. He bowed to the
stranger, and met his eye slightly, as he passed. Then he
was Out on the street, and waiting at the appointed place
for Lady Audrey.

He had observed, as. he came out, a close carriage stand-
ing at the opposite side of the way in the rain; and pres-
ently, as he watched it, the man he had left talking with
the landlady came out, and signaled with his hand.

The carriage immediately crossed over, and two women
alighted and went in.

“Madame Revere and Felice,’’ ejaculated Zeno under
his breath. ‘‘Ah! the child is lost.”

Meanwhile Audrey had torn the long, rich feather from
her hat, and flung it in the fire. The velvet trimming
shared a similar fate. There remained a torn and smutty
ee which she tied down With a strip torn from her
dress.

She opened her door carefully, and ascertained that
there was no one upon the landing outside. But at the
same moment she descried Madame Revere and Felice
mounting the stairs with Mrs. Glenn and a strange man.

My lady’s bold heart sank like lead. The next moment
she rallied, and remembering the part she had assumed,
at oe back into a corner in the hall and pretended to
nide.

Mrs. Glenn saw her instantly, and pounced upon her.

Audrey began to whimper and struggle clumsily.

‘T wasn’t doing nothink,’ she whined, as the angry
landlady hurried toward the stairs with her, leaving Mad-
ame Revere and her attendants to find their own way,
which Mrs. Glenn was glad of an excuse to leave them to

¥

Is the soot too

10.

She did not fancy their errand.

At the foot of the stairs Mrs. Glenn called loudly for a
policeman,

Audrey saw before her an open door, and by a sudden
and unexpected effort slipped from her captor’s grasp,
and darted into the street.

If the soft-hearted landlady had guessed who she was
and: why she fied, she would never have said a word to
hinder her. But believing her to be what she looked, and
not doubting that she had stolen something of value, she
continued to shout lustily for ‘*Police!’’ till they came.

Meanwhile Audrey had sprung past the lurking carriage
like a deer, and reached Zeno, who seized her hand with-
out a word, and hurried her away into the rainy night.
Neither spoke till they were at least a mile away and ap-
parently beyond pursuit. Then Zeno asked:
dy we runthe risk of a cab? They might trace us
by it.” :

“VO0,’’ was my lady's instant reply.

“Tam afraid the fatigue and exposure will kill you,’’ he
said, anxiously.

Audrey laughed scornfully.

“T could endure ten times as much for the sake of es-
caping what Lhave to-night. It won’t hurt me.’

Nevertheless Zeno went but a short distance further be-
fore he found a carriage, silencing the cabman’s scru-
ples at sight of his sooty companion with a more than
double fare which he took grumblingly.

at) CHAPTER XXVIII.

Penal servitude for life, the sentence said, and Angus
Saville, the chivalrous, high-toned gentleman, Angus Sa-
Ville, who was of right Robert Lord Neville, was accord-
ingly after a’short interval of solitary confinement, put
into @ hard-labor cell like any other felon. Why not? He
who had been aécustomed to the obsequious service of
troops of lackeys, who had slept on down and dined on the
most delicate viands, off the richest plate, whose slender
white hands were velvety and soft as a woman’s, what
was he now more than any other felon?

Bread and water was good enough for them—why not
for him? :

It did not strain their sinews and muscles to drive spade
and pickax, to drag heavy weights. Who was this cap-
tain of thieves that. he should have daintier make than
they?

If you had asked him, he would perhaps have told you
with the fickle glare of the dying lion im ‘his’ ence hand-
some, now sunken‘ eye, that there was not a miserable
jailbird of them all, that he would not have changed pla-
ces with, if he could thus have rid himself of thought, of
remembrance. If he could have slept nights, or waked
days, without seeing always and ever gne sweet, pale,
scornful face hovering before him, mocking his wild, sick
brain with its maddening loneliness, staring at him with
great black, beautiful, terrible eyes, that said as plain as
words—as plain as the red, red lips could have spoken:

“Thated you, and so I betrayed you. You were a stone
chained about my snowy throat, and strangling me, and
so IT set myself free of you. Was it not cunningly done?
Now I shall mary the man I always loved, and you may go
to perdition if you like.”

The miserable, lost Angus believed this firmly of his
beautiful Audrey.

She had plotted for his ruin with the man she loved bet-
ter than him, and in his heart he cursed them both every
hourin the day. Theignominy, the humiliation, the ter-
rible shame were like corroding poison flung on his white
and manly soul, but that she did if was what seemed to
turn all the currents of his being to gall.

He performed what was required of him mechanically.:
No task was too, difficult for him, delicately as he had been
reared. :

He endured fatigue, hunger, cold and was insensible to
them. His young soul was black within him. He jelt
nothing but the one passion of hatred. He desired but
one thing, vengeance. If visitors came, he only shot them
one furtive, scathing glance, tosee if she was one, and
dropped his burning eyes again. Once he caught in a
group of ladies the sweet outiine of a form like hers, and
crept toward it with a demon in his eyes, and his strong
hands clenched. The lady, a stranger, turning suddenly,
beheld him; and blanched with terror.

His wrongs had well neigh driven him mad.

One night as Gordon, one of the wardens, was taking
him into his cell, he said in a low voice close to his ear:

“Wow would you like to be out of this, my man?”

Sir Angus did not lift his sullen eyes. He thought the
man was jeering him.

The next night Gordon asked him the same question,
and went away swiftly leaving a parcel behind him on the
floor of the cell.

For some time, Sir Angus did not go toward this strange
parcel, but the warden’s singular question, and some-
thing in his tone had leftits impression. He went by-and-
by, and unrolled the bundle.

There was a vial of aquafortis, and a small file, and a
rope ladder of the finest and strongest silk.

“T must be dreaming,” he said to himself, and an almost
ferocious joy overspread his still handsome features. They
had shaved his head and his silky beard, and the prison
pallor was on that nobly limned face; the brilliant eyes
sunken deep in their sockets, but it was a proud and
beautiful face yet, the eagle spirit fettered but not crushed,
well neigh crazed, but unbroken.

Liberty! It made his very temples throbs. Then it turn-
ed him faint with agitation. He staggered and leaned his
white face against the wall of his cell, and that terrible
worshiped face seemedito come nearer, nearer, till he
could see also the outlines of the sweet shape that he had
clasped a thousand times.

“Oh, great Heaven!’’ he moaned; “‘only to see her once
more, Audrey, Audrey. Why did Heaven let you be false
to me?’ E

Writhing upon the cold stone floor, he seemed fo weep
tears of blood, and then growing calmer, lre fixed a look of
intensity almost fearful upon those implements offreedom
upon the floor.

He shuddered and covered his fate with his hands.

His pale lips moved.

“Tf I saw her in the arms of another, I should kill them
both,’”’ he said in a voice of cruel suffering.

The noted Robber Captain had seemed so overwhelmed
by his misfortunes, and had remained in such a state of
utter and gloomy passiveness since his incarceration, that
the anxiety lest he should escape had lessened, and the
vigor of his imprisonment, at first most severe had grad-
‘ually been mitigated, till now none of the prisoners were
regarded with less suspicion. With the means so mysteri-
ously furnished him, Sir Angus found no difficulty in
opening his cell door, ;

He worked with a frightful eagerness and white com-
pressed lips, his eyes caverns of flame,

For him, whose every hope in the world was wrecked,
liberty mean vengeance.

The corridor outside his ceil was lighted dimly. Where
it entered the hall a sentry was pacing slowly.

Sir Angus watched him from the shadew of a cell door,
with his pale face set and determined. His rope-ladder
was hidden in the bosom of his convict jacket.

To get to the outer wall, he must traverse this main
ee rods to where it branched off toward the
yard. :

He watched till the guard’s face was from the turntng,
and he had passed him on the opposite beat. Then he
darted out, and along to the turning.

Here was a large, strong gate of iron lattice work.

Tt seemed hopeless to attempt to climb it, the guard
would be sure to see him, but there was no other way, and
hesitating only an instant, he began to mount. Half-way
up, the steps of the guard sounded near, and he hung
breathless with closed lids expecting to be hailed. But
the man never lifted his eyes. He had, perhaps, been

again, Sir Angus was on the other side dodging the other
guard, whose eyes were as circumspect as the first.

The gate into the yard could not be climbed over, Sir
Angus saw at aglance. But he went on, his features set.

As the sentry turned on his beat, after pausing an instant
at the gate, he stepped into a corridor, and waited till he
had passed, then out again, and on to the gate, which, to
his amazement, stood ajar. AS he darted through, he
might have suspected that it was a golden key which had
unlocked it, but he did not pause.

The guards had closed and locked the stern iron portal
two minutes afterward.

He was in the yard, the outer wall in view, with sentry
boxes at intervals along the top, and guards pacing be-
tween.

It was a dark night, fortunately, and he made for an
angle of the wall, the farthest from the main prison.

Watching his chance, when the man on the left side of
the sentry box here, was farthest away, he flung up his
silken ladder close to the box. The guard still lingered,
and up he went. It was not a moment’s work to throw
the ladder down the other side, to descend, to wade
through the ditch at the foot, just now half-full of water,
He was free, and the strength which had sufficed so fur,
could not hinder now the deadly faintness which again
crept over him.

At this instant a voice sounded in his ear.

“There is a carriage only afew steps away,” said this
voice, “try aud reach it. Here, lean on me.’*

(To be Continued.)

+ > 04

ITeMs oF INTEREST.

eas The official chemist of Dublin has recently made a
report of 123 specimens of confectionery, purchased at
thirteen establishments in that city. Those manufactured
at three establishments were pure, and those obtained
from the other ten shops contained poisonous pigments
and other impurities. Out of forty articles tinted yellow,
only two were colored with saffron all the otkers contain-
ing chromate of lead. Some of the specimens contained
sulphide of mercury, or vermillion. There seems to be
no doubt, it is stated, that these mineral colors act as slow
poison.

4a-- The Germans were not especially fond of the pet
cats which many of the French fugitives left behind them.
However, they gave them food. - But of the singing birds,
abandoned in the dwellings which their owners hurriedly
left, they took the greatest care. Ina tent belonging toa
field Watch near Paris, there was a cage containing two
turtle doves, upon which was this notice: ‘‘Please give
us fresh water twice a day.” ‘

ka~ A Chicago paper has been publishing births, be-
trothals, divorces and deaths, and now it adds elope-
ments to its heads. As forinstance: ‘From Carthage,
near Cincinnati, February 1, Mrs. Thomas Horton, thirty-
eight years old, witha fat boy of seventeen, name un-
known.”

ke The races of giants is renewed near Lone Jack,
Mo., in the persons of a man eight feet and six inches in
hight, with a twelve year old daughter, already nearly
seven feet high. They attain this enormous stature on
corn-cake, being too poor to have much else—another ar-
gument for the vegetarians.

Ag Three or four months ago an Italian fisherman
climbed Vesuvius and threw himself into the burning
crater. Since then five or six Neapolitans have commit-
ted suicide in the same way and the Vesuvian mode of
self-extinction threatens to become fashionable.

sa A young merchant in Downieville, Cal., took a
friend’s advice the other day, and put a pound cartridge of
powder in his stove to !ow out an obstruction in the pipe.
He had quite a quantity of old cast iron for sale in a few
minutes.

Sas~ A Liverpool! journal is authority for the story that a
Wealthy Englishman, Thomas Dutton, recently deceased,
left £2,000 in his will to the family of the late Gen. Robert
EK. Lee.

kar There are twenty-five or thirty manufacturers of
children’s shoes in Brooklyn, N. Y., about 600 men and
women employed in the business, and about one million
pairs of shoes annually furnished to the trade.

Bas- The Rey. R. A. Holland, the ‘‘boy preacher of Ken-
tucky,’’ has left the Methodist Episcopal Church, and has
become a candidate for holy orders in the Protestant
Episcopal Church. :

Aas~ They have a steam shovel on the Mississippi Central
Railroad, which takes from the solid bank of earth and
loads a train of eighteen dump cars in thirty-nine minutes,
carrying out about seventy-five cubic yards of dirt.

ka The Catholic. Telegraph estimates the communi-
cants in its ehurch throughout the United States at
5,250,000; the churches, chapels, and stations at 5,133, and
the priests at 4,141.

aa A lady in Bloomington, Hl., a few days ago, re-
ceived a telegram announcing the death of her father, and
later in the same day her husband received intelligence
that his father had just died.

Aas Jean Pierron, an old. miser, died recently in New
Orleans, worth $150,000. He had often begged in the
street, and is said to haye lived on 25 cents a day for
years. : :

noe A shaft of granite, quarried at Jonesboro, Me., and
mottled like apiece of castile soap, is on exhibition at
Boston.

#@- Descendants of Indians whose fathers once held
land in Tennessee have employed a lawyer in Memphis to
sue for ‘broad acres in the southern part of the country.

dG Physiologists haye discovered that inhaling coal
gas, as also common illuminating gas, causes softening of
the brain:

Ba The Boulevard de la Reine, Versailles, writes a cor-
respondent, has hardly a house that has not been thor-
oughly gutted by the German occupants.

aag> A mineral, which performs all the duties of soap,
and has an aromatic odor, has been discovered in exhaust-
less quantities, near lowa City.

bay The sugar crop in Jamaica this year will be unusual-
ly large, and is estimated at 40,000 hogsheads. Last year
it was but 31,000. : ;

B@- Vassar College keeps a dentist. The young ladies
all show their teeth once a week.

Aa There were 118 steam boiler explosions during 1870.
There were 826 persons killed by them, and 227 wounded.

say~ Is the Smith family running out? In Memphis,
Tenn., the Millers are largely ahead in the directory.

aa The floating capital upon the Mississippi river is
estimated at fifteen hundred millions of dollars,

Our KNOWLEDGE Box.

A Few Paragraphs Worth Remembering.

