New York Weekly, Vol. 32, No. 3
MLA Citation
“New York Weekly, Vol. 32, No. 3.” Digital Gallery. BGSU University Libraries, 16 July 2024, digitalgallery.bgsu.edu/items/show/40379. Accessed 15 Feb. 2025.
Tags
Title | New York Weekly, Vol. 32, No. 3 |
---|---|
Subject | Popular literature -- United States -- 19th century -- Periodicals |
Source | Story papers collection; Browne Popular Culture Library; University Libraries; Bowling Green State University |
Publisher | New York : Street & Smith, [19--] |
Date | 1876-12-04 |
Rights | |
Relation | New York weekly |
Format | Published works |
application/pdf | |
Language | en-us |
Identifier | Vol. 32, no. 3 |
https://digitalgallery.bgsu.edu/items/show/40379 | |
Type | Text |
Entered According to Act of Congress. in the Year 1876. by Street & Smith. in the Office of the Librarian of Congress. Washington. D. C. STREET SMITH, Nos. 27. 29. 31 Rose St., Proprietors. (P. O. Box 4896, New York. Three Dollars Per Year. FRANCIS S. STREET < Two Copies Five Dollars. FRANCIS S. SMITH. Vol. XXXII. NEW YORK, DECEMBER 4, 1876. No. 3 THE LEGEND BOLD. BY E. MORMAN GUNNISON. A certain ancient temple once— We axfe in legend told— Bore on three walls these words inscribed; •‘Be Bold.-’ But this: “Be Bold.” Upon the fourth wall—written down In characters of gold. The earnest seeker after truth Found this: “Be not too Bold.” Oh, golden mean. The characters Tills lesson well may hold. That even he who runs may read: “Be Boid—be not too Bold.” 3e bold for right—not boll in wrong. The lesson safely fold, And this shall make you doubly strong— •*Be Bold—be not too Bold.” Be bold—God loves the fearless heart His arms will safely hold, D trusting Him. our human souls Are bold, but not too bold. THE Doctor’s Ward OR, PLOTTING FOR A FORTUNE. By George W. Warner, CHAPTER, I. THE SUICIDE. “Quick. Miss Helen! Come quick, or you’ll be too late! It was a boy who spoke—a rough, ungainly, coarsely-dressed boy of fifteen, who ran down the graveled walk, and met tho girl as she opened the She was a bright-faced beauty of twelve, with dark hair and eyes, and cheeks full of roses. She was neatly dressed in her Sunday attire, and a book and a paper under her arm showed that sho had just returned from the Sabbath-school. “Come quick, I say. or you’ll be too late!” “What do you moan, Silas?” asked tho girl. You frighten me. What do you want?” “Your mother has gone and p’isonod herself, and sho’s dyin’.” The child dropped her book and paper. All tho color fled from her cheeics and the light died out of her eyes. Her lips were as bloodless as if they were frozen together, and sho uttered no sound. She clutched the gate with both hands, and turned her face away from tho boy, while Mis. Waring, tiio boy’s mother, who had followed him, came running to her. Before the good woman could reach her, Helen calmly picked up her book and quitted her hold upon the gate. "How everlastin’ white you are. Miss Helen!” exclaimed the boy. standing with his hands in his pockets, and staring at her stupidly. His mother pushed him out of the way. sharply asking him why he had not gone to fetch the doctor, and took Helen in her arms. But the child put her aside with a self-possession not to be looked for in one so young, and led the way to the house with a firm step and with dry eyes. She went directly up stairs to her mother’s room, whore Nathan Waring was standing near the bed, upon which lay a silent and motionless form. “It is all over,” said Nathan Waring. “Come to me, Helen.” . The child went to him. and stood by his smo.and looked at the lifeless form upon the bod. The corpse was that of a woman over thirty years old, who had once been beautiful, and who was still handsome. Its appearance showed that the death had been comparatively painless. The eyelids were shut, and the lips were closed, gently and without contortion. The warmth of life had not entirely left the body, and the cheeks had not lost their natural form and color. The hands were folded on the breast, and the woman lay as if she were sleeping. On a table at the bedside was a vial labeled "Laudanum,” from whioh the last drop had been drained. , ___, “Is she really dead?” asked Helen, who was still unnaturally calm. ...... „ “She is really dead, my child, replied Nathan Waring. "Did she poison herself? “I am afraid she did.” , , “Then I know whose fault it is, and I hate him for it.” “Of whom are you speaking, Helen?” “Of my father.” ‘ I hone you don’t mean to say that you hate your father?” Helen did not answer, but sinking on her knees at the side' of the bed, burst into tears. The tramping of heavy boots was heard on the stairs, and Silas Waring entered the room, followed . by the physician whom he had been sent to summon. Dr. John Dohrer was a stately, well-appearing man, with the gravity of countenance and steadiness of demeanor that befitted his profession. He had hardly passed the meridian of life, but his brown and silken hair was plentifully sprinkled with silver threads, and his features were marked by many lines that were not entirely the work of time. He was a man of learning and eminence in his profession, having an extensive practice, not only in the town of Marden, but throughout the adjoining country. A few words from Mrs. Waring explained the matter to him. Her husband, in passing Mrs. Field’s room, had heard some strange noises. He knocked, but receiving no answer to his knocking, he opened the door, and found Mrs. Field lying on the bed, apparently expiring. The vial on the table explained the rest. Dr. Dohrer did not seem to be shocked or surprised. He exhibited no unprofessional emotion whatever, but examined the body carefully and methodically. Finally he dropped the pulseless hand, and informed Mrs. Waring that it was too late to apply * any remedies—that life was really extinct. Notwithstanding this declaration, he took from his pocket medicine-case a narrow vial, dropped into «> spoon a few drops of a nearly colorless liquid. and poured it between the closed lips. Then his eyes rested on the child, ar.d he seated himself in a chair at the bedside, and spoke te her. She rose and ran to him, and buried her face in his lap, sobbing while he stroked her dark curls. “If you and your wife will be seated, Mr. Waring,” said the doctor, “and if our young friend. Silas, will oome here and take a seat, I will make a proposition to you.” “This is a mournful event,” said Dr. Dohrer, speaking slowly, and looking down at Helen as he stroked her curls. "It is, indeed, a shocking affair. Suicide is a terrible thing, and is generally looked upon with abhorrence. It would be very bad for this dear child if she should hereafter be taunted with the fact that her mother had died a suicide.” “Very hard, indeed,” murmured Mrs. Waring. “During your acquaintance with Mrs. Field, I think, madam, that you learned to love her, and I believe that you can still respect her memory and cherish her child.” “That is very true, doctor.” “And vou, also, Mr. Waring?” “I could not fee! the loss of my own sister more deeply.” replied Mr. Waring; “and Helen is as dear to me as if she were my own child.” Helen lifted up her tearful face, and o' niched her fist9 as shy, said: know whose fault it is, and I hate him V9 “And mv young friend. Silas—though he is sometimes rather rough and boisterous—I believe that lie would not do or say anything, intentionally, that could harm this gentle playmate of his.” A big tear on the boy’s cheek, and a sob th nt was only half suppressed, gave the physician his answer. “The little one is dear to me, too,” said Dr. Dohrer, with a sigh. “The memory of her mother is dear to me. If I can do anything to keep that, memory bright and pure, and to guard that child from the stings of thoughtless or malicious tongues, it seems to me that I ought to do it.” The others expressed their assent by inaudible murmurs, and looked at him earnestly. “As we are all agreed on this point,” he continued, “it appears to me to be entirely unnecessary that any one outside of this circle should be made acquainted with the cause of this poor lady’s death.” “I am so glad to hear you say that. Dr. Dohrer!” exclaimed Mrs. Waring. “I was wanting to ask vou whether we couldn’t get around it, or smooth it over in some way. without doing wrong. I was so afraid that Silas might let it out when he went after you, and I would have gone myself, instead of sending him. if I hadn’t been so flustered.” “For once, madam, Silas has shown his discretion. He tells mo that he has not spoken of it to any one but Helen and myself, and he is a truthful boy. We will throw away that vial, if you please, and I will cause it to be understood that Mrs. Field died suddenly of heart-disease. Heaven knows that I will not be telling an untruth; for there can be no worse disease of the heart than that which impelled her to take her own life. My statement will bo sufficient, and we will thus avoid an inquest.” "I agree to your plan gladly ” said Mr. Waring. “I am sure that you would propose nothing that was really wrong.” “I am willing to take the burden upon my own conscience, so I will leave you to tutor Silas in the matter, and to console this dear child, though I believe that time is tho only medicine that can help her.” Helen lifted up her tearful face, and clenched her little fist as she looked at the doctor. “I know whose fault it is,” she said, through her clenched teeth, ‘"and I hate himl” "Mv dear child!” protested the doctor, in a tone of mild reproof. “That is a hard word to use— hate; but I am not prepared to say that you are wrong in using it. I happen to know. Mr. Waring, that Mrs. Field lately received a letter from California, that caused her a great deal of trouble. She showed it to me, and it is now in my possession. But I will speak of that at another time. I will call in this evening, to consult with yon concerning the arrangements for the funeral. Until then. I must leave everything in your hands.” The next day there was a quiet funeral at farmer Waring’s. A few friends and neighbors followed * of Mrs. Field to the burying-ground, was deposited in Dr. Dohrer’s family the body where it vault. CHAPTER II. THE DOCTOR AND HIS LETTERS. Doctor Dohrer was seated in his study, alone, the day after Mrs. Field’s funeral. The doctor had never married. The Marden gossips hinted at a disappointment in love, in which had figured beautiful Alice Tarleton, who had eloped with a wild, passionate, headstrong young man, named Robert Field, But the doctor never spoke of such a disappointment, and it was never mentioned in his presence. So Doctor Dohrer’s fine mansion, instead of being ruled by a wife, was overseen by a housekeeper. Mrs. Netley was a widow, a little older than the doctor, a woman of persevering industry and absolute integrity. She was, also, a model of neatness and a pattern of propriety. She believed implicitly in Dr. Dohrer, and respected him above all men. Dr. Dohrer sat alone in his study. Before him, on the table, were a miniature and two unsealed letters, , , The portrait was that of a beautiful young lady, bearing a striking resembla>nce to her who had been recently buried. It could easily be imagined that the difference was only the natural effect of time. The doctor took the portrait in both hands, and gazed at it long and earnestly. Then he laid it down with a sigh, took up a letter that bore a California postmark, opened it out upon the table, and read as follows: “Sacramento, Cal, July 2,1852. “Mrs. Alice Field: As you continue to call yourself by that name, I do not object to using it in writing to you, although you have no right to bear it. “Your last letter was received, as well as the two preceding letters, and I answer them all together, that this business may be finally settled. “I inclose a draft on New York for $300, and assure you that it is the last you will receive from me. It will bo useless for you to write any more letters to me, as hot answer them if they are written. Astor living with y®u a^ain, that is out of the question. If you will pive up Helen to me, I will receive her, and will treat her as my child, and will provide for her in every respect. If she remains with you, she shall never receive the slightest benefit from iny property. I love my child, but could easily give her up, rather than associate myself with her mother. If you should take it into your head to die, it would bo the best thing that could happen. Helen. “In order that this business may be completely closed, it is my duty to inform you that you are not legally my wife. I was married before I met you, and my wife was living when I married you. This is bigamy, of course, and you can cause me to be prosecuted for that crime, if you wish to do so. I think, however, that it would puazle you to obtain the proof, and any lawyer can tell you that this confession will not convict me. Perhaps you may seek a divorce. If you do, I wish you luck in the effort, and there is no other sort of luck that I do wish you. “Yours, for the last time. Robert Field. “P. S.—If you conclude to give up Helen to me, let me know of your determination, and I will send for her.” A cold-blooded, cruel, heartless, brutal letter, such as could have been written only by one of the base-est of villains, or by a man whose heart and brain had been terribly warped. Doctor Dohrer’s face grew dark as he read it. and the lines in his features deepened, and he hissed some strange words through his clenched teeth. Then he turned it over, with the writing down, and rested his head on his hand. After a few moments he opened the other letter, and read as follows: “I received this letter yesterday. I intrust it to you, John Dohrer, because I believe you to be a true friend, and because I have entire confidence, not only in your good will, but in your discretion. What my hus >and says is true. He hates me utterly: but I have done him no wrong. I have been a pure and true wife, and he has no cause to hate me. This last blow is too much, and it has broken my heart. I leave it to you to say whether Helen ought to know the truth; if so, when it should be broken to her, and how much should be told.” “I can say nothing more. Will my death realty be a blessing to my child ? I hardly know what to think or what to do, and I carinot even pray. “Forgive me, and forget me; but do not forget my Helen. “Alice Field.” “I wonder,” thought the doctor, “whether Robert Field spoke the truth when he told Alice that he was married when he met her, and that his wife was living when he married her. If it was not truth, it was a terrible thing to tell; if it was truth, it was a terrible thing to do. In any event his action must be criminal. “Helen must not hear of this. It is not necessary that she should know it—not yet. at least. It is hard enough that she must know what she already knows, that she must feel what sho already feels, and nothing shall be said or done by me that will increase her burden. “I must write to Field to inform him of what has taken place. I will tell him that Helen is here, alone. If he desires her to be sent to him. he will be obliged to write to me, and then—but it is idle to try to anticipate what he may say or do.” After a little perplexed thought, the doctor took a sheet of paper, and wrote the following: “Marden, Ohio, Oct 4th, 1852. “Sir: Your wife, Mrs. Alice Field, died suddenly, on the 2d Inst, at a farm-house near this town. I have caused it to be understood that she died of a disease of the heart; but the truth is that she committed suicide, that she poisoned herself with laudanum. She had just received a letter from you, and you can judge whether that prompted her to the deed. “It is my duty to inform you that her child and yours, remains here, in charge of the people with whom her mother was boarding. If you desire to give any directions concerning her, I will see that they are faithfully carried out. “Yours &c, John Dourer. “Mr. Robert Field, care of Field & Sorranzo, Sacramento, Cal.” The doctor made a copy of the letter that he had written to Field', and deposited it in his safe, together with the other two letters, filing them and tying them in a package with his accustomed neatness. “I will drive down town and post this letter,” he said, “and then I will call at Waring’s to see how Helen is getting on.” CHAPTER III. ** FIELD AND SORRANZO. It is about a month after the death of Mrs. Field. The scene is in the young city of Sacramento, in the young State of California, at the banking house of Field & Sorranzo. M Robert Field, an American, had begun to purchase gold-dust in the early days of the mining excitement. and found the business so profitable that he started a banking concern, in connection with Joaquin Sorranzo, a native Californian. Having the confidence of the miners and the old Californians, the firm prospered, and the two partners became wealthy. Joaquin Sorranzo was seated in the private office, writing letters. He was a man of fifty, or thereabouts, tall and thin, with black hair, streaked with gray, small, dark eyes, and leather-colored face. As he was thus engaged, Robert Field entered—a man in the prime of life, with dark hair and complexion, brilliant black eyes, full of vitality, energy, and impulsiveness. On this occasion he was quiet enough. He threw 73SKESJT ...... - - himself into a chair, and leaned his head on his hand, and said nothing. “What is the matter this morning?” asked Sorranzo. as he looked up from his writing. “I have some news,” replied Field. “and I don’t really know whether it is good or bad.” "Did you collect the balance due from those people in Grass Valley?” “No. They were getting ready to leave, and I attached their stock. They will probably settle tho matter before long. Anyhow, we are safe.” “That was the best thing to do. no doubt. Havo you no worse news?” “I am not bothered about money matters. La-vielle is dead.” All human faces are tell-tales. Even the leathern and impassive countenance of Joaquin Sorranzo was not exempt from this failing. He did not start or change color as he met the keen gaze of his partner, but there was a twitching of tho muscles of his face, and an unconscious drooping of tho eyes, that showed a certain degree of trepidation. There was no alteration in his voice, however, ns he quietly asked: “What Lavielle?” “Ferd Lavielle. the one who-----” “I understand. The man with whom you had a difficulty concerning’ your wife. Well, ho is out of the way now, and I don’t suppose you object to that.” “I was with him when ho died.” “I hope you were not the cause of his death in any way, Field. No collision was there—or any disturbance that might lead to scandal?” “Not a bit of it. I found him at one of the Sisters* houses, up the river, dying with fever. He said that he had something to tell me, and begged me to stay.” “He made a strange choice of a father-confessor, especially for such sins. He could hardly expect that you would give him absolution.” “He had nothing to confess.” “You surprise me.” Sorranzo’s face was turned away from his partner now, and his hands were nervously playing with his pen and his double eye-glass. “Nothing to confess, but everything to deny.” continued Field. He denied that he had ever gone to San Francisco with my wife. He denied that he had ever met her at Vallego. All the charges that had been openly made or covertly insinuated against him he denied. All that he had ever confessed he declared to have been utterly false.” “Why. then, did he confess it?” “Ah. indeed. Why did he? As I said before, Sorranzo, I hardly know whether the news is good or bad. I wish he had lived a little longer. There has been foul play somewhere.” "I suppose you will want to send for your wife now. and beg her pardon, and persuade her to live with you again?” Field declared, with a fearful oath, that he should do no such thing. “But there has been foul play in that matter,” he said, “and I will get to the root of it yet. I don’t mean to hurry my>elf, but I will find the trail some day. and will follow it to-” To the death?” “Very likely. Whoever is at the other end of that trail is in a dangerous place. But we will drop this subject now. I think, Sorranzo, that I had better go up to Rucker’s Camp to secure our claim on the machinery of that disbanded company.” "A very good idea. We would have to send some one, otherwise, and it would be much better for one of us to go. You can get along with those miners far easier than I can. But it is a hard journey’.” “Hard enough, to bo sure; but it will suit me. I want some excitement, and need to rough it a little. It will do me good.” “How will you go?” On horseback, of course, or mulebaek. No team that I would travel in can stand those roads. Part of the journey I may have to make on foot.” “Through the San Miguel canon, perhaps ?” “You know that country, do you ? Yes; the San Miguel canon may bother me a little; but this will not be the first time that my logs have carried mo through it.” “The roads are peaceable enough nowadays. I believe; but you will go armed, of course. Had you not better speak to a lawyer before you start ■ “I’m lawyer enough to manage that business. But I believe I will go and make my will.” “To whom will you leave your property ?” “Don’t be too inquisitive, Sorranzo. You have enough, and you may be sure that I will leave you nothing. If you will arrange the papers in the matter of that disbanded company, I will go and get readv to start in the morning.” When Field had left the office, the expression of Sorranzo’s face changed in a sudden and startling manner. His impassive calmness gave place to a look of settled malignity, the fires of passion burned in his dark eyes, and his yellow face was rendered more yellow than ever by the jaundice of hatred for the man who had just left him. "This must be his last journey,” he muttered. “I can no longer endure his airs of superiority, his insolent manner of setting me aside. He snail pay well for the many slights he has put upon me. Besides, the devil might put it into his heart to examine the books, and bis Yankee acuteness might discover too much in them. He has heard more from Lavielle than he was ready to admit to me. and he suspects me strongly. It is more than suspicion ; he knows the part that I took in that business. or can guess it rather too well. Lavielle confessed that he had lied about the matter, and he has also confessed that I hired him to do it Field can’t deceive me. He means to hold back until he can get some certain and living proof against me, and then he means to crush me. But I will strike first. If he recovers from my blow, he will be welcome to do his worst.” Sorranzo prepared the accountsand other papers relating to the business that his partner was to attend to in the north, and carefully laid them aside. He then took his hat and his revolver and went o-ut. He walked up the street and out of town, imtil ho reached a small, rough cabin, situated in a sandy plain, near the edge of a gully. After reconnoitering the premises a few moments, he knocked at the door. 5 - “Como in,” said a roufc?^Fvbice, and Sorranzo opened the door and entered’. In a low and dirty room was seated a man whose appearance well suited his surroundings. He was dressed in a coarse red shirt, with leather leggings and moccasins, and his head was covered with a ragged felt hat. His hair and beard were long and uncombed, his complexion was sallow, and everything about him spoke of dissipation and neglect. There was no furniture in the room, except a broken table and two stools, one of which was ornamented with a small loaf of bread and a large bottle of liquor. The man was seated on the other, smoking a cob pipe, and bendinsfover a slow and sobbing fire of wetwood. “Hope you are well and hearty, Bon Brackett.* said Sorranzo, as he closed the door. The man looked up. and acknowledged the presence of his visitor by a nod. "Well enough, I reckon,” he grumbled. “Tako a cheer.” He rose lazily, took the bread and the bottle from the stool, and placed them caref ully on the floor. "You don’t seem to have much to eat,” remarked Sorranzo. “A man of your build wo-uld hardly grow stout on such fare.” "It ain’t fair, and you needn’t say that ’tis. I gifc swindled out o’ my rights, fust by one, and thou by another, and it lacks a heap o’ bein’ fair.” "If you would buy a little more meat and bread, and not so much whisky, perhaps you wou&l live better.” “Never you mind what I buy. What's th© odds? If I had my rights, I’d have hull bar’ls of whisky. But. as soon as I set up the pins, somebody knocks ’em down ag’in. I was doin’ a good stroke business. up to the flat, and my pile was growm’ fast; when that pardner o’ yourn pitched in. andgot tho vigilants down onto me, and bu'sted me all to flinders. But I’ll get bven with him, if he was a dozen pa rd nets. ’ "You ought to get away from here, Brackett.” “I know it. It’s just killin’ me. stayin’here and doin’ nothin’ but drink whisky. I might do bettor up in the hills, even nt trappin’ beaver.” “Do you know the route to Rucker's Camp?” “Of course Ido. Reckon I’ve been tiiar often enough. Reckon I know all this kentry.” "You know the San Miguel canon, then?” “Bet your pile on that. What are you tryin’ to git at now? Thar must be some devilment on foot, or you wouldn't be here.” “This getting even is weary work generally, but everyman’s time will oome sooner or later, if be will wait for it. Bob Field will start for Rucker’s , Camp to-morrow morning.” "Alone?” “Yes.” “Hossbaek?” “Yes; and he will go through the San Migwl canon.” “And you tell me this, and the man is your own pardner!” "If you think that I have any love for him you are much mistaken.” “How can yon git along ^thout him? He built up the business.” “Bah 1 He tries to make people believe that. Do , you think I am nothing? The business might get along without him very well.” " what is my sheer to be?” “Isn’t it enough to get even?1” “Sca’cely. You’ve got a bigger stake in thi& game, I reckon, than I have. What’s the Agger?” "Two thousand.” “All correct. Now I know that you meaa business.” “When will you start.?” “To-night, so’s to git ahead of him.” That is right. If you find any papers on the way, bring them to me. and your money will be ready.” So the bargain was struck—the bargain that was to produce a dissolution of the firm of Field <& Sorranzcx CHAPTER IV. DEATH IN THE 0AN0N. Robert Field set out for the North the moiming after his conversation with Sorranzo, mounted onn small but serviceable horse, well armed, and carrying in a pair of saddle-bags a change of Plotting and a few necessary articles. His thoughts, as he rode, wQre of a gloomy and unpleasant nature. He had passed a restless night, haunted by bud dreams, which tinged his morning meditations. There arose before him visions of a desoutod wife who had loved him. of an abandoned child who should have been dear to him./ With these visions came a dark cloud of remorse that settled heavily upon his heart. He had had reasons for what he had done—proof thatcould not have failed, he thought, to convince any man. Charges against his wife had been presented and sustained by ample evidence, wen by the confession of a particeps criminis. It was no wonder that such charges, backed by such evidence* secured u lodgment in his suspicious and passionate nature, and caused him to hate her and to cast her away. But he was no. longer sure that he had acted rightly in that matter. Lavielle had confezssod in his dying moments that the statements he had formerly made had been false, and that he had been prompted to make them by another party, who had; paid him well for the infamous work. Although he did not state in his confession that Joaquin Sorranzo had been the instigator and abettor of the nefarious scheme. Field had every reason to suppose that he was the person referred to. Besides, he felt sure that Sorranzo, in addition to , the harm that he had already done, was meditating more; that the books had been tampered with, and that his wily partner had been plundering him during a long time^. He meant to obtain proof of these things, and then would mature his plan and execute it remorselessly. Rucker’s camp was a mining village, situated at the head of the San Miguel canon. The mining operations extended down into the gulch; but the miners lived, and drank, and gambled at the flat where the gulch widened out into a valley. The gulch was impassable or nearly so, tho only practicable trail being a path against the rock, high up on one side of the canon, where mules or surefooted horses could pick their dizzy way with comparative safety. It was getting late in the afternoon, and Robert Field had reached the middle of the canon. He had plenty of time, he believed, to make Rucker’s Camp before nightfall, and he was proceeding leisurely. He had dismounted, for greater safety, and was walking slowly, leading his horse by the bridle, seldom looking down at the dark depths of the gulch, but keeping his eyes fixed on tho path before him. 2 THE NEW YOKK WEEKLY. Suddenly a rifle cracked, quite close to him, and a bullet whizzed by his ear. He involuntarily dodged, but did not lose his presence of mind, and was about to draw his pistol, when he was obliged to use his best exertions to escape another pressing danger. His frightened horse, becoming unmanageable, reared and fell, nearly Crushing his master, rolled over the edge of the precipice, and went tumbling down into the depths of the canon. Field had hardly recovered himself, after the disaster, when he heard an exclamation above him, accompanied by an oath and the rattling of dropping pieces of rock. Then a man came rolling down the side of the cliff, and fell against him. The man was dressed in a coarse red shirt, leather leggings and moccasins, and a ragged felt hat. It was impossible for Field to get away, as the man clinched him in a death embrace, and together they rolled over the edge of the path, down into the “Yes, sir, of course I did.” "Did you settle that—a—little claim?” “I got a mortgage on the farm, with power of sale.” "Felix!” "It’s a fact, sir; and you needn’t shake my hand off.” "My deaf son, you are a man after my own heart. I could not have done better myself, nor as well. I don’t see how you managed it.” “That wasn’t all I did in Ohio, father. I have have found an heir for old Joshua Tarleton’s property.” “An heir?” “An heiress, I ought to say.” “That is a little better; but it is very bad, at the best.” “It is a good thing, sir.” "I can’t agree with you. Wo have had the management of that estate during three years, and it has been a valuable piece of property in our hands. I don’t feel inclined to give it up. If you have really found an heiress, Felix, I don’t know of any law that compels us to be in a hurry to make it known. Let her come forward and prove her claim.” “Bixby & Lawrence know of it." “The attorneys for the parties who fought the will at probate? What do they know?” “Enough to make it no secret. Frank Bixby had business in Ohio, and he was with mewhen I found it out.” “It is a bad piece of business, Felix.” "It is a good thing, I say—that is, the fortune I mean to marry.” “Ah-h-h! Is she young—unmarried?” "And beautiful. That’s just what she is. I saw her. I was in the court-house at Marden, looking after the recording of my mortgage, when I saw her passing on the street. You may know that she is beautiful when I tell you that she is the exact image of that portrait which old Joshua had of Alice Tarleton. I pointed her out to the register, who happened to know her., and he told me that her name was Helen Tarleton.” “Not Helen Field?” “You wait a minute’ It soon turned out that her real name was Helen Field. Her mother’s name had been Alice Tarleton, and her father’s had been Robert Field; but they were both dead. One had died there at Marden, and the other in California, some five years ago. Helen is living with an old physician at Marden, named John Dohrer. He supports her. I suppose, as she has no property of her own that anybody knows of. For some reasons satisfactory to herself she has discarded her father’s name, and is known as Helen Tarleton.” “She is Joshua Tarleton’s grand-niece, I suppose. What does Frank Bixby know about the matter?” “He was there, and heard what the register told me. He seemed to think it very strange that we had not found her sooner.” “Perhaps we might, Felix, if we had been silly enough to try; but I hope We know which side of our bread has the butter. Let me see. It is not such a very large fortune, but it will do. The estate is sixty thousand. At ten per cent, that will give you six thousand a year, and I think you can make it bring ten per cent, if any man can.” “I rather guess I can, father. It is big enough, and it is safe. She is such a beauty that I can afford to take a little less than I would otherwise be willing to take.” "Can you get her, Felix?” "Nothing is sure in this world, but I don’t see anything to hinder. I am her relation, and that is something, though I am only a third or fourth cousin. Besides, she can hardly fail to take a fancy to the man who brings her sixty thousand dollars. You may depend upon it that I will make the most of that advantage.” "To be sure, my son—to be sure. You must lose no time, Felix. You must be sure to strike while the iron is hot.” Soon after this conversation, Felix Vassilis was on his way to Ohio to inform Helen Field that she was heir to an estate that was valued at sixty thousand dollars. [TO BE CONTINUED.] fearful depths of the canon. ♦ * * * * Even bad news traveled slowly in the early days of California, and Joaquin Sorranzo waited impatiently for intelligence of the success or failure of his plot At last the tidings came, brought by a special messenger from Rucker’s Camp, informing him that a man had been found dead in San Miguel canon, who was believed to be his partner, Robert Field. As the body of a horse was found near him, it was supposed that his horse had been frightened and had fallen over the cliff with his rider. The face and form of the dead man were so mangled and disfigured, that he could not be identified; but papers that were found in his pocket showed him to be Robert Field, of the firm of Field & Sorranzo, and some of the clothing in his saddle bags was marked with the same name. An inquest had been held, the jury had returned a verdict in accordance with the facts as detailed, and the body of the unfortunate Mr. Field had been buried. This was entirely satisfactory to Sorranzo. As his partner was dead and buried, beyond hope of recovery, and as no valuables or papers of any consequence had been found upon his person, it was not necessary for the surviving partner to go and investigate the matter, at the risk of his own life. He sent back a messenger, with directions to bring to him such few relics of the dead man as had been preserved, and impatiently awaited the return of Ben Brackett, but as days and even weeks elapsed, and he did not make his appearance, Sorranzo at last came to the conclusion that Brackett, also, had met with a violent death, and ceased to expect him. He then felt it to be his mournful duty, as he informed his friends, to proceed to settle up the estate of his deceased and beloved partner. The first question was, had Field left a will ? He was known to have made one, on a former occasion ; but that was believed to have been destroyed. Sorranzo knew that he had expressed the intention of making one the evening before he left Sacramento, and that he had probably carried out that intention. What was the nature of that will, and where was it ? For the purpose of settling the question, Sorranzo visited Mr, Cranch, Field’s lawyer, and inquired ; whether his partner had-transaated any business there the day hefore he started on his fatal journey. fie had, Mr. Cranch replied. What business had he transacted ? He had made his will. Did Mr. Cranch know what were the provisions of that will ? He did not. Mr. Field had written it himself, and Mr. Cranch and his clerk simply witnessed his signature. Did Mr. Cranch know what had become of that will? He did not. Mr. Field had put it in his pocket, and had taken it with him when he loft the office. “There is no will to be found,” said Sorranzo. “It is not at his place of business, it is not at his boarding-house, it was not found with his body. We will be obliged to proceed with the settlement of the estate as if no will had been made.” “1 presume so. His property, then, will go to his wife and <Jild,’f suggested Mr. Cranch. “When mey prove,, their claim to it. I am very sure that ho would not have left it to them by his will. Do you know anything about his affairs ?” “Very little. I had supposed that he was a wealthy man, but that his money was mostly invested in the banking business.” “Not nuich there. I hold his bond for forty thousand dollars, which'will about cover his present interest in the house.” “You. surprise me. He owned some mining stocks, no doubt.” “I believe he did; but I know nothing of them. The bank has had nothing to do with them. There is the Sinta Clara property. That must be very valuable.” “It is; but he had got rid of it. He sold his interest in that two days before ho left the city.” Iwvas now Sorranzo’s turn to bo surprised, and his countenance was expressive of blank amazement. ' “Did he sell it,” he asked, “of exchange it for other property T1 “It may bo called a cash transaction. Ho received a draft on New York, payable to bearer.” “A draft payable to bearer! That is a strange way of doing business. I wonder what has become of that draft.” “I can’t tell you. Mr. Field had it in his possession the last time he was in this office.” “It cannot be possible that he took it with him on that journey. “Hardly possible.” “Decidedly impossible. I will see you again, Cranch; but wo will not be bothered with settling Field’s estate unless we can find something to settle.” Although Sorranzo had declared it to be decidedly impossible that Field could have taken the draft with him, he believed it to be quite probable that he had done so. and that he had also taken his mining shares, if he had any, and his will. None of these documents had been found; but that was not Sorranzo’s chief reason for believing they had been lost with his partner. Ben Brackett had not returned to Sacramento. He would surely have come to claim his promised pay, if the possession of more valuable booty had not caused him to keep at a distance. If he had found the draft on Field’s person, he was not too ignorant to know its value and that he might collect it. He had also, without doubt, taken Field’s gold watch and his money, which had been sufficient to Say his way to the east, and it was highly probable lat he had gone thither. . Having settled this matter in his own mind, Sorranzo wrote to the New York house upon which the draft had been drawn, asking them whether such a draft had been presented for payment, and by whom. In the course of time he received an answer, in- . forming him that the draft had been presented, and that it had been paid, in accordance with advices previously received from California. The person by whom it had been presented, and to whom it had been paid, was not known by the New York firm, but was evidently a gentleman and a -man of business. This circumstance puzzled Sorranzo a little; but it was reasonable to suppose that Brackett had sold the^iraft, or had employed some one to present it fornim. As that draft was a fish that had un- ( doubtedly slipped out of Sorranzo’s net, he gave . himself no further trouble about the matter, but devoted himself with energy to the banking busi- 1 ness, which he carried on under the old name of Field & Sorranzo. SIGHTS I’VE SEEN. A Little Queen By May Agnes Fleming. Author of “WEDDED, YET NO WIFE,” “A WONDERFUL WOMAN,” “A TERRIBLE SECRET, NORINE S REVENGE,” etc. “He would have passed a pleasant life of it, in despite of the devil and all his works, had not his path been crossed by a being that causes more perplexity to mortal man than ghost, goblin, or the whole race of witches, and that was—a woman.” Washington Irving. [“A Little Queen” was commenced in No. 43. Back Nos. can be obtained from any News Agent.] CHAPTER?XIX. “SILENT AND TRUE.” There is a general movement among the people, as Mr. Longworth makes his way to the spot where he thinks to find Reine. Every one is preparing to go home. Frank Dexter, Miss Hariott, and Miss Landelle go together, and Frank is looking in his turn for the last named young lady. Longworth passes him, and as he suspects, after a few minutes, comes in sight of Reine and M. Durand. Marie is also with them. The place where they stand is secluded and silent, and as he draws near he hears distinctly some emphatic words. Miss Landelle is the speaker; she possesses in an eminent degree—indeed, both sisters do—that “excellent thing in woman”—a low, sweet voice, which comes clear from the chest, and has a peculiar distinctness in its lowest accent. The flush of sunset light is full on her face, and he can see the cold, pale, intense anger that makes it like marble —anger all the more intense perhaps for its perfect outward repression. “Reine may do as she pleases,” these are her chill words. “She has known you longer, and can forgive you more than I. The man who will deliberately, for his owu selfish gratification, break his plighted word, is a man so utterly contemptible and despicable, that he is beneath even scorn.’ And for anything you will gain by coming, you might as well have staid forever. Either in public or in private I absolutely refuse to— She pauses, for Longworth pursuing his way steadily over the grass, stands before them at the moment. One keen glance takes in the three faces; the white, cold anger of the elder sister, the flushed and downcast face of the younger, with tear traces still on the cheeks, the darkly handsome, half-sullen, half-impassioned countenance of the young man standing almost like a culprit before them. “Well, Reine,” Mr. Longworth begins, lifting his hat, “if I do not too greatly interrupt you, and you are quite, ready-” She turns to him as he fancies almost with an air of relief, and places her hand on his arm. Marie’s CHAPTER V. VASSILIS—FATHER AND SON. Five years—or nearly five—had elapsed sinde Robert Field had set out on his fatal journey to Rucker’s Camp through the San Miguel Canon. In his rusty, dusty, musty office, near the lower end of Wall street, in New York, sat Andrew Vassi-lis, attorney at law. He was a man fully fifty years old, short and spare, with a few straggling locks of light hair left on his head, and with a quite perceptible bend in his back. His thin lips, and the many sharp lines scattered over his face and about his eyes, spoke of cunning, craft, caution, and no small share of determination. “Not a first-class lawyer was Andrew Vassilis— not by any means—seldom seen in the courts, known only in the by-ways of the profession, where he was noted for the keennese of vision with which he spied any legal crumbs that fell within his range, and for the voraciousness with which he snapped them up. , By close economy and stric^nttention to business, that is to say, by pinching and stinting, and by such ille^imate arts and practices as kept him continually m fear of being stricken off the rolls, he had accumulated a decent competency, and he meant to keep it. Andrew Vassilis, as has been said, was seated in his office. He was examining a fee-bill, going carefully over and over the items, and adding up the columns again and again, always adding, never subtracting, eking it out here, and increasing it there, on every possible pretext that his avaricious ingenuity could suggest. At last he laid it down with a sigh, convinced that there was no means known under the law by which it could possibly be swelled to any greater dimensions. Just then the door opened, and Felix Vassilis, his son entered the office. The youn£ gentleman carried a valise, a small but neat article, which he carefully set aside while receiving his fcther’s greeting, thus showing a remarkable aptitude for combining business with pleasure. He then helped himself to a chair, and was ready to answer his father’s questions, which referred, of course, to matters of business. “Well, Felix, did you see those Rimmon people out in Ohio?” BY HOPE DE VERE. I’ve seen the beggar wandering through The dense and crowded street, With wavering form and palsied hand, Trembling, unsteady feet; And when I asked how he who once In grandeur high did dwell, Had fallen so low, he answered me: •‘Through rum, the curse of hell.’