New York Weekly, Vol. 38, No. 30
MLA Citation
“New York Weekly, Vol. 38, No. 30.” Digital Gallery. BGSU University Libraries, 16 July 2024, digitalgallery.bgsu.edu/items/show/40475. Accessed 15 Feb. 2025.
Tags
Title | New York Weekly, Vol. 38, No. 30 |
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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 | 1883-06-04 |
Rights | |
Relation | New York weekly |
Format | Published works |
application/pdf | |
Language | en-us |
Identifier | Vol. 38, no. 30 |
https://digitalgallery.bgsu.edu/items/show/40475 | |
Type | Text |
Vol. 38. Franks street.New York, June 4, 1883. TwoV^FiyM No. 30. THOU’BT GONE. BY FRANCIS S. SMITH. Thou’rt gone, my peerless, lovely one, And all things now beneath the sun Are valueless and dull to me— Life is a burden without thee. I walk abroad, the day is bright, And yet to me ’tis dark as night; I see no radiance in the sky, If gone the love-light in thine eye. I walk among the flowers so fair, But thou, my darling, art not there; In vain a rose’s blush I seek To rival that upon thy cheek; Nor does the grove a lily show So pure as my love’s neck of snow. And all their odors sink in death, Compared with my love’s balmy breath. Sadly I stray the woods among And listen to the robin’s song, That once my heart was wont to cheer; But now it falls upon my ear Unheeded, or if faintly heard— No pulse within my heart is stirred. No sound can make my heart rejoice, Until I hear my sweet love’s voice. Come, love! Until thy face I see All things seem valueless to me; Nor singing birds nor blooming flowers Can make less sad my weary hours. Friends cannot cheer, mirth cannot move, While thou art absent, dearest love. 4 Dejection holds my heart in thrall Till thou art here, my all-in-all? THE DOCTOR’S SUBJECT. By Mrs. S. A. McLane. CHAPTER I. A STARTLING DISCOVERY. There was a mystery in the doctor’s office over the way, and Mrs. Ellery, the doctor’s wife, fortunately was the only person who suspected all was not right in that direction. She did not like the looks of the man who called there a short time before, with his slouched hat drawn over his eyes, and air of secrecy generally; and here it was eleven o’clock at night, and no sign of her husband or his visitor yet. “I have half a mind to go over and find out for myself all about it,” she said, “for how else shall I know what is going on? I am sure the doctor never tells professional secrets, therefore it is but right that I should beard the lion in his den, where evasion is impossible.” No sooner thought of than accomplished, and a very few moments found the good lady in the office of her husband awaiting his pleasure, who soon made his appearance from an inner sanctum, familiar only to himself and the students under his charge, especially when anatomy served as a theme of dissertation. Doctor Ellery came forward looking somewhat surprised to see his wife in the office at so late an hour. “What has brought you over here, my dear,” he said, a little flustered in manner. “Has any one called for me over there?” “No one has called, and nothing has happened,” replied Mrs. Ellery, placidly. “I was very tired awaiting your return, so came over to see what kept you so late, that is all,” saying which, she seated herself in an arm-chair as if contemplating a visit of some length. “That is a singular idea of yours, I must say-expecting a physician, who never can call a moment his own, to keep proper hours. What has come over you. my dear?” “Never mind, now, doctor; go on with the business that I interrupted when I came in, for I am anxious to go home,” said Mrs. Ellery, in an offhand manner. The doctor looked somewhat surprised, then concluded to take her at her word, “You are right.” he said in return. “I have a little business on hand which, with your permission, I will now attend to;” saying which, he retreated precipitately into his sanctum, locking the door behind him. A few moments elapsed; he then came forth, followed by a rough-looking individual, who neither looked one way or the other, but quickly made his exit through the office door. The doctor slightly flushed as he stood before his wife. “Come, my dear, he said. “The hour is late. Had we not better be moving toward home?” “Not before you answer me one question, doctor. if you please,” returned Mrs. Ellery, in decided tones. “Certainly, Mrs. Ellery, a half-dozen, if that is all you desire.” “Well, I should like very much to know who that man was that just left, and the nature of his business with you,” returned Mrs. Ellery. “My visitor is a person you would not care to know, my dear, neither would his business interest you in the least,” replied the doctor, evasively. “But, doctor, I am determined to know all about him and his business with you,” was returned, banteringly. “So you had better divulge, or expect no peace until you do.” “But, my dear, I am afraid the disclosure would give you a shock. We. of the profession, you know, have strong nerves. Besides, we do not always make confidants of our friends---” “Or wives either,” quickly rejoined Mrs. Ellery, a little maliciously. “Well,” said the doctor, after a moment or two of reflection, “I suppose I shall have to comply with your very unreasonable request. I find that woman’s curiosity knows no bound, neither is it satisfied with evasion. Prepare yourseelf, therefore, to be shocked, for you undoubtedly will, when you learn that the person in question confided to my care a subject for dissection.” “A subject for dissection!” repeated Mrs. Ellery, aghast. “Oh, how could you become accessory to so dreadful an affair?” Doctory Ellery smiled a little to himself, as he took his hat ready for departure. “Come, now, I have answered your question.” “But. doctor, you have excited my curiosity to the utmost extent; therefore, you must give me all the particulars before we depart.” The doctor felt himself obliged to yield; therefore explained that the subject had been ordered from a neighboring hospital, but that he suspected he had been deceived, as it bore unmistakable evidence of having been exhumed from some grave or tomb. “How shocking!” exclaimed the lady, shuddering. “How sorry I am that you had anything to do with the affair.” “Nevertheless, shocking as it may seem to you,” returned the doctor, “such practices necessarily Mrs. Ellery watching the mysterious visitor at her husband’s office. are countenanced in the profession. Science demands-----” “A truce to your apologies, doctor,” interrupted Mrs. Ellery. “We know science is blamed for many atrocities committed in her name. I am truly thankful you are about to retire from the profession. But to return to the subject in question-have vou any idea where the body came from, and did you recognize it?” “No, my dear, neither have I ever met the person when in life. From a view I obtained of the features. I judged her to have been a very young lady, and a bride from the costume. But come and see for yourself, and satisfy your curiosity for once!” and the doctor, as he spoke, led the way to the dissecting-room. On a table lay the body in question, shrouded with a white cloth, which, on being removed, displayed to view one who in life must have been surpassingly lovely, for even in death how faultlessly perfect both form and features, requiring only the reanimating soul to perfect the statue-like beauty of the whole. Long curls of an auburn hue, entwined with [ orange buds and blossoms, reposed on a bosom of faultless purity; while over the robe of purest white 1 were scattered the same floral decorations. The 1 hands, small and tapering, were inclosed in snowy I kids, in one ot which was clasped a beautiful camellia, fit emblem of the perfect loveliness there enshrined, which now, alas, was slowly fading above the silent heart it had served to adorn for the tomb. Mrs. Ellery looked on, shuddering and awe-struck. The sight of so much loveliness, shrouded for the grave and destined for such a fate—the worst that could befall the poor human body in its decay-filled her bosom with anguish. “Oh, my husband, she said at length, in sorrowing tones. “Oh, if you could spare this young creature from the dissecting-knife! How she reminds me of our own lost daughter, Eva 1” As Mrs. Ellery spoke, her sympathizing heart almost bursting with grief at the sad spectacle thus presented, she approached the body and in a motherly and caressing way laid her warm hand upon the bosom of the dead girl before her, when suddenly those eyes, for an instant, flashed open, revealing the starry orbs beneath, while a low, inarticulate murmur died upon the lips, which, in parting, disclosed a row of pearls within. This remarkable manifestation of a supposed corpse, altogether so unexpected, startled beyond conception the doctor’s wife, who sank almost fainting at the feet of her husband. Dr. Ellery quickly supported his wife to a seat, where she soon recovered from her fright, especially when iuformed that the young lady was not really dead; and the good woman was soon able to assist her husband in restoring to life and consciousness the beautiful being who had so deeply enlisted the sympathies of her motherly heart. “She has been drugged,” whispered the doctor to his wife. “A dark deed has been enacted, which it may be our privilege to bring to light.” Mrs. Ellery shuddered, but made no reply. Busily, however, she kept on in her kind offices, and in a short time had the satisfaction of seeing the maiden sufficiently recovered, who was then conveyed to their home opposite, where, in the ten-derest manner, she was laid upon a bed with lovely surroundings, and was left for awhile to repose. According to the doctor’s directions, nothing was to be said to her whatever in relation to the strange proceedings of that night, and it was particularly enjoined that no inquiries should be made until she became stronger, or fully able to bear the revelation which must be, at the least, very startling, and a very great shock to one apparently so delicately organized. The maiden frequently opened her eyes and looked around, and often scanned the countenances of her new friends with apparent interest, but said nothing. She evidently appreciated the kind and tender offices of her motherly friend, for her eyes continually followed Mrs. Ellery as she moved hither and thither, but she ventured no remark until toward midnight, when she spoke for the first time. “I have been somewhat puzzled for some little time to know where I am and who you are. dear lady, who so kindly and tenderly cares for me. I know I have been ill, but how came I here ?” “You shall soon know; but rest and quiet are most needful in your case now,” remarked Mrs. Ellery. “But I must know,” said the young lady, in agitated tones, “for much depends upon my knowledge of what has taken place.” Mrs. Ellery consulted her husband, and it was thought best to let the young lady know, in a cautious way, a little of what had taken place, in order to ease her excitement of mind. “It is as you suspect.” said the doctor’s wife, cautiously. “fou are among strangers, although they claim to be your friends.” “But how came I here? Something has happened. Was it a dream, or did I gather it from your conversation, that I had been drugged and buried alive ?” inquired the young lady. “We do not know that you were drugged,” replied Mrs. Ellery. “You were supposed to be dead, probably, and your funeral took place; but you were resuscitated, and your friends know nothing about it.” “Thank God!” replied the young lady, in fervent tones. “Now. dear madam,.I have a favor to ask of you. I cannot at present reveal to you aught of my history; yet you shall know-all before long. I assure you, however, that my life heretofore has been without spot or blemish. You need never be ashamed of what you have done or what you may : do for me. which benefits wifi not go unrewarded. ■ I only desire at present that you keep my existence I a secret, for oh, madam, it would be worse than I death to be taken back to my home.” I Mrs. Ellery readily complied with so reasonable a request, and then, with a grateful smile, the young lady, whom we shall call Constance, closed her eyes for repose. CHAPTER IL THE PROPOSED TOUR. Several days had elapsed since the strange occurrences narrated in the preceding chapter, and yet Constance was an invalid. After the excitement consequent upon the occasion had somewhat subsided, a low fever had set in which threatened serious results; indeed, at one time, her new friends had despaired of her recovery, but a constitution naturally good triumphed over disease, and life was at length vouchsafed to her. And now Constance was just getting about, and able to walk forth under the trees, which, although in the sere and yellow leaf, were very beautiful to the eyes of the invalid, and more in consonance with her feelings, which appeared of a melancholy nature. Mrs. Ellery, whose sympathizing'heart could not help being interested in so gentle and lovable a being, often accompanied Constance in her rambles through the grounds; but frequently the young lady walked alone, for preoccupied as she was with i the sorrows she had experienced, she felt herself company for no one. “Bear with me a little longer, my dear friend,” she would often say, “and you shall know all by and by.” At this time Dr. Ellery was about to retire from his profession, and. with his wife, take a trip to Europe. The question now arose, what was to be done with their protegee ? “Why not take her withils ?” suggested Mrs. Ellery. “True enough.” responded the doctor, “but would it be quite right to do so? Ought we to separate her from friends who, did they know of her resuscitation, would without doubt be exceedingly anxious concerning her?” “I am pretty certain that Constance has given them all up long ere this,” was replied. “I feel assured that she will have nothing more to do with her friends in the future, and she has sufficient cause for discarding them in this manner, without doubt. Oh, husband, I do so wish that she could take the place of our lost daughter, Eva, who was about her age when she died—that she could in reality become our adopted daughter.” Dr. Ellery looked the surprise he felt at this suggestion, and mused a moment ere he ventured a reply. “You forget, my dear,” he at length said, with characteristic prudence; “you have overlooked the fact that Constance is a perfect stranger to us; we know nothing about her, neither who she is, or who are her friends. Until we do know something of her past history we cannot with discretion adopt her into our family. Of course, we would not see her suffer, therefore we can provide for her in some other way. “Pshaw! doctor, what a fuss you do make, to be sure,” replied Mrs. Ellery, pettishly. “Still suspicious of that dear girl, on whose adoption I have set my heart. How can you be so ungenerous—so unkind ?”. “I am neither ungenerous nor unkind, my dear woman,” hastily interrupted the doctor, “nor do I, as you imagine, harbor the least suspicion against the perfect purity of the young lady in question, whom I truly respect; still, prudence is a virtue to be observed on all occasions, and more especially in this ease; therefore, I repeat, we ought to be made acquainted with every circumstance in the past life of the young lady ere we form a connection which, although to us both desirable, may prove in the end most disastrous in consequences.” “Well, doctor, I see that nothing can be made by further argument,” rejoined Mrs. Ellery, arising as she spoke; “therefore, if you please, we will drop the subject for to-night, and as it is nearly eight o’clock, I will bid you adieu for awhile, and proceed to the apartments of Constance, as is my usual custom.” The next moment found Mrs. Ellery standing on the threshold of the apartment occupied by the young lady in question, who was seated before the glowing grate, with folded arms and saddened countenance, gazing into the fire. ' “Come in, Mrs. Ellery,” she said, arising to hand her visitor a chair, her countenance brightening a little as she spoke. “I am so glad you have come. I have felt unusually downhearted this evening, and particularly lonesome.” Mrs. Ellery pressed the hand of Constance sympathizing! y, and sat down beside her, but made no reply; for her mind was so occupied with the future of her young friend that commonplace topics were sadly out of place. “I have been thinking, while seated here alone,” pursued Constance, after an interval of silence, “that you and your good busband, the only friends I may now claim in this wide world, ought, in justice, to be made acquainted with my past history, which, although short, has thus far proved rather eventful; and this evening is as favorable as any other time for the task I shall impose upon myself; for, dear lady, it is no light matter to recall the buried past, especially when fraught with so many painful recollections.” “Well, my dear, I am quite at leisure to listen to your narration,” rejoined, Mrs. Ellery, sympathiz-ingly, “although I regret the pain a retrospect may occasion you; still I think it best that you should unburden your mind freely to those who can truly sympathize with you; for, so doing, your friends will Know just how they can benefit you.” “You are quite right, my dear friend,” Constance replied. “I ought to have confided in you before. I know I should have felt happier had I done so earlier, and, as your words imply, given you more satisfaction.” A short pause ensued, and then Constance commenced her narrative, which we give in the following chapter. CHAPTER III. CONSTANCE’S STORY. "My story would be unsatisfactory,” began Constance, “unless I commenced at the beginning, which would bring me back to a period when I was not more than eight years of age—a season always remembered, because it dates back from my first great sorrow. “My first recollection of home was in a Western clearing, within the heart of a forest, and miles from any habitation. My father, as I afterward learned, was originally a mechanic reared in an Eastern city, where he became acquainted with my mother, who was the daughter of a gentleman of wealth and position. He clandestinely married my mother, who was at once disowned by her family; and my father having nothing but his trade to depend upon, they removed to the West, and settled in a clearing, many miles from the nearest town. “One evening, just at sunset—oh, I remember it so well—I was seated by my mother’s side at the door of our log-cabin, watching the golden shadows quivering over the tree-tops, admiring the glory of the scene, while the sun was slowly sinking out of sight. All without was one unbroken wilderness, save the clearing in which we lived, consisting of several acres of ground, which by the unaided arm of my father had been converted into sweet pastures and fields waving with golden grain. Occasionally he would go forth to fell timber as our wants demanded, and upon this occasion he had been absent since morning, and we were anxiously awaiting his return. The shadows deepened, and lengthened, and still he did not come. " I cannot think what keeps your father so late,* said my mother, at length, a little uneasily. “ ‘I will go in search of him,’ I said, starting to my feet, as I noted the look of anxiety of her sweet countenance. “‘No, dear, no.’ she replied; ‘your father is at work some little distance from here, and you would lose your way; besides there would be much danger at this hour.’ “Saying this, my mother arose, replenished the fire to keep the water warm for the tea, and then seated herself again by my side. Child as I was, I could not but note the sweet beauty of my mother’s countenance—the unrivaled grace of her form and carriage, which her homely attire could not altogether disguise; and I wondered how she could thus content herself in this wilderness—could thus consent, with so much apparent happiness, to seclude herself from the bright outside world, which from her description seemed to my youthful imagination, a very paradise. “It was true, my father was all that her fond heart desired—noble, in tne true sense of the word, well educated and refined, and it was evident, without a doubt, they regarded each other with the truest affection; still, how could they endure such a lonely life. “While revolving such thoughts in my mind, my mother sat gazing absently upon the western sky, whose glorious shadows were fast disappearing; while a shade of sadness gathered upon her lovely features and a gentle sigh occasionally escaped her. It was often thus at eventide she would sit and sigh in a melancholy way, until the well-known footstep of my father was heard approaching: then all sadness would instantly disappear and a happy smile would brighten her countenance as she hastened forth to meet the one who was the chosen arbiter of her fate, and the dearest friend on earth that she could claim. “The shadows gradually deepened, and at last darkness enshrouded the scene with a nameless gloom; still my father did not come. ‘“Oh, what can have detained him!’ said my mother, rising and peering forth in the darkness; ‘surely some accident must have happened. Come, dear, let us go in search of him.’ “ ‘But it is so dark!’ I exclaimed, shuddering at the thought of threading the lonely forest after nightfall. But the moon will be up in a few moments, dear —come!’ and she took me by the band. “I hesitated no longer, and we quickly started forth from the cabin, when, having passed the clearing, we struck into the depth of the forest, which way seemed familiar to my mother, but with its darkness and gloom struck terror to my heart. Under ordinary circumstances she would without doubt been inspired with like feelings, but a sense of danger to a beloved one banished every fear and enabled her with true courage to brave the terrors ot a walk through the wilderness at night, where lurked not only beasts of prey, but a human foe more to be dreaded, in the form of the Indian. “We walked on at a brisk pace, my hands clasped firmly in that of my mother’s, until at length we came to an opening or partial clearing; for trees were felled on every side, awaiting the woodman’s saw and ax. and altogether presenting a rather formidable barrier to our farther progress. Here my mother paused and looked around with eager, searching eyes. “‘Here is the spot, I believe, where your father has been at work,’ she said, in husky tones. “I gazed around with eager eyes, and venturing from my mother’s side, walked on to a little distance, inorder to scan every object within the clearing. A large tree blocked up farther progress, and upon casting my eyes in that direction, what a sight met my view!” “There lay my poor father, the body of the tree across his breast, and his pale, upturned face looking ghastly in the moonlight, and most fearful to contemplate. “I was so shocked that I could not utter a word, but. with clasped hands and staring eyes, gazed like one bewildered upon the dreadful scene. Presently a piercing shriek rent the air, and the next moment my mother bounded forward and threw herself fainting by the body of her husband. With an almost bursting heart I approached the sad scene, while, as I did so. a crackling in the bushes arrested my attention, and Wanee, a friendly Indian who many times had partaken of our hospitality. stood before me. “He instantly comprehended the situation, and darting through the trees, was out of sight before I had recovered from the surprise the sight of him had occasioned. He soon returned, however; accompanied by another Indian, whom I had never seen, but who, nevertheless, appeared as friendly as himself; and while 1 busied myself in endeavoring to restore my mother these dusky friends proceeded to form a rude litter for the purpose of conveying the remains of my poor father to his home. Soon my mother became sensible of her condition, and, with a shudder, partly arose, and then she began to weep and wring her hands in an agony of feeling, as she vainly called upon the name of her husband. “Wanee now approached with his companion, and in broken English signified his readiness to remove the body to the litter; whereupon my mother arose and retired a sl^prt distance, still wringing her hands in spe^^ The fatal tree was soon removed deposited on a rude litter and conveyed to J Then our Indian friends, after promy Jarn in the morning, departed, and we wl^crrev Hone with the dead. "My poor mother then threw herself in an agony of grief upon the bed. and I lay down softly by her side, and, child-like, lost all consciousness of grief in repose. “I was awakened by the early sunlight streaming in through the window. I raised mv head and looked around, with an indistinct feeling that all was not right. I bounded forth from the bed, and the first glance toward the lounge assured me of the nature of my trouble. My mother had already arisen, and was kneeling by the body of her husband. “I will pass over the sorrowful events of that day, and will only add. that through the aid of our only friend, Wanee, all that was mortal of my poor father was conveyed to its final resting-place in the garden, beneath the shade of a noble old oak. which in clearing his hand had spared to shade, as he little thought, his last resting-place. “My mother never recovered the shock his death occasioned, but gradually faded away, and at length in a few weeks sank into the tomb. Before she died or just after her bereavement, she dispatched Wanee to the nearest post-office with a letter to her only brother, who lived on a beautiful estate somewhere in the East, which, also, was her birthplace. She longed to see him once more, she said. Oh, she hoped, for my sake, that he would arrive before she closed her eyes in death. “Her wish was realized. He did arrive a few days before the closing scene, and she breathed her last sigh in his arms. She was buried beside my father, beneath the shade of the old oak before mentioned; but both bodies have since been removed to consecrated ground, in which is my uncle’s family tomb.” CHAPTER IV. NEW SCENES. "I returned with my undo to his home—not in the Eastern part of the country as formerly, but to a thriving Western city, where he had resided a number of years. It was an elegant home to which I was brought, and which I was tenderly informed by this dear friend was mine henceforth. Its site was in a lovely eminence overlooking the country for miles around—a perfect panorama of scenic beauty. Within the grounds were trees of noble growth, evergreens, and shrubbery in great variety and abundance, and fountains, whose cool spray I have so often enjoyed on a warm summer morning, in company with my uncle. “The mansion within was in keeping with the outside, and displayed much taste in its adornment and decorations, and to my unaccustomed eyes this home, so magnificent, seemed, indeed, like a fairy palace such as I had read about and pondered over in my own humble home. “My uncle, a man past middle life, was as noble-hearted and kind as could be desired, and proved a true and loving friend to me, poor lone orphan as I was then, not only for his sister’s sake, whose memory he tenderly cherished, but undoubtedly for my own, also, for he seemed really attached to me, and endeavored to promote my best interest as far as lay in his power. "Despite this pleasant home, and the wealth of affection lavished upon me by this dear friend and relative, I was not happy; neither could I be. under the circumstances, though the wealth of the universe was poured out at my feet. "The secret of my unhappiness was this: My uncle’s wife, my aunt by marriage, was not friendly, but from the first treated me with coldness and marked dislike. Her daughter, Elsie, by a former marriage, who was two years my senior, also manifested the same spirit toward me, and did not scruple to express her scorn openly, and in the most insulting manner, but not when my uncle was around. “They rightly judged that, under the circum-stanees, I would not tell tales against them, or defend myself in thefleast. “My uncle was frequently absent on a business tour, and upon these occasions I was treated worse than over by them, and subjected to the most menial offices. I bore all. however, cheerfully, believing that the orphan’s lot was proverbially a hard one, and in most cases subject to much trial and sorrow. 1 could only be too thankful for that greatest of blessings vouchsafed me—my uncle’s affection—which seemed deep and abiding, and all that ray heart desired. Whether he was aware of the treatment I received at the hands of his wife THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. Juns 4, 1883. (d step-daughter at that time. I do not know; cer-ln it is he never hinted anything of the kind, or //pressed himself dissatisfied with proceedings in general. “Being of a studious turn of mind, my uncle, when at home. invariably retreated to the library, where rows of well-chosen works met the eye on every hand, and I was allowed to accompany him and peruse such works best suited to my age. In this manner I gained much useful knowledge, and especially was I made happy on these occasions by the loving sympathy generally manifested when his books and papers were laid aside at the twilight hour. On these occasions he would frequently discourse to me of my sainted mother and her youthful friend, Constance, who became the bride of his youth—a very angel, as he expressed it, in her purity and truth. Alt hough yearshad intervened «ince she had left his side for her heavenly home, and other affections and cares had engrossed his mind since, he could not forget his first love; her memory was ever fresh a>nd green in his heart. When the lamps were lighted, he would then kiss me good-night, and I was free to retire to my little room adjoining the study, to ponder upon what I had learned, until sleep fell like a benediction upon me. “The evenings were passed in a different way by my uncle’s wife and her daughter, who. when not entertaining young company in the drawing-room, were generally absent, visiting the neighbors or r elatives, or attending some place of entertainment, which latter was of quite frequent occurrence. On these occasions they were generally escorted by some young friend or relative, for the especial benefit of Elsie, who disliked her step-father exceedingly. and would have none of his company if it were possible to prevent it. My uncle, on the contrary, rarely went out at this time, and probably shut his eyes to whatever was obnoxious in the management of his wife, as long as it did not interfere in the otherwise methodical regulations of the household. "I felt that I was a cause of much jealousy with my husband’s wife, especially after overhearing, in an accidental manner, a conversation held with her daughter, which I will relate to you. “ 'I do so wish, Elsie.’ she said, on this occasion, ‘that we could get rid of that little mope in some w iy or other. She engrosses so much of your father's attention, I cannot tell you what I fear. And then, he is such a soft-hearted creature, and always thought so much of his sister during her lif '-titne, that it is not impossible this affection may h ad him to make a will in the child’s favor instead of ours. You know his health is very poor, and it is quite probable he will not last long. and. indeed, he is aware of the fact himself, and seriously thinks of making a will. I will endeavor io keep the right side of him, however; tru*t me for that; not for my sake alone,but for yours also, my dear; you must have a big slice of the property. I fear, however, that this little wretch will spoil all. Do try. Elsie, and be mere demonstrative in your affections toward him. and who knows but that he may come around all right yet.’ “ ‘But. ma.’ replied Elsie, ‘how can I do so ? I do not love him as I did my own papa.’ " ‘Neither do I, little goose; but I manage to keep up the appearance of affection, which answers all the same.’ “Such was the substance of the conversation I overheard, which serves to show the artful nature of my uncle’s wife, as well as the lessons of deception which were daily taught her offspring.” “Then he made some inquiries in regard to my health, although he remarked he never saw me look so blooming—never since I had made his house my home. He thought my trip to the Springs, which my aunt had told him about, had proved vastly beneficial to my health. “At this point of the conversation my aunt suddenly entered the room, just in time to hear the concluding remark of her husband. “ ‘Yes,’ she said, in reply, at the same time glancing at me menacingly; ‘yes. our little Constance is really looking much improved after her pleasure trip, which, by the way. was undertaken entirely on her account—she looked so pale and sickly when you went away. But, Constance, dear,’ she continued. turning to me, 'my errand here is concerning a little affair of yours, which cannot be put off; just come with me one moment and attend to the matter, and then you can return to your uncle.’ “Accordingly she led the way to her room, and closing and locking the door, she bade me be seated. Then she said in regard to the pleasure trip she had various reasons for equivocation, which was entirely harmless. She was uot obliged to let her husband know every little affair that occurred, neither did she intend to; consequently I was expected to fall in with any little arrangement of hers, and on my peril not to oppose her in any way. She then told me what answers to make if inquiries should be made about the watering-place in question. " ‘Now go.’ she said, opening the door, while her eyes sparkled ominously as she spoke. 'Remember. you had better be dead than betray a secret of mine1’ ” [TO BE CONTINUED.] GRATIA’S TRIALS Making Her Own Way LUCY RANDALL COMFORT, Author of “CECILE’S MARRIAGE,” “THE WIDOWED BRIDE,” etc. (“Gratia’s Trials” was commenced in No. 19. Back numbers can be obtained of all Newsdealers.] CHAPTER XXXII. gratia and the heiress. The good old woman was right. Our souls and bodies are interwoven in closer relations than we are willing to acknowledge to ourselves, and when one is famished the other cannot thrive. The cup of tea and its relishing little accompaniments re- tical Question—can you take care of lace, and India ! nation, when Gratia hurriedly glided out of the shawls, and jewels, and ermine, and all that sort of 1----— -----* • • thing?” “Certainly I can.” “And are you very patient and much enduring? because I warn you, honestly, that I’m a terrible trial to my maids.” “I shall endeavor to endure you,” said Gratia, .............................. , ______ I with a gravity that made Alicia laugh, while Mrs. ed sympathy also wrought its soothing effect, as Hopwith stood looking on beamingly, convinced that the golden goblets of fortune had fallen into freshed Gratia, and Mrs. Hopwith’s openly express- Gratia, told the simple story of her experience in England. "Well. I never!” cried Mrs. Hopwith, setting down her cup. “I did think that American woman had a face like vinegar and granite when I showed her over the hall, but I didn’t suppose but that she had some human feelings about her. I’d like to give her a piece of my mind, that I would, now I’ll tell you what it is, my dear. I like looks.” “Thank you,” said Gratia, smiling faintly. “I do.” reiterated Mrs. Hopwith, “and I like And your your glass-house and to<»k the roses from him. But when Gratia Kempfleld came back with the | roses in her hand, Alicia thought that she looked paler than ever. "My dear child,” she said, “your cheeks rival the bride-roses. Are you sure that you feel well ?” “l am perfectly well.” Gratia answered. Are you ready for me to do your hair. Miss Melworth ?” CHAPTER V. A NEW ACQUAINTANCE, “When in my twelfth year, my uncle was suddenly called away to a distant city to attend the settlement of an estate left him by a deceased relative. Accordingly. he kissed me fondly at parting, and recommended me to the kind and loving care of his wife, who faithfully promised to attend particularly to my interests during his absence. “Just after his departure, a party of fashionable friends and acquaintances were leaving for Saratoga, and the coast being clear, she thought it an excellent opportunity for herself and daughter to accompany th tun thither, if she could dispose of me safely, for nothing would induce her to take me with them. Accordingly, I was sent to stay with her seamstress, who lived on the outskirts of a beautiful and quite extensive grove, not far from ray uncle’s estate, where I was expected to remain during her absence. "Mrs. Ray was a widow lady of slender means, kind and good and appreciative, naturally. She had seen better days, but through much tribulation had come down to her present position in life; therefore, having experienced, she knew how to sympathize with others in trouble. When employed at her daily task at my uncle’s, Mrs. Ray had looked kindly upon me, and had manifested much sympathy for my orphanhood generally, and now she seemed doubly kind, and with sweet, motherly at-temion, strove to banish all unpleasant retrospections from my mind. "‘Poor child!’ she would often say, 'I know by bitter experience what it is to be alone in the world, subject to the scorn and indifference of others. You shall And in me a true friend, and in my home a resort in times of trouble,’ "And so it proved. It was indeed a haven of rest her sympathy particularly sooth- at tiiis time, a ing tomy w “The c most ro sang all mured so sands near pirit. situated in the sweetest and imaginable, whore the birds ng, and a lovely stream mur- soothingly over its sparkling y, on whose green banks I wandered day after day. sometimes alone, but oftener with Mrs. Ray. until, through those lovely surroundings and her kind auspices combined, I regained my natural cheerfulness of disposition, hope again revived, and the sorrows of the past seemed but as a troubled dream. "It was my delight to wander to a certain spot not far distant, where the water trickled over a bed of rock, thus forming a natural waterfall or fairy cascade, which spray was particularly refreshing on a warm summer’s day. On those mossy banks I eat all tho pleasant morning hours, beguiling my time by reading or indulging in reverie, as the case might be, while Mrs. Ray attended to her household duties, or employed herself at her vocation. “One morning, while seated at this charming spot, listening to nature’s voices overhead and around me, I was suddenly startled by a footstep near, and on looking up beheld a youth of eighteen or thereabouts, with a rifle in his hand, intently regarding me. “‘Well, little miss.’ he said, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. 'who are you, who dares to trespass on my domains?’ "I arose in some confusion. “ ‘I was not aware that I was trespassing,’ I faltered forth. " 'Neither are you.’ he returned, laughing. ‘Come, take a seat beside me, and let us have a good talk together; but first, tell me your name, please,’ “‘Constance,’ I returned, seating myself on the back near where the young gentleman had also seated himself, for his manner, playful and good-natured. had entirely reassured me. “ ‘Constance,’ he repeated. ‘That name is fit for a queen. Where do you reside?’ " Tn yonder cottage,’ I returned, pointing to the residence of Mrs. Ray. a little in the distance. ‘“Ah! You are the seamstress’ little girl,’ he said. “ No, I am only her ward at present.’ I returned, “At this the young man laughed heartily, and so long, that it quite discomposed me, and I arose to depart. “‘Oh, sit still. Miss Constance; I will not laugh again, upon my word. Now let me introduce myself—my name is Edward Elf. at your service.’ "It was my turn now to laugh, which I did not fail to do in retaliation, if for no other reason, al-though I must confess that, having a lively sense of the ridiculous. I could not very well help it. ‘“Well, Miss Constance, are you nearly through,’ he said, at last, with an injured air, arising as he spoke, and shouldering his rifle, as if for speedy departure. "At this I indulged in another burst of merriment at his expense, at the close of which he seated himself again by my side. " ‘You seem highly pleased about something, I must say. Miss Constance. Probably my fairy origin, as mv name indicates. Who knows but that you may become some day a fairy queen—Mrs. Elf to be sure.’ “ 'Oh. no,’ 1 exclaimed, that will never be! It is too ugly a name for me;’and I jumped upto run away. At this juncture Mrs. Ray came along, and discovered an old acquaintance in the young man before her. He had often called at her cottage, she afterward informed me, when out hunting or sketching, as the case might be. He came from a neighboring cottage, and she knew nothing about hirn save that he called himself Edward. "I saw him several times thereafter, and at one time sat to him for a sketch, which was considered by Mrs. Ray excellent. I mention this little circumstance of my meeting this young man which may seem trivial to you, but which really is of importance. as he will figure in tho narrative I am about to unfold, and be an important actor therein. "Several pleasant days passed thereafter, with occasional calls from this new friend, when word came to the cottage that I must return home, as the ladies composing my uncle’s household had returned from their pleasure trip and were in daily expectation of my uncle’s arrival from the East. “With a sad heart I bade my kind friend adieu, and after leaving a farewell message for Edward, should he call, hastened away with my escort toward home. "The next day my uncle returned, and walked rather suddenly into the library where 1 was seated at-my work. I sprang up to greet this kind friend, but was painfully impressed by his appearance—so pale and thin. My darling child!’ he exclaimed, in fervent tones, folding me in a loving embrace. ‘How glad I am to see you once again.’ CHAPTER XXXI. LEFT ALONE. Gratia Kempfleld lay in the little bedroom in the White Hart Inn. when a sunbeam fell athwart her face. She attempted to raise her hand, as if to ward it off. but the hand fell heavily again. "Don’t-ee worry, dear—don't-ee!” said Mrs. Powell, mildly. “Polly, draw that there dratted curtain. Have a drink, now—there’s a darling!” Gratia drank obediently, before she ventured to ask: “What is the matter ? Have I been sick ?” “That you have,” answered Mrs. Powell, carefully wiping th" edge of the tumbler with a snow-white napkin. "Two blessed weeks you have laid here, clean out of your head—and me and Polly waiting upon you—‘brain fever’the doctor says—and it’s a right down blessing you’ve got your poor wandering wits back again. Here comes Sarah Ann with a bowl of chicken broth, piping hot, you’ve to swallow.” "Where is Mrs. Pennilon?” the young girl asked, faintly. "My dear, she s gone,” said the good woman, “and what I said then I say now—good riddance to bad rubbage. Gone back to her native country, I hope, with all them plaguey young uns, and airs, and graces, and pickin’ the bill to pieces as if Powell and me had set out to cheat’em from the very beginning. Not but what I’d ha’ forgiv’ her all the rest, if she hadn’t left you behind just like a sick poll-parrot. 'If she dies, landlord,’says she, ‘she’s got enough money in her purse to bury her decent —if not, she’ll take care of herself—it’s no business of ours.’ Now take this broth, and go right to sleep, that’s my pretty dearie.” And while Gratia was trying to tell the good woman how impossible it was for her’to slumber again she drifted peacefully off to sleep again. It was the middle of June before Gratia Kempfleld was quite restored to health and strength once again. Mrs. Pennilon, she discovered, on examining her simple effects, had left a quarter’s wages behind, in addition to a trifling sum which Gratia possessed, so that she had something wherewith to recompense her good host and hostesses in some degree at last. Five pounds was all that Mis. Powell could be persuaded to take, and that she was unwilling to accept. As Gratia had now nearly recovered her health, she felt the necessity of looking for employment again, and she bade her kind friends adieu, starting out with all her belongings in a small satchel. Her purse was very low, and her thoughts involuntarily turned to Colonel Falconer. . “He was kind to me once, when I needed it less than I do now,” she thought, “and why should I shrink from appealing to him this time ? It will be only a loan that I shall ask. I will work my fingers to the bone to pay it back again!” So that instead of keeping straight along the highroad to the London railway station, which the good folk at the White Hart Inn had supposed to bo her destination, Gratia Kempfleld turned off into the oak-shaded lane which led in the direction of Melworth Hall. Mrs. Hopwith. the same benign-faced old housekeeper who had shown them over the Hall when she had visited it in company with the Pennilon family, was in her own special little sanctum, and looked up as Gratia hesitatingly advanced. "I bog your pardon,” said Gratia, feeling hot, and tirpd. and confused, and wondering if she might venture to come into the cool room. “I only came up to inquire for Colonel Falconer.” “Colonel Falconer ?” the old lady repeated, slowly. “Yes, yes. I remember now—the tall American gentleman, with the straight nose and the black eyes. What of him, child ?” “I would like to speak to him,” said Gratia, humbly. “That’s just what you can’t do!”said Mrs. Hopwith. screwing the top onto the jar she was filling with rose leaves. "Why not?” “Because he isn’t here. He went to London, last Thursday was three weeks ago. Dear me!” suddenly hurrying to the door, "why, the child has fainted dead away!” It was quite true. The heat and fatigue of her walk, the disappointment which greeted her at its close, and the weakness of her physical frame, so recently raised from the bed of illness, was too much for Gratia Kempfleld, and she lay on the threshold, looking to the good housekeeper’s troubled and pitying eyes like a slender white lily, broken from its stalk. "Well.” cried Mrs. Hopwith, as she sprinkled the marble-pale brow with aromatic vinegar, and rubbed the hands of the prostrate girl, after she had with difficulty lifted her upon a settee which stood against the wall, "if she hain’t got for all the world just such a face as that picture up in Miss Alicia’s dressing-room, with the handkerchief twisted round its head—the Beatrice Cenci, they call it. Poor, pretty dear!—now I wonder what she could have wanted to see Colonel Falconer for!” And when Gratia’s scattered senses came back to her, she found her head pillowed on a kindly arm, and a gentle hand bathing her forehead and temples with the sweet-smelling vinegar. “You are very kind,” she said, in a low, tremulous voice. “I—I fear I have been faint. But—did I understand you to say that Colonel Falconer had left the hall ?” "That was what I was telling you just as you swooned away.” said Mrs. Hopwith. “And if it ain’t asking more than I’ve any business to know, I should just like to hear what it is a girl like you wants of a grand gentleman like Coloner Falconer?” "I used to know him in the United States,” said Gratia, evasively. "Gone—gone! But I might have expected it,” she added, almost hysterically. "He could not care for me any more, after—after ” And she checked herself, to Mrs. Hopwith’s sore perplexity. "It makes no difference,” she added, seeing the housekeeper’s puzzled face. "You ask what I wanted of him. madam ? I wanted help. I thought I might find a friend. Because I am quite alone and friendless in this country.” “But who are you?” demanded Mrs. Hopwith, more bewildered than ever, “and how came you here ?” “My name is Gratia Kempfleld,” said the girl, with slow deliberation, "and I came to Cheyne Regis with a family as governess. I fell ill, and they leit me behind.” "And what are you going to do now?” said Mrs. Hopwith, becoming more and more fascinated with the magnetic shine ot the great hazel eyes. “To starve, I suppose!” Gratia answered, with startling calmness. “I suppose it is what people generally do who have neither friends nor money.” Good Mrs. Hopwith’s heart melted at the look more than at the words. “My poor dear. y<»u mustn’t talk that way,” she said. “Let me ring for a cup ot tea—I generally take it myself about this time of day—and you’ve no . idea how much better it will make you f<*el. Andi modost-spoken way. If you was one o’ tliem bold hussies as trades on their good looks to deceive honest folks, I wouldn’t have naught to say to you; but I believe you’re another sort o’ person, and I ain’t often deceived. You shall stay here with me until you get another place, and I’ll do my best to help you to one as will suit you.” “If I could be of any use to you—” hesitated Gratia, scarcely daring to believe the good fortune that was dawning upon her. “Oh, I’ll make you useful, never fear,” said Mrs. Hopwith. “You can keep accounts ?” “Oh. yes.” “And use the needle ?” “To be sure.” “Then you can help me with the housekeeping books, and the linen, and the preserve jars, and half a hundred other things, until so be as you find a situation to your mind.” So Gratia Kempfleld became, for the time being, a sort of lieutenant to the housekeeper at Melworth Hall. Upon rainy days Gratia amused herself by wandering through the great corridors and show-rooms of the hall. She scarcely ever met any one, and when she did. was never addressed; but there were times when the sound of gay voices and merry laughter in the inhabited regions of the hall gave her a homesick sensation; and then it seemed to her as if she would gladly have given ten years of her life-time to be once more upon the shores of her native land. About Hugo Falconer she had made up her mind. Had he really cared to see her he would have repeated his visit to the White Hart Inn. at Cheyne Regis. She knew his determined disposition too well to believe that he would abandon any purpose that really lay near his heart, after one, or even two repulses. “He has ceased to care for me,” she thought, with a chill sensational her heart. “I knew that, on second thoughts, he would shrink from me. Yet that one kind look, that cordial grasp of the hand—oh. they make this cruel neglect all the harder to bear!” Mrs. Hopwith had told her that shn thought she could easily obtain for her Colonel Falconer’s address from one of the ladies, but Gratia told her, calmly, that she did not wish for it now. "Just as you please, my dear,” said the old lady. “I don’t myself believe in young girls having too much to say to grandigentlemen, although far be it from me to breathe a word againt the colonel, as has been a honored guest of Sir Hugh’s and my lady. And besides all that, Hendon, the butler, did say— though, o’ course, you and me know what servants’ gossip amount to—that our Miss Alicia and the colonel were great friends, and asked me what would I think if Miss Melworth went to America to live, after all. Gratia was silent; for the instant she could not have spoken. "You haven’t seen Miss Alicia?” said Mrs. Hopwith, proudly. “I must make an errand for you to Marguerite, her maid, some day, just to let you get a peep of her. The prettiest creetur you ever set eyes on.” "Is she fair or dark?” Gratia asked, in a low voice, scarcely able to account for the sharp pang of jealousy that shot through her heart at Mrs. Hopwith’s words. "As fair as a lily, with cheeks like one o’ them big damask roses, and hair that shines and glitters just like sunshine.” So Mrs. Hopwith wandered on, and poor Gratia thought she never would have done, but just then she was called away by the butler. And the passionate fountain of tears that burst from her eyelids, and the burning sensation at her heart, told Gratia the secret she had long refused to acknowledge to herself—that she loved Hugo Falconer. “lam a fool—a mad, silly, dreaming fool,” she told herself. “But I can at least hide my folly in my own breast. I will live it down.” And conscious that solitude and opportunity to indulge in thought and memory were her worst enemies, Gratia hurried away to Mrs. Hopwith to beg for some employment, however uncongenial, wherewith to occupy her fingers and brain. “Can you dress hair ?” the old lady asked. “Yes; why?” “Praised be Providence for that!” said the old housekeeper, devoutly. “Marguerite, my lady’s maid, went up to London by the morning express, and she was to be back by four at the latest, and here she hasn’t come yet, and there’s a dinner party of five folks at seven, and no one to dress Miss Alicia’s hair. Do you think you could under-LhIco it “1 could try,” said Gratia, smiling at the solemnity with which Mrs. Hopwith asked the question. "There was a French coiffeur used to come every day to the house where 1 lived to dress the young ladies’ hair, and I used to watch him work, and then afterward try the effect on my own hair.” “Well, that is what I call good luck,” said Mrs. Hopwith. “Get yourself ready, and I’ll take you up to Miss Alicia’s rooms at once.” “I am ready.” said Gratia, quietly. “Come then, I suppose there’s no time to lose, as we’ll have to look out for some one else in case you dnn’t happen to suit my young lady.” Mrs.Hopwith led the way into Miss Alicia’s boudoir, where, upon a low divan lounged the prettiest little fairy Gratia had ever looked upon—the self-same young beauty whose carriage had whirled Hugo Falconer away from her that sunny May afternoon. A full-grown woman, too, although modeled after the most exquisitely petite fashion—an elf-like creature, with great blue eyes, and scarlet lips, and a daintily grained complexion, like rosesand snow, and a profusion of magnificent golden hair which hung loose over her blue muslin wrapper. She looked up, a sweet, surprised look coming into her eyes, as Mrs. Hopwith executed an elaborate courtesy before her. “This is the young person, Miss Alicia, if you please.” Foolish Gratia! She felt the scarlet blood tide up into her cheeks at the eminently respectable epithet applied to her by Mrs. Hopwith. Humble and untitled though she was, there was enough of the American spirit about her to feel that she was yet Miss Alicia’s Melworth’s equal in everything, except the accident of birth. “So ynu are Hopwith’s new protegee, of whom we have all heard so much.” said Miss Melworth, in a tone so frankly good humored as at once to neutralize the sting in Gratia’s heart. “Why, you are very her young friend’s grasp. “And how much wages do you expect? Marguerite calls it salary.” "What you think I am worth, Miss Melworth— neither more nor less.” “Twenty-five pounds a Quarter? It is what I have given Marguerite.” “I shall be more than satisfied.” ‘'And you will try me?” “If you will try me, Miss Melworth.” “To commence?” “Now.” “Good!” said Alicia, gravely. “You have a mind of your own, and I like you for that. Go into my bedroom and find out where things are. I shall wear a green silk dress to-night. It bangs in von-der mirror-fronted wardrobe.” CHAPTER XXXIII. “SO NEAR, AND YET SO FAR!” Gratia Kempfleld found Miss Melworth the sweetest. and most indulgent of mistresses. The latter had at once perceived the native originality and cultivated refinement of her new’ attendant. "1 shad make her more of a companion than a maid, mamma,” she said to Lady Melworth, speak-; ing of her last acquisition. “She is so nice, and so ■ pretty.” “Don’t spoil her, my dear, I beg.” said Lady Melworth. “You remind me of your youthful raptures over the latest new doll.” "But she is a Zwedoll; and, oh, mamma, don’t 1 you think her pretiy ?” I “I think her rarely beautiful, Alicia; but in her class of life, I am not sure that beauty is altogether a blessing.” I “In her class, mamma!” repeated Miss Melworth. arching her golden brows. “But what is her class of life ? You know the Americans are so different from us; and she has some delicate, dainty ways that would do no discredit to a duchess.” Meanwhile, Gratia’s life-stream seemed to roll along over golden sands and through green shores. And so the days lengthened into weeks, and the weeks into months. "You must make me more than ordinarily fascinating to-night, Gratia.” said Alicia Melworth, entering her dressing-room one evening in October. “We are to have a gay party from London to dinner —some of Algernon’s friends.” “Is your brother coming down, too ?” Gratia asked. She had seen Major Melworth once or twice —a tail, dark, handsome man, as unlike his spritelike little sister as it is possible for two human creatures to be. “Yos; and oh. by the way, that American gentleman is coming too. Don't you remember I told you about him.” "Do you mean Colonel Falkland ?” Gratia asked, with innocent hypocrisy. “jFaZconer,” Alicia enunciated, with great distinctness. “I like him immensely, even it he weren’t Algernon’s especial friend. He is so handsome and agreeable; I must contrive some way for you to see him.” “Vnn rnnot -n < [to be continued.] OLD MORTALITY, King of Detectives; OR, PIPING THE NEW YORK MYSTERY, By Young Badger. (“Old Mortality” was commenced in No. 25. Back numbers can be had of all News Agents.] CHAPTER XIX. “a monstrous discovery.” The coroner, instructed by Old Mortality, had purposely neglected to furnish the required number of men to sit upon the jury. He said to the surgeon: “I’ll go and find a man.” He proceeded to tho door and. opening it, perceived Old Mortality, who was sauntering past. He called out loud enough for those in the house to hear: “Hallo, my man!” Old Mortality answered: “Ahoy I” “Come here.” Old Mortality approached and said; “What’s wanted, shipmate?” “I want you to sit on a jury.” “All right, my hearty.” The coroner led Old Mortality into the room where the body of the gii 1 lay. and impaneled him as the last juror. The detective, having glanced around the room, saw that the coffin containing the body of the girl was in the same spot where it was when, hidden behind it. he listened to the conversation between Hollis, Gibson, and the blacksmith. Barney Leeks sat near it. The blacksmith’s face was pale, and he tried to assume a snint-like, injured air. except when, happening to glance toward Gibson, he scowled fiercely. Gibson, his hands manacled, sat in a chair on the opposite side of the room. His face was also pale, and his features were set and rigid. He was evidently trying to repress the strong emotion which the fact of being in the room with the dead body of the girl he had loved and lost was likely to engender. The coroner said: “Gentlemen of the jury, view the body.” They did so, and ret urned their seats. Old Mortality was surprised to observe that the featuies were not in the least distorted. The face of the y “You must not—indeed, indeed, you must not!” । looked like tl^ exclaimed Gratia, clasping her hands nervously, the S h and letting fall the long golden braid she had just uncoiled from Miss Melworth’s head. "I—I have a I horror of strangers—I have no curiosity to see him. Please, Miss Melworth. don’t.” | “You dear little retiring thing!” said Alicia. . laughing heartily. “Of course I won’t, if you don’t wish it. But I know you would think him a perfect Apollo.” Gratia did not answer, but kept on unbraiding the yellow strands with trembling haste. “You are nervous to-night,” said Alicia. “There’s enough of what the mesmerists call rapporte be- I tween you and me for me to feel it in the touch of I your cold little fingers.” | I Alicia was dressed at last, and gone down into the drawing-room, and Gratia, weary and listless, | had crept down the side staircase into the room ' where she had stood on that eventful May day when Hugo Falconer had seen and spoken to her. Suddenly the sound of a well-known voice struck on her ear—the voice of Hugo Falconer. Why had she come thiiher? she asked herself. She might have known that he must pass that way up to his room to dress for dinner, yet the possibility of a meeting never had presented itself to ; her mind. Instinctively she drew ba«k into the i shadow, as he passed within a few feet of her, talking to Mr. Melworth on some passing topic. Within a few feet of the girl whom he had been seeking so urgently and so persistently for months, What would Hugo Falconer have given for the chance that lay so near him now ? "He shall never, never know that the same roof shelters us both,” she murmured to herself, as she fled like a guilty person up the side stair-way and | into the pretty little room that Alicia had allotied to her use, where she threw herselt on the low sofa and wept as though her heart would break. Gratia was heavy-eyed and silent the next day when she came as usual to dress Alicia for the late Melworth Hall breakfast, and the latter noticed it. “How pale you are,” she said; “and I have been telling Algernon all sorts of stories about your pretty face.” Gratia was rosy enough now. "Miss Melworth!” “Don’t look so savagely at me, Gratia!” laughed the young lady. “I only said you weren’t absolutely ugly, that’s all. , He is decidedly an artist in his tastes, and sketches charmingly from real life; so I thought you might do as a model head for one of his crayons, that’s all.” Gratia was silent, but in her inmost mind she resolved that Major Algernon Melworth should never have the opportunity to indulge any snob nrtistic inclinations, so far as her face was concerned. "We shall only have my brother with us for a few days,” Alicia went on. “And Colonel Falconer leaves this evening.” “Does he?” “To return very soon to America, I believe. I should like to see America,” said Miss Melworth, with sudden enthusiasm. “It is the most beautiful country in the whole world.” Gratia burst fervently forth ; "the fairest, best, noblest land that ever the sun shone on.” And then she began to weep softly, the tears dropping into the folds of Alicia Melworth’s white alpaca dress. The young lady saw the effort she made to repress her emotion, and wisely took no ! notice of it. i “Gratia,” she said, “I wish you would just run 1 down into the rose-garden and ask Anderson for a pretty spray of those cream-white bride-roses. . They are so fragrant and delicate, and I like to 1 wear them in my hair at breakfast.” । Gratia hurried away, without perceiving the kindly ruse which was meant to give her an opportunity to recover herself. ; “She‘11 feel better when she comes back,” said I Alicia to herself, as she took up a novel. "Poor little thing! She must be dreadfully homesick. If retry!” i Colonel Falconer had a wife or a sister going back She spoke innocently, as she might have spoken I with him I would almost beg her to take Gratia f a picture or a flower, or a piece of emblazoned along. I am getting very much attached to the ----4----------------j /i -----------_ dear little creature, but it seems almost as cruel as pretry!” of a picture or--------- „ ,-------- __------------- sunset sky. Gracia smiled and colored, and uncon- sciously looked prettier than ever. "Do you think you could do my hair?” demanded the youngpatricienue, with pretty imperativeness. “Yes.” “That is bravely spoken!” said Miss Melworth, sitting up, and pointing to a low toilet-chair which Mrs. Hopwith hastened to bring her. “You may try it—although I warn you I am terribly hard to please.” “I am not afraid of failure,” said Gratia. “May I begin at once ?” “At once—and, Hopwith, don’t stand staring at her, you will make the poor thing nervous1” "No, she will not,” said Gratia, as she selected a pearl-backed brush from the dressing-case on the table, and began skillfully manipulating the long, shining tresses. "How nicely you handle it!” said Alicia, nestling back against the chair. “Your hands are like velvet. and you don’t pull a hair the wrong way.” “There. Miss Melworth,” said Gratia, composedly, handing the young heiress a hand-glass, as she completed her task, “how do you like that ?” Alicia uttered an exclamation of delighted admiration. “Charming! perfect!” she exclaimed. “Marguerite herself never made it look half so beautiful and abundant. And you were so expeditious about it, too. You are a perfect pearl of hair-dressers.” “Only an amateur,” said Gratia, smiling. “Last month I was a governess, three months since a companion to a lady, and before that------’ Here she .checked herself for an instant, and then resumed: “And in the future, nobody knows what I am to be.” “You shall be my maid if yoh will come,” Alicia Melworth cried, enthusiastically. “I’ve been tired of Marguerite’s shuffling French ways this long time, and nothing on earth but my natural indolence has debarred me from making a change. Can you read aloud well?” “ I think so.” “Try.” Alicia put a volume of Tennyson’s “Idyls of the King” into her hands, opened the passage where the "Sweet Elaine” breaks her heart for love of Sir Launcelot. The deep crimson rose to Gratia’s then, if you don’t mind, you can tell me how it all I brow; she w;is familiar with the poem, and it suggested an analogy to the secrets of her own heart. - ,________________________________________________________________________________ | No wonder, then, that she read it with a beauty and hundred guineas in.: pathos of expression that fairly electrified Miss ! “Then she must happened.” Gratia < 1 id not dissent from this proposal; in fact, she lacked energy either to say yea or nay. “You see.” said Mrs. Hopwith. who was a firm believer in the “cup that cheers but not inebriates,” "you’ll feel so much better after a good cup of tea, made as / make it.” Melworth. "Splendid!” she cried, “What an actress you would have made. I couldn’t endure Marguerite’s drawling accent after that. Now for the more prac- randa. This being granted, he approached the coffin, bent over the body, and said, with a groan: “Oh. my poor, lost darling!” The blacksmith sprang up, and cried, fiercely: “Take that murderer away from my girl!” * The prisoner turned and looked at him, and said, quietly: “Barney Leeks, you are a coward; and if my hands were not manacled, you would not dare call ! it would be to cage a wild bird to keep her here against her will.” I While these thoughts were passing through i Alicia Melworth’s gentle heart. Gratia was hnrry-' ing across the lawn, her face shaded by the broad brim of a gipsy hat. I “Anderson,” she said to the gardener, “Miss Melworth wants a bunch of those white brideroses.” “A bunch, indeed!” echoed the old man. holding up his hands. “An’ disna Miss Alicia ken that roses is as scarce as frosts in midsummer? A bunch! I might get her one, or forbye twa, but nae mair.” “As many as you can find, then,” said Gratia. Just beyond was a glass propagatory house, where Anderson kept a long table of young plants, ready for the next, season’s borders, and an impulse of idle curiosity induced Gracia to enter this building. As she did so, a perfume of Havana cigars blendeditself with the aromatic odor of the moss-roses, and she saw, entering the farther end of the walk she had just quitted, two gentlemen—Colonel Falconer and Algernon Melworth. Her heart throbbed quickly—a sort of mist crept over her eyes, but she had the presence of mind to remain perfectly still in her lurking-place all hough Colonel Falconer almost brushed against the skirt of her dress as he passed the half-open door of the glass propagating house. “Ami you won’t stay for the Christmas shooting?” Major Melworth said, as he broke one of Anderson’s pet roses ruthlessly from its stem. “You are most kind. Melworth, ’ Colonel Falconer returned, slowly, “but I Lave definitely decided to take passage in the Siren that leaves on the first of November.” “So soon ?” “Yes. because— Here comes the old King of the Roses himself,” Hugo cried, breaking short off in his sentence. “Mr. Anderson, you have excelled yourself in autumn roses this season.” “Ye’re pleased to say sae. sir,” said Anderson, gravely. “But—where is Miss Alicia’s maid?” "Not here, assuredly,” said Melworth. “But come on. Falconer, to the stables, and let. me have your opinion on that new hunter I have just invested a ; “Then she must hae gann een,” said the old 1 man. wrathfully. “And me been and cut the white mses! But I’ll na gang after her—na, na. old Donald Anderson’s bride-roses ne’er went begging yet.” I He was turning away in the fullness of his indig- me murderer.” From the appearance and actions of the blacksmith, it might have been supposed that he was about to leap upon Gibson and strike him, in spite of his helpless position; but the coroner interfered, saying: “Take your seats, both of you.” And when this order had been complied with, he continued: “Barney Leeks, you have accused the prisoner of muruering your daughter, and caused his arrest. I suppose you did not do this without sufficient reason ?” The blacksmith replied: “No, sir.” "Please state what you know about the cause of the death of your daughter.” “I know it all.” “Tell the jury.” Thus commanded, the blacksmith spoke as follows: “The prisoner was my daughter’s lover. I sanctioned it. for I liked him. and thought he would make her a good husband. The day was set for their marriage, which was to have tn ken place in a few days. Three days before the death of Miranda they had a quarrel, which, however, they soon adjusted. and parted apparently good friends.” The prisoner interrupted, saying: “You say we Quarreled ?” “Yes.” “That’s a lie! I never said an angry word to Miranda in my life, or she to me.” The blacksmith was about to reply to Gibson, when the coroner said: “Did you ascertain the cause of the quarrel ?” “ies.” “What was it ?” “It is of such a peculiar nature that I hesitate to impart it to so many men, on account of the disgrace it must bring upon my family, and upon the memory of my daughter.” “You must speak.” “Well, then,” said the blacksmith; “if the law commands it. I am ready. “I questioned Miranda about the quarrel, and she at first refused to tell me the cause of it. 1 pressed the question, and she at last confessed that Gibson had betrayed her, and now wanted to defer the marriage.” Again was the blacksmith interrupted in his recital by the prisoner, who uttered a loud cry, and exclaimed: “Oh, you wretch! how dare you blacken the memory of my dead love ?” The blacksmith replied, coolly: “I am sworn to tell the truth.” Gibson continued, wildly: “Miranda was as pure as the angels!” And he continued, to the coroner: “Don’t you believe a word he says.” The coroner rejoined: "Keep quiet now, and presently you shall have a chance to speak.” Gibson remained quiet, darting fiery glances at the blacksmith, who continued: “The next day------” He was once more interrupted, this time by Old Mortality, who said: “Belay there, messmate. Mister Crowner, might I ask him a question ?” “Certainly.” Mortality then said: “How is it, Mr. Blacksmith, that you didn’t accuse Gibson of betraying your daughter? Most men would have killed him for it.” Leeks, wTho was somewhat embarrassed by this question, recovered himself, and said: “Miranda begged me not to.” “Why not ?” “She said that if I abused Gibson he would not marry her, and then she would be ruined indeed.” “H m!” said the detective. “As I was going to remark,” continued the blacksmith, “the next day Gibson came. Miranda had been feeling a trifle unwell, and Gibson said he would go out and get her some medicine. He did so. She took it, and immediately became worse. She lingered in great agony until the day after, and died.” Gibson seemed utterly stunned by this statement. He said, in a low voice: “Great Heaven ! what wickedness there is in this world! I swear to you. gentlemen, that every word of that man’s story is a Tie!” Leeks continued: "When Gibson went for the medicine, he did not bring it himself, but sent it by a boy. It was a white powder. Miranda did not take Quite all of it; I have the remainder. I will show it to you.” He produced a paper which contained a small Quantity of white powder, which be handed to the coroner, who passed it ever to the surgeon, saying: “What is it ?” The surgeon examined it, and replied: “Arsenic.” “Are you sure ?” “Yes.” Gibson said: "I never smit it.” At this instant, before Gibson had a chance to say more, the surgeon, who had been examining the body of the dead girl, cried out: “Great Heaven!” The coroner, alarmed, exclaimed: “What’s the matter?” “I have made a monstrous discovery.” “What is it ?” “The body has been mutilated.” “Impossible!” “And some parts of it are gone.” “Horrible!” All who were in the room rushed forward,. and at the same instant the door was suddenly flung open and Chock rushed into the room. He was twirling the new dancing-jack Old Mortality had given him. and dancing to the tune of it. He flung his arms and legs about grotesquely; and as he capered, he sang out, in a doleful voice: “She ain’t dead! she ain’t dead! Oho! Chock coul i tell you a thing or two, if you’d give him a brand-new jack!” June 4,1883, THE NEW YORK WEEKLY CHAPTER XX. THE SECOND MIRANDA. The entrance of Chock with his dancing-jack created a sensation. The blacksmith ran to him and caught him by the shoulder, saying: "Get away from here, idiot!” The boy. appearing to be frightened, whimpered: “Don’t break Chock’s jack.” The blacksmith, in a fury, shouted: “Leave.” “Chock’s doing nothing.” “Get out.” The lad evidently stood in great fear of the blacksmith. for he commenced crying, and was going from the room, hugging his dancing-jack, when the coroner stopped him, saying: “Wait, my boy.” Then the coroner turned to the blacksmith, and said: “Have you anything further to say in relation to the death of your daughter?” “No.” “Your story is all told?” “It is. “Then take your seat.” The coroner paid no further attention to the blacksmith, but turning to Chock said: "My lad!” “Chock’s listening.” “What’s your name?” “Chock.” “What do you do for a living?” “Work for my master.” “Who is your master?” “Barney Leeks.” “Where do you live?” “Here.” The coroner hesitated a moment, and then, turning to Boggs, the lawyer, said, in a whisper: “How shall I get along with this boy?” The lawyer shook his head, saying: “He is beyond my comprehension.” “He seems to be a fool” “Well, I guess he is.” “I’ll question him, anyhow.” He continued: “Chock, you have said you know something about this mystery.” The lad twirled his jumping-jack, making its arms dance up and down, and said: “I know a heap.” “What do you know?” "All about Miranda.” “Who killed her?” “Nobody.” “But she’s murdered.” “No, she ain’t. Chock knows better.” “How’s that?” “Chock knows,” “Tell me.” “No.” “Why not?” Chock looked at Barney Leeks, whose face was as black as night, but said nothing. The coroner continued: "Will you speak ?” “No.” “You said you could tell a heap about Miranda.” “So I can.” "Will you do it ?” “No.” “Why not?” “Because I don’t want to.” “H’m,” said the coroner. “There’s no use saying another word. The boy’s a fool.” Chock, who was intently regarding his strange toy, paused in his manipulations of it a moment, and said: “Chock knows more than some folks.” “Tell us, then, what you know.” The lad was silent. The coroner having given him up as unmanageable. Old Mortality came forward and whispered: “Send him out of the room I want to ’sound’ him.” “In private ?” “Yes.” “You’ll have no luck.” “I’ll risk it.” The coroner, who was rather piqued at not having succeeded in extracting any information of value from Chock, said to the blacksmith: "What is your opinion of this lad?” “I think he’s a fool.” "So do I.” “Well, then, you’d better get rid of him.” "How so?” “By sending him from the room.” ‘ I am about to do mo.” And turning to Chock, the coroner continued: “Go out.” The boy laughed, and ran from the room, making his jack dance a furious jig, and all the while repeating to himself: “Ho, ho! Chock knows a heap.” Old Mortality followed him from the room, after an interval, and found him in the kitchen. Touching him on the shoulder, the detective said: “Chock, do you know me ?” “Yes ” ’’Who am I?” “The man that gave me this big jack.” “What did I give it to you for ?” "For something.” “For doing something that I wanted you to do, eh ?” “Yes, sir.” "Well, Chock, would you like to have one twice as big?” “I should think I would.” "What would you do for it ?” “Everything.” “Will you tell me something?” “Yes.” "About Miranda ?” “Yes.” And he qualified this remark by saying: “If you won’t tell the blacksmith.” “Of course I won’t.” “Well, then,” said Chock, ‘TH tell 'lin’t dead,” “How do you know.” The lad looked toward the door, blacksmith, and was afraid to speak. you. Miranda He feared the Comprehend- ing his motives, the detective said: “You need not be afraid, my boy. The blacksmith won’t come here.” “I don’t know about that. The door ain’t locked'” Old Mortality went to the door and closed and locked it, and returning, said: “Now, my lad, go on with your story.” Chock lowering his voice, said: "The night Miranda died-----” "IJthought you said she wasn’t dead.” “I mean the other Miranda.” “The girl who lies in the coffin?” "Yes.” “Go on.” The simple lad continued; “That night Miranda was as well as ever she was.” “Are you sure of that ?” “Yes, sir.” “How do you know?” “Because she talked to me. Miranda was a friend to Chock, she was, and always spoke to him. That night my master sent me to bed early. I don’t know what made me do it, but about the middle of the night I woke up and couldn’t sleep any more. I got up. and finding my dancing-jack, commenced playing wit h it in the dark. I heard a noise. It was in Miranda’s room. She was walking around the room, and once in awhile I could hear her cry. I knocked on the door and said: ‘Miss Miranda, what’s the matter ?’ She opened the door and said: 'Chock, my poor boy, is that you?’ And when I said yes. she said: ‘Go away. Chock.’ ” “Did you do it ?” “I didn’t want to. but she made me. And as I went from the door I heard her say: ‘Oh, dear! oh, dear!” "Was that all she said ?” “No; for when I was going away I heard her say: ‘Oh, Heaven! what have I ever done, that this trouble should come upon me ?’ I did not go far from the door, for I knew that Miranda was in trouble, and I meant to stay. I heard somebody coming up the stairs. I crept back into my own room, but held the door open a crack and looked out.” “Whom did you see ?” “I saw my master and Hollis come up stairs, with a light.” “Where did they go ?” “Into Miranda’s room.” “What did they do?” “They talked lo her.” "Did you hear what they said ?” “No; but she didn’t like what they said, for I heard her cry louder than she did before.” “What followed ?” "They came out again, and she was with them. They led her down stairs,” Old Mortality, becoming excited, said: “Go on.” Chock continued: “I crept down after them. They led Miranda out of the house.” “Did you follow?” “Chock shuddered and said: "No.” “Why not ?” "Because, when I passed the door that is at the back end of the hall, I saw it.” “It!” "Yes.” "What do you mean?” "I saw another Miranda.” “Explain.” “I saw a woman lying on the floor.” “You did ?” "Yes.” “What did you do ?” "After my master and Hollis took Miranda out of the house, I went into the room. I struck a match and looked. The woman was dead, and she was a second Miranda.” CHAPTER XXI. THE PACKAGE OF ARSENIC. The detective, who had now become anxious to hear all. exclaimed: "A second Miranda!” “Yes.” “Are vou sure the girl in the room was dead ?” “Yes.” "Was she the same girl who is now in the coffin?” “You’re right, she was.” “Well, what did you do ?” Chock continued, trembling: “I was scared, so that I ran away and hid myself in my room. I don’t know how long it was before I heard the door open. Then I hid myself. Master didn’t come up, and I crepi to the head of the stairs. I could see into the room where the girl was, for the door was open. The girl was on the floor. They stood beside her. talking in such low voices that I couldn’t hear what they said. Then they raised her up and carried her up stairs to Miranda’s room.” “When I heard’em coming I ran into my own room again. They left the house. Pretty soon afterward master came back with a doctor. He said Miranda had been taken with a colic.” “Did you hear him?” "Yes; for he no longer spoke in whispers. The doctor and master went into Miranda’s room. Master said: “ ‘Oh. Heaven, she’s dead!’ "The doctor said: “Yes, my friend; those diseases often carry one off in a minut<».’ "After awhile the doctor went away. I undressed and crept into bed. Master came into the room. He told me to get up and go for a woman. Next day the coffin came, and I—I ” The lad commenced to tremble convulsively. The cause of his affletion was fits, from which he had suffered from his birth. One came upon him now. Foam issued from his lips. He fell down and made a moaning noise. Old Mortality raised his head, and held his hands so that he could not do himself harm. In a minute or two he came out of the lit, but was as weak as a child. He said: "Chock wants his jack.” He reached out his hand and commenced feebly groping for it. And as, unable to rise, he groped around the floor, he moaned and muttered, in a feeble voice: "Oh dear! oh, dear!” The light of reason was gone once more, and all the lad could utter was a moan, and then ask for his favorite toy. Pitying the poor soul from the bottom of his heart, the detective found the toy and gave it to the lad, who said, feebly, with a silly laugh: "Now Chock’s all right again.” Old Mortality carried him to the sofa and laid him down upon it, saying: "Will you lie here, Chock?” “Ob. yes, now that I’ve got my jack.” Realizing the folly of remaining longer therein the present condition of the boy, when important events were transpiring in the next room. Old Mor-left the imbecile and returned to the apartment where the inquest was being held. An outline of the events which followed the departure of the detective will be given. The surgeon exclaimed again; "An infernal outrage has been perpetrated here. This body is mutilated.” The coroner replied: “Impossible!” The surgeon rejoined: “I tell you it is not impossible, for it is so!” There being now a halt in the invegtigation. the surgeon proceeded with the autopsy, and had just completed it, when Old Mortality entered the room and said to the coroner: "What have you discovered?” “Nothing.” "Shall I question Leeks?” “If you please.” Approaching the blacksmith, the detective said; "Do you charge Gibson with committing this crime?” "I do.” "If you knew that he killed Miranda, why didn’t you say so immediately after her death?” “I didn’t know it.” "How did you discover it?” "I told you I discovered it when I found Gibson’s letter and the white powder.” “When was that ?” "Last night.” "You say you didn’t know when the oody was mutilated ?” "Of course I didn’t.” "How could it have been done, in your own house, without your knowledge ?” "I can’t explain it.” “You must give us your assistance to unravel that part of the mystery.” "I’ll do all I can, for it is an infernal outrage.” The detective now turned to Gibson, and said, loud enough for them all to hear: "Gibson, you stand accused of murder.” "I know it.” “Are you guilty ?” "No.” “Do you know anything about this crime ? “Nothing.” “How. then, is it that you sent to Miranda a age of arsenic ?” “I did not send it.” CHAPTER XXII. ASSUMING ANOTHER DISGUISE. The detective then said: “Then you absolutely deny your guilt ?” “1 do.” “Have you any suspicion who is the , pack- guilty party ?” "Not the slightest.” The case was then given to the jury, who brought in a verdict against Gibson, who was immediately taken to prison. But as he was being led out, the detective found an opportunity to whisper: "Have courage!” Old Mortality then said to the coroner, but loud enough for the blacksmith to hear: “Well, the proof is plain, and there is no use looking farther for the culprit.” “You consider Gibson guilty ?” “Undoubtedly.” "Hang the guilty scoundrel!” gritted the blacksmith between his teeth. The detective replied, quietly: “My friend. Judge Lynch doesn’t operate around here at present.” "But the law is slow.” "Don’t fret. You’ll find it quick enough for you.” Having uttered this significant remark, the detective left the house. He had now, to his own mind, established two conclusions satisfactorily; but although he was assured of them, he had no evidence upon which to take them to a court and jury. The first of these conclusions was that the murdered girl was not Miranda, although she so nearly resembled her as to be her double. The second conclusion was that Hollis, or the blacksmith, or both of them, murdered the girl whose body was substituted for that of Miranda. Those conclusions depended solely upon the word of Chock, who was so much of an imbecile at ordinary times, that his word would not be taken by a jury, even if he would have sense enough again to tell it. What, then, at this stage of the case, was the detective’s duty ? To bring to justice the murderers of the girl who was Miranda’s double. To ascertain who the murdered girl was. To find Miranda, and ascertain why she left her home and remained hidden, at the solicitation of a pair of scoundrels, and to their advantage and her lover’s peril. A thought came suddenly into Old Mortality’s mind. Could it be possible that part of the blacksmith’s story was true, while the other part was false ? Had Miranda really been betrayed by Gibson, and gone away in hiding, to conceal her shame ? This thought the detective dismissed as unworthy of Miranda. He would not believe it until the fact was established beyond the possibility of doubt. He now formed a plan which he believed would be crowned with success in discovering the hidingplace of Miranda. He disguised himself as a crossing sweeper, and having written a note, established himself on a certain corner where he could observe all that transpired in front of the blacksmith’s house. In a few minutes Leeds came out. The instant Old Mortality saw him he hurried forward and said: “Yer honor, a word wid ye,” “What do you want ?” “Didn’t yez come out at that house, sur?” “Yes.” “An’ is yer name MistherLeeds?” “It is.” “Then, by that same token, I was towld to give a letter to yez.” “Who gave you the le’ter?” “A gintieman, as I was swapin’ the crossin’, jist.” “Well, let’s have it.” Old Mortality gave him the letter, which was as follows: “Dear barney; “Miranda is kicking up a devil of a row. Says she’s going to git. Has heard of Gibson’s arrest for murder, and swears she won’t stand it. You must instantly go to see her. I am in too much of a hurry to come to your house, but will meet you at Dreg’s saloon in twenty minutes. If I am not there in half an hour after you get there, don’t wait longer, but go at once to see her, and talk her out of the foolish notion of disclosing herself to save Gibson. Lose no time. Hollis.” The object of the detective in sending the blacksmith to Dreg’s saloon to wait half an hour was to have time to change his disguise. Of course Hollis would not come, and Leeds, at the end of the halfhour, would go without him. “Leeds, having read the note, said: "All right, Pat.” “The divil a bit is it all right, sur.” "Why not ?” "Sure, the gintieman said ye’d be afther givin’ me a quarther, jist.” The blacksmith passed over the money, and Old 1 Mortality ducked his head into the semblance of a bcw. and sauntered off, trailing his broom behind him. Twenty minutes afterward the detective, in the disguise of an Italian rag-picker, appeared on the sidewalk in front of Dreg’s saloon, and commenced poking with his hook into a barrel of garbage. (to be continued.; WEDDED WIDOW OR, THE LOVE THAT LIVED. By T. W. Author of “YOUNG MRS. CHARNLEIGH.” (“A Wedded Widow” was commenced in No. 23. Back numbers can be had of all News Agents.] CHAPTER XII. A LETTER. The eyes of Mr. Thorndale rest on Filippo Bucar-elli’s face in a sudden sort of admiration. Mr. Thorndale likes these cold, calm, emotionless men, and the steward seems to him the beau ideal of plotters, and he can’t help admiring him, can’t help thinking how woefully he and all the world beside have been mistaken in this “honest Iago.” and he is more than gratified to have so capable an ally. It is the hour between three and four, you understand. indulgent reader; the scene is again Glandore Court, and we have quietly gone back a little in our life-history, and retraced our footsteps to the place, and the time of meeting between Mr. Thorndale and his steward, just after the latter came in on the London train. "You have done well, Filippo,” his master said, twirling the ends of his dark mustache with the same white, aristocratic fingers that were red last night with the blood of my Lord Glandore. "If I had not looked for traces, I should never have dreamed the ground had been broken. You are a most excellent fellow, and you’ll see I don’t forget these little things. But, by the way, I thought you were to be in London to-day.” Not the slightest change came over the Italian’s tawny face. "I overslept myself, milord,” he said, calmly, “but it was fortunate, perhaps. The mail brought me word my friend would not arrive until to-morrow, and the additional word that be would remain a weak instead of two days. Of course milord will grant me longer absence and longer use of the mansion ?” Milord couldn’t have helped himself if he wanted to. but it happened that it made no difference. “Stay as long as you like,” he said. “You are your own master, now, you know, and the house is at your disposal for a fornight if you wish. The London season will not open for six months yet, and I sha’n’t leave Glandore Court until it does.” Filippo knew that, but he felt assured his schemes would have succeeded before the six months expired. "I will not collect the rents until I return, milord.” he said, as he turned to move away, "and, by the way, there is one little thing I have forgotten. Your lordship remembers Job Armroyd ? ’ ‘‘Job Armroyd ? Oh, ah! The fellow that rents the moor cottage. What of him ?” "I am about to send him word he can have it free for the next quarter. He did me a favor once, and I’ve long wanted to r«pay it. I’m about to send little Tim with the receipt. Of course your lordship doesn’t object ?” "Of course his lordship couldn't! Filippo bad said the man was his own master now, and Mr. Thorndale recognized it, as, with very poor grace, he asserted that it was to be as he liked, and then Walked away for fear of another such request. The Italian watched him from under his drooping lids, and the faintest shadow of a smile played over his yellow lips. ' , "No doubt you now wish^me in perdition!” he \said, with a purring little Jhugh. “Ah.it is very Bittie you know, milord -fissassin—ver-y lit-tle indeed!” r The boy Tim was playinglunder the limes, and turning, Filippo beckoned hijm forward. “See here. Tim,” he said, flaking a folded paper from his pocket, "I want ydu to run over to Job Armroyd’s cottage, and give him this receipt. Do it quickly now, and there’s a bright, new shilling for your pains?’ Tim took the folded paper and caught the silver in his palm, remarking that Francois had also given him a shilling that day, t Now, Mr. Bucarelli was nA ver slow at catching anything, and where Franchis was concerned, he was concerned also; and lay ting his hand on Tim’s shoulder, he said: “So Francois gave you a Shilling, too, eh? Well, Tim. what was that for?” ' " ’Twhar fur gooin’ ower to Kingsdean, maister, an’ fetchin’ a message to the leddy.” "Lady? What lady?” and Bucarelli’s face grew very earnest. “Mlle. Violetta?” “Ay, that be’t, Mamzelle Weeletter. I didn’t forgotten the message, nuther, ’cos I thoort o’ th’ shullin’. maister. ’Twar, 'Fronswar is detained, mamzelle, but I soy thee ne’er t’ leaven the hoose tul I coom.’ I didn’t forgotten it. did I?” Filippo did not answer the question; he was too busy wondering what could be between the valet and the actress, and he startled the boy by asking, suddenly: . "Where is Francois now?” “He be at the Habby. a-coorse,” answered Tim. "I seed him go not a quarten hoor agone—straight oop the road theer.” Filippo made no reply. Turning abruptly, he stalked straight to the little wicket and went up the highway, determined to know what this new development could mean; and. as the reader has already seen, coming to the hasty conclusion that he had found out, just in time to prevent the valet doing injury to his own cause. “1’11 balk it,” muttered Mr. Bucarelli. his thin lips quivering and his dark eyes flashing; and, cutting across lots, and woods, and moorland, running over bridges, leaping ditches, and bounding over farm-land, at no small loss to the tenants, he reached Glandore Court, and hastened to his own apartment. Ringing the bell, he ordered lights: and when these were brought in, he settled himself down to his desk, drew out a sheet of note-paper, stamped with the Glandore crest, dipped the pen in the ink, and proceeded to write, framing his letters in the small, delicate hand of a woman. Half a dozen sheets were destroyed before the letter was completed. When it was completed. Filippo read it over carefully, folded it. and slipped it into the broad, crested envelope. A railway time-table hung beside the desk. Mr. Bucarelli took it up, opened it, and ran his eye down the list of trains for London that night. There were two yet to go—one at eight, another at 10-15. “In excellent time,” Mr. Bucarelli said, closing his Bradshaw Guide and slipping it on the hook again. “I shall want both those trains to-night.” He pushed back his chair, got up, and crossed the room. A towel hung on a rack beside the washbowl. He took it down, knotted it about his neck after the manner of a sling, bandaged his right hand with a clean linen handkerchief, slid the letter into his pocket, put out the light, quitted the room, and on his way down the servants’ staircase. fitted his bandaged hand into the sling he had made. . The clock in the tower was striking six when he emerged from the little door in the ivied wall and made a hasty plunge in the direction of the highroad. A broad, yellow moon was lifting her luminous face above the pearl and silver sky, and the sea boomed its solemn moan on the calm of the shimmer night. Mr. Bucarelli quickened his footsteps and hurried through the white dust until Kingsdean Abbey rose out of the shadows before him. He looked up at the lights shining out of the mul-lioned windows, pushed open the wicket, and went straight to the great doors. The evening was very warm, and by a singular freak of fate, Mlle. Violetta was sitting alone on the broad terrace, looking down on the trackless silver of the moonlit sea. Filippo stepped forward and raised his hat with his left hand—the other being still in the sling. "Good-evening, mademoiselle,” he said, with his blandest smile, and Madolin, startled out of her reverie, turned round and faced him in the moonlight. She had seen the steward of Glandore Court before, but Francois not having trusted her with the secret between Bucarelli and himself, she did not greet him with any degree of cordiality. “Good-evening, sir,” she said, inclining her beautiful head, and then lifting the questioning glory of her eyes, until Filippo felt his very blood tingle. “You are from Glandore Court, I believe?” Filippo was looking very grave now. It suited his purpose to affect a saddened mood, and he acted it to perfection. "1 am from Glandore Court, my lady,” he said, politely. "More than that”—and the bead-like eyes swept Madolin’s face eagerly—"I am from Francois D’Lorme, also.” He saw her start and grow a trifle paler, but looked away toward the moonlit sea. ^."From Francois D’Lorme!” repeated Madolin, her voice trembling, despite her effort to control it. "That is Lord Glandore’s valet, is it not9” “Yes. my lady. He sent me to you.” "Sent you to me?” Mademoiselle had risen, and was leaning on the carved balustrade, the moonlight playing on her jewels, and kissing the white glory of her face. “Sent you to me ?” she said again, affecting a laugh, that he might not see how dreadfully earnest she was, while Filippo, not being anybody’s fool, put two and two together, and became doubly assured that Francois was in some plot of which he knew nothing. "Really, this is very strange, sir,” Madolin went on, determined to give this yellow little man no inkling of the truth. “I cannot see why Lord Glan-dore’s valet should send you here. Were it his lordship. I might, perhaps.” They were at cross purposes, you see. Each mistook the other, and took pains to mislead. “I can’t understand why Francois was so impertinent, mademoiselle,” Filippo said, with a low bow. "All I know is. that he came to me a short time ago and said: ‘Mr. Bucarelli, will you do me a favor?’ ‘A thousand, if you wish,’ I repl'ed, for the lad has done me many a good turn, mademoiselle. ‘Well, then,’ said he, 'hasten over to Kingsdean Abbey, and give this letter into the hands of Mlle. Violetta. She will understand from whom it comes. I am off for the train now.’ ” "The train!” repeated Madolin, growing very pale, and Bucarelli bowed. “Yes, mademoiselle,” he replied, ‘ He is going to London. Lord Glandore needs him. I suppose. Perhaps he left the letter. I don’t know, but Francois said you would. His lordship chartered a special train for London at six, and Francois goes up on the regular one. Would you like to see the letter ?” "I would, indeed,” answered Madolin, not being able to cloak her eagerness this time, and Filippo, taking the crested envelope from his pocket, laid it in her trembling hand. Mademoiselle excused herself, and stopped to the farthest end of the terrace. The envelope was not addressed. "Probibly so the steward would not know who wrote the letter,” reasoned Madolin, with a smile. Ah, Francois is very shrewd.” She broke the seal and spread the letter open. It was written in a delicaie, womanly hand, quite suggestive of Francois, although Madolin had never se<m the valet’s writing. From the other end of the terrace Filippo was watching her narrowly, his little eyes a-glitter, a smile on his yellow lips. "Will I fail or succeed?” he muttered, softly, while Madolin, with moonlight and starlight blending about her. bent over the written paper and read. “Dearest Friend : I write you in great haste to recall the words of our parting to-day. ‘Come, for the papers are found!’ Lord Glandore left for London by a specially chartered train this evening. I follow him in a brief while, expecting to meet you there before daybreak. The last train to-night leaves Glandore at 10:15. Lose no time in taking it, for all hangs on the issue of your coming. When you reach London, drive at once to the town mansion of the Glandores. Any cabman can direct you. It is life and death, this n atter of your coming, but in case of failure, adopt a disguise. With Heaven’s help you will be Lady Glandore soon. Say nothing to the bearer, but destroy this. “Your ever devoted, Francois.” And this was the letter Mr. Bucarelli had been so careful in penning. CHAPTER XIII. ANOTHER L E T T E L . Mademoiselle was silent. The letter had fallen from her fingers and lay on the stone terrace at her feet. We know very well the letter Bucarelli has presented mademoiselle is a downright forgery; we know Francois D’Lorme has never even dreamed of going to London, and we ask ourselves—is Mr. Bucarelli an honest man ? The question is altogether unanswerable, for Mr. Bucarelli keeps his secrets securely buttoned up under his shimmering broadcloth. Meanwhile, mademoiselle, utterly lost in thought, leaned over the balustrade and wondered what Francois could mean. “The papers are found!” He had promised, if they were, that should be the message. Clearly the letter was from him ; but other things were not so clear. If the papers were found, why did he go to London, and why did he wish her to follow him. when he might have carried them to her with his own hands ? “It is strange, very strange!” she mused. "I can’t see through it clearly; but, of course. Francois knows best. Perhaps,” and a little light broke through the shadow on her face—“perhaps he means that the papers are on Ashton Thorndale’s person, and he dares not put it plainer. Yes, yes; that must be it. He is following him to London ; he is confident of securing the documents, and he wants to put them in my hands at once. Brave Francois! Let me read the letter again.” She stooped and picked up the fallen sheet, reading it. over more carefully than before, and becoming more and more assured that she had at last mastered the hidden meaning. “Yes; that must be it,” she murmured softly, her face becoming more radiant with the light of hope. “He has not dared to say that the papers are in Ashton Thorndale’s possession for fear the letter should miscarry, and this line, 'In case of failure, adopt a disguise,' proves conclusively that he pursues him for their recovery, and knowing no one in London, he wants to place them instantly in my hands. Brave Francois! I will go. and go in disguise. too, for ‘Mlle. Violetta’ is too well known for me to travel otherwise and leave no clew behind.” The little jeweled hand closed tightly over the written sheet, and the radiant face turned suddenly from the starlit, sea. She had totally forgotten Filippo Bucarelli, but as she moved toward the window of the little pearlgray reception-room that opened out on the broad terrace, she became suddenly aware of his presence, and started at the sudden reminder. “Oh, it is you, sir,” she said, and the steward made a low bow. “Pardon m<‘. but 1 had quite forgotten you. It is all right—this matter of the letter, I mean. We may acquit Francois of any impertinence; he merely followed orders. ’The letter is from Lord Glandore himself.” She colored a little as she uttered the falsehood. "When you see Francois or his lordship again, you may tell them I received the letter safely, sir.” Mr. Bucarelli moved his bandaged hand and looked away with what appeared to be a very saddened face. "Your pardon, mademoiselle,” he said, in a voice that seemed to be full of emotion, "but I have said my adieus, and I shall not see either of them again. I leave Glandore Court to-night—I return to Italy to-morrow. One does not care to remain where one is constantly reminded of ‘what might have been.’ Even the poor have hearts, you know, mademoiselle, and England is full of bitter mem-ortes to me!” Did it ever strike you that Mr. Bucarelli would have made a most excellent actof ? If not, look at him now and consider the fact. You know perfectly well that he is lying, that he hasn’t the faintest thought of going to his native land, that England holds only hope and happiness for him, and yet, if you are inclined to strong expressions, vou could almost swear that he means every word he says. He saw that mademoiselle was interested by his voice and manner, and hastened to follow up the impression he had already made. “Love does not belong alone to the gilded circles of society, mademoiselle,” he went on, in a wavering voice, “and the poor suffer from it quite as much as the rich. Money does not purchase feeling. and we that have no roof to call our own may suffer as much from a woman’s treachery and deceit as kings in their royal palaces!” He looked at Madolin and saw that she had grown pale. He had touched upon a subject she understood only too well, and in that he was more than fortunate. “But I weary you, mademoiselle,” he said, putting up his left hand and brushing it across his eyes. "I may have my sufferings, but I have no right to intrude them upon you. Nor would I but that having, perhaps, done you a favor in bringing his lordship’s letter, I am emboldened to ask one in return.” Madolin moved nearer and stood with one hand resting on the arch of the window. “If I can do anything to serve you. 1 shall be only too happy,” she said, in a sympathetic voice. “You seem agitated, sir. Will you enter the reception-room ? We can talk there with more freedom and less chance of intrusion.” She pushed the window open as she spoke, and Bucarelli, moving forward, took up the edge of her long lace scarf and pressed it to his lips. “You are too kind—too considerate, mademoiselle,” he said, in a choking voice. “I shall carry away one sweet memory of England, after all.” Madolin made no reply. Passing into the reception-room she struck a match, twisted up the letter as though in an artless manner, applied it to the flame, and then lighted the lamp. She did not extinguish the burning letter, however—that was not Irnr purpose; and casting it on the polished hearthstone, she watched it blaze until only a heap of gray ashes remained. Although Filippo pretended not to notice this, his sly little eyes watched the burning paper from under their drooping lids, and just the ghost of a smile fluttered over his pale lips. Madolin waved him to a chair, and being very careful to keep his bandaged hand in full view, and his back to the light, Filippo sank down upon it with a low sigh. “May I now ask the nature of the favor you wish at my hands?” Madolin asked, seating herself beside a carved cabinet of ebony and gold, and. unconsciously, making a very pretty picture, with the lamp-light on her beautiful face, one round, white arm. half clouded in yellow lace, lying over the ebony cabinet, the soft hangings of the room—pearlgray, embossed indead silver—forming an exquisite background to her golden beauty, and her dinner dress of ivory-white and lilac, tulle falling about her like a palpable mist, starred here and there with knots of perfumed violets and buds of waxen-white syringa. Filippo lifts his tawny face, and his eyes dwell on that beautiful, spirituelle figure in wrapt admiration for several seconds. He doesn’t wonder that Mr. Thorndale loves her—he doesn’t wonder that one-half of England is ready to run the other half through the heart for the sake of winning her, and he feels at that moment, if he were an earl, with a rent-roll of thirty thousand, he knows just where he would lay his coronet and his heart. He is half inclined io forgive his master for loving her; he is half inclined to blurt out the whole truth, but he thinks of Paolina—thinks of the golden game he is playing, and ice creeps round his heart once more. This woman, with all her dazzling beauty, means to become Countess of Gland ore-means to become Mr. Thorndale’s wife, he thinks—and he means to prevent it, be the consequences what they may; for * Mr. Bucarelli has a deeper interest in his master’s marriage than anybody gives him credit for. And the long and short of it is simply this: Paolina shall be Countess of Glandore. or Mr. Thorndale shall never marry! He is clever enough not to assert this by hint or by deed, however, and looking straight into Mado-lin’s eyes, he says, in a low, husky voice: “The favor is but a. simple thing, mademoiselle— the mere writing of a letter to the woman who has deceived me. I would nor ask it. but I am unable to pen it myself. An accident yesterday—the exploding of a gun while shooting in the Sandown Woods —has disabled my right hand you see. and it is impossible for me to move it. I will dictate the letter and then send it to its destination—Charteris Manor, a matter of five miles from here, on the road to Flamborough Head. You will not care to hear the story, mademoisellse, but it is to Julia Bawtry, the gardener’s daughter. We were to have been married in a m< mth. but I am not so well-to-d<» as somebody else that has lately come along, and—and— Well I am going back to Italy, mademoiselle, and I want to send her one brief line of parting. Will you kindly write it for me ?” Madolin did not reply in words. Rising, she crossed the room to a quaint little desk near the window. opened it, and drew out a sheet of her own perfumed note-paper. “Oh, thank you. thank you. mademoiselle!” the steward said, putting his handkerchief to his eyes for the purpose of hiding the triumph of his face, and for nothing else. “I shall never forget this— never! Will you kindly date the letter and I will dictate the rest.” Madolin dipped the pen in the ink, and wrote the day and the month on the top of the sheet. “Shall I write ‘Dearest Julia,’ or ‘Friend Julia ?’ ” she asked, looking up. Bucarelli shook his head. “Neither, mademoiselle.” he answered, huskily. "I have no longer a right to address her by either title. The envelope will tell who it is for. We will put no name in the letter, if you please.” Madolin made no reply. Dipping the pen in the ink once more, she began again to write as Filippo dictated. “When you shall have looked at this,” the steward began, speaking slowly, that she might catch every word and transfer it to paper, I shall be miles, perhaps leagues, away from you and all the bitter memories of Glandore. I cannot stand this life of dreadful suspense—it tortures and maddens me. There is no longer hope. All the bright dreams I have indulged in are only empty air, and 1 leave England for some quiet place, where I can live down the misery of my past. I only ask of you. do not seek to find me out, do not search for me. In common with the world, I want you to forget that such a wretched creature as I am ever drew the breath of life. Where I shall find rest. Heaven alone knows. It may be, the bitterness will yet go out of my heart. If it does, I may find strength to return ; if not, God bless you—forget me.” Madolin had reached the last line, and the steward arose, “Your heart-broken friend, Filippo Bucarelli,” he said, in a husky voice; and signing the letter thus, Madolin laid down the pen. “Is it correct ?” she asked, passing the written sheet to the steward for his inspection. He let his glittering little eyes glide over it eagerly. and then passed it back. "It is quite correct, thank you.” he said, with a low bow. “Will mademoiselle kindly address the envelope ?” Madolin did, and rising softly, placed it in Filippo’s hand. “A million thanks, mademoiselle,” he said, with a great show of emotion. "I shall carry the remembrance of this kindness into my native land. It is getting late now, and I will no longer intrude upon your privacy. Adieu, mademoiselle, adieu, and Heaven bless you!” Once again the scarf was pressed to his yellow lips, a low bow, a last farewell, and Madolin saw him pass through the open window, cross the great stone terrace, and glide away in the shadows of the night. "Poor fellow!” she murmured, putting up her hand and extinguishing the light; “poor fellow! He little knows how his words touched me—he little dreams how well I understand ai heart history like his. But it looks like dawnin Eapers will soon be again in asil Trevelyan’s title is no shadow of Charlotte Dimisd from my brow, I shall be Cou t for me. The e hunt for and if the an be lifted of Glandore yet.” And she thought, as she spoke, of the story Francois had told her that day in the little blue boudoir —the story of that night under the American moon, when Ashton Thorndale came home with blood upon his hands. She went to the window and parted the silken curtains, looking wistfully out on the light of the purple sea. The dates conincide,” she muttered, softly, “and yet, what reason coi^ld there be for the crime? I cannot understand it—it is wrapped in deepest mystery. Why should Ashton Thorndale take Charlotte Dimisdale’s life? They never could have met before, and yet, according t<> Francois’ story, it seems clear that he murdered her. Heaven help me! what a tangled web I have to unravel.” She sighed as she spok»\ took out a tiny jeweled watch, and looked at its enameled dial. "A Quarter of seven,” she murmured, softly. "I have but three hours to make preparation for my journey, and I cannot ask for Mignonnette’s aid— she was so ill this morning.” She let the silken curtains fall, shutting the white luster of moonlight out. passed through the door, and went up the dim corridor to her own boudoir. Silence lay over the summer land, gloom was in the little reception-chamber, and quaint little shadows seemed fluttering among the pearl-gray hangings. A breath of wind stirred the curtains, letting a shaft of moonlight flash into the deserted room, the sea was sobbing faintly on the rocks below, and shomewhere in the silence and the gloom of the Abbey a clock struck the hour of seven. A footstep crossed the stone terrace—a quick, low. cat-like step, like the tread of a robber in the dead of night—the curtains of the window parted with a swift frou-frou, the track of silver widened across the carpeted floor, the moonlight struck on a tawny face with glittering, bead-like eyes, the waves broke on the rocks below with something sadder in their everlasting moan, and with the white luster of starlight at his feet, Filippo Buca-rolli stood in the window arch. For one instant his eyes swept the scene about him. then the curtains fell with a gentle rustle, and the Italian glided into the room. The desk was there by the window—open as Madolin had kft it. The bandaged hand came out of its sling, slipped into his pocket, and came out again with the letter she had written clasped in its yellow fingers. He ripped it quickly from the envelope, crushing the wrapper up, ami thrusting it into his pocket again, and binding over the desk, he straightened out t he written sheet, laying it close to the edge of the ruby baize as though it had been left there in great haste. “Your heart-broken friend, “Filippo bucarelli.” The words looked up at him in the silvery sheen of moonlight. Ho held the letter open there, took up the ink-bottle and upset it on the edge of the desk, so that the contents flowed over the bottom of the sheet. blotting out his own name, and trickling darkly to the floor. "Upser in a hasty flight.” he said, with a qeer little smile, as he turned to the window, leaving the letter there, with the overturned bottle beside it. Her own paper, her own writing—who will dispute it, who can? She leaves Glandore voluntarily; she bids them not to hunt for her; she flies in the dead of night to London—flies in disguise, and the game is safe. Santa Maria! I shall win at last 1” The flash of a footstep over the carpet, the hiss of the curtains parting and falling back again, and the rustle of a figure creeping away through the ivy—these are all the sounds that follow his going; and, in the silence and the solitude of the summer night, Filippo glides away to catch the Lonaon train. [TO BE CONTINUED.! 1 WRONGED WIFE. By May Agnes Fleming W" Sold by Booksellers everywhere, and sent by mail, postage free, on receipt of price, $1.50, by G. W. CARLETON & CO., Publishers, Madisan Square, New York 4 THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. NEW YOliK, JUNE 4, 1883. TeniiH to Mail Subscribers: 3 months (postage free) 75c I 2 copies (postage free) $5.00 4 mouths..................$1.00 4 copies...........10.00 1 Year...................3.00 | 8 copies...........2O.Oo Any person who sends $20 at one time, for eight copies, is entitled to a ninth copy free. Getters up of clubs can afterward add Single Copies at $2.50 each. Postage Free to Canadian subscribers; but postage to all other Foreign Countries must be added to the subscription price. Remittances from Canada should be in United States Money. Canadian postage stamps are useless to us. We prefer that all Remittances for Subscriptions should be in Money or Post offce Orders ; but persons who are compelled to send Postage Stamps, will favor us by forwarding only One Cent stamps. All IVIoney Orders should be made payable to the Fl UM NAME of STREET SMITH. Great trouble, delay, and annoyance are caused by nd-dressing Money Orders lo the individual members of the Firm. We therefore hope that in all cases they will be made payable to STREET & SMITH. All letters should be addressed to FRANCIS 8. STREET, ) STREET & SMITH, Francis s. smith. ) Proprietors. P, O. Box 2734. 25, 27, 29 & 31 Rose St., N.Y. We are not responsible for manuscripts sent to this office, and wish, it understood that they ate at the author’8 risk. MANUSC RIPTS WILE NOT BE RETURNEV, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES. Subscribers who receive the New York Weekly i?i a BLUE WRAPPER will understand that their Subscriptions expire in four weeks. 