QUESTIONS ANSWERED AND INFORMATION WANTED.—
Alex. D. C.—TO GILD MOLDINGS.—The surface to be gilded must
be carefully covered with a strong size, made by boiling down
pieces of white leather, or clippings of parchment. till they are re-
duced to a stiff jelly. This coating being dried, eight or ten more
must be applied consisting of the same size, mixed with fine Paris
plaster or mashed chalk. When a sufficient number of layers
have been put on, varying according to the nature of the work,
and the whole is become quite dry, a moderately thick layer must
be applied, composed of size and Armenian bole, or yellow oxide of
lead. While this last is yet moist the gold leaf is put on in the
usual manner, It will immediately adhere on being pressed by the
cotton ball; and before the size is become perfectly dry, those
parts which are intended to be the most brilliant are to be care-
fully burnished...... A, W.—What substance do you wish gilded?
Bjax.—Our space in this column is too limited to give a satisfac-
tory description of it. 2. What color do you wish to make the
glass? 7, ; D. Fool.—We do not know the exact proportions.
Consult some dealer in the article..... S. J—Impossible......
J. J. J.—You can get it at any druggist’s for a trifle. 2. The best
hair oil is made of deodorized castor oil and spirits of ammonia.
Use whatever scent you like best....... Cad.—The dyes you wish
are expensive. We would advise you to take your articles to a
dyer... J. L. M.—CURLING THE HAIR.—1. Hair that is naturally
straight cannot be made to stay permanently in curls. The fol-
lowing fluid will make the hair curl temporarily: Take borax,
two eunces; gum arabic, one drachm; and hot water, (not boiling,)
one quart. Stir, and as soon as the ingredients are dissolved, add
three tablespoonfuls of strong spirits of camphor. On retiring
to rest, wet the hair with the above ae and roll it in twists ot
paper as usual. Do not disturb the hair till morning, when un-
twist and form into ringlets. 2. See No. 50. 3. Nothing that we
can recommend. 4. See No. 9.........- Moyamensing.—Take it to
a dealer in the article. It will cost you lessin theend...........
G. W. S.—1. To CLEAN STRAW HATS, rub the soiled straw with a
cut lemon, and wash off the juice with water. Stiffen with gum-
water. 2, Useether. 3. Consult a dealerin the article. It is a
difficult job. 4. He feels stuffed up..... J.T. E. and Wilder P. H,
—BLACKING FOR DRESS BOOTS AND SHOES,—Gum-arabic, eight
ounces; treacle, two ounces; ink, half a pint; vinegar, two ounces;
spirits of wine, two ounces. Dissolve the gum and treacle in the
ink and vinegar; then strain, and add the spirits.......S. K.—A)
ply to some exchange broker..........> T. W. M.—Yannic acid will
have the desired effect..........- G. W. P.—lLast week.............
Peter—We do not know....... S. S—VIOLIN VARNISH.—Gum san-
darac, four ounces, seed-lac, two ounces, mastic, Benjamin, in
tears, each one ounce; pounded glass, four ounces, Venice tur-
pentine, two ounces, pure aleehol, thirty-two ounces. Clean the
violin before applying the varnish, with a soft, wet cloth, and then
Wipeary....... Chiropodist.—If the enlargements you speak of are
of ong standing we eannot aid. It would be better for you to
consult a physician. ..... A Young Reader.—INDELIBLE INK.—Take
of iodide of potassium, one ounce, iodine, six drachms, water, four
ounces; dissolve. Make a solution of two ounces of ferrocyanide
of potassium in water. Add the iodine solution to the second.
blue precipitate will fall, which, after filtering,. may be dissolved
in water, forming a blue ink, This blue, added to common ink,
renders it indelible........ .0. 1. ¢—Consult a physician.........
J. T. W.—SUBSTITUTE FOR COPYING MACHINES.—In the common
ink used, dissolve lump sugar (one drachm of sugar to one ounce
of ink) meisten the. copying paper, and then put it in soft cap-
paper to absorb the superfiuous moisture. Put the moistened
paper on the writing, place both between some soft paper, and
cither put the whole in the folds of a carpet, or roll upon a ruler
three or four times.......... Forest City.—1. In talking or reading
aloud open the mouth wide, and take long breaths, 2. Use alum
water... 0. 5% Rubbver.—SOLVENTS FOR INDIA-RUBBER.—Bisulphide
of carbon is an excellent rubbersolvent. Chloroform is very good
but costly. India- rubber should always be cut into fine strings
or shreds before being submitted to the action of solvents........
Eleanor,—_SCALLOPED OysTERS.—Take, say fifty oysters, half a
baker’s loaf crumbed, two, eggs boiled hard, salt and cayenne pep-
per to taste, Chop the eggs very fine and mix with the crumbs.
Cover the bottom of a deep pie-dish, with the eggs and crumbs
then, with a fork, place a layer of oysters with two or three small
pieces of butter, and so continue until all are in, reserving suffict-
ent crumbs for the cover. A little mace may be added, if desired.
Bake in a quick oven about half an hour. Serve hot..... 3...
Titile Rea Riding Hood.—\. Potash and pearlash of commerce are
procured from the ashes of wood by lixiviation, and the subse-
quent evaporation of the solution obtained, The alkali exists in
the wood, principally in the state of acetate; and, being of a fixed
and incombustible nature, is left behind after the incineration.
The wood is burned on the ground in a place sheltered from the
wind. You can procure what you desire at a drug store. 2. We
cannot tell you. 3. Fhey are generally made of iron and can be
procured at a hardware store. 4. We do not know where you can
procure them.........: B.—Do you recollect how long ago the

 

 

paidnotto dose. Moneyis omnipotent, Before he came

recipe was published ?.,, i .Gasidy.—»This correspondent wants a
recipe for MuLa WINE, Cua any ef our readers Curmiak 162

 

RUM CURSED.

BY JANE GRAY SEAVER.
Twas a cold, bleak night, long years ago—
Ah, well do I remember,
The air was thick with falling snow—
The first storm ih December.
But no storm in her bosom raged,
For he his love had given;
She little dreamed he could forget
The vows he made to Heaven.

Five years sped by, and then a cloud
Rose on her life’s horizon—

His love grew cold and he became

" A slave to liquid poison.

Then creditors around them flocked
Like hungry wolves in banda,

And soon their once bright happy home
Was in the sheriff's hands,

Then weary nights and days there came
WW aen children cried for bread,
Still stretched upon her pallet lay
The mother stark and dead.
But angels came with pitymg eyes,
And spread their wings above them,
And took the mother and her babes
To One who'll ever love them.

White Lightning;
SCOUTS OF CONNECTICUT.

By William A, Sinclair,
Author of “GRAY-HAWH, THE HALF.
BREED,” ete.

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

, CHAPTER XL
THE SINKING OF THE EARTH.

In garb and appearance, cxcept that she was beardless,
Ahama, tall, painted and armed might have passed as
well for a man as a woman; foran Indian rather than a
white person, except in her peculiar features, which were
in mold undoubtedly those of the white race, and her
hair was far finer than that of the aborigines. Mashwit
alone had said that he whom he served was a woman, for
no one else knew anything of the hermitess of Mache-
moodus. A few savages had seen her at a distance in the
garb worn by the females of the English, and had crept
nearer believing her to be some wandering white woman,
and with intent to capture her, but on recognition of the
green face of the supposed Priestess of Hobbamocko, had
fied in dismay.

The maidens before the hut beheld this person with
wonder and dismay. They had not understood the words
which had passed in the Pequot tongue between the
grand-sachem and his Paniese, but they: had heard the
name Ahama. They remembered that the dwarf. had
Said to them a weman of that name had commanded him
to effect their capture, and as all of the Paniese ejaculated
the name, Ahama, as the person garbed in green appear-
ed, they knew thatthe one spoken of by the dwarf was be-
fore them.

“Great Heaven!’ whispered Clarina to Rosalie. ‘What
a fearful face! Can that be a woman???

“It is the Green Witch of the White Cavern,’ replied
Rosalie, shuddering. :

“The dwarf called her Ahama.’?

“Ig she a Savage, or is she of our race, Rosalie?’

“Heaven grant we may never know more of her than

we know at this moment,’ was Rosalie’s reply. ‘‘My life,
sister, why should she desire us as captives, or did the
hideous dwarf lie?”
_ These whispered questions passed between the maidens
in a breath, during which the Paniese would have forced
their chief backward had he yielded to their pressure
upon him as they recoiled in undisguised terror. Thus
the maidens, a moment before between Sassacus and the
halt-circle of his Paniese, were thrust somewhat aside and
to the rear of the group of warriors by the huddling re-
coil of the latter upon their chief.

The maidens, exhausted by the fearful ordeal through
which they bad passed while in the hut, and terrified
almost to Swooning by the scene before them, made no
attempt to escape, for they believed the country for miles
around was now swarming with the savages of which the
dwarf had spoken; and clinging to each other they turned
their pale faces toward that dread being of whom they
knew only that she was called Ahama, and that, if the
dwarf had spoken truly, she was eager to capture them.

The jaguar recognized the approach of his mistress with
a Sharp growl, and crouching still lower, fixed his filam-
ing eyes upon the savages as if waiting only a signal from
her ere he began an attack.

Ahama halted her swift, long, springy stride at the side
of her prostrate servant, gazed earnestly into his face for
a moment, saw that the eyes and head were wounded, and
then flashed the fiery glances of her deep-seated, black and
piercing eyes toward Sassacus, who had checked the back-
ward rush of his terrified Paniese by a firm and haughty
command that they should halt, and adding:

“Oowards! Sassacus fears not Ahama!’?

“Ts this well, King Sassacus?’’ were the first words of
Ahama, as she fixed her gaze sternly upon that of the
grand-sachem, and touched the body of the dwarf with her
staff. ‘What warrior has dared lay a hand of violence up-
on the servant of Ahama? Point him out, that I may
strike my staff upon the earth and bidit open and swallow
him up! Be he the greatest of your Paniese, or even King
Sassacus, he shall. be punished!”’

“The hand of Sassacus has not harmed the servant of
Ahama,’’ replied the chief, in awe of the mysterious wo-
man of Machemoodus, despite his bold speech.

“Then was it some of these silly Paniese, who, with the
conspiring priests of your nation, have envied Ahama, her
powers over the gods of the air, the earth, and the
water ?”? :

The haughty chief thus addressed in the presence of his
braves, and despite the superstitious fear and reverence
in which he held Ahama, might have returned an angr¥
reply had there not occurred at that moment one of the
extraordinary phenomena of the soil of New England, of
that day, like that which occurred at a later date and
which is thus recorded in the Connecticut Journal of June
22d, 1770:

“We hear from Poquonnuck, a parish in the western
part of Windsor, that about half-an-acre of the surface of
the ground there has lately sunk or fallen to a considera-
ble depth below the common surface or level; not unlike
to what is frequently occasioned by earthquakes, though
attended with no eruptions, either of fire or water; for
which event no natural cause has as yet been assigned.
And it is more unaccountable, as the ground that is sunk
was not contiguous to, or bordering upon any precipice or
declivity, nor adjacent to any collection of water that
should occasion it to sink.”

Thus, while an angry reply was rising to the lips of Sas-
sacus, and as Ahama shook her staff threateningly toward
him and his six warriors, a shudder heaved the earth be-
neath their feet; a great fissure cleft the space between
Ahama and the savages, and the solid ground upon which
they stood, with a large circle of earth, rock, and forest,
behind and on either side of them, sank suddenly with
them fully ten feet below its level of the moment before,
and then seemed to continue to sink, slowly, but surely.

Ahama, herself, was startled by this unlooked-for period
to her menacing speech and boast of sorcery, which had
chanced so opportunely as a proof of her claims to sup-
ernatural power. But this sinking of the earth, sudden and
unheralded by the roar of the earthquake, she had seen
before in the great pampas of South America, and though
for an lastanta shiver of great terror ran through her
veins, she kept her menacing attitude, with her staif
upheld.

To Sassacus and his Paniese, it seemed asif the spirits
at the beck and callof the dreaded Priestess of Hobba-
mocko, were evincing their readiness to obey her by drag-
ging them down with the earth on which they were, tothe
bottomless depths ofeternal horror which they believed
lay below.

Aboye them, and thus placed by a convulsion of the earth
beyond their comprehension, and such as they had never
experienced before, stood Ahama, upon the brink of the
steep made by the sinking of the earth. Around and over
them swayed, and bent, and vibrated great trees, thus
tremendously agitated by the shuddering, and heaving
motion of the earth as it sank. A loud noise of falling and
crashing decayed branches, Shaken loose by the swaying,
and trembling of the tall trees, rattling and booming with
heavy thuds as the larger fragments struck the earth, roar-
ed around, and some of them dashing upward gusts of dead
leaves as they struck at the base of the trees, for a moment
made up a scene of terror and confusion asif the woods,
too, were crumbling and splintering to atoms amid a
wreck full of horror. ee

With a howl of consternation the savages threw them-
selves fiat upon their faces. Sassacus and the two maidens
alone remained erect. He, because amid all the fear at his
heart, his soul was too haughty to permit him to prostrate
himself before any living thing. The maidens, because
they were held motionless by wonder more than by fear.

The sinking area sank to a depth of fifteen feet below its
late level, and then rested as ithas perhaps rested to this
day, though since the time of Sassacus there haye been
many changes, even in the bed ofthe adjacentriver there
about.*

There was a long pause of deep silence after this sudden
change of the surface, the prostrate Paniese scarcely: dar-
ing to breathe, and not daring to raise, their faces or to
open their eyes, which they had closed in their terror. Sassa-
cus, fallof fear, but haughty, remained silent, returning
with the steadiness of Indian stoicism the stare of Ahama,
and waiting for her to speak. With that kingly pride of
self, which was a prominent trait of the doomed chieftain’s
character he had not for an instant thought of saying:

“It was not Sassacus that harmed the servant of Ahama;
but these two white maidens,” for inwardly his haughty
spirit rebelled bitterly against the fear that possessed him
for a woman, though that woman was the dread Ahama.

 

* The Connecticut River has very materially altered its course
at Wethersfield since the first settlement of the English at. that
place. From the west. bank of what is called the Cove, to the
tarthest eastern. bank of the old channel, is: now about two miles.
The present channel crogses the old bed of the river, aud the river
ig constantly advanciag eastward,

 

But the latter, turning her eyes for the first time upon the
pale faces of the maidens, gazed inquiringly at them for a
moment and then said: SS

“Sassacus sees how ready the spirits of the earth are to
obey Ahama, and to punish her enemies.”

“Sassacus has seen,’’ replied the chief.
enemy of Ahama.”’ ;

“Ahama knows that,’ continued Ahama, too shrewd to
drive the terrors of the chief to some desperate act, and
somewhat fearful that she had already too greatly humili-
ated him in the presence of his royal guard. “But who
are these maidens?”

Sassacus, with the sulleness of a great chief stung in
his pride, disdained to reply, and bade his prostrate Pa-
niese stand up.

They obeyed instantly, but with many a glance of super-
stitious affright upward toward Ahama. And as they re-
gained their feet, the dwarf, recovering his consciousness
as Ahama asked the last. question, and recognizing her
voice, called out in a feeble voice, in Spanish :

“Oh my mistress! Help! I am blinded, and wounded
nearly unto death.”’

“Who harmed thee, Mashwit? I feared thou wert in-
deed dead,’’ said Ahama, bending over him, and placing 2
flask of ram to his mouth. .

Mashwit swallowed the liquid greedily, and then replied:

“I had entrapped the two maidens in the hut that
stands not far from the river——” ;

‘we are before the hut now,’ interrupted Ahama.
‘You are not far from its door, and scarce five minutes
have passed since I found you thus.”’

“Ay—IJ am blind. I know not where Iam. I have been
in a swoon—in darkness of pain. That rum gives me
strength. Oh, if it would but give me the sight of halfan
eye! But 1am blind !” E

“Blind! Ihope not. But how chanced it?” :

“TJ had entrapped the maidens, Rosalie and Clarina, in
the hut, and suddenly one of them—the fiend take my
soul so he.Jets me have my will with her !—the one called
Clarina—I thought she was a dove—and she is a vulture
that tears out the eyes of strong men—my curse upon her!
Mistress, thou art in league with devils, they say 2

“Peace! and hold to this story of thy wounds,’ com-
manded Ahama sternly; and then in Pequot to Sassacus:

“Halt, King Sassacus, till I learn how this thing came
about.’? j

The grand-sachem, under the spell of his superstitious
fears, obeyed, though he was eager to hasten on to Weti-
ersfield, for he heard no longer those exultant war-whoops
which he had heard when he was approaching the hut
half an hour before. He was not more than ten miles
from the village, and he knew that if it had been taken,
or was being attacked, he should hear the distant yells of
his warriors, or the sounds of rattling musketry.

“Speak on, Mashwit,’’? commanded Ahama. :

“T scarcely can tell how it was done,”’ resumed the -
dwarf. ‘I was about to bind the hands of the one I had
seen swoon at sight of my face a moment before, when—
flames of the pit !—something pierced my eyes—so quick-
ly that I think she must have struck with both hands—a
dagger, or I know not what—into my eyes, and their in-
sides ran out upon my fists—as I gouged at my eyes to
clear away the horrible blackness and pain that had come
upon them and my brain. Then they clubbed me—beat
in my teeth—smashed my face to a jelly—beat me on the
head, 4s I darted here and there, seeing nothing, and
with a thousand roars in myears. Then one of them
disarmed me of my. hatchet—struck me down, and I
feigned death to escape further blows, that surely had
slain me. I heard them force open the door, but I dared
not move a muscle. Had they. suspeeted I. breathed
they would have chopped my head to pieces—oh! they
are a pairof demons—and may I get my hands on them
if I die three minutes after! Then Sassacus came up,
or was outside all the time I was being mangled! He
owes me no good will, the haughty red fiend of the
woods! I doubt not he was peeping and grinning at my
torture the while, while I thought he was far away 73

“Peace, Mashwit, Sassacus was not in time to rescue you,
or this had not chanced,’’ said Ahama. ‘‘When we cap-
ture the maidens you shall have Clarina for your wife.
She shaH be your eyes all your life for the deed she has
done.”? : ;

“Nay,’? roared the malignant wretch, upon whose brain
the magnificent beauty of Rosalie was vividly pictured,
“sive me Rosalie—glorious Rosalie, for my wife, and
Clarina, that I may torture her! Do this, great mistress,
in reward for all the faithful services that I have rendered
thee for years—let me live there in the cavern, with
Rosalie.” :

Whether with intent to keep her promise or not, we
need not state here, Ahama replied:

“Be it as you wish, Mashwit.”’