* I’ve seen the raving maniac wild. With gnashing teeth and flaming eye, Cursing the world In which he lived. Praying that he might die. And had I asked what brought him to That dread and dismal ceil, I would have learned from those who knew ’Twas rum, the curse of hell. I’ve seen upon the scaffold stand A youth of noble form, And I thought in a distant home I heard The wailing of hearts forlorn. I gazed upon that handsome face, I saw the body as it fell, And as I turned, a whisper said, ’Twas rum the curse of hell. I’ve seen the man of letters, Of genius and of strength. Lying in the muddy gutter, Stretched at his full length. Hen of science and of knowledge, I have watched them as they fell From the highest rounds of fame, Through rum the curse of hell. I’ve seen the fond wife weep O’er a loved husband’s fall. And I’ve known their starving children For a crust of bread to call. I have seen the little creatures Begging food from day to day, While he who should have loved them In the filthy gutter lay. “If I answer ‘I am,’ and ask a return, are you prepared to give it ?” “No.” “If I answer ‘I am,’ are you ready to tell me exactly, what tie binds you to Leonce Durand ?” “No.” “Then pardon me if I decline in turn. A lady’s rights are limitless, and yet a man may be excused for declining to give all and receive nothing.” “And yet,” she says, with a slow, bitter smile, “there are men who do it.” “Meaning Monsieur Leonce Durand ?” “Meaning Leonce Durand, if you like. He is quite capable of it.” “But surely that is not exacted. I think he receives something. I really see no reason why he should be dissatisfied. A lady accepts his ring‘and his embraces both with equal readiness and pleasure; she declines taking into his confidence and her own the man she stands pledged to marry. Of the two she greatly prefers and trusts him, beyond all dispute. No, I see no reason why he should complain.” “Monsieur Longworth,” Reine cries, turning upon him, hei’ temper held partly in until now, refusing to be held in a moment longer, “enough of this! Do you want to quarrel with me ? Do you want me to give you up ? Please say so, if you do. It is better to understand one another. I dislike quarreling, and my head aches.” Her voice trembles and breaks for the first time. Her head does ache throbbingly, and she puts her hand to it with a weary, hopeless sort of gesture. In a moment he is touched and remorseful. “I beg your pardon,” he says, penitently, with a swift and total change of manner. “Yes, I see it aches. I won’t annoy you any more. Petite Reine, forgive me.” She has been overwrought, excited, terrified, troubled; the unexpected change in him from cold sarcasm to kindliness is too much for her. She bows her face in her hands, and he knows that she is crying. “Oh, forgive me !” he exclaims. “This is too bad! I am a brute! Reine—dear Little Queen----” He half-encircles her with his arm. Is ’the question asked by her so haughtily a moment ago, declined by him so coldly, about to be tenderly answered now ? If so, fate interposes. Wheels that have been gaining upon them for some time crash close behind; he has just time to. remove his arm, when the barouche ^containing Mr. and Mrs. Beckwith, Mrs. Sheldon, and Leonce Durand himself, rolls past. “Reine, for Heaven’s sake!” he cries, with a man’s horror of a scene; “here are all these people-” But he need not fear. His half caress has startled her into composure more effectively than the barouche. She sits resolutely erect, ready to return the quartet of bows with proud composure. The barouche keeps just ahead, to the unspeakable disgust of Longworth, and the intense relief of Reine. Mrs. Sheldon sits with M. Durand, facing them, her back to the horses, and it seems to Longworth that those small steadfast blue eyes are reading their faces like printed pages. Nothing more can be said, and one of life’s golden opportunities is forever lost. What can Durand be doing there in that carriage with that party is the thought of both; but he is an explosive subject, like nitro-glycerine, dangerous to touch ever so lightly, so neither make any remark. They are flashing through the streets of the town by this time, and all the rubies and purples of the sunset have faded out into pallid grays. Madame Windsor, who has not gone to the Exhibition, has invited Mr. Longworth, Mr. Dexter, and Miss Hariott to dine with her upon their return. The other three have hot yet arrived, but Reine has only had time to go up stairs, and bathe her hot face, when Marie throws open tne door and enters. “Reine!” she exclaims, with singular abruptness for her, “in the name of Heaven, what is to be done now ?” “I do not know,” Reine answers, despairingly. “To think of his coming after all his promises! To think of his rashness, his selfishness, his insane folly ! Reine ! Reine ! this is ruin to us all.” “I know it,” Reine answers again, in the same despairing tone. “Already Laurence Longworth suspects: I could see it in his eye, those cold, keen, pitiless blue eyes, that see everything. I trembled for you when we parted. Petite, was the drive home very dreadful ?” Reine makes an impassioned gesture that speaks volumes. “Ah! I knew it. Chere Petite, how sorry I am for you. What did he ^ay ?” “Marie, do not ask me. He had the right to say all he said, and more. It is all wrong and treacherous, and false and miserable together.” “If grandmamma hears—and she must surely hear, everything is known to everybody in this stupid, gossiping town—we are lost. He is so reckless, so insane. Oh. Mon Dieu ! why did he come !” “Marie, he had the right to come------” “Right! You are always talking of right. He has no right to come here and ruin us. He is base and false, he has broken his promise, and I will never forgive him for it. No!” Marie Landelle says, uplifting one white hand,. “I will never forgive him to my dying day.” “Marie!” “I will never forgive him—and you know me, Reine—I am not one to say and not do. For you— oh, Petite, be careful, be prudent; don’t meet him, don’t answer if he writes; try and coax or frighten him into going away. You may care for him, if you will, but I wish—I wish—I wish with all my heart I had never seen his face.” She says it in a voice whose bitter earnestness there is no mistaking. Reine looks at her almost angrily. “Marie, -this is wicked, this is intolerable. You have no right---” “Right again! Ah, Petite, what a foolish child you are. It is all his own fault, and I say again from the bottom of my heart, I wish I had never seen Leonce Durand. Reine, takeoff that ring—how imprudent to wear it. Why, Mr. Longworth might have seen it.” “He has seen it, Marie.” “Reine!” “He asked me who gave it to me and I told him; he took it off and read the motto; he is jealous and angry, and suspects more than I care to think. Oh, Marie, I said from the first it was all wrong to come.” Marie sits for a moment looking crushed. Then the old steadfast expresssiou of resolution returns. “Reine,” she says, calmly, “give me that ring,” and Reine wearily obeys. “At least all is not lost that’s in danger, and we need not accept defeat without a struggle. Ah, what a pity it is, when all was going so "well—grandmamma almost reconciled, you engaged to her favorite, life so pleasant and free from care---” “And Frank Dexter so infatuatedly in love with you; don’t leave that out,” Reine interrupts, coldly. “I shall struggle for my place here until the very last,” goes on Miss Landelle, unheeding; “if I am defeated it will be because fate is stronger than I. Help me, Reine, and make Leonce go away. You can do it.” “Can I? I doubt it. He went home this afternoon with Madame Sheldon—that looks as if he had made up his mind to stop at her house for some time.” “Good Heaven! And. there he will meet Mr. Longworth daily.” “And Mr. Dexter, do not forget him.” “I am not afraid of Dexter, I am of your argus-eved fiance. Well!—there is the bell—there is nothing for it but to do one’s best and wait.” The sisters descend, and Longworth notices at once that the emerald has left Reine’s hand. He sees too the constraint of her manner, her lack of appetite, her silence and depression. Miss Hariott also observes it, and wonders if, in any way, the arrival of the very handsome young Frenchman has anything to do with it. In some way the conversation drifts to him, his name is mentioned, and Mrs. Windsor lifts two surprised, displeased, and inquiring eyes to the face of Miss Landelle. ‘ “Monsieur Durand—a friend of my granddaughters? Who is this gentleman, Marie?” “No one very formidable grandmamma. A sort of cousin of Reine’s, her aunt’s step-son, and her companion from childhood.” “What brings him here?” “Really I do not know. To see the country, in the first place, I presume—to see us in the second.” “Monsieur Durand is then, I infer, a man of means?” “Yes—no—he is not rich, certainly, as you count riches here, but I suppose he has a competence at least.” “You appear out of spirits, Mlle. Reine,” says Mrs. Windsor, who seldom addresses her younger granddaughter without the prefix; “does the coming of this relative annoy you ?” “His coming has annoyed me, madame—ves,” Reine responds. “Might one venture to ask why ?” There is silence. Mrs. Windsor’s brow is overcast. j Reine’s eyes are fixed on her plate—she seems un- face changes instantaneously as she turns brightly to him. “If it is time for Reine’s departure it must also be time for mnue. Miss Hariott and I were to return as we came, with----” “I met Dexter just now, looking for you. Miss Hariott is already in the carriage. If you like I will take you to her.” “Thanks—yes.” She takes Longworth’s arm without one parting glance at Durand, and the three move off. But Reine looks back, turning'an appealing, wistful, tender little face. “Adieu, Leonce,” she says, llau revoiry He bows to her courteously, then turns on his heel, and walks away. Miss Landelle takes her place beside Miss Hariott, and Reine passes on to where the low carriage in which Longworth has driven her, stands. He hands her in and takes his place beside her in perfect silence. Once or twice the dark eyes lift and look at him. The stern expression which unconsciously to himself his face wears, bodes no especially pleasant conversation to come. She sighs wearily, and looks with tired eyes that see nothing of the beafty of the sun-steeped landscape straight ahead. He drives slowly, and surely a fairer view never stretched before lovers’ eyes. The path that led to the town was called the Bay Road, and was one of the pleasantest and most picturesque of all the Baymouth drives. On the right lay the bay, rosy with sunset light, dotted with sparkling sails, on the left fields of corn and buckwheat, and beyond them, stretching far away, the dark, dense “forest primeval.” Straight before rose up the black stacks of factory chimneys, the numberless windows of the huge brick factories glinting in the ruby light like sparks of fire. But the two in the carriage see nothing of all this. It has been said that enough of the leaven of poetic folly yet lingered in the editor of the Phenix to render him keenly sensible o,f sunset and moon-rise effects, and other atmospheric influences; as a rule, too, he was considered a man of sound sense and logical judgment; but—“To be wise and love exceeds man’s strength,” and he is disposed to be neither wise nor logical just at this moment. He looks like some handsome, blind despot, about to administer firman and bowstring to some fair contumacious member of the seraglio. “You seem tired, Reine,” he begins, his eyes upon her with a cold keenness that makes her shrink and ; shiver. “You look bored, ypu look ill, you look, strange to say, as though you had been crying.” She makes no reply. She sits gazing across at the pink flush upon the water. “The unexpected coming of M. Durand has not been, I fear, a wholly unalloyed delight. Taking people by surprise is mostly a mistake. And yet you were glad to see him, I think?” He makes this assertion with-emphasis, and looks at her for reply. She speaks slowly. “I wras glad to see him—yes. I shall always be glad to see Leonce.” Her color returns a little as she says it. It is to be war between them, and though she may prefer peace, if war is to be made, she is not disposed to turn coward. The tete-a-tete is not to be an agreeable one, and she braces herself for her part in it. “Your sister hardly appears to share in your gladness. His coup de theater— (he has rather the look of a theatrical gentleman, by the way)—is evidently singularly unwelcome to her. For you, mademoiselle, if it were not the wildest supposition in the vforld, I should say--” “Yes !” she says, her dark eyes’kindling; “go on.” “That you were afraid of him.” He hears her catch her breath with a quick nervous sound, but she laughs shortly. “You watch well, monsieur ! What other wild suppositions have you formed? Had I known I was under surveillance I might have been on guard. For the future I will endeavor to be more careful.” She meets his glance now fully, daringly, defiantly. He is determined to have war, and she is singularly reckless and disposed to oblige him. A green gleam on one of her hands catches his eye—it is a ring, and she is slowly turning it round and round. A ring on the finger of Reine Landelle is something remarkable. Except the traditional diamond solitaire he himself has given her, and which she has worn since their engagement, he has never seen a ring on the small brown hand. The heat has caused her to remove both gloves, they lie a crumpled ball in her Lap, and on the first finger of her left hand he sees now an emerald of beauty and price. “A pretty ringAReine,” he says. “You never wore it before. It is qcdte new to me.” “It is quite new tto me also, monsieur.” “Ah—you did nok,have it on this morqfngj “No, M. Longwarth, I did not.” “Probably”—he flecks the off horse lightly with his whip as he speaks—“it is a gift from your cousin and brother M. Durand?” “Monsieur’s penetration does him credit. It is from M. Durand.” “He has selected an unfortunate color, I am afraid. Green means forsaken, or faithless, or something of the sort, does it not?” “If ft does, then his choice has been prophetic,” she says, looking down at it, and speaking it seems as much to herself as to him. “Indeed!” He looks at her steadfastly, so steadfastly and long that her color rises. “But faith may be restored, may it not, and the forsaken be recalled? It is never too late for anything of that kind while people live. Let me see it.” She draws it off her finger without a word, the defiance of her manner more defiant than ever. It is a thick band of gold, set with one emerald, large, limpid—a jewel of beauty and price. And inside on the smooth gold are these words: “Silent and True ” “A pretty ring,” Longworth repeats, and gives it back, “and a pretty motto. One hardly knows which to admire most.” “To a man of M. Longworth’s practical turn, surely the emerald,” Reine retorts. “Silence and truth are virtues with which he is hardly likely to credit so poor a creature as a woman.” “That is your mistake, mademoiselle. I believe, for instance, you can be both silent and true.” He sees her eyes flash, her whole dark face kindle and flush. “Yes,” she cries, “to those who trust me, to those who love me, when the time comes I can be both.” “And those who trust and love you are here, and the time has come?” “Monsieur Longworth,” she exclaims, and turns upon him full, “what do you mean? You suspect me of something; will you tell me of what?” “I saw him kiss you,” he answers, roughly and abruptly, fire and passion in his voice. She is still looking at him coldly, proudly. As he says these Avords the color flushes redly over her whole lace. It is the very first time he has ever seen her blush like this among all the changes of her changeful face. She turns all at once and drops it like a shamed child into her hands. “Oh,” she says, under her breath, “do you care?” Something—he cannot tell what—in the blush, in the impulsive, childish, shamefaced action, in the startled words, touch him curiously, but it is no time to let her see he is moved. “Well, in a general way,” he answers, coolly, “men do object to seeing another man go through that sort of performance with the lady they expect to marry, naturally preferring to retain the pateht-right themselves. Now, it is a right I have never asserted, fiever intend to assert until we come to a more triendly understanding than we did that night by the garden wall. I may ask a lady to marry me who professes no regard for me, hoping in time to win that regard, but pending the winning I enforce no claim to which mutual love alone can give any man the right. And it may very well be that the fact of all privileges being debarred me may make me the more jealous and intolerant of these privileges being accorded to another man. I do not pain you, I hope, Mlle. Reine, and I trust you understand me?” She may understand him, but he certainly has never understood her—less to-day than ever. She lUts her head as he ceases, and asks him the stran-ges^ question, it seems to him, ever woman asked. “Monsieur Longworth,” she says, and looks him straight in the eyes, “you have asked me to marry you—you prefer me to Marie—you say you wish to win mv regard. Answer me this—are you in love with me ?” w He is so honestly, so absolutely amazed, so utterly taken aback, that for a moment he cannot find words to reply. This is certainly carrying the war into Africa, of attacking the enemy in a way which that imperious enemy has never dreamed of. He calls himself a man free from prejudice, but no man lives free from prejudice where he fancies the delicacy of the woman he loves is concerned, and—he is shocked. Her matchless audacity takes away his breath. “Mademoiselle,” he says, in calm rebuke, “I have asked you to be my wife. You are answered.” “Bali! You have asked one of Mrs. Windsor’s heiresses. You have not answered. But I can read my sentence in your face—I am bold, unfeminine—I infringe on man’s sole prerogative. I ask a question no woman has a right to ask. All the same, it might be better for us both if you answered.” able, or resolved not to answer. Marie comes swiftly and smilingly to the rescue. “The truth is,” she says, with an outbreak of frankness, “Leonce is an opera-bouffe singer, and. has crossed with a company from Paris, to sing in New York, and Reine, who is proud in spite of her demureness, is half-ashamed to mention it.” Reine does not look up, does not speak. Mrs. Windsor’s brow darkens more and more. “That is odd, too,” she says, icily, “since I understand mademoiselle makes no secret of having been trained for the operatic stage herself. Opera singing appears to have run in the family of the late Madame Durand.” Every one sits, feeling warm and uncomfortable^ during this discussion. Frank shows his discomfort, Longworth wears his impassive mask, Miss Hariott is nervous. Something causes her to distrust Marie, and her frank announcement of Durand’s profession —Reine has not indorsed her statement by look, or sign, or word. Longworth, too, seemingly absorbed in iced pudding, also notices. Something lies behind the opera-bouffe—something both sisters are ashamed of, afraid of. “Our French friend, with the primo tenore voice and air, is evidently a black sheep, a very speckly potato, and the nightmare of these young demoiselles,” he thinks. “If Reine would only be frank and trust me, and tell me all.” But Reine tells nothing, and the evening that ensues is rather dreary to all, except Frank, who, beside his idol, is ever in a perfect bathos of bliss. Reine sings, and the others play whist, but the music is melancholy, and the card party dull. Even Miss Hariott’s constitutional good spirits feel the depression, and out-of-sorts-sensation that usually follows a hot day’s sight-seeing, and is glad when eleven comes, and she can rise and go home. “Am I forgiven ?” Longworth says, in a low voice, to Reine, as he holds out his hand at parting. “I pained you to-day by my fancies; I will try and not offend in the future.” But he has stung and wounded Reine more deeply than he knows, and she is not disposed to accord pardon and peace at a word. “Monsieur Longworth is a poet and a novelist; he possesses a brilliant imagination, and fancies many things, no doubt. But for the vagaries of that imagination it is hardly fair to hold me accountable. He is, however, so far as I am concerned, at liberty to fancy what he pleases.” He turns pale with anger and surprise. “Thanks,” he says, and drops her hand. “I will avail myself of the kind permission.” He has thought she will only be too glad to meet the olive branch half way; for this bold defiance he is not prepared. But he is obliged to own to himself that he has never thought her so nearly beautiful as when she looks up at him with those brightly, darkly angry eyes, and braves him to his face. He almost laughs aloud as he thinks of this novel and remarkable way of winning a woman’s heart. “ ‘Was ever woman in this humor wooed—was ever woman in this humor won ?’ ” he thinks, grimly. But—oh, humiliating fact to woman!—because another man values his prize, he is doubly determined to win it, values it himself forthat reason the more, and under the blue starlight registers a vow to all the gods, that he, not this intrusive Frenchman, shall win and wear Reine Landelle. (TO BE CONTINUED.) TESTING HER AFFECTION. BY MAX ADELER. Mr. Thorpe is a middle-aged widower, and some time ago he paid ,hi*«-addresses to Mrs. Botts, a widow on the shady side of forty. Thorpe is rich, and after the widow accepted him. he began to fear that maybe she had taken him for his money, and so he concluded to test her to ascertain if she really loved him for himself alone. So, one evening when they were sitting together in the parlor he said to her. “Hannah, I’ve something unpleasant to tell you. but I am going to do it because I consider it right that you should know it. Hannah, what would you say if I informed you that one of my knee pans is gone, and that I have a patent hinge on that leg ?” “I should say that I care nothing for that, my dear; I have only one toe on my left foot. The others were frostbitten off, and the ankle is all twisted around crooked.” “You don’t tell me!” said Thorpe. “Well, but I’ve something worse than that. I might as well confess now that the bald place on top of my head is not really my scalp, I’ve been trepanned. I have a silver plated concern set into my skull, a kind of skylight. You can lift it up and see down on the inside of me.” “I’m glad you mentioned it. dear,” said the widow, “for it gives me courage to tell you that I haven’t a hair of my own on my head. I’m bald as a chandelier globe.” “Is that so ? Gracious! I never should have expected it. But you will be surprised to learn that none of my teeth are natural. All false, and besides that I have to wear an India-rubber thingamagig on my palate to keep it from dropping down.” “lam very sorry for you, John, but it’s some comfort that all my teeth are false too, and that I am perfectly blind in my right eye. It looks like a good eye, but it absolutely ain’t worth a cent.” “Great Heavens! Why didn’t you tell me of this before ?” exclaimed Thorpe. “But while we are on the subject, I wflll say further that I have chronic torpidity of the liver, and that my breast bone is disjointed so that it sticks out like a chicken’s. How does that strike you ?” “Oh, I don’t mind it,” said Mrs. Botts, “because I have been bilious and dyspeptic for twenty years; I have a wen on the back of my neck, and besides I am one rib short. It was broken in a railroad accident, and the doctor had to cut it out. I’m subject to fits, too,” “This is horrible,” said Thorpe. “Mrs. Botts, I think you ought to have mentioned these things to me when I proposed to you. I imagined that I was addressing a woman, a complete human creature. But what are you, Mrs. Botts? Mrs. Botts, you appear to me to be a kind of a dilapidated old wreck, with not more’n half of the usual machinery about you. It’s a wonder to me you don’t fall to pieces.” “I am no more than you are. You said yourself that y®u have a trap-door in the top of your head, and a gum-elastic plate, and I don’t know but what you have to w’ind yourself up with a key at night when you go to bed to keep yourself running until morning.” “Yes, but these things ain’t true,” said Thorpe. “I only told you about them to see if you really loved me. I’m as sound as a dollar; no inactive liver, or silver-plated skull, or anything. But you seem to be kind of strung together, so’s if you should knock against anything you’d scatter all around over the carpet. I think you ought to let me off.” “Very well, sir, so I will. But let me tell you that I’ve got nothing the matter with me either. I only invented those stories to try you, because I knew you were playing a game on me. Now I know you don’t love me. You can go, sir.” “Hannah, I take it all back. I do love you.” “Do you, really? Then I love you more than-------” But no; the curtain had better be drawn right here. The cold and selfish world has no business with such scenes as this. They are to be consolidated early next month. RECENT P UBLICA TIONS. Snowed-up ; or, The Sportsmen’s Club in the Mountains. —By Harry Castlemon.—Publishers, Porter A Coates, Philadelphia.—This is a very exciting narative of adventures of boys out West, related in the usual captivating style of the author, who has won enduring fame among the boys of the world. They never fail to become deeply interested in his works, and therefore the announcement of a new book from his prolific pen, is always read with pleasure, each and all anticipating a rare treat. “Snowed-up” may be regarded as one of Harry Castlemon’s best stories, and-as such we commend it to every boy reader in the land. The Miller op Silcott Mill.—By Mrs. Darrington Deslonde. —Publishers, G. W. Carleton A Co., New York.—This is a novel of much merit. The style of the author is attractive, and she invests her characters with an interest that is sustained to the end of the volume. A good plot is well worked out, and the scenes and Incidents in troduced, without being sensational, are truly exciting. Many passages in the book will linger in the memory long after the last leaf has been turned. The work is well printed, and well bound. Infelice.— By Augusta Evans Wilson.—Publishers, G. W. Carle ton & Co., New York.—We do not wonder that there has been a great demand for this work. The style of the author is very attractive, and she has the power to throw around mer characters the most intense interest. Each figure in the: .^en-picture presented to the reader is Invested with peculiarities which give spice to the book, which has an intricate plot and every other necessary feature. Price of “Infelice,” $2. Courting and Farming; or, Which is the Gentleman.—By Julie P. Smith.—Publishers, G. This is a novel of much merit. W. Carleton A Co., New York.— Like all of thfe author’s works, it is characterized by wit and vivacity. In a word, it is a good story well told. Price $1.75. Constance’s Fate: A Story of Denzil Place.—By Violet Fane.—Publisher^, G. W. Carleton A Co., Nbw York.—This is a narrative poem of much merit. It reads smoothly, and the interest excited by it at the beginning is sustained until the close. S5F?» '53WVT' 7 - THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. 3 TO ADVERTISERS. One Dollar and Twenty-five cts. per line CUTS DOUBLE PRICE FOR EACH INSER TION CASH NAD VANCE a WEEK to canvass tor Vickery’s Fireside / / Visitor. Costs NQTHING to try it. 452-55 P. 0. VICKERY & CO., Augusta, Maine. (>‘)rn A Month.—Agents wanted. 36 best selling arti qPDOkJ cles in the world'. One sample free. Address 34-26 JAY ISKONSON, Detroit, Mich. 4b-g jk DAY AT HO ME.—Agents wanted. Outfit and terms free. TRUE A CO., Augusta, Maine. 50-52 45 K. O per day at home. Samples worth $1 eh tree. STINSON A CO., Portland, Maine. W50-52 dh eh a Week to Agents. Samples FREE. P. o qpff © O. VICKERY, Augusta, Maine. 43-52 M ° \ a day sure made by Agents selling our <P±V i^AO Chromos, Crayons, Picture and Chromo Cards. 185 samples, worth ^5, sent, post-paid, for 85 Cents. Illustrated Catalogue free. 43-52 J. H. BUFFORD’S SONS, BOSTON, Mass. [Estab’d 1830.] dh Outfit free. Best chance yet. Write at once to COLLINS A CO., 8 Clinton Place, N. Y. 43-13. $15 SHOT GUN A double barrel gun, bar or front action locks; warranted genuine twist barrels, and a good shooter, or no sale ; with Flask, Pouch, and Wad-Cutter, for $15. Can be sent C. O. D., with privilege to examine before paving bill. Send stamp for circular to P. FOWEll A SON, 48-13 838 Main Street, Cincinnati, O. THE ANGELS HAVE COME. BY THEO. D. 0. MILLER, M. D. The angels had come, and sweet Minnie was dying, Her blue eyes were dim in the shadow of sleep, And, like the fair lily, she faded so calmly That none saw the change o’er her dear features creep. We waited in silence, our loving hearts yearning For Minnie, our darling, the sunlight of home, Till she opened her eyes, and with tender love whispered, “O, kiss me, dear mother, the angels have come!” The angels had come, and fair Minnie was going To join them in singing the sweet songs of love; She slumbered on earth to awaken in glory, And taste all the bliss of a pure life above. We saw not the shadow that came with the morning, We dreamed not that Minnie so quickly would roam, Till she bid us draw near, and tenderly whispered, “O, kiss me, dear mother, the angels have come!” The angels had come, and our dear one departed; She smiled as she entered the Valley of Sleep. We saw not the cloud, and we felt not the danger, The roses grown pale where the death shadows creep; But Minnie was dying—the songs of the happy Were bidding her come to their beautiful home. She whispered to us, as the golden gates opened, “0, kiss me, dear mother, the angels have come!” THE Boy Diamond-Hunter. By ROGEhTsTARBUCK, “They will capture us,” cried Coral. “What shall we do ?” Just at that instant a whizzing sound was heard, a tomahawk passed within an inch of the boy’s temple, and as he glanced up, Coral lost her balance and slipped. The boy looked for her, but she had disappeared, had vanished like magic from his sight. “Coral! Coral 1” he called out, for the moment forgetting himself and the danger he was in. Looking up, he saw an Indian perched on a projecting crag, his rifle pointed at his head, and instinctively he sprang from the shelf of rock on which he stood, landing on a bed of soft earth, so far under the crag occupied by the Indian that the latter could not reach him. While the lad was reflecting as to what he should next do, his arm was seized from above, and the next moment he was drawn through an opening, while a well known voice whispered in his ear: “Hist! no noise!” Amos recognized Bin’s voice at once. “How strange 1” he said; "but she—your sister Coral, is--” “Safe here with me,” interrupted Bin. “I saw her, when she lost her balance. She fell here, on this bank of earth, and I caught her, at once, and drew her in. I was going for you, when, fortunately, you saved me the trouble by jumping down right in front of the cave. Soon as Bin spoke, Amos looked up to see Coral in front of him. “What do you intend to do now, Bin?” asked the boy. “I have been exploring this retreat, and have found an opening farther down, by which we can make our escape. Meanwhile, for the present, we can keep the Indians back a little with this,” pointing to a large rock near the mouth of the opening. “Wexan roll that over the opening, and they may be a long tlmeffiUscovering there is a cave here.” With their united efforts the stone was soon rolled against the mouth of the cave. “Now, then,” said Bin, “we will have something to eat. I have only a little left, and that got wet yesterday; but such as it is, I’ve ho doubt it will taste good to you.” Coral and Amos were soon partaking of the venison, which was indeed palatable to them after their long last. ’While they were eating, they could hear without the voices ot the Indians,, who by this time had reached the spot in front of the cave. They were evidently much puzzled to account for the strange disappearance of the fugitives, and wero holding a consultation. The rock which Bin and Amos had rolled against the mouth of the cave filled it in such a way that no person, previously ignorant of the whereabouts of the opening, would ever have guessed its existence. O Ol >8 made by ONE agent in 57 days. 13 new articles. Samples free. Address 48-12 c. M. LININGTON, Chicago. VISITING C ARDS, in Nice Case, 25 cts. Sam-I I 3 cents. Agents wanted. 49-26 S. E. FOSS A CO., Campello, Mass. I JUDGE 1 FOR YOURSELF By sending 35 cts-, with age, height, color of eyes and hair, you will receive by return mail a correct photograph of your future husband or wife, with name and date of marriage. Address W. FOX, P. O. Drawer 31, Fultonville N. Y. 42-52 Sufferers from nervous debility who have tried in vain every advertised remedy, will learn of a simple cure by addressing 52-26 DAVIDSON A CO., 86 Nassau st., New York. A MONTH. Outfit, worth $1., free to Agents. Vf Excel. Mfg. 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Everybody has heard of MILTON GOLD Jewelry, it having been sold in this market for the last ten years, and worn by the best and richest class of our population. Stifl, it takes an expert jewelerto discover MILTON gold from VIRGIN gold These goods are not II HASS or PLATED, but MILTON GOLD. The following articles, by mail, post-paid, on receipt ot 50 CENTS: ONE PAIR ELEGANT SLEEVE BUTTONS, with Independence Hall engraved, retail price........$1 00 ONE SET SPIRAL SHIRT STUDS, retail price. 75 ONE BEAUTIFUL CORAL SCARF PIN, retail price. 75 ONE ELEGANT GENT’S WATCH CHAIN, latest patern, retail price ........................... 1 50 ONE COLLAR BUTTON, retail price.......... 50 ONE ELEGANT WEDDING RING, very heavy, retail price 2 50 Total....................................$6 00 Remenjber, we will send, you the above-named six articles, which we have retailed for $6 50, by mail, post-paid, for 50 Cents, or 4 sample lots for SI 50. Satisfaction guaranteed or money refunded. Address W. W. 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GEO. I. REED & CO., Nassau, N. Y. ADIES NOTED for beauty use our elegant face en-JLa amel. $1 per case, post-paid. Crystal Enamel M’Pg. Co., Buffalo, N. Y. MIXED CARDS IO ct*.; 10 Samples FREE. Agents wanted. B. E. STRONG & CO., Gerry, N. Y. WANTED, SALESMEN, at a salary of $1800 a year, to travel and sell goods to Dealers. NO PEDDLING. Hotel and traveling expenses paid. Address MONITOR MANUFACTURING CO., Cincinnati, Ohio. 3-13 £ STYLISH VISITING CARDS, with your name, ® eJ and a 40-page BOOK, for 25 cents. Agents’ Sample Book, 50 cts. Samples for stamp. French & Roundy, Brockton, Mass. $50 to $800 A MONTH TO AGENTS. UNIVERSAL HISTORY ANCIENT, MIDDLE-AGES, and MODERN. The greatest interest in all nations and in our own thrilling history of 100 years, makes this book sell faster than any other. 3 books in one. Beautifully illustrated. Low price, quick sales, extra terms. Address 3-2eow J. C. MCCURDY & Co., Philadelphia, Pa. J Q PRANG’S CHROMO CARDS, with name, 85c., JL-su post-paid. J. B. HUSTED, Nassau, Renss. Co., N. Y. ‘J fl Mixed Cai’ds, with name, 10 cents. Samples for 3-cent Ov stamp. J. MINKLER & CO., Nassau, N. Y. Catalogue of Rare Novelties, 3 Cents. If you love fun, read it. C. QUEEN, Stoneham, Mass. 3-4 rrns gre^inbrook and 1. PATERSON CITY NURSERIES. Floral and Fashion Journal. Free for 1876. Address । 3-2eow GRIEVES & CO., Box 8853, New York. PROBLEMS FOR THE PEOPLE. TROUBLESOME LARKS AND PERPLEXING SPARROWS. A person bought a certain number of larks and sparrows for 72c. He paid as many cents per dozen for larks as there were sparrows, and as manv cents per score for sparrows as there were larks. If he had bought 10 more of each (the price of larks remaining the same), and had given as much per dozen for sparrows as he gave per score for larks, he would have paid for all $3.05. Find the number ^of each. Wm. C. Gebhardt. HIDES. । A father sent his son to market, giving him $100, . with which he was to buy 100 hides. He was to pay for calf-hides 50 cts., for cow-hides $3, and for oxhides $5. How many did he buy of each? 0. H. Anheier. THE BOYS’ CAKE. , Two boys own a cake; one owns 2-5 and the other 3-5. A third boy comes along and gives them 20 cts. for 1-3 of the cake. Each one eats 1-3 of the cake. How much money should each of the original owners of the cake receive? Ed. Payson. ANSWERS TO PROBLEMS IN No. 1. The Cellar-Diggers.—4 days. Measuring Cider.—You first fill the 3-gallon can out of the 8-gallon can, and pour it into the 5-gallon can; then you fill the 3 again, and pour it into the 5 until it is full, which will leave one gallon in the 3, the 5 will be full, and two in the 8. Next you empty the 5 back into the 8, and pour the one gallon left in the 3 into the 5; then you fill the 3 again and pour into the 5, which will leave four in the 5, and four in the 8. The Grain Puzzle.—Corn, 55 cents; wheat. $1.30; oats, 75 cents; rye, 85 cents; barley, $1.10. Mark Brothers, 430 Broadway, New York, are the proprietors of Young’s patent folding scissors, a very neat and clever arrangement, which can be carried in the pocket without any inconvenience. — Author of RED HELM, THE BOY DIVER, etc [“The Boy Diamond-Hunter” was commenced in No. 51. Back numbers can be obtained from all News Agents.] CHAPTER XX.—(Continued.) The truth at once flashed on Bin’s mind. He had been drawn into a sort of under water cave, and there seemed no hope now of his escaping his doom. Vainly he endeavored to draw himself out of the rocky opening by seizing the rough projections in the roof, but the strength of the current resisted all his efforts. He had, therefore, resigned himself to his fate, when feeling his limbs drawn by a suction force which he had previously resisted, and allowing this force to draw him on, he glided into a sort of rocky basin, where, to his surprise, his head emerged above the surface in a watery cave, under the hill. He could see nothing, but he now struck boldly out, and soon found himself on a shore of rough earth. “Well!” he exclaimed, as he crawled out of water and shook himself, “I would never have dreamed of there being here such a retreat as this.” He pulled his box of matches from his pocket, and the box being fortunately perfectly watertight, the matches were dry, so having lighted one of them, he glanced around him. The light illumined the darkness for a short distance, but beyond all was impenetrable gloom. He felt sure that the ground was dry beyond, as it ascended away from him, which also accounted for his preservation. The water, rushing into the valley, as we have explained, had ascended the sides of the hills to a certain distance, thus Alling up the cave-opening in the rock whither the current had carried Bin, but, beyond it could not extend far, as it had only risen to a certain level, and the openings in the hill slanted greatly. Bin saw thah not until the water should have ebbed away and thus left the outside opening clear, would he be enabled to escape from his present quarters. “An excellent hiding place,” Din thought to himself, “in case one were pressed by Indians. If I had something to eat, I don’t know but I might here pass the time comfortably enough several weeks longer.” He lighted another match and walked forward. The sides of the cavern, as he continued to ascend, he noticed were of rugged rock, while the ground was nearly the same as that outside on many parts of the hill. His second match having gone out. Bin was about lighting another, when he fancied he beheld, ahead of him, two points of flame, gleaming through the gloom. A moment these were visible; then they disappeared, to reappear, in another moment. “It must be a serpent!” thought Bin, as he drew from his belt the long knife he carried. “I must be on my guard, as some of the reptiles out this way are poisonous,” Lighting another match he proceeded onwards and soon was near enough to see the object which had attracted his attention. It was a small, harmless serpent, whoso head protruded from the skull of a skeleton placed in an upright position against the rocky wall. It had a peculiarly loathsome aspect, as its slimy body slowly receded in the eyeless socket of the skeleton, on the approach of Bin. The latter, by the aid of his matches, made an examination of the skeleton. It had evidently been there a very long time, judging by its appearance. On the ground near it. lay an old rusty sword of Spanish manufacture, a helmet, and a dirk. Leaving the skeleton, he proceeded on for a further exploration of the cave, but found nothing more to reward his search, excepting that the length of this under-hill cavern was about sixty feet, while in width it did not exceed eleven. He descended to within a few feet of the waterline, when he sat down on a stone, and as he listened to the dull, booming roaring without, which sounded like the knell of the little sister whom he so dearly loved, he thought of the deadly peril she was in, and longed for an escape from his present prison so that he might go to her rescue. “If they harm a»hair of her head,” he muttered, savagely, “I will not rest until I shall have exterminated every one of their tribe.” CHAPTER XXL IN the log. Coral and Amos remained motionless and silent in the hollow log, watching the Indians as they approached. The Indians, drawing nearer, moved straight toward the log; but, for some reason or other, it did not occur to. them to look in. Probably, having been encamped in their present quarters but a day, they had not noticed whether the lor; was hollow or solid. In fact, they passed the spot, hurrying on, evidently believing that the fugitives had moved ahead. “Now,” whispered Amos—“nowis our time!” and with his companion he left the log, hurrying through the storm and darkness in a direction away from the camp. They had walked about two miles when they heard the roaring, rushing sound of the water in the valley, where Bin had met with his mishap. They kept on along the edge of the valley, until they found themselves near a rugged rock, when they paused, sheltering themselves from the storm in a hollow cleft. Though her garments were drenched with rain, and she felt very uncomfortable, yet Coral was unable to keep her eyes open. She sank into a deep slumber, and Amos, in spite of his efforts to keep awake, so as to stand watch, soon imitated her example. They slept until daylight, when Amos awoke, and as he rubbed his eyes and glanced round him, a shadow fell on the interior of the cave. Looking up, Amos was dismayed to behold the head of an Indian, which was thrust through the opening of the cave. Without a moment’s hesitation, and with wonderful presence of mind, Amos at once sprang at the Indian, and seizing him by the throat with both hands, bore him to the earth and there held him motionless. Being unarmed, it was the only alternative left to Amos. The savage, unable to strike a blow in his defense, lay struggling and kicking on the ground, while his adversary tightened his hold on his throat. In a short time his struggles became more feeble, his eyes rolled about in his head, he gasped for breath, and soon he lay perfectly motionless—to all appearances, dead. Amos, however, determined not to be duped, maintained his hold until, by the appearance of the Indian’s face, he was sure he was dead. He then cautiously left the cave, and looked about him. As far as he ceuld see, there was no sign of a human being. The Indian had evidently started in this direction alone to look for the fugitives. Amos returned to the cave, just as Coral opened her eyes. Her glance fell on the dead Indian, and she sprang up with a low “It is nothing,” said Amos. “Toucan see he is dead. I had to do it.” And in a few words he related the circumstances. “We must leave this place,” said the young girl, decidedly. “There are other Indians not far off; for they seldom go on a hunt alone. I shouldn’t be surprised to see them appear any moment.” Amos deemed it best to take her advice, so they were soon moving along the edge of the valley; but they had not proceeded far, when Coral suddenly clutched Amos by the arm. “What is it ?” “See! there! down there!” pointing into the valley behind them, where the water had greatly subsided. Looking in that direction, Amos beheld the heads of several Indians protruding above the rocks. “You are right,” said he. “We had better run as fast we can go, and try to find some hiding-place.”