77us will remind them of the importance of promptly renewing their Subscriptions, to avoid missing a single copy of the paper. Poisonous Tea. It is well known, at least by grocers and others in the trade, that a great quantity of the tea sold in this country is absolutely poisonous. Only a short time ago, in New York city, the sale of over three thousand packages of tea was legally stopped in an auction room, because it was shown that the leaves had been colored by poisonous chemicals, and adulterated to resemble tea of a high grade. The effect of this deleterious tea on the human system is thoroughly understood by physicians, many of whom, when called to treat diseases of the stomach, kidneys, and nerves, first carefully examine a sample of the tea thoir patients are in the habit of using, and at once order its discontinuance if it is found in the least adulterated. Too much care cannot be exercised in the selection of tea. Good tea produces a healthful beverage, exhilarating and pleasant; but the constant use of the adulterated article, even in small quantities, will in time injure the strongest constitution. EXPECTING HER YOUNG MAN. Kate Thorn. If you are observant you can always tell when a young girl expects her beau. She is more nervous than usual. She is a great deal too willing^ answer the door-bell. She has a sudden ^Bridget’s tired legs, and ma’s rheumatC I solicitous about the fire in the parlor gratv^- She keeps the curl papers in her hair till after dinner, and bounces into the closet if she hears anybody coming into the room. She frets about how her skin is chapned. She wishes she had worn a vail out sleigh-riding yesterday. She looks in the glass every chance she has. She won’t hold the cat and get hairs on her dress. She snubs the dog. Dogs—the best of them—are apt to smell strong. It is too bad for the dog, but it is his destiny. He has to be “man’s faithful friend,” and have an odor, all at the same time. The young girl who is expecting her beau is dreadfully anxious to have her brother Johnny go to bed. She is sure he ought not to read any more to-night. She has heard of boys who lost their eyesight sitting up to read by gas-light. And she wants little Susie to get undressed. She offers to undiess her. And generally she wouldn’t undress the child if she sat up till midnight. She is very affectionate with them, and tells them to be good children and go to bed, and she will buy them something when she goes out shopping. She watches the clock. She listens to steps outside, and if you ask her what she is listening for, she will tell you that she thought she heard the wind blow, or that she is sure St. Stephen’s bell is ringing. Worsted-work has lost its charms. Kensington stitch is not so delightfully absorbing as it was wont to be. She cannot read to mamma; her head aches. She doesn’t care to play whist with papa; whist is so stupid. She looks at her slippers, and compares her two feet as if not quite sure that they are mates. She pins her collar anew. She feels to see if the rose is in her hair, and if the spit-curls in front of her ears are in statu quo. She wishes she had put a little perfume on the top of her he.id — because — well — because he is the tallest, and he might be quite near her, you know. She sits by the window and looks out into the moonlight. He doesn’t come to time. She grows impatient. A half-hour passes, and she gets indignant. She resolves to be cool to him—very cool, when he does come. She will show him she is not to be trifled with. She has a great mind to dismiss him and ride out with Wiil Lane to-morrow. It would serve him just right! And how mad he would be! And how that little flirting Sallie Jones would gobble him up! She is just dying to get him! And then her mind changes. She begins to mutter excuses for him. Perhaps he did not get through at the office as eaily as common. Perhaps his hard-hearted and grasping landlady did not prepare his hash soon enough. Perhaps the horse-cars have collided, and somebody is killed! Perhaps he has been waylaid and robbed, or knocked down by a run iway horse! Or telegraphed for to go to the beds de of some old maiden aunt who will leave him mor<ey. And she cheers up, and i nils down her bangs, and takes a peep in the glas i, and wonders if diamonds would become her style—and then she hears a step—she knows the squeak of his boots from all others, and she flies to the door, and escorts him into the parlor, and t hey sit on the sofa, and she flatters herself that nobody in the house has mistrusted that she expected him. KEEPING A HUSBAND HOME. The second wife of a certain venerable ex-member of Congress is young, lively, and extremely fond of social gayeties. Not long ago she made an engagement to accompany a young naval officer to one of the fashionable balls, and told her husband she was going, but neglected to say that she had secured an escort. He appeared to pleased, and said that he would accompany her. This was more than she had bargained for, and she resorted to various expedients to get him to stay at home. The more reasons she gave tho more he was determined to go. Things were getting desperate, when a bright idea struck her. She took the old gentleman’s false teeth and hid them, and when the evening came he wns still without those necessary adjuncts to mastication. He wondered and raved, and raved and wondered, but it was no use, he couldn’t find them, and finally was obliged to regain at home, while his wife tripped gayly to her Xrriage, and spent a most delightful evening. TO-MORROW. BY W. R. BARBER. Time and tide for no man wait, Runs the adage, trite and olden; Call it musty, if you will, Yet it speaks a truth that’s golden. Why so oft do plans conceived Wisely, bring chagrin and sorrow? Seek the answer in delay-Putting off until to-morrow. Chances for a life’s success-Pleasures in anticipation— Of fruition often fail Through the blight—procrastination. Ay, because of that one fault, In obscurity grow hoary Men who could have made their mark-Names that might survive in story. Lacking promptitude, success, Like a phantom, flies us ever; And that word of promise. Now, Wanting this, is changed to Never. Opportunities once lost We can neither beg nor borrow; Fortune fair attends to-day, Failure grim awaits to-morrow. ------------------------ UNMASKED. By Mrs. Uh Burke Collins. A luxurious apartment, all rose color and gold. A cheerful coal fire burned in a polished grate; and the white marble mantel was laden with rare flowers; pictures worth their weight in gold adorned the tinted walls; statues gleamed whitely from plush-draped brackets, and niches, quaintly carved; and Florence Arlington, the presiding deity of this lovely place, was the prettiest object in the room. A brunette, with “liquid, languid eyes of darkness,” creamy complexion, and raven hair; a form like a Juno, and that irresistible fascination of manner which renders some women so dangerous; for. if exerted for ill. it is indeed a danger to be shunned and dreaded. In a cosily dress of old gold silk, with black lace draped artistically about her, Florence Arlington lounged in the depths of a rose-satin chair, her lustrous eyes uplifted to Reginald Austin’s handsome face. One could see at a glance how the man loved her—was fascinated, bewildered, rather; and. bowing down in allegiance to the siren’s witcherv, he called it love, because he knew no better. He had read of fair deceptions and “whited sepulchers.” but he had never thought of his peerless lady-love in such a comparison, though it would have been more appropriate than he dreamed; for Florence Arlington was soulless, heartless, mercenary. and there was no true kindliness in her cold, worldly nature. “You will surely come to my ball to-morrow night, Reginald?” she was asking, sweetly. He smiled into her eves. “As if I could refuse!” he said, softly. “You know the old comparison of the needle and the magnet, ma ohere?” She smiled, a self-satisfied smile. “It will be a grand ball,” she went on, eagerly, “and will cost me a pretty penny. Mrs. Leveret, my chaperon, has been scolding me, and reading me lectures on extravagance ever since the affair has been on the tapis. So many poor in the city, she says. As it Thad anything to do with such common people.” He arose to go. and, with tender words and a long, lingering good-by. they parted, and a cloud rolled between them, which no time could ever dispel. How little they dreamed of the long good-by so near. In the spacious hall-way without Reginald Austin encountered a girl poorly dressed—a fair, delicate young thing of perhaps eighteen, with the saddest eyes in the world. She was asking for Miss Arlington. "I must see her!” she said to the servant, in a low, agitated tone. "But. Miss Dayton. the man expostulated. “Miss Florence she said she couldn’t see you when you come, never.” The girl’s sweet face paled visibly; then she said, haughtily: “Do as I bid you. I must see your mistress, at once!” The servant, with an air of resignation, led the way to the rose-colored boudoir, and Reginald Austin, moved by an uncontrollable impulse, lingered for a few moments. Standing there unobserved, he heard the dulcet tones of his betrothed, as they floated through tho half-open door. "You here again. Pansy?” she exclaimed, in unfeigned displeasure. “Great heavens! what do you mean by coming back, when I have expressly forbidden you ?” "But. sister Florence.” the soft, sweet voice of the girl replied, "mother is not well and little Eddie— oh. Florence—he is down with the scarlet fever and we haven’t a dollar in the house, for we can’t work now, and----” A horrified scream burst from Miss Arlington’s lips. "Scarlet fever! Great Heaven i” she cried, wildly, "and you dare come here to me I Out of this house this instant. Pansy Dayton; what right have you to come here with your distressing tales and contagious diseases ?” "What right ?” repeated the girl, scornfully. “You are my own sister, though unworthy the namel When father died and left us poor, and the rich Mrs. Arlington offered to adopt you, on condition that you repudiated your own family—turned your back on your widowed mother, your little brother, and your only sister, and you in your selfishness accepted, even assuming the name of the heartless woman who had offered you wealth and station, from that hour, I say, you have been a creature worthy only of contempt! While mother and I are killing ourselves sewing for a bare living, you are rolling in wealth for which you bartered all ties of home and family. I would never have troubled you, but mother is weak and our little brother is dying, for aught I know. I can work no longer, and in my helplessness I appeal to your hard heart, and in vain. God will never forgive you.” There was the rustling of garments, and the horrified Austin saw the poor girl glide from the sumptuous room, out into the hall-way. He followed her from the mansion; down the broad, aristocratic street; on she hurried, turning at length into a narrow, more common thoroughfare, and drawing her thin shawl closer about her shivering form. Still keeping her in sight. Reginald Austin walked on. Suddenly he saw the slender figure reel and totter unsteadily, and she fell upon the pavement in a dead swoon. It was the work of a few moments only for the young man to reach her side. He lifted the slim form and bore it into a neighboring drug store, where, after a time, she was resuscitated. Then he ordered a carriage, and, placing the young girl within, he prepared to accompany her home. Pansy Dayton knew the rich Mr. Austin by sight; it required but a few words to make her perfectly at home in his society. On the way to the humble tenement in which she had lived. Reginald Austin proceeded in a straightforward manner to reveal to Pansy the conversation to which he had unintentionally listened. “She is my sister,” said Pansy, in alow tone; “we will not discuss her, Mr. Austin.” “But,” he persisted, “she is my betrothed wife, Pansy. I have had my eyes opened to-day; and in place of love, I feel only contempt for her. I shall ask a release from my engagement.” And he did. Florence, overwhelmed by astonishment, saw that he knew the whole truth, when he repeated the words to which he had listened. "My love died with my respect, Miss Arlington,” he said, firmly. "Need I add more?” She flung the diamond engagement-ring, a costly solitaire, upon the velvet carpet at his feet, her beautiful eyes glaring with fury. "There is your ring,” she panted, angrily. "You are free, since that is what you wish. Go and marry Pansy. It is the best thing that you can do.” "I will,” returned the young man, coolly, “if she will have me.” And he proceeded to take her advice. He went straight to Pansy Dayton, and asked her to be his wife. He had observed the young girl by the sickbed of her little brother, and had seen how uncomplainingly she had borne her heavy burdens of poverty. and sickness, and suffering; and all the real love in his heart had gone forth to Pansy. And she had learned to love him dearly. So. when little Eddie recovered—which he speedily did, under the care and medical attendance which Austin furnished—th«re was a quiet wedding; and after that Mr. and Mrs. Reginald Austin went to live in an elegant home, together with the feeble mother, and Eddie, grown strong and rosy now. Florence married a man old enough to be her grandfather, and continues to this day to repudiate her own family. But Reginald Austin is forever grateful that he had been saved from committing the folly of marrying a woman who had proved to be so selfish and heartless, and whose real nature had been unmasked to his knowledge in time. A New and Brilliant Story. The author of “The Twin Detectives” has just completed a vigorous and affecting story, under the title of “Orphan Jenny.” It is even better than “The Twin Detectives,” and entirely different in style and subject. The opening installment will be given in two weeks, in No. 32 of the New York Weekly. Etiquette Department. A. A. B.. Baltimore, Md.—It is difficult to make a serving man clean. The mistress of the house must insist on the frequency of soap and water, and she must provide him with aprons and towels. If he is not able to buy his own clothes, she must give him the decent apparel which is the fit accompaniment of her neat damask and silver, If he is to be man-of-all-work, it will be somewhat difficult to make him fit to wait on table. At all events, he must be provided with proper clothing, and his washing had better be done out of the house, as servants are apt to object to washing for each other. Having made him presentable, you must proceed to teach him how to set a table, how to clean silver, to keep his closets neat, and how to manage the dining-room and parlor. T. D., Fall River, Mass.—1st. In commencing a letter to a gentleman friend it is customary to say, “Dear Mr. Burke,” unless he is an old friend, and then it should be “My dear Mr. Burke.” 2d. The upper left hand corner of the visiting card is turned down to signify that the call was made in person. 3d. It is usually customary for a gentleman to write first to a young iady ; but if she should wish some information from him, or have some similar reason for opening a correspondence, there would be no impropriety in her writing. 4th. It is not necessary to ask a person to write each time a letter is answered, politeness leading one to conclude that a reply will be made in due season. S. S., New Haven, Conn.—1st. A letter of introduction or recommendation should never be sealed, as the bearer to whom it is given ought to know the contents. 2d. In writing a letter, the answer to which is of more benefit to yourself than the person to whom you write, inclose a postage stamp for the reply. 3d. It is thought impolite to use a half sheet of paper in formal letters. 4th. Asa matter of economy and convenience for business purposes, however, it is customary to have the card of the business man printed at the top of the sheet, and a single leaf is used. Birdie. N. Y.—1st. If the gentleman’s visits are disagreeable to you the best method will be to have some excuse, when he calls, to not see him, or seeing him endeavor to have an engagement that you cannot postpone. Ask graciously to be excusd, and the gentleman will soon discover that your time is very much occupied. You can also manage to have some friends present when he calls, and we have no doubt, after a while, he will grow weary of calling upon you. Miss H., Rochester, N. Y.—Best taste will suggest that a lady having the conveniences shall receive her guests at her own home; but it is admissible, and common, for several ladies to meet at the residence of one, and receive calls together. Whether ladies make announcements not, however, it will bH usually safe for gentlemen to call on their lady friends on New Year’s, as the visit will be generally received with pleasure. Grace and Irene, Syracuse.—1st. When you do not wish to accept the services of a gentleman offering to escort you home, simply say that you have made other arrangements. 2d. When you do, tell him that you are indebted to him for his kind offer, which you are happy to accept. It will be better, however, to put these ideas in your own language. N. P. S., Newport, R. I.—1st. A lady is not expected to invite an escort into the house when it is late in the evening. 2d. All that is necessary is to thank him for his kindness, express a desire to see him at some other time, and then say good-night. S. A. G., Selma. Ala.—If your waiter can carve, have all your carving done at the side-table. It saves the feelings of master and guest. If neither can carve well, then the lady must learn to carve herself, and this is a very elegant accomplishment. P. P. J.—Envelopes that are perfectly plain, for ordinary letter writing, are regarded as in best taste. Ladies do well to use white. Buff, light straw-color, or mauilla answer for business purposes, though it is always in good taste to use white. A. W. B., Southbridgb, Mass.—Do not allow yourself to speak ill of the absent lone if it can be avoided; the day may come when some f riend will be needed to defend you in your absence. INGENIOUS WAIY OF KILLING WOLVEl Whalebone is put Jo an ingenious use by the Esquimaux. Lieutenant Schwalka describes a case which came under hfs personal observation. Whenever wolves have btpen unusually predatory, have destroyed a favorite £log or so, or dug up a cache of reindeer meat just when it was needed, or in any way have aroused the ire of the Esquimaux hunter, he takes a strip of whalebone about the size of those used in corsets, writps it up into a compact coil, like a watch spring] having previously sharpened both ends, then ties fit together with reindeer sinew, and plasters it with w compound of blo<>d and grease, which is allowed to flreeze. and forms a binding cement sufficiently string to hold the sinew string at every second or third turn. This, with a lot of similar-looking baits of meat and blubber, is scattered over the snow Or ground, and the hungry wolf devours it along with the others, and when it is thawed out by the warmth of his stomach, it elongates and has the well-known effect of whalebone on the system, but, having the military advantage of interior lines, its effects are more rapid, killing the poor wolf, with the most horrible agonies, in a couple of days. NOSES AND THEIR VARIETIES. By J. Simms, HM. D. Large, long noses are indicative of active, energetic characters, apt to be proud, pompous, impatient, desirous to be leaders and commanders, and often overbearing and tyrannical. On the other hand, persons with small, low noses are weak characters, deficient in government, even of themselves, and prone to follow their appetites, desires, loves, and hates, rather than their reason and judgment. Large-nosed persons in a critical position, or under circumstances of excitement, will be more self-possessed and competent to judge and act wisely than the small-nosed. Large noses are found chiefly among the inhabitants of mountainous regions or their descendants. Small ones originate in low, level lands. When the nose is long in proportion to its general size. the individual is discreet, careful, timid, and thoughtful. Noses that are relatively short from the forehead to the point, belong to rash, careless, self-willed people. Noses that reach far away from the face denote persons discontented with their present lot, aspiring and anxious. But if the point of the nose seems clinging to the upper lip, Ave infer a tendency to the miserly, and a love of earthly things. When a nose is thin, as well as generally small, the constitution is poor, as well as the character weak. There is a tendency to consumption, and such may die early. On the other hand, if the nose is thick where it joins the face, there is a strong constitution, strong passions, too, and reason to hope for long life if proper care be taken. Sharp-pointed noses accompany intense, keen, penetrative persons, with quick tempers. Those that are thick and nearly square at the point, denote a taste for invention and progress. A prominent nose, nearly or quite straight, and that seems to have two points formed by a vertical depression down through the end, denotes a meditative and logical mind. This maybe observed in the busts of Lord Bacon, Sir Isaac Newton. St. Vincent, and Auguste Comte. A man with a nose reaching toward the mouth, will be cautious, and his bodily wants his first consideration. Noses that reach in a straight line forward at the base, indicate quiet persons, and of regular habits, especially in middle life. Round noses belong ro the musical, the speculative, and those possessed of retentive memories. The small, lbw, round nose, generally known as the pug, turning up a little at the point, belongs to a forward, conceited, and saucy individual. The nose that shows a large amount of bone in proportion to its size, denotes a stable character, slow of judgment, but firm and reliable; but the soft, fleshy or gristly nose leads us to fear we have a sly, deceptive, cunning, treacherous character. The former originates for the most part in temperate climates, the latter in the torrid zone. Examples of the gristly nose may be eeen in the cat. and all the feline species. The straight nose inclines to science, art, polite literature, and political economy, if educated accordingly. But that which shows a convex form from forehead to point, inclines to commercial enterprise. A nose very broad at the base evinces a dull, obtuse intellect, with much physical courage, animal power, and destructive inclination. When the lower portion of the nose forms an obtuse angle with the face, a nd the point is elevated about 45 degrees, we have a person inclined to snobbery and fashion. When the septum or partition between the nostrils is longer than the sides, we infer an orignal, fertile, suggestive mind. A nose standing out high and thin in its upper part bespeaks moral courage, love of argument, a quick apprehension, capacity to make the best use of what they know at the time being. Wide-spread nostrils are indicative of strong lungs; but the closing of them evinces pulmonary weakness. Wrinkles lying across the top of the nose are signs of thoroughness. Long, sharp, and well-formed noses possess acute scent, provided they are not subject to catarrh, or that running of mucus W’hich arises from great susceptibility of cold in this organ, and which is detrimental to the special sense of smell. As a general rule, square noses indicate a masculine. ;md round ones a feminine character. Animals, as well as human beings, with long noses, are uneasy, watchful, and desire to travel. Those with short ones are slow of movement, as the sloth. If the bridge of the nose is high, it evinces a disposition to assail those who are considered to be doing wrong. Another rule which holds good among the lower animals, as well as the human species, is that those with wide faces, and noses wide where they join the face, are fond of flesh moat, while those with long, narrow faces prefer vegetables, fruits, and nuts. The tiger and other feline quadrupeds furnish good examples of the former; the horse, ox, camel, giraffe, deer, sheep, and goat exemplify the latter. A TALE OF TELEGRAPH TICKING. A well-to-do young man recently married and started West on his bridal tour. The happy young couple were breakfasting at a station eating-house. During the repast two smart Alecks came into the eating-room and seated themselves opposite the contracting parties. They were telegraph operators. By delicate poising of their knife and fork they were able to make sounds in close imitation of telegraphy. In the mystic language of the key one said unto the other: "Ain’t she a daisy, though?” The party thus addressed replied by clicking off: "Wouldn’t you like to kiss her, the little fat angel I” "Wonder who that old bloat is that she has married 1” "Some gorgeous granger, I reckon,” replied the other. The groom stood it until forbearance ceased to be a virtue, when he also balanced his knife and click, click it went in rapid succession. It was intelligible to the very cute twain that had recently made fun of its author. When interpreted it read: “Dear Sirs: I am superintendent of the telegraph on which you work. You will please send your time to headquarters and resign your positions at once. Yours, “Superintendent of Telegraph.” Correspondence. GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS. No Manuscripts Wanted.—We want no manuscripts, and shall accept none from this time until the summer is over. Manuscripts will not be returned, under any circumstances. [We request our correspondents to confine their queries to questions of general interest. Our space is too valuable to waste it upon unimportant subjects, such as information regarding old coins, business firms, and other matters of a nature likely to interest only the inquirers.] F. B. W. L., Bloomfield, N. J.—The following article on costiveness is the one, we presume, to which you refer: Wheat bread is not good for a very costive person. Fruits of all kinds, when they can be obtained, are indispensable, not onlv apples, but plums, pears, berries, tomatoes, etc. For a child, when medicine becomes necessary, a teaspoonful of magnesia dissolved in sweetened milk, or water, and given morning and night, until the bowels become regular, is usually sufficient. Purgatives should be carefully avoided, except for a disordered stomach, and then they become necessary. Well-ventilated sleeping-rooms, a glass of water before eating in the morning, plenty of exercise in the open air, and frequent bathing, go farther than most people suppose, toward keeping body and mind in an active, healthy, or cheerful condition. Costive persons should avoid late suppers, and all alcoholic liquors, as they would a plague. To mothers who nurse their infants, we say, if the mother is healthy and regular, the child will be, and the reverse. Therefore, instead of dosing a child with medicine, let her diet for the evil and save the little one much suffering. Many persons have used with much benefit the herb known as thorough wort, pr epared by putting the dried herb in water and letting it stand until it becomes bitter. A portion, drank before each meal, has proved, they say, the best remedy for costiveness they ever used. L. E. C. -1st. The Presbyterian Hospital is on Madison avenue and Seventeenth street. To obtain employment there as a nurse you should make application in person to the superintendent or matron 2d. There is little probability of getting a position as nurse in a hospital unless you have had experience, or enter as a pupil iu the training school for nurses, of which there are three—at Bellevue Hospital, the New York Hospital, and the Charity Hospital, at each of which the term of service for the learners is two years, the first year for training and the second for practical nursing. The learners, the first year, receive $10 a month, besides board, washing, and lodging; second year $15 a month. Applications must be made to the parties in charge of the schools, at the institutions. The course at each is very thorough, and includes practical and theoretical teaching in medicine, surgical and special nursing, bandaging, cooking of plain dishes and special diet for the sick, etc. Diplomas are given at the expir ation of two years to those who are qualified. Applicants must not be over thirty-five years of age. nor under twenty; and they must be recommended by the clergyman whose church they attend, by their physician, and any other friends who can give them good recommendations. 3d. Books will avail you little without experience. 4th. There is no question as to the “respectability” of the employment. White Eye, Hyde Park, N. Y. 1st. Your trouble arises from the fact that you do not pay proper attention to what you read. In looking for startling situations you skim over the less exciting portions of a narrative, and have thus acquired a habit of reading in the most superficial manner. If, as you say, you have no “taste to read good literature,” you should .endeavor to acquire a liking for literature which is not only elevaing but instructive. If you do this you will soon find that by having something to think of, your memory will be not so much at fault as you may think it is. 2d. All bad habits are injurious. M. A. B„ Paris, Ky.—If you take our advice you will let your hair remain the color that nature gave it. Nevertheless, as you insist on it, we publish the following, which is said to be a good mixture, for “dying dark hair lightWhite wine, one pint; rhubarb, five ounces. Boil down to one-half of the quantity, strain, steep the hair in the mixture, and let it dry without wiping. Our correspondent will please bear in mind that we do not recommend this recipe (which is of French origin), nor do we know whether it is injurious to the hair or not. Miss R. E. W.—1st. The rates of the two houses are about the same. 2d. On going in and out of a hotel, a lady does not use the main entrance, but uses the semi-private hall called the ladies’ entrance. 3d. Always lock the door when leaving the room, leaving the key at the office or in charge of the elevator attendant. 4th. To engage a room, after reaching the ladies’ parlor, ring for an attache of the house, and the clerk will assign you a room. 5th. You may have your purchases addressed to you at the hotel, and the clerk will have them sent to your room. Isaac N. O'.—1st. There is hardly any system of bookkeeping which may be called self-instructive. Bryant & Stratton’s “'Common School Book-keeping” is one of the best systems to commence with. 2d. The Mercantile Journal is a general commercial paper. 3d. There are a number of papers devoted to different branches of trade, with prices current. 4th. The Spencerian system of penmanship is as good as any. F. D.—1st. To brown gun-barrels, mix equal parts of antimony and sweet oil, and apply the mixture to the iron previously warmed. If there be any greasy matter on the gun, rub it well with whiting before using the mixture. 2d. To temper spiral springs, heat to a cherry red in a charcoal fire, and harden in oil; then blaze off the oil three times, the same as for flat springs. F. I. IF.—If it is not convenient to take a course of instruction in vocal music at a conservatory of music in New York or Boston, secure the services of a good teacher, which will be less expensive, but it will not enlarge your sphere of acquaintance among musical people that the associations in the conservatory would. C. H., Middleton, Pa.—1st. A cent of 1803, in good preservation, is worth about 25 cents; those of 1810 and 1821 are worth a trifle more; that of 1838 about 10 cents. 2d. The American Agriculturist is a monthly, and is published in this city; the Cultivator and Country Gentleman, a weekly, is published in Albany, N. Y. 3d. Very good. Mrs. Streb.—In June and July, 1868, the following serials were running through the columns of the NEW YORK Weekly : “Copper and Gold,” “Daughter’s Vow,” “Isora’s Bridal,” “Lady Roslyn’s Pensioner,” “Millbank,” “Rival Cousins,” and “Witch-Finder.” D. B. C., Van Vert, O.—Among the books representing the Southern view of the late civil war are Pollard’s “Southern History of the War,” $10; Stevenson’s “The Southern Side,” $3 ; and Jeff Davis’ “Rise and Fall of the Confederate Government,” $5. Drex.—1st. Silk worm culture is getting to be a considerable industry in this country. Information on the subject can be obtained by addressing H. Annie Lucas, of the Women’s Silk Culture Association, 1328 Chestnut street, Philadelphia. Trix C., Buffalo.—You cannot darken your hair except by the use of dyes, and they are all injurious. 2d. Advertise in the daily papers or apply to lawyers for employment as a copyist. 3d. See “Etiquette Department.” S. B. Fish, Winnipeg.—Your wife in two weeks will have the pleasure of reading another story by the author of “The Twin Detectives.” It is entirely different in character, yet extremely interesting. Amanda L„ Plainfield, Ill.—To remove freckles, take muriate of ammonia, half a dram; lavender water, one dram; distilled water, one pint. Apply with a sponge night and morning. W. T. R.—1st. The paper is very similar to several others of its class. 2d. Both parties write under their own name. They are considered writers of average merit. 3d. It is impossible to say. Miss A. Me.—The publication named is an English periodical. We doubt if they have an agency in this country. Foreign periodicals are all sold through the news companies. Mrs. T. Smith, Waterloo, Iowa.—1st. The Persian insect powder will destroy bedbugs. 2d. Red pepper sprinkled in various parts of the closets of your house will drive away ants. Mrs. M. Gordon.—We have seen the advertisement, but know nothing of the merits of the article. One could probably pick out a tune, but that would not make a player. Reader, Templeton.—Henry M. Mathews was elected Governor of West Virginia in 1876, his term of office commencing March 4, 1877, and continuing four years. Constant Reader, Attleboro Falls, Mass.—Submit your poems to publishers, sending stamps for return postage, in case they should be declined. Flavorum, Bay City, Michigan.—To flavor tobacco, mix with it, while slightly damp, a little cascarilla, either in fine shreds or recently powdered. E. D., Keokuk, la.—“Carried by Storm,” in book-form, will cost $150; the papers containing the “Widow’s Wager” will cost 72 cents. Gussie Moore.—The New York Weekly Purchasing Agency will furnish you the articles desired. Send full address, with list. Constant Reader, Hartford, Conn.—Consult a lawyer. It depends very materially on the circumstances of the case. Constant Reader, Cincinnati.—Yellow dock root will purify the blood, and help remove blackheads from the face. Old Subscriber.—We know nothing of the nature of the remedies, nor of the reliability of the concern. W. Eichlurn.—We know nothing of the lottery. You can set the most of them down as swindles. The following MSS. are accepted: “Love or Money,” “Annabel’s Reward,” “A True Woman.” “Winny’s Wooing, “A Teamster of the Olden Time,” “Dick Warrington’s Duel,” “A Strange Incident,” “A Wiry Character,” “Anna Blair,” “The Minister’s Pluck.” The following MSS. are declined : “My Punishment,” “The Murderer’s Nemesis.” “The Last Song,” “Past School-days,” “Lillian Wadleigh,” “The Parting,” “Nell Carleton’s Lover,” “Ashford Grange,” “A Wishing Boy,” “Hardcastle Farm,” “Born for Shame,” “A Shrewd Uncle,” “In the Toils.” How a ‘Society” Belle Keeps Fresh. Few, indeed, are the people who can keep up the round of Washington gayety without sadly showing their weariness. An exception to this rule is a young daughter of an army officer stationed in that city. She has been busy with receptions and dinners, kettle-drums and germans, and on Wednesday, as she came into Mrs. Chandler’s parlors, she looked as fresh and rosy as if it were her first day. My curiosity was aroused, and presenily I had an opportunity to inquire of her how it was that she was able to endure that to which stronger women yielded. "Oh,” she replied, laughing, "mamma is almost a crank on that subject. She is bound I shall not look passee at the end of my second winter. Every night when I get home, no matter how tired I am, a warm bath is given me, after which I drink a bowl of bouillon, and am put to bed in the f uest-chamber, which is more quiet than my own. n the morning I am not called, but arise when I awake, which is hot often before lunch-time. It grows monotonous, I assure you. but if I go I have to submit. I tell mamma that she treats me as if I were a Maud S. or a prize-fighter.” Recent Publications. The Prairie flower; and its Sequel, Lent Leoti, By EuierBUU Bennett. Publishers, T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia. Mr. Bennett has written a great many captivating stories, all containing very exciting scenes and incidents, but “The Prairie Flower.” and its sequel, “Leni Leoti,” surpasses in power any similar production of his. The exploits which it relates are of the most thrilling character, and those who delight in reading daring adventures mingled with enough of romance to interest the general reader, will enjoy its perusal from beginning to end. There are some excellent characters iu the work, and they are made to play their parts with admirable skill. The plot is just sufficiently intricate to keep alive the curiosity of the reader, without mystifying or perplexing him, and the scene of the story is laid amid the grand mountains and along the broad prairies of the great West. Mr. Bennett has always been famous for his graphic descriptions, and in “The Prairie Flower” and “Leni Leoti” he has exhibited to the world his great power of delineation. In a word, he holds now, as ever, every reader spell-bound by his magic pen. The publishers have presented the book to the public in the most elegant style, and it should find its way to every drawing-room and library. Price, bound in cloth, $1.00; paper cover, 75 cents. Lost—A Pearle. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. Publishers, G. W. Carleton & Co., New York. The high moral tone which pervades all the writings of Mrs. Sheldon is particularly noticeable in“Lost—A Pearle.” As the heroine of the story she is of course invested with very attractive qualities of mind and person, but throughout the career upon which she is launched after her introduction to the reader,she is truly purity personified, and no one can enter into the spirit of the book without rising from its perusal wiser and better. But though Mrs. Sheldon’s purpose is to show how one’s self-respect may be preserved under the most trying circumstances, she does not forget that there are villains iu the world, and when their portrayal is attempted in her works, it is done with skill and power; as witness iu “Lost—A Pearl,” her painting of the character of Adison Cheetham—a bold, bad man-wily, adroit, and unscrupulous, and greatly in contrast with Richard Byrnholm, one of the noblest of human characters. The readers of the New York Weekly are familiar with the stories of Mr$. Sheldon, and they can vouch for the accuracy of our remarks respecting them ; but to those who have never read her romances we would suggest the purchase of a copy of “Lost—A Pearle,” which has been published in fine style by Carleton & Co. Price $1.50. The Golden Gift : poems and Essays by Mrs. M. S. Carnduff Knights. Illustrated. Publisned for the author by Fairbanks, Palmer & Company, Chicago. We have rarely seen a more elegantly bound book than “The Golden Gift.” Its title in this respect is most appropriate. Its typography is also very fine, and the publishers deserve high praise for the attractive style iii which they have presented it to the public. As regaids the poems and essays which the volume contains, it may besald-tliatthey are chiefly distinguished for their simplicity. The^uthor has not attempted any high flights of fancy, but has teen contented to give utterance to her thoughts in a rem ark bly artless way, and if not inspired by, she has at least been moved by the spirit of poetry. Into her essays Mrs. Knights has infused the most noble thoughts, and in the selection of subjects for illustration good taste has been displayed. Price of “The Golden Gift,” $2.90. THE BONHEER DES DAMES; OR, THE SHOP GIRLS OF Paris. By Emile Zola. Publishers, T. B. Peterson & Brothers. Philadelphia. This novel will be found fascinating apart from its plot, as it makes us acquainted with a new field of fiction, which it will not take long for the author to reap. It is, in fact, a “new departure” for Zola, both in style and subject. Price, paper cover, 75 cents. The Mysteries OF Marseilles. By Emile Zola. Publishers, T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia. The translator of “The Mysteries of Marseilles” has preserved most of the peculiarities of Zola’s style, and has consequently given us a vigorous work, with striking scenes and exciting incidents. The plot is complicated, but all is made clear at last. Price, paper cover, 75 cents. The Washington Plate—“Origin of the Stars and Stripes.” The New York Life Insurance Company has issued a very handsome plate, entitled “Origin of the Stars and Stripes,” together with an account of the Washington genealogy. One will be viewed and the other read with great interest. Publishers, Root & Tinker, Tribune Building. Cape May to Atlantic City—A Summer Note-Book. The Pennsylvania Railroad Company has issued an attractive little book which will prove of service to summer tourists. Those who contemplate sea-side trips will do well to read it. Both Cape May and Atlantic City are desirable places of resort. The Biographer. Illustrated. Published at 23 Park Bow, New York. “The Biographer” is the title of a new publication. It is to be issued monthly. The May number contains portraits of Chester A. Arthur, President of the United States, and other prominent men. “Our Little Ones and the Nursery.” Russell Publishing Company, Boston. The May number of this excellent magazine is, as usual, profusely and attractively illustrated. THE FIRST SPINNING FRAME. The first spinning frame made in this country, which ‘has been temporarily intrusted to Brown University for safe keeping, will soon be sent to the patent office at Washington. Samuel Slater, the inventor, introduced it into the old spinning mill at Pawtucket, R. I., about the year 1790. It was first started in a clothiers’ shop of that town, together with two other machines of a somewhat similar pattern. In a year and a half it is said that they overstocked the market, as several thousand tons of yarn had accumulated in that time, despite the manufacturer’s efforts to dispose of it. The machine is still in excellent order, considering its great age. A THOUGHTFUL WOMAN. A man went home the other night and found his house locked up. After infinite trouble he managed to gain entrance through a back window, and then discovered on the parlor table a note from his wife reading: "I have gone out. You will find the key on the side of the step*” JuneM883 THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. 