And then the dwarf roared out in English:

“Rosalie shall be mine! Both shall be mine! Ahama
has said it! Are they near? .Do they hear me? Rosalie,
thou art tobe my wife! Thou,shalt be wedded to me in
the White Cavern of Machemoodus. And Clarina! art thou
near? Thou shalt beg in vain for death when my arms are |
around thee. But death shall be there, Clarina, when
my eyes are avenged!’

He howled out his horrible threats in a voice made strong
by the rum he had swallowed, and so terrified were the
maidens by what they heard and saw that they rushed
again to the feet of Sassacus, and kneeling, eried out:

“Oh, King Sassacus, thou didst say we should not be
harmed! Protect us from the dwarf!”

“‘What!? cried Ahama, with a glare of her black eyes
upon the maidens, ‘‘are ye Rosalie and Clarina, the twin
daughters of Abraham Swain? Ha! King Sassacus, by
the terms of our alliance these twain are the captives of
Ahama!”? eer

Having said this she Spoke some words of command te
her spotted jaguar. The brute growled and lay down at
the side of the dwarf, who cried out:

“Ho! art by me, Drago! I would had thy eyesight now,
spotted beast, and thy claws!”

Ahama, having spoken to the jaguar, hooked the curve
of her staff in a root that had been unearthed by the sink-
ing of the surface, swung herseM lightly to the ground
below, and advanced with eager steps toward Sassacus
and the maidens. ;

“Me is not the

CHAPTER XII.
THE TIDINGS OF NEPAUPUCK.

The aspect of Ahama, her harsh features, her keen,
piercing black eyes, flaming with mingled hate and joy
from their deep sockets, over which the snow-white, shag-
gy eyebrows stood out beetling and bristling, her terrific
complexion of green, which seemed not to be painted but
the natural hue of herskin, and the palpable awe in which
the savages shrank from her approach, filled the hearts of
the maidens with a fear of the supernatural which neither
had ever felt before.

The belief in wizards, witches, and sorcery, afterwards
so cruel and childish among the Puritan settlers of New
England, was extant in England, and the séttlers had
brought it thence; so that both Rosalie and Clarina,
though skeptical upon many points, accepted as true by
those of their day, had no doubt that certain persons had
dealings with the unholy one. And as they now knew
that Mashwit was the servant of that dread being whom
report in Wethersfield called the Green Witch of the White
Cavern, and as they had seriously wounded the dwarf,
they nearly swooned with horror as Ahama drew near
them. :

“Save us! Protect us, King Sassacus,” they cried, as
they knelt at the feet of the chieftain, “trom Ahama and -
the dwarf!”

“We dares not!’’ said Ahama, halting near the maidens,
and flashing her eyes from one totheather. ‘Ay, ye have
grown to be fair and beautiful women, as ye promised to
be in your infancy. Rise, that I may the better view
you.”? :

“Ohl? exclaimed Rosalie, as she and her sister stood
up, and addressing Ahama, pleadingly, ‘‘you speak our
language only as a native of England can speak it, and
tis said you are a woman, though garbed and painted as
you are, my eyes do not tell me that.”

“Yes, lam a woman, and English,’’ interrupted /Aha-
ma, coldly, and gazing now only at Rosalie. ‘What of
that?”

“Then if you be an Englishwoman, have pity upon two
maidens who have never done you wrong; nay, how
could we, never haying seen you until now.”?

“You are the one they call Rosalie?’ asked Ahame,
abruptly.

“T am: Rosalie Swain.”

“So you believe; but neither you nor your sister are the
daughters of the man AbrahamSwain. But of this secret
we shall speak hereafter. Ye are now my captives.”

“And what would you with us? And what mean you
by saying we are not tle daughters of Abraham Swain?”

‘Said I not we shall speak of these things hereafter?
Silence. Know that-we have met before, and that I have
sought you for years.”?

“Oh, Sassacus!’? exclaimed Rosalie, appalled by some-
thing her subtle instinct of womanhood detected in the
eyes of Ahama, ‘‘protect us from her! You promised we
should not be harmed. The promise of a king must not
be broKen.??

“The promise of Sassacus meant that his warriorsshould
not harm you, and that ‘The Toad’ should not place his
hands upon you,’’? replied the chief. ‘But you are no
longer the captives of Sassacus. But for his promise to
Ahama you would be dead, for it is a war to cut off all the
pale faces, young and old, men, women and children, that
Sassacus has begun. Go then with Ahama, who became
not the ally of Sassacus until he made a compact with her
that the daughters of Abraham Swain should not be harm-
ed, but be delivered to her if captured. Sassacus mustigo
on, for his warriors have come up with him, and he must
on to join Mononotto.”

As the grand-sachem concluded he pointed toward the
river, not far away and more easily seen from that spot
than before the surface sank.

Several canoes, each full of savages, were in sight pro-
ceeding slowly and cautiously as if those them expected
some signal.

Sassacus raised his powerful voice im the rally war-
whoop of his tribe, and instantly the bows of the canoe
were turned toward the marsh which lay between the
river. and the belt of weods and rock by which the locality
of the hut was surrounded. -

The grand-sachem was about to direct his steps toward
the river to meet his warriors, and Ahama was in the act
of binding the arms of the sisters, who could make no
resistance, when a Pequot sagamore, coming with great
fleetness of foot from the direction of Wethersfield, utter-
ed a peculiar whoop, a :

On hearing this Sassacus and his Paniese paused and
awaited the coming of the savage, who was one of those
who had followed Mononotto, the noted chief Nepaapuck.
He was accounted the swiftest runner of his nation, and
been despatched by Mononotto to bear to the grand-sachem
information of all that had taken place at the slaughter of
the settlers surprised in the flelds. ;

The peculiar whoop which he had uttered was a signal
of warning to Sassacus, whose raliy-yell he had heard,
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This illustrious sagamore, of whose deeds the history of
New Haven makes much mention, was soon in the pres:
ence of the grand-sachem.

Rosalie and Clarina, now bound arm and arm, gazed in
terror at the bloody aspect of Nepaupuck, fresh from the
butchery and scalping of the unfortunate people in the
fields. Around his waist were strung on a cord fashioned
of the sinews of @ deer, several human hands which the
sagamore had cut off from the bodies of the slain.

When near Sassacus, he halted, and at sight of the
severed hands of the whites, the Paniese made alow mur-
mur of applause and triumph, especially when the saga-
morégioosed the cord from his waist and laid it with its
ghastly trophies at the feet of Sassacus.

“Heart-of-fiint has done well,’’? said Sassacus.
were the hands of the English. But in the cry of the saga-
more there was sorrow. Has any warrior of-note fallen?”

Nepaupuck remained silent; his eyes upon the ground.

“Speak, Heart-of-flint!’? commanded Sassacus. ‘What
means the silence of Nepaupuck? Has the brother of Sas-
sacus, the great Mononotto, or any of his kinsmen fallen?
And why is the air not heavy with the smoke of burning
Pyquag?’? ‘

“The favorite cousin of The Deep Thunder has fallen.
The Tall Pine is uprooted. The sword of The White Light-
ning has pierced the heart of Nataquash,’’ replied Nepau-
puck, in a sad voice.

On heating ot the death of Nataquash the Paniese utter-
ed a how! of grief, and grasping handfuls of earth, scatter-
ed it upon their heads,

But when Nepaupuck, after a pause, added, ‘The sword
of The White Lightning has pierced the heart of Nata-
quash,” a yell of rage, mingled with accents of surprise,
and even of dismay, burst from the lips of the Paniese.

They had heard of the great Indian-tfighter of the distant
Virginias. Totamet, the spy, and Kiswas, the Pequot
scout, had spoken of him among the New England tribes,
and deeds far beyond the power of man had been attrib-
uted to him.

The savages in the canoes just beaching at the marsh, a
few hundred yards away, hearing the wailing and wrath-
ful yells of the Paniese around Sassacus, whose royal rally-
whoop they had recognized, replied with a similar cry, and
leaping from their canoes, began to splash and rush across
the sedgy meadows at the river’s edge.

Ahama, knowing not of;whom Nepaupuck spoke, stood
aloof, in sHence, gazing upon the splendid beauty of Rosa-
lie; but Rosalie and Clarina, unable to understand the
rough guttural of the Pequot tongue, and weak from the
exhaustion of fear and excitement, had sunk to the ground,
Where they remained in a sitting posture, silently weep-
ing.

Sassacus frowned ashe heard ofthe death of his favorite
Kinsman, and the fire of rage sparkled in his flashing eyes.

“Did not Totamet, the Wampanoag, tell, us that The
White Lightning had returned to the land of Opechanca-
nough, the grand-sachem of the Powhattans? Did Tota-
met lie?’? he asked.

“Totamet did not lie.
returned.’

“Who is he whom you call The White Lightning?’ ques-
tioned Ahama, her attention attracted by the frequent re-
petition of the name. :

Sassacus replied in English, as the question had been
put in that language: :

“The Owanux (English) call The White Lightning Cap-
tain Archibald Agrané. He has slain the cousin of Sass-
acus.”? :

The maidens hearing these words, exchanged glances,
and listened eagerly, hoping to hear more of the deeds
and welfare of their friend. But Sassacus turned again
to Nepaupuck and spoke in Pequot.

“These

The White Lightning went, and

“Let Nepaupuck hold his peace until the warriors from |

the canoes can hear. Till then Sassacus will mourn in si-
Jence for his dead kinsman.”?

Hlaying thus spoken, the grand-sachem covered his face
With his scarlet mantle and remained silent, with his
head bowed, his features concealed, and his arms crossed
upon his bosom. His six Paniese, in awe and respect of
that sorrow which found no vent in exclamations of griet
or rage, remained silent also, with bowed heads, and their
eyes fixed upon thd ground.

Ahama, stern, silent and mysterious, and as motionless
as the trunk of a tree, except that her black eyes seemed
to flame in searching glances in every direction, was aiso
Silent.

The wounded dwarf above, and half prostrate, unable
to see, but eager to hear, ceased to mutter curses, as he
had been doing since Ahama had left him, and was as si-
lent as the great jaguar at his side.

The sagacious beast evinced no alarm as troops of
painted savages, hurrying from the marsh into the belt of
rocky forest around the hut, swarmed into the area near
Sassacus. But the keen eyes ot the amazed warriors de-
tected with sudden terror the presence of the strange
brute, of the well-known dwarf of Machemoodus, and of
that dreaded being whom afew of them had seen beforc
at a distance—Ahama, the supposed priestess of Hobba-
mocko. In their nearing the presence of their grand-sa-
chem, they were careful to avoid close approach to either
of the three.. 3

They gathered in respectful and wondering silence in a
great semi-circle around the bowed Paniese, their dusky
and painted faces and forms gliding here and there in
Gead silence, as they chose places on the rocks or near the
trunks of trees, in groups or alone, their eyes rolling and
darting glances of eager expectation. :

it was thus in hushed and oppressive stillness for seve-
ral minutes, none there daring to break the silence of the
hitter and speechless grief that all saw had fallen upon
the heart of King Sassacus.

But at length a tall and queenly looking Indian woman,
and of her sex there were several among those who had
come from the canoes, advanced, wearing a scarlet man-
tle, an emblena of her royal blood and loity rank.

The sagamores and sannups gave way before the ad-
vance of this personage, and the Paniese also drew aside.
No paint hid her dusky features, which were of a beauty

and regularity seldom seen among the female aborigines,
and of @ high, noble and benevolent cast. Upon her
brow, in her dark eyes, and around her lips, was an ex-
pression of deep-seated sadness, as of one born to see
much sorrow ere life should end.

She was Queen Wincumbone,f wifeof Mononoitto, moth-
er of the young sachem captured by Bascomb, and a.cou-
sin ef Grand-Sachem Sassacus. By birth a queen of one
of the sub-tribes of the lordly Pequots, she had been
sought in marriage by Uncas, her cousin, as he was the
cousin of Sassacus; but Sassacus had opposed the suit of
the ambitious sachem of the Mohegans, and by right of
his royal power, given heras a wifeto his half brother,
Mononotto. Hence the rebellion of Uncas and his numer-
ous. sub-tribe, the Mohegans, against the grand-sachem

Sassacus, and their unpatriotic alliance with his many

enemies, and his formidable foes, the English and the
Narragansetts, Canenicus and Miantonomoh.
She now approached the. sorrow-smitten monarch of the

great rivers, andthe soilof Connecticut, and lifting the

mantle from his face, said.in a calm, gentle voice:

<Why mourns The Deep Thunder? Why does the great |

Sassacus, King ofthe Pequots, hide his face from his peo-
ple when the hands of his enemies are bleeding at his
feet ?”’ :

“Now Sassacus has wept in his heart for the dead,”’ said
the chieftain, lifting his head. ‘‘Let Nepaupuck tell how
The Tall Pine was cut down.”’

The Indians from the canoes, hearing for the first time,
the cause of the grief of their monarch, united their voices
in a yell ofrage and lamentation, but Sassacus made a
gesture of command for silence, and the same stillness
reigned as before.

Nepaupuck then related ‘the attempt of Nataquash to
capture the horse of Captain Agrané, and his death by the
cunning and skid of the white warrior.

Butere the listening savages could again whoop their
wrath, Nepaupuck added in a loud and angry voice:

“But not for the death of The Tall Pine let the ‘heart of
King Sassacus be heavy. He died as the brave love to die.
The death that comes quick and sure, and his scalp shall
be buried with him. Hear how another calamity has fall-
en upon the Pequots!”’

Nepaupuck then told rapidly how Monenotto hadswept
down upon the laborers in the field, and of the death of
two of the tribe, and the wounding of several others in the
furious combat with Bascomb, and finally how the iron
handed Puritan ‘had his relentless grasp upon young Me-
un-wey-han, The Sun and Moon of the tribe.

Ere the sagamore had finished the recital ofthe capture
of the young sachem in whose freedom from wound or
scratch in the first combat:in which he might take part,
all the hopes and ‘prophecies of the Pequot nation were
centred; fierce-‘and threatening glances were darted to-
ward the white maidens, who heard and saw nothing that
they could understand,

Sassacus himself becamegreatly agitated, at least so the
quick flashing and dark frowning of his eyes declared, as
he heard that his royal nephew and heir-apparent was in
the power of the settler, of whose stern’ and dauntiless
:character he had heard much.

The six Paniese, who with the priests of the Mystic had
foretold dire disasters to the Pequots if Me-un-wey-han

‘should be harmed in his first battle, believing like many
false prophets.in their own prophecies, set up a mournful
owl, and again plucking handfuls of earth from the
ground scattered the dust and sand on their heads. And
this peculiar gesture of lamentation was instantly imitated
by the warriors around.

Desire to torture and slay the maidens«f the hated race
then filled the hearts of the-savages.

“Death to all pale-faces!”? cried the unspairing Nepau-
spuek, for the superstitious Sassacus seemed stunned to im-
‘potency by the.news of the capture of his young nephew,
hot simply because of his affection for the young sachem,

 

Nors.—Some tinsein April, 1637, a horseman who wasriding near
‘Wetherstield, discovered a large:body of Indian warriors cautious-
ly approaching the place, Without delay he galloped back to-
ward the village te give the alarm. Some women whom’ he met
and informed of their danger, begam to ask incredulously, what

Pequots should conae there; andthe horseman, having no time to |
, galloped on. Three of the women were taken. Two were |

Lose,

     
 

the daughters of Abraham Swain, and theirlives:-were spared.
other struggled against her ¢aptors so steutly, biting and
kicking, that one of the Indians gasbed out her brains. The Pe-
gquots pushed on, surprised many.of the people at work in the
fields, killed two. other women and six men, destroyed twenty
cows, and inflicted other great damage upon the property of the
gettlers.—See Johnsons ‘Wonder Working Providence, Winthrop,
éte.”

+ The name of Mononatto’s wife,was Win-cum-bo-ne, or “The
South Wind.” She should be honcred im the memory of the
white race, for she was instrumental ineaving the life of an Eng-
lishman as disinterestedly as Pocahontas saved that of Captain
Smith. History records, also, in several published and manu-
‘+ annalaof the fall of Sassacus, that the wife of Mononotto
the lives of: the two maidens captured at. Wethersfield.— 4
§ La. ist. LER

assacus had no fallbrother, but three ‘half-brothers, of whom
the famous Menonotto was the eldest. The second was Pup-pom- |
poges, spoken of in the letters of Reger Wiliams. The third was
Tassaquanatt, who.survived the Pequot war, ‘The direct line of
Pe-ko-ath, fatherot S 13 by Queen Cha-pa-ta, a line by traci-
tion of fonr hundred yous, expired with the grand-sachem of our |
story.