. As he spoke, he seized her by the hand, and they hurried along down the side of the valley among the rocks. Coral uttered a half-stifled shriek as they ran. “The Indians are after us,” she gasped. Amos perceived that she was right. There were the Indians running after them, ascending the side ot the valley, so that they might get above them, and thus head them off, their yells of exultation breaking forth like those of fiends. CHAPTER XXII. When the fugitives had finished their meal Bin led the way along the ascending pathway of the cave, and kept on until they were near the summit, when he made a short turn leading downward. “I’m so glad, dear Coral,” Bin whispered, as they now walked arm in arm, "to have you brought to me in such a providential, unexpected manner. "It certainly was unexpected, for me as well as you. A stone gave way under my feet, and down I went, falling on the earth bank below, and then I felt you drawing me into the cave.” "It is unexpected for all ofus,” said Amos; “little did I dream that we should meet in this singular manner.” They walked a lone distance ere a small, twinkling light was seen in the distance^ This was the lower opening of the eave, far down in the valley near its extremity. "Do you think it wbll for us to leave our retreat so soon?” inquired Amos. “Yes; it will not do to stay there longer. The Indians must soon discover the cave,” They emerged through the opening, Bin taking the lead, and casting a keen glance about him as he passed through the aperture. “No Indians in sight,” said he, “and we can make good progress while they arc trying to unravel the mystery of our disappearance. They struck off toward the south and west, keeping on in this direction a whole day, by which time Bin had stuffed the haversack with the meat of a small doer which he had shot on the way. They now arrived at a small village, in which they were enabled to cook their meat, and where they resolved to remain a couple ol'-days to rest and recruit after their late prolonged hardships. When they again set out, it was with invigorated frames and in good spirits. They journeyed for several days without meeting a soul. “In another day,” said Bin, “we shall have arrived on the diamond fields, where you can pick all you want.” The boy’s eyes glowed with delight; he clapped his hands in his deep joy. The next day came. Amos was up early, standing on a high rock which he had been told would afford him a good view of the diamond fields glittering far and near with their wealth of precious stones. Yes, there they were sure enough, sparkling in the early tints of the rising sun, as far as the eye could reach. “Hoorah I hoorah 1” shouted the lad, iu his enthusiasm, “the goal is won at last!” “Do you see them?” inquired Bin from below, looking up and seeming to enjoy the lad’s pleasure. “Yes—oh, yes!” was the reply. “Come, let us hasten there, and get all we can.” By noon they reached the ground, and Amos was soon busy raking in the sand for the stones which Bin pointed out to him as those he had always heard called diamonds. The boy in the course of a week had washed out a haversack full. “Now, then!” he exclaimed, with delight, “I am a rich man!” “Are you ready to go back?” inquired Bin. “Yes, why not? I have enough to enrich me forever, and what more should I want?” go next day they started on their return, and in due time Coral, Bin, and Amos arrived in Kentucky without having met with any adventure on their journey. “Now,” said Amos, after they had eaten their parting dinner in Bin’s habitation, “do you still refuse to share my treasure with me?” “Yes,” answered Bin; "had I wanted those stones, I could have picked them up myself, and any time I want them I can go and get them.” "True,” said Amos. "It is still a mystery to me why you don’t avail yourself of the chance.” "I have made a solemn vow never to touch anything of that sort, and only to earn just money enough to afford, me a bare subsistence until I shali have found that hated Beu6dok, who murdered my parents.”/ They conversed a few jhours longer on this subject and on similar ones, when Amos rbse. "I suppose you are amxious to go,” said Bin. "I am,” answered Anjos; "but I shall retfnember you andypur sirter with Hfe-long gramude, and I hdpe you will permit me to come and see you sometimes.” “With all my heart;” answered Bin. “I was about making that proposal myself, especially as my sister here--” “Oh, brother!” interrupted Coral, blushing deeply, “you must not.” “But I will,” said Bin, laughing; “fori know that Amos thinks as much of you as you do of him.” “I hope,” said Amos, cordially grasping Bin’s hand, "that you will say nothing, your sister would rather you would not. For myself, as regards her, I can say that—that—she is the only gin I—I-----” ■‘Out with it,” said Bin. "I could ever love!” cried Amos, with boyish enthusiasm. "There!” exclaimed Bin, turnfng to his sister, “you see the attachment is mutual. If you were old enough I would take vou to the minister at once, and have you made man and wife. You see,” added the dwarf to Amos, “sister has confessed to me her deep affection for you, and begged me to be sure to ask you to be in the habit of calling and seeing us.” “I only needed this to make me completely happy!” cried Amos. “Bravo!” cried Bin, laughing, as the two young people exchanged shy, tender glances. “And now,” he added.to Amos. I “when you go we will at least accompany you to the borders ot the State.” “Thank you! thank you!” exclaimed Amos, joyfully. They were soon on their wav* Amos walking by the side of the sweet girl who was dearer to mm tlum all the world. Toward sundown they approached the woods where Amos had paused after he ran away from Jones. As they drew near they noticed, coming along a road so that it would pass in front ot them, a carriage containing a single individual. “I should know that carriage!” cried Amos; “it is that of my former employer, Jones.” ‘,And who is that person in it?” inquired Bin, his eyes blazing with a strange light. “That? Why, that is Jones himself if I’m not mistaken, answered Amos. “No, that is not his real name,” cried Bin; “his real name is Benedok; he is the hall-breed—the man who murdered my parents, years ago. Time has made some change in his appearance, but I would know him anywhere.” The carriage was witli<n a few paces of them, when Jones drew rein, and stood up, taking a full survey of Amos. “Ah! ha!” he exclaimed. “So I have found my runaway, at Icist ” “And I have found mine,” exclaimed the dwarf, in a deep, stern voice, striding in full view of Jones. “Who are you ?” cried Jones, but, even as he spoke, ho turned deadly pale. “You can remember me if you try, Benedok,” answered Bin. “What, is it possible ?” gasped the affrighted Jones. “Is it possible I see--” * “Yes, you see him, and I have found you at last, murderer of my parents.” r‘What would you do ?” cried Benedok, drawing a revolver. But before he could raise it, Bin sent a bullet from his rifle through the body of the wretch, who, reeling, fell over the side of the carriage in the road, struggling in the agonies of death. “My mission is accomplished, my vow fulfilled,” said Bin, as he stood, glaring down at his long sought-for victim. “Amos,” said the dying man, as the boy advanced toward him to offer some water from a canteen, which he still carried, “I have a few words to say to you.” The boy gave him water, when, clutching his arm, the man gasped forth: “Your—your—parents did not die, as I stated, when they came to my tavern years ago. They were rich people—they had money with them. I poisoned them and took the money. Look in my vest pocket, and you will find there something—a silver cross, marked with Initials, which may prove of service to you.” With these words Benedok fell back and expired. Amos found the cross, and discovered a secret spring, which he pressed, when a steel slip flew back, on which was an ivory tablet, containing these words: “If our son Amos should ever lose us, let him call on Robert Emerson,-----st, Cincinnati.” Before night the body of Jones, or rather Benedock, as he must now be called, was conveyed to the nearest village, where Bin described what he had done. Fortunately a traveler, passing at the time, not far distant, had seen the whole affair, and proved that Bin had only a<£ed in self-defense. A coroner’s inquest was held next day, after which the body was buried. Without loss of time, leaving his friends, he repaired to the address named, which p«>ved to be the office of a well known lawyer. Amos, to his surprise, then learned that he was heir to a Cincinnati estate valued at over a million. The lawyer took down the story the boy had been told by his former employer, Jones, and, after several weeks spent in investigating the matter, the lad’s claim to the property was proved beyond a doubt. There is little to add. Amos’ friends, Coral and Bin, were astonished to learn of his good fortune. “After all,” said the dwarf, laughing, “you have not lost much by that bag of precious stones.” “No, indeed,” answered Amos. “And it seems as if my good fortune has come just in time to console me.” Amos now succeeded in persuading Bin to permit his sister to live with him in the mansion he was soon to occupy. He would procure a governess and educate her in all those accomplishments that adorn her sex. As to Bin himself, nothing could prevail on him to leave the wild life to which he had so long "been accustomed. * * * * * Years passed. Coral had profited well by her teachers and had become as accomplished as she was good and beautiful. An elegant, handsome woman, she was well fitted to be the wife of a good man. They occupy a pleasant home in Cincinnati, and Bin Bunks lives with them. The dwarf would never, however, have consented to forego his wild life but for a severe wound, received during one of his encounters with Indians on the plains, a spear having penetrated his side He was saved by the party of whites with whom lie was at the time, and by them conveyed to the nearest fort, where his life was for a time despaired of. His strong constitution however eventually triumphed, and he recovered, but he was unfit to any longer handle rifle or dagger. The fact grieved him beyond expression, but he is gradually-becoming reconciled, among the comforts of his new home, and in the society of his sweet sister, Coral, who proves indeed an angel of consolation. “I really believe,” he said, one day, to Amos, “that I am looking back every day with less regret to my old wild life.” ‘“I am glad to hear it,” answered the young man. “I should think you had had enough of that kind of thing to satisfy you.” “Well,” answered Bin, “once it did not seem to me as if I ever should have, but I believe I am getting reconciled to it. They were now joined by Coral. “You are looking well,” said Bin, “I believe city life agrees with you, at all events.” “Any life would agree with me, with the person I loved,” answered Coral, blushing and glancing at Amos. “Well, I believe it would,” said Bin, “for you bloomed and throve like a rose out there with me on the prairies, and I believe you would do the same were you there with your husband, now.” “I do not think I will give her the chance to try,” said Amos, shrugging his shoulders. For my part, I had enough of it, and am content, for the future, to let those fabulous stories of precious stones and diamond fields’ go by me on the idle wings of the wind I” [THE END.] Pleasant Paragraphs. [Most of our readers are undoubtedly capable of contributing toward making this column an attractive feature of the New York Weekly, and they will oblige us by sending for publication anything which, may be deemed of sufficient interest for general perusal. It is not necessary that the articles should bi penned in scholarly style; so long as they are pithy, and likely to afford amusement, minor defects will be remedied. | Always Make the last Count Yourself. Years ago there lived in Troy a timber merchant, whom I will designate as Mr. H., a man who never lost an opportunity of’vaunting his own honesty and goodness, although his neighbors well knew he needed very close watching. At that time Lansingburgh was quite as important a >lace as Troy. It was at the head of navigation on the Hudson, and before the canals and the Troy bridge were built, a large amount of merchandise purchased at the former place, was transferred to Troy. Rafts of timber coming down the Hudson stopped at Lansingburgh (as the shipping lists have it to-day, “for Cowes and a market. ) A raftsman named Clark brought to Lansingburgh a raft of timber, and found a purchaser in the person of Mr. H. of Troy. The raft was brought down to its destination, the price agreed upon being $400. C. went with Mr. H. to his office to receive his pay. H. took a roll of bills from his safe, and counting out $400, handed the money to Clark and . told him to count it carefully, which he did. H. , told him to obuntitover again; he did so, and found ( it correct. H., with an apparent desire to bo sure, 1 said, “let me go over it again, so that there can’t be , any mis take.” The money was handed back to him, ( and he slipped out a ten-dollar note, a trick easily done, as he stood behind his desk. Again he pro- < nounced it all correct, and passed the money to Mr. C., who put it in his pocket-book. . Mr. Clark rode up to Lansingburgh on his horse, and paid ten dollars to a storekeeper to whom he was indebted for groceries, horsefeed, &c. After paying this bill, Clark counted over his money, and ( found only $380, instead of $390, the amount he ( should have had. The storekeeper showed his perplexity, and both counted over the pile several : times, the result being each time alike—ten dollars short. “What shall I do,” asked Mr. Clark. “Go back to Troy and make H. correct the mistake.” . . ’ The storekeeper returning Clark the ten dollar note he had paid him, C. mounted his horse again and rode back to Troy, saw Mr. H. and told him the amount was short. H. said. “It cannotbe possible. You counted it over twice, and I counted it twice. Give me Jhe money,” continued H. Stepping bell nd his desk he counted the bills, taking care to PjQt in the note he had abstracted. “It is all right, he triumphantly exclaimed. “I am too correct a business man to make such a mistake.” He handed the roll to Mr. Clark, and bade him count it and satisfy himself. Ho did so, and found the amouht $400. Mr. Clark was puzzled to understand it. H. told him to count it over again, which he did. “Now,” said H., “to make it doubly sure, I will count it over again.” H. took the bills, and dexterously ! went through the operation of counting once more, naming aloud the varying sum, as bill after bill was transferred from his hand to the desk. Before concluding, he adroitly slipped out a twenty-dollar note, and declared that the roll of bills amounted to just $400. Mr. Clark, thoroughly satisfied, took the money, and rode up to Lansingburgh. As he entered the ‘ store he said to the owner: “We must be a couple J of dunces to make the mistake we did. The money j was all right. I have journeyed to Troy for noth- r ing. H. counted it over twice, and I did the same, t and there were $400 sure. ) The storekeeper got mad and said he must bo a ■ darned fool not to bo able to count $400, he would bet $100 thre were only $390 when they both counted it. Mr. Clark said he did not want to win his money, and handed over to him the. roll of bills to ; count and satisfy himself. The storekeeper did ; so, and his count made $38Q. Mr. Clark, perplexed i and annoyed, counted and recounted, but the fig- • ures showed twenty dollars short. “What would ; you advise me to do,” asked Clark; “go back to i Troy and make H. correct the mistake?”; He • Caused a minute, and then said, “J swear I wont. ; ’ve lost ten dollars by going back the last time. If ' I go again, it will cost me forty dollars.” H. no doubt compromised with his conscience. . He stole only five per cent for discount. You', can bet high that Mr. Clark never sold H. any more timber, and learned the lesson to have the last ; count. Uncle D. JL Comedian’s Revenge, In a certain theater which shall be nameless^ the leading low comedian gave such trouble to! the management by his laziness and general neglect of duty that, after having recourse to the powers of the law, the engag ?mentof the refactory artiste was canceled. Thus c. st upon the world, the actor vowed revenge, ant an opportunity soon presented itself for carrying out his purpose. The manager announced his first appearance in the principal role of a tremendous sensational drama in five- acts and innumerable tableaux. The play began, and all progressed merrily till the middle of the third act, when the manager, who was the heavy villain, occupied the stage alone, afid went through an interminable soliloquy. A door ht the back suddenly opened, and, to his astonishment, the comedian he had dismissed from the theater slowly stalked down to the foot-lights, dressed in deep black, with long ringlets, Hessian boots, and his face made up in the most cadaverous fashion. In sepulchral tones he addressed the veisary was to re-engage him, which he accordingly did, and the two became fast friends. In the Good Times. Little Maggie (one of our neighbors’ children, who is five years old) came in one day last week to make a purchase. While in the store, I said: “Maggie, is your Aunt Becky married?” “Yes. ma’am.” “When was she married?” I said. She answered: “In the good times/’ “In the good times?” I said; “when was that?” “Why,” she said, “the night Uncle Fred went to the watch-house.” What the child meant, I never found out.” Baltimore. Three Resolutions. Not long since, while conversing about steamboat explosions, my mother told of the explosion of th© steamer Medora, which occurred in Baltimore a great many years ago. While she was telling, she remarked that the steamer had not left the wharf when the explosion took place. Miss A----, who was sitting near, said, “No, that was not it, for the steamer had made three resolutions, and busted.” She meant three revolutions. The Vailed Mother-in-law. A McGregor (Iowa) man consulted one Mme. Lu-derico, “a vailed prophetess and inspired seeress,” for information where he could find his affinity, what she would look like, and how he would know her when he met her. She described a ravishingly beautiful and delightfully rich young lady, and th© grateful man paid her a double fee. And then th© vailed prophetess removed her vail, and he knew his mother-in-law. He,rose to his feet, with a cold, hollow laugh, and went out into tho street a raving maniac. A Street-Car Scene. An inebriate got into a street car and became very troublesome and annoying to the other passengers, so much so that it was proposed to eject him; but a genial and kind-hearted clergyman, who was also a passenger, interposed for him, and soothed him into good behavior for the remainder of the journey. Before leaving, however, he scowled upon the occupants of the car, and muttered some words of contempt; but he shook hands warmly with tho doctor, and said, "Good-day, my friend; I seo you know what it is to be drunk.” A Wise Lunatic. Visiting magistrate, (to pauper lunatic):—“Woll. William, you have been here nearly ten years; I suppose you would like to be discharged ?” P. L.— " ’Deed, no, sir; you don’t think I .am so crazed as all that, do you ? I am very comfortable, thank your honor.” Three Dull Days. “Brutus Blinkenberry,” said that gentleman’s wife, drawing a paper from he,r pocket, in the privacy of the chamber, on Sunday morning—“Brutus Blinkenberry, I’ve counted, and out, of the last 30 days you have come home intoxicated 27 nights; what do you think of yourself?” Blinkenberry groaned. “Well, what are you groaning about now?” “Them three nights,” replied Blinkenberry, with an expression of horrible suffering. Punning;. A greater punster than even Tom Hood was the late Henry J. Finn, the comedian, lost in the Hjifor-tunate steamer Lexington burned in Long'Island Sound, Jan. 13,1840. In one of his cards^mnounckig his benefit at the Tremont Theater, Boston, he petrated the following quadruple pun; Like a grate full of coals, I’m glad Agreatfull house to see; And if I am not grateful, too, A great fool must I be. Here’s another: If I were punish ed For every pun I shed. There would not be a puny shed Where I could Hide my punish head. A Model Judge. Judge W., of the First Judicial District of Colorado, was never known to excuse a juror from service, and was always on the alert to fine a delinquent attorney or any tardy member of the sacred twelve. A member of the Denver bar sends this story of the judge, where a juror wished to bo excused from duty for one day: Judge W.—“Why do you wish to he excused from serving on the jury to-day ?” Juror—“My wife is dead; the, funeral comes off at three o’clock, and I feel it my duty to bo there.” Judge W.—"How long has she been dead ?” Juror—“Two days, sir.” JudgeW.—“Do you call that an excuse? Mr. Clerk, enter an order that this juror buy one hundred pounds of ice to keep the corpse, and that th© funeral be postponed till ten o’clock next Bunday morning. The public business cannot be interrupted with trifles. The juror is fined five dollars, and stands committed till paid.” Arousing a Dead Man’s Pt ide. Standing one day upon a street corner, our attention was attracted by a passing funer al procession. The deceased, judging from the long line of carriages and the mifftitude following the hearse, must have been much respected, and having a curiosity to know on whose account this great parade was being made, w^ asked of an Irishman standing near: ; "Who is dead?” "Indade, sur,” he replied, "I dun know; but whoever he be, be jabbers he may well be proud of his funeral.” Historic Ground. "That ar’ patch o’ ground’s mem’rible,” said an Omaha man, pointing to a grave all by itself outside the town. "I reckon you’ll knojv that, stranger, when you see it agin. The ockypant of that was the first man Horrus Greeley ever told to git West—likewise he was hung for stealin’ a mewL” Our Knowledge Box. U®- We take pleasure in responding to every question address •ed to us in this column, for the answers generally afford information not only to the parties especially seeking it, but also to the mass of our readers; but with the increase of our circulation has grown the number of questions soliciting answers by mniL These questions are almost uniformly important ones, costing, to satisfactorily answer them, much time and labor. For tins reason all persons in future wishing their queries replied to qy mall, will please inclose 50 cents to defray the expenses necessarily incurred. QUESTIONS ANSWERED AND INFORMATION WANTED., Richard Roe— Polished Shirt Bosoms.—We have given recently a number of recipes for polishing shirt bosoms. Here is another: Two kinds of starch are necessary—hot starch, which must be slightly blue, and cold starch in which there is a small quantity of borax. The borax must be dissolved in hot water, and added to the white starch when both are cold. Take the shirts when thoroughly dry from the clothes-line and dip the bosoms in the hot starch, then hang them out again to dry. When dry spread the bosoms on the ironing-boara, and with your hands rub in the cold starch so as to completelr permeate the linen. Let them lay rolled up for one hour, and then iron on both sides. To put on the polish, take a little piece of linen rag and damp them slightly again, as they lie on the board, glossing them with a polishing-iron, which comes especially for the purpose with a convex base. In mixing your starch be sure to rub it very smooth, for it is impossible to do well with lumpy starch. The ironing requires patience and labor.......... Larry.—Magic Lantern Slides.—To paint magic lantern slides provide a small muller and a piece of thick ground-glass five or six inches square to grind the coleus 6n, and a few small bottles to put the colors in. For red, get a scarlet lake, blue, take Prussian blue, yellow, take gamboge, green,'take a piece of distilled verdigris and grind it with a quarter, of its-bnIk.of gambogebrown, burnt umber and burnt sienpa4>lack, take lampblack. Having all your colors, grind them in balsam of Canhda mixed with half its bulk of turpentine, or a little more, if too thick for grinding easily; or use mastic varnish, which will get hard sooner than the other, as it will take six or seven days to harden; but the balsam is more beautiful. To paint the glass black round the painting dissolve asphaltum in turpentine mixed with larqpi black. Having ground all your colors put them in seg^rat# bottles. When used, take out a little on a piece of etjck and piUit on a piece of glass—not more than you want, as it dries soon. If too thick, dilute it with turpentine. To paint the you must design your subject on paper, place it under the glas^ and paint upon the glass according to the subject beneath. The brushes to be used are common hair pencils, which may be cleaned from time to time with turpentine.... W.—Not yet. Bittersweet.— To Wash Silk Pocket Handkerchiefs.—All silk handkerchiefs should be soaked in lukewarm water and washed by themselves. After washing them, if some stains remain, wash them a second time. Afterward rinse them ’in cold water, in CHAPTER XXIII. CONCLUSION. Before night Amos had started for Cincinnati, with Coral and her brother, whom he had begged to accompany him. On arriving at their destination, Amos at once repaired to a lapidary with his bag of precious stones. The man examined them, and to the surprise and dismay of his auditors, especially of Amos, stated that they we not diamonds^'a]thovLe;h they were precious stones, worth altogether about twenty-five dollars or thereabouts. “Well, I wouldn’t have believed it,” exclaimed Bin, when they left the place, “as I was always told that those were diamonds, although I thought it strange they should be so plentifully scat- tered about.” furious manager: “It is I! Thou didst not expect me.” “Get away I” roared the other, foaming with rage. “ ’Tis well,” said the actor, unmoved—“I go, but L will soon return. Ha, ha!” and he slowly made w majestic exit. The public were delighted with the new character, as they thought, and amused themselves between the acts by trying to guess who the mysterious visitor would turn out to be. When the curtain fell, the manager half crazy, searched everywhere, and threatened to discharge every one in the theater, but without avail; no one seemed to know where his tormentor was hidden. The fourth act was nearly over, and once more the traitor of the play was alone on the stage. A trap opened almost beneath his feet, and the incorrigible comedian again appeared, paler and more somber-looking than ever. which ahandful of salt has been dissolved... .L. M.—1. Painting. —The Greek artists practiced three principal methods of painting; first, distemper, employed for mural pictures; second, glaring, when the picture, after being finished in water-colors, crayon, or distemper, was covered with a coat of hard and transparent varnish; and thirdly encaustic, when the coloring matters actually incorporated with wax, o* preparations of wax, were thus applied in a liquid state, and when finished flowed to dry. The practice of coloring marble statues was common among the Greeks, and ase-painting was-regarded as an art in itself. 2. Try sulphurous ac'd, a little at a time. Apply with a cotton clcth, and repeat from time to time.... William Jones.—Try again.... Leonce.—Perspiration.— A correspondent who has tried the following recipe says it is effective: Use every night or morning a soap with no perfume; oat-meal soap is the best for toilet soap; use soap freely, and not wash off, but dry with a dry towel. The alkali consumes the excretion. MEDICAL DEPARTMENT. disappointment Ap] ( la„v “I can’t believe it yet.” said Amos, tears of cusa filling his eyes. “We will go to some other lapidary. So they went to three or tour lapidaries, but all pronounced the same judgment as the first upon the precious stones. “Ali my trouble for nothing!” cried Amos, flinging down his bag, in despair. “I’m not, after all, much better off than I was before!” A soft hand fell on his arm, a pair of gentle eyes looked into “Do not despair,” said the voice of Coral. <fWhat great matter, after all.” Amos was cheered by the sweet girl’s words. “You can always have a home with us,*added Bin, “do not thinK any more of your disappointment.” “You are indeed good friends to me,” said Amos. “And will you come and live with us ?” cried Bin, joyfully. “Why not stay here, in this aity ?” inquired Amos, “here we may find plenty of employment.” “True,” answered Bln, “but my vocation is in the prairie and the forest, to which I have become'attached by habit, and where I shall return as soon as possible.” Happening to look down, Amos at that moment, caught sight of the end of the silver cross, protruding from his pocket, when he remembered the principal errand which had brought him to this city. said t wouldcomo back—behold me!” ho ex- ted. ____j.e enraged manager began to have enough of the joke, and, an idea suddenly striking him, he resolved to put an end to the visits of the strange personage. Taking from his breast a pistol, which he was to use in the concluding scene, he aimed it at the actor. “Angel or demon, whatever thou art, persecute me no more!” He then pressed the trigger, and the malicious comedian, who had not counted upon the presence B. F. L. and John Smith.—Face Pimples.—Take a dose of Rochelle salts occasionally, and bathe your face night and morning in diluted cologne water. Be careful in eating to avoid very rich, salt, or greasy food. „ Lamp.—For piles, see No. 39 of volume 31. For prolapsus ani, see No. 43 of volume 31. B. J. G.—For St. Vitus’ Dance, see No. 42 of volume 31. Anxiety.— Your trouble is of too long standing for ordinary treatment. Consult an aurist. Map.—I. Flesh worms and Pimples.—Try this recipe: Wash the face twice a day in warm water, and rub dry with a coarse towel. Then with a soft towel rub in a lotion made of two ounces of white brandy, one ounce of cologne, and one-half ounce of liquor potassa. PeM»ns subject to skin eruptions should avoid very salt or fat foo". A dose of Epsom salts occasionally might prove beneficial. 2. Carbolic Cerate.—Melt together five ounces of lard and two and a half ounces of white wax; add half an ounce of balsam of fir, and when it begins to cool, stir in half an ounce of carbolic acid. The addition of balsam of fir to this preparation corrects the disagreeable odor of the acid, and renders it slightly adhesive, which is quite desirable when used as a dressing for burns, old sores, etc. L C D.— Erysipelas.—Erysipelas is of two kinds, one affecting principally the skin, the other the whole system. In inild cases, affecting the skin only, lemonade made from the fresh fruit helps the patient very much, being in addition very grateful to the palate. Flour may, also, be dusted on the inflamed parts. In severe cases call a physician. t____________ -rrA anH rolro O rfVf- of mind of his victim, could nothing better than pretend to fall mortally wounded. As for the spectators, they were completely dazed; the plot of the drama itself was extremely complicated, without the addition of a character whose appearance succeeded in sending them home in a state of perplexity bordering upon insanity. The ae^. ^^^LvEKTi^-Avoid late hours, and take a tee-company laughed heartily at the fun, and the man- spoonful of Epsom salts In a third of a tumbler of water, every ager, obliged to join in the general mirth, thought other morning for one week, before breakfast. A spare diet wd that the only way to get rid of so dangerous an ad-1 also help you. 4 THE NEW YORK WEEKLY NEW YORK, DECEMBER 4, 1876. Terms to Sabscri&ers : One month, (postage free) 25c. | One Year—I copy (postage fresf^S Two months.............50c. | “ " 2 copies.... 5 Three months ..........75c. | “ “ 4 “ .. ..10 Four months....... .....$1.00| “ “ 8 “ .....20 Those sending $20 for a Club of Eight, all sent at one time, will be entitkxl to a Ninth Copy fukk. Getters up of Clubs can afterward add single copies at $2.60 each. In making remittances for subscriptions, always procure a draft on New York, or a Post-Office Money Order, if possible. Where neither of these can be procured, send the money, but at-ways in a rbgisterbi) letter. The registration fee has been re-ducod to ten cents, and the present registration system has been fount* by the postal authorities to be virtually an absolute pro-taction against losses by mail. AU Postmasters are obliged to register letters wiienever requested to do so. In addressing letters to Street & Smith, do not omit our Box Number. By a recent order of the Post-office Department this Ie absolutely necessary, to insure the prompt delivery of letters. To Subscribers.—When changing your address, please give former, as well as present address, with County and State; also, be certain to name the paper for which you subscribe. All Letters should be addressed to STREET & SMITH, Proprietors. 3T SO ami 31 Rowe SL. N. Y. I’.O. ISnx Mummy Seed. About two y<mrs sinOO ft few peas, in a very dry and hard state, were found in a sarcophagus containing a mummy, in the course of certain excavations still going on in Egypt It was known that these seed must have been buried for many thousands of years, but the idea was conceived of testing their vitality, and determining if the germinating power still existed. They were sent to a scientist in England who had them carefully planted, though really with no more than the ordinary care bestowed by the thrifty husbandman. They vegetated as promptly as any seeds in the same garden lot, and the seeds thus produced were again planted so that the last fall’s product from the mummy seed covered a considerable field. Aside from the singular interest attached to the reappearance of the seed after being buried for so many thousand years, the product itself was sufficiently peculiar to attract considerable attention. Some of the stalks grew to the height of more than six feet and attained a size which was altogether extraordinary, and a strength which rendered them self-supporting, like Indian corn. The blossoms were both white and roso-colored, and of delicious freshness and fragrance. The pods which were long and full, were grouped on either side of the stalk in a sort of circular zone toward the top, and not regularly distributed throughout as in the modern pea cultivated in our era. It is believed by those who tested the edible qualities of this vegetable that it was identical with that of our own except that its variety was peculiar in growth, and extremely prolific. How active the imagination becomes when we realise under what circumstances these seeds were found, where they have laid undisturbed since thousands of years before the time of Christ! What possible story related to the body of that Egyptian beside which they had remained so long? Was it the body of prince or princess, a bond or freeman. Was it laid low by disease, war or an assassin’s hand ? Conjecture becomes very busy over the circumstances. And then again, that through all exigencies and Uio great lapse of time, these peas should retain their vitality, and now blossom in the nineteenth century of the Christian era, and bear fruit seems to us almost a miracle. Francis S. Smith’s New Story. We shall soon be able to definitely announce the number of the New. York Weekly in which Mr. Smith’s nw juvenile story will be commenced. The mere mention of a story by this popular writer, last week, has already aroused delightful anticipations regarding it; and these anticipations will not be disappointed, for we can assure the public that it is deeply interesting, and teems with fresh and spirited incidents. The action is brisk, and constantly varying, keeping curiosity perpetually on the alert to discover the solution to the ingenious plot. Although written for the especial entertainment of the young folks, mature readers will also be highly pleased with the new story by the author of “Bertha, the Sewing-Machine Girl.” A speechless wife might, by some men, he con-sidered an unspeakable blessing; but a speechless husband is certainly an aggravation. Mrs. Lollypop arose the other morning, shortly after her hus-band, and observing him parting his hair before the mirror with scrupulous care, remarked that the day promised to be a very beautiful one. Receiving no answer, and thinking he had not heard her,she again said: “John, I think we are to have a very fine day.” As he faced her, she noticed that hie lips were compressed, and was a little startled when he placed his hand upon them, shook his head, and shot out through his nose a noise resembling three Indian grunts-^’Ugh! ugh! ugh!” “Why, what ails the man?” she asked, in alarm. An-othoi’iominous shake of the head was his answer, followed by the-same nasal sounds. “Oh, Heaven! he has lost his voice. Paralysis of the tongue, perhaps I Mary!” shouting down stairs to the servant, “run for a physician. Your master is speechless!” Mr. Lolly pop squirted into the basin a mouthful of tincture of myrrh, and allayed her fears and aroused her anger by saying: “Oh, cease your infernal clatter. The tooth I had extracted yesterday left my gum sore, and I was endeavoring to apply a remedy. Speechless, indeed! A little liquid in your mouth is needed to give your tongue an occasional rest.” ---------------------------------------- A strange death-scene was recently witnessed in Troy. * At the residence of James Doyle a number of mourners gathered to pay the last tribute of respect to the remains of Mr. Doyle’s sister. The body had been conveyed from Brooklyn, and the brother received a telegram informing him of the time wi^en it would arrive. It was conveyed to his residence, and preparatory to the commencement of the solemn services, the coffin was opened, that the relatives might for the last time view the face of the departed sister. The mourners drew near, and the first glance at the rigid features appalled them. In fright they started back, and gazed at each other in amazement aud consternation. The corpse was that of a man! Some terrible blunder had occurred, and no one could explain it A strange undertaker soon after appeared upon the scene, and claimed the body, while Doyle’s undertaker seemed anxious to dispute his right to it A mistake of the telegraph had caused this perplexing affair. A careless clerk in the telegraph office had changed “Mr. Bosley” into “Mr. Boyle;” and Boyle’s undertaker at the railroad station, had claimed and obtained the body intended for Bosley. The aid of the telegraph was again invoked, and it was learned that as Mr. Boyle’s sister is not dead, her funeral must for the present be deferred. ---------------------------------------- The annual product of the mines of Colorado, last year, amounted to $8,000,000. Pretty good for a minor; so let us encourage the infant State. A DOLEFULTRAGEDIE. Recently there came into our possession some old papers belonging to a young lady in New Hampshire, who died over fifty years ago; and among them was the manuscript of the appended verses, which we have transcribed—orthography unchanged—as a relic of “ye olden time.” The manuscript bears the date of April leth 1815— and the author dwelt in an obscure town far up among the mountains of the Granite State. Kate Thoen. THE INDULGENT PAKIENT’S DEAS. Indulgent parients dear, pray now attend, to this relation here which I have pend— A deeper tragidy You never heard, for why0 a mother’s cruelty ruined her son. the darling of her heart, and chief delight; mind but the bleeding part while here I write! And you with me will say. “alas! and well a day true love’s sad, sad decay Calls for our tears!” The youth of whom I treat Was by decent, A Squire most complete, and as he went to court a merchant’s maid, his mother often sayed “why will you thus degrade our farmerly ?” “Will not a ladie gay well qualified with wealth, and beauty, prays serve for your bride ? but you must needs adore one born of parents poor ? I never will own you more, if you procede I” “Dear mother, say not so f doe not despise my love, for well I know her charming eyes more rich than rheubies are f J She’s wealthy, being fair-No ladies can compair with my trew love I “She’s worthy of my lovel doe not disdain. my dove! 1 covet no gain! ware she as poor as Job. and I in royal robe, and lord of all the globe, she should be mine!” When his marm understood his love was true, she sought the damsel’s bloody and envious grew— says she. “I’ll have her life ear she shall be his wife!” therefore a bloody knife she did provide. She chose a proppertime for to commit the crime, when none was near; her son to London went— she for this maiden sent, seeming with sweet content to welcome her. the maid with cheerful heart then come with speed, not thinking that her part would be to bleed! the mother spake up first— she after blood did thirst-saying—“dear child, you must goe walk with me!” The maid without delay “madam.” says she, •*Pve joy to think I may admitted be to walk abroad with you !’8 poor heart 1 she little knew what sorrows would onsue! Death was at hand! Near to a silent grove they did repare, all their discourse was low till they came there! but soon she changed the scene, and showed her hateful spleen— “madam, what do you meanF* the damsel cryd. “What I moan you shall find before we partT-this knife it shall discend to pearoe your heart! ’ You have ensnared my son— his heart was quickly won. I’ll end all that is done In this here place!” the maid fell on her knees, seeing the knife— “deer madam, if you please spare but my life! Fil make this promise here. If you will set me clear, your son I’ll not go near while I have breath!” “no more you shan’t I” she eryd. i*ll make all sure! down by ‘ his river’s side, you must indure instead of cubit’s dart, one fatal minute’s smarts* this said, unto the heart she stabed her strait! with that the crirasin blood run down amain! at length the reeking flood the grass did stain! those cheeks so fair and red ware changed as pale as led! with rushes covered she left her thare! no mourning obsequies. No passing bell— no solum funerel— none to lament her fall-till her trew love did call for her at last THE SECOND PART. Oh, now, with bleeding heart and melting tears, mind but the second part, alas! your ears will soon invaded bo with a new tragedy 1 the squire’s sad distany you soon shall hoar i The Squire returning home he went to see his love, she was not to be found through all the country round! with sorrows compassed round the Squire he stood! fiitheing he nothing spake filled with surprise; At length his silence brake, and thus he cryd— “My love is past all cure! I shall not long endure, ware she alive I’m sure she would be here! “cursed be that fatal hand! that gave the blow! either by sea. or land! for well I know my dearest love is dead! I am discomforted— all joys are from me fled! all woe is me!” he took his chamber strait, there all alone in tears he did relate his griefs unknown I praying continorally, that a discovery of that sad tragedy might soon be made. as he lamenting lay late in the nite, the room appeared like day all over light! three bitter groans he heard, and then the ghost appeared, from head to foot besmeared with purple gore! theaparition made toe his bedside— he. being not afraid, toe it be cryd— “Oh, what unhappy fate brings you ? unfortunate!’8 then, did the ghost relate all that had past. “though in a silent wood my body lyes, yet I apear in blood before your eyes I your cruel mother she wrought my sad diBtany! had you not loved me all had been well!” with a sad groan, or to, vanished away, leaving the Squire who there lamenting lay, with many a bitter tear till daylight did apear— then called his mother dear into the room. “Oh, worst of womenkind! what have you done ? doe you throng murder find plagues for your son ? You have destroyed my love which will my ruin prove! by all the powers above I cannot live!” Says she—"are you in frantic fits? what doe you mean ? or quite beside your wits, and filled with spleen ? what makes you rare and tare like one in black dispair ?” Says he—“dear mother, I declare You are the cause! “Gome death, be kind to me! My vitals seize! why should I live to see such griefs as these?” with that, his sword he drew and thrust his body through! saying, "dear mother, you have ruined me!” now when she saw her son dead on the floor— she gave a dreadful shriek^ servants therefore came running up amain, but help was all in vain! the squire he was slain! no life was left! his cruel mother she soon did confess her bloody cruelty her wickedness 1 how with that dreadful knife she’d took the damsel’s life; "the same death dealing knife shall end the strife!” says she—and stabed herself? Moral, thia wicked woman she through her ambitious pride, caused her son to rue! three persons died I let this a warning be to high and low degree, where love it can’t be free parents Indulgent be— and let it not torter the mind! THE END. flag as soon as he would any man on the road, and when one cold, snowy night in midwinter, it became necessary to flag the night express at Pleasant Valley, he was sent back around the curve, with red Light and torpedoes. Just around the curve is a high truss-bridge over a ravine. In the darkness, and confused as to the whereabouts of the bridge by the blinding snow, driving in his face, Dennis walked on to it. slipped, and before he could make an effort to save himself, fell through to the ground below, a distance of full fifty feet. The drift of snow under the bridge broke the force of the fall, else he had been killed. As it was, one leg was broken in two places, and the ankle of the other dislocated. When he realized his situation, his first thought was that he could never get out without assistance, and he called loudly many times. But the echo ot his voice died awav ere reaching the top of the ravine. His lamps were out, he felt himself gradually grow numb with the cold, and he gave himself up for lost But, great heavens! the express! The thought caused him to start forward, and he fell with a yell of agony. But setting his teeth in his quivering lips, he determined to reach the track above or die in the attempt. What terrible agony the poor fellow suffered in dragging his broken limbs over the frozen ground, and up the steep embankment through the snow, can be readily imagined. A dozen times he sank exhausted; but his indomitable will carried him th rough, and when he reached the side of the track, the head-light of the express was not a mile distant. He crawled along, and with trembling, freezing hands, all cut and bruised, fastened his torpedoes to the rails and sank back utterly exhausted. He, luckily, lay on the right side, and at the first sound of a torpedo, the engineer looked down and saw him, al most covered with snow. The train was stopped, Dennis was taken on insensible, and tenderly cared for until they reached Zanesville, where his broken limbs were set, and he was nursed back into health again. Buthisactive railroad days were gone forever. His hands and feet were so frozen, that it was found necessary to amputate several of his fingers and toes, and poor Dennis is a cripple for life. But the company appreciated his services on that terrible night, and he now holds a position on the road, the duties of which are light and easy, and his appointment reads—/or life. Borne of the members of a church in Victoria, New South Wales, belong to a temperance society, and they objected to the use of fermented wine at half yearly communion service. A compromise was effected by giving them, atone side of the altar, the fresh juice of bruised grapes and currants, while at the other side rare and exhilarating old wine was used. It would not astonish us to hear that In the future “half-and-half” will be agreed upon as mutually satisfactory. It was a stormy day without, and we three women —my younger sister. Belle, Aunt Cathcart, and myself—preferred the cozy comfort of the sitting-room to the attractions of the matinee which we had anticipated until the cold rain set in. Aunt’s visits were very rare, and we exerted ourselves in every way to make them pleasant, particularly as she was very sad and silent always, and one of the most unselfish of women. We grew curious and inquisitive sitting there talking together, and Belle, particularly, was eager to know all aunt’s history. Aunt had always been an enigma to me, and having the opportunity I determined to solve it, and did so, in this wise: . "Aunt,” said I, "why did you, of all your family, remain single ? Did not some swain ‘go acourting’ when you were a girl, and ask your hand ?” She looked out of the window steadily for a few moments and then she turned her head. I noticed tears in her eyes and was sorry I had caused them. "It mav please you to know something of your mother’s only brother.” she replied, "and I will tell you a painful story, though I thank Heaven there are none living now who suffer from its memory, as I must always do. "Iwas the eldest sister, Edna, and you may remember hearing your father mention your uncle, whom he knew as a child, and who died very suddenly when he was only nineteen years of age. Horace was our only brother, as I have said, and he was my senior by two years; being consumptive his life was more precious to our parents than that of all their six daughters. "The last summer of his life he was invited and accepted gladly the invitation to visit a relation of ours, who was residing in Minnesota. I was selected to go with him, and as he was far from robust at the time, the duties that devolved upon me were hard indeed, but there was no alternative, and I went. Horace rapidly improved after he reached the ‘Lakes,’ as Cousin Vaughn called his pretty home, and daily letters of glad import were sent back to father and mother. Father literally oppressed me with commands concerning Horace’s care. I must not permit the wind to chill him, or the sun to overheat him; he was to be shielded and served, and in the end he weuld surely be restored to perfect health. “One day. and the memory of that day has cast its long, dark shadow over my entire existence, and made it a blank—Horace appeared unusually well; but the climate which had seemed to benefit him so suddenly and so greatly had affected my system differently, and I had endured. chills and headaches without end. This day,.! . oppressively weak, and I asked for a rjui^if. no one else wished to use the phaeton. ‘Horai^puld drive,’ I said, and we would go early and return before sun- “The horses were beautiful animals, but I had begged that only one of them be driven, as I knew them to be spirited and hard to control. But they all laughed at my fears, and Horace twitted me for being cowardly. I said no more, but started off with a wish at my heart that I had not mentioned the subject at all. and with a prayer that we might return in safety. "The drive around the lake was delightful, and the horses went along so well I was fast forgetting all my anxiety—but in returning, they were not so docile, and it was with difficulty that Horace could hold them steady. The road was round the lake, and there was one point where cousin had been in the habit of letting them drink. Beaching this point, they dashed into the water and my brother was powerless to prevent them. While they were drinking, he found time to rest a moment, and seeing a man on the roadside, he called to him to hold them when he drove out. “ ‘You are not strong enough to manage these animals, stranger,’ he Baid; ‘they are ’Squire Vaughn’s. I know them well. They know he ain’t behind them, and they will play you pranks.’ “ ‘What can we do, Horace?’ I said, anxiously. “ ‘Oh, nothing; the stranger will hold them while I get out and rest a while, and then I guess we can get on all right.’ “Ho got out and sat down in the shade, while the farmer held them and examined erery portion of the harness. I remained in my seat, but I would have given anything to have left it then and there forever. I asked the man how far we were from home. "Only three miles,’ he said; ‘but the horses would gothrough the village, as was their custom, and the trouble will be to guide them.* “Then I remembered that cousin had said the same thing, and I grew wretched. But Horace regained courage with the rest he had taken, and nothing could induce him to permit the stranger to drive him home, as he offered to do. I yielded t© his authority against my own convictions, and I have ne.ver ceased to regret it. “He thanked the man, resumed his seat, and we started on our homeward race, for it was simply a break-neck speed that we traveled at from the moment ne took the lines in his hands. The road was level, and there were no embankments, but there were many teams along the way, and these we passed with dread. “I had taken off my gloves and my shawl, and sat braced back on my seat, ready to clutch the reins the moment I saw him show signs of weakness. Twice I tried to take them from him, but he resisted my efforts, only holding them tighter, and not saying a word. His face was as pale as death, and at each lurch of the phaeton, I noticed he shivered as if in a chill. The horses were perfectly unmanageable, and they were traveling faster and faster each moment "Through the village we went, every one rushing out to look at us, but none able to overtake or stop the horses. Cousin Vaughn stood at his gate, and seeing us far up the road, he called to his workmen near by, and, forming in the road and closing the gates, ne caught one horse as some one else caught the other, and we were safe at last. Horace got out without speaking a word, and cousin took one arm and I the other to help him into the house. "He did not speak at all. and we said nothing. As we entered the door, Horace glanced up stairs, and we helped him up to his room. At the top he sank down, and from his mouth gushed blood. It was a death-knell to all our hopes, and he knew it as well as we. Medical aid was quickly summoned, and over the wires went the swift words to father, ‘Come. Horace cannot recover—hemorrhage.’ The third day a second hemorrhage came on, and then we saw that he was sinking fast. We knew that father and mother were coming, and that they would reach the village that day, but it was nearly night, and all day the carriage had waited at the depot for them. ‘Would they never come,’ I exclaimed, impatiently. The patient was restless, and evidently conscious of our anxiety, but he had never spoken a word since he had thanked the man at the lake. "Just at twilight the sound of wheels rapidly approaching warned us that they were coming, and soon in the entry below I heard the voices of my parents. I sank into a chair at the bedside and waited for them, for at that moment I was too weak to speak or move. Father came first. Slowly and painfully he mounted the stairs, and cast his eyes into the room where lay his only son dying. The bed had been placed in the center of the room, and he could see Horace before he came in. But the film of death was already gathering over his boy’s eyes, and he did not seem to see or hear the tremulous tones that were uttered over him. LIFE ON THE RAIL. BY CHESTER F. BAIRD. No. 10. dennis7^iptyi-es*-the FIeAGMAN‘5 PERIL. One of the most reliable train men on the B, & O. Road at one time, was Dennis Casey. Dennis is of Irish extraction, as his name denotes—a great, good-humored fellow, as full of fun ns a Florida swamp is full of musquitoes. but as good and trustworthy a brakeman as ever “packed a box,” or “cranked” on any road. The amusing adventures, and hair-breadth ^scapes of Dennis would fill a volume; and as he is a fair sample of many trusty men holding like positions, a few incidents in his career may be of interest to our readers. When he was first taken on as “extra man” he was a green boy not long from the “ould sod.” and not much confidence was placed in him by his conductor. But it was not long before his faitnful attention to duty, his unvaried good humor and quickness in learning, brougtht him into favorable notice, and he was taken on as permanent brake-man. > One dark nifeht he was senje out from a way station to flag the express. conductor followed him around the curve to watch how he performed his duty, it being his first time with a flag. A few rods from where Dennis, stationed himself with his red light, was a swamp covered with a dense growth of briers and bushes, and peopled with countless thousands of frogs—croaking frogs, whistling frogs, talking frogs, in fact, frogs of all kinds. Now Dennis’ credulous, mind was filled with the "wind” the boys had given him about train robbers, desperadoes, and ghosts* who haunted the vicinity of the road, and when he stopped and stood lamp in hand, watching up the track for the gleam of the head-light of the engine he was to flag, he was somewhat startled to hear in deep, sepulchral tones, "Who are you? who are you ?”—coming from the roadside. His answer was ready, though. "I’m Buddy Mitchell’s hind brakeman, sur.” "What do you want? what do you want?” came in a peremptory voice from the swamp close at hand. "BurejSur, I’m sint out to flag Number Tin,” an-swered Dennis. The echo of his voice had scarcely died away when he was startfed into a full sense of bis peril by many rough voices exclaiming, “Shoot him! shoot him 1” accompanied by the splashing of water and rustling of bushes. For an instant Dennis was “taken all aback,” and retreated in good order a half-dozen ea v-lengths. Then "hisIrish kim up,” and flourishin ; his lamps, he swore—"By all the powers o’ Malfkfilie’e long tailed cat 1 I’ll stay here and flag Number Tin in spite o’ all the robbers an’ ghosts in Ameriky!” The sound of the conductor’s laughter was drowned by the whistle of “Number Tin,” and Dennis flagged her in good style; but he has never heaid the last of his ghostly adventure with the frogs. “To the divil with such animals as frogs,” says Dennis. “Ameriky needs a St. Patrick to drive them into the say.” Dennis’ call for the services of St Patrick in “Ameriky” was louder than ever when he had his next adventure with "riptyles.” He was on night freight, and a wild stormy night it was, dark as Erebus, and a cold, driving rain falling steadily. When they side-tracked at Blackhand for the express, the probabilities were that they would have to wait for some time, as she was reported late when they passed the last telegraph station. As they were in out of her way the boys were inclined to take their ease. The engine being too hot for Dennis, who was braking ahead, he found a box-car, the door of which was fastened without being locked. Pushing it open and holding up his lamp, he saw that it was only partially filled with boxes and barrels, leaving abundance of room for him to take a little snooze, and be right on hand when the express roused him up in passing. He crawled in, closed the door to keep out the rain, and pulling down a couple of boxes, stretched himself thereon, and was soon dreaming of "the girls of Kilkenny” at Donnybrook Fair. “How long I had been aslape I don’t know,” savs Dennis. “I waA dreamin’ av the dear ould home acrass the says, an’ me darlint Kathleen Avour-neen.whin I was wakened by somethin’crawlin’ over me legs, I listened an’ heard a schrapin’ nise on the floor, an’ a hissin’. ‘Fwhat the divil,’ says I, ‘is that ?* Mebby there’s gepse in one o’ the boxes.’ Heerin’ the schrapin’ an’ hissin’ still, I riz up, an’ fwhat did I see ? Why two av the biggest snakes I ever heerd on, a racin’roun’the floor, an’ pokin’ their bloody snouts up kt me. At fursht I thought they kim from the moind. loike they do to thim who drink too much ‘Loightnin’ John.’ But I don’t drink, an’ I soon made up me moind that the divil was to pay. The box I was on was close to the door, an’ widout waitin’ fur me lamp I opened id. an’ joomped oxit into the rain, an’ran for the ingine. Av coorse I yelled, an’ me hair stood up on end, loike the hair on thim divilish porkvpines, fur 1 was sure the varmints was afther me. “The ingineer an’ fireman called the conduethor, an’ they wint to the car an’ crawled carefully up, an’ sure enough there they was. They hadn’t kim aroun’ the boxes yit, or they’d av joomped out. The conduethor had a bill for ’em. They belonged to Barnum, av coorse, or they wouldn’t av been gettin’up ‘a new sensation’ on the^thrain. They had been left behoind whin the animals was shipped the day afore. The conduethor shut the door quick enough, I tell ye, lavin’ me lamp for the benefit o’ their snakeships, who were captured by the menagerie min the nixt day. I doirt see the sinse o* sich bloody riptyles anyway! Fwhat with frogs, an’ shnakes, a poor divil has no pace av his loife in Ameriky. The blissid St. Pathrick would make short worruk av thim if he was here.” As time rolled swiftly by, Dennis had no more adventures with “riptyles;” and—as has been said —became one of the most trusty brakemen on the road. His last adventure, however, came near costing him his life, and brought his name to the notice of the company, who have provided for him for his faithfulness and devotion to duty. I Dennis’ conductor had come to trust him with a AUNT CATHCART’S RECITAL. BY LAURA a HOLLOWAY. Mother was led in, looking the picture of death itself, and. with a low moan, she fell to the floor. Horace moved uneasily, and she was lifted to have him see her. He looked at her intently, as if trying to remember something, and then his face lit up with a glad, bright light; he threw up his arms as if to catch her to his heart, raised himself wholly in the bed, and then, with a yearning, fond look at both of them, sank back—dead. It was all over in a few moments, but to me it seemed an age. They had not seen me, and I crept out of the room as the family gathered about the bedside. “All that night I heard the moans and sobs of my mother, and listened to father’s steady tread on the floor, too wretched to go to either of them. When morning came mother sent for me, and very gently told me that father blamed me for the ride that was the occasion of Horace’s death, and that he was too afflicted to listen to reason, or hear explanations. “We will leave you here, if you prefer, Ellen, until he feels different, and then I will write you.” It was a terrible shock to my already shattered system. I was too ill to rise next day, and when they started with all that was left of Horace, I could not lift my head to see the hearse leave the grounds. Mother came in tosaygood-hy and to tell me that she had given all her instructions to my cousins, and I need only lie still, and that I would be well and about in a day or two. That night I was delirious with fever, and for four months I did not leave my room. In my ravings I continually appealed to the family not to let my parents know of my sickness, and they pitied me and sympathized with me to that extent that none of them at home knew of my danger until I was nearly recovered. “I went home because I felt that I had trespassed on the kindness of our cousins too Jong, and not for any hope or wish I had of ever being happy there again. Your mother, Edna, met me at the depot and prepared me for my father’s unchanged coldness. Mother was glad to have me at home, but father’s greeting killed air the warmth in my heart. I never loved him after that stern, hard look, and almost inaudible ‘Good morning.’ All this happened thirty years ago, and I was then only seventeen years of age; but I was as old then as now. and I never have been myself since that awful ride around the lake.” “After father died mother grew nearer to me, and by degrees, as she heard me repeat over each circumstance as it occurred, she became convinced that I could not have influenced Horace to have done differently, and that if he could have been persuaded as I wished, he would not have died at that time.” ------------------------ Steel ornaments adorn the toes of the new-fashioned shoes worn by Parisian ladies. We hope to see them in use by young ladies in this country, particularly when they attend church. A steel spike or two in the shins of the conceited young men who throng about church doors, after service, staring stupidly at every pretty face, like boys in search of their mammas, might make them smart. To Correspondents. To Buyers.—All communications in regard to the pricesor the purchasing of various articles must be addressed to the New York Weekly Purchasing Agency, contain the full address of the writers, and specify the size, quantity or quality of the goods desired. Those requiring an answer must have two ihree-cent stamps inclosed. Owing to the large increase of letters to be answered in this column, a delay of several weeks must necessarily ensue before the answers appear in print. Notice.—With every mail we receive a number of letters on various subjects, in which the writers request an answer by niail instead ot through the various departments. To do this we are compelled to employ additional help, beside being put to considerable trouble and expense to obtain the information. This we will cheerfully submit to when the questions are answered through our columns, as the knowledge thus imparted will interest and benefit the mass of our readers; but in the future, to secure an answer by mail, persons desiring it must inclose a fifty cent stamp, to pay us for our trouble, and expense. Gossip with Readers and Contributors — Forrest.— 1st. Papier mache (mashed paper) is pronounced THip-ya-ma-sba. It is a hard substance made of the pulp of paper mixed with glue or gum, in which condition it may be pressed in molds and dried. It is also made of slieets of paper pasted one over another in sheets or upon models, and then subjected to a powerful pressure and dried. 2d. Thobes (called Noor No-Am mon by the Hebrews, and Diospolis the Great by the later Greeks and Romani was anciently the capital of Upper Egypt and for a long time of tlie whole country. The ruins of Theoes, which are among the most magnificent in the world, are found at the modern villages ot Luxor and Karnak on the east-bank of the Nile, and Guma and Medinet-Abu on the western. From its ruins ft is inferred that the city was about five and a quarter miles in length by three miles in breadth. 3d. “Barnacle Backstay” is out of print. 4th. Chuquisaca, or Sucre, as it is more generally called, the capital of Bolivia, is a rtty of about 374W0 inhabitants, the greater part of whom are Indians. It is situated on a plateau upon the Rio de la Plata. 5th. See “Knowledge Box.” Querist.—Poughkeepsie is a Corruption of the Indian word Apokeepslng, signifying safe harbor. This was one of die earliest settlements on the Hudson. In the year 1788 the State convention assembled here to ratify the Federal Constitution of the United States. The famous Vassar College for women is situated at Poughkeepsie. Mon'is W.—Six dollars a day In gold fe a fair calculation for traveling in Europe, for each person. While one is moving from one section to another, it will cost more, but stopping a week or ten days at a time in certain localities, brings the average expenses down. Bv traveling second class and putting up at moderate priced houses, the tour of Europe can be made tor four dollars, gold, per day. 5^ W. N. B.—Queenstown used to be called the “Cove of Cork,” it being really the harbor of that city, titough situated a doaen miles south-east of it. The name was changed in 1849, in honor of the visit of Queen Victoria in that year. Your mistake was a very natural one under the circumstances, but a mistake all the same. Queenstown has about ten thousand inhabitants. Minnie C.— The house in Xvhich Milton lived in London is still standing, on the north side of York street, near the St. James Park Station of the Underground District Railway. It was until lately, if it be not still, occupied by a fishmonger who has a sign which reads thus: “The Noted Fried Fish Shop.” F. S. A — In cribbage, lour sevens and an ace count 24—12 for fifteens and 12 for a double pair royal, or six pairs. Four treys and nine count the same number snd in the same manner. J.—We do not know how you will ascertain tlie whereabouts ot your cousin unless you advertise in the leading Vermont papers, or wi*fte-to the postmasters of tlie various town. Tliere would be no inpropriety in opening a correspondence with him. - M. K. C.—It you wish to obtain two mortgages on your property at the same time, and fiirnish the holder of the first with an abstract of the title, you may make a duplicate in part for the holder of the second, and have it duly attested by tlx? attorney. An abstract is a summary of the evidences ot ownership, being a record of all transfers of proprietorship, judgments, claims, etc., against it for a term of years. Rhode Island.— Address a letter to the individual himself. We should be compelled to do so in order to obtain the information. May D. L.—The address of Wendell Phillips is Boston, Mass. His principal speeches and lectures have been published in an octavo volume. He is doubtless the most uncompromising radical reformer now living, and one of the most eloquent men in the United States. Latterly his time and attention have been much taken up by the temperance movement. Mr. Phillips is sixty-five years ot age. Albert M.—In reply to your query we would say it was Doctor Johnson who made the oft quoted remark tlmt if an atlieistcame into his house he would lock up the spoons. The other expression to which you reler, that it is lawful to take tlie devil’s water to turn the Lord’s mill, emanated from Doctor Worcester. Both remarks are especially characteristic of the meA who uttered them. Henry.—It your name does not suit you, you can liave it altered by making a record of the change with tiie clerk of the Court ot Common Pleas. Tl>e mere transposition of Christian names is a matter in which you can act your own pleasure. Reckless.— We do not vouch for the reliability of our advertisers. If we ascertain that they are not to be depended on in their dealings with their customers, the advertisements are ordered out of the paper. Annie.— The first anniversary of a marriage is called the iron wedding; the second, paper wedding; thira, straw; fifth, wooden; tenth, tin; fifteenth, crystal; twentieth, linen; twenty-fifth, silver; fiftieth, gold; seventy-fifth, diamond. Tlie presents to the couple in whose honor such parties are given must be of the material which conforms to the name of the anniversary. Ignorant PoUy.—Helen was a Grecian princess, celebrated in Grecian mythology for her beauty and for causing the siege of Troy. She was the wife of Menelaus, but during his absence from Sparta she fled with the Trojan prince Paris to Troy. The siege of Troy by the Greeks ensued, and was only terminated by the destruction of the city. Paris having been killed during the siege, she became the wife of Delpbobus, his brother; but after the taking of the city, she betrayed him to the Greeks, and returned to Sparta with Menelaus, whose forgiveness she had received. After the latter’s death she was forced to leave Sparta, and retired to Rhodes, where the queen of that island, Polyxo, whose husband, Hepolemus, had been killed at Troy, caused her to be seized while bathing, tied to a tree, and strangled. Judy Smadlweed —The delay was caused by the non-arrival of your answer to our letter. The paper will be forwarded regularly. F. 8. L.— Rule 21 of the game of chess reads: “Every pawn which has reached the eighth or last square of the chess-board must be immediately exchanged for a queen or any piece the player may think fit, even though all the pieces remain on the board. It follows, therefore, that be may have two or more queens, three or more rooks, bishops or knights.’’ Dr. McKnab.—lst. Macon, Mo., is a city of about 4,000 inliab-itants, and the capital of the county of the same name. It is quite a thriving town, has two banks, two public schools, four weekly newspapers and twelve churches, and a large academy. It is 170 miles northwest of 8t Louis, on the line of the St. Louis, Kansas City and Northern Railroad. The fare from St. Louis is $6.75. 2d. r‘Maggie, the Charity Child,” has not been publislx?d in book form, and the papers containing it are out ot print. The author, Mr. F. S. Smith, has just completed a boys’ story, which will soon be commenced. C. M. Garnet.—See foot of column. Dispute.— 1st. There is no question of rank as between a regular army officer and an officer of militia, unless the commands of the two are united. When militia regiments enter the service of the U. S. Government, their identity as militia regiments ceases for the time being, and they are sworn into the service as U. S. volunteers, the field and line officers being commissioned as such, and ranking with the officers of the regular service. 2d. The Governor of New York State has no control of the U. 8. troops within its boundaries In case their services were required in an emergency, he could apply to the President, who would instruct the commander of the post, but in no event would such troops be under the command of the State authorities. Nixon.—“Bashful Ben” will cost 42 cents. It was published about a year ago. Lisette N.—Germania is a small post village of Potts county, Pa. There is no town of any size in the county, which has a mountainous surface, and is for the greater part covered with pine forests. The lumber trade is the main business engaged in. The following MSS. have been accepted: “Gome Unto Me,” “Old Ragged John.” The following will appear in the Mammoth Monthly'Reader: “Jasmine.” The following are respectfully declined: “To One Departed.” “Uncle Ned’s Story,” “Confidence,” “Lost and Found,” “Woman’s Love,” “Captured by Cannibals,” “The Deacon’s Flirtation,” “Centennial Musings,” “To One I Love,” “We’ll be Happy at Last,” “Sue,” “Only a Model,” “Mary is with the Angels Now.” TO PURCHASING AGENCY CORRESPONDENTS. In response to the queries of our correspondents who send no address, we give the prices at which the following articles may be procured throueh the New York Weekly Purchasing Agency: “Art of Contrasting Colors,” $5: “Manual of Etiquette,” 75 cents; “Complete Phonographer,” $2. THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. A nOBISAL SON. BY JOSEPHINE POLLARD- Now Tom was a boy who had plenty to eat, A nd a beautiful homo beside. With books, and with pictures—a famous treatH And a nice little pony to ride. If heM cried for the moon, I am very sure That his over-indulgent mamma Would have taken a journey the toy to secure, In an aeronautic car I He’d blocks, and he’d playthings enough to fill A pretty large room, I am told, Where he might display mechanical skill, Or the drawings of art unfold. And the boys in the neighborhood used to say., If they had such treasures at home, They never would be at a loss what to play. Or feel inclination to roam. But Tom wasn’t satisfied (boys never are!) He wanted a change of some sort. And envied the lot of the jolly Jack tar. Who sailed to a foreign port. He told not a word oi his dreams, fbrsorth. Except to his pony dear, Who thought him a most remarkable youth, And lent an attentive ear. Ono day such a wail on tlie air was borne! A dismal, distressing sound! The light and joy of the bouse was gone. For Tom was nowhere to be found! They hunted, and halloed, and searched wttliin Each corner and chimney, too. And didn’t forget the potato bin They were in such a dreadful stew! His jacket and trousers were thoroughly soaked With tears that his mother shed, And over his books and his toys she choked. When she thought that he might be dead. Kot a wink of sleep did a creature get In that house through the livelong night. For thought of a vagabond cold and wet, Perchance in some terrible plight. Now Toin,having always had plenty to eat, And plenty of loving care, Didn’t know what it was a real hardship to meet, And live upon scanty fare. Though he’d started off with a wish to roam In the countries of which he’d read, When night came on he thought of his home., And wished himself safe in bed. He cried a little—but in the dark— And none of the boys could see! And a HtUo before the earliest lark. On tire homeward track went be. And when his mother stole down at mora To have a new search begun. Her face already with anguish worn- Do ! there was the prodigal son f Ah I never were kisses so sweet, I think. As these that so freely fall, And seem to him better than meat or dnxtk, Though lie didn’t deserve them at all 1 And his father thought ’twere as well to nip In the bud what would bear remorse, So ho beat Tom’s clothes with a good stout whip, And Tom was in them, of course. He learned by a not very lengthy tramp, How little the boy will gain Who wanders off like a careless scamp, Nor thinks of another’s pain. And wbenever.he reads of the prodigal one, With husks abundantly filled, •He «unks had it been his own father’sfion TAe caiy wioAx baew BIOW She Loved Him A B0MANOS Of ME HEART. By Mrs. Louise G. Reynolds. f**How 8!>o Loved Him” was commenced in No. 60. Back Nos. Can be obtained of any News Agent.] CHAPTER XXIIL MARK DAVERSON’S DAUGHTER. The timo wore on, and Lionel still retained his good name and excellent character in the firm of Alverson & Son. Ho was still working steadily and soberly, and trying hard to obliterate the wretched past, which at times only too vividly returned to his memory. Times when the vision of the woman he had loved not wisely, but too well, came rising up before him, bright and glorious to his imagination as Jacob’s dream of the angels. Times when his soul sickened and yearned forthose he had left in England, and when in a moment of despair he felt almost inclined to sit down and write to his mother, asking her for a sufficient sum of money to pay his passage back to England. He knew he had only to write lor it. and he could have returned home at any hour, had he chosen; but then gradually a nobler and better feeling came over him, and he was determined to fight his battle to the end. Ho had found a good friend in his employer, and he knew it. This, at least, was one satisfaction to him. Ho wrote long letters home, assuring his mother that he was well, and comparatively happy; speaking delicately and tenderly of Florence, and trusting that by her he might still be remembered, al-tiiough he could never forget how unworthy he was cf even a single thought on her part. Ahl if he had only dared to dream how dear his memory was to his cousin’s heart—how she lingered and wept over his letters, and prayed for his speedy return and a glad reunion with all. But it is not our intention to speak of Florence at present; suffice it to add that her love for her cousin had never abated the least in its strength, and she still trusted in the hope that a day would come, not very long hence, when Lionel Deveril would come back to England and claim her as his own for ever. Four or five months passed, and Lionel’s employment in the mercantile house became less like that of a menial than it had been formerly. Mark Daverson had tried to keep him as much as possible in his own private office, especially if there was any extra business to be done, and of course this led to an increase of salary. Mr. Daverson’s secretary of course superintended most of his privateaffairs; but Mr. Emerson had been suddenly taken ill and rendered unable to attend to business, so that Lionel had proved himself useful m too manyways lately for his employer to think lightly of his services. Accordingly. every morning at nine o’clock Lionel Deveril might have been seen awaiting Mark Daverson’s arrival in his own well-appointed office, setting it in order, arranging papers, and, in short, doing a hundred different things to insure the comfort and help of his employer. And then, having seen that all was in readiness, he would seat himself ata small side-desk, which he sometimes occupied, and wait until Mark Daverson opened his office door and saluted him with a kind, ‘Good-morning, Deveril!” Of course. Mr. Daverson had hitherto employed a private secretary for all his most confidential business, so that in reality there had been very little of a strictly private nature for Lionel to do. But for the last few mornings Emerson had been ill, and Mr. Daverson, to a certain extent, had taken Lionel to fill his place. The youth found at last that his bitterest enemy was Mr. Suiman, the chief managing clerk, who never let an opportunity pass without showing him some petty annoyance; but Lionel’s amiability and pleasantness of manner were not to be disturbed by trifles such as these, and thus Mr. Suiman was provoked the more. “I want you to run out for me a moment, Deveril,” he would say sometimes, as the youth passed him to or from Mr. Daverson’s office. ‘‘I am sorry I cannot oblige you now. sir, but I am doing some business of the utmost importance for Mr. Daverson.” Suiman muttered something about asking Daverson himself, but Lionel said nothing, and went Quietly back to his work. Five minutes later Mr. Suiman would appear, ‘T want Deveril to go out for me, sir.” “Can’t spare him now Suiman: must send somebody else,” would be the rejoinder; and the clerk banged the door and went off grumbling. “That fellow is making himself a great deal too useful to the governor,” he said to himself. “We shall have him at the top of the ladder in no time at this rate.” The idea preyed upon Mr. Sulman’s mind, and he was determined to sift matters to the bottom to see how they stood between the manager and Lionel Deveril. “What shall you do, sir, if Emerson doesn’t make haste and get well?” he asked, a day or two later. ‘It will be very awkward for you, won’t it?” Well, I don’t know so much about that, Suiman,” answered the merchant, rubbing his chin re flectively. “In fact, my son and I have come to the conclusion that Deveril, with a little teaching. will make a better secretary than Emerson. He never was quick at figures, nor yet at composing a business letter. Now, Deveril is wonderfully elover at both. I have been trying him with two or three different things lately, and he astonishes me, I assure you.” Sulman’s face turned yellow, but through his mind flashed the reflection that Mark Daverson, junior, was alive to his merits, and this was the only hope of defeating him—his rival that Suiman had left. “But Emerson has been with you for so long now,” urged the clerk, again addressing the old gentleman; “and you know nothing of this fellow, Deveril.” “Only enough to convince me that he is steady, honest, and hard-working,” replied the merchant. “You cannot be blind to the fact yourself, Mr. Suiman, that Deveril is—is a very superior young man; in fact, I may say, a gentleman in every sense of the word—conversation, habits, and manners. Fortune has evidently been very cruel to him, that is certain; but that he is a gentleman, with a gentleman’s education and breeding, there is not the shadow of a doubt.” “Why don’t you question him, then, yourself, sir, and find out?” “I never seek to find out anything, Mr. Suiman. that people don’t choose to tell me,” interrupted Mark Daverson, sharply. “If Deveril wishes to make me his confidant he will do so. There is a skeleton in every man’s cupboard; there—there is one in—in mine” (alluding to hie wife); “but I should be very indignant if you or—or any one else tried to find it out, sir.” And he looked at Suiman almrst angrily. The clerk withdrew; he felt he had already said too much, and he had never seen the old gentleman so irate before. A moment later Lionel entered and took his seat at the desk he had lately been accustomed to occupy during Emerson’s illness. Mr. Daverson eyed him keenly for a time in silence, but could read nothing sinister, nothing dubious in his deep blue eyes and frank, open countenance. “Deveril,” he sai^at length. Lionel looked up quickly. “Yes, sir.” “I want to speak to you.” Lionel laid down his pen and looked attentively at his employer. "I am going away for a day or two with my wife and daughter,” said Mr. Daverson; “and while I am gone I leave the charge of ail my accounts to you.” —“To me!” and Lionel colored to his temples. “Do you think you can undertake them for me? or is it too much to ask?” “Oh, no, sir! I am only too grateful for the honor you do me in thus placing such confidence in one of whom you know so little,” answered Lionel, earnestly. “Believe me that I will never take ad-vajitage of your trust, but ever strive to prove myself worthy of your good opinion.” “I never think harm of any one, Deveril, until they give me cause.” rejoined the merchant, rising and buttoning his coat. “You needn’t thank me, my boy; Emerson does not seem anxious to return, therefore I see no reason why you should not fill his place.” Lionel’s heart leaped in its excess of joy; but this was not the time to prove his gratitude. He paused a moment to control his feelings, and then said: “Can I do anything, sir, before you take your departure?” “Yes; you can carry this cash-box to the carriage, which is waiting outside.” “And, if it is not a liberty, how soon shall you return, Mr. Daverson?” inquired Lionel. “ ’Tis not a liberty, my boy; ask me anything you please,” answered the old gentleman. To-day is Tuesday; I shall be back on Thursday afternoon.” Lionel took up the cash-box and left the office. Standing outside was an elegantly-appointed brougham, drawn by a thoroughbred chestnut mare. The door was open; there w:is a lady inside, and a young, sweet-looking girl was standing on the office steps talking to her brother, Mark Daverson, junior. Lionel placed the eash-box in the brougham; the lady drew back the skirt of her velvet dress, and looked at him as if angry at being disturbed. He did not pause, he hastened back, up the office steps, and Kate Daverson drew back to let him pass. Their eyes met, but Lionel’s glance did not Hn-e®FT; gazing after him up the passage. ui8 Lionel Deveril?” she whispered to Mark. Yes; we are thinking of taking him on in place of Emerson,” replied her brother, that is, if he gets on well during the governor’s absence,” f’Are you? I am so glad; I like his face so riWh. ‘ now like Florence I” thought Lionel, as, he ^hnt back to his desk. “Just her sweet expression, only not so pretty. I wonder who she is? Mr. Daverson’s daughter, I suppose,” And then he fell into a long happy reverie, from which he awoke to find himself alone, and to remember the responsibility attached to him during his employer’s absence. CHAPTER XXIV. LIONEL’S PROSPECTS CHANGE. Lionel, after a moment’s consideration, was not altogether easy in his mind on finding himself sole master of his employer’s office, and he felt that this was to be the turning point of his fortune, one way or the other. He knew he had made an enemy in Mr. Suiman, but he was unable to judge of how far his feelings of enmity might take him toward doing him an injury. Throughout the time that elapsed until Mr. Daverson’s return, Lionel tried to keep himself as much aloof from the vindictive clerk as possible. Mark Daverson, junior, came in now and then, asked him kindly now he was getting on, read a few letters, and then with a friendly smile went out again. Thus the time was spent until the merchant returned. Meanwhile nothing had been seen of his former secretary, Emerson; nor had Mr. Suiman taken any steps towards revenging himself upon Lionel Deveril. He felt that it was scarcely worth his while, for the youth was too great a favorite among them all. and Suiman was half afraid of the high-spirited young fellow in spite of the contemptuous manner he assumed toward him. And so Mr. Daverson came in on the Thursday afternoon, and found Lionel bending over his books with an air of the profoundest attention, just as he had left him two days later, Lionel looked up and met his benevolent employer with a smile. A change, a lighter, happier change had come over his face lately, although there was still something of the old expression of care and disappointment which seemed strange in one. so young. “Ah, Deveril, hard at work, I see;” were the words with, which his employer greeted him. “That’s right: there’s nothing like it for making a fortune.” “I am glad to see you back again, sir,” answered Lionel, cheerfully; “though I believe I have managed better than I thought I should, and I believe you will find the accounts correct, sir.” “And what about the letters ? Has there been any news of Emerson ?” “No, sir; I believe not. Mr. Mark has not said anything to me,” rejoined Lionel. “Very well, then; we shall see what is to be done.” said Mr. Daverson, half to himself and half to Lionel, as he took his seat at the desk the youth had just vacated. “I shall write a letter to the fellow at once, and tell him I can dispense with his services in future. He has been shamming now for more than a fortnight, and it won’t do. Wait a moment, Deveril. and you can post the letter.” Lionel obeyed, the letter was dispatched, and the youth duly succeeded Emerson as Mr. Daverson’s secretary. And so the months passed, and still his zest for work was nothing abated; harder and harder he plodded on, and proved himself an almost invaluable servant to his employer. He was now—and, indeed, had been for some time—living in comfortable lodgings, situated ath. convenient distance from the office, and in one of the pleasantest and most delightful locations. His dress, though not extravagant, was of the best style, and, in short, Mr. Daverson had every reason to be proud of his young and handsome secretary. But although Lionel Deveril worked so hard in the day, he steadfastly refused to take any kind of Pleasure in the evening, in spite of young Mark •averson’s pressing invitations. “You ought to see some of our New York theaters, Deveril,” he would say. “I can always get you a ticket whenever you like to go.” A great intimacy had sprung up between these two of late, and Mark Daverson had begun to take considerable interest in his father’s secretary, with whicMtairiosity as to his past life was not alto-getheRWn mingled. “You are very good, Mark,” Lionel answered, with a half sad smile; “but I have no love for the theaters now. I—I—used to about a year ago, just before I came to America; but the feeling has past, and I like work instead.” “Well, I like work well enough, but surely a fellow must have a little recreation now and then,” urged Mark. “I really never saw such a sobersides as you are. You give one the idea of having been disappointed in love.” Lionel’s pen fell, and blotted the clean page of Mr. Daverson’s ledger. “How you do ramble on, Mark! Look what you made me do,” exclaimed Lionel, forcing a laugh. It was nearly a year ago, but the wound was not healed yet, and it was the first allusion that had ever been made in reference to the past., “Now look here, Deveril, why don’t you come with me to-night?” pursued Mark Daverson, drawing nearer to Lionel’s desk. “I’ll call for you at seven o’clock, or you can call for me, which ever you like; and I’ll show you something of the city. Don’t you go back to England and say yon never went to a New York theater. It would be shabby of you.” “There is no chance of my going back to England yet awhile, Mark,” responded Lionel, endeavoring to adopt the same cheerful strain as that of his friend. “I came to America with the intention of making my fortune; but---” “And you are on the safe road to it, Deveril; so come out and take a holiday on the strength of it.” Lionel thought it would be churlish to refuse; and so with an air of well-assumed gayety, he rose from his desk and left the office with Mark. “If you are going home first, I will ask you to be good enough to deliver this letter to your father,” said Lionel, after a moment’s pause. “It is some business of his and Sulman’s I believe, and I promised him I would not forget to attend to it and let him have it this evening.” “Oome in and deliver it yourself, then,” answered his companion. “The governor will be delighted to give you a glass of his old port. Besides. I don’t believe you have been introduced to my mother and sister yet, have you ?” “No, I have only the pleasure of knowing Mrs. and Miss Daverson by sight,” replied Lionel. “Oh, come along! You want stirring up, you do!” exclaimed the careless and good-natured Mark, taking the arm of his friend. It is a pity you haven’t been taken in hand before.” Wait until you and I have been out a night or two, and tlieii see if New York isn’t every bit as jolly as London.” “Have you ever been to London, Mark ?” Lionel asked. “Nq. but I mean to visit it one of these days. We will over there together, you and I, old fellow. What do you say to that ?” asked Mark, in his usual jovial manner. “Why, that nothing would give me greater pleasure. Mark,” replied Lionel. “I shall never forget yours and your father’s goodness to me—never! and I only pray that a day may come when I shall be able to return it.” “All right, Deveril—all right. Don’t see where the goodness lies though, I am sure. What we have done is only what you have fully deserved. Why, you are worth Suiman and the whole firm put together. Besides, just fancy my going over to England and roughing it as you did here. Why, I think I should have kicked at it at the very outset and hurried home again as quickly as possible.” “Not if you left under similar circumstances to mine, and with as great a determination to face the world. I don’t mind telling you all about it in strict confidence, you know, for you are the only one I have to talk to. and I think it only right that I should be frank with you. You have never doubted me—you have never once mistrusted me ” “No. because you bore the stamp of a true English gentleman. 