5 THE OLD MAN'S DREAM- BI CHAS. W. PILGRIM. I wandered to the place to-day, With footsteps weak and slow, Where first I saw the light of life Some four-score years ago. The same old house is standing still, The same old battered door Swings to and fro on broken hinge, Just as it did of yore. The sighing winds the perfume brought From off the new-mown hay, And, for awhile, my thoughts ran free, And fancy had its sway. Again I seemed a little child, Free from all thoughts of care, With sparkling eyes, and cheeks of tan, And locks of golden hair. The attic-room and trundle-bed Again I seemed to see, The while I lisped my evening prayers Beside my mother’s knee; Again my tired eyelids closed In calm and tranquil sleep, Just as they did long years ago, Before I’d learned to weep. And then my thoughts roamed o’er the years When I had older grown. And bade them all farewell one day, To seek a distant home; I seemed to hear my mother’s voice Saying “My boy, good-by 1” And feel her kiss upon my cheek, And see her tear-dimmed eye. And while I stood, the household dog Sprang, barking, through the door, To drive the gray-haired man away, As Nero did of yore; And then my wayward thoughts returned Unto their wonted vein ; I was a happy boy no more, But a gray-haired man again. I realized with ten-fold force That mother’s voice was still, For, as I turned, I saw her grave Upon the sloping hill; And soon my form will rest there too, Life’s journey will be o’er, And when in heaven we meet again, I’ll be her boy once more. SEVERE THREAT. By Mrs. E. Burke Collins. [“A Severe Threat” was commenced in No. 25. Back numbers can be had of all News Agents.] CHAPTER XIX. AN ITEM IN THE “TIMES.” “What is the matter with Ashleigh ? He has been awfully blue ever since he returned from Europe ? Seems to have no eyes, no thought for any of his old friends, ladies especially. I do believe, Kittie, that he has left his heart over in ‘merrie England,’ with some titled lady, perhaps. It’s always the case when any of our young men take a trip across the water—they are almost certain to leave their hearts on the other side.” “Awfully uncomfortable, I should think,” laughed Kittie Dexter, glancing up from the bit of embroidery in her hand into her brother’s frank, handsome face; “and awfully uncomplimentary to their own countrywomen, it strikes me. But, really, Hal,” and her sweet face grew grave and troubled, “I, too, have observed the change in Mr. Ashleigh since he came home to America. He was your constant companion; you and he and Mr. Vernon were always together, and so intimate. It—it pains me to see bow sad and altered he is.” “Ay, that it did, far more than her words would imply. For Kittie Dexter, true and sweet, and wTomanly, had loved Howard Ashleigh for months— loved him in secret, and concealing in her own breast the knowledge which she would have died rather than betray. Hal Dexter looked puzzled. “See him now,” he went on, pointing through the open window. They were passing a few weeks at Ocean Springs, and Hal and Kittie (who, beingalone in the world, were all and all to each other) had rooms at the same hotel where Howard Ashleigh had come for a few days. Howard was pacing up and down the silvery strip of sand outside the win-d<>w, with the blue waves lapping tho shore at his feet, his head bent, his face pale and thoughtful, his noble appearance that of a man in the deepest thought. Kittie watched him, her soft blue eyes growing moist. “I wonder what is the matter ?” she said, at last. “Oh, Hal, I would give anything to know!” “A woman, of course,” sneered Hal, and he did not see how white Kittie’s face grew at his words. “I’m going out to him,” he added, picking up his^hat. and stepping through the long window upon the vine-wreathed porch. In a moment more he was at Howard’s side, one arm slipped through his. “Old fellow,” cried Dexter, cheerily, “what’s up ? You are looking out of sorts. Can’t you confide in your old friend? Except Vernon, I have been your most intimate companion. Tell me what troubles you, Howard. Perhaps, old boy, I might be able to help you.” Howard glanced up. His face had grown very pale and haggard, and bore unmistakable evidence of suffering, and his eyes were full of wordless, pathetic sorrow. He tried to force a smile, then turning suddenly, he wrung his friend’s hand. Even futile sympathy is sweet to the wounded spirit. “Thank you. Hal.” he returned, gratefully. “You are very kind; but, old friend, you can do me no good. No one on earth can help me. Hal, I have had a fearful sorrow since I saw you last; and— and—I wonder,” he added, thoughtfully, “if it would ease me any to tell you all.” “Try,” returned Hal Dexter. “I believe that troubles are sometimes lightened by the telling. You know me well, and that no idle curiosity prompts me when I say, tell me all.” Howard took a few more turns up and down the beach; he seemed studying the question in his mind. Suddenly he paused and pointed to a seat under the shadow of a tree not far away. “Let us sit there,” he proposed, “and—I—believe I will confide in you, Dexter.” So, having seated themselves, the young man began, and repeated his sad history from first to last. His romantic marriage, and how Lionel Vernon had caused him to be dragged away on a false charge, a charge trumped up, simply to remove him while the rest of the wicked plot was carried out. Geraldine’s father had then taken her away to England, and to the best of Howard’s belief had made her a prisoner in that old. deserted country house. Later Howard had been set at liberty; but determined t® find his wife, he had hastened to England, and there in the forest, not far from the old house where he believed her to be a prisoner, he had been attacked by assassins who attempted to take his life. He had been seriously wounded, but managed to crawl to a hut where an old woman lived all alone, and, as he was possessed of considerable money, and was able to recompense her well, she nursed him back to health again. As soon as he was able he found his way to the old house, but Geraldine was gone. There were strange servants in possession, who knew dothing of the young lady, save that she had gone to London With her father. He made his way thither, and on his arrival, passing St. George’s church, he had found her—his own wife—just married to another, the very man whom she had sworn over and over again that she hated With all her heart. When Howard finished his sad story Hal Dexter wrung his hand in silent sympathy. He dared venture no comment, but the act and the silence itself were more eloquent than any words. There was one circumstance which Hal had not taken into consideration. The tree under which the two had been sitting was very near the open windows of the room where Kittie was sitting, with her bright-hued embroidery in her hands; she had overheard nearly every word of the conversation, and she knew Howard Ashleigh’s sad secret at last. Her work fell to the floor, and her eyes—blue as the hearts of violets—dilated with anguish. She trembled violently, then.with a low moan, she rested her head upon the table before her and wrestled with the bitter sorrow which had come to darken her life. Outside, under the pleasant shade of the tree, the birds were singing sweetly; the soft lap of the waves upon the sand made sweet music, and down the beach came the postman, with easy, swinging tread. “Foreign papers, sir,” he observed, placing a package in Howard’s hand. Eagerly he seized the first paper and opened it with shaking fingers. A taken into the secret, for they felt that she could be trusted. And there Geraldine remained for weeks, until she was fully recovered. It had been a fearful risk to remove the sick woman, but instead of killingheroutright.it had seemed to infuse new life into her veins; and surrounded by the little band of friends, all devoted to her cause, she began to improve rapidly, and was at length able to act for herself. Geraldine had quite a sum of money of her own in her possession, but Lola having succeeded in removing her safely to London, refused to depend upon her bounty. Dot came on at once, and they all lived together in small and obscure lodgings, where, as soon as it was deemed safe and expedient, Mrs. Brown arrived to act as housekeeper and general chaperon. In the meantime the Templemore Theatrical troupe was on the road, but the manager communicated with Dot to the effect that they would soon be in London, and that she must hold herself in readiness to fill the position which she was elected to fill. Her wounded arm had piecluded the provincial tour, and Dot was glad to now be able to return to her old work. One day, in a retired street, she came across the leader of the orchestra at the Coronet Theater, and insisted that he should come and hear Lola sing. He came. Dot managed to hide Geraldine in a small room adjoining the main apartment; and Lola sang for the old man’s delectation. He went away delighted. “Justwhat Mr. Templemore needs!”he exclaimed to the delighted Dot. “Miss Wylde, I think your friend is certain to get an engagement, at a good salary, too.” Lola devoted all her time to practice, under the auspices of the old musician. Mr. Templemore arrived in London, and in response to the old man’s request, Lola was sent for to come to the Coronet Theater, that the manager might judge for himself. The result was an immediate engagement at a liberal salary; her dehut to take place within a fortnight—her role being that of a Scotch lassie, the song. “Auld Robin Grey.” The night arrived, and palpitating with terror, Lola came on the stage. The effect of her beauty upon the audience was wonderful. Her acting was very good, and her singing was divine. They sat like people entranced; no one seemed to move or scarcely breathe; but when she had finished, a storm of applause shook the house, and an avalanche of flowers descended about the fair debutante. Lola Gordon was a success. She had assumed her mother’s name, Stella, for her own purposes. She did not dream that that very name would prove her own betrayal—and worse. The night after her first appearance on the boards of the Coronet, a telegram went flying over the wires from Lady Venetia to Sir John Sydney. He came to London immediately on receipt of it, and almost the first object upon which his gaze rested was a play-bill, which announced the Appearance at the Coronet of Stella Gordon. There was a crowd gathered before the posters as the baronet paused to peruse the words. All the color faded from his ruddy face; he threw up his arms with a gesture of horror, like one groping in the dark and afraid’, then, with a strange, gasping cry, he reeled unsteadily, and fell to the pavement like one dead. A carriage which had been bowling slowly along, drew up at the curbing, and a beautiful face peeped out. “It is Sir John Sydney1” cried a sweet, clear voice. “Lift him into my carriage, and I will see that he is taken home.” A dozen strong arms were outstretched, and the baronet placed within the carriage. Lady Venetia gave an order to the coachman, and it rolled away. That night, when Lola came on the stage to sing, she saw in a proscenium box. gazing upon her with eyes full of malicious triumph, Lady Venetia Chandos, and Sir John Sydney. She trembled violently, and would have fallen but for the strong will which sustained her. She longed to dart forward, there in the presence of the vast audience, and point her finger at the wicked man who sat watching her with eyes full of fiendish hatred, and cry aloud: “You are John Gordon, the murderer of my mother!” But of what avail would her accusation be, without overwhelming proof? She, a poor, nameless nobody, a waif, a simple play actor; and he Sir John Sydney. Bart., of Sydney House, a roan with an immense rent-roll, and a title over two hundred years old! Birth, and position, and family name are mighty, while money, like charity, “covereth a multitude of sins.” / So she turned away, and shng the pretty ballad of “Kathleen Mavourneen,” and the house came down, and the applause and the floral offerings were equally prodigious. In her hour of triumph, the little singer would have been perfectly happy— save, ever and always, that haunting memory of her dead mother’s unavenged wrongs—but for the basilisk gaze of the two in the box near by, for. intuitively, the girl felt that there was danger in the air. But, somehow, the play progressed, and at last the curtain fell, and Dot and Lola both were free to go home to Geraldine. As the curtain descended. Sir John Sydney staggered to his feet, white and trembling, for he was horribly afraid. He had long ago forgotten Lola’s existence, forgotten that there had been a child, the issue of that ill-starred, ill-omened marriage; and now, as he gazed upon the beautiful face, so familiar to him, upon the stage, he believed that Stella, poor, murdered Stella, stood before him. The name upon the bills was Stella, and the face that gazed upon him from the brightly lighted stage—that face, with the long, dusky hair all afloat, and the soft, lustrous dark eyes shining like stars, and the sweet, low voice which he remembered so well—all, all were Stella’s, his heart-broken wife, whom he had sought to murder. What if she had escaped ? What if she were waiting for the hour to come when she should pay him back for all that he had done ? The very thought brought the cold dew of despair upon his brow. Strange that he never thought of the discrepancy in years between the woman whose gentle heart he had ruthlessly broken, and this fair young girl, whose voice was like a singing bird. He thought of nothing, save that she was before him, and her name was Stella Gordon. Trembling and horrified, half-dead with fear and horror, abject coward that he was. Sir John stag-Sered from the theater and reached his carriage, omehow, he never stopped to inquire how it had occurred Lady Venetia was already seated there. She caught his arm in a fierce grasp, and raised her steely eyes to his own. “Listen, Sir Sohn Sydney 1” she panted; “I have something wonderful to tell you!” ******** An hour later, Dot and Lola, in their plain little parlor, with Geraldine lying, pale as a snow-wreath, upon a couch, were recounting the occurrences of the evening when there came aloud, imperative rap upon the door. “Come in!” cried Dot, briskly; for at that late hour she believed it could be no one but Mrs. Brown. The door swung slowly open; and then, with a gasp of horror. Dot sprang to her feet as she beheld the visitor—Sir John Sydney! He looked like a demon as he paused upon the threshold, confronting the horror-stricken group in awful silence, his wicked eyes wandering slowly and comprehensively over their blanched and terrified faces. Then he drew nearer, and his voice rang out in malicious triumph: “Lady Geraldine Sydney!” he said, calmly; “I have come for my wife I” CHAPTER XXII. KITTIE’S secret. “Dead!” Howard Ashleigh turned the word over in his dazed, bewildered brain. Dead! Geraldine, his only love, the woman who had been his wife, gone from this world forever. He caught his breath like one suffering mortal agony, and staggered to his feet. True, it was better for her—better to be in that land “where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest,” than to live on in unconscious sin, with the shadow of a dark dishonor clinging to her, though she was ignorant of intentional wrong-doing. “Dead! The word tolled like a death-knell in his brain. He staggered forward, slowly and fal-teringly, toward the house, while Hal. fearing that he would fall, followed him closely, and so conducted him into Kittie’s pretty parlor. He sank into a seat like one exhausted while the news was imparted to Kittie. All her own grief, and the hidden sorrow of her secret, all was put aside-brave little Kittie! she came to Howard’s side and extended her hand in silent sympathy. He held it for a moment in his own, then turned his haggard face away. “He wants to be alone, Hal.” whispered Kittie; “let us leave him to himself.” So they withdrew from the room, leaving Howard to battle with his sorrow alone. That fearful sorrow, which at first, seemed more than he could bear, gradually grew less poignant, for time will heal the most terrible wounds; yet the scars will ever remain, and no lapse of years could ever obliterate the traces of this, the sharpest anguish that had ever come into his life. Days and weeks drifted slowly down the aisles of the vanished past, and still the trio lingered at Ocean Springs. Howard and Hal had both been detailed upon a certain government survey, to begin in the winter, and would probably not be ended for a year; but at present they were occupied with plans and drawings which served to fill up an hour or two each day; but the balance of the time hung heavily upon their hands. Meanwhile, Kittie had grown strangely cold and distant to her brother’s friend. Howard observed it, and fidt a dreary sort of regret, but was really too indifferent to the whole world, outside of his own sorrow—which for the time rendered him copy of the London Times—what was there in its columns to blanch his face to such a deathly hue and bring such despair into his eyes? He could not speak to have saved his life. With one cold, shaking forefinger he pointed to a certain paragraph. and Hal Dexter stooped and read it slowly : “Died : At Sydney House, near Waltham, on the 14th inst., Geraldine, wife of Sir John Sydney, baronet, and daughter of Lionel Vernon, Esq., aged twenty years. The remains were inteiTed in the family tomb of the Sydneys, at Waltham grave-yard.” CHAPTER XX. LADY VENETIA PLEADS. “Lloyd, hear me. You must!” Lloyd Vernon stood in the luxurious drawingroom of his father’s handsome house in Park Lane. He had seen all that remained of his only sister, or what he believed to be her remains, laid away in the great family tomb of the Sydneys, and then, without an hour’s delay, he had left for London. He had lost all trace of Lola. She had disappeared from his life as completely as though he had never known her; and although his reason warned him that this was best, he felt that he could not remain in the vicinity. Besides, Lady Venetia was at Chandos Park, her own princely home, a few hides from Waltham, and he would sooner meet his worst enemy than this fair, false woman who had laid his whole life waist. So he hurried to London, and on the morning after his arrival at Park Lane, was Informed by a servant that a lady wished to see him in the drawing-room. With a wild thought of Lola, he had gone down, to be confronted by Lady Venetia Chandos. It was a perfect summer day, and my lady was all in white, that floated about her like a cloud. Her golden hair was exquisitely dressed; a broadbrimmed white hat, with floating plumes of the same hue. crowned her graceful head; there was a knot of fragrant purple violets on her bosom. She was lovely as a picture; she was his, “to have and to hold,” yet he hated her from the bottom of his heart. The first greeting over—quiet and cold enough, too—followed by a few stale commonplaces, and then Lloyd turned away with a weary look upon his face. Perhaps she feared that he was about to leave her presence, for she darted suddenly forward and lifted her hand with a little cry, as though to forbid his departure. “Lloyd, hear me!” she panted. “You must!” He turned and faced her. Something in her tone made him wonder. It was pleading, earnest. He leaned against the white marble mantel, and turned his dark eyes carelessly upon her flushed and eager face. In his heart he was wondering how he had ever been captivated and intoxicated by her beauty, dazzling though it was; for now that he knew her, he could probe the depths of her wicked nature and see the lurking devil in her eyes. But, alas I he had been dazzled and bewitched; and now that the glamour was past, and his eyes opened to his own folly and blind madness, it was too late. She advanced with the sinuous, gliding motion which was one of her attributes (unpleasantly suggestive to him now of a serpent) and laid one hand, ungloved and white as a snowy rose-leaf, upon his arm. “Hear me, Lloyd!” she pleaded, piteously, her beautiful eyes uplifted, dewy with unshed tears, “I am your wife! your wife, Lloyd Vernon—you must acknowledge me—and”—(her eyes blazed wrath-fully)—“you shall I” She had made a mistake—a grave mistake; she saw it when it was too late to retract. Lloyd’s lip curled scornfully. “Listen to me. Lady Venetia Chandos,” he said, slowly; “we may as well understand each other, and settle this question now—at once. No matter what the law may decree, the ceremony which chains our lives together is but a farce; for. so help me Heaven! you shall never bear my name—you are no wife of mine! Venetia, had I entertained a thought that was tender in my heart for you, it would have died when I found out your fiendish attempt to take the life of that poor defenseless girl!” She darted forward like a tigress; her blue eyes scintillated; her breath came in uneven gasps; she clenched her hands together, and bit her lip until the red blood spirted forth. “It is false!” she shrieked, when she could command her voice; “false as you are. And she, the woman who would deliberately court the attention of a married man, and who----” "Stop, Lady Venetia!” Lloyd’s voice was very cool. But my lady, who knew him well, knew that when he spoke in that calm, icy tone, his anger was at white heat. She hesitated. “Dare to mention Lola Gordon in tones of reproach,” he said, slowly, “and I will publish to the world the fact that you attempted to take her life! Lady Venetia Chandos, the would-be murderess, would hardly find so many suitors kneeling at her shrine. Go your way, my lady, and leave that poor girl unmolested, or it will be worse for you. My intention is to return to America; once there. I will obtain a divorce; and then you will be free to marry whom you please.” “And you can marry Lola Gordon!” she snarled. He took no notice of her sneering words. “At least. I shall not be bound to you!” he returned, icily. Then her mood changed. She came close to his side and clasped her hands upon his arm; very beautiful hands they were—blazing with precious stones. But he shook off her clinging touch as though it were contagion. “Listen!” she faltered, beseechingly. “I love you, Lloyd, with all my heart I love you, and you are my husband! Acknowledge me to the world as your wife; give me a chance to redeem the past, and I swear, before high heaven, to dedicate my future to you. See!” And she fell upon her knees on the velvet carpet at his feet, her two small hands uplifted and clasped in supplication, her beautiful, flower-like face raised to his own. Her magnificent hair had come unbound, and streamed over her graceful shoulders like a golden cloud, She looked like some fair, medieval saint, kneeling there at his feet. But his eyes rested upon her coldly, lepel-lently. “I do not love you!” he answered, quietly. “I was led into that mad marriage—you know best through what influence—it is too late to retract now; but acknowledge you to the world as my wife, never—never!” She sprang to her feet with a muttered cry of rage and despair; and he saw. with a pang of wordless horror, that she held something shining and glittering in one small hand; and he shrank back appalled at her baseness, for his quick, keen glance saw that it was a knife. He darted forward, with a look of scorn and contempt upon his handsome face, and struck the weapon from her grasp. “You are bent on murder, Venetia,” he observed, with perfect sang froid. “It is well that you are always foiled in your attempts. Venetia—Lady Chandos—listen to me; I call Heaven to witness my words. I would not acknowledge such a creature as you to be my wife; no. not to save my own soul!” She folded her arms upon her breast—her beautiful arms like white, chiseled marble—and faced faced him with ominous quiet in her eyes. “1 will make your life a hell upon earth!” she hissed, slowly, biting the words off with sharp precision. Lloyd Vernon, you shall live to regret this hour, so help me Heaven?” He bowed coolly, and opened the door of the drawing-room. “Your carriage waits, Lady Venetia,” he observed, serenely. He offered her his arm, but she turned from him with a disdainful glance; then slowly followed him out into the sunshine. He placed her in her carriage as deferentially as though she had not just attempted to take his life, touched his hat in courteous adieu, and the carriage, with its coat of arms glistening in the sunbeams, rolled slowly away. Lloyd turned back with that mocking smile still lingering upon his face. His gaze fell carelessly upon a play-bill posted on an opposite corner, and he paused involuntarily. No wonder, for the bill announced the arrival in London of “the famous Templemore Theatrical Troupe,” for a short engagement, and among the names of the performers was that of Dora Wylde, while flaming capitals at the foot announced the engagement of “the beautiful young cantatrice, Stella Gordon.” “Great Heaven!” he muttered, in wondering surprise ; “what if it should be Lola?' CHAPTER XXI. BETRAYED. It was indeed Lola; who for her own purpose had adopted her mother’s name. Let us go back to the time when she and Geraldine had laid their plot by which they meant to avenge their own wrongs. They had wisely taken Dr. Denzil into their confidence—in fact, they could not well do otherwise. The good old physician was astonished—thunderstruck at their story; but he had never liked or trusted Sir John Sydney, and when he heard the story which they told him. he readily gave his consent to assist them as they requested, in their unequal contest; two feeble women pitted against a bad, wicked man. So the news of Geraldine’s death had been promulgated, and a speedy burial recommended—nay, urged. Geraldine managed to remain quiet as though really dead; the belief that her disease had become contagious served to keep idle curiosity from viewing the corpse. The coffin arrived, and was closed at once, according to Dr. Denzil’s orders; but it held no dead body, no sad remains of what had been the beautiful Lady Sydney; but instead, iron weights were substituted so disposed as to divert suspicion. And in the dead of night Geraldine had been smuggled away to widow Brown’s cottage, which Lloyd had just left, and the widow was selfish—to trouble himself greatly concerning her altered demeanor. So, the days came and went, summer ended, and autumn laid a frosty hand upon the fair green leaves, and straightway they became golden and russet, scarlet and brown, while the red sumach glowed like banners of flame, and a soft, melancholy haze hung in the air. One afternoon Kittie tied on her broad-brimmed sun-hat and went down to the beach, where her boat lay moored—the Undine—a fanciful little craft, all green and gold, with crimson cushions piled upon the seats. Springing in. and unfastening the boat, she pushed it away from shore. Hal. lounging idly on the sand, called out, lazily: “Which way, Kit?” She pointed down the beach, where the pretty white light-house reared its head against the blue, hazy sky. “All right,” drawled Hal, who was blind as a bat to the real situation, and would as soon have thought that the end of the world was at hand as that Kiti ie cared for Howard Ashleigh. “Go on. sis; you’ll find Howard down there somewhere. His ‘boat is on the shore, and his bark is on the sea.’ Oh, I never could quote Byron worth a cent. Why, Kit. where are you going?” For Kittie had deliberately turned herboat about. She would not have encountered Howard Ashleigh alone not for the round world. ‘Over to the island.” she returned, promptly; “it’s more quiet there, and I am going to read,” holding up a tiny blue and gold volume of Tennyson. Hal nodded. “By-by!” he cried. “Don’t forget yourself, Kittie, and let the tide overtake you.” “No danger,” she sang out, cheerily; and the Undine flew away, skimming the water like a bird. Kittie knew how to handle the oars as well as the most accomplished boatman; she knew her way, too; and off to the island she went, glad of the chance for a little quiet meditation. The island was a pretty green spot in the midst of the blue laughing waters, perhaps two miles from shore, the frequent resort of picnic parties and Ashing excursions. At last the keel of the Undine grated the sand, and Kittie sprang out, fastened her boat by carelessly tossing the chain over a gnarled root; and then, with her book in hand, and a pretty striped shawl over her arm, she wandered slowly down the beach. She wore a neat and becoming dress of dark-blue serge, and the broad-brimmed hat Already referred to, while thick boots rendered wet feet impossible. “ ‘I am monarch of all I survey!’ ” she cried, merrily, glancing about her—“a female edition of Robinson Crusoe. Some girls would be afraid to stay here a moment alone, but I—ah!” She paused in horror and amazement, a little cry of alarm fluttering from her lips. Right in her path was a great pine tree, and there, lying carelessly upon the grass below its branches, smoking like a small volcano, was. great heavens! Harold Ashleigh. He sprang to his feet in surprise, tossing his half-smoked cigar away. "Miss Kittiei” he ejaculated, helplessly; then he dropped a mocking glance to the ground at her feet. Kittie caught the glance, and choked back the nervous inclination to cry which possessed her. She turned a laughing face toward him, and because it was laughing, he failed to note its extreme pallor. “No, Mr. Ashleigh,” she cried, “I did not spring from the earth, like the enchanted people in fairy tales. I came here in my own boat;” then, after a slight pause, “Hal told me that you were down at the light-house.” “So I was,” returned Howard, serenely; “but becoming tired of the stale scenery in that vicinity, hired a boy to row me up here; I have never visited the island before, for ‘distance lends enchantment.’ I told the young man to return for me at sundown; I believe the tide rises about that time.” Kit tie shuddered. “I think you had better be away from here before sunset,” she returned, “unless you wish to share the fate of the ‘Three Fishers.’ My boat is below here, Mr. Ashleigh, where I left it, and if you choose-” He pointed to a mossy knoll at the foot of the tree. “It is very early yet. Miss Kittie,” he said, quietly. “Rest yourself here before we start on our return voyage. Allow me!” And taking the shawl from her arm as she obeyed him and seating herself, he threw it about her shoulders. “May I smoke, Miss Kittie?” he added; “perhaps you dislike tobacco smoke ?” She smiled and shook her head. “Have I not a brother?” she returned; “and is not cigar smoke and Hal Dexter synonymous ?” So Howard produced his cigar-case, and lighting a fragrant weed, stood leaning against the tree trunk watching the blue smoke rings curl over his head. He made no attempt at conversation, and Kittie seemed to have suddenly lost all power of speech. At length Howard stooped and took the book from her hand. “Tennyson!” he exclaimed, and opening the volume where a tiny blue ribbon marked the page; “you are reading ‘Elaine.’” A pencil mark drawn faintly around a particular passage caught his eye, and he began to read aloud slowly: “Sweet is true love, though given in vain, in vain ; And sweet is death, who puts an end to pain; I know not which is sweeter—no, not I. “Love, art thou sweet? then bitter death must be; Love, art thou bitter ?—sweet is death to me. Oh, love, if death be sweeter, let me die I” His voice was full of sadness; it faltered and broke; he closed the book and gave it back to Kittie. She arose, shivering a little. “I must go,” she said, hurriedly. “See! the sun is setting, and—look. Mr. Ashleigh! Oh. my, look!” For there at their very feet, crawling slowly up the shining sand, was a pool of black water. Above their heads the branches of the tree swayed in the rising breeze, and a faint, moaning sound went sadly through the bows—that unutterably mournful music of the wind among the pines. Howard’s face had grown very white, but he turned to the startled girl. “It is nothing. Miss Kittie,” he said, quietly, trying to infuse courage into her heart. “Come, you will show me where you have left the Undine; even though the water may have arisen about it, I can make my way to the boat. We had better make haste, too, for thore is a storm rising; that accounts for the tide coming in so rapidly—the wind sends it upon the shore.” She led him on to whore the Undine had been fastened, then paused, and alow cry of horror and despair burst from her white lips; for the boat was gone. Carelessly secured, the wind and the rising water had borne it away, and it was already far out at sea. Fora moment they stood there in perfect silence; then Howard forced a smile to his anxious face. “Don’t be discouraged, Miss Kittie,” he cried; “I do not believe that the island is ever entirely submerged. And. you know. I expect a boat to come for me directly: besides, even if the lad forgets or fails to keep the appointment. Hal will certainly miss you and come for you.” “True!” and Kittie’s face brightened. “How stupid in me. Some one will surely be here before long.” But alas! for human expectations. At that very moment, up at the hotel, Hal was making his toilet with eager haste; fora telegram bad just arrived, demanding his presence in the city, some fifty miles distant, where the headquarters of the engineer corps were stationed; and Hal’s duty was to obey all orders from his superior officer without delay. There was but a half-hour in which to catch the train. He never dreamed of the danger to which his sister was exposed, so, scribbling a line of explanation, which he left in Kittie’s room, he hastily prepared for his trip, and arrived at the station just in time to spring on board, and he whirled away to his destination. The lad who had been engaged to row over to the island for Mr. Ashleigh, had been sent on an errand to a distant portion of the village, his father promising to go in his place—for the gentleman. But the old man, seriously addicted to the use of intoxicating liquors, unfortunately at the hour appointed, was in no condition to fulfill the engagement, or even to remember it at all; so the two hapless young people were left to their fate. The dark waters crawled nearer and nearer, and Howard shouted himself hoarse, but the wind threw back his cries unanswered ; then they moved slowly on toward the center of the island, but slowly and surely the rising water followed them. The sun set in clouds of crimson and purple, and the twilight shadows gathered. The wind moaned piteously, and drove the tide in with ferocious haste, and at last darkness began to gather—dense, horrible darkness. Still no one came, no voice answered their frantic cries, for the wind was dead against them. It was a terrible predicament. Howard began to see dimly that the whole night might pass before help could be summoned, even if they escaped drowning, and his heart ached for the girl at his side, who, through no fault of her own, would be so seriously compromised. He might swim to the shore to obtain assistance, but the distance was so great, and he was a stranger, and feared that he might never reach the shore; besides he could not leave Kittie alone on the island to her fate. She might be drowned ere he could return with help. He turned the situation over and over in his mind, and he concluded that, as a roan of honor, there was but one course left to pursue. He did not dream that Kittie cared for him; such a thought had never occured to Howard Ashleigh. He gaih-ered together all the brushwood that had escaped the water, and piling it up into a huge heap, drew his match-safe from his pocket, and lighting a match, set the brush in a blaze. It would serve as a beacon-light, and perhaps some chance vessel might see it, and come to their rescue. He glanced at his watch by the glow of the burning fagots. Nine o’clock! What was the matter? Why had no °nne,J5ent for and—where was his boat- man? Mentally cursing his own folly, he nevertheless bent his energies to keepalive in Kittie’s heart the light of hope. The water still crawling upward had left them at last only the burning brushwood and a single dry spot, perhaps twem y feet square. Ten o’clock! Eleven! The time dragged its slow length along, and at last, from far away in the distant village, came the solemn midnight chimes. All hope of rescue was gone. The water was very near them now. He heaped more brushwood on the fire, and came to Kittie’s side. She had crouched at the foot of a tree, her face buried in her hands. “Kittie 1” he said, softly “look!” W She sprang to her feet, and peered through the shadows. The cold, dark water was breaking in tiny ripples against her feet. Howard took both her cold little hands, and looked into her face. “My child.” he said, softly, "what if it is death?” She forgot herself. She lifted her pallid face and great solemn eyes to his own. “ Sweet is death to me,’ ” she faltered. “ ‘Oh, love, if death be sweeter, let me die.’ ” Something in her eyes, in her voice, told the whole story, Howard’s heart bounded in his bosom, and then stood still. He drew her head down upon his shoulder. and gazed into her blue eyes. “Kittie,” he said, in a low, hushed tone, “it may be death; but, if it be God’s will that we should be spared, will you be my wife. Kittie?” She uttered a glad little cry, and buried her face in her hands. She did not stop to think that he had not said, "I love you.” She did not dream (in her innocence of the world’s wicked ways) that he had asked her this question, for her own sake alone, and to save her fair name from invidious comment and slanderous tongues; she only knew that he had asked her, and she faltered, brokenly: "1 will.” At that moment a loud shout broke the midnight silence, followed by another and another; then they saw. looming up through the dense gloom and darkness, a vessel bearing down toward the island. (TO BE CONTINUED.) ■----------------------------- Stella Kosevelt, OR, THE TRANSIT OF A STAR, By Mrs. GEORGIE SHELDON, AUTHOR OF “BROWNIE’S TRIUMPH,” “THE FORSAKEN BRIDE,” EARLE WAYNE’S NOBILITY,” “LOST, A PEARLE,” Etc., Etc. [“Stella Rosevelt” was commenced in No. 21. Back numbers can be had of all News Agents.] CHAPTER XIX.—(Continued.) Mr. Rosevelt sat in his arm-chair, by the table which stood between the two windows of his room, while Star knelt upon the floor at his side, her golden head bowed upon the arm of his chair, sobbing as if her heart was breaking. The old gentleman had laid one hand upon her bright head, and was soothing it gently as he tried to quiet her with low, fond words. “Dear child.” he said, tenderly, “don’t grieve so; you have been very brave so far; bear it a little longer and all will be well. I know yomhave tried to hide it all from me and every one else, but I’ve seen and known what you have had to contend with ever since I came here. You’ve had no love, no sympathy, and your poor starved heart has well-nigh broken under it. But cheer up, my dear—you have been a blessing to me; I have been very lonely nnd forlorn many times, but I should have had a sorrowful time of it, indeed, if my bright little Star had not shed her genial rays upon my pathway. “Indeed!” interrupted a voice from behind them, in its most sarcastic tones, causing Star to spring to her feet with a low cry of surprise, as she turned her flushed, tear-stained face toward the intruder, while Mr. Rosevelt looked up at his niece with a grave, displeased countenance. "Indeed!” Mrs. Richards repeated, her anger waxing hotter and fiercer as she imagined that Star had been pouring the story of her love and trial into her uncle’s ears. “Yoft^kaye both been sadly abused and heart-starved^ you?—for a couple of dependents you fay \dly, don’t you? and this is the gratitudL ___Jpreciation that you show. Stella Gladstone, goYJack to your room and remain there until I come to you; I wish to have a private conversation with you. As for you. Uncle Jacob, I am surprised that you should take sides with a sentimental schoolgirl against those who are providing most bountifully for her.” Mr. Rosevelt reached out his hand and took one of Star’s. “Remain where you are.” he said, with a quiet authority, which amazed while it enraged his niece. Then turning to her, he continued, in the same quiet tone, but with a deliberation which made every word tell: “Ellen Richards, you are a heartless, arrogant woman. You need not speak yet, for I am going to relieve my mind once for all. I am your father’s only brother, and when you were a child I helped him provide the very bread that appeased your hunger. When, later on, I became a rich man. and you were married and settled, you fawned upon and flattered me, protesting that there was nothing in the world that you would not do for ‘dear Uncle Jacob.’ Every time I returned from abroad, bringing you rich and elegant gifts, you urged me to quit my roving and come to live with you—your ‘home and heart would always be open’ to me, you said. It was the same with your brother Henry-words cost nothing, and his protestations were as fluent as your own. But when misfortune overtook me, and I returned to remain and to take him at his word, everything was changed. He received me coldly, giving me the poorest accommodation his house afforded, when before the "best were none too good for me. Finally, he and his family, by their coldness, neglect, and disagreeable hints, drove me to desperation, and I left them. I came hither, hoping that your woman’s heart would prompt you to receive a sick and failing old man with the kindness and sympathy which he so much needed and craved. But I met with even a worse reception; the very atmosphere of your house when I entered it told me at once that I was an unwelcome guest. You have ignored me when you could, and when you could not, you have taken pains to make me feel like an intruder and a dependent, although your husband evidently would be glad to be kind to me. if he could do so and keep the peace. “This child alone,” the old man continued, looking tenderly up into Star’s sad face, “has given me love and sympathy. Her kindness and little attentions have been like a bright spot in the darkness and loneliness of my life since coming to you; while your treatment of her has been culpable-” “Has she dared to complain of me to you?” cried Mrs. Richards, crimson with anger; for every word that he had uttered had been a reproach to her. and while she did not quite dare to vent her wrath upon him. she was glad of this allusion to Star, for upon her defenseless head she felt free to relieve herself. “No. she has never complained—she has even tried to conceal your treatment of her; but I have eyes and can see for myself, and it has been patent to me how her young heart has been starved, how every bright and enjoyable thing has been crushed out of her life. I know how she has had to do battle for even her education, and that you would have made a drudge and a slave of her. had you dared and your husband allowed you to do it. It is disgraceful, Ellen, for you to treat your cousin’s child in such a manner, when you owe so much to her mother----” “How do you know?—who has been telling you all this ? I am out of all patience!” Mrs, Richards interrupted, passionately. "Everybody is continually throwing at me the fact that Anna Chudleigh once saved my life. Hundreds of people have saved the lives of others and considered it their duty to have done so. If ©was drowning and Anna saw me. it was natural for her—it belonged to her to save me if she could, as I should have done, no doubt, had the circumstances been reversed.” “True; but this view of the case does not lessee your obligation, nor license you to abuse the trurf that has been committed to you,” Mr. Rosevelt answered, sternly. “You bound yourself to this chil/s dying father to‘do the best you could for her,'to give Tier a home, and see that her education vas properly attended to. and you owed it to him and to her to keep your promise.” “I owed her nothing,” cried the enraged vflman, losing all control of herself.” and you. Uncle Jacob, are overstepping all bounds by interfering with what is none of your business 1” „ “The girl saved my life almost at the s^rifloe of her own, and I shall make it my business^ do what I can for her while I live,” Mr. Roseveltanswered, with dignity. , . . “Well, you will And, I reckon, that have not helped her cause very much by taking up weapons against me for her.” snapped nis n/i’Cd. vindictively, and with a glance of dislike f>tar. bavea your life!” she continued, sarca^/cally. 