    

   
      

    

 

 

 

but chiefly because he believed firmly in the prophecy of
his Powwows and Paniese, who had foretold the total de-
struction of the nation if the youth received the slightest
hurt upon his first war-path. 1

So, on hearing that Me-un-wey-han was a captive and a
hostage, to be held unharmed only so long as the, Pequots
remained at peace with the English, to whom Sassacus
knew every day of peace gave increased power to destroy
the natives of the land, the grand sachem, appalled by so
great a disaster at the very beginnimg of the campaign,
groaned, and again bowed his head, fearing that the en-
raged settlers might already have put the boy-sachem. to
death.

“Death to all pale-faces!’? shouted the fierce Nepaupuck,
drawing his scalping-knife and pointing at the sad-hearted
maidens. ‘‘Nepaupuck spared one this day, that she
might be the slave of his squaw, but the cunning of Eli

3ascomb rescued the white woman, and Nepaupuck
was forced to let her go. If we spare these, the
cunning of the white men, haying the son of Mononotto
for a hostage and a power, will demand that these two be
given up. The spirit of Nataquash calls for two white
maidens to attend it, to be its slaves in the hunting-
grounds of the red man’s spirit-land! Letus make sure of
these, and put our hatchets into their heads!”

A shout of approval greeted this proposal, and their was
a general movement of the assemblage toward the two
maidens. ;

Sassacus, his brain heldin a glamour of superstition, re-
mained motionless, staring at vacancy. The noise made
among the rustling leaves and crackling twigs under the
advancing feet of hundreds of angry warriors, and the
low, menacing growls of wrath that filled the air on every
side, Were not seen by the entranced grand-sachem; or if
he saw them or heard.them he heeded them not, for there
Was booming in his’ soul an ample foreboding, which
seemed to stand out upon the face of Heaven as he stared
upward, in letters of the English speech, legible to him,
these words in characters of fire and blood:

“Woe to Sassacus and his nation! The red man must be
destroyed! Root and branch, trunk, stem, twig and bud-
ding leaf of the Pequot shall be consumed by the torch
and the sword of the white man! And after the Pequot
one by one shall every red man perish, until even the names
of the tribes shall be a mystery to the millions of the white
race Who shall possess all the land from the great salt sea
whence rises the sun to the great salt sea in which it goes
down; and north and south from frozen sea, to frozen sea
until there ‘shall not be on the face of the earth a single
man, woman or child of the race of the red man! Woe,
utter woe to Sassacus and his nation!’?

Such was the doom read by the eyes and soul of the
grand-sachem, as he stared at the blue sky, and gave no
heed to those who were advancing upon the captive
maidens, tomahawk and scalping-knife in hand, and
breathing death and torture.

The maidens recognized their peril with shrinking and
shuddering, foreven Ahama was dismayed by this ap-
proaching avalanche of savage wrath.

(fo be Continued.) _ «
PH
IN VHE STREETS OF THE

BY SARA G. CHAFA.

CIB Y.

 

 

Out in the streets the gas-lights flare!
Under them faces, foul and fair,
Pass, in a ceaseless ebb and flow—

A mingled tide of joy and woe.

Down on the soiled and muddy streets.

Rain, pure rain, in a torrent beats— 3
Thoughtless crowd! may it wash your lives
’Ti good shall grow where wrong now thrives.

Out in the streets the gas-lichts flare;
Hurrying, tempted one, beware!

Toil is better than sin and shame,

And honor more than an empty name.

Sinning and sinned against, I know—
Eut haste not down to an endless woe!
Fair young girl, as you hurry by,

Take not the glance of the tempter’s eye!

Out in the streets the gas-lights flare—

T, too, am bearing my load of care;

From a human heart that is warm and true
Is wrung a warning to strengthen you,
Glare, and glitter, and gaudy show!

Rags, and hunger, and finer woc!

‘Gotham reels with her load of crime

Down the abysmal gulf of Time!

a

TRUE AS LOVE
Could Make Her.

CHAPTER LX.
A’ BOX OF MONEY.

The elder Falkland thought he had done with the Wests
forever, when he placcd a check for the two thousand
pounds into Bradley’s hands, and told him to see that the
arrangements were carried out.

“Never mention their name tome again,’’ he said to his
solicitor. ‘They have been trouble and expense enough—
what with the girl dying and Percy going away. It would
never have happened if he had had the sense to pick out
some one not sonear here. He ought to have respected
our work-people.”? : a

“This money is only to be theirs on condition that they
emigrate ?’’

“P),2 whole family—root and branch. I should like to
make i1em promise never to set foot in England again,
but I ac~’t suppose they would do that; or if they did,
they’d bre:.~ the promise when they ever got the money.
We must riss that. They won’t return for some years to
come, and the i.ing will be forgotten then.”

Mr. Bradley opened an account for West at the bank.

He had a larger sum than he ever could have realized by
hard work, and he did not mind accepting it, now that
he knew it was nc* the price of his daughter’s life or
shame. It never entcred into his honest head that Falk-
land was not aware of Fanny’s recovery, or that Falkland
thought old Bill knew nothing of the marriage. _
” Preparations were being mace ; out-fits procured ; the
boys were under notice to leave their places; and West
had placed himself in the hands of a respectable shipping
agent, in order to secure comfortable cabins. Mrs. West
cried at the idea of leaving her old home; but then the
children were going with her, and the matron would rath-
er face the peril of the sea voyage than be parted from
them.

They were only waiting now for Fanny to get well. The
doctors said she must not undertake the fatigue of such a
journey for a month at least ; perhaps not so soon.

Meantime, the elder Mr. Falkland missed Percy serious-
ly. There was a sudden infiux of work in the building
trades, and. Falkland was importing enormous quantities
of timber. So heavy was the demand, and so great th
importance that the supply shouid be rapid, that Falkland
had to leave the retirement of Penge, and superintend the
consignments in person. He had a bedroom fitted up at
the old house in the yard, and there he slept while the
pressure lasted. . 3

The lower part of the house was converted into a work-
shop, in which superior kinds of small timber were pre-
pared for immediate use, and the entire floor was in charge
of awatéhman and his wife—the wife being chief care-
taker, for her husband—a superannuated workman—was
always either half asleep or in a chronic state of ine-
briety.

Of ‘this, however, Mr. Falkland knew nothing. He ney-
er expected to see his watchman in the daytime, suppos-
ing that he was then at rest; and at night the man had
sufficient self-command to steady himself in the presence
of his master.

The intimacy between Falkland and Mr. Millard had
grown again by degrees. The two gentlemen met fre-
quently in the same train, or on the road, and Millard,
knowing that the builder had not been.to blame, was the
first to offer the hand of friendship. He could not afford
to lose an acquaintance that might prove useful.

Men grow more greedy for wealth as they grow older.
The care that in their youth teaches them to provide
against the biting pain of poverty, in old age degenerates
into a mere sullen passion—a selfish habit of amassing
money. They think more of dying rich than living well;
and when this feeling comes they are apt to lose some-
thing of the prudence that has helped them-te fortune.

It was so with Falkland. Millard laughed at his dull and
sober way of laying out his investing capital at five per
cent. when he might so easily make more.

‘What capital have you to spare??? he asked of the
builder.

He had gone to lunch with him at the house in the yard,
and Falkland was glad of his company in the spare hours.

banker.”?

“How mach is that?”

‘7 keep it.at a maximum of a hundred thousand.’?

Millard drew in his breath.

“Why, man, you must be a millionaire!’

“Pretty well that way. I get five per cent. forit, asI
have an interest in the concern.”

“Tg it under special arrangement ¢”?

“No, except for an understanding that it shall never,

low fifty thousand.’

“Then you could have fifty ?””

“To-day, if I chose.”’

“7 wish you did choose. For fifty thousand, for twenty-
seven days, I could get you sixty-three.”

The bait was tempting.

“And the risk?”’ he asked.

“None. Security to the full amount or mere—unexcep-
tionable, safe security. We never yet have done business

beth. of us.”?

He entered into confidential particulars then,
plained the case to Falklana’s satisfaction.

The securities he offered were satisfactory, too, and
Falkland knew enough of financiering to see that his fifty
thousand would be safely invested, and worth the price

and ex-

 

promised.for it.
‘YT will do it,’?? he said; and they shook: hands over it.
“When do you want the money?”
“Yo-morrow.”?
“You shall have it.??
“Tt don’t want.a check,” said Millar
your bank, and we mus yh

get gold fo
We can,’

. “Get notes from
as many of them as

    

| you want to ruin yourself?

‘and presently, just when he was about to sleep again, he

“Nothing uninvested, except my standing balance at my |

without private notice for a certain period, be brought be- ,

together, Falkland, and this will be something good for,

 

“To-morrow evening,’ said Falkland, “if we can ar-
range the preliminaries in the morning, you shall have a
cash-box with the money init.” _ ‘

The next day Mr. Falkland went into the city and made
an arrangement with Millard and that gentleman’s friends.
Tn the afternoon he returned to the house in the building-
yard, and he had with him a cash-box, containing fifty
thousand pounds in Bank of England notes.

 

CHAPTER, LXI.
THE FIRE.

Mr. Millard was detained in the city late that evening.
There was a private and special meeting of the board, from
which his presence could not be spared, so he resolved to
fetch the money in the morning. He had only time to send
a telegram and tell his friend the cause of absence.

Mr. Falkland was not disturbed; he put the cash-box in
a large, old-fashioned wardrobe cupboard in the bed-room
locked the door, and placed the key under his pillow. He
went over the house himself on a tour of inspection, to see
that all the fastenings were safe, and then he sat over a
book and a bottle ofold wine till nearly twelve o’clock. He
did not read much of the book—reflections would crowd
upon him to-night. That old house was full of memories.

The merchant sat tracing his own history fill the fire
went low, and then he retired to bed. He had seen all safe;
he was dozing off to sleep, when he heard a light footstep
outside his door, and he called out:

“Who's there ?’?

“It’s only me,” said the quiet voice of the watchman’s
wife. ‘Just looking round, sir.”

“Well, don’t creép about the house, there's a food wo-
man, You disturb me.”

The woman went down stairs softly, and withan anxious
face. She was looking for herhusband. Hehad taken a
light and left the room, and being absent longer than she
thought he would be, she suspected his purpose. ‘The man
was Sly drinker: He would steal away with a bottle of
spirits hidden in his pocket, and drink himself into stupor
when he thought she was asleep.

She went to every room and could not find him, and at
fast she thought of the workshop. He was sitting there
on the bench; a pile of loose, curled shavings scattered
round him; a pipe in his mouth, the bowl upside down;
a bottle of gin half-emptied by his side; a glass tilting in
his hand; a tallow candle, with a long wick, was on a
stool in front of him; and he was nodding in sleepy efforts
to keep himself awake. -

‘Dick!? she said, shaking him angrily. . “Dick! Do
Do you forget that the mas-
ter’s in the house?” :

“Or right!” he said. ‘Hole yer row, missus. I know
What I’m bout. Got to go and see everything safe.”

“Come tobed, you wretched drunkard. What would
the master say if he knew of this?”

She dragged her husvand- from the bench, and out of
the workshop, not noticing that his pipe, with its charge
of smoldering tobacco, had fallen from his mouth into the
heap of shavings. She locked the door, and put the key
in hergpocket, little thinking what a dangerous enemy she
had fastened in. j

It might have been three o’clock when Mr. Falkland,
waking from a troubled dream, was conscious of a faint,
Oppressive smell of heat, and a faint, subdued roaring
noise below. There was a hum of distant voices, too;

heard a ringing shout: :

“Fire!??

At the same moment, and before he could collect his
startled faculties, a broad sheet of flame flashed upward,
lighting his window with ared stream. Hesank back in
the bed, half paralyzed. He saw the fatal truth. The
house was in flames.

He huddled on a pair of trowsers, and sped to the door.
It was locked, and for the life of him he could not remem-
ber where he had putthe key. Then he thought of his
fifty thousand pounds; but he was unnerved, bewildered
and he could not find the key of the cupboard. He got it
at last, opened. the door ina desperate moment of self-
possession, secured his cash-box, then ran to the window
and shrieked wildly for help.

Out of the window was a dreadful tumult and a dread- |

‘ul sight. The fiames roaring like a sea, engines dashing
ap, men shouting, and an excited mob yelling. He heard
the splash of water on the walis, and its heavy fall on the
roof, but no one seemed to think of him.

No one knew he was there. The watchman’s wife could
only think of her husband—the miserable cause of the
disaster; but he was in a deep, drunken sleep, and would
not wake. She ran out, screaming, “Save my husband!
save my husband! save the master!’? then@looked back at
the burning house, lost all memory, and fainted.

The firemen thought that by the master and her hus-
band she meant one and. the same, and the gallant fellows
dashed into the room. They saw a heap of something on
the floor—a scorched and suffocating semblance of aged
humanity—and they bore it out; it was the watchman.
They put him down, and he died. He had woke too late
to a sense of his peril. Drink and excitement unburdened
him of. his wretched life.

The murmur of sympathy in the crowd was soon changed
to a startled cry. Some of Falkland’s men began to ar-
rive, and knowing he was staying in the yard, made anx-
ious inquiries for him, and then, in a momentary lull of
the flames, they saw him at the window.

The house was burning now. The lower part was all in
flames, and the firemen played persistently around, upon,
and into that room where there was the precious human’
life. Falkland could have wept in gratitude as each cool
stream of water fell upon the smoking floor.

“But they cannot save mel’? he said, in despair. ‘‘It is
too late!?? :

‘Then he prayed. He put the box down, all thoughts of
Mammon leaying him as the peril of death grew so near,
He prayed, and while he prayed he heard a mighty shout
that meant hope and life.

“The fire escape! Here’s young Bill West. Here they
come-—the fire escape!’ ; ee

Never had that hated name fallen so pleasantly on the
old man’s ear.

But he was growing faint and bewildered. The heat
was intense; the fiames, driven down for an instant,
leaped up in the next with greater force, and the red
tongues licked hungrily round the window sill, and small,
lurid chasms began to open in the boards.

Then a dense black roll of smoke came up and covered
him asin ashroud. The water fell fast in one continuous
stream, but still the lurid chasms in the floor grew wider.
He dared not look down—the river of fire roaring in the
room beneath was too terrible,

“My wife!’ he gasped, as he threw himself upon the

bed. It was soaked with water, and promised a minute’s
safety. ‘“Percy—my poor girls—and Heaven forgive
me!??

He knew no more then. The box, with its fifty thou-
sand pounds, lay on the floor unheeded, and he felt that he
was dying. The mob kept on cheering, and he had a dim
sense of wondering why they cheered. He heard a shout
of ‘“‘He’s up!’ but knew not what it meant.

Something fell against the window, and he heard a
crash. <A few, swift, heavy blows, that burst in sash, and
glass, and frames, and then, in the midst of flames and
rolling smoke, young Bill West leaped into the room.

The old man gathered strengh, and got from the bed.

“Save me!’’ he implored.

“That just what l’ve come for, Mr. Falkland. Can you
trust yourself to the ladder? No, you tremble too much.
Get on my back. Don’t be afraid. I’ve carried a heavier
weight than you down the ladder.”’

He stooped, and almost pulled the old man on his
shoulders.

“Cling tight,’? he said, his firm, manly voice giving the
old man courage. ‘‘We shall doit yet.”

The old man looked back at his box on the very brink of
a@ broad chasm in the fioor. ;

“There’s fifty thousand pounds in that box,” he said,
wistfully.

“Never mind the box; your life is worth more than that.
Come—and cling tight.’?

Young Bill was nerved up for the occasion. He felt ten
times his ordinary strength, and he swung himself from
the flery window-sill to the ladder, as if the old man were
no weignt. He did not not look down.. Well for him that
he did not, for the sight would have unnerved him, brave
ashe was. ‘The canvas of the ladder had taken fire.