1 liked you the moment I saw you.” rejoined Mark, warmly. “But. if we want to go to the theater, we must look sharp, Deveril; and don’t let us begin on any serious conversation now, because I am bent on enjoying myself, and you will go off into the ‘blues’ again.” They reached Mr. Daverson’s home—one of the most superb mansions in New York—and Lionel’s mind went back to his own luxurious English home, as he entered it in company with his employer’s son. Lionel had frequently had occasion to call there on business, but it had usually been in the daytime. while the ladies were absent from home. Mark ushered him into the spacious dining-room, where his father was sitting alone with his daughter. She was at needle-work—some pretty scrap of embroidery that woman's fingers love to with— neatly and simply dressed, her graceful head bent, her eyelids drooping over her work. She looked upas her brother entered, and colored with surprise and pleasure on beholding Lionel. She rose from her seat to acknowledge the introduction, and proffered him her hand somewhat timidly. “And so you are going to the theater, Deveril ?” began Mr. Daverson, when Lionel, after handing him the letter, had taken a seat at the table. “I am very glad to hear it. You work too hard, my boy— too hard a great deal. Go, by all means, and I shall forgive you if I do not see you at the office until ten o’clock to-morrow.” “That will never be. sir, I trust,” replied Lionel, with a smile. “I should be very much ashamed of myself if I took advantage of your kindness—I shall be there at the usual time, sir.” And bidding Mr. Daverson and his daughter good-night, Lionel left the house in company with his friend Murk. CHAPTER XXV. “she never told her love.” tDime wore on, and Lionel’s intimacy and friendship with young Mark Daverson ripened daily. After business hours their time was spent together, and although Lionel frequently consented to join him at the theater and other houses of entertainment, yet his old love for work remained as ardent as ever, and he still continued Mr. Daverson’s trustworthy servant. The conversation which passed between the two young men, and which was related in the previous chapter, had not been forgotten by Mark Daverson; and, a few days later, when they were alone in the office together, he questioned Lionel ns to his past life, and of the events}which seemed to over-shadow it. it was then that Lionel told him all, and poured out the bitterness of his life’s history to the hearing of his patient and sympathizing friend, concealing nothing, from the tender, gentle love of his cousin to his own unworthiness of her regard, from the evening of his first sight of Estelle at the opera to the last and painlul interview which had put an end to everything between them. Mark listened in silence to the end, and then he put his hand on Lionel’s shoulder and paused a moment before he spoke. “It’s awful hard lines for you, old fellow, upon my word it is,” he broke out at length, “and you have my sympathies entirely. You are a fine fellow, with plenty of real courage, and I always thought it. Why, if it had been me, I should have committed suicide on the spot.” Lionel smiled and shook his head. “No, you wouldn’t Mark,” he answered, with a touching ring of sadness in his tones. “You have no idea what Estelle de Villiot is. No man with any soul at all could go out of her presence with any impious thoughts. She is something beyond human nature, or nearer to the angels than anything else. The very sound of her voice seems to elevate one above the earth, and her dreamy presence fills you with a holy awe. Oh, Mark, I dislike extravagant talk and high-flown language, but what I say is the actual truth. The fact is, she is too good for the companionship of ordinary mortals.” “It seems, then, Lionel, all things considered,” said Mark,“thatyou must abandon all hope of possessing this angel upon earth, and must fall back upon Miss Florence. And, indeed, I think you are a lucky fellow in having such a brave-hearte 1, plucky little girl for your cousin,” added Mark, in his usual careless tones. “And now I suppose I must look for your speedy return to England, with a wedding to follow7; and if you only let me know in time, Lionel, I will come over on purpose to be your ‘best man/ and drink the health of your pretty bride.” “How can there be the least chance of my returning to England, Mark, except to find Florence a matronly-looking woman, the wife of a luckier fellow than I shall ever be, with a pack of noisy youngsters growing up around her.” Mark hesitated a moment, and then brought his clenched hand down upon Lionel’s desk. “If ever there is a vacancy in our London branch, bothered if I don’t advise the governor to send you over to fill it,” he said, at length. “I should feel uncommonly like a fish out of water without you, old fellow, but under the circumstances, and for the sake of your pretty cousin, I shouldn’t mind trying to pull along by myself.” Lionel laughed, a brighter, merrier laugh than Mark Daverson had ever heard from him yet. It was a vague hope to cling to, and yet it was a hope, and one that was sufficient to urge him on, and fit him for that position, if ever he should be called to fill it. In the meantime Lionel had frequently been invited to Mr. Daverson’s house, and had conse-guently met with various opportunities of renew7-ing his acquaintance with his daughter. Mrsi. Daverson, even, showed more than usual favor to her husband’s secretary, and always assumed an air of the most charming amiability whenever she heard he was coming. Mark Daverson had not thought it expedient to acquaint his father with the whole history of Lionel Deveril’s life, although he had received his permission to do so. He had already informed him, in the hearing of his mother and sister, that Mrs. Deveril was a widow of considerate wealth; that she, with her niece and two step-daughters, lived in excellent style in London, and that Lionel, tired of an idle life, as well as for other reasons, had chosen to leave England and find a livelihood in another land. “And did not Deveril state what these reasons were ?” asked Mr. Daverson. Mark paused. “Well, I believe it was some boyish love affair,” he replied, at length. “The lady’s persistent refusal preyed so upon his mind that he was determined to quit all that reminded him of her, and see how much time and change of scenery would do toward obliterating her from his memory.” “And he seems to be gaining the desired effeqt, I think,” said Mr. Daverson: “for I have noticed of late that his manner is livelier than when I first had the pleasure of knowing him.” Kate Daverson had sat in silence listening to it all. Who could have refused Lionel Deveril. she thought, for any one else in this world ? Her bosom actually swelled with indignation at the idea, and the next moment she felt for him a degree of sympathy that astonished herself. “I am glad you have told me this, Mark,” the young man’s father said; “for we ought to do all we can to make him forget the past. He is young, fortunately—very young; and grief, therefore, will not sit so heavily upon him as on a man more advanced in life. What do you say, Kate, to giving another of your delightful little evening parties, and inviting Lionel Deveril to join it.” It is easily imagined that Kate needed no persuasion to yield to her father’s proposition, and she timidly lifted up her eyes, and glanced at her mother for approval. “Oh, you needn’t look at me, Kate.” exclaimed Mrs. Daverson, sharply. “Your father knows his own business beet; I never interfere with it. I like Mr. Deveril as well as anybody else, and you may give fifty parties if your father thinks he will gain his object in the end.” “I don’t know what you mean, Maria,” Mr/Da^er-son said, gently. “Oh, we perfectly understand, Mr. Daverson—wo perfeetly understand,” his wife continued, with a laugh; though I think, after what Mark has told us to-night, that there seems little chance of your scheme working successfully J’ Kate looked at her father, and then at her mother, the blood rushing like a torrent to her cheeks. She gazed a moment in speechless wonder, and then left the room, afraid to trust herself to utter a single word. Mark got up with his hands in his pocket, whistling, “Hail Columbia!” There was going to be “a scene,” he thought, so he quietly went up stairs in search of his sister. Could this be really true? he asked himself. Could his father possibly be trying to bring about a match between Lionel Deveril and his sister Kate? Surely not; it was only another of those foolish insinuations which his mother was continually making as if for the express purpose of rousing her husband’s anger. Mark only wished there could have been a possibility of such a thing; but he knew full well that Lionel’s present life was but one continual act of atonement to his cousin Florence for all he had made her suffer in the past. He knew that his honor, if nothing else, would bind him to her so long as she remained true to him, and that no charms his sister Kate might possess could ever attract him now. No sooner had Mark left his parents alone than Mr. Daverson turned and confronted his wife. “You, as a mother, ought to be ashamed to have spoken thus before your daughter, Maria,” he said, with more of pain than anger in his tones. “You know full well that I have not one selfish intention mixed with my regard for Lionel Deveril. Thatl should like to see him the husband of our dear Kate I will not attempt to deny; but that this is my reason for inviting him here you know to be afalse and unjust accusation.” Mrs. Daverson would have risen and burst into a tirade of anger and abuse had her husband been foolish enough to remain longer in her presence; but without waiting to hear a word lie coolly left the room, as his son and daughter had done before him. In the meantime, however, Mark had gone to console his sister, and assure her to the utmost of his power that no such idea had ever been entertained on his father’s part with regard to Lionel Deveril.” “Oome, don’t be a little goose, Kate, but give your party for my sake,” Mark urged. “You may rely upon it that if anything of that sort had been the governor’s intention he would have told me of it long ago. Do come down stairs, and let mo know whom you are going to invite.” Kate was at length oonsolemand went down to do her brother’s bidding. The evening was fixed, the number of guests put down, and the next morning Mark hastened with the invitation to Lionel. We must here pause to remark that Mr. Daverson’s two other sons, John and Edward, were farmers. The former was married, living with his wife and family in Virginia; and the latter, next in nge to Kate, was a pupil at a large farm not many miles distant from New York. Thus Mark and his sister were the only two at home, and devotedly attached to each other in consequence; they made themselves each other’s confidant in all things, and it naturally ensued that Kate had always been prevailed upon to do as her brother wished. Lionel received the invitation with an impulse almost to refuse it; but looking up and being greeted with Mark’s good-natured “You must ooine, old fellow,” the feeling vanished, and he made up his mind to accept. The parties at the Daversons’ were to a certain extent of a nondescript character, though at the same time particularly pleasant and sociable ones, comprising music and dancing, as well as charades, or anything else that might suggest itself as being amusing. The evening arri ved; the spacious drawing-rooms were thrown open for the reception of Kate Daverson’s guests, and in the first saloon of the suite, beneath the magnificent chandelier, she stood, in her soft white dress, with one deep-crimson came-liaat her bosom, and in the glossy bands of her rich brown hair. Mrs. Daverson was seated on a lounge at no great distance from her, in a dress of ruby velvet, and a white ostrich feather in her dark tresses. Her face wore an expression of the sweetest amiability, and sions of some English friends were too strong Ho resist Have you ever heard her. Mr. Deveril ?” “Indeed I have. Miss Daverson.” rejoined Lionel, quietly. “And you may well express your disap-§ ointment in respect to the treat you have lost uch a voice as Estelle’s will never again be heard by mortal man.” “Ah, I have heard so many speak of her in almost the same terms, Mr. Deveril,” Kate pursued. “And she is very beautiful too, I believe?” “I am afraid I am a poor iud^e of such matters. Miss Daverson,” answered Lionel, with a halflaugh. “Therefore, I should be afraid to venture an opinion.” What other answer could he have made? To have spoken in an indifferent, off-hand manner, would have been to underrate the charms and beauty of the woman he had worshiped, to extol her at all with all the enthusiasm the subject must have inspired would have been to excite suspicion in the mind of his young aid gentle companion. Not that Lionel wiis ashamed of its reaching the knowledge of his friends. On the contrary, he was proud to think himself the beloved of so splendid and highly gifted a creature; but it was purely a sense of delicacy and good taste that prompted the feeling on this occasion. There was another dance, but Kate was engaged to Arthur Montgomery, and Lionel, who did not care to dance with aay one else, stepped aside, a prey to his own bitter, reproachful thoughts. Estelle in England, with Florence and his mother!—Estelle in his ovn native laud—nay, even in London, and ho thousands and thousands of miles away with a mighty ocean rolling between them. He was trying to picture the scene, to picture her seated among them, with her grand lustrous eyes beaming with a soft, gentle light, and Florence and his mother drinking in the delightful tones of her voice. This train of reflection infused happiness into his soul, and now he stcod lost in a blissful dream, ni which he was lying at her feet basking in the sunshine of her smile, when Mark Daverson’s voice arousing him, reminded him of where he was and that Estelle and himself were lost to each other for ever. He was called to fill up a set of lancers, and reluctantly enough was compelled to submit. But he ceased to repine when ht found that Kate was his vis-a-vis, and she helped him throughout, and then at the conclusion Lionel tcok his leave. Poor Kate! she saw him no more that night; the youth whom she already lo?ed in her heart of hearts so tenderly and well! . The enjoyment of the evening fled with him; with a true lady-like instinct she continued to maxe everything agreeable to hei guests. . .. She danced again once or twice with Artnur Montgomery; she was not sorry whea, Pariy broke up at length. . It was late enough when Kate Davcre:n^.*‘wt her room, and speedily dismissing her maid, she satdowm to reflect earnestly upon all that had passed—all that Lionel had said—all that he had looked —and the young laxly sighed heavily as she reflected that his heart was full of love, but.that this love was not for her. [TO BE CONTINUED.] BOYS WILL BE BOYS; OR, A HARVEST OF WILD OATS. By J. T. TROWBRIDGE. {“Boys Will ba Boys” was commenced in No. 49. Back numbers can be obtained from News Agents throughout the United States.] CHAPTER XXV. ROY RIDES AFTER AN EXTRAORDINARY HORSE. “Hallo, Lizard!” cried Roy; “how camo you here 'r The person who had accosted him was, In fact, no other than his friend the little French Canadian, who came bustling up to him. radiant with joy at meeting him again. “De brickyards, w’ere I live, only tree fo’mite from ’ere. I come over see ’bout some work, and get some groc’ies for my lam’ly. I didn’ expec’ see you, Roy.” Roy looked anxiously around. “Don’t speak so loud, Lizard. I’m not Roy Rookwood here—I’m Mr. Walker. You know I had left home ?” “I tink so. After I lef’ you—w’en I was come along wid my new’oss—Misv Droilers, of your town.be overtake me. and want to know all ’bout you, how I seen you, you know; he wouldn’t say w’at was matter; an’ he drive on.” “I’ll tell you about it when I have a good chance.” replied Roy. “But remember now, I am Mr. Walker; you know me by no other name.” “Yes. Roy. I remember dat.” “But, Lizard, you mustn’t say Roy; say Mr. Walker. And now tell me about yourself. How did you get along with the new horse ?” “Me got along p’etty good; dat was ver’ good ’oss. I have to boost some, but he was ver’ good ’oss. He fall down sometime, an’ I tink once he would ups an’ die, too; but dat was not his plan; he was ver’ good ’oss. I have him ’ere to town now, in my wagon, gittin’ some groc’ies for my fam’ly ; you shall ride after him, if you like; an’ you will say you’self he is ver’ good ’oss.” “Thank you. Lizard, I don’t think I care to ride. Glad he didn’t ups and die', I was afraid he would. But how about work. Lizard ?” “I ’xpec’ job cutt’n’ ice, nex’ Monday mornin’.” “Where ?” “Up on Reservoir ’ere. You know, Roy.” “Not Hoy; remember. Lizard. Walker—Mr. Walker” “ Walker I yes. I git dat bimeby, Roy—I mean Mist’ Walker. I goin’see de fo’man now, see’bout our men cornin' over Monday mornin’. I s’pose, good day, he want all men he can git.” “Wonder if there’d be a chance for me. Lizard ?” “You, Roy, work—Walker, Mist’ Walker. You work cutt n’ ice ?” “Why not? I have to work for my living now, and I can’t find anything else to do.” “Well, Roy—Mist’ Walker—you ies’eome ’longme, I guess I git you job. My ’oss air wagon right ’ere; we ride over see fo’eman, fix it all right.” So it seemed that Roy was to ride after the wonderful horse after all. The animal was found fastened by a halter of rope to a post in front of a grocery store, and looking quite as sharply ribbed and grotesquely gaunt as when Boy saw him first. “You be gitt’n’ in w’ile I untie,” said the little Canadian. “He take us over de groun’p’itty quick; he ver’ good ’oss to be sum.” Lassard climbed up into the antique wagon after Roy, pulled an old horse-blanket over their knees, and gave the signal to start. “Git up now. Billy!” No response from Billy. Lassard reached over and struck him with the ends of the rein, which were also of rope, like the halter. Billy gave a groan. “Git up now, Isay!” And with another groan, which seemed to come from the cavernous depths within his hollow, creaking machinery, Billy “got up” at last. “You see, he ver’ good ’oss, ver’ good oss, no mistake 1” said the satisfied Lassard. Just as they were starting, a handsome sleigh, drawn by a prancing span of black horses, went by, to the sound of laughing voices and jingling bells. It contained half a dozen persons, all of whom seemed to be looking with extraordinary interest at Lassard’s turn-out, and particularly at , Roy. Poor Roy! he could have wished—if he had not . been too much confused to frame a wish—that the , ancient wagon-bottom might open and let him > through. It was Judge Dil worthy’s sleigh, and • there was the “Queen .of the Ice” herself, no doubt - astonished at seeing the champion skater of the > day, the winner of two prizes, taking a ride in such i a wagon, and after such a horse I I “Do, for Heaven’s sake, drive along!” said Roy. - groaning in concert with the horse. And he evi-• dently blamed himself for not having obeyed his first impulse, and gone afoot. “Where is your fore-- man ?” “Up on Reservoir—somewhere about iee-houses. • We be dere pretty quick; you see—he ver’ mighty i good’oss!” Roy remembered the ice-houses at the Reservoir. He also remembered the throng of people there, who had witnessed his performances; and he did not care to meet any more of them, in his present position. He was for jumping out of the wagon at : once, but was consoled to learn that they were going up a different street from that which led to the club-house; for, to say the truth, he felt very little like taking more walks that day. Lassard beat the beast with the ends of the rope reins, shouted at him both in broken English and Canadian French, and at last actually urged him into a trot. “You see,” said he, bragging incessantly, “he ver’ ver’ good ’oss, jes’ I told you—ver’ good ’oss to be sure.” “A splendid horse for the money, I should say,” replied Roy. “But, I beg of you, don’t beat him anv more. Lethim walk; keep him splendid.” Arrived at the ice-houses, they found the foreman and three or tour more laying out work for the following week, running a line by means of a long, narrow board, called a “straight-edge,” and a toothed instrument, which they shoved along beside it, called a “hand-groove;” a line which was to serve as a guide for starting the larger ice-cutters, drawn by horses. Lassard was told to be on hand with his friends early Monday morning, if the weather should continue favorable. Then Lassard said: “Dis young man, he like git cuttin’ ice; you give him a chance.” the outer world thought*what a delightful woman Mark Daverson’s wife myst be. The grand piano stood open, with music of every description lying in sundry heaps upon it; and half an hour later, Kate was seated at the piano, running her white fingers up and down the keys, executing a brilliant performance before a few of the early arrivals. She sat under the glare of a candelabra, her whole soul thrown into the music, when Lionel entered, unobserved, and stood listening, with the melody thrilling on his heart, and bringing back all its agony of the year that had passed—bringing back home-recollections, with all its joys and sorrows—reminding him ot Florence in the days of their happy love, when he had lingered by her side at the piano, and listened to her playing with rapture and delight. Kate’s execution was far more brilliant than Florence’s, though it had not the same charm or sweetness for Lionel. He stood listening at a little distance, unseen; then Mark observed him and came toward him . “Hello. Deveril, old fellow. How long have you been here ?” he began. “What do you think of my sister’s playing?” he asked. “I was only this moment thinking how beautiful it was.” answered Lionel. Mark repressed a smile of satisfaction, and at that instant his sister rose from the piano, amid u murmur of applause, and came toward them. She extended her hand to Lionel, who expressed his admiration of her wonderful performance. She received his enthusiastic expressions with an air of perfect innocence and simplicity, and then, as Mark suggested a dance, he asked her if he might have the pleasure of claiming her as his partner. The enjoyment of the evening commenced for those who had no cares to divert their thoughts elsewhere; but Lionel could only enter into it al with the dull, heavy burden still on his heart, and his thoughts far away with home and the loved ones that were there. He walked through a quadrille with Kate at his side—pretty, graceful, blushing Kate, courted by so many and admired by them all; and it only brought back the image of Florence nearer and closer to the young man’s heart, and he was quiet, sad, and thoughtful throughout the dance. Kate never wondered at it now; she might have at any other time had not Mark told her of the cloud that had darkened his life. She glanced up at him now and then with an anxious, pitying heart, but she could do nothing for him only observe and be silent. The dance ended; he took her to a seat, bowed, and left her, and then she was immediately claimed by one Arthur Montgomery, a young and handsome man, who had fallen deebly in love with her, and was only awaiting a favorable opportunity to declare it. Kate Daverson had hitherto been far from indifferent toward him, but something seemed to have changed her lately—something that no one knew of, but was cherished as a secret down in her heart of hearts; and she was almost annoyed by his persistent attentions to-night. She sat waving her fan backward and forward, and tapping her foot impatiently on the carpet; and he sat watching her, a strange, agitated expression on his countenance such as had never been seen there before. But Kate paid no heed. She sat looking everywhere, save at Arthur Montgomery; but at length a young lady sat down to the piano to sing, and she eagerly seized the opportunity, and crossed over to listen. Lionel was standing at no great distance from the piano, in conversation with her brother; but Kate ventured no nearer until the conclusion of the song, and then she went up and linked her arm in her brother’s. “How did you like that song,Miss Daverson?” Lionel asked, after a moment’s pause between the three. “Not very much; it is American. I like your English songs the best,” she answered. “Though pray don’t think the less of me for that, Mr. Deveril, for I am a true patriot, notwithstanding.” At this moment Mark left them in answer to a summons from his mother, and the two were left alone, side by side, and in sight of Arthur Montgomery. “I am particularly fond of music, Mr. Deveril,” she resumed, after a moment’s pause. “But I never enjoy myself half so well as when I am listening to one of your European celebrities. I only regret that I have never heard Estelle. She has gone to England, too, I see. “To England!” repeated Lionel, with ashen lips. “Yes; have you not heard it? It has gone the rounds of all the papers,” rejoined Kate, unconscious of the pain she was inflicting upon her listener. “I was so disappointed, for we all thought she was coming to America. Indeed. I believe it was a settled thing at one time, only the persua- THE NEW' YORK WEEKLY. The foreman took occasion, while the men were shoving the straight-edge along in the direction of the line, to look critically at Roy. “Seems to me you’re the crack skater that beat the crowd here this afternoon ?” “I hope that is nothing against me,” said Roy. “No; but you don’t look used to hard work.” “Very likely. But I can get used to it.” “Smart feller!” put in Lassard. “One of the smartest fellers you ever see.” “Smart enough, I’ve no doubt. I ve seen something of his smartness,” said the foreman. “But can he stand it to cut ice ?” “I should like to try,” replied Roy. The foreman got down on his knees and elbows to take aim along his straight-edge toward a stake set in the ice, adjusted the board to his eye, then got up again, all without answering Roy’s last remark. Then, while the. men were shoving the hand-groove along, he said to Roy: “Think you can do a man’s work?” “You will be the best judge of that.” “We pay a dollar and seventy-five cents a day for men. You can come and try it at a dollar and a half, with the understanding that you may get more,, or perhaps less, according to what you e^‘That is fair,” said Roy, his heart lightened by the prospect of earning his own living at last. “Report to me here Monday morning, quarter before seven,” said the foreman. “Work begins at seven.” “Now, Mist’ Fo’eman,” said the little Canadian, I want to see ’bout gittin job for my ’oss. Mist’ Rock —Mist’ Wa—Walker—he’ll tell you he ver’ good ’oss.” “We shan’t want any horses unless there comes a snow,” replied the foreman. “Then we shall have to scrape; and if you have a good horse, you may bring him on.” “Tank ye, Mist’ Fo’eman. How much you pay day for ’osses ?” “Same as for mon—dollar seventy-five cents a day; for good work-horses, you understand.” I un’stan’. Mine ver’ good ’oss, I tell ye. I bring him if snows.” And as they went off the ice, Lassard said to Roy: “I got job for my ’oss now, like’s not. I hope it snow like great guns ’fo’eMonday mornin’. I make him earn money, pay you back what you lend; he pay for hisself tree fo’ days. An’ I say, he do dat, hover’ mighty good ’oss, to be sure!” CHAPTER XXVI. OBEDIAR kocum writes a letter, to which he ADDS A POSTSCRIPT. Roy ro^ back to town with the little Canadian, parted company; Lassard tying his horse once more to the nitching-post before the grocery, while Roy returned to his boardinghouse. “Now how ’bout op’nin’ dat account ?” said Lassard, entering the store. “I pay for some groceries to-night, an’ I pay for ev’yting nex’ Saddy night, an’ I do all my trade’ere, you gi’me some credit, you know.” He addressed his remarks to an elderly man, with whom he seemed to have had some talk on the subject before. But now a young fellow came forward and questioned him. “Your name is-----” “Calice Lassard,” said the Little Canadian. Careless Lizard was the familiar style in which the Bayfield boys translated the full name. “Where do you live ?” “Over on brickyards. I work on brickyards two summers, an’ now I bring my fam’ly.” “Who’s the young chap that just left you ?” “He ? A friend of mine—young man I know.” “What’s his name ?” “Rock—I mean, you see—I mos’forgit—Walker; I b’lieve his name is Mist’ Walker.” “You called him something else when you spoke to him in the street; and you were just going to call him so again.” “I don’t know—I can’t speak English ver’ well—I make some mistakes.” “Where have you known him—this Mr. Walker ?” “I know him good w’ile—good, many places—fus’ rate feller—he help mo buy my ’oss; ver’ good ’oss.” “Where did he come from ?” “My ’oss ?” “No; this Mr. Walker.” “Ob, yes; Mist’ Walker.” But the Canadian, now fully On his guard, fearing to compromise Roy, could not remember anything more about him. “We don’t see such skating every day,” said the young man; “and I’d like to know where he learned so much. You pay your debts, Lassard ?” “Yes, I pay; I’m poor man,but I w’ork, an’ I alius pay. You might ask anybody in Bayfield, where I was ’fore I come ’ere.” “Bayfield?” said the young man, interested. “You’ve lived in Bayfield ?” “Yes; I was live in Bayfield good w’ile. Mebby you know some people in Bayfield ?” “I have relations there.” “What her names ?” “Hocum. Miles Hocum is my uncle.” " “Miles Hocum!” exclaimed Lassard. “I know him like books. I trade in his store good deal. You ask him; he will say if I pay my debt.” The elderly man now joined in the conversation; and it was decided to let Lassard have the credit he wished. After the customer was gone, the elderly man said: “He’ll pay for what he buys to-day in order to get fresh credit next time. Meanwhile, I guess you better write, Obed, and ask your Uncle Miles about him, for we want his custom, if it’s good for anything.” Obed did not seem to be in a very happy frame of mind; and perhaps he thought that writing the letter would serve to divert his melancholy. He accordingly perched himself on a high stool at the desk, took a pen, dipped it in ink several times, chewed the handle, and at length began to write. “Dear uncle: I take my pen in hand---” But he hesitated, dipped his pen several times more, and chewed the handle between the dips; then began again. “My dear Uncle Miles: We are all well, and hope you are enjoying the same. A Frenchman has come to our store to trade; he says he knows you, his name is Lassard, he has lived in Bayfield, and traded at your store, and refers to you, and if you will let us know whether he is good pay, you will oblige, for he wants credit, excuse haste, it is Saturday afternoon, and we are very bus-” Here, as if in illustration of the truth of the sentence—or rather clause—(for his letter was all one sentence)—which he was writing, Obed was called to wait upon a customer, and the letter remained unfinished. When Roy reached his boarding-house, having no latch-key, he was obliged to ring. The door was opened by the chubby-cheeked Tod, who at sight of him began to grin and chuckle. Roy looked down sternly on the merry youngster, and asked: “Does Miss Hogan live here ?” “Course she does,” said Tod; “don’t you ?” “Please hand this to Miss Hogan, with Mr. Walker’s grateful acknowledgments?’ Thereupon Tod began to shriek: “Here, Sis! Sis! Florinde! Hore’s Mr. Walker with your thirty cents; I bet I’ve won my bet!” Roy was going on up the stairs when he saw Florinda coming down. They met on the first landing “Ah! Mr. Walker,” said Miss Hogan, in a flutter of embarrassment, “so glad to see you! But— didn’t—why didn’t you show Mr. Walker into the parlor, Tod ?” “I am on«my way to my room,” said Roy, serenely. “Indeed! It is really true, then,” began Miss Hogan, when Tod’s voice in an ecstasy of chuckle, drowned all other words. “Didn’t I tell ye so ? I won the bet, Mr. Walker. Florinde, she bet a new breastpin with me that you wasn’t one of ma’s boarders, but I seen ye go out o’ the house this mornin’, and agin at noon; and when I seen you with her up on the Reservoir, I thought she knew ye. Now.Florindy Hogan, jest fork over that breastpin; and next time I tell ye I know a thing, don’t call me a pumkinhead. Here’s thirty cents he jest handed me for you; guess I’ll hold onto it.” “Oh, you needn’t have minded about that small sum, Mr. Walker,” said Florinda, still confused. “I think I owe you Stillmore,” replied Roy, “since I have been the cause of your losing a bet.” “That was all nonsense—a little foolery between me and Tod. You hadn’t told me your name, and you spoke of your hotel.” “Did I say hotel ?” laughed Roy. “Well, this is my hotel. I think it deserves the name, if any boarding-house does.” “But—I gave you my address—why didn’t you tell me then----” “That I was one of your mother’s boarders ? The truth is,” said Roy, wilh engaging candor, “I can’t explain all the foolish acts of my life. That is one of them, Miss Hogan.” “Oh, no, Mr. Walker !” exclaimed Florinda, “don’t say that; it was a pretty good joke—I call it. I’ve talked with ma,” she added, “and since you are the new boarder. I’m afraid you haven’t got a very good room.” “The room is well enough, only rather too thickly populated. As I expect to remain in town a few days, I should prefer a little more privacy; but your mother did the best she could for me, I believe.” As Roy spoke, he looked so fine and manly, in the eyes of the partial Florinda, that she good-naturedly forgave him the little imposture he had practiced and what was worse—his neglect of her, and his admiration of another, on the ice. She answered with a decisive word and sweet smile: ™ V111 that you have a better room, Mr. Walker. Roy thanked her, and proceeded on his way up he stairs. He had not gone far when he heard a violent squabble below, and Florinda’s voice saying : Give it here, Tod Hogan!” To which Tod retorted: “I won’t! I’m goin’ to keep it toward that breastpin you owe me. Oh! ow! Leggo my hair, Florin-de Hogan! I’ll yell!” Roy understood that the altercation was concerning the thirty cents, which Tod seemed determined to retain as security for the payment of his sister’s bet—a matter in which he did not feel called upon to interfere. He had not been long m his r®om when Mrs. Hogan gave him a call, having found, she said, that she was able to do much better by him than she had at first supposed. “You can have a small room, down one flight, all to yourself, if you prefer.” Roy did “prefer,” of course, and took possession at once of his new quarters, for which he thanked the mother in wrords, and the daughter in his heart. The apartment was not sumptuous; but to Roy, disgusted with the sight of old hairbrusiies, bowls of soapy water, boxesibf tooth-paste, and pomatum, too many tumbled beds in the morning, and too many old clothes hanging round on hooks at all times, the new room “all to himself,” small as it was, and shabby as it was, seemed a haven of refuge, for which he was duly grateful. He went to bed early that night, and kept his chamber nearly all the next day, glad enough, for once, to have Sunday come, after a week of weariness and trouble. Toward evening, feeling refreshed after his long rest, he took a walk up to the Reservoir, and saw some men—Sunday though it was—with axes, and pikes, and ice-hooks, opening a channel in the ice in front of the great houses, which were to be filled with their crystal harvest during the following week. The novelty of the business pleased Roy, and already he wished that Monday morning had arrived. He had not sought Florinda’s society during the day; but after tea he could not well decline an invitation, with which she smilingly met him in the entry, to walk into the parlor, which proved to be *the private family parlor, to which only privileged boarders were admitted. Roy had not been there long when a caller entered. It was Obed. That jealous swain had already punished himself sufficiently by nursing his ill nature alone, and sulkily walking off the other way up to church, instead of going home with Florinda, as his habit was. He had therefore concluded to forgive the past, and had come, with a magnanimous smile and a bright blue neck-tie, to visit her .in the evening. But at sight of the odious “Walker” in the bosom of the family, chatting pleasantly, basking in the sunshine of Florinda?s favor, the heart of the envious youth almost burst with impatience. Florinda received him with marked coldness, and Roy’s airy and ironical civility did not soothe his ruffled spirit. He sat for some time silent and glowering, his legs crossed, and his hat on his knee, then got up. “Good-evening!” he muttered, almost savagely, as he stalked out. “Good-evening, Mr. Hocum!” replied Florinda, in tones of excessive suavity, intended to set off by cheerful contrast the boorishness of his blunt leave-taking. “Don’t forget your cane, Mr. Hocum.” He had set his cane in the corner on entering, and was perhaps willing Ito have that excuse for coming back. The discovery that she did not care to leave him that excuse, could not have been very flattering to his outraged vanity. “Come again, Mr. Hocum!” Florinda called after him, in sweet accents, which ended in a light laugh, as with neck-tie and cane, and hat set fiercely on one side he disappeared finally down the stairs. Young Tod, wrho saw the fun and liked it, followed Obed to the door, and grinningly imparted to him the consoling information that Walker was a “reg’lar boarder,” and a “tip-top feller.” Home went the miserable Obed with a heart full of boiling rage and hatred, and lay awake half the night plotting vengeance against the faithless Florinda and the favorite new boarder. The next morning he went early to the store, found the unfinished letter to his Uncle Miles, and, with fingers trembling from outward cold and inward fury, penned the following postscript: “There’s a scamp here name of Walker been in town a day or two. Lassard knows him, and called him some other name like Rock, or Brock, or Brockwood. Seems to be some mistery. In pretty good clothes, but with a downright roagues face, if there ever was one.he give away a pair of skates he won as a prise and helped Lassard buy an old cro-bait of a hoss so Lassard says, and yet this risto-trat this prince in disguise is goin to work on the ice for Westbury & Co this week, do you know anything about him, because he may impose on a worthy family I know, about 16 or 17 years old.” CHAPTER XXVII. OUR HERO GOES TO WORK, AND IS INTERRUPTED. While Obed was finishing his letter Roy was on his way to the Reservoir, happy in the prospect of having honest work to do, and of enjoying a manly independence. He found a special gang of men already at work. The engine was fired up, the machinery clanked, and ice-cutters were humming merrily over the frozen pond. At a distance the ice-cutter bore a striking resemblance to a plow. It was furnished with handles, held by the man who followed it, and was drawn by a horse, which another man led. But the slender iron beam ran very low, and in place of the plowshare it had a series of gigantic steel teeth, each projecting a little lower, and cutting the ice a little deeper than the one that preceded it. The cutters themselves formed a regular series like the teeth of each. The first cut a groove only about two inches in depth. Beginning with the line which Roy had seen cut with the hand groove on Saturday, it deepened that, and, returning, cut a parallel groove, with just the width of the future cake of ice between them. A “guide” attached to this pioneer cutter—a sort of blade formed to run always on the last groove, set the teeth off at a proper distance for the next groove. This instrument had already gone over a section of the pond one way, making the ice look like a vast sheet of ruled paper. It was now crossing the first lines at right angles, cutting the parallels into squares, outlining, so to speak, several acres of checker-board. A second cutter followed the first, and a third and fourth followed that, each still further deepening the grooves until they had a depth of eight or nine inches, in ice fourteen inches thick. From one side of the field thus prepared, immense oblong, checkered rafts of ice were taken off, floated along the canal, which had been opened the day before, and brought into a sort of dock at the foot of the elevator near one end of the row of icehouses. The elevating apparatus had an endless chain, revolving over two iron wheels, one situated just above the water at the lower end of a steeply-inclined plane, the other at the upper end, near the top of the ice-house. . The ice-raft, as it reached the dock, was split into smaller rafts by means of long-handled, chisel-shaped instruments struck into the grooves; these fragments were shoved on, and again divided by men standing on wooden platforms at each side of a narrow channel, and finally fed cake by cake into the mouth of the elevator. Roy, reportingto the foreman, was turned over to a man who had charge of the ice at this point. The man looked at him, saw he had a quick eye, and a resolute face, and said: “I guess your place will be here. Ketch hold of that ice-hook behind you, and do as I do.” The ice-hook was a short-handled pike, with a strong, wedge-shaped point and sharp hook, used in handling the cakes. As they were pushed along the channel betw’een the platforms, some were to be kept back, while others were floated into the jaws of the machinery, Each jaw was an iron grapple of the chain, which seizing a cake, forced it up the smooth rails of the inclined plane to the lowest of a a series of stagings arranged to carry the ice to various heights, along the entire row of buildings. It was Roy’s business to help feed the blocks into the elevator; and this became lively work after the full force of men was put on for the day. The overseer in charge had not judged him ill. The boy’s athletic sports had given him a good training for exercise of this sort. There were no quicker or more skillful hands than his on the platform, and as soon as he became accustomed to managing the ice, none could turn, or trim, or set back, or move on a block, and leave it for another at just the proper time, more handily than he. “Guess you ain’t much used to work,” said the overseer to him, with a queer smile. “What makes you think that ?” “ ’Cause you put in so. Old stagers don’t work like that. They know they can’t stand it. They take it easier, as you will, by’n’by.” Roy had in fact been so much interested in his work that he had thrown himself into a violent sweat during the first half hour. He now found that it was not a matter of life and death that each grapple should have its cake; and that if one grapple had two cakes, the one behind forcing up the one before, no catastrophe need be dreaded. So, instead of springing with all his might to regulate the procession of blocks, when they came too fast, or too slow, or got wedged in the channel, he accepted the overseer’s hint, and “took it easier.” It was well he did; for though he worked much more moderately after that, ho was a tired boy when night came. He had had an hour at noon for his dinner, which he ate in the engine-room (having taken it with him in the morning), and had then worked until near five o’clock, when it grew dark at that season of the year. It seemed as if he could hardly lift his stiff and heavy limbs as he walked back to his boarding-place. A good night’s rest restored him, however, and he was promptly in his place again the next morning. “Well, how are you to-day?” said the friendly overseer. “A little rusty in the hinges; but I shall be all right in a little while,” reiflied Roy. The overseer suggested a change in his work, to which Roy agreeing, his short-handled pike was exchanged for a long one, and he was set to rafting ice. This pleased him better, for a while at least. There was novelty about it, without the excitement which had tempted him to go beyond his strength. Each raft required, for its easy navigation, two men; and as Lassard was at this work, Roy easily got him for a comrade. Shouldering their poles, they marched to a distant part of the ice-field, -where the great checkered masses were split off, and getting possession of one, started with it for the ice-houses. There was a broad space of open water, from which the ice had been taken the day before; along the edge of this they floated their slow and sluggish raft, now pushing, now pulling it, now walking on the main ice, and now on the floating fragment ; thence into the canal, and so on, to the dock, where it was delivered over to those who jumped upon it with their long-handled chisels and commenced splitting it up. Roy and Lassard did not overwork themselves that day; and they had plenty of leisure, going and coming, to talk over old times in Bayfield. In the afternoon it began to snow, and again the little Canadian had hopes of bringing his horse into serviqe. It snowed all night, though not heavily; and in the morning there were fifteen or twenty horses on the ice. with wooden scrapers, clearing it and piling up the snow in banks along the shore. Roy looked for Lassard, and before long saw him coming with his pike-pole on his shoulder, as on the previous day. “Hallo, Lizard!” cried Roy, “where’s your horse?” “I dono’ vat sort fo’eman dey got’ere,” muttered the Canadian, looking hugely dissatisfied about something. “I bring my ’oss, as he say, an’ you know you’self he ver’good’oss. But dat fo’eman, he look at him, an’ he say, ‘You dumb Cunnuck, you call dat a ’oss ?’ I say, ‘Cou’se I call him a ’oss, an’ a p’itty good ’oss, to be sure.’ But dat fo’eman he laugh, an’ he say, ‘Crows got a moggidge on dat ’oss.’ I say, ‘I dono’ wat ye mean by moggidge; he is ver’ good ’oss, an’ I should like set him to work.’ But dat fo’eman he^ay, ‘You don’t set no such rattlebone to work on ice w’ile I’m ’bout; I should be f’aid Cruelty Animals S’c’ety would go for me;’ an’ dat fo’eman he laugh, an’ go ’way. I dono’ vat he mean; for I call Billy now pr’tty mighty good ’oss, don’t you ?” “A wonderful horse, in his way, Lizard!” replied Roy. “In his way—what you mean by dat?” said the jealous little Canadian. “Ain’t he good sort of ’oss?” “A very good sort of horse for a person who fancies a horse of that sort,” replied Roy. Lassard detected sarcasm in these answers. He also had to bear a good deal of banter from his brother Canadians, which Roy, though he understood not a dozen words of their language, judged rightly to be on the subject of poor Billy. Lassard became gloomy. He ceased to brag of his “ver’ good ’oss.” But now and then he broke out with, “I dono’ w’at I do dat ’oss,” or, “F’aid I haf to sell dat ’oss,” or, “Too bad now I fin’ noth’n’ dat ’oss do—he eat mos’ much hay’s a man,” or some such expression of trouble and discontent. Roy was getting along very well with the work now; but the snow and water were fast ruining his boots, and he went home every night with wet feet. His fair friend, Florinda, noticed this, and one evening brought him a pair of overshoes, which the house had inherited from some defaulting boarder. Roy accepted them gratefully, and from that time kept his feet dry. But while the daughter looked after his comfort, the mother had an eye to business. As he was leaving the breakfast-table one morning she accosted him with rather too many smiles: “I beg your pardon, Mr. Walker; I have some bills to pay to-day; my usual terms is paid in advance from strangers, but don’t think I wish to exact it from a gentleman like you—only if you could lend me three or four dollars till next week, it would be a great accommodation.” Roy, beginning to learn wisdom from experience, had carefully hoarded his “cup money,” as he called it, against all temptations to give or spend. The time for its legitimate use had now come; and, taking the landlady’s gentle hint, he put five dollars into her hand—payment in full for a week’s board. He still had half a dollar left; but that evening a little bill for washing came in, which, being paid, only five cents remained. “Never mind,” thought he, “to-morrow is Friday and the next day is Saturday, and Saturday night I shall be paid off, and have ten dollars and a half in hard-earned cash,” for Roy flattered himself that he was to receive man’s wages. Saturday came, and was drawing to a close, and Roy, thinking how rich he would be in about an hour, was taking down his raft <5f ice with Lassard, when Lassard, who was on the raff, said to Roy, who was on the main ice, soberly pushing, with the end of the pole against his shoulder: “Walker!” for the Canadian had leartned to call him by his right name, 6r rather wrong name, by this time, “who dat cornin’ ? Ain’t dat sombody you know ? You look quick!” Roy did look quick, and none too quick either, for the comer—a powerfully-built person, walking with tremendous strides—already had a hand outstretched to touch his shoulder. It was Constable Drollers. CHAPTER XXVIII. DROLLER’S PLAN FOR CAPTURING ROY. This was Miles Hocum’s practical answer to Obe-diah’s posteript. Miles did not get the letter until Friday, being absent from home when it came. Then, instead of trusting his reply to the mails, he dispatched, the next morning, our friend Droilers, who carried a note of introduction to Obed, together with a paper which more immediately concerned our hero, in his breast-pocket. Droilers, on his arrival in town, sought out Obed, and then both hastened to the ice-field, Obed consenting with gleeful alacrity to act as the officer’s guide and deputy. Among the gang of men at work on the ice, and occasional visitors coming and going, the approach of these two did not attract attention. Droilers was, therefore, able to form a deliberate plan of attack, and then to choose his own time for carrying it into execution. The company had begun to cut ice on the opposite side of the pond, and a space some twenty rods in length, and four or five rods wide, had been opened, over against the wooded shore. Roy and Lassard had taken their raft from the farther end of this space, and were moving it toward a new canal which branched off, at right angles, in the direction of the ice-houses. Imagine the form of a gigantic carpenter’s square cut out of the ice—the long arm very much prolonged, and the short arm very much widened—and you have an idea of the situation. On the corner of the main ice thus formed, Droilers had thought it an easy thing to catch Roy. The constable and his deputy, having separated, waited till the raft neared the corner, and then advanced—Droilers from amid the throng of ice-cutters on one side, and Obed along the path of the going and returning raftsmen, by the edge of the canal, on the other side. Thus had Roy taken alarm in season, and set out to run from the constable he must have gone safely and comfortably into the arms of the deputy. But he did not give Obed that happiness. At sight of the genial face of his old friend (for the countenance of Droilers wore a pleased and confident smile), and the hand outstretched to grasp his collar, Roy slipped his shoulder from the pike pole, the end of which, by some accident, struck the advancing officer full in the chest. Droilers caught it as it was falling, for he had had his eye on that very useful instrument, which he thought might come in play, in case his intended captive should attempt to escape in the only direction left open to him, and it should become necessary to hook him out of the water while swimming. Roy was by this time on the raft, having made a leap of three feet, which the ponderous Droilers was in no hurry to take after him, having possessed himself of the pike pole, and feeling himself master of the situation. At the same time Obed came up. “Push off! push off, Lizard!” cried Roy, running to help the Canadian, and set him a lively example. A foot or two farther from the shore, and the iceraft would be where Droilers, with his two hundred and odd pounds of portliness, would hardly venture to take the leap at all. “Lizard,” said the constable, “stop that! You’re resisting an officer of the law!” “I ain’t ’zistm’ no officer—I jes’ gittin’ my ice ’long fas’I can!” and the little Canadian pushed with . all his might. But it was not easy to change the course of the sluggish mass, and now Drollers had a pike-pole, too. He stuck the hook into the raft, and. while Roy and Lassard pushed, he and Obed pulled. One end of the raft moved off from the main ice, but at the same time the other end moved on. Drollers laughed; ObedJs eyes stuck out with excitement. “Sorry for you, Roy.” said the constable, “but there’s no help for’t. You must come with us.” Roy glanced quickly around, while he and Lassard exerted all their force. Their end of the raft still swung away; the other end touched the main ice. “Now’s our time, Hocum!” And the constable stepped with his deputy upon the raft. Roy could expect no help from Lassard. Ho got possession of Lassard’s pole and retreated. Drollers held the other pole ready for any emergency, and advanced with Obed, driving Roy to the corner of the raft. “I guess you better give up, Boy,” said Lassard; ‘I guess no use.” But Roy pointed his pike at Drollers’ breast. “Think you’re going to take me with you, do you, Dumpy Drollers?” he cried, his eyes gleaming defiance. \Yes, my boy, that’s just whatl’m goingtodo,” said Drollers. “Jump into the water, and you’ll have a cold bath for nothing, and get hooked out with this fifteen-foot pole.” Again Roy glanced around. Behind him was the open water, with here and there a floating fragment of waste ice; confronting him were the confident officer and his wildly-grinning deputy. /Keep off!” he shouted, as Drollers advanced. Put down that pole, Roy! You’ll be sorry if you make me use mine!” said the officer, threateningly. Another glance behind. Roy was watching his chances. “Well I I’m ready now!” And, hurling the pole backward, he wheeled half about and followed it, taking a desperate leap from the raft. [TO BE CONTINUED.] BITTER ATONEMENT, BY THE AUTHOR OF “A WOMAN’S TEMPTATION;” “LADY EVE-LYXS FOLLY; ’ etc., etc. (“A Bitter Atonement” was commenced in No. 36. Back Nos. can be obtained of any News Agent in the United States.] CHAPTER LIX. A lovely summer’s morning, the dew shining on the long, cool grass, on the hedges, the leaves of tall trees, on the brilliant flowers, and Diane thought to herself that the flowers were never so fair as at Irksdale. She had risen early that morning, sleep was impossible; her dreams were full oj terror; whenever her eyes closed she saw before her the dark, brooding face of Bruno Severne. she heard the terrible voice with its one accusing sentence: “You are my wife, Diane!” If sleep fora few minutes overtook her, she woke with a cry of alarm; he was always there ready to seize her, to take her from Philip, whom she loved—Philip, the other half of her own soul! Philip, the husband of her love! So Diane rose; a fancy came to her that perhaps with the terrible fright of the night her hair had turned gray. She had read of such things, and surely no woman living had gone through greater anguish. She -was almost afraid to look in her mirror to see; but when she did look there was her golden hair, with its wondrous sheen; the proud, fair face, with its queenlike loveliness. Something like a wan smile came to her lips; how foolish she had been to fear. Would to Heaven all the rest was as much a fancy as this. "I used to wonder,” thought Diane, “what people meant when they talked of the agony of death; now I know. This is my agony.” It was so early yet that she would not call her maid; but she found a shawl, and went down into the garden. Oh! the lovely, laughingsummer.the golden sun, the fairy flowers, the sweet singing birds, the fragrant air. Diane stood in the midst of the loveliness. Would those blue, smiling heavens be kind to her, or would the thunderbolt fall ? She was safe here, in her husband’s princely home. Her eyes wandered round—sure no foe dare enter here. She looked at the green, waving woods, at the beautiful park, at the pleasure grounds, at the smooth emerald lawn, at the picturesque gardens, the broad, long terraces—what foe dare invade this princely home ? The sun shone on the square towers and the massive turrets, on the oriel windows and the grand old porch. A fancy came to her that if Bruno Severne tried to take her away she could shut herself up in this stronghold, and hold it against him; but ho would not find her. Heaven was very good to her, very merciful; she should not be given up as a captive into the hands of this cruel man; he would never find her. Listen to the little birds singing, the sweet, fleeting music —would Heaven be so good to a little bird, feed it, keep it, fill its little heart with so much gladness that it overflowed in song, yet be cruel to her? Look at the flowers—they lived, loved, laughed in the sunshine—would there be more compassion for a lily or for a rose than for her ? “I am safe here,” she said to herself. “If I had remained in London he might have found me—he cannot discover me now. He will forget that meeting in time, he will learn to think of it as a trick of fancy, an idle imagination, a resemblance that deceived.” So she reasoned with herself as she walked through the leafy glades of Irksdale. Abroad running brook sang its pretty song; she stooped down and laved her hot hands in it; it was so cool, this sweet water singing under the shade of the trees, sho bathed her face in it. Ah, Heaven, what a fever of fear she had passed through, what a terror of fright, what mortal anguish; and the water sang on, soothing her with its melody. How the calm and silence contrasted with the hot unrest she had suffered, the fever of heart and soul—a longing came to her to lie down by the brookside while the water sang her soul away. Then she started to find the morning advancing—had she been sleeping by the brook ? The sun was high in the heavens, and the birds all singing in the trees—the servants would miss her and wonder. She must go back to the house. Her maid was waiting with a smiling face—she supposed the beauty of the morning had tempted her lady out. Then she uttered a cry of dismay when she caught sight of Diane’s face. “You are ill, my lady, I am sure,” she cried. “What is the matter ?” “I am not ill,” said Diane, “but I did not sleep well. I could not rest.” “Your face is white, and your eyes are so strange. Let me bring you some tea ?” Diane drank the tea—the same strange thirst was on her that she had felt by the brook’s side. Then her maid helped her with her pretty morning dross “I shall not ride or drive to-day,” said Diane! “I shall do nothing but rest.” “And indeed, my lady, you look as though you needed it, no one more. I do not think you left London a day too soon.” Diane went to the library; she selected a book she thought would please her, then she went out to her favorite seat under the great sweeping cedar on the lawn, What was she reading? there were the printed letters so plain and clear, yet she could find no sense in them. Was it a story ?—was it her own?— were the words printed, or was she dreaming them ? “You1 cannot deceive me, you are my wife, Diane.” With a startled cry she closed the book; she was surely asleep and dreaming again. “This will never do,” thought Diane. “I shall lose my reason if it goes on. I shall go mad.” She left her seat under the cedar, and walked about the lawn, trying to interest herself in the bright-winged butterflies and the lovely flowers, trying to reason with herself and make herself believe there was no need for fear. How could ho trace her ?—how could he possibly find out sho was Lady Kerston ? They would not tell him at the store; she had the principal’s word for that; how could he trace her ? she was safe there in her husband’s home as though death itself divided her from Bruno Severne; why fear? She saw a servant coming across to her—Andrew, a footman, wTho had been for some years at Irksdale. “My lady,” he said; “did I not understand that by your own express orders you were not at home to any one?” “You are right?” said Diane. “There is a person here—I cannot say he is a gentleman, my lady, for he does not look like one, and he insists upon seeing you.” “Insists upon seeing me?” she repeated. “Yes, I told him your ladyship was not at home. He said his business was most urgent, that he knew you were here, and should not go away without seeing you. He added that if I mentioned his name, Severne, your ladyship would see him at once.” Oh, Heaven! it had come at last! the thunderbolt had fallen from the blue skies! Her heart gave one wild bound, then seemed to stop; a damp, like the damp of death, came on her brow; then, with a violent effort, with a vague idea that for Plop’s sake she must control herself 'before the servants at least, she turned away lest the man should see the Sailor of her face, and notice the trembling of her ands. “Severne?” she repeated; “and ho insists upon seeing me?” “He has come from London for that purpose,” said the servant. “Tell him to come here; I need not return to the house,” she said, gently, and the man turned away. He was coming. She gave one despairing glance at the blue heavens; one low moan of unutterable anguish came from her lips; then she turned to confront him with the look and gesture of a queen. He drew back involuntarily, startled in spite of himself. He had expected to see fear, terror, surprise; instead of that, a queenly woman was looking at him. with nothing but well-bred surprise in her face. There was no fear, no terror, but the dignified wonder of one who is interrupted against her will; she was even the first to speak. She went forward one step in advance; she looked steadily at him. "You wished to see me?” she said, courteously. Then the courteous grace seemed to leave her. “You are the person who was so rude to me the other day,” she added. “I am your husband, Diane—you know it. All the lies, the effrontery, the boldness, the maneuvers in the world will not alter the past or deter me from my purpose. You may lose your own soul by perjury, by false swearing, but you cannot alter the fact—you are my wife, Diane!” L She looked round her, calmly. . ( “If I had had any idea that it was you,” she said, I should rather have asked for help than have sent for you here. I will try to be patient with you, but it is difficult. Will you take my word, once for all, • that I am Lord Kerston’s wife, and that I do not know you ?” “You do not know me, Diane! Great Heaven! that a woman can be so false! You do not know me ? Have you forgotten your dead father’s friend —Laurence Balfour’s trusted friend? Have you forgotten that I went to Uplands for you? Have you forgotten our wedding-day, Diane—the church where we were married ! Have you forgotten my mad love, my passionate delight when I brought you, my sunbeam, home ? Have you forgotten our little son, Laurence, who has your eyes and your hair ? Forgotten! ah! you may say it, but it is not true. Did your hands n ■ ver lie clasped in mine ?— have I never kissed your dps ?—have I never called you wife ? Shame on you tuat > ou should say such words! She turned from him with an air of gentle weariness. "I am quite tired of your raving,” she said. “I pray you to leave me peaceably, before I send for my servants to turn you from the door.” He made one great stride toward her. He seized her delicate wrist in his strong, fierce hand. You hypocrite!” he cried. “You false, wicked woman! I call Heaven to witness that you are the most shameful woman I know. I protest against your sin. If you will not own me by fair means, you shall by force! I will not spare you. Listen— ^ofc try to take your hand from me, I will hold it while I speak. Own your faults to me, here, now. Say, ‘Bruno, I am your guilty wife—your wretched, sinful wife.’ Say that, and I--1 will be merciful. I will take you where your sin and sorrow can never find you out. I will keep the story of vour crime a secret!” She sighed gently, and he saw her look round again, as though in search of help. That exasperated him. “Refuse at your peril!” he hissed. “I should not really care if you killed me,” said Diane; “if my life is to be haunted by a madman in this fashion, it will be unbearable. I must appeal to the law to protect me.” He laughed; but she would rather have heard any sound on earth than that terrible laughter. “Great Heavens! Talk of the effrontery of women ; I never believed in it before! I give you one more chance, Diane. Say, ‘Forgive me, Bruno,’ then I shall know that you recognize the justice of my claim, and I shall be content. Sav it!” "How can I say such a thing,” she^id, gently, to an utter stranger ?” “Now, hear my alternative. I srobd last night, for five hours, on the steps of your door, waiting to see Lord Kerston—waiting to tell him what kind of woman he had honored with his name. I missed him: but I shall at once proceed against you.” “Will you kindly release my hand ?” she said, as though the rest were less than nothing to her. “I will not. Listen, while I tell you what I'will • do-” CHAPTER LX, “I will tell you,” said Bruno, “what I shall de. There are many people who know you—Hester my sister, Ralph Thorne the curate, Anne Clegg the servant—they all know you, they will remember you. Brought face to face with them, you will not dare to persist in this effrontery.” She shuddered as he pronounced each name— they were like so many daggers in her heart. Remember them! could^he ever forget the grim, gray face of Hester ? The commonplace featurt^j of Anne Clegg, the clear, calm countenance of^Mj curate, rose before her as he spoke—wor ld recognize her ? Her d»cart almost stood still wnn fear. She was loss what to say, yet the instinct of self-preservation was strong within her. Never, let what might happen, would she give in and plead guilty—never! for Philip’s sake. She looked up at the stern, hard face before her. “There are many cases of mistaken identity: try to believe me, this is one. Only reflect for a moment how improbable it is. Supposing even that all you say is true,-and that at some time or other you had an unhappy runaway wife, how could she possibly be found in the position I occupy? Common sense, if nothing else, will tell you how wrong you are.” He looked at her with a certain amount of admiration in his face. “You have plenty of spirit, Diane,” he said, “but you will not vanquish me. I could almost find it in my heart to be sorry for you .because you are fighting what you think to be a gallant fight. I could pity you if you were less wicked or less hardened in your wickedness. I could almost forgive you if you showed any sign of fear.” “I do not feel any fear,” she replied; “why should I show it? And now, will you forgive me, Mr, Severne, if I say this painful and absurd conversation must come to an end; my servants will think it strange, and I am tired of it.” “Your servants will see stranger things than this,” he retorted, laughingly; “some of them will give evidence against you. You have heard, I presume, of the Divorce Court?” She grew deadly pale. “When all pacific measures have failed,” he said, “I shall serve you a citation from the Divorce Cburt, and you will see what happens next.” “You must please yourself; the only favor I really ask from you is that you will go at once and leave me.” “You shall be obeyed. I know you will be the first to repent of this morning’s work. The man you have deceived, Diane, is a grand, noble man; how could you so cruelly deceive him? How could you let him take a dishonored woman to his heart his and home? If you had no fear of God, no fear of me, no fear of the consequences that always follow sin, you might at least have thought of him. The beautiful woman folded her white hands w’ith an air of calm, resignation and despair. “I am compelled to listen,” she said, “because I cannot help myself.” His face became distorted with a heavy frown. “If I had meant to spare you,” he said, “your effrontery would have forbidden it; now take the consequences of your own folly.” So saying, he strode away and left her standing among the flowers. She watched the tall, gaunt figure and severe face until he was out of sight, then she fell down on her knees and wept aloud. Nothing could save her now; she knew all that must follow; he would keep his threat, he would bring all these people to confront her, and then Well, for Philip’s sake—still, for Philip’s sake,, she could deny it; but would that be of any avail? If he brought, as he threatened, a string of witnesses against her, they would win in the end ; sho might do brave battle with one, but not with all. How did that terrible day pass? Her servants looked at her in wonder, so white, so silent, with a worn, haggard look in her beautiful eyes; silent, despairing, as unlike herself as is the shadow of a flowTer to a flower—weary, stricken, hopeless. Could this be the brilliant, beautiful mistress who had once filled the place with sunshine? Quite involuntarily, and without in the least knowing the reason -why, they connected the terrible change in her looks with the visit of the gaunt, rough man who had been there that morning. Can any one imagine such a day as she endured —so full of anguish and of sorrow—so full of restless pain and weary suspense? “It would be almost better for me,” she thought, “if the worst would happen and my suspense were ended. Anything would bo easier to bear than this/’ They prepared lunch for her, but she could not touch it; everything seemed to turn to ashes on her lips. What should she do—what should she do? What would happen? She wandered through those magnificent rooms, the ghost of her former self— sho could find neither rest nor repose. The sight of her own face in the glass frightened her; sho wrung her hands in unavailing despair. What should she do—what should she do in the terrible time coming? There never was a woman so fair, yet so unhappy. There were times when she flung her white arms above her head and cried out: “Let me die! let mo die!” There were times when she flung horself with her face on the ground—writhing in despair—not caring to rise. So the long summer day passed. Oh, Heaven, that such days must be! At night she went into her own room, exhausted with violent emotion, moving mechanically, only-alive to the fact that sho must do as others did, and that she must pretend to sleep and to rest, though her brain was on fire and her heart burning. Of all nights surely that was the longest and most cruel—surely it was the most dreary and terrible. It ended as the day had done— “ Be the day short, or be it long. It endeth at last in even song.” Then came another day. There was a brilliant sun mocking her with golden gleams; there were the happy little birds singing gay. sweet songs; there were the flowers blooming—ah! so fair and fresh. Everything on earth seemed glad and bright but herself. _ • , _ She went down stairs. Her husband—even in thought she never gave that name to any other than Lord Kerston—her husband was coming that day. What else would happen? Death? Why, she laughed bitterly at the notion. What was the pain of death compared to the agony of life? If she could kiss Philip’s face, and die THE NEW YCW. WEEKLY. without the exposure, the shame, the disgrace, she should think herself most fortunate. . If she could die, as a child falling asleep, in Philip’s arms—oh, Heaven! that would be mercy! Poor, hapless Diane! She looked at her trembling hands. , , , , “I should go mad,” she thought, if this lasted. My nerves are shaken, my reason is going; I could not bear it.” , , The roses were all laughing in the sun when her husband came; the butterflies were coquetting with the tall, white lilies. She had meant to go and meet him, but she dared not; he must not see her white face for the first time out in the sunshine. She remained in the drawing-room, trying to look as much like herself as possible; she heard the noise of his footsteps on the stairs; her heart beat so loudly that it seemed to her it must break. Nearer, nearer—then he was in the room, his noble, handsome face all beaming with love. “My darling,” he said, “you have only been gone away two days, yet it seems like two years.” He kissed her face over and over again; he clasped her in his arms, whispering sweet, caressing words to her. Then he looked at her. “GreatHeaven, Diane!” he cried, “what have you done to yourself ? What is the matter ? Have you been ill ? Your face looks quite changed.” She had known that he would say all this, and she had thought what she should answer, how she should parry all attemps at explanation. Now her one longing impulse was to throw herself in his arms, and, clinging to him, beg him to shield her, to help her, to proteet her. She tried to answer him, but her white lips trembled, her eyes filled with tears, and she turned away. “Diane, Diane, my darling!” cried Lord Kerston, “what is the matter ?” She turned to him and looked at him again. ■ “I have not been well, Philip,” she said. “I was not well, when I left London. I feel ill.” “You look ill, too. What can I do for you, Diane? Will you go abroad ? That terrible London season, all glare, and gas, and gayety, has been too much for you. You must have long weeks of rest and quiet.” “You are right,” she said. “I should like to go abroad too, Philip. Just imagine what it must be to get away from all the world. Oh! Philip, Philip,” she cried, “how I.should like to go away with you, where no one would see us, know us, or follow us : —some place where we could be all alone, dear—all : alone!” Her veice died away in a low, quivering sob,*and Lord Kerston loooked on in amaze. “Why, Diane, my darling, what is the matter? This will never do.” he said. “I have never seen you in this state. I believe you have the complaint that fine ladies call nervousness. I must have you cured, my beautiful, bright Diane; pale, trembling, with tears in her eyes—that is a sight I do not un- ' derstand at all.” She tried to rouse herself, and conquer the agita- i tion that was so nearly mastering her; but she ; could not. She clung to him, weeping, sobbing like a child, her pride all vanished, her courage gone. < He was very patient with her. He seemed to un- : derstand that it was a nervous complaint that was : of no consequence. < He rang the bell, and ordered a glass of cordial. He talked to her, he told her all the little incidents ; he could remember. He was kindness itself to her; : then when she seemed in some measure to have re- 1 covered herself he said: ] r* “Now, Diane, you must lie down and rest; I would ! • not have this little scene repeated. Fashionable London shall not drag you into its giddy vortex i again, my beautiful wife.” She turned away in silence, unable to speak, not : knowing what to say in answer to his loving car- ; esses; then, thinking it was the greatest kindness ' that he could do for her, he bade her lie down, and, 1 drawing the blinds, he left her, bidding her sleep. 1 Sleep!—she could have laughed aloud in the bitterness of her heart. Sleep! she, whose every ' thought was posioned! There could be no more < sleep for her—no more rest. She had begun to ask i , herself would it be better for her to tell Lord Kers- ; ^^.•and trust to his kindness, or should she fight it . out, 111 f „ She could not . , . . , not abase her glorious womandU^Y^, she would No-come what might-sho would : CHAPTER LXI. Should she tell him or should she not ? She woke from a long, dreamless sleep with those words m her ears. Should she go to him now, and kneeling at his feet, tell him the whole story of her life, the story of her wretched marriage and its still more wretched result ? Should she own to him thftt she who had lived there so long as his honored, beloved wife, was no wife at all ? What would he say what would he think—what would jie do ? .... It was drawing nearer, this terrible crisis in her life. Even if she herself did not tell him, he would be compelled to know before long. Bruno Severne would fulfill his threats, and then—-Diane turned away with a dreary sigh. If she had but died as a child, if she had but died with her mother, if she had but waited at that dull, gloomy Larchdale until death claimed her—if sho had done anything except just what she had done. It was all over now for some years her life had lain among the roses, now there was nothing but thorns; for long years the sun had shone on her, now there was nothing but shade How many hours would elapse before Bruno Severne would keep his threat? lor how many hours longer would she see a smile on Philip’s face? When would the light of his countenance be turned from her ? She would live those hours through, she would watch her sun set to the The smile died from his lips as he read— “My Lord Kerston:—I write this to tell you that the person living in your house, whom you call your wife, is no wife of yours, and never has been. She is my wife, and I claim her. “I am a plain farmer—Bruno Severne by name, and long years ago I had a friend called Laurence Balfour. We were very much attached to each other, and when Laurence Balfour lay dying, although he had not seen me for many years, he left me guardian of his only child, Diane. I am, as I said, a plain, homely farmer. I have a good farm of my own called Larchdale, and my sister, Miss Hester Severne, kept house for me. Laurence Balfour had been dead some time before I knew that his daughter had been left to my charge; he was an artist—a clever, unreal, impractical, dreamy kind of man. “I went at once, when I knew it, to the place where she lived; it was called Uplands; and instead of finding her, as I thought to do, a child, I saw a beautiful young girl; and, my Lord Kerston, to make a long story short, because I knew no other way of befriending her, I married her and took her home. “We were not happy. I made no attempt to disguise the truth. I confess that I might have done much more to have brightened her life; but I did not do it. She was young, gay, high-spirited, fond of everything bright, and beautiful, and pleasant. I was old and formal. Still I might have done more; I might have remembered how young and bright she was—instead of that, I tried to bend her into our ways, to bring her into our narrow grooves, to make her like ourselves; and I could not. “We did not go the right way to work with her. We made no allowances. I was not just. All this I own freely now, for I see my ?ault. “I allowed my sister to be unkind to her; and then, poor Diane, her baby was born! “My lord, I do not want to trouble you with a long story. Diane’s baby was born, and that which should have made us kinder, only made us harder to her. “My sister would have her own way over the little one; she gave it some medicine which nearly killed it, and when the child was lying on what we thought its death-bed, Diane was not allowed to enter the room. “My lord, it drove her mad, for she loved the little child with a wonderful love. When she was sent away from the room she left the house; my idea is that she was half-crazed with her misery, and ran away, believing the child was dead. “I spent years in looking for her. I knew she had left me voluntarily because she sent back my wedding-ring. When I received it I swore to be revenged, and I mean to keep my oath! “My son lived and prospered, he grow bright, handsome, intelligent—an artist. You know him; M. Davard adopted him and took him to London to teach him his art. My lord, I came to London to see my boy, and while in a store in Bond street I saw my wife, Diane.” “I recognized her at once; she was superbly dressed; she was magnificently handsome; she had all the prestige of rank, wealth, position, but I recognized her; I went to her and claimed her at once. “ ‘Diane,’ I said, ‘you art? my wife; I ^recognize you—come home with me.’ My lord, she raised to mine a blank, wondering face, and said she did not ; know me. My lord, if you had lost Diane—you having loved her—if you had lost her, and found : her again—should you not know her? ’ “There was a scene; the proprietor of the store interfered; Diane was escorted to her carriage; I , was roughly treated and dismissed. I asked her : name; no one would tell me, but I found it out—no matter how; and then I knew that the woman who was before God and m$n my wife passed as yours; I that she was called Lady Kerston, of Irksdale, and that she lived in all honor and esteem. ; “I went to your house, hoping to seo you, but I was refused. I stood for five hours outside your 1 door—still could not see you. I found out that Diane was at Irksdale, and I followed her. We had a long interview, and she defied me to the last; she defies me now, and I know that of her own accord sho will never own the truth; but I shall wring it from her—I shall force it from her! I have told her I should send a citation from the Divorce Court; I have changed my mind—I shall charge her with having committed bigamy. If you doubt what I to Drawitten. if you doubt my word, take this letter her lips grow'witch her while she reads it, watch face, watch her hanas-v>. the color fade from her and you will see guilt in her WDoxVxajr at her, “She is my wife, my lord! “She was mine long before she was yours. You, a nobleman, would scorn to put your hand m my pocket and steal my purse—you would not forge my name to a check—you would not rob my house —you would not set fire to my hay-ricks; my lord, will you then be so dishonest as to keep my wife —my wife, to whom I have the first and only claim? , ,, , , , “Which is the more honorable, to take my wife or my money? . “You acted innocently enough m marrying her, believing her to be free; you cannot plead ignorance or innocence now; for I tell you, most frankly, the woman you call Diane is my lawful wife. Diane Severne, and I am coming to claim her.” • (TO BE CONTINUED.) TO-----. BY ADA R. CARNAHAN. right to communicate even the small knowledge Lhave gained concerning him. \ Loraine put on an injured air, lapsing into silence, during which he paid the utmost attention to the mutteriiigs and ravings of the invalid; but, at length, he remarked: “Can’t be gen’leman, Wal’er. Ain’t even ’spectable. Hear him talk dungeons, chains, gratin’s, an’ bread water! Just escaped prison, bet anything on it. But, ’course, none my business. You’ll come grief through this very person—see if don’t! Needn’t come me for comfort if do. Idea gen’leman! Minute set eyes on him, knew he’s no better ’n should be.” “Are anw ot us better than we should be ?” replied Walter, smiling. “If you entertain any distrust of our guest, just look at his face. Worn as it is with suffering, you cannot help seeing on it the impress of an honorable character.” Loraine arose, and looked at the invalid, and acknowledged that the artist had spoken truly, and that the invalid looked like a gentleman. “Evidently person consequence,” he muttered, resuming his seat. “Speaks such excellent grammar, ’dined to think he’s curate, or schoolmaster, or ’bassador. ’Spose I’m not ’nough consequence know who is. Only Colte L’raine, old guardian, mis’ble old father, not fit live!” The owner of the slbop continued in this manner for some time, delighting, as it seemed, in reviling himself, and heaping contumely upon his own head, his personal vituperations being all the fiercer because Walter did not hasten to contradict him, and declare that he wronged himself, and should instantly know all about the mysterious stranger. When he at length paused for want of breath, Walter said, .quietly: “Can’t you speak in a little lower tone, father ? I think the tone of your voice excites our guest.” Loraine looked confused and bewildered at this reception of his rambUng denunciations of himseh, and again became silent. After a^period of reflection, he looked at the artist, rather timidly at first, and then with more assurance, and then, assuming a jovial air, he tipped back his hat, saying: “Well, Wal’er, ain’t time supper ? Hungry’s shark. Jes’ give me key cupboard, so can get something eat. ’Clare this sea-air gives awful appetite I” Instead of yielding up the key as requested, Walter unlocked the cupboard, set out sufficient food for an ample repast for three, and then said, as he put the key back in his pocket: “When you have eaten, you had better take Jack his meal. I hope the poor fellow gets enough to eat.” Loraine made no reply. He had not demanded the key on account of hunger, but because his stimulants were all in the closet, and he wished to refresh himself with them. Walter, however, did not seem to comprehend his real motive, but took his seat at the table, applying himself to the manufacture of some excel lent coffee, talking cheerfully and pleasantly as he did so, and before the beverage was ready lor use, Loraine’s brow had cleared, and his sullen, injured look vanished. “There! isn’t that a delicious odor?” asked Walter, as the fragrant coffee scented the cabin. “It is better than before. Come to the table, lather.” Loraine refused; but as Walter poured for him a brimming cup of the beverage, and dropped into it several tempting white lumps of sugar, his resistance gave way, he drew forward his chair, and was again himself. As young gentlemen usually at convivial suppers exert themselves to amuse and interest their companions by their wit and humor, so Walter now exerted himself to please the man he deemed his father. And Loraine allowed his attention to be diverted from the cupboard and from his guest’s identity, and told stories of his experience in Australia and elsewhere—stories so totally devoid of interest to the listener, that it showed a good heart and great self-control in him to keep up his gentle smile and occasional remark. With all his attention to Loraine, Walter did not neglect his guest, and as he bent over him, smoothing his pillow, the owner of the sloop remarked: “Wal’er, you ought to give him somethin’ eat. P’raps a drop of something drink might help him. When I’ve been sick ’fore now, a drop drink has fetched me round d’rectly.” “He is better without food,” replied Walter; “and as to drink, I give him water. But what were you saying about the miner ?”