'veil, perhaps she did. but in my opin^a that is all sentimental gush, for she is an artful jade, and has 6 THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. June 4,1883. I A slight motion from her checked him in what he was going to say. “N<>. there is no mistake, and this much I will explain to you. I did meet Lord Carrol to-night as Mrs. Richards has told you.” she said. "I did believe myself his betrothed wife, and him to be a man of hon >r, until he came here last night as Miss Richard’s acknowledged suitor: and when I saw him this evening I did denounce him as a traitor. It seems that he has volunteered explanations to suit himself, to Mr. and Mrs. Richards, and I decline to go further into particulars with them. I have no desire to blight Miss Josephine’s prospects in life, and I wish her all joy with her high-born and honorable lover.” Pen cannot portray the scorn which pervaded those last words, ringing out so clearly, so scathingly that Mrs. Richards’cheeks burned, and her ears tingled; for this was the men—it he really had been the traitor which she wished to make him appear—whom she was using all her arts to secure for Josephine’s husband. “I am amazed I I cannot understand,” Mr. Rosevelt repeated, with a troubled face. Ho believed Star to be as pure-minded, and as innocent of wrong as a little child. He had been convinced from what had transpired on the previous Saturday, that she loved Archibald Sherbrooke, and not knowing that he was also Lord Carrol, he of course was completely puzzled ovex* the mystery. “I do not see how you dare look any respectable person in the face, and confess what you just have, without seeking to clear yourself,” retorted Mrs. Richards, sternly. “You are compromising your character in the most wretched manner. What can I believe of you—what can any one believe of you, if you own to having been upon such intimate terms with a man of such standing as Lord Carrol, while he is here as the acknowledged suitor of my daughter ?” “The very worst that you can believe, madam,” Star returned, calmly, and meeting the woman’s eye fearlessly, but with a look which made her quail in spite of herself, "can only serve to compromise the man, whose favor and title you appear so anxious to secure, more than it possibly can me. Notwithstanding whatever claim I may have supposed myself to have heretofore possessed upon nim, I now most cheerfully resign it in favor of Miss Richards.” Were ever words so cutting? Was there ever so barbed a sentence so calmly uttered before? Mrs. Richards ground her teeth with rage over the fact that the man whom poor despised Star Gladstone thus spurned, believing him to be the very soul of dishonor, she knew Josephine was using all her arts to win, while of course she could not undeceive her because it would spoil her plot. “You are an insolent, overbearing girl!” she said, in a low. hissing tone; “and I wonder how I have tolerated you in my house as long as I have—I wonder how you dare face me and use such insulting language to me after your shameless conduct.” “I am neither insolent nox* overbearing. Mrs. Richards. Evex* since I came into your house I have striven to do as nearly right as I knew how, and to make as little trouble as possible. It is you who have been overbearing, who have wounded me by insulting the memory of my parents, and have tried to crush and trample upon me. In no way have I rebelled against your authority except in the determination not to become acommon servant, and to pursue my education. This I did in justice to myself, and because I had promised my father I would do it. If you have ‘tolerated me in your house,’ believe me, there has been as much toleration exercised upon my part, for in no sense of the word has it been a home to me; instead, it has been merely a place of shelter, a spot to exist in until I could complete my education. I can bear it no longer—I shall consider your house no longex* my home,” Star concluded, with a decision which rather startled Mrs. Richards. But she retorted, derisively: "Your independent spirit ill becomes you; where could you go? Who would take you—a penniless beggar—in, and give you the advantages which you have been enjoying during the past year? But it is folly for me to give heed to your idle words. I command you to return directly to your room and hold no intercourse with any one, and to-morrow I will decide what course to pursue with reference to your future.” She had been planning to pack her off to Brooklyn wiih one of the servants until Lord Carrol’s visit should be ended, and thus avoid all possibility ot an interview and its attendant explanations. But Star did not move. She remained standing quietly by Mr. Rosevelt’s chair, as if she had not heard her command. "Did you hear what I said?” she demanded, sharply. "Yes. madam.” “Well, do you intend to obey me ?” “No, madam.” “Whatl” “I refuse to recognize yeur authority over me from this moment. I refuse to obey any longer one who. from the first, has been governed only by feelings of personal spite in all her dealings with me,” Star returned, firmly. Mrs. Richards could scarcely credit her ears. She had not imagined that the usually quiet girl possessed a tithe of this spirit. “Well. Uncle Jacob, what do you think of your little pattern of excellence now?” demanded the astonished woman, turning with an injured air to her uncle, who was nearly as much amazed himself. "I think the child has been severely tried.” he returned. quietly, whereupon Mrs. Richards flew into another rage. "I must say. Uncle Jacob, that I consider it very bad taste in you to take sides with her against me; and let me warn you, that you have both got yourselves into trouble by the doings of this night.” The arrogant dame did not wait for any reply, but turned abruptly and left the room; retiring, however, with a sense of defeat which it was not pleasant to contemplate. The moment that the door closed after her. Star dropped again upon the floor by Mr. Rosevelt’s side, heart-broken. He saw that she was utterly unnerve I by what had just transpired, and for awhile he left her lo herself. At length, when she became more calm, he said, sorrowfully, yet gently: "My child, tell me what Ellen means. What cause has she for coming hero to accuse you of such dreadful things? Who is this Lord Carrol, and what has he been to you ?” Star lifted her white, pained face to him. “You do not believe what she has told you—you do not believe I would be guilty of anything so shameless as she would try to make me appear?” she questioned, brokenly. "No, no; I think there is some terrible misunderstanding. I do not believe you would do anything which you knew to be wrong; and yet your own words have mystified me—I cannot comprehend them.” “I will tell you all about it. I would not explain anything to her—I could not after* she had told me what he said,” Star answered; but her face flushed with shame at the thought of confessing a tale of love and devotion on her part, of deception and treachery on the part of the man whom sho had so trusted. It seemed to her like a lack of dignity and of strength of character that she should have been so easily duped. Then she told him all the story of her love for Archibald Sherbrooke, beginning with that day .dien they had exchanged souvenirs on the steamer. and which she felt had been the commencement of their love. She told him how he had prevented her from leaping on the cars when they wen1 in motion, and how every day after that he had contrived to meet her. luring her heart from hex* day by day, until the previous Saturday he had declared his love for her. and won her promise to be his wife as soon ns she should have graduated. "Oh, Uncle Jacob.” Star concluded, hiding her face on the arm of his chair again. "I believed him so true, so honorable, so worthy of my love, and now to find him so unprincipled and treacherous, it crushes me!” Mr. Rosevelt looked very grave—almost stern. "This is just as I supposed—as I was led to believe from youi* appearance last Saturday. I knew w»41 enough, when we returned home from Coney Island, that you had promised to be Sherbrooke’s wife. But I don’t understand his treachery, as you call it, nor what connection all this has with the young lord who has come to ask for Josephine’s hand,” he said, coldly. Star looked up again, at the •unfamiliar tone. "Oh!’’ she said, wearily; “I am so miserable that I have not made it plain to you—I have not told you; but Lord Cnrrol is only another name for the man who called himself Archibald Sherbrooke. Under i he latter he cheated me into loving him, and he has ruined my life; under the former, which is his real name, I suppose, he has been trying to win the heiress.” Mr. Rosevelt was speechless from amazement at this levelation, and fora full minute could only look down into those piteous, uplifted eyes, in mute dismay. "Impossible!” he cried, at length; "I cannot believe it; I cannot think that young Sherbrooke would be guilty of anything so dastardly. There must be some mistake.” "There is no mistake,” Star returned, with despair in her tones. "I was sitting at the window of my room when he arrived, and of course I recognized him at once. His form, his bearing, his handsome face, the tones of his voice—everything was identical with Archie Sherbrooke from whom we parted last Saturday evening. At flrst I was crushed by the blow; then I thought perhaps Lord Carrol had disappointed them, and Archie had come to me as he had promised to do Monday or Tuesday; hut this hope fled when I heard (hem address him as Lord Carrol, and he replied at once to the name. It has broken my heart. Uncle Jacob!” Star wailed, pouring out all her sorrow to him. "I do not know how I over lived last night through; I do not believe I was conscious half the time; while to-day I have doubtless palavered and cooed over you until she has pulled the wool over your eyes in fine shape.” “What could have been her object. Ellen ?” asked the old gentleman, dryly. “Certainly not the expectation of getting any portion of my fortune. siip'6 appearances must have indicated to her as well as to you that I had nothing to give her. If she had known me. and done all this when Iwas considered rich. there might possibly be some reason in your accusation.” This shaft told keenly, forhis niece colored guiltily to the roots of her hair. “Your irony is ill-timed, it appears to me. Uncle Jacob.” she said, sullenly.” especially as you are indebted to me for tho bare necessaries of life, not to speak of its comforts.” “Indebted to you. am I. Ellen? I do not believe in recriminations, but allow me to ask. do you know the cost of those diamonds which you have on ? and have you forgotten where you got them ?” Mrs. Richards’ brilliant color forsook her in an instant. and she became as white as the mass of snowy lace which rose and fell with the angry pul-.^ai ion of her heart. Her passionate temper prompted her to tear those flashing stones from her person and cast them in the fa<*e of her accuser; but her pride and avarice were the strongest attributes of her nature, and knowing that she would not be likely to have them replaced, she refrained from so rash an act. “I do not begrudge you your jewels. Ellen,” Mr. Rosevelt continued, more gently, perceiving how keenly she felt his reproof, “but when you twit me of being indebted to you for the simple necessaries of life, it is rather more than 1 can tamely submit to. I was fond of making presen s in the days that are gone, and I felt repaid for my diamonds by the joy that lighted up your face when I gave them to yon; but I confess it is a little hard to be considered a burden by you now, while I am deeply grieved to have Star’s young life made so unnappy.” “I tell you you do not know the girl—she is as artful as she can be, and I can prove it to you,” Mrs. Richards exclaimed, glad to have the subject changed, for she was considerably conscience smitten <>ver (he diamonds. “I do not think you can prove anything of the kind. Ellen,” Mr. Rosevelt returned, quietly. “Listen then,” she retorted, eagerly, “and I will tell you how to-night I have discovered her to be guilty of the the most shameless conduct.” Star started and flushed at (he accusation. She had not a suspicion that her secret had been discovered. “It seems.” continued Mrs. Richards, “that while going back and forth, to ami from school this fall, she has been flirting in the most desperate manner with a young man—a perfect stranger to her, and one so far above her socially (hat it was rankest presumption in her to do as she has done. She has even entrapped him into—or rather. I should say, she has misconstrued his conversation with her. to mean a declaration of love for her. and now that he has found her out and turns with disgust from her artful designing, she has shamelessly taxed him with unfaithfulness and treachery.” Star turned and regarded her accuser in perfect amazement. She could scarcely credit her sense of hearing. How did Mrs. Richards know anything about her meetings with Lord Carrol, alias Archibald Sherbrooke. or of her interest in him? and who had represented it in this disgraceful light? "This young man. the cunning woman went on. “is no other than Lord Carrol, who. for the month that we were at Long Branch, paid the most devoted attention to Josephine, and accepted our invitation here with the intention, as we supposed, of formally declaring himself to her. and securing her father’s consent to their marriage.” A convulsive tremor ran through every fiber of the young girl’s being as she stood there and listened to this artful tale, and Mr. Rosevelt, who still held her hand, was sensible of it, and wondered what it could all mean. He had not a suspicion that Lord Carrol, and the handsome young artist whom he so admixed, were one and the same, but he knew that something must be very wrong to move Star so, and make her look so deathly white. “You Ipok astonished,” Mrs. Richards said, “and well you may. and your surprise will increase when I have told you all.” “I am sure.” he answered, glancing from one to the other, "that there must be some mistake.” “There is no mistake,” replied his niece, coldly, and fixing a merciless glance upon Star, “for Lord Carrol has just had an interview with my husband, during which he told him the whole story. He says his first meeting with Stella was caused by an accident, and that she appeared so bright and intelligent, (hat whenever lie met her afterward he spoke with her and treated her kindly. He did not even have the least idea where she lived until to-night, after dinner. He went out for a quiet smoke, when she presented herself before him, accused him of coming here as Josephine’s lover, and denounced him as a traitor in the strongest terms and most unmaidenly manner, and telling him. greatly to his surprise, that she was an inmate of the house where he was a visitor. Of couse after such a denouement he could do^Txther way than to seek Mr. Richards, and exp^ything lest this rash girl should, outofaf \revengeand disappointment, destroy with Josephine.” It was a cunningly distorted story, and Star, as she listened to it, bowed hex’ head and covered her face with her bands, while a low cry of despair broke from her lips. She had not dreamed that the man whom she had learned to love, who, with his open, handsome face, his frank, manly ways, had won her deepest respect, her strongest affections, could be guilty of so cowardly an act as to betray her thus. And yet he must have done so, else how could Mrs. Richards have known anything about tho matter? Yes, without doubt, he had feared that she would openly denounce him before the family where he had so unexpectedly found her, and so had given this version of the great wrong that he had done her, in order to shield himself. His own prospects of winning the rich heiress must not be interfered with, so he adopted this coup d'etat of going to Mrs. Richards and, with apparent frankness, confessing that his trifling attention to a silly girl had resulted in leading her to believe she had won a wealthy and titled husband. This was just what Mrs. Richards had wished to make Star believe, and she succeeded only too well, for the young girl was well-nigh crushed to the earth with a sense of shame, and humiliation, and wounded love. And yet. even while she felt that Archibald Sherbrooke—she could not think of him in any other character—had been guilty of a most cowardly and treacherous act, had steeped his soul in sin by winning her heart to break it, and thus ruining her whole life, she loved him still. CHAPTER XX. star’s determination. “Star, my dear child, what does she mean?” Mr. Rosevelt ejaculated in a tone of wonder as his niece concluded. “It is unnecessary to ask her whether I have spoken the truth or not; her very looks and manner betray that she is guilty of what I have told you.” Mrs. Richards said, scornfully. “I did not suppose, however, with her innocent face and apparently quiet, modest manner, that she could be quite so shameless. But it is always so—such catlike natures always work in the dark.” Star’s proud little head came up with a haughty air at this taunting speech, while her blue eyes grew dark and ominous. “You are accusing me ignorantly and most unjustly,” she said, in a hard tone, but with pained and quivering lips. “How so? Do you presume to deny that you met Lord Carrol in the grounds to-night ?” demanded Mrs. Richards, severely. “No.” “You did meet him ?” _ “Yes.” “And denounced him as a traitor.” “Yes. I believe him to be a traitor to truth and honor, and—a coward." They were hard, cruel words to be said of Archibald Sherbrooke, whom she had loved so dearly, and believed to be so noble and true, and her heart thrilled with keenest pain as she uttered them, but sho believed he had basely deceived her. “Explain yourself,” commanded Mrs. Richards, bridling. “I shall explain nothing.” Star answered, coldly yet firmly. “What I said to Lord Carrol to-night was intended for him alone. If he has chosen to betray me, the responsibility rests upon himself, and you can can go to him for explanations if you choose.” O “Where did you meet him flrst—how did you make his acquaintance?” asked Mrs. Richards, longing to get Star’s version of the story. “I decline to answer any questions upon the subject ” she returned, quietly. “I command you to tell me.” “And I still decline,” Star said, with an air that Surprised both of her listeners. Sho was as colorless now as a block of marble. *ht so beautiful in her proud sorrow, her agonized 8c?rn, that, they could but regard her with wonder. T You have no right to refuse what I ask of you: your guardian, ami I demandatruthful con-”^n of this whole scandalous affair,” Mrs. Rich-.y&teiterated. sharply. have already had it. you say. from Lord Car-mnt^nlips; it will therefore be unnecessary for niHwd^^^r enlarge upon it.” the young girl re-dibitAH W-h calm scorn, while her delicate nostrils contem\^ sweet ^P® with supreme tn.understand ; there must be some mis-ki ejaculated Mr. Rosevelt, his face a you „banK> * I thought. Saturday, Star, that been too weak, and ill, and wretched to care what became of me “P<»or child! poor child!” he murmured, softly. “To-night,” she went on. “I felt as if I must get out into tho air. I must see a friendly face, and hear a kindly voice, so I came to you, although I did not mean to tell you anything of my trouble. I meant to bear it alone, and never let nny one know how cruelly I had been deceived, or how readily I had given my foolish heart away.” The old gentleman laid his hand on her shining head, smoothing her hair with a tender touch. He was nearly weeping himself to see this beautiful young girl so crushed. “On my way down here,” she pursued, “I felt faint—my strength all left me, and I stopped and leaned against a tree to reeovex* myself, and while I stood there he si ole up behind me, laid his hand on my shoulder, and asked in surprise how I came to be there. I gave him the street and number where we lived last Saturday, but I suppose when Mr. Richards and Josephine went to meet him at the station and brought him here, he did not once think it was the same place, for I have never told him their names. He believed me to be a pool* girl, and never would have thought of finding me in a place like this—that was why he was so overcome with surprise when he saw me to-night. But when I charged him with personating two characters-having two names, he could not deny it—he owned that he was Lord Carrol, but tried to make me let him explain. I would not—there could be nothing to explain; he had deceived me, and it was enough, I could never trust him aftex* that. I called him a traitor and a coward, and then I ran away and came to you, who are the only friend I have in this wide, weary world.” “You did right, dear, to come to me: but were you not a trifle hasty and rash ? I think you should have listened to young Sherbrooke’s—or whoever he may be—defense.” Mr. Rosevelt said, gently. "What possible defense could he have had to offer ?” Star cried, in a voice of scorn. "He has pretended to be Archibald Sherbrooke, a simple artist, to me. while everybody else knows him as Lord Carrol, of Carrolton.” "But he may have been traveling incognito, under the former name?” suggested Mr. Rosevelt. "Then why did he not keep it to the end? Why did he go to a fashionable watering place and flourish as a titled Englishman, and devote himself to Josephine? Why did he resume the former name upon meeting me again, and lead me to Jove him. believing him to be a poor artist ? No, there can be nothing said in defence of such double dealing as this. He has cheated and fooled me. I have found him out, and compelled him to own it. It is enough to make me scorn him; but it has been a bittex* lesson, and has taught me neverto trust a man again,” Star concluded, with vehement bitterness. "Never, Star? Surely that acrimonious resolve does not include me,” said Mr. Rosevelt, with gentle reproach. “No: I know that you are kind and true, and you are the only one in the world who cares for me,” the suffering girl said, in husky tones. “Indeed, my child, you have become very dear to me. and my life would be very forlorn without you.” Star bent down and touched his hand with her lips. In her wretchedness it comforted her greatly to know that she had contributed to his happiness. “But I cannot get ovex* what you have told me. I never was so deceived in my life before, and if this young sprig of English nobility is the villian you represent him, he is not fit to live,” Mr. Rosevelt said, sternly, after a few moments of thoughtful silence. Star shivered with pain. Much as she believed she scorned him, she could not endure that another should speak disparagingly of him. "Never mind him. Uncle Jacob,” she said. “I have put him out of my life forever, and now I want to talk to you about something^ else. You say that I have made your life happier since you came here, and that you would be very lonely without me. I am going to tell you a little secret, and then 1 want you to promise to go away from here with me. I am not going to remain here another day,” she concluded. decidedly. "Is that your secret, Star?” “Part of it,” she answered, with a sad smile. “I have a little money, as you know—a hundred pounds, which at Mr. Richards’ suggestion I put at interest last year. Now I want to take this money and make a cozy littLh home for you and me somewhere, until I get through school—there will be enough to last till f.hen 1 think—and aftex* that I shall be able to take care of us both in fine style, by teaching and giving music lessons.” He smiled skeptically as she planned so hopefully what her poor hundred pounds would do. while a tear started to his eye at her thought for him. She saw that he did not think she could do ajl that she told him. and flushed. “You do not believe that I shall be able to take care of us both,” she said, eagerly; "but I know that I can, fox* I have'not yet told you all. Listen.” She bent nearer to him, and putting her lips close to his ear, told him something which even you and I must not know just yet, my patient reader. He was nearly as much surprised as he had been to learn of Archibald Sherbrooke’s treachery. "My dear,” he said, while his face lighted with pride and joy, “you shall have your way, and I will do just as you wish, and I--” He checked himself suddenly, dropped his head in thought fox* a moment, then resumed: "I am not happy hero any more than yourself, and have been thinking for some time that I must go away; but I could not bear the thought of parting from you. Now we will go together, as you wish, unless----” “Unless what, Uncle Jacob?” Star asked, anxiously. “Unless you will let me see this young scamp of a lord, and take him to task for his faithlessness to you.” “Never!” Stax* replied, proudly. “What good would it do to--” "There may be some mistake; he might be able to explain everything satisfactorily, interrupted Mr. Rosevelt. Star’s beautiful lips curled. "What would his explanations amount to? He is here as a suitox’ fox* Josephine’s hand—they all confess it; and did you ever listen to a more monstrous story than Mrs. Richards repeated here tonight? To think that ne could say anything so basely false of mo is almost enough to drive me wild,” Star cried, excitedly. “No, Uncle Jacob, although he has been guilty of the most cruel treachery, I will not contend with him; if he is such a craven that he would try to win a young girl’s heart fox* the amusement of breaking it. and then seek to blight her fair fame by charging her with what he has imputed to me to-night, he is too far beneath me to be worthy of anything save my supreme contempt, and I never wish to meet him ' again—I only want to get away from them all and never see their faces more,” Her voice broke with such a wail of despair in it that the old man could not And it in his heart to refuse hex* anything. “Very well, we will go away to-morrow,” he said, sorrowfully. "Oh. thank you, Uncle Jacob,” the unhappy girl said, eagerly; "and will you go without letting them know? They wouki never consent, and I do not wish them even to know where I go.” “Yes, we will go without saying anything to any one; we can leave a note telling them why we go, and it shall bo the object of the little time that remains to me to care for you and try to make your young life a little brighter than it has been,” he returned, thoughtfully. "How early can you be ready?” he asked, after a moment. "By daylight; the earlier the better,” she returned, earnestly; "every moment here is full of pain fox* rm\” "Very well; there is a six-o’clock tratn—the workingmen’s train—into New York; we will take it and find a home for ourselves somewhere in the city. But how about your school. Star? They will seek for you there.” “I will go to Professor Roberts and tell him that circumstances compel me to leave, and ask him for a recommendation to some other institute; there are ot hers in the city where they would never think of looking for me, and where I can graduate next year as I have planned to do.” “It shall be just ns you wish, my dear; I feel that I am doing you no wrong in gratifying you; you shall be like a young daughter to me. and I—1 promise I will be no burden to you. notwithstanding that I am old and feeble, Mr. Rosevelt answered, with a sad smile. "A burden!” Star repeated, with quivering lips. “Oh. please do not imagine such a thing! It is you who are to take care of me and shield me until I graduate, for without you to help me bear the responsibility. I should not dare to take such a step.” Mr. Rosevelt smiled again. “You try to make the obligation appear all your own; but I share it. nevertheless; and I think you and I will be far happier away from the unpleasant influences which have surrounded us during the past year. 1 am quite anticipating the change. I assure you. Now you must go to rest; you look more like a ghost than a star just now; and my heart has been deeply pained to-night for tho suffering that you have had to endure; bit I believe it will yet be made up to you in some way,” he concluded, with grave thoughtfulness. He sat regarding her earnestly for a few moments. Then he said, while his eyes were fixed questioning! y on hex* face: "This is a different kind of a storm, child, from the one which you and I passed through at sea— your faith was strong then—you were not afraid to die; how is it now ? Do you believe your G<>drules this kind of a storm also ?” There was a skeptical smile on the old man’s Ups, and a bitterness in his tone as he asked this, which Ailed the young girl’s heart with remorse. She looked up at him with a startled glance, while her pained face almost instantly relaxed into an expression of trustfulness and peace. “Uncle Jacob,” she said, with a solemn sweetness which impressed him deeply, “you could not have said anything for which I should thank you more— you have r< called me to myself. I should not have forgotten fora moment that God rules everywhere and over eve^thing. Yes. I believe He knows best, even though 1 cannot understand why I must suffer this bitter trial.” The old man sighed deeply, and his face was very grave. “Good-night!” he said, abruptly, and rising, led her to the door. When he reached it. he bent suddenly down and touche-1 her forehead with his lips, and Star, witii a low-spoken "good-night.” went away with a sorely aching heart indeed, but greatly comforted by his sympathy, while a spirit of submission had succeeded to the bitterness and rebellion of the previous hour. Jacob Rosevelt locked the door after her, and went back to the table where he had been sitting when she came to him. Opening the drawer, he took out a package of papbrs and letters, which he carefully looked over. When he had read them all. he selected a portion, tore them into atonis. and throwing them into the . grate where there was a slow Are. watched them 1 until they had burned to ashes, with a white, stern face. Then he sat down again and wrote far into the night. The next morning when Mrs. Blunt went up to see how Star was feeling, and if she had any appetite for her breakfast, she found hex* room empty. “Goodness gracious! the child has got up and gone to school, and without a mouthful to stay her stomach, or I’m much mistaken!” she said, in a voice of dismay. Then, as her eye fell upon the open drawers of the bureau, and the empty closet, a sudden feax* oppressed her. A little note lying upon the bed now attracted her attention, and she eagerly pounced upon it. It was directed to her. and with trembling Angers she opened it and read: “Dear Mrs. Blunt : Something has occurred which makes it impossible for me to remain here any longer, and I am going away to take care of myself. You have always been very kind to me, and I thank you very much for it, and shall never forgetit. Sometime T hope to see you again, and I trust you will always think kindly of “Stella Gladstone.” The good woman sat down and wept bitter tears over this brief note, for she had learned to love the bright, kind-hearted girl who always had a cheery word for her. She knew the house would nevex* seem the same again without her. Then she went down to tell the news to her master. She met John Mellen in the hall, who had come with the intelligence that Mr. Roseveil left the lodge early that morning, taking all that belonged to him—“which was not much, yer honor,” he volunteered, and he handed Mr. Richards a note which the old gentleman had left for him. [TO BE CONTINUED.! Horsford’s Acid Phosphate In Sick Headache. Dr. FRED HORNER, Jr., Salem, Va., says: “I know of nothing comparable to it to relieve the indigestion and so-called sick headache, and mental depression incident to certain stages of rheumatism.” --------►-<-<------- Fred, the Factory Boy on. The Old Blotting-PacL By WM. MASON TURNER, M. D. [“Fred, the Factory Boy?” was commenced in No. 27. Back numbers can be had of all News Agents.] CHAPTER XII. THE OLD BLOTTING-PAD. In an instant everything was in confusion; but in an instant, too, Fred Farley was by the Aying belt. The expression on his face was absolutely grand in its heroism. It meant plainly to do or die. Clutching the maiden with his left hand, he sprang on the spanner of the wheel, placed his shoulder, at deadly risk to himself, against the surging belt, and by an effort that was desperate and gigantic, Aung the broad leather clear of the rollers. The wheel spun on and stood still. The danger was over; a life had been saved, and as the operatives who clustered around saw that daring, herculean feat, a cheer from a hundred throats went up. causing the solid walls of the factory to tremble. * < * * ** ** That night, long atter the lights were lit in the great Oriental Mills, and the day-shift had gone out and the night-gang entered upon duty, old Abijah Thorne sat in the counting-room of the factory. He had company—Red Roon was there. The two had been earnestly conversing for along time, and the faces of both were clouded with frowns. But upon that of the foreman was also an expression of determination. At length he arose. "I shall expect you to keep your promise, Mr. Thorne; you must and shall keep it!” he said, sternly. “Your pay has not been good enough. My secret is worth everything in life to you. But Ave thousand dollars will sen! my lins forever, and if you keep your promise I’ll leave Providence, never to return, an hour aftex* I handle the gold.” "Count on me, Roon. I’ll expect you. and the money shall be yours,” said Mr. Thorne, Armly. The foreman bowed and left the room. “And something else will be yours, too. Red Roon I” hissed the mill-owner, as he half drew from his pocket a grim-looking pistol. Roon hurried to the stairs. “All is well!” he muttered. "And now for revenge-revenge on Fanny Farley! The boy is here still, looking over the books for me. * Bah! well, as he is good at the belt business. I’ll give him another. Ha! you. Fred!” “Yes, sir,” answered the lad. who at that moment appeared at the landing above. "I have Axed t he tally all right, and I must hurry home to mother, who is--” “Just a moment, Fred,” said Roon, cordially, though he was taken back. “I wish you would help me with a few packages in the bale-room. I’ll only keep you Ave minutes, and I’ll give you half a dollar for staying.” “Very good, sir; but I don’t like to take the money. It looks--” "Oh, yes; take it, Fred,” and the man pushed it into the unwilling palm of the boy. The two ascended to the second Aoor, and hurried down its long, dim-lit depth. Nothing was going on there or on the Aoor beneath. A moment or so, and they entered a room at the extreme end of the passage. It was the bale-room, where goods were packed for shipping. Through it ran one of the large belts that drove the mill machinery. The apartment was lit up by a single burner, which was turned down low. "Here it is. Fred; give me a lift with this box. It is a triAe too much for me; but it must be got ready for shipping to-morrow.” “Yes, sir.” And the lad advanced in the direction of the foreman. He had just reached the spot, and bent to clutch the package, when Roon suddenly seized him by the shoulders and hurled him straight across the broad belt, which was rushing up through the Aoor. In an instant Fred’s jacket caught in the tags, and he shot upward like lightning against the heavy beams above. The villain waited no longer. He Aed from the room, locked the door, taking the key with him, and darted toward the staircase. “Ha, ha!” he muttered. "Now I’ve paid Zieroffl And the coroner will say: ‘Locked in by xnistake— death accidental.’” And when Red Roon went to bed that night in his room in the mill, he said the same words again, and sank into a quiet, unbroken slumber. But the scoundrel, after all, was cheated in his bloody work. Fred was hurled against the beams with tremendous force; but that very force saved his life, for, as he struck the rafters his jacket gave way, and he fell heavily to the Aoor. The blow and the fall stunned him, and he lay for several moments motionless and quiet. At last, however, his senses returned. He arose, and groped his way toward the door. It was locked. But the boy was not, thwarted. He climbed to the window, eased himself over the edge, and dropped upon the platform of the Are-escape without. He rapidly descended the outside stairs. They led into an open lot at the rear of the mill. Old Abijah Thorne’s counting-room windows looked out on this lot. The boy hurried away. He had left the Oriental Mills, never to return as an operative. But he suddenly halted and glanced at his feet. The moon was shining with its full splendor. Right before Fred, on the ground, and close together, lay two small, half tarnished, half-bright objects. The boy picked them up. They were little brass keys. Fred putthem in his pocket, and hurried away. Reaching an alley, he turned into it, and soon stood in silent, deserted Broad street. He wasted no time, bul, with a bosom filled with conflicting emotions, he strode on toward his home on Arctic alley. In due time the narrow by-way was reached, and Fred was about to enter it; but at that moment a light carriage rattled up. Then it stopped very suddenly, as a voice cried out: "Is that Fred Farley ?” "Yes, sir; and that must be Dr. Wax'd,” returned the boy, advancing toward the carriage. "Yes. Heaven be praised! Here, Fred, quick, get in: I want to see you. But,” in a low, trembling voice*'have you seen any strange keys about the Oriental Mills ’i" ***** We must go back somewhat. That night at an early houx* Dr. Ward was in his office. He was slowly striding up and down (he room. His brow was wrinkled in thought, and his lips were tightly compressed. At length he strode to the table. Neax* the table was a tall, half-length mirror. The physician glanced in it. "By Jove!” he muttered, with a dry laugh, "this confounded matter is telling on me. I am looking haggard. But. come what, may, I’ll send (his letter. I cannot bear this thraldom longer. I do not love Laura Thorne; but I do love—nay, I idolize the poor, hump-backed Fanny Farley!” He picked up a letter which lay open upon the table, and reau aloud thus: “Miss Thorne: “As an honest man, I must impart to you a secret. How you will take it I cannot say, but 1 hope, well. To be frank, Miss Thorne, I have discovered that I do not love you as a bridegroom should love his affianced. I was deceived. My heart beats in love only for one- she is Fanny Farley, the deformed daughter of an humble sea farer. I am honest with you, and, for reasons above given, I respectfully and earnestly ask a release from any engagement with you. Can I trouble you to return a few words in answer by bearer? Respectfully yours, “Clavis Ward, M. d. “’Twill do!” muttered the physician, as he slid the sheet into an envelope and wrote the direction. He struck a hand-bell on the table. A moment and his office-boy entered from an adjoining room. "Take this to Mr. Thorne’s, No. — Benefit street, and await an answer. Hurry, James, I’ll expect you back soon.” The boy took the letter, snatched up his cap, and left at once. Nearly three-quarters of an hour elapsed, the physician passing the time in striding up and down the room, and tugging at his long, tawny mustache. But at last the boy returned. He handed the doctor a small, tinted envelope, and retired to the other room. As soon as the door was closed Dr. Ward glanced at the delicately written superscription, and opened the envelope. On the small, perfumed sheet which he drew from within, were a few lines. With a grim smile the young man read: “Dr. WARD: “You have been free from your engagement for two months! Perhaps you were too dull to see that I had long ago tired of you. I am engaged to Mr. Chai les Henry Fitz Norris. But you must not pout, if. I omit to send you a wedding invitation. In the meantime, allow me, in advance, to wish you joy with the hump-backed miss of the mills. Respectfully, “Laura Thorne.” The doctor continued to smile. This is my freedom,” he at last ejaculated. “Fanny shall be my wife, and I can heal her of her deformity. Yes, this letter is my freedom, and I’ll write upon it a fitting indorsement, and hide it away nmong my precious heir-looms.” He dipped a pen in the inkstand, and on the obverse of the little envelope wrote a few lines. Holding it ud, he readp "This released me from slavery!” He took up a blotter. It was the same that Fred Farley had picked ud in the windy passage of the mills long before—the same that Dr. Ward had found in his sleigh. The physician poised it between his fingers, for a moment, as he glanced in the mirror before him. But suddenly he started, as if struck by lightning. He had seen some words, revealed in right position, by the mirror on the blotter. Trembling in every limb, he arose, held the pad close to the glass, and read: "The receipt for money borrowed from Evan Farley. Now hid for all time. Keys flung away!” Dr. Ward reeled back with a face as white as a winding sheet. "Great God!” he muttered. “Here is his guilt! And now fox* the proof. The keys\ the keys!” Ten minutes later, his light carriage stood before the door. He sprang in and drove away like one mad. He was speeding toward the Oriental Mills. CHAPTER XIII. “ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.” “Keys, doctor!” gasped Fred, trembling with a sudden excitement as he noted the physician’s anxious, perturbed manner. At the same time he thrust his hand into his pocket. “Yes, yes, Fred—quick!” "I’ve got two, doctor; I found them not ten minutes ago in the lot behind the factory. Here they are.” Dr. Ward clutched the keys and murmured, in a broken voice: “God be praised! for His hand is in it. Now, Fred, business of the sternest kind lies before me, before us," He grasped the reins. “Where are you going, doctor?” “To the Oriental Mills!” "To the mills! and what for, doctor?” “To find that which will restore to you and yours your long-kept dues! that which will send old Abijah Thorne to the penitentiary for twenty years!” was the grim answer, as the young man’struck the restive steed with his whip and rattled away. A few moments latex* he pulled the sweat -reeking horse down to a walk. The great factory loomed up, grim and spectral, just beyond, its hundreds of bright windows flashing out in the moonlit nig51t. "Is old Thorne there now, Fred ?” asked the d''C-tor, as, at last, he stopped the horse. "I think not, sir; he seldom stays this late.” “Can we get into the mill ?” “Easily, sir.” “But I don’t wish to be seen. Fred.” The boy pondered for a moment; then as a bright look passed over his face, he said: “I can ring, sir, and give some excuse for coming back. When I am once inside I can manage to leave the door unlocked fox* you to enter.” “The very thing! Now you get out. Fred, make your way into the factory, and await me in the passage.” “But what are you going to do, doctor ?” “Do? I am going to get into the iron safe in the mill counting-room, if I have to force the lock!” was the vehement answer. “And what for?” persisted the boy. "To unearth villainy!” was the stern rejoinder. “But you will know all in good time. Time is precious; hurry!” Fred leaped from the carriage, hastened to the factory, and rang. A moment or so, and the door was opened. A broad flash of light sprayed out, and the boy disappeared within. Despite his efforts, Dr. Ward trembled in every limb. But he descended, hitched his horse, and after a moment had passed, ascended the factory stepsand tried the bolt. To his joy it turned. A minute later he stood in the long passage with Fred. The two hurried away; they reached the counting-room doorunobserved. This, too—and strange to say—was open. They were soon inside. The gas was burning low. The doctor raised it slightly and strode hurriedly but cautiously toward the safe. He started back and a.lmos't gasped for breath, as he saw on the floor at his feet a bright, odd-shaped key. “Heaven still aids us!” he ejaculated, in a whisper, as he picked up the key. He applied it to the keyhole in the safe. It fitted. Then the ponderous iron door swung slowly open. Five minutes afterward Dr. Ward and Fred quietly, and without being seen, let themselves out and hurried to the carriage. "And now, doctor, where to?” asked Fred, almost bewildered as he clambered into the vehicle. "To Abijah Thorne’s house—to the rich man’s home—to the rogue’s palace on Benefit street!” Then the carriage spun away. * ******* While the above events were transpiring a different scene was being enacted in the handsome library of Abijah Thorne, Esq. The room was situated in the second story to the rear. From its windows a floe view of the city and the spreading bay could be obtained. In the apartment were gathered the rich millowner, his eldest daughter, the imperious Laura, and the young Englishman. They were quite merry, and were having lots of fun ovex* Clavis Ward’s letter, which had been only passed around for in-spection. Laura's answer, too, was given in admirable style by the young lady herself; for she remembered every word of it. Following this, the laughter was long and boisterous. Suddenly, however, Mr. Thorne felt anxiously in his pockets. A grave look spread over his face. "’Pon my soul!” he muttered, uneasily, “I have lost my key—the key to the mill safe. Surely—ha! At that moment the door-bell clamored loudly through the mansion. Every one was starled; for the hour was very late. But a bright look came to the rich man’s face as he said: “It is a messenger from the mill. He brings the key; it has been found, and-” He stopped as though he had been struck by June 4,1883 THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. 