OHAPTER EXII.
AFTER THE “FIRES

Had the brave young conductor of the fire-escape lost
his self-possession for a single moment, or given way toa
selfish fear for his own safety, Falkland must have per-
ished, but Bill remembered the injunction of the veteran
fireman who instructed him:

“when you are going up or down the ladder, never look
down. See what is going on overhead, and let your feet
take care of themselvyes.”?

Young Bill West kept that advice in his mind, and he
made his way down steadily, wishing the while that his
friends, the firemen, would not persist in sending the
heavy charges of water directly over his head. Each
charge brought out a huge volume of smoke that rolled
over him, and made him hold his breath.

And he was conscious that something was going on, of
which he was not aware. There was a subdued murmur.
of suspense in some parts—an awe-stricken whisper in
others. Not till he descended lower and saw the canvas
smoldering in front of him, did he know what the dan-
ger was. ;

The ladder had taken fire—the bars were crackling with
the heat; but Bill, nerved to desperation, went on, de-
scending as swiftly as he could, and with only one fear—
that the old man, clinging to him, would relax his hold,
fall, and be killed. ;

“Oling on,’ he said again.
ment now.’

But Falkland did not hear him. He had lost his senses,
and retained his hold with the instinct of despair.

No sooner did young Bill set foot upon the ground than
a ringing cheer went up, and a dozen ready hands lifted
Falkland from his shoulders. Bill was dragged away; he
did not for the moment know why, but the reason was
explained in an instant. The roof went in, the entire
front of the house swept down with a crash, and then
there was nothing but a smoking heap of ruins, with a
box of fifty thousand pounds buried somewhere in it.

Mr. Faikland was badly burned; young Bill West was
scorched about the hands and face, but his fireproof dress
saved him from other injuries. The crowd made a hero
of him, and he was glad to gét away—the reaction began
to tei upon him. .

They took Faikiand to the hespital, and some of his
workmen remained for hours'to hear how he was. The
report was not favorable; in fact, he was so severely hurt,
that as soon as his private address became known a, police-
man was sent down to Penge to apprise his family of the
catastrophe,

He was better the next day, however—strong enough

“We shall be safe in a mo-

  

 

 

tobe taken home, though he had to keep his room, and

the doctors said it would be a long time before he could
hope to leaveit.. Fever set in. The excitement, and the
loss of his money, nearly caused his death.

They could not rouse him from his despondency. Nar-
row as had been his escape from an awtuliate, hemourned
more for the loss of the cash-box.than he rejoiced for the
preservation of his life. But he did not forget his rescuer.
When he was well enough he sent for the carpenter's son.

Young Bill went with his left arm in a sling, the hand
and wrist were burned so badly. Mr. Falkland, sitting by
the window on a bed-room couch, motioned him near, and
shook hands with him.

‘You saved my life, young man,’’ he said, to the quiet-
tempered fireman, who, now that the affalr was over, did
not seem to see anything wonderful in it, ‘and I should
like to do something for you.” '

“Thank you, sir; but you have been kind enough al-
ready, and I only did my duty. I should have done just
the same for any one else.?? ;

“That does not alter the fact. You saved me. You are
a brave fellow, and though I lost fifty thousand pounds in
that fire, I can afford to reward you.’

“Thank you, sir; but I’d rather you wouldn’t mention
it. You have done plenty for us as it is; and we shall do
very well in the colonies,”’

“Thope so. Your family has suffered a great wrong at
the hands of mine, and you have returned good for eyil.
You sayed my life,’ he added, with emotion, “and my
son caused your poor sister to lose hers. If it were not
too late, he should make full reparation.”?

“Yes,’’ said Bill, sadly; ‘poor Fanny was nearly gone,
and she’s still. very bad; but she will get overit yet, the
doctors say. Only, nothing could make reparation now;
she’s too heart-broken.”’

Mr. Falkland looked at him in mute surprise.

“Why, I thought she was dead!” :

“So did we, sir, and so we heard; but it turned. out not
to be true, for all that—thank Heayen!’?

“And she is better, you say ???

“Much better; except that she is quite broken-hearted.”

“Heaven has been merciful to me,’ said Falkland,
solemnly. ‘It is like a special decree of fate, that you,
her brother, should have saved me. I knelt in that terri-
bleroom, praying for help, yet thinking it a hopeless pray-
er, and you came to me.”?

“Very glad I did, sir. When I heard who it was up
there, 1 made up my mind to get you out, if I died for it.
You never saw any one so glad as Fanny was when I told
her what I’d done.”?

‘Was she??? said Falkland; ‘and I have been her great-
est enemy. Iam thankful that she fs spared too. Percy
shall make her reparation—he shall acknowledge her, or
I will disinherit him. I will write and tell him so.”

“They have been married all along,” said Bill, simply;
‘‘and Fanny Kept the secret because Master Percy told her
you would disinherit him if you knew it.””

“Yes,” said the old manin self-reproach, ‘I did say so,
for I was worldly, and I had not been brought so closely
face to face with death. Tell your sister, my good fellow,
that Iam glad she lives, and that I will do my best to
make her happy.”’

“TY will tell her,’ said young West—“‘and thank you, sir.
But I am afraid her day for being happy is gone.??

“Does she seem pleased or sorry at the prospect of going
abroad ?? ;

“Neither. Takes it just as she does everything else—in
@ quiet, dull kind of way; never saying ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ but
seeming as if all’s alike to her.’ j

“Poor girl!?? thought Falkland. ‘‘Spirit-crushed, heart-
broken! and I have been the most to blame!’

He gave young West something enclosed in anenvelope,

and told him to look at it when he got home. Bill thought
to find a ten-pound note or so, and, to his agreeable sur-
prise, he found a check for a hundred.
_ “You will let me know from time to time what is found
in the ruins,’’ he said, when Bill stood, hat in hand, atthe
door. “There was a cash-box, with fifty thousand pounds
in it; but I suppose it was quite destroyed.”

“An ordinary cash-box, sir???

Yes.)

“Then I don’t suppose we shall find a morsel of it, nor
the notes either.’’ : ;

“TI feared so,”’ sighed Falkiand. ‘The loss is only tem-
porary, for my bankers will replace the notes and give
me their value, but it will spoil the business the money
was wanted for.”

“T was afraid you would lose it altogether,’’ said Bill,
who knew very little of city matters.

“No. Ishall lose thirteen thousand pounds—enough to
make some men poor.’

- Bill thought, on the contrary, it would be enough to
make several men rich. :

When he reached home, he told Fanny what Falkland
had said, and she tried to smile—more to please’ her
brother than because his words raised any hope. The
time for hope with her was past; she felt that she had lost
her place in Percy’s heart; the cruel words in the letter
that she had with her on the nearly fatal night were not
to be forgotten. Z

Mr. Millard had been to see his friend several times since
the fire took place; but the builder’s medical adviser
would not let his patient be disturbed by business mat-
ters, and it was eight or ten days before he obtained an
interview.

Millard congratulated Falkland on his recovery, and as
soon as good taste would permit, went into the matter
nearest his heart.

“The money was lost in the fire, I have heard,’ he said.
Have. you taken any steps toward making an arrange-
ment with the bank ?”?
~ “Not yet.”

“Then I fear it will be too late for our enterprise, and
we Shall have to do’ without it. Iam the more sorry, as
it may affect you.??

“Yes, I shall lose the thirteen thousand that I might
have gained, but that cannot be helped. These things are
hot done in a day, Millard. The bank must have proof
positive that the notes are actually destroyed before they
indemnify me for them>’’ 3 :

Three days later, when Mr. Falkland appliec 2 his
bankers for an indemnity, he was told that the matter
would be placed under consideration. Two days more,
and he heard that the bank had stopped payment. It had
been in a bad state for months—trading on worthless pa-
per, and Falkland was a loser of a hundred thousand
pounds,

That was not the worst. A commercial crisis was at
hand—one of those panics that reckless men make for
themselves, and Falkland heard faint rumors of disasters
in other places, where he was interested. He was chief
supporter of the Hurse Casel Railway scheme, and the lia-
bilities were enormous. If it once fell into ill repute, Falk-
land knew that he must bea ruined man.

(To be continued.)
-—@-+-

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THE RUGG DOCUMENTS—No. 34.
BY CLARA AUGUSTA,

The Pigeon Holler folks got to fixing up their meeting ’us last
summer, and afore they got through, they went and did jest what
every other society that’s a fixing a meetin ’us allers does, they
got head over heals in debt! It’s been so ever since the creation,
and I haint the least manner of doubt, but what the meeting
houses in the time of Adam was in debt jest as they be now—for
the pew cushions and book racks, to say nothing of the kerosene
ile and the chanticlees.

Well, we’ve got a nice meeting ’us as there is anywheres round,
and its furnished up in good shape. There’s a red and green car-
pet onto the floor that cost sixty-two cents a yard, and there’s -a
nice sofy in the pulpit, and twochancy vaces for the two old maids
of the society to put flowers into, and there’s a picter of Daniel
cast into the lion’s den with a blue coat on, and there’s a marble
boul to baptize folks into, and there’s a red bound bible as big asa
good sized ottoman. — :

The pews is all cushioned, but they haint all cushioned alike.
Mrs. Dr. Jones sed they ought tobe. Hesed that unanimity was
the thing in pew cushions, but me and Mrs. Dr. Sanborn, we got
the inside track of her, and got a vote to let everybody cushion
their pews as they was a mind to. For I hada blue moreen petti-
coat that I wanted to use for my cushion, and Mrs. Sanborn she
had the lining of a green cloak that she wanted to use for hern,
and we used ’em.

After we'd got the meeting ’us done, and after we'd got through
with quarrelling over everything, from the book marks in the
bible down to the spit boxes, we began to look about us for some-
thing to pay the debts.

We went to having fairs, and levees, and sowing societys, and
sech things as that, but all of ’em didn’t begin to raise the money.
We had a meeting to see about it, and Mrs. Deacon Trim perposed
that a should have a new kind of a fair—an agricultural fair, so
to speak.

She perposed that we should git a place to exhibit into, and then
go round through the country a soliciting descriptions from the
people and gitting contributions. And after we’d got it all col-
lected together, we was to exhibit it at so much admittance, and
then sell the things at auction and give the purseeds to the meet-
ing ’us.

Everybody agreed, and I was apinted into the committee to go
about after contributions. I had some ruther amusing adven-
tures that it would be worth while to tell, if I only had room.

Deacon Groundnut, he’d just lost his wife and wanted to make
a good impression on the onmarried wimmen folks, he give a four
year old colt that had had one eye knocked out, and could kick
like blue blazes. We had to put a placard onto him marked

thusly:
z “Keep clear of his heels!”

Mrs. Brown, to the Ridge, she gave two pair of striped stockings
and a Coach-in-Chiny rooster. He was a powerful fine bird, and
could crow as loud as ever I heard one of his size, but onfortinitly
he had friz his comb, and the top of it had come off, which made
him look as Grant Smith’s barn did after the wind last fall blewd
the cuperlow off. “oe

Mrs. Baggs give a husked rug, Mrs. Phillips a pen-wiper. Char-
ity Love two tracks intitled “Sinner, have you a soul ?”” and ‘‘Mor-
tal Pilgrim! Pause!” 5

Jim Smith gin a sheep—the awfullest looking animile that ever
you seed. Marial Smith give a cigar case. Annie Symonds a pin-
cushon. Sanfred, the tin-man, a pepper-box. Mr. Giles a box of
fine salt and a dozen of eggs. Mr. Wilkins a salt fish; and so forth
and so forth. :

Jonathan he give a yearling calf, and a bushel of apples, and a
patent pitchfork that he’d bought of a man that was round a
peddling of ’em, and warranted em to pitch hay without any-
body’s touching of em. — :

Jonathan sed he hadn’t brains enuff to operate it, and if any-
body else had, let em operate,

Some folks give some corn, some others give some taters; there
was three pumpkins and two squashes, and a string of bell pep-
Dares and a pint bowl full of marrerfat peas, and varis. other arti-
cle :

 

S.

Squire Trimble, that wants to get in seclicktman of the tound,
and is atrying every way to make hisself popelar, offered to do-
nate us the use of his sand shed chamber to hold our fair into,
but as we didn’t know how to git our live stock up the stairs, we
respectfully declined; and had a pen built on the ground over in
Mr. Higgins! sheep’s pastur. :

it took a week to git things ready to exhibit, and I never worked
any harder in all my born days.” But at last, everything was
fixed. It was a clear, nice day, when we opened our exhibition,
and there was a lot of folks there. We charged twenty-five cents
for going in, and 1 am sorry to say that a good many of the other
society wouldnt pay, byt was jest megn enyff to. climb up. an
boards outside amd perp over the fence, which J gall pritty pearly

 

 

as mean as tis to steal eggs out of a widder woman’s hen’s-nesf,

The first day, for a wonder, nobody get mad, which seems very
curis, for you know that on oécasions of this kind there is aHers
more or less gitting put out.

We took ten dollars and sixteen cents for admission fees, and
seventy-five cents for tea and coffee, and gingerbread, sold at the

refreshment rooms,”? which was a hors-cart sot up on eend, with
: oe of boards put acrost inside, and trimmed with pink tissue

The next day there warn’t quite so many folks there, but they
was livelier and dryer, and bought more tea and coffee. There
was some hors racing that day. Me and Sam Switzer raced.
rid the old mare with my ambrill spread and a flag of the union
in oe old mare’s head, and Sam he driy his gray hors, Jimbo, in
a sulkey.

It was very dusty, and the wind blowed; an § ic ss
fogged up with the dust that I couldn’t see va at
the second time round, the old mare she took “to gitting frisky,
and I bad my ambrill to manage, and the fust thing T knowed my
hors cut rite acrost the track—broke Sam/’s shafts off close to the
sulky, and away went his hors hickety-spltt through Deacon
Groundnut’s crambry medder, and there sot Sam in that sulky a
looking as sollum asif he’d jest heard that his dead wife had
come to life again. And the old mare she went on victorious and
won the racé! ;

Pritty soon after the races was over, Marial Smith and Charity
Lane got into a disagreement about the way to clean a kittle that
has had hasty pudding made into it, and after a few words, they
came to blows. Charity she twitted Marial of being after Deacon
Groundnut, whose wife haint been dead but about a month, and
Marial she twitted Charity of being afeard to chawa piece of
ee because she wore ‘‘plumpers,” and might drop ’em

out.

Charity sed Marial put antimacassar ile on her hair, and paint-
ed her cheeks; and Marial. sed Charity’s nose was as long as the
bridge over Ginger river, and as crooked as the tail of a cat that
has died with the rhumatics. not ‘

And with that they clinched each other, and I guess you never
seed sich a scrimmage in all your born days. ~Charity’s nose was
barked the whole length of it, and the blood streamed from it;
and Marial’s waterfall was tore off, wig and all, and hove onto
the ground close to that colt’s pen, and the colt he jest reached
over his long neck, and gobbled down the hull consarn as if he
liked it. Folks did say that Deacon Groundnut ginerally kept his
critters half-starved to death, and I should think he did by the
way the colt eat that mess of hair, and hay, and cotton. :

At last Elder Penrose and Captin Blaisdell ventured to. try. fo
seperate the two women, but in a minnit the women turned onto
them, and the fust thing the elder knowed his hat was knocked in
one direction and his specks in another, and that consarned butt-
ing sheep had jumped out of his pen and was a charging the elder
in the rear to such a rate, that it took six of us, hanging onto the
sheep’s tail, to set the elder free. ; :

As for Captin Blaisdell, Marial she faintedin his arms,.and the
captin, who is dreadful ’fraid of a woman—being an old bachelor
—screeched for help, and the instance somebody come, he took to
his heels and run as fast as his legs would carry him. He haint
been seen in town sense, and Marial is a hunting for him fur and
near, She’s a going to make him marry her, or she’ll sue him for
a breach of promises! He’s ruinated her character, she ses; a
holding of her in his arms, and. as likely as not a hugging. and a
kissing of her while she was onconscious!

Lawful heart! how easily some women is ruinated! now, aint
they ? But Jonathan is a hollering for his supper and his clean
shirt, and I must close. i
Honorable Mr. Whangbango lecter.

A JACKASS TOLLED.