. Loraine immediately resumed his narrative, which continued until he became too sleepy to speak connectedly, and then he said: “Think I’ll go bed, Wal’er. Was up last night. If need ’sistan ce, can call me.” Removing his outer garments, he crept iq,to the upper berth, and was soon asleep. When this state was announced by an unconscious snore, Walter mused: “I think I made a good beginning with him to-night. In the morning I will have a long talk with him, and endeavor to reclaim him from his present course. How singular that Rosenbury snould apply to my own father to kill me! I cannot comprehend it. And that my father should consent to murder his own son seems incredible. There is something behind this that I don’t understand. Lord Rosenbury must have some hold upon ' my father; but what can it be ?” While he considered the subject, the young artist went out ’ upon the deck with the food which Loraine had forgotten to take < to Jack, and the sailor now accepted it, declaring, however, that 1 he had stored a quantity of things in his department, and all he J cared for from the cabin was an occasional cup of hot coffee. Walter returned to the cabin, warmed what remained of the 1 coffee already made, and brought it to the sailor, apologizing for < having forgotten it before. “Oh, it’s no matter, sir,” responded Jack, politely. “It’s better now’n earlier, since I've got to be up all night. The old gentleman, beggin’ your parding, sir, won’t take my turn to-night, I s’pose ?” “He is asleep, Jack, but you can let me know when you want to sleep, and I dare say I can manage the slpop. I know something about the management of/^mall vessels.” “Oh, I wouldn’t think ot troublin'you,” returned the sailor; “I can keep awake to-night, and p’raps in the mornin’ your pa might like to take my place a little while.” Walter repeated his offer, and soon after returned to the cabin and his patient. Notwithstanding his assurances, and the strength of the coffee, Jack went to sleep at his post and the artist concluded to allow the little vessel to lie-to until morning being impossible for him to attend to it and the invalid at onefe. impus^mie ioi [7the poor, fever-stricken fugitive ravea loving aa,vAO..y\ terrible and powerful enemy, of a g-- he pleaded piteouSiy^ _ ^ar(lr t0 him than life, and by turns imaginary tetters. He trieff to >v.i.»pdom and struggled with he started up, Walter’s gentle hand was piav^n but every time head, and Walter’s gentle voice breathed comforting as^M'ore-which, though not understood, seemed to reassure the invalid. But in all nis ravings the patient did not let fall a single clew to his identity, did not mention the name of his enemy, and called his daughter only by those pet names familiar to every household, so that the young artist could not imagine who he was, or where he belonged, save that he was evidently an English- “Mornin’, my good fren’. Hope see you’gain. How’s health?” Jack replied that he was well, and returned the question. “Not well, ’tall,” was the dejected reply. “Feel mel’choly. No use livin’. ’Bout tired life.” “Sorry, sir,” said Jack. “If it’s because I flopped off last night, I didn’t go for to do it, sir. Sleep took me by surprise. But the Pretty Polly is making up for lost time now, sir.” “The Pretty Polly,” repeated Loraine, gloomily. “Mus’ change name. Bein’nautical man, you might’gist me to name—sum-thin’ not gay, you know.” Jack devoted a little time to cogitation, and announced: “The Petrel is a nice name, sir, for a little craft like this.” “The Petrel. Ver’ good. But ’tain’t expressive enough. Le’ me think. Ahl have it. The’Morseful Petrel. That the new name of sloop. I’ll have it painted over when get to Lon’on. Don’ le’ me hear any more Pollies.” Jack expressed his admiration of the new title, although not expressly comprehending it, and Loraine looked gloomily over the side of the sloop as if meditating an immediate descent into the water. “Better if I was dead,” he muttered. “Life’s no charms. Won’er how ’twould feel to drown.” “Don’t be having such thoughts, sir,” remonstrated Jack. “Cheer up. Take a drop of something, if I might be so bold--” Loraine turned round abruptly. “My fren’,” he said, “I’d willin’ly take a drop, on’y my son’s busy with sick fren’, an’s got the key of closet. Could you,” he added, with an air of mystery, “lend or sell me a little cheerful drink ? P’raps you’ve got some aboard for yourself. Don’t like to ’sturb my son, you know. See here.” * He handed Jack a half-sovereign, which that individual very reluctantly refused, saying: “There’s grog aboard, but bought with your money. You’ll find it in the fo’c’sle. Being yours, you can help yourself, sir.” “You’re honest fellow,” declared Loraine, admiringly. “Take th’ money as present, my good fren’. li liquors mine, help yourself ’s often’s you like.” Placing the coin in his eager hand, Loraine made his way to Jack’s quarters, found the stores aDuded to, and in due time emerged upon the deck, his hat tipped back jauntily, and his face beaming with joviality. As he resumed his seat beside the sailor, Walter came on deck, looked surprised at the change in Loraine’s appearance, which surprise was changed to disappointment, when the owner of the sloop declared: “No use, Wal’er, try teach old dog new tricks. Stimulants necessary my pecul’ar cons’tution. So del’cate need strength’nffig bev’rages. Coffee’ll do for women an’ babies. Ain’t vexed, hope, Wal’er. Don’t get vexed! If man ’vented temperance had known me, made ’ception my favor.” Walter turned from Loraine, sick at heart, and glanced over the waters. As he did so, his eyes rested upon a little vessel between the sloop and the shore, and quite near the latter. It was • proceeding very slowly, as if searching for some one supposed to be on the coast. A few minutes’ scrutiny showed it to be the mysterious yacht of Rock Land Cove—the very yacht that had carried away the fugitive—and Walter instantly concluded that it was now searching for him. “They must be terribly in earnest in their design of recapturing the poor gentleman,” he thought, “since, in addition to their land force, they employ the yacht to search for him. It is probable that when they captured him before they did not dare to take him back to his captivity by any other route than water. Some one might have recognized him had he been taken by rail, or he might have convinced some one oi his sanity. Evidently they hope to capture him now, and put him aboard the yacht again. I hope the yacht won’t speak us.” He was soon relieved on that point, the strange craft standing in for the shore, as if with the idea that the fugitive was within their view, and the sloop speedily increased the distance between them. Walter resolved to take the event as a hint to exercise the most extreme caution in regard to his guest when taking him ashore and afterward. He was convinced that his patient was an injured gentleman, with a powerful enemy who wished to remove him from his path, and he determined to use every effort to reinstate him in his position. As he started to return to the cabin, Loraine touched him on the arm, and the geniality of his countenance somewhat subdued, remarked: “Say you ain’t vexed, Wal’er. You’re goin’ back, marry a girl, an’ be happy, so don’t lay up wrath ’gainst old father I” Walter reassured him—speedily restoring his joviality—while at the same time he gave up all hope of changing the nature or habits of his supposed father. “Here is your key,” he said, sadly.' “I cannot always play the jailer to a cupboard, so I give up the office now—particularly as you have other supplies. If you will not be a man I cannot force you to be one.” Loraine received the key with many deprecatory remarks, yet with evident pleasure, and the artist returned to his patient. The day was passed by the owner of the sloop in cultivating the acquaintance of Jack Marlow, he having discovered him to be a congenial spirit in consequence of his civility of the morning, but he took care to exact the deference from his seaman which he deemed due to himself as a “ship owner” and person of unlimited, means. He told marvellous tales of his wealth, his house in town, his country estates, his rent rolls, etc.; the items all corresponding as nearly as possible with Rosenbury’s possessions, to which Loraine felt that he had a sort of claim; and he had the proud satisfaction of feeling that—at least, in the eyes of one individual, he was the greatest man in England. The day passed less pleasantly to Walter; and yet, perhaps not—for there is always deep pleasure in doing good, in acting tlie part of the Samaritan to people who have no claim upon us, the pleasure thereby being intensified with a sense of having simply fulfilled a duty. When night came on, Loraine offered to act as watcher, but he was not exactly in condition to fulfill the necessary duties with care and thoughtfulness, and his services were declined. He therefore retired at a late hour, and did not awaken until nearly morning, when Jack entered the cabin to announce that the sloop was within a mile of London Bridge. CHAPTER XXXVII. The appointment at Lady Rosenbury’s, from which Walter Loraine had been so unavoidably detained, had been faithfully kept by his betrothed. She had proceeded to the trysting-place, ac- Lano- im companied by her maid, immediately after dinner, on the even-genugZ’' ing of her lover’s abduction, and had been somewhat surprised id by turns '"'l^that he was not awaiting her. irrcrlnrl With • i „ 1 1 1 ,. ~ _J_is__-r i -n s ■ , « ’ “Well, Justina,” he said, pleasantly, “you are busy writing acceptances of dinner invitations, I suppose. You ought to b« > happy, now that you have compassed your desire to enter upon fashionable life, and have so soon become the object of so much , attention.” ; “I am content,” replied the countess. “I have entered upon a busy, yet idle sort of existence, that suits me very well, after > those dull, monotonous years at Milan. How people can live without gayety, I cannot imagine. I wonder at my old manner of living. But here are the letters,” she added, pointing to the little pile before her; “and here,” she concluded, “is a very singular letter from that artist to Geraldine. It appears that he is in the country some where, and has failed to keep an appointment with her at the house of a mutual friend. He expects to return to-day. Now, Egbert, who can this friend of . theirs be who assists and encourages them to defy your lawful authority ?” “I am sure I don’t know,” was the response. “I believe it is Lady Rosenbury,” declared the countess. “Geraldine goes there oftener than elsewhere, amd everybody says that her ladyship is remarkably devoted to that artist.’” “Lady Rosenbury 1 Preposterous!” said the earl. “Why Geraldine has always been intimate with her ladyship, so her visiting there is no reason at all for implicating Lady Rosenbury in the matter. Besides, her ladyship is the mother of the favored suitor—the one I favor—and she would never use her influence in favor of a low-born painter, when by doing so she injures her own son. For once your astuteness is at 'fault, Justina. The oftener Geraldine visits at Rosenbury House, the better I shall be pleased.” The countess was silenced, but not convinced. In her very first interview with Lady Rosenbury she had felt her own inferiority to her noble visitor, and, on noticing the maiden’s love for her friend, her incipient jealousy had matured into a strong dislike. She was too guarded to betray this feeling, however, and dismissed the subject, destroying the letter while the earl perused his correspondence. When he had finished his task, the wife produced a small collection of invitations and cards, and submitted them to him, demanding complete information in regard to the social position, etc., of the senders, and the earl hastened to griftity her curiosity. In the midst of their discussion the page appeared, bearing a card, which he delivered to his master. The latter glanced at it, turned pale, and said: “Show the gbntleman in here.” As the page disappeared, the earl turned to his wife, and said, hurriedly: “My dear Justina, I have a business call. Please retire; I wish to see the gentleman alone. Go quickly.” The countess began to remonstrate, but her husband looked at her with an expression which compelled obedience, and she left the room by a door he indicated just as a man, with a hat slouched over his face, entered from the hall. Her ladyship was unable to gain a view ot his features, which seemed to be studiously concealed, and she lingered at the closed door of the inner room, in the hope of hearing the conversation; but nothing reached her hearing save a quick, terrified cry, which was not repeated. “A business call, and the earl screaming like that!” she muttered, indignantly, as she retreated to her room in despair of overhearing anything. “Egbert has a secret from me, but I will fathom it, if woman’s wit is worth anything!” She waited a long hour in her own room for the departure of the stranger, but the hall-door at last announced his going, and she then expected the page to summon her to the library. But he did not come, and she grew petulant at the earl’s neglect. The thought finally occurred to her that doubtless she was expected to return without a summons, and she made her way to the library. The page came out as she went in, but, without a glance at him, she addressed herself to her husband: “Egbert, do you call this proper treatment ? Oh, whatever is the matter ? Have you lost your senses ?” very l&st. ' A citation from the divorce court! Innocent Diane, who was yet so guilty, wondered what that meant. Her newspaper reading had not been very extensive, but she knew there were cases oi bigamy, whore a man found guilty of marrying two wives was sentenced to imprisonment and hard labor. If Bruno did fulfill the threat, would that punishment be hers ? Would they make her standbefore those terrible judges and answer such questions as would rend her heart in twain? Would she stand still while witnesses spoke against her, and told that in all truth she had been Bruno Severne s wife7 Would they sentence her, as they did those men, to prison and hard labor ? She held up her white hands and beautiful arms—were chains and irons for these ? Would prison faro and prison toil spoil their lovely contour ? ■ What words were those now passing through her mind? “Ho maketh the sun to shine on the just and the unjust,” even so,would the law with its terrible might, fall upon her. They would not spare her because she was delicately nurtured, because she was beautiful and graceful, because she was fair and sweet; they would not spare her because sho had lived among the noblest of the land, because she was'accustomed to-the “sheen of .satin 'afid glimmer of pearl.” They would not spare her because she, above all other women, loved her husband with so great a love. Yet what had she done 7 There is an old maxim to the effect that “great genius is often allied to madness,” and so, in some strange vague way, is great innocence often allied to groat crime. Who could be more guilty than Diane in the. eyes of the world. Sho had broken one of its strictest precepts; in the eyes of God she had broken one of His severest laws. Yet, what could, in its way, bo more innocenttnan her offense. She had asked what true marriage meant and they had told her that it was the making one of two half souls; she had so soon found out, poor child, that her soul was not the twin half of Bruno Soverno's, and sho had afterwards believed that she was the other half of Lord Kerston’s life. It was wrong, it was perhaps both weak and Wicked, but Diane had no intention of being either. What had she done. „ , “If I had robbed any one of all that they were worth—if I had committed a murder, if I had done the most deadly deed, they could but put me in prison. What have I done ? I found my trve love —my true husband—the other half of my soul—and I went to him. I left one who had been unkind, cruel, grim, stern and uncongenial; who broke my. heart, blighted mv life, made me the most wretched of women. I quitted shade for sunshine, coldness for warmth, darkness for light; from a bleak desert I went into an earthly paradise—and for that 1 must be tortured and imprisoned,” Then, with a sudden revulsion of feeling, she flung herself on her knees, sobbing, with her face buried in her hands, her fair head bowed in lowest humility. , ., “I know it was wrong,”.she said. Oh, God! pity and pardon me. I know it was all wrong. In some strange, vague, dreamy way, the hours of that dreamy day passed; she could never remember how. The greater part of them she spent by her husband’s side, looking at him, as good women look at a dying child; listening to him, touching him occasionally with her soft, white fingers, as though to assure herself it was not all a dream, and the day endu'd while she still had that vague, dreamy expression, the same dazed- look in her eyes. The morrow was coming*—on that morrow God in His mercy help her. Would the sun rise and set as it always did? Would the flowers bloom as fairly ? It seemed to her that in this great crisis of her life even they must stand still. The morrow dawned—no letter, no dread summons came for her, It was three days now since Bruno Severne had left her with those terrible threats on his lips; surely it could never be that he had relented; she knew him too well to hope for that. • e _ She did not see the letters that lay waiting for her husband; there were.none for her. She asked, but was told there were none; but for him there were several, and ambng others one in Bruno Severne s handwriting. Lord Kerston looked at it first with a smile on his lips, the writing was so square apd thick, the envelope coarse. “Who is my new correspondent? he thought. “I never remember to have seen this writing before.” If life were all one golden day Within the bosom of some wood— The mossy runnel’s rippling play. Or song-bird trilling out his lay, Alone to break the solitude And silence; there—where might intrude No worldly thought, but we, as free, As happy as the birds, and good, Still by the rippling waters wooed, In that wood dwelling (you with me, And I with you) alive^to see And read the language of the eye, To feel toe thrill when it may be That hand clasp hand—contentedly Could you abide till day should die, We with it, then, you love as much as I. BY REQUEST. THE FALSE HEIR; OB, THE BELLE OF THE SEASON. BY THE AUTHOR ;0F “SIR JOHX’S ADOPTED,” “THE BLOUSE OF SECRETS,” etc. [“The False Heir” was commenced in No. 34. Back Nos. can be had ot all News Agents in the United States. J CHAPTER XXXVI. Loraine and Jack Marlow, on hearing Walter’s summons, hastened toward him, while the young artist continued to advance with his burden in his arms. Jack came up first, and Walter explained to him that he had unexpectedly encountered a friend who was very ill, and who must be carried aboard the sloop, and then taken to London, adding: “So take hold ot him, my good man, and assist me to carry him to the boat.” Jack obeyed, insisting, however, upon carrying the struggling fugitive alone, because, as he explained, the young gentleman did not look well. The worthy sailor had viewed the strange occurrences of the day, including Walter’s seclusion in the cabin, Loraine’s singular manner and conduct, and the artist’s going ashore, without the least suspicion that anything was wrong between his1 passengers During Walter’s absence, Loraine had not ventured to explain that the sloop must immediately return to London, and Jack had just received his first intimation to that effect. ' As he proceeded in advance of the artist toward the boat, the sailor soon met the owner of the sloop, whose progress over the sands had been much slower than his own, and he slackened his pace, as he said: “Your son, sir, has found a sick friend, an’ says as we are to sail for London direct.” “Yes, sail tor Lon’on,” replied Loraine. “But sick fren’ ? Don’ un’stand. Go on, while speak m’son.” He waved his hand to Jack to proceed, and then stood still, waiting for Walter. The latter had walked slowly, looking up and down the coast with a fear that the pursuers might be on the track of the fugitive, but he soon came up with Loraine, who hastened to ask him who his sick friend was, and how he had now found him. “I cannot explain to you anything about him at present,” replied Walter. “I met him under peculiar circumstances, and know very little of him except that he has enlisted my sympa-thiefcand friendship.” “lie didn’t come from village with you,” returned Loraine, evidently hurt at the artist’s reticence. “You found him lyin’ on beach. Saw you pick him up. So can’t be anybody be lyin’ ’bout loose this manner.” Walter made no reply, but, by the time they reached the boat, Loraine had dismissed his momentary petulance, and recovered his usual good humor. Jack had already deposited the fugitive in the bottom of the boat, and as soon as his employer and Walter had entered it, he pushed it off, sprang in, and rowed rapidly toward the sloop. There was but little difficulty in lifting the fugitive to the deck of the Pretty Polly, and Jack carried him to the cabin, laying him in one of the berths, then returning to his duties, getting the sloop under way for London. Loraine followed Walter to the cabin, his curiosity in regard to the stranger being almost uncontrollable, and seated himself upon a stool to watch the young artist’s movements. These consisted in bathing the flushed, fevered face, combing the tangled hair, loosening the garments, removing the shoes, and making the poor fugitive as comfortable as was possible under the circumstances. When these preparations were completed, Walter turned down the light ot the lantern, which Jack had lighted during his absence. “’Spose you’ve finished, Wal’er,” observed Loraine, as the artist at last seated himself beside his patient, feeling his pulse. “Might toll me who person is comes in an’ takes possession of sloop, disturbing domestic ’rangements. Due to me as host to know’s position.” “He is a gentleman,” responded Walter. “In due time you | shall know aH that I know about him. At present, I have no man and a gentleman. Walter could not help wondering at his own singular interest in the hunted fugitive. He had thought of him so often since meeting him so strangely at Rock Land; had wondered greatly at his disappearance in the mysterious yacht; had pondered over his vague communications so long, that he now regarded him with an absorbing interest, not unmixed with pitying tenderness. He watched over him all night, as a son might have watched over a sick father, kept the door open that the cabin air might be cool and fresh, gave him water to drink, and bathed his head and face often; but it became evident to him that with the few and simple appliances at hand he could do nothing to arrest the progress of the terrible fever that was consuming the health and strength of his guest. “If we were only on our way,” he mused, as the morning beams entered the cabin, causing the dim lantern-light to pale. “A good physician might be able to break up this fever yet. I think I will arouse Jack.” Before doing so he made some coffee for the sailor, and then proceeded with it to the deck. Jack was already at the helm, rubbing his eyes, and looking greatly ashamed for having slept. “Beg your parding, sir,” he said, apologetically. “I was tire-der’n I thought for.” “Never mind,” responded the artist, kindly. “We must endeavor now to make up for lost time. Drink your coffee and eat some breakfast as quickly as possible. I am in haste to reach London, so that my friend can have medical attendance.” Jack obeyed, producing his breakfast from the forecastle, and then resumed his duties, getting his sloop under way, and declaring that the wind was exactly right for the return voyage. Walter then returned to the cabin, finding that Loraine had arisen, and was regarding his patient. “Mornin’, Wal’er,” said the owner of the sloop. “This fren’ yours is dangerous. He jes’ grabbed me by the leg, callin’me vil’nous doctor; and if hadn’t got out as I did, dare say he’d •killed me. He’s little too vilent. How feel bein’ up all night ?’’ “Very well,” was the reply. “I am young and vigorous, and do not mind a night’s sleeplessness. Your breakfast is ready.” Loraine eyed the repast discontentedly, glanced at the closetdoor, then, with a sigh of resignation, went on deck to finish his toilet, make his ablutions, and breathe the morning air. He soon returned, and took his place at the table with Walter. When they had finished the meal, the artist said: “Now, father, as our guest seems more quiet, let us have a good talk with each other.” “Ver’ good,” assented Loraine. ; “I have been thinking during the night,” continued Walter, seriously, “how very singular it was that Lord Rosenbury should have made a proposal to you to murder your own son. It seems to me that you should have been the last person in the world to whom he should have applied to execute such a villainous plan. I have come to the conclusion that he has some hold upon you ____v “No, no!” interrupted Loraine, in alarm. “No such thing:, Wal’er. Applied to me because I old tenant—’umble fren’01 Rose’by family. There’s no secret.” Walter involuntarily smiled at the weak and silly ex®43® 011118 supposed father, and resumed: “What you have last said confirms my suspicion k0™ Kosen' bury has a hold upon you. I have no wish to^trude upon your secrets, nor to force myself into your confluence. It tins hold is founded upon money obligations, I must^eg of you to pay them immediately, and I will give you the money tor the purpose. “You’re too kind,1 Wal’er,” faltered the conscience-stricken Loraine. “’Tain’t money. Keep all you’ve got, an’ don’t spen’ another farthing on me. I don’t deserve it. I am a mis’ble, worthless villain!” “Erring v;ou may be, father, but you are not worthless,” responded Walter, kindly. “No one can be utterly worthless while they can feel the pangs of repentance; and I am sure you repent of your wrong doings, don’t you, father ?” “I do—I do!” assented Loraine, with tears. “Oh, if I could do it all over agin! I’ve done wrong. I ought to be killed. I’d be ’bilged to you, Wal’er, if you’d knock me on the head. I’ve wronged you, ter’bly, an’ can never undo it.” ...... As he concluded, the erring man sobbed bitterly, showing that his remorse was genuine. Walter took it for granted that the “wrong” alluded to meant the intended desertion on an uninhabited northern island, and replied, soothingly: “I forgive you, father. Although you did very wrongly in consenting to such a wicked scheme, I am convinced you could never have had the heart to execute it. I know you must have some affection for your own and only son.” , “Precious little!” muttered Loraine, bitterly, under his breath. “Knowing vour peculiar weaknesses,” resumed Walter, “I can make more excuses for you than for Lord Rosenbury. His guilt, it seems to me, is deeper than yours. I find it hard to believe such wickedness of him,” he added, thoughtfully. “With such noble-minded, noble-hearted parents, how can he have become an assassin ? And yet I can believe it, too, after his late insults he was nd't awaiting her. a smile, a^iTe^Lkalpne, my dear,” said Lady Rosenbury, with “You look grave because maiden a motherly greeting, dear, that his studio has been dare say, my omemade no secret of my appreciation of ni« i Geraldine*<QLsee his last picture—mine, you know. “Let us go to nie-nd her friend continued: rooms are so dreary in compTuTOY dear. These great draxs ing-Her ladyship conducted her guest^t^t cozy retreat. ment, which was brilliantly lighted, and presentedy^- -Ptua elegance, a home-like appearance The two ladies engageu conversation, of which Walter was the subject, and awaited his appearance with some impatience. As they were beginning to indulge in a little unspoken anxiety at his non-appearance, Rosenbury entered the room. His so-called lordship was attired with elaborate care, and seemed to be in fine spirits. There was a triumphant expression upon his face, which a close observer might have noticed was not unmixed with gloom. In truth, although he was overjoyed at the probable success of his plan in regard to Walter, he had not yet become so hardened as to contemplate his share in the villainous scheme without tear and a twinge of remorse. And yet he felt that if he could undo his part in the transaction and save Walter’s life by the single utterance of one word, he would leave that word unspoken. He believed that his own safety and happiness depended on the artist’s death, and having already so rapidly advanced in the path of crime, he was resolved to proceed still further, and make himself perfectly secure in his false position. He had suspected the lovers’ appointment for that evening, in consequence of Lady Rosenbury having declined an invitation out, and he determined to take Walter’s place and render himself as agreeable as possible to the maiden. It was with this view he had now entered her presence. His greetings to Lady Rosenbury, as well as her guest, were most respectful and deferential, and his manner was very quiet and gentlemanly as he seated himself and endeavored to open a conversation, yet his presence was felt by both ladies as a restraint. “There seems to be quite an excitement about Walter Loraine’s new picture,” he observed, at length, when he had become vinced that Loraine’s plans had prospered, and that,W,‘rv would not trouble him again. “His studio is fairly besiege day. I hear that he has left town-” “Left town!” said Lady Rosenbury. “You haveh formed, Raymond. Walter has an appointment < “Perhaps I may have been miSinformedAnlPhe^y^ course with pretended indifference/ “If he is n^^e^m^ Z call upon you He is a *ery punctual ^a’ but which certainly ply mentioned a.rumor I happened^ truth in it.” 18 to0 discred[ta^e not ^ave Rafter ?” said Lady Geraldine, • e, rum01r fl^SHng eyes. “I do not understand with flushed cheeks and fl’’ & J you. Lord Rosenbury 1” in yourself, Raymond,” said Lady Ro-“Be so kind as to e^nnes^f man’^rl’ senbury, with som§ady. said t00 mucb;— «vea,k have a t00 mucb or too little, Raymond,” responded You nave s^s -waiter’s friend, I demand an explanation!” her iaaysipngbru ed bis sboulders, and answered: Kosen^^j R --ke very thoughtlessly when 1 alluded to the ^njjumor which 1 heard to-day. Of course, you ladies know Elcer, but it was to the effect that he .had eloped to Scotland with a young heiress, who has long been infatuated with him.” “You may well call such a rumor ‘silly,’ ” remarked her ladyship, smiling. “Be so good as to deny it, should you hear it a^ain.” "Rosenbury bowed, and glanced at Geraldine. . He saw that the shaft he had deemed so clever, and which he had intended to arouse Her to the deepest indignation against, the artist, had entirely failed ot its mark. Her cheeks were no paler than usual, and there was actually an amused smile upon* her lips, as if his invention seemed to her the vfry height of ab-6UTheniaiden spent the evening with her Mene but at len gth announced that she must take her departure, “ose bury left the a “I1 donnotSunder<stand. dear Gra’a'dln]e/som^^ ab.n“‘h^Ti^ if he should be very rn “his lonely no one but his ’night d<r.” answered Lady Rosen-bur?,esoWoSS oHe^ v^otous, and I ean- ““iHe'mnstVel”1’persisted the m?en■ “e!se be would have kept his app™“ntmeent. PH™w^ busl“es “> between US“nn nnt- n-ivp wav tn anxiet? s,a.id her ladyship, herself anx-hls Rtudl° the first thing in the mnrnini tn inonfrp about b^ Should he call to-morrow to see morning to inquire aoout it a gervant » y°rpJaldineeforcedXiierse^ be coDteut with this decision, par-tieuH? v as the hour wafete an^ her fears of h?11688 after S Hnundles^ wa.8 comforting her, when all, be groundless, na apartment, equipped for the street. R“YbegdLady Gera’^e’” he said’ “that y°uwi11 allow me to to his mother.” . . T ... „ “Insults—lad’shipl” ejaculated Loraine. “Isn’t possible? Why; he’s cuttin’s own throat ’suitin’ her! What’s he done, Walter hesitated about explaining his words for several reasons. He did not wish her ladyship’s unhappiness to be made known; he wanted no one to become aware that Kosenoury had failed in deference and respect toward her ladyship f he did not wish to describe a family scene in which he had been a reluctant participant, and finally, Loraine was scarcely a desirable confidant, being scarcely yet recovered from the effects of the previous day’s unlimited bibulations. All these reasons h^explain-ed, but Loraine begged so earnestly and tearfully for further confidence, that at length Walter yielded to his desire, with the idea that it would put an end to further intimacy between his lordship and Loraine. . “How foolish I” groaned Loraine, when he had concluded. If escort you home ?”f jered the carriage for her,” replied Lady Rosenbury, as tfeleu he^ated. “Lady Geraldine and her h,er friend a grateful look, and Rosenbury bit and chagrin. He was on the point ot saying , T be traversed was very short, and that the that tne aisq had no difficulty in»walking it the previous even-youu^ iaaycer Loraine, but he wisely restrained himself, bowed ms wun endeavored to conceal his disappointment. was soon announced, and he escorted the guest to 1 ne cfor, helping her in, and himself closed its portal behind its ve^. He then sauntered off to his club. her Driving home, the maiden retired to her own apartments, ujk and dream of her lover, whom her disturbed imagina-tp jictured in trouble and danger. following day and evening were passed without a word Lady Rosenbury, or a line from Walter, hnd the maiden’s .xiety became positive alarm. She was inclined to repeat her isit to her friend, but a conviction that she would also meet he’d on’y let things alone. If he keeps on, he’ll work out hi®Osenbury himself kept her at home. uuiouu own destruction. Wish could drown all thought. Couldn t yo and again that if he were ill, he would let her know the fact? or if lip ivnrn nnnhln to dn an T n/Lr _______ give me something drink, Wal’er ?” “No, father,” said the artist, kindly. “I feel your trouble* spring from something to drink. Couldn’t you get over#, weakness, and either be temperate in your use of such tbe-or, if that is impossible, abstain altogether ? I want you?” come a man worthy of respect Won’t you try, for my s Loraine replied in the affirmative. th the Encouraged by his ready acquiescence, Walter sefculd beadvantages that would accrue to both when Lorain'to assist come a well-conducted member of society, and prom.' him. Jversation. “I feel ag’tated,” said Loraine, after a lonpul’er. Shall “Think I’ll‘take turn on deck. Better lie dowxtter’n all the never forget your kindness—never. Love yo world.” jon as he pro- Loraine’s countenance showed traces of eeral times before ceeded to the deck, and he walked to andfref on a stool near addressing Jack. At length he seated hi:‘ the sailor, saying: She assured herself again if he were unable to do so, Lady Rosenbury would communicate it. Not once did her mind recur to the silly fabrication of Raymond, and not once did she blame Walter for his silence, her confidence in his love and fidelity being unlimited. The second morning brought the letter which Walter had been at such pains to post at Burleyford, but it never reached the hands of the Lady Geraldine. It arrived at a later hour than Walter had expected, and was sent up with several other letters to the library. They were delivered to the countess, who was sitting alone, having just come from the breakfast-room, where her husband yet lingered. Her ladyship glanced over the missives, selecting the one addressed to the Lady Geraldine, paused to wonder at the postmark and the penciled superscription, and tore it open, deliberately reading its contents. She had scarcely finished its perusal, when she was startled by the sound of lootsteps approaching the library door, and she slipped the missive into her pocket just as the earl entered. Her ladyship might well express astonishment, for the morning sunshine had been carefully secluded from the apartment, the windows were covered closely, and the magnificent luster pendant from the ceiling was glittering with gaslight. More singular than the transformation of the library was the change in the earl himself. His portly person seemed shrunk to half its usual size—his complexion was livid. He was crouched in a large easy-chair, in a shrinking, fearful attitude, and at the entrance of his wife, he half-started up with a look of wild alarm. “Egbert, have you lost your senses ?” repeated the countess, wonderingly. “What mad freak is this ? Why do you light the gas at twelve o’clock in the day ? I never saw such a singular performance in my life.” “Hush, Justina!” said the earl, feebly. “Don’t make such a noise. I cannot hear if any one comes.” “Are you expecting some one ?” The earl answered only by a frightened look, which irritated his wife extremely. “I think,” she said, “I’ll turn off the gas and open the win- “Don’t!” cried the earl, in a tone of abject entreaty. “I cannot have it done. Oh! go away, Justina! I want to be alone 1” The countess desisted from carrying out her expressed intention, but with mingled curiosity and alarm, she asked: “Who was that man who was here just now, Egbert ? You need not answer that he is a business agent, for I know that no affair of money could reduce you to such a state of complete prostration. What is vour secret ? You need not fear to tell your wife. Our interests are the same. If you fear and dread anything, I ought to know all about it, since your danger is also mine.” The countess spoke earnestly, and with some appearance of affection, but her words fell without weight, even if they were comprehended. The earl’s face seemed to grow, if possible, more livid- and ghastly, and his eyes gleamed from a purple circle with a fearful expression, and he glanced over his shoulders and at the door with strange apprehensiveness. Her ladyship continued to urge her claims to his confidence, but the only reply she elicited was a shrill whisper to the following effect: “Don’t sneak so loud, Justina. Some one might hear you. Don’t call my name, I beg of you. Oh! if you’d only go away I” “But my place is here,” persisted the countess. “I will send for the family physician. Your appearance frightens me ” The earl instantly negatived her proposal to send for the physician, and cowered closer in his chair. “Do you want your niece?” asked Justina, at a loss what to do. “My niece, Geraldine ?” whispered the earl, looking around him. “Oh, my heart! my heart!” ^vy^clasped his hands to his side, and breathed gaspingly for a ph vsiciSn'";?^ the countess stood by him irresolute send for the pffysicYAA^^ malady, and of the “No, no I” replied the ean, again, proposed to “I am well enough. Please go I This being all he would allow her to do for y-w\^rew ipbe page was seated outside the door, pale and anx-l?us’ obeyed her direction to attend to his lordship. Her ladyship after some minutes’thought, proceeded to the apartment of the inform her of the earl’s singular illness, and learn if he were to frequent similar attacks. (TO BE CONTINUED.) Items of Interest. A young man namM John Sullivan, very narrowly escaped death at Portsmouth, N. H., lately. He was at the bottom of an old well, attempting to recover a dipper, when the earth caved in. The well^ fifty feet deep, and Sullivan could be distinctly heard saying..^'as not hurt and praying for the men who went to his o^istance to be careful how they worked, is the smallest ar>e^re possible to be imagined afforded him tir Ai?nines we^roug to the ground, Ind Sullivan’s hope of escane was in<eased. Work was continued with the greatest care blankeY^ing used to protect his head from the falling earth wherdn order was given for all hands to stand back and he aulev^bd as ^ie tub which had been used for hoi,stingout the rocks sand came up, Sullivan was discovered therein. Cheer uno- cheer rent the midnight air as he was lifted out. He Touted himself, and then ran to greet his mother and the Zoung lady to whom he is engaged, and was afterward overwhelmed with the congratulations of the men who had worked so hard to save him. A singular case of poisoning came to light in Buffalo recently, the victims being the family of Deputy Poormaster Klein. Mr. K. bought a quantity of “liver sausages,” and had it cooked tor supper, all the family partaking heartily of it. Shortly afterward all were seized with a violent sickness. A doctor was sent for. He pronounced it a case of poisoning, and despite his skill the mother of Mr. Klein died, and two other members of the family were very ill, but survived. The belief is that the liver from which the sausage was made was diseased. w* There is a fossil footprint in Ripley, Ohio, which is quite a curiosity. It is an imprint of a perfect foot in one of the stone steps in front of the telegraph office. It is in the hard limestone, and the step, about one foot in thickness, was placed there over fifty years since. The impression is about fifteen or sixteen inches in length and four in breadth, showing the perfect shape of the foot. One would naturally suppose, from its appearance, that the covering was a moccasin, such as worn by the Indians of the present day. W A mortality almost without precedent in history occurred in a single week lately in the family of Peter Reeves, in Nmh Andover, Mass., the disease being diphtheria, caused by defective drainage. The first child prostrated with the disease died on Monday, the second child on .Tuesday, the third and fourth on Friday, and the fifth on Saturday The five children were buried together. While the funeral services were in progress, a sixth child, and both the father and mother, lay sick with the same malady. A denizen of the Far West made his appearance in Pittsburgh last month, having started from California two years ago to attend the Centennial. The old man was m a dilapidated old wagon, drawn by a pair of dilapidated old horses. The wagon was full of skins of different kinds of furbearing animals, which he had hunted and trapped along the route. He made the journey in easy stages to suit himself, and disposed of his skins in time to see the great show. la^’ Passin£ from Lynn to Boston on the Eastern Railroad, had her pocket picked of her purse, containing about twenty dollars in money and several scriptural quotations. The lady’s name was also in the pocket-book. Nothing was heard of the missing article until recently, when the lady received an envelope containing $30 in money and the following quotation from Ephesians iv. 28: “Let him that stole steal no more, but rather let him labor, working with his hands the thing which is good, that he may have to give him that needeth.” A child in Westport, Mass., lately fired a pistol at her mother, not knowing it was loaded. The mother Mrs. Sandford, was preparing to repair a garment for her son when the little one found the weapon in one of the pockets and in imitation of older children, fired it as stated. The ball passed through the muscles of the chest into the arm from whence it was removed A fearful rain-storm took place last month at Oleans, Ind. It continued nearly two days. The rain fell in perfect sheets, and toward the end of the flood the water , had risen as high as the first-story windows of the houses in the TJiere was great destruction of household goods, barns, stables, <fcc., and large lots of cattle, horses, and ho"-s were drowned. A driver of a street-car in Paris has hit upon an expedient for giving warning to clear the road by attaching a small trumpet to a pair oi bellows, which he works with his foot, thus relieving his hands, which are usually occupied with the reins and the brake. The General Omnibus Company has adapted the arrangement to a number of its cars. JKF There is in Grantsville, Maryland, a shoemaker, seventy-six years old, who has worked faithfully and persistently at his trade since he was a boy, and yet has never possessed at any time twenty-five dollars in money or property; but he keeps pegging away perfectly happy and contented. W The largest shoe manufactory on the Pacific coast has lately discharged all its Chinese help, and employed 300 white men, women, and boys, finding them more profitable. W Ehrich & Co., Eighth avenue, this city, have an electrical machine by means of which the cash-boy after every sale is, quick as thought, summoned from a central stand, avoiding much noise and facilitating business generally. JO* An extraordinary case of suicide lately occurred at Hayward’s Heath, Eng. A railway porter, while in a state of delirium, ate nearly the whole of a newspaper, and died from suffocation. W" The new cast-iron Ispire of the cathedral at Rouen, France, having been completed, that church edifice is now the highest in the world, the entire height being 492 feet. THE NEWTioRK WEEKLY. ea THE HAUNTING SCENE. BY NATHAN D. URNER. I winder if you can remember yet (Old love of mine, now the leaves are tailing) That one sad scene in my memory, set With frozen tears of a loss appalling It is vivid ever in all my moods— In the autumn winds I can hear the wailing Oi that last farewell in the leafless woods, And the passionate sighs that were unavailing. Pale was the visage of Maryland, Like to the cheek of a lost one dying! Grim and dim upon either hand Rose the wooded heights through the first flakes flying; We heard our hearts in the silence beat. Our hand-clasp slackened and then grew tender, While red and dead at our failing feet Were the trampled wreaths of tho year’s surrender. I see it again as if yesterday— My eyeballs burn, and my lips are fire!