7 lightning, and his thin cheeks blanched as he heard the deep tones of a man in the hall belovv. “Very good; I know where the library is. 111 see Mr. Thorne there. Come, Fred.’’ Those were the words which the old man heard, and they sent an icy feeling to his heart. But in another moment Dr. Ward, followed by Fred Farley, entered the rich apartment. “What theduse does this mean. Dr. Ward! exclaimed the old man. angrily, springing to his feet. ‘ And wh it does this factory boy want here?” His face was almost livid. “I ll soon enlighten you, sir.” and the doctor bowed curtly to those present. “Do you know and understand the writing on this paper? Look well, Abijah Thorne!” „ As he spoke he suddenly held before the tall mirror on the wall the old tell-tale blotting-pad. At the same time he made an imperious gesture for old Thorne to look in the glass. One glance and the o:d man staggered back. But by a desperate effort he rallied and said, furiously : “ ’Tis false. Glavis Ward! ’Tis a base trick ! You yourself wrote and blotted the words, only to black-m“Bah. old man! and is this my work also ?” and the physician snatched from his bosom a folded document and flaunted it in the old man’s terror-stricken face. “Look, Abijah Thorne! This night the flung-away keys have been found—this night I opened your safe—the end justifying the means— and the paper which I hold in my hand proves that you owe this boy’s father—old Evan Farley—twenty thousand dollars with twenty years’ interest!” Old Thorne gasped fearfully, his breath came and went in struggling throes, and staggering to the window, he flung it up for air. At that instant a great, bright glow, far over the city toward Olney-ville, burst on his sight. At the same moment several lire engines clattered by. “Good heavens! What is that ?” exclaimed the old mill-owner, as a sickening shudder crept over him. “Ho, there, my man!” he cried, at the top of his voice, to a red-shirted fireman who was hurrying , past. “Where is the fire ?” “At the Oriental Mills, and it will clean the place out!” shouted back the fireman through his trumpet, as he dashed away. “Great God! My mills! and no insurancel Oh He reeled back, a gurgling groan escaped him. and flinging his hands to his head, he fell heavily to the floor. In an instant Dr. Ward was by his side, his finger on the wrist. But he started up with amazement and horror stamped upon his features. “Rupture—ay! absolute rupture of the heart!” he ejaculated. "He is dead !” A long, wild shriek rang in the room, and Laura Thorne slid helplessly from her chair. The English “scion” had suddenly and strangely disappeared. Dr. Ward and Fred quietly left the house, over which sudden death, so mysteriously, so retribu-tively, flapped its ebon wings. As they were driving rapidly over the bridge, toward Westminster street, a gallant brig in tow of a tug, was just coming to an anchorage in the bay. Her tall masts and tapering spars were distinctly visible by the light from Abijah’s Thorne’s burning factory. But the doctor and Fred heeded not this—heeded not the rattling of a rusted chain, nor the heavy splash of an anchpr as its iron flukes sank far below the water into the mud of the bay. They were hurrying to the humble house in Arctic alley, there to carry happiness and plenty to the lonely ones who. in silence and in sorrow, awaited the coming of the missing Fred. And the doctor did not spare his horse. In exactly ten minutes from the time the carriage rattled over the bridge, the physician drew rein at Arctic alley. The young man secured his horse and entered the alley, which was now lit up as bright as day by the burning mill. He and Fred paused a moment to watch the terrible conflagration, and see the crowds of people who were thronging to it. So absorbed were they that neither noticed a close carriage that just then rattled furiously up and stopped at the alley; for as the doctor spoke hastily to Fred, the two strode into the alley. They soon paused before the lowly house in which waited mother and daughter. They rapped and entered at once. “Good heavens! what is this?” exclaimed poor, thin-faced Mrs. Farley, starting to her feet. “Tliank God, that my boy is here again! But, Dr. Ward, you look so strange ! so wild! Oh! what is it? What has happened? Tell--” “This much has happened, Mrs. Farley.” interrupted the physician, in a clear, ringing voice: “The long missing receipt has been found! I have it here; you and yours will have an abundance all the days of your life; old Abijah Thorne has come to an untimely-” Just as he uttered the last word the door was flung violently open, and old Evan Farley, his rugged face beaming with happiness, sprang into the room. “Mr. Farley!” “Father!” “Husband!” “Ay! and all! Old Evan Farlev—mariner! He’s safe in the home-port again. Ana he has brought with him his long-missing old brig! She swings to her anchors in the bay at this minute, and a twenty-thousand dollar cargo is under her hatches —thank God for it!” And the old man was once again in the bosom of his family. *$****»<<* We have but little more to say. The old mariner had found his abandoned brig in the far-away harbor of Galveston. She had been picked up in the gulf by a passing steamer, and towed to the above-named port. The old sailor soon proved property. A few friends there, who were interested in his tale of suffering, advanced him money enough to lay in a rich cargo of cotton, trusting to his honesty to indemnify them when he could. This, be it, said, the old man did. Dr. Ward and Fanny Farley were duly married; but, thanks to the physician’s skill, the pretty maiden, when she stood upto pledge her nuptial vows, was tall and comely in person. The unsightly hump had disappeared. The rich mansion, once owned by Abijah Thorne, became by the law the property of the returned mariner. Handsomely framed, the old blotting-pad hangs even now upon the library wall. Goddard Thorne, the rowdy, was killed in a drunken brawl. Laura disappeared soon after the thrilling events of that May night. She. nor her late lover, the young English “scion,” were ever ever seen again in Provide nee. Weeks after the conflagration, amid the ruins of the burnt factory, Red Roon’s charred skeleton was found. 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In her kindly fashion she was sorry and anxious; she went one day purposely to see her, and inquire about her health. She found her looking white, worn, and weary. “Mrs. Grey,” she said, “I have been thinking a great deal about you lately. You are not well?” “I am not strong, your grace,” was the quiet reply. “That is just it. You are one of those uncomplaining people who would die and make no sign.” “I have no sign to make, your grace; nothing in the world could matter less than the fact of my dying.” “It would matter a great deal to me,” said the duchess, quickly. “During these summer weeks, Mrs. Grey, I have grown, to look upon you quite as an old friend. I cannot tell what it is, but there is something in you that draws me, that attracts me. I And myself thinking about you and dreaming about you. I wonder how it is.” “Through the kinduessand goodhess of your own heart.” said Mrs. Grey, calmly. “That cannot be the reason,” laughed the duchess. “They say that some people have a peculiar attraction lor each other; that must be the case with us. I wonder.” she continued, in her pretty, caressing manner, “if I attract you as you attract me.” “I should be almost afraid to say,” wasthe quiet answer, but the loving heart was beating fast, the beautiful eyes filling with tears. “I want to help you,” said the duchess. “I want to be a real friend to you. You say nothing could matter less t han your death ; have you no friends, no one who loves you ?” Tears fell like rain-drops down the beautiful face. “No. I am quite alone in the world,” she replied. "If I were dying to-day I should not know for whom to send; no one would miss me. Yet I have not lived in vain.” “That muse comfort you.” said the duchess. •‘I made a grand sacrifice once, long ago.” she said—she was speaking to herself rather than the duchess—“and it matters so little whether I live or die.” “It concerns me,” cried the duchess. "As I told you, you are rapidly becoming a great friend of mine. I should miss you most terribly. If affection and care can keep you alive, you shall have it, but you must not grow thin and pale after this fashion.” Ah. Heaven! how sweet it was to be loved and cared for, to hear such kindly words, to see the anxious sympathy on the lovely young face. She would gladly have died at any time for such happiness as this. "Look at your hands.” continued the duchess; "they are quite transparent. Yon have been working too hard this hot summer. You must rest.” “My work does not hurt me, your grace,” she said, piteously. “Then what is it?” asked the duchess, kindly. “Trust me—tell me!” Ah. if she could! From her heart a wild cry rose to heaven. “It is more than I can bear,” she thought, "more than I can bear.” "It is always a pity to turn away from a friend, do you not think so?” “Yes.” she replied, who had turned away from every friend and every hope on earth. “Then,” said the duchess, with charming persuasion, "why should you turn from me?” “I do not,” she replied, with sudden energy; "Heaven knows I do not.” “Then let me help you—help you to grow strong and well, to bear a great sorrow, to make your life happier and brighter.” She held up her thin, white hands; her gesture was one of grand despair. “You cannot.” she said; “my life is unlike all other lives, and in it thMre is no hope.” “I shall try in spite of al) you say,” replied the duchess. “Why should you alone have no hope? I have read so often that hope is the last thing to die in the human heart. ’ "It is dead in mine,” said the quiet voice. “Then I shall make it live again,” said the duchess. “I cannot think how any one can be quite without hope while the sun shines and the birds sing. Even the very sight and smell of the flowers are enough to cheer the sadd»*st heart. You have worked too hard, and the heat of the summer has oppressed you. You are out of health, depressed in spirits, and I am determined to change it. I cannot boar io think of you fading day by day, while the world is so beautiful and life so sweet.” "To you,” she murmured; “thank Heaven to you!” “And why not to you, granted that you have had a great soirow? If it be that you have lost some one you love, you will see them again in heaven; if you have lost money or rank, that nend not spoil your life—ther<> ere other things more precious. If your sorrow is that you have done anything wrong, there is the great mercy and forgiveness of Heaven.” “You are the kindest of comforters. It is not one of these things, yet it is more than all; but I am grateful to you. I have not beard such kind words since---” Since Darcy Este went away—since he had kissed her by the Huron’s Pool—since the terrible morning when all the sweetness and pain of her love had come—the sweetness had gone, the pain only was left. She was looking blankly at, the beautiful face, with frightened eyes and white lips. Since when ? Great Heaven 1 what words were they she had been on the point of uttering? She shuddered as one seized with mortal cold. ‘ You see,” said the duehess, "you are ill.” "Hl!” Why, the word seemed so weak—it was ridiculous; she was nearly mad. The strain upon her nerves was so great; it was literally more than ■he could bear, “You are too much alone,” said l he duchess. "Of course you could not make friends with the people about you, but could nothing else be done? Such utter solitude as yours would make any one ill. I shall come again to-morrow, and see if we cannot devise some means for making you better. You are so thin and so white, and your eyes are losing all their light. Promise me that you wib do no more work to-day. See, I have brought you some books. Go out into the fresh air. You do not know how lovely the country is in the glow of a summer afternoon. Then read a little. Will you promise me ?” She would have promised anything to those lovely. pleading eyes—anything in the wide world. Then the sunshine went out all at once as the young duchess drove away. What she said was true. Mrs. Grey had fallen int o a delicate state of health. She had not thought of herself, had not noticed that she was growing so thin and white, that she had hardly strength left, to hold the delicate point lace. Her thoughts had all been for another, until the certain conviction came to her that she had undertaken more than she could bear. While she had not seen her, her life had been just endurable; but the great hunger of her heart, the fevered longing to see her daughter, had been too much for her. For years she had battled with this, her heart’s desire. She had fought with it hour by hour, day by day, year by year, until at last it mastered her. and she gave way. She could resist no longer. It was as though the very heart in her breast wore torn from her. Her eyes ached for one glance nt that beautiful face which had been the terrible lodestar of her youth—her whole soul and being thirsted for one glimpse of her. “I shall be content,” she said to herself, "quite content to look upon her face and die.” She began now to fear that she had miscalculated her own strength, but come what would she would bear on to the end. Yet it was killing her—slowly, surely killing her, sapping her strength, wearing her away. She had thought that one glance at the beautiful face, one sound of the sweet voice, would cool the fever that burned in her veins, but it increased it; it did not slake the fever in her veins, it did not still the beating of her heart; and yet she could no longer resist it. Her daughter had. as it were, grown up with her. from the desolate hour in which she left her. until this time. She had had no other thoughts; she had eagerly read the daily papers, with their information as to the whereabouts of Lord Stair; she knew when he went to Germany and to France, to London and to Oakcliffe. She knew when Ethel came of age, and was presented at court; she read with weeping eyes of her beauty, of her grace, of the sensation she had created in society, and then it seemed to her that her heart was on fire; she must see her, the little Sunbeam grown into a beautiful young girl. She could hardly realize it; her heart and soul craved for one look at her, and then, before she had realized that Ethel had grown up, she read one day the story of her marriage. Married at seventeen, and to the best match in England; little Sunbeam, Duchess of Neath. Sho must see her now, and again she read how the duke had taken his beautiful young wife home to Neath Castle. She must see her, she could resist no longer; for seventeen long years the hunger of her heart and soul had been growing. It was not so difficult—go where she would, her living was in her own hands. She had always plenty of orders for her exquisite lace on hand; she might as well live at Clavering ns London, or elsewhere, If—but the dazzle of light was almost too great, the glimpse of happiness almost more than she could realize—if she could but be somewhere, where at times she could see her. even if only in the far distance, and the dream was realized at last. She went to the great house that employed her. and was told that it would not make the least difference to them where she lived; that her work could be sent just the same. There was no obstacle, but dare she trust herself? Ever, after all these long years of absence and deception, of selfcontrol, could she trust herself? and the answer was—“Yes.” She might live where she could see the beautiful girl whose baby face had been photographed on her heart; she hardly hoped the time would ever come when she could speak to her. She will never forget the ecstasy of delight, the keen pleasure, that was almost pain, on that glorious morning when she went to look at the place where her daughter dwelt; the bloom of the blue-bells attracted her, and she saw her dnughter herself—a beautiful girl, tall nnd slender, with the bright, dark loveliness of the Stairs. She knew her at once. The wonder to herself was that she had not fallen down dead then and there, so great was her emotion. And, after that, she had simply worn her life away in one fever of longing. She found out that she had not done a wise thing; she had allowed herself this indulgence in a Hie that should have been a perfect crucifixion, and now she had to pay the penalty. It had been bad enough when life was all blank, and she could neither see nor hear her, when silence, like death, lay bet ween them. Sho could see her, yet never dare to utter one of the thousand thoughts that surged from her heart to her brain. She owned to herself, with failing strength, with beating heart aud bitter tears, that it was more than she could bear. CHAPTER XXXVI. THE WORD "FINIS.” “I can have no objection, Ethel, it does not concern me in the b*ast.” said the duke. “If it will give you any pleasure, do so by all means. You know that 1 only live to please you.” The young duchess stood by her husband’s side, one white hand resting on his shoulder, her lovely face, with an expression of pleading, raised to his. She wore an exquisite morning robe of pale rose silk—neither jewels nor flowers in her hnir, and she looked fresh as the morning itself. But the duchess was troubled—that tender, kindly heart of hers was distressed. Yesterday, when she sent Jennie to Mrs. Grey, the pretty lady's-maid found her verv ill, she had been unconscious for some time. Jennie had taken upon herself to send for the doctor, and the doctor said there were symptoms of brain fever, and that she required change of scene, and certainly more society; that her lonely, isolated life was telling upon her, and doing her harm ; be might have added that the fire of longing, ever burning in her heart, was consuming her. but the doctor did not know this. He saw that his patient was a refined, well-bred lady ; he knew that she must once have been in very different circumstances, but he could form no opinion of the cause of the fevered longing that was killing her, why any lady so refined and beautiiul. should be living in Lime Terrace, working for her living; he could not tell, nor did it concern him ; bo was there to cure her. not to make inquiries, and that was his decision ; that unless she was very careful she would have brain fever, and that she must change her habits of life. Of course Jennie told the duchess, and the duchess was very much distressed. She could not tell why she hadxtaken so great a fancy to Mrs. Grey, but she certainly had done so. They had. after a fashion, become friends; many an hour had the young duehess spent in the little house, charmed by the conversation of her companion. Mrs. Grey never spoke of herself, of her own likes and dislikes, of her ideas or tastes, but she had a charming, graceful. original fashion of discussing every other tonic. She talked of b >oks, of pictures, of flowers; she had read much, and remembered what she had read. Among all the fine ladies of her acquaintance, those she had known in London and those she had met in the country, there was no one like her. The duchess enjoyed those quiet, hours, She did not think much of the mystery of that lonely life; the thing which struck her most was this—that this lady, well born and bred, had evidently lost everything life field most dear. Her next thought was what she could do to help her, to comfort h<-r, to give her some of the flue business to which she must at one time or another have been accustomed. And an idea had occurred to her ns to how she might best, do this. Mrs. Hilton had been speaking to her of some valuable tapestry that wanted repairing. Some of her own magnificent lace, too, required looking over; and her idoa wan to ask Mrs. Grey to spend some few weeks at the castb*. If she asked her to come purposely that she might employ herself in repairing the ancient tapestry and the lace things, Mrs. Grey would not have any feeling of obligation, she would be much happier than if she were asked to go out of mere charitable kindness. It was the duchess’ kindly, graceful, delicate way of doing things. Mrs. Grey could have the room called the Tapestry Room, where she could sit to work ; it would be the kindest thing possible to do for her: it would cheer her and h<dp her, give her a delightful change, which she would thoroughly enjoy. The duchess was much pleased with the idea, but as usual. Rhe must consult her husband ; she never did anything without that. He was just a little amused at her enthusiasm over Mrs. Grey, delighted that Rhe interested herself in the people on his estate, delighted that, witfi all her beauty, all the dazzling brilliancy of her position, she had so many thoughts, so much time to spare for the sad and suffering. “You are a wife after my own heart.” he said to her one day. "1 am quite sure, Ethel, that whatever other marriages are like, you were made expressly and solely for me.” "I am glad y<»u are pleased with me.” she said. They were lovers still, and it was one of the most pleasant sights possible to see th< m tog- ther. She had gone to him this morning, her heait quite full of her requost, and he was quite willing. ‘ If you think it will do her good, and you desire it. I am quite willing.” he said; “but. Ethel, why is it that you have taken such a great fancy to Mrs. Grey ?” She looked up at him with laughing eyes. “I cannot tell.” she replied, “but I have really never met with any one I like so much.” “Ido not think the Marchioness of Holte would quite approve oi your liking,” he said, and the duchess laughed, “No. Aunt Thamer. I know, does not approve of any one without a title. She regulates h<*r affec-tiour exactly by the rank of the person in question. She adores a duchess, loves a countess, esteems a baron's wife; as for one like poor Mrs. Grey, she would not think evento recognize her existence. Ihen you are Quite willing, Fulke?” “l am more willing than words can say,” he replied; “but Ethel, my dear, you are so young and inexperienced, I must give you one word ot warn- “I will listen,” she said, with that pretty air of meekness she used only to her husband. “I am always willing to listen to you, Fulk^.” "I want you, my dear,” he said, “to be prudent. No one knows better than I do how easy it is to yield to an impulse without foreseeing where it will lead us. There is just a probability that if you carryout your plan and bring this protegee to the castle, you may have to keep her there the remainder of her liie.” “Ah, no!” cried the young duchess: "you do not know her. Fulk<». No queen born in the purple had ever a more delicate or refined nature. The difficulty will be to persuade her to come. It will d<» her so much good; and do you know. Fulke. I feel as though some valued friend were coming to see us.” “I shall grow7 jealous of your protegee, Ethel,” said the duke, with a smile; “but. now that I have given my warning. I have satisfied my conscience, and there is an end of it.” It wasthe duchess’ delight on the day following to drive over to Lime Terrace and ask Mrs. Grey if she would take up her residence at the castle for it few weeks, while she undertook the repairing of the tapestry and the rearrangement of the laces. She wondered why, when she had finished, a death-like pallor mame over the beautiful face, and for a few minutes Mrs. Grey seemed unable to answer; then it was with a low sob she cried: “I—I am afraid—I am afraid.” The duchess laughed cheerily. "Afruid of what?” she asked; but her laughter died when she saw the emotion on that pale face— the love, grat itude, and terror. "Ses how nervous you are!” she said. "You will be quite a different being in a short time. Tell me, why are you frightened ?” Mrs. -Grey looked at her with vacant, dreamy eyes. “Did I say that I was frightened?” she asked. "How good and kind of you to ask me. How shall I ever repay your goodness to me ?” "By getting well, and strong, and happy,” said the duchess; and she was so charming, so kind, she used such irresistible arguments that, against her better judgment, Mrs. Grey consented. A foreboding came to her, a sense of coming evil, a heavy dread; and yet the prospect was like opening the gates of heaven to her. To spend a few weeks in her daughter’s home, to see her perhaps once or twice every day. to live under the same roof, to breathe the same air. bewildered her with delight. "1 can hardly realize it,” she said. "How more than kind you are to me, your grace. I must say that the bare idea of it gives me new life.” The duchess laughed. "I am glad to hear it,” she said. “Now tell me how y<»u shall manage ? I will send the little carriage for you. Have you a box?” How little either of them dreamed of what vital importance that box was to be. or what an important part it was to play in their lives. "I have a large trunk.” said Mrs. Grey. "My only fear is that it may be too large. I can bring that.” And two days afterward Mrs. Grey was installed in the tapestry room. Of the bewilderment of nain and pleasure in her mind it is quite impossible to speak; she never quite realized- it herself. Her days were a bewilderment of delight, her nights a long dream of pain. Her loving worship of the beautiful duchess seemed to increase with every hour. She trembled at the sound of her voice; she grew flushed and pale when the duchess entered the room. It was apparent to anyone that, the gentle, refined woman, who worked so exquisitely, had but one thought in life, and it was the young dueheSR. Here Rhe remained while the sultry month of July passed, and, as the duchess prophesied, she grew better, stronger; she lost the worn, haggard look; she lost, in some measure, the worn, pathetic expression of her eyes. She was quite at home; she worked so many hours, and the duehess insisted that she should go out. She pleased heiself by ordering the most dainty little dishes, the rarest fruit, everything and anything that she thought Mrs. Grey would like. "I hope you are happy here, Mrs. Grey,” she said, one moi ning. And the answer, given with tears in the beautiful eyes, was: <( "Yes; it seems to me like being in All the household grew accustomed to sfeujg her there—the servants accustomed to waiting upon her; oven the duke, in his kindly fashion, went in once or twice to see how the repairing of the tapestry progressed. There came a warm night in August, when the air was heavy with the odor of the white lilies, and Charlie Nesbitt impatiently awaited Jennie just outside of the park gates. The duke and duchess were going out that evening to dine at Haversham Hall, a country-seat five miles distant, from the castle. Mr. Nesbitt had of late been growing quite impatient in his love-making. "Your people never go out now, Jennie,” he said ; “you told me they went, pretty often. 1 never have a chance of spending an evening with you. Do tell me when they are going again.” So that Jennie was proud to write and tell him that on August the sixteenth the duke and duchess were going out to dine, aud that she should have a whole evening to spare. And when he read that, Charles Nesbitt gave a sigh of great relief. “1 am glad,” he said, “heartily glad. I may write the word ‘Finis’ to-night,”-- Jennie thought of no Harm and no evil when out that night. She went to the trysting-place, but her lover was not there. She waited for him until she grew tired, and would wait no longer. Then she said to herself that, Michael Hands would not have treated her in this fashion, and that she did not care to see Charlie Nesbitt again. (TO BE CONTINUED.) BIRDS MADE OF GREENBACKS The average life of a greenback or national banknote is about three years. When withdrawn from circulation, they are carried to the Bureau of Engraving and Printing, and placed in a machine containing immense knives, which chop the notes into small fragments. This operation is conducted under the supervision of three officers of the Treasury Department, especially detailed for this purpose. No one is allowed to be present at this daily maceration of the notes except the officers and the men who run the machine. They are compelled to remain in the room until each separate note is destroyed. They must account in detail afterward to the Redemption Bureau for each note; and should one become lost or mislaid, and afterward find its way into circulation, the result would be the immediate discharge of tho three gentleman who daily have in their custody from half a million io two or three millions of notes and bonds. The shreds are reduced to pulp, and then by a patented process this mass is molded into figures of birds and animals, and sold as momentoes to visitors. Oftentimes it will happen that one little object will be composed of what once was $100,000 worth of money. HAVE COURAGE. It conduces much to our content if we pass by those things which happen to our trouble, and consider what is pleasing and prosperous, that, by our representation of the better, the worst may be blotted out. If I be overthrown in ray suit at law. yet home is left me still, and my land, or I have a virtuous wife, hopeful children, kind friends, and good hopes. If I have lost one child, it may be I have two or three still left me. Enjoy the present, whatever it may be, and do not be over solicit ous for the fuiure, for if you take your for from the present standing and thrust it fc w<»rd toward to-morrow’s event, you are in a restl£ condition; it. is like refusing to quench your rl sent thirst, by fearing you shall want drink the * day. If to-morrow you should want, your would come time enough, though you do not h’d to meet it. Let your trouble tarry till its orQO5 comes. Enjoy the blessings of this day, «v anj sends them, and the evils of it bear Patie~eSfer. sweetly, for this day is ours. We are dead' y day, and not yet born to the morrow. 