Not many years ago there resided in Butler county, Pa., ‘a penu-
rious old German named Schwartz.. He owned a small farm, and
took his marketing weekly to. Pittsburgh, in a small wagon drawn
by one horse. Coming into the city one morning, a bright idea
struck him: to save the toll, he would leave his horse in Alleghe-
ny City, and draw the wagon across the bridge himself. Arriving
at the toll-house at the further end of the bridge, the keeper de-
manded the toll. ‘‘How mutch you sharge?? said Schwartz, ‘‘Fif-
teen cents,’? replied the toll-keeper. “How comes dish—you
sharge yust so mutch ash wen I got mine horse?” ‘“‘We charge
just as much for a jackass as we do for a horse,” was the answer.
“You means for to call mea shackass?” ‘Yes, you confounded
old skinflint; and if you don’t pay me at once T’ll pitch you over
the bridge.’’? Schwartz forked over the sum required, and mut-
tering a few choice oaths, passed on. He never lett his horse be-
hind again. SAIBOT.

JERUSHY PERKINS.

ANOTHER TOUGH BIRD.
In a late issue of your paper is recorded the fate and epitaph
on an ancient chicken, which:may reasonably be assuméd to have
been in the Ark with Noah; and we now hear of another venera-

ble member of the feathered tribe having gone the way of all»

(eatable) flesh. At a recent public dinner in New York city, the

chairman, in cutting up a tough specimen of the genus fowl, ac-° ~

quitted himself so awkwardly and seemed to make so little pro-
gress that a sympathizing on-looker remarked: ‘Surely, sir, that

must be a very old chicken.” “Old!” echoed the now exasperated

carver, throwing down the knife and fork; ‘‘I verily believe she is

mother to the bird that crew to the apostle Peter, and is a fitter

subject for a museum than a festive board.” JAMESON.

A TRICK FOR THE BOYS.

The last practical ‘‘sell’? is very popular in Binghampton, where
it originated. A sharper bets with a countryman that he can
stand-an egg on end “right out on the floor,” and the yokel can’t
break it with a half-bushel measure. L
fiend in human shape puts the ese precisely in the corner; and if
you wish to knew how it is yourself, you would do well to try the
experiment. :

NOT A FREE-WILL CHURCH.

On the train from Boston to Manchester, N. H., some days ago,
two or three residents of the latter city were conversing about the
various churches passed on the route.’ On nearing the station at
Lowell, the jail in that city came in sight, when somé. one, who
did not know its exact character, exclaimed: “What church is
that?” “I guess that’s a Close Communion church,” said his neigh-
bor in the next seat; “at any rate it isn’t a Free Will church.”

AN INVERTED NOSE.

During the late civil war, a Federal soldier, an inveterate snuff
taker, was so unfortunate as to meet with an accident which de-
prived him of his nose. He stooped and picked it up from the

lace where it had fallen, and hurriedly making a bandage of his

iandkerchief, he fixed the detached nasal organ ‘in the place

where a nose ought to be.” ‘This done, he resumed the tight.
Imagine his dismay when the surgeon, who came to examine his
wounds, informed him that his nose was upside down. Yes; up-
side down it was, and firm as if fastened with glue. When the
excitement was over, a comrade remarked that it was much easier
than before for him to take snuff. ‘‘Yes,’’ he replied; “but the
duse of the thing is, when I want to sneeze I must take off my
hat, or have it blown away.” JOHN H. COBBE:

A WHISKY ADVERTISEMENT.

Joe Randall was very fond of loafing ata corner grocery, his ~

seat usually being the head of a barrel. To give him a hint that
his presence there was not desired, the grocer resorted to a trick.
One night, shortly after Joe had taken his accustomed position,
the grocer came out, and informed him that he needed the bar-
rel. Joe jumped down, and the barrel was rolled into the store.
As he strolled up the well-lighted street, the pedestrians saw con-
spicuously emblazoned on the rear of his pantaloons, just below
the extremity of his pea-jacket,.the words, “OLD Ryk WHISKY.”
The barrel had been thus freshly painted, in expectation of Joe’s
arrival. On discovering the trick, Joe resolved to avoid that cor-
ner in future. To this day the boys annoy him by asking if the
grocer remunerated him for acting as a walking advertisement
of his old rye whisky. SAvuL SAWDUST.
A VERDANT OLD LADY.

One day last week, as the train was on its way from Muscatine
to Davenport, Iowa, a woman came running toward it, waving
her apron and brandishing her arms. Her signal was seen by the
engineer, and the cars stopped, he thinking some accident had
occurred. When asked what was the matter, she asked if the
train would stop for her in a day or two, as she would then want
to go to Davenport. JENNIE.

THE HUMBUG.

I have spent forty years ov my valcwable life tryin tew diskiver
sum oy the natsheral instinkts ov this trooly remarkabull<inseek.
I hay kollectted the followin faks: Hiz hiztory iz az ola az the
human rase—if not older. We fust read ov him in the gardin ov
Eden, whar muther Eve waz the fust victim oy his promiskuss
cussedness, . Hiz shape iz akordiag tew sirkumstanses.., In fackt,
in that respect, he iz the most akommodating kreeture in the
universe, Old Proteus waz small potatoes by hiz side. (n this
klassikal allusion I am indebted to the back part of Webster’s on-
abridged dictionery). Yesterday, he kummeth forth az a white-
oak ham. ‘To-day he grateth hiz teeth like unto a wooden nut-
meg. To-morrow he moveth hiz mandibles az a pattent korn-
sheller. The next day he iz bottled up, and sold az a kure fur awl
diseazes flesh is hair too.

On Sunday he standeth behind the pulpit. On Monday he
treadeth the legislatiph halls. He kan stand behind the kounter,
and sell himself az a yard of kalikoe, or krawl intu the kontents
of the phlask that gitteth a man in the gutter, and there dwells
az snug as any other bug inarug. He alighteth on a lady’s bon-
net and hangeth like a do-drop tu her ear. He penneth himself
up in a koller-box, or gitteth intu a pakkidge ov kulleréd kandy.

He iz, indeed, a remarkabull bug. He iz'a big-bug.

The scientiffic name oy this insek iz Diabole Dinobuggibussque,

witch ma bee bitterly translated develish big crawlin critter. ‘The ;

bed-bug iz no relation oy the humbug. 3
The bed-bug iz a modest and unpretending bug by the side ov

the humbug. O fur the pen ov a defunct Dickens tu lavish pro-
miskuss anathemays against this disturber ov our piece! ~~

ne a destroyin angle tu skatter tu the fore winds this omniy-
rous bug. otis CVE

O! that the suns of Adam kould kno when they were bitten,
LUKE SHARP.

oO

that they might bewair ov the biter,

‘ MIRTHFUL MORSELS.
Why is a man playing billiards like one who has the itch? Be-
cause he likes to scratch. ’ ats v
A country boy who had read of sailors heaying up anchors,
wanted to know if it was sea-sickness that made them do it.

Jones, directing Brown’s attention to the flashy equipage of 2
noted corn doctor, was answered by his friend that it was an illus-
trated edition of “‘Bunyan’s Progress.”?’

A lawyer of extensive practice says that the most troublesome
clients he ever had were young ladies who wanted to be married,
married women who wanted to be divorced, and old maids who
didn’t know what they wanted.

A daily paper advertises for girls for cooking. A contemporary
replies: “You would like them raw, when you get accustomed to
them.” 4 :

A pledge of love—Pawning the engagement ring.
What’s the proper age for a parson? The parsonage, of course.
Salutation among brewers—‘“‘Ale fellow well met}?

A young lady remarked, after coming from .a church: “I did
not think much of the close of the sermon.”? To which her father
replied: ‘‘Probably you were thinking more of the clothes of the
congregation.”?

_A colored gentleman, who lately met a Chinaman for the first
time, asked: ‘If white folks is as dark out dere, I wonder whats
de color of de niggers?”

“What's the difference between the North Pole and South Pole??
“Why all the difference in the world,” replied a lady, unwittingly ;
and that’s the answer, :

A German friend of ours got “on his ear” last week, upon the
arrival of his second pair of twins, and said to his family physi-
cian: “Oy you bleese, doctor, it ish petter dot a schtop be boot to
dose dings. One bair of twins, I dinks, ish aller riot, but more as
dot ish blaid owit—don’d it? Dot’s vot’s de matter mit me. You
know how it is myself.”’

To P. P. CONTRIBUTORS.—Maud C.—Yes......... Saul S.—“The
Broken Jug” will appear in the PHUNNY PHELLOW........ The fol-
lowing MSS. are accepted: ‘Epistle from Spirit Land; “Very Rich;?
‘Bouncing Jimmy; ‘Stopped at Last ;’ ‘Gregory’s Dilemma; ‘Very
ROA On Sere: The following are respectinlly declined: ‘Life
on the Canal; ‘Symptoms of Yellow Fever;’ ‘Katie; ‘Better
Men;’ ‘Medder Hay;’ ‘Couldn’t Do It Justice,’ “Acrostic ;’ “Eleyen
Turkeys;’ ‘Epistle from Rocky Mountain Gulch;’ “Downside Up;?
‘Doing as He Did;’ ‘Sayings of Our Little Niece;’ ‘On the Wide
Track;’ ‘Let >Em Wait;’ ‘Store Soup;’ ‘Stage Riding;’ ‘An Expe-
rience ;’ ‘Verbatim Prayer;’ ‘Fast Time;’ “My Walk; ‘Button Up;?
‘All is not Gold that Glitters;’? ‘Dot Leedle Vite Cat;? ‘Qld Leg’
‘Head-Light Shadows;’ ‘Will You Go?’ ‘Mosquito and Lantern;?
‘Game at Bluff;’ ‘Pat’s Elocution;’ ‘Boys’ Rights; ‘Rousing a
Landlord; ‘Trials of a Preacher;’ ‘Explosion of a Beer Cask;?
‘Good Boy;’ ‘Resolving;’ ‘Set Back a Peg.’ ’

 

 

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ay

neh

 

He’sa going to a corkus to hear the ’

The bet is taken, and the.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ASR Man aeRO SAE Ns IRANIANS

 
 

 

 

 

 

-<“st THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

FATHER, EVER EBEP ME NEAR THEE.
BY MBS. M. A. KIDDER.

Father, ever keep me near thee,
Lest I seek forbidden way ;

Teach my soul to love and fear thee,
Sovereign ruler of my days.

I have wandered far from duty,
I have kept mine eyes cast down,
Satisfied with earthly pleasures,
Longing for an earthly crown.

‘Things divine I cast far from me,
Putting off the evil day

When thou should’st spread out before me,
All my sins in dread array.

Father, now I see my danger,
Leave, oh, leave me not alone;
Lift me up till I am near thee,
Near thy bright and shining throne,

Perish earthly things below me,
Vanish all life’s fleeting toys;

I have bought Heaven’s priceless love
I may share immortal joys.

Father, ever keep me near thee,
Lest I seek forbidden ways;

Teach my soul to love and fear thee,
Severeign ruler of my days.

LOTTIE DARNELLS FAILING.

BY EMMA GARRISON JONES.

“Pm astonished at your choice, Eustace!’

“Why ???

“Miss Darnell is a free-thinker—you’ll have her turning
out public lecturer on your hands before long.”

Eustace Mowbray laughed, and shrugged his shoulders.

‘Sour grapes, Phil,’’ he replied; “‘’tis a poor plan to
slander that which you cannot obtain.”’

“T know it—and [I’m not slandering the young lady—I
did, ‘and still do admire her more than any other girl of
my acquaintance. . I’ve been on the point of going down
on my knees before her a round dozen times.”’

“Why didn’t you?”

“Well, begging your pardon, Eustace, I was afraid she
might say ‘yes.’ ”’

“Afraid!” echoed Eustace, growing very red in the face;
“you don’t mean to insiuate af

“No, I don’t mean to insinuate at all, but to'speak the
plain truth. Lottie Darnell would be perfect but for one
thing—one failing—she’s a ‘crowing pullet,’ Eustace.”

The young man raised his clenched fist.

“You are my friend, Phil,’ he said, savagely, “‘but I
cannot stand by and hear the woman | intend to make my
wife, called names, and ”

“Oh, EKustace, don’t make a fool of yourself, boy,’’
jaughed the other; ‘‘we know each other too well for this.
Come now, don’t be silly, let’s talk like old friends. I
confess that I did feel a little sore, when I first heard of
your engagement with Miss Darnell; the little witch had
a right tight hold on my heart once—but I’m cured now—
and I wish you joy with my whole soul, old boy. You be-
ifeve me, don’t you?”

The anger died out of Hustace’s fine eyes, and he held
out his hand.

“Yes, Phil, but tis too bad to call her a crowing hen.??

“Well, she does crow, Eustace, and there’s no denying
it, in a pretty, musical fashion, I grant, but she crows;
and my only concern is, that she’ll breed mischief in your
domestic barn-yard by-and-by.”’

Eustace looked meditative a moment, and then he
brightened up.

“But she’ll get over it by-and-by, Phil,’”’ he said, a flush
of pleasure mounting to his brow; ‘‘when she has a nest
and a brood of her own.”?

“‘T hope so, Eustace,—I do want you to be happy, old
fellow. But look yonder; by Jove! the very little beauty
herself. You remember the old saying, it holds true in
regard to angels, I suppose.”’

Eustace turned to the window, from which his friend

' was looking; and coming down the street, he saw the ob-
ject of his adoration. And a prettier, fairer specimen of
feminine loveliness was no where to be seen. A small,
girlish figure, and the fairest, sweetest face you could pos-
Sibly imagine, with eyes like forget-me-nots, and tresses
as right as spun gold. That was Lottie Darnell, the
young lady who wrote for the papers, and advocated fe-
male suffrage! Who would have dreamed of such a thing!
¥et, observing her closely, there was something just the
least bit defiant in the jaunty air of her plumed cap, and
the somewhat limited length of her silken petticoats. But
her feet were as dainty as a queen’s, and it was merely
natural that she should wish to show them.

&ustace Mowbray had grave misgivings now and then,
in regard to the choice he had made, but he forgot them
‘all, forgot that Miss Darnell was a reformer, forgot every-
thing, but his great love, when he saw her in all the glory
of her young loveliness, and he was down the steps, and
at her side in the twinkling of aneye. Philip Drury looked
on with a smile, and a half sigh. He almost envied his
old friend after ail.

In due time there was a great wedding; Lottie became a
wife, and took upon herself the grave promise. to love,
cherish, and obey. The first few weeks were spent in
travel, and then the young couple went home, to their
little cottage just without the limits of the city. The
cosiest little nest in the world, and they the happiest pair.

The honeymoon went by like a dream; Lottie was a pat-
tern for all womankind, and Eustace the happiest man
that ever breathed. Looking’on, Philip Drury began to
think that he had been a simpleton. :

But in due course of time, the old habits and whims, of
their past lives, began to reassert themselves. Lottie
wearied of darning stockings and sewing on buttons for
Hustace, and got to writing for the papers. Only by way
of amusement and recreation, however, and Eustace
made not the slightest objection; indeed, on the contrary,
the felt quite proud to see his wife’s name in print, and ex-
hibited her articles in the Monthly Rosewreath, and the
National Reformer, with a good deal of exultation. And
Lottie cared for no other reward than his praise and ap-
probation, for a time. But it came to pass that, having a
clear head, and a smooth pen, this little woman began to
grow famous. Her articles were copied and commented
on—the National Reformer called her the ‘‘championess
of her sex,’’ and two or three other journals solicited her
contributions, and offered her pay. As a general thing it
pleases and flatters a woman to be able to make money—
to weed her own row through the wearisome field of life.

. Lottie was like the rest of her sisters, or many of them, at
least. The slender pay she received for her literary labors
made her very self-important; but it was a source of mor-
tification to her husband, who wished her to feel that the
work of his hands was like the love of his heart, sufficient
for all her wants.

“It would make a difference, Lottie,” he said, gently,
“4f you were driven to such a resource by necessity, but I
ae my love, that Tleave none of your wants unsup-
plied.

“Certainly not, my dear, but every human soul has an
appointed task; you would not have me neglect mine?”

Eustace smiled down upon the pretty, blue-eyed little

_ creature.