— You slipped a space from my breast away— I clutched your form, and I drew you higher! And then, as our lips grew each to each. In the last strained kiss till the blood seemed starting, Thdte came the sob of our broken speech, And there rang the cry oi our souls at parting I I turned but once as I rushed away, ' To the hissing train at the station-landing. And there, in the twilight weird and gray, In the whirl of the snow, I beheld you standing; While “Never!” the storm-wind moaned and wept; “Never again! All, never, never!” And on through the darkening land I swept, And life and love were at war forever! I wonder if you can remember it now— Oh, my old, old love! as the leaves are fading— While every line of it haunts my brow With a pictured gloom there is no evading; While ever their mocking the winds repeat. Of “Never again I Ah, never, never I” Till death itself were a tribute sweet, If life and love were at rest forever. THE SKELETON MINER. A TRUE STORY. BY DANIEL DOYLE. Author of MoUy-Maouire. The Terror of the Fields, &c„ &c. Coal I. Years ago, long before the shrill shriek of the locomotive nad startled the echoes along Wyoming Valley, or frightened the deer from the surrou nding hills, Kernville was a thriving settlement in the upper portion of that rich and far-famed region. It has become populous and prosperous since then, shaken off its old name as if ashamed of it, taken a new one, and been dignified with the high-sounding title of a city. But when it Avas known as Fernville, it was quiet, unostentatious, peaceful, and happy. There were but few mines in the vicinity, and the operators found considerable difficulty in chipping such coal as they did prepare, over the Delaware and Hudson Canal. Tiie miners lived in huts along tho mountain side, and each tilled a garden, which the coal company was good enough to allow him in addition to his little home, tree of charge, for it was a difficult matter in those days to induce mon to live in such a lonely, isolated locality, notwithstanding the inducements which it held forth. The rumbling stage-coach was the only means of communication with the outer Avorld, and that arrived in Fernville once a day with the mail and an occasional passenger. Its arrival Avae always anxiously looked for by the women and children, and it was generally greeted by the shouts of tho latter, who leaped and clapped their hands as it clattered up the rough road to the village inn, an humble hostiery by the way, to which Avas attached agrocory of similar proportions, where tho people of Fernville procured tho ordinary necessaries of life. The keeper, Nicholas Berry, was an Englishman, one of the first settlers in Fernville, and it was his groat boast, that ho did tho first day’s work profusion of brown, curling hair, take off his hat and shake the snow from it, revealing a forehead that rivaled the snow-flakes by its whiteness. All eyes were too intent upon the traveler, and all minds bent too eagerly on the mail-bag, to pay any attention to Selden’s agitation, as. with quiyer-ing lips and clenched fist, shaking with emotion, he said: , , , , “Curse him! He is her lover—perhaps her husband!” . , , The first surprise being over, the guests returned to their places, the miner resumed his story, and the arrival of the stranger Avas soon forgotten amid the conviviality, by every one present but George Selden. He was sullen and silent. His hungry eyes looked in vain for Alice, but she came not, and he thought she must be devoting all attention to the traveler, and the very thought was consuming him. At last she passed hurriedly by the room deor. Selden arose noiselessly, and by a nimble movement soon overtook her in the hall. “Alice, Alice,” ho Avhispered, ’ can I speak to you a minute ?” , , _ A , She turned around, and Avas surprised to see her interrogator pale with emotion. “Why, George, what is the matter ? You look unwell ” she said. _ . , . . mu “Alice, lam unwell; my brain is burning. Tell me, is that stranger your lover or your husband ? “Why do you ask? He is only a friend at present ” “Why do I ask ? Can’t you tell ? Don’t you know that I love you, Alice—that I love you to distraction? I did not intend to tell you so soon, but since that stranger came I have longed for the opportunity.” , _ “I atn sorry for your sake, George Selden, if you Blove me as you say. I never gave you cause, and I cannot see why you do.” ( r ‘.Why shouldn’t I? It was the most natural thing in the world, Alice. Why do the buds develop and blossom in the sunlight. They can’t help it. That’s why I love you. Can I hope?” . “I beg you will not talk in this strain. George. This is not the time or place for such a scene. You will pardon me, but I think it rather absurd, at this hour when I’m so busy, and your companions are waiting for you.” “Only say yes or no, Alice,” he pleaded, piteously, summoning up sufficient courage to take her hand in his nervous grasp and press it to his lips. Only say yes or no.” t , .. , “I mustcertainly say no, she replied, although it is a harsh and unaccompanied by any explanation. Some other time I may bo able to tell you AVhy I give that answer.” He was about to speak when the stranger, Edward Allen, with a sunny smile on his pleasant face, came along the halls, and Alice, taking his arm, wished George Selden “good-night,” and passed into the parlor, Avhile the poor fellow, burning Avith love and jealousy, looked lovingly after her. It avrs the last time he ever spoke to her, but shortly after she went into the parlor, he heard her sweet &opmno voice singing while she played an accompaniment on thepiano% It was an old favorite song he had hoard her sing many a tune, ana ne could trace distinctly the following words: “ Sin" to me, dearest, my bosom is lonely, And sad as the night wind when thou art away; Sing to me, loved one, for sympathy only Fell darkness can change to the brightness of day.” It was a bitter trial for George Selden. It seemed to him as though life had become too painful to in-dure, and that death would indeed be a relief. But to die, and leave a rival in the full and complete possession of Alice’s love, was an alternative) as bad as living and seeing him happy, he thought, and then the young man Avho had been purposeless and weak before, suddenly became strong, vengeful, and desperate, and nursing a horrible thought like a deadly viper in his breast, he sneaked into the back vard. and concealed himself in a portion of it that was secure from the snow muttering to himself: “Yes, yes, I must finish him. He must not live!” II. sinking the mine whose towering short distau otcl“‘uw "I nationalities were. u17Lenerally merged into one before Nick TJerry’s ample fire on winter evenings, as glass went round, and received an 1 the old country yarns that wer® aad t110 tamil-- annos that on such occasions. Quar- ever known in Berry’s bar, as tho vrop'iiCtor made it a rule to eject any of his customers wh^P evinced a desire to disturb the reigning harmony. knew Nick’s feeling in th is regard, and all restK,ct0d and consequence was an orderly place Cu£ “s WXU as Possible on tho principle of the K^nglisii Free-and-Easy,” where song, story, politic^’ and sociability go hand in hand with well-filled ^ankards of ale and good fellowship generally. . . . . Very often on those ca/nival winter evenings Nick Berry’s daughter, All<x% .}vaited on. the customers. Like the caniiniere of tho A1,100 nad a smile for every one,” and beiu ^ decided y pretty, it was no wonder that she had C*any adnurer8 among the youth of Fernville. . , n Her beauty was of the brunette typo Ox a,most decided character. She had cheeks <13 rose, and a wealth of hair—all her own—as bj n 113 the glowing anthracite that underlined the viv age 01 Fernville. She favored all her admirers alike, and did nm eeem to fix her attentions on one more than an--othor. ihe consequence was that they called her a coquette, and said she had no heart, all, of course among themselves, for none of them had the courage to say so within her hearing. It was rumored that she had a lover m England, although this did not find much credence, as Alice was only seventeen when her father left Wolverhampton in the Black Country, and it was thought she Avas too t0 J>e8t°w her affections permanently She had lived among miners all her life, herfather having been a butty collier” in the vicinity of of her,h vorodwn)'of advances h?r tho yo,ln? ,Uen of Fernville, th»r X110 Voeape so infatuated with her "^oaffy thought she loved him. A look or suit althou^^hn^n YV0 ah encouragement of his enough to ?h2 i e/i?r “““‘“on up strength euougn to tell her the depth of his oonmiminir nna sion, for fear he might bo rXed?<™d t hat' ifisX far™aai,?t:eam might after all be a cheat. He pre-£>rrodjoving her right along in his own mind and vain l10pe that she loved him in return, to having an unfavorable decision ileJ* Pf8tty lips, for though they Avero fair to see a refusal from them Avould be fatal to anv one Permittep himself to fall in love with her. RAM3naS^ of Ahce.’s sil0nt admirer was George n’ Wias u miner» an industrious, thorough hu and? brave’ sensible fellow, apart from re8S woruen» as shown in his foolish |0V0 °f Alice. She was continually before his mind 1 waking or sleeping, in the mines or out of them < brain18U° 1 a manner as to cause a softening of the I n talked of love so freely among his felloAvs that they at length deemed him insane, and made him the laughing-stock of the place. To introduce the name of Alice Berry wherever he was would at anytime draw from him agiowing eulogium of her’ and a of tho depth of his love for His evenings and his money were spent at Nicho-SOr dl^l0a4ing t0 Alice had his mat ked affection for her become that at last she refused to wait on the customers Avhenever lie was th0 cauSe of so She pitieil him Avith all her heart, “for after all ” said she to herself, * he is becoming a wreck for my sake.” And so by every means in Zer power ^hl glve lllIU t0 und0-rstaiid that she did iiuu luvu iiini. She heard on several occasions how freely and h0 spoke of her publicly, and this gave her great pain. She resolved to remonstrate Avith him on the use of her name the very next opportunity that should present itself, but no opportunity came for a long time. . One winter evening, when the snow was patter-wlnd°w-panes of the Ferndale hostiery, and the large fire sent a cheerful glow through the room Avhero the customers sat. the stage-coach att lag up to tbe door °f the inn. and a story which a miner was relating was stopped forthwith to ascertain if there Avere any letters among the mail for the customers. mo The coach had a single passenger, a tall handsome stranger, who seemed tired, as though’he had fhn^Sdk8OP?0 dl§tance- H0 was met at the door of the inn by Alice Berry, who. regardless of the many eyes that were upon them, threw her arms about 1110 a0ck.an<l kissed him passionately, exclaiming: lasH”War<^’ ®dwardk i m 30 Siad you have come at , The customers were nearly petrified with aston-P?0r George Selden, Avho stood in the ^ne dismay He felt his spirit sink within him, and great heaw sobs came Avelling up from his heart in quick suc^ cession, as he saw the splendid stranger, Avith a He he^rd with dismay the sound of the falling roof all around him, for several minutes, and then all was silent again. He endeavored to rise to his feet, but found himself hemmed in on all sides. The huge masses of anthracite had fallen down at the entrance to the chamber, and barred his escape, and he realized the horrible fact that he was buried alive. The air was oppressive, and the elements seemed to have conspired to crush him in their wrath for the foul deed he had done. He groped around, and finally discovered a lamp that he had left there the day previous. There was yet some oil in it, and producing a match from his pocket he .lighted it, and for the first time looked upon his hands and breast red with blood. “Great Heaven!” he exclaimed, “it is her blood; Alice’s blood, and I am her murderer!” He explored his narrow cell, and found himself completely hemmed in by hundreds of tons of anthracite. through which there seemed to be no possible chance of escape. He drew from his breastpocket a letter, one page of which was blank, and upon this he traced in brief the story of his crime, and taking off his cap rolled it up in it, and laid it away. He had no sooner done this than his eyes rested on the pickax with which he was want to work, and a new light dawned upon him. He thought of cutting his way through the solid Avail that shut him in, and giving himself up to the authorities, and forthwith commenced to work toward the accomplishment of that purpose. Sufficient air to sustain life was admitted through the fissures that occurred between the great masses of coal, and setting down his lamp he began his work of liberation. It was slow, and fruitless, partly on account of his contracted position, and partly on account of the formidable mass that lay before him. But still he worked on. The lamp soon gave out, and then he Avas in darkness. Yet he picked away with an energy such only as a case of life and death can inspire. Tho hours rolled by slowly, and as they did so they brought with them a train of tortures. Hunger, thirst, remorse, fear, and faintness—all came crowding on to crush the miserable criminal. He heard tho minors at work in a distant chamber of the mine; ho called loudly for relief, but the solid walls of anthracite by which he was engirt, flung the echoes back in his face, and refused to let him be heard by his fellow-man. And still faint, hungry, and despairing as he was, he worked on—pick—pick—pick—until at last his arms refused to lift the weapon from the spot into which he had buried its point, and so his Angers closed upon tho handle of the pickax in a rigid grip, and struggling to release it, ho felt The conviviality ceased in Nicholas Berry’s inn. and the family of the innkeeper were retiring for the night. The building was a one-story frame structure, scattered over a considerable share ol ground, and having withal a number of comfortable rooms. From George Selden’s hiding-place in the yard, he could see into several of them. The blinds were drawn, but yet by the light inside lie could distinguish the figures moving to and fro before retiring to their peaceful rest. In one of the rooms the young man thought he saw enta 1 ward Allen, who had caus®4JlfTnen became con-pain. jje, as fie did he clutched a knife /•-/ZrrV"0 frorn its sheath. His teeth chattront with the cold, and so loud as to {dnirehdeavorod • 3add0,^y checkeiU; was insane, and longed to obtain false eonxqnre in the breast of the stranger 10 never wronged him. His conduct Avas strange—nay. absurd; but love makes many a madman, and is responsible for more real sorrow than any other feeling to which the human heart is susceptible. It often warps the most sensible ’ nature, makes fools of learned mon, distracts the ‘ pious, leads them a tray, and shipwrecks many a • merchant. Lotus not wonder then at its affect on • George Selden, strange as it my seem, and terrible J as it may turn out. He had fixed his mind on mur-’ der, and was determined to cause the death of the stranger who had found favor in the sight ol Alice. “He is tired, and will sleep soundly,” he said, as he Aiatched with pleasure the lights disappear one by one in the bedroom windows. 1 AH was hushed and dark at last save for the sad sough of the midnight wind among the leafless branches, and the occasionel fall of a heap of snow from tho roof of the inn. The giddy snowflakes fell, and as they danced before the dazed vision of George Selden, seemed te keep time to the fitful fancies flitting through his brain. Dark and quiet • at last, and all in the inn Jisleep. He stole from his hiding-placo as silently as a cat, and approached 1 the window of the room in Avhich bethought he saw Edward Allen going to bed. He stooped beneath it and pulled off his boots, having suddenly । * 'ought that his noise might awaken the sleeper h^'re his Pul’P08e was accomplished. Then ho rXft’ u and hko a serpent dragged his vlx in. while the hilt of the deadly knife w lisped in-his right hand. He was in He stole to the bedside. The oc-cuDant^f the bt?1 'v‘« roundly asleep. George Sei-SK iM ottr,'80 th? outline of the figure, and Tot features. A fair white nrnTw is thrown o'’er the head of the person who otwuuied3the beT ku. ’ w 10 ln that awful moment was oblivious to’daftjiC^r “CuAtTh^ be wiN^per in George Serden<s> knife and brought Quick } .be quick.” He raised the k “ breast of the it down With terrific force on lb? 016636 o£ the 8'Ashrill cry fwffoWed; and the bloo^sfru.'111^ aTo-George Selcterks -f^ce/ The cry wits thati man! , M Sddpn was thrilled to she soul, and exclaim ’ audibly: . . “Great Heaven, what have I done ? It is Alice 1” The inmates of the house were aroused from their dreams, and raised their heads from their pillows in fear and bewilderment. The cry was repeated again and again, and Selden hearing the approach of footsteps, dashed through the window, shattering it to pieces, and made his escape just as Alice’s father entered the room. A ghastly picture presented itself tc Nicholas Berry when h e procured a light. His daughter lay amid a pool ol blood, a dagger buried in her breast, and she was .moaning piteously in pain. The goor father tilled away from the shocking sight. dward Allen me. It thrilled him to the soul to see his loved cm e murdered as he thought He summoned up hi:a entire strength, and going to her bedside drew fearful knife from her breast, after which he used! every means in bis power to stanch the wound. , , T “Oh, Edward! Ed\n rd!” she murmured I am dying! Come and me before I go. Where is my mother? Where is _my father? Let me kiss themalL” ' . . . , Her lover was Avell-nigli istrncted. He could not inquire into the grim mysaX'ry, as it seemed to him just then that sho whonr'K 0 loved so long, and whom he had come so far to’^\ ©.was about to l^ftve him forever. But he did not r& Ima018!1 his efforts to save her, even though the odq^.s seemed wonderfully against him. ~ ... George Selden, overwhelmed b>v rfporse at [hs fearful crime, and shocked to the so to think that his victim Avas no other than the « 'irl he loved so wildly Avas fairly bewildered as he ir< aa at random across the snowy field, . .. . He left his boots behind him in hfe precipitate haste, but he did not feel the oold. for 5m 's very be' ing Avas on fire. ,, . He suddenly found himself at the nro steep slope leading into tho mine in which beub5d been Ayorking, and into this he sauntered t himself in the gloom from the face of nature, irom the very stars which looked coldly down upon x a8 if they knew he Avas a murderer. He tremb \ ^0d at the thought of the word, and it was a relief k °£ him to descend into the dense darkness, Avhere h 0 could neither see nor be seen by any human being. But he felt the presence of the All-seeing Eye even there, and shuddered at the heinous act he had committed. He avus well acquainted with the Avorkings of the mine, and it did not take him long after reaching the foot of the slope until he found himself in the chamber where he had worked the day before. Pressing close against the jagged face of the coal, he sat doAvn, and placing his hands against his forehead, wept bitterly. He sat there for some Um0. when he was startled by a rumbling like that of thunder coming from a distant portion of the mine. He rose up to run out of the chamber, but had barely been upon his feet when a thrilling report snook the place all around him, and he was thrown violently on the ground. away, and exhausted or dying foes, he overtook the enemy at a place called Jerseyfleld on West Canada creek. Here, while they were crossing, he poured in a destructive fire, and while a few rallied on the other side to cover the crossing, attacked all that came within range. Walter Butler, furious Avith his losses, exposed himself too rashly on the other side of the creek, and was singled out by one of the Cherry Valley survivors, for he had been a leader in that terrible massacre. Shot down and unable to rise as the patriot ad-vanced, he cried out for quarter. “You shall have quarter, the same you gave at Cherry Valley!” cried the infuriated patriot, as he sent a bullet to his heart. The next moment a friendly Oneida Indian crowned the tragic act by tearing the scalp from his head, and this was tho end of Walter Butler the Tory. III. Alice Berry’s Avound did not prove fatal, as her friends had feared at first. Her recovery Avas slow, however, and the snows and frosts of Avinter had faded away before she was able to leave her room. When the spring came, and the bluebirds Avere heard chanting a plaintive song to the aAvakening of nature, and the bursting buds, she was seen again on the streets of Fernville. Who it was that made the attempt upon her life still remained a mystery, although the simultaneous disappearance of George Selden caused popular suspicion to rest upon him. He was expected to come back again Avhen the news of Alice’s recovery went forth. Everybody in Fernville know how deeply he had loved her, and they felt that his murderous attempt was prompted by jealousy of Edward Allen, and a desire to prevent Alice from becoming his wife. He had almost succeeded in that act, but no one knew whose breast that deadly blade was intended for. When the summer filled the forests Avith leaves, and the fields with flowers again, the grim story Avas soon forgotten, and before the first of autumn eame, Alice Berry and Edward Allen were married. They Avere very happy indeed; they had known each other from their earliest years, and the wish of their hearts was consummated at last. They lived in a cozy hut in Fernville, and Edward worked in the mines while Alice by her loving industry made their home a model of domestic comfort. The name of George Selden had been forgotten in Fernville, and two years had made many changes and improvements in the place. Edward Allen was at Avork in tho mine one summer’s day when he made a startring discovery. He had fired a blast as usual, and was astonished by the sound which followed, as well as by the large quantity of coal which it displaced. As soon as the smoke had partially cleared away, he returned from his place oJ by a pillar, and went into his chamber «soertain the result of the shot. To the where he stood a narrow caveappeareA--^nero the coal had been blown away from biK/a cau-and into this opening Edwara a»• tinusly. . his laborer, “we have “As, Jolir way into another chamber—an old one, Igness.” Then loAvering his lamp ho looked around it, when an object presented itself to his gaze that made him start back with horror, and drop the lamp from his nervous grasp. The laborer stood behind him a short distance, and running back to him, Allen exclaimed: “Oh! it is an awful sight!” “What is it?” said the other, who was somewhat superstitious. “What is it ?” “A skeleton miner!” avhs the reply. “I saw it with its hands upon the handle of the pickax, and I think it must be alive and at work.” “Heaven save us!” said the laborer, a simple fel-Ioav named Andy Roony. “Let us lave the place, Ned. It must be a ghost ye saw.” “I’d like to look at it again,” said Allen, recovering from his first shock, “and if you’ll come with me we’ll both take a peep at it.” “No, nor the devil, a peep,” said Andy. “I never saw a ghost but once in me lifeintheouldcounthry, an’ I don’t Avant to see another. The one I saw went off in a flash o’ fire, an’af this fellow thries that way o’ biddin’ us good-morn in’, maybe it’s how he’d set a lot o’ fire-damp off. an* sind us to blazes.” “I’ll call some of the men.” said Allen, and gathering together half a dozen miners Avho laughed liis story to soorn at first, they returned to look at the skeleton miner. There it was in all its ghastly proportions, a human skeleton, with the clothing in tatters on it. The hands were clutching a pickax, and the head lay forward on the breast. It was a fearful picture, such as miners never looked upon before. The spectators were thrilled and astonished, and after wondering what it could be, they concluded to blast a wider entrance to the dismal chamber of the skeleton miner, and probe the grim mysterv to the bottom. They did so accordingly, and cleared the coal from about it. Then they took the pickax from the fleshless fingers, and on the handle one of the party discovered the initials “G. 8.” rudelv carved. Still the mystery was not solved. Nobody knew of a miner having been crushed in that fashion at his Avork, in all the previous history of Fernville, without the body being recovered, and while they Avere thus conjecturing, one of the party came across a stout cap rolled up, and placed close to the breast of coal. He opened it and discovered a letter. The writing was still in good preservation, and the first words that met the gaze of the astonished reader ^et all previous doubts at rest. They were as fol- °s<^h Heaven, it is awful! I killed her. Alice, Alice—COk Id George Selden’s love do no more? But I Avas ma^~mad with jealousy. I intended the blow for anotK°r«” ~ „ . _ _ _ _ , “This, then, fe Jeorge Selden,” said Edward Allen looking Avith renewed horror on the skeleton. “He has paid the pertftRy of his horrible crime.” The miners, forgetting all his faults, gathered up the bones of the wretched victim, placed them in a box. and bore them out of the mine for burial. Ever since, however, they say that portion of the mine is haunted, and many a superstitious miner has told, with horror, of how he had seen the skeleton miner, with a pickax on his shoulder, and a faint light in his hat, sweep past him like a flash in the Fernville colliery. ROMANCE OFBATTLES IN’76. FOR OUR CENTENNIAL YEAR. BY NED BUNTLINE. No. S^-CHERRYJ^LXEY QUARTER. The name of Walter Butler, the Tory, was a dread in Northern New York in the early part of the Rev-olution. As a leader of Tories, as an associate with blood-thirsty savages, his cruelties and atrocities were almost unnumbered. But at last the day of reckoning came, and he who had sowed the wind reaped the whirlwind. In the very height of the Revolution he. with Major Ross, of the regular British army, descending through the wilderness from Canada, reached a position near where Johnstown is now situated, undiscovered by the patriots. The force consisted of about one thousand men, regulars, Tories, and Indians. The settlement known as Warren Bush was first attacked, and all its people killed or scattered, their homes first plundered and then destroyed. The smoke of burning homes roused the other settlements, Avarning the defenseless to flee and calling the brave to arms., Colonel Willet, then at Fort Rensselear, hurried ut. with four hundred men, to check their ad-G nee. and Colonel Ro wley, of Massachusetts with v,t 0dy of Tryon county militia, swelled by alarmed a angry settlers, circled into their rear. aad' xcked furiously by overwhelming numbers, vrA. L had to fall back, but at that opportune mo-vViilet towlev reached the enemy in the rear, and ment h themselves between two fires. 1 ml • ou‘ expected diversion caused Willet’s troops This un at nightfall the enemy, completely de-to rally, an way on all sides and fled to tho wilder-feated, gave . d only for the light of the next morn-e Willet waited ’em up and annihilate the remnant, mg to follow th trail by blood-marks, arms thrown I Following the The Ladies’ Work-Box. [The Fall Catalogue of Patterns now ready, price 6 cents. Send to the Nbw York Weekly Purchasing Agency.] It gives a slender appearance to have seams from the shoulder seam down, both in fronts and backs of waists or basques, therefore the more of these seams one has the more fashionable the garment will be. Basques and polonaises are buttoned in the a.ck for young ladies. Send name and address in full, and six cents or two three-cent stamps to New York AVeekly Purchasing Agency for catalogue of fall and winter fashions, then you can select therefrom the patterns you like best or deem most suitable for your purpose. “Mary Lee.”—Pockets are seen on the new mantles for winter wear; these are made large in any shape fancy suggests, and are placed low down, either in front, on the side, or behind. French polonaises are imported seamless in front, with the seam under the arm shaped to the figure. Plain cloth is used by some for cloaks and wraps, but most ladies prefer the newer cloths in basket patterns, and other raised designs now so popular. The autumn mantles of black cashmere are long, and have dolman back and mantilla fronts. Opera mantles to be worn over even ing dresses are composed of embossed velvet or merinos with India embroidery. “Mrs. Gale.”—Make your brown combination suit after the following pattern: For skirt use No. 4,413, price 35 cts. This is six gored and hangs very stylishly. The polonaise with basque front and apron, and gracefully draped back is No. 4,604, price 50 cts. A garment of this description is suitable to wear with a black silk or cashmere demi-train for dressy occasions, either for house or street costume. Velvet and silk would make a remarkably beautiful association for this mode in a selection of such choice shades as dark moss-green, navy-blue, Diack or seal-brown. A dark shade or worsted will combine well with a lighter tone of cashmere for the same model. Lower-priced fabrics will aw make up quite tastefully if grave, quiet colorings are chosen. “Maggie Severne.”—For your street garment of basket cloth, the most stylish pattern you can use is No. 4,670, price 30 cts. which bears a slight resemblance to the coats worn by gentlemen. The front is fitted to the figure loosely and is longest at the closing. The center-back has a hollowing seam, and is much gi>orter than the side-backs which have extra wdiths that slope downward a trifle diagonally, and are finished with hems, and then tacked together over the center-back, the latter forming a shallow point between flie two deeper ones. “Agnes Fleming ’’—You will And the adjustable collar most convenient for one of black silk can be worn with almost every dress. The pattern is Mo. 4.557, brice 10 cts. For evening purposes you can make in afiy Qt’ the pretty and becoming light shades of silk to wear with either a black, white, or colored dress. AVith a blown or steel gray suit, you may wear either pink, blue, or ecru; with lavender use pink; with corn-color, blue or pink in light shades may be used. “Mrs. L.”—An elegant costume for visiting is Composed of wine-colored silk, trimmed with embroidery, passementerie tassels, and wide bands of sea-otter fur. The skirt is a demi-train, with the overskirt, made on the train. This overskirt forms a long apron in front, and has a clinging puff behind, illustrating admirably the graceful sloping back without crinoline. The edge is trimmed with a bias band of velvet, and having tassels below. The sides are trimmed with cords and passementerie tassels. The long coat of silk is lapped diagonally from the throat to the edge, leaving a broad space for embroidery in front. It is thickly wadded and quilted throughout. The back is open up the middle and embroidered. The sleeves are Dolman shape, and are also embroidered. The broad band of the rich sea-otter edges the coat; the muff is of the same fur. Bonnet of velvet, the color of the dress, trimmed with a band of leathers, and long cock’s plumes. Another stylish suit consists of a skirt of rich black silk, over which is worn a polonaise of blue cloth, made plain and long, but trimmed about- the edges and up the sides, with the rich silver fox fur. Bonnet of black velvet, with many blue and silver-gray plumes. “Mrs. Howard.”—We can get you furs for almost any price The imitation sets cost from $8 to $15. The inuft^ for this season . are of the medium size worn last year, without change in shape. Boas are longer, say about two yards in length, and are round, with the exception of seal boas, which are made flat on account of their short fleece. Among the cheap sets in real fur we men tion the Astrakhan, in sets ot boa and muff, for $15 to $20, and the Alaska sable, or black Martin, with long black fleece, from $15 to $25. Mink sets are still popular, and in the darker shade.? resemble Hudson Bay sable. The lower grades cost iVrok is one $30, while handsome sets range from $35 t-o inexpensive furs, of the prettiest and most fasidoo^cural shades, and cost from and has long, thick. sets are much in favor for young $20 to 1 ,sea* sets are most durable, and cost from $10 while those of Shetland seal are the finest, and range in prices from $40 to $70. In the more expensive furs we find the silver-lox furs, light and beautiful, but. exceedingly frail, and costing for the set from $75 to $200. Chinchilla sets are more durable, and will be worn this winter for evening in place of er mine. They range in prices from $40 to $80. Fisher tail sets are very handsome, and cost from $80 to $150 a set. Those made of the fisher-skins’ backs are not near io dark as the tail sets, and cost $50 or $60. Sable sets still rank high, and are as costly as ever. An inferior article costs $100, while the richest set is as nigh as $800. “Mrs. Thomas.”—The chain and locket in rolled gold will cost you $15. You will find if carefully used and washed with am moma and water, these articles in rolled gold will wear well, and keep their fresh appearance. “Jane Eyre.”—A fine corset, handsomely embroidered, can be bought for from $2.50 to $5. If you live hear any of the large cities you mention, we should advise yon to buy your outfit yourself, for at any one in your list, dry-goods are generally as reasonable in price as in New York, and you can make your own selections. Still if you desire your goods purchased by our agency we will do our best to please vou, both in articlesand prices. As you suggest New York is the leading city ibr fashion and style. $1,000 should procure you a very pretty and stylish OUlIIL. “Lottie Young.”—The bonnet will cost you from $10 to $15 Get one of felt trimmed with velvet and plume. Such a suit as you describe of silk and cashmere, we can have made for you, for from $65 to $80 according to quality of materials, and the work upon the suit. A costume of black silk trimmed with velvet can be bought for from $75 to $150. Cloaks range in prices from $20 to $100. Ink-blue is the new shade for gloves, we can get them for you with two buttons for $2, with three buttons for $2.35. The medium shades are now very fashionable for gloves both for evening and day wear; then there are dark shades in colors to match the new silks and other materials. “L. W.”—Your cashmere suit would be exceedingly pretty made after polonaise pattern 4,602, price 40 cents; trim with silk ahd fringe. Skirt make after pattern 4,4i3, price 35 cents; trim with the cashmere and silk; put on in side plaitings or ruffles, according to fancy. Should you prefer overskirt and basque to polonaise, choose patterns 4,619 for overskirt, price 25 cents, and 4,622 for basque, price 30 dbnts. These may also be trimmed with silk. Skirts continue to be tied back, but not as tight as last season. “L. E. A.”—Send the hair, and we will have the chain made* for you, also the studs; price of chain from $7 to $15, according to style and amount of gold used. Studs from $4 to $8. Exceedingly neat ear-rings for $5. The hair does not need to be extra long. AN UNWILLING HERO. BY EDWARD WILLETT. It is Avell knoAvn that a number of the guerrillas at the West acquired such a liking for their Avild and lawless life, and such a distaste for a quiet and peaceful existence, that they were unable or unwilling, at the close of the war, to settle down to honest labor or business, but persisted in continuing, openly and without excuse, deeds of robbery and violence, similar to those which they had previously committed under the gauzy pretext of carrying on war. The Janes boys, the younger brothers. Bill Masterson and many others may be mentioned as types of this class, and one of the Avildest and worst was Bud Ruble, who had raided Avith Jeff Thompson and Quantrell. and bushwhacked with Bill Anderson and John Taylor, from the beginning of the Avar until the end thereof. Having tasted blood and acquired an appetite for plunder, he had no mind to cure himself of the habits he had acquired, but settled down to make Avar upon society, Avith his headquarters in the Ozark range of mountains. With him Avere joined five or six others, daring and desperate men, Avho feared neither the powers of heaven or earth, and who never hesitated at any deed that would yield them plunder or gratify their passions. Horse-stealing was their principal occupation, and in its pursuit they operated from Illinois and Iowa to Texas and the Indian nation, varying their amusements with an occasional highway robbery or raid upon a peaceful settlement or farm. Whenever they were liable to meet strangers upon these expeditions, they invariably Avent masked, and the personal appearance of their leader was entirely unknown iu the neighborhood which he honored with his residence. Often sought by the local authorities, and by bands of indignant people who had suffered by his robberies, his hidingplace had never been discovered, and several attempts to capture his gang had resulted disastrously. In a small village near the hills lived Jared Bliv-ens, a man of thirty or thereabout, Avho would never be suspected of any incendiary attempt upon White River. Jared Avas a practical agriculturist, a bachelor by necessity, a poor man by his birth, and his inaptitude to be anything else, ^nd if not a “natural born fool,” possessed but a slight founda-tionof sense u pon which a structure of wisdom could be erected. He avhs. perhaps, as a consequence of his mental deficiencies, very shy, given to solitude, and scarcely known by sight out of his immediate circle of acquaintances. There Avas one pursuit of which Jared Avas particularly fond, and in which he believed that he excelled, and that was hunting. If a large amount of hunting to a small quantity of finding constitutes a good hunter, Jared might well pride himself upon his hunting abilities. He devoted all his spare time to hunting, together with much that he could not properly spare, and never wearied of the pursuit of game, though he seldom eaught any. One pleasant morning in September Jared Bliv-ens shouldered his gun and trudged away to the hills. Up and down the rugged heights he traveled, and in and out among the recesses of the range, finding no game, until the sun and his stomach reminded him that it Avas dinner-time. Then he stopned by a spring, ate the luncheon which he had brought from home, and resumed his wandering. He soon found himself in a part of the range Avhich he had never visited before. It was entirely strange to him. and Avas rougher and Avilder than any portion, of the hills he had yet visited. It is not surprising that he lost his way, and that he only became involved in deeper perplexity when he tried to struggle out It was with a feeling of relief that he at last caught sight of a thin line of smoke that rose in the air a little way ahead of him. He went toward it with instinctive timidity, but his joy overcame his caution when he saw, in a sheltered nook, several men seated on the grass, eating and drinking. A small log cabin stood a short distance behind them, built against the bluff, and they were Avell armed. It Avas not until his presence had become known to them that he thought of Bud Ruble and his band, and realized the fact that he had unwittingly stumbled upon the hiding-place of the outlaws. It was then too late to retreat. Guns Avere leveled at him. and he could do nothing but surrender. The outlaws did not treat him roughly, hoAvever, but invited him to sit down and eat and drink with them, calming his fears, and telling him to make himself at home until they should decide what they would do Avith him. He gained a slight sense of security, but it did not last long. There was a sudden rush, and a man came running through the brush, and dashed, almost breathless, into the little encampment. The leader of the party arose, his face expressing surprise and indignation. “What is the matter, Ben?” he asked. “Wnat does this mean ?” “They are after me. Bud,” replied the runner— “the sheriff of Green county and a lot of men. They have followed me all the way from the West Fork, and have been right on my heels most of the time. They Avould have got me, if I hadn’t left my horse and taken to the hills.” “You infernal tool!” angrily exclaimed Ruble. “You act as if you want to betray us all. But can’t find this place, unless by accident.” “They can, and they will soon be here. They have got a dog. Hark! Don’t you hear him hoAvl ?” The deep-mouthed baying of a hound could be heard, not far in the distance, and all started to their feet. “This is bad,” said Ruble; “but we will get ahead of them yet. It is me they Avant, and I will leave my representative here, who will at least delay them for a while.” Acting under his rapid orders, the man seized Jared Blivens, and tied him to a sapling, while their leader wrote a few lines on a piece of paper, which he pinned to the coat of the captive. “Nobody’s hurting you,” he said, in answer to Jared’s tears and protestations. “You ought to be glad that we are leaving you behind. Come, boys! No one knows my face, and it’s likely that those Greene county men won’t know this fellow; so they will have to take him as Bud Ruble, until they learn better. We must get out of this xiQW, The outlaws hastened away, and disappeared in a ravine. Jared Blivens stood against the tree, helpless and trembling. The purpose of Bud Rubio had not yet worked its way through his dazed brain, and he wondered what was to happen next. He had not long to Avait and wonder. The outlaws had hardly been gone fifteen minutes, Avhen a hou nd.with fierce eyes and loling red tongue, came running into the nook, Avhere it stood and barked at the captive. Avho was now in mortal terror. He Avas greatly relieved when more than a dozen of men, all Avell armed, came in sight, closely following the dog. The party appeared to be as much surprised as Jared was, and their leader hastened to him, tore off the paper that was pinned upon his coat, and read it eagerly and with exclamations of Avonder.. “This beats me, boys,” said he. “Unless there is some swindling out, here is one of the men wo Avant, and the big one at that. This paper says that Bud Ruble’s men have quarreled with their leader, and have tied him and left him here for us. They say that they want to compromise, and have commenced in this way. Well, it’s the queerest go!’ The party agreed that it was a very queer go. and all admitted that they were mystified.. But Jared, Avho began to understand his interest in the qu©Sr , tion, loudly and earnestly protested that h®, ; Bud Ruble, and told his na dis iu^ht received with a considerable de-, ^^^ Vucredulity. until one of the men, approach-? ffur and examining him closely, declared that ho recognized him. “I am sure that I have seen this fellow before,” ho said. It Avas at court in Cassville, and the lawyers > were trying to squeeze the truth out of him; but they got him so tangled up that he couldn’t tell Avhat he kneAV. He is a poor, half-witted chap.” Jared Avas quite willing to be called a half-witted chap, if that title Avould get him out of trouble, and he said that he was that very fellow, and managed • to recall some incidents that confirmed tho recognition of the Greene county man. This development put a new face on affairs. Jared Avas released, and was questioned more closely. “Did you see Bud Ruble without his mask on ?” .asked the sheriff, who Avas the leader of the posse. “Would you know him if you should meet him a^ain ?” “Yes; I saw them all, and would be sure to know them.” “Very Avell, then. You shall go with us to identify the men, if we come upon them.” The posse made haste to follow the trail of tho fugitive outlaw, regretting that they had lost so much time. They took Jared with them, much against his will, although he was obliged to admit that he would not bo able to find his way out of tho hills unaided. The dog took up the trail and led the Avar, but Avas kept quiet, since it was discovered that his barking had given tho outlaws notice of the coining of their pursuers. Sunset found the party still Avandering among the intricacies of the hills, weary and disheartened. The dog was at fault, having lost the trail at a brook, and the posse could do nothing but follow tho course of the stream, in the hope of striking it again. They were about ready to give up the search in despair, when suddenly, at a turn in a ravine, they were confronted by the very men they Avere bunting. “That’s them!” exclaimed Jared Blivens, shrinking back. “That tall man is Bud Ruble himself.” There Avas a sharp report, and a bullet whizzed by his head. Then there Avas a general cracking of rifles and revolvers, mingled with shouts, and curses, and cries, and Jared hardly knew Avhat happened until he found himself struggling Avith one of the outlaws. Both were weaponless, and the contest was one of thews and sinews. Jared avhs strong, but his opponent was scientific. One was fighting for liberty, and the other for life. In the course of the contest they fell to the ground together, Jared underneath ; but, by a desperate effort, he turned his antagonist and gained the ascendency. Then, while he held the outlaAV doAvn with his knee and his left hand, he grasped his throat with his right hand, and endeavored to choke him into submission. Soon the sounds of conflict ceased, and Jared was raised, half-fainting, from the body of the outlaw, Avho Avas nearly breathless. He hardly understood those around him Avhen they shook his hand and congratulated him. “You have the luck of it.” said the sheriff, “and have done a big thing. You have captured Bud Ruble, the leader of the gang, and will come in for a largo slice of the reward.” It was even so. Three of the outlaws, including the leader, had been taken alive, two had been killed, and one or two had escaped. Jared’s share of the reAvards amounted to six hundred dollars, which amount Avas paid to him by the sheriff. It was a large sum for him to possess, and he disappointed his acquaintances by investing it wisely in stock and utensils for farming, and became a person of somo consequence in the county. A man eminent for his scientific knowledge has one advantage over people not so well educated: When unwell, he can describe symptoms in language so exact and technical that few persons will be able to understand him. Yet he suffers just the same ns ordinary mortals—perhaps his suffering is keener; for every quiver of his liver is mentally noted and described, for future reference. Take the case of Professor Huxley, who, on his return journey across the Atlantic, had a circus in his stomach all tho way over. This attack of sea-sickness was so violent and prolonged that at one time he really could not be blamed for thinking that he had unwittingly swallowed a few of the living curiosities belonging to a menagerie* The residents of Carlisle, Pa., are puzzled to account clearly for the death of a cow found with her neck broke. Attempting to enter a corn-field, she got her head through the rails^ but couldn’t take her body with her. In the effort to withdraw her head, she broke her neck. Some think it a case of suicide. It was certainly a cowardly act Portraits in the Boys of the World. Likenesses and biographical sketches of clever boys and girls appear in each number of the Boye of the World. No. 6, Vol. 2, of the Boye of the World, ready this week, contains portraits and sketches of Ella. Huston, Eaton. O. Thomas J. Conway. New York. Chas. Smith, Norwalk, O. Wm. F. Buppersburg, Buffalo, N. Y. I |