8 THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. -^3. IN ANSWER TO A LETTER. BY JOSEPHINE POLLARD. “Please send me a rhyme—just a birthday rhyme”— The young man had said in his letter, “That I may invite my companions aright. And make me from henceforth your debtor. A selected few of a jolly crew We’ll meet, and I’ll make it quite handy To have a nice treat; ’twill be crowned and complete With some ancient and excellent brandy. “It’s age I don’t know, but oh, long years ago ’Twas hid in the cellar securely; And there’s not in the land a superior brand, Or liquor that sparkles more purely. So, if you have time, please to send me a rhyme To use in my invitation To honor my birth; ’twill add to our mirth. And in spirit you’ll share the libation.” I took up my pen to reply to this, when An angel my fingers arrested, With a look of alarm that so palsied my arm, The notes of my muse were protested. And then to my view the convivial few In the mirror of fate were presented— The sorrows and woes and shipwreck of those Whose ruin I might have prevented. I saw my young friend as a drunkard descend, With anguish I sought not to smother; And saw the hot tears of one stricken in years, The loving and heart-broken mother. And each of the few who had met to renew Their friendship, were doomed to disaster, When they sat round the board where the brandy was poured. And knew it was henceforth their master. I shuddered, amazed, as I tearfully gazed On the truthful yet terrible vision, And the angel one then relinquished my pen, That I might announce my decision. “Just a few lines will do,” said my friend, and I knew The style that would surely content him ; But on sober reflection he’ll make no objection To the temperance lecture I sent him: I have no rhymes handy In praise of old brandy, For conscience would speedily throttle The poet, if ever It was her endeavor To speak in behalf of the bottle. So let a warm greeting Give zest to your meeting, And have a collation, if handy; But don’t, my dear fellow, Attempt to get mellow, Or your birthdays preserve in old brandy. ------------------------- A NAUGHTY GIRL’S DIARY. By the Author of “A BAB BOY’S BIABY.” No. 3-SEEN AND NOT HEARD. Evry boddy is glad and sorry when Fred comes home; he is just splendid when he behaves hisself; he was good friends with me this morning; he said I was an uncommonly nice little girl, only he was afrade I was going to make a great talker when I grew up. He advised me to be seen and not heard; so I promised him I would; he tost me up high on to a lim of our big ole apple tree in the garden; jus’ then I saw Mrs. McCurdy’s that lives in the lane back of our street’s billy goat coming in our garden ; some boddy had lef’ the back gate open; he is a very ugly, quarlsome goat. Fred was sitting in the swing, sloly swinging, with his face the other way; I guess the goat thout my brother was daring him to fight, for he came up behind him, waited till he swung back, an’ then hit him a terrible blow in the back that gnocked him off the swing an’ bumbed his forrid mos’ as bad as Maud Evelyn’s; it swelled up like anything. “Didn’t you see the confounded goat a-coming?” he asked me, when he felt what a big bump was on his forrid, an’ thout how he would have to go to the concert to-night with Miss Garner. I nodded my head yes. “Then why did you knot give me warning, you naughty girl? I’m a pritty looking fellow to take a young lady to a concert. Grate seizer! that lump is bigger than a goos eg; my suspender’s burst, an’ I do beleave my elbo’s out of joint. I’ve as good a mind as I have to eat to jerk you down out that apple tree an’ set the goat to fighting you, you little sinner.” I clim^e^up where he couldn’t reach me quick as I con I told him I was very sorry. I re- greted thO^Ar<tt got in the gate, but I was trying to do as he told me—“to be seen an’ not heard.” “It is too bad, Fred, you have such a nasty green stain on the gnee of your trousers, jus’ like I get on my frocks that won’t come off.” He gave me one disgusted glanse, an’ stawked away to put some of cook’s raw meat on his forrid; but it was still very bad when I came in to dinner, an’I notised he seemed to have a pain in his elbo when he moved it. I was resolfed to keep my promise all day to Fred if possible. As I past the pantry door I saw the cat eting all the whip cream off the dessert, but I did not let on; Iwas determined to be seen and not llGRTCl “What’s come over our little girl?” papa asked, when Nora was taking away the plates. I looked at Fred; he winked at me. Jus’then Nora gave a screme in the pantry like a snake had bitten her. I knew the orang pudding was spoiled, so I took another roll an’ walked away. It made Fred real cross to go without his dessert when his elbo aked so. I went up stairs an’ read in a book. After awhile mamma came to my door all drest up: “Dolly, Mary an’ I are going out calling. Tell Nora to tidy herself up, an’ be ready to go to the door if any one calls.” I went to tell Nora, though I did not like to sneak, so I didn’t say anything; but I like to stay in Nora’s room, an’ I staid there a good while. She shode me a photograf of a young man that looked as if he was scared. So she had jus’ begun to comb her hair when the bell rung. “Dolly, you go,” says she. So I went, ’cause Nora was in her petticote. A very nice lady was there with her card-case. She asked me was my mother at home. I knew some of the def and dum alfabet, an’ I talked to her with my fingers that mamma and sister were out calling. She looked at me very sadly as she gave me her card. I heard her murmer: “Poor child! So bright, an’ pritty, too! Wot a pity!” I lerned by her card she was the new lawyer’s wife jus’ come to live in our villedge. Then I went to Mary’s room, an’ painted on the back of one of her Chrismas cards, “I am def and dumb,” an’ tide it round my neck. The nex’ person come was a tin peddler, so it did not matter. I shook ray head I did not want to buy. Then Nora went. It was only Kitty Ellis, one of my friends. I got paper and pencil and wrote to her I had been advised o be seen and not heard, so I had re-solfcd to do so for at least a week, see how my folks would like it; then she wrote it was a shame the way groan people t reted children; she would not speak were she in my place. I got my dolls, Nora gave us some little pound cakes, and we played take tea lovely, only it was a trubble to write all we said; but our dolls could not talk either, an’ we had a reel nice time, till Kitty was going to gnock off a very handsome vase with the umbrella we were playing it was raining with, an’ before I could possbly write to her not to hit the vase, down it came an’ broke all to peaces. Then Kitty went home so mama wouldn’t scold her. Nora called us careless, naughty little girls; sol went up to my sister’s room an’ played all by myself I was grownup. I did not hear her come home; so she boxed my ears ’cause her room smelt so strong of jocky club. When I went down to supper mama looked at me very sharp, and told me she had met Mrs. Blackstone at the house of a frend; what made her think I was a poor little def and dura child? I glanced at Fred, because I was not going to speke for a week: but he woldn’t explane ; he only burst out laughing an’tubed his sore elbo; but he wispered he was going to make that goat fight me it it took all summer; so mama thout I was sullen, when I only did what they told me, an’ she sent me away from the table without my supper, while papa added he was afraid I was enveloping a obstnit temper; they Rd not know yet about the vase; Nora told my '•other, an’ he came to me an’ said: ^Perhaps, after all, Dolly, you’d better be heard a\not seen.” Al shall try that to-morrow. k Hs morning, as the family were sitting down to bufc me’ had n°t come down yet, there suksesion of fearful seremes, as if little Dolly into'Tasos dress had taken fire. Mama rushed kitchen, grandma fell back in her chair was in i^ost, Fred said it sounded to him like it u L1e cellar; the scremes stoped when my brother entered the cellar, but no one was visble. After a long time Fred found me in the coal-bin; he dragged me out. “What on earth’s the matter? Are you hurt, Dolly, poor little darling?” “I was only trying, Fred, to be heard an’ not seen, like you told me to.” My sakes! didn’t he shake me—to get the coal-dust off, he said; but when mama was going to punish me for fritening evry one so, he ecsplained to her about the proverbs, what I was trying to do to please him; so she laughed a little, tho’ sh was trembling very much, and my brother said he guessed they’d have to let Dolly be as the Lord made her, it was no use trying to change the lep-pard’s spots; then we went back to our breakfast, which was ruther cold, but I didn’t mind that. I was very glad I could talk all I wanted to. after keeping quiet yesterday. I had somethin’ on my mind that I wanted to know, an’ I asked papa was it realy true the Smiths were the meanest famly a man could marry into, an’ why? Mama’s face got very red, and grandma set down her teacup very hard, sniffed, said she guessed she’d go to her room, she wasn’t a bit hungry; then she wiped her eyes on her napkin, an’ kind of groaned “she wished she was dead an’ out of the wav.” “Don’t go away before the mufflins come in,” says papa real sweet. “Dolly doesn’t get things quite strait always. He must have said the Smiths was the largest famly a man could marry into, if he said anything.” But she went up stairs, an’ mama said: “Now mother’ll be in the mumps all day. Oh, Dolly, you are incorgible. You ask too many questions. Your ears are too sharp. Anyway, husband, you oughtn’t to talk that way before the child. I guess the Smiths are as good as the Mugginses, and gooder. You ought to be ashamed to talk against your own wife’s relations. I don’t think my mother ever did anythihg meaner than Mother Muggins did when she——” Jus’ then papa set his cup down so hard it broke, an’ he got up an’ took his hat jus' as the muffins come in piping hot. “What’s the matter with papa? Mama, mama, what did grandma Muggins do ?” I asked, ’cause I wanted to know; but Fred pinched me under the table and helped Maud Evelyn to a muffin, so I had to butter i for her, an’ forgot to ask again. Maud Evelyn greased her face awfully eting muffins, so I had towash it, an’ the pink all came off her cheeks jus as it does on Mary’s towel after she has been to church, so I asked my sister was she truly made of wax like my doll was, but she did not answer. I wish my father would move to some other town, every boddy in the villedge loves to plague me. I went into the drug store to get a few pepermint-drops; the clerk asked me had I not better buy a few morfine pills. He said I was so fond of pumping others how did I like to be pumped. He asked me had I got over being lost under the piano. He was surprised I was not et up like little Bed Riding Hood—it was very dangrous gitting lost in such a wild place. He also said the fire company was vext being rung up jus for a small girl lost, and the next time they caught Miss Dolly Muggins on the street they had resolfed t bring out their engine an’ give her a good du king. I have tol Charlie; he says they dare not do it; if they do he will cut their old hose-pipe into strings. Charlie is a very brave boy, he is not afraid of anything— eccept cows; he intends to go way out West to Chigago or Sanfrancisco to shoot panthers an’ crocodiles when he is a little older. I don’t know who I will have to play with when he is gone. He says he will not srink even from a hipopotamus if he meets one in Chigago. I wonder he is so brave, but I wish he did not make me carry all his heavy books so his arms will be free to take care of me on the way to school in case a wagon should runaway. This afternoon I went up to grandma’s room, to sit with her awhile before tea; her room is at the head of the back stairs; they are crooked, so she is always telling I will break my neck ’cause I go down in such a whirl. Grandma is very indulgent to me; when mama punishes me, she gives me a peace of cake, she is so sory for me. We had a pleasant conversation; I asked her what grandpa died of ? What for she et flag root ? Were her teeth false ? Might I wear her specktaclis ? What made her skin so rinkled ? did she like to be old ? was she a better woman than grandma Muggins ? might I look in her bureau drawer? might I try on her new cap? did she have any more those gum drops? why did Bridget say she could’n bear fussy, flgetty old folks about the house? why did mama say she wish grandma would not interfere with the servants? was she in her second childhood ? We would have talked pleasantly some more only the bell rung for supper. I rushed to the door. “Do go careful child, those retched stairs are so crooked, take hold of the railing, its so dark I have to feel my--------” Jus’ then she stoped an’ gave a loud screme—there was a terri-bul racket—bump,bumb, bump. I had fallen down stairs an’ lay at the footperfecklymoshunless. “She has killed herself. 1 always said she would. I guess Frederick will have them steps altered now,” shreked grandma. The door opened out the dining-room. My' brother picked me up. Jus’then somebody laughed and clapped their hands. It was me, behind', the railing up stairs. I was not hurt a bit. Fred was mad because he had picked up a stick of wood I had put some of my clothes on which I carried up quietly when I come to visit grandma to purtend for fun I had fallen down. Grandma could not eat any supper, ’cause she has plapitation of the heart when she is fritened. They blamed me. It is always so—when I only did it for a harmless joke to make them jump an’ run. Grandma had to take lavender and go to bed. Papa took me in the library to talk to me ’bout ’being a heedless, careless, naughty little girl, so I asked him would he ruther it was his little daughter or the stick fell down stairs ? He said, the stick, of course. Then I said: “What are you scolding me for ? Do you want me to fall myself nex’ time ?” because I wanted to know if he really did; but he only laughed, and we made up frens again. A Miserly Printer- John Russell, a miserly compositor, died recently in Bellevue Hospital, this city, at the age of sixty. For many years he was employed on the New York Sun, and was so penurious that he denied himself actual necessaries, only eating sufficient to keep him alive. In his clothing were found bankbooks showing deposits to the amount of over $40,-000. He declared that he had no relatives. This statement, however, is doubtful, for the writer, who knew him well, learned that he was married thirty years ago, before leaving England, and that his wife was forced to desert him because of his niggardliness. In the year 1852, when employed in the Sun office, his department was the financial and commercial intelligence. On Thanksgiving Day of that year, according to custom, there was no business transacted at the Stock Exchange; consequently Russell lost his usual “fat” table of stock sales. With a face long enough co eat oats out of a barrel, Russell said, “I’m out almost fifty-five cents by Thanksgiving Day, and next year I’ll have to lose the same sum. I wish there were no Thanksgiving Day. Its all nonsense I” His money, it is likely, will go to the State; and the office-holders will have the fun of squandering what the niggardly printer almost starved himself to save. The Ladies’ Work-Box-' Edited by Mrs. Virginia Ingram. “N. F.,” Poughkeepsie, N. Y.—High coiffures are again in vogue, though the low coil on the nape of the neck is by no means abandoned. For those who wear the high Elizabethan ruffs, and othsrs to whom it is becoming, the hair is now arranged in two small coils high on the crown, that seem to emerge from the French twist below. The front middle hair is drawn back from the forehead to these coils, while on the temples are irregularly curved locks of short hair. One or two shell pins, shaped like large hair-pins, may be thrust through the high coils for goneralwear; on dress occasions an aigrette or two short ostrich tips may be worn high on the left side, or there may be pins set with jewels. Young ladies who have the low, broad Greek forehead, adopt the severe style of drawing the hair straight back, and brushing it smoothly to the coil behind, showing the contour of the head, and omitting all shading of locks above the brow. If the face is a long oval, the high forehead needs to be partly covered, and the hair is drawn back more loosely, and allowed to droop slightly in front. The bang is worn shorter than it formerly was, and may be very thick and straight, or else slightly waved. Very full and fluffy bangs are also worn in au exaggerated fashion that is unbecoming, and most untidy lo oking. Very little false hair is worn. “S. S.,” Wilmington, Del.—1st. Rubbers are a necessity with fine shoes in wet weather, but they have lately been of such poor quality that the wearer never felt certain whether they would not part at the next step, and prove worse than nothing. This vexation has given rise to the attempt to put a new rubber on the market, which is warranted nine-tenths pure rubber. They are very light and fine, low cut in front and high at the back. They are somewhat expensive, about $1.25, but will outlast three or four pairs of ordinary rubbers, and will not therefore prove an unprofitable investment. 2d. The “commonsense” walking-boots cost from $3 to $8 a pair. 3d. Misses’ and children’s shoes remain practically the same as last season. The most approved phase ot‘ foo*; clothing has been developed in this direction which demands low heels, broad toes, and comfortably thick soles. 4th. Spring heels for small children are generally used, and goat which is somewhat thicker than ordinary kid, is used, which is more reliable as a protection against dampness. “Belle Gay,” Cairo, N.Y.—1st. Get cardinal cashmere for your skirt; use the silk flounces at the foot, and form a soft puffed drappery at the top. Your plaid silk will do for an entire dress made with a plaited skirt, basque, and draped overskirt. 2d. The cashmere is a good shade; combine with ottoman silk. 3d. Use black velvet ribbon for trimming the summer silk, and make it with a plaited skirt, short hip draperies, and basque. 4th. Get green and red striped flannel for a gay skirt for your boating dress. Let the red stripe be underneath in all the plaits. 5th. Fit your sacque tighly, like a Jersey basque; drape the pieces on the edge, and trim it with five or six rows of wool soutache laid on red flannel, the color of that in your stripes. The sample you send is suitable for a Mother Hubbard morning wrapper. “Mrs. D. W.,” New Orleans, La.—1st. Pins for fastening bonnet, vail, mantle, and collar are crape-covered for the first suit; later on, these, other than for holding the vail, may be of dull jet. 2d. Parasols for widows during the first months should be entirely crape-covered; later, and for other persons, a broad fold is considered sufficient. 3d. Always select first-class crape; it is expensive, but the good quality will renovate, while the cheap ones are worthless as soon as they are mussed. 4th. Crape that costs less than $3 per yard, cannot be expected to do good service. Sth. In the freshening process the finer qualities are even improved, besides having their unwholesome ingredients extracted. 6th. Bonnets need not be ripped for renovating; other articles look better taken apart. “Charleston.”—1st. The terra-cotta cashmere like your sample will be handsome for your traveling-dress. 2d. Get a straw hat of the same color, with leather lace, velvet, and ostrich tips for trimming. 3d. A visiting-dress of ottoman silk of the new green shade will be handsome. For afternoon dresses you will want one of the new printed India pongees or a French foulard, or the new checked silks; for thinner dresses, a Spanish lace grenadine and an embroidered white muslin, with flounces handsomely wrought, and to be worn with a bright pepita yellow or dark mandarin orange sash. 4th. For a small wrap, have Havana brown camel’s-hair, with wheels raided all over it, and thickly gathered brown guipure ee for its trimming. ••Julia F.”—1st. We think the red-dotted vails now worn are extremely dowdy and unbecoming. 2d. Gloves and mitts should contrast with instead of matching the costume, to be the latest fashion. 3d. All dressy mantles are much shorter this season than they have been for several seasons past. 4th. Long-looped ribbon? of satin and velvet are worn with white dresses in cardinal, gold color, strawberry-pink, raspberry-red, pale greenish gold tints of lune, and dark-red brown. Ox-blood red, so called from the dark reds seen in Chinese porcelains, is the favorite color for the wide satin sashes to be worn with white mull dresses. “Mrs. J. L. B.” Texas.—A pretty costume may be made from model No. 8,612, which is in sizes for ladies from twenty-eight to forty-six inches, bust measure, and costs 40 cents each size. The construction of the costume, though apparently entirely novel, is really based upon the princess style, which in this instance is modified to serve as the foundation of a very unique and effective style of drapery. Plain and brocaded dress goods may be combined in the construction, and the method of their arrangement is unusually effective. “D. D. L.,” Woonsocket, R. I.—The skirts of costumes may be of plain goods, or of material differing from the over-dress. Even grenadine dresses seldom have a skirt of their own material this year. The results obtained in the combination of harmonizing fabrics aad hues are among tSe most pleasing achievements of la Mode. Exactly the same tints are found in figured goods as prevail in plain effects, so that, in selecting either, one is certain to secure its complementary fabric. “Alice,” Catskill, N. Y.—Use white Castile soap for washing black and other colored stockings. They should be washed in tepid soap-suds, in which nothing else has been washed; their wrong side should be turned out during the whole process of washing and drying, and they should be dried in a shady place—not by the sun or the fire. 2d. Black silk stockings will be worn with dresses of any color and on all occasions. “M. A. L. T.,” Boston, Mass.—1st. The Scotch gingham dresses remain in favor because they wash well, and are now imported ill very large plaids, small checks, stripes, and plain colors. 2d. To be useful these should be simply made, and there is less embroidery used on those made for the coming summer than has been the case in former seasons, because this embroidery wears out before the gingham does. “Clara O.,” Binghampton, N. Y.—1st. Matching gloves to the dress is entirely out of fashion for both day and evening toilets. 2d. Lighter shades of tan-colored gloves than those worn during the winter are used with spring costumes for the street and on full-dress occasions. There is also a tendency to more yellow shades of tan-color, showing ecru rather than brown. “J. M. Inman,” Providence, R. I.—1st. A pretty pattern for a wrap made of light cashmere and trimmed with swan’s-down, would be No. 8,514; price 30 cents. 2d. The color of your green silk is so bright that it would scarcely be fashionable for use as it is, but as the material is handsome, why not have it dyed either a dark brown or “M. S. A.,” Brooklyn, N. Y.—1st. The most fashionable traveling-dresses are braided. They come in all the dark blue, red, green, and brown shades, and, although simple, are very elegant. 2d. The silliest use to make of a fine cashmere shawl is to cut it up for a wrap. There are very few women who can wear these wraps gracefully. “P. W.” New Haven, Ct.—Make princess* suits for your boy. Have tne fi|onts in long sacque shape, buttoned from the throat down, and cut off the back below the waist, and add plaiting to finish it out. He can wear white muslin, or linen, or colored percale plaited shirt waists with his kilt skirts. “Little Country Girl.”—1st. Your basket-cloth dress will be handsome with black braiding. 2d. “Lost—a Pearle,” is in book-form, price $1.50. It will make a very nice gift for your sister’s birthday. “M. M. W.,” Worcester, Mass.—Light woolen fabrics, pressed flannels, camel’s hair, and India cashmeres are the first selections for children’s dresses for the spring and early summer wear. “Violet.”—As your complexion is clear, you can wear brown, no matter if you are dark. Nitro-Glvcerine and Dynamite. Nitro-glycerine is produced by treating glycerine with a mixture of strong nitric and sulphuric acids at a low temperature. It is a heavy, yellowish oily-looking liquid, freezing at a temperature of between fifty and fifty-five degrees Fahrenheit, is powerfully explosive under all circumstances on the least friction or concussion, and is said to have a destructive power at least ten times that of an equal weight of gunpowder. The extraordinary disruptive force which it exerts makes it well adapted for blasting purposes in mines and quarries; but its extreme susceptibility to explosion from friction, and spontaneous decomposition, cause its employment to be attended with considerable danger. In fact, not a few serious accidents, involving great loss of life and property, have occurred from its use, and under no circumstances can it be said to be free from danger in its commercial form. One peculiar feature about nitro-glycerine is that explosion of the mass will only take place on application of heat in the event of the heat producing some chemical decomposition within the mass. A. light may be applied to the surface of the nitroglycerine, and it will burn with a flickering flame; the probability being that the flame would go out if the light was withdrawn. If the light, on the other hand, is inserted into the mass, or if it is applied so as to cause any disturbing or decomposing influence, not on the surface, but in the body of the mass, explosion will ensue. Nitro-glycerine has been known chemically for a considerable period; but it is only so recent as 1864 that Nobel, a Swedish engineer, first applied it to mining purposes. Since then it has come extensively into use, and has been much identified with Mr. Nobel’s name. He discovered that ’ y mixing it with wood-spirit it might be safely stored,being thus rendered non-explosive either by percussion or heat. From the spirit it can again be recovered by the addition of water, which precipitates tie nitro-glycerine. In 1867 Mr. Nobel made the further important discovery, that its explosive tendency and powers were not reduced by adding to it other substances in themselves quite inert, while the addition of such substances in several respects made it safer for transport and use. This at once led him to produce a new compound, which he named dynamite. . Dynamite, it will be understood from this, is nothing more or less than nitro glycerine with a certain amount of inert ma: ter added, which changes somewhat its physical appearance, but not its chemical or explosive properties. Various substances have been added to nitro-glycerine, and fanciful names given to the mixture; but the substance originally added to it in the production of dynamite, and which has in every respect proved the best adapted for the purpose, is a kind of porous silicious earth, known in Germany as Kieselguhr. This substance absorbs the nitro-glycerine, so that when in the proportion usually adopted in its production-namely seventy-five parts of nitroglycerine to twenty-five parts of Kieselguhr—the consistence and appearance of the dynamite approach that of newly kneaded flour without the adhesive properties. In short, this earthy substance does to the nitro-glycerine what blotting-paper does to ink; but inasmuch as the nitro-glycerine is of an oily nature, and requires to be in considerable excess, it was found that with increase of temperature, and under other circumstances, such as slight pressure, the nitro-glycerine was apt to exude from the compound. To obviate this, dyna- mite has latterly been supplied in the form of cartridges, the formation of which permits a certain amount of pressure in their production, so that any excess of nitro-glycerine can be avoided, and the risk of explosion from the presence of free nitroglycerine reduced to a minimum. Mr. Nobel imputes nearly all the calamities which have taken place from nitro-glycerine to leakage, it being almost impossible to, prevent this, however perfect the cases are in which it is transported, the substance being so oily and penetrating; and he cites as an analogous case that of gunpowder being transported in cases droppingout continually part of their contents. This probably has something to do with many of the terrible catastrophes which have had to be narrated from time to time; but we are inclined to think that many of them have also been produced by the careless handling of a substance the dangerous nature of which was at least in the first instance but imperfectly understood. In this as in many other things, experience had to be gained, though unfortunately at a terrible cost; and the very fact that few accidents have occurred in the process of its manufacture compared with those in its transit and use, bears us out in this opinion. Mr. Nobel gives some very interesting information regarding dynamite. A box containing eight pounds of dynamite—equal to eighty pounds of gunpowder—was placed over a fire where it slowly burned away. Another box containing the same quantity was hurled from a height of more than sixty feet on a rock below, and no explosion ensued from the concussion. A still more severe test was that of dropping a weight of two hundred pounds from a height of twenty feet on a box of dynamite, smashing the box, and yet not exploding the dynamite. It is difficult to reconcile these experiments with the opinion popularly held regarding dynamite. We do not think we are exaggerating when we say that it is generally esteemed the embodiment of all that is dangerous and evil in such compounds. The truth lies probably midway between the two extremes. Dynamite it is certain will not always stand the extreme tests here stated’ and from whatever cause, it must be admitted erratic results frequently have happened in the process of handling and using. On the other hand, that it is not so readily exploded as is currently supposed, may be granted, although we would hesitate to en fore this opinion, considering that public safety lies altogether in the former belief. Both nitro-glycerine and dynamite are now extensively employed in mining and other operations of a similar kind: and owing to certain peculiar characteristics they are well adapted for all such purposes. When nitro-glycerine or dynamite, or any other compound having nitro-glycerine for its basis, is exploded, unlike gunpowder or the majority of other explosives, the effect of the explosion is expended in the direction of those points in actual contact with the compound. Thus, if gunpowder was exploded on an iron plate in the open air, the disruptive effects would be nothing; but if nitro-glycerine or dynamite was exploded under the same circumstances, the effect would be the indenting or shattering of the iron plate downward. In the same way, a gun fired with nitro-glycerine would almost certainly burst, even though the quantity employed was not greater than that of an ordinary charge of gunpowder. It will thus be seen how valuable this characteristic of the nitro compounds is when applied to blasting operations, and it will also at once explain how t he tedious process known to miners as “tamping” is rendered unnecessary. Tamping is simply the filling up of the hole bored in the rock after the gunpowder has been introduced, so as to produce as much resistance as possible to the disruptive power of the gunpowder. The hole is filled with pieces of rock, sand, clay, and the like, and the whole beaten firmly together. In the case of nitroglycerine or dynamite, however, tamping is not necessary; simple contact with the bottom and sides of the bore-hole being sufficient to produce the maximum disruptive effects. The mode of firing the compound is exceedingly simple. They are introduced into the plast-holes in suitable cases; and a fuse, having a small charge of gunpowder at its extremity, is fixed immediately on the top of the compound, and the concussion produced by the exploding gunpowder explodes the nitro compound. The ordinary fuse or the “straw” used in some blasting operations would be uncertain in its results, owing to the non-explosibility of the compounds under the application of an open flame. FRIGHTENING CHILDREN. A lady in this city overheard her nurse-girl talking to the little child she was putting to sleep, and among other legends of the nursery in which she indulged, was this: “If you don’t go right to sleep this very minute, a great big. awful black bear, with eyes like coals of fire, and sharp, white, cruel teeth, will come out from under the bed and e-a-t-y-o-u-a-l-l-up!” The poor little thing nestled under the clothes, and after a long season of terror fell asleep, to dream frightful dreams of bears eating her. That night, when the stolid nurse had composed herself in her own comfortable bed, and had put the light out, there came a sudden rap at the door, and the voice of the mistress called loudly at the door: "Maggie! Maggie! for mercy’s sake get up as quick as you can! There’s a fearful burglar under the bed, and as soon as you get a sleep he’s coming out to rob and murder you!” At the word burglar the girl sprang from the bed with a scream, tore open the door, and fell into hysterics in the hall. The lesson was even more instructive than the mistress had designed, but when the girl’s fears were calmed, she said to her: “You did not hesitate to tell my little delicate child, who could not possibly know that it was a lie, a cruel story of a bear under her bed; now, when I treat you in the same kind of a slumber-story, you are nearly frightened to death. To-morrow you can go into the kitchen and work; you are not fit to care for little children,” How many children are there who, every night of their lives, are frightened to sleep. Pleasant Paragraphs. [Most of our readers are undoubtedly capable of contributing toward making this column an attractive feature of the New York Weekly, and th y 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 be penned in scholarly style; so long as they are pithy, and likely to afford amusement, minor defects will be remedied.] Good Nature, Only a little darkey Sitting alone on the fence, Only a kind old gentleman Who gave him just three cents. Only a little fruit store Down in a shady street. Only a littly darkey Flies in wLh winged feet. Only a little banana He got f ? those three cents, Only a little darkey Says it is im: ense. Only a half minute From the iime he had begun, Only a little banana kin Lay smiling in the sun. Only a fat old gentleman Fanning himself with his hat, Only a torn up sidewalk To mark the place where he sat. Only a frightened darkey Peeping through the f once, Says to himself “It is the man Who gave me those three cents.” John Preston Leary. That Dog. We have a dog at our house. He is not a vicious dog, but one of those playful fellows, that jump on you when you go near him, and after the dog has jumped you look as though you had just emerged from a sewer. It’s great fun—for the dog. That dog seems to be in all p:.rts of the house and yard at the same time. One night wre went down for a scuttle of coal. It was dark, and the dog was lying at the top of the stairs. We met the dog as we stepped down, am1 in a moment there was a confused mass of dog, man, shovel, and coalscuttle writhing at the bottom of the stairs. Of course we were not particularly delighted, and as soon as we recovered consciousness, wTe made a kick at that dog, and it became necessary to remove the panel of the parlor door to enable us to extricate our foot. The dog meandered through the back door into the yard, and as we were groping our way to the wood-shed our foot met him, and we were immediately standing on our head up against the fence. We finally secured the coal and carried it to onr apartments. Then we retired but not to sleep. The moon came out in about an hour after we went to bed, and that dog sat under our window and interviewed the moon in a tone that would have made a tog-horn weaken. That dog still lives, but it is not our wish that he should, and some day there may be bone, hair, and mixed dog lying all around our neignborhood. Paul Pby. “From the Country.” Experienced Sunday-school teachers know the danger of asking questions at random of their juvenile audiences. Novices often blunder into the habit, not knowing its risks. One of these novices, who happened to be a particularly well-dressed young clergyman, tried his hand on a Boston Sunday-school. He began by saying: "Now, my dear children, look at me and tell me where you think I came from.” One of the “dear children” held up his little hand and said: “I know, sir.” The spruce-looking clergyman benignantly gazed on the young child, and, bestowing ever so sweet a smile on him, said: "Well, my little man, and where do you think I came from ?” The clerical and benignant smile was changed into an expression of horror when the illiterate youngster blurted out: “From the country, sir.” An irreverent guffaw of laughter instantly pervaded the assembly, and the moral atmosphere of the place became such as almost to quench the good man’s efforts at Sunday-school oratory. Greatly embarrassed, he struggled on for a little while with his speech, and then floundered to a hasty conclusion. Fall. Here’s a boy’s composition on fall: “This is fall because it falls on this season of th© year. Leaves fall, too, as well as thermometers and the price of straw hats. Old topers, who sign the pledge in summer, are liable to fall when fall cider making opens, for straws show which way the cider goes. Husking corn is one of the pleasures of fall, but pleasure isn’t good for little boys, I don’t think. Old men want a little fun—let them husk. A husky old man can get through a good deal of corn sometimes. Digging taters is another of our fall amusements. The way I like to dig taters is to wait till they are baked nicely and then dig them out of their skins. Most winter schools open in the fall. The best winter school I went to didn’t open till spring, a nd the first day it opened the teacher took sick and the school closed for the season. Once in awhile we have a very severe fall, but nothing like the fall of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. Summer is misnamed. It should be called pride, for doesn’t pride go before a fall ?” Returned From the Country. It was in a car. She had been away for several months, and the children had gone to the depot to meet her. They chatted away merrily, while she patted their little heads, and smiled interestedly. “How’s Mary ?” she inquired, when they stopped for breath. “Oh, she’s well. She’s taking her music lessons right along.” “And Harry ?” "He’s going to school. Started last week.” ‘ And papa ?” “He’s well too. He’s having a bully time. He said he didn’t care if you didn’t come back for a year.” The passengers roared. Grabbing the children with both hands, she rushed for the door, with an ‘Tll-get-even-with-him-for-this” expression on her face. Filling Her Stocking. “Papa,” said a gushing young damsel of Chicago, “I want you to give me this Christmas a seal-skin sacque and muff, a pair of diamond ear-rings, that beautiful writing-desk we were looking at the other day and bushels and bushels of French candy—will you, papa?” and the dear thing’s eyes danced in glowing anticipation, while her feet beat a tattoo on the velvet carpet that sounded like muffled thunder. "Ah. my dear child,” replied the proud father, as he gazed at his daughter with a pensive, upward-tendency-in-pork look, “indeed I will. Just hang your stocking in the back yard, and I will fill it up for you, darling, if I have to chuck in a house and lot.” Mirthful Morsels. The saddest words of tongue or pen: “I’m going to pay, but can’t tell when.” "Did you know,” said a cunning Yankee to a Jew, “that they hang Jews and donkeys together in Poland ?” "Indeed! Then it is well that you and I are not there,” retorted the Jew. "I had no time to stuff the chicken,” apologized a landlady to her boarders. "Never mind, madam, it’s tough enough as it is,” replied one of them. Fashion item: A new color is called “four o’clock.” If it’s the color of a man’s nose as he goes meandering home about four o’clock in the morning, it must bo a mighty brilliant shade of red. She decorated her room with bric-a-brac and pictures, and placed her husband’s photo on the topmost nail. Then she sat down to admire her work, and blissfully remarked: “Now everything is lovely, and the goose hangs high!” “What plan,” said the actor to the author, “shall I adopt to fill the house at my benefit?” “Invite® your creditors,’ was the surly reply. “What is the first thing to be done in case of fire?” asked Prof. Stearns. “Sue the insurance company,” promptly answered the boy at the foot of the class, whose father had been burned out once or twice. A lover who had gone West to make a home for his “birdie,” wrote to her: “I’ve got the finest quarter-section of land (one hundred and sixty acres) I ever put my foot down on.” Birdie wrote back: “Suppose you buy another quarter-section. John, so we can have a lawn around your foot.” John “made a home,” but Birdie never was mistress of it. He had an auburn-haired girl, and promised to take her out riding. She met him at the door when he drove up, and he exclaimed, “Hello! Ready?” She misunderstood him, and they don’t speak now. Thus slang make* another slap at love’s young dream. Some one who believes that “brevity is the soul of wit,” writes: ‘‘Don’t eat stale Qcumbers. They’ll W up.” “Captain,” said a cheeky youth, "is there any danger of disturbing the magnetic currents if I examine that compass too closely ?” And the stern mariner, loving his little joke, promptly responded: “No, sir; brass has no effect whatever on them I” A bright little girl who had successfully spelled the word "that,” was asked by her teacher what would remain after the “t” had been taken away. “The dirty cups and saucers,” was the prompt reply. To P. P. Contributors.—The following articles are declined.: “Don’t You Know,” “Animals’ Natures Differ,” “Bumping a Bum,” “Nothing hut Hash.” Items of Interest. Within a radius of one and a quarter miles, in Dudley, Henry county, Ind., there lived, a short time rgo, nine persons who each weighed between 250 and 365 pounds. One young lady, at Ohe age of seventeen, weighed 304 pounds, and another over 300. The weight of twelve la ies in the vicinity ranged, from 225 to 300 pounds. Out of nine children in one family, nly two are less than 200 pounds, The average weight of each member of this fam-ily is over 248 pounds; anu netting the two small ones, the average is over 271 pounds. A woman in Philadelphia has given her husband monotonous employment. As she was becoming a trifle bald, he laughed a the bare spot on her cranium and said that he “could count the hairs on he? head.” Sho has kept him to his word, and invited a party of friends to witness the feat. This is the tenth night, and he has only finished half of the bang. Georgia boasts of a’citizen who was born in Early county, raised in Calhoun county, and now lives, aged fifty-five, in Clay county. The remarkable part of this case is that the man has always lived in the house in which he was born. The counties have moved, not he or the house. The financial exploits of a Boston boy. a clerk in the hardware store of Bigelow, Kraus & Co., have been exposed. On a salary of four dollars a week he managed to smoke a dollar’s worth ot cigars every day, and indulge in luxuries that cost ten times more than he earned. Farmers on the line of the Hudson River, before sending cows to market, omit to milk them for a day or two. The object is to make their milk bags appear large, so that pur has :rs will think the animals excellent milkers, and be willing to pay b.g prices for them. Joseph Criehter, a Rochester man, had his horse’s tail cut off. “Why have you taken away the caudal appendage of you" racer?” R?ked one of his friends. “Because I am a member of he Society for the Prevention of Cruelty, and the long tails bother the flies. Photographs may be taken without the aid of the sun. This was recently de onstrated at the Madison Square Tneat r in this cit; , y means of the electric light, when -our scenes from a play were satisfactorily photographed after midnight. Razors are classed as dangerous weapons by a new law in North Carolina, and it is made an offense to carry them for purpos s of defense or attack. The darkeys are much concerned at this infringement of their liberty. An Albany woman, returning from market, got into a street-car with a basketful of dressed poultry. To her the conductor, speaking sharply, said: “Fare?” “No,” said the woman, “fowl!” and everybody cackled. A Charleston bride, while entering her house after the ceremony, had a basket of fresh apple blossoms showered upon her. The basket hit the groom on the head and put him out of temper. Near Topeka, Kansas, there is a colored boy, eighteen years of age, whose skin, from the shoulders down, is like that of an alligator, and covered with black scales. Hotel proprietors find it advantageous to employ young ladies to run the elevators. The rooms on the upper floors become desirable, and are readily rented. Snobs, who wish to show good breeding when they want fish-balls, ask the waiter for “fish croquettes.” A house three hundred years old is occupied by Governor Stetson, of New Mexico. |