“No, pet, n0; do anything that gives you pleasure; but I
think you’ll have task enough at home, before long, and I
can’t have you spoil your pretty eyes and fingers with
overwork.”? :

Wottie’s back was up on the instant.

“Den’t talk to me as if I were ababy, Eustice,’’ she said
Severely; “I am a woman, and if I have any talent I
don’t mean to bury it. My poor sex stand in need of all
I-can say for them—I must advocate their cause. I have
had several offers made me in the last week, and I have
accepted every one—I shall have to work hard day and
night, and neglect my home duties, perhaps, but ’twill be
in a good cause.” ,

Eustace Mowbray bit his lips to keep down the reply
that was on his tongue, and turned away in silence, but
with an aching pain at his heart. Phil Drury’s words
were Coming true. The pretty little pullet had flappcd
her wings and crowed.

That same evening the editor of the Woman's Friend
called. They were at tea when his card was sent up, and
Lottie, in a charming toilet that Eustace had been flatter-
ing himself was intended solely for him, was making her-
self unusually agreeable. But the instant the announce-
ment was made, she was off like a flash, and Eustace was
left to drink his tea alone, while she discussed the possi-
bilities of female suffrage. But being not only a sensible
but an unusually patient man, he swallowed his vexation ag
well as his tea, and resolved to let his wayward little wife
rub her race. She’ll weary of all this by-and-by, he said.

But Lottie seemed to grow more and more inspired.
She worked with a zealous steadfastness that was really
praiseworthy—worked until her bright cheeks began to
pale, and her blue eyes to grow dim, and every day her
fame widened. Men praised, and women blessed her.

Priestess, they called her, chosen of Heaven, to lead her
oppressed sisters out of the land of bondage. Poor, sim-
ple, little Lettie heard all this with glowing exultation,
fancying to herself that she was in truth achieving a great
work. She could see and set forth the wrongs of women,
and expend her time and labor for the public good, un-
mindful of that golden saying, which teaches us that
‘charity begins at home;’’ careless of the many impera-
tive needs in her own household. Like many other re-
formers, she thought it beneath her calling to stoop to
small deeds. If Eustace’s shirts were buttonless, and his
socks undarned, if baby (for there was a baby in the
house) did lack for clean pinafores, and motherly atten-
tion, if the culinary department ran to ruin for want of
‘proper rule, what did it concern her? She was called to
a higher work!

Eustace in the meantime hoped and endured.

Little Salem, the village where they lived, was ina fer-
ment at that time. Every spare hall was a lecture room,
wherein woman’s wrongs and rights, and other such
themes were nightly discussed.

And while his little wife was carried away by her en-
thusiasm, he, with wiser, clearer vision, saw that it was
all froth and foam, mere surface scum, that would all be
blown away by the first strong breeze, while the old life
truths would roli and ripple on forever. So he hoped and
waited, but Lottie’s fever gave no promise of abatement.
At last, however, the crisis came.

There was a grand entertainment announced, a supper,
and a series of lectures, to be given at concert halls; the
proceeds to goto the benefit of oppressed and suffering
women. Thesubjects for debate were “Woman’s Uni.

 

ersal Wrongs,” and the “great moral good that would
accrue from an unlimited extension of the elective fran-
chise.’? And Mrs. Lottie Mowbray was publicly announc-
ed as one of the leading speakers. The afternoon before
the appointed evening, Eustace came home with one of
the posters in his hand. : :

“What is this, Lottie?’ he questioned gravely, laying
the sheet before her, with his finger on her name.

Lottie was writing as usual, the room comfortless and
untidy, the babe fretting in his crib. She looked up with
a start, and a flush of pleasurable pride.

“why, I meant to surprise you, Hustace. I’m to be one
of the speakers, you see. Dve got my lecture almost
ready, and I think it willdo. I want you to go down and
hear me, won’t you?”’

Eustace looked down with grave fondness at the pretty,
womanly face, and his eyes filled with tears.

“Lottie,” he said kindly, ‘I never oppose you; but I
cannot allow this. My boy’s mother must not shame her
sex.’

The pretty little woman sprang to her feet like a tigress,
her eyes blazing, her cheeks on fire.

“What do you mean, sir?’ she demanded. ‘I shall
not shame my sex. I shall speak of their wrongs, and
endeavor to——”’ ;

But Eustace cut her short, his fine brow contracting
with impatience.

_‘Lottie,’’ he said sternly, ‘‘there are worse wrongs to be
righted than the wrongs of women. Charity begins at
home. Look at me—look at your baby there, actually dy-
ing for want of a mother’s care; while you——”” :

“Yes sir,’’ she broke in passionately, ‘‘while I am doing
my duty, and will do it in spite of all opposition. You
need not try to tie me down. J am not the woman that
can be made a slave. Iam only sorry that I ever encum-
bered myself by marriage. I wish my hands were free
to

“Lottie !?

Her husband’s voice, and the look in his eyes, startled
her ; but she was a self-willed little woman, who made it

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“QO, no, no, not for the world; don’t let me ever see any
of them again,”’ she cried.

And her husband, much gratified, went down, and very
politely conducted the worthy editor to the door.

TEE Es

COUNTRY SCHOOL-TEACHER.

BY ELLA A. BETHE.

Charles Walton sat in a private room at his hotel. He
was a handsome, manly fellow, and although he was rich
and consequently ‘“‘a great catch,’’ he had escaped the
snares laid by mammas with marriageable daughters, and
now at twenty seven was still single.

Two letters lay upon the table before him, and taking
one up, he carelessly broke the seal and glanced down the
neatly written page. It ran as follows:

ROSE COTTAGE, JUNE 17th.
DEAR CHARLIE:—You must really accept my invitation
this summer, for I cannot do without you. There will be
a great many here for the season, and as Henry is not at
home I must beg for your company and assistance in en-
tertaining them. You must not disappoint me this time.

Tremain, your cousin,
CLARA VERE.

He read it through twice, and then perused the other;
as he read his lip curled and at length he broke into a
ringing laugh.

“So Aunt Esther is at her game of match-making again,
is she? WellI guess she will be disappointed this time;
for as to my going to Woodville and paying court to the
great heiress Ethel Lynn, Ido not expect to do that yet.
She is considered tolerably good looking; well, I only re-
member a little black-eyed, dirty-faced girl, who seemed
to have a mania for climbing trees, and also for causing

 

 

The Lover’s Revenge,—-Seizing the heavy fire-poker,

a point never to put her hand to the plow and turn back ;
and she went on, though the words choked her as she ut-
tered them.

‘‘Yes,”? she said, ‘I wish I were free, that I might de-
vote all my time and talent to this great work.”

‘Very well, you shall have your wish.”

Her husband’s voice was very firm and decided, and he
turned from her as he uttered the words, and the next in-
stant she heard the street door open and close. She
threw aside her lecture and hurried to the window ; but
she merely caught sight of him far down the dreary, de-
serted street. The night was closing in rapidly, wild with
wind and rain. She shuddered as she looked out, and
heard the dinner-bell tinkling below, and thought of her
husband—hungry, tired, and driven from his home—and
a@ sharp pang of self-reproach pierced her heart like a
knife. Just then the baby moaned in his crib, and held
up his little hands. Poor, neglected baby he was, with a
pale, little face, and wistful eyes. His mother turned to
the crib, and snatching him up, kissed his feverish little
mouth, and pressed him to her bosom with a sudden gush
of womanly tears.

Was she really doing her duty after all? Wouldit not be
better, holier, more womanly, to let the lectures, and the
fame, and all the wild clamor over rights and wrongs take
their course and devote her time and labor to those so near
and dear to her?

The mother-instinct in her heart was very strong,
and with the babe’s hot lips at her breast, and its slender
little hands clinging to her own, she must have yielded,
and given over her purpose. But just at this moment there
was a ring at the door-bell, and an arrival. The parlor-
maid came with the message, and the card.

The editor of The Woman's Friend was in the parlor.
Fearing that the inclemency of the weather might deter
her from coming, he had driven over to take her to the
lecture-room, His carriage was at the door.

Lottie’s heart gave a great bound. She must go. There
was no backing out now. She tore the babe from her bo-
som, and put it in the nurse’s arms; then she gathered up
her lecture, and in ten minutes she was driving down the
rainy street, by the editor’s side, flushed and expectant,
yet with a sharp, stinging reproach in her innermost soul
that no sophistry could silence.

The hall was pretty fairly filled—the front seats crowd-
ed, for the most part, with large, threatening-looking fe-
males, nearly every one of whom had some dwarfed, meek-
eyed bit of manhood in tow; the back tiers filled with gay,
sarcastic unbelievers.

Lottie took her stand on the platform with trembling
knees and a dizzy brain. It was easy enough to sit at
home, in the quiet seclusion of her own room and pen
down her ideas; but this facing the public was something
Widely. G2c.cat,

She was introduced to the audience, but when she made
an effort to speak her tongue clave to the roof of her
mouth, and she must have retired in humiliation and de-
feat but for the efforts of her kind friend, the editor, who
nied at her elbow, with words of cheer and encourage-
ment.

At last her woman’s pride got up, and she made a start,
and once off, she warmed with her subject, and would
have raised her voice in unison, but her most ardent ef-
forts only produced a discordant kind of scream.

Now, Lottie possessed to perfection that excellent thing
in woman, a low, sweet voice. In conversation, in song,
it was the very soul of music; but, raised in public decla-
mation, if became the shrill shriek of a virago, and filled
her with an irresistible desire to clap her hands upon her
own ears.

But she was a determined woman, and she went on,
over the beaten track, nearing the grand Millenium, when
women’s freedom shall begin; when the days of house-
hold drudgery shall have ended; when our sewing shall
be done by steam, and our cooking by some power equally
marvellous; and woman, no longer a slave, shall have all
the privileges of election day, even to the wearing of stove-
pipe hats, and sporting revolvers.

Lottie had reached this glorious climax, and her audi-
ence were in raptures, when all of a sudden, she came to
a dead halt.

Like the ghost of Banquo, astern, white face appeared
before her—her husband’s face, with a look in his eyes
that till her dying day she never forgot.

He strode down the aisle, and up the rostrum steps, the
strong-minded women staring in fierce surprise.

“Lottie,” he said, hoarsely, grasping her arm, “our
child is dying; if you care to see him alive, come home!’

And without a word she followed him out into the black,
stormy night. Only once she spoke, and her words were
a prayer.

“Bustace, in mercy’s name forgive me???

_ But he made no answer. The babe lay in his crib, gasp-
ing for breath, the little wan face distorted with agony.

The miserable mother caught him up with a cry of an-
guish, and even then, the little yearning mouth, parched
and dying, nestled up to her bosom, and in that last fond
effort his life went out. She held him dead in her arms.
She was free to do her holy work.

The little neglected babe was cradled away in thé grave,
never again to intrude its imperative needs upon its
mother’s time, the empty crib—and all the little infantile
trifles were put out of sight. Lottie was free—tree to thun-
der from the rostrum, free to squabble at the ballot-box,
free to Work out her grand purpose to the end—there were
no clinging little hands to hold her back.

In a month or two, her good friend, the editor, felt it his
duty to look after her. He called accordingly, and sent up
his card. Hustace himself teok it in, and laid it on his
wife’s table.

“Shall I send him up, Lottie 2” g
ai the nun D, he asked, as she glanced

She put out her hands with a gesture of intense loathing.

 

 

all the trouble she could,” and again his mérry laugh rang
out.. Finally he indited the following notes:
€LARA:—I’ll be with you on the 20th.
Yours, CHARLES MELTON.

DEAR AUNT:—I am very sorry to disappoint you, but
have already promised to spend the summer with cousin
Clara, and perhaps your heiress may not come to Wood-
ville after all. Ihave a vague idea that heiresses gener-
ally change their minds easily.

Yours, dutifully, CHARLES.

“There, I think that will do,” he said, as he folded and
sealed the last note; ‘‘and now to finish my arrangements
for the summer,” and he crushed a hat over the chestnut-
brown locks, and sauntered lazily down the street.

The first of July found him settled at Rose Cottage,
which proved tobe rightly named, for the entire place
presented the appearance of a. magnificent rose garden.

There were a great many guests—among them, the De
Lisles, Forrests, and Ormes.

Lucy De Lisle was a tall, stately blonde, and carried her
head proudly, as if she wished to show the power her
beauty and wealth gave her over the others. She was
very beautiful and knew it.

Mary Forrest was also tall, stately and very beautiful,
but of a different style; for instead of the deep blue eyes,
she had large brilliant orbs, which, when her anger was
the least aroused, would sparkle, and some said, really
dart fire; her raven hair corresponded with her eyes,
and served to enhance her darkly, brilliant beauty; there
were many other beautiful women; indeed,as Charles said,
the house was full of them.

Time did not hang heavily on his hands, for there were
many sources of pleasure, one of which was his daily
ramble in the wood, about a mile distant.

One day having found anew path, he wandered on in
thedense wood until he at length came suddenly to an
opening, through the center of which ran a stream of pure,
sparkling water. It was rather high, and he had paused
one moment to contemplate a scene of such wild beauty,
when an entirely new feature was added toit; a young
girl, of about seventeen, coming lightly down the path on
the opposite bank, humming a gay tune, and stopping now
and then to add to the boquet of wild flowers she carried;
seating herself beneath the branches of an aged oak, she
took a book from her pocket, and soon was utterly oblivi-
ous of all that was passing around her.

AS she sat there, her face turned partly toward him,
Charles had ample opportunity to observe her; she was
below the medium hight, and was so slight and fragile
that he termed her a fairy; only a passable fair complexion,
a@ small nose, and full pouting red lips; she was not beau-
tiful, at least did not seem so at the first glance, but when
he looked again, he observed that the rather dark com-
plexion was tinged with carmine on either cheek, while
the broad brow was framed by a mass of black hair, which
having escaped from the comb which had confined it, now
surrounded her like a vail.

Having finished his observation, he took a book from
his pocket, and under the pretense of reading, watched
her every movement.

Did he'think he was unobserved ? ifso he was mistaken;
for the demure looking Gamsel had been as curious as
himself, and as he settled himself in a more comfortable
position, he was startled by a silvery voice exclaiming:

“Well, sir, now that you are tired of gazing at me, pray
tell me what conclusion you havecome to. Am Ia witch
or a fairy ?”’ 3

Charles had glanced up, and met this pert speech with
his usual gallantry, although the mischievous black eyes
were bent full upon him.

“Both fair lady; for in the first place you are not so very
gigantic, and in thesecond, you have bewitched me
already.’

A vivid blush suffused her cheek at these words, but
with great composure she continued:

“But, sir knight, how came you to find my beautiful
retreat; for it is beautiful, isitnot?”

‘Most beautiful, your majesty,” he said, with a low bow.
“J chanced upon it in my daily walk, and was surprised
at its strange, wild beauty.”” ee :

“Well, sir knight, au revoir, forit is high timeI was
back to my school;”’ and before Charles could interpose,
she had entered the wood and was soon lost to view.

They met many times after this, and Charles soon knew
that she was only a school-teacher; but what difference
did that make to him, none whatever, and the first op-
portunity he inquired of Clara concerning the said school-
teacher’s name, for as well acquainted as they were he
had as yet been unable to learn her name, which she from
some pretense seemed anxious to keep from his knowl-
edge.

Clara was very much surprised but gave him the desir-
ed information. 3

When he next met the object of his love, he did not stop
as he was wont to.do, but witha smile he simply raised
his hat, and said: ‘Good morning, Miss Kingston,” while
she looked inquiringly at him for a moment and then hur-
ried on to her duties. Charles Melton soon found an op-
portunity to pour the story of his love into the little school-
teacher’s ear. ; se

“But, Charles, I am only a poor girl toiling for my bread,
While you are rich.”’

“Thank Heaven, that I am rich, for I am able to lift you
above this daily toil, which is slowly but surely killing you.
Oh,.my pet, my darling, only say that you love me, and
make me the happiest man on earth.”

Her eyes sank tothe ground, while the rich color man-
tled neck, cheek and brow.

“Look up, darling, and answer me.”

She lifted her eyes to his for a moment, and then drop-
ped them again in a sweet, sly manner that was very
pleasing to him.

 

he instantly felled the intruder to

 

‘My darling, my own true-hearted Rose,” he murmur-
ed, as he clasped her to his heart, and pressed passionate
kisses upon brow, cheeks and lips. ; :

Again she looked up, this time with an answering smile
as she disengaged herself from his embrace. eee

Charles Melton sat in his room that evening, buried in
a pleasant reverie; he was smiling softly to himself, when
the thought of his aunt all alone at Woodville came up be-
fore him, and he reproved himself for his neglect and sel-
fishness. i

“T will start next week,’ he thought; ‘‘and then I will
tell her about my Rose.”

Much to his surprise when he called on Rose the next
day, he was told that she had gone away to be gone two
or three weeks.

“Well,” said he, “I will go away also and see Aunt
Ruth.”’

So he started that evening, and two days after was
ringing the bell at Woodville. A servant answered his
summons, and he was shown into’ the parlor; he had sat
afew moments in silence, when the door was opened
and Rose Kingston entered. ;

Charles sprang eagerly forward, exclaiming: ‘Rose,
you here! this is indeed a pleasant surprise.”

Rose smiled brightly, then in a sad voice said:

“7 heard your aunt, for I now know that Mrs. Percy is
your aunt, was sick, and wanted a nurse, so I came to
town for a change, and here I am.?’

One clear sunshiny morning, Mrs. Percy told Charles
that she wanted him to take her young nurse out in the
country for a breath of fresh air, as she was getting to look
very pale, and she did not want her ill. On their return as
he sat lazily gazing from the window he wasstartled by
Mrs. Percy’s voice. ‘ 2

“Well, Charles, how do you like Miss Kingston?”

‘Me, aunt? Well, I was thinking about telling you; I
like her so well that I have asked her to be my wife.”

“Your wife !” exclaimed the old lady, in a terrified
tone; ‘‘and she—what did she say to you in answer to your
proposal?”

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the floor,

“Well, aint, I am most happy to inform you, that Rosé
has promised to be my wife,’?? and he glanced wp in his
relative’s face with an expression that seemed to say, ‘‘So
be horrified if you wish to; it can make no difference now,”
but instead of wearing the look he expected, he saw upon
it a. pleased, happy expression that puzzled him greatly.

“Charles, I have a story to tell you,’’ said the old lady at
length. ‘There was a sweet girl, who, although some
people did not term her handsome, was mpch sought after
on account of her great wealth. But she did not encour-
age any of them, and so went on in her fashionable path,
until at length, weary of the monotonous life she was lead-
ing, she wrote to an old friend of her mother’s, and told
her she might expect her next week; but a day or two
afterward she received a letter.from a school-gir) friend,
entreating her to come and spend the summer with her as
she was not very well, and, beinga stranger was very
lonely; excusing herself to the former she wrote to the lat-
ter, accepting her invitation and stating the time she might
be expected. Upon arriving at her friend’s, she found that
she supported herself and widowed mother by teaching
School, and at this time was so very weak, thatit was
with difficulty that she could keep up her school.

“By dint tof coaxing, she at length persuaded her to give
the school into her charge, and rest from her work until
the coming vacation; and more than this, she packed her
friend’s clothes, and sent her off to my house to regain the
roses that had faded from her cheeks, leaving her white
and weak as a lily broken at the stem. Vacation coming
she started from her friend’s home, and arrived at m
house just in season to nurse and pet me back to health.’

“And this noble-hearted woman is my Rose, my chosen
bride,’ said Charles, with much emotion.

“Not Rose, dear Charles,’? said his betrothed, entering
at that moment, ‘not Rose, but Ethel Lynn.”

Not long after agrand event took place, at which the
two principal persons were Charles Melton and Ethel
Lynn—so that Charles married the heiress after all.

THE LOVER'S REVENGE;

%

TWO YEARS IN A MAD-HOUSE.
BY JANE GRAY SEAVER.

There was a touch of frost in the keen air. The leafiess
branches of the trees where clothed in downy snow, whilst
icy statactites hung from every drooping limb.

The day was far spent, and daylight was fast deepening
into the twilight gloom, when Lesco Mordaunt iaid aside
his pallette and brush, and throwing a heavy cloak over
his shoulders, took his way across the park to the mansion
of Alexander Burmeaton, Esg., more commonly called
Squire Burmeaton. :

“T will know my fate to-night,”’ he murmured; ‘I will
know which it isto be. Grafton Westvail; or Lesco Mor-
daunt. J feel assured that Marilla gives me the preference.??
‘But then,’ he added, ‘‘she cannot be allowed to choose
for herself, it must be as the squire says.”

A fire burned in the grate of the elegantly decorated
drawing rooms of the Burmeaton mansion. Two persons
were already seated upon a sofa, their backs toward the
entrance in close converse, when the servant announced
Mr. Mordaunt—one a lovely girl, with deep bine eyes, and
amass of golden hair, which hung in rippling waves over
her finely shaped shoulders—the other a young man, a
dashing looking fellow with dark curling hair, keen black
eyes, and a superb mustache.

They. were so busily engaged that they had failed to
notice a third person until Mordaunt stood before them.
In the moment which the latter stood unobserved, he had
heard the former say, “‘I cannot, Mr. Westvail. I cannot
listen to you. and it is useless to prolong the interview.”

“Ah! you are in haste to be rid of me. I suppose you are

expecting my worthy cousin to pay his compliments to-
night, eh 2???
__ Whois already here,” interposed Mordaunt, stepping
in front of them. The happy smile which lighted up the
lovely face of Marilla Burmeaton as she hastily rose,
and offered her hand to the latter, saying:

“Ah, Mr. Mordaunt! Iam happy to see you, pray be
seated,’’ was not lost upon her graceless lover at her side.
And Grafton Westvail rose and placing himself in a defen-
Sive attitude. replied: (

Big Lesco, you are bound to be the bane of my exist-
ce.

“Not so, cousin,’’ returned the other; ‘‘let us be friends.
Come, give me your hand.??

**As soon take a viper into my bosom,as touch your hand,
Lesco Mordaunt. So take heed, sir, you shall hear from
me again, when I shall have triumphed over you, and
have made you as miserable as your favored presence here
makes me now.’? And so saying Grafton Westvail took
his departure, inwardly swearing vengeance upon the un-
offending head of his cousin.

Lesco Mordaunt, and Grafton Westvail were maternal
cousins. The mother of the former had died leaving her
son, a puny infant, while his father, Leolin Mordaunt, was
a man who loved nothing save his money, which he care-
fully hoarded, as to deprive himself and only son of the
bare necessaries of life. His cruelty to the latter become
so potent to all observers that his sister-in-law, Mrs. West-
vail, took her nephew home, and cared for, and educated
him with her own child, Grafton.

The young men had just returned from eollege when
the aunt and mother was taken suddenly ill, and died,
Upon the death of his mother, who was a widow, Grafton
had come into possession of quite a large property, and
being of a reckless disposition had taken naturally to all

sorts of dissipation, and in less than five years he had '

squandered his patrimony, and had several times drawn
heavily upon poor Lesco, who bore patiently with his im-
portunites from gratitude to his dearly loved aunt. And
at the period of which we write, it was not exactly patent
to those knowing his pecuniary straits, how he managed
tolive, and keep up a fashionable appearence without
employment. Unfortunately the cousins had fallen in
love with the same girl, and as the reader already knows
Lesco is the one most likely to win the prize. : 4

On the day subsequent to that on which the interview
had taken place between the rivals at the Burmeaton
mansion, Squire Burmeaton dispatched a note to Westvail
refusing to longer receive him a guest at his house. __

Lesco offered his heart and hand to the lovely Marilla,
and after consulting the old squire finally became the ac-
cepted suitor. 5

The winter passed pleasantly with the lovers, and spring
had come. ace

In just a week there was to have been a brilliant wed-
ding celebrated at the Burmeaton mansion, when sudden-
ly the household was thrown into the greatest consterna-
tion by the announcement of Marilla’s maid, that she (Ma-
rilla) was nowhere to be found, she having gone, as the
maid asserted, to take her customary walk in the park be-
longing to the Burmeaton estate. : 5 é

A thorough search of the grounds was immediately in-
stituted, but proved futile, with the exception of one inci-
dent—a mantle which she had thrown over her shoulders
when leaving the house had been picked up at the lower
end of the park, near the outer gate. :

It is needless to attempt to portray the anguish of poor
Lesco when he learned the sad tidings.

The best counsel in London was employed, and detec-
tives were on the alert everywhere, but without avail.
Upon the investigation Lesco thought proper to question
his cousin, and accordingly he was sent for to appear be-
fore the magistrate; and with what heart-sickening sensa-
tions, the reader can imagine, the father and lover expe-
rienced when the messenger returned and informed them
that Westvail had been absent since the night on which
the fearful event had happened.

It was plain that they had eloped. But what could have
induced her to take such a step was beyond all specula-
tion. :

Gne day, three months later, and a letter was placed in
Squire Burmeaton’s hand, written by Grafton Westvail,
and sent from some part of Germany, stating that on the
night of his daughter’s disappearance they had eloped
and were married, and fearing he would never forgive
them, they had fied to Germany, where they had lived very
happily until within a few days previous to the date of the
letter, when his idolized Marilla had suddenly sickened and
died.

This infelligehce would have proved a severe shock but
for the terrible suspexse of the preceding three months.
As it was, it offered something positive, and both the
father and lover accepted it with something akin to relief.
And now that action was no longer needed, an enervating
melancholy indelibly impressed itself upon the once ani-
mated face of the inconsolable lover. :

Two long and painful years had winged their flight to
eternity, during which time Lesco Mordaunt became daily
more enervated, until he had lost all taste for his profes-
sion, and was fast sinking into an apathetic grave, when
the attention of Squire Burmeaton was called to his situa-
tion, who immediately, by way of arousing his ambition, in-
vited him to spend a few weeks with him, during which
time he desired that he would paint a sketch from memo-
ry of their beloved and lost Marilla.

This stratagem produced the desired effect; and Lesco,
his ambition once more excited to the highest degree,
worked indefatigably.

He had placed his easel at the farthest end of the long
drawing-rooms, it having been a favorite spot to both Ma-
rijla and himself in happier days, and he felt that he could
work here with better success than elsewhere.

The picture was nearly completed, and he had surpassed
his most sanguine expectations; and on one oceasion, be-
coming so enamored with the prospect of success, he had
worked far into the small hours for the purpose of com-
pleting his task. And now it was done, and having laid
aside his pallette and brush, he stood for a long time gaz-
ing—sometimes with a triumphant smile, then with asad,
longing, and despairing look—upon the beautiful features,
which from memory only his faithful brush had striven to
delineate.

Then. carefully covering the canvas with a thin drapery,
he turned with a heavy sigh to the smoldering fire, and
stirred hastily, as though to distract his mind from un-
pleasant memories, the dying embers; and seating himself
in front of the now bright, red glow, and turning down
his lamp, he rested his weary head upon his thin white
hand, and murmured:

‘“Marilla, they tell me thou art gone to thy heavenly rest.
Does the earth cover thy beautiful form and hide thy lovely
face forever from my gaze? Naught else is left to me but
the vivid memory of thy beautiful image, which my faith-
ful brush has so well succeeded in immortalizing.

“Hark!” he ejaculated, suddenly, as a suspicious: sound
broke the stillness, ‘“‘what noise is that? A burglar, a
thief,’ and Lesco Mordaunt hastily secreted himself be-
neath the drapery of the wihdow, and awaited further de-
velopments. Soon the heavy drawing-room doors, which
he had failed to fasten, were carefully opened, and admit-
ted a man carrying a dark lantern, which he opened that
he might the better survey his situation, and at the same
time exhibited a pair of heavy black whiskers, while his
head was covered with a broad-brimmed slouch hat, giy-
ing iit an Appearance of a man, such as one would not
like to meet ii the dark. He was evidently acquainted
with the situation, for he made his way straight through
to the furthest end of the long rooms and halted in front
of the iron safe, in which were deposited all of the family
valuables. His back was toward Lesto, who, being un-
armed, waited until he had placed his lantern upon the
floor, and seated himself, and commenced operations for
opening the safe; this giving him an advantage over the
burglar, he stepped carefully out from his hiding place,
and seizing the heavy fire-poker, instantly felled the in-
truder to the floor, who, in his struggie to regain his feet,
lost off both his hat and his long whiskers, which proved
to be faise. As the burglar regained his feet, Lesco Mor-
daunt beheld in the intruder his formidable rival and
cousin. And now, fully awakened to his just cause of in-
dignation, the former grasped again his only weapon, and
like an infuriated mad-man rushed upon his antagonist
with a full intention of beating out his brains, and was
only prevailed upon to desist from his horrible work by
the piteous appeals of Grafton, who begged that he would
Spare his life and be rewarded by receiving back to’ his
arms one whom he had long mourned as dead. ;

““What!—what—do I—hear? Marilla lives? and where?’

And Lesco Mordaunt dropped his Weapon, and in a
-paroxysm of joy, grasped the arm of his cousin. ‘Tell
me, tell me quickly, does Marilla live?” Then suddenly
as though partially recovering his senses, he sank into a
chai, sorrowfully murmuring:

. “Ral F had forgotten if she lives she is his wife. When
I thought her a saintin Heaven, I could worship without
sin.

“No, Lesco believe me, she is not my wife, neither is she
harmed, but the same pure, and faithful being to you, that
she ever has been. And now promise not to expose me
to the authorities, and to let me escape, without calling
the squire, and I put you in a way of recovering her witb-
in a few hours.”

*} promise, I swear it.”?

“Well to commence I will tell you that I surprised her

one evening just at dusk, taking her favorite walk. I knew

well every inch of the park, and also her hour for strolling;
so I had a carriage just outside the inclosure, and stepped
in and secluded myself beneatha,bush of hawthorn, and
awaited her approach. I had not long to Wait, for soon
she came tripping along as graceful as a nymph, when f
stole out unperceived, and throwing a cloak hastily over
her head to prevent her from calling assistance, and tak-
ing her in my arms, I hastened to the carriage. I had eal-
culated upon her fainting, and she lay insensible in my
arias during the short drive to Dr. Ballous’ private mad-

ouse,

“Oh, Grafton, do not tell me that Marilla has been con-
fined all of this time in that den of infamy,’ interrupted
his auditor,

‘Hush, Lesco, it is true. But now having satisfied my
desire for revenge. I relinguish all claims.??

And so saying, Grafton. Westvail turned to leave the
Burmeaton Mansion no richer than he entered it; just as
the heavy doors were again thrown open, and admitted
two female figures, who made their way through the front
room, evidently not having seen its occupants, as their
was no light save the uncertain glimmer of the dying fire,
and seated themselves in front of the grate. Grafton West-
vail had risen as they approached, and grasped Lesco’s
arm, and whispered:

“It is Marilla,” and would have fled, had not courage
and strength alike forsaken him, and he fell back almost
powerless upon the sofa from which he had risen.

Lesco not knowing whether he was in or out of his sen-
ses, stepped forward just as the new comers had been at-
tracted by Grafton’s whisper, and had risen to their feet
in terror.

‘Marilla! my lost Marilla!’? cried Lesco, ‘thank Heaven
itis you! I—thought—I—saw—another,’’ she murmured,
and fell fainting into the arms of her faithful lover,

Squire Burmeaton had been awakened, and bustily
throwing on his dressing-gown, had come hither, Ma-
rilla was soon restored to consciousness, and told her
story, which corroborated that told by Grafton. The
woman who accompanied her had been her attendant for
the past few weeks at the asylum, and satisfied that Ma-
rilla was perfectly sane, she had planned the escape, hay-
ing been promised a life home by Marilla.

There is little more to tell. Grafton Westvail was allowed
to make good his escape, but on the following day Dr.
Ballous was arrested, tried, and imprisoned for a term of
years, and his establishment broken up.

_A few weeks subsequently, and when Marilla had par-
tially recovered her health which had been much impaired
by her long confinement, together with the terrible men-
tal distress, consequent upon the horrible events narrated
above, a brilliant wedding was given at Burmeaton Man-
sion. Soon after Leolin Mordaunt died, leaving his son a
large property, and as Marilla is her father’s sole heir,
Lesco can afford to:spend plenty of time in immortalizing
upon canvas the beautiful features of his darling Marilla.
Virtue and crime alike bring